The Soldier Grill was a weatherbeaten bar in South City. A street lamp lit the hardscrabble sidewalk in front. A bench made of stacked cinder blocks and a board sagged just right of the door for patrons or anyone else to sit on.

Jake sat on the bench clutching his head in his hands, looking down at the thin trail of goo he'd just puked up onto the ground between his sneakers.

It was weird. He wasn't drunk. He hoped he wasn't getting sick. He'd have to go hide in the woods again if that happened. His last time around with the flu he'd lost control of the trick badly.

It was still early. The smoky neon clock behind the bar had read 8:20 just a few minutes ago, when he'd walked out, citing a need for the purchase of cigarettes. Which was, in fact, a present need. He fingered out the soft pack of Blacks in the left breast pocket of his thin flannel shirt and shook out the last one. Lit it.

The unfiltered tobocco-and-marijuana smoke burned the back of his throat. It had been a bad pack, old and dry; nonetheless, the old syrupy feeling began to percolate from somewhere behind his eyes. Blacks were the best, the least diluted, contained the best combination of weeds. He had a greenie left in his wallet, and since he'd need another pack and the price of a pack had recently crept up to almost 9, he'd be needing more money soon, and that meant working the trick again. If he could.

I hope I'm not getting sick

The pitted blue metal door that was the front door of the Soldier banged open on its painted blue hinges and a short blonde girl stepped out and immediately sat down next to him. Beizart quickly wiped his bottom lip with the heel of his hand. He glanced down to make sure he hadn't puked on his shirt.

He didn't know the girl but he'd seen her around. She wore a green bandanna in her hair as a kerchief. Pink color was high in her smooth, oval face. Her eyes were a deep loamy brown, he saw now for the first time.

I thought you'd left, she said.
Felt sick all of a sudden.
Are you leaving?
I don't know. Need more smokes.
Come back in, she said. I've got a new pack. I'll buy you a drink.
Don't you care that I've got puke on my shoes?
I've seen a lot worse.

His reputation by now preceded him. In an age where nothing surprised anyone anymore, it set him apart. They said, it happens when he plays guitar, some seriously bizzare shit. A girl in glossolalia, levitating, her hair floating around her head like spiderwebs. A flying boy, twirling by the ceiling, screaming in tongues along with the music. They wanted to know what it meant.

He took a long drag on the smoke, exhaled, and flicked it away, as he followed the blonde girl back inside.