Here is What Happened on the Day I Decided to Sit by the Highway and Wave at Passing Cars

It took a while for people to start noticing me. In the morning during rush hour, I was indistinguishable from the roadside clutter that paints the landscape of the morning commute. Eyes forward. Hands on the wheel. No one notices a guy who’s using a personal holiday to sit in an aluminum lawn chair and wave at passing cars. And if no one notices, no one waves back. Until about 9:30.

The first person to wave back looked like a woman, though it was hard to be sure because she was moving pretty fast (I don’t know why I mention her gender, it’s not really important). I could, however, see that she didn’t smile when she waved. In fact she may have frowned more, or been the sort of person with unhappiness permanently etched in the corners of a mouth that seem to fall forever towards the floor.

But anyway, it was nice that she bothered to wave back.

More people started waving the closer it got to noon. Then the honking started with the occasional “woo woo!” and a terrible looking Toyota Corolla full of school-ditching kids who all gave me the finger in unison. There were no moonings to speak of but there was a little bit of headlight flashing and more than a couple long haul truckers who really let me have it with the big horn. One of those cottonpickers was really standing on the pedal in the hammer lane when he blew out his eighteenth tire. BOOM! SMOKE! That scaly piece of rubber sat there on the tar in front of me for the rest of the day, splayed out in the sun like a lost alligator. I thought about running out to pick it up, Frogger style, but that’s not what this day was about.

I waved big sweeping waves for hours. I alternated arms and speeds to keep things fresh. There was a nice long streak of wave-backs around three o’clock that ended when I waved at Jeff Perkins and he waved back. I knew his name was Jeff Perkins because he told me so, after he pulled off the side of the road to get out and say hello.

“Whatcha doing out here on the highway?” Jeff Perkins asked. I told him I was taking a day off to wave at motorists, like community service.

“Like community service,” he repeated with unnecessary gravitas. I could tell he was disappointed that there was only one chair here.

“Too bad there’s only one chair or I would sit with you. Hey, did you know I can do one hundred push ups?” Of course I didn’t know that.

And I don’t think a State Trooper would have ever noticed me sitting in an aluminum lawn chair, using a personal holiday to wave at passing motorists, if there hadn’t been a pale, six-foot-five bald man in a bright orange tank top doing push ups on the hot concrete next to me.

“You guys can’t be out here on the public right of way,” State Trooper yelled, trying to sound scary loud above the rush of traffic passing inches behind him.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty,” Jeff Perkins said.

“He’s going to one hundred,” I said.

Of course he wouldn’t make it to one hundred, because this State Trooper said something State Troopery like, “It’s my way now get off the highway!” and even though I could have pleaded my case with him a little more, I just decided to do what he asked. First I shook Jeff Perkins’ gravel-pocked hand and told him he still looked pretty strong at sixty push ups.

“Thanks for waving at me,” he said. He seemed pretty upset that the State Trooper was chasing me away with so many hours left in the day. His bald head started to turn splotchy flush with anger and he said he might walk over to the State Trooper, who was back in his car and talking into his radio, to give him a piece of his mind. Jeff Perkins was clenching and unclenching his fists, shifting from foot to foot when I leaned forward, put my hands on his shoulders and smiled.

That’s not what this day is about, Jeff Perkins.

The State Trooper honked.

We turned and waved at him.

Prix Fixe

Tonight I'm going to prepare a meal using only ingredients from my backyard! This will be tricky, because I don't have a garden. In fact, I don't have a backyard at all. My house is immediately adjacent to a homeless shelter and I have bricked over the back windows in order to stop all of the peering. I just made that up, I actually do have a backyard. It just really sucks.

For starters, we'll be eating a salad of dandelion greens drizzled with fresh rainwater. Do you know that I went to a fancy restaurant once and they charged me $10 for a salad with dandelions? Apparently these weeds are not just for blowing the casual wishes of children. A rough estimate reveals that my lawn is worth thousands of dollars.

For the main, I'll be serving feral Rock Pigeon over a bed of rustic root vegetables. I will trap the pigeons as they land in my yard, after being lured and fattened by the neighbor's multitude of bird feeders. I once placed an angry looking plastic owl atop my garage to keep these pigeons out of my yard, but several of them have taken up residence in a nook just below it. I like to think that they find great comfort in the illusion of security. This is why I've purchased a second plastic owl to bait my trap. I don't know what to do about the root vegetables, but I'm sure something will come to me.

For dessert, we will have a rich, buttery brioche bread pudding topped with fresh strawberry compote, a recipe handed down to me from my French grandmere, Marguerite D'Étampes de Valençay. Her secret was to add raisins plumped in Grand Marnier and orange zest. Actually I'm just kidding, there won't be any dessert. That raisin thing is from Martha Stewart.

Man versus Machine:Treadmill at the Gym Edition

Look at my shoes, Treadmill at the gym. They’re one hundred percent pure jackrabbit, kissed by Hermes and treaded with the fresh rubber of unused Formula One tires. They feel like marshmallows against my feet and their venting is so advanced that my toes will be cold when your graph passes peak cardio. These shoes are one of a kind. I made them myself in my garage, working late at night, hunched over a plywood workbench bathed in the fluorescent haze of the kind of cluttered space that feels empty without Conway Twitty playing softly on a little black radio in the corner. Several nights a week for last three years, I squinted into a jeweler’s loupe to craft the intricate genius of these kicks. Obviously they are perfectly in sync with my biomechanics. Do you know why? Because my biomechanics made them. You on the other hand were fabricated in a cold, lifeless factory in Greensboro, pieced together by other machines and workers paid too little to love you. You are filled with wires and beeping. I am filled with resolve and determination. We’ve barely started but I don’t even notice that we’ve started at all, because I can run all day in my shoes.

Going to Incline Level 5

Do you know your biggest mistake, Precor Treadmill? It’s giving me personal cable television with a headphone jack. No force in the universe is so powerful, so adept at advancing time as midday cable programming. Minutes become seconds, seconds become whatever half-seconds are called and half-seconds cease to exist when I’m watching last year’s CSI with Animal Cops on the flip flop. You can change speed and incline all afternoon but I can change channels. The only pain I feel is for the wayward teenager that Dr. Phil is scolding now about getting drunk on hand sanitizer. This really happens. Speaking of hand sanitizer, I am sweating all over you.

Going to Speed 7

Listen to me Precor Treadmill: This is a marathon to me, not some kind of backyard beanbag toss. I can keep this up for days but I doubt your motor would survive. I will give you this – your spongy deck is an immaculate conception. You take the punishing blows of my feet like the firm mattress of a Palm Springs hotel I once stayed at and remember fondly. We stayed up all night in that retro cool room, jumping in time on the bed to Club Nouveau which was a popular band in 1986. Do you remember Club Nouveau? Of course you don’t. Your blueprints hadn’t even been drawn then. You’re also a machine with no concept of present or past popular culture, which I find tragic.

Going to Speed 10

You keep throwing up hurdles but you fail to recognize that I’m a hurdler. This sprint doesn’t frighten me because I know that it’ll be over in 53 blinks of a green LED graph bar, when you’ll flash the words “Cool Down,” which may as well read “I Am Defeat.” I mean that you would say “defeat” instead of “defeated,” because how can you know the difference between a noun and a transitive verb? No one programmed you to know that. All you can do is make me run at various speeds for 30 minutes, but even I told you to start doing that in the first place. I can decide at any time that it should be 20 minutes instead, maybe use those extra ten minutes to pick things up and put them down again in front of a mirror.

Cool Down

You are pathetic. See you Thursday.

The Most Recent Days of Rocco Bossy

Yesterday

Rocco Bossy sits down next to Thomas at a small booth in the back of the restaurant where they both work. It’s their lunch break, even though it’s technically dinner. Rocco doesn’t really like Thomas, so he just says something about Burning Man.

-There’s this thing called Burning Man.
-Everyone knows what Burning Man is.
-I don’t think that’s true.
-It is. And everyone also knows that last year, The Man was accidentally burned early.
-Early Man.
-That’s right.

Thomas goes to Burning Man every year, but Rocco’s never gone. He’s kind of repulsed by it.

-Does everyone there call him “The Man?”
-Yes, most people do.
-So does that make it an anti-establishment thing? Burning “the man?”
-No, it’s just a nickname.
-They should consider a different nickname. I’m pretty sure “The Man” is taken.
-It’s contextual.
-So's everything.
-You should come with me next year. I can ask Flame Lizard if you can join our community.
-No thanks.
-We’re going to have a great concept next year.
-No thanks.
-You don’t know what you’re missing.
-No thanks.

The Day Before Yesterday

There’s a guy in Rocco’s living room who looks familiar. He’s probably a friend of Rocco’s roommate Steve. He’s holding a yellow flyer when Rocco walks into the room.

-There’s a place downtown that’s giving three dollar haircuts to people over 70. Regular price is six dollars.
-I would pay six dollars for a haircut.

Rocco really would, because he usually pays ten. This guy has a coupon though that changes the regular price from six dollars to five dollars.

-I have a coupon though that changes the regular price from six dollars to five dollars.
-I would rather pay the six dollars than use a coupon for a haircut. Six dollars isn’t much money.
-I’m going to use the coupon.
-I’ll be embarrassed for you.
-I need to cut the coupon out, though.
-I’m sure you can just show the flyer to the barber.
-Do you guys have some scissors?

And Three Days Ago

Rocco is at Carla’s place, they’re on the sofa, legs intertwined, enjoying some cable. Rocco’s got Carla’s compact mirror and he’s looking at his teeth.

-How about this flossing?
-You mean flossing teeth?
-Yeah. It’s great.
-Let’s call for pizza.

