Although it's common for old folks to reminisce, it's rare for Old John to talk about his wartime experiences. He only brings them up occasionally, and only when he's in an exceptionally good mood.
When he does talk, he never expects a response. Maybe it's because he's spent most of his life alone and is used to keeping himself entertained. He'll go on about the heroes he met during the war, how many fascists they defeated, and who they managed to save. He also shares how he met his wife during those hard times and how they eventually married after the war.
He speaks about the good things she did, the small joys of living with her, and the memories that linger. In those moments, all Henry needs to do is be a quiet, patient listener. There's no need for the usual "And then what?" Just silence and attention will do.
Of course, that particular evening, Henry was mostly busy eating. After he finished his meal, he got to work. Then, after working, he went back to eating.
Old John, warmed by alcohol, kept talking. It was as though he was dreaming out loud, his memories flashing by like scenes from an old film.
By the time the old man finally dozed off, it was already after seven in the morning. But during this time of year in Alaska, dawn hadn't broken yet. The house remained dim, lit only by the soft glow of lamps.
Once Old John was safely tucked into bed, Henry cleaned up the kitchen and began tidying the bar. Even though Old John usually cleaned up after closing, dust seemed to reappear overnight, settling quietly on every surface.
Henry wiped down everything, getting rid of those small annoyances, and repaired a few things that were nearly falling apart. Unlike Old John—who preferred to wait until things were completely broken—Henry believed in maintenance. Keeping things in decent condition extended their lifespan.
Old John didn't necessarily ignore repairs on purpose. Age and declining strength meant he couldn't manage everything the way a younger man like Henry could.
Once the cleaning and repairs were done, Henry turned the sign on the door to "OPEN"—more of a formality than anything. After all, anyone who dared show up to drink during the day would be met with Old John's signature brand of passionate ridicule:
"Only hooligans and worthless trash drink during the day. Even a dung beetle knows to work or have fun in daylight. You're pathetic if you're drinking now—your dad would be ashamed."
"I only serve drinks during the day if your wife ran off with someone else or is currently sleeping with someone else. That pitiful? Then fine. Otherwise, get lost and find a proper job."
"What kind of fool drinks during the day? Oh, it's you. No wonder. The only work you can do is the kind a dog could manage. Don't blame the world when you lose your job. And don't even think about credit."
In short, the living residents of the town had been trained by Old John not to show up during the day unless it was something important.
So, once the place was spotless, Henry flipped to the classic movie channel, sat in the sunniest spot near the window, and basked in its warmth while watching old films.
Comfortable.
Then the door opened, and a blast of freezing air whooshed in. The temperature dropped so fast it made Henry shiver.
Curious who'd be bold enough to enter during the day, he looked up—and spotted a burly, middle-aged man with a beer belly, dressed in a police uniform.
It was the town's sheriff.
Some of the harsh things Old John might say would definitely get Henry shot if he dared repeat them to the sheriff. So, he played it smart.
"Morning, Sheriff," Henry greeted him, moving behind the bar. "What can I get you?"
"Just water, Henry," the sheriff said, wandering about the bar, eyeing the surroundings.
"Coming right up, Sheriff." The bar offered lemonade as complimentary water, usually for rinsing. Henry poured a glass and handed it over.
"Henry, I heard you went out to sea. When did you get back?"
"I'm not sure how long I was out, but I returned to port on the 16th and got back that same day."
"Today's the 18th. You slept more than a full day."
"Good thing it was only a little over a day. I didn't lose much time," Henry joked.
"Where's Old John? He should be up by now. Haven't seen him."
"I woke up at dawn, and I think I disturbed him. He chatted for a bit, and now he's catching up on sleep in the back. Want me to wake him?"
"No need." The sheriff walked toward the room behind the bar. "Mind if I take a look?"
Henry just gestured politely—'go ahead.' Not that he had a choice.
The sheriff carefully opened the door. Just then, Old John turned over and let out a loud, lingering fart directly in the sheriff's direction.
Slamming the door shut, the sheriff cursed. "F*ck, that old fart!"
Henry shrugged helplessly. There was no stopping something like that.
Returning to the front of the bar, the sheriff pointed outside at a Cadillac parked by the window. "Is that your car?"
"Yeah, I bought it from Old Tom. He let me take it first—the paperwork's still processing."
"Tom? Which Tom?"
"Tom from Old Tom's Manpower Agency and Consulting, down south."
"Oh, that Tom. I knew that car looked familiar." The sheriff scratched his head and continued, "Remind me, whose boat were you on?"
"Old George's boat—Annie II. The Pole introduced me."
"Ah, Old George's boat. Crab fishing, huh? That's no joke. I went out to the Bering Sea when I was young—never forgot it."
Talking about it brought out a few complaints from Henry. "Yeah, the boat rocks non-stop. Before I left, I was wondering why they didn't arrange more rest periods to keep us fresh. Then I realized—there's no sleeping well at sea. Everyone just wants to get the job done fast and get back to port. Saying it's hard or dangerous? That's an understatement."
"Exactly!" the sheriff laughed. "Same thing happened to me."
He paused and asked, "I heard you've been talking about going to Hollywood?"
Henry's eyes lit up. "Yeah. You been there?"
"Back in my youth, I dreamed of that red couch in Hollywood—with all the starlets at my command."
"Did it work out?"
"That place is cutthroat. Even getting a job sweeping floors means competing with ten others. Forget the red couch—I couldn't even find a couch to sleep on. So, I came home."
"Sounds like I should do a few more crab trips this season," Henry grinned. "I'm not chasing stardom. Just want to see the sights."
"Then you better save up," the sheriff chuckled, finishing his water and standing up. "Patrol time. If anything comes up, you've got my number."
"Will do, Sheriff." Henry walked him out.
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