I knew my plan was fucked when I got to the foot of the highway and realized the foot bridge across the river wasn’t where I thought it was.  I adjusted my rucksack on my sun burnt shoulders and double-timed it across the street.  I jogged up the next block, along the highway, squinting over traffic for any sign of the foot path.

No entrance there either.

I was lost.  It was time to improvise.  A wave of excitement washed over me.  Thinking quickly, I remembered there was foot access to the railroad bridge.  It was out of my way, but that was kind of the point.

I crossed the trestle once before.  I was badly hung over, and the foot path was out about three quarters of the way across.  I was certain I could hustle down the tracks that last stretch.  My mind made up, I did an about face and hustled back toward the river.  Someone sat at a green light, gaping,  as I trotted past.

I cut down a couple of side streets and made my way beneath another overpass.  As I waited for traffic, I realized I was standing across the street from the footbridge I had originally planned to take.

I headed up the steep incline and double-timed it the length of the bridge.  From the descending ramp I could see the neons glowing at a low-rent tavern I know.

This is a bad idea, I thought.

Mounting the steps, I struggled against the wind to close the front door.

Happy Hour on a Friday.  The place was packed.  Blue collar workers hunched over their beers as I sidled up to the bar.  A few glanced at me, brows knitting in confusion.

I felt conspicuous.

“Double shot of Jack,” I said.

The bartender stared at me for a moment.  She was cute in the face, but soft in the waist.  A last-call pump.

“I.D. please . . . “

You have -got- to be kidding me, I thought, digging a gloved hand into my pocket.

I struggled to fish my wallet out from under the frame of my pack.  I handed her my license and debit card.  She glanced at my photo, leaning down to peer under the brim of my hat.

She waved my debit card at me.

“There’s a ten dollar minimum on cards,” she said, frowning.

“Triple shot . . . ” I replied.  ”And cash me out.”

She made a face at me before heading down the bar.  It took three of the regular patrons to navigate her to the bottle through a sea of vodka and schnapps.  The guys on either side of me looked up from their drinks.

“You just get off the train?” asked the man to my left.

“Nope.  Trainin’.”

The bartender set a loaded rocks glass in front of me.

“I’ll be back with your third shot,” she said.

I chased the double with the shot.

“Jesus,” muttered the man on my left.  ”You really are training.  Marines?”

“Nah,” I leaned forward to scribble my initials on my receipt.  ”Corps told me to go fuck myself.  Tattoos.  Army didn’t care, though.”

He nodded.  I stood there a moment, adjusting my pack, waiting for the bartender to return my card.  She leaned against the cash register, eyes wandering the bar.  She looked at me, confused.

“Oh, is that all you’re having?”

I wedged my card back in my wallet and nodded to the man at the bar.

“Good luck,” he said.

Not long after my heart was pumping alcohol through me at a furious rate.  The initial elation passed quickly and the rest of the trip became a slog.  I felt exhausted.  A mile from home, a young couple passed me in an old Chevy.

The driver honked the horn and waved.