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Must Marry Myrna

29. A photo of someone you find attractive. Myrna Loy (1905-1993)Another cheap shot of a photo a day topic. Someone I find attractive? I think you’re all attractive, you beautiful people, but I don’t have a photo that all of you are in. . So. Here is Myrna Loy, who I, like millions of men before me, fell in love with upon viewing The Thin Man. While writing Illinoir I was consuming as much noir literature and film as I could, and I don’t think anything topped Thin Man. As a husband and wife detective team, Nick and Nora are unsurpassed. And in portraying a strong, independent woman who was also a dedicated wife, a great detective and an amazing drinker, Myrna Loy. Well. Yeah. Dudes formed “Men Must Marry Myrna” clubs. That’s flippin incredible.

The word count is 47,532 which means that finishing is nearly inevitable. My revelation of the other day hasn’t really carried through as much as I wanted it to, and right now I’m doing more story mining, going back and padding out other sections of this thing because I don’t have much action that can carry forward. With that in mind, I present this second to last excerpt of Nanowrimo 2010:

“Say, you went to college, right?”

“Yeah, I went to the College of North Jersey.”

“And what did you get your degree in?”

“I got an Associate’s Degree in Photojournalism.”

“Photojournalism? Really? That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun.”

“And what are you doing with that degree?”

“Well, I’m…. I’m taking pictures of housewares.”

“Right. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Microbiology. And a Master’s in Applied Macroeconomoneuroplastology. And what am I doing with those?”

“Taking pictures of housewares.”

“Exactly. Nobody’s living up to their potential. And who’s to say if that even is potential? Is there even anything that I could be doing with a Master’s in Macroeconomoneuroplastology? I just got it so I wouldn‘t have to join the real world for another couple years.”

“What is Macroeconomoneuroplastology anyway?” Therese asked.

“It’s the study of the impact of ‘take a penny leave a penny’ trays in gas stations and convenience stores.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. I totally was. “It’s a very specialized field. But, really, what good could that possibly do for anyone? Nothing. For nobody. I tells you.”

“That’s a pretty negative view too, Arthur,” Therese said.

“Again, I tell you, it’s not a bad thing. It’s great to accept that we are going to go nowhere and do nothing with our lives, because that frees us up to do what is possible. What is realistic. There’s no way I’m going to get a position on the Weekly Macroeconomoneuroplastology Review, the most respected Macroeconomoneuroplastology-related publication in the Western Hemisphere. I don’t want to teach Macroeconomoneuroplastology and 7-11 doesn’t exactly hire unknown Macroeconomoneuroplastologists off the street.”

“Why did you get your Master’s in it?”

“Macroeconomoneuroplastology has always been my passion. Even though I knew there was no future in it, I’ve always felt like those penny trays were calling to me, like they were leading me to the promised land, leading me to a better tomorrow.”

“That’s amazing,” Therese said. “That’s how I feel about photojournalism.”

“But it’s not, Therese,” I said. “It’s not calling me, or leading me anywhere. And there is no promised land, there is no better tomorrow. There’s only now and slightly later from now. And slightly later from then.”

“And what comes after that?”

“More of the same. Or something different. Who can say? And who really cares? All that we know is that it all ends. Eventually.”

“What did this have to do with what we were talking about?”

“Mardi Gras?” I asked.

“No, Fat Tuesday.”

“Oh. Right,” I said, and I experienced that first incredible eye-rolling urge. Paul would later tell me about the time he first felt it — five minutes after meeting Therese, she had commented on Paul’s dreadlocks and asked him if he knew Bob Marley. Not if he knew Bob Marley’s music, mind you, but if he actually knew  Bob Marley. Because of his dreadlocks. Paul’s eyes had nearly rolled out of his head. I think I should get some credit for having lasted more than a week.

Half Baked

28. A photo of something you cooked or baked. 11/25/2010. A batch of crackies.Â

Some of you want the recipe. Others of you want to ban me from dessert. Some of you fall into both camps, and I’m not so sure what to do with you. Here it is anyway.

Fudgie Scotch Squares (Crackies)

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate morsels
1 cup butterscotch morsels
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1.5 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 18 squares, if you’re making your own crumbs)
If you like nuts in your sweets (I don’t) you can go with some chopped walnuts as well. Coconut also works nicely.

Preheat oven to 350. Mix all ingredients. Press into a well-greased and floured 9″ square baking pan. Bake for 30-35 minutes. Let cool for 45 min, cut into 1.5″ squares. Let cool completely, cut again, remove from pan.

