Moby Dick among a sea of dicks

When he entered through the front door of the bar, the permanent stench of vomit permeated his nostrils. The heat lamp that hung above the entryway lathered his face as soon as he walked in. It rejuvenated the odor and made it seem like it was cooking the smell for that night's Happy Hour meal special.
"Shipping Off to Boston" was blaring out of the speakers - only a preamble to the dozen or so more times the owner would play it from his office dependent upon how far he got through the magnum of wine. By the end of the night someone would be Irish step dancing - or thinking they could.
Every night he clocked in for his shift, he wondered why the fuck he was working in such a shit hole - a place he wouldn't have ever gone to for a drink on his own. Sometimes the conversations he had with his parents resonated: "You have a degree from a good school. Why are you doing this?"
The question followed him as he made his way through the already intoxicated crowd to the back stairwell and down into the kitchen. Before he even reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear Pat's toothless cackle - the violin twinings of a drunken orchestra. He tried not to listen to Pat's boasting of getting out of paying child support for the hundredth time and ate his fried chicken sandwich dinner.

His ass was numb from sitting on the wooden stool near the front door for the last five hours. He was almost three quarters through the book he had brought with him that evening; it helped to distract him from the inane, slurring conversations of the crowd. He no longer noticed the frat-guy-turned-salesman pounding a Bud pint can from his bicep, or the lumpy loud girl trying to get attention from anyone she could anymore. The only time he could be distracted now was from the self righteous attempts patrons made at engaging him in conversation.
"What are you reading?" A twenty-something guy with a beer gut asked, barely even interested.
"Moby Dick," he said.
"Get outta here! Well I've never heard of a bouncer reading a book, much less a bouncer reading Moby Dick!" The guy was doing his best to carry his voice to anyone listening.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Nah man, I'm just sayin'! You know, you should really read Huck Finn - fuckin' great book. I read it in high school."
The guy staggered away and ordered another round of Irish car bombs for his table.
"What are you reading?" A mousey voice squeaked from behind him.
"Moby Dick," he mumbled.
"Why are you reading in such a fun place?"
"What?"
"It's so much fun here, why would you want to read? You must be antisocial."
"Right, lady." He continued to read his book while this woman continued to impart her psychological wisdom and condescending favor of conversation until closing time.

He wheeled his bike out of the bar and into the dank and dingy alley of Drury Street. The garbage truck was rumbling down the street at 3:30 a.m., right on time. He gave a wave to the guys who waved back, and set out on his way home.
The late evening air was sweet with the perfumes of impending summer He did lazy figure eights sporadically down Broad Street. It helped soothe his thoughts of disdain for the general public. Everyone in the bar had story about a bitchy customer at the end of the night and it kind of left him with negativity and contempt for people. It was difficult not to think about those people he watched and encountered that night. Some made him angry, some made him laugh and the majority of encounters did both. When he first started working at the bar it bothered him, but now he just shrugged it off and was thankful that he did not have such a narrow and diluted perspective. He didn't think that he did a good deed by talking to the bouncer or leaving a two dollar tip for a beer.
When he walked through the front door of his South Philly apartment he remembered why he worked at such a shitty job. His desk had numerous papers strewn about with story ideas and blurbs written on them. He turned the lamp on and took out the pocket notebook from his grease-stained jeans. He had written about six pages of thoughts and ideas for stories. Tomorrow he would bring those stories to life.
It was always at 4:30 a.m. that he remembered the answer to his parents' question, before settling into his desk chair and cracking his knuckles.