This thing with Carla could end at any moment, it feels tenuous, not dangerous, temporary, not difficult. They’re in bed after pizza when Rocco delivers the bad news.

-I’m working a double tomorrow.
-Again?
-This is a real problam.
-Did you just say “problam?”
-So what, that’s how I pronounce it. Problam.
-Since when?
-Since forevoo.

Ebay: Questions For Seller

This item is amazing and will probably change your life! It definitely changed mine, and given recent world events, you're going to really be glad you own this item! The decision to sell this item was very difficult for me, but I just can't afford to keep it anymore. My loss is your gain!!! I guarantee this item to be in A+++++ condition but buyer agrees to accept it "as is." There is one small scratch on the front of the item, but it's barely noticeable, especially in my small apartment's poor lighting. At the end of the auction, I will ship this item anywhere in the continental U.S. for a nominal fee or overseas for a little more. Please email me with any questions about this AWESOME item and the answers to all questions will be posted below. Thanks for looking and happy bidding!

Q: Hi, I might be interested in bidding on this item but you don't actually say what it is. What is this item?
A: This item is amazing! Happy Ebaying!

Q: My question was more about what physical form this item takes. Thanks.
A: This is a physical item and it is amazing! You won't be disappointed. Happy bidding!

Q: Hi I just saw this and I'm also confused about what you're selling here. Could you please provide more details?
A: Sure! This amazing item is unique in the world. I've owned it for almost ten years! Wow, when I say that, it seems hard to believe that time has already gone by. I will say though, things were pretty great before my accident. Well, good luck and thanks for looking!

Q: Hello, is this item a female robot?
A: No, I'm not currently selling any robots.

Q: Hi, I emailed a couple times earlier. I just noticed that all of the bidders for your item have user names that are very similar to yours. In fact, all of them are "steve##" with different numbers at the end. Are you bidding on your own item?
A: Wow, I'm glad someone else noticed that - I thought I was going crazy! Seriously though, there are a lot of Steves in the world. Thanks for your question!

Q: This item is amazing! Is there any chance that I could pay you DOUBLE the amount of the highest bid when the auction closes?
A: I agree that this item is amazing and worth at least what you're offering, but that's against Ebay rules and unfair to all of the bidders, sorry. Good luck!

Q: I think you emailed that last question to yourself. I'm seriously considering reporting you to Ebay staff.
A: What was your question?

Q: Do you have any pictures of the item to prove that it exists?
A: Yes! I have hundreds of pictures but unfortunately, I don't currently own a computer so I can't email them or add them to the listing. Thanks for looking!

Q: That doesn't make any sense. You're using a computer to answer these questions.
A: No, you're the asshole, buddy!

Q: You don't actually have an item to sell, do you?
A: Yes I do. It's a female robot.

Q: No it isn't. You answered an earlier question by saying that you weren't selling any robots.
A: No it isn't. You answered an earlier question by saying meh meh meh blah blah bleh hey look at me, I'm an asshole and I have terrible hair.

Q: I've just notified Ebay staff of your fraudulent listing. Happy Ebaying.
A: Ok, fine, you want the truth? The truth is that I don't actually have an item to sell. I'm destitute, lonely and I require expensive medication to keep me from doing unpredictable, dangerous things. Things that can cause harm to others. Sometimes to people I've never met. Do you understand what I'm saying?

Q: Are you threatening me?
A: Yes. And your family.

Bidding for item #413210780 has ended. Steve65 is the winning bidder.

Eddie and Ramone Will Freak Your Shit Out

Have you seen these two? Eddie and Ramone are jive walkers and they will freak your shit out! Do you know about jive walking, have you seen it? Someone listens to music in headphones, walks on a crowded street or in a shopping mall, and dances like they're alone in the dark or maybe stranded alone on a super high-tech island that was built for hosting illegal dance parties in international waters. They jive walk like they invented dancing itself and no one can judge their abilities because how can you judge the very people who created all forms of movement to music? You'll die trying, I promise you. Better people have tried to judge these jive walkers and the same thing always happens. Shame.

Eddie and Ramone are no different, they cannot be judged. They are gorgeous. They have matching pants with many useless zippers, black pants and red tank tops. Muscles, oh god yes. Very tan skin. Both of them are gifts to us, gifts from the god Apollo, helping us understand how miserable and sad we are. We are zombies to them! And together, a duo, they are more powerful than any other single jive walker will ever be. Did I mention that they are virtually identical in appearance? The only way you can tell them apart is by noticing that Eddie always wears aviator-style sunglasses. Please friend, don't mess with Eddie's sunglasses. He'll bite you! I'm not kidding.

Eddie and Ramone can see perfectly up to a half mile away, they always know when it's about to rain and they're explosive when they jive walk. They have matching music devices that I think are MP3 players. I haven't really ever been close enough to see. They synchronize these matching music devices at the beginning of each jive walking session, so they're always on the same beat. They prefer to jive walk to "The Grunt" by the JBs and sometimes to "Honky Tonk Popcorn" by Bill Dogget because they have very similar funky drum breaks. It might sound boring, but trust me, it's easier if they use the same song again and again. This one time, Ramone started to jive walk to "The Grunt" when he was supposed to start to "Honky Tonk Popcorn" and Eddie went fucking crazy, bit Ramone's shoulder - I'm serious! I don't care what anyone on the sidewalk said that day, you don't bite your jive walking partner's shoulder. That's messed up. You will agree with me, however, that it does demonstrate a certain level of passion and commitment, even to the casual observer.

I've seen them perform dozens of times and sometimes I follow them for miles, wishing they would notice me. But how could they? I am a zombie to them, just like you. They only notice each other, these two, and they will live and die within seconds of each other for every remaining moment.

Their moves are incredible.

They've been described in the papers as a cross between pop music's Tom Jones and television's Fred "Rerun" Berry, God rest his soul, but I don't see the Tom Jones, personally. I would have said Easy Rock, the famous breakdancer, based solely on the strength of Ramone's headspins and Eddie's atomic hollowback. I promise you will spit out your beverage when you see them and I still haven't told you the most remarkable thing about Eddie and Ramone.

Eddie and Ramone are monkeys.

You heard me. Eddie and Ramone are actually three year old howler monkeys. You should see them with their headphones on and those little red tank tops! You'll lose your mind, man.

When I see them though, I like to think about the man who trained them, Dr. Eddie Phelps. I marvel at the dedication and vision this human Eddie has and how much he's given to me, to all of us on streets and in shopping malls. Whenever and wherever I see his monkeys jive walking, Eddie Phelps is always close by. He's usually in white pants, a Hawaiian shirt and aviator-style sunglasses. I haven't ever approached him though, I'm far too shy and he's far too serious. I know, you'd think that a man who spent three years raising and training two howler monkeys to synchronize-jive-walk in an urban environment would be fun to talk to and maybe even dance with. But you'd be wrong. Dr. Eddie Phelps doesn't ever dance.

Not any more.

Daniel Went Down to The Waterfront to Pick Up Some Navy Sailors, Even Though He’s Not Gay

He’s not even bi-curious, but he is a joiner and everyone was talking about the sailors so, you know. He couldn’t help himself.

“There’s like a million of them, all pressed and clean, with big bulging muscles and they’re just here for a few days,” this woman in his office had told him. “They walk right off the Navy boats and BAM! They’re everywhere. They dock here for the Rose Festival.” Daniel was new in town but he knew what she was talking about. The Rose Festival was a very popular thing with parades, rickety fun-rides, some kind of Local Princess contest, and lots and lots of rain. Sometimes it rained really hard, so hard that it overwhelmed the city’s sewer system and caused raw sewage to overflow into the river. That’s the river that the sailors float in on.

“And women go down there to look at them or something?”

“They do more than look at them, if you know what I mean,” and then she blushed, so he did know what she meant. He only worked in the mailroom but that didn’t mean he couldn’t understand when someone was insinuating the availability of free, easy sex. Granted, he didn’t really think through the whole not-gay thing, but still. Easy sex.

The next day was Friday, the first day of the sailor invasion, and Daniel came to work prepared. Ten minutes before his lunch break, he put on his most patriotic accessory - a Davy Crockett coonskin cap he bought at the Alamo - and started practicing his pickup lines. At exactly noon, he walked outside and made a line for the first nineteen year-old he saw in poofy pants. That kid turned out to be a hippie trying to get some hacky sack going, so Daniel walked a little further and found an actual sailor sitting on a street bench. He was reading Maxim Magazine.

“Hey guy, come here often?”

“Not really,” the sailor mumbled without looking away from Jessica Alba’s chachabingos. This was going to be tricky.

Daniel crossed the street and walked into a corner grocery with a few sailors milling around inside. He strolled around nonchalantly until one of them stopped near him, a short pimply kid with a tattoo of the Georgia state flag on his forearm.

“Sailor, you look like you cou-“

“Hey, do ya’ll got any Yoo-hoo chocolate drinks?”

And before Daniel could respond, another sailor rounded the corner and launched a pack of frosted Donettes at the kid from Georgia. The package broke open and tiny donuts were everywhere, dusting the raccoon tail of Daniel’s hat with a fine coat of powdered sugar. The kid from Georgia was in full pursuit of his attacker and Daniel decided to head back outside. He walked three blocks and found two older, dark haired sailors waiting to cross the street. They looked like they might be officers.

“Hey fellas, looking for a good time?”

“Yeah, where are all the goddamn women in this town?” one of them said while the other laughed and punched him in the shoulder. Daniel laughed too and wondered if maybe they were together. The light turned green and as they started to walk away, Daniel could hear them saying something about his coonskin cap. Progress.

