"You don't have to go home, but you sure as hell got to leave here."

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Wintertime, the Hawk howls up Indiana Avenue and folks quick-step from their rides, down the concrete stairs as fast as slick shoes and high heels allow, duck their hats under the low doorway into the smoky, loud basement bar where the blues live. In every season, one dollar lifts the chain and admits the patron to within smelling distance of blues as played no place else in the world. Junior Wells sits at the bar, or stands behind the bar, or dances in the wide aisle between bar and booths, flirts with the waitress, or the bartender, or you, argues, sulks, stops a fight, or starts one. He is at home. As is Sleepie the bartender, who is always there, on one side of the bar or the other, depending upon whether he's working or not.