None of the women sitting at the bar counter have all their teeth.
It costs money to keep all them things, they say. Some have boyfriends, most have ex-husbands and all of them have had a lot to drink. Their men have long darker hair that hasn’t been cut in some time and their chops mix in with their beards. They only sit on 2/3rds of the semicircular bar counter. The sun-toughened older locals float on the quieter side of the bar, drooping their lips into their drinks. They watch each other playing cards or attacking the shuffleboard. Or they stare ahead to the opposite side of the bar and watch the younger kids sauntering around, playing pool and talking shit.
There is no AC in here and the door is perpetually propped open. The fan boards circle around reluctantly. Three TVs flash bright images of The Jerry Springer Show onto the aged wooden walls. Nobody watches. Maybe they don't want to see anyone they recognize. The bartender already knows what everybody will order on the nights that he remembers anything at all. Some nights he’s sober. Most nights, he’s not. Either way, he won’t give you a tab for the evening.
You want a beer? Better pay up now.
There’s no credit here, he frowns.