Western Illinois, 1975
“Heya, Janet. Get me a Schlitz, woudja?” Buck requested as he lumbered through the door and plopped to a seat at his favorite table in the corner.
“Coming right up,” I agreed. “You want a shot with that?”
“Nah.” He waved a hand downward, his fleshy face settling into disgust. “The missus says I need to cut back. Just one beer a night and no liquor.” He patted the ponderous belly under his ragged overalls.
The bar erupted into laughter as bikers, truckers and yokels slapped him on the shoulders. By the time the night was up, he’ll have had tripled his allotment and the missus would be none too pleased.
I reached into the cooler behind the scarred countertop and retrieved an amber-brown bottle. Yanking off the top with a practiced tug of the bar key, I walked the
