Stella Swann needed to get drunk. She had been alone all day in the office of the Willow Lane Theater for the first time ever. Well, not the first time; Peter had taken vacations occasionally and she had been alone all day then, but those days had been planned for and he had finished everything that needed doing and left instructions for whatever he hadn't been able to finish. And he had called in several times a day to make sure everything was all right. And he would often drop in because he was such a loser he had nothing better to do on his vacation, so it wasn't really like being alone all day in the office at all. And of all days to be the first day she was alone in the office of the theatre, the phone wouldn't stop ringing so she couldn't get anything done. At least when Peter had been there, he'd answer the phone. It had started as soon as she'd opened the office door and hung up her coat. The first call was easy. It was a wrong number. The second one was a telephone company wondering if she was happy with her long distance service. She said no, and ordered their service, which they promised was far superior. The third call was from the director of End of the World with Symposium to Follow wondering if the notice of his opening had been sent to the Bee. She was about to tell him that Peter took care of that, then remembered he had quit and said she'd find out and get back to him. The fourth call was from her old long distance service. They sounded really hurt.

By ten, her hair began feeling like it hadn't been properly combed. She tried flipping it to gain some control over the morning but it felt like the strands weren't settling perfectly back into place. She was about to turn around to look in the mirror on the wall by her desk, but the phone rang again. It was someone looking for Peter. She said he was no longer with the theatre and, no, she didn't know where he'd gone, and, no, she wouldn't be seeing him any time soon. She hung up and flipped her hair again. It fell in front of her eyes and stayed there.

Shortly before lunch, Bear came in to the office to see if his last order for paint pigment had been put in. He was really surprised to see Stella's hair, but didn't say anything. She reacted anyway, and pushed it defiantly out of her face.

"I don 't know," she snapped and tried to pat the back of her hair down. "This is a bad time."

"Okay," Bear said. "When would be a good time?"

"Not now," she scowled and tried to smooth the sides of her hair. "This is a two person job and I'm doing it all by myself. I mean, I can handle a person and a half job, I did that for years with that stupid, lazy man, but at least he answered the phone once in a while so I could get something done."

Bear nodded and left, determined to sneak in when she was in the ladies room and look through Peter's stuff to see if it had been done. He knew Stella would never get to it, and by the look of her hair, she would probably be at The Office by three drinking boilermakers.

At two-thirty, Jim came in with a huge smile.

"Hi, Doll," he said. "I just came by to see how you're holding up."

"Get the fuck out of here, you stupid, stupid man," she screeched and the last thin vestige of calmness left her hair.

(She didn't say that, Steve. Well, she thought it. Yes, maybe. But she didn't say it, now, did she? You know what she said. All right.)

"Get the fuck out of here, you stupid.... I mean I'm holding up fine," she barked, folding her hands in front of her on the desk in a forced calm that conveyed even to stupid, stupid Jim that he'd better tread carefully and not mention her hair. "Thank you."

At about the same moment that Jim was backing out of the office at the Willow Lane Theatre, taking slim satisfaction that his hair looked better than Stella's that day, Lee was standing distraught in front of Peter. (Would Lee be at the Willow Lane Theater any more? Read the whole sentence. "At about the same moment..." It's called a transition. Oh. They never taught me that in film school. Did you ever actually go to film school, Steve? Hey, wanna order a pizza? Did you just change the subject? No. That was a transition. Film school.) Anyway, at about that same moment, Lee was standing in front of Peter - who was standing in front of the Renaissance - distraught.

"Peter!" he shouted.

Peter jumped and stopped floating toward the building.

"I just want to look at it," Peter said sheepishly.

"Okay," Lee said. "Once. But remember. This town isn't big enough for two theatres. The Renaissance has already closed trying to prove that wrong. Probably more than once."

"Three times," Peter said matter-of-factly as he turned to look again.

He really wanted to press his face against the window and peer longingly inside, but was afraid of what Lee's reaction to that might be. There was a large Park Place Realty™ sign posted on the wall by the door. It had a fancy logo with a crown capping a snow covered mountaintop and a photo of a pleasant looking gentleman with graying hair dressed in a western shirt and bolo tie. Under the picture it said "Bertram Cage will work for YOU. Call 555-8395". Peter tried to memorize the number without letting on that he was doing so.

"I thought they only had 555 numbers in movies and on TV," Lee said. "And other fictional things."

"No, they have them in River Bend, too," Peter said.

"But the phone company set aside the 555 exchange purposefully so that people didn't call the numbers they saw in movies. And on TV. And other fictional stuff."

"Why would they do that?"

"Obviously because people called the numbers they saw in movies. Etcetera."

"No, I mean why would they set aside the 555 exchange instead of 888 or maybe 321."

"I don't know," Lee said, a little sorry that he had brought the whole subject up. "Exchanges used to be words, like JUno 8 was 588 for J-U-8 and KEystone 5 was 535 for K-E-5. And YUkon 2 was 982. For Y-U-2. You can't make a word with just 5s."

"KLien 5," Peter said. "Or KLondike 5. Or KLaus 5. Or... "

"Okay," Lee said. "KLown. I guess they chose it because it's right in the middle."

"Or KLeptomaniac 5," Peter said with a grin, happy that Lee was no longer stopping him from looking at the front of the Renaissance.

"Okay," Lee said. "Are you done looking?"

Peter sighed and nodded. As he stepped back toward the car, he noticed that the building right next to the Renaissance was a gentlemen's club called The Petting Zoo. He wondered briefly why they called them "gentlemen's clubs". The men they were for weren't really gentlemen, were they? Lee just wondered how a town like River Bend had a gentlemen's club in it and what its hours were.

On the way back to the diner, Peter watched the sparkling branches of the ice coated trees pass by the window and dreamed serenely of building a new future in art.

"You seemed to have calmed down," Lee said.

Peter turned and looked at him, then nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I just have to sit down and figure it all out. I'll be fine."

Lee once again offered to lend him some holding over money until he got back on his feet.

"Thanks," Peter said with a small smile. "But I do have all that coinage all over my living room floor."

