It's blinding bright outside, but inside the Bar & Grill, a soothing darkness rests the eyes and welcomes the world-weary. The walls are painted a clubby forest green. Three television sets are tuned to sports news, sound off. During football season, Pittsburgh Steelers fans gather here for games. Tonight at the bar, a short guy with a big vocabulary is complaining loudly about his performance evaluation. He wants to know exactly how he can get all E's next time. He wants objectives, goals, measurable benchmarks. Jeez, you think, ordering a $1.35 Bud draft, he's much too caught up in this. You want to shout "Just Be!" or something at the guy. But it's too much fun to feel smugly superior that you're not so caught up in the machinations of "the man." The place begins to fill up. The fella next to you orders a meatball sandwich from the Jacaranda Italian Restaurant and Pizzeria next door. Rene the bartender leaves to get it for him. The phone rings. A patron answers it: "Jacaranda." Silence. "Even here, they hang up on me," she quips. You stare at a backlighted bottle of Grey Goose Vodka and let your mind drift. The two pool tables are empty. On Wednesday nights, a pool league has formed. Performance Evaluation is now telling Rene he wants to kiss her stomach. He says he's trying to be "communicative." She is the center that holds the place together -- blond layered hair to her shoulders, bee-stung lips, a deep tan. Every bar needs a babe, even if none of the patrons has a chance with her. They nurse their drinks, flirt, and dream.