I walk along a back path to the bar and a group of large dark birds rise from the woods and circle above me.

"I'm not dead yet," I think. Their swirling creeps me out, makes me feel vulnerable and small. Maybe they can feel how bad things are, and know how close the end is for me.

I walk down the railroad tracks. Clomp clomp clomp-clomp ... with an awkward stride that is regulated by the distance between ties and not by my natural stride. I think about drinking until I'm numb and catching a train later. I start to cry. "Dry it up, you don't want the vultures to see you bleed," I tell myself.

"Wanna beer?" says Rick as I sit down.

"Wanna drink, Wanna beer, Wanna beer?" goes the call of the circling men at the bar.

They're like vultures. They can sense my poverty and despair.