More or Less

The car smelled like French toast sticks. He would buy them from a catalogue, whatever catalogue his children were peddling to pay for whatever their classes needed to pay for at the time. It met somewhere between natural and artificial, homemade and industrial. He bought his children pre-made breakfast from a magazine.

She smelled like non-description lemon-lime soda pop. Bright and refreshing, the absence of caffeine. He drank it for leisure, when he wanted a change, when he had nowhere to go and nothing to stay up for. He drank it when it was ill. It didn't matter which one. They were all more or less the same.

It was an olfactory crash, and a long drive.

The Sporting Life

They don't ask my name and I don't tell them. They just line up in a row. I don't ask theirs either but of course I know them all by heart. It's silence and it's violent but I try to keep it a sport all the same.

 

They would say I'm sorry, I imagine, if their mouths weren't full. Full of other words, other losses, regrets more profane than the ones that brought them here. But that's why they're here in the first place. Sorry buggers.

 

A fun job? Sometimes. An easy job? Yes. I can't pretend and say that it isn't. It wouldn't be fair to the others. A necessary job? Well, that's the kicker, now isn't it? If I answer no, then I'm the villain. If I answer yes, then I'm the villain, but at least I'm in on it.

I suppose all villains think they're the good guys, think what they're doing is right. I think the trick is in knowing what you're doing is wrong. Knowing that you can't be stopped. That's where the power lies. You have to go with it or it will eat you up. An eater cannot afford to be eaten.

They line up. They don't ask my name. They can't see where they're going. Neither can I.

Molly and Me

By the time Molly rolled around the night was pretty much over. Her friend, Sarah, Susan, whoever, dropped her off and you know Molly knew she had screwed up because she went running up the steps onto the deck. A few of my friends had gone and a few of them were still there, but the night was winding down. It was pretty much over.

I went over to her, scolded her as if it were a good idea. She laughed at me when I told her to drop it, I didn't want them to see or hear us like this, not while meeting her the first time. So I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she didn't say much at all. The nachos were gone but the drinks were still strong, and I watched her little red wine glass sit there barely touched. My friends have personalities, strong ones, but so does Molly. She might have been intimidated, but I think she was just pissed off.

After they left I got a lot of question mark texts. I ignored them. Molly and I fought quietly because if it was quiet then it wasn't really a fight. I don't tell her these things, she said, I don't explain what's going on in my head. I almost blurt out something about of course she would know, she's a woman, and for once tonight I think better and keep my mouth shut. I just nod my head and tell her she's right. I think we're more alike than what's good for us.

Floriduh

Police pull over a woman asleep at the wheel. Watch what happens when they feed her a bowl of chili!

Up next, how did this alligator get a bank loan? The loophole he discovered that you could exploit!

Everyone had a great time at the CandyCon this weekend. That's obviously the wrong footage but hopefully we'll fix that, sorry.

There will be a cold front coming on strong like your dad's friend who's had a couple drinks too many and he's being just a little more honest than he should.

We're nearing the end of spring chaining—changing—chami—tram—trom—training. Well...

Find out why this bar's buy-one-get-one draft beers and wine and well drinks from open to close every day is shutting down their meth business!

Look at the size of these waves! All next week.

In the Mood

Do you even think you'd even go in the ocean though? Like, do you even start to think that? I think that all oceans are good for people because they're just water. And I don't even think that water is even something to think about and not even do. You know?

And what about goatees though? When was that a thing that became a thing? Where a beard was like, um, no, I don't think so. Like, not even. And the guy was just like, OK, well, this is happening.

Oh my god, do not even get me started on Coke Zero.

I'm so not in the mood. But I must be in some kind of mood, right? Mustn't I? Can you not even be in a mood at all? I don't know if that's a thing. It might be.

My bathing trunks are dry dripping on the shower rod. The sun is almost here! Tomorrow is just like another day, and I don't even think I'm even that mad about it.

Child of Anger

I'm no longer angry the way I was. But not for lack of trying. It isn't something I wished to jettison. I had no urge to forgive, certainly not one to forget. And it isn't gone now. It just isn't what it was. It is sharper, more defined, more focused. It knows exactly what it wants and it takes it. I would even say that it has a mind of its own. Which I think, perhaps, is a good thing. That I no longer have to concern myself with my own anger, that it takes care of itself. I've raised it into a strong and knowledgable entity. It is my child, and I love it. I see a lot of myself in my anger.

