I’ve found the most Midwestern bar in San Diego, just two blocks from the beach. More Midwestern than most bars in the Midwest. Neon Budweiser signs. Peanut shells on the floor. A moose head.
The man with the dog at the end of the bar says he’s a regular. He can spot a tourist from a mile away. When he asks, “Why San Diego?” I don’t tell him about my older brother, that he was only thirty-five and he shot himself. I don’t mention that, when I look out into the ocean, I don’t feel anything.
What I say is this: “Have you ever been to Michigan in January?”
The guy with the dog at the end of the bar orders a hamburger, coke and fries. Throws the burger patty to the dog, eats the fries. The black dog curls up at his feet.
We don’t know each other’s names. Somehow it’s more intimate this way.
“What did you do, before?” he asks, because we all had a before.
And I show him my hands, knead the air: the universal symbol of massage.
“Ever give a massage to a big fat dude?” he asks, which is the most Midwestern thing you can say, even in the most Midwestern bar in San Diego. He describes his pains: torn discs, strained muscles, hardware, but I only half-listen.
My brother had a two-year-old son he had never met, but the door was wide open. When we were younger, I was the one our parents worried about—the therapists, medication. When people heard there had been a suicide in the family, they assumed it was me. We were from a small town.
Now I’m looking for her—my brother’s ex. She’s somewhere here, in San Diego. She deserves to know. Her son needs to know. Only her number doesn’t work and the apartment is empty. I’ve been here for three weeks, beachcombing, staring into the ocean, and all I can think about is how everything in California is so expensive. Groceries, the motel room, gasoline. Even the air.
But this bar. Three-dollar pints. 12 to 6. The windows have blackout blinds. Whenever the door opens, a beam of light cuts through the middle of an empty dance floor. “Go into the light,” the bartender says, every time.
“Let me see that picture again,” the man with the dog at the end of the bar says. I slide off my barstool, a bit unsteady, and catch a look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I’m surprised by what I see. Strong arms. Broad shoulders.
“Pretty,” the guy says. “Who’s the dude?”
“Nobody,” I say. “Just some guy.”
“Looks like you.”
There must’ve been something eating at him, even then. Like the something that ate at me.
Happy hour is almost over. It’s a new crowd. Construction workers. Bright orange shirts and hardhats. Sunscreen and sweat.
“I’ve seen her,” a guy in a ski vest says. It’s seventy degrees outside and he’s dressed for a blizzard. His eyes are wild. “Here, in this bar.”
I doubt this, but I have to follow every lead. “When?” I say. “A month ago? Two months?”
He holds the photo three inches from his face. “Maybe it wasn’t here. Maybe it was somewhere else,” he says.
Supposedly, Friday nights, the dancefloor is packed.
This is the place to be. Or so says the man with the dog at the end of the bar.
