1
I NOTICE THAT THE SEAT of Hal Green’s pants is wet as I follow him out of the Venice Bar & Grill in Somerville, Massachusetts at almost 7:00 p.m. on a Friday in late October. The evening is in the waning moments of dusk, but the light isn’t so bad that I can’t see the wet spot.
“Hey, Hal. Your pants are wet,” I say.
“Well, no kidding, Larry,” he says, stopping so abruptly that I almost bump into the back of him. “You wouldn’t be kidding, would you?”
He slaps both hands against his ass to emphasize just how wet he is, and then looks at me over his shoulder. It was I who had accidentally spilled the beer in his chair. I shrug my shoulders and walk around him toward the car.
“I’m not kidding,” I say. “They’re wet.”
“Sweet Betsy,” he says, pats the roof of his car, and throws himself i
