

### Rideshare

Ben Finateri

Smashwords 1st Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Ben Finateri

All rights reserved.

Rideshare is also available in print.

To request a copy, please contact the author at benfinateri.com

This book has no monetary value.

When you're finished reading, please share it

with someone who will enjoy it.

### Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen
ONE

I'm confused, in the car, on the highway back to the city after dropping off a passenger at the airport, when the podcast I'm listening to on my phone gets cut off by an incoming call. Not a contact, but a local number, and frustration. One more solicitor or robocall. Buy this. Take our survey. Or straight-up scams. You owe the IRS, the bank is foreclosing on your mortgage. I never pick up. My phone is a phone in name only. In reality, it's an all-purpose pocket communication device. Portable encyclopedia. Portal to anywhere else.

Interruption over, the podcast returns, but the mood has changed, so I mix things up. iTunes open, shuffle, and what do we have?

AC/DC. "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap."

Three miles up the highway and the Riverfront appears on my right. Restaurants, chichi shops, artisan and local. Familiar is different. Safe is risky. Boring is brash. The strip is new enough to gleam, the drip, drip, drip of chic development.

"Concrete shoes, cyanide, TNT."

Me and my car take advantage daily.

"Neckties, contracts, high voltage."

Bon Scott dies in the back seat of a car, I think.

A made-up memory?

Here's something real: The girls and sods possessed by the spirit of Bon wanting to throw up in my car. I get them home safe. My car clean. So far.

My phone pings. A voicemail from the caller. I listen, expecting a wrong number.

"Hey, it's Grace."

From the cafe. She has my number? When? Two conversations, no recollection of any exchange of information. Her message offers little.

"Oh, well. No big deal, Dave. Just wanted to say hi. Anyways, no worries."

No worries. The day of my father's funeral, Sarah and Myra, my two oldest sisters, flip a coin. Sarah wins, so Myra takes me for an early morning walk, beating the sun. We do laps around the neighborhood, as many as Myra needs.

She talks. No one is looking to me for answers. Despite my relationship with Dad.

Myra isn't lying, she just doesn't know the truth. The heat of our mother's eyes has already found me. I can't explain why to Myra then, wouldn't want to anyway. My sister doesn't notice me rubbing the blister on my thumb, or if she does, she confuses it with nerves rather than guilt.

I'm told not to worry. Aaron will take care of Mom, keep Robbie from devolving into really crazy, and Mom is tough and can take care of everyone, she needs us, and Sarah and Rose understand their responsibilities.

I'm told not to worry. Mom is tough and let her grieve. I need something, go to Aaron first.

No mention of Victor. Will he be at the funeral? Stay? I can't get a word in to ask.

I'm told not to worry.

Our mother's eyes send a different message. Stay out of the way. No worries, Mom. Happy to.

Today, happy leads me to last Friday.

Hannah and I meet up at the history museum. I leave the car home and take the bus over. I'm forgoing an opportunity: Hannah in the passenger seat, getting riled up from the ride. Fine, not a necessity this night.

Public transportation opens me to the lives of my fellow city dwellers, the repetition of that percentage of my moments that are the same as theirs, theirs the same as mine, our thoughts too, mere variations on a theme. We remain strangers.

What the cords of connection lack in strength is made up for by their number. They provide bountiful energy.

Hannah, soft brown hair, soft brown skin, soft brown eyes. Hannah in the sexy red dress, brown knee-high boots with a stacked heel. She's new to the city, staying with her sister, been traveling since she was pregnant with her son, Asdrúbal. I hide my surprise when she reveals he's eight. Born in Sri Lanka, he's lived in Laos, Morocco, Italy, and Mexico. His father has never been in the picture.

Asdrúbal is out of town for the weekend with his aunt and uncle and the cousins, brand-new friends. Hannah stays behind to have fun. Sex is the date's reason for being, but Hannah wants to go out first. I enjoy the company, and admiration time never hurts. The way Hannah moves, she knows her tempting thighs satisfy the delay of gratification.

We stroll around outside the museum. Traffic is blocked off to make room for food trucks. A band plays on a patio behind the building. People dance. I want to hear about Hannah's travels. I ask her questions about Mexico. Beyond Sonora, she gives me vague answers, changes the subject to food, grows distracted by the selection of trucks. I stray too, back a century to the desert of northern Mexico, cavalry charges cut down by Gatling guns, armies and cowboys fighting in the mechanized Old West. Splashes of gore in the violent arc of the land's history. My blood and bones speak of a kinship with those warriors. I move in time to them. Will they accept my entreaties? Do I wear the correct colors, have the right tattoos, follow the proper steps of greeting and taking leave?

Stay in the present. Help Hannah decide what to eat.

The night brings out the crowds. Families, young and old, groups of friends, other dates, coupled partners, and thankfully, a neighborhood without gentrified white haze rolling through. Too often in this city, people get cautious, shoot suspicion my way. With the light and cool of spring, I need to be careful. Slow the hoodie and sunglasses combo.

In Vegas, Mel describes me best. "Like Sharif and Quinn, you can play someone from anywhere."

In reality, people see what they're signaled to expect. Nudge them the best you can. Hoodie down, sunglasses on forehead, maybe I don't look so big, and sometimes I even catch relief, people deciding whatever I am, it isn't threatening. A benefit of age is repetition. Opportunities abound to present people what they want to see. I'm like Lon Chaney, Man of a Thousand Faces.

My night with Hannah, anyone looking admires a handsome man out with a beautiful woman.

Soon, Hannah is ready to go to her sister's. I'm up for more people watching, a visit to the museum, but there will be other dates, other women. Hannah and I have a fine time. At her sister's, she's easy to please.

Hannah and I, this is our night, not to be repeated. She and Asdrúbal are merely passing through.

In the car, the city skyline rises in front of me. Cranes vie to become a permanent fixture. Spring means I'm another year older. Still, the days are getting longer. Find comfort in the sun and smell the sage and eucalyptus on the breeze.

Changes in years, changes in weather, changes in people.

When Mel and I binge _Battlestar Galactica_ and we hear, "All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again," Mel says, "Hey, that's from _Peter Pan_."

I stew for a second, then say, "An appropriate line for a remake to crib, no?"

"Yeah, I see what they're doing."

"Everything is written."

Mel, channeling T.E. Lawrence, says, "No, nothing is written."

I decide to wait until I'm done driving to call Grace back, or text her, or maybe wait until I see her at the cafe, leave it to fate. Grace from not here. Thirtyish, works in tech, drinks wine. She knows I drive for the rideshares, doesn't know why, doesn't know about my podcast, doesn't know much of anything about me. My name and what she observes. Now I remember, no expectations, giving her my number.

I drive a new BMW 550i sedan, black. I deserve the comfort, performance, and safety of my car and so do you. If I'm going to be ferrying people around this bright city, style is required. Your driver doesn't look good, you don't look good. The car goes over well with women too, and when women like something, we should take note. Women are full of good taste and good sense.

Something else I deserve: A drive along the water in a luxury car with a beautiful woman next to me.

I am grateful for my car.

I am grateful for women.

Several ridesharing companies exist, I know. I'm stuck on the big two. I call them Miss Daisy and KITT.

Miss Daisy, the corporate one, passengers sit in the back, the driver doesn't speak unless spoken to. They're the company that's the target of hate because the founder refines what it means to be an asshole. Yes, I choose to make for and take from that asshole, temporarily. He's a tool. Don't expect me to get sucked down the drain with him.

KITT, fun, passengers encouraged to ride up front. You're driving a friend. Have a conversation, catch up. That's the pitch to newbies from all sides. Truth: Behavior is fluid. Regardless of Miss Daisy or KITT, people want to get where they're going fast and safe. The expectation of an efficient experience is the world as it exists now, only more efficient than before.

Miss Daisy and KITT provide suitable GPS in their apps, so I understand passengers growing anxious when they realize I'm using my innate navigation system. Sometimes, they say something. Stereotypes bubble and rise. Men's advice morphs, and rather than ask me to follow the app, they attempt to commandeer. Women remain hesitant, about my knowledge and their own, when compared to a satellite. Those who are patient learn my time in this city dominates Miss Daisy and KITT.

I've gotten all the poor saps where they're going safely, so far. Bon Scott's ghost can't touch me.

I drive because the world holds rewards for those open to them.

In _Taxi Driver_ , Travis Bickle says, "I don't believe that one should devote his life to morbid self-attention, I believe that someone should become a person like other people."

Relax. I'm not lonely coiled aggression waiting to burst. That story isn't mine. The desire to hurt others, innocent or guilty, leaves my system a long time ago.

iTunes shuffles to Nirvana and we shoot up to the north side.

My sister Rose and Kurt Cobain together forever. He lives on in her heart. As a kid, I hear Kurt through the walls after dinner. Rose has her methods. We all do.

"I'm on a plain. I can't complain."

Older siblings bring with them so many complications. Access to good music isn't one. On his _WTF_ podcast, Marc Maron often mentions the older brother, the record store guy, the uncle. The person who provides an opening to music. Emotions travel through years, spread and shared. Feelings as spores, like body snatchers, or Khan's mind-control earworms, but powers used for good, only good. Even with the decade between us, Robbie fulfills the older brother role, and a trinity of sisters throws in their mix. The movie of my life can't afford to pay for the rights to its own soundtrack.

This afternoon, the city calls me from the car. I park and walk down to the neighborhood's main drag, catch the tourists, their chubby waddles and wide-eyed uncertainty. I sit in a tiny square near a statue of an old ballplayer, Adolphus Schmidt. Son of immigrants, he ran these streets in his youth. I consider cutting over to the Riverfront, to the block with the old brick buildings, to 1918. German tool and die makers barred from their shops because of the war. The buildings too close to the water. Authorities fear terrorism.

Instead, I retrace my steps, forward, to the 1950s. Italians and Irish battle over corners. Men wear suits and hats unless they're drunks. Women wear dresses. I look for a girl in saddle shoes to take to the drugstore. She lets me buy her a malt. We hear rumors of underground clubs, mixed, password needed. We'll fit in just fine, but for us, the clubs remain unicorns.

Back at the car, I turn on Miss Daisy. I haven't even moved my hand when the phone pings: Jon. He's less than two blocks away and I spot him, a guy walking toward me, not so tall, broad shoulders, thick in the middle, more strong than fat. A gent in a suit. Confidence in his walk. It's the '50s after all. The man smiles and waves, confirming I'm his ride, and I know this guy. Ring-a-ding-ding, three years in, my first celebrity passenger. An actor, but not just any actor, one of those guys, a face we all know, a face I remember from childhood. TV cop, movies too, dick or heavy, the occasional landlord or salesman. Jon, Jon, I can smack myself for not remembering his last name. He slides into the back seat, tells me where he's headed, I nod to my phone, say I'm on it and pull into traffic.

I'm driving my car and I'm in my childhood home.

Television offers early company and comfort. My parents are always working, getting ready for work, or just getting home. The days when Aaron is nominally in charge. Victor is a shadow. Robbie takes care of himself. Sarah studies. Myra does what she does. Rose tags along with Myra.

Cable TV and I ooze forth from the same primordial gunk, and cable, like a made-for-TV villain to a cop from central casting, says, "You and me, we're a lot alike."

How can I resist?

The waves first enter as _Happy Days_ reruns, new to me, and real too. The Fonz, Richie, Potsie, Ralph Malph, and Mr. and Mrs. C. are in Milwaukee living their lives for my viewing pleasure. A three-year-old invents reality TV out of ignorance. I don't know how long I watch _Keeping Up with the Kunninghams_. Sarah sets me straight, teaches me the actors' names during the opening credits, explains character and plot. I go along with my sister, but I don't believe her. I need time to convince myself.

A staggering three dozen channels, mine to discover. Lying on the floor in the living room, the soft carpet, alone, years before the VCR project.

_Happy Days_ gives me Robin Williams as Mork, takes me to life in Boulder with Mindy, and soon I find _The World According to Garp_ , cable staple.

In an early scene, the young Garp climbs onto the slanted roof of the boarding school where he and his mother live. He imagines himself as an ace bomber pilot, shooting enemies from the sky, like the father he never knew.

Garp slips, and almost slides right off the roof. His foot gets caught in the gutter, and with his upper body pressed against the roof, he holds on, yelling for help. His mother, Jenny Fields—introducing Glenn Close—finds her son. At the top of the fire escape, she stands on the railing to reach Garp, and grabs his ankle.

He frees his stuck foot from the gutter, cries out, "I can't hang on," and Garp is falling, but Mom has him like Thetis dipping Achilles in the River Styx. Jenny Fields saves her son.

Garp doesn't need a father.

In the car with Jon, my sisters' voices come out of the speakers, their arguing and laughter from upstairs. Their music too. Sarah is in her Talking Heads phase. Myra wants Madonna or Michael. Rose saves her battles. My sisters stay away, allow me to have my TV reign, but they live in my kingdom, and Jon is there too, dick or heavy.

I keep a discrete eye on him in the mirror as I drive. My brain doesn't stop searching for his last name. He looks at his phone, out the window, his phone, lets out a small sigh-chuckle combo with a little whistle thrown in. I can look at my phone, connect to him on social media, or find him on IMDB. If he notices though, it'll be creepy. I won't tell him I'm a fan, won't recruit him to come on the podcast, or even admit I recognize him. He's chosen Miss Daisy for a reason. No problem. Conversation is unnecessary. Jon's presence alone thrills me. The tether that binds us is narrow and translucent, but feel its resilience. The time and place, here with Jon Whatshisname, I sit back, press into that long-ago living room carpet. Jon puts a hand on the seat next to him, rubs his fingers on the leather.

He looks at me and says, "This is a nice ride." His raspy voice sounds dreamy.

"Thank you, sir."

Another brush of his fingers on the seat, and he says, "Comfortable too."

"Thank you, sir." I'm content for the peek past the shadows. I won't push.

I drop Jon off at a house in Laurel Heights, the perfect capper. This isn't business. I'm welcomed to his day-to-day. As he opens the door, he thanks me for the smooth trip. His voice makes me swoon.

I say, "My pleasure, and by the way, I love your work."

He pauses with the door open, tips an imaginary hat, and smiles.

I watch Jon walk from the car to the house. He avoids a guy, head in phone, hurrying down the sidewalk. No recognition of the gift of Jon's presence, not even a chance. The putz misses a rare opportunity to be handed evidence of reality.

KITT sends me two yuppie tourists who want to go to the Riverfront. They're looking for hip.

"Funny, you don't look hip," says Harvey Keitel.

He'd take a sledgehammer to the pretension that has draped itself over this city. Nobody turns the dial from sweetheart to violent nutjob as fast as Mr. Keitel.

At the Riverfront, the boats stay silent.

I trade the yuppies for a techie going downtown. I'm spacey, remaining in my childhood home, with Jon.

Even after I understand the concept of TV, in my mind it continues to exist for one, watches me growing, getting bigger. TV provides. TV rewards. Not until I'm seven, do I notice the technology necessary to bring television to me.

Robbie is switching out some wires on the back of the set.

He says, "Stealing cable. Long time now."

"You like TV?"

He makes a sad face and says, "I do it because I can, and to stick it to the man." He smiles. "A poet who didn't know it." He looks like he's been given a gift. "Sound the alarm, 'cause third time's a charm."

His head goes back behind the TV. He says (to himself, I think), "Man, play all day equals the only way."

I thank him for the cable TV. He's busy tinkering, humming something, so he doesn't hear me.

Passengers don't deserve less than my best. I turn off the apps and head home, listening to _WTF_.

_WTF_ : Marc Maron's podcast. He's a stand-up comic who shares his views on life while talking with comedians, musicians, filmmakers. My sense of the conventional wisdom is that Maron is an acquired taste. To me his appeal is obviously universal. We're both children of the Southwest grown from stretched roots searching for our proper place in the world.

These bytes of connection grant podcasts their power. You discover what you need, on demand.

Another podcast I enjoy is _Fresh Air_ with Terry Gross. She's queen interviewer, so if you don't like her show, well, what can I say, there are other ways to get your kicks. But for the rest of us: Try a podcast, listen to a few episodes, see what's the what. Get the gist. You feel me?

The _WTF_ episode I'm listening to is from way back. Maron talks about being childless in his fifties. He says if he has children now, he'll eventually be "Old Dad." He paints us a future where he meets his hypothetical child's teacher and is mistaken for a grandparent.

My father is thirty-nine when I'm born. Not old Dad. He's been-there-done-that Dad. He's working Dad, quiet Dad. Not old Dad.

At home, the Post-it next to my computer fulfills its reminder role. "Look at Sarah's pics." Mine isn't the only recent birthday. My mother's seventy-second, two days ago, made real by Sarah's party-photo posting on Instagram.

I can imagine, Sarah starts with a toast in the backyard, boy-wonder Aaron raising his bottle to Mom. Beers all around. I don't recognize many of my mother's friends. The spread on the picnic table is magazine worthy. Myra's creations. I miss her tacos, the temptation almost takes over, but no later, later, I'll look at the photos. First I get sucked into mindless surfing and I'm restless. There's too much sun to sit inside staring at a computer screen.

I walk to the cafe in Old Res. The family that owns the place is a surly bunch. Mom and Pop put adolescent Son and Daughter to work. They have aggressive exchanges, unafraid to shout Turkish across the room, over the heads of customers, who often think it's Arabic. The photo of Atatürk above the entrance is a clue for anyone who recognizes the man, eyes up, like he's discovering his future off in the distance.

Mom's right hand is gnarled into a permanent claw. My mind goes to a baseball bat smashing fingers while a dead-inside minion holds down Mom's arm. Or a heavy boot slamming the hand as Mom lies on the floor, eyes closed, trying to retreat to a distant place until her torturers leave her alone with her broken spirit. The injury doesn't stop Mom from working the register.

Son isn't often seen, trapped in the kitchen washing dishes. Daughter is learning to drive. Recently, I watch her alone in the car, trying to parallel park out front, fighting the traffic, ignoring the occasional gawker.

One tough afternoon of bad angles and bumper scrapes, false starts and restarts, I offer Pop driving lessons for Daughter. She should have a legal driver in the car with her and she could do worse for a teacher. Plus, if I play my cards right, I might get a month or so of free pints.

Sorry, I bury the lede on the cafe. Mom and Pop serve beer. The soothing midafternoon pint or three is life-affirming pleasure. Bars in the daytime tend to be dim denizens of sad drunks. My cafe exists in another universe.

But my offer of driving lessons for Daughter. Oh, the look from Pop, as if I'm suggesting I take his little girl out back and treat her like the bitch she's always been deep down inside.

"Stupid," he says, about me, to me, to the entire cafe. "What will that do?"

Help her pass the driving test for one, I'm thinking.

Pop says, "Simple things and then what? She'll forever expect others to do for her. No. She will do for herself."

Not the first time I receive this lesson. At six years old though, I'm too young to notice.

Now I see, that day I realize all the first graders can tie their shoes. Except me. I'm the last to learn.

Myra gets frustrated after two seconds of instruction. "Cross, bow, around, bow and through. C'mon slowpoke."

She stomps off and I do it myself. It's not hard, so why am I the last to learn?

I learn: The days of getting taken care of are over. I don't hear the message then, not at six, but the lesson of that afternoon is crystal to me now. I shouldn't act surprised when I hear it from Pop. At six, this knowledge falls deep inside me, waits to be organized, filed, subsumed into experience, eventually to be mistaken for "nature," or "personality." A future of not fulfilling expectations awaits me.

"You're so selfish."

"Always about you."

"You only think about yourself. Asshole."

Pop pushes past me, out to the street. Daughter's driving time is finished. Her weekly conscription into hauling boxes from the car to the storage room commences.

The consistent shouting and press-gang atmosphere of the cafe means I rarely have trouble scoring my favorite seat in the front corner near the door. The chair—they don't all match—goes easy on my back, and the wooden table doesn't teeter when you put a drink down. The spot looks out floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun shines in the cafe, the glorious street on display.

A rotating assortment of characters comes in and out of the cafe. A babble of languages hums. The Old Res neighborhood clings to its past, claws dug in, like Garp trying to hang on to the roof. Unwashed writers, hippies, druggies. Communists, rabble, proles. They're getting old, dying off, marginalized, pushed away, but still here, damn it. They're planning revolutions, I'm sure. The cafe has thick tables, made for pounding a fist. I put the patrons' faces up on the wall, between the rainbow-colored Che and the photo of Ali knocking out Liston.

We get some coders, the work-from-the-cafe folks, even the occasional tourist. They adjust to us, or they move on to a slick, sterile, corporate establishment. Good. Let us have our stopover on the journey to the Island of Misfit Toys.

Today, I enter and there's Grace, sitting at the table next to mine, glass of red wine in front of her. She smiles and waves. I buy my beer and take the chair across from her, back to the room. The limited sight lines make me tense. I let it roll, want to give Grace my full attention, minimize distractions.

She smiles and says, "How you doing?"

"Good. I got your message."

"Oh that, sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

Grace smirks. "Ah, a bad day, a low moment." Some stray hair is stuck on her cheek. She brushes it away. "We don't know each other really. I shouldn't assume, sorry."

"No need to be sorry."

"Well, anyways, I feel much better now."

She looks away from me, drinks her wine, glances around the cafe. I watch her, wondering if she's going to tell me what's on her mind.

Grace has shoulder-length hair, strong eyes, a straight nose with a cute button on the end, and a small mouth that surprises with its smile. She reminds me of the actress Brie Larson, only slightly darker.

She has more wine and says, "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I'm free."

"Yeah? Me too."

"No, for real, I quit my job. Going on two weeks actually."

"Good for you."

"Hah. We'll see now, won't we?"

"Why'd you do it?"

"I was commuting on the company bus, eating in the company cafeteria, working out at the company gym. The company sees your whole life online. A company girl, ugh, no thank you. So, I quit."

"Take this job and shove it."

"The whole time I never got comfortable. The egos were so desperate and guys pouted if I didn't put out their fires fast enough. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Working 24/7/365 what a way to make a living."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. You got a plan?"

Grace stifles a laugh, covering her mouth with a hand. "You mean besides drinking wine in the middle of the day?"

"Not a bad plan if you can afford it."

"As if. Seriously though, I have time to figure things out, you know?"

We drink our drinks.

Almost to herself, like she doesn't want to speak, but can't help it, Grace says, "My dad would know what to do."

I can say nothing, like I didn't hear. I can choose to ignore. I can pretend not to catch Grace's meaning.

I say, "I understand. My father passed away too."

Her eyes soften. Relief in my response, and I see Grace knows what she's doing. An emotional gamble pays off. An empathy magic trick.

She says, "I'm sorry. When?"

"Oh, over twenty years ago. I've gone through the stages."

Grace nods. "You were young."

"Thirteen."

"My dad—a decade, a car accident, just stupid." Grace frowns, takes a gulp of wine. "Sorry, such a morose conversation."

The topic is changed, the rest of our afternoon banal, valves shut for now. I listen with one ear.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. A tidy package? Not according to Ms. Kübler-Ross. No, grief is way more complicated.

In Baghdad, a morning I expect to be like hundreds before and hundreds after, we're on a convoy when I see a guy beating a dog, hitting it with a plastic rod, this mangy animal that needs a bath and many meals. The dog's head bows to the earth like a penitent, front paws over its snout.

The guy stops to stare at us as we pass, and he's my father looking at me. War destroys, so, I'm dreaming, fatigued, on the cliff, considering letting myself slip, but no this guy is the spitting image. And yes, in a world of seven billion, we all look just like somebody else, but no, this guy is looking at me. He's staring and I'm staring back, a couple seconds, but no, this guy is my father looking at me.

This glimpse through time and space is a Doctor Manhattan moment.

Doctor Manhattan, from the comic, _Watchmen_.

Jon Osterman, scientist, suffers a horrific particle cannon accident that reduces his body to its individual atoms. Light pulls him to pieces. Corporeal is destroyed, yet consciousness survives, and over a few weeks, Osterman reconstructs his physical form from the electromagnetic pattern of his being.

He says, "Really, it's just a question of reassembling the components in the correct sequence."

Sort of.

Osterman rebirths himself as the blue-glowing colossus, Doctor Manhattan. Controller of atoms. Able to traverse time and space in the blink of an eye. Past, present, and future exist together.

_Watchmen_ doesn't teach me teleportation. I can't control matter.

Reading the comic as a child though, I experience my first Doctor Manhattan moment. Cut through the mist and shadows of my life.

I'm only ten, but the journey takes me back to an age of fleeting memories, to understand, to use my knowledge of events to create a cocoon, to a place safe from my brother, Victor. A place to hone resignation and acceptance then, so I won't have to at ten, or when I see the man beating the dog, or now at thirty-five.

The past. Memory. I don't have to be back in my toddler body, afraid, straining to become invisible, or separate from my physical self. I can go to Mars with Doctor Manhattan. Be safe in the crazy universe of superheroes.

I'm only ten, but the journey takes me back. Forward is another matter.

Doctor Manhattan says, "There's some sort of static obscuring the future, preventing any clear impression."

I have no idea what's coming, not at ten, or that morning in Baghdad, and my father is staring at me, and I don't know why and what for. I stop myself from yelling out these questions.

The dog takes the pause in the beating to bolt. The guy quits his staring, turns and walks after the animal, shouting something I can't hear.

I don't tell anyone about the doppelganger, ghost, time traveler, normal man. Not even Mel. Anything not crazy is just a dumb story about an Iraqi who resembles my father. Guys hear that and if you're lucky, you have to put up with jokes about your mom fucking Hajis.

Grace enjoys her wine.

After a couple glasses, she says, "I should get going. I keep hoping my LinkedIn profile will update itself. Time to bite the bullet."

She stands and I say goodbye, start to add that maybe we'll run into each other again, but she's moving, bussing her glass and out the door.

I sit alone and have my beer, the light streaming in the windows, the action on the street outside.

One more reason I love my cafe: the cosmic effect, the energy in the latitude and longitude. Mystery spots aren't just for bumper stickers. I don't understand the mechanics, but drill down with your senses, you'll feel them. I belong here. Maybe these spots spring up from magnetic fields, or maybe the place depends on the person. My ancestors walk these hills, follow the stream now hidden underground. My genes remember and direct me here.

I finish my pint and head home, the city streaky around me. I feel like driving.

TWO

How long have you been driving? Where do you live? Where are you from? How long have you lived in the city? The questions passengers ask. Lately my answers aren't important. They serve as set dressing. My passengers seek a stage to talk about the changes. Everyone agrees: How expensive the city has become, the corporate whiteness of it all, that gated-community feel of certain neighborhoods meant to hide from the shame of the poverty and the opioid epidemic. I ask how long they've lived here. Two years, eighteen months, about a year.

Almost ten years for me, and from day one, I discover so many oldies lamenting the loss of how it used to be. Gone are the firefighters, the factory workers, immigrants, the teachers and artists. Real folk pushed to the fringes by the rich.

This city isn't unique. The changes transcend time and space. In Ulysses S. Grant's memoir, the general describes his time in San Francisco shortly after a California statehood birthed by war and gold. The old Yerba Buena is changing into a city of growth, experiencing an influx of people looking to strike it rich. Struggles dwarf success. Wages are incommensurate with the cost of living. Real estate prices on the rise, profits from flipping property. Grant leaves San Francisco in 1853. He comments that by his return to the city in 1854, everything has changed again.

I pick up Chris, middle-aged guy in town on business. He's meeting colleagues for a "working lunch" at a fancy new Vietnamese place on the Riverfront.

At a red light, I spot a neighborhood local pacing on the sidewalk. Homeless, too thin, covered in a patina of dirt, and always carrying a sign with biblical verse, white poster board glued to a two-by-four. This one reads, "Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm. Proverbs 13:20."

Chris says, "That guy's hurtin'."

"Rorschach," I say.

In Watchmen, he's the psychotic zealot, who as Walter Kovacs carries his own religious sign. But at night he's the vigilante superhero Rorschach, dressing in the trench coat and fedora preferred by classic gumshoes and hiding his identity with a shifting ink-stained mask that echoes his eponymous ink blots.

_Watchmen_ begins with Rorschach's narration. A journal entry, and as a child, I read him as a character to project thoughts on, a proxy for the audience. With the mask, he's whoever you want him to be. But I'm wrong.

In _Watchmen_ , there's a scene where on the phone, the police mishear Rorschach's name as raw shark, and they grow frustrated. Why is someone calling about sharks?

And in the car, Chris has a similar experience. He says, "What? Who's talking about prostitutes?"

"Prostitutes?"

"You said whore shack." Chris's face is turning red. "What kind of guy do you think I am?"

"Uh, no, sorry. Rorschach. His name."

Chris shakes his head and says to himself, "That makes less sense."

The light changes and I leave my Rorschach behind. Chris is looking out the window, his body shifted away from me. I take the hint and get him to the restaurant without additional sharing, but let me explain what I understand now. The original Rorschach isn't a proxy, but an entryway. Your experiences, biases, expectations, your age, your whole person, the entirety of you is brought to bear on your interpretation of the text.

I get a classic nerd going downtown. Meeting a friend and girlfriend who is bringing someone, playing matchmaker for Poindexter. He and I are up to, "Where are you from?"

I tell him: "Tucson." Close enough.

My parents work west, bars and restaurants. My father bounces too. He's not tall—I get my height from my mother, my build from him. He's broad, solid, has don't-fuck-with-me dark eyes with the gruff voice of a smoker. Victor and Aaron are born in Texas. Robbie too I think, but maybe New Mexico. They stop in Arizona where my sisters join the world. My father adds janitor and security guard to his résumé. My mother is waitress, housekeeper, future licensed practical nurse, and Mom best she can. Aaron and Robbie help and the girls take care of me, supposedly.

In _Back to the Future_ , Marty McFly has to save his very existence by saving his parents' relationship, making sure their first kiss remains a reality. He does much better, returning to a 1985 where he finds a family made happy from material gain. A story for the Reagan era.

I don't have my own Doc Brown, no flux capacitor, or 1.21 gigawatts. My early bike rides in the desert, even before my father is dead, I have to settle for imagination. Pedal to 88 miles per hour. Go back, find my parents, not to save anyone, but to witness. The stories my mother and father won't share, the truth of the little they do share. To know them before their lives are written.

My mother and father, yearning, getting together in a fury of romance, disapproval from every angle. I learn that in her youth my mother isn't the woman I know. Why does this surprise me? She looks outward for another who wants to run and both take the push the other is offering. A leap worthy of Kierkegaard. What are they searching for?

I imagine my parents' early time together is crazy. Cliffs and fires. Hard choices between food and medicine. My father sometimes choosing cigarettes instead. Worrying Vietnam might come calling. Then scrimping, hoping to make it another month, cramped, three boys sharing a room, always picking up stakes, each new day dimming dreams, running from bills or disappointment or something lost.

My family the brood. Only us. We never know grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. We're our own tribe. I can't even tell you why my parents choose Arizona. Steadier income I'm told, but I suspect exhaustion too. The constant moving, the new baby every couple, few years.

Aaron describes those days as a celebration. Victor is proof against that and Robbie laughs in Aaron's face. Aaron swears by his memories though. He says, "Mom and Dad didn't waste what they were given, nor did we suffer from want."

During my desert bike rides to the past, I resist interfering. My parents don't know their future mistakes. What are their choices? Society's rules don't have to rule. Maybe a few less children. Yes, I understand the implications.

Mel says, "Heidegger reminds us that we're thrown into the world."

I see Victor and Aaron as boys, search for the roots of the early chaos, go forward and risk blowing up the universe by coming face-to-face with an infant me. Watch and listen. Fill in the missing pieces.

When I'm seven or eight, I come close to that kind of time travel by recovering leftover audiotapes from the drawers and closet of my sisters' room.

I mine those mix tapes, many unlabeled, under the covers at night, watching the tape spin in the Radio Shack deck, the mysteries of Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, and Pink Floyd reveal themselves.

In "Ten Years Gone," Robert Plant sings, "In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be."

Some of those cassettes are mostly indecipherable noise, Myra and Rose pressing record and forgetting. Their games and singing sometimes coming out of the static and once, just once, I hear my mother in the background, unclear but there. She's shouting, shouting at Victor, and he's shouting back.

I don't know it at the time, but I'm Gene Hackman in _The Conversation_ , straining to understand, and no matter how many times I hit rewind and listen, the meaning never reaches me.

In the car, Poindexter tells me he's from Maryland. Works at a "really big" company I've never heard of—not shocking and I don't dig. He moved to the city about six months ago, and wants to know if I've ever been to the restaurant where I'm taking him.

Fun is more fun than truth with this guy. I say, "No, I'm a vegetarian, so . . ."

"Steak houses aren't really your thing, yeah, so, how long you been a vegetarian?"

"Oh, a long time. Since I saw _Star Trek IV_."

In the mirror I catch a blank stare followed by, "Is that the one with the whales?"

I turn to look at him. "You got it." I face forward, continue the conversation in the mirror. "It's the best of all the movies, old or new. When I first saw it, the environmental message really spoke to me." I touch a hand to my heart. "I started reading, researching, you know, and giving up meat was something I knew I could do, not a lot, okay, but something I could do, as one person."

Poindexter examines me. I half expect him to laugh, call me out on my lies. He sort of shrugs. That's the best response he can muster, I figure, but then he says, "I was always more a _Star Wars_ fan."

All the movies in my life, I never sit down to watch _Star Wars_. From the earliest days of my TV reign, it's often on. The years before the prequels. The days of fanboy hope.

The long ago and galaxy far away doesn't hook me. Maybe it's the mistake of seeing _Jedi_ first. Jabba's lair starts out as my vibe. Look, you'll see the _Star Wars_ version of me among the scum of the system. Then around the sacrifice of the dancing girl, I tune out.

As a boy, I understand Leia in the slave costume is supposed to be sexy. I should feel something, an urge, temptation, desire. Why don't I find her attractive? Why can't the slave girl be the beautiful women I see on the way to school, or Aaron's girlfriend, Danielle. She has big boobies, they look so soft, like I can curl up in them, all my cares floating away.

If Poindexter/Han Solo notices his driver's grin, he says nothing.

We don't talk much the rest of the ride. As he's getting out of my car, I say, "Good luck with the love connection."

He sneers, thinks I'm being sarcastic, and tries to slam the door. The BMW's soft-closing feature puts a snarl in that plan.

Over the next few rides I keep expecting Poindexter/Han Solo to make my KITT rating go down, but it's stable. Love conquers all.

I'm back in Old Res, give rides to hipster, hipster, hipster, and hipster. I drive from Old Res to the Gardens, from the Gardens to Laurel Heights, from Laurel Heights to the Gardens, from the Gardens to Old Res.

A woman breaks the monotony. Deborah. She gets in the back seat with her face buried in her phone, neck deep in a heated discussion. Neither of us does a verbal double-check of her destination. Her only concern is the person she's reaming on the phone.

"No, No," she says. "You got the name of the speech one hundred percent wrong."

She taps a glittered blue fingernail on the window. "No, it's not the same thing. . . . No it's not. . . . Are you really arguing with me about this? . . . How about your fucking job? . . . I'll use whatever fucking language I want, okey fuckin' dokey? . . . Do not ever tell me to relax. . . . Go fuck yourself. . . . Yeah, same to you."

She tears the phone from her ear. "Fuuuuuuck." And catches me eyeing her in the mirror. "Road's in front of you."

"Good help is hard to find."

She grunts and is in her phone again, tapping, swiping. "Jesus Christ," she says, looks out the window, then at me. "Everything is wrong. You know that, right?"

Agree and zip it is what I should do. I say, "Actually, that's a paradox."

"What?"

"Everything is wrong contradicts itself. It's a paradox."

I've seen the look Deborah shoots me. Usually it gets followed up by a slap, or worse, a punch.

I attempt to smooth things. "Is it a big speech?"

"Huh?"

"The speech you're giving."

"I'm not giving a speech. My company is organizing the event."

The universe coalesces. Poor Deborah. Mixologist, personal trainer, event planner. Jobs of the reality-competition contestant. I should really let the whole thing go, double because Deborah is a Miss Daisy customer. I can't resist.

"You work in event planning?"

"It's my company."

"That's great, but no wonder you got problems. Event planning attracts LCDs."

Her head is slightly lowered. Keeping it still, she raises her eyes, dissects me in the mirror. If she has a weapon, the time has come for her to brandish it.

I charge full steam ahead. "LCDs. Lowest common denominators."

"I know what it means."

"Good. You must be LCD too."

She shakes her head. "You're a prick. Think because you have a dick you know best. I'm not the one getting paid minimum wage to let strangers in my car." She sputters something, then, "I want to get out. Let me out here."

I pull over, slap the hazards on. We're about four blocks and two sure red lights from her destination. I'm happy to let her walk.

As she's getting out she says, "Zero stars for the zero, I promise." For the second time today, BMW door tech thwarts a slam.

Deborah is walking away, weaving between pedestrians, phone out, up to her ear. Why pick on the Deborahs of the world? I turn off Miss Daisy and sit, the car idling.

The negativity Deborah brings with her seeps out even in silence, leaving detritus that gets passed along like an airborne virus. I can fight it, but I won't allow future passengers to become vulnerable. I have no desire to serve as that type of conduit.

That's bullshit. I'm bored. Driving for Miss Daisy and KITT creates rotations, wheels around a hub. Downtown is a hub. The heart of Old Res is a hub. Laurel Heights is a hub. "Sponsor" stadium can be a hub. Driving rotations slows down my brain. Energy is exhausted protecting my body from physical fatigue. The bearded poseurs in their skinny jeans only add to the mind-numbing. A suspension of time, then boredom, and finally fear. I'm here by choice, stuck, the current rotation everything forever.