"Okay," Lee said with a sigh. "I'll help you get it wrapped and deposited."

"That's not what I meant," Peter said. "I wasn't asking... "

"I know. I will anyway. Abby and I have plans tonight. How about tomorrow after I close?"

Peter nodded and said he'd check his schedule, but was sure he could squeeze it in. When they got back to Twain's, he just got into his car and drove home. When he got home, Peter sat on the couch and tried to figure it all out. Cliche curled up against his thigh. After a few moments of trying to figure it all out, Peter leaned down, picked his phone up from the floor and dialed.

"Hi, Mom," he said as he glanced over at Cliche who was moving to the other end of the couch, annoyed at the movement of his warm spot. "I quit my job."

Cliche looked up at him, shook his head, then curled up against a cushion.

"I know," Peter said into the phone. "Yes, I know. I don't know. I know."

Cliche tucked his head under his leg.

"Okay, me too," Peter said. "Bye."

As soon as he hung up, the phone rang.

"Peter?" the person on the other end said. "Peter Principal?"

"Yes," Peter said.

"Man, you're hard to find," the voice said. "I tracked you from the college admissions office to two theatres that you were no longer at. I finally just called information in every town I'd found evidence of you in until I found you. I'm glad I finally found you."

"Oh," Peter said. "Good. Um... Who is this?"

"It's Og," the voice said. "Fred. Fred Ogg."

Because it was a cold February night and there was little to do in River Bend on such a night, except, of course, the symphony, the choral, the rodeo, the Chinese Opera, Ringling Bros., Pee Wee Drag Racing, Graham Kerr, the hockey game and the Black and White Ball, The Office was full and full of energy. Abby circled the room looking for a table she could claim as Lee went to the bar to get them both dollar draft beers. She found one just as Lee found her in the crowd and she pushed the empty and half empty beers aside so he could put theirs down. Lee's face wrinkled in spontaneous disgust at the spilled beer and used peanuts smeared all over the table top and he was about to say something about her choice when he realized, just in time to close his mouth, that she was lucky to have found it and he'd better just keep his reaction to himself if he wanted a pleasant evening. Abby excused herself to the bathroom and Lee looked at the stool for signs of unpleasant substances, then sat down, gingerly, in case he had missed anything.

"Eeeeewwww," he said quietly, but refused to get up and see what he'd just sat in.

Abby came back with a handful of paper towels and wiped the table and her stool. Lee just kept sitting and refused to comment. Abby took her coat off. Her sweatshirt had a picture of a steamer trunk and said "Stop staring at my chest."

"To us," Abby said as she lifted her glass.

"Yeah," Lee answered, trying not to stare at her trunk.

He sat very still. Whatever he'd sat in might not spread if he didn't move much.

"So," Lee said to change the subject. "How was your day?"

Abby started telling him about the clients she had seen and the accounts she had opened and the radio station office gossip, but Lee's eyes sort of unfocused. Sitting at a table across the room was a woman who looked a lot like what Stella might look like if she weren't quite so concerned with personal appearance. Then someone who looked exactly like Jim sat across from her and handed her a tissue to wipe her forehead. Lee was fascinated. He'd seen Stella drink, but he'd never actually seen her drunk. And Jim seemed to be caring for her in a very mature and fatherly way. The fabric of space and time seemed momentarily to fray, so Lee focused back onto Abby just as she got to something about some unpleasantness with a three hole punch.

"Oh, uh huh," he said.

"You haven't been listening, have you?" Abby asked.

"Sure," he said, "you were talking about... Um... Okay, no."

He looked down at the table for a moment, the looked back at her.

"I have something for you," he said.

Abby was instantly intrigued. Lee reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a little, gift-wrapped box. The wrapping was a little wrinkled and off-center and the ribbon looked like it had been tied by a small child with very big thumbs, but the thought was very pretty. Lee shyly handed it to her. Abby's mind shifted into over-drive. Why was he giving her a gift? It wasn't her birthday, that was the day before Lee met her at that cast party. Kim had given her a Swatch™. Abby had been whelmed. What could he be giving her? She refused to think ring, even though the box looked like it could be a ring box. Except the corners weren't rounded, which ring box corners usually were. Okay she was thinking ring, but only a little. Lee wasn't the type to just give gifts for no reason. She shook it.

"A sweater?" she said.

Lee laughed and shook his head. She shook it again. It didn't make any sound at all, even though there was someone there to hear it.

"Is it a tree?"

"Just open the damned thing," Lee said and Abby smiled.

"Now you know what it feels like," she said as she pulled the ribbon off.

"Don't be me," Lee said quietly.

She ripped the paper off. The box was a little, clear, hard plastic box with the little button-type opposable latch, the kind screws used to come in, but it was filled with cotton.

"You got me screws," Abby said.

"Flat head."

"Big butt."

The top of the box still had some gunk from the screw label and price sticker. She opened it and pulled the cotton out. Something went flying and hit the floor with a pathetic little clinkity clank clink clink clank aaaoooooga sound. (It just clank, Steve. Clank? Yeah, past tense of clink. You know, fall, fell. Drink, drank. See, saw. Clink, clank. So the past tense of blink is blank? Sure. I thank.) Abby looked down under the table and around the stool she was sitting on, but didn't see what could have been in the cotton that had clank all over the floor. Lee shook his head and got off his stool to look for it, whatever it was, remembering just as he bent over by her stool about the errant moisture on the seat of his pants. He pulled at his coat tail in a vain attempt to cover his butt. All it did was make Abby look at his behind, which she didn't usually mind. This time she laughed.

"You peed," she said.

Lee picked the thing up, stood rigidly straight, flung the thing on the table (contrived suspense) where it landed with an aaaooooga sound, and marched back to his seat. In the real world, the thing would probably have skidded off the table again, but Steve and Geoff were tired of the whole contrived suspense thing, so it stuck to a gunky glob of old ketchup and stayed put.

"A key," Abby said, sort of let down.

Lee took a napkin and wiped the stool before he sat. Abby was about to make a comment about locking the barn door after the cows had escaped, but it was just too trite and too close to the mark.

