2010-11-18 - 11:07 p.m.

Home from college, Christmas break. Quiet Saturday. This is a few years ago. Let's do something, Jake says. I'm 22. He's 27. And so we do something.

We drive into town, to Geatz's, the bar that has served the same three brands of beer since 1975. Football's on. Jake has money on the Steelers. We sit at the bar. We order Yuenglings. Jake drinks half of his down. He's got that look in his eye, like he wants to do something. I figure, if he's got that look, then I must have it, too, only maybe it's half as bright, half as twinkling, half as dangerous. He finishes his beer, orders another, and another for me. See that girl over there, Jake says. I see her. She's been looking our way since we came in, I say. She looks familiar. I banged her, right after high school, he says. Why don't you say hello, I say. No, he says, I'll let her come to me. He orders another round. The Steelers score. Jake's still got that look in his eye.

The owner walks in. The regulars--the old men, the big, blond women--murmur a weak cheer, and he claps each of them on the back. He ties a white apron around his thick middle. He knows Jake. They played baseball together. Remember Heather, the owner says. Sure, Jake says. Big tits, and he cups his hands to his chest. She was here last night, the owner says. She remembers you. Oh yeah, Jake says. Oh yeah, the owner says. He smiles. Jake laughs. Jake orders us another.

You can still smoke in bars then, and so I light up a Camel, and then another. The Steelers are winning, and when Jake comes back from the pay phone, he says he took his winnings and put it on the Patriots. The spread is can't-miss, he says. He orders shots of Irish Mist. The owner pours himself one, too, and we drink it down, and it warms my chest and then my belly. Haven't seen your pops in here in a little while, the owner says. Is he all right? Sure, Jake says. I didn't know he came here, I say. The owner nods, says sure, he comes in here twice a week. Maybe Jake knows this but if he does, he isn't saying.

I light another Camel and rest it in the plastic ashtray in front of me. Just then, Dad walks in. Hey Mike, the owner says, look who we let in here. Dad sees us, smiles an odd kind of smile, and sits next to me. The owner pours him a glass of Budweiser and sets it down. I'd forgotten he was working today, the once-a-month Saturday shift when he mans the news desk, in case anything blows up or burns down. The weak sun, setting now, turns the beer golden. Dad takes a sip, says hey guys, who's winning. He coughs and waves at the air. He hates cigarettes, always has. He's got asthma. My stomach tightens.

Jake and I finish our beers and Dad buys us another. Be careful driving home, he says. Sure, I say. Jake orders another beer, for himself. The Camel burns down, the ash now an inch long, maybe longer, and it sends up a thin stream of gray smoke that is absolutely straight, in the still air of the bar. Dad finishes his beer, plays a game of Keno, and when he sees he hasn't won, he slaps a ten on the counter and says he'll see us back at home. He squeezes my shoulder and gives Jake a nod. Just before he slips into his coat, just before he slips out the door, the Camel burns all the way down to the filter, and is done.

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