You were always talking about Duluth, Minnesota. Said there were more millionaires there than any city per capita in the world. All these rich folks freezing their asses off, he laughed. They could live anywhere. But they chose Duluth, he rolled a cigarette. They could go to California or Florida somewhere warm, maybe South Carolina or Georgia, he paused and took a drink of whiskey. And they stay in a cold environment. Bunch of Vikings. Crazies, he swiveled in his chair. I’ve heard the women up there are real pretty. Blonde and blue-eyed, his friend said. And in shape. They’re all in shape. Like Playboy bunnies without the tans.

Oh no, the old man said. They have tans, took another shot, and motioned to the bartender for a beer. In the winter, they ski in bikinis. Right down the mountainside wearing string bikinis. The sun glistens on their skin, he smiled.

You sure about that?

I read it on the internet.

So, you’ve never been there.

No. No, I have not. But in my mind, I have. I’ve been to Albuquerque, too.

In your mind?

Yes. In my mind.

You’ve never been anywhere, he said. Just stayed on this barstool all your life.

I’ve been to Decatur. They got a restaurant there that serves all the fish you wish. Fried Lake Perch. With hush puppies.

I know that place. Everyone knows that place. It’s only one town over.

Yeah. I know.

Why are you always talking about Duluth?

Just seems nice. In my head, it seems nice. Not many blacks in Duluth, he sat back and watched the television in the corner. Looked up, and Burt Reynolds was on Carson. The sound was on mute. A Bob Seeger song came on the jukebox. Not many Jews either, the old man said. Actually, I’m guessing about the Jews. But the statistics show less than two percent black. Mostly white. Lutheran even. Can you imagine?

No, Adolf. I can’t. Duluth, Minnesota, huh.

Yep. I’ll go there one of these days. I’ll go.