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Ed’s was a tiny dive, dark with the overpowering odor of cigarettes, m*******a, beer, and in the narrow hallway that housed the restrooms and a pay phone, vomit. Country music streamed from the speakers in the corners unless someone dropped a coin in the jukebox and chose a classic rock song, which was often a topic that riled the patrons seated at the bar. There were two televisions and one electronic dartboard. In his mid-sixties with salt and pepper hair, a clean-shaven face, and always dressed in a white, buttoned-down shirt and jeans, Ed, a veteran and long-time entrepreneur, only served alcohol and didn’t accept credit cards or run tabs for his regulars. His clientele consisted of Alcoholics Anonymous dropouts, the unemployed, and those who were older than fifty years.
Jim Lockh
