I broke alot of glasses last night, many sent to the graveyard for having sharp chips on the rim. But the night was shaped by an old man named Bill. He was making his last call. Cancer had eaten his organs. He told me so. And he had once stood where I was standing, serving the poison. On the day the bar opened for business, back in 1959, he was the bartender, As he sank his light beer, I could see the glow of his memory, through his thin and yellow skin. He cursed the original owners as "tight fisted Scottish bastards," and claimed to have mated with a waitress in the broom closet, before opening time. I took him back to the closet for one more sigh. His wife was waiting for him at home. He handed me over the empty glass, shook my hand, and said, with a smile, thanks.