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    There were five men seated at the bar. Each of them wore a flannel shirt, a pair of boots and a baseball cap, though all of different pattern, design, and color. Not one of them appeared to be under the age of fifty, and none had bothered to shave recently.

    Brock Tipton felt out of place. He was a year shy of thirty and dressed in the eccentric attire of an artist. It was clear the moment he walked into the bar that he didn't fit the image of those who patronized the establishment but he didn't really care - all he needed at that time was some peace and quiet, and an ice cold Miller to fill the enormous vacuum of his need.

    He brushed snow from his corduroy jacket and approached the bar, heading toward the far end. It was then he noticed the eerie silence that settled in to smother the babbling voices he heard when striding too boldly in.

    The old guys were staring at him.

    "Need a Miller," he said without looking up as the bartender sauntered over.

    "Bottle or can?"

    "Bottle."

    "Buck seventy-five. Have you a story to tell?"

    Brock looked up, surprised. The bartender was, by all appearances, a very elegant man - quite the opposite of what he had expected. The man was tall - alarmingly so - and preposterously thin. It looked as if an innocent puff of wind might be as threatening to him as a hurricane gale would be to someone of average height and proportion.

    "No story, no beer," the tall, thin man said sadly. He looked out the large front window as he spoke. Snow piled and whispered audibly.

    "Gotta story," Brock said quickly, confused. "Got whatever you need, and here's your buck-fifty."

    "Seventy-five."

    "Huh?"

    "Buck seventy-five," the bartender reiterated patiently. Brock picked up a hint of a foreign accent in his voice, but couldn't pinpoint the ancestry. Could be French, could be Bulgarian, for all he knew. He tossed up another quarter and took the beer and a seat simultaneously. The old guys were still staring. Brock gave them the courtesy of a nod, then took a sip of beer and kicked back in the chair.

    "You look like a disturbed young man," one of the old guys said, his voice a throaty growl. Seven white punctuated letters - OLD FART! - clung to the man's navy blue cap, as if for dear life.

    Brock nodded, read the emblazoned legend again, then looked down once more. Disturbed? If the old guy only knew... His hand stole down to the bulge in his jacket pocket.

    "It's story night," Old Fart explained, rubbing his red, alcohol-battered nose with the back of a hand. "Not used to visitors. The rules are simple. We each tell a story. It has to be true."

    "Of course," the gaunt bartender cut in, "there is no way I can possibly verify the validity and accuracy of your tale, but I'm quite adept at differentiating fact from fiction, truth from lie. Hearsay is forbidden; all stories must be a first-hand account and bonus points are awarded for documentation or evidence."

    "Bonus points?" Brock repeated, more confused. "What is this, a contest or something?"

    "You got it, young man!" Old Fart affirmed. He shoved his empty glass forward and the bartender promptly replaced it with a full one.

    "Points, indeed," the bartender continued. "I'm the judge and arbiter; I alone weigh the merits of the story and I alone decide the winner."

    "The prize?"

    "The prize, young man, that is a secret thing. It changes weekly and let it suffice to say that I alone am privy to the reward."

    "Let's just say it's well worth your time," Old Fart offered. His glass was already half empty. Brock wondered if any of the other men could talk. They didn't even appear to be paying attention.

    "You in?" The bartender looked directly at him as he spoke, and Brock shivered uncontrollably as if the tall thin man with the mysterious accent had somehow unlocked all his inner secrets with that single second of visual contact. He glimpsed something dark, something utterly mysterious in the tall man's eyes, then realized it might have been nothing more than an unwavering reflection of his own emptiness, his personal pain.

    He turned away, sipped his beer, then nodded, hoping they'd tell their little stories and leave him be. He was too aware of the bulge in his coat pocket, that source of his inner turmoil, and he did his best to concentrate on the beer, nothing else. Some music would be nice, but the jukebox over yonder was dumb; its tales of loves lost and songs of unrequited passion were for the time being inanimate within its silicon heart and soldered arteries. Brock would have given ten dollars on the spot to hear Neil Young sing about the powder and the finger, but realized he would probably break etiquette by ambling over to check the selection. It wouldn't do any good to interrupt the old geezers' story night and get himself thrown back out into the bitter wind and snow.

