Thirty-years-old, she was born in Chester. From 17 to 26, she lived in Williamsport, in the idyllic Poconos, where she worked in a group home for retarded people. Then she moved back to Chester to work as an emergency medical technician, that is, in an ambulance, before they let her go. She admitted that business was down at the Gold Room, Chester's biggest bar, and no one she knew was doing well, "But we're in a recovery nationally, right?"
"No," I said, "and it's only going to get worse."
"You think so?"
"Yes, I travel all over the country, and it's the same shit all over, and everyone I talk to says they're not doing well. Well, eight or nine out of ten, anyway. Almost no one is doing well."
"So what should we do?"
"You just have to cover your own ass, that's all."
In retrospect, I should have said, "You just have to cover your own skull, that's all," or, better yet, "We just have to cover each other's flaming skull, that's all."