And the men would laugh. And Teddy would ripple away in his buoyant shoes with a sixty-cent tip and a weak smile drawn like a curtain over a mouthful of hate, to the far end of the bar, where he would stand sulking and hurt and furious, waiting for the healing light of his neons to give him relief. Here was his peace and his sanctuary, the only comfort in his solitary and friendless world. And lately, while his business was better than ever, and although his belief in his superiority in a world of terrified nincompoops was beyond doubt, he had needed an increasing amount of this hissing comfort: there were nights, after standing, head bowed and humble before the drunken spray of one of his funnyman patrons, when he found himself forced to convalesce for half an hour or more at this end of the bar, smiling, with one hand lightly on the bartop, like something needing the protection of a shell—for half an hour before the throbbing lights could massage away the outrage. During these periods he would seem quite unchanged, greeting each new arrival with his usual formal manner, fiddling with the long key-chain that looped across the round bulge of his apron, calling out the hour when asked ...and even if any of the customers had chanced to observe him closely, as he stood there with different hues of red and orange and magenta fluttering across his blank face— “Teddy, goddam you little octopus, could you come down here outa your cave and pour some of that clear-looking stuff out of that Gilbey’s gin bottle into this glass of mine? There’s a good boy . . .”—even so, they would have attributed the color to nothing more than the pulsing neons. But this night, in spite of an uncommon collection of bruising insults, Teddy spent very little time recuperating under the light of his neons. In the first place he was too busy: the disheartening news of the Stamper lumber-mill crew’s move up to the woods had kept him pumping liquor almost as fast as had the Stamper-Newton fight a week before; and this time he hadn’t called in the waitress from the Sea Breeze to lend him a hand. So he was far too busy scurrying after orders to afford himself the luxury of pouting under his lamps whenever one of the morons made some remark. In the first place. And, in the second, didn’t really need the balm of his lights as much as usual: not only was he especially soothed by the muted pitch of worry that rose from each of the tables blending with the rising smoke—“Teddy, goddammit, I tell ya ...somethin’ is haywire here. . . .” “Yes sir, Mr. Evenwrite.” “Somethin’ terrible wrong . . .”—rose blending to hang congealed and blue all over the room...but he was already in a delicious state of thrilled anticipation owing to a phone call he had received that afternoon from Jonathan Draeger: after telling him that he was calling long distance from Eugene and asking that he do him a favor—“I’ll be there this evening; would you please see if you can keep Floyd Evenwrite indoors and out of trouble until I arrive?”—Draeger had put Teddy in a heart-thumping swirl by adding, “We’ll show these muscleheads just what a little thoughtful patience can accomplish, won’t we, Ted?” All the rest of that afternoon and evening that tiny intimacy had glowed in Teddy’s chest. We, Draeger had said; we! Such a word, coming from such a man, could outshine all the neons in Oregon! Evenwrite had come in after supper, a little before seven, with his face redder than usual and his breath laced with the sweet smell of brandy. “Yeah, somethin’ wrong . . .” he announced again, knotting his features terribly. “What’s that, Mr. Evenwrite?” “Haw?” Evenwrite looked up, blinking stupidly. “You said something about something being wrong . . .” “Hell yes, somethin’ wrong. With this drink, I was talkin’ about! What’d you think I was talkin’ about?” In response Teddy lowered his lashes and gazed at the wienie-fingered, rusty-knuckled paw resting on the richly grained surface of the bar. Beside this monstrosity his own curled hand— eternally bluish from so many hours in the wash-water cleaning glasses, the flesh appearing to approach transparency the way meat does after pickling—looked even bluer and smaller than usual. He waited timidly, face bent in an attitude of abject and persevering embarrassment. “What about it, sir? the drink ...?” “Well, right this minute it’s empty is what about it. You could fill it back up for a start. That’d help some.” Teddy brought out a bottle and refilled the glass; Evenwrite picked it up and started to walk back to his table. “Oh. That will be fifty cents, Mr. Evenwrite.” “Fifty cents! You mean to tell me you’re askin’ money for this stuff? Teddy, I wasn’t planning to drink it, I was goin’ into the head and give myself a shampoo with it.” Teddy looked back down. The men at Evenwrite’s table laughed, always welcoming the comic interlude Teddy brought to their serious, grim, down-to-business discussions. Then Evenwrite guffawed himself and slapped a four-bit piece do............