The annual sledding party at Beard's Hill was the great equalizer. Everyone had a common goal - to get drunk and slide down a hill. The hill was already there. All it needed were people and booze. And snow. And booze. The snow came, followed closely by the people and booze. (Okay, Steve, you would never let me get away with a paragraph like that. What? It's art. And besides, I'm funny.) Beard's Hill was a twisting fifteen mile drive out of town, and there wasn't a house in sight of it. The hill was wide, one end was very steep and the other much less so, gradually leveling off to a wooded area. No one sledded or tobogganed near the trees, but lights from snowmobiles could occasionally be seen weaving in and around them like fireflies, and the faint humming sound of their high revving engines could be heard if the atmospheric conditions were just right and the car radios paused for a moment. The cars parked at the top, off the road that would have been dirt if it weren't covered with snow, slush and ice. Actually, at this point, most of them were trucks, which helped cut the grooves in the snow covered road for everyone else.

When Peter arrived in the early evening, the blizzard was losing most of its intensity. The next morning, though, kids all over town would look out of their bedroom windows and cheer. There was one small fire going at the other end of the hill, and a small group of what looked like college aged kids were building a snowman with exaggerated breasts. Okay, a snow woman. But it had a huge carrot for a (careful) dong (thank you), so it was a snow evangelist.

He stood at the edge of the parking area, surveying the hill. Booze was already being shared by the cold tobogganers in those forty or fifty feet between the area where people parked and the edge of the hill, and the folks that were already there were already laughing and screaming and throwing snowballs at each other. He had almost not come this year. He was tired of going places alone, and right up until the last moment had defiantly sat on his couch determined not to venture out. Determined instead to stay home. Alone. He knew people who liked being alone. They usually complained about never getting any time to themselves. Well, he'd give them his time if he could. (Is it "tobogganers" or "toboggananians"? What are you off on now, Steve? You know, I'm from Michigan and some people call us Michiganians and some say Michiganders. Go back to Michigania, Steve.)

Finally, after sitting on the couch being Peter for several hours, going back and forth in his head between staying home feeling sorry for himself or going to the party and feeling sorry for himself, between berating himself for feeling like he needed to go to the party and chastising himself for not wanting to fulfill his obligation to go to the party, between equivocating and vacillating, he determined that it was time, finally, to make a change. He needed to find a friend. Okay, so he had friends. Lee was his friend, but Lee was now ensconced with Abby. And good for him. Peter wanted to be ensconced. Not in that way, of course. He figured he probably wouldn't ever be ensconced in that way, but in a real friendship. One with someone who he could laugh with and cook for and talk about books with and take care of and be taken care of by. If he was going to find himself someone like that, he needed to pull himself out of his shell. Somehow. God, that sounded like something Dr. Joyce Brothers would suggest. Hearing himself think it almost made him stay home again, but he got up off the couch, got his things together and left, proud and thrilled at the new direction his life might take. He thought of thinking that it was the first day of the rest of his life and that a journey of a thousand miles started with the first step, but anything that came to his mind sounded too much like something on a colorful poster found on a teenaged girl's bedroom wall in the seventies.

A few of the vehicles in the parking area had their lights on, illuminating the gathering through the gentle, steady stream of big snow flakes, and a few others had their doors open and their radios, tuned to the same station, blaring out high energy party music. The wind had died down, and you could see misted breath which sometimes came out in bursts with laughter. Peter watched the groups and couples that had gathered and wondered if any of them would be the one. The friend. He'd have to wait until one separated from the pack to find out. He sat in the center of his tractor wheel inner tube and started down the hill. Very quicky the tube turned backwards, and Peter screamed with pleasure and fear the rest of the way down. At the bottom, he struggled to a standing position, which was difficult because of the packed snow, the slippery tube and his strange center of gravity. Once standing, he brushed the snow from his beard with the end of his knitted scarf, and brushed it off his butt with his tattered mittens.

"I wanna rock and roll all day," Peter shouted toward the top of the hill in his robust baritone voice, shaking his mittened fist in the air, "and party ev-er-ry night!"

"Rock and roll all night," a kid who had just landed near him at the bottom of the hill on a Radio Flyer said. "Party ev-er-ry day."

"What?"

"Rock and roll is all night. Party is ev-er-ry day," the kid repeated. "Kiss."

"I know," Peter said to him, "but it's night, now. And you're too young to know Kiss."

"My dad has the album," the kid said as he picked up his Radio Flyer. "He's such a geek."

The kid effortlessly sprinted up the hill. Peter's knees hurt. One down. He considered singing Joni Mitchell's Songs to Aging Children Come, but decided instead to re-confirm his decision and started whistling It's a Small World©©, picked up his tube and trudged back up the hill. Once there, he dropped the tube, poured hot mulled wine from a gingham colored Thermos™ bottle into the red, plastic Thermos™ bottle cap, and let it warm him from the stomach out. Then he plopped down into his tube, poured another cap full and scouted the party goers, eagle-eyed, for a possible conquest candidate. He was still breathing hard from the trip down and the trek back up, but laughter and shouting and scratchy car radios, combined with the warm, spicy alcohol, exertion and the exceptional opportunity for companionship made him want to hug the world.

There were people of all ages who came to slide down this hill, but the majority of them would be college kids and high school juniors and seniors who had their own cars. A green nineteen seventy-two Impala drove up and parked. Twain got out, slammed the driver's side door, opened the trunk and pulled out Walt Disney (Steve!) a long, beat up folding table made from textured aluminum, carried it by the handle and set it up very close to the edge of the hill. He went back and pulled out a long, beat up, rectangular stainless steel chafing dish, set it up on the table, and lit two cans of Sterno. Under its cover were two pans, one full of melted nacho cheese and the other full of thick, sweet, steaming Sloppy Joe mix. Kids were already gathering when he went back for the industrial sized bag of tortilla chips and huge garbage bag filled with hamburger and hot dog buns. As soon as Twain put the table out, Peter struggled back up, went to his car and, in two trips, brought the two industrial coffee urns and set them on the table.

"Peter," Twain said as Peter put the sign that said "Hot Hard Apple Cider" on one urn.

"Twain," Peter said as he put the sign that said "Hot Mulled Wine" on the other one.

Twain pulled a beat up aluminum military canteen out of the camouflage colored canvas attached to his belt. He uncapped it and let the cap swing free on the chain while he took a healthy swig. Peter poured the last of the mulled wine from his Thermos and toasted Twain. (Eeew. Toasted Twain. What would that smell like? Eeew.)

"Whiskey?" Peter asked after he swallowed a gulp of wine.

"Gin," Twain said.

"Eeew. Gordon's?" Peter asked.

"Gilbey's," Twain said with a look that seemed to imply that Peter should have known better. "In the frosted bottle."

"How can you drink that lamp oil straight?" Peter asked. Twain didn't point out that no one was sampling his wine or cider. Peter didn't point out back that it usually started going when the theater crowd got there after the performance. Twain didn't point out that that wasn't something to be proud of.

