One eye. First, the lid flexed spasmodically, then opens. It's completely bloodshot. Dozens of little red crooks cover the white, each one evidence of another joint, another ounce of alcohol, another hour of lost sleep. The eye closed, then both eyes opened, and stared. The second was in the same condition as the first. They were straining to function, but only served to bring pain to the owner.

Then, out loud to himself, "Man, oh man" as Phil stared at the waking scene. The look in his eyes, and the utterance were like those of a man who had spent seventy-two hours on his feet, fighting oil-field fires, or burying corpses gone spoiled, only to duck another new explosion, or find another pile of bodies in a warehouse.

But nothing so noble went down in Phil's apartment. The explosion was not a bright flash, but a dull pounding, like depth charges, crushing inward from his skull to his brain. Instead of bodies piled high, there were beer cans, dozens of them, all over the room. And, since no scene of human disaster would be complete without a foul stench, there was an overturned bong, its brown water spilled out over unpaid bills, and the latest "TV Guide". The very unpleasant topper was a glob of pimiento cheese spread, stuck to the edge of the coffee table. more

Phil took another moment to survey the damage, then started to move. He was feeling too awful to plan the whole day, but did have two immediate items on his agenda. First, an ice-cold Coke, to get him on his feet, and then a newspaper. Phil's evenings with his friends (or was the evidenced debacle a solo outing?) were sufficiently out of control that it was prudent to check the next day's paper for incidents. "Local man runs church bus off highway. Five missionary nuns decapitated. Police consider alcohol from Phil Jones' apartment a factor." In fact, the clever salutation after such evenings was "see you in the Metro section."

So, prudent to check the paper, but not so prudent to take away someone's car keys the previous night. That would have required at least one sober person in attendance.

Remarkably, Phil sat up on the sofa, and did not vomit. Deciding to shoot the works, he stood up, paused while a dizzy spell took a couple of laps around his brain, and then stepped over to the kitchenette. Phil figured he must really be getting tough. There it was, the sink. Stainless steel and beckoning, and still his stomach didn't immediately seek to fill it.

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But it would come, he knew. He'd been through the drill too many times to think he wouldn't have to pay for his indulgence. He opened the refrigerator -- nothing. Some rancid hardened ham, a couuple of wine coolers (ready for the women that never, ever came to his apartment), and an old apple, more or less a Macintosh Gray.

There would be no refreshing glass of ice-cold Coca-Cola. That didn't really faze Phil, as ice-tea would do just as well. He opened the cupboard, and began to search for tea bags. A thought suddenly came to him and he quickly look inside the freezer. As he feared, there was no ice. That meant it wasn't all beer last night. Someone had been mixing. (He still wasn't sure if anyone else had even been there. Maybe he'd been the cocktail man, after the beer and pot was exhausted.)

Resigned to a glass of tap water for refreshment, Phil moved on to the second item on the agenda, the newspaper. He didn't subscribe, protesting the paper's unreasonable decision to cancel him after seven months of non-payment. So, when he felt like catching up on the news he went out and bought one. The nearest 7-11 was four blocks from his apartment. It was an easy hike for an eight-year old in search of a Slurpee, or Grandma and Grandpa in search of lottery tickets. But it wasn't recommended for a specimen like the 42-year old Phil Jones. It was August, hellishly hot in Virginia, and he wouldn't make it halfway before he ended up a drooling mass of coronary spasms in the gutter. That wouldn't be a pretty sight for the Slurpee kid to discover.

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Phil's car was worse. It would probably overheat before he even got it warmed up. That is, if it had any gas in it, which it didn't, because Phil had no money.

Good. That limited the decisions he had to make. He really didn't have to go anywhere.

Phil took his glass of tap water, sat down on the sofa, and aimed the remote control at the TV set. He hesitated for a moment, actually considering whether he should skip TV this morning and do something worthwhile. He could clean the apartment, take a shower, get a job, raise a family, contribute in some small way to society.

Click. "Green Acres is the place to be, farm living is the life for me. Land stretching out so far and wide, keep Manhattan just give me that country-side."

"Okay, I'll relax and watch Green Acres," thought Phil, following that thought, as he always did, with "but it would be really funny if I was stoned." One sorrowful glance at the empty Baggies and it was clear there was no pot left. In fact, the mass of burnt seeds crammed into the bowl of the bong suggested that the previous night had ended in, or gone through a phase of, desperation.

to be continued ...