We look past each other so much. We talk past each other. We serve a purpose, exist as a function, unable and unwilling to deviate from our preordained role.

Deborah offers hope. I witness her lashing out, confident in her anger. She inspires me. To escape I need to lash out too. That my inspiration becomes the recipient of my emotions isn't ideal. The experience matters though. I don't smother my feelings, and let's face it, ideas about contagious negativity and rotations aside, Deborah no doubt does have to deal with LCDs.

I am grateful for money.

I am grateful for anger.

After listening to Marc Maron's conversation with psychologist Phil Stutz, I read the self-help book he co-authored with Barry Michels, _The Tools_. Throughout the book, Dr. Stutz hammers on the idea that you won't actually use his tools to improve your life because people want easy fixes and his tools take effort.

He's correct, I use none of the tools, except my own half-assed version of "I am grateful."

I am grateful for my half-assed version of "I am grateful."

Good enough.

I cruise, aimless, apps off, trying to wind down. I locate the rhythm of the city traffic and on the long stretch of Lincoln, I catch a string of green lights, push from my hip through to thigh, calf, foot, firm into the pedal, gather speed with the sun getting low. The car and I work together, a single precise machine.

I'm close to a Whole Foods. They keep the bathrooms clean.

At the store, on the way to the men's room, I pass the butchers—more bearded guys, these wear hairnets on their heads and beards—and I overhear them discussing the idea that we cannot know whether anything around us is reality or a simulation. I pause like I'm considering some choice cuts, but I eavesdrop.

The butchers agree there's no knowing. They talk about seeping memories of Nelson Mandela's funeral and a Sinbad genie movie. MacDonald's and Fruit Loops. One butcher, the smallest one—if he's over twenty-one, he's getting his ID triple-checked—says he hopes their lives aren't real. He's only half joking.

Elon Musk says, "There's a one in billions chance we're in base reality." Musk creates online payment methods, rockets, future cars. He wants to explore new tech, chips and implants to heal the wounded brain. His quote is an attempt to explain that we're living in a simulation. Our descendants watch a historical record of life in the time of their long-ago ancestors.

When I'm leaving the Whole Foods, Cori is hustling across the parking lot, late for the start of her shift.

We're a good twenty feet apart when she sees me. She says loud enough for the entire neighborhood, "Seriously? C'mon, man, you got to be fucking kidding me."

"Nice to see you too."

"I'm not stopping. I'm walking on by."

"Fine by me."

Cori insists on the final word. "Asshole."

She's right. I'm an asshole. Not every day. I make mistakes. I can talk to Cori if she lets me. I bet I can even make it up to her. What I won't do is stop going to that Whole Foods.

Technology is a boon to my dating life. Never has it been easier for women to find me. Yet, even with the great app-leveling, I occasionally run into disgust and judgment. I understand. I don't trust men either. The faces of those who lie to me, trick me, try to steal from me, attempt to kill me, too often, they're the faces of men. Give me the company of women.

I'm not dishonest with Cori, yet she remains suspicious, questioning my motives, mistaking my desire for sex as deception. She thinks I play games. This wary woman accuses me of being priggish and manipulative. I say listen or lose out. Cori chooses to lose out.

Back in the car and no rating from LCD Deborah. Zero thought from zero to zero.

THREE

"There's a one in billions chance we're in base reality." Musk's argument centers on the simulation boxes—televisions, computers, tablets, phones—we already use every day, and the autocatalytic nature of technology. Musk avoids showing his cards. He jokes to distract, pointing out that discussions like these kill magic in hot tubs. So true, yet questions remain. Why work to cure the brain of a simulation? What are you up to, Elon?

During Marc Maron's _WTF_ conversation with Ethan Hawke, Mr. Hawke says, "There's this lie we all tell each other all day, which is that time isn't happening."

He's only half right. Simulation or no, in our time, past and present happens all at once, and the future arrives sooner than we realize. This much should be obvious now. I'm a fly in the room of a sick little boy who wants to express my journey, so he invents the Cartesian plane. We move along all axes always on the wave to the unsustainable. Billions of Doctor Manhattans taken to pieces by light.

At home, at night, in front of the TV, an opportunity for a rotation of another sort arises, carrying me back to the afternoon. I surf through the channels, hundreds upon hundreds. I haven't cut the cable cord for times like these. Jon, my friend in pictures and in my car, you're riding the waves. I feel you in the scanning electron beam. To locate you cements our ride today, every instance you appear on a screen, your existence here, the hours dedicated to your work. Thank you, Jon.

While I surf, I pay attention for a sign, or you in the flesh. Nothing. The waves change, short-circuiting this rotation. My senses are wrong this time.

"Everything is wrong," says Paradox Deborah.

In _The Terminator_ , John Connor sends Kyle Reese back in time to save John's mother, Sarah, from the cyborg assassin, so she can give birth to John and he can grow up to lead the fight against the machines and send Kyle Reese back.

Has Paradox Deborah seen the movie? Does she know Reese is John's father?

During the VCR project, my father and I watch hundreds of movies, old and new, hits and misses. Too many to list here. Or even remember.

I remember a lot, forget so many, some I recall with sketchy details, others require a reminder. They live in the recesses of my brain, dormant until a look from a woman, a remark from a passenger, or some wave in the world intersects my body and the movie is here.

Ethan Hawke says, "When you think about your favorite movies or plays or things like that, a lot of things you can't even remember what happened at the end. Like, did Lawrence of Arabia win a big battle, or didn't he, I don't know. But I love that movie. What'd you love about it? His eyes, remember when he's standing on top of the train . . . we remember moments."

Moments from movies that create culture. Movies that are a part of everyone, even those who claim they've never seen them.

_The Terminator_ is the first such movie of the VCR project.

Two thirty in the morning my father and I finish watching and we stay up talking time travel and the paradox of Kyle Reese, of the robot arm we know is going to show up in the sequel. We laugh about the fake-looking eye-repair scene in the dingy motel, but we don't care.

_The Terminator_ has a smooth acceleration, using a car chase to take care of exposition, and revealing backstory via an interrogation and its CCTV tape. Then the movie ratchets up to relentless for Arnold's police station massacre, and so much more, but not yet. I'll be back.

My father has the VCR one night when he gets home from work. He puts the box on the living room floor, cuts it open, takes everything out and places it in front of the TV.

He says, "I'm going to be using the television," and goes about hooking up the VCR. He's slow and methodical. He follows the manual. When he has the VCR connected to the TV, he sits next to me on the couch.

He tells me to get him two AA batteries from the drawer in the kitchen.

He puts the batteries in the remote, flips through the manual, puts the TV on channel three, turns the VCR on, and begins to fiddle. He looks once more at the manual, then sets the time and date.

He puts the manual and the remote next to him on the couch, stands, closes his eyes, makes fists, stretches his fingers, and takes a few deep breaths. His body relaxes. He opens his eyes and says, "We don't have a cassette."

He puts his shoes on and gets his keys.

On his way out, he says, "I'll be back."

"Where you going?"

"To get some movies. Is your mother working tonight?"

"Yes. I'll come with you."

"Sarah's in charge."

"I'll come with you."

"Next time. Sarah's in charge."

Cable and I come to a mutual understanding. She's been a stalwart companion, but with the arrival of the VCR, it's time to expand horizons.

I'm twelve, already living in a VHS world. Video stores beckon from the school bus, every crappy strip mall has one, but my mother has neither time nor energy and my sisters have other interests. Until the VCR project, to watch cassettes, I've got to go to Aaron's, and he's not inviting and for someone who doesn't live with us anymore, he's at the house a lot.

My father doesn't disappoint. He has good taste and censors nothing. There's no mention of inappropriate, too violent, too shocking. He includes an air of mystery as well, picking up tapes on his way home from work, keeping the titles to himself.

Eyes off the tape box, so I don't know until the VCR's spinning gears turn the cassette wheels, the title card appears on the television, and the movie's world reveals itself.

Before my father brings home the VCR, my sisters whisper stories about ideas, projects started. Our father getting obsessed, then not caring. Out of the blue, or a slow unwinding. Always the same end, dropping the whole enterprise, forgetting. Wipe clean, a degaussing, and begin fresh.

Drawing classes, reading a bio of every president, collecting coins with real silver or gold. I never see the drawings, the books aren't in the house. The coins aren't either as far as I know. My sisters tell these stories to tease. My father gets defensive. My brothers stand up for him.

"Eh, everybody tries different things," says Robbie.

Aaron says, "Obsessed is a little strong."

My mother glares. My sisters take the hint, and they put those stories on background, to be traded when no one else is around. Another rotation: Sarah to Myra to Rose to Sarah, my sisters chasing tales.

They're rumors, stories morphed and manipulated with details skewed to fill misunderstood bits until the message becomes a joke, unrelated to any original meaning or intent. A real-life version of the telephone game.

After my father dies, I expect Sarah to be there if I need her. A memory, from when I'm six, gives me hope.

As oldest girl, Sarah gets babysitting duty. Robbie is too crazy, maybe already working. Sarah is fourteen, wants to be at the mall, cruising boys. That's what Myra says anyway. Rose and I wonder, "What's cruising?"

One night Sarah is sulking. She orders Myra and Rose to leave her alone, banishing them to their room, letting hormones bend the bonds with her sisters. Boys, boys, boys. She'll have a starter marriage before she finds her soul mate, but that's an unknown future then.

I'm watching something, _Curious George_ maybe. Sarah is in the living room with me, a warm night, the windows open, when I see a face looking at us.

Sarah yelps behind me. I jump, run next to her, cling to her side. The face doesn't move. The stocking over his head doesn't hide his smile.

Sarah is up and moving, I scream for her to come back. She ignores me. Her bad mood, her resentment at being stuck at home, doesn't stop her from protecting her family.

She puts her face inches from the man and yells, "Get out, get out, get out."

The face is gone. We hear the man running away. Sarah shuts and locks the windows.

Myra and Rose are in the room wanting an explanation. They don't believe us, not at first.

"Who was it?" asks Rose.

Myra says, "Sarah's boyfriend."

Sarah tells our sisters to shut up. "I don't know who it was," she says. "But he's not coming back."

I wonder aloud if maybe it was Victor. My sisters say, "No way."

We don't call the police. "I took care of it," says Sarah. "He's not coming back."

Maybe so, but to help us feel better, Sarah gets a knife from the kitchen and my sisters and I huddle together on the couch.

Sarah, my sister, the protector.

The next morning I realize the limits of that idea. Sarah is unaware of my reasons for fearing Victor.

My sisters and I are up early tiptoeing around the yard looking for footprints. We find faint shoe marks near the window, a hint of the guy's escape route leading off to the main road.

Victor remains my prime suspect. Sarah tells me to stop being dumb. I persist and she shakes her head and laughs at me. "Why?" she says. "He's nowhere near here."

"How do you know?" I ask.

She ignores me.

Rose and Myra agree with Sarah that I'm acting stupid. They call me scaredy-cat and chicken.

A few days later, the police catch a local vagrant looking in an elderly couple's bedroom window.

"That's our Peeping Tom," says Sarah.

She's right, right? Has to be. They catch the guy red-handed and that's that. I forget about the whole thing, except sometimes I think of the face in the window, and even with the stocking I know he's Victor, come for me, and then in my memory Sarah is sneaking up behind me, making me jump, reminding me of my stupidity and laughing at my fear.

My sister's Instagram photos of our mother's seventy-second birthday aren't going to look at themselves. I go online, but really, I don't need to look to know: Partygoers relax in the kitchen. You can hear the music from the other room, Stevie Wonder, or the Beatles. Check out the faces. Robbie and his latest have driven down. My brothers-in-law, my nieces and nephews. Mom's bevy of grandchildren. I see their grandfather in them, even though they never met him. I see myself, even in the ones who have never met me. Names rattle around in my head, but not theirs.

On my phone, I create a Beatles/Wonder playlist, set it on shuffle. "Rocky Raccoon" leads off.

Everyone comes to Mom's party. Everyone celebrates. Except Victor. And me. First and last connected in our absence.

I don't really remember living in the same house as Victor. He moves out before I'm able to create firm memories. My oldest brother is a specter. To toddler me, he's never not a grown man, but now I see him for himself, a seventeen-year-old punk kid. Victor comes and goes all hours, eats Mom's food. He travels in a pack of boys, including a cowboy or two. They're loud, they smell, like smoke and sweat. They eat Mom's food. They yell and tussle. My father calms them, I think, but he's always at work, or out. He and Victor aren't together in my memories.

I manage the fear by learning to make myself invisible around Victor and soon he's gone, like an uncle who lives far away and never visits.

Later, I ask, "What's Victor like, really?"

Rose and Myra say they remember less than me.

Sarah says, "You think Robbie's crazy. Victor was trouble."

"I never went to jail," says Robbie.

"You've been arrested," says Myra.

"Petty stuff, charges dropped. Now, Victor, he was trouble."

Our mother says, "Your brother had his problems, but he has a good heart."

Robbie and Sarah give each other looks. They want to laugh, or cry.

Aaron doesn't talk about Victor.

Victor lives in Flagstaff, in his fifties, married, a son and daughter, adults already. I should ask Sarah their names. According to her, Victor sells restaurant equipment.

In a parallel universe, with the closeness of our ages, I play older brother to my niece and nephew. What does an older brother do?

Share music. Start with Zeppelin.

Wisdom. Don't believe the army recruiter.

Advice. Sloppy drunk and sex don't mix. There will be other times.

Someday, Sarah will call me with news of Victor. I'm not present in my thoughts of the funeral.

"He has a good heart," says my mother.

Spacing out online, the news feed, nothing's registering, random words, abstract images on a screen. I change the music, only a Stevie shuffle. I recline on the couch, let the music seep in, maybe this time will be forever. I close my eyes, I doze, thoughts of Grace, of entering her phone number in Google, see where it leads, discovery. I fall asleep.

I wake to "Part-Time Lover," sit up, take a second to get my bearings. I find my phone, check the time. Not too late.

I turn off the music and notice a new text from a recent date, Judith. "Join us!!!"

She's with friends at a bar, only a few blocks away.

I could use the drink.

Judith has two cats. She's thin, long, with a big head, big eyes, and short, spiky hair. When we go out, we bond over _WTF_. Maron calls his home the cat ranch. Ferals and strays use it as a watering hole. They make Maron's house a part of their daily rotations.

Judith says, "I'm an old cat lady in training."

In her living room, the cats, an orange tabby and a gray puffball, sit with me on the couch. Judith likes that I'm not bothered by the animals even though I explain that my only experience with pets is being the youngest of seven.

An early, hazy memory: I'm four, and my sisters find a stray cat, name it Daisy.

Rose says, "Daisy, and daises, and David."

I'm picking flowers (daises?) for the cat, wearing one of Rose's old dresses, white with a daisy print.

Robbie's clothes are long gone by the time I come along. They're moth eaten, traded, donated to Good Will. Sarah and Myra decide Rose's dresses work fine as hand-me-downs.

The sky-blue summer one is my favorite. Soft, light, cool on a sweltering day.

My sisters dress me up. They're Gertie, alone with E.T. while Elliot is at school.

They show me how to walk, balance a book on my head, show me how to carry a handbag, add clip-on earrings, a necklace, and bracelets, show me how to talk.

Myra says, "Your name is Diana."

"Like the princess," says Rose.

She means Lady Diana Spencer, but I'm no lady. I'm Diana, Amazon Warrior Princess.

After my _Happy Days_ revelation, _Wonder Woman_ with Lynda Carter is my next great find. The show is a decade-plus old by the time I lay eyes on it, but it's waiting, a ripe peach hanging at the perfect height. Thank you, local affiliate executive responsible for scheduling the weekday morning programs, whoever and wherever you are. Thank you for my first crush. My forever crush.

I don't know a thing about how the biology or anatomy work, but that spin when Carter changes from Diana Prince to Wonder Woman, the smackdowns she gives the villainous men. I'm moved. I want to peel off her blue bottoms, press my body to the curve of her hip, hold her, feel her flesh, smell her sweat, touch her, rub her, kiss her. I'm in lust. True lust.

When my sisters dress me up, Myra goes her own way. She says, "No, Dirty Diana."

I want to fit in with my sisters, so I play along. "Shamone, hee, hee."

"No _you're_ Dirty Diana," says Myra.

I wave my hand in a broad arc and say, "Call me Ginger, darlings." I try to purr, it sounds like a raspberry, but I'm living my four-year-old truth and off I strut.

How many _Gilligan's Island_ episodes center on the gang trying to get rescued?

_Gilligan's Island_ is on TV now, one of a select number of shows created in the medium's youth bestowed with infinity. Shows sewn by hand into our culture. To say you forget or don't know or have never heard of them is to misunderstand nature.

Ginger or Mary Ann? Nothing against Dawn Wells, but as a preschooler, Ginger gives me urges, finds me putting a hand down my pants. The glamour of Tina Louise. The gowns and sparkles. Her length. The red hair and lipstick to match.

Ginger purrs. I sit close to the TV. I feel warmth, deep inside. I want to put my lips on her bare shoulder, slowly, slowly up her neck, to her mouth. I touch myself, can't fathom why or how exactly other than to hold on. Good feels good.

Next to me in bed, Tina Louise on my left, Lynda Carter on my right.

When Robbie is a teenager, the girls he brings around the house make me think of my TV crushes. High school girls, they're women to me.

Carole and Caroline.

"Your brother's so cute," they say and ruffle my hair.

"How old is he?" they ask.

They say, "What a little man."

I act playful, like a rascal, run between their legs so I can feel their smooth skin against my arms and face. If Robbie leaves us alone, and they sit on the couch, I climb on their laps, let my body fall against them, try to let their soft flesh sink into me. The nicer girls laugh, smile, pay attention, hold my hand, talk.

To Robbie they say, "What a doll."

"Adorable."

"He's a frisky one."

When they seem fidgety, I leave them alone.

Sandra and Samantha.

Robbie shoos me away and disappears with the girls.

In Judith's living room with her cats, I tell her about picking flowers for Daisy. She's friendly for a stray. She purrs, rubs her cheek on my hand and wrist, saunters around me, butts her head against my legs, and meows.

Rose says, "Daisy and daises, and Diana."

"Can we keep her?" asks Myra.

"No," says Sarah. "We can't keep her."

Later, my sisters deny Daisy's existence. No stray cat. Never.

I remember.

Judith's cats are in the room when we have sex. I sense them, catch one out of the corner of my eye, sweeping past at a safe distance, like it's casing prey.

"Don't worry," says Judith. "Your balls are safe."

Later she tells me about toxoplasmosis gondii.

She says, "It's a parasite in cat shit."

"Is this why pregnant women have to steer clear of litter?"

"Yes, but get this, toxo can only reproduce in a cat, so as soon as it's shit out, it's motivated to get back in. So, rats pick it up and the toxo works on their brains. They're no longer afraid around cats, more likely to be a meal, and the toxo gets what it wants."

"It brainwashes the rat."

"Yes, and over time it's going to brainwash me too."

I laugh.

"I'm not kidding. Toxo lives in your brain, convinces you to love your cats."

"People can love their pets," I say.

"Sure, but I want to be here with them, it's irrational, and I think about getting more. It's the toxo."

I don't know whether Judith is serious. I try to read her face: those big eyes, the spiky hair. I imagine her growing whiskers, her ears changing, moving up her head, her nose flattening. She's an old cat lady.

She says, "Two, twenty, two hundred cats."

"An old cat lady."

"In training."

"There's time. You can fight the toxo."

"Only for so long. Someday, this place will be filled, cats on top of cats."

I'm still on my couch when I get another text from Judith: "Come on. Shots!!!"

Oh, so it's that kind of night. I consider texting Judith that I'm working.

She might want a ride.

I text her that I'm working early tomorrow. Have fun.

I need a sleep schedule. I have the diet down, more or less, fitness too. I exercise in the morning, take the days in the car easy, think about comfort and my body, walk in the evening. I could cut down on beer, but until it shows, why would I? I should stretch more, and an afternoon nap isn't a terrible idea. A sleep schedule. Diurnal or crepuscular. Pick one and go with it.

In for the night, I buckle down and work on my podcast, _Rideshare_.

You might think from the name that I do _Rideshare_ from the car, like James Corden's Carpool Karaoke. I could, but that seems hokey, and I have space in the house, so in-person guests enjoy the comfort of my home setup, and anyone who can't travel can be recorded remotely.

The tech is the easy part. Getting guests and listeners is more difficult, but the beauty of the social media age is how it brings disparate humans together, people who otherwise would never find each other. Still, you need to give people motivation, to go on, and to listen to, your show instead of one of the millions of others. To that end, I take great pains to cultivate my online personality, make connections, and create rapport. To build and maintain a unique and appealing brand. It's time and work, especially for someone with no clear path to celebrity culture, though I've managed to carve out a niche for myself. Exhausting to be sure, but success breeds success. Guests pass the word to future guests. _Rideshare_ is worth their time.

_Rideshare_ is conversational, evolving, discovering what it wants to be. I pull guests from all walks of life, people I want to talk to. For an interviewer, I run my mouth too much. I need to let the space breathe. I'm working on it. The podcast is a labor of love. There's no money in it for me, yet, but I do the show because podcasting brings me closer to the world.

Here's a taste of a recent episode, warts and all.

"Today I'm talking with Phoebe Robinson, comedian, writer, podcaster, and overall extraordinary person. Welcome, Phoebe."

"Oh, so sweet. Thank you for having me. I've heard good things, but to be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect, but this space is awesome."

"Thanks. And thank you. I know you're in the middle of a tour, doing some shows downtown, we'll plug all that later, so yes, thanks for taking the time."

"No worries."

"Great. I read your book, _You Can't Touch My Hair_."

"Thank you."

"It's excellent. All my listeners should read it."

"Oh, stop . . . but keep it coming."

"You cover so much more than just hair. But there is hair and identity, hair and politics, discrimination based on hair choices. Wigs, weaves, afros, braids, even bald."

"That's right, yes, I shaved my head when I graduated from college. I felt empowered, I was all like, I'm a strong black woman. It was great too. Except for my dating life. Have you ever dated a woman with a shaved head?"

"Uh, no, not bald, but buzz cuts, sure. It's nice, really shows off bright faces, beautiful eyes, you know?"

"A lot of guys don't like women with short hair."

"Yeah, no, well a history exists of women forcibly getting their heads shaved, like Joan of Arc, to illustrate a power dynamic, to make them feel chastened by male authority. You flipped that idea on its head—no pun intended, but you know, people, men, don't often react well to women exerting control."

"Right, right, for me it's about having control of my own hair. It shouldn't be something that stresses me out, and wigs and weaves and braids and all that are a part of it. For me and a lot of women, and it's something we should talk about."

"My sister Myra has always struggled to tame her hair. As kids, our brother Robbie nicknamed her Tiny Slash."

The conversation winds its way to Lisa Bonet, one subtopic of _You Can't Touch My Hair_.

I skip over _The Cosby Show_ , _A Different World_ , and my personal experiences with _Angel Heart_ to talk about _High Fidelity_.

"Lisa Bonet's nobody's rebound," I say.

"What do you mean?" asks Phoebe Robinson.

"Her character sleeps with Cusack's while he's broken up with his ex, but still pining away for her. Now, I'm not saying Bonet wants to be with Cusack, I understand she might be looking for a one-night stand. But we're supposed to believe after sleeping with Bonet, Cusack still wants the ex? How is sex with Lisa Bonet not life altering?"

Phoebe Robinson laughs, not a funniest-line-ever laugh, but enough for me.

You can see with _Rideshare_ , I'm still getting my feet under me. I need to do a better job of making the show about the guest, but Ms. Robinson is patient. She doesn't get frustrated, a credit to her personality.

Phoebe Robinson is majestic: smart, funny, beautiful, charming, the best of everything. She contains true glory, a gravity that draws me into her orbit. "Join me," it says. "Take my hand, I have you. I will hold you close and tight. Whatever troubles may come."

I wish for a place in Phoebe Robinson's heart. I might believe then in a world free of problems. We'll be okay. Everything will be okay.

Ms. Robinson's excellence may not come across from _Rideshare_. That's my fault. Google her. Read her books. Learn. Listen to the podcast she co-hosts with Jessica Williams, _2 Dope Queens_.

I am grateful Phoebe Robinson and I exist in the same universe.

Sleep schedule, sleep schedule, sleep schedule. One night in Vegas, while expressing love of Kurt Russell and John Carpenter's _The Thing_ , Mel refers to Wilford Brimley as "Mr. Diabetus" and we fall down a garbage shoot of YouTube videos. Tonight, I lie in bed and recreate that dumping ground.

The diabetes spokesperson is unable to pronounce the name of the disease. On YouTube, Brimley is edited into vulgar clown. The results of a distant shared urge meeting a platform for the like-minded. Diabetus, diabetus, to the tune of Falco's, "Rock Me Amadeus." Mel laughing at the flood of Wilford stricken with diabetus in his butthole. Mel is laughing now in Vegas, I hope, and before long, I'm asleep.

FOUR

I wake up at nine. Late. Usually, I'm in the car by now. I want to google Grace too. Later.

Approximately three hundred sixty days a year, I eat a breakfast of oatmeal topped with seasonal fruit, and drink eight ounces of coffee brewed in a French press. Despite the late start, today is no exception.

On my refrigerator is a magnet, David Lee Roth from his early Van Halen days, airborne in his leopard-print pants, legs spread, a midair split, arms out too, touching his toes, hair flying, backlit to create a halo.

"Good morning, David," I say.

"Good morning, David," says the magnet.

"I'm just a gigolo, everywhere I go, life goes on without me."

If you're a Dave born in the late twentieth century, someone is giving you the nickname Diamond, like we've never heard that before. People need to learn. I tell my buddies in the Army, there's only one Diamond Dave. Nobody listens.

While washing the breakfast dishes, I see outside the window above the sink that the spider has returned. She's chilling in her web. A beetle is stuck on the other side, trying to wiggle free, getting more stuck. If the spider notices her meal, she's letting it suffer, letting resignation dawn on the beetle. The spider knows that look. The acceptance of death. Relief that the suffering will soon be over.

I remind myself the spider is outside. I'm not the beetle. I'm safe. The spider can't get me. She can't get me. She can't get me.

With the dishes clean, the time arrives for a run. Let the spider wrap her meal in peace. Also, this morning Emilina is coming to clean. I like to make myself scarce on her days, and my late start means we might cross paths. She's sweet and harmless, but when I see her, she gives me these looks, who knows, but I interpret them as pity and mistrust. She feels bad that I live alone, that I'm not partnered. Who makes such a choice, so something must be wrong with me, right?

Emilina cleans every two weeks and in between, the filth fights my best efforts. I'm the sorcerer's apprentice, except instead of brooms, it's dirt and dust that overwhelm and take control.

At the start of my run, I'm still thinking about the spider outside my kitchen window. Useless. She can't get me. Focus on the rhythm of running.

I begin jogging with Rose the summer before her senior year of high school. I don't ask, and Rose makes no comment. She offers no preview of what's coming. All action, little talk. Lungs burning and muscle ache is my memory of that first day.

Rose and I run. She's always out ahead, even as my stride lengthens, I never keep up. Even today, if I can outpace my sister, it's only because of the height advantage. Rose is Quicksilver.

In high school, ask her and she says, "Running is a means to an end."

Rose plays soccer, but play isn't accurate. Rose works, improves, leads. All-state her junior and senior years, Rose earns an athletic scholarship to the University of Arizona. She makes herself elite, in the top one percent of her chosen skill. Hers is the era of Shannon MacMillan, Cindy Parlow, Abby Wambach. If they represent the SEAL Team Six of soccer, Rose is an officer in the Navy.

In high school, ask her and she says, "Running is a means to an end."

At UA my sister reveals her secret scholar, earns her degree, a step to her life as a pediatrician. All action, little talk.

In high school, ask Rose and she says, "Running is a means to an end."

Run with her and learn the other motivations.

Running is a task with a beginning, middle, and end. Running provides measurable results that can be compared. Rose runs because it's the best exercise for the brain.

Running is a distraction. Rose runs to forget. She runs to get away. Or maybe that's me.

This morning, I run with my back to the city skyline, up, up, up, to higher ground. I feel changes. Buildings become translucent and fade like Marty McFly's hand in _Back to the Future_. At the hill's peak, I run past a barn not here yesterday, run through a field and the decades, back to the century-gone farms of Harper's Addition.

I am grateful for time to exercise.

I am grateful for the hills.

Down, down, down into the Valley, I hit a flat stretch, and behind me the sound of skateboards brings time back to today. I spot three kids with a glance over my shoulder. They pick up speed on the decline, pass me, two guys and a girl, teens too young to drive. The Valley is a duchy ruled by the Dowager Queen Virginia of the Strollers. Her highness is particular in regards to her feelings about children of a certain age. Most Valley parents have escaped, or been exiled—priced out—to the suburbs by the time their tykes are big enough to wander. These three voyagers carry the standard for the lost tribe of the Valley. May fortune travel with them.

I stop at Whole Foods to buy a drink. On the walls they have prints of photos from 1909. People going about their neighborhood business, goods getting delivered on carts, a woman in a dress and tall hat midframe crossing the street. She looks directly at the camera, her fuzzy face moving too fast for the exposure.

The woman knows I'm here. She's the reason I witness the old farms. A tether exists stronger than the years between us. The woman waits at the Whole Foods. This meeting isn't our first. She leaves a message for my brain and here we are together.

From there my run wanders other branches in time. Today, a life where I settle down. A wife, two kids, a boy and a girl. A small world.

I return to the present, to my breathing, feet, the pavement, arms moving, my heartbeat. Feel the sun on my face, the sweat. Smell jasmine. The beauty of this world. I exceed expectations. I don't settle.

Home, I stretch again, do push-ups, sit-ups, shower and lie about surfing online. I'm playing hooky from driving, but hooky is obsolete in the pay-for-play shared economy, yes sir. Someone picks up your slack. Your money goes into someone else's pocket. No problem, I can afford it.

If I knew what was good for me, I'd be working on _Rideshare_. I have contacts and social media to manage. My early episodes with local celebrities create the foundation that enables me to land guests such as Phoebe Robinson. Like life, to keep a podcast from becoming stale requires consistent maintenance.

I not only have money, I have time too, so lazy wins and I catch up on movie trailers. Marvel's pop culture dominance continues unabated. The universe is theirs. We're just visiting.

You only children, even siblings of one, how can you know the feeling of discovering artifacts of older brothers and sisters? Like ancient cities, so much is lost before you arrive, and much of what you do find is useless. Out-of-style, ill-fitting hand-me-downs, one-armed G.I. Joes, scratched Iron Maiden records.

Then your childhood receives a gift the past leaves for you. The gift waits patiently. Under a bed, stored in the garage, shoved in a closet, stashed in a shoebox. Until you are ready.

I'm nine and close enough to my birthday that when nobody claims the stack of comics I find in the garage under some dusty newspapers in a tattered cardboard box, they feel like a birthday present.

Robbie says, "Those are Aaron's, I remember when he was bonkers for that stuff."

"Not mine," says Aaron. "That was Victor."

"Was it?" says Robbie. "You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure."

I don't know who's right, but I trust Robbie. Anyway, the origin story doesn't matter, the comics are mine.

The treasure eventually reveals _Watchmen_ , but the top one hooks me first.

_The Uncanny X-Men_. #141. 50 cents! An early lesson in inflation.

The cover: A man and woman caught in the glare of a searchlight, the man protecting the woman with his body. I don't know their names, but the claws, the hair with the spiked ends. The man's name exists large enough in the world that I'm able to grab it.

Wolverine, and there it is behind him, a wanted poster plastered on a wall, enlarged as though the searchlight has magnifying powers. Pics and names, rows of them. Superheroes, X-Men, slain or apprehended.

Wolverine is the only one on the poster who remains free. Are we witnessing his capture?

Inside, my loyalties shift when the action moves to the Pentagon and we meet Raven Darkholme. Her government job gives her access to highly classified weaponry.

"She's earned her position, and the complete trust of her superiors."

Ms. Darkholme has a secret. She's a shape-shifter.

In the comic, she transforms from unassuming white woman to the statuesque Mystique. Red-haired, blue-skinned, yellow-eyed. Lithe with enormous breasts.

Mystique wears a white outfit, sort of a dress, it only covers her front and back, thin ties holding it together at the sides. She accessorizes with white gloves and boots and a belt of yellow skulls that keeps her outfit cinched at the waist. Then to top it off she has one more yellow skull—a jewel? An ornament?—affixed to her forehead at the hairline.

Mystique has another secret. She's the founder and leader of the New Brotherhood of Evil Mutants.

Betraying Ginger and Lynda doesn't feel right, but I can't help what I want. Mystique's evil isn't a deterrent. The skulls are attractive, for me they tie the shape-shifter to the desert. She's familiar, but her blue skin and yellow eyes are subversive at the same time. Yes, yes, her big breasts keep me looking too, memorizing Mystique's true self.

This is lust, this is desire, but this is more. This is guidance and hope.

Blue skin and skulls. An outfit that leaves little to the imagination. The name: Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. Mystique doesn't hide.

The mutant who can be anybody isn't afraid to show the world her true self.

I actually believe this for a while.

Later, I learn that Mystique's shape-shifting powers enable her to prevent the decay of her cells and tissues. Young and sexy may be a hundred years old.

And you have to ask: How do we know Raven Darkholme is even her real name?

More mystery surrounds Mystique. When the blue-skinned, yellow-eyed Nightcrawler meets her and calls attention to the resemblance, Mystique tells him to ask his mother.

"Who would know better than—she?"

So, Mystique isn't Nightcrawler's mother, but is it possible she's his father?

These same stories show up on TV. An X-Men Saturday morning cartoon that never grabs me. In the comics I find, everybody dies. When I see them alive again, I already know the end.

Or maybe it's something about the transition from panel to screen.

Something's off.

Like a shape-shifter promising she's showing you her true self.

Deception or no, my feelings for Mystique remain, covered in thin layers of jealousy and self-loathing. I'm a mutant without the ability, swayed by Mystique's evil trickery because I want what she, or he, has. I want to be her, or him.

To show the world your true self. The nights my father is out, my mother says, "He's working," or, "He's with friends."

"What friends?" asks Myra.

"His friends," says my mother.

When Mom isn't around, Rose says, "Dad doesn't have friends."

"Work, home, home, work," says Myra.

Sarah stays silent but her expression says, You know what "friends" means.

Today, I check out entertainment news online. Nobody is talking anymore about being one more good horror movie away from a horror renaissance. See below re real-world chaos.

After a while, the Internet details change into cattle, riding a conveyor belt in my brain, ending with the slice of a guillotine, plop into a hamper and rolled off by troll minions, dumped into a giant furnace.

Current events sell chaos. Terror in Europe. Shootings in the U.S. With El Presidente not running things, the chaos continues to be well earned.

Chaos. The British seek vengeance by burning the White House. The Grande Armée march to Moscow in the heat and retreat in the winter, starving and freezing, covered in a blanket of typhus. The war plague.

To clear my mind, I watch a Wilford Brimley video left open from last night. Warnings against the dangers of butthole diabetus get me nowhere. The world exists outside.

I take the car, apps off, to the cafe.

Cosmic or planned, when I arrive, Grace is at the table next to mine, glass of red wine half full.

I buy my pint and sit across from her.

"Twice in two days," I say. "What a nice coincidence."

Grace cocks her head. "A coincidence?"

"Let's focus on nice." I raise my glass. "To nice afternoons."

She smiles, touching her glass to mine. "To nice afternoons."

I drink and ask, "How's your day so far?"

Grace puts her glass down. Her eyes are over my shoulder, her body is looking at the wine. "Eh, this helps. My boyfriend's pissed at me, my mother's pissed at me. My friends have their own problems. Ones they didn't give to themselves."

"I'm not pissed at you."

"Not yet."

"Okay, so, what, they're upset you quit your job?"

"Steve, my boyfriend, yeah, for sure, but it's complicated. I'm sorry. Let's talk about something else." She drinks.

I think Grace might cry. She sighs and smiles. The tether between us solidifies and without thinking I say, "My mom gets pissed at me sometimes. Like after my father died."

For a second, I feel Grace is going to offer something meaningful. She says, "I'm sorry," and lowers her head, gaze on glass.

I'm not helping hold back Grace's tears, so I stumble along with, "Actually it was my mom's birthday a few days ago. She's seventy-two. My sisters threw her a big party."

That works, kind of. Grace looks at me. "Seventy-two." She nods. "Tell her happy birthday."

"I will."

"How was the party?"

"Oh, uh, I didn't go. She lives in Arizona."

I'm sure Sarah's pictures show off the chocolate cake. Seven candles. My mother finds all she needs in that which is around her. Steady and resolute. She holds her children close, her grandchildren, her home. Simple and enough. She remains a mystery to me.

Grace raises her glass and says, "Happy birthday to your mom."

We toast and drink.

Pop is playing music, instrumental heavy metal covers. Metallica's "One" starts. Weird. It's in the name for God's sake, an original in no need of a cover. Metallica is a band that bleeds into you. Robbie gets me listening to them, hooks me up to the initial IV. Go check out _Master of Puppets_ , come back, and tell me genetic manipulation isn't possible. Metallica is music of the big bang.

