Somewhere in Nova Scotia, at a battered laminate-top bar, in a wood panelled tavern that smells of spilled beer, urine, and the leftover odour of bagged cigarettes, sits a sixty-two-year-old man with wispy white hair that scraggles out in thin stands from beneath a black ballcap, featuring the nondescript logo of a company that he’s never worked for. The cap’s brim is shiny with the oil from his hands, and the cotton around his head looks about the same—damp, and heavy. It’s mid-June, and feels like mid-July, yet he’s wearing a tattered canvas winter jacket, with “Alberta” embroidered on the sleeve, beneath the threaded words, “Albian Sands Energy.” Someone gave him the jacket two winters back, upon learning that he was coatless and shovelling other patrons’ driveways, following the worst snowstorm in nearly twenty years, for a flat rate of one twenty-three-dollar beer bucket. He has deep-set lines that run the span of his long face, an unnaturally flattened nose with a large scar down its bridge, a white mustache, and his eyes are pale blue, and pensive, and he’s staring absently at the bar’s water-stained drop-ceiling tiles, which are dotted with fuzzy splotches of black mold. In one of his hands, he’s holding a bottle of Budweiser, and with the other, he’s stroking his mustache; meanwhile, he’s unmindfully repeating, “What was her name?”
“Was it… Shannon?… Sh…Sh…Sheila? No…”
He tries at least half a dozen more names, waiting to see which one tastes familiar, but none do. Finally, he nonchalantly shrugs and, with his free hand, flails a dismissive wave through the air. “I can’t remember what the hell I named her. Starts with an ‘S,’ I think. Don’t matter now, anyways. Far as I know, she changed her name— ‘course, that’s just ‘cause her mother’s a goddamn psychotic.”
The man’s name is Phil, and he starts each morning pacing the bar’s parking lot, walking over cement-like patties of Dentyne Ice, cigarette butts, and crunch-inducing traction sand that has lingered since winter. He does this as he anxiously waits for his 10:00 AM drink, and by 9:55, he is always leaned close to the bar’s windowless steel door, silently smoking, with his ear cocked above the handle, as he waits to hear the mechanical click announcing the unlatching of the door’s electric lock.
Phil very seldom acknowledges the existence of his children; however, today is different, it’s Father’s Day, which is always a trying occasion for the men who frequent the bar. It is one of only two days of the year when the tiny world around them turns in a way that makes them face the painful glare of their reflections—the other being Christmas, which is the one day that the tavern stays closed. Thus, Father’s Day is the only difficult day in which the men, who have grown so accustomed to doing only that which comes easy, are able to drink overpriced lagers, while they consider a life spent giving as little as, and often far less than, they get.
Thankfully for Phil, who claims, after about ten drinks, that he’s an extra-terrestrial being, the realities of life on this planet tend not to perturb him, which may explain why he ignored his partner, Mary-Anne, who was prodding his arm and beckoning him to pay her attention the entire time he spent musing about the identity of the child he abandoned.
Mary-Anne often interrupts Phil’s conversations in this manner, though she usually does so to plead with him to give her a five-dollar bill, which almost always leads to an argument, in which Phil will announce, loudly enough for his friends to hear, “I’m not the goddamn Royal Bank!” Each time, the same men who have heard this same line will cackle at Phil’s wit and Mary-Anne’s desperation. Sometimes, when he is feeling generous, he will flick the bill from his pocket—always after a series of refusals and a well-displayed fuss—in the manner of someone flinging a frisbee, and he will stand wearing a sly expression, with the wrinkled dollars held out between the smoke-stained, yellowy-green tips of his index and middle fingers.
Phil’s elaborate show catches Mary-Anne by surprise every time. She will clap with excitement, giggle, smack him on the arm, say something mostly indiscernible, and happily shamble back to the blue-lit Gamer’s Room, past the white-lattice archway at the back of bar’s lounge. While there, she always plays a game called Cherry Rain, and she milks the five dollars for fifteen minutes worth of five-cent bets. More often than not, she returns ticketless to Phil’s side, looking dejected.
Few people can understand what Mary-Anne says, owing to the strength of her impediment, and her high nasally voice. Of the men, only Phil fully comprehends her speech, and they often have animated public conversations, which sometimes end in a bout of intense kissing, which prompts expressions of confliction from nearby patrons.
