Fierce February sleet rattled the ill-fitting windows. On the inside though, the ancient rads steamed in noisy merriment, heroically battling the grim forces of winter in Toronto. In this oasis of comfort five young men drank ice-cold bottled beer and attended to a suspenseful match of dominoes in the messy but tropically humid living room. A red clay pot with a sorry-looking philodendron served as an ashtray and the floor was scantily covered with a piece of much-stained and cigarette-charred yellow-brown undercarpeting. The walls and ceiling boasted assorted cracks and watermarks while a sickly blue paint covered most of the vertical surfaces, except where scotch-taped postcards, thumbtacked posters, or tasteful artistic reproductions had forced the lazy painter to skirt the already hanging items, leaving a quarter-inch border of glaring white plaster around each. The low-ceilinged room itself, like the others in the tiny ground-floor flat facing Irwin Avenue, wasn't rectangular but a sort of a failed parallelogram.

To be precise, only four of the lads were intent on the dominoes. Alfie knelt on the tattered grey chesterfield looking out the uncurtained window at the solitary maple tree waving in the storm.

"No man, I won't be part of it." He asserted bleakly, half to himself and half argumentatively, towards the four seated on chrome kitchen chairs around the little square red mahogany-veneered table Charlie had made in high-school shop class.

"What won't you be part of?" Patrick muttered politely, without looking up from his mittful of dominoes.

"Vietnam, man, what else?"

"Oh, sure, now I get you." Patrick was prevented by the excitement of the endplay from giving Alfie his full attention. It looked like a block coming up and his dead double-zero was no longer a liability!

Mike, his younger brother and present partner, suddenly looked up.

"But we're not at war…We're in Canada for chrissakes!"

"No, we're all involved, Mike," Alfie riposted solemnly, "we're America's biggest ally and trading partner - a lot of war materials are made here, man!" Alfie's coal-black curly hair and moustache framed his staring eyes as they bored ponderously yet intensely into Mike's averted face.

Charlie looked up before playing his final six to complete the block. "Yeah, they're making green berets in Don Mills - it's true, I read it in the papers."

Charlie's partner, Nick, was displeased with the whole concept of a block under existing circumstances. "Do you mean the hats or the men?" he grumbled frowningly. "Is a partner a man who does his best to undermine the whole team's ability to function effectively- oh no…" he groaned as Patrick triumphantly flipped over double-blank and one-four.

"So my ras partner controls double-blank!" Mike crowed exultantly.

Nick buried his head in his hands, moaning: "So this is my partner- do I have a scunt partner?"

"Not so fast! Not so fast! Hol' on a lickle bit!" Charlie was savouring the moment- as well he might because it seemed like one of those times "when all occasions do inform against" him- and after a protracted dramatic pause, finally stretched his stubby right paw up to a great height and orgiastically and ferociously smashed down one-two and double-one onto the not-utilitarian veneer.

"BLOCK COUNT- and no winner!"

"What?" Mike screamed incredulously.

"So next game counts double," Patrick marvelled.

"What happens if someone gets keystick?" Mike thought aloud.

Charlie grinned, "And what happens if the next game is a tied count too and the next one and so on ad infinitum?"

"Oh no," Patrick groaned, "this sounds like what happens when a fly ball lands on an airplane's wing or is grabbed by an eagle or some such similar nonsense."

"In what sense do you mean infinity, Charlie?" Alfie cut in, momentarily interested now that there was a break in the action and something more weighty was being discussed.

Nick rose wearily, brushing a strand of lank blond hair out of his eyes. "My partner is a fucking genius. I think this calls for another beer."

"Same for me if you're up, squire." Mike flashed his winningest smile. "Say, who shuffles and poses when it's a tied block count?" As Patrick, Charlie and Mike discussed the proper protocol in this rare instance, Nick turned to Alfie, "Could I tempt you with another, Alf?"

"No… thanks…I guess not… I've got to push off, got to meet someone at ten."

"Anyone we know, Alf?"

"Have you heard of Tom Lima, he's an artist, a fantastic guy, he's led a really interesting life, he's full of ideas and plans and concepts- you should hear some of the stories he's got- let me tell you about his latest project…"

Charlie interrupted: "Wait a minute… did you say Tom Lima? you know him, Nick, remember the guy Jackson used to talk to in the Embassy, the short guy with the beret?"

"Do you mean the Russian inventor who was always railing against 'hypocrats'?"

