Book 3

Book 3

Book 3 of 5 mypropernouns@gmail.com February 2010

THE GREAT AMERICAN HANGOVER was written on a couch in about two hours and I am worried about inaccuracies. THE FUNERAL was written in forty-five minutes in a coffee shop while a girl I still have a lot of confused and extreme feelings about worked behind the counter. It's entitled THE FUNERAL because I could not think of anything else. I think I am the only person who actually likes SOMETIMES, THINGS HAPPEN, but maybe me admitting this will make you more privy to liking it so that we could share something in common. Have you ever done that before? Chose to adore something you were on the fence about just so you could have something in common? I have. Most people don't get WHEN THE WORLD RETURNED TO ZERO. The cross-section of people who get it is really weird and has kept me from jumping to conclusions about how it defines a person's character. THOUGHTS ON Y, #1 is my most pretentious title. I'm a big fan of it, I wrote it after seeing a photo of my friend and I singing along to music. He was perched on top of a coffee table and screaming at me, my eyes were turned upward toward the ceiling, and it was set so that you could only see my face and not his.

The Great American Hangover My dad’s cousin owned a huge chunk of Mars land out in Montana, and when he found out I was a writer he offered me a trailer and as much time as I needed to finish a book idea I had about a transgendered rugby player who starts the first official transgendered rugby league, or something like that. I forget what it was, transgendered people and rugby were big back then I guess, so I went up there with enough coffee pasta cereal beer and booze to keep any man from ever having a straight shit again and got to work. No tv, no internet, just a basic computer with a basic word processor, fifteen pens, and three or four three subject notebooks. I got Mike’s call that not-yet-warm silent morning at a time in my life when waking up before eleven was my greatest challenge, and I took that call without much courtesy.

“Hello.”

“Hey!” “Hey.” “Guess where I am!”

“What?”

“Guess where I am!”

There was a lot of noise in the background. Lots of fast, kind of loud talking.

“No.” “Come on! Guess!”

“Fuck you.”

“Guess!”

So I said, “Ok,” and then I ended the call. Not five minutes later he was calling me again.

“What, Mike.”

“I’m up there! I’m in there!”

“What the fuck are you talking about.”

“I’m in it!”

I lifted my head a little. “In Montana? You’re in Montana?”

“No! The tower!”

“What?”

“The- the South one? I think? I think it’s the South one?” His voice turned away from the phone to seek out confirmation from someone around him. “Yeah. The South one. I’m in the South Tower, dude!”

I lowered my head. I rolled it on the back of my pillow so I could stare up at my oddly shaped ceiling and my wobbly ceiling fan. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious, Mike. I’m in Montana. Do you know what time it is in Montana?

Three hours earlier than wherever it is you are, if you’re still out on the East Coast.” I looked over at my alarm clock. “Six fifteen, Mike.” I wanted to keep going, but I was too tired and my voice was losing strength.

He tried to start his next sentence with a W with no luck.

“Whu-

“Whee“Wha-” I sighed, and then he blurted it.

“A plane, man! Two planes! Two planes hit the Towers! The World Trade Center!”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not shitting you.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not lying!”

“What are you doing in New York City?”

“I moved here. I’m a bike courier, I get to go to a bunch of crazy fucking buildings.”

My head was aching. My morning wood felt like it’d explode, and not in the good way. I had no time to believe such things.

“Fine, Mike, whatever, man. Two planes crashed into the World Trade Center.”

“You still don’t believe me!”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m playing along. You should be grateful. What floor are you on?”

“The thirty-fifth.”

“What are you, in an office.”

“Yeah. Delivering a package.”

“I got that part.” I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I wanted to go back to bed.

“It’s crazy in here. They told us not to leave the building. They’re having us stay put.”

“Who.” “Police or something. I don’t know. You can see us on tv! We’re watching ourselves on tv right now!”

“You’re famous.”

“Yeah. Immortalized! Go to any channel!”

“I don’t have television.”

“Oh.” His voice lost some of its bounce. “Oh.” That cog slowed him down.

“What’s it look like.”

“There’s just this, this huge halo of smoke coming up.”

“Not billowing?”

“Sure, billowing.”

“Billowing’s a good word.”

“Yeah.” He sounded distracted.

“Alright, well, listen. I’m gonna go back to sleep. Call me again later when you’re in Montana.”

“Hey, wait, wait.” He said it in that tone people use when they want to hold on to something but see it falling apart before their eyes.

“What.”

“Just talk to me some more.”

“All right.” I lifted the blinds and saw the vast nothing start to achieve color. So much nothing. More nothing than I’ll see anywhere else. I rolled to my side and prepared to sit up.

Then I sat up, and I told Mike that. “I’m sitting up,” I said. Then I dragged my sheets off my

legs and put my morning wood up into the elastic of my boxers and rotated my legs off the bed.

“I’m getting off the bed.” I planted my feet down. “I’m awake. Let’s talk.”

“Cool, thanks.”

It was too early to try and step over the shit on the floor, so I kicked everything in front of me, delaying any potential obstacle.

“So you’re gonna be famous, Mike.”

“Oh, man. Oh, man. You have no idea. This is huge. It’s all over the news.”

“Where did the planes crash.”

“Higher up. Pretty high up. Like, we felt the impact, everyone was knocked off their feet, but we’re pretty far away from the impact.”

“When did the planes crash.”

“Pretty recently. Like fifteen minutes ago.”

“Wow.” I stood in front of the sink. “Now I’m getting a glass of water.”

“You drink last night?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re writing a book, right?”

“Yeah. All part of the practice.”

“That’s so cool, Coop. I wish I knew more people doing the same thing.”

“Hey, thanks. Well, I mean, it sounds like what you’re doing is pretty remarkable.”

“I just happened to be here, though.”

“But think about it,” I said, pouring coffee out of a mug and rinsing it a few times before filling it with water. “How many people our age are in the World Trade Center.”

He laughed. “That’s a good point!”

“A lot of people we know dream of being in the World Trade Center at our age.”

I drank the water down fast while he talked.

“You’re right. I’m definitely the outlier here. Everyone’s like, in their thirties or up.

They’re all wearing really nice clothes!”

“Suits?”

“Some suits. But even those not in suits, they look good, too.”

“What’s it like in there.”

“Everyone’s on the phone. Everyone.”

“Who’re they talking to?”

“Their families and shit. Telling them everything’s going to be ok.”

I smiled. “And you’re talking to me.”

He laughed.

“You’re the dregs.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Too old to be coddled, too young to be taken seriously.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Fuck! I should’ve just joined the army if I knew this was going to happen.”

“Join after this. Quit that courier shit.” My stomach felt like rot. My mouth salivated for all the wrong reasons, and I spat into my sink. I didn’t really know Mike too well. We got drunk together sometimes before we left for school. Then again that was my relationship with most

people. Sometimes I get the feeling I am pretty good at making people feel ok., so I don’t really need to know someone well for them to come looking for me.

The more I talked to him, the more his voice sounded like something gushing, like a geyser, or a spring, a waterfall, even. Not misty though, not misty like a geyser, or a spring, or a waterfall. Maybe like a brook. But brooks don’t gush, they babble. So somewhere in between.

A geyser-like brook.

“Do you want to tell me everything’s going to be ok.”

“Not really.”

“Do you want to tell me that you love me?”

He laughed. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know.” He sounded plaintive. His speech decelerated on the second I don‘t know.

“Ok. To be safe then: Mike, I love you and care about you. You‘re going to be ok. You‘re going to get out of this ok.”

He laughed again.

“So there you have it.”

“Thanks, Coop.” Then he guffawed or something, it was really unnatural. It might have been another exclamation. “I really appreciate it.”

I felt pretty terrible for not having anything to say at this point. He started again.

“So do you believe this is happening?”

“Sure.”

“You really should. You’re really going to feel like an asshole later, when you find out.”

“I might.”

“Oh, wow, I can’t believe I’m doing this right now! This is so incredible!”

I cleared my throat and rubbed my eyes. “Are you facing the other tower.”

“Yeah.”

“You should look into the other one. Wave.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Great way to meet chicks.”

“I’m walking over there right now, to the windows.” I could hear him do so.

“What do you see.”

“Hold on. Wait. Yeah, you can sort of see people out there. Not too clearly.”

“Wave.”

“I am.”

“Is anyone waving back.?”

“I can’t tell. Hi! Hello!” I heard him shout out to who knows who and who could hear him. “It’s not working.”

“Bummer.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“I wish I had a drink right now.”

“I’ll have one for you.”

“Thanks.”

I found the uncapped bottle of gin and raised it.

“Here’s to you, Mike.”

Gin’s always been my favorite drink. The liquor soothed everything in me. I couldn’t help feeling upbeat.

“I think I’ll have another.”

“I wish I was drunk. Or high. Anything other than sober!”

“Sober’s never too great.” I was up to my third swig. “I am getting drunk, Mike.”

“Maybe I’ll get drunk off your voice.”

“I’ll talk extra loud.” On came fog.

“When I get out of here I’m joining the army.”

“Do it. I wish I had the balls to do it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I think everyone I know would hate me if I did.”

“Why?” “They want me to do something more fulfilling with my life, like invest in hedge funds.”

“You should do what you want.”

“But then they’d cry.”

“That sucks.”