Things Got Complicated When Phil Attended That Group Session For People With Anxiety

Three weeks earlier, on the telephone with his HMO's "triage counselor," Phil Copeland tried to make an appointment to see a psychologist. Or a psychiatrist. Whichever one can write the prescriptions. Prescriptions for Less Crazy.

"I have an open appointment in three weeks that's a group session or an appointment in four weeks that's a solo session," she said.

"These are desperate times," he said.

"We'll see you in three weeks, Mr. Copeland" and she ended the call.

"That was terrible decision-making," he said to an empty room.

Three weeks later, the group session for people with anxiety was a total disaster. How could it not be? Ten of the twelve patients immediately admitted to experiencing intense anxiety in groups of ten or more people. They were terrified little animals, alternately fidgety, defensive and calculating the approximate damage that they'd suffer after leaping from the room's one operable window. It was only the first floor, but those were very scratchy looking bushes.

During the session, each of them was supposed to tell a story illustrating how their anxiety affected daily life. One woman, Sharon, told the other participants that she hadn't been on a date in three years because she always cancelled them at the last minute. Hers was a fear of meeting new people, a fear of intimacy and ultimately, a fear of rejection. She had no trouble making dates, she was very attractive, but she couldn't ever bring herself to sit face to face with a strange new man and ask him about hope and hobbies. She glanced Phil's way as she was finishing her story and he nodded thoughtfully at her, wrinkled his forehead to say yes Sharon, I understand your pain and wrote "Ask Sharon out, several times" in his notebook.

A thin, nervous man named Steve explained that he wakes up in the middle of the night, panicked, screaming and swinging his arms wildly, punching at any unfortunate body or furniture within his reach. He once lacerated his hand on a night-stand, he's put his fist through the wall twice in as many weeks and he gave his last girlfriend a black eye. She refused to sleep over anymore, creating a distance between them that would never be shortened.

Another man named Harry refused to share any story or anecdote, saying only "Pass - I'll pass" and then again "Ok thank you, I'll pass" after the long uncomfortable silence and stares that followed. He stood up, put on his sunglasses and walked out of the room a few moments later. None of them expected to ever see him again though all of them wanted to call shotgun in his horrible little LeBaron.

Harry's egress was followed by an exhausted librarian named Michelle, who told the group that she'd become suddenly and inexplicably terrified of the Dewey Decimal system after her mother died. She'd been misfiling books for months, her poor job performance compounding her anxiety and, ironically, making it impossible for her to find several self-help books that she desperately wanted to read.

Several more people told stories about how they were tense and anxious over simple, everyday decisions that are usually taken for granted. Answer the telephone or not answer the telephone. Tip the barista or don't tip the barista. White shirt or blue shirt. Chicken or tofu, rice or noodles. Even though these things weren't the cause of their anxiety, they teetered them near the edge of helplessness every day, guaranteeing that they'd never again sleepwalk through the banalities of this modern life.

And then it was Phil's turn.

In his head, he told them about his trip to the dry cleaner last Friday. He stood there at the counter in front of Cheryl, the same rosey-cheeked woman that took and returned his clothes every week. She asked him, as she always did, if he still wanted light starch for his shirts. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out of it was a hissing sound from the back of his throat that sounded exactly like the suction device that dentists use. Phil suddenly had no idea if he wanted light starch for his shirts.

This question, so benign, had short circuited his mind and left him paralyzed, no longer present with Cheryl or the two people in line behind him. He was told later by one of the paramedics that he stood in front of the counter, awake and perfectly still, for nearly twenty minutes. No one knew what to do with him, he didn't respond to talking, yelling, light slaps to the face. A small crowd gathered after the ambulance arrived and Phil didn't notice them until well after he'd regained his composure and said "Yes, I think light starch as usual" to a Cheryl that was now terrified, on the verge of tears. He left the dry cleaner, still dazed and clutching his soiled clothing, resolved to get help.

In his head, this is the story Phil told to the group session for people with anxiety and he smiled inside as everyone burst into thunderous applause. Steve gave him a high five. Harry drove by on the street outside, pumping his fist and honking his horn. Michelle gave him a thumbs up as she mouthed the words "Thank you, Phil" and Sharon, she fainted into his tan, muscular arms.

In his head, Phil turned a corner that day, unaware that in reality he was actually sitting frozen and vacant in front of eleven mortified strangers with anxiety disorders. They were invisible to him in a room that that was so silent, you could clearly hear the slow tick of the clock on the wall and a faint hissing noise that would sound familiar to several of them, though none could quite figure out why.

Making Peace With Contemporary Art: A Conversation With The Jasper Johns Painting, Flag

ME
Hey.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
Hello.

ME
So what's the deal, you're an American flag?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
Yes.

ME
But not the abstract representation of something in the form of a flag?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
No. I'm made of paint, newspaper and plywood.

ME
Ah, so the newspaper must be articles about war or corruption, something important.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
No, it's mostly classified ads and the Living section.

ME
And the plywood?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
It was free.

ME
I'm really struggling with this.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
I sold for twenty million dollars in 1998.

ME
That seems unnecessary.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
I'm inclined to agree, actually.

ME
Well ok then.

The Mosquitoes Are Back

I came home from work the other day and one of them was in my bed. He was wearing my pajamas and reading my book. It was actually less a book and more a magazine, one of those newsatainment magazines. Time. It still pissed me off, because I hate it when people read my magazines before I do.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m only alive for ten days, twenty tops. I’m making the most of it.”

“Fuck you, get out of my bed. Insects don’t belong in houses.”

“My name is Steve, actually, and I’m not going anywhere.”

I don’t keep weapons in my house, although in retrospect I could have just swung a shoe at him. I’m kind of a pacifist and pleasant weather makes me indecisive, so I just shrugged my shoulders and left the room. In that way, I guess I decided to let him stay. We compromised on the living arrangements and I blew up an air mattress for him, set him up real nice in the extra room. He asked if he could have a hobby corner in his room to work on some little projects that he enjoys. Whatever Steve, it’s your room now. You signed a lease.

We have the weirdest conversations. He’s all action and go-man-go in the mornings and early evenings but you can’t get that lazy motherfucker to say “boo” when the earth’s sun is shining strong. He just sort of stumbles around the house and jokes about what he bit that morning or what he’s going to try and bite later that night. He doesn’t actually need blood because he’s a male mosquito, but that doesn’t stop him from talking about it constantly.

“I don’t feel like I can fully appreciate what you’re telling me, Steve.”

“Doesn’t it make sense to you that your blood would taste differently than, say, a squirrel’s?”

“Have you been tasting my blood?”

“What? No, no, I told you. I don’t swing that way man.”

He met a female mosquito named Celia last week and brought her home to meet me. He never has anyone over, especially not girls, so I made dinner for the three of us. Celia was very sweet but a little homely so when she left, I told Steve he could probably do better. I didn't mean it in a bad way, but he got pretty mad at me. I guess he really loves her.

“Hey, I’m sorry man. She seemed really sweet, I think you two are going to be great together.”

“I’ll probably be dead in a few days, you know.”

“I know Steve. I know.”

In fact he looked pretty bad this morning. He’s usually up before me, bouncing off the walls, already covered in flower nectar or some kind of decaying organic matter. Steve loves that stuff. Anyway he wasn’t up this morning so I opened the door to his bedroom and yelled at him to get out of bed. He rolled over and pulled the blanket over his tiny head parts and huge compound eyes. I turned the light on and yelled at him again, told him he was making a mistake. It’s a beautiful day outside, you need to get out there, I said, but I didn’t say why because we both knew. I stood still in the doorway and focused on Steve until I could see the blanket move up and down under the draw of each small breath. I turned the light off and gently pulled the door closed, feeling a little better about these recent predictions of a dry summer.

She Has A Tattoo On The Inside Of Her Wrist

In plain block letters it says, “never give up," but she gives up all the time. She started jogging once and quit after about seven minutes. She tried to eat better for a while, more leafy greens and shit, but there she was in a shopping mall food court eating sweet and sour pork at Wok N’ Roll. She gave up on therapy. She gave up on saving money. She gave up on saying “please.” She gave up on radio, the institution of marriage and deodorant, after all that stuff about aluminum and Alzheimer’s. She gave up on the Olympics for obvious reasons. She’s never given up smoking, but that probably doesn’t count.

She’s given up on working. She can’t keep a job for more than a couple months, mostly because she hates customers. She doesn’t think she has the credentials necessary for a job without customers. She gave up on relatives and friends when they stopped calling to check on her. She gave up on strangers after she was robbed in a convenience store. You could say she's given up on people. She’s definitely given up on people.

She gave up her son once.

Or maybe it was her daughter. Possibly neither, because those times back east were a blur. She barely remembers being pregnant, let alone giving birth, but it comes back to her in dreams, through a lens smeared with Vaseline. She can see the hospital room and hear the voices but she doesn’t recognize anyone and can’t understand the words because they're Deutsch. Sie ist sehr jung, sehr jung. She made some calls back there two years ago, after the dreams started happening, but of course no one was left. They evaporated like contrails. She used to know everything about them but now she doesn’t even remember how she met them or why she went there in the first place. Was that where she gave up on love? Where she gave up on playing the guitar? Was that where she got this stupid fucking tattoo, the one on the inside of her wrist? She can't remember, so she looked into getting it removed, found out how much it would cost. It's really pretty reasonable these days.

Our Janitor, He Has A Very Positive Attitude

In the Break Room

Hi Steve! Say, can I take those newspapers away from you? Gotta keep the place clean! No no, that's fine, if you're not done with them yet I can hang out over here and wait for you to finish reading. Hey by the way, did you know that the U.S. leads the world in paper product consumption? We just can't get enough of the stuff! What's that? Oh, ok, I'll let you finish reading. I can clean these windows while I wait. Hey Steve, can I tell you something, you know, just between the two of us? Sometimes I come into the break room at night, open the refrigerator, and stick my fingers in everyone's leftovers. I really like the way cold spaghetti feels on my hands after a long day of sweeping, Steve. Is that so wrong?

