Tips

He thought it would be quiet in the corner,
that we could talk, away from all the talk,
the laughter, the music closer to the bar.
He knew his voice had weakened. It’s the ozone
or the pollen in the air, he said. He sipped
his beer before he spoke, but still
I had to watch his lips. They barely moved.
I leaned in close to hear.

He said they called him Beer Boy at Dade Park,
the Kentucky racetrack where he worked
the summer he was twelve. The ice
was cold against his fingers as he pulled
longnecks from the bin. Champagne Velvet,
Falls City, and Sterling cost ten cents.
When customers paid with a quarter, he would
quietly slide their change across the counter

instead of slapping it down. If he was lucky,
the trumpet would sound, calling horses
to the track and customers to the grandstands,
leaving forgotten dimes and nickels
for him to scoop across the counter
into the pocket of his apron.
My tip, he said, smiling,
as he left this story to his son.

*

Mark Williams’s poems have appeared in ONE ART: a journal of poetry, The Southern Review, New Ohio Review, Rattle, and other journals and anthologies. He is the author of the collections, Carrying On (Kelsay Books) and Life (forthcoming at Aldrich Books). His fiction has appeared in Eclectica, Cleaver, Valparaiso Fiction Review, and several Running Wild Press collections. He lives in Evansville, Indiana, with his wife, DeeGee.