Every theater worth its salt has its own bar.

Not one they own, of course: theaters barely have enough money to put on shows. But they have bars, the ones that, when the shows are over, they repair to, to commiserate, or celebrate, or just to hang out and unwind. And so every theater also has its own bartenders.

When I was a member of Open Circle Theater here in Seattle--good years I would never want to give up, but also strenuous years that took their toll on me--our bar was called The Family Affair. The Family Affair was a blue-collar sort of place that had the virtue of proximity: it was three blocks away from our theater space. It also had the virtue of its proprietors: Bronko and Angela, a couple of reformed degenerates (coke fiends and coke runners in their times; tellers of "we fucked on the beach" stories, which were, in their own way, charming and yet kind of ghastly; and, finally, surrogate parents to a bunch of snotty, mouthy kids with a penchant for something as ridiculously dumb as live theater, for God's sake).

Bronko was well known for his well-used and familiar turns of phrase:

"Hey, easy money, how's it going?"

"What can I get you, Captain?"

Or, most commonly, after any drink order, no matter how outlandish: Excellent choice!" You could order a glass of spinal fluid, and Bronko would tell you it was an excellent choice.

There were other common routines, such as when Bronko would be introduced to, say, a new female companion. He would offer to show her baby pictures. "Oh, I'd love to see that!" some girl would inevitably squeal. Then Bronko would produce a doctored photo of a baby with a gigantic, two-foot erection. That this was never met with alarmed screams or complicated litigation is a testament to Bronko's easy gentleness, and that he was a man who, for Christ's sake, was just fundamentally good. I never, ever saw anyone who responded to him without good humor, except for the low-watt bulbs who failed to realize that he was completely prepared to turn people into interesting shapes when they tested his temper.

Bronko and Angela nursed us for years, tolerating our more ridiculous antics--Anniversary stripteases! Birthdays for the terrifying "Vagitarians!"--with more humor than we deserved. When, unsurprisingly, one or two of our group fell into fiscal despair, they had an obvious (and unquestioning) solution: Give them kitchen jobs. Once, Bronko drove a few of us home in his Caddy to save us cab fare. (Angela: "Bronko! Get off your ass and drive these kids home! I'm not calling that fucking cab company any more!")

And we--filled with drinks and maybe one of the Family Affair's diabolical foodstuffs--happily piled in. (Their food was, ah, memorable: One concoction called the Blue Ox or the Artery Grenade or something was a quarter pound hamburger topped with a slab of breakfast sausage, a fried egg, blue cheese and a defibrillator.)

When I first met Bronko, I did not know that he had been battling cancer for God knows how many years. He held on from the moment I met him for another ten. Some of those times were miserable (and, through my work, I happen to know his oncologist). He lived for longer than anyone had any bloody reason to. He was a tough son of a bitch, and I still remember his booming laugh, his jokes about having "the vapors" . . . and his damn Caddy, which he loved so much.

Bronko and Angela had to eventually leave the Family Affair thanks to some really scummy fuckover courtesy of a couple of their former employees and the landlords; I vowed never to darken the door of the new owners, and I am delighted to report that the new place, after a couple years, went right into the toilet.

When they lost the place--which angered and bewildered them--I know that Bronko had to sell the Caddy. He couldn't afford it any more. He and Angela had a group of us over to dinner anyway. They absolutely refused my offer to help pay for the rather extravagant meal, despite the fact that they had had to move to a cheaper house . . . and take in a renter to help defray living costs.

I got older. I got married. (And The Family Affair plays no small part in the history of our courtship.) And, to my shame, I lost touch with Bronko and Angela once the Family Affair was gone. I wonder what else I've neglected.

God, I miss that place. I miss that sense of belonging, of knowing that crossing the threshhold meant that I was protected, and loved, and that it was mine.

And I miss Bronko, who finally succumbed to his disease last week. He's dead. And, oh, I miss you, Angela, who is still alive, and utterly wrecked, and who doesn't know where to go, and God damn it, whom I have failed.

I am so sorry, Bronko. It's high time I gave Angela a call. I'm going to tell her all about you, from over here. Not that she needs it. But I do.

See you later, easy money.