John was the lead singer. This was the band Louise had told me about. He also played the violin, or fiddle, or whatever the fuck it’s called. I stood there on the dance floor. He seemed pretty intent on the music and didn’t look at the people too much. I started to get into it, sensing the country rhythm, doing a sliding move here and there, with a shake to it. I did a spin, bumped into somebody, and lost the popcorn, but I kept my eye on him and went up close to the stage to dance. I danced up and back and snapped my fingers. I yelled “Hey!” up to him. He nodded and gave a half wave, and then, when the singing part of the song ended and it was just the instruments playing, I shouted up that it sounded pretty good. He motioned to me that he couldn’t hear. I moved as close as I could and yelled up that when he said he played in a band I didn’t think it was a country band. He made a face and looked away; maybe he didn’t understand. I yelled up that they probably did Elvis tunes, that it sounded like Charlie Daniels, and he turned to the guy playing the guitar and sort of laughed. I screamed up at him that I knew a lot of people who might get them gigs, but he was looking above me, straight ahead. I told them that the guitars sounded excellent, that all kinds of people liked country music, that when they were done if they wanted to get a beer I might be willing.

I WOKE UP in my bed, with my coat and tie and shoes still on. It was Saturday morning. I took everything off. There was dried barf on my shoes. I’d puked in a urinal at that cowboy bar—that came back to me. And when I went over to try to talk to John while the band packed up their equipment I fell over a stack of drum boxes. On the way back home a wheelbarrow somehow got stuck underneath my car.

I went into the kitchen. The downstairs smelled like cat piss. Skippy’s litter box was like an overflowing minefield. I poured a bowl of cereal and a dead beetle fell out, though when I touched him he started to walk.

I lay on the living-room floor and read the newspaper. There were leaves and sand and pubic hairs in the rug. Skippy’s fur was stuck around the coffee-table legs.

I looked in the mirror. I had blackheads on the end of my nose.