"To your house?" she asked with a clank.

"No, the barn door," Lee said.

Abby realized she had been thinking ring more than she thought she was thinking it, even though they hadn't known each other very long, and hadn't been dating very long and it was way too early to think ring and Lee had never given any clue that he had even considered ring and they had had that whole luv/love thing that clank all over the bedroom and what would she do if it had been a ring, anyway; she couldn't say yes, of course, because they had only known each other a very short time, but she couldn't say no because she really liked him a lot and she was suddenly very glad not to have to figure out what to say about a ring because it wasn't one. But what did the key mean? Did he want her to move in with him, and if he did why didn't he just ask her and what would she say if he did want her to move in, because that wasn't so very far removed from ring. Maybe he just didn't want her to have to get the key from under that stupid rock. Or maybe he didn't want her giving away the location of the rock every time she bent down to pick it up to let herself in. Oh. He just wants her to be able to let herself in. How sweet. How wonderful.

"Thank you," she said.

"What, no funny remark? I'm disappointed."

"It took me too long to figure out what my reaction was to it and I didn't have anything left over for sarcasm," she said with a smile.

Lee was puzzled by that and asked her what she meant by figuring out her reaction to it. Abby got really quiet for a minute, then opened her mouth to speak, then got quiet again.

"I wasn't sure what it meant," she finally said when she found a way around saying anything about thinking ring and moving in so he wouldn't think she had been thinking them, because, before the box, she hadn't and would stop thinking about them as soon as this conversation was over.

"What?" Lee said, a little peeved. "It means I want you to have a key to my house."

"And it didn't dawn on you that that might mean something to me?" she said before she thought about censoring it so it didn't put thoughts of ring and moving in into his head.

"What the hell could it mean?"

"Jesus, Lee," Abby said, then added before she could stop herself, "It could mean that you might want me to move in."

"Jesus," Lee said, a little shocked. "Do you... "

"God, no!" she said, then heard how unequivocal and absolute that sounded and added, "I mean... "

There was movement in the background that pulled Lee's attention momentarily. When he realized that it was Jim helping Stella into her coat and he realized just how inebriated she was, it pulled his full attention.

"They're coming over here," he said.

"What? Who?" Abby said, turning in the direction he was looking just as Jim got Stella moving in a vaguely forward direction. Abby was fascinated and forgot the argument. That woman was the drunkest woman she had ever seen. But the guy was kind of cute in a high school basketball player/Rockford File sort of way.

As Jim led Stella past their table, she seemed to notice Lee. She thrust her arm out, finger pointed vaguely toward one of Lee's faces. For a moment it looked like she might fall forward from the momentum of the movement, which Lee thought might have been very interesting because it looked like it might have been one of those slow-motion falls and he could watch her finger slowly push the table over and his beer slowly slide down and splash against her dress as her face crumpled into the table top, then slide down that as she melted to the floor, but she steadied herself and began wagging her finger from the wrist. Her eyes clouded over and her mouth looked like it was trying to form some sort of cutting remark that might make Lee wither into his neck cavity. Instead, all it did was move in strangely unattractive ways. Finally she nodded, as if she had succeeded in her withering remark, and perhaps somewhere in her brain she had. Jim shrugged a small, apologetic shrug with a small, apologetic smile on his face. Jim put his hand to his face, phone-like, and mouthed to Lee "Call me," and winked. (No he didn't Steve. Sheesh.) Lee's pants tented. (Steve, I'm calling your mother. Wow, now my pants are tenting. Oh, my. Mrs. Steve's mom, please don't read that last sentence. And I apologize for your son.) Then Stella flipped her head, which made her hair bounce a little in a sadly impotent way and she let Jim lead her out of the bar.

"What the hell was that?" Abby asked after the couple had finally moved on.

"Stella," Lee answered. "That was Stella."

They watched the couple all the way out, then Abby turned and looked at Lee for a long time.

"Thank you for the key," She said.

"You're welcome," he said, relieved that he didn't have to revisit the whole living together conversation.

The next morning, Peter awoke wondering what to do with a day off and no job to worry about. He felt good, perhaps better than he felt first thing in the morning for years. He thought about spending the day looking for work, but realized he had his first real day off ever. At least his first real day off in the middle of the week. Anyway, it was Wednesday, which wasn't a good day to look for work. He'd start fresh on Monday and take the next few days to regroup. He could use the time to get his suit cleaned, work on his resume, buy a newspaper. Finding work was more work than working, so he'd have to work up to it. He tried to sleep in because it was his first mid-week day off, and it was a cold day and his blankets were heavy and warm and it would be a perfect day to sleep in. The wind blew against the house and he snuggled deeper under the covers, but that stupid alarm clock in his brain wouldn't let his eyes close again without a force of will, and forcing your eyes closed was kind of beside the point, so he got up and stumbled into the bathroom the way he'd stumbled in every work morning for years.

Peter spent a lot of time in the shower. Because he'd gotten up so early, and because he didn't have anything to do, he decided he had time to luxuriate under the stream of hot, steaming water. He stood there well past the time when it had been enjoyable, but darn it, he was going to luxuriate if it killed him. And by the way his skin was beginning to wrinkle and fold back on itself, it just might. Finally, he gave up, got out and dried himself. He looked into the mirror but it was so steamed up all he saw was a blurred lump of colors. He wiped it off several times, but he'd spent so much time trying to enjoy the shower that the air was too heavy and re-condensed on the glass right behind the towel.

I've never had to look for work in my life, really, he thought as he brushed his teeth, they sort of came to me or appeared. This is the closest I've ever come to being fired. I wasn't fired, he reminded himself sternly, I quit. But it was really close. I've never left a place on a bad note. Ever. Am I ever going to see Bear, again? I like Bear. Am I going to see Jim? I don't particularly like him right now, but I don't want to not be able to see him if I want to. And I can't even see plays. I love plays. And I don't have any friends. Except Lee. And Roz. Except I haven't talked to her since the night of the Ealing Comedies. And Og, sort of, but he lives in another town and I've only talked to him one and a half times since college. Right now, if I get lonely, I can go to the theatre, I can go see a play. Well, I could until about noon on Monday. Right now, if I get lonely, I can pet Cliche. And he hates that. He pretty much hates everything. And he's my only friend. Except Lee and Roz and sort of Og.

