Annie brought him his beer, placing the bottle in front of him. He stopped talking as he began digging into his
pockets.
During this pause, I saw that the seat to my right changed occupants. A woman who had been sitting next to me,
smoking all the while, got up and left, and her spot was instantly taken by a large bear of a man with a shaved
head. He was dressed like a hunter, wearing an olive drab insulated vest over a long-sleeved flannel shirt. I
figured he was definitely a local by the way he threw his heavy chain of keys and well-worn wallet up on the bar.
“Is anybody watching this football game? There’s a good basketball game on right now. A big Top-Ten game,
Duke and Michigan State. Yeah, a big game.” No one answered him. Annie looked over at the grandfatherly
Papa, a question in her eyes, and Papa looked down, a silent no. The football game remained on.
Captain Johnny’s big claw of a hand came out of his deep
pocket with a catch of crumpled dollars bills, assorted change,
and a balled-up piece of white paper with printing on it. Annie
stood by patiently as he threw the mixture onto the bar in front
of him. “Here we go. I knew I had it in here somewhere.” Annie
instantly knew what the paper was as he unfolded it and
handed it to her. Much to my surprise, I saw that it was some
sort of gift certificate redeemable at the Liar’s Saloon. I could
hardly believe that this shack of a pub that offered no food and
only a thirty-year-old TV for entertainment actually issued gift
certificates.
The bar was lively. The salty but distinguished Papa was jawing
away with young women wearing fishing caps who sat on either
side of him. The Hunter started talking with a patron who wore
his shoulder-length hair in a loose ponytail and had adorned
his right earlobe with a quarter-sized black onyx earring. The lobe had stretched to accommodate the unusual black
disc. From the way they looked, I’d have expected them to talk about hunting and fishing. But they were discussing
ever-increasing Montauk real-estate market prices. The man with the earring was saying that he was doing real-
estate brokerage, something I found hard to believe coming from a ragged old hippie.
“Thanks for the beer, Annie,” Johnny said.
“No problem. Have you decided which shirt to get for your nephew?”
“Yeah. He told me he wore the shirt I got him last year so much in Iraq that it fell apart, and he asked me if I could
pick him up the same one again. Give me the one that says MONTAUK, A QUAINT LITTLE DRINKING VILLAGE
WITH A BIG FISHING PROBLEM. Yeah, he told me his buddies over there in the war loved it.”
“You got it, Johnny—coming right over. What color?”
“Red.”