Unwavering, a rumpled pillar of faded denim and flannel, he stared at the bright lights as the juke box played three-card monte with his aged eyes and short attention span. He had accidentally (his being an accidental state of mind) deposited a five in place of a one and now had a play list of thirteen tracks to populate. A few staples from the heartland (Seger, Mellencamp), a sampling of modern lonely-heart country (Allen Jackson, Brooks and Dunn) and residual LSD (Santana, Bob Marley) but the task grew exponentially more challenging with each selection, the available slots outnumbering the favorite melodies that were coming to mind. He stared at the screen intently, unblinking, as if attempting to communicate telepathically with the device, dredging his memory of 1970s AM radio, a glove-box of faded cassette labels and hazy karaoke recollections. The songs played on, but the pause between his last action and the one he had yet to make was lengthy enough to draw the attention of the pool players who watched him with great anticipation, whispered one-dollar bets on George Thorogood and Bad Company, a wager that soon included bystanders who were drawn by the inaction from that section of the tavern. The blond woman put her money on a mis-entry, using Counting Crows and Shania Twain as examples of a victory, though Shania was disputed by the man in the Finley's A/C shirt because the DJ might pick her because he was thinking about her hips, forgetting that the juke box is a strictly audio sensation. At long last, the man tore his gaze from the soothing primary-colored glow, teetered slightly as if jump-starting his cerebral cortex, then lurched toward the bar. Sighs of disappointment from the dispersing spectators, four credits left on the machine and no winners. One of the pool players started pushing selections: George Thorogood. Bad Company. Counting Crows. Shania Twain.