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don’t even believe in. And I don’t have anything to give you.”
    The man makes Dagmar uneasy. He is large and broad like a wrestler, a diamond stud in his nose. Despite the cool morning, fifty-one degrees and overcast, he’s wearing a leather vest, no shirt. Across his neck is tattooed the word
Grace.
    â€œThat’s okay,” she says. Her arm is going numb. Dagmar searches his eyes for the divine spirit within him, but finds it’s a little tough to get a bead on it without feeling in her fingers.
    The man pulls her closer. “Well, if you won’t take money, let me give you something else.”
    The words make her twitch.
    She wonders if she starts meditating,
om-mani-padme-hum,
maybe she can find a way out of this situation that would be The Noble Path and would enlighten her and all around her. And, most important, that would help her avoid wildly beating this overgrown monkey with that plastic Santa that seems to be standing, once again, too close at hand.
    The others at the table stop talking and watch Dagmar and the man. The rock and roll blares on. ZZ Top is singing the titty girl standard, “She’s got legs. She knows how to use them.”
    Dagmar really hates that song. Onstage, Bernie is dancing. She’s older than the rest but enthusiastic and cheerful. Has a solid following with couples. The green tassels of her pasties spin like propellers, but no one seems to notice. The man pulls Dagmar even closer. She feels his stale breath against her arm. Up close, he looks older than she first thought—somewhere in his fifties. Steroid strong.
    â€œGive me my arm,” she says, the stern mother. “Or I’ll kick your ass from here to Tallahassee.”
    It isn’t Buddha’s way, but it works. The man lets her go.
    â€œSorry,” he says. “I just get insistent sometimes.”
    â€œThat’s okay.” She straightens her apron. Adjusts the tower of her hair.
    He clears his throat, “You see, people sing for their supper. That’s what I meant.”
    Dagmar isn’t quite sure she heard him right. “You want to sing?”
    â€œNot exactly,” he says. “It’s not a song. It’s a prayer I learned in Vietnam during the war. We took some priests captive at a shrine—”
    He trails off for a moment and the dark look on his face fills in the details. Gives Dagmar a chill.
    â€œAnyway,” he says, “they sing this at sunrise. It’s just about sunrise, isn’t it?”
    Dagmar nods. The ZZ Top song is blessedly over. Bernie stands at the edge of the stage, adjusting her G-string. The man clears his throat, closes his eyes. His voice is hopeful. Fragile. Eerie.
    â€œChuùng con caàu xin nhôø Chuùa Kitoâ, Thieân Chuùa vaø Ñaáng Cöùu Chuoäc chuùng con.”
    The words are as fragile as old bones. When he finishes, he bows his head as a sign of respect.
    â€œThat’s beautiful,” Dagmar says. “What does it mean?”
    â€œWhatever you need it to.”
    A few of the men nod in agreement. One of them says, “That’s why we call him the Preacher. He’s always talking deep shit.”
    â€œThat’s nice,” Bernie says and touches him gently on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
    Preacher blushes. His fellow drivers look surprised.
    â€œHey, I got something I can trade for food,” another man says. “Something that will make you laugh ’til you weep.”
    Out of his greasy blue jean jacket he pulls a picture of his wife and their new baby. The drooling child is stuffed into a Christmas stocking. He looks a lot like a beefsteak tomato. His red face is cocked to one side. A tiny green bow is glued to his head. He is cross-eyed.
    Dagmar does, indeed, laugh.
    â€œUgly, isn’t he?” the father says proudly. “Takes after his old man.”
    â€œHow old?”
    â€œSix weeks too early. Finally