He walked into the bar knowing that his arrival would be noticed. It was a small town and he was an outsider. Something he was used to. As the door shut behind him a silence took over and every head turned his way. He gave a sheepish grin and a slight wave of his hand as he made his way over to the bar. He had purposefully dressed as nondescript as possible; a black Army t-shirt, blue jeans and black boots.
"Welcome to Paradise," the bartender said with a smile as she walked over to him. She was an attractive woman in her early 40's. She wore a faded Fleetwood Mac t-shirt and jeans with her long dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"Paradise?" he asked.
"It's the name of the bar," she said with a chuckle.
"Oh, all I saw on the sign was a pair of…," he stopped and laughed. "Nice one. Pair-O-Dice. I like it."
"Yeah? Thought of it myself," she said. "What can I get ya for?"
"Jack straight up and a tall cold can of PBR if ya got it."
"Coming right up," she said.
She set his drinks down in front of him and gave him the once over. He knew the questions she was about to ask and pondered whether or not he'd tell her the truth. Not that the truth was all that exciting, but seeing that he would never step foot in here again, he could tell her anything he wanted.
"Let me guess" she said leaning on her arm on the bar. "I'd say that you are either a writer or some kind of an artist. Because you're definitely not from around here. I'm going to guess you're probably driving all over the country doing a story for some magazine. I know,an article on the best dive bars in the U.S.A."
"I like that idea," he said tossing back his whiskey. "I don't think this place qualifies as a dive bar though."
"Now you're just being nice," she said.
"Am I that obvious?"
"Arms covered in tattoos and that dark slicked back hair," she began, "yeah, I'd say you're a little obvious. In a good way, though you look a little familiar."
"I do?" he said.
"A little." she said refilling his glass. "Where are you from?"
"I was actually born about an hour from here in Normal," he said. "But that was back in '68."
"Ain't that a kick?" She laughed. "I always wished I'd been born there just so I could tell everyone I come from a town called Normal."
She lifted each of his drinks and wiped the counter underneath them.
"So '68? That was before Brokaw Hospital burned to the ground," she said. "Far as I know, you can't be born in Normal anymore. Have to be born over the town line in Bloomington."
"I couldn't tell you," he said sipping his beer. "I can barely remember the last time I was there."
"So what are you doing here in Sparland?"
"Visiting my mom," he said, "she lives up the hill on Winnebago Road."
"Is she from here?" She asked.
"Yeah" he said, "Well she grew up near here. She recently moved back here to be near her family."
"What family would that be?" she asked.
He hesitated. "The Maloney's."
"I should have guessed." She said. "You know, you're probably related to half the people in this bar."
"All five of them?" he said with a smile.
"Yeah, ya smart ass. All five of them." She said with a smile as she poured herself a shot of whiskey and held it up, "Six including me."
"And which one of my bazillion relatives might you be?" he asked holding up his glass.
"That depends," she said clinking his glass and tossing the whiskey back as he did the same. "What part of the family tree did you fall from?"
"Rory and Eileen are my grandparents." He said. "But I never really knew them."
"I spent my whole childhood living two blocks from them and I never really knew them either." She said with a grin. "Where did you grow up?"
"We lived in Bloomington until I was 8," he said, "Then we moved out west."
"Ah, you must be one of Grace's boys." She said. "You got her eyes and smile. So Rocky's your dad?"
"That he is. Rocky McGrath." He took a drink of his beer. "Believe it or not, my dad comes from a family about the size of the Maloney's. Between you and me we're probably related to every Irish person in MacClean County."
"Well here in Sparland every other person is either a Maloney or married to one."
"Sounds like the McGrath's in Bloomington," he said. "Who are your parents?"
"Eileen and Callum."
"We have met," he said with a smile. "You're my cousin Cassidy. We stayed at your house one night when I was about 5 years old. I liked that big toy castle you had, but you told me I was too young to play with it."
"Aidan."
"As I live and breathe," he said lifting his beer and toasting the air.
"You little shit," she said. "You broke the draw bridge on that thing."
"Actually my little brother Liam did, but like always, I got blamed."
"Just you two?" she asked.
"I have an older brother named Connor and a sister between him and I named Bridget. And then Liam is younger than me."
"Really? Connor, Bridget, Aidan and Liam," she said, "If you guys were anymore Irish you'd be on the cover of a Lucky Charms box."
"What about you?" he asked. "Any siblings?"
"Just me and my older brother James," she said as she reached into the cooler and grabbed another beer for him. She opened it and set it down in front of him.
"You said your mom lives on Winnebago Road? Where is that?" she asked pouring some whiskey into his glass. "That doesn't sound familiar and I've lived here my whole life."
"It's about 5 miles up the hill. You make a left at the big Homewood sign."
"Oh okay," she said. "That's pretty new. That's all snow birds back in there. No locals. None of those people live here in the winter."
"My mom included." He said. "She winters in Lake Meade."
"I met your mom once about two months ago," she said. "She's very pretty."
"That she is," he said. "Don't think she doesn't know it."
"Give her a break. I hope I look that good when I'm her age." she said then paused. "So how is she if you don't mind my asking?"
"I dunno," he said. "She's on chemo, I'm sure it sucks but she doesn't talk much about it. Well not to me anyway."
"So that's why you're here."
"It is," he said. "I flew all the way from Portland Maine to Peoria Illinois then drove an hour up to Sparland to be with my mom as she started chemo. And all I got in return -- was ignored."
"That's too bad."
"Ah, it's par for the course." He said shaking his head. "We've never really gotten along. I just thought by now we'd have found some kind of common ground. I'm starting to think it's never going to happen."
"Those Maloney women are an odd bunch," she said. "My mother treats her sisters like they walk on water, but treats me like an afterthought."
"I know the feeling," he said.
"Your mom's husband seemed nice," she said. "Do you like him?"
"Troy?" he asked. "I like Troy a lot. I really do. He's the only thing keeping me sane up there. Do the Maloney's like him?"
"They do," she said. "See, with the Maloney's they will like anyone you bring into the family, but once you're out, you're out for good."
"Yeah," he said, "That part of the divorce really hurt my dad; when the Maloney clan shut him out. But hell, the McGrath's are no better. When my Aunt Fiona divorced my Uncle Jack, they pretty much banished him from the family even though SHE was the one who cheated on him. Didn't matter though, she was a McGrath and he wasn't."
