Bob's Goodtime Bar

Once upon a time there sat a fat and grubby girl of twelve, making tiny cars from matchbooks. The matchbooks said “Bob’s Goodtime Bar” on the covers, and were so old that the phone number included letters in its prefix. Time and time again, she peeled apart the layered paper of matches, bending them back in tiny handlebar fashion, and pumping her feet as she steered the mini mock go-carts like her father had instructed. And time and time again, the men at the bar roared with laughter, and bought her father great rounds of ale.

“Buck!” they would yell, “these are great times!” and clap him heartily on the back.