Harvey Paine sat at a beat up table in The Captain’s Quarters. He watched Fred stumble from the bathroom and stretch for the bar like a marathon runner for finish tape. “I’ll take anoder one,” Fred demanded, pulling a worn, crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and slapping it on the bar’s top. The television over the bar squawked about the recent assassination attempt on President Reagan. The newscaster’s voice saying, “Once again, President Reagan has been shot. Details are still coming in at this time, but we have reports that the president and two other men, one of which may be James Brady, have been gunned down by an unknown shooter.”
Fred gripped the edge of the bar, closing one eye to get a better look at the television screen. “Good,” he bellowed, “I wisssh they killed the muva Fuga. He’s a actor, not a prez-dent.”
The bartender of the Captain’s Quarters at that time was Gray Lewis. Gray was drying a clean glass with a dirty rag and he didn’t bother to look at the man gripping his bar. Gray said, “Take it easy, Fred.”
Fred, who had complained about four prior presidents while gripping the same bar, pointed at Gray, Fred closing one eye again to get a better view. He said “Look, you led me tell you something about Prezdent Reagan.” Of course, Fred could say all he wanted, Gray wouldn’t bother to hear it.
Charlene, the waitress at The Captain’s Quarters, appeared beside Harvey’s table. “That’s something about the President, huh?” she said.
Harvey flinched. He hadn’t noticed the woman was standing beside him. “What?”
“The President. Getting shot and all. It’s kind of crazy.”
“Oh, the president, yeah.” Harvey didn’t look at the waitress or the newscast on the television, or at Fred any longer, for that matter. He now stared at the untouched beer bottle across the table from him, the bottle a twin of the one in his own hand.
Charlene said, “You want me to put that on ice, hon?”
Harvey regarded the beer for a moment and said, “No, it’s fine, Charlene, its owner should be here any minute.” Harvey reached for a pack of cigarettes sitting in the center of the table, but when he noticed the bar’s front door open and shut, he stopped, pushing the cigarette pack back to the table’s center.
A younger, better-dressed, slighter version of Harvey stepped into the bar. The man scanned the room, his eyes fighting their sudden plunge into the dimness. When the man’s eyes adjusted, he spotted Harvey. The younger, better-dressed, slighter version of Harvey approached the table.
Harvey said to Charlene, “In fact, here he is now.”
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