Bells will be ringing or just bear a beer logo

*Warning* It is in third person. Do not be troubled. Names have also been altered. Do not fret. All serves a purpose down the literary road of me- Jaclynn Kay. :)

Here we go...

She opens the back door and her eyes are immediately drawn to the ceiling. Crimson, emerald, and amethyst blaze softly into her retinas. There are eleven softball size ornaments hanging from the ceiling above the bar. Two ceiling shafts over, five large bells alternating in gold and green hang rigidly. At the base of each bell is the brand name of a beer; Heinaken and Amstel Light are the chosen ones. There is a large wreath planted above a light fixture on the wall opposite the bar. It hangs as if its cramped, but sparks that Christmas cheer nonetheless.

She smiles and mumbles an awe and appreciation for whoever put up the decorations. She is barely heard and gets a nod and smile from Amy, the bartender. She sets her things down at her normal table and heads over to the bar. Once behind the bar she squirts water into a clear, plastic cup and makes her way back through the narrow passage. Amy stops her. It's that time of year for Secret Santa she must pick out a name. Ironically, she pulls Amy's name out of the cup. Blushing like a drunk, she quickly walks back to her table.

The television in front of the waitress is turned to "The Simpsons". Homer has taken Marge out to the bar so she could show off her 48' breasts. The characters at Moe's pub are excited; Marge is not happy. The locals at Moe's Pub get excited over peanuts so of course breasts would arouse them. Cartoons do exhibit some truth.

The waitress takes out her notebook. There is no other piece of academic accompaniment to suggest homework. She begins to write; she always writes.

At the end of the bar near the front entrance a cluster of middle aged men have gathered. Each of them has a Quick Draw card in front of them.

An advertisement on the radio blares "Barbara Walters top ten most fascinating people...Kanye West...Tom Cruise..." The list continues to name off the most famous people of the year. The suspense in the voice-over begins to increase then a silent explosion. "Who will be the number one most fascinating person.." The girl laughs silently to herself. She knew fascinating people. They weren't on Barbara Walters list. She wasn't going to watch it. Besides, with the suspense you would have thought something big was going to be announced like, "Bush gets trapped by imposter door. The Chinese have thwarted his plans to exit. They are planning an invasion. Prepare the bomb shelters!"

American share something in common with the ancient Romans. Empires placated people with Gladiators. Democracies placate with celebrity gossip, i-pods and other imperitent electronic devices. Who needs a smart, respectable, president when flat screens are unfolding in mini-vans all across the nation quieting five year old McDonald addicts. We might as build a presidential robot with all of our brains. At least it wouldn't look like a confused primate. It's not even a question of political preference to rip on the president's intellectual integrity. One would have to be blind and deaf to think the man had an IQ over 50. It's just a fact. The nation may as well have elected Homer Simpson for president. He's got "obviously incompetent" written all over him.

Two hours later the waitress has finished washing "The Simpsons" and polished off her custom dinner. She washed her plate in the kitchen and came back out. She ventured behind the bar to fill her plastic cup with more water. Standing there, she overheard three thirty-something men talking, "It's like taking viagra without knowing what to do with it". The waitress smirked. "Oh, she liked that," one of the intoxicated men commented. She walked away and rolled her eyes.

An hour later the jukebox was put into commission. "Devil Went Down to Georgia" by the Charlie Daniels Band must be the Inn's anthem. It has played every Tuesday the waitress has worked. It has played when she occasionally ventures in on a Thursday or Friday. She shouldn't consider this anything significant. Dive bars across the U.S.A. have a staple and the "Devil went down to Georgia" is one of them.

Three people remain at the bar close to closing time. The waitress sits at her table updating her text messaging contacts. The bartender that comes in at seven, Vicki, goes over to the jukebox and plays some 80's ballads. She, herself, is a spitting image of the 80's; a classic 80's. Her 6" curling-iron bearing bangs hover over her forehead. Her jeans are not the i-can-see-your-ass-crack-everytime-you-sit-down style. Her brown hair lingers at the middle of her back. She never styles it. She found her own secret hair-success at age 13 and has never changed it (or so it seems). Her nails are long and could be real. The vibrance of the color suggests frequent application/attention. She doesn't take shit and comes off cold. That's how one must be in the bartending business, though. The sweeter-than-Splenda waitress carries none of these traits.

The night ends on a positive note for the waitress. Her friend pops through the entrance and greets the customers. It's that whole "cheers...where everyone knows your name" disease. It has infected the college community. Shortly after she takes a seat, the waitress pushes her notebook across the table and asks her to read.