After another snort, Twain went back to his car and pulled out a very beat up steel snow disk. It had once been metallic green, but was now only green in some of the deeper dents and near the handles, which were braided rope that had long since replaced the original leather. He brought it to the edge, set a beat up square foam rubber pillow covered in plastic with a barely recognizable emblem on it that could have been a bear, could have been a cougar, could have been a badger, could have been a raccoon, could have been a llama, could have been a yak, could have been a marmoset, could have been a (Steve. Stop. It's just a pillow) red devil silk-screened on it. (Sheesh.) He sat on that and stoically slid down the hill. The disk didn't spin at all. It didn't dare.

Peter was fascinated by Twain's self-reliance. He was fascinated by Twain in any case. He realized, watching him slide down the hill, that he knew almost nothing about this guy who he saw almost every day of his life. Probably no one did. Not even Twain. Nobody ever really questions him. If they did, what would they ask? What would Peter ask him? He obviously has some sort of answer, look at him. Maybe he could be the friend. That would be really interesting. Or scary. And anyway, Twain would probably not even consider being his new friend. No, it couldn't be him. Realizing he was beginning to sound like a high school girl again, Peter took a healthy swig of cider and went back down the hill on his tube.

The first ambulance came shortly after Peter got back to the top. He took a small amount of pleasure to notice that the person on the stretcher was the kid whose father had a Kiss album. Several revelers saluted the kid with bottles of wine, vodka, Wild Turkey, sloe gin, beer, brandy and any and everything sweet by Hiram Walker. Peter, comfortably sitting again in his tube, saluted him with a refreshed cup of hot wine, then took a healthy swig. The warmth it gave to the inside of his cheeks conflicted delightfully with their wind chaffed surface, making them rosier than usual. He breathed out another small sigh. It had been an eventful week, and sitting bundled in his overalls which were over longjohns and under his old, bulky coat on a cold night surrounded by a snow party was just what he needed after all. There had been a knock on his door late Wednesday night. (Is this a flashback, Geoff? Yes. Pretty abrupt, isn't it? I was waiting for your film school genius. I'm not playing any more. You wouldn't let me say ermine. You're such a child. Go ahead. Could have been an ermine. Happy?) A placard appeared that said "Late Last Wednesday, at Peter's." (Thank you.)

Peter pulled the last tissue from the box and used it to mark his place in his book then looked at the door for a moment before answering.

"Who is it?"

"Me. Jim."

Peter sat up from his slumped position. He looked around the room, wondering if he should do the dishes, vacuum and straighten up before answering.

"Just a sec," he said, instead, and brushed some water cracker crumbs from the coffee table to the floor, got up and opened the door.

Peter had never imagined that Jim could look that sad. He had never imagined that Jim could look sad at all unless he'd just lost a tooth or a basketball game. Even then, sad probably wouldn't be what Jim would look. Jim stood for a moment, then enveloped Peter in a huge grief-hug. I have an iota of a chance, Peter thought, then chastised himself soundly for the thought. Peter had no choice but to hug him back and pat him on the shoulder, but was frozen stiff while doing it. It felt like Jim might actually cry.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked, thinking the worst.

"Agnes is dumping me," Jim said.

"Is," Peter said, "dumping you?"

Jim untangled himself from Peter, for which Peter was both grateful and disappointed. How dare he come to me to tell me he was being dumped. By an older woman, yet. By an old woman. But I'm so glad it's my shoulder he came to cry on. It'd better be my shoulder. But how dare he? Am I some sort of hanky to be pulled out of the drawer at his convenience, then tossed aside again? God, he smells good. I need cheese. He led Jim to the couch, then went in search of a tissue. There was a box on his bed stand. Don't ask why. He gave the box to Jim, then sat next to him, making sure he was the appropriate "concerned friend" distance away. Then he moved an inch closer, to adjust for whatever. You know. Then he moved three inches away to adjust for the incredible attraction he suddenly realized he still felt.

"Tell me."

"We went to The Office last night."

"Did you fight?"

"That young good-looking guy was bartending."

"Who, Headline? Oh. Headline."

Peter understood despite the irony of Jim calling someone else "young". He moved two inches closer in order to put his arm around Jim's shoulder understandingly, then didn't put his arm around the shoulder. Then he clasped his hands in his lap in case he might accidentally put his arm around the shoulder.

"Then tonight," Jim continued, "after rehearsal, she suggested I should go home because she was tired."

He's being dumped, all right, Peter thought. Jim's eyes were actually glistening. Peter really didn't know what to do or say.

"Have you eaten?"

"Sure, I wouldn't have made it to twenty-eight if I hadn't." (Steve! You have no compassion. It's fiction, Ishmail. Get your own line.)

Jim just shook his head. Peter went into the kitchen to fix him a snack. Two minutes later, he brought out a sandwich made with crusty Italian bread, slices of home cooked roast beef, two slices of Colby cheese, lettuce, tomato, horseradish mayonnaise and a hint of Dijon mustard. There were two crisp dill pickle spears and a handful of chips on the plate. He also brought out a glass of cold beer and some paper towels. Jim ate and drank silently, appreciatively, nodding occasionally. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with a square of paper towel, and sat back. He breathed heavily for a moment, then looked at Peter.

"Thanks," Jim said sadly. "Mind if I crash here tonight?"

Yes I mind, Peter's mind shouted at Jim. No, his mind shouted at himself. Then he got really angry, then really flushed, then really confused, then really angry again. How dare he ask that, he thought. After everything. Then he looked at him again. Is he planning on trying to be gay every time something goes wrong in his personal life? I'm not a yo-yo, I'm a human being. What a sad, wet puppy, Peter thought, angry at himself for always having to be the mother, for being so desperate for contact that he'd take care of anybody. Why can't I just once be a regular guy and say get the fuck out of here, you asshole? It would feel so good to be able to do that. Just once.

Peter got up to get bedding for the couch, which, he was sure, wasn't what Jim had meant. Or, maybe it was. Maybe he just didn't want to drive. But Peter didn't want to know if it was or wasn't, and if it wasn't, it would be too exciting, and too painful, so he got the bedding for the couch.

While Peter was gone, Jim looked around the room. There was a book called "My Head's Too Big to Box with God" by Anne Boleyn on the coffee table with a tissue hanging out of it. How can he read that shit, he thought. He looked up at the wall and noticed for the first time the autographed picture there of some old lady with a striped nurse's scarf on her head. "To Peter," it said. "Rock on. Mother Theresa - '78"

Jim took off his shoes and socks and lay down. He was asleep almost instantly. Damn him. Peter went into his room and went to bed. He lay under the covers staring out at the darkness. He had never noticed how loud the refrigerator was, with the clicking on and hum of the motor. And he could hear the soft snore from the living room of that stupid, handsome young man. He tried counting the breaths like sheep, but that didn't help at all. Finally, he threw the covers back and quietly went into the kitchen. He got a bowl, but realized, as soon as he opened the refrigerator, that he had used the last of his cheese in Jim's sandwich. Damn him. He remembered the can of aerosol cheese product he had bought on a whim years ago, and carefully closed the refrigerator door. Before he found the can, he found a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese food product that he had bought on the same whim. What was I drinking that night, he thought, then set them both on the counter and stared at them. I can either melt that shit, or mix this shit. Or go to the store. Just then, Jim grumbled and turned in his sleep. Oh, God, I need some cheese. He sprayed the canned shit into a bowl and put that into the microwave. Thirty seconds later, it dinged. He jumped and opened the door quickly so it wouldn't ring again and wake Jim. The shit was bubbling and looked like melted plastic. He stared at it, trying to decide if he were really that desperate. He tasted a tip of a spoonful. This is bad, he thought.

