Ghosts of the Footprint

Recently, I went to hear a friend's band at Banks Street Bar, back behind Jesuit in Mid-City.

As I walked into the dim ramshackle establishment that I evening, I felt, in a strange way, like I was back in the VA Footprint in Outer Banks Bar.

There, standing next to a pole, was James, the loyal Outer Banks patron, the wall boards leaning behind him.

Across the way, seated at a table near the neon glow by the door was another Outer Banks regular-in-exile, Bryan.  He sat there with his hat, white pants, shades, and grin looking like Burma Jones exiled from the Night of Joy.

Still, it wasn't quite the same.

Down what was left of Banks Street, down a ways under the dark of the remaining oak boughs, a great expanse of dirt stretched out under the night sky.