guy sleeping on the bar? The strange bartender? The mysterious guy he had drunk all that vodka with? Matthew didn’t know. He called for a straight bourbon. Maybe that would clear his head. But by eleven o’clock Matthew had drunk several straight bourbons and several more beers, and his mind, far from becoming clearer, was becoming hazier by the minute. Every time he took a drink he remembered some personal detail of his life. And every time he remembered it he promptly forgot it. His wife—zip. His children—zip. His partner, his business, where he lived, who he was, even his name—all gone, like dreams that seem real and substantial during the night, but dissolve in the morning sunlight like thin patches of fog. So by the time the bartender gave last call at about eleven-thirty, Matthew was in a state of drunken panic. As he ordered one last straight bourbon, he noticed that he was slurring his words and he could barely sit upright on the barstool. When the bartender brought his drink, Matthew lurched over the bar and grabbed the man by his shirt collar. The bartender quickly and expertly disengaged himself from Matthew and looked at him reprovingly. “I think you’ve had quite enough for one night, sir,” he said in a polite but firm tone, taking Matthew’s fresh bourbon and the remains of his beer and placing them on the counter behind the bar. Matthew looked up at him pleadingly, but the bartender just shook his head. “But I have nowhere to go…” Matthew started. Then he suddenly stopped. It was true. He really had no idea where to go. A look of horror crossed his face as he got up and staggered unsteadily to the men’s D e s c e n d i n g
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