at the last bar we went to, a korean dive bar on bush street, an asian man told scott how he killed a man in the 70s and buried him on the site where embarcadero three was built. the matronly korean barkeeps flirted with steve, sat on the laps of large white men in baseball caps at the bar and fed us styrofoam plates of hot meatballs doused in barbeque sauce and topped with siricha, which we ate off of toothpicks until we felt sick. we struggled with our jack and cokes, and the room became an increasingly darker shade of red. mike, who had a number of chemicals in his system, whined for us to help him with his drink, and then closed his eyes, crossed his arms, tilted his head down and mouthed the words to "michelle" by the beatles as it played on the jukebox. we leaned our elbows on the bar, which was padded and covered in a plastic red duct tape. i knocked the two red straws out of my drink and plucked another one out of a cup of straws. they reminded me of pick-up sticks i used to play with when i was a kid at my grandmother's house, but those were pointy at both ends, like little spears...