Because he hadn't been able to see into the mirror while he brushed his teeth, they didn't feel as clean as they should, which was odd because seeing shouldn't make a difference, you feel where the brush is, and he was sure he'd brushed them all. But he just didn't feel fresh.

He put Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 5 in E minor on the stereo and set out to plan his day. Listening to good music on a Wednesday morning made up for the shower and the teeth. He puttered for a while, then fed Cliche, then puttered, then sat on the couch and stared at the blank television screen, then looked around at the results of all his puttering. There weren't any, and the music was over, so he turned on the television and flipped channels. He noticed the Charles Chips cans and realized he did have a cushion, which was something he'd never had in his life. According to Lee he had a few thousand sitting dormant on his floor. He could live several months on that. So if he couldn't find a job, it would take several long, slow months for him to starve to death.

He looked back at the television screen. There was a show on about Jakarta, Indonesia. They were visiting several restaurants showing the diverse culinary opportunities in the city. Peter's stomach grumbled slightly when they showed a nice place that served traditional food like Babi Asam Pedis, which seemed to be some sort of pork dish cooked in tamarind, garlic, sambal oelek, ginger, cornflower and ketjap manis. He wondered what the heck sambal oelek was. It looked really good, though, and he realized he didn't have much in the larder. Lee was coming over that evening to help with the coins. It would be nice to have dinner waiting. He decided he'd make Indonesian food. Life was good. Cliche scowled at him, knowing the probable atmospheric results of Peter and Indonesian food. Sometimes it just sucked being a cat. But cat boxes were good revenge.

As he thought about what he'd need for dinner, Peter had a strange, unfamiliar sensation in his chest. It was an odd combination of relief and fear and it made him feel simultaneously euphoric and anxious. He didn't know he had been under such a weight and the relief was a surprise, but he didn't have anywhere he was supposed to be and that had never happened to him before.

Fuck it, he thought. I do have five thousand dollars. I can at least enjoy my first day off. I'll go to the store. Take my time shopping. Come home and listen to my favorite albums. It's going to be a me day. I need to decompress. I deserve it. I'm not going to worry about it today. Like Scarlett says, "I can think about it another day, like tomorrow." And I won't worry about it tomorrow, either. Sunday is the best day for want ads. And last Sunday's are way too old, the jobs will already be taken. If I could even find a copy of last Sunday's paper.

When he got to the grocery store, he noticed the small blue newspaper stand just outside the doors. He looked at it for a moment, then decided it wouldn't hurt to have one mid-week in case there was a listing there that didn't make it into the Sunday edition. He put a quarter in, opened the little window and was sprayed with Brut. (No, he wasn't Steve. Old Spice? No, he pulled out a newspaper. And it smelled like Brut. Get a lot of action, don't you, big guy. Why, yes.) Once inside, he went straight to the Indonesian section, which was surprisingly large and well stocked and smelled like Brut. (You need to just stop, Steve. I mean it. Really. Stop. Now. Quit. Cut it out. Quiet. Behave. Okay? All right. Woof.) After looking at all the strange, exotic items in the Indonesian section, he remembered that pork was the main ingredient in the dish, and meat was much easier to navigate, and he did have all day.

The meat section smelled slightly of fish. The pork was outrageously expensive, but beef roast was on sale. He could substitute beef for pork. The vegetable aisle was facing the meat section and the new potatoes were also on sale and looked really good. They had that great, earthy smell and were firm. His pants tented. The carrots also looked good. They were next to the celery. And the sweet onions. And turnips. By the time he was ready to go back for the sambal oelek, he realized his cart was already full of what would make a really good Yankee pot roast, which he already knew how to make. He usually marinated a roast overnight, but if he simmered it in the marinade of wine, broth and cloves for a little while, then put it in the oven at a slightly lower temperature than usual for a little longer it should be tender enough. A pot roast would need a good salad, so he got romaine lettuce and spinach leaves. And lots of other stuff.

He felt good again. Shopping for good food always perked up his day. And he had had a nice conversation with Og the night before. That couldn't have been timed better. Once in a while, things just work out, so this would be one of those times. Everything would fall into place and the perfect job would appear and they would love him. But what if I don't find a job, he thought as he pushed his cart toward the bread section, and I go through all the coins and I have to sell Cliche and have to walk the streets eating out of trash bins and begging for cigarettes? Which was silly, because he didn't even smoke. But, he thought, if you beg, you beg for cigarettes. Quid pro qou. So I guess I'd have to start.

On his way to the checkout, he stopped by the wine aisle. One bottle for the marinade and one for dinner. It made him feel better. Then he realized he should probably stock up on cat food while he still had a dollar or two reserve. There was a cute little cage-like ball with a tiny, fuzzy pom pom and a bell in it next to the cat food. It was only a dollar seventy-five, so he put it in his cart.

Cliche watched Peter unpack the grocery bags. Peter dropped the little ball in front of him and he looked at it sort of disdainfully, batted at it once haughtily with an outstretched paw, turned and walked a couple of insolent steps, then glanced back at Peter with a look that conveyed very clearly that he had just been fired and they would have to live on Peter's savings, such as they were, and it wasn't a good time to be blowing money on silly toys and that at the very least he could have gotten something with catnip in it. Then he climbed into one of the overturned grocery bags and started cleaning his front left paw. Peter didn't know how to convey to the stupid animal that he hadn't been fired, he'd quit.

