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behind his long hair.

I don't have time for this. I mean business.

I sit at the end of the bar closest to me because it's the closest.
I'm afraid that I'll slip in here: it's too dark and I can feel my shoes stick-
ing to the Boor. Now I really want, no, need a drink.

"Please tell me that you have clean glasses and strong vodka.
No tonic:'

"Sure, kid:' he says. He gets out a sparkling clean glass from the
shelf behind him. He pours me a drink, but I can't see a label. It's off the
rail. No ice is required.

He sits it in front of me and I just stare into it. Maybe I'm not
ready. Maybe this is progress. Maybe ... but the bartender's voice breaks
me away from myself

"Excuse me, what did you say?"
"What're you doin' 'round here for? You sure as hell ain't local.
That's pretty clear, ma'am."

"I'm here for my father's funeral." .

"Aren't all the kids, nowadays?"

"Excuse me." I hop off my stool, steadying my nerves. "Could
you tell me where the ladies' room is?"

"We ain't got one. Didn't you see the sign? We're all David
here."

"What, uh-what the fuck is this?"

"This is our place;' respond the three men from the end of the
bar. Now I can see - they're one man, a fusion of Davids-an amalgam
of flesh and bone. Snapping at me with his mouths.

"You don't belong;' the pool players tell me. They are diving
into the ground in front of me, their hands in each others' mouths, con-
suming, always - they don't react, just their eyes locked and unblink-
ing-tears splashing into each others' faces, regret devouring them.

The last man, he's quiet. He's moving the slowest towards me
and somehow he's the closest. His hair, a curtain in front of his face, be-
gins to draw back-it's shifting, slinking around-on its own. It reveals

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