Jimmy's legs began to cramp as he knelt on the floor of his living room, picking up shards of glass and pieces of dill pickles and carefully placing them in a wicker trashcan. Sunlight came streaming in his windows, forming beautiful shapes on the floor. The stained glass window turned the white sunlight different hues of blue, green and red, and Jimmy felt slightly comforted, recognizing a familiar sight. Jimmy forced himself to recall the events of the dramatic, unsettling last twenty-four hours:
He arrived home yesterday to an open apartment and found his refrigerator empty of food and his guitar, signed by Lynard Skynard, missing. Frantically racing out of his apartment to look for signs of the thief on the street below, Jimmy tripped over an abandoned jar of his favorite type of pickle, shattering the jar and soaking the already water-damaged wooden floor. Still feeling the thrill of pursuit, Jimmy leapt onto his feet and raced down the stairs, through the lobby and into the daylight, whipping his head in all directions, scanning the surroundings, trying to glimpse his fire-engine red guitar. He began to run in one direction, then another, then another, until finally the unyielding forced of gravity caused him to collapse into a pathetic, panting heap on the concrete.
Jimmy rose slowly, defeated, unable to understand, unable to comprehend what had happened. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before- he had never been driven to lock his doors from the fear of intruders. He though of calling the police but didn't know the number. No friends were here to help him search for the perpetrator. Jimmy was alone. Jimmy was not at home.
Hours passed and Jimmy found himself sitting in his old, moth-eaten recliner, staring out the window, feeling empty. He didn't recall returning to his apartment. Turning around, he realized that his door stood open; rays of light from the dim overhead lamps flooded into the darkness of his living room. Jimmy fumbled for his wallet and keys in the deep pocket of his jacket, found them and left, carefully locking the door behind him. A raw numbness sat in his stomach, and he slowly felt it spreading to the farthest corners of his body.
"Why would someone do something like this? Why would they take my guitar? My guitar... my guitar! Dad... dad!"
The rumbling of his stomach interrupted Jimmy's thoughts, so he headed for the Tavern; "One beer won't hurt- right? "
Part of him pleaded with him to not go inside the Tavern, to simply find a diner. But Jimmy felt the hunger deep inside, the hunger that didn't want food, the hunger that longed for escape. It longed to numb the shock, to take him away from this new place, to help him feel at home, to fix his problems. Frightened of the past and the could-be future, Jimmy gathered his strength and fought the hunger. He just needed a beer. One wouldn't hurt. He would be fine.
Jimmy walked blindly into the dimness and headed straight to the bar. He asked for a Bud, but pulled the bartender aside and asked him to only give him one beer, even if he demanded more. A lone man sat on the center bar stool, slumped over a glass that was one of an astonishing number of empty ones, which were spread out next to him. The two men made eye contact and Jimmy approached him.
"You know whar the nearest diner is 'round here?"
"Take a right outta here and it'll be a couple of blocks down," the man replied.
A silence followed.
"So- I'm James. And what's a young guy like you doin' in this shit-hole?" the man asked.
Before Jimmy could answer, the door opened and a beautiful woman walked in. The strange man immediately focused all of his attention on her, and had no more words for Jimmy. Deciding that it was worthless to be in a bar that had customers as miserable as that man, Jimmy drained his glass and went into the night, searching for a place to eat.