Running For President Day!

Instead of running for president, Lucy's gonna get drunk with her boyfriend, have sex with him one last time, then break up with him.

"I just think we don't really have a shot at anything awesome," she'll say to him. She'll sit Indian style on the edge of the bed, giving her naked stomach a crease. He'll lay along the length of the bed with his back up on the pillows.

"You're just trying to kill it before you have to put any effort in. It's what you always do," he'll say.

"What do you mean, like I always do? What else have I given up on?"

His eyes go wide with disbelief. "How's that presidential run coming?"

"2008. You'll see."

"And the massage therapy license?"

She'll say this to her knees. "Carpal tunnel. I told you."

"Right," he'll say. "And how's the drug dealing coming along?"

"Oh for God's sake. There's too much competition."

"You never even tried to get a supplier!"

"Maybe I would've been dealing drugs by now if you'd offered some words of support instead of throwing all my failures up in my face all the time."

He won't say anything at first. Then, "You're right. I'll try harder to be supportive if you'll stay."

"No," she'll say.

Happy Running For President Day!

Mincemeat Ate A Breathmint Day!

That's why her tongue's hanging out like that. Cats aren't used to retsin. Just keep an eye on her. Mostly to see that she's alright, but partially, to see what will happen. Her tongue's been hanging out for a half hour already. And she's flicking her whiskers the way she does when she gets them dipped into some spilt syrup. Pretty sweet.

Happy Mincemeat Ate A Breathmint Day!

Stars And Stripes Forever Day!

He found your tattoo.

"You're quite the patriot."

Cover up. Pull on a robe and move to the wicker chair by the bedroom door.

"I'm not a patriot," light a cigarette. "My father was a patriot. A colonel in the army." Let fly a plume of smoke. "Stars and Stripes was my German Shepherd."

He's trying not to let it show on his face how disappointed he is.

"Yes," say. "That's right. I'm a chick with a beloved pet story and you just fucked me so you have to lay there and listen to my beloved pet story like a good little boy who just fucked me, then you can head out the door and make a vow to drink less from now on. Now buckle the motherfuck up because here comes my beloved pet story."

He's trying to let it show on his face how absolutely and suddenly intrigued he is, not by the terrible story he's about to hear, but by you.

"Check it out. My Dad was a career army man. I was an army brat. My mom was a drunk, believe it," drag from the cigarette. It's almost burned out. "Stars and Stripes came into my life as a puppy. My father gave her to me a few days after we settled in at Fort Huachuca. I was only eight years old. My father named her Stars and Stripes."

Put the cigarette out. Get to the good part. He's bored. "Seriously, this gets good. When I was 15, we were at Fort Drum by then, my Mom started banging my dermatologist. This went on for about a year and I was pretty miserable, hating my Dad for being a Dad mostly but also for dragging us around everywhere, leaving me with Stars and Stripes as my only friend usually. So I was dreaming of my mom and my dermatologist making a go of it and letting me live with them."

He's still not interested. Finish the story but get him out of there right after. He's a dud. "Okydoke. So then, one day, poof, dream comes true. My Mom pulls the car over on I-81, tells me that she wants me to pack a suitcase and hide it under the bed. That night, the night before my Dad was about to move us all to Redstone Arsenal, she and I were gonna split and go live with Dr. Beame."

Now he's just wondering what this has to do with the goddamn dog. "So I pack up feeling light as feather, thinking I'm finally gonna have a life I'd wanna remember someday, you know? I lay in bed waiting for 2 AM to roll around, the appointed time. Round 12:30, my Mom creeps into my room and I hop outta bed, grabbing for the suitcase. She takes me by the shoulders and lays me back down. Says sorry kid, cold feet. We're goin' to Alabama with your Dad."

He says, "Um, the dog?"

Light a cigarette, making sure to shake your head in disbelief. "Here comes the dog, son." Send some smoke out towards him. "By the way, brunch is out for me. I just remembered I gotta help a friend move. Anyway, I flipped out on my Mom. Started hitting at her and screaming at her. Cursing. She's trying to shut me up before my Dad wakes up. But I couldn't have given a shit, so I just really wailed on her, slapping my forearms into her face while she tried to grab at my arms. My Mom's real small. So then my Dad comes in and pulls me off of her. He tosses me off the side of the bed and holds her to his chest. I climb up and see her crying into his undershirt. For fuck's sake."

Now he's interested, now that you forgot he's even there. "Fucking bitch had our ticket in her hand and she ripped it up. So Dad's demanding I tell him what this was about. Demanding I apologize. Fuck if I was gonna do either. The whole time, Stars and Stripes is barking at the two of them. So Dad keeps yelling, Mom keeps crying, Stars and Stripes won't stop barking, and I vowed then and there to get pregnant with the first Corporal I could find at Redstone. That'd make the new Colonel look real good. So Dad lets go of Mom and grabs Stars and Stripes by the collar. Says I'd better apologize to my mother or he'd take Stars and Stripes away from me. I don't say anything. He gives me a count of three."

Take a breath or you're gonna cry.

"On one, I start crying. But I don't say a word. I just cry and cry and send all the hate I can out of my eyes and all over him. Of course, he gets to three and yanks the dog out of my room. I listen to him go down the steps and out the front door. My Mom is sitting on the floor, her knees to her face, trying to say sorry probably but all she does is sit there shaking her head with her mouth open. I stopped crying then. I swear, I stopped crying just about five seconds before. I stopped crying and just sat there staring at my Mom like I was waiting for it. A full five seconds before I heard the gunshot in the back yard."

He's crying. Jesus.

"Jesus," you say.

"My God," he says.

He's not crying hard. Just a couple tears that he has to wipe away. But his face is real slack. Go lay down with him and play with his hair for a couple years.

Happy Stars And Stripes Forever Day!

So You're Keith Fredericks Too Day!

You've met two other guys with the same name as you in your life, but you've never met one who was one half of a pair of conjoined twins before.

"Where'd you grow up?" you ask.

"Santa Fe. We lived there until our uncle sold us to an Eastern European circus. This is really weird to meet another Keith Fredericks."

"It is. It is."

This kind of cuts you a pretty good break. Everyone else has to figure out what kind of small-talk passes when you're talking to a couple of guys who share a hip. If they ask how they're liking the weather, will that be so benign that the twins will see right through it to the question they're dying to ask, which is…

"How do you think they take a shit?"

You hush your date up quick before she tries to raise her whisper above the bar's jukebox volume. Yes, you have it very good tonight. You get to lounge comfortably and look down on everyone else from the height of your conversation jumping-off point. You can feel the eyes of everyone else in your party marveling at how well you and one half of the Fredericks twins are getting along.

"You two have the same name? Wow, what are the chances?"

You and Keith look at the sister of the birthday girl and you both say, "Mm hmm." Several people have tried to sink their meat hooks into your conversation piece, but you've yielded not an inch. And you notice that Keith doesn't invite anyone else in either. Perhaps he's as relieved as you are to have an immediate topic of curiosity at hand. Of course he is. How often does a guy who spent his wedding night attached by skin and bone to his own brother get to say to a stranger, "How odd?"

"I know it's silly to think there'd be any parallels in our lives," you say, "But how many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"In addition to Nick here," Keith says, "I have a sister. Named Alicia. But I haven't heard from her since I was eleven."

"As I said, I know it's silly. But point of fact, I have one brother and one sister too."

"Weird," says Keith.

"Weird," you say.

"And just to see how far this goes," Keith says.

"Yes?" you say.

"Would you happen to be conjoined to one of them?"

You and Keith laugh.

"No," you say. "But I never forget their birthdays."

By the end of the evening, you and Keith will be getting along so well that Keith will tell you about the time he and Nick were watching TV, and Nick wouldn't change the channel from The Price Is Right. So Keith tried to grab the remote out of Nick's hand, but Nick held it away from him, and in the end they just started spinning around in a circle in the middle of the living room.

Happy So You're Keith Fredericks Too Day!

The Dancer's Common-Law Husband Is Moving Out Day!

She's a dancer, and so she walks the hardwood floors barefoot in short, quick paces. He's a sculptor of some former renown, but lately his money is running out and he's fallen in love with his assistant. Moving out was his idea. He doesn't know that she's been offered a big wad of money to choreograph a film. She's not telling him, for fear that he'll stick around. Instead, she's walking the hardwood floors barefoot in short, quick paces, manufacturing chores to make herself look preoccupied while one half of her last nine years is being sorted into wine bottle boxes.

"Hey hey slow down," he says to her. She stops with some junk mail in her hands. He takes a seat on the couch and waits for her to join him. She sits.

"I wonder what you think," he says. Her blood's picking up. He's going to ask if she wants to give it another shot. Maybe he found out about the money.

He rubs his face, exhausted. Or at least with the semblance of exhaustion. "I don't know. Does this shit ever work? Relationships?"

Oh Jesus, she thinks. He wants a pep talk.

"You're worried about Tina?" Tina's his assistant.

"No, I know that's not gonna last. She's twenty fucking five. But you and me, we're like over forty. Shouldn't we be ready to settle in to something?"

She says, "When we met you were thirty three. I was thirty-four. We both still had vivid dreams. Neither of them came true. Not the one I had for myself nor the one I had about you. We're disappointed is all. We wanna dream about something again."

He doesn't respond immediately. Just shakes his head with a silly smile on his face. Then, "Your dreams didn't all fade to nothing. Sure, your company's defunct, but that led to you choreographing a big Hollywood movie."

He knows. "Yeah," she says. Did he just throw that up in her face? Is he gonna try to stick around to live off her for a while? Does he know how much money she's gonna be paid (she's gonna be paid a whole lotta money).

"Tina's great though," he says. "I think we'll have a lotta fun for a while. And you'll be kept busy with this movie. It's gonna be cool."

Holy shit, he's giving her a pep talk. He feels guilty is all. "Yeah," she says. She wants him out immediately. "I'll be okay."

