That time when he drank almost a pint of whiskey the night before Christmas Eve and came out with the empty to show his relatives gathered around the Christmas tree. That was kid's stuff. That was before he married Sarah, and he'd asked his dad to let him use his car for a special date, rather than use the Ranchero he was then driving to work. His father grinning, red-faced under his grey butch called over Barry's uncle who was very intoxicated by then. They had made sly comments about Barry's date for about ten minutes. Then his father blurted out, "No, you can't have my car. You want to fool around, use your own car!" Yeah, Barry thought, he'd been a kid then but but, hell, he'd been twenty-four, and that was only three years ago! Was the man right? Barry had always felt the slogan "The clothes make the man" was true; he became acutely aware that he was wrinkling badly in the sweaty heat of the L. A. morning. A nearby church clock struck five. He felt sober now and nauseated. When he turned the key, the big V-8 came to life. The engine screamed and rumbled alternately as he jazzed the gas pedal. He pushed at the gear selector, shot out of the gravel-topped lot, jumped the curb, and roared down the deserted street. It only took him about ten minutes to get home. By God, he thought, she waited up for me. Shoes in hand, he stopped and looked at the robe-clad figure asleep on the couch. The T.V. in the corner shrieked steadily, and the Indian head on the test pattern stared at the rhythmic breathing of the sleeper. Barry switched off the noise. "You're back?" The sudden silence had awakened Sarah. She shook the long blonde hair out of her eyes, and the black roots showed she hadn't been to the beauty parlor in a long time. She sat up, drawing her legs up beside her and covering them with the terry cloth robe. Barry flopped down on the other end of the old green divan. Looking into his red and tearful eyes, she knew there was another lost job like the other seven or eight times before. Smiling sadly she said, "I was worried when you didn't come home from work." "I," his words trailed off as he looked at her face. A pretty face, yet hard and drawn. It was a young face but over-aged, like that of a pioneer farmer's wife or someone who had lived hard. He reached out to smooth the wrinkles around her eyes with his finger tips, but Sarah quickly got up and went into the kitchen. In the tiny kitchen smelling of stale grease and foods, Barry sat drinking his coffee and watching his son sitting in the high-chair, playing in his cereal. "The doctor told me yesterday that we may have to put the leg braces back on." Sarah was now dressed in a worn house coat, and her hair was pinned in a bun. Daniel, the child, giggled and burped. He kicked his slightly curved legs happily as he splattered a spoonful of oatmeal onto the table and floor. Barry wiped up the cereal with a rag which lay on the formica table for that purpose. "That's all we need now! More doctor bills!" His head was throbbing. "Barry, could you maybe, this time, try to get along with the people you work with?" There was no emotion in her question; that had all left after the third job had been lost. "I don't work with anyone right now anyway, if you will remember!" He carefully examined his plastic coffee cup. "Can I help it if I always get stuck with a bunch of dumb idiots who won't let me use my creative potential?" The hard, shiny table top was covered with liquid rings from bowls, cups, and glasses; and the cereal box proclaimed "Snap Crackle Pop," in five different colors. "I guess I could call Dad." "You know that never works out." She sat down on one of the steel tube chairs and started to drink her own coffee. Barry thought of the night before. It had been because of her that he hadn't finished his call. But she was right. "That" never did work out. They talked of selling the car or the motorcycle, but they were behind in the payments. They would lose them soon anyway. He would check at the employment office that afternoon. Could they draw unemployment checks for awhile until 32 things got straightened out? The people in the next apartment could be heard arguing violently. Finally Barry said, "Maybe we could move to another state. I could start my own business, and we could all" He stopped cold as he saw the look in her eyes. Quickly turning, he plunged through the open door, ran down to the garage, and jumped on his cycle. Speed, that is what he needed, speed! He tore out of the alley and onto the crowded streets. His shirt-tail was out, his pants were wrinkled, and he had a two-day stubble beard. Revving, gunning, swerving, he threaded his way through the traffic. The air was as thick and hot as cigarette smoke. His eyes stung, and he didn't have his sunglasses. The cars moved like cattle in a stockyard pen. It was hot, so very hot, and he couldn't get the speed he needed. The police car pulled him over to the side of the busy thoroughfare. The gravel crunched as one officer got out and strolled up to the bent figure on the bike. "That was pretty fancy driving you were doing. The State of California frowns on cutting in and out like that. May I see your driver's license, please?" Barry turned around on the bike and looked up at the policeman. "I don't have a license. I do have a hang-over. I don't have a job. I don't have any prospects for one. I do have a crippled son. I do have a wife that looks at me like. The whole thing sounds like a damned soap opera!" He fell to his knees and began to sob. The gravel burned his knees. The officer lowered his book to his side, stared at the bent head, and motioned for his partner. TAP IT ON THE TOM TOMS A LANGUAGE PARABLE By DOUG SPAINHOWER The tribe had been effectively drumming for centuries wars, women, and fortunes had been won and lost to the sound of tom-toms as they beat their rhythms above the movements of mankind. But the drums were not systematized. Still, everyone was satisfied with the drums they made the ear feel important. Although the age was dark the tribe felt secure, for the echo of the tom-toms filled the air, everywhere. And the drums were understood. Then a thinking member of the tribe, who really had too much time to think, thought thoughts- thoughts thought not before by any member of the tribe. Because he had read of ancient drummers who once had systematized the beating of their tribal drums, he too set out to establish rules rules to prescribe form and function for the playing and the reading of the drums. He analyzed and theorized, he intuitized and generalized, he classified and modified; then he programmed and diagrammed, he adapted and adopted, he added and subtracted, he structured and compared; he even conjugated. 33