I’m spending spring break (two glorious weeks!) wandering the country. I’m taking my paper draft of my written WIP The Lone Wolf and my laptop with me, in the hopes that I’ll finally get it queriable. (Disclaimer: it’s probably queriable as it stands; I’m just too chicken to send it out.)
I plan on stopping in my MC Andrew’s hometown to see things on the ground him his POV, so this week’s six is his thoughts on his (unnamed in the story) Southern town, after he’s been away for about five years.
Downtown didn’t have much to offer: a lot of empty storefronts with run-down apartments above them, a few discount stores selling stained furniture and hand-me-down wedding dresses, law offices and county political party headquarters, a half dozen bars. The same generic face of shit hole towns it’d had when I left. I picked a bar and headed inside.
The bar was mostly empty, not surprising for the middle of a weekday afternoon. It’d get busy around four or five o’clock as everyone got off work and came over for a drink or five before going home to wives and girlfriends who nagged about rent money spent on booze, to whining children who didn’t understand why there wasn’t enough money for the latest trendy shoes and video games. The guys gave in, of course, trying to make their kids happy because they remembered what it was like growing up and being the kid without, and as they sank deeper into debt the drinking didn’t help but it was an hour or two of postponing the inevitable, at least.
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