While the roast was marinating, he opened the newspaper to the classifieds. There were listings for a backhoe driver, legal secretaries, a librarian, a draw bridge operator and pizza slingers. Someone wanted a comedy writer, but that just couldn't possibly be rewarding. There were opportunities for a gas station attendant, adult book store clerks and a forest ranger. Strangely, there weren't any telemarketing jobs. He listened to Fantasy and Fugue in G minor by Johann Sebastian Bach, his pen poised to circle something, but nothing fit his experience or temperament. Except, maybe, forest ranger. Then he saw a listing for an administrator at a theatre. His heart jumped in anticipation until he noticed the phone number. It was the Willow Lane's phone number. The number he used to answer. His heart would have dropped all the way to his foot except his intestines got in the way. He pushed the paper away and went to attend to the roast. First, though, he poured what was left in the marinade wine bottle into a glass. There was about three quarters of a glass worth. Not too much, but it was very cosmopolitan to have a sip of wine before noon. How decadent. How sophisticated. How Hemingway. How much is that doggy in the window?

He put the roast on a platter and removed the cloves from the marinade. He sipped a little more of his wine as the roast cooled. He rolled the meat in the flour and the wine took the sting out of the Willow Lane's ad. As he browned the roast in the oven, he finished the glass of wine. It tasted good but if felt better. He wished he had a little more wine. Well, he realized, he did. He'd open it and pour only half a glass and sip that. He cut the vegetables and added them and the marinade to the Dutch oven and left it to simmer, then went to clean the bathroom. When he was done with that, he checked the roast and sampled a little piece of carrot to see how it was cooking. It was still quite hard. He finished the half glass of wine and poured another half glass.

Peter sliced the radishes for the garden salad in rhythm to the dramatic, pounding strains of Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 68, by Johannes Brahms. The Yankee pot roast had been simmering all afternoon and the house was warm and steamy and smelled comfortingly like beef, peppercorns, garlic and clove with a slight undercurrent of cat pee. Because of the heat from the oven and the wine, his skin felt like it glowed slightly. He realized, somewhere in the deeper corners of his thoughts, that he would again feel angry and again feel scared and again simply feel numb, but right now he felt sort of free, which was a new sensation to him and he liked it, so he had another sip of wine.

He sampled a radish slice, then added the radishes to the bowl that already had cut greens, thinly sliced onions, quartered Roma tomatoes, diced olives, sliced cucumbers, julienne carrots, strips of green, red and yellow bell peppers, capers and toasted sunflower seeds. Something odd crept up behind him and seeped into his gut. It grew from a small sick feeling to one of panic. He took a deep breath, a long sip and a handful of olives and the feeling subsided. A little. He sprinkled salt, pepper, garlic powder, oregano and a pinch of sage into the salad and tossed it. He sampled a piece of lettuce to make sure he had balanced the herbs correctly, added a little salt and put it in the refrigerator.

His gut was still threatening to remind him that he had no future whatsoever, so he opened the oven door, drew the rack out and took the lid off the Dutch oven. The thick, aromatic steam billowed up around it then caressed his nose and skin and quieted his troubled body. He took a serving spoon from the top of the stove, lifted a small amount of the broth with it, blew on it several times and put it to his lips. It was still way too hot, so he blew on it again several times and tried again. It was even hotter (no it wasn't, Steve) just tolerable, so he slurped it up and decided it was okay.

When Lee arrived, Peter was just taking the roast out of the oven, and Beethoven's symphony number 9 in D minor, opus 125 had just started. It had been a classical sort of day. All the major classics in minor.

"Just a sec," Peter shouted as he set the Dutch oven down on the counter.

"Wow," Lee said as he stumbled over the door jam. "What are you cooking?"

"Dinner."

"I'm not hungry. I had an A&W footlong on the way over."

"First of all," Peter said as he led Lee into the kitchen, "even if you were full, I'd insist you eat my dinner. Second of all, we don't have an A&W in River Bend anymore because their quality control went way down hill and nobody would go there except desperate high school kids and Geoff and Steve, who'll eat anything (Hey! Hey! Who's writing this shit? I don't know. Pass me that Queen Burger) and third of all you're eating my dinner."

He opened the lid and the steamy aroma that escaped caressed Lee's nostrils in the most tantalizing of ways.

"Okay," he said. "I'll eat it."

Peter moved the roast onto a platter and sliced it. The surface of the slices had a moist, wonderfully iridescent sheen. Peter whistled as he cut. (What? What what? What did he whistle? The Ode to Joy. Shut up.)

"You're in a good mood," Lee said. (You're not. Shut up.)

"I'm cooking food for a good friend, I've had a sip or two of good wine, I've had my first real day off in I don't know how long and I got a very interesting phone call last night."

"And you're listening to Beethoven."

Peter took a sip of wine and realized that Lee didn't have any. He got a glass, washed it, and poured. One, single, lonely drop hung desperately onto the lip of the bottle, then let go. They both watched as it fell through the air, completely missed the mouth of the glass and landed on the base and clank.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Lee asked.

"How can that be?" Peter said, really, sincerely puzzled. He knew he'd bought two bottles of wine. "I just had a few sips. I'll go to the store and get more."

He began to take his apron off, but Lee stopped him and assured him it was all right, that he didn't need any wine, that beer would be just fine. Then he asked if Peter had any beer.

"Yes," Peter said. "Of course. But pot roast needs a good Cabernet. I want a wine cellar. But I'm unemployed." Peter got the bottle of Canadian. "And I don't have a basement."

He poured a shot for Lee, then one for himself.

"A pot of roast, a jug of booze and thou," Lee said as he lifted his glass. "Oh," he added when he saw the hunks of Shepard's bread, "and bread."

For a moment, that strange entity that had finagled its way into Peter's intestines earlier started stirring. He breathed in sharply to see if he could put it back to sleep and wondered if he was ever going to have a moment free from job-quitting induced consternation.

"You know," he said to distract himself as he poured red wine vinegar onto the salad and tossed it, "Beethoven was completely deaf when he wrote most of his symphonies."

"Well," Lee said as he sipped his whiskey. "No. Actually, the only one he wrote completely deaf was the ninth."

Peter whistled again as he sprinkled the olive oil onto the salad, and began singing as he tossed it again.

"Joy-u!" he sang at the top of his lungs.

"That's Brüder," Lee said. "It means 'brothers'."

