The Cheez-its were gone by the time I got to the border. Friends met me in dark corner, where we ordered pale ales and watched a drunk become belligerent. Beaty eyes sinking behind a half-gray mustache. With crossed arms he stared at the bartender. Fucking cunts! The warning that followed was stern. Soon enough he was escorted out, flailing a bit.
Bobby said it was a good thing. I agreed. He left credits on the jukebox. Bobby played the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and I took long sips. The nostalgia and beer lead to more candor with old friends.
The bill was less than it should have been, by accident or college-town-magic. We watched DVDs until the wee hours of the morning. I should visit more.