Dear God, he's getting up and crossing to her. He's going to give her a hug. Oh Christ, he's so going to give her a hug.

Happy The Dancer's Common-Law Husband Is Moving Out Day!

Avalanche!!! Day!

Today, all and sundry will be covered in hundreds of feet of snow after your sister Christine hears her boyfriend whisper something in her ear that makes her exclaim. After sixteen winters on the mountain you'd think she'd know by now. No one ever ever raises his voice. Even if you see someone about to be shot and you wanna yell "duck." But whatever Jake whispered in her ear, it sure must have been something special because it made her forget sixteen years of her life. Her and her family have been keeping their voices down for such an extended period, a good many of their vocal chords have atrophied and it should honestly take a little effort for any of them to raise their voices, a little seek and find time while they look for those chords that can project a shout. Unless of course a puppy love of the caliber of Jake sends a sweet nothing into one of their ears, then they start screaming like babies apparently. I don’t know what specialness Jake panted to Christine, but I bet he's regretting it way down there underneath 100 feet of snow. Way to go, Romeo. Yes, we blame you Jake. Not Christine. It's a teenage girl's natural instinct to shout to the heavens when her loverboy is sweet to her. It is NOT, however, a teenage boy's natural instinct to be sweet to his girl. You two live on a mountain for fuck's sake. What are you afraid she's gonna find someone else? Play it cool next winter, thanks Jake.

Happy Avalanche!!! Day! (Jake told Christine she was sexier than Jessica Simpson)

Break Some Windows Day!

You've had a hard day at work. Lots of yelling and unrequited lusting. And you got fired. You deserve a little "I Deserve A Little Something" time. So go over to the house that's been up for sale for two years and join the latchkey kids who show up every day in the house's backyard to idly toss rocks through the house's windows. After each of you sends a stone through a window, you can look over at the kids' dissatisfied faces and say, "Honestly, this is as good as it's gonna get so don't give up on it too soon. Let's throw a few more and see if we light any fires in our bellies huh?"

You and the latchkey kids will break a bunch more windows then the latchkey kids will ask you to buy them some ice cream. Say, "No. I gotta save my money. I got fired today." One of the latchkey kids will say, "My Dad used to get fired a lot. Then he left us."

Happy Break Some Windows Day!

The Campfire Story Day!

Tell the boy scouts the one about the inbred killers who used to live in a shack in the very woods where they have to sleep tonight. How they were brothers, born of parents who themselves were brother and sister, and they suffered the horrible defects so common to offspring of incest, such as poor eyesight and misplaced appendages. Tell How they were jealous of people born from mothers and fathers who met at bars or supermarkets, so they couldn't help but rush out from their shack in the middle of the night and kill anyone who they considered to be trespassing into their woods. Tell them how one of the inbred killers would always feel very guilty after a kill, while the other was always like, "That ruled." Tell them how the one who felt guilty started taking correspondence courses to get his GED so he could finally get out of the woods and join society, but the other one was always like, "No one will accept you. You have a pinky growing out of your hip." But the one who felt guilty was like, "Look, Jed, I know you feel like you need me to hold the children and fornicating teens down while you drive the pitchfork into their genitals." And the other one was like, "Hell yes I need you to hold them down. What am I supposed to do? Go chasing after them with the pitchfork? You know my misshapen torso has afforded me a lopsided center of gravity. Come on Lem, we're a team!" But the one with the guilt decided to compromise. "Tell you what," Lem said. "I'll be happy to help with the kills until I get my GED. And maybe even after if monster.com doesn't get me any job offers. But once I get the chance to split these woods, baby I'm gone like a creeped out fawn."

The brothers shook on it, but Jed had a trick up his sleeve. When Lem fell asleep at his computer while taking his online GED equivalency test, Jed snuck over, changed all the answers, and clicked on "Submit For Grade." The next day, Lem got an email from the correspondence school telling him he'd passed with a near perfect score. He was overjoyed, and couldn't stop beaming at Jed about how he was smarter than he ever imagined. "I'm gonna make it big," Lem told Jed. "Check out my potential," he shouted as he waved the test score in Jed's face. Jed couldn't take it. "You inbred retard," he shouted at his brother. "Last night, I changed every single answer on your test to try and get you a failing grade. Had you turned in your test as it was, you would've failed like a bitch. You'll never make it outside of these woods." Lem accused Jed of just being jealous. But just in case Jed really did try to sabotage his test, Lem threw a hatchet at him. And just before Jed died, he set Lem on fire.

"But the bodies were never found," tell the scouts. "So they might still be alive. But if they kill any of you, one of them's gonna feel real guilty about it. Later days." Then go into your tent and get some shut-eye.

Happy The Campfire Story Day!

Due To Circumstances Too Horrible To Elaborate Upon On This Sign, The Candy Cave Will Be Closed Indefinitely Day!

Mary must've written the sign. Of all the girls, Mary is the one who really just wants to scream from the rooftops, "My Dad Didn't Do It." Kim's been putting a smiley face on it all. Everyone who gets in her line at the checkout asks her about it, and she just says "We're all doin' okay, thanks so much for your concern. Yes, I'll tell them. Thank you." Jane, of course, split. Some say she went out to California, but she's probably just living with her Aunt in Jersey. Jennifer seems to actually be handling things. Going into Manhattan every day to either meet with the lawyer or do her own research at the library there, then coming home to be with their Mom. Jennifer's gotten her letters printed on four editorial pages across in four different papers so far, including the Boston Globe. She's been talking to an editor at the Times. Though not the editor. Not yet.

But Mary's been nothing but a doomsayer shouting a lot of well-intended but poorly articulated doom. Jennifer made her promise to never speak to the press again after Mary told a local news reporter, "Maybe he was having an affair with the girl, but that doesn't mean he'd kill her," and it started getting picked up nationally. Mary's semester off from Rutgers has lasted eighteen months already, so when the police showed up at her Dad's candy store, she was kind of happy to have something come along and swirl her up. But with Jennifer keeping a muzzle on her, Mary's cries of injustice are relegated to her bullshit Relatives Of Incarcerated Loved Ones (ROILo) support group and to the occasional outburst such as the sign on the door of her Dad's candy shop. Jennifer plans to reopen the candy shop soon and make Mary manage it. They need the candy shop to appear viable in order to get the loans to pay for the defense. And the defense team might be bringing on a forensics expert now that her father's bloodtype (but not fingerprints!!) showed up on the wrench the killer used to bludgeon Charise Johnson's head.

Happy Due To Circumstances Too Horrible To Elaborate Upon On This Sign, The Candy Cave Will Be Closed Indefinitely Day!

Look At The Pretty Bird Daddy Day!

Your daughter just saw a pretty bird in the sky. She said, "Look at the pretty bird Daddy!" You looked at it, then you looked down at her and said, "You're right, it's a very pretty bird."

No shit it's pretty. She wasn't asking your fucking opinion. She was trying to alert you to a little fleck of natural beauty soaring through your day. But you had to use it to get all DAD on her and turn it into a fucking lesson. If only she was old enough to say, "Thanks genius. I really needed your input here. By the way, Mom's thinking twice."

Get off your high fucking horse and just love the shit out of your daughter for a little while. If you were here, standing in front of me right now, I'd get up out of my desk chair and punch you in the goddamn mouth. Christ almighty. I'm gonna go take a bath.

Happy Look At The Pretty Bird Daddy Day!

The Bricklayer's Song Day!

The bricklayer is tired, lonely, and sick of laying fucking bricks. So he wrote a song to get him through the day. It's called, "Smokin' Hot Mama."

Smokin' Hot Mama
by The Bricklayer (Tim Girardi)

Here she comes down the avenue
In her dress all pretty and sewn
Draggin' behind her a wagon full of pears
Oooooooh. Luscious.

CHORUS
Smokin' hot mama
All firey thoughts and bad intentions
Smokin' hot mama
Fruit stand supplya' (probably...or maybe she just found those pears...I've never seen her before honestly and I'm too shy around women to ask)

There she goes underneath the overpass
Noise of the cars above filling up her dress
She's out from underneath the overpass now
Smokin' hot Mama, so many bricks, Jesus. (a whole building and I just got started)

CHORUS

Happy The Bricklayer's Song Day!

Learn The Bugle Day!

Learn to play "Broken Taps." Your girlfriend's so gonna dig it.

Practice playing so that you fuck up that one note the exact same way that Sergeant Keith Clark cracked it at Kennedy's funeral. The next time you and your girlfriend are going at it, just go through the usual steps like you're gonna do it the way you've done it for the past 200 nights. Close the door and let her get into the living room, then come up from behind her as she's unbuttoning her coat and kiss her neck while you slip your hands underneath her fingers and unbutton the buttons for her, like you do. Like clockwork, get your hands up under her sweater, pulling her breasts free from the cups of her bra and holding them while you kiss her ear. She'll spin around, like she does, and she'll pull her sweater over her head and she'll interrupt you undoing the clasp of her bra by pulling your shirt over your head. You'll make out there, like you do, standing up in the middle of the floor, both your torsos bare and white under the one light bulb that hasn't burned out yet, and then you'll drop a bit and lay kisses on her breasts before you put your mouth to the crotch of her pants, rubbing your face into the warmth, like you do. You'll come back up and she'll undo your pants and play with you while you make out some more. Then she'll push you to a seat on the bed, drop to her knees on the floor and bring you into her mouth, like she does.

When she pulls away from you, with a few gentle kisses goodbye, she'll stand and ready her hands to undo her pants and climb up on the bed to dip her pussy in your mouth. Grab her hands before she gets the button undone and say, "Wait."

Her face will turn with fear that you've lost the mood. But your smile will tell her that, yes, it's going to happen, yes. Yes, the two of you are possibly going to have sex in a manner that diverges slightly from the clockwork step-by-step you've both come to contentedly enjoy over the past two hundred nights. She'll keep her hands by the button of her pants, and they'll shake a bit with anticipation. Reach under the bed and retrieve the bugle.

