Betty Blue

21

“Jesus Christ, I’ll never be able to do this if you don’t let me!”

We were standing by the wide-open kitchen window and the sun was in my eyes. Her hair shone so bright that I had trouble getting hold of it.

“Bend forward a little…”

Snip, snip. I evened out two locks. It had taken three days to get her to the point where she’d let me fix her hair. We were waiting for Eddie and Lisa to arrive that afternoon-that’s the real reason she let me. Three days to climb out of the hole. Her, that is, not me.

It turned out that short hair looked good on my little green eyed brunette. Thank God for small favors. I held the locks between my fingers and trimmed them like ripe stalks of black wheat. Her face was not exactly bursting with health, of course, but I was sure that a little pat on the cheeks would put her back in shape. I’d make the punch. I told her not to worry-people who come down from the city are always pale as death themselves.

I was right. Eddie had gotten a new car-a salmon-pink convertible-so they’d eaten quite a bit of dust on the way down. They looked like sixty-year-olds. Lisa jumped out of the car.

“Oh sweetheart, you cut your hair! Looks great!”

In the course of conversation, we made our way gently toward the punchbowl. It was dynamite, if I do say so myself. Lisa wanted to take a shower. The two girls disappeared into the bathroom with their drinks. Eddie slapped me on the thigh.

“Good to see you, you old bastard…!” he said.

“Yeah…” I said.

He took another look around, nodding.

“Yep, I got to take my hat off to you…”

I went to open a can of food for Bongo. Eddie and Lisa’s presence allowed me to loosen up a little. I needed it. For three days I’d wondered if we were going to make it, if I’d ever be able to get her spirits back up-bring her back to the land of the living. I’d given it all I had-all I had in my head, and in my gut. I’d fought like a wildman. It was difficult to fathom how far gone she was. I don’t know by what miracle we came through it, what wonderful tide carried us to the shore. I was exhausted. After an exercise like that, opening a can of dog food seemed like drilling through a safe to me. But two glasses of punch later I was walking into a rising sun. I listened to the girls laughing in the bathroom it seemed too beautiful for words.

When the flames of reunion had turned to embers, Eddie and I swung into action. The girls wanted to spend the first evening at home, necessitating some grocery shopping, not to mention a stop at Bob’s house to borrow a mattress and a Chinese-like partition. The punch was beginning to wear off. The day was coming to an end by the time we left the house. There was a light breeze. I would have felt just about fine, if I could have rid myself of one rather idiotic thought: Though I knew there was nothing I could do about it-it’s just one of the little differences between men and women-still, I couldn’t help thinking how unequally the pain of the recent events had been distributed. For me it remained somewhat abstract. I felt like there was an air pocket in my throat that I couldn’t swallow.

We went and got the mattress and the partition from Bob’s house, then came back. We unloaded the mattress onto the sidewalk, swearing and huffing and puffing. The shocks of the car groaned. The trouble was that we couldn’t let the goddamn thing drag on the cement. We had to carry it. Next to the mattress, the partition felt light as a feather.

We made it upstairs, winded. The girls fussed over us. While I was getting my breath back, I felt the effects of the alcohol starting to multiply. My blood coursed through my veins at full throttle. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was the first time in three days that I had the sensation of having a body at all. The girls had made a shopping list for us. We went back downstairs at a sprint.

Once in town, we took care of business in no time flat. The trunk of the convertible was full. We were on our way out of the bakery, cake boxes under our arms, when this guy walked up to Eddie and threw his arms around him. I vaguely recognized him-I’d seen him the day of the funeral. He shook my hand. He was small and kind of old, but he still had a good grip. I moved away a little to let them talk. I smoked a cigarette and looked at the starlit sky. I overheard every other word. From what I could understand, the guy didn’t want to let us go so easily. He insisted that Eddie come see his new gym, just around the corner. He wouldn’t believe that we didn’t have five minutes to spare.

“What do we do?” I asked Eddie.

“Stop asking stupid questions, and follow me!” said the guy.

I put the cakes in the trunk. I can’t refuse, Eddie explained, I’ve known him for over twenty years. We had some good times together, back in the days when I helped him organize little regional bouts. He didn’t have gray hair back then. I told Eddie that I understood perfectly-it wasn’t very late and it didn’t bother me at all, really. We closed the trunk and took off, following the guy around the corner.

