“When in Rome, right?” I say as much to myself as to my companion and scoop up a bottle of spirits and tip its contents down my throat. This isn’t Rome though, at least I don’t think it is. I don’t really know exactly what Rome is, or IF it is. It’s just one of those things people say, and keep saying, and keep saying. A copy of a copy of a faded copy.

Is this Rome though? I wonder as the sharp liquid tumbles down my throat like a cool river rolling hot embers. Maybe I’ve already seen Rome, or will see Rome some day. Or. Perhaps it was assigned to one of the other inspectors.

I walk around the bar and take a seat on one of the stools and sit the bottle down with me. “What do you think about Rome, 86?” 86 is my wood partner. Any place involving a forest or lots of woodwork, we are always partnered together. We have a certain compatibility for those things. I interrupted 86 examining a table, a large amount of some entree in his mouth. He swallows it hoarsely to adjust his mouth for a response, “Huh, what was that?”

“Rome,” I say, “What do you make of Rome?”

“Oh! Funny you mention it! I got another guy, he’s my textiles guy. He was telling me that him and his mineral companion, they do a lot of stuff in Rome. It’s a proper noun.”

“Ahh,” I nod my head at the bar top with the half smirk that is born from a disappointed day dream. Proper names are sort of a lost art now. I get up and take another bottle from the shelf, ‘Gray Goose’ this one says. I take it with me to a booth this time. On the table there is already some food set out for whoever occupies the seat. I take a few bites, and follow it up with a few drinks. 86 joins me at the other side of the table. “This is the stuff right here. And the food? Oh man, the food! Oh, and have you tried the ‘coke’? Everyone goes for the spirits, but if you really want to try something that will take you back, ain’t nothing like carbonated beverages. That will make you 12 again, still snot nosed and fragile,” I shrug a response that 86 translates as what’s so good about being twelve anyhow? “Say what you want, but that was living.”

I stare at him a moment, looking angry I bet, I have that kind of face; having not shaved for a few days makes it worse, but really I’m just trying to remember what 12 was like before all this, “Briefly it was though.” I’ve broken the mood. Even if you can’t join the collective, you tend to think in a communal sense, and sometimes you forget your company, and I guess yourself too. Worse yet, he could have chosen this for himself. How can one reconcile that?

86 coughs. Not an actual cough, not a fake one really either, but one of those transitional coughs that help you clarify that everything before is wrapped up and shoved back in its folder, likely not to be brought out again. I get it. I knock three times on the table, “Hey, well, it was good to see you again though,” 86 stammers an attempt to jump back into the new rhythm of conversation, “y-yeah. Yeah, it was good to see you too 17. Next time try the carbonated stuff. I’m telling you, it’ll knock your socks off.”

“Sure thing.” The bar flickers a bit and fades away. We position ourselves next to each other for the surveys.

Question 1: On a scale from 1 – 10, with ten being the most accurate, how accurately did the environment represent a BAR as you remember it?

Question 2: On a scale from 1 – 10, with 10 being very familiar, how familiar are you with late ‘American’ history and old world politics?

Question 3: On a scale of 1- 10, with…