 
Ambient Florida position

Josh Spilker

Copyright © 2011 by Josh Spilker

(KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

www.kuboapress.wordpress.com

It is the genuine hope of KUBOA to receive unfiltered feedback from readers regarding the works we produce. Whether your reaction to the work was positive, negative, or ambivalent, we would much appreciate your taking the time to send some remarks to us—these will be shared with the authors.

kuboacomments@gmail.com

There were no more Doritos. There were no more bottles of iced mocha coffee. There were no more almonds.

I got in the car.

This car used to go across the bridge, to a parking garage near the Westshore Mall. The car now goes to the Hess Station everyday. It does not know the bridge any longer.

At the Hess Station. The choices are limited, the lines are short, the bottles say there is 10 percent fruit juice.

I buy a full bottle with 10 percent fruit juice. There is a label on the bottle.

I buy a bottle of iced mocha. The bottle is made of plastic and has a label on it.

I buy small bags of almonds. The almonds have plastic wrappers with logos

The labels on the bags, the labels on the bottles; they have slogans. I don't remember any of them.

"Nice day." The guy behind the counter.

"Yes," I said.

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Debit or credit?" the guy asked.

"Cash," I said. I took out my wallet. I paid in cash.

***

I was at the stop sign.

If there was a light, it doesn't matter, its shade green or yellow or red. A blinking dull light on the ceiling, the passenger light, the reading light, that light that doesn't go off when you expect it to, instead you're standing outside your car waiting for that light to go out; that light was on.

That light was all that mattered. He went and they went, and they hit him, he hit them, the fault not only in the hitting, but also in the pain, the coincidence, some victims egg themselves to be victimized, maybe we all do, but the Goodwill truck bent the door, it's bent by one of its kind -- another vehicle, recognizing the equal material and greater force, bending to its speed, ferocity and they were also forced to bend to it, crunching, crumbling, folding and folding farther, like stretched elastic with no purpose. We never notice the things we see everyday.

I was at the stop sign. I watched this.

An open gray road with littered materials, a rusty desk lamp, and tired sweaters, a cutting board and shears, a weedeater, a Playskool mobile. A DVD copy of Revenge of The Nerds with a scrape on its side, the case stood side-upright on the pavement, supported strong by American expansionism, American capitalism, ideas borne not out of grand visions, but out of knowing the intricate American-ness of both domination and the role of the underdog, its small fissures exposed to be exploited and then sold back to us -- we never the wiser for knowing these fissures, as we all kept doing what we were doing, what we are doing now, what I've always done, which is drive this Ford Explorer while others get decimated doing the same.

I opened the Ford Explorer door. I walked and picked up the movie. I'm sure the woman in the car was screaming for help. I'm sure she needed some water. We think about what we might do, but never think to do it.

***

"...did you see them coming?" Nathan said.

"...doesn't matter."

"...whose fault..." Uncle Ander said.

"...can't remember..." I said.

"...AND AFTER YOUR FATHER..." Mom breathed in a deep whisper.

"But you took this movie...from the accident?" Laurie said.

"Yes."

"And you didn't help?" Nathan said.

"No."

"...heartless, callous, unsympathetic bastard, that's what...," Mom said.

"I am."

"...gawd, what else..." Mom breathed. In and out.

I walked out of the room. I went into my living room. I walked to the TV.

I put the movie in. I pressed "play."

***

Blue, gray like a large Aerostream RV co-opted for public use, the bus stopped at the curb. Uncle Ander approached the bus. In Uncle Ander's hand, a dirty wooden shaft. At the end of the shaft, a steel-tin-metal square, its edge sharp from standing upright in the back of a shed. Uncle Ander wore a backpack.

"Uh, sir where are you going with that thing?" the bus driver said.

"Is there a problem?" Uncle Ander balanced the shovel on the first bus step.

"I know what it is sir, but this is a..."

"See this finger?" Uncle Ander said. He flexed his middle finger. "This could be a weapon, but it ain't if I don't use it as a weapon."

"Sir..."

"Same with this shovel."

Uncle Ander got on the bus. He walked down the aisle. He selected a black plastic seat near the middle of the bus. Uncle Ander sat down. He looked forward. He looked backward. He was alone with a shovel.

The bus stopped five miles later. Uncle Ander got off the bus. He walked down the sidewalk. To his right was an iron fence. He walked to the corner of the gate. The iron gate was latched. He opened the iron gate latch and walked inside the gate.

A small headstone and another headstone and another. Willises, Betts, Samuels, Beasleys, Ramirezes, Blackmons. He found "Jorgeson." He put the shovel down in front of the "Jorgeson" headstone. He scooped ground off the top. He was not making a hole. He wanted to scrape along the top. He wanted to make an indention.

Uncle Ander opened his backpack. Inside, a small wooden box. He slid the off the lid. He emptied the ashes into the indention. He placed the shovel into the fresh dirt. He lifted it, dumping it over the ashes. He flipped over the metal square of the shovel. He smoothed the dirt over the ashes. He laid the shovel down. He placed his hands on his hips.

II

"Is the scene dead?" I said.

"Not again," Nathan said.

"Are those girl jeans?" It was Mom. "You won't be wearing girl jeans in my house."

"Not again," Nathan said.

"What?" I asked. Nathan's jeans, tight around the thighs, around the ankles, no holes in the knees.

"They make you look ridiculous," Mom said. Her red apron with white piping, its straps wrapped around her neck, around her waist. Looked like an experienced 37 at age 50.

Outside on the deck, we were watching her swing a large grill fork. She flipped charred steak over and over, the grill lines in the same pattern, the same place on either side. She put lighter fluid on charcoal, she didn't mind the wait of the charcoals heating, the weight of the slow-cooked steaks. "Propane are for the Japanese," she said.

"You shouldn't use lighter fluid then," I said. "Almost the same thing. A shortcut."

"Shut up," Mom said.

At 13, I said Michael Jackson's interview with Oprah Winfrey was his first since the one with Barbara Walters on 20/20 in 1979. My parents were impressed with my pop culture fluidity. My parents were also impressed with Touched By An Angel.

"Take these in the house," Mom said. She handed me a plate. The plates had steaks on them. Nathan followed. I put the steaks on the kitchen counter and we went into the living room. "And Wallace, there's a key for you on the counter."

"'You know what the great thing about whistling is? It's that you can stop whistling!'" Red, That 70s Show. In the kitchen, Mom had a small television. 22-inch, not even flat, not even high-def.

"You still watch this show?" I said.

"It's called syndication, D-A," Nathan said. He threw the remote at me. It hit my face. It fell in my lap.

"Damn Rays." Uncle Ander. In suspenders. Something like barbecue sauce spread across a flannel shirt. Like the sauce was there on purpose, across his stomach, an 'x' marking the spot for its return, its eventual resting place, the map spreading bigger and bigger each passing week, month, year. Sides of his head now snow white, the top enriching a gray zone, his body figuring out how to be old, how to sink, how to fall appropriately.

"We're actually doing pretty well this year," I said.

"We won't make it," Uncle Ander said. "Remember the Hit Show? We need something like that."

"Hit Show" -- the slogan the Tampa Bay Rays used after luring three big names, all later found to be on steroids. Each night, third baseman Vinny Castilla disparaged us and our team's livelihood on third base, not by his words, not by his looks, just with the bat as if by some unconceivable power he could only swing at nothing, Vinny Castilla's balls never found green grass, never found brown dirt, his feet never reaching an extra base, inconceivable hate never erupting, never manifesting itself, not even festering, Vinny Castilla was wholly pleased with his play and his paycheck.

"That was a disaster," Nathan said.

"You're a disaster. Look at those pants. I should give you a wedgie, just so I wouldn't have to put up with any offspring that might come out of you," Uncle Ander said.

***

In the car. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

"God's last name isn't damn."

III

Mortgage bill on the table. Plates in the sink. A treadmill in front of a television. Books on the side table. The table next to a futon. A bag of almonds on the floor. Vitamin Water next to the bag. I always took my car to work, now I don't. The TV was on. "The View" with Elizabeth Hasselbeck. I sat down and looked up the website for Survivor. I clicked on "Become a Contestant."

The phone rang, "Sweet Caroline" ringtone.

"What'd they say?" A female voice. Laurie.

"I didn't tell them."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean what do I mean?"

"You lost your job."

"That happens to people all the time," I said.

"That doesn't mean you don't tell people. You don't lose your job all the time. They are your family."

Scott had said "we wanted to keep you," a pink envelope in his fingers (a real live pink slip!), his fingers passed it to me, I thumbed, I didn't open it, he was in my office the blinds were open, he could see the retention pond from where he stood next to the bookcase, the same pond that I drove by every day never really noticing, except that one time it flooded --

"Hate to do this," he continued, (hate to do what? didn't you already do it?) "but I'm going to have to ask for your keys."

In the desk drawer, and I opened the desk drawer and found them, and pulled the keys off, bending the circle trying to get the circle to open, extending the awkwardness further hoping he would change his mind, realize his grave mistake, realize things weren't so bad after all, that I would stay and stay and that only the others, without offices and without key rings with important keys on them would have to go -- an announcement, a nice email MEMO that said, "If you have a key fob, you are fired. If you have a real set of keys, you can stay," there would be no judging on merit then, just pure unadulterated RANK, "but you can leave when you want, just by Friday. Drop your files off in my office on you're way out..." Others had been called to the conference room, with brown butcher paper covering the windows. They were told to leave and come back on the weekend for their things.

Scott said something else.

No hello, not even a glance in the eye, just a return from the watercooler to still find the pink envelope sitting there with an departing figure extremely high, extremely low -- I would take it anyway, as if medical coverage and SSN payments and higher property taxes were not a concern but where would I put my packet of gum in cleaning out this desk, the fake wood allowing the drawers to slide nicely out, just like this -- place in and out, easier to replace a piece of furniture than part of a soul.

I opened the pink envelope. There was no departing figure. Just a departing zero.

"Not all families work the same," I told Laurie.

Two years ago, there was Laurie at the Brand New and Moneen show, not wearing some type of eccentric printed punk tee, just a simple striped shirt in splotched jeans in some type of sensible shoes, me wearing an old 1994 Orioles shirt with Ripken's name on the back, vintage yes, original yes found on eBay, standing near one another in a wait for the portable toilet -- me saying casually -- "What's the worst Hot Topic item you've seen so far?" her reply, simple but focused -- "a My Chemical Romance cape, yours?" and I said "a GI Joe messenger bag" the eyes mutually agreeing that we were TOO OLD for this, yet still enthralled, the music moved us even though the culture had slowed to a consumerist, corporate sludge, clogging up the pipes of punk rock -- she accepted the offer of a drink, some type of sale on Coronas because no one was old like us to buy and we talked about the currency of the day -- books, movies, music of course and stances on Wal-Mart; me older her younger, or so we thought until it was revealed our birthdays were the same month of the same year and here we are, me surviving her crocheting phase, her surviving my extreme jet ski phase, even though jet skis cost more.

The status was now "single" or "it's complicated" depending on how the bar and small talk went the night before, someway somehow even through drunken taxi rides and late night beach bonfires with others, there was always a phone call the next day and the next, the valleys of rights and wrongs having no consequence.

"Still you need to tell them" she said. "Anyway, gotta go," she said.

IV

Brewster's Millions on the TV.

Cellphone, gyrating on the table, Uncle Ander.

"Come over here."

"I'm at work," I said.

"You're a liar. Can't believe this. Can't believe you'd lie," he said.

"How do you know?"

"Laurie told me. She's got good legs, okay?" Uncle Ander said.

"Why did she tell you?"

"Don't worry, I did not tell your mom, I did not tell your brother. We'll wait."

"God..." I said.

"Loves you," Uncle Ander replied. He laughed. He said "loves you" to anyone who used it as a curse. I would say "you" to him after he said "f***." That was not funny like when he said "loves you" after "God." We both let the word "sh**" slide. I turned off Brewster's Millions. It was during a part where Richard Pryor's eyes were very wide.

In the car. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

"If you give the devil an inch, he will take a mile."

At his house, Uncle Ander was in the garage, his house a condo unit, the garage in the parking lot near brown awnings with numbers printed under them. Found a visitor's spot, a rare commodity in the economy of right-place/right-time.

"Come move this. Someone is picking this up." He pointed at a washing machine.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, I'm going to the laundry mat from now on."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, I like the order. The peace and comfort. The whir-whirring."

"It's kind of nasty there and the quarter machines never work."

"Not at my laundromat."

We sat on the curb. Uncle Ander drank Natural Light from a brown paper bag.

"Did you really buy that from a convenience store?" I asked.

"No, I just put it in this bag," he said.

"Why? Why didn't you just bring it out? Everyone would have thought it was just an off brand Coke or something, now the paper bag actually brings attention to it," I said. "If the security truck comes by, they'll be suspicious. They'll think you're homeless."

"They already think that." he said. He paused for a drink. "Since when did you care about the homeless? Or paper bags?"

"For always. For always I've cared about paper bags. I didn't even know they made those bags anymore, I just thought people used plastic."

"Don't people still take their lunch to work?" An innocent question. Perhaps the most innocent I've ever heard from Uncle Ander.

"No, people don't use paper bags anymore, they use those plastic bags that everybody has, you know with the big logos on it from the grocery store," I said.

"I can't drink Natty Light without the bag. It's good on my fingertips, like the soft caress of a work shirt and Dickies all in a wad."

"You just like to get drunk by dumpsters," I said.

He threw the bag and the can at the dumpster, it didn't make it, but hit his washing machine instead.

V

A Facebook message from Laurie.

"I'm free at 3," it read. "Text me. Have my own new job news."

I texted her. "Got yr msg on FB. Rods?"

"Great. C u in 30."

***

John McCain:

"And I promise you, we will never put America in this position again. We will clean up Wall Street. We will reform government."

***

Coffee and wine bar Roderigo's, with chocolates and cakes to elevate clientele and conversation maybe. Distraught well-to-do young professional adults at the tables, in the booths, Laurie and I took our place. On the table, a stack of cards for "urban lofts."

"I'm working for Obama," Laurie said. "On his campaign. And I wanted to let you know."

"You know I don't care about politics."

"I know you don't, but I want you to care, because this is important to me, and if you haven't noticed, this city sucks, this state sucks."

"Like a vacuum cleaner," I said. "What will you be doing?"

"Finances. A financial assistant actually. Maybe buying supplies. Responsibilities like that."

Laurie reached into her purse.

"They need all that just here in the Tampa region?" I said.

"Actually it's for most of Florida. We are a big state," she said. "And Obama will help us."

"Change we can believe in," I said.

A cigarette was in her hand. She lit it.

"What about Bob Barr? I might vote for Bob Barr." I said.

"That's wasting your vote."

"Not if I believe in Bob Barr."

"Wallace, come on." Laurie said.

"Hope," I said kind of like a burp. "I don't remember you applying for that job or looking for a job."

"It was through a friend of a friend. Networking."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that."

"Do you support Obama?"

"I do now," she said.

She put the cigarette in her mouth.

"Are you smoking again?" I asked.

"It's the only thing I know how to do well," Laurie said.

"Is the only reason you ever call me to talk politics?" I asked.

"For the most part. And to find out what you're doing with your life."

"Why does everyone ask me that?"

"Because it's the only thing that makes sense to anyone," she said. "Are you looking?"

"Why does this matter again?" I asked.

"I need to see action. A-C-T-I-O-N."

"I know how to spell action," I said.

"I know you know, but do you know how to do it?"

"What? Spell?" I said.

"Act?"

"I'm going to be in a band," I said. "I'm not going to act. I'm not good at it."

"Unrelenting," Laurie said. She rolled her eyes. She drank her beer.

"This was fun and all dissecting our individual lives, but I gotta go," I said.

"You just got here."

"Going to see Nathan," I said.

"What're you guys doing?" she asked.

Family dinners at mom's house, Laurie wore scoop necks and shorter skirts and touched Nathan more than she touched me. It never went anywhere, it's not like she ever called him: it was the control. The control is why she liked politics. Why she had now decided to support Obama. Hillary was of no use to Laurie. No control, obviously.

"He's playing softball. I'm not going to do anything."

"Softball?"

"Yeah, he just decided to do it. He said kickball was too ironic."

"Can I go?" she asked.

"You want to go to a softball game?"

"I want to know about your-slash-his manly pursuits. I just talk like I don't."

I grabbed the check.

"That's a first," Laurie said.

I walked to the cash register. At the cash register, my phone beeps. A text.

"U needs sexi women 2nite?"

VI

Metal bleachers and the dirty ground, no grass to be found; 3-year olds with specks in their hair, grime on their nose, gross sandy toes -- not beach sand, but dirt sand, dirt on them like they have never seen dirt, never have crossed dirt, their strollers and moms are not all-terrain, but just approved shopping center sidewalk and black asphalt trained, this dirt is a foreign yet organic concept -- and their sideburned/mulletted dads, laminated numbers on their backs for the lineup card, sacrificing groins and hamstrings and tender ankles for the sake of LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION and CRAZY PINS BOWLING, not sure what exchange either gets out of this except for $5 off a cabinet reinstallation and a free bowling shoe rental.

