Welcome! Pull up a chair and have a seat. Things are pretty quiet for a Friday night here at the Coon Ridge First and Last Chance Saloon. It’s the first and last chance ‘cause it’s on the edge of town. The first place to stop on your way in, and the last place to stop on your way home.
Besides the two of us, the only other people in the bar are Tiny Olson and Tom Tollakson, and of course, the best and only bartender in Coon Ridge, Harry Fieldhouse. Harry is old. Real old. No one knows his age, but most people in Coon Ridge figure Harry must be pushing a hundred and still going strong. Harry has heard it all during his many years of listening to his patrons unload their troubles on him. He’s also full of wisdom, which he dishes out in big doses to those same complaining patrons. People ‘round here say he’s mostly full of crap. You ask Harry a question and he’ll most likely have an answer for you, and usually not a short one. He’s about as close to a philosopher or psychiatrist as you’re going to find around Coon Ridge, and a whole lot cheaper too, unless you tend to drink a lot. Then listening to Harry’s advice is like having the meter running in one of them fancy taxis they have in big cities. The longer you ride that bar stool the more expensive the trip gets.
As I said it’s pretty quiet tonight; just the three of them. Tiny, who is far from being tiny, is nursing a Brandy Old Fashion. Tiny can stretch a drink longer than anyone in Coon Ridge. He also takes up two stools as he sits at the bar, which don’t much matter when there’ so few customers.
Tom Tollackson is having a hard time tonight. As far as he’s concerned, his life is ending. Tomorrow he turns fifty. He’s sure that he has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. He hasn’t been nursing his drinks. He’s been knocking them down like there’s no tomorrow. There’s no future as far as he’s concerned. Let’s listen in and see how things are goin’.
“You seem pretty down tonight,” said Harry. “Must be something I can say to perk you up.”
“Ain’t nothin nobody can say to perk me up,” Tom said as he killed another Old Style. “Tomorrow’s my birthday. The big 5-0. It’s all over. I’m too old to do anything any more, and I haven’t done half the things I thought I was gonna’ do by this time in my life. I’ve been looking, and even the women don’t give me one of them side-glances like they used to do when they thought I wasn’t looking. Man, it’s all over. Crank up Amazing Grace on the jukebox and contact the firing squad over at the Einer Hoverson VFW Post.”
“Now nothin’s ever as bad as it seems,” said the good bartender. “Over the years I’ve lost track of all the 50 year-olds crying in their beer to me about life bein’ over. Let me tell you a thing or two young feller’, you’re just a pup. I got underwear older than you are! Tomorrow’s not the end, just ‘cause you’re turnin’ 50.” He crushed out his cigarette in an overflowing ash tray, leaned his elbows on the bar, and in his low, raspy, smoker’s voice began to impart his great wisdom. Anyone who’s spent much time at the Coon Ridge First and Last Chance Saloon has heard it all before.
“Life’s a journey,” he continued. “It begins with birth and ends with death. Between that beginning and the end, if you live to be 100, fifty years is the half-way point. The trail we each take and what we’ve done along the way determines what kind of life we’ll have after fifty. No two roads or trails are the same and that adds to the mystery and enjoyment, or lack of enjoyment of the journey. I’ve always liked Robert Frost’s lines, ‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’ Now, if you want to look at life like a road, and use the number 100 as the target you’re shooting for, then 50 is halfway, which means it’s all downhill from here brother! That can be good or bad depending on how you look at it. So tell me Tom, what kind of road do you see as you sit where you are now and look behind and ahead of you?
Tom drained the last of the Old Style he was working on and lined it up with the other empty bottles in front of him. He took a long drag on his cigarette and crushed it out in the overloaded ashtray.
“You know Harry, you’re usually full of bull, but what you just said made sense to me. I know one thing, if I keep drinking and smoking like I’ve done in the past, the road I’m on is gonna’ be a short, dead end road. If I wanna’ live to be a hundred, I better clean up my act or I won’t even see 60. Thanks Harry. No more self-pity for me. Tomorrow I turn 50, but it’s also the first day of the rest of my life.”
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