Robbie be crazy. Always with the energy, tinkering on cars, work around the house. He takes our father's death the hardest, eventually lives in a yurt, scrounges and searches, makes money with his hands. Grizzled, now seemingly older than Aaron, hard-living Robbie piles up extra years. More time spent as a roofer than anything. He's fallen, never from so high to mess him up too much. Robbie tells stories though. A guy tumbles not far to the ground, stands right up, I'm fine he says, and looks okay, gets back to work. Couple hours later, the guy is dead. His injured brain needs time to shut down, has a little trouble getting the memo out to the rest of the body.

You have to look them in the eyes. Look at their pupils. You don't want to be looking at pupils of different sizes. Unequal eyes don't lie.

Subdural hematomas. Blood pools in your skull, like a bruise above your brain. We get them from time to time. Hit your head in the attic, bend down to grab something off the floor and bang the table when you stand up, slip in the bathroom and smack your noggin hard. Subdural hematomas happen. Most heal. Not always.

Grace is talking, asking, "How long have you lived here?"

I have a swig of beer, take a second to come back to her. "Ten years, more or less. You?"

"Three years. You come for work?"

"Nah, a needed change of scenery."

I catch a flicker of surprise, but Grace doesn't ask for elaboration.

Initially, I go to Vegas because Mel wants me to come. We have plans to open a garage and then Mel goes and gets a job, like Vic Vega says in _Reservoir Dogs_ , a regular job job-type job. Dealing poker.

"What about the garage?" I ask.

"Patience," says Mel and shushes me with the excuse of stop-losses. Completed tours be damned, the U.S. war machine needs you, and with my history I'm safe, but sooner or later, Mel is going back, probably.

I keep trying though, and Mel says, "I like my job."

"But you're a mechanic."

Mel shrugs away the discussions, the planning, the dreaming. "Eh, I'm through with all that."

"What?"

"I changed my mind. It's my prerogative."

"Don't you need to work with your hands?"

"Duh, Diamond D, I'm a dealer."

Mel is so fast, when the regulars get hot, they notice the improved hourly rate. They settle into the pace, let Mel carry them along. Nothing special for Mel. Thoughtful without trying.

"No," says Mel. "Speed means better tips."

In the cafe, Grace says, "You have sisters." She must catch something in my look because she quickly adds, "You said they threw your mom a party."

"Yeah, three older sisters. They're the third triumvirate."

Grace has some wine and shakes her head. "Is that a good thing?"

"It's a tricky thing, is what it is."

"For a long time I wanted a sister."

"No dice?"

Grace flashes a hint of a grin. "No, only child. I got older and liked it. You get doted on, you know?"

I stay silent. My attention makes room for Grace to continue. "Stressful too though. Their legacy is all you." The tears in Grace's eyes return. She drinks her wine, breathes, and says, "Now it's okay. When my mom's not pissed at me, she's great."

"I'm not pissed at you."

"Not yet."

One glass of wine is enough for Grace today and soon she's leaving me to the rest of my afternoon. As I watch her go, I spot Chief barreling down the street.

He passes Grace, oblivious, and comes into the cafe. He nods his head to me in greeting and glides to the counter.

Chief is big, almost as big as me, with long hair and that's where the resemblance to his _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ namesake ends. He's the grandfather I only ever know in my imagination.

His white hair and mummified skin scream old, but the man moves with purpose. Chief is willing to sit and talk if you've got the time, though he manages to never say a lot about himself. He drinks coffee, and I don't remember ever seeing him eat.

Pop says, "Chief's Chief."

He's a regular at the cafe.

"Started showing up year two," says Pop, with anger, like why not since the get-go.

Today, Chief takes his steaming mug to the coffee-fixing station across from the counter, adds sugar, a dash of milk, takes a spoon and stirs: _clink, clink_ , _clink_ , _clink_ , _clink_ , _clink_ , _clink_ , _clink_ , _clink_. He removes the spoon slowly so as not to drip coffee on the counter, then grips the mug, brings it to his mouth, and drinks. Chief closes his eyes and enjoys the flavor.

When he opens his eyes, he faces the tables. The mug looks unsteady, but no coffee spills. Chief clears his throat and speaks to the cafe. "Revolutionaries win. Losers put in front of firing squads. A few corrupt dead littered among the women and children. The water stops running. Stench spreads in the streets. Garbage, blood, guts. Wild dogs carry off scraps. Smashed streetlights. No Luke Skywalker action figures. Che, take a blow, good?"

People won't make eye contact. Some shoot glances at Pop or Mom, waiting for an intervention.

A few of us applaud and we get dirty looks. Don't encourage the loon.

His name is Chief.

He bows and finds a seat. People give him space.

When I'm ready, I return to the car and turn on Miss Daisy.

The airport rotation is the one that pays. Short trips provide short shrift. Fools who can't judge walking distance. They demand constant ferry, offer endless cheap rotations: hotel to restaurant, restaurant to bar, bar to bar, bar to strip bar. With tourists, conference attendees, and conventioneers, you get a nice back and forth between airport and hotel. That pays.

Families stand out at the airport. Parents with small children. Strollers, carriers, car seats, bags, bottles, belts with clips, stuff dangling. I don't have the vocabulary for many of the things parents carry. All those possessions make me think of the civilians who shadow marching armies. Some scavenge, taking advantage of what the armies leave behind. Others sell, using the military to fill their coffers.

These activities are nothing new. In Xenophon's twenty-four-hundred-year-old memoir, _The Anabasis_ , the market travels with the army on their journey through Persia. "Market-time" becomes synonymous with late morning because that's when shopkeepers set up their displays for the soldiers.

Now, in the car, I pay extra attention to families in transit, wise for modern-day stragglers. Not paranoia but a reflex I choose to keep honed.

I pick up Tracy, her husband, and daughter. The girl is young, a mini-toddler. Walking. Talking some, and look away for two seconds and she's into something that might kill her.

How old is that?

The husband holds the girl as I put their luggage in the trunk. The girl is looking over her father's shoulder, watching her mom strap her car seat into the back.

I close the trunk and Tracy is taking her daughter from the husband, transferring the child to the car seat. She moves with an efficiency earned from extreme repetition. The husband tries to keep up. Fails.

I'm around to the other side of the car, making sure Tracy has a clear path, no cars darting out at her. I open the door for her, matching her efficiency. She slides in next to her daughter. The husband sits up front.

During the ride, the family keeps quiet, except the occasional mother-toddler noises from the back.

We're on the highway, headed to Laurel Heights, passing the run of billboards when the child says, "Happy, apple, iPad."

Tracy laughs, then, "Did you hear that, honey?"

Dad isn't with us. He looks at me first before he realizes it's his wife who's talking. He turns to her, mouth open.

"Happy, apple, iPad," says the child.

"Huh?" says the husband.

"Happy, apple, iPad," says Tracy.

The husband laughs a horsey snort. "That is cute."

Once more the daughter repeats her new catchphrase: "Happy, apple, iPad."

This child in my car encouraged by her parents. Advertising is one of millions of concepts she cannot comprehend. This little girl may still think the universe came into existence at the moment of her birth. Yet, already she has transformed from human to ad.

This little girl raised up in her car seat. Mini throne, or rocket-ship chair? Will she grow up to be princess or astronaut? Neither. She's strapped in that seat. Strapped and trapped. Undo those buckles I want to tell her. I'll open the window and slow down. When you hit the ground, remember to roll. You'll be okay. Run.

I have hints of memories from her age, I think. My father and Victor together once, smoking. I catch them sharing a cigarette, understand now it's not an amicable sit-down. The calm before the storm.

After I get parents and their future Donna Draper to the hotel, Miss Daisy gives me a string of solos going here to there, the dime-a-dozen journeys of a life. Karma is playing a trick. Getting me back for dreaming of airport rotations and little girls escaping. Ordering me to take these rides of pure transition. Here to there. We, my car and I, are a single vessel.

Paradox Deborah says, "I'm not the one getting paid minimum wage."

Time to go home.

The junky is sitting on a stoop at the end of my block. A month or so since her arrival in the neighborhood.

That first time, I hear her, then spot her from the window of my living room. Her arms are ramrod from the weight of the brown paper bag she's holding in each hand, stuffed to the brim with what I can only guess are all her worldly possessions. Her red dress hangs on her, wrinkled. It's clean though, as is her hair, her bare shoulders, and legs. She's wearing a nice pair of Birkenstocks. The junky is standing near the curb, her head on a swivel, searching up and down the street, yelling, "Where'd you go? Ron? Where are you?"

Someone is calling the cops if the junky isn't careful and she'll be kicking in county. She continues yelling with the occasional pause to rub her head and moan, a sound like a preface to a wail. After a solid minute, Ron comes meandering along. He's wearing a grimy baseball cap pulled down tight over his eyes and has a dirty blue blanket draped over his shoulders that he's holding closed at his sternum like a shawl.

The junky shouts, "Where'd you go?"

Ron walks on by.

She pleads. "Where'd you go? You scored didn't you?"

Ron doesn't stop, or even slow down. He calls back over his shoulder. "Let's go."

"I want to get out of here."

"That's what we're doing, so let's go."

The junky follows, hurrying to catch up to Ron. They disappear around the corner. The junky's voice drifts away with them. "What'd you do? What'd you do? What'd you do?"

Here she is on the stoop, same dress and sandals, but no sign of any bags. Junky looks dazed, droopy, neighborhood junky like a street cat, feral, but full of routines. Wonder how long until she gets rousted.

The night Judith teaches me about toxoplasmosis gondii, she tells me a story: "When I was young, there was this old cat lady, lived a couple streets over, alone in a big house at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was real rundown, peeling paint, rusted gutters, needed a new roof, the yard uncut and overgrown with weeds. But the thing that stood out was the cats. They had the run of the place, you heard and smelled them before you even got to the house. We'd stand in the street and stare and as you stared, you saw more and more cats, on the porch, under the porch, in the tall grass, in the windows, on the roof, on the front steps, everywhere. I don't know how the neighbors put up with it. No one called animal care and control. It was weird. Anyway, the old lady was old and she died. Animal care and control came then, spent a whole weekend wrangling all those cats.

"The smell though, it didn't go away. The neighbors complained then, and somebody showed up, the old lady's family, I think, and inside, in the basement, they found dozens more cats, but these ones were dead. Cat corpses. Filling the basement. A hazmat team came that time.

"The smell though, it didn't go away. More neighbors complained then, and the family, or whoever, came back and discovered more cat corpses. In the walls. And under the floorboards. Piles of cat corpses. They tore the whole house down at that point.

"The smell though, it never really went away."

Sounds like an urban legend to me. Newlyweds honeymoon at a hotel with a decomposing body under the bed. A man murders his wife and sends her remains to Siberia via FedEx. In a real-life _Weekend at Bernie's_ , a guy poses his dead grandmother in her living room, posts pictures online as "proof" she's been cashing her own Social Security checks.

Judith gives me the moral. "The toxo got that old lady."

I nod. "Well, at least you know what you're up against."

"Yes, I think about going down to the SPCA and I remember that old cat lady."

During the VCR project, I don't have to ask my father why the sudden interest in movies. Rose and Myra do it for me.

One morning, we're in the kitchen. I'm sitting at the table with Mom and Dad. Rose and Myra are at the counter making breakfast when they decide to give our father the third degree.

They don't like his answers and he gets defensive.

"I've always liked movies," says my father.

Myra and Rose laugh. Rose drops the knife she's using to slice bread. It bangs off the counter, spinning, and clatters on the floor. Rose shrieks and jumps away from the knife.

My father says, "Watch what you're doing and leave your poor old dad alone."

"It's true," says my mother. "We went to the movies a lot when we were first dating."

"Were we ever dating?" says my father.

My mother shakes her head, lowers heavy eyes. This teasing, she won't tell him to stop, won't voice her displeasure. Can't find the fun in it. Can't let it go.

"Remember when we saw _The Graduate_ ," she says. To my sisters: "He hated it."

"It wasn't made for me," says my father.

"You hated that movie."

"Still do, it's terrible. Except for the end, the very end."

I think he's joking. The end of the movie as the end of his misery, right? My sisters agree and their snickering nearly drowns out the rest of my father's comment. "Almost makes the whole thing better."

I hear him, but not really and even when I see _The Graduate_ years later, I think it's a joke because in the final scene, Benjamin Braddock breaks up a wedding after it just happened, convincing a young woman to leave her groom. Keep in mind he first stalked the woman after fucking her mother. The movie is a celebration of behavior that leads in a straight line to President Grabby. How does the end make the movie better? But I'm still wrong. That's not what my father means by the very end of _The Graduate_.

Sometimes though, the VCR project helps me understand my father better. Like James Cagney is his first love. He calls him Jimmy, as if they're old buddies.

"A song and dance man," my father says. "The original triple threat."

I can get behind the gangster stuff. He used to be important, white heat, the violence of the melon in the dame's face, mean, attentive, alluring. For an instant I feel why girls want bad boys.

My thoughts that _Yankee Doodle Dandy_ sounds sexual in a weird way I keep to myself, and _Man of a Thousand Faces_ is so slow.

Cagney plays silent film star Lon Chaney in the biopic. Chaney's shrew of a wife freaks out when she learns that Chaney's parents are deaf and mute. Dumb in the parlance of the time. She's pregnant and worries her child will be deaf, different, shunned. She doesn't want the baby, rejects the love of her in-laws. The child is fine, yet the emotional damage destroys her marriage with Chaney.

Are we watching a comedy? I find this plot device absurd. Fiction, I understand. Still, ridiculous.

"People are always saying you can't do this, don't do that," says my father. "Always disapproving."

"Who?" I ask.

"In the world, people, trying to take you down a notch. That's all it is."

Okay, so Jimmy portrays Chaney as a fighter for the different, the mocked. My father though? What people are disapproving of my father?

I ask my brothers.

Robbie: "It's what Mom and Dad left behind."

"No," says Aaron, "It's where they wanted to go."

Sarah gets involved, says, "Forget about Mom, it's Dad."

"What do you know about it?" says Aaron.

Robbie, stuck in the middle, refuses to be stuck in the middle.

_Man of a Thousand Faces_ is a movie about family. The relationships between Lon and his son, Cleve, Cleve and Mom, Lon and Mom. The world knows Cleve as Lon Chaney Jr. Near the end of the film, Jimmy plays Chaney on his deathbed, only in his late forties, stricken by throat cancer. He begs for his makeup case. His name written on the side, he adds "JR" and hands the case to his son.

Marc Maron has an old joke, "Every father-son relationship is a fight to the death."

In a fictionalized version of the truth, Lon Chaney scores a final victory before he saunters off, saddling his son with a crushing weight of expectation.

I prefer to stick with the source material, the misfits in the canon of Lon Chaney. Criminals, phantoms, pirates. The armless knife throwers. We're in this fight together.

Tonight I lie in bed streaming _The Unholy Three_ , tired though, I began to drift and soon I'm asleep.

I dream Marc Maron makes Terry Gross and me grilled corn muffins. We sit at my kitchen table devouring the muffins with butter and jalapeño jelly, too consumed with stuffing our faces for conversation.

FIVE

In the morning, itchy ankles wake me up. Mosquito bites. I have more on my foot, my shoulder blade, and bicep. A life in the desert, I don't know how much the little ladies love my flesh until I move here.

I scan the room, the little bugger is somewhere, my blood in her belly. She can't have it. I won't let her make me sick. I'm okay. I'm okay. I scan the room, but she's too smart to show herself in the light of day.

To clear my head, I think about last night's dream, and I'm inspired to catch up on the _Fresh Air_ podcast. I listen in the car, Miss Daisy and KITT off. A drive for me, Terry Gross, and her interview with comedian Louie Anderson.

I laugh and laugh.

Anderson tells a joke informed by the story that gives us the horror movie, _The Stepfather_.

He says, "I read a thing where this guy killed his whole family. I'd go, 'I'm surprised I don't read that every day. I mean, I don't think you start out where you're going to kill the whole family, but the rush of the first one must carry you right through to the end.'"

My laughter causes me to miss the next few seconds of the interview. Any drivers looking at me will think a crazy man is behind the wheel.

Anderson says, "My mom ate every piece of butter in the Midwest, she lived till she was ninety. And my dad, he smoked, he drank—we finally just had to kill him."

Crazy man behind the wheel.

"I did a dark joke for a while," says Anderson. "I go, 'I was—I was going to kill myself, but I just thought I would just eat myself to death,' but nobody ever laughed, Terry."

Oh Louie, where have you been all my life? The size of this world, a blessing and a curse. New discoveries to make always, others fated to remain invisible. Not neglected or forgotten, only outside our experience. If only, if only. Blame the size of the world.

Terry talks with Anderson about his role in the TV show, _Baskets_ , and creating so much material around family.

I make a mental note to put _Baskets_ on my pop culture to-do list.

Time to work, I turn on Miss Daisy and pick up Tyler. He's wearing a designer suit, tailored too big through the shoulders, kind of hangs on him, but his head his huge, major male-pattern baldness. Maybe the suit is meant to distract.

He grunts a hello and is making a call. A lot of "Get the deal done" language. At the end of the conversation, he says, "I care about three words, deal, deal, deal." Encounter this guy in a movie and you'd tell the screenwriter to try harder.

More with the only-in-the-movies stuff: He gets off the phone without saying goodbye.

Tyler clears his throat, manages some phlegm, stares ahead into the middle distance until something outside catches his attention.

At the first red light, he looks in my direction. "Things are happening."

I wait a beat, then: "What kind of things?"

"A hoarding of wealth and idiots fighting over who gets to fiddle."

Chief would appreciate that one, and Tyler's eyes are moving, undressing my car. "With this ride, you must be doing okay."

"Yup, okay."

"You driving for your health?"

"I'm okay."

Tyler slides his right hand into his suit jacket, and a spark in my mind tells me why the suit is too big. A concealed weapon. I've got a loon who's come for me. I brace for evasive action, tense to swerve, prepare to steal the initiative.

He pulls out a business card. My body relaxes. He's reaching forward, offering me the card. I look at the car on my left, a woman in a hybrid hatchback, two boys with her. Would have smashed them for nothing.

In grade school, at recess, we have to cross a street to get to the playground. Every day we're antsy and every day Principal Dunham checks for traffic and every day, no, don't wait, try to sprint past him. He halts us with, "If you were in Vietnam, you'd be dead." Booby traps hidden in the jungle. For me, it's animal carcasses, garbage piles, shifty dudes with cell phones.

Tyler says, "Yo, man, take it."

"Yeah, right." His hand is hovering between the front seats, the business card dangling from his fingers. I grab it. "Thanks."

The card is thick stock, pearl, glossy. I'm dealing with a dumpy Patrick Bateman, but he's not going to kill me, not violently.

"Mores never change," says Tyler. For a second I hear Moors and think of George Costanza and the bubble boy. Moops. Moors. Moops. Screw the history lesson. Tyler goes with an economic one. "You need to be investing in gold."

"I'm okay."

The hatchback is riding next to me, sun reflecting off the windows, giving me glare, but a sliver too. Both boys sit in the back, the older one is on a tablet. His brother dozes, hefty, but apparently not so big to ditch the car seat.

As kids, our parents pile Robbie, my sisters, and me into the station wagon. By the late '80s, we must be the last family in the country to take Sunday drives. Mom's lap is the car seat and only until you're big enough to sit up. The girls take the back seats and I get to deal with Robbie's games in the way back, but his heart is not in it. He's soon done with the Sunday drives and my reward is space all to myself. Rose occasionally puts in a guest appearance, on the hottest days, when room to stretch out is coveted, but my sisters have their own rituals: chants and songs, games, whispers, arguments, and jokes. Sarah, Rose, Myra. Watch their hands move, passing cassettes, lip gloss, magazines, gum, hairbrush, headphones, scrunchies. Sacred girl totems of the Sunday drive. Sarah, Rose, Myra. Shortest sits in the middle. That's the rule.

In my car, Tyler continues to sell. "Gold. You'll thank me when the world is smoldering."

I use the rearview to look at him and say, "I'm okay. I made my money the old-fashioned way."

"Sure, hell yeah, and you can earn a load more with gold."

"No, man, I stole it." Really it only feels like stealing, but close enough.

Tyler, lost for a response, gives me a snort, then a look like I'm not nearly as funny as I think I am. He says, "Yeah, well, I'm set up at the Auckland Mint."

Oh, Tyler.

I ask, "Why so far?"

"Why not? World's burning, you'll run too."

I want to ask if he's got a specific date to escape to New Zealand. What happens when the apocalypse comes and Tyler is ten thousand miles from his precious gold?

In my mind, I hear Mel say, "File that under Newton's cats."

Done.

I jump on the highway, fastest route to Laurel Heights.

So many think their brief lives overlap with the end of the world.

Sheila and I go out a few times. One night, we lounge on her bed, propped up on pillows, smoking a joint.

Sheila says, "Let's do a thought experiment."

I take a drag on the joint, the smooth inhale and exhale, that breath, relaxing all on its own, but the fire postcoitus, close to my mouth, oral, the THC, like a cold foot finding a warm pair of slippers.

I pass the joint to Sheila. "A thought experiment?"

"Uh-huh, imagine the apocalypse happens, something within the realm. Asteroid, nuclear war, no zombies, no alien invasion." She pauses for a drag.

I say, "Like disease or environmental catastrophe."

"Exactly. So, after the extinction event, how long do you give yourself?"

"If it's an extinction event, how am I still around?"

"You survive the first wave."

"Well then, it depends. How far am I from the worst of things? Do I have access to water? How much? Food? How much? Where do we stand on law and order?"

"It's the apocalypse."

"Okay, I already have an emergency kit, bottles of water, and a shotgun, so that'd be helpful." I don't own a shotgun, never.

"Really? A shotgun? You have other guns?"

"Nope." This much is true. "I don't have any shells. But I could get some, and you know, if I point that thing at you, you feeling lucky, punk?"

"Alright tough guy, you sound like you can pull your weight."

"You recruiting?"

"Oh, no, but if I were, and you signed up, know this, you try to cross me, I'll kill you, cut you up into little pieces, and cure you, make you into jerky. Apocalypse treats. I bet they'd even have trade value, good for getting supplies and weapons and stuff."

"Jesus, woman, that's brutal."

"It's the apocalypse."

In the car, Tyler tells me he's in for a conference, says he's "a production advisor for a tech investment firm." The name of the company spends zero seconds in my brain. Tyler has been to the city "more than twice," declares it "podunk and provincial." He demands to know how I stand living here.

I ignore the question and ask where he's from.

He refers to his home as "HQ."

Dumpy Tyler dumbly stares and mouth breathes. Hah, not a loon, but a Looney Tune, and in the rearview, Tyler changes. No longer a man, but a sizzling drumstick. A giant apocalypse treat. What will Sheila give me for him in trade?

The odds against us living at the end of humanity are staggering. In Vegas, the bookmakers keep bets like that off the board. End-times Tyler doesn't elaborate on how we become toast. Climate change, disease, nuclear annihilation. Let's play Choose Your Own Apocalypse. We're all going to die, and Earth keeps spinning.

After dropping off Tyler, I allow rotations to conspire. Miss Daisy abides, taking me on a wide arc from downtown to the Riverfront and over to the Gardens where I pick up Nicole, a smart blonde in a gray suit.

The blonde is all bottle, one look and I smell the chemical touch, and Nicole is pretty, nice blue eyes, but I wouldn't want to wait while she does her makeup.

In the mirror, I notice her checking me out. She smiles with a mix of business and sweet, and I forgive her for trying to stay young. I'm smitten, and she reads me.

"Nice car, handsome."

"Nice suit."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

Possible responses:

"To all the _women_ , well, the sexy ones."

"Only when I want them to be the boss."

"Only when I think they'll look better out of the suit."

What do I say?

Nothing, just smile and keep driving.

Nicole and I chat. She's flirty but it's as much her nature as me. Then I learn she's coming from a meeting with her divorce lawyer.

She says, "Such a relief. Finally."

"You're going to be fine, believe me."

"I know, handsome, I know."

I meet older women in the supermarket, at local bookstores, in chain coffee shops. They make eyes at me. I charm them and sometimes we go out, sometimes not. They like to play games. The flirting is sufficient. Maybe they just want to know they're still attractive.

Elon Musk says, "There's a one in billions chance we're in base reality."

He launches satellites, builds fast-track tunnels. Someday, he lives on Mars, and like Doctor Manhattan, watches a meteor shower from a fortress balcony of pink sand hardened to glass.

Musk speaks in metaphor to create motivation. A simulation is a place for risk, a time to take chances. If it's all fake anyway, what's the worst that can happen? I can do anything. If not here, where? If not now, when?

Yet, the real simulation persists. Beyond Nicole's dye job, her painted-on face, her clothes meant to maximize lines, the invisible support underneath, push here, pull there, the seams show themselves, the flickering of the hologram.

Nicole isn't free. She's afraid of growing old alone. She's afraid no one will love her like her husband. No one will love her more and even that isn't enough to save the marriage.

Then as soon as everything appears clear, shadows and mist muddy the simulation, raising doubt. Mr. Musk may speak literal truth after all. His brain just might be so much bigger than mine. He has the answers. We're both men though and Musk marries the same woman twice.

"File that under Newton's cats," says Mel.

Done.

Stick to something more certain. Hot-tub magic.

Leslie is a librarian. We go out twice. The second time she takes me to a spa. She won't tell me how old she is. My guess is early fifties. She looks great naked. The soft parts don't matter. They're grabbable, good for squeezing. She looks better naked than clothed, has no concern about reality versus simulation.

In the hot tub, Leslie calls me "young stud," asks whether older women are "my thing."

I say, "Beautiful women are my thing."

"Young charming stud," she says as she runs a fingernail across my cheek and lips. "Handsome and dangerous. Like an old-school gangster."

Even before the VCR project, I see _The Godfather_ , snippets here and there. The original and _Part II_ are full-time residents in the cable universe.

As a kid, I capture the wavelength, hop on during the Sicilian interlude, or at the hospital when Michael tells his father, "I'm with you now." Join the family in Cuba or Lake Tahoe. There _is_ enough time. Take the cannoli.

When _The Godfather_ joins the VCR project, my father says, "The great Hollywood movie, the story of the American Dream."

"What's the American Dream?" I ask.

"Did you watch? Were you paying attention?"

Something like that, or maybe it's me, hearing "American Dream" in school, or a politician's speech, wanting to know, asking my father, and his answer is _The Godfather_ and its sequel. He views them as one movie. Eventually, out of frustration, I think, my father clarifies his opinion. He says, "It's about all of us, doesn't matter we're not Italian. The myth of the American Dream."

The Corleones are regal gangsters to me, from a distant world, hyper real. The story is a soap opera for, and about, men.

So much is lost on me as a child.

Some insomniacs count sheep. I assign Corleone brothers to my brothers. It never fits. Aaron is Michael, that's easy, though to be honest, Rose is our real Michael. Robbie is nuts, but not like Sonny. I worry I'm Fredo. If any brother is going to kill me, it's Victor, which makes him Michael. See, it never fits. Am I Fredo?

Recently, one night, social media brings me a new entry in the "Sonny on the Causeway" meme. The eldest Corleone full of bullet holes, except Ivanka has been photoshopped in place of James Caan, and below are "mug shots" of Eric and Don Jr. They stare at the camera with their slicked-back hair and smug looks, identified by their new names, Fredo and Fredo Jr.

I'm driving through Old Res, a few blocks from the cafe. Might as well. I park and join the ant farm.

When I enter the cafe, we're three for three. It's like Grace is waiting for me.

We sit in our spots, drinks in theirs too. We're silent, face-to-face, looking, not looking. I take Grace in, hope she's doing the same.

I sip my beer, then ask, "How's freedom treating you?"

Grace considers the question before saying, "There's pros. Good wine and good company." She tips her glass to mine and takes a healthy drink. "The cons, well, this isn't . . . "

I wait for her to finish, and she's not going to unless I follow up. I have some beer. Push or hang back?

Grace has her own plans. "So, your family's from Arizona."

I almost say, "I thought we were talking about you," but from my mouth comes, "Well, I grew up there. My parents are from Florida though, the Panhandle, by way of everywhere really."

I almost miss Grace's smile and wink. Do I win a prize? She says, "That's where you get it from."

"Get what from?"

"Don't play dumb, Mr. International Man of Mystery."

I laugh. Thank you for that, Grace. "Yeah, my . . . my sisters tell me I can play from anywhere, like Anthony Quinn, or Omar Sharif."

Grace drinks some wine. "I don't know who those people are."

"Oh, they're actors, old movie stars."

Grace has her phone out, tapping away. A moment later, she says, "You flatter yourself."

"How so?"

"You're okay, but this Omar Sharif fellow, those eyes." Grace presses her phone against her breasts, gives me a come-hither look, meant for Omar.

We laugh. Grace puts her phone away. The cafe is quiet, classical guitar soft on the speakers.

We both reach for our glasses and drink.

My father and I don't really watch war movies. Except the 70mm epic masterpiece, _Lawrence of Arabia_. Our '80s tube TV be damned, I fall in love with Lawrence. Forlorn Peter O'Toole riding in the jeep at the end. He's back in uniform, saluting, returning to a place no longer home. I don't want to go either, Lawrence. I want more movie.

That opening. We listen to the overture, watch the credits, while Lawrence takes extra care to clean his motorcycle. Details count. Attention matters.

Then Lawrence revs the engine and speeds off, chasing a rush, ignoring the literal warning sign. The chase takes primacy and Lawrence crashes, giving his life. From there we get a funeral and the journey spins out in flashback.

Grace is asking me a question. I catch her eye and she says, "You like old movies?"

"I like all kinds of movies."

Grace fidgets in her seat, taps the table with her fingers. "Uh, I'm going to have another drink. You want anything?"

"I'm good."

The cafe stays quiet. No Chief. No regulars.

When Grace returns with a fresh glass of red, she's smiling. After she sits and has a moment with the wine, she says, "I loved _Gone with the Wind_ when I was little."

"Sure."

" _The Wizard of Oz_ too. They were made the same year."

"1939."

Grace looks so satisfied.

I add, "Once a year, they'd play them on TV."

"Hmm?"

"I watched them on TV," I say, "when I was young."

"My dad gave me the DVDs. The two movies came together, Hollywood classics. That scene when Scarlett is going out, but before she goes out she insists on eating . . ."

"So she won't stuff herself in public and get embarrassed for not acting ladylike."

"You got to eat like a bird, Miss Scarlett. So yeah, we made that a thing. Dad would tell me not to ruin my appetite and I'd say, 'I'm Scarletting.'"

"Eating before you're expected to eat."

Grace has a gulp of wine. "Right, eat before you eat."

" _Gone with the Wind_ makes me think of the burning of Atlanta."

"I, as a girl, I adored Scarlett, a heroine with will."

"A woman who takes nothing from nobody."

"She does for herself, doesn't wait to be rescued."

"She's punished in the end though."

Grace is about to have more wine. She puts the glass down. She's looking at me, thoughts forming. She has the wine after all and says, "Scarlett's not punished. She's saved. Saves herself."

Is that right? I haven't seen the movie in years. Gable leaves, Leigh cries, hears the voice of her dead father, "Tara," and tomorrow is another day. I have a swig of beer and wait for elaboration from Grace.

From the look on her face, I think she takes my silence as agreement. I won't argue. Instead I say, "I still love _The Wizard of Oz_."

"I'm sorry?"

"You said they came together, the two DVDs."

Grace tilts her head—not the first time. A signal she's unsure what I'm talking about. "Uh, yeah, did . . . ? I don't know. But, yeah, it's good too."

By the time of the VCR project, _The Wizard of Oz_ is already an annual network rotation. But with the VCR at my disposal, I record the movie off the television. I watch _The Wizard of Oz_ at night, a song at a time, with everyone asleep or at work, the sound down low. Don't want to wake the house, but also the volume forces me to listen, to find Dorothy and her friends. I have to go to them, sit close, let the warmth of the screen hold me.

Eventually, I steal a VHS copy from Walmart. Slip it under my shirt, mosey to the door, discreet. No need to run. No alarm. Oblivious greeters and security. Mr. Walton misses me too, blinded by his curtain.

Pretend wizards all around. From the window of the car when Sarah drives me home from school. The endless aisles of false variety at the supermarket. Fake spells, scribbles on paper, exchanged at the bank and post office. The lights at the mall create shadows to hide sales tricks. Even in the wide-open spaces, the ball fields and parking lots, I see the world's ripe artifice. Oz provides ample warning, and presents an alternative. Not without risk, but easier to navigate. I dream of a worthy sequel, _Escape to Oz_.

Glinda tells Dorothy she had the power in her all along. There's no place like home. All you need to do is click your heels together.

I beg Dorothy to resist. Don't go back to that drab black-and-white world. They'll make you be a girl. In Oz, you can lose the gingham dress and the bow in your hair. Become a woman. Ms. Dorothy Gale.

Stay with the Scarecrow. Put your heads together to rule the kingdom—a benevolent duo. Look to the Cowardly Lion for courage, Dorothy. You'll be okay, plenty of good folks in Oz to open your heart to. The Tin Man leads by example.

If nothing else, Munchkins know how to party.

Arizona doesn't have tornadoes. I search for other Oz avenues, look for wormholes during my desert bike rides.

In the cafe, Grace and I chat. I enjoy my beer. Grace recounts her fruitless job search. She's overqualified. She's underqualified. Nobody is hiring. She perseveres. Her mother worries, but they're getting along better. It's complicated. Steve, blah, blah, boyfriend is a moron. Blah. We talk of other things as well. Those details are for Grace and me. Conversation that creates small connections. Connections subsumed into our experience together.

I enjoy my beer, but I become antsy. I'm thinking of the work on _Rideshare_ that I haven't done. I finish my pint and Grace is about to polish off her latest glass.

"I'm going to take off," I say.

"Oh, but we . . . alright." She downs the remaining wine.

I stand and push my chair in. "If you want, I can give you a ride. I'm an excellent driver. My father lets me drive slow on the driveway every Saturday."

Grace looks up at me, all distant. "Huh?"

"Nothing. Anyway, you want a ride?"

Her gaze moves behind me, like something catches her attention. Reflex almost makes me look.

Grace says, "No, I'm going to hang here for a while. See you."

SIX

At the car, I feel like getting paid to drive home, so I turn on Miss Daisy and KITT and wait for a ride going my way.

The ridesharing algorithm sends me Drew. He's in for the Important Advanced-Tech Summit, or the Important Tech Advanced Summit, or whatever.

I think of Grace laughing, not at this, no, a conversation we have in the future. And in my car, Drew laughs. He's in his phone, doesn't look up, but must feel my eyes in the mirror.

He says, "This is something man. Videos of some yahoo punching people looking at their phones. The New York subway, the Mall of America, city streets. Flash punches. Punching and running."

"What city streets?"

"All over the country, coast to coast."

"The same guy?"

Drew shrugs. "Same guys maybe. Has to be at least two, a puncher and whoever's shooting the clip. Spotters too probably. Looks like they're scouting their victims."

"Punching people?"

"Yup."

"Any reason why?"

"Uh, tell people to pay attention." Another shrug. "At least they're not shooting people. That's getting so old."

"Eh, they'll catch 'em soon enough."

"Caught, not caught, get famous or toil in obscurity, everything's performance art."

I drop Drew at a Thai restaurant three blocks from my house.

Is it new, or is this the first time I'm noticing it?

I head home and the rest of the afternoon goes by in cleaning, dinner, and a few solid hours on selling the podcast. Start with strategic tweets, work on Facebook, and don't forget Instagram. Massage that online personality, concentrate on the differences between my social media self and my real self, choose which characteristics to dial up and which to dial down, a necessity if one wants to be attractive, to stand out from the crowd. I'm avoiding my sister's party pics, but that doesn't stop me from adding photos of my guests to the _Rideshare_ page. Let people see the advantages of my podcast.

No date tonight. Online, I check in with the comedians Lumbago Grippe and Quinsy Chilblains, better known as The Dropsy Duo. Their latest is a short film, _The D.C. Killer_.

A thriller. A former U.S. president is a serial killer. Obama? Drone strikes. Dubya? Invasions. President Zombie Ronald Reagan? Forget his affection for terrorists and death squads, he's a red herring.

As Special Agent Clarice Lecter, Lumbago Grippe presents the circumstantial evidence against them all, even Jimmy Carter. Only Bill Clinton is slick enough to distract from his crimes, the missile launches and welfare "reform." Lecter's partner says, "The only slaying Bill's doing is with my girlfriend."

Without a smoking gun, the investigation drags on until one night we see Special Agent Lecter in bed, waking with a start, a figure in the room with her, a glint of steel, and a voice to make Dana Carvey smile.

"Sleeping on H.W. Wouldn't be prudent."

Lecter is gagging, gurgling, bleeding out from the razor slash to her throat. George H.W. Bush knows you're dead before he taunts you.

"A thousand points of light. Then you go dark."

That ninny laugh and fade to black.

Fade up on a bland conference room, a generic long table, men in suits sitting, listening to a guy standing in the front next to a blank screen.

A subtitle reads: FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. Quantico, VA.

Quinsy Chilblains is the agent standing. Her oversized fake black mustache cues that she's playing a man, and a second title identifies her as Unit Chief Hagen.

Hagen demands his subordinates learn from Special Agent Lecter's failed investigation and subsequent murder at the hands of George H.W. Bush.

"Clearly clues were missed," says an exasperated Hagen.

He orders the lights dimmed and goes through the clues one by one, projecting slides from the corresponding time in Bush's life.

H.W. was part of the first generation born while his family made a fortune operating a shell company for the Nazis.

