I’m writing this in my new composition notebook as I sit at the bar in Armand’s in Little Italy here in Pittsburgh. I tried to do some work on the computer, but the computer is running slow because it’s downloading updates. So I’m at Armand’s.
It’s not noon yet. It’s a warm (80s), sunny day. There are five other customers in the bar, a man on my right and three women and a man on my left. The group on the left is a talkative bunch. But I guess they have to let off some steam. They recently buried a relative. She was 93. My mother is 94. No one in the bar, including Gale who is bartending, is young.
I’m looking forward to karaoke at Nico’s in Little Italy this Saturday night even though the Steelers game will probably cut karaoke short. I got to see two of my younger brothers and my mother last week and I have no aches or pains. Life is good. So, why do I drink so much beer?
I spend a lot of money on beer. My social life revolves around Armand’s and Nico’s. I wouldn’t have a social life if it wasn’t for drinking.
All of my favorite authors were alcoholics.
- Edgar Allen Poe
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
- John O’Hara
- Raymond Carver
I wonder if I’m an alcoholic. I hope not.
This is the Old Soldier reporting from Pittsburgh.
New Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette is an online magazine of creative writing, culture and sex.