An Evening In Town

	An Evening In Town It had become a habit, so strangely easy to fall into after years spent alone. So strange to walk into the small place of an evening, to hear his name called out, to sit on his habitual place at the bar and enjoy one glass of beer two or three nights a week. Nick had lived in great cities, and in the open country, but not since childhood had he lived in a small town. Soldotna was a small town, smaller still than Prairie Ridge had been all those years ago. Nick walked down the road, a mile and a half from his little house, downtown to where the Sourdough Bar & Grille sat on a corner. The Sourdough was a dark place, with a dark, wooden interior with heavy beams overhead. An old place, every inch of wood permeated with bits of lives, a community place where life’s events were discussed, celebrated, commiserated. The wooden bar was old and dented, the stools worn smooth by three generations of backsides.
This was Friday. Nick walked into the bar, took his accustomed spot near the corner. Adam Hill, the owner and bartender, walked down to that end of the bar, smiling broadly as he always did. “What’s yours, Nick?” he asked. Adam had an open, friendly, amiably ugly face. He was probably the ugliest man Nick had ever seen, short and broad like a grinning ape, but he was very friendly and Nick liked him very much. “A beer, Adam,” Nick answered, “and how about a cheeseburger?” Nick liked Adam’s cheeseburgers. “Coming right up.” Adam called the food order back to the kitchen behind the bar. He picked up a tall, chilled glass, expertly drew Nick a beer from the big tap behind the bar, slid it across to him. “Been doing any fishing, Nick?” “Caught two salmon this afternoon. Small ones.” “The run’s late this year,” Adam agreed. Nick took a sip. The cold sharp tang of beer, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation all around, all still new to Nick, it was all still new to a life spent so long in silence. Too long, Nick told himself. He set his glass carefully back on the coaster on the wooden bar. Nick had never drunk much, but a single cold beer was very good after a day in the sun. “Well, look who’s here,” another voice, Glory Hill, Adam’s daughter, who helped Adam run the bar. Glory walked out of the kitchen carrying a case of canned beer. She was tall, as tall as Nick, and slim, with blonde hair beginning to gray and laughing blue eyes. Nick knew Adam was almost seventy, and Glory was almost Nick’s age. She had gone to the Lower Forty-Eight, had a Masters’ degree from the University of Wisconsin, but a bad divorce had sent her home, home to Alaska. Nick smiled at Glory and held up a hand in greeting. He knew Glory was curious about him. The whole town was curious about him, the writer from Colorado who’d showed up one day, bought a house and moved into the town. He had talked very little about his past. Adam had told him once that Alaska was a good place to come for a new start, which was what Nick wanted. Nick watched as Glory began to take glasses out of the dishwashing basin and stack them in the overhead racks. Every time she reached up, her shirt rode up just a bit, revealing a tiny bit of smooth skin and the pucker of navel. Nick smiled. He felt quietly wicked and fine. Glory finished, wiped her hands on a towel, and smiled at Nick. Adam brought out the hot plate, smelling of broiled beef, onions, melting cheese. The cheeseburger sat grandly on a toasted bun, surrounded by fried potatoes. “Best burger in southern Alaska,” Adam told him. Adam said that every time anyone ordered a cheeseburger. “Cheap at twice the price.” He placed the plate in front of Nick, proudly. Nick ate slowly, listening to the flow of conversation, the ebb and flow of socializing as the bar filled up. Three times people stopped to talk to him, about the fishing, about hunting this fall, about events in town. It made Nick feel warm and content. After he finished the cheeseburger, he called to Adam for a rare second beer and sat slowly sipping, enjoying himself and the cool Alaskan evening.

An Evening In Town

It had become a habit, so strangely easy to fall into after years spent alone. So strange to walk into the small place of an evening, to hear his name called out, to sit on his habitual place at the bar and enjoy one glass of beer two or three nights a week.

Nick had lived in great cities, and in the open country, but not since childhood had he lived in a small town. Soldotna was a small town, smaller still than Prairie Ridge had been all those years ago.

Nick walked down the road, a mile and a half from his little house, downtown to where the Sourdough Bar & Grille sat on a corner. The Sourdough was a dark place, with a dark, wooden interior with heavy beams overhead. An old place, every inch of wood permeated with bits of lives, a community place where life’s events were discussed, celebrated, commiserated. The wooden bar was old and dented, the stools worn smooth by three generations of backsides.

This was Friday. Nick walked into the bar, took his accustomed spot near the corner. Adam Hill, the owner and bartender, walked down to that end of the bar, smiling broadly as he always did.

“What’s yours, Nick?” he asked. Adam had an open, friendly, amiably ugly face. He was probably the ugliest man Nick had ever seen, short and broad like a grinning ape, but he was very friendly and Nick liked him very much.

“A beer, Adam,” Nick answered, “and how about a cheeseburger?” Nick liked Adam’s cheeseburgers.

“Coming right up.” Adam called the food order back to the kitchen behind the bar. He picked up a tall, chilled glass, expertly drew Nick a beer from the big tap behind the bar, slid it across to him.

“Been doing any fishing, Nick?”

“Caught two salmon this afternoon. Small ones.”

“The run’s late this year,” Adam agreed.

Nick took a sip. The cold sharp tang of beer, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation all around, all still new to Nick, it was all still new to a life spent so long in silence.

Too long, Nick told himself.

He set his glass carefully back on the coaster on the wooden bar. Nick had never drunk much, but a single cold beer was very good after a day in the sun.

“Well, look who’s here,” another voice, Glory Hill, Adam’s daughter, who helped Adam run the bar. Glory walked out of the kitchen carrying a case of canned beer. She was tall, as tall as Nick, and slim, with blonde hair beginning to gray and laughing blue eyes. Nick knew Adam was almost seventy, and Glory was almost Nick’s age. She had gone to the Lower Forty-Eight, had a Masters’ degree from the University of Wisconsin, but a bad divorce had sent her home, home to Alaska.

Nick smiled at Glory and held up a hand in greeting. He knew Glory was curious about him. The whole town was curious about him, the writer from Colorado who’d showed up one day, bought a house and moved into the town. He had talked very little about his past. Adam had told him once that Alaska was a good place to come for a new start, which was what Nick wanted.

Nick watched as Glory began to take glasses out of the dishwashing basin and stack them in the overhead racks. Every time she reached up, her shirt rode up just a bit, revealing a tiny bit of smooth skin and the pucker of navel. Nick smiled. He felt quietly wicked and fine. Glory finished, wiped her hands on a towel, and smiled at Nick.

Adam brought out the hot plate, smelling of broiled beef, onions, melting cheese. The cheeseburger sat grandly on a toasted bun, surrounded by fried potatoes. “Best burger in southern Alaska,” Adam told him. Adam said that every time anyone ordered a cheeseburger. “Cheap at twice the price.” He placed the plate in front of Nick, proudly.

Nick ate slowly, listening to the flow of conversation, the ebb and flow of socializing as the bar filled up. Three times people stopped to talk to him, about the fishing, about hunting this fall, about events in town. It made Nick feel warm and content.

After he finished the cheeseburger, he called to Adam for a rare second beer and sat slowly sipping, enjoying himself and the cool Alaskan evening.