Mary-Anne is very small; her child-sized hands are knobbed with arthritis; she walks in jagged, uneven little steps with the aid of a cane; she has one eye that wanders to the wall or ceiling as the other sets upon Phil, or an LED screen of spinning sevens, clouds, and cherries; she also has an assortment of large bumps that protrude and jut out from her grey nest of unkempt hair. Deriving inspiration from the state of Mary-Anne’s scalp, Phil’s friends have nicknamed her, “Bumps and Boils,” which neither of them seem to mind.
Today, she is not concerned with gambling; instead, she is simply urging Phil for his attention. She is feeling sad, and, like a child unable to self-regulate their emotions, she hopes Phil can say or do something to make her feel better. She misses her father, who she calls “Gan-Paw,” which is accurate. As everyone in town knows, Mary-Anne’s father and grandfather are one and the same. Her mother, Leona, who is in her mid-eighties, occasionally visits the bar to gamble with her daughter, or to have a drink with Phil, who she calls her son in-law, though the pair are not married. She also refers to her father as, “my husband,” though they never married, either.
When Phil finally turns his attention to his partner, he tries soothing her in a tone of such exaggerated sympathy that he sounds patronizing. “Aw, there, there now, dear,” he says, as he rummages in his coat pocket for a crinkled five. The other men sitting along the bar exchange chuckles and nudges as they witness Mary-Anne wiping her eyes amidst the sounds of Phil’s basic consolations—Regardless of her tears, any reference to Mary-Anne’s father reliably rouses their humorous recollections.
Before he died, Mary-Anne’s father was popular at the tavern. His nickname was “Chicken Wing,” since he was born with one fully formed arm, and another that tapered to a point past his elbow. Like Mary-Anne, he also lived with numerous disabilities, and like both his daughters, he, too, had one misaligned eye. For years, the trio would come to the bar at the end of each month, after their cheques released. Leona would sip beers and play the machines with Mary-Anne, while Chicken Wing sat with the boys, who referred to his family as, “The Walleyes.”
Whenever they arrived, the men perched along the bar would cheer and summon Chicken Wing their way with a series of waves. While their kids were home sleeping, the men would take turns buying Chicken Wing shots or doubles. It was a great game to see how intoxicated they could get him. High-fives were exchanged when he vomited in a urinal, and on the rare night that he could be coerced—after shooting Jägermeister or tequila—into smoking hashish in the parking lot, the men would laugh until they were overcome with hiccups. Each of these nights would end with Mary-Anne and Leona standing on either side of their father, propping him up as best as they could, as they waited for a cab or, if they gambled the last of their money, as they struggled to walk him back home to their apartment.
After accepting Phil’s unexpected donation, Mary-Anne forgets her grief and hurriedly limps away to gamble, as Phil returns his attention to the bar, though, now his mood is uncharacteristically somber. Mary-Anne’s sorrow about Chicken Wing has prompted Phil to recall his own father. He begins to tell the barman about, “That miserable son-of-a-bitch,” who would beat his wife and children, and who kept a padlock on the food pantry.
“All my old man cared about was gettin’ drunk and playin’ his fiddle, while the rest of us starved in that shack,” he says, thene sitsd sits in silence for a moment, sips his beer through a scowl, and adds, “I could never treat my kids like that.”
Hearing this, Phil’s friend, Wayne, who was sitting at the opposite end of the bar, chimes in—with the typically smooth transition of a seasoned alcoholic— “That’s right, Phil. These goddamn kids today are no good. They don’t understand how easy they got it.” Phil nods along in agreement. “Tell me this Phil, did your kids send you a card today?”
Phil shakes his head, looking disgusted, “Nope. Not a goddamn thing.”
“Nope. Me neither.” Wayne goes on, “No card. No money. Nothin’. But y’know what I did get?”
“What’s that?”
“My boy called me a deadbeat dad. A deadbeat dad! Can you believe that?”
“You?” Phil asks, looking aghast, “After all you’ve done for him?”
“That’s right. Ungrateful prick. Remember last year, when he got evicted?” Phil nods, and Wayne starts rapidly pointing into his own chest as he says, “I let him stay at my place rent free.” Wayne shakes his head, curses, then slams his fist on the counter and yells, “RENT FREE!”
