A Novelist Walks into a Bar …
Alabama, drinking a Bud Light while some man named Rooster played with his gun by the jukebox, I wondered whether this was really what novelists did. The one-armed man beside me had finished his pack of cigarettes and was eyeing me as if I, too, might be flammable. It was 7:00 P.M. on a Wednesday. I cleared my throat and asked, “Can I put something on the jukebox?” The whole
