I drove with my knees on my to visit a bartender named Rita. A revery flowed through my achy Subaru. The bumps of bustles of the road didn’t soothe its ailing frame— nothing short of death would.

Rita hides brand new bottles of Miller High Life behind my almost empties. The golden hue blends together and offers a nice surprise as I’m kept malted. This isn’t the drink or place I’d think I’d be a regular at. But fried chicken is an oily mistress that calls to the dueling powers of hunger and inebriation within my soul. I’ve spent enough time at the bar top to dally with the rotating cast of beverage guardians.

I wonder if this is the place I’ll miss when I don’t live in Portland any longer. That’s the type of question that pulls at the back of my head— I don’t know how the next adventure goes. I believe I’m already in the beginning of it.