The picture hung on Jim's livingroom wall, framed in glass and isolated. He would glance at it every once in awhile during commercial breaks or before he left for the school in the morning. It was his one success, his triumphant act from which he judged all other actions and motivations that crept across his cerebrum. Back then he was shiny. He looked toward the days. He got caught up in it so quickly, the others whirled around him. And the excitement,the heart pumping adrenaline generated from base fear still moves him when he stirs his drink and remembers the Atlantic. His slicker, now useless in this dry climate hangs on the back of his closet, isolated, gradually turning moldy green.