1.

Once upon a time, the Little Mermaid came into Red Lobster. She came into Red Lobster sad and wobbly. Sad, because she missed her family and friends far away under the sea. Wobbly, because she was now an ex-Mermaid, and had still not quite gotten the hang of legs.

The Little Mermaid came into Red Lobster every Thursday. She never ordered anything, never requested a table. She just loitered in the lobby, by the aquariums, and sang to the lobsters. She had a good singing voice, but, still, customers complained. We told her she could sing to the lobsters all she wanted if she bought something—a Caesar salad, crab cakes, mozzarella cheese sticks, a cup of clam chowder—but she never did. I think she had money troubles. The market price of lobster was then around twenty-seven dollars a pound.

Our manager, Farnsworth, instituted a strict zero tolerance policy toward the Mermaid. He warned new hires about her during induction training, posted “For the Enjoyment of Customers Only” signs on the lobster tanks, stapled a poorly taken photo of the Mermaid to a corkboard in the staff room. But, if he wasn’t around, and no customers complained, we left the Mermaid alone, let her sing to the lobsters for as long as she wanted. I think she wrote the songs herself. They were extremely sad, and many of them seemed like they were meant to be duets, presumably with the lobsters, but when it came time for the lobsters to sing all we heard was silence. This made her sad songs even sadder.

When business was slow, I’d sneak away from my tables and stand near the hostess’s podium, to watch the Mermaid, listen to her sing. Usually I could catch a chorus or two before my tables became restless. The hostesses teased me, said I must have a thing for redheads. Everyone assumed I was the author of the crude graffiti concerning the Mermaid in the employees-only restroom. But, unlike my male coworkers, my interest in the Mermaid went beyond her big doe eyes and exposed navel and tiny seashell bras. It was her voice that truly enchanted me. Red Lobster piped in bland Lionel Richie and Michael Bublé hits all day—the Mermaid’s enigmatic half-silent songs were a welcome respite. I thought about asking her to teach me the lobster parts of her duets sometimes, but my voice wasn’t very good. I wouldn’t have been able to do the lobster parts justice.

Occasionally, as part of my professional responsibilities as a Red Lobster team member, I had to retrieve a lobster from the lobby aquarium during one of the Little Mermaid’s songs. I always begged my coworkers to do it instead, but to no avail. There was a color-coded chart in the staff room that clearly indicated the lobster-handling rotation. I tried to be as respectful, as inconspicuous, as possible. I’d always wait until the Mermaid closed her eyes, immersed herself in a particularly emotional vocal passage, to grab the lobster. I’d always scoop the doomed crustacean out of the tank briskly, efficiently, attempt to ferry it to the kitchen without the Mermaid even noticing that one of her duet partners was gone. But I was never brisk, never efficient, enough. Her eyes always opened, as I grasped the lobster, as it writhed and twitched and thrashed in my hands. She always noticed. She always witnessed my betrayal.

Could the Little Mermaid hear the lobsters? I can only assume she could. Did she have to teach the lobsters their parts of the duets, or did the lobsters already know the melodies, the lyrics, had they sung these songs since birth, since long before they were scooped from the sea floor by New England fishermen and transported a thousand miles to Red Lobster number 437? Did the lobsters sing these songs during their strange journey? Did they understand what awaited them in the restaurant lobby? Did they fathom why their friends, once removed from the aquarium, never came back?

The Little Mermaid never said anything when I retrieved the lobsters. She never screamed, never slapped me, never missed a beat. She just kept singing. But I knew she hated me. “I’m sorry,” I’d say, under my breath, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, as I carried the lobster, struggling and writhing, to the kitchen. It’s not like I enjoyed this, I wanted to tell the Mermaid. It’s not like I caught the lobster, ordered it, wanted it to die. I was just doing my job. And I didn’t even want to do my job. But that’s what a job is—nine times out of ten—doing something you don’t want to do. And I only kept that job, I wanted to tell the Mermaid, as the lobster in my hands twitched and thrashed and writhed, I only kept it so I could hear her, every Thursday, singing her half of her sad, sweet, seasick songs.

2.

Once upon a time, the old woodcarver Geppetto waited for his son, Pinocchio, to come home from a party. Tick, tock, tick, tock went the woodcarver’s twenty handcrafted cuckoo clocks. Pinocchio’s curfew was midnight—it was now one-thirty. Geppetto, furious, whittled a wooden cuckoo until it was thin splinters of pine.

A real boy. That’s what Geppetto had wished for, and that’s what he had gotten, along with all the toils and tribulations that came with one. Geppetto had tried to be a good father, but Pinocchio, even with the guidance of his insectile conscience, Jiminy Cricket, had always been a handful. Geppetto’s first years of fatherhood were spent largely in emergency rooms, principal’s offices, juvenile courts, the stomach of a giant whale. Now, Pinocchio was seventeen, and Geppetto had two different bail bondsmen on speed dial and three different prescriptions for anxiety and stress. Geppetto had fired Jiminy Cricket the previous fall and experimented with other moral-advising insects—a sawfly, a mealybug, a bagworm, a banana gnat, a louse—but Pinocchio’s behavior didn’t improve. In the winter, Jiminy Cricket begged for his old job back, and Geppetto relented. Geppetto knew how tough the job market was—he himself had recently enrolled in classes to become a certified professional locksmith and a licensed acupuncturist and masseuse. There was just no money in woodcarving anymore.

Geppetto put down his whittling knife and paced around his workshop. He dusted his clocks, swept up splinters, arranged the tools in his toolbox by alphabetical order. It was no mystery what Pinocchio was up to, in the early hours of the morning. He was with one of his good-for-nothing girls: Briana, maybe, or Amber, or Nikki, Ree-Ree, Marisleidis, Honey Bee, Nyeesha. Why couldn’t Pinocchio go out with a nice Italian girl, like Sofia D’Allesandro, who had bought two of Geppetto’s wooden lawn reindeer for her grandparents last Christmas? With no Mrs. Geppetto, Pinocchio sorely needed a positive feminine influence, but instead he cavorted all hours of the night with girls whose idea of formal attire was black instead of leopard print thongs and whose names regularly got carved into the partitions separating truck stop urinals.

Mrs. Geppetto. Geppetto had tried to meet women, had tried to find Pinocchio a loving and nurturing mother, but to no avail. He was so old, so poor, so frail. And women were suspicious of a man who spent so much of his time whittling. No, there would be no Mrs. Geppetto, except for the puppet the old woodcarver kept hidden in a deadbolted closet, for special occasions, but there could still be a Mrs. Pinocchio. A nice girl. She would make all the difference, thought Geppetto, one nice girl, to impress upon Pinocchio the virtues of prudence, wisdom, moderation, and restraint. But how much longer could he wait for Pinocchio to take an interest in such a girl? For such a girl to take an interest in Pinocchio? Even with his three anti-anxiety medications, Geppetto’s blood pressure was through the roof. No, the clocks were tick-ticking, the cuckoo could come at any moment, it was time for Geppetto to take matters into his own hands. And so he cleared off his worktable, retrieved the necessary tools, selected his finest slab of Italian cherrywood, and began carving Pinocchio a nice, Italian, wooden girl.

Geppetto named the girl Arabella. She was short and slim, like the girls Pinocchio canoodled with down by the abandoned glue factory, but whereas their faces were tarty and twisted, hers was hand-carved to be warm, friendly, kind. Geppetto put the finishing touches on Arabella—sanded her blemishes, took a half-inch off her waist, rectified small asymmetries between her breasts—and then knelt dutifully on his bed and waited for a wishing star to twinkle in the sky. Unknowledgeable about astronomy, Geppetto mistook Venus for a star sufficiently twinkly to grant him a wish, and he clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and wished upon Venus that Arabella, his beautiful teenage puppet, would become a real girl. He made it explicitly clear to Venus that the Arabella, once brought to life, was not meant to be his wife, or girlfriend, or anything funny like that. He didn’t want Venus to get the wrong idea. He simply wanted Arabella animated so she could win the heart of his troubled son Pinocchio, guide him along the straight and narrow path, enhance his character and assist him with his studies, keep him from coming home at two-thirty in the morning and vomiting all over Geppetto’s customer invoices and wood lathe.

And lo, in a cerulean flash, the Blue Fairy did appear to grant gentle Geppetto his wish. She was just as beautiful as Geppetto remembered, although she was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and spandex Capri leggings instead of her customary sparkling blue gown. On Tuesday and Thursday nights the Blue Fairy moonlighted as a water aerobics and Pilates instructor. There was just no money in wish-granting anymore.

The Blue Fairy, with a wave of her wand, brought the lovely Arabella to life, and told her that if she proved to be brave, truthful, and unselfish, she would one day become a real girl. Geppetto asked the Blue Fairy if she could recruit an insect or possibly an arachnid who knew right from wrong to serve as Arabella’s conscience, but the Blue Fairy said no, she could not, for liability reasons. She couldn’t afford to be sued for any intervertebrate contractor’s misguided or fraudulent third-party advice. Instead, she gave Arabella a helpful pocket guide, Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality, as well as a Pilates and water aerobics brochure, in case Arabella ever wanted to enroll in a class. And then, in another cerulean flash, she was gone. She taught an indoor pool power plunge class at eight-thirty.

Geppetto introduced Arabella to Pinocchio the next morning, at breakfast. The old woodcarver sat his pulchritudinous puppet directly across from his son and winked at Pinocchio every time he said Arabella’s name.

“Arabella, what a beautiful girl, eh, Pinocchio?”

“Dad, she’s made of wood,” said Pinocchio.

“Cherrywood!” said Geppetto. “The finest cherrywood, imported from Sicily!”

“Umm, does anyone want my hash browns?” said Arabella, meekly. “I don’t have a digestive system.”

Geppetto enrolled Arabella as a junior in Pinocchio’s high school. He told the registrar that Arabella’s previous school transcripts had unfortunately been swallowed by a giant whale. On her first day of school, Arabella’s classmates called her Lumber Girl, threw her into the gym swimming pool to see if she would float, and carved their initials into her shins when she wasn’t looking. Arabella consulted Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality to see what the proper response was to her classmates’ bullying. Her guide said, “The bad puppet, when bullied, seeks revenge, for instance by slashing the bully’s tires, or pouring sugar in his gas tank, or planting thirty grams of cocaine in his backpack and getting him arrested for felony drug trafficking. The good puppet, when bullied, remembers that any satisfaction earned from revenge is ultimately fleeting, whereas the fortitude and unique life perspective gained from dutifully enduring the bully’s relentless verbal and/or physical abuse will last for an entire lifetime.”

Home was not much better for Arabella. There was nothing to do, Geppetto’s cat Figaro kept sharpening his claws on her ankles, and Geppetto was always making her and Pinocchio sit through candlelit spaghetti dinner together as Jiminy Cricket played “Bella Notte” over and over on a tiny accordion.

“It is a beautiful night, eh, Pinocchio?” said Geppetto, winking mischievously at Arabella and his son.

“Old man,” said Pinocchio, venomously. “If I hear ‘Bella Notte’ one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to rip Jiminy’s six legs off one by one with my bare hands, and throw you back into the stomach of that motherfucking whale.”

Despite Geppetto’s and Jiminy Cricket’s best efforts, no sparks flew between Arabella and Pinocchio. Arabella told Geppetto that Pinocchio was a mindless, crude, substance-abusing misogynist. Pinocchio told Geppetto that he could never date a girl whose handjobs would give him splinters. Arabella was attracted to some of the girls at her school, but she never spoke to them, never made eye contact, kept her feelings hidden. Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality said any feelings that felt wrong were wrong. It said, “The good puppet embraces the simplicity and convenience of celibacy.” It said, “For an alphabetical glossary of sins and malfeasances, turn to page 178.”

The weeks passed. Pinocchio got all Fs on his midterm report card. He received a ten-day outdoor suspension for baking pot brownies in Foods and Nutrition. He got two members of the color guard pregnant. Geppetto fired Jiminy Cricket a second time and tried out several non-insect arthropods as Pinocchio’s conscience—a centipede, a millipede, a sea spider, an acorn barnacle—but alas, no matter what class the conscience, what family, what order, what subphylum, Pinocchio’s slide to Gomorrah continued unabated. The last straw came on the final day of Pinocchio’s suspension, when Geppetto came home early from an acupuncture house call and discovered Pinocchio straddling the half-naked Blue Fairy on the workshop floor. The Blue Fairy said it wasn’t what it looked like, as she frantically collected her discarded clothes and lubricated magic wand, but Geppetto paid her protests no heed.

“Out!” Geppetto shouted at his son and the fairy who had brought him to life. “Out! Out! Out! You are no longer welcome in this household! And you too!” he shouted at the barnacle then serving as Pinocchio’s conscience. “Barnacle, you have failed me for the last time.”

After that, it was just Arabella and Geppetto in the old woodcarver’s workshop. There were no more candlelit spaghetti dinners. There was no more accordion-playing Jiminy Cricket. There was no more “Bella Notte.” Geppetto thought about asking Arabella if she’d like to be his daughter, but wasn’t sure if he could stand to be disappointed by another child. Instead, he asked Arabella to get a job and start paying rent. His jobs weren’t going so well. There was just no money in woodcarving, massage therapy, locksmithing, or acupuncture anymore.

The Blue Fairy had said that Arabella would become a real girl if she proved to be brave, truthful, and unselfish. Arabella thought that she had been unselfish, but she certainly hadn’t been truthful or brave. She had never spoken a word to the girls she fantasized about at school. She had never admitted to Geppetto the real reason why she had no interest in asking any boys to the upcoming Sadie Hawkins Dance. In health class, Arabella learned about her female classmates’ blooming bodies, about all their hidden, pliable parts, the parts that, for her, were just flat, rigid strips of sanded-down wood. “The good puppet does not succumb to weaknesses of the flesh, as the good puppet has no flesh,” said Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality. Arabella ran her fingers along the grain of her Sicilian cherrywood. She thought about the girl who sat in front of her in biology class. She poured on a dollop of wood polish. “Star light,” she whispered, as she rubbed the polish into her rigid parts. “Star bright / first star I see tonight / I wish I may, I wish I might . . .”

Arabella got a job at a chocolate shop. She worked after school and on weekends, five to six days a week. During Arabella’s job interview, the shop’s owner said he had been having issues with employees stealing and eating his inventory. Arabella informed him that she had no digestive system and he hired her immediately.

The day of the Sadie Hawkins dance came. All of the girls Arabella secretly admired had long before secured their dates. Arabella worked alone at the chocolate shop that night and envisioned all the girls dolled up for the dance, chiffon, velvet, silk, taffeta, lace. Geppetto had made Arabella a dress, back when he still hoped she would rescue Pinocchio from perpetual delinquency, but he had never shown it to her. Perhaps she could be his daughter, after all, he thought, kneeling on his bed, staring at the stars outside his window. She seemed good. Really, truly, sincerely good. Maybe she wouldn’t disappoint him. She could be his daughter and he could still charge her rent. Yes, it was decided. He was going to have a daughter. He was going to be the proud father of a beautiful girl. In the chocolate shop, Arabella removed one chocolate from every gift box, and threw the commandeered chocolates into the trash. “The bad puppet does not consider the consequences of his or her actions,” said Bad Puppet, Good Puppet: A Beginner’s Guide to Morality. Arabella did not consider the consequences of her actions. There was no need. She couldn’t eat chocolate—she couldn’t eat anything. She would be held completely blameless. Outside, the stars shone brightly. Arabella took the trash out to the dumpster and smiled.

3.

Once upon a time, Snow White spoke with her late stepmother’s magic mirror. The mirror was just one of many items of furniture that Snow White inherited from her stepmother. She also inherited a dining table, a bridal chest, a Gothic buffet cabinet, a four-poster bed, and a handsome mahogany armoire.

Snow White spoke with the magic mirror when her husband, the Prince, was away on hunting trips. The Prince was away on hunting trips often. In the early days of Snow White’s marriage, the Prince would leave the castle before sunrise and return at sunset with a carriage brimming with foxes, mink, pheasant, elk, quail, but, lately, the Prince’s hunting trips had extended to overnight excursions, and yet he always returned with his carriage completely empty. Snow White never asked the magic mirror why the Prince’s carriage was empty. She never asked the mirror what the Prince was actually hunting. Instead, Snow White asked the mirror trivia questions. Marsupials, U.S. state capitals, Peloponnesian War battles, the periodic table. Sometimes, when she couldn’t think of any more trivia questions, Snow White asked the magic mirror how the seven dwarfs were doing. The dwarfs, still laboring in the mines, weren’t doing so well. Happy had contracted black lung. Sleepy had developed miner’s elbow. Bashful had been fatally crushed by a coal car. Dopey had split his own hand open with a pick.

The months passed. More and more dwarfs succumbed to black lung. Grumpy fell down a 200-foot mine shaft. Sneezy developed chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The Prince’s fruitless hunting trips expanded from weekends to entire weeks. Snow White spent her days half-heartedly singing to birds at the mouth of the wishing well where she and the Prince had first met, and her nights struggling to think of more trivia questions for the magic mirror. Some nights, she couldn’t think of a single question. Instead, she and the magic mirror made small talk. “The cucumbers are really coming in,” Snow White would say. Or, “Good tomato weather today.” Or, “Wind’s really blowing up a gale.”

A year went by. The seven dwarfs were now down to three dwarfs. Snow White’s tomatoes and cucumbers perished in a late frost. The Prince’s hunting carriages kept returning empty. Coliform bacteria were found in the wishing well. Snow White ran out of trivia questions, and instead spoke to magic mirror about more personal matters. “Magic mirror, on the wall,” she said. “Is it normal for my husband to spend so much time away from me? Is it normal for him to always say he’s too tired to touch me? Is it normal for him to constantly belittle me in front of the duchesses, the marchionesses, the countesses, viscountesses, baronesses? Is it normal for him to spend so much time with his female horseback riding coach? Is it normal for him to hide racy pictures of teenage scullery maids in our handsome mahogany armoire?”

Snow White had been a teenage scullery maid herself, when she and the Prince first met. He hadn’t known she was a princess then. He had thought she was just a hot no-strings-attached servant girl singing to birds near a wishing well. Then, the magic mirror proclaimed Snow White the fairest one of all, and Snow White’s jealous stepmother ordered a huntsman to murder her, and the huntsman instead advised Snow White to flee into the forest, where she befriended the seven dwarfs by performing a variety of domestic services. A period of contentment and whistle-accompanied manual labor followed, until Snow White’s stepmother engineered a severe case of food poisoning that rendered Snow White comatose in a glass coffin, where the Prince discovered and revived her with true love’s kiss. It seemed romantic at the time, but the more Snow White thought about it, the more red flags it raised. Why was the Prince kissing a sixteen-year-old, presumably dead girl lying in a glass coffin? How many other comatose underage maidens had he kissed? What would he have done to her if she hadn’t woken up? What was he hunting for on those hunting trips? What else was he hiding in her stepmother’s handsome mahogany armoire?

