Peter needed to get drunk. He had been in his living room sitting on the couch for three hours wearing overalls with the straps hanging down, trying to decide what to wear to the closing night party. He wasn't even sure why he needed to get drunk, he didn't often feel that way. Actually, he sort of did know. It had something to do with a messy living room, a snooty cat, and cheese. When he rested his foot on his knee and noticed that the bottom of the white sock was gray from the living room floor, he put on shoes. He went to the bathroom to splash his face and pits with cologne, then put on a white shirt, tied a bright patchwork necktie and lifted the straps of the overalls over his shoulders envisioning his first sip. Whiskey. No, gin. Tequila. No. Beer. The cologne smelled like pepper. He sneezed.

As he walked toward his car he thought about where he was. Not geographically, he already knew that. Where he was in terms of where he thought he would be by the age of thirty-seven. He really had no talent for anything. He thought of Lee who could add large numbers in his head even when he was stupid drunk, and played a mean game of Scrabble. As he drove toward the house of the guy who played the doctor, he began grading his life. He was stuck in a cramped little home working at a silly job. It seemed a D+. That was worse than a dime tip. As he walked down the walk, the thought kept crossing back and forth across his mind, I need to get drunk. Drunk get to need I. He rang the doorbell.

"Bing bong," it said. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, my God," cried the panicked voice behind the door. "You can't be here for the party already!"

The door swung open violently, then the wife of the guy who played the doctor saw Peter standing there and sighed.

"Thank God it's only you," she said, taking her scarf off and wiping the sweat from her cheek. "I still haven't put on my face."

It looked to Peter like she still hadn't even showered it, so he asked what he could do to help. She pointed him in the direction of the kitchen, and just before running up the stairs to find her face, also pointed to the liquor and called him a dear. He explained that he would start in on the liquor first, as he intended to get drunk. She laughed and continued up the stairs toward her impending ablutions.

"Ding ding ding ding," the clock said as Peter poured himself a rum and Mr. Pibb™. That would be a good appetizer. "Ding ding ding ding. Ding ding ding ding. Ding ding ding ding. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong." (It's only four o'clock?) "Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. And a half." (Eight-thirty? Nine-thirty. My fingers got tired.) "Dong." (Thanks.)

The kitchen was huge. There was room to move around. Peter could twirl with his arms outstretched and not whack his hands into cupboards or knock anything off counters. He tried it to be sure. There was a center island with a butcher block top. He really wanted a kitchen with a center island with a butcher block top. This one looked like it had never been chopped on. If Peter had a center island with a butcher block top, it most certainly would be chopped on. The guy who played the doctor was a sales manager at Sears & Roebuck, for God's sake. How come he could afford a house with a kitchen with a center island with a butcher block top? On the range, a top-of-the-line Kenmore range, a brushed metal, gas top-of-the-line Kenmore range with a fifth burner, sat a big pot billowing steam. On the fifth burner. Peter lifted the lid. The pot was filled with bubbling beef gravy. He picked the wooden spoon up from the stove and stirred it, only to find Gideon's Bible. I mean little meat balls. He sampled one. He really liked Swedish Meatballs. This one was really good. He took a sip of his drink. That was good, too. He took a second sip, imagining what it might feel like to be able to live on a block with a house with a kitchen with a top-of-the-line Kenmore range and a center island with a butcher block top. That stove cost eight or nine hundred dollars. He'd seen them in the catalogue. Of course, the guy who played the doctor probably got an employee discount. I need a job with an employee discount, he thought, and took a third sip. I only get to see plays for free.

There was an empty Kenmore chafing dish on the counter by the stove, so Peter picked up the pot, poured the wonderful concoction into it, brought the dish out to the dining room and set it in the middle of the table which had already been covered with a tablecloth. He lit the Sterno can under the chafing dish, then went back into the kitchen. He had another sip of his drink. He wanted to meet Mr. Pibb. Maybe date him. Maybe just pull his Tab™.