She'll look at the bugle like it's a diamond ring. She'll have to catch her breath to ask her question.

"Broken?"

"Broken baby." Kiss her just above her belly button and look up into her eyes. "Broken."

Close your eyes, wet your lips and pucker to the bugle. When you open your eyes, you'll find her pants are open and her hand is bunched into an open fist under her underwear. Close your eyes again and blow.

Day is done… Draw it out so very long. And when the note finally gives to silence, she'll suck in a startled gasp, capped with a wet coo at a pitch high enough to crack a glass. Open your eyes. Her eyelids are fluttering faster than her fingers are flittering underneath her underwear. Close your eyes again.

Gone…the sun… And you crack it, you crack the sun with that same broken pitch that made the whole country blink their eyes just once, all at once, so many years ago. Recover the pitch and let the note swim out, but the sound of your bugle will be smothered by the ecstasy pouring forth from her mouth in a torrent of sobs. You'll be cut off when she climbs onto your thighs, her pants and underwear stretched wide below her knees, and stumbling and flailing she'll jostle the bugle away from in front of your face and whip you up inside of her, her panting sobs turning to a pained moan as she says over and over, "Oh I love you oh I love you" like she's begging God to never ever take you away. The fury of her writhing frame and the strength of her grip around your neck will make you stiffen in fear that any movement on your part might make her hurt you by accident. But she'll finish, and you'll finish, and she'll lay atop you whispering her love into your ear until she falls asleep.

She sure does dig that president.

Happy Learn The Bugle Day!

Three Young Men In Their Late Twenties To Early Thirties, Walkin' Down The Street Yeah Day!

Three young men in their late twenties to early thirties, walkin' down the street yeah
One of em lookin for his girlfriend, who's off tryin' to figure things out

Three young men in their late twenties to early thirties, walkin' down the street yeah
One of em, Josh, age 27, hopin' to find his girlfriend at one of the places she always liked to go to, places like the used bookstore and her mom's

But what Josh don't know yeah
Is his girlfriend feels like she's been wasting her time trying to get backing for her literary magazine yeah
So Josh's girlfriend ran off into the woods to live there for a while

Three young men in their late twenties to early thirties, walkin' down the street yeah
There's Josh, the one we already met, yeah
There's Charles, age 32 and gay
And then there's Leo who tried to commit suicide only six weeks ago and no one knows about it yeah

Oh oh oh Josh's girlfriend's name is Diana and Diana's got pretty brown hair that streaks out over her cheeks and kisses her on the lips
Ah ah ah Diana doesn't laugh that much and she doesn't cry much either but she smiles
Oh when she smiles
Oh when she smiles
It's not that big a deal

(!!!FREEZE FRAME REAL CLOSE ON LEO LOOKING PENSIVE!!!)
Hey Leo why ya so sad?
Is it because ya have so much trouble being glad?
For all the wonderful things you've had?
Or are you just mad?
That you drank a lot of vodka and ate a lot of prescription muscle relaxers intending to be found on the floor of your bedroom near-dead in a pool of your own vomit and rushed to the hospital but instead you fell asleep and woke up dizzy after not too long and vomited it all out all on your own into your toilet and then went and got in bed without no one even knowing you just tried to kill yourself and not even getting to go to the hospital and have everyone worry for the next year and a half about whether you were gonna try again yeah?
Hey Leo it's gonna be okay. Just get drunk and tell someone about it.

Three young men in their late twenties to early thirties, walkin' down the street yeah
Charles, the gay one, is doing fine
Both financially and socially, yeah oh yeah

Three young men in their late twenties to early thirties, walkin' down the street yeah
Diana's in the woods Josh
If only you read Girls Are Pretty
You'd know she's out in the woods
And she's not thinking about you

She's thinkin' bout Phoenix (she grew up there)

Happy Three Young Men In Their Late Twenties To Early Thirties, Walkin' Down The Street Yeah Day!

Goodbye Georgia O'Keefe Day!

"It was pretty much slow-motion," you tell the one with the pen and the piece of paper. "It all only should've taken a second, but it felt like it went on for twenty minutes."

"Step-by-step," the officer says.

"Okay," you say. "I threw the Frisbee up to my little brother by the street. It was a long throw so I gave it all I got. Of course, it went over his head and into the street. That's when I saw the hatchback coming straight at him. He was a goner for sure. But then with a streak of gray behind her, Georgia O'Keefe swooped out of the sky and flung a handful of mud at the car's windshield, making it swerve off down the hill and into the rocky beach of the creek below.

"I ran up to the street to wear Georgia O'Keefe was hugging my brother. I said to her, 'Thank God for you Georgia O'Keefe.' And she said, 'Check it out kid. Don't be counting on me for too much longer. As of the last Friday in May, I'm out of the superhero business.' I said that's fine I understand."

The one without the pen and piece of paper asks, "But why didn't she just grab your little brother out of the way? She ended up killing that couple in the hatchback, you know."

You shrug. "Georgia O'Keefe saves little kids. Grown-ups and pets often get killed in the process, but she don't care. That's the way it works with her."

"Well she may be a superhero kid," says the one with the piece of paper and pen, "But we're still gonna bring her in."

You say, "Don't! She'll commit suicide if she's incarcerated. She's constantly looking for a reason to commit suicide. It's all she talks about!"

Happy Goodbye Georgia O'Keefe Day!

Man With A Van Day!

You meet this Don guy outside his girlfriend's apartment building on 63rd between 2nd and 1st. You got your van into a space down the block. You'll pull up and double park when the girl's down on the street to keep an eye out. This Don guy is a lot smaller than you.

"Did you ring the buzzer?" the Don guy asks.

"You only gave me the address," you say. "Not the apartment number."

You and the Don guy head inside and up the three flights to his girlfriend's apartment.

"What's her name again, Don?"

The Don guy says, "Sarah."

You go up three more steps before you say, "Pretty name," up to Don's back. Don's leading you up the steps.

"You live with anybody?" Don asks.

"Nope."

"This is my first time," says the Don guy. He smiles down at youover his shoulder. He's excited about it.

Don's putting his key in the lock when you remember you didn't ask for the money yet. You always get paid up front. Three of your first four jobs ended with a haggle over the rate. The fourth one ended with you sitting around waiting to get paid while the college kids you helped to move kept trying to put another beer in your hand. Since then, it's always up front, in full. If they wanna argue, they can go find another van.

"Oh, hey Don. About the money."

"Right. Sarah's got it."

The Don guy opens the door on a ransacked studio. Dresser drawers hang open and half-empty. The bed is naked except for a comforter. The closet door is flung wide with a pile of sweaters and jackets strewn out on the floor like the thing exploded. The open windows flutter the curtains bulbous into the room, just to make it all look a little more desolate. Don's looking at the fridge. There's a note on it.

"Oh fucking hell," you say. You're not gonna get paid.

The Don guy is reading the note. "Holy shit," he says.

"What the fuck's it say Don?" you ask.

"She freaked."

You're really not gonna get paid. "How bad Don? Is this for real or is she gonna come running back by the end of the day. Read me the note."

The Don guy gives you the same incredulous look he's giving the piece of paper in his hands. "Dude, I hardly know you."

"Check it out Don." You're pointing a finger at him. "This involves me too here. You hired me for a job that I might not be allowed to perform. And before I explain to you that I get paid for my time no matter what obstacles beyond my control prevent the job from getting done, I'd like to know whether there's gonna be a job to do."

The Don guy looks at you, then your finger. "She freaked, all right. I'm not gonna read you the note."

"She's not moving in with you?"

The Don guy shakes his head, his eyes still down on the note.

"Okay Don, but is this just a cold feet thing? Could she come back today?"

"How the hell should I know?" he says.

"Well how've things been between you two lately?"

The Don guy folds up the note. "Look, let's just go to a cash machine and I'll pay you what we agreed."

You sit down on the computer chair and pull a leg up on your knee. "Now hang on. I don't wanna get paid, be on my way back home and then have you calling me up telling me she changed her mind and can I come on back seeing as you went ahead and paid me already. Now, how've things been between you two lately?"

The Don guy flops into the papasan chair. He pulls some of her belts and a winter cap out from underneath him. He hangs onto the winter cap, playing with its frayed threads. "Things have been fine. Except she started mentoring kids. Like tutoring, but also kind of being a big sister. Young teen girls. It's all she can talk about."

"She just started doing this mentoring?"

"She got laid off from her job in February. Which is what made us decide to move in together. Or not the only reason, but it's what got us talking. She can't afford this place right now."

You get up and go to the kitchen. "Nothing wrong with that Don. I've been moving a lot of people in together and almost all of them's doing it for the rent cut." You peer into the fridge. There's some orange juice. You hold up the carton to the Don guy. "You want a glass?"

The Don guy nods. You pour two glasses while he talks. "This one girl. Nicole. She's fourteen and screwing her boyfriend without a condom. Sarah's been begging her to make the guy use a condom but she won't. She doesn't care if she gets pregnant. Sarah says she wants to get pregnant."

"Sarah wants to get pregnant?" You're standing over the Don guy with the glasses in your hands.

"No. No. Nicole does." The Don guy takes his glass of orange juice. You sit back down at the computer desk. "Like, her best friend got pregnant. And she wants to join the club. Get the attention. Sarah's been talking about Nicole every night. Like Nicole's a bomb about to blow and she's running out of time."

"So Don," you say. "I hate to ask this because I know the answer's gonna suck. But when did Sarah start packing?"

Don picks up the winter cap again. "Last night I hung up with her around one. She said she was gonna start then."

You have a breath to let out, and you let it out slow, through your nose, so it doesn't make a sound like a sigh. "She hasn't been too excited about the move then, has she Don?"

