We all stared at the screen that nearly covered the south wall. I sat on my stool and picked at nachos while two men in jeans with store bought rips sat on stools beside me. The one with the gaping tear at the knee kept comparing each person on screen to those of fame or personal acquaintance. As he was likening a bald-headed black man who looked nothing like Magic Johnson to Magic Johnson you squeezed in between us. Without a stool you stood uncomfortably, your arm pushing into mine in an implied manifest destiny. At first I was annoyed. I returned the awkward forearm pressure with my own and looked repeatedly up into your grizzled old face with mild fury. Then I realized that you just wanted a place to stand, like anyone would want or deserve. I felt embarrassed and moved my stool over to give you room. You immediately left. “That dude looks like a Mexican Tom Selleck, huh?” The friend nodded.