"I'm (i)leaving(i)," he said and waved a hand like he could make us disappear in a cloud of dust.  "Don't take this wrong," he pointed at me then walked towards the other guys and said loudly, "Not a friendly crowd tonight." The other guys started towards him and hooked his two arms and carried him backwards to the doorway.  "Just stand there then," one said.  "We've got business inside," said the other.  "I think all y'all should mind your own business," I held the door open and said while they went in  first.

     Inside Cupid scooped back to the table.  And the guys walked up to the beautiful woman.  They pulled out the two barstools on either side of her and stood with an elbow each on the bar.  One smiled and one looked so concerning.  One flipped at his hair and told her hers looked...he searched the air around her for the word...(i)gorgeous or fabulous whichever you prefer(i).  "Who's drinking what? And don't tell me to put it on his tab.  I fell for that once," the woman bartender had her arms stretched out onto the other side of the bar like a masseuse.  The blonde boyman had stepped inside and stood against the doorwall still holding his briefcase in both hands.  He gave a little wave when they all looked his way.  "I made it in!" He said in a puney voice.  "I have this thing," he told nobody else even looking.  "Germs." He rocked his head a little to the music beat and then visibly clutched his briefcase tighter.

     "What I miss?" Cupid asked.  "In the story." 

     "What does it matter?!  The past is the past." 

     Cupid folded the corner of the cocktail napkin under his Scotch.  "Well.  That's true.  And it's not.  You know these guys?" 

     The Pastor was gently pushed through the door by the sweaty tee shirt.  Briefcase boy hissed at the woman helping him get back to the table.  I got out of his seat and the bartender roused from half asleep on his arms folded on the table.  "He needs water, please," she told.  The Pastor looked at us.  "It's getting closer," he could barely talk strong.  The bartender got up and asked, "Warm or cold?" 

     "We don't have any money." 

     "Would warm or cold be better for him?"

     "I'm not really sure." 

     Was only a couple minutes before the bartender came back with a tray of ice water, steaming water, and several cups of chili.  "I'da brought more but it's the endo."  He looked at the floor realizing the pun then went off for forks.

     The girl got up from the barstool and held up the corners of her tee shirt as she passed by on her way to the bathroom.  (i)Kick Ass, Take Names Later(i) the tee-shirt said.  The letters weren't perfectly straight and the glitter was more of a rocket shape blob than outlining the ironed-on saying.  "What's in the briefcase Dirk?" She asked and bounced the Women's Room door open with a knee.  "It's not Dirk," Briefcase Boy called after her.  

     "Maybe it was because of the young people.  We were young back then."

     "Still are." 

     "Young at heart," Skip raised his hand.

     "Somehow that speaker cord got drug out into the area where everyone was (i)taking sides(i) on everything.  That wasn't planned really.  I mean we'd all been making up our minds on political issues.  And it was like worlds collided."  

     "I hate it when that happens,"  Skip said.  "It can get downright hairy." 

     Briefcase Boy kind of followed the girl coming out of the bathroom but stopped at our table.  He put the cellphone on the table.

     "Aren't you going to say, (i)here's a quarter, call someone who cares(i)?" 

     "When did you get so bitter?"  He walked over to the others.

     It had been about a decade since Father Hen had stood, hands empty, arms at his sides, the tired weighing down his shoulders but him fighting that too.  The tug-of-war had sobered everyone before he'd arrived.  People had different kinds of music playing on about five different speakers, (i)something for everyone(i) a going-deaf guy with a passionate understanding of how important music is to people peacefully took over as DJ.  Some couples grabbed each other and tried to remember ballroom dancing and the (i)tango(i).  A support person was losing voice but (i)holding attention(i) with questions to force participation.  "If I say (i)abortion(i), which side of the line would you be on?" She pointed to the speaker wire in the getting muddy grass where it had been dropped.

     "Is this a political thing?" A woman with longish, reddish hair polished off a shot and a soda chaser and asked. 

     A still chubby young man burst into tears.  Face exploded into sob-wailing.  The support person rose from where she was poking a finger at the muddied wire to see if it was "hot".  She stood in front of the boyman and her hands covered her mouth and reached towards him but pulled back and covered her mouth, then reached toward him again, her own face contorted into almost crying as she asked, "Did I do it?  Say the wrong thing?" The boyman's face was flaming red and wet like the sand slapped by the tide.  He nodded slow and his breath got caught in his chest and he sucked his air in and blew it out.  "Anybody got an inhaler?" The redhead had thrown the cups and bolted to his side too.  Nobody touched anybody.

     The woman with the shoes in her hands started running toward the pile of purses but tripped over the amp's string.  "You can do it honey," a worn from singing all night little high voice called out to her.  "My skirt," she said to the muddy grass, but she picked her palms up and wiped her hands together.  The mud got on her sweater cuffs.  "What's (i)she(i) doing?" Million dollar smile guy callef over the heads of people rushing at him saying, "(i)DO SOMETHING!(i).  More support people broke off dancing and picture taking and sort of made a semi-circle around the woman on her knees rubbing and rubbing at the (i)dirty(i).  One called out, "It's mud.  Hard to get off ya." But others started chanting, "You can do it.  You can do it." She lifted her head, her bun sliding backwards and said, "It sounds like a choir of angels.  You know what?!  (i)I can do it(i)." She pulled a leg towards her front and it was slimed green and brown but she got it under her center and jack knifed the rest of her skirt up from under her other knee and was on both knees hoisting that skirt up higher when  (i)he's here(i) started to go around. 

     Nobody ran.  "I (i)need(i) an inhaler." The redhead was holding up the kid bent over trying to catch his breath.  He came run-waltzing through the little crowd.  "Where is she?" 

     "Skip," he didn't look away from the story hanging in the air.  "Yeah." 

     "You still slap?"  

     The guys were turning speakers this way and that. 

     "They're right over there," a boringly handsome skinny kid had his feet up on a tree stump, sitting in a director's chair, nervous habit had his new leather boots rocking side to side.  He casually waved in the direction of the pile of purses.  We'd seen three ladies there.  But they were gone.  Father Hen smacked the booted feet off the stump.  "(i)Where are they(i)?" 

     He stood up tall and partially turned away from the kid in shock.  He crossed his arms and the seams on his suit coat stretched some.  "You were supposed to watch over them.". His face was hard and soft at the same time.  He walked over and held his hand down to the woman on her knees.

     "You know," the briefcase didn't slide across the dull table but more like plopped next to my writing pad.  "We're not all that different from each other." 

     "I doubt that." 

     Standing behind me, started reading over my shoulder until I tried to look at him, then he ducked to the other shoulder.  Skinny tan hand reaching to the pad.  "Don't you need a comma there?"  I slung that writing pad almost to Kingdom Come.  It slid to where the bar bar used to be. 

     He picked it up.  Leaning over, said, "Don't look at my butt." Held it out to me.  "I'm not great at grammar either."  I pushed the chair back in a scrape that rivaled the band tuning (i)together(i).  "I need (i)outside(i)," I told Cupid.  "What are the arrows for?" He asked of the quill full resting on the table.  "People that show up out of the blue."