It was a small gym, smelling of leather and sweat. Two dudes were working out in the ring. You could hear the sound of gloves on skin, the water running in the showers. The old man led us behind a sort of counter. He brought out three sodas. His eyes were like bubbles.

“So, Eddie, what do you think?” he asked.

Eddie grazed his list affectionately on the old man’s jaw.

“Yeah, I get the feeling you run a pretty tight ship here…”

“The one in the green trunks is Joe Attila,” the old man said. “He’s my latest. You’re going to hear big things about him one of these days. He’s got the killer instinct… he’s got the stuff…”

He gave Eddie a phony right hook to the stomach. I slowly lost the flow of the conversation. I drank my soda pop and watched Joe Attila practice his technique on his sparring partner, an older guy in a red sweatsuit. Joe Attila laid into the old guy like a locomotive. The old guy hid behind his gloves, muttering, “Attaboy, Joe, keep it up, Joe, good boy.” Joe just let him have it, as hard as he wanted. For some reason, I was hypnotized by the spectacle-it set my brain on fire. I approached the ropes. I knew nothing about boxing. I’d seen maybe one or two matches in my whole life. I had never been particularly attracted to it. Once I got a spurt of somebody’s blood on my pants. Yet I sat there watching the old guy get showered with punches, my tongue hanging out like a junkie. All I saw were gloves shooting back and forth like arrows. I was captivated.

Eddie and his pal came up next to me, just as Joe was finishing the session. I was perspiring. I grabbed Eddie by the lapels.

“Eddie, look at me. You know, all my life I’ve dreamed of putting the gloves on-getting into the ring-just for one minute to pretend I’m slugging it out like a pro!”

Everybody laughed-Joe hardest of all. I insisted. I told them, “Just among friends, it’ll be fun-I just want to do it once before I die.” Eddie scratched his head.

“Are you kidding, or what…?”

I bit my lip and shook my head. He turned to his pal.

“Well, I don’t know… You think we could arrange something…?”

The old man turned to Joe.

“What do you think, Joe? Think you could hang in there another minute…?”

Joe’s laugh reminded me of a tree trunk rolling down a hill. I was so hyped up that I paid no attention. I was blinded by all the lights, short of breath. Joe grabbed the ropes and gave me a wink.

“Okay, why not? One little round, for fun…”

At that moment I suddenly got very scared-my whole body started to tremble. The oddest thing of all was that I found myself undressing, propelled by that force that draws you toward the void. My brain tried to play its card-it was becoming delirious in all the hysteria, trying to break my spirit, make things seem menacing. Don’t do it, it told me, it happens one time in a million, but it happens-perhaps death awaits you in the ring, perhaps Joe will tear your head off. Spurred on by alcohol and fatigue, I felt myself drift off into morbid delirium: a horrible plunge into a dark and icy lake. I knew it only too well, it was always the same one. All my phobias tore at me. Fear of the dark, fear of madness, fear of death, the whole shebang. It was the moment of total fear that hits you from time to time. It was not new to me-I had already found the remedy. With great effort, I bent down to untie my shoes, saying to myself: Make friends with death, make friends with death, MAKE FRIENDS WITH DEATH!

This did the trick. I came up for air. The others were talking all around me, paying no attention to my problems. The guy in red sweats helped me suit up. I found myself wearing white trunks. My brain stopped carrying on. I climbed into the ring. Joe Attila smiled at me, nicely.

“You know anything about this?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “This is the first time I’ve ever had gloves on.”

“Okay, well, don’t be afraid. I’ll go easy. It’s all in good fun, right?”

I didn’t answer. I had hot and cold flashes. Though Joe and I were about the same size, the resemblance stopped there. My head was bigger than his, his shoulders were wider than mine, and his arms were like my thighs. He started hopping around.

“Ready?” he said.

I felt myself take off. All the accumulated rage and impotence of the last few days channeled itself into my right fist. I took a swing at Joe-the punch of a lifetime-letting out a little grunt as I did. I hit his gloves. He backed up, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Hey! Easy,” I said.

I must have been running a temperature of 100 or 101. He started dancing around again. I seemed to have lead in my shoes. He faked left, then gave me a right cross to the chin. It wouldn’t have hurt a fly. I heard laughing behind me. Joe circled me like a butterfly, tapping me lightly, his gloves a blur. At one moment he turned toward the others to give them a wink. I gave him a straight shot to the mouth. I wasn’t playing.

