He's so quiet. Just sitting there, he seems oblivious to the whole world; but I have the feeling he isn't missing anything.

Is he a hustler? Or just a lost kid?

But isn't that all any of them are, regardless?

Now, old boy, all I have to do is give you a tumble. Play the old eye game in the mirror. Then you'll buy me a beer, and we'll be on our way. Yesireebob! To far-outsville . . . for you, old man . . . for you. . .

His face is sad and lonely. His eyes are asking me the old question. No, I musn't feel that way. That's a mistake. I musn't pre-judge him, or the situation. That's how we get into trouble.

Come on, old friend, make your bid. You're hooked now. I can feel it coming. Play the game. That's what you want, isn't it? So what the hell? Get on with it. I can tell, you're no different from the rest of them. So, I'll play you out for what you are. But I'll give you an even break. I'll let you make all the moves. I won't push you into it. It's all up to you, daddy. Take the bait, or don't, just as you choose.

His glass is nearly empty. He has been nursing that beer for a long time. Poor kid.

Should I buy him a beer? Or should I not?

What hurt would it do? Just buying him a drink doesn't mean that much. It isn't as though he were sitting clear down at the other end of the bar and I had to send it down to him. That would be spelling it out. But he's sitting right here, next to me.

Does pride matter that much, if he should refuse me? But, of course, he won't. Does it matter that much, anyway? To be . . . just friendly what hurt's in that? Even if he does take it wrong. Why should I care? What have I to lose? O! Vanity! Thy name is old aunty!

Ready, Pop? The old eyes are reading it all now, aren't they, you sick old crud! But I promised, and I'll keep that promise . . . so just watch out,

Pop!

"May I buy you another beer? Or perhaps you'd like something else?" "Why not? And beer's good enough."

"I hope you don't think I'm being forward..."

"I never jump to conclusions."

"That's very wise. One can avoid a lot of trouble that way."

"Sc, thanks for the beer."

"You're very welcome, so long as you don't misunderstand

دو

Fat chance! Pop, I don't have to. I know too damned well what's going on inside you!

Sometimes it gets too lonely. Sometimes a man is driven beyond all endurance by loneliness. Then he has to take a chance. You have to break down. Give in. A little, or a great deal . . . take the chance . . . risk the cost . . . .. But, at least, we can kill a little time with some talk, what harm is there in that? Must it follow just because I talk to him, buy him a beer, that I am determined for more than that? Just because he is a man, does not guarantee desire . . . there is much else . . . Or is there?

Sometimes it gets too lonely

Old man, we've talked. You've listened to all my lies about myself. And I have listened to your's. All those lies that are expected to be heard. Isn't it time to say to hell with the posing, the gaffing, the sugging beer? It's time to move on, old man, to move on, just you and I. I've felt your knee against mine,

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