Ian Anderson 2 p.m., March 2
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I slither into the tiki bar with my hat pulled low over my brow and my oversized sunglasses affixed to the bridge of my nose. My glance darts to the left, to the right. I don’t recognize a soul.
I slink to the bar and order a drink. The bartender pushes my drink toward me, his thinly disguised disgust for me evident on his deeply tanned, square-jawed face.
This is how it is. For years I have carried this disgraceful secret with me. My father will no longer speak to me. His shame is too great, an unbearable burden for him, a retired police officer. My mother cries at night, the estrangement tearing at the very soul of her being.
I cannot look the bartender in the eye as I bring my Saba Colada to my lips, the skewer of pineapple, maraschino cherry and orange slice set aside for later nibbling, because…….