Old Paint dragged his hoof across the dry, sandy crust of the plain, causing a small cloud of dirt to join the long trail of dust that marked their arduous journey. It had been nine hours since they had crossed the stream, and he'd only drank enough water for four. The sun was halfway down the sky, but the heat was still almost more than he could bear, and caused clear ripples to rise up from the ground in the distance, obscuring the low hills on the horizon. It was hard to hold his head up, much less move forward with his burden. The rider was slumped in the saddle, oozing blood from the gunshot wound in his shoulder. The poor sap who was lucky enough to win me in a poker game was too stupid to stay out of the way of a bullet, Paint thought wearily. I should be in town eating fescue grass and standing under the shade of the big oak tree in the square in front of the saloon. He's going to get us both killed. Maybe if I really got spooked by a tumbleweed, I could dump the guy and leave him behind. Hell, he's going to die, anyway. But that just wouldn't be right. Damn. I hate having a conscience. Water. Must have water. The rider shifted and grunted. So he's not dead, yet, Paint thought. Damn. (Geoff? Yes? What about Peter?)

"Hello?" a very sleepy voice that sounded like a cross between Mel Torme and Moms Mabley said.

"Og? I mean Fred?," Peter said sheepishly into the phone. "Fred Ogg?"

"It's eleven o'clock at night. Who the hell is this?"

Peter's first reaction was to hang up quickly and pretend he'd never even heard of telephones. His second reaction was to just hang up. His third reaction was to hang up and cut his face off. But he had already woken the poor guy up and it would be rude not to answer his question.

"Oh, um," Peter said. "I'm sorry. It's Peter. Peter Principal. Remember? Last Tango in Paris? I threw up. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep. I'm sorry."

He was about to say he was sorry about five more times, but the person at the other end of the phone hung up, which, Peter thought sadly, was what he should have done before he'd allowed his fingers to dial the fucking number. (Mom, Geoff said the "fuck" word. Tattle tale.)

He hung up, then sat staring at his hand, which still rested on the receiver looking like it might pick it back up and dial some other number and humiliate him even more. He forced his arm to pull his hand back and place it in his lap where it couldn't do much harm. He breathed in haltingly and looked at the five and a half cans full of coins. He tried to think of all the riches they held, but his mind perversely insisted on imagining how much work would be required of him to finish putting it all in rolls. It had started out such a good night. They'd had fun talking and counting and visiting. In the grocery bags on the other side of the coffee table from the cans was two thousand, four hundred fifteen dollars and fifty cents that they'd sorted, rolled and counted. Then Lee and Matt had left and he'd gotten the brilliant idea to call an old flame.

It had been Lee's idea, of course. It had to have been. It wasn't something he would likely think of all by himself. Damn Lee. I'll never ever do that again. I'll never ever do anything like that again. I'll never listen to Lee again. I knew it would be a disaster, and I did it anyway, and I should know better. Those kind of wild, take it as it come things just don't work for people like me. Well, for me. There are no "people like me". If I ever get the idea to do anything risky again, I'll just remind myself of the tone of Fred Ogg's voice when he said "who the hell is this?" That will put a stop to it forthwith. It was, as it turns out, a very appropriate question. Who the hell am I, thinking I want to start my own theatre? I hope Lee isn't really serious. I hope I didn't get his hopes up. I hope I can drag these cans and bags back into the closet where they belong and can't do much harm.

Under the coffee table, next to the pile of stray stuff picked free of the coins, was the box of tissue that Peter had brought out for Jim and that Roz had used for him. He got it and pulled several out, then slumped back onto the couch and blew his nose.

Cliche came into the room looking for Matt. He missed that guy. He had nice thighs.

The air in Lee's living room the next night was chilly around the edges, but he had a fire going which pushed the chill further back with every pop and crackle. A log fell from the pile with a satisfying hiss and flurry of sparks and ash. Abby snuggled closer to Lee on the couch. They were watching an old rerun of Death Valley Days, brought to you by 20 Mule Team Borax. It looked hot and sticky. Abby had resigned herself early on that this was about as romantic as anything they would watch together would get. That or A Clockwork Orange. Or Hud. Or Birth of a Nation. Or Love Story. Lee had been unusually quiet since she had gotten there at eight thirty. When the closing credits began running at eleven thirty, they both wordlessly went into the bedroom.

