Barfly

Walking up Eighth Avenue, ten minutes to eight in the morning. Up the avenue, past the drunks and the junkies and the homeless that haven't yet been pushed aside by the gentrification.

Now, passing Smith's bar, half a dozen men belly-up to the bar. Close-cropped hair, jeans and tee shirts. Like a uniform. Slumped forward, a glass in one hand, starting the day with whiskey and beer.

Why do I find it strangely comforting to see these guys every morning?