“They cried when I left home. They cry over me any chance they get.” I remembered myself. “But how’s it going over there.”

“Good. Someone’s talking about evacuating. Walking down the stairs.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“Hold on.”

With my head turned from the phone, I yawned. On my bed rested War and Peace, the book I had finished last night before I got drunk. While Mike was silent, and I was silent, I looked at the book and wondered whether I should tell him that I had finished War and Peace, whether this would interest him, whether he would have an appreciation for it, and then he interrupted me with more exclamations about how they were evacuating and how he couldn’t believe what was going on.

“Yeah, it’s wild, Mike,” I said, stretching, “but I think I’m going back to bed. As important as this all is, I can’t do much else at this point other than take a plane out to New York City and crash that one, too.”

“Ok.” He got over it. “Ok.” “Maybe you should call your parents?”

“They wouldn’t know I’m here. I wouldn’t want to worry them.”

“Have they called you?”

“Yeah.” Everything told me he had not picked up, so I didn’t ask.

“Well--” I rubbed the nape of my neck, “--just hold tight, and I’ll talk to you again soon, ok?”

“Ok. Yeah.”

“Take it easy, Mike.”

“Bye, Coop.”

I ended the call before he could say “Bye” again and nestled my head into my pillow and

strongly considered peeing myself. I don’t know if I believed it then. I just went back to sleep and chose to accept whatever I woke up to the next time as reality. I dreamed I had my one and only love in my arms and she told me everything I honestly thought about Mike so I wouldn’t feel bad thinking it myself.

“He’s just so needy, you know? No real drive.”

“Like most everyone else.”

“Yeah, but he needs to cling onto someone else to find validation. He’s too weak to function without someone to fawn over.”

“Yeah, like most everyone else.”

“But he’s bad at hiding it.” And she looked at me the only way that has ever melted my heart, her eyes and eyebrows raised expectantly to my chin and nose, and I took the arm wrapped around her shoulders and pressed her body against mine and said, “Yeah, you’re right, I guess.”

I told myself that the world could not exist before eleven, everything before eleven had to be taken as a dream.

The Funeral (Scene opens on woman sitting center stage on a bench. She's in a cemetery. She is dressed up in what appears to be mourner's garb, but said mourner's garb is nothing more than a simple black dress. She sits there, legs politely crossed, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, though there are no tears to dry, and she is not putting a whole lot of effort into the dabbing – it's as if she's being forced to for one reason or another. When she speaks her voice indicates no grief. She sounds kind, friendly, and sensible.

Enter the man, stage left. He is dressed up, but his clothes have no indication of mourning – more earth tones, think a young college professor. He strolls in, hands in pockets, looking above and around, maybe whistling a soft tune to himself. Upon seeing the woman he stops, smiles cordially and says:) M: W: M: W: M: W:

Hello.

(Stops dabbing her eyes and looks up) Oh, hi.

Are you ok?

Yes, fine. Just needed some time alone.

Sure. (Pause) It was a fine ceremony.

Yes, it – Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot myself in all of this. Sit down, please.

(M sits down next to her. They are looking out into the audience.)

M: W: M:

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W:

Thanks. (Pause) What a ceremony! Woo! Yes. He still has a sense of humor, even after death.

I had a feeling it would be something like that. He wasn't one to go down the beaten path.

I remember him telling me, even: “When I die, it's gonna be an orgy. I swear to Christ!”

(Squints off) It was one of those things you hear, and you're never sure if it was a joke or the truth.

Sometimes it's both.

Oh, that's true, too. “I want to be dead by forty.” “Love is a lie.” Uh... (Struggles to find a third.)

“I don't ever want to have kids.”

Exactly. Thank you. The point is he was the real deal, though. Not a bullshitter. Always did things his own way.

It's so true.

What was your favorite part?

Of what? The ceremony?

Yeah.

Oh, I don't know. There were so many and they were all so wonderful!

Well, pick one.

Ok. Let me think. Hm. (Pause, then lights up) The trapeze artists! I have never seen such talented trapeze artists.

M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W:

They weren’t bad.

They were great.

I thought they could've been better.

Really?

I thought they were shit.

What! How? Scum.

No! Really?

No, not really.

Really?

Yes. Oh. (Looks down.) Sorry.

It's ok...

(A pause. Man twiddles his thumbs, etc, while woman awkwardly starts and stops dabbing her eyes over and over. Man sighs, speaks up:)

M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

W: M: W: M: W: M:

Doesn't feel right, does it?

Sorry?

This. (Beat) The cemetary. The graves. The… sobriety. The crying. The only redeeming quality of this whole shpiel is it’s not raining. He’d be rolling in his grave if it was raining.

(Perplexed) Oh...

He wasn't a normal man. He doesn't deserve such a mundane and ordinary payment of respects. He was so much more than what we’re doing implies. It’s not right. The man was an artist, a writer, a performer, a pioneer, a rebel, a fighter, a father, a husband...

Oh, yes. ...he'd be disgusted with us, coming together to pity and cry over the death of dear old him.

Well, I-He probably thought that this would be the perfect time for everyone to get together and talk shit about him. Complain about all the disgusting habits we never discussed while he was alive. I'm sure he'd be a lot happier in that little coffin of his if he knew we were dancing on it.

You think so?

I know so. When you’re as great as he was, you enjoy being disrespected. It’s a change of scenery. So... (He stands up.) What do you think? Care to join me?

In what?

Dancing on his grave.

Really??

Sure. We can meringue, we can salsa, waltz, grind, Macarena, cha cha… I know he’d

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

love to hear our footsteps above him, indifferent to his burial.

I’m not sure…

Come on. No need for a boombox! We’ll make up a rhythm on our own. Four four time isn’t too difficult.

(Looks at the ground in front of her.) No, I don't think so.

Why not?

Well, I mean -- they just buried him. I don't think the soil'd be very sturdy. It might be best to wait a day for it to settle.

Hm... spongy soil. Yes. (He sits down.) Good point. No need for us to sprain an ankle.

(Cheerfully) That's what I always tell my children.

Ok. So instead of really doing it, let’s do it figuratively.

Could you...?

(Stares at her a moment before:) Oh! Yes. Sorry. Let’s talk bad about him. Like I said he would’ve wanted us to do before. Get all that negative energy off our chests. No mercy.

Let's free ourselves from the chains of etiquette that always restrict our honest opinions!

Ok. Great! Now, you get us started. (He stares at her excitedly.)

Oh! Alright, then. Well, uh... he was... uh... he always... uh....... hm.

So? I can't think of anything.

Really?

I'm sorry. I actually always thought he was a very nice man. I never had any problems with him.

You're right. He really was kind.

Oh, the best.

I envied him.

Me, too.

Think harder. There weren’t any disgusting habits? Vices he couldn’t avoid? Annoying phrases he used repeatedly?

No, none of that. A perfect gentleman.

You know you’re being very unfair to him.

I can’t help it! He was uncommonly good! He always treated children so well. (Wistful) I remember one time, we went out-Sh! (Beat) No pleasant nostalgia filled with wistful chuckles smiles and sighs. Everyone's done that already. You're going to make a fool of yourself.

(Cannot hide her confusion but tries to.) Oh. Alright. Since you're having so much difficulty, I'll go. Maybe what I say’ll trigger some not so pleasant memories you have, so make sure to listen closely. Ready?

Yes. Sure?

Yes. Ok. Here goes. Ahem. He was a racist, short-sighted, arrogant, pompous, rude, ill-shaven,

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W:

retarded, annoying, pestering, lazy, flatulent, friendless, greedy, bisexual pedophile and we are better off without him (W is obviously shocked, but M does not notice, he is too wrapped in his fun. He lowers his head near the ground and shouts:) You heard me, you mongoloid dung-licker! Enjoy giving Satan rim-jobs for the rest of eternity! Your entire life was a farce! (He sits back up with a smile, laughing, slapping his knee, etc.) How was that? Wanna try again now? (Realizes her shock.) What?

He was none of the things you said he was!

I know that.

Then why did you say it all?!

Hm. Guess I couldn't really think of something else. (Beat) But doesn't it feel better now?

Don't you think that this is what he would have wanted? Are you beginning to understand?

I don’t think so.

(Impatient) Listen: I was his good friend for almost five years. I think I know what he would like and dislike.

I was his wife!

Oh. (Pause) The old ace in the hole. (Beat) This is embarrassing. (Beat) I'm sorry. (Beat.

Pulls out a flask.) Won't you have some?

Oh, yes, thank you. (She takes a deep, hard swig and spits it out.) Ugh! What’s wrong?

This is Red Label!

You don't like Red Label?

No! It’s atrocious!

What do you like?

Black Label!

Ah. I’m sorry. I should have known. (Searches his coat for another flask, finds it.) Here we are! Black Label. For you. (Hands her the new flask. She takes an even longer pull and passes it back.)

Apology accepted.

Great. That’s a relief. Maybe now we can move on. (Lifts the flask in toast.) To that small-dicked rat bastard. May he rest in peace. (He pulls and passes it.)

Hear hear. (Another pull.)

(Another pause. This time they look sluggish, as if the alcohol's worked its course unusually quickly. W goes to dab her eye, but when she realizes she's holding the flask and not her tissue, she throws it down disgustedly.)

M: W: M: W: M:

This is more like it.

Yeh. Are you thinking of him?

