Rowing to Russia

by Ryan Effgen

When Kevin walked into the Miller's Pub dowtown, his father was finishing his drink and ordering another. He wore a charcoal grey suit and had a leather briefcase by his side. He looked tired. Though not an old man, Kevin's father came from a generation whose era seemed to have passed—not with the natural progression of time, but with the onset of a rapid, forced future. As a young man next to him flipped open a cell phone, Kevin's father raised a newsprint stained hand to his son.

"You made it." His father slapped his hand on the empty stool beside him. Kevin set down his suitcase and took a seat.

"Of course," Kevin said.

His father was drinking whiskey and soda; Kevin ordered the same. When the lady tending bar checked his ID, she said to Kevin's father, "This is your son?" She looked Kevin over. "Bet your mom is glad to have you back in town."

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