The results were immediate. I blocked a one-two punch with my face, hit the canvas, and slid under the ropes. Eddie’s face appeared ten inches away from mine.

“What, are you crazy? What the hell’s got into you?”

“Never mind that. Tell me, am I bleeding?”

I couldn’t feel anything. My ears were ringing. His voice and mine both seemed to be coming from a dream. I couldn’t breathe.

“Jesus,” I groaned. “Am I bleeding somewhere?”

“No, but keep it up and you will be. Come on, take those gloves off.”

I pulled myself up by the ropes. Everything was fine, except that I weighed about four hundred pounds and my face was on fire. Joe was waiting in the middle of the ring, hopping around. He looked like an ephemeral mountain. He wasn’t smiling any more.

“I like to have fun as much as the next guy,” he said. “But don’t go too far. I wouldn’t try that again, if I were you.”

Without warning, I let him have it with all my might. He dodged my punch easily.

“Cut that out, little buddy…” he said.

I gave him another one. All I hit was air. I wished he’d stop moving around. I had trouble keeping my guard up-I could hardly lift my arms. Still, I laid into him with all I had, sending him a right cross that I was convinced could have killed a steer.

I don’t know what happened. I didn’t see a thing. My head exploded, as if I’d taken a dead run at a glass door. I hovered in midair for a moment, then landed on the canvas.

I did not pass out. Eddie’s face was floating beside me, a bit pale, a bit worried, a bit crumpled.

“Eddie… my man… you see any blood?”

“Shit,” he said. “It looks like you got a faucet under your nose.”

I closed my eyes. I could breathe. Not only was I not dead, but the air pocket in my throat had disappeared. It felt good to lie down.

I lost all sense of what was going on around me. I didn’t know where I was, or when, or why. I wanted to pull a sheet over me, but my arm wouldn’t move. The old guy in the sweatsuit came and took care of me, splashing water on my face and sticking cotton up my nose.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s not even broken. Joe wasn’t too tough on you, he could have hit you harder.”

Eddie helped me into the shower, calling me all sorts of names. The warm water did me good, and the cold water cleared my head a little. I dried myself off, got dressed, and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like somebody who’d been treated with cortisone. I went and joined the others, walking at a more or less normal gait. I was totally sober. Joe was wearing a suit, his little gym bag slung over his shoulder. He smiled at me as I approached.

“So, how does it feel to make an old dream come true?”

“Great,” I said. “I’m at peace now.”

I felt even better back in the convertible, cruising down the main drag with the wind in my face and a cigarette in my hand. Eddie gave me a furtive glance.

“Of course…” I said. “Not a word of this to the girls.”

He half choked. He turned the rearview mirror toward me.

“Really? And what are we going to tell them-that you got bit by a mosquito?”

“No, just that I went headfirst through a bay window.”

One morning the alarm went off at four o’clock. I turned it off quickly, then got up without a sound. Eddie was already in the kitchen. He had gotten the bags ready and was drinking his coffee. He winked at me.

“Want some? It’s still hot…”

I yawned, I wanted some. It was still dark outside. Eddie had wet his hair and combed it. He seemed to be in good shape. He stood up to rinse out his cup.

“Don’t take too long,” he said. “We have at least an hour’s drive.”

Five minutes later we were downstairs. It’s not always easy to get up early, but you never regret it. The last hours of night are the eeriest, and nothing can compare to the shivers you get from the first glow of clay. Eddie gave me the wheel. Since it was nice out, we left the top down. I buttoned my jacket all the way up. It was a jumpy little car.

Eddie knew the area like the back of his hand. He told me how to go. The roads were strewn with childhood memories. All it took was a road sign, or passing through a sleepy little village, and he was off and running, his stories flowing one after the other, drifting off into the darkness.

The trip ended on a dirt road. We parked the car under the trees. The night was slowly evaporating. We got the gear out of the trunk and started off along the stream. It had a fairly strong current, all babbles and burbles. Eddie walked ahead, talking to himself-something about when he was eighteen. We stopped at a peaceful spot, a place where the thin river got wider. There were flower-covered rocks and trees all around. Crass, leaves, buds, dragonflies-all that sort of thing. We settled in.

