2: Pennsylvania

It was D came up with the idea, halfway through your second pitcher. “What we need,” he said, setting his glass down on the bar, “is a new Constitution.”

“What you need,” said Jack, once you and George and Bill had settled down, “is a couple-two-three more drinks in ya before ya say anything really retarded.” He waved at the bartender. “Hey kid,” he said. “Give us anothern.”

“Yeahsure.” said the bartender, then went back to fiddling with his phone, or camera, or something.

“Gimme more of them napkins, too,” D added, taking a carpenter’s pencil from his shirt pocket. “How’d that last one go? ‘Us People of the United States . . .’”

George shook his head. “Aw, D. Why you gotta go and break something that ain’t needs fixed?”

“The hippy’s right,” Bill said. “Least leave the other states out of this.”

“Shit, fine.” D crumpled the first napkin up and started again. “Us the People of the United State of Pennsevania.”

“It’s a commonwealth,” you said.

D balled up the second napkin, wound up like old Dock Ellis, and fired it at the bartender. It missed his head by a couple inches, and the kid pressed a few more buttons without looking up.  “Hey,” D said, “ya gonna pour us s’more lager, or are ya callin’ Pottsville to make sure it’s alright with them first.”

“Maybe he thinks ya wanted a pitcher of it,” Jack said, nodding toward whatever the kid had in his hands. “Ya know, just for lookin at.”

“Hold on, boys, I’ll get it,” Ronda said. She stood and put her waitress apron on. “You stay here, baby,” she told her daughter, who was sitting with her feet dangling off the bar, smiling like there was no place in the world she’d rather be.

“Thanks, Ron,” said George, and winked at the girl, who giggled. “Anyway, ya needa be more specific. Maybe just the greater Pittsburgh area, or sumthin.”

“Ah, hell.” D said. “How ‘bout just this bar? These napkin’s already got its damn name on ‘em.” He took another from the pile and wrote “Constitution” right below where it said “The Grand Stand.”

To tell the truth, none of you liked this bar all that much, but it had got a lot better once the economy tanked, the crowds at the mall dried up, and the hotel next door closed down. Most of the staff quit when their wages dropped, so now it was just the Negro kid behind the bar, some Mexican in the kitchen, and George’s cousin Ron. They still left most of the TVs on, though, and the beer was pretty cheap – it was a place to watch a game, at least. Nowadays, coming here was sorta like being in that old horror movie, the one where everybody in Monroeville up and dies. The lights were still on somehow, but who knew if anybody was still alive outside.

“Well, that’s really sumthin’ special,” Jack said. “Ya wanna tack on an intro, or just leave it like that?”

“Na, we kin just make it a list.” D drew a line and wrote above it: “What We Want.”

“Aright, then,” Bill said, and shrugged. “Well. Whadda yinz want anymore?”

“Lager,” said Jack, just as Ronda set the new pitcher down. “And there it is. Shit, D. Maybe yer onto something with this.”

“What else?” D asked. “Hope and change and all that crap?”

George shrugged. “How ‘bout happiness?”

“Dammit, George,” said Bill. “Don’t be such a queer.”

The bartender coughed and muttered “Respect.”

“Hey, I think I just saw our boys nuts drop up under there.” Jack said, tipping his cap. “We got a full grown man awner hands.”

The boy’s face turned a little darker, and he went back to playing with his thing. “Shaddup kid,” D said, but wrote it down anyways.

“A better job,” said the Mexican – José, you think – who’d wandered out of the kitchen.

“Or any job,” you said.

“Money!” said Ronda, bouncing her little girl in her lap.

“Mommy!” Ron’s little girl said. D smiled and wrote that down, too.

You’d been going at it a little while when these three women came in. They were on the downhill side of middle age, and had dressed up for something – Rotary Club, maybe, or Daughters of the American Revolution. They sat around a table and Ronda set her kid down and walked over. “What can I get you girls?” she said.

“There’s a pitcher in it for ‘em if they want to join us over here,” D called.

They whispered to each other for minute, Ronda too. “What do you want from us?” the middle one asked.

“Well,” you said, “we’ve got ourselves a nice little country started, but we could use a well-regulated militia like yourselves.”

“Long as we get a say,” the woman said. She walked over and picked up the napkins, the other two looking over her shoulders, and started reading them to herself. “It doesn’t say here who’s in charge,” she said. “You don’t have any president or anything?”

“Now, why in the hell would we want one a them?” D picked up another napkin and wrote: “Things We Don’t Want,” then “politicians” under it.

The woman nodded. “I’ll drink to that.”

They joined you at the bar, and José went back into the kitchen to throw together a little grub on the house. You were just tucking into it when the man in the suit showed up. He stood in the doorway for a minute, looking around like he was waiting to be seated, or for his eyes to adjust to the light, standing there half-shadowed, his skin all blue-gray and zombie-like.

“C’mon over,” said D, giving him a wave. “Jeet yet?”

“Excuse me?” the man replied, but George was already calling back over his shoulder: “Hey Pedro, you wanna make our friend here a sammitch?”

The man walked over slowly and put his briefcase down. “What is this,” he asked, “some kind of convention?”

Jack laughed. “You could say that.”

José came back with another plate, and you all watched as the man lifted the top of the sandwich and picked the French fries off one at a time.

“You ain’t from around here,” Bill said.

“I live just up in Pittsburgh, actually,” the man said, “though I was born in Providence. Sam Adams, please.” The bartender, who’d been real quiet since the stranger came in, nodded and started pouring another Yuengling from the tap. “My client owns most of the property around here.”

“That so?” asked D. “Well, you might want to tell him this fine establishment just declared its independence.” He pointed to the napkins. “We even got a constitution.”

“Yer welcome to join in,” said George. “We got room for lawyers too.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t think the bar association would approve. And if my client heard that I abetted a rebellion on his property, I’d be out of a job.”

“Yeah?” you said. “Join the club.”

The man looked at the napkins – all scribbled-on and splayed across the bar – these simple lists of all the things you wanted and didn’t want. “Here,” he said at last, pulling a pen from his briefcase and pointing to the little square all twelve of you had signed. “Let me see that.”