Women didn't usually pay attention to Patrick. He was compact, medium sized. He had reddish-brown hair and a square face with high cheekbones and traces of freckles. His blue eyes were set deeply behind thick eyebrows. He had been called "cute" a couple of times. Mostly he got sympathetic smiles as women pushed past him, going for the tall, dark, and handsomes, or the ones with money, or the major losers. It was a mystery to him how people got coupled up. "My name is Eve," the waitress said in a luxurious voice as she bent forward with his plate. She had goddess breasts and smelled of patchouli. "I'm Patrick," he said and choked. "King of repartee," he added, regaining his voice. She smiled as if she had known him deeply in another life, and then she swayed away into the kitchen. The Go player remained immersed in study, an air of relief emanating from his face. Perhaps he was recovering from the attentions of dark beauties with trust funds. Don't be jealous, Patrick told himself. When the gods want a good laugh, they give you what you want. "Try me," another voice in him said. "Long dark hair." He ate dinner and began to confront the next problem. He had a few travelers checks in reserve, but he'd always found work before he had to cash them. He had paid for his own flight back to Wiesbaden. "Come on, Pat, let me pay," his father offered. "Nope." "You're a hard case, Patrick." It had been a good visit, but Patrick was ready to go after a week. "I thought I'd try Woodstock, New York," he told his father. "You used to talk about it." "My old stomping grounds," his father said. "I have a friend there, Heidi Merrill. Haven't heard from her since her husband died. She has a son. Look her up for me, Pat--give her my best." "Will do." Patrick checked around the cafe for a pay phone, wondering whether there was a listing for his father's friend. No phone. On his way out of the cafe, he changed his mind and ordered a beer at the bar. The room was filling. A Van Morrison album had replaced the piano player. Attractive women crowded around guys who wore hammer hooks and Stanley tapes like jewelry on their belts, totems of a better way. "Feels good to stand up," he said to the guy next to him. "This is a happening place." "You just get here?" "Yep. Any work around?" "What kind of work?" "Wash dishes, construction, paint houses . . . " "Hey Parker, you need anybody?" A heavyset fellow came over. He had a pleasant ironic expression. "For what?" There were white paint stains on his button-down blue shirt. "Says he's looking for work." "Patrick O'Shaunessy." Patrick extended his hand. "Parker Ives." He looked Patrick over as they shook hands. "Ladders, Patrick. Wasps," he said. "No problem." "Good. Meet me in the News Shop at 8; we'll see how it goes." "Tomorrow?" Patrick asked. "And tomorrow and--yes." Parker drained the glass of beer he was holding. "Tomorrow." He put his glass on the bar and left.