Everyone in this cubicleless office is oppressed by a sludgy afternoon malaise.
4:30 p.m. in San Francisco.
I see a tall, chilled mug of beer on a low table in New York City.
It’s swirling. Cloudy and milky. The beer is frosty.
Peering into it is like looking through the glass shell of a crystal ball.
The future is visible through the mug of beer.
The beer is impossible to drink.
This is because the beer is
- fictional,
- 3,000 miles away, and
- non-potable due to its oracular content.
The beer is shrouded in noise: indie rock.
The beer is flanked by men and women patronizing the bar. You might know one of them.
The beer will be quaffed—hard—by an art historian or a poet in fewer than ninety seconds. Once he comes back from the bathroom.