"I thought it was joy-u. Meaning 'joyous'."

"Brüder. Brothers."

Peter just looked at him. Lee was one of the most exasperating men he knew. It never dawned on Peter that Lee was an accountant and an accountant corrects and gets corrected all the time, that it was absolutely necessary for their survival as accountants, and that it really wasn't personal. Being corrected didn't offend Lee, so he really doesn't understand that it could be offensive to someone else. Peter tried to decide just how offended to be.

"Go get a Queen Burger," Peter said, and turned off the music.

They decided to eat in the living room. Peter squatted by the coffee table and put his arm along one side, ready to just swipe everything to the floor.

"I'll get that," Lee said when he realized what Peter was about to do. He hadn't had much to drink, yet. "You get the plates ready."

Lee removed everything from the table and got a wet towel to wipe it down. There was a strange brown stain and for some reason, when Lee scrubbed it he was reminded of banana taffy, which was one of the few candies he really liked. Peter brought two plates overflowing with meat and stewed vegetables smothered in a velvety gravy he had just whipped up from the remaining, thick broth full of bits of meat and solidified drippings. He set them down, then noticed that Lee had neatly stacked everything that had been on the table in an out of the way corner by the end of the couch, away from the Charles Chips™ cans. Nothing had been neatly stacked in his house since before he had had his last full day off. He brought utensils and full salad bowls out and they sat down.

"So," Peter said after tasting his first bite. "Don't you want to know who called?"

"Sure. Who?" Lee asked and took a bite of the meat. "Oh my God," he said after it dissolved from his tongue. "This is really, really good."

"Thanks. Guess," Peter said, and when Lee didn't take the bait, added, "Who called."

"I don't know. Fred Ogg."

Peter was about to lift a fork full of salad to his mouth, but his hand stopped midway and he just stared at Lee. Then he noticed his arm hovering there like a moment in a bad movie and set the fork down.

"How the hell did you know that?" he asked.

"I don't know. You said to guess. I guessed."

"How did you guess Og?"

"I knew it wasn't me. I guessed it wasn't Stella, who I saw last night, by the way, very drunk. I was with Abby so it wasn't her. Matt would have no reason to call you. Your mother calling wouldn't be news of the 'guess who called' variety."

"How did you even remember Og? A slip of paper on a drunken night rolling coins and you remember it? Who are you? Wait, Stella was drunk?"

"And sloppy," Lee added, and Peter answered with a crooked little smile.

"So," Lee said to get Peter back on track. "What did Fred say?"

"I knew that place would crumble without me." Peter was gleefully happy that he had quit on the stupid board. Serve them right. And his stomach woke up again.

"Fred," Lee reminded Peter. They could bash Stella later.

"Yes, Og. He called," Peter said and turned a scary shade of pink that Lee had never seen a human male turn. "He'd been thinking about me ever since I woke him up that night."

Lee took a bite of salad but stopped chewing after a particularly loud crunch. He just sat there with an odd expression on his face.

"What's the matter," Peter asked, wondering what had fallen into the salad that had just broken most of Lee's molars and a couple of incisors.

Lee started chewing again, then swallowed before answering.

"The croutons," he said.

"What's wrong with them?" Peter wondered if the butter had been rancid, or if the garlic was moldy.

"Were did you get them?"

"I made them," Peter said, trying to remember if he had broken a glass in the last few days and the if the glass shards had gotten into the cheese or moldy garlic or something. "Lee, what's wrong?"

"People make croutons?" Lee asked, oblivious to Peter's panic. As usual. "I thought they came in boxes."

"Yeah, you're straight," Peter said. "You don't like them? What's wrong? Jesus, Lee."

"No, actually," Lee said as he lifted another crouton up with his fork. "I really, really like them."

"Oh," Peter said, relieved and flattered and a little embarrassed. "I use good Italian bread cut into squares. Soak it in garlic butter, sprinkle it with grated Romano cheese and bake them until they're dry and brown. I'm glad you like them."

Lee put the crouton, completely unencumbered with salad, into his mouth. The garlicky butter melted and burned his tongue in perfect synchronicity with the crunchy, crumbling bread, and the sharp cheese bit wonderfully into the burn. When he breathed in over his over excited tongue, his whole world tasted like garlic and butter. He chased it with a shot of Canadian which mixed nicely and made his head swirl. Then he noticed Peter watching him.

"They're even better if you take a sip of wine after," Peter said. "Sorry. I should go get some wine."

"So," Lee said to change the subject. "What did Fred Ogg say?"

Peter instantly got pink again. Lee wondered what mechanisms could possibly do that - and do it so quickly and without permanent scarring - to a face, and what possible evolutionary tactic that response had been born out of.

"He said he was surprised that I called him," Peter said. "He said he thought I didn't like him, and that he'd been wondering how I was doing all these years. I mean, we only went out once and it wasn't really even 'going out', really, it was just going to a movie, and I got sick and he took me home and dropped me off and when I pulled my change out of my pocket I must have pulled his number with it because I never saw it again until you found it in the can and he never called me so I figured he didn't like me or he wasn't gay or something and I never actually ever told him I was gay or anything, even though he made my armpits sweat, but he said he was and he wants to get together again, but now I'm this big ugly guy and what if he's still good looking and he sees me and throws up?'

"How did you meet him?" Lee asked, knowing it would probably be a long answer and it would give him time to eat another crouton and really enjoy it.

They had met at a party when Peter was at college. Og had been a friend of a friend of his and wasn't going to college but was at the party, and they had hit it off. They talked and joked all night, and Peter wondered all night if he were gay, and it turned out that Og had been wondering the same about him. They both skirted around the subject and finally he's asked Peter if he'd seen Last Tango in Paris.

"And, of course, I hadn't," Peter said around a mouthful of beef and gravy. "But I'd heard it was supposed to be really good, which I should find the guy who told me that and slap him, but it was playing at one of the local revival houses, that one that was closing, remember, I told you about it? So he gave me his number and we agreed I'd call him."

And they'd gone to the movie together, and neither was still quite sure the other was gay. They met for a beer beforehand, and, of course, Peter had gotten sick at the movie.