The Don guy shakes his head. "All she ever talks about is Nicole and the other kid she's mentoring. Terence. But Nicole's the one she's worried about. Terence she says is just real stupid and lies a lot. Terence is trying to be cooler than he is. But Nicole's really walking a tightrope."

You down your orange juice, get up out of your chair, and you hold out your hand. "Lemme read the note Don."

The Don guy grabs the note from his lap. "What for? I'll just pay you and you can go."

You crouch in front of him and look him in the eye. "Don," you say. "I'm a Man With A Van. I'm not in business for families of five moving out to the suburbs. I'm in business for kids just starting off after college and for people like you. People in their late twenties and early thirties who might be making a big mistake and are scared shitless about it. I've moved a lot of couples in together and by now I can tell by the way they're talking to each other whether it's gonna work or it's gonna be a big mistake. It usually comes clear when we're all three of us trying to angle the couch down the corridor. But you see, she's not here for me to know whether this is gonna work out. All I know of her is she's looking for something to do with herself, the mentoring and all, and that don't bode too well for her taking the big leap with you. But if I read her note, I'll know whether I should take your money and hit the road, or whether you should go get us some egg sandwiches while we wait for her to come running back through the door. Now lemme read the note."

Your hand is out in front of you. The Don guy looks at your hand, then into your eyes, trying to find something he can trust. He finally puts the note on your palm, gentle as a feather.

You go back to your desk chair and you read while the Don guy watches.

Donny,

After we hung up I sat on the floor for 4 and a half hours. I didn't do anything, I didn't even think about anything. I looked at the clock at five AM and felt like I'd just come out of a coma. I don't know what I'm doing. With anything. I'm going to pay my rent for this month and I'm staying at Megan's for the week. I'm sorry, but I just can't make a decision like this, or any decision, the way I am right now. I'm sorry Donny. I love you.

Love,

Sarah

You fold up the note. You get out of your chair and you hand it back to the Don guy. He's looking up at you like you're a priest about to give him his first communion.

"Go get us some egg sandwiches Don," you say. "I'm gonna turn on the TV if you don't mind."

The Don guy smiles. He hops out of the papasan chair and bounds out the door.

Happy Man With A Van Day!

She Wishes Morrissey And Marr Could've Tried To Work It Out Day!

It starts in a car when How Soon Is Now? gets going and everyone just wants to keep quiet and look out the window and watch trees fly by. It's late and it's winter and the driver's drunker than Dave and Mary, both asleep in the backseat. Karen's awake and dreamy-dumb like she always is. Karen never lets things happen the way they should. She thinks there could've been more records.

"They were just so good," is the extent of her argument.

Karen can't get what is obvious to the rest of us. Even you, the stupid dumb reader, can hear the sleep-deprived petulance that makes Strangeways such an unpleasant listen. It was over, in a big angry way. Karen thinks her favorite rock bands should go on making her favorite records forever and ever.

"Wouldn't it be great if there were like ten more albums that we never heard before?"

Yeah, great Karen. Just fucking awesome. How Soon Is Now? ended two minutes ago and no one got to hear it because she couldn't just wander off into the million mile plain of a car ride that everyone else can explore just fine without running their fucking mouths off about shit that's just wrong.

"And what have they done since then? Nothing nearly as good."

You can't take it anymore. If she says one more thing, you're going to have to say something and the tone in your voice will send her to bed as soon as you get back into the house and you'll just end up drinking on the couch in front of HBO. Which doesn't sound so bad honestly. But wait until she says something else. Maybe she won't say anything at all.

"They broke up too soon."

"No they fucking didn't. They broke up just in time. Death Of A Disco Dancer for god's sake. Or Paint A vulgar Picture if it's not obvious enough. Come the fuck on. They were over and done with and Viva Hate was one of the most logical progressions from great band into adequate solo effort in music ever. Come on Karen."

Karen's quiet now. And Dave and Mary are awake in the backseat. You're the big dick of the winter car ride.

"Bands can't go on forever is all I mean."

Nice save dickhead.

Happy She Wishes Morrissey And Marr Could've Tried To Work It Out Day!

Road Trip Day!

Your sister's wedding's tomorrow and she don't wanna go through with it. You've been living back at your parents' house long enough to wanna put a bullet through your thirty-one year old head. Get your mom's keys, get your sister in the car, and start driving west. Your parents are gonna be pissed that you stole their car, but that will be quickly overshadowed by the 200 people showing up tomorrow afternoon for a wedding that ain't gonna happen. In the end, the groom's gonna track you down and your sister's gonna change her mind and they'll have a small private ceremony out in the middle of nowhere. You won't be surprised. She's been with the guy for eight years already. They're perfect together and you knew your sister was making a big mistake when she got in the car. But you'll be sad because the road trip will have been way fun and your sister getting married only means you're gonna have to go back to being thirty-one and living at your parents' house.

Happy Road Trip Day!

Shut Up About The Dildo Up The Ass Already Day!

His ejaculate flew clean off the bed and landed in one oblong puddle on the carpet without cutting free a single stray droplet. Perfect.

"My God that was perfect."

"Mmm. Let's go to sleep."

Just perfect. Just such an authority contained in the strength of your bicep. With every thrust and every tug it felt like you were changing the very course of the blood in his veins. Absolute surrender to you, his wife. His lover.

"My God I love you so much right now. I want you so much right now."

"I love you. But I'm spent. Just go to sleep okay baby?"

In your mind you replay his frame rocking fore and aft on all fours again and again. His howls shook the room, scrambled down the hall and woke the baby. He was a beast tamed by the pleasure you gave to him. Every muscle in his body was clenched tight for attack. He was pure primal exertion of strength, awaiting the next command from the electronic device held tight in your fist.

"Are you embarrassed about it?"

"No."

"Can you tell me about it? How it felt? While I..."

"For God's sake. The baby."

He's in the crib by the bed. You went and got him to stop his crying when the two of you were finished. The baby is calm, but awake and occasionally cooing.

You think it's just an excuse. You think that your husband is ashamed that he got such pleasure from receiving a dildo in his ass. That he won't give you what you crave to spite himself. But you're cranky because you're going to bed dissatisfied. With a cooler head you'd know that your husband relishes his surrender to you. He has no problem with you shoving a dildo in his ass. And he has no problem talking about you shoving a dildo in his ass. He just doesn't want to talk about it in front of his six month old son.

Happy Shut Up About The Dildo Up The Ass Already Day!

The Eyes Don't Work Like They Did Yesterday Day!

Today you can't see nothing. The best you get is a world through a gray veil. The worst, absolute and suffocating darkness. This is permanent. You're blind and with every step you take you're either going to bang your shin on a table or stub your toe on a raised curb. And you'll never see a pretty face again.

Happy The Eyes Don't Work Like They Did Yesterday Day!

Linda Is In Love With A Bullfighter. Linda Is In Love With A Race Car Driver. Day!

Linda sits in the bath, her cigarette hand dangling dry over the edge, trying not to ash into the glass of wine standing on the tile floor. On the surface of her bath there floats a carpet of flower petals. Daisies.

"I must choose," she says aloud to the faucet.

Linda is in her bathtub in her apartment in New York City, washing away her 700th day as a marketing firm's accounts payable administrator.

Her love, Javier, is in Madrid, and this afternoon he murdered four bulls in her honor, according to his answering machine message. One of the bulls was beheaded, as he said, "with only three thin swords and the strength of my love for you, my Linda."

And her love, Beaumont, is in South Carolina, and this afternoon he won a sponsorship from Penzoil, according to his answering machine message. He'll be paid $46,000 in one lump sum, which he will use, as he said, "To slide a big rock up that pretty little finger of yours."

The wine was intended to wash the confusion from her mind. But by her fourth glass and the seventh answering machine message, she was as bewildered as she was drunk. Linda lifts the glass from the tile, her sixth, and slowly pours it into the water, parting the petals to let the red wine billow out into the bath like a specter born from her body. She enjoys watching the wine cloud through all that clarity.

How did she end up in such a mess? In the same year, without leaving New York, she gave her heart to two men on different parts of the globe. Both with a passion for danger.

Beaumont showed up at her office when Nascar wanted his face run by some focus groups before they signed an endorsement deal. Linda showed him to the elevator, and he showed her to a late night-drink and an offer to be the lady wringing her hands at the race-track, hoping he'll cross the line without a scratch.

As soon as Beaumont left town with a promise to return, Javier arrived with a promise of forever. He was the conversation piece at her boss' Christmas party, brought by a friend of her boss' wife and introduced over and over again with the words, "And this is the bullfighter I was telling you about." But it was late in the evening when Javier introduced himself and invited Linda to join him on the balcony. "At home," he said, "I am only comfortable on verandas." They kissed there in front of the city and for the next four days she gave to him her every waking moment.

Linda picks up another daisy from Beaumont's bouquet splayed out in the sink. She rips the petals off one by one, dropping them into the bath.

"I love the bullfighter," she says.

"I love the race car driver," she says.

I love the bullfighter.

I love the race car driver.

She had no choice but to fall in love with Javier. He is a bullfighter. He uses cunning and stealth to slay wild beasts while wearing magical outfits. Additionally he has a Spanish accent.

But the romance of Javier has a formidable opponent in Beaumont's crude charm. Boisterous and vulgar, he barged into her life like it was the home he'd mortgaged three times over. She could refuse him no more than she could refuse her own father.

I love the bullfighter.

I love the race car driver.

Had only one of them stayed in town long enough to force her to say no to the other. She would be set free of the dueling bouquets and long-distance serenades. Now she can only listen to the answering machine and feel the storm of confusion stir inside her. She can only wait until it is finally demanded of her that she say yes. And that she say no.

I love the bullfighter.

I love the race car driver.

I love the bullfighter.

The final petal is ripped from another daisy and floats to the surface of her bathwater. Linda says, "I love the race car driver."

