Jack sat at the bar in the Moose Antler Tavern with a half-empty beer in his hands. The bar was a thick plank of oak with the bark still on parts of the edge, and what looked like a dozen coats of shellac on the surface. Every vertical surface in the place was paneled with knotty pine boards. Off to the side hung an old pair of crossed skis and a stuffed fish. Above the bar, like some sort of crown molding, was a wall-to-wall row of moose antlers, hence the name of the bar. It was a vegetarian’s nightmare that would’ve horrified genteel city types, but few visitors found their way here. It was a favorite spot of the locals, though, with its chrome-framed chairs with worn vinyl cushions arranged around Formica-topped tables. It had its own version of old-world charm—if that world were lost
