Day Five

(feel free to call this whatever you want.  For instance, I call it Fred)

 

 

 

You shuffle out of the bedroom, feeling like death warmed over, cooled slightly, and then microwaved on high for twenty-three minutes.  You see me sitting at the kitchen table, my back to you.  From the living room, strains of a bombastic overture played by a really pathetic Scottish orchestra.

“Grunt,” you say, then notice the time on the microwave.  It’s almost noon.

I look over my shoulder, appraise your appearance, and say “Hmmmm; Daniel.”

Deciding that you misheard me, you putter around to the far side of the table.  Fortunately, there is half a pot of coffee simmering on the pad.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Not looking up from my work, I explain “Daniel 12:2”.

You choose not to dignify that with a retort.  At least, not until you are more conscious.  As you begin to doctor your drink, you slowly realize that the side of the table you’re on is a mess.  Surveying the wreckage, you realize that everything from the other side had been dumped unceremoniously on the other to make room for whatever project I was working on.

Curious, you look over to see what I am doing.  On the side is the tape case labeled “GOOD CLEAN FUN-NOT A LOT OF BLOOD.”  I have the pack of JtB papers out, as well as the credit card.  In the cleared area is a pile of pot: the contents of the bag.  I am pulling it aside bud by bud and going through it with a Swiss army knife, removing the stems and seeds.  The stems go to one pile, the seeds to another, and the bud to a third little mountain.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Stems and seeds just give you a headache,” I explain, moving a cluster of pot over to the mountain with the credit card.  “It’s better to just remove them.”  I push the seeds to their brethren.  “Besides, I want to try growing some.”

Pathetic, you decide.

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” you ask.

“Well,” I say amid my illegal botanical surgery, “when I’m done with this, I’m running down to Blockbuster to return Wayne’s World.  I might pick up another movie for tonight while I’m there.”

You shrug, open the refrigerator.

“I might get something at Mickey D’s.  Treat you to lunch?”

“Hey,” you reply, “just what I need: a terminal grease fix.”

I finish my task, set about rolling a joint.  You suddenly lean in my face, scrutinize my pupils.  Slightly dilated, but inconclusive proof.

“Don’t worry,” I tell you, “I haven’t smoked any yet.”  I lick the gum strip, then set the cigarette aside to dry.  “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Hmmmmmm?”

“Under the sink is a box of zip-lock bags.  Can you hand me one, along with a paper towel?”

You shake your head again as you comply.  I take them from you, and put a large number of seeds onto the paper towel.  I fold it several times, then stick it under the tap to moisten it.  Then, as per the previous night’s instructions, I place it in the baggie, blow into it, and seal it up tight.  The sight of this strikes you as being particularly comical, and your disapproving glare cracks into a quivering laugh.

I toss it up onto a shelf over my stove.

“Think that’ll work?” you ask.

“Probably not,” I answer.[1]

Next to my stove is a wooden spice rack.  Most of the glass bottles are full, though some are at half capacity from infrequent use.  Some of the bottles are empty.  Two of these I pull down.  The weed goes into OREGANO, the seeds into FENNEL SEEDS, and the stems into the garbage.

“Planning on cooking something?” you ask with an amused grin.

“Actually,” I explain, replacing them, “eating marijuana isn’t a very smart move.  It works, of course, but first you can’t control how much you’re getting, and second you have to bake in ridiculous amounts to get the effects at all.  I remember Jeff, my twelfth roommate, once made Alice B. Tokeless brownies because he had a lung infection and couldn’t handle the smoke.  This was stupid anyway, because he was on codeine for the infection, and codeine will mess you up more than pot will.  But he needed his weed, so he cooked up a batch with a quarter ounce in it.  He ate the whole thing in two days, and it didn’t do a thing for him.  I think you need more along the lines of a quarter pound.  And where that’s only one batch of brownies, it’s a year’s supply of smokeable joints.  And speaking of which...”

