Children from adjoining lawns come closer to see the beer cans jump like toads, leaving puddles that spurt under his fists like the spittle of dogs shaking their heads. He goes on banging and sobbing banging and sobbing, flailing his arms at the children, searching their blurred chests for badges, their heads for hats, their hips for guns -- something, anything, to save him from the banging of his fists. And now his wife appears, strutting like a matron, to unlock the garage, to crank-up the mower, to drown him out with a full tank of gas, driving the children back where they belong, where parents crane their necks to see her tightening her circle, roaring closer to the beer cans leaping, the fists falling and rising, the mouth howling without sound. From the bus stop he goes straight to the closest hardware store; he likes hardware stores, always has; something to do with the iron and wood of the place: hinges, bolts, axe handles; nice to touch, to rub. He fondles a work glove and lays it aside, enjoying the smell it leaves on the tips of his fingers. He reaches a back counter to find three types, but sees at once the pair he needs; they have short rubbered-grips, and in the crotch, just above the connecting bolt, a circular section, a half moon on each blade; when open, the mouths gape at each other. He hands them to the clerk and waits for the change to come