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Chapter 4
The Blue Lady held a charm that, apparently, only he could see. It was dark, seedy and nearly empty. Granted, most neighborhood bars probably don’t do a rousing business on a bright August Sunday afternoon, but had it not been for the bartender, it would be deserted. We found a seat next to the shuffleboard machine, and I ordered two draws of Coors. I hated Coors, but that was the only beer Dad drank, so rather than argue with him, I just ordered it.
The bartender, an older lady with big hair (I suspect it was a wig) placed the cold glasses in front of me on the bar and said, “Pardon me for buttin’ in, but your friend looks pale…”
“You don’t know the half of it…” I picked up the over-full glasses and sloshed my way back to our table, after making sure that I tipped her a buck.
As I walked away, she picked it up in both hands and commented, “Oh, joy! A whole dollar! Now I can get that heart transplant!”
I walked, noticing my father’s expression. He was now Humphrey Bogart, with a sardonic grin and Camel Filter 100 dangling between his fingers. “You seem to have a way with the ladies…” With pinkie-finger extended, Dad quickly offered a perfunctory toast, lifted the glass to his mouth and took a sip. “Ahhhh, yes… Good ol’ Adolph… I could always count on him to tickle my taste buds.” Then, the grin again…
Tickle? Adolph Coors spent more time in your mouth than your teeth. “How do you do that? I mean, come on, Dad… you’re not real. I can see you, but I can’t touch you. Yet, you can grasp objects… take up space… annoy me… just like you did when you were alive. What’s happening here?”
Now he stared at the jukebox and absent-mindedly swirled his glass in small circles on the table. Presently, he looked back at me and paused, no doubt assessing me. After a bit, he offered, “You look just like George Copeland.”
Uncle George… Mom’s brother, was my favorite uncle. Even as an adult, I went out of my way to visit Aunt Frances and him. He was a big, gentle man with a heart of gold. Plus, he was friendly, out-going and loved to sing. At family gatherings, it never failed that someone would ask him to sing or dance. I always suspected Dad was jealous of him, because he tended to leave the room when George was on a roll. I lost Uncle George in 1990; they found him dead in the liquor store he worked part-time in. A robber killed him for $14… the owner said he thought George probably refused to open the safe for him… that’s the sort of man he was.
“Oh, so that’s my fault, too, I suppose.” I tried to remain calm, but inside I was seething.
Quickly, he put both hands up in front of his face, palms toward me, as if to fend off my words. “Why do you take offense at everything I’ve ever said to you?”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything that I could interpret as being complimentary?” I drained the remainder of my beer in one gulp, quelling my impulse to throw the glass. “Just once, I would have liked to hear you say, ‘Way to go, Bob’… or ‘Hey, Bob, interesting car you bought’… or “Well, Bob, I hope you’re happy as an engineer, although I can’t understand why you wasted all that time in school”… just anything, Dad.”
The lady with the big hair and green teeth placed her hand on my shoulder. “Can I get you two another one?”
I glanced over my shoulder at her, looked at Dad, and back at her. “Why not… it’s still early… isn’t it, Pop... for some of us, at least.”
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