By SEAN DIETRICH A beer joint. In the sticks. A cinderblock building. There were beat-up trucks parked in a dusty parking lot. No sign. Only a small Pabst Blue Ribbon marquee indicated this was a place where a man could break a dry spell. My companions were old enough...

By SEAN DIETRICH Late afternoon. The grocery store was busy. It was a big weekend, hurried customers played demolition derby with shopping carts. I saw two young men shopping together. Their basket was overflowing with bachelor food. Microwave dinners, hotdogs, potato...

By SEAN DIETRICH I’m writing this in the early morning. The birds are asleep, the crickets, too. The sun is about to rise, and it’s going to rise just for you. There is a faint glow behind the trees. I can see it. Just wait. It’s coming. I received a letter this...

By SEAN DIETRICH A no-name beer joint. Just off the highway. Somewhere outside Atlanta. Glowing Coors signs. Un-level pool tables. I had been driving for several hours. I’d just hit town and my throat was dry. I stepped into the dark room and made my way to the bar...