The day dawns grey and wet on Slammer as he trudges, hands in coat pockets, along the sidewalk. It is windy too, quite, and a chill is half successful at getting through the denim jacket. His long, dirty blond hair is wild in the wind and blows over his face, which is a drink inflamed red. His blue eyes are red and watery and his walrus moustache has nose run in it.

Despite the wind, he stops on the bridge that joins the two small towns, one on either side of the river. The water is blackish-grey and choppy, and he spots some gulls sitting on the rocks that form the banks. A couple of small boats are tied to dock posts, and beyond that is a sunken, rotting white hulk that has been there for years, a perch and perhaps a nest for the gulls and other birds. Further along the river are the big old brick factories (only some of them still open) with the open windows and chain fences with barbed tops around them, ruined looking and, even with the thick white smoke coming out of some of them, fitting the bleak picture overall on this morning. Along one side of the river are some small businesses and office buildings that have been there for years, some of the buildings unused. It is a view all too familiar to Slammer, and he wouldn't have stopped there if he had some particular place to go.

Slammer has only left his mother's house this early because he is still somewhat drunk from the night before, couldn't sleep and, as usual, felt too confined in the little house. He had finished what little whisky he had and, knowing his favourite bar wouldn't open until noon, decided to kill some time with a walk. Slammer is used to walking all over both towns, killing time. He has a lot of time on his hands these days.

Often, he sits for hours in one of the nearby parks, or on one of the downtown benches, watching both the human and vehicular traffic with his head slightly turned to one side to compensate for his one injured eye. The eye that he had almost lost in a motorcycle wreck three years before and that only had a small percentage of vision in it. The eye only half open, and with a long scar trailing away from it like a tail on the side of his pockmarked face. It is a face that looks ten years older than it should on a twenty-eight year old body.

Slammer starts for the one big park on one side of the river, the place where they have the big summer celebrations and events: the concerts, the plays and the art shows. The park is known for its variety of trees and flowers, its sculptures, fountains and duck pond. But now, in late fall, the place has lost most of its colour, especially on a day like this. There won't be any of the usual joggers or walkers out either, he thinks, nor anybody hanging out that he knows.

Slammer remembers that he has a dollar and some change left from the night before - and he won't get anymore from his mother today. It is getting toward the end of the month and he is always broke then. His mother holds his disability check money (using some for the bills) and doles it out to him in small instalments, but it is never enough to last him the month. Once in a while they give him an odd job or two around the bar, which has a small kitchen and a few rooms for rent upstairs. Simple clean-up tasks that don't involve handling money, for the owner won't trust Slammer for that. The owner, Big John Casper, is quite fond of his cocaine to go with his scotch and, being a druggie and drunk, knows one when he looks at Slammer. Yet, he is fond of the little, rough looking, pot bellied guy who, as every regular at the bar knows, was pronounced dead four times following his motorcycle crash.

Slammer had turned his bike over on a corner, drunk and going way too fast of course, and ended up hitting a cement based streetlight head on. No helmet and he had been in a coma for two months. Now he has metal plates in his misshapen head and, because his brains had been "permanently rocked", as Big John called it, people look at Slammer sympathetically, especially his fellow regulars at the bar. Even when broke, Slammer can usually count on someone to buy him a couple drafts if he hangs around long enough. At the end of the month, Casper often lets him run a small tab until payday. So, if Slammer has a family, it can be said that he sees them at the Riverside Bar almost every day.

He isn't close to his mother, who is in failing health and has turned (fanatically, Slammer would say) to the Bible in recent years. Slammer's father has been gone for years, married to a second wife the last he heard. His older sister left the area after she got married and Slammer sees her only once or twice a year.

The park benches are wet, and so he moves under a gazebo to get out of the drizzle. He doesn't see one other person, and only a few birds flitting here and there in the bushes. He remembers crashing in the bushes along the top of the hill that borders one side of the park, on hot summer nights when he felt too drunk to go home and sit in front of the TV. He remembers lying under cover and hearing lovers talking, laughing and necking. One night Slammer actually heard a couple screwing close by, and it had gotten him excited, drunk as he was.

