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Halley’s Pub and a Pack of Reds<br />
Justin Bradley<br />
The chrome plated Zippo came into focus as reality battled fantasy to pull<br />
me back into the musky, rambunctious room I had drifted out of. Glossed with polish,<br />
the slick, redwood bar reflected a middle-aged drunk. A cloud of smoke floated<br />
above the room, as neon lights colored the haze blue. Halfway through my eighth<br />
light, the wooden door creaked open for the sixty-third person since I had slumped<br />
onto my stool. The floor at least fifty years out of style, snapped and bowed under<br />
each new intruder’s step. Weathered windows and smutty walls, adorned with James<br />
Dean, made this place. Black leather bar stools hosted many, as home cooked food<br />
and a sexy bar keep offered a type of comfort few things in this world could. I loved<br />
this bar, this was Haley’s pub.<br />
Located at the corner of Madison and Dover Street, a mile from Carver <strong>University</strong>,<br />
Halley’s had become the central meeting place for college hoards and parties.<br />
I hated the side of the bar they plagued. My spot, the lone seat in the corner, was<br />
overrun with college frat boys. That, I also hated. I had attended to my spot for over<br />
twenty-four years now. That seat was accompanied by many fond memories for me,<br />
and there they were too wasted to even make a memory. This was my pub, they had<br />
no right.<br />
I snatched out my Marlboro Reds, a man’s cigarette, and hit another light. I<br />
was trying to quit, but I was still breathing in more smoke than oxygen it seemed.<br />
The pack fit snug in my flannel pocket. The red and white striped shirt had<br />
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