They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Mississippi

Johnny MacClough had just finished pulling the stool down off the bar top when the Scupper’s front door opened. Marty Camp, dusting snow off his blue tunic, dropped a bound pile of mail on the bar.

“Anything for me?” Marty asked.

“Nothing,” MacClough answered, already skimming the bundle.

“Anything from Dylan?”

“Yeah, a postcard from the La Brea Tar Pits: ‘MacClough, These dumb dinosaurs had a better chance in the tar pits than I do of selling my mss. Miss the Scupper. Miss Sound Hill. Mississippi. See you soon. Klein.’ ”

“The eternal optimist,” Camp remarked. “How long’s he been out on the left coast?”

“Five whole days.”

Camp shook his head and went back out into the snow. MacClough poured himself a cup of coffee and finished weeding through the mail. Mostly, it was the usual tripe: bills, more bills, and solicitations. Everybody had something to sell you and unconvincing reasons why you just had to buy it. MacClough ripped up the direct mailings, though he would have much preferred to shred the bills. Late January wasn’t the high season for pubs on the east end of Long Island.

There was one letter in the bunch. It had no return address on the envelope. MacClough shook the envelope like a pack of sugar and tore off one edge. He took out the one sheet of paper and read it three or four times. He went behind the bar and picked up a bottle of Murphy’s Irish Whiskey. He noticed the bottle was shaking in his hand. Unsuccessfully, he tried willing his hand steady.

He poured a few drops into his coffee before abandoning that idea. Instead, he removed the pouring spout and pressed his lips around the bottle mouth. MacClough tilted his head back and the bottle up. With a quarter bottle in him, he stopped to look at his hand. The shaking hadn’t stopped, but he no longer cared. The Irish had done its job.