Moving back home from college brought a kind of stupor to my daily life, and my nights became a waking dread. If I wasnt pounding out yet another imitation on the piano, I was behind the bar, tending to the usual crowd with demons of their own. I had fallen into a routine at Oscars when the strangest of them all arrived and ordered a shot of whiskey. He slid the glass against the rail and stared at it. I went on to the next customer, poured a beer, sliced a lemon, and came back to the guy, and the drink was sitting undisturbed. He was a pixy fellow, clean, sober, in a cheap suit and tie, and as far as I could tell, he hadnt lifted his hands from his lap.

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