One of the last functional American cigarette machines broods in the corner of the saloon. The display boxes almost creak, unsmoked, untouched in fifty years. Winston Lites and Virginia Slims permanently study the dancefloor, now dormant in the midday slump. The neon Budweiser sign excuses the day drinkers, simulating a tipped bottle, lights clicking back and forth, interrupting the staleness in the bar. I eye the menthol Camels but I have no cash and end up bumming one from a guy in a green Gators jersey. Earlier, I forgot it was St. Patrick's Day until my father walked out of his room wearing a plaid, buckled kilt.