Dave had spent his first night in Williamstown settling in at his motel room. Wanting to conserve his meager finances, he had dined on take-out fried chicken and passed the time by thumbing through the local activities guide. The next morning, he had purchased a ticket to the theatre and spent the afternoon nosing through several curio shops, eventually purchasing a small brass paperweight for his desk at work. That evening, after having feasted on a sumptuous prime rib dinner (that he put on his credit card), he attended the play, alone.
Seeing all the couples and groups at the theatre had made him feel odd and dissociated. He sensed that people were staring at him, thinking him strange, his solo status drawing attention to himself. By mid-morning of the third day, his initial enthusiasm about his vacation had dwindled and the familiar vacuous feelings had returned. Bored after watching yet another talk show, he began scouring the room in search of the activities guide.
Flipping quickly through the pages, he soon found what he was looking for - an ad for Green Mountain Dog Track in nearby Pownal, Vermont. "Never had a problem with gambling," he told himself. "No addiction potential there." He checked his wallet. Before his departure, he had pulled $400 from savings. He had $300 left. Plenty of money for a two dollar bettor like himself. By noon, the day had become unbearably humid. Even with his car windows down and his vents wide open, Dave had felt his clothes beginning to stick to his skin on his drive to the racetrack. Standing in line, waiting for admission, the sun had beat down on his hatless head and unshielded eyes. He felt an antagonism, a growing hostility deep within himself. He had wished that someone would have tried to butt in front of him so that he might discharge some of his aggression.
Once inside, he headed for a beverage stand. The vendor had three offerings, lemonade, Pepsi, and beer. The bottles sat in three separate metal washtubs that were chock-full of crushed ice. Some lay on the top in display, while only the necks of others were visible, laying half-buried in the ice. He ordered a lemonade and paid the man $2.50. The drink proved to be sickenly sweet with no thirst-quenching capability, the sugar making his tongue and lips sticky and dry.
On his second trip back to the stand, his eye was caught by the beer tub. The amber bottles, their outsides frosted with a thin coating of ice, sparkled like fine cut glass in the bright afternoon sun. He remembered how Dubray had once told him that anything fermented was healthy - soy sauce, tofu, beer. Beer, just fermented hops and barley malt. "Besides," he deluded himself, "beer had never been a problem." His drink of choice had always been vodka.
Pointing to the tub, he instructed the vendor to pull one from the bottom. Placing three one-dollar bills on the counter, he refused a plastic cup and raised the bottle directly to his lips.
He drank deeply, and as he did, he remembered his father's expression. "On a hot day, son, the first one going down never touches the sides." After several long pulls, he paused, peered into the bottle to see the foam, smiled, and belched loudly.
By his fourth beer, his head sang from the alcohol. His perspective about himself and the world around him had changed. He felt expansive and friendly, chatting with strangers, making laudatory statements about the warm weather. He grinned as he stared at the young women in short, bright print dresses and the men in broad-brimmed Panama hats. Two dollar bets became five and later, ten dollar bets. And he could laugh when two of his dogs came in last. Dead last.
But as the afternoon wore on and the beers wore off, he again began to feel agitated. None of his bets had won, placed, or even showed. Without thought, he sought out and soon found the track bar. A double Stoli burned icy hot on his tongue and down the back of his throat.
Quickly fortified by the effects of the liquor, he checked his bankroll. One hundred and fifty dollars remained. He bought another vodka, placed a fifty dollar bet on a dog named Peggy Sue, and palmed his remaining cash. His final loss cushioned only slightly by his most recent drink, he had discarded his program and promptly stormed out the main gate and into the parking lot. Navigating out of the parking lot, he steered one-handed, his right hand still clutching the remains of his vacation fund.
En route back to his motel, he stopped at a mini-mall that housed a liquor store and a convenience food mart. He bought three quarts of cheap vodka, slowly pulling the damp and wadded bills from his hand.
At the food mart, he found chips, peanuts, bread, eggs, and coffee. Snack foods for his continued drinking, breakfast foods for tomorrow morning's sobering up meal.
But as he dozed and drank in front of the unblinking eye of his color TV, the afternoon of inebriation eventually became three days of stupor. When Michael and Melanie arrived, they found him standing in the kitchenette, wearing only his boxer shorts, hunched over a waterglass containing four fingers of vodka with a raw egg floating on the top.
"Gotta ge' some food in me," he mumbled, strings of egg white hanging from his beard.
"C'mon Dave. . . its time to go home," said Michael, putting his arm on Swenson's bare shoulder.