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He must think I'm mental. And I think I need a drink.

I decide that, hey: this is America. There must be a bar open
this early in the morning, even in the middle of Virginia. Especially in
the middle of Virginia. So I quit crying, say my respects to the deer, and
restart the engine.

I begin to lose track of time. I'm on the back-roads-or at least
I decide that they have to be back-roads for any of the surroundings to
make sense; I can't hear the cars from the highway.

I'm approaching woods on my left and what looks like a row
of homes to my right. It's a single lane.

Then I realize the homes are just big chicken coops. I see a few
small goats wandering in the fields behind them. The grass, and this has
to be one big property, it looks like straw. It makes the road seem so out
of place, among the trees and the animals-why is the road paved?

"Oh, shit;' I realize. "I'm on somebodys driveway."

I can't find a wide enough stretch of pavement to turn around;
it makes more sense to just bite the bullet and keep going, just turn
around when I hit the driveway of whatever home I was heading to-
wards.

Then the chicken coops disappear from view. I can see a drive-
way up ahead. A tavern, my salvation. I tell myself: it's only step four so
it's not like I've made much progress. I can start from scratch tomorrow.
Hallelujah.

There are only six, maybe seven other cars in the lot. They
almost look rusted to the spot, like they've been sitting in the sun and
rain for ages-local color, I guess. So I find a space close to the tavern
entrance and make my way to the door. That's when I notice the long-
dim neon sign: "Davids."

You've got to be fucking kidding me. But at this point, what
the hell?

No bell rings on the door when I slip in, but all the men in the
joint turn and see me-or really, it's like they expected me to walk in,
like they were already looking at the door.

The bartender. Three guys at the far end of the bar. Two play-
ing pool to my right. One sitting in the dark at a table. I can't see his face

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