Welcome to Tiki Time. Welcome to Tiki Time.

"Hi, I'm Debbie ... where y'all from?"

Debbie extended her hand ritualistically.

"I'm Stuart, from Honolulu."

"I'm Matthew, from St. Louis."

We shook.

Debbie was a veteran bartendress, somehow hardened into graciousness. Her handshake was a preemptive pact, and regularly committed its recipient to the long term intoxicated servitude of a tavern "regular". Downwind, these regulars took their time to size us up, waiting for our responses before totally committing to their assessments. They appeared to wish us away. Perhaps for their sake, perhaps for ours.

"Well what are y'all doing here anyway?" Debbie asked.

"Just seeing some of the country," Stuart offered, "Tulsa, Austin, Shreveport, Memphis ..."

We ordered our $2 drinks, the specialty of the house.

"I just looove Memphis," Debbie cooed, "me and my husband used to drive up there. We really loved it. But Shreveport will always be my home. I was raised here, you know. We moved down South for a while, then to Monroe. They think their shit don't stink out there in Monroe, but it does. Their shit stinks in Monroe."

Two TVs blared a much-hyped football game. A glitch in the satellite circuit delayed the signal from the first set to the second. The resultant echo doubled the crack of each hit, the blast of each whistle, and the color of each commentary. At the bar's peninsula, a character in a cowboy hat was more concerned with the lustful predilections of the dark-skinned running back who, he surmised, was more distracted than his white counterparts.

"... We moved back to Shreveport and my husband bought this bar," Debbie continued, "but he died ten years ago so now this feller here is my business partner," she said, motioning to a disinterested manlump. "So what'd you all see in town?"

"We just had Herbie K's," I smiled.

Debbie's nodded. "That place is the best. The owner was killed last year. Last year, wasn't it? Somebody tried to hold him up and I guess he got shot and was killed. What was his name? The owner of Herbie K's who got killed. Last year ..." she trailed off as a risky play called her attention back to the screen.

The bar was sparse, the result of just enough decoration to convince patrons that their drink was justifiable, part of a special occasion. Plastic palms dangled from corners, confused. Microphones threatened karaoke. A gaudy red analog clock perched atop the liquor shelf. It read "Welcome to Tiki Time". It had long since stopped ticking.

Debbie turned away from the TV and caught our eyes.

"Hi, I'm Debbie ... where y'all from?"

Debbie extended her hand ritualistically.

"I'm Stuart, from Honolulu."

"I'm Matthew, from St. Louis."

We shook.