The Marxist Bar

Opening the bar door he glanced in. Neighborhood toughs like to shoot pool and drink beer. In this particular spot a revolutionary aspect existed amongst the usual tone. A constant push was needed to keep these guys in line, Biff mused. Presumably, understated links between bar staff and law enforcement checked any active participation in crime. This type didn't join the yob firebrands he’d seen dashing through the streets at sundown. No, as community matters headed towards a confrontational boil – left versus conservatives – most alcoholic druggies remained aloof in their own awful world. By and large, they refused to act overtly on the chance of offending the local police or right-wing element. They watched quizzically as the students and labor members rioted. They dodged scrutiny by loafing in the bar and stayed away from that. It remained for others to made sense of dissent. Nonetheless, through occasional provocation against authority, the underworld leadership did acquire respect among their more strident street counterparts. One way or the other, it was a strange, dicey trek for those estranged from the salaried workforce. As cab drivers and waitresses they became subject to situational impediments that restricted serious money-making. Mired in debt, they learned to practice deception about the actual intake and outflow. Arguments over less than twenty dollars were routinely heard. Svoboda found this poverty easier to take if one didn't make a fuss about it. A pittance was gathered and nothing salted away. It was all marginal. You rarely got ahead. Continuing pressure from the other down-and-outers required push-back. So it was that street smarts were under constant development. The lowly had their systems, their tipping po...

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...he heavy dude spoke.

“They’re saying you like to do a little grass,” he said through the cover of his fingers.

“Yeah, if it ain't half bad,” the shooter responded after a glance. “Trouble is you end up with those government-overthrow types. I'm at my worst pretending to be Marxist. It doesn't lead anywhere interesting. You’re almost always high and start to get things wrong because you’ve lost the ability to handle a lot of fragmented detail.”

The stranger's eyes grew fiercely alive. It needn't be pushed any farther to arrive at the conclusion that he wanted some. If truth be told, though, he wasn't bearing up. Apparently he wasn't used to action in the local fast lane. He downed the rest of his beer as he stood there, presumably overtaken by thought processes skewed towards the less dramatic. For the shooter, the inclination was to foreclose on this, evidently.