The local cops on both sides of the river know Slammer, and they usually leave him alone unless he passes out somewhere. Then they wake him up and send him home or, depending on the officer, give him a lift there. Some of the cops, as well as some of the ambulance drivers in town, still mention Slammer's accident when they see him staggering along the street.

Before the accident, Slammer had had a few run-ins with the law, and had in fact been on probation for offences the night he crashed the bike. The police knew him to be one of the young drug dealers on both sides of the river and, had it not been for the accident, it wasn't improbable that Slammer might have spent some time locked up.

"I'm sorry it took that accident to change his ways," his mother said to people.

It has changed him, undeniably; he will never be the same man again, physically or mentally. He will always walk with a limp, and can only move one arm so much. He gets bad headaches regularly, and suffers memory loss and blank periods when he "spaces out". It doesn't take much booze before he blacks out. Yet though Slammer doesn't drink as much as he has in the past, he still hasn't lost that predilection for drink and drugs, especially as he finds himself more susceptible to depression these days.

Slammer lights up his next to last cigarette, knowing he will have to cadge them at the bar for the rest of the day. He is a little annoyed at himself for not taking one of his mother's packs. She notices it when he does that, and usually makes some sarcastic remark, but she has given up yelling at him anymore about anything. She shouldn't be smoking at all with her bad cough, he thinks, but some days he is glad she does - days at the end of the month.

Counting out his change, Slammer decides he can afford a cup of coffee at an early morning restaurant. He doesn't read the newspaper, but the place has a TV. He finds a window seat in the restaurant, which has just opened. Already, there are three elderly men sitting over coffee at the counter - no one he recognizes. Slammer can't recall the last time he was in the place, but he figures it must have been on a cold, bleary-eyed morning such as this.

"Just coffee," he tells the waitress, wondering if he has enough for a tip.

She is a tired looking woman in her late thirties, early forties, who hasn't lost all of her good looks, Slammer thinks. He wonders, briefly, if he would stand a chance with her, but her all business approach cuts that line of thinking off.

Slammer hasn't had a steady girlfriend since before the accident. He has been "serviced" a few times by drunk, stoned and sympathetic "coke whores", but it was never anything memorable. What really makes him feel his loneliness is thinking about Donna, the young woman he had gone with for two years in his early twenties. She is the only woman from his past that he still thinks about with any regret. She is the only woman he ever considered marrying.

There had been a few short-term girlfriends in high school and just afterwards, but they only entered into Slammer's life because they had put out. Most of them were just party girls who thrilled to a ride on his motorcycle. But Donna was something different; she had gotten to him in some way, he had to admit that. Even his mother had liked her. Most of Slammer's friends liked Donna too, and he had to keep an eye on them. For prior to Donna, Slammer and his cohorts had a habit of sharing when it came to sexual matters. Yet Donna had been faithful to him while it lasted, and vice versa, for the most part. There had been a couple of drunken slips when out with the boys, and Donna had gotten wind of one episode (it had taken him a few weeks to smooth it over).

Toward the end, the two of them fought almost all the time, and though it was Donna who had officially broken it off, Slammer was none too saddened about it at the time. In fact, he told himself (as did his male friends) that it was the best thing to happen to him at the time; he had been a kept man for too long. The old Slammer was back, his buddies said. And he set out to prove it. Donna married just before he got in his accident. Slammer knew about it because he heard things regularly from mutual friends. He kept tabs on her, though with others he pretended he didn't care about her. On the night Donna married, Slammer got hammered on whisky and got in a fight.

Losing her was a mistake, he thinks now. That set him off again living like he had when he was "single", getting fucked up every night at parties or bars, selling dope or other drugs for cash, getting into fights, bringing himself to the attention of the cops again. Yes, he had gone on one last big binge that lasted a little over a year. His destination: a light post.

