The beer was thin and tepid. I’m not sure what brand I was drinking, but it really didn’t matter much. In 1980, Coors was the outer edge of exotic, and beer ran from pale to paler. Bruce had drifted over to the other side of the loud, crowded barroom. I caught his eye and motioned to see if he wanted another one. He smiled and shook his head no. I scanned the room for signs of Bob, but he was nowhere to be found. Probably out in the back parking lot smoking pot with somebody. Bob was predictable. I ordered myself another beer.
The Flamingo is a large bar, or at least it was until the oil boom eventually went bust in one of the many downturns that give Wyoming its wind-swept impermanence. I managed to find a seat at the bar along with the other long-haired and ill-shaven guys wearing Carhartts, the Okie-from-Muskogee-goes-to-Haight-Ashbury look that Willie Nelson perfected. The place buzzed while a less than professional band did covers of Marshall Tucker and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
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