Miller’s Pub is a fabricated tale. The characters in the plot are fictitious. Any resemblance of people, living or dead, is truly a coincidence. Certain historical events mentioned during the story’s time line are repeated from memory and confirmed by the excellent internet site Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Steven Baker, the principal protagonist, finds himself unexpectedly in a midlife perplexity. Like many entrepreneurs absorbed by the pathways to success and often at the expense of others, he fails to properly recognize the traditional gap in their marriage. In all fairness, Steven may have been blindsided to this customary interval and unprepared to recognize and control it. Since the nineteen fifties, American culture, if there ever was such a thing, has gradually lost its former values. Now, relativism rules the day. Steven’s grandparents lived by the precepts in the US Constitution and their Bible. The Good Book provided the roadmap for their way of life. The changing of society and environment has led to the decay of the old moral significance. Marriage and the family are disrupted and no longer a basic cultural element—it will never return. Today, relativism is taught in the universities of higher learning. The culture of Facebook and Twitter further limits the education of the populace. Their Bible, if they still have one, gathers dust. Any effort to return to our former lifestyle and virtues is shouted down by those in power.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Miller's Pub

By George Edward Moon

Trafford Publishing

CHAPTER 1

Merriam-Webster is a subsidiary of Encyclopedia Britannica and defines a pub as a building or room, especially in Britain or Ireland, where alcoholic drinks and, often, food are served. Miller's Pub is a Chicago restaurant located on Wabash Avenue.

Established in 1935, it is a stopping off place for a business lunch or celebrating special occasions. Huge collections of vintage oil paintings line the walls, along with numerous photos of Hollywood movie stars, professional athletes, Broadway actors, and musicians. It's the loop destination for American cuisine in a nostalgic ambiance.

I believe it all started there. It isn't where I first met Irene, but where the relationship grew wings.

She was in sales with a company supplying a product necessary to my manufacturing business. She was making a sales call to my factory. I remember her having short hair and looking rather uncomfortable in her tight fitting business suit. Assuming it was probably her time of the month, I placed a chair for her in front of my desk. The speed in which she accepted it and sat convinced me I was right.

Back then, a woman making a sales call was new to a male chauvinist like me. Today, women salespersons are probably in the majority.

The visit by Irene was timed to coincide with lunch. Unfortunately, my factory was located several miles from town and the closest place to get a sandwich was a small caf� populated with local farmers. I'm amazed by how many farmers, patronizing the restaurant, were missing appendages — one arm, one hand, and several fingers. I was told it had to do with corn pickers.

"Do you have time for lunch?" she asked.

"I have the time but the nearest restaurant is back in town. Tell you what, let's drive both cars and you won't have a ten mile return trip. You can go on about your day from the restaurant. I can't see the parking lot from my office. What kind of car are you driving?"

She gave me a knowing chuckle. Her mode of transportation was a 1982 Chevy Citation with a piston rod ping and clatter. Her boss told her it just sounded bad but didn't interfere with its performance. She believed him. She also insisted on driving.

The trip to town was invigorating. I could barely squeeze into the front seat and had to exhale in order to buckle the seatbelt. Seatbelts weren't required yet — more proof her boss knows how she drives. The accelerator must have been floored because the wheels spun and gravel went everywhere. We fishtailed all the way to the main highway. Fortunately, there's a stop sign before you enter.

"Does my driving scare you? I notice you are rather tense."

"Has your boss ever ridden with you?"

"He knows how I drive."

"He must have a big life insurance policy on you," I seriously stated. She thought I was kidding and laughed aloud. I wished I had driven. Once on the paved road the traffic held her in check. There are three places in town frequented by businessmen when the wolf growls at noon. I suggested the one with the least amount of stops and turns on the pathway reaching it. When you ride with a female whose bent leads to Indy racing, it's best to spend as little time as possible alongside her. To her credit, she whipped into a parking space which I would have rejected — to hunt one with more room.

"Is there enough room for you to get out?" she asked, while withdrawing from the driver's seat. For a second, I felt like faking a difficult time. The thought of riding to another space settled the issue.

Businessmen and those wanting moderate privacy entered through a side door over which a canopy stood. Others found the entrance facing the shopping center. With more illumination from the outside, provided by a sweep of large windows, and volume lighting within, the everyday shoppers preferred this part. It was like two restaurants at one location.

Entering from the bright sunlight, it took a while to acclimate to the darkened contour of the room. Irene took hold of my hand as the receptionist directed us to a table. She selected one in the center of the dining area and then paused, saying, "Do you want one more private?"

"This is fine," I replied.

Each table had a candle in the center, giving a weak flickering of light to help patrons read the menu. While Irene studied the cart du jour, I asked about specials and soup of the day. When it comes to lunch, I'm a cheap date. Irene settled on something written in French and I ordered minestrone soup.

At that moment, I observed two things. Irene is a pro when it comes to reading menus, and, she wore a wedding ring on her left hand. I can't exactly explain how those made me feel, the wedding ring that is; but, I definitely passed through an emotional veil. Before I could make a self-analysis, the cocktail waitress was at the table. Irene flashed a perfect smile and asked, "Would you like a cocktail?"

"I don't mind if I do. I'll have a scotch and soda."

She hesitated for a second then requested a daiquiri, saying, "One drink won't bother me. You've got to watch out for the drinking and driving thing."

Restraining myself from saying, "Honey, the way you drive, they would never know the difference," instead, I found myself trying to engender her dazzling grin. I've had lunch, probably at this very table, a hundred times, and never had so many acquaintances stop by to say hello. With each visitor and introduction, she flashed a brilliant grin, revealing a dancing light of mischief in her sparkling blue eyes.

"You know a lot of people," she stated.

"It's a curse."

"I suppose being in business and all," she concluded.

Irene opened her purse and removed a package of Salem menthols. While she fumbled for her lighter, I picked up the matchbook with the name of the restaurant on it, and struck a match. She took a short drag and quickly exhaled — the act of an inexperienced smoker.

"Have you been smoking long?"

"Not really. The other girls in the office smoke. I thought it would help my appearance when making a sales call. I notice you don't smoke. Seems like men are giving it up and it's increasing among women."

"If you want my personal opinion, it doesn't look well on you."

She extinguished the Salem, in the table ashtray, and gave me that snow-white grin.

"Would you care for another scotch?" she asked. My glass only held ice cubes at the bottom.

"Yes please, these glasses are very small. And, I don't need to drive back to the office."

"Something tells me you wouldn't have a problem if you did."

When lunch was brought to our table, Irene's plate was large but the servings were small. I only recognized the green things. They had to be vegetables. The rest is anybody's guess. My minestrone soup, however, came in a large bowl, steaming and recognizable. By breaking the crackers into it, I had a feast fit for a king.

We continued our conversation well after the plates were removed. Irene wasn't uncomfortable taking an extra-long lunch and neither was I. After all, I still owned the damn company. It was in the process of being purchased by a foreign conglomerate; however, we'll talk about that later.

I learned Irene was the mother of two boys, passed their teenage years, and she married her high school sweetheart. Several references about her husband made me think all wasn't too blissful at home.

When the restaurant was down to just us and a drunk at the bar, I suggested we call it a day....

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