Donna couldn't stand his heavy drinking in the end, he recalls. She didn't mind it at first, and he had cut down at times, but Slammer never could rid himself of that constant urge for some type of buzz. Donna liked her weed and a few lines now and then, but, bottom line, she was thinking about settling down and having kids. Slammer humoured her on that subject, and actually thought when he was high, that this idea of a family had a chance of fruition in his future.

Donna had visited him once in the hospital, after he had come out of the coma. Slammer had appreciated her visit, but afterwards, thinking about her, he became depressed. It was the start of the first long depression of his life, and with it came thoughts that he would have been better off not waking up.

He felt the same way, briefly, the last time he had seen Donna in town with her two kids. It wasn't the sight of the kids that saddened him; it was just that the sight of her (still a looker though she had put on a few pounds) reminded him of his life a few years before, when he had been a different man, cocky, healthy, looking forward to the future. What does he look forward to these days?

Slammer hates feeling sorry for himself, but this kind of day just seems to lend itself to it. It is going to be a long day and not an easy one to get through.

The waitress refills his cup, and places his bill on the table. The small TV hangs on the wall above one end of the counter, and the morning news is on. Two of the old guys discuss one of the headlines, each offering an opinion, and then looking at the third man as if he will settle the issue. The third man doesn't bite at the topic, but rather bites into a blueberry muffin. Slammer laughs a little to himself, thinking that this is probably how these old birds spend every morning.

Personally, he isn't one for any kind of news, be it in the paper or on the TV. It's all just bad news, he thinks; all the shit that happens everywhere every day - the same old shit. Slammer isn't interested in other people's grief; he's got enough of his own, he feels. He wishes they had something else on the TV, a comedy, or even a cartoon. Something to make him laugh. Slammer is hungry. The whisky breakfast isn't holding him over, and his gut is making noises. His much-abused stomach is always making noises. It's a wonder he hasn't burned a hole in it yet, he thinks.

He wants to light up another cigarette, but decides that he better save the last one. Then he does what he would have done at the bar; he asks one of the older guys, who has lit up, if he can buy a smoke. The old guy looks back at him, and Slammer can tell he doesn't like what he sees: the long hair, moustache and beard stubble, the shabby clothes. Slammer gives him the saddest look he can muster, with his scarred face turned to one side, his one good eye red and watery as if he'd been crying. The old man almost shakes his head, but then relents and holds out the pack. "Don't worry about it," he says, gruffly.

Slammer then gives the waitress the same sad eye, and she refills his cup again. Something has just come to mind, as the good sad eye watches her plump rear disappear behind the counter again. Slammer thinks of a place he can go, someone he can visit this early in the day. He probably won't be well received, he thinks, but the weather has left him no choice. Slammer smiles as he sees David Sisk's greasy, round, big lipped mug in his open doorway, his long hair all tangled from bed, in his jockey shorts, and wondering (in no uncertain terms) what in the hell Slammer's doing at his door at that hour. It is the way Sisk always looks whenever Slammer visits before noon. Maybe, just maybe, Sisko will have a little weed on him, or at least a shot of something, Slammer thinks.

After the smoke and the third cup of coffee, Slammer decides to act on the idea. It will be about a three-mile walk altogether, but he doesn't think twice about that. Slammer hasn't looked up Dave Sisk in over two months - not since Sisk started doing construction work again, and wasn't hanging around his apartment all day. He had also heard that Dave had started seeing Colleen Stewart again, and that meant he was busy on the weekends too. In fact, this visit today on a Saturday morning might not be appreciated at all if Colleen is there. Thinking of this, Slammer isn't as keen about the idea as he had been at the restaurant. He and Colleen haven't gotten along too well in the past.

For a moment, Slammer thinks about returning to his mother's house, but the only thing to drink there is milk. To hell with it, he thinks. It isn't as if Dave Sisk never knocked at his door in the morning before. Slammer remembers letting Dave crash in his cellar more than once after a big night of drinking.

