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Aristotle says that the man who lives outside society is either a beast or a god. This quote was running through my head as I stood the motorcycle on the sidestand and pulled off my helmet. Across the street he was doing the same. He shoved the key deep into his black leather pocket and walked toward the Brew Pub, unconscious that he was being followed at a distance.

I entered the well-lit brewery nearly on his heels and went to my customary table in the corner. The place was nearly empty as it should be on a Wednesday night. It was never very full except during the late night hours of Friday and Saturday. The waitress showed up to take my order, knowing what she would hear before I said anything. She only worked Tuesdays and Wednesdays since she was facially disfigured: she had no nose. I couldn't figure out why a pub in this heavily trafficked part of town would hire a noseless waitress, but here she worked, and my secret nickname for her was Faceless. For some reason I always tipped Faceless half my five or six-dollar bill; maybe I felt sorry for the cruel trick violence had played her, or maybe I wanted her to keep her job here. I liked Faceless even though I rarely spoke a word to her; she was important and symbolic in some way.

She would probably resent being thought of as a symbol; after all she was a human being with her own loves and hatreds. Nonetheless Faceless was one reason I patronized this place - Faceless, the chocolate stouts and awful but fitting bric-a-brac. And the counters and tables were scrubbed clean every night until they shone. This, and the good lighting, lent a cold and impersonal atmosphere to the place.