"My God," she said. "Are all Irish families like that?"
"Apparently so."
They both turned when they heard the door open. A group of men walked in the door. They waved at Cassidy. She waved back. They went into the billiard room.
"Be right over boys!" she hollered over.
"Those are 8 of your cousins," she said. "Bobby, Greg, James, Keith, Cody, Sean, Caleb and Topher."
"Topher?" he asked.
"Yup. He's a Jr. and his dad Chris-Topher didn't want them both to have the same nick name. So they split it down the middle."
"That's like my dad and my brother Liam." He said sipping his beer. "My dad is Wil with one L and then there's Liam."
"Wil?" she asked puzzled. "I thought your dad's name was Rocky."
"That's his nick name," he said starting to feel the whiskey go to his head. "Since he was a kid. No one can remember where he got it, but they've called him Rocky his whole life. When we moved to Arizona he started going by his real name. Only the McGrath's call him Rocky anymore."
"You want to meet some of your cousins?" she asked while placing bottles of Bud Light onto a tray.
"Would you think less of me if I said no?" he asked.
"Not in the slightest," she said with a smile. "I'll be back in a few."
He turned around in his barstool and leaned back against the bar. She was right, it was a dive bar. Half the wall lights didn't work, the jukebox was older than him and there was so much dust on the "Dukes of Hazzard" pinball machine he could have signed his name in it. That's probably why he felt so comfortable. He'd always had an affinity for dive bars.
His conversation with Cassidy had been the most he'd interacted with another person in a week. He found it a bit odd that he had a room full of cousins about 25 feet from him, but he had no desire whatsoever to meet them. He glanced over into the billiard room. His cousins were all wearing the same fire department shirt. He watched them interact for a few minutes; patting each other on the back and each hugging Cassidy after she set down the tray of beer. Smiling the whole time.
He looked around the bar and looked back at his cousins and wondered how anyone could be content to live their entire life in a small town surrounded by corn fields. He was pretty sure most of them have never been out of the state. He started to feel guilty for making assumptions about a group of guys he didn't even know. He just knew how trapped he felt growing up in a small town. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been back to Parker, Arizona.
He let out a sigh and quickly wondered what he was doing here. He started to regret telling Cassidy so much about himself. In reality, he kept it pretty much on the surface, but he had said enough to put him on her radar. He was sure that by noon tomorrow every Maloney in Sparland would know Grace's boy Aidan was in town. He could tell that his mom hadn't told anyone he was here and she's not going to be happy to learn that he had met a member of her family. This was one can of worms he would regret opening, that's for sure. Suddenly, he was craving a cigarette and feeling the need to get out of the bar. He looked around. Not one ash tray to be found. He put fifty dollars on the bar and started to head for the side door. He stopped when he saw Casey walking back to the bar.
She stopped and chatted with other customers on the way and then made her way back behind the bar and walked over to him.
"You weren't making a break for it, were you?" she asked.
"Nah," he said, "Was going to smoke a cigarette, but it can wait."
"God love those boys," she said. "I'd probably go crazy in this town if it weren't for them."
"So you own this joint?" he asked sitting back down.
"I do," she said. "Every last broken light and cracked tile. It's all mine."
"That's awesome," he said taking a drink. "I love dive bars."
"So you DO think this is a dive bar!" she said letting out a loud laugh. "I knew you were just being nice. It's alright, it is a dive bar. If I cleaned this place up, these people wouldn't know how to act in here."
"Cater to the clientele, right?"
"Clientele?" she asked smiling. "Did you pay for that 10 cent word or was it a freebie?"
"Just trying to be nice," he said, "you know, since I just called your place a dive bar I didn't want to turn around and insult the – uh – customers."
"So you love dive bars, huh?" She grabbed him another beer. "Why's that?"
"Far as I see it, if you want a true snapshot of America, go into any dive bar any night of the week and there you have it."
"How so?"
"Well, fancy bars are full of people trying to put on airs trying be something they're not," he said looking around. "They wear certain clothes; drink certain drinks, all the while trying to make everyone else believe they are as fancy as the bar. The drinks are too expensive, the people laugh too loud, and there's always some gimmick like beds for tables or a gold fish tank under the dance floor.
"Dive bars are different though," he said. "Dive bars are America at its most honest. The working class of all ages. Real people hanging out with real people.
"Like our cousins over there," he said nodding his head toward the billiard room. "Those boys could give two shits about what brand of clothes they own. Play clothes that is. When it comes to work clothes, they own the best work boots and they probably own enough Carharts to keep the company in business. They're real people. Good people.
"No matter where I travel for work or vacation, I always find the local dive and that's where I spend my money. It's also how I find the best places to visit in any city, the places you don't read about in the tourism brochure."
"Dive bars and diners," he said. "A true snap shot of America."
"You sure you're not a writer?" she asked.
"Actually, I am a writer," he said.
"Do you write for a magazine or a newspaper?" she asked.
"A couple actually," he said. "I'm a freelance writer. Which means, I don't actually make a living as writer, but I feel so compelled to write that I'll do it for next to nothing. I put the 'free' in 'freelance.'"
"What was the last piece you had published?" she asked.
"The last piece or the last GOOD piece?" he asked. "Because the last piece I had published was a restaurant review for a national magazine. The restaurant is in Portland Maine, where I live, and one of the head honchos at the magazine had read some of my other work and asked me to do a review of this place. Then informed me that his sister-in-law owned the place and he expected a GOOD review. So that's what I gave him. I wrote a glowing review for a mediocre restaurant. Not a big deal though, the guy liked the review so much he paid me a couple a hundred bucks."
"Was it that bad?" he asked.
"The review or the restaurant?" He asked with a laugh. "Just kidding, but yes, the restaurant was that bad. The place was pretentious and overpriced. The drinks were small and weak and the food was bland at best. My waiter was a complete douche bag, even after I told him I was reviewing the place for a national magazine."
"So what was the last good thing you had published?" she asked.
"Last year, I lost my best childhood friend to cancer," he said. "It was devastating to say the least. I wrote an article about how we domesticate the grieving process."
"How so?" she asked.
