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Panamint Suzie.

Sun up high and a long way till night. Hot as the devil out here, fit for rattlers and diggers. Pickups parked any which way, all around the bar on the sand, tires soft and tired to the treads, like their owners or borrowers. Not a body in sight this weekend; they've all disappeared in the lonesome structure that sprung out of need a few decades ago. It is said that a miner with a few bucks too many decided to stay here and profit from the other's thirst; while they dug holes in the ground, he drank to his content until he died a sorry death. Nothing has changed 'cept the name on the license and the faces on the clients.

The bar is full of rowdy men, the poolroom is full of rowdy men. Miners are powerful thirsty after a long day under, sweating the bills and lost women, child support and alimony or the sheriff up top. The jukebox wails some country tune, too sad, too long, too loud. The smell of pickled eggs fights with the stench of rancid peanuts in a loaded atmosphere of spilled beer and old whiskey breath. No one seems to mind, tempers inflate in the heat, bursts of curses flourish about the dusty green felt and pool cues rise up to the threats.
Men against men with not much else to do, elbow each other at the zinc counter teetering over three-legged stools. Stories get tougher with every drink, hard booze for guys who ain't got nothing to lose, hard place to be, hard times to cross, fit for hell or the brave; it's just a watering hole for the mean and the fool.
A swell of laughter rushes through the crowd, big hunks pushing skinny guys to get closer to the counter. Swede squares his frame to the front where Rattlesnake Pete is firmly planted; the barman, called Frenchie for fun, spits out some obscured message in a voice too hoarse to be understood. National origins mimic as adopted identity, some have traces of accents of forgotten languages, some bear their illiteracy with excessive vocal pride and take on names of local lore instead.
And there she is, droopy tits and saggy buns, baring her grayish skins for all, for quarters and a sad tune. She sings along with the old record that is kept there for no one else. Irish stoops and gathers the scattered coins, "Hey you cheapskates cain't you do no better n that? Suzie's thirsty, ain't you honey?" never losing sight of the loose change.
From the back of the room a scrawny miner answers to the generic name of "Red," despite his obvious lack of any color, unless you count his sunburned neck.

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