Nathan's shirt says LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION, a place he's never been, but will happily represent like he's ENDORSING something, a regular LeBron James, a regular Jeff Gordon, Nathan is peddling services for the right to be seen on the field, and in this exchange of endorsements, did they factor in that Nathan might suck, that these players might suck, bringing undue shame to LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION, and instead of a $5 discount on cabinets it actually becomes an increase of $5 for the harm they (NATHAN) have wrought the LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION brand, for their ill-conceived slides (MULLET_GUT) for an extra base or their bumbling catches in mid-center-right field (NATHAN, AGAIN) or for their lofty swings that hit nothing but air (COACH/SUPPOSED MINOR LEAGUE ALL-STAR WITH GRAY ON HIS TEMPLES), their swings not contacting, just retracting and slumping skulk back to this (pine/maybe oak/maybe I'm no arborescent professional) lonely bench, only to be filled at 9 by WRIGHT INSURANCE SERVING PINELLAS PARK SINCE 1978.

The last out called, we walked to the Largo Coastal Construction dugout, Nathan was drinking Gatorade, someone holding a grime-dotted 3-year old, someone else putting a glove into a duffel bag, a hand fishing in a cooler with loose ice cubes, the elusive Diet Coke search.

"Laurie, hey!" Nathan said standing, rocking on his cleats. He gave her a hug, his chest enfolding closer to her breasts, no grimace from Laurie despite the dried sweat stench from the polyester jersey.

"Great game, bro," acting like I meant it. "That was a crazy double play" -- Laurie's yelp the only reason I knew about the double play.

"Let's go out, come one, let's go," Nathan said, forgetting what I said, maybe not hearing it, always automatically tuning out advice from a big brother it had extended to compliments, too.

"No we shouldn't I -- -"

"Why not?" It was Laurie, "It'll be fun with the softball guys, to be out..."

"Yeah," Nathan said "Why not?"

Then the sweep of the balls and the bats, the assurances of "I'll see you there," the rolling eyes of moms desiring rest for the night, their own opportunity to play and view "Dancing With The Stars" is gone, but those moms went anyway, and the married men, the single men and Laurie and two other ("I'm unattached," I heard Laurie say...) unattached women motioned their way out of the cacophony of votes, selecting by a plurality, not a majority -- The Bronx Bar, more assurances made that not too many New Yorkers would be there, that it was good clean honest fun, with pool tables and at least (count'em!) three pinball machines and the music was of the punk rock variety, ("They cater to working-class hipsters!") a burly third-baseman type had said to one of the unattached, who in her Ann Taylor Loft-but really Target clothes was neither assured or assuaged, but seemed okay once there and that guy taught her the words to an Against Me! song, then in the most fluid prose explained why they had sold out. Truly moving.

The Bronx emptied during a Lucero song, at which point a woman bartender with blonde hair, cowboy boots, she had been behind the bar only for the last hour or so that we were there walked up to me.

"You're Wallace," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"It's me Mattie," she said.

"Damn..." I said.

"God..." she said.

"Loves you," I said.

***

"Who was that girl?" Laurie asked. In the car now, the window rolled down, her arm out the window.

"That girl at the end?"

"Yeah, you know the blonde woman with long legs and cowboy boots who came up to you and said, 'I'm Mattie' and then you got a shy smile and gave her your phone number, yes, that girl at the end," Laurie said.

"That's Mattie," I said. "She's from high school. I haven't seen her in six or seven years. You know I don't talk to anyone from high school anymore."

I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

"God answers Knee-mail."

"That's a funny sign," Laurie said.

***

"That was much better than I thought," Laurie said.

Laurie was on my bed.

"That was the only time I've seen him this focused," I said from the couch. Ghostbusters 2 on the television.

"I thought he might be better than that, you know, being on a team and stuff."

"He was better at soccer, I remember that," I said.

"'Was' is the keyword," she said.

Laurie got up. She walked to the bathroom. She flipped on the light. She closed the door.

The mayor in Ghostbusters 2 was on the screen. "Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right," he said.

Laurie flushed the toilet. She turned on the faucet. I could hear the water running.

VII

"What about it?" the man behind the counter said.

"Hadn't thought about it again," Uncle Ander said.

"Good, good opportunity. You need something to do."

Uncle Ander opened the door to a washing machine.

Whites in first. He put in three quarters. He put in soap. He turned the dial.

"It's not the opportunity. It's the money. The money, Luis."

"Nah, no worry, no worry, you'll get it all back. Clean it up, good like new."

"Then why don't you keep it? You clean it."

"We're leaving. Back to the Phillipines. I already cleaned it up 20 years ago. 20 years ago when I bought it. Now, your turn, your turn."

"I'm old. You were young when you bought it," Uncle Ander said.

"True, but you got spirit," Luis said. "You know young people. Those nephews you have. They're young."

"Who's taking this place?" Uncle Ander said. Uncle Ander slammed the washing machine door.

"My son. My son is taking this place."

"Why doesn't he take the motel?"

"I don't trust him with that. Too much work. If that closes, it will break my heart. With this...this was just extra. Extra money. He says he doesn't want to go back, but give him time, give him time, his heart will change. And then he'll sell this."

"But you don't want him to sell the motel?"

"You are my first choice for it, Ander. And my good friend."

"Ah, screw you Luis."

***

"This Luis, you need to meet him. I'm working on a deal," Uncle Ander said on the phone. "Hurry, my underwear and whites are almost done."

"A deal?" I said. "What kind of deal are you getting into."

"A good one," he said. "I'm not going to tell you about on the phone."

"Can't today. I'm going to the library."

The remote poised in my hand, it had sat like that for 10, 15, 20 minutes maybe -- Tron on the screen flaring 80s strobes and lights, the scene, the movie, the reaction was all mullet-hair weird, a certain audience only came, no one cared or wanted to know how cheap video games were made, the process more familiar now, it's in our homes, in our entertainment consoles, on our fingers, in our heads, its rhythms replacing the rhythm of cassette tape stops and paper cut bleeds, calluses now from hitting reset and restart, we know not what it is to be lost in thought, only to be lost in Tron.

"What the hell for?" Uncle Ander said.

"Because I work there," I said.

"Doing what?" he asked.

"Researching things," I said. "Wait...are you using your cellphone?"

"They still have a payphone here."

***

In the library reference room, a dusty man with a spindly beard. His purple polo shirt ripped. The polo shirt collar was popped up. On his head was a hat that said "Dick's Rigs." The man slouched in the chair. He was reading the "Women We Love" Esquire issue.

I walked past him and to the computers. I was working away from home today. Better to check job boards at the library than on my own couch. Libraries were for work, but now are for distraction.

I sat down at the computer. I opened Opera. I typed in "indeed.com." In the box I typed in "writer" and "tampa." I opened a job titled "copywriter." The description said: "Must have the ability to juggle multiple assignments and meet aggressive deadlines. Develop and execute creative concepts across multi-channel campaigns."

Wondered what type of remote I needed to develop and execute creative concepts in multi-channels.

VIII

The condo complex in Seminole, somewhat of a suburb, but more of Pinellas County between the beach and bay, no good way to get across except to sit through stop light, then another stop light, avoid wreck and aviator-sunglassed retiree on bicycle and listen closely to the accented Quebecois on vacation for 4 months of the year. The condo was near a movie theater, and across from Kmart, where I would buy pruning shears for houseplants that would die and buy cheap candy bars to watch expensive movies. 2 bed, 1 bath, the drive into downtown St. Pete for work...no longer mattered. I came home from the library and watched Fletch on my Panasonic television. Fletch is on the beach, under the pier and Fletch tells the rich guy his name is Ted Nugent.

My phone rings. Don't recognize the number.

"Hey, it's Mattie."

"Mattie?"

"From the other night," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"What're you up to?"

"Watching Fletch."

"What's that?" she asked.

"A movie."

"Oh, is it funny?" she asked.

"For the most part. He's going to meet this guy who's going to give him $50,000 to kill him."

"Oh."

"Eventually, Fletch will tote around this kid with braces in a white sports car. Then they make a sequel where Fletch finds out he's the heir to a plantation house in Louisiana. That one's not as good."

"Uh-huh. When's the last time we hung out?" she said.

"I think it was a few nights ago," I said.

"Let's do it again," she said.

"Okay," I said.

No answer. Gone.

On the phone, I open my contacts. I find the name "UncAnder." I press "call."

"Uncle Ander?" I said.

"What?" he said. "I'm in the middle of lunch."

"Is it peanut butter and jelly?" I asked.

"Yes, it is, who cares?" he said.

"Move in over here," I said.

"Into your place, you want me to move into your place?"

"Yes, I need a roommate, you need a place with laundry."

"I told you, I don't need a washing machine. I have the laundry mat," he said. "Your place is being foreclosed, you should move over here."

"It's not getting foreclosed," I said.

"That's not what Nathan told me."

"He doesn't know everything."

"He knows a lot."

"Anyway," I said. "How about it?"

"No, you come over here. You move in over here," he said.

"Okay," I said.

***

Tonight the Bronx Bar rides more on the young side, buffalo plaid and neon black, some girls have leggings, some don't. I see Mattie. Her hair is in a side pony-tail, her black shirt some mess of sequins and Bedazzler. I can't read what she wrote on her shirt. She probably did that on purpose.

"Hey," Mattie yells. "Want a beer?"

"I only drink 100 percent fruit juice now."

"Sure a-hole that's it. I'll get you something."

Mattie's shirt may actually be from 1989.

She sat down. She handed me an Amstel Light.

"What do you do now?" Mattie asked.

"I'm in advertising, I mean I was in advertising, still want to be again, maybe. Just got laid off."

"That sucks," she said.

She took a drink.

"What're you up to?" I said. "Bartending here?"

Husker Du on the jukebox.

"Mostly, sometimes help in my friends' vintage store. I should've gone away to college, like you, I guess instead of this."

"Mattie, I just went to UF. But it's not for everyone."

"College?"

"Going away."

The Amstel was in my mouth, I was drinking it, my eyes felt perky, I was stupid looking. We sat.

"Remember that time you were at the track meet and we made signs?" she asked.

"I ran hurdles."

"You remember what the sign said?"

"Um....maybe...." I said.

"You do...."

"No, I don't..."

"Wallace, don't fall us," she said.

"Oh yeah, that's what they said."

"Was that funny?" she asked.

"I thought it was creative."

"Since you're in advertising, you must come up with funny lines all the time."

"Most of my time is spent hitting delete over and over and wishing upon wish that I could unsend email proposals."

"Huh," she said.

In high school, Mattie told me once between classes or at a show or maybe at Subway that she wanted to be in medical device equipment. I told her that was stupid.

"Remember our pact?" she said.

"I do remember it."

She was right, time was drawing near. Somehow I convinced her to extend it to 30, and here we were at 26. Four years away.

A guy in overalls sat by the pool table. He wore a trucker hat. It said "I Heart NYC." He was rubbing the pool stick between his hands. He was creating friction.

"Do you think we should start dating?" Mattie asked.

"Did you just break up with someone?" I asked.

She just broke up with someone. Neither one of us remembered the pact until we broke up with someone. I almost called her when Laurie first started supporting Romney. I didn't though.

"Kind of not really," she said.

"How many years had it been?" I asked.

"Like 3 years," she said.

"Was it Gabe? Is that right?" I asked.

"Yeah, Gabe."

"What happened? I thought he had that drywall thing going good," I said.

"He did. But we....didn't have the same interests. All he does is talk about tattoos and motorcycles."

"Is this what the other night was about?" I asked.

The Rays were on the television above the bar. Evan Longoria with a hit, Carlos Pena on the bases. They were winning. Still. Young stars with promise finally making good on what everyone thought they could do, they finally believed in themselves, if they kept winning they might lose some of their charm, it was a risk all of us would have to take.

"No, not exactly, but kind of," she said.

"Well, it's not time to enforce the pact yet," I said. "We still got time."

"Maybe we don't have to enforce the pact, maybe we can just fall into it naturally, you know together," she said.

"Mattie...," I said. I kind of whined. I felt squeamish. My stomach hurt. My eyes or the room began to spin. Or maybe my eyes just rolled.

"Believe me, I'm not flipping head over heels. I know you Wallace. But, we have to decide what we want out of life," she said.

"Okay, Mattie," my voice was calm again. Masculine. "What is it that we want out of life?"

"You know, a family, a nice house, maybe in Palm Harbor or at least in Seminole, with one of those small fenced-in pools and our friends can come over to get drunk."

"Okay," I said.

"What?" she said.

"Let's try it out," I said. I slurped my glass. It was empty.

Alone at a table with an out-of-style black ankle-length skirt, this girl with a dark beer near an antique lamp reading a paperback. Her eyes, her skin it was familiar, but unknown, a passing not at a party, but a more intense gathering -- maybe she was a telepathic witch interpreting our conversation.

"Mattie, did I kill your dreams? You used to be hopeful," I said with silly drunk bravado.

"That's arrogant," Mattie said. She drank more of her Amstel.

"Think I'm going to go," I said.

"Suit yourself. Want to get burritos sometime?"

"Sure, you know, the pact." Now, honesty.

I walked towards the door. I opened the door to the bar. I avoided two men standing in the middle of it. I avoided three girls in short Kohl's dresses and Nine West heels. My Ford Explorer was across the street. I jogged across the street.

"You didn't even ask me out again. Or what my favorite color is. Or if I like cashews or pistachios or if I like pancakes or waffles better. You just asked if you killed my dreams," Mattie yelled from across the street. She had followed me outside. Her hand was still on the door, keeping it open.

"Pancakes or waffles?" I yelled.

"I don't know, Facebook needs that category. How 'bout you?"

"It's complicated," I said.

"Mine too," she yelled.

"Hey Mattie?"

"What?" she said.

"I still believe in you," I said. A car passed in between us.

"What? I couldn't hear you?" she said.

"Okay," I said. I got into the Ford Explorer.

In my Ford Explorer, I exhaled. The phone rang "Sweet Caroline."

"Where are you?"

"It's complicated."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing...it's fine, how are you?"

"I just wanted to say hey."

"Hey," I said. "I'll see you in a little while."

On the driver's side window, a knock. I jumped to see the possibly telepathic woman with the paperback looking back in my eyes, I pushed the button for the window to come down.

"Uh, do I know you..." I said.

"Hey," she said, "you know from sculpture class" and it was true, it was her, through the window, she kissed my mouth which my tongue didn't resist, she opened the door, her hand ran up my side and we were across the seats of this godawful Ford Explorer and her tall bun like a powerful refuge, the darkness, the twilight not making any sense, but I only thought of that later, probably because I had read it somewhere, but then and there it was more like a twitching finger that warned...of nothing except for seatbelt latches and broken CD cases, but I kept her from all of that, a chivalrous person I was and her head on my shoulder eventually grew heavy with sleep, she never woke even when my phone hummed "Sweet Caroline" thirty minutes after she had first kissed me. I decided then to reinvest myself into the arts.

IX

An email from Scott.

"New project that we can't quite handle. I've received approval for you to work on it if you're interested. More Chevy. Give me a call."

No hope for cars, less and less young people are getting driver's licenses, but are riding bikes or just making their parents drive them around. Parking passes at colleges are expensive anyway. No one thought to tell Scott. Or maybe he knew. Maybe he perused CareerBuilder at work, too many IT techs left to monitor the server any longer. A pencil would always be behind Scott's ear, not because he used it because he thought it should be available, but just because it signified WORK, a sense of GETTING THINGS DONE, I never saw him use a pencil once.

I hit reply. "No thanks," I typed.

***

Rite-Aid opened at 7am. I walked in. I found the office section. "Two legal pads..." I said to myself. I found two yellow legal pads. I bought them.

I found a bench on the sidewalk. I wrote. I wrote some more. A bus stopped at the station and the bus driver opened the door. The bus driver was a woman.

"No, no ride," I said.

The bus driver spat and shut the door.

The word "cars" appeared 54 times on the yellow legal pad. "Job" was the 55th and last word.

***

"What do you think of the election things going on?" It was Mattie. On Facebook chat.

"Not much," I wrote.

"What do you mean not much? Yu were always so smart." she wrote.

"You think something."

"I'm real not sure. Gotta go to bed." I wrote. I closed the laptop. The Wizard on television. With Fred Savage and Jenny Lewis. Jenny Lewis now an indie rock star. She looked innocent.

"I love the Power Glove. It's so bad," someone on the television said.

I watched the last 50 minutes. It seemed like an hour though.

A ring of "Sweet Caroline." I let it go to voicemail.

X

There was no registration table. People wore big blue buttons that said John McCain with a "star" over the "i." We saw a white haired man at a podium. It was John McCain.

"There's no way we can hear him," Laurie said.

We stood. People in dress suits and people in jogging suits. People talked excitedly in hushed tones.

"Take this..." The boy had glasses on with a red tie. He wore a white collared Oxford shirt with American Eagle jeans. He wore boat shoes. He handed us flyers with words like "freedom" and "democracy" on them. There was a logo for "Americans For Prosperity."

"Are they for or against McCain?" I asked Laurie.

"I don't know," she said.

AMERICAN NEED PHYSCAL RESPONSBILLITY, NOT MAVARICKS.

RON PAUL FOR PRESIDENT.

A man in a 1977 Ford Bronco sold tshirts. One of them said "NOT FORGET 9/11."

"Well, they can kind of spell."

"You mean they can't spell at all," Laurie said.

"That's what I mean, you're right."

John McCain continued to talk or at least move his mouth.

I sat down on the grass. Laurie stood on her toes. Laurie squinted. Laurie's lips were tight.

We were together.

***

At Laurie's house, ranch-style in the north part of the county, a good 25 minute drive from me on a good day, passing Bed, Bath and Beyond, Sam Seltzer's Steak House, over the McMullen-Booth bridge, lots of churches, a sign that said "Barack N Roll."

