The date, December 24, 1973.

Christmas Eve has fallen on a Monday of all days this year,

and there really is no bluer Monday than a Christmas Eve where one really has no place to go.

Fred Sails, the bartender at the blockchip, a little lounge that's easy to miss on even

the brightest of nights off the Route 151 in Bertram, Iowa. He's been polishing glasses with

the hope that maybe a few more lonely souls might wander in, looking for some extra company

for their misery.

His co-worker and cocktail waitress, Edie,

occupies a tattered stool in front of him,

her long, defeated face, cupped in her arthritic hands.

Fred, please, turn the Christmas music off.

Why? It's Christmas.

That's exactly why.

Well, it sure is a cold one.

At least ten below what they said on the radio.

Please turn off the music. I am begging you.

That's why they're not coming in here this year, you see, it's too cold. Please, Fred. What do you think, lady? Should we turn off the Christmas music?

I don't care.

Hey, that fella is with you, right lady?

Yeah.

Well, can you wake him up? He can't be sleeping on the bar like that.

Oh, leave him be.

...