The barman has been observing all of this as he anxiously waits for his shift to be over, so he can return home to celebrate with his family. First, by eating his favourite dessert: grilled pound cake, which his wife makes for him every year. Next, he will read another round of homemade cards from his children. The kids always include hand-made vouchers with their cards; inconsistently sized pencil-scrawled words, written on crooked squares of cut-out paper, and each one can be cashed-in to its maker for some sort of family adventure.
The pain of waiting pangs harder when the barman notices that Wayne’s eyes are beginning to water, and that the hand holding his plastic cup of draught has started to tremble. He recalls how often Wayne brags that he’s been coming to this bar every morning since it opened, in 1989. Next, he thinks about Wayne’s son, with whom he went to school. The boy is thirty-five, and, prior to working here, the barman assumed that his sole parent was his single mother. Anticipating a cry and not wanting to endure anymore of Phil and Wayne’s paternal commiserations, he collects a bar towel and decides to tidy the lounge area, by gathering empty bottles and wiping tables that are carelessly littered with wrappers and crumbs of peanuts and potato chips.
There are two men, both about sixty, one of whom is drunk, and they are sitting in the small four-table lounge. The drunk one’s name is Jackie, and the other’s name is unknown to the barman; however, he sees him there often—he never orders a drink but gambles most mornings. Seeing this pair would usually prompt the barman to stay behind the counter, to avoid the reliable calls of, “Look at ‘em cleaning! Just like a woman!” but today, these predictable expressions are preferable to listening to Wayne’s maudlin frustrations.
As the barman begins swiping BBQ seasoning off the edge of a little wooden table, with several empty bottles of Budweiser tucked-in tightly between his body and forearm, he takes note that neither of the men have bothered to harass him. They are too busy exchanging feelings of consternation, upon learning about the estrangement of the other’s grown child.
“No!” Jackie proclaims, “You too?”
“Mhm,” the man sounds, “Can’t believe it myself.”
“Jesus, man. You drove that kid everywhere.”
“I know. Said the same thing myself.”
“Wow,” Jackie replies, looking astonished. “I remember you were always drivin’ him around,” and after a brief pause, “What a little shit.”
“Y’know what, Jackie?” The man asks, rhetorically, “We got to blame ourselves. It’s our own faults.”
Jackie’s lips tighten, his jaws clench, and he fixes upon the man a challenging expression. Noticing this, the barman readies himself to intervene in what he suspects will soon turn into another fistfight. The man also notes Jackie’s shift in disposition and, feeling satisfied with his friend’s strong reaction, continues by snarling out, “We spoiled them! That’s what happened.” Relief washes over Jackie’s face as he shoots upright in his seat and enthusiastically responds, “Yes! You’re absolutely right! That’s just what it was. We were too good to ‘em! We ruined ‘em!” Having reached this conclusion, the two men look proud with themselves.
After he finishes cleaning the three unoccupied tables, the barman returns to his station, and while doing so, he hears the word, “ungrateful,” simultaneously, from both directions. He looks at his watch—still two hours to go. He tells all the men to ring the bell if they need him, and he spends the remaining two hours in the cold refrigerator, wiping walls, and organizing beer kegs and cases, and he only leaves when the bell dings, to greet another long face and quickly pour a refill.
Finally, at five o’clock shift change, he counts his cash tray, files his deposit, and prepares to leave, when Phil waves, urging him over. Not wanting to waste another minute by feigning interest in an exasperating conversation, the barman calls from the doorway of the office, behind the bar, “Hey man, I’m in a rush—what is it?” Phil shakes his head “no,” and yells in return, “C’mere! It’s important.” The barman swallows the dregs of his friendliness and approaches, asking, “What can I do for you, Phil?”
Phil slides a balled up five-dollar bill across the counter, gestures to the wire rack of snacks beside the beer cooler and slurs out, in a quiet whisper, “Here, buy some chocolate bars for your children.”
“That’s very kind of you, you don’t—”
“I want to!” he interrupts, before winking, extending his hand, and offering a parting felicitation. The barman nods, shakes Phil’s hand, then says the same, “Happy Father’s Day.”
*****
Joe Couture is a writer living in rural Nova Scotia. He writes for his health. If you want to connect with him, try here: @rjcouture.bsky.social
