Victor claps, palms askew, and his dirty white sneakers bounce in time. He sits at his table for one: a pitcher, a glass, and a pick. No ashtray. I won't offer him a smoke. Back up against the brick I watch him for an hour before I sit down next to him. He speaks only with himself, in Spanish, and will not notice me. The music, the music, the music. He knows every song, anticipates each end with his thick hands slapping out the denouement. Sometimes too soon--in the middle, when the band bridges for solos, so he fumbles an instant, rocks back in his parka and pours another Schaeffer from his pitcher. Eight dollars will last him all night, here at Cafe 9. The bartender knows him: says he's harmless. "Likes to come in when we're not busy and play his guitar. He's good." His stiffened fingers must have saved up all day to finesse that playing, maybe all week. And I came for the band. But the bartender knows me too. Next Tuesday, next Tuesday.