"Well," he began, "this really only applies when you loose someone other than an immediate family member. You know, like a long lost childhood friend or someone like that. Because for the family, they're losing their sister, mother, daughter, etc. For the rest of us, we lost the little girl we knew in the '80s. And we send emails and write on our blogs and reminisce about her. And it hurts, but we keep our distance from the family because it had been years since we'd last talked. And the last thing a grieving family member wants is someone coming out of the woodwork to say they knew her way back when and understand their pain. Because we don't. I don't. I mean, I don't understand what her family is going through because I've never lost a close family member. So we domesticate our grief by making it part of our day. You know? We talk about her to friends on the phone and in letters. And for me, I did my grieving by listening to old Stevie Nicks songs on headphones in the dark. And in doing this, we take this little girl that we knew and we make her immortal."
He pauses lost in thought.
"Has anyone ever written anything for you…" she said quietly.
"Um," he said snapping back to reality. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"The song," she said. "Stevie Nicks. It's my favorite song by her."
They both paused, lost in thought.
He could still see her sitting in her room in 1983, Stevie Nicks blasting from the cheap speakers of her hand me down record player. They kept moving the needle back as they tried to learn the words to the songs. And every Saturday morning they'd sit and listen to America's Top 40 together. Predicting the movement of the songs on the charts. Discussing how and why each song gained popularity. It's a wonder neither of them ended up working in the music industry.
"She was a year behind me in high school," he said breaking the silence. "We weren't that close in high school. We ended up running in different circles. She had boyfriends and I watched from afar. I kind of thought that what we had when we were younger was gone. And then for my high school graduation in 1986, she gave me a framed copy of those lyrics and two tickets to see Stevie Nicks."
"Oh my god," she said, "you're going to make me cry. That is awesome."
"Yeah, it was," he said. "We went to that concert together and that was pretty much the last time I ever saw her.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I thought I was too good for Parker Arizona." He said. "It was too small and I had too much I wanted to do. I was that quintessential restless small town boy. I fucking bolted as soon as I got the chance. I joined the Army, took off and never looked back. My parents moved away when I was in the Army so I never had a chance or really even a reason to go back. To this day, I've never been back."
"Parker Arizona?" she asked.
"Yup," he said. "One mile square smack dab in the middle of the desert."
"I don't think I ever knew where you guys moved to," she said. "Was it really that bad?"
"In retrospect," he said, "probably not, but as a kid with big dreams and unavailable parents, it seemed like hell."
"Welcome to Sparland," she said smiling.
One of his cousins walked up to the bar. He glanced at Aidan and nodded.
"Hey Cass," he said, "Can we get another round of beers?"
"Sure Caleb," she said reaching into the cooler. "I'll bring them right in."
"Thanks sweetie," he said. "You're the best."
"You got that right," she said with a laugh.
Caleb walked back into the billiard room as Cassidy loaded up a tray with beer.
"I'll be right back," she said. "I'm going to run these over to the good ole boys."
"Take your time," he said. "I'm going out for a smoke."
He watched her walk into the billiard room. Something she said made them all laugh and then all eight of his cousins looked up at him.
"Shit," he mumbled. "She fucking told them who I am."
He pushed the $50 forward on the bar, downed his beer and set the empty can on top of the money. He made a beeline for the side door.
He walked out into the parking lot. The gravel crunched beneath his boots. He glanced up at the moon and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. As he started to light it, he heard the bar door open and close behind him.
"You know," it was Cassidy's voice. "Your money's no good here. I thought you said you wouldn't try to make a break for it."
"Nope," he lied, and then turned around, "Just came out for a smoke."
"I didn't tell those boys who you are," she said walking up to him. She put the the fifty dollars back in his hand. "I told you I wouldn't do that. They asked about you though, because, well, you're not a local. I just told them your parents are snow birds and you stopped in to nurse your family hangover."
"Thank you," he said smoking his cigarette. "I appreciate that."
"You know, I don't get along with my mother either." She lit a cigarette and walked right past him. "She hasn't been nice to me since I kicked out my husband. In her mind, I was just supposed to grin and bear it because that's what Maloney women do."
They stood next to each other, both staring at the sky on the horizon. The only thing he could hear was the sound of the night. The locusts in the distance, the crickets in the grass and the rustling of wind in as it blew through the trees.
"This family swallows you right up," she said breaking the silence. "It really does. Everybody's got to know everything about everything and what they don't know; well they fill in the blanks. And it's Sparland, ya know? It's not like I'm ever going to make enough money running this dump to save up and take my kids anywhere else."
The silence came back. They stood together beneath the stars. Both wondering how it was that they were related, but had never met. Both appreciating the instant kinship as short-lived as it might be.
"We moved out west because my mom got sick of my dad's family always having something to say about how she raised us," he said smoking his cigarette. "'They're my kids, goddamnit, and I'll raise them the way I see fit!'"
"Jesus," she said, "I can't even count the number of times I've heard my mother say that."
"So much for it taking a village to raise a child."
"You know what our families need?" she asked. "One big dose of 'Mind your own fucking business.'"
They both laughed.
A few moments went by as they stood side by side watching their cigarette smoke disappear into the night breeze.
"So if you're out here, whose tending bar?" he asked gesturing back to the door.
"Self-serve during bartender breaks."
"I see," he said. "So all those guys are on the fire department?"
"Those guys ARE the fire department," she said with a laugh and then tossed her cigarette to the ground. "So don't go and start any fires tonight because those boys were half in the bag when they got here."
He handed the money back to her.
"C'mon take the money," he said. "If you don't want to keep it, then buy the fire department some drinks. "
He started to walk towards his rental car, and then stopped.
"Hey, am I going to be safe driving up that hill after a few whiskeys? You know, any cops out tonight?"
"Well," she started, "The only on-duty cop tonight is my brother James and he is over at the bowling alley. It's league night and he's a team captain."
"Well that answers that," he said fishing his keys out of his pocket. "It was great to meet you Cassidy. I'm sorry Liam broke the draw bridge on your castle."
"I'd say 'See ya around,' but I doubt that'll happen."
"Probably not," he said opening the car door. "Not around here anyway."
"So Portland Maine, huh?" she asked.
"Yup," he said, "Ever been there?"
"Yeah right," she chuckled, "I've never been out of this state."
"There's whole lot more to this world than Sparland," he said. "But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."
"I tell my boys every day that the world is a big place just waiting for them to get out and see it," she said
He closed the car door and walked to the front of the car and leaned back on the hood.
"How many boys?" he asked.
"Two," she said. "Twins nonetheless. They're good boys. No worse than I was."