On the ceramic tile counter, off-white with speckles that looked like spilled pepper and oregano, was a cookie tray half filled with little wieners covered with pastry. Next to that was a plate of naked wieners. Peter's pants tented. (Steve! Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve! You're supposed to be the straight one, and you always want to see the guys get... happy. Hey, I just like cheap humor. Besides, I was just trying to throw you a bone. So to speak. Well, don't.) and an open tube of Pillsbury crescent roll dough. Peter took another sip of his drink, a healthy one, and set about wrapping the rest of the wieners. As he did that, he snacked on Ruffles straight from the bag, and thought about where he had wanted to be by now. He had wanted to take the world by storm. And other cliches. Not the cat. But he really had no talent for anything besides annoying Stella. Which he was really good at. When he was done with the wieners (how many times are you going to say that word, Geoff? I don't know, six?) he put the rest of the Ruffles in a big white glass bowl with a simple yellow design silk-screened on the outside and brought them to the living room along with a small bowl of sour cream mixed with Lipton's French Onion Soup Mix. After he set that down, he finished his first drink. He felt good. One drink into his drunk. An admirable start. He ate a handful of M&Ms, then sorted through the CD rack and put on Ry Cooder. He thought about Lee, who, when he noticed his life going nowhere, picked up and changed it. I, on the other hand, he thought, have a deep depression in my couch cushion. Watching Lee find his new way was both thrilling and disheartening.

There was a pile of silverware and a stack of napkins on the table. He separated the silverware and arranged it in three artful fans, then twisted the top napkin so the stack was spiraled. There wasn't much he could do with the stack of paper plates, so he went back into the kitchen to get the tray of Prosciuto wrapped figs out of the refrigerator (a side-by-side sub-zero Kenmore number with brushed metal doors that matched the stove top and oven), stopping to sample a piece of celery stuffed with Cheez Whiz. By the time the clock bonged another half hour, the spinach dip was in the sourdough bread bowl (Peter sampled some on a chunk of sourdough bread), the crudités was arranged and laid out beautifully (Peter started his second drink, a Harvey Wallbanger, the rum was just too sweet) and the wieners were in the oven. (Peter tried an individually foil wrapped Laughing Cow cheese wedge, then had another to be sure he really hated it.)

There was a large crystal punch bowl on the table filled with orange, pineapple and white grape juices. Peter poured the two one liter bottles of Sprite into it, then got the orange sherbet from the freezer and scooped in big balls of that. It frothed prettily. He lit the wick floating in the glass bowl filled with scented oil and smiled. He indulged himself with a mushroom cap filled with melted brie, then sipped his Harvey. The two candlesticks on the Kenmore baby grand were empty, so he found tapered candles in a drawer in the kitchen, put them in the sticks, and lit them. The glow glinted nicely off the shiny black finish of the piano. The floor under the piano was polished oak hardwood. Peter wanted a house with hard wood anything in it. Instead, he had a cat.

He finished the flower arrangement that had been started and set it on the coffee table. He fluffed the tapestry pillow and set it in the corner of the couch. The couch was a strange salmon colored leather. It felt beautiful. It looked expensive. Over it were big, shiny, brass smile and frown masks with rhinestone eyebrows. They looked big and felt imported. In fact, Peter remembered having seen a set like them at Pier 1. He took a nice, long sip of Wallbanger and partook of a small corner of Halva. He surveyed the hors d'oeuvre table. It looked good. Elegant. Perfect. All it needed was a flower. He found a vase in the kitchen, washed it, took one flower from the centerpiece on the coffee table, rearranged the centerpiece so the flower wouldn't be missed, and put the vase on the hors d'oeuvres table. The flower contrasted nicely with the four walnut-finished employee-of-the-month plaques that hung on the wall behind the table. The four months were randomly scattered over the past eleven years. Peter smiled to himself at that, until he remembered that he had never received an employee-of-the-month anything. Ever.

The prosciuto wrapped figs called invitingly. He eyed them for a moment. He looked around, picked one up and popped it into his mouth. It was really, really good. He chewed it quickly and swallowed, then looked around again, picked up another one and popped that in guiltily. He thought of Lee. Lee had been having a pretty rough time, and that had forced him to change. I, on the other hand, have a life like butterscotch pudding. Instant butterscotch pudding. Generic instant butterscotch pudding.

Peter stood by the end table where the platter with the wine soaked cheese ball covered in crushed nuts, the Gruyere and Havarti cheeses and the summer sausage surrounded by an assortment of crackers sat. He sampled a small piece of each type of cheese on each type of cracker. His second drink was almost done. He tried to remember what his goals had been. Or even if he had ever really had any. Or if he had ever been good enough at anything to have a goal. The doorbell rang and the wife of the guy who played the doctor came downstairs and looked around. She stopped and put her hand to her chest.

"It's all beautiful," she said and gave Peter a kiss on the cheek. "I love you!"