You’re going to want to eat them right away, but trust me when I tell you that they’re infinitely better on their second day.

Wordcount: 45,868. Today’s excerpt is based on a conversation I actually had recently, and have related a couple times to various people. Getting to the point where mining real life is all I have left in the tank….

I approached her desk. She nodded me into a chair. I sat.

“…that’s why it’s flawed,” she said into the phone. Her anger was palpable. “I explained it already…. No, it’s not because it’s cheaper…. What don’t you understand?…. They’re replica Muslim prayer rugs…. So, devout Muslims leave an obvious flaw in each rug they make because only God can be perfect…. It’s true, I asked a Muslim guy at my gym…. Fine, I’ll get you his number…. Fine, bye.” She hung up the phone.

“That flaw thing is bullshit, and if it’s not it’s incredibly asinine.”

“I don’t care what you think, Arthur,” she said.

“Seriously, it’s all a marketing ploy by Muslim prayer rug weavers. Some tourist was pissed because the quality of the souvenir prayer rug he had bought wasn’t up to his incredibly high standards and complained about it. Rather than just swapping out the rug for one that didn’t have a flaw, the guy just fed the tourist that incredibly ridiculous line. Can you imagine if everything they did they did like that? It makes no sense.” I paused. Kelly was barely listening. I went on anyway. I didn’t really have anything better to do. “But check this out, the flaw in the whole story is the idea that unless the rug makers deliberately leave a flaw in the rug, that it would be perfect which is just not true, since not only is God the only one around who’s allowed to be perfect, He’s also the only one that can actually be perfect. Even if the rug maker doesn’t leave the flaw, his prayer rug wouldn’t be perfect. It’d just be a prayer rug of some certain amount of quality.”

I stopped, thought it about some more.

“Are you done?” Kelly asked after a moment or two.

“Not really,” I said, for I had considered another angle. “What the hell is a ‘perfect’ prayer rug anyway? Is there some Platonic ideal prayer rug out there? Is perfection a prayer rug that will perfectly cushion a  supplicant’s knees as he prays? Or one that will somehow expedite the delivery of the prayers from prayer to prayee? Or is it just some perfection of the pattern in the rug, some ideal design that would make the rug superior to all others?”

“Please, stop,” Kelly said.

“Ok, but one more thing: what if the ideal, perfect prayer rug is one that ostensibly appears to be perfect except for one particularly obvious and purposely made flaw? What if by making that flaw, the rug maker is accidentally making the most perfect prayer rug that was ever made?”

“You don’t ever stop, do you? And you don’t ever actually have a point.”

“My point is this: by interfering with the process of making something, by putting something into our creations in order to placate an imaginary friend who lives in the sky, we are limiting ourselves in ways that we shouldn’t be. We should all just strive to do the best work we can, knowing that no matter how hard we try, we will never attain perfection, whatever perfection might be, whatever that nebulous concept might be.”

“‘Strive to do the best work we can?’” Kelly asked. “That sounds like good advice for you, Arthur.”

“Oh, without a doubt. My efforts are often paralyzed by the fact that no matter how hard I try, I know I’ll never get it quite right.”

“So it’s not laziness then?”

“Oh, that’s a big part of it.”

And Then Suddenly…

27. A photo of last summer. 8/30/10. Adam, Erin, Sarah, Nick, Aaron. Sarah's new front steps. Photo by Sarah Larson.

Normally I’d say you couldn’t have a photo of “last summer.” The best you could do would be a photo from last summer. But this photo pretty much does it. After we moved Sarah into her new place, the five of us relaxed for a couple hours on her front steps, eating pizza, drinking beer, enjoying the evening. It was the summeriest moment of the year, and it was very very good stuff.

Four days left until the 30 days are up. At 43,813 right now, which isn’t too bad of a position to finish…if I don’t go play Halo after I post this. Words aren’t coming so easily this time around. Writing has taken place in fits of 150 words at a time. Wendy just sits there and spits out a thousand in a heartbeat. I used to be able to do that.

Arthur’s having a bad day. Imagine going to your friend’s house for a barbecue and finding all your co-workers there.

(it'd be a lot like this, but worse.)

Oh, and also, you’re turning into some sort of hideous monster.