The magic mirror had proclaimed Snow White the fairest one of all, but Snow White certainly didn’t feel like the fairest one of all. She didn’t look anything like the Prince’s racy teenage scullery maids. They were all curvy, long-legged, exotic, bronzed. Snow White bought a push-up bra, platform heels, silicone buttock pads, but she was too self-conscious to wear them. She endured several sessions at a local tanning salon, but her skin merely turned an angry lobster red.

Snow White sometimes dreamt about the huntsman. It was always the same, the dream, the huntsman crawling into bed with Snow White, kissing, caressing, undressing her, running his tongue across her naked body, making love to her savagely, then tenderly, whispering into her ear that she was the fairest one of all, all while holding her still-beating heart in his hand. Snow White recounted the dream to the magic mirror, asked if it was normal for a woman to dream such dreams about a man other than her husband.

“Good sweet corn weather today,” said the magic mirror. “Azaleas are coming into bloom. Wind’s blowing up a gale.”

That August, a mining accident trapped the three still-living dwarfs two thousand feet below the earth’s surface. Doc, Dopey, Sleepy—their small, bearded faces appearing on the front pages of newspapers across the world: “Los Tres Enanos,” “Les Trois Nains,” “De Drie Dwergen.” With the Prince away on an extended hunting trip, Snow White coped during the crisis by reading the newspaper accounts of the rescue operation to the magic mirror and tossing all the wedding jewelry the Prince had given to her into the wishing well. Seventeen days into the rescue, engineers discovered a note attached to a drill bit that said, “Heigh ho, heigh ho, food and water running low.” An audio recorder subsequently lowered down the exploratory borehole captured the faint sound of whistling.

Sometimes, late at night, Snow White recalled her time in the glass coffin. How peaceful she had felt, how tranquil, waiting for her true love to wake her with a single kiss. “He had to love me, right?” she said to the magic mirror, after relating Le Monde and The Christian Science Monitor’s latest features on the dwarfs’ attempted rescue. “If he didn’t love me, he couldn’t have awakened me. So he loves me. Or, at least, he loved me. Right? Right? Right?”

“Leaves are turning,” said the magic mirror. “Good cauliflower weather today. Birds starting to get restless.”

Snow White was eating apples again. She had sworn them off after falling victim to her stepmother’s spell, refused to consume apples in any form: apple juice, applesauce, apple cider, Apple Jacks. But now, when she bit into a fresh, juicy apple, she secretly longed to succumb to another slumber-sorceress’s spell, to rest once more in a glass coffin until the Prince rescued her from stasis with true love’s kiss. “He will come back to me,” she said to the magic mirror, as a hot apple pie cooled on her windowsill. “Someday my prince will come back.”

Meanwhile, the three dwarfs, still trapped in the mine, had become international media sensations. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy t-shirts. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy plush dolls. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy vitamin-enriched cereals. There were Doc, Dopey, and Sleepy marital aids. A club remix of the dwarfs’ subterranean whistling charted in seven different countries. Licensing agreements and endorsement deals were lowered to the dwarfs along with water, flashlights, medical supplies, and food.

After returning with yet another empty hunting carriage, the Prince informed Snow White that he would be away for the entirety of fox season. “How long is fox season?” Snow White asked, but the Prince was already gone. Snow White tried to keep herself busy with domestic tasks—sweeping, mopping, dusting, rinsing, polishing—the mindless routines that had always brought her comfort, distracted her from her troubles, inspired her to gaily whistle; but try as she might, she couldn’t sweep away her pain. She couldn’t swiffer away her sadness. She couldn’t squeegee away her loneliness. She couldn’t whistle anymore.

Two months later, the dwarfs were successfully rescued from the mine. Reporters from all over the world were there to greet them at the surface, as were celebrities and foreign dignitaries, as were film and television agents, as was the Prince, who presented the dwarfs with gold medals and baskets of gourmet summer sausage and cheese. Snow White, meanwhile, remained at the castle. She wanted to see her old friends, to celebrate with them their improbable rescue, but couldn’t stand to be hassled by the cameras, the journalists, the duchesses, countesses, baronesses, the crowds.

Snow White stopped sweeping. She stopped mopping, wiping, dusting. She stopped singing to the birds, stopped whistling while she worked, stopped wishing at the wishing well. Mostly, she just spoke to the magic mirror.

“Magic mirror, on the wall,” said Snow White. “Who’s the fairest of them all?”

“Well,” said the magic mirror. “Fairest is such a nebulous term . . .”

“The fairest,” said Snow White. “You know, the most beautiful, most attractive, most enticing, smokin’, bangin’, bootylicious.”

“Right, but beauty is such a subjective quality . . .”

“The loveliest, prettiest, cutest, hottest, finest, flyest.”

“And of course wise men say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder . . .”

“The bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas, the hostess with the mostess, the caterpillar’s spats.”

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure . . .”

“The sweetest honey, the phattest shorty, the foxiest lady, the stone coldest fox.”

“And really, who am I to say . . .”

“The fairest!” Snow White exploded. “Come on! Tell me! The fairest! Who is it? Is it Duchess What’s-Her-Name? Is it Viscountess What’s-Her-Face? Is it one of those goddamn teenage scullery maids? Who’s the fairest of them all?”

“After all,” said the magic mirror. “I’m just furniture.”

The three dwarfs never had to work in the mines again. They made the rounds of all the talk shows, guest starred on television sitcoms, signed six-figure endorsement deals, hawked energy drinks, snack foods, domestic beer. The house where they had lived with Snow White and the other four, dearly departed dwarfs was redeveloped into a mine-themed water park. The mine where they had labored was repurposed as a heavily advertised tourist trap. The forest through which Snow White had fled the huntsman was converted into a casino, a golf course, and a forty-six-story luxury hotel.

Snow White, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony. Her mother, the queen, had wished for her unborn child to possess these physical attributes, and though she died during childbirth, she got her wish. “Why couldn’t my mother have wished for something more practical?” Snow White asked the magic mirror. “Why couldn’t she have wished for intelligence? Why couldn’t she have wished for kindness, healthiness, sanity, safety, love? Why couldn’t she have wished me a happy childhood, a painless adolescence, a good marriage, a peaceful and contented dotage? Why couldn’t she have wished to not fucking die the moment I was born? Fuck snow-white skin. Fuck blood-red lips. Fuck ebony hair. Where’s the peroxide? I’m dying that shit blonde tonight.”

Snow White still possessed the glass coffin. It was in an underground floor of the castle, in storage, along with unwanted inheritances from Snow White’s stepmother: a throne, a cauldron, a fondue set, back issues of Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens. The coffin was still furnished with comfortable bedding and a pillow. Snow White had joked to the Prince that it would make a perfect extra bed for a guest room, back when Snow White and the Prince were still speaking to each other, back when it was still conceivable that Snow White might ever have guests.

One thing Snow White never told the magic mirror was that she sometimes lay in the coffin. She always did it early in the morning, when everyone else in the castle was sleeping, when she herself couldn’t sleep, when her thoughts were racing with nostalgia and regret. She descended the basement stairs with a candle and a Red Delicious apple. She traversed the piles of her stepmother’s bric-a-brac. She opened the coffin’s glass case, and carefully climbed inside. “Only true love will awake me,” she thought, as she bit into the apple, blew out her candle. “Only a kiss will shake me from this evil spell.” Snow White, skin scarlet as strawberries, lips glossy as glass, hair bleached as bone, waiting in the darkness desperately for her rescuer, her prince, to come.

As soon as Roger saw me he said I smelt like the rain. I had made some questionable late night phone calls just to complain about the incessancy of it. And yet there I was, smelling of thunder.

I would watch planes land while I ate my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Each and every one looked doomed to crash into the tops of pines, maybe cut in half by the crane I named Geraldine. The crane was a shade of yellow that only shows with distance.

Geraldine sounded like a yellow name, a name for someone far away. A name you mumble to yourself on the way home from a night spent faithless, wondering when the snow will cover this westward place.

Your flying too low was not something that I ever cared to think.

Meant to call is worth a silence, but Roger still told me his sister had meant to call. When my phone would have ringed I cannot say.

So something I listened to instead: Bruce Springsteen. It was either him or the rain.

I knew exactly where “The River” was on the vinyl I had, and on nights I got loaded that is where I let the needle fall. I and the floor lamp, Alice, would dance the way they do in old movies: Technicolor with her cord unplugged, in and out of the wake made by the bathroom light.

Singing into her bulb those nights, I could have sworn I was the boss of something.

When I was eighteen I fell in love with a girl in a movie. I even wrote a song about the way she made me feel, called it “Never Forget This One”. Now I sing it to the walls when I cannot fall asleep.

How I adored the way she spelt her name, the perfect tributary of language that was her syllables, the presence of a consonant where I hoped one to be. I could speak it into nothing and that nothing would be truth.

I enrolled in film production school because I thought it would get me closer. I was not handsome enough to be an actor, nor beautiful enough in any specific way, as in the chin or the color of the eyes. No perfect hairline, no saving grace.

But she was going to glow for me in front of that camera. She would glow for me and we would make love on the cutting room floor. Life would be full again, like it was when I did not understand the agony of being.

In school I met Roger. We teamed up to make a horror-western that he had been writing in his head since he was fourteen. He was in his third year of the program; it really showed in the tasteful close-ups and dissolves.

But as it turned out even jobless actors don’t want to be in your horror-western, so we decided to cast Roger’s sister instead. It was like capturing a ghost on film. The sharp contrast between her face and the rest of everything, it scared me how beautiful it was.

When we finished the production we immediately set fire to the film in Roger’s bathtub. Everything was all wrong. I dropped out of film school the following month.

I could never sink so far from the Pacific, firmly planted on the prairie ground that is lush and green only for a few months a year. I see myself standing knee-deep in the gold of autumn, the tall grass behind the new housing developments, living out another Friday afternoon.

I knew something then that I do not know now – that a life can be made with hands like mine.

In another photo my brother and I sit on a wooden sled, our father pulling us through the snow. We are finding our perfect Christmas tree. Dad will let me make the first cut, back and forth, only an inch or so into the trunk. We will tie it to the roof of our red Caravan. We will take it home.

My mother was sick with the flu when this one was taken. Standing on my tippy-toes at the stove, I stir a pot of soup. I’m so nice I’ll even let our dog taste it right off the spoon. She always made me chicken noodle when I was sick, and I guess I figured I would do the same. Not from scratch though. Soup from the can.

And the last one I look at: Roger’s sister is turned toward me on the back porch of their family’s home. I cannot see her face but I know that she is smiling. Maybe not with her mouth but definitely with her eyes. I am spilling Alberta Genuine Draught on my shoes from the lips of a red party cup. The next morning I will go for the ocean, but leave my shoes on that porch to dry.

What are the things that I, without a nagging doubt, recognize as mistakes in my own life? Not the words that I never said, or did but not quite right. Not the possible lives of mine that I did quell, or the people I let drown in time. Only those short but ever lost eternities when I would not let myself be happy.

Taking it slow with Alice, her bulb hot from the tungsten glow, getting hotter. Bruce Springsteen letting his working class sorrow spill all over. We were gliding on it, sliding through it.

As the “The River” culminated I sang without reservation to the empty room. Remembering Mary’s body tanned and wet down by the reservoir, it was the most hopeless thought that anyone had ever had.

I was screaming the words, with no melody or tune, carving some in the back of my throat, others in the pit of my stomach.

And then the river had dried.

I bit down hard on Alice’s light bulb and it went to pieces in my mouth, shattering between my teeth, all those tiny bits of hot glass. I collapsed from the loss of blood. I lay there on the apartment floor, bleeding from the cuts in the back of my mouth, the lacerations on my lips and on my tongue.

I found myself creating that memory of Mary, her and I beneath the Jersey night on an old chequered blanket. She was moving her lips and I was trying hard to listen. But the Mary of my memory did not have a voice, no warmth in her skin to make my own. I lay there, dreaming of a Mary I never knew, and searched for constellations in the stucco ceiling. I could not find a single one.

I would stay at Roger’s for the night, coming in so late I did not want to wake my parents. Would we talk, or not at all?

“Rog, you still making movies?”

Roger shook his head and grabbed the duffle bag from my hand. He had come alone. We left the terminal and did not speak another word.

Akron, Ohio

Akron, Ohio. Jewel of the Cuyahoga. Pride of Summit County. City of wonder and mystery. The story of Akron is the story of America: Humble beginnings, grandiose dreams, triumph, then adversity, then apocalyptic hellscape, then redemption, a new beginning, the resurgence of the indomitable Akron Spirit.

I arrive in Akron via Goodyear Blimp. The Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company, founded in Akron in 1898, has long been synonymous with the blimp, that bewitching behemoth of the sky, that soaring conqueror of the clouds, that miracle of helium and neoprene-impregnated polyester fabric. In the days before the blimp, Goodyear and its subsidiary the Zeppelin Company were the world’s leading builders of rigid airships, and the United States’ largest airship was dubbed, what else, Akron, the USS Akronrepresenting the city of its name with pride and distinction until 1933, when inclement weather brought the Akron down into the frigid waters off the coast of New Jersey and sent all but three of the seventy-six strong crew to their deep, dark Atlantic graves.

The blimp’s captain is an Akron man, as was his father, as was his father before him. Nothing could drive his family from Akron, he says, not the collapse of the American tire industry in the 70s and 80s, not the resulting urban flight and decay, not the hordes of swarming undead that have roamed Akron since the early 90s, feasting on any remaining Akronites’ flesh, entrails, and brains. The captain takes us over scenic downtown Akron, and introduces me to the many marvels nestled within the city’s heart. There is historic Quaker Square, a mall hewn from the silos and factories of the dearly departed Quaker Oats Company. There is the storied University of Akron, the Harvard of Mid-America, home of the mighty Akron Zips. There is a Quizno’s and two Subways, home of the $5 Footlong Sub. There is the apartment of this guy Darrell, who the blimp’s captain says can hook me up with a car stereo, real cheap.

When the undead first arrived, says the blimp’s captain, they could not have come at a worse time. Factories were closing. Unemployment was soaring. The Rust Belt was rusting. And then the undead descended upon Akron, from the depths of hell, reducing the city’s already dwindling tax base in their unquenchable pursuit of flesh and brains. The blimp’s captain could only watch as friends and family were laid off by Goodyear, B.F. Goodrich, Firestone, Quaker Oats, and then eaten alive by marauding zombies in their homes, at church, at Akron Aeros minor league baseball games. We pass over the National Inventors Hall of Fame Museum, the Akron Zoological Park, the Rubber Bowl, the Derby Downs racetrack, the Akron Civic Theater. “John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett are performing at the Civic Theater next Saturday,” says the blimp’s captain. “I have tickets in the middle balcony.”

The blimp’s captain’s own wife and children were devoured by the undead, he tells me, during our breathtaking aerial tour of Rubber City. First they got his wife, then his son Chad, then his daughter Rosie, then little Keeley and little Micky. They left only bones. Thankfully, the so-called Akron Miracle of the early 21^st century has reversed the fortunes of many areas of the city, with the increasing prominence of new industries such as polymer research and production softening the losses of the tire giants, the beautification of downtown Akron attracting prospective residents away from the suburbs, and the National Guard keeping the hordes of undead largely confined to the neighborhoods of East Akron, Middlebury, and Goodyear Heights. “Look, the Firestone Country Club!” says the blimp’s captain. “Finest fifty-four holes of golf you’ll ever play.”

I ask the captain if we can land, so I can gaze upon the endless marvels of Akron up close, but he informs me that it is still not safe enough for the blimp to touch down within the Akron city limits. The last blimp that landed in Akron, the Spirit of Innovation, lost its entire crew to the ambushing undead in mere minutes. Still, I am certain that by the seventh or eighth edition of Johnny America’s America I will finally walk Akron’s streets, rub shoulders with its proud citizens, savor its $5 Footlong subs, and gain, at last, a street-level view of what for now can only witnessed from the sky: Akron, City of Dreams, Lord of the I-77/I-76 Interchange, Land of Helium and Progress.

Abilene, Texas

Abilene, Texas. God’s country. Where men are men, and women are women, and briscuit is briscuit.

I happen upon Abilene, one scorching summer’s day, by chance. I had intended to go to San Antonio, but apparently while leaving Dallas/Ft. Worth I had taken the wrong exit. No matter. As so many do, I fall in love with Abilene instantly: its bustling freeways, its Old West charm, its maximum-security correctional facilities.

With my hired guide still waiting for me in San Antonio, I decide to tour Abilene on my own, experience the “Real Abilene,” the Abilene they don’t show you in the glossyExperience Abilene brochures. My first stop is at Abilene’s famed Red Lobster, where Abilene fishermen have been bringing their daily catch of fresh lobster, snow crab, shrimp scampi, and garlic cheddar biscuits since the city’s founding in 1881. My server, Wendy-Lou, possesses a wealth of knowledge about Abilene’s rich history, and regales me with tale after tale of Abilene romance, intrigue, treachery, and deceit, tales such as the ballad of why Wendy-Lou’s ex-boyfriend Troy took that hoochie Doreen to prom, the ballad of why Wendy-Lou’s mama peppered their TV with two ounces of buckshot during the Cowboys-Cardinals game, and the ballad of why her coworkers Glory-Mae and Billy-Boy are no longer allowed inside the Red Lobster seafood freezer at the same time.

After sating my hunger at Red Lobster, I set my course for beautiful downtown Abilene, but unfortunately take another wrong exit and end up at the Abilene Regional Airport. No matter. Serendipitously, in the airport lobby I happen upon Abilene’s largest and most vibrant collection of fine art, a treasure trove of such contemporary masterpieces as “Untitled” by Linda Francis, “Untitled #7” by Walter Musbrook, “Shattered Dreams” by H.C. Stellenbosch, and “Puppies” by Abilene-area 4^th grader Lawanda Smith. Paris’s the Louvre may have the Mona Lisa, Madrid’s Museo Reina Sofía may have Guernica, but Abilene’s Regional Airport has seven daily flights to Dallas Fort Worth International and free luggage carts. And best of all, it’s free! A can’t-miss destination for every lover of art and value.

Thanks to the expert directions of the friendly native Abileneans in the airport’s baggage claim area, I find myself on the correct path to downtown Abilene, where I encounter a West Texas wonderland of red brick buildings, retail outlets, and parking spaces. As I park my trusty Kia in front of a RadioShack, I fantasize about all the great Texans who may have parked in this very space: T. Boone Pickens, Lyndon B. Johnson, Sissy Spacek, General Sam Houston, Lee Harvey Oswald, the members of ZZ Top. I walk the streets of Abilene, for four or five minutes, but it is very hot, so I decide to leave the streets and enjoy the authentic regional cooking and central air conditioning of Abilene’s legendary restaurant Taco Bell. A glorious fusion of Mexican and Texas cuisine, or “Mex-Tex,” as it fondly called by Abilene natives, Taco Bell’s menu offers a variety of exotic, mouth-watering dishes that have been cooked over the hearths and roaring campfires of Abilene since the days of Bonnie and Clyde. Gorditas. Chalupas. Taquitos. Enchiritos. Volcano Double Beef Burritos. Crunchwrap Supremes.