At the old, two story, dark blue house, in which Sisk rents the top floor, Slammer notices a couple of cars in the driveway, but not Colleen's old pea green Junker. This immediately gives him hope. He goes up the wooden stairway to Sisk's peeling white door. Pausing before he knocks, Slammer hears music inside. It takes him a couple minutes of hard knocking before the door opens and there before him is Sisk's face almost exactly the way he saw it at the restaurant. Slammer almost laughs because of this: did he know his old friend or what?

"What the fuck, man?" Sisk says, glaring at him through hangover red eyes.

"What the fuck's up with you?" Slammer says, with a little laugh.

Sisk growls something under his breath, but pulls back inside to get out of the chill, leaving the door open. Slammer steps into the darkened room after him and quickly shuts the door.

"Damn, man, what the hell you doing out on a morning like this?" Sisk wants to know. He holds both arms over his bare chest. His long hair hangs in his eyes.

Slammer shrugs his shoulders. "Couldn't sleep."

"Oh. You couldn't sleep. So you just decided to come over and wake my ass up. I mean where the hell you been? I haven't seen you in... Shit, I don't know when. All of a sudden you show up at... I don't know, what time is it?" Sisk bends over to look at a small alarm clock on the floor by the couch he'd just gotten off of. "Shit, not even eight thirty." The big, rugged man slowly steps over to the couch and flops down on a rumpled blanket. "What in hell ever possessed you?" He lifts a muscular arm over his eyes, though only a minimal amount of daylight penetrates around the window shades.

"Hell, I don't know," Slammer says, standing with his hands in his coat pockets. "I haven't seen you in a while. Figured it wasn't a work day, so .."

"No, it's not a work day. Which is why I like to sleep in. You know, work all week so I can do that."

"Sorry, dude. I heard music. I thought you were up."

"That thing stays on all the time." Sisk looks at the stereo radio. "You know that."

Slammer shrugs his shoulders, and brushes his wet hair out of his face.

"It's real shitty out there," he says.

"It looks shitty. Supposed to be shitty all day. And I got shitty last night and figured I'd sleep this shitty day away." Slammer laughs, and is glad to see a little smile on Sisk's face.

"But no. My old buddy Slammer shows up at eight in the morning, because he can't sleep. Well, bro, now that's two of us up. I hope you're going to make my day with some real good news." Sisk yawns and pulls the blanket around him.

"Hell, nothing really. Just thought I'd stop by see what the hell you been up to. Haven't seen the Sisko Kid in a while." He laughs, and finds a seat on an old easy chair.

Sisk groans.

"Yeah, well, you know where I live, man. I was wondering what happened to you."

"I haven't seen you down the bar lately."

"No, I haven't been down there in some time. But then I figure I've given John Casper enough of my money anyway." He laughs. "You know Sisko has, don't you?"

"We had some good times down there," Slammer says.

"We certainly did." He looks around him on the floor, on a coffee table, on the couch cushions. "I have some cigs somewhere," he says. "You got any on you?" Slammer hands over his last one.

"There's something to drink around here too if you can find it," Sisk says.

Slammer has already spotted the fifth of whisky on the floor by one end of the couch. Three quarters full he is delighted to see. He takes a good mouthful, and passes it over to Sisk, who has a little nip.

"Ooo," Sisk says, his face wrinkling. "Now I remember. This is the second bottle."

"The good stuff," Slammer says.

"Yeah, but right now I need something else." He looks in a filled ashtray on the coffee table. "Yep. I thought so." He pulls a large pot roach from the crushed butts. "Breakfast." Slammer laughs, knowing he made the right move coming over to Sisk's place. He suddenly recalls, fondly, how they had been a team over the years, hanging out together through high school and afterwards, getting fucked up together, putting up with the small town boredom together.

"I'm going to get some more of this today," Sisk says, passing the roach over.

They listen to the radio for a minute, moving their heads to a song they recognize from years before.

