I look at the beer.

I slide my finger through the drops of condensation on its side.

Drinking this beer would be a bad idea.

Something soft and smooth presses against my back. Hot breath hits my ear.

– Can I have some of that, cowboy?

I turn and look at the stripper standing behind me. Her face is inches from mine. Too much makeup, too much hairspray. I look at her hand, set lightly on my thigh. A woman’s hand touching me. I take in her body in its translucent sheath of pink Lycra. Breasts patently fake, booth-perfect tan, ass and legs stair-machined to some ultimate balance of muscle tone and body fat. She leans into me, reaching for the beer, and her superhero breasts graze my upper arm. She holds up the beer in front of my face.

– You mind?

I shake my head and she takes a long sip, then hands me the bottle. She’s so close.

– Thanks. Dancing makes me thirsty. Hot and thirsty.

I look at one of the solo stages. A stripper has one knee cocked around the pole and is spinning like an ice skater.

– I guess it would.

– What about you? Dancing make you hot?

She’s so close. She’s silly and fake, but she’s so close. And I don’t feel the panic, the visions that grabbed me when I scared the smiling Spanish girl on the beach.

She scratches a fingernail against the nape of my neck.

– You wanna dance with me?

I remember my last time with a woman. I was still drunk. Once I stopped drinking, I started thinking. That was it for women and me. I don’t say anything.

She smiles, mock sadly.

– Your loss, cowboy.

She turns and starts to leave, her hand slipping from my thigh. I grab her wrist. She turns to face me.

– Is that a yes?

I nod.

– Well, come on then.

She takes my hand and starts to pull me from the bar.

– Hang on.

She stops.

I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be doing any of this. I know that.

I put the beer to my lips, turn the bottle upside down, and empty it.

– OK, let’s go.

And she leads me to the banquettes in the darkness against the far wall. She sits me down and the dress slides off. Wearing only a G-string and high heels, she takes my hat from my head and waves it in the air and rides my lap slowly, while “Sweet Emotion” plays.

I FEEL great. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, this great. It makes me wonder why I haven’t had a drink in so long. I mean, it’s been at least five minutes since I had my last beer.

– Hey, yo, ’nother Bud down here.

The bartender nods in my direction as she sets a couple drinks on a cocktail waitress’s tray.

– Comin’ up.

A guy with a buzz cut, wearing tight Levis and a PBR Tour T-shirt, shoves into the space next to my stool.

– Sorry, been tryin’ ta get myself a beer for ’bout a half hour.

I smile.

– Hell, no problem.

The bartender comes over with my beer and sets it in front of me.

– Eight bucks.

I pull out a twenty and hand it to her and point at the guy in the PBR shirt.

– Here, get this guy one too and keep the change.

She takes the money and looks at the guy.

– What ya having, cowboy?

– Burt Light.

She slides open a cooler, pulls out a bottle of Coors Light, yanks an opener from the back pocket of her low-rider jeans, pops the cap, and puts the beer on the bar.

– Thanks, fellas.

Me and the PBR guy watch her ass as she walks back to the service bar to take care of another cocktail waitress. PBR shakes his head.

– Damn. That was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

A dancer in a formfitting green slip dress presses herself up against PBR’s back. Her hand slithers through his buzzed hair.

– Cowboy, if that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen, you need a dance with me.

PBR looks her up and down.

– Honey, you are damn right about that.

– Well c’mon, Hoss, I’ll give you the rest of this song and all of the next.

She walks away with him trailing behind like a dazed child. He looks back at me.

– See, ya ’round, pal. Thanks for the Burt Light.

He hoists his beer in the air. I stand up on the foot rail of my stool to keep him in sight.

– Hey, why ya call them that?

But he’s gone.

– That’s what they call them in Oklahoma. ’Cause Burt Reynolds drinks Coors.

The bartender with the lowriders is in front of me. She places a Coors Light on the bar.

– Burt Light.

She places a Coors Original next to it.

– Burt Heavy.

I pull out another twenty.

– I’ll take one of each.

She pops both tops, puts the beers next to my almost full Bud, takes the twenty, and looks at the three beers.

– Got some catching up to do.

– Baby, I’ve been resting up for this.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I slip off my stool. T catches me.

– Whoa!

– T! T, where ya been? This place is great! I’m having a great time.

I guzzle beer and some of it slops onto my shirtfront. T grins.

– I thought you weren’t drinking.

– Who me? No, you have me confused with some limp-dick, pussy motherfucker who doesn’t know what’s good for him.

– Well, what ain’t good for you is drinking while you’re on Percocet. You’re lucky you can stay on that stool at all.

– Stay on the stool? Stay on the stool! That’s the least of what I can do.

I start climbing up to stand on the stool and T pulls me back down.

– C’mon, King Kong, let’s get you back in your head.

He’s tugging me from the bar.

– Wait a sec, wait a sec.

I grab at my beer, but it’s not where it looks like it is and I knock it over.

– Aww, fuck man, look what ya made me do ta Burt.

My head bobs around on the end of my neck. Colored lights whirl through the air, cowboys and pole-dancing beauties orbit irregularly around me. The sweat covering my body goes cold-hot-cold-hot.

T leads me into the john. We walk past the condom machine and the line of occupied urinals, to the second of three stalls. We both squeeze in and he closes the door. I lean against the partition and start to slide down. T grabs me and sets me on the toilet seat. He takes a fold of magazine paper about half the size of a matchbook from his vest pocket, leans over me, and shakes its contents onto the back of the toilet tank. A tiny heap of rough yellowish crystals. He gets out his lighter and presses it flat against the pile and rocks it firmly side to side, the crystals making little crunching noises as he pulverizes them into powder. He lifts the lighter away and licks some dust that is clinging to its side. Finally, with an old Kinko’s copy card from his wallet, he shapes the brown powder into two fat lines, gets out a twenty, rolls it into a tight cylinder, and hands it to me.

– Batter up.

I look at the twin lines of crank.

– I don’t think I’m up to that, T.

– Hank, this is your doctor speaking. We have people to talk to, things to do, and you’re about set to go all gape-mouthed and drooly on me. You need to wake up and get your head back in the game, superstar, and this is what’s gonna get you there.

What is he talking about? People to talk to? Man, I just want to relax at the bar. I look again at the crank. But hey! I seem to remember being able to drink like a maniac on this shit. I stick the rolled bill in my nose, place the other end against one of the lines, and inhale.

It burns. It burns like a motherfucker. Like a hot razor blade being dragged down my nasal passage to the top of my esophagus, where it stops and a bitter, mucousy poison drips down the back of my throat. I rip my face away from the line and tilt it back and press the heel of my palm against my nostril.

– Fuck me!

T laughs. He grabs the bill, neatly whiffs half of the other line into his right nostril, half into the left, and hands the bill back to me.