Massachusetts is chock full of Bukowski-esque bars, but them two ain't. Hell, what do I know?, Buk might have loved them. I always got the impression he hung at working class joints, places that let you run a monthly tab, places that sold on Sundays out the back.
The kind of place where you could smell the urinal mints from the front door. Places with outdated jukeboxes that functioned intermittingly, if at all.
Places where individuals had their personalized barstools, and woe be to the bastard who didn't move when Gladys or Three-fingered Louie came in the door.
A place where it's known a hogleg is kept under the bar, a place that's got a working back door, for when the old lady is spotted steaming toward the front one.
A place that's got a ceiling blackened with tobacco smoke, and that's open and rocking on Christmas Day, a place that...