I could while away endless hours eating and people-watching in the exclusive, chic environs of Taco Bell, but my parking space is limited to thirty minutes maximum, and so I bid Taco Bell adieu and finish my 7-Layer Burrito in my Kia. There is plenty more of Abilene to see, but, as my hotel reservation is for a Motel 6 just outside of San Antonio, I figure I better get headed in that direction before rush hour. No matter. I shall return to Abilene, Blossoming Rose of Texas, this captivating city that has captured my heart. I know not when, I know not how. But I shall return, as certain as the sun returns with the dawn, as certain as the tumbleweed drifts across the prairie, as certain as Texas’s lone star converts hydrogen into helium, I shall return, unless I take another wrong exit, in which case, I hear Corpus Christi and Galveston are nice.

Newark, New Jersey

The City of Love. Many cities stake this claim. Paris. Rome. Venice. Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. But no city, in this humble travel writer’s mind, is more deserving of the title than that American bastion of romance, Newark, New Jersey.

Newark. Honeymoon haven. Romantic retreat. Sanctuary of sweethearts. Newark, where young lovers take moonlit rides on the picturesque New Jersey Turnpike, where infatuated couples leisurely cruise down the pristine waters of the Passaic River, where hopeless romantics gaze together at the millions of stars glittering above the famous Newark skyline. Newark: where, in the smoldering shadows of nearby Jersey City, that special someone is powerless to refuse you his or her heart.

Having no special someone of my own, I arrive in Newark hopeful that love awaits me in this dazzling city of 300,000 romantics, as love has awaited so many other visitors to its fair, seductive shores. I had a special someone, once, to whom I dedicated the first and second editions of my bestselling travel guide Johnny America’s America, but she failed me, and thus I dedicate the third edition of my book to no one.

My first stop in the City of Love is at Newark’s bustling port, one of the largest containerized ports in the world. Millions of tons of cargo are handled in the Port of Newark each year. Perhaps there is a longshorewoman there who will handle my broken heart.

In the Port of Newark I speak of love to the stevedores, the crane operators, the dock supervisors and port authority officers. I am told to leave immediately; I am in a restricted area. The port authority officers escort me to my car.

Next I visit that other stronghold of amorous bewitchment, the All Jersey Multiplex Cinema. What better place to seek love than in the dark aisles of a movie theater, a smoldering romance playing on the screen, the aphrodisiac scent of popcorn butter and Junior Mints wafting through the air. Unfortunately, the All Jersey Multiplex Cinema appears to be permanently closed, it is moldering, collapsing, and riddled with graffiti, and my only offer of love comes from an inscription etched onto an out-of-order phone booth. It seems that tonight the City of Love is playing hard to get.

Undaunted, I continue on to the glamorous Ramada Plaza Hotel just outside of the Newark International Airport. I met my ex-special someone in a Ramada hotel, during the book tour for my bestselling Johnny America’s Asia by Yak. I speak of love to the concierge, to the bellhops, to the airport shuttle drivers and the cleaning ladies. They direct me to the hotel bar, where I tell the bartender to serve me whatever the locals drink. He makes me a Manhattan.

In the hotel bar I speak of love to a 57-year-old dental hygienist from Topeka. I speak of love to a 42-year-old wastewater technician from Biloxi, and a 61-year-old senior sales associate from East Lansing. My ex-special someone is a 27-year-old Outback Steakhouse server from Rockford, Illinois. She has forever ruined Outback Steakhouse for me. I can no longer eat Walkabout Soup or a Bloomin’ Onion without being reduced to tears.

But I am strong. I do not cry in the Ramada Plaza Hotel bar. Instead, I speak of love to a 23-year-old data entry specialist from Phoenix. Her special someone, a former professional super welterweight boxer, hammers me in the jaw. When I regain consciousness, I am in Newark’s University Hospital. There is romantic fluorescent lighting. There are patients dressed only in flimsy gowns. It is a hospital for lovers.

I speak of love to the nurses and my attending physician. I am told that I suffered a concussion and need to stay overnight, for observation. Oh, what fortune, to end my journey here, in this libidinous, erotically charged hospital in the City of Love. A nurse pricks me with an IV needle, Cupid’s arrow. I am helplessly smitten. Due to memory loss resulting from my head injury I can no longer recall the nurse’s name, but I know that if I see her again I shall recognize her instantly, and those old familiar feelings will again well up inside of me. Oh, to be hospitalized once more in the glorious City of Love! Newark, this will not be the last head injury I suffer within your fair borders, this I assure you. Newark, my brain will swell within you again. This is my promise. This is my vow.

Pembroke Pines, Florida

Florida. Winter paradise. Land of the alligator, citrus, favorable tax structure. Each year millions of heat-seeking tourists flock to Florida, to Disney World in Orlando, to South Beach in Miami, to the River Garden Hebrew Home for the Aged in Jacksonville, to the Fountainview resort-style senior living community in West Palm Beach. But so often lost amid these well-known Floridian vacation destinations is a city just as deserving, if not more deserving, of full-page accolades in every Florida tourism brochure. That city is Pembroke Pines, the City Pulchritudinous, the Diamond of Broward County.

I arrive in Pembroke Pines early. There is so much to do, so much to see. My first stop is at Domino’s Pizza, where Pembroke Pines’ vibrant Italian-American community has been baking the traditional tomato-and-cheese-slathered pies of their homeland for generations. Not wanting to look like a tourist, I order in Italian. Unfortunately, my pronunciation is very bad, and the Domino’s staff is unable to understand me. Also, I do not know the Italian words for deep dish or Cinna Stix.

Next, I proceed to Pier 1, where Pembroke Pines artisans sell their lovingly handcrafted furniture, vases, soap and lotion caddies, and patchouli candles, as they have for centuries, in a buzzing, bustling setting that can rival that of any market in London, Cairo, Paris, or Marrakech. Truly, Pier 1 is marvel. Where else but in Pembroke Pines could one find such a dizzying array of chair cushions, doormats, throw pillows, table linens, and wicker barstools in one convenient location?

After leaving Pier 1, I decide to take a walk in the great outdoors to experience Pembroke Pines’ natural beauty, and what better place to walk than Pembroke Road, a.k.a. the Boulevard of Dreams, a.k.a. State Highway 824. Walking along Pembroke Road, one truly communes with nature in all its glory. The flora. The fauna. The guardrails. The overpasses. The median strips. Strolling through Pembroke Pines, it is not difficult to imagine what Adam and Eve must have felt as they leisurely sauntered through Eden. It is a place of untouched innocence, of unparalleled beauty. It is a paradise easily accessible via Florida’s Turnpike.

When the sun sets, and the day draws to a close, it is finally time to enjoy Pembroke Pines’ legendary nightlife. Pembroke Pines is famous for its exclusive restaurants, clubs, and discotheques, and thanks to some string pulling by my publisher I am granted unrestricted access to the most exclusive club of them all: BJ’s Wholesale Club. At BJ’s, Pembroke Pines’ illuminati dress to see and be seen. Levis. Dockers. Gym shorts. Sweatpants. The hottest DJs, unseen, play the most electric soft rock and smooth jazz jams, and BJ’s sizzling staff are always ready to cater to your every whim. The party goes on into the wee hours of 9 pm, and then the celebrities and socialites and hot young things of Pembroke Pines shuffle out of BJ’s and head to their tony duplexes for their much-needed beauty sleep. Meanwhile, this humble travel writer checks into the luxurious Holiday Inn Express Hotel & Suites, which has justly earned its reputation for offering only the finest complimentary soaps, shampoos, and hand towels since 1983. Exhausted from a long day of witnessing the greatness of one of the greatest cities in America, no, one of the greatest cities in the world, I fall onto my bed, forever changed. Goodnight, Pembroke Pines, but not goodbye. We shall dance our crazy dance again—mark my words—we shall dance again.

Rats have been spotted in the children’s room. It is thought that they are getting in through the pipes. The library director thanked Angela for trying to catch them, but it is not the responsibility of the circulation staff to exterminate the rats. They can be very dangerous, and may carry many diseases including the bubonic plague. Angela said she was trying to rescue the rats and move them outside. The library director has asked Claude to set rat traps, out of view of the children. It is hoped that this will take care of the problem. Please be vigilant if you see any rats, and alert the library director who will then take the proper measures.

Please be sure to put away any food in the staff room. Donuts and bagels have been left out overnight and they get stale. Also, we don’t want any rats in the staff room! It is a privilege to be able to bring food in the library. Please don’t ruin it for everyone else.

Gloria thanked the staff for the beautiful flowers they sent her while she was recovering. She is feeling much better now and is happy to be of service to the library again. A reminder about sick days: please schedule them with the library director ASAP, especially if you are hospitalized, as it makes it difficult for her to find last-minute replacements.

The reference desk reported that the new issues of People Magazine and Cat Fancy have gone missing. The library director suggested that back issues be kept behind the circulation desk, and for patrons to leave their library cards if they want to look at them. Patrons without library cards may leave behind a driver’s license, or other government-issued photo ID, such as a passport.

Darcy brought up the subject of homeless people in the library. Recently, there have been more of them than usual. It is the policy of the library to open its doors to anyone, including homeless people. They should be treated no differently than any other patron. Please keep an eye on them and report any suspicious behavior to the library director.

There is talk of organizing an outing for the entire staff to enjoy together. Ideas include going to the movies or to a musical. Sign up sheets will be passed around. Please indicate which date(s) you are available.

June 20

The rat traps do not seem to have worked. One rat was spotted in the reading corner and frightened a group of toddlers and their parents. The decision has been made to close the children’s room until the problem is fixed. Claude has placed rat poison in the room, so do your best to stay away.

Lorna’s birthday cake was left out overnight in the staff room and is no longer edible. It seems the rats got to it. Lorna never had a chance to try the cake, as she wasn’t working that day. Gloria has offered to bake her another one. Because of this incident, it has been decided that no food of any kind be allowed in the library, including the staff room. The library director offered her regret at this inconvenience, and expressed her hope that staff members will comply with this request for the safety of the library.

Reports have been received that more magazines are missing. It is not known who is taking them. Angela said there are too many magazines to keep them all behind the circulation desk. The library director suggested moving them to the front lobby, where the circulation staff can keep an eye on them. Angela said it isn’t her responsibility to monitor the magazines and that there are too many other things to do. The library director asked whose responsibility is it, then. The subject was dismissed until the next meeting.

Only two people have signed up for the staff outing: Gloria and Nadine. Several staff members have commented in the past how fun it would be for us to do something together. Now is your chance! Another idea is a pizza party, if people like that idea better.

July 5

The library director expressed her displeasure at having found a fake rat in her coat pocket. The rat infestation is a serious matter and is not to be poked fun at. A reminder that the library is not an appropriate place for practical jokes, unless it is April Fool’s Day, in which case jokes must be cleared with the director. Anyone who knows anything about the incident, please submit a letter to the library director. Anonymous is OK.

Rats have not been seen in the children’s room, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still there. Please be vigilant if you go in the children’s room as there may still be lingering fumes from the rat poison. Claude has also put rat poison in the staff room, just to be safe.

A reminder: no food, in any shape or form, is allowed in the library. This applies to patrons as well as staff. Signs have been posted around the library. As many of you know, a patron choked this week (on a ham sandwich, it is believed) and Angela performed the Heimlich maneuver. While it is not the policy of the library to provide this service to patrons, it was kind of Angela to offer her assistance in this area. In the future, please speak to the library director before offering assistance to patrons not related to books.

Reports that a homeless person was seen stealing a magazine are being looked into. It is not certain that the person was homeless. He may have just looked homeless. It has since been decided to move all the magazines to the front lobby where the circulation staff can watch them. Please familiarize yourself with the new rules regarding magazine reading, and be sure to record each time a magazine has been taken and returned.

The staff outing is scheduled for Saturday, July 15^th. We are going out for a movie and pizza. Three people are going: Gloria, Lorna and Darcy. There is still time to sign up!

July 18

The rats are at it again! It appears that, having vacated the children’s room, they have taken up residence in the nonfiction collection. Actual rats have not been seen, but evidence of them has. Several books were found torn and chewed up, apparently for bedding material. Rat traps and poison have been set in place. The nonfiction room will be closed until further notice.

Another fake rat was found, this time in the library director’s personal refrigerator. It is suspected that whoever was behind the previous prank orchestrated this one as well. If you have any leads, please submit them to the library director. Again, anonymous is OK.

Staff members hiding their snacks in the dumbwaiter have been asked to stop. Doritos and Jolly Ranchers were some of the food items that were discovered. Please consider this a final warning. So long as there are rats in the library, there will be no food allowed. This is hard on everybody, most of all the library director, who wishes for the library to be returned to its former state ASAP.

Magazines continue to go missing despite having been moved to a place where the circulation staff can watch them. Angela commented that it isn’t possible for the circulation staff to know the comings and goings of every single magazine when they are already doing work that the reference librarians should be doing. The library director urged all of the staff be more alert, the circulation staff in particular.

Happy Birthday, Gloria! She turned 62 this week. She enjoyed the birthday card. We were sorry not to have had a cake for her, which wasn’t possible due to the recent rat problem.

The staff outing has been postponed, as the few who had signed up had last-minute engagements or weren’t feeling well. There is new interest in a brunch and bowling outing. Sign up sheets will be passed around.

August 1

Some disturbing news was found out this week by Darcy. It seems the rats have moved into the bottom of the dumbwaiter shaft. As you know, some members of the staff had been hiding their snacks in the dumbwaiter. It is suspected that this is what caused the rats to move in. At least one family of rats has made this spot their home. The library director has asked that use of the dumbwaiter be discontinued until further action is taken.

The library director was not pleased with the fake rat that she found in her box of fig newtons. It is important that we get to the bottom of this. Not only is it harmful to the library director, but it is harmful to the community upon which the library is built. The library director wishes to remind all staff members that only through special cases is food allowed in the library. Otherwise, no food is allowed. Your cooperation is appreciated.

A motion was passed to use library funds to purchase a security gate. Magazines continue to go missing, and it is thought that improving security measures will bring an end to this problem. Claude hopes to put the gates up within the next week or two, as soon as the rats have been dealt with.

The issue was raised of homeless people sleeping on the couches in the reading room. This problem may not only be limited to the homeless, as elderly patrons fall asleep there too. It is library policy that patrons do not sleep on the premises. It does not look professional, especially when there is snoring. Solutions to this problem are being looked into. One idea proposed is to remove the couches.

Only one person has signed up for the staff outing: Gloria. If more people don’t sign up, we will have to postpone the outing.

August 15

In regards to the increasing number of rats, the problem is under control, and in the meantime, please remain calm. It seems that, because there have been so many new rat sightings, there are a number of rumors floating around. They are getting out of hand. The library director would like to set the record straight. Yes, there are more rats than was first thought. Yes, they have been spotted in the reading room as well as the library director’s office. However, no one has been attacked, bitten, or killed, and the rats had nothing to do with the ambulance the other day. It is true that the rats have come to the attention of the county, and the library is being forced to temporarily close until the health codes are met. We regret this turn of events and hope everything will be back in full swing ASAP.

Information has surfaced about the recent string of rat jokes. The situation has been dealt with. It is expected that incidents of this nature will no longer be cause for concern to the library staff.

The missing magazines have been found! After Claude removed the couches from the reading room, it was discovered that the magazines had fallen in between the cushions and underneath the couches. Because of his recent rat patrol duties, Claude had been unable to attend to other chores, such as cleaning. Also, since the security gates have already been ordered, it has been decided to keep them anyway and continue with the new plan for increased security measures.

Gloria has been hospitalized again and will be out for a few more weeks. Because of the library closure, it is fortunate that Gloria’s time away doesn’t pose a greater burden than it already does to our staffing resources. Cards and flowers may be sent to the same address as before.

Angela has resigned for personal reasons. She enjoyed working at the library as it was a very good learning opportunity for her. She is moving into a new field (she is not sure what yet). She will be missed.

A new staff outing has been planned for this Saturday. As many of you know, the fair is coming to town. It would be a fun experience for us all to go together. The library director has purchased a number of discount tickets. We would like to carpool if possible. Sign up while there’s still room!

The drive back to Sac does nothing to sober me up, either, and although Avaline and I are ready to hurl, she takes me to her afternoon support group, “Lean On Me: A Place for Manic-Depressive and Bipolar Sufferers to Come Together,” or in other words, AA for the suicidal. It’s hosted in a middle-school classroom, and there are people of all ages sitting in a circle, fidgeting, bored, inattentive. The moderator seems to mean well. He goes around the room and asks each of us how we’re holding up, subsequently offering us gum, but if any of these people are anything like Avaline, manners and gum aren’t going to do shit.

“This is Hazel,” Avaline says with a slur. “She gets butt-hurt easily, so be nice.”

“Hello, Hazel. Why don’t you tell us about a recent low point in your life that’s really tested you,” he says.

“I can’t really think of anything,” I say, distracted by the sight of the ceiling fan circulating in the reflection of his polished head.

“Last week, we discussed our biggest fears. Most of us fear we’ll pass our disease onto our children,” he says. “What’s your biggest fear?” All eyes are plastered on me and it’s making me tense up even more.

“That the only sex I’ll be able to get is fat-fold sex,” I say.

“Don’t take her seriously. Hazel’s an angry nineties chick and she just broke up with her boyfriend,” Avaline says, revealing to the public truths I’ve taken considerable care in hiding from myself. Bitch.

“I didn’t break up with him. He dumped me for the third element of the periodic table.”

“Now, now,” she says. “Marilyn Manson cheated on Dita Von Teese, the Queen of Burlesque and Bondage, with that little girl from the Green Day video. And that skuzzy Billy Bob cheated on Angelina. And Ethan on Uma. Those disgusting guys don’t appreciate the beautiful women they have. It happens to the best of us.” For a second, it really makes me feel good. “Although Ethan’s a beefcake and I’d have his babies any day.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I say.

“It’s been way over a month. You need a good fuck buddy to help you get over him.” It dawns on me that we’re not too different: she has an address book of fuck buddies; I have a grocery list of carbohydrates. “If you really want to get back with him, invite him over to talk,” she says, and the moderator’s mouth is gaped open as if searching for the right words to end this. “Mix him a sweet drink and dissolve in two Viagra. You could throw in a hit of E if you want to warm things up. After he drinks it, come out of the bathroom in your skivvies and push play on your DVD player that just so happens to have lesbian porn in it.”

“That’s your advice to me?” I ask.

“Wait a minute,” some guy says. “Straight chicks watch lesbian porn? Can I watch you two—”

“I think, um, we’re getting off track here,” the moderator finally says.

