

## DODGER

A Novel

by

Dan Gallagher

- **SMASHWORDS EDITION** -

********************************

PUBLISHED BY:

Dan Gallagher on Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 Dan Gallagher

Thank you for purchasing and downloading this eBook. Unauthorized sharing or sale of this document is strictly prohibited. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. Your support and respect for the property of this author is highly appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

**********

To my parents, who always believed in me.

I love you.

**********

-DODGER-

PART ONE: THE REAL LIFE NEO

1

I STAND OUTSIDE THE BAR and drag my cigarette in agony. How did it come to this? What the hell am I doing here? I have no right, no stalwart purpose, no noble vengeance. All I have is a stupid CD and a stupid letter, both of which are trite, both of which make me look like a sniveling putz.

I'm still giving them to her, though.

Another long drag, but it's not enough. I should've had more beers. I should've done a shot. I should've smoked some crack. Something, anything to numb this singularity in my stomach, this super massive black hole collapsing in on itself, swallowing my entire being from the inside out. Why the hell is this so hard? What the hell is it about Kara that makes me go completely rubber?

Oh yeah - she's the one.

I finish the cigarette, stamp it out, and close my eyes as a raindrop hits me square in the forehead. Just my luck.

I enter.

Of course she's the first person I see. Why wouldn't she be?

The tray of food in her hand slips ever so slightly as we make eye contact. I smile halfheartedly.

"Hey, Kara."

"Hey..."

She continues on and I can tell right away it's out of business and not rudeness, for she has several tables flagging her down to refill their two dollar drafts. I take a seat at the bar and order one myself, hoping more liquid courage will sprout the nerve I need to say what I want to say.

Ten minutes go by. My drinking accelerates. She hasn't had time to come over yet and I'm pretending best I can to be into the Cubs game on TV but can't think about anything except the last things I said to her, the guilt trip I laid on her, the hurt and shame I practically forced her into feeling. She thought I was different, and I let her down, big time.

Twenty minutes go by. She's still busy. I'm getting antsy. I shoot the shit with the bartender for awhile but my head's so far gone she may as well be speaking Chinese. Blah, blah, blah... you're hot but you're not Kara. Guzzle guzzle.

Great. Now I'm drunk.

Which is why this all went sour in the first place.

"Jim."

I turn and she's there. I smile. "Hey."

"Hey." Awkward pause. She's great at breaking them, though. "So what's up? How've you been?"

"I've been... good. Real good. I have some, a couple things, for you, actually."

"Oh?"

I rummage through my backpack, find the letter and the CD, extend them proudly. "So, here you go. I finally finished, well, it's a rough cut, but it's that demo I was going to record. It's finished. You were a big inspiration in me finishing it, so I thought you'd like to have the first copy."

"Oh!" She takes it and reads the back of the case, the names of the songs. Smiles that smile that turns me to rubber. I ramble on:

"And then also, this is just a letter I wrote you. Explaining why I'm sorry about how everything went down. You know. Between us. I just... I wanted you to know how sorry I am. It's all in the letter."

Before she can say anything I'm hugging her, tightly as if it's the last time, ninety eight percent sure that it is.

"That's all I wanted to say, Kara. I miss you. I'll... I'll see you."

And with that I leave, feeling more depressed than before, when I at least had an aura of mystique surrounding me.

Now I just look like a little bitch.

The sky opens up and showers Wrigleyville with God's tears. As I walk and smoke, my own tears slowly join them.

God, I'm an idiot.

My stomach is knotted to the nines and only one thing can relieve the tension – more booze. It comes in the form of a trusty liter of dirt cheap vodka, and mixed with some grape Gatorade it's like heaven in a glass. An ambrosia salad. A holy grail. I have chosen wisely.

I can't stop thinking about it. About her. About Kara.

God.

How did this one girl hit me so hard? I'm a rock. My heart is protected by a wall of steel surrounded by a forcefield wrapped in spikes dressed with barbed wire guarded by a dragon wearing a bullet proof vest. She slayed him like she slayed me and did flips and somersaults over all obstacles to get right up in there, hand on the button, finger on the switch. Mission? Destroy. Target? My heart.

Drink.

This sucks.

The world is divided into pluses and minuses, positives and negatives, drugs and addicts.

She is my plus. She is my positive. She is my drug.

I'm addicted.

As the waves of vodka wash over me one thought throbs through my head and that's if I can't have Kara, I might as well die.

And maybe, just maybe, I will.

Drink.

I wake up the next morning and consider going to the hardware store for some heavy duty rope to fancy myself a heavy duty noose, but decide I should probably go to work instead. The hardware store's closed anyway, and I really can't afford heavy duty rope right now. Maybe after my shift.

I work at an American contemporary restaurant waiting tables, and it sucks. People are spoiled brats. Everyone's allergic to everything. The general population still hasn't adopted the twenty percent tipping policy. I occasionally spit in people's food.

It's all insignificant anyway. All I care about is Kara, her eyes looking into mine, her crooked smile smiling at some stupid inane comment I just made. Her jumping on my back without warning. Me snapping the rubber band around her wrist. Her kisses. Our wild, inebriated sex.

I'm in agony.

The volume has been turned down as I do my job aimlessly. Greet, explain, order, refill. Repeat. Some kid makes an asinine comment about how long it took me to get their drinks and I could care less. His ignorance rolls off me like the most unimportant bead of sweat to ever exist. Another customer says her food is cold, and instead of taking it back to the kitchen I simply mutter, "Life is cold. That's life on your plate, Miss." She can tell I'm having a bad day and keeps her trap shut.

It's slow and I'm bored so I'm at the front desk hanging out with Heather the hot hostess, conjuring up creative ways to off myself. She's not very helpful.

"Jump off a building?"

"Nah, he's scared of heights."

"Head in the oven?"

"His oven's electric."

"Wrist slit?"

"Uh... maybe."

I told her I'm thinking of having a guy in a story I'm writing commit suicide, so she doesn't get all suspicious and start asking questions. That's the last thing I need, people giving a shit. Can't a guy just envision his bitter end and noodle the necessary steps to achieving it in peace?

Suddenly a man in a ski mask enters. Hmm that's weird, I think, it's September but it's not that cold.

As he reveals a handgun it dawns on me: yup, robbery.

"All right, everyone put their hands up, goddamn it!"

Heather and I are the two closest to him and our hands shoot upward in unison. He alternates pointing the gun at us, her then me, her then me. Then at everyone else.

Hands have gone up all over the restaurant. It's not that big and we're not that busy, so this asshole has time on his side. He goes right up to the bartender and orders her to clean out her drawers. I hold back a smile and glance at Heather – she's terrified. I offer the best look of reassurance I can muster.

The masked man has all the bar money and is now collecting wallets from the patrons. Obviously this guy has seen Pulp Fiction. He's moving fast, but I wish to God he'd move even faster. I've got beers to drink, pot to smoke, and a bottle of sleeping pills to pick up. Perhaps a straight razor. Hell, maybe even that rope.

He's got all the wallets and is slowly backing up to the front door. Finally. He looks around one more time... and makes dead on solid eye contact with me. He squints. I freeze.

"You," he says, approaching. "You're a waiter here?"

I stay frozen. "Yeah."

"Give me your cash."

Ordinarily I would hand over my cash, debit card, driver's license and bus pass, but the fact that this asshole has already scored all the money in the restaurant and is still asking me for mine is not cool. Fucker.

"Sorry, man," I say. "I've only had credit card transactions today."

He squints again, probably because he doesn't understand that for a waiter all credit card transactions equals no cash, but he doesn't deter and steps closer.

"I said, give me your cash, motherfucker!" He cocks the gun.

Ordinarily I'd shit my pants, but my mental state of anguish coupled with my heartbreak coupled with my hatred for this son of a bitch somehow keeps my bowels intact.

"Dude, I have no cash," I say. "You've made enough money today anyway. So why don't you just, you know... fuck off!"

I scream the fuck off part without meaning to but before I can apologize, the gun goes off. Instinct or intuition or something else all together makes me veer left, and as the bullet whizzes past me into the wall, I make my move. I grab the gun, aim it upward, and bring my knee up right into the masked bastard's balls. The pain forces him to let go and suddenly I've got the gun. I flip it and point it at him.

"Give me your cash, motherfucker!" I scream as he nestles his testicles. "Come on, you piece of shit! Huh?! What?!"

He attempts a punch but he's weak and I easily sidestep it, then bring the gun down on his head, hard. He's out for the count.

"Huh?! Huh, motherfucker!?"

I kick him in the ribs out of frustration, partially situational, but mostly general.

I kick him again.

And again.

It's then I realize I could've just let him shoot me.

Damn.

It's only a matter of minutes before the police arrive. They say they won't tell anyone I roughed up the perp because I probably saved several lives with my heroic act. I could care less. The magnitude of the accomplishment is downplayed, at least in my mind, because I still feel utterly and completely empty due to the whole Kara thing. It's eating me up inside.

I listen to the witnesses give their eyewitness accounts and they're all saying the same thing.

I dodged the bullet.

Literally.

At point blank range.

It was miraculous, a miracle.

I'm like Jesus and Neo all at once.

I'm a hero.

News vans start to pull up, and as the reporters file out, one thought races through my mind.

I am now a celebrity.

Celebrities always get what they want.

All I want is Kara.

2

I'M IN MY SHIT APARTMENT eating Chinese food and watching YouTube, specifically the interview I gave just a few short hours ago to a lovely young reporter from Channel Eight News Chicago.

"So Jim, can you walk us through what happened in there?"

I shrug. "I don't know, it all happened so fast. I kinda had a feeling he was going to fire the gun, so I kinda just stepped aside. It was a no brainer, really."

A no brainer. What a jerk.

"Jim, people are calling you the Real Life Neo. What do you have to say to that?"

I chuckle. "Well, let's not get carried away. I mean, no one else try and shoot me, okay?"

The reporter laughs, I smile like a cheeseball, she does her wrap up, the clip ends. I look at the views.

109,256.

In three hours.

I. Am. Blowing. Up.

Justin Bieber, eat your heart out.

My phone hasn't stopped ringing since the news aired. Everyone I know has called or texted, old numbers that I deleted but look familiar have called or texted, and I haven't had this much email since my live webcam porn site days. My Facebook page is littered with crazy Wall comments, my Inbox is overflowing, and I'm receiving Friend Requests from people who just want to be friends with the 'Real Life Neo.' Crazy.

I answer only three phone calls: my mom's, my dad's, and my best friend Ray's. The first two go simply.

"Hey, Mom, I'm fine, it was kinda weird almost being shot, but emotionally, I'm okay. Talk to you later."

"Hey, Dad, I'm fine, I think I might be able to score some loot out of this whole crazy deal. Talk to you later."

Ray's call takes a bit longer.

"Dude, it was crazy. I literally felt the bullet fly right by me."

"Dude."

"I know."

"It didn't even touch you?"

"Nope. Not a graze."

"Did you know he was going to shoot and then move, or did you move when he shot?"

"Somewhere in between, I think. It really all happened so fast."

"Dude."

"I know."

We bullshit a bit more until I tell him I have to get back to my adoring public. He calls me an asshole and we agree to hang out soon.

Everyone has dropped me a line... everyone except Kara.

I want to call her but know it's a desperation move, that I'm already on thin ice, and pushing the subject might scare her off for good. As if that sappy letter didn't already do it. Stupid.

But I'm a celebrity now. I thwarted a robbery. I'm the Real Life Neo.

How could she not want to be with me?

I decide to lay off. Maybe she just hasn't seen the news yet. I slurp up some delicious Lo Mein and play the clip again, grinning like an idiot.

I get good and drunk while watching Dancing With The Stars. My phone is on silent now so I can concentrate on more important things, like playing my guitar and jerking off and watching Dancing With The Stars. Priorities are important.

I still check my phone now and then hoping to see her name, but it doesn't happen. I drink more, smoke some pot to put me in a haze. I watch Friends DVD Season 4, Disc 3. It's a good one. Chandler Bing cracks me up. The hours drag and by the time I'm stonedrunktired enough to pass out, my phone has ceased receiving messages. All's quiet on the Midwestern front.

I change clothes, hit the sack. She'll probably call tomorrow. Thanks to a few months of being really into Buddhism, I'm able to close my eyes, concentrate on my breathing, and fall asleep within minutes. It's a neat trick.

Boom.

I'm running late the next morning so I call a cab, which I hate doing but can live with on the day after a near death experience. I smoke a joint while I wait out of sheer boredom. Fuck it.

The cab arrives, we bounce. The driver eyes me as I mess with my hair in his rear view.

"Hey, I know you."

I sculpt my patented surfin' wave. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. You're the guy from TV. From the news. You stopped that robbery."

"That's me," I say. "The robbery stopper."

"Can I ask you something?"

I put the finishing touches on my extreme 'do. "Fire away."

"Were you scared?"

I want to tell him that during the robbery my head was in a place where no man's should be, that my good sense and reasoning were overtaken by sullenness and grief, that I didn't care if I got shot, that I didn't care whether I lived or died. Dodging the bullet was just idiotic instinct, pure and simple, and I didn't have the slightest control over it or my fear.

But I doubt he'd get it.

"Hell no, I wasn't scared," I say. "Dude, I can dodge anything."

He laughs heartily, and I light a cigarette. Dumbass.

As soon as we pull up to the restaurant, madness ensues. I don't get within twenty feet of the entrance before a mob of people mob me, and suddenly I'm signing autographs and taking pictures with them, kissing them, receiving kisses, pretend dodging bullets and pretend hitting people on the head with a gun. I wish I hadn't smoked that joint but I maintain, stay photogenic, smile lots and lots, and head in as soon as the bulk of the mass craze subsides.

Our general manager Bernie is there to greet me.

"Holy shit, dude," he says, draping his arm around my shoulders. "People have been calling all morning asking if they can get a table and be waited on by the outstanding, amazing, incredibly heroic bullet dodger. I expanded your section to eight tables! Dude... mah-mah-mah-moolah!"

He finger shoots me, and I dodge just out of stupidity. Eight tables? Is he nuts? I'm a terrible waiter to begin with. Why the hell would he give me eight tables?

I find out in a hurry.

"Holy shit, it's the Dodger!"

"Dude, you're like a God!"

"Unbelievable, man, just unbelievable."

"You... are... God!"

"Can I take you to Wisconsin Dells for a weekend of river rafting? Just you and me? Seriously, it won't be weird."

"You do couples, right?"

Iced tea and Pepsi never felt so dirty. I struggle through my shift with abhorrent awkwardness, beguiled bitterness, and extreme embarrassment. I've never hated waiting on tables more. Even though I'm a supposed savior they still wave their hands at me, demand refills of liquid poison, and allow me to ruin their innards by stuffing greasy, preservative laced food down their throats. I'm a legal drug dealer, dealing carbs, grease, and fat. Fucking fat.

Why can't I dodge that?

I go along with the ploy, the play, the plethora of poison. What the hell. Photo ops, I'm in. Autographs, done. Yup, I'm the Dodger, Real Life Neo, Miraculous Messiah. Get your soup while it's hot, and enjoy.

As soon as the night shift comes on they all want the story, the scoop, the behind the scenes tour. I haven't the time nor energy to appease them, so as soon as I'm off the clock I'm out the door.

I go through the back because there's still people outside holding Real Life Neo and Dodger signs. I throw my hat and hoody on, don my ironically similar to the Matrix style sunglasses, and walk the other way even though it's out of the way. I head for the train but realize I might get recognized, and if that happens on the metal box of death I'm fucked cause there's no place to go.

Cabbin' it.

This driver doesn't recognize me and I'm home lickety split. I've been so busy I haven't checked my phone so when I finally do and see fourteen missed calls, eighteen new texts, and twenty four new emails, excitement begins to set in. I cycle through and see none of them are from Kara. The excitement deflates and I almost break my phone.

Once home, booze. And pot. I return a few calls, my aunt, my cousin Jeb, my ex girlfriend Lacey, an old high school buddy Kevin, a Lollapalooza compatriot Jim Coopersmith, my grandma, and my bartender, Max. Everyone wants the inside edition but I poop out on all. Not tonight, I say, but soon.

The rest of the messages are fluff, people wanting the skinny, the slope, the sovereign. No call backs for them. The only message that resembles importance is one from Channel Eight News Chicago, and it's the same lovely reporter who interviewed me before.

"Hi, Jim, this is Paige Scott with Channel Eight, we spoke yesterday? Anyway, I was calling to let you know that Good Day America got ahold of me and they are very interested in having you on as a guest as early as, well, tomorrow. If you can. My number is..."

She leaves her number, email, fax, Facebook link. I ponder the possibilities. A national morning talk show might be just the medium I need to tell everyone to fuck off, to leave me alone once and for all, that my act of heroism was really just a botched suicide attempt, that deep down I really wanted to die but some stupid self preservation defense mechanism prevented it from happening.

I'm a fraud.

I never meant to dodge the bullet.

The world must know.

I return her call and after some chitchat she tells me a car will pick me up at six AM sharp and that I'll be live to the nation by seven. She also says not to worry about H and M and I tell her I never shop there. She laughs and says it's hair and makeup. I tell her I'll let someone do the makeup but that no one - no one – touches my hair but me.

She agrees to the stipulation.

I go through my closet, looking for something television worthy. Nothing. All tee shirts, shirts I've outgrown, or shirts that suck. I leaf through my collared buttondowns, and they're all either too big, too small, holey or ripped. Damn.

I go through my dresser drawers but it's just more tees, a few jerseys, and some wife beaters. I consider wearing one for comedic purposes but nix the idea – wife beaters are so 2007.

I'm about to give up when I spot it.

A plain, black tee shirt.

Perfect.

I throw it on, throw my black jeans on. Then my shades. I go to the mirror and drink myself in.

It's Neo.

The Real Life Neo.

And damn, he looks good.

At five thirty, my alarm hits me like a ton of bricks. Seriously, dude. I'm trying to sleep here.

Oh, yeah. It's Good Day America Day.

I roll out of bed, smoke, shit, shave, shower. I don't have a coffee maker so a beer will have to do. The sun's not even out yet as I sculpt my hair ever so delicately, perfecting the wave, the curl, the spikes. The finished product blows even me away and I can't wait to get in front of that camera. Bring it.

Six AM arrives and there's a knock at my door. I open it to find a well groomed kid of about twenty five, smoking a cigarette, carefully ashing far away from the moderately expensive suit he's got on.

He flicks the cig and extends his hand. "Hi, Jim Bailey?"

I shake. "That's me."

"I'm Phil. Phil Jinx. I'm your driver."

"Phil Jinx?"

"Yup."

"That's a hell of a moniker. Is it real?"

"I could show you my license if you want."

"Well you are my driver, so yeah, maybe you better."

He grins, digs into his wallet, hands me his license. Yup, Phillip F. Jinx, born December seventh, 1987. He looks high as hell in the picture and wears corrective lenses. He's also an organ donor.

I toss it back. "Cool beans. Let's roll."

Phil may have an awesome name but he's a ridiculously shitty driver. We almost go the wrong way on a one way as I spark up a joint in the back seat. He arches an eyebrow in the rear view.

"Say, Dodger... is there enough of that to go around?"

I hold my smoke, talk through it. "Absolutely. Just stop calling me Dodger."

"Can do."

I pass him the joint, he goes to town. As we turn onto Fullerton, a biker nearly gets hit by a pickup but swerves at the last minute. After some cursing, he pedals on. I chuckle.

"Nice dodge."

"Yeah, no shit." Phil passes the joint back. "So Jim, can I ask you something?"

I inhale. "Shoot."

"Were you scared? During the robbery, I mean."

The same question that cabbie asked me not twenty four hours ago. I spouted some bullshit because he didn't really care, but Phil's interest seems genuine so I tell him the truth.

"Fuck yeah I was scared, dude. The asshole had a gun pointed at me."

"So how did you... dodge the bullet?"

"I veered left." I pass the joint back, he hits it. I muse. "It's not like I wanted to dodge it. It was just a reaction. Just like anything else. It was a bullet, coming right at me, so I stepped aside. Like it was a fly, or a gnat, or some other flying insect. I just... stepped aside."

He puffs again, passes.

"Is that what you're going to tell Kathleen Downs?"

Kathleen Downs. The mistress of Good Day America. One of the most respected journalists in the country. Good friends with President Obama, Oprah Winfrey, and Rob Lowe. Also a smoking hot MILF.

I hit the joint one last time, then flick it.

"Yeah, Phil. That's exactly what I'm gonna tell her."

We arrive at the studio and park in back. The sun finally begins poking its cute little head out over the horizon as we approach the building. I put my shades on. Phil holds the door open.

"Real Life Neo, indeed."

"There is no spoon."

We enter. I'm led down a corridor, much like the one Neo and Morpheus were led down by the Keymaker in The Matrix Reloaded, and come to a stop in front of a door that says Guest #1.

"That's you," Phil says.

"That's me."

"I'll tell Paige and the makeup girl that you're here."

He opens the door for me, continues down the hall. I go into the dressing room and my jaw nearly falls off.

My apartment looks like the janitorial closet at the Roach Motel compared to this place. At first glance the four foot tall fruit basket has only apples and oranges, but upon further inspection, there's peaches, tangerines, and apricots. I'm lucky to find a stick of gum at home. There's a six pack of Lemon Lime Gatorade, a four pack of Red Bull, and a case of bottled water chilling on ice. It's beautifully presented and I appreciate the effort, but I ignore all that shit and focus on the minibar.

Lil' Jack, Lil' Captain, Lil' Johnnie Walker. Red. I indulge. The live national newscast plays on the wall mounted flatscreen in HD. I watch Kathleen Downs and her co-anchor, Parker Hardicoff, report the daily doctrine.

"... a confirmed three hundred people are dead this morning as a result of the vicious earthquake that ripped through the streets of Bangkok last night..."

Blah, blah, blah, who cares. I drink. Kathleen looks really hot today. Drink. Hardicoff looks like a dick as usual. Drink. I'd like to kick his ass in front of all his blowhard friends and his girlfriend. Drink. Then fuck Kathleen in her marital bed.

The thought occurs to me that it may be severely irresponsible for a major television network to provide their on air guests with a plentiful supply of alcohol, especially in the morning, when there's no real reason to be drunk unless you're extending an all nighter.

Then it occurs to me that people who are guests on this show are probably pretty stressed out, whether they're actors, musicians, athletes, world leaders, politicians, lawyers, psychologists, motivational speakers, gay couples, bi couples, straight couples, spelling bee champions, survivors (rape, cancer, natural disasters, vehicular accidents, domestic abuse), chefs, talk show hosts, or the morbidly obese.

Or me, an idiot who dodged a bullet.

Yeah. Minibar good.

There's a knock at the door. I swig Jack on the rocks and swivel around in my chair.

"Yup, come in!"

It opens almost in slow motion to reveal a scintillating blonde, fresh off the bread rack, no older than twenty if that. I stiffen in more ways than one and sit up.

"Oh, hi."

She smiles and approaches, a makeup bag in hand. "Hi. I'm Colleen."

"Jim."

"The Dodger."

"I guess that's my claim to fame."

"That was really brave what you did."

"You're brave for putting makeup on me. It's a shit assignment, if you ask me."

"I volunteered."

"Why?"

"Cause I think you're sexy as hell."

She kisses me ever so lightly on the cheek, and the smell of her whatever, perfume, shampoo, gum, maybe a combination of the three, drives me wild. Drink.

Kara.

Fuck.

I put my hand on Colleen's arm and push her back.

"I'm sorry babe, but I'm spoken for. If I did anything with you I'd just be thinking of her and that'll make me puke. So just forget it. Just do my damn makeup, all right?"

I lay back in the chair, stare at the ceiling fan. Colleen's sour face eclipses the light.

"Fine. Hold still... Dodger."

I want to spit at her for calling me that again but she's already started the application process. If I move now, the makeup will all be in vain.

Drink.

Through a straw.

Colleen finishes, I thank her, she tries one more time to wet my doc, I politely decline. She shrugs, tells me someone will tell me when I'm going on, and leaves. I ponder my decision. On one hand I really need to get laid. These last few days have been extremely stressful, I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams, and I haven't had sex with anyone since, well, Kara. And that was when we were hammered.

On the other hand if I let my inner dog get the best of me and nail Colleen, I'll forever feel guilty because I will be thinking of Kara, her lips, her face, her body, and even though we're not together, fucking someone else is surely a one way ticket to never seeing her again. At least if I keep my dick out of the way I have a shot.

Drink. Now I'm drunk. And depressed. And lonely.

Great.

There's two sharp knocks on the door. I nearly fall out of my chair. "Yeah?"

"Five minutes, Mr. Bailey."

I sigh, look in the mirror. Hair? Perfect. Makeup? Perfect. Clothes? Perfect. Soul?

Empty.

I exit the dressing room, clutch the wall for dear life. Holy God. Someone needs to help me and someone sure as hell does, in the person, the hot person, of Paige Scott.

"Jim!" she says, teeth perfect smile blinding me. "Good to see you again. Wow, Colleen did a great job. So, are you ready? Kathleen can't wait to meet you."

I smile and expose my heavily crooked grill. "Well great, I can't wait, either."

"Wonderful. Let's go."

She starts up the hall. I follow wearily. Her heels make a loud clacking sound that reverberates off the walls, and it's like she's actually walking on my brain. My head buzzes and I'm terribly annoyed, drunk yes but numb no, I still feel sick, I still feel depressed, I still feel lonely. Dammit. I should've banged Colleen.

We approach the end of the hall and enter the studio. It's glorious and magnificent. Lights everywhere, people everywhere, the feeling of celebrity, the feeling that every little thing being done right now on this set is more important than anything I've ever done in my whole life. What have I done? Dropped out of college. Waited tables as a job for seven years. Learned to play Wonderwall on the guitar. Dodged a bullet.

Big whoop.

Millions of people everywhere every day watch the result of all these people's hard work, and everyone plays a part in it – the sound guy, the camera guy, Kathleen, Parker, the dickhead who gets them coffee, the asshole who gets their cars. One big happy.

And their jobs are important.

Me, I suck. I'm nothing. I'm an asshole. I'm a dickhead. I make people feel guilty and use my extraordinary vocabulary and excellent verbiage to berate, belittle, and destroy them, to the point where no one, no one wants to hang out with me. I scare everyone away, chase everyone away, and the older I get the harder it gets, and whoever said things get easier with time, that time heals all wounds, is completely full of shit.

I'm going to feel the pain of Kara for the rest of my life. I just know it.

Why?

Cause I've earned it.

"Jim, are you all right?"

Paige. I look up and she's led me to the interview area, even sat me down and stuck a bottle of water in my hand. I drink it feverishly.

"I'm terrific, Paiger, thanks for asking."

"Okay, great." She's looking around, not even really paying attention. I clear my throat.

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm full of shit."

She finally looks at me. "What?"

"I'm... full... of... shit."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"This whole thing, this whole hoopla... it's all based on a lie."

"Jim..."

"You don't understand. Paige, I'm ---"

I get cut off by more loud clacking, but this time it's louder, meaner, more authoritative. It carries gumption.

And then, just like that, she's standing right next to me.

Kathleen Downs.

"Well, hello!" She smells like summer blossoms in the middle of a meadow. Kara smells like that. "If it isn't the latest hometown hero. Jim – sorry, Dodger – you, sir, are a saint. You saved lives. You're truly a special human being."

I'm about to tell her to go fuck herself when the director or whoever yells "On air in ten!" Kathleen takes her seat and someone comes in to pat her face with a powder swab. I snicker and give her a dirty look, then hold my fingers up to my mouth in a V and simulate cunnilingus. Her eyes widen in horror.

"In three... two... one..."

"Good morning, and welcome back to Good Day America, it's three minutes past the hour..." Hardicoff continues with the updates and upcomings. Across from me, Kathleen is fuming. She could kill me or fuck me and I'd be all right with either at this point.

"... but right now I'm going to turn it over to Kathleen, where she's with America's newest hero, the Real Life Neo himself, Jim Bailey. Kathleen?"

She hesitates before speaking but keeps it together.

"Thank you, Parker, and yes, we are here with Jim Bailey, or as you may know him across the nation, the Dodger. Good morning, Jim."

The red light on the camera pointed at me flicks on. My eyes widen, then slant.

"Good morrow."

"So Jim, I guess the question on everybody's minds is... why?"

I look at her, puzzled. "Why? Why what?"

"Why did you risk your life that fateful day at the restaurant? Why didn't you just hand over your money like the robber wanted?"

I consider the question, the candor, the curiosity. Why did I do it? Why... did I do it?

"Well, Kathleen," I begin, "It's real simple. The robber just downright pissed me off. He had scored all this money from the restaurant and the customers, but no, that wasn't enough. He needed to have my tips, too. Well, that's bullcrap. We make lousy money to begin with, and I'm not about to turn a full day's wages over to some ass clown. So I said no."

