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"  I used to work the day shift at this horrible bar. This guy Bill used to come in and order anywhere from 3 to 9 martinis. Belvedere. No idea where he got the money. It occurred to me that he ordered so many drinks so he could watch my boobs bounce when I shook them. Those three or nine moments were the only ones where he seemed capable of rising out of despondency. You even got a sense of what he might have been like when he was younger, that sense of boyish anticipation and glee.  Still, it was creepy and I got into the habit of turning my back to him when I shook the thing. I&amp;#039;m sure the proximity of my backside was enough to spur his imagination as to what was going on in front.  There was this one time he brought in an old shoebox of love letters and gave them to me to read. A lot of them were water-stained or ripped or both. But the ones I could make out were sort of amazing; raw and full of longing and just sad because you knew what had become of him.  When he came back I said how much I had liked them. This was after he&amp;#039;d been in the bar a few hours. It took me a while to figure out what to say. Though his glass was empty, he raised it to his mouth and made a clinking sound against his teeth. He set it down and said, &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m ready for the next one.&amp;quot; "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a2300/esq0207welch/>