She stares at the naked stem. The phone rings again. Javier says into her answering machine that he is calling her from his veranda, one last time before he goes to bed, to tell her that tomorrow, she will be there with him in the ring. His belief in Linda will protect him from the bulls.

Linda tosses the stem to the tile and sinks her head through the blanket of petals into the cloudy red water below.

Happy Linda Is In Love With A Bullfighter. Linda Is In Love With A Race Car Driver. Day!

Homeless Fred Shot The Bag Day!

Dead silver rain has your head down between your shoulders, walk-sprinting to get indoors as fast as you can. Middle of the block, gotta get past Homeless Fred.

Homeless Fred's rooting into the trashbag somehow fastened through his beltloops and up around his neck. There's a foot of space on his right. You watch his elbow jutting in and out of that space as he rustles through the bag of everything he owns in the world (everything he found today). You watch the elbow seeking out the rhythm. You catch it and take a one-two quick jump through the foot of sidewalk space. The elbow stops moving and Homeless Fred whips up in front of his face the treasured item he was searching for.

You pass untouched. You catch sight of Fred's hand. You think, "Was that…?"

About thirty steps later the night behind you goes KRACK. You stop in your tracks at what you know wasn't thunder. You turn to see Homeless Fred beaming a brown grin through the curtain of rain. Smoke billows out of the trash bag. Smoke slinks from the barrel of the revolver in his hand. There's garbage strewn out in a circle where it landed when the bag blew. Homeless Fred just shot that trashbag. Keep walking. He might wanna shoot something else.

Happy Homeless Fred Shot The Bag Day!

Girl Called Kitten Day!

I want to make love to you tonight.

Kitten scurries across the banquette when Kevin, Janet, Richard, Mona and Helen get up to dance. The first words she's spoken to you since saying hi the night you were introduced two weeks ago.

I want to make love to you tonight.

Where?

Your place.

But I'm crashing on Richard's couch right now. The lease on my apartment was in my former roommate's name and he let it lapse while I was in Canada. When I came back, the landlord told me he had new tenants moving in in three days and I had to scram. We can't make love on Richard's couch.

How about my place then?

But you live with Helen. She's my ex-girlfriend and though we're both over it and we're pretty good friends, I'm certain she wouldn't be cool with me having sex with her roommate in her apartment.

I like hotel rooms.

No cash.

I like bathrooms.

Gross.

My name is kitten and I wanna get fucked in an alley behind some trash cans like a proper kitten.

Like…standing up?

Mm hm.

So you'd be like…bent over leaning on the rims of some trash cans with your skirt up and your panties around your ankles and I'd be…

Behind me, yes. Yes. Let's go.

Jesus. Ew. No. What if there are rats or other people having sex out there? There could be like a bouncer out there having sex with an underage girl who he's decided to make his "regular Saturday night thing."

Park?

Muggers.

Cab?

Drivers.

I've got some coke.

Cocaine?

Just then, everyone comes back from the dancefloor, sweaty as hell. Richard makes out with Mona, then Helen, then Mona again. Kevin and Janet, in unison, say to you and Kitten, What the fuck's your problem dicks?

We were trying to figure out where to have sex. Then I found out she does drugs.

Don't tell them that.

I think they deserve to know what kind of person you are.

What the hell are you talking about?

You do drugs. That's not cool.

It's not. (Richard)

Really, you should have told us about this before we agreed to go out on the town with you. (Janet)

You're disgusting. (Kevin)

Big asshole. (Helen)

(Mona doesn't say anything)

Look cocaine's groovy. You're all just chickenshit.

Tell Kitten to go so you all can enjoy the rest of your evening without being around losers who do drugs.

Happy Girl Called Kitten Day!

The Hair Model With A Dead Aunt Day!

Another day at work. Lights flashing. Harsh white backdrop soaring twelve feet high. A bitch of an uncomfortable stool that you swear is gonna fuck up your knees within another year. Your head's cocked out on your neck like you're a pelican listening to some juicy gossip. Your cell phone's ringing.

"What is that cocksucking noise?" shouts the photographer. "My ears are to bleed?"

The seduction in your smile doesn't waver in the slightest when you shout, "Loosen your thong Guillaume. It's my phone and I'll turn it off as soon as you snap something remotely usable."

Guillaume reloads the camera and mutters something about a cunt. You smile, you hold your head where it doesn't wanna be. With every ring, you repeat in your head, Baby's dead. Baby's dead.

Tonight you'll be making good on the plane reservation you've kept standing for the past two weeks. You'll hop off the stool at 4 o'clock no matter how loud Guillaume wants to shout about complete cooperation. By 4:40, the packed bag at the foot of your bed will be in your hands. At seven, you'll be on a plane to Milwaukee, a drink to your lips and your hair in a muss.

They gave Aunt Baby less than a month six weeks ago. You told your brother you had work. No, you would not call. No, you would not stand by the bedside of the lady who raised you in your mother's stead. The lady who gave you most of her life for eighteen years. And who for the past twelve expressed nothing but disapproval at every decision you made. Aunt Baby, who would accept nothing less than your absolute surrender to her church. Aunt Baby, the embodiment of selflessness and selfishness all at once. No, you would not come and say goodbye to your mother's sister.

"I'll see you at the funeral," you told Jake. "Make the arrangements when there are arrangements to be made and call me. I'll pay for everything."

Your cell phone again starts shouting from inside your bag. Guillaume takes his eye from the view-finder to shoot you a look. The seduction in your smile turns to menace for a pause as you meet his eye. Guillaume goes back to taking photographs. You hold still and mourn from behind a hair model's smile.

Happy The Hair Model With A Dead Aunt Day!

The Bicycle Game Is Over Day!

Mike's eyes barely flutter open when the man with slick black hair by his bed starts talking.

"So here's the deal. What went down between you two went down, there's no changing that. But Katie's been through a lot this year. Her brother's suicide fucked her way the hell up and she doesn't really do anything so much as the things she does just kind of happen. Like you two. It just kind of happened. But you shouldn't think it was because of some insatiable need for you or anything. You might as well have been fucking a chick in a coma. What was it like to be in a coma by the way?"

The walls are white. There's a window looking out at a beige parking structure. And there's a curtain parted halfway that separates Mike from someone in a hospital bed. A bed just like the one Mike is in. Mike's in a hospital. The guy with the slick black hair is…

"Jeff?"

"Did you dream? Do you remember?"

Mike remembers what he thinks was yesterday. He remembers asking his Mom to get three hundred dollars out of Frank. He asked her face to face. She never sees his face anymore, she feels too guilty. When she sees it, she gives him whatever he asks for.

He remembers saying "Fast" to the guy in the bike shop who muttered "Somethin' to prove." He remembers riding up next to Katie at the intersection of 19th and Broadway and shouting "Race ya."

He tries to remember Katie's face. He knows he touched her hips and kissed her breasts, but he can't place them right now. He knows that sweaty strands of her hair would fly out wild when she'd pull ahead of him. He remembers gloating a smile at her when he passed, but all he can remember of her face is the horrible uncertainty he saw in her eyes. He remembers two cars. One blue, the other without color.

"Katie?"

"Here's the deal. She's not visiting you. She called me up screaming about comas and cheating and bike rides. Screaming that she didn't know what she was doing anymore. I told her I'd take care of her, take care of everything. So here I am, taking care of everything. That's what me visiting you is about. In her stead. Katie's not coming. She's coming with me."

Mike remembers Mary. She drove him to the airport. They'd spent the night together the night before. Not fucking, just staying up and saying goodbye to each other as husband and wife. Katie's gone from his head like she was never there. When he remembers the bike rides, in his head he keeps putting Mary on the bike.

"You think we're fucked right? She cheated on me and now we're gonna go and move across the country together. Fucked right? But like I said, she doesn't know what she's doing since her brother died. Maybe she's hanging on to me because of that. Maybe I'm just giving her a pass because I don't want her to have to lose nothing else. Whatever, we're staying together. We're leaving."

Mike says, "You're a musician?"

Jeff is surprised. He brightens a little. "I'm a guitarist, but I'm mostly playing keyboards lately. My friend's a junior record executive. He gets me a lot of session work. Do you play?"

Mike shakes his head. Says, "Katie."

Jeff turns into a tough guy a little. "Look pal. It's over. She's not gonna come and visit. She's way too fucked up over this. She thinks she got you killed. So I'm gonna go home and tell her you're alive and all's well and then I'm gonna get her the hell outta this town."

Mike says, "Okay." He wants Jeff to go.

Jeff waits for more, then stands up. "So, okay man. Katie's sorry about all this. But like I said, she's not really doing what she's doing right now. It's all just happening."

Jeff steps from foot to foot for a second before offering one more, "Okay man." He almost offers a handshake to Mike's broken arm before he hastens out of the room.

Mike keeps his eyes open and on the ceiling. He wants to remember all this. Everything is still. He's in a body cast, locked still. He has no choice but to simply lie there while absolutely nothing happens.

Happy The Bicycle Game Is Over Day!

The Bicycle Game Day 3!

The next day, Mike doesn't find Katie. He scours the city, uptown and downtown, riding for eight hours straight on bike paths and avenues to no avail.

"I've only known her for less than a week," he thinks. "Perhaps she takes a dance class one night a week and this is that night. Or maybe she mentors to inner city youth one night a week. And this is that night."

He gives up at midnight and goes home to plot his route for the following evening, choosing neighborhoods whose scenery might appeal to Katie, based on what little he knows about her.

Three more days pass without any sign of her. And Katie doesn't find Mike either. Unless, as he imagines, she is covertly tailing him. "Maybe she just likes to watch me ride," he thinks. The thought of Katie trailing him, admiring his calf muscles from afar, helps Mike to keep his growing panic at bay. He envisions her a block and a half behind him, sighing when he weaves in between cars. He tries to avoid looking back over his shoulder, instead making a point to spray water into his face at stoplights, shaking his wet hair with a cinematic grace. Also, he often rides with no hands. Katie might dig that.

