I did it I did it and now I'm done for, everyone was looking at him, albeit through eyes in the backs of their ugly greasy heads. He noticed the ash on his cigarette had grown to a full inch with a slight downward arch--from gravity?!? They had ashtray stands at every other teller window, but not even one for the fucking line. He could hop over to the counter and use one, but then would he be allowed to resume his position in line, or would everyone insist that he'd lost his place? Probably: don't draw attention to yourself.

He lowered his cigarette hand down close to his thigh. The next time he looked the ash had gently fallen, a poof of dust spattered on his shoe spilling onto the floor. His stomach gurgled coffee, then gargled, spitting up some java to burn in his lower esophagus. Wiener knew his head had chilled, a wavelet of nausea paled him; there was nothing to clutch except the flimsy cords defining the twists of the line, or the smarmy creature in front of him. He resisted the impulse to collapse: do nothing out of the ordinary. Instead he quavered, swayed, eyes closed. He reopened them in time to see the last bit of ash fall from the neglected cigarette--didn't feel noticeably different, not any better--then dropped the dead filter to the floor, hiding the motion by bringing his hand to rest on the line cord. Sections of cord swung clipped post to post for miles. The cord wasn't all fuzzy fake velvet like in movie lobbies, it was plastic, colored, textured and grain printed, the leather of the future; the future was now.

A little dinner, he'd thought, one last dinner. Cleared the account, got the big bucks. And so Young Wiener was standing in the supermarket. His hands were full, tied up with a package of two pork chops, a bag of frozen tater tots, the smallest jar of applesauce available. Also a newspaper, young Wiener in the papers. The only pictures on the front page were of a dull faced old man who called himself the President.

This is ridiculous, he thought, I'm going to stand here forever or until I get caught. All the other lines were moving twice as fast as his, and he was in the express lane, ten items or less. Everyone in front of him at least five items over the limit. An old lady with six cans of Vienna sausages and a dozen cans of assorted brand cat food--her arthritic hands struggled with every penny. Then a skag housewife with four loaves of generic white bread, six economy packs of bologna, and around twenty off-brand soda pops, every flavor, and bags of giant marshmallows, paying with foodstamps despite the express lane's Cash Only companion sign.

Time, the hours passed like a parade, standing strutting and stopping.

My god everyone looks exactly like what they're buying. Wiener calmly turned and emphatically said, "You," placing his purchases one at a time into the cart behind him, "are . . . over . . . the . . . limit."

I did it, now I'm acting weird, I can't stand it, I don't care about anything except for getting out of here right now; Wiener walked, broke out, he ran from the store, head on into the oncoming dusk. He ran for blocks and blocks without count, dashing across a side street, up another avenue, only winding down to a walk when he decided he had to have a cigarette. He walked unobtrusively down the sidewalk like everyone else, thinking obsessively: in the future there won't be sidewalks, we'll all just stand on moving belts like in the Jetsons or in airports.

Since he ended up there anyway, where the lights are hot all night long, he decided to go to the peeps. The lights were hot, but tonight the night was hotter, if that's not a street light then the moon must be full, maybe there weren't any girls giving out. After waiting in line half an hour, still a good fifty feet from the door, he had a sudden impulse to unzip and flap it right there. Please refrain from conspicuous behavior.

Quarrels over quarters and fist fuck fights were breaking out inside--a night to be remembered as wild--guys kept flying out the door as though kicked in their britches out of a grade-B Western. When he was ten from the door, Wiener noticed with distaste that a foaming carpet of nastiness was oozing out under the crack onto the sidewalk, almost an extra from a Blob sequel. He hadn't the heart on, never mind the sleeve, to continue.

He took a cab to his apartment, had the driver wait, went up and grabbed his ever-packed bags, directly hence to a hotel. A black man trying to find a bathroom in the Old South, though really like Joseph and Mary and that bit, they went to a couple dozen hotels before finding one that at least had a line.

