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“There were a million chandeliers above and below me.” These were the last words that John Dinkman typed on his hazardously dusty typewriter just before scraping the butt of his cigarette out in the pulpit of the adjacent glass ashtray. Apparently he thought these were good words to end on. If I told you why he chose these last words out of all the others that sat so plump in his gargantuan dictionary, then I may ruin your expectations of Mr. John Dinkman, or maybe I don’t know myself. Perhaps it had something to do with the gleaming horizon that he woke to every morning as he rolled out of bed, peered out of his window, and watched the crystalline strands of orange light melt the cold harsh smoke that pumped out of the cities veins. Or maybe it had something to do with the neutrality of his current professional position at the Chicago tribune as staff journalist. It was 1:00 a.m. Around him sat seven glasses of water which had been each been sipped the same amount of times. John cascaded the wheels of his chair across the lumpy laminate wood as he sprawled his sore body back, staring at his typed words for a few moments thinking about the sporadic manner in which he typed them and what they meant at all. He gently pulled back the cardboard hinge on his pack of Marlboro 27’s, plucked a fresh cigarette out, and brought the Styrofoam stub to his lips. He allowed it to dangle there. John Dinka alternated glances between his blotted typewriter paper and his small rectangular alarm clock which rested on a low sitting chipped maple dresser. After a few minutes had gone by, he put the dangling cigarette back in the box (Tobacco side facing up for good luck.) He loosened the bright yellow tie that hung around his neck, and plopped his sore body down on the slightly damp bed leaving a parade of dust in the sky from impact. It was now 1:30 a.m in Chicago on a Wednesday. John Dinkman was in no rush to start his life, but had no objection in ending it. John was not suicidal of course. He just felt that if heaven was anything like what the preachers and old ladies at his church told him it was, then he wouldn’t mind dropping in for a visit. Every Sunday, him, his six combined brothers and sisters, and his parents would cram into a tiny coastal Rhode Island church to hear about sin, which was a topic John Dinkman had written the book on, earned a diploma, and went back for a masters degree. Growing up on the coast of Rhode Island taught him two things: Don’t pray standing up and what the preacher says goes. Of course, it is possible to pray standing up. It may even be more comfortable than kneeling. To examine this problem would mean having to reveal a seemingly miniscule and innocuous moment in John Dinka’s adolescence. I would have to back-peddle through countless erased moments and drunken stupors which have been banned and exiled from John Dinka’s present psyche. I would have to go back past Charloette Stone’s beach-house, past the silver dollar moon that shone down on the gently crashing waves, and alas, back to the last dance at John Dinka’s senior prom, and I simply will not trespass on that exiled box of memories. John lay on his damp bed, staring at the picture of his family sitting in front of a glowing lake, resting at the foothills of familiar mountains, which poked daggers into the warm cream-sickle sunset. It was the last time he was together with his entire family. Next to the picture, was a pint of the cheapest whiskey sold in Chicago. He laid on his side for a few moments dissecting the picture waiting for some sort of strong emotional image to come to his mind. It never came. He laid the picture down and soon after put the bottle on the floor. “**** you,” he said to the bottle and went to sleep.