WHICH BRINGS US BACK TO BAR. IT'S the last night of our trip, and, thankfully, no shots ring out when my father and Ernest Borgnine start to dance. The band is out of tune, Dad's boots leave muddy prints across the parquet floor, and the woman in his arms is so sozzled that her legs, like a colt's on a frozen pond, periodically scramble for purchase. He dips her, and has to strain to bring her upright, but he does so without incident, and the guys at the bar clap and smile. The smoggy air in here is like atomized creosote, and I'm worried for his lungs, but when the band rolls into a warped rendition of "Proud Mary," I'm happy to see him go another round.

Before the song ends, a middle-aged woman in thick glasses walks over and offers me her palm.

"Dance?" she asks.

"Why not?"