I pick up the joint I had rolled, take it into the other room, and stick it in the neck of my guitar.

“For emergency situations,” I explain.  You shake your head in despair.

“You’re hopeless, Matt.  Do you know that?”

I smile shamelessly.

“Think I should rewind this?” I say, indicating the video.

You think it over for a second, then nod.  “For some reason I think that they’d catch you if you didn’t.”

I nod solemnly.  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”  I stick the tape in the machine and key the buttons.  As the video respools to the start, I begin looking around for my jacket and keys.  You decide on the chocolate brown one with the rolled-up sleeves.  Just as you sip into it, the tape ejects.

“Ready?” I ask.

You nod, and we leave.

“So,” you ask, “Did you finish your tape yet?”

“Nah,” I reply, leading you into the back alley.  Looking around, you notice that not only are all the trash bins brimming, but several pieces of shabby furniture are also out for collection.  “I was doing great until I suddenly hit an impasse.  I’m ten minutes from the end, but I’m not sure what to do with it.”

“Don’t worry,” you say reassuringly, “It’ll come to you.”

“Yeah, it always does.  These tapes are getting very stream-of-conscious, and if I don’t force it, I’ll eventually know what to do.”

We turn onto Diversey, and pass a hardware store.  On the glass entrance are letter plates spelling out:

 

LEASE US THE OTHER DOOR

 

I get a gleam in my eye, but you’re too quick.  “Don’t, Matt.”

I snivel, dejected.

“Oh, shit,” I say as we reach Ashland.

“What?”

“I left my Blockbuster card on my dresser.  Oh well.”

“Can’t you just show them some id and rent without it?”

I nod solemnly, turning the corner.  “At any other store, yes.  I’ve been forced to do so several times, back in Florida.  But they won’t let me here.  I think it’s because they’d have to use the computer to pull up the info, which is too difficult for them.  Hell, you’ve seen them: inserting the card’s bar code under the scanner is brain salad surgery enough for them.”

I slide the tape into the return slot, then lead you across the street to the Golden Arches.

“Hey, Matt?” you ask as we reach the parking lot, “is Grimace a boy or a girl?”

It takes me a moment to realize what you’re talking about.  “What, the big purple thing?”

“Yeah, Grimace,” you say, holding the outer door for me.

“Thank you,” I say, holding the inner door for you in turn.  “Hmmm.  The voice in the ads is masculine, so I’d say he’s a boy.”

Entering the foyer, you stand back in horror at the lines.  Of course, you think: we’re hitting this place during lunch hour rush.  You find the shortest line--four hispanic children--and continue “how come there are no female McDonnald’s characters?”

I think this over.  “Well, there’s Birdie.”

“Yeah, but she’s recent, and besides, nobody eats McNuggets.”

“True,” I say.  The line advances one space.  “Well, the Fry people...” I start, but then decide against what I was about to say.  “No, they’re neuter, aren’t they.”

“Yeah,” you agree.

“Hmmm.  You’ve raised a good point, Beth: McDonnald’s does need some more female mascots.”

The line advances another space.

“Oh,” you say, “did you hear the McDonnald’s in Moscow got shut down?”

I turn to you in surprise.

“The KGB wanted to know what was in Secret Sauce.”

Without missing a beat, I counter “Well, certainly you’ve heard about the Moscow McDonnald’s happy meals.”

The line advances a slot.

“You get a cheeseburger, fries, soft drink, and one of four special prizes: soap, toilet paper, underwear, or heating oil.”

The line advances again, bringing us up to the counter.  Jokes aside, this place seemed fairly efficient.

Behind the counter was a hispanic boy with more facial pits than the man on the moon.  His blue and gray uniform shirt had a button on it: “100% Customer Satisfaction!”

“Hi,” I say, “I’d like a filet of fish, with no tartar sauce but extra cheese.”

This instantly throws a medium-sized monkey wrench into his well-oiled gears.

“Huh?” he wittily replies.