Orin Friend

He told me to put on a hat so I grabbed the first one I could find. It was a light grey, just slightly-oversized cowboy hat. I think he thought I was making fun of him, but I wasn't, it was just the closest hat to my hand. We went out and I guess it did look strange, two men in cowboy hats north of the Mason-Dixon, but Orin had a trouble with people and perception. He needed the validation of strangers on a mostly constant basis, most likely to make up for the rest of us who tolerated him because we thought the others liked him. And all a sudden it's too late to end the friendship.

We were getting looks. Orin had on a tuxedo shirt, which didn't help. He wore things like that; tuxedo shirts, two-tone snakeskin loafers, army surplus cargo pants, 70s ties, the cowboy hats, he was all over the place. He changed his name to Odin, it was of his own desire. One day it was after some movie character, the next after some friend, the next after a god that I'm not sure exists. There's Orion, there's Odin. Then there's Orin. At one point I knew him to wear watches up and down each arm. We're talking about a man who has a picture of the Arby's roast turkey Rachel Reuben sandwich as the desktop wallpaper for his personal computer. This is not a well man.

I got the feeling, as we were getting the looks, that this was the feeling Orin got on a regular basis. I couldn't tell if he was immune to it or not. If he wasn't it sure didn't show. But I don't think he knew. I don't think he knows. I don't think he thinks that any of this is strange. He goes about his business and he rubs people the wrong way and ultimately he means well, but it's not enough. There are always going to be people like me around, people who are his friend just because it's too late in the game to say get lost. But, then again, I was wearing the hat. And I caught a glimpse of myself in a window, and I have to admit—I looked good.

All Around Me

A box of crackers is all that lies between me and bed. A box of salty, no-reduced-anything, rosemary and olive oil crackers. They have imbedded herbal bits, they have visible granules of salt, they have just enough oil to leave a small residue after having a couple handfuls.

I stretch out and eat them on my bed. Why should the box come between us? It is time for us all to be one! The me, the bed, the cracker box. I see crumbs and corners fall onto the sheets, onto my clothes. I am unsure whether or not to pick them up. Why waste what I can eat? Why eat what I can leave? Why not sleep amongst the filth, why not embrace my true animality? There are plenty of animals but not enough of them are human!

The ceiling fan slowly turns. The moving day illumines suspended dust. Dust is skin. I am all around me. A room filled with my own crumbs.

The box is empty before I realize and I'm eating air. The motion is of second-nature status. I'm chewing nothing, chomping my own teeth like a drug addict. Perhaps some of the enamel, even a microscopic amount, has chipped off and gone down my gullet. I am still hungry.

The Larger Part

I told her I was surprised. That I was happy to see her there. And part of me was. A little part. The other part, the larger part, knew I had a paper to write, and a response to type up, and ninety or so odd pages of reading to do. That larger part knew that none of it was going to get done now. And all the parts of me knew that I had told her this. That she knew, and simply didn't care. That spending time with me was more important. And all the parts of me, for no good damn reason, hated her for it.

You Only Live

"Can I get you another?" the lady in charge asked me.

"Sure," I said, "why not? You only live once, right?"

She thought a moment. "No." Like there was a headline I'd missed. She poured.

"Better leave the bottle then."

Recreator

I'll have one piece of Oscar Mayer balogna, a Kraft Single, and mayonnaise all between two pieces of Wonder Bread, and I'll cut it in half down the middle. I'll bike down to the marina, pull out my magic wallet, and always have five dollars (and I'll use that money to get a Sprite and Caramello). I'll go swimming and feel the bats flying inches from my face. After that I'll sit drying in front of Austin Powers with an Orange Slice, even though they do not make them anymore.

I will walk into the woods, and the fallen tree will be my home. I'll carve sticks into knives, daggers, swords, and spears. I'll wear down grooves, make tiny darts, and store them all in the tree's hollow. I've been out here for years, I am a myth, a legend, they've been hunting me and they'll continue to hunt because I cannot be captured. I am far too skilled. I'll try my first cigarette, because I'm not me, I'm someone else. I'll still hate it though.

I'll look up at the stars and wonder if they're looking back. If the pyramids really were always there. If I'm only in an imagination. I'll think about the billions of imaginations inside that imagination, and imagine what it might be like to imagine an imagination. This will hurt.

