May 7, 2003
In December of that year, about a week before Christmas, mom sent me to Mac’s Bar to fetch my father. I trudged through the winter sting and pushed open the door with my elbows, hands to mouth creating clouds of warmth around my nose and lips and fingers. The bouncer at the door nodded to me in recognition and I headed towards the back of the bar. Halfway to my father’s semi-permanent residence I froze. Atop one of the crimson-leathered stools sat Mr. Calloway staring into a glass containing what looked to be the same beverage my father regularly consumed.