She nods. I wonder if they bleeped ass clown.

"And the dodge?" she continues. "Can you... walk us through it?"

I inhale slowly. "The dodge. Right. Well, the first thing you have to understand about the dodge is that it really wasn't any kind of premeditated move. The assailant had a weapon pointed at me, and when I saw it was about to fire, I just stepped aside. Did I think I was going to dodge it? No. But it was better than just standing there, accepting it."

She nods again, smiling. I continue:

"But I gotta tell you, this whole incident has a back story. My personally personal life played a key factor in this whole thing, and I just want the record to show that I in no way, shape, or form wanted to dodge that bullet. My body did it without my soul's consent, because that day, at that moment... I wanted to die."

There's a pause as Kathleen and the rest of the crew stare at me, jaws dangling. At the anchor desk, Hardicoff smiles and laughs under his breath.

Kathleen snaps out of it.

"So... so what are you saying?"

I laugh. "Isn't it obvious? I'm depressed and suicidal over the fact that I lost Kara. I mean, I told this guy, this masked man, to eff off in the middle of a robbery because I wanted him to kill me. And even though he tried, I dodged. But I didn't want to. I wanted him to kill me so that this neverending pain will stop, so that I can get on with things, so that this horrible feeling of eternal grief gripping my soul can finally end. I just wanted the sweet release of death. Is that too much to ask? Is it?!"

My drunk anger fury rips out of me and I scream the last few words. Kathleen looks at me closely.

"Jim... who's Kara?"

My stomach somersaults at the sound of her name from someone else's lips.

"She's the one, Kathleen. She's the one." I sit up, the room spins. For a second I think I might vomit but keep talking instead. "Oh, and I got a message for everyone who's watching this – just leave me the hell alone. I got lucky. This could happen to anyone. So stop with the signs, the pictures, and the attention. I'm nobody. And I want to stay that way. Kara... call me."

With that I throw my water bottle at Hardicoff and exit. Past the camera, past the sound guy, past the fucking director. Down the hallway. There's no reason for me to be here in the first place. I'm not George Clooney.

Into the dressing room. Just need my sunglasses and cigarettes and the rest of the minibar. Boom.

I burst through the back door into the parking lot and suddenly realize I have no ride and no cash. Before I can even think of a solution I hear a whistle behind me.

"Yo, Jim!"

I turn. Phil Jinx.

"Nice timing, Phil. Get me the hell outta here."

We roll. Phil blasts some tunes as I sit in the back of the Towncar, exasperated. My heart beats a mile a minute and my face is dripping with sweat. Alcohol sweat. Nasty.

"Jim, that was... awesome," Phil says. "By far, the best thing I've ever seen on live TV. Way to be honest. No one is ever honest."

"I guess I've got a knack for honesty."

"By the way, I noticed how you censored yourself in the interview. Very classy."

"Oh, well, no reason to be unprofessional."

"Ha! You kill me, Dodger."

I remain numb even though he calls me the D word. We rumble onto the expressway, light cigarettes, talk about life. I discover Phil is a musician who plays lead guitar for a band called Beats Me. I say it's a stupid name and he says he doesn't like it either. I tell him I used to want to be an actor until I met a bunch of actors and the way they acted made me want to give it up. He asks me to elaborate.

"Every time a group of actors gets together, it's all just a matter of a time. Someone has to be in the spotlight. Someone has to take the lead. They're all just trying to get everyone to pay attention to them, look at me! Look at me! Like it's a competition, bunch of bullshit. That's why you never want to date an actress, Phil. Trust me. They're never happy with anything they do and they're just so goddamn impulsive that they'll be swept away by almost anything. Kara's an actress. And impulsive. And a cheater. And I'm... crazy about her."

I produce a Lil' Jack, pass it up to Phil. He takes a swig and passes it back.

"So tell me."

"About Kara?"

"Yeah. She must be really special if you're so hung up on her."

"Special isn't even the word."

"So what is?"

I sit up. "I'll tell you what, Phil. I'll tell you a story. I'll tell you about the night everything went sour with her. It was her friend's birthday party, a mutual friend actually, and this was like a week after I found out she was seeing another dude while hooking up with me. She wanted to get together beforehand to discuss things, but of course I acted like a little bitch and didn't want to, so sure enough the night of the party comes around and of course, it's awkward as hell. We both get loaded and wind up making out in the middle of the bar, the bar she works at, in front of her friends, her friends' friends, and her friend's mom. All the employees who know us and know she has a boyfriend. Everyone." I pull a long swig. "So we're making out and decide to leave so we can talk about things outside. We go to this plaza, and we're both hammered trying to explain how we feel but I know she's just trying to dump me and end the whole thing, so I tell her all my love turns to hate and that this thing with her is just another prime example. She starts to cry and runs away but I catch up and apologize and kiss her uncontrollably. Somehow we make it to the next bar to meet up with the party and my stupid asshole drunk emotions kick in, and as I drink more, I become more resentful of her. I scribble a bunch of slander and blasphemy on a kid's menu in crayon, how she's a whore, how she's a bitch, how she's the devil, how much I love her. Luckily I was so fucked up it was all illegible." I swig again. "All I can think about as she sings karaoke, Tom Petty's 'Don't Do Me Like That' to be exact, is how much I hate her. That's all I can think about, Phil. And the last thing I said to her before I left that bar, the last thing I remember... 'things will never be the same between us. Things will never be the same, Kara.'"

Swig, pass it back. He swigs.

"Wow, I'm sorry, man. That sucks."

"Yeah Phil, it does."

He drives on and I sit back, letting the wind rush in through the open window to do what it wants to my stupid, ever so perfect hair.

It doesn't really matter anymore.

3

WE PULL UP TO MY place and Phil shuts off the engine.

"Jim, we're here."

I stir suddenly. Sullenly. "Oh. We are."

"I got it."

He gets out, opens my door. I stumble onto the sidewalk.

"Dude... thanks."

"Take care, man."

"Wait, you don't want to hang out?"

"I can't, I'm on the clock. Taking you home was my job."

"Come on, Phil. I'm a... a broken man. I need to hang out! Well, you know. Just shoot the shit with someone."

"Jim, it's seven forty five in the morning and you're wasted. Go back to bed. It was nice meeting you."

And with that, Phil Jinx jumps into his Channel Eight News Lincoln Towncar and recedes into the night. Morning. Whatever.

I'm starving.

Ramen noodles never tasted so good, and almost burning the place down because I passed out for twelve minutes while the water was boiling never felt so worth it. Shrimp flavor rules. I finish them in a minute flat, then throw on some jazz and lay back.

It takes awhile for them to come but like clockwork they do, through my well broken in tearducts, past my pretty eyelashes, down my makeup stained face. All over the place. The tears pour out faster than I can create them, and I swear to God I'm choking, thinking about everyone I'm going to let down, all the funerals, all the graves I'll have to visit within the next ten years, all the utterly disappointing eulogies I'll have to give and really, the worst part, not caring about any of it. I really just gave up karaing.

Caring.

Kara.

Sayonara.

I call off work the next day. And the day after that. The next day they call me and, knowing my state of mind, offer to let me take a few weeks off to get my head straight. I accept.

Ever since the on air debacle people have been calling me for more interviews, wanting to know the whole story, dying to delve even deeper into my misery and pain. Paige Scott is the worst of them, leaving five messages. I ignore all. Footage of me losing it and throwing my water bottle at Parker Hardicoff are all the rage and even get made fun of on Conan and Leno. Clips of me on YouTube rack up multiple views and still put baby Bieber to shame.

I keep in touch with my parents, my weed guy, and of course Ray, who serves as my siphon to our social circle.

"Dude."

"What's up, Ray?"

"Not much. Been waiting on your call. Everyone at work's been asking about you."

"I know, I've been meaning to call. I just... needed some time."

"I understand, man. That was one crazy interview."

"Tell me about it."

"You doing okay?"

"Yeah, not bad. Writers and reporters won't stop calling. Everyone wants to know who Kara is."

"That's crazy. I had no idea how much that chick got to you."

"What can I say, Ray? It just kinda happened."

"I hear ya."

"Have you seen her, by the way?"

"Kara?"

"Yeah."

There's a long pause on the other end. I check my signal.

"Ray?"

"Yeah."

"Thought I lost you."

"You didn't."

"Then why the dramatic pause? This isn't an acting class."

"Dude... Kara left."

Now I pause. My stomach sinks. "Um... what?"

"Kara's gone. She moved back home."

"To Iowa?"

"Yeah."

I pause again. My heart sinks. "When?"

"Yesterday, maybe? I'm not really sure. All I know is what Eric told me, and that was that she couldn't afford the big city lifestyle and had to move back."

"What about that guy she's seeing? You know, that other guy?"

"I don't know. Like I said, I didn't get the details."

I sigh. "Well, at least it wasn't because I embarrassed her on national television."

"Well, I'm sure that didn't help."

"You're probably right."

"You okay, man? You wanna come over and drink some beers? The Cubs are on. They suck, but they're still on."

"Nah, I just wanna stay here and play the guitar. I'll call you tomorrow."

"All right, man. Well hey, my birthday's on Friday so some of the crew is going out. Wouldn't be the same without you."

"Ah yes, October second. Wouldn't miss it."

"Cool. Later."

I hit End, appropriately. I look down and spot a copy of my demo on the coffee table. It stares back mockingly.

The CD shatters to smithereens upon meeting the wall. Why I even recorded the damn thing to begin with is a mystery.

Oh, yeah. Kara.

And just like that... she's gone.

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday are all a blur. I drink, smoke, smoke pot, do some shrooms, jerk off, watch TV, play guitar, and eat garbage. Become reacquainted with my Roswell and Dawson's Creek DVDs. Write the first three episodes of a sitcom entitled 'Beats Me' based on some of the stories Phil Jinx told me. Do the dishes and wax the floors, do the laundry. Clean the bathtub. Sleep.

Thursday rolls around and I'm excited that not one media representative has called – maybe my fifteen minutes are finally up. I also remember it's a special day, a day I've been waiting for, a day I hope to put right a wrong that should never have been wrong in the first place.

It's Kara's birthday.

I drink.

All my love just turns to hate. Saying that will stick with me forever. The first night we hooked up, the first time we really talked – it was like magic. We were at the bar that makes its own beer, where she worked and I hung out, and I was getting sloshed with my buddy Rick when all of a sudden there she is, fresh off her shift, looking for a seat. Like a fallen angel. I slid down one stool and she joined us, and five minutes later our conversation about nothing in particular took off and I was hooked. In those few minutes, my life changed forever. I felt it. Game on.

The comedy bounced back and forth and there was never a dull moment, and I remember feeling so absolutely at ease with her, a feeling I never get, a feeling that's fleeting at best. Rick picked up on it immediately and left us alone. I was wearing three rubber bands around my wrist for some reason so she stole one and made it her own. While we drank and talked she'd say 'Really?!' every time I said something ridiculous and it happened so often that we both started getting annoyed so we decided I'd snap her rubber band every time she said it. Her wrist was red by closing time and our sexual chemistry was through the roof.

As we waited for the subway I made a game of avoiding eye contact with her by weaving around and behind our post and at one point she backed me up against it and wouldn't let me go anywhere. So I leaned in for what I didn't know at the time would be the best first kiss in the history of the world, and as I think about it now if I died at this moment, I'd make that memory my eternal screensaver and just relive it over and over, kissing her again and again.

I haven't had a first kiss since.

Gin and tonic.

I'm tanked now and listening to Weezers' Blue Album and a shred, yes a shred of dignity returns, and I start to dial Kara's number even though I'm holding two phones. Oh wait that's just one. My bad.

Dial, listen, ring, ring, ring. Voicemail.

"Hi, you've reached Kara, leave me a message, thanks."

It beeps. I sigh.

"Okay, then. Kara, it's Jim. I just wanted to say happy birthday. You know, I always remember your birthday because it's a day before Ray's, so I just wanted to say, happy birthday! And also, to tell you once again, that I'm sorry about what I said to you that night. I was way out of line. God, I think about you all the time. All the precious moments we had together in the short time we had... and now you're just, gone. It haunts me. It floods my dreams."

There's a beep and I'm cut off. I hit End, then redial. Voicemail. Beep.

"You know what my best day is, Kara? That day we laid on my couch together in the middle of December and listened to Q101's countdown of the Best Songs of 1994. Remember? It was cold outside but warm in the apartment and we just laid together, talking and listening, eating each other's ears, seeing who would laugh first. You showed me pictures of your trip across Europe and I showed you pictures of me taking pictures of my family in a variety of places. And remember when Glycerine came on? And we just laughed like hell? And we made love on the couch in the middle of the day, the sun shining right on us the whole time? Jesus... I dream about that day sometimes. I dream about how different I would do things now, now that I've experienced life without you, and how I would do anything to avoid a life where I don't get to see you at all. I just... I miss you, Kara. I miss you."

And it's now, in this moment, I truly miss her the most.

I close my eyes.

"But my worst day..."

PART TWO: PAIGER

4

I SIT AT THE BAR and drink in agony. It's October first again. Rapidly becoming an infamous date in my history, there's the matter of a two year tradition to uphold, a tradition that can't be ignored even though its existence always is, even though the sentiment behind it is always utterly sacked.

The call.

But of course, first, booze.

To pile on the pain I'm drinking at the bar where Kara and I first hooked up, the one that makes its own beer, the one that she used to work at that I used to frequent. I'm drinking on the same bar stool in fact, because I'm that goddamn nostalgic. Misty eyed. Sentimental.

A jackass.

I slide my empty pint forward.

"Jim, you did this last year. Why don't you just go home and play your guitar?"

Max. Maxie. Max-a-mundo.

"Max, I can't," I say. "I just can't. There are certain things, certain traditions a man must uphold that will continuously define who he is. Who he's meant to be. For you, it's your archery. For me, it's this."

"I'm not an archer. I've never held a bow and arrow in my life."

"But there's time! There's time, Max. And that's what it all boils down to. Time. Timing is everything."

My bartender slides me another pint.

"If you say so, Jim."

Guzzle guzzle. To timing.

"Jim? Jim Bailey?"

I'm in the middle of my third round of tequila shots with these DePaul hippie kids when there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see a vaguely familiar blonde hottie with auburn highlights, holding a highball and smiling. I squint.

"Yeah?"

She frowns. "Jim, it's Paige. Paige Scott. Remember?"

It starts coming back to me. I fight it.

"Oh, oh yeah. Paige. Paiger. Yeah, I remember."

"You know, I think to this day, you're still the only person who's ever called me Paiger."

"Well, I love giving nicknames. They're endearing."

"You're right."

"Buy you a drink?"

"I have one, thanks."

"Buy me one?"

"Sure."

I blow off the college kids and we roll. She looks as good as I remember. I won't abandon the reason I'm getting hammered in the first place, to completely embarrass myself for yet a third year in a row by drunk dialing Kara on her birthday, but while I warm up I can definitely have a drink with the one and only Paige Scott. Why not? She's hot.

We get to the bar, order, she pays, we cheers.

Then she looks me dead in the eye.

"So, Jim, what the hell happened to you?"

I sip, look at her in faux shock. "What?"

"You never called me back."

"Oh, did you call me?"

"Yes. Twelve times over a two week span, if I recall."

"Oh, geez. Well, I don't recall."

"I went to your apartment a few times, too. They said you moved."

"Well Paige, after I lost my job, things got a little tight. I had to move back in with my dad."

"Why'd you lose your job?"

"Because I was a liability. They thought I was going to kill myself in the restaurant. In front of the customers."

"Why did they think that?"

"Because I said I would."

Her eyes narrow. "You should've called me back, Jim."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"Because you could've had it all."

"All of what?"

"Fame. Money. Everything a person could want out of life."

"Who said I want that out of life?"

"Everyone does."

I roll my eyes. "So why didn't it happen to me?"

She drinks, sighs. "It didn't happen because you disappeared. You had people salivating for more after that nutjob interview and instead of cashing in on it, you just disappeared. You could've had commercials, endorsements, promotional appearances, maybe even your own reality show. But you bailed, Bailey. And now look at you."

I sit in silence, absorbing her words. Drink my drink. Maybe she's right. Maybe I should've sold my soul for the almighty buck and lived my life in front of cameras and moved to LA and married a Kardashian. Maybe I would've made an imprint on society, a tiny blurb in a footnote in a People magazine, and the people at People would've had a good hearty laugh about the rise and fall of the Dodger. Maybe that's the life I should've chosen.

But I didn't.

And I'm peachy.

"Well, Paige," I begin, "I'm sorry you see it that way. Cause I don't. Two years ago when I dodged that bullet, when I became a national idiot? Shocking though it may seem, I was a complete basket case. That's what I tried to tell you before we went on the air that day. And even though fame would've been nice, or money or whatever, two years ago, I couldn't have handled that." I sip. "I got what I wanted, all right? What I needed. People left me alone. Everyone did, in fact."

She downs her drink, then slams the glass down. "Kara."

I feel my face turn red as memories start to infiltrate. I exhale slowly and try to remain calm, but my past isn't having it and swoops in for the kill. It's a falcon, I'm a guinea pig, it's Jaws, I'm a ten year old on a raft. I attempt to fight back but I'm outmanned, outgunned, and outnumbered.

I set my drink on the bar and it comes rushing back, the sick, twisted chronology of it all, what I said, what she said, what I did, what she did, how it was handled, botched, and destroyed by both of us. The total unification of a shitstorm that left a void in me larger than Earth itself. All the precious moments I often dream about. All the scarring jars that fill my nightmares.

Paige moves closer.

"Jim... tell me everything."

It isn't easy to talk about this. It's not easy to pull up the roots of the mistakes you've made with the person you love the most and relive them. It's altogether mortifying, honestly. I'd rather gnaw off my own hand just for fun. I'd rather do slave labor in a Klingon prison camp. I'd rather give butt waxes at the DMV.

But instead, I'm pulling.

The first memory that breaks on through is the morning after.

I awaken to the sound of birds chirping, children playing, and cement trucks cementing.

Good old Rogers Park.

I stir, exhausted, yet surprisingly satisfied. I look over and there she is, under my comforter.

Kara.

Whoa.

I look around. Our clothes are all over the place. I look under the sheets. We're both naked as jaybirds.

I start to remember... oh my God. I fucked Kara.

I fucked Kara!

Holy shit! She's so fucking hot!

How did I do it? How did I get this precious little angel to come home with me? How was I able to put on a believable facade of maturity and sensibility long enough to where she actually found me that attractive?

Wait, isn't she seeing another guy?

I thought I heard things.

People said stuff.

But maybe I'm wrong.

I admire the freckles on her face for a bit, the glow of the sun beaming off her red hair, the way her cute little nose exhales every breath. I take a snapshot in my mind because I never want to forget this moment, having the one I've craved for so long in my bed, inches from my dick, inches from my heart.

I wake her for morning sex.

"Tell me about how you first met."

"What? Why the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"Jim, tell me."

"More shots, more drinks."

"Fine."

Kara is part of the Iowa Contingent.

About five years ago, me, Ray, and this other cat Eric decided to get a place together because we all got along really great. Eric was in the middle of a divorce. Ray had just broken up with his live in girlfriend. My lease was up on the shitty studio I rented. Needless to say we were all in need of a bro type environment, and the three bedroom palace we found on Pine Grove and Sheridan was nothing short of a dream come true.

Eric was also a recent graduate of the University of Northern Iowa, fresh to the city, and with that responsibility came even more responsibility – he served as the beacon to which all other UNI Theater Program graduates bound for Chicago would flock. So with him came more. And more. And more.

Three years later the smoke cleared and at least thirteen of them had made their way into our regular social circle. It was around this time I began to harbor quite a distaste for acting, not because of the craft itself, but because these people, these friends by association, just didn't do it for me. I thought actors were supposed to be interesting, witty and insightful, full of the unbridled unexpected, human carousels. These people were dull as hell, always quoting obscure movies and TV shows I hated, talking about boring, insignificant things, things that had nothing to do with acting in the least, and since they all fought to be the center of attention, it became a competition to see who could take the spotlight and spew the best boredom.

Ho hum, humdrum. Not for me.

Then... there was Kara.

She stuck out immediately. I don't know what it was. Her eyes, probably. Maybe her smile. She was one of the other Iowans' girlfriends' at the time and I found out she was just visiting him that weekend but hoped to move here when she graduated. I talked to her for precisely thirty one seconds, long enough to feel the spark, the 'I'm with someone else but I wouldn't mind talking to you' vibe, the arm brush, the ghostly grasp, the fatal flame. The lightning bolt. I felt something immediately but you can't say stuff like that to someone you just met who's someone else's girlfriend. The feeling fleeted, flat, and she was gone.

A month goes by and she's here again, in our apartment, celebrating someone or other's birthday. I wasn't invited to the party even though I live there but I live there so I stay. I talk to Kara for maybe two minutes about either music or movies or a novelist we both like, but I'm three sheets to the sunset and pass out early. The next morning, through my crusty awakening, her face highlights my memories.

Then she just kind of vanishes.

Weeks go by. Months. I nail a co-worker who turns out to have a boyfriend but didn't tell me so now I'm dealing with all these feelings for her but really, truly don't care, and even though I don't care I act like a little bitch anyway when she starts banging another guy from work after the guy she originally cheated on went and married her best friend. After they broke up of course, after she admitted to fucking me.

This chick was an actress, too. I wasn't surprised at the outcome.

Towards the end of all that, I wandered into the bar that makes its own beer and saw a few friends sitting at a table. So I joined them.

"Hey, ladies, what's shaking?"

"Oh, not much, Jim. Just trying to get Kara a job here."

"Kara?"

She rounded the corner and like a punch in the face, it all came rushing back. This chick. Holy shit. I remember her. This chick is fucking amazing.

She sat down, shy only in the sense that she didn't know me. But she remembers.

"Hey... Jim?"

"Yeah. Kara, right?"

"Yeah."

"You're, uh... what's his name's girlfriend."

"Actually, not anymore," our mutual friend interjects. "They broke up."

I look at Kara with sympathy laced tigerness. "Oh, well... grrr."

She smiles, embarrassed but flattered. I proceed to leave them and get totally drunk and forget the whole thing ever happened, until I see her there three days later, in uniform, serving some douchebag a beer.

She got the job.

I saw her every time I came in and that led to me coming in even more.

We would talk in passing, bullshit, make small talk. Discuss the Iowa crew. What good concerts were coming up. Terrible movies we just saw.

And then, one night... it just happened.

I was there when she was done.

I invited her to sit down.

And that was that.

Paige drinks her drink. "Wow. How sweet."

I slovenly swill. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Jim, that you're full of shit."

"What?"

"You said she was seeing someone else when you first hooked up. But now you say she broke up with him. Are you going to tell me the truth or not?"

I shake my head, my shot of Jame-O shaking with it. "No, Paige... it was a different guy."

"A different guy?"

"Yeah. A real short fella. She broke up with a short guy to date a... short guy."

I close my eyes and see the jerk in my head, those cross eyed eyes, that stupid flattop hair. Birthmarks all over his face. That dull, redundant stare.

"Pete."

I never even met the guy but know all about him. Drummer for a pop band. Has a three year old daughter. Survived a car accident that ultimately swayed Kara's feelings in his direction. My nemesis, my Dr. No, my Borg. Pete.

I saw him once when they were at the bar the same time I was there with a few co-workers, maybe a week after she ended things between us. We hadn't spoken since. One of my friends was an extremely hot blonde who was down to go along with being into me to make Kara jealous. So we're flirting the whole time and I can see from across the bar that Kara is getting irritated, so much to the point where she takes the long way to go to the bathroom, and then about ten minutes later, we realize that without word or warning, they've gone. I sent her packing. I made her jealous. I infiltrated her heart.

Not that this was my goal of the evening or anything. It was just a nice coincidence.

She could do so much better, anyway.

"So, she cheated on this Pete guy with you?"

"They'd only been seeing each other for a few months, but I guess, yes. At one point... ah."

"At one point what?"

"At one point... I had the chance to steal her away from him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She drunk dialed me one night at like three in the morning, wanting to talk but not wanting to talk, and when I asked her what was wrong, if anything was wrong, she slithered out of the conversation and hung up. But I know it was about Pete, and the guilt, and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to be with me instead."

I finish my beer.

"But I blew it."

Paige finishes hers.

"How?"

I sigh, shoot my shot.

It was a Sunday morning, cold and chilly, much like the night we first consummated. Kara picked me up in her shitty Orange Nova around nine AM. She was checking out apartments and wanted a second pair of eyes to help her evaluate pros and cons. I had the day off and was dying, dying to see her, so like an idiot, I said yes.

The first place we see is garbage, complete garbage. I'm reminded of the house in Fight Club, old sinks and yellow water, a brownness on the walls that's probably not coming off. Kara agrees and we bounce immediately.

The second place is pretty cool, floor to ceiling windows and a spacious backyard, but it's a little out of her price range so we tell the realtor we'll let her know. It's bright and clear and translucent outside. I feel nauseous.

So we're walking along the gated yard of the building and it's killing me so I bring up the drunk dial and me and her and the other guy when in reality I know I'm the other guy so I try to play it off as best I can when then, just like that, she tells me she should be with him. With Pete. Even though I make her laugh, even though she has a great time with me, she should be with him.

She drops me off at my friends' apartment where we are having chili, beer, and cocaine while watching the Bears play the Cleveland Browns. I invite her in but she declines, saying she has to work later. I give her a hug, the first of many I think will be our last, and let go, really let go. She drives away, into the sun and out of my life, onto a dumbass, head first into a mistake.

Dragging behind the car tied to the bumper is my heart, rupturing at every pothole, spurting blood with every bump. My aorta has gone AWOL. My ventricles cease to lease.

Downfall, begin.

"What did you do?"

"What do you mean? When she would text me to try to make peace, I'd be a brat and lay a guilt trip on her. Like it was all her fault. I knew deep down she had a boyfriend when I started pursuing her, but I didn't let that stop me. I pursued. I pursued away. But it was only because I thought she was the best person I'd ever stumbled across. Really. Just the best person ever. I really regret putting her in that position. I guess I never really thought about it until now. Her life was thrown into upheaval too. I'm not the only one who feigned resistance. But still, I had to give her up. I started it, so I had to finish it. So I did. And now..."

I take a moment to raise my glass.

"Now I'm fucked."

From somewhere beside me Paige Scott yells "Cheers!", and it's the sweetest voice I've heard in two years.

I miss Kara.

"Whoo! Come on, Jim, do it!"

Another shot of to kill ya has made its way in front of me. I'm a gentleman so I lift it with the sole intention of finding it a nice home, maybe a PETA for tequila, a safe haven for victims of alcohol abuse, a blonde willing to drink it and end this starry eyed, dead end voyage.

I wind up taking it.

"Whoo!"

Hello, hello, away we go. Shenanigans. Paige is now almost fully drunk as well, and she goes at my arm like a scratching post.

"I want to know more!" she yells. "What was it about her? How old is she? Aren't you bothered by the fact that she was seeing someone else at the same time? Why did she drive you crazy?"

Memories of my traumatic appearance on Good Day America start to resurface from all the goddamn questions. Paige must notice my eyes bulging or my jugular throbbing because she quickly nixes the inquisition.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't... mean to..."

"It's not like she's the most beautiful woman in the world or anything like that. In fact, a lot of my friends say they don't think she's that hot at all. But it all depends on what you're into, Paige. Me, I'm into girls who look like aliens, elves, and sprites. Big eyes. Pointy ears. Cute little noses. Freckles. Hair that comes down to just above their shoulders and not an inch higher or lower. Christina Ricci. Zooey Deschanel. Avril Lavigne. Nicole Kidman. Ellen Page. Any Vulcan chick from Star Trek. It's a melting pot of traits that combines hilarity, hotness, genius, familiarity and awesome. That's my girl. That's my Kara."

I'm sloshed now and feel like the room is made of liquid. I'm swimming in gin and tonic, wading in Rolling Rock, cruising in Captain. Nose dive, swan dive, into a Fat Tire. Barefoot Pinot Grigio, here I come. Absolut? Absolutely.

To. Kill. Ya.

I may be hammered but I don't forget the mission at hand, my mission, my reason for being. Here. Tonight. October first.

The call.

I wait for Paige to go to the bathroom, then head outside. Dial. Ring, ring, ring. Voicemail.

"Hi, you've reached Kara, leave me a message, thanks."

Her outgoing hasn't changed. Neither have I.

"Hey, okay, Kara, it's Jim. I just uh, wanted to wish you a happy birthday, I always remember yours because it's a day before Ray's, so, happy birthday. I hope you're doing well. It's been a few years and I really really hope you're well. I went to Hamburger Mary's a few weeks ago, did I tell you that? No of course I didn't. But I did. Had the same burger I had that morning we went there. God, do you remember that? It seems like ten years ago but I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was so cold that day and we had mead at that bar and talked about your play and why babies should be drafted like NBA players and how Asian carp probably bust out karate moves after they jump onto those poor unsuspecting fishing boats ---"

Beep, I'm cut off. End, redial, voicemail. Beep.