"That's great," he said.
"Yeah, they're good lookin' boys too." She laughed. "I swear I gotta beat those girls off with a stick."
"Send them to military school," he said. "That'll get 'em in line."
"I threaten them with that all the time!" she laughed.
"Good minds think alike," he said.
"Great minds you dork," she said. "Its great minds think alike."
"My parents never encouraged me in any of my creative talents. They considered them a waste of my time." He said. "Told me to keep my 'hobbies' like writing and painting in the background because no one ever made a living doing stuff like that."
"I swear they cut all those Maloney women from the same mold," she said walking over and leaning on the car next to him. "I encourage my boys to do whatever they want. They're already itching to get out of here, thank God. Now I just have to pray one of them doesn't knock up some local girl or feel like they have to marry the first one who says yes."
"That's what my parents did." He said. "My dad married the first girl who said yes and my mom married the first guy who asked. Same with my sister and both of my brothers."
"I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if I had married the first one who asked," she said. "Instead I married the second one who asked because I was afraid he was my last chance."
She paused for a few moments lost in thought.
"So what about you?" She asked. "You ever ask anyone?"
"Once." He said smoking his cigarette. "In a letter from Iraq. I was over there in Desert Storm. Thankfully, she was smart enough to say no."
"Ever ask anyone else?"
"I have not." He said.
"So, still lookin' for that right girl?" she asked.
"I'm not really looking for anything," he said. "Life tends to just work itself out."
"Maybe for you," she said. "This sure isn't how I wanted my life to work out."
"Is it that bad?" he asked. "There's something to be said for growing up in a small town. Your boys will probably end up appreciating the fact that they grew up here."
"As long as they get out." She said.
"Yeah, but it's not just Sparland, it's any small town," he said. "Heck, I love Portland Maine, but the kids who grew up there couldn't wait to get out either. I think most kids want to get as far away from "the nest" as they can. We think the grass is always greener."
"Is it?" she asked. "Honestly, I wouldn't know."
"It's not necessarily greener, just different." He said. "I'm happy where I live. I like my life for the most part, but I've lived a lot of places and it hasn't always been a bed of roses. I think you can find happiness no matter where you are. Hell, I actually had some good times when I was in Iraq. You learn to live with what you've got."
""Don't get me wrong," she said lighting another cigarette. "I talk a mean game about wanting to get the hell out of here, but I kind of like raising my boys in such a safe place. I guess I just wish I had done a little bit more living and traveling before I had kids. I don't regret my boys at all, but I still hope they get the hell out of here."
"I'm sure they'll turn out just fine."
"So how long are you in Sparland?" she asked.
"Well, I've been here since last Friday and I'm supposed to fly out of Peoria on Sunday."
"But…" she began.
"But," he took a drag from his cigarette, "I think I'm going to cut out in the morning."
They stood next to each other; neither saying much. Then she motioned toward the bar.
"Well, I should get back in," she said. "If those fire boys do too much self-serving, I'll be out of tequila."
She paused and then looked over at Aidan. She smiled. He smiled back.
"I'm glad you stopped in," she said.
"I am too."
"Have a safe trip back to Maine," she said. "I bet it's beautiful this time of year."
"It is." He said.
She started to walk towards the bar. Then she stopped and turned around.
"How far do you live from the ocean?" she asked.
"My house is about five minutes from the nearest beach." He said.
"That's fantastic," she said. "Maybe I'll see it someday."
"Maybe you will." He said.
"You take care of yourself Aidan."
"I will." He walked to the driver side of the car, opened the door. "Hey Cassidy."
"Yeah?" she said stopping at the door to the bar. "Look me up, I'm not hard to find. Aidan McCarthy, Portland Maine."
"I will." She said with a smile and disappeared into the bar.
Aidan got into the car and put the key in the ignition. He was relieved knowing the she wasn't going to tell anyone who he was. His mother would never find out he'd been here or that he'd met a member of her family. It's one less thing they would fight about. He felt good. He started the car and backed out of the parking lot and made a left onto the road. He drove up the big hill watching "Pair-O-Dice" disappear in his rearview mirror. The night enveloped the car and the only thing he could see was the part of road illuminated by the headlights. Though it was only a five mile drive, he wanted it to last forever.
The End
By William B. Whalen
He walked into the bar knowing that his arrival would be noticed. It was a small town and he was an outsider. Something he was used to. As the door shut behind him a silence took over and every head turned his way. He gave a sheepish grin and a slight wave of his hand as he made his way over to the bar. He had purposefully dressed as nondescript as possible; a black Army t-shirt, blue jeans and black boots.
"Welcome to Paradise," the bartender said with a smile as she walked over to him. She was an attractive woman in her early 40's. She wore a faded Fleetwood Mac t-shirt and jeans with her long dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"Paradise?" he asked.
"It's the name of the bar," she said with a chuckle.
"Oh, all I saw on the sign was a pair of…," he stopped and laughed. "Nice one. Pair-O-Dice. I like it."
"Yeah? Thought of it myself," she said. "What can I get ya for?"
"Jack straight up and a tall cold can of PBR if ya got it."
"Coming right up," she said.
She set his drinks down in front of him and gave him the once over. He knew the questions she was about to ask and pondered whether or not he'd tell her the truth. Not that the truth was all that exciting, but seeing that he would never step foot in here again, he could tell her anything he wanted.
"Let me guess" she said leaning on her arm on the bar. "I'd say that you are either a writer or some kind of an artist. Because you're definitely not from around here. I'm going to guess you're probably driving all over the country doing a story for some magazine. I know,an article on the best dive bars in the U.S.A."
"I like that idea," he said tossing back his whiskey. "I don't think this place qualifies as a dive bar though."
"Now you're just being nice," she said.
"Am I that obvious?"
"Arms covered in tattoos and that dark slicked back hair," she began, "yeah, I'd say you're a little obvious. In a good way, though you look a little familiar."
"I do?" he said.
"A little." she said refilling his glass. "Where are you from?"
"I was actually born about an hour from here in Normal," he said. "But that was back in '68."
"Ain't that a kick?" She laughed. "I always wished I'd been born there just so I could tell everyone I come from a town called Normal."
She lifted each of his drinks and wiped the counter underneath them.
"So '68? That was before Brokaw Hospital burned to the ground," she said. "Far as I know, you can't be born in Normal anymore. Have to be born over the town line in Bloomington."
