Johnny and Steve Take a Turn around the Country Disco Bar

Stop carrying out your intentions and watch for my signals, Steve. You're too impulsive. I'm sure you think you know where you're going, but you don't. Neither do I, the difference is I know I don't know. We may well end up where you thought you wanted to go in the first place. So, just try to enjoy moving to and fro. Listen to the music. Nice, right? What's that? Conway Twitty makes you angry? That doesn't make a single bit of sense to me, Steve—but I respect your opinion. Actually, your opinion is complete crap. It's ridiculous. Mr. Twitty was a giant among men. Look, let's just sit for a bit. I think you're getting yourself worked up again, and I'm not going to pull you off another jukebox. Remember what happened at the Tip-Top Club? Now we can't go to the Tip-Top Club. Now we're here, listening to Conway Twitty and trying not to freak the fuck out. So, let's just sit and try to have a civilized conversation.

When was the last time you had an X-ray, Steve? Never? You're not missing much. They're anticlimactic. They don't really show inside, you know? I mean, when you close your eyes, what do you see? On second thought, don't even answer that because I swear to God if you say Conway Twitty I'll punch you square in your neck. Really, Steve. Don't. Lately, when I close my eyes I see flags. A shit-ton of flags. Acres and acres of them, identical, ragged in high wind—a blue cross on a field of white. If I really try, I can wash them away. But then they're just floating in high water. What does it mean? How the hell should I know, Steve? If I had to guess, I'd say it means that I really like flags or I really hate them, or maybe it has something to do with the wild fluidity of memory and the way that, as time passes, it becomes more and more like imagination—but who knows. I could be wrong.