The incessant noise of the tavern chafed Ben Walsh’s nerves, provoking his already agitated state-of-mind. Abrasive music. Jabbering conversations. Rattling glasses. It all merged into a circus of commotion that throbbed in his head. Tobacco smoke hung in the air like a low-hanging cloud, stinging his eyes and irritating his throat. His chest ached with anxiety. The shoulder-to-shoulder crowd and the stink of sweat and booze only heightened his discomfort. He didn’t want to be here. At least not today.

The bartender, lean and balding with a damp dish towel tucked into his belt, stood on a chair in the corner, tapping the side of an RCA color television set mounted high on the wall. The picture flickered into colored snow, then stabilized. He adjusted the twin antennae protruding from the back of the set and the picture sharpened. Richard Nixon stood behind the presidential podium mouthing something Walsh couldn’t hear. The bartender stepped down and returned to the bar.

Walsh raised his glass and was jostled by the man on the stool next to him. Beer splashed over the rim and onto the mahogany bar.

“Hey, sorry about that, Pal,” the man slurred and turned back to his drinking partners without waiting for a response.

Walsh bit back a retort. Instead, he muttered, “No problem.”

Somehow, through the din, Walsh heard the tinkle of a bell as the bar door opened. Street sounds drifted in. Car horns. Traffic noise. An air brake. A police whistle. They stopped abruptly as the door closed. He twisted in his seat and saw a tall, young man standing near the door, scanning the place. Looking. Walsh’s throat tightened, stifling his breath. He rubbed the stubble on his face and then stopped as they made eye contact.

They stared at each other across the crowded pub for a long moment. The young man thrust his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, set his jaw, and made his way to Walsh.

“Ben,” the young man said. His high voice, raised enough to be heard over the noise, betrayed his youth. His thick hair fell over his ears and forehead. The last vestiges of acne discolored his cheeks.  Walsh caught a whiff of Hai Karate cologne.

“Would it kill you to call me ‘Dad’?” Walsh asked, a trace of annoyance seeping into his tone.

“I didn’t come here to rehash this old stuff. Ben. Did you bring it?”

“Let’s grab a table, Ricky,” Walsh said. He pointed to an empty high-boy near the window.

“It’s Rick. I’m not a kid.”

“Okay, okay. Rick.”

The two knifed through the throng and perched on stools at the tall table. Walsh eyed his son. Rick nailed him with an icy stare.

“Mom’s waiting in the car,” Rick said.

Walsh frowned and looked away.

“You said you’d bring it,” Rick said.

Walsh looked down and swirled his glass. The amber beer foamed white. “I have it.”

“Great. Give it to me.”

“I don’t want to, Ricky. I mean Rick.”

“You promised.” Rick’s face twisted into a scowl. “I should have known you’d welch. Typical.”

“It’s not like that. I brought it. I just… if I give it to you, I know what you’ll do with it.”

“You can’t stop me, Ben. I’ll drive all the way to California and get it there if I have to. I’m doing this whether you like it or not. Whether you help me or not. I’m fuckin’ doing it!”

“What your mouth, young man.”

“Oh, so now you’re gonna parent me? Seven years you weren’t there to parent me and now you’re gonna step up?”

Walsh sighed, shook his head, then took a long pull of his beer.

“Yeah,” Rick said, dropping off the stool to his feet. “Drink up. Ben. That’s what you’re all about. Not about being my father. You’re just a drunken son of a–”

“You see that?” Walsh jabbed his finger at the television. Nixon’s face now appeared in a small box in the corner of the screen, overlaying a geographical map. The text below the map read “South Viet Nam.”

Rick looked up at the screen. He said nothing.

“If I give you this, if you do this, Rick, that’s where you’ll wind up. You know that, don’t you? You mother knows that. Doesn’t she?” Walsh’s eyes moistened.

“I…” Rick looked back at his father and slipped back onto the stool. “I want to do this.”

“In heaven’s name, why?”

Rick paused, looked at the table top, and whispered. “I can’t explain it. I just want to do something important with my life. I don’t want to end up…”

“Like me?”

“Things were different when we still lived in California. Things changed when we moved out here. You changed.”

“I lost my job.”

“You lost your dignity and fell into a bottle.”

“Those are your mother’s words.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to wind up like that. I’m joining up and you can’t stop me. I’m old enough, but if you won’t give me my birth certificate I’m going back to California and getting a copy for myself.”

Walsh felt cold, alone. He knew he couldn’t stop Ricky from enlisting. His son was old enough to make his own decisions. But…

“Ben… Dad. Please.”

Walsh looked at his boy and his thoughts were inundated with snapshots of happiness and flashes of joy. And then he was awash with regret. He nodded and reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a yellowed envelope, and laid it on the table.

Rick snatched it up and dismounted the stool. “Thanks.” He turned toward the door.

“Rick,” Walsh called.

Rick stopped and looked back.

“I… I love you, son.”

Rick said nothing. He nodded once and left the tavern, and his father, behind.

Walsh stared at the door long after the bell above it had rung behind Rick. Finally, he made his way back to the bar, downed his beer, and signaled for another. The bartender brought him a fresh draft and Walsh dropped some dollar bills onto the bar.

“Mack,” Walsh said to the bartender. “Would you please change the damn channel? Anything else.”

Walsh downed the beer in one long pull.

“Anything else.”

# # #

Robert J. Mendenhall is a retired police officer, retired Air National Guardsman, and former Broadcast Journalist for the American Forces Network, Europe. A member of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and Mystery Writers of America, he writes literary fiction and genre, including science fiction, crime and suspense, mystery, horror, and pulp adventure. Visit his website at www.robertjmendenhall.com or follow him on Twitter @RobtJMendenhall. He lives in southwest Michigan with his wife and fellow writer, Claire. And many animals.

Photo: Jared Brashier