A cold wind blew the scent of salty brine in from the bay and Lars turned to look out over the fog laden harbor. Visibility was murky, and he could just barely make out the flashing light from the lighthouse on the harbor point. Boothbay Harbor, Maine in early April was ominous at best and treacherous at worst. The cool air hitting the milder temperature of the water was the cause of the dense blanket of fog, but the drastic clashing of temperatures was sure to be a sign of an impending mid-spring snow storm.

Lars turned back to the door of his pub, The Drunken Lobster and inserted the old rusty key and unlocked the door. He pushed his way into the pub and switched on the overhead deer and moose antler chandelier lights. The décor screamed redneck gauche, with tongue and groove pine accented with brass fixturs; but it was the appeal of these aspects of the pub that attracted the tourists. Old Lobster traps hung from the ceiling and photographs of fisherman from the days of old decorated the walls, boasting of the finest catches off of the harbor. Lars had considered redecorating at one point. Perhaps going for something a little more elegant and refined to attract a more refined clientele, but when he had taken over the business, he had promised to leave everything as it was, in order to continue to attract tourists because of its reputation; so he had stayed true to his word and left it as is.

April was a time on the cusp of tourist season, when the brave dared the sharp wind from the ocean blowing in off the bay, and the regulars began to gripe about the influx of ignorant people, determined to spot one of the elusive beasts native to Maine, the great and mighty moose. For better business practices, Lars entertained the notions of the eager and overzealous tourists by way of the practiced art of story telling that was not only synonymous with the native Mainer; but also, a skill handed down to him by his own grandfather and his father before that. The Pearsons were a proud mix of Scottish and Swedish, hailing from lands of great mythology and lore that followed them as they immigrated to these coastal waters. Story telling was an art for Lars and his family, and the successful implementation also went hand in hand with his vocation as the town’s most notable pub owner. He didn’t have the heart to crush the visions of grandeur and tell the tourists that all of the moose had migrated north into the deep woods for the winter and would only now just be starting to amble their way back down to the forests of mid and central Maine. It was almost unheard of for one to wander so far into a well-populated tourist town on the coast. Almost.

But even despite his reputation as being the owner of the town’s local hot spot, Lars couldn’t help but feeling like the fog was similarly how he lived in his own head; in a fugue. It had been this way for the better part of a decade, but the reason, or rather the someone, behind that detachment was a reason he didn’t like to dwell on. In less than an hour, the regulars would begin to filter in to spin tales of peculiar mystery that were shrouded as if in the very mist itself. He loved listening to the regulars, the old timers who spun tales of back in the day. They dulled the ache of his own personal, “back in the day” just a little bit and made the nights pass with a modicum of relief from the loneliness.

Lars cast a wistful glance back at the fog and wished that a craft would cut through it and deliver him the constant focus of his mind. Ever since his best friend and lover, Tanner had sailed off in a yacht, the summer after they had graduated, Lars had been searching the horizon ever since, waiting for the ocean to deliver the one who he felt had been stolen away from him from the vastness of its calling.

Tanner. He ached to see his face again, to hear his voice. He had kept in touch tentatively via Shirley, Tanner’s grandmother, but after a year, the messages that came had little to do with him and were less and less frequent. Shirley knew something had happened, that their parting had been rocky and that it had broken Tanner’s spirit a little. He never came home for the holidays, rather, Shirley would fly to Miami where Tanner was working a beat as a cop. It did her old bones some good in the winter to feel a bit of warmth and sunshine, and she always came back with a flush in her cheeks and a renewed sense of vigor and zest, but she never mentioned how Tanner was doing, at least not in front of him when she thought he could hear her. Shirley was a spit-fire and usually had something to say about everything, so why she kept her silence about their break-up, Lars could only guess at.

He missed Tanner so much he ached for him until it hurt. He had tried a few other boyfriends, and he had dated casually and had even more casual sex, but nothing compared. He felt like an ass for comparing to begin with, but he couldn’t help it. It was as if Tanner was the one that got away, and Lars hated himself for it. He hated that he hadn’t been brave enough to tell his family that after five generations, he didn’t want to take over the family business, he wanted to follow his boyfriend to Florida where they could have a grand adventure together, just like they used ot when they were kids and exploring the granite and quartz rocky coastline.

