It’s a place that’s only a mile or so from my house, but not one that I frequent. The bartender is a guy who was a year behind me in school, and I nod to him as I walk in. He nods back. In this neighborhood that’s practically a hug. I take a seat at a table toward the back, facing out, so I can see the entire place. It’s a Thursday evening, and the place is relatively busy. It’s not the crush of a Friday or a Saturday night, but there are plenty of people who refuse to wait for the weekend to begin drinking away the work-week. I recognize a few of them from various different stages of my life, but I stopped really belonging here years ago. I’m viewed as a bit of an oddity by those with whom I grew up. Few of them had aspirations beyond sustaining their position within the community. For most, that meant going into a trade – becoming an electrician or a carpenter. For the girls, that often meant passing the time as a waitress or a secretary while waiting for their boyfriends to propose.