Laurie's house was Dunedin or Safety Harbor, no one knew for sure, she had an oak tree at her house, with a swing underneath it, like it wasn't Florida at all, but somewhere familiar and home and rural. I drove the Ford Explorer into her driveway.

"I'm ready when you are," she said and held beef brisket, I was to start the grill, dragging that little red Weber out her shed, graying the coals, letting the fire simmer, laying the steaks on top of it, now that we didn't kill food, we had to tenderize it, spice it, do something to it as if we had done something.

There was a basket, plastic plates and silverware and a bottle of white wine -- "to sit under the oak tree," she said - -and so we did, though the steaks would not be cut with cheap forks and cheap knives or be contained on cheap plates, somehow sensing after that tenderizing and that spicing that it deserved to be eaten not by morons but by those that would savor its cattle farm / chain store grocery upbringing.

We held the brisket in our hands, A-1 sauce and grease and bits of charcoal running out of our mouths, down our chins, over our arms, onto our clothes, like a gusher of beef squeezings.

"God that's gross," she said.

"Let's go in the hot tub," I said.

"No thanks, I'm full," she said and went for the garden hose.

This was a time to spray her, to summer frolic, for us to understand and participate in a summer moment, given to us organically at the time of when spontaneity and summer meet and water was usually involved in those times, but I let it pass, the A-1 off of her mouth, her arms, still on her reddish polo-ish type shirt, she handed the hose to me and went into the house.

***

"I remember when this show was on," Laurie said.

Alf was on TV.

Alf decided he needed a job and he bought lots of makeup to sell at makeup house parties. The boxes were delivered by a UPS look-a-like man. He wheeled the boxes in. People in the family said "Oh Alf."

"I think I had a crush on the Alf girl," I said.

"You were supposed to have a crush on the Alf girl," Laurie said.

"You were supposed to have a crush on Doogie Howser," I said.

"You were supposed to have a crush on DJ from Full House," she said.

"No," I said. "I had a crush on Kimmie Gibler."

We watched more Alf.

"When did you leave BaxHoff?" I asked, implying the name of her old accounting firm, Baxter Hoffman, we had never talked about her reasons for leaving her old job.

"Well, it was mutual," she said, eyes forward on Alf.

"They asked you to leave?"

"Yes-no, kind of sort-of, like I said it was mutual," she said.

"So you wanted to leave?"

"What about yes-no, kind-of sort of do you not understand?" she said.

"Obama doesn't pay as much I bet," I said.

"No he doesn't, he's a socialist," she said.

"I knew it," I said.

"I was joking," she said.

An Alf joke, a tracked laugh.

"I'm moving into Uncle Ander's house," I said.

"Is it because of the job?"

"Maybe, not really, yes," I said.

***

In the car, on the way home from Laurie's. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

"God wants full custody, not just weekend visits."

XI

The door to Sonny's had a sign on it. "Got what it takes? Enter the Sonny's new BBQ sauce contest."

I opened the door.

"Welcome to Sonny's," said a guy with a black apron on and a Sonny's baseball cap. "Just one?"

"I'm meeting somebody....there she is."

Mom was standing, waving.

I walked towards her, past the barbecue buffet, past a bald man with long hair and mini-tufts poking over his ears with a shirt that read: "I Heart Ronald Reagan."

"Nice tie," she said.

"Yeah, it's new."

Mom already had a plate of pulled pork and coleslaw.

"Thanks for waiting," I said.

"I didn't eat breakfast, trying out a new diet. Just nuts."

"Then why are you eating meat?"

"No, I meant the diet is crazy, stupid, it's mostly Slimfast shakes, but I moved my one meal to right now."

"Got it, got it."

"Did you dress up just for me?"

"What?"

"Now stop it, stop it right now, Uncle Ander told me."

"Mom....."

"No, no don't blame him. I pressed him on it. I thought something was funny, you seemed to be going out more at night," she said pointing her fork at me.

"I'm working on it you know, it's probably for the best."

"Well, that's so unfortunate, I never liked that Scott guy, he seemed to always be selling you something," she said.

A blonde-dyed, wiry woman with a pad in her hand and a ribbon in her hair was at the table.

"What will you have to drink?"

"Tea, please, thanks," I said.

"And do you want to go ahead and order?" she said.

"Um, 1/4 chicken," I said.

"Great, we'll have it out to you..."

"Have you looked for a job?" Mom asked.

"Freelance mom."

"How much longer can you wait?"

"I have some savings."

"They also need cashiers at the Pizza Hut. That money is important, you know it, too."

"I do know it, I also know I'm a grown man."

"Sometimes I wonder -- what would your father think? Then I get chills," she said.

"Because he might be angry?"

"No, stupid, he loved you he was your father."

Mom took a bite of pulled pork.

"This sauce...I could do better than this sauce. Way better," she said.

I reached across the table. I took a piece of her barbecue.

"Probably so, it's a little bland. You know how they water stuff down," I said.

"Ha, do I. And so do you. Maybe it is for the best, never thought that was you anyway."

"Never thought what was me?" I said.

"Advertising," she said.

"So what is me?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said.

The waitress brought back a 1/4 dark chicken. I never told her which one I wanted.

"Anyway, I have job interviews tomorrow."

Her mouth was a dark maroon red.

"Ooooh, before you go, got something for you," she said.

She licked her fingers, her mouth the dark maroon red, she reached in her purse. Her lips were burning for sure by now.

"It's this key, you forgot it the other day, your father wanted you to have it."

I looked at the key.

I wasn't sure I had what it takes.

XII

One water, one sky, the grays the same color. Sand in the toes, on the calf, bits of shell stuck to my forehead. Sliding in this half mass, top in the gray, bottom in the gray, wetness below, wetness evaporated above. These worlds, split, and black nyoprene joins together like a screw, or a nail. Or a thorn in the side of the expanse. There was no need, there was no need, it was warm. But some things you just want to do anyway.

She bit her lip.

"You got laid off?"

"Yes."

"I know you've worked in an office before, so did you ever think not to come here in a wetsuit?"

"Yes, but aren't you the cool California store?"

"We still have rules of course, corporate..."

"You give us a uniform anyway even though you say we get a choice, but I'm assuming we have to wear the fall-frat line..."

She pulled on her ear.

"Um you used to work in...advertising? You should know about professionalism," she said.

I leaned forward.

"And look where it got me. Right in front of you."

She pulled back her hair.

***

I dialed her phone.

"What?" she said.

"Can I come over?" I asked.

"Wallace, I'm at work," Laurie said.

"It's Friday."

"It's Tuesday..."

"Feels like Friday."

"...and yesterday was a holiday."

"Let's move in together," I said.

"This is a test, a test of your strength, character, faith...," she said.

"Oh."

***

He had long bangs.

"Why do you want to sell electronics?"

"I don't really."

"Why are you here?"

"Let's be honest -- I need money, your store is offering some. All I have to do really is stand behind that computer and check people in and out."

He wore wire-rimmed glasses.

"If you don't mind me asking, I mean, I know don't much about this stuff, but isn't it too warm for a wetsuit?"

"But not too warm for the wetsuit feeling."

He tapped his pen against a clipboard.

"Okay, hmmm. Well, we'll be in touch."

"I'm sure we will."

***

Answering machine in my condo. For business, important stuff. Hate to be bothered with this on the cellphone. Feels not grownup to talk about business on the cellphone. I told this philosophy to Nathan and Laurie once, when they were standing near one another in my condo. They both said "that's weird" at the same time, and we all felt too old to say "jinx."

It beeped. There was a red blink. I hit "play."

"Oscar Andrews from American Home Life Mortgage..."

I hit delete.

***

Outside the grocery store. The man from the library with a hat that said "Dick's Rigs" and in overalls sat in the back of a pickup truck. A Breyer's Ice Cream container in his lap.

A dog in the back of the truck licked ice cream out of the hands of one of the man. "Martin, good dog" said the man. I looked at the back of the truck. A Rudy Giuliani sticker on the back.

"Too bad about Giuilani," I said.

"No, it's fine. It won't tarnish his legacy," the man said. "9/11 wasn't good, but it was good leadership."

"Sometimes it's good to remember the good times," I said.

"Like eating ice cream in the back of a truck," he said.

XIII

"Some people are calling Obama the greatest marketing feat ever," Mattie said.

"Yeah, he totally fits on a Facebook status." I said.

"And he's the cool, educated minority. The type of person that liberal white people can refer to as, 'well, some of my best friends are black,'" Mattie said.

"Those liberal people that never leave doctor's offices or lawyer's offices," I said.

Text. From Nathan.

"Come over," it said.

"Right now?" I wrote back.

"Who is that?" Mattie asked. We were getting coffee. We were at something called Phoenix Coffee.

"Nathan."

"You're brother? I've never met him."

"You want to?" I asked.

"Sure," she said.

"I'll tell him."

"Don't say anything about Laurie," I punched into the phone. I hit send.

***

At Nathan's house. I ring the doorbell. Mattie is on her toes. She lowers to the ground. She is flexing her calf muscles.

Nathan opens the door. He wears a red-checked polyester shirt. He has a screwdriver in his hand.

"What's up bro?" Nathan hugs me.

"Nathan, this is Mattie," I said.

"Hey..." she said carrying out "hey" longer than it should have been.

Nathan had a hammer in his hand. There was a table of wooden planks behind him. There was a table saw. There was sawdust.

"It's good to meet you," Nathan said. "This is what I wanted to show you."

He walked to the table. He lifted a 5-foot tall triangular piece.

"Whoa that's huge," Mattie said.

"Yes, big birdhouses," Nathan said. "For a bunch of birds."

"A birdhouse? Like, you mean like sea gulls? You want the gulls to come?" I said.

"Got it. People can put like bread and stuff in here for them, instead of throwing it out on the beach and everyone getting ticked."

Nathan sounded nerdy. But he was smiling. Mattie was smiling.

"I am impressed with your craftsman skills," Mattie said. "Whoa, is this the new Bun-B?"

On the table among scattered woodchips, the scattered sawdust, the random handsaw, the handsome tablesaw, a new album from Bun-B, Nathan and I took different philosophical stances on the rap-hip-hop-bounce-whatever else genre and releases, him a fan, me not so much, the profane, the violence -- "it's just so subdued in what you listen to" he would say and there was nothing left after that, he was honest with his music, taking in rap as well as any punk-emo-garage rock I could throw at him, as fluent in Bun-B as in Deerhunter.

"You like him?"

"I love Trill so much," Mattie said.

"That was a good record," Nathan said.

***

"Come over and help me Pack," I texted.

"Why" she wrote.

"I need some help." I wrote.

"Thats not good reason."

"Cuz I asked you to."

"Still no."

"COME ON!!!!1"

"Am finishing Proj Runway. Will be 30min-2hours."

Opened cabinets under my sink and found a box of Winn Dixie brand garbage bags. Black ones, with a draw string. I pulled out the roll. I unpeeled them. I opened my cabinet. Plates in there, Tupperware, a blender. I put all of these into a garbage bag.

I tied the garbage bag. I took it to the door. I walked back to the kitchen and opened another garbage bag. I opened the pantry. I put a spice rack, a box of oatmeal, a box of cereal, three rice bags and Hamburger Helper boxes into the bag. I put other stuff into the bag until it was full. I pulled the red drawstring and tied it. I took this bag and placed it by the door.

I did this repeatedly for various closets, spaces and rooms. I had close to 12 bags full of stuff.

They were all in black bags.

The phone buzzed. Laurie. "On my way" it read.

XIV

From Craigslist:

"Lanier Shaubach Commercial Services is a manufacturer of unique composite home systems. Our automated, state of the art production system employs several technologies and processes. Our new and green product is expanding rapidly in many markets of the world, giving our company a bright and healthy future.

We are in need of an EXPERIENCED WEB Designer. This is a FULL TIME/PERMANENT position. We are in need of a Team Player with a CAN DO attitude. We currently need our website(s) completely re-done and then maintained. This is a CAREER opportunity, not just another job. We are looking to hire immediately. I could go into detail about the job, but if you are a web designer, then you already know what is required of you.

Please forward your resume WITH salary requirements as soon as possible. We look forward to hearing from dedicated team players."

Message on Gchat from Nathan:

-what's up?

looking for jobs.

-any luck?

shoulda gone into webdesign

-bro chexck it into finance research; where it's at

that's what i'm afraid of.

-u'll find something.

eventually.

-chexck this.

A link. From Craigslist:

"Birdhouses for Sale! Large Birdhouses! Perfect for seagulls. Use at in the garden or at the beach.

$75

Call Nathan at 727-xxx-xxxx."

***

"Have you seen my place?" Uncle Ander said.

Walking with Uncle Ander, cracks in the sidewalk, grass finds its way through, pass the gas station and the two half-court basketball courts to keep beach kids down from ever excelling at anything. There is no sound, the waves are quiet, like a genteel dirty bath to be drained after the toddler is tucked in. The Candy Kitchen with homemade taffy, big boxes of manufactured sugar with names lacking confidence like Runts and Saf-T-Pops and U-No, the Winn-Dixie with sour meat and soft produce and cashiers missing teeth and managers with alimony payments so high they can only unload the dairy cart while high.

"I've been to your house. I'm moving in."

"No, the hotel," Uncle Ander said.

"What hotel?" I said.

"That's the deal I mentioned. On the phone. The deal with Luis," he said.

"God," I said.

"Loves you," he said. "What's the matter? You have a problem with it? I can afford it. You have a problem with me? I can do it."

"What about the market? It's crazy," I said.

"Real estate on the beach is never bad," he said.

"What about running the hotel?" I asked.

"What about it?"

"You don't know how to do it."

"I won't do it. I'll hire people. What are you doing? What's on your leg?" he asked.

A scab on my leg, a bloated mosquito bite turned scab, I scrape away the remains, a small black red pinhead emerges, I let it sit there, I like to watch it grow.

"Nothing."

"Well, if you're not doing anything, you can run the hotel."

"I don't even know..."

"That's okay I'll show you."

"...where I am."

"That's okay, you're moving in with me."

***

Clipped, staccato, relying on really easy tropes to speak the language. Bad rich people, bad fancy law firms, noble and pure bootstrappers who don't know any better, but salt of the earth sense develops and finds purpose, they only need Wall Street to understand wealth, looking for SOMETHING DEEPER, to contribute to, to understand the plight of the common man, only to find that all the common man wants is money and more of it, and more of it all the time.

***

I peer through the blinds. A truck with the words "Brothers Trucks" is in the parking lot. A man gets out of the driver's seat of the truck. He walks to a point underneath the building where I can no longer see him. I step back from the window. I sit on the couch.

The doorbell rings. It is the man from Brothers Trucks. It is the man whom I once saw in the parking lot eating ice cream with his dog and reading the "Women We Love" issue at the library.

"I've seen you," I said. "I saw you eating ice cream with your dog at the grocery store."

"Yes, that was me."

"I think I've seen you at the library," I said.

"Not so sure about that," he said. "How much stuff you got?"

I point at the garbage bags.

"Bachelor, huh?" he said. "What about this couch? The rest of the furniture?"

"I'm leaving it except for my movies, DVD player and TV," I said. "And my computer."

"A regular nomad, huh?" he said. "Let's get started." He picked up two garbage bags.

"Is your name Dick then?" I asked.

"No, absolutely not," he said. "Took that hat from my son. He got it at the mall, I think."

XV

There was nowhere to park. People were already parked in other people's yards.

A sign was out front, with a few tables in the yard. Laurie and I got out of the car.

"Do you think they'll have any purses?" she said.

"I don't know."

Beaded belts and bad tattoos and long mustaches and high-white socks with white gray tennis shoes and Keds and pleated shorts with polyester hats, faces with liver spots, faces with bruises, pants across wide bodies with the elastic stretched, bare feet and hair picks, shirts that said "Dixie Girls" and shirts that said "Avirex," the people the items would become one and the same, they would return to their cars with their newly purchased used items, only to sell it in three months and buy the same thing 6 months later.

The garage door was open. An actual garage sale with a garage.

"Hey, how's it going?" some bro with nappy curled hair to his chin. A faded gray shirt was on him, the shirt said "I saw Pike's Peak and Lived."

Roller blades, a box of basketball and soccer balls, cleats, a drum kit, a synth and a reusable beer pong set were in the garage. A box of old postcards sat next to a shoe box of costume jewelry. Laurie flipped through the postcards.

"Um, I was looking for the Atari 2600..." I told the Pike's Peak guy.

"Wood panel?"

"Sure, that works."

"Okay...it's around it's inside. Come with me."

We walked to his front brick stoop.

"I don't like to put the electronics outside, you know. Rain, mucus from 5 year olds, that sort of thing."

"Oh," I said.

A dining room table stacked with controllers, computer cords, and videogame consoles.

"This is like a museum..." I said.

"Almost not quite, I'm just now selling them."

An N-64 in one box, complete with GoldenEye and WCW Wrestling and MarioKart, original PlayStation with Fight Night and Gran Torino. A Sega Dreamcast. A Sega Genesis. A Super Nintendo.

"I didn't play games as a kid," Pike's Peak said. "So like 7 or 8 years ago I got an Xbox and was like, this is good, so I just started going backwards. Getting a new system like every other year. working my way back...gaining history."

"Why do you have two Ataris?"

"Not sure how that happened. Anyway you want one?"

"Sure. how much?"

"$65 is that good? with 6 games including Frogger and Galaga?"

