Bedford, Connecticut

October 20th, 1982

Indy's Oldsmobile Cutlass edged its way onto the freeway. With such tight traffic, no one was particularly eager to let anyone else on the road, as if one more car would further grind movement to a halt. But Indy didn't have time to wait behind other cars. He had barely a half hour before the start of tonight's game, the final battle between the Cardinals and the Brewers.

The other drivers on the road didn't take kindly to Indy's driving as he weaved his way between cars pushing his way into different lanes to wherever the currents of traffic flowed best. The owner of a Trans Am even rolled down his window to yell, "You'll get yourself killed old man!" But Indy wasn't too worried about a little fender bender. He had been through worse.

Over the years, friends had encouraged him to drive less, let others take trips for him. They worried about his right eye, which no longer worked and was covered in a patch. As a rejoinder, he claimed that if the state of Connecticut saw fit to grant him a license even with his limited field of vision, then they shouldn't worry.

As traffic started to clear, he noticed a car hugging his rear bumper. It was the Trans Am. Clearly the man was upset enough to tailgate the driver who had cut him off. Even as Indy took his exit, the Trans Am was right behind him and uncomfortably close. Indy figured that the man would drift away to his own destination as their paths diverged.

But as he pulled his Cutlass into the parking lot of Stiff-Drink-Liquors, the Trans Am followed. There were stranger coincidences, though.

It wasn't until the man, face beet-red under a large pair of sunglasses and an unruly mustache, marched towards Indy that he realized he was in the middle of a road rage incident. "You could have killed someone, grandpa! They should take your goddamn license away, you one-eyed bastard. You shouldn't be driving if you have to wear an eyepatch." Before the man could get too close, Indy had swung his car door open clipping the assailant in the knees. With the door between them, he sent a quick jab right into the man's nose.

The man recovered quickly, fueled no doubt by his anger, and managed to reach out to Indy grabbing him by his lapels. Before he could take a swing, though, he was interrupted by a third party.

"By George, vat in ze vorld are you doing," an elderly lady yelled out, stopping the assailant cold. She had a thick Eastern European accent. "Zis man ees twice your age. And you're trying to beats him up? Surely, your mother taught you betta."

"This doesn't concern you, woman," the assailant said.

"It sure does. Us old people haz to stick together."

Now it was time for Indy to try and keep her from injecting herself into the scuffle. "Thank you, ma'am, but it's not necessary." He told himself that he was looking out for this woman, making sure she didn't come to any harm, but in truth, he didn't like the idea of this old lady, with her hunched shoulders and headscarf, coming to his aid.

The woman shuffled over next to Indy. "And if you're going to beats up him, then you haz to beats up me too!"

The man looked back and forth between the two elderly figures before deciding it just wasn't worth the trouble. "You better get off the road before you kill someone," he said to Indy as a parting shot.

"Ze nerve of people like dat. I swear to you, it vasn't always like dis. I've lived in dis country for over forty years, and in ze last couple of years, vee lost zomething."

"You might be onto something. But the past has a way of pulling us towards it."

"Dis is true. Especially as vee get older."

"If you don't mind me asking, where in the old country are you from?"

"Ukraine. My family made it out before ze Germans invaded. Every day, I give zanks that my husband got us the papers, the train tickets, everyzink. God rest hiz soul."

"This country might be coming apart at the seams, but at least we don't have to face down Fascists anymore."

"Dis iz true. But they lie in vait. By ze time dey are waving de flag and goose stepping, it might be too late."

It was a lesson that Indy had learned well, but perhaps one he needed reminded of. "Thank you for coming to my aid. Is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?"

"No. No. I vas just on my vay out. You take care of yourself, and vatch out for those road ragers. I zaw a ztory on the news. People have no patience."

Indy sense what the woman was referring to. The years following WWII had been a of possibilities. Widespread prosperity appeared to be within reach, if we could just include everyone no matter their race or religion. As tumultuous as the sixties were, they appeared to be birthing pangs at the time, a necessary moment of agony that would lead to something beautiful. But in the intervening decade things changed. Now with the new millennium in sight, America appeared to be slowly disintegrating. He could sense a steady thrum of unease and decay as everything that seemed like a possibility after the war seemed to quietly disappear.

Stiff-Drink-Liquors was a claustrophobic story with boxes of beer and liquor piled almost haphazardly about. Shelves were only reluctantly used in their anemic wine section. Customers would have to navigate these piles of boxes, like kaiju striding through Tokyo.

There was no organizing system, which meant that the only way to find what you wanted was simply to meander or ask whoever was at the cash register in hopes that they might remember where they put that case of Bulleit Bourbon.