“Say the Viagra and porn don’t work,” Avaline says. “Slip him a mickey, drag him into bed, and fool around with him while he’s out cold. You’ll wake up together naked and he’ll have to take you back.” The room goes mute aside from a fly buzzing overhead and a few clearing throats.

“That’s motherfucking rape,” I say. (For the record, she’s the type that would give her kids cough syrup at night to shut them up.)

“You can’t rape a guy,” she says. “Really, you can’t. It’s our double standard as girls. It’s considered rape for them but not for us. And I’ve never had to roofie any guys because they always fold after the Viagra. Rohypnol just got a bad rap ’cause everybody called it ‘the date-rape drug,’ but it’s really just another benzo.” I wonder if anyone would notice if I slid under the table and crawled toward the door. “Unless you’re some fat-ass heifer, no straight guy is going to turn down punani with two Viagra in his cock,” she says.

“Can we not use the term ‘fat-ass’?” I ask.

“Hazel,” the moderator says. “Um, are you suffering from a mental illness or grief from your breakup? You know, there’s a difference.” He hurls out a bunch of inquisitive questions about my “clinical diagnosis” and my “combination of medications,” so finally I tell him I have none because I’m undoubtedly not batshit insane. He asks me to leave. I could put up a fight but I decide against it.

On the way home, Avaline tells me that I should have faked it so we could have at least stayed for the hot chocolate and cookies break, but listening to her about something like that would be like going to Liza Minnelli for marital advice. Maybe I should join a cult. At least they do everything in their power to prevent their pledges from leaving. But after being rejected by the punks and the crazies, I doubt I’ll fit in anywhere.

A man named Man wakes angry, very angry, and he’s not certain why. There are many reasons these days. Just open your Twitter feed. That’s what Man does. China raises interest rates. Bon Jovi tops Billboard. Man takes hostages with sword. All of this irritates Man.

As he electric-brushes his teeth, Man thinks he’s pissed because of the weather. Fucking twenty degrees in October. You can’t count on anything anymore. One year, it’s eighty, the next, it’s fucking twenty.

Maybe he’s pissed because of his busy schedule. He’s got a morning meeting in Jersey City today, then a flight to Toronto for an afternoon meeting, then a flight back to New York.

Maybe he’s angry because last night’s date with that museum curator didn’t go well. That dating website really needs to add a field for “Fatter Than Her Profile Suggests.”

As he does every morning, Man spoons five cups of sugar into his black coffee. Today, he adds a sixth. He chugs it like a protein shake, then reaches into his fridge and pulls out a protein shake and pounds that as well. He gets dressed in front of his 42-inch television, where he watches four news channels at once (to piece together the truth!), then puts on his heavy coat, which feels like throwing a small man on his back, and heads out into the cold, windy and crowded Lower Manhattan.

Shitstorm’s coming, Man thinks as he wraps his scarf around his neck and tucks it under the lapels of his jacket. Client’s going to be pissed, unforgiving. He can feel it. Rage is in the air. He stares at the gaping maw of Ground Zero. Ten fucking years and it’s still Ground Zero. A mosque will rise before a monument. The Muslims deserve it. They deserve it if they can take down the towers, then shove a mosque in the hole before we can do anything about it. America’s a defected baby.

Man’s feet stomp through the wave of people exiting the PATH station. Everyone seems to be going the opposite direction. Man bumps someone, accidentally, and he doesn’t apologize, doesn’t look back. He likes the physical contact. He picks another guy. Little Jewish-looking dude’s talking on his cell phone. Bumps him as well, hears the guy’s phone smack the ground, perhaps get trampled. Another one. This one’s drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee. Man bumps him as well. Hopes coffee scalds the fucker. People don’t object. People don’t talk back. They just move on, take it like they have no choice. Man bumps another. This time, a woman. She says nothing either. America’s a meek mute.

On the PATH, Man’s belly sloshes and churns and he feels like he needs to shit. This anger (angerness? angerhood?) can’t be good for his health. One day, he’s going to keel over if he keeps going like this. That’s what his ex-wife said.

“Why can’t you be one of those Sexy Santas?” he asked her almost two years ago to the day. He pointed at a group of young women in their apartment building’s lobby dressed in Santa jackets, leggings and boots.

Man’s ex-wife looked at him like he was asking her to kill her first born. “You can go ask one of them out, if you want.”

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt you to try once in awhile,” Man said. “Put on some makeup. Get dressed up. You still have a pretty nice body.”

Three months later, Man was single again.

If he’s honest with himself, Man would admit he’s been pretty angry (angry-ous?) since the divorce. He probably wasn’t ready to be married, but when she called him a misogynist and xenophobe then attributed his misogyny and xenophobia to his ethnicity, Man has wondered whether she was right ever since. His father had a long-time mistress. Hell, his grandfather had concubines. His mother was a meek mute in the face of his father, but brutal and critical of Man, even calling him a defected baby once (okay, more than once). All of his family, like many Chinese, hates blacks (all Africans), Japanese (the Second World War), Vietnamese (all southeast Asians, really), some Greeks (definitely Turks), some South Americans (except Peruvians and Argentinians). We’re all destined to carry the worst traits of our forebears.

In Jersey City, at the meeting, the client is talking rapidly and loudly, almost shouting. Man isn’t listening closely to the particulars. He can tell that the client’s not happy with the outcomes of the launch of the partnership between their two companies. Conversions are initially lower than expected. The microsite was down for over an hour during peak traffic. Man’s doing everything he can to avoid blow feces out the back of his wool slacks. He occasionally looks into his client’s eyes and nods sympathetically. He occasionally says that he understands that all is not what they’d hoped. He occasionally parrots the client’s concerns, rearranging the words, replacing them with synonyms. In management training, this is called Active Listening. But while the client is ranting, Man glances out the thirtieth floor window at the advancing Hudson and the Manhattan skyline. It takes his mind off the raging of his belly, the raging in his mind. All is not what they’d hoped, he keeps saying. If he keeps saying this and looking out the window and concentrating on keeping his butt closed, he won’t reach across the conference table and grab the client from the collar and scream in his face that he’s a mediocre, over-the-hill middle manager, who is all job insecurity, no ambition, and smells of death’s early whispers.

After the meeting, in the lobby bathroom of the client’s office building, Man evacuates his bowels discreetly and deserts a clogged, overflowing toilet. He heads to Newark airport in the car service. He pulls out his notebook and re-reads the notes from the meeting. His notes can be described as a list of threats. Words include “will escalate,” “below expectations,” “renegotiation,” “underperform,” and “payback.” Man’s boss had asked Man to call immediately after the meeting with the results, but Man can’t bring himself to talk to Suge right now (his boss is big and African-American, thus the nickname). Man summarizes the meeting in an email. Words include “lukewarm,” “reassess,” and “will be in touch.”

At the airport, he receives a security mauling from a big man with small hands named Eugenio. Man considers it good fortune for all that he emptied his bowels earlier because Eugenio is pushing all the right colonic buttons, pulling all the taintly levers. After getting through security, Man is dismayed to see that gate is packed with people. He’s further dismayed to discover that these people are Chinese. Like Chinese-national Chinese. Like they-own-our-debt Chinese. Man’s name is called over the PA system. When he gets to the service desk, he’s told that he’s been moved to another seat so a family could sit together.

“Big fucking family,” Man says, nodding at the pack of Chinese crowding the gate.

Without comment, the service agent hands him a new boarding pass.

On the plane, Man sits in the aisle seat, the only American in the middle of this “family” of twelve Chinese nationals, all men. The man to his left and the man to his right are talking loudly to each other and the man to his right mistakenly places his hand on Man’s thigh, thinking it’s his armrest. Man flinches and the Chinese man moves his hand away. Before Man can object, the man takes off his coat and drapes it over the seat in front of Man.

“I guess I’m not using my tray,” Man says aloud. He looks around at the Chinese men and they just blink and stare at him. Then they carry on with their conversation.

After the plane has reached cruising altitude, the two men to Man’s right repeatedly get out of their seats to retrieve items in their luggage from the overhead bin. First, a laptop, then a DVD player, then an iPad, then a bag of dried fruits, then a sack of apples, and finally, a Chinese Checkers set. Each time they get out of their seats, instead of waiting for Man to unbuckle to give the men a clear path to the aisle, they squeeze through and over Man. To compound matters, someone near Man smells like he’s been rolling around naked in a mass grave for a week.

Man decides he’s angry because of China. He’s angry because somehow we’ve let ourselves be surpassed by a pack of these thoughtless, boundary-less Mongoloids. Just as he thinks this, the man across the aisle passes gas that makes Man’s eyes water. Man’s fists are clenched. Take a deep breath, he tells himself. No, don’t breathe in. Try to sleep.

The men beside Man play a movie with Chinese subtitles. Neither use earphones. The DVD player plays at its highest volume. Why not share the audio with the rest of the plane? No one needs to sleep. Of course, it’s a Nic Cage movie with lots of explosions, gunshots and line screaming. The two men watch and comment on the movie, while playing Chinese Checkers, drinking Coke, and eating fruit with lip-smacking abandon. One of them even plays Tetris on his iPad. A small pile of trash collects on the seat tray near Man. Apple cores wrapped in tissue. Empty plastic cups. Soon, one is placed on one of Man’s armrests. Then another. Then a third.

Ninety minutes left on the flight. Man can survive this. He can. Just as he thinks this, the man in the middle seat shifts his mini-junkyard to the other man’s tray. He glances at Man and speaks for the first time.

“Bahff-room,” the man says in a heavy accent. Without waiting for Man’s acknowledgement or permission, the man stands and begins edging out, his ass is more or less in Man’s lap. Something tenses in Man and he finds himself sticking his legs between the man’s leg, blocking his path. The man grunts as he tries to untangle himself, and Man lifts a knee to the man’s groin, grabs him by the waist and in one swift motion, throws him like an unwanted cushion. The man, who’s of slight build to begin with, makes a guttural noise that resembles a bull’s snort as he arcs into the lap of his fellow Chinese nationals across the aisle.

Passengers gasp. Men glare at Man from all sides. Man realizes that, perhaps, he could have shown more restraint. With the help of his countrymen, the man scrambles to his feet. A flight attendant rushes to the scene.

“What happened, Sir?” she says nasally.

It takes a moment for Man to realize that the flight attendant is asking him.

Man shrugs. “I, uh, don’t know.”

The thrown man makes a throwing motion. “He ssrrroh! He ssrrroh!”

“Did you throw him, Sir?” the flight attendant says.

“I don’t know,” Man mumbles. More assertively, he adds. “He may have tripped.”

In Mandarin, the men are clearly exchanging negative opinions about Man.

“We got tangled,” Man says. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Ma’am,” says a middle-aged white woman several rows back. “He threw him. He was angry that they were getting out of their seat so often.”

Man volleys a glare at the American. Traitor, he thinks.

The flight attendant looks at Man. “Is that what happened?”

“These people show no respect,” Man says. “None. Less than none. I don’t go to their country…” His voice trails off. He recalls the morning, his mysterious anger. He remembers passing the World Trade Center site, bumping people intentionally on the way to PATH, blowing black shit out his ass, getting molested by airport security. He remembers his ex-wife saying he had a problem.

“I’m going to talk to the air marshal and see what he suggests we do,” the flight attendant says.

“An air marshal,” Man says. That’s the type of day it’s been. He’s on the one flight out of a hundred that has an air marshal.

“Think you can not throw someone before we land?” the flight attendant says.

After the plane lands, Man tries to de-board as quickly as possible. Though no one says anything to him directly, Man feels like all the passengers are watching him. Some likely want to call him callous. Some might agree with his actions, think they were justified, wish they had done the same. That’s what America’s all about these days. A game of dodgeball, four-square. Take a side. Pick your box. Xenophobe, it’s your serve. Man hurries up the ramp, but slows when he sees a man in a blazer and jeans waiting beyond the airport gate. The man looks directly at Man. The air marshal. Man can hear in the questions in his head before he’s asked. Why did you throw that man? Isn’t he your fellow countryman? Why were you angry, so very angry?

There are many reasons these days, Man thinks.

When the cotton crops were wiped out, they chopped down the trees. When vast empty plains replaced the forests, they resorted to precious metals. But that only seemed a regression and they quickly halted production when treasure hunters began searching for the philosopher’s stone and alchemy rose in popularity.

Michael Lyndon, a respected businessman who had spent years yachting in the Pacific, suggested a bartering system. The idea seemed simple. Like using gold and silver as forms of currency, they could return to the historic use of purchasing and selling through the exchange of goods. Each transaction would be individualized and simple.

Lyndon had studied the islanders and respected their easy lifestyles. They were free of the maddening need to acquire goods. However, in the past few decades, materialism had gradually seeped into their society. “No one is perfect,” he said whenever opponents pointed out this trend. “This is why we must act now! We have to implement the bartering system before we lose all of our resources. What better way to maintain equilibrium than with the pure exchange of goods? This can be expanded to anything! You need to trim the grass on your lawn? Okay, I’ll let you use my lawnmower for as long as you need if you let me use your car for the same amount of time. Both parties should feel rewarded in the exchange. There is nothing rewarding when purchasing and selling with money. Money, in a way, loses its value, especially with the advent of check books and credit cards.”

But opponents were still cautious and so the bartering system was tested in the farming town of Harvest, population 1,200, which grew a wide assortment of crops, including peanuts, corn, apples, and soy.

The last of the gold and silver coins was surrendered. The bank and general store shut down, and the townspeople were counseled to begin trading with each other for anything they needed. They were already familiar with the idea. Farmers had frequently exchanged leftover stock, but they had also relied on the general store for things they could not grow, such as computers. Many of the other stores that lined Main Street eventually shut down. The bakery no longer could purchase eggs, sugar, or milk from outside suppliers without money. The baker replaced his normal stock with other corn- and soy-based products, and the townspeople eventually adapted to the taste of the new goods.

The other shopkeepers learned new skills when they failed to retain their businesses. The banker learned to forage and gathered nuts and berries in exchange for goods from the farms. The postman sold his car to a rancher in another town for a cow and bull and was able to provide milk, cheese, and butter to the townspeople. He gradually acquired a herd and later offered soap and leather.

The townspeople learned to sew and patch up tears in place of buying new clothes. They looked a little shabbier, but felt prouder, and with everyone sporting similar patches, appearance no longer mattered. The women eventually exhausted their makeup supplies and emerged from their houses with naked faces. They encountered each other with surprise and slight unfamiliarity, but smiled at seeing their true selves.

At first, the townspeople had supplemented their steady supply of fresh food from the farms with the snacks and canned food they had stocked in their pantry in case of a tornado. Families would share a bag of potato chips during dinner in reverent celebration. They licked the salt off of their fingertips and sucked a potato chip until it disintegrated on their tongues. They struggled to toil on the fields as they daydreamed of other foods. They recalled the taste of a juicy, well-marinated steak and the sweetness of orange juice and their stomachs rumbled.

The townspeople relearned old techniques of converting their base crop into other products. Without the help of factories, soy farmers made milk, tofu, and candles. The corn farmers produced cornmeal and even attempted to extract the corn syrup that sweetened so much of what they had been used to consuming. The apple farmers provided jams and sauces to those who supplied their own empty glass jars. The rice farmers supplied paper and sake using family techniques unused for generations. Everything was made on a demand basis and nothing went to waste.

In the preliminary months of the experiment, the utilities were maintained to help the townspeople gradually switch to the new system, but eventually electricity and water shut down when the entire town failed to pay for services. No amount of goods could convince the large corporations to turn the power back on. The water tower was kept in strict reserve, and the townspeople had to dig wells and set out containers to capture rainwater. Some stopped bathing regularly to avoid having to pump more well water. Others only bathed in nearby lakes and rivers. Water always had to be boiled, but tasted fresher and cleaner, free of the faint metallic tang of tap water.

Cars quickly sucked their gasoline and stopped running. The townspeople returned to bicycling, walking, and even horseback riding. The distances between some of the farms required hours of walking, so they stopped visiting each other unless they needed to exchange something. They saved stories to share with those they hadn’t seen in days or even weeks, and each moment was treasured.

Without electricity, they had to resort to using firewood and candlelight, until they slept from sundown to sunup, even during winter. Some of their crops began to fail now that they could no longer run the irrigation systems or machinery that allowed them to maintain their expansive farms with only a handful of workers. Migrant workers were encouraged to settle in the town, select a trade, and add to the bartering system, and the town grew in size and diversity.

The pressure for goods from a handful of producers eased as more people learned trades. The townspeople could spend more hours recovering from a day’s work. Without electronics, children played outside more often and communication within families improved. They relied on each other now for companionship and entertainment.

Mr. Lyndon observed the town’s development with growing excitement. The town’s remarkable progress was much televised and talked about by outside media who arrived roaring into town in cars and planes.

An investigative reporter from New York was determined on finding a crack in the system. He questioned some of the families.

“Would you like to go back to using money? Your stores could reopen.”

The answers were conflicting.

“Of course. After the TV stopped working, we’ve got nothing to do. We talk, share stories and whatnot, but I miss the shows. I wanna relax and forget my own problems, ya know?”

The reporter smiled. “What do you think about the bartering system spreading nationwide?”

“Well, if it did, that might help us some. We might be able to trade our crops for electricity if the companies were forced to trade with us. Right now they’re still asking for money. It’ll be easier on us if the whole country was bartering.”

Another woman the reporter interviewed supported the system.

“We’re like our ancestors now. They were all pioneers. They came out here when there were only grasslands. They built the town and worked the fields without any machinery or electricity or running water. I think it’s good we’re going back to our roots.”

“But don’t you miss being able to buy other things you can’t make?” the reporter asked.

“Well, yes, but this is much better for us. New clothes, makeup, internet, all of that didn’t help us any, did it? They just kept us entertained. Now we have to work longer hours just to get the same amount of food on our table, but at least we worked for that food. We appreciate it more. We don’t have as much free time as before, but maybe that’s a good thing.”

Other towns implemented the system with varied success. Some, not as lucky as Harvest to have a steady supply of crops, returned to a money-based society using whatever currency they agreed upon now that they had surrendered all the gold and silver to the government. Other towns suffered from famine and crippling poverty. Industries slowed to a halt. People who were used to working in offices and typing on computers were now forced to learn a trade. They had always relied on the ability to purchase a product or service and were lost.

A leader among this growing group of opponents emerged. “I think the idea of money is what makes us civilized,” he proclaimed. “We stopped working with our hands because we evolved. If you ask anyone to choose between working for the entire day just to grow enough to eat for the night and then have to cook it and going out to a restaurant or buying a freezer meal, most people would choose the latter. We invented these products for a reason. Why would we want to regress to darker times?”

People shrunk from the idea of picking a trade to offer something to others. “We’re not farmers, not like those people in Harvest,” they would say. “We’re not used to this type of work.”

Eventually, indolence triumphed and the bartering system disintegrated. The government began circulating a new form of currency of imprinted pebbles and industries resumed business.

