It's Friday night, and I sit down after my very-off-key Karaoke rendition of "YMCA" at Makenna's Saloon, one of my small-town's few places to socialize. I look around at the crowd: all people I know, most drunk or well on the way. Maggie, the bartender, seeing I'm drinking Diet Coke as usual, catches my eye with the dim hope that I will offer to drive someone, anyone, home. But she doesn't ask, she knows I won't, and she knows why. She doesn't blame me: she won't either.