Her White Diamonds by Liz Taylor rubbed off on his cheek, and he could still smell it when she went to open the door. A young voice rang out.

"What the hell is that music?"

Soon, Madonna wafted across the room. Slow dancing with Michael Jackson.

Peter tasted a green olive and chased it with a black one. His drink needed refreshing. This time he'd make the Wallbanger without the Galliano. Which would make it a screwdriver. As he mixed it, Kim Anderson came up to him, followed closely by her friend, Abby. Kim wore tight, tight faded blue jeans which conformed intriguingly to her buns of steel (Steve! What? One for my team. Okay. One.) and a brown leather jacket over her men's flannel shirt that somehow looked really feminine on her. Abby wore loose trousers that elegantly didn't accentuate her slightly larger frame. She had on a nice hip length beige wool coat. When she took it off, Peter noticed her sweatshirt. It said "What the hell are you looking at, Goober?" He laughed. She smiled. Peter liked her smile. It made her already high cheekbones round and her eyes sparkle. Kim smelled like Blistering Nights by Heather Locklear. Abby smelled like rose sashay and baby powder. Peter smelled food.

"You should try the Buffalo wings," he said. "If food be the food of love, eat on."

"Thanks," Kim said and tried a mushroom cap.

Abby shook her head. "I just look at stuff like that and gain weight."

"Me too," Peter said. "The difference being that I eat it anyway."

The room began to fill with the sounds of theatre people laughing, congratulating each other, talking too loudly, emoting and quoting. Someone was even talking about boating. A young woman came up to the wife of the guy who played the doctor and told her how elegantly everything was set up. She glanced surreptitiously at Peter before responding to the compliment, then seemed momentarily tongue-tied. Peter quickly joined them and complimented her on her outfit, then started talking about Jakarta, Indonesia. The wife of the guy who played the doctor smiled, relieved.

Lee and Andrew came in. Seeing Lee, even across the room, made a spark jump down Peter's sternum. He was confused by the reaction. Was that jealousy, he wondered, and took a sip of his third drink. He was starting to get impatient waiting for the alcohol to hit. He sampled a tortilla chip with salsa. Lee looked around, then went into another room. Andrew came toward Peter. Well, actually toward the hors d'oeuvre table, which was where Peter was. Peter detected the scent of Ladies Man by George Hamilton. That's expensive stuff, he thought.

"Hey, Peter," Andrew said, as he put together a plate. "What's going on?"

"I intend to get drunk tonight. How are you?"

"Good man," Andrew said around a warm wrapped wiener. "Everybody needs a goal."

Andrew went to the drink counter and fixed himself a Scotch and water. He swayed to the music a little and surveyed the room. He smiled. He really loved parties. The air vibrated with good will and ego. Actors were his favorite people. Except for mimes. The guy who played the doctor was dancing with his wife, and there was a group of young people in one corner being superior. The room bounced with their energy. Kim Anderson stood by the couch. Kim was a nice girl, he liked her. She was also a good stage manager and a fair actor. He walked over to her.

"Can I get you a drink?"

She pointed to the high ball glass on the end table and smiled. He sat on the arm of the couch. Over her shoulder, Andrew saw Lee approach Veronica. Kim turned to see where he was looking.

"That makes three out of three," she said. Andrew was confused so she continued, "Drunk, arrested, and now robbing the cradle."

"Actually, he's a pretty good guy," Andrew said. "He's had a rough time of it since his wife cheated on him."

Andrew told her a little of Lee's history, and how Veronica pursued him and caught him at a confused and vulnerable time. Kim looked at the two, appraising Lee in a different way while Andrew talked. Veronica flipped her hair and walked away in a huff. Kim was surprised that she actually felt sorry for the guy. He seemed like a puppy that had been left out in the rain. Floppy ears and all.

"Excuse me," she said to Andrew, moved to Lee and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hi."

"Oh," Lee said, his floppy ears perking. "Hi."

"She's young," Kim said. "I'd think you would need someone more... I don't know. My age."

Lee cocked his head to one side, then his eyes focused on something behind her. She looked around. It was snowing outside. Pretty. When she turned, Lee's head was still cocked, and he looked like he was forming some sort of question. Or statement. Or his neck hurt. He breathed in, ready to take the plunge, when a strange musical cacophony filled the room. They both turned toward its source. Peter and Abby were playing Heart and Soul on the baby grand. Kim and Lee both laughed.

"Oh, my God," Kim said, grabbing Lee's arm. "Perfect. Let's go save the party."