"No, that's another movie completely, Mike, that was the Linda Walton one."

Nick halted on his way to the fridge. "Oh geez yah, I know him, I mean I know of him, I mean to say I've avoided him in the Chez, the Morrissey.. where else.. the Embassy of course…"

Charlie persevered; "Yeah, he does portraits with Linda at the Ex… he's quite a… um… you know… a character."

Alfie was already at the door. "Well, I'm off gents, see you anon. Thanks for the beers!"

"Hey Alf, are you gonna play road hockey tomorrow?"

"Sure- at the tennis courts?"

"Nope- tomorrow we're travelling into enemy territory, north of St. Clair- you know where the Forest Hill arena is?"

"Sure."

"Okay… Eleven A.M."

Alf's face broke into a broad smile as he paused in the hallway. "Say Nick, you don't by any chance want me to drop in and wake you up like last Saturday do you?" With that humorous sally the earnest African expatriate disappeared into the storm.

"Christ, he means Sunday morning." Charlie groaned.

"What happened last weekend that seems to have made such a deep impression on you guys?" Mike inquired mock solicitously.

"Oh, about four A.M. there was a banging at that very door and young "Alf, the sacred river', seemingly desirous of gaining ingress to this luxurious apartment, was discovered clothed but otherwise unashamed, an enormous smile wreathing his visage."

"What would he want in the wee hours?"

"Oh, nothing special- he had lots of ideas, he was sort of babbling, he thought we were lazy, he said something about how we had to bestir ours-selves out of our lethargy and get on with our lives- 'like do something- anything- man!".

"What did you guys say?"

"I didn't respond, I was too sleepy, I think my able flat-mate here told him politely either to go to sleep on the couch or else depart."

"Gee, that was diplomatic of Nick compared to some remarks I've heard."

"What do you mean? I pride myself on always behaving as the very paragon of courtesy- I'm from the old country after all."

"What about when you told Kennedy 'Jack off, you jerk', when he innocently knocked on the door and asked for a couple of j's?"

"That asshole," Nick grimaced, "I was in the bathtub having my yearly soak too."

Patrick was thoughtful. "Wait- I thought the phrase was 'Jerk off, you jackass'?"

Charlie broke in exasperatedly. "No… No… hold on, the whole story's getting out of hand… it never happened… honest, it never really happened. Nick just wanted to say that but he didn't think of it till afterwards…"

"Say, isn't that always the way." Mike deadpanned.

Charlie continued, "And that's how phrases get twisted- like it was Latchman who garbled it to 'Jerk off, you jackass', the same way he was telling everyone he saw a poster on Yonge St. that said 'Fuck you, Warren." Charlie was getting warmed up now. "Same thing when Risse at work said: 'You can shit, fart, or go blind, they'll still fire you.' after the night of the long knives when Volkswagen axed 20% of its workforce worldwide. Well, within days people were quoting him as saying, 'You can piss, shit or go blind.'"

The other three needed a few minutes to let all this sink in.

"So what's the truth, Nick?" Mike looked up as he shuffled the smooth white stones.

"The truth? The truth? How should I know? I'd been drinking that evening. I was tired. I'd been working at bloody Malabar's… I'd had a dozen or so draught at the Yonge station… I'd probably inhaled a reefer or two there downstairs in the can…"

Suddenly a black, tailless form flashed across the room.

"Hey, what's Froggy up to?"

"What?" Consternation was written large across four faces

"She shot out of the kitchen going a mile a minute like a bat out of hell!"

"Hey, maybe she caught the mouse!"

The doughty foursome rose with a will and rushed into the kitchen. A powerful odour emanating from the cramped washroom off the kitchen led them onward and a steaming mound of green-brown catshit greeted their incredulous eyes as they burst breathlessly into the little private place.

"Some mouser." Nick grunted.

"I guess you lose the bet, Pat!" Charlie gloated.

"No, wait a minute, hold on, don't be so quick to count out Froggy. She's still got till midnight. That was the terms. That she'd catch your mouse before the day was over. Besides, it's your fault you didn't provide any kitty litter. You can't expect a sensitive cat like Froggy to go outside in this weather!"

Nick cast a philosophical glance on the steaming mound defiling the pleasant scene of his weekly soakings. "Well, in the words of the soccer writers- 'Froggy's got it all to do now!' "

They returned slowly, sadder but wiser, to the domino table, each deep in his own reverie. They even forgot to clean up the mess. Perhaps they were awaiting the day when they would have a cleaning lady in to look after such chores.