Not in the slightest.

Fantastic.

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

W: M:

W:

You? (Shakes his head and lets out a slow:) Nope. (Pause) Have you shed your final tear for him? Have you expended that one last eruption of emotional energy for him?

(Blushes) Well, I… I saw you dabbing your eyes before.

Actually... I haven't cried yet.

What?

I haven't. I'm sorry.

But you were dabbing your eyes! Why were you dabbing your eyes?

(Wincing) I figured I should. It is a funeral, after all.

Ah, this is bad, this is no good at all. I wasn’t expecting that.

But isn't this what he would’ve wanted? The unexpected?

Yes, but at my discretion. I assumed you had cried already, but you never did, so now everything's all out of order. How will this move people to change the world if it’s all out of order? How will this make it big as a major motion picture if it's all out of order?

Motion picture? Who said anything about a major motion picture?

Oh. Ah, well, right, you’re right, but you must understand – you see… (Blushes) I'm kind of a writer.

(Allured) Oh...

And it always helps if things work exactly as I've planned them.

(Flirtatious) And what do you write?

Fiction, mostly. The occasional play. 250 word stories about nepotism.

That sounds so... controversial.

(Wrapped up in his own world.) Yes, I find controversy to be good fuel. Just yesterday I wrote something that made a lady cry in disgust. I felt alive.

(Arms around him. He's unresponsive to her nibbles and kisses.) Tell me more.

(After every statement, she moans, really over-the-top moaning, though.) I feel like nobody understands me. And sometimes I feel like I should give up. But I know I can make the ground shake if they'd just give me the chance. I work hard and I’ve got the talent. I write at least 5,000 words a day. If I don't fill my quota by sundown I punch myself in the face until I pass out. But if I do fill the quota I drink until I pass out, instead. I hope one day someone reads my work and becomes obsessed with me and uses my name in conversation as if it were a god's. But – (He shoves her off him, she falls off the bench onto the ground.) enough about me. We have to remedy this crying situation so everything will be back in place.

(Still on the ground, as if she's just come out of a trance.) What did you say you were again?

(Pause) A janitor. (Beat) Now! The crying. (He commandeers the bench, begins thinking furiously. The woman sits on the ground, looking up at him. It’s a long period of thought.

Man goes through all the classic thinkers’ poses before he asks:) How's your cycle these days?

(Offended) Excuse me?!

M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W:

Your menstrual cycle. How is it.

(Calms down.) Oh. That. It's fine.

Ok. (More thinking.) Ok. (More thinking, sighs.) Ok. We need you to cry.

We do?

Yes. You need to cry. You need to mourn the loss of your father.

Husband.

Right. Sorry. Father.

Husband.

(Mouths “Oh”.) Father.

Right. Go on.

So we need you to mourn the loss of your butler so we can get the wheel rolling again.

Ok. (Pause)

M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

Go on.

What?

Cry. I'll try.

It's very important. Do it for me. For my future.

I said I'll try.

Well get going.

(W focuses. Nothing happens. Unconsciously dabs her eyes with her tissue. Opens her mouth and lets out a high C.)

M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

Good!

No. What?

That wasn't crying.

You sure?

Yes. I could've sworn it was -I'm sorry. I know how I cry, and that wasn’t crying.

Ok. Proceed.

(Tries again.) I can't.

You can't cry?

Nothing.

And you're thinking about your murdered pet dog?

Yes. Those nostalgic memories of the two of you playing ball or running bases or Billiards – they aren't affecting you?

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

The memories are affecting me...

They are? How? They're making me hungry.

That is not how they should be affecting you.

I know.

You should feel longing, frustration at knowing your loved one can never come back.

Let me try again. (Tries again.) No such luck. Let's get a hot dog.

No! We need to get you crying!

I can't! I’m sorry! What do you want me to do?

Something else. If his death won’t get you crying, we’ll have you think of something else. What memories do you have that always make you sad?

Always?

Ok. Most of the time. What memories do you have that make you sad most of the time.

There was the time I lost at the tracks.

Yes! Use that!

It was a windy day, and my hat -No! Don't talk about it. You must understand that I don’t care about what actually happened. Just think about it and start crying!

Ok. Hold on. (W focuses again, and slowly, she begins to cry. First her lower lip quivers, then tears start falling, her face starts turning red, and soon she is breathing in strained shallow gasps.)

Yes! That's it!

Boo hoo!

Let it all out!

Oh, boo hoo!

Perfect!

Oh, why did I put my money on Sweet Handed Pete!

Wait! (W looks up, briefly attentive.) Use your husband's name, not the horse's. (W nods and resumes.)

Oh, husband! Those six to one odds were too tempting! Why did I ever eavesdrop on those bookies? Why didn’t I follow my gut? I should've trusted you, husband, but now it's too late! Boo hoo hoo! Thirty-five bucks down the drain!

Much better.

I just – I just wish you could've won! (Calming down a little, still weepy.) Why didn't you win?

There, there.

It's just not fair...

(Arms around her, consoling her.) It's not your fault.

Do you know how much thirty-five dollars can buy?

I know, I know.

(Pause. Still whimpering:) How am I doing?

Fine, just fine.

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

Not great?

Good enough.

Tell me I'm doing great.

Fine. YouNot fine. Great.

I know, I was -Tell me I'm great.

Ok-Now. You're great! (Shoves her off. She doesn't fall this time, though.) God! (Finished crying, is actually drying tears now.) Thank you. I thought I was doing great, too.

No problem. God! (Pause)

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

(To the audience:) So now I’ve cried.

Now you’ve cried.

And we insulted his name, and we drank scotch, and we pushed him completely out of our heads.

Yes. So now everything’s back in order. (Turns to him.) Right?

(Nods) Back on track.

Then… …mm?

What happens now?

Now? Yes. What do we do now?

Hold on. (Starts pondering.)

Maybe some more of that Black Label? Maybe a hot dog and some Black Label?

No, not yet.

Oh, come on.

Soon. Just a few more things.

Like what?

(Looks up to her.) So he’s finally, completely out of your head. Right?

Who? Your husband.

He was until you brought him up, the skin-grafted immigrant.

Good. Good.

So now what?

Well, now that we've had a relatively meaningful conversation, we should fall in love and get married.

W: M: W: M:

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M:

W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W: M: W:

(Claps her hands gaily.) That sounds fun!

It will be, but it requires tact.

Tact?

Yes. It ought to happen spontaneously, understand? Suddenly we're in the kitchen of our mortgaged home, eating breakfast, a baby crying in the other room. Discussing day to day things. And we'd have spats and maybe a torrid love affair that'd tear the family apart or a car accident or one of us would form a terrible habit or addiction. Or we could just live pretty happy all the time.

Oh. But being happy really isn't all that exciting.

No? We most certainly won’t be immortalized if we are.

And we want to be immortalized, right?

Yes. So what do you have in mind?

Fall in love, get married; two children, both boys, the older one by two years is loud boisterous and gay and the other is a quiet sensitive child; you have a non-threatening drinking problem while I'm secretly contemplating suicide every night after everyone’s gone to bed; then our gay son falls in love with his quiet sensitive brother; tries to kiss him while drunk, twice; quiet sensitive son confides in me about it and we don't tell you; but when you finally find out after our gay son accidentally blurts it in a fight with his brother you go on a three-day, very non-non-threatening bender; you come back wasted, haggard, having slept with several men, and you find my pistol, the same one I've been contemplating suicide with, and wave it around at all three of us until BANG. Bang?

Yes. Bang.

What does that mean.

I'm not sure. Something.

Sounds dangerous.

I’m certain it is. (Beat) So what do you think, altogether?

It reminds me of that Kevin Spacey movie.

Thanks. That was a good movie.

It was ok.

It was fabulous.

I didn't care for it.

It was tremendous.

My home movies are more exciting.

It CHANGED my LIFE. It was like swallowing semen for the third time all over again.

I love you.

Let's get married.

(They embrace and walk off stage together. Curtain.)

Sometimes, Things Happen Jeffrey worked the night shifts at a bakery with people he thought he would never meet after high school. He figured they would disappear once he went to college and found a career.

He didn’t expect them to accomplish as much as he would. Jeffrey was a very hard worker and got good grades in high school, and his teachers praised him and talked about him in the teacher’s lounge, and these were the kinds of things that made Jeffrey believe he was guaranteed accomplishments that would put him in the company of people just like himself, people he was not afraid of.

But this was not the case, because in college Jeffrey learned new things – not things about education or math or the humanities or the sciences, but things about self-indulgence, sex, drugs, and irresponsibility – things that under his parents' watch he would have never been exposed to. So, after a series of mistakes and blunders, his parents could stand no more. He was removed from college, removed from his home, and ordered to learn to make a living on his own.

That was a long time ago. Jeffrey never went back to school, but he learned to survive on his own, and working his job as a baker he made enough money to live in a condominium by himself with his own kitchen bathroom bedroom and living room. He was very satisfied with his condominium. He enjoyed having his own home. All in all he was happy with how he lived.

