Revolutions

An erratic stranger disrupts the vibe in a working class bar. A short story.

In my imagination, this story plays like a short film. I was trying to portray forgotten rust belt characters who would fit well inside an Edward Hopper or Grant Wood painting. You know, lonesome American types. I wrote the first draft on company time while working a desk job in Downingtown, Pennsylvania, about 24 years ago.

He sat at the end of the bar, his back to the video game machine — sulking eyes averting our glances. He had this annoying, boyish…