I started stopping by The Countdown on the way home. It’s a small bar with a great jukebox.
Push in a quarter. Sinatra tunes curl out.
Sam Cooke. Dean Martin. Tony Bennett.
There’s only one table. But a long, cigarette scarred bar runs the entire length of the wall. It’s half-filled with regulars, sitting, or standing, drinking their beer and shots.
Whiskey shots.
They all seem to have just one syllable to their names.
Nick. Ted. Pete. John. Never Johnnie.
Barb.
I plopped down, got my Lone Star draft, Jack Daniel’s neat, and stared into my mug.
Nick and Ted were talking.
Apparently, our leaders suck.
“Remember when a 10¢ candy bar was a meal? Gas was 50¢ a gallon. Hell, when I was a kid I went outside and played ‘til dark. We drank water out of the hose. Kids today are soft.”