Lee lay on his back with his hands under his head on the pillow. His eyes seemed focused on something, but it didn't seem to be anything in the room. Abby watched him for a while, wondering what was wrong.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," she said.

He shrugged, then sighed.

"I don't know," he said, when he realized she had been lying on her side staring at him for some time. "I've been thinking about it all day. Counting all those coins made it really real."

"What really real? Oh, the theatre," Abby said and shifted so she could prop her head up on her hand and look down at him. "I thought you were really excited about the possibility."

He had to think about that for a moment. He was excited by the possibility. The reality was a different story.

"I'm flying by the seat of my pants, here, and I don't like it," he said. "I'm trying to like it because that's the guy you like, but I don't like it at all, and I don't like that."

Abby didn't know what to say to that. Neither did Lee, it seemed.

"Are you going to stay tonight?" he said instead.

"Come on, Lee, it's a school night," she said, then saw the look on his face and put her head back down on the pillow to settle in. He would have to get up at six anyway, to get to the diner, and she could get up a little before that so she could get back home to shower. And douche. (That's pretty sophomoric, Steve. And shave? That's freshmanoric. And eat her Cream of Wheat®? That's soporific.)

Lee snuggled closer to her and closed his eyes. And douched.

"I was half hoping you would try to talk me out of it and think it was really impractical," Lee said sleepily.

"Look, Lee, I love you and I want you to do whatever you want to do, " Abby said, then heard what had just come out of her mouth, unbidden, and tried to breathe in so it would snap back and she could swallow it up whole and pretend it hadn't popped out so ignominiously.

The word sort of hung in the air between them, floating just above the blanket, waiting for room on one of the pillows so it could settle in for the rest of their lives. It almost sounded like a dog sneezing as it hung there. Abby hoped that at least Lee hadn't heard it, but thought he probably had. Then she hoped he thought she was spelling it "L-U-V". But she knew he knew she was too good a speller for that. Lee was glad he had already closed his eyes so he could pretend he was a cowboy riding across an arid plain on a bedraggled horse named America. Then the pillow between them sank as Gable curled up and nestled in under the word, and Lee knew Abby knew he had heard what she had said, so he got up to go pee. He didn't really have to pee, but he really had to get up, so he went into the bathroom and washed his hands for five minutes, hoping the word had dissipated so he could go back to bed in peace. When he got back, Abby was asleep. Or pretending to be, which was just as good.

Lee got to the diner at six thirteen and his stomach was upset. He wasn't used to his stomach being upset first thing in the morning. Except, of course, on mornings after a night of drinking, which he'd had far too many of in this stupid town, but last night hadn't been one of them. Except for those mornings, he wasn't used to his stomach being upset much at all. Except, of course, when he'd found out about Beverly and the Jerk. Damn her. But that was long becoming something of the past. There was a general nauseating gentle wave that churned when he thought about getting to the diner thirteen minutes late and swelled when he thought about that word that was still hovering around the headboard when Abby left that morning and crested when he thought about theatres. Any theatre. A brief image of the local Bijou he'd seen a revival of Godzilla 1985 in with Beverly floated past the insides of his eyes and the wave broke. A sensation of sitting in the dressing room of The Willow Lane Theater sidled up to his nerves, and the wave crashed against the shore.

He prepared the morning coffee, then went back to get the kitchen ready for breakfast, but a stray vision of his name in lights caused a swell that was indescribable. He needed something to calm his gut. Baking soda was supposed to do that. Unbleached flour wasn't. (That's it? Your joke about flour? That you can't use it for antacid? That's pretty lame, Steve. You gave me permission. How do you expect me to work under those conditions? So it's my fault? Always. Unless it's funny. And besides, it went over big in the Holy See.) Twain must have baking soda somewhere, it was a diner. Where else would you find baking soda? Besides a bakery. Or a fire extinguisher. Lee opened cabinets and looked in cupboards and looked on shelves behind pots and pans in the dark kitchen. He looked in drawers, behind the recipe box and under the egg poaching form thing. He opened the refrigerator, and there was an open box of baking soda in there, but it looked like it had been there since 1985 soaking up stray food odor and the thought of using that to calm his upset stomach caused a strange numbing sensation to flow up his torso and tickle his throat and the back of his neck.

