Rudy Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, has a non-negotiable 45-minute rule for any public social event. He’s spent 19 years adhering to it, ever since his wife left him for a 28-year-old realtor she met at an open house, and he’d rather sand pressure-treated pine for 12 hours straight than make small talk with people who only ask how he’s doing to get to the gossip about his failed marriage. He’s at the small town’s annual summer beer garden only because he dropped off the 8-foot picnic table he built for the event in exchange for a free IPA and a bag of smoked almonds, and he’s got 12 minutes left on the timer he set in his phone when he walked in.
The air smells like charred bratwurst, citrusy hop fumes from the craft beer taps, and cut grass trampled flat by hundreds of sneakers and cowboy boots. Cornhole boards thud 20 feet away, a group of retired firefighters holler over a bad throw, and a kid runs past him chasing a golden retriever with a half-eaten hot dog in its mouth. He leans against the table he built, running a calloused thumb over the rounded edge he sanded for three hours the night before, sipping his hazy IPA out of a red plastic cup. He’s still wearing his dust-stained Carhartt jacket even though the sun’s high enough to make the back of his neck sweat, his work boots crusted with pine sawdust he didn’t bother brushing off before he left the garage.