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The past few days had been a grind - lengthy meetings, phone calls, a brutal argument with an ignorant client, a delayed plane (at O'Hare, of course), and, to top it all off, a lost parking stub that forced me to pay the maximum in order to escape the Richmond, Virginia airport. The summer humidity hung like a damp curtain in the evening air, resulting in me being covered with sweat just walking from the terminal building to my car. I slung my suitcase and laptop in the back seat, and hit the ignition - for a brief second, I thought that the car's AC might be on the fritz, but it sparked up and almost instantly blew deliciously cool air on me. Finally, something had gone right

I jumped on I-64 and started toward home, thinking about the empty bed awaiting me. "Fuck it," I mused to myself, "I could really use a drink," and, seeing the downtown exit coming up fast, veered over two lanes (pissing off at least one unhappy motorist in the process) and found my way to the off ramp. Driving around somewhat aimlessly for a while, I finally decided to pull into a smaller place in Shokhoe Bottom - not one of the trendy places, just a nice, dark bar that would pour me a decent drink at a decent price. I locked my car, stepped up to the bar, and asked the bartender to pour me a tall vodka on the rocks. Taking a long pull off the drink, I drew my head back and exhaled. There were others in the club, certainly not a full house, but enough to create a bit of a buzz. Over the speakers, Miles Davis's "Kind of Blue" washed over the room; Miles's muted trumpet mixing with the cigarette smoke from the bar to craft a very laid back vibe. I closed ...

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