At five o’clock every morning, the baking shift ended, and Jeffrey and the rest of the bakers trekked to their homes to read or watch TV or sleep. On one warm summer morning Jeffrey walked home to his condominium, and the sky was at a point where it was beginning to turn blue, but the stars were still visible, properly described as “twilight.” He could not afford a car. Every night one of the other bakers would offer him a ride home, but Jeffrey usually declined. “I’ll enjoy the walk,” he’d say, smiling. It was only on rainy or very cold mornings that Jeffrey took up the offer. There was never a whole lot to talk about on those car rides, they let the radio do the talking, but Jeffrey always said thank you when the car pulled up to his apartment.

It was a small two storey condominium and Jeffrey lived on the first floor. On this warm summer twilight, walking back from a hard night's work, Jeffrey thought about nothing in particular. Nights like these he wished he smoked cigarettes and sometimes he'd pause to look for a familiar constellation in the sky. He turned into his driveway when he noticed that his door was already open. The sun was just coming up and with it a bluer sky. He tried seeing inside through the small opening of his door while keeping a distance away, but his window of vision was limited. He looked around to see if any of his neighbors were up. It took some courage, but Jeffrey finally walked inside and found a naked man lying on the floor in the middle of the hallway, long black hair covering his face. He watched the stomach lift up and down in sync with the man’s soft breathing and froze.

The naked man was asleep. Jeffrey was wary to take any action, to do anything that might wake him. His refrigerator started humming and he clenched his fists. He started taking short shallow breaths through his nose. He slowly and quietly tip-toed out of his house and dialed 911 on his cell phone.

“Hello 911 what is your emergency?”

“Hi, my name is Jeffrey. Someone has broken into my home, but he's passed out. I live somewhere in the suburbs surrounding New York City.”

“Ok, Jeffrey, we'll have someone come over now. What's your phone number?”

“My phone number is this.”

“Ok. Someone's on their way.”

“Great, thank you.”

Between the period of the call and the police’s arrival, he stood on the front lawn, watching the sun rise, and paced back and forth on his small plot of grass.

The police car pulled up to the condominium and the cop got out, his red mustache and dark brow assuring Jeffrey that everything would be alright.

“Did you call about the man in your home?” he asked.

“Yes. That was me.” Jeffrey pointed to his already open door, and the cop walked inside.

Jeffrey decided to wait outside until the cop came back out. When he came back out he explained that he had called for an ambulance.

“It doesn’t look like he’ll be going anywhere soon. I tried to wake him up, but he reacted sort of sluggish and grumbled under his breath. It didn’t look like there was any sort of damage done to your home, either.”

Jeffrey hadn’t even thought of the possibility that the naked man unconscious in his home could have been some sort of vagrant or thief. “Shouldn’t you keep watching him? Just in case?”

“I promise you, he’s not going anywhere soon. He’s acting really sluggish – probably a druggy or mentally handicapped or something like that. Besides, don’t you think he would’ve done something to your house before passing out and not after?”

That was a good point. Jeffrey told the cop that that was a good point.

The ambulance finally arrived, and a young EMT with a handsome crew cut came out of the car and talked to the policeman. The other EMT came out and talked to the first EMT when he was finished speaking with the policeman. Then the two EMTs walked inside the condominium, the cop following behind them.

By now, people were beginning to leave for their morning jobs. When they saw the ambulance, cop car, and Jeffrey standing outside, still in his baker’s clothes, they asked him if everything was alright.

He shrugged. “They found someone at my place. Doesn’t look like there was any damage though. He was passed out.”

Everyone said they were sorry and hoped everything worked out for the best.

One of the EMTs – the one with the crew cut -- came back out of the condominium and walked to the ambulance. He took a blanket out from the back and walked back in. The next time he came out, he was with the other EMT, the cop, and the naked man who was wrapped in the heavy brown blanket. Jeffrey could see that the man had a dark brown beard and his eyes were still partially closed. The EMTs helped him into the back of the ambulance and the cop walked up to Jeffrey.

“Is he ok?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.” The cop put his hands on his hips. “Supposedly this guy got out of a mental rest home a few miles away from here and's been missing a few days. The EMTs told me the guy is harmless – he just didn’t know where to go.”

“Oh. Well that's a relief. Is there anything you need me to do? Fill out forms or anything?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. Since he’s a mental patient, he’s not gonna be thrown into jail or anything. If we do need anything, though, we’ll give you a call. And if you find anything wrong with your place, just come on down and we’ll figure out what needs to be done.”

Jeffrey thanked him and walked back inside. He listened to the cop car and ambulance roll away before closing his door.

He did another inspection of his apartment. His kitchen looked in order. His bedroom was ok. So was his common room. The only thing that was different was his bathroom: the medicine cabinet had been opened, and the toilet had been urinated in. Jeffrey flushed, walked out, and heard the familiar glug, gurgle and breathy sigh. An open medicine cabinet and an unflushed toilet were not worth reporting to the police. Everything seemed okay.

He decided he wouldn’t take a shower. Instead he went into the kitchen and started to read the newspaper funnies at his kitchen table. He never read the lines out loud, but today he did, he even read over some of them and stared at the crossword puzzle for a while. Then, when he stood up to pace around the kitchen, he felt an immense pressure on his bladder.

He stood at the bathroom entrance and looked inside. He saw the toilet with its seat up and the fuzzy mat surrounding it. He saw the shower and tub behind it, the shower curtain slightly pulled back, revealing the faucet and nozzle. He tried to remember if he had left the curtain that way after he had finished showering before his shift. Was that why he was naked?

He didn't want to find hairs that weren't his. He frowned. “All you have to do is take a piss,” he told himself. “You're being ridiculous.” He stepped into the bathroom quickly, and when he finally started to pee, he angled his body away from the slightly opened curtain. He flushed the toilet and left the bathroom without washing his hands and especially without looking into the mirror.

The fact that someone had come into his home while he was not there gave way to new and frightening ideas: people, any kind of people, could come into his home whenever they felt like it. He did not want people breaking into his home while he was watching television or getting ready for bed or waking up from a nice day’s rest. Now these same scenarios proved themselves to be possible. He needed to get out for a while. First he’d take a shower, he was dirty and sweaty, and then he’d go for a walk. By the time he came back, everything would feel better and be back to normal.

He undressed in his bedroom. Then he went into the kitchen and put on the television and played it at a loud volume. He showered with the bathroom door open, the curtain covering him, and his hands constantly covering his genitals while he strained to hear the television coming from the kitchen. It was a quick shower, and when he finished he grabbed his towel and walked into his room to dry himself off and get dressed.

It was around eleven when Jeffrey stepped out of his condominium. It had become a hot and sunny summer day. Jeffrey, finally beginning to feel fatigue set in, decided to go

somewhere for a cup of coffee. He knew of a Starbucks nearby.

The place was relatively empty; it was noontime, there were some men in business suits waiting on line with no intent to stay inside and drink, and then there were two or three old men with scraggly features who sat at different areas in the café, reading newspapers and drinking coffee.

He got himself a cup of coffee and sat down at one of the tables and started to think of what to do. He had to be back at work at nine in the evening. It was about a quarter after eleven. That meant he had about ten hours. If he felt comfortable about being home again by two or three, he could get a good six or seven hours rest before going back to work. Looking around, he saw an old newspaper, different from the kind he usually read, resting on the windowsill. He picked it up. On the cover was an old man in a business suit with white hair and glasses grimacing. The headline said he had participated in a very major fraud that could potentially put him in jail. Jeffrey read the article – when he finished, he started the next article, and when he finished that one he leafed through the rest of the pages, reading only the articles that looked interesting to him. After that he even combed through the comics section knowing that different newspapers printed different comics. He wished he had brought a book.

Since what happened to him that morning was not an ordinary everyday thing, he thought it might be a good idea to let his parents know about it. He was certain that he could never mention it to them and they'd never find out, but this was more about how he was brought up.

These were the things his parents would tell their friends about, little stories they could make use of at a dinner party or a christening. And he could remove the nudity so that they wouldn't be entirely repulsed. Yes, this was one of the few stories Jeffrey had that he could actually share with them, so he decided, I should call them. They'd appreciate it.

It was not that he and his parents didn't get along. Jeffrey loved his parents very much and they loved him, as well. It was just that sometimes they loved him too much and were overprotective. When he told them he had found the job as a baker, it was obvious that their plan to straighten him out and scare him back into school hadn't worked. But they had to grin and bear it, because no matter what they said, Jeffrey could always respond, “But I'm on my own, and I'm happy, right? What more do I need?” He could not shake the feeling that he had somehow proved them wrong, and he could not help but feel good about it.

He dialed his old home phone number and waited but no one picked up. When the answering machine beeped, Jeffrey left a message: “Hey, mom and dad, just calling to check in, call me back whenever you get this.”

The newspaper was finished, Jeffrey had read everything worth reading in there, including the comics, and he was back to square one. He finished his coffee and went outside.

The town was bright and bustling. Cars with open windows thumped loud hip-hop music.

When Jeffrey passed by cars stopped at red lights he could make out some of the songs – all big hit singles of the summer with short shelf-lives – and most of the music was coming out of cars driven by young, tough-looking kids who leaned low in the seat with one arm resting on the top of the wheel. No one was on the sidewalk except for a few people waiting at bus stops. Jeffrey had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. The signs of fatigue were starting to kick in again – he wasn't used to being out during daytime, the bright sun bothered him, he

couldn't look up for the life of him, and he had to keep his eyes squinted. He couldn't remember the last time he saw the sun for more than ten minutes, and it reminded him of a scene from an Indiana Jones movie where a bunch of child laborers were freed from underground factories, and when they first walked outside into the daytime they all had to cover their eyes because it bothered them so much.