Harvest, however, maintained its system. The townspeople had grown too accustomed to using their hands. The town became a tourist attraction and the townspeople did not mind being photographed as they worked. The tourists would find their methods charming and left them money, but the townspeople just threw the pebbles away.

Mystique surrounded the town as the years passed. Anthropologists evaluated the townspeople and noted their shortened lifespan relatively free from the diseases plaguing other Americans, like obesity and heart disease. They were lean and leathery, but fraught with back and joint problems in the later decades of their lives. They were honest and too engrossed with work to even think of committing a crime or adultery. Their unique penchant for invention was widely lauded. The anthropologists hailed the town as a utopia, but privately confessed that they could never maintain such a strict work ethic. Life was too short.

If Dave switches from an extra large coffee to a small one daily, he’ll save roughly $365 this year, as this year is not a leap year. With $365 dollars, he can almost buy the new Android OS touchscreen phone he wants. But that’s significantly less coffee each day. Eight ounces less, to be exact. That’s eight ounces less awareness he’s bringing to his workplace, the IT helpdesk, where he’s relied upon to help corporate luddites decode ridiculously simple technical puzzles, like how to keep their keyboards clean and where to secretly store their office pornography (the answer: you can’t). That’s why Dave still prefers DVDs.

If Dave stops taking the subway and instead walks to work, he can save roughly eighty dollars a month, nine hundred sixty dollars a year. With nine-hundred sixty dollars, he can buy the 3D television he wants for his bedroom, where he can masturbate with maximum convenience to his adult DVD library (FFM or Female Female Male is his preference). But he estimates that he will lose nearly an hour per day (that’s thirty a month, three hundred sixty per year, or fifteen full days) he would otherwise spend playing the phone game Angry Birds and/or reading celebrity news online at The Huffington Post.

If Dave lets his girlfriend Sylvia move in with him, he estimates that he’ll save nearly a thousand dollars a month, twelve hundred dollars per year. If he combines this move with giving up the subway, he can probably afford a two-week trip for one to Brazil, where he’s always wanted to go. For the women he can buy. If he does indeed choose Brazil, he would tell Sylvia that the trip is required research for the novel he’s been telling people he’s writing (but has not).

If Dave stops getting massages from Tiny Lisa (she might be a dwarf) at Oriental Palace way out in Jamaica, Queens, he can save a hundred dollars a month, twelve hundred dollars a year. Though he’d much rather downsize to some lower form of service (hand job since Tiny Lisa’s miniature hands make Dave’s penis appear massive). If he gives up the coffee, the subway, the massages, and lets Sylvia move in to split the rent with him so they can take the proverbial next step, that’s five grand a year he’s saving. He can definitely afford the speakers he wants for his entertainment system, though he has hinted to Sylvia that’s what he wants for his birthday and she has hinted that she would buy them for him. No matter, there’s always something else Dave can spend five grand on. He can’t wait, he’ll start next week on this savings plan. Small coffee, no subway, Sylvia can move in as long as Dave can find a safe place to hide his DVDs, if he just does all those things, he’s sure he can be somewhat happy.

Even if Sylvia finds out about one or all aspects of Dave’s hidden self, he’s reassured that his Match.com profile will remain compelling to most available females in his desired age group (slightly younger but not just out of college or anything). He works in IT, he’s well-traveled, well-informed on current events, and he lives in a desirable neighborhood. He’s fit. After all, he will be walking to work.

A group of eight people flows into the wi-fi lounge in Dave’s apartment complex, where Dave sits, contemplates, even meditates, while flipping through his Twitter feed on his iPhone (“The Pope Says Condoms Are Okay Sometimes”, a headline reads. Has the Pope ever seen a condom up close, Dave wonders? Were they even invented when he was born?) The group is all Asian between the ages of twenty-five to thirty-five. They begin to play some role-playing card game involving wizards. Dave, who himself is Chinese, wonders why so many young Asian-Americans tend to flock together. He has never chosen to affiliate himself so strongly with his ethnicity. It’s limiting, insular, even inbred. Besides, he doesn’t like Asian women for relationships. Finds them too controlling, overbearing, like his mother, like Jewelry, Dave’s ex-fiancee (despite Dave’s emotional detachment and Jewelry’s unfortunate Hong Kong-nese English name, the two stayed together for almost five years before she fucked one of her dancer friends that Dave could have sworn was gay). Though the three Asians in this group are all decent-looking and would give Jewelry and even Tiny Lisa a run for her tiny money.

He’s often told himself that there’s nothing wrong with Sylvia. She’s not even Asian. She’s like part-Mexican or something, looks white. She also works in the towers, but on a different floor so they don’t run into each other all the time. She’s got a droll sense of humor Dave likes (“You should smile every once in awhile, Dave. Your teeth need air. She likes good food and even indulges Dave by accompanying him to see the bands he likes (“I get it. Bearded-head-bobbing-white-guys music. That’s so you, Dave.”) But after their dates, Dave still prefers to go home alone, so he can calculate his tradeoffs.

If he commits to Sylvia, if he keeps taking the proverbial next step with her, at some point, he’ll have to reveal his secret self. Dave’s aware that, taken as a whole, the sum of his many parts, he’s not an ideal mate, perhaps even someone you’d want your daughter to avoid at all costs.

The costs are most important, aren’t they? When factoring your tradeoffs, the more costs you can slash, the larger the reward. But Dave wonders whether his calculus is wrong. His equations are off. He’d be quite a different person if he gave up the massages, Brazil, the porn collection, not for the money he could save to buy something else, but for the love that Sylvia or someone like her might represent.

The group of Asians hoot and holler over someone earning some wizard upgrade. One of the girls places her head on one of the guys’ shoulder. The guy yells something about how one must “heed the advice of the renegade.” Dave feels disgust. He could be one of them. One of those easy, invisible Asians. They hang out in groups and you still don’t notice them, because they have no hidden, perhaps unsavory selves. They would never calculate life’s tradeoffs for money, experiences you can own and keep to yourself.

“Heed the advice of the renegade,” Dave says aloud suddenly. The group turns to look at him. Dave stands and heads toward the exit of the lounge, adding, “Your calculus is off. Not mine.”

Quiet. Dave waits for the elevator, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and back, waiting for someone in the group to respond. But they just ignore him and continue with their game. “This is an intense game!” one of the guys exclaims. The elevator door opens and Dave considers whether to get in. The door slides shut and Dave is still shuffling in place, waiting for recognition.

Photo via Tom Makes Pictures

“Take me down the thoroughfare today,” the president said.

From behind the tinted windows, the president watched his people. A boy ran down the street with a melon tucked under his arm. A grown man chased after him. The car stopped at an intersection, and the president watched the boy being swept into the air by a policeman, who had been waiting around the corner. The boy’s legs pedaled in the air in resistance, and the fumbled melon bounded in the street. It was crushed by oncoming traffic, the red innards splattered against the pavement. His citizens had suffered, the president thought.

The doctor had given him the news and apologized. Sweat bubbled on his nose.

“Please do not apologize,” the president had said. “I expected your verdict.”

“You should inform the first lady.”

“How long have you been my doctor?” the president asked.

The doctor blinked. “I…I…three decades. No…over three decades. Perhaps four.”

“This is not a test.”

The doctor again apologized.

The president’s face grew warm, and he began to cough.

The doctor continued to apologize.

The president regained his breath and thanked the doctor. “Give my blessings to your wife,” he rasped.

The doctor nodded and said he would. “Please give my best to the first lady.”

The president called the doctor by first name. “You’ve been my physician for thirty-six years.”

The car slugged toward the palace, its dome dull on the horizon through a thick layer of smog. The trees lining the thoroughfare were young, planted recently to absorb the pollution. A dirty haze hung low to the ground. A man, no older than thirty, lazed on a stoop, barefoot and legs spread.

As a young man, the president had lazed on this very thoroughfare. One day, several uniformed men surrounded him. One of the men bent over, his knife-scarred and stubbly face shadowed the man who would one day rule.

“What is it you want?” he asked.

“What is it that you want?” the uniformed man said. “To sit here for the rest of your miserable life with the king’s hand over you like the sun.”

He laughed and looked into the sky, shielding his eyes. “The sun is over me like the sun. The king’s hand is nowhere to be found.”

The man chopped his arm down. “One day, you’ll see that his hand falls like so.”

That uniformed man would recruit him into the army. The same man would make him general decades later after the coup. The monarchy was elitist, the uniformed man said. The new party would rule by and for the people. One day, the king’s hand would fall like so.

The car door opened, and the president saw the narrow bespectacled face of his chief of staff. The president stepped out slowly into the sunlight, seemingly for the first time that day. The sun shone full through the haze, causing little earthquakes in his head. He righted himself on his cane and felt a hand at his elbow.

“No,” the president said.

His chief of staff apologized and withdrew.

“The unrest,” the president said. “What is the latest?”

His chief of staff’s thin, nearly invisible lips made a small cluck. “No news.”

The president scrutinized his chief of staff’s face for honesty. Some faces emerge from the womb appearing untrustworthy. His chief of staff had such a face. All his orifices – his eyes, nose, mouth – were like slits. When the president was younger, during the turbulence, his look would have been enough to doom a man and his family. Now he was too old, weary, the effort unworthy of the time remaining.

“The address has scheduled for six,” the chief of staff said.

The president nodded. “In the military museum, there is a list of family names marked ‘classified’ to be opened only by me,” he said. “Tell the curator I would like to see it. Call me for authorization if you must.”

“But why?” the chief of staff said.

“Be a civilian tonight,” the president said. “Tomorrow, you can question.”

The president visited his wife’s quarters and stayed in the far corner of the room as she requested. She stood, looking out the window. Her gown appeared attached to the floor, her hair up in a bun. He could not see her face clearly. The president remembered when they talked together of growing old, being taken care of by their grown children. The president’s breathing became labored as he recalled the vagueness of their dreams and what had come to pass. Why hadn’t they thought of the money, the daily decisions, the turbulence, the specifics, the godforsaken specifics?

He repeated his doctor’s diagnosis.

His wife said nothing, didn’t move.

The president told her their fortune had been transferred to an overseas bank. He mentioned the name of the American to contact for protection.

“When is the address?” she said.

“Tonight.”

“It is written?”

The president affirmed.

“Then why are you telling me to leave?”

“I’m not,” the president said. “I’m just preparing you for when I’m gone.”

“If you tell them, you might as well have us murdered.”

The president expected this response, but her words still stung. He coughed, unable to retort; he did not have the words. He told his wife that if she wished, he had arranged to have a jet waiting for her and their grown children. She complained of having no time to pack. The president said their safety was more important.

His wife turned and faced him for the first time.

The president cast his eyes down.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

He said how he felt: from his diseased skin to his poisoned marrow, he owed it to his nation.

His wife’s neck craned and her nose nearly touched the window. “We have been good to these people,” she said. “We have brought unprecedented prosperity. If you count the good—”

“God is not an accountant, Dear.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” She pointed a long finger at him. “Don’t.”

The president apologized.

“At least you will get to die in our country and be buried with your parents and grandparents,” she said.

The president walked into the cathedral in a darkening hour. The darkness buzzed from the vaulted ceilings and the muted stained glass. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of God’s body, the smell of moist wood and holy wafer. The president’s cough echoed with the clicking of his cane. At the altar, he stood before Jesus’ ivory figure and gazed into His eyes.

“Where were you when it would have mattered?” the president shouted, his words repeating themselves. The shivering in his voice surprised him, the cowardice. A dissenter once called him a coward. The president had one of his soldiers bind the dissenter’s hands were bound beat an eye shut and hold a knife to his throat, before he himself took the soldier’s gun and shot the dissenter in the face.

His chest clenched, and the president dropped to a callused knee and begged the Lord for mercy, his hands quaking and gripping hard and white as bone. There were two round worn spots on the floor where he knelt. The president felt he was sinking and wished to Jesus he was. He wasn’t sure if Jesus would be interested in the details of the turbulence: the enemies he had fingered, blacklisted and extinguished with the help of the state. The wars. Thousands of dead soldiers and tens of thousands of dead enemies. The president chose not to include these specifics in his prayers.

When he exited the cathedral into the gray and ending day, the president saw his chief of staff with the list of names. The chief of staff’s shoulders were rounded, and he looked as if he was chewing something bitter.

The chief of staff handed the list to him. “The classified surnames.”

The president reviewed the list. There were 94 surnames, many he recognized from his childhood. Many were friends from school. The president asked for the time. The chief of staff said it was near noon.

The president asked the chief of staff to bring everyone with these surnames to his antechamber before the address.

“Everyone?” the chief of staff said. “There could be several hundred people.”

The president scrutinized the chief of staff’s eyes, the skin around them unblemished, boyish, the whites so white they looked gray. He was too young to know. “There are not several hundred.”

“Even a hundred would be onerous,” the chief of staff said.

The president gripped his cane and lengthened his back. “When you were just a child, six hours would have been plenty of time for my soldiers to find any number,” he said. “I trust that the wonders of technology have made the process faster not slower.”

The chief of staff’s upper lip rose into a snarl. “What is this all about, Mr. President? I feel I should advise you not to damage your presidency or the health of the state.”

“Yes, of course,” the president said, smirking. “I will not damage the state anymore than it was damaged before you grew your first mustache.”

Barely hiding his glare, the chief of staff handed the president a billfold that looked like it held airline tickets. The president opened it and found a draft of tonight’s address. He skimmed the first paragraph of platitudes about the burgeoning economy, the improving quality of life of the citizens and decided he didn’t need to read on.

The remaining survivors of the classified surnames filed into the president’s office with armed guards. There were eight left: six women, two men. They were uniformly shrunken, shriveled and wizened, all in their 70s. The turbulence happened nearly forty years ago. The president shook hands with them and tried to look each in the eyes, searching for mercy, forgiveness, something other than fear. Nearly every hand he touched was cold. Only one of the women met his eye. She slapped him and cursed him and his past and future generations. An armed guard grabbed the woman by the arm, and the president ordered her release. While his face stung, the president saw the dead, the mass graves, the arms and legs and torsos of the classified surnames piled and twisted atop each other, as his soldiers shoveled dirt upon them.

The president hobbled behind his desk and sat with the help of his cane. He apologized to the survivors. He confessed to his personal knowledge of their lost loved ones. He admitted he was not sure how many were killed. Only that he had ordered the killings. He told them of the man he had shot. He did not remember his surname. The man he murdered could very well have been one of the survivor’s relatives, he said. The words were not difficult to say. Once started, they came fast and fluid like a stump speech he’d given many times.

A man and a woman began to weep.

“I plan to tell the nation tonight,” the president said. He coughed so hard tears pooled, and he swallowed phlegm. “All of you were innocents.”

One of the women barked at him to go to hell.

“I very much hope you are right,” the president replied.

The teleprompter was ready, a man said from behind the camera. The make-up artists brushed the president’s cheeks one last time. The motes made him wheeze and cough. The lights were very bright and hurt his eyes. The sun used to shine so bright on the beloved and wretched nation he’d ruined. The president nodded and examined the draft speech the chief of staff had given him. Good evening my fellow citizens. Our nation is stronger than ever. The chief of staff asked him if he needed any changes.

“No.”

“We are ready when you are, Mr. President,” the chief of staff said.

The president stared into the chief of staff’s eyes, which were a sleepshot red. “Please bring in the survivors.”

“The survivors?” the chief of staff said. “But why?”

“I would like them to stand behind me.”

The man behind the camera gasped and complained about having to change the lighting and camera angle.

“Are you changing the address?” the chief of staff said.

The president removed a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and smoothed it over the chief of staff’s version. “Go,” he said.

The chief of staff stared at him, immobile, silent.

“Please,” the president said.

The chief of staff’s lips puffed as if swallowing nausea. Then he turned away from the president’s side.

The president grabbed the chief of staff’s elbow. He held it soft, with forgiveness. Calmness warmed the president’s bones, as he said, “Please tell the first lady to board the plane and tell her I never stopped loving her.”

Rumors

The pizza arrived during the final round of the Caesar salad wrestling. The two runners-up were wrestling each other for first place, extremely delicately. They didn’t want to hurt each other. They bore each other no ill will.

Illa D-Murder paid and tipped the deliveryman, and also autographed an insulated delivery bag. The deliveryman said everyone at the 145 Chancellor Street Domino’s was a big fan. Illa D-Murder’s posse distributed the pizzas equitably to each table, and we devoured the pizza hungrily. Samantha Schulz-Singer asked the caterers if we could now have the Caesar salad. “Of course,” said a caterer in a Victoria’s Secret v-string, “help yourselves,” as she pointed to the floor.

The rumors concerning the catering company’s owner intensified. Where did the rumors come from? There were rumors about where the rumors came from. That’s how intensified the rumors had become. It was said the catering company owner had ties to radical Zionists. It was said he was the Antichrist, that he was a one-man Islamist sleeper cell, that he possessed the ability to walk through walls. “Why aren’t you wearing any pants?” Johanna Blum said to Rodney Feldmann. Rodney said, “Let me get my manager,” and then asked if anyone could lend him a magic marker. Darren Schnellenburger helped himself to some Caesar salad off the floor, and got in the way of the wrestlers. “Stop!” said Isaac Zeichner. “Stop!” Bull Jaworski mentioned he had a whistle in the trunk of his car. Johnny Zalewski staggered from table to table, showing everyone his face on a For Sale sign. “Look at that,” he said. “Isn’t that something?” “That’s something,” we said, which was inherently true.

Scoreboard

After the restart, the prom queen runner-up won the final round of Caesar salad wrestling. She and the homecoming queen runner-up were both tied for first place. “Let’s see how well you two do in the battle of wits,” said the homecoming queen. “Scoreboard,” said the homecoming queen runner-up. There wasn’t actually a scoreboard. It was just a figure of speech.

As we ate our dinner, more and more celebrity impersonators wandered into our midst. The reunion organizers were all drunk, and therefore less vigilant. They didn’t notice Jerry Lewis slow dancing with Dean Martin, or Joseph Stalin pouring Everclear into Liza Minnelli’s mouth.

John Lennon came. So did Charlie Chaplin, and Abraham Lincoln, and Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. They had all heard there was pizza. “What they feed you at your retreat?” Illa D-Murder asked an Illa D-Murder impersonator. “Fruit snacks,” said the Illa D-Murder impersonator. “Ritz crackers. Cheese spread. Poland Spring bottled water.” Carl Finkelstein said over one-fourth of bottled water was actually bottled tap water and Wally Mulrooney said Carl could suck it. “Is Stalin really a celebrity?” wondered Terry Pastorelli. “He was big in Russia,” said Jamie O’Toole.

Memory

Wonderful memories were shared at the reunion. Tina Nadler remembered the times she would get free Blizzards from Karen Asnien at Dairy Queen. Dwight Haglund remembered the times he and Earl Skog would play Mario Kart 64 while listening to Pink Floyd’s Atom Heart Mother. Elle Steinhauser remembered her locker combination, Jeff Revello remembered every profanity he ever etched into Mr. Carpenter’s desk, Rhoda Eisenstein remembered every topping that came with a number two from Big Sven’s Super Subs, Austin Quinn remembered every lyric to Gary, Indiana and Seventy-Six Trombones.

