Bar Fly

I used to work in a pub in Vancouver that was, you could say, a local watering hole. A peculiar blip on the pristine map of Kitsilano, it is the haunt of a motley crew of warm, generous, welcoming alcoholics, embroiled in each other's lives, some for the last 15 or more years. They worked at low-paying jobs, were adults, many middle-aged, who had to rent houses with others to be able to get by. New people are incorporated into the mass that is the social group there and become part of their self-mythologized history. It was great.

One of the newer regulars, a younger one, in his twenties, had a young son whose name I can't remember for the life of me. In the afternoons when the father had custody of the little boy, he would bring him into the pub and I would give him cranberry juice in a highball glass. He'd prop himself up on the bar and mutter comments about sports that were slightly more coherent than those of the adults.

I wonder what happened to him. I wonder what will happen to him.

Taken on Asahi Pentax ME camera with 50mm lens.