backforthmenu Bill's Evangelists. “Dewars—D E W A R S.” We strained our necks searching for the label in the rows of soldiers behind the bar. The bartender, a seasoned pink-fleshed man whose nose had been melted from a lifetime of the drink, just looks at us with a half grimace on his face. “We ain’t got that. No. How about some...” He spun around, wobbling like a grizzled Weeble. His belly straining to escape from under a red rugby-style shirt. White hair tossed onto his forehead. “...pop corn? Yeah, you kids want some pop corn.” “Sure,” answered Veronica, looking over at me with a This Guy Is Gone expression. But popcorn did sound good. He came back promptly with three plastic bags of jalepeno flavored corn and about ten cardboard bowls. “Here you go...” His thick fingers could’t work the bag, but he insists on opening and serving them. He opens the first one in the middle and tries to pour it that way. Most of the contents spill onto the bar and the floor. Bag two, the same. Bag three...”Here, you people can get this one. Anything else for you all?” He’d forgotten the hunt for Dewars. “Jack. Give me a shot of Jack,” I decided. There it was on the shelf, speed top installed. Our man didn’t see that either. I pointed, “It’s right there, friend.” “Ah course... Jack Daniels.” He thumped the shot glass before me and poured. And poured. The golden brink rushed over the top of the drink thimble. “There you go. I’m Bill, I’ll be your bartender tonight. $9.75.” The bar is mostly empty but the small amount of people in it manage to fill it up with sound. Cackling laughter, moist coughs and an endless stream of quarters fed to a jukebox that only plays old country and western. It all somehow feels comfortable. Occasionally, a loud argument erupts. My friends, Jeff and Veronica, watch me down the first Jack—they’re both on beer. The initial smell is always a little startling. The trip down the throat is fine. Then the settling in the stomach. Fire. It flickers in there and smoke rises back up to my mouth. I try to play it off like a pro, then the tears well up. I blink too much. “This is a Wyoming drink. Everyone back there drank this stuff.” Everyone but me. The beer chaser helps put down the flames. Round two. The second Jack is exactly the same—spilled over the top and tear evoking. We converse. About what, I don’t remember. But I know it was passionate, booze driven talk. Buzz ranting. Round three. Our man Bill starts up, “You kids don’t have a place to go on Thanksgiving, we’ll be open and serving turkey in the other room. You come on down, you’re all welcome.” We express our thanks and I wonder if we somehow looked pitiful. Then I realize it is a Thursday night in a dim Pedro bar, that probably never sees the likes of anyone under 40. He goes on, “You all live near here? Yeah? Well you be careful if you’re driving home tonight, the Man is having no mercy. There’s check points set up all over since that cop was killed last week.” His big eyes take on a serious manner. “You stick to the side streets.” Conversing with Bill was listening. Anytime we asked him a question he just talked around it. We asked where the cop had been killed. “It’s entrapment if you ask me. They should post in the paper where those check points are gonna be. Yes.” I stumble to the bathroom. Pissing drunk in bar bathrooms is a somehow solemn moment when I realize the extent of my inebriation and pass judgment. A look in the mirror, if there is one, brings it on. It usually goes one of two ways; self loathing or self pity. In my earlier years it was usually a defiant, Fuck The World, and I’d piss all over the walls or something. This night I only managed to dribble down my leg. Back in the bar Bill was in a top volume tangle with a regular. “A HILLBILLY IS A MICHIGAN DIRT FARMER, you prick!” he bellows, turns to Vern with an, “Excuse the language, miss,” then points his red face back at the intended target, a small hunched man with a permanent grin under wire white hair who was in the midst of a shuffle board game with a tall serious man in polyester slacks. “A MICHIGAN DIRT FARMER IS THE ORIGIN OF HILLBILLY! I’ll bet a dollar to your mouth full of piss.” “Whatever you say Bill,” answers the little man winking at me and still grinning. He was humoring the fuming bar keep. “DAMN RIGHT, WHAT EVER I SAY!” We laugh with them all. Jeff and Vern consider coming back for Thanksgiving. I didn’t think it would all be so funny, sober on a family holiday. We head home. The last moments of the night are always the hardest. I feel something is being left unaccomplished—not enough life was chewed (or even bitten off)—or that we just didn’t go far enough. Or maybe... I’m just drunk. Stepping out of Jeff’s van at my doorstep I give a strong squeeze to each of the closest arms and say my good-byes, “I’m going to be orbiting the toilet for a few hours. Stick to the side streets. See ya.” I sit there on the icy floor my lips loose, my eyes mostly closed except to let go a watery drop or two, and the judgment in—I’m stupid, but I feel a lot better after letting the stomach go for a swim. I stopped saying, “That was the last time,” years ago because, of course, it never was. This time, though... Loud singing. A hoarse men yelling into a P.A. They’re in my living room... I turn my head towards them. Nobody. Rustling. Somebody’s on the porch. Screen door opens. “Look Ray,” a woman’s voice, she’s excited. “They have the Virgin Mary—and BATS.” Screen door shuts. “HALLELUHYAH!!” retorts Ray into the loud speaker. Was that a Halleluhyah Jump For Joy, or a Halleluhyah Jesus Save These People From An Eternity Of Damnation For Forgetting To Put Away The Halloween Props? I am now wide awake. It’s 3pm. I’m on the living room couch, fully clothed. Outside, the evangelical flatbed truck with pamphlet-pushing satellites has moved on. Thank God.