"This was our theme song for a while there, remember?" Sisk says, smirking.

"I remember Diane Lackey liked to go down on us to this song," Slammer says, and they both laugh.

"That's funny because I think the same thing every time I hear it," Sisk says. "Whatever happened to that bitch anyway?"

Slammer shrugs his shoulders.

"Probably married with a bunch of kids now," Sisk says. "Like a lot of people we know."

"Seems like it, doesn't it?" Slammer agrees. "I hardly see any of the old Wrecking Crew anymore," he adds, referring to a group of guys they used to party with around town. Sisk gives a little laughing snort.

"Hell, I saw Henry Watkins the other day, man, with his old lady and kids, and man it was kind of sad. I mean I can see what he has and all, but I couldn't help thinking of the old Henry, the wild Henry. He's so fucking quiet now, man." Sisk shakes his head.

"He stopped drinking," Slammer says.

"Yeah, well, he did fuck himself up good in that car wreck."

Slammer takes another drink of whisky. They sit quietly for a few moments.

"I have to say you're the last person I expected to see today," Sisk says, and chuckles. "Good old Slammer. You still hanging around the Riverside , huh?"

"Yeah, my living room." Slammer laughs.

"It's cheap beer."

"Big John takes care of me."

"I bet he does. He doesn't want you going anywhere else come the first of the month." Sisk laughs.

"How about you?" Slammer asks. "Where you been hanging out?"

"I've been working six days a week. On Sundays I usually don't do shit except watch football and drink. Unless Colleen comes over. Sometimes we go somewhere in her car."

"I heard you were seeing her again."

"Yeah, well. The same old story, Slam. The same old ups and downs. She'll probably be over today, bugging me to go somewhere with her. Looking to spend my money."

Both men chuckle and nod knowingly.

"How you doing in that department?" Sisk asks. "Getting any good squeeze lately?"

Slammer rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Same old pickins, huh?" Sisk says, laughing.

"Yeah, if you can afford it."

"A joint and a few drinks don't do it these days, do they?"

"Hell no."

"You ever think about getting one of those rooms at the Riverside ? It might be fun."

"I've thought about it. John's asked me. Said he'd give me a deal."

"He'd probably have you scrubbing his kitchen every day."

"I do that once in a while anyway."

"Shit. Next thing he'll have you cleaning his toilets for him."

"I've already done that too." Slammer laughs and reaches for the bottle.

"Let me guess. For free drinks."

Slammer nods.

"Sometimes he pays me."

"I might be able to get you some work," Sisk says. "Clean-up. Hauling shit. Simple stuff. It'd be under the table." Slammer nods again as the shot of whisky burns his throat and heats his face even more. His eyes water but he smiles.

"Of course you might have to stay sober for a few hours too." Sisk takes the bottle back, perhaps seeing that his Saturday drink won't last long with his buddy here.

"No problem."

"Yeah, no problem. I've heard that before. Remember this is Sisko you're talking to."

"You know I wouldn't fuck you over if you helped me out. You know I'm not like that with my friends."

"Yeah, all right. I'll see what I can do. Even if it's just for a few hours a week, what the hell, right? You can tell John Casper to clean his own toilets."

"I'll stick that plunger on his big head." The two of them laugh again.

Later that day, Slammer sees Big John Casper at the Riverside bar, but he isn't thinking about doing anything rash with a plunger then. In fact, Slammer is being very friendly with the owner, and has just mopped out his kitchen for him. He is about to start on the bathrooms, but drinks a free draft first, laughing with a couple other drinkers at a story Casper tells. It is early afternoon, but it seems the owner already has a glow on. Probably carried over from the night before, Slammer thinks. As with many of his patrons, Big John's features are booze burned and his voice raspy from drink and smoke. He laughs loudly at his own story, and the others, including the bartender, join in.