He pulled out a pan, put water in it and put it on the stove. When it started to form small bubbles, he opened the cheese food product powder packet, sprinkled that in and mixed it, then tasted a tip of a spoonful. This is worse, he thought. Then he mixed the reconstituted powdered cheese into the melted aerosol cheese and tried that. This is awful, he thought, gave up and went back to bed.

There was a shout that snapped Peter's attention back to the cold night on the hill. There were a few more fires going, and a lot more cars. The music from them was throbbing in the snowy air and several kids were unloading firewood, blankets and booze from their trunks. He surveyed the fresh potentials with a swig of cider that had cooled in his Thermos cap, somehow making it taste way too sweet. Lee's SUV drove up and slid to a stop. Peter felt relieved to see him and struggled out of his inner tube. Lee just sat looking toward the edge of the hill, and Abby sat looking expectantly at Lee. When Peter knocked on the window, Lee rolled it down without taking his eyes from the crowd gathered in packs all along the hill.

"You're here," Abby said to Lee. "You might as well get out of the car. Hi, Peter."

"Hi, Peter," Lee said, then looked at him with eyes begging for salvation.

Peter laughed and opened the door. The song filtering out of Lee's car caused a strange dissonance in the air. Several people who were just parking and unloading their stuff nearby stopped what they were doing and stared. Lee could feel the stare all the way through Peter's body, but didn't understand it.

"Otter," Peter said.

"Huh?"

"Turn it to the Otter. One-oh-four point six. Eff-em."

Lee was still bewildered, so Abby reached over and turned the tuner on his radio until his car was in harmony with the cold, vibrant air around the hill. Lee felt that small dismay from someone touching his knob. The feeling of stares turned to a wave of satisfied approval as the new arrivals joined the party, secure in the knowledge that the atmosphere wouldn't be ruined by some old fart. Lee finally stepped from the car and Abby rushed to the back, opened the rear door, pulled out a long, wooden toboggan, grabbed it by the rope secured to the curly end, then stood waiting like a puppy that really had to go pee. Lee sighed and looked at the crowd. They were all so young. Then Twain appeared at the edge, carrying a snow disk. Even he looked younger than Lee. Twain saw Lee, set his disk down, walked over to the SUV and presented his canteen.

Lee's mind did back flips. It didn't have the capacity to process the amount of decisions he had to make before he could even begin to decide to take a swig of whatever Twain was offering him, so he had to list them in some handleable order. First - what is it? Probably whiskey. Safe enough. Second - would a shot of good whiskey help him deal with impending tobogganing? Definitely. Third - was it good whiskey? Doubtful, but possible. Fourth - has Twain already had some? Probably yes. Fifth - did Twain's lips touch the canteen in any place when he'd had some? Probably, definitely yes. Sixth - would Twain forgive him if he refused? Probably not. Seventh - would Abby forgive him if he accepted? Probably yes, she hadn't seen Twain's dirty under... things. Eighth - would he forgive himself? He had seen them. Only if the whiskey were very, very strong. Very. Ninth - could it be strong enough to kill Twain germs? Probably not. Definitely not. Oh, God. I'm going to die on the hill, anyway, he thought, grabbed the thing and took a huge swig. A small swig wouldn't kill enough brain cells. Or germs. It would only maim them so they would survive, mutate and kill another day.

His face twisted into itself as soon as the alcohol hit the back of his tongue. He didn't spit it out, but really, really wanted to. He swallowed it quickly, closing off the front of his mouth and his nostrils so the cold air wouldn't activate his taste buds, but it was useless. His tongue tasted like he had just eaten a pine tree. When he was brave enough to open his mouth again, he wanted to say any number of things, but only one thing could come out.

"It's gin."

"Gilbey's," Twain said as if Lee should have known better. "In the frosted bottle."

Twain took his Chapstick from his back pocked, used it, then offered it to Lee. (Steve! His comb? No. Panty liners? Sure. Really? No.)

Abby pulled the toboggan and Lee toward the gaping maw that was the edge of the hill. He stopped by Twain's table and tried to serve himself some Nachos, but Abby continued to pull. Quickly reading the signs on the coffee urns, looking for any excuse, he told her he wanted some mulled wine. She laughed, told him he could have some when they got back to the top, then reminded him he was straight.

"But I'm in theater," he protested.

It wasn't good enough. Lee looked around for help, but all he saw were the toboggans, the cardboard boxes, the sleds, the tubes, the stupid roll-up plastic things, and some brave souls body surfing down the hill. It all sent an extra chill up his spine. Abby sighed with exaggerated patience and pulled him to the far end near the trees. The hill wasn't very high there, and wasn't steep at all. She was embarrassed to be going there, it was the wee-wee end where moms took the little kids bundled up like stuffed bears on Saturday afternoons, and she hadn't been a little kid in a long, long time, and had never had to go down the wee-wee end even then. This wasn't tobogganing, it was sliding down a slope. A slight slope. A silly, safe, slight slope. Sheesh.

The way she got past her embarrassment was to convince herself that, because the wee-wee end was closer to the trees, which you could careen off and break a limb or two, it was much more dangerous than the other end, where you could actually toboggan. She wouldn't share that thought with Lee, of course, the whole idea was to get him down the damn hill. There was a drone of internal combustion engines and a slight sweet smell of burned oil in the air here that surprised her, until she looked into the forest and saw the swiftly moving forms of snowmobiles slicing in and around the trees. Because she had never been on this end of the hill, she had never noticed them before. You couldn't get me on one of those things if you paid me, she thought. You can really get hurt on one of those.

Abby carefully positioned the toboggan at the edge and placed herself at the front, looking expectantly back at Lee who suddenly looked very, very old.

"I promise not to laugh at you," she said reassuringly. "Even if you hit a rock."

"Thanks a lot," he said, not reassured at all, and forced himself down onto the flat, thin piece of demon-wood that would be the only thing between him and certain death for his immediate future. The thin, fragile piece of weathered, splintered wood. I'm going to hurt myself, he thought, and I'm going to look stupid doing it.

Peter watched them in the distance. My God, he thought. They're going down the wee-wee end. Is Abby that scared? No, she had dragged Lee here. It was for him. Lee was afraid of something. Peter started whistling Coward of the County. (That's what I always do. What, whistle Kenny Rogers songs? No, walk away from trouble. No, you don't. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I walk right toward it. Mostly you create it and just stand back and watch.)