"He works for Levitz Furniture," Peter said. "I asked him why he'd never gone to college, he's a really smart guy, and he said at first because he couldn't afford it, even though then they had really good student aid, and he'd gotten a summer job in a Levitz showroom and then he got promoted, and now he's a district manager. He said he always liked my humor and that we always had a lot to talk about, which was true at the party, and even before the movie, but we only saw each other twice. Why does he like me?"

"You're a nice guy," Lee said. It was the only supportive thing he could think of. He couldn't really see why any guy would like any guy. They're hairy and bumpy in all the wrong places in all the wrong ways. He actually couldn't even understand why women liked guys. He was glad they did, but he couldn't understand it.

"He said he was intimidated by me," Peter said with a sort of soft, confused look.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I asked him what he meant and he said that I'd gone to college and read all the time and worked in theatre and that I was cute. He thinks I was cute. I was never cute. Not even once."

Lee almost said yes you are, but thought better of it because it would sound like he was only placating him, which wouldn't have been totally true. It would have been mostly true, but not totally true. He ate another crouton and wondered again how one guy could know so much about cooking.

"He just likes you," Lee said. "Look, I date Abby. I mean, she's beautiful. I mean... "

"Stella was really drunk last night?" Peter said, realizing that he had to help Lee get out of that hole. "How drunk? Did she stumble? Where were you and Abby that you saw Stella drunk?"

"The Office," Lee said. "I gave her a key to my place. Abby, not Stella."

"Wow," Peter said. "Big step. Did you just hand it to her?"

"No. I wrapped it up in a little box."

"Did she think it was a ring?"

Lee was quiet for a very long time. He looked like he was going over something and figuring it out as he did. His face got soft, then concerned, then he wrinkled his brow, then his eyes went wide, then he mouthed "Oh," and wrinkled his brow again.

"Um... ," Lee finally said. "No."

"I quit my job," Peter said. His abdomen constricted a little and he pushed his plate away. Then he ate another fork full of beef. Then one of salad. Then he pulled his plate back and dipped a piece of bread into the gravy and ate that. "What was I thinking?"

They finished eating, cleared the table and started pooping, I mean sorting and rolling coins. They didn't finish until after three in the morning. When Lee finished ticking off marks on a piece of paper, one for each roll, Peter asked him what it all came to.

"Five thousand, three hundred and fifty three dollars and twenty nine cents."

Peter stared at him.

"Last week you said it would be about five thousand, four hundred seventy-five dollars. And seventy-five cents. Roughly. How did you guess it so closely?"

(How would Peter remember that? Because it's funny. It's not something he's likely to remember, now is it? I remember your first phone number started with YUkon 2. I just told you that for this installment. So?)

"How did you remember that?"

"Because it's funny," Peter said. "And you remembered Fred Ogg."

"I don't know. I just guessed. Okay, let's see. I figured you threw in around seventy-five cents a day. For about twenty years. That's two hundred seventy-three seventy five a year. That's five thousand, four hundred seventy-eight seventy-five. Roughly. Then I looked at the cans and figured they each held around six hundred dollars and that would be about fifty four hundred, so that confirmed the original estimate. Easy."

Lee shrugged and Peter wanted to tell him he was over a hundred dollars off but was afraid Lee had already figured out in his head exactly to the penny how off he had been. In fact, he was sure of it and he didn't want Lee to tell him.

"One twenty-five forty-six," Lee said flatly and Peter drank another shot and wondered what the value of that stupid three-legged buffalo nickel was.

Early the next morning Peter bundled up and went out to the back of his house, which in the summer was a slab of concrete butted up against the house filled with all sorts of crap, but now was a big lumpy pile of snow and ice. Peter dug in it and rummaged around for a while until he found a tattered piece of blue plastic. Somewhere under the plastic, he knew, was a little old red Radio Flyer™ wagon. It took him about half an hour to unearth it. He brought it inside and spent another half hour filling it with his bags of coins and wheeling them out to his car. It took three trips.

Just before ten, he wheeled the first wagon-load of coins into the bank. Everyone there turned and looked at the site of the unkempt, robust, bearded man with the over-burdened little red wagon. While Peter stood in line, the few people in front of him side glanced derisively. Two actually snickered. Peter tried to ignore them. When his turn came and he wheeled the thing up to the window and lifted the first bag, the young teller with the blue dress shirt with the straight-out-of-the-package creases on it and the plastic name tag that said "Mike" glanced into it, then looked at him really funny for a very long time.

"We don't accept rolls of coins for deposit unless you write your account number on them," he said to Peter.

"On all of them?" Peter said, incredulous.

Mike nodded.

"Do you have any idea how many there are, here?" Peter asked, even more incredulous.

"Well, let's see," Mike said. "You have six bags, which would be roughly (Steve!) I mean I have no idea."

"There are twelve more bags in the car."

"Ow," Mike said and handed Peter a pen.

Peter forlornly pulled the little red wagon to a corner of the bank, sat in one of the horrid plastic bucket chairs with the metal legs from the "New Accounts" desk, and began pulling rolls out, writing his account number and stacking the rolls in the wagon. (What is it? What is what? His account number. YUkon 2... Art is knowing when to stop, Geoff.) Peter tried to ignore the stares of the bank employees and customers. After the first hour or so, Peter got used to ignoring each new person as they came in, noticed him then realized what he was doing.

Shortly after noon, one of the tellers pulled a chair up and started helping without comment. Peter looked at her, thanked her and started whistling. Greensleeves. Most of the tellers, and even a few customers, took turns helping. The atmosphere slowly began to take on the feel of a small party. The manager, a tall woman with really high, fragile looking hair and spectacles hanging from a chain around her neck, occasionally glanced over disapprovingly, but the tellers were doing it on their breaks so she couldn't really object. Finally, she left. At about one-thirty, she came back in with a box of donuts and stiffly set them on the counter next to Peter.

The last teller to help was Mike. His penmanship was perfect and he wrote fast, which was a good thing since he smelled like Brut.

