J. Patrick Lewis

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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