His brother came up from Texas wearing a Cowboys uniform to take care of Bill's business. He ordered a beer on the same seat his brother sat upon. And we watched old football video waiting for the quarterback to throw a Hail Mary.
Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. My hands in prayer mode, shouting Hare Krishna. Peace. Peace. A flying punch whistles past my nose. The smaller combatant hits the floor rocked by the fist of fury.
He sweeps the bar. I wipe the tables. Then grab the padlocks, lock the doors and think, how did I end up here? We walk around the street market at 3 a.m., under the hum of lampposts, thinking about what to do next. We share a flask of whisky.
Did I just see something slither to the shadow? Trip to the ice machine, all that is frozen in time like that cockroach, just kidding. I need to get my peripheral vision checked. I'm sure I just saw something flee to the darkness under the stairs.
John is going away. To a rehab nuthouse -- his words. One year in exile with a bunch of drunks. Ordered by psychiatrists. The doors are locked night and day. But he's figured out a way to get supplies delivered.
A long trail follows curious Steven, long sheets of bad luck. He's been in many a sticky situation. He picked up a brown paper bag from the shade in the alley behind the dive.
What's in here? he inquired. A used hypo-needle that pricked his finger, that's what.