Finally, in a cupboard next to the stove, he found a rectangular tin of Arm and Hammer™ baking soda, popped the oval lid, shoveled a spoonful into a glass of water and swallowed it in three gulps. After a moment, the numbing wave settled back down and he put the tin back. As he set it on the shelf, he noticed, behind where it belonged, an unopened can of Durkee's French Fried Onion Rings. He took it out and looked at it, wondering how old the thing was. They changed their name to French's in 1995. Who am I , he thought, then put it back just as the front door opened and Twain came in.

Lee went behind the counter and poured coffee for them both. Twain looked at him for a long time without picking up the cup.

"Something happened last night," he said, then drank.

The breakfast rush was a lull, which suited Lee fine. It gave his stomach time to settle into a dull grumble. The lunch lull was a rush and Lee didn't have much time to think about stomachs or stray words or theatres or anything. Abby and Kim came in, but it was so busy he only had a brief moment to come out and say "hi" when they sat, and another brief moment to say "bye" as they left. It was almost two-thirty by the time he and Twain had the place cleaned up after lunch. It was almost two-thirty three when the phone rang.

"It's for you," Twain said. He seemed too tired to be bothered by personal calls.

"Hi," Peter said when Lee answered.

"Hey, Peter," Lee said. "Everything okay?"

There was a long pause, during which Lee was aware that Twain was gathering up the energy to give him a look. Luckily, Peter started talking before the full force of it hit him.

"Um... " Peter said. "How serious were you about that theatre thing?"

"Why?" His gut was beginning to rumble again at the mention of that word. At least Peter hadn't said "luv".

"Well, uh... " Peter said. "I've been thinking about it all day, and... um... Would you be really upset if... "

"You don't want to do it?"

"Well," Peter said. "Um... I... Well... Um... Kind of... No."

"Oh," Lee said. He was really disappointed, and wanted to get angry at Peter. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, really," Peter said, sensing Lee's reaction. "It's just... I don't think I can... I don't know... take the risk... right now."

Lee started thinking of all the horrible things he wanted to shout at Peter, not the least of which was "quitter" but suddenly realized his stomach wasn't churning. At all. He thought about working up a good snit, but he felt calm for the first time all morning. He was surprised at his reaction. It made sense, though. The theatre was a stupid idea. Acting was a stupid idea. He could quit theatre for good. No one at the Willow Lane would miss him, no one there liked him anyway. Quitting would be better than eating worms. He was the guy who had never rushed into anything in his life until the moment he got in his SUV and left Chicago. Abby liked the guy who lived on the edge, but she was going to have to get used to the fact that Lee was just a guy and that's all he would ever be.

"Okay," Lee said. "If you really don't want to."

(Geoff? What? Never mind. What, Steve? Nothing.)

"Good," Peter said. He was really relieved, even if he had disappointed Lee. He would just go back to life the way it's supposed to be. He liked his life. Mostly. No waves. Except Stella. Nothing unexpected. Except Stella. And he could deal with her. "I'll talk to you soon. Luv."

When Lee hung up, Twain's look of disapproval hung in the air just inches from the back of his head. He was too relieved to care. And anyway, looks and words can't really hang in the air. Except in cartoons from the forties. And in the minds of schizophrenics. Sheesh.

The cast and crew of Odd Couple had settled into a general routine of ignoring Lee and he tried to ignore them back, but at the run through that night, he was very aware that other people were having conversations with each other and it bothered him more than he wanted it to. Before they got started, Kim had a long chat with the prop lady. During a break, the prop lady had a tête-à-tête with the actor who played Oscar. Before notes, the guy who played Oscar casually talked with one of the Pigeon Sisters, and after notes, the other Pigeon Sister briefly spoke with Agnes. But no one chatted, talked, tête-à-têted, spoke or conversed with Lee. After the rehearsal, he went home glad that this would be his last production ever. Charlie ignored him, which suited him fine.