The moment his butt hit the wood, Abby pushed off and started screaming. Their screams filtered through the snow and cold and party noise and thumping music and fire all the way to Peter's ears and he breathed a small sigh, then went to the table to pour himself some hot wine. Matt was at the table serving up two Sloppy Joes. He handed one to Jan, then saw Peter.

"Hello, Mr. Principal," he said, then introduced Jan, who looked to Peter to be one of those high school girls who did well in both history and Home Ec. Did they still teach Home Ec, he wondered. They had two small inner tubes tied together with a length of rough rope. "We'll race you down."

Jan giggled, and Peter laughed out loud. That would take his mind off the search. The rumble of his laugh was infectious, and several nearby people joined him. He struggled to his feet, told them they were on, warned them he had ballast in his favor, and picked up his tube. Matt and Jan set their Joes down and scrambled into theirs. Several nearby college students saw the impending contest and appointed themselves judges. One bent down behind Jan and held her tube, one behind Matt, and two behind Peter. A fifth raised his fifth to signal the start of the race.

"On your mark," he shouted, then took a swig. "Get set," he said and took another swig.

"Come on, Jason," one of the guys behind Peter said. "I'm all bent over, here."

"Hang on, you wienie. Go!"

They all pushed the tubes, then fell on their faces when the tubes sped away. They cheered the race all the way down. All three of the competitors laughed and screamed hysterically. Peter was slightly behind when Jan's tube turned a little and pulled Matt's back. Then Peter was ahead a little when he turned around backwards and slowed. Then Matt and Jan got a bit tangled in each other and Peter pulled ahead for good. There was a huge cheer from the top of the hill, and the guy who had started the race declared the big guy with the beard and overalls the official winner and they all drank to the race. Twice.

"The thrill of victory," Peter shouted as he stood, just as Matt and Jan came to a stop against his tube, knocking him back down. He pointed at them and added loudly, "And the agony of losing!"

"You mean 'defeat'," Jan said.

"A rose by any other name," Peter said, and purposefully didn't finish the quote.

"Race you to the top," Matt said with a laugh.

"Okay."

Matt and Jan sprinted up the hill.

"You win," Peter said proudly, not moving.

When Jan and Matt got to the top, Matt leaned in toward Jan. At first she pulled away, startled, then realized what he was doing and leaned toward him. It took a moment for them to figure out how to position their faces, but they finally kissed. A small grin spread across Peter's face watching them. It was so charming. It looked like their first kiss together. Maybe even their first kiss ever. It was really sweet and a little funny, more a peck than a kiss, and even with only that, Matt seemed a little light-headed when it was over. On his way up the hill, Peter continued smiling, but there was an odd sadness in his gut. When he got back to the top, he saw Lee position the toboggan at the edge of the hill, several yards closer to the steep end. It was still the wee-wee end, but not as much. Lee helped Abby down onto the toboggan, sat down, and pushed off. It was so easy for some people. Peter served himself a cup of hot cider and tipped it back in one gulp then poured himself some mulled wine.

After that trip down, Lee decided that, even though he was beginning to enjoy himself, he needed fortification, so they left the toboggan and went over to the table. That's when the second ambulance came. Lee was about to serve himself some cider when he saw the red lights flashing off the snow and trees. He froze, then very slowly, very much against his own will, turned toward the source of it.

"There's um... " he said. "An ambulance."

"Of course," Abby said. "Someone got hurt. Is that the first?"

"Second," Peter said.

"Ah. Anyone we know?"

"Some smart ass kid whose father likes Kiss," Peter said and plopped back down into his tube to rest.

This one was a young adult who had been run down by a wayward sled. He seemed to have hurt his face on the fall. Probably a busted nose. He was saluted on his way. As the paramedic pressed dressing against him and put him in the back of the ambulance he waved and shouted that he'd be back in an hour. The ambulance driver hurried over and poured himself a cup of hard cider before his trip back to the hospital.

"Hey, Peter," he said.

"How's it going, Pete?" Peter said, proud that someone wanted his refreshment, then ashamed that he needed that reassurance from a relative stranger, then alert at the possibility of this being the one. After all, he said "hi" to me. Of course, he sort of had to, he was taking my cider. But he was taking my cider, he might want to be my friend. By the time he worked up the courage to start a conversation, Pete was already back in the ambulance and pulling away. Peter noticed the music, One is the Loneliest Number. That startled him because it really didn't sound like something the Otter would be playing. Especially that night. When he listened again, he realized the song was actually Dude Looks Like a Lady.

Lee's head closed in on himself, and a wave of nausea erupted from his gut. He had to hold on to the table, which wasn't very steady without a wobbly man leaning against it. Peter ran over to counter balance it so the nachos, Sloppy Joes, mulled wine and cider didn't become the next casualties of the night.

"You okay?" Abby asked.

"That's an ambulance," Lee repeated, rather stupidly.

"Yeah," Abby repeated in kind. "People get hurt. It's part of the party. They usually come back and continue drinking after they're patched up. No big deal."

Lee didn't have the energy to figure out all the things wrong with that. Instead, he poured himself a mulled wine and swigged it. It was warm and surprisingly good. I am in theater, the thought.

Peter watched Abby trying to convince Lee to get back on the toboggan, and thought about the day the week before when she had appeared at the theater looking for Kim. He'd said he hadn't seen her, and her face had fallen.

"We had a fight," she'd said and started to cry.

Peter immediately went into care taker mode. He led her into the office, sat her down and hurried off to look for something for her to wipe her eyes. And nose. He found a roll of theatrical tissue, brought it to her, sat in Stella's seat and leaned in to make sure she was okay.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I accused her of trying to steal Lee," Abby asked.

Peter thought there were at least three things wrong with that. One, Lee would never cheat on anyone. Two, from what he knew about Kim, she went for a much younger type. And three... Okay, he could only think of two. He didn't really know what to do for her. He didn't even really know her. He thought of offering her something to eat, but he only had his sack lunch and somehow didn't think that would do. Why did everyone like Lee so much, he thought. He's just an accountant. Why do I like Lee so much? Okay, so he can speak French and play the piano. And he's a helluva Scrabble player. How the hell does anyone just happen to know quetzals? Especially when he's been drinking. And he is, after all, a really good man. But I would never try to steal him away from someone. Even if I could. I hope she doesn't think I would.

Peter's heart started to beat inappropriately, so he focused on her. She really was in pain. Peter put his arm around Abby and she sobbed and put her head on his shoulder. When she finished, she pulled a bunch of theatrical tissue from the roll, dried her eyes, blew her nose, and used the rest to blot her bum. (No blotting, Steve. There's just something very British sounding about that. Have a serviette. Take the lift. Turn on the telly. Blot your bum. Who are you? Pete Best.)

