A man in a black overcoat walks across the floor of a bar without a name. It is a quiet night, near closing time; just an old timer sits at table near the stale air of the men’s room. He mutters aimlessly to himself as he moves his hand slowly along a beer glass. He makes a fist and lets go with crooked, hurting fingers. The music had died an hour ago. The kitchen is silent.
The man in the overcoat stands across from the bartender. From his pocket he pulls four photographs and lays the black and white prints across the oak bar top.
He says: “They’re all gone.”
“Dead.” The bartender grunts.
“Yes. What can you do about it?”
“Nothing. Ask God.”
The stranger lifts the photos and places them in his pocket. As he walks back across the floor he hears the old man stammer ”Nnn..othing ..Nothing. Nobody can do nothing.”
The man in the overcoat makes a fist in his pocket and opens his hand against the photos. Lately his fingers have been hurting. He wonders aloud if soon he will sit in a bar and curse his muttering God. The old man says nothing. The bartender whistles lowly.