He became a Navy pilot at eighteen, flew in World War II, had his plane shot down, witnessed crew members killed, ditched in the ocean, and waited for rescue.

He was a college athlete.

He was head of the CIA.

He assembled a cadre of ultracompetent hatchet men to help guide him during his eight years as veep and his four as POTUS.

Chilblains finishes with flare. "In summation, of each ex-president, even President Zombie Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush is the only man with the combination of moral temperament, ambition, kinesthetic know-how, intelligence, and work ethic to be the killer. I see it, you see it, and Special Agent Lecter should've seen it too.

"Don't let the voice, the vomiting, the mock turtlenecks and purple socks fool you."

Next to the video's comment section, I see a link for the "Flash Punchers" story.

I click through. Drew has it correct, the cities and the setup, except the clips are more violent than he lets on. Punching isn't shooting, but getting blindsided, hitting the ground hard, subdural hematomas, and for sure, the Wikipedia list of Facebook killers will gain another entry.

Social media offers novel ways to share death and dying, which reminds me of a trivia question. Who's the only person ever killed on live national television?

Lee Harvey Oswald.

Yes, TV brings us other deaths. R. Budd Dwyer, suicide, local affiliate, Christine Chubbuck, suicide, local affiliate, Alison Parker and Adam Ward, murdered, local affiliate. But now our culture's violence goes viral much more quickly. Like the execution of Bill Maher during the taping of his show. You've probably seen it already, but if by some chance you haven't, do yourself a favor and avoid it. Even the GIF of S.E. Cupp, sprayed with brain and blood, screaming, tearing her glasses from her face, spreading blood more. I want to go back in time and tell my younger self to skip it. Not because I can't handle it. No. Too many people are getting off on the images.

I won't watch it again, and anyway, it's almost midnight.

I check in on social media and see my earlier _Rideshare_ work is already paying off. The representatives of a few potential guests are expressing their interest. Often, my appeals get a lot of non-responses. I understand. The guests I'm aiming for have constant demands on their time, so it's nice when the work pays dividends. Like recently, I'm rewarded with my most major get to date.

Annette Bening.

I shouldn't spoil it, but a mix of pride and greed chooses to spill a teaser.

I let Ms. Bening know I'm a fan without revealing the importance her role in _The Grifters_ plays in my transformation from boy to man. Let's not make this weird at the outset. I also leave aside any mention of the secret powers she must possess to tame Warren Beatty.

Instead, we talk of Ms. Bening's Best Actress Academy Award for _20th Century_ _Women_. Of course, Bening's win was the surest of sure things because since the days of Gloria Swanson, Hollywood has built an industry on women's stories. Stories that require actresses in their fifties who look and play age appropriate, who dye their hair gray for the sake of veracity, who play single mothers attempting to understand the vast changes that have swept the world in the forty years since they were sixteen and had to work at the factory to support the war effort and help humans wipe Nazism from the face of the earth.

Everybody knows that, so of course, Annette Bening wins an Oscar.

Except she doesn't, and Emma Stone, go fuck yourself because anybody can barely dance (poorly), and sing in a musical like she's a graduate of the Rex Harrison voice school while portraying an artist with an ego too big to realize it's not hard work that enables her to overcome run-of-the-mill mediocrity, but luck that launches her to stardom in a town that churns through women like a homicidal husband with a wood chipper.

When I say Ms. Bening and I talk, I mean me. Ever the classy one, Ms. Bening takes my rant in stride and turns the conversation away from herself.

She says, "I don't see myself as competing with other actresses. I mean, I went through a time when I was in New York, and I was going to lots of auditions and trying to get parts, but even then, you're not really competing with the other actresses. There is a competition going on, but it's not like something you can win in that way."

We talk about her character in _20th Century Women_ , playing a mother who doesn't express emotions easily.

Ms. Bening says, "It's kind of a mystery to me, as far as my own life experiences and what I've witnessed—why some people can just move on through traumatic experiences, in childhood particularly, and why other people are just paralyzed by it. I just don't know how and why that is."

She comments on her process, and preparing for a role.

"I always wonder about people's history and their lives, especially people that are a little bit more distant, who obviously have had some kind of a thing, and you know there's some reason why they're not able to connect. It's not because they don't want to. They don't have the ability."

We also touch on family.

She says, "Our children see us a certain way, and we want to be seen by them in a certain way. I certainly want to be a strong, stable, loving, consistent presence in my children's lives. But we are human beings, too."

You can catch the rest of my conversation with the fantastic Ms. Bening on the _Rideshare_ podcast. Download the free app today.

With my podcast work done, I'm ready to wind down with someone else's.

A _Fresh Air_ episode. Keith Maitland, a filmmaker, is on to talk about his documentary, _Tower_.

The film uses archival footage, interviews, and animation to re-create the afternoon of August 1, 1966 when a sniper opened fire from the observation deck of the library tower at the University of Texas in Austin. Maitland and Dave Davies, in for Terry Gross, discuss the scene.

About the observation deck, Davies says, "It wraps around the circumference of the tower. There's a balcony there so that the sniper could point to the west and find victims and then go around to the east side and find other victims. And he had a huge area to find targets, which probably made it much harder for people to realize what was happening."

Maitland speaks to the chaos on the ground. "You know, we live in a world today where you hear a loud sound that sounds like a gunshot in a public space and it doesn't take long to kind of assume that there's something happening that you don't want to be a part of, to protect yourself, to run and hide. But in 1966 on this, you know, hot Monday morning here in Austin, people were surprised. They were confused. And so it made the sniper's job a lot easier to catch people unaware."

In 1966, law enforcement has no protocol for a sniper. Citizens show up with guns and fire back at the shooter, complicating the crazy.

After ninety-six minutes, the siege ends when two police officers, Houston McCoy and Ramiro Martinez, make it up to the observation deck, ambush the sniper, and kill him.

Maitland describes the reaction to the mass shooting. "You know, the University of Texas shut down for one day. And they cleaned up the blood. They spackled as many of the bullet holes as they could find, and then classes resumed. That year, in 1966, there was no mention of the tower shooting at graduation. There's no mention of it in the school yearbook. There was no memorial to the students. It really was pushed into the shadows. And people were encouraged, you know, to move forward and—and not linger, you know, in the terrible tragedy of that day."

After the Maitland interview, Davies talks to survivors. I can't do it. I too need to move forward and not linger. It's late. I'm supposed to be winding down.

In bed, I lie awake, over fifty years since the events in Austin, and not only does nothing change, but now gun violence is worse. Numbers swirl in my head.

33,500 annual gun deaths in the U.S.

21,000 suicides.

11,700 homicides.

92 people dead from guns every day.

SEVEN

This morning's jog is simply a mode of transportation. To and from Pilates class.

The women who do Pilates usually have a background in dance or gymnastics. Watching their strong, flexible bodies move fills me with ideas. The other man in the Pilates class is a chubby husband occasionally there with his chubby wife. They're perpetual beginners.

Too many men demand weights and grunts, presses, clean and jerks. They miss the ballerina leaping through the air, leg extended, her foot cracking the weightlifter's rib and a piece breaks off and punctures a lung. Watch the weightlifter unable to breathe, collapse to the ground, or watch the dancer instead, balance on a toe, body straight, leg lifted above her head.

Joseph Pilates, born in Germany, a sickly child who finds strength in fitness. A life of boxing and gymnastics leads him to England where at the start of World War I he's imprisoned in an interment camp.

Prison doesn't keep Pilates down. He develops his technique by rigging springs to bed frames, keeping himself and his fellow prisoners fit and healthy.

My instructor, Lucretia, offers so much motivation. Her Italian accent. Her tanned skin. Her makeup remains unmussed even during the exertions of teaching. Her curly brown hair flows in slow motion like a shampoo ad. Her blue eyes and earrings twinkle.

Lucretia unlocks Pilates for me. She stresses opposition, lengthening the body, core always engaged.

She says, "Shoulders down. Don't collapse your back."

Lucretia demonstrates exercises with ease. She lies on her back, raises her legs ninety degrees, and more, over her head, lifting her butt off the mat. She places her hands on her lower back, not to hold herself up, no, she does that with her abs. Her hands just keep her steady as she begins to bicycle her legs out, down and up again, pointing her toes and flexing her heels, point and flex, then changing direction. She speaks without effort while she does this, explaining the steps and purpose.

"Always with a pretty face," she says.

Lucretia offers so much motivation. The women who take the class do too. Soldiers and dancers, the fun we can have, but I don't ogle in class, or flirt. Never. It's exercise, not social hour, and I've got other places to find a date.

Grace is another matter. The sweaty female bodies flick me with thoughts, and in class, in the middle of an ab series, I'm seeing Grace naked. She looks good. I like touching her.

I shake off the distraction and get back on pace with Lucretia. Grace and I won't sleep together. I don't think.

Post-Pilates, I jog home.

I use the rest of the morning to follow up on the _Rideshare_ contacts from yesterday. I also work on what, for me, is the minutia of the podcast. Research. It's necessary though, so I suck it up. I mine Twitter and Facebook, peruse LinkedIn, join some relevant Mastermind groups. I remind myself that if I want to increase my subscribers and monetize my work, I should look into Patreon. Managing the podcast particulars can get tedious, too much leads nowhere. I won't bore you with the details, but without the behind the scenes, _Rideshare_ doesn't exist.

With the afternoon comes time to work on home improvement. I have several projects that need doing, but I'd rather drive.

My first ride is Amirah, a young woman in a white headscarf and a gray, silver-trimmed abaya. A man is with her at the curb, and he does the flagging of the car and the greeting. For a second, I assume I'm giving them both a ride. The man opens the door, holds Amirah's hand while she gets in the back. As she buckles the seat belt, he says something to her in a language I don't understand. She nods and responds. The man gently closes the door, his human touch better than the no-slam feature.

Amirah continues the silent treatment. This is a Miss Daisy ride, so I take the hint. The headscarf frames her face, highlighting her smooth skin and hazel eyes, and it bulges in the back from the bulk of her hair. I imagine thick curls tumbling out when she removes it. Forget the man back home. Come away with me, I can carry you through all the heavens in a single night.

Despite the rhetoric of President Brittle Body, I'm seeing more covered women recently. Black headscarves, pastels, stripes, colored patterns, pushed back to show the forehead, or further, exposing wisps of hair.

What goes on under the hijab? In the Army, a sergeant tells me about covered women in Beirut, in black, all but the eyes. They're Saudis on vacation, in the mall, shopping for skimpy lace underwear. Sexy for someone.

Amirah keeps eyes out the window. Muslims claim status can be earned by the lesser. Nonbelievers convert. Slaves gain freedom. Children become adults. And women? They're forever women, so how can they rise above their preordained station? I say grow and change. Evolve. Muslim dress isn't the problem. It's the limited expectations put on the body inside.

I deliver Amirah downtown, get some silent trips, over to Laurel Heights, the Riverfront, around the Riverfront, and back downtown.

My body is fatigued. My ankle aches, pain spreads to my calf, the sole of my foot. The old injury. Pushing a pedal is about the worst thing I can do, but no, I persevere. Forget the old injury. The pain is in my head.

Still, I take my good luck, a metered spot with money on it. Time enough to stretch my legs.

After a few blocks, I enter the mall and head downstairs to the food court. Scanning my options, I'm distracted by a child, a boy, a toddler with his parents, sitting at a table. The mother is saying something to the boy, giving him a stern talk. Dad is going with encouraging smile, gawking maybe, I'm not sure whose side he's on. Is he? I can't hear Mom over the food court noise. She's gesturing, put your hands, your palms, together. Now bow your head. The boy listens and copies.

This child being forced to pray, he's not old enough to understand the concept of religion. This little boy may still think the universe came into existence at the moment of his birth. He's his own god, the only god. He and his parents pray. Prayers and wishes.

Grace. In the world with me. She's tucking stray hair back behind her ear. She has that look, the head tilt, doubt. She leans in, eyes get bigger, she's got subtext for you. Grace likes to talk without talking, lets you in when you don't expect it.

Now, Grace is in the world, doing. Is she at the cafe?

I'm too slow at the food court. Free time on the meter is running low.

Save time, save money. Spend time, spend money. Waste time, waste money.

I'm almost out of the food court when a woman pushing a stroller walks past me. We both stop and she backs up until we're facing each other.

She's familiar, I'm trying to place her, and she says, "I know—"

"Yeah . . ."

She raises a finger, sort of point-shakes it at me like it'll spark something. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

"David," and I'm about to add that I need her name too.

"Heather."

"Right." I smile and it comes back to me. Heather and I go out once. Two years ago. Heather from Cleveland. She teaches me about Cleveland steamers. Three older brothers, the Army, Vegas, all-access porn, and it takes Heather from Cleveland to hip me to steamers.

"You want one?" she asks on our date. She's kidding. Maybe.

In the food court, I say, "How've you been?"

"Good, you?"

I notice the rock on her finger and look down at the stroller. The child is that amorphous age, baby age, not walking yet, definitely not talking, soft and blobby. This baby is the tortoise from the test at the beginning of _Blade Runner_ , the tortoise crawling in the desert. I flip it over and lay it on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can't. Not without my help. But I'm not helping.

Boy or girl? Girl or boy? I say, "What's the child's name?" Such a dork I am. The child.

"Brittany."

"She's beautiful." She's blubbery smush. Scary.

"Thank you. Well . . ." Heather's eyes flit around me. "You off to work?"

"No."

Heather is waiting. Then surprised I'm done.

What does she want? Yes, you heard correctly, a firm rejection, again. What do you care? You're doing okay. Or do you secretly hate the father, resent the ugly baby you push around all day? You know dogs are less work?

"Alright," she says. "Well, nice seeing you."

"Likewise, and congratulations."

"Thanks."

In _The World According to Garp_ , Jenny Fields believes men and boys are "sick with lust." She's speaking to me and I listen because I'm a boy sick with lust and how can Garp's mom know unless it's true.

Jenny Fields is a nurse. She lives in a mansion by the sea, turns it into a haven for women who need help. I want to live in that home with all those women. I want Jenny Fields to heal me.

Back at the car, I turn on KITT and pick up Phil, a business traveler going to the airport. At an intersection, while waiting for the light to change, Phil notices a bucket drummer on the corner. Two police officers stand close to him, watching, looking bored as hell.

Phil has the window down, so we can hear the music. The drummer sings along with the beat.

"Na na na na na, na na na na, na na na na na na, na na na na."

I know that song. You know that song. What's that song?

"Man," says Phil, "every city has one. I wonder who the first guy to think of playing a bucket was."

The drummer pauses and the cops take a step forward. One says, "Okay, pack it up."

"Got to get something to eat," says the drummer.

I go through the intersection and the rest of the ride is quick and silent, except every few minutes I hear Phil humming, "Na na na na na, na na na na, na na na na na na, na na na na."

I pick up Manuel from arrivals. He's getting back from a vacation in L.A. Tells me he used to live there—forty years ago.

"I was twenty," he says, "when I moved to Southern California."

He has a faint accent, been speaking English most of his life. He's got a calm face, wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. Handsome hardened by smoking. Brown eyes that want to talk. Manuel understands rotations.

He says, "I rode a motorcycle. I rode that motorcycle all over, Pasadena, Manhattan Beach, Hollywood, up in the hills, all over."

Manuel's eyes go back, his life ahead of him. The motorcycle is his chariot. Crowds cheer and throw petals. Manuel stops the motorcycle, offers a hand to a beautiful woman. She climbs on, wraps her arms tight around Manuel's waist. He introduces her to Los Angeles. They make the city theirs.

I drop Manuel at his apartment. He lives across from a church. The 2000-year-old cult thing doesn't go down well, but I'm called to run in. I consider lighting a candle. They don't have any. I guess they worry guys like me might burn the whole place down. I sit in a pew and feel the hopes and fears the worshippers bring with them. I let the weight of their prayers rest on my shoulders. Am I too quick to dismiss the praying mother and boy in the food court? Prayers contain mass, not much, but turn your attention and feel the pressure against your skin. Prayers are real, more real than so much of what we encounter every day.

Prayers and wishes. Happy, apple, iPad.

I'm not sure how long I sit in the church. My body feels good, no more hurt in my ankle. Home improvement awaits, and wait it will.

After a few uneventful Miss Daisy rides, I'm on another airport run.

Gordon. Laid back, strong chin, poised even after his flight. Gordon, from here on out, Commish. He's in from Dallas for a wedding. A college buddy is "making the leap."

Commish says the buddy, "started up a startup, he's starting up a marriage, wanting to start up a family."

My music is down low, major background. I change the tunes, slick with the console, bring up the volume. The Rolling Stones.

"If you start me up.

"If you start me up, I'll never stop.

"If you start me up.

"If you start me up, I'll never stop."

I spy Commish. He says nothing, shows nothing. Then his brain makes the connection, neurons fire comfort, and his body sinks into the back seat.

I give a gentle push to eighty, come up over a lovely crest on the highway. Blue water meets blue horizon. Commish feels the beauty in his chest. Breathes.

He says, "You been having nice weather?"

"This time of year the same every day. Coming from where you're coming from, you may think it's cold, nights for sure."

"Let me tell you, I'm Texan born and bred and it's getting hotter and hotter." Commish's comfort lets slip a folksy Dubya twang. He has worked on losing the Texas from his accent, the inverse of the pains taken by the former Yankee president.

Commish is looking up and out the window. "So many planes spewing pollution. The worst. I should've facetimed myself to the wedding, you know, saved the flight. Showing up shows you care though, right?"

"Sure."

"You have kids?"

"Nope."

"Me neither. Why, right? All they're gonna get is environmental collapse. If World War III doesn't vaporize them first."

"Expansionary practices do consume resources."

The war between Mexico and the United States exposes the evil behind manifest destiny, serves as prologue to the Civil War and across the new border, French occupation leads to the Franco-Prussian War and armies continue to march. They dig trenches to World War I and plot revenge in World War II. Treaties stop nothing. Old gripes flare up in Berlin, Cuba, and Vietnam.

Go further back. Revolutions. Wars of independence. So-called enlightenment. Trade and commerce. Britain hates France and they share their mistrust of the eastern half of the continent, and Russia is a cipher beyond.

Rape and slavery and serfs. Fights so deep we get wars that last eighty and a hundred years. Times so desperate, for a peasant girl, hearing voices provides a path to power.

The Turks spread Islam to the world, the lights of Córdoba. The Alhambra. Khan's Mongols run east to west and back again. Rome takes and holds. Greece too. Alexander weeps for there are no more worlds to conquer.

Go further back if you want and find similar history in Assyria and Babylonia. We haven't even mentioned China's empire, or the invasion and genocide of the Americas. Trying something different is more of the same. War purges the weak, allowing the elite, the warmongers, to consolidate resources, enriching themselves and their own.

This pause I'm born into, the wars I survive are skirmishes. That's no disrespect for the dead. We have a choice. The pause I'm born into works like a slingshot. We're getting pulled back. The resistance you feel has to go somewhere. Let's not snap. Let's launch ourselves into the future.

Commish cranes his neck. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing."

His eyes return to the window. This lone wolf, no plus-one. Don't ask why.

As we exit the highway, Commish comes back to me. "I saw this dude online." He snaps his fingers next to his face. "I can't remember his name. Anyway, he's been biking through the Northwest, had this idea, dime a dozen for most, not this guy. At first he decides to bike to Boise just 'cause, but he didn't stop there. He started a live GoPro stream, has been posting photos and videos. He's even got crowdsourcing involved. You help him on his route buying shoes, and food and bike stuff. He's calling it the Bike America Challenge."

"Forrest Gump on a bike."

Commish laughs like he's programmed to and says, "That's a movie, right?"

"Yup."

"I've never seen it."

"Save yourself the time."

Commish gets a curious look. He's experiencing a toppling of his expectations. He says, "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Commish purses his lips and nods. He seems satisfied, appreciative of the small piece of information, one hundred forty-two minutes of value.

I say, "No more polar bears." The words leave my mouth before I realize they're even in my head.

"What?" says Commish.

"Nothing, sorry. So, your first time here?"

"Yeah. How's the Riverfront?"

"Nothing special unless you want to go full tourist."

We're in nice run of green lights, going to the west side, traffic moving as one, a vehicular phalanx.

"Jeez," says Commish, "there's a lot going on here."

He's noticed. Addicts. Homeless. Lost. Prone bodies. Buzzing fixes. Vets. Despair vibrates around these blocks. Human suffering. No GoPros.

What happens if I ask Commish whether he follows the news? He needs a second to comprehend the concept of "news," then calls himself informed. I mention the wealth disparity we hear about, tell Commish to look around. This exchange stays in my head. Drive, don't lecture.

I am grateful to be driving.

I am grateful for my problems.

We turn off the main strip and a block later I drop Commish at his hotel.

Time for a drink.

No Grace at the cafe, oh well, there are other days. She does miss the double bill though.

First we have an unexpected appearance. Matt LeBlanc is here. Mom and Pop have no clue that it's Joey from _Friends_. Two days ago, Jon gets in my car and now another celebrity. Are we the latest city to offer Hollywood a tax break on their productions?

As I purchase my pint, I check out Mr. LeBlanc in my peripheral. He's older, heavier, grayer, and still too handsome to trust around your sister. The man glows, not like you and me. People who don't recognize him know he's somebody. Go ahead, laugh at Matt LeBlanc's "star power." In the flesh, you can't miss it.

He's sitting with a guy in a suit. They're relaxed. This get-together is an interview with a known journalist, or a project meeting with a friendly producer. Pleasure mixing with business. I have to resist intruding. But this is an opportunity to network for _Rideshare_. I'd be a fool to pass it up. No, no, respect the men's privacy.

I forgo my usual spot to sit close to Joey. My back is to him but I know what he looks like. I eavesdrop.

He says, "Now the word has a connotation of jerk or loser, but Joey Tribbiani is a fesso from the comedic tradition of Italian theater. The clown. Teased but lovable, always wanting to do the right thing. He just can't help himself."

When the other guy talks, with the noise in the cafe, his voice sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher. Mr. LeBlanc laughs, too hearty and loud to be genuine and when he speaks again, he's quiet, so I only catch a few words, "Yes . . . smarter . . . never . . ."

Note to self: Invite Jennifer Aniston on _Rideshare_.

I fight the urge to talk to Mr. Leblanc. Don't conscript him in your effort to woo Ms. Aniston.

Jennifer, if you're reading this, you have an open invitation to the podcast. We'll talk about everything but Brad and babies, get to know each other, have a real heart-to-heart. Authentic if that word weren't so overused. Hell, authentic. Seriously, come on the podcast. You won't regret it.

I'm trying to tune back to Joey when the afternoon's second show starts a little early. Chief, who's been hunched over his coffee in the corner, stands, breathes, drinks from his mug, and exhales a loud, "Ahhhh."

A few people look, and look away.

Chief walks over to the coffee-fixing station and puts his mug in the dirty bin. He faces the tables and makes the following announcement:

"Dollars and Pesos. George Washington, Benito Juárez, Abraham Lincoln, José María Morelos, Alexander Hamilton, Nezahualcoyotl, Andrew Jackson, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Ulysses S. Grant, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo."

A few patrons are caught off guard. They ask questions to each other, shrug. Some guy, crazy. Nobody claps. Regulars take it in stride. I give a half turn to Matt LeBlanc. He's smiling at Chief, happy to be bewildered.

Pop pounces, doesn't touch Chief, but gets up close. Chief is fine. He'll move when he's ready. Pop is whispering, hissing almost. His hand floats near Chief's elbow, so close without touching. Chief starts walking to the door, eyes locked on the exit. He avoids bumping the tables through muscle memory. Pop hovers close behind until Chief is all the way out and gone, then retreats back behind the counter, spewing Turkish to Mom.

Those big faces on our money. Look them in the eye when you spend them. I get old-style bills sometimes, the ones with the smaller heads. I don't remember them well from childhood.

Monopoly money. On a summer day, too hot to go outside, my sisters get in on the TV action, playing along with _The Price Is Right_. They use Monopoly money, a visual representation of their showcase bids, no "take backs."

I'm allowed to play too, but not as a contestant. I'm Holly, or Janice, a prize model. Myra's robe doubles as gown, Sarah scrounges up costume jewelry. I even do my hair and makeup and practice my arm motions and hand gestures, so when I stand next to the TV and mimic the models showing off the prizes, my sisters hoot and holler, teasing that I'm the future replacement.

At the end of the show, Bob Barker gives his signature sign off, "Help control the pet population. Have your pet spayed or neutered."

Myra says, "We should get Dave spayed."

"He's a boy," says Sarah.

"So?"

"So boys get neutered. Girls get spayed."

"We should get Dave spayed," says Myra.

Those big faces on our money. The feds won't redesign the one-dollar bill. George stays small. Congress says nope to a bigger Washington. The vending machine lobby carries much influence. Cabals of Lizard Men in suits may conspire against you, but other schemes grind, hidden in the bowels of the machine, the dusty corners, the deep vaults where only the most stout or stupid venture. Their yeoman's work creates the scaffolding that holds up everything.

Men's shirts have buttons on the right. Residential front doors open in, not out. Alternating current becomes standard.

The women of George Washington's Continental Army sew and cook, act as nurses. The men enjoy drink, the women too. Babies join the army, more bodies to wrangle, mouths to feed. Washington has to manage morale. He increases the alcohol ration. Rowdy is okay as long as they continue not losing.

Washington, fearful of public speaking, afraid of pomp and circumstance. Show too much power, become a king. Show too little, the republic fails.

Washington, later in life, retired, on a stormy winter's night, the First President, General, Founding Father, Richest Person in the Country rides out to check the boundary markers on his plantation.

Coming in from the cold, Washington tells his slave, no thank you, he will not change out of his wet clothes, not before dinner. George sits down, drenched, and eats his mutton.

The following morning, Washington wakes with a sore throat. He goes outside again, into the cold, and his condition worsens. He can barely speak. Doctors attend to him, apply leeches, and in a few hours, remove half his blood. Washington weakens and dies.

Mel says, "File that under Newton's cats."

Done.

The story of Sir Isaac Newton's cats goes back at least one hundred twenty years. Newton wants his cat and her kittens to come and go as they please from his lab, so he builds two cat doors, a big one for the mother and a smaller one for the kittens.

Apocryphal to be sure. Too bad genius Newton is the sap used to illustrate the point that smart people aren't immune from dumb decisions. Haters gonna hate, and if it's the only lesson we learn, Newton still teaches us something.

In the cafe, LeBlanc and his companion are wrapping up, making small talk. I almost catch the hotel LeBlanc mentions. Hah, I'm not going to stalk him. Should I offer my driving services, drop a mention of _Rideshare_ while I'm at it?

I let the fesso go. He walks out of the cafe, but he's still in my life.

And wouldn't you know it, like a million scenes in a million shows, one character leaves, another enters.

EIGHT

Grace walks into the cafe and stops. That change from natural light to the artificial, she needs a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. Time enough for me to notice her looking, hoping to find what she's looking for. Her eyes meet mine and I catch the moment of recognition. Wish fulfillment. She smiles and comes over to the table.

Grace has a glow today. Did she bump into Matt LeBlanc on the street? Or do I pick up the glow and give it to Grace?

"Hello, hello," she says, and points to my nearly empty glass. "Buy you a drink?"

"Sure. Thanks."

I don't stare at Grace while she waits in line, but I look, snatch glances when I can. She's in a blue dress today. I like how it falls over her strong shoulders, the curve of her waist, the contrast with her hips. I imagine Grace in my bedroom. I'm standing behind her, pressing my body to hers, wrapping my arms around her, holding her, not tight, but strong. My face brushes against her hair, her ear, and I'm smelling the spot where her jawline meets her neck. Her pheromones drive me wild.

In the cafe, I notice a glint of sunlight also attracted to that spot on her neck. Some must hit Grace's eye because she flinches and almost catches me staring. I'm staring. Stop staring.

Seinfeld tells George not to stare at Denise Richards's cleavage. It's like "looking at the sun," says Jerry. "You don't stare at it."

Apply that lesson to Grace in general. We aren't going to sleep together. I don't think.

Grace sits across from me, glass of red in hand.

I thank her for the pint.

"No worries," she says. "So, what's going on?"

"You missed the show. This guy, Chief, a regular—"

"No, I meant you. What's going on with you?"

"Oh, uh, nothing special." I taste my beer. Why bore Grace with procrastination of home projects?

Grace shakes her head and drinks. She says, "I need to make a decision."

"About what?"

She laughs. "About my life."

"How's the job search?"

Grace shoots me a dirty look. I'm about to defend myself when her eyes soften. She shakes her head. "It's not just the job. This city. I don't know."

She admires her glass, takes a nice sip, savors, swallows, and sighs. "How about you? You won't drive for the rest of your life."

I have some beer. "I thought we were talking about you."

"We were." She playfully slaps the back of my hand. "Now we're talking about you."

"I'm good with driving."

Grace leans back, looks at me askew.

"What?" I ask.

She sits forward, drinks, and says, "I look at you, I see a guy who has plans for the future. Goals."

Yes. Observation and self-improvement. Knowledge of people. I say, "I know I'm not setting the world on fire, but . . ."

There's the tilt of the head. Grace acts like she's going to drink, but pauses to speak. "Plans and goals don't have to mean setting the world on fire." She has some wine. "What'd you do before you started driving?"

The early Travis Bickle days and nights in the city, the long walks, and long drives before I can get paid. I say, "You know, little of this, little of that."

Grace's eyes narrow, she leans toward me, checking left and right before whispering, "Something illegal?"

I'm tempted to spin, take Grace for a little ride, Keyser Söze style, but I don't have the chops, and even if I pull it off, I won't feel good about the deceit. I smile, shake my head and give her truth, not of those early days in the city. Before.

"Not illegal. Only unethical. Real estate."

Grace sits back and laughs. Louder than I think necessary. Pop thinks so too, and glowers from his perch behind the counter. Grace doesn't notice, but manages to settle herself. She takes a deep breath and a drink.

I say, "What's so funny?"

She examines me, shifty-eyed, and starts nodding. She shakes a finger. "Yeah, yeah, I can see it Mr. Sharif wannabe. What was your shtick?"

"My shtick?"

"That's right, your shtick. Did you slather on the charm, or did you try to be the alpha male? How'd you sell? You know, your shtick."

Grace misunderstands. I say, "I didn't need a shtick. The market was hot. We're talking years ago, the boom before the financial crisis."

Grace snickers and drinks. She says, "I graduated college in the wake of all that nonsense."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm the one who should be sorry. The real estate market tanking can't be good for a guy in real estate."

Again Grace misunderstands. I stick to facts without setting her straight. "Yeah, but here I am, safely on the other side."

Grace raises her glass. "I'll drink to that."

We toast and she finishes her wine. She motions to my half-full beer. "You good for now?"

I nod.

She's up for another glass.

I watch her. Not watch, glance. Take in that glow. Don't stare.

Grace is barely back in her seat when she says, "Was this real estate stuff here?"

Not the question I expect. Grace can do the math. She's smart enough to realize my life in this city begins post real estate bubble. I answer her anyway. "No, no."

"Arizona?"

"Las Vegas."

"Wow, why there?"

"I read the market, and in my heart, I'm a desert boy."

"You leave because of the crash?"

Somewhat true. "Change of scenery, remember? Vegas is tricky, a massive web of overlapping real and fake. Easy to get stuck."

"I've never been."

"Good to go once. Two, three days."

"Get in, get out."

"You got it."

Enough about me. I ask, "So, you thinking about moving?"

And it's Grace's turn to handle the unexpected question. The answer isn't in her glass, but that's where her eyes go.

After some wine, she says, "What makes you ask that?"

"You mentioned the city before, and that you have to make a decision about—"

"Work."

"Life."

"Oh, right, I meant getting a job, but yeah . . ."

Don't stare. Let her collect her thoughts. Drink some beer.

Grace also drinks. "I'll move if I have to," she says. "I mean for work, for a job. Steve won't be, well, whatever." She shakes her head. "I'll do what I have to."

I ask Grace about the kind of job she's looking for, admit I don't really know what she does. She struggles not to talk in corporate tech speak as she describes the viscous mix of aggregate data and consumer trends and endorphin hits that grease the dual engines of profit and growth.

I listen to her describe this world that I live in and I remain ignorant. Without it, I have no podcast, no job driving. Even in Vegas, I benefit. Grace and her kind, busy little bees, building the hive, and I, from my remove, lick up the honey.

Grace says, "Eh, it's a grind."

Yes, a grind. The gears ever turning.

After I leave Grace at the cafe, I finally get around to today's home project. Buying and replacing light bulbs. Simple. Yet, I drive around all day avoiding the obvious. I can combine errands with work, accomplish tasks during the in-betweens. Create efficiency in my day. I'm capable.

Let's get to it. First, I remove the old bulbs, a narrow florescent in the garage that pops out and a mushroom shaped flood I unscrew in the breezeway. My ladder is sturdy, my balance good. Still, one misstep or sudden weight shift and I'm falling, my head smacks the ground, and my bulb is burnt out. How long until someone finds me?

I go out a couple times with Anne. We're at her place one night, sitting at her kitchen table, when she tells me about knocking herself out.

"I was young, eight or nine. We had a clothesline out back, over a stone patio. I got it in my head that I could grab the line and spin, you know, flip, around it, like I'm Mary Lou Retton." Anne makes a little motion with her fingers like she's visualizing the flip. She raises her eyebrows and continues. "So, yeah, I fell, hit the patio and was out cold. I don't know how long, could've been a second, could've been an hour."

"You didn't cut your head open?"

"No, later, my arm killed. I probably landed on it, then hit my head."

"You go to the emergency room?"

"No, I didn't even tell my mom, actually. I remember lying on the patio and hearing her calling me. I got up and went inside and that was that."

I tell Anne about Robbie's roofer buddy. I don't think she believes me, but she says, "I guess I'm luckier than I thought."

In my garage, on the top step of the ladder, I think about letting myself fall back, slamming head first into the cement. It can't be much farther than Anne's drop from the clothesline.

I picture hitting the floor. I'll get up and convince myself I'm not like Robbie's pal. I'm fine, I won't drop dead later. It's a lie, a trick. I remain vertical, walking around oblivious to my own death until Sheila's apocalypse tribe finds me and turns me into jerky.

These thoughts are dumb—unnecessary reminders that the end is certain, unknown, and easy.

The neighborhood hardware store is out. Closed for fire damage, no deaths, but homes and businesses taken. A bar, a hotel, apartments, a Mexican restaurant. I think I'll eat there, never do. We lose these small opportunities every day.

The fire marshal suspects an arsonist, initially. I don't know now, I'm not following the story.

I stand in my dark garage, holding the old bulbs. If I want to do this today, I need to go to a Big Box Hardware Store, risk Megastore Syndrome. A tower of choice threatening to transform into a tsunami.

I quit being a wuss and drive over to the BBHS. I take the old bulbs with me, so I really can't fuck this up.

In school, they see fit to teach us that Mrs. O'Leary's cow kicking a lantern starts the Great Chicago Fire, but never the ticky-tacky tasks that take up the homeowner's life. Marc Maron understands what I'm talking about. Listen to him, upset at the lack of a manual for owning a home.

The parking at the BBHS is easy. The lot is dark, but the store's entrance glows like the briefcase in _Pulp Fiction_. I cross the threshold of this bright tribute to home improvement. Keep the task at hand. Find the wall of bulbs: general purpose, decorative, indoor and outdoor floods, specialty and nightlights, fluorescent and utility, frosted, clear, halogen.

Where's the apocalypse movie set in a BBHS? The sheer size of the store, the ability to build fortifications and traps helps our heroes tough it out. Until time catches up. They can't hold out forever, they need to venture outside for food and medicine, and in our world, happy endings are taking a break, so this picture climaxes with bandits overrunning the store.

I am grateful for electricity.

I am grateful for the fire department.

Though the bulbs are different, they all look the same, the size and coloring of the packages, grays and whites blending with black, a slash of yellow or green.

In _The Hurt Locker_ , Megastore Syndrome plays a role in driving Jeremy Renner's character back to war. In real life, Mr. Renner enjoys flipping houses more than acting. With so much home ownership, he must experience the BBHS. His character craves an escape back to the battlefield, while the real Mr. Renner embraces Megastore Syndrome.

I understand the impetus, Jeremy, from my time in Vegas real estate. The market is easy. Everyone wants in, and nobody says no. If they can't afford it, they're dumb or undeserving. Property, the investment that only goes up. In my life, I'm a sucker at times. I let myself get conned. In Vegas though, I keep my head on. I see all is not right.

Luck. Lucky, lucky, lucky to look at the right time. Watch _The Big Short_. It's Hollywood, but the spirit is legit. Hell, a lot of you are probably old enough. You remember.

Cast your mind back. I'm no prophetic savant, but I have skin in the game, and something smells fishy in the economy of the mid-'00s. Lucky or good, I liquidate my assets, hoard the cash, and leave Vegas before the chickens come home to roost.

Return to the present, to the bulbs, the choices, the colors. The numbers: total price, wattage, unit price, and my mind travels back again.

The VCR project is well underway, but I'm up late one night, watching TV alone, reconnecting with cable, when a vampire movie finds me.

A group of undead travel around in a van, black sheets hung over the windows to keep out the light, a coffin on wheels. I discover this movie the scene before the vampires go on a rampage in a bar. A young Bill Paxton is brutal. He relishes his undead life. Spurs slit throats, says memory. A waitress gets her neck drained into a beer mug, and a bloodsucker in a child's body drinks it.

This scene terrifies me. This scene thrills me. I enjoy the fear with the fallback of my bed upstairs, safe.