Patiently: “I would like a filet of fish.  With me so far?”

He nods dumbly.

“Now here is how I would like it.  Do not under any circumstances put any of that disgusting slime that you mysteriously call ‘tartar sauce’ on it, but instead put on double the amount of cheese.  Got it?”

Blankly, he manages to speak without moving his lips: “A filet with no sauce, and double cheese.”

“Got it in one!  I’d also like a large Dr. Pepper, and...” I turn to you.  “Are you getting any fries?”

“I’ll just steal yours.”

“And a large fries,” I finish telling him.  “Beth?”

“I’ll have a salad and a coke.”

This he can handle, so he’s able to punch the picture-coded buttons more easily.

“Anything else?”

“A Mercedes, a small castle in the Alps, and a record deal would be nice.”

He looks inanely at me.  You jump to my rescue.  Hiking a thumb over your shoulder, you say with a straight face “sign outside says you’re running a happy meal special: castle, car, and contract with the purchase of any large soda.”

He looks like he’s about to run off and get the manager, so I quickly amend “just the food’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he says, visibly relieved.  “It’ll be a few minutes on the filet.”

I’ve ordered enough of these to know that already.  “Three minutes and thirty seconds, to be exact.”

He scuttles off to collect he things we asked for.  The first thing he returns with is a double-cheeseburger.

“Excuse me,” I say, struggling to get his attention.  “What’s that?” I say, pointing an accusing finger at what he’s just deposited on the tray.

“Double cheeseburger,” he says with 1% condescension.

“Any reason you’re giving it to me?”

“Yeah,” he replies with 2% condescension, “because you asked for it.”

“No I didn’t”

“Yes you did,” he retorts, condescension level rising exponentially to 4%.

“No I didn’t.”

He indicates the cash register with 16% C.L.  “Yes you did.”

You suddenly realize what caused he communication breakdown.  “No,” you explain to the lackey, “he wanted double the amount of cheese on his filet, not a double cheeseburger.”

“Did you?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say, nodding.

“You sure?”

“Last time I checked.”

Without making too much a fuss (just enough for everyone within immediate earshot to notice) he changes the order.  Then he scoots off to get our order.  >He comes back with the salad and fries.

“Oh,” I ask, “can I have some barbecue sauce too?”

“Barbecue sauce?” he echoes.

“Congratulations: despite the din around you, you heard my request perfectly.”

“So how many McNuggets you want?”

I frown, you giggle.  “None,” I manage to say after a moment.

“You want McNugget sauce, but no McNuggets...”

I turn to you.  “it’s encouraging that the McDonnald’s corporation is continuing its policy for employing the brightest young minds.”

“Isn’t it, though?” you reply with a straight face.  But meeting my look almost causes us both to lose it.

“Why do you want sauce, but no McNuggets?”

“For the fries,” I patiently explain.

“Oh.  You want ketchup?”

You make a strangled noise which I ignore in favor of saying “no, the barbecue sauce should due quite nicely.”

By this time my filet comes down the slot.  Eager to be rid of me, he retrieves it and the two sodas.

“Have a nice day,” he tells us.  “Can I take your order?”

We walk away, and look for open seats.  All that is available is a table in playland.  We sit down, under the scrutiny of an inflatable Ronald.

“Beth, in my spare time I’m combing through arcane manuscripts looking for obscure gods to pray to so I won’t have to work here.”

“I can see why,” you say, pouring dressing on your salad.

“Did you notice the cash register?”

“No,” you say, taking a hesitant bite.  To your surprise, it’s fresh, and actually not bad.

“The button for filet of fish had a little picture of a fish on it.  McNuggets had a chicken.  And so on.  I guess you could argue that it’s symbol coding for employees without a good command of English, but I really suspect it’s an expression of the corporate management’s view of the average employee’s intelligence.”

“This place is beneath you, Matt,” you say, “but at least it’s a steady paycheck.  Besides, with your brain, you’d probably manage this place inside a week.”