I turned back to look outside. Trammel was on Paul’s back deck, wearing an apron from our Lighthouse Living Decor series, manning the grill. Steph was standing uncomfortably close, leaning against him, laughing at everything he said. I rolled my eyes in disgust. Trammel was known to be something of a ladies man, constantly hitting on every female that worked for him. Rumors abounded of his success with the women, and what impressionable, starry-eyed 20-something housewares company employee wouldn’t want to go to bed with the boss? One of the very few one-on-one interactions I had had with him had been outside the front door of the building. I was returning from lunch and had watched as Trammel smacked the ass of his PA as she went inside only to turn around and flirt shamelessly with a sales assistant. As I approached, Trammel had winked at me and said, “It’s good to be the king.”

Certainly it was. Who was I to deny that? When you’re ambitious and lucky enough to rise to the top of an empire, no matter what empire it is, you’ve got to take advantage of the spoils, right? That it was a third-rate housewares producer in a nowhere town, making money by exploiting cheap Chinese labor and cheap American aesthetics was neither here nor there. The man owned his own company, his own multi-million dollar company and you had to hand it to him, he knew how to play it.

The part I hated, the part that made my skin crawl every day since then was that when Trammel winked and said what he said, I smiled and laughed and winked back and I had felt good about it. God help me, for a minute there I had felt flattered that Trammel had brought me into his confidence, had made a joke with me, had not chucked me on the shoulder, but had very nearly, very spiritually, might as well have chucked me on the shoulder as he passed me on his way to his cherry red Corvette. The feeling left quickly, left completely as he gunned his engine, peeled out of the lot, leaving for the day at one in the afternoon, I couldn’t deny that it must be good, that it was undoubtedly good, and should be the goal of every man, to be the king, to be on top, to have the power. But I couldn’t deny that I also felt dirty, that I needed a shower. I was ashamed that I had let him charm me, that I had let his power lead me on. And I had hated him ever since.

And then there he was, directing his charm at Steph, pretending to be an every man, pretending like he knew how to use a grill all his life, like he was like one of us, or like he could take on any task that any common man could do, and do it better, because he was that good, because he was the king. And Steph, goddamn her, she was falling for it. But I couldn’t really blame her either. She basked in his attention, glowed from it, glowed like no woman had ever glowed around me. They were at the center of my vision, the edges hazy, blurry, indistinct, as if a spotlight was shining down on them, obscuring all else. My hand, planted against the wall, shaking, unable to support my weight, and I went to my knees again. All this in a matter of moments. Down on my knees, on the floor again.

It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like…

26. A photo of you at Christmastime. 12/24/1979. An unhealthy addiction to video games is born.

34 Christmastimes have produced a bunch of choice pictures. I debated sharing one of the photos from my awkward years – long hair, baseball hat, bad skin, ugly sweater, stone washed jeans, high tops, etc. – but I have a particular love for this photo. We’re in Pittsburgh at Grandmommy and Granddaddy’s (Mom’s parents’) house. Dad and I are playing my brand new handheld baseball video game (well, it was all LEDs and beeping noises, but still) on Christmas Eve. I am wearing my brand new “Mork” suspenders. I dig the closeness, the father-son nature of this picture. Not pictured is a bigger family bond — my Jewish-raised-then-Unitarian-living father celebrating (in a secular manner) Christmas with his wife and kids and his wife’s parents. The year before is even more interesting: Grandma and Grandpa (Dad’s parents) also joined us there. 2 Jews, 2 Presbys and 4 Unitarians, all getting together and hanging out.

Well, it’s just kinda cool.

Word count: 42,302 (84.6%)

Here is the brand new beginning of the novel, required to round out what will eventually become the end of the story.

The cicadas are here, hovering about my head, mating on the wing, getting ready to die. I am too, I suppose. Getting ready to die, that is. I wish I could say I had a good run at it, but that just wouldn’t be true. It would be nothing more than a comforting lie, an attempt to placate myself at the very end. It would serve no other purpose but to make these last few weeks, or days, or minutes — there’s no telling how much longer there is — more bearable.

Love the Night

25. A photo of a night you loved. A basement show, sometime between '89 and '93. Photo by Steve Parkes

It’s tough to say how much I loved this night at the time. Some nights only become dear years later, so I say I loved this night looking back on it with the wisdom that comes with 20 or so years of separation. We used to play music. In basements. All the time.

Not much writing yesterday, but a strange revelation while standing outside Morseland in the rain. I have the ideas for the finishing touches on the novel. Now it’s just up to me to execute over the next five days. Think today will be a zero word count, but tomorrow will rise again. Or something like that. Standing at 41,770.

