His grandmother saved her egg money for years to give him a college education, and what did Milo do with that money when at last he inherited it? He quit his accounting major and bought a bar on the wrong end of town. Cecile’s Place seemed to have been built as an afterthought and was little more than a jumble of rooms tacked on over the years without any plan, named for the two-time ex-wife of the first owner. No one had changed it since the Eisenhower administration, and Milo saw no reason to break the streak. He was a teetotaler and a grunter rather than a talker, but he loved the smell of cheap bourbon and stale cigarettes, the almost-feral smiles of the patrons on a payday as they scanned the dance floor, Waylon and George and Tammy from the jukebox, the loves lost and made, the confidences shared with him. “You can tell Milo,” everyone said, and somebody even scrawled it on a bathroom door with a tangerine Sharpie. Someone would put on Hank Williams and Milo would slow-dance with the Marilyn Monroe cardboard cutout kept by the front door.
Opening of a short story I’ve been working on for awhile now.