Marbell’s weird winter beard would have fit in here better several generations ago, but it’s still not that strange. The bar is called Sportsman’s, and there are deer heads and antlers on the walls to provide a visual aid for new patrons wondering what sport the men prefer. He and Zed have been here for a few hours already. They’re playing pool with some guys from the packing plant, who finished their dayturn shifts at 3.
- So what did you say you do again, Neil?
- I teach English.
- Like high school?
- No, college, actually. At Columbia University in New York.
- New York. That’s big time.
- Ha, I don’t know about big time. It’s a big city, sure.
- I bet anybody who teaches college in New York City knows what they’re talking about.
- That’s not really true.
Marbell motions to the waitress and orders another round of beers. His new friend Andy continues:
- So, English like grammar? Composition?
- No, more like literature.
- What kind?
- Mostly stuff written since World War II.
- Steven King?
Hahaha. Zed has the balls racked. His face is flushed, and his hair is rumpled. The night is still young.
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