Alaska

The phone rang in the middle of the Fairbanks night and was always a wrong number for the Klondike Lounge. Not here, I'd say sleepily. Different place. We're a bunch of people rolled up in quilts. Then I'd lie awake wondering, But how is it over there at the Klondike? The stocky building nestled between parking lots a few blocks from our apartment like some Yukon explorer's good dream of smoky windows and chow. Surely the comforting click of pool balls, the scent of old grease, flannel, and steam. Back home in Texas we got wrong numbers for the local cable TV company. People were convinced I was a secretary who didn't want to talk to them. They'd call four times in a row. Sir, I eventually told a determined gentleman, We've been monitoring your viewing and are sorry to report you watch entirely too much television. You are currently ineligible for cable services. Try reading a book or something. He didn't call back. For the Klondike Lounge I finally mumbled, Come on over, the beer is on us.