The sky was very northwest. The Easy sailed down the river docking where the timber barges used to. The crew took care of all the details as the owner stumbled into the Artless bar for a stiff one. Same bartender as before. Same lost-weekend rock-and-roll on the jukebox. Deep Purple shaken and stirred with an olive and a cherry. Wobbly the wordless river-runner walked back up Merchant Street to where he had left the Easy. Fire engines were dowsing the black char of his yacht and his dreams. Who knows where the crew was, and who knew what they’d done with the weed in the hold.