A cigarette burns slowly on Lester’s sill as it begins to curl the varnish. A deep sigh and a low bogged chord falls out of his jowls, kicking up the dust on the portraits that line his stetson. A shirt in sore need of ironing hangs loose where a few buttons wandered off years ago. His eyes close and a vision of a youth returns. New boots. Film cameras. Rebecca. A beam of light wanders across the bar as the front door swings open. Eyes turn from glasses as a timid customer steps in. “Is there a Lester G. here?” “Who’s asking?”
Find Lester Gulbransen drinking in Santa Cruz.