the enemy. To flee from the gripping reality of time, to feel black solace of exhaustion, the vacuum of depleted nerves, the annihilation of bruising impacts—would be happiness.
One day Dr. Murrell said: "There. That's better. A trifling case. You're lucky."
That night, alone, the bed unmade, kitchen piled high with dishes, his shirt open at the neck, his lips twisted over set teeth, Ken drank. One drink. Cool white alcohol. Hot. Sharp. The sweetness of the aftertaste. Head larger. Eyes wider.
"I don't like it," he said aloud. He put the bottle aside.
Then smiling with the shy, youthful smile so long neglected, now so seldom revealed, he added: "But I've got to like it." He drank another thimbleful. "'Cause it's all I can afford."
Broadway at dawn was still a busy street. As the eastern sky paled, bringing violet gloom to streets hitherto clad in rich night, lights were extinguished. Warm pools of orange and yellow poured through the windows of the twenty-four-hour restaurants. Laborers were astir. Late home-seeking revellers raced over deserted pavements. A drunk reeled against a building, staggered uneasily, slid down upon the wall. He lay there for a long time, just beneath stairs leading to a dance hall. The iron gate was closed at the foot of the stairs. A kitten slept, head upon its fore-feet. A truck, first of the morning's caravan, rumbled by.
The drunk slept soundly. Rising sun peered above rooftops. A policeman sauntered along, trying door locks, whistling, ignoring—or pretending to ignore the drunk.