I modulate my vocal tone, and suddenly intone “Hey, there’s room to move as a fry chef, man!  In two years I could be manager.  King.  God.”

You made the mistake of taking a sip of your drink during this speech.  Half of it comes out your nose.  “What’s that from?” you manage to ask.

“Repo Man.  Awesome movie.  There are so many great lines in that.  There’s this one scene, Emilio Estevez comes home, and his parents are totally stoned and watching some televangelist.  ’Milio pulls a thing of dog food out of the refrigerator and starts eating it right out of the can.  Mother says ‘Put it on a plate, son.  You’ll enjoy it more.’  Without missing a beat, Estevez says ‘Couldn’t enjoy it any more, mom.  Mmmmmmmm mmmmm mmmmmm.  This is swell.’ ”  I break out into hysterics, but you just stare at me blankly.  “My mom and I do that one to each other all the time.”

“Um,” you say.

Realizing that you’re not recognizing the full import of what I’m saying, I say “I say we go home and watch it.”

You shrug.  Cleaning up the mess, I say “This is such a cool movie.  You’ll like it.”

To your surprise, in fact, you find much of the movie familiar.  I’ve sampled scenes of it onto every tape I’ve sent you.

“So, what didja think?” I ask afterward.

“Well,” you admit, “it was different.”

“This is a movie you need to watch over a few times, because there’s so much shit going on in the background.  Each time through you’ll pick out something new.  Soundtrack’s a blast, too.  It’s all hardcore punk bands and Mexican Mariachi...” I suddenly get that demonic look in my eye, then snap my fingers and point up in the Eureka! posture.  “That’s it!”

“Oh God, now what” you think, then join me as I go out the back door and buzz Cher and Laura.

Just as you shut my door, theirs opens.  Cher looks out at us.

“Hi,” I say.  She smiles at the fact that I am bouncing with excitement.  “Is Laura in?”

“Yeah,” she says guardedly, “but she’s about to head out.

“Well, can I talk to her for a second?”

Cher obviously thinks this over for a second.  Finally, she shrugs.  “Yeah, I guess...”

She admits both of us, and we climb up the stairs.

Laura is in the bathroom, and it is readily apparent why Cher was a little hesitant to let us (or at least me) up.  She is completely nude.

“Hi, Matt,” Laura says as she contemplates her unadorned profile in bathroom’s the vanity mirror.  Her hair is teased out in a multitude of non-Euclidean angles.  A minimum of two bottles of hair spray help it defy the laws of gravity.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask her with a straight face.  “Cool dew.”

“Oh, thanks.  I’ve got to be at a photo shoot in half an hour, and I’m already way too late.”

I nod sympathetically.  You find it odd that she’s made no move to shut the door.  I’m not as surprised: prolonged exposure around her has proven that she’s an exhibitionist.  So much so in fact that Cher and I not only make jokes about it but have a cryptic little code about it.

“Anyway,” I say, making sure that my eyes stay focused on hers in the mirror, “can I borrow your Disco fever album?”

She laughs at this, then her reflection looks at me in the mirror with skepticism.

“What for?”

“My tape,” is all I need to say.  She nods, understanding.  “Oh,” she says, fussing with her bangs a bit.  “ I thought we’d finally converted you.”

“Fraid not,” I say, omitting the fact that, unlike her, I actually remember when disco was fashionable, although I am desperately trying to forget it.

“Yeah, go ahead.” she says, then turns her attention back to her hair.  “God, I am so late!” she cries.

“Thanks,” I tell her, still with a straight face, and walk into the living room where their stereo is.

Cher is sitting is a big chair playing with a calico cat.  “Hey,” she says, “later tonight we’re all going to a Mexican restaurant, and then go club-hopping.  Wanna come?”

The thought of club-hopping obviously has no appeal, though the Mexican cuisine does.  I look at you.  You shrug.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you say.

