Run For Your Life: Part 1

The low point of my manhood occurred in the summer of 1986, in a bar in a squatty strip mall in Port Charlotte, Florida. It was called The Rheinlander Haus, run by a black Jamaican man named Eno who wore a burgundy tuxedo every night. A musician named Wayne, in a toupee and understated black tux, played Brat-Pack oldies at the white-Formica organ bar, and a cocktail waitress who looked and dressed like a sex-kitten Pocahontas served up drinks. My friends and I liked the place because it was c...