My neighborhood bar is small. Off the beaten path. Cozy. Funky smelling. The right amount of grime.

The place was decorated for Christmas. Garland and white lights. Country music played overhead. Not faux-country sung by those who grew up with iPhones and have never heard the name FDR. But music championed by Waylon, Willie, and the boys.

‘Twas the night before Christmas Eve. I was waiting for my wife. We were going to dinner. The bartender asked if I wanted a specially brewed Christmas beer.

“What kind of beer is it?” I asked.

“A seasonal hefeweizen dunkelweizen.”

“Do what?”

She gave me a sample. It was okay. But truth be told, I prefer normal, American beer. The kind that goes down easy and costs less than a gallon of gasoline.

There was a guy at the bar. He wasn’t a regular. He was older. Mid-to-late 70s. Although 70 gets younger every year. His sweater was crumpled. His hair was disheveled. The man was staring at me.

“You look like someone I once knew,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “But I’m in a relationship.”

The man asked the bartender for another of whatever he was having. The bartender brought the drink. But before she gave it, she asked for his keys.

He was outraged. He said, “I’m not God, I swear to drunk!”

Eventually, the bartender won. The house always wins.

He gave her the keys. She called an Uber. And the man went on with his story. “The guy I knew owned his own company. Used to cut lawns, did pretty good. Had six guys who worked for him. Three trucks. I was proud of him. But I never told him. He was my son.”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose. He was crying.

“…When he was a little boy, we realized he couldn’t hear. So we took him to the doctor. Said he was completely deaf in one ear. Thirty percent deaf in the other ear. He wore a hearing aid. God, I felt so bad. But at least he had some hearing.”

Soon, the man attracted an audience. The bartender was listening now. So were a few others. The man told us about his son.

“…He loved art. Loved the Foo Fighters. Loved mac and cheese. His favorite TV show was ‘Spongebob Squarepants.’ Have you ever seen that show? It’s stupid.”

He closed his eyes and pushed his drink away. The man was sobbing. None of us knew how to respond. So we didn’t.

“…It was a semi truck,” he said quietly. “Semi driver didn’t see him trying to pass. He was in the semi’s blind spot. When the semi driver tried to change lanes, my son was pushed off the road. His car flipped twice. They said he probably didn’t feel anything, but I don’t know…”

The Uber arrived.

The bartender and I helped him into the car. We muscled him into the back seat. I buckled him in. The man touched my face. He said, “Andrew. Oh, God, Andrew. I don’t usually drink this much. I’m sorry.”

“Nobody is judging you,” said the bartender.

There were tears in her eyes. Before the driver departed, the man pressed his forehead against mine. I could smell his aftershave and sour sweat. I felt silly. But I didn’t pull away.

“I love you, baby boy,” he said.

“Andrew loves you too,” I said.

The bartender did not charge me for my beer. When I asked why, she replied, “Your dad insisted.”