A drop of sweat fell from Bill’s forehead, to land on the dusty, battered wooden surface of the bar.  Everything in the bar was dusty, from the bar to the old wooden tables to the two big windows that looked out over the hot, dusty street.  The bartender was a surly man in his fifties, dressed in bib overalls and a yellowing white v-neck tee shirt.  He wore a perpetual scowl, as though he was angry with the dusty little town, the heat, everything.

“I hate summertime,” Bill complained.  He shifted on the old wooden barstool.

“Shut up,” Dave answered.  He was on the bar stool next to Bill.  “You hate everything.”  He took a long pull on his beer glass, emptying it. 

“Let us have two more,” he called to the bartender.

“I don’t hate everything,” Bill objected.  He pushed his glass towards the bartender.  “I don’t hate cold beer.”

“You might as well,” Dave said.  “Why do you hate summertime now?  Six months ago you were bitching about the cold.”

“Two bucks,” the bartender announced.  He pushed the two full glasses back across the bar.

“Pay the man,” Dave said.

“Screw that.  Your turn.”

Dave dug into his pocket, found two dollar bills, pushed them wordlessly at the bartender.

“I’m tired of it being so hot,” Bill went on.  “I’m tired of it being so humid.  I’m tired of sweating all the time.  Jesus Christ, it’s even hot in here.  Haven’t they ever heard of air conditioning?”

“We come in here every week,” Dave snapped.  “Every Friday, and every Saturday.  You know they don’t have air conditioning.”

“And everything smells like growing corn,” Bill said.  He was ignoring Dave now.  “It’s that nasty, dusty, green kind of smell.  The whole damn county smells of it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I don’t want you two starting an argument in here,” the bartender warned.

“That’s all right.”

Bill took another pull on his glass.  Dave frowned at him, then started drawing a pattern in the dust on the bar.  Outside, a pickup truck went past on the town’s single, unpaved street, livestock rack rattling loudly.

Dave looked at his watch.  “I’m going to have to get going soon,” he said.  “I told Vicky I’d be home by five.”

“That’s another thing,” Bill complained, “All the women in this town or either married, or there’s damn good reason why they aren’t.  A single guy ain’t got a chance.”

“Oh, quit bitching.  I’ve been married since I was nineteen, and look where it’s got me.”

“Farther along than me,” Bill answered.  “At least you’ve got something to do on Saturday nights.”

Dave snorted.  “Two more down here,” he called down the bar.  “Your turn to pay.”

Bill dug in his pocket, found a silver dollar, three quarters, a dime and a nickel.

“You have a dime?”

“You just got paid.”

“I don’t want to break a twenty,” Bill replied.

Dave laid a dime on the bar.  “So, are you thinking about moving?”

“Maybe.”  Bill picked up his refilled glass, took a long pull of cold beer.  “Maybe.  I might head out West this fall.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.  California, or Colorado, maybe.”

“So what are you going to do out there?”

“I don’t know.  Get a job.  Hang around.  I hear Denver’s a good place.”

Dave stood up and tilted his beer glass back, draining it.  “I’ve got to go,” he said.

“All right.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

Dave walked out into the hot sunshine, letting the cheap wood-frame screen door slam behind him.  Bill sat there, on his barstool, tracing a line in the dust on the bar and staring sullenly into his beer.