    He realized that Old Fart had been talking all along and he listened long enough to realize the guy was telling his story. From what he could tell, it was a disjointed tale about an affair he had long ago with a friend's wife. The tale rambled on like a mile-long train. He talked about how he'd always admired her with a passion equal to or greater than his love of fishing, and then he jumped rails to talk about a lunker bass he landed in Wenatchee back in '43 or '44 - he couldn't remember which. He then recalled catching a thirty pound channel catfish in '48 which smelled godawful once gutted, and Brock tuned himself out when the old man began equating the smell of the fish to a certain part of his best friend's wife's anatomy. He didn't want to think about that smell, for it brought forth awareness of that lump in his pocket and all its associated pain. The old man rambled on and his buddies guffawed from time to time and poked one another with their elbows, but Brock continued on with his beer, his private pain, and not much else.

    He thought about his work. Freelancing as an artist was rough, but it was all he could do to support his family. He thought then of his wife, and almost decided to get up and call her. His thoughts drifted to his son, and Brock desperately wished they could spend more time together. His thoughts followed different paths and wandered down unrelated avenues, but always converged to slam into the weight in his pocket. It wasn't much weight, really, but it felt like a hundred pounds.

    An ancient color television rested on a suspended platform beneath the tobacco-yellowed ceiling panels to his left. The sound was turned down and the old men ignored it like they did the jukebox and the two pool tables against the far wall. Brock was glad for that; his own face flashed over the television screen and held for a moment or so before some bikini-clad bimbo pitching sweating beers washed him away. It surprised him to see the bulletins televised so soon, but he knew that it was inevitable, only a matter of time.

    The old guy to the left of Old Fart was telling a story now; his was a bit more coherent and had to do with the time he swapped the straight-6 from his Toyota Landcruiser for a Chevy 350. It was a rather boring story to Brock; he never had been interested in automotive mechanics. A clean, sterile art studio was infinitely preferable over a greasy, oily engine pit. The old chap claimed to have massive scars to uphold his story and Brock wondered why he didn't show them.

    The next story came from the man to Brock's immediate right. This man told a fanciful tale of a young muchacha he picked up in a Juarez, Mexico bar in 1980. His account was obviously fantastical, fictional, and wishful, especially the sexual part where (he claimed) she let him do it "here, here, and way down here over and over again" until (he further claimed) the policia forced them apart with a pry rod and incarcerated him in a dungy, roach-infested concrete room deep in the bowels of... His tale went on and on, and Brock tuned out once again when the man claimed to have sex in the bandelero prison with the young muchacha's little sister, for crying out loud.

    Brock looked up and was surprised to see a full beer breathing on the counter before him. He became acutely aware that all the men were staring at him, and guessed that it must be his turn.

    Brock Tipton had no idea what to say. He saw his picture flash over the television set once again, but all the men were focused on him and didn't notice. Brock wanted so much to ask the bartender to turn the television off, but he knew that doing so might only bring more attention to himself. Changing channels wouldn't even work; he was certain that his face would be shown on every network station far into the next week.

    "You have a story, I presume?"

    "Sure," Brock replied, looking up at the bartender. There was no humor or warmth in that face now. He took a long drink from his beer. "I'll think of one."

    "If this is new to you," the bartender suggested, wiping down the counter, "I might suggest that you just start with the facts of your day. A story will evolve. What did you do today, might I ask?"

    "I spent the day at the hospital," Brock answered quickly, "with my wife and my son. In fact, I just left there because I needed a drink. So, if you don't mind, I'll just be on my way."

    "Not so fast, young man," the bartender said firmly, reaching out an arm to restrain him. Brock was aware that several of the other men had left their stools and moved in behind him. "No one comes in here and drinks for free. Like I told you when you came in, you must leave us with a story. Besides, you may win, and the prize is handsome, well worth your investment of time.