She apologized, said she couldn't wait any longer, and left, taking the roll with her. A few minutes later, Kim came in to bring some of Agnes's notes about the set to Bear. Peter told her that Abby had just been there.

"What did she want?" Kim asked, coldly.

"She was looking for you. She really feels bad."

"She should feel bad," Kim said.

"She cried on my shoulder and we don't even know each other very well," Peter said. "You guys have been friends forever."

Kim's eyes welled up, then let loose. Peter pulled her to him, and she buried her face in his shoulder and wailed. At least it was the other shoulder. Now he wouldn't walk with a list. This is who I am, he thought, while stroking her back soothingly. The comforting shoulder. I really am good at it. He was surprised at the feeling of pride that overtook him at the thought. When she finally removed herself from him and walked away, the feeling of pride faded some and his arms felt strangely vacant. Everyone thinks I'm a Kleenex.

There was a huge bonfire blazing, and people were bringing more fire wood and broken Ikea furniture from their cars and trucks to feed it. The sparks and smoke flew up into the clouds and the wonderful, heavy smell of burned wood permeated everything. The light from the fire lit the ground and trees in an orange glow that intertwined frenetically with extreme shadows, and those close to it started sweating and taking off their coats.

Abby and Lee sat on a blanket, away from the fire, bundled up together, sharing a Sloppy Joe and a cup of wine. Abby felt warm pressed against him, and he felt really comfortable against her. Lee was still a little shaky, but had to admit that the last trip down had been a great deal of fun. He hated to admit it, but it had been. It wasn't even at what he had heard someone refer to as the wee-wee end. And he hadn't felt too ridiculous. Perhaps the booze was kicking in. Or the atmosphere. And, no matter what, Abby was a lot of fun. Compared to Beverly, she was like Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey's Circus. All three rings. With tigers and clowns. And cotton candy. And the "Giant Rats from Paris". Which had really been rabbits with their ears trimmed. From Butte. How could they do that to a rabbit? And how could they get away with calling them rats? Some people had no ethics. Sheesh. Where was I? Oh, yeah. She was a lot more fun than Beverly.

He had taken off the gloves to eat, and found himself playing with them.

"Oh," he said. "I didn't thank you for these. I didn't curse you for them, either, but I didn't thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Where'd you get them?"

"Goodwill," she said. "You can get a lot of good crap there."

Lee's look communicated that he would never be able to scrub his hands enough or drink enough alcohol to make that okay, and Abby laughed out loud.

"Kidding," she said. "My uncle made them."

"Yeah. Right."

"No, really. My Uncle Patrick. He makes them. It's what he does. That and ballroom dancing."

Lee thought skeptically about hand tanned leather, then decided that was better than Goodwill. At least they were new.

"They are new, aren't they?" he asked.

"Of course," Abby said. "Now, the condoms are a different story. I recycle."

Lee involuntarily shivered, and Abby laughed.

"Speaking of condoms," Lee said. "How do you know Aunt Gladys so well?"

Abby's face fell in a way that Lee had learned to be wary of.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? What are you implying?"

"I... Um..." Lee said.

"What do you think I am?"

"I don't know," Lee said, completely sincere, and a little lost.

Abby melted, understanding that she was a handful. A fun handful, but a handful. And Lee was fun, too, in his way. As fun as a night of Parcheesi®, the Royal Game of India. With wine coolers. And baked potato chips with Imo dip. How the hell could they call that stuff sour cream? It was like calling carob chocolate. It was like calling margarine butter. It was like calling Meg Ryan an actor. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Lee was a lot of fun.

"Aunt Gladys is a substitute teacher."

"What does she teach, sex education?"

"Shop," Abby said, letting Lee know with her look that he was close to shaky ground again. "And seventeenth century Northern Icelandic lit."

"Really?" Lee said, his face brightening. "Did she ever teach the works of..."

Abby gave him a "don't even start with your obscure knowledge of shit no one else knows about, Mr. Know-it-All" look.

"Give me another sip of wine," Lee said, understanding the look and fearful of committing another gaff.

Peter sat in his tube with a cup of cider and watched Lee and Abby snuggle. He was glad that Lee was happy. Only a small, quiet corner of his mind wished for a brief, almost nonexistent moment that he was Abby right now. With a smaller butt. As soon as the quiet thought entered his mind, the rest of his brain told it soundly to be gone like Glenda told the bad witch. Then the rest of his head chastised his brain for coming up with a Wizard of Oz reference and he took another swig of cider. Then Andrew and Mrs. Divine drove up, and Peter struggled to his feet to go greet them. This time, the struggle was more a result of the quantity of mulled wine and hot cider than the center of gravity thing.

After Andrew pulled the sled from their trunk, slung a wine skin over his shoulder and pulled a gallon of jug wine from the back seat, Peter led them to the table and served them both Sloppy Joes. He was very happy to see them. He had a strong impulse to talk about Lee and Abby, and about Jim and Agnes, but, even with the amount of pretentious alcohol in his system, he resisted the impulse. Andrew didn't officially even know he was gay. And he really didn't know Mrs. Divine at all. But you had to start somewhere if you wanted a friend. He served himself some nachos and cheese. It wasn't Colby, but it would have to do. Andrew set the jug wine on the table, and looked around the hill.

"Look at that tree," he said to his wife, pointing at a tall oak that was a little distance away from the rest. "That's a survivor."

She looked at it dutifully, he pointed it out to her every year. She would pretend to hear the story for the first time like she did every year. At least he's consistent, and the story stays the same. The only thing that got bigger was the tree.

"My friends Joe and Frank and I ran over that tree with a sled the first year we came here. I was sixteen. Poor thing was a sapling. Didn't have a chance. They thought it was funny, all bent over and broken. Hell, I did, too, and laughed right along with them. But I felt bad about it, though. I don't know why, but I kept thinking about that tree. The next day I came back with a bunch of left over pieces of baseboard scrap that my dad had thrown away and some twine, and I made a splint and tied it up. And the road here was even rougher than it is now, almost non-existent. I borrowed my dad's truck. Well, I took my dad's truck. I wasn't sure it would live, but look at it now. Old Joe and Frank wouldn't laugh so hard if they ran into it now."

He looked at the tree, his eyes focused on the past, looking as young as the day he repaired the tree. His wife looked at him as if she had never heard the story before. Every year it made her realize in a deeper way why she had married this man.

"I wonder what ever happened to those guys," he finished, like he always did.

"Why don't you call them?" she answered. Like she did every year.

He turned his attention back to the present and the moment was gone. Peter tried to soak up their connection. That was what friendship was.

Shortly after Andrew arrived, as if he were the herald, the theater contingent started showing up. They swarmed around the table, chattering, and gossiping and trying to catch up to the rowdy, happily drunken crowd. One of them pulled a decimated old dresser from the back of his truck, and several people helped him lug it to the fire and throw it on. It stirred the sparks into an undulating frenzy and kids started hooting and removing their shirts. The radios seemed to feel the frenzy and the music changed to reflect it.