"I couldn't tell you," he said sipping his beer. "I can barely remember the last time I was there."
"So what are you doing here in Sparland?"
"Visiting my mom," he said, "she lives up the hill on Winnebago Road."
"Is she from here?" She asked.
"Yeah" he said, "Well she grew up near here. She recently moved back here to be near her family."
"What family would that be?" she asked.
He hesitated. "The Maloney's."
"I should have guessed." She said. "You know, you're probably related to half the people in this bar."
"All five of them?" he said with a smile.
"Yeah, ya smart ass. All five of them." She said with a smile as she poured herself a shot of whiskey and held it up, "Six including me."
"And which one of my bazillion relatives might you be?" he asked holding up his glass.
"That depends," she said clinking his glass and tossing the whiskey back as he did the same. "What part of the family tree did you fall from?"
"Rory and Eileen are my grandparents." He said. "But I never really knew them."
"I spent my whole childhood living two blocks from them and I never really knew them either." She said with a grin. "Where did you grow up?"
"We lived in Bloomington until I was 8," he said, "Then we moved out west."
"Ah, you must be one of Grace's boys." She said. "You got her eyes and smile. So Rocky's your dad?"
"That he is. Rocky McGrath." He took a drink of his beer. "Believe it or not, my dad comes from a family about the size of the Maloney's. Between you and me we're probably related to every Irish person in MacClean County."
"Well here in Sparland every other person is either a Maloney or married to one."
"Sounds like the McGrath's in Bloomington," he said. "Who are your parents?"
"Eileen and Callum."
"We have met," he said with a smile. "You're my cousin Cassidy. We stayed at your house one night when I was about 5 years old. I liked that big toy castle you had, but you told me I was too young to play with it."
"Aidan."
"As I live and breathe," he said lifting his beer and toasting the air.
"You little shit," she said. "You broke the draw bridge on that thing."
"Actually my little brother Liam did, but like always, I got blamed."
"Just you two?" she asked.
"I have an older brother named Connor and a sister between him and I named Bridget. And then Liam is younger than me."
"Really? Connor, Bridget, Aidan and Liam," she said, "If you guys were anymore Irish you'd be on the cover of a Lucky Charms box."
"What about you?" he asked. "Any siblings?"
"Just me and my older brother James," she said as she reached into the cooler and grabbed another beer for him. She opened it and set it down in front of him.
"You said your mom lives on Winnebago Road? Where is that?" she asked pouring some whiskey into his glass. "That doesn't sound familiar and I've lived here my whole life."
"It's about 5 miles up the hill. You make a left at the big Homewood sign."
"Oh okay," she said. "That's pretty new. That's all snow birds back in there. No locals. None of those people live here in the winter."
"My mom included." He said. "She winters in Lake Meade."
"I met your mom once about two months ago," she said. "She's very pretty."
"That she is," he said. "Don't think she doesn't know it."
"Give her a break. I hope I look that good when I'm her age." she said then paused. "So how is she if you don't mind my asking?"
"I dunno," he said. "She's on chemo, I'm sure it sucks but she doesn't talk much about it. Well not to me anyway."
"So that's why you're here."
"It is," he said. "I flew all the way from Portland Maine to Peoria Illinois then drove an hour up to Sparland to be with my mom as she started chemo. And all I got in return -- was ignored."
"That's too bad."
"Ah, it's par for the course." He said shaking his head. "We've never really gotten along. I just thought by now we'd have found some kind of common ground. I'm starting to think it's never going to happen."
"Those Maloney women are an odd bunch," she said. "My mother treats her sisters like they walk on water, but treats me like an afterthought."
"I know the feeling," he said.
"Your mom's husband seemed nice," she said. "Do you like him?"
"Troy?" he asked. "I like Troy a lot. I really do. He's the only thing keeping me sane up there. Do the Maloney's like him?"
"They do," she said. "See, with the Maloney's they will like anyone you bring into the family, but once you're out, you're out for good."
"Yeah," he said, "That part of the divorce really hurt my dad; when the Maloney clan shut him out. But hell, the McGrath's are no better. When my Aunt Fiona divorced my Uncle Jack, they pretty much banished him from the family even though SHE was the one who cheated on him. Didn't matter though, she was a McGrath and he wasn't."
"My God," she said. "Are all Irish families like that?"
"Apparently so."
They both turned when they heard the door open. A group of men walked in the door. They waved at Cassidy. She waved back. They went into the billiard room.
"Be right over boys!" she hollered over.
"Those are 8 of your cousins," she said. "Bobby, Greg, James, Keith, Cody, Sean, Caleb and Topher."
"Topher?" he asked.
"Yup. He's a Jr. and his dad Chris-Topher didn't want them both to have the same nick name. So they split it down the middle."
"That's like my dad and my brother Liam." He said sipping his beer. "My dad is Wil with one L and then there's Liam."
"Wil?" she asked puzzled. "I thought your dad's name was Rocky."
"That's his nick name," he said starting to feel the whiskey go to his head. "Since he was a kid. No one can remember where he got it, but they've called him Rocky his whole life. When we moved to Arizona he started going by his real name. Only the McGrath's call him Rocky anymore."
"You want to meet some of your cousins?" she asked while placing bottles of Bud Light onto a tray.
"Would you think less of me if I said no?" he asked.
"Not in the slightest," she said with a smile. "I'll be back in a few."
He turned around in his barstool and leaned back against the bar. She was right, it was a dive bar. Half the wall lights didn't work, the jukebox was older than him and there was so much dust on the "Dukes of Hazzard" pinball machine he could have signed his name in it. That's probably why he felt so comfortable. He'd always had an affinity for dive bars.
His conversation with Cassidy had been the most he'd interacted with another person in a week. He found it a bit odd that he had a room full of cousins about 25 feet from him, but he had no desire whatsoever to meet them. He glanced over into the billiard room. His cousins were all wearing the same fire department shirt. He watched them interact for a few minutes; patting each other on the back and each hugging Cassidy after she set down the tray of beer. Smiling the whole time.
He looked around the bar and looked back at his cousins and wondered how anyone could be content to live their entire life in a small town surrounded by corn fields. He was pretty sure most of them have never been out of the state. He started to feel guilty for making assumptions about a group of guys he didn't even know. He just knew how trapped he felt growing up in a small town. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been back to Parker, Arizona.
