Page 81 - Self Talk

Stale cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. A layer of sooty film covered the ceiling-high window where two strings of dusty chili pepper lights dangled from the top
of the frame. They were burned out except for a lone green chili that flickered on a crack in the glass.
A pitted red linoleum counter ran down one side of the narrow room. Eight stools covered in red Naugahyde stood at attention next to it. The rest of the place was furnished with garage-sale rejects. Six rickety wood tables and an oddball collection of pre-WWII chairs.
A couple of middle-aged hippie bikers sat in the corner
over a pack of Camels and a butt-filled tin ashtray. The guy behind the counter came from the same era. Salt-and-pepper pony tail, one of those hard-life faces framed by a frayed, black flannel shirt.