The cigarette pushes some of the ennui I had been feeling in my hotel room out of my head and onto the bar. I watch it scramble down the shellacked wooden surface and plop itself into the Rob Roy of an old man sitting there. His wrinkled faced doesn’t look like it could stand anymore discontent. I raise my beer bottle to him in sympathy, but I’m not feeling compassion. No, it’s better him than me. Maybe he’ll find his own drug. Maybe the maraschino cherry in his drink will take its stem and choke the ennui runaway.