"You know, Nick," Charlie was waxing meditative, "Why don't we just buy a mousetrap?"

"Now now, Charlie, I think a cat is much more humane…"

"You mean like 'call of the wild', 'nature red in tooth and claw', 'nature is never cute'…"

"Say, who was the author of that last one?"

"Brian Pickell, of course- the same man who said "Everyone needs a little Alice Cooper and a little junk food in their lives."

A prolonged, muted, somewhat sinister low knocking gradually impinged itself upon the collective consciousness of the fearsome foursome. With the lithe grace of a wounded panther in heat, Charlie vaulted out of his sea-green wicker rocking chair and flung the half-glassed portal wide, ready and willing to confront whatever the savage night might spew out of it's grim insatiable maw. Anticlimactically though, it was merely their boring thespian next-door neighbour, Kennedy.

"Oh hi, John, what can we do you for?"

"Wow, did I just get hassled or what. Like I'm walking up St. Nicholas, see and so like a police car literally roars up behind me, see, and like screeches to a halt. And so they jump out, and pull this incredible good cop/bad cop type routine on me, and so you can dig it eh, with this type of scene I am actually going two shades of hairy."

"John, John, calm down, come in, close the door, it's an evil night to be sure. Here you're safe and ward. Take your coat off. This is reputed to be an oasis of sanity."

"Oh wow, thanks guys. What are you playing… bridge?"

"No unh, it's called dominoes, John."

"Hey, like wow, don't get me wrong eh, but I thought you guys were always playing darts?"

"Darts! Darts! That was last year… c'mon John, this is 1974- nobody plays darts any more… hell, we don't even play Soccerboss™ or table-top hockey… I mean what's the point?" Mike enjoyed chaffing their literal-minded, wide-eyed neighbour.

Nick stood up; "Here John, take my place, I've got to see a man about a dog. Look, it's very simple…you just match the number of dots. Hell… even a child or a cretin or an asshole could play this ras game."

"Now, now, Nick, calm down, it's only a game."

Kennedy lowered himself onto the proffered chair with touching eagerness. "Wow, okay man, thanks, I'll try."

An interlude of calm descended, interspersed with the regular gentle gurgling of Molson Stock being swallowed and the occasional subdued remark to the new boy on the etiquette of domino play. Charlie and Mike were chain-smoking because the smoke tasted so good, alternated as it was with the cold ale, and Mike offered Kennedy a Pall Mall plain with its soothing flavour.

"Thanks man, like I never smoked this brand."

"Yah, they're great except you always get lots of tobacco on your lips."

"Not true, just you do, Charlie," Mike chortled, "because you never learned how to smoke properly. Christ, look at the way he's holding it now between one finger and his thumb!"

"So look at the way I hold this bloody keystick, Mike!" Charlie rose from his chair and slammed the diminutive rectangle down with great force. It took a bounce and clipped the wondering Kennedy on the left facial cheek. "We win, John - and it's worth four points - hey Nick - we won the game!"

A muffled cry of disbelief reached them from the washroom. Kennedy was perplexed. "I thought he went to buy a dog… or was he just phoning? But anyways… wow, it's late… Bonnie and Carol are expecting me… thanks for letting me into the game."

"See you, John. Hey, always love to see your shuffleboard commercial."

His wide visage clearly grateful the budding actor (legitimate and pornographic) took his leave simply and untheatrically.

"Hey, who was that guy?" Mike moaned in mock sarcasm. "At least the dominoes made him forget to ask if we had any dope."

"Shh, not so loud, he might still be in the hall- geez, I wonder who'll drop in next?" "Oh, say, speaking of dropping in I'm glad you reminded me, the animals phoned me this morning so you'll probably be getting some visitors early in the A. M."

"Who hah? What's that I hear?" Nick re-entered the room..

"Russ, Gumby and Bear. They've rented ice up by the Peanut for 7 AM and I told them they could use the nets if they got them back for us by 11. If they haven't come by yet they must be waiting to do it when they wake up."

"Well, isn't that grand- gee, thanks awfully, Mike. You can always count on your true friends. Why the frigging blazes didn't you tell them to get the nets from your place?"

