“Well…” He paused. The generosity in him was flickering. But it had been there, I was sure of it.

“That’s not on the menu,” he said, like he was disappointed that he couldn’t accommodate me. I’d just been saying words that sounded like an expensive beer. I nodded grimly.

“It sounds like you want something hoppy,” he continued. “I’ll bring you something I think you’ll like. Sound good?”

“That … that would be perfect,” I said.

And I thought: Was that so hard? I’d made some sounds, and what I’d wanted would now be manifested, even if I hadn’t done everything in the traditional manner. With an appropriate amount of goodwill, I could, in fact, be quite easily accommodated.

I looked at the TV. Buy gold! The waiter brought the beer. He was beaming, triumphant. It was all going so well.

“Thanks very much,” I said, crisp and businesslike. The waiter gave a little bow and went back to the bar.

Now that I’d accomplished this, I thought, I might be better equipped to handle whatever came next. I took my first sip. It tasted strongly of dirt and metal, with an overlay of grain alcohol. Something was terribly wrong with the tap, or with my sense of taste, or with any world that could produce such a beverage. I took another sip, hoping it might start to make some kind of sense. It tasted even worse.

A Dog Named Jesus

Leslie bought a bottle of gin at a dimly lit casino liquor store and drove it to Allison’s house. She’d just bombed another job interview, her third in two weeks, this time for an assistantship at the Montana Wolf Conservancy. She rapped along with Biggie, who was, as usual, asking the tough questions: What was she going to do when Big Poppa came for her? It was badass job-getting music, but it worked just as well now that she hadn’t gotten a job. All the worst people worked for nonprofits, anyway.

She let herself in through her friend’s unlocked front door and found Allison’s shaggy boyfriend Clyde and a bearded man she didn’t know sitting in the living room, drinking beer and sorting piles of dried mushrooms into piles on the coffee table.

“Oh hey,” Clyde said. “Boy, am I glad you’re not a cop! Jake, this is Leslie. She’s the best.”

“I’m the best,” Leslie said.

She held out her hand and Jake grasped it weakly for a moment, giving her an appraising, sidelong smirk before returning his attention to the mushrooms.

“Jake works with me out at the Book Barn,” Clyde said.

“Well, they keep me in the back,” Jake said. “I sort through the new arrivals, organize the decent books, throw away the bad ones.”

“You don’t throw them away,” Clyde said.

“I arrange for the donation of the shitty books, thank you.”