The theater crowd poured themselves and each other cider and wine. Peter beamed, and looked at Twain proudly. Twain shook his head, removed the canteen from his belt and lifted it toward Peter before swallowing an amount that would have put a theater person in the hospital. Peter watched him and again wondered how he did it. He didn't even know what it was that Twain did, but he needed to know how. He decided to ask, and moved closer to him. Twain watched him approach. Peter stood there. Twain did, too. Then Peter stammered. Twain didn't. Then Peter coughed, and finally spoke.

"Um...," he said, trying to form the question. "What's..."

Twain waited.

"How..."

Twain took a swig from his canteen and kept his eyes on Peter.

"Do you put cumin in your Sloppy Joe mix?" Peter said. It was the best he would be able to do out loud. In his mind, he was hollering at himself for being so stupid and wasting his one chance, his one question on a stupid cumin question. He knew damn well there wasn't cumin in the stupid stuff, it came from a can. A number 10 can. Now he'd never know. And he'd never even know what he didn't know.

Twain put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Food is not the answer," he said and walked away.

The girl who was playing Curley's wife in Of Mice and Men started screaming.

"Oh, oh, oh," she said, and everyone looked at her expectantly, as if she may be hurt or something. "I was looking for a gimmick to move the story along, and I found my old high school memory book."

She ran back to her car to get the book. It was covered with lace and pink cloth and stuffed with notes and papers and old photographs. She opened it up and turned to a section of shots from a Beard's Hill party years ago.

"This was the first year I was able to go. My junior year. Look, here's one of Ben Andrews. What a dream. What ever happened to him?"

"He's a priest."

"Really? Can you do that if you've had sex?" Everyone else laughed, and she turned red.

Kim drove up and got out of her car. The woman who played Curley's wife noticed her and excitedly waved her over.

"Look, here's one of you."

"What?" Kim said, and looked at the photo. It was one of her and Abby, years earlier, their arms around each other, looking longingly at Ben Andrews, who held a bottle of Old Crow in one hand and a Blue Boy in the other. The kid who was standing behind him was bent over barfing. The older couple behind them looked a lot like Burt Reynolds and Sally Field. Behind them was a guy who looked like a cross between Abe Vigoda and Mel Torme looking at the couple that looked like Burt Reynolds and Sally Field. Behind him was a tree, looking at the guy bent over barfing. Behind it was Geoff and Steve, working on Installment twenty-one, wishing they had time for things like Beard's Hill parties to brighten their otherwise dreary days. (I'm really sad, now, Geoff. Here, have a Space Food Stick©. Cool.)

Peter looked at the photo, then looked at Kim look at the photo. Then he removed the photo from its corner tabs, took Kim by the arm and brought them both to where Lee and Abby were sitting. Abby looked at the photo, and her eyes misted. Kim, who was trying desperately to be firm in her resolution to be mad at Abby for the rest of her life, started to thaw a little.

"I really feel bad," Abby said.

"You should feel bad!" Kim said back.

Peter shot her a glance that could have killed a wild turkey. If you have friends, you should keep them. Abby stood and the two fell into each other's arms, apologizing profusely, promising never to fight again, taking the blame all on themselves. They were silhouetted by the roaring fire in the distance, which cracked and popped loudly as if congratulating them. Lee's pants tented. Peter moved back toward the theater crowd and the mulled wine, his work there done. It wasn't long before Bear knocked head-on into three already piled up sledders and toboggananians and the third ambulance of the evening arrived.

Peter saluted them off, then glanced back at Lee and Abby, who were just then starting a race with Kim who sat on a fuchsia sled. Lee and Abby were rather loose, and would probably win. Peter's eyes lost focus and he started thinking about the day early the last week when Lee had started crying on his shoulder about possibly having made Abby pregnant. (Okay, Geoff. Enough with the flashbacks of Peter being mother to everyone. We get it. Sheesh.) He decided to go down the hill rather than dwell on it. (Thank you, Geoff. No problem. Can I have some mulled wine, now? Have at it, Pal. Knock yourself out. Be my guest. You go right ahead. Make yourself at home. Never mind. Oh, and thanks a lot. What? I still have Songs of Aging Children going through my head. It is a small world, I can't get the smell of toasted Twain out of mine. Eeew. You win.)

There was a flash of bluish light and a brief woop woop. Officer Bacon got out of his cruiser and waved at the few people who had noticed or cared about the greeting. Lee, who waved back weakly, once again wondered if the officer was following him. Officer Bacon spotted Peter and made a bee line toward him. Peter's first thought was, finally. A friend. Officer Bacon asked if he could borrow Peter's inner tube. Peter said sure, and thought, of course. He needs something.

The policeman took Peter's tube to the edge, sat down with as much dignity as was possible by a man in uniform sitting on a big rubber tube in the snow, and took off, cheering like a cowboy in a rodeo. Those close enough and sober enough to notice him cheered him on. After his wild ride, he returned the tube to Peter and gratefully accepted the Sloppy Joe Twain offered. He surveyed the crowd.

"Be careful driving home," he said, waved once again at anyone who cared, got in his car and drove off with a final woop woop.

The guy who played Charlie, the doctor and Candy took a huge swig of Cognac in a Box then bent back, breathed in dramatically, or as dramatically as he could, then started singing at the top of his lungs. He started singing Send In the Clowns. The women who played the Pigeon Sisters joined him. By the end of the song, several of the polker playing guys from Odd Couple, Andrew and his wife, Veronica and even a few of the drunker college guys had added their voices. The guy whose father had the Kiss album, one arm in a cast, the other hand holding a bottle of Wild Turkey, swayed in drunken time with the music, then fell on his butt. After he made sure he hadn't spilled any of the Turkey, and that he hadn't landed on his broken arm, he started laughing. Lee was standing at the top of the steepest part of the hill. He hadn't joined the singing, but was loose enough to join the laughter. He fell over backwards and slid head first on his back all the way down.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God," Abby screamed, and ran/slid down the hill after him, watching him bouncing and flailing, Uncle Patrick's glove flying off his left hand, sure that she had made a dreadful mistake bringing him there, that he was, indeed, too old for this, that alcohol and snow didn't mix, that she had finally killed him. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God!"

Lee finally slid to a stop at the bottom of the hill, just missing the pointed edge of the runner of an overturned sled. He lay still. Abby's heart beat soundly in her ears as she slipped and slid and ran toward him. He wasn't moving. Oh, my God, she thought.

INTERMISSION

(Do you have enough popcorn, Steve? Sure, thanks. Do you have to pee? Now is the time. No, I'm fine. You don't want to have to leave to pee halfway through the second half, you know. I'm fine. Good.)

PART II

All eyes were on Lee. It was so quiet you could hear a fin drop. (You mean "pin"?) When Abby got to him, he was laying on his back, staring with wide eyes, and didn't seem to be breathing. A large, gray, triangular piece of a shark fell out of the sky and landed near the top of the hill and everyone's attention turned toward that. (You mean "fin"? I didn't want to point it out. You worked so hard for that joke, you can point it out if you want. Thanks.) Fin. Dropped. You could hear it.