Other memories were not shared. Madeline Woodford reading the same medical brochure over and over in the clinic waiting room. Jawanda Jackson reading her name over and over in indelible marker on the bathroom stall. Jordan Krueger preparing the materials. Rachel Kempster writing her parents the note. Isis Cuomo getting into the station wagon. Reece Stickler handing Paul Oldenfeld that last bottle of Corona.

Did we come here to remember? If so, what did we hope to gain by remembering? Had we left valuable wisdom behind? Had we let vital knowledge pass through us, accumulate in our school’s plumbing and ductwork? Were the answers to our most fervent prayers circulated and recirculated in the hallways of our clueless youth? Sophie Bluestein remembered not knowing how to file a W-4 form. Adam Lux remembered not knowing the child support laws of Washington state. Janie Kennedy remembered not knowing that tuna contains mercury, that tap water contains chlorine, that Starbucks Frappuccino Lights contain gluten, that chocolate contains trace amounts of shit, that every woman should own a single breasted blazer, that a seamless bra is a must for the summer, that Zoloft tablets come in 25, 50, and 100 milligrams, that you need to get on the best preschools’ waiting lists as soon as your child is born. We remembered study hall. We remembered homeroom. We remembered the fertile smell of fresh-cut grass.

Speech

With dinner nearly finished, it was time for speeches. Speeches were absolutely necessary at a reunion, for reasons none of us could articulate. The first speech was to be given by Walter Grogan, who no one really remembered but who was now extravagantly wealthy from fertilizer money, but unfortunately Walter was stuck at LaGuardia, so the reunion organizers had a Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator speak in his stead.

“Hello class of 2000,” said the Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator. “Is anyone the owner of a red Chrysler Sebring, license plate 4BX G29?”

No one responded.

“Okay, your car is about to be towed,” the Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator said. “Thank you very much.” He then walked back to his table, and there was scattered applause.

Nostalgia Table

There was a nostalgia table at the reunion. Guests had been asked to bring photos, posters, t-shirts, trophies, and other items of sentimental value to the reunion, and the reunion organizers had showcased the items on a large oak table near the Chandler Room’s main entrance. There was a photo of Darci Hessler winning the 1999 All-Regions Cross Country Invitational. There was a photo of Ethan Holveck closing his eyes and giving two thumbs up. There were swim team ribbons, golf trophies, playbills for Into the Woods, Les Misérables, The Music Man; letter jackets, never-returned history textbooks, student activity fee receipts. What was nostalgia, exactly? What was sentimental value? There were protractors. There were tardy slips. There were plastic jack-o-lanterns full of expired condoms, and copies of The Great Gatsby with disconnected phone numbers written in the margins. We looked so young, in the nostalgia table photos. Jonah Konkol had a Mohawk. Denise Holland had terrible acne. Mitchell Wunnicke still had the right half of his face. Some of us spent thirty minutes poring over each photograph, marveling over each trophy, fondling each jacket, each t-shirt. Some of us walked right past and ordered from the open bar. “To each his own,” said Eric Stamos to Ramona Hartley. “What?” said Ramona Hartley.

Speeches

After the Martin Luther King Jr. impersonator had returned to his seat, other speakers spoke. Carly Cashman, Duane Danielson; Carleton Chandler, the great-grandson of the Carleton Chandler for whom the Chandler Room was named. “Thank you for celebrating my great-grandfather’s legacy by enjoying the hotel’s state-of-the-art banquet hall facilities,” said the younger Carleton Chandler. “As my great-grandfather often said, ‘Monthly and seasonal rates are available on request.’”

Meanwhile, at our individual tables, we gave our own speeches. Nikki LaFlash spoke about the merits of a home birth. Rusty Cornelius spoke about the Mexicans and the Jews. Collin Biller spoke about his top four favorite speeches of all time. “Number four—Gettysburg Address. Number three—‘I Have a Dream.’ Number two—‘Win One for the Gipper’ in Knute Rockne, All American. Number one—Sermon on the Mount.” “Top four?” said Kelvyn Colussi. “Who makes lists of four?” Rusty Cornelius said the Mexicans and the Jews did. Lillian Dykstra said she would have put Pericles’ Funeral Oration at number two. Johnny Zalewski said, “Wait until you see this,” and disappeared into the parking lot. Doug Weisenhut said, “Scooch in a little closer, but don’t block the urn.” Bryan Kramer said he would have put FDR’s Pearl Harbor Address to the Nation at number three.

Battle of Wits

Once the speeches were over, Isaac Zeichner announced over the microphone that it was now time for the battle of wits. The queens and almost-queens were walking from table to table, asking if anyone had a change of clothes they could borrow. It must have been very uncomfortable for them, slathered with all that Caesar dressing. Nadia Jasmani reminded everyone she had never agreed to condiments. Isaac Zeichner said that his Lexus had recently been making a weird clicking noise inside the dash, and whoever could diagnose and fix the problem first would earn fifteen points. “Probably one of the HVAC servo motors,” said the homecoming queen’s boyfriend. “Hey! No coaching!” shrieked the homecoming queen runner-up. The prom queen refused to participate. She said automobile repair didn’t constitute a battle of wits. Joel Nast, an auto mechanic, said “Now listen here.” Dawn Euhardy said, “How about, instead of car repair, Sudoku?” Bull Jaworski said he had a 13,000-piece puzzle of The Last Supper in the trunk of his car.

The queens, almost-queens, and Isaac Zeichner argued, and the rest of us lost interest. The DJ turned Isaac’s microphone off and played TLC’s “No Scrubs,” and we danced. Rodney Feldmann was allowed to dance, so long as he also carried his tray of tomato bruschetta. Ross Schmelzer asked us if, during the best moment of our lives, we were wearing pants. “Yes,” said Sebastian Teschendorf. “Yes,” said Colleen Jenkins. “Yes,” said Taryn Palloni. “No,” said Alex Berenbaum. “How about cutoffs?” said Spencer Bergmann-Caligari. Joel Nast asked Isaac Zeichner if his Lexus made the clicking noise all the time, or just when he ran his heater or air conditioner. Kathleen Proctor told the homecoming queen she could borrow a t-shirt and some size two jeans. The homecoming queen said she was a size one. Joseph Stalin posed with Jacob Stenzler’s ashes, as did Mary Ann fromGilligan’s Island, as did Sonny Bono. “Ashes are ashes,” said Darren Schnellenburger, dismissively. Bull Jaworski said he had size one women’s jeans in a variety of popular styles and brands in the trunk of his car.

Magic Marker

Why did we come to the reunion? What did we hope to learn? What did we hope to achieve? Was the reunion a ritual? A collective commemoration of community, of shared experience, of elapsed time? Was it a contest? Who has a Ph.D., who has a Mercedes, who has Billy Crystal’s cell number, who has an unexpectedly attractive spouse? Was it merely a party? Appetizers, small talk, alcohol, inoffensive music? Or was it something else entirely? Why was the Chandler Room East north of the Chandler Room? Why weren’t the caterers wearing any pants? “The best moment of my life, I was wearing one hundred percent cotton Chinos,” said Edgar Steinhauer. “Can you sign these gym floorboards, you know, for the raffle?” Marsha Feathers asked Illa D-Murder. “Ain’t no thang,” Illa D-Murder said, and asked for a magic marker.

Late

It was late, relatively speaking. We were tired. Many of us were drunk. Some were unconscious, or physically ill. D. Schwartzkopf’s nametag had disappeared from its table. No one was sure if it had been stolen, or had been claimed by the real D. Schwartzkopf. No one was sure if there was a real D. Schwartzkopf. Life was full of uncertainty.

Birk Kaplan said he knew the catering company’s owner, casually. The owner’s younger brother Fletcher owed Birk Kaplan eighty-seven dollars. Birk Kaplan said the owner had probably written the caterers’ pantslessness into their contract. “Why would he have done a thing like that?” asked Greta Honeker. “You really want to get that sort of thing in writing,” said Birk Kaplan.

The prom and homecoming queens had officially withdrawn from the rematch. They were now completely sober. Illa D-Murder had lent them clothing from his own signature line of women’s urban apparel, Illa Girl, and so they were showering in the hotel’s pool locker room. The almost-queens were too furious to shower. They drank hard liquor from the bottle at the bar, and pouted. Johnny Zalewski showed them a sticker that said, “SOLD by Johnny Zalewski, THE REAL ESTATE KING!” and said, “Isn’t that something?” Pete Genter asked them if it was really true that the prom queen could speak to animals. Doug Weisenhut said, “Smile, and also—hold this urn.” Darren Schnellenburger asked them if they wouldn’t mind rubbing their forearms on his salad.

Floor

We started to leave. Marsha Feathers said no, we couldn’t leave, we had to stay for the raffle. Twenty-five floorboards from the old gym were being raffled, five of them signed by none other than international superstar Illa D-Murder. We stayed. Cameron Conlon won a signed floorboard. Diego Piña won an unsigned floorboard, and so did Georgia Smith. “What are we supposed to do with a floorboard?” Georgia Smith’s husband said. “Cherish it,” said Lucia Martin. “Build a birdhouse with it,” said Lance Crowley-Sachs. “Buy a bunch of other floorboards,” said Curtis Hudson. “Receive the proper training. Acquire the necessary tools. Consult the appropriate authorities, and follow the correct procedures. And then, in time, you will have a floor.”

Fin

We left. Marsha Feathers said no, we couldn’t leave, but this time gave no reason why we should stay. Some of us walked to our cars. Others walked straight to our hotel rooms. The DJ packed up his equipment, the caterers cleaned up the Caesar salad, Carleton Chandler stared for fifteen minutes at the oil painting of his great-grandfather, in the hotel lobby. Darren Schnellenburger was carried out—it took three Elvis impersonators to get him out of the Chandler Room. “Where are you staying tonight, Darren?” asked one of the Elvis impersonators. “Trina Samuelson?” said Darren Schnellenburger. “Oh—no,” said the Elvis impersonator. “I just took her nametag.” “You tell your son-of-a-bitch brother Andre that I want my fifty-six dollars,” said Darren Schnellenburger. The Illa D-Murder impersonator roamed the parking lot, offering to sign the raffle winners’ floorboards for five bucks. “Hey, everybody, I’ve got a Cher on the line,” said the Sonny Bono impersonator. “Ready? One, two, three . . .”

Some of us were disappointed by the reunion’s lack of significance. Others were pleased with its wealth of significance. Others were neither disappointed nor pleased. Still others ignored its significance or lack thereof entirely. Bull Jaworski said he had the reunion’s significance in the trunk of his car.

We retrieved our items of sentimental value from the nostalgia table, unless we forgot to. Benjamin Krakauer left behind his Most Improved Outfielder trophy. Cammie Krinkler left behind her five-paragraph essay on the major themes in Beowulf. The reunion organizers argued over what should be done with the nostalgia table’s abandoned items. Everyone wanted to safeguard these important relics of the past, but everyone also had limited trunk space. Kim Youngblood suggested taking archival photos. Nancy Drexler suggested talking to Win Baker about getting a deal on rental storage. Troy Handlen suggested that if the reunion organizers could simply perceive these items as being unimportant, possessing no value whatsoever, then they could just throw everything in the garbage, no problem. Debbie Panzini said, “Brilliant,” and suggested that Troy Handlen chair the next reunion. Everyone agreed. They patted Troy Handlen on the back, got a garbage can, and cheerfully swiped every last item on the nostalgia table into the trash. In the parking lot, they all admired Troy Handlen’s ’99 Chevy Suburban. Everyone was envious of the Suburban’s trunk space.

Epilogue

After the reunion, we returned to our lives. Some of us were pleased to return to our lives, others were displeased. Still others didn’t care either way.

Most of us returned to jobs. Some of our jobs were important, others were not important, others’ importance was unclear. Additionally, sometimes the important jobs weren’t important to the people who did them, whereas the unimportant jobs were very important to the people who did them, but not important to anyone else. Jobs were confusing, and so was the concept of importance. “It’s best not to overthink these things,” Eric Stamos said to the girl behind the counter at Dairy Queen. “What?” said the girl behind the counter at Dairy Queen.

A grand total of forty-seven reunion guests performed sexual acts the night of the reunion. This number has been verified; it is not due to mathematical or clerical error. In all likelihood, at least some of the sexual acts would not have occurred had there been no reunion, but who knows? Life is full of uncertainty. Illa D-Murder said as much after performing a sexual act with the prom queen runner-up.

Some of us were inspired by the reunion. Others were discouraged. Some promised to return in ten years, others vowed never to return, others vowed only to return once the world had learned to fear their terrible power. We ate, drank, slept, woke. We watched television, bought groceries, filed W-4 forms, conceived human life. It was all very important, or else it wasn’t. Terry Pastorelli said he could lean either way. Dirk Knoblaucher said, “Life’s a beach and then you swim.” Lou Francini said, “You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.” Steve Heissler said, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” Barry Orenstein said, “Singapore Sling.” June Carmichael said, “Ma-ma. Ma-ma. Ma-ma. No—Ma-ma.” Darlayne Kleinhoffer said, “I demand to speak to a manager.” Jacob Stenzler’s mother said, “Jacob?”

Cole McCanna said, “It’s not the heat, really, it’s the humidity.” Sam Levinson said, “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean.” Madeline Woodford said, “It’s not so black and white.” Elaine Steinbacher said, “It’s not my fault.” The catering company’s owner said, “My wife wore those underpants.” Johnny Zalewski said, “One sweet day.”

The prom queen said, “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” Rodney Feldmann said, “Port Salut. Oysters Rockefeller. Steak tartare. Foie gras.” Jamaal Gaines said, “Latisha, why you always be trying me?” Rick Douglas said, “Susan! I think I know how to reset the goddamn modem!” Glenn Van Sicklen said, “The best moment of my life, I was wearing 505 Regular Fit Levi’s.” The homecoming queen said, “Why does every used car dealership have so many goddamn American flags?”

Reece Stickler said, “I’m sorry.” Janie Kennedy said, “The key things are volunteer service hours and extracurricular activities.” Lucia Martin said, “Life is beautiful.” Vince Strickland said, “Look, Brandi, I’ve been thinking.” Rusty Cornelius said, “$2.50 convenience fee? Cocksucking Jews!” Carleton Chandler said, “Or as my great-grandfather would say, ‘Please conserve natural resources by reusing your towels during your stay.’”

Isaac Zeichner said, “It makes the clicking noise whether I’m driving or not driving, whether the air conditioner is on or off, whether I’m in park or in neutral.” Oksana Gaznayev said, “Qawishwallanavetum.” Marcus Lepeska said, “The goddamn Brewers have fucked themselves again.” Carl Finkelstein said, “Our lives are mere, insignificant blips relative to the vastness of the ever-expanding universe.” Wally Mulrooney said, “Fuck you, Carl.”

Darren Schnellenburger said, “What’s done is done.” Illa D-Murder said, “Nah, girl, ain’t no thang.” Laurie Baumgartner said, “Unforgivable.” Bull Jaworski said, “What’s unforgivable is what’s in the trunk of my car.” The Martin Luther King, Jr. impersonator said, “I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.” The Joseph Stalin impersonator said, “Жить стало лучше, товарищи. Жить стало веселее.” The Sonny Bono impersonator said, “I got you babe. I got you babe. I got you babe. I got you babe.”

We said, “So, what do you do?”

Schwarzkopf / Illa D-Murder

By six-thirty almost all the registered guests had arrived. Most of the latecomers’ nametags had been stolen by celebrity impersonators, and so the latecomers were issued blank replacement nametags on which they could write their names in magic marker. The one nametag that remained unclaimed on Marsha Feathers’s table said D. Schwarzkopf. No one could remember who D. Schwarzkopf was. Amy Cavanagh thought D. Schwarzkopf might have been that weird kid with the fedora who always ate lunch alone in the science wing stairwell. Lester Yeomans thought D. Schwarzkopf might have been that Goth chick with the choker collar who seemed to be perpetually smoking on the Chancellor Street lawn. Julie Wang pointed out that if D. Schwarzkopf was a woman, Schwarzkopf could be her husband’s last name, in which case our only clue to her identity would be the mysterious letter D. “Diane Perlmutter!” yelled Paulina Barrios. “No, she was in the class behind us, you’re thinking of her sister Tricia,” said Meg Frampton. “Dahlia Khosropour!” yelled Iris Clausen. “No, her husband’s last name is Lundquist, he owes me seventy-three dollars,” said Ivan Duplass. “Dolores Christiansen!” yelled Gerardo Trujillo. “No, she’s not married, she’s sleeping with my supervisor at Applebee’s,” said Mary-Jo Heidecker. “Deirdre Leech!” yelled Tommy Torango. “No, that’s me,” said Deirdre Leech. D. Schwartzkopf wasn’t the only classmate who had been forgotten. There were so many unfamiliar faces, so many unfamiliar names, so many people who asked us, “Remember me?” to whom we replied yes only out of propriety. Sensing this, the celebrity impersonators who had snatched up our classmates’ nametags began impersonating our classmates, in an attempt to avoid being tossed out by reunion organizers and thereby maintain access to the open bar. A Groucho Marx impersonator became Ian Meyer-Livingston by removing his fake eyebrows and moustache. A Barbra Streisand impersonator became Maria de la Espada by removing her prosthetic nose. A Michael Jackson impersonator was asked to leave by a reunion organizer and said, “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” said a Pee-Wee Herman impersonator. “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” said a man impersonating Carmen Miranda in drag. A JFK impersonator became Travis Drozdowicz by dropping his Boston patrician accent. A Madonna impersonator became Alessandra Sarigianopolous by covering up her cone bra with a makeshift tablecloth shawl.

In addition to the fake celebrities, there was a real celebrity at the reunion. We had known him in high school as Dewayne Smith, but the world now knew him as Illa D-Murder. Illa D-Murder had initially gained fame as a rapper, but more recently he had branched out into acting. He was starring as Sam Spade in the upcoming remake of the remake of The Maltese Falcon. Illa D-Murder’s nametag had been stolen, and so he wrote Illa D-Murder on his replacement nametag with blue magic marker.

We assumed this meant we weren’t supposed to call him Dewayne. A member of Illa D-Murder’s posse ordered a three-ounce Dixie cup of Hennessy from the bar and spotted a Liberace impersonator wearing Illa D-Murder’s nametag. “Yo Illa,” said the posse member. “Want me to beat this fool’s frilly lilywhite ass?” “Nah, it’s cool,” said Dewayne Smith. “Can’t blame a man for wanting to be Illa D-Murder.”

Far and Wide

People came to the reunion from far and wide. Amarillo, Virginia Beach, Toronto, Tucson, Cape Canaveral, the Lesser Antilles. They also came from near and thin. Marcus Lepeska came from Maple Street, a few blocks away. He still lived there with his parents. Todd Lombardo came from Room 213. His apartment was being fumigated.

