The rain was falling hard, and so I ducked into a dimly-lit bar. It’s the same bar where I stare into the painted face of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a face painted by the same man who is supposed to be my biological father. Longfellow’s white bearded visage hangs to my right on the far wall, while an etching of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s tombstone looms directly over me. My bartender’s name is Jasper and he is one of my customers at work, who I don’t immediately recognize. He’s tall, lanky, with short dark hair and a well-manicured beard. He sees me trying to peer over the counter at the beers on tap. It’s an “Oktoberfest” buffet of choices. I ask Jasper to recommend one to…