The bartender, Millie Vincent, is a plump, attractive young woman with warm brown eyes and long curly black hair. All of Big John's bartenders are women, and the patrons have their joking ideas about that. To Slammer, Millie doesn't seem like the type to sleep with Casper , but he has seen her feeling good a few times while sitting on the other side of the bar.

Slammer gets along with all the bartenders, doing them small favours whenever possible for free drafts. Millie is his favourite though, because often she'll pour him one just because she is feeling good. Not today though with the boss man around. Slammer still has a few dollars left from the ten Dave Sisk gave him before he left there. He has a full pack of cigarettes now, and he'll get as many free beers as he can before he spends the money. He thinks he might even use the cash to buy a bottle for the next day, which is Sunday, the Lord's Day around here, when the liquor stores are closed.

The shitters aren't as bad as they normally are after a Friday night. It helps that they are often without toilet paper, which saves Slammer from using the plunger all the time. As he leans against a wall in the men's room, he wishes he had some of that weed that Sisk had, something different than the alcohol buzz, which he is really starting to feel on his empty stomach.

Slammer picks up what paper is on the floor, including that morning's newspaper, and then pushes the wet mop over the floor. One thing about Casper being lit already is that he won't be checking on Slammer's work, which he has been known to do. When the owner is in a foul mood, he can be very particular with his employees, or an asshole, as they see it. Slammer almost had Dave Sisk talked into coming with him (after the whisky was almost gone) but a phone call from Colleen cancelled that. Still, Dave had given him some money, and Slammer hadn't even asked for it. Sisko knew it was near the end of the month.

"Slammer, I got a job for you," Casper says, when Slammer steps out of the john.

"Yeah, my car needs washing too," says one of the guys at the bar, laughing, and Slammer gives him the bird.

"No, I really do have something I need done," Casper says, getting off his stool. "I just remembered."

He takes Slammer upstairs to where the rooms are, and shows him one room that needs to be cleaned out for a new tenant. A simple job, and Casper hands him ten bucks. Slammer is all set for the day now. He looks out at the greyish-black, choppy water below, and the wind blown trees next to it, and thinks that, for a day that started out shitty, it had turned out fairly well so far. He will stay dry and drunk anyhow.

As he starts in at his task, he thinks about the job possibility mentioned by Sisk, but he knows not to get excited about it yet. He will get in touch with his friend in a couple of days. If something does work out, Slammer may just consider renting one of these little rooms. He wouldn't need much space for what few things he has, and at least he'd be able to bring a woman here. It might just be fun, as Sisk said.

Then Slammer thinks of his sick mother, and wonders what she will say to that idea. She uses some of his check - his room and board, so to speak - to help pay the bills. She might miss that money if he leaves. Of course, if he has some more money coming in, he can still help her out. Although Slammer really knows that more money means more partying for him, especially if he lives up here in this place.

A few hours later, Slammer sits at the bar, watching music videos on the TV. The big bar is almost full now, and a couple of guys shoot pool. They will be two or three deep at the bar later when the band starts up, and the tables out in the side room, where the band's platform is at, will be filled. It should be an interesting night, he thinks. It could be a night like the previous one. Something tells him he should buy himself a pint for the morning, seeing as he won't be attending church. Slammer laughs to himself, feeling very good now. He has just finished a bowl of pretzels for supper, and followed it with a shot of whisky.

"What's that shit eating grin about?" Danny Harrison asks him. Danny is a regular at the Riverside , one of the guys who deals coke out of the place, skinny, pimply faced, with long greasy hair.

Slammer shrugs and laughs.

"Looks like you been going all day," Harrison says.

"Up with the roosters," Slammer says.

"I wouldn't doubt it the way things looked last night." He chuckles and orders two drafts, for him and Slammer. He takes care of Slammer because Slammer sometimes turns business his way; and on a Saturday night with a band playing, Danny knows there will be some business. Both men are keyed up for it.

Slammer thinks that this is exactly where he belongs on a Saturday evening in this town. This is his home. This good, laughing feeling with a hint of excitement in the air, a little money in his pocket and the night ahead of him; this is what he lives for. It doesn't get any better than this for Slammer. A little later he walks into his favourite liquor store. He likes going in there at night, when the younger guys are working.

