Fenno woke up the morning after his last OCI?interview glossy-eyed, stuffy-nosed, irascibly irritable, he stumbled toward his laptop, still smoldering from the vodka stain he left on it the night before. Miraculously, he was still able to go online in-between the forty-five increasingly irate messages from financial services noting that he had still not signed his Master Promissory Note, he noticed that the editors of The Record had the temerity to demand his column on this the mother of bad mornings.
“Oh, fuck it. Fuck them. Not this week. It’s not happening,” he groaned, and collapsed back into his bed, mercifully shielding his eyes from the light with the coveted warmth of his covers, the bells of Memorial Church chiming 3 P.M. in the background.