Everything happened on a peaceful November night, nearly one year ago. I had just given the manuscript of my last novel to my literary agent. He’s the guy who sells my books to publishing houses so they can sell my books.

He also gave me the check for my previous book. The money for this book was actually good, too.

One more check like that and I would finally be able to turn in my rusty Toyota Camry. I wanted something that would use less fuel and ride more comfortably.

Besides that, the money was enough for me to do nothing but write for the next two or three months. That would be enough time to finish the novel that was swirling in my head.

Now I’m a bit slower, but I am used to that.

Driving back home, I was thinking about the five-digit number on the check in my wallet. I smiled and said to myself, “You did it, Frank! You did it! You deserved that! No more doubts, no more anxious thoughts!”

The thing I had most wanted for the last two years had finally come true. I wasn’t just a writer. I was a successful writer.

And even though I wasn’t much of a drinker, I decided to celebrate my success with a shot or two in some local bar.

The traffic lights at  17th and Washington turned red. I slowed down and stuck the tires right before the white line. 

There were no other cars on the road. I waited anyway, smoking my last cigarette. 

I took a long, final drag. Then I squeezed the butt with two fingers and stuck it into the ashtray. 

The car had filled with smoke. I rolled the window down. The gray, bitter mist quickly began to disappear.

I shifted to first gear, waiting for the red light to turn green. A blue, shimmering light coming from my right caught my eye. 

The light came from the sign of a local bar called Ronnie’s. Half of the letters looked a bit dull and shady.

The bar was known as the place where nobody goes. I, personally, had never been there before. But on that night, something drew me like a giant magnet in its direction. 

Without even knowing how, I had already turned right and was driving towards the bar. Even if it was empty, it would be comfortable to me. 

Being—or drinking—on my own had never bothered me at all.

There was a convenience store right across from the bar. I parked there and bought a pack of Camels cigarettes. I crossed the street and entered the bar. 

Ronnie’s.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t as empty as I thought it would be. 

In the back, there were a bunch of people wearing leather jackets. Their arms were covered in tattoos. They laughed loudly, banging on the wooden table.

At the bar were a couple of old, skinny men. They were probably in their seventies. And they were drinking in silence.

The air inside felt heavy and musty. The music was flat and sad, and the light was poor. I decided to stay. 

I sat at the bar next to one of the old fellas. A young girl waited for my order. She was no more than twenty-one. Her brown hair fell just beneath her shoulders. 

“Jack Daniel’s, please. With no ice, please.”

The girl poured the smooth, golden brown liquid into a square glass and placed it in front of me.

“So, this is the ‘place where nobody goes,’ huh?” I asked.

The girl barely smiled and said nothing.

“Well, maybe you should change it to the ‘place where somebody goes,’” I said and laughed lightly.

I drained the glass in one huge swallow. “One more, please.”