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May 13, 2003
I got back to my feet and tugged again on my father’s arm. He glared at me, checked his watch, glanced at the empty pitchers on the table, mentally calculating whether or not he’d downed enough exhaustion-reducing dark bitterness, and shrugged to his friends. Finally, he snagged his jacket from the rack and staggered to his feet. I followed behind him trying to help him place his arms into their appropriate sleeves. I smiled up at him through the haze after his elbow found my sternum again. My father could be quite the kidder when filled with Bass dark bitterness.