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"A shot of Jameson, please," I yelled to the bartender. I figured if I had to be here, I might as well make it worth it. A cowboy bar, I thought to myself. I can't believe I am in a cowboy bar. Not that I have a problem with cowboys or country music, per say, but it certainly would not be my first choice. In fact, as I was walking down the street, constantly rechecking my phone at the e-mailed directions and street address for the bar, there were plenty of bars that I was hoping would be the right one. I even got kind of excited when my directions brought me to some dark and barely inhabited little dive bar that had the Pixies blaring from the jukebox. But that excitement only lasted as long as it took for me to find the street address in faded paint above the door. This was 2867, I needed to be at 2869. I looked over to the bar next door and my heart sank. A goddamn cowboy bar. I sighed a little to myself as I walked to the back of the considerably long line to get inside.

It took me a few minutes once inside to find the people that I came to see. A girl I know from work was getting engaged. As soon as I found them, I gave her a quick hug and peck on the cheek, sternly shook the groom-to-be's hand, and headed straight to the bar. They were way too surrounded by well-wishers to notice my absence. I downed my shot and ordered a beer. I started to look around. The place was absolutely packed. Whatever band was playing seemed to really pack in the crowds. Pretty decent music, a southern rock band. I wondered briefly if they were famous. ...

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