My old man used to bring me in here when I was kid. He’d pull out a handful of quarters and tell me to get him some smokes and whatever was left over I could keep for myself. Same routine for years. We’d drive down the same old street in the same old car; park in the same old spot, walk into this place and hop up on the same stools. Like clockwork, he’d hit me with a handful of change and I’d run over and yank him out his smokes. Always the same routine; except after awhile there wasn’t much left over. Little by little, he just kind of disappeared.
Funny thing is, I never gave a goddamn about the change but there should have been more of him to go around—and a whole lot more of him left over for me to keep.
Sitting down for a couple of beers with an old friend from northern MN over the holidays, I was reminded just how fucked up some things can be—and how long it takes for childhood scars to heal. For what it’s worth my lifelong friend, you deserved better–and you definitely deserved more; a whole lot more.
Pulling smokes, northern MN
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