He walked into a pharmacy to use the bathroom and get out of the light. The inside was air-conditioned and a timeless ballad was playing throughout the store. A young girl worked behind the counter and there were displays up for a holiday that was still two months away. She had long black hair and an eyebrow piercing. She wore a red vest over her black shirt. She must be sixteen or seventeen, Jeffrey thought. Probably smokes. Her stance was aimless – arms rested limply by her sides, it looked like one of her legs were bent, resting while the other one took the brunt of the work, and her gaze wasn't focused. Jeffrey walked over to the counter.

“Excuse me, do you have a bathroom?”

Without hesitating, as if she was aware he was there the whole time, she looked over and smiled. “Oh! Sure. Lemme just get the key.” She walked to the end of the counter and took out a key attached to a block of wood. “It's in the back.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

It was a small, clean enough single-stall bathroom. Exhausted, Jeffrey took a seat on the toilet. Finding a place to sit down is tough, Jeffrey thought. Especially in a public place. Then he revised his thought: Finding a public place where you can sit down for free is tough.

He thought about his condo. It had been broken into. A man he didn't know, a lunatic, used his bathroom without flushing and rummaged through his cupboard and who knows what else. Jeffrey had only made cursory checks. The cabinets, he had forgotten to check the inside of the kitchen cabinets. And his nightstand. And the dresser drawer where he kept his condoms.

And under his bed. What if something happened there? What if something was there? Jeffrey recalled the nooks and crannies of where he lived, all the places where he could find that man's clothes or hair or fluids or death threats. It would be silly to call the police and have them search these places, it was better he do it himself. The problem was he wasn't sure he could.

Then he considered taking a nap on the toilet.

There was a knock on the door.

“Sorry, someone's in here.”

“Are you ok? You've been in there for a while.”

“Oh! Yes, I'm fine, I'm sorry.” He got up, pulled up his pants, washed his hands and opened the door. The young girl was there. He couldn't tell if she was concerned or disturbed.

“I'm sorry, I...” he blushed. “I must have lost track of myself in there. I'm pretty tired.” He paused. “It's so hard to find a place where you can just sit down for a little bit, you know?”

The girl kept her eyes on the key in his hand. “I guess...”

“Yeah.” He handed it to her, “Sorry again,” and walked back outside.

Now the time read 1:45. He would have to get back home by three if he wanted to get some good sleep. He could always have a cup of coffee at work, too. That was a good last resort to have. He dialed his parents again. Again, they didn't pick up, and he hung up without

leaving a message. The sun still bothered him. He didn't know what to do now. There was Jill, the girl he saw sometimes on the weekends. He could call her.

Jill worked late but not graveyard shifts over at a convenience store, so she was kind of on the same sleep schedule as Jeffrey, though meeting anytime during the work week was close to impossible. They met because Jeffrey always went out to pick up the coffee for the rest of the bakers, and she'd be there every time, and they'd talk about things until flirting developed into a minor relationship. Yeah, he thought. I could definitely call her.

He looked down at his phone. He didn't get to charge it after coming home from work, but it still had battery life left. He dialed and waited, and when Jill picked up he started pacing back and forth.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jill?”

“Jeffrey! Hey! What's up?”

“Not too much.” A car rushed by. “Just walking around town a little.”

“What? What are you doing walking around town? Shouldn't you be getting some sleep?”

“Yeah, I should, I really should, but... well it's just something weird happened this morning.”

“What?”

Jeffrey spoke up: “Something weird happened this morning--” Jill laughed. “No! No, I heard you --” “Ohh --” “Just, I mean --” “Oh, yeah --” “What was it.”

Jeffrey put his free hand behind his head. “Well, like I said, it was really weird.”

“Yeah.”

“I walked home, and when I got there, the door was opened.”

Jill gasped. “Unlocked and everything?”

“Yeah. Unlocked and everything.”

“Were you robbed?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

“Nah. There was a guy passed out in my hallway.”

Jill gasped again, but louder. “Oh, my God!” “Yeah.”

“What, was he, like, drunk or something?”

“No. He was naked, actually.”

Jill squealed. “Oh, my God! That's ridiculous! And he was just passed out, right?”

“Yeah, he was just sort of lying there, naked, passed out.”

Jill laughed. “That sounds like fun. What'd you do?”

“I stepped outside and called the cops.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Yeah, so a cop came by, and then some EMTs, they escorted him out in this like blanket.

The cop told me they think it was some guy escaped from a mental institution or something like that. He made me check the place to make sure nothing happened while he was in there.”

Jill sucked in a third quick gasp. “I didn't even think about that. Was everything alright?”

“Yeah. I mean it was a fast check, but he had used my toilet and opened the medicine cabinet.”

“He didn't flush it?”

“Nah. It was just pee, though.”

“Ew, gross.”

“But yeah, that's what happened.”

“So... why are you out on the town then?”

“Idunno, it all just weirded me out.”

“Yeah I bet.”

“Like I only made a really quick check through my house to see if he had done anything.

What if there's something I missed and I open a drawer and it's just there?”

“That'd be kinda weird, yeah.”

“It's like having a mouse or something!”

Jill chuckled. “So what are you gonna do? Just walk around town until your shift starts?”

“I don't know. I hope not. I'm just sort of trying to walk it off right now, get the nerves out.”

“Why not give it a shot now? Hasn't it been a while?”

“Yeah...” Where did his clothes go? Did he take them off in his apartment? Why was he naked? Could anyone break in so easily? Did anyone else get any ideas by seeing how easy it was? “I don't think I'm ready yet, though.”

“Well, I mean, if you're having so much difficulty with your place, you could always crash here until your shift.”

Jeffrey hadn't even thought of that. “Hm. That might work. I didn't think of that.”

“Yeah. I mean, it's not a big deal. I figure you're gonna need the sleep. Do you have everything you need with you for work?”

“Yeah. Could I use your shower?”

“Sure.”

“Ok. Ok I think I'm gonna do that. You're sure it's alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Thanks a lot. I'll be over soon.”

He hung up. Now there was one bar left on his phone. He saw a bus stop nearby and sat on its bench, watching the cars zoom by in between lapses of rubbing his face with his hands.

Maybe I should take the day off, he thought. I could use a day off. There was a bus coming and he didn’t want it to think he was waiting for it. He stood up, stretched, and started walking again. It would only be for one night.

Fortunately, he had been walking towards Jill's place, so he was already halfway there.

Now he had at least some sort of destination. And what was even better was that Jill had air conditioning – he didn't know how she could afford it, but she did. He looked forward to falling

asleep in a comfy, air-conditioned room. Would she want to have sex? He decided when he got there he would let her make the first move. He was already sort of putting her out of the way by crashing there, and for such a weird reason. He wouldn't do much of anything other than take a shower, give Jill a kiss on the cheek, and go to bed. And if Jill wanted the air conditioning off he'd deal, and if she wanted to watch some tv he'd sleep through it, and so on and so forth.

Jill lived in a two bedroom apartment with her old high school friend. She was on the fifth floor. He got buzzed in and walked up the steps. Three flights up, he wiped the sweat off his brow. When he reached the fourth floor, he saw her waiting outside the door, looking down.

“Hey.” “Hey!” Jeffrey jogged up the last couple of steps and kissed her. “Thanks again. I know how weird this sounds. I really appreciate it.”

“Well, I can't really judge since I've never had a naked loony break into my place.”

Jeffrey smiled. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“Come on in.” Jill brought him to the kitchen and he sat down at the table. “Want anything to eat or drink?”

“Just a glass of water would be fine.”

“Ok.” She filled it up and handed it to him. “You're gonna get straight to bed?”

“Well I think I might take a shower now, that way I won't have to do it when I wake up, if that's ok.”

“No problem. Help yourself. You know where it is.”

Jeffrey finished his water, got up, and put the glass into the sink. “When do you head out again?”

“Around 5.”

“Where's Beth? At work?”

“Yeah. She'll be back in a few.”

“Ok. She knows I'm here?”

“I'll leave a note.”

“Ok.” He got up and put his empty glass of water into the sink. “All right, time to shower.”

“I'm going back into my room. Towels are in the closet. Just come in when you're finished.”

Jeffrey grabbed a towel and went into the bathroom. He regretted not having fresh clothes to change into. Jill had a much larger and pinker bathroom than his. The toilet lid had a pink cozy and the shower curtain was translucent and polka-dotted. He undressed and stepped inside the shower. He imagined Jill coming in and got an erection. For a while he forgot about the man in his home. He used a bottle of body wash to clean himself and used one of the pink razors in the soap dish to trim around his penis. He wanted to get rid of the erection, so he masturbated, thinking of he and Jill together and Beth joining in and of Jill coming into the shower with him. He let himself go flaccid before stepping out. He looked at himself in the mirror before putting his clothes back on. Then, dressed, he walked into Jill's room with the towel. She was lying on bed watching tv.

“Hey, what do you want me to do with this?”

“Just toss it there.” Jill pointed to a hamper. “You got dressed again? Aren't you just going to sleep?”

Jeffrey sat down in the bed next to her. “Yeah. That's a good point.”

“That's kind of weird, Jeffrey.”