At night, he retraces his route, drawing up an alternate path for tomorrow's bike ride. Or he'll lie on his bed imagining Katie phoning him up or knocking on his door (she'd have looked him up, though he's not sure if he's listed).

"I couldn't wait any longer for you to find me," she'd say, stepping into his apartment and pasting her body to his.

"I looked everywhere," he'd say, peeling her dress (she'd wear a dress) from over he shoulders. "I wanted to just knock on your door, but that would've broken the rules of the game."

"Let's stop searching," she'd say. "We've found each other. I don't want to let you go again." Then she'd say something about leaving her boyfriend and they'd fuck in Mike's New York apartment. Mike hasn't fucked anyone in his New York apartment yet, and he's quite anxious to do so.

Entertaining this fantasy usually sends Mike to his bed to masturbate to memories of sex with Katie and far more vivid memories of sex with his ex-wife (the good sex, not long after their wedding).

The next day, Mike starts his bike ride at 8 AM. He rides for ten hours straight, taking short brakes for fruit smoothies and defecation in public restrooms. At six PM, he parks by the curb across the street from Katie's apartment. Two hours later, Katie comes walking up her sidewalk with a man in his mid-thirties by her side.

Mike puts all of his strength into the clench of his fists on the handlebars as he watches her kiss him on his cheek. The stranger continues walking down the sidewalk and Katie opens her door. Then she turns around and faces Mike. Mike rides across the street.

"This is quite forward," she says.

Mike sits on his bike. He sprays his face with some water to try to wash the hysteria from his eyes. "Who was that?" he asks.

"Jeff's friend," Katie says. "My boyfriend's friend. He took me to a movie."

Mike says nothing, just stares at Katie. She takes a step into her building.

"Wait."

"You didn't find me," she says.

"You haven't been bike-riding," he says. "You couldn't have been. I've looked everywhere."

"I've been riding. You didn't find me."

"You have not!" He instantly regrets the whine to his voice.

Katie's eyes close just a bit, then she steps into her vestibule. She stops when Mike says, "Wait."

She turns to him.

"I looked everywhere," he says. "Every day. I never stopped looking."

Katie's shoulders fall. She steps aside and says, "One last time." Mike carries his bike past her and up the stairs.

They lay in bed after they fuck. They don't touch. They lay with their arms by their sides. The sex was as brief as the first time, but far less urgent.

"Do you take a dance class?" Mike asks.

Katie doesn't say anything. She stares at the ceiling.

"You're really going to dig bike riding in California," he says. "There are so many pretty places to ride."

Katie keeps quiet.

"Why are you moving to California with your boyfriend?"

She responds in a quick monotone, like she's offering a rehearsed answer during cross-examination. "He's my boyfriend. I love him."

"Are you gonna marry him?"

Katie says, "If he wants me to."

Mike stays quiet for a bit. Katie rests her forearm on her forehead.

Mike says, "This just doesn't seem like the behavior of someone in love."

"This is just bike rides," Katie says. "And this wasn't even that."

She gets out of bed and ties herself into her robe. "This was it. You have to go."

Mike sits up. "Wait. I'm sorry. It can just be bike rides."

Katie says, "I don't think you're a compatible bike ride companion for me."

Mike doesn't move.

"Really. You could never beat me in a race. Just go."

Mike stands up, gets dressed, and leaves Katie's apartment. He doesn't know what to say, but he knows exactly what to do. He has to go and buy a better bike."

This'll end tomorrow. Swear.

Happy The Bicycle Game Day 3!

The Bicycle Game Day 2!

The next afternoon, Mike gets on his bike at 4 PM (Mike doesn't work). He sits by the curb at the intersection of 23rd and Seventh until around 5:30 with no sign of Katie. Mike takes off up 23rd to 3rd Avenue where Katie lives. He rides slowly past her apartment, doubles back and rides past again. And again. He parks by the curb across from her door for twenty minutes, staring up at her window. It's six thirty and the sky behind her building is amber. The breeze chills the patch of sweat on his neck and he remembers when she put her mouth there just under a day ago. A black girl who couldn't be more than ten years old rides past Mike. He pedals after her.

The little girl takes him on a diagonal trip West into the forties. Mike couldn't care where she takes him. He's used to being led around places. It's how he got to this city in the first place. His mother got her divorce from his father in the same year he got his divorce from Mary. "Let's be a team, you and me," she said. "Let's go to New York." They'd barely crossed the tunnel into the city before his mother had a new man and 800 dollars held out in her hand.

"To help you find your own place. I can give you more next week. Frank said he'd help." Frank's the new man. Frank wanted to use Mike's room as his study. Frank came through. He's handed Mike five grand so far over the past four months. Mike's just fine with taking the cash. His divorce cleaned him out of both money and pride. Now he'd just like to have a few friends in town.

Mike's about to give up when he feels a spray of water on his back. Katie pedals up beside him. "You found me," she says. "Good work."

Her laugh says that they both know it was her that found him. Mike watches the little black girl pedal the length of the block and turn a corner. He wonders how long Katie rode behind him, how long she let him hunt for her.

"Race ya," says Mike. "To the park."

Katie says, "To my place."

Katie wins. Mike takes the lead once or twice, and while it could not be said that he lets her win, Mike is relieved when he loses. He's unsure of the rules of this game. Yesterday, he lost and Katie fucked him. He doesn't want to find out what will happen if he wins.

They fuck standing up in the kitchen. Face to face, with Katie's shorts off all the way and her ass pressed up against the fridge. When they finish, they take an awkward walk into the bedroom, remove the rest of their clothing, and lay down next to each other in the bed, like a couple ready for sleep.

"Remember when if you didn't know how someone died you were supposed to assume it was AIDS?" Mike asks.

"Guess so," says Katie. "With celebrities at least."

"I was thinking about that, because I don't know how your brother died," says Mike.

"You assumed AIDS?"

"No, it just made me remember when I would make that assumption."

Katie rolls over and faces Mike. "It was suicide," she says. The inflection in her voice makes Mike think she's joking. The way she's searching his eyes for a reaction makes him realize she isn't. The only thing he wants to know is how.

"Boring," she says. "Pills. Xanax even. Pills he was prescribed. He didn't even make himself a special cocktail for the big blowout."

Mike wants to say something like I'm sorry or whatever, but he is struck with the reality that Katie is going to leave town at the end of the summer to go and be with her boyfriend. His breath goes short. He knows then that he has to get her to stay somehow.

"You're not supposed to be able to OD on Xanax. That's what the doctors said at least. Which lets us think he was half-assing it, just making a cry for help. But he lucked out."

Mike has to say something that will let her think he's someone worth leaving her boyfriend for. He settles on, "What was his name?"

Katie's face turns a little gray. "Georgie," her voice is clipped. She gets up from the bed and steps into a robe from her closet. She knots the robe tight and stands at the foot of the bed. "You have to go now."

Mike's stomach turns, but he speaks calmly. "I'm sorry, did I…"

Katie shakes her head. "I'm not doing this. I'm not laying in Jeff's bed and talking my heart."

"I was just curious," Mike says. "We don't have to." He looks down at himself and jumps out of bed when he sees himself naked, sitting Indian style. On Jeff's bed. He walks past Katie into the kitchen and starts to pull his clothes on. Katie follows him.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't worry about it," says Mike. His stomach is turning over and over. He feels like he could faint. "You have a boyfriend. I understand."

Katie says, "This is still just bike rides."

Mike's blood slows. He pulls his sneakers on, then stands up and kisses Katie's mouth. "I can still come find you then?"

Katie doesn't smile. "How can I help it if someone finds me?"

To be continued… (something interesting will happen eventually)

Happy The Bicycle Game Day 2!

The Bicycle Game Day!

At the intersection of 23rd and Seventh, he rides up beside her and says, "I bet I could beat you in a race."

She smiles. "To the river."

They storm side-by-side through 23rd Street five o'clock traffic, heading east. At a red light, he nearly collides with the rear end of a cab. At a green light, she cuts off an ambulance with flashing lights. They're getting closer and the traffic's getting thinner. More playgrounds. More people waiting in line outside of parked buses changing drivers. More sunshine blaring at their backs as they gain speed down a long stretch between second and first, pedaling as if they're gonna try to ramp it into Queens.

She wins. Of course she wins.

"I lost," he says. "I'm Mike."

She's Katie. They chain up their bikes outside of an Irish Pub and drink five pints each in the backyard. Mike learns that Katie's brother has been dead for a year now. Katie finds out that Mike's divorce was an amicable one. Katie doesn't mention her boyfriend, Jeff. Instead, she mentions that she lives a block away.

"Race ya," says Mike.

Katie wins, primarily because Mike doesn't know her address so he kind of has to follow her. They don't kiss on the stairs because they have to carry their bikes up with them. Once inside, they wheel the bikes into the living room and let them clatter to the ground when they slap into each other and begin to kiss. Mike pulls Katie's tank top over her head before he even gets his tongue into her mouth. She's wearing a sports bra underneath, which when tugged up off her chest makes her bare breasts squish out at strange angles. Mike slides the plain of his tongue into the muck of sweat on her breasts. Katie's right hand crawls up the leg of Mike's shorts and chokes his cock in her fist. They fuck on Katie and Jeff's bed with Katie's bicycle shorts down only to her calves, her knees bent out and her ankles bound with the spandex. They fuck for only four minutes, just long enough to soak the sheets through to the mattress. Then Katie mentions her boyfriend, Jeff.

"He's in LA. He's a musician and he's working. I'm moving out there with him in September," she says.

Mike doesn't argue. "Can we still ride bikes?"

"I ride my bike all the time," Katie says. "All you have to do is find me, just like you did today."

To be continued...

Happy The Bicycle Game Day!

Bull's Eye Day!

