I tried to redeem myself by finishing my last bite of sausage, which seemed like something a sane person would do. Dang, it was good.

The people at the pool table were still studying me, or so I thought. The white noise on TV was starting to form into actual sentences. The guy on my right with the hot dog kept trying to make eye contact so he could say something to me. No one with mental retardation came through the front door. It was time for my exit.

"Thanks," I said to the barkeep, thinking to myself that she was indeed a sweetie pie, a reliable sort; someone you could count on for advice about removing stubborn carpet stains or getting chewing gum out of hair. But I'm pretty sure my lips weren't moving when I thought that.

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