They had sex, and then Jill went to shower and Jeffrey started to doze off in the air conditioning. While dozing off, he heard his mom and high school friends' voices, but every time he recognized who was speaking he couldn't remember what they had said. Jill came back in.

“Ok. It's four o'clock now. I'm gonna get going. What time should I set the alarm?”

“Uh... eight.”

“Ok. It's set. I'll see you later.”

“Beth will be home to lock the door when I leave?”

“Yeah it'll be fine. If she needs to leave she'll wake you up and kick you out.”

“Sounds good.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Alright. Thanks, again.”

“No problem.”

The blinds were lowered, but the glow of daylight managed to sneak into the room through tiny cracks of window. Jeffrey was used to it. At his apartment his blinds were down all the time, and he could lose track of himself lying on his bed, reading, his lamp on. Jill had left the air-conditioning on, and Jeffrey curled into a ball and fell asleep. He dreamed that he was playing a small pick-up game of soccer. The policeman with the red moustache from earlier that morning was on his team and the EMTs were on the other. Jeffrey played aggressively and threw lots of elbows and pushed. The EMTs grew upset and started complaining, and Jeffrey told them to “Quit being bitches and play the game,” and he and the policeman got along and played together very well. When he woke up, he couldn't remember who had won. He assumed that they had.

The sun was setting when the alarm went off. He walked over to the clock and fiddled with it until it stopped. Four hours. He'd been through worse in college.

Jill's room was connected to the kitchen. When he stepped out, fully dressed, he saw Beth there, drinking orange juice and reading a magazine. She wore a dark grey top and some black sweatpants.

“Hey Jeff.”

“Hey Beth. Hold on I'm just gonna run to the bathroom and wash up a little.”

He went in and washed his face with cold water and brushed his teeth with his thumb. He peed and flushed and washed his hands so Beth would hear it. Then he stepped back outside.

“Help yourself to some orange juice. You know where the glasses are.”

Jeffrey did and sat down at the table.

“So a naked homeless person?”

Jeff chuckled. “Yeah. Hell of a thing to come home to.”

“I bet. I remember one time I came home and my cat had shat on a copy of my Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, but that was the worst that's happened to me.”

He chuckled again. “Well, he had pee'd in my toilet without flushing.”

“Ew.” “Yeah.”

“So, are you staying here for a while?”

“Nah, I don't think so. I'll probably head home after my shift. It's just a nerves thing.”

“Ah. Makes sense. Don't think I can blame you.”

Beth went back to reading her magazine. Jeffrey tried to act unobtrusive.

“Ha! Look at this.”

Beth slid the magazine over to Jeffrey. There was a picture of a famous celebrity in a tiny Speedo, his hairless beer belly looming over it.

“That's pretty ridiculous.”

“I know. Poor guy. Just trying to have a good time and now his fat gut and Speedo are everywhere.”

“The price of being famous.”

“Seriously.”

“Have you seen his new film?”

Beth’s eyes widened. “No! Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it?”

“Eh, it was alright.” Jeffrey leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Idunno, I was thinking there was gonna be a lot more gore. I mean there were some cool parts, like when some chick gets--” “Don't ruin it for me!”

Jeffrey smirked. “Sorry.”

“I've been wanting to see it for a while now.”

“Yeah, I mean if you're a big fan of him, it's worth seeing. Personally I wish I waited until it came out on DVD.” “But it wasn't, like, horrible, right?”

“Nah. It just definitely could've been better.”

“Not enough gore.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like a fair assessment. You like his earlier stuff, right?”

“Oh, yeah! I mean he has some classics. Like, in The Repossessed, that scene where that dude gets skewered --” “Yeah, classic.”

“I mean, you see the thing come out from the bottom, and there's all that shit at the end of the pole...”

“Yeah, his attention to detail is, like, unmatched.”

“Definitely.”

Beth crossed her arms across her chest. “I've always felt that one of the biggest problems with horror movies is their... reluctance to show the death scenes as clearly as possible.”

Jeffrey nodded.

“It seems like every time someone's about to get killed, the camera starts going all over the place, so that you never get a clear image of the death. I mean if you want a movie to be horrifying, you should focus on that stuff, you know? That's why I like him so much.”

“Yeah. I mean that's his specialty I guess.”

“That and apparently getting into tabloids.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Apparently.” He took a deep drink of the orange juice. “So how's work been going?”

“Eh. It's alright. I wish I was doing something like you were doing instead of a shitty nine to five.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Idunno...”

“Yeah, maybe not. But at least your job has personality, you know? I edit articles.” She spun her finger in the air. “Woop dee doo.”

“Yeah, but in the end it's just a job. A way to pay the bills.”

“That's true.”

“And at least you get to see the sun.”

Beth chuckled. “That's true, too.” She put her hands palm down on the table. It looked like she was holding herself up. “Ok. So maybe not graveyard shift. But like daytime construction. Something more physical. Something with more interesting people. College graduates are pretty fucking boring.”

“Well that I can agree with.” he finished his orange juice and put it in the sink. “But most other people are pretty fucking scary!”

Beth laughed. And because Beth laughed, Jeffrey laughed, too.

“Alright, Beth, I better get going.”

“Alright, take care. Sorry about what happened.”

“The homeless guy?”

“Yeah.”

Jeffrey shrugged. “It happens. I'll see you later.”

He stepped outside to twilight. There wasn't as much traffic as there was during the daytime, but cars still zoomed by, faster, it seemed, than in the daytime, some still with windows lowered and music blasting. It would be a twenty minute walk to work. Jeffrey decided to pick up another cup of coffee. He knew when he got there he'd probably be asked to go back out and get some for everyone else, but he figured he could use an extra cup at his shift this time. On his way to another Starbuck's he got a phone call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jeffrey.” It was his mother.

“Oh, hey, mom.”

“Your father and I got your message.”

“Why didn't you call earlier?”

“We figured you were sleeping. We didn't want to wake you.”

“That makes sense.”

“Why? You were awake?”

He opened the door and walked in. Some female folk singer was playing over speakers,

and there were a lot of people there – mostly high schoolers. Groups of them scurried from table to table, talking and laughing. He thought he saw the girl who worked at the pharmacy.

There was a long line and he waited.

“A little longer than usual.”

“Did something happen?”

“Well, it was kind of weird. Nothing horrible, really. Just like a really weird incident.”

“What was it? What happened?”

“I found this – guy – passed out in my apartment.”

“What? He broke in? Was anything stolen?”

“No, nothing was stolen. I called the police and they took him away. They think he was just some harmless homeless guy who stumbled in.”

“Jesus, Jeffrey.” He heard his mother sigh. “Well how did he get in?”

“What can I get you?” asked the young man behind the register.

“Hold on one second, mom.” He looked up. “Just a medium coffee?”

The young man left, returned with the cup, and Jeffrey paid.

“Sorry, I'm just getting some coffee. I'm on my way to work now.” He walked over to the self-serve area and took out a packet of a sugar substitute. “How did he get in?” He ripped the packet open and poured half the contents into the cup. “Well,” he said, stirring the sugar in and putting on a top, “I'm not sure, actually. I might've left the door unlocked, but that's not something I really ever do. Maybe a window was open.”

“Maybe you should figure out how he got in so you can fix it so that no one can get in that way again.” She sounded angry, but Jeffrey learned how to not get angry back anymore. He held the phone between his head and shoulder, opened the door, and was back outside.

“That's a good idea. I'll give the apartment another look-see when I get back.”

“You should.”

“I will.”

“So what else is going on?”

“Nothing really. The same old. I'm on my way to work right now. How are things at home?”

“Fine. We're thinking of repainting the kitchen.”

“Really.”

“It's getting kind of old-looking, you know. I'm thinking like an aqua, a light blue or green.”

“That sounds good. Anything else?”

“No, not really. Here let me see if your father wants to speak to you.”

Jeffrey heard her off the side of the phone talking to his father. She heard him ask Do you need to talk to him, then a pause, then It's Jeffrey, and then she came back on the phone. “He just says to tell you hello.”

“Ok.” “Alright, well, I'll let you go now.”

“Ok.” “Don't forget to check the place again when you get back, and I'll talk to you soon.”

“Alright sounds good. Bye.” “Bye.” Now Jeffrey was convinced that most of the cars on the road were high school students enjoying the summer vacation. They were the ones who drove aggressively and played their music loudly, and sometimes he could see into the windows where they were talking on phones or talking to their friends sitting next to them or driving alone, kings of the road. In high school Jeffrey did a lot of the same. He used to lift weights and play soccer and baseball and get drunk at house parties. It was incredible how invincible you felt in high school – being in that small bubble of people your age. If you were the best at something everyone knew you for that reason alone. You felt like a celebrity. A lot had changed since then, most of which occurred during college, when he had to meet a lot more new people and drank a lot more without going to the gym. Now, he sometimes unconsciously touched his belly where most of the fat had accumulated, remembering when that wasn't there, and he remembered all the girls he had been with during high school and how he had never called them once he went to college. He was on his way to work a graveyard shift as a baker.

