“I figured it out,” Skunk said, lifting his head from the table. The others looked over, surprised, as he’d been out for the last twenty minutes. “I know why everyone loves Bill Murray. He’s just Charlie Brown in a nicer sweater.”
In the silence that followed, the waitress came by and cleared the empty glasses.
“Everyone all right here?” she asked.
A few fumbled to find the words to order another round. Skunk laid down on the table, and started to snore.
“You’re going to have to take care of him,” the waitress said. “He can’t stay here like that.”