I finish the movie and turn off the TV. I stretch out on the couch, not ready for sleep. The only light is from the stars of the desert night sky shining in through the window.

Sometime later, I hear my father get home, from work, from being out, I don't know. The outline of his body appears in the doorway of the living room. He stands there for a moment, then comes in, turns on the lamp next to the easy chair, and sits down like he's expecting to see me.

"What are you doing up?"

"Watching a movie."

"You're just laying there. In the dark. You okay?"

"Yeah. The movie ended a couple minutes ago."

"What was it?"

"Some vampire movie."

"Scary?"

"A little."

I think that's it. There's a slim chance my father will press me for the name of the movie, want to know more, like who's in it, the year it was made, basic info, questions a normal person might ask. The last thing I think is coming is an actual conversation.

Hold on.

I realize now that maybe I haven't been clear. I've mischaracterized my relationship with my father, his personality, the VCR project.

Remember the night he brings home the VCR. He goes back out to get some cassettes. I want to come and he says, "Next time."

Next time never happens.

The VCR project has a single participant. I'm just along for the ride. Not even a stowaway. I'm a ghost, there, but not there, until the rare nights I am, like showing up as a blurry mark in the background of a photograph.

_The Godfather_ , _The Terminator_ , _Terminator 2: Judgment Day_ , _Man of a Thousand Faces_ , _The Silence of the Lambs_.

As the movies that create discussion, they're the exception. I even learn to ignore the false hope. Like marveling together at the effects of _Terminator 2_. We ask ourselves why we don't go out to the movies, to catch the spectacle on the big screen where it's meant to be seen.

My father and I agree that this is something we should do. A guys' night out. We can even get tacos after.

I'm surprised, but I don't argue. I see a shot to bond. We shake.

Nothing changes. When I suggest we look at the movie listings in the newspaper, I get put off, excuses, and I learn to stop asking. My father's false agreement isn't motivated by James Cameron's special effects, but the fictional relationship between robot and boy. Dad feels guilty because he's doing no better than an actor playing a machine attempting to be a father figure. Guilt that dissipates and disappears the further we get from our handshake.

Normal is my father's silence. He's unmoved by sudden on-screen violence or death. He barely reacts to jump cuts. He almost never laughs out loud.

Usually the most he gives is a one-sentence review at the end, spoken to the living room.

"That was really well done." _Amadeus_

"They'll never make a better action movie." _Die Hard_

"Classic." _Casablanca_

"Love is love." _The Crying Game_

"I feel bad for art." _Forrest Gump_

His behavior isn't a problem for me at the time. I'm happy with his good taste, and after a few months in, I'm riding my bike to the video store and renting on his membership, or if I want a keepsake, stealing cassettes from Walmart. Point is I've got plenty to do and watch. Even when my father is absent, the VCR project doesn't need to pause.

I begin my own subprojects.

Like when I go to school on Martin Scorsese.

The first time I watch _Taxi Driver_ , I rewind the tape and immediately watch it again. I need to be sure I'm not dreaming, that my eyes aren't lying, that a city exists crazier than the man.

After _Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore_ , I want to go up to Phoenix, find Alice, save her from crazy Ben—Harvey Keitel. Alice, watch the men who lay the charm on thick only to turn on a dime. I experience that anger early in life, zero to sixty in two seconds. Care and compassion fall away, too fragile for the violence that is the man's true self. Further proof that the day-to-day artifice we battle is so much worse for women.

The whirlwind of _Raging Bull_ mesmerizes me. Scorsese controls the camera like it's an extra eye, making us look wherever he wants. No image is beyond his grasp. I want to step in the ring with Jake LaMotta, give him a pounding. Such an asshole. His stupid, stuttering poetry. His strained recitation of Marlon Brando from _On the Waterfront_ , too dumb to create his own monologue. His racism and misogyny. I fuck his brother in the ass and make LaMotta suck my dick. I don't have these exact thoughts at twelve—close enough. What I do have is immense pleasure when LaMotta pounds his head and fists against the concrete walls of his jail cell. He is an animal and he deserves the pain.

I don't understand _Mean Streets_ , not then, and I believe it plants a false memory in me. My father in the room while I watch, and commenting after. "You play the hand you're dealt. Circumstances press heavy on a person." False memory or no, the guys of _Mean Streets_ are their own worst enemies. Even when they try to flee, looking for a better life, they can't get out of their own way. It's not a picnic for Alice, but if she and her son can escape, why not the mooks of _Mean Streets_. Circumstances be damned.

Then there's _Goodfellas_. The scene where Scorsese freezes the shot on a young Henry Hill's father, belt raised, in the middle of whipping his son, and the voice-over narration of the older Henry says, "And every once in a while I had to take a beating. But by then, I didn't care. The way I saw it, everybody takes a beating sometimes." Or consider the end. Henry breaks the fourth wall in the courtroom, followed by a shot of him coming out of his witness-protection home to grab the paper and he looks directly at the camera. Scorsese likes to remind his audience that you're watching a movie. He wants you to understand he's presenting a true story that manipulates facts in order to find the emotional truth at the story's core.

I've strayed off topic though. I was telling you about the night of the vampire movie.

So, the last thing I'm expecting is a conversation, but my father says, "Hey, Dave. Who's the president?"

"What?"

"Who's president?"

"Bill Clinton."

"What'd you have for lunch today?"

"A turkey sandwich."

"Anything else?"

"A banana. And a drink."

"You get picked on at school?"

"No. Why?"

"But you've been in fights, right? You've gotten into trouble?"

What's he talking about? "No, not really."

I stare at the ceiling thinking he has more. A minute or so goes by. I'm about to get up, go to my room, when he says, "Fear. Fear sucks."

I don't notice my father's illness. He's Dad and my distracted gaze is on filmmakers like Scorsese, and Kathryn Bigelow. _Near Dark_ , her vampire blitz, leads me down a path to the greatest love story ever filmed, _Point Break_.

Throughout her career, Bigelow directs clean action. The geography makes sense, the relationships of the combatants, the angles. All picture perfect. Her style reaches its apex with _The Hurt Locker_.

Mel says, "A woman was always going to be the filmmaker to make a worthwhile Iraq War movie."

I agree. A man lets his ego overshadow the events, and the film becomes a metaphor for filmmaking rather than being about war. Don't talk to me about Oliver Stone. He toils in masturbation fantasy.

In _Platoon_ , Stone's stand-in frags his superior officer. Ollie, I watch this at thirteen, I smell the bullshit. That dumb Willem Dafoe death scene. The spasms without the squibs. Operatic FUBAR.

The jungle offers no romance. I'm afraid of the dark, afraid of what I can't see.

The Iraqi desert provides plenty of time to prepare. I notice Omar Sharif from the first shimmer on the horizon, galloping on his camel toward me, so when he asks if I'm afraid, I'm ready like Lawrence.

"My fear is my concern."

I handle fear by learning to see the IEDs. Notice how the light falls on a pile of garbage. That's the wrong spot for an animal carcass. Something is hanging underneath that overpass. Wires shine through, glow, exposed naked, which one of these is not like the other, which one of these is totally different.

3, 2, 1, contact is the secret for won't you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street.

A recent date, Lina, hums the _Sesame Street_ theme on our way to the movie theater and says, "I'm sorry, it's totally stuck. Has been all day."

"It's okay. Not a bad song."

In the Big Box Hardware Store, an old Chinese couple is having trouble deciding what bulbs to buy. They keep picking the packages up, putting them down, opening them to get a better look. They sound like they're arguing. I hear frustration. I understand. My eyes glaze over these choices. I'm tempted to lend comfort, but the couple may feel threatened. I'm so much bigger, the language difference, I don't want to scare them. I narrow in on what I need, check it against the old bulbs, pay at the self-checkout and I'm back in the car.

In 1812, the Russians burn Moscow rather than hand the city over to the French. In ancient Rome, firefighting is a for-profit business. Arsonists make mint.

Forget it, forget it, forget it, get out of the car and change those bulbs. That's what I do.

I am grateful for chores.

I am grateful for Kathryn Bigelow.

Two bulbs take a day. Paint the kitchen. The bathroom. The stove is dying. I should get a new one. Wash the curtains. Sweep and fix the backstairs.

"Won't you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?"

On our date, in the car, Lina says, "I had a college roommate who sang that song all the time, like full out, like she was auditioning. I assumed she was repressing something bad, but when I asked, you know what she said?"

"What?"

"She said her brain was in tune with mystical forces, and any time she was within range of someone watching _Sesame Street_ , she got the song in her head and needed to vent it."

"By singing?"

"Yup."

"Sounds reasonable."

Lina laughs and I play along, like I'd been joking.

"That girl," adds Lina, "she was one for the ages. The stuff she claimed."

"You know what happened to her?"

Lina shrugs and looks out the window. "Probably mumbling under a bri . . ."

I can't hear the rest. Lina's mention of mumbling gives her the mumbles.

We go to the movies to see something terrible Lina gushes over. The date gets worse from there.

You can analyze my experiences so many ways, like are you wondering which details I'm showing you and which I'm leaving out?

Do you expect me to resist the natural desire to make myself the hero of my own story?

Do I massage facts, and call it honesty? To be relatable? This is my show. I get to pick where the light shines. Yeah, I avoid some of the shittier parts because people are tough. So, I strike a balance, and if it seems easy, it is, sometimes. Easy for me, for a hunk like me.

Women such as Cori. The Whole Foods manager. They get in your head. The desire to sleep with a stranger crashing at the speed of light into the feeling that you're in love with your future spouse is an awkward occurrence. The time I spend driving around with this thought in the car nagging me, keeping me from getting paid to do what I'm doing anyway, but this thought is too distracting and strangers spot it from the curb, reconsider the ride, or get angry that I'm duping them.

Square a circle, everything is wrong, casual sex to find a mate. Paradoxes, paradoxes, paradoxes.

Tonight I stay in, finalize the booking of a future _Rideshare_ guest (no spoilers). Then I do more of the never-ending work on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. I respond to listener email and put out feelers for possible advertisers. Finally, I organize and edit sound files, prep for my next few episodes. I'm tired though and my mind drifts to imagining the ideal guest. Someone like Victoria Woodhull. The interview goes like this:

"Today I'm talking to the first woman to run for president of the United States, Victoria Woodhull. Ms. Woodhull, welcome."

"My pleasure."
"Let's get right to it. What inspired you to run for president?"

"I wanted to show that my sex are entitled to the inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and I ask the right to pursue happiness by having a voice in that government to which I am accountable."

"You've received some criticism for choosing Frederick Douglass as your running mate."

"The accusations of miscegenation are a distraction. Suffragettes and African American civil rights activists share many of the same goals."

"I apologize, I meant Douglass being unaware that you chose him for the ticket."

"Well, his record speaks for itself, and he is a natural choice. Furthermore, I noticed he was someone who has done a terrific job and he's being recognized by more and more people."

"Right. That reminds me, thoughts on the current president?"

"He's a coot. I'd elaborate, but look no further than his words and deeds, and as the daughter of a slattern and a snake oil salesman, I believe I know from whence I speak."

"Let's talk about your background. The shows your family put on when you were a child and the spiritualism you later practiced with your sister."

"Certainly. While others prayed for the good time coming, I worked for it."

We discuss the abuse Woodhull suffered as a child; her work as a stockbroker and newspaper editor; her three marriages; her views on divorce, free love, abortion, and eugenics; her relationship with the Vanderbilts, and her time in England.

A good conversation, right? Well, like Mick Jagger sings, "You can't always get what you want." I bring my head back to my actual files, and Adriana Chechik.

"Adriana, welcome, and thanks for being on the show."

"Thank you, and to all your listeners, follow me on Twitter @adrianachechik and get all kinds of exclusive extras at adrianachechik.com."

"Yes, we'll have plenty of time to plug whatever you like at the end of the show."

"Oh, I like the sound of that."

"Very good. So, how many films have you made?"

"God, so many, not enough, hundreds. I started in 2013."

"And what made you decide to join the industry."

"I'm a slut, a whore. It's fun to see how much pleasure you can give yourself. Getting all those cocks off, knowing people are watching, getting themselves off, and knowing the bubble bath is calling at the end, so good. I'm getting wet thinking about it."

"Okay, so, you've developed quite the following with your gangbangs and triple anals. What's next?"

"Oh, more of the same, only more. I don't know what that will be, but it'll be something awesome for my fans. Y'know, I've said before I want to be the DP queen, so yeah, whatever it takes to earn the title DP queen."

"Sounds great. Is there anything you'd like to say to any of our listeners who might be interested in working in the skin biz?"

"So much, but most important, sex is fun and dirty and crazy and you can do what you want and it's accepted and okay. If you have the dirty itch, you have to scratch it."

Even on nights without a date, the Internet provides. A fountain of material, enough minutes of porn to get off ten thousand monkeys, ten thousand times a day for ten thousand years and never watch the same clip twice. Although I imbibe, I'm not comfortable with the existence of this deluge.

I'm a member of the last middleman generation. Know somebody, or be that somebody, with access to hard currency: magazines, calendars, posters, VHS tapes. Be willing to dig through the dumpster behind the adult store. Earn your porn.

My brothers don't help, the years too much a separation. It takes Joe Hughes. Joe is ballsy and the biggest kid in school, no bully, but he fights when someone pisses him off. He and I aren't friends, but Joe decides he's got a map he wants to share with me. In the desert, this back road off this back road, a hundred paces in, wrapped in a plastic bag, under a rock at the base of a one-armed cactus. Joe gives me the map, no strings. XXX marks the spot. Go Saturday, late morning.

Something's off, he won't give me the how or where from, so I try, "Why me, Joe?"

He says, "You look like you could use it."

I don't trust him. I take the map though, thank him. I'm expecting to get out there and find Joe waiting, him and some toadies to kick me around a little. I'm getting big, starting to grow, maybe Joe thinks I'm coming up on him, or maybe I'm guilty of a mystery sin, known only to Joe. The ass kicking won't be serious, nothing permanent, more humiliating than painful. They'll steal my bike, maybe my shoes too, leave me to walk home, trust the circumstances will keep me from barking.

The rest of the week, I weigh risk-reward and twelve is an age to live a little. The morning I make my trek, I lift a big ring from Rose, and slip a wrench in my pocket, ready to hit somebody hard if I have to.

Well, my worries are for nothing because Joe's map comes through, true to the word. I find my cactus, no eagle eating a snake, not like the Aztecs. They build a city. I get a porn stash. With a twist. Men. Gay. Gay porn.

What's Joe's game? A hand offered in misplaced solidarity, or a fist meant for my face?

On Monday, when I see Joe in school, at his locker with some buds, I go up and say, "Hey, thanks, but no offense, it's not my thing."

Joe looks at me like I just puked all over his shoes. Behind him, one of his toadies says, "What'd you do Joe, suck his dick?"

Joe's friends laugh. He glares at the funny guy. "Shut up." He turns back to me, steps forward, leans in, and only loud enough for the two of us, says, "You look like _you_ could use it." He knocks me out of the way with his shoulder and a loud "faggot" as he passes.

His friends laugh and follow.

That's it. I see Joe in school of course, but we don't talk. Even when we have the same classes, we don't sit near each other, the teacher never partners us. Sometimes I look at Joe, not stare, but look, and ask myself why. What am I missing? Then in a few weeks I no longer care.

"You look like you could use it."

How does Joe know? He's a fortune teller, can tap into time and space, not all the details, but a wave. A poor man's Doctor Manhattan. Or Joe is a time traveler from the future, back with a message, but coming to the past rattles his brain, turns him agro. "You look like _you_ could use it."

"Faggot."

Joe's rattled brain. He's targeting the wrong person in my family. Close, but no cigar.

Tonight, I can't sleep, and voilà, no problem. I have _Baskets_ to binge-watch. Thanks _Fresh Air_ and Louie Anderson.

The comedian plays Mom to Zach Galifianakis's main-character clown and his twin barely together brother (also Galifianakis). With his blond wig, billowy, flowing blouses, and long scarves, Anderson isn't just a fat man in drag. He brings a range of emotions, no mere jester, no fool to be laughed at, to make merry for your amusement. His Mrs. Baskets is kindly but exasperated. Sure of herself, but often overwhelmed. She has her own desires, and her own problems holding her back. Anderson plays a real woman.

In one scene, she mistakes the memory of the family photo for a dream. She wants Nathaniel, her now dead husband, to smile for the camera, but he can only look straight ahead, terrified. Mrs. Baskets tells people Nathaniel died when he "fell off" a railroad bridge. Anderson shows you loss in the woman's eyes, a face of anguish. The questions you never answer.

Mrs. Baskets says, "You just don't know how unhappy someone is."

Later, she eats her feelings, lying in bed spooning batter from a large metal bowl.

I go for a drive. Around. Alone.

NINE

Mornings, I often think of her eating breakfast, washing her dishes, brushing her teeth. I picture her making a grocery list, going to work, getting on with her day.

My moments are her moments too. We share time and the world. I imagine what she does when she's alone. I miss her. I wish she were here with me now.

Annette Bening says, "Everybody has a public life, and they have their own private life. Everybody has their secrets. Everybody has their own private, you know, agonies as well as joys. And that's what great drama, whether it's the movies or the theater, that's what it shows."

On my jog this morning, I see the woman with the short black hair waiting for the bus. I don't remember first noticing the black-haired woman. She always waits for the 7:23 bus. She favors gray pants, a white blouse and gray jacket. Early in the week, she wears heels. By Thursday, she prefers flat soles. Her makeup diminishes along with the height of her heel.

I'm jogging, breathing hard, eyes up, moving fast, but I run close to the black-haired woman and every time, the world moves too slowly for her. She wants to be somewhere else.

The black-haired woman enjoys her job. She can't wait to get there and start working. It's how she gains her sense of self. She works hard to earn that feeling. Her effort exhausts her, so she sacrifices convention and style for comfort as the week progresses. Even the short hair helps focus time and energy to more beneficial areas. These tradeoffs help the black-haired woman maintain her pace. She shows me all in the second I pass her. I try to radiate strength in her direction.

Finish my run, shower, snack, drive.

KITT has nothing, so I switch to Miss Daisy.

I give a ride to Bradley, going downtown for a business meeting, doing his prep in the car. Asks for feedback. I tell him what he wants to hear.

I'm stuck in a downtown rotation. Walking for these movers and shakers wastes too much time.

Together in the car, we stay in our respective worlds.

One afternoon at the cafe, Grace says, "You don't share much about yourself, do you?"

"According to who?"

"Me, right now."

"You know stuff about me."

Grace looks like she might smack me. "'Cause I ask."

"And I tell you. What's the big deal?"

"Sharing is what people do. It's a step toward knowing you're not going to slip something in my drink and I'm waking up chained in your basement."

I pick up Louis near the Gardens. He wants to talk NBA playoffs, is surprised I can't carry my end of the conversation.

He says, "You look like you played a little ball."

"Nope."

"Hard game. Y'ever see anybody seven feet?"

"Nope." A few private contractors in the Green Zone come in around six-nine, bulls not men, but no, nobody seven feet.

Louis says, "All the seven-footers in the world, only about one percent are good enough for the NBA."

He calls them the genetic freaks of the genetic freaks. I'm fine, but he feels the need to clarify. He means freak in the sense of outlier.

"Atypical, which is not in any way negative or bad or wrong."

I wonder what percent of hermaphrodites work in hermaphrodite porn. Online is infinite. Chubby pussy. Hermaphrodite porn. Get off to watching people getting off to watching people fuck in vomit and shit. This exists. Give Google twenty-eight hundredths of a second, receive 16,900,000 results.

Louis leads to Cynthia. We're over near the old fairgrounds when a beat-up Civic rolls through a stop sign at the intersection ahead. I'm close enough to see the tired expression on the driver's face, way too close, getting closer way too fast, but the woman must really be out of it, or be brave or stupid or something because I don't have a stop sign and she does not have time to cross in front of me. I'm going to t-bone her, damage her car fierce, her body worse. A ride to the emergency room in an ambulance is in her future. Her loved ones cry when they get the call, more when they arrive at the hospital and see her broken body. That's the worst moment, her lowest, and her life is never the same. She heals though. The pain never leaves, the memory, but she heals. Or she doesn't. She remains broken.

None of that happens because I'm paying attention, and fast, and I'm lucky no cars are behind her. I swerve right, not sure if it's enough, miss her back bumper by a hair, jerk the wheel left to avoid smashing the stop sign and ending up on the sidewalk. I maintain control, hit the brakes, pull over. I check my mirror. The Civic is nowhere.

I'm breathing hard. Cynthia puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Quick thinking."

I turn to her. She's leaning forward, her face closer than I expect. She's full of relief. She's grateful.

I say, "Thanks. You okay?"

She squeezes my shoulder and sits back, nodding. "Uh-huh, fine, a little shook up. Seriously, quick thinking."

I look at her in the mirror. Her eyes calm, relishing the good luck. Cynthia and I are connected, now, in this moment. Our connection creates intimacy, real intimacy, more real than the time I normally spend with women. This intimacy is durable. Solid rock. Not an ephemeral performance in unreality.

I get back to driving, only a few more blocks for Cynthia and me. She's quiet, staring out the window, tension remains in her fists and shoulders. I want to help, tell her everything will be okay, but now isn't the time for lies.

A truth I also keep to myself: I love Cynthia. I love her for our shared escape we have forever. Yes, love a stranger. Romantic, familial, platonic. Love in all forms.

I drop Cynthia off in front of her building. She thanks me once more, opens the door, and stops. "Maybe I'll see you again."

Without looking at her, I say, "You never know."

"Okay, well, for real, quick thinking."

She's out then and closing the door. I feel the protective urge to watch, make sure she gets safely inside. Let's not make this creepy.

I turn off the apps and drive, keeping an eye on the other cars. Power steering, anti-lock brakes, front and side airbags, seat belt laws, electronic sensors that monitor distance and drift, rearview and blind spot cameras.

Modern tech and modern safety and still, in the U.S., 40,000 fatalities in motor vehicle accidents every year.

Slow down and pay attention, please.

I'm twelve, and I don't know a thing about whatever aches my father feels in his heart, but I know he isn't cheating on my mother. One afternoon, I ride my bike to the office complex where he works. I hide across the street, off to the side of the buildings, out of site, but probably easily spotted by anyone who cares. I have eyes on my father's car at the far end of the lot, facing away from me, distant from the bulk of the vehicles. I watch and wait until my father comes out. I won't be able to keep up with him on my bike and also stay hidden, but I'm game to try. I'm ready, but his car doesn't move. He sits there, the window rolled down, his left arm resting on the door, his elbow sticking out. He sits and smokes and stares and smokes. People are leaving work. If they see my father, they don't acknowledge him. The sun is setting and when it's a sliver on the horizon, my father starts the car and drives off. I don't follow him and when I get home, he isn't there. I wait next to the garage and he shows up a few minutes later. He waves hello as he pulls into the driveway, strides over to me after he parks, and squeezes my shoulder hard. "A little time and a drive, what a man needs now and again, nothing to worry about."

The beginning and the end of my father's explanation of his emotional state. He heads inside without me.

We don't talk, but I continue paying attention. He knows I'm watching, since the first time, right? Like Kim Novak tricking Jimmy Stewart in _Vertigo_.

No matter. Even though I can't exactly follow him on my bike, I discover shortcuts and manage to learn my father's routines. I develop anticipation skills.

Most of the time, he sits and smokes, drives and sits. Drives.

Sometimes, I stake him out at bars. Establishments visited only by men. Dank places in parts of town I avoid otherwise. My father comes and goes alone.

For a while I think he might be going to the movies, but I never see his car at the mall.

"A little time and a drive." That's what he needs.

I get lazy. My bike rides become for me. My father can be anywhere. I do wheelies in the mall parking lot. I go to the movies. I sneak into _Speed_ and _Heat_.

Today, at home, I pull into the garage, close the door, turn off the car and sit. So easy to leave the engine running, crack the window, put Weezer's "In The Garage" on repeat, and wait.

"I feel safe, no one cares about my ways."

Recline the seat, eyes closed, float off, peaceful. But then who completes my to-do list? Who saves Cynthia the next time she's almost in a car accident? Who even finds my body? "No note," they say. "Why should we care?"

During Terry Gross's interview with Louie Anderson, she mentions a story from his book. One night, backstage before a show, he puts a gun to his head. As Anderson is considering pulling the trigger, he imagines surviving, brain damaged. Then he worries about leaving a mess, so he gets a towel, but eventually he performs, and the show goes well, so he feels better about being alive.

Gross wants to know whether he tells the story onstage.

Anderson says no, but it'd be easy. "I could do it in a second. It would be funny. That whole experience was I didn't want anyone to find me. That really was the—the thing is I didn't want that to be their last memory of me."

Do I even have enough gas? I pass out and the car stops running. This doesn't end in death. I stagger from the car and shamble off, memory gone, feelings numb, agency wiped, a lost wanderer with no purpose. People cross the street to get away. They bless themselves and say a prayer. Parents warn their children, "Do your homework, or end up like brain-mush man."

Upstairs, I find an unexpected package waiting for me. A rectangular box, a little bigger than a laptop. Marked fragile.

I pick up the package. It's sturdy, but not heavy. A return address in the city, not one I recognize, fake for all I know.

I go inside and put the package on the kitchen table.

The mail bombs sent by the Unabomber are contraptions with wires, batteries, lots of wood. The box I'm looking at is smaller, but big enough to blow my hand off, send shrapnel—glass, nails, ball bearings—into my face and chest. I'm dead then.

A 1968 photo shows the future Unabomber on the campus of Berkeley. He's a twenty-five-year-old assistant math professor in a suit and tie, flailing in the land of hippies a year after the summer of love.

In 1995, the FBI agrees to publish the Unabomber's manifesto in newspapers because they see a chance. The writing style may tip someone off to his identity. A man, at the urging of his wife, reads the manifesto, spies his brother in the message, and sics the feds on him. Law enforcement linguists confirm the brother's impression. Now they make a TV show about it.

When the FBI captures the Unabomber in his Montana cabin and his picture travels around the world, I notice the resemblance to _Watchmen_ 's co-author, Alan Moore. The crazy hair, the beard, the eyes that look past the camera, finding the truth beyond. Two geniuses. One becomes a killer, the other creates an iconic work of art. Where's the fork in the road?

Is my package from a brother by blood or service? Victor doesn't want to kill me. Robbie's crazy isn't homicidal, not in any premeditated sense. Aaron chooses acceptance or apathy. Who in the Army has it out for me? Revenge? Or PTSD? Or why the hell not?

Nobody wants to hurt me. I open the package, and my assumption is correct. It's from an artist, not a killer.

Wrapped in bubble paper, I find an 8x10 framed painting that brings to mind Andy Warhol's _Campbell's Soup Cans_.

It's a Kozy Shack rice pudding container, but Kozy Shack has been changed to read Kozy Sperm.

And a note: "Thought you'd appreciate this—Frances."

Frances is a painter I go out with a few times. Most of her work is abstract. Big canvases. Bright colors. "Weather systems of color," I overhear a well-dressed man remark at her recent gallery showing. Despite all those glowing lines and shapes, the realistic _Scenes from Life_ triptych grabs my attention.

Left, a minor fender bender until you notice a metal shard from the defective airbag piercing the driver's heart, Frances. The artist paints her own grisly death.

Middle, a large woman hog-tied to a bed. She's in a white gown, torn at the back and up one side to the hip, pieces strategically painted to hide nudity. The victim has a far-away look on her face. Drugged and ravaged. Frances stands at the foot of the bed, a carnival barker calling out to a crowd shoving at the bedroom door, pushing for a look.

Right, another bedroom. Frances has been dragged naked from a bed by face-masked goons, blood strategically painted to hide nudity. The goons whale on the body with tire irons, bats, chains. One holds a rock above his head, waiting for his turn. Look: a man in the bed, sound asleep, earbuds piping in noise.

After the show, Frances takes me to her studio and says, "I want to paint a sequel to the last one. An hour later, the guy gets up to pee and trips over the body of his dead wife."

Frances isn't passive-aggressive or suicidal or depressed. She promises that she's a harmless lunatic.

She shows me sketches of an amusement park called _Jizzyland_. My favorite: Penises, standing at attention on their balls, wait in line for the "Love Tunnel," the opening of which is a large vagina. A sign reads, "You must be this big to ride." The large penises have no problem, but in the right corner of the sketch, two small penises sag, tears drop from their heads. One looks on the bright side. "We can always hang together."

Then there's the original Kozy Sperm. Huge, it dominates an entire wall of the studio.

When Frances sees me laughing, she says, "No joke. It really isn't pudding. It's literally sperm."

"I think you ruined me on rice pudding. Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me."

"Sure I do. You're saving me from so many empty calories."

"Thank Kozy Shack for the secret ingredient."

There's a nice spot in my bathroom for the smaller version of Kozy Sperm. I hang it up perpendicular to the sink and take a picture. I'll send it to Frances along with a thank you.

I don't have much food in the house, so I walk down to Whole Foods.

I'm in the cereal aisle. The swirling colors of five levels of shelves has me thinking of Jeremy Renner in _The Hurt Locker_.

A logo jumps out, jogging the punch line of a joke Grace tells me.

"So the bartender says, 'I thought you said elephant.'"

We laugh together.

"Your turn," says Grace.

"What?"

"Your turn. Tell me a joke."

"I don't know any jokes."

"C'mon. You're funny."

"What? No one's told me that before."

"Well I just did."

"I don't try to be funny."

"If you had to try, you wouldn't be funny."

"Is that true?"

"Jeez, man, take the compliment."

"Thank you."

"There you go." Grace breaks off a chunk from the big cookie she's eating and offers it to me.

I take it, thank her again, and pop the cookie piece in my mouth. This smiling woman. Grace finds a place in my heart, open, waiting for her whenever she is ready.

Sometimes, I'm seized with this rush of laughter, short and loud, never in public, never in the car. At home, when I'm alone, seeing the absurdity of me. Okay, sorry, that's dumb. Forget that.

Want a laugh? I go out once with Muffy, claims it's her real name, no joke. Muffy rides that wave, taking the whole '80s preppy stuff to the nines. She's a redhead, narrow, tight, perky with pigtails to boot. She works in references to _Revenge of the Nerds_ and _Porky's_.

Before sex, Muffy performs a naked cheer.

"F, u, c-k-m-e. F, u, c-k-m-e. Ready, I say 'fuck', you say 'me.' Fuck."

"Me."

"Fuck."

"Me."

"Fuck."

"Me."

"Yaaaaaaaaay, I think I will."

She jumps on the bed.

At the supermarket, a fit woman in yoga pants joins me in the cereal aisle. She's pushing a cart, and a toddler girl in a yellow sundress and sandals is with her. The girl's long hair is up in a bun, the color matches her outfit. The blonde of children and charlatans. She has one arm raised, her hand on the cart, near her mother's.

They come close to me, and the mom says, "Get the oatmeal, Miles, okay?"

The girl—Miles?—skips to the oatmeal, squats down, and pulls a box from the lowest shelf. She turns and her, sorry, his mother is there to help. She takes the oatmeal from her son, and tosses the box into the cart. "Good job, sweetheart," she says.

This child wearing a dress, sandals, hair in a bun. He isn't old enough to understand the concept of gender. This little boy may still think the universe came into existence at the moment of his birth. Whose style choice am I seeing?

I ask the mom, "Does your son dress himself?"

She needs a second to realize I'm talking to her, says, "Excuse me?"

"I asked you who chooses the dress for your son."

The woman looks at me like I farted at her. Miles has shifted his body, closer to his mom, shielding himself with her thigh and the cart.

"It's none of your business. C'mon, Miles." She gives the cart and her son a little push.

The mother is right, none of my business. How do I show the honesty of my request?

In _The World According to Garp_ , when John Lithgow appears as Roberta Muldoon née Robert Muldoon of the Philadelphia Eagles, tight end, I believe the actor is a woman born a man, and as a kid, I wonder why we don't see more like her in the world. Why not? I understand the desire for change. But no, these aren't real people, not yet, not even in the movies for another thirty years.

Choices. Prayers and wishes. Happy, apple, iPad.

I hustle home, eat, and work on _Rideshare_. I consider attending Comic-Con and South by Southwest. I need to cultivate a public persona, get out and meet people, give them a chance to connect face-to-face. I should also make more of an effort to get on other podcasts. It's a networking chance I'm missing, and a way to expand my audience.

Enough with the sausage making. I move on to editing a banked interview, but don't make much progress. I'm too distracted by my earlier near miss with Cynthia, other almost accidents, and ignorance of dangers. I think of an interview with Marie Curie.

"You are a brave boy," says Ms. Curie.

"I don't know about brave."

"Lucky."

"I'll cop to that."

"Yes, my dear," says the two-time Nobel Prize winner. "In science we experiment to prove, or disprove, a hypothesis. We test theories. Laws must be earned. Hard work is necessary, always, but we need also to remember the role of luck, random luck. Please, don't forget to look both ways before you cross the street. Please."

"I will."

"And even then, so much good is perverted. I look around, I see bombs, these what do you call them, ICBMs with radioactive warheads, and this modern tsar who kills journalists with polonium. For the first time, I am thankful Pierre is not here to see this. Treating tumors, radiographs in hospitals, powering our homes and factories, this is what we should be doing."

With the editing not happening, I feel that semidaily social media nudge. Look at Sarah's Instagram pics and respond to her. But first take a ride on the merry-go-round, play a few spins of the online roulette wheel. Say a prayer to the Internet gods on Mount Facebook. They sit at their looms weaving their tapestries.

Mr. Z, do you grasp your own algorithms? Bots and fake news dominate your site, and by fake news, I mean the real fake news, not the cons of President Fuckin' Moron. Thank you, Mr. Z, for the chaos of social media and please don't run for president.

Let's talk _The Social Network_ for a minute. How does it hold up in your world? In mine it serves as a warning. If you can help it, don't let people who dislike you tell your story.

Does Aaron Sorkin use Facebook? He comes off as an in-person guy, an Irish yarn spinner who thrives with a live audience.

David Fincher holds less affection for Mr. Z than he does for the Zodiac Killer.

That nudge when I should be editing, or responding to Sarah, takes me to a psychedelic video of sheep with a speech for a soundtrack.

"Scientists are growing human organs in sheep.

"They are and here's the thing, grow enough human organs in sheep and their brains began to change—the synapses, the connections. Certain aspects of the sheep's brain start to act just like a human brain.

"But the behavior of the sheep does not change.

"Show this mutant sheep to an unbiased observer, let the person monitor it for a while, and the observer will say, 'Hey that's a normal sheep. Nothing weird about that animal.'

"I want one of these sheep. Until now, I would've been happy with my brain in a jar hooked up to a computer, but I enjoy my body, sometimes, and with my own organ-filled sheep, I'll be good to go for a while.

"And maybe if the scientists can actually enhance the human brain part of the equation, my sheep friend will be smart enough to complete basic household chores, maybe balance a checking account."

The video ends on a close-up of a lamb blurting at the camera.

Viral. We assign a parasitic quality to success. What goes viral? Why does a meme become a meme?

"Na na na na na, na na na na, na na na na na na, na na na na."

I know that song. You know that song. What's that song?

Do memes grow in the minds of humans, or do they gestate inside algorithms? A virus, a meme, a gene, true to its nature finds roots in the environment where it can birth the greatest multiplier. Shameless humbugs not to be trusted.

The other afternoon at the cafe, Grace tells me about a _Fresh Air_ episode I haven't listened to yet. A gene-editing doctor. Snip, snip go genes for cancer. Swap out a gene that correlates to Alzheimer's, swap in one that prevents Alzheimer's. We're at the precipice of a new frontier. Pigs with hearts and livers ready for transplant into humans. Pigs chopped to stop retroviruses from killing the new host.

Grace and I agree, to be adults at the infancy of evolutionary changes means we age faster than the younger generation, become living fossils from a dead world before our time.

Tonight, I lie in bed and stream _Tower_ on my laptop, the documentary about the University of Texas shooting. Through the animation, the news footage and radio broadcast, the combination of actors and real-life survivors, Keith Maitland turns a horrific day into a beautiful work of art. He takes his time letting the events unfold. This isn't a criticism. Maitland wants you present, to place you in the ninety-six minutes of that afternoon.

We hear gunshot after gunshot and the voices of those who were there. Ramiro Martinez, the off-duty cop who kills the shooter, talks of staying clear of the sniper's sight lines and running a zigzag pattern in his approach to the tower. He calls back to his time in the Army.

In 1966 Austin, with no SWAT team, no procedure for setting up a perimeter, one man uses his U.S. military training to help bring an end to a horror started by a Marine.

The military teaches strategy and tactics. Real skills. This knowledge filters down to police forces and hospitals, schools and businesses, soaks into society's engine. Your behavior, the choices you make, technology, the efficiency you rely on, medical treatment you require and receive, life and death, this entire web we're living in spawns from the military.

We remain ignorant. The University of Texas wants the students to move on and forget. This attitude persists until 2016, when at the urging of a committee of survivors, on the 50th anniversary of the shooting, the school dedicates a memorial to the seventeen people killed.

Yet, ignorance remains. The same day the memorial is unveiled, the UT system's new campus-carry rule goes into effect. Students and visitors are now allowed to carry a concealed firearm on campus.

How many shootings have to happen? How many children killed? How many members of congress shot? How many police have to murder unarmed African Americans? Over fifty years since the events in Austin, and not only does nothing change, but now gun violence is worse.

