Bob installs windshields for a living. He moved out here from upstate New York to chase a girl, something I've deduced as a failed attempt through simple logic. It was about 3:00pm on a cool and sunny Sunday and we were both drinking our adult beverages quickly, as if they would be taken away from us if we didn't finish them in under five minutes.
I was drinking a double shot of Jameson on the rocks with a Magner's Cider. I was on my second round, reading Bukowski's "Post Office," and constantly re-reading pages due to my inebriation. Bob and I were the only paying patrons at Shannon Arms, a quaint Irish pub in the heart of an Asian neighborhood. He was watching ESPN on the television and without looking away from the screen, he asked me what I was reading. When I replied, he let out a bellowing laugh from the pit of his stomach, what I imagine Santa Claus to laugh like. He looked over at me and I immediately noticed that the foam from his Guiness was dripping from his unruly facial hair. My kind of guy. I'm still not sure what his laughed meant. I presume it to be something along the lines of, "Oh-ho-ho. I am all too familiar."
Our conversation went on and on and he eventually noticed that he was doing all the talking. He would ask a series of questions, and before I could reply, he would ask another question. These would serve as a verbal diving board for his wild tangents. I must admit that it was entertaining and kept me at the bar for one extra drink.
He called me a modern man and I took it to be a snarky, backhanded compliment. We talked about baseball and he knew his shit. He talked about 1960's baseball and whenever I would ask him any sort of question about it, he'd say that I should research it for myself. Our drunken banter became sour soon after and he left saying, "I ought to take you outside and teach you something." Before I could conjure up an appropriate response he was gone.