He let out a sigh and quickly wondered what he was doing here. He started to regret telling Cassidy so much about himself. In reality, he kept it pretty much on the surface, but he had said enough to put him on her radar. He was sure that by noon tomorrow every Maloney in Sparland would know Grace's boy Aidan was in town. He could tell that his mom hadn't told anyone he was here and she's not going to be happy to learn that he had met a member of her family. This was one can of worms he would regret opening, that's for sure. Suddenly, he was craving a cigarette and feeling the need to get out of the bar. He looked around. Not one ash tray to be found. He put fifty dollars on the bar and started to head for the side door. He stopped when he saw Casey walking back to the bar.
She stopped and chatted with other customers on the way and then made her way back behind the bar and walked over to him.
"You weren't making a break for it, were you?" she asked.
"Nah," he said, "Was going to smoke a cigarette, but it can wait."
"God love those boys," she said. "I'd probably go crazy in this town if it weren't for them."
"So you own this joint?" he asked sitting back down.
"I do," she said. "Every last broken light and cracked tile. It's all mine."
"That's awesome," he said taking a drink. "I love dive bars."
"So you DO think this is a dive bar!" she said letting out a loud laugh. "I knew you were just being nice. It's alright, it is a dive bar. If I cleaned this place up, these people wouldn't know how to act in here."
"Cater to the clientele, right?"
"Clientele?" she asked smiling. "Did you pay for that 10 cent word or was it a freebie?"
"Just trying to be nice," he said, "you know, since I just called your place a dive bar I didn't want to turn around and insult the – uh – customers."
"So you love dive bars, huh?" She grabbed him another beer. "Why's that?"
"Far as I see it, if you want a true snapshot of America, go into any dive bar any night of the week and there you have it."
"How so?"
"Well, fancy bars are full of people trying to put on airs trying be something they're not," he said looking around. "They wear certain clothes; drink certain drinks, all the while trying to make everyone else believe they are as fancy as the bar. The drinks are too expensive, the people laugh too loud, and there's always some gimmick like beds for tables or a gold fish tank under the dance floor.
"Dive bars are different though," he said. "Dive bars are America at its most honest. The working class of all ages. Real people hanging out with real people.
"Like our cousins over there," he said nodding his head toward the billiard room. "Those boys could give two shits about what brand of clothes they own. Play clothes that is. When it comes to work clothes, they own the best work boots and they probably own enough Carharts to keep the company in business. They're real people. Good people.
"No matter where I travel for work or vacation, I always find the local dive and that's where I spend my money. It's also how I find the best places to visit in any city, the places you don't read about in the tourism brochure."
"Dive bars and diners," he said. "A true snap shot of America."
"You sure you're not a writer?" she asked.
"Actually, I am a writer," he said.
"Do you write for a magazine or a newspaper?" she asked.
"A couple actually," he said. "I'm a freelance writer. Which means, I don't actually make a living as writer, but I feel so compelled to write that I'll do it for next to nothing. I put the 'free' in 'freelance.'"
"What was the last piece you had published?" she asked.
"The last piece or the last GOOD piece?" he asked. "Because the last piece I had published was a restaurant review for a national magazine. The restaurant is in Portland Maine, where I live, and one of the head honchos at the magazine had read some of my other work and asked me to do a review of this place. Then informed me that his sister-in-law owned the place and he expected a GOOD review. So that's what I gave him. I wrote a glowing review for a mediocre restaurant. Not a big deal though, the guy liked the review so much he paid me a couple a hundred bucks."
"Was it that bad?" he asked.
"The review or the restaurant?" He asked with a laugh. "Just kidding, but yes, the restaurant was that bad. The place was pretentious and overpriced. The drinks were small and weak and the food was bland at best. My waiter was a complete douche bag, even after I told him I was reviewing the place for a national magazine."
"So what was the last good thing you had published?" she asked.
"Last year, I lost my best childhood friend to cancer," he said. "It was devastating to say the least. I wrote an article about how we domesticate the grieving process."
"How so?" she asked.
"Well," he began, "this really only applies when you loose someone other than an immediate family member. You know, like a long lost childhood friend or someone like that. Because for the family, they're losing their sister, mother, daughter, etc. For the rest of us, we lost the little girl we knew in the '80s. And we send emails and write on our blogs and reminisce about her. And it hurts, but we keep our distance from the family because it had been years since we'd last talked. And the last thing a grieving family member wants is someone coming out of the woodwork to say they knew her way back when and understand their pain. Because we don't. I don't. I mean, I don't understand what her family is going through because I've never lost a close family member. So we domesticate our grief by making it part of our day. You know? We talk about her to friends on the phone and in letters. And for me, I did my grieving by listening to old Stevie Nicks songs on headphones in the dark. And in doing this, we take this little girl that we knew and we make her immortal."
He pauses lost in thought.
"Has anyone ever written anything for you…" she said quietly.
"Um," he said snapping back to reality. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"The song," she said. "Stevie Nicks. It's my favorite song by her."
They both paused, lost in thought.
He could still see her sitting in her room in 1983, Stevie Nicks blasting from the cheap speakers of her hand me down record player. They kept moving the needle back as they tried to learn the words to the songs. And every Saturday morning they'd sit and listen to America's Top 40 together. Predicting the movement of the songs on the charts. Discussing how and why each song gained popularity. It's a wonder neither of them ended up working in the music industry.
"She was a year behind me in high school," he said breaking the silence. "We weren't that close in high school. We ended up running in different circles. She had boyfriends and I watched from afar. I kind of thought that what we had when we were younger was gone. And then for my high school graduation in 1986, she gave me a framed copy of those lyrics and two tickets to see Stevie Nicks."
"Oh my god," she said, "you're going to make me cry. That is awesome."
"Yeah, it was," he said. "We went to that concert together and that was pretty much the last time I ever saw her.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I thought I was too good for Parker Arizona." He said. "It was too small and I had too much I wanted to do. I was that quintessential restless small town boy. I fucking bolted as soon as I got the chance. I joined the Army, took off and never looked back. My parents moved away when I was in the Army so I never had a chance or really even a reason to go back. To this day, I've never been back."
"Parker Arizona?" she asked.
"Yup," he said. "One mile square smack dab in the middle of the desert."
"I don't think I ever knew where you guys moved to," she said. "Was it really that bad?"