Also: Hoping everyone has a happy and healthy Thanksgiving. I am off to join (amongst others) the two people in the foreground of this photo for a friendly neighborhood dinner.

“Thanks for dinner, Sharon,” Therese said as she got into my car.

I turned the key in the ignition. “Yeah, thanks for making us spend more time together instead of just giving us cash,” I said under my breath.

“You’re such an ass, Arthur,” Therese said.

“Do you still want a ride?”

“Of course I do. How else am I going to get home?”

“I’m not sure. You might not want to have to find out.” I backed the car out of the parking space, honked twice at Paul as I passed his car and turned out onto the main road. “I hear there are wolves out there.”

“Why you….” Therese started, searching for words. “You’re just a monster!”

“I’m not just a monster, Therese,” I said. “I’m also a monster.”

And that shut her up for the duration of the ride to her house. Aside from a few mumbled directions, she was silent. Yeah, I’d borrowed the line from a John Barth novella, but it was a good one, and I felt it applied. I wasn’t just a monster. I had my moments, though. My moments of monstrosity when my inner demons fought their way to the surface, taking hold of my personality, making me, an otherwise reasonable person, into some sort of beast. They made me do things like threaten a good hearted, albeit annoying, young woman who wanted nothing more than for everyone to get along, for people to do their jobs, and for things to be okay. Unfortunately for Therese, that was against everything I stood for.

Hair.

24. A photo of you that your hair looks nice in. 11/14/2009 Nanowrimo Pic-A-Day

Pictures where my hair looks good are few and far between. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the less hair I have, the better I look, which is a good thing, since it’s going away whether I shave it or not. This one is from last year’s NaNo again, newly shorn, sitting outside on the back porch, writing about Melvil Dewey.

An example of a bad hair day. I'm the clown.

Not much to speak of in NanoLand. Sitting at 40,953. The home stretch awaits.

Here’s a deep cut of an excerpt, from way back in the…middle. Or something.

I looked back over at Kelly. There was no chance of anything happening with her. I know that Luis, one of the warehouse guys, had gone out with her a few times. He was too much of a gentleman (or so he claimed — I think he just didn’t like me enough) to reveal any details, but from what I gathered, Kelly only dated Hispanic guys that were over six feet tall, drove red cars made in a factory that was on Greenwich Mean Time, lived in 1200 square foot apartments north of New Brunswick, spoke three languages, knew the rules to Brazilian League Football, scored between 1000-1200 on their SATs and could harness a donkey using six feet of twine and a food processor. I failed on so many levels when it came to her.

I turned back to Steph. She was starting to look better and better in my eyes. I smiled at her and said, “Well, around you, Steph, I feel like I can just say anything.” I wasn’t usually prone to such shmaltzy declarations, but desperate times call for desperate measures, or something like that. “Say, would you like to go have a drink this weekend?”

Before Steph could answer, Kelly skewered me with another glare. She must have sensed that we were no longer talking about Cola Industries related topics. I could sense her gaze burning into me without looking over. I think Stephanie did too because she immediately turned back to her computer and started typing randomly at her keyboard. When I did finally muster the courage to look back over at Kelly, she pointed angrily at the doorway. In case I didn’t get the message, she said, “Arthur. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

I beat a hasty retreat. As I passed through the doorway, Kelly said, “Come on. Those pictures won’t take themselves.”

As if I didn’t know that already.

Cassie

23. A photo of one of your pets. February, 1982. Cassie as a kitten.

That’s Cassie!

Writing continues. Past 40,000. (Word 40,000 was “booze.”)

Resigned to the fact that nothing really happens in this “novel.”

No excerpt today? No excerpt today.

My Kind of Town (Chicago Is…)

22. A photo of your town. 10/30/04. First view of the Chicago skyline in a year.

What a moment. Returning to Chicago after a year abroad (New Jersey.) Hastily snapped photo of the skyline as I pilot the truck containing my belongings homeward. It felt amazing and surreal and humbling to come back. When I made the decision to leave, I actually uttered the words, “There’s nothing for me here.” Thoughtless words, those. There’s everything for me here. Except for Yuengling. That’s just out east.

Back up to a respectable daily count, which means I can actually share some numbers. We’re at 38,740 and climbing. That puts us at 77%. The month is 73% done. Still in the running.

