“There ain't much to say,” said the crazy old drunk. “And ain't nobody gonna listen no how.”

And we all nodded.

The barroom was dusty and old. The nicotine stained drop ceiling weighed in like a hangover atop the broken chairs, littered floor and busted television. This wasn't a bar for tourists.

And yet two walked in.

She was beautiful in that stupid way: big dumb eyes, voluptuous body and constant giggle (in this place, she was refreshing). He was stupid in that beautiful way: honest eyes, a firm grip and a proud smile. They made quite the couple. They didn't belong.

Rob the bartender asked them what they wanted.

“This is Florida right?” asked the man tourist. And before we could nod our heads in disbelief, he added, “I'd like some fresh fish.”

And we all laughed heartily.

“You in the wrong place,” said Dirty Ron, his busted yellow teeth glinting in the dim light as he spoke. “Only fish in here is the bait Danny left in his pants.”

Dan lit a joint and shrugged.

“You gonna share, hippie?” Ronnie bellowed.

Dan didn't acknowledge him.

“This may not be your kind of place,” I said to the couple. “This bar could be anywhere in America. There ain't nothing special here.”

“Then why do you guys come here?” asked the woman tourist.

“Because,” I said. “It's comfortable. We feel like nothing here. We don't need to think.”

“And it's cheap,” bellowed Ron.

“And you can toke without taking crap,” added Dan.

“And you don't see no tourists,” added Rob the Bartender.

“I see,” said the man tourist.

And they left.

And we started talking about burial sites, and what the different kinds of sites said about the cultures they represented.

Ron said that when he died, he wanted to be cut up, have the separate chunks of him preserved, petrified and eventually sold as hammers.

“That,” he said. “Would be new.”

“Now that,” said the crazy old drunk. “Would be a story worth telling.”