Cleaning the Elevator

Hi Lisa, hi Sandy! Hey, just getting back from lunch together? What'd you have? Sandwiches! Good ol' sandwiches. There aren't many things that don't taste good in sandwich form, are there? Well, maybe possum. Nothing makes that taste good, I'll tell you what! The other night, I had two possums in my yard and they were tussling and screeching up a horrible fuss. I called my friend Ed and said "Man, I can't tell if those things are fuckin' or fightin'!" Hey, by the way, did you know that the possum actually has opposable thumbs on its paws, much like our own? I sure wish I could get a possum to clean this elevator for me! Hey, this is your floor, you ladies have a great afternoon. Oh and Lisa - everyone thinks you should go a little easier on that cheap perfume.

Replacing the Toilet Paper

Knock knock! Anyone in her- WHOA! Hooooo boy! Wow, hey is that you in there Tim? Yeah, I thought I recognized your shoes. Hey Tim, how ya fixed for TP in there? I can roll one under the door for you if you think you're going to need some extra help. Say, did you know that the average person spends 30 minutes a day in workplace restrooms? That's like 1/25 of your entire life you're pissing away! Get it? Pissing away. Oh, that kills me. Hey, why so quiet Tim? Are you embarrassed that I know all about your troubles with loose stool? Man, that's nothing - you should see what this place looks like after Mark in Accounting comes through. It's like World War III, Tim. Goddamn World War III.

Sweeping the Stairwell

Hi Sam! On your way between floors, eh? Man, sometimes I feel like I'm working in an ant colony, everyone hustling around, up and down, busy busy busy. Do you ever feel that way too, Sam? I'll tell you, sometimes it makes my head spin! I mean, if you guys are ants, I'm like that stray beetle that kind of wanders through the ant colony, all clumsy and slow. Hey, did you know that the ancient Egyptians thought that beetles were a sign of good luck? I bet no one thinks of me that way! What? Yeah, ok, you should get going to that meeting on five. Oh, hey Sam - good luck with your diabetes.

Vacuuming After Hours

Allison, is that you working late over there? Man, I'll tell you what, some of you people amaze me with your dedication. Then again, you must not have a family or boyfriend to be staying here so late like this. What's that? A husband? And two kids? Awwww, I think that's super, you're a real lucky lady. Hey, did you know that the U.S. divorce rate is the highest in the world and that more than 50% of people married this year will get one? That's pretty incredible! I bet you're a glass half-full kind of lady though, aren't you? Oh yeah, I'm sorry, I should let you finish up there so you can get home to your family. Have a good night. Oh and Allison - you know if I wasn't already stalking Lisa, I'd definitely consider stalking you. Ha ha, hey, I'm just joking! But seriously, you should watch your back. There are a lot of wackos out there.

Youth At Risk

Little Katie Sanderson is five years old. Shortly after she was born, her parents started to plan a move from their tract home community in the suburbs of Chicago to an established inner city neighborhood. As former city dwellers themselves, they felt too isolated in the suburbs and wanted their daughter to have the benefit of growing up in a vibrant urban environment. Unfortunately, this means that Katie will spend most of her childhood and adolescence exposed to a diverse group of people from varying backgrounds, forcing her to develop a healthy respect for opinions that are different from her own.

************
William Counter is a sixteen year old Junior at Sampson High School in Las Vegas. He’s a handsome kid who gets good grades, is Secretary of the drama club and maintains a modest circle of very close friends. One of his friends recently gained easy access to marijuana through an older brother and started bringing it to parties and other small gatherings. William declined to smoke the first few times it was passed around but finally decided to try it in an attempt to impress a girl. William got stoned the first time he smoked it and later that night he had protected sex with the girl he was trying to impress. Tragically, both will always remember the night they first met as one of the best of their youth.

************
Eight year old Tim Bennett of Los Angeles really loves Halloween. This year, he decided he wanted to dress as a devil. When he told his mom, a professional seamstress and clothing designer, she was thrilled and encouraged the idea. She crafted an elaborate costume complete with lighting and smoke effects. Sadly, the devil costume was extremely well received by Tim's neighbors, resulting in the largest candy haul of his young life.

************
Jenny Richardson is a confused fifteen year old growing up in Aurora, Colorado. As long as she can remember, she's always been more attracted to girls than boys. She's tried dating boys before, but she quickly loses interest and things end poorly. As she's gotten older, she's started dressing and acting more masculine and lots of kids at school are calling her "Jenny Dikerson" and "Butchy Richardson." At a recent meeting with her guidance counselor, she was encouraged to explore her emerging feelings by visiting an activity group organized by local gay and lesbian teens. Unfortunately, after taking this advice, she will for the first time begin to feel loved and accepted by a group of her peers.

Schools in Crisis

Due to budgetary constraints, my high school Geography teacher was Frank George, the affable, short, round, balding and bespectacled man we had only seen previously loitering around the school track. He was always out there alone, twisting and adjusting his loose-fitting polyblend slacks, a clipboard in one hand and a Diet Pepsi in the other.

"Who the hell is that guy?" someone would say. "He's always out there, fucking around with his pants."

"He doesn't work here. My friend Brian said he wanders in from the neighborhood and hangs out in the stadium all day."

"I heard he's got that thing that makes you yell swear words and racist comments. Parrot's Syndrome."

"You mean Tourette's."

On the first day of World Geography class he introduced himself as the school's golf instructor, though no one could recall "Introduction to Golf" being an educational option available to us. While he was in fact employed by our school and did not in fact have Tourette's, his qualifications to teach World Geography were beyond dubious. In the first month, he made it clear that he had never before traveled outside of the country, did not know the less-than-fine political distinction between North and South Korea and couldn't convincingly explain the difference between a fjord and an inlet. As distracted children, only one of us was actually discouraged by these revelations - a smarmy kid who would eventually be named valedictorian of the graduating class ahead of me. I think his name was Charles Andrews.

Charles Andrews decided early that he would take down Frank George by embarrassing him at every available opportunity. His weapon of choice was a loud tongue-cluck or a "tsk," followed by the correction of every gaffe and mispronunciation in every lecture. Charles decided that he'd been cheated by the Tampa public school system and unlike the rest of us, he took no pleasure in the consecutive days spent watching movies pirated from Mr. George's satellite television subscription - Red Dawn, The Poseidon Adventure, Terminator 2. While the rest of us bit hard on Jolly Ranchers and wondered if Ernie Borgnine would make it out of that upside down cruise ship alive, Charles fumed quietly over SAT study guides. Charles Andrews decided early that he would ruin this golf instructor's year and I decided early that I really hated Charles Andrews.

Now, I'll readily concede that he was pretty good about catching most of Frank George's mistakes. And sometimes his correction was actually more entertaining than the original mistake. For some reason though, Charles missed a repeated mispronunciation of the African nation of Tanzania as Tanzanzia. Look at those closely, then say them both out loud. I always favored this mispronunciation, the extra "z" giving one of the poorest countries in the world a mystical, almost science fiction-like quality. Our spacecraft settled gently into the fine orange crater-dust of Tanzanzia, the most treacherous planet known in the Tourette Galaxy. It should be no surprise that, using nothing more than a set of encyclopedias and some old National Geographic magazines, I would write that year’s term paper on Tanzania. The title would be simple, misspelled and entirely inappropriate for a factual research paper. It would be Tanzanzia: Land of Mystery?

Tanzanzia: Land of Mystery? became my sophomore magnum opus for three reasons: It clenched my "A" for the year, it made Frank George feel proud to have taught this class and it angered Charles Andrews enough to lose his smug cool and call me terrible things in a fit of hallway rage, on his very last day of high school. To earn all of this, I spent an honest month working on the paper, meticulously developing “facts” about the fictional exports and favored snacks of these Tanzanzian people. Did you know that the popular get-together game Jenga is actually derived from a traditional Tanzanzian game that involves carefully stacking and unstacking a small pile of smoked crickets? Neither did I, until I made it up.

My Tanzanzia became bulletproof when coupled with photos that had been obviously cut directly from the faded and worn pages of 1970s encyclopedias and travel magazines. In reality, not a single picture in this report was actually related to Tanzania, not the picture of Mt. Everest that I labeled, "THE FRIGHTENING MT. KILIMANJARO HAS CLAIMED THE LIVES OF MANY WOULD-BE MOUNTAINEERS" and certainly not the picture of California's Half Moon Bay, inappropriately captioned, "THE BRITISH GREATLY ENJOY A HOLIDAY IN ZANZIBAR." On the very last day of class, Charles Andrews sat stunned and speechless before a smitten Frank George, who held my report high in front of the class for the resolution of this story.

"All you people should take note of this, this is a marvelous report. Look at these pitchers. These are marvelous pitchers. Mr. Schang, please tell us where you got such marvelous pitchers."

"Most of them were taken by my father. He lived in Tanzanzia for the PeaceCorps," and I really said Tanzanzia, the way Mr. George always said it.

"Well it's breathtaking. What a great report."

"Thank you. It was easy to write, you know, such an interesting place," but he wasn't listening to me. He was cradling my report and cooing at it like a loving mother with her newborn, something I imagined that Charles Andrews had never experienced.

An Open Letter To American Consumers

Dear American Consumer,

If there are three pennies in front of you on the ground, two of them are "tails" up and one is "heads" up, which penny do you pick up? The "heads" up one, right? WRONG. You don't pick up any of them, because pennies are stupid. I hate pennies! Stores don't like it when you pay for things with pennies and everyone hates getting them with their change, so what's the point?

