While Kenn and I were wondering what to do, we ordered beer, you know, to strategize.
“Two,” Kenn called out to the bartender, then looked at me. “I can’t believe that this is actually a waste of time. Crossing for this?”
The rakishly thin bartender with short-cropped hair returned with two freshly poured beers. “I’m Joey. You guys want to pay now or open a tab? If so, I’ll just need an impression of your credit card. Although I must say”—he cast an uneasy eye toward his bar manager, who appeared unable to decide if he wanted to play video games or balance himself against the wall—“this isn’t going to last long, at this rate.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, clearing my first draw on my beer, having tipped it toward Kenn as a sort of inchoate “cheers.”
“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” Joe
