These men, among an increasing number of their decreasing generation, the men ten years or so older than I, seem to select me from among a crowd to vent, in Baltimore, Portland, Pittsburgh, San Jose. This has happened often on the trains, and now on the buses. Venting by older men to me goes all the way back to about 2000, when, at the Fort Charles Pub, a man whose story I wrote as A Ghost of Patton’s Army in the book Chinks in the Machine, sought my ear.

Once I had conducted hundreds of interviews for the Violence Project, I somehow began to exude “good listener” and men simply began telling me their story, men of all races and ages, but more so the older they were. I am not proud of this sidekick sounding board identity that crept upon my person through writing and research. But, here I am, on a bar stool with old fellows drawn to tell their story to me. Part of it, now, is that people know I travel. Men at the Raven Inn have seen me there on occasion since 2016, and they have slotted me as a visiting traveler. The fact that I am not a resident of their locale and that I seem “from” there seems to make of my form a more appealing ear for the person addressing themselves to an uncaring world.

Jim, I have met thrice at the Raven Inn now, this trip back into town. I will start with Jim first. He is a big man on the bar stool, only two of the hosses there being bigger. His white beard is trimmed close, his soft white hair falling barely to his shoulders under his ball cap. He drinks half pitchers of Yeungling beer poured into a small mug. This place is the psychological hospice center for Baynesville, Baltimore County.

“I like this bar, a family bar, a friendly bar, like the bars used to be in the city. I was Northeast Ballmore, born en raised. Grew up down by Good Sam [Samaritan hospital]. Got run out—you know how it goes, always the same, a

nice place, good people, then the crime comes, like it was sent.

“Got a job in construction, worked construction my whole life. Retired, sixty-eight years on this planet and I don’t like what it’s turned into. Lived on White Avenue, a block from Harford Road: Hamilton Tavern [now closed], the Wilkens House [now Brennens, a black bar where they won’t serve me], Shamrock—was a brother and sister owned that, Holiday House [now closed] next to the Hell Bent for Leather shop [closed, I still have the doeskin knife fighting gloves Dave made me]. The Holiday House was a biker bar, but a neighborhood bar too. The Chosen Sons used to hang there. Only had trouble with them once. I was playing pool. My girl was sitting at the bar. This Chosen Son started asking her out and she said, ‘No, I’m with him.’ He kept it up. So I went over to him and said, ‘Look, she told you she was with me. You should let her go. We squashed it—he backed off, a test I guess.

Only time I got in fights was over pool. Once, this guy jumps my quarter. The fight was over a quarter. You know how it used to cost a quarter, now seventy-five cents. I say, hey, you jumped my quarter. We aren’t even playing for money. He says, ‘No I didn’t you jump your quarter. So we put up the dukes and start fighting. Mack, the owner, he comes over, breaks us up and says, ‘You, that end of the bar! You this end of the bar. Anymore fightin’ in my bar and you’re out!’

“That was it: threaten the beer and we were cool.

“Once, after a pool game, we’re in the parking lot behind the bar, having a fight, juts me and another guy. Police rolls up and says, ‘Hey, you are disturbing the peace—drunk and disorderly.’

“He takes us to court. A night court, a small jailhouse and court down there by Argonne Drive—long time ago. Not there any more. The Judge has me up there on bail review and the police says, ‘Your Honor, he only has so much money in his wallet.’

“How much?’ says the Judge.

“The police brings my wallet to the judge and he sorts through it. He says, “I’m leaving you twenty-five dollars. I am keeping the rest for your bail. If you get into another fight, before the six months of your probation before judgment is up, you are staying in my jail.”

“Yes, Your Honor,’ I say.

“The police, who was a nice enough fella, who we did not dare sass. Baltimore City Cops, back then, when they were allowed to do their job, oh, you, did, not, mess with them!

“I ask, “Are you dropping me off?”

“He laughs and says, “There is a bus stop right there, across the street. Use it.”

“It’s not fighting any more out there, is shooting, stabbing, stomping, many on one. There’s no longer a place for these [shows fists]. I don’t like what the world has become. The kids don’t want to work. The immigrants are taking all the jobs. The politicians are giving away the store.

“How much more?

“I have my one vote—that’s it, and I wonder if it matters. I don’t know where it all goes—maybe somebody does, and I wonder if they can bring themselves to look in the mirror in the morning. But I don’t like the way it feels, the world has become bad. I wake up after sixty-eight years, forty-five of it working, and I’m in a bad place.

“We have beer. The beer is good. The people in here have fun poking jokes at each other. But they look out for each other. Sean [the barkeep] cuts Erik off and doesn’t let him stagger home too drunk.

[Seems to be stricken with an epiphany.]

“You know, seeing you and your friend their [nods to Mescaline Franklin], you know, he has a presence, you have a presence, like you’ve been where this world is headed…”

Mescaline nods and mumbles, “Yeah, fuck New York! Fuck this World!! And yeah, the beer is good, the slave drink of Civilization, the Liquid Goddess!”

We salute with our mugs, three old mugs in a row, like reverse Norns, and Jim says, “This is truly a watering hole,” looking around the bar, then nods out to the dark boulevard, “and the game warden doesn’t care what happens out there.”