When I was barhopping a couple of weeks ago, I was at this place called “Big Shank’s Friendly Tavern”, an old liquor store – tavern with a round wooden bar, and beneath the bar this old wooden slotted partitioned cabinet to keep cigarettes in, and bags of Combos and other snacks for sale cheap, and these old wooden locked plate-glass windows on the walls with liquor behind them.
The bartender was this older kind of spacey (white) woman with short blonde hair, and the clientele was old men, except for this one brunette woman down the bar with this (white) guy with a devilish goatee and an oxygen tank.
Towards the time when I’m getting read to go, I ask the bartender why the place is called “Big Shank’s”.
“Because the owner took over the bar from his father and that’s the owner,” she was like, “Big Shank.”
“And why is he called Big Shank?”, I was like.
“All his life people have called him that,” she was like, “Big Shank.”
“And did he get that nickname from somewhere, or something?”, I was like.
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