An Old Man in a Dive Bar Said Something That Changed How I Lived
A reflection on a dynamic person I never thought I’d be friends with
The Little Club was a strange watering hole in the quieter side of Coronado, Island. It had an unpretentious atmosphere, with a clean mix of regulars you know by name, and newcomers you never saw again. Everyone from 21-year-old stir-crazy sailors to jaded accountants to buzzing bachelorettes stopped by for a drink.
I was younger and wilder at the time, gladly frequenting this bar nearly every weekend. I enjoyed its dimly lit atmosphere and the unassuming, non-judgemental vibe of its patrons and bartenders.
Over the years, I befriended a 79-year-old regular, Richard, who I saw quite often. He usually sat by himself in a corner near one of the pool tables, sipping while staring forward, seeming lost in thought.
He was a short, stocky man, with a wizened white beard, and hands that looked like bricks. He often donned a Navy hat of some sort, which always listed the ship he’d served on, which he seemed as loyal to as the pitcher of beer in front of him.
Initially, I wondered if it was wise for a man of his age to drink that much. But it wasn’t like alcoholics were uncommon in these parts, not that he was one.