A sound formed in Lee's throat that could have been a strangled scream, but, once it formed fully and escaped his mouth, revealed itself to be a huge, gleeful laugh.

"That was so cool!" he shouted.

"Are you okay?" Abby, who had fallen to her knees beside him when she had thought he was dead, asked, nervously.

He nodded vigorously, and Abby sat back onto her legs and punched Lee in the arm.

"I thought you were dead," she said.

"Let's do that again," he said, so she hit him again. "No, the sliding down the hill part."

"This time let's do it on a toboggan."

They agreed, she helped him up, and they trudged back to the top. When they got there, they noticed Twain gnawing on a triangular piece of gray fish. Lee insisted on sitting in front this time. He wanted to experience the full rush unhindered. He settled into place and impatiently looked back as Abby got into position. The moment her fanny hit the wood, Lee pushed off. Cold wind and large flakes of snow tore at his face and hair, and he put his head back and yelled hosannas at them. He hadn't felt this much energy in his blood since he had been a small child. Abby could feel his body pulsate all the way through his coat and hers, and she liked it. This had been a good idea. She knew there was a wild animal under there somewhere, and she had finally found a way to release it. Her pants tented.

The toboggan bumped and flew over the uneven ground, causing them to become airborne more than once. Every time they did, Lee's stomach wooshed up into his lungs, then back down into his lowest intestine, a beat behind the rest of his body, and turned the glee up another notch. Then the toboggan lurched in a very unexpected way and threw them high into the air in separate but equal directions. They both landed on their backs. Abby's breath was forced out of her by the pressure of her generous form hitting the ground. She forced herself to pull air back in, and did a quick inventory of her parts to make sure everything was still attached in a reasonable way. After the pain of breathing again subsided and she realized everything was assembled correctly, she sat up and looked for Lee. He was lying on his back about twelve and a quarter feet away, just staring at the sky.

"A rock," he said with disgust.

Abby burst out laughing.

"You promised you wouldn't," Lee said, turning his head to her pitifully, which made her laugh more.

Lee felt childhood tears threaten to well up, and his whole body felt like it might also regress, but he forced the tears back with a stern warning to behave themselves and the rest of his body obeyed as well. He tried to sit up like a fully formed mature adult human man would try to do. He realized he couldn't. The tears started threatening again.

"Um," he said. "A little help. My... um... back."

Abby scrambled over to him.

After the ambulance had been called, a couple of husky boys brought Abby's toboggan over to Lee to transfer him up the hill.

"Don't move him," someone shouted. "It's his back."

"He's in the way."

"Oh. Right. Carry on."

They carefully (as carefully as bellies full of various conflicting drinks would allow them to) maneuvered the toboggan under him and gently (as gently as drunk college boys could) pushed him up the hill.

"There's a rope, why don't you pull him?" the same smart ass guy asked.

They didn't even acknowledge him this time. The smart ass. Sheesh.

Peter lumbered up to Lee and offered him a cup of mulled wine.

"Welcome to River Bend," he said in a voice that communicated effectively that he would also have pounded him on the back in a welcoming way had it not, you know, been a back thing. Several other people congratulated him. Some did pat him on the back. Well, sort of the side. He felt included in a way he hadn't since he had been a very small child.

Lee's first thought, after the tenuous jostling up the hill and all the congratulations, and the feeling included, was how the hell could he work at Twain's with a broken back. He mentioned the concern to Abby, who hadn't left his side. Andrew, who was hovering nearby fretting, stopped fretting when he heard that.

"Twain's?" he said. "What about the play?"

"Oh, my God," Lee said. "What about the play?"

(I have to go pee, now. Steve! I really have to. Okay, we'll all wait for you. Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages... I'm back, what are you doing? Nothing. I leave for one minute and you start typing crap. Guns blazing and tanks? Okay, you're redeemed.)

"They can block around you," the guy who played Charlie, the doctor and Candy said. "Probably. If you can move at all."

"I don't want to look like a scene from Lucy," Lee protested, picturing himself slumped over and shuffling across the stage in a painful way. On her it was funny. On him it would just look fucking stupid. (That's for Steve's mom. Geoff, what the fuck's the matter with you?!)

"Which one?" Peter asked, a small part of him pleased that Lee couldn't toboggan worth a damn. Something Lee couldn't do. Peter would like to collect things Lee couldn't do, especially things he could do, and this would be a good place to start.

"Which one what?" Lee asked peevishly. His back hurt, and he didn't want the focus to drift.

"Which Lucy show?"

"There were only two," Abby said.

"There were at least four," Peter said, chastising himself silently for being even a little glad that Lee had hurt himself. "Would you look like a scene from The Lucy Show or I Love Lucy?"

"Wasn't one called Here's Lucy?" one of the Pigeon sisters asked. "I remember that one, I think."

Lee felt like the moment was getting away from him. He realized through the throbbing in his tail bone that even after getting injured at Beard's Hill, he would never really fit into this bizarre group of people. Ever.

Peter knew he should probably do something to help Lee be more comfortable, but Abby seemed to be handling it all by herself. He drank mulled wine instead.

"Which one was that?" one of the poker playing guys asked, and wandered toward Twain's table.

"Wasn't that the one with Mr. Mooney?" another poker playing guy asked, and followed him.

"No, that was where she was called Lucille Carter and her best friend was a countess."

The entire group was moving toward the table and Twain started serving up Sloppy Joes. Lee was quite sure that he would now die, alone, forgotten, in the slush at the top of Beard's Hill with large, lonely snowflakes falling on his face. Peter joined the group, pointedly not looking back at Lee, allowing himself to feel superior for a moment, and really feeling guilty that he wasn't fussing over Lee. But Lee had enough friends. He had to find his own.

"No, that was Life With Lucy," Andrew's wife said. Then she bit into a Sloppy Joe and its filling burst out around the bun and slid down the sides of her chin.

"No, that's the one where her daughter, Lucy, played her daughter, Lucy," Abby said. She was at the table eating nachos, but still kept an eye on Lee, and wondered if she should bring him something to eat.

"Which one did Ethel play in?" one of the husky drunken college kids who had pushed Lee up the hill asked. He really seemed to want to know.

As Abby watched Mrs. Divine clean the red, lumpy mixture off her chin and coat front, she thought about the logistics of getting food shoveled into a cold, prone, hurting mouth and decided not to bring Lee anything. Peter drank another cider, then poured himself a mulled wine. It steamed in the chilly air.

"She was in I Love Lucy," the kid whose father liked Kiss answered, and wiped nacho cheese from his mouth with the back of his cast. "Duh."

"No, the other one," the other kid said, "the one where Lucy was called Lucy Carmichael. When Ethel played someone who was younger than Ethel was. Duh yourself."

Lee started to moan quietly. Not necessarily because he was in any more pain, he just wanted to keep himself company. Abby felt guilty for leaving him there on the toboggan all alone and moved toward him. She stopped first, of course, to pour herself some wine.