Pennies have no value. I tried to take some pennies to the bank recently, you know to exchange them for real money, and the bank was like "Nah, we don't really take those anymore, supply and demand, blah blah blah." Can you imagine? I have so many pennies on my dresser, you can't even see the dresser anymore, only pennies! That really sucks because I spent a lot of time refinishing that dresser with this really nice cherry-colored stain. It's a really classy piece of furniture. You should have seen it before I did all that work - Craptown USA, baby. Anyway, here are a few other reasons to hate pennies:

1) Pennies are popular with children and the homeless. British scientists may have discovered that pennies carry 3 BILLION more germs per square millimeter than silver coins. I'm still searching for the specific research paper that confirms this, but my guess is that regular people like us place a higher value on eye-catching, shiny silver coins, making us less likely to hand them out to begging children and street people (the "petri-dish demographic").

2) Pennies encourage socialism and Jerry Lewis. Convenience store counters across America now have those charity jars and "leave a penny/take a penny" dishes, compelling you to give and take money to and from strangers. What kind of screwy social engineering is that? Hell, while we're at it, why not draw up some magic, invisible "zones" all over cities that tell you where you can and cannot build certain types of buildings? Not on my watch, mister.

3) Abraham Lincoln. What an asshole!

People, please stop using these pennies. There are two things you can start doing right away to help. First, if someone asks you to pay $3.51 for something and you hand them $3.50, they're going to let it slide almost every time. Try it, it works. Second, send me all the pennies you have around the house or office and I'll somehow use them to buy a plane ticket to Washington D.C. Once there, I'll lobby every goddamn Senator and Congressman I can find to abolish the use of pennies. With a little luck and some efficient scheduling, I'll also be able to moon the Lincoln Memorial. Time is money and so on.

Sincerely,

Sloan Schang

Something About An Ensemble of Parallel Universes

I’m driving home in the winter of 2004 with a small load of uninteresting groceries when my pickup truck somehow becomes a time machine. On the radio is a thing about love and I’m tapping the steering wheel and biting my lip in the overacted style of Patrick Swayze, playing whatever film role once required him to do the same. I’m thinking about reaching into the paper bag on the passenger seat, my fingers caressing then tearing that easy-open bag of Vienna Fingers, when everything goes dark. The car is still moving, but the engine is silent and the radio, headlights and windshield wipers have all stopped with the kind of power-down sound that happens every day inside of nuclear reactors. You know, the one that goes bwoooooooooooo in a deep, booming tone as it trails off into nothing. I’m coasting now in this sudden emptiness, accompanied only by the wind whistling through the crack in my windshield.

Did I mention that my truck is old and terrible? This presumed electrical short has not impressed me yet, especially not in light of last month’s issues with exhaust in the passenger compartment. Still, I’m frozen, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the problem to fix itself or my cell phone to ring when I take a hard, unseen speed bump and feel the car start to slow. A bicyclist passes me on the right, straining through the darkened window to see a stick shift gripped tightly in my right hand, the steering wheel and crumpled bag of vanilla cookies in my left. My speed drops below ten and as the bicycle pulls away, I reach for the key in the ignition and turn it forward.

click

A warm, blinding light envelops me for what feels like several seconds and when it dims, I am still and quiet in the parking lot of a Shawnee, Oklahoma grocery store in the summer of 1963. You’ll understand that it will take me the better part of an hour to work these details out and when I finally do, I will promptly faint and lie unconscious for several minutes in this grocery store’s parking lot.

When I first come out of that warm, blinding light though, I assume that I am dead and understand this to mean that my truck has finally burst into flames and exploded while coasting at a speed of five to seven miles an hour. I weep softly for the things I never said to my family until I hear the thud of a shopping cart against my door. I look up to see a man in a mustache and light brown polyester shirt mouthing the words “I’m sorry.” Confused, I cautiously roll down the window and ask this man if I am in the afterlife. He smiles kindly, scratches the back of his head and says what you have already predicted to be something like “Sort of, but most of us just call it Oklahoma.”

Dazed, I stumble out of the truck to see that it is lightly and evenly charred from the superheat of time travel. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a truck like that,” the mustachioed man says while squinting at a style of automotive design that won’t become recognizeable for about twenty more years.

“What’s happening to me?” I say to him, launching the frantic line of questioning that eventually reveals to me what year it is and triggers my subsequent lightheaded collapse. When I regain conciousness, the mustachioed man is joined by a clean cut grocery clerk who calls me “sir” and helps me up, back into my truck. Behind the wheel again, I instinctively reach for the key in the ignition and turn it away from me as the verbal protests of my Oklahoma samaritans melt into the warm, blinding light of someplace that looks like it might be Canada.

Your Hair is Beautiful, Alan

Alan and Wendy met in the summer of 1983, at the birthday party of a mutual friend’s excitable and tyrannous blind child. San Francisco was more affordable then, though you wouldn't have known it from the cars that lined the street that day. In the backyard of a cavernous Pacific Heights Victorian house, they met first through a savory cloud of hickory smoke and then more at a small wicker table beneath a gaunt little Japanese maple. Their quiet, brisk conversation about the excess around them came easily, each having long ago traded the trappings of financial gain for the smug embrace of voluntary near-poverty.

"This house has more bathrooms than people," she said.

"I'm stealing these forks," he whispered.

On their fifth date, they splashed soy milk into organic tea and discussed the ominous successes of a fledgling membership warehouse store called "Costco." The business section of the Chronicle had suggested that this was the future of American consumerism - everything would be made bigger, nothing would be made smaller. They were aghast and trembling with rage when they decided to travel to the flagship Costco store in Seattle. They would smuggle a camera inside and, under cover of giant bags of kibble, photograph each other pinned and crushed beneath giant mayonnaise, giant peanut butter, giant paper towels and giant chicken nuggets. The photos would be artfully staged, capturing the confused stares of passing shoppers, and they would display them in the warehouse art gallery of the blind child’s mother. They decided these things before they leaned in close across the table, breathless, their faces and lives just moments away.

“We will change the perceptions of few, but they will be precious,” she whispered.

“We will be famous and we will loathe it,” he said.

Six months later, “Crushed by Capitalism” opened to overwhelming local then national acclaim, propelling them suddenly and brilliantly into the daylight of 1984’s diminutive artistic counter-culture. They were called “bold” and “incisive” and “the hope of the Nippies,” which they understood to mean “new hippies” even though the term would never really enjoy mainstream status. They were inspired to co-author a book based on the premise of the CBC installation and it was bid on by multiple publishing houses, all smelling the cult phenomenon of their ideology. Modest soft cover batches were printed a year later to a thrilling blip on the NY Times Bestseller list. Soaring, they made frantic love atop a kitchen table that was littered with positive reviews.

“I’ve never known joys like these,” she gasped.

“I think my hair has started to thin,” he sighed.

Their book tour skipped quickly across the country and they gave stern lectures to small gatherings at liberal arts colleges and alternative book stores. To the small world that adored them, they were beautiful and unstoppable until they were abruptly neither. In truth, Alan had grown increasingly distant and sullen since Andy Rooney had referred to their book as “over-hyped horse hockey” on his 60 Minutes segment the prior summer. Andy Rooney, like most of America, wanted the giant mayonnaise.

It would be an unseasonably beautiful January day when Alan would finally and dramatically succumb to, in CBC lexicon, “the lure of the Lu$h Darkness.” Details of their bitter fallout were made public to those who cared. There was a small press conference at which the two of them appeared together, speaking in hollow platitudes about artistic differences and the need to grow as individuals. No, the giant screen television, bulk cashews and three dozen silk bathrobes would not be discussed at this time. Yes, it is true that the DeLorean parked outside belongs to Alan. No, it does not actually run on garbage. Thank you for coming, thispressconferenceisover.

"You've made us look like fools," she said.

"I have car doors that open upwards, instead of outwards," he said.

Their estrangement was as ambitious as their coupling and they had no contact with each other for many years after that press conference. Susan, the blind child’s mother, kept in touch with both and occasionally relayed to them the endeavors of the other. Wendy understood that Alan’s capitalist flame had burned out in less than a year, that after intense affairs with Italian loafers, quarter-horse racing and a recreational vehicle named the “Loves-A-Lot,” he was stricken with a remorse that sequestered him inside of a small Northern California monastery, nestled in the picturesque foothills of Mt. Shasta.

And Alan, he knew that Wendy had immediately met and married a fiery environmentalist with the unfortunate name of Ed Koppel. Her Koppel was passionate but one-dimensional and they would be amicably divorced less than two years later, without children. She attempted to publish an uninspired follow-up to "Crushed by Capitalism," called "Crushed Again by Capitalism," but the nation was schizophrenic and distracted by the disorienting hum of the Gulf War. She settled instead for teaching women’s studies at a small community college on the southern shore of the Puget Sound. And she immersed herself in the local music culture and became a devoted volunteer at Seattle’s annual Bumbershoot music festival, the very place that she would see Alan after nearly a decade apart.

They met on opposite sides of the turnstile and she dropped her bag of orange plastic armbands to hug him without pause. They enjoyed the prolonged and easy embrace of old lovers who’ve traded resentment for nostalgia, youth for understanding. When they finally let go, she led him away by hand, through the crowd, until it was quiet around them.

“I heard that Costco’s become the most profitable warehouse retailer in the country,” she whispered.

“I’m so very sorry,” he said.