"Just spending that day with you and getting to know you made those twenty four hours so special to me. That spark of something right on the cusp of magic, of mystery, of something bigger than both of us. If you had told me it was gonna end up like this I would've never called you after that day. Then I could've preserved it, and it would just be one day my heart would have to forget instead of a whole tragedy. I still think about you every day, Kara. I still miss you beyond words. But words are all I have left. Happy birthday."

I hit End. Again.

And again.

Behind me, someone stumbles out of the bar. A cigarette is lit. I sway in the breeze like a tree with no branches, smoking two cigarettes of my own.

"Jim!"

I turn. Paige.

I stare her down.

"Hey... it's Dodger."

We're not at the bar anymore.

As the sun rises, I smoke a cigarette on her bed. Our lips haven't touched because I won't allow them to and our bodies have behaved in nothing but a gentlemanly manner. She lays on the bed watching me as I smoke and ramble.

"Okay, fine, you want one more? I'll give you one more, Paiger. So, it's still the morning after. We have sex again, and again, and we lay there sweating in each others arms. When we finally come to after an orgasm coma it's then, then, that she calmly yet awkwardly brings up this guy Pete. How it's only been a few months. How it's not that serious. I didn't see it then but I realize now that she was just keeping me at bay, baited, like she wanted me on deck just in case things with that guy didn't work out. I was a new toy, new batteries, just in case the old ones died. And she's so hot, she's so the one I want to be with, I should've just played it cool and not showed her how big of an idiot I actually am. I played it cool for all of eleven days." Drag. "I was just so goddamn vulnerable from that whole stupid bullshit with the other actress chick that I was emotionally trashed from the very beginning. The timing was fucked. And timing, my dear, is everything."

I continue blathering on about God knows what, then start telling crude and offensive jokes. At a particularly disgusting punchline, Paige pulls the sheet over her head and starts laughing her ass off. I load a bowl amid my own laughter, and after we smoke, slowly but surely, slumber somehow succeeds.

Paige's head never leaves my chest.

5

THE NEXT MORNING IT FEELS like someone took a ball peen hammer to my head. I stir groggily. The room spins. Beside me, Paige is out like a light bulb. I sit up.

Her apartment is that of your typical twenty something, pictures of family and friends on the fridge, posters of Death Cab For Cutie and MGMT on the walls. It's a studio, small but not bad for the area, and it reminds me of the microwave I used to live in when I was twenty. Something.

Six Eleven West Surf. Apartment Two Ten. Four ninety for a studio the size of a waiting room. Closet and bathroom connected. My clothes often smelled like shit and shrank from the shower steam. I would play Beatles songs on my guitar into the night until my next door neighbor, a whole seven feet away, would give me the shut the fuck up knock. Then I'd listen to her have sex and jerk off bitterly. She was hot.

I was actually nineteen. I worked at a coffee shop down the street and my whole life revolved around that place. The staff there quickly became my best friends and worst enemies. I fell hardcore for one of the girls, Patty, who was seven years my elder. I chased her anyway. It was my first taste of life out of school, out of the house, living on my own as a self sustained entity. Of course I wanted to get into trouble. On my days off I would come in and write short stories and poetry and plays and screenplays that I'd never finish just so I could watch and hang out with her. I was a tad obsessed. She was hot.

I had my chance to hook up with her at a party but didn't even realize it was an opportunity. A friend of hers told me weeks later, after I'd blown it of course, that she totally would've slept with me that night. Even though I was a child. This ate at me so much that I felt I needed to do something, something big, something drastic.

So I wrote her a letter.

Of course.

It outlined all the reasons I liked her, all the reasons we should be together, et cetera, et cetera. It was more of a proposal than a letter, a bargaining chip, an argument. I wanted to be with her and date her because at nineteen, the concept of modern day casual sex, the way the world actually is, was beyond me. I wanted to believe that women were pure and the concept of true love was true and if that I put myself out there, if I tried, I'd get what I was after. I'd get Patty.

Then she started fucking Stan, the assistant manager.

I learned. Quickly.

Never put yourself out there.

Never reveal your true intentions.

Never tell a girl you like her.

Never tell anybody anything.

Holden Caulfield had it right.

So when I find out she's fucking him I go into a deep depression and start ordering Leona's take out almost every night because they deliver beer and don't card. I'd get wildly drunk and stoned and write sob stories and songs in my microwave, throwing myself around, punching myself and crying.

Oh yeah. I was a bruiser.

Thoughts of self harming had always been in my head, ever since I was a fat fifteen year old getting picked on. One time after we had a huge fight, my mother caught me tying a rope around my neck in the closet. It was more a cry for help than a real suicide attempt, but it was enough to scare the shit out of her. Hello, therapy.

It didn't help. Those people had no idea what it was like to be a teenager in the nineties. They didn't read Stephen King. They didn't watch Dawson's Creek. They didn't listen to Nirvana. It was pointless. After three sessions I was done so in order to keep my parents off my back I learned a new trick, one that I've employed ever since.

Repression.

But it only gets me so far.

I blocked things out for most of junior and senior year. Somehow I managed to get thin and hone my writing skills and even learn to play guitar. Freshman year of college I took Acting, Fiction Writing and Playwriting first semester. After that, I knew what I wanted to do.

Act and write. And play guitar.

So I quit school and moved out, to Six Eleven West Surf.

Downfall, begin.

Bruising.

It's safer than cutting and doesn't leave scars.

Amidst the whole Patty thing, there was another emotional roller coaster flying around inside me. I felt like I didn't belong in normal society, this boring envelope we're sealed in addressed to hell, this matrix of routine, boredom, and sadness. I needed a way to deal. I hated school. I hated working. I was still a goddamn virgin. I was a loser, and it hurt being one. A lot.

The best way to deal with this was to get violent.

At first it started with punching walls, knocking over garbage cans, and bashing vending machines. I enjoyed the pain in my hand, treated it like a badge, a purple heart of sorts. Even though it hurt, it felt good.

Then one night I took it to the next level.

Through a doctor friend of a friend I had arranged to go on a ride along with real Chicago Fire Department paramedics, because I still didn't know what I was doing with my life and had a slight interest in being a medic. It was a huge letdown. The guys I rode with were bitter, middle aged men who really didn't have any interest in helping people anymore and just did the job cause it was their job. Emergencies ceased to exist and the battered and bleeding were now customers and paperwork instead of human beings. They both smoked like chimneys, bitched about their lives like old women, and sprayed their shorts whenever they saw a hot girl walking down the street. They were bummers and pervs.

It made me sick.

After I left the firehouse I took a walk along the lake with a pint of Early Times and a pack of Reds. I stared at the water. I listened to it. I sat on the rocks, listened to them. And I cried.

About what, I don't remember.

That's when the first punch landed.

It was nothing – a love tap. But it felt good. It hurt.

So I swung again, harder.

Ooh.

Again. And again. And again. I pounded away, first the left side then the right, then my mouth, then my eyes. Till my face was numb. Till the sun came up.

I stumbled home, my honorary paramedic shirt half tucked half not, ripe with fresh blood stains and tear streaks. I felt immaculate. Swirling piss around the toilet, whistling Vasoline by Stone Temple Pilots, I caught my poor excuse for a reflection in the mirror.

Battered. Bleeding. My eyes were swelling. My upper lip was a flotation device.

I smiled, saw blood on my teeth, tasted it.

Yum.

I'd heal nicely.

The thing about bruising is explaining it. A bar fight here, a doorknob there, and I'm out of excuses for having a new black eye every week. I said I joined a real competitive roller hockey league and that fighting was not only condoned, but encouraged. I said I was in a fight club. I said my girlfriend liked to kick my ass during sex.

No one really cared, so it worked. I'd space out the bruising between confrontations with my parents, so they never saw a thing. It was the perfect way to maintain sanity while being perfectly inserted into the machine. I was free.

So for two years, I bruised.

Those were my dark years.

So to speak.

I stare out the window, smoking silently. Sky blue sky, sunny and gorgeous. There's groaning behind me, and I turn to see Paige, hand over her eyes.

"Oh my God. Jim. Close the blinds."

I extinguish my cigarette and do so. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. Ugh." She inhales deeply. "How do you feel?"

"I was hungover, but I had a beer and now I'm fine."

"Can you get me one?"

"Yeah."

I go to the fridge, grab two beers, crack them. She downs half of hers in one swill.

"Ah. Thanks."

"Sure."

She sips, eyeing me. "Did we have sex?"

"No. You did try to make out with me, though."

"I did?"

"Yeah. But you bit my nose instead."

"I... bit your nose?"

"Yeah."

She stares at me in complete bewilderment for a second, then bursts out laughing.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry."

"It's cool. I'm actually glad I ran into you. This time of year is... well, hard for me. But I had fun."

"Yeah, I had fun, too. What I remember."

"To kill ya."

"It did."

"Yeah." I stand. "Well, I should get going."

"Jim, wait."

She tosses the blanket and gets up, revealing her well shaven, well shaped legs. "Don't leave yet. I want to run something by you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

She goes to her purse, pulls out a little black notepad, starts leafing through it. I frown.

"Paige..."

"Now don't be mad, but I just took a few notes."

"On what?"

"On you. On your story."

"My story."

"Yes."

"How were you able to take notes in such a massive state of drunkenness?"

"I'm a reporter."

"Oh."

She sighs. "We're sitting on a gold mine here. Don't you remember the attention you got when you first dodged the bullet? You were set to explode. I always thought it was a shame that never came to fruition. And after learning everything that happened with Kara and all the shit you went through... well, now more than ever, I think you deserved it. You still do."

I sit, frozen. In awe. Enamored.

"Jim, I think we should resurrect your story and make it the national human interest piece of the year. When you tell the world who Kara is and how even after all this time she still affects you, still drives you out of your mind... oh, people will eat this up! There's nothing the public loves more than a good old fashioned love story, and under all the darkness and drinking and self loathing, that's exactly what this is. God! What do you think?"

I stare at her, thinking but not, inclined, leaning. She's so goddamn excited it's hard not to believe her.

I stand again.

"I think I'll think about it."

I kiss her on the head, grab my cigarettes off the dresser, and bounce. Halfway down the street and halfway down my smoke I remember.

Today is Ray's birthday.

Shit.

I should call him.

6

AFTER THE GOOD DAY AMERICA interview, things went south in a hurry. Work didn't call me back after I took those two weeks off, and when I went in to see what was up, they said my suicidal tendencies made me a safety hazard and a liability. In other words, you're fired.

I couldn't find a job right away so I couldn't afford rent the next month. My landlord understood and let me break the lease. I moved in with my dad, and it was a nightmare. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't get high. I couldn't get laid. I couldn't write or play my guitar. I was stifled by condo environment.

What made it worse is that he had COPD and emphysema and coughed like a merchant marine who'd inhaled enough asbestos to kill a giraffe. So every morning while I laid on the sofa bed and tried to dream of a life far away, I would listen to nonstop, incessant coughing, lungs coming up bit by bit, cell by cell coughing, and you could almost hear the cancer establishing a nice little settlement inside him, electing leaders and forming colonies and monopolies. It bought Park Place and Boardwalk. All four Railroads. Even the Utilities.

The heart attack got him first, though.

It was more or less a day like any other. I'd just started a new job at a nameless faceless restaurant and had worked the night shift, then gone out drinking, then went and jammed with Ray till about five. When I finally got up around two the next day, I noticed his bedroom door was closed. He goes to work at nine and isn't home any earlier than five and whenever he leaves, the bedroom door stays open. Always.

As I turned the doorknob my inner dark side tried not to imagine the worst. Maybe the wind blew it shut. Maybe he's trying on dresses. Maybe he's getting laid.

But he's not.

I swing the door open and there he is, my father, lying on the hardwood floor of his room surrounded by dust bunnies. Lifeless. The tube from his nighttime oxygen tank dangled off the bed, once in his mouth, now just a witness. His eyes were closed, and his arms were wrapped around his knees. The fetal position.

Out the same way he came in.

David Barry Bailey has left the building. The great gig in the sky. The long farewell. Kicked the bucket, bought the farm, soon to be pushing daisies. Tupac backwards, capuT, finito. He was sixty two.

I sat on the chair next to him for about an hour before I called. This would be the last time I'd get to spend with him before he was taken away, gone for good, strapped onto a gurney like a piece of meat, a customer, paperwork. The last time I'd ever get to spend with my father as his son. We weren't that close but we were far from apart, and I realized then that just having a dad in my life at all was more than a lot of other people got. He disapproved of every decision I made but held his tongue as long as I was happy. He let me stay with him whenever I lost a job or an apartment. He always made me feel like he was proud even though I'd done nothing to earn it.

And just like that, I'll never have the chance to.

Just like that, my dad's gone.

I inherited the condo.

It was a one bedroom ground floor on Kimball and Shakespeare, nothing impressive, so I cleaned it up and rented it to this young married couple expecting a baby. I couldn't stand the sight of the place anymore. All I saw was my dad everywhere. His ghost would sit at the counter and smoke, watch the Cubs, do three crossword puzzles in ten minutes. It would haunt the kitchen and make pot roast and split pea soup and the best mashed potatoes in the world. Of course I didn't tell the couple that. I didn't want them paying any less just because my father bit it inches from where their baby would be suckling teat.

It had only been a year since I left my old apartment and it hadn't been rented, so my ex landlord was cool with me moving back in. The money from the condo's rent and my shit job was enough to get me by and then some. So it did. And it has. To this day.

But now... that's not enough.

I want more.

I want it all.

"I want to be the Dodger again."

Ray nearly spits out his rum and coke. "Uh... what?"

"You heard me. I want to be the Dodger again."

We're sitting in this ridiculous bar the Hunt Club, just around the corner from his place. It's a cross between a hipster haven and a douchefest. No one cool, no hot chicks. Even the bartender and waitresses are homely.

Ray's girlfriend's kid is visiting so he wanted to go grab a drink on the town, all the way around the corner where apparently, we can get into some serious trouble. He doesn't get out that much.

Truth be told, I barely see the guy anymore. We've gone from Bert and Ernie to once in awhile pals. Joey and Chandler to acquaintances. Best friends to just friends. Girlfriends have that effect.

But he's all I've got.

"Dude," he says, shaking his aerodynamic head. "You were miserable when all of that was going down. Why would you want to put yourself back in the spotlight? You hate the spotlight!"

"Because I owe it to my parents."

Ray drinks, nods silently. He knows all about my dad.

And my mom.

Her death was anything but quick and painless, just like her life. My mom sacrificed everything for me, showered me with love and affection, supported me through all my bad decisions, and still I pushed her away, let her down, and made her regret ever knowing me. Just like every woman. Just like everyone.

She drove one of the worst cars I've ever had the displeasure of riding in, and just getting into this thing was a task to say the least. You needed to stretch your hamstrings and calves before hopping in the backseat because on several occasions, elderly family members had pulled muscles upon entry or exit. Whenever there were get togethers and my mom would offer those who needed a ride a ride, no one would accept if there was an SUV or a four door available. If a tall person was in back they'd have to lay across the seat because otherwise their knees would hit their chin. This car was an ostrich, ostracized.

No wonder it took her life.

People said it was the stormy weather, that the accident couldn't have been prevented, that she never saw the pickup coming and just swerved on instinct, that she did what any other good driver would've done. That the twenty foot hydroplane down a practically underwater embankment was, simply put, God's will.

My ass.

The six hours she spent in that rainy, muddy, pitch black ditch saturated her already brittle little body to the point of no repair. Her cell phone was in her purse, which was thrown into the back seat on impact, about three feet from where her outstretched hand landed as the car hit its final resting place. Her leg, which was crushed under the steering wheel, had been visibly stretched to its limit, like she'd been inching closer and closer to the purse until the moment the internal bleeding killed her.

She fought all the way, right up till the end.

That was my mother.

Mary Katherine Bailey.

Gone, just like that.

She was a packrat.

When I went to clean out her apartment, specifically the attic, I found an endless amount of photographs, magazines, brochures, jackets, shoes, radios, televisions, toys, cards, books, CD's, and anything else that would remind a mother of her family. She wanted to remember it all. She cherished every second with us, especially me, and for so many years all I did was take advantage. I robbed her blind. She'd give me money whenever I wanted and of course I'd buy booze and drugs with it. By the time she hit sixty she had nothing saved up for her old age because it all went to my liver and lungs. I never got to apologize for that, for being an unworthy, ungrateful, piece of shit son, and it hurt, a lot, quite fiercely.

So standing there in the middle of all that nostalgia, I lost it. The tears actually cried me. All I could think about was how much I used her, how much I took her kindness for a weakness, and how I thought it was okay because it'd all pay off once I hit it big, once I made my big splash. I'd be able to repay her and take care of her and help her see some of the world, and finally, finally make her proud of me. She gave up her life for me, she gave up everything to make me happy, and the least I could do was something I didn't. Something I couldn't. I wasted so much time, I blinked and she was gone, and now all I can do is regret it. Which I do, with every breath.

But I know she's still watching. I know she's still here, just like Dad.

I have to make them proud.

Just once.

Ray sips his drink thoughtfully.

"Dude, you know your parents were proud of you. They loved you. I mean, look at my parents. They're dysfunctional as fuck. Your mom, she was like... she was like my mom, too. And your dad was crazy about you. You made him laugh so much. I wish me, you, and your dad would've hung out more. He was cool."

I hold back the tears, drink up.

"I know, Ray. But I need to do more. Now, more than ever. I need to be what they always expected of me and live up to that wonderful person they thought they raised. I need to spread my fucking wings and fly. I need to do things to change things and change things to do things. And I need to start now."

I slam my beer.

"So what do you think?"

He slams his rum. "I think you're crazy, motherfucker. I think if you let this reporter do this story you'll regret it. What's the saying? Let sleeping dogs lie. Don't awaken the beast. Dude, you know you hate the spotlight."

I want the check but the goddamn bartender is chatting with some frat fuck. I spin my stool around, spot a waitress with big unnecessary glasses, cock my head towards her.

"Yo, Specs!"

As she approaches her eyes slant under the Coke bottles.

"Specs?"

"Yeah, hey, see if you can get our bartender's attention, will ya? We've been waiting like twenty minutes for a check here."

I spin back around, smiling to myself. Ray and the waitress are speechless. She leaves and tells the bartender, not only to get us the check, but that we're also fucking assholes. Well, me anyway.

Who gives a shit.

I turn to Ray.

"You know, I think I'll be able to handle the spotlight. This time around."

I smile, as does he.

We bounce.

7

I TRY TO GET RAY to go to another bar with me so he can play wingman while I hit on college girls, but he's practically married now and that always precedes fun. I give him a hug, wish him happy birthday, tell him we'll be in touch later this week.

Back when we were roommates a birthday was a sacred event that involved tons of drinking, tons of weed, and tons of people. If not our place it was a locale we scouted out in advance, a cool bar or club that we knew we'd own upon arrival, somewhere that would part the Red Sea to let us in. We'd party till dawn, then go home and make the birthday boy smash a watermelon in the street to celebrate the arrival of a new day.

Now, it's three drinks and done by ten thirty.

On a Saturday night.

We used to control time. Now time controls us.

Pathetic.

I awaken to the sound of rain pounding my windows. Lightning. Thunder. Good morning.

I hit the kitchen, look at the clock. Eleven eighteen. Not bad for a Sunday.

Gatorade. Cigarette. My phone rings. Paige Scott. I hesitate briefly, then answer.

"Hello?"

"Jim! It's Paige. How are you?"

She sounds awfully chipper for so early in the morning, until I remember she does the early bird newscast and must get up at like four AM. She's in the middle of her day. I can barely form a sentence.

"Hey... Paige. Yeah. What's pancakes... how are you?"

"Jim, listen, we need to talk face to face. Can you meet me for lunch?"

"Lynch? Lady, it's like two o'clock. Can't we talk in like twenty minutes?"

She groans. "Look, just meet me at Crazy Dan's around three. I just uncovered some information you'll want to pay me gold for." Click.

Morning drunk, I stare at my phone.

What the fuck?

I almost miss the lunch but for some reason when I arise from part two of my sleep the words Crazy Dan's around three resonate in my brain. I shower, hustle out, and make it. Barely.

As soon as I see Paige waiting and writing in one of the booths I remember why I'm here.

Information worth gold.

Right.

I slide in across from her. "Hey, Paiger."

She looks up, startled, broken off in mid sentence. "Jim."

Now not only is the little notebook keeping tabs on me, but she's writing even more shit in a Five Star Three Subject palace. I squint, trying to get a taste, but she flips it shut before I can.

"Hey, no peeking."

"It's my story."

"Oh yeah? And what makes you think any of this is about you?"

"Because you wouldn't have flipped it shut if it wasn't."

She rolls her eyes and sips her coffee, hiding a smile. The waitress comes over and pours me a cup. I sip and enjoy but not for long.

"Okay, so have you thought about it? What do you think?"

I stroke my scruff, contemplate. All my life I've been selfish and vain, always putting myself first, always making what I thought were the best decisions for me. Over the years it's been about a fifty/fifty split between successes and failures. By that rationale, I've broken even.

But on this decision, I'm torn.

If I tell my story to the world, I'll be selling out.

But if I don't do something now, I'll be selling sperm for rent money.

If only Dodgers had a union.

She watches me, waiting for an answer. I sigh.

"Paige, here's the thing. I ---"

"Ohh!" She slams her fist down. "Dammit, Jim, you're quite the negotiator. Has anyone ever told you that?"

I shrug, unsure. She continues:

"Look, I think you need to know the four one one here. Some other people would probably leave you in the dark, but I'm going to tell you what I know, for two reasons – one, I want you to know you can trust me, and two, I believe in you, not just some story." She pauses, no doubt for dramatic effect. "Okay. So. Here goes."

The waitress refills my cup. I sip.

"Kara's back in town."

I spit.

Luckily Paige's notebooks are closed and have hard covers, so the coffee does minimal damage. The waitress brings more napkins as I run saliva around my burnt tongue.

"What do you mean she's back in town? No one told me."

"Maybe she didn't want you to know."

"Yeah, but... I mean, it's been two years."

"You're clearly not over it. Maybe she isn't either."

"Is she living here? Or just visiting?"

"Living. For the past four months, to be exact."

It suddenly dawns on me that maybe I got to Kara as much as she got to me. That maybe the realization of finding the one person she'd been searching for was all too much and she activated a defense mechanism that pushed me away. Maybe this time, it wasn't my fault because I wasn't the fucked up one. She cheated, not me. How was that my fault?

I look Paige in the eyes, those beautiful blue green peepers, alive and brimming with wanton desire. They try scanning mine but my shields hold, and it's then I realize I've seen these eyes before.

I lean forward.

"You remind me of her."

Paige's smile evaporates, and she leans back.

"How?"

I close my eyes.

So I play the guitar. And write songs. And sing.

I was in a band with Ray and another friend of ours, C-Man, for a glorious three years, until I realized they were out of my realm creatively and needed to play with a better guitarist. Sweethearts they were, too nice to tell me I sucked, too in love with me to cut me loose, so I took the initiative and bowed out. They were shocked, but they knew I sucked, and I knew they knew I sucked, so how could they not see this coming? I felt like I was holding them back.

So I quit.

I regret that, too.

The three of us were closer than family. We made some incredible music together, and formed a bond the likes of which many don't get to experience – the band bond. It's different. It's special. Creating music together... it's like making love. That's the only way to describe it. And with the right group of people, it's magical. I haven't found a bond like that since, except with Kara.

But that's a completely different beast.

During the difficulties with the band I wrote a lot of solo material, and was invited by another band we knew, The Phanzacs, to do a half hour opening set for them at this dive called The Sandbag. Acoustic. Alone.

Me.

The longest I'd ever played solo was fifteen minutes, at some lame open mic with like two people watching. This was double the time and most likely, double the people.

Maybe even triple.

Hell yes.

The initial hook up with Kara had happened that Sunday and I felt invincible because of it. I was nervous about the show but pumped. I invited a ton of people, but she was the only person who came besides Ray and C-Man.

My family.

I wound up having the time of my life on that stage, singing six songs, two of them covers. One was Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson, which was kind of a joke but still performed justly, and the other was Glycerine by Bush, which is one of my favorite songs of all time. The original tunes were also a hit, the crowd dug my sound, and the minute I was off stage Kara was all over me. It was total rock star.

I was merely the opening act so three bands followed. I pounded beers while Kara devoured Jame-O's on the rocks, and the drunker we got, the better the music got. The last group, a punk outfit donned Slim Pickens, was the best of the bunch. Their lead singer was this tiny Russian girl, five foot nothing eighty pounds soaking wet, and her hand moved as if independent from her body. It was literally a blur. Kara and I were going crazy, loving every minute, and soon enough my lips found hers and our tongues slithered around and around like snakes hunting prey.

We were the perfect drunk couple, stroking each other's hair, stroking each other's egos.

Actors.

Ray was completely blotto by the time they ended, and so were me and Kara. C-Man, the responsible one who'd only had a scotch on the rocks and a beer, gave us all a ride back to the homestead.

After laying a near comatose Ray on his bed, Kara and I retired to my room, where we proceeded to make the wildest, sweatiest, intensest and most passionate love ever recorded by humans. At least that's how it felt. Three hours and three orgasms later, I fell back on the bed seeing stars. She curled up onto my chest and kissed it slowly, softly.

We passed out that night in each other's arms, and it was then, at that moment, I knew I'd never have her.

I stayed awake as long as I could, inhaling the smell of her hair with every breath, fighting my urge to pass out to make the moment last, if only for just a second longer.

I passed out anyway.

The next day we had two more bouts of morning sex, then finally decided to rise and shine. It was Thursday and Ray had left super early for work, although how he was able to get out of bed at all was a feat praised by both of us. Kara and I just lounged around the apartment all day, trading stories, sharing pictures, eating take out, listening to Q101. When Glycerine came on we just kind of smiled at each other, then made love and napped and spooned for a few more hours. It was snowing when she finally left and as she walked down Clark I watched from our second floor window, thinking to myself My God, she really is an angel.

That was, and still is, my best day.

Paige is writing furiously. I couldn't stop her if I tried, but maybe that's because I don't want to.

"Wow, so if that was your best day, what was your worst?"

I inhale slowly. She looks up and spots it – nerve touched.

"Oh, Jim, I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I want to tell you. Just... just not now."

"Oh. Okay."

We sit for a moment, staring at each other. Then:

"So how do I remind you of her?"

I look down and sigh.

"It's your eyes. From across the table. They just... feel the same."

The night we met at a neutral location and made peace, a week after what happened at our friends' birthday party, is a night I'll never forget. I sat at the Pick Me Up Cafe for half an hour, waiting for her to get off work, sipping coffee and munching tater tots, desperately needing a drink but adamantly against having one. Alcohol is what made this whole thing go down the crapper. It made me a monster in her eyes and I prayed to God I could rebound from that.

The irony was if it hadn't been for alcohol, we would never have hooked up in the first place.

The dilemma was clear. We had to stop getting fucked up around each other, even though we both loved our liquor, even though it was what broke the ice initially.

So that night at the cafe we were both stone cold sober... and willing to converse, at length.

We hadn't seen each other since the past weekend, hadn't even spoken on the phone, just communicated via text. The morning after the birthday party I'd called her to apologize, left two messages and several texts, and when she finally got back to me ten hours later, when I was completely convinced I'd blown it, she agreed to meet me for coffee a few days later.

My stomach sinks like a stone as she sits across from me.

"Hey."

"Hey, Kara."

Awkward pause, the first of several. I clear my throat.

"So, how are you?"

"I'm... good. Work's been crazy lately."

"Well, it's those two dollar drafts."

"That it is. How are you?"

"Oh, you know... I've been better."

"Yeah. Me too."

Awkward pause number two. I sigh heavily.

"I'm so sorry, Kara."

Her eyes meet mine, really for the first time since the party, and I hope she can see I mean it.

"I just... I don't know what I was thinking. I feel like I embarrassed you in front of everyone, and if I did, it's just because I was so hung up on what happened between us. I couldn't think straight. Maybe... maybe I didn't want to. I just didn't expect you to have a boyfriend or whatever the hell you guys are, and I so rarely get along with people, that when we connected the way we did... I don't know, I guess I just wanted to hang on to that as long as I could."

She stares at me with either sympathy or pity. Or both.

"I'm so sorry I fucked you over."

This takes me by surprise, and now it's my turn to stare. Why would she even think that? Why would she think this was her fault? I put the moves on her. I got her drunk. I initiated the whole thing. If anyone's to blame, it's me.

