Pickled eggs

 I ducked into a corner bar to escape the blizzard and unbelievable cold that chilled me to the bone. I'd been here some time back with my dad, who propped me on a barstool with an orange soda and a handful of quarters to play the one-armed bandit, but it was a long time ago, and I forgot about the place. There wasn't any live music, just an old jukebox spitting out the classics of days long gone. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and dampness. Cheap perfume filled the air worn by a few elderly women sipping their cocktails and hoping someone wanted to dance.

Two old men sat hunched over, staring into their glasses, wondering whether they should have another. After looking at the bartender, another round was ordered. A large glass jar filled with pickled eggs and a rack of potato chips that had probably been there for a long time was the menu that I passed on, choosing Hunger instead.

The bartender, who also happened to be the owner, asked me my father's name. When I told him, he scratched his bearded face and smiled. I knew your dad very well. He said it seemed like yesterday he was standing exactly where you stand now. I can't count the times your mom came and picked him up. Yeah, I said she did that a lot.

As the storm stopped, I played a few songs on the jukebox and drank too many beers, and nobody cared. I finally left, but not before telling the owner thanks and saying I'd make it a point to come back no matter the weather.

Walking home, I realized how much I had in common with my dad. Someday, I'd have to try a pickled egg and some stale chips.

Mike 2025