Alan and Wendy laid facing each other on a grassy field, sharing an oversized glass of carrot juice in the shadow of the festival’s World Music Stage. They caught up quickly and superficially, taking much greater pleasure in staring quietly at one another across the blades of grass between them. Wendy leaned close to whisper something in Alan’s ear and his eyes watered, almost imperceptibly. He smiled, touched her cheek and said “I wasn't sure I liked it this way” as their laughter gave way again to silence and the gentle, up-tempo rustle of a South African monkey fruit rattle, wafting past them on an endless summer breeze.

Everyday Tragedies

FOUR

Josh is a 33 year-old mason with a fierce competitive streak. He once entered, and won, an eating contest in which he bested his opponent by eating three full bags of dayglo-orange Circus Peanuts, the marshmallow confection that triggers an immediate gag reflex in the mouths of most reasonable people. In an attempt to shame the rest of the field, Josh ate two full bags more than he needed to win - about 200 peanuts in five minutes - and then suggested that they head over to Jimmy Mak's bar and grill for some of that fried calamari he loves. He’s eating more sensibly right now, a tuna sandwich with extra mayonnaise that he brought to the job site. He’s eating and talking with Patrick, a gregarious apprentice stoneworker with enough extra time to captain an amateur billiards team he’s named “Git R Done.” They have an opening on the team right now because a woman named Sharon just dropped out. The courts have apparently mandated a methamphetamine rehab program for her that prohibits her entering the bars and pubs where most matches are held. Patrick is trying to convince Josh to take her place, says that Josh would love the psychological aspects of competitive pool playing. Josh is intrigued, about to ask if there’s an entrance fee, when they are both jolted at the tremendous crashing sound made by a cement mixer backing into Josh’s reasonably well-maintained 1995 Ford Ranger.

---

THREE

Akiko is a 26 year-old art student who’s lived in America since she was five. Her parents left the small Japanese city of Hakodate in the mid-80’s to live with family in San Francisco. Although she is technically not the first generation to be born in America, she behaves as though she is. Akiko loves her parents dearly, but she rejects their residual customs as oppressive, confining, and in response, she has chosen the relatively unstructured life of a young American artist. Her gift with a charcoal pencil earned her an assistantship at a local art school, where she is responsible for nursing the delicate ego of a sculptor named Barbara Barney by tending to the most mundane of her daily errands. She’s walking through this city’s Chinatown now, towards the dingy, cluttered office of the sculptor’s attorney slash massage therapist, where she retrieves a discreet brown envelope in Barbara’s name. Leaving the office, she passes a small seafood shop and its translucent heap of fresh whole squid that reminds her of the first and last time she traveled with her parents to visit Hakodate. It was July, during the annual Hakodate Port Festival, and hordes of residents were gathered in the street to celebrate the squid with a wiggly, awkward dance called the Ika-odori. Akiko, 15 at the time, was at once repulsed and intrigued to discover the depth of her birth-city’s obsession with the fish. She is remembering it vividly, how the far off lights of the squid-catching boats danced like ghosts in the evening light, when she boards the bus that will soon become disabled, making her unacceptably late for this semester’s mandatory critique.

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TWO

Dan is a 43 year-old house painter who rarely does work for friends. "It's gone the wrong way too many times," he always says. His wife Connie is trying to get a promotion at work though, and last month she told her boss that Dan would do his house for cheap. Dan reluctantly agreed because in the long run, they need the extra money, especially if they're going to buy that place in Miami. He's near the end of the last day of painting the boss' house, just some final touches on the porch, when he decides to drive down to Burger King to get one of those Big Fish sandwiches. On the way there, a woman on the radio is talking about the bird flu and Dan remembers that he needs to call his younger sister later. She has tuberculosis. The doctors said she's going to be ok, that she probably got the TB at the homeless shelter where she volunteers once a week. Dan always tells her to stay away from that place, that she's going to get something really nasty, like hepatitis, but she doesn't listen to him. Dan's sister is sweet, a vegetarian with a good heart who never eats at Burger King, where Dan's now waiting in the longest drive-through line in the city. It's finally his turn to order - No tarter sauce, he can't stand mayonnaise. Almost ten minutes later it’s 5:36 and he's still only inching forward behind a series of mini-vans with silhouetted children swarming inside like jackals on carrion. A man on the radio is complaining about taxes and government waste when Dan reaches into his back pocket and for the first time misses the wallet that is tucked safely inside his duffel bag, somewhere on the front lawn of Connie's boss.

---

ONE

Phyllis, a 64 year-old retired teacher, gets up every morning at about 6:30. She usually has a plain bagel, toasted, with fat free cream cheese and two small cups of coffee while she watches the Today Show. Today’s no different, except that her phone rings at 7:49, moments after Matt Lauer finishes his story, “Holiday Tipping: How Much Should You Give and When?” On the phone is her friend Jeanie. It seems that Jeanie has a dentist appointment at 10:30 and she’s been having some trouble with her car. She’s been thinking about it all morning and she just doesn’t trust it to get her all the way across town. Would Phyllis mind giving her a ride to the dentist’s office later? Of course not. Could she be there by 10:00? Certainly. That should give them plenty of time to make it. On the car ride to the dentist, Jeanie talks a lot about her son Dylan and how he’s about to marry a woman with three kids by two different men, one of whom is in jail. They just moved in together, into a small apartment in Scottsdale. Dylan's a mason for a company there that mostly builds fancy walls for gated communities in Arizona's booming housing market. Anyway, Jeanie doesn’t like this new woman, the fiancée, because she thinks Dylan is being taken advantage of, even though he swears he’s in love. Phyllis has heard all of this before, but the car ride still passes quickly. She’s sitting alone in the waiting room of Dr. Robert Perez DDS at 10:46 when she picks up a rumpled copy of today’s newspaper. She never reads the paper, thinks it has too much bad news, but she’s bored. She starts to flip through the weekly Walgreens circular and receives a painful paper cut on her index finger, just as she notices a sale on the same 10-pack of AA batteries she bought, and opened, just two days ago.

Enjoying The Holidays With Mitch Andrews, The Guy Who Directs Loading-Zone Traffic At The Airport

EATING HOLIDAY DINNER

Ok, I need you people to keep that food moving around the table, we can't have things sitting still, they're going to get cold. C'mon, let's go! Yeah, I really don't care what you're waiting for, you've gotta move it and move it like yesterday. I SAID MOVE IT NOW OR I WILL SMASH YOUR OLD, SLOW, NON-RESPONSIVE FINGERS IN THE NEAREST HEAVY DOOR. Oh hey, this gravy looks grea-whoa, whoa, whoa! You can't set that down there, Nana. Didn't you hear what I just said?

OPENING PRESENTS WITH FAMILY

Who's handing out presents now? Why don't I have a present in my lap like yesterday, people? Look at all those boxes piled up under the tree, that's disgusting. Frank, you need to get those packages moving, ok? This is the last time I'm going to tell you. Hey! I don't care who's on the damn phone, you need to move those things now! Oh, oh yeah? Well how about I come over there and blow this whistle in your big, hairy ear - would that help you understand that you're ruining my life? NOW LET'S GO, JACKASS.

CAROLING IN THE NURSING HOME

Why do you people hate me so much? Do you see my arms waving here? Why do you think my arms are waving? Do you think I need the exercise? Well I don't. What I do need is for you to get moving and come out of your rooms now, so we can sing some songs for you. Hey! Can you hear me? Do I need to write the words on your glasses and then put the glasses on your face and then put you in a plain, white room with good lighting so you can't see anything except what I'm trying to tell you? Move. Now.

SLEDDING

This is fucking awesome!


DRIVING AROUND THE NEIGHBORHOOD, LOOKING AT CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

Are you kidding me? We can't stop here Carolyn, keep moving. I said keep moving! Hey, do you think you're the only person on the goddamn planet who's in a car right now and wants to stop moving? Because you're not. There are two million cars in the city, all driven by slack-jawed idiots like you, and they all need to get through here like yesterday, SO MOVE. Why are we still sitting here? Step one: Snap out of your coma and join the rest of us in reality. Step two: Put your lazy, selfish foot on the gas pedal and push. C'mon, it's the long skinny one next to the one you're using. And why the hell is everyone so quiet? Let's hear some chatter in the backseat.

The Steadily Growing Case For Teleportation

Our pilot Paul, what a great guy! As the plane sits waiting for boarding, he walks all around it, inspecting it for something. Visible damage, I guess, or maybe stowaway monkeys – I don’t really know much about aviation. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, a wide-striped tie and impossibly short brown hair, the sassy summer pilot look that makes you swoon and coo a little when you see him. He walks around the body of the plane and taps on things with his knuckles, much the same way I imagine I might do if I were inspecting a plane. “Nope, this large white panel hasn’t fallen off yet. Should be good for another shot to Chicago!”

Paul’s hands are in his pockets most of the time, probably fiddling with his pecker, or the keys to the plane. All of us seated at the terminal window, waiting to board this flight, are watching him intently and we have decided we like Paul. He stops tapping panels for a moment to pick at something that looks like peeling paint. Note to self: Pick up gallon of Royal Blue Plane Paint for right side wing connection thingy. A minute of staring at paint chips in his fingernails and he’s on the move again. Look at that confident stride, he must be seven feet tall.

6:00

Paul’s finished his walk around the plane and he’s joking with the baggage men now, making exaggerated throwing and kicking motions, as if he’s mishandling some invisible luggage. The baggage men hate pilots, the same way that vikings probably hate pirates, but they like Paul because Paul used to be a baggage handler himself. That’s right, Paul has risen all the way from the very bottom of the airport ranks and I for one don’t mind his humble beginnings. Do you know why? Because I can tell he’s a good pilot. Just look at those handsome shoulder stripes. They don’t just give those to anyone, you know. You have to take classes.