"They're more than that on ebay."

"Cool, man cool. And lemme know if you have any problems, I like to stay engaged with my customers. Name's Court."

"I'm Wallace." I pulled out my checkbook. Court handed me a card.

Court Jansen. Underneath his name it said, "Importer/Exporter"

"Like Art Vandelay," I said.

"Exactly and not exactly at the same time."

Court handed me the wood-paneled Atari 2600.

"Is the synthesizer in the garage for sale?" I asked.

"You play? I'll show it to you," he said.

He closed the door. We walked back to the garage. Laurie was putting on fake earrings.

"See man, it was my ex's, we were in this band together. We kind of split the band, she got in with this hot sauce salesman after watching King of Kong, she got stoked after that movie. That's all there is to that," Court said.

"Sounds complicated," I said. "Wait, she's with Billy Mitchell?"

"Naw man, no. She went and found her own hot sauce salesman."

"We all need one of those," I said.

"Totally," Court said. He went behind the drum kit and grabbed the synth off a workbench.

"Think it's a MicroKorgXL Synth and a vocoder," he said. "Try it out.

"No, no. He knows nothing," Laurie said.

"I took piano lessons as a kid," I said.

"There's a USB hookup on the back, just plug into Garage Band and let'er go," he said.

"Nice," I said. "How much?"

"How bout $450, nice discount for getting the Atari, coming with this hot woman." Not sure if Court licked his lips, he may have.

"Excuse us," Laurie said. She grabbed my arm, like I was making a bad decision in a romantic comedy. "What are you doing?"

"Until you grabbed my arm, I was going to buy a synthesizer," I said.

"And why exactly were you going to do that?" she asked.

"I thought it would be fun." "What about this?" Laurie said. She pointed to the Atari. "This was supposed to be for fun too."

"I'm sure that is fun too."

"Wallace, you can't be spending your money like this. I mean $500? That's like over a month's rent. And you don't have a real job," she said.

"I can do it. I know what I'm doing," I said. I walked back to Court. Laurie walked to the Ford Explorer.

"Here's another check," I said.

"Thanks man," Court said. "And give me a call if you need anything."

***

John McCain:

"Time will only allow me to thank a few of our Florida supporters by name, but to everyone who, in good times and bad, devoted so much time, energy and hope to keeping our candidacy competitive, thank you from the bottom of my heart."

XVI

No longer a highway when the day ends, gentle creaks and laughs on the sidewalk outside, there are people living, milling, looking for a drink, it is vacation somewhere, everywhere right now here right now, one person's daily life is another person's relaxation, the waves come day after day, they come by everyday, sometimes people look for them other times people don't, some so near the beach can only understand and want Oprah and find their way with high knee socks and safari hats and white A-shirts to the Publix, slopping through 70/30 or 80/20 meat, spoiling meat, decaying meat kept at bay by these refrigerated monsters, were these ever supposed to exist in the south anyway? And they pick and claw and chew, some get marked down, this spoiling meat watching its DUE DATE creep close, like three roaches on a front porch underneath your feet and this is the meat that the A-shirted tube-socked pale retiree will choose because ROTTEN MEAT is always THE CHEAPEST. Making it to Florida is where every bit of money had been spent, there was nothing left for meat.

***

Tripped, fell out the door really and she into my arms, I caught her, there was no one else to imagine right then, Mattie there and accessible. Across the bay, out tonight, at the Crowbar, Mattie like a knowing bird and proud lioness, confident stride her hair beautiful, her jeans knowing where to accentuate as if she planned to strike notes on all chords and she was, she was. Her friend's band playing, a friend of a friend, Have Gun Will Travel, dirty Americana -- "thought you might like to hear them" -- she had said on the phone, protest in my mind, demeanor, didn't believe it would ever be a good idea, but my lips said "yes" my heart then charging, reigniting, new action in another of town, a release with an okay girl, an okay girl who I never believed in, she fell in my arms and I saw the glimpse, the sign, the idea of why I made a pact like that so many years ago -- her slight wrinkles, her full dimples, she was here and I was here and the opening band was terrible.

"I think I know that guy," I shouted to her, the bang of the band's drone punk moving the walls.

She yelled something back one ear over the other, cute really, like that one time we almost kissed in high school, never mind the words being said.

"What?"

We stayed there with the music, the motion, the waves of tank-topped hipster kids coming, going, we all need a chance to do things we would not usually do.

XVII

Thrillers, legal ones, spy ones, from $3.99 to $5.99 to $7.99, for the airport consumer, the consumer on the go, in the portable DVD player, highly educated looking for the lowest level of entertainment the airports the new beach, waiting and waiting, waves and waves of planes and water, with overcharged soft drinks, nothing settles the stomach like Top Secret! and Who's Harry Crumb?

***

Dialed Court's number, like a stalker or someone about to ask him on a date or someone weird from craigslist, nervous really, this is stupid, nothing to do, like we're 8 years old in the summer, should be working on my summer reading list or should be scanning eBay, should be finding homeless men and feeding them, should be finding stray animals and guiding them to shelter, should mow the grass for old people... "Hella."

"Court?"

"Yep."

"Dude, hey, this is Wallace, you know I bought the Atari a few weeks back?"

"Yep, bro, what's going on?"

"I'm starting this band. Want you to play drums in it."

"Hell yes."

"Um, really?"

"It's cool. I just need something to do," he said.

"Good, good. We can practice at my place. Bring your stuff over."

"Wait, uh, Wallace you playing that synth?"

"Thought I might try it out and here's the deal..."

I tell him the idea, the synth new wave feel, deep backbeats with 80s movies quotes and dialogue composed through the laptop, just samples then he said: "samples of the dialogue?"

"Yeah exactly," I said and then he said: "And then we could generally sing about the 80s, wayfarers sunglasses and Izod shirts and 'Miami Vice'" -- "no let's just keep it to the movies," I interrupted, competently and confidently like I just waxed a Porsche, no, like I just watched someone wax my Porsche and I slipped them a $20 for a job well done, this will be a job well done, this will be an idea well done.

XVIII

"Bring Nathan too," Uncle Ander said.

"Why?"

"To see the GD hotel, whaddya think?" Uncle Ander said.

"Yeah, okay. Where is it again?"

"St. John's Pass off Boca Ciega Ave, it's called the Boca Bay Motel."

"Got it, see you there."

I pressed 'end.' I called Nathan.

"Hey, Uncle Ander wants us to go look at the hotel with him."

"Hmmm...what?" Nathan said.

"Uncle Ander's hotel...you know."

I heard a yelp. I think it was a girl.

"Was that a girl?" I asked. Something shuffled, maybe it was sheets. Maybe it wasn't.

"Wait...." Nathan said.

He hung up.

I took three lefts, a right and then drove straight for 17 minutes. I crossed a bridge. Boca Ciega Avenue. I crossed the bridge. There was a sign on the grass by the bridge. It said, "Once you go Barack, you never go back."

I found the Boca Bay Motel. The sign was cheap plastic over an electric light. I looked at the building. Three of the units had leaning rails on their balconies. The paint was sea green with patches of stucco white. Broken plastic chairs sat small patches of concrete, their function now to be derelict, to be broken and ill, to say WE NEED TO BE REPLACED, they drew attention because of their lack of function, not because of their function.

Uncle Ander was standing with Luis near the office. A plastic sign found at most non-chain hardware stores said "Office."

"There he is," Uncle Ander said. "You remember Luis?"

"Hi Luis," I said.

"Wallace, whaddya think?" Uncle Ander said.

"Not sure. Can we go inside?" I asked. Luis looked at me. He had nice eyebrows, perhaps professionally done.

"Well, if you want," Luis said.

Luis went into a guest room with Uncle Ander. I went into another room and shut the door behind me. The air conditioner units were surprisingly new, circa 1985. Thin gray carpet and thin flower-print bedspreads and a dead plant in the corner. I turned on the faucet. The faucet hacked and coughed and then found itself pouring out brown water that smelled like the ocean, brackish. I went into the bathroom. Brown non-fecal matter spots were on the toilet lid. Black muck on the shower door, the toilet floor had cream-colored foot grips.

The room felt like an abandoned tree house. I went into another and another. All the rooms were the same. Gray carpet, Wal-mart looking furniture from the 80s and console televisions. All of the bedspreads had flower prints.

"Console televisions?" I asked.

"There was a great, great deal at the time, you know?" Luis said.

"Do they still work?"

"Yes, very, very much so. Some customers prefer them," Luis said.

"I'm sure they do," I said. "Is anyone staying here?"

"No, no not right now. I shut it down for the time being you know?" Luis said.

"So you're waiting on a buyer?"

"Yes, yes, very much so," Luis said. "I"ve been talking to your Uncle Ander for several, several months about it."

"What are the inspections like? Is it still good?"

"Yes, solid as a whistle," Luis said. I did not tell him that made no sense.

"Good deal, I think Wallace," Uncle Ander said.

"I don't know, the carpet immediately needs to be replaced in the rooms I went into. And of course it needs a good cleaning."

"Of course, of course," Luis said. "But structurally, structurally it's sound," Luis said.

"What was your occupancy rate like?" I asked.

"Well, well..." Luis said.

"There's no need to pry, Wallace," Uncle Ander said.

"I think it's a fair question if you or we or whomever is making an investment. This is a big deal for you," I said.

"It's true, very true," Luis said. "This is a big, big commitment," Luis added. He looked at Uncle Ander. Those were good eyebrows.

XIX

"Do you have any songs" -- "how many songs do we need?" -- "you have played the synth before?" \-- "not really" -- "that's cool, it's kind of hard, it's kind of not," -- "what bands have you played drums in" -- "maybe, three four rock-metal things" "and you're cool with the synth there, in the lead..."

Stand by Me to Karate Kid, and onto Hot Shots and Revenge of the Nerds and Jaws 3 and Ghostbusters, especially Ghostbusters and "The John Candy oeuvre has to be included," Court pointed his pen -- the words and images flowing, our pens busy jotting, compiling, composing, "Let's do cassette-only releases," Court reasoned, "Well and digital downloads, and don't forget about those Goldie Hawn movies -- Protocol and Wildcats the that one where her head spins around -- didn't that come out in the early 90s?" "Death Becomes Her," I remembered.

Nathan walked in, bangs over dirt creased face.

"Yes, exactly, National Lampoons...anything with Chevy Chase all those Saturday Night Live movies -- Day of the Dead!" Court continued triumphantly...

Nathan sits down. He is in front of a computer. He types. He opens browser windows.

Nathan says something about "MySpace" and "Bandcamp" and "profile pics."

Nathan goes into my room. He finds neon sunglasses. He finds two checked shirts. He finds a tank top with the words "MADEIRA" on them. There is paint on the shirt.

"Put these on," Nathan says. He hands me the sunglasses and the MADEIRA shirt. I take off my current shirt. Nathan buttons up one of the checked shirts. Court buttons up the other checked shirt. I slide the tank top on. I slide the sunglasses on.

Whatever 80s movies we wanted to include, our thoughts our feelings how moms and sisters responded to them, how they set us up for whatever we believed in about life and girls, especially -- "Better Off Dead, something about skiing and hanging at the same time" -- it was all utterly ridiculous, all utterly important, like looking at an aquarium of goldfish at Petco knowing that one of them will soon be called your own, like waiting to be approved for a new car loan, like reading a bad issue of Time before a job interview, dread and fear and wonder about the work of hands and minds and what those hands and minds really could create together, a look in Nathan's eye and Court's eye that some times the best creative ventures are haphazard and gimmicky at the same time, that this repurposing would be fun, could be fun, loaded with potential and possibility without over thinking any of it too much, nobody had a pen to write a mission statement down but we believed in it all the same, searing onto our frontal lobes, where the best and worst memories always reside.

Nathan walks back to the computer desk. He opens a drawer. He pulls out a camera. He props the camera up on the desk. He pushes a button. "You guys ready?'

Nathan walks over to where Court and I stand. The camera flashes and one, two, three the photo is taken. We will remember this. If we forget this, we have the photograph.

XX

Karate Kid is on when Mom calls.

"Uncle Ander..." The 3G network.

"What about Uncle Ander?"

"Do you know where he is?"

The Halloween scene, where Ralph Macchio is dressed as a shower and lures a young Elizabeth Shue behind his curtain.

"He's sick, I think. I've called 5 times in the past hour."

I think about Elizabeth Shue in Adventures in Babysitting. I think about Elizabeth Shue in Leaving Las Vegas. They are different movies.

"And he doesn't pick up?"

"And he doesn't pick up."

"Why don't you drive over there? You're closer than me. He's your brother."

Ralph Macchiao is now taking a hose across the bathroom and putting in the stall where his archenemies are dressed in skeleton suits.

"Oh honey, maybe it's man things."

"Man things -- Mom, men don't have things like women have things."

"That male bonding thing. Watch football or something."

"Maybe he needs a girlfriend," I said.

"Well, you may be right. I think he is lonely."

"Whatever happened to Bingo?"

"That fight with Luis."

"What happened? The hotel?"

Ralph Macchiao is being chased by the group of skeletons. Ralph jumps a chain-link fence. The skeletons are close behind.

"Ander says that Luis took his chips, which Luis of course says he didn't, so Ander asks him if he wants to take it outside, and Luis says to 'Where, the 7-11, you want a coke? What are we going to do outside?"

"Wait, what?"

"Which gets Ander even more upset and he throws hot coffee on Luis and then Dottie stops the game and Ralph, you know Ralph? He used to go to our church, Ralph is a security guard at the Bingo Hall and he asks Ander to leave."

"Um, so that's crazy. Can Uncle Ander go back?" I said.

"I don't think so, or they don't know yet. He's suspended indefinitely."

Ralph Macchiao gets a blackeye from the skeletons and one of them asks for mercy. "He'll get mercy when I say he gets mercy," says Ralph's nemesis. In the background, we can see Mr. Miagi sneaking quietly over the fence.

"Will Luis still let him buy the hotel?"

"What are you talking about? What hotel?"

"Uh," I said.

"Oh god," Mom said. "Just go see him before I kill him."

***

Walked outside, raining. I didn't know anyone who wore rain jackets anymore. I ran to my car. It was locked. I tried to pull the key out of my pocket, but it was stuck and there was more rain and then some more. My hair was wet. I finally got the key out and opened the door.

In the car. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

"Jesus is the rizzle for the sizzle."

XXI

"Thought you might have friends help you move in, too you know," Nathan said.

"All of them were coworkers. It's kind of weird, they stay, you leave, that's that," I said.

The stuff in black trashbags, light knitted sweaters, old tshirts with lettering from flag football teams long disbanded, mismatched socks and broken spoons, blackened pots and books stuck in pizza boxes, Nathan picked it all up and threw it in the truck. Odds and ends, Dick and his Brothers Truck couldn't get. Trail of multicolored dress socks in his wake, out of this cream colored room of this "urban living at its best" enclave, the restaurant next door, the girls with their lawyer boyfriends by the pool, this was mediated living at its finest, pre-approved and sanctioned by the grandest corporations of the nicest websites, attractive people but not beautiful people made us think WE ARE LIKE THEM, which we were though we didn't want to acknowledge, all of us had too much in common to be comfortable.

"What will you miss about this place?" Nathan asked.

Maybe the loud delivery trucks, or the cover band in the restaurant lounge who went way beyond their slotted time, the couple upstairs having sex every night at 11pm, the ants crawling out of barren concrete floors searching for daylight only to find it was more disappointing on the other side of their burrowed holes.

"The simulacrum of the simulacrum," I said.

***

Nathan had a dolly. He slid the metal plate under the washing machine.

Clang and clang, rusted steel against uneven aluminum, the hollow, empty mechanics howling \-- like a child meeting a belt for the first time -- this decay and odor of technical beasts living in our houses with us, giving us more time for emotional/mental/physical decay, this drying process speeded, as if the sun was not good enough, hot enough, as if soap and water writhing between our hands was inefficient, as if our bodies deserved more than we provide, as if we could not take care of ourselves, the perpetual adolescence was real, but it was not this generations' fault, but the one before it, the excuses coming and coming, Mt. Everest pile of excuses -- "kids will be kids" -- until the kids were adults and none the better or wiser.

Why did clothing, meant to cover then to only be an adornment, receive the careful notice and celebratory ritual washing? What about the lungs and the liver and the gall bladder and the appendix and the pancreas? Here I am pouring putrid colored sugar water down and down, a toxic accretion, lining the linings of VITAL organs, no, those so rarely or carefully flushed.

Knobs snapped, and the lids collapsed, the metallic tumbler and liner freeing itself, it may and could roll anywhere, anywhere now. Nathan with the gray steel crushing the ivory white sides, busting, busting a hole that if skin scraped would surely bleed, its edges would rip clothes if so allowed, the threads of miniscule width and depth, fracturing holes where there once were none.

The washer innards now visible, present, pipes and cords and connections to transport life-affirming water to our dead clothes and wash and wash them, colors and whites, never mixed in hot water, except with disastrous results.

We thumped the back of the dryer, and pounded the back of the washer, dragging.

We took it away from Uncle Ander's.

XXII

Uncle Ander turned on the television. The George Lopez Show on Nick At Nite.

"They used to show Donna Reed and Mr. Ed right now," he said.

I showed him where TV Land was on the dial.

"Do they show Who's The Boss?" he asked.'

"Yes, I'm sure they do."

The phone on the side table vibrated.

It was Nathan.

"WE GOTA SHOW."