Monday morning, Peter came in to the office, took off his coat and hung it up, then slumped into his chair. He looked around the cramped room. There were two desks back to back in a space that should only have one. There were filing cabinets behind and to the side of him. There was chaos everywhere, although the chaos on his side of the room was distinct from the chaos on Stella's. Hers was more feminine somehow, covered with a thin patina of her perfume. His was just honest chaos. He breathed in, sat up and started organizing his day. This is my life, he thought. This is what it will always be. He felt content. Or resigned. Or flatulent. He would come in to this room every weekday for the rest of his life, except for one week a year, when he would stay home. And every morning, when he came in, he would remind himself that this was his life. He had done it on Friday morning and he would do it again on Tuesday morning. (Geoff? What? Nothing. Steve! Okay, are you afraid of dying? Wow, existentialism. I'm impressed. No, execution. I should have guessed. Whose? Guess. That hurts. Not yet.)

Stella came in and looked at him oddly. He ignored it. That, also, was his life. She hung her coat on the back of the door, flipped her hair and sat, the whole time looking at him.

"What?" he asked after a long bout, no longer able to ignore her with any conviction.

She just shook her head and opened a ledger book. It was chilly in the room, and that didn't seem to have anything to do with the weather. It seemed to be radiating from Stella's brow. Chilly air made Peter need to pee, so he left to relieve himself. When he came back down the hallway from the men's room he noticed the office door was open and several people seemed to be stuffed into the tiny room like a scene from A Day at the Races. Or was that A Night at the Opera? Or Duck Soup? (Geoff, why do you always have to do things in threes? Because it's funny. And I don't, always. And people like it.) Two people who were squeezed into the doorway turned when they heard him. Peter stopped short. One was Adrienne Gomez, the owner of Comma, Colon and Dickens and treasurer of the board of directors of the Willow Lane Theater. The other was her husband, Phil, a man who didn't seem to have any profession besides prominent citizen and who was also on the board.

"Hi, Adrienne," Peter said, confused by their presence. "Phil."

"Peter," Adrienne said. Phil just nodded. Once.

They parted a little to let Peter by and in doing so revealed two other people crammed into the office; Reginald Vanderding, a particularly snooty man who owned an insurance agency and was also on the board, and Hal Smith, a banker and the chairman of the board of directors of the Willow Lane Theater. He didn't need a fancy name. People called him Mr. Smith, and meant it. Unless they were married to him. Then they'd call him "Snookums."

"Snookums," Peter said.

"Yes, Luv?" Mr. Smith cooed.

(Are you through, Steve? That was you. Ah. Carry on, then. Continue. Proceed. Move ahead. That's four. So are you. No, I'm thirteen.)

"Mr. Smith," Peter said and they parted a bit so he could squeeze between them toward his desk. "Reggie."

Reginald Vanderding actually had to partially exit in order to give Peter room to get by, and he didn't look like he liked it. One bit.

Peter sat and turned to look at them inquiringly. They all looked at him strangely, so he looked over at Stella to see if she knew what was going on. She, also, was staring at them, uncomfortably trying to look like it was normal for four members of the board to squeeze into the office unannounced. She obviously didn't know what was going on, either.

"What can I do for you?" Peter asked as nonchalantly as he could.

"Well, Peter," Mr. Smith said. It was getting warm in there with all those power brokers. And Phil. "We've heard some disturbing news."

At that, Stella seemed to look surprised, then buried her head in the ledger book. Mr. Smith looked like he wanted to take off his overcoat, but there wasn't room. Peter had no idea what the fuck Mr. Smith was talking about. Maybe they figured out I'm gay somehow, he thought. I'll kill that Andrew.

"What news?"

"It has been brought to our attention," Mr. Smith said, "that you are entertaining the notion of starting your own theatre in direct competition to the Willow Lane."

Peter's head spun to the right and his chest spun to the left. (Damn. That sounds painful. Especially for a robust gay man. Geoff? Why are you spinning?) He shook his head to try to clear his focus and get a grip on his brain.

"No," he said. "We were just... Where did you hear... No."

"Yes?" Mr. Smith said.

"We talked about it," Peter said with a slightly off key, nervous laugh that sounded like a cross between Mel Torme and Marcel Marceau. "You know, over a beer. It all started because of coins and Charles Chip© cans. I found an old phone number, too. Lee thought..."