The set up repelled the average customer, but Siff-Drink-Liquors was built for the loyal who felt the journey was part of the fun or could only find that one brand of rum or beer at Stiff-Drinks.

It took Indy about ten minutes to discover what he came here for: a six pack of Falstaff Beer straight from St. Louis. But before he could pick it up, the beer was snatched away by another customer. He looked around, but that was the last six pack of Falstaff beer.

Indy caught up to the man with the last Falstaff Beer before he reached the register. "Excuse me. I know this is going to sound silly, but I have this superstition about watching the Cardinals and the beer I drink."

When the man turned around, Indy was surprised to find that he knew him. "Dr. Jones!" the man exclaimed in shock. "What an unexpected surprise."

It took a minute for Indy to place the man. "Dr. Zhao. How nice to run into you. It's been how many years?"

"A while. I know I was coming in as you were leaving, but I always wanted to thank you for being so welcoming. You were one of the few people who had the time to show me the ropes at Hunter College."

"And what brings you to Connecticut?"

"I live here now. A number of years ago, I uprooted to join Marshall College. I believe you used to work there as well?"

"How is the old bird doing these days. I haven't visited in ages."

"The usual. There's the constant battle between faculty and administration. But at this point that's to be expected. And how are you doing? Keeping busy?"

"As much as I can. Look, I have this little superstition where when I'm watching a baseball game I drink a beer from the same city as the team I'm rooting for."

"And Falstaff is a St. Louis beer?"

"Exactly."

"Then it's yours. I was just picking it up for my wife as a little joke. Dr. Sheen. I don't think you would have met her. She joined the college after you retired. She's a Shakespearian. But she doesn't even like beer. It's all yours."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"I wouldn't necessarily take you for the superstitious sort."

"I'm not. I may be retired, but I'm still an academic. I believe in what we can measure and sort. But I figure The Cardinals can use all the help they can get."

"I don't know if you're aware, but there are so many myths and legends that they still tell about you at Marshall. I've always wanted to ask you if any of them are true."

"Do these myths and legends make me look good?"

"They make it sound like you've lived quite the life."

"Then the answer to your next question is all of them. All of them are true."

Dr. Zhao laughed. "Well, it was great running into you again. I'd love to have you and your wife over sometime."

"It's a deal. I'd be happy to hear about what the art history department is up to these days. You folks were always like a little brother to us," Indy said with a grin.

"Little brother. I see I have to educate on the importance of aesthetics to the human experience."

"It's a deal."

As Indy walked his six pack to the register, the pleasant sense of surprise at seeing Zhao was replaced with something darker. The moment Zhao mentioned Marshall College, a sense of melancholy washed over him, a tinge of the familiar mixed with the unusual. He knew that Marshall College went on without him, students still went to class and professors still carried out research, but a part of him wished it had been frozen in time. There was pain in knowing that the institution continued, unabated, without him there to grease the wheels.

"You're missing the first inning," Tony, the cashier, told Indy. Tony almost always manned the front of the store, with his combover and potbelly he became a friendly presence, almost a mascot for Stiff-Drink-Liquors. From their regular conversations, Indy discovered that Tony was the owner's brother-in-law, and after a few years in prison, it was the only job he could get. He sounded both grateful and resentful.

"Running out for a six pack before the game turned out to be more of a challenge than I anticipated."

"You're lucky. We don't get shipments of Falstaff too much anymore. From what I've heard they're not going to be around much longer."

"Everything ends."

"Not for me," the cashier said. "I plan on living forever."

"How do you plan on managing that?"

"Simple. Before I up and croak, I go out and discover the fountain of youth. Someone has to find it eventually. I figured why can't it be me."

"I like your optimism."

"I'm also optimistic that St. Louis will pull out a win tonight. I assume that's why you're drinking Falstaff?"

"I think this little good luck charm will be just the trick to put them over the edge." Indy glanced at the game playing on the TV behind the counter. Neither team had yet scored. "I better get back before I miss a home run."

Indy quickly walked out to his car where he placed his beer on the passenger seat, but before he could make it to the other side of the Cutlass, he heard shouting from behind the liquor store. He hesitated at the driver's side door. The game wouldn't wait for him, and whatever was happening behind Stiff-Drink-Liquor wasn't his problem. He opened the driver's side door, but waited just a moment before getting in.

The yelling came again. It sounded like it came from kids. Maybe they were just playing, being rambunctious the way kids tend to roughhouse. He shut the Cutlass door and started to make his way behind the liquor store to investigate.