Roots and Chains

“You ever wonder if it was worth it?” The question lingered between them, suspended like smoke curling off the edge of a cigar. The hotel bar hummed with low jazz and the soft clinking of glasses, but at that moment, it was as if the world had gone still. 

Roger glanced sideways at the man seated beside him. Sharp suit, graying temples, wedding ring, and a face that carried the weight of too many 60-hour workweeks. A stranger, but not entirely unfamiliar. 

“Worth what?” Roger asked, taking a slow sip from his whiskey. 

“Everything,” the man said with a hollow chuckle. “The grind. The hours. The sacrifices. All of it.” He swirled his bourbon, watching the amber liquid spin in his glass. His eyes met Roger’s in the mirror behind the bar. “For what? A promotion? A bigger house?” 

Roger set his glass down, eyeing the man with quiet curiosity. “Sounds like you already know your answer.” 

“Maybe,” the man admitted, still watching his drink. “But it’s one thing to know it. Another thing to face it.” He looked up at Roger for the first time, offering a faint smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to unload. I guess it’s been a long day.” 

“No worries,” Roger said, gesturing at the bartender for a refill. “Sounds like it’s been a long life.” He glanced at the man’s reflection in the mirror.

The man laughed, a short, genuine burst. Then, turning slightly to face Roger, he extended a hand. “Ethan.” 

Roger briefly glanced at the man’s hand before saying, “Roger.” They shook hands, firm grips, the kind of handshake that says, I’m still standing, even if I’m tired as hell.

“Business or pleasure?” Ethan asked, gesturing to the luggage tag still dangling from Roger’s duffle bag. 

“Neither,” Roger said. “Funeral.” 

“Ah,” Ethan nodded, his face settling into a respectful stillness. “Family?” 

“Old friend,” Roger said. “Haven’t seen him in twenty years, but you show up for these things, right?” 

“Yeah,” Ethan agreed. “You show up.” 

They sat silently for a moment, the bartender refilling their drinks without a word. Roger watched the ice crackle as the cold seeped into the fresh whiskey. He rolled the glass in his hand like it was something delicate. 

“What about you?” Roger asked. “Business or pleasure?” 

“Conference,” Ethan said, his lips twisting like the word tasted bitter. “Three days of buzzwords and slide decks. Slaps on the back by a room full of guys pretending to care.” 

“Corporate, huh?” Roger asked. 

“Yeah. Sales,” Ethan said. “Director of regional accounts, but titles don’t mean much when you’re still chasing quotas.” He downed a gulp of bourbon. “You?” 

“Construction,” Roger replied. “General contractor. Run my own crew back home.” 

“Back home where?” 

“Cincinnati,” Roger said. 

“No kidding,” Ethan said, eyebrows lifting. “I’m from Cincinnati.” 

Roger gave him a look, half-skeptical, half-surprised. “What part?” 

“North, Fairfield.” 

Roger barked a laugh. “You’re lying.” 

“Swear to God,” Ethan said, grinning now. “You?” 

“North, too. Mason.” Roger replied. “How the hell did we never run into each other?” 

Ethan shrugged a broad, loose motion. “Different sides of the tracks, I guess. And I mean that literally.” 

“True enough,” Roger said, leaning back on his barstool, his face easing into a grin. “Small world, though.” 

“Small, but not small enough,” Ethan said. “If it was, I’d have skipped this conference and gone straight home.” 

“Yeah, well, I’d have skipped the funeral,” Roger muttered. “But here we are.” 

Ethan tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Old friend, huh? Someone from school?” 

“Something like that,” Roger said. “Guy named Billy Santiago. We ran together back in the day.” 

At the mention of the name, Ethan’s face changed. It was subtle but undeniable — a flicker of recognition, a shift in posture. 

“Billy Santiago?” Ethan repeated, leaning forward like he needed to hear it twice. “You ran with Billy?” 

“Yeah,” Roger said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “You know him?” 

“Not directly,” Ethan admitted. “But I knew—of him.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “Man, Billy Santiago. Used to hear his name all the time back in high school. He was... what, a couple of years older than us?” 

“Two years ahead of me,” Roger said, eyes studying Ethan more closely now. “You went to East Side?” 

“West Side,” Ethan corrected. “But guys like Billy? Everybody knew Billy. Trouble followed him like a shadow.” 

Roger’s face hardened at the description, his fingers drumming once on the bar. “He wasn’t as bad as people made him out to be.” 

“Didn’t say he was,” Ethan replied, hands up in a gesture of peace. “But you gotta admit, he had a reputation.” 

“Reputation’s just a story people tell about you,” Roger said, his tone sharper now. “Don’t mean it’s true.” 

Ethan nodded slowly, glancing at Roger’s clenched fist on the bar. “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve, man.” 

Silence stretched between them again, this time tighter, like the air had thinned. Ethan sipped his bourbon, eyes distant. “I had a friend like that once,” he said quietly. “Name was Marcus. Same kind of deal. People talked about him like he was a storm coming through town.” 

“What happened to him?” Roger asked, his voice low. 

“Got caught up in something he couldn’t get out of,” Ethan said. “By the time he realized it, it was too late. Cops called it ‘gang activity.’ That was their way of saying, ‘We’re done looking.’” 

“Yeah,” Roger muttered. “I know how that goes.” 

For a while, neither of them spoke. They watched the ice melt in their glasses and listened to the murmur of other conversations in the bar. 

“You ever wish you’d stayed?” Ethan asked suddenly. 

“Stayed where?” 

“Cincinnati,” Ethan said. “Whole life, I’ve been running from that place like it’s chasing me. But sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve stayed.” 

“Stayed for what?” Roger asked. 

“I don’t know,” Ethan admitted. “To be somebody different, I guess. Somebody more... real.” He tapped a finger on his chest like he was testing the strength of his armor. “Feels like I’m just wearing this suit to play a part. Back home, I didn’t have to play anything.” 

Roger nodded, slow and deliberate. “I stayed,” he said. “Didn’t feel like I had a choice. Folks like us, we ain’t always born with wings.” 

“Yeah,” Ethan said, exhaling deeply. “Sometimes, it’s just roots and chains.” 

They both laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. More like two soldiers swapping war stories. 

“Hey,” Ethan said suddenly, turning toward Roger. “You remember the old pizza joint just off 75? Santos’?” 

Roger’s face lit up. “Hell yes, I remember Santos’! Best pepperoni rolls in town.” 

“Man, I’d kill for one of those right now,” Ethan said, his eyes bright with nostalgia. “Used to save up my lunch money all week for one on Fridays.” 

“Me and Billy used to sneak out of school just to hit Santos’,” Roger said, grinning. “We’d race back before the bell rang. Half the time, we didn’t make it.” 

“Bet Billy didn’t care,” Ethan said, chuckling. 

“Not even a little,” Roger said, his smile fading slightly. He looked down at his drink, quiet for a moment. “Billy wasn’t afraid of much.” 

“Guess not,” Ethan said, lifting his glass. “To Billy, then.” 

Roger hesitated, then clinked his glass against Ethan’s. “To Billy.” 

They drank in silence, each man staring into the middle distance, seeing things only they could see. 

“Crazy,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “Forty years, and we still end up talking ‘bout the good old days back in Cincinnati.” 

Roger smirked, lifting his glass. “Roots and chains, man. Roots and chains.” 

They sat there for another hour, two men bound by the same past, drinking to the echoes of places they’d left behind. And as they parted ways, there was a quiet understanding between them — that maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t left those places as far behind as they’d thought.