In the dining room we sat and did not speak. I could think of nothing to say. I couldn’t imagine what Meg might say. What amazed me was that I did not let my mind wander to my work, my usual refuge, distraction, safe harbor. I would not be sleeping. Meg and I needed space at that moment, not each other. Correct or not, that was my reading.

“I need to think,” I said. I left the house.

De Homine

And so the world was different. I drove from my house on that Thursday night through the busy place that was Old Town Pasadena, a sweet and glittery advertisement for wholesome American nightlife. Everyone appeared so light and carefree, floating along, laughing, feeling safe. I continued south on the 110 to downtown, to a restaurant bar on Main Street just a block away from skid row, a place that I had heard mentioned on campus by a few grad students, named, quite understandably, the Bar on Main Street. Downtown Los Angeles was making its way back to presentability but still wore the grime and dirt I needed at that moment. I didn’t really remember just how to drink stupidly, but I imagined it would not be difficult to figure out. The door was in the shape of a big keyhole, and I surprisingly fit right through it. Strangely, since I had heard some students mention the place, but not so strangely from the overall look and tenor of the joint, there were, in fact, no students inside, just a bunch of rough men and a couple of women who looked even rougher. The bartender, a short man with only half a mustache, asked me what I wanted.

He caught me staring at his lip. “I lost a bet,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Scotch,” I told him.

“What kind?”

“Any kind,” I said.

“Cutty Sark?”

“Sure.”

“Ice?”

“No.”

“Water?”

“Just the scotch.”

I looked at the door, perhaps hoping for a familiar face to enter, perhaps just because it was the door and the way out. My drink was delivered and I downed some. The whisky burned my throat and made my eyes well up. I coughed. Actually, I gagged.

A guy a couple of stools over laughed at me. I didn’t mind. He was about my size but wanted to seem larger in his leather jacket, which maybe wasn’t such a bad thing in a place like this. “Go easy there, tough guy,” he said. “Jimmy, give the man some water,” he called to the bartender.

“Thank you,” I said to the bartender and then to the man down the bar. I drank some water, then tried another sip of whisky.

“And my name’s not Jimmy,” the bartender said.

“Whatever.”

I drank the rest of the scotch and tapped the bar for Half Mustache to bring me another one.