RETURN TO "THE PUMP"

The offer was simply too good to pass up;

"Bill, this is Bob", the voice on the phone said, "I'm going up to the Pump for a beer but I gotta stop at Foster's Market first. Wanna go?" My wife and I were sceduled to go out for dinner soon on this friday late afternoon but god love her, I received Eileen's blessing for our little adventure. Five minutes later, Bob's beat up old brown Buick rolled up to the house.

Another fifteen minutes, a small bunch of bananas, a can of hot-dog sauce (I had no idea they even made such a thing) and a losing $1 lottery ticket later, the two of us entered the bar's dimly lit interior. Knowing Eileen was going to be picking me up for the aforementioned dinner date, I quickly ordered two cold drafts for Bob and I. Might as well make the most of our drinking time, right?

As usual, it never ceases to amaze me how fast an hour can go. Bob seemed to know pretty much everyone in the place. There were several young kids who had gone to school with his daughter, people he knew from his working life and half a dozen other characters happily sipping their beers and puffing contentedly on their cigarettes. Somewhere between Bob telling me one of his hilarious Viet Nam stories and studying the bar's patrons, I noticed a tall, well dressed stranger set himself easily down at the end of the counter.

"Man, I'm glad the Pump was on my way to the cottage" he declared, "That construction on M-31's a killer!"

The stranger, Bob and I laughed about the seemingly endless construction on the areas local roads and it wasn't long before my curiosity got the better of me and I began asking questions, starting with what his name was and where he was headed. Something about the man seemed a bit too refined for the usual clientele I normally met in the Pump.

His name was "Rick", he was on his way to a cottage his dad owned to the north and he was coming from of all places, Chicago. Several exchanges later, Rick knew that Bob and I were retired and that we had all gone to parochial school in the Detroit area. All of us had some good nun and priest stories to tell.

As it turned out, Rick wasn't as much out of place in the Pump as I had originally thought. Even though he was impeccably dressed, had perfectly styled hair and wonder of all wonders...was a bureau chief for a national newspaper, Rick had something in common with all of us; a deep appreciation for a cold beer and a love of good conversation. The kind of things you'll find in a swell place like the Town Pump Saloon.

One of the benefits of asking lots of personal questions is that you get to know someone pretty well in the space of an hour. All too soon, Rick was rising up off his black vinyl barstool and heading out for the cottage. Not before he made the kind and gracious gesture of buying his two new friends another beer however. A good man indeed.

It wasn't long before my beautiful wife arrived and we made our own way out the front door and across the busy street for dinner at The Food Factory. Later on that evening, full of delicious fish sandwiches, potato chips and suds, I looked back with great satisfaction on my busy afternoon. In my mind I wondered if Rick might somehow, someday be thinking about writing about the two grizzled old retirees he happened to meet in a small town Michigan bar.

Mostly, I wondered if he will ever, ever know that even now-I am writing about him.