"Well, mainly because the nets are here- and don't leave them outside- they might get ripped off, this is a high crime area! C'mon Nick, do I have to justify my very existence?" Mike pleaded agonisingly.

"There, there, Mike, listen you can take them upstairs to your place any time and we won't holler."

"Yah, but think about it a bit. You guys are used to people barging in at all hours and we aren't." Mike responded in an aggrieved tone. "I mean like look at Alfie last weekend. Besides you're on the first floor- no-one wants to haul those nets up and down to the third floor. I mean, be reasonable, I mean this is one of the burdens that goes with living in the heart of a major metropolitan centre- and surely it's outweighed by the myriad benefits??"

Patrick chimed in, "Besides, Nick, you've got to admit they look kind of nice in your livingroom. I mean, where else could you hang your outdoor winter apparel?"

Nick sighed in resignation to that which could not be changed. "So tell me Chas, how did you manage to win? I seem to recollect when I last looked we were down 4 - 2."

"Well, take your mind back to the previous hand and the tied block which served to double the stakes. Then with my excellent surrogate partner, our thespian neighbour, John Kennedy, sitting in for you while you were otherwise engaged, I was able to produce this innocuous-looking card here"- fingering affectionately the lucky five-four - " at the opportune moment and so achieved a fabled keystick."

"Not bad," Nick whistled low, "only wish I'd been here to see it."

"You were here in spirit- say, speaking of spirit, I think with that draining culmination it's meet for me to toddle off to my spartan pallet and rest my weary psyche."

"But Charlie, it's only eleven!" Mike was aghast.

"But Mike," Charlie riposted, mimicking his tone, "Heaven forbid I should stay up to late and over drink and suffer another 'dark night of the soul' like on New Year's Eve, eh, wandering up and down Yonge at four A.M., looking for some place open to buy ciggies, then trying to keep you awake and your head off the chessboard to finish the game…"

"Gee, poor baby, you run off right to bed." Nick admonished solicitously.

"And also" Charlie felt compelled to justify himself for breaking up the evening so early, "there's a big road hockey game tomorrow and then also I'll probably get knocked up by the animals in the wee hours…"

"True, true it ain't pleasant to think about," commiserated Patrick.

"I can picture it now in my mind's eye," Nick groaned, "four insane shire-horses crashing through the door, grunting, expectorating, pawing the floor, their feral reek invading every nook and cranny of our happy home…"

Charlie thought he was being a little too rough on their fun-loving acquaintances. "C'mon Nick, they're just human beings like the rest of us- after all, the other guy's gotta make a living too…"

"Easy for you to say, it's my bedroom they'll devastate first!"

With a shit-eating grin precariously situated on his youthfully eccentric mug, Charlie waved a farewell and retired gracefully to his bleakly furnished by comfy and homey bedchamber.

"I guess the three of us can play Matador- no use letting that beer sit another day and maybe start to go bad."

"Mike," Nick eyed him speculatively, "Sometimes I think you'd rather 'drink to forget' than 'forget to drink'."

Froggy stole back into the kitchen, the windows rattled even harder as the storm increased in fury and the gallant antiquated rads hissed all the louder in a valiant attempt to keep their human cargo from feeling the chill. A knock on the door, like a ludicrous leitmotif, again shattered the cozy tranquillity.

"For Christ's sake, what is this? Grand Central Effing Station?" Nick groused as he levered his weary carcass out of the chrome and plastic 1950's kitchen chair and went to open the door.

"Mike, hide your fags, maybe it's the Mounties!" Patrick joked.

When the portal was flung open what did they see but Charlie standing there, snow on pyjamas, bare feet white with the cold, and the same loony shit-eating grin adoring his 'phiz' as when last they'd seen him.

"Oh hi, guys, kinda thought I'd just drop in to play Matador. I couldn't sleep after all, listening to all the humorous repartee. I got to thinking there, in my tiny bedroom- these precious jewels in time, these brief happy moments are too rare to waste. Sleep is all too common. Years from now when I'm middle-aged and married, domestic and dormant, lawn-mowing and lethargic, I'm suer I'll look back on these glorious wild-oatish salad-type days with keen nostalgia."

"Nice to have you back at the table, scout- one question though, why didn't you just walk out from your bedroom, i.e. retrace you steps from when you wen to bed- surely that would have been simpler- or are we missing something here???" Nick mused pensively, "Surely my bedroom is still traversable?"

