Scenes from a hotel bar

I'm staying at the Best Western in Farmington, NM. In the lobby there's a sports bar called Rookies. I don't know why, it seems like most of the people drinking there tonight are pros. Although it's not where I am, the feeling is very much one of middle America.

Next to me is a man, bald in a John Malkovich sort of way. He's married; I can tell by the ring on his finger, not by any converstaion. He's drinking and smoking in that quiet and determined way that says there's something on his mind.

Next to him is a man that looks suspiciously like Willima H. Macy by way of Chuck Norris hair and mosutache. Although he's probably harmless, I feel like a year from now I could be reading in the papers how he killed half a dozen people.

There are two Mexicans playing pool behind me. One is cheating, moving his opponent's ball while he's not looking, turning an easy shot into a very hard one. His opponent doesn't notice, but makes the shot anyway. He still doesn't win the game.

Sitting across from me is the only woman in the bar at this point that doesn't work there. She's a little older, pretty in a hard way. She's getting plenty of attention from the men around her. One looks like he drives tractors for a living, another talks about his band, and the third was maybe a high school football hero, but that was a long time ago.

A man enters. By the standards of the bar, he's younger looking. He's a rockstar. Tatooed arms; Nikki Sixx haircut. Apparently he must be popular, at least by Farmington standards, because the woman asks for his autograph. At this point I feel I should know him, but after much considering I don't. Maybe he's someone, maybe not, I just don't know and my Corona's gone and I just don't have any more time to think about it.