Raymond popped open a beer and took a long swallow. He and Arnie sat in weathered cane chairs on Raymond's front porch, their feet resting on the porch rail.

"She's totally copasetic, Ray. Running true."

"Running true," Raymond agreed.

Raymond nodded and took another pull from the bottle. They sat there a while, basking in the satisfaction of a hard job finished. The John Deere was done; they'd taken turns cutting the grass, and pronounced it fit and ready for duty. Ray could feel grit on his neck, in his nose, and in the back of his throat from the clouds of dirt the tractor had kicked up when it roared over the bare spots in the back yard. He was pleasantly sore, hard-work-gritty, and felt a small sense of accomplishment.

Raymond knew the long series of Saturday projects with Arnie had probably rescued him from himself. Once a week he had a chance to brawl with some tiny little piece of the Universe and overcome it. A room painted. A roof shingled. A tractor resuscitated. Even the washing machine was somewhat a stalemate: he'd kept it going with Saturday fix-ups long after most other folks would have put it on the trash heap. Now he had a good washer for the cost of a case of beer and a rebuilt pump.

But being forced to spend the coffee can money had left him tinged with melancholy. He had failed his son yet again, and it stung deeply. All he had now for Billy's birthday were some second-hand books he'd found at a yard sale a few weeks earlier. The boy loved reading about planets, stars, space travel: anything even remotely connected with outer space fascinated his son. The books had been a spontaneous purchase, an extra birthday surprise. Now they were all the presents Raymond could afford. The small victory with the tractor was overshadowed by the clear defeat of his son’s failed birthday.