JACK O'CONNELL

On Friday evenings when the world is weighing heavy on my shoulders, I patronize the Half Moon Saloon. I give the ol' lady a call and she takes my message as a foregone conclusion that I will be coming home drunk. She cuts me slack because she knows that she will have me at her beck and call throughout the weekend.

The first two or three Miller Lites flow down fast enough. By the time I ask for another bottle, I'm ready to smoke a cigarette, lean back in my chair and listen to the blues. Like the Palm Lounge being the best bar in downtown Brownsville, the Half Moon Saloon is the best watering hole when "escaping" is the operative word.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I don't need anything besides the moment. This moment is mine. I don't exist. I feel my lungs rebelling as the tobacco plants its cancerous seeds, but in our struggle against overwhelming odds, the best we can do sometimes is cut off our noses to spite our faces.

After three or four hours of listening to The Connectors play Sonny Boy Williamson, Lightnin' Hopkins, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker and the rest of the bloods, I carefully negotiate my way home. The ol' lady never bitches, which I assume is the reason we're together.

"How 'bout a quickie?" I say as I nuzzle my nose into her neck.

"Fine," she says. "But hurry up. I'm tired."