A man pointed a gun at me. It was black with a greasy sheen. His hand trembled as he faced the fifteen or so of us at the bar. I looked at my wallet. Three plastic cards were wedged behind a clear window. No one carries pictures anymore. I wonder why we still carry wallets when phones do all the work. I had already given the man my money. When he asked for my wallet, I thought he said, “Get down on your hands and knees and lap up milk from a saucer.” He was clean-shaven. A spot of moisture on his lip caught the light from a neon sign across the street. He shook the gun and said, “Give me the wallet or I’ll shoot you.” I remembered something Andy Warhol had said before he was shot. He said his life had felt like TV. The gunman’s voice was wavery. I wondered why he had chosen to rob a bar on a Monday night. Again he said, “Give me your wallet or I’ll shoot you,” and when I did not act he pulled the trigger. The gun jammed. He ran out of the bar with what he had. Desire is for things that do not exist.