Peter left the bank just before they closed, another day of unemployment successfully put behind him. At least he had five thousand, three hundred and fifty some dollars in the bank, not including the two hundred twenty-nine dollars he already had in there. And his final check should be coming soon. Except that Stella had to remember to write it, which meant he would have to call and actually talk to her. He could think about her falling down drunk and it wouldn't be quite so humiliating.

On the way home, he took a small detour and slowly drove past the Renaissance. He couldn't help himself.

He went to Twain's for dinner, and sat at the counter.

"Hey," Lee said when he saw him. "Get it all deposited okay?"

Peter nodded.

"I have an appointment with Bertram Cage," he said.

"Who?"

Peter was quiet for a moment, then ordered the meatloaf.

"Who's Bertram Cage?" Lee asked again.

"Oh. Yeah, he's... the landlord... of... the... ," Peter said. "Um... Renaissance."

"Peter!" Lee shouted.

Peter looked down, hoping that would be the end of the installment and he'd have at least six weeks for Lee to get over it.

"Come with me," he said finally when he realized Geoff and Steve wouldn't let him get off that easily.

"Peter!"

"I'm just going to look at it," Peter said defensively. "It's tomorrow afternoon. At two-thirty."

Lee and Peter pulled up and parked in front of the Renaissance.

"You're just looking, right?" Lee said for the four hundredth time.

When they got out of Lee's car, the front door of the building opened and a man in his mid to late fifties wearing a cowboy hat and boots, a western shirt with a bolo tie and tight blue jeans stood waiting for them. He had a distinguished face and a friendly smile.

"Mr. Cage?" Peter asked.

"Call me Bert."

Bert confidently shook Peter's hand. He smelled of Mennen deodorant, Cool Mint Listerine® and talcum powder. He made Peter distinctly uncomfortable in a strangely exciting way.

"I'm Peter, I called you yesterday. This is Lee. Lee Harris."

"We're just looking," Lee said as Bert confidently shook his hand, then moved aside so they could enter.

The room was dimly lit, but huge. Peter stopped short and Lee had to push him a little so he would get out of the way. Peter turned in a slow circle, taking in the dimensions, angles, sounds and feel of the room. Lee watched him warily. Bertram scrutinized them both and surmised that Lee was the one he had to convince. And that Peter was the one to do it for him. He'd give them a little space, first, to get Peter completely hooked, but would keep a close eye on Lee to make sure he didn't queer the deal. It was a delicate dance, a two-step he was familiar with and he considered himself very good at it. He was constantly amazed at how often his buildings went empty.

Peter moved through the room, careful not to trip on any of the flotsam on the floor, remnants of previous occupants. His mind was racing ahead of him. The air was cold and smelled stale and musty. Peter loved a musty smelling room. Theatres always smelled musty. The stale part he could take care of with a little airing out. Lee followed behind, keeping a close eye on Peter's level of excitement, ready at any moment to douse it with reason and practicality. He did trip a couple of times, but not too badly.

After circling the entire room once, Peter stopped at the raised platform that had served the last incarnation as a stage. That would have to go, Peter thought. We'd need a real stage.

"Hey," he said to Lee. "We could do Key Exchange. Just think. It's kismet. Not the play Kismet, that's a whole different thing. I mean the destiny kind of kismet. Which is what the play Kismet is about. Anyway, it'd be perfect. Small cast. Two men and a woman. This guy wants to play the field. His girlfriend wants a commitment. Very funny. A little dated, but what the hell. You could play Philip. The guy."

That stopped Lee. The main reason he wanted to stop acting was that everyone at the Willow Lane hated him, and as soon as Odd Couple was over he would stop having to ignore those rude stares, but he really did like acting. And after all, R. Pendleton Smythe had really liked him and had said so in print. But they could not open their own theatre. He was there to make sure Peter understood that.

"Peter," he said. "We are not going to open a dinner theatre."

"Maybe we could do Barefoot in the Park," Peter said, ignoring him. He was on a roll and wasn't about to allow himself to be squelched, yet. And he knew they couldn't start their own theatre, so Lee could just shut up about it. "That has four characters in it, but that's not too big. It's also a little dated, but you could play Robert Redford."

Being your own boss did have its compensations, Lee thought. If they had put on Of Mice and Men, he would have been able to play Curly instead of Jim. He would have been able to play George for that matter. Hell, he could have played Lennie if he'd wanted to. But quitting theater had calmed his nerves and given him his first sense of stability since Beverly had wiped him out. Damn her. He was about to strenuously wrench Peter back into sensible reality, finally and firmly sure he had been right and that it had been a very bad idea to come here, but glad he'd come along so Peter didn't do anything really stupid without him there to stop him. He opened his mouth to speak, but was startled out of his intent when Bert appeared and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Would you like to see the kitchen?" Bert asked Peter in a friendly way.

The kitchen floor was also full of stuff; dust, paper and a half full box of unused drinking glasses. There were half used candles and a couple of bundles of paper napkins. On the counter top, there was a rusted can of Raid, three spoons and a poached egg form thing. The stove and refrigerator were old and beat up but serviceable. Peter's face brightened even more as he took in the feel of that room, which was also musty and smelled like very old beef soup and moldy onions. Lee remembered the croutons and realized that the kitchen would be the perfect place for Peter. Then he remembered Peter taking over on the fateful weekend when Lee had broken Twain's diner. He'd been in his element. He'd been happy in a way Lee had never seen him happy. This would be the perfect thing for Peter to do with his life now that he was out of that job. I have to get Peter out of here, Lee thought with a shake of his head, before I become as spellbound as he is right now.

"Peter," Lee said firmly. "We should be going."

Peter jumped back a little as if he'd been slapped.

"Oh," he said, remembering that they were just looking. "Okay. Sure."

Bertram Cage chose that moment to stand very close to Peter and put his arm around his shoulder. Peter noticed the contact completely.

"Tell you what, fellas," Bert said, looking directly at Lee and smiling. He'd seen Lee waver, and knew it was time for the kill. "If you guys sign today, I'll give you the first two months free."