Scarred wooden floors splashed with the lurching remnants of a frosted beer mug invade my mind. I can remember staring at the knot holes in each plank as my feet swung a staccato rhythm on the chrome bar stool. I was listening to my father flirt with the big bosomed woman who had fat curlers in her hair, fat red lips, and a fat booming laugh. My eyes strayed to the funny man who had just bought my dad a beer and me an orange juice, for "old time's sake," as he licked the granules of salt from his wrist before throwing his head back to swallow such a small drink. I remember a commotion but not its origin. I looked to my father for reassurance, but he grabbed me up from my perch on the high stool and we hurried into the stairwell. His eyes were bleary, from drink or worry, I'm no longer sure. He pressed his long finger first to his lips then to mine to impart upon me the absolute need for silence. I nodded and huddled closer to him. I stared at the flashing red pattern on the wall near my father's dark head. I peered into the bar and saw my father's partner who rode the ambulance with him. I started to call to him, but my father's hand quickly clamped over my mouth and he violently shook his head. His partner, and a man I did not recognize, pulled a dirty man on a white gurney from the bar. I couldn't understand why I shouldn't say hello...until now. What would they have thought to see a five year old running a pattern through bar stools and stranger's legs while her father slowly numbed himself with squat bottles of Weideman beer at 11 in the morning?