But then again, I didn't know she was seeing someone else.

But then again, I had heard things.

I shake my head vigorously.

"You didn't... fuck me over. You didn't. I acted like a baby. I'm twenty eight years old, for Christ's sake. I mean it's not like we were dating. I overreacted. It's just... God, I always go back to that night of my show, you know? It just all felt so right. And the day after... well, that was special to me. I'm glad you stuck around."

I sip my coffee. She processes. Then:

"I like you, Jim. I do. I just... Pete is just in such a bad place right now. When he went home last week, he got into a car accident. Two of his best friends are in really bad shape. And his mom was just diagnosed with breast cancer. Things are just so fucked up for him right now. He needs me. But... I started thinking about how much fun you and I have together, and I don't want to lose that. I just want us to be okay, to be friends, because as much as last weekend hurt, not having you in my life would hurt a lot more."

I look at her, dumbfounded, happy because that's what I wanted to hear, depressed because that's what I wanted to hear.

In my head I cycle through the possibilities.

Deep down, she probably prefers me to him but it's all so scary and new that she can't just pick me because she has a history with this guy, who's in dire straits right now, who probably needs the love of a good woman more than I do.

But fuck that little cross eyed troll.

Where's my happiness? Where's my good woman? Kara's really the only one I ever connected with on every level, humor, wit, mutual interests, sensitivity, intellect, sexual chemistry. And she's just so damn hot that when her eyes connect with mine a high rises within me I've never felt before.

She's the one, I feel it, I just know it.

But of course I can't say that.

So I decide to bide my time.

"Kara... that's exactly how I feel. I don't want to lose you. I mean, we're just starting to get to know each other. And we have so much in common. I still want to be the lead in your play. I still want us to be able to hang out with our mutual friends. Nothing would make me sadder than having to avoid you because of this stupid crap."

I extend my hand.

"So... friends?"

She smiles. "Friends."

We shake on it.

Paiger puts her mechanical pencil down.

"Jesus, Jim."

"Yeah."

I sip my coffee. She does the same.

"Then what?"

I start to speak but suddenly realize that to her, every word I utter is gold, every story is a dollar, every sentence is a simoleon.

So I zip my lip.

"All right, Paige, all right. You want my story, you got it. Let's get paid for this shit. I'm in."

She furrows her cute little brow. "You're in?"

"I'm in. But you have to do something for me."

"Name it."

"You have to pretend to be my girlfriend to make Kara jealous."

At first she thinks it's a gag, so she laughs and smiles. I don't return the sentiment, driving the point home that I'm serious. She frowns. Then scowls.

"What?"

"Just for one night. Just to see if it works."

"If what works?"

"The jealousy."

"Again... what?"

"I want to make Kara jealous so I can get her back."

She blinks, obviously perturbed. I think it over. Genius. Brilliant. Marvelous. A thousand more awesome adjectives. Kara's all I've wanted from the very beginning, and if trading our story is the price I need to pay to be with her, it's very, very small.

I shrug.

"Hey, it's this or I walk. So what do you say?"

It takes some debating, but once Paige is convinced I won't tell her the rest of my story without this one stipulation, she agrees. I guess I am a hell of a negotiator.

She fills me in on the details of what Kara's up to these days. Apparently she moved back and didn't tell a lot of people, me and her now ex boyfriend Pete included. So she's single. I knew it.

I knew that shit wouldn't last.

The guy's thirty five, has a three year old, and is on the road half the time with his band. And they suck. I could see her being fed up with the whole situation in general, being twenty four, having momma responsibilities with a kid that's not hers, the loneliness she must feel while he's out touring. All the guilt she still carries from our torrid love affair, if she never told him and even if she did.

In her mind, she cheated on him and fucked me over. Double whammy.

It's probably a lot to deal with.

Paige doesn't have the specifics on why the relationship ended, but knows that Kara now works at Snakepit, a bar/concert venue in Lakeview. I've been there. It's awesome.

And perfect.

I lay out my plan: we'll go in, the smoking hot Paiger will pretend to be my girlfriend, and it'll make Kara so jealous she'll want me back in a heartbeat. Paige says that's not how womens' minds work. I say I know Kara and feel like this plan has a shot.

She sighs, and agrees. What choice does she have? She's now my employee.

And if she wants the inside scoop, she'll have to go along with it.

Yup. Perfect.

8

WE EXECUTE THE PLAN A few days later.

There's a band playing at Snakepit called Silly Goose, who I've been meaning to see and will be my excuse for being there, with Paiger, my girlfriend. Once Kara sees how happy I am with someone else she'll have that same reaction as before, jealousy will consume her to her core, and I'll wind up winning the day and the heart of the girl of my dreams.

Or she may not give a shit.

Either way, this is happening.

Paiger picks me up around seven and away we go. I've started in with the vodka and away I go, slowly though. Minus The Bear's Omni plays throughout the tiny Toyota Corolla. A pine tree air freshener dangles from the rear view, smelling all piney and stuff. I relax.

Then she turns on the grill.

"All right, Jim," she says. "Even though I think this is one of the dumbest plans of all time, I'm going along with it. So you better hold up your end of the bargain."

"Don't worry," I say. "I never go back on my word."

"Here's hoping. Nevertheless, I want a down payment."

"What?"

"Give me another story."

I sigh. "You know, I'd like to get something in writing before I spill the rest of my goddamn guts to you."

"We will, we will. But I want to hear more."

I decline the car seat and close my eyes.

"Fine. I'll tell you about... Brian night."

Brian night.

The night of the beginning of the end.

Nothing takes me out of reality more than an orgasm. It's the release of life, the world's most natural and pleasing high, the very beginning of human existence. The end all be all of everything, why we exist and why we'll continue to do so.

No wonder it's so damn dangerous.

And why it brings nothing but trouble.

It's been scientifically proven that after two people have sex, a bond is formed in the mind/heart/whatever. There's a level of unspoken trust between lovers, because the transfer of life is a sacred act. There's an unbelievably deep knit closeness established after sharing an orgasm with someone – it's the most intimate act in the world, and we're at our most vulnerable after it.

And for some people, like me, it really hits hard.

I orgasm like a spider monkey.

It's no joke. I seizure. I flop around like I'm having an epileptic fit. It's like lightning strikes me and a thousand volts course and pulse through my veins. I shake and shudder with electric fissures and go faceless, nameless. I cannot think, only breathe. When all this finally passes, I float and see stars. It's like being on another planet.

It's incredible.

So I think because it's so emotional physically, when the chemistry's right, I tend to act rather aggressively upon the bond.

A lot.

I jump dick first into things with women without a good feeling out period, and either I wind up scaring them off by coming on too strong or they wind up scaring me off by being too clingy too early. Vicious cycle.

At least I get laid really early in the going. Even if they have boyfriends. Especially if they have boyfriends.

Unlike Brian, who was dead meat from the get go.

Poor bastard.

So this kid was like twenty two when Kara swept in and uprooted his life. It wasn't anything she did – she just got a job. But Brian was so unlucky in love and skinny and sappy and infatuated that he never had a chance against her smoldering magnetism.

What I went through with Patty nine years ago? That's what Brian went through with Kara.

It was sad, really.

Kara went back to Iowa for Thanksgiving weekend, and throughout her absence we texted – just bullshit mostly, cracking wise, wishing each other a happy Thanksgiving, blah, blah, blah. Innocent enough.

The whole time she was gone though, I felt this longing, this withdrawal, this I really want to see her so bad feeling. I don't get that feeling often.

So when I got it, that's when I knew I wanted her for the long haul. She just... made me happy. In every possible way.

When she got back into town on Monday, I immediately suggested a drink on Tuesday. The open mic at Holiday Club. I'd play more songs for her. She said yes, and that she couldn't wait to see me.

I was elated.

As soon as I see her in the bar all I can think about is running my fingers through her hair and jamming my tongue down her throat. And that's exactly what happens. We can't keep our hands off each other, it's terribly passionate, like time doesn't exist, like we're the only two people in the world. And it's heaven.

We have a few drinks, me with my Stellas, she with her Jame-O's, and it's pure bliss catching up. We exchange Thanksgiving stories, talk about work, discuss the play she's writing. It's called Rock-A-Bye Baby and she thinks I'd be perfect for the lead character Christian, who after unknowingly impregnating his high school sweetheart becomes a smash hit musician and rock star. He dumps the girl before she finds out she's pregnant, and she never gets the chance to tell him. Until he returns eight years later, and the kid's all grown up.

I love it, I want to do it, I yearn to be onstage spouting her words. We make out like sea otters fuck.

It was going great.

And then... Brian happened.

Since we weren't technically dating or whatever Kara didn't see our rendezvous as a thing to be kept secret, so she casually mentioned to some of her coworkers that she was going to the open mic at Holiday Club that night. Brian was crazy about her so the son of a bitch showed up. Of course.

With the addition of the stowaway, our 'date' ceased to be one. The guy has a jealous streak a mile wide and as soon as we casually kissed he damn near shit his pants. It was actually quite rewarding for me, since I never really liked him because he's pompous and a smart ass and a weasel. That really is the best word. Brian is weaselly.

I kind of enjoyed his pain.

I finally get called up to play and I'm pretty much tanked so I let loose and just have fun with it. As I'm tuning between songs I clearly hear Brian's voice from among the masses.

"What the fuck, you're making out with Jim?!"

I smiled and kept on playing.

As the ugly lights came up Brian and his lanky bones went to the bathroom. I paid the bartender, grabbed Kara's hand, and we fled the bar like we'd robbed it.

Once in a cab we couldn't keep our tongues in our mouths. She nearly gave me a handjob in the back seat. Her hair smelled like a meadow. A crowbar couldn't have pried my face from it.

Then Brian called. Kara's tongue was cleaning my teeth. She didn't answer.

So he called again. Kara was dry humping me. She didn't answer.

So he called again. My fingers were down Kara's pants. She didn't answer.

And so on and so forth.

By the time we get to my place and upstairs and realize we have cell phones, she has eight missed calls. Each one has a message. Each message is worse than the next. The kid sinks through the Earth lower and lower with every syllable he utters until finally reaching the last crust known as rock bottom. He burns to death upon impact.

He even uses the L word. Several times.

Amateur.

We're both drunk so I make fun of him and she feels sorry for him. We fuck like jackrabbits into the wee hours of the morning despite the difference of opinion.

I have to work the next day, so after our glorious wake up sex I'm ready to leave while Kara's still getting Z's. I kiss her on the cheek as she stirs. Our eyes meet and we smile.

And I'm in love.

And I show it.

"All right, just lock the bottom lock when you leave. I'll, uh... call you later."

I'm stoned too so I smile the dopey smile, the I want you for all eternity smile, I'm Mr. Simple Von Simpleton, the biggest idiot alive. It's in that moment that everything changes and I cross the line between casual and serious, and even though it's just a toe over it's blatantly obvious. I'm treating her like a girlfriend by leaving her in the apartment alone.

I should've made her leave with me. I should've kicked her out post coitus. I should've just left without saying anything. Anything else would've been better, anything else would've kept the game going.

But instead my intentions are as plain as the nose on my face.

Downfall, begin.

Of course I text her a few hours later playfully asking if she slept until three. She responds that she was out of the house before noon. The playfulness on her end has obviously dissipated, and I realize my first fatal mistake - showing it.

It's a slip up, but I'm not a lost cause. There's only one thing I can do.

Play it cool.

So I do. For a day.

Then... she drunk dials me.

I shoot up like a tack, see it's her, answer. "Hello?"

"Hey, Jim... hey. What are you... are you up?"

Of course I'm infamously incoherent having just been shook from slumber.

"I... what, Kara? Are you okay? Is anything wrong? What's wrong?"

The second fatal mistake – insecurity. In my stonedrunksleep stupor, stupidity runs rampant.

"No, no, nothing's wrong," she slurs. "Just... I'll talk to you soon."

We hung up and that was that. I tried to go back to sleep but was worrying out of my skull, how I'd never received a drunk dial but knew they generally weren't good, and that the recipient of one was usually the recipient of not so good news. I couldn't get back to sleep and didn't speak to her again until Saturday.

When she invited me to check out apartments.

Which led to the third fatal mistake - bringing it all up.

Why I did is beyond me. I should've just concentrated on swaying her in my direction, because all throughout us looking at these shit apartments, one thing was abundantly clear – she liked me. She enjoyed me. She was giving me a chance to win her heart with the simple act of real estate honesty, just by hanging out with her on a beautiful Sunday morning, grabbing coffee and shooting the shit in the car while listening to great music. She was giving me an opportunity to be cool.

As we walked out of the last apartment she hooked her arm in mine and I felt this rush of emotion start at my heart then take a water park ride through my body. I'd felt it before and shuddered at its return.

The unmistakable, undeniable ardor of the warm fuzzies.

I brought up the drunk dial. It was the worst thing I could've done. It reeked of insecurity.

And it cost me her.

Paiger parks the car and shuts off the engine. Snakepit looms in the distance.

"Wow."

"I know. I didn't learn anything from Brian's dumbass antics. He clearly has no idea how to keep a woman's interest let alone get them interested, so him being such a little bitch should've been the example I needed to witness to understand how to behave with her. And instead, I went ahead and acted like a little bitch anyway. I showed her my hand and she couldn't walk away from the table sooner. I just... couldn't not care."

The vodka is definitely working. Some kids wearing Silly Goose tee shirts walk past, smoking and laughing. I watch them and actually crack a smile.

Paiger unbuckles her seat belt, then leans over and kisses me on the cheek. I look at her, perplexed.

She smiles.

"Let's do this."

9

SNAKEPIT IS BOOMING AS WE hustle our way through the crowd. Paiger gets carded by the muscle bound jerk at the door but as soon as he recognizes her he apologizes and lets her in. He blocks me, though.

"ID, fella."

I smile my winning grin. "What, you don't recognize me? I'm the Dodger."

He slants his eyes. Recognize. "Oh, yeah. Come on in."

It's not glorious enough of a place to require a muscle bound jerk at the door but they have one anyway, two in fact. It's packed as usual, even more so since Silly Goose is playing, and we can barely see over the people in front of us let alone get to the bar. I take the lead and play fullback for the petite Paiger, who hooks her arm in mine so's not to get lost in the wake. The crowd spits us out at the service well and we nestle up to a few punk rock chicks. They ignore us and commence talking about the lead singer's cock.

And then... there she is.

Kara.

I see her first, and the wave pool that has become my emotional threshold gets turned on full blast. Everything comes rushing back, all the joy, all the pain, all of it, and I think I'm going to pass out until I hear the sweet voice in the back of my head.

"Jim... it's okay."

Paiger. Her hand is on my shoulder. Her other hand is signaling Kara.

She finally turns her head and sees us.

Here we go.

There's shock and surprise in her smile as she approaches. Maybe even more shock and surprise when Paiger runs her tongue around my ear. Even I'm taken aback and squeal in delight.

"All right, hey bartender," Paiger says. "A rum and coke for me and a Stella for this fine piece of ass right here."

She grabs my ass just to send home the fact that my ass is in fact the ass in question. I smile at Kara, who's still trying to process the no doubt bewildering exchange we're having this minute.

"Hi, Kara."

She smiles. "Hi, Jim. Wow, you, uh... look good."

"Thanks, you too."

She goes to get the drinks. Paiger whispers in my ear, "She's already jealous. Let's sell this." I concur and face her, brush the hair from her ear and whisper nonsense back. She laughs and runs her hand down my arm. The touch alone feels so amazing I almost don't realize Kara's standing there with our drinks. I look over, still buzzing from the tongue in my ear.

"Oh, thanks."

"Sure." Paiger starts looking around the bar, hand still on my ass. Kara leans in.

"It's good to see you, Jim. Did you know I worked here?"

I sip. "No, actually. Paige here is a big fan of the Goose, so lo and behold, here we are. I'm sorry, I should introduce you."

Paiger turns, right on cue. "Hi, I'm Paige!"

Kara extends her hand. "Kara."

"Nice to meet you."

They shake, Paiger with vigor, Kara with weakness. She's already on the ropes. Paiger kisses me on the cheek and darts off into the crowd. I watch her go, then turn and meet Kara's gaze. It's dripping with complete love. She turns like she didn't want me to see it but I sure as hell did and there's no turning back.

"So this is a cushy gig, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. They trained me behind the bar as soon as I started."

"That's right, they didn't want to let you bartend at the other place, did they?"

"No. Sexist pigs."

"In my experience I've always preferred the services of an attractive young lady behind the bar."

"Well you're a dude, Jim."

"That I am."

"So how'd you meet Paige? She's... really pretty."

"We met at one of my shows."

"Cool. You're still in the band? What are you guys called again?"

"Glass Cabin."

"Right. You guys are good."

"We broke up."

"Oh."

"Long story."

"I'll bet."

"How about you? When did you move back?"

"About four months ago. Saved up a big wad of cash babysitting and living at home for a year and a half, then realized I was so bored that I didn't know what to do with myself."

"You missed Chicago."

"Yeah. A lot. And, you know... everyone's here."

"Ah, yes. The Contingent."

"Yes, the Contingent."

"Peer pressure never fails. Whatever became of Rock-A-Bye Baby?"

"Oh." She laughs. "Well, I'm still working on it."

I smile. "You should finish it."

"I know, I should."

There's a pause as the band starts their sound check. Paiger emerges from the crowd with an empty glass and a smile.

"All right! They sound great. Hey Karen, can I get another?"

Kara just kind of looks at her, but Paiger turns right back around without missing a beat. The music is too loud for me to say or hear anything now so I just shrug. Kara smiles halfheartedly and goes to make the drink.

I turn to Paiger.

"Laying it on a little thick, aren't we?"

She just smiles. "I don't do anything half assed, Jim. If you're going to be my pretend boyfriend, you better get used to it."

And with that she jams her tongue down my throat. No tongue has been there in awhile and it feels so good I almost faint and/or orgasm.

It's a short but thorough kiss and when we break I just sway in the breeze, savoring the flavor. Green apple lip balm and rum, tasty.

Then I realize Kara is standing right next to us. We turn.

And the look on her face is priceless.

"It's nine dollars for everything, guys."

Paiger drags me into the crowd as the members of Silly Goose strap on their instruments. She insisted on a shot and that Kara join us so the three of us up ended Jame-O's. My vodka soaked stomach lining lurches as the whiskey fucks it. Go to town, you two, go to town, I love it.

Paiger is yelling in my ear.

"Hey, that was awesome! She's totally jealous!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Did you see the way she reacted when I spit some of my shot into your mouth? Come on! She's weak."

She's right. Kara is the jealous type. It's been heir apparent and blatantly obvious ever since that night at the bar. She so desperately wants what she can't have, even if she's had it already and just kinda tossed it aside. She's exactly like me in that regard and maybe subconsciously that's what attracts us to each other the most. We're both flaky and damaged and jealous, a match made in heaven if there ever was one.

I look back at the bar to see if she's watching us but it's a sea of pierced heads and tattooed necks. The Goose has quite the following. They kick into their first song and it's loud, rude, aggressive and awesome. I'm in.

Before I turn back someone's head moves and I see Kara. She sees me, our eyes lock, and the old chemistry explodes back into the atmosphere in a single second. The chills nearly paralyze me.

I turn back.

Quickly.

Paiger gets me another beer and I start to get drunker. Silly Goose rocks. We get into the music and start dancing and singing and jumping around. It reminds me of when Kara and I saw Slim Pickens. If she's watching me right now, I hope that's what she's thinking about too. Recalling and reenacting our good times will spark the memories within her and bring me that much closer to my goal.

As the band starts their encore, I go over it in my head. For all intents and purposes, the plan has worked. I've planted a seed of jealousy within Kara that will either bring her back into my arms or force her to move even further away than Iowa. I've done what I set out to do, the cool way, not the sappy clod way. I've put in an appearance, and now all I can do is wait.

And tell Paiger everything.

They finish the song and everyone roars in applause. Paiger is yelling right along with them but I just stand there, blinking and thinking slowly.

What have I done?

There's only one direction to go with two hundred people all heading for one exit, so there's no way to get back to the bar and say bye to Kara. It's probably a good thing. I'm not going out of my way, ergo I don't look like a sniveling putz. Schnutz. Whatever. We're swept out of Snakepit like it's the Fertile fucking Crescent and spilled onto Southport Avenue with the piercings and tattoos. Paiger lights a cigarette. I do the same.

"Okay, so what now?" she asks.

"What what now?" I say, inhaling. "The ball's in her court. I made the casual drop in I wanted to. Anything more would scare her off."

"I agree. Do you think it'll work?"

I blow a few smoke rings into the night. "Hopefully."

"Jim, can I ask you something?"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

"Why do you want her back so badly?"

I ponder the proverbial puzzle Paiger's put upon my parameters. Please.

"I'm not telling."

"No. Uh uh." She inhales. "I just went through a ridiculous exhibition of pretending to be someone I'm not for you, for your stupid plan, so there's no way you're clamming up on me now."

"I said I'd tell you the story, not about what happens after."

She glares at me. "So it's not going to have an ending? That's bad storytelling."

"This is a story about the Dodger, Paiger. Not me. And once I've told you the whole thing, this is all over."

I start walking to the car. Her always loud shoes clack on the sidewalk behind me.

"Okay, then finish the fucking story."

I turn. "Fine. But please drive me the fuck home while I do."

We light two more cigarettes and she plays some Joy Division as we hit Lake Shore Drive. I inhale deeply.

"After we talked at the Pick Me Up, we kind of took a break from each other. I was happy just to salvage anything out of the relationship after the way I'd treated her and was grateful she was cool enough to be cool. I didn't want to push it. So a few weeks went by, and during that time I only saw her once, at the bar with Pete when she stormed out in that fit of jealousy."

"Ah. Of course."

"Of course is right." Inhale. "Well, a few days after that I get a text from her asking if I want to grab coffee. Of course I say yes and of course as soon as we meet up, coffee becomes a drink. So we drink. And everything feels... new."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, of course one drink became two and two became four. We caught each other up on our lives and it was nice and playful and innocent and it was like it was the first night we hung out. In other words, before I became an idiot. She looked so goddamned good. God." I drag my smoke again but see it's extinguished. Damn. "I knew as soon as we started drinking we were doomed. We're too damn alike! You know? Paiger?"

"I know."

"So we meet up with her roommate and a couple of her friends and proceed to get silly drunk, and of course we all wind up back at their place smoking pot and listening to music. And do you really think we could control ourselves? Fuck no! We're making out as soon as our hands can reach each other, even though I know she's still seeing Pete, even though she knows I know. She fucking plays Arcade Fire and She And Him and Broken Social Scene and I'm not supposed to feel seduced? That's some of the sexiest music of all time! I went for her all over again. It was fucked up."

"Did you have sex?"

"I wound up crashing there but no, no we didn't. I tried though. Believe me I tried. I wanted her so bad. I... I guess I still do."

We pull up to my building. I unbuckle the seat belt and open the door, then turn to Paiger.

"You coming in or what?"

10

"SO YOU REALLY WANNA KNOW why I want her back so badly?"

Paiger tosses her coat on the couch and sits down as I mix two vodka Gatorades. I lick my right pinky, which I use as a stirrer, and hand her one. She sips it, cringes, sighs.

"Yes, of course I want to know. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

I guzzle. "It's because she's my drug."

"What?"

"My drug." I sigh. "Haven't you ever been so crazy in love with someone that their very presence is like a high, an addiction, and when you get to have sex with that person all your suspicions are confirmed? That they are, in fact, the key to your happiness, and bring you to extraordinary sexual heights and make you want to float away into space? Goddamn it, it was just... so good."

She stands up. "Are you telling me this was just about the sex the whole time? Didn't you have any real feelings for her?"

"Of course I did!"

"Jim, it was eleven days! Your relationship revolved around alcohol and orgasms! That's not love, that's infatuation. Do you really think things would have been different if you hadn't..."

She pauses. I finish.

"... blown it?"

Paiger shrugs.

"Well, you did."

Guzzle, guzzle. "I did."

"So what happened after you crashed there?"

Guzzle. "Well, I wound up going out the next night and ran into her goddamn roommate and friends again, at the same goddamn bar. They were celebrating one of their birthdays and getting smashed so I got smashed along with them. It winds up being a blast and they invite me back to their place, Kara's place, so of course I say yes. Kara's working till two so we all hang out and play Whiskey, a drinking game that involves drinking whiskey whenever you blink. By the time she showed up... I was fucked."

"Fucked up?"

"Fucked up."

"That sucks."

"Yup." I drink more of my magic potion. "Worst part was, she was sober. At least the last times I'd been fucked up and stupid around her we were both drunk, so her being sober just... killed me. She saw me as a weak puppy dog who only wanted to hump her leg. As soon as she got there I insisted we go in her room, where we set some impressive records for tongue pressure but still abstained from the Big S. Sex. Duh."

"I got it."

"So I crashed there again and I guess in my sleepytime stupidity stupor I kept telling her how beautiful she was and all this cheesy crap about she's the most special person I've ever met and blah, blah, blah, I should've just shot her. I was just getting back into her good graces and I spout some insipid bullshit like that? Come on, Paiger, where's my sense?!"

"I don't know, Jim."

"Me either! God, that was the worst walk of shame ever. Not only because there was no sex, but because it was then I knew for sure, for sure, that it was over. She gave me a second chance to enter into a casual relationship with her and for the second time, within seventeen days mind you, I had blown it. Just made the same goddamn mistake of getting too fucked up to control my emotions. Twice. Twice!"

I swig again, draining my drink, and plop down in my writing chair. Paiger sits back down also.

"So was that it?"

I look at her. "No. I texted her a few days later to see if we were still on for this concert we had talked about going to see. When she said no, I of course acted like a little bitch and made her feel guilty about it. I mean, she'd only said she might be able to go. It wasn't for sure. And I still acted crazy. I don't know why. So that was another bullet to the balls. And then... God. You remember asking me what my worst day was? Well, it happened about a week later. I was at our bar getting drunk when she walks in with some friends and even though she sees me on their way to a table she completely and utterly ignores me. Just... a total snub. Like I wasn't even there. Ugh. I felt so pathetic, like someone had sucker punched me right in the stomach. She didn't even want to know me anymore, it was obvious. That was... that was my worst day."

Paiger has lit two cigarettes and hands me one. I accept graciously.

"Thanks. So that was that. I didn't hear from her again. Then she deleted me from her Facebook and Myspace pages. That hurt. So I spent about two months getting a few of my songs down pat and recorded a demo, ironically enough with a friend of hers that records acoustic acts for cheap. I also wrote a letter apologizing about everything and all of my regrets concerning the situation. Then I delivered them to her at work."

Paiger drinks, then inhales. "Oh, man, you didn't."

"I did. And we hadn't spoken since. Until tonight."

I go to refill. Paiger sits on the couch, smoking silently. Then:

"So did you learn anything from all this?"

I actually think about it while I sip my fresh beverage. Did I learn anything? Did anything positive, anything at all, come out of this experience? A lesson, maybe? A hint?

I shrug.

"Yeah. Two things. One, I learned not to be a little bitch around women. They're so turned off by that. The trick is... to not care. If you don't care, they will. If you show you have feelings... you're fucked. Just ask every goddamn pansy ass nancy boy who ever fell in love and wound up getting treated like a leper. Nice guys don't finish last, they finish alone. Drunk. And without one, single, solitary sex story that ends in an injury. Not one."

Drink. Paiger just shakes her head.

"And what's the other thing?"

"That with the right person time stands still."

Either being hammered or horny or just plain having her listen draws me in, and I go sit next to her despite my drunkenness. My attempt at a kiss is one for the retarded record books and Paiger, sport that she is, politely evades me with a hug/dodge. I'm just happy to be in her company so I accept it with open arms.

After a moment, she pulls back.

"I've got to go, Jim."

I put my drink on the table, anguish on the horizon. "Wait, don't leave, Paiger. I... I want you to stay."

"I know you do. But I can't."

She abruptly hugs me, and before I can even hug back she's up and out the door. I stare after her for what seems like ten minutes, then go grab the bottle. Then sit on the couch and drink myself into an Interpol stupor. Turn On The Bright Lights? Please. Antics? Hell yes. Our Love To Admire? Drown me in it.

I am such a fucking loser.

She'll never do the story. It's pathetic, lame, and insipid. No one gives two shits what the Dodger is up to these days, let alone the back story surrounding the Good Day America interview. It's stupid and a waste of time.

So fuck it. I'm content with whatever happens. The story probably wouldn't be accurate anyway because she was just as fucked up as I was every time I told her anything. There's no possible way in a hundred years that she could remember it all. It'll have its fifteen minutes and I'll have my fifteen minutes and then, before you know it, I'll get to disappear again.

But this time with way more money.

It's just a story. What harm could it do?

