Anton is chronically depressed, and Irv takes clozapine to inhibit visual and auditory hallucinations of marauding hordes of men storming across an open meadow to personally attack and crush him. Barry runs frequent blood tests on both men; he likes to keep an eye on their diets, and that is the principal reason these three sit next to the left-handed vegetarians—Foster, Andrew, Eli, Milton, Pierce, Fielding—one after another marked off in green pencil down the table. Straight across from the vegetarians is a seat that remains empty. This is George’s. If George ever shows up for dinner, he’ll have his old place, no question. Twins come after George, one set only, Michael and Abraham. Jeremiah objects to overlarge cliques—they create dead spots and really bring a table down—and he already graciously allows Jim’s quiet zone. Certain young fathers—Clay, Seth, Vidal, Gustavus, Joe—follow the twins. These men are discouraged from reading pornography at mealtime, but as a rule Joe pilfers something lewd and beautiful from the glass cabinet, spreads this on the oak table. This offends Winston and Charles. Fights break out. The fights are rarely physical. Winston and Charles are always calmed from across the table by their brothers Lawrence and Peter. After Winston and Charles comes Vincent, and after Vincent comes Paul, then Russel, then Spencer, then Sergio. Sergio is a good talker; he keeps the ball rolling. Across on the right-hand side of the table, it’s Christopher, Stephen, Siegfried—these three truly enjoy one another’s company—followed down the line by two more young fathers, Brice and Dutch, and next to Dutch, written in bright, bright orange—I’ve never figured out the logic behind this—yours truly. It’s a dismal state of affairs all around. On my right I’m joined by Jack in his safari costume. It gets worse. To Jack’s immediate right, two seats down from me, we find the last twins, Scott and Samuel, and after these comes Kevin. What this means is that there is no one to chat with and dinner is a chore, and there is no point looking across the table for company, because here’s who’s there: Rex, Mr. Gruff; Bertram, Mr. Nosebleeds; Walter, Mr. Wattled Boar. Next of course comes unhappy Virgil, who dislikes Walter as much as I do. Max at least makes interesting conversation. He sits far away at the end of the table, but he and I can sometimes manage a dialogue if we shout over the heads of Kevin and Angus and the others crowded near the corner. It’s always a hardship when Max can’t make it for dinner. On those occasions Zachary gets plenty of extra elbow room at his place beside Maxwell’s chair. In fact there is no good seat for Zachary. He picks on everyone and no one is safe. Bob can at least check Zachary’s reaching around to steal leftovers from Albert’s plate. It’s a lucky thing for Albert that he is adapted to his condition, that he experiences his blindness more as a trial than a deprivation.