“Round things,” I said. “George Washington on one side, a bird on the other. They still call them quarters, don’t they?”

“I think so,” she said. “Here’s one, here’s another. Is that enough, Bern? What do you want them for?”

“I’m going to play the jukebox,” I said. “You wait right here. I’ll be right back.”

The jukebox at the Bum Rap is eclectic, which is to say that there’s something on it to offend every taste. It leans more toward country and western than anything else, but there’s some jazz and some rock and a single Bing Crosby record, with “Mother Machree” on the flip side of “Galway Bay.” In the midst of all this are the two best records ever made—“I Can’t Get Started With You” with a vocal and trumpet solo by Bunny Berrigan, and “Faded Love,” sung by The Late Great Patsy Cline. They are wonderful recordings, and you do not by any means have to be drunk to enjoy them, but I’ll tell you something. It doesn’t hurt.

I finished Carolyn’s drink while the records played, and I was chewing ice cubes by the time the second one was done. “How lucky we are,” I told Carolyn. “How incredibly lucky we are.”

“How so, Bern?”

“It could as easily have gone the other way around,” I said. “We could have had Bunny Berrigan singing ‘Faded Love’ and The Late Great Patsy Cline singing ‘I Can’t Get Started.’ Then where would we be?”

“You’re right.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “You’re right when you say that I’m right. You know what that means, don’t you?

“We’re both right.”

“We’re both right,” I said. “God, what a world. What an absolutely incredible world.”

She laid a hand on top of mine. “Bern,” she said gently, “I think we should think about getting something to eat.”

“Here? At the Bum Rap?”

“No, of course not. I thought—”

“Good, because we tried that once, remember? Maxine popped a couple of burritos in the microwave for us. It took forever before they were cool enough to eat, and by then they were stale.”