Margaret Whitman

Kathleen Leissner Whitman

Edna Elizabeth Townsley

Mark Gabour

Marguerite Lamport

Thomas Frederick Eckman

Baby Boy Wilson

Robert Hamilton Boyer

Thomas Aquinas Ashton

Karen Griffith

Thomas Ray Karr

Claudia Rutt

Paul Bolton Sonntag

Roy Dell Schmidt

Billy Paul Speed

Harry Walchuk

David Hubert Gunby

I can go on listing names of the dead, and nothing changes.

Now, I'm awake, up, wound up. I know better. Not to watch intense things at night, when I have to sleep alone.

Not alone. I hear the mosquito, mini-vampire, buzzing. I get up, turn on the light, let my eyes adjust, find the sucker hanging on the wall above my pillow. Creep, creep, creep, hand up, slowly, slowly, don't want to put a hole in the wall. Smack with the fleshy part of my hand. That wet feeling.

I move my hand. There's a little spot on the wall, guts and blood. My blood. She can't have it. I won't let her make me sick. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm healthy. I'm not sick. I wash my hands and get back in bed. Alone now.

Most women want me to leave. Some act indifferent. Some are indifferent. I stay over only if they want me to.

Ruby wants to ask. I agree before she brings it up.

Lying in the dark together, she says, "Will you do something for me?"

Maybe.

I say, "Sure."

"Rub the back of my head."

In high school, I watch _Tootsie_ with Alicia Bourbon.

In one scene, Jessica Lange and Dustin Hoffman sleep in the same bed. Two female friends rooming together on a vacation. Except Dustin is Tootsie, a man disguised as a woman, and he's hot for Jessica.

Unable to sleep, Jessica asks Tootsie to rub her head.

Alicia Bourbon says, "That's the best."

"What's the best?"

"When you're tired, in bed, warm under the covers, falling asleep, and your mother, or your auntie, rubs your head. That's the best."

I don't confess to Alicia. No one rubs my head. Then I have to resist the dirty teenage-boy joke that pops up. And resist that one too.

Tootsie's looks are played for laughs. It's okay, she's a he, so it's funny. It's only shallow when the woman is actually a woman. Understand?

Unable to sleep, I get up and go to the kitchen. I stand at the sink and have a glass of water. The moonlight reflects off the spider web outside my window. No spider. Good. Stay gone, succubus. I know better.

I get back in bed.

In sixth grade, I steal a copy of _The Silence of the Lambs_ from Walmart. One night, Mom at work, Dad out, I wait until my sisters are asleep, and rooted to the couch, I let Hannibal Lecter feed on my twelve-year-old brain. When the movie is over, I pick up the soggy brain leftovers from the couch cushions and the floor and return them to my head. I'm mostly whole, with the tasty addition of Lecter to my neurons.

I go to bed telling myself cutting off a man's face and wearing it as a mask is impossible. Thoughts of flaying human flesh don't facilitate sleep, so I call on the spirit of Agent Clarice Starling for help.

I wait for a night when my mom is working to show my father _The Silence of the Lambs_ tape case.

He takes a look, is surprised I'm making a suggestion. He says, "I don't know."

"It's good. It won big at the Academy Awards a few years ago."

"That doesn't mean it's good."

"I know, but I know it's good. I watched it already."

My father is staring like he's about to ask what makes me think I have any say in what we watch.

"Well then," he says. "Okay."

Before he has a chance to change his mind, I pop the tape into the VCR, and we sit back. My father lets the full wonder of the movie settle over him, and he's hooked. He doesn't let on, he keeps his typical stone-cold expression, but he watches. He doesn't look away.

Until "Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me," and the dancing, and you know all that.

My eyes stay on the TV, but I feel the temperature in the room rise. My father is angry and getting angrier. The back of my neck feels warm.

Together we've watched all sorts of murder, torture, humans fucking over other humans, treating people like garbage. My father and I have shared long silent discomfort during sex scenes. Travis Bickle goes to porno theaters, takes Cybill Shepherd to one on a date for God's sake.

Now, Buffalo Bill crosses over to the realm of inappropriate.

My father is shifting his weight, squirming, sighing. I wait for the sound of him getting up and going to bed without a word. Or maybe a smack to my head and a snide remark, something to make me feel bad.

He settles down and doesn't give up.

Lecter makes that final taunting call, drops the phone, follows his dinner into the crowd and the credits roll.

My father is silent. He doesn't move from the easy chair.

I gin up the courage to say, "Uh, what'd you think?"

"I'm exhausted."

So he's going to bed, except he's not because he's sitting there.

"Well, it was good," he says. "Except, the killer, Buffalo Bill, that guy ain't no killer."

I say, "He kidnapped a woman and kept her in a hole," even add, "Put the fucking lotion in the basket" for emphasis. Actually, I don't say that, but I want to.

My father clarifies. "Sure, he has problems, hates himself and wants to change, but that's not his fau—I mean I don't think it turns a person into a killer."

"You feel bad for him." That I do say.

"No."

He does, I think.

"No," my father says, "it's just, it's just, I can only suspend my disbelief so much."

He buys the genius serial killer and the wearing of another man's face during an escape. That's okay. Accepting Jame Gumb's demons though is too much to ask.

My father has more, with venom. "I don't think he becomes evil. Fucked up, confused, I buy. But not like that, that's all."

We go to bed. And I'm awake, then and now.

"Na na na na na, na na na na, na na na na na na, na na na na."

In the dark, unable to think of the name of that damn song, waiting for sleep until it comes.

TEN

A sound wakes me in the night.

Outside. A cat in heat. I cover my head with the pillow.

It's no cat, but a child crying. I sit up, sleep is slipping away, and as I regain my senses, the sound clarifies once more, a woman laughing. I listen to her cracking up, trying to control herself. Her laughter ebbs and flows before petering out, leaving the regular early morning sounds of the soon rising sun and birds and flowers.

Up, up and away, I get out of bed. The urge to pee is strong, the flow less so, the aspect of aging I notice. Often the stream sprays in multiple directions. I tell myself sitting saves cleanup, but in the moment, history and habit win out.

In the kitchen, the window over the sink lets in a ray of morning light, a single beam that grows wider with the emerging sun. The light falls on my hand as I run the water and fill the kettle. I put the kettle on to boil and measure the coffee for the French press. My anxiety over the sound waking me is gone. The routine of morning returns, reminding me I'm okay. There's no trouble at the start of this day.

No trouble from the spider crawling along the window ledge. The succubus is outside, can't get me. The fine strands of her handiwork glisten in the sun.

A few months ago, a story goes around social media about a guy who has a spider spinning webs in the breezeway between his garage and backstairs. The guy admires the patterns, the beauty of the webs. He posts pictures. The spider shows up in the frame a lot, this big black beauty. Guy names his real-life Charlotte, Sandy.

Sandy starts talking to the guy. He adds quotes from their "conversations" to his posts. After some banal getting-to-know-you stuff, Sandy tells him to stop wearing cologne. Sandy wants final say on which photos go online. Sandy orders him to bring bugs, provides a list, written in her web. A real-life Charlotte for real?

Online, the worm turns. Trolls rise up against this guy, not so much because he's crazy, but because he's an easy mark, and they think he's trying to be clever and coming off cheesy.

This morning, I have breakfast at the kitchen table like a civilized person. No computer. No phone. Look at my food.

I remember those mornings after a night of the VCR project.

My mother is just home from work. My father is up and out of the house already.

Mom is in sweats and an old GNR T-shirt, the skulls and cross of the replacement _Appetite for Destruction_ cover. The shirt is a Robbie hand-me-down, no doubt. Big on Mom, but she looks so comfortable swimming in the cotton, one more shift at the hospital behind her, full from breakfast made by her oldest daughter.

My mother is tired and satisfied, perfect for sleep.

Are those my thoughts then? I don't know. That's how I see my mother now.

She asks, "You up watching movies with your father?"

I start to tell her about _The Silence of the Lambs_.

She interrupts. "It sounds gross."

"It is gross." I shrug. "It's a good movie."

"He lets you watch anything."

I understand it's not a question. I don't push. My mother won't listen. She's not in the mood, not after a long night at work. It's okay. I respect her fatigue.

Later, my mother gives it to my father. Myra or Rose or me overhear. Why do you let him watch that sort of stuff? Not yet. He's too young. It's too much. Variations on a theme.

My mother worries about the wrong brain.

Sometimes I ask Sarah, "What does Mom think?"

"About what?"

"Dad."

"What about Dad?"

Our house isn't small, but it isn't so big that hiding secrets is easy.

As a young man, does my father want a family? A wife? Kids? To someday bounce grandchildren on his knee and say I remember when?

Aaron's stories suggest yes, but he's unreliable. I call him Renfield and he says, "Always nonsense with you."

Robbie vouches for a few of the stories, and I trust Sarah isn't lying whenever she agrees.

Time distorts with motion and we're moving farther away from primary sources all the time.

My father wants a family and he finds my mother and she accepts him or believes him and he gets his family, only maybe the dreams of youth are never dreams, but delusions. Reality cracks the imaginings into a million little pieces.

Flawed Victor, forced hero Aaron, crazy Robbie, Sarah, Myra, Rose, girls, alien, girls. And one more, as if six isn't enough.

My father says, "I'm exhausted."

He realizes he doesn't want what the world tells him to want. Not at the cost of living a lie. This idea is mine. He asks himself what if.

"What if I hadn't given in?"

"What if I'd been honest with myself?"

"What if I'd shown the world my true self?"

I'm not sure he knows the answers.

Flawed Victor, forced hero Aaron, crazy Robbie, Sarah, Myra, Rose, girls, alien, girls. And one more, as if six isn't enough.

Let's say my father finds what he really wants. Are we erased? Or other? Other without knowledge of what might have been.

Forget the answers. I'm not sure the questions even occur to my father. Over the years, the lie eats him. It eats his heart and liver and lungs and brain, destroying any chance of rational thought. He needs our help and we give him nothing. By then, we're only a reflection of the lie.

Flawed Victor, forced hero Aaron, crazy Robbie, Sarah, Myra, Rose, girls, alien, girls. And one more, as if six isn't enough.

A truth so true as to be cliché: The definition of insanity is making the same mistake over and over again and expecting a different result.

My father's suicide is a mercy killing.

Aaron moves back in for a while, spends time with Mom, helps with the bills.

Those years, I focus on getting out of the house. I find a job, offer my mother money. I want to be a benefit, somehow.

My mother refuses. She says, "We're fine. I'm fine." I learn to recognize the moment she's about to walk away before I think we're done talking.

Sarah and Myra cook, do the bulk of the chores, get Rose and me up and going on school days.

When I try to help around the house, Sarah says, "Worry about school. You have your responsibilities. Take care of them."

Whatever Myra is doing, she says, "It's kind of a one-person job."

"Quit bugging your sisters," says my mother. Aaron stays quiet when he's not defending her. Renfield.

I work at Slice of Life, a greasy pizza and sandwich place owned by Josie, this tiny Greek woman, anywhere between forty and sixty, so small, so thin. Is it possible to have a concave chest?

Lust takes me to Slice of Life. I want Josie to be my Mrs. Robinson, to seduce me in the supply room, to force herself on me.

Josie has a black pile of curls she wears up in the kitchen, her face glistening with beads of sweat, the smell of pizza, cold cuts, and oil comes off her like cartoon scent lines. When we're close, I catch whiffs of perfume and hairspray that make me think of Ginger.

Josie glides on twig legs, delicate and fierce like a thoroughbred. She lifts heavy pots with ease, showing off sinewy arms. Josie has no time for a human husband. She's married to the restaurant.

When I arrive at Slice of Life and announce my desire for a job, Josie looks like maybe she didn't hear me correctly, then says, "Start tomorrow. Two."

I prep the pizza toppings, slice the cold cuts, stock the cooler, the freezer, and supply room, wash dishes, mop.

Josie says, "Everything except cook, customers, register."

When she fucks me, I hope she talks dirty in Greek.

Josie doesn't ask about my life outside of work. With Josie I listen. She tells me about her rough childhood in Greece, her dead brother, a worthless drunk. His daughter, Jackie, lives with Josie and is the waitress at Slice of Life.

Jackie is darker than Josie, and like most people, towers over her aunt. Jackie also has curves all week. She gives me dreams. I'm an archaeologist on the Greek islands, and I discover Jackie, living in an Amazonian tribe and now I know I'm dreaming, but this dream is just too good.

Josie and Jackie get along fine, except they fight about money, yell, scream, curse, never when we have customers, early, before we open. Sometimes, they show up angry. They have a complicated work-rent relationship that neither seems to like. Jackie is supposed to be saving for college and the arguments inevitably shift into Greek and always end with hugs and kisses and forgiveness and promises that they'll never behave this way again.

I stay out of it, never interject, and they aren't interested in involving me. They appreciate that I don't attempt to referee.

Josie says, "You're not like other men."

"He's fourteen," says Jackie.

I lose my virginity to Jackie in the walk-in cooler. The cooler is her idea, the sex too. Who am I to say no? Who am I to hold out for Josie?

Jackie pulls me into the cooler. Less likely to get caught and the cold will help me last longer. She wants to have fun.

"This isn't a charity case," she says.

She leaves her shirt on, takes my hand and places it underneath, on her bra. The tips of my fingers touch flesh.

I tell her I don't have a condom, she laughs, produces one from her shorts pocket, and puts it on me herself.

When we're done, I ask her what it was.

"What are you talking about?"

"You said it wasn't a charity case."

She flicks my nose with her finger like I'm a child and says, "No, I got you before you become a heartbreaker."

"A heartbreaker?"

"Yeah, you're going to break hearts for sure. You're cute now."

I don't like the sound of cute.

Jackie reads me. She says, "Don't worry, cute is sexy."

We mess around a few more times. The girls at school start to notice the confidence.

My dirt bike (inspired by Edward Furlong's in _Terminator 2_ ) is also a hit. So is paying for stuff. Every Friday, when we close, Josie hands me a wad of cash from the register. With the hours I put in, it's plenty of coin in my pocket.

I'm also bigger and stronger than other boys. Never a bad thing with the girls. They want a boy to wrap his arms around them, hold them close, keep them warm. Girls talk, and word gets around, three older sisters have taught me how not to be a jerk.

Girls talk and girls get curious. I don't rush. I don't paw or push. I don't say stupid shit like, "C'mon, just the tip." I'm available, no pressure, the midnight cowboy Joe Buck wants to be.

The thing is, my sisters don't teach me about sex. That's weird. Paul Rust points this out in his _WTF_ episode. Older sisters teach you to listen. Pay attention. Be present.

That's how I think about these memories now, sitting at my kitchen table, finishing my breakfast, but maybe it's the girls taking pity on the kid with the dead father.

"You needed that, didn't you?"

"Feel better now?"

"You looked like you could use it."

I avoid the overachieving Tracy Flick types. They have priorities and five-year plans. Goals and expectations. For them, fooling around with boys is like pouring sugar in a gas tank. I stick to the rebels and goth girls, poet and punk wannabes, theater nerds. They have built-in angst that has nothing to do with you. I hold them close, listen, absorb what they offer, let them skim my surface.

This morning, the laughing woman outside my window waking me is a sign. Today isn't a day for driving.

I clean up after breakfast. The counters are dirty. The fridge too. Under the table. The cabinets. Emilina misses so much of this endless filth. We live with our dead skin.

I go for a run, return home, and let's fast forward past the monotony of cleaning and _Rideshare_ work to the afternoon, to what I think about all day anyway, after I walk to the cafe and yes, Grace is there with me.

She says, "I'm thinking of visiting your old neck of the woods."

"Arizona?"

"No, my best friend from college is getting married. She's planning a Vegas trip. Not a bachelorette party."

"Hey, your first time. Definitely go. Definitely have fun. But definitely be careful. It's an amusement park for adults where the rides sometimes crash and burn."

"That doesn't come as a shock."

"It's the root of the whole what-happens-in-Vegas crap."

"Yeah, it's not really my thing. But Jenny's excited, and I'm trying to mix things up, you know, getting out of your space is a good way to, you know, get a reset."

"You need a reset?"

"Uh, do you actually listen when I talk?"

We sit in silence, look at our drinks, the walls, the other patrons.

Grace's face brightens. She points a finger at me. "You used to live there."

"I did."

"You want to come with?"

"You're asking me to go with you to Las Vegas? To a bachelorette party?"

"It's not a bachelorette party, but yeah, I don't know, I'm spitballing. You could play along."

"I got no reason to go to Vegas."

"You lived there."

"I don't think so."

"You don't think you lived there?"

"No, I don't think living there is enough reason to go."

"There has to be someone you'd like to see."

"Go, go, have a good time. Tell me all about it when you get back."

"You don't have to hear about it. You can live it."

I laugh. "Is that your pitch?"

"I have enough miles I could buy your ticket."

"Thank you, but no. You want someone to go with, ask a girlfriend, or your boyfriend."

Grace looks disgusted. She waves a hand at me. "Forget Steve. Whatever. I thought it'd be fun, figured having a travel partner would be nice, that there might be people you want to see. I didn't expect you to hang out with the girls."

"I'm sorry. Even if I wanted to, it's hard for me to get away."

Grace is red. Her jaw grinds. She says, "Jesus, Dave, you're such a bullshitter. You're here almost every day, you work when you feel like it. You're single, no kids. You don't want to go, fine, but . . ."

I don't budge. Grace is right on every count. I keep my reason to myself. Mel is in Vegas and I have no desire to roll the dice. The amusement park is only so big.

"I'm sorry," I say.

The conversation is over. The tension remains. Grace excuses herself and goes to the bathroom. When she returns, she looks like she's been crying.

I think she's going to leave, or act as though I should. We're going to part ways for today, now, but no, Grace's mood changes, and she changes the subject too. Chitchat, and I'm not with it. Mel is stuck in my head.

A few minutes later, it's my turn to excuse myself to the bathroom.

I wash my hands, then pause on my way out, fingers hovering above the doorknob. Insist I'm too busy to go to Vegas, use _Rideshare_ as the reason. Will she understand how much work it entails? I won't go to Vegas with Grace.

I rejoin her at the table, but I don't join the chitchat.

The summer I'm eight my father packs us in the station wagon to display the Southwest. A Sunday drive times two weeks. Our one family vacation. A retracing of my parents' journey west. Minus two witnesses. No Victor and Aaron.

In New Mexico, we go to White Sands and Los Alamos. My whole world is desert. From the station wagon it flies by, sometimes I can't see, view blocked by luggage or Robbie's big body. He's seventeen, going on eighteen, taking his last car ride with the family. Me, by seventeen, I'm alone in the desert.

At eight, I get in on I-spy and license plate games when I can, but my sisters are a united front with their in-jokes, back and forth, call and response. Together, three steps ahead, always.

When they do turn their attention my way, I'm ready, the willing mascot.

Robbie says, "Don't embarrass yourself kid."

He lets me borrow his Walkman. "Listen to this," he says.

Jimi Hendrix. "Well, I stand up next to a mountain. And I chop it down with the edge of my hand."

In the back of the station wagon, I hold my hand horizontal, slicing cacti, splitting mountains in the distance.

I discover I can leave the car, sprint, climb the peaks and run back, catching up to my family miles down the road, no one notices my absence.

In Texas, my mother says, "I remember when . . ."

"I remember when . . ." says my father in Texas.

We head south to San Antonio. The Alamo.

Sarah worries Mom. She says, "I'm going to ask the tour guide where the basement is."

"There's no basement at the Alamo," says Myra, doing a solid Jan Hooks.

My sisters giggle. Mom shushes them, not getting their one movie reference. Robbie is antsy. My father stays at arm's length. Don't cross any lines.

In the Alamo gift shop, Robbie says to no one, "Give your life to a cause and one hundred fifty years later people buy shot glasses and baseball caps in your memory."

During the tour, I listen to my mother's discussion with the guide about nineteenth-century migration to Texas and trade routes and slavery. I hear this history and nothing sticks. At eight years old, I'm blind to the truth of the world.

We visit Austin.

Everywhere in that city the tower looms, watching you, but at eight I know nothing of August 1, 1966, and learn nothing, even later in Vegas, when Mel and I watch _Full Metal Jacket_ and _Slacker_. Not the real story.

Mom drags us to museums and the heat becomes too much. We get grumpy and easily annoyed until my father decides the vacation is over and hauls us home. Done and we still have to drive all the way back. Forget it.

I feel the same now, here and not here with Grace. I say goodbye. Time for me to jet.

In Vegas, before everything changes, Mel and I go to _Point Break Live_ , a stage production of the movie with some added tricks. The show includes an actress playing Kathryn Bigelow. She's there to direct Johnny Utah because, you see, an audience member plays the Keanu Reeves character.

At the beginning of the performance, Bigelow calls any would-be Utahs to come up on stage for an audition.

Mel turns to me and says, "You think I should do it?"

"Yes."

"For real?"

"Why not?"

Half a dozen other brave souls join Mel. Bigelow organizes them shortest to tallest, then has each person repeat, "You trying to tell me the FBI is going to pay me to learn to surf?"

Mel takes a step forward, looks out over the audience with a Ted "Theodore" Logan blank stare pulled from the ether, waits a second to let that face sink in, then nails the line. Close your eyes and Keanu is in the room.

The audience is full of fratties who think it'd be hilarious to watch the super thin, slopey dude with a heavy French accent and seemingly no knowledge of the movie—he doesn't even get the audition line correct—stumble around the stage for the next two hours. When he gets the most applause, Bigelow's shoulders sink. She's going to have to be on her toes.

Frenchie does suck. I blame the fratties. In a parallel universe, Mel's performance wins awards. Luckily Bigelow and the cast are pros, so the show is a hit even with a weak Johnny Utah.

On the way home, Mel makes two fists, touches the thumb-sides together, holds the fists up and says, "You know what this is?"

"What?"

"The size of that French guy's tiny butt."

When we get home, I tell Mel I want to make up for the shafting at the show.

I say, "Be my Johnny Utah and I'll be your Bodhi."

"One hundred percent pure adrenaline."

The night goes out to you Kathryn Bigelow. Thanks again for the greatest love story ever filmed.

What if I go to Vegas with Grace?

We rent a car. Then, while she's off living it up with her girlfriends, I drive out to the desert, far. The glow of the city gone. It's dark. I pass the time. I smoke a cigarette for my father. I drink a few cans of beer. I listen to the desert quiet, think of my sisters, Mel, Grace, the women I've known. I think of Iraq, and Victor, and everything else.

I sit on the hood of the car and watch the sunrise. I stretch and say good morning to the new day. I get in the car. The windows are up. I lock the doors for effect, I guess. And in this sacred moment, my crooked mind goes to Diamond Dave circa 1984.

"Yeah, we're running a little hot . . ."

I ease the seat back and wait. Do I take something to pass out, to avoid the torture? Do I squirm when the sun begins beating through the windshield? Do I fail to endure, open the door, toss my body out onto the ground, gasping for air?

The poor hiker who finds me. Unless the coyotes get me first. No, it's a hiker. The coyotes can't get in the car.

I refuse to give in to these fantasies. I won't go to Vegas with Grace.

Tonight, I wake up sure someone is in the house. Does the sound of breaking glass wake me? I hear creaking. Footsteps, or the house settling? A door opening? An intruder sneaking to the bedroom, or sounds from the outside world?

I'm positive someone has broken in. I'm positive I'm alone.

The house is quiet, and I lie in bed listening to the thieves toss my stuff. A car horn, a howling cat, a police siren. I'm alone.

I get up, grab my baseball bat from under the bed.

Bedroom door opened or closed? I can't tell in the dark. I inch forward, free hand extended out, and jam my fingers against the open door. I curse—too loud—and again when I realize the burglars will hear me. Dummy. It's only the noise from the neighborhood, the house, the wind.

Emilina has a key. She selling copies?

In the hall, I turn on the light—revealing myself for sure, but leaving a clear path to the front door if the intruder makes the smart move and flees. I yell out, "show yourself," and ready the baseball bat. Nobody rushes me. The house stays silent.

No intruders. Never. Brain trickery. Synapses create one truth when the opposite is also true. The stove is off and on. The back door locked and unlocked. The front door chained and unchained. Schrödinger's brain. Am I alive and dead?

I go back to bed, have no trouble dozing off, am about to fall fast asleep when I hear a sound. Someone's in the house. I reach for the baseball bat. In the dark, I can't tell if I left the bedroom door open.

Marc Maron's _WTF_ episode with the musician Jack White carries us back to the Delta blues of the 1920s. Charley Patton, Son House, and Robert Johnson.

Blind Blake sings, "I caught a stranger in my house and I busted his head with a club."

The night I catch the intruder in my house, I hit him with my baseball bat, as many times as it takes.

Drag the body to the pantry and forget about it until the smell.

How'd that get there? I wonder.

The body is mine. I'm Roman Polanski in _The Tenant_ visiting myself in the hospital.

To reach sleep, I watch Dropsy Duo videos.

A new one, not a sketch, but a short film. Hanging from a wooden platform upside down by its "toes" is a human figure, red, shiny, and upon a closer look, it's obvious. The figure is made of cuts of beef.

Ten seconds in, a huge flame erupts from off-screen as though someone in the wings has a flamethrower. The fire engulfs the beef man. Burns, burns, burns, and fades to black.

ELEVEN

Each night, after hours of KITT and Miss Daisy, when I return the car to my garage, I have to clean the cum off the back seat. Some nights I clean off the blood.

Chill. _Taxi Driver_ for those slow on the uptake. KITT and Miss Daisy offer their share of nutjobs, but in case anybody misunderstands the world we're living in, mid-'70s New York City is myth, smoky dreams, a fantasy land of parables and fables.

The degenerates who might stain the interior of my car with their precious bodily fluids have the Internet to provide their kicks. Tubes, VR, cam shows, Craigslist, Fuckbook, hook-up apps. Swipe right, swipe left. Right, left, right, left.

Sometimes, I carry these full-of-fluids passengers in transit to their chosen get-off. So far, nothing left behind for me to clean up.

Another morning already, and I'm worn out.

Where's yesterday?

Another morning already and more mosquito bites on my knees and elbows, a row on the knuckles of my right hand. The damn bitches send reinforcements in the night.

I hear their buzzy girl voices.

"He tastes so deliiicious."

"Such sweet neeecter."

Don't let the bites freak me out. I'm okay. I'm okay. Don't let the bites freak me out. I'm healthy. I'm not sick.

Zika, Avian flu, SARS, H1N1, Swine flu, Ebola.

Now SV23.17 is coming.

The virus lives in a chimpanzee in Africa. A mosquito bites the chimpanzee, and newly infected with SV23.17, she buzzes to her next victim. Add humans, sprinkle with the magic of modern travel, and behold, SV23.17 arrives here.

Scientists know SV23.17 will, like all viruses, mutate. They're terrified. They don't understand the bug as is, once it goes haywire, we'll be further mystified.

People are living with SV23.17 in their blood. Others are thinking, why worry, we're not in Africa or the Amazon. SV23.17 is there, not here.

Any day now, a U.S. obstetrician discovers a patient with SV23.17 when the fetus kills the mother from the inside and welcome to our collective national panic attack.

Leadership is lacking. The so-called president sows chaos with no credibility. Do the universe a favor and go away.

Maybe I have SV23.17 today, wreaking havoc on my sperm. I'm not getting anyone pregnant ever, I hope. I don't want to mess with SV23.17. I'm pissed at this climate that breeds such bugs. I start in the bedroom and search the house for the bloodsuckers, but they're too smart to show themselves in the light of day.

If it's not SV23.17, it will be something else. Maybe not even disease.

California waits for the big one. New Orleans, Miami, Houston for the hurricane that washes them into history. Terrorism, ICBMs, active shooters, Facebook killers. Disaster is always right around the next corner. See above if you expect leadership.

Laugh at my misconceptions about SV23.17. Accuse me of overreacting. The sound of your cackling attracts catastrophe.

I am grateful for potable water.

I am grateful for vaccines and antibiotics.

On my jog this morning, I see the junky is out, alone, a few blocks from my house, sitting in the entranceway to a boarded-up laundromat. Same dress, filthy now, her arms too. The Birkenstocks are gone. Dirt coats her bare feet.

Cat-lady Judith says, "You have to be nice to them. They'll mess with your mojo if you're not careful. We're their slaves. Feed, scoop litter, play with, pet. You're a sentient, heated massage chair for your cat."

I point out that it works both ways.

"How so?" asks Judith.

"How you go, so goes the gravy train."

Judith isn't having it. "Cats be clever. Mess with your mojo 'cause they can."

I approach the junky and crouch down. Her head lolls, her eyes move over me, her pupils giant, don't change.

I offer a hand.

She doesn't budge. I slip my hands under her armpits and heave her up. Her body collapses against mine. She's light, easy to hold. I could snap her in two. I hoist her into a fireman's carry and begin hauling her to my house. I'm not prepared if anyone stops to ask where I think I'm taking this woman.

We reach my place and I bring her straight to the bathroom. I lay her carefully in the tub and try to remove her dress. She stares into space when I ask her to lift her arms so I can slip the dress over her head. Oblivious or apathetic? I lift one arm at a time and manage. She starts to whimper when the dress is covering her face, stops as soon as she can see again.

When I turn on the faucet, the water gets a rise out of her. She squirms, brings her knees to her chin, scoots back, a cat realizing she's getting a bath, but when the water touches the junky, she doesn't leap from the tub. The warmth relaxes her. I get a nice steam going and scrub her head to toe. She's silent as she lets me wash her. The bathwater darkens to a sooty gray. I drain the tub and refresh the water.

Once the junky is clean, I get her up, on her feet, dry her off and wrap her in a towel. I carry her to the bedroom, put her in my bed, tuck her in.

While she sleeps, I wash her dress in the kitchen sink and hang it in the bathroom to dry.

No, none of that happens. I'm still across from the boarded-up laundromat watching the filthy junky sitting in the entranceway.

In my reverie, I forget that before I get her clean, or maybe even before I get her to the house, she's going to lose it. The drug molecules hijacking the junky's brain convince her I'm keeping her from fixing. She may claw my eyes out. Even if we do make it to the house, she may rob me, or cave in my skull and take up residence, turn the place into a drug den. Ron will be so proud.

My body decomposes where it falls. The pool of blood around my head dries, gluing my scalp to the floor. Life imitates Frances's _Scenes from Life_ paintings. To move my body, you have to peel me up, crusty and sticky with bits of wood mixed in, hair and skin and brain left behind. The addicts get high around me, tripping over my corpse, saying, "How'd that get there?"

50,000 yearly deaths from drug overdoses in the U.S. The majority from opioids. 16,000 from prescription drugs. Read _Dreamland_ by Sam Quinones. Listen to his _WTF_ episode with Marc Maron. Read Dr. Anna Lembke's book, _Drug Dealer, MD_. Listen to her _Fresh Air_ episode with Terry Gross.

My father is no addict. Regardless, my family never talks about how we miss the signs of his illness, the real signs, how we fail to understand. I try with Sarah.

She says, "I know, I know, but we're okay."

"Listen," I say.

"It's okay, it's okay."

How am I supposed to talk to her?

Don't feel like being home today. Don't feel like driving. I ride the bus. No destination, time without purpose, except to create rhythm. I transfer where routes intersect.

On public transportation, I often watch women putting on makeup. They're skilled at applying lipstick and eyeliner even with the rumbling, starting-stopping bus. Today, I see a woman with a little tool. I don't know the name. A device for putting on fake eyelashes. When she's done, she tosses the tool into her bag and uses the selfie function on her phone as a mirror to check her work. Perfect.

Consider Buffalo Bill's desire to sew a woman suit in _The Silence of the Lambs_. His crazy causes him to think people won't see past the skin to the person underneath.

Makeup, dresses, heels, push-up bras, plucked brows and upper lips, shaved or waxed legs, armpits, and vaginas, dyed and styled hair. Too often men—I admit guilt—treat women's bodies as outfits, costumes meant for our enjoyment and pleasure. We decide the artifice we like best and expect women to play along because that's their role. They're skin and nothing else. An actual person doesn't exist.

Buffalo Bill is crazy, his solution less so. For a fucked-up fictional character from a movie made in 1991, he understands perception and our cultural norms more than most who think they reside in present reality.

I'm on the 11, standing, headed to the Valley, when a woman gets on. She's sliding past me in the aisle as the bus moves with a jolt. The woman stumbles, gets a hand up on the strap to stop from falling, but not before she bumps me.

City reflexes cause me to apologize.

"No worries," says the woman.

She decides the spot next to me is good enough. I watch her discreetly, which isn't too hard, I'm several inches taller than her. I channel my inner Lon Chaney and present my best face to this woman like I do when people eye me, when I spot the mental figuring, the questions about what shade I am. How dark do we decide this guy is?

I am grateful for the ability to change my face.

Now that we're on our way, and the woman has her balance, she rides along with the bounce of the bus. She's smiling, her attention on the nice day outside. No phone in her face. No earbuds. Her big brown eyes sparkle with excitement for the world. She has things to look forward to. Good awaits her.

She looks up at me. Catches me staring. No, she's smiling, gives me a look like can you believe our luck with this awesome day. Then back out the window. I know it's the bounce of the bus, but the woman gives the impression she's about to dance.

She looks up at me again.

I say, "People like you."

"You talking to me?"

"Yeah. I said, people like you."

Her expression changes. She's asking herself whether she knows me. She checks behind her as if I'm talking to someone over her shoulder. She doesn't speak, but her head moves, almost too small to see. She's shaking her head no. My Lon Chaney face shows phantom, not harmless.

The woman is backing up, slowly, no rush, but putting space between us. The bus stops, and she gets off, several stops early, I'm sure.

"People like you." That's all. Merely an observation, but it earns me that look. I know it too well.

Care, compassion, intimacy, don't have to be forever, won't be, unless you're prepared to suffer epic disappointment. Finite doesn't equal lesser. When I'm with a woman, I'm nowhere else.

I transfer to the 19 and the 43 and ride without incident until I decide I'm done with the bus. I'm close enough to the cafe to walk.

I nod to Chief on my way in. No Grace today, not yet.

I'm watching Mom pour my pint when I catch movement on the counter, a brown spider, skittering toward the register, blending in. I take a step back and the spider freezes. Mom is passing me the pint. She puts the glass down, slam, next to the spider and the nasty bitch is off and down the far side of the counter. Good, stay away from me.

I pay Mom, grab my drink, and retreat to my table.

The guy from a few months ago, posting photos of his spider, Sandy. The trolls make a mistake with him. He really is crazy.

Trolls make his life so difficult he leaves the online universe and gets revenge in the real world.

The more prominent trolls wake up one morning with their houses full of spiders. Full of spiders. This spider man raises thousands of the little creatures. How? Google it.

The spiders crawl and bite, bite and crawl, cover that troll flesh. The trolls panic, smash and squash. One troll has an allergic reaction and dies en route to the emergency room—chills me to think about it. Another survives with permanent nerve damage. All kinds of law enforcement and health agencies get called in. The sites are quarantined until they're cleared of spiders. People point out it's impossible to know for sure whether the sites are clear of spiders. People point out that some spiders may have been far, far away before the trolls call for help.

Over the next week, officials are deluged with sightings of large poisonous spiders in waterspouts, bathtubs, inside shoes. Most of the sightings are discounted as overreactions, and soon the story recedes into the background and is forgotten.

At the cafe, someone's banging on a table, smacking it with the palm of his hand. He yelps. Yelps. I check the guy out, and this can't be right. My eyes have to be deceiving me. It's a Michael Richards look-alike impersonating Kramer trying to get Joe DiMaggio's attention.

Bang. Yelp. Bang. Yelp. Joe D isn't at the cafe today. They don't serve doughnuts here. Mom calls to Kramer to stop or they're going to throw him out. He says something I can't hear, gives Mom a dismissive wave, stands and heads for the door, slurring nonsense as he leaves.

I look to Mom, like she has an explanation. She ignores me. I drink my pint.

No Grace today. I should text her, see what's what.

I drink my pint and another.

No Grace today. I don't text her. Leave her alone.

I walk home and get in the car. I should make some money.

Right away, I'm unfocused, sticking to Miss Daisy. Silent rides, a means to an end.

South of Laurel Heights, I pick up Howard, a wispy man leaning heavily on a cane and wearing a yellow cardigan that conjures Mr. Rogers.

I pull to the curb, hop out of the car, come around to the passenger side, and open the back door for the old man. He smiles when I'm careful to keep his head from hitting the roof as he gets in. Howard adjusts himself and puts on his seat belt. He looks up and says, "Thank you, son."

I make sure he's comfortable and gently close the door.

As soon as I pull into traffic, Howard begins waving his cane, using it to point out some of the recent neighborhood changes.

"Over there, that used to be a nail salon, and that was a law firm. I remember when . . ."

I listen but know nothing of what he's talking about.

He asks me how long I've been driving for Miss Daisy.

When I tell him, he says, "In the '50s I hitchhiked, to and from college. Never worried about a thing."

"Sounds good, sir."

"Modern-day hitchhiking."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"My son tells me a stranger's gonna take me to my appointments, I say, 'What, I'm gonna hitchhike?'"

I catch his eyes in the mirror, then turn to look at him quickly and say, "It's not really different from a taxi."

Howard gives his cane a squeeze. "I suppose."

We're out of Laurel Heights. I'm skirting downtown, a little longer route, but faster for what it avoids in traffic and red lights.

Howard gets quiet, his eyes out the window on the closed retail shops. There are sidewalk tents here too, lone figures sitting in doorways and on stoops, bundles of blankets covering prone bodies.

Howard sighs. He says, "You married, son?"