"In retrospect," he said, "probably not, but as a kid with big dreams and unavailable parents, it seemed like hell."
"Welcome to Sparland," she said smiling.
One of his cousins walked up to the bar. He glanced at Aidan and nodded.
"Hey Cass," he said, "Can we get another round of beers?"
"Sure Caleb," she said reaching into the cooler. "I'll bring them right in."
"Thanks sweetie," he said. "You're the best."
"You got that right," she said with a laugh.
Caleb walked back into the billiard room as Cassidy loaded up a tray with beer.
"I'll be right back," she said. "I'm going to run these over to the good ole boys."
"Take your time," he said. "I'm going out for a smoke."
He watched her walk into the billiard room. Something she said made them all laugh and then all eight of his cousins looked up at him.
"Shit," he mumbled. "She fucking told them who I am."
He pushed the $50 forward on the bar, downed his beer and set the empty can on top of the money. He made a beeline for the side door.
He walked out into the parking lot. The gravel crunched beneath his boots. He glanced up at the moon and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. As he started to light it, he heard the bar door open and close behind him.
"You know," it was Cassidy's voice. "Your money's no good here. I thought you said you wouldn't try to make a break for it."
"Nope," he lied, and then turned around, "Just came out for a smoke."
"I didn't tell those boys who you are," she said walking up to him. She put the the fifty dollars back in his hand. "I told you I wouldn't do that. They asked about you though, because, well, you're not a local. I just told them your parents are snow birds and you stopped in to nurse your family hangover."
"Thank you," he said smoking his cigarette. "I appreciate that."
"You know, I don't get along with my mother either." She lit a cigarette and walked right past him. "She hasn't been nice to me since I kicked out my husband. In her mind, I was just supposed to grin and bear it because that's what Maloney women do."
They stood next to each other, both staring at the sky on the horizon. The only thing he could hear was the sound of the night. The locusts in the distance, the crickets in the grass and the rustling of wind in as it blew through the trees.
"This family swallows you right up," she said breaking the silence. "It really does. Everybody's got to know everything about everything and what they don't know; well they fill in the blanks. And it's Sparland, ya know? It's not like I'm ever going to make enough money running this dump to save up and take my kids anywhere else."
The silence came back. They stood together beneath the stars. Both wondering how it was that they were related, but had never met. Both appreciating the instant kinship as short-lived as it might be.
"We moved out west because my mom got sick of my dad's family always having something to say about how she raised us," he said smoking his cigarette. "'They're my kids, goddamnit, and I'll raise them the way I see fit!'"
"Jesus," she said, "I can't even count the number of times I've heard my mother say that."
"So much for it taking a village to raise a child."
"You know what our families need?" she asked. "One big dose of 'Mind your own fucking business.'"
They both laughed.
A few moments went by as they stood side by side watching their cigarette smoke disappear into the night breeze.
"So if you're out here, whose tending bar?" he asked gesturing back to the door.
"Self-serve during bartender breaks."
"I see," he said. "So all those guys are on the fire department?"
"Those guys ARE the fire department," she said with a laugh and then tossed her cigarette to the ground. "So don't go and start any fires tonight because those boys were half in the bag when they got here."
He handed the money back to her.
"C'mon take the money," he said. "If you don't want to keep it, then buy the fire department some drinks. "
He started to walk towards his rental car, and then stopped.
"Hey, am I going to be safe driving up that hill after a few whiskeys? You know, any cops out tonight?"
"Well," she started, "The only on-duty cop tonight is my brother James and he is over at the bowling alley. It's league night and he's a team captain."
"Well that answers that," he said fishing his keys out of his pocket. "It was great to meet you Cassidy. I'm sorry Liam broke the draw bridge on your castle."
"I'd say 'See ya around,' but I doubt that'll happen."
"Probably not," he said opening the car door. "Not around here anyway."
"So Portland Maine, huh?" she asked.
"Yup," he said, "Ever been there?"
"Yeah right," she chuckled, "I've never been out of this state."
"There's whole lot more to this world than Sparland," he said. "But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."
"I tell my boys every day that the world is a big place just waiting for them to get out and see it," she said
He closed the car door and walked to the front of the car and leaned back on the hood.
"How many boys?" he asked.
"Two," she said. "Twins nonetheless. They're good boys. No worse than I was."
"That's great," he said.
"Yeah, they're good lookin' boys too." She laughed. "I swear I gotta beat those girls off with a stick."
"Send them to military school," he said. "That'll get 'em in line."
"I threaten them with that all the time!" she laughed.
"Good minds think alike," he said.
"Great minds you dork," she said. "Its great minds think alike."
"My parents never encouraged me in any of my creative talents. They considered them a waste of my time." He said. "Told me to keep my 'hobbies' like writing and painting in the background because no one ever made a living doing stuff like that."
"I swear they cut all those Maloney women from the same mold," she said walking over and leaning on the car next to him. "I encourage my boys to do whatever they want. They're already itching to get out of here, thank God. Now I just have to pray one of them doesn't knock up some local girl or feel like they have to marry the first one who says yes."
"That's what my parents did." He said. "My dad married the first girl who said yes and my mom married the first guy who asked. Same with my sister and both of my brothers."
"I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if I had married the first one who asked," she said. "Instead I married the second one who asked because I was afraid he was my last chance."
She paused for a few moments lost in thought.
"So what about you?" She asked. "You ever ask anyone?"
"Once." He said smoking his cigarette. "In a letter from Iraq. I was over there in Desert Storm. Thankfully, she was smart enough to say no."
"Ever ask anyone else?"
"I have not." He said.
"So, still lookin' for that right girl?" she asked.
"I'm not really looking for anything," he said. "Life tends to just work itself out."
"Maybe for you," she said. "This sure isn't how I wanted my life to work out."
"Is it that bad?" he asked. "There's something to be said for growing up in a small town. Your boys will probably end up appreciating the fact that they grew up here."
"As long as they get out." She said.
"Yeah, but it's not just Sparland, it's any small town," he said. "Heck, I love Portland Maine, but the kids who grew up there couldn't wait to get out either. I think most kids want to get as far away from "the nest" as they can. We think the grass is always greener."
"Is it?" she asked. "Honestly, I wouldn't know."
