Last Thanksgiving was real bad -- I was living alone in a low-rent apartment with paper-thin walls. The night before, apparently giving thanks for the wonders of narcotics, one of my neighbors had died of a heroin overdose. I heard the whole thing. They were really young, the guys who lived next to me. Early twenties at the oldest. They tried to revive their friend when they realized he hadn’t just drifted off. They began screaming out of panic. “Wake up, man! Wake up! Wake the f___ up!!” But he didn’t wake up, and when I woke up the next day I noticed that they had cleared out. They left behind a lot of expensive stuff, which the cleaning people later offered me. “I have too much junk as it is,” I replied.

I went back to bed and slept most of the day, hoping to actually sleep the entire day away. Hunger awoke me, however, so I had to leave the security of the bed to cook some black beans and rice and heat up some pork. I could’ve done much worse for a Thanksgiving meal, so I was feeling pretty good about things.

I decided to capitalize on the positive energy and go out for my traditional Thanksgiving Day drinks. It was a little earlier than I would normally leave, but what the hell? I had a full meal in my belly and I was alive, and I wasn't cold and dead and in the care of people looking out for their own interests.

When I got to the Brass Ring, it was actually a little more crowded than I had expected. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed that nearly every table was taken. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a seven & seven, and nodded at the older fellow to my left.

As I waited for my drink I watched the game on the television above the bar. The Cowboys were winning again. I hate the freaking Cowboys. Why do they have to be on TV every Thanksgiving? Why can’t we see the Seahawks play the Buccaneers or something? Those are the two best helmets in football…that should count for something.

The bartender delivered my drink and I lifted it to my lips anxiously. I needed it. But as the rim of the glass touched my lower lip I noticed that the fellow to my left was watching me like a hawk. He had pale blue eyes and a weathered face, and a full head of white hair that he wore combed straight back. I turned to him, lifted my glass, said “Salud” and threw back a healthy swig.

“Are you from the Old Country?” he asked earnestly.

“The Old Country? No, I’m American. Born and raised.”

“You have a look…a look of the Old Country.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m a New World product Sir. Not even sure what my original heritage is. Welsh or something. Not very interesting, whatever it is.”

“Welsh. I shoulda known. You gotta Welshman’s nose, to be sure.” He smiled with pride. I couldn’t figure out what kind of accent he was speaking with. It was almost British, but it sounded more like an American trying to mimic a British accent.

“You should know your heritage, lad,” he continued. “I know mine. I am a direct descendent of one Miles Standish, captain of the Mayflower, leader of the Pilgrims.”

“Really? What a coincidence,” I said sarcastically. “Here it is, Thanksgiving Day, and I’m having a drink with the kin of Miles Standish.”

“Yes, my lad, you are. I could tell you some things about him.”

I nodded my approval reluctantly, and he continued.

“He was a great, great man. He was a fearless captain and a devoted husband. His heart was as big as the Atlantic Ocean, everyone said so! And he didn’t back down from nothin’!” With that he recoiled like a snake that had just struck me in the ankle. He watched me with fear in his eyes, like I might jump him for bringing those fighting words in here.

“Relax, I believe you,” I assured him. “I have no doubt he was a great guy, fearless leader, all that stu--”

“A great, great man!” he shouted, leaning toward me on his barstool like a gargoyle.

“Yeah, I know, a great, great man. God rest his soul,” I attempted to cross myself, but I think I did it wrong. He laughed loudly, a big belly laugh like that of a drunken pirate.

“Ah, you’re a good kid. You’d a made a fine Pilgrim. You come from good stock, I can tell. You can always trust a Welshman!”

I smiled and got back to my drink, which was going down too slowly in all the commotion. I downed the rest of it in a few large gulps, and as I tried to work a piece of ice into my mouth to chew on, I felt him at my ear.

“His spirit is still with us, you know,” the old man whispered cryptically.

“Pardon?” I tried not to look at him. He was just too damn close.

“Captain Standish. He walks among us. He watches over us. He protects us.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. I mean, I like to talk to characters in bars as much as the next guy, but to be quite frank, the crazy old fart was annoying me. I just wanted to get schnockered and watch football.

“Can you feel him?” he asked, and I could sense him grinning.

“I feel you,” I responded as I turned and nudged him away. “You’re a little too close, sailor, and I’m just trying to have a drink. I feel your breath in my ear. Your hand’s on my leg. And I’m just not in the mood to talk to you about your imaginary friend.”

He stumbled back onto his stool and looked at me with shock, his pale blue eyes glowing in the darkness. The light from the television danced upon his weather-beaten skin. He had looked old when I first saw him, but now he looked ancient, like he could’ve been 100. I recalled Santiago and Ahab as I looked him over from head to toe for the first time. He appeared to be a fisherman who had come inland for the holiday.

“I don’t know too many people in these parts,” he muttered feebly. “And I don’t remember the faces of my friends from when I was your age. My memory, it’s going I suppose.”

I shook my head knowingly and ordered another drink. The bartender asked me if the old guy was bothering me, and I told him no.

"I’m about to cut him off,” the bartender informed me.

I looked around the bar for an escape route, someone I knew who would recognize me and motion me to join them. But the faces in the dark were those of strangers, anonymous lost souls like me trying to burn away the remnants of another holiday. I turned back to the old man beside me and saw that he was slumped over the bar, his head tucked into his arms. He was breathing, though. He was only asleep.

I finished my drink in silence and ate a few pretzels from a wooden bowl. The bartender returned and asked me if I’d like another.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m going to head on home.”

I stood up and headed for the door, touching the old timer lightly on his back as I passed him. He didn’t stir. Flipping up the collar of my jacket, I headed out into the freezing warmth.