"No, sir."

"No kids?"

"No, sir."

He starts babbling. He has several grandkids, spread out around the country. He misses them. They're all doing great. He wishes he saw them more. He mentions pictures. He'd show me but I'm driving. He wishes he saw them more. His children can be difficult though. But his grandkids are perfect. The details are typical: scholarships, athletics, beautiful, handsome. Their lives are ahead of them, all sun and blue skies.

Howard trails off, adds a wistful, "Things are different now."

He's quiet again as we pass a row of tents running the length of the block, then he says, "You take care of yourself son."

I hear it as a question. "Ye—"

"You'll live to be a hundred, easy, more."

"Uh, okay."

"What they're doing with genes. My boyfriend knows." Another wave of the cane. For emphasis this time. "He could explain it better if he were here, he reads the latest studies, says we're at the beginning of a genetic revolution."

Growing organs in sheep and pigs. I almost share with Howard, but the man wants to talk not listen.

"Genetic manipulation," he says. "It's going to change everything. Already has. Greg could tell you better if he were here. A revolution."

Howard mentions screening out diseases in fetuses and breathlessly changes the subject to Greg. They've been together for a decade now. Howard couldn't go through this alone. They met at a bar, can I believe it? He never thought he'd find anybody like him.

"To really fall in love," says Howard. "I wish it for everyone."

He's quiet again.

We're close to Howard's destination. The neighborhood is different here. People have somewhere to go. They're on a lunch break. They carry a shopping bag or two. Lots of eyes on phones.

A noise from Howard, and I think he's clearing his throat, getting ready to speak, but no, it's a cough, nope, a full-throttle gag, and Howard pukes all over the back of the passenger seat.

He says, "I'm sor—" and pukes another bunch.

I'm pulling over. I throw on the hazards, put my window down, and face Howard.

Through labored breathing he says, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sure that's it." He puts his window down.

"It's okay," I say. "Are you okay?" The vomit smells like burnt coffee grounds and bile. I cover my nose and mouth, manage not to retch.

Howard has a hand on his chest. His breathing is better. He sits up straight and says, "I'm sorry, this . . . happens. From time to time, now." He removes a handkerchief from his sweater pocket, wipes his nose and mouth.

"It's okay. As long as you're okay."

He nods. "Yes, thank you."

Embarrassed, Howard assures me he can walk the last two blocks to his doctor's appointment.

I don't argue, just drive him, and he's happy. He promises his son will be in touch, reimburse me for any cleaning.

"It's okay," I say and head home with the windows down.

If my father lives, how is time different? I'm alone with him and alone without him. Those loner years belong to me.

I have my job at Slice of Life until I don't. First, Jackie gets her shit together, moves out of Josie's, finally goes to school. And then Josie leaves too. The pizza business is too tough in Arizona. She has a cousin in New York. He's going to set her up there.

In high school, I sit in the back of the classroom, avoid eye contact, smoke between periods with the rebels and toughs on the loading dock behind the school. I stay invisible to the jocks and popular kids. Blend in.

I'm Mystique, never revealing my true self, or even better, the T-1000, the morphing liquid-metal terminator from _T2_. I'm ready if any losers dare give me a hard time. Think of the scene where the T-1000 disguises itself as John Connor's foster mom. I shoot my spear arm through the milk carton into your mouth and out the back of your head. Withdraw spear and morph it back to hand. Examine hand and wiggle fingers, a little flare for my audience.

To the adults, I'm the last one, the youngest after Rose and Myra and Sarah and my brothers for those old enough to remember. The years pass, the memories of my siblings fusing with nostalgia, creating myth.

I learn to be slightly disappointing. Don't impress, but don't make trouble either. Even my claim to fame stays discreet: I'm fast at flipping a butterfly knife.

I "earn" straight Cs, the occasional lucky, or inflated, B. Just enough to not stand out. No worries.

I don't have friends then, not like now, only acquaintances. Girls are easy. They take advantage of the independence my dirt bike offers, the speed, the space, the wind in their hair.

Usually though, I go into the desert alone. On my bike or on foot. I don't know it, but I'm preparing for the Army. I learn to manage my fatigue in the heat. I strengthen my heart and lungs. I hone my eye, shooting ground squirrels, packrats, and cottontails with Robbie's old .22 rifle.

I dream. I play. I order a hunting knife from the back of _Field & Stream_, make a sheath for it. I'm Robin Hood meets Road Warrior, a one-man A-team. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find me.

When I'm not deep in the desert, when I have to be home, I stay where I'm wanted, out of the way. With the time away from the house, TV diminishes as my companion, our relationship changes. Distance grows between us, but we understand, in times of need, we remain present for each other.

Now, I drive, put miles on the car, use gas, create pollution, waste time. I drive because the car allows me to slip into it, like Spock doing a mind meld. My BMW becomes a self-driving car, and I am nowhere.

Sometimes, I can't get there. The straightaway on La Salle, before the "S" curve under the overpass. I hit that stretch and my foot gets heavy. Ride the acceleration of 456 horsepower, enter the curve fast, and feel the car pulled to the concrete wall, like hard Gs in a space opera.

Imagine not taking the curve, speeding head on into the wall, no seat belt. Car and body smash concrete. How fast until it's over? How painful? How exhilarating those final seconds in the car, past the point of no return, when the only choice left is to let go and see where the ride takes you. What's next?

Louie Anderson has this to say about audiences experiencing his dark comedy: "You know, like, don't you think they probably think he has a knife, but I don't necessarily want to see it?"

"Yeah, I get that. I get that," says Terry Gross.

Not me. I want to see your knife, Mr. Anderson. Show it to me, please. Give me the knife. Stick it up under my ribs and twist. Please.

You witness how thankful some are. People who recognize the cessation of their pain, the expression frozen in their welcoming faces, letting go before life. They embrace the end, happy and at peace.

At home, I fill a bucket with soapy water and clean Howard's vomit with some old rags. Then I cover the area in baking soda and let it sit.

I leave the windows down and go upstairs.

Later, I vacuum the baking soda, but the smell remains. I repeat the process. Still smells.

An hour or so of online research hooks me up with a detailer who assures me they solve problems like this all the time. It means being without the car for a couple of days. Not ideal. I'd much rather take care of the stench myself, but seeing as that doesn't seem to be an option, I bring the car in. When I get home, I lie around doing nothing until it's time for bed.

I wake up tonight sure someone is in the house. I hear them moving furniture around. I go out to the living room and find Jon Stewart sitting at his anchor desk from _The Daily Show_ and this is a dream I know I'm dreaming.

Jon welcomes me. I'm tonight's guest.

I say, "You're not the host anymore."

He gives me a wry shake of the head. "I'm the Schrödinger's cat of _The Daily Show_ hosts."

I sit down for my interview. There's no in-studio audience, but Jon promises that people are watching at home.

We talk emoluments, collusion, and conspiracies. He tells me I worry much more than he does.

I call Stewart out on his greatest trick, convincing the world he's left of center.

He laughs, mentions continuums and perspectives. He says, "I think it's always been obvious that I'm middle of the road. Reasonable, really."

Jon explains his mastery of the writers' room by displaying his whip, cracking it for effect, then showing off the leg irons he uses to keep the staff at their desks.

I point out that his real legacy is his comedy tree. The branches grow and twist throughout our cultural landscape.

I ask Jon to tell me a secret he's never revealed to anyone.

He says, "I've got a thing for fellatio with guys named Bill."

"Really?"

"Oh, sure," he says with a chuckle. "I've sucked O'Reilly and Kristol off so many times."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not surprised."

"What?" he says. "Do I have cum on my face? Seriously though, that urban legend about Rod Stewart. Well, wrong Stewart and not an urban legend."

"Okay."

"The best is when the two Bills stand over me, together, and I can look up, a dick in my mouth, a dick in my hand, and watch those two studs make out. Little Bill needs a stool, but still, the best."

"Thank you for being so candid."

"No, thank you. It feels good to get these things off my chest."

I'm making Mr. Stewart uncomfortable, I think.

I wake up and go out to my living room for real, sit on the couch, turn on the TV and start flipping.

The writer James Baldwin describes TV as a narcotic, an insight he makes in a time of three channels. I learn this from Raoul Peck's appearance on _WTF_. Peck's documentary, _I Am Not Your Negro_ , is about Baldwin.

So much TV, almost four hundred scripted shows plus reality TV plus cable news entertainment.

Squeeze the remote, a security blanket. It's my spoon, heat up the TV waves, liquefy my insides when I'm on the couch. Burn the TV waves in foil, smoke them through a plastic straw. Happy box.

The egg is my brain, crack it in a hot pan, fry it up, my brain on drugs. I see that on TV. Druggie son yells at addict father, "You, alright? I learned it by watching you."

Happy box. Not a pox. Not a pox. Happy box.

To calm my mind, I turn off the TV and think about my to-do list:

Sweep backstairs

Binge _Transparent_

Contact Jennifer Aniston

Look at Sarah's Instagram page

Read James Baldwin

Post Warren R.S. ep.

Of all the _Rideshare_ guests, Senator Elizabeth Warren is who I want to keep in touch with, outside the context of the podcast. I try, flirting with her post-interview. She's too classy to respond. I scheme a way to plant a seed for a future rendezvous. No dice.

She's married, she's married, she's married. This becomes my mantra. Sleeping with wives, pissing off husbands, creating a third wheel. Bad idea. Don't be the one left holding the candle during dinner.

Still, Liz visits me at night, cheesy, like old-fashioned movies you've seen spoofed more often than the real thing. My bedroom window is open, a breeze blows the curtain. I get out of bed to close the window, and see down below, looking up, longing, Liz.

I call to her, "Come to me." She spreads her arms, music swells, and Liz floats up and into my room through the open window. We embrace and kiss, our momentum takes us to the bed. We tear at our clothes. I ask Liz to leave her glasses on.

Now I'm pissed off. I don't want to love Elizabeth Warren. She's married, she's married, she's married.

Liz, I will never silence you.

"When she was sixteen, my grandmother, Hannie Reed, drove a wagon in the Oklahoma land rush. Me, I was waiting tables at thirteen and married at nineteen. I graduated from public schools, and taught elementary school. My mother had taught me about the importance of finding a 'good provider,' so when my boyfriend proposed, I said 'yes' in a heartbeat. I was still just a kid, and I didn't know what was coming in life. I had a baby and stayed home for a couple of years, and I was really casting about, thinking, 'What am I going to do?' My husband's view of it was, 'Stay home. . . . We'll have more children; you'll love this.' And I was very restless about it. I was a Republican because I thought that those were the people who best supported markets. I think that is not true anymore. I was a Republican at a time when I felt like there was a problem that the markets were under a lot more strain. It worried me whether or not the government played too activist a role. I was thirty before I realized, you know, that I probably was an accident. These things just suddenly hit you one day. People have hearts, they have kids, they get jobs, they get sick, they cry, they dance. They live, they love, and they die. And that matters."

Thoughts of Liz don't calm me. I have choices. Go to Vegas with Grace. Don't go. See Mel. Avoid. With the car out of service, I have the time.

Mel. It's lust at first, like I'm used to with girls. But Mel is no girl. I fall in love fast.

Mel talks to me like nobody else, teaches me about history and philosophy, says stuff like, "What does eternal mean to you?"

"Huh?"

"Huh? Listen. What does eternal mean to you?"

"Uh, forever."

"Y'know, Wittgenstein writes about eternity as being timeless. Accepting that there's only this moment, only now, makes you eternal."

"Who's Wittgenstein?"

Mel and I bond over music, trading Tupac for Sleater-Kinney.

The sex rocks. Mel and I know what we like and how to give it. We appreciate what we have. Neither of us needs to ask about expectations or what it all means. The relationship is real, the love real, now, and now is eternal.

We're soldiers in the United States Army. We watch sunsets over Baghdad.

We survive the RPGs and IEDs together.

Our vehicles are equipped with MEXAS and have flat-bottom chassis. Might as well be canvas and plywood. Until Mel shows off mad mechanic chops. No one keeps an ASV road worthy or up-armors the Humvees like Mel.

And I transform. In Afghanistan, I'm a competent soldier. Between the Tigris and the Euphrates, I adapt to my spiritual home, become an army of three. Triple threat. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, say the religious guys.

Watch me drive and discover the future of warfare: bio-mechanical integrated weaponry.

Envy my nose for IEDs. Whenever there's trouble, I'm there on the double, I'm The Bloodhound Gang, Sherlock Holmesing explosives.

The .50 cal on the ASV turns garden fairies into Rambos, but no one wields the weapon like me, no one's rounds make insurgents die like mine. No screams or wails. No one cries out for his mother. The lightning I throw strikes instant death, a warrior to make Homer proud. I eat fellows raw.

Enough bullshit? I agree.

We survive, and after, I go to Vegas because Mel wants me to come.

When we watch _Battlestar Galactica_ , Mel relates to Lieutenant Kara Thrace, call sign Starbuck. We shake our heads at the purists upset about the character's gender switch from man to woman. Such anger over a change made to a reboot of a shitty '70s show.

Outside of the twists, I don't remember much about the reboot. I prefer to watch Mel watching. Close, our bodies warm, the glow from the TV like a fire. We can turn it off, tell our own stories, but for now, close is what I want, the physical connection of Mel with me, experiencing moments together, discovering a mythology.

I see sparkles of Mel in Starbuck, no more really than any vet might find in the ace fighter pilot. Not until the end of the series do Mel and Starbuck meld. Kara Thrace becomes aware of her purpose only after she's dead. She returns as angel, to lead humans to Earth and their destiny. Starbuck won't be forgotten. I remember you Mel, my angel, by my side when I lie in the hospital.

You say, "Forget Wittgenstein. This isn't forever. Nothing is forever."

And I believe you.

TWELVE

You know I go to Vegas with Grace. Of course I do.

I'm tired. Time in the car stiffens my lower back. My right foot aches. My ankle burns.

This city, maybe I don't belong here. Vegas offers a change in reference frame. Not without risk. I want to avoid going backwards. Backwards is only an option for electrons. Possible evidence that free will is a sham. Vegas doesn't have to be backwards. I can be there without Mel.

Plus my car, smelling like Howard's puke, is at the detailer.

So I take all of the above as a sign. Grace and I go to Vegas.

I text her, ask whether I'm still invited. She responds with a string of smiley-face emojis.

Grace has the dates, two days, one night, a flight number, a ticket, super quick, too quick. I imagine her, before I agree to go, buying everything as a spell, as if doing so creates the energy for me to say yes.

For all the time I spend driving around the airport, I haven't stepped inside in so long. I never fly until the Army and then it's military transport. Commercial air travel isn't my world.

Yoga pants, pajamas, shorts and flip-flops, the dress code of modern-day airports. Travel like a child, crawl into a warm cocoon of blankets, headphones, a screen. The plane replaces the back of your parents' station wagon. Except with strangers.

While Grace and I wait, I spot a familiar face at the gate across from ours. Rebekah.

When we go out, Rebekah doesn't know what she's looking for—ignorant of her ignorance. She shows confidence in bed though, and isn't afraid to joke around. She says, "I'm so sexy, I can do anything I want. Grab 'em by the sack. You have to let me."

"The sack?"

"You heard me. I'm a sack grabber, just out there grabbin' all kinds of sack."

At Rebekah's gate, the crowd answers the siren boarding call, hustles to stand in line for the right to be the first to sit in the metal tube. I lose Rebekah, catch one last glimpse as she steps forward, slides her phone under the laser to scan her boarding pass, and she's on the gangplank and gone.

In the Army, we learn to hurry up and wait. Watching people at the airport, I see it's another aspect of the military that's entered civilian life.

Footsteps at the airport, spirits crossing and recrossing. Like the prayers in church, over time they acquire mass, miniscule, mass nevertheless.

Stop. Feel the souls.

A woman with a wedding dress in a clear garment bag. An old couple, fifteen thousand days behind them, congratulates the woman. She's flying to her childhood home to get married. No, she met her husband here, but she wants everything to be just right.

The woman with the wedding dress is replaced by a kid. The old couple start in, acquiring details.

Seth, twelve, his parents are getting food. The old guy goes to, "So, you play basketball."

Seth shakes his head.

Old guy is incredulous. "A boy like you. Why not?"

"I like other things," says Seth. He's looking for rescue.

I want to comfort him, imagine saying, "Don't worry, we outnumber them, and you have youth on your side. These old fogies will be dead soon. Look, one foot is already in the grave. Nobody will notice if you happen to drop a banana peel."

Scan an airport crowd. Ask yourself: Who's on drugs? Who's seething inside? Who suffers from a fear of flying? Who's not looking forward to their destination? Who has trouble saying goodbye? Who can't wait to leave?

The metal tube, the 33,000 feet, the speed. My body tells me this cannot be a good choice.

The screen in the seatback forces us to watch the safety video before takeoff. This airline jazzes it up, song and dance numbers, heady production values. We have women belting songs, background dancers, hip-hop vocals, children rapping, children lip-syncing. The schooling, the hours of practice. Rejection. Not measuring up to the top tenth of one percent. Movie-star dreams give way to life in industrials. A career, work, a paycheck.

Let's put on a show. Life and death situations as entertainment. Forget, forget. In the '30s, Busby Berkeley distracts from the soup kitchens and bread lines with dance numbers inspired by his time drilling army recruits. Now, superheroes save us, separate good from evil, create a clear line of demarcation. With us or against us. My way or the highway. The more things change, right? The saps at the Alamo step over the line, defend until the death the right to lord their position over those less fortunate. Kill or be killed.

The flight passes quickly, and as the plane descends, I look out on the world. No better sight to remind us everything is relative, tiny lives below pass by, gone before the details, but to them it's tangible and precious.

Vegas blows away the thin layer that hides the artifice. The desert mirage tries so hard the fake can't help but shine through in spades. Still, people remain blind to the deceit. Let's put on a show, and voilà that old barn transforms into a professional theater and whoa, those kids can sing and dance like Hollywood stars and hooray, the orphanage is saved. Uh, duh. They're Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, and the trope that we're all capable of putting on a show persists and becomes perverted. Not many of us are Mickey, less Judy. We're marks in the grand con.

In Iraq, in Vegas, I get so lucky.

Grace and I aren't even out of McCarran airport when the ghost of Bugsy Siegel sidles up to me, sticks a hand in my pocket and latches onto my wallet. I brush him off. He tries the same bullying tactic a thousand times a day.

Grace and I get adjoining rooms on the 27th floor of the MGM Grand. A few minutes after we check in, there's a knock on the door. Not the front door, but the one connecting the two rooms.

I let Grace in and she says, "Man, check out the view." She crosses to the window, opens the curtains and admires the strip.

I look past the casinos to the desert beyond to find Mel's origin story.

A trick of light, shimmering, the sun reflecting off the sand, but more, movement, single-file specks weaving among cacti, heads bopping, bodies shaking in rhythm. Shut out the noise of the strip. Listen to the chanting, the flutes and drums, carried to you on the desert air.

They look like children, saved from Thunderdome by Max. Another desert mirage. Children don't exist in the Land of Adult Make-Believe. They are feral creatures. Hunter-gatherers.

They're not actually present as I look out the hotel window. I have to rely on imagination because they keep their ceremonies secret. Pray word of my spying doesn't reach them.

Born into this amusement-park world, Mel discovers the role of garage rat. Tool hound and fixer. Parts fit. Machines work. The car wants to run. Ask Mel for a laying-on of hands and that dead engine turns over.

Mel explains better: "You want to dance, all you got to do is follow the steps."

"You need to learn them first," I say.

"Learn by doing. Find order in the repetition."

"Okay, Fred."

"Who's Fred?"

"You. Can I be your Ginger?"

In the hotel room, Grace looks at me and says, "What do you want to do first?"

"Don't you need to get in touch with your friends?"

She waves me off. "Plenty of time. How 'bout a toast?"

Grace is opening the mini-fridge. She looks quickly at the bottles and settles on two little whiskeys.

We toast to us, drink, and Grace says, "I want to shoot guns."

We take a taxi to a mega-range, indoor/outdoor, built for tourists.

I ask the cabbie, "How's business?"

"Terrible, the competition is like death by a thousand cuts."

I don't have the heart to tell him that I'm responsible for so many of those nicks.

At the range, Grace and I shoot Glock 17s and Berettas. Grace holds the pistols like she's familiar with guns, has fun firing, feeling the power. Style carries her only so far. She's a bad shot even for a beginner.

Grace wants to try something bigger. She's surprised when I'm not interested.

I watch our range master, Chad, instruct her on an M4.

The M4 Carbine: 5.56mm, air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine fed, semiautomatic and three-round burst.

A couple of lanes over, a family—Mom, Dad, and two boys—whoop and holler while shooting Uzis.

When Chad corrects Grace's grip, or her stance, she listens and doesn't repeat the mistake. She shows respect for her weapon, handles the recoil, doesn't rattle. She empties the magazine, looks at me, all smiles.

I love Grace now.

After the range, we walk down the strip, in and out of casinos, Bellagio, The Cosmopolitan, and Aria. We play find the mobster, the addict, the tourist losing his shirt on his first bet, the bachelorettes, family on a budget, parents blowing their kid's college fund, day drunks.

The bells, sirens, spinning lights, alarms, music, women dancing on bars, the smoke, and slot players sucking on oxygen tanks. The low ceilings and ugly carpets keep your gaze at game level. The rounded pathways hide your destination. Your eyes land on what's right in front of you. Love Big Brother. My fingertips tingle. Too much stimulus and I get squirrelly.

Grace wants liquor. We go to the sportsbook at Caesars.

She drinks vodka tonics while I lose a few dollars on horses, Dedicated To Pepe and Blue Monday. My beer tastes good anyway. I put a hundred bucks on the Diamondbacks game that starts in a few hours. Three strikes you're out, three outs an inning, nine innings. I know that much about baseball. Betting on gut. They're home, a desert blessing.

We're watching me lose another horse race when Grace puts her hands over her mouth and nose, and inhales.

"That smell," she says. "Sweet metallic." She takes another deep sniff. "So much fun. You missed out on the big gun, man."

"It's okay. I've done it before."

"All the more reason to do it again."

I shrug. "I guess the Army burned me out."

Grace expects something more. An explanation?

I say, "I was in the Army."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Wow. I had no idea."

"Why would you? I understand I don't really fit the stereotype."

"No, it's not . . . I'm sorry, we don't have to talk about this."

Reasons I give for joining the Army. Tell people what they want to hear: 9/11 inspires me. I want to give back. Service to country. Patriotism. I answer the call.

The joke reason: The circus doesn't want me.

Or go with the practical version: a job, acquire skills.

Or just-for-the-guys: The recruiter promises weekly blowjobs as an enlistment incentive.

The truth-lite version: I feel restless, uncertain. My life needs direction.

People thank me for my service, they nod and say nothing, their eyes find the floor, they become anxious. I get looks of sympathy, pride, pity, anger, mistrust, doubt. Most people are polite. Some men ask whether I killed anyone. Strangers. Who do they think they are? The years go by and my service becomes something I don't share.

Grace is different. I say, "It's okay. Afghanistan, clusterfuck, that's all I'm saying about that. Iraq is beautiful though. An ancient crossroads. Cradle of civilization indeed. And I belong in the desert, so the heat and sandstorms don't bother me."

The dead men and women and children. Too many. Tell Grace. Talk about the dead. Make them whole again, give them faces, life, please.

I say nothing. I won't lie to Grace about this. The people I kill are dead.

Reasons I give for joining the Army. For Grace, I consider authenticity. I want to be a man, and for time immemorial, men go off to war.

I say, "You know, I was young, antsy. I wanted to see the world." Run off, think I can become a different person. "Anyway, that's how I met Mel, so it all comes around."

"Who's Mel?"

"I haven't told you about Mel?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Oh. Yeah, we served together in Iraq, and lived here too. Mel's still here."

Grace's eyes get big. She slaps my chest with the back of her hand. "Dude, what are you doing? I can catch up with the girls. Go meet Mel. You should be hanging out with him."

"Her."

"What?"

"Her. Mel is short for Melanie." She's comfortable in her skin like no one I know. I can't be the only soldier who loves Mel. From General Casey down to Private Potato Peeler, the entire United States Army has got to be in love with her.

"Ah, the plot thickens," says Grace.

"Yeah, no, it's not like that."

Grace has a swig of vodka. "What's it like?"

"Not that," I say.

You know it's exactly like that.

We finish our drinks. I finish losing money on horses. Grace texts her friends and goes off to her room to shower and get dressed before meeting them. We agree to catch up later.

I walk the strip, blend in with the crowds, become part of them, create a Vegas rotation. I watch the Bellagio fountains for a long time, too long, the pattern, the repetition.

I go inside and play craps. I have no illusions about winning. I set out to lose slowly. When I'm the shooter, I make the table money with a run of sevens and elevens on the come-out, then miss my point, but I'm doing too well, so I take a shot on suckers' bets, the big eight and hard ten, and I'm back on track. Losing slowly.

I drink. Players come and go. Various women full of cheap glamour see my line of chips and we drink together. They pretend they want to chat. They touch my elbow and lower back, let their hands linger. They smile too much, act too happy when my bets pay off, too sad when they don't. Professionals? It's okay, I know when they arrive at the table they'll be leaving without me. I'm here to play dice, pass time, not pick up a prostitute.

Mel, Mel, Mel. Go see her. Check out the casino where she deals. Buy in at her table. Long time no see, sweetheart. How does she react?

"Of all the gambling joints in all the towns in all the world, and you walk into mine."

Does she even still work there?

I lose slowly, piss off some boys in white baseball caps by betting Don't Pass when they have the dice, give them a shit-eating grin when they crap out. They act like they want to fight, but with my size, they might be dumb, they're not that dumb. They think they get the last laugh when they go off with two of the women who have been working me. Have fun boys and good luck not getting rolled. An STD from Vegas does not stay in Vegas.

Mel, Mel, Mel. She may not work at the same casino anymore. She may be working other table games. I can take a car over to our old neighborhood. Does she still live there?

What if she's working at Bellagio? Playing craps doesn't keep me from paying attention to my surroundings. What happens if I catch Mel here? Our eyes meet. The shock. The surprise. The anger?

I think back. By the time we understand the stop-loss order ain't coming, the routine of playing house has grown stale. The talk of opening a garage, done, never was. I'm the crazy one for taking the idea seriously. To distract myself, I focus on real estate. Money, money, money.

Mel's day is work, eat, sleep. Show up and maintain is the extent of her life.

I say, "The war is over, Mel. For us, it's over."

You're moody and pensive, Mel. Work, eat, sleep. Quiet, long silences punctuated by bursts of anger.

You say, "It's not PTSD."

We discuss therapy. "Give it a chance," I say. "What can it hurt?"

The nights you wake me up, you say, "No, the dreams aren't about the war."

We discuss meds. "Give them a chance," I say. "What can it hurt?"

Your stock line becomes, "I just need time to figure things out."

It's long figured out I want to yell. We have a plan. I live up to my end of the bargain, but you let it go to crap, then turn petty, letting other women get in the way.

The sex with other women is good.

It's not cheating, at least I don't think so.

Early on, you say, "I don't know if humans are supposed to be monogamous."

"You trying to tell me something?" I ask.

"This isn't forever," you say.

"This?"

"Not just this. Any of this. For any two people. I don't know if we're supposed to spend our entire lives with one person."

And I believe you.

Work, eat, sleep, and occasionally, we spend time together, but often I'm off with other women. We're in an open relationship. Like we agreed.

I point out that it was your idea.

You complain that we don't connect like we used to.

I remind you about our plans. The garage that doesn't exist.

"That's not what we're talking about," you say.

These changes don't happen overnight. I'm a dog, but not a dog, not really. Gallivanting, an old-fashioned word. I'm not out gallivanting. Meeting women is easy, but not every day, and I love you, Mel, real love. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.

Normalcy creeps and you end up with all sorts of sucky situations. Contractors' burnt bodies hanging from a bridge. A sucker believes stories about one true love. An obvious grifter gets elected POTUS. Creeping normalcy kills with the speed of a forty-year pack-a-day habit. You kid yourself, find distractions, sometimes have fun, feel shittier and shittier, wonder why.

"Life doesn't give you any closure," says Ethan Hawke.

"It does at the end," says Marc Maron.

The time comes for me to leave Vegas. I tell myself it's because of the market crash, but that's a dirty lie. I leave because Mel and I both know we're finished. We reach our end, but Mr. Hawke is right, there's no closure. I sneak off in the night, taking advice from De Niro's character in _Heat_. Mel is nothing I can't walk out on in thirty seconds flat, and my only thought is a line from _Speed_ : "Relationships based on intense experiences never work out."

At the craps table, evening arrives and my chips are gone. I walk down the strip, eat at the Fat Burger, go to the MGM sportsbook and watch a few innings of the Diamondbacks game.

I watch but not really, really I just look at the giant screens, Mel on my mind. I don't want to see her. I don't want her to see me.

To pass the time, I have a few beers and consider going to a strip bar. I might run into someone I know though, bouncer or career dancer. This town is too small. What am I doing here?

Blood loss and a punctured lung. Combat death's top duo.

Bullets, IEDs, ball bearings, nuts and bolts, metal shards, screws, glass, nails, razor blades, fire, landmines, RPGs, fists, the butt of a gun, knives. I see a dude swinging a mace once like some stupid _Dungeons & Dragons_ garbage.

Who wants to die? War reinforces the illusion of choice.

How can you expect to spot the spider coming, reducing your future existence to a coin flip?

I live through the clusterfuck without so much as a scratch, go to Iraq and my luck grows to where I start passing it around.

Then I come down with a cold, no biggie, some sniffles, slight fatigue. I'm good to go even when the fever starts.

Then my heart is pounding. Shortness of breath. Pain in my abdomen. I'm losing my mind. My body feels like it's on fire. I think I might die.

In the hospital, the nurse notices a welt on my right heel, a dark circle, surrounded by a lighter patch of red. She makes me lie down, orders me not to move, and runs off for a doctor. The doctor takes one look and calls for antibiotics and an IV.

The welt is a spider bite, so insignificant I can't tell you when or where. I cannot ID this spider in a lineup. Don't ask me to point to her in a court of law. The spider isn't poisonous. She doesn't have to be. Her bite carries a bacteria better than so many poisons.

The bacteria is only the beginning. An infection sets in and spreads, and your immune system revs into high gear, creating a major effort to fight the infection. Sepsis.

Delirium, inflammation, burning pain and time is lost, but I'm told I'm intubated and put on a ventilator. Apparently, the doctors want to evacuate me to Germany, decide against it because I'm not stable enough.

Flip that coin. Heads I live. Tails I die.

And then I'm waking up, responsive, and the doctor is calling me lucky. Unlike so many sepsis cases, nothing gets amputated. I don't suffer kidney failure. My lungs don't collapse. My heart continues to pump enough blood to my brain.

The nurses take their time with me, I have Mel by my side and eventually, I'm out of bed and walking again, washing myself, feeding myself.

The doctor calls me lucky, beyond living. Many sepsis survivors suffer long-term problems with concentration, muscle pain, and fatigue. Even low self-esteem. They can't sleep, have nightmares when they do, hallucinate, experience panic attacks. About half of sepsis survivors are readmitted to the ICU within months of their initial diagnosis.

Every year, in the U.S. alone, sepsis kills two hundred fifty thousand.

Not me. I survive. Mel says, "This isn't forever," and she's right. I'm flown to Landstuhl, then on to Walter Reed, and continue my recovery to the point where the doctors claim I'm healthier than before the sepsis. I'm discharged and I go to Vegas because Mel wants me to.

In war, millions die young. Women. Children not even old enough to understand the concept of war. And while we learn to be more efficient killers, we also learn how to keep our friends alive. War destroys and human life expectancy increases.

I am grateful for battlefield medicine.

I am grateful for the doctors and nurses (army and civilian) who save my life.

No word from Grace. I let her be, she's probably wrapped up in fun with her friends. I go to the room, shower, put on a pair of boxers, lie in bed, watch a little TV, see that the Diamondbacks lose, saving me a trip back to Caesars to cash the ticket.

I turn off the TV. I'm tired, and as I'm falling asleep, I distract from Mel with thoughts of _Rideshare_. A potential episode with Condoleezza Rice. A concert pianist, Russian speaker, football fanatic. The NFL commissioner needs to hold on to his cock and balls, Condi is coming for his job and she's bringing her new beau to the NFL offices too, just as soon as she convinces him to leave his wife, Laura.

The conversation gets a little dicey when we come around to Condi's time as secretary of state. I'm compelled to give her "the business" in the words of Wally and the Beav. I immediately feel guilty, the man putting the woman of color in her place. Think of the war crimes she's complicit in though. I push on Afghanistan, but Condi won't admit that the longest war in our country's history stopped being a war years ago. She scoffs at the truth. Afghanistan is a United States colony set aside for military experimentation. Yes, troops continue to be rotated in and out, brave men and women continue to fight, kill, and die, but the aim isn't to improve the lives of Afghans. The failed state is a testing ground for the latest war tech. The U.S. brass learns this lesson from Vietnam. We lose a war, but take the technology developed there, expand on it, and in 1991, use it to destroy the world's fourth largest army in forty-one days. A swift one hundred hours of ground fighting. In Afghanistan, concepts like winning and losing are so quaint. The occupation has no end, only new beginnings in the quest to annihilate future enemies.

So I go a little hard on Condi. It's not entirely her fault, but Madam Secretary can take it, and anyway, she kind of has it coming. She does okay defending the indefensible.

I wake up, and for a second I think I'm at home, in my own bed. Then I remember I'm at the MGM Grand in Vegas. A figure is in the room with me, near the window, shining in the dark, standing out like he's in a spotlight. The figure is me and this must be a dream. I'm looking at myself huddled on the floor, thirteen, fourteen, covered by the dust of a day spent in the desert, and I'm crying.

It's not me, no dream. The light is the haze burning up from the strip. The figure is real, sitting by the window, the curtains open, watching the world below.

"Grace."

She turns away from the light, to me, and says, "Oh, Dave, I'm sorry." I can't make out her face in the dark.

I slide out of the bed, cross the room, and sit next to her. She's wearing a little black dress, one of the straps falling down off her shoulder. The light from the strip reflects off her face. I see tears mixed in streaks of makeup running from her eyes. Her nose is red, snot around the nostrils.

She hugs me, puts her head on my shoulder. She reeks of alcohol.

Tears.

I let her cry. I rub her back. The tears come harder. I rub her head. She gives me her weight. I hold her, smell the liquor and gun range.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says, and lets go of me. Her crying slows and stops. I get up, go in the bathroom. No tissues, so I bring Grace the roll of toilet paper.

The light from the bathroom shines on us. Grace's eyes are puffy.

She adjusts her dress strap, rips off a wad of toilet paper, wipes her eyes, blows her nose. "Thanks."

"What's wrong?"

She sniffles. I expect more crying, but she collects herself. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep, and the door connecting the rooms was open, so . . . "

"Something happen with your friends?"

Grace laughs, blows her nose again. "No, no, they're not worth crying about." She quickly stands, goes to the bathroom, throws away the used toilet paper, comes back and returns to the spot next to me. She stares out the window at the buzzing strip.

We sit. I wait. Soon Grace says, "All those people down there."

"What about them?"

"What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"How do they do it, you know, day in, day out?"

I don't know how to answer.

She says, "What am I talking about?"

We look out the window, the tiny masses moving, the lights blur their distant mystery. I rub Grace's back.

She sniffles, breathes hard, deep. She says, "I killed him."

My hand rests on her upper back. "I'm sorry?"

Grace begins to cry again, lowers her head. I shift my hand to her shoulder, start to draw her close, but she gently pushes me away, blubbers, "It's okay, it's okay."

"I don't understand. Who'd you kill?"

I wait for Grace's crying to slow. She says, "I was driving. I was driving." Her body seems to shrink and she's burying her head in my chest. Sobbing.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. The time I spend with women means nothing.

I hold Grace. I let her cry.

She lifts her head and straightens herself. Uses more toilet paper. She stares at the strip again and says, "All I see . . . his face at the end. I can't remember before. Even when I look at photos, I see his face at the end."

I inch closer to her, but keep my eyes forward. Dreams of fortune are being shattered below us. The dawning that lady luck prefers another suitor.

"I understand," I say. "I was the one who found, who knew where to find . . ."

Grace looks at me. "Your dad."

I nod, hold back my own tears.

We stay by the window. Grace tells me about her father's death, not really her fault, survivor's guilt. The other driver, no drugs or alcohol involved, a flash of lost attention. Bad timing, bad luck.

Grace and I agree: "There's no sense in it."

My father gets sick, the connections in his brain conned by the unreal, made to believe his present feelings are forever. Except, he has a single means of escape.

Me and Grace agree: "There's no sense in it."

Serve in two wars, live when maybe I shouldn't, to come home, alive. Witness an unbroken man, unlike so many others. Two arms, two legs, two hands, two feet. Whole, more or less. Good timing, good luck.

Grace says, "I'm exhausted."

"Me too."

I stand and close the curtains, offer a hand to Grace, and help her up.

We get in bed together. I'm on my back, Grace cuddles up next to me, puts her head on my chest. I wrap an arm around her, hold her close. She says, "I should take my makeup off. Wash my face."

"Okay."

She presses herself tighter against me. "You're a good friend."

"You too."

A minute later, Grace's breathing changes. She's asleep. I slip out from under her body and lie there, staring at the ceiling. I'm thinking I'll go sleep in her room. Grace stirs, curling into the fetal position, but doesn't wake. I turn on my side, prop myself up on one arm, and watch her sleep. I rub her back through the covers, and whisper, "I'm here for you."

