Concerning the Virgin and the Tyro

   Out of the rain, and into the gaze of the Virgin Mary. Literally.
  Taylor halted abruptly from pure surprise. The light shifted to show the statue, a very commendable rendition of the Madonna towering six feet tall over the bar, arms extended with palms toward the ceiling as though offering grace to whatever patrons would slough beneath. Which at the moment comprised himself. The proprietor was at a table in the rear, reading a paperback.
  Taylor took a stool between the hands and beneath the affectionate gaze of half-closed eyes. He pulled a bowl of M&Ms closer, and began to absently chew.
  Somewhere, just filtering beyond the range of aural distinction, a radio was playing some early U2. It struck him as ironic; he remembered Eric comparing the confessed random voids in his memory to music. Can’t sing along without the music. Sometimes, he felt he could almost reach the edge, almost get the lightest grip on it before it skittered away. He had never really realized until Eric pointed it out that he occasionally could come closer to grasping it in certain areas. He assumed some connection beyond vagrant de ja vu, similar to moving closer to the radio made the music more clear.
  “Hey, Eric, my man!” The voice had a false cheer to it, turning it almost nasal and obsequious.
  He had been recognized. Taylor turned into the anemic, knife-edge face of Renfeild. Something of an inevitable fixture, Renfeild always gave the impression of being a tag-a-long tyro, someone’s kid brother, his face perpetually a painting of innocence and bewilderment trying to look experienced. His shoulder-length, raven hair had fallen from the truculent tail again, ensconcing his face.
  “Eric,” he repeated. “Didn’t expect to see your face here, man.”
  Taylor hadn’t bothered to correct him, or the myriad of others who mistook his name. Eric told him that they often got confused, and in the end it didn’t matter, so it was easier to avoid more confusion. “Didn’t expect myself to be here,” Taylor said.
  Renfeild grinned, creating a manic image. “Understand that.” He took a stool and reached for the bowl. In transit, a folded slip of paper inexplicably fell from his leather sleeve onto the bar. Taylor brushed it toward him reach back for the bowl himself.