Boys
When we come into town for a gallon of strawberry ice cream and a bag of Doritos, the Lazy JC is all closed up, so my brother and I jog over to the Sportsman Bar, where we know we’ll find Thad Basset, who keeps the after-hours keys.

The Sportsman is one of Melstone’s last grand brick false-fronts. Forty years ago, you would have found a whole high-shouldered row of them. First, the Antlers, whose little rooms on the second floor were still littered with the silk stockings of whores, then the Wilson Hotel, Herron’s, the Grant, the Sportsman, and the U.S. Post Office—though all but the Sportsman and the post office have been torn down or boarded up, and weedy lots and busted windows line Main Street now. The Snakepit, the other bar in this town of less than two hundred, is along the highway in a cheap prefab building that also houses the only café with regular hours between Roundup and Forsyth, a hundred-mile stretch of Highway 12 that cuts right through eastern Montana’s Big Dry. The café serves the usual flash-frozen fries and preformed hamburger patties, and the Snakepit is the kind of bar where a shot means schnapps, and light beer and wine coolers fill the fridge. Not the Sportsman. Beer comes in a squat can there, and a shot means pick your whiskey. The house special, one of the few things besides peanuts you can get to eat at all, is a grease-soaked paper bag of hard-fried chicken gizzards.

So it’s something to be just fifteen, still a boy, really, and be stepping up to the heavy wooden door of the Sportsman Bar. Though you can drive now into town with your brother, and though you are allowed to stay up late and eat ice cream and Doritos and watch reruns of Night Court and M*A*S*H and the half hour of music videos they show every Friday night on Channel 4, it’s still something to be pushing that very door open.
 
 
Photo: Rennett Stowe

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