The young ones flail in the shallows of too many shots. The old ones wonder, is there an afterlife? The bar clock runs ahead of time. Last Call. Two more shots here. Two big beers there. Time is running out.
Every seven years, the bar tide changes. The young ones vanish, taken on the life current, deeper water, where will they end up? A few will not make it. Maybe more than a few. New shoals arrive. The new young ones flail in the shallows of too many shots, too little experience. Perhaps an old one gets the question answered.
The grey bartender is the lighthouse on the rocks. He steers the young ones clear of disaster. Some are still wrecked. The old ones ask him, do you believe in God? I am the light, he says, calling Last Call, flipping the switches, everything goes black. He locks the door.
The moon also rises. The waves return soon enough. Another day.