    "So, how shall you begin? At the hospital?"

    Brock slid back onto his seat, wondering how he had gotten himself into this predicament. It was very obvious they were not going to let him leave. And, there was the issue of the prize. The bartender indicated several times that it was a substantial prize. If it were a large wad of money, Brock could sure use it. If it were something else of value, he'd be able to sell it, and pay off some of his enormous bills. He mentally framed his next few sentences.

    "I spent my day in the hospital," he started, looking at each of the men, one by one. He had their undivided attention. That was good. It would be key to winning the big prize if he could come up with a story that would hold their interest.

    "My wife was pregnant, and we have been so excited these past few months. You see, gentlemen, I was told by my doctor five years ago that I would never be able to have children; my sperm count was much too low. But, regardless, my wife and I managed to conceive a child. I'll always remember my excitement at the news. Imagine that, a child of my own. A boy, even!"

    The wind outside heightened in crescendo, and snow continued to pile against the windows. The bar was quiet, conducive to good storytelling. The bartender slipped one of the old men a fresh beer and the power flickered alarmingly before Brock continued with his story.

    "I'll never forget the day my wife came home with news of the death of my son," he said quietly, taking a sip of the beer. "It was only yesterday, but I know I'll carry that memory to the grave, and probably beyond. I looked out the window as she pulled into the driveway, and I could tell she was upset. She was returning from her scheduled doctor appointment, and I knew right away that something was wrong. Don't ask me how I knew that, I couldn't tell you, but I could see it all over her face. I ran outside, and that's when...that's when she said that the baby was d-dead."

    He paused, and the bartender refilled his beer. Brock glanced at the tall man, looking for some reaction to the story, but the man's face was blank, unreadable. He could hear the other men breathing, and one glance in their direction confirmed that he still had their attention. Good, because the best was yet to come. The prize would be his, and his alone.

    "My son died at twenty-eight weeks. He was developed to the point that my wife had to undergo a full labor and delivery, just as if she were delivering a healthy, vibrant baby."

    He paused to catch his breath and take another drink, and then the words poured out, as if released by the breaking of some internal levee.

    "It was horrible, it was grotesque, it was sadistic. It was all a charade. They, they made us stop and fill out p-p-paperwork. Paperwork, for God's sake, like we were there for a routine procedure, a routine childbirth. I wanted so much to ... to ..."

    The power flickered again, but Brock paid it no notice. He jumped from the bar stool to pace the floor like a caged tiger. The old men continued to sit and drink, not bothering to turn and watch. By this point, Brock really didn't care if he had their attention or not. If it was a story they wanted, it was a story they were getting, like it or not.

    "They prepped her," he shrieked, slamming an open palm to a table. "They prepared her for childbirth. They gave her an epidural and brought in drugs. They told her to focus on a kiddie picture on the wall, and that everything would be okay. They ... they even had the gall to ask us if we would like a photograph of the baby after delivery. The nurse smiled and said that it was common, and that it might help deal with the reality of the situation. She...she had chocolate on her breath."

    Brock pivoted on his right heel and approached the bar, his nostrils flaring. "The only reality I faced then," he said, to the men who ignored him, "was that my...my son...was...dead!"

    "Have a drink," the bartender suggested, a sympathetic smile on his face. He pushed a full glass over the counter and Brock took it with obvious gratitude. "Fascinating story, young man. Is there more?"

    "I got to see my son, my only son," Brock said at last, after a long moment of contemplative silence. "He...he looked just like me. He had my nose, my eyes. But he was dark red, almost purple. His eyes were forever shut, his lungs and chest forever still. He...he had perfect eyebrows and perfect fingers, perfect toes and perfect little fingernails. I'll never forget the sight of those beautifully sculptured fingernails on his tiny perfect, but very dead, body. It...it was so r-r-ridiculous, so unf-f-fair.

    "I couldn't take it any more," he continued, tears in his eyes. His voice was little more than a high-pitched whine now. "What would you have done? Huh? You tell me. There was my own son, my only son, dead on a blanket on a table by the bed, lying in the shadow of a huge vase overstuffed with flowers."

