The days that follow are simply car wreckage; I wake up but not really and I stretch but stay coiled. I wake up four hours after laying down and have to sweet talk myself back to the task of getting some sleep. It’s a funny little coax of logic and drowsy. Like I’m in the egg and to hatch so early would cause a breakdown in development.

There is another shift tonight.

My feet were hurting bad enough to cause a total body lean onto hands against the cooler. Between the drafts and marking up tabs for tall boys—I felt my physical self reach a limit. At some point it just happens, you know. So you identify it and then use your mind to get through the rest. Far from rocket science.

I remember working a show in Dayton, at Canal Street Tavern, shortly after a rib injury and oh I was aching something awful. I took breaks on a chair near the bar and watched the band, my back jumping something incredible—the kind of thing that pulls your eyes into squints and I recall it being Too Much. I also remember enjoying that Too Much, as I do favor a little competition with the self—the concept of conquering whatever it is that has me in a fist. I can be more than that fist. Smaller than the grip, I can get out. Perhaps it sounds silly, and maybe it is something residual from years of sports and just having to deal with exertion. You push through it when giving up seems too easy, so common. There is an ecstasy that comes when you forfeit everything and discover the moment: you are hanging on by a thread and the thread is the most beautiful thing. Everything magnified.

This is not to glorify something like bartending—I guess I’m commenting more on what happens between the body and mind. They reach an agreement when the going gets rough on the body, like okay I will get you through this. In turn sometimes the mind drifts to the deeper part of the ocean and the only thing that keeps you going is the day in-day out of getting up and going through the motions. Such is the case with sadness, stress. Last night reminded me that I am in something that feels, and in that something is another universe; in the end everything holds hands.

This is what comes to mind:

The shift itself, pretty darn good. Bridgely Moore had a birthday and people were having cake and popping balloons, ordering huge cans of Fosters and tipping well. I had two different beer taps cash out in my face—literally. The Coors Light knocked out my vision for a minute, and I groped around to find a towel while yelling to Steve, “it kicked my face!” I made a handful of jaeger bombs and confirmed more acts for the book release. I love the collective of musicians that Bridgely Moore are involved in. Very genuine, beautiful people. I met a man who made sure to tip first thing, before even ordering a drink. Because I might forget, he said, passing me a wad of money. Overall, a great crowd last night. The evening ended with a small knot of people trying to decide whether they should patron Ritters Diner or Primanti Bros for the late night grub. The jobless, the teacher, and the architect where arguing about band names. I stick to my guns on this one: call yourself White Fang, and people will just associate you with WhiteSnake. Doesn’t matter if you play dirty blues or cock rock. I told them to use their occupations as inspiration.

Survivor Man is always playing on the television when I leave for the night. Steve always tells me to Be Careful(and I capitalize intentional on that). I throw my hood up and walk out the door. The walk home isn’t far, and the night is warm. No one bothers me, and I am just fine. My feet, legs, hips—all screaming. I decompress as best I can and crawl into bed; it is three a.m. I go to sleep thinking about how I am thoroughly enjoying myself these days. Fade to black.

Five hours from right now, I’ll be back at it. Let’s hope the ankles can hold up.