On Sunday being the best day of the week to have a few drinks.

As the summer closed one eye in rueful prophesy of freedoms end, James begrudgingly pulled on his oldest jeans, slurping coffee. He had spent nearly two months sulking over rejection letters till all became blurred in a wave of eroding self esteem. His standards, initially, were high. His expectations mirrored those standards with an almost military precision. He told himself day after day "I know what I want, I know who I am."

His reflection took on an ugly hue as days of trundling around desired locations turned speedily into weeks, all fruitless. His resolve wavered, then died, as words like expectation and standards lost meaning and fell uselessly from his mouth. His position, morally and financially, became utterly indefensible. Weak willed and weak backed, he strolled into a warehouse and puffed out his chest. He didnt expect anything, he didnt want anything, he got the job.

The first day, this halfway-point-of-summer first day, was like any other. He wasnt sure what was going on, the boss didnt care. He lifted boxes heavier than himself and smiled through gritted teeth to seem manly amongst manly men. He listened to the banter as pallets were moved and trucks were loaded, offering only the feeblest of laughs in response to the bawdiest of jokes. He smoked and nodded and prodded, as was expected. He took his breaks when offered, he asked permission to go to the "bathroom" and called the manager sir, skivvying in silence and taking it all in.

At six o' clock time was called. James washed his hands and skinny forearms, threw on his jacket attempting to look nonchalant and smiled at the lads as they jostled and pisstook their way into their respective modes of transport. The shutters were pulled down and locked, the manager mouthed "see you tomorrow" and they all drove away. He stood out front like a man waiting for a lift, but had none. Counting his fingers, feeling his tired muscles threaten to seize , he cracked his neck and the percussion of it startled him enough to get his legs moving.

As he hopped the wall, attempting grace but stumbling in his tiredness, a car pulled up beside James and beeped. The descending window revealed Tom, one of his new colleagues, smiling. "Your lift not show then?" Tom offered, feigning surprise. "Hop in horse, Il get ya home."
James, paler now from the shock of Toms sudden appearance, had never heard the term "horse" apllied to anything other than a member of the genus equinius, and although he later discerned it was a local term of endearment similar in meaning to pal or mate, at that instance he imagined it was horribly derisive of his character. He did not however, wish to malign a man whom he had just met, was somewhat afraid of and had to work with for the summers remnant.

He got in. He faked comfort. He let Tom speak.

"Tom's taxies at your service horse. Where to?"
(Horse again, thought James)
"Em, Woodfield, by the crossroads. You know it?"
"Sure do, friend of mine lives there, Paul Johnson. You know him?"
"I think my parents mentioned him a few times."
"If you run into him, say hello for me."
"I will."
"Quite a walk you woulda had in front of you, that hill."
"I guess."
"Shame your lift didnt show then. Lucky I came by!"
"Yeah thanks, it was my folks... they em, they must have forgot or something."
"You didn't know who to ask."
"I asked them but they didn't..."
"That's not what I meant."
"What, no no it wasnt, you know it wasnt like tha..."
"Its Ok, I know what its like. First day."
"But it wasn't like that."
"Relax."
"Ok."
"Good. Now we can get to know each other."
"Ok."
"Jesus, lighten up horse. Look I'l start alright, we'll banter, throw some meaningless babble at each other and then tomorrow we can pick up from there, sound good?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"Don't thank me. First you should stop being so polite, I know this is only a wee stop gap job for you, headin to college right? Right. You'll not survive unless you lighten up, and stop callin Kevin "Sir" for Christ's sake! That shit'll go to his head."
"Ha."
"That's better, now I'm Tom, you're James right?"
"Miller, James Miller."
"What age are you "Miller"? Seventeen?"
"Nearly eighteen."
"Jesus that takes me back. Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Boyfriend?"
"No!"
"Just needed to know, one of the lads was on about you!!!"
"God."
"I'm jokin horse. Light-en up! So your single then, headin out the-night then, get yourself a woman?"
"I'm working tomorrow."
"And? Kevin'll be hungover as a bastard tomorrow, he wont notice if you were to, lets say... build up a little wall of stock between some pallets and I dunno, sleep in between them."
"Really?!, I mean.. you've done that?!"
"Stick with me kid, I know these things. No cameras in the warehouse. There are lots of little ways to get the work done and look after yourself at the same time. This job isn't hard-hard, its donkey work. The rest of us are donkeys, you I'd say, are not. We'll make you an honorary mule though! So, out tonight? Fri-day night!"
"Nah, I need to make a good impression, at least the first few weeks."
"Good man. You'll fit right in, especially with Bill. He doesnt drink, pioneer since the age of, god knows... eleven or something. Fit as fiddle come nine a.m., likes anybody who's clear headed. Fridays are pretty overratted anyway. Noisy, messy. Too many young ones you'd swear had lived through prohibition. Short skirts and Ben Sherman. Saturdays worse, visits from the out-of-towners, its like that ah, whatayacallim... Elton John song..."
"Saturday nights alright for fighting."
"Thats the one, towns gotten pretty awful. Normal people cant enjoy the weekend anymore, well except for Sunday."
"Sunday?"
"Aye, best day of the week to have a few drinks. You've watched the telly on Friday, done your odd-jobs or taken the kids out on Saturday, then nothing gets in the way."
"Day of rest thing?"
"Could be it, There's just nothing better than drinking on a Sunday."
"Sunday."
"Aye, rain or shine. You have time to be yourself. A few friends, a few beers... Fuck, sometimes a lot more than a few!"
"I can't really work hungover."
"You haven't worked long enough to say that! Mondat morning's fine, the world is grouchy anyway. All you have to do is put your head down, and maybe wear aftershave."
"Em, heres my street. I'll hop out here. Thanks a mill for the lift, I see you tomorrow."
"No problem horse, head up, you'll be fine."

James watched Tom drive away and thought for the first time since closing about how tired he was. He clenched his fists and felt the tension in his muscles ripple through him. Bubbles of sinew jumped in his forearms as he turned them, he admired the musculature, puny as it was, for being there. He had been called wiry once, and remembered a decription Palniuk had made of skinny men that had given him some sense of himself in relation to other males of the species. Ridiculous as it was, he knew, to weigh himself up using archaic notions of manhood, to console his untested mettle, his wavering fists and arms, with thoughts of brutal self sacrifice.

Throughout the day he had, being conscious of his own slight frame, made note of the other men working in the warehouse. Long hours of manual labour, he had generalized, producing oversized forearms, tan from the outdoors and muscles densely clustered, decorated with faded tatoos. Their hands even, dwarfing his own, despite him being taller than most working there. He looked at them as he had once looked at his father. They were strong men, working men. The coarse language that flowed so naturally from them sat unevenly with him, yet he knew from their natures almost immediately that these were dependable men, men of integrity. Their lives had long been filled with reasons for being and doing, so understandable and alien. He had little need. The complexity he imagined nestled within him, was to these men, simply imaginary.

He thought of the day that would follow, his manager dozing in the office perhaps, the biting smell of whisky all pervading, clouding him. The other lads working happily, driving forklifts, making deliveries, building something. Nurseing hangovers and laughing through them. James had never imagined himself cut out for manual labour of any kind. The remnants of this summer would though, he surmised, clarify the issue most expertly, most empiricly. I will emerge, he thought, a different man. Broken or bouyant. He shuffled down the street on the way to his house. Food to prepare, TV to sleep-watch. Bed.

He had no desire to "hit the town" this particular evening. And then he felt it creep over him, "maybe not even Saturday", he smiled. He felt a warmth within him, a comfort in something shared, followed by an overwhelming desire to have a drink, or two.... on Sunday.