Five springs ago I traveled north with Kilmer on the weekend in a U-haul filled with antiques. The beautiful blonde had triple-digited on the speedometer on the Interstate.

As a lifelong criminal I was uncomfortable with exceeding the limit and when we reached Greenwich, New York, I asked to be let out of the Ford SUV.

“I want to walk back to Middle Falls?

“Call me when you are close to home.”

I got out at the Batten Kill River and she drove away burning rubber. My friend liked driving fast. I stood the curb, happy to not be moving at all. Small flowers sprouted from the grass. I walked to a railroad bridge rusted by the season of disuse and the river flowed over the old mill dam.

I proceeded into the quiet town past the post office and closed stores. Main Street was in ruins and I searched for a bar. There were none.

I stopped to snap a photo of a Civil War statue. The soldier faced south. Ever vigilant against the South. I strolled on the sidewalk. This side of town was better off than the mill side. Several houses had been refuges for escaped slaves fleeing to Canada. There were no blacks in Greenwich now. No Mexicans too. But the few other pedestrians looked like junkies or meth freaks.

Everyone else was in a SUV or pick-up truck. At least none sported a Confederate flag.

The commercial section of town had expanded since my last visit. Tech firms were opening in Saratoga. Property prices soared for old milk farms. Gleaming tractors crowded the parking lot of the farm equipment dealer and brand new trucks shone in the car lot. A lot had changed, but the Green Acres Tavern remained a faithful destination for early afternoon drinkers. I texted Malinda to meet me there and entered the bar. One man sat at the bar. The TV was on a sports channel. I ordered a Labatt Blue from the bartender. Canada was only 110 miles from Greenwich.

The other drinker was slightly younger than me. His head was razor-cut and skin tanned by outdoor work. A bearded friend entered the bar. He was younger than me too. I was the old man on a stool. Afternoon drinkers never say at a table. They greeted each other and spoke about the Giants. Big Blue fandom reached far north from the Meadowlands. Malinda hated this bar. To her the Green Acres was filled with racists. She wasn’t wrong, especially after I heard buzz-cut ask, “Why do people celebrate May Day?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably commies dance around a maypole.”

I could only tolerate so much ignorance and I said, “No, May Day commemorates the Haymarket Riots in Chicago. The workers struck for an eight-hour work day. The police charged the rally. A bomb exploded in the ranks. The violence as always was initiated by the police.”

“Well, if the cops shot in Ferguson, there wouldn’t be any marches.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I believe in the right to carry. And the right to protect yourself. Machine guns too. Especially to kill the bankers who are the real criminals and the politicians. An instigator threw the bomb at the anarchists. It blew up in their ranks. As for deporting people. I say let’s get rid of the Russians. They’re all ex-commies. At least the Mexicans are Americans. What will you have to drink?”

They ordered Bud Lite. It was fat fascists’ beer of choice.

We changed the subject. They spoke about a seven-stooled bar on a lake.

“Sounds like paradise.”

“It was.”

“Was?”

“Bank bought it. Shut it down.”

I raised my glass.

“Death to all bankers.”

We drank our bottles dry.

A horn beeped outside.

“It’s my wife or as I call her my ‘designated driver’.”

We high-fived and I stepped outside into Spring.

Malinda gave me a dirty look.

Like I said she hated this tavern, but I can drink with anyone as long as they’re willing to listen to my bullshit.