The Postcards

I’m at the bar, just opened, girl comes in, orders a drink, I make it for her, she sits at the bar.  I notice she has postcards with her. Ahhh, I say. The forgotten art of postcard giving. You must not be from around here. She says, no, I’m not. Yeah, I say. I figured as much. Let me see your postcards. She hands them to me. One of them says, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, with a lovely view of the city’s industrial landscape. Another says, the Amana Colonies, with a mosaic of forlorn buildings. Yep, the ironic postcards. Making fun of Iowa postcards. Great.  I ask her, where you from?  She says, New York. Ok, cool.

I imagine a postcard from New York of a big dumpster brimming full of trash, with cat-size rats featured at the bottom, gnawing on leftovers from quaint Chinese boxes. Not so ironic.

Just sad.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.


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