At his elbow, on a table, was a gallon jug of dago red filled with
cigarette ashes and dead moths. I looked away, then looked back. He
had the jug to his mouth but most of the wine ran right back out, down
his shirt, down his pants. Bernard Stachman put the jug back.
"Just what I needed."
"You ought to use a glass," I said. "It's easier."
"Yes, I believe you're right." He looked around. There were a few dirty glasses and I wondered which one he would choose.