The pavement was wet. MacArthur didn’t care about puddles but found himself looking at the ground anyway.
Something snapped.
MacArthur lifted his head toward the sound. It wasn’t ballistic or fireworks, but it was close by.
A banner, tied with twine to the front of the building, for a radio station, 97.7, blowing in the stiff wind.
The radio station was doing a promotion at this bar.
Gerrity’s.
Fuck.
When the pretty girl with the schnauzer outside the gas station told him where to find a great french dip, he pictured a quiet, dark place.
This place glowed.
It looked like a carnival ride with a liquor license.
But he was starving and he could feel his blood sugar plummeting.
The VA had offered him a glucose monitor, but he didn’t feel like having a machine attached to him all the time. He didn’t feel like them knowing numbers that came from his body.
The girl had been sweet, like she really cared that he got a good meal.
He just didn’t want it to be from a building that glowed.
MacArthur trudged up the steps to Gerrity’s.
Bright lights made his bowels loose.
Maybe the place had a cheese platter.
He pulled the door open and it seemed like they were having a surprise party just for him.
People cheered. A guy in a neon visor handed him a copper mug.
“That comes with three free refills of the beverage of your choice, and here’s your ticket for the twenty-five thousand dollar drawing!”
MacArthur nodded.
The guy looked perplexed, as though his enthusiasm was supposed to jump-start MacArthur.
MacArthur just wanted a french dip.
He took a seat away from the action,in the corner.
People were answering trivia questions for prizes.
No one knew Spiro Agnew was Nixon’s first vice president.
Even the menu seemed to glow.
The server told him he could get a Long Island with the copper mug he got as a door prize.
MacArthur ordered a root beer. The server looked disappointed.
Looked like she could have been an older version of his daughter.
He ate the french dip, one of the best he ever had.
The radio station people didn’t stop bellowing.
The sun was going down outside but if anything the place got brighter.
The DJ named The Machine kept reminding people that someone was gonna walk out of here twenty-five thousand dollars richer.
Must be present to win, people!
Gerrity’s was almost full.
Some of the people smelled like weed.
MacArthur asked for his check.
His debit card was denied.
“I ran it three times,” the server said. She smiled. A bum card didn’t seem to be as much of a transgression as ordering root beer instead of a Long Island.
MacArthur dug in his pockets.
Short a buck thirty one.
He sat back and watched the room glow, listened to the bellows of the radio station people.
Fuck.
He spun the copper mug. The mug had the Gerrity’s logo cheaply engraved on it.
He supposed it was his to keep, but what for?
His Aunt Helen had given him a two-dollar bill before she passed. He had visited her at assisted living. The bill was in his wallet, folded behind his Tucson library card. He was in Ohio.
He didn’t really believe in angels, and if he did, he didn’t think they hung around to help people pay for french dips. But he could pay his tab.
He handed the two-dollar bill and the rest of his money to his server.
“It’s not much of a tip, barely one at all, but here, take my raffle ticket.”
The server shook her head.
“Keep it, the drawing is in twenty minutes.”
MacArthur shook his head back.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said.
“If I win,” the server said, “Next time you’re in here I’ll split it with you.”
“I won’t be back,” Macarthur said.
He walked out of the bar with the copper mug in his hand.
The wind had died down, the pavement was drying, and MacArthur had no place to go.
***
Photo by Moises Jimenez on Unsplash
Whew…. (As in, long exhale)