Communion

“We've known each other, what, 20 years?” He clings to his beer like a life preserver.

The joint is empty on a Tuesday afternoon, just Mick and me and a few drifters in from out of the heat. It's always cool and damp in here. Dark, smells like whiskey, sounds like the Rolling Stones. A good place to hide from whatever it is that haunts a man.

“Something like that,” I say.

There's no chicks in here, hardly ever is. Sometimes on a Saturday night they'll get a band in here play some tunes. They'll play CCR and the Eagles for a while, stuff a guy can drink to. Then they'll do “Shook Me All Night Long” and the girls go crazy, shake it all night long, or for at least a few minutes, which is as long as most guys can last anyway.

“How is it that I never knew you had a sister?”

The bartender, Len—short for Leonard, I guess—refills the bowl of stale pretzels in front of us to go with our beer. He's the only one been here longer than I have. He came here in '94, wasn't planning to stay in town, but here he still is like the rest of us. Hard to stay, harder to leave.

“No offense, Mick, but do you seem like the kind of fellow a guy'd want to let know he had a sister?”

He paws at the pretzels in front of him. Doesn't really want to eat them, but there they are like the rest of us. Probably had plans once upon a time. We all have plans.

“No, I don't suppose I do.”

He slings a few pretzels into his mouth and washes them down with beer. I do the same. Communion.