Rodney Feldmann was one of the caterers—he had forgotten to ask off of work. Rodney wore grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and carried a tray of tomato bruschetta. Rodney’s manager allowed Rodney to eat the bruschetta off his tray, as consolation, but Rodney only managed a few measly nibbles. Anyone could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.

Setback / Rematch

At six forty-five the reunion suffered its first major setback when the bartender ran out of Dixie cups. Indignation rippled through the crowd. “Unforgivable,” said Laurie Baumgartner to Felicia Walgenbach. “How do they expect us to make it through this thing sober?” Of course, many of us were not sober. And even more of us were resourceful. Kylie LaChance, for instance, drank malt liquor out of a hotel flowerpot. Mark Varese drank Jamaican rum out of a shoe. Glenn Van Sicklen did body shots of tequila off of Daisy Rosenbloom. “Alcohol is alcohol,” said Darren Schnellenburger, who chugged Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. Among the ranks of the intoxicated were the prom and homecoming queens, and their runners-up. The runners-up were intoxicated enough to challenge the queens to a rematch, and the queens were intoxicated enough to accept. The runners-up knew they would never win another popularity contest, and so they demanded that the rematch involve a series of physical challenges. The queens knew they would never win a series of physical challenges, and so they demanded that the rematch also involve a battle of wits. After a brief argument and sporadic profanity both sides agreed to each other’s terms, and former class president Isaac Zeichner was selected as moderator. The first physical challenge was a mile run. Isaac Zeichner borrowed the DJ’s microphone and asked if anyone had a tape measure. Bull Jaworski said he had a metric ruler in the trunk of his car, and Isaac Zeichner said that would do.

The Vegetarian Option / Lake House

At seven o’clock dinner was served. The caterers carried their trays of appetizers to the prep room and reemerged with our main courses slung over their shoulders: rabbit, grouse, squirrel, beaver, turtle, alligator, baby deer. We were horrified. A caterer in blue velour panties deposited a baby deer on one of the circular dining tables, and a small child began to cry. “But what about the vegetarian option?” protested Nyla Zeffirelli. A caterer in plain white Fruit of the Looms said, “Just one minute,” and returned with an armful of pinecones. This was the last straw for Darlayne Kleinhoffer. She angrily swept the pinecones off of her plate and demanded to speak to the caterers’ manager. A caterer in flannel boxers said, “Just one minute,” and returned with a moustache drawn on his face with magic marker. “Oui, bonjour, I am the manager,” said the caterer with a French accent. “Food is food,” said Darren Schnellenburger, who carved himself a healthy hunk of a beaver’s tail.

As we stared perplexedly at our dinner, Jacob Stenzler’s cremation urn was passed from table to table. He was photographed with Joe Lutnick and his new wife Pam; Marian Casales and her two children, Harper and Joelle; Vince Strickland and a woman named Brandi Vince had met at the regional airport. Oksana Gaznayev cried while posing with Jacob’s ashes. She had been Jacob’s prom date, senior year. She and Jacob had never formally dated, but they had shared one magical night together at Jacob’s family’s summer lake house. Oksana still remembered every little detail about that night, except for the name of the lake. All she remembered was that it was an Indian name she had never been able to spell or pronounce.

Mile Run

With no one eating dinner, except for Darren Schnellenburger, who was going to town on an alligator, we headed to the parking lot to watch the queens and almost-queens compete in the mile run. Bull Jaworski had tried to measure out a mile with his metric ruler but then quickly realized he had no idea how many meters were in a mile, and so it was agreed by all four participants that ten times around the parking lot was close enough. Isaac Zeichner, the moderator, provided the starting signal.

The signal was Isaac Zeicher saying, “Go!” even though Bull Jaworski had said that if Isaac wanted the race started properly there was a pistol in the trunk of his car. We sat in the parking lot, on traffic islands and on the hoods of cars, and watched the queens and almost-queens run. They ran barefoot, as the only shoes they had were three-inch heels. Carl Finkelstein said that you could get worms by running barefoot. Wally Mulrooney called Carl a liar.

“No, really, they can burrow into your skin in between your toes,” said Carl Finkelstein. “Then they travel through your bloodstream to your lungs. And then they end up in your intestines.” “Bullshit,” said Wally Mulrooney. “Let’s settle this with a fight.” “You can’t settle science with a fight,” said Carl Finkelstein, and Wally Mulrooney popped him in the jaw.

Tensions

There were tensions at the reunion. Tenzin Tonpa wouldn’t speak to that self- righteous asshole Donny Bloomfield. Zoe Wesenburg wouldn’t speak to that uppity bitch queen Michelle Kay. Jamaal Gaines wouldn’t speak to that ten-cent ho Latisha Jackson. Latisha Jackson wouldn’t speak to that worthless fuckstick Jamaal Gaines.

Some tensions were old; others were new. The old tensions stretched back as far as twenty years—name-calling at recess, birthday party invitation snubs, amphibians stuffed inside the waistbands of pants—while the new tensions originated as recently as Tuesday. Backstabbing, double-dealing, cheating, slandering, blackmailing, thieving. “Don’t believe the smiles in the class graduation photos,” Eric Stamos said to Daphne Herbstreit. “What?” Daphne Herbstreit said. There were subtler tensions, too, of course. Rick Douglas and his wife Susan bickered intermittently about their high-speed internet provider. Carla Sheffield fished out a cigarette after catching her boyfriend Randy staring at Carol Potemkin’s ass. Cole McCanna and Robbie Savage both went out of their way to not acknowledge the one magical night they had shared after the cast party for The Music Man. Instead they spoke to each other very amicably about the weather and professional sports. It was agreed by both that the goddamn Brewers had fucked themselves again. All-Cheese The homecoming queen runner-up won the mile run, and everyone went back inside to the Chandler Room. Darren Schnellenburger was still there, tearing apart a squirrel carcass with his hands. “Have some respect for yourself,” Dana Stratmeyer said to Darren. “Mmgh ghhm grhmmm mrh grhmhmm,” said Darren. Darren’s mouth was full of squirrel. Since no one except Darren was touching the dinner, Illa D-Murder offered to order everyone pizza. We said no, that’s okay, but Illa D-Murder insisted. “Ain’t no thang,” he said. “How do fitty large half-pepperoni, half-sausage sound?” “But what about the vegetarian option?” said Nyla Zeffirelli. “And twenty all-cheese, for my sexy veggie mamas,” said Illa D-Murder, although it was assumed that men and unsexy women would be allowed to eat the all- cheese pizzas as well.

Julia Cranshaw

While we waited for the pizzas to arrive, the caterers took turns posing with Jacob Stenzler’s ashes. Some thought this was in poor taste, as the caterers weren’t wearing any pants, but Doug Weisenhut said it’s what Jacob would have wanted. Rodney Feldmann, the caterer and alumnus who had forgotten to ask off of work, had played on the varsity football team with Jacob. They had never won a game, but they had still done well with girls. “Look, Ruth van der Waal’s here,” said Rodney Feldmann to Jacob’s ashes. “And Kaki Klauss. And Mandy Fitzgibbon. And . . . is that Julia Cranshaw?” Rodney remembered the one magical night he had shared with Julia Cranshaw, in a Dairy Queen he had broken into after closing, and started to cry. Doug Weisenhut snapped his picture. “Perfect,” Doug said, handing Rodney a tissue. “Just what Jacob would have wanted.”

Condiments

After the queens and almost-queens had hydrated themselves following their mile run, it was time for the second physical challenge. The second physical challenge was originally going to be Jell-O wrestling, but Nadia Jasmani protested that Jell-O wrestling was sexist. “How about, instead of Jell-O, romaine lettuce?” suggested Isaac Zeichner. Nadia Jasmani said romaine lettuce would be okay, and the caterers carpeted the Chandler Room floor with Caesar salad. “Where was the Caesar salad during dinner?” Samantha Schulz-Singer asked the caterers. The caterers shrugged and sprinkled the four contestants with croutons and parmesan cheese.

The queens and almost-queens were still in their little black dresses, and were extremely sweaty. Their faces were red, their feet bloody, their hair disheveled, their thoughts consumed with victory. “Hey, I never agreed to condiments!” said Nadia Jasmani as the caterers doused the contestants with Caesar dressing, but it was too late, the queens and almost-queens were already oiled up from head to toe. “Go!” said Isaac Zeichner. Bull Jaworski shook his head. He had a wrestling bell in the trunk of his car.

To be concluded in Part Three

“The bull is the everyday man!” he bellowed. “And you and I, we come to this institution and pretend that we’re keenly sensitive to the position this bull is in, but we are not. We pretend we are here to make the world a better place. But we are not. We are here to train to one day become the matador! We are here to one day enjoy the privilege of watching the bull bleed. We are here to be entertained by the bull’s slow, painful death. And we call it civilization.”

Professor Aguilar unclasped his cape, waved it back and forth, tempting an imaginary passing bull. Then he drew his sword. After waving his cape one last time, he thrust the sword and cried out in exertion. None of us knew what to make of this performance, of course. Was it a joke? Were we supposed to react in some way? Rajeev and I stared across the room at each other, chagrined and amused. Professor Aguilar hadn’t shown an instant of dynamism in the first class, and now, in just the second session of the semester, in early September 2008, the professor was all drama. He re-clasped his cape around his neck, sheathed his sword, pivoted sharply and walked out the classroom, his cape flaring up behind him.

We sat in silence for a minute wondering whether he’d return. We had been scheduled to discuss our first case entitled “Governing Shinguchi Electronics Corporation.” Professor Aguilar did not return. Not that day. Not ever. We heard he went straight from the classroom to the Dean’s office to resign. Dressed in a suit of lights.

Crisp, fall Cambridge morning. The sun was out, and the Charles looked like silver leaf. I was on my way to Baker Library to meet my LCA group. My group consisted of Rajeev, the former venture capitalist, Dell, who used to be a surgeon in Belize, and Lindsey, who had hit it rich with an Internet company and was now completing an MBA as a hobby. And then there was me, Anna. Even though I ran a breast-cancer research nonprofit for nearly a decade back in California, here, walking among the red brick buildings and the dewy, multicolored trees of the campus, I didn’t feel like I belonged. I felt like I was twenty-one again, going to junior college classes in the day, waitressing at a shitty sushi-and-Thai restaurant at night. I wasn’t sure how I managed to get into the top business school in the country, but I knew that back at home, back where many of my friends still live and will never leave, their worlds weren’t just failing to grow, their worlds were shrinking. You could hear the strain in their voices when you talked to them. My best friend Carrie, pregnant with twins, recently lost her house because she and her husband had a bad loan. She was an office assistant, and he was a teacher. It used to be that in their chosen professions, they were playing in the financial junior varsity. Now, however, choosing those professions meant you played a different game entirely, one with higher risks and fewer rewards.

When I got my acceptance letter to b-school, I felt I’d grabbed a saving hand just as a sinkhole was about to open and swallow everyone I loved who chose to play this other game. It would have taken Carrie and her husband seven years to gross what it cost for me to go to business school. I’d pay the debt; I didn’t care. I’d do whatever it took to play varsity.

I was likely the only one in my class to feel rescued, however. Rajeev might have tried to hide his privileged background with his rakish, benevolent charm or the occasional well-placed reference to an obscure rock band or some long-forgotten indolent adventure in backpacking. He might have even truly seen himself as an everyman, but he couldn’t hide his cobalt-blazered time on Sand Hill Road, his midnight-blue BMW convertible in the campus parking garage, or his twice-daily skincare regimen that involved his spending a thousand dollars a year at Sephora. For Rajeev, he knew no one who played a different game. He would never admit a different game existed. His family was replete with doctors, lawyers, and bankers. His friends thought little of dropping five-figures on weekend trips to Vegas or St. Thomas.

I walked into Baker Library, past the historical exhibits, and spotted my compadres lounging in wooden chairs in the checkered-tiled common area. Lindsey sat bow-backed with her laptop perched on her crossed thighs. She was wearing a pants suit, as usual. Dell was conscientiously finger-molesting his iPad. Rajeev, unfortunately, was staring my way. He’d been waiting for my arrival. We had been the last one’s out of Grendel’s last night, and I had had a few too many and ended up inviting him back to my apartment again. I found him handsome but we’d been friends too long for me to consider him a potential boyfriend. I vaguely remembered him slurring that he was past one-night stands and hoping to settle down. So much for that well-executed plan.

Rajeev greeted me with a big smile and, to my horror, even tried to touch my arm while I stood in front of the group. “Shoot, what are we going to do now that Professor Aguilar has melted down?” he said to us.

I put some distance between me and Rajeev and sat next to Lindsey. I felt Rajeev’s eyes following me so I fixed my gaze on the Wall Street Journal on the round table between us. Headline read, “Lehman Files for Bankruptcy, Merrill Sold, AIG Seeks Cash.”

“Stop coming to class,” Lindsey said. “It’s not like we don’t have enough work in Finance II.”

“A real class,” Dell said.

“LCA is fairly useless,” Rajeev said. “Leadership and Corporate Accountability? If you were not already a competent leader, you would not have gotten into this school. And corporate accountability only applies if you have succeeded as an entrepreneur. Perhaps if you decide to become a cog at a gigantic multinational, LCA might apply, but otherwise, we are just learning about appropriate platitudes.”

I felt a strange twinge of envy that Rajeev would agree with Lindsey. Did he like thick girls with bad skin? I shouldn’t have cared, but I did, and I never liked that feeling.

“Maybe that’s why Aguilar melted down?” Dell said. “He didn’t feel appreciated. He felt his agenda was subordinate to the agendas of the other professors in the program.”

“Then someone buy him a box of Kleenex on the way out the door,” Lindsey said.

Dell was a balding, perpetually sweaty fellow with the largest hands I’d ever seen. I found it hard to believe that he had once been a surgeon. The thought of the overheated glands on his kielbasa-like fingers dripping into open surgical wounds nauseated me. Maybe it wasn’t him, though. Maybe it was my hangover.

“I don’t think the meltdown had anything to do with his personal situation at all,” I said.

Rajeev laughed. “What was he trying to say anyway? A bull is a man? A man is a bull? Something was lost in the Spanish translation.”

Lindsey adjusted her dark-rimmed glasses and squinted at the glowing PowerPoint presentation on her laptop screen. “Classic class guilt. It’s easy to take potshots at us, but we’re the next generation of business leaders, and the quote unquote everyman or the bull or whoever needs our leadership to be successful.”

“What do you think, Anne?” Rajeev said, his widened eyes seeming to search for affirmation that I indeed loved him.

I thought of bleeding bulls, Carrie and her husband, and my mom who lived in a RV park not far from acres of fancy wineries and large homes. I had been rescued, but my quote unquote business leadership would not save them.

“I’m hungover,” I said.

Rajeev made himself at home on my couch. He sat cross-legged with his fingers threaded in his lap and waited for me to join him. I decided to remain standing and go through the week-old pile of mail on the dining table.

“Are you avoiding me?” he said.

I avoided looking at him. “No.”

“You’ve been acting strange.”

“So have you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want everyone to know we’re hooking up.”

“Hooking up?” he said. “Is that what this is?”

“Yes.”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

“You don’t know me,” I said. “At all.” Rajeev, for instance, didn’t know that my mom had raised me by herself, had worked at a diner for decades until her glaucoma got so bad she couldn’t work. She’d been on welfare for the past three years. Rajeev probably didn’t know about (and likely wouldn’t agree with) my opinion that to be on welfare – to be poor – is one of America’s worst crimes. Because at b-school, we’re supposed to be making the world a better, richer place even though it’s already a pretty damn good, rich place for everyone we knew. Rajeev probably wouldn’t agree that all a b-school degree earns you is the right to survive with some level of dignity, unlike most Americans.

“I feel you know me well,” Rajeev said. “We have been friends for over a year now.”

“What is a year when you’re thirty-four?”

“Well then, let’s get to know each other better,” Rajeev said, patting the empty couch cushion.

“I think the other night was a mistake.”

Rajeev tilted his head and stared into the space between us. “I’ve had a crush on you since we met in Finance I,” he said. “I was upset that you weren’t in my group. But then we were together in Marketing—”

“Stop,” I said, picking up the pile of mail and sitting on the edge of the couch. “I don’t need the trip down memory lane.”

Rajeev scooted close enough for us to be touching thighs. I had to admit that I liked the way he smelled, especially when he was a little rank from the day. He put his arm over the back of my couch. I decided not to move away.

“Then what do you need, Anne?” he asked, his face close to mine.

I couldn’t feel his breath. He was holding it. For me.

“I don’t know,” I said.

For the remainder of the semester, our LCA class, the Dean announced, would be taught by Professor Goodman, who also taught TEM (The Entrepreneurial Manager). The Dean apologized for Professor Aguilar’s outburst and assured us that in the future, professorial background checks would be strengthened and made periodic regardless of tenure. She explained that a recent internal investigation by the board had uncovered that Professor Aguilar had been having marital issues that stemmed from significant psychological problems that she wasn’t free to discuss.

“Here, we take the quality of your education with the utmost seriousness because we are training tomorrow’s leaders of the real world,” the Dean said. “If you have any further concerns about this unfortunate incident, please don’t hesitate to email me.”

With that, she pivoted on her heel, much like Professor Aguilar, and marched out the classroom.

“Andalé,” Dell, who was sitting next to me, whispered in my ear with a smirk.

I glanced sidelong across the room at Rajeev, to see if he’d notice that Dell, from a distance, might appear to be flirting with me. But Rajeev was smiling and chattering with that meathead, Elmore Fodor. Yes, of the travel guide Fodor’s. Rajeev and I had again slept together last night, and I was feeling, again, like it was a mistake. Afterward, he’d even said that he loved me.

“Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to respond in kind,” he’d said. “I just wanted to tell you how I feel. I want to show you that I am an honest man, and that you can trust me.”

“Good,” I’d replied.

That wasn’t the response he’d expected. Rajeev blinked twice with his abnormally long lashes, turned his back to me and went to sleep. Now, in class, we got together in our groups to discuss the “Governing Shinguchi Electronics Corporation” case, and it seemed that our LCA class had returned to normalcy. Shinguchi Electronics Corporation was a publicly traded company that, thanks to changes to the Japanese commercial code, faced a choice of whether to keep its current corporate governance model or adopt a U.S. model, which stresses management’s fiduciary responsibility to its shareholders. The CEO of Shinguchi implemented the U.S. model but did so in a uniquely Japanese way, and we were to evaluate how well the model worked and how cross-cultural issues affected the implementation. Lindsay was very vocal that had the U.S. model been implemented as intended by its creators, the company would have created more wealth for its shareholders. Rajeev agreed that it was clear that the traditional Japanese model of being transparent to a broader set of stakeholders, including the company’s employees and the local communities in which the company operated, was destined to become obsolete. Dell wondered if any governance model could truly satisfy that many stakeholders. Rajeev asked me what I thought.

