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and American University were on summer vacation, and the pub business in downtown D.C. was feeling the usual summer pinch. For certain bars, the influx in summer tourists just couldn’t make up for the weekly binge-drinking student crowd.
    Jake ordered a draft—each glass was selling for seventy-five cents until eight-thirty. He had already saved a quarter from the usual one-dollar Happy Hour price. He downed his beer, called over the bartender, and saved another twenty-five cents.
    Maroon 5 played on the sound system and echoed off the walls of the empty bar. Jake realized it was the first time he had ever breathed clean air in the maze-like, three-story establishment. McFadden’s was relatively new, a modern steel and concrete watering hole in the midst of some of the nation’s oldest bars—joints with missing mortar and cracked walls. McFadden did what most bars trying to simulate old age did—they put in wood-paneled walls, threw antiques around the room like a blind interior decorator and, for a finishing touch, turned down the lights. Jake had once been a Thursday night regular, right after his evening class on nineteenth century authors. He looked around the bar and missed being a student, missed the carefree lifestyle that was now a distant memory.
    â€œI’m Matt,” the bartender said, introducing himself. The bartender knew the first rule to pulling in the tips, in the absence of a perky set, was to establish rapport.
    â€œJake. Nice to meet you.”
    â€œFrom around here?”
    â€œBorn and raised.”
    â€œNot many of those around.”
    â€œNo, not too many real Washingtonians left,” Jake answered. “It’s quiet in here tonight.”
    â€œIt’s summer. Most of our customers are GW students. It’ll pick up a little later. It’s still early, my friend.”
    Jake looked down at his watch. Five minutes after eight. Twenty-five minutes until the seventy-five-cent drafts bumped up to a full dollar. He ordered another.
    â€œDrinking alone this evening?”
    â€œDepends if anyone feels like coming to look for me. We’ll see.”
    â€œNo shame in downing a few by yourself,” the bartender answered. He was in the wrong profession to point out any of the AA telltale signs of alcoholism.
    â€œYeah, well, it’s been a bad year,” Jake said, without elaborating. He wasn’t going to share his life story with a bartender. Drinking by himself was one thing; weeping into his beer with his head on the bartender’s shoulder was something else entirely. A man does have his limits.
    The bartender didn’t press for details. When a customer says, “It’s been a bad day,” he tended to ask. When a customer says, “It’s been a bad year,” he didn’t want to know. He brought Jake his third beer in twenty minutes.
    â€œRedskins fan?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Hard to grow up around here and not be one.”
    The two fell into football chatter, the kind of serious emotional banter that is the glue of the male social infrastructure.
    â€œSnyder ruined the team,” Jake said. “A billionaire businessman with no more football knowledge than you or I.”
    â€œHe did do one thing right.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œHired the hottest cheerleaders in the league.”
    â€œUnfortunately they can’t catch for shit.”
    The conversation continued through the return and departure of Joe Gibbs, stupid draft picks, free agency, the upcoming schedule, and predictions for the playoffs.
    â€œNo one looks better on paper than the Redskins in April.”
    â€œAmen to that,” the bartender answered, pouring a beer for another patron at the far end of the bar.
    The quiet mood of the bar was broken with the entrance of eight twenty-something ladies in a bachelorette party. The group of well-accessorized and fully primped females filled the gap around the stools between