    Brock stood through an interminable silence, awaiting a reply that never came. The old men sat and drank, so he took a seat at the bar again, obviously tired and emotionally drained. The bartender wiped down the counter, his brow furrowed into a frown. One of the old men cleared his throat at the end of the bar, and the rest followed suite. No one had anything to say.

    "It's a tie," the bartender said flatly, after so much time passed that Brock almost forgot what they were all waiting for. "Yours was an incredible tale, young man, full of energy, full of passion, very sincere. I am glad you decided to participate and you are welcome back at any time. But, in all fairness, I must call it a tie between your story of your lost son and Roger's account of his activities in Juarez, Mexico. Both stories were believable and both were sincere, so much so that I am having a devil of a time deciding which one of you takes the prize. Contest rules stipulate that the prize can not be split and shared; it must be awarded to a single recipient. It is a handsome prize and this policy ensures competition.

    "So," he continued, removing his spectacles and polishing them absently, "there will have to be a tie-breaker. Both of you will be given this chance to add a bit to your story, clarify some element of your story, or in some other way impress me that you deserve to win this substantial prize.

    "Roger?"

    The old man at the bar shrugged his shoulders and cleared his throat, then shook his head slowly. "I don't think I can beat this young man's story," he said quietly, almost reverently. "I'll concede. If I'm allowed to, that is."

    "Well, then," the bartender said, turning toward Brock, "I suppose that - "

    He stopped in mid-sentence, noticing that Brock had left his seat to pace the floor wildly.

    "They explained that Washington state law requires a funeral in cases of fetal death after twenty weeks, and they offered to call a priest," Brock hissed, interrupting the bartender. He spat the words out like stale peanuts. "They...they wanted action, decisions. They wanted us to hurry, to not delay. They wanted to take him from me and call a funeral home. They wanted to notify the coroner. They wanted to take my son from me only minutes after his delivery. They wanted to put him somewhere where I would never see him again."

    "You don't need to continue," the bartender said compassionately, reaching over the bar to touch Brock on the shoulder. "There's no need to torture - "

    "See here my son!" Brock shrieked, pulling away from the touch. "See here what they wanted to take from me!"

    He reached into the pocket and removed the weight, which was dark red, nine inches in length and very dead. With the care of a father tucking in his child, he spread a napkin on the counter and placed the fetus upon it, hovering over it protectively. Its tiny hand was stuck to its tiny cheek, and he removed it gingerly, careful not to tear the skin.

    "My son," he said, addressing the shocked group of men, "I want you to meet my son, flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone. See here his perfect eyes, his perfect nose, his perfect little fingernails. He will always be mine. They will never take him from me. Never!"

    "You win," the bartender said at last, reaching over the bar to clap Brock on the shoulder. "There is no doubt now, you are definitely the winner. This is the first time that a newcomer has taken such a prize on his first visit. We hope we'll be seeing you again."

    "Thank you," Brock said quietly, wrapping the napkin around the baby. "Thank you very much. My son, gentlemen, my son. I'll accept the prize on his behalf. I'll open a trust fund for him, that's what I will do."

    "Farewell," the bartender said, handing Brock his prize as he walked him to the door. "Do take care of your little family, and do come visit us again. We are here every Thursday night."

    Brock stepped out into the frigid night, into the falling snow. The weight in his pocket was comforting. In his other pocket, he felt the crisp ten dollar bill the bartender handed him as a prize.

    He whistled a merry tune while ducking from shadow to shadow. He'd never won anything before in his entire life.

    Brock Tipton had never been happier. Finally, at long last, he was a winner.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was begun the day after my wife was admitted to Harrison Hospital in Bremerton, WA, where our son was stillborn in April of 1992. After that tremendously painful ordeal, I slipped across the street to get away from it all for a bit; to collect my thoughts and unwind. I walked into a Bremerton bar and ordered a beer. While there, I found this story. Or, perhaps, it found me.

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