, he sits at a bar (Martini's) on Christmas Eve, stares down a glass of bourbon-neat-and clutches his insurance policy, tucked into the pocket of his overcoat. His eyes dart about wildly, as if looking for an invisible answer to appear before him. Presumably drunk, desperate, glistening with sweat, George balls his fist and presses them against his face. He stammers out a prayer: "God, dear father in heaven, I'm not a praying man, but if you're up there and you can hear me, show me the way. I'm at the end of my rope. Show me the way, God."