As you sit and drink your coffee by the window to the courtyard, you'll look up at the roof across the way to find a man in a plastic bicyclist's face guard pointing a rifle at you.

Say, "Hello?"

The masked gunman will say, "If I made it so, you'd be dead right now."

Ask, "Who are you?"

He'll get a little haughty and stretch out the words "Never you mind."

"Okay, what now then?" say.

The masked gunman will hold the rifle trained on your chest for a moment longer, saying nothing. Then he'll lower the rifle and look around the roof, you won't know for what. He'll try to scratch his nose underneath his mask, but he'll give up and slide the mask up over his head. You won't recognize him.

He'll pull his mask back down and point the rifle at you again. You'll stiffen, certain you're about to be killed. But the gunman will lower the rifle again and hold out his palm to the sky like he's testing for a drizzle. Then he'll flap his cape over his shoulders and run slowly out of sight.

You'll finish your coffee and gather your things before heading to work, your spirits buoyed not in the slightest by the fact that you've just cheated death at the hand of an ambivalent gunman.

Happy Bull's Eye Day!

Give Him A Reason Day!

Tell him when you were six you picked the lock on your father's locker cabinet and you found several different whiskeys and aperitifs and a jelly jar of preserved women's index fingers. Tell him you didn't ask your father about the jar because you were too scared to tell him you'd broken into his liquor cabinet. You spent most of your teen years harboring an anxiety that you couldn't pin down. Suffice to say, any time your father came home late from work, you took to chewing at your fingertips but you couldn't say why. A child therapist chalked it up to a separation anxiety. Considering that your mother had run off when you were young, it only made sense that you'd fear for the disappearance of your father as well. Tell him that as you grew up, you always had a vague memory of finding the jar of index fingers, but you'd assumed it was a memory of a dream you'd had.

Tell him you never took a drink until you were 28, the year you said to your father, "I once found a jelly jar full of index fingers in your liquor cabinet. Was one of them Mom's?" Tell him that your father said nothing. Just turned his head to look out the window of his hospital room. You sat an hour staring at the back of his head, then you left. Tell him that you never went back to visit him and a week later you got the call that he'd passed away. Tell him that three hours before his funeral, you got on a bus out of town and started on a six-year bender. Then tell him that you eventually made peace with yourself and have since tried to live a good life as a kind man, but sometimes you get mixed up still.

"That's why I forgot to return your power saw. Sorry Kenny."

Tell him you just want to be a good neighbor.

Happy Give Him A Reason Day!

Replace All The Working Light Bulbs In The House With Light Bulbs That Have Burned Out Day!

You should have been saving up light bulbs that have burned out of natural wear and tear over the past three or four years. You can't just shake some light bulbs until they rattle loose, he'll be able to tell. All of the light bulbs have to look as if they burned out simply by reaching the extent of their half-life.

When he's working second shift at the plant, tour through the house replacing the working bulbs in every lamp and fixture with the burnt out bulbs you've collected. When he returns, he'll flick the lightswitch in the kitchen and nothing will happen. He'll go into the laundry closet for an replacement bulb and pull the chain on the overhead light and nothing will happen. He'll say goddamn. He'll replace the bulb in the kitchen, then the bulb in the laundry closet, then he'll go into the living room, flick the switch on a table lamp and nothing will happen. As he makes his way into the bedroom to find you asleep, flicking impotent switch after impotent switch, he'll come to believe that all of the bulbs in the house extinguished themselves in one simultaneous moment. I have no idea what you stand to gain by doing this.

Happy Replace All The Working Light Bulbs In The House With Light Bulbs That Have Burned Out Day!

Burning Man Day!

Man On The Street just got set fire. He was walking along, on the street, minding his own business, when a reporter for a publication with a very small readership asked him if he had time to give his thoughts on the presidential race.

"Gladly," said Man On The Street.

The reporter asked who he plans to vote for.

Man On The Street said, "I think they should both be strung up by their ears in the town square and flogged with a studded—" but he was interrupted when three teenage boys flanked the hem of his overcoat with the flames of their zippo lighters and ran off.

One of the flames was immediately extinguished of its own course. The flame in the middle caught, but held to a small circle at the low bottom of the coat, just behind the man's knees.

But the flame by his right leg soared up to the pocket and seemed to pay no heed to Man On The Street's flailing umbrella whacks. The cub reporter did what he could, slapping at the flame with the notebook, but most of the blows landed on Man On The Street's own hand. Ultimately, Man On The Street jerked himself from the coat and let it puddle on the sidewalk so that he could stomp out the flames with his Docksiders.

Man On The Street and the cub reporter looked around for the hooligans who started the fire, but they were nowhere to be found. They stared down at the lump of smoky overcoat on the sidewalk for a moment. Then Man On The Street said to the cub reporter, "Now, where was I?"

Happy Burning Man Day!

Young Couple In Love, In Space Day!

Jimmy and Gina fell in love just before their high school graduation. They spent their entire summer mooning at each other over the rim of a milkshake with two straws. By midsummer, they started to get scared because Gina was going to be going off to college in the fall. So when the president asked for a young American couple in love to be launched into space, they applied. Because of Gina's grades and all the AP classes she took, they were accepted.

Now, Jimmy and Gina spend 8 hours a day floating in each other's arms. They spend another 8 hours trying to repair the heat shield of an errant satellite. They're having sex now too. They both lost their virginity in zero gravity. Gina got pregnant, she can tell already. She's due to stay up there for another 5 months though. But it's going to be okay. She spoke with Ground Control and she was assured that when she comes back to earth, she'll be pardoned if she wants to do partial birth. In fact, she was told she could get the procedure performed for free by a real NASA doctor!

Happy Young Couple In Love, In Space Day!

It's The Alcoholics Day!

It's 1:30 AM and the alcoholics want to have sex with each other. But they don't know how to leave the bar.

"Right now I'm sober enough to maintain my erection," says the boy.

"And the state I'm in right now," says the girl, "I probably wouldn't fall asleep if you went down on me."

They order another round.

"You should really make that your last. I can see the fire in your eyes. You want to make love, but if you drink much more and stay here much longer, you're not gonna be able to," says the bartender.

The alcoholics nod their thanks and tip well. They drink their drinks while he strokes her thigh underneath her skirt.

"Is there anything left in that bottle up on your fridge?" she asks.

He stares sadly into the mirror behind the bar. Shakes his head. "Not enough," he says. She believes him. She doesn't want to go.

They order another round and start to fall into each other. Up on their stools, each with a glass in one hand, they do like they start to do at 2:20 AM. They smoosh up at the bicep and breathe in each other's hair. They kiss when their lips bump into each other, kiss in excuse me. They lean at the cheek, his hand goes all the way up her thigh, the heel of his hand grazing in the warmth of her crotch. They sip from their drinks and breathe quicker with the same speed that their eyes start to gray. They calculate how much money they have left in proportion to how much time before last call.

It's 3:10 AM and the alcoholics don't want to have sex with each other, but they're almost ready to go home.

Happy It's The Alcoholics Day!

Missed Opportunities Day!

Back when you were still a plumber, before you won the lotto, you were fixing the shower head in an apartment shared by two attractive young women.

When you stepped out of the bathroom and said, "Shower's good as new," the two girls jumped out of their chairs and threw off their tops as they ran past you into the bathroom.

Once they were completely naked, they jumped into the shower together and started giggling and hooting under the hot water. One of the girls looked at you and said, "Now that you've proven yourself so handy with the plumbing, let's see how good you are at soaping our backs." The other girl giggled.

Because you'd never soaped someone else's back before, and because you wouldn't have known how to bill for it, you said, "Sorry, I only do the job indicated on the work order." Then you left.

About six years later, you were driving your van down down a suburban street when it occurred to you that those two girls were inviting you to have sex with the two of them at the same time underneath running water. You became so enraged at your own stupidity that you floored it into the thick of a group of pre-teens playing stickball. Twelve were killed.

Because you weren't drinking and because it happened so quickly that there were no witnesses to prove it wasn't an accident, you were charged only with vehicular manslaughter and you are currently serving the second of you four and a half year sentence. When you get out, you'll still have 69 million dollars of your lotto winnings to play with. But every single day you're going to wake up thinking about those twelve kids you ran over, and you're gonna wish you had had the sense to fuck those two chicks in the shower that day.

Happy Missed Opportunities Day!

The Football Players Day!

The Football Players are simple folk. Strong and violent, yet kind-hearted. Go to them for help.

"Football Players, the mafia is threatening to burn down my store and murder my sons if I don't pay them 10 percent of my income every month. Can you help me?"

The leader of the Football Players will say, "Yes?"

Say, "You sound unsure."

The leader of the Football Players will say, "We're not?"

Make sure you're doing the right thing here. "Okay Football Players, what will you do to get me out of this situation?"

The leader of the Football Players will look around at his teammates for some answers. Then he'll say to you, "We'll beat them up?"

Say, "Who?"

The leader of the Football Players will say, "Mafia?"

Say, "Good. Let's do it now. I'll give you each a six pack of beer."

The Football Players will then jump up from the bench, shouting and hitting each other on the shoulder pads, before charging off the field to follow you to the Mafia.

Happy The Football Players Day!

After Your Father Was Murdered By Dissidents, You Turned To Graffiti Day!

But we're skipping a few chapters of course. First you turned to Clara, who you loved. Clara turned you on to a truck that could take you out of Nicaragua. The truck driver turned you on to a boat to the coast of Florida, and a woman named Pilar turned you on to a whorehouse where you could get work pulling drunks out of beds once their pockets were turned out. Freddy, a junk dealer, turned you on to Heroin.

You don't know who turned you on to New York City. You just woke up there one morning. Bobo, your new girl in New York (she dug junk too) put the spraycan in your hand and told you to declare your love for her on the security gate of a drug store. You wrote, "Bobo Is Mutts."