“Yeah,” I say to her, “I’d do the Mexican, but to be honest, you’d find me boring at a club.  You know I don’t dance or drink.”

“I do,” you say, trying to drop a hint.

“And you’re more than welcome to come along,” Cher tells you.

Although it is unclear how she got from the bathroom to her bedroom unobserved, Laura now emerges wearing bell-bottoms, a gypsy shirt exposing her belly button, and a wide brimmed sun hat. And more make-up than was humanly possible to wear.

“How do I look?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Cute,” you say.

“Great,” Cher says.

“Thanks,” Laura says.  She picks up the phone and calls a cab to take her to the shoot.

I go over and find the disco fever cd.  Smoke smolders up from my fingertips at the touch of the unholy object.

Laura hangs up, and Cher says “Matt and Beth are going to join us.”

“Oh,” Laura says, smiling.  “That’ll be fun.”

The phone rings.  I reach over and pick it up.

“Cher and Laura’s; Matt speaking.  Can I help you?  ...May I ask who is calling, please?”

I hand the phone over to Cher, saying “Roberta.”  She nods and takes it.

Laura: “I’m not sure how long the shoot’ll take, so I’ll just meet you all at the restaurant.”

“Which one is it?” I ask.  She tells me, but I’ve never heard of it.

Cher hangs up.  “Roberta’s going to be late.  Her neighbor’s on her death bed, and she has to be there to witness some changes in the will.”

“Talk about last minute,” I say.

“That’s too bad,” you say, more sympathetically.

Cher nods.  To Laura: “She’s not sure how long she’ll be, so we’ll just meet you at the restaurant.”

A loud honking from out front.

“That’s the cab!” Laura says and hops out.

Cher pulls out a cigarette, offers one to each of us.

“No thanks,” you say politely.

“Don’t smoke,” I say, and you whap me on the back of the head.

“Tobacco,” I amend.

“Smart move,” she says, lighting up.  “Have a seat,” she motions.  We both sit down in lotus form on the red Persian rug.  You feel something cold and wet on your elbow: a gray cat is sniffing you.  You stroke it affectionately behind the ears.  Purring drifts up to you.

“I don’t like tobacco,” I tell her.  “You can’t really get high off of it, and it tastes terrible.”

She nods.  “I hate kissing smokers.  It’s like licking an ash tray.”

I laugh, understanding completely.

“Only reason I smoke is to numb my mouth for when I’m going to be with another smoker.”

Cher pauses, considers us in the dim radiance of the room’s only light.

“Does it bother you, about me and Roberta?”

We both effectively conceal our shock at this unsolicited bit of information.  I recover first.  With a shrug, “Why should it?”

She becomes slightly more relaxed.  “I don’t know.  A lot of people think it’s gross.”

I shake my head.  I almost say, ‘hey, whatever turns you on’, but decide that would be slightly out of taste.  “I don’t care one way or another.”

You begin to analyze Cher in a whole new light.

“Does your boyfriend know about her?” I ask.

“Are you kidding?” she replies.  “We’ve had bunches of threesomes.”

‘This conversation is rapidly becoming too absurd for me,’ you decide.

“I’m going to get a drink,” you say as a means to politely excuse yourself.

“Could you get me a mountain dew?” I ask you, then tell Cher “well, you can’t beat that.”

Getting up rather quickly, you try not to listen as Cher explains “I think it’s more fun to be with a woman than with a man, because a woman obviously has a better idea of how to please another woman than a man would.  For instance...”

Fortunately, you get outside the door before you can hear the example.[2]

You find a third cat, a black and white patchwork, in their stairwell.  You play with it a minute, but it quickly grows tired and hops upstairs.

You go back into my house, and proceed to play with all three of my kitties in turn.  They are becoming increasingly friendly; Odie, the large Tom, even patrols the floors regularly now.  The two girls are much more timid, though the small kitten Frannie is at the water bowl and doesn’t run off at the sight of you.

