In which Lemming wakes up, consults an oracle, and searches for mislaid items.

At precisely 6:15 each morning an alarm clock at the bedside of Walter J. Lemming exploded in a shrill peal . And, at precisely 6:15 each morning, Walter J. Lemming paid it no mind. He treated the noise more as an abrasive reminder that once again, the sun had indeed risen and, once again, he was alive to bear its witness. Instead, he rolled over onto his back, opened his eyes and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling above him.  The perimeter of a tea-hued water stain continued its slow spread. This he measured daily, but it was hard to judge its progress. The stain had not been there when he moved into the apartment, but like many things, it simply announced itself one morning, and never went away.

Mr. Lemming continued his repose for about forty more minutes, waiting for the moment when he knew he must alit, and as expected, the sudden rattle of the hot water pipe under the kitchen sink roused him from his bedclothes. The ringing of a morning alarm can be swatted and silenced like a nuisance mosquito; however, the vibration and clang of ancient and poorly fitted plumbing affects the soul -  more akin to a rabid beast needing to be put down.

Once out of bed, Lemming wove a dizzy path to the faucet in the kitchen, turned the tap on to relieve the pressure in the pipes and, in the same practiced motion, fillled the coffee pot with water. 

The tenant downstairs, Mrs. Helen Stillman, worked graveyard shifts as a cashier at the service station three blocks down. From what Lemming had learned, the service station had once been her husband's until he got into some financial trouble and was forced to sell. Unable to escape further financial trouble, and collectors with large blunt objects, Mr. Stillman took the easiest way out he could imagine: he planned to hop a train out of town. Unfortunately, he'd hatched his plan over the course of nine hours on a barstool. Needless to say he missed his train. Literally. His legs were found on some railway tracks on the east side of town. The rest of him was discovered three and a half miles up the line.  Nearly penniless, the widow Stillman appealled to the gas station's new management for employment. The owner was gracious, but not overly gracious, offering her the eleven-to-seven overnight shift. It was Mrs. Stillman's shower springing to life shortly after seven o'clock each morning which caused the offending clatter in Lemming's apartment above.

To his aquaintances, Walter J. Lemming had never been known for his eye for detail, nor his subtlety. He appeared to be a man painted in broad strokes: the creation of an artist who wanted to give only the impression of a man against a dazzling background. This, of course, was a ruse fabricated by Lemming's own design. In his day to day life, he appeared as a placid screen of  blank looks and empty phrases,  but secretly he coveted every detail of life in sweaty, sticky, clutching fists.