Big guys in jeans and work shirts crowded the bar. Waitresses carried trays of

drinks and shouted at each other. It was pretty much exactly the kind of place

my mom would never let me go.

 

I was stuck in the very back of the room, next to the bathrooms (which didn't

smell so great) and a couple of antique arcade games.

 

"Oh good, you're here," said the man at the Pac-Man machine. "I'll have a Diet

Coke."

 

He was a pudgy guy in a leopard-skin Hawaiian shirt, purple shorts, red running

shoes, and black socks, which didn't exactly make him blend in with the crowd.

His nose was bright red. A bandage was wrapped around his curly black hair like

he was recovering from a concussion.

 

I blinked. "Mr. D?"

 

He sighed, not taking his eyes from the game. "Really, Peter Johnson, how long

will it take for you to recognize me on sight?"

 

"About as long as it'll take for you to figure out my name," I muttered. "Where

are we?"

 

"Why, Bobby Earl's birthday party," Dionysus said. "Somewhere in lovely rural