XXIII

I knocked on Uncle Ander's door. On his door hung a plastic sign that said "Life's A Beach."

Wires streamed from a doorbell slot. I was kicking dirt off my Pumas when he opened the door.

"You live here, you don't have to knock," he said.

"Forgot the key," I said.

I stomped. I stomped some more.

Uncle Ander was in a apron and slippers. "Muddy out?" he asked. He also wore a cap that said, "Too Hot for Real Cars."

"Not too bad, I just stepped in something on the condo lawn." The association had torn up the condo grass, stripped to a muddy surface, like undercooked brownies.

"They're getting it changed out, the grass," he said.

"Why?"

"Okay, they're not. I am. Just this part." He pointed out the window.

"Why? They'll let you do that?"

"They do not know. The association, bunch of dimwits. But, Luis said it was better, for goats."

Luis also once told Uncle Ander that a 'hootenanny' was the real name for diarrhea.

"Are you planning on getting goats?" I said.

"Not sure yet, you know, about the goats."

"So why change your grass?"

"I might decide about the goats."

"I thought you and Luis got in a fight."

"I decided to change my grass before the fight. Come on, let's go sit down."

We went through his hallway, pictures of him and mom as kids, pictures of him and my Aunt Sue-Sue at a Buccanneers game, in Hawaii, in Bermuda, in South Dakota at Wall Drug Store. A picture of him outside the Corvette Museum in Kentucky.

"Want a beer? Natty light, Milwaukee's Best."

"Um, how bout orange juice?"

"Ah, the hard stuff. I'll get it."

There were built-in bookshelves in his living room. He had approximately 20 Readers Digest novels and an old volume of Funk & Wagnall's encyclopedias. I sat on his pea green couch. There were two crossword puzzle books and a copy of "Your Best Life Now" by Joel Osteen on his coffee table. Spies Like Us was on television.

"You like this movie, Spies Like Us?" asked Uncle Ander. He placed a glass of Tropicana on the coffee table.

"Sure, I like it fine. Chevy Chase is funny."

"He died too young, John Candy."

"For sure," I said and sipped some orange juice.

We watched as John Candy and Chevy Chase trudged through the snow.

"The only reason you're here, because of your mom," he said staring at the spies. He was drinking the Natural Light. Some of its pee-yellow foam was on his lip.

"She asked me to stop by, she thought something might be going on, since you haven't talked to her lately."

His apron rounded out further his already round belly, another toy car on the apron.

"She just doesn't like me using the smoker, the barbecue," he said.

"No, I think she likes it fine, she was just wondering you know..."

"I know, it's been a year."

"Yeah, it has."

"She wants to know how I feel? How I think?"

"Yeah, that's all she wants," I said.

Uncle Ander stood up, went to the kitchen. I didn't hear the refrigerator or the pantry, but a shuffling under a stack of papers. I could hear the bend and crack and smell of newspapers and the drop and bounce of an orange juice container. His recycling pile. Uncle Ander found what he was looking for, he put the stacks back up one on top of another.

"I pull this out every so often, this article," he said and handed it to me. It wasn't a picture of her or of anything, but a simple events announcement. He sat back down in his recliner.

"The Quiltin' Corner meets every Wednesday at 10:30am at the Largo Senior Center. Bring your best ideas, your best designs and your best heart!" Below that announcement was one for asking for families to adopt dogs. It was no more than three lines and 2 inches wide.

"You're adopting a puppy?"

"No....It's the quilting. She would be going to it, the quilting."

"I didn't know she quilted," I said.

"Well, she didn't. Not for long. But she tried and she was going to do it."

"So, that's what you miss her quilting?"

"No I hate quilting, really. I miss her doing things, new things. I miss her trying, us growing. I miss her."

He folded the small piece of newspaper. His face reddened, the folds around his mouth increasing, trembling lips.

I looked at the television.

John Candy and Chevy Chase hugged one another in their overstuffed puffy winter coats.

Uncle Ander cried.

"It's so sad what happened to John Candy," he said.

"You learn to deal with it," I said.

***

Obama:

"'The choice is clear. Most of all we can choose between hope and fear. It is going to be very difficult for Republicans to run on their stewardship of the economy or their outstanding foreign policy. We know what kind of campaign they're going to run. They're going to try to make you afraid. They're going to try to make you afraid of me. He's young and inexperienced and he's got a funny name. And did I mention he's black?'"

***

"I was looking for a puppy."

"For yourself."

"Yes....or no, I'm moving out, or I'm moving in with my uncle."

"We still need to do a home inspection."

"But what about like a mutt one. You have to do a home inspection for a mutt puppy?"

"We have mixed puppy breeds, and we still have to do a home inspection for them."

"Good. Yes one like that that is good with old people."

"So you don't own the residence?"

"No, my uncle does."

"Sir, he's going to have to come in."

"But it's not for him, it's for me, or it's for both of us."

"It doesn't matter. You can purchase the puppy, but your uncle will have to come in and sign the paperwork and agree to the home inspection and all that jazz."

"What jazz? I don't hear any jazz."

***

"It's okay, I don't think I need a puppy," Uncle Ander said.

"Aren't you lonely?" I said.

"No, I have you and your brother and your mom," he said.

"Don't you get tired of us?"

"Nope."

"Let's go, let's go get one."

Uncle Ander looked at me. He leaned back. His recliner went far back, almost to the ground.

"Okay," he said and the chair came forward and he popped out of it.

XXIV

Court's red cap and a yellow cartoon bomb shirt winding and knotting and sweating, his face strained, nerves popped in his neck like solid curtain rods, then a side to side stomp, like Samson about to rip the columns, then a violent yank at the black cord on the amp, its plug the force of a bullet, the cord whipping around Nathan's own neck him ignoring it, the shove of the guitar into the bass drum did nothing to disrupt the loops, but he left it there. I saw it, scared or in awe like a scorpion in the desert, symbol of possible harm to come, harm unrealized, though harm done.

My hands caused the next collapse, that stand of folding tables and plastic crates crumbling with barely a pushed finger, the loop still huzzing its fall inconsequential really, already setting in motion the actions that needed to be realized, to be seen, to be done and my gray Nikes hit the black floor, the path of bodies sliding and avoiding, no contact wanted no congratulations offered, looking back for only a minute, the eyes of Court closed on the drumset, him busting into a complex and crazy drum solo, some type of jazz breakdown number from college or his last recital or the last time he was in his house, his eyes closed, like in meditation, a worship at the altar of the great music healer, we had all sinned and cursed the institutions, we would come back one day maybe though that was not in the next hour or maybe not in the next day, there just had to be --

\-- moving towards the hall, and Nathan stands next to a kid, a small handheld recorder playing noise and sounds that are familiar –

The bathroom the only logical and possible solace, on the stall was a sticker that said "STUPID SHINY VOLVO OWNER" and I punched the door it was open, the white porcelain lid now in my hands slamming it against marked up sheetrock, "call this number" now visible between one split a poorly drawn set of Sharpie boobs under another split, these two engravings lasting longer than any silly, stupid, clever band, this club had seen its share of toilets shattered, musicians thinking they only had these problems, that "no one else felt this way" that we were all f****ing artists changing the world, but just providing more change in this nightlife hustle that we all took a part in, that we all agreed in, that we tried to imbue with local scene value, but it's only left the Crowbar with a broken toilet.

I pried off the toilet seat and hung it on the wall and kicked the stall door again, I wanted to see water, water on the floor, dirty crap spread over the floor, but there was none, only small water bubbles hovering and I could never take in the smell of my own urine, it made me sick, it made me sick, acid up my throat now a discharge, like carbon monoxide destroying the ozone layer.

Mohawk-guy a misplaced token identity stared at me as a I left the bathroom, pins and needles clipped on his denim jacket, he was old school and I was confused, was his moral compass really already formed, these punk ideas so ingrained, so assured he would come to a synth electronic show, a girl probably involved, I was over the moment but his staring at me, not with anger but with wonderment, a deer on the side of the road, a witness to the driving disaster that had just happened, not knowing whether to approach or stare, no hard cap just soft malleable punk hearts, maybe he had come in here to offer me solace, a word of encouragement -- "that was so chill," he said. "just got a wave of chill." In our solid mutual agreement I offered \-- "beating stuff up is always chill."

"Yes." he said.

XXV

At the cemetery, grass overgrown, the iron bar fence corroded in some places, rust attaching itself as everything must decay. The latch was stuck, I pulled it, I kicked it, Nathan tried to pick it in the starlight, moonlight -- we only came after 11 pm, first every night, then once a week, now somewhere between every two weeks. This darkness like a childhood blanket that was worn in places, those weeks when we couldn't get enough of it, every night the sticks cracking, swooping owls us make believe-faux scared then actually scared at his grave, and we knew we could tell the days and the weeks growing fainter, the grass creeping over fresh dirt that hardened, and new mind junk grew over the memories, they were less fresh, in decay, in decay, in decay.

Right, right, left, left, straight, left to Uncle Ander's condo. The sign outside the glass shop reads:

"Barack to the future!"

***

"Mr. Jorgeson?"

"Yes."

"Hi, this is Cherise at Target. We reviewed your application and..."

"And..."

"We'd like you to come in for an interview."

"Oh, okay."

"What day would be good for you? Tomorrow? Thursday?"

XXVI

In the parking lot, there was a man wearing sunglasses. He carried a Target bag. He saw me get out of my car.

"You're wet," he said.

I looked at him.

"You shedn't go into a store all wet," he said. He wore a gray polo shirt. The polo shirt had an emblem that said "Plantation Golf."

"Okay."

We walked towards the store.

The carts were red, the shirts were red, everyone was red, but none of the red matched. different styles of red in polo shirts, Tshirts, maybe some were magenta, someone wore red Keds. I was in the foyer of target. doors were opening automatically, some only opened when a customer pushed them. The carpet was rough industrial berber carpet as if someone found a way to make sandpaper into carpet. If you fell and scraped your knee, it would bleed. More than if you would fall on the white tile floor of the store.

I rubbed my head and sand fell out.

I brushed sand off my calf. I stood at the customer service counter.

"I have an interview."

My shirt was wet, halfway wet, where it may or may not have touched my wet bathing suit.

"Oh," said the woman. She was wearing a red Tshirt, Hanes maybe. "Your name?"

"Wallace Jorgeson."

"Sir you'll need a receipt." It was another woman behind the customer service counter, with too long of blonde hair for her age.

"Like I awl-ready sed I don't have one," said the man from the parking lot. He still wore the sunglasses on his head. He held a long box with three picture frames inside.

"Then we can't take it back."

"It's ben 4 days, yall policy say 30."

"It doesn't matter, sir, you don't have a receipt."

"What about this?" The man threw the box of picture frames over the woman's head. The woman ducked. The man looked at me.

"You'se still here?" he said.

"To return something, you need a receipt," I said.

"Security..." said the woman. She said it into a headset.

The man left.

Another woman came out from a side door and around the desk.

"Vicky what was that all about?"

"He didn't want the picture frames, we didn't give him his money back, now we just have a broken frame," the woman with too long of blonde hair said.

"Oh," said the new woman. She turned to me.

"You must be Wallace."

"Yes."

"I'm Cherise. We spoke on the phone."

"Hi Cherise," I said.

"What have you been doing today?"

"Not much."

My corduroy shorts were wet. I didn't towel off after Madeira Beach.

"Well, we looked at your application, you were in advertising?"

"Yes."

"What did you do there?"

"I wrote advertising copy to promote products."

"Oh, so you've been in the retail business?"

"Um, kind of, I don't know..."

"Do you have experience running a register?"

Their patent leather seat was wet.

XXVII

I opened the front door. I heard a bark. There was a dog. Uncle Ander was in the living room. He was sitting in his recliner. "That's Boris," he said. He was watching Matlock.

Boris was brown and white. The fur on Boris was matted.

"So you passed the inspection?"

"They said this would be a great house for a dog," he said. His back was to me, all I could see was his gray hair over the top of the orange recliner.

I bent down to pet Boris. He snarled, but then stopped. I rubbed his head.

"I'm gonna need you to go to the store," Uncle Ander said. "For Boris. We need dog food and crap like that."

***

Aunt Sue-Sue from Philly and moved to Detroit, no one knows for sure why, her brother played football at Michigan and she went with, looking for secretary school or trade school or beauty school but found Ander, a possible up and comer, a teammate of her brother's, a possible up and comer, his father an accountant from the outskirts of Detroit, if everything would be bright and beautiful, he could not pass a math class for his life, but understood how machines and machinations worked, except UM is not that technical and his father was not either, so he used his football time and his four years on civics and physics when not repairing radiators and fanbelts on the side for his the rest of the team, after not graduating with a 2.0 he found the assembly lines and their salaries to be more amenable than opening his own shop, it was the life of stability he promised his dad with the occasional stint of hard liquor involved.

We laughed at Who's The Boss? We thought Tony's bipolar masculinity was confusing. We wondered if Judith Light was bulimic like Tracy Gold in Growing Pains. We wondered who forced all these eating disorders onto the set of ABC television shows.

***

"Don't you need a job?" Mom said.

"I had an interview today," I said.

"Where at?"

"Target."

"Target? You used to work in an office."

"I know how to sell things. I know about retail," I said.

"Did you get the job?" she asked.

"I haven't heard back."

"You don't interview well."

"I'm okay."

"What are you living on?" she said.

"Mom, you know the motto -- ramen, Doritos, and a Discover Card for comfort."

"I've never heard that saying."

"So."

***

The strip center had a large statue in front of it. Except it was mostly on the ground. And it was a cornucopia. There was fake fruit in it, like it might be at an old person's house. Except this fruit was about four feet tall and three feet wide each. It was a large cornucopia. I parked in the strip center parking lot. I wore a red polo shirt and khakis. I wore brown hybrid work-mountain hiking shoes.

"Those are not sport, those are not play, those are business-cas," Laurie told me once.

I walked in my work-mountain hybrid shoes towards the strip center. I walked towards a sign, hanging on the outside that said, "Personnel Express."

I opened the door to Personnel Express. I looked for a patent leather chair. I found one and sat down.

XXVIII

On the beach and the incoming tide break into sections that remain. The sections do water-type things, like ripple, like move, like flow. They are full of water now, its sand succumbing to the water. It is a beach, nebulous boundaries, different ends, different beginnings.

A blonde woman folds up a lawn chair, it is deep enough in the twilight that I can't tell if she is fresh and new or stretched like hide leather, her Florida skin allows her to be either way for the twilight moment.

A flat wooden chair, "For Rent" is spray-painted on a middle panel, I sit down. It is now the time where shapes and not faces are only recognizable; but the teenager continues throwing those stringed balls around a PVC-piped stand, precariously tittering. He tosses and throws and misses mostly, his determination is admirable, it reminds me of when I was determined, if that time ever existed.

I stand up and walk across the beach, under an awning and tap my Tevas on the sign that says "For registered guests only." If they are registered, I don't think they're a guest.

XXIX

"Dave, good news, we found a position for you!" The lady from Personnel Express.

"Doing what?"

"It's in a medium-sized firm doing document management. You'll be working out of their Largo office! Close to home!"

***

Office park on the side of the road, with parking in the front. A glass door, a logo printed on it, a facade to act like an office, but really a warehouse. 12-foot loading bays in the back. Places for loading and unloading documents.

I opened the tinted glass door.

"Good morning." It was a woman with glasses, her hair not curly, but wavy. White hair. In her 60s probably, many other jobs such as this in legal aid or prosthetics or accounts payable, accounts receivable, accounting, security alarm systems, she cared about them all at one time for stints from one month to three years, now focused on document management.

"I'm here to see Perry."

"You must be the temp."

"I am."

"Perry'll be glad to have ya, busy hands make short days!" she said. She probably had had some days that were not so cheerful. But this was one of her cheerful days.

"Thanks." Drinking vodka right now would be nice.

"I'll be seeing ya." Her not drinking coffee right now would be nice.

I sat down in the waiting room. She could still see me. I could still see her. I could see her coffee mug. There was a cat on the coffee mug.

The phone rang. The woman answered it.

"Lenox Document Services, this is Bev. How can we be of service?"

"...pick up? Well sure."

"...today? Well sure."

"....be over soon, bye!"

The woman hung up. She looked at me. "Busy, busy." I could see her at home in a rocking lounge chair, wearing a sweatshirt with a cat on it. The cat might be playing with a ball of yarn. Not sure if she has her own cat, only memories and memorabilia of cats.

My phone beeps. A text from Nathan. "Mad hittin streams, 47 today on Bandcamp."

The door to the back area opened. Out stepped a man in a gray suit, a red tie, black shoes and a black belt.

"Hiya you must be Wallace, glad to see ya. Aint gotta lot of time."

"Everyone is busy," I said.

"I'm Perry," he said.

"Good to meet you," I said. I wondered if Perry liked cats. I wondered if Perry and Bev hung out socially, or if Perry and Bev and others from the office thought it was a good idea to go out to a bar after work, only to find it awkward and the conversation forced. Bev talked about cats even in social settings, probably.

"Yes, and you'll be too. This way. We'll see you later, Bev," he said. We walked through the entryway that in which he came.

There are photographs on the walls by Ansel Adams. Prints by Ansel Adams. These used to be at McDonald's, I'm sure.

Perry opened another door for me.

A row of 12 men, some in half-loosed neckties on shirts that weren't made to hold neck ties, some with faces in various parts of shaving, some with tussled hair, all somewhat bleary and hunched. A folding chair for each of them a small trash can in front of them, silver bullet thermoses of coffee beside them.

