Yeah pal, that's a pretty lousy deal she cut you OK. But I can top that. Yeah, it's got to do with these scars all over my mug. But what it really is...you know the three worst words you can hear from a woman? Well, I'll tell you – as soon as we get these glasses freshened up. Hey Joe, how 'bout another couple of doubles over here!
Hell yeah, we're good to go now. So, where to begin? It was several years ago, I was living in another city a lot like this one, not going anywhere, kicking around from one dead-end job to another makin' chump change. Just enough for three hots and a cot with a little hooch on the side. The usual crap.
Then one day out the blue, one of damn life-changing curveballs that the fates toss ya every now and then whacked me up the side of the head. My Grandpa – who I'd not been in touch with for years – finally kicked the bucket. Ordinary enough thing OK, but the real deal was that he left his farm to me in his will. Free and clear. Here's the keys Jack, she's all yours.
Didn't have second thoughts about takin' it either. Farm work? No big deal, I mean how hard could it be, every job I could get I was workin' with my hands anyways so what was the difference?
So, I moved into that run-down old dump - I guess Grandpa spent his golden years scratching a vegetable or two out of the ground in between jugs of shine - and mainly stayed to myself getting the place halfway livable and workable. The work was no big deal, farming was new to me but I figured it out, making a few mistakes along the way - see my hands? that's what hens do to you when you take their eggs! - but by the time summer rolled around, I was getting into the swing of it. Making some money too, not getting rich, but enough so I could afford to go into town at night and quench my thirst. And there in town was my real mistake just waiting for me to walk in the door and introduce myself.
The place to get a buzz on in town was called - I kid you not - The Village Inn. Sounds like the kind of place yuppies would visit to chow down on expensive fake country cooking and quaff overpriced natural berry wine while drinking in the rustic ambiance, right? Well, the ambiance of that joint would send any day-tripping metrosexuals screaming right back to their beemers. Go in the door kinda half sitting on its hinges, step carefully along the unfinished wooden floor stained with years of spilled grub, hooch and tobacco juice, avoid sitting on the unfinished wooden chairs at the unfinished wooden tables (unless you like an ass full of splinters,) don't go near the uneven stairs to the second floor that looked like they'd collapse if a mouse tried to scamper up them. Nope, one thing only to do in that joint, head straight for the bar at the back, plunk your dough down and ask the barkeep for a tall glass (actually they used mason jars) of wine. Best deal in the place was the local wine. It was raw and sour but it was real cheap and it sure got me off.
So, my first night at the Inn I was - well like I am right now. Lighter in the wallet, feelin' no pain, shootin' the shit with a couple of workin' stiffs like me who actually lived in the roach motel rooms upstairs. Then as they say, 'and now for something completely different.' Something different in the form of green eyes, long brown hair and a purple vest elbowing my drinking buddies aside with a dismissive "Step aside boys, class coming through here," sidling right up beside where I'm standing, fixing my eyes with a green ice gaze and introducing herself with a gravelly purr, "The name's Karen. Be a gentleman and buy a lady a drink?"
Well, I was no gentleman and she was certainly no lady but she got her drink OK.