On the walk he decided to take a fresh view at what had happened earlier that morning, when he had returned from work. By now he felt he was through with being afraid. By now it must be a funny story. He looked forward to seeing all his coworkers and explaining what had happened. They'd love it. The whole thing felt Kafkaesque. He always heard or read about people using the term, and now he knew of something which fit the description perfectly, though he never cared much for Kafka, and he knew he wouldn't want to make such an observation in front of his coworkers who didn't read. But still. Kafkaesque. “Except I'm not a bug,” he said to himself, “and I can rationalize everything that's happened.”

He finished his coffee quickly and threw it out before he went in to work. The bakery was in the middle of a shopping center. He recognized his coworkers' cars, the old red ones with bumper stickers of radio stations and American flags, and went inside.

The radio was already hooked up when he entered and one of Charlie's mix CDs was playing. A rock song with soft ethereal verses and jolting abrasive choruses. The other bakers were heavy smokers with indecipherable and faded tattoos on their forearms. They liked to shout and curse while working and sometimes shaped the dough into sexual organs. They didn’t like to read. But they were reasonable. Though Jeffrey obviously wasn't one of them, they were friendly to him and teased him about his interest in books and music. In that way it managed to be uncomfortably pleasant. Jeffrey walked into the back, where everyone was getting ready, putting on aprons or getting out whatever they needed. Charlie was the head baker. He was stringy, and anytime he had to use his hands his forearm muscles could be seen working under his skin. He was getting out some of the frozen dough when Jeffrey walked in.

“Hey, Jeffy boy! What's good? How are ya?”

“Hey, Charlie.” Jeffrey grabbed one of the aprons hanging on the wall. “Things are kinda fucking weird, man.”

Dale was putting on his apron next to Jeffrey. He was five or six years older than Jeffrey.

He was short and stout, but looking at him it was easy to tell that at one point he probably wrestled or played football. “Weird, Jeff? What happened?”

“Was he fucking talking to you, Dale?”

“He wanted to. I could tell. Who'd want to talk to you?”

Charlie laughed his low, guttural, smoker's laugh. “Dale, one day I am going to kill you.”

“I'd like to see you try, you fucking string bean.”

Charlie laughed again. “You're on tonight!”

“Goddamn right. I'm on every night.”

Jeffrey had his apron on now. He went to the sink and washed his hands.

“So wait,” Charlie asked, “what happened?”

“I found a guy passed out in my apartment this morning, when I got back from work.”

Charlie laughed again. “One of your pals party too hard?”

“Nah. I have no idea who this guy was. And he was completely naked.”

“Oh ho ho!” chimed in Dale. “Jeffrey, you dog!”

Charlie shook his head. “Some guys have all the luck, huh?”

Jeffrey laughed. The conversation was going well.

“So, what did you do with this naked guy?”

“Aw, I just called the cops. No funny stuff.”

“A fuckin' shame, Jeff. How often do these opportunities come around?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “He wasn't my type.”

Dale and Charlie laughed. “So seriously,” Charlie said, “what was this guy doing in your place?”

“They said he was some escaped mental patient.”

“So he wasn't like a drunk or a robber or something.”

“Nah.” “So your place was alright.”

“Basically. Except he used my bathroom.”

“He didn't take a shit, did he?”

“Just a piss. He didn't flush.”

“That uncivilized fuck,” muttered Dale.

“Must've been raised in a barn,” added Charlie.

“Yeah, go figure.”

Jeffrey went to get some more dough out of the freezer. He heard Charlie when he brought it in.

“Seriously, Jeff. I don't know how you didn't beat the shit out of him. I don't know what I'd do if I found some naked asshole in my place.”

“Well, you know Jeff. Kid likes poetry. He's sensitive.”

“Oh, yeah! I forgot. Jeff you shoulda read him to death.”

“Yeah...”

“But honestly,” Charlie grew serious, “you should stick up for yourself more, man.”

“I know.”

“It's not like you're a weak-looking kid. Fighting's good for the soul! Cleanses you every once in a while.”

“I guess.”

Charlie turned back to his dough. “Just remember that.”

The conversation was finished. Jeffrey was happy with how it went. Now they started getting to work.

Charlie kneaded the dough, and in time with his movements, he said “Would've kicked. his. fucking. ass” two or three times before it trailed off and then that was that.

As he had predicted, Jeffrey was asked to go out and pick up coffee for the rest of bakers at Jill's place of work. He went across the street and inside. Jeffrey smiled and waved to Jill and Jill smiled and waved to Jeffrey.

“Hey, Jeff!”

“Hey, Jill.”

Jeffrey walked over to the coffee counter and started filling up cups.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” said Jeffrey, stirring contents. “You have a really comfy bed.”

“I know.”

“How's work been?”

“Not bad. The usual.”

Jeffrey put the coffees in a tray and walked up to the counter. “Any underage kids trying to buy beer?”

Jill smiled. “No, not yet. They'll be here soon, I'm sure.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Think you'll be able to get home tonight?”

“Yeah. I think I got all the jitters out.”

“Good.” Jill handed him his change.

“But meeting up today was sort of nice,” he said, pocketing the stray bills and coins. “We should do it again.”

Jill's eyes brightened. “Yeah, I was actually thinking that, too!”

“Gimme a call tomorrow. You can come over to my place this time.”

“And protect you from the loonies?”

Jeffrey blushed. “Yes, please.”

Jill grinned. “I knew it!”

“Yeah. You got me.”

“Alright, so I'll give you a call tomorrow. Any specific time?”

“Whenever’s good for you.”

“Great!”

“Alright, Jill. Until then!”

“Bye, Jeffrey!”

He walked back carefully and made sure no coffee spilled.

When work was finished, everyone washed their hands and took off their aprons and

stepped out to the twilight. It was still cool outside, the sun hadn't baked the sky yet. Jeffrey was more tired than usual.

“Jeff, babes, you want a ride home?” asked Dale.

“Yeah, actually. I'm pretty out of it.”

“Hop in.”

Jeff got into Dale's red pick-up truck and the inside smelled like air freshener. Some talk radio host who Jeffrey never heard of was on the air. He was talking about the benefits of bestiality.

“But I don't see what the big deal is.”

“Oh c'mon,” said one of the other disc jockeys.

“No, honestly I don't! A guy's horny, right? He's lonely. He wishes he has a girl, but he doesn't. All he has is a cow.”

Laughter was heard in the studio.

“So he takes this cow, right, and he just, you know, does his business, and that's it. He doesn't go out and rape or buy pornography or anything. I mean Christian fundamentalists should be all over this! It prevents these poor lonely guys from going out, buying smut, encouraging that stuff.”

“Yeah, but what about the cow? Do you think she'd like it?”

“Well have you ever seen a bull's dong?”

There was more laughter. Jeffrey and Dale laughed, too.

“Do you think after a cow has taken a bull's dong, she's gonna worry about getting shtupped by some farmer?”

“Well what if the guy has a bull's dong?”

“Now that's just ridiculous. Now you're just making a mockery out of a very serious discussion.”

Then a rock song started playing.

“You ever listen to him?” asked Dale.

“Nah. I never even heard of him.”

“Crazy fucking guy, man. I listen to him every ride home.”

The windows were lowered. Jeffrey closed his eyes and put his face directly into the path of air blowing in. He was looking forward to getting some sleep.

The car pulled up in front of the condominium.

“Alright, Jeffy baby. Take it easy. Don't let anymore naked loonies break into your house, alright?”

“Alright, Dale. Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime, you know that.”

Jeffrey got out. Dale pulled out and drove away. Jeffrey would've liked it if he had waited until he had gotten into the house. He looked at his door. It was closed and locked. Granted, Jeffrey thought, someone could've gotten in and closed the door. But that was ridiculous. He unlocked the door and walked in. It was his apartment. He turned on the kitchen light and looked inside. It was his kitchen, but he wasn't hungry. He went into his bathroom. He tried to remember if he had left the toilet seat up or down. He looked down into the toilet and the water

was clear, not yellow. He looked into his shower and everything was where it should have been.

He felt uncomfortable about checking his kitchen cabinets, but he figured that would wear off.

He pee'd and washed his face and went into his room. There was his bed and his nightstand.

There was the book on his nightstand, the one he was currently reading, The Interpretation of Dreams. Nothing was out of place. He looked into the dresser drawer where he kept his condoms and everything was fine there, too. He put on a CD he had of Emmanuel Chabrier and felt even better. I should catch up on some sleep, he thought. I want to listen to this album and fall asleep. I could do that right now. That's how tired I am.

He got changed out of his clothes, turned on the two fans in his room, and didn't even try to read when he jumped into bed. He didn't listen to the music as much as it filled an empty space around him. His eyes closed, he relaxed them and saw the outline of a nude female figure with an arched back, then his old friend playing a piano, and then he saw someone pointing a gun at him, and he almost opened his eyes, but then he remembered it was just an image. After that he stopped relaxing his eyes and fell asleep, even though he had forgotten to turn off the kitchen light.

When the World Returned to Zero The artist lived alone in a one room apartment with his equipment and a mattress he used for sleeping. One day, his big break came in a letter: “I want you to make art for me,” the letter said. “It needs to be fresh and intense and shocking. I am a wealthy art critic who can offer you shelter and equipment. I live at this address, and I’d like you to come over as soon as possible.”

The artist read the letter twice to make sure he was not dreaming. Then he packed up everything he thought necessary for the trip and walked (he didn’t have any money for public transportation) to the address where the man lived. As he got closer and closer, he could see that the house where he’d be staying was a mansion – it dwarfed the neighboring suburban homes like a monument or a temple or an amusement park. He knocked on the door, there was a bit of a pause, and then the door was opened by a tall, lanky, and bald man.

