I leaned back with my feet up on my desk. I read my name backwards on the door and wondered. Like a bad joke told to a brown-shoed square in the dead of night, it all came rushing back to me. I thought carefully about getting up from my desk, putting on my new Velarimosa prawn hat, opening the door to the hallway, checking the spelling on my name one more time, closing the door behind me, making my way down the evening street full of worn gastritis, continuing to a dark doorway, the length of which would lead me to a knuckle-worn bar top of mildew and pine, mounting a bow-legged stool and ordering a pint of the nectaral Maximus Ale. And then I did.