I knew I was in for a bad day when I arrived at work and learned not only were the other two reporters out sick, but my editor would be sending me to the Shady Acres Retirement Home to take pictures of a birthday party for some lady called Beulah. Beulah: has there ever been an uglier name? Beulah was turning 100 today. Chances were pretty good she would either be asleep or dead when I showed up, but a bunch of school kids would be there to honour her with cake she couldn't eat and cards she couldn't see, so I was going no matter how much I protested.

"Could you just once do this without complaining?" Arthur asked me. Arthur was a good boss. He put up with a lot of my shit and let me pretty much come and go as I pleased, but I still hated how every time we needed a picture of some old person still living he seemed to send me.

"Fuck, Arthur, fine. I'll go. But this is the last time you're sending me to do this shit. Who the hell is going to buy the paper to see this picture, anyway? Everyone she knows is either dead or in the home with her."

"Yeah, but the kids' parents'll go nuts for it," said Arthur. "You know how it is."

I did know how it was. My dad still had a closet filled with newspapers from whenever my name or picture appeared in it when I was a kid; they were turning yellow, their edges starting to curl. If a fire were ever to start in his house those papers would probably ensure the whole place burned to the ground. But he still kept them.

So off I went to Shady Acres. When I was going to school our class used go to the home at Christmas time and sing carols for the residents. I never liked going because the residents made me nervous. They would just sit there smiling and some would try to sing along. One time a resident got up to dance and slipped and broke her hip. I guess Jingle Bell Rock wasn't the right choice for that crowd.

When I walked in I was greeted by the same smell that I'm sure exists in every seniors' home. We all know it, we all try to pretend there is no smell, but we know it's there. It's the smell of impending death. In an attempt to divert the residents' thoughts from that impending death the walls were covered with pretty pictures of boats and sunsets and kittens and flowers.

I checked in with the desk and a nurse led me down the hall to a large sitting room with a high ceiling where about twenty kids crowded around a blue wingback chair that practically swallowed Beulah. An old brown upright piano sat in one corner of the room and a Christmas tree that was still up even though Christmas was three weeks ago, stood in another corner. It had started to turn brown and sagged a little to the left. Fallen needles covered the faded red rug.

As I predicted to Arthur, Beulah was pretty much out of it. But the kids didn't seem to notice and their teacher and the nurses, who crowded around the scene with cameras, were pretty much convinced that this was the greatest day in Beulah's fucking life. I had my doubts.

I snapped enough pictures to make Arthur happy and then I took off for the office, managing to avoid a man with the biggest glasses I'd ever seen who, upon learning I worked for the newspaper, wanted to complain about the size of our font. One of the biggest drawbacks of working at a small town paper is the lack of anonymity; people seem to think it's their duty to feed you story ideas. I always really liked that because, naturally, I thought I would be a good reporter because I had no ideas. We once had a lady call the office to tell us she had grown a four-pound potato and thought we might want to come take a picture of it.

I actually don't even mind the crazies who call with photo suggestions because you can usually get rid of them by asking them to send the photo and telling them we'd do our best to get it in. The real hassle was the people who would drop in to the office with suggestions. You never really realize just how much of your town is certifiable until you start working at the paper. Mildred Johnson was one lady I always crossed the street to avoid. She was the kind of lady who never read the paper but was always full of suggestions. Mildred once cornered me at a meeting for 20 minutes to tell me the paper needed to do a better job covering an issue that just the week before we did a two-page spread on. Mildred is also the lady who suggested we have someone review all the restaurants in town. That's just what we need, I thought as I listened to her, a food critic. After all, with only six restaurants in town I'm sure the column would be long running. Mildred.

I returned to the office and printed some pictures to show Arthur. Of course he was thrilled because I had a nice shot of the 100-year-old lady surrounded by a group of second graders. The irony was a bit much for me, but Arthur figured it would sell some papers. I decided to duck out of the office for a bit, just in case Arthur had anymore hot assignments.

Just around the corner from the office was a small pub I liked to go to called Kelley's. It was getting later in the afternoon and because I had to cover the town council meeting that night, I decided to have a pint or two to kill some time; besides, those meetings were always more tolerable when you had a few pops to warm you up. Kelley's was pretty empty when I got there, but the reporter from the radio station was sitting at the bar. I pulled up a stool next to him. Naturally, he had to cover the same meeting.

"You know," he said just as I sat down to greet a waiting beer, "I think I could have seven of these before that fucking meeting and it still wouldn't be any better."

"I figure it would be."

"How's that?"

"Because with any luck, by number seven you'd be blasted enough that you'd forget all about the meeting and stay here for the night. Shit, if anything really important were to happen we could always catch it on the replay when they show it tonight on cable."