"This is your part of the document management," Perry said. He pointed to a folding chair and small trash can, presumably to be mine.

"We'll bring the documents to you and you do this little magic."

Perry picked up a document off a stack and stuck it in the machine.

"There you go and you empty the waste over here, in our safety-secured receptacle, that ensures our customers the highest in satisfaction."

A dumpster in the corner, brought from the outside to the inside.

Perry looked at me. "And that's the world of document management, or your part of it anyway...any questions?"

I had no questions, except if I would be forced to talk with Bev at bars or if I could go on my own and talk to other non-work people, or if I could just sit there and think about life over a glass of $4.50 beer. Or if Perry ever paid for the beers of his employees.

XXX

I don't remember how many days I had been there when the paper shredder jammed. I had put in a stack of brokerage reports from some type of bank or investment firm or maybe from a millionaire's back cabin. The papers were dated 1985.

"The shredder is broken," I said.

"The shredder is not broken. It is stalled." Kevin said. Kevin wore v-neck sweaters over collared shirts and with Payless ShoeSource Shoes. His face had a scowl like a pinched nerve was in his face.

"What should I do?"

"Go and tell Perry, the supervisor," Kevin said. He took a stack of legal-sized papers from his box. I saw the words "Confidential" written on them. Many of the papers had those words.

"I thought maybe you knew what you were doing."

"Perry, he is the one. He will get maintenance," Kevin said.

***

In the car. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

"Be a witness, not a judge."

The computer was on. I opened Firefox. I typed in "craigslist." I clicked on the link that said "Tampa Bay." I typed in "new microphone."

I look at microphones and decide I don't want one.

I looked under "jobs." I found the category for "marketing / PR."

SPORTS_MINDED PROFESSIONALS NEEDED.

COPYRWITER FOR START-UP MED OFFICE.

EXEC 101 HIRING MARKETERS NOW!!

We have an immediate opportunity for an experienced and professional Marketing Consultant to join our management team.

? Should have 2+ yrs Marketing experience

? Must be a go-getter with no hand holding

? Must possess excellent organizational and customer-relations skills

? Superior verbal skills

? Opportunity favors creative, out-of-the-box solutions-oriented individuals able to excel in a team environment

***

I open Garageband. I press play. I hear John Candy's voice say: "Was that seat hot or what? I feel like a Whopper. Turn me over, I'm done on this side. There'll be griddle marks."

An audio tide of cultural remains, lapping up the bytes and bits, eye slits watch the stream, vertical and horizontal imploding and bloating, it is a wave, the only beats in my head purely natural; never learned, plucked from the top 40 limericks and machine-glossed flatlined noise streaks and the dialogue of our most cherished quick comedies, I flunked at piano, her house was nice though, they were richer than we were, it was all under the table I think, and I played video games when Nathan's turn came, that power to play reckoned with classics like "This Brown Jug" and "Old McDonald" ruined music forever, render it rote, another path wrought out of this mainstream learning flood of metronome-ness, "let me have it and tackle it" I said aloud, I attack to the left, what's left...an addled prerogative making sense of creaking remains.

The song ends with a deep sigh from Steve Martin.

I close the window for Garageband.

***

Company looking for experienced fronters to promote new business opportunities to small business owners. Please contact manager.

***

Are you interested in making SERIOUS money? YOU determine your own paycheck!

Our Show and Events department is now hiring!!

Flexible schedules allow for you to make full time money with part time hours!

***

Our product is an exclusive green product in need of enthusiastic, hardworking individuals to help us share this incredible invention!

We will train you, while you get paid! All you must do is show up with a great attitude, and desire to succeed!

Please call, these positions are filling up fast! Only 2 left!

***

Client in the Brandon area is looking for a free lance to full time entry- to mid-level copywriter.

You will be responsible for online web content, blogs, email outreach and even some direct mail content. You will also be updating content to the company CMS so minor HTML skills/familiarity a huge plus.

You must be available and interested in a full time role. This client is in the financial niche. Portfolio/sample links with this type of industry content is preferred but not mandatory.

You should be able to show samples of your work in both print/web platform.

Client is ready to interview and start the right candidate as early as next week.

I clicked on the word "craigslist." Back to the craigslist main page. I clicked on "Post."

I typed up something. It had the words "garage sale" in it. I typed in Uncle Ander's address. I tried to think of something worthy of an ex-copywriter. I typed in "Everything Must Go."

XXXI

I go to the Bronx Bar.

"Never seen you here before," I said.

"Never seen you here before either," Nathan said.

"Seriously, you've been here?" I said.

"Yeah, you know that softball thing," he said. He was wearing paint splattered jeans and baby blue tshirt.

"Are you painting now?"

"Actually, yes you know the softball sponsors? That Largo Construction place? They took me on as some type of apprentice/temp type thing. So I'm painting, doing site cleanup."

"Yep, I know. Hierarchy."

I picked up a pool cue.

"You're for real about this band?" he said.

"I guess..."

"I mean, it's the most thought I've heard from you on just about anything, I mean since you got laid off...," he said.

"Well, no, yes. Just watch John Candy, Tom Hanks, Caddyshack, This is America that needs to be deconstructed," I said. "We did good last time."

"Remember when you sang 'Basketcase' drunk karaoke with Opal's parents in Key West?" Nathan asked.

"You remember that? Wait, you weren't there."

"No, I just remember Opal saying 'Basketcase" and telling the story a few times."

"She hated them," I said.

"I thought she got along pretty good with her parents."

"No, Green Day. She preferred The Offspring," I said.

"And you just preferred....Newfound Glory? Pennywise?"

"The Descendants."

"You don't know," Nathan said.

"Does anyone after the moment fades?"

"I'm guessing someone does...just maybe not you."

"No one cares," I said.

I slid the pool cue over my thumb.

"What do you like Wallace?" Nathan said.

"Birds and butterflies and mulch in my eyes, the red kind that you buy at 'home improvement centers.' Kale, mangoes. Dried milk-encrusted granola in hanging onto the edges of a black garbage bag. These are the things I like."

"Oh. Maybe you should start a Weezer cover band," he said. "The synth? What are you some 80s douche?" Nathan said.

"Yes, you should know by now Nathan that I'm a douche."

"Aren't those expensive anyway?" he said. "How much was it?"

"Doesn't matter. We already have it."

"You are a douche."

Dust particles and I can see the air, but movement on the other side of the shoot-em game, a friend with curls hidden tight under her ears, but there she is, that high-bob bouncing & bouncing, her eye shadows to mine, an amber yellow drink blinding her lips; they are in a smile, I know, I can tell. The smile widens, I know I can tell.

"Hold on a minute," I said to Nathan, dropping the pool stick. It bounced on the floor. She put down her drink, dusted off her skirt, and I watched her give a soundless "excuse me." She moved out the door. Three beats behind her, I walked outside, the brick wall holding two underage figures in white shirts, neon writing, smoking, cursing -- the slight push, her arm slinked through mine, a blue long sleeve & flecks of makeup & huffs & small kisses -- a whip underneath the fire escape ladder, metallic rung frame of a romantic cliche, in between breaths -- -

"It's too late for this but..."

"But what..." Her voice.

"What is your name again?"

"You don't remember..."

"Pamela, no, Katie, no, Therese....?"

"No, no, no, no..."

She kissed me anyway. And I let her.

XXXII

"Why do you want that hotel?" I asked.

"She never left anything behind," Uncle Ander said. "There was nothing left except for the quilting corner. And those ill chairs."

"What about her clothes? Her trinket stuff on the mantle?"

"Those were never hers, those were things I bought for her. She liked the grudging acceptance. She was never one to shop, you know. In Michigan, I had to shop for her all the time. At Sears, at the mall, at Kmart."

"That's why you want this hotel?"

"I want something here," he said. "A legacy, even if it's a pitiful one."

***

My leg hair was in the sand, the sand stuck to it, stickiness. There was no towel. There was no blanket. There was no umbrella. Sky met the water, the water met the sky, all gray again and again, everything one and the same, gray water making wet gray semicircles on light gray sand, murky dirty bathtub water. The unclean dust of our bodies pooled here, my leg was not sticky -- it was wet. And my head throbbed with sound I had done so much to remember.

***

Court opened the door.

"What's up?" he said.

"What's up with you?" I asked.

"Nothing, what're you doing here?"

"Just coming to say hello. Maybe we can play Double Dragon."

"I'm watching Ferris Bueller."

"Oh. I'll watch that."

It's towards the end, the parade scene.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you are such a wonderful crowd, we'd like to play a little tune for you. It's one of my personal favorites and I'd like to dedicate it to a young man who doesn't think he's seen anything good today - Cameron Frye, this one's for you," Ferris says.

Cameron yells.

"Ferris! Get off of the float!" Sloane says.

"Do you think this could happen today?" I ask Court.

"Movies happen all the time," Court said.

"No, like Ferris Bueller. A complete unknown controlling the city."

"No and I don't think it could happen then," Court said. "Movies are fictional."

"What if this was a sharp documentary crew?" I said.

"Impossible. The choreography is too perfect. The shots aren't right," Court said.

"Are there any black people in this movie?" I said.

"I can't remember," Court said.

"Do you think that's a problem?"

"The movie still makes sense. What about if they force a black person in there just because? That's not good, right?"

"No, that's not good," I said.

"I'm glad they brought in a carefree parade scene that doesn't come off ironic."

"Today it would be ironic," I said.

"Yes, today it would be ironic. The whole movie is ironic."

"Maybe they made it to be ironic today. Maybe they had enough foresight to know what was accepted then would be ironic twenty years later."

"Prophetic," Court said.

"Yeah, like Charlie Sheen is in this."

"Really?"

"Yes," I said. "Type in IMDB."

Court opened his laptop. He typed in IMDB. He typed 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off.' He found Charlie Sheen.

"Boy in the police station," Court said.

"Click on his name."

Court clicked on his name.

"Ferris Bueller was released in 1986. What else was released that year?"

"Platoon?" Court said.

"Yes, Pla-effing-toon. Charlie goes from the boy in the police station to starring in Platoon. John Hughes picked him out before he knew he was going to be a star."

"Or maybe Oliver Stone found him. Maybe he's the real prophet, not John Hughes," Court said.

"I don't think so," I said.

***

Obama in Sunrise, Florida:

"How's it going, Sunshine?"

XXXIII

Not even in The Bronx Bar now, but at home, head down looking at/taking in iShoot on the iPhone, I would buy three nuclear weapons -- a peck on the door, and through the peephole there she was a high pin bob and in work clothes, women's professional dress, navy pantsuit, coca-cola red blouse, coca-cola red heels -- - "Want a drink?" I asked. She pushed me over, fell into blanket, a Burger King cup three binders from another life on the couch -- "Not here, not now," was all I could say, that binder corner jutting into my back. I don't even know when or why Uncle Ander was where he was, but he wasn't here.

***

On Laurie's porch looking at her parent's pool. A screened-in deck refracting sunlight, still bits of dog hair in the pool and floating legs and translucent wings, a mosquito I could see even from here. Hot outside, because I was wearing jeans, we swore off these St. Pete days, not as bad as Atlanta or Birmingham and pools and beaches and bathing suits all the time -- I wore jeans -- a heat exile, self-flagellating to myself; the rest of the south would understand the FLORIDA condition, have pity on us all. Laurie wore a loose bouncy dress.

"Are you going out for fireworks?"

Fourth of July, like arbitrariness out of a cannon, "Wasn't it signed on the 2nd?" I said to someone at some other time, John Adams and John Hancock, perhaps not concerned about this preciseness, no phone records, no electronic monitoring devices, only what their minds told them, only what their hands created, only what they mutually decided to record, no overbearing specificity bearing, more physical demands on memories, our bodies can't keep up, never will catch up, spiraling out and out and out.

"No, I saw them last week after the Rays game."

"So? You can see fireworks again," Laurie said. "Let's go, I want to go."

"I'll transpose the fireworks memory onto this date, so three years from now we'll remember the fireworks at the Rays game as the fireworks of Fourth of July."

"But that's not true."

"It is if we make it true."

"But I wasn't there. I wanted to do something with you on the Fourth of July."

I closed my eyes.

"I'll transpose you there too. You can be there with me. We've been to Rays games before. I'm imagining you there last week, you're siting next to me spooning out a limeade, see we did it."

"No, let's do something for real. We'll go down to the pier in downtown," Laurie said.

"Near the homeless?"

"Yes, near the homeless."

"Near where the Rays play?"

"What are you trying to say?" she asked.

"That if you see too many homeless, too many Rays games and too many fireworks, there is no more emotion left in them."

The watermelon sat in a bowl between us. I ate a chunk. I spit the seeds into the pool. Laurie ate a chunk and spit the seeds in her hand.

"What's going on with your uncle?"

"Don't know."

"Don't you live with him?"

"Yes, I live with him."

I stood up. I opened the screen door. I saw the laptop on the counter and picked it up. I took it outside and sat back down.

"Inspiration?" Laurie said. She stared at the pool.

I sat down and opened the laptop. I clicked to Firefox and typed in the address bar. I hit enter.

"Barack Obama mailed you a valentine," I said.

"Barack Obama made you a mixtape," I said.

"Barack Obama carried your bookbag," I said.

"Stop it, God Wallace, stop it, please, why do you do this?" she said.

"I was hoping you'd change," I said.

"You are an ass," she said.

"Barack Obama left a comment on your blog," the computer said. I didn't read that one aloud.

***

Barack Obama:

"I'll tell you, we can win this thing without Florida, but boy, it's a lot easier if we win Florida. If we win Florida, it is almost impossible for John McCain to win."

XXXIV

In the parking lot, Perry opens a car door. It is the door to a Chrysler Sebring. It has a convertible top. Perry pulls out three John McCain yard signs. Perry sees me. He waves.

"Wallace, hello," he said.

"Hello." I said. I adjusted my messenger bag strap. I had nothing in the messenger bag, except for last week's Sports Illustrated. "Do you need some help?"

"Me, no...I"m fine. But, hey do you want one?" Perry said.

"A John McCain sign?" I asked.

"America's last true maverick."

"That's alright Perry I'm good."

"You support Obama?" Perry asked.

"I...uh, am a Bob Barr supporter."

"Well, that's nice if you want to vote for a loser," he said.

"It's alright. I used to support Dennis Kucinich. At least Barr can win in his own party," I said.

"Those are different, Kucinich and Bob Barr. You don't hear of someone supporting both of them."

"I like to keep it interesting," I said.

XXXV

I met Nathan for lunch.

"I wish McDonald's wasn't so sucky," Nathan said.

"We should redesign McDonald's," I said.

"Like what? What should we do?" he asked.

He was Chicken McNuggets, I was a Double Burger. It was on the Dollar Menu.

"Streamline it. Make it comfortable," I said.

"Nice chairs and crap to eat our disgusting Big Macs," he said. "Big Macs and the food here isn't nice."

"But we eat here," I said. "We only think that way because that's the way fast food hamburgers have been presented to us."

"Ok," he said.

"See, gourmet hamburgers are good and crap. Then they'll filter down soon and we'll expect gourmet hamburgers at McDonald's."

"Won't the price go up?" he asked.

"It's always been going up," I said.

"What about Fast Food Nation? You saw that?"

"It doesn't matter," I said. "They'll say they've changed their ways and we'll believe them, because all the paper does is rewrite press releases."

"Is that what they do?" he asked.

"Yeah, completely, or at least I think. Or at least that's what other papers have reported."

I looked out the window. A Porsche was in the drive-thru.

"Where will the poor people eat? What large corporation will we now blame for obesity once all the complainers actually like McDonald's?" Nathan asked.

"Hardees, or Burger King," I said.

"Burger King will never be nice," Nathan said.

"Totally right," I said. "The name keeps them back. McDonald's has power behind it, but it can adapt make different things that aren't hamburgers. Burger King will always be 'burger,' but maybe McDonald's will one day only serve sandwiches like Subway. Or it could become the new Starbucks, we really don't know, they might just serve coffee all the time."

"I see the name is fungible," Nathan said, "Like court records. With enough money you can erase yourself clean."

"Yes, with enough money," I said.

We stood up. We carried our plastic trays to the trash can. Ketchup was smeared on the revolving flap to the trash can. We pushed open the revolving flap with our trays. We didn't want the ketchup to get on our hands. We wanted it to get on the trays. McDonald's could handle the messy trays and trashcans.

We got in Nathan's car. He drove me back to Lenox.

"Do you hate Sbarro's or Red Robin more?" he asked.

"Red Robin," I said.

"Do you hate Red Robin or Johnny Rockets more?" he asked.

"Johnny Rockets."

"Which do you hate the most? Chipotle, Qdoba or Moe's?"

"I don't know, I really don't know," I said.

"I hate Moe's the most," Nathan said.

"On their commercials, they say 'Welcome to Moe's' and I hate that," I said. "I prefer authenticity like those cars named with made-up words."

"Did you know in New York City people say 'bodega' in all seriousness?" he asked.

"Is that authentic?" I asked.

"It's kind of like here, when we say 'Coke' but just a mean a carbonated drink. That's how they say 'bodega.'"

"That sounds real fake," I said.

I opened the car door in front of Lenox and got out of the car.

***

Obama:

"And as America leads the world to long-term exploration of the moon, Mars, and beyond, let's also tap NASA's ingenuity to build the airplanes of tomorrow and to study our own planet so we can combat global climate change. Under my watch, NASA will inspire the world, make America stronger, and help grow the economy here in Florida."

