One Last Drink

“That’s too bad, hun,” said Carnal Carrie.
“Yep,” I said, taking another swig of my drink.

The three of us sat in silence watching the smoke rise from Carrie’s cigarette. An elderly man poked at a video card game back in the corner as the beer cooler wheezed and rasped.

The last time I saw my father was outside O’Hooley’s Southside Tavern in late November fifteen years ago. The sky was dark and overcast and a heavy mist dampened my wool coat. By this time, Lucius Van Dyke II was no longer living with my mom, Scooter and I. I was almost eighteen, in my senior year of high school.

My father stood in a ratty old overcoat talking to old Swill. Swill reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He fumbled for some bills and offered them to my father. My father feigned refusal, but took the bills. Swill shook my father’s hand and patted him on the shoulder before entering O’Hooley’s. My father counted the cash and stuffed it into his coat pocket. I tried to sneak past, but my father spotted me.

“Lucius, my boy. C’mere and have a drink with the old man.”
“I, uh… I’ve got to get home,” I said.
“Ahh, you can spare five minutes with your dad.”
“Mom…”
“Lizzie’s not gonna ground ya for spending some time with me.”

My mother, Elizabeth, hated being called ‘Lizzie.’ The most you could get away with was dropping the ‘E.’ ‘Lizabeth.

“All right, but I really gotta get home,” I said.

Lucius Van Dyke II and III stepped into O’Hooley’s Southside Tavern. The day shift had just let out at what was left of the steel industry. A few steel workers were already seated at the bar smoking cigarettes and drinking Stroh’s beer. Karen O’Hooley was taking off her apron as she finished her morning shift while her husband Robert served old Swill a shot and a beer. My father and I took a seat at his usual post down at the corner near old Swill.

“Bob. A beer for me and the boy,” ordered Lucius Van Dyke II.
“But, I don’t want a…”
“It’s good for ya, it’ll put hair on your chest,” interrupted my father.
“Your dad’s right,” agreed Swill.
“But I don’t want hair on my chest”

Bob O’Hooley slid a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons onto the bar. My father reached into his coat pocket for the cash that old Swill had given him. Swill watched my father carefully count out three dollars and lay it on the bar top.

“Thanks barkeep,” said my father. “Cheers.”

My father raised his bottle in a toast. I raised mine to his, clinking the bottoms together. I took a tiny little sip, the bitter liquid washed over my tongue. I hadn’t yet grown to appreciate the taste of beer.

My father and I sat in silence at the bar. I watched the bubbles in the beer rise to the top while listening to the steelworkers talk about the last Pittsburgh game. I glanced up at the television. The newscast led off with a story about a fire breaking out at our local National Fireproofing office.

“Lucius,” my father said, interrupting the silence. “I’ve got to go.”