No news good or bad, just a monotonous onenote electrical drone, sourceless yet all around him, the eternal hum of the world slowly diminishing. He recradled the phone.

The man at the bar had swiveled his stool to watch Edgewater and Edgewater had seen the look on his face on other faces and he thought: Fuck this. He picked up his beer and what remained of his change and moved to the corner of the bar.

You’re out of uniform, the man called after him. Where’s your neckerchief?

I’m discharged, Edgewater said. I’m not in the service.

What?

I’m out. I’m a civilian.

The man had a red face, mauve with burst capillaries, cratered with enlarged pores. Don’t you know it’s against the law to wear that uniform? The man struggled off the stool and drained the shotglass and turned up his chaser and drank, Adam’s apple pumping spasmodically. He set the bottle back and lumbered heavily toward Edgewater like a gracelorn dancing bear. Edgewater wished for a pool cue, magic winged shoes. A motorcycle.

You disrespectin that uniform whether you in or out. Them’s Navy workclothes, don’t think I don’t recognize them. What I wore all durin the war. You got on them clothes and you’re not even covered.

I never thought much about it. Edgewater fumbled through his change, got up and went to the cigarette machine, deposited a quarter and made his selection. When he got back to his stool the man had scooted four spaces down and had moved all his paraphernalia of swizzle sticks and napkins and cigarettes and change and was awaiting Edgewater’s arrival.

You’re a disgrace to the uniform, he informed Edgewater.

I probably am, Edgewater agreed, drank his beer. He sat as if undecided whether to move or remain.

I retired out of the Navy. Chief boatswain’s mate. Twenty years. I saw a lot of little chickenshit fuckups like you.

I don’t doubt it a bit, Edgewater said. I saw a few of them myself.

The fat man searched his face for guile, then stared into the depths of his drink. What’d they kick you out for? he asked craftily.

I got discharged, Edgewater said carefully, straining for clarity. In Long Beach, California. I’m out. I served four years and I’m on my way home.

Bullshit. What was you?

Radarman.

I might have known it was some pussy rank, the ex-boatswain’s mate said disgustedly.

Behind the bar was a sign that said, AROUND HERE WE’RE JUST ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY. IT’S GOT TO STOP. The barkeep had sensed dissention, approached them, began industriously to polish the bar in front of them. His face was smooth, expressionless, professional.

What do you think about that, Charlie? Man says he’s out of the Navy and wearin them puked-on whites.

Edgewater ordered another beer. The bartender set the bottle before him, deftly picked up the change. His eyes avoided Edgewater’s.