A U.P. Story – Hello Again: Part One

Practically all the townspeople were there. All the seats at the bar were taken, folks two and three deep behind the one lucky enough to score a bar stool. All the tables filled, too, with extra folding chairs brought out from the back. Wet jackets and mittens and muffs hung from every chair and every hook, several coats collapsing on the floor. People wore suspenders to keep their snowpants hitched up, stomped their boots on the wood floor. Puddles of melting snow glimmered in the sparkle from Christmas lights, still hung from the rafters in February. It was Saturday night at the Hanover Bar in Toonlock, Michigan.

            It was probably around eleven when the two-inch thick oak door to the bar was pushed open by two figures so heavily swaddled in winter gear no one could tell if they were two men or two women or some of each. They wore long plaid coats with hoods, knit scarves wound around their necks like bandages, and mittens that looked to have been made by animal hair, maybe that of a dog or a bear. One thing was for sure, those mittens weren’t bought anywhere anyone had ever been.

            The bar went quiet. Chairs scraped the floor as people turned around to watch the unwrapping of the people at the door. It took a while. Each layer of clothing had to find a place to hang so people near the door got up to help, carrying a scarf here, a big mitten there, to a row of hooks in the way back of the bar where empty kegs were stored. It was a helping thing. The town was known for that even though folks could be rough and loud sometimes. If these folks came into the Hanover at eleven o’clock basically covered head to toe in snow, looking like they’d walked from God knows where, well, the townspeople were going to be nice, at least until otherwise indicated.

            “Jesus H. Christ! That can’t be Harold! Harold, God damn. Is that you? And Brenda?” Smokey, the bartender and also the owner of the bar, wiped his hands on the white towel tucked in his waistband and hurried out from behind the bar.

            Harold, still unwrapping, wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve, and smiled the smile Smokey remembered from his wedding when Harold was his best man. The guy gave a hell of a toast, so sweet and full of stories about the two of them bear hunting. They had a couple of coonhounds, pretty boys that barked a lot and they carted around in big cages in the back of Smokey’s truck. They did get a bear once. And it was a mess of a time figuring out what to do with it. Fun, though. Everything about that time was fun. And then Harold just left.

            Theirs was an enormous hug. There was hugging and then standing back and saying, “Wow, look at you!” and then hugging again and patting each other on the back. And there was plenty to look at. Harold’s beard went all the way to his belt, his hair, nearly as long, was gathered in a ponytail and then braided. He looked like he’d never had a haircut in his whole damn life.

            After a bit, the hugging wore out and that’s when Smokey remembered Brenda who was standing off to the side studying her nails like she’d just left a salon and wasn’t quite happy with the result.

“Brenda! There you are!” and Smokey and Brenda hugged but it was a held back hug because Smokey suddenly started to remember how complicated things used to be. The two of them were never on the best footing. Brenda didn’t approve of hunting or Smokey or marriage. Her list of disapprovals was long and detailed. It tired Smokey all over again thinking about it.

Still, he was glad to see them. Overjoyed actually. Well, to see Harold. He was overjoyed to see Harold. Brenda was neither here nor there.

            “Damn, Harold, you know how long it’s been?”

            “About ten years, this time ten years ago is when we took off.” The townspeople in the bar listened for a bit and then went back to their pints and cheeseburgers. Smokey ushered Harold and Brenda to the back of the house where a group had just gotten up to leave. They sat down amidst the empty glasses and last lonely pieces of pizza.

            “You know, we all wondered where the hell you went. You just disappeared. No calls, nothing. I used to drive around looking for you, which was nuts, you know. Around here, you could be anywhere. I figured you took off for Tennessee or Arizona or someplace.” Smokey grabbed a tray from the rack behind him and started to clear the table.

            “We were here the whole time. About ten miles southwest of town off the old Robbins Road. We found a deserted cabin and we just decided to live there.” Harold looked a little sheepish at this, probably saying it out loud for the first time and hearing how screwy it sounded.

            “And what? You never came to town to buy groceries or supplies? No checking in with friends? Hell. You were my best man, man.” Smokey said this in a way that sounded like he loved who he was talking to but wanted to smack him.

            “We made a commitment to live off the land. And, you know, withdraw from society.”

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To be continued