I get drunker, smoke some pot to haze it up. The last thing that resonates in my brain before I pass out is holy shit, I saw Kara today, and holy shit, I might actually see her again. I haven't really been thinking about it but now that I finally do it's surreal.

And I love it.

And she calls. Two days later.

I'm not expecting it and nearly drop my phone in the sink when her name pops up. I catch it by a nose and answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey Jim, it's Kara."

"Hey, what's up?"

"Not much. Listen, I was seeing if you wanted to hang out tonight. Grab a coffee or something?"

I nearly drop the phone again but maintain. "Uh, yeah, sure. What time?"

"I don't know, five-ish? We can meet in Wicker Park. I live really close to there now."

"Yeah, I'm right up the street from there."

"I remember."

"Oh, right." Duh. "You want to just... meet by the Damen stop and pick a place?"

"Yeah, sounds great."

"Great. See you at five."

I hit End. Holy shit. Holy shit! It worked! She wants to see me again! Jealousy is the best emotion ever!

I do the stupid Chandler Bing dance, waving my arms around like an epileptic chicken and shaking my money maker. I want to call Paiger and tell her the good news but remember what I told her about not wanting the present events to have an effect on the past, AKA the story. So I don't. It's probably better not to jinx it, anyway.

I pop open an ice cold Stella to celebrate, but just one. I'm not getting wasted before I see her this time. This is my chance, my third chance, and the third time's a charm. I can't blow it again.

And I shan't.

I walk out of the train station and spot her immediately. That head of red hair would be hard to miss even in a snowstorm.

"Kara!"

She turns, looking more gorgeous than ever. Her hair billows in the breeze, clips and all, and her worn faux army jacket and cut up jeans compliment her petite yet voluptuous body completely. I walk over, smiling stupidly yet feeling confident. No pot or drinks resonate this time, and I'm clear, clean, comforted, cool. Calm. Ca.

"Hi, Jim."

"Hi."

She runs her hand down my arm. "Hey, I remember this jacket. It still looks great."

"Oh, thanks. Never washed it once."

She smiles. "So there's a coffee shop right up the street. Earwax Cafe. Sounds irresistible."

"I've heard of it but I've never been."

"Then let's do it."

"Sure."

We start walking, and she keeps close. I turn my head and smell the familiar meadow of her hair, and it takes all my might to keep from dipping my nose straight into it. As we approach the Earwax we pass Pint, a brewpub with sixty seven different microbrews. She stops in front of it, as do I.

She looks at me.

"Actually... do you feel like a beer?"

Oh.

No.

It only takes a few to loosen up, and the past comes swirling back for both of us. We're able to laugh about the times we shared, all the bullshit we went through, all the joy, all the pain. All the hurt we caused each other. It is two years later, and we are that much wiser.

Then she brings up the birthday calls.

Eek.

"You know, I'm really sorry about those. I just... I thought I was being nice, remembering your birthday and all."

"It was nice, but... you were so fucking hammered. And being hammered is what drove us apart in the first place."

"Believe me, I remember. Well, mostly. But come on – wasn't our drunken debauchery fun? I don't know about you, but back then all that drama brought a lot of excitement into my life. It was... god, it was great. And intense. And passionate."

I can see the memories dancing around in her head. She smiles.

"It was pretty passionate. But Jim... come on. We were poisonous to each other."

And the truth finally comes out. We were. We were despicable to each other. She played me and I in turn made her feel completely rotten. Then ostracized her. Then cared about her again. Then drove her out of town.

Oh well. Lesson learned.

That's all in the past.

"Kara," I start, "I never wanted things to get so bad between us. I know it's pretty much all my fault, and that giving you that letter was a total amateur move, but... come on. You came into my life like a hurricane of lovely and it absolutely knocked me on my ass. I didn't know how to react because that had never happened to me before. At least so strongly. It was just... all so funny. You made me laugh. No one's ever made me laugh like you do, or made me want to be more than I am. You inspired me. You... you still do."

I realize I'm blathering and falling into the same pattern I always do when I'm with her and shut my trap. I'm thirty, for Christ's sake. I can't lay my cards on the table this soon. Again.

Ah, hell. It's not like she doesn't know how I feel anyway.

And looking into her eyes at this moment... I can tell she feels the same.

Then she brings up the Good Day America interview.

I sigh.

"Yeah, that was pretty fucked up."

"What the hell, Jim?"

"What?"

"You said I was the reason you wanted to die. On national TV."

"Oh, nobody knew it was you."

"Our friends did!"

"Yeah, but they knew I was crazy about you."

"Whatever. That was still really weird, what you said. I mean, shit, you sounded wasted."

"I was."

"On national television? At seven in the morning?"

"Hey, they gave me a minibar. What was I supposed to do?" Two more beers arrive, and I hoist mine. "Cheers!"

Kara just shakes her head, smiling, and bottoms up.

Three beers later we pay the tab and leave the bar, and we don't get five feet out the door before our tongues meet again. It's been awhile but our slithering patterns are the same and it's off to the races. Off to my place. Off with our clothes. Off with our heads.

As I plunge into her ever so softly her warm breath whispers in my ear.

"My God, I missed you so much."

My tongue dances around her ear.

"Me too, Kara, me too."

Old habits die hard.

11

THIS MORNING AFTER SHE'S THE one kissing me on the cheek.

"I have to go, Jim."

She runs her hand through my hair and I'm barely awake but still watch her cute little ass mosey on out the door. I smile like I'm on crack and sit up slowly, reveling.

It worked. The whole plan worked. I finally got her back, my one and only true precious, the girl I've drooled over for the last two years. All my regret, all my anger, all my pain, all my darkness, despair, despondency, and dickheadedness gone in the simple act of fucking Kara once again. I've achieved the whole point of this Dodger business, and finally understand the reason why I dodged the bullet to begin with. It was to stay alive and get Kara back. Simple.

I light a cigarette and smile.

Then frown.

Now what?

I immediately call Paiger. If anyone will have an answer, it's her.

Voice mail. Shit. I tell her to call me back ASAP.

Then I light up a bowl. And pace. And pace.

What the hell have I done? I'm exactly where I was the last time. The only difference is that Kara's single now too. Which bodes well in my favor. Or does it? When I asked her why she and Pete broke up she didn't get into specifics but specifically said she was tired of being with someone but still being alone. Makes sense. I guess.

But where do I come in? The whole time I was telling Paiger about everything it almost seemed like I was in therapy, only instead of paying a ridiculous amount of money and fitting all my problems into a fifty minute freak show with some pompous ass, I got to get drunk and stoned with a hot chick and spill my guts whimsically.

And after having told her the whole story... I really feel clean of the situation. Of Kara. Of everything.

Shit... do I still even want her back?

It's been two years, and she still fucked me right off the bat. What's worse, her doing that or her fucking me while she'd been seeing Pete for two months?

It remains a hard argument.

I smoke the bowl, pondering.

There's really only two ways this thing can go down. One, Kara and I follow the path I've envisioned all along and fall in love, and this thing I've been chasing after for so long, this elusive feeling of completion, will finally be complete. After meeting and losing her, twice, the fact that the fates have given me yet another shot speaks volumes. It's gotta be meant to be.

The other way is that she doesn't want anything to do with me and was really a crazy bitch who just wanted to say she fucked the Dodger, once before he was the Dodger and once after. It would have to be some kind of freaky sexual record, or a dubious distinction. 2012 inductee into the Sexual Misfits Hall Of Fame. Which I'd be proud to be a part of, incidentally.

But that'd be pretty fucked up.

So I'm hoping it's the first thing. But then what? We start dating? How long before things get too intense sparked by an incident sparked by alcohol, and one of us says something that we won't be able to take back? How long before it loses its magic and becomes a simple routine, and we discover that in reality, we actually did hate each other and that's what birthed our previous subconscious poisonous nature? It could all be a huge mistake. It probably is.

But fuck it.

I want her.

I hit the bowl again, and in midhale, Paiger calls me back.

"Hello?"

"Jim, what's up?"

Exhale. "Hey, Paiger. Not much. I slept with Kara last night."

There's a pause on the other end. A long one. Finally:

"How was it?"

I shrug. "The sex was great. Even better than before. But now I'm in a pickle."

"Yeah, I'll say."

"I've kind of already made up my mind, but what do you think I should do?"

"If you've already made up your mind, why are you even asking me?"

"Shits and giggles."

She sighs. "I think you're insane if you try and pursue this. I mean, I don't know exactly what happened between you two this time, but ---"

I cut her off and tell her everything. She sighs again.

"So it was a one night stand."

"Yeah, but she yearned for me as much as I yearned for her!"

"Do you hear yourself? Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm just high from the incredible orgasms. Listen, I'm going for it. I'm gonna do it slowly, but I'm going for it. I can't screw this up. I can't scare her off this time. Third time's a charm."

"You are drunk."

"All right, I'm drunk. Bleh. How's the story coming?"

"Actually really good. I'd like to get a camera crew over to your place as soon as possible."

"Camera crew? For what?"

"It's a television news story. We need footage of you to intertwine with me delivering the voiceover."

"Is that really necessary?"

"You knew you were going to have to be on camera again at some point. Look, the sooner we do it, the sooner the story airs, and the sooner they start throwing deals at us, okay?"

"What kind of deals do you speak of?"

"Reality TV, maybe a documentary, or if we're lucky, a book or a movie deal."

"A book or a... Paiger, you realize I'm a writer, right?"

"You've mentioned it."

"No, it's not like a hobby or anything. That's what I want to do for a career. It's my calling."

"You mean to tell me waiting tables and dodging bullets aren't your loftiest aspirations in life?"

"Bite me. Look, if we get a book or a movie deal, I'm writing it. The book and the screenplay. Or the screenplay. You know what I mean."

"Yeah, Jim. Well, we'll see what happens. Let's just get the story done first, all right?"

"All right."

"Good. I've got to go. Are you available to shoot tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I guess. Anytime after noon."

"It's going to be more like nine AM."

"Jesus, why so early?

"We follow a schedule."

"Fine. Bye."

I hit End. Hit the bowl. Contemplate. I knew Paiger would say I shouldn't pursue Kara. Of course she would. That would put an end to her perfect ending, where the Dodger, who hath dodged a bullet and most likely death, wasn't able to dodge the inevitable heartbreak we all encounter at some point, for he too lost the love of his life. It's actually a great angle now that I think about it. What better way to turn a superhuman into a mere mortal?

But I digest. Literally. The bad bar food from last night ambushes my colon and I head for the toilet.

Good morning.

I fight the urge to text Kara as the day goes on and work on writing. If we do in fact get a book or movie deal I need to have some samples ready so whoever makes the big decisions will know I'm not full of shit. I touch up some short stories, fine tune parts of my defunct novel, and expertly edit excerpts from a few screenplays I never finished. All in all I can probably salvage sixty pages for a decent portfolio, which isn't bad considering I haven't written in two years.

That was another thing. After I first hooked up with Kara and started acting like an idiot, I stopped writing. Just downright stopped. The whole ordeal stunted my creativity and aside from writing a few cheesy songs and playing bad lead guitar for Glass Cabin, I ceased doing anything creative at all.

Which sucks, cause it's all I've got.

I skim through the first short story. It's about Vic Damon, a well to do twenty five year old dragged to his girlfriend's business dinner with these two yuppies. He winds up getting into a huge argument with the guy, Channing Martin, after Channing fucks with the waiter by sending his fish back. So Vic goes and tells the waiter that it's Channing's birthday, and they serve him a slice of banana cream pie topped with semen. Not my best work, but it's got its moments.

The second one is about Ethan Douglas, a bartender that's roped into giving this disgusting pig of a woman who hosts the open mic at his bar a ride home. So she invites him in, and it's an absolute shitfarm – pizza boxes and clothes strewn about, cats flying through the air, and the ashtrays... everything in the apartment had been used as an ashtray, from the handles on the futon to the TV remote control. He winds up seeing a floater in the toilet and beats it out of there. Again, not my best work, but the thing read like a knife.

The screenplays I select excerpts from are both comedies, one which topped out at forty eight pages, the other at seventy nine. The first one is about comedian James Benedict, who insults a crazy professional baseball player sitting in the crowd at his HBO Special and winds up getting pelted with eggs as a result. He is therefore christened Eggs Benedict, and therefore, that's the title. He decides the best way to get even is to become really good at baseball and take the crazy player's spot on the roster. Forty eight pages. I stopped writing right when he made the team.

The seventy niner was all about these three friends who go out and do a bunch of coke one night and wind up having a threesome. Things deteriorate afterward because one of them is engaged and the other two are in relationships. The seventy nine pages all take place in one night and I literally had no idea how to write the morning after scene, never having had a threesome, especially not with two good friends while on coke. That script fizzled fast.

Then there's the novel. Dead Rock Stars. Man oh man. I invested so much time into this thing and it's some of my most beautiful work but the inciting incidents are unbelievable, literally, and it reads in places like I have no idea what I'm talking about. Which I don't. It's written through the eyes of a rock star, which I've never been, who gets into all these crazy adventures, which I haven't had, and winds up seeing a psychotherapist, which I never have. I was just so into the story I couldn't stop writing.

But at page one hundred and two, I did.

Thank God.

I select a few juicy excerpts. That'll do, pig.

After printing everything I organize and collate where necessary, then stick them in a folder and write 'Jim's Crap' on it. There we go. Who wouldn't take me seriously?

The rest of the afternoon becomes a haze of pot and tequila. I clean the place up a little so Paiger doesn't think I'm a complete slob and try to prepare myself for whatever the hell she's going to do tomorrow. Will I have to wear makeup again? If so, will Colleen be the applicant? And my hair is much longer now, so long to the point where I don't even put product in. How's that going to affect my photogenicism? Are they going to need to cut it right here in the apartment? Are we even going to shoot in the apartment?

Ugh. All these questions. All these questions, and there's only one I want answered.

What the hell am I going to do with Kara?

I'm just waking up from my evening pot nap when the answer comes.

There's a knock at the door. I stumble over, open it, and literally feel my eyes light up.

Kara.

"Hi, Jim."

"Oh... shit. Hey. Come on in."

She does. I lick my hand and attempt to flatten what I'm sure is an extreme case of bedhead as she sits on the couch. I sit across from her and smile, still a little high. But I maintain.

"So what's up? You, uh... it's good to see you."

She looks at me, really looks at me, and for the first time since the first time, I can truly feel her. Her want. Her desire. Her love.

"Jim, about last night... I just, I'm sorry. I just missed you so much. Seeing you and hanging out with you again was so nice and it put me so at ease. It was like the first time we hung out. Remember?"

I nod. If she only knew.

"I know you have a girlfriend now," she continues, "but I also know I made a huge mistake two years ago. You're the only person who's ever gotten me on a level that's truly scary. I mean, with you, it's just so... God, I don't even know how to describe it." She runs her hand through her unparalleled red locks. "All I know is that sometimes when no one else is around, I talk to you. I just talk to you in my head. Because... because I know you listen. And I know you understand."

She comes over and sits next to me, takes my hand.

"I wish I'd handled things differently back then."

I almost laugh, exhaling an inhale I didn't even realize I was holding. "You? I'm the one who acted like a baby. I pushed you away."

"I know. I know you did."

"Because I sabotage myself."

"I know you do."

"And I've regretted it for the last two years. You were my..."

I pause, staring into her eyes, which are slowly welling up with tears. I feel mine start to do the same.

"Your what?"

I sigh. "You were my last worst mistake. No one's ever touched me like you. And if you wanna start this over... so do I. It's too special not to."

She smiles, and squeezes, and I kiss her, long and hard. She kisses back with equal force and our tongues fuse together, coiling like crazy.

On the way to the bedroom our clothes come off faster than a Kenyan runner and after we explore every inch of each other for hours on end we lay in post coital bliss, sweat dripping off our bodies, floating on an orgasm cloud that feels like it could stay in orbit forever. I hereby leave this planet and plane of existence in search of a higher meaning. I'm taking this woman with me. Fate, you'll have to fight me Scott Pilgrim style to take her away a third time, so don't even think about it, you bastard.

We float on, Modest Mouse style, and sleep occurs swiftly.

Orgasm sleep.

The best kind.

"I knew we'd have another shot at this."

I watch a spider run across the ceiling as Kara plays with my chest hair. Then my navel. Then my nipples. I shudder in pure ecstasy.

"Yeah, so did I. I just... miss you. Being around you makes me so happy."

"You make me happy."

She kisses my neck with those succulent lips and I close my eyes, enjoying every second. Her tongue is a swizzle stick of pure pleasure and I'm the sweet little universe it revolves around. If time could only stand still.

And then I realize that it is.

"God, I'm crazy about you."

"I'm all yours."

Our lips connect and don't break until sunrise.

When time stands still there is one little issue – remembering to set the alarm. I don't and nine AM rolls around in a heartbeat, which is what it sounds like when Paiger starts banging on my door.

Thump thump, thump thump.

I sit up. "Shit, it's Paige."

Kara sits up quicker. "Shit."

Thump thump, thump thump. Kara leaps off the bed and starts putting her clothes on while I sift through the sheets for my boxers. Thump, thump. I give up on the boxers and just grab my jeans, sliding commando into them. Kara's trying to button her blouse when, all the way from the bedroom, I see it.

The bottom lock.

I look at Kara. "It's open."

I say it rather loudly and no sooner do the words come out of my mouth that I slap my hand over it. The knob turns, and I frantically zip up.

But too late.

Paiger stands in the doorway, staring at us, me shirtless in my jeans with my happy trail hanging out, Kara with her shirt open and black bra on display. I smile.

"Hey, Paiger."

She scoffs and turns away, and the door slam can probably be heard down the block.

I explain to Kara how things really weren't working with Paiger and that it was probably going to end anyway, and it in fact already had in my mind, that we were pretty much broken up, minus the formality of actually having talked about it. It'd been mostly a sexual thing anyway, I say, and that she was just too crazy for me.

Kara reminds me that she's crazy. I smile.

"Yeah, but I like your kind of crazy."

We spend the day together talking about the hard stuff. She and Pete broke up because he did in fact cheat on her while he was on the road, while she was watching his daughter over Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's.

"Yeah, Happy fucking Holidays," she says.

"What a catch," I say. "There hasn't been a greater catch since syphilis."

I tell her about how the band broke up and how my parents died and how I feel time is running out for me, that I need to get my shit together and put myself into something serious soon. She tells me I should be an English teacher and I say I could never because I'd wind up going on all these madcapped adventures to unearth the original manuscript of Catcher In The Rye and all the girls would have crushes on me because I'd be the Indiana Jones of the English department. She says I'm not that cute and kisses my face all over. I wind up crying my eyes out and she just holds me, strokes me, loves me.

She gets me.

I almost tell her that Paiger was never my girlfriend and is actually a reporter doing a story on the Dodger and that the whole thing at Snakepit was an act, that we had been keeping tabs on her for a week before that fateful encounter, that Paiger was just holding up her end of a bargain, a bargain that revolved around me telling her everything. My story. Our story.

But I don't.

What good can come of that?

I convince Kara to stay the night and while she's in the shower, I go outside to smoke and call Paiger.

"Hello?"

"What's up, Paiger?"

"Oh, hello."

"Hey, sorry about this morning, we lost track of time. You guys can come over and shoot tomorrow. Nine AM works for me."

There's a long pause. I check my signal.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, I'm here. It's just..."

"Just what?"

She sighs. "It's the story, Jim. It's dead in the water."

I blink, drag, feel an anvil drop from my heart to my stomach. "Um... what?"

"The story," she repeats. "This is actually what I was coming over to tell you. The network doesn't think the story's going to have the appeal that our viewers are looking for. Nobody's interested anymore. It's just... old news."

I almost drop the phone. My stomach is turning round and round.

"Hey, it happens. I tried."

Her calmness irritates me. "So, what, you're telling me it's over? No reality shows? No books? No screenplays?"

"No nothing, honey. Sorry."

I suck the rest of my smoke down. "Well, what the fuck, Paiger? Now what? I mean, I told you everything!"

There's another pause. Then:

"I know, Jim. And I appreciate it."

Either she hangs up or the line goes dead or the call drops but it's irrelevant because Paige Scott, the Paiger, is long gone. I stare at the phone and consider calling her back but know she won't pick up. She'll probably never pick up again.

And now here I am, a man without a story.

The door opens behind me and Kara, hair wet, face glowing, pokes her beautiful head out. Her smile sparkles in the shine of the moonlight.

"Hey baby, are you coming to bed? I want you."

I take one long look at her, flick the cig, pocket my phone.

"Hell yeah."

Fuck it. My story's just begun.

PART THREE: DOWNPOURS & DRIZZLES

12

THE FACE IN THE MIRROR is blocked as Theresa stands in front of it, touching up my eyeliner.

"All right, it's going to be hot under those lights, so you'll probably start dripping this shit off at some point."

"When?"

"Real soon." She tussles my hair, which is in fact a wig, until she's satisfied. Then she stares at the finished product, smiling. "There. Perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She moves out of the way and there I am, long hair, bandana, a fake neck tattoo, and the perfect amount of makeup to make it look like I care yet don't. So chic. So glam. So rock star.

Which is what I am.

"Jim, oh my God..."

From behind me I hear the sweetest voice on Earth, my love, Kara, holding her clipboard and adjusting the headset intertwined with her luscious locks. She wears the director hat well and I want to take her then and there but know we have work to do.

I can tell she's thinking the same as she comes over to me.

"Ohh..." She strokes my wig, then runs her hand down my fully developed abs, stopping just before the promised land. She looks deep into my eyes, and I smile.

"Hey, this might look bad in front of the crew."

She shrugs. "I'm the director. What can they do?"

We kiss, laugh, fondle each other a little bit. Theresa, still standing there, sighs.

"Great. Now I have to redo his lips."

Kara turns to her. "Well, make it quick. Curtain in five."

She winks at me and runs off. Theresa goes to work on my pucker and I lay back, staring at the high ceiling of the theater.

Curtain in five.

I'm not sweating the fact that I haven't looked at the script today because I have it all in my head. Any nervousness about going on stage for the first time in five years melts away because Kara's about to watch her play come to life, next to me, her lead and lover. I'm so focused and driven on this thing, I'm knocking it out of the park. I'm going to be awesome, I told her, because I flat out fucking love you.

And that's what people in love do.

She loves me, too. That's why I got the lead in her play without so much as an audition. Giving the writer/director orgasms that bring her within an inch of her life has its perks.

And after two weeks of rehearsal upon rehearsal, trials, tribulations, moments of revelation and fuck ups, the time has finally come to bring this baby into the world.

Rock-A-Bye Baby is about to be born.

And I'm that fucking baby.

I'm in a slightly meditative state as the two female leads, Jenny and Amber, perform the opening scene. Kara is on the other side of the stage, ready with the script in case anyone needs a prompt, talking wildly into her headset, feeding the lighting guy his cues. I just breathe in and out easily.

How I wound up here is a miracle.

Just one short year ago I was a basket case, a lost cause, a ridiculously rudimentary example of how a thirty year old man should not behave concerning matters of the heart. I was pretty much a sappy sad sack, reveling in the pain of the one that got away, marinating myself in guilt and anger because I was convinced she was the only one I wanted and that life wouldn't be complete unless I had her.

Well, I got her.

And yeah, I was right.

The girls start jawing at each other on stage. Argument Number One. I have about five minutes.

Breathe in... breathe out.

It was as I suspected from the get go – Kara wanted to be with me all along. I just pushed her away. She said we both needed time to learn and grow from the mistakes we'd made and that it couldn't have been repaired when we were the way we were, always getting fucked up and messing with each other's emotions. Being poisonous. I said she was right and that I wasn't able to understand the concept because no one had ever hit me that hard before. She said the same.

In essence, we drove each other crazy.

But it was all for a reason.

The third time was a charm. We started slow, well, semi-slow, and didn't get wrapped up in drunken emotions like the last time. In fact, the more we hung out, the less we drank. I certainly noticed it, and it was obvious Kara did too when she brought it up in bed after we'd had a three hour sexathon in every position known to man. She said she didn't even think about drinking when she was with me and I said yeah it's way more fun without it, so we made a conscious effort to continue the trend and not drink, at least around each other.

The results were staggering.

I started working out. She started writing again. And the sex... my God, it took off to new heights, spatial in fact, and we discovered all the secret little buttons on our bodies that could turn even the most normal orgasm into a Gravitron ride of pure ecstasy. We were tapping into our full potential, together, and that was making us unstoppable.

And we didn't stop.

The more time we spent together, the more productive our time apart was. She finished her play. I started taking acting classes again. She got promoted at work. I quit smoking. Life was improving exponentially and we got closer and closer as it did. I learned how to be in a relationship, a real one, with a lot of help from Kara and the wanton desire to keep the best thing in my life around as long as I could.

Now here we are, just under a year later.

And I've never been happier in my life.

Amber gets up and starts her heartwrenching monologue about how Christian, my character, never got to meet his daughter. How she grew up without knowing her father and how he went all these years never knowing she even existed. How the last eight years of her life she's been keeping this horrible secret inside her, and how that when Christian gets here, she'll finally come clean and tell him everything.

I have two minutes.

The Dodger is long gone.

I think about how close I was to being resurrected all the time. Would it have been as glamorous as I imagined? Would I really have become an overnight celebrity again? Paiger's words still resonate in my head.

It's old news.

And it was.

But it was still news.

I think about the road not taken, a road paved with diamonds and tiaras, a road with book deals, movie deals, and the limelight pouring in. If the news story had aired, what would've happened? Would I be the same person?

I spot Kara across the stage, watching the action. I never did tell her the truth, how I leaked the fantastic unfoldings of our love, and how Paiger and I took advantage of her emotions in a grand scheme to win her back. I didn't even mention the news story because it never actually happened. I wanted to spill my guts on several occasions, but the more our relationship blossomed, the less relevant it seemed. So I never did.

And at this point, it would do more harm than good for her to know.

I guess I'm taking it to the grave.

Amber starts crying and puts her head on the table as Jenny storms off stage. The lights dim. As one of the stagehands moves around a prop or two I lock eyes with Kara, who's nothing short of elated. She blows me a kiss and winks. I smile.

The lights surge. Amber sips her fake coffee.

That's my cue.

I take one more deep breath, hold it for a moment, exhale.

Showtime.

"'No, Jessica, you don't understand... you're my daughter, and I love you!'"

"'Then why didn't you ever come see me?! My whole life all I've wanted to do was meet you!'"

"'I didn't even know you existed until four hours ago!'"

The eight year old who plays my daughter, Caroline, is good. I remember when we were auditioning the part - no one even came close to her. She's been acting since she was four and it shows, especially during rehearsal when someone else blows a line and she remembers it. Along with the rest of the scene. She's totally Hollywood bound.

I try to match her emotions best I can but it's hard, especially when she starts crying. I think about my parents and sure enough, my tears come too.

"'I'm... I'm so sorry, Jessica. You're right. I should've been here for you. I should've taken responsibility. I should've... oh, God, I'm so sorry.'"

My big monologue. My big moment. I let the water works fly, and I can hear people in the audience start crying as well. Good sign. I continue:

"'If I'd known... if I'd only known. I can't make up for the past, if I could I would, if I could've been there to see you grow up I would've... but I couldn't." I told Kara to edit all the coulds and woulds but she never got around to it. Luckily I have a talented tongue. "'I can't change things. I can't augment the past. All I can do is be here for you now. And that's what I want, Jessica. I want to be here for you. I want to be your dad. I... I am your dad. The only question is, do you want me to be?"

Caroline holds her tears back as mine start to come out in droves. She looks at me.

"'I don't know, Christian. I just don't know.'"

She runs off crying, leaving me on stage alone, and as I look into the audience, where hearts are breaking one by one, I fall to my knees and bury my face in my hands.

The lights dim. Curtain.

And the applause deafens.

Definitely.

As the cast and crew envelop me in the most loving group hug I've ever been a part of I can only think of one feeling that must be greater than this and that's being mobbed at home plate after hitting the home run that wins the World Series. Pure, sheer, unadulterated joy, the kind I can't even describe, the kind that makes the warm fuzzies in my stomach explode like a supernova and completely saturate my being. Time stands still and instead of love from one it's love from many, manymanymany, and even though the applause subsides it'll live on in my head forever. I'm elated.

I'm in love.

And my God, does it feel good.

I stand, tears and makeup streaming down my face, and the curtain rises once again. We take our bows and the applause swells. Kara and the rest of the girls push me forward. I resist but the shouts of Bravo! bombard me, so I move up stage just a little to revel in it. Bring on the shower of slappy hands, I'll never tire of it, ever.

A single rose flies from the audience and out of plain reaction I dodge it. I look back at Kara, and the irony isn't lost on either of us.

I mouth, I love you.

She mouths it too.

And life... is... perfect.

13

"HOLY SHIT DUDE, THAT WAS awesome!"

