Samaritans

I was smoking my last cigarette in a bar one day, around the middle of the afternoon. I was drinking heavy, too, for several reasons. It was hot and bright outside, and cool and dark inside the bar, so that’s one reason I was in there. But the main reason I was in there was because my wife had left me to go live with somebody else.

A kid came in there unexpectedly, a young, young kid. And of course that’s not allowed. You can’t have kids coming in bars. People won’t put up with that. I was just on the verge of going out to my truck for another pack of smokes when he walked in. I don’t remember who all was in there. Some old guys, I guess, and probably, some drunks. I know there was one old man, a golfer, who came in there every afternoon with shaky hands, drank exactly three draft beers, and told these crummy dirty jokes that would make you just close your eyes and shake your head without smiling if you weren’t in a real good mood. And back then, I was never in much of a good mood. I knew they’d tell that kid to leave.

But I don’t think anybody much wanted to. The kid didn’t look good. I thought there was something wrong the minute he stepped in. He had these panicky eyes.

The bartender, Harry, was a big muscled-up guy with a beard. He was washing beer glasses at the time, and he looked up and saw him standing there. The only thing the kid had on was a pair of green gym shorts that were way too big for him. He looked like maybe he’d been walking down the side of a road for a long time, or something similar to that.

Harry, he raised up a little and said, “What you want, kid?” I could see that the kid had some change in his hand. He was standing on the rail and he had his elbows hooked over the bar to hold himself up.

I’m not trying to make this sound any worse than it was, but to me the kid just looked like maybe he hadn’t always had enough to eat. He was two or three months overdue for a haircut, too.

“I need a pack a cigrets,” he said. I looked at Harry to see what he’d say. He was already shaking his head.

“Can’t sell em to you, son,” he said. “Minor.”

I thought the kid might give Harry some lip. He didn’t. He said, “Oh,” but he stayed where he was. He looked at me. I knew then that something was going on. But I tried not to think about it. I had troubles enough of my own.