It was sometime in the early 50s. Mom and Dad and I had dropped in at the Eagles club for a beer (root beer for me, please). Nick was tending bar. He was probably in his 40s, I guess. I was too young to really notice. Or care. When we approached the bar, Nick swooped me up in his arms. I was pretty young, maybe eight or nine, and too tall for him to do that easily, but he held onto me as he exchanged chatter with Mom and Dad. And I felt him feeling me where he shouldn’t. But he was Nick the Bartender, and Mom and Dad liked him, and he liked me. I was uncomfortable but I didn’t say anything. What would I say? He was Nick the Bartender. He finally put me down and we went to a table and sat while Dad and Mom had their beer. I kept asking them to leave. They couldn’t understand why. Neither could I. We finally left. I never went up to the bar again when Mom and Dad said hello to Nick. I couldn’t tell Mom and Dad why. After all, he was only Nick the Bartender.
