It was a box outlined by city noises on three sides. The brown-painted, pressure-treated fence was just high and opaque enough to obscure the encroaching rattle. High enough on purpose. Not high enough to obscure an unfinished, looming building lit up for night construction. As I sat with a full pint by the southern fence, threatening lights and sounds flickered in. Was it just an alley on the other side? Or was something more ominous pressing in? It seemed everyone in the box was slightly frazzled by the unsteady landscape and compensated in a beer-centric seriousness. Like a too-trimmed mustache on the edge of letting loose.