It was barely daybreak when Eddie slipped on his boots. His eyes were glowing. It was wonderful to see. I felt calm and relaxed. Being close to water always does that to me. He checked his equipment, then went off, bounding from rock to rock as if he was walking on water.

“You’ll see,” he said. “It’s not so mysterious. Watch me…”

Of course the main reason I’d come was to make him happy. Fishing was never my idea of exaltation. I’d brought along a book of Japanese poetry, in case I got bored.

“Hey, if you don’t watch me, you won’t know how to do it…”

“Go on, I’m all eyes.”

“Check it out, pal-it’s all in the wrist.”

He twirled the line over his head, then cast it out. It flew through the air, the reel unwinding at breakneck speed. There was a little plop.

“Hey, you see that? Got it?”

“Yeah, but don`t worry about me. I’m just going to watch for a while.”

A few minutes later a ray of sunlight slithered through the leaves. I unwrapped the sandwiches slowly, trying to make myself useful. I wanted to avoid falling asleep. Eddie had his back to me. He’d been silent for almost ten minutes. He seemed absorbed, contemplating his little nylon string. Without turning around, he suddenly started talking.

“I was wondering what’s going on with you two. I was wondering what’s wrong…”

They were ham sandwiches. Nothing is sadder than a ham sandwich, when the little edge of fat hangs overboard. I rewrapped them. They were kind of soggy, too. Since I hadn’t answered, he forged ahead.

“My God, I’m not saying this to bother you, but have you taken a good look at Betty lately? She’s white as a ghost. She spends most of her time biting her lip and staring into space. Shit, you never say anything, so how am I supposed to know if there’s anything we can do to help…?”

I watched his line drift downstream, growing taut. The water rippled over it.

“She thought she was pregnant,” I said. “But we were wrong.”

There was a fish on the end of his line. It was the first of the day, but there was no comment-his death went practically unnoticed. Eddie stuck the pole under his arm to unhook the fish.

“Yeah, but don’t be ridiculous. These things don’t work every time. It’ll come out better next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I said. “She doesn’t even want to hear about it, and I’m not really man enough to overpower an IUD.”

He turned to me, with the sun in his wild hair.

“You see, Eddie,” I said, “she’s chasing after something that doesn’t exist. She’s like a wounded animal, you know? She gets a little weaker all the time. I think the world’s too small for her, Eddie. That’s where all her problems start.”

He cast his line out farther than he had before, his mouth set in a sort of grimace.

“Still, there ought to be something we could do…” he said.

“Yeah, sure. Make her understand that happiness doesn’t exist, that paradise doesn’t exist, that there’s nothing to win or lose, and that essentially you can’t change anything. And that if you think despair is all that’s left after that, well, you’re wrong again, because despair is an illusion, too. All you can do is go to bed at night and get up in the morning, with a smile on your lips, if possible. And you can think whatever you want-it only complicates matters and doesn’t change a thing.”

He looked up at the sky and shook his head.

“Gee, I ask him if there’s some way to pull her out of all this, and all he has to say is she’d be better off putting a bullet through her head…!”

“No, not at all. What I’m saying is, life’s not a carnival. There are no booths or Kewpie dolls to win by knocking over bottles; and if you’re crazy enough to place a bet, you’ll see that the wheel never stops turning. That’s when the suffering starts. To set goals in life is to tie yourself up in chains.”

Eddie pulled another fish out of the water. He sighed.

“When I was a kid, there were more fish than there was water,” he muttered.

“When I was a kid I thought someone would light my path,” I said.

We took off around noon, as planned. I hadn’t tried to fish. I just couldn’t get into it. In the end, we took our three lousy fish and went back to Bob’s house. Everyone was in the yard, the three girls busy spreading things on toast. Bob watched, talking. I hopped over the fence.

“We have a problem,” I said. “Barring a miracle, I can’t see how we’re going to feed thirty or forty people on three fish.”

“Oh yeah? What happened?”

“Hard to say. Bad year, maybe…”

Though there were no more fish in the river, there were still, luckily, a few cows left on the prairie-or wherever cows hang out-at least a few skewers’ worth. Bob and I handled it.

