The temperature was in the teens, but there was no wind and my Dart cruised effortlessly down the highway beneath a steel sheet of clouds. At Waldorf I cracked a window and huffed a Camel, and in La Plata I stopped for a burger and a Coke. A half hour later I was on the Island and sitting on a brown Leatherette stool in a nearly empty Formica-floored room that doubled as the dining area and bar of Polanski’s. The bartender’s name was Andy. Andy had a brush cut and wore a green V-necked sweater over a white T-shirt that was exposed both at the neck and at the base of his great belly. His double-knit pants were chocolate brown and cinched with a wide black belt. Black work boots covered his long feet. Andy shook my hand and said, “Now we’ve been introduced. What can I get you?” “A draught beer,” I said. Andy plunged his thick knotted hand into the cooler and withdrew two glass mugs. He gripped the handles of both with one hand as he tapped out the beer and put a head on it without wasting more than a few drops.