“I think the employees are important stakeholders too,” I said.

“I do not believe that is the central question of the case,” Rajeev said.

I shrugged. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Rajeev.”

Rajeev was making a lentil soup with my pots, my pans, my kitchenware. My mother and I moved around a lot when I was a kid, and our kitchenware was often all we took with us when we moved. We didn’t get attached to our other possessions, like our flimsy fold-up chairs, or our threadbare linens. But our pots, pans and silverware? That’s what we took care of because that was what we used everyday to survive. I tried not to be irritated that we never seemed to hang out at Rajeev’s place so I could relax. I was always his host. He was always using my stuff. Already treating my place like home. Like he was in some fancy hotel on a business trip he booked last minute. One night, he even left a towel on the bathroom floor. When I informed him that I wasn’t his maid, he claimed that the towel had just fallen from the wall rod. I didn’t believe him.

“I have an interview for a winter internship,” Rajeev said, lidding my Le Creuset.

“That’s great,” I said.

“It’s for PWC in San Francisco.”

I first thought of a month having Cambridge to myself again. Then I felt a pang that I would indeed miss Rajeev.

“Your family lives nearby, correct?” he said. “Would you like to come along?”

I did not immediately say yes.

“Are you applying to winter internships as well?”

“Yes,” I said. I had not.

“In the East?”

“Yes.”

Rajeev sat across the dining table from me. “Anne,” he said. “You are very secretive. I feel like I must point this out to you.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“My family will be visiting next month from North Carolina,” Rajeev said. “I would like you to meet them.”

“Okay.”

“But you would not like me to meet your family.”

“No,” I blurted.

“Are you not aware that this hurts my feelings?” Rajeev said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. But I don’t even want to see my family.” That wasn’t true. I missed my mother and Claire, and had planned to visit them over the holidays. I just didn’t think Rajeev would understand them. And they wouldn’t understand Rajeev. I could explain to Rajeev why that was the case in simple terms he’d understand. They’re white trash. You’re an upper-crust Indian-American yuppie. But I didn’t want to say that about my mother or Claire or Rajeev. The explanation was an embarrassing simplification. Unfair to everyone involved.

“I feel like the girl in this relationship,” Rajeev said.

My face flushed with rage. So much for avoiding embarrassing simplications. “This is not a relationship,” I said.

The soup began to boil. Rajeev turned off the heat and said he needed to go for a walk. He said he’d call me later and left. That night, Rajeev never called. I dumped his lentil soup down the drain and washed out my pot twice. Then I walked out to Harvard Square and looked for an open diner that didn’t have many patrons inside. I entered a mostly empty Leo’s Place and ordered a patty melt. I missed good shitty diner food. There was plenty of shitty American food for college kids around Harvard Square but it was shitty shitty food. Leo’s Place was pretty bad shitty, nothing like the great greasy diners from home. I started to feel homesick. Maybe I should go home to California with Rajeev. Spend the winter with him. Take him up to Vallejo. Spend Christmas with my mother. I once again rejected and shuddered at the thought of bringing Rajeev home.

There was only one other person in the diner, two booths over, and I recognized that he was Professor Aguilar. He held his mug with both palms and staring off into space. I tried to catch his eye but he didn’t look over. I decided to walk over and tell him that I admired what he’d done. That he was right to call us out, to hold us accountable for not understanding that business students like us were perpetuating a two-game economy. One game with no losers and infinite riches and another game with no prizes and infinite ways to have the floor fall out. Of which game was I a part?

“Professor Aguilar?” I said, holding out my hand.

“Please, call me Fernando,” he said, inviting me to sit. “Were you in one of my classes?”

I told him I was. “I agreed with what you said,” I said. “About the bullfight.”

“I was having a very bad week,” he said. “As it turned out, so was America.”

I nodded. “What will you do now?”

Professor Aguilar chuckled. “I will be fine. I will never be better. Just like Goldman. Just like Lehman.”

“But they’re collapsing too.”

“Yes, but our definition of collapse is different from their definition.”

“What’s their definition?”

“They will lose their homes. They will fall into poverty. They will march the streets.”

I didn’t understand what Professor Aguilar was saying. “The guys at Lehman will march the streets?”

Professor Aguilar smiled, eyes wide open. “They, as in the people. You and I are with the Goldmans, AIGs and Lehmans. My resignation triggered a very nice parachute, and I will take a very luxurious vacation. This is my collapse. This is not the collapse of the bull.”

Of which game was I a part, I asked myself again?

“Maybe I’ll go on a road trip,” Professor Aguilar said. “I miss good diner food.”

“Back in my hometown, the diner food is great,” I said.

Crisp, fall Cambridge morning. The sun was out, and the crew boys were splitting the Charles. Over morning coffee and television, I’d just watched Paulson and Bernanke announce their plan to buy hundreds of millions of dollars in Wall Street’s bad debt. I was on my way to meet my LCA group. When I got to Baker Library, Lindsey, Dell and a couple of other people from the class were standing and watching Rajeev. His back was to me, and his thighs were pressed together, hands on hips. He faked removing his cape to tempt the bull, faked unsheathing his sword and faked killing a bull.

“The bull is man!” he shouted. “We are killing the bull!”

A wave of laughter rose from the others. Rajeev caught my eye as I walked past. He was grinning wide, so very proud of his shitty impression. When he noticed me, however, the light in his eyes flickered, his grin weakened. I looked away and kept walking, past the students and straight out the side door of the library foyer. Later, I would explain that I had skipped group because I had had a very, bad week and as it had turned out, so had America.

“No.”

“Bruce?”

“No?”

“Chuck?”

“No.”

“Todd?”

“No.”

“James?”

“No.”

“Jim?”

“No.”

“Jimmy?”

* * *

“So this was an oral contract?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing written? No paper trail?”

“No.”

“Letters? Receipts? Cocktail napkins with scribbled—”

“No, no. Nothing like that. It was real informal.”

“Okay. So then it’s basically your word against his.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. We can . . . that’s helpful.”

“It is? Oh thank God. So you think you—”

“Except—the Little Guy, he can still spin straw into gold?”

“As far as I know.”

“So he’s going to be able to afford a real bang-up legal team, then. Bobby Zabrewski. Whit Goldstein. Freddie the Swede.”

“Freddie the who?”

“The Swede. Sneaky sonofabitch. Won $20 million in punitive damages for some dumbass emperor duped into buying invisible clothes.”

“$20 million?”

“Fraud, breach of contract, mental anguish, public humiliation.”

“Wow.”

“Yep. Slimy as a sheep frog. But sharp. $20 million.”

“That’s just—I can’t believe— ”

“Yep, the Little Guy’s gonna hire the Swede for sure.”

“. . .”

“So how are you and Petey doing with that list of names?”

* * *

“Joseph?”

“No.”

“Joey?”

“No.”

“José?”

“No.”

“Yusuf?”

“No.”

“Giuseppe?”

“No.”

“João?”

“No.”

“Jo-Jo?”

* * *

“So what does the King think about all this?”

“. . .”

“I mean, doesn’t he—”

“The King doesn’t know.”

“. . . You’re kidding me. So you haven’t—”

“You think I want the King all up in my business?”

“But—”

“Knowing I ain’t worth a damn? That some midget has dibs on my firstborn?”

“But—”

“That my dumbass daddy was just blowing smoke about me and straw and gold? No. Petey knows and now you know. But no one else. Okay? Christ, Tom. The King catches wind of this, and I’m dropped like a sack of rocks.”

“Okay, okay.”

“The King, Tom. The King. Same King who threatened to kill me.”

“Yeah, but you’re queen now, I’m sure that’s all water under the—”

“Of course I bring that up now, you think he apologizes? Gets down on bended knee? Hell no. He acts like it never happened. Like he never scared me shitless. Like he never locked me in that cellar, with that straw, and that spinning wheel, and told me if it wasn’t twenty-four karats—”

“Alright. Understood. I got you. So if you want to keep this under wraps, then maybe we should consider arbitration.”

“. . . Arbi-what?”

“Arbitration. We get a third party to help you and the Little Guy reach an agreement. Keep this out of the courts. Off the public record. Away from the Swede.”

“And that’s . . . allowed?”

“Sure, sure. People arbitrate all the time. Quicker. Cheaper. Easier. Typically.”

“And you think we’d win?”

“Well, the perfect scenario is—you’d both win. You know, compromise. That’s what you’re shooting for, ideally, with arbitration.”

“I don’t see how we both win.”

“Of course, not every scenario is a perfect scenario.”

“Straw into gold. My dumbass daddy.”

* * *

“Phil?”

“No.”

“Hank?”

“No.”

“Lester.”

“No.”

“Chet?”

“No.”

“Skip?”

“No.”

“Mahershalalhashbaz?”

“No.”

“Doug?”

“No.”

“Stu?”

* * *

“You think maybe you already guessed his name?”

“What do you mean?”

“Say his name is Stan. And you say, ‘Stan?’ What’s to stop him from saying, ‘No’?”

“Stan . . . Stan . . . have I tried that one yet?”

“But you see what I’m saying, right? Unless we want to risk him fleecing us, stringing us along, there needs to be some third-party oversight. Some outside verification.”

“The Little Guy ain’t going to cotton to that.”

“We arbitrate, maybe he cottons.”

“He ain’t going to cotton.”

“You’re being negative again.”

“Oh for Christ’s—”

“And I understand, angel, I understand your negativity. All you’ve been hearing lately is no, no, no, no, no, no, no. But it only takes one yes. One. Remember that.”

“Aw, Tom, you’re so goddamn sappy.”

“C’mere.”

“Aw, Tom—”

“. . .”

“You know, come to think of it, I haven’t tried Stan yet. Or Stanley. Or . . . what else?”

“Stanton. Stanwood. Standish. Stanislaus. Stanford.”

“Stanford? That’s a— ”

“Also Standford, Stamford, Stanfield, Stansfield.”

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, that’s a good one. Write that one down.”

* * *

“Godfrey?”

“No.”

“Godwin?”

“No.”

“Goddard?”

“No.”

“Godthaab?”

“No.”

“Godin?”

“No.”

“Godet?”

“No.”

“Godot?”

* * *

“My daddy’s always been ashamed of me.”

“That’s not true.”

“He has. Thinks I ain’t worth a damn, so to save face he tells all those lies. ‘Oh, your daughter can play the lute? My daughter invented the lute.’ ‘Oh, your daughter is studying medicine? My daughter raised a family of four from the dead.’ ‘Oh, your daughter made you a charm bracelet out of macramé? My daughter can spin straw into gold.’”

“That’s a reflection on him. Not you.”

“A miller’s daughter. That’s all I was supposed to be. And now I’m queen but to tell you the truth I feel even less . . . I mean, my daddy’s right, I ain’t worth—”

“Come on, you know that’s not—”

“Craziest thing is since we got married the King’s never once asked me to so much as touch a spinning wheel. Like after the initial thrill of that cellar-full of gold wore off, he got bored or something. He gets bored easily, the King. Was all gung-ho about having the kid—heir to the throne, preserving his line, spreading his seed, etc.—but since I gave birth he’s barely seen the girl. I know he wanted a son, but—”

“Angel, listen to me. You are so—”

“I’m not stupid. I know what they write about me in the magazines. Hark! Ladies in Waiting. The Fairest of Them All. You know where they ranked me on ‘The Monarchy’s 35 Best and Worst Beach Bodies’? You know what they say about the King and that pale hussy dating Prince Charming?”

“Aw, nobody takes those rags—”

“And you keep telling me this whole arbitration thing’ll be kept confidential. But what if the Little Guy leaks to the media? Huh? You ever think of that?”

“Look, if you’re going to worry about every little—”

“Aw, Christ. Those peckerheads’ll have a field day.”

“Okay. Calm down. Relax. Take a deep breath. I say, what we focus on now is preemptive action. Meaning, you guess the Little Guy’s name, and we don’t have to worry about arbitration, or the magazines, or any of that. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess, but—”

“Right. So, first, tell me everything you know about this guy. Where’s he from? Does he have any family? What are his interests? Where does he hang out?”

“I don’t know anything. I mean, I know what he looks like. Late fifties. Beard. Stupid hat. Pointy shoes. Four, maybe four-and-a-quarter feet tall. From his accent, I’d say he’s from out east. Smells funny. Sometimes talks in rhyme. Not a looker. Does any of this help?”

“Maybe, maybe. Find Petey, tell him everything you know, be as specific as possible, and who knows? Maybe Petey finds something.”

“How is Petey doing, anyway, on the list?”

“Last I checked, he was one-third of the way through the census records. Found some real good ones, too.”

“Such as?”

“Llywellyn. Ríoghbhardán. A’amakualenalena. Shoemowetochawcawewahcatowe.”

“We’re never gonna guess that little bastard’s name.”

* * *

“Richard?”

“No.”

“Richard, Jr.?”

“No.”

“Richard, Sr.?”

“No.”

“Richard I?”

“No.”

“Richard II”

“No.”

“Richard III?”

“No.”

“Richard {all integers ³ 4}?”

* * *

“It’s not like I really ever loved him.”

“I know that.”

“This is a man who wanted to kill me, remember?”

“Yep, I do.”

“But when you’re just this little peasant girl, and the King asks you to marry him  . . . and you know how I wanted to get away from my daddy.”

“It’s okay, angel. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“And as for conceiving the kid, believe me, that was far from romantic. God. It was nothing like—”

“Really, it’s okay.”

“But I love the kid, of course, how could I not? Her little nose, little hands, little feet, little mouth, little—”

“Look, you’re going to keep her. Okay? I promise. No way am I going to—”

“This past year has been so strange. So confusing.”

“It’s been a confusing time for everyone.”

“Just looking back, from the first day my daddy met with the King, nothing makes any sense. I mean, I can sort of understand why he said I could spin straw into gold. He was trying to butter up the King, like he butters up everybody. Daddy’s always been a liar. But then when the King locked me in that cellar, said he was going to hang me if I didn’t prove my daddy right, why didn’t my daddy admit he was lying? Why did he leave me in there to die? He knew I wasn’t worth a damn with a spinning wheel. Or did he not? Did he maybe convince himself . . . do you think, all this time, he’s believed every one of his own—”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“And as for the King—who threatens to kill some poor peasant girl because her daddy’s a liar? Right? Talk about cruel and unusual. And then, better yet, after she turns him a massive profit with his excess straw, thinks to himself—Hey, this chick’s not so bad after all. Maybe I should ask her to marry me. I’ll bet she’ll have no hard feelings about me locking her up in my musty cellar for three straight days and putting the hangman on call for her execution.”

“But you did marry him.”

“Right, I thought I just explained—”

“Angel, c’mere.”

“And they say men are logical, women are illogical. Yeah. Right. And as for the Little Guy—okay, if he asked me to screw him, that I could understand, but he asks for my firstborn child? And he knows I have to say yes; the King’s going to kill me, what else can I say? And then this whole name thing . . . I’ll bet it ends up being a complete cop-out, like his name is an unpronounceable symbol or something, or it has an accented vowel I didn’t emphasize quite right. God, I could just kill that little—”

“Petey thinks his name starts with R.”

“. . .”

“Said he saw him outside the Gruel and Brew. The Little Guy. Tanked. He kept muttering to himself. Kept referring to himself in the third person. Petey swears it was him. Says the Little Guy called himself the ‘R-Dog.’”

“. . . The R-Dog?”

“You know, like, someone’s name is Sam, and all his friends call him the ‘S-Man.’ Or a guy’s name is Polonius, and all his pals call him ‘Master P.’”

“And Petey is sure it was the Little Guy?”

“He’s positive. Said the Little Guy was like, ‘R-Dog’s on the prowl! R-Dog’s gonna get him some tail! Ladies watch out for the R-Dog!’”

“He was just hanging out in front of Gruel and Brew?”

“Apparently. ’Til security kicked him out. Petey said the R-Dog got pretty lewd by around nine-thirty. I mean, with his body mass, one ale’s got to just about—”

“The R-Dog. Huh.”

“I think we can guess it, by the end of day three. Petey’s compiling all the R names he can think of, as we speak. Real trooper, Petey. Hasn’t slept since Thursday.”

“Reggie. Ricky. Raymond, maybe? He doesn’t really look like a Raymond.”

“We got this, angel. We got this S.O.B.”

“‘R-Dog’s on the prowl. Ladies watch out for the R-Dog.’”

* * *

“Ridley?”

“No.”

“Ramsay?”

“No.”

“Randy?”

“No.”

“Randall?”

“No.”

“Raymond?”

“No.”

“Rainer?”

“No.”

“Rashaun?”

“No.”

“Ray?”

“No.”

“Ray-Ray?”

* * *

“But what really gets me, more than anything else, is the not knowing. So much, riding on a guess. It’s making me . . . I just feel crazy.”

“Petey’s got some good leads. I’m sure, by morning, he’ll—”

“It’s just so . . . what’s the word? . . . arbitrary. But that’s how life is, right? This one’s poor, that one’s rich. This one lives, that one dies. This one loves you, that one—”

“Why don’t you get some sleep? You’ve got to be exhausted. By morning, trust me, everything will—”

“I’m tired of guessing. I want to . . . know, you know?”

“You’ve done all you can. Petey and I will—”

“I remember thinking, when I was a little girl, that there was a reason for everything. An order. That everything could be explained. I’d ask my daddy what thunder was, and he’d say, ‘It’s the angels bowling.’ I’d ask him where rain came from, and he’d say, ‘It’s the angels crying.’ Everything I asked, he answered. But then I got older, and I realized my daddy didn’t know his ass from his elbow. He didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. For years, I had imagined the angels up in heaven weeping every time they failed to convert a spare or bowl a strike, and then, one day, it dawned on me—that makes absolutely no sense. None. Bawling, bowling angels? Yeah. Right. And soon enough, upon further review, everything else my daddy told me fell apart. As well as everything my friends told me, my daddy’s friends told me; my neighbors, the nuns, the vicars. I finally realized almost everything everyone says makes no sense. Almost everything everyone does makes no sense. Read the magazines. ‘Kissing the Right Frog: 20 Tips on Finding Prince Charming.’ ‘Cinderella’s Dark Secret Exposed: Coachman is Rat, Coach is Pumpkin.’ ‘Don’t Eat That House!: Hansel and Gretel’s Can’t-Miss Consumer Report.’ We live in a world composed of senselessness.”

“. . .”

“And what if I do guess it? Huh? What happens then?”

“. . . Meaning?”

“You and me?”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

* * *

“Randwulf.”

“No.”

“Rögnvaldr.”

“No.”

“Rościsław.”

“No.”

“Rasputin?”

“No.”

“Ramakrishna?”

“No.”

“Raskolnikov?”

“No.”

“Rumpelstiltksin?”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“No.”

“Royal?”

“No.”

“Romulus?”

“No.”

“Rabelais?”

“No.”

“Rainbow?”