My body steps through the back door of The Topaz, while my soul spirals into a canyon of broken glass. In the rest room, I wash my hands twice. I wash my face and look in the mirror. Eyes a bit dilated; or am I being paranoid? Hairline receding at the sides; a neat mustache—with Hitler’s lebensraum underway, that has to go. And a scrape over the left eye and a split lip. I’ll say I fell down some stairs. I shut myself in a booth to look at my stomach. It’s hardly a scratch; but it bled a little, and my white shirt is ruined. I arrange my jacket and tie to cover the damage.

The evening shift is gathering. Who might help me get through the night? In the employee lounge above the marquee, rain spatters against the windows. I see Julio the bouncer; Avi the coat check man; and Amanda, a waitress. I’ve prompted them, harangued them — and, yes, I’ve bullied them — for years.

I go to the other employee lounge, the one for colored workers. No matter what passes between us, I’ll always have that over them.