I\u2019ve 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.<\/p>\n
The man with the dog at the end of the bar says he\u2019s a regular. He can spot a tourist from a mile away. When he asks, \u201cWhy San Diego?\u201d I don\u2019t tell him about my older brother, that he was only thirty-five and he shot himself. I don\u2019t mention that, when I look out into the ocean, I don\u2019t feel anything.<\/p>\n
What I say is this: \u201cHave you ever been to Michigan in January?\u201d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
We don\u2019t know each other\u2019s names. Somehow it\u2019s more intimate this way.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did you do, before?\u201d he asks, because we all had a before.<\/p>\n
And I show him my hands, knead the air: the universal symbol of massage.<\/p>\n
\u201cEver give a massage to a big fat dude?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n
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\u2014the therapists, medication. When people heard there had been a suicide in the family, they assumed it was me. We were from a small town.<\/p>\n
Now I\u2019m looking for her\u2014my brother\u2019s ex. She\u2019s somewhere here, in San Diego. She deserves to know. Her son needs to know. Only her number doesn\u2019t work and the apartment is empty. I\u2019ve 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.<\/p>\n
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. \u201cGo into the light,\u201d the bartender says, every time.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet me see that picture again,\u201d 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\u2019m surprised by what I see. Strong arms. Broad shoulders.<\/p>\n
\u201cPretty,\u201d the guy says. \u201cWho\u2019s the dude?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNobody,\u201d I say. \u201cJust some guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLooks like you.\u201d<\/p>\n
There must\u2019ve been something eating at him, even then. Like the something that ate at me.<\/p>\n
Happy hour is almost over. It\u2019s a new crowd. Construction workers. Bright orange shirts and hardhats. Sunscreen and sweat.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve seen her,\u201d a guy in a ski vest says. It\u2019s seventy degrees outside and he\u2019s dressed for a blizzard. His eyes are wild. \u201cHere, in this bar.\u201d<\/p>\n
I doubt this, but I have to follow every lead. \u201cWhen?\u201d I say. \u201cA month ago? Two months?\u201d<\/p>\n
He holds the photo three inches from his face. \u201cMaybe it wasn\u2019t here. Maybe it was somewhere else,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
Supposedly, Friday nights, the dancefloor is packed.<\/p>\n
This is the place to be. Or so says the man with the dog at the end of the bar.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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