Faith, Hope and Destiny

The bar door opened letting in a cold blustery autumn wind, and a flurry of rustling dead leaves that scurried across the floor like frightened mice. The chilly breeze briefly permeated the warmth of the bar before heaters regained the upper hand. The bartender, a large, bearded, mid-forties and tired-looking man with a stocky body, standing quietly while polishing a clean glass for no reason, other than he had nothing better to do, looked up at the door expectantly. So did I. Anything was more interesting than thinking about my situation. An old man walked in. No. An old gentleman walked in. In his mid-seventies, he was slender, perfectly erect, spry, and wearing a long gray overcoat with black piping along the collar and a black Trilby hat. The sight made me smile. I hadn't seen a Trilby in eons - an old movie if memory served, black-and-white at that. I think it had Humphrey Bogart starring. Maybe with Ingrid Bergman.
The man approached the bar, nodded in a friendly greeting and ordered a scotch, neat, his voice low and smooth. When the barman turned to the bottles lined up in front of a mirror backing the bar, the old gentleman took his Trilby off revealing neat, short-cut gray hair and a high hairline. He glanced at me and smiled, nodding in greeting. I raised my mug, tipped it, took a sip, and turned my face back to the table to contemplate the taste of futility, an all-too-familiar taste.
I wondered at my stubbornness. I wondered why I was so gifted and so unsuccessful. Was it a cosmic joke I just couldn't see? Maybe I should chuck it in and become a garbage collector, an idea that had lately been whispering to me; "I'm your only talent."
"May I join you?"