Barry sat down at the table, with the man whose presence seemed familiar. Barry reached a hand and pulled down the scarf.
  "Hey," said Barry. What are you doing here?"
  The old man rambled, Philly Blunt, "I look out at the images, the same women, just different hair, just different masks. It's as if I am the painting, but they cannot see that I am the same, and they are not the same and they are the same. It's not some alternate reality bullshit. No, it's simultaneity, same time, no time, all time. It's just I want it to stop and get off at 16-17. No, not now." He took another drink. Barry caught a glimpse of steel in the man's gnarled hand.