Neither Cheryl nor Mr. Ecker had reason to be on the committee. They should be at home playing computer games. But I learned Cheryl couldn't figure out how to retrieve her email and Mr. Ecker became irrationally angry at any mention that the “modern adding machine now did spell checking.” I bet he had crossed out the lines on my resume citing my experience as a software quality analyst. I tried examine the paper he held with the name I had printed and sloppy rows of black bars.

Mr. Ecker had brought my original, folded resume to the interview. Cheryl held a thin photocopy of my life, with the same blocks drawn through my experience. In reflection, the fact Cheryl actually had a copy impressed me. Mr. Ecker is such a Luddite, I imagined, if he bothered to give my information to Cheryl, he had copied my resume by hand, and used chalk on a flat rock.

After the performance, I hoped for Cheryl's benefit, Mr. Ecker offered me the job and I accepted. I saw him twice more before they unceremoniously canned me. There had been an incident. I don't want to say more because I'm not a crybaby, but I'll say Cheryl came to the Rathskeller every week with her drunken and oversexed geriatric friend. You can think whatever you want and it was just as horrible. Afterward, I moved away and went back to California – the sunshine felt cleansing.

A year after the incident before I had been fired from the Rathskeller, I returned again to Wister Town. I first visited Mr. Brodman's grave. He was the chairman of the Rathskeller committee that had canned me. When he was alive, that man had handed me my walking-papers. I poured him a bottle of Wisconsin beer at his snowy graveside, through my bladder. I planned then that my mother would call me in Los Angeles whenever the graves of other Rathskeller operations committee members were ready for watering. Although, I had found-out about Mr. Brodman's demise on a social media website for high school and college class mates. When I had, I came right back home – for a weekend tops – and stayed with my Mom.

Feeling a bit relieved from my burden of vengeance, I navigated icy roads and drove to the Rathskeller. That afternoon, no committee members were present at the restaurant. Not surprising, no one at all appeared inside the restaurant, besides Paul, the cook, and Leanne, a waitress I never particularly liked.