A large number of people are wanting in the bathroom. I wait for three or four minutes before I can get inside the door, and then it’s old piss, wet linoleum, knifecarvings above stained urinals that shredded butts have clogged. Water is weeping out from the partitioned commode stall where there is never any toilet paper. Others in line behind me are now waiting their turn. Their faces are scarred and murderous; it won’t do to bump into them. To these no apology is acceptable. They’ll cut their knuckles again and again on my broken teeth after I’m on the floor.

I go back out, into the noise and the smoke and the dark. A woman touches my wrist when I go by her table, one of the three I saw earlier.

“Hey,” she says. “How come you ain’t asked me to dance yet?”

And there she is. Dark hair. Pale face. Sweater.

“I was fixing to,” I say. “You want to wait till the band starts back up?”

“Set down,” she says. She pulls out a chair and I sit.

“Where’s your friends?” I say. I hope they won’t come back. I don’t know why she’s picked me, but I’m glad somebody has. Even if the night turns out wasted there is hope at this moment.

“They over yonder,” she points. “I’ve seen you before.”

“In here?” I need my beer. “Let me go over here and get my beer and I’ll be right back.” She nods and smiles and I can’t tell much about her except she’s got knockers. I get my beer and come back.

“I saw you in here other night,” she says. “Last weekend.”

That’s not right; I worked all weekend last weekend, trying to make more money. But I say, “Yeah. I come in here about every weekend.”

Dark hair. Pale face. Sweater. Knockers. Jeans. I look down. Tennis shoes. With black socks.

“I used to come in here with my husband all the time,” she says. “You want a drink?”

I lift my beer. We sit for a while without saying anything. The band is coming back, moving around on the stage and talking behind the dead mikes.

“That’s a pretty good band,” I say.

“Yeah. If you like nigger music. I wish they’d get a good country band. You like country music?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” But I wish I knew George Thorogood personally.

“Who you like?”

I have to think. “Aw. I like old Ricky Skaggs pretty good. Vern Gosden, I like him a lot. John Anderson.”

“I used to be a singer,” she says.

“Oh really?” I’m surprised. “Where?”

She looks around. She shrugs. I watch her breasts rise and fall. “Just around.”

“I mean, professionally?” I sip my beer.