And then, on his second drink, he realized abruptly that this wasn’t doing any good, that it never had and never would—not for him. He would have to find something else, something to break him out of the trap that this city of Chicago had laid for him, the trap that had already twisted—not killed, but twisted—his confidence, and that was already making him a whining, two-dollar scuffler. Or that would make him an employee, somebody else’s man. He paid for his drink and left. It seemed to take a long while to walk out of range of the jukebox; and even when he could no longer hear it, its loud insistence still rung, an imbecilic, thumping melody, in his head. He walked to the bus station where he had left his cue. He did not think it out, but this seemed to be the best thing to do, the only step he could make in the direction he wanted to go. He had the key in his pocket, found the right locker and took the round case from it. And instantly he felt foolish, standing there in the bus station holding a pool cue in a satchel.
