now, I seemed to only recognize vague resemblances to founding families in certain faces. Two young guys in jeans and T-shirts earnestly shot pool while a single couple in cowboy boots shuffled across much of the huge dance floor.
Seated around some of the tables were older Pottersvillians whose concerned looks let me know they were old enough to remember my past. The bartender, an early middle-aged man with coarse salt and pepper hair combed back, gave me the same look as he approached though I didn’t recognize him. When he reached me, he didn’t speak, but merely raised his eyebrows in a wary expression that asked me what I wanted.
“Cherry Coke,” I said. I had to say it loudly to compete with Allan, but he seemed to be able to read lips. It was probably a job requirement.
He looked instantly relieved and smiled as he hustled off to fix it. When he brought it back, he said, “On the house,” and gave me a wink.
“Thanks,” I said and gave him a couple of dollars for his trouble. “Is Alice working tonight?”
“Yeah,” he said. He got very close to me, so that he wouldn’t have to shout and I smelled Polo Sport on his skin and peppermint on his breath. “She gets here about seven. Serves finger foods and does Karaoke.”
“Karaoke?” I said, and feigned embarrassment.
He snickered. “Yeah, I know.… Why?”
“I need to talk to her,” I said. “Just for a few minutes. She told me to meet her here.”
“She usually gets here early,” he said. “You can see her first thing. That way you won’t have to be here later when it gets rough.”
I nodded and failed to suppress a smile. “It doesn’t get much rougher than Karaoke,” I said.
“You have no idea,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “Are you helping your dad? Alice ain’t in no kind of trouble, is she?”
“No kind,” I said.
“She’s a good girl,” he said, adding, “she’s single, too,” as he walked away to wait on other customers.
Hanging from the ceiling in various conspicuous places around the room, twenty-five inch TVs showed a wide range of sports events, and I got so wrapped up in a Lakers/Celtics game that I didn’t notice someone had plopped down on the stool beside me until the bartender approached him. When I turned, I was looking into the familiar blue eyes of a high school acquaintance whose name I couldn’t remember.
“Hey, man,” he said warmly. “How ya doin’?”
“Good,” I said. “How are you?”
He nodded slowly, pursing his lips as he did. “Can’t complain. Can’t complain. What’re you doin’ back in this neck of the woods? Just home for a visit?”
“No,” I said. “I live here now.”
“No shit?”
“None,” I said.
“Whatta you do?”
“I’m a chaplain out at PCI,” I said.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“Not if he has anything to do with it,” the bartender said, nodding toward me as he placed the bottle of Corona in front of my nameless high school friend and another Cherry Coke in front of me.
“Right. Right,” he said and started laughing. He took a long drag on his bottle and shook his head. “When we were in school, you were one of the craziest sons a bitches I ever seen. Seems like somebody said you had a religious side, but hell, I never saw it.”
“Not many did,” I said. “You had to look pretty hard. Some would say you still do.”
He laughed. “Nah,” he said shaking his head. “I can tell. You’re different, man. I mean you still look like good ol’ JJ, but… I don’t know… just…”
“Sober,” I offered.
“Yeah,” he said as he started laughing again.
“Whatta you up to these days?” I asked.
“Ah, not enough,” he said. “Do a little construction.… I thought about trying to get on out at the prison. Either that or build condos on the beach.”
We were quiet a while, each enjoying our drinks. Eventually the music stopped briefly and the voices of people having a good time echoed in the open hall, joined occasionally by the loud clack of the cue ball driving another ball hard into a pocket. The Lakers, a different team than their former run-and-gun Pat Riley selves no longer had a fast-break, but they had Shaq and could beat Boston at their own half-court game.
The music started again-this time it was a pop-sounding song by Shania Twain. “Country music ain’t what it used to be,” he said.
“Thank God,” I said.
“You like her music?” he asked.
“Like her videos better,” I said.
He smiled. “I heard that,” he said. “You haven’t changed that much.”
“I still like girls if that’s what you mean,” I said.
“Then God bless you,” he said. He took another big gulp of his beer and seemed surprised to see that it was the last. He placed the bottle back on the bar and signaled the bartender.
“What’s his name?” I asked, nodding toward the bartender.
“Same as mine,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, nodding as if that answered my question.
When the bartender brought him another Corona, he took a big swig from it, sat it down a little too hard on the bar and asked, “How’d you do it?”
“What?”
“Higher Power and all that shit?” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah. That’s a big part of it.… Big part of everything.”
He seemed to really consider this, after which he turned his head up, tilted the bottle back and finished it off. He carefully stood up, using my shoulder for support and said, “Maybe I’ll go to a meeting with you some time.”
“Anytime,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see you around.”
He walked over and joined the two guys who were shooting pool, leaning against the table as he did. The bartender walked back over, shaking his head.
“Want another?” he asked.
“Man’s got to know his limit.”
“I respect that,” he said.
“Hey, what’s that guy’s name?” I asked.
“Same as mine,” he said and walked off with the empty glass and bottle.
Not far from me, two guys in their early twenties with FSU T-shirts and caps on began having a drinking contest. They were drinking shots of straight Tequila: salt, shot, lime. Salt, shot, lime. The people nearby cheered them on and as I remembered that taste on my tongue and its burn in my throat and stomach, I missed the quick camaraderie and the easy abandonment of tying one on with friends-and strangers.
I signaled for the bartender.
“I’ll have another,” I said. “Make it a double.… And whatever she’s having,” I added when I saw Alice walk into the bar.
He met her on the other end of the bar, pointed at me, and they both reached me at the same time.
“Sorry to have to meet here, Chaplain,” she said, “but-”
“Hey,” the bartender said, “this is a classy joint.” He then placed our drinks in front of us, and moved down the bar.
“Don’t be,” I said. “I feel right at home.”
“I’m not supposed to do this,” she said. “This is confidential information.”
“If you’d rather not,” I said, “I can get it some other way.”
“No, it’s not that,” she said. “I just wanted you to know why I couldn’t do it at work.”
