Same but different

     He sat at the same bar stool he did when he first began drinking at eighteen. The stool was in the same bar his dad drank in every day after work. Like his dad he was a painter who although good at it, never really ventured out to become his own boss. His dad was the same way said it was easier because he didn’t have to have a license or do book work, all he had to do was show up for work and hed get a paycheck every Friday. He was about twelve when his dad taught him the ins and outs of painting houses. Back then you didn’t buy cheap throw away brushes and other tools needed, nope you washed them out every day and wrapped them in cloth to be ready for the next day. You wore painter’s coveralls to, so you didn’t ruin your clothes. They hung on a hook in what was called the mudroom. This was a small room just inside the back door where boots and coveralls and anything mom deemed dirty stayed before entering the house. My dad worked hard and over the years he worked very hard and let everyone know it. Mom always had a plate for him as dinner time for him was sitting on a bar stool sharing stories with other men of the crafts. We ate without him but every morning we all had breakfast together before he went into the mudroom and got dressed for another day of painting. I don’t really know why I stayed being a painter, I guess it was mostly because I had no desire to do much of anything else. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and I suppose that’s true. I ordered up another round for my buddies that have been drinking here for as long as we can remember, same bar, same stool, same jobs and the never-ending nagging question “could I have done better? “There is one difference between him and me, I make it home every night for dinner with my family
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