You pour yourself a glass of milk, and go through my cupboards looking for a suitable glass for me.  You decide on a plastic one with the word Matthew written all around it in various scripts.  Lots of ice, and you take your time pouring.

A glance at the clock.  You’ve managed to kill ten minutes.

Climbing the stairs, you hope that the conversation has become more decent.

Cher is asking me if I have ever had sex with multiple partners.

Maybe not, you think.

You hand me my drink, and the phone rings.  I reach it over and pick it up.

“Thank you for selecting Domino’s Pizza.  This is Matthew; can I take your order?”

Long pause, then I hang up.

“Who was it?” Cher asks.

“I don’t know.  There was a lot of background noise, and then someone said ‘shit!’ and hung up.  Actually,” I add, “it sounded like Laura.”

The phone rings.  Cher picks it up, and I don’t stop her.

“Hello?  ...did you just call?  ...That was Matt!”

She dies laughing, and I join in.  I pat the rug beside me, inviting you to join me.  Hesitantly, you squat down.

Cher hangs up.  “That was Laura,” she confirms.  “They’re at the club, and she’s already trashed.”

“Figures,” I say.

“I told her we’re still waiting on Roberta.”  The name reminds her of the conversation.  “Anyway, have you ever had multiple partners?”

I shake my head.  “I was actually once in a position where it was about to happen, but then one of their boyfriends shows up.  But before that happened, when we were all just flirting and mildly fooling around, it struck me how awkward it was, and how much more awkward it would be if and when things got out of hand.  I just don’t understand how you can divide your attention equally between two people.”

Cher explains patiently, “Well, one thing we liked to do was for me to lay on top of Roberta, so I could fool around with her while Mike could alternate going into me and her from behind...”

I notice your agitated fidgeting, and I offer you a way out.

“Hey, there are some cat treats on top of my refrigerator.  Think you could get me some?”

You nod graciously, and leave just as the conversation goes from the sublime to the absurd (Cher begins a frank discussion on some of the “toys” she and Roberta use.)

You manage to kill another ten minutes before rejoining us.

“...it‘’s a trade off,” I’m saying as you open the door, “the vagina may not have a tongue, but the depth and snugness--oh, hi, Beth.  Just scatter them around,” I say, indicating the cat treats.

In shock, you allow them to fall to the floor.  The three cats pounce on them just as the phone rings.

I reach over, pick it up, and unthinkingly make a tremendous faux pas.

“Chicago morgue, can I help you?”  My expression changes as I hand the phone over.

“ ’Berta” I whisper, half-apologetically.

“Impressive, Matt,” you whisper, also remembering what was holding Roberta up.  The dark gray cat climbs into your lap with a chorus of purrs.  You run your long fingernails roughly behind his ears, he runs his long fingernails deeply into your thigh.

“Be honest with me,” you whisper, partly not to disturb Cher’s phone call but also because you do not want her to hear the question: “you’re making this scene up just to razz me.”

I lean over to insure confidence.  “Honest to God, Beth.  I came up here minding my own business,, just to borrow a cd.  First Laura flashes me and then out of the blue Cher starts talking bisexuality with me.”  I start laughing at the absurdity of the situation.  “I mean, I don’t really mind: I’m open minded enough not to care about a person’s sexual preference.  And besides, I actually learned a few things.”

“Like what?” you ask, then quickly think better of it.  “On second thought, don’t tell me.”

“Smart move,” I reply, then add “in fact, given your vestal nature, it might be wise if you bailed out, because this conversation’s going to go on for a while.”

You nod thanks, wave goodbye to Cher, and journey downstairs.

Frannie and Odie are curled up in the papasan, Maxie is under the bed but within petting range.

