Lonesome 50

We didn't have dance bars in my small town. Hell, we had taverns. They were all dark and scary. The floors worn down in a trail from the door to the bar. As teenagers we'd dare each other to go into the Rideau, or the Russell Hotel. These taverns were tough. Dozens of eyes would dart up from their drafts and whiskeys. We'd turn and leave before the regulars kicked our asses in the back rooms.
The only one we ever had any luck in was the Lee Tavern. We had a few adventures down at the Lee. I got served in there when I was fifteen; the best part was that I was wearing a high school jacket at the time. Another time we were there at 11:00 am, because that is when the taps opened.
There was a regular that was always in the Lee. He sat in the darkest back corner. He'd always be drinking a pint of Labatt 50. When he finished his beer this pretty little barmaid would fetch him a fresh one automatically and take away the empty.
He didn't socialize, at all; he never talked to anyone. He never even looked at the pretty bargirl. All our eyes'd follow her as she walked to the back of the bar. This guy was a legend; and everyone had a theory as to his behaviour, each more bizarre and sad than the last.
I must have gone in there twenty or thirty times and every time he'd be alone: Lonesome 50.
I popped into the Lee last weekend to bend a tap for old times sake. There was 50 sitting there: a little older, a little greyer. Someone was sitting with him: odd. This someone turned around. It was French. He waved me over and ordered a round of cold Labatt 50 quarts.
That Lonesome 50 is a pretty good guy.