Ok, three days in. One tenth of the way over the Pyrenees and I’m at 5,012 words. Here’s a sample:

Joe got up, grabbed the dustpan and the broom and policed the alley for broken glass and cigarette butts. He swept up four loads of trash before he felt like had done penance for the broken bottle. Joe liked to hang at The Pourhouse and didn’t want Eric to give him the heave ho.

“I swept up a bunch of butts back there too, buddy.”, Said Joe, putting the dust pan back under the pool table.

“Thank you sir. Let’s keep it at a dull roar next time, k?”, Eric said with a wink.

Eric had been the bartender at The Pourhouse for the last eight years, coming out to Aberdeen after living in Seattle for most of his life. The depressed real estate market here had drawn him in, although he had some regrets when he learned how much more it rained here then even in Seattle, only 100 miles away. He paid cash for his house in ‘Felony Flats’, the bad side of town. Back in 2000 there wasn’t anywhere else around the state where you could buy a house for twenty grand, even it it did look like bat shit. Eric’s house was grey, dark grey and in the winter you might just miss it against the wet cement and low clouds full of rain, and that’s the way he liked it, under the radar.

“Who’s playing here this weekend?” Joe asked, eyeing the empty white board.

“Um, Devil in a Plaid Skirt, or Nobstreater Revival, can’t remember which.”, Said Eric fishing for his gig book. “Nobstreater Revival it is. 8 ‘o clock sharp.”

“I’ll come by and check it out, maybe Sheila will come with me.”, Said Joe. Several people crowded through the back door from the alley. The 10 ‘o clock crowd, nameless to Joe who always made it home by eleven. “See you mañana, buddy.”

“Hasta Luego José!”, shouted Eric, turning to greet the new crowd of drinkers.