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ALEXANDER C. IRVINE ROSSETTI SONG SOME PEOPLE HAVE ALWAYS wanted to be President, or a baseball player, or a movie star, or business tycoon. Me, I've always wanted to own a bar. Not some flaky franchised chicken-finger paradise for post-fraternity muscleboys and their bimbos; a real shot-and-a-beer kind of neighborhood joint. Pool table or two in the back, an old Wurlitzer by the bathroom doors, a long mirror behind the bar suitable for the sort of what's-he-got-that-I-ain't-got scrutiny to which melancholy drunks love to subject themselves. Tables with a topography of cigarette burns, water rings, dents of uncertain origin, all preserved under a quarter-inch layer of varnish. Beer signs on the walls, no bikinis or volleyballs allowed, just painted mirrors and classic flickering neon like the sign out front that says FRANK'S PLACE. Cab company numbers taped to the side of the phone. A blackboard leaning against the mirror advertising the day's special and a permanent addendum: HANGOVERS FREE OF CHARGE. An old neighborhood bar, like I said, but it's hard to find a good one because fewer and fewer people live in the old neighborhoods anymore and the ones who are left don't talk to each other. Harder still to start one up, because any place that will support one already has one, but that's a defeatist attitude as Susan would have said. A real go-getter can-do type of person, that was my wife. She died
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