He’s just thinking about getting that drink, and his feet carry him into one of the old survivors, a dark narrow bar he doesn’t know the name of—the sign faded long ago—wedged between the last of the neighborhood Laundromats and an art gallery. It’s dark, like all bars should be. This is a serious drinkers’ bar—no amateurs or dilettantes need apply—and there are a dozen or so drinkers, mostly male, staggered around the bar and in the booths along the opposite wall. People don’t come in here to socialize, or talk sports or politics, or to sample fine whiskeys. They come in here to get drunk and
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