"Oh no, just thought I'd get some fresh air." They all guffawed and chortled loud and long at that deadpan, low-key sally. You see, they were getting so drunk almost anything would strike them as funny. And really, wasn't it just a bit of a giggle- an ordinary kind of grown-up guy dropping out of bedroom window on a raging 'St. Agnes-eve-type-night' onto an icy driveway to traverse a sullen snow swept blizzard in his bare feet?

"What if you catch pneumonia?"

"Nah- I'm too healthy… my diet is too good."

"Diet? What diet? You eat at McDonalds or Lums or Mr. Submarine…"

"Don't forget Florida Fresh Fruit or the Art Den or upstairs at the Morrissey or Rugantino's or Michi's…"

"Say, what was the weather turning into out there, Chas, me old boy? Any Northern Lights like last weekend?"

"A soft night, by God, a fine midwinter's evening, a gentle mist thinner than a drizzle, a veritable sprinkling from the dear heavens above."

"What's he talking about- what country is he in?"

"Or what dimension?"

"He's like Howard the fucking Duck, like he keeps flipping in and out of different warps, complaining about entropy, 'all systems fail', et cetera."

"No, not true… you lie! I've never flipped into other dimensions… in fact, I've never even had an 'out of body' experience! and-" looking at Nick scornfully, "I've never called a pet dog 'wuzzums' like some people I could mention!"

Pat and Mike, brothers in more than just name and blood, laughed uproariously ant Nick's expense. The latter worthy ground his teeth in feigned aggravation. "So, I happen to like animals."

Yet another peremptory rapping! It was John Jackson! He didn't even wait to be admitted- he just walked in. He knew the door was usually unlocked!

"Enh! Youse guys still up? What are you doing? Darts? Soccerboss™?"

"Hey! Look what the cat dragged in- whose he when he's at home?"

"It's Jack the Lad!"

"What are you doing out on the streets, John? It's not closing time yet."

Such were the various friendly greetings hurled at the grinning mesomorph.

"Enh! Kinda bored. Was up at the Morrissey watching the Habs with Jacques and George and Bruce, then they all split so I watched the news. Nixon! Then I figured if you guys weren't there you must be having a quiet evening at home like, henh, henh."

"We were gonna head up there but the weather was so bad and the Leafs weren't on anyway and it's so much cheaper to get a box o' beer in at home and dispense with the surly waiters and tavern overheads… and… and… c'mon Charlie what are some other reasons?"

"Well, lets see, maybe because we knew George and Bruce would probably be there?"

"Beer? Beer? Who mentioned that devil's drink?"

"Oh sorry, John," Nick rose solicitously, "You must be parched, poor baby, there, there, I'll get you… no, hell, make yourself at home, go serve yourself- do you know where the fridge is?"

"Does a rat know where his favourite drainpipe is?" Mike called out jocularly to the swiftly kitchen-heading Jacksonian frame.

John returned with a Stock and threw of his wet blue outer trappings with gusto. A mischievous twinkle lit up his glass-covered 'lamps'. "Say, what was that on the kitchen table? A jigsaw? Who was the little guy?"

"The little guy?"

"Yah, the little guy up at the front of the boat- he'th tho cute- hey, where's the opener?"

"The opener's in the philodendron, the little guy's supposed to be a depiction of your Lord and Saviour. That's like a crucifix and the woman on the floor of the boat is reputed to be the Lady of Shalott."

"Say, I used to know her, back when I was a mediaevalist. Where do you guys eat anyway?"

"Eat? What's eating got to do with a kitchen? There's too many cockroaches anyway. Feh! The table is for jigsaws and dominoes and the fridge is for keeping beer cold."

"Well, how come there's dishes, or what looks like dishes, in the sink?"

Patrick went to investigate. He soon returned. "I guess they could be dishes. But what's the grey jelloey stuff all around them? It seems to have done in a lot of roaches anyways."

This time the timid knock was barely audible at the door. Mike responded and exposed their comely co-superintendent, Lynn, who lived in the basement, with the other co-superintendent, Courtney.

"Hi, can I ask you guys something? I figured you were still up- like I could tell your light was on."

"Sure Lynn, anything… you're not evicting us, are you? We'll clean the pace up some day, promise… We'll keep the noise down… would you like a beer?"

"No… No… no evictions… no beer… Mr. Gitter's very pleased with you tow- your rent is always one of the first ones in… oh wow, like you painted around the postcards- couldn't you have taken them down first and painted around the whole wall?"