Lars closed his eyes, inhaling. He could smell the scent of Tanner’s sandalwood and spice aftershave. He had started wearing it when he was seventeen, thinking it made him more appealing and older, but Lars had found he was more appealing when he would come in from the woods where he had been working a job as a wood splitter for firewood. He smelled like wood and sweat, but Lars far preferred that. He had dimples in his cheeks that Lars had grown fond of making him smile so they would appear. His face wasn’t the only set of cheeks that had dimples.

Lars winced as his memory took on recalling attributes of Tanner that he had tried for years to block and place at the back of his mind. It didn’t do him any good to dwell on the memory of a man he was never going to get to see or hold again.

Lars rounded the corner of the granite bar and flipped on the overhead lights to the bar. It was a handsome bar, boasting of a flavor of every liquor and beer and lined from the most common and stacked up the shelves to the finest bottles and most expensive tastes. It was dusty at the top of those shelves, as very few people sampled those bottles. He made a mental note to do a deep cleaning before the season kicked off.

Lars looked up when the door opened and closed again. He always did, but it was never Tanner. His bartender, Jesse walked in and waved at him. Jesse was twenty-one and attending University of Southern Maine, and bartending at night and on the weekends after classes. It wasn’t uncommon for the local kids to stay at home and commute in small towns in Maine. It saved on the cost of tuition, and Jesse had just the kind of smile that dazzled the ladies and earned him bigger tips. Not that Lars minded, he was capable of handling a rough crowd whenever politics were brought into the conversation. This was usually on a Tuesday night, contrary to the belief it would kick off with a Friday night crowd. Some of the old timers, they were still pretty rugged despite their aged and withered appearance. Lars didn’t even want to think about Super Bowl Sunday. Rough didn’t even begin to describe it. He would take chittering tourists and the Friday and Saturday night younger crowd over the evil eye of old man Thomaston any day. That old boy was straight up scary when he got going on the latest from CNN.

“Hey Lars, can I get off early tonight if it’s not busy? I told Amy I’d take her to see that new movie. You know, the one about all those girls singing together? I was supposed to take her for her birthday last weekend, but I had to cram for a test. She’s pretty pissed at me.”

“Yeah sure, I don’t see why not. Most everyone will be bunkering down for the Nor’easter anyway.”

“Aww man, you’re the best!”

“No problem, just grab a ladder from down cellar and come get to work on these top shelves before you go. I want them cleaned and dusted before some of the guys start coming in so there’s no distractions and chance to drop some of those top shelf bottles.”

“Alright, I’m on it.”

Lars nodded and filled a bucket and grabbed a few rags from the cleaning closet. He and Jesse climbed up and he’d lift the bottles and Jesse would scrub under them, making the shelves shine and glisten after their scrub down. They were just finishing up, when the first round of regulars came in. He didn’t even have to ask James Thomaston what he wanted, he just cracked the top of a Pabst Ribbon Blue and handed it over the counter as he sat at the bar with his belly tucked under. He took a swig and came away with some foam on his whiskers, he still sported a handle bar mustache which other men guffawed and complimented him on, and other women cringed and backed away labeling him as “creepy.”

“Hank, what’ll it be?” He asked Hank Walters. He knew it would be another ten minutes as the man hemmed and hawed, but inevitably ended up with a Bud Light, but the man got uppity if anyone tried to take away his freedom of choice and handed him his usual anyway.

“Well, now lemme see. Maybe I’ll try something different tonight you know? Lemme see, lemme see.” He thumbed through the tiny cardboard booklet of brews and Lars moved past his wiry frame and on to George Hollander, another portly man but with pipes on him the size of small trees. He owned the logging company that was local and provided firewood for the residents. He only had one other competitor in the area, but he always maintained that he would never ask any of his crew to do a task he wasn’t willing to do himself, so he was aged and beginning to sag around the middle but could still cord wood with the best of them. He wasn’t picky about his drink either, as long as it was cold and wet.

“Whatever’s on tap.” He barked at Lars. He wasn’t mean, he just had one of those deep growling voices that reminded people of a bear. But he was more like a teddy bear, especially when his wife Lucinda was around. He still only had eyes for her.

Lars poured the glass and handed it to him as Thomaston let out a belch and finished off his first can of Pabst. Lars handed him another as Hank made the decision to stick with his usual.

“So, what’s new today boys?” Lars asked casually. He didn’t have to read the paper or watch the news. He could always count on them to inform him of any happenings or doings.

“Storms a’comin’” Hank said around his beer.

“Ayuh, gonna be a biggun.” Thomaston agreed.

