The bar was the most literal definition of a dive bar that could possibly exist. It was tucked away in a side alley far removed from the main street of a less than reputable neighborhood, in a building that appeared to be vacant, with no discernable parking in sight. The only way to find it was by word of mouth or by stumbling into it during the witching hours of the night. There were no directions to it on google maps, no Yelp reviews, no hashtag, or any social media presence whatsoever. Even the signage was hard to notice, a faded blocky script over a nondescript peeling red door that simply read EDDY'S, named after the owner.<br/><br/>It was not a very imaginative or creative name, especially for a retired artist, but that was the way Eddy liked it. He didnt have to be imaginative or creative anymore. At 53 his hands were so curled with arthritis that he could no longer grip a hammer and chisel and even if he could, his body couldnt handle the stress of sculpture anymore. Decades of breathing in clay and stone particles had taken their toll, and if he hadnt quit smoking in his mid 30s he'd probably be well on his way to advanced lung cancer.<br/><br/>So Eddy figured running a bar was a good enough way to spend his twilight years. He was too ornery to retire to someplace balmy with the rest of the geriatrics where they could golf and day drink mimosas at brunch. Eddy hated golf and would rather be blatant with his drinking, but he couldnt allow himself to be pathetic enough to do it alone in his dark and empty apartment.<br/><br/>So he opened a bar where no one could judge him for his alarmingly large collection of obscure whiskey, Russian vodka, and imported gin. He hardly had to share them with his customers, the few regulars that he had were usually the type to be content with the cheapest beer on tap. Plus, the place was minuscule.<br/><br/>The bar could maybe serve 20 people at full capacity. It was little more than a long counter, a line of stools, and just enough walking space to squeeze yourself into a seat. There was a TV at least and a single toilet in the back but that was were the amenities ended. It was dingy and dark and unwelcoming (but always clean). On a good night Eddy would get 4 people, maybe 8 if there was a game on.<br/><br/>And Eddy wouldnt have it any other way.<br/><br/>He stood in his domain, a hulking beast of a man in the claustrophobic space, so tall that his frizzled grey head nearly knocked against the light fixtures every time he straightened his back. There was room for him to maneuver behind the bar at least, enough to accommodate his broad shoulders and large arms still sculpted by his past occupation and his quickly softening gut. He told himself he'd work out again if his stomach starts knocking over bottles, which thankfully hadnt happened yet, but it was only a matter of time with the way Eddy was going.<br/><br/>Tonight there was absolutely no one in, probably had to do with the pouring rain outside. Eddy kept the lights on and the door open regardless, enjoying the smell of the rain and the cool breeze it offered, a relief from the sticky summer heat that had persisted throughout the day.<br/><br/>Eddy drank chilled vodka and idly watched a soccer game, prepared for a long, listless night and not much bothered by the prospect.