"You know, I've never thought about it like that. Maybe I should have one more."

Time passed quickly and before I knew it we were sitting in council chambers listening to six of the town's wisest citizens drone on and on. One item on the agenda was of particular interest to me because it actually had to do with me. I'd written a column for the paper the week before about how council's meetings always started late and that it was discourteous to anyone who wanted to attend and, in fact, was a way to discourage people from showing up.

When they reached the end of the agenda — where the item about my column was located — I sat there as the mayor tore into what I wrote and criticized the paper and me for purposely trying to stir the pot and make a story out of nothing. I was pretty offended by what he said and I told him as much at the end of the meeting. I don't think he appreciated hearing what I thought because when I finished telling him how incompetent and ignorant I thought he was, he said he'd be calling Arthur the next day to tell him they were going to try to ban me from the meetings. Just perfect. Arthur would be thrilled. I was definitely going to need another drink.

It was pretty late by the time I left the council meeting, but I went to the bar anyway. No matter how bad of a day I had or how shitty the weather was, getting to hear the house band at the Black Dog was always a good way to cap off the night and usher in Friday. It didn't hurt any that they served the cheapest draught in town, either. And tonight I needed a beer.

When I showed up the band was just finishing sound check so I grabbed a pint and plunked down in a seat up front. The place was usually pretty quiet during the week and tonight was no different. A few barflies sat on stools, their backs to the band, hitting on the trashy looking waitress. In the corner, across the room, two old guys who looked like the place was built around them were playing pool while a couple of girls who were obviously under age flirted when a guy who looked a lot like my junior high gym teacher.

The band was really cooking. The lead singer was ripping through James Brown tunes like he wrote them and I was starting to forget about how lousy my day was and that in the morning I was probably going to have to convince my boss not only to let me keep covering town council but also to keep my job. But at that moment, all I cared about was that the band was nailing "It's a Man's Man's Man's World."

See, this was the night where anyone who wanted to could get up and play a few tunes with the band. It didn't happen much and when it did it was usually an older guy who wanted to sing some Johnny Cash or a metal head looking to relive the glory days of Poison. That's fine by me. I could usually stomach it since it was only ever for a couple of tunes. But tonight a group of girls who had nothing better to do than show up to the bar hammered on a week night had just come in and, of course, one of them headed immediately for the stage.

The girl who managed to wrestle the mic from the singer looked like she'd been hit by a truck and then left out overnight. She had make-up running down her face because she obviously walked there in the snow and the shirt she was wearing was about three sizes too small by even the kindest estimation. I'd already had a few beers but I was pretty sure I'd be approaching alcohol poisoning before I'd be able to handle what could only be described as a sound that made fighting cats sound like Mozart. It was time to go.

I fumbled with my keys in what was starting to become a bit of a snowstorm, dropping them twice in the snow around my feet before finally unlocking the door, starting the car and firing up the heater. I was definitely feeling the booze but figured I could make it home. On a night like this there wouldn't be many cars on the road. Besides, there was no way I was walking or taking a cab, only to have to get up early with a hangover to walk to my car in the morning. In a town this size the last thing I needed was for everyone driving to work in the morning to see my car parked in front of the tavern. It wasn't like the place was renowned for its breakfast specials.

I put the car in drive and eased out of the parking lot. It was slippery. Even with a few drinks in me I could tell the roads weren't good, and the snow that was starting to blow made the drive even more difficult. But as I drove through town I wasn't too concerned; the roads were cleared and, as long as I watched my speed, I thought I'd get home without any trouble.

Along the way to my house is a large field. There's a church at the top of the hill, but otherwise the field is empty. On a night like tonight that meant the visibility along that part of the road was nil. I slowed the car to an absolute crawl and prayed for the best. Then my car jarred to a halt.

"What the fuck was that?" I thought as I sat there chewing on my airbag. It was too stormy outside to tell what happened so I got out of the car, hoping not to find a person pinned under the front. The wind was bitter as it whipped against my face. In front of my car, under the headlights, I could see the deer. It was obviously dead and there was no one else around to see what had happened. My car wasn't in bad shape, either, considering I'd just whacked Bambi's mom. Better this way than with a bullet, I thought.

I was about to pull the deer into the ditch and then get back on my way home when I had another thought. I went into my car, grabbed the keys and headed for the trunk. Damn, it was cold. I opened the trunk and pulled out my workbag. Unzipping the bag, I pulled out my camera and flash.

I went back to the front of the car and set up my gear, careful to make certain you couldn't tell it was my car that had just creamed the deer. It would be a good shot, I felt. I was certain Arthur would love it.