“Mondays are the worst.” He remembered saying such things. Now he didn’t even know what day it was. He knew it was fall because the leaves were turning golden brown, but there was no sense of days, no weekends, no holidays. It would have been football season now. Crowds would have been walking down this Georgia main street on the way to the old high school football stadium.  You would have been able to smell the hot dogs and bbq grilling, hearing the PA announcer in the distance like a ghost announcing players names.
But now the street sat silent. The football stadium was deserted, although the bleachers provided respite from the sun if you found your way underneath them. In those days Fridays were tolerable. You had a game to look forward to and a cold beer. He imagined how it felt on his hands, the chill of alumnium, the sound of the can cracking open. The cold pour into his throat, and the instant relaxation that followed. He had found a six pack last year. It was expired but he drank it anyway. It was one of the worst things he had ever tasted. And it threw most of it up later that evening. But if presented with another beer today in the fall autumn sun, he would undoubtably do it again.