"It's not necessarily greener, just different." He said. "I'm happy where I live. I like my life for the most part, but I've lived a lot of places and it hasn't always been a bed of roses. I think you can find happiness no matter where you are. Hell, I actually had some good times when I was in Iraq. You learn to live with what you've got."
""Don't get me wrong," she said lighting another cigarette. "I talk a mean game about wanting to get the hell out of here, but I kind of like raising my boys in such a safe place. I guess I just wish I had done a little bit more living and traveling before I had kids. I don't regret my boys at all, but I still hope they get the hell out of here."
"I'm sure they'll turn out just fine."
"So how long are you in Sparland?" she asked.
"Well, I've been here since last Friday and I'm supposed to fly out of Peoria on Sunday."
"But…" she began.
"But," he took a drag from his cigarette, "I think I'm going to cut out in the morning."
They stood next to each other; neither saying much. Then she motioned toward the bar.
"Well, I should get back in," she said. "If those fire boys do too much self-serving, I'll be out of tequila."
She paused and then looked over at Aidan. She smiled. He smiled back.
"I'm glad you stopped in," she said.
"I am too."
"Have a safe trip back to Maine," she said. "I bet it's beautiful this time of year."
"It is." He said.
She started to walk towards the bar. Then she stopped and turned around.
"How far do you live from the ocean?" she asked.
"My house is about five minutes from the nearest beach." He said.
"That's fantastic," she said. "Maybe I'll see it someday."
"Maybe you will." He said.
"You take care of yourself Aidan."
"I will." He walked to the driver side of the car, opened the door. "Hey Cassidy."
"Yeah?" she said stopping at the door to the bar. "Look me up, I'm not hard to find. Aidan McCarthy, Portland Maine."
"I will." She said with a smile and disappeared into the bar.
Aidan got into the car and put the key in the ignition. He was relieved knowing the she wasn't going to tell anyone who he was. His mother would never find out he'd been here or that he'd met a member of her family. It's one less thing they would fight about. He felt good. He started the car and backed out of the parking lot and made a left onto the road. He drove up the big hill watching "Pair-O-Dice" disappear in his rearview mirror. The night enveloped the car and the only thing he could see was the part of road illuminated by the headlights. Though it was only a five mile drive, he wanted it to last forever.
The End
SCENE ONE
Agent MG and Agent Kid are ducked behind a bar. Bullets are flying above them hitting the mirror and the liquor bottles.
Agent MG:
(Yelling with his hands over his hears)
This is what I hate about this job. The whole “people shooting at us” thing.
Agent Kid:
(Yelling with a big grin on his face)
Really? I kinda like it.
Ya, you’re sick like that.
Agent Kid:
You know, if you hadn’t opened your big mouth, maybe those freaks wouldn’t be shooting at us!
Agent MG:
ME? Are you serious? You don’t think it has anything to do with your wire falling out of your shirt and onto the table??
Agent Kid:
Ya whatever, I knew you’d do that. You can never just admit you were wrong.
WHAT?? I was wrong yesterday when I told you looked good in that black t-shirt. I was wrong this morning at the office when I said the coffee you made was good. I was wrong at lunch when I said “good choice on the restaurant.” But this time I am NOT wrong. Man, you drive me insane. Ain’t this some shit. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap. This is how I’m going to die. Crouched behind the bar, next to you, with a thousand bullet holes in my body. I hope they put a good picture of me on 60 Minutes.
Agent Kid:
Oh quit yer whinin’ MG and follow me.
Agent Kid crawls to one of the beer coolers and opens the door. He reaches inside and fidgets with the cooler controls and the keg mechanically slides back to reveal a passage way with a ladder going down. The men climb down the ladder, pull the cooler shut behind them. Once they are down, the keg slides back into place.
Agent Kid:
See that? Nothing to worry about. Once again I save the day.
Agent MG:
What the fuck? How in the hell did you know that was there?And what makes you think they won’t figure out which one of the kegs is a fake?
Agent Kid:
Because there isn’t a fake keg. That one is real and it’s full. And they’d have to know how to exactly adjust the cooler controls to get it to slide out and reveal the passage way.
Agent MG:
And how did you know that was there?
Agent Kid:
Well if you didn’t spend so much time cruisin’ for dudes online, maybe you’d have been with me when I reconned the place.
Agent MG:
You reconned this place? Ya right. That must have been right after you went to the gym, which was right after you actually got outta bed at 10am and I met you at 11. So I'm thinking you found out another way.
Agent Kid:
Alright already, Jake clued me in. This used to be a mob hangout back when there was still a mafia.
Agent MG:
Just like you, always tryin’ to take credit for someone else’s work. So where does this lead?
Agent Kid:
I have no idea, my cell phone died before Jake could tell me that part.
Agent MG:
Then why didn’t you go to a regular phone and call him back?
Agent Kid:
Because “Sex and the City” was on! Besides, I don’t know his number, I have it programmed in my phone – which was dead. Or did you miss that part?
Agent MG:
You didn’t call him back because “Sex and the City” was on?
Agent Kid:
Don’t even start with me. You’re worse than a six year old and “Bob the Builder” with your damn “Lord of the Rings” DVDs. All I have to do is pop one of those babies in and you’re occupied until all 3 are done.
Agent MG:
Wait a minute, there’s a BIG difference between “Sex and the City” and “Lord of the Rings.” “Sex and the City” is just another stupid tv show where women bitch about how much it sucks to be a woman and how are men are assholes. It's like the 30 something version of The Figgin Golden Girls. “Lord of the Rings” is an epic trilogy about the ultimate battle between good an evil. It was all shot at the same time over the course of a few years in New Zeland. Peter Jackson is nothing short of ...
Agent Kid:
(Interrupting Agent MG)
I rest my case. All I have to do is mention it and you’re off to Middle Earth. Now let’s go.
Agent MG:
Ya, whatever. Let’s just hope someone doesn’t stops us along the way to ask the name of track 4 on Madonna’s 3rd LP.
The agents begin walking down the long dark tunnel. The camera follow behind.
Agent Kid:
Yo! Frodo! Can we stop this for a minute? We have to figure out where the hell we’re going.
PAUSE
Live to tell.
Agent MG:
Live to tell what?
Agent Kid:
Track four. The third Madonna LP? True Blue. It’s "Live to Tell". Which was considered by many her first foray into music as a real artist. She had stripped away the tacky tramp outfits and discovered the fashion...
FADE TO BLACK
END OF SCENE ONE
