The end-of-break bell rings. Buchanan snaps his shoulders into a hunch and out of it as if rendering a verdict. “How about it, Harry, steppin’ out with some of the boys tonight,” he says. “Come on into Jimbo’s Lounge around nine, ten, see what develops. Maybe nothin’. Maybe sumpthin’. You’re just turnin’ old, the way you’re goin’ now. Old and fat and finicky, and that’s no way for a nice big man to go.” He sees that Rabbit’s instincts are to refuse; he holds up a quick palm the color of silver polish and says, “Think about it. I like you, man. If you don’t show, you don’t show. No sweat.”

All Saturday the invitation hums in his ears. Something in what Buchanan said. He was lying down to die, had been lying down for years. His body had been telling him to. His eyes blur print in the afternoons, no urge to run walking even that stretch of tempting curved sidewalk home, has to fight sleep before supper and then can’t get under at night, can’t even get it up to jerk off to relax himself. Awake with the first light every morning regardless, another day scraping his eyes. Without going much of anywhere in his life he has somehow seen everything too often. Trees, weather, the molding trim drying its cracks wider around the front door, he notices every day going out, house made of green wood. No belief in an afterlife, no hope for it, too much more of the same thing, already it seems he’s lived twice. When he came back to Janice that began the second time for him; poor kid is having her first time now. Bless that dope. At least she had the drive to get out. Women, fire in their crotch, won’t burn out, begin by fighting off pricks, end by going wild hunting for one that still works.

Once last week he called the lot to find out if she and Stavros were reporting for work or just screwing around the clock. Mildred Kroust answered, she put him on to Janice, who whispered, “Harry, Daddy doesn’t know about us, don’t ever call me here, I’ll call you back.” And she had called him late that afternoon, at the house, Nelson in the other room watching Gilligan’s Island, and said cool as you please, he hardly knew her voice, “Harry, I’m sorry for whatever pain this is causing you, truly sorry, but it’s very important that at this point in our lives we don’t let guilt feelings motivate us. I’m trying to look honestly into myself, to see who I am, and where I should be going. I want us both, Harry, to come to a decision we can live with. It’s the year nineteen sixty-nine and there’s no reason for two mature people to smother each other to death simply out of inertia. I’m searching for a valid identity and I suggest you do the same.” After some more of this, she hung up. Her vocabulary had expanded, maybe she was watching a lot of psychiatric talk shows. The sinners shall be justified. Screw her. Dear Lord, screw her. He is thinking this on the bus.