"Well, we kind of thought it would be more avant-garde this way."

"Charlie, you've been eating at the Art Den too often" Pat scoffed.

"Or maybe it's all those art movies" was Mike's suggestion.

"I think he was just in a rush" Nick ventured.

"Anyways, what I wanted to ask you guys- like I've got to hurry… Courtney is waiting for me- see it's Courtney's birthday on Tuesday and he told me he really digs your picture there of the sheep… I mean do you want to sell it? How much would you want for it?"

"That one… it's just a copy, a photo I think… it used to be my parents'…it sort of reminds me of Wales… they say they're going to call us all home some day and maybe give us forty acres and a mule." A far-off, sort of wistful expression could be detected on Charlie's face as he talked of the ancestral homeland and his eventual 'return'.

"Yeah, but would you sell it for say, five dollars?"

"Sure… I mean if Courtney really likes it."

She quickly produced the necessary 'crispies' while Charlie got up and deftly removed the placid twilit pastoral scene and handed it to her. Lynn made farewells to all and exited.

Mike pointed out that now there was a big patch to be painted but Nick said it was more a question of them all having to send Charlie more postcards from their travels to fill up the void.

"Say, who was that vision of feminine splendour?" John enquired, taking off his specs to clean them on his red striped flannel shirt.

"Oh, just the concierge, John, and she's happily married as far as we know."

"Unlike the 'nice young couple' on the second floor" Charlie opined cattily, thinking of the boorish Pete 'Badmeat' Malacarne and his sensitive bride.

"Or what about Lewington and Edgar in the basement?" Patrick wondered, "they seem cheerfully compatible."

"You know them, John, they're the ones who took exception to us playing "Oh Katie Dear" last summer, and started banging on the floor," Nick chuckled.

Mike asked why they would bang on the floor and Nick allowed as how he meant they'd banged on their own ceiling rather, but it was, in effect his floor, that is, the very one they were sitting on had transmitted the sound of their displeasure.

"Yah, well they sure don't have very good taste in music." sniffed John.

"I think it was more the rhythmic foot stomping that may have gotten to them." Charlie opined diplomatically.

A veritable explosion of blows buffeted the frail portal dividing the naive boys of Irwin from the outside world.

"Who… wha'… this is too much!" Nick opened the door and Bill Martin stumbled in, followed by Carole and another woman.

Bill's eyes were open wide behind his rimless spectacles; he gesticulated fiercely with clenched fists extended in front of him. " The man is a genius… A consummate actor… what a performer…" here Bill's voice rose to an incredible Neil Young-like falsetto "… and he looks just like ME!"

Patrick briefly reviewed what was playing in the Bloor-Yonge are in his film-drenched brain, and suddenly got a flash. "Don't tell me, Bill, you've been to see 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'."

Bill grinned whole-facedly. "And am I not right? Doesn't Jack Nicholson look even more like me than… than… even I do myself?" Here he subsided, spent, with a satisfied giggle. Coats were taken, seats found and beers brought out. Carole's friend, Kate was introduced and Charlie put on the Liverpool crowd noise album. John greeted Bill with cries of 'compadre' and 'amigo' and gave his old flat-mate and affectionate hug. Carole wondered aloud if the people upstairs always played 'MacArthur Park' over and over. Nick put the final act of 'Don Giovanni' to drown it out and after the final screams of Giovanni and his faithful buddy signalled the end of the piece, Bill and Carole and Katie departed into the night. As it was now almost midnight the lads felt it was time for the serious drinking to begin. Nick lamented the cruelty of winter and they all thought back to when the sun was strong and had the power to warm their small portion of the earth. "Ah, summer," sighed John, "Baseball, eh, on the tube at the bar and at Riverdale on a hot Sunday afternoon… can't wait, eh, just a few more months."

"But there's the dark side too, John, baseball at Riverdale isn't all sweetness and light, remember Wordsworth's broken finger, Mike's broken nose, Charlie Simon being bitten by a rabid dog, Porter moving first base back to the tract, Jerry going on a syphilitic sulk…"

"Still, " Charlie reckoned, "There's a lot to be said for Sundays, whatever the season, Niven on the TV, Shambo on the radio, dinner at the folks,…"

The rads were so noisy Charlie decided a judicious 'bleeding' was in order. Unfortunately this had a unexpectedly disastrous result. As increasing amounts of steam billowed out they had to open the windows to let it escape. Passers-by thought it was smoke and that they were on fire. Then a large chunk of plaster fell from the livingroom ceiling and effectively put and end to any more dominoes. Nick surveyed the damage and remarked maybe they should be bleeding the rads on a more regular basis. Charlie accepted the implied criticism in humble silence while the others guffawed uproariously. After all, it wasn't their ox that was being gored.