Of course, the writing is weird. The story has completely gone out the window, so I am going back to old scenes and adding one those funny ridiculous stories that I love having characters tell.

“I did hook up with Susan though,” I continued.

“Oh yeah!” Paul said. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Susan was a former sales assistant who had left Cola about a week after I started. We flirted at her going-away party and since I had not yet had enough time to display my complete unsuitability as a mate to everyone through my unprofessional behavior, my petulant attitude, and my bad personal grooming, Susan had considered me fresh meat, viable and available, and had allowed me to escort her home.

I smiled, fondly thinking back to that night. “That was fun.”

“Wait a second,” Paul said. “That’s not what you told me.”

“What?”

“Come on, Art, ‘fess up. There are no secrets or lies in the Cubicle of Truth.”

“I thought we had stopped calling it that,” I said. We had been going back and forth on the official cubicle name. Much work time had been devoted to the very important debtate. “I thought we had settled upon Plagueville.”

“Regardless of the name, Arthur, the fact remains. Once a Cubicle of Truth, always a Cubicle of Truth. As long as you reside here, you shall be bound by its laws.”

“Crap.”

“So, tell the audience what happened, Arthur.”

“Alright,” I started, already warming to the story. My people love telling stories. It is in my blood and it doesn’t matter if the story shows me in a good light or not. In fact, the worse off I come across in a story, the more sympathetic (or just pathetic) I appear. Or so I thought. It was a Jewish thing. I think. “So Susan and I are hanging out at her party in the break room, and we’re both pretty tipsy….” Alcohol was normally forbidden at all company events, whether Cola-sponsored or not, but Susan was incredibly resourceful. Her brother was Cola’s legal counsel and had found numerous loopholes in the company alcohol policy. Ever since then, as long as the event took place on an odd-numbered day, within three days of a major holiday (of any nation, creed, or culture) and was not taking place near computers or heavy machinery, we could get away with drinking booze on site. It was known as the Susan Initiative, and we thanked her for it weekly. “So I said, ‘Would you like to come back to my cubicle?’ and she said, ‘Is that what you packaging kids call it these days?’ And of course, I was confused by that because what else does anybody call a cubicle. I mean, a cubicle is a cubicle, right? I suppose some people call them ‘cubes’ but that’s really more of an abbreviation than anything else.”

I could tell that I was losing my audience. Therese looked like she might fall asleep, Kate looked even less engaged than ever and even Paul, who normally listened with rapt attention to any story that I might tell seemed uninterested. He had turned back to his computer, and while I knew he was listening, I could tell from the back of his head that he was growing bored.

“Anyhow. I realize you guys are all busy so I’ll just cut to the chase. After a bit of witty repartee, a little back and forth, we cut out of here and head over to her place. Now I don’t know if you know this, but you’re about to: Susan has a dog.”

“We know,” Paul groaned. Of course they knew. We all knew. Susan talked about nothing but her dog, pretty much all day every day. I had only known her a week, but already I had been shown pictures of her dog and told stories about her dog a dozen times. I have a pretty strict “Don’t tell me about your dog unless he’s on fire or he cured cancer” policy, but, being new in town, and eager to make friends, I had listened intently.

So Much to Choose From

21. A photo of something you wore when you were younger but wouldn't wear now. 7/91(?) ISSA, Illinois State University. Jon Cates & I strike a pose.

Ripped jeans? Brightly colored long shorts underneat? Backwards hat loose atop head? Big glasses? Earrings? Front 242 shirt? Ok, I might still wear that Front 242 shirt, though even that is questionable. God only knows what kind of shoes I was wearing but they were most likely high tops of some sort. Also, that pose and the hair. Well. Yeah. I have it on good authority that Jon Cates still dresses exactly the same as that though.

It’s no secret that word count has suffered lately. Just don’t know where to go with this thing. But I did write some stuff that I liked. It’s pretty much exactly like some stuff from Illinoir, main character examining himself in a mirror and not liking what he finds. I think he’s metaphorically becoming a zombie. It’s a metamorphosis! Trying to capture a total…disconnection? Conscious thought is still there but he is detached, unmoved….

Standing there, looking in the mirror, I was struck by how quickly a familiar face can become completely foreign. Those features, my features, the ones I’d known all my life, the ones I’d be able to recognize anywhere were nowhere to be found. Staring back at me was someone else, someone completely different. A monster, a devil, a demon. A zombie.

