“I drive two hours each way from Woodbridge VA – that’s four hours roundtrip,” he answered shaking his head. “I’m blowing $100 in gas a week, which leaves me with no beer money. So I would thankful if someone were to contribute today.”

“Really, you must have a big, loving family,” I added. “If it was me, I would camp out in town.”

“Well I have a stay-at-home wife, five studious children, a two-story house, a big yard. Did I mention a Great Dane?”

With two kids in high school, Jude was nearing 50 and his family had recently migrated to the US.

It was good to know that I wasn’t the only geriatric in class. Back home, Jude was a professor and esteemed engineer. In the U.S., he was just another straphanger, and had to go back to school to learn a new trade.

Wow, what a horrendous drive and sacrifice. My drive from DC pales in comparison to his from northern Virginia. Clearly Jude was motivated  to come home to his loving family and raise his children in the burbs.  Just for that, he deserves a drink or two.

“So you guys staying for happy hour. We got the best deals in town,” Virginia asked.

“Absolutely, we need to drown out the stress from school by imbibing in booze,” shouted a comment from the peanut gallery.

“Right on Bro, some crab balls & cheesy fries please,” I requested.

“Say, can I get you a beer,” I shouted across the table to the buffest guy in class.

“Sure thing Loose Cannon please.”

I returned with a handful of  Heavy Seas, handing one to Jude, one to Rick, and to the big one guy with humongous arms and a thick neck.

“Thanks Bro, my name is Theo, by the way. Some people call me Teddy or Tank.

I glanced at him and easily preferred the latter.

Then there was Rick.  His dad had found a younger wife, so Rick had to move in with his aunt.  She gave him one ultimatum: It was either trade school or the military, and he chose the easier route where he could still smoke dope and grow his hair out.

Jorge was half Mexican and half Salvadoran and cussed aloud in Spanish, thinking we didn’t understand.  He was still trying to get his green card, and hopefully attending school would help him gain permanent residency. His wife worked at a Taco shop in Jessup and his two kids were born in the U.S and had never visited their native land.

Jorge was at the bar chatting with the bartender.

“Hola, senorita. Can you make me a margarita – tall and skinny like mi chiquitas, por favor.”

The bartender grabbed a scoop of crushed ice into the shaker and poured a shot of Jose Cuervo like a pro. Then with all the energy she could muster from her tiny frame she vigorously shaked until the outside of the stainless became frosty. She then strained the mixture into a cobalt blue cocktail glass, garnished with lime and a half rim of salt.