self to the floor and rested before he pushed himself
back to the bed, dragging along the water and the pie plate. He was
able to pee into the plate while he lay on one side. He made it through
the night, moving as little as possible.

Music would be nice, he thought in the morning. Forget it. It was all
he could do to lie still and not panic. "It's all right, Batman," he
called to the lanai. He thought about crawling to the telephone and
knocking it to the floor with the broom, but who would he call? When
the pie plate filled, he inched along the floor, dragging it into the
bathroom, spilling some, but managing to reach up and pour most of it
into the toilet. He shoved himself into the kitchen for more water.
Holding to the chair by the table, he was able to reach a bunch of
bananas. Two bananas and water got him through the second day.

On the third day, hanging on to the bedroom door frame, he pulled
himself slowly to his feet. He was able to limp to the bathroom,
supporting himself with the sponge mop. He took aspirin and shuffled
back to his mattress with bread and a piece of cheddar cheese. He ate
like a king, wishing that he'd turned on the radio.

The pain was less intense in the morning. Aspirin had helped him sleep
for four or five hours. He was able to stand up slowly, turn on the
radio, and reassure Batman. He leaned against a wall and stared at a
shaft of sunlight falling on the carpet. He remained there motionless,
without words. Pain had emptied him completely.

The disk jockey played a Cyril Pahinui cut. Familiar notes cascaded
into the sunlight, ringing and humble, celebrating and accepting the
only life we know. It's all right, Joe thought, as his isolation broke
down. "For thine is the kingdom," he said to a presence in the
sunshine. Thankful tears rolled down his cheeks. Three days later he
made it down the hill to the store and back.

He exercised regularly and began to feel stronger. His walks were
longer. From time to time he drank too much, but he was generally under
control. Fortunately, he had a little time before he ran out of money.
He had no idea what to do, but he knew that he wasn't going to program
computers for an insurance company. The back pain hell was a clear
warning not to repeat his old patterns. In the past, he would drift
around trying to write things, run out of money, and then abandon the
writing in a rush to join a work group, pay bills, and pretend he was
like the others