Fisher looked around the empty bar. “Art’s not here?” Mike swiped the bar rag on the counter and put his mug down on a coaster.
“Nope.” He turned and started to walk back to a couple at the other end of the bar. Fisher called him back.
“Hey, wait a sec; I thought he owned the bar. What happened? I mean, I’ve been gone only six months tops...” He raised his mug and his eyebrows.
Mike turned his head, held up two fingers, and then continued to the taps at the middle of the counter. Fisher grunted and chugged half his beer. What the fuck, Art always had time to talk. He was in no rush. He nursed the rest of the beer along for another 10 minutes. He raised the empty mug and signaled. Mike nodded and quickly brought back another mug.
“Sorry, that couple was waiting.”
“Not a problem. So, about Art? What happened?”
“Art died at the beginning of the winter. Started coughing one day. Hacked away for a week. Finally goes in, and they find he has lung cancer. Not surprising. He smoked like a chimney. Died a month later.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t know. Here, I know he liked his Irish whiskey. Let me buy us a round and we can drink to his memory.”
“Not a problem. Give me a minute, and I’ll bring back a bottle of Jameson’s. That’s what he drank.” Mike went back down the bar and greeted a newcomer. He flipped the large-screen TV to the local baseball game. He came back with the bottle and poured two shots.
Stay on top of the news of the day
Subscribe to our free, daily e-newsletter to get Milwaukee's latest local news, restaurants, music, arts and entertainment and events delivered right to your inbox every weekday, plus a bonus Week in Review email on Saturdays.
“To Art!” They raised their glasses and Mike turned to the TV screen, repeated, “To Art,” and then threw down the shot. Fisher indicated he should pour again. They raised their glasses together; avoided clinking, “To Art.”
Mike volunteered to get a fresh tap for Fisher, “My treat. Art would want you to wash that down proper-like.” The bar got busy. It’s a while before Mike comes back with the beer.
“I’ll catch you when things slow down. Crazy night.” The bar slowly emptied before the seventh inning stretch. Mike came back and stopped in front of Fisher.
“You doing OK?”
“Another beer wouldn’t hurt. Got to leave off the whiskey though; I work tomorrow.” Mike returned quickly with the beer. The mugs went up.
“Been thinking. You turned with that first shot and raised it to the game. Any reason?”
“Ever been here when a game was on and Art was around? You could say he was a solid fan. Game on the screen, come seventh inning stretch, he’d bang a shot glass on the bar, fill it with Jameson, raise it, and toss it down. Then he’d let out a loud ‘Arggh!’ Always tried to get to the opening game.”
“Yeah, I remember now. Came in for a couple of games on purpose to testify to such righteous enthusiasm. Sad he’s missing this season.” Mike chuckled and leaned over the bar.
“Not so. Let you in on a little secret. Art was cremated, you see. The vase with his ashes stood next to the register the rest of the winter. Before the team comes back from spring training, they offer all these tours of the stadium. Me and the guys, we get together. Decide what we’d do. Art was always bitching the umpires couldn’t see the foul markers in right field if their asses depended on it.
“So, we do the tour over at Miller Park. But first, we cut holes in our pockets, tie them off with a slipknot on a string, and pour in Art’s ashes. We get to walk out towards the wall in right field and just keep walking, pulling the string. Art’s scattered out there with a better view of the pole than those umpires have. He’s calling it now from wherever he is.”
Fisher smiled. “Pretty nice; he’s there for opening day until the next time they have to sod the field. Bet he’s making righteous calls for shots in right field like he did here.” He chugs the rest of his beer and puts two 20s under his mug. “Thanks. I’m all in. Got to go.”