Out to the living room.  Scanning through my tape collection, you smile at the sight of a tape labeled BB STING.  Pulling it out, you see it played half way through.  Well, you think, a least he‘s listened to it, even if he couldn’t figure out what my two favorite songs on it were.  A glance shows both of my cassette decks are occupied.  The record deck almost certainly has my current Matt Mix in it, so you remove the other one.  A black chrome cassette dubiously labeled Speak of the Devil.  How nice, you think, and replace it with the Wonderful World of Sting.  You catch the fading chords of Roxanne.

Knowing me, you figure that I’m going to be a while, so you opt for some reading material.  Into the den to peruse my extensive comic collection.  You decide to give Cerebus a rest, and see a cute one titled “Illegal Aliens”.  On the cover, an Alien and a Predator have a person in a cooking pot (with an apple in his mouth and a very worried expression on his face) and are seasoning him up.  Glancing through it, you find a scene of the Predator chit-chatting with the Alien.

“So how’s the kid?” the Predator asks.

The Alien pulls out a wallet and shows some snap shots.  There’s one of an egg, one of a man being face-hugged, one of a man being chest-burst, one of a small Alien running amok.

“Wow,” remarks the Predator, “just like his old man.”

I rejoin you around 12:30.

“Well that was interesting,” I say, pouring myself a tall drink.

“I bet,” you reply dubiously.

“No, after a while we started talking about religion and politics.”

“Um,” you say absently.

“I learned something fascinating about her.”

“Besides the fact that she’s gay?”

“Bi, my dear.  Big difference.  But she explained her own views of religion, and they were remarkably Eastern.”

“Oh?” you say, looking up.

“Except for reincarnation, she hit upon almost every Hindu tradition, and quite a few Buddhist, too.  Which is interesting, because she knows almost nothing about organized religion in general.  When I told her she was a closet Hindu, she was really surprised.  I suggested that she read up on it.”

“You didn’t suggest Zen and the art of Motorcycle Maintenance, did you?”

“Actually, no.  I told her to start of with The Tao of Poo.”

“The Tao...” you start.

“It’s a basic guide to Hinduism, explained by Winnie the Poo.”

“Ah.” you say.  “Tell me, Matt: can this letter get any weirder?”

There is a knock on the door.

“You have to understand, Beth,” I explain as I go to the front, “that everything in these past few letters is true.  Do you remember what I told you when I first brought you up here?  I had said that my life had gotten really strange of late.  But when I tried to set it down in letter form, it just didn’t come across.  So tell me, Beth: do you think you’ve gotten a good feel for the bizarreness of my life.”

You nod.  “Oh yeah, Matt.”

The knock at the door repeats itself, louder and more forceful.

“Like I said, I thought it would be more instructional, and more fun, to show you.  And besides,” I add with a smile, “I thought it would be fun to spend some time and hang out.”

The knocking has taken on battering-ram proportions.

“But of course,” I continue, ignoring the pounding, “these are all events from two months ago.  Much has happened since then--almost as much as I’ve forgotten about what happened back then.  And besides, I’m fraid that after five letters of roughly the same format, you might be growing tired of this.”

You frown at me, puzzled.

“So,” I say, “in the immortal words of John Cleese, And Now For Something Completely Different.”

The door bursts open, and in strut Trevor and Ian.

“Boy, how incredibly rude,” Trevor cries with mock indignancy.

“Impolite,” Ian adds

“Right.  We knocked so loud that neighbors were coming to their door to let us in.”

“Yeah,” Trevor mumbles, and shuts the door.  “And it’s freezing out there.”

Nodding solemnly, Ian says “Hey, I probably won’t see my testicles for a month now.”

Trevor, feigning surprise, asks him “you have testicles?”

With hushed confidence, “Yes, but not with me.  I keep them in a bank vault for safe keeping.”

“Smart move,” Trevor complements.  “I could make a joke about compound interest, but that would be out of order.”  He suddenly notices the stereo.  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” he cries in horror.  “What is that?”

“Ugh!” Ian adds.  “Cheezy generic jazz.”

Trevor pulls out Sting and puts in Soundgarden.  Ian has picked up my guitar, and in indicating the white cylinder in the headstock.

