He sits at an ornate banquet table, but there are no guests. No one drinking wine. No one to tell an off-color joke. There's just the man wearing a suit. He once had the tragicomic face of a beautiful clown from a Jim Jarmusch film - the sunken eyes, the slightly pouted lips, the blank expression that says, "Fired from another job, I'm walking home. I should be sad, but I remember a song by Brecht and Weill and I notice a bird on the telephone wire taking in the sun." There are no guests at the table, but there are attendees. Two officials sit far at the other end. The man thinks: "We can't even hear each other. Should I yell or just mumble in my monotone? They don't really care what I say. They look white as sheets, in any case. I need more coffee. I could have been on stage -- falling down, getting up, slapping the dust off of my pants. Saying mysterious lines by Chekhov. I have the eyes for it. Or had. They were once so lively, like Lopakhin's, 'I know exactly the potential of the people around here. They have the potential to lie. They have the potential to deceive. They have the potential to charm. They’ll change nothing. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I lie awake thinking, My God! You've given us so much. Huge forests, infinite fields, and endless horizons, and we, living here, ought really to be giants.' "
