© Prufrock Productions - 1999, 2004

Icy-cold refreshment would not begin to describe the feel of the liquid as it went down his throat. His thirst was insatiable, which was why he had gone out again that night -- to find a drink to quiet the screaming demons and to relieve the parched feeling that had assumed squatter's rights in his mouth.

He had spent the night drinking at Murphy's Pub, and cringed at the sound of the "last-call" bell, both from disappointment, and from the tinny resonance which traveled down his spine like fingernails on a chalkboard. Upon returning home, he hoped that the passed time would somehow make her miraculously appear in their bed. Instead, he found the emptiness he was trying to escape.

Falling down on the living room floor while removing his shoes, he lay weeping -- drunken tears of self-pity, unable to accept what he had done to cause her to leave. With a giant sob, he allowed the darkness of sleep to blanket him.

Threads and remnants of life's reality appeared in his dream and were woven into a mental tapestry, depicting shards of the events that led to her departure: his layoff from the factory at the beginning of summer, the long lines at the unemployment office, the days spent wandering around the house feeling useless and unwanted, his wife's goodbyes sounding more like accusations as she left for work each morning, the anger that built up with each passing minute, the long moments spent staring blankly out the window at the neighbor's daughter while she sunbathed, and the numbing peace brought on by each can of beer.

In his dream, he could feel the heat of the sun upon him, the sweat on his forehead running down his face as he lay with eyes closed on the lounge chair on the back patio. He could also feel the cool condensation that had formed on the aluminum as he blindly reached for the next can of nectar he had come to rely upon to help him make it through the day. And he could feel the throbbing beat of the teenaged-girl's music coming from the next yard.

The memories of that afternoon played out before his mind's eye like a patchwork quilt, each panel shifting in time and focus: the sudden shadow falling over him that told him of her presence, opening his unfocused eyes to see the sunlight glimmering off her golden hair like a halo, the can of beer in her hand that she was attempting to pilfer while he dozed, her pleas for a whitewash to keep her parents ignorant of her actions, and her reluctant acceptance of his terms of payment for his conspiratorial silence.

Still sprawled on the floor, deep in the grasp of his drunken stupor, the images and emotions of what happened with the neighbor-girl flickered through his mind like a silent movie: the slight fear in her eyes when he removed his flaccid penis from his shorts, the feel of her long blond hair dancing along his testicles as her head bobbed up and down, the heat of her breath urging his penis to break free of the bonds of alcohol-induced impotence, the moist warmth of her mouth as it surrounded his shaft and brought Lazarus back to life, the feeling that once again he was able to prove his worth as a man.