So my first writing assignment in English II is to write a descrptive paper, and this is my rough draft:

I can already hear Billy Joel playing on the jukebox as I step out of my car. Hang out at the L&V enough nights, and you’ll come to realize that any visit lasting three or more hours will guarantee you’ll hear “Piano Man” at least twice each evening. Six nights a week. I can only guess how many times that the bartender is forced to choke down that godforsaken song each and every night.

Walking the half block or so from where I’ve parked, I pass the Chinese restaurant two doors down from The Leaf. The owner is locking up for the night, and the odd thump-tap-thump-tap of my uneven gait on the concrete sidewalk with my hard rubber boot soles catches his attention. He looks up, almost startled, but I give him the subtle downward head nod between unacquainted men that says “I’m cool, dude. I’m cool.” He nods back, wearily flashing that all too familiar contrived smile that people whose occupation it is to serve other people must wear, to the point of producing it even off the clock. “How ya doin’?” I say. I’m not asking. It’s not a question. It’s a pleasantry, and I neither expect nor receive an answer, save for a strong whiff of soy, ginger, grease, and sweat.

It’s a hot night, moist, but just below the point of feeling heavy. The county courthouse across the street still has their fountains running. They’re not exactly spectacular, but on this particular night the water seems so inviting, shooting straight up in wide jets and breaking apart at their peak, the droplets splattering in a misty spray off the tops of old stone remnants of long since demolished buildings. Walking on to the L&V, I look down Main Street to the city Square. The larger, more wedding cake-like fountain, the hundreds of tiny streams arcing into the center. Submerged lights alternate the water’s color from red, to yellow, to green. The colors don’t flash by quickly, and neither do they blend gracefully. Instead, they hang on for about fifteen seconds each before abruptly transitioning to the next as though being turned on and off like house lights by a wall switch. By this time of night, the traffic lights around the Square have ceased regular functioning, and begun their staccato yellow blink, neither stopping nor allowing traffic, but simply stating “Watch out.”

As I walk up to L&V's door, the ever more audible “Piano Man” continues: “And the waitress is practicing politics as the businessmen slowly get stoned. Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone...” Looking in through the glass-walled front of the bar to check out the clientele before entering, I spot and wave to the bartender at her usual perch at the back end of the bar. Every patron’s face is familiar. I’ll have to go through the usual pleasantries of shaking hands and saying Hello, donning the contrived smile I wear in the face of customers at my fast food job, before I can sit down and drink in my loneliness.

I have to admit, though, it would be nice to share it. Instead, I take my first swig from the bottle of Coors Light that the bartender, without asking, knows to place in front of me. As I place the cold glass bottle to my lips, I close my eyes and audibly sigh in relief at the first sip of the sparkling, bitter, earthy, and ice cold beer. Savouring the welcome ale, I wonder to myself how else there is to drink, but by oneself.