“Hey, Matt,” he asks, “is this real?”

I take the guitar by the neck, and put a match on the inner tip.  The strings holding it in place turn that dark rainbow hue from searing heat exposure.  Sucking on the tip a moment, I hold the smoke and dreamily say “yep, it is.”

“You’re not going to give me any, are you...” grumbles Trevor.  With my lips still locked on, I pull the joint out and set the guitar down.  I drag another hit, then pass it to the two arrivals.

“Much obliged,” Ian says with a hazy smile.  You groan.  Trevor just looks around.

“What?!?” he cries in shocked horror.  “No party?”

“Looks like we came all this way for nothing,” said Trevor, passing him the cig.

“Yeah,” I ask, “what are you guys doing here?”

“Hey, man,” Ian grumbles, “we’re figments of your imagination.  You tell us.”

Trevor slaps him on the back of his head.

“Actually, it’s Friday, and we’re on our way to a...”

Ian clears his throat noisily, then says “business appointment.”

“Business appointment, yes.  Thank you, Ian.”

“No problem, Trevor,” Ian replies just before power-hitting.

“And we thought you two might like to tag along.”

“Oh,” I say, “on your way to the picnic at Whitlock’s Rock?”

“We never said that!” cried Trevor.

“You never heard us say anything about that!” echoes Ian, mortified.

“Sorry, guys.”

“Not at all,” they echo.  You look on in incomprehensible wonder.

“Anyway,” Trevor continues, “we thought you two might like to tag along.”

“Yeah,” echoes Ian.  “See the world.”

“The universe, actually,” corrects Trevor.

“You’ll love it.”

“It’s a way of life.”

“Why,” they say in unison, “it’s more than a job, its an adventure.”

I’m trying not to laugh, both from the effects of the wacky Tobackey and the two insane space travelers.

“Hey, I’d love to,” I say, “but I’ve got to go to work tomorrow.”

Both you, Ian, and Trevor voice amazement.  “You’ve got a job?”

“Well,” I shrug sheepishly, “in a manner of speaking.  It’s at a restaurant, and it’s completely insane.”

They shrug, and turn to you.  “How about you...” Ian starts, then stops awkwardly.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Lori,” you say with a little too much smile.

“Sure,” he says with a coy, knowing smile.  Trevor and Ian have been Masters of Bullshit long enough to teach advanced courses in it, and they certainly know when someone is smiling a little too much.  However, it is obvious that the fact that you should try to bullshit them has endeared you to them.

“Anyway,” Trevor states, with a cough and a wink, “Lori, would you like to come along?”

You think this over.  I clearly don’t mind, and this is a unique opportunity.

“Why not,” you shrug.  “But one thing.  How does the phone prank end?”

Trevor and Ian look at me, amused.

Trevor: “Phone prank?”

Ian: “Which one are you running?”

Me: “Call somebody over and over and...”  They both nod, knowing it well.

“Would you care to show Beth--I mean Lori--how it ends?” I offer.

“I’d be honored,” Ian says.

“I wanna do it!  I wanna do it!” cried Trevor.

Ian turns to his friend.  “Oh, by all means.”  He makes a sweeping gesture toward my phone.

Trevor looks at me.  “What’s the number.”

You tap the paper that has it, then say “Ask for Aaron.”

He dials the number, and nods his understanding.

Straight face.  “Hello?  Yes, my name is Aaron.  Can you tell me if there have been any messages left for me?”

The screaming at the other end of the line is audible across the room.  We all die laughing, and Trevor quickly puts the receiver back in the cradle.

Ian glances at his watch.  “Well, we’ve got to be off.  We’re running on a tight schedule, you know.”  Trevor nods for emphasis.

You get up to join them.

“Well, Matt, it’s truly been interesting.”

“Babe,” Ian says, “you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

The three of you leave, and I go to sleep, not knowing that the next day I was about to have the strangest experience at work.[3]