August 4, 1968: The Worst of It, and Moving On
The fight was over. In a way, that was too bad, for it had given me cover for edging into the shadows by the row of dark booths. but not quite enough.
“American, aren’t you?” A voice from a seat below, in English, from a man alone, behind me. The excitement having dissipated, people were returning to their previous drinking and the noise level was rising. “Buy you a drink?” Relieved but hesitant, I turned and slid onto the opposite bench, landing catty-corner from him as deep as I could get and away from the light. I didn’t like being there, but could think of no alternative. He signaled and two steins of beer arrived.
As we sipped them, he told me—in perfect English—that he had spent time in Wisconsin but was from Munich. He wanted to know about me, asking my age and then telling me he had known…
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