She went inside and ordered a beer at the bar. Patrick was in deep conversation with a rugged good looking regular named Wendell. They seemed to be talking about chisels. Jesus. Bob Dylan was sitting with Bernard and Marylou, the owners, at a round table near the kitchen door. They were laughing loudly. Bernard has a handsome mustache, Willow thought. Dylan looked like he was winding up for an intense night. He was SO intuitive; he always caught her looking and usually ignored her. Once, he gave her a quick little shake of his head--it's a fucked up world, we gotta do something, he seemed to be saying. He was on the edge of control, major chutzpah. Willow couldn't get her father to understand Dylan. Her father was a Brahms expert; how could he? "A generational difference," he suggested. Willow had snorted, angry with him for evading the argument. "Far be it from me to suggest that he is a nihilist, simultaneously outdated and immature . . . not to mention noisy," her father continued. Well, at least he wasn't treating her like a child. "He is writing American masterpieces," she said. "God help us." Her father was grinning, and they left it at that. Claude came in and gave her his big smile and automatic wink. He was handsome and could get away with anything, she thought. Damn him. But she had to admit that she liked him. I mean, he liked himself; everyone in the place liked him; how could she not? Claude began talking to Sue, a painter who was usually with a sad charmer named Jim. As she was thinking about Jim, he came through the door. He and Sue exchanged smiles and private greetings, but they did not hug. He seemed more interested in getting a drink as fast as he could. Problems, Willow thought. Wendell introduced Patrick to a guy named Joe. The three sat at a table and began talking about the war. Patrick waved Willow over. "You know Willow?" he asked the others. "Seen you around," Wendell said. Joe nodded. He had looked Willow over on previous occasions in the Depresso. He was tall and alert, in his mid-twenties; he had dark hair, blue eyes, and a mustache. They had never spoken, but Willow had the feeling that he knew more about her than she did about him. "What do you think about Vietnam?" Patrick asked Willow as she sat down. They waited while she considered. "I think we ought to take care of our own problems before we start telling other people what to do. And we should be dropping food and medicine, not bombs; I mean, we're killing people." Joe held up his glass in agreement. "The fucking government is bullshitting us," Wendell said. "My father's in the Army," Patrick said. "He says we can't win in Asia; look what happened to the French." "They're bullshitting us," Joe agreed. "But, they believe some of the bullshit--that crap about communism; they want to keep winning the World War. They aren't too bright." "That's for sure," Patrick said. "My father's getting out."