"That was the one with Mr. Mooney," Peter said, then stood tall like he was trying to imitate someone, looking like anyone but Mr. Mooney, and shouted officially, "'Mrs. Carmichael!'"

"He was also in the one in the eighties where everybody was really old and just shouted all their lines," the actor who played Oscar said. "But he wasn't called Mr. Mooney in that one, he was called Mr. Whipple."

"No, that was the theatrical tissue guy," Peter said, and sat hard onto his tractor tire with a sound of a big body hitting inflated rubber. One person laughed, and Peter tried to focus in on who it might be and tried to decided if they were laughing because of his clever comment, in which case they could be the friend or if they were laughing at the sound of his body hitting his tube. In which case they could still be the friend. Then, through the spiced fog in his brain, he looked at Lee on his back on the bitter cold ground and some cider stained voice kept trying to get his attention. He told it to be quiet, he didn't want to get up and go take care of Lee. He had Abby and didn't need him. Besides, he thought. I can toboggan. I can do something he can't. That made him like Lee all the more. He took a swig of cider.

"There were five, okay?" Andrew said, a little peeved that they didn't know. They should have known, for God's sake. It was Lucy. "There was I Love Lucy, The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour, The Lucille Ball Show, Here's Lucy, and Life with Lucy."

"Who are you?" Lee asked, but the effort to talk interrupted his moaning, so he didn't add anything more.

"And Lucy in the sky," Abby said. "With diamonds."

Andrew was quite disgusted with them all, so he walked away and pulled the wineskin of good Scotch from his shoulder, uncapped it and sampled the smooth Johnny Walker Black Label™, which calmed his annoyance. Another sip brought back his native good will. A third made him downright friendly again, so he walked back. Jan and Matt hung back from the group, watching, amazed. I can't wait to be an adult, Matt thought. Who are these geeks, thought Jan.

"Which one had Mr. Drysdale?" Peter asked.

The music from the cars counterpointed the conversation strangely, a raucous soundtrack that made it hard for people to hear each other, so they had to shout.

"The Beverly Hillbillies, you idiot," Andrew said and needed to walk away again.

"I Love Lucy was the longest running one," one of the Pigeon Sisters said.

"If you count The Lucy-Desi Show as part of it," the other Pigeon Sister said, and the first one agreed vehemently and they both hooked arms and danced a small jig of agreement.

Lee wondered what the longest running sitcom of all time was, then realized that even he was beginning to lose focus and resumed his moaning. He was quite satisfied with the thin timber he was able to achieve with a little effort. His ears felt hot in the cold air, and sound seemed filtered as if through pudding. In the background, the bonfire was now a tribal orgy, feeding on its own energy, no longer a needy baby that had to be tended and fed, no longer even a teen that wanted to consume any and everything that entered its space, it was now a dangerous, fascinating warrior that sought out, found, commandeered and destroyed its own fuel like old ladies at a Blue Light Special. Except not quite as dangerous. Or stinky. A small explosion of sparks erupted when it hit a pocket of sap in one of the greener logs that had been used to stoke it.

"Lucy also used to use the name Diane Belmont," Andrew said as he returned. He figured that, if these dolts didn't know about Lucy, he'd just have to edumicate them. He took another swig of Johnny Walker. Yeah. I said edumicate, he thought defiantly, then had to sit down.

"Was that in the one with the annoying neighbor?" Abby asked. She was now sitting on the ground next to Lee, holding his hand, wishing he'd stop moaning for a moment so she could think. "What's her name, Mary Jane?"

"Oh, God, I hated her," Mrs. Divine said. "She was so whiny."

"So was Lucy most of the time," Andrew said, and took another wig of swiskey.

"Yeah, but she was Lucy," the kid whose father liked Kiss said.

"Yeah," they all said, and bowed their heads.

"And then there's Maude," Andrew said. "Or was that Phyllis?"

"Barney Miller with the goo goo googly eyes," his wife answered, and pulled his left thumb.

Peter couldn't stand it any longer. He lurched from his inner tube throne, stumbled over to Lee and fell, just missing falling on top of him.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

"Huh?" Lee responded.

The ambulance drove up at that moment and a previous casualty climbed out and surveyed the throngs. He had huge white bandaging on his face from the top of his mouth to the bottom of his eyes and almost from ear to ear. It gave him an unnatural smile. Or that could have just been the pain killers they had given him mixing with the schnaps. Pete stumbled out of the driver's seat with an empty cup in his hand and staggered over to the table to refresh it. Lee watched him and remembered that he didn't want to look like a scene from Lucy, but thought better of bringing it up again. Abby climbed into the back of the ambulance with him. She still had a cup of the warm spiced wine.

Someone with a huge truck pulled up and parked. It was, really, more a stereo on wheels, and it singlehandedly tripled the intensity of the sound. The fire liked that.

After Lee was saluted off on his journey to the hospital, Peter decided to have another go at the hill. That would get his mind off himself. And Lee. And cider. And friends. He dragged the inner tube to the edge, took a dainty sip of wine, sat down and pushed off. Halfway down he felt guilty again that he hadn't paid more attention to Lee in his hour of pain. That was so unlike him. He tried to be defiant about it. By the time he got to the bottom, his conveyance conveniently turned toward the hill, he looked up to where he had been, going over and over in his mind what he should have done for Lee. At that very moment, a familiar looking form appeared at the top of the hill, looking young and handsome against the fire-colored sky. The song that was playing on all the radios, incongruously, was Clap for the Wolfman.

"Jim," Peter said softly to himself. His chest constricted a little, and he was about to climb out of the tube to go up to the top of the hill to see if Jim was okay. He had been so sad and lost looking the other night. Maybe he could be my friend, Peter thought. If I can stop being attracted to him. And he can start thinking about someone else besides himself. And grow up a little. And never ask to bunk together again. And stopped smelling so good. Yes. He is my friend. He leaned forward to exit his tube.

Then a bundled up woman approached Jim and handed him a beverage. From the distance, they seemed to be looking longingly into each other's eyes. Oh, my God, Peter thought, and stopped abruptly, then sunk back down. He sure rebounded quickly, Agnes just dumped him a couple of days ago. What an empty, stupid man. Of course, children recover quickly. In high school, you get dumped one day and are already dating the next. Depending on what school you go to. And your complexion. That's not fair, though, Peter thought. One, Jim is in his twenties, and two, maybe I had something to do with his recovery. I am a good caretaker, after all. It's what I do. Go with your strengths. Look at exhibit A. A man recovered. I wonder who this next one is. She was too far away, and turned a little too much for him to be able to tell, but she did seem young and shapely under her winter things. She seemed carefree, like a schoolgirl. Good for him. I can understand that. What the hell. Life is good.

The woman threw back her head and laughed. Then, in slow motion, she flipped her hair. Strand after strand gleefully followed the last in chorus-line precision. Peter's inner tube deflated and his heart simply stopped beating and he felt like he had just been stabbed with an icicle.

"Stella!" he shouted.