The bottle on his desk was empty, and the glass beside it less than a third full. Had he really drunk so much? His head felt light, but he wasn’t at all sick, merely pleasantly unfocused. The idea of working on his paper came to him, but he dismissed it as too much effort. He wanted to do something he didn’t have to think about.

The copy of Cannery Row that he’d purchased earlier in the day was sitting near the typewriter. He picked it up. On the cover a man with the wide, soft-eyed face of a manual laborer sat on a step before a wooden door, smiling for the camera as a cigarette burned in his hand. He wore a sailor’s peacoat and a cap that rested far back on his head. Ben imagined that somebody had chosen the photograph because he or she felt it perfectly captured the spirit of the old cannery workers. And maybe it did, but he found the look of unenlightened bliss on the man’s face faintly disturbing, as if he had no idea that one day the photograph for which he’d been paid perhaps fifty cents, or maybe just a bottle of beer, to pose for would one day be looked upon with sentimental affection by readers who thought they knew who he was because they had just read a story about men who resembled him. Sort of like people who insist they know who God is because they’ve heard a couple of stories, Ben thought acidly.

Opening the book, he began to read. He’d forgotten how deceptively simple Steinbeck’s prose was, how reading him felt like listening to someone talk. He’d forgotten, too, how easy it was to get caught up in the various interconnected stories that made up the novel. He found himself turning page after page, often chuckling at a particularly wry turn of phrase, occasionally nodding in agreement with something the author said.

He read for perhaps an hour. Then, closing the book, he leaned back in his chair and thought about Steinbeck’s world. It would be nice, he thought, to live in a time and a place where his biggest problem was how he was going to afford a jug of wine. This was a simplification of that world, he knew that, but it was pleasant to think about.

That caused him to remember the young man. What had his name been? He found the scrap of paper he’d put on his desk earlier in the day and looked at it. Hudson. That was it. Hudson Jones. It sounded like a clothing store, or a law firm. At any rate, it had been enjoyable talking to him. He hadn’t had a conversation about anything other than work in some time.