Dizzy, lifting his beer. He felt so drunk all of a sudden. He asked the waiter for the check, but the pitcher was mostly full, and Judson was staring at him though he appeared very far away. Did I do something wrong? No, everything’s fine, Ronny said. But we might as well pay while I can still count my money. In case I need to run, he thought. In case I can’t stand it in here anymore. Ben at the back of the bar lifting a shot glass. Turned to face Tate and Kathy. Ronny leaned over the table. He and Judson were still chattering but he could hardly map what he was saying, that Judson was sweet, too, and cute, kind of—did he really say that?—and the music had gotten so loud all of a sudden, Pink Floyd, then Led Zeppelin, that shrill voice of Robert Plant, soaring, then the Rolling Stones, “Satisfaction,” and Judson patting his back, hand light and warm. Tate saw them, Ronny and Judson, started toward the table, then stepped back. Ben at his side, staring at Ronny. Flushed. Drinking another shot. The waitress twisting in front of him, trying to flirt, a little apron, bow tied at her back. It would be too much, this compression of people and noise. Something bad would happen. Ben was grim, holding a beer can, crushing it in his fist, and the waitress went twisting away, and Ben took somebody else’s shot glass—maybe it was Kathy’s?—and slammed the liquid down, and the music changed again, “Without You,” the Badfinger song, Nilsson’s version, and someone nearby groaned and said, “Not this song, what a downer,” and Ronny stood up. They had paid. He might be leaving. He felt the alcohol then—how many beers?—Judson was watching him, and started to get up too, and there was Ben looming over him. “You son of a bitch, so this is what you’re doing?”

Poor Judson. Stepped back. Asked, “What?”

Ben was staggering a little. Looked at Ronny. “You heard me. Who’s this piece of shit? Who is he?”

“Hey, dude, we’re just having a drink—”

“Shut the fuck up. Nobody’s talking to you.”

Ronny was wavering now, holding the back of the chair. Ben grabbed him by the shoulder, shook him. People were watching, mostly in annoyance. Another drunk scene. Judson looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, mumbled something, and Ben rounded on him. He raised a hand, started to make a fist.

“Don’t you call me that,” Ronny said, and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling hard, almost ripping the fabric.

Ben blinked at him, lowered his fist. “Call you what? I didn’t call you anything. I just asked you who this motherfucker is.”

“Come on, Judson,” Ronny said. His head was clearing a little. “We better get out of here.”

“You’re not going anywhere, pussy.”

Tate moving toward them, taking Ben by the shoulder. Judson backing away from the table, toward the door. The bartender had his eye on them. A bouncer was standing nearby.