On the first of the year a 75-year-old man cried in my cab when we pulled up to his favorite liquor store and he discovered it closed for the New Year’s holiday. I had picked him up from a house, but the urine stank of the homeless clung to him like ragged fatigues. His leather cap said “Vietnam Veteran.” His foul mood shouted, “chronic pain.” After the closed dram shop I took him to a truck stop that had a bar – truckers need a pop now and then too – and the Da Nang survivor told me he had a beef with the manager. “The cook doesn’t know how to make an egg basted easy,” he said, “I know how to make an egg basted easy. For $20 an hour I’ll teach the cook how to make an egg basted easy.”
