The man is a phantom now, a blurry memory of beard and brawn barely visible after sleep deprivation, two beers and the passage of eight months mostly banished him to the subconscious.
I only remember his name was Dan.
The bar is more memorable since it’s now a personal staple. Open doors. Wood panel walls. Barstools beside an “Attack From Mars” pinball machine and a shelf of vintage figurines like E.T. and the Pillsbury Doughboy. The sort of people who host karaoke on a bartender’s birthday and will heat up a frozen pizza for you after the kitchen closes if you ask nicely.
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Fishtown, some might say. Port Richmond, others. Another neighborhood
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