I turn over and adjust the pillow. I don't remember falling asleep.

Light wakes me again. I roll onto my back and sit up on my elbows. A ray of sun is shining through a narrow split in the curtains, falling on the empty spot next to me in the bed.

The door to Grace's room is open and I see her in there. She's wearing the hotel robe, brushing her teeth. Noticing me awake, she gives a muffled, "Good morning," and raises a finger. Hang on.

She shuffles to the bathroom. I listen to her spit.

Then she's in my room, climbing onto the bed. Her face, free of makeup, is puffy. Her eyes are baggy, not bloodshot, but red. Her hair is wet.

She says, "You have a good night?"

"Not bad."

"Sorry I passed out in here, in your bed. Us girls tore one up. I guess I didn't realize where I was."

"Don't sweat it." I get up and head to the bathroom.

Grace calls to me, "I hope you don't mind—"

The rest is obscured by the sound of my piss hitting the toilet water.

When I go back out, Grace has opened the curtains wide, bathing us in morning sun. She's sitting in the bed, pillows behind her head, legs outstretched.

I say, "You hope I don't mind what?"

"Oh, I went ahead and ordered room service. Eggs, pancakes, hash browns, coffee, a little of everything. They're bringing it here. Figured you'd be up by the time it arrived."

"Sounds great." I scan the room for my pants.

"Shower, Advil, breakfast. The three-pronged attack against this killer hangover."

I spot my pants, put them on. Grab a clean shirt from my bag. As I pull it over my head, Grace says, "I hope my stumbling in here last night didn't bother you."

"No, of course not." I sit next to her in the bed. We turn our bodies to face each other, close.

"Good," she says, "I'm glad I didn't wake you."

"No prob—wait, but . . ."

"I was so trashed, I didn't realize I was in the wrong room."

"It's okay. Uh, if you're worried that something happened, don't. I'm not that kind—"

Grace laughs, hard. "No worries. You were sound asleep and I trust you, and anyways, I wasn't that drunk. I just hope I didn't crowd you, that's all."

"No, it's fine, but we talked. I woke up and you were . . . " I gesture to the window.

Grace sits up, and back on her heels, moving away from me. She gives me the side-eye and says, "We talked last night?"

"You don't remember?"

Grace looks like she's thinking it over. She says, "No. I mean, I was drunk, sure, but I don't black out." She shakes her head. "No."

I want to say that not knowing the where at the time means she might not remember the what now. I check myself. Breathe. In my mind, I count to ten. Grace is staring at me like she's going to start snorting, pawing at the ground. I try to exude calm without looking like I'm giving in, which is exactly what I'm doing. She's embarrassed or regretful or maybe it was the alcohol making her talk rather than an open heart. Whatever, now isn't the time to push. I think of Annette Bening, touching on what she sees as her biggest weakness. "If anything, I want to please people too much."

I want to please Grace. When she's ready to talk again, she will. I say, "Well, yeah, nothing big, it was brief, basically that you had a blast and needed to pass out."

"Oh, and I did, believe me."

She's wary, but I catch relief too.

The sound of a bell makes me jump. The door, and my response startles Grace, who realizing it's the room service, puts a hand to her chest and laughs.

I roll off the bed and get the door.

The hotel guy smiles at Grace. He looks out of sorts, as if interrupting a woman, hair wet, sitting on a bed in her robe laughing isn't appropriate. But maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one out of sorts.

I make space for the guy to put the tray down on the desk. He describes everything and waits while I grab a tip. He thanks me and wishes Grace a good morning. She waves goodbye as he leaves.

Grace digs into the side of pancakes. I start with coffee, and a piece of toast with strawberry jelly. In between bites, Grace asks, "How was Mel?"

Stupid me isn't thinking. "Didn't see her."

With a mouth full of pancake, Grace says, "Wait. What?"

"Oh, I mean for very long. She was working, so I caught up with her on her break. Quick. Not very social."

I catch the faintest of eye-rolls from Grace, but she lets my bullshit go. She says, "You going to see her today? We have plenty of time before the flight."

"No, we're good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. How about you? The girls have anything planned before we take off?"

Grace is stuffing her face. She shrugs and after she swallows says, "We're supposed to meet for brunch, then maybe the spa."

"Brunch? What about all this?"

"What about it? It's delicious."

"Oh right, you're Scarletting."

"I'm Scarletting, sure, and trying to sponge up this hangover."

We finish our breakfast and Grace goes to her room to get dressed. She invites me to meet her friends, but her tone says she's hoping I'll decline, so that's what I do. I tell her to have fun and offer to check us out of the hotel. She can leave her bag at the front desk and pick it up later. We agree to meet at the airport.

I kill the rest of the morning lounging around the room and head off to the airport early. I'm done with Vegas, forever.

Grace shows up late, luckily not too late to miss our flight. Her hair is a mess, and she's having trouble pulling her bag. It keeps flipping off its wheels, forcing her to stop and rearrange herself. She rubs her forehead.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Uh-huh. The Scarletting didn't help the hangover, so at brunch I figured a little hair of the dog that bit me. Man, those mimosas were strong."

I don't know what to say. I manage, "Well, we'll be home soon enough."

We're quiet during the flight. Grace dozes. The prior talk of Scarletting makes me think of Hattie McDaniel, Mammy in _Gone with the Wind_. In addition to being the first African American to win an Academy Award, she's the first black woman to sing on U.S. radio. She appears in three hundred films but is credited with only eighty.

McDaniel says, "The only choice permitted us is either to be servants for seven dollars a week or to portray them for seven hundred dollars per week."

She says, "You can best fight any existing evil from the inside."

"I don't belong on this earth," she says. "I always feel out of place—like a visitor."

THIRTEEN

When we arrive home, outside the airport, I suggest that Grace and I share a Miss Daisy.

She says, "Um, I think we're headed in different directions."

"Oh, okay."

"I'll see you again soon."

"I had a nice time."

"Thanks for coming."

"Don't be a stranger, okay?"

"Of course not."

We hug and Grace holds me tight. Good feels good.

In the car, my Miss Daisy driver, Scott, attempts small talk that I'm not into—odd to be on the receiving end—and after a few minutes he gives up.

I go directly to the detailer, getting there right before they close. The detailer turns Howard and his puke into figments of my imagination. Howard's son never contacts me, but I let it go. He and his father have enough to deal with.

I'm tempted to work, but I drive home. Only two days away, and already I've fallen behind on _Rideshare_. I need to respond to people, catch up on Twitter and Facebook. Should have done that instead of roaming around Vegas, or sitting alone in the hotel room. Stupid. I'm also past due on posting an episode. Too much of that, my listeners will get antsy and move on to a more reliable show.

Now add insult to self-inflicted injury. When I open the files, the most embarrassing one jumps out at me.

Marc Maron has Gallagher. Terry Gross has Bill O'Reilly. I have Annie Jacobsen.

My first podcast walkout. I deserve it. I have a meltdown, missing my chance to talk Wernher von Braun, winning wars with shovels, stealth viruses, the Oxcart spy plane, and Stalin's role in the Roswell incident.

I flush those tasty tidbits right down the crapper when I catch a crazy virus. I mean a virus that makes the host crazy. The "tape" needs to be burned. Eh, screw it.

"Today I'm talking with journalist and kick-ass writer Annie Jacobsen. We've been chatting off mic about many topics, including the latest from the prolific Pulitzer nominee, _Phenomena: The Secret History of the U.S. Government's Investigations into Extrasensory Perception and Psychokinesis_. Welcome, Annie."

"Thank you for having me."

"Before we get to the book, I'd like to talk about you if that's okay."

"Sure, of course."

"First, I just want to say I'm a big fan."

"Oh, thank you."

"Yes, I've read everything you've written."

"Wow, thanks."

"You're welcome. _Area 51_ blew me away and I used to live in Vegas, so it was a little weird."

"Sure, sure."

"Lately though your books have only been getting better, and you're writing a tome a year. Your nose to the grindstone has been to your readers' benefit."

"Oh, I appreciate that."

"Any insights into your method?"

"I'm comfortable being alone. To take the time for the research, the reading. And that's all before I put words on the page."

"Sounds like it can be lonely if you're not careful."

"Well, there's a difference between being alone and lonely. Also, I conduct a ton of interviews, sometimes email is sufficient, or over the phone, but the in-person contact offers a nice change of pace."

"Wonderful. But what I'd really like to talk about is your willingness to reveal to the world, right here, right now, on this podcast, that you're an alien."

"Uh, I'm sorry. Is this—?"

"I think it's safe to say you can come clean, Ms. Jacobsen. You're a member of the Supreme Galactic Council of Aliens working to control Earth."

"Wait, I'm sorry, my publicist told me you were a legitimate podcast."

"Yes, of course, so what better venue to reveal the truth."

"Hold on. This—you're for real?"

"Absolutely. I'm also hoping you'll discuss if your husband is an alien as well, or whether you maintain mind control over him and if he is human, we should discuss your sons too, as that would make them human-alien hybrids—Ms. Jacobsen, where are you going?"

[off mic] "This joke is over."

"Please, wait, I thought you understood that sometimes the podcast gets personal. Ms. Jacobsen, wait."

She's gone.

I'd like to take this moment to apologize to Annie Jacobsen.

Ms. Jacobsen, I know you're a human woman. I have always known that you're a human woman. I also understand that your husband is a human man and your sons are human boys. I apologize for any distress I may have caused you. I have no excuse for my behavior on the afternoon of our interview; however, I assure you that such behavior isn't typical for me. I appreciate your understanding and again, I apologize.

Faced with such embarrassment, I close my files, and go to bed.

In the morning, breakfast, my jog, and driving are unfocused.

Until I pick up Rita in Laurel Heights. Late forties from the lines around her eyes, the weight around the middle. From the neighborhood, and her Caribbean accent when she says hello, I imagine she just got off her housekeeping gig. She's wearing new cross-trainers with old pants and a solid black T-shirt.

This is a KITT ride, so I start the conversation and Rita isn't a housekeeper, but a nanny. She tells me she watches two boys. Just finished spending a few days with them while the parents were away.

I ask, "How old?"

"Five and three. Yes, I love them, but they be crazy."

"Yup, I was a boy once."

In the mirror, I catch her chuckle.

We're headed to the old fairgrounds, so I jump on the highway.

As I merge into traffic, Rita asks, "You have kids?"

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"I don't have a mate."

"A mate? Anyone can have kids. Who doesn't want to mate with a cutie like you?"

Not a lot of traffic today, so I punch it up to eighty-five. I say, "It's me who doesn't want to mate with them."

"I see," says Rita. "Men can adopt now, no?"

"It's not like that," I say with a shake of the head.

We cruise on the highway. Rita enjoys the power and sweet finesse of my car, relaxes into the soft leather of the back seat.

She says, "You like driving, do you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am? Do I look like your mother?"

"No, sorry, old habits, I guess."

I exit the highway and stop at the red light at the bottom of the ramp.

I feel Rita leaning forward, confirm it in the mirror. She meets my eye and says, "Your driving, your car, good way to meet girls, no?"

A maternal instinct? No, she winks. She has ideas.

The light turns green. We're three blocks from Rita's destination.

"Good way to meet women," I say. "You have to be careful though."

She nods. "Man like you, a lady might get her heart broken."

"More like business and pleasure don't mix."

"Except when they do." She sits back and laughs. Then adds, "You sure you aren't married, young man?"

I display the bare fingers of my left hand. "No wife. No girlfriend."

"Anybody can not wear a ring."

I pull in front of Rita's house, an old Edwardian in need of painting. She says, "You want to come in?"

I look at her. "You're inviting me in?"

"Only if you're interested in having the most fun of your life."

"Okay, let's go." I turn off the car.

Then something changes in her face. I don't know what, but it's like flicking a light switch, and she says, "Hold up, Romeo." Rita points to my hands. "You're not gonna get clingy after, are you?"

I take off my seat belt and turn to face her dead on. "Clingy?"

Rita must not like my body language, or my expression, because she's moving fast now, unclicking her seat belt and opening the door. She stops with a foot already on the curb. "I'm sorry, single boys get attached. I thought I'd give you a pass, but . . . " She's out of the car, bends over and sticks her head back in. "No hard feelings, okay?"

"Are you serious?"

"A woman's prerogative, baby. A woman's prerogative." She closes the door.

I watch her walk up her steps and go inside. Weird. What am I missing? I start the car and drive off.

A drink sounds good.

I text Grace that I hope she can join me.

At the cafe, no Grace, no reply to my text, not yet, but get this, it can't be, not after Joey Tribbiani and our Michael Richards look-alike, but it is. George Wendt, Norm from _Cheers_ , is sitting in the corner seat closest to the register, enjoying a sudsy mug.

Play it cool, let the man drink, he's not here to be hassled. I buy my beer and sit in my spot, except with my back to the window. My eyeline offers a nice view of Mr. Wendt. It really is him. I think.

Two minutes later, Chief walks in and confirms my hunch. Halfway to the counter he freezes, gaze glued on Norm, and I spot the recognition. For a second, I think Chief is going to act on it, but respect wins out. He pats his pockets like his pause is to check to make sure he's got money. Satisfied, he continues to the counter and orders his coffee.

At the fixing station, he adds his cream and sugar. He's smiling at Norm. Norm is paying zero attention. Chief moves to a seat close to him, hesitates and changes direction. He's headed my way.

He stands over the chair across from me. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all, sir."

Chief sits and sips his coffee. He looks like he's sizing me up. For what, I don't know. Finally he says, "Long time no speak."

"True. How've you been?"

"Eh, same old, same old."

"No news is good news."

He shoots me a look: If only that were true. He says, "Hey, listen, I have something for you."

"For me?"

"That's what I said. A little something, no big deal. A poem."

I try to look appreciative. "Thanks."

Chief says, "Eh." He's reaching into his right pants pocket. He takes out a small folded piece of paper and slides it across the table to me.

I reach for the paper and as soon as I touch it, Chief covers my hand with his.

"No," he says. "Not yet." He removes his hand. "Are we clear?"

"Sure, okay." I put the folded paper in my pocket.

"Good," says Chief. "Now, watch this."

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes, gives me a wink.

Then he stands, turns to George Wendt.

My eyes go to Mr. Wendt. He knows what's coming and already he's pissed.

Chief tips his head back, so he's looking directly up at the ceiling, and at the top of his lungs yells, "Norm."

Pop is out from behind the register like a bull, wagging a finger at Chief. He says, "That's it, out. You're PNGed."

If Chief doesn't move, Pop is ready to run him over, so Chief moves. Pop keeps coming and manages to corral him right out the door. He turns and rushes to Mr. Wendt, apologizing the whole way. Norm isn't hearing it. He downs his beer, stands, shushes Pop. He says, "It's not your fault." I can't hear the rest, but Pop takes George Wendt behind the counter and into the kitchen, presumably showing him the back door.

I check my phone. Still no reply from Grace. Text her again? No, don't push. I drink my pint, and another.

I take Chief's paper out of my pocket and unfold it. The paper is blank, except at the top, a single sentence, three little words: This is it.

How does Chief know? How can he know?

This is it.

I shove the paper back in my pocket and I'm up and out of the cafe, back to the car. I need to go home.

When my father finally disappears for good, despite my laziness, my selfish bike rides, I know where to look. He has certain spots and I'm able to find him before the police even start looking.

He drives out to a high spot in the desert, a picture-perfect little ridge. A beautiful place to watch the sunrise. During the night he drinks. He takes pills. He passes out and when the sun comes up, he dies in the hot car.

How long does it take? Does he wake up? Does he struggle? How does he resist opening the door, crawling out, sucking in the fresh air? Questions without answers.

When I find him, his skin is mottled, his limbs stiff. The car smells of bowels and body. His face remains pristine though. At peace. Accepting. My father is content with his choice.

Maybe you're thinking it's an accident. Sure, tell yourself it's an accident if you have no shame. I know better because I find him and so I also find the note.

A single sentence, three little words.

This is it.

Now, please forgive me. I don't know why I do what I do next, but here's what happens. I find my father's lighter in the car and I burn that note. I burn that note and watch the flames dance in the wind and the ashes blow away into the desert. I burn that note completely, hanging on even as the heat touches my skin, blistering my thumb.

Why? What am I thinking? Questions without answers. Let me try.

Burning the note reverses everything, evaporates this horrible stench, reveals the stiff body of my father to be a desert mirage. I go home and he's waiting for me, with a new movie to share, one he wants to discuss and analyze after we watch together. Nonsense, I know, but it's the best I can do. Please forgive me.

In this world of eternal returns, dead is still dead.

No worries, but I feel the heat from my mother's eyes, and soon I hear the accusations. I find him so I should have known, that's how it goes. He spends the most time with you, how could you not have seen, that's how it goes. He cares about you. You could have stopped this, that's how it goes.

My mother demands to know why. Why suicide? Why without a note? Where's the note? You know where to find him, you must have the note. He wouldn't leave us without explaining why.

Questions without answers that my mother throws like daggers. I find the questions in her body, the weight of her shoulders, the way she moves like she's stuck in molasses. My mother becomes heavy from the maelstrom of uncertainty and stress.

Why don't I tell her about the note? I can't. What good will it do? What will it solve? Dead is still dead and this is it. Nothing.

I tell her I miss him too. I need him too. But she doesn't, or won't, listen. I want to be closer to her. What little we can understand, we can understand together, but my mother wants answers that I can't give her and she gives up, the gulf between us too vast to cross. She shuts down communication with me and that's fine. Better nothing than the anger and blame. I'm happy to disappear.

My sisters say, "Don't worry. She'll be okay."

"Give her time," says Sarah.

"Let her grieve," says Myra.

"She'll be okay. We'll be okay," says Rose.

How am I supposed to talk to them?

Sarah's pics of the birthday party, which I continue not to look at, show the joy my sisters and brothers create in our mother.

The chocolate cake. Seven candles. Look at the moment she blows them out. What's she wishing for? Find her eyes and discover the dread. Dread that the walls she builds after my father dies crack and crumble. All these years, Mom puts on a show. Feign calm and strength. For us? The kids?

No, the walls my mother builds aren't meant to hide. The folks in the photos understand. They take care of her. She needs them and she loves them in return. They protect her. From me. Let me in and I bring poison, killing the love you see at the party.

My mother remains a mystery to me.

Sometimes, I think the answers to my father's suicide are in the movies of the VCR project. My father is trying to talk to me. His own strange way of communicating. He wants to show his true self.

Tell me my father will be dead in a year, and maybe I listen better the rare nights he wants to talk. Tell me my father will kill himself in a year, and maybe I insist that we talk. "What are you trying to say, Dad? What do you want to tell me? Who are you?"

Hannibal Lecter says, "Caterpillar into chrysalis, or pupa, and from thence into beauty." My father wants to change too.

He's like a movie, a two-dimensional representation of the real world. Like vomiting-in-my-car Howard, he wants to fall in love, real love. He wants to have children. A family. He does the best he can for the time he's born into.

My father tires of living in a world that requires him to ask permission to be himself. He doesn't think he should have to seek forgiveness. If you have to ask, you're conceding they have the right to say no.

Mel says that in ancient Rome, Cato can't accept Caesar's clemency. He considers himself Caesar's equal and recognizes that the power to grant mercy carries with it the power to punish. Cato remains uncowed. He stabs himself, survives, refuses help from slaves, friends, even his son, and finishes the job, pulling out his innards from the fresh wound.

Like my father, Cato ultimately doesn't hide from his choice. I don't know. These ideas are foolish perhaps. I don't know.

Enough. To distract myself, I make a list.

Desired _Rideshare_ guests.

1. Jennifer Aniston

2. Karen Carpenter

3. Margot Robbie

4. Joan of Arc. The ultimate get. We talk shaved heads, the heresy of wearing men's clothing, and the whole voices in the garden thing. She admits to the political angle while also pointing to empathy. Joan feels. She understands the concept of human psychology four hundred fifty years before Freud. Empathy helps her spot the Dauphin in disguise. Empathy convinces medieval men to follow a woman into battle. Empathy leads to sainthood.

5. Ellen Burstyn

6. Tina Louise

7. Jodie Foster

8. Dorothy Dandridge. The first African American woman nominated for a Best Actress Academy Award.

It's way too early to go to bed, but I crash and quickly reach blessed, dreamless sleep.

P.S. to Annie Jacobsen: Love the new book. Obviously, if your advanced alien brain picks up the waves I send you, you already know this.

FOURTEEN

I wake up at nine. So late. Usually, I'm in the car already. I think about texting Grace. See what she's up to. Later.

Approximately three hundred sixty days a year, I eat a breakfast of oatmeal topped with seasonal fruit, and drink eight ounces of coffee brewed in a French press. Despite the late start, today is no exception.

"Good morning, David," I say to the David Lee Roth magnet on my fridge.

"Good morning, David," says the magnet.

"I'm just a gigolo, everywhere I go, life goes on without me."

While washing the breakfast dishes, I see the spider outside my window chilling in her web. A beetle is stuck on the other side, trying to wiggle free, getting more stuck. If the spider notices her meal, she's letting it suffer, letting resignation dawn on the beetle. The spider knows that look to be sure. The acceptance of death. Relief that the suffering will soon be over.

This morning feels like a replay. Am I trapped like Bill Murray in _Groundhog Day_? No, that's ridiculous. Driving, the _Rideshare_ podcast, the trip to Vegas, my relationship with Grace. Opportunities for change.

Yes, each day offers something new. And yet, I wake up and the day is already over and all that remains is living through it. To sleep and get up to face the same new day tomorrow.

Is this life my own? My memories aren't genuine experiences. They're stories someone tells me. I listen well, memorize, act. I share a memory with Rachael, _Blade Runner_ replicant. The spider with the orange body and green legs. We watch her build a web all summer, and then one day there's a big egg in it. The egg hatches and a hundred baby spiders come out. And they eat her.

I dream of a unicorn, wait for it to arrive, to get in my car, to find me online, to pluck me from the city's masses, to sit across from me at the cafe.

Grace.

This is it.

My lost-boy story isn't new.

I witness worse in my two wars, but seeing the miserable mongrel flee the beating by the man with my father's face makes me want to run too. Go home, hole up in a room, never leave, driven mad by the weakness of men. I feel the nudge then, the universe existing in whole, alpha and omega. Nietzsche's idea of the eternal return is true. We're stuck on repeat.

"All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again."

A few days later, the convoy comes across local Iraqi police clearing bodies from a burnt building, and I see three corpses all fucked up, but there he is. That face. Pristine. Again.

The man isn't my father and his death isn't punishment for beating the dog. Those days, soldiers, criminals, pissing off the wrong people, feuds going back to Adam. Scores get settled. This dead man lives in the fog of war and it takes him.

Look behind the curtain.

The dog, discovering a dead man twice. Warnings. Prepare yourself for this existence over and over into infinity.

"All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again."

"Everything is written."

"No, nothing is written."

Not mine these lines to repeat I'm obligated to repeat these lines not mine. Behind the curtain, I discover the revolutions and they carry me to a slight remove. In the cradle of civilization, certainty and conviction strike. I watch the universe pass by, participant and observer, a part of and apart from.

Then I get sick, and Mel stays by my side, and I go to Vegas because she wants me to.

Deborah, remember her, the event planner LCD? She's right, I let strangers into my car for minimum wage. I earn far less than I spend.

I am grateful for unearned income.

After 2008, once the markets begin to recover, I invest the hoarded cash from my real estate success. Today, I check those investments. I'm properly diversified. My asset allocation is solid. A nice balance between safety and risk. Grow, grow, grow goes the portfolio.

I wait for the next crash.

I don't have money forever, but I have a home, my car, women. I'm unsettled. Why? I choose not to settle. My life is this way by choice. I choose not to settle.

Grace.

I don't have money forever, but I have enough for now, enough to take a day off from driving.

Don't feel like exercise today either, or surfing, or watching, or the podcast. I don't feel like much of anything today, but I have to do something.

Like the old days, I go out and jump on the bus.

I'm in the back, a rear-facing window seat on the cross-city 33, hoodie up, sunglasses on. The spot next to me is empty. My frame imposes on the space, too much for anybody to dare take it.

I watch the traffic behind us, like a green screen in a '50s black-and-white movie, except a Ted Turner colorized version.

A blond woman gets on the bus, a purebred blonde like a purebred horse. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, showing off her pronounced snout and jaw.

She almost chooses to sit next to me, turns around, and takes the seat directly behind me, facing the opposite direction, toward the front of the bus. The backs of our heads nearly bang together, and her ponytail brushes against my shoulder.

I stare at her profile in the reflection of the window. She's wearing a white T, her long neck on display like Ginger's. I want to touch it, feel her body heat, her pulse.

I turn my head to the side, get a quick glimpse of her skin, shiny, smelling of sunshine, a dab of sweat, no perfume. Natural woman smell. Warm, close, safe.

The bus stops, the doors open, passengers are getting off and on. I turn in my seat, lean forward, and lick the blonde's neck from shoulder to chin.

She recoils with a yelp, bangs her arm against the window, reacts in pain, stands up, glares down at me, and shrieks, "Did you lick me?"

Her head swivels as she calls out to the bus, "This guy licked me."

The doors are closing, the bus driver ready to go, but the disturbance distracts him, giving me the time to flee, run, out the back door. I hear the woman yelling, at me, about me, passengers are jumbled. Nobody sees anything, it happens so fast.

I run, don't look back, don't see the woman pointing me out to the driver, one hand on her neck covering the spot of violation.

A violation to be sure. I don't know why, what seizes me and takes hold, makes me hurt and scare the woman.

I run and run, sprinting. Pedestrians move out of my way, look at me like I'm fleeing a crime scene. Which I am.

I run to the cafe.

It's almost empty today. No Chief. No Grace. Good, I don't want to explain my sweating, my heavy breathing.

Mom doesn't ask, just serves me my pint. I don't even have to order it. She knows exactly what I want.

I grab my seat near the window and watch the world go by.

The blonde. I'm sorry, ma'am. The poor woman, the poor horse-faced blonde, she doesn't deserve to get licked by a stranger. Wherever you are, I'm sorry. It's not sufficient I know.

I can't stop thinking about it, turning, leaning forward, tongue on flesh. Disgusting and gross. I need to get my mind on something else.

Thoughts of other blondes (natural or otherwise).

Margot Robbie, Naomi Watts, Nicole Kidman, Cate Blanchett.

All Australian. All beautiful. No horse in their faces. Is it something about their ancestors, secret Aboriginal genes from the penal colony days?

All Australian, all beautiful, all able to play convincing crazy.

Margot Robbie in _Suicide Squad_.

Naomi Watts in _Mulholland Dr_.

Nicole Kidman in _To Die For_.

Cate Blanchett in _Blue Jasmine_. At the end, we see Jasmine, Blanchett's character, sitting alone on a park bench, muttering to herself.

I believe Woody Allen reverse engineers the entire story from that scene. He wants to show how Jasmine becomes the crazy lady on the park bench.

Distracted from my own crazy yet?

Grace.

I check my phone. Still nothing.

I drink my pint and I'm working on my second when my wish is answered and Grace arrives.

No, something's wrong. A lack of enthusiasm vibrates from her.

She gives me a frown and a half-hearted wave and goes directly to the counter.

I watch her buy her drink. Not wine. Iced tea.

She joins me. As she sits, I say, "Hey, you okay?"

"So-so."

"Where've you been? You know I texted you?"

Grace's top lip quivers, almost a snarl. "I had things to take care of."

"Things?"

"That's right, stuff I needed to deal with."

"Okay, no problem."

"I have some news." She's having trouble with eye contact.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I'm moving."

I drink some beer. "That is news."

Grace has her head down, her eyes fixed on a spot on the table. She says, "Moving in with my mom. She's been bugging me, wearing me down."

"You're not happy about it."

Grace shoots me a look like she wants to toss her drink in my face. She says, "Why would I be happy? I'm almost thirty and moving back in with my mom."

"I'm sure it's not forever."

Grace smirks and says, "No, just until I get back on my feet." She takes a gulp of her tea.

"Okay, okay, let's make the most of it. I'll buy you a glass of wine, okay?"

Grace tells me no thanks, but I've already started to stand. I'm halfway, holding the arms of the chair.

"Really, Dave. No. Sit down."

I sit. "What, you quit drinking?"

"Yes." Grace shakes her head. "As a matter of fact, I have."

"Oh." That and a swig of beer is all I got. Such a dope.

Grace says, "I could sit around telling myself something needed to change, or else I could do something about it. So I did."

"You think you drink too much?"

Now it's a look like she wants to slam her glass against my head. Then she sighs and says, "Man, you're . . ." She takes a deep breath, smiles. "Actually, I want to thank you."

"Me? For what?"

"Our Vegas trip lit a fire under me."

"Lit a fire? How?"

Grace sips her tea, time to gather her thoughts. Then they tumble out. "Part of me has known for a while that I have a problem, but I'm good at denial, you know, listening to the little devil on my shoulder. Anyways, I met you and you drink and you manage and I figured I could manage too, you know, and when we went to Vegas, I thought we'd be drinking together, not together, but at the same rate, the same pace, Jenny and the girls too, but I was the drunk friend, and stumbling into the room at night and everything, being so sloppy and hung over and you kept your shit together and I realized I was just using you to rationalize my behavior, to somehow make it acceptable." She covers her face with her hands. I think she's going to cry, but she doesn't. She lowers her hands. Her face is wan. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I hear "stumbling into the room at night and everything," and I think about waking up, seeing her at the window, our conversation, so I say, "Can I ask you a question?"

Grace looks like she wants to say, "No chance." She says, "Sure."

"So, our night in Vegas. In my room. You remember what we talked about?"

Grace goes cold. She's hiding behind a hard face, but I notice the cracks. She says, "What?"

"Don't you remember? I woke up and you were awake, sitting near the window. And we talked. Remember? About our fathers."

Grace's eyes won't meet mine. "Didn't we go over this?" There's real anger in her voice. "Listen, I was so drunk. All I remember is passing out."

"But. I'm just . . . I could swear . . ."

"Dave, stop. I don't know what you're trying to prove." Grace's voice gets louder. "I'm a drunk, okay? A drunk trying to get my life together. Take the appreciation for your help, alright?"

People are watching us.

To calm the mood, I say, "You know what? Forget it. Probably just a dream, a vivid dream."

"Right, a dream." Grace is looking at her tea. She doesn't drink. I have no clue whether she's telling me the truth.

Time to change the subject. "So, when you say you're moving, you mean moving moving, like leaving the city."

Grace shows the hard face again, no cracks this time. "Uh, yeah, my mom's not here."

"Well, so, I guess we won't be seeing each other anymore."

"Oh c'mon Dave, this isn't it. We live in the future, with about a million ways to stay in touch." Grace flinches her hand up, then back to the table like she wants to reach out and squeeze my arm, but has second thoughts.

She's smiling at me. Well, maybe not at me. Smiling though. Does she enjoy this? Is this easy for her?

I say, "So, social media is going to become part of our relationship?"

"It will. No worries."

I see. This is it.

Tell Grace not to go. You want her to stay. You want her to be a part of your life.

You hardly know this woman. She denies the lone shared experience you will always hold in your heart.

I have some beer. What else is left to do? She's leaving. I should have seen this coming. It has always been inevitable.

This isn't forever.

This is it.

Grace's glass is mostly full but she tips it back and finishes off the tea, exhaling loudly after she swallows. It's odd and seems out of character. She says, "I should probably be going, got a lot to do." She stays seated, wraps her hand around the empty glass and sighs. "I could use a drink." Then to herself, so quiet, but loud enough, she must want me to hear, "I can do this."

"Yes, you can. I have confidence in you."

That surprises her, but she covers it with a smile and this time when she lifts her hand, she doesn't stop. She squeezes my arm. "Thanks. That means a lot, really."

And like that, Grace stands and says goodbye.

"Have a nice life," I say.

The best I can do is copy the parting of Sam and Diane on _Cheers_ without the years and the laughs, and an actual relationship. Whatever I think Grace and I have is not never was never will be real. A facsimile, as genuine as the scripted high jinks of the gang at the neighborhood watering hole minus the authentic emotional attachment and company for the eternity of reruns.

I let Grace walk out of the cafe. I let her walk out of my life. I don't watch her leave.

We reap what we sow.

I sit in the cafe alone and drink my beer. Then another.

A vivid dream. Maybe Grace is right. Licking the woman on the bus. That's not me, never. And Chief's poem. How can he know? So, what else is not real? The women I meet? The people who get in my car? The podcast? What else? My memories?

Life. A vivid dream.

"There's a one in billions chance we're in base reality," says Elon Musk. Metaphor or truth?

I leave the cafe and start walking home. What's next?

In his _WTF_ episode, Roger Waters quotes "Time" from _The Dark Side of the Moon_.

"You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.

"And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.

"No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun."

Waters feels like he missed the starting gun as a young man, that he didn't start running until his twenties.

I don't miss the gun, but when I run, it's to chase. Chase war. Chase money. Chase sex. Chase stuff. Cremate me when I die. I refuse to become a final jump scare, the hand shooting out of the fresh grave. The unkillable killer, always chasing you.

I won't rise up, a phoenix reborn from desert ashes. I'm no man of modest means, made good through hard work, destined for spectacular deeds. I'm ordinary. I'm an LCD.

In _Taxi Driver_ , Travis Bickle says, "I don't believe that one should devote his life to morbid self-attention, I believe that someone should become a person like other people."

No, I'm not lonely coiled aggression waiting to burst, but Travis and I are a lot alike after all.

The taxi is coffin stand-in for Travis, and in the years since, the world has accessed the car. My phone and dashboard talk to satellites. I learn strangers' names, become instrumental to their ones and zeroes, for a brief time, but no we never connect, not really. Change roles, remain a one and a zero, a zero and a one. Alive and dead. The car remains a coffin stand-in.

Travis Bickle and I are a lot alike after all.

I sell my story to Hollywood and in the final scene my character burns the whole machine down. Cleanse. Catharsis. Watch the fires with someone you love, who loves you back. In the '90s, I see that movie too.

Wait. I have choices.

Ethan Hawke says, "Everybody likes to think this idea that we're like born done . . . or that we even ever really arrive anywhere."

I have time ahead of me. Too much for my money to last. I need to decide what I want my life to be.

I spend so much time traveling back yet the past remains immutable. I don't save my parents, I don't even try. Nor do I wipe my existence from the universe. I can't terminate my grandfather.

I have choices.

I'm a cog, but I can be my own cog. A purposeful cog, not gumming up the works, but greasing things along.

Open a diner in Milwaukee. A hangout for the local high school kids.

Find a real-life Clarice, fall in love, get married, make babies, wile our lives away together, holding hands sitting on the porch on a warm summer evening. Too bad Clarice isn't Clarice if she's not Special Agent Starling.

Become a wizard, buy a balloon, find my own Oz. See what kind of fun the Glindas of that world like to get up to.

Get stuck in a hostage situation, but stay free, a step ahead of the thugs, taking them out one by one until I watch the leader fall to his death.

Put on a superhero costume and save this crumbling country from President Cartoon.

Transform into Mystique. Not a mutant shape-shifter, but the living evolution of gender.

I'm no Brando, no Godfather. "Senator Corleone, Governor Corleone . . . wasn't enough time."

"We'll get there, Pop. We'll get there."

No, no we won't.

Re-enlist. They take me, midthirties me, no doubt. They ignore my medical history. With endless war, Uncle Sam always wants you. Open arms from the brass. They do a jig.

My money runs out eventually. Soon Miss Daisy and KITT cease being an option. That shimmer of light approaching on the horizon isn't Omar Sharif on his camel. It's a self-driving car.

Pilot, wrestling coach, bartender. I need a job, a regular job job-type job.

Go to school. Learn a trade. Acquire skills. Acquire debt.

Re-enlist.

Take the easy way out. In the garage. Or become a willing Doctor Manhattan, let light take me to pieces.

Go back into real estate.

Go back.

The past remains immutable. The time is here to go forward.

At home, I get in the car. I drive for a while on my own, aimless, using the time to think. I have choices and with those choices, I begin to make a plan. A plan for the next chapter of my life. I want to avoid the ash heap of non-heroes who learn nothing. I don't want to become a cautionary tale. I will stop letting luck and chance go to my head, stop repeating the same mistakes. Understand the lessons of movies and television don't work well in the real world.

I begin to make a plan. The broad strokes, but still, a plan.

I am grateful for the choices I have.

A descending plane roars overhead, close. Swat it from the air like Kong. With the road clear in front of me, I take a moment to watch the jet approach the runway.

This close to the airport, why pass up a chance to make a little coin?

I turn on Miss Daisy and head over to domestic arrivals. My phone pings. Carl. Under the Southwest sign. It's at the other end of the terminal, I can see it. Let's play Who's Carl?

Suit? College kid? Smoker? Old guy holding hands with a much younger woman?

I pull over in front of the only Southwest sign. No one checks me out. No one looks like they're expecting me. I open the door, pop out of the car, and say across the roof, "Ride for Carl."

People ignore me, except the woman with the old guy shoots me a look like she's never seen anyone get picked up at the airport before.

I shrug. Then to the crowd: "No Carl?"

The smoker says, "No Carl, dude. No Lenny either," and laughs at his own joke.

I duck back in the car and check my phone. Carl is wondering where I am. He's outside Southwest arrivals.

I look up, check again.

Yes, I'm in the right place and nobody's here. I'm confused.

Visit the author at benfinateri.com