6:20

We’re boarding now. I hate those people that run to the edge of the line and wait for their seating zone to be called. What’s your goddamn rush? Paul’s not leaving until everyone’s on board and belted in, so settle down, nervous retirees from Scottsdale.

6:40

Paul’s just come on the intercom and announced that we’re going to be in the air for about two hours today. He doesn’t expect any weather trouble. This is probably because he’s personally plotted our flight plan to minimize the risk of encountering sudden electromagnetic clouds or drunken pilots from other inferior airlines, the two most common causes of air travel disaster. We’re rolling backwards, out into the takeoff queue now. I’m really looking forward to the part where we lift off and my groin gets a little tingly. I love that feeling.

6:45

These instructional videos have gotten really elaborate!

6:55

Perfect takeoff, of course. Paul should be back on the intercom when we reach cruising altitude, to give us a progress update and some Chicago weather conditions. I seriously don’t think I’ve ever had a better takeoff than that, just awesome. What’s not awesome though is this kid behind me who’s kicking my seat and talking loudly about crap. Kids talk such crap. God! I can’t think about that now though, I need to get some sleep and think instead about how I’m going to thank Paul when we leave the plane. You only get one shot to thank your pilot - better make it count.

8:40

I fell asleep and I’m dreaming right now. I missed Paul’s 30,000 foot address but that doesn’t matter, because I’m downhill skiing with Ice Cube in German-occupied Switzerland, shooting Nazis and making love to beautiful Swiss women. Jesus, I’m incredible. Hey Cube, let’s get some of that delicious fondue. Later, we’ll watch football and talk about liquor.

8:45

My eyes pop open and my heart is pounding through my chest. I think at first that the kid kicking my seat has woken me up, so I’m pissed. Then I look to my left to see a man writhing on the aisle floor, bleeding fast from the side of his head. I’m trying to gather my senses, trying to understand what’s happening when the plane suddenly drops what must be 5,000 feet in half a second. The same man is tossed into the row behind me like a rag doll. The child who was kicking my seat is screaming. I feel like I’m insane.

8:48

Every few seconds, the plane bounces and creaks violently, everyone squeezes their armrest or their leg. Or their neighbor’s leg. Some of them yelp. People are crying. I’m trying to listen to some country music in my headphones to distract myself when I see a bright flash outside the window, just before the whole plane shudders. We’re flying through a thunderstorm. A fucking thunderstorm. I want to murder Paul. He is entirely to blame.

8:52

The engines are whining erratically and we’re still bouncing hard every few seconds. I find my pen and small notebook and try to start writing. It’s hard, because of the bouncing and sobbing, but I write “Some Ways That I Will Ruin Paul’s Life” on the top of the first page. Number one: Angry letter to Paul’s bosses. Number two: Frame Paul for arson.

9:01

I finish my list with 27 ways that I will ruin Paul’s life and I notice that we’re descending steadily now through the storm. The flight attendants are trying to walk the aisle and they look haggard and nauseous. Paul finally comes on the intercom to announce that we’re going to attempt a landing at O’Hare in one of the worst thunderstorms in the last decade. He sounds tired, defeated almost. Who does he think he is? You just can’t play with our lives Paul, we’re not boxes full of Starter jackets or VCRs. You’re not logging license hours with Fed Ex anymore; you’re responsible for the well being of one hundred people. We have families, jobs, Hondas, favorite pizza toppings and shitty lawyers on retainer. I’m screaming in my head and trying to catch my breath but I can’t, because it feels like we’re falling now. The lights are low and my vision is clouded, so I can’t see anyone’s faces, can’t hear anything, nothing makes sense. I focus on the paper I’m squeezing in my right hand, the list of 27 things I’m going to do to Paul, and I decide that I’ll give it to him if I ever leave this plane. I’ll walk down that aisle toward the exit door, the cockpit, towards Paul who’ll be smiling and thanking everyone for “hanging in there.” What bullshit. My eyes will be prison shanks when we meet and he’ll look at me with the retreating teeth of his fake pilot-smile as I press my list into his clammy, incompetent palm. He’ll know instantly that I’m serious and credible. I won’t say a word except to whisper “shame on you” as I turn on my heel and start somberly up the jetway. Is it a federal offense to threaten a pilot? I’m not sure, but I should probably make a copy of the list for myself, so I can follow through on some of them. God, I hope he really is allergic to nuts.

Something About The State Of Modern Puppetry

Have you heard that puppetry is making EXPLOSIVE gains in worldwide popularity? Well it isn't, I just made that up. In reality, puppetry popularity has plummeted dramatically in the last several years, with fewer people than ever taking up this ancient and venerable method of storytelling. Actually, that's probably not true either. I really have no idea if puppetry is any more or less popular now than at any other time in history. What I do know, however, is that puppetry is sick and wrong.

I've never considered myself to be a staunch individualist, but I'm making an exception in the case of the plague of puppetry. First and foremost, puppetry is about control. Controlling an assemblage of wood, fabric and probably some kind of plastic, meant to represent people. Puppetry is about controlling people. Adults, children, animals and even trees because this one time I saw a puppet that looked like a tree. Can you imagine? It's disgusting. Puppetry is communism. Puppetry is also possibly a metaphor for the control exerted by organized religion over an individual's free will. Tell me, is it a coincidence that the two most common kinds of puppets are the ones that are controlled from above and the ones that are controlled from below? Is it also a coincidence that these two types of puppets are known to be mortal enemies and will fight to the death if given the opportunity? It's about God and the Devil, people. Open your eyes.

There was a fantastic documentary made in the late 1980s, directed by a brilliant man named David Schmoeller, that exposed the seedy underbelly of modern puppetry. This new brand of horrormentary, aptly titled Puppet Master, chronicles the true story of four brave psychics who risk their lives to destroy a murderous gang of animate puppets. These psychics, led by a gorgeous lion-maned Paul LeMat, discover that puppets have been brought back to life using ancient Egyptian magic that was stolen by Nazis in a plot for world domination. The puppets captured in this documentary provide us with a terrifying glimpse into what's likely happening all over the world, now that this Egyptian life-potion is so widely available. Once animated, what do you suppose these puppets do with the precious gift of life? I'll tell you what they should be doing. They should be volunteering down at the local homeless shelter but instead, they immediately begin fashioning themselves into gruesome killing machines. Example: There's the puppet "Blade" who has a hook and knife for hands, "Pinhead" with his crushing and powerful arms, "Tunneler" who has some kind of kill-drill mounted on his head and the most vile of them all, "Leech Woman," who pukes up deadly leeches on her victims. I seriously bought my first real gun after seeing this movie. You just can't make this stuff up, which is why there have been an astonishing FIVE follow-up Puppet Master documentaries, with a sixth currently in the works. This nightmare is far from over.

So where do we go from here? Probably lunch. I'm headed down to Geraldi's Deli on 4th Avenue for one of their famous "big sandwiches." It's a little confusing there, because the guy that owns the place is from Boston and he always wears Red Sox paraphernalia, but so many of the menu items are "Chicago This" and "Chicago That." I've never understood it, but what I do understand is my undying love for those Spicy Geraldi sandwiches on the toasted bread. I think they make their bread fresh in that tiny little place and you just can't beat that! I always say that the secret to the superior Geraldi's sandwich is 90% bread, 10% fresh meat and 5% proper mayonnaise management. I know that adds up to 105%, but it's a really fucking good sandwich. I never get chips with the Geraldi's sandwich because it soils the palette and who needs all those extra carbs anyway? Not me. Carbs make me groggy and I need to stay lean and angry, mostly for fighting puppets. Man, I really hate those puppets.

Small Things

The kind people at Hobart have published a very short story of mine, The Unusual Emigration of Franklin Lewitt, in their September online issue. It can be found, with an assortment of other enjoyable short stories, here.

Carl Franks Is A Terrible Superhero

He hasn't been in the business very long, but Carl Franks is a terrible superhero. He needed a change, something new in his life, so he fashioned a costume for himself a year ago this summer using some old Lee jeans and the upholstery of a thrift store recliner that was briefly fashionable in the late 1980's. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what it is that makes Carl such a terrible superhero, though it probably traces in some way back to his lack of any obvious talents (safe driving record aside). Sadly, he's been on the losing end of nearly every battle he's fought in the last year and when he does manage a victory, it's really nothing to brag about; recent conquests include a guy dressed like the statue of liberty who was waving at passing cars with a discount furniture store liquidation sign and bitey little man named Dr. Ouch who, as it turned out, was actually someone's pet hamster. Everyone knows Carl should go back to working in that sweaty little toll booth in East Bay but no one has the heart to tell him. He's so happy, so alive, he's a cat that's been indoors all of its life and suddenly allowed to spend time outside with bees and traffic. He enjoys the brand of barefoot freedom that’s usually attached to membership in an odorous hippie community, but he answers to no one, radiant and satisfied every night, as he hangs his gingham checked cape on that loosely fixed hook in his parents' front hall.

An Open Letter To Jane Pauley, A Celebrity With Whom I Happen To Share A Birthday

Dear Jane Pauley,

Help! For many years, birthday trivia books and celebrity gossip shows have reminded me that you and I share the same birthday. I have come to understand that this makes us BLOOD-RELATIVES in the eyes of many sophisticated astrologists, personologists and birthday scienticians. Jane Pauley, as your birthday-son, I have a favor to ask of you. Can I borrow a thousand dollars? Ha ha, hey, I'm just kidding Jane Pauley. Calm down.

