I was in Münster, Germany, hanging with Harald in this local bar, local meaning poor, hanging meaning drinking beer by the gallon having not much to say and slowly but steadily getting fucked up. And so it was with the other patrons.
This was no party atmosphere. Just guys, workers, in the sad part of town dreaming of better days.
Carter, the owner of the resort and the Lemon Tree’s bartender, had startled me when he mentioned merchants and villagers were talking about old Mr. Me and May Linh. I thought I was finally recluse, away from the world, with for company only May Linh, whose contract stipulated she’d be living in the nude around the house and be fondled here and there. But, again, I couldn’t really escape the world.