The Man-in-the-green-hat sat at the table, peacocking.

Precariously perched on his head sat a lime-green fedora with a purple feather sticking out jauntily to the left side. He wore an exquisitely tailored Italian suit made of soft, brown corduroy that emitted little sound when he shifted position. On his feet were red socks – bordering on maroon – made of the finest Egyptian cotton. His shirt was blue – the color of neon dishwasher soap. His shoes – earth-brown alligator skin, imported from the Amazon and built to last. He sat at the table, casually scanning the crowded room as classical music hummed and babbled in the background, streaming from the 1958 Zenith – a relic of better times.

Yes, on this starry August night, the Man-in-the-green-hat – a man of mystery, intrigue, and devilishly good looks – was dressed to impress. He sat there, cool and collected, waiting for a female opportunity to arise.

None did. It was time for a drink.

Jim rose slowly, knees creaking and dentures clacking about in his sunken jaw as he struggled to his tennis-ball-studded walker. He stood hunchbacked, and shuffled over to the juice table, where a bored assistant – text-messaging – handed Jim a cup of Mott’s apple juice. Jim took it in shaking hand.

“Nice day out, eh, pal?” Jim said, soft and slow, a smile cracking his sagging, wrinkled face.

“It’s dark out, old man,” the assistant replied without looking up, face aglow from the cell-phone’s eerie blue light. “Go play some bingo or something.”

“Will do, see you later, pal.”

There was no response.

The Man-in-the-green-hat – back straight, chest out – strode to his designated seat at the table, scotch in hand. He grabbed a seat, placed his drink on the table, and sat there. Peacocking.