Here's the real issue: I'm involved in an increasingly bizarre love triangle that's actually not a triangle at all. It's an octagon. An octagon that involves a woman I'm interested in, her sister, her sister's boyfriend, my lawn guy Vern, a cardboard stand-up of Captain Morgan and two of the women from those American Apparel ads that probably make you whisper terrible, petty things when you open the newspaper. It's possible that I'm making that last part up and it's not really an octagon, it's more like a sixagon. Whatever, I'm getting off track, stay with me here. I'm terribly confused, sleepless and not sure what to do about all of this. I know, I know, you're "news people" and you need more details, but I want to be respectful of your time. Rather than go into some long-winded explanation of the sitch, I've attached a crudely drawn character diagram that should efficiently illustrate what's going on. Jane Pauley, because our personalities are identical and predetermined by our birthday, you will easily understand everything I mean to convey in this attachment.

Please Jane Pauley, I don't want you to think I've chosen to contact you because you're a daytime television celebrity who's marginally more likely to respond. I actually think you're uniquely qualified to help me. Your recent episode of The Jane Pauley Show, titled "Inside the Male Mind," moved me in ways I'm not comfortable discussing here - But I guess you already knew that! Seriously though, I passed up writing to many of my less popular birthday-relatives in favor of you, including Barbara Bel Geddes, Deidre Hall and David Ogden Stiers, which is saying a lot. Especially that last one.

Jane Pauley, I know that like me, you're a very busy person. I'm confident that your response will be valuable and I'm hopeful that it will also be swift - I'm not sure how much longer I can deal with this on my own. By the way, if you think this requires a three way video conference with my birthday-uncle Dan Rather, let me know. I'll set that shit up faster than you can say "Please stop writing to me."

Yours,

Sloan Schang

We Are Culturally Unwell And Generally Terrible At Driving

TALK SHOW HOST
Tell us about your daughter's tattoo. Is it new?

GLENDA
Oh God no, she's had that since she was a little baby girl. No wait, which one do you mean, specifically?

HOST
I was thinking of the fierce looking tiger wrapped around her neck.

GLENDA
Oh yeah, that was her first one. But it's not fierce it's lucky, 'cause that was the Chinese year she was born. 1998. Also, she's got that big dollar sign tattoo on her forearm because that was the same year that The Price is Right showed its five thousandth episode. Me and Stan are big fans.

HOST
Wow.

GLENDA
Yeah, I know. It's a great show.

HOST
I have so many questions to ask you. Hang on, we'll be right back after this message.

PEPSI COLA

HOST
Hi, we're back with Glenda and her seven year old daughter who's heavily tattooed.

GLENDA
Whoa, whoa whoa! She ain't heavy, ok?

HOST
Ok. So I think most people know that it's illegal in the United States to tattoo anyone under the age of 18, regardless of parental consent.

GLENDA
Yeah, well it's legal in Tennessee.

HOST
What? No it isn't.

GLENDA
I meant Taiwan. It used to be legal in Taiwan. Me and Stan took a trip over there when she was two to get her the tiger.

HOST
And why did you decide to do this?

GLENDA
Well, we always wanted a tattooed baby, at least since we saw that news story on Channel 9 about the fake tattoo shop for babies called "Baby Ink." Turns out it was a hoax but people got all pissed off about it anyway. I wish this country wasn't so uptight about body stuff, I'll tell you what. Me and Stan, we don't want our kids to grow up with all those issues.

HOST
Ok, I want to explore that a little and I bet we have some people in the audience with some things to say too, but we have to take a quick break. We'll be right back.

YOU ARE OLD AND REQUIRE SUPPLEMENTAL LIFE INSURANCE AT THESE UNREASONABLE RATES

HOST
We're back and I want to hear what some of these audience members have to say. You ma'am - what do you think about Glenda tattooing her daughter?

AUDIENCE MEMBER 1
Oh my god, I think it's outrageous. Who does she think she is? It's the most disturbing thing I've ever seen, and I used to work in a slaughterhouse! Who do you think you are, BITCH?

MOTHER
Who do I think I am? Who do you think YOU are, BITCH?

HOST
Wait a minute, wait a minute, time out. I want to hear what this gentleman has to say. You sir, with all the tattoos.

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2
Yeah, um I want to say that I think your daughter's beautiful and I admire your courage. I wish my mom had tattooed me when I was a baby.

GLENDA
(standing up and clapping)
Thank you! Thank you! I think you're beautiful too! Not like that bitch!

AUDIENCE MEMBER 1
I'll kill you!

GLENDA
C'mon! I'm not afraid of prison anymore!

HOST
Whoa, hang on - Hold that thought Glenda. I'm curious to see where this goes, right after this message.

THESE ARE "FANTASTIC DEAL DAYS" AT ROBERTSON HONDA

You So Crazy

Someone catches their reflection in the mirror, frozen with the new knowledge of unkempt hair or makeup, then spins towards you and shouts "Jesus! You didn't tell me I looked crazy." You hadn't noticed. But that's not really the issue - what's more important is how you'd tell someone they look crazy, if you had noticed. Is it best to be direct about it?

Bob: Morning!
You: Whoa! Bob, you look a little crazy this morning.

The addition of a question expressing concern can provide a helpful emotional buffer while effectively conveying your sincerity.

Bob: Morning!
You: Whoa! Bob, you look a little crazy this morning - IS EVERYTHING OK?

Depending on the nature of your relationship with Bob, add physical contact to further diffuse any hurt feelings he may have.

Bob: Morning!
You: Whoa! Bob, you look a little crazy this morning (TOUCH BOB'S SHOULDER) - is everything ok?

If you prefer a passive-aggressive-funny approach to your daily interactions, go with it.

Bob: Morning!
You: Whoa! Easy there CHIEF CRAZY HORSE!

Can't do humor? Maybe a handwritten note is in order.

Bob: Morning!

Naturally, you'll need to give some thought to how to respond when Bob asks what you mean. Again, tailor this action to suit your own communication style. The most effective responses will be those that avoid being too specific.

Bob: Morning!
You: Whoa! Bob, you look a little crazy this morning.
Bob: Wha, what do you mean?
You: It's just, wow. YOU know.
or
What do you mean, 'what do I mean?'
or
Pshooo! (mimic bomb whistle and explosion)

If he keeps asking questions, it means you're not walking away quickly enough. Wait to deliver your message until you've identified all your available escape routes. Remember, you're just trying to get Bob to a mirror so he can assess the situation on his own, so don't be a hero. If you can accomplish that, pat yourself on the back for a job well done.

Her Name Is Chalucy

Chalucy stumbles out onto the sidewalk in front of that purple house, her eyes on fire from the first sun of the day. Scorched concrete stings her small bare feet as she hops to the end of the front walk, where her toes finally adjust like neatly arranged rows of tiny, seared steaks. Her senses crackle with a quick electricity that makes her shiver uncontrollably, and she feels aware, animate, relieved. She sits down slowly, anticipating the nip of the hot sidewalk on her rear, and lets the summer breeze deliberately fill her lungs. In it she tastes the grass, the highway exhaust, the new roses, the garbage truck two blocks away, the candy wrapper skittering across the street's cracked pavement.

Morning has bro-ken, like the first morning.

Cat Stevens fills the house behind her on what feels like infinite repeat, soured further in brash accompaniment by the fantastically terrible singing of a woman named Maude. Maude is sprawled on that worn paisley sofa, reading her way through piles of old Life magazines, though God only knows how she can really read and sing along with such loud music. The television, unwatched, advertises dreadful future programming in another room. A greasy kitchen timer rings to announce the successful boiling of several questionably aged eggs. Upstairs, Maude’s husband Frank tinkers in a room that’s filled with dusty old appliances, casual swearing, and the kind of grave, gargled coughing that’s earned through decades of unfiltered smoke inhalation. All of it - Maude, Cat Stevens, ding!, “tomorrow on a fresh new episode of Smallville,” the clatter of doomed toasters slamming against bare wood floors and Frank’s booming croup - all of it swirls together every day to form an aural chaos that would send even the meekest of deaf persons into a murderous rage.

Blackbird has spo-ken, like the first bird.

Chalucy filters out the confused symphony behind and tries to hear only the birds and children giggling on bicycles in front of her. She’s restless, uncomfortable, her faded pink dress bunched around her middle like an itchy second skin, exactly what it feels like. She loathes it, but Maude makes her wear that dress, says she’s “Chalucilicious” in it, says she wants to “spread her on some breads and eat her up for Sunday brunch.” Chalucy’s very friendly, but goddamnit she hates that Maude.

Mine is the sun-light, mine is the morning.

Chalucy considers her options, the same she has every time she sits at the end of the front walk. In one direction, she returns predictably to that house and continues living for the quietude of each brief night (although Frank's been snoring again, so that's some fleeting consolation). In each of a hundred other directions, she simply walks away and starts over, even if it's for an hour or a day. It's the third of July though. Holy hell breaks loose tomorrow; the neighborhood becomes an adolescent war zone, thousands of dollars in front-yard pyrotechnics ejaculating all over roads and rooftops. Too risky to walk away today, too risky. Chalucy stands up and pivots to face the house and Maude's shadowy figure, silhouetted against a shimmering collection of wall-bound dinner plates from the "Treasured American Musicals" series.

Morning has bro-ken, like the first morning.

She begins to shiver again, her vision blurred by the abruptness of the turn that again points her away from the purple house. Seconds later, Chalucy is trotting down the sidewalk, towards the park that she knows is at the end of her block and the Little League Championship series that she doesn't yet know is being held there today. Some smallbody knocks a gently curving slider into shallow left field and the parents in blue send up a rowdy, melodic cheer. Chalucy is energized, her trot a full run, the speckled gray sidewalk a river beneath her. Free! Alive! Nipping at bugs! She feels able to fly and she imagines it, then feels it, her six pounds lifted gently in mid-gait by a sweet smelling old man who immediately removes her faded pink dress, whispering in her ear that everything's going to be alright.