When Jack finally stepped out of the bar, the silence of the November night hit him like a physical weight. The crisp air cleared the smoke from his lungs. He walked to his car, brushed the snow off the windshield with his sleeve, and sat in the driver's seat. He looked at the tuxedo bag in the back.
Jack sat in the center of a semi-circle of mismatched vinyl chairs, a pitcher of lukewarm Miller High Life sweating on the table before him. He was twenty-two, his tuxedo rental still in its plastic bag in the trunk of his Chevy, and his stomach was a cold knot of nerves. Tomorrow he’d marry Clara, but tonight belonged to the men of the assembly plant. Stag November 1980
"You okay, kid?" his father asked, leaning in. His breath smelled of peppermint and whiskey. "Just thinking about tomorrow," Jack lied. When Jack finally stepped out of the bar,
"Don't think," his father grunted, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Just show up. That’s ninety percent of the job. In the plant, and in the house." He looked at the tuxedo bag in the back
The night blurred into a series of toasts and progressively louder stories about hunting trips and high school football. By midnight, the snow outside had turned into a steady fall, blanketing the rows of parked domestic cars in white.
The room erupted in a chorus of jeers and whistles. A jukebox in the corner was fighting a losing battle against the noise, wheezing out Blondie’s Call Me . The décor was strictly wood-paneled walls and deer heads that looked like they had seen too many Saturday nights.