Hell no he didn't want a Jaeger bomb. Dude just started talking around drink three, a kind of lonely talk that most nights any guy sitting next to him at the bar would have listened to and nodded and been like yeah, I know, man, I know. But he was ten-hour shift tired and Jaeger made him sick every time. He didn't care if it tasted like licorice. He counted off on his fingers. One, he don't drink that shit. Two, he was well along.
I like that, said the guy. We're well along.
The guy's name was Ray, something with A in it, worked somewhere he was fuzzy about. He told Ray about the child support and all the overtime. He said it was quote bumfucking brutal.
Ray nodded like yeah, and said, I got three kids. He showed the pictures in his wallet.
The little one looks like you.
He took out his pictures to show Ray and spilled beer on them. There was his family staring out wrinkled plastic. Beer soaking through the gloss.
Ray said, Shit.
He folded it up soggy and stuck it back in his pocket.