The Day the Torch Went Missing

At Whiskey River on North Division Street, there's always something simmering beneath the surface, and today, it wasn't just the heat.

When Independence Day lands on a Friday, something shifts. The weekend stretches out like a cat in the sun—hot, a little lazy, and full of mischief. A whisper of rain had knocked the humidity down just enough to pretend it wasn’t unbearable, but the 80s came roaring back, and with them the uniform of the day: short sleeves, tank tops, and sweat-dampened resolve marching up and down the streets of Peekskill.

Montreal had been the better plan. The smarter escape. But life, in its usual unscripted fashion, didn’t have room for it this year.

Instead, I wandered into Whiskey River, where something always simmers beneath the surface. And today, it wasn’t just the heat.

Our bartender-hero—let’s call him Ronan—was in his usual chipper form, body agile behind the bar, voice peppered with the familiar fuck-laced slang that somehow managed to sound affectionate. But mentally, you could feel he was running on fumes. And fate, cruelly amused, had decided to test him.

Because I was parched, I ordered a craft beer. Hydration, right? But a beer's no match for a summer funk. I wanted to feel my drink. I wanted smoke, drama—the kind of flavor that curled around the tongue with purpose. So, I asked for my usual: a Smoked Old Fashioned.
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Cue crisis. The torch was missing.

What unfolded was less drink order, more Greek comedy. Ronan zipped behind the bar like a caffeinated lab rat, rummaging nooks and crannies, cursing the gods and the understaff. His backup torch—his secret torch—was gone too. “What the fuck?” he muttered (and muttered again). I offered to drink it unsmoked, but that offended him more than the missing butane. The man had standards.

Eventually, he found the backup torch, lit the drink just the way I liked it, but remained unsatisfied. He began texting the other bartenders. Torchgate had to be resolved.

Enter David. Bearded, boyish, stylish even in this sweaty cityscape. He came in with the missing torch tucked in his pocket, sheepish but still composed. He’d taken it out for a post-shift smoke and forgotten to return it.

Me and a fellow regular urged him to drop the torch and run. Before he could make his exit, Ronan returned, eyes narrowing. A big torch in a small pocket. Straight boys don’t like to think too hard about those things. I, blessedly, am not straight. I had my second Smoked Old Fashioned and thought about it just the same.

Torch returned. Hierarchy restored. The backup returned to backup duties. The bar—Whiskey River, where something always hits the fan eventually—hummed to life. Customers poured in. Ronan found his rhythm again.

Just one of those days. But damn, aren't those the ones worth writing down?