There were so many little things to take care of that I didn’t even feel the afternoon go by. I had trouble getting interested in anything-people had to repeat things two or three times to me. I just stood around buttering the bread or folding the napkins, which is what I preferred to do, leaving my mind behind. After the discussion I’d had with Eddie, I wasn’t very excited by the upcoming evening. To tell the truth, I knew that the less I saw of people the better off I’d be. The weight of things kept me from leaving, though. Between getting-away-from and putting-up-with, the first solution is not always the best-after a while it, too, gets old. The weather was nice in a stupid kind of way, the sun barely even shining. The only time I felt any warmth was when I got close to Betty, ran my hands through her short hair. The rest of the time I spent sighing and tossing finger sandwiches to Bongo.

Night was falling when the people came. I recognized some of them, and the ones I didn’t know looked like the ones I knew, all categories being confused. There were at least sixty people. Bob jumped from one group to another like a flying fish. He came up to me, rubbing his hands together.

“Boy oh boy, is this going to be fun…” he said.

Before leaving, he guzzled down my drink. I hadn’t touched it. I found myself standing apart, my empty glass in my hand. I didn’t move. I wasn’t thirsty, I didn’t want anything. Betty seemed to be having a good time. So did Lisa, Eddie, Bob, and Annie. Good time-that is to say that I was the only one standing by myself, trying to get my lips to muster a circumstantial smile. It gave me a cramp. Okay, so I was probably the only pale-face in the crowd. Still, when I looked behind the faces of those around me, all I saw was insanity, unrest, and anguish, or suffering, fear, and loneliness; or boredom, or solitude, or rage and impotence-shit, what was there to be happy about? Some fun, right? I saw a few pretty girls, but they seemed ugly to me, and the men seemed stupid-I’m generalizing, but I had no desire to delve any deeper. What I wanted was to fade into the shadows. I wanted a sad world, a cold one-a world without hope, without substance, without light. That’s how it was. I wanted to plunge to the bottom. I’d lost the faith. Sometimes you just want to see the whole show fold-the sky fall. Anyway, this was my state of mind, and I hadn’t drunk a drop.

Not wanting to call attention to myself, I started walking back and forth, acting very busy. Suddenly Betty tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked. “I’ve been watching you for quite a while now.”

“I was testing you to see if you still loved me,” I joked. “GirIs avoid me, because of my black eye.”

She smiled at me. I was standing at the gates of Hell and she was smiling at me. God in Heaven, oh Great God in Heaven above…

“You’re exaggerating,” she said. “You can hardly see it any more…”

“Take my hand,” I said. “Take me where I can get my glass refilled.”

I had barely gotten it refilled, when Bob stuck himself between us, drank it, and led Betty away by the arm.

“Bob, you’re a real motherfucker,” I said. “And you’re…”

But he was already far away, his ears glowing like bicycle reflectors. I found myself alone again. Thanks to Betty I felt a little less depressed. I allowed myself a small convalescent smile, then turned to the bar, in the hopes of getting a drink without being trampled. It was easier said than done. Everyone was talking louder than me, their arms reaching over my head. I finally had to go behind the bar and serve myself. The ambience was improving. Somebody turned the music up a few notches. I took a lawn chair and went to sit under the trees like an old grandma, except I didn’t have my knitting with me and I still had a few miles to go before I slept. My soul was tired. My emotional ebb was at its lowest. People were moving around, talking, yet nothing was really going on. The problem of the age seemed to be about how to dress, how to trim one’s hair. It didn’t seem worth going inside the store to ask for something you hadn’t seen in the window. O my poor generation-born of nothing, knowing neither effort nor revolt, eating itself alive, no way out. I decided to toast my good health. I had set my drink down on the grass, and when I went to reach for it, Bob kicked it over with his foot.

“What are you doing?” he said. “Sitting down already?”

“Tell me, Bob. Didn’t you feel anything just now? Your foot hitting something…?”

He backed up, tottering. I, who didn’t have one drop of alcohol in my veins, saw how wide the distance was between us. No sense explaining-I put the glass in his hand and turned him to face the right direction. I gave him a push.

“Go in peace, my son,” I said.