"Sorry bud, but you picked a bad time," the cabbie remarked pulling to a stop, "what with the National Convention of Hog Lobbyists in town. Lots of pigs in these here parts."

Wiener tipped hundred percent and hoisted his bags from cab to curb to back of the line. Everybody in front looked like they'd just stepped out of limos, thirty years before and the line hadn't moved since. It was almost four in the morning before he got an assignation; in his room he fell swift to bed, to sleep, the sweetness, thinking only: get away: with it and from it.

Young Wiener, that dawn, he dreamed. All the hours he dreamed, he dreamt an unending ride, he was on the subway, just the subway, unidentifiable by system or line. A crowded car, stop to stop he stood, hand hanging onto one of those metal hoops they call straps. Where he'd gotten on or where he was going never entered into any consideration. A nightmare long ride of bump to jostle. The plot unraveled until all a sudden he realized he was there, he was at some big formal party, standing resting against a wall, people brushing past him. He was in a bedroom, lying on a fully made-up guest bed, fully clothed lying on top of a beautiful woman equally well clad, wallowing in a pile of coats and capes and furs. No, he was leaning against that wall and she was urgently pressing up against him. A crowd gathered; eventually everyone was participating, pressing up against him. All the people disappeared and he was left being assaulted by a fashion show of animated sets.

He awoke at some point, completely confused, gradually understanding that he'd been sleeping standing leaning against the wall in the closet, the door half open, in a finishing fitting twist, surrounded by all his shirts and jackets mysteriously on hangers. It'd been a busy night.

Finally did it, he thought repacking his clothes. He'd better clear out of town today before.

The elevator down to the lobby stopped between floors, did a little jiggle, the lights flickered and went black. For thirty seconds there was nothing but the sound of the ventilation fan, engine dead, spinning off centrifugal force, a blade scraping against something on every rotation. Then came the scream, an unending wail piercing guttural and stupid. It wasn't the cute little dark haired woman in the other back corner, the screeches came from by the doors where the beautifully self-possessed blonde had been standing. Her breasts were cantaloupes with melon balls for nipples. He stepped blindly towards her, his outstretched hands finding and patting her bosom, naturally in an attempt to calm her. The infant couldn't be placated, wet bottom, she howled and gurgled even louder, sounds evermore hideous and disgusting. He pushed away in revulsion, in the dark spared the sight well enough imagined: her face fluid, stretching through contortions of ugliness and imbecility. When she started thrash dancing he retreated to the corner with the cute girl. First they cowered together, then they started giggling.

They slowly meandered a course across the expansive lobby, she invited him to accompany her for a cup of coffee. He accepted. He invited her to accommodate him for a piece of luggage. She agreed. Burdens shouldered together and all that. They walked as far as the closest restaurant, Wiener expousing his vision of moving sidewalks while she ventured back jetpacks.

Unfortunately, the restaurant was in all the fake four-star guidebooks, it was lunchtime on the dot of the rush, so all the tables were packed with Hog Calling Conventioneers. After waiting half an hour for still no opening, they stacked his two suitcases, sat down on the floor and ordered. Two coffees, one sip and she excused herself to the Ladies' room.

Twenty minutes in the sow line without returning, without excuse. People standing waiting glaring, waiting for and expecting him to get up and vacate his suitcases. They all knew, he could tell; he stood up and pulled the suitcases upright, the clattering clamor bedamned. He slipped a twenty in the puddle beneath her coffee cup, then fled to the back of the line out at the bus stop. The wait in line lasted ten minutes, on the bus he stood the entire half hour downtown then crosstown to the out-of-town depot.

The depot a continuation of the bus, all seats always already occupied. The depot the city, all seats sell for ten bucks an hour. Wiener stands back and watches.

Did it and now done it he smiled, stepping back from the counter ticket in hand, shaking like a big wet dog, the sweat of the forty-five minute wait. Get on the bus and go. He felt the heavy arm of the law grab him from behind.

He spent the night standing in an overcapacity holding cell. In the morning the judge sentenced young Wiener to ten years in bed.