They made it through the crowd that was gathering around the piano, laughing and clapping. Peter looked up at Lee with a grin, then took the last swig from his third drink, and a Triscuit covered with cream cheese, imitation crab and cocktail sauce from Abby's plate.

"Abby," Kim said. "I want you to meet Lee Harris. Lee, Abigail Holiday."

"That was some concert," Lee said with a grin.

"Oh?" Abby said, grinning back and pushing her frizzy black hair from her face. "And you can do better?"

He shrugged. Peter got up from the piano bench and grandly gestured toward it. Lee looked at him with an "I hate you look," and sat. He cracked his knuckles, breathed in to settle himself and played the first few bars of Chopin's Polonaise-Fantaisie in A Flat Major, Op. 61. It was flawless. Peter was stunned. He was about to say "who are you?" but realized that phrase had been used more than "but that has nothing to do with this story" and thought better of it. But that has nothing to do with this story©. He decided being stunned was sufficient. His face flushed.

"I learned when I was a kid," Lee said with an embarrassed shrug. "I'm a little rusty."

"I'm a little teapot," Abby said.

Lee cocked his head to the side. Kim asked if his neck hurt.

"Go on, finish it," Abby said.

Lee shook his head, proving his neck didn't hurt. Then he started playing Heart and Soul. Abby laughed and slapped his hand. Someone asked him if he knew any show tunes. Andrew laughed and asked for Send in the Clowns. Peter asked for My Boy Bill, then blushed and said he meant Bali Ha'i. I mean the Ballad of the Green Berets. Lee thought a moment, then started playing. Abby nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

"No," somebody shouted. "Something somebody can sing."

Abby started singing the song. Lee turned to her, still playing, very surprised.

"How do you know this?"

"Where Would You Get Your Coat," she said. "I love Cole Porter."

Lee shook his head in awe and continued playing to the end of the song. He occasionally side glanced up at Kim, who swayed sensually to the music. Abby gleefully sang every verse. When he was done, everyone clapped, and Lee realized he had an audience and turned bright maroon. There were several requests shouting for his attention, but Lee got up, bowed clumsily and moved away very fast. There was a collective disappointed groan, but it wasn't enough to bring Lee back.

The wife of the guy who played the doctor sat at the piano and started playing Feelings and the groan faded. (Wouldn't it intensify? They have to be polite. I never am. They're not you.) The crowd listened politely through most of the first verse. Kim found Lee in the far corner of another room and told him how nice that had been. She was still swaying sensually to the music. He got embarrassed all over again and didn't say anything.

Abby told Peter how much fun that had been as they went to the drink counter. Peter agreed. Something in his chest did something funny. Finding out Lee could play the piano at all was a little exciting, finding out how well he could play was a lot intimidating. Was there anything Lee couldn't do? Was there anything Peter could do? Maybe he could become talented by osmosis if he stood really near Lee. For a very long time. That thought made his chest do something else funny. This isn't about Lee, it's about me, he thought. He didn't tell Abby any of this.

"I'm trying to get drunk tonight," he told her instead while mixing his drink, this time without the orange juice. Which would make it a vodka. Straight up. So to speak.

"Oh," Abby said, pushing a stray frizz from her forehead. "So how's it going?"

He shook his head sadly, sampled a celery stick stuffed with peanut butter, then took a sip of his new drink.

"I don't even have a buzz, yet," he said. "I'm on my fourth drink."

Abby laughed heartily. "You keep eating. It's soaking up all the goofy juice."

Peter looked at the celery stick. He hadn't thought of that. He sighed, and took another bite.

"I can't even get drunk right," he said.

Lee watched Kim all night. He would be talking to someone and glance over at her. If he caught her eye, she would smile. He finally worked up his courage, and joined the group of people she was talking to. After a polite interval pretending to listen to the conversation they were having, he asked her if he could get her a drink.

"Actually, Abby and I were just about to go."

"Oh," Lee said, disappointed. "I'll... um... so I'll see you soon?"

"Sure," she said and cocked her head.

He wondered if her neck hurt.

Peter stayed until the last guest left, ate the last prosciuto wrapped fig on the way out and bought a brick of cheese on his way home.

Because of the light snow the night before, which made the whole town feel wonderfully quiet, Sunday brunch was slower than usual. Lee didn't even work up a sweat while washing dishes. He was able to leisurely stroll back to the men's room to relieve himself with no urgency. When he strolled back out, Peter staggered into the diner and sat on a stool at the counter. He seemed odd, somehow.

