West Lafayette
Jack’s father owned a company that signed
up one summer to wash every window
on the campus of Purdue University.
An August evening, after twelve of us
had been at it long past hope and horse sense,
Jack and I squeegee into a dive called the Hanky
Panky, the Cocky Locky, some idiot handle
that passed with colors the half-wit test
in West Lafayette. I tell Jack there is no way
we can get a beer, not at nineteen, a full deck
plus the jokers shy of experience. Saddling up
on chewed-leather stools, we give the bartender
our best hooded James Deans, which he has
probably never seen before probably. What’ll
it be, gents, he asks. Rolling Rock, says Jack.
Same here, I say, the slow twin. Sure, he says,
if I can just take a lookie-loo at a driver’s nuisance.
So it had to come to this, as I knew it would,
and I mumble to Jack, Let’s beat it. But oh no,
Jackie’s so cool he whips out his baby ID,
and what am I gonna do, I hand mine over like
I'm turning state's evidence. Mr. Bacardi takes
his time. Checks us out, the licenses, us,
the licenses, us, like a border guard in hostile
territory, trained to induce knee-knocking fear
in a triathlete. Ain’t you boys somethin’, he says.
Happy birthday.
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