. rail .. rail .
It’s a misnomer; an absent appliance, robbery of the worse sort. The bar’s not got one though named as though it would hold some premiere placement. In this city it should be gleaming brass and a minimum of two inches in diameter, rolled and shaped and bracketed along the styles and sheathing of a gleaming dark-polished wooden front-piece. It should be history. Misapplication and misdirection; the crumbling edifice is still maintained but slovenly; some miscreant remembrance of the sixties or seventies when people still believed a Jetsons™ future were possible. It carries its appellation based solely on location; nearby is a stop on the city’s trumpeted transport line, the “L".
“Fuck this Susan.” “Give it a chance.” “Really?” “Yeah, it’s not awful and some of the guys here are just too sweet.” I turn and stare openly,