As for you, you gauge quickly, it is likely that you appear to Marlen to be a young man too handsome to be trusted, one who’s never held in his life what Marlen would call “a real job.” For based on the look of your clothes, your hair, and the way you hold your shoulders back from your chest as you do, as though bearing wings; the way you are standing with your weight on one leg, shirtsleeves neatly rolled, the creamy flanks of your forearms unmarred by arm-hair (yes, you wax), you must be vain, too vain you are guessing he’s guessing, to be of any real use to anyone, and it is likely that you work in finance or sales.

“I’m fine,” you say, thanking him in a manner that indicates you’re all set.

But Marlen, like others you have met of his ilk, is not, and will never be, so summarily dismissed.

“Not supposed to be in here,” he says. “Parlor’s closed,” and he professionally winds the cord in a loop, hand to elbow.

You grin, showing off your white teeth. You walk toward him. You stick out your hand, turning it on: “I’m so sorry,” you say. “Nice to meet you. I’m Congressman Alexander Paine Wilson, First District,” and when you say this, the guy’s wacky eyebrows smooth out.

“Voted for you,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Me and my wife, we both did. Whole family’s in Manassas.”

“I appreciate it,” you say, and wait for Marlen to say something right back, but Marlens never say something back. They have spoken so little in life that their rhythm’s all wrong. “Thanks a lot,” you say once more, awkwardly splitting air. “It’s Marlen, right?”

“Pronounced Mar-len,” he says, like he’s half Mark and half Leonard. “Not like Brando.”

“Good to meet you,” you say. “I’m here for the two o’clock service, but I’m early.”

“It’s Monday,” he says.

“The two o’clock service,” you say. “Today is Monday. Is that right?”

“Two clock—” Marlen says, and his head suddenly rips back, his mouth opening and his throat gagging like he’s either trying to speak a word he’s not accustomed to using or swallow something that got lodged there at lunch. His dry eyes squint. It goes on for far longer than comfortable, so long that you worry Marlen is, as Barb Newberg likes to say, a few french fries short of a Happy Meal, and you don’t know if you liked him better when you thought he was your adversary instead of your ally, and are sort of appalled when his eyes actually roll and he chokes a little and swallows, working out whatever ailment just visited him.