"You look like death," Twain said to him. "Want a Tang?"

Peter nodded, then was sorry because his head hurt. Twain's Locker Room Afternoons by Tom Arnold hung in the air and didn't help matters. Lee asked Peter what was wrong, and he explained that he had a hangover.

"You didn't seem drunk last night."

"I wasn't!" he said really loudly, then was instantly sorry and grabbed the bridge of his nose. "Food," he said much more quietly and emptied the Tang packet into the glass of water.

Lee had never heard of a food hangover. He also wondered why Peter hadn't just stayed in bed.

"I have a brunch date with a friend." Peter looked at his watch. "She's late."

Kim and Abby came into the diner and sat at a booth. Kim was wearing corduroy pants and a dark brown ski jacket that looked really nice, especially against her blond hair. She took her gloves off when she sat. Abby took off her coat. Her sweatshirt said "Weeping Willow, the On-Line Serial." Lee excused himself from Peter, picked up two menus and waved Matt off.

"Ladies," he said as he handed them the menus. "What can I get you this morning?"

"The great Lee-berace," Abby said. "I didn't know I'd find you here."

"This is where I hang out when I'm not on tour," he said. "Hi, Kim."

Abby laughed. Kim ordered coffee.

"What's Weeping Willow?" Lee asked Abby.

She looked down at her chest, then shrugged.

"A tree?"

Lee went behind the counter to get the coffee pot and cups.

"Kim Anderson flirted with me last night," he said to Peter. "And I'm meeting with Andrew tomorrow about the divorce. I feel like something is finally breaking loose. Like a huge hunk of plaque has been chipped off my brain by a really good hygienist. Or something."

Peter looked over his Tang at him, eyes squinted. Lee brought the coffee to the ladies and asked if they were ready to order. Kim ordered an omelet and Abby ordered a tuna melt with a coleslaw side.

"Like Cole Porter," she smiled, then excused herself to go wash her hands.

After he wrote the order down, Lee looked at Kim. She noticed and looked at him expectantly. He looked around, then looked back. She continued to not know why.

"So," he said. "Um. How's it going? Did you have fun at the party last night?"

"Yeah, I did."

She put a whole lot of cream in her coffee, then stirred it.

"Me, too," he said. "You know I never really dated Veronica."

"Oh."

"She really is kind of young."

"Yeah," Kim said.

Abby came back with clean hands. She showed both sides to Lee for approval. He laughed, then nodded with mock severity. Then he noticed that they really were very, very clean. Then he went back to put the order in. Then he turned to Peter.

"Last night, Kim was all over me," he said. "Now she doesn't seem to remember who I am. Oh, God. I hope I wasn't rude to her that first night I met her. I was really drunk. But last night she came up to me. Actually, she came up to me that first night. Maybe she's embarrassed. She was kind of forward. Maybe she was drunk."

"Maybe an order of toast would help."

"Help me talk to Kim?"

"No, with my hangover."

Lee looked at him for a very long time, trying to jump tracks. He decided to put his confusion aside and be nice to his friend.

"I've never heard of a food hangover. What's it feel like?"

Peter looked at him through the red veins in his eyeballs, shook his head softly, stroked his beard, then took stock.

"My head hurts."

"That sounds familiar."

"And I feel like I need to sweat grease. My stomach is sort of trying to churn but there isn't any room. My skin feels doughy, my eyes hurt. My legs feel full. My heart is pumping cheese instead of blood. My fingers feel fat and I can't make a fist. I'm thirsty but I'm too full to drink." He took a sip of Tang and sighed. "My shirt is rubbing very unpleasantly against my back. I want to sleep, but even if I were home in bed, I wouldn't be able to lie on my stomach or my back or my sides. If I stretched out straight, it would stretch my stomach too much. If I pulled my legs up in a fetal position it would squish my stomach too much. Standing takes too much energy and sitting is very uncomfortable. And my head hurts. Maybe a piece of dry toast will settle my stomach."

Lee was unsure, but put a slice of bread into the toaster.

"Want some Alka Seltzer?"

"Oh, no," Peter said, and looked a little gray. "That would make me throw up."

"Wouldn't that be good?"

"I hate throwing up. I haven't thrown up since I saw Last Tango in Paris."

"Last Tango in Paris made you throw up?"

"Have you seen it?"

Lee shook his head.

"Don't."