XXXVI

Next to the vending machine was the phone. A red one on the wall, red for importance, sign next to it said: "WORK CALLS ONLY" an obsolete sign, no need for this, non-work calls made on non-work phones all during work time, this stranglehold on the communication of life away from paper shredders and jams and money orders from 1985 no longer made sense. No heart to acknowledge the new reality, the sign stayed.

"Perry's not here right now." someone on the other side said.

"I need to call Perry for maintenance," I said.

"Hold on," she said.

"This is Perry,"

"Perry I need maintenance."

"Wallace?"

"The shredder is jammed again," I said.

"Well call maintenance."

"Kevin always tell me to call you."

"All I'm going to do is call maintenance."

"Alright, what's the number for maintenance?" I asked.

"I have no idea," Perry said.

The only dreams I had regularly were about a possible recall of Chrysler Sebrings.

***

The phone rang again.

It was Perry.

"Found a place for you."

"What about the rest of the papers?"

"We'll get it later, I already called maintenance..."

"I thought I was supposed to call maintenance."

"Don't bother. They're hard to get a hold of over there. But I need you to file. Sales."

"Alright."

"On the third floor. Take the elevator."

"Okay, then what?"

"Find Tyesha, she'll tell you what to do."

The elevator was silver, with buttons that glowed yellow and red. I pushed the button that said "3." The elevator hummed and whizzed. It was moving up in the world.

The third floor looked like the second floor. But now sounds of the Glen Miller Band, like document management was a sympathetic orchestra of rollicking good ol' days working together in harmony, for the common goal of paper destruction.

Then a smell like chili cheese Fritos and Lysol.

"Where's Tyesha's office? I'm from the second floor?" I said to the nearest person. There was no receptionist. There was no one to greet anyone, as if this was the corporate emblem of the corporate shoulder.

The nearest person looked annoyed. I was sure he did this all the time, becoming the defacto receptionist at the same rate as of a business/marketing analyst, but probably falling behind on his projects because he had to tell jerk offs like me where Tyesha's office was. Perhaps he should just print out a sign. But I don't know much about anything.

"Tyesha!"

"Yep."

Tyesha came out of her office. A high bob, with one of those long needle-pin things sticking -- her lips, that simple black dress at the park, watching the ducks quack and flock by, the way we kissed, the way we held -- her name was Tyesha? -- nothing that impressive ever happened in the sculpture class, and it didn't even need to be said, didn't even need to ask her, it was too easy to know -- this changes everything.

Tyesha stopped.

A swallow from me.

"I'm Wallace, from downstairs. I'm supposed to file," I said.

She put her head down and then said, "You'll be helping out in sales. Not making calls, but filing for the sales."

"Got it," I said, curved my head down making her eyes meet mine. She straightened.

"Okay, kind of like downstairs," she said and turned. No one cared, no one knew, only us cared or knew, and it would be only us who knew; the end of individual care was almost here. "Each cart has a sales rep's name on it. There are only 5 reps, you'll get it."

Tyesha left me by the carts. I watched her leave. No one thought. No one cared. Not even Tyesha.

I looked at the metal carts. Five of them.

I went to the first cart. The sign on the cart said "Ellie Sanchez."

I walked down a row of offices. I found one with a sign on a door that read "Ellie Sanchez."

I walked in and there was a sign on the desk that read "Ellie Sanchez." Ellie Sanchez was on the phone. She saw me with the cart and the files.

She waved me in.

"We can do that pickup, that shouldn't be a problem. How much stuff you got?"

"....100 lbs this week, wow, that's an increase right?"

"People are buying up pools again, that's good, that's very good."

To Ellie's right was a filing cabinet. I picked up a file. The words "Perris Industries" was on the tab. I found the P and filed it. Ellie was wearing hose. Ellie wore black strapped pumps. She rolled her desk chair on a plastic mat. I was scared I would accidentally look up her dress but I didn't.

The next folder said "Community Road Properties" on the tab. I found the "C." Ellie rolled her chair. She bumped my leg.

"So sorry," she mouthed.

I think that Ellie is three years older than me.

Ellie hangs up the phone.

"Thanks so much for your help, it helps so much."

I put in the next file. Ellie clicks on her computer.

I lean back a little bit.

She has opened the website I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER.

"Can you believe that..." Ellie said. I don't respond. I put another file away.

"That is so hilarious."

This continues for the next 20 minutes.

The next cart says Gil Worthington. I look for Gil's office. There is no one there. Gil is apparently gone.

I pick out a file. It says "North Tustin Tile." I find the "N." The next file says "Noth Lock and Key." I find the folder.

The next one says "OBAMA CAMPAIGN."

The file is only three pages long, an invoice and contract to shred the Obama's campaign files. It is several pounds of documents. At the bottom it says "Laurie Lindross, Assistant Financial Operations."

XXXVII

"Ander, you got everything together?" Mom asked.

Mom invited Uncle Ander, Nathan and me over to dinner.

"For what?"

"The garage sale."

"Wallace is in charge of that."

"Wallace, that's nice you are taking initiative."

"Mom, he's like 30, he's not a kid. He already took initiative, he just lost his job," Nathan said.

"I'm 26."

"So good of you to stick up for him," Mom said. She patted Nathan on the shoulder.

I look at the wall. There is a cuckoo clock.

"Mom, why do you have that cuckoo clock?"

"Your dad gave it to me for our 2nd anniversary."

"That was a long time ago."

"It was."

XXXVIII

Daylight is long, it's warm and I rode my bike to the Bronx Bar. Sitting on a park bench, my bike with a crate on the back leans next to a tree, a Tampa Bay Rays hat on my head. I identified this spot with Tyesha after last time, when her face still was nameless only known in context of passion, not in the context of shredded paper professionalism. Searching for her high-bob when I heard two laughs, two voices I knew, near the entrance of the Bronx Bar, Nathan opening the door for Mattie.

I know this, I knew this. I looked towards the retention pond with ducks. The ducks quacked. I waited for the quacking to end.

I rode my bike home.

***

"Nathan," I was on the phone.

"What is it? I'm heading...out."

"Bro you gotta come over," I said.

"Wallace, what did I just say?" he said.

"It's a girl right? Forget her," I said.

"No...I mean, how did you know it was a girl?"

"Tell her your number one bro is sick. Real sick. So sick, he's had a vision, you know an epiphany. Something real sick," I said.

"Is this about the band? The band where none of us can play anything?"

"This is about the music, not just a band," I said. "What's our MySpace plays up to?"

"Whatever," he said.

XXXIX

At the garage sale, there is a small bookshelf with books. There is a jumprope and dumbbells. There are a collection of small souvenir spoons from 39 states. There are drink coasters with american flags on them. There are three desk lamps, one from the 70s, another from the 80s, and another from the 90s. There are 4 filing cabinets. One has a dent in the side. There are two televisions. One is a console.

"Are these plasma or LED?" someone actually asks.

"What did you say?" Uncle Ander said. Someone walks away.

There are four Adirondack chairs. There are two solid wood bookcases. There were VHS copies of Sneakers and Quiz Show.

There are at least 50 forks. There are at least 50 spoons. There are at least 50 knives.

"Where'd you get all this?" Nathan asked.

"From your aunt, numbskull," Uncle Ander said.

There are Hot Wheels Cars. There is a mug that says "#1 Ford."

There are handtowels with Ford emblems on them. There is a metal sign that says "Built Ford Tough."

"Why are there all these Ford signs?" It was Mattie.

"He got them when he worked in Michigan, for Ford," I said.

"So they give them to them for free?"

"You know like morale boosters, prizes for not having too many sick days, that sort of thing."

"Got it," Mattie said.

I put my hands in my pockets. She looked at a red shirt my Aunt Sue-Sue used to wear. It was button up polyester.

"This is kind of cool," Mattie said. She held up the shirt. It was white with black stripes.

"$2," Nathan said. He had walked over while she was looking at the tables. He was smiling.

"Oh hey," Mattie said. She picked up a pair of cotton pants. "These are awesome, but so not my size."

Nathan put his hands in his pockets.

"So when did you guys leave Michigan?" Mattie asked.

"Don't remember," I said.

"Not sure," Nathan said.

"Okkkkkkaaaayyy...." Mattie said. "Why did you leave Michigan."

"We've never asked," I said.

"Don't know, don't care," Nathan said.

"Hello Wallace." I turned around.

"Kevin how's it going?"

"I'm fine thanks. I thought I see what your uncle is to sell."

"Well there's plenty of stuff..."

Mattie looked at me.

"Oh, Kevin this is Mattie and this is my brother, Nathan."

Mattie nodded.

"Good to meet you," Nathan said. Nathan stuck out his hand.

"Fine to meet both of you," Kevin said.

Kevin saw the two adirondack chairs.

"How much?" Kevin asked.

"I'm not sure, let me ask, hold on a sec," I said.

I looked across the lawn for Uncle Ander. I could not find him. I walked into the house.

Uncle Ander was sitting at the table. Uncle Ander had the Business section of yesterday's New York Times in front of him.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Reading the newspaper, what's wrong with that?"

"Well, there are all these people outside..."

"I know Wallace, we're having a garage sale right? How's it going?"

"Fine, I mean you could be out there answering questions and stuff..."

"Why, they see the items there. Do they need to know the history to them? I will let the vox populi decide between its use and exchange values."

"That's very noble of you Uncle Ander but...how much do you want for those Adirondack chairs...."

"You are an EFF ING copywriter right Wallace? Sell it for as much as you can get. You are the seller. I am wrong, I will not let the vox populi decide use or exchange values for the commodities, but you will...are you listening?" he said.

I was not listening. I was looking at Kevin in our backyard. He was watching Uncle Ander and me.

"What are you..." Uncle Ander said. Uncle Ander turned around. Kevin went back around the corner before Uncle Ander could see him.

"Come with me," I said.

"Okay, but I'm not done...."

I walked back outside. Kevin was there.

"Kev," I said. "How about $100 for each of the chairs..."

"$200? That is not a great price," Kevin said.

"But the difference is, these really are Adirondack in style. Handmade. Not something from Pottery Barn."

"Interesting."

"Do you have any more of these chairs?" He pointed at some other chairs. Other chairs that were in the garage. Antique backwoods cottage living lake rocking chairs.

Uncle Ander was at the front door.

"Do we have any more of these type chairs?" I yelled.

"Hell no. I'm only selling the other ones, the Adirondacks," Uncle Ander said.

"Well, that's that," I said.

"I will purchase them for $200," Kevin said. He pulled out a checkbook.

"Great, great," I said.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"Who does your Uncle support in the upcoming presidential election?"

"Well, Kevin, not sure....but if I had to guess, John McCain."

"Thank you. Your answer has confirmed everything I know," Kevin said. He handed me a check. It was for $185.

"Wait, you said you'd take them for $200..." I said.

"Yes, Wallace I did. But remember Wallace. You said they were handmade."

He picked up two of the chairs.

"I'll help him out with these," Nathan said.

"I am grateful," Kevin said. "Wallace, the next time I will see you, it will be at the workplace."

"Yeah," I said.

XL

"Damn."

"Uncle Ander?"

"Damn. damn."

Door opens smoothly, the grind of the bump is now gone. On the couch, Uncle Ander and Overboard on the television, Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russel hijinx ensuing, but he is silent. A puddle next to him, a puddle now a stain on the velour, a dark brown, like a mess of Dairy Queen right there on the velour. "Where is..."

"HRRMM," his finger points, follow it to the kitchen and dining room, Boris on his side, entrails trailing, now nice and cool on the tile floor, not sweating on the velour, like a water cooler with the electricity off, there is a knife of course next to Boris, everything is the chocolate syrup color like a poor live action remake of a Hitchcock movie is all I can think about, tufty black and smooth white hair, a premeditated murder of Boris, probably, no one else was dead or gone, the television in still working order, his dishwasher humming, Boris would need a bag, and some dirt scooped in his honor.

"They waited till we weren't here. Through the house and into the garage, the pricks," Under Ander said.

"What'd they take?"

"They took those chairs. Those were Elizabeth's chairs," he said, and I knew this, he knew I knew this, Aunt Elizabeth on the parlor on the porch, in her rocking chairs.

"They were Hitchcock chairs, originals, worth about $7000-$10,000 apiece," Uncle Ander said.

"...um"

"They were the down payment for the hotel. It was breaking my heart anyway, now this, now Boris down, now, now."

"Tests which exist to pigeonhole children's potential, a thing which cannot *possibly* be measured, least of all by anal compulsive HUNS! And my husband may be a 'large child,' but that's none of your business!" said Overboard.

The dog carcass, Boris' carcass, "I'll take care of it" I told him. "Go sit down and watch Overboard. Don't sit on the couch."

I opened the screened door and headed for the shed.

***

"Somebody killed Boris."

"What?"

"Cut him, his insides, took it around the house."

"Why, what for?"

"I'm thinking because they stole the rocking chairs."

"No, you mean aunt Elizabeth's rocking chairs? Those are gone."

"Gone, mom, gone."

"Oh my god."

"Exactly."

"Well, what's he doing? Is he there? Are you with him?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Call Nathan, let him come, he'll know, I'll call him and then I'll be..."

"Mom, you don't need to drive across the bridge, he's okay, we'll call the police."

"Those are expensive chairs."

"Probably $20,000."

"And Boris, god Boris."

"Nice butcher cut to the gut."

"God, Wallace, so crude..."

"Don't cry mom."

"It's not you, it's not Boris, it's Uncle Ander."

"But Boris...that's sad."

"That is sad, Wallace. Go ahead and get him to call the cops."

"Okay."

I hit "end." I walked to the shed. I opened the shed door. There was dog for Boris. There were the spoons and knives that didn't sell. There was a shovel. I picked it up.

I dug a hole for Boris. Boris' corpse was in the car port, wrapped in tinfoil. Nathan and I used three cartons of tinfoil. I went to Winn-Dixie three times. I paid for it all three times. It seemed appropriate. I picked up Boris myself. He weighed 25 lbs. When I put him in the hole, his nose broke the foil. Dirt fell on it. I shoveled the dirt in. Uncle Ander stood on the side.

Uncle Ander didn't cry.

Uncle Ander went in the house before I finished shoveling the dirt over Boris' head.

XLI

The mailbox was open. I stuck my hand inside of it. A vinyl siding coupon. A Papa John's coupon. A Domino's coupon. A car wash coupon. An envelope that said 5 percent APR. An envelope with my address in Times-New Roman all caps. No name, only my address.

I opened it.

"I HAV UR CHARS," the letter said.

I walked inside the house. I gave the letter to Uncle Ander.

"Huh," he said. "Did the Netflix come today? I haven't made it back to the library yet."

"Think I know who it is," I said.

"Who?"

"Kevin, of course," I said.

"You know how to log onto that eBay program?" Uncle Ander said.

"Yes, but I've never really used it before," I said. "Why? Do you need to buy something?"

"Luis. Luis told me to check it. Check this eBay. Told me it was better than the police."

"No, Ebay is an auction site, like a sales site."

"Luis is a liar then."

"I think Luis means they're going to try and resell it on eBay," I said.

"Damn. A confusing liar."

XLII

Uncle Ander sat down at the computer. Uncle Ander went to the craigslist homepage. He clicked on the tab "furniture for sale." He searched for Hitchcock chairs. "$10,000 each" the ad said. He pulled up the picture. It looked like them.

***

Obama:

"Because one thing we know is that change never comes without a fight. In the final days of campaigns, the say-anything, do-anything politics too often takes over. We've seen it before. And we're seeing it again today. The ugly phone calls. The misleading mail and TV ads. The careless, outrageous comments. All aimed at keeping us from working together, all aimed at stopping change."

***

Watching my television, eating my Doritos. Cool ranch spices on my chin, the bag on my chest. The TV was playing Beverly Hills Cop.

"Wallace," he said, poking, shaking. "Get up."

"Why..." I said. Bag of Doritos now on the floor.

"Come with me," Uncle Ander said. "The chairs. The chairs are at this antique store."

He brought the laptop over. He put it in my laptop.

"How do you know?" I said. "And when did you learn how to use Craigslist?"

"A hunch," he said. "Nathan showed me once. Him and some girl."

I looked at the chairs.

"Uncle Ander...no, this guy, Kevin, remember that weird guy who came around? Asking about the chairs? He has them, I'm pretty sure," I said. "I'm positive, positive that these are probably different chairs."

"Well, where is he? This Kevin?"

"I...I'm looking for him," I said.

"Looks like you're sitting there," he said.

In the Ford Explorer, it's hunter green, the most popular color of the Ford Explorer in the 90s someone told me once, not sure if I believe them, I stumbled onto this vehicle because of its UTILITY, not because of its gas mileage, I'm afraid the whole shebang might give in soon, making me reconsider those utility/gas mileage options.

"Where's this place again?" I asked.

"49th," he said, "By the motorcycle repair shop."

On the way past an omelet place and another omelet place and a deli stuck in the back of a strip mall center, with little to no visibility, its sun-baked turquoise colored roof sinking, no doubt ceiling drywall flakes falling into the meat fat, just something to cut out not to worry about.

Roadie's Antiques was on the side of the road, three large mantles and a bed frame outside, with a dresser.

"You think this place has the chairs?" Uncle Ander said, alcohol now on his breath, smuggling it in why I was asleep. Eddie Murphy permeated into my eyes and ears.

"They mean so much to me," he whispered, his head now on the armrest between the passenger and driver sides.

