Byers is asleep again. You hear his pencil roll away from his hand and then stop as it hits the southeast corner of the Havanap dispenser. His notebook lies open before him, unguarded, vulnerable, easily read by anyone near enough. You think about it. You’d have to get up. Tough call. You decide you’d rather not be disappointed. Maybe another time.

His feet stick out beyond the booth, so anyone headed for the john will have to sidle around them. Those shoes. You imagine they are what Puerto Rican dandies in New York must wear – black slip-ons, cut rather high. They must have elastic in the tops, you think. And pointed. You look at your Clark’s desert boots, then back at those pointy pointy shoes.

It is said he never takes them off. Someone told of going to his apartment one afternoon and banging and banging on the door until it opened. There was Byers, stumbled out of bed, in underwear and black socks and those shoes. Then someone suggested maybe he has cloven feet. No one could actually imagine what that would look like, but the idea fit the Mephistophelian leer and so it caught on.

Black socks. Nobody wears black socks. Nobody wears white socks, either, except you did, once. Freshman convocation. You dressed up as you thought you were supposed to. Charcoal grey suit, black loafers, white socks. Where you came from, very cool, very chic. Here – not really. You were not cool.

Nobody remembers but you. Now you are, well, semi-cool. Anyhow, cool enough to sit here, near where Byers hangs out, and others, and where the jukebox offers an EP version of “Pictures at an Exhibition” along with jazz and rock.

You wonder why you are here now, though. Early in the quarter; no paper to write, no rush to read. Habit, you suppose. And anyhow, this is where it’s at. And when. Late, later, latest. Refill your own coffee all night, snake a new ashtray from another booth every so often, since Flash just hangs out in the kitchen until Irv yells at him for something.

Where is everybody? Coffee. Time for a pie. Hostess fruit pie, fifteen cents. Tear open the bag; flakes of sugar glaze fall out; dab them up. For the millionth time you read “Reg. Penna. Dept. Agr.; Conn. Lic. 1620.” So – legal in two states. Not here? License an apple pie? “I swear to god, Officer, I thought the pie was legit.” Busted for carrying an unregistered pie. Great story for the grandkids. My Rebellious Youth. Maybe fight it to the Supreme Court.

Where the hell is everybody? Dab up the flakes from the table. Linda home for the weekend. Schick? Geo?

Black. Vietnam. Jeez, he could have tried to stay in school. “Fuck it,” he says. Yeah, so from here to the Marines. God, what a scene when he left. Family quiet like a funeral; she cried for us all.

You wonder if you could do that. You try hard not to hear the answer but you hear it. Time for music. You get up, drop a quarter in the box, punch buttons from memory. The arm selects a disk, flips it over onto the turntable, the needle drops. Hiss. Only one record has been played that much.

“If you see me walking down the street
And I start to cry…”.

You glance at Byers; he stirs, looks at you, and smiles almost sweetly. He’s the one who plays it so much. The jukebox guy tried to replace it with a new copy one day and Byers talked him out of it. You wish you’d heard that.

You hear the door at the far end open. Schreck. Too early for pool, so he’s here killing time. He sits down opposite. You wait for it.

“Bet you can’t write down the names of all fifty states in five minutes.”

You calculate. Five minutes, ten states a minute. No sweat. Fifty cents.

You open a spiral notebook to a fresh page and poise your pencil, all the while thinking Alphabetically? East to west? Schreck peers at his watch. “Go!”

You write quickly. Alaska, Hawaii, just to get them out of the way; Washington, Oregon, California; your mind’s eye glances up and down; which way? No sweat. You keep writing.

“One minute.”

Almost to the Mississippi.

“Two minutes.”

No straight lines anymore. Still, you’re going strong. Don’t forget Rhode Island, whatever you do, but don’t write it yet; wait ‘til you get there.

“Three minutes.” Is that a touch of amusement in his voice?

Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama,…uh, Georgia…oh crap, back up; Tennessee, Kentucky…

“Four minutes.” He’s definitely enjoying this.

OK, restart at the top and work down: Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island – yesss!!! – New York….

“Time!”

No. Uh-uh. You count them. Forty-eight. Schreck holds out his hand. You lay in two quarters: three pies, six tunes. He grins.

“Hey, Fats! Cheeseburger, onion.”

You missed one of your songs entirely, and now you hear the last few seconds of “The In Crowd.” Should’ve stayed home, you think.

Schreck puts the cheeseburger away quickly and stands up.

“Time for a little nine ball.”

He’s gone. You refill your cup and glance over at Byers. He’s asleep again.

Next: Circe