Tom pushed through the doors of Tonino’s out onto the street, stopping at the curb to look up and down the road. Up the street were more restaurants — mom and pop joints established by the honest and the not so honest, hardworking people of elsewhere. Not all did deliveries, but there were always dishes to be washed. A new job was the last thing on his mind, though. Down the street were a cluster of bars, Bleu’s included. His gaze lifted towards the glowing half-moon sign. It beckoned him the way only neon blue could.

Today there was a cluster of regulars at the bar — Chad, the hotshot realtor who seemed perpetually intent on slumming, Adam, a late twenty-something confined to a wheel chair and Renaldo, Tom’s peach of a neighbor. Around them were familiar faces in a variety of garb whose names Tom had never gathered. The crowd was a motley piece of work, and Tom had never felt more at home with them than he did now.

He was already smiling at some unheard joke and the laughter filling the air as he made his way to the bar. Jerry answered his call, filling a glass just to the line, the foam rippling threateningly before breaching the rim. He took a long sip before saying his hellos, and settled onto a stool on the edge of the group.

“Jerry,” Adam said, peeking over the lip of the bar. “You ever play ball? College, pro, whatever.”

Jerry looked down at Adam, with more than a hint of confusion in his eyes. “No,” he said carefully. “Why?”

“Cause you look like Brett Favre’s retarded brother!” Adam yelled.

He did bear an uncanny resemblance to Brett Favre, had the quarterback never made it through primary school. Tom spit beer through his nose at the thought, as the rest of the group howled with the unearned enthusiasm only alcohol permitted.

Jerry’s studious gaze landed on Tom. “You think that’s funny college boy?”

“I do bar man.” Tom slapped a ten on the bar. “Pour me two vodkas.”

As Jerry bent reluctantly to his task, Chad turned to Tom. “Hitting it hard today, huh?”

Tom threw back his first shot and said, “Celebrating unemployment.”

“You quit or fired?”

Tom answered by downing his second vodka.

“What’d they can you for?” Adam asked.

“Just some bullshit,” Tom said, wiping his chin.

Renaldo tittered at that, and Jerry turned on the TV above the bar, the TV where Tom had first seen Daniels.

“You kidding me,” Tom bitched. “Came here for some quiet.”

Jerry found the local news, and there was Tom again, marching through the rain while a ticker on the bottom of the screen speculated his motives. The group quieted and looked at him, in person and on TV. He felt the pressure give way to anger and tried to swallow it with the rest of his beer. It didn’t work. He gulped the last sip and flung the glass past Jerry, shattering the mirror behind the bar.

“Out!” Jerry yelled.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it,” Tom said, heading for the door.

He stalked home to find his apartment slightly emptier than it had been that afternoon.