Half a glass of whiskey. One cube of ice. He sips at it. Let’s the liquor roll around in his mouth. He tastes it on his lips.

People yell and scream at the television in the corner of the bar. The White Sox are on, and they’re losing. What else is new.

He orders a small beer back to go with the Wild Turkey; an Old Style on tap. He drinks the beer after each swig of whiskey. Cleanses the pallet, you might say.

The barkeep washes glasses and turns up the jukebox. Johnny Cash is singing Rusty Cage. He’s not sure whose version he likes better; Cash or Cornell. He sings along. Waiting to pour another drink. More yelling at the Southsiders from the Southsiders. Sox lose 9-1. The bartender shakes his head while the old man finishes his whiskey and beer.

They’ll win one of these days, Charlie, the old man says. But, until that time, I’ll have another round.

You got it, Charlie says.

I got nothing.