Ray and his girlfriend Angie are there to greet me as I walk out the front doors. Rain pounds the Earth something fierce, which explains why most of the theater goers have dissipated. My friends slap me on the back, grinning. I smile and give them both hugs.

"Hey, thanks, guys. Thanks for coming out."

Ray scoffs. "Like we'd miss opening night? Come on!"

"Seriously, Jim? You were great. I had no idea you could act like that." Angie lights a cigarette, offers me one. I decline.

"Oh, no thanks. I quit."

"Really?"

"Yup."

Ray elbows his better half. "See? If this guy can quit, anyone can."

"Oh shut up."

She exhales and as the smoke wafts my way, I can't help feeling somewhat nostalgic. I was a smoker for ten years – even with patches and nicotine gum the craving comes back once in awhile. I enjoy the secondhand and look up into the night.

"Cats and dogs, huh?"

Ray sighs. "Yup. We're parked way the hell over on Balmoral."

"Dude, that's like seven blocks."

"Well, Angie's the worst navigator of all time."

Now she elbows him. "Hey, I used the GPS."

"Whatever. Where's Kara?"

"Oh, she has a few more things to take care of before she can leave. Director stuff."

"So no dinner?"

"No, she'll meet us over there. The reservation is for nine thirty though, so if we're gonna make it we have to take your car."

Ray pops his five fingered Peninsula Hotel umbrella, which is big enough to shield all three of us.

"All righty, then. Let's do it."

Lowry's is buzzing but not too packed as we saunter in. The hostess takes us to our table and before the waiter can even explain the specials, Ray orders a bottle of the finest champagne in the house. I raise my eyebrows.

"Really, Ray?"

"Fuck yeah, dude! It's a special night."

I don't argue. When the bottle arrives the waiter goes to open it, but Angie stops him.

"Oh, wait, not yet! There's still one more coming."

We order some appetizers and shoot the shit while we wait for Kara. It turns out Ray got promoted at work and will now be the Vice President of Operations for his branch, resulting in a hefty pay increase and better hours. In addition to that, Angie's father, who was diagnosed with cancer a year ago, finished his last chemotherapy session yesterday. The cancer has been eradicated.

Now the champagne makes sense. I knew it wasn't just for me.

We laugh and gab and reminisce about the old days, when Ray and Angie first hooked up. She was living with this crazy cokehead Melissa, who would bring random guys over all the time and eat all the food and drink all the booze and plug in her stupid tanning light and let it burn until the sun came up and still expect Angie to split all the bills evenly. She had to get out of there so only after three months of dating Ray she moved into our oversized dump in Rogers Park, infiltrating our bachelor pad and basically making me a perpetual fifth wheel. Third wheel. Whatever.

"I never did get to say I'm sorry for that, Jim," she says. "I just couldn't live with that psycho anymore. And with no family out here... I had nowhere else to go, really."

"It's cool," I say, munching on a steak crostini. "Any ill will I might have had is long gone. It all worked out, baby!"

And it did. If Angie hadn't moved in with us I never would've started drinking so much, which means I wouldn't have been sitting on that stool that fateful night, which means I never would've hooked up with Kara.

It's funny how all the weird shit in life happens for a reason.

And most of the time it's in downpours, not drizzles.

The ice in the champagne bucket is all but melted as Kara finally arrives.

"Hi! Sorry I'm late, you guys."

She gives me a scintillating smooch on the lips and sits down. Ray motions to the waiter and he's there in a heartbeat.

"Are we ready?" he asks.

"Yes, Jeremy, we are. Pop that bad boy open."

He goes to work. Kara raises her eyebrows.

"Wow, champagne? What's the occasion?"

I look at Ray, who's smiling like a goofball, then at Angie, whose hand is outstretched. At first I'm confused but then spot it.

A rock the size of Gibraltar.

"We're engaged!"

Jeremy pops the champagne and the cork goes flying. Someone behind us yells "Opa!" as Ray and Angie kiss. I glance at Kara, who's almost as shocked as I am.

I turn back to my oldest friend and his fiancee.

"Well, hell yeah!" I shout, raising my glass. "Salud!"

We cheers, and drink, and all throughout dinner I can only think about one thing.

I want to marry Kara.

When we get back to my place she jumps my bones immediately.

"God, you were so good tonight, babe," she says, brushing my bangs aside. "I got so hot when you dropped to your knees at the end. That was exactly how I saw it in my head. You were just... incredible."

She starts kissing my neck and I let her. My head is buzzing from the champagne and I'm sure hers is too. Not drinking all the time has made us both lightweights and nowadays if I have two beers I'm slurring. It's kind of lame but also pretty cool. I spend less money and have more energy and can really tell when I've had too much, which keeps me from making a complete jackass of myself. Or telling some random reporter my whole life story.

All in all it's a good thing.

I kiss her face, her lips, her ears. I sweep her up in my arms and into the bedroom, where we almost break our crazy necks tearing each other's clothes off. We make fierce love, our bodies writhing in the night, and when I finally explode inside her my orgasm carries me off the Earth and into the great beyond. I'm sustained in suspended orbit and couldn't come down if I tried.

I collapse next to her and she settles into the broken in groove on my chest, kissing it lightly as she makes little Mmm sounds. Each time she does the vibration goes through my chest, and more endorphins flow from my head to my heart to my toes. I close my eyes and smile.

I can't picture myself with anyone else. I don't want to be with anyone else. This is it, my chance to be happy forever, in the person of this person, this goddess, this angel. Even with my eyes closed she's all I see, all I want, all I feel. I'm all in.

Mmm.

I'm halfway to Dreamland when my stupid phone goes off in the living room. I'm expecting a buzz from my weed guy so I get up to grab it, careful not to wake Kara.

I freeze when I see who's calling.

Paiger.

Shit.

I haven't heard from her since the last time we talked, when she told me our story was no more, when she told me everything I told her was completely and utterly useless because it was old news. That my story was dead. That the Dodger was dead.

Why the fuck would she be calling me now?

I answer just for an answer.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Jim."

"Yeah?"

"It's Paige. Long time no talk."

"Yeah."

There's silence as the fact that we're actually talking to each other sinks in. I break it.

"So what's up?"

"Oh, not much. Just wanted to see how you were."

"Well I'm great, thanks for asking."

"Good."

"Great."

"I saw you were in that show. Kara's show."

"Yup."

"How was opening night?"

"Wonderful, thank you."

"Did you kill it?"

"Why are you calling me at one in the morning, Paiger?"

"Well. Down to business, I see."

"I was sleeping, goddamn it."

"Sorry."

"Just tell me why the hell you're calling."

She clears her throat. "Okay. Um... well, it happened."

"What happened?"

"Our book deal. It finally happened."

I sit back on the couch, the ball of nerves in my stomach tightening. "What?"

"Our story. Grayson Publishing is going to publish it."

"What the fuck are you talking about? I never wrote a book."

"I did."

My stomach sinks. I almost throw up.

"Um... what?"

"I wrote a book, Jim. About you. About Kara. About all of it."

"You... wrote a book. Like a novel?"

"Yeah."

"Detailing what?"

"All the shit that happened with Kara."

My stomach sinks further, past my lower intestine, all the way down to my colon. I almost shit myself.

"Paige... what the hell? You can't do that. I never signed off on anything like that!"

"Well, it's only a loose representation. I don't need your approval."

"Bullshit you don't!"

"Jim... look, I don't feel like discussing this over the phone. Meet me at Crazy Dan's for lunch tomorrow."

"Meet yourself, you story stealer!"

"Don't be an infant. I'll see you at one."

Click. I don't get the chance to tear her a new one but figure it'll be much more effective in person.

What the hell.

Kara has to be at work by eleven so she's usually up by nine. After our morning sex I lay in bed and pretend to sleep while she gets ready. I don't want to have to mention my conversation with Paiger or the fact that I'm meeting her for lunch. My mind races.

Jesus.

Where does she get off? I told her that stuff in strict confidence. Well, with the intent of sharing some of it among Channel Eight's viewing public. But a book is a whole other entity. If anyone's going to write a book about the Dodger, shouldn't it be me, the actual Dodger? And what does loose representation mean? She changed the names? Instead of dodging a bullet, I dodge an arrow? She makes Kara a dude?

Christ.

My only comfort is knowing that she was totally bombed during the whole note taking process. That should muddle the composition quite a bit. Maybe she filled in the gaps with some really awesome adventures or jokes. Maybe she just used our story as a skeleton for a bedazzling and spectacular foundation upon which to build a fictional masterpiece for the ages.

Or it could suck ass.

Kara leans over the bed and kisses me on the lips. I open my eyes and smile.

"Bye."

"Bye. I'll call you later."

She leaves. I stare at the ceiling and sigh.

I hope it's just the skeleton, cause if there's any meat on those bones I'm fucked.

I manage a few more hours of shut eye and get to Crazy Dan's around one thirty. To hell with it – let her wait.

She's sitting in the same booth she was the first time we met here, only now instead of feverishly scribbling in a notebook, she's texting on an IPhone sporting a contemptuous glare. My how things change in a year. Well, nine months.

I sit. She doesn't even look up. I knock on the table, slightly hard, and she jumps.

"Hey, Paiger!"

She slants her eyes at me and puts down the phone. "Hi, Jim."

The waitress comes by, the same one we had last time, and fills my coffee cup. Paiger and I stare at each other in silence for what seems like eternity. Finally:

"You look good."

I stare harder. "What?"

"You look good. You look fit. Healthy. You wear it well."

The compliment catches me off guard but calms me down. I sip. "Thanks. I quit smoking. And drinking."

"You quit drinking?"

"Just the fact that you say it like that tells me I made the right decision."

"Well, of course. I just didn't see that coming."

"It was either quit or be miserable forever. And misery gets really boring."

"No doubt."

She takes a sip, smiling, but I don't let her prettiness overtake me. Even contemptuous, she's still really hot.

"So... you wrote a book."

She stiffens, sits back. "Yeah. Yeah I did."

"Why?"

"Well, I had all that good material. I couldn't just let it go to waste."

"But it's my story!"

"I told you, it's a loose represen---"

"Yeah, yeah. Look, I have to read it."

"You will. It hits bookstores tomorrow."

"What?!"

"Yeah. The publishers think it's going to be an overnight success. They said it's really good."

She sips again, and I just stare at her, speechless. She smiles.

"Are you hungry?"

Since I am I order a Denver omelet and tell the waitress to keep the coffee coming. I've always wanted to say that but can't enjoy the moment this minute.

"Okay... Paiger, I have to read it."

"You'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"Not to sound like a broken record, but it's my story!"

"I'm prepared to offer you a deal, Jim."

"The only deal I wanted was the book deal. Thief."

"Ten thousand dollars, and ten percent of the first run's sales."

Now it's my turn to sit back. "Really."

"Yeah. But on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You stop being the Dodger."

"What?"

She sighs. "You never talk about dodging that bullet ever again. If someone recognizes you as the Dodger, you say, no, that wasn't me, I just look like him. Ask your family and friends never to bring it up again, to anyone, because it's embarrassing. It didn't happen to you."

"But the people who know me are going to know it's about me!"

"It's a handful of people, Jim. You're not that popular."

"Kick me when I'm down. Great."

"Hey." She puts her hands flat on the table and looks at me. "Do you think, for one second, people really remember the whole Dodger thing? Like really remember it? For most regular people it's a bedtime story they once heard, or a movie they saw, or a bad joke they tried to forget. It's a fable. And when they read my book, they'll think, 'Hey, I've heard this story before, but I don't remember where or when.' That's what'll connect them to it. And make them buy it. And recommend it."

She leans back. Chills run down my spine as I stare at her.

"Wow, you are pure evil."

"Oh, grow up. Take the deal."

"What if I get a lawyer involved? What if I sue you for defamation of character?"

"Do you even know what that means?"

"I can look it up."

"Well, the character's not named Jim Bailey."

"So you at least did change the names."

"Of course I did. Idiot."

I cradle my head in my hands and try to keep it from exploding. "I have to read it."

Paiger eyes me for the longest time, then finally breaks. She pulls a paperback out of her purse and tosses it to me. I stare at the cover art, which is of an unusually large bullet speeding toward an unusually small heart.

Written inside the heart is Dodger. Written on the bullet is A Novel, By Paige Scott.

I drop it and run to the bathroom, where I do, at long last, throw up.

I return to find the check taken care of and the novel still in my omelet. Paiger is nowhere to be seen but has left a note:

Jim, read it. Then get back to me. Paige.

I grab the book and fly out the door.

14

IT'S A REAL PAGE TURNER.

I grip the paperback tightly and sit on the couch, wide eyed. I took some Pepto Bismol for my stomach and drank a cup of hot tea for my nerves, but the more I read the more I really only want one thing and that's a big old bottle of Jack Daniels to upend into my gullet.

It's that bad.

Not the writing. The writing is beautiful. The writing flows off the page. But what she wrote. God, what she's written.

It's everything.

The words I said, the words Kara said, the vernacular I used, the phrases I uttered. Even though our names are now Joe and Emily, anyone who knows anything about us will know it's us within ten pages. Loose representation, my ass.

It's almost like she found a map of my brain and was able to navigate it like Lewis and Clark. She's the Sacajawea, the Captain Kirk, the Amerigo Vespucci of my head.

And it's scary as shit.

All the me dodging the bullet stuff is accurate. Colleen's cunning attempt to seduce me is spot on. The Good Day America interview might as well be verbatim. Even my limo ride home with Phil Jinx is documented.

Wait, I never told her about that.

What the hell?

She's changed things around a bit as her character is now named Ellen and isn't a reporter but a random girl Joe meets at the bar and spills his guts to. After drinking and talking all night they proceed to her place to smoke some super terrific pot, and Joe gives birth to the fateful idea of Ellen pretending to be his girlfriend to make Emily jealous. She's slightly smitten with Joe so she agrees. They pass out, and Joe's none the wiser that Ellen likes him.

It's a dandy little plot twist.

The night at Snakepit, or Dungeon in the novel, Joe and Ellen succeed in making Emily jealous but instead of not hooking up they do and Joe is thrust into the middle of a good old fashioned love triangle. He deals with it by spilling more of his guts to Ellen.

Lots more.

Fuck me. She put in Brian Night.

Holy shit. The night at the Pick Me Up.

Oh no. Not the birthday calls.

God help me.

All the drinking and blasphemy and fucking and yelling and fighting and remorse and agony is captured in this little opus, a testament to the pain I went through, a diary of disaster, a play by play of poison. It's raw and emotional and powerful and makes me want to jump off a bridge. Did it really go down like this? Did I really behave like that? The self loathing and crying and acting like a spaz... was that really who I used to be? Wallowing and whining and feeling like a complete piece of shit? It all seems like a million years ago. And the drinking... my God. I was drunk all the time, drowning, dying. It's a miracle I'm sitting here at this moment.

Reading this.

Christ.

Joe, the poor bastard, is torn between two girls whose names both start with E. Emily's the girl he's been gaga over for two years, and Ellen is a sympathetic soul who could be the savior he needs. Whatever will he do?

Bang them both, of course.

As art imitates life Emily gets ahold of Joe and of course, they hook up. Joe is torn even more as he tries to decide if he should tell Ellen.

And of course, he doesn't.

Instead, he gets drunk as shit and goes out in the neighborhood kicking over garbage cans and newspaper machines. A squad car rolls up and the cops draw their guns and they're about to take him out when one of them recognizes him as the Dodger. They take him home and even though he's belligerent and crying like a baby the cops let him off the hook. He's a hero. Duh.

He evaluates things and decides to end it with Ellen. He calls her and spouts some crap about how Emily is his drug, oh wait I did say that, and how he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't see where it goes with her. Ellen understands... but tells Emily anyway. Not only that she and Joe had sex, but that the whole thing at Dungeon was an act. Emily's devastated.

So in a gut wrenching scene that includes Joe using the good old phrase 'all my love turns to hate', she says she never wants to see him again and storms out. Now Joe's devastated, and he stays that way for months.

Then June first rolls around. She had to keep it the first, didn't she? Alas, Joe gets hammered yet again on Emily's birthday, and initiates ye old drunk dial.

Only this time, she answers.

They meet, instantly reconnect on that magic level only they two know, and fall back in love once again. And that's how it ends. With Joe and Emily together. Me and Kara.

The happy ending I always wanted, and actually got.

I still want to marry her. And with ten thousand dollars, it'd be a lot easier.

But this book... this book may cause a problem.

I throw it across the room.

Aside from champagne and the single dirty Martini I had last night, alcohol has not passed through these lips since my birthday in July... which is why I almost gag on impact as the cheap gin someone left in the freezer barges its way down my throat. I manage to hold it in, and celebrate with some more.

Then dial Paiger.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Hemingway."

"Jim."

"Who else? That was some story, Paiger, I gotta say."

"So you liked it?"

"Ha!" I swig again. "Yeah, I loved it. I especially love the part where you describe, in detail, the intimate conversations and moments that Kara and I shared... oh wait, that's the whole goddamn book! Jesus, Paige, how could you do this to me?!"

"All right, just calm down. Have you been drinking?"

"I just started!"

"Well, stop. You've worked so hard to clean yourself up, and you'd be a fool to throw it all away over this."

"Over this?! You've ruined my life!"

"Oh, I think that's a little dramatic."

"Is it?"

"Yes. How is this, in any way, going to ruin your life?"

I sigh. "Paige, what am I supposed to do... when Kara reads a book by you... about me and her?"

There's a long pause before she asks, but she finally does.

"Wait... you never told her?"

I groan. And drink. "Of course not. Why would I tell her?"

"Because you're in a relationship and the foundation of that should be honesty?"

"Oh, whatever! You could've told her, and you didn't!"

"No, but I wrote a book about it."

"Ahh! You're the devil, I swear to God!"

"Jim, just tell her. And show her the book. You'll have the money and anonymity to soften the blow."

"She's gonna break up with me. Or at the very least, kill me."

Paiger sighs. "Look, she's going to find out soon enough. It'll be easier coming from you. And if she dumps you... well, you're too good for her, anyway."

I laugh. "Thanks, thanks a lot. That really, really helps."

"Anytime."

"Can I ask you something?"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

"How did you remember everything, everything that I told you, while you were so goddamn wasted?"

Another long pause. Then:

"I wasn't wasted, Jim. I was faking."

Kaboom.

"What?"

"I wasn't drunk. For every two or three drinks you had, I had maybe one. If I was drinking rum and cokes, they were cokes. If it was beer, it was non alcoholic. If you saw me do a shot, it was probably water."

I sit back on the couch and tip the bottle. Almost gone. I stare at the remaining gin and suddenly realize how easy it was to just drink my life away, to surrender all hope of a normal existence and journey down the path of self destruction, to make booze the end all be all of everything. As long as I'm drunk I don't have to feel. It's easy breezy never having to care or be cared about.

But then there were the times in between, when I was suspended in a balloon, when someone really special would enter my life and I'd change just like that. Joy wrapped around me and happiness ensued... only the longer I tried to make it last, the quicker Liquid Lucifer would return and ruin it. Ruin me. The joy couldn't last forever, they were just moments that passed. Eventually the balloon would pop and all the good air I sucked in would blow out and it's back to being me, back to where I started, back to yearning and burning and churning with disgust. New job new place new problems new life, a revolving door of guilt and shame, a to go order of heartbreak and agony. New friends new enemies new girls. New pain. Back to the bottom of the barrel, and the bottle. Whoever doesn't believe that humans are creatures of habit needs to have their fucking head examined.

A year of sobriety is nothing compared to the twelve year love affair I've had with this potion, the magic elixir, my number one numbness enhancer and all around memory wiper. All the hurtful words I've laid upon my loved ones, all the damage I've done to my body, all the bike wrecks and skateboard spills, all the goddamn drunk dials. All forgotten with one tip of the bottle.

It's good for what ails ya, yes indeed, and now that we're together again I can continue my downfall and fully fulfill my destiny of pain and loneliness.

"Jim?"

All thanks to Paiger.

"Yeah, I'm here. Just... letting that sink in, I guess."

"I'm sorry. But I couldn't retain all the information if I was drinking. I needed to stay focused."

"Focused on getting me drunk so I'd spill my guts."

"Yeah."

"You used me."

"Well... of course I did. We used each other. Didn't you know, Dodger? That's how the world works."

And there it is.

There goes the gin.

"I want the money tonight."

"What?"

"The ten grand. I want it tonight. I want it when I tell Kara. That's my only shot at keeping her around."

"You think she'll stay with you because of the money?"

"You said it would work!"

"I said it would help. But she's a woman, Jim. We're unpredictable when it comes to matters of the heart."

I nearly throw my phone across the room.

"Fine," I say, now tipsy enough to tip over myself. "But this is my call. I want the money. Tonight."

"Fine."

Beep. I sit up, exasperated.

I need a cigarette.

My walk to Walgreens is short but feels long as hell and I can't wait to get that sweet little filter between my lips. Marlboro Marlboro, wherefore art thou Marlboro? I tap the pack twice and unwrap it feverishly, lighting up with the desperation of a crackhead. Upon first inhale, I nearly cough both my lungs out. Rusty pipes. I try again and it's much smoother, and the nicotine settles back into my lungs sweetly, safely, sentimentally. I feel better.

But what... do I do?

I consider my grisly options. Tell Kara. Don't tell Kara. Talk to a lawyer. Don't talk to a lawyer. Take the money. Don't take the money. Kill Paiger. Don't kill Paiger.

Hmm. Kill Paiger.

I journey to the liquor store and pick up more alcohol and beers, all the way thinking about how good it would feel to wring Paiger's scrawny pretty little neck. No matter what I do or say Kara's going to leave me, for I've lied and lied and violated her trust beyond belief. Why didn't I just tell her the truth to begin with? Why did I think I could hide something that was so obviously meant to be known? And not just by Kara, but the whole world?

I'm a fraud.

I'm a louse.

I'm a liar.

I'm the Dodger.

And soon enough, I'll be a murderer.

15

VIOLENT TENDENCIES DON'T RUN IN my family. The closest my dad ever got to violence was verbal abuse and my mom couldn't even kill a spider without feeling remorse. I've never hit a chick or even thought about it and aside from kicking my own ass, I've never really enjoyed punching anything other than walls and vending machines. And the very thought of a human life ending by my hands leaves me sick, disgusted, and twisted up inside.

But Paiger... God, how could she do this to me?

I mix up an old classic, vodka Gatorade, and smoke into the night. Thinking. Trapped in time. I wish I could remember more of what I told Paiger all those drunken nights. Maybe I could write my own novel and prove that hers is a fraudulent portrayal and a hideous representation of the actual truth. Our books will go toe to toe in sales and all the talk shows will have us on to argue our sides of the story. Since only Paiger and I know what actually occurred it'll be a grand debate, scandalous and dramatic and bombarded with media exposure. People will eat it up with a spoon.

We'll go on opposing book tours and things will really heat up when the world finds out we're lovers, which we just say we are for the scandal. Little white lie. We'll be all over People and Time and Life and Highlights For Children and we'll get our own reality show called The Dodger Debate and secretly promise to each other never to reveal the truth to the public. We'll make tons of money and after the fame goes away, we'll go our separate ways. I'll pine for Kara and eventually wind up blowing my own head off in a villa in Seattle wearing a tee shirt that says Dodge This. Paiger will then write a book about that and become a celebrity all over again.

Jesus. Now I'm thinking like her.

Drink.

I've been betrayed.

I've been betrayed before, but never like this.

My life force has been stolen from me.

The feeling of being beaten to the punch on writing my own story sucks. It's not only a reminder of how stupid I am, but also how lazy. And how distracted I've become.

Kara.

I chose love over life.

Not that love isn't a great part of life, but shit on a shingle, it's a distraction.

I was so focused on making things work with Kara that I forgot what my true calling was, to write, to actually be depressed and miserable on purpose so I could tap into true, raw emotion and write from a bloody, wounded, dripping pus heart. No one wants to read a book by someone who's had a great life. Happy people make shitty writers.

And I went and got happy.

Drink.

And got back into acting. What the hell was I thinking? I loathe acting. But Kara was writing this play and I loved the part and I loved her and motivated her to finish it so I was really almost responsible for its completion, so how could I not be in it? It was the lead, for Christ's sake.

But a terrible move.

In the process of making that transformation back to actor, I got lost. Who I actually am fell by the wayside. I began to recognize myself less and less but that was good because things around me were going great and I had the girl and the health and the productivity going, so I rode it as far as I could and began to see light at the end of the tunnel, a means to an end and a beginning. That was it for me. I was done, no more drinking, no more smoking, no more feeling guilty and horrible about a life just wasted, no more wanting a gruesome, bitter end to the story of Jim Bailey, once and forever known as the Dodger. I pulled myself from the depths of hell and came out on the other side, feeling like a newborn, a man with a second chance, the recipient of a new heart and a new way of life. Things were perfect.

I knew it wouldn't last.

That light at the end of the tunnel was bullshit. My car got splattered all over the walls Final Destination style. I'm a smear of blood and bones and metal on metal. Lights out, sucker.

Fuck.

I drink more. Now I'm buzzing, here we go. I throw on some Elliot Smith and really start to get emotional, yeah here we go, finally some tears, some crying's what I need, I felt like I haven't felt in years and I've forgotten how to release, how to let go, how to blow my nose after that first wave of intense weeping nearly blows my mucous membranes to smithereens. I breathe heavily through my mouth, gasping, grasping for life, this is what I missed this is what I need this is what I crave. I am not a happy person so why did I decide to change? I've let myself down. I chose a forbidden path and left the person I've been living with for years in a trail of dust behind me, the little boy I was, the teenager I hated, the self loathing self harmer, the drunk, the pothead, the passionate musician, the hilarious outgoing life of the party, the glue of many groups of friends, the charming disarming ladies' man, the effortlessly excellent writer, the heart on his sleeve feeling bearer, the drunk, the suicidal lonely heart, the Dodger, the drunk.

With all of that shed I was free to resurrect. So I did.

But it was all based on a lie.

I faked it.

Drink.

Through a straw.

I recover from the crying fit and bask in its afterglow. Nothing like a good tear session. I teeter and sway on the couch as I sip a fresh V/G, glad to be back in good company. Drunk, welcome back, you've been missed, a search party was almost sent out several times until I thought about Kara and decided your presence wasn't necessary. But now it is. I'm glad we've found each other once again, my tulip, my angel, my soul savior. Let's take the trip down the rabbit hole together and ruin this life of mine once and for all.

Drink.

I sit back and think about the last nine months, all the progress I've made, all the wonderful, beautiful times that I've shared with Kara and how I would do anything to hold onto that, to make a life with her and settle down and actually, finally be normal. Get married. Raise a family. Save money. Buy a car. All that shit.

Ah, who am I kidding?

This experiment was doomed from the get go. I can't change who I am. I have moments of strength that can apparently last up to nine months, but in the end, I'll always be me.

Stonedrunktired, tired of life. Tired of living.

I'd really just like to get it over with.

So there we go. I'll off Paiger, then off myself. With both of us dead the only two people who know the truth will be eliminated and the only truth Kara will ever know is what's in the book, which will never be confirmed nor denied. I can spare her at least a little pain, avoid my own pain by being dead, and avoid going to prison for murder and getting ass raped. It's brilliant.

But can I do it?

The drunk writer in me comes back into my head and talks the talk, you know you can do it, Paiger stabbed you in the back, and if the current course of events is allowed to continue you'll wind up even more miserable than you are now. Kara will hate you. Paiger will be famous. You'll have to leave the country because the very mention of either of their names will make you vomit, and you'll wind up sucking on a car muffler for breakfast one Wednesday morning in Panama City.

Once and forever, the Dodger.

Let's get it over with.

Paiger texts me that she'll be over around ten. Kara went home after work to walk her dog so I text her I'm going out and that I'll see her tomorrow. Big fat lie, the last lie I'll ever tell her, the last lie I'll ever tell anyone. She texts me I Heart You with an emoticon. I cry for another ten minutes, then shift back into murder mode.

So how do I do it?

The less blood, the better. I hate blood. But in a makeshift situation such as this, blood may have to be involved. I put some newspapers down on the kitchen floor, just in case it's via knife. Actually, maybe a frying pan. I can bash her skull in until it's flat as a pancake, then make pancakes to celebrate. Oh wait, I'll be dead.

But there's always time for pancakes.

I consider more options. Drown her in the bathtub? That might make a lot of noise. Hmm, maybe not if I knock her out first. I could push her down the stairs, if I had stairs in my apartment. Where can I find stairs this time of night? I could knock her out and drive to the lake and toss her in. Wait, my license is expired. Fuck. Burn her alive in the backyard? Drop her off in a bad neighborhood? Maybe just a simple pillow over the face?

Man, this is hard.

Drink.

For something as dramatic as a murder/suicide, a note should definitely be left. I put the method of murder debate on hold and grab a pencil and paper. My legibility is for shit and I'm almost seeing double as I scribble:

Dearest Kara.