You meant to write "Mutt's" but you missed the apostrophe and you put the S too close to the T to try to squeeze one in. Bobo gave you the nickname "Mutt" because you have a pug nose. Because she gave you the name very loudly at a party, it stuck.

That night you went home and made love to Bobo and when you woke up the next morning you saw the word "MUTTS" spraypainted on the wall beside the bed with an arrow pointing down at you. You laughed and made a point of putting the spraycan in your bag before leaving her place.

You were awake for twenty one hours that day. Within those twenty one hours, MUTTS was spraypainted on five apartment house doors, the brick wall of a hospital, two bus sidewall posters, and the stump of one tree. Within three months, you'd stopped shooting up (Bobo split) in order to have more time covering the city in your moniker. The word MUTTS was by this point as ubiquitous as the scaffolding. You were everywhere.

And then one day, that overlooked apostrophe started finding its way home. But it showed up after the S instead of the T. Old tags you'd forgotten about were being extrapolated upon. The first one you saw was scrawled across the boarded up windows of a condemned building. It read MUTTS' father was assassinated 1981.

You knew that. You hadn't thought about it because your father, and any bearing he had on your life, was dead as far as you were concerned. You knew he was assassinated, probably by one of his own men. But who else knew.

MUTTS' father dreamed of free Nicaragua was on the back of a bench in Riverside Park. You let go of Nina's (girlfriend, pretty, straight) hand and crouched your knees to read it real close, trying to find some identification in the loop of the scrawl. You used to worry about being spotted by the cops. But now, clearly, someone in the city knew who you were, what you were doing, and who killed your father.

MUTTS' father saw the bullet of Miguel Maya's gun, found on the post-board wall of a construction sight one Friday early evening. Your father was the son of a revolution for which he cared more than anything in the world. You were the son of a revolutionary and you couldn't have cared a damn. But someone either assumes you care, or needs you to care. He's in the city, and he's drawing you to him. You only have to decide whether or not you're going to answer. He clearly knows who you are and might be following you right this very minute, so he's apparently not going to walk up and tell you what he wants. Perhaps he's giving you the chance to decide whether you give a damn.

Happy After Your Father Was Murdered By Dissidents, You Turned To Graffiti Day!

Don't Eat The Cupcake With The Green Icing Day!

boogie snot

Happy Don't Eat The Cupcake With The Green Icing Day!

The Human Pincushion Day!

Another girl is gonna walk out on The Human Pincushion today. Right before she drops her keys on the kitchen counter and walks out, this one will say the same thing as the previous four.

"I'm really…Oh Jesus Christ I'm just so, so sorry."

They all say this, because towards the end of a relationship, The Human Pincushion diverts his attention from the impending doom by focusing all of his energy on his craft. In other words, he sits around all day sticking pins in himself.

Can't we address this?

Sideshow auditions are in May. I need to rehearse.

And then he sits in the middle of the Persian carpet on the living room floor and stabs himself with small metals. Every prick a distraction from the seething glare piercing the back of his head.

By the time they split, he's where he is right now. On the carpet, in a pair of white boxers, covered in needles from head to toe. When he looks up at the one who's gonna leave today, it'll be the first time in a month that he's looked her in the eye. And the pins sticking out of his temples and cheeks will bob just a bit with the movement of his head. The bobbing of the needles and the pathetic plea in his eyes is what's gonna make her say, "I'm really…Oh Jesus Christ I'm just so, so sorry."

Then she'll run out the door, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, trying to shake off the memory of that pitiful sight by slamming her weight down on every step.

Happy The Human Pincushion Day!

The Waiter's Not Moving Day!

You like it here. 11:10 AM outside Bona Cucina, just behind the menu in the window with a view of the waiter with the shaved head.

He's got the lunch shift at a restaurant that doesn't get a lunch rush. Doors open at eleven, giving the staff plenty of time to settle in before the first customer arrives at 12:50, if at all.

The waiter with the shaved head is guaranteed to walk out with forty dollars in shift pay. If he doesn't seat a single soul, he'll be handed forty dollars when he returns that evening for the dinner shift (he's only 25, still a few more years of working doubles without a shudder). If he makes eight bucks in tips, which is usually how it works, he's given thirty two.

The waiter with the shaved head views his lunch shift as a chance to be paid forty dollars to sit and listen to a restaurant CD collection full of CD's he enjoys but would never own. Jewel's Pieces of You is always the first up in the changer. The Romeo+Juliet Soundtrack (Leo and Claire Danes) is second. The waiter with the shaved head comes here to listen to saccharine music until he gets to take a two-hour walk at 3 PM.

You come here at 11:10 AM to watch the waiter with the shaved head sit in a chair. In order to avoid worrying him, you try to look like you're perusing the menu, and your glances at him are furtive. You can't hear the music outside. From where you stand, he is only physical inertia and thought.

What sort of memory could strike a man so still? Is that contentment in there? Is that what that looks like? Or resignation?

You come here at 11:10 AM because your boyfriend got rich and said you could quit your job and paint. You don't paint, but you do go for walks in the early afternoon and fantasize about the screaming-and-throwing-shit fight with your boyfriend that you hope to have one day. But at 11:10 AM you get to take a break and wonder who's getting screamed at inside the shaved head of that waiter that sits so still.

Happy The Waiter's Not Moving Day!

Melvin Is A Magician Now Day!

With the flowers in your left hand, you use your right to push the doorbell for the first time in 13 years. His mother answers:

"Yes?"

She's in a bathrobe. It's new. Or at least, it's not the flowered one she used to wear when you were in high school.

"Mrs. Ames?" you say.

She puts her reading glasses on and squints into your face. She says, "Alicia? Is that you?"

"It's me Mrs. Ames," you say. "I've come back for Melvin."

Go on. Do it just like you rehearsed on the drive down.

"Mrs. Ames, when Melvin and I broke up after prom, it seemed like a good idea. In fact, it was a good idea. I didn't know who I was when I was seventeen. I had a lot of growing up to do, as I'm sure you can understand."

Mrs. Ames can understand. This is evident by the nod of her head.

"I've been with a lot of men since Melvin, Mrs. Ames. A lot more than I ever thought I'd be with. I don't know statistics, but I'm pretty sure I've been with a lot more than might be considered average. In fact, considering only my immediate circle of friends and acquaintances, way more than average."

You start to drift with some rather delicious memories. Mrs. Ames is uncomfortable. Stay on target.

"These men, Mrs. Ames, they taught me many things. Things that it would be unseemly to go into right here and now. But the most important thing I learned from them was that not a single one of them could ever measure up to all that I received from your son, from Melvin. I'm in love with your son Mrs. Ames. And I want him to be mine. I drove three hundred miles today to give him these flowers and ask if he'd like to have dinner and perhaps a life with me. Could you go get him?"

Mrs. Ames looks so thrown you'd think you just proposed to her. She removes her reading glasses and drops them back into the pocket of her robe. Then she wrings her hands and says, "Melvin is a magician now. He moved out of the house about ten years ago."

The hand holding your flowers drops slowly to your side. "Oh," you say.

Mrs. Ames is done wringing her hands. "He's doing two shows tonight at Lem's Lobster and Dinner Theater off of Route 80."

You look up at her with a question in your eyes. Mrs. Ames grabs your shoulders in her hands and she says, "Go."

Happy Melvin Is A Magician Now Day!

Scuba Divers In Wet Suits Day!

Ron is a scuba diver. So is Susan. They've seen each other underwater sometimes, but never on land.

Susan looks great in her wet suit. Her breasts look rounder than they should, as does her rear end. Ron looks strong in his wet suit. Like he could bend metal as if it were rubber.

Ron sees Susan swim past him one day and they wave to each other. Ron would like to ask Susan on a date, but he's learned in the past that when you date someone you met on a dive you're bound to be disappointed because when she takes off her wet suit her body's contours are less rounded.

Susan gets caught in some coral. Ron rescues Susan, severing her right leg at the knee when he jerks her free. Ron swims to the surface with Susan and her severed leg in his arms. Atop the boat, she is revived. At the hospital, the leg is reattached.

Ron is glad he thought twice about mixing love with diving. Getting hurt's too easy.

Happy Scuba Divers In Wet Suits Day!

Powdered Cream Donuts Day!

The last guy who broke up with you brought a dozen donuts with him when he did it. He was good enough to come to your apartment to do it, and he called ahead to let you know by his tone that he was coming over to do it, which is cool. But when you opened the door you saw him with a resolute look in his eye and a pink cardboard box in his hand. You let him in without saying anything.

All the way upstairs you were thinking, "Did he bring a cake? Cupcakes? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he just wants to…is it my roommate's birthday?"

You got him all the way to the couch and then you went to the bathroom to ponder what the fuck could be in that box.

A hat? A kitten? Um…a hat?

You were determined to not primp in the slightest for this, but when you thought that, instead of breaking up with you, he might be about to give you a hat or a kitten, you put your hair in a clip.

A deep breath took you back out to the living room, where you sat down next to him on the couch. You let your left arm spread across the back so your hand was near his hair.

You asked, "What's in the box?"

"Donuts. Look this just isn't working out. I think you're great but you're stuck in a part of my life I left behind a long time ago. I think I've just grown past you is all."

Nothing happened for a long time. Then you said, "Donuts?"

"I'm sorry but I've made my decision," he said. "I'm going to be causing you pain no matter how I do this, so I'm just going to get out of here now to avoid drawing this all out. This way you won't say anything you might regret saying later. Goodbye."

He got up and left. You stayed on the couch, staring at the pink box in the middle of the kitchen table.

You took a walk. Met a friend at a bar and got a little drunk. When you came back it was nighttime. Your roommate was sitting at the kitchen table. The donut box was open.

"Did you eat some of those donuts?" you asked.

"Yeah," she said. "They were great."

"Jeff brought them," you said. "We broke up."

The lid of the box was open. There were probably nine donuts left. You wondered if any of them might be jelly.

Happy Powdered Cream Donuts Day!