My generation was committing suicide, and I had to sit there waiting for a drunk to come back with my drink. I told myself that, decidedly, we’d be spared nothing tonight. Luckily the night was warm, and I was in a good spot to get a shish kebab. I felt a little better. Bob never came back, but I managed to get a drink by myself. I held onto it for dear life. I walked over to where people were dancing. I spotted this girl-not too pretty but a great bod. She was writhing to the sounds of a saxophone, wearing tight pants. You could see that she had nothing on underneath. Same for her top, a T-shirt, with breasts pushing through. You could watch her dance for a long time without getting bored-she was like a little cyclone. I squinted my eyes and took my first sip. I had taken only one, when the sax started cooking. The girl switched into high gear, flinging her arms and legs every which way. I was not far behind, no sir-I stood right in her trajectory. Her arm swung back. My drink went all over my face, the glass smashing into my teeth.

“Christ!” I groaned.

I felt the liquid slide down my chest, dripping from my hair. I held my empty glass in one hand and wiped my face with the other. The girl put her hand over her mouth:

“Oh gosh, did I do that?”

“No,” I said. “I threw my drink in my own face just to see what would happen.”

The girl was nice. She sat me down in a corner and ran off to get some napkins. This latest cruel twist of fate laid me low once more. I waited for her to come back, my head hanging. There are no limits, however, to endurable pain-I no longer felt anything. Nobody paid any attention to me.

She showed up with a roll of paper towels and I let her do her thing. When she stood in front of me to dry my hair, my entire field of vision became her pants. Without closing my eyes it was difficult to look anywhere else but between her legs-the bulges, the creases; her pants were at most one millimeter thick. I thought of sun-ripened fruit-a sliced orange, easily separated with one finger. It was quite a show, but I managed to contain myself. One girl was plenty for me. Be content to watch them dance, I told myself. Don’t stop in front of store windows where there’s a line waiting to get in.

I left the girl and went up to the apartment. I told myself that with a little luck I’d find myself a quiet place where I could finally have a drink in peace. Alcohol is not the answer any more than anything else, but it does let you catch your breath-avoid blowing your fuses. It’s life that makes you crazy, not booze. There were so many people upstairs that I almost ran back down, but what good would that have done? There was a large group in front of the television, arguing about whether to tune in the tennis finals or the landing of the first solo transatlantic flight. Just as it was being put to a vote, I spied a bottle. Without thinking, I went and picked it up. The result of the poll was five to live, with some abstentions. In the relative silence I poured myself a drink. Then this guy with an exaggerated smile got up and came over to me. He had one lock of hair over his eye and nothing on the sides. I held my glass behind my back. He grabbed me around the neck as if we’d known each other for a long time. I don’t like people touching me. I stiffened.

“Hey, man,” he said. “As you can see, we have a little problem here, and I think everyone agrees that you’re the one to set things straight.”

I put my head down to slide out from under his elbow. He pushed his hair back.

“Okay, man,” he said. “Go ahead… we’re all ears…”

They awaited my words with bated breath, as if what I had to say could save mankind. I didn’t have the heart to make them wait too long.

“Personally, I came up here to watch the Jimmy Cagney movie,” I said.

I disappeared with my drink before I could see their reaction. One mustn’t tarry when rejected from all sides at once-one must look straight ahead and continue one’s journey alone. I found myself in the kitchen. There was another big group sitting around the table, deep in conversation. Betty was among them. She saw me and reached out her arm.

“There he is!” she said. “Now that’s what I call a writer-one of only a handful alive today…”

I was swift as lightning, sly as a fox, slippery as an eel or a bar of olive-oil soap.

“Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be right back…”

By the time they had stood to shower me with accolades, I was already back in the yard. I did not bask in the spotlight. I kept away from the windows. I had spilled most of my drink along the way. I had only enough left to wet my whistle. My writer’s ass was safe. This wasn’t saying much. I thought it was time to throw in the towel. The night was no longer young. I felt like I was stuck in some train station with all the ticket windows closed.

While no one was looking, I backed up to the bow of the ship, straddled the rail, and slid silently into the bottom of a lifeboat. I snipped the rope with one hand and, before the news had spread through the house, melted away into the night.

Back at the apartment, I was greeted with a delicious silence. I sat down in the kitchen and stayed there in the dark. There was a bluish glow coming through the window. I kicked open the refrigerator door, and a square of light spilled onto my lap. I laughed for a second, then got myself a beer. If I don’t rhapsodize on the beauty of a beer can to him who wonders what anything’s worth in the end, then who will? I refused to go to bed until I’d come up with two or three solid answers to the question. I closed the fridge a sneeze.