“Lucinda says the supermarkets all cleaned out.” George added his two cents in.

“Ayuh, bread and beer eh.” Thomaston commented.

“Come on now man, you gotta have the essentials!” Hank barked at him. Thomaston could swipe him off his stool with one arm, but he respected wiry old Hank for helping him out down at town hall when they were younger and there was a dispute over property lines with some big shot down in New York who only summered in Boothbay. Lars knew for a fact that Hank was well educated, but when he was around those who he was comfortable with, the native Mainer lingo crept back into his accent.

“D’you see the price of toilet papah’s gone up again Hankie?” George asked him.

“Ayuh, cryin shame isn’t it?” He responded. “Lot’s changin’ around here.”

“Might be a good thing.” Thomaston added.

“How’dyou mean?” George asked. George liked things a certain way in the town. He shied away from drastic change.

“Officer Ollie’s in a snit, he is.” Lars froze. He hated Ollie Sherwin as much as any man could hate another, but there was very little he could do about it. Ollie had gone to Vassalboro, to the police academy and come back with a bigger and better way to bully Lars—a bright and shiny badge. He had been the reason, in Lars’ mind, that Tanner had decided to quit the town and move out of state to somewhere that harbored more open-mindedness. Ollie was raised in a blue-collar family and had staunch beliefs that there were just some folk who don’t belong running around loose in small towns where anyone could meet and see them. By that, he was afraid of gay people. He was also afraid of Black people from what Lars could tell, or any kind of person who wasn’t white or had native roots to Maine.

Ollie’s Dad had a reputation when he was on the force for being like-minded, and the stories about the way things were done back in his heyday in the eighties were ominous and cruel. It wasn’t uncommon for men in this town to have similar views, but most of them kept them to themselves. As it was, since Ollie had moved his way up the ranks in the force, he was constantly in the pub, finding newer ways to harass Lars and threaten to shut him down. He never had any sound reason other than being homophobic, nor could he really shut him down because he wasn’t on the Health and Safety Board for restaurants and bars, but there were often surprise visits from the board and also the fire chief to make sure there was never any nights the pub was over the limit on persons capacity. If someone became sloshed and Lars felt they were too inebriated to send home on their own, his policy was to send them via cab instead, which he often funded himself because Ollie would sit in his cruiser at the end of the night, just down the street and wait for them. Lars had never been cited for anything, but Ollie made it almost impossible anyway to maintain such a rigid set of rules in his pub.

“What’s the whelp got his panties in a bunch over this time?” Thomaston asked him. If anyone knew, it would be Hank. As the District Court judge, Hank had to deal with Ollie’s father at the courthouse on more than one occasion, and he didn’t care for the man, and now he had to deal with Ollie for trials and hearings.

“A new officer’s coming to town.” Hank sipped his beer slowly. He had the attention of his two friends and he was savoring being the center of attention.

“How’dyou mean?” George asked earnestly taking a long gulp and burping.

“Yeah, out with it man. Come on!” Thomaston growled.

“Seems city council has decided to bring on a new face on the harbor. Decided that Ollie can’t handle policing the town with his crew and still keep an eye out for the wayward tourist out on the bay. Bringing in a new Captain from the coast guard to patrol the harbor.”

“No! You don’t say!” Thomaston stared at him incredulously.

“Ayuh, that’ll get Ollie worked up into a fine state.” George rubbed his wobbly chin. “Definitely gonna cause some bad blood.” He commented.

“Ayuh, yuh.” Hank agreed.

“Well, who is the man? When’s he coming? Before the storm or after? What’s his credentials? Last thing we need is a flatlander trolling the waters, mucking things up for the boys down on the docks. Ain’t a one of ‘em that’ll take to that. They got customs and special places they drop their traps and just so long as they don’t step on each other’s toes, they won’t like a newbie comin’ in and messin’ about.” Thomaston demanded, getting annoyed.

“He’s arrived just this morning to meet with the council. I invited him down here for a drink to welcome him home. He’s been away awhile, but I thought you boys would like the chance to pick his brain before the rest of the town got their hands on him.”

Lars felt the pit of his stomach clench as he considered the possibility. George and Thomaston were in an uproar, battering Hank with questions, but everyone fell silent when the door opened and shut again, and they all looked around. The glass Lars had been wiping dry slipped from his fingers and cracked on the granite bar when he looked up and saw Tanner standing in the doorway.