"Lee?" Reginald asked. "Harris?"

"Yes, I mean..."

Peter wasn't sure why this was such a big deal that no less than four board members would show up to talk about it. Usually, the board members didn't come to the theatre unless they were trying to impress an out of town client or get free tickets, and if they did come on business it was never more than two and it was brief and any conversation was casually distant. And he had just brought Lee into it. Shit. I just ratted out my friend. I'm a fink. I'm a stool pigeon. A tattle tale. An informer. I squealed like a little piggy. Loose lips sink friendships. I should have taken the heat for this. Whatever the heat ends up being. Unless the heat was firing. Damn. I hate having a conscience. He had a brief image of Mr. Cogswell and Mr. Slate shouting at him in unison, but quickly shook his head to get rid of it and focused on the discussion at hand.

"So it's true, then," Adrienne interjected, tired of his ruminations. "You are starting your own theatre."

Phil nodded. It's what he did. That and service Adrienne. Peter was going to reiterate that they had just talked about it in passing and that they had both decided it wasn't a good idea for any number of reasons and that people talk all the time about things that they aren't going to do and that Lee was really a good guy who had just let a good review go to his head a little which was no reason for everyone to be so mad at him all of a sudden. He wondered if Matt had said something to someone. You can't trust kids. He would have to have a talk with that young tattle tale about keeping secrets. The board members suddenly looked like they were about to strip him of his ribbons and break his sword in two, and he would have to travel the country begging for food. He blinked his eyes to get Chuck Connors out of his head.

"No," he reiterated. "Who told you that?"

"Agnes," Mr. Smith said.

Peter still wasn't sure why it was such a big deal, but it obviously was. He knew Agnes went into the diner sometimes. How could Matt have such loose lips? Especially after he gave him a three-legged buffalo nickel that was worth a whole lot more than a four-legged buffalo nickel. A small spark of guilt ignited on the extreme tip of his sternum, which confused him, but he was used to feeling guilt about stuff that he hadn't done or that he hadn't thought was wrong or that wasn't wrong or just feeling generally remorseful. Damn gay guilt.

"Where did she get it?" Peter asked, his voice sounding a little pinched.

"One of the ladies playing a Pigeon Sister," Reginald informed him.

Okay, so neither of the actresses playing Pigeon Sisters frequented Twain's. Twain. Maybe Matt had told Twain and Twain was dating one of the Pigeon Sisters. Now part of his brain, the part that was confused by the glimmer of contrition that flickered for no earthly reason in his clavicle, was beginning to wonder why his sin was so fascinating to so many people. He felt like what Pvt. Slovik must have felt like in front of all those rifles. A shot rang out and he was about to clutch his chest, but it was only Reginald clearing his throat. He clutched the edge of his desk instead.

"How did she hear about it?" Peter asked, his throat constricting, making his pinched voice squeak a bit.

"The other lady playing a Pigeon Sister, I imagine," Adrienne advised him.

Maybe Twain was dating both Pigeon Sisters. He would have to stop eating at Twain's, that stool pigeon sister dater. Peter tried to deduce whether, by virtue of so many people talking about his evil wrongdoing, it really was an offensive wickedness or not, but his deduction mechanism was beginning to be overwhelmed by penitent embers spreading across his rib cage. His guilt would be tattooed to his chest like Hester and all potential future employers would point and laugh, sure that he would steal all their trade secrets and start competitive enterprises.

"Who told her?" Peter asked, his mouth dry, making his squeaky voice rasp.

"The guy playing Oscar," Phil revealed.

It was the first time Peter ever remembered Phil actually speaking. His voice sounded like cotton candy. Okay, so Twain couldn't be dating Oscar and he doubted Matt was, so how the hell did he know? Maybe Matt had told Jan and she was dating him. The little fink. His deduction mechanism was beginning to whimper. He could feel a couple of tears fall from behind his eyes, past the conflagration of culpability in his upper body. They fell silently down to the inside of his feet. He was about to become homeless, like Philip Nolan. And then who would feed Cliche?

"How the hell did he know?" Peter asked, his lungs tightening, making his raspy voice frail.

