Oh, it was too true that all was one, and that if he personally knew any of the drowning victims, he would be heartbroken by their plight, but suddenly his mind had been delivered from his troubles and he could feel himself about to drift asleep again. A few more hours of sleep would complete his REM cycle, fostering revival. And he was close to snoozola. He was on the verge. He could almost get it. But then he had to piss with a vengeance, and to piss meant leaving the sanctuary of the Green Room. Go out; venture forth with the fiend of Fordham Avenue on the loose. Shit! Suddenly Matthew found that he had to squeeze his legs together to hold his urine. There was a nerve in the bladder, a kind of natural gas gauge like the one located on the dashboard of a car. Once it hit the danger mark, the signal became hard to ignore. But to go out there? She would be on him like a peregrine falcon. Suddenly Matthew spotted a discarded Burger King coffee cup in his wastebasket. It was a pretty seedy thing to do, but he retrieved the cup and let go. He had to piss so badly his eyes were watering.

“Take a memo,” he reminded himself. “Empty cup at the first opportunity.” Heh heh. Man, how low can you go? Well, lay around unemployed for two years and you could always limbo a little lower, now—hey dere! Heh heh heh. Suddenly the cup was filled to the brim and warm in his hands. He didn’t know where to put it. Finally he set it along the wall next to his bed. With that done, he assumed the position and within moments was in deepest slumber.

Matthew awoke at seven the next morning clinging to fragments of a disturbing dream—a virtual night terror. Still, no matter how bad it had been it wasn’t as bad as the scourge of raw dawn. He found himself in a tight fetal ball but rolled over. His stomach roiled with the corrosive acids and bile of inhuman stress. He might have to vomit. He had a nuclear meltdown of a hiatal hernia—either that or this was it. The big one. Heart attack at forty. The American Way. Goddamn them!

Matthew closed his eyes again and tried the deep-breathing exercise. No need to get in a shithouse panic. If he did that, he would start generating beta waves in his brain pan and once that happened the adrenaline would begin to flow. He’d wake up for sure. Peace, brother. Just back off and try a little more of that free-floating action. Come on, man. Don’t freak; just slide back into slumber. Breathe.