"Slammer!" he hears.

"Here's the man now!" another clerk yells.

"It's Slammer time!"

One of the cashiers gets on the intercom to the back rooms.

"Guys, guess who's here? And he looks like he's ready for action."

"Of course I'm ready for action!" Slammer says, laughing. "You know me. It's Saturday night."

"It's prime time for the man," one guy says. "What you got cookin, big guy? You got a lady friend lined up?"

"By the end of the night I will," Slammer says, and they laugh with him. "You know what I want," he says to one clerk, who grabs a pint of cheap whisky off the shelf.

"Where's it all happenin, big guy?" the cashier asks. "I'm thinking about sucking a few down myself tonight."

"Down the bar," Slammer says. "They got a kick ass band there tonight."

"That dive actually has bands?"

"Tonight they do."

"What are you, the doorman?" one of them asks.

"That's right," Slammer says. "If you don't have ID you have to buy me a drink."

"Hell, you won't need too many with that thing in your pocket."

"This is breakfast," Slammer tells them. They laugh.

"Is that the syrup you put on your pancakes?" one asks.

"The breakfast of champions, right Slammer?"

"My mother always told me to start the day out right with breakfast," he says.

"And you, being the good son that you are, never forgot that advice, right?"

"Never have and never will." He laughs. "Hey, you guys gotta turn that music up. It's way too quiet in here. I'm surprised at you."

"You hear that, guys?" the cashier says. "Slammer's disappointed in us. Somebody better see to that radio right away."

"You got it, sir," one clerk says, playing along. He disappears into the back room, and then the music suddenly blares louder. The owner of the store is obviously not in at the moment. The few guys gathered around the registers, including Slammer, start playing their air guitars.

"Show us how it's done, Slammer!"

Another customer enters the store and, seeing the activity, shakes his head and smiles. "You guys tuning up for the big show?" the man asks.

"That's right," one young guy says. "We've had it with this minimum wage stuff."

Slammer hangs around for a few minutes more, talking to some of the customers. Before he goes, one of the young employees, a college student, gives him a signal with his eyes.

After Slammer leaves the store, he walks around to the rear of the building. There is the employee emptying the night's garbage into a dumpster. The clerk shuts the back door and produces a couple bottles of beer.

"I was hoping you were on tonight," Slammer says, accepting one.

"I'll be on every week now that the holidays are here."

"That's good to know, because I remember how it was last year." They both laugh.

"Benefits of the job, my man," the clerk says, and they toast.

It all comes back to you when you are in the right business, Slammer thinks. And Slammer had been involved in the right business when, on a few occasions, the young college student wanted weed or cocaine. Favours were reciprocated. Before they part, the employee slips a couple airline bottles into Slammer's hand. "So you don't have to get into your breakfast yet," the man says.

For a few minutes, Slammer stands out on the Riverside 's back deck, smoking a cigarette and drinking his two nips. The wind has died down some and hence it doesn't feel as cold. He hears the band tuning up inside, and some loud, laughing voices coming through a back exit that someone opens.

Looking over the deck railing, which hangs at about the same height as the bridge over the riverbank below, Slammer suddenly remembers Jean Dantworth - little blond Jean with her cute pageboy cut and her sad eyes (along with that chunky but firm body Slammer had been familiar with) - who threw herself off this deck one night the previous summer. Somehow she had hit the water and only scraped herself up on some rocks, but her action itself had quieted things for a couple of days at the bar. Slammer hasn't seen Jean since that night, and the last thing he heard was that she was on medication and seeing a doctor. She had been in the loony bin for a little while, he knew.

Slammer knows about depression, especially in the last few years; but he can't see himself jumping into the river. He can't see himself ever doing that. He has made it this far, and the only way to go is up, he thinks. He laughs and chucks the two little bottles out into the water.