Jerry walked out of the bar and glanced at his watch; it was five minutes past one. He stopped, shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs. He tried to remember where he had been that afternoon, and the events that had led up to him walking into a bar he’d never heard of, in a part of town he didn’t frequent, at half past eight, and sitting for nearly five hours, sipping Long Island Iced Teas and whiskey on the rocks, trying desperately to explain to a tired looking middle-aged bartender the fundamentals of transubstantiation.

The bartender, a balding Pakistani named Abdullah, had listened patiently for the first hour, interested in and amused by Jerry’s repeated affirmations that transubstantiation was real, that he had actually done it before, and since then had listened because Jerry kept putting money on the bar, and because Tuesday nights were always slow, as most of the regulars to the Skylight Room worked at the power plant down on Twelfth Street, and on Tuesdays they always stayed late to run tests on the generators.

Eventually, closing time came, and Abdullah eased Jerry out onto the street and called him a taxi.

The taxi arrived just as Jerry was recalling the argument he’d had that afternoon with Christine, and the blaring of the horn made him lose his train of thought. He opened the passenger side door with great care, and half stumbled, half fell, into the front seat.

“Where to, pal?”

Jerry closed his eyes and tried to focus. He knew he shouldn’t have had that eighth Long Island Iced Tea; his head was such a mess he couldn’t remember where he was going. Then in a flash it came to him, and in an instant he was gone, leaving the cab driver gazing at an empty front seat that reeked of alcohol…