Froggy appeared from the kitchen with a mouse in her mouth. Patrick had won! It was five minutes to midnight! The dominoes were put away and the boys sat back quietly with fresh, refrigerator-chilled stubbies to slake their thirsts.

"Say, Nick," John asked, "been to the Yonge Station lately?"

"As a matter of fact things have been looking up lately in that den of iniquity. Mary Sullivan's friend, you know, whosis, unh, what's his name, has been working there and dispensing the occasional free beer."

"Yah, but they're so small," Mike lamented.

"Enh, but the price, Mike, the price is more than proportionate- and surely getting value for your monetary disbursement is the bottom line in any such transaction. I mean, like, that's where it's at, like I used to say five years ago."

Charlie interposed, "But aren't you banned, Nick, after the time you were thrown out for being in contact with illegal substances in the basement washroom? And through the old bugaboo of guilt by association, Bev and I were forced to leave under a cloud!"

Pat chimed in, "And what about that Ragu, the Fijian of Indian descent, who kept wanting to chew up his beer glass, just because he was so glad to meet us? I mean, that hardly reflects well on the Yonge Station- and you, John, kept calling him a Filipino through a misunderstanding when you were first introduced."

They were getting caught up in the general atmosphere of Yonge Station bashing, and Nick was finding the level of vituperation unfair. "Look, it's not a great bar, hell, maybe it's not even a good bar… but I find it hard to put down any bar in this miserable excuse for a city. I mean I would have thought that in this enlightened gathering at least I wouldn't hear any bar demeaned, let alone the modest little local I've come to regard as my home away from home…"

"You know, really, though," Charlie interrupted as though he hadn't even been attending to what Nick was saying (the amount of alcohol in his system from the beer was making him somewhat inconsiderate of where others were maybe coming from), "you know what bugs me the most about the Station is its obnoxious clientele. Like last week I was there and this struggling band plays a fairly decent tune- I mean they weren't the Four Seasons or anything, but at least they were doing their best to entertain the crowd- and then at the end instead of applause, all they get is sarcastic remarks like "Hey, if you're going to play a Mott the Hoople song why can't you at least play it like Mott the Hoople?".

Mike whispered, "Mott the who?"

The conversation changed to a discussion of the North Jarvis Association meeting Mike and Charlie had attended the previous week. Once the topic of politics had been broached there was no holding these five bright, concerned, hip, aware college-educated minds. They discussed the south of St. Jamestown and Quebec-Gothic development controversies and what each of them had been doing them moment they heard the news 'little' Crombie had miraculously grabbed the mayoralty for O'Donaghue and Rotenberg. They recalled seeing Alderman Sewell crossing Riverdale Park and hitting a ball out to him to field- at his request, of course. And Patrick bearding Sparrow about why he'd been in the Bahamas when the reform faction had lost a crucial vote. Or when the saintly Real Caouette had greeted Nick and Charlie in Ottawa.

As they were deprecating the ridiculous build-up over Kohoutek , a boisterous rumble in the hallway caught their attention. The door began to shake as uncouth hands attempted to enter without even knocking politely. Nick opened the portal to prevent its destruction and three, no four, impatient brutes burst in searching for hockey nets. Each of White Meat, Bear, Gumby and Moose (he was still alive at this time and so he was the fourth) held an opened beer bottle in his mitt, although this was strictly speaking illegal at that time in Ontario. They were speedily satisfied and returned into the night with only a few words spoken. Indeed, to those left behind it was almost like a dream.

A chill spread over the room. It was too late. Pat and Mike gathered their hunter cat and went upstairs to their humble flat. John declined an offer to stay and sleep on the couch because of what he had seen of the plaster falling and set off for his well-appointed room in the Annex. In fact, as he gave Nick a last parting nose-tweak, another chunk was launched loudly in its floorward descent. "Typical," Nick grunted, as he pulled spotless white sheets and thick blankets over his recumbent form and drifted effortlessly into a dreamless sleep.