Twain thunked the little bell and put Kim and Abby's order on the window ledge. Lee was thankful for the interruption. He took the plates to them. He set the plates down and stood there, trying to think of something to say. He couldn't, so he went back behind the counter.

"And my feet are throbbing," Peter said. "And so are my fingernails. And I can't breath through my nose."

"I don't understand it," Lee said, looking at Kim, who unfolded her omelet and scraped the cheese and mushrooms out. Then she picked the mushrooms out of the cheese. Then she ate the cheese. Then she ate the mushrooms.

Peter looked back at them, then at Lee. He told Lee to ask her out and have done with it, then looked at his watch and ordered a single scrambled egg. Abby got up from the booth again, presumably to wash her hands. Again. Lee took the opportunity to go back to the booth.

"Last night, you said I should be dating someone more your age."

Kim looked at him quizzically.

"Well, aren't you more your age?"

Her eyes got wide for a moment, then she stammered.

"Oh," she said. "No. I'm sorry. Oh. I didn't mean that. I wasn't trying to lead you on. Oh, God. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," Lee said, more flustered than her, his throat sinking down into his stomach like a lead hamburger with steel buns. "I just... I..." His voice got quieter with each word. "Thought you... wanted to go out... with... I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I'm sort of seeing someone. You're a nice guy, you'll meet someone. Really."

Abby came back from the ladies room and Lee hurried back around the counter and hid behind Peter. Abby ask if she had done something wrong to scare him away and Kim explained in amused tones that Lee had just tried to ask her out. Abby thought that was cool, but Kim let her know just how uncool that was.

"Do you think Kim is dating Abby?" Lee asked Peter.

"I don't know," Peter said a little too harshly and gave him a "how dare you think I'm the local gay directory and ask me that in public especially when you know I'm suffering, here" look. Lee cocked his head to the side. He wasn't good at reading looks.

"I just made a fool of myself," he said. "I asked her out like you said and she turned me down."

Peter gave him a "well, at least now you know and can stop bothering me about it and why should I feel sorry for you when I haven't had a date since The Last Tango in Paris and you can play the piano and speak French and add numbers in your head and get double triple Scrabble words and you're thin and have young women chasing after you and you've never had a food hangover in your life and have only been here for a couple of months and everybody already loves you and offers you parts in plays and nobody loves me and I don't care if I'm feeling sorry for myself because I don't feel good and who are you?" look. Lee blinked and missed it.

"You really do look awful," Lee said. "Why don't you just go home. Your friend is really late. If she shows up I can tell her you didn't feel well."

"I have to wait at least an hour. It wouldn't be polite not to," Peter said, then ordered a side of hash browns and a short stack of pancakes.

"An hour? I wouldn't wait more than fifteen minutes."

"Well, I'm not you," Peter said and ordered coffee.

Lee wondered why everybody hated him.

After Twain put the order up, he came out of the kitchen, pulled the microphone stand forward on the little platform in the corner, stood behind it, adjusted it, and tapped on it twice to make sure it was on. Lee watched him carefully. No one else seemed to care.

"Coconut doilies," he said into it, then stared out into the air for a moment.

Lee waited for him to finish. Twain put the microphone stand back in the corner, stepped off the platform, then went behind the counter to read the morning paper. Peter excused himself to go to the men's room. Twain handed him a two-hundred fifty count box of Ohio Blue Tip Matches as he walked by. With Peter gone, Lee had nothing to hide behind and went in back.

When Matt brought their check to the table, Kim laughed a little.

"Poor guy," she said to Abby. "He was too embarrassed to bring it himself."

"You've never been turned down, have you?" Abby said as she reached into her purse for the money to pay her part of the tab.

Peter sat back down and handed Twain the half empty box of matches. The phone rang and Twain answered it. He nodded a couple of times, said he would and hung up.

"That was your friend," he told Peter. "She said she didn't feel well and wouldn't be able to make it."

Peter looked hurt. Twain understood the look perfectly.

The next morning, Monday, Peter sat in his chair at his desk staring at the wall behind Stella's head. Her perfume was napping. She told him he looked like a three day bender. He ate a cracker at her.

There was a knock on the office door. Stella started working suddenly, so Peter got up to answer it. There was a young blond man there who looked really familiar. Stella's perfume woke up, fully alert.

"Hey, chief," the young man said. "Who do I talk to about volunteering?"

"Me, I guess." Peter could feel Stella start to plot behind him. "You look really familiar."

"Jim," the guy said, putting out his hand. "Ever watch the Rockford Files?"