Mr. Bill's Aurora

When I worked as a banquet bartender for a resort in Two Harbors, Minnesota, I knew a man who called himself Mr. Bill. He was my boss, in a way, and an affable former burnout who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes made with top tobacco.

One night, as I walked into the banquet staging area to grab more bottled beer from the cooler, Mr. Bill waved at me from where he stood, the door leading outside propped open with a rok, smoking a cigarette.

"Come out here, man," Mr. Bill said.

I hesitated. "I've got to get this beer to Josh. We're almost out."

"Don't worry about it. Just come out here."

I sighed impatiently, set the beer down on the table, and joined him out back. "What's going on, Mr. Bill?"

Mr. Bill grinned at me. "Look up, man."

I did and saw the Northern Lights for the first time in my life as they danced dimly above. "It's beautiful," I half-whispered.

Mr. Bill nodded as best he could with his neck craned upwards, puffing on a stub of a cigarette.

Reluctantly, I broke our reverent silence and said, "I should probably get that beer to the bar."

Mr. Bill squinted at me through his bifocals. "That can wait man. You and I might not ever see this together again."

I returned to my place beside Mr. Bill and went back to looking up.