“Hi, I’m Don the art critic. You must be the artist. Come in and have a seat.”

The artist was brought into a grand room with a black leather couch. There were paintings on all the walls and the artist admired them because they were all very good. He sat on the leather chair, and before Don sat down he asked the artist if he’d like anything to drink.

“There’s some beer, wine, soda.”

“I’ll have a beer, if that's alright.”

“Any specific kind?”

“Nah.” Don went to the next room over, and the artist heard two bottles decompress. He looked around at the art again. Most of the paintings were abstract so that he couldn’t really determine what any of them were trying to say, but there was one that was a flurry of pinks and purples, fuchsias and reds that he really liked. He walked close to it and studied it more carefully until Don came back in with two green beer bottles and handed one to him. Don settled into the couch two cushions away from the artist.

“Now listen,” started Don, his bald head reflecting light, “I’ve been an art critic for twenty years now. I’m very famous. I’ve gone to some of the biggest shows all over the world.

But to be honest, as much as some of the art has impressed me, for the longest of time I have not been moved by a piece. I can understand why something might be good because of the effort and talent behind it, but it’s been years since I have looked at a piece and felt my heart turn and realize something that could destroy me. Maybe I’m just a jaded guy. I don’t know.

But what I want you to do is make something that will help me get out of this funk. I miss being shocked. And, just so you know, when you make something, it doesn’t need to shock me in any specific way. It just needs to make me do anything – gasp, cry, laugh, sigh – instead of that same blank stare I give everything else.

“From now on, your house is my house, and I will pay for all of your supplies during your stay. Just know I don’t plan on holding onto you forever if you take too long. If you do succeed, however, you’ll be rewarded well.”

The artist listened and tried to drink his beer before it got warm at the same time, and when Don finished he said he was honored to be given the opportunity, and that he knew he would not let him down, and asked if he could have another beer.

Already the artist had an idea for a project. That same day he went out and purchased

supplies to make his painting. It would be an explicit account of the Christ’s birth – a view of the Virgin Mary from the front, legs spread, and the little Baby Jesus’ head protruding from her birth canal. Her face would be twisted in anguish, her legs would be riddled with hair and cellulite, and the baby Christ’s head halfway out of Mary’s body would be shrouded in a halo.

He decided to make it even more interesting by putting two fornicating sheep in the background of the manger.

He worked on the painting for days on end, making sure that not only would the painting be shocking, but also well done. When he finished it he called it “Virgin Mary in Labor,” and presented it to Don in his living room. Don, in his nice black suit and his polished bald head, showed disinterest.

“Don’t worry,” he assured the artist, “I’m asking you to do something difficult. I don’t expect you to get it right on the first try. I like it, but like everything else, it doesn’t move me.

Try again.”

The artist was far from disheartened. He already had another idea in the making by the next day. There had recently been a man in the news who admitted to committing a longforgotten murder case and was suspected of lying about his involvement. What interested the artist about the man was his appearance: he was frail and sickly looking, but had a very hypnotic and seductive gaze. The artist liked this gaze so much that he decided to draw a portrait of him as a saint. The artist shrouded his subject in a halo and had him hold a baby lamb in his lap while wearing his signature blue-collared short sleeved shirt, and the artist made sure to make the man’s gaze follow its audience wherever it went. Since the man was also accused of being a sexual deviant, the artist made the background a county fair with happy children riding the rides and playing the games in the distance. He titled it “St. John at the Festival, 2006,” and invited friends over to look at it and assure him it was a very good painting and a very ground-breaking idea, so that he felt very confident when it was finished.

But once again Don looked at it like he looked at everything else: with a face that didn’t care, and a heart that didn’t move.

Now the artist began to feel uneasy. He realized that Don really was some sort of impenetrable human being, and if that he were to move him, it would require drastic measures.

Following this revelation, the artist tried many different shocking types of paintings: he drew portraits of aborted fetuses, he mixed semen with food coloring and used it as paint for more abstract pieces, he even killed animals and mutilated their bodies or put them in odd poses, but Don could still not be shocked.

“It’s all been done!” he shouted at the artist. “I don’t need you to be controversial, man!

Any schmuck can make people unsettled! I need you to transcend that, to bring it up to a point of controversy that no one has even experienced before.”

“Hey, man,” the artist started in his defense, “I’ve been trying.”

“I know you have. I understand you have. But I need something more than that. I need something that will be… inexplicable in its effects. All these acts of controversy for controversy's sake – they’re simple. They're predictable! Find something that the world hasn’t already seen, or something our world would have difficulty swallowing.”

Don shouted a little while longer until the artist, frustrated, stormed out. He ran to his

bedroom, grabbed his jacket and the credit card Don lent him and rushed outside. I’ll show him fucking art, the artist thought to himself.

His plan was to go out, get drunk, and muster up the courage to tell off Don, but like all plans that involve drinking, he ended up doing completely different things.

First he went to a bar. He spent the majority of the night sitting at the counter of the bar, purchasing drinks with Don’s credit card. After doing that for a while, the artist started to do things he normally wouldn’t do, like try and talk to the bartender about himself or sing along with whatever was playing on the jukebox. Because it was a Wednesday night, the only other person there was a middle-aged man in a business suit, but the artist wanted to talk to a woman, so he said goodnight to the bartender and went outside. When he left he was very drunk. He wished he could find a woman to spend the night with, but it was very late and he didn’t know who to call. Finally he decided to walk to his old girlfriend’s place to see if she wanted to get together. He called her cell phone several times, and when she didn’t pick up, he left messages telling her how much he loved her and how he wanted her back, and then he called back again and left messages asking why the fuck she was ignoring him, then he called back again and left messages apologizing about shouting but he just wanted to see her, and then he called back again and left messages saying he didn’t understand why she hated him. He spent a half hour standing in front of her apartment complex before he gave up and decided to walk back home.

He had forgotten all about telling off Don. On the way back he thought about how lonely he was and started to cry and wished he had someone to keep him company, and when he finally made it to the mansion Don was already asleep. The artist let himself in with his extra copy of the keys and stumbled over to his painting room and, still feeling lonely and useless, began working on something new, something only he knew about while in that drunken and lonely state. The whole time he painted he cried and felt very poetic.

The only thing the artist remembered the next morning when he woke up in the painting room was that he had gone to the bar. He got himself up from the floor, saw that his clothes had smears of black and red over them, and realized he must have painted something the night before. When he looked over at what was on the easel, he saw a simple painting with a man and a woman sitting at a restaurant booth. The man and woman were sharing a milkshake with two straws and admiring each other while drinking. The man was black and had a short haircut. His face looked as if it were melting, but it wasn’t. The woman’s face looked as if it were melting also, and she had long wavy blonde hair. The painting was done so that only their shoulders up could be seen. Although they were sitting in a restaurant booth, they weren’t sitting in a restaurant; behind them instead was an image of a heart setting into the ocean. Everything in the painting was black and white, but the heart was a bright red. The artist looked at it for a while and didn’t know what to think. But since it was apparent he had worked on it, and since he had no idea if it was finished because he had no idea what he had been trying to achieve, he decided to show it to Don, just to see what would happen.

He found Don in the first room they had met. He was drinking and looking into nothing in particular. The artist told Don he had a new piece for him.

“Great,” he said, grimacing. “Let’s give it a look.”

The artist and Don walked into the painting room and the artist pointed it out. Don

walked up close to the painting and looked at it and stood there for a long time and said nothing while keeping one of his hands close to his face.

After a while the artist asked what he thought.

Don lowered his hand from his face, and without taking his eyes off the painting, started to say “Wow� over and over again. The artist stood beside him and wondered what would happen next.

Thoughts on Y, #1 We are growths of apathy, contentedness and a lack of something important, a patience mistaken for laziness and fear. We are growth hormones and cushy documentaries in air conditioned theatres. We are upset by what you just said but don't know how to bite. We are easily crying, hardly moving, always afraid, eye on the prize, and cocaine isn't as bad as you were taught. We are should be in a grind band, is that orange juice or bile, witty rejoinders and modern-day invectives. We are only romantic when we are alone but never singular. Somber only in death. Sober only in boredom. Weak only in conflict. Afraid only in alone but never singular. We are don't pretend it's rational or practical. We are strings of images and phrases that never sync up and we are so much hate and we are my eyes closed briefly and there's a naked smiling woman over a pool with legs akimbo like a doll's and her breasts hover in front of her chest like they don't belong, and we are when I focus on the inside of your eyelid I swear I can see a figure moving around playing a piano pointing a gun at me, recollections of the subconscious, of what the mind hears when you relax it, recites when you relax it.

Book 3 of 5. All stories written by Thomas Simmons. “Lady Gaga” (cover page) by Caitlin McGurk (goodmorningyou@gmail.com). Drawings of imaginary bands by Candace Camuglia (candawesome@gmail.com).

Drawing of bird by Mascha Kuzinets (jeveux5@gmail.com). “Tree Exploded by Hurricane & Ice 1” by Tiffany Cheng (nybatteri@gmail.com).

Portrait of Hulk Hogan by Noah Britton (noahbritton@gmail.com).