I first want to start off by saying I'm really sorry. For reasons I won't go into this needed to happen, I needed to end my life, it's not worth going into, it's nothing that really matters. What matters is you. For the last nine months I've been the happiest I've ever been, and all the intimate moments we've shared, all the laughing and fun and love, it's been incredible. I can't imagine my life without you. I can't imagine living without you. To hear your voice and see your eyes and taste your lips is the reason I get out of bed in the morning, the only reason I do anything, you're the apple of my eye, the saving grace of my existence, the love of my life. You are everything to me and without you I would've been dead a long time ago. My clock was ticking and you stopped it. I breathe now only for you, which is why I have to leave you.

I'm sorry. Someday you'll understand.

Yours always, Jim.

I read it aloud and smile. Better than the first letter I wrote her, much more cliché and a lot less vaginal. Hell, maybe this whole thing will result in Kara becoming more famous than Paiger or I could've ever dreamed. The sole survivor of the whole Dodger saga, the one, the only, Kara Miller. An actress. A playwright. A director.

My God, she could have it all.

I figure I'll hide the money somewhere safe and leave a note in one of my plaid sportscoats or a pair of khakis, somewhere she won't have to look until deciding which pieces of my wardrobe are worth keeping and which pieces deserve front rack exposure at the Salvation Army. She'll use the cash and her newfound fame to renovate a theater, name it Jim Bailey Theater and start a theater company, and they'll put on successful play upon play, catapulting Kara to instant stardom. She'll eventually be tapped to write and direct movies, and when she wins an Oscar for Best Picture Ever, all she can do is thank me me me during her heartfelt, emotional speech. I made it all possible, my death made it happen. From the grave, it's Jim Bailey, making a difference one life at a time. Bwahaha.

The whole thing will be a smashing success and I'll live on through Kara, she'll be a constant reminder that I had an intense effect on the world and still do, even in death.

I can live with that.

Nine thirty. Half an hour. I drink up, method of murder decided: stranglehold, while Stranglehold plays in the background. Ted Nugent, The Nuge, providing the score for my ultimate payback with one of the greatest rock songs of all time.

It's poetic.

The weird thing is that part of me really wants Paiger to know she's going to die, to realize she's going to have a last breath, to have the last thought on her mind be I Am Going To Die By The Hands Of Jim Bailey. I want the last thing she sees to be me, arms outstretched around that pretty little neck, me, the final person she gets to fuck over, me, choking the ever loving life from her itty bitty body. She stole my reason to live so I'm going to steal her life. It's a pretty fair trade overall.

This feeling I have is weird. This feeling that all I want to do is end another human being's existence, that nothing in the world can repair the damage done by this person, that the only way to right what's been wronged is the old time act of murder, plain simple murder. Is this what a natural predator feels like when it stalks its prey? Is this what all those crazy fucks who kill at will surrender to? Hunter, gatherer, Dodger, murderer. I'm taking it all in stride.

Prey, indeed. Prey for a quick death.

Prey, Paiger.

I realize now that I was never really here, this life, this existence, that I always had one foot in the pool and the other in the casket. I knew my time would be short, which is why I lived in the moment and to the point.

I was an only child, and a child of divorce. I was never left wanting. I never got hit or spanked and was mercilessly spoiled every birthday and Christmas. I got everything I wanted and more than I deserved, so of course I threw it all away.

Up until their deaths I still felt like my parents' kid, always trying to make them laugh and always willing to listen to their problems because I knew they had no one else. Neither of them remarried after they divorced. Neither of them even had long term relationships. For the most part, they flew solo the last twenty years of their lives.

When I was younger, it always boggled my mind.

Why would anyone just give up looking for love midlife? It was total surrender, the admittance of bitter defeat, the acceptance of the inevitable, which was isolation, loneliness, and sitting in front of the TV all the way to the grave. An existence expired, no more making a difference, no more having a place in the world. I vowed not to let that happen to me.

So all through my twenties I completely smothered the girls I wanted to be with. Great plan. It only took getting my heart ripped in half a few times before I put up my defenses for good. One night stands became the way to go, just get my rocks off and never see them again, even the ones I actually kind of liked because I knew they'd be the ones to hurt me the most. Booze and drugs became my best friends and I couldn't make the leap into adulthood to save my life. I didn't want to. If being alone was good enough for my parents, why wasn't it good enough for me?

This went on for years.

Until Kara.

I knew she was my one true chance at happiness the minute I saw her. And I had her. Three times.

But I screwed it up. Three times.

I am my parents' son.

But my life's been pretty awesome.

I've been in a band, know how to ride a skateboard, been in a helicopter, won a spelling bee, survived a car accident, ran the bases at Wrigley, kissed the Stanley Cup, threw a cup of piss at a bus driver, seen Mount Rushmore, tasted some great beer, driven halfway across the country, lived in Seattle for seven days, smoked some hellacious herb, never had a bad trip on mushrooms, fucked some sexy ass women, been to five Lollapaloozas in a row, been to Vegas, saw Michael Jordan play live, been the star of several viral videos, dodged a bullet, was the lead in a play, touched some amazing people's lives with great advice and emotional moments, and finally, had my one great love. I did it. It happened. I wish my parents had been alive to see that, but I guess I'll see them soon enough. They'll be so proud.

I'm happy to be going out on my own terms. Like a pimp. Most people fight death kicking and screaming, but I'm really, truly looking forward to it.

Change is good.

I crack open an ice cold Stella. Last beer for awhile, and I wouldn't dream of drinking anything else.

One thought races through the buzzway of my brain and that's that I may be overlooking how this whole thing is going to effect Kara. We've had a great run, she does love me, and aside from the one big lie, we've always been honest with each other.

But after she gets the news that I drove Paiger's car into oncoming traffic on Lake Shore Drive, she'll know the truth. Well, not the whole truth, but she'll know at least one thing.

She never should've trusted me.

I told everything. The book is tell all, tell all see all hear all, all because I was hammered, hammered and duped. For the rest of her life Kara will carry the burden of never knowing exactly what happened between the Dodger and the Paiger, whether any of the story was true or if it was all a fabrication, or even fiction. It's better she doesn't know because she wasn't meant to find out, especially not like this, through a book written by some goddamn big mouthed reporter. If anyone should tell her it's me, because it's my story to tell.

But fuck it.

This story is much better, much more truthful, with no chance of some stupid happy ending.

This story is real.

And it'll have a real ending.

16

I SIT ON THE COUCH and drink in agony. Ten o'clock. This is it. Stranglehold is cued up on the stereo. My fingers and wrists are stretched out so as not to pull a muscle. I've never choked anyone before but imagine it's quite a workout, and although Paiger's kinda tiny something tells me she's a fighter. I must be prepared.

A frying pan close by never hurt.

There's a knock on the door, here we go.

"Come in."

She does, the one and only Paige Scott, carrying a sleek black briefcase and a sour look. I laugh.

"A black briefcase? Really?"

"It's all I had laying around."

"Ha! You kill me, Paiger."

She shuts the door and puts the briefcase on the table. I expect her to take off her coat but she just stands there, arms crossed. I sip.

"Well... drink?"

"No, thanks."

I laugh again. "Come on, Paiger. This is a celebration! Your book is going to be a success. And me... well, I'm ten thousand dollars richer." I sip again. "I insist... have a drink with me."

She sighs, but relaxes and sits on the couch. "All right, just one. Make it strong, will you?"

I smile, go to the kitchen, mix her a tall vodka nothing. She has no idea what's about to happen. In less than five minutes everything is going to change. A wrong will be put right and another wrong will set things right. Justice will be served and I can die happy.

It's the perfect finale.

I resist the temptation to spit in Paiger's glass and bring it to her. Then sit down. One last drink together, in our final moments. How appropriate.

I hold mine up.

"Cheers, Paiger."

"Cheers."

We drink, I savor, she nearly gags.

"Jesus, is this just vodka?"

"Is it? I thought it was water. My bad."

"Funny, Jim."

"Thanks."

"So the money's all there. Do you want to count it?"

"You count it."

She sips her vodka again, glaring at me, but lays the briefcase on the table and opens it.

And ooh la la la la.

Cold hard cash.

She starts counting it. I watch intently, partly because I don't trust her, but mainly because I forgot what it was like to be her friend. There was a point where I actually cared about this girl. We were close once. I trusted her. And she seemed to care, too. Was that all an act? Did she ever really care?

"Hey."

I kick the table, and the money almost falls off. She straightens it without looking at me.

"Don't do that. I almost lost count. Hey, what?"

"Hey. You suck, you know that?"

She looks at me, then slowly goes back to counting.

"Yeah, I know I do."

"Can I ask you something?"

"I'd be disappointed if ---"

"Did you ever give a shit about me at all? Like, as a human? As a God's honest person?"

"Jim..." She finishes counting, and as I haven't been counting along or even paying attention she closes the briefcase. "I cared about you a lot. More than... more than you know."

"What does that mean?"

"Nevermind."

"No, tell me. This information is paramount."

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Oh, plenty."

"Then I'm not really in the mood to discuss it."

I sigh, sip. "Well, this could be the last chance we have to discuss it. I don't really see myself calling you up for a chat anytime soon. So, you know... just fucking come out with it."

She looks at me for a moment with those eyes of green and they pierce me like always. She sips, sighs. "All right. That first night we talked, I kind of developed a crush on you."

"What?"

"Come on, Jim. Did you really think Ellen's feelings in the book were purely fictitious? You're cute. You're funny. And you talk with such passion... I was actually jealous of Kara. You were just so into her. I remember really wanting you, so much to the point that I let myself drink more than I should've, to see if a little liquid courage would allow me to go for it. I wound up biting your nose instead. And the more we talked the more I realized it was never going to happen, because you were so in love with Kara that it would've taken an army of me's to distract you. Maybe that wouldn't have even worked, I don't know."

I drink, mouth gaping. She drinks and continues:

"So I decided to just get the information and not let my feelings go any further than that... and the more we talked and the more you told me about Kara, the easier it was. You were so hung up. All those phone calls, all your stupid botched attempts to make her feel special. You showed too much too soon, with both of us. It seems to be a pattern in your life, one that's not doing you any good."

"Don't fucking psychoanalyze me!"

"I'm not! I'm not. I'm just saying, look where being you has gotten you."

I take a long hard swig. "You know what? Fuck you, Paiger. Go fuck yourself."

"Hey, if it wasn't for me you'd still be a nothing!" Her voice rises. I sit back. "Loathing yourself and drinking your life away. An alkie. At least you got a taste of what it's like to be a normal adult. Hopefully it was enough to make you want to stay. Stay and be something."

"The days of me being anything are over."

She shakes her head. "If you want to go back to your old ways, that's your choice. Ten thousand dollars will buy a lot of cheap vodka." She swigs to match me. "And you know what? None of this would've happened if you didn't have such a big mouth."

"Yeah, no shit."

"No, really. I'll admit that after the interview I was curious what your deal was, but my interest didn't really peak until I talked to Phil."

"Who the fuck is Phil?"

"Phil Jinx. Your driver that morning."

I close my eyes as the room starts to spin.

"You... talked to Phil."

"He told me that you told him about this birthday party you and Kara were at and how you both got fucked up and made each other cry and all this other dramatic shit and... well, I was moved. I thought it was romantic. I knew there had to be a great story there, and the fact that you were willing to be so honest and tell a complete stranger all those intimate details made you a reporter's wet dream. But you never called me back. Two years went by, and I'd forgotten all about it, but then there you were in that bar, and I couldn't not confront you. Then you told me all that shit and I was hooked." She swigs again. "Once I realized Kara was back in town, I had my angle. I knew I could crack you like a nut, and I did. It was a good story. We have a good story. And even though it took us all this time to finally get to the end, we got here. Here we are."

"And here is just so goddamn wonderful."

"Do you hate me?"

"You're not my favorite person in the world."

"I don't doubt it."

"So why the happy ending?"

"You mean in the book?"

"Yeah. You let me and Kara wind up together. Even though you knew... you knew that wasn't gonna happen."

"It happened."

"An ending is just that – the end. Once she finds out the truth, it's over."

"Every ending's a beginning, Jim."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, it's that simple. Keep telling yourself that, Paiger." I drink. So does she. Then:

"Since we probably won't ever see each other again, I guess I should finally tell you the truth. The whole truth, that is."

Nausea sets in. My stomach lurches as I shudder to think what more this five foot five bundle of evil could do to destroy me.

"There was never a news story. This whole thing, seducing you into spilling your guts, was just so I could write a book about it. I like being a reporter, but really, I'm a writer at heart. And you... you were the perfect subject."

She somehow manages to trump herself every time. My legs go numb, and she leans closer.

"And I knew that if I let you write the book, it'd be some depressing, crybaby narrative that reads like a teenage girl's diary and probably ends with you killing yourself."

"Ha!" I squirm.

"Yeah, ha. Well, that ending sucks. So I made it a happy one. For you. Maybe that'll inspire you to create a great life for yourself after all this is over." She downs her drink and stands. "I should go."

I down mine, cross over to the stereo, hit play. Stranglehold starts. I crack my knuckles and blow hot air into my fists. This is it. If I'm going to do it, it has to be now, and now there's more reason than ever. All of this, everything, was based on a lie. We deserve to die, both of us, if only to make the world that much better of a place. Two people like us, who care about nothing and no one but themselves, two people who lie and manipulate and use, two people that shouldn't be allowed to talk to any of the other humans because it only leads to hurt and pain and heartbreak. Loneliness, anger, disappointment. Death.

Life will be better without us. Smooth sailing.

I will miss Kara, though.

The song is in the middle of the ridiculously awesome guitar solo. I turn back to Paiger, who's standing now, watching me with either sympathy or pity or both. Whatever it is humanizes her in a way I've never seen. I actually feel sorry for her. She's had to live with a secret too, an equally deceptive one, and if anyone can understand that, it's me.

"Lying just erodes the soul, doesn't it Paiger?"

She laughs. "Yeah, it does Jim. It really does."

I grab my smokes off the table and light one. "You wanna tell Kara the truth for me? I'll give you ten thousand dollars."

"No, I think you should do the honors. You're the boyfriend."

"Not for long."

"At least you got to be with her for a little while."

"Yeah, well that's not nearly enough." I suck in the smoke, offer her a drag. She accepts. "Once you get a taste of true love, being threatened with its loss can drive you to the brink of madness, madness and beyond. That seems to be where I am, so I guess you could call me crazy."

She drags, passes, stays silent. I finish the cigarette and something inside me snaps and I rush toward her, fully intending to wrap my hands around her throat and throttle, but they land on both sides of her head and I wind up kissing her instead. She kisses back with full force and our vodka soaked nicotine laced tongues go at it, wrestling for dominance, two tongues that have been forced to lie so much it's a wonder they still work at all, and they commiserate and take comfort in knowing another tongue has gone through fellow hardships. Swirl around, you bastards, for it's the first and last time you'll ever meet. Savor every single second.

They do.

As I lift Paiger off the ground she wraps her legs around me, kisses my neck, and holds on tight as I whisk us off to the bedroom. We ravage each other something fierce, no lovey dovey shit, just two animal bodies writhing and relieving the stress and anxiety that comes with having a terribly tainted conscience. No words are spoken, just grunts and groans and moans, and as I feel her climax around me, she looks deep into my far gone eyes.

It's then I see them again.

Kara's eyes.

Kara's eyes in Paiger.

I fuck like a madman.

17

WE LAY NEXT TO EACH other, sweating, sated, satisfied. My orgasm's left me seeing stars. The endorphins surge rampant through my body as I stare at the ceiling, trying to process what's just occurred.

A revenge bang.

Ha.

This was so much better than killing her.

At the last second I couldn't do it. Even drunk and charged up, I couldn't do it. Murder isn't in my lineage. The concept isn't even remotely attractive to me. Plus, Paiger's going to be a successful human, so she should stay around for awhile. Maybe I'll be the only person she ever fucks over and from now on she'll use her powers for good, for writing books that mean something, for telling stories that can actually help people.

One can hope, anyway.

And as for my suicide... eh.

I kind of want to see what happens next.

I yawn, and Paiger rolls over onto my chest, kissing it softly. Sleep ensues, drunk orgasm sleep, and the stars orbit around my head as I drift into oblivion.

Mmm.

As we bask nakedly in the moonlight I don't hear the key in the lock, so when the lights go on in the living room I sit up like I've been tazed. Only one person has a key to my place, and it's the only person that would be coming to see me at three in the morning. Paiger sits up, looks at me. She knows who it is, too.

I slither out of bed, throw on my boxers, poke my head into the living room.

And there she is.

Kara.

She's sitting on the couch, staring at the glass Paiger drank out of, the lipstick on the rim a dead giveaway that I haven't been drinking alone. Our first layers of clothing are also strewn about, Paiger's blue blouse and my Organ Donor shirt, and the look on Kara's face could shrivel the testicles of a man with elephantiasis. I ignore the fact I'm just in boxers and come out, closing the door behind me.

"Uh... hi."

She looks at me, and I can see the hurt in her eyes. I let down. Again. I hurt her. Again.

This time for the last time.

"Who is she?"

I sigh, grab my empty glass, head for the fridge. "You want a drink?"

"Is it someone I know? Is it someone from the show?"

"No."

"Then who?"

"No one."

"How long?"

I fill my glass with more ice, more vodka, more Gatorade. Fuck it. "This is the only time it happened, Kara. Trust me, I would never cheat on you without a valid reason."

"Oh, this should be good."

I sip. "It is. Okay, well, the truth is..." I trail off, unsure what to say or how to say it. This situation is too fucked up for words, I'd paint a picture but it'd be grotesque, I'd quote a sonnet but it'd be super lame.

Finally I give up.

"Ah, hell. Paiger!"

Kara's mouth drops open, and as Paiger emerges from the bedroom, she gives a small wave to Kara and shrugs. I take a nice long drink.

"And now... for the truth."

We work as a team trying to explain the whole thing to Kara, the novel, the plan, the deception, the sex, et cetera. She's dumbfounded and shell shocked and starts to cry midway through, at least it feels like midway through, and I start crying because of something horrible I did, then Paiger starts crying because she feels guilty about something she did, and before we know it all three of us are crying like a bunch of idiots, poster children for self created drama, damn fools, three stooges. Paiger joins Kara on the couch and attempts consolation, which she surprisingly accepts. I sit in my writing chair wiping my eyes, drinking my drink. This isn't going too bad, I think. Maybe, just maybe, Kara will forgive me.

Then she speaks.

"Okay," she starts. "Okay, okay. You used Paige and she used you and you both used me. You're both guilty." She sighs. "Well, thank God. I couldn't be more relieved, because now I can finally be honest too."

Paiger and I exchange glances, raise eyebrows. This can't be good.

"I was cheating on you, Jim. Pretty much the whole time we were together. And you didn't have a clue. So, there it is. And now... now you two can go fuck yourselves."

She gets up and starts for the door. My mouth hangs from my face like a monkey from a tree.

"Kara!"

She turns. I shake my head, which is still spinning.

"What the hell? Didn't you love me?"

She shrugs. "I think so."

"Then why?"

She sighs. "It's what I do, Jim. It's my pattern. I get bored really easily in relationships, you know that. And you just... started boring me. What else can I say? We ran our course. Obviously you felt the same way if you cheated, too." She opens the door. "See ya around."

And then she's gone, out of my life as quick as she came into it, my first true love, truly horrible and truly sick, massive cranial damage, tied up and twisted and not in a good way. Our poisonous nature toward each other couldn't be extinguished, only glossed over and put to rest, waiting to be awakened like a sleeping demonic beast.

What a fucking bitch.

I want another drink, I want another cigarette, I want to smoke ten joints. I want to have dinner with my parents and tell them all the things that have happened to me since they died. I want to lay my head against Kara's breasts one last time and fall asleep to her scent while pretending I'm in a meadow.

Most of all, I want to stand in front of that bullet again and this time let it hit me, let it claim me, let it earn its incarnation as a death enforcer and pierce the soft flesh of my human habitat, once and for all ending my existence and making damn sure none of this godforsaken Dodger business ever happens.

But alas, no time machine.

And time machines are everything.

Instead I just sigh, rise from my writing chair, start for the bedroom. Paiger, who's been silent since Kara's exit, finally clears her throat.

"I told you you were too good for her."

I stop. Her eyes, wet with mascara from tears and sweat, almost seem to beg for forgiveness, and her mouth, usually curled upward, couldn't be bent into a smile with a crowbar.

Just what she deserves.

"You know, I finally figured it out," I say. "Your eyes. I finally figured out why they remind me so much of Kara's."

She wipes away a tear. "Why?"

I inhale. "They're the eyes of betrayal. You betrayed me, both of you. And I'm a sucker for it." I go into the bedroom and grab her clothes, throw them at her. "Get out, Paige."

I slam the door behind me, and as I lay with a pillow over my head I pretend not to hear the crying, the absolute wailing, of the one and only Paige Scott, broken and breaking in my living room, finally feeling, hopefully healing, hopefully leaving.

It's all behind us now.

I rise again as the sun does and sit up, head spinning. What a surprise, I feel like shit. I go to the door, part of me wanting her to be there so badly, another part so badly wanting her not to be.

I open it.

Gone.

And just like that, my life's empty.

18

IT'S TIME FOR ME TO go.

I stand on my upstairs neighbor's porch and smoke, where I can really see the orange of the sky and the horizon line where it envelops the blue. Clouds float above absently as I exhale slowly. Chicago. I've lived here since the day I was born and never really wanted to leave - all I could ever want is here, my friends, my family, my life. Acting, writing, music, being, doing. All my love. It's the epicenter of my existence and there was never a reason to abandon it.

Until now.

Yes.

It's time to go.

What's left? My parents are dead. Ray's getting married. Kara's gone. Paiger will be.

And here I am still, stuck in this mud.

But not for long.

Ten grand.

Ten grand to start a new life, ten grand to be reborn.

I'm doing it.

It's done.

Seattle.

I tried to leave the clutches of Chicago only once, back in 2004, when my then best friend Jake and I decided to move to LA and be actors. Great decision. After a bon voyage party the night before charged by rye whiskey and cocaine, we jumped in his banged up green Explorer and hit the road. It was a dreary Sunday morning but it didn't matter because we were amped and pumped and ready to embark on an historic journey that would change both of our lives forever. We felt Godly. We were taking the bull by the horns, masters of our own destiny, kings of the road! We were going to take Los Angeles by storm and become famous instantly! Nothing could stop us from achieving the impossible dream! Then the coke wore off and we realized people drive across the country and move to LA all the time. It still felt epic, though.

First stop: Minneapolis. Jake needed to wait for his last two paychecks from Chicago to be mailed, so we hung out in the Land Of A Thousand Lakes for a few weeks and trimmed weed for his drug dealer friend in exchange for room and board. It was awesome. We were high all day and ate nothing but steak and sushi, drank nothing but expensive red wine and imported beer. Being a drug czar has its advantages, and staying at one's place definitely offers amenities. The checks finally came though and we wanted to get moving west, so we scored a gigantic sack of kush and hit the road.

Our trip across the states was brilliant. We smoked and smoked and listened to great music and talked about life and dreams and all that other important male bonding shit, stopped at some hilarious tourist traps, saw Mt. Rushmore and the Wall Drug Store, had his futon fly off the top of the truck and splatter its guts all over a section of I-90 in southern Minnesota, then had a small funeral for its remains. We saw sunsets and sunrises over mountains and big, blue skies, all the while looking forward to the sunny streets of LA, and the beach, and the babes, and singing for our supper as we tried to make it out there doing what we loved to do. Together.

I blow a smoke ring into the morning. I miss that fucker.

On fumes we cruised into Missoula, Montana, Jake's hometown, where we had scheduled a two week hiatus so he could catch up with his friends and family and we could make some more money doing demolition work. What a disaster. I didn't know a hammer from a screwdriver. Jake hadn't done any of that shit since high school. We were like bulls in a china shop, rudimentary ransackers, knocking down beams and hauling wood, dewiring light fixtures and destroying old dry wall. It wasn't easy but what needed to get done got done, and for at least a few hours a day, I was out of the house doing something.

But the money wasn't there.

I was running out and unlike him I had options, so I decided to bail on Missoula and hop a Greyhound to Seattle. Jake was more than surprised but he couldn't really argue, there was no money there for me, and we had worn out our welcome at his friend's house so in less than a week we'd be homeless. He planned to live out of the Explorer. Fuck that, I said, I'm going to Seattle, the nearest big city where I can get a job and save up more money for the rest of the trip. He couldn't help but understand.

Our goodbye was lackluster, on his end because he felt like I was bailing on him, and on my end because I felt like he dragged me across the country on false pretenses. He said once we got to Montana everything would be fine, that money was waiting. But it wasn't. And without money we couldn't make it to LA. I understood that. He apparently didn't. Our bro hug was a two bumper, and even though he said he'd see me in Seattle in a couple of weeks, I knew I wouldn't. Jake was never on time for anything.

I had arranged to stay with this young professional type couple in Ballard and do the housework and dogtending they couldn't do in exchange for room and board. It was a big house, I had my own room and bathroom, and upon our first meeting, they seemed like very nice people.

But they were effing crazy.

The woman had some kind of ADD and could only shower at the gym because she didn't believe in cleansing herself in the same shower as her lover. The guy was a straight up freak who massaged the dogs like they were his lovers and claimed to be into death metal but only listened to Train and Dishwalla. When I asked why they had no furniture they said it was because they were 'floor dwellers.' When I asked for paper towels to do some cleaning they said they only used cloth towels and rags for that sort of thing – you know, for the environment's sake.

Pshaw.

When I was done washing stuff or picking up dog shit I would hit the streets with my long board and skate around the city, it isn't that big but man is it beautiful, and smell the air of nearby Puget Sound and marvel at how much greener it feels, how much cleaner, how much more natural. It felt like it was making my lungs younger. I felt invincible. Money was still all right and I could shack up with these idiots until I found a restaurant job and got my own place. I could make it here, this city of hills and rain and sweet smelling air. I can make this home.

Then alcohol swooped right on in and ruined everything.

Inevitably.

It was a very pretty night and I was skating around the University of Washington campus. Having no friends and no money and no purpose was really getting to me so for comfort I turned to the bottle. A liter of lemonade and a pint of vodka, dinner for a champ. Well, I bit it hardcore coming down a hill and practically separated my shoulder, gashed up my knees, scraped up my elbows, twinged the left ankle. Pure agony. I limped to the bus stop like a beaten mule, dripping DNA up and down campus, then up and down the street. Still swigging my lemonade, of course.

Once on the bus a kindhearted hippie chick noticed my injuries. We struck up a conversation about wiping out on skateboards and the city and the school and blah, blah, blah, I was just being nice because I was drunk and bleeding and helpless. I guess she appreciated the effort because she gave me her pack of Reds, which contained not only five cigarettes but also some of the stinkiest, stickiest pot I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. It was the kindest gesture ever bestowed upon me and it helped immensely. She was my weed angel, and sleep came swiftly that night.

But talk about a fuck you.

I could hardly move my arm, which meant I couldn't keep the place tidy, and even worse, I couldn't go out looking for jobs. So that was that. I booked a flight home, left the weirdos a nice little note wishing them all the best, and landed at O'Hare on a soggy, rainy night in February. My escape had lasted a month and a half. Barely a blink.

I miss Seattle.

I miss waking up and sticking my head out the door and knowing exactly what to expect.

I miss buildings that aren't tall enough to dwarf me yet tall enough to make me feel at home.

I miss the hills. I miss the grass. I miss the green.

I miss that weed.

I flick the cigarette and walk down my neighbor's steps slowly, softly. A gust of wind cuts through the air and blows my Cubs hat clean off, and before I can even think about attempting pursuit a street sweeper runs it over. I watch, sighing.

This wind.

It's done blowing me away.

Back inside I turn on the TV and lo and behold there she is, Paige Scott, the Paiger, now not just a reporter but the lead anchor for Good Day America. When did that happen? I haven't watched the news in ages. Beside her Parker Hardicoff looks ten years older, gray scaling his sideburns, crow's feet cradling his eye sockets. Paiger, though, looks good as gold as always.

"... as the Dow hopes to make a comeback in the following weeks. We'll take a little break now, but stay tuned for Parker's one on one interview with the Mississippi woman who claims... she can talk to giraffes. And then, later in the program... my first novel hits stores today! Dodger, by Paige Scott. So, we'll have a review and tell you where I'll be signing books this week and all that jazz. Ah! Exciting! Okay, okay. I'm Paige Scott, and this is Good Day America."

The cheesy music plays, she pretends to talk to Hardicoff about something important, he pretends to be interested, commercial.

She handles herself on camera just about as well as I do.

Idiot.

