Flyboy, Businessman, Alcoholic

The Old Spanish Trail was ugly in the morning. A woman approached my car. After I shook my head, she flipped me the bird and said something I couldn't hear over the noise of the radio. I wondered how much business she'd get at ten in the morning. Other women stood at other intersections, talking and smoking. Bars lined each side of the street. I'd seen these places on news reports of murder, assaults, and other mayhem. They were all closed, but I needed a drink. I couldn't go to the hospital without a drink.