�See that old dude over there?� And it was fairly obvious which old dude she was referring to, a splash of white hair and a bent back, someone who I hadn�t seen at the Watering Hole before. �He�s annoying the piss out of me�, she continued. �Comes in here every once in a while, chugs beer and shots like he�s twenty years old and then starts in with the war stories. Can�t get him to shut up.�

It was obvious that he annoyed her, the splash of glass hitting water was sending up a fairly impressive surf onto the surface of the bar itself. But she wiped the bar with a towel and a similarly muted �Sorry!� and hurried off to schlep the next round.

With twenty or so people stretched around the big horseshoe bar, and a dozen conversations going at once, it wasn�t difficult for Stu and I to tune out one white haired old-timer. It was the after work anointing that mattered, the sipping of the frosty offerings from the long necked bottles that drew us, and a slightly out of whack citizen was more a matter to be expected than a surprise.

We spun out our hour in the usual way, the daily griping with Chief Mo and the others, the cracking wise with Angie. The ass-grabbing with Cookie, our fond moniker for the short order cook of the place. A brief glance at the overhead TV once in a while to update our daily news and weather. And the usual leisurely stowage of cell phones and keys when 5:30 rolled around and it was time to take our leave.

But Stu nudged me back onto my stool. �Hey, that old lad seems to be having a bit of a time.� Indeed, he was wandering aimlessly around the bar with glass in hand, eyes watering, a slight man with dress slacks clashing with a bright nylon windbreaker. It was Cookie who caught up with him, and took an elbow, and poked a question or two. And proceeded to guide the old-timer into the Men�s Room.

�Oh Jesus�, Angie said on her way past us with a clutch of beer bottles. �That old bird�s gonna go in there and have a stroke or something, I just know it. I�m sure glad it�s Cookie doing it and not me.� Cookie reappeared from the bathroom, paused a minute, started to go back in, thought the better of it and lumbered into the Kitchen instead.

Mo was insistent on buying �his boys� another one and we settled back for one more, so I missed seeing the old guy and his reentry. Again it was Angie, who missed nothing on her shift and kept us abreast of all things bar wise. �God, now he�s passed out in the booth! Why, I ask you why does Walter have to come in here and do this crap?�

Sure enough, the aged one had made it as far as the nearest booth and sat down, put his head on the table and appeared to be having a nice little nap. But if you looked close, you could see the trembling of hands and the fitful way his breathing hitched and hiccuped. Walter�s mind might have been taking a break, but his body wasn�t quite ready to.

There was something a little unsettling about it all. Something wrong about a 70 years plus fellow that had lost control and was left to his own devices in a booth of a bar. And Stu and I said as much as we passed him by, on our way out of the door and home.

It takes a few minutes for two mighty warriors such as Stu and myself to extricate themselves from the Watering Hole, with many waves and hugs and good-byes, to collectively haul our junk and ourselves into the seats of the truck and adjust prodigious bulk into seats. I�d just cranked the motor when the bar door creaked open and Walter reeled out into the afternoon sun.

�Oh no�, I said to Stu. �Look a minute would you? They let that old lad out of the place.� Walter had the classic heel and toe thing going on, weaving in a determined but wholly directionless way down the sidewalk and into the parking lot. There was a bit of a sunny afternoon breeze going on and it tousled his white hair this way and that, and he lifted his head for a second as though the wind was actually hurting him.

There was an immediate consensus. Stu opened his door with a �I�ve got him. I�ll get his keys and drive.�

�Check. I�m right behind ye.�

Stu caught up to Walter and had him by the shoulder, a big man supporting a very small and frail one. They wandered the parking lot in search of Walter�s car, with me trailing discretely behind in the truck. And I don�t know, there was a moment when the two of them were walking squarely into the setting sun, a moment when I realized why the two of us were doing this. Something about the bent of Stu�s head, the not unkind way he was holding onto Walter, the slow steps and the quiet questions.

We were taking Dad home. The one we�d had, and at different times, lost.

There was eventual weaving back into the bar itself, and in a minute or to, Stu reemerged. There wasn�t much emotion going on behind the black sunglasses as he slammed the door and sat there a second.

�Walter okay? What�s up?�

Stu sighed. �Oh, I guess he�ll be fine, he just couldn�t remember what kind of car he drove. Said it was a blue one, but there are twenty freaking blue cars in that lot. So I told Cookie and Angie to hold him and get him a cab, and they fussed a little.� He was grim, and I knew that whatever fussing had gone on did not, under any circumstances, last terribly long with my large Corporate Partner.

�Didn�t want anymore hassle, eh? Jeez, you�d think they might have cut him off a little earlier. Did he have cab fare?�

�He does now. I gave �em a twenty.� And Stu was silent.

There wasn�t much conversation at all on the short ride to Stu�s house. We pulled into his driveway and he pulled out his Thermos and cooler and paused, poked his head back in and said, �See you tomorrow, guy.�

Right. I will indeed.

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