"The prop lady," Mr. Smith enlightened him. "Kim told her."

"Abby," Peter said, defeated, all trains of thought cascading down into an unusual moment of clarity. He couldn't believe Lee had ratted him out.

"Jim told me," Stella said, looking at him sadly. "I was really shocked. I'm hurt, Peter. I feel really betrayed."

That woke another part of Peter's mind, which told the wienie part to shut the fuck up and get off its knees. How the hell dare she feel betrayed?

"How the hell dare you feel betrayed?" he snapped at Stella and the embers in his chest started burning a completely different color.

Stella was really surprised at the vehemence of Peter's reaction. So was Peter, actually. Mr. Smith's pants tented.

"You feel hurt and betrayed?" Peter sputtered at her through clenched teeth. "You? I've given my life to this place and you feel betrayed?" He tried to unclench his teeth, but they refused, so he spoke louder. "I have to pick up after you all the time," he spat. "I have to fix your mistakes," he bellowed and his teeth finally unclenched. "I have to put up with your prima donna attitude, and you get a fucking raise and I don't and YOU feel betrayed?" he roared.

He was breathing hard, as if he had just run up a long set of stairs. Or even walked. Or even a short set. Or had bad sex.

"I don't have to listen to this," Stella said primly.

She got up and left. It was easier for her to squeeze out of the room than it had been for Peter to squeeze in. Damn her.

"Go ahead. Leave," Peter shouted after her. "You got them all fooled, but I know better."

"That's quite enough, Mr. Principal," Mr. Smith said.

"Don't tell me what enough is. Hal. I've given my life to this place," he shot back. "I keep it running. I got a car with no lock on the trunk that leaks when it rains."

"What's that got to do with the theatre?" Mr. Smith, said, nonplused. "It's not our problem that you can't manage your money."

"If you paid me a fucking living wage, I could manage to manage it. I mean I'd have something to manage. Fuck."

"Watch your language, Peter," Phil said.

"You're on thin ice as it is," Adrienne added.

"Thin ice? Thin ice?" Peter was beside himself. "I'm on thin ice?" the other one said.

"Mr. Principal," Hal said. "You're not irreplaceable."

"This place would fall apart without me," Peter laughed. It was one of those angry laughs that people too angry to have a sense of humor laughed. He could feel the heat pour from his chest and roll up his neck and out his face. It felt good. Really good. "You think Stella can do anything? You have no idea what goes on around here, do you? What fools these mortals are."

"We can always find out," Reginald said snidely. "What it's like. Without you."

"Yes," Peter said, fully straightening his back for the first time in many years and puffing out his already robust chest. "You can." He inhaled a little bit more. "I quit."

All the air in the room was gone. Peter grabbed his coat and forced his way through them out into the hallway. Bear walked by and nodded.

"What's up, Peter?"

Peter walked right by him and left the building. When he got outside, he filled his lungs with the rejuvenating, cold February air. He hadn't breathed so deeply in years. He felt like dancing. He felt like shouting for joy. He felt like running a marathon. He had never noticed how beautiful a gray sky could be. He had never realized the elegance of the of the willow branches, swaying slightly in a cascading ballet in the late winter breeze. He had never noticed his feet. He floated all the way to his car. But not in a gay way. In a purposeful, determined, masculine way like Michael Jordan taking off for a dunk from the free throw line. He was on his way. A new life. A new beginning. He was free. At last. Even his car seemed to gleam and looked bigger and stronger and new. He opened the door and floated into the seat. He put the key in the ignition and the car started with a satisfying roar. As he pulled out of the theatre parking lot it started to rain. Cold, pounding February afternoon rain that fell in big drops at an unnatural angle. It was a weird rain. It shouldn't be raining, it should be snowing. And it shouldn't be snowing. Within ten seconds, water was trickling through the hole in his roof that was somehow still there. The branches of a the willow trees slapped at the car in the bitter wind and clung to his windshield, dragging slimy water across it as he drove under them, and the ugly, dank sky laughed at him, reminding him of who he really was. And his feet felt fat.

"Oh, my God," he said as he unsuccessfully tried to twist away from the rain pouring in. "What did I just do?"