I used to be able to stand in front of a mirror and have entire conversations with my eyes, figure out exactly what was going on in my head, what had been buried, and what was bubbling just beneath the surface. I didn’t need therapy, I didn’t need analysis. I just needed my eyes. My eyes, once — according to men and women, friends and lovers alike — my best feature, striking, piercing, sharp and blue were now sunken, dead, dull. My eyes (along with my quick wit and sharp tongue, of course,) my best method of expression, now said nothing to me.They were silent. Dark. Shallow pools of vacant thoughts. Seemingly empty sockets made my face seem skeletal. Skin was drawn tight across hollow cheeks. My nose, once full and fleshy had lost its shape, sunken in. My jaw was slack, my mouth hung open. It seemed a natural expression of shock and dismay but I found that I felt neither of those things.

Indeed, as I observed all this, took stock of the changes, it was with an unnatural calm, the same calm I felt during my dream about being covered with cicadas in the woods. I was completely detached, like it was somebody else that was looking at the features of somebody else. I should have been terrified.

“I should be terrified,” I whispered.

Enjoyment

20. A photo of something you enjoy doing. 11/2009. Adam plays video games.

Video games. My constant companion.  Lots of debate lately about whether or not video games can be considered “art” and I don’t know where I come down on that. Games contain art: graphics, story, even the programming can be artistic. Elegant, beautiful. But are they art themselves? Well. My response is: Blah blah blah. Let me shoot something.

Wakka wakka.

What was yesterday’s word count? Oh. I didn’t post one. Good. Today, we’re at 36,278, and nobody has to know that I wrote absolutely nothing yesterday.

Alright. Here’s the second half of that phone conversation from the other day. Be warned, it’s very sweary.

I heard a female voice yelling in the background. It was unmistakably Paul’s wife, Paulette. No, I’m not kidding about that. You can’t make this stuff up. It was unfortunate, but the heart wants what the heart wants; you can’t choose your soul mate. They were definitely made for each other, right down to their names. If I ever met a girl named Arthurina, I’d want to get to know her because undoubtedly we were meant to be together.
“Paul! Get off the fucking phone! You’re supposed to be tending the fucking grill!”

“Hold on, Art,” Paul said. I could hear the noise of him lowering the phone and cupping the mouthpiece. “I’m fucking talking to Art, Goddamn it!” I could still hear him as clearly as if he were speaking directly into the phone. They yelled at each other like nobody’s business, but it was all out of love. “Get off my fucking back!”

Paulette’s response was not as clear. I could hear that she was yelling, but Pauls hand did manage to muffle that.

“That’s what I’m fucking trying to do, Paulette!” was Paul’s reply. “That’s why I’m on the fucking phone with him!”

Again, Paulette’s muffled response.

“He knows to bring some beer!” Paul yelled. “You think he’s a fucking idiot? You think I’m a fucking idiot? You think I didn’t tell him to bring some beer? You think I didn’t tell him to bring some food? A dish to fucking pass? Like some fucking pasta salad?” Real quick, Paul was back: “Art, you’re going to bring some pasta salad, right?”

Before I could reply, he was gone again. “Yeah, he said he’s gonna bring some pasta salad. Now get off my back!” He brought the phone back to his face. “Sorry about that, Art.”

“No worries, Paul,” I said. “Tell Paulette I said hello.”

“Hey!” Paul yelled away from the phone. “Art says hi!”

Paulette’s response – “Hi, Art! Get your fucking ass over here!” – was clearly audible.

“She says for you to get your –“ Paul said.

“Yeah, Paul, I heard her. In case you hadn’t noticed, your wife is loud as hell.”

“So what’s all this about losing your Saturday?”

“Shit, man, that means tomorrow’s Monday,” I sighed, realizing the implications. “I only get one day away from Cola?” I shuddered.

“What a drag,” Paul said. “But hey, look, you’d really better get your ass over here. You feeling alright?”

“What? Yeah. I feel great. Better than I have in a few days, actually.”

“I guess that’s one benefit of sleeping a day and a half, huh? Maybe you just really needed it.”

“Yeah, I guess. After Friday night, I must have. Dude, it was so crazy. After you left O’Irish, I was about to leave but I heard this noise coming from the woods –“

I was interrupted by another shriek from Paulette: “Paul, get the fuck off the fucking phone and come make a fucking hamburger for your fucking son!”

“Art, I really gotta go. Just come over here and we’ll talk, ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.”

“Hey. Don’t forget to take a shower,” Paul said, and hung up.