text: Same dive bar, different reasons for that bourbon. My drink was neat unlike my mismatched socks & my noticeable limp as I surveyed the room. Usual suspects were playing darts, cracking jokes, & whipping buffalo sauce off their chin, but I was looking for someone. The group of drag queens shooting pool caught my eye. The queens weren’t quite regulars, but around enough where a head nod when eye contact is made is warranted. The sunburn on my cheeks, nose, & right below my eyes made my expression stiff, but it was good to see everyone, as it had been a while since my last drink in this dump. I had just gotten back into town, for the first time since I got my second face tattoo. The small thunderbolt high on my cheek bone, I regret that. I’m now known as the masked thunderbolt by the local paper, the armed bank robbing thief that was still at large from our last job. I was observed by many being pursued by the police on my bike, wearing my Tampa Bay Lighting t-shirt, go bolts. The name kind of stuck. I don’t regret that. That's how I make a living. I'm a career criminal by trade, I learned from my father & my father’s father. They taught me well. I made my way north west - by train, by taxi, by foot, by my thumb hung up in the air. I had to get out of town, as the heat on my whereabouts grew. I spent the last year drinking wild turkey straight out of the bottle, shooting dice with my lucky cigarette tucked behind my ear, & hanging out with nameless women of the night, all on my way to nowhere. I went by many names throughout my career - Ramon Grande, Johnny Mack, Parker Wallace, & my least favorite, Christian Williams, my actual name, which I stopped using years ago. Pages on the calendar had been torn away and the treasure trove grew thin. It was time to head back home, it was time to go back to work again, I was Florida bound. My town was small & humid, run down & close knit, it was us against the world. I was back in town for one reason, to find my partner and hit the next lick. My partner was a friend of a friend of a former girlfriend of mine. I met him at a bbq down by the park, right off the main drag, back in the spring of ‘93. I noticed him from across the gathering. He had that look in his eyes, the same look I had. An up-and-comer, a rising star. I saw him pick-pocket the guy manning the grill, like a pro. We understood each other without ever exchanging names, not even once. This was to protect ourselves in case push ever came to shove. He always went by Isaiah Monroe or Donald Gibbs or Cash Jackson. No names, no phone numbers, no addresses. That was the code, be where you say you’ll be. One of our meetup spots was Ricky’s Tavern. Ricky’s was the local watering hole with a wide variety of regulars. Classic bar food, most famously, their fried gator bites, and known for local beer on taps that have never been cleaned. Old wood framing with a matching L-shaped bar that hasn't been touched up since the late 70’s. Last year’s Nascar reruns on the TV, ash trays as the centerpiece of each booth, and you get your picture on the wall if you can eat 5 fried tenderloin in 2 hours, Cousin Tommy’s up there twice, God rest his soul. I sat for a while and waited. Lucky cigarette tucked behind my ear, rolling 2 dice around in my left hand, wild turkey in my right, neat. I watched the off-centered door open & close for a few hours, hoping to see a familiar face. ‘Last call’ Jimmie bellowed as he poured himself a shot of something brown. ‘Well, i’ll check out bowling alley tomorrow night, maybe better luck there’ I wondered to myself I slapped my cash on the wooden bar, winked back at Jimmie, & headed out to the parking lot, wondering when thunderbolt would be back on his bike, I can’t wait to smile in my sleep, again.