It turns out that my friend Marvin takes pills for anxiety. I didn't know this until I found him in the neighborhood bar, which is not his usual place. He was drinking a mug of ginger ale and staring. There was nothing at the other end of his stare: no girl, no TV set, nothing unless you count a patch of the bar's white stucco wall. His eyes looked like they wanted to leave his face, and his mouth had shaped itself into a round hole. He shook his head once, then again, as I said hello to him. On the table in front of him was an old hardcover book bound in green cloth, a book with threads hanging off its spine. It turned out the book was part of the problem, though only part.
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