"I know," I said and turned the ignition off. "So I'll tell you again -- I don't think they're here!"

"No matter! Let's go get them!" he said. "Let's get them now."

He flung open the door with speed, popping out of the seat like fizzled soda, the door on its way back looking to squinch his leg, he stopped it, proceeded, and pushed down a dark mahogany dresser, toppling it its mirror sliding from its holder onto a gravel covered ground, not shattering, but cracking, breaking, giving him 7 years of bad luck although he probably already had that coming.

Witnessing this a lady with high hose and costume jewelry, overpainted cheekbones and a walker, stunned, surprised maybe like a 6-year-old boy seeing her in her underwear, she screamed -- others saw it, the fine peace and calm of a Florida antique store realizing it had a bull in its china shop.

Stumbling over the broken dresser, Uncle Ander roared: "Where the hell are my chairs?" like he was part of Bum Fights, looking and needing property to call and reclaim as his own, as his personal relationships, whatever love I or my mom offered would never amount to anything above what musty nostalgic chairs would give him -- chairs I never once saw him use, even when my aunt was alive.

The man in a nice darkened plaid shirt and khakis walked out, some type of club in his hand, already mad, never imagined this man, with nice trim hair and probably a Seiko watch and Dockers and an off-brand shirt from JC Penney's would be this mad, perhaps he was drunk or equally as frustrated by Eddie Murphy's movie choices after Beverly Hills Cop, no denying that 2 and 3 were mistakes.

"Damn, the dresser," the man said, to which Uncle Ander stood and looked at him and said, "Don't leave it outside then!" and then moving closer to the property owner, inches away from his face as if he were in fact a bum umpire at a softball game between the Haves and Have-Nots yelled, "Now where are my chairs?"

The JC Penney man stared at his mahogany dresser and said "What about my chairs?" right back in Uncle Ander's face, a showdown of misunderstood conceptions, except at least for everyone and me cowering behind the hunter green Ford Explorer, Uncle Ander was the only one at fault here, perhaps me for not coming on my own, perhaps Eddie Murphy, perhaps Doritos, perhaps my aunt's death, but none of this could explain to the hosed and walker lady Uncle Ander's deposition his fury against everything mahogany and dresser-like; just a series of misunderstandings that now must be deciphered by me primarily.

"Hey," I said from the Ford Explorer -- -coming over in the midst of Uncle Ander's "this doesn't concern you Wallace, not at all!" the JC Penney man finally backing away from Uncle Ander's tirade.

"Sir," I said to the JC Penney man, "I apologize for this. I believe you don't have the chairs."

"This is quite the entrance," he said. "You will have to pay for all of this."

Uncle Ander was now standing behind me, slightly drooped, I noticed for the first time that he was wearing orange wool socks.

"Chairs, don't let him back down, Wallace!"

"I'm not letting that buffoon of a man into my store," the man said finger raised at Uncle Ander. I turned back to look at Uncle Ander, a sneer on his lips, he knew he had accomplished something, none of us knew what.

I turned to Uncle Ander. "I don't think the chairs are here."

Uncle Ander leaned forward out the window. He grabbed my face. "I'm going in that store," it was an alcohol voice, husky and faltering, like a bird tired from a migratory flight.

"He has to come in, he only knows what our chairs look like," I said to the antiques man.

"It sounds like you think those chairs are yours," he said.

"It's like this. We had some Hitchcock chairs stolen last week, or actually he did, he heard you had some like those and he thinks those are his."

"I got those chairs from a very reputable dealer over 2 1/2 months ago...were your chairs stolen that long ago?"

A bird flew overhead, Uncle Ander leaned back cupped his hands around his mouth and whistled at it.

"Um, how much is the dresser?"

"$600."

"Whoa, let me get my checkbook," I said. I grabbed Uncle Ander's sleeve and dragged him towards the Ford Explorer. I opened his passenger side door, let him step in then I hopped over his lap, rolling towards the driver's side, my head hitting the pesky armrest, the seatbelt buckle finding my teeth before I straightened under the steering wheel, finding the ignition and thumping the gas pedal. Shouts from outside, but I blend into the departing traffic on 49th St.

XLIII

Kevin was not at work. The paper shredder didn't jam. Instead I read reports about hot tubs and John Deere bulldozers.

I went home.

The mailbox was open. I stuck my hand inside of it. Junk, junk, an envelope. Times New Roman block letters. I opened it.

"I HAVE UR CHARS. ITS FOR BEST GOOD."

***

"Sorry, Wallace, I know we all miss him, but I haven't seen Kevin either," Perry said.

"Maybe you can tell me where he lives, so I can go check up on him," I said.

"Wallace, I'm not sure what you think about uh, me and Kevin, but we didn't visit socially. Honestly, I have no idea where he lives, I mean I do, but I can't give that to you. It's on a need-to-know basis, and technically you don't need to know."

I went home.

I saw that the mailbox was open. I stuck my hand inside. Envelope, Times New Roman block letters. I open it.

"ITS FOR BEST GOOD 2 SELL 2 CHARS. BUT I ONLY CELL 1 FOR BEST GOOD. I WILL BRING 1 BACK 2 U.

XLIV

The halls were empty, the key slid in the lock nicely and snug, silver and silver. The small door swung smartly, inside a cardboard box, a small gift box. I opened the box. A yellow legal pad note fluttered out. It said, "For my sons" on the outside.

I opened the note. "On one year from my death."

I turned the note over. Another line: "short term, long term." That was it. No signature, but it was father's handwriting, a tight half-cursive print, business and efficient as if writing could never convey emotion or anxiety or want.

I opened the gift box. A $100 bill and an account number. At the end of a string of numbers was the number $100,000.

With my head tilted against the hard cold metal, a solemn cave of efficiency and timeliness, I called Nathan.

XLV

Kevin got out of the car. He was not in work clothes. He had no ponytail. Just his long hair. He wore a gray shirt, he wore overalls, he wore bright white Reeboks. He was carrying a Hitchcock rocking chair.

"This is for you," Kevin said. He walked to Uncle Ander. "Take this one, it's for the best good."

"Kevin," I said. "Thanks." Kevin turned around and walked back towards the car.

Uncle Ander leaned towards me. "You know this MFer," he whispered. "I work with him," I said.

In the car, a woman with a high bob in her hair. Tyesha. She got out of the car. She smiled at me, she smiled at Kevin. Saying anything would have been redundant.

"I know her too," I said to Uncle Ander.

"She's a hot one," he said. "Very hot."

"Yes," was all I said.

"Please wait." It was Kevin. Tyesha threw him her purse. He opened it. He took out a small Beretta. He reached in the purse again. He took another sheet of paper.

"Huh," Uncle Ander said.

"This you remember?" Kevin said. "I wrote: 'I sell 1 chair for money. I gave the money to Barack Obama campaign for president."

I looked at Uncle Ander. "I don't remember," I said.

"I give you this chair because it is the best good for you and your family," Kevin said.

He nodded at Uncle Ander. "It is not the best good for Barack Obama. You will stay. You will watch the best good for Barack Obama."

"Okay," Uncle Ander said.

Kevin opened the door to the car. I recognized it, the purple Chrysler Sebring convertible. The one that Perry had once filled with John McCain signs. Inside the car I could see large bags. The bags had a faint orange tint.

Kevin walked to the back of the car. He opened the trunk. He pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid. He went back to the open rear passenger door. He sprayed lighter fluid into the car.

Tyesha opened her purse again. She pulled out a box of matches. She lit one. She threw it into the car. She lit another. Two, three more, the crinkle of the fire beginning, wasting cheap leather seats and snugly wound carpet.

Kevin and Tyesha walked back towards us.

"Please," Tyesha said, looking at Uncle Ander. She motioned towards the chair. Kevin casually held the gun.

Uncle Ander sat down.

"It's the best good for Barack Obama," Kevin said. He held Tyesha's hand. He held the Beretta in the other hand.

I looked at Tyesha.

"Kevin," I said. "How'd you get Perry's car?"

"I asked him for it."

"And he said that he would give you his car?"

"I told him -- give the car to me. I will destroy it. You will then give me the insurance money."

"Then what?"

"He said, why? And I said, If you do not give me your car I will say to everyone you did not burn the Obama papers. It will be a problem. You will not keep your job position, you will lose it," Kevin said.

"So then he gave it to you? For real?"

"Yes," Kevin said. "Perry loves his job position more than the love of John McCain."

"This is a nice scene," Uncle Ander said, "but why'd you have to take my chairs? And only give one back?"

"Mr. Ander some of that money went to Barack Obama," Tyesha said. "We didn't know another way to get you to sit down and watch this." She was looking at me.

The smoke rose above the trees. The smoke clouded the stars. Gray and more gray.

XLVI

The line was not like a snake, instead it was like a pond. A circular mass of various densities were outside the door, gangly kids in stripes and neon sunglasses, new plaids and high-top sky blue Nikes. Irony upon irony, to where they became what they were making fun of, so much so that the only outlet was to make fun of themselves. Which they did, over and over, the simulacrum of insults and self-doubt rippling and unrippling back on itself, so no one was sure if it ever existed. So many cool hunters, they had become their own demographic -- one as easily marketed to as upper middle-aged grandmothers and their lululemon yoga mat toting daughters. Nothing alt or alternative or hipster about me or them or any of us, just another facsimile of a fax soaked in ditto machine purple. Their influences were not worn on their sleeves, their influences were their sleeves.

They didn't read Pitchfork or Stereogum or Gorilla vs. Bear or Hipster Runoff, only glanced at them, not enough blaise in reading, but skimming kept your credibility, thank god those sites now posted more and more videos. They didn't subscribe to VICE, but looked through the pictures quickly at Borders when they were sure no one saw them a) walk into Borders or b) pick up VICE or c) glance longingly at the cover of Glamour. So everyone loved Panda Bear but conveniently could not remember where they first heard it. When they did read, it was Octavia Butler or field manuals to rare Alaskan muskrats, prepping themselves for the day they could say "and you will know the muskrat's color by their trail of shining guard hair."

I did not have the heart to tell Nathan that we were finally one of them, despite our best efforts, we had done it.

Across the street, in a wide alley was a huddle of guys with beards and sideburns in various degrees of accomplishment. They were spinning a frisbee on its edge, an improvised top, or maybe this was the newest version of spin the bottle -- maybe it was a new game of chance and skill, a game never known to them three months ago, before they saw the video online of someone spinning a frisbee in an alley, and now they were certain there was meaning in the spinning.

The black door of the venue shut behind me, my arms full of a bass drum. Nathan was on the stage arranging his set of foot pedals, he was humming to himself, something I had never seen him do, Mattie's influence probably.

"Nice crowd out there," I said. I placed the bass drum at Nathan and Court's preferred angle of right of center stage and slightly inward.

"Oh yeah?" Nathan said with a grin. He had seen them, their neon interposed on black, a fashion that would be gone the next time we played here, whenever that would be. "Whaddya think about that?"

"Not sure, where'd they heard about us, you think?" I said.

"Court, probably," Nathan said. "He knows people."

"MySpace maybe," I said.

"Maybe," Nathan said. "Bandcamp, more likely."

We unloaded the gear. We talked to others at the bar. Nathan talked to girls. I went downstairs.

I was by myself. I was hungry.

I walked down the street. A hibachi express, the chicken cooked quickly over a thin sheet metal griddle.

I sat down at a small table, a water in hand with my teriyaki chicken and wheat noodles. A Newsweek was on the table, McCain's and Obama's faces on a split screen graphic. "Who's To Blame If They Lose....and Who's To Blame If They Win" said the headline, a story that promised to look at the overlooked campaign masterminds, the social networking twentysomethings for Obama and the fighting campaign managerial staff for McCain.

I wrapped my noodles around my fork and turned the page of the Newsweek, only to find a Chevrolet ad, my Chevrolet ad, one for the Chevy Cobalt. "Cobalt Cool," it said in buffed metallic letters, resembling an exhaust pipe. It made it into print.

It was a frontal view of the Cobalt, an emo-looking banged kid leaning against the car with an acoustic guitar. A safe image, but meant to evoke rowdiness.

I twisted more noodles on my fork.

***

Wetness in my hair, in my brow, in my shirt. The blue of it, now a deep purple, my jeans even wet and the back pocket. The crowd moved, the crowd fused, coalescing and collaborating on the call over "This is heavy, Doc" wrapped into "I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen."

The drones, the pall, rocking and mocking, we all knew it before we could create. A deep well of confidence into unknown plans, bodies in the motion -- we knew that when we hit the stage, our bodies would follow, not because we told our body to, or convinced it to, but because that's what our bodies were supposed to do.

"This is our last song. We've got stuff in the back. Come see us after, if you want to...." I said.

My head was lowered, eyes dazing and dancing, adrenaline like this not known before. This one's a favorite. It's called 'Whatever happened to Rodney Dangerfield, I hope it doesn't happen to me.' Here we go." Yells, whistles, bouts of laughter. The crowd had found what they did not know they were searching for, like a $5 bill on the ground.

Court picked up the gear, Nathan back at the merch table, there was not a rush, but a tasteful blend of purchases and inquiries. Down by the chain-link fence, I had run off the stage, I was smoking, a habit I had only found recently.

I could hear steps, was not looking forward to it, the awkward conversation among fans and supposed artists, I knew those feelings -- of elation, of excitement, I also knew when the show was over, something the lonely did not grasp; awareness of social codes forever forgotten.

"Hey." The sweetness made me look up.

It was Laurie.

"Hey," I said. "What happened?"

"You were incredible, to be honest," she said.

"Surprised?" I said.

"Yes, actually, Wallace."

"Going to apologize?"

"For what?" she said. "For not recognizing and celebrating your hidden genius and greatness?"

"Something like that," I said. I threw my cigarette down. I kept staring down. Neither of us sure how and why this point had emerged.

"How'd we get here?" I asked.

"Where are we Wallace?" she said.

***

Laurie and I walked back in. The crowd at the merch table was gone, I went to the stage, started gathering the cords, the pedals, the tools of us. Laurie was a the bar, she had found a drink.

A group of lithe girls hung to the side of the stage, their hair in creative do's, and various shades of blue and black plaid. One had an old-school St. Petersburg Lions polo shirt over a long-sleeved gray shirt, over a ruffled puffy cream skirt. Another carried a My Little Pony purse and a and heavy-hung bangs with turtle shell glasses. The third wore a collared shirt and bow tie, her long black hair halfway down her back, complemented by size 3 jeans. One emerged.

"Hey," she said, high and faint, but familiar.

It was Mattie.

"Hey," I said.

"Um, guess you heard about me and Nathan?" her voice lifted again, in nervousness or part of the Valley Girl lilt that the generation before and every generation after can never shed.

"Kind of," I said.

"Wanted to tell you, it wasn't planned," she said.

"I didn't plan anything with you either, " I said.

"The pact..."

"...Was silly and stupid, and it was a joke and should always be a joke."

"Huh," she said. "I'm sure I'll see you around. You know, maybe family barbecues."

"Maybe," I said.

On the couch behind the stage, Court slept or pretended to sleep, as a girl with sparkly purple lips sat on his legs, her head on the other armrest, the two not like a licentious duo, but more like a brother and a sister, united in some type of unknown bond.

I kicked the bottom of the couch as I walked by.

Court sat bolt upright, his eyes hangdog from too much energy expended in such a little amount of time. His lips glistened not with the girl's lip gloss, but with a sheen of Red Bull and Jagermeister. His eyebrows, though, in this quick motion, were high on high, raised up.

"I don't care!" Court shouted. "I don't care!" He flopped back down, his hair bouncing. The girl adjusted her position on Court's legs, her lips touched the couch's burlap exterior. I'm sure it was rough.

I walked out the venue's back door.

XLVII

TV on the World Series, the dirty Phillies and their underhanded techniques, the rain pouring and Carlos Pena is squinting between first and second looking and looking...the other TV on Bay News 9 -- "I wonder if we're licensed for a public viewing of that," Uncle Ander said and no one denies he brings up a good point, but now we are the hotel, we are watching the newly installed TVs above the refurbished bar -- we make our own drinks and pour our own water -- as if everything we knew is now wrong, but still tastes good -- "and look at that," Uncle Ander says and the game is called due to rain, so I do look but the other TV -- Lori on the screen, in a taped repeat, she is not speaking, but stands next to the podium, in the line of people that is always behind the main speaker, Lori is tall and assured, her hands gripped just below her waist -- "can't see her legs" and I look and Uncle Ander on the ESPN sports reporter, but Lori, she's in a powder blue jump-business-suit, something I've never seen before, I'm sure I never bought for her, there she is full of HOPE possibly, definitely CHANGE and white bracketed words float across on a captioned black background, "a grave error has been made" and then the headline: "Tampa Bay company makes 'mockery; of Obama campaign" and I don't know what to do next, because Mom's barbecue sauce is dripping off my hands, don't want to look like an idiot in front of the Sonny's corporate team and the odd group of skinny girls in Hurley hoodies and black polyester skirts drinking Coronas, and the game is on rain delay (what does that mean? ) but off to the side there is a splash someone enjoying a newly renovated hotel/motel/drive-up, my pool at my residence that always encourages visitors to come in -- no options left and the sound and the images throb, so I do the only thing I know how to do.

Josh Spilker is a writer living in Nashville. He's a graduate of Vanderbilt University and received a Master's from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. He writes for Impose Magazine and runs the music blog Deckfight, and the e-chapbook publisher, Deckfight Press. He thinks about the beach often.