I snooze, and dream. At first I'm at Lollapalooza with Kara, and in the midst of a sudden downpour I lose her in the crowd. All I want to do is make it to the Citi stage to see Silversun Pickups, but I can't leave my love behind, and I'm floating through a crowd of nameless faceless looking for her. A panic rises in me that I may never see her again, the crowd is endless, and the sky seems to be opening up more and more the more I walk. I finally find myself at the exit and realize that the festival never existed, I turn around and it's gone, and just like that I'm alone in a sea of white, endless white. Things fade out for a minute and then suddenly I'm lying on the ground of what feels like sand and there's something next to me, someone, I can feel soft breathing on my chest but I can't turn my head to see who it is. All I can feel is a sense of familiarity, like I know this person, like I've been here before. It's then I realize I'm dreaming and that this person could be anyone I want it to be. It's a revolving door of all the women I've loved, all the women I've hated, all the women who've fucked me, all the women I've fucked. Literally and over, over and out. A rotation of rose colored conquests. It's beautiful.

I open my eyes, hoping, praying there's someone lying next to me. I move my arms and there's nothing but air on both sides.

I sigh, and cry.

And snooze again.

I finally get my sorry ass up, pack what I need, throw the next three month's rent in an envelope for my landlord, and book an afternoon flight.

Then call Paiger.

"Hello?"

"Hey, there."

"Hey."

Awkward pause. I'm great at breaking them, though. "Look, I'm sorry about last night. That was totally fucked up. I know none of that was easy for you either and I shouldn't have been such a dick. Hopefully the hot sex was enough to make up for it."

She laughs. "Ha... yeah, not even close, Jim."

I laugh. "You're still the funniest person I know, you know that? Really. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Stay like that, Paiger."

"Um... I will."

"When did you become the lead anchor? I haven't watched GDA in like months."

"About three weeks ago."

"What happened to Kathleen?"

"The producers felt she was slipping, I guess. At least that's what I heard. Not interviewing well enough, forgetting minor yet important details... stupid stuff that happens when you get older."

"Maybe it's Alzheimer's."

"Shut up, Jim."

"Wish I could. Anyway, take care. I'm leaving."

"What?"

"I'm leaving. Going to Seattle. The sunshine state."

"Seattle's not the sunshine state, Jim. It's not even a state."

"Irregardless. Look, take care, Paiger. And good luck with the book. Take care of our story. Lord knows I went through hell and back for it."

There's a pause. I shake my phone.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Well? Will you miss me? Say something, for fuck's sake."

"I wish it could've been more."

Now I pause. And sigh. And smile. "Well, that just... wasn't in the cards."

"I know."

"It's a bitch."

"I know that too."

"But we still have a deal." I clear my throat. "From this day forth, I shall no longer be known as the Dodger. Anyone who calls me such will have their head lopped off. And anyone who thinks I'm him... well, I'm just a sim."

I can actually hear Paiger smile, then maybe shed a few tears. Who knows? It's possible.

"See ya, Paige." I hit End.

And just like that... I'm gone.

The sun is out in full force now as I ride the Blue Line to O'Hare. The cars rumble and the tracks squeal and I savor the sound, the vibration, the vigor. I'll miss riding these rails, flying through the middle of the expressway during rush hour, being woken up in Forest Park by the conductor at five AM after passing out hammered drunk on the way home from a toga party. Going to see Phish at the Rosemont Horizon and riding back while tripping my balls off and getting offered a blowjob by some crack whore because I look like her old Biology teacher.

Oh yes, such fond memories.

We reach the airport and I deboard the train with the rest of them, the businessmen who do this every day, the frightened children who haven't done this once. Chin up kids, I think, we're all in it together, relax. Like cattle we're whisked up the stairs, into the airport where we preview our flight information, and either proceed to well earned success or miserable failure. I've been here before so I know where I'm going.

Security, pat down, metal detector. Yippee. I have ten minutes to kill so I saunter up to the bar of the Airport Chili's and order an eight dollar Stella. When in Rome.

I'm not halfway into my first sip when I spot it.

Dodger.

The Airport Barnes and Noble is right next to the Chili's and a prominently displayed rack presents the latest Tom Clancy, the latest Tony Robbins, and Dodger, the first novel by exciting, promising new novelist Paige Scott. At least that's what the sign says.

I approach slowly, take a copy, run my hand over the cover.

My story.

And no one will ever know.

"Hey... I know you."

I turn to see a smoking hot blonde with massive bazongas holding a purchased copy of the literary marvel. I sip my beer and furrow my brow.

"Oh yeah? Where do you know me from?"

"From YouTube. And this book. This book is about you, right?"

I put down my copy and take hers, flipping through the pages, feeling tiny shards of glass pinprick my heart every time I catch a fragment of sentence. Every word leads to a memory, every memory leads to a feeling, and every feeling leads to pain. That's how it feels, anyway.

I hand the book back slowly.

"Sorry Miss, you've got the wrong guy. I'm not the Dodger."

I smile, finish my beer, head toward Gate 3B and board a fantastic 747, where I have the fantastic luck of sitting next to a wiry, space saving, zit ridden teenager who already has his headphones on and his eyes closed. Thank God.

It'll be quiet all the way to the Sound.

I have the window seat so I doze to the sight of fluffy white clouds a hundred feet below us and the sound of our vessel humming thirty thousand feet above Earth. I love it, I could fly all day, I would stay in the air for the rest of my life if it were an option. Time off planet is healthy.

I shift my head and through the corner of my eye see the teenager reading a book, and as he turns a page the cover comes into clear view. The speeding bullet and bleeding heart are unmistakeable.

Dodger.

Jesus.

I sit up a little too quickly and bump his elbow, and he looks at me like I've spoiled the time of his life. After a moment, he goes back to the book.

Then he looks at me again.

I throw my headphones on, crank some Strokes, and go back to staring out the window. I pretend not to feel the kid's eyes on my back but I sure as hell do, and the goddamn stewardess can't get me that tiny bottle of gin fast enough.

I squirm. Ray was right.

I do hate the spotlight.

PART FOUR: THE DODGER

19

I SIT ON THE BALCONY and sip my coffee in peace. The new day arrives with a smile, and even though there's no sun the clean fresh air and mild morning mist make it beautiful in it's own right. These Seattle sunrises take some getting used to but now that I'm accustomed I love it.

My one bedroom apartment in Fremont is the tits. I pay just as much as I did in Chicago and it's practically the same size. I invested half of the ten grand and most of my first run loot in some up and coming stock and it took off. Money hasn't been less of an issue since I was an infant and my broker says it's just the tip of the iceberg, that my stock will rise and rise again. He's perpetually on cocaine like a good stockbroker should be, so I trust his stocky judgment verily.

I go for daily jogs in the nearby park with my Labrador retriever, Monty. I quit smoking, again. When I'm not writing music reviews and current event articles for the burgeoning online magazine Sharp, I bartend part time at a semi-high class bar that incidentally, makes its own beer. Oddly enough, it doesn't remind me of Kara in the least.

That's all behind me now.

I love this place. Nothing reminds me of anyone. My days are spent writing and my nights are spent slinging booze to the upper echelon of Seattle, who are pretty much chill folk for so called upper echelon. The local music scene is off the charts and since I write reviews I'm at shows four nights a week, sometimes two in one night. And when festival season cranks up, look out. Sharp has already committed to sending me to Coachella and Bonnaroo, and if those go well, I might even get Pitchfork and Lolla.

Back home.

I never thought I'd refer to Chicago as back home.

But I guess that's what it is now.

I still keep in touch with Ray. He and Angie have settled on a date for the wedding, July third, my birthday, and it's right around Pitchfork so I should be in town for it. They're also expecting, a minor detail they left out when we had dinner at Lowry's. I'm slightly shocked but not really. One of the top reasons people get married is unplanned pregnancy, right behind needing a green card and actually wanting to. They do love each other though, and probably would've tied the knot eventually. A rugrat on the way just sped up the process.

Since he doesn't have any brothers I'm slated to be the best man, and on top of that, potential Godfather. Shudder to think. I still forget to take Monty for walks some days, but at least he can pee on the floor as a reminder. A baby could get diaper rash and die if I dropped the ball like that with them. The possibility of me being responsible for another person's well being is daunting as hell, especially a baby. Hopefully he bestows that honor upon his brother in law and I won't have to worry about it.

It'll be cool to be an uncle, though.

He's in good spirits. He's happy I finally bit the bullet and left. He always felt I was too good for Kara but knew I was so madly in love with her that it didn't matter what he thought, and that the only course of action a best friend can take in that situation is to just let it play out as it will. And it did, as it should have.

Now we're both happy.

I never talk to Kara. I haven't even tried to get in touch with her since I left. She hasn't called, either.

The funniest part is, I don't care.

She deleted me from her Facebook friends, again, and according to Ray, started banging some other dude like a week after everything between us went to shit. Again.

Surprise, surprise.

We had a lot of drunk talks but one I remember quite clearly was when we were discussing the beginnings of relationships, how it's all so new and exciting, and how it's very easy to confuse that initial excitement with true love. People do it all the time. We'll be so into someone at the start and then all of a sudden wake up one day and it's like, what the hell am I doing? This person isn't right for me at all. Or you start to let your eye wander because you think the grass is always greener, that you can do better instead of being happy with what you've already got.

I think she called it in love with being in love.

An infatuation junkie.

Weak.

I guess she did warn me.

In a lot of ways it makes sense that she keeps cheating. She was right, it's a pattern.

Silly me. I thought I was the one, the one to change it.

I thought she was, too.

Dodger is a smash success. In just under three months it's become the top selling novel in America, and Paiger has been on a book tour since day one. She's done morning shows, daytime shows, late night shows, a spaghetti sauce commercial, and a cameo on The Simpsons as herself. I have to admit, that one hurt.

We text now and then but rarely talk. She's on an extended hiatus from Good Day America, but with the ravishing success of the novel it's only a matter of time before she starts another and quits TV for good. It's for the best because deep down she's always hated being in front of the camera and would much rather write, create stories instead of just reporting them, have opinions instead of just translating them. No more interviews, no more Dow Jones, no more acting. She's on the fast track to freedom.

We're much more alike than I ever realized.

With the initial success of the book my fame predictably spiked, and the old YouTube videos of my first interview with Paiger and the debacle on Good Day America were receiving more views than Lady Gaga's supposed upskirt footage. I was honored, and when people started asking me about it, if I was him, if it was me, I was this close to reneging on the deal and embracing my Dodgerness again, once and for all.

But I didn't.

Fuck the spotlight. Fuck being some fleeting icon, a person cherished one day and forgotten the next, a patsy for pain, a glint in the eye of society. What's worse, tasting fame and then losing it or not tasting it at all? I didn't want to experience the former so I dove head first into the latter. Even if Paiger hadn't bribed me, even if Kara hadn't broken me, I still would've gone into exile.

Just like any other true blue, true blood writer.

We seek isolation, straight up crave it, it's in our nature, it's what keeps us sane. Too much social contact is poison.

It's truly a lonely endeavor.

All I have to do today is write about a show I saw last night. Easy peesy. The weed in Seattle is mighty fine and my stockbroker gets it at a premium. I blaze a monster joint as I cycle through some of my captured footage and take notes, Monty at my side. He loves the ganj, too. Like owner like pet.

Drinking has become an afterthought. I'll still have a beer or two when I'm at a show or after work, but other than that, I rarely indulge. I really just don't feel like it anymore. There's so much to do in this city and it's all new to me. Every corner I turn there's a house I've never seen, every restaurant I go to there's a dish I haven't tried, and every place I go there's people I've never met. I want to remember it all, make good decisions, make good impressions. I'm through with being a lush.

And it's luscious.

I sometimes think I should've left Chicago a long time ago, that maybe improvement was really that simple, that challenging myself to start a new life in a new town was the key to happiness all along. The last ten years flew by so quick, I went to bed twenty and woke up thirty, perpetually hungover, in and out of disaster, breaking hearts and getting my own heart broken time and time again. Nothing ever changed. I was going in circles.

The definition of insanity is repeating the same action over and over again expecting a different result. A circle. I don't remember who said that, but it was probably someone really smart.

I guess I was insane.

I was the Dodger.

But now... I'm just me.

I made it.

My work for the day complete, I kick back on the La-Z-Boy and recline. Sigh with content. The three PM breeze blows in and I start to slink into a midday nap, the only thing on my agenda before I chop up a shitload of veggies for a killer stir fry.

Then the phone rings.

I fish it out of my pocket and squint through stonedness at the name. My eyes widen.

Paiger.

I answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Jim."

"Hey... Paige. What's up?"

"Um, quite a bit, actually. Do you have time to talk?"

"Uh... I guess."

"Good. Well, I've got some good news."

I suddenly crave a cigarette. "Well, I'm all ears."

"Dodger's been optioned."

I suddenly crave Jack Daniels. "What?"

"The book's been purchased by Centennial Pictures. They're making it a movie."

It takes a minute, but my stomach catches up with my heartbeat. Then I vomit.

Monty licks it up.

"A movie? Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"Calm down, Jim."

"Paige, you fucked me again!"

"No! No. You'll get your just dues on this, trust me."

"The last time I trusted you you published my life story and destroyed the only successful relationship I've ever had."

"Yeah, but that's all in the past. I owe you, Jim, I really do. So..."

"So what? I get to write the screenplay?"

"No, I've already started doing that."

"Oh, of course. So what, ten thousand more dollars?"

"Jim, I want you to audition for the lead."

I sit back, taken aback. "You... want me to act?"

"Yeah. I mean, there's no guarantee you'll get it, but I wanted to at least offer you the opportunity. I told the producers I knew someone just right for the part. Seriously, who better to play you than you?"

The irony of the words sink in. Me, play the Dodger. Me, on camera again. Me, not only stepping into the spotlight, but leaping into it with a vengeance. It's a recipe for either success or disaster. Or both.

I know I shouldn't, that I'll regret it, and even if I don't get the part it'll awaken something inside me I haven't felt for months, and this convenient little contract I have with repression will be breached and I'll have to feel those feelings all over again. Even just talking to Paiger, even just thinking about it, stirs up the old jump off a bridge mentality I've tried so hard to abandon. Well, repress anyway.

But fuck it.

It's still my story.

"So?" she asks. "Can I fly you to LA tomorrow or what?"

20

I GET SOMEONE TO COVER my shift at the bar, ask my neighbor to look in on Monty, and hop a morning flight. Paiger emailed me a three page scene from the first draft of the screenplay to use as an audition piece, and of course it's the birthday party scene, where we get hammered drunk and make out in front of everyone and hash it out in that plaza, where I wind up telling her all my love turns to hate and make her cry. All I emailed back is, Really? Ha.

It's well adapted, but that's no shock – any good writer should be able to adapt their own work. The dialog flows smoothly and the screenplay form does it justice, as every painful, hurtful thing I said to Kara is preserved brilliantly.

Bravo, Paiger.

It takes no time to fly from SeaTac to LAX and she's waiting for me at the terminal, wearing a ridiculously oversized sun hat and dark glasses that cover her whole face. She waves.

"Jim!"

I saunter over. "Hey, Paiger. I barely recognized you."

"That's the whole point. I'm incognito."

"Fame trying your will a little, is it?"

"I just can't sign any more autographs. I think I have carpal tunnel."

"Well, my heart goes out to you."

"Come on, let's go."

We get outside and hop in a cab. Paiger takes off the disguise and pulls her hair back, and the combination of its scent and her sexily tanned skin nearly floors me.

Damn, she looks good.

"So no limo? I thought you were a high roller now."

"A limo would just attract more attention. Besides, this is quicker, parking's a bitch here." She sizes me up. "It's good to see you. You're looking well."

"I'm feeling well."

"Seattle suits you?"

"I love it."

"Good."

"You're a busy bee."

"It's been nonstop. I'm going a little crazy."

"Well, it suits you."

"Very funny. So look, here's the deal..."

She goes on to explain how the book got optioned. Apparently Centennial wanted to buy the rights since day one, but because of some contractual waiting period they couldn't make an offer until last week. It was big – her agent said no first time author had ever received an option offer so quickly, or for so much money. He wanted to accept immediately and Paige was going to, until she found out the studio wanted their own people to adapt it. She knew if some Hollywood everyman writers took hold of her baby it would be changed and mangled and tossed around like pizza dough. She said the only way she'd do it is if she got to write the script and could have a hand in the casting process. They said no, so she did too.

They came at her with more money. She said no again, and that she was considering taking it to another studio because they were willing to submit to her terms. Which wasn't true.

But it worked.

Centennial cracked, and she got full control over the script and the rewrites, and permission to sit in on all auditions. Which is huge.

"Now I can keep it true. I can tell it like it should be told." She sighs. "I really do feel bad for what I did to you, Jim. I didn't realize it at the time because I was so caught up in everything, but I want you to know that I'm sorry. I used you and exploited you and embarrassed you and humiliated you and ---"

"Okay, yeah, I remember."

She smiles. "I just want to make it up to you. Let me?"

I take in her glow, and as I try to reach back into the well for some hate or disgust for this woman, all I get are handfuls of air. It's empty.

I shrug.

"That time's over, Paige. I'm over it. I'm so much happier now. I mean, you actually did me a favor. My relationship with Kara had run its course. I can't believe she was cheating on me."

Paiger shrugs. "Once a cheater..."

"Yeah, I guess. It still hurt, though."

"You hurt each other."

"As always."

She tilts her head. "Do you still love her?"

I inhale slowly. "I don't think so. I think about her less and less every day. I have to, you know? Otherwise I get distracted and drink and lose my mind. I can't do that anymore. I'm too old. I just, I've always had problems letting go. Just the thought of change is scary. I'm doing better these days. I think... I think I've let it all go."

Paiger's smiling. "Good."

I smile too, turn my head, look out the window. Palm trees and clear skies and sunshine and gorgeous hotties.

It's a beautiful planet.

Hello, LA.

We pull into the parking lot of a big shiny building about twenty stories high. Paiger pays the fare and we hop out. I shield my eyes and stare up.

"Where are we?"

"My agent's office. You read the scene, right?"

"Yeah."

"Did you like it?"

"The way it was written? Yes. The contents? Well... take a guess."

"Straight out of your life, Dodger."

"Don't remind me. So who am I reading for?"

"Me, my agent, and the producer, Sean Patel."

"Wow, Sean Patel? Really?"

"Yeah. I told you, it's big time, baby."

"What about the director?"

"There's no director attached yet. We're not doing that, nor auditioning anyone else, until I finish the screenplay. That's why this is such a golden opportunity - if you make a good first impression, this job could be yours before anyone else is even considered."

"No pressure."

"No, none. Have you done any acting recently?"

"Nope."

"Great. You'll kill it."

We head in.

Her agent's office is on the twentieth floor and the floor to ceiling windows offer a view that leaves me breathless. I've never seen the ocean and still haven't up close but the Pacific is mesmerizing from up here. In the distance among the hills the Hollywood sign looms, rather ominously, beckoning to me. Hmm.

Maybe I'd like it here after all.

"Are you ready, Jim?"

I turn back to the people I'm auditioning for. On the left sits Paiger, the novelist, the one responsible for all this, the antagonist of my life. She holds a copy of the script as well, for she'll be my scene partner, reading the role of Kara. The irony isn't lost on either of us.

On the right sits Ian Armbruster, Paiger's agent. He's a smallish man with black slick backed hair and a huge mole on his chin. I'm reminded of Fred Savage's Mole character from Austin Powers and resist the urge to yell, mole! Probably a dick move. I do it in my head, though.

Finally in the middle is Sean Patel, producer extraordinaire. He was behind two of the top five highest grossing movies last year and also produced the indie darling Hot Seat, which won the top prize at Cannes a few months ago. Big baller. For such an accomplished guy he's quite young, not much older than me, and he has one of the better non trimmed beards I've seen in recent memory.

They all watch me intently. Am I Joe yet, or am I still Jim? Have I accessed the emotions necessary to go back to where I need to? Can I still act after such a long hiatus?

All these burning questions and more.

I close my eyes.

Showtime.

"'I don't care if you're seeing someone else Kara, I don't care, I know how you feel, and this thing between us is more special than anything I've ever encountered. But I can't believe you. I can't believe you did this to me. It's the same thing over and over, I keep getting pushed away, so now all I do is push people away. Subconsciously my whole life, and consciously now, more than ever. All my love turns to hate, and resentment, and now all I can do is hate and resent you. Things will never be the same between us, Kara. Never.'"

The tears flow effortlessly and I turn away, as my character exits at this point. The trio are quiet as mice behind me, which I can only interpret as good.

Finally, there's a sniffle. I smile.

Scene.

Paiger holds her tongue until we're outside, but as soon as we are her arms are around my neck and she's kissing me, my lips, my face, my forehead. I don't resist and kiss back, with fervor.

"Oh my God, Jim! That was awesome!"

She can probably be heard way back on the twentieth floor but it doesn't matter, not in the least, because I've got it, I know it, I'm playing the Dodger, Joe Babcock, myself. I'm finally going to have some control over what happens with my story. All of the wrongs that have led to this moment will play a pivotal role in the right. It's my time.

I'm going to act the shit out of it.

Paiger and I hop a cab, we go to her hotel, undress each other hungrily, and make wild, passionate, unbridled love. The past aside, the future unwritten, between planes, to hell and back. The earth moves. I lose twenty one grams as part of my soul detaches. It's ecstasy, pure ecstasy, and as I hold her sweetness in my arms the birds on the balcony watch us.

Snooze.

It's a little past midnight when the light offshore breeze stirs me. I sit up. Inches away Paiger sleeps soundly, angelically, her beautiful curvaceous body outlined by the silk sheet. I smile.

What a fortunate turn of events.

I hop out of bed, dress quietly, leave the room. Just one celebratory cigarette. I figure I'll buy a pack, take one, then give the rest away. Some lucky smoker gains nineteen cigs and I satisfy my fleeting craving. Win/win, and good karma for me.

Like I could get any more.

On the way to the hotel Paiger got a call from Sean Patel and he said he didn't need to see anyone else audition. I'm perfect. I might have to lose fifteen pounds but other than that, perfect. The look, the heart, the attitude... all of it. I'm Joe to a T.

I should hope so, I said. He's me.

Paiger also said she could use a hand in the adaptation so a few times a week she's going to fly to Seattle, catch me up on her work, then take my notes and foster the input. I might even write a few scenes, maybe garner a writing credit.

I salivate at the thought.

My only concern is delving back into all that material and stirring up the old emotions, but it's really a minor concern at most. Things have changed. Whatever emotions I had have been spent. I'm done, at least done living in the past. I can make new emotions and learn and draw from those. I'll write about them, in songs and scripts and novels galore. In this new life, this new adventure, I can do anything I want. It's my time indeed, my time to shine.

Okay, so maybe I'm not entirely opposed to being in the spotlight. It's like Paiger said: everyone wants fame and money. Humans are inherently attracted to both. It's what separates us from the animals. We consciously have a desire to be noticed and constantly crave attention, and deep down everyone wants to be right there, Jesus Christ with a bullet, the Excalibur of swords, the Rudolph of reindeer, an icon if just for a day, an idol if just for a moment. The One, and Only, Real Life Neo.

And it's all fallen into my lap.

This is my best day.

I exit the hotel, smiling.

The convenience store up the street doesn't have my old brand so I settle for Parliaments. The first cigarette I ever smoked, and with any luck, my last.

"Thanks," I tell the clerk, who barely looks old enough to buy tobacco let alone sell it. "Matches?"

He smiles, hands me a book. Once outside I tap the pack twice, my old ritual, unwrap, strike. Again the first drag blues get me but I suffer through them, coughing wildly. The second one, though... oh baby.

What a disgusting, filthy, lovely, wonderful habit.

I'm still giving them away, though.

Suddenly there's a loud boom and a crash from inside the store, and a man in a ski mask exits. Hmm that's weird, I think, it's September but it's not that cold.

Oh, wait.

Oh, shit.

He's got a bag with money sticking out of it in one hand and a smoking gun in the other. He makes dead on solid eye contact with me. I drop my cigarette. He raises the gun.

As it goes off I try my old trick and veer left, but something's different this time and I fall to the ground. The masked man runs away in slow motion as I roll off the sidewalk, into the gutter, back to the street, eyes to the sky. I curl into the fetal position, clutching my chest. Ouch.

An indelible warmth spreads through my shirt down to my guts, and it feels like I've been hit with a water balloon but I know that's not the case. Water balloons don't hurt. Water's not red. Oh God. Why? Why did this happen?

"Why?!"

Of course I'd get shot just when things were set to explode. I should be surprised but I'm not. I should feel bad but I don't. My life has been a comedic tragedy all my life. How fitting I go out like this, the same way I came in, live by the sword die by the sword or in my case, the goddamned bullet. I feel it inside me, grinding with my organs, setting up a nice little home in my chest and redecorating. It's driving my white blood cells crazy. Everyone thought they'd make a cute couple but they were wrong. Dead wrong. I can say that with confidence, as I lay dying.

All the times I wanted death, all the times I would've welcomed it with open arms, it was nowhere to be found. Now all I want to do is live as long as possible but instead I'm here, holding my heart in, cupping my blood, trying oh so hard to stay awake but that light is so damn beautiful I can't help but want to go towards it and I think I should, it feels right. Okay. Here I come, for real this time.

The last thing I see before it all goes black is the sky, and the moon, and Kara, and Paiger, my mom, my dad, Ray, Jake, C-Man, my friends, my family. I was never there for any of them, not in the real sense of the word, not with my heart. I just wasn't cut out for this human condition, these wild connections, and the burning whirlwind of emotion that comes with them. I chose poorly. I led a selfish life and cared about no one but myself, and yes, how fitting it ends like this, dying in a gutter alone, that sticky, bitter end I always envisioned, it's the perfect coup de gras, an unmatchable swan song that only Jim Bailey, the Dodger, could pull off.

But I couldn't dodge this.

Not death.

Free at last.

Mama, I'm coming home.

21

THE FIRST THING I HEAR is the steady beep.

Then my own breathing.

Then my own scream.

My eyes shoot open, and the first thing I see is Paiger.

Standing over me.

"Jim," she says. "Relax. You're in the hospital. You're... you're okay."

I gather my bearings and look around. Private room. I look at Paiger. She's been crying. I feel for all my extremities. They seem to be in working order. No iron lungs or respirators or crazy things sticking out of me, just an IV and an EKG and a catheter, oh my.

I breathe. Carefully.

"Paiger... what happened?"

She takes my arm. "Well, honey... you were shot."

"I remember. Am I... not dead?"

She smiles. "Yes, you're not dead. You're a lucky bastard. The doctor said the bullet missed all of your major arteries and they were able to remove it without leaving any permanent nerve damage." She holds up her thumb and index finger. "They said it stopped about half an inch from your heart."

I sit back. I must still be on some drugs because the pain isn't that bad and I just realized I feel kind of high. Bonus.

"Half an inch?" I say. "Really?"

"Yup."

"That's quite poetic, in retrospect."

"Very."

"I'll still be able to star in the movie, right?"

"You should be fully recovered by then."

"Phew. How long have I been here?"

"All night. It's eight."

"In the morning?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus. When can I leave?"

"They still want to hold you for awhile. Plus the police are waiting to question you about the gunman. He, um... killed that clerk."

I frown. "That sucks. He was just a kid."

"Yeah."

The door opens, and a skinny blonde guy wearing scrubs sticks his head in.

"Um, sorry, Miss Scott? There's a bit of a situation."

"What is it?"

"Well, the word's out about Mr. Bailey's incident. The parking lot is flooded with news vans and reporters are swarming the lobby. What should I tell them?"

I look at her, she looks at me. I shrug. She answers:

"You tell them I've got the exclusive."

He nods and leaves. Paiger reaches out her hand and cups my face. I stroke her wrist.

"Thank you, Paige."

She kisses my lips lightly. "Thank you, Jim."

"You know, just for the record, I actually tried to dodge this bullet."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It didn't work. I probably should've veered right."

"Remember that for next time. I'll go make a statement." She heads for the door, stops, looks back. "Jim, this is all going to get out of control. I mean, the Dodger gets shot the day he's cast as the Dodger? It's too perfect, just so juicy and tender and dripping with irony. You couldn't make this shit up because, well... who could?"

"Certainly not me. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid, it's news. The media exposure is already through the roof. We're sitting on a gold mine here."

I lean back, stretch my arms, my legs, my toes.

My smile.

"I know, darling. Full steam ahead. Let's bring them to their knees, what do you say?"

She smiles. "I'm in." She opens her purse, pulls out her phone, tosses it to me. Oh, it's my phone.

"Hasn't stopped ringing all morning. Your mailbox is probably full. Oh, and uh... check out the date."

She leaves. I unlock my keypad.

Time: eight eleven. Day: Monday. Date: Ten one.

October one.

October first.

Shit.

Tomorrow is Ray's birthday.

I should call him.