I'll sleep with my door open. I'll turn on the lamp. I'll read Calvin & Hobbes until I can't remember the last page I read, and only then will I sleep. I could get up early but I'll sleep in late, microwave some bacon, pour Raisin Bran Crunch, drink a large glass of orange juice. I'll try the coffee and drink it black because that's what I'm supposed to do.

What am I supposed to do? With the schedules and timetables and cargo shorts all gone. The bicycle dusty and sold, the water green, the wallet empty. With what I know of science and sugar will there ever be days as glorious as those?

I can keep my lamp on. I can look at the panels; the tiger, the faces, the snowballs, the wagon. I can remember my wagon. I can pray to God, or the stars, or the pyramids, that my mother's kept it safe.

Playing Attention

There is a moment where I wonder if they can see me, too. If they've noticed that, in squabbles, my light goes out. Or maybe they've seen a reflection in the lenses, some snitching lamplight against my binoculars. Studied hard and seen my darkened silhouette in my living room. Looked out their window just a little too long. It would only take one. I panic. But how could anyone pay attention that closely?

It isn't because they would see me. That they would even know. That I might be in some sort of trouble. The panic is in the possibility that all these nights I haven't seen anything real at all. That it's all been staged. A farce. Two people pretending, remembering a fight from years ago, going through the motions, changing a line there and a gesture there, all for my amusement. And that, all this time, I should have looked into someone else's window. Or, worse yet, turned on the light.

The Glue Trap

It was squealing and I was drunk. Maybe that made it louder. I just don't think they should make those glue traps.

We'd been out drinking. It was our usual thing now. We were twenty-two, new in town, no jobs, no prospects, and all this money we didn't know we shouldn't spend. So we went out and got drunk every night. We'd stumble home and Michael would tell us to be quiet, he has work in the morning, or work in a few hours. Michael moved with a plan in mind, with things in motion. He wasn't going to let stuff just happen.

We had bags of Mexican food and were walking OK. We'd cut through the alley sometimes because it shaved some time off. Probably two minutes tops. And that night I heard this scream, this screech, we both heard it. And next to the recycling bin, half in the shadows, was a rat. Three feet stuck on a glue trap. Scratching with his one good claw, terrified of this thing he didn't know, this thing keeping him here.

We went inside and cracked more beers. We drank them quick, spouting nonsense about how it wasn't fair. Because it wasn't. It just wasn't fair. So we went back out and held hands, and I stomped on its head to end it quick. No more squealing, no more scraping.

We cried and I scraped the blood and brains off my shoe. We were crying when we went inside to see Michael standing there. Wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into with roommates like us.

Where There's Smoke

We watch the rotted money conduct importance. Painfully, amid the symphony, up our ordinary view. There is intention, or there was, but it is broken. There was a limit, but the world is bending, and it is ablaze. Vultures, sad and enormous and luminous, slowly encircle and urge. Digesting with their eyes because they've removed their stomachs.

I have tried to remain friendly under the weight of all this gold, but it is too much for me. I was not made to be blackened, to breathe this smoke. Somewhere between the clever and the criminal is where I'll have to lie.

I Could Try

And I could try to say I forgive you, but I fear it would come out something like I'm sorry. I could try to listen, but that might lead to understanding. Or I could talk to you about it all, but wouldn't it be merely bullet points. Couldn't we sit here, in silence, and simply know. If you you were.

Stereotype

I finally got into her house so I could say my piece. And she let me say it, more or less. She basically just sat there, looking content, oddly content, as though I was some friend of a friend. I tried to explain myself, told her all the things I'd been thinking on the past few months.

"I'm not the man I was," I told her.

"Yeah?" she said. "You better or worse?"

I'm not sure how long it was before she ushered me out. It could have been an hour, it could have been five minutes. Whatever the length it was silent. I stood there, dumb, deaf, listening to only my own pulse because my head was vacant and my thoughts were elsewhere. Better, I thought, or worse. Was there a difference? Wasn't the important thing that I'd changed?

It was a nice night for walking save the wind. I'll keep the couple bucks, I thought, I could stand to burn the calories. And so I marched on, thinking of her question, following the V of yellow street lamps, lighting my way to my stereotype.

Vain Fantasties

We must have meaningful dialogue, but I fear I must rip out your tongue before we begin. It only makes sense that I should speak and you should listen, since you have proven yourself incapable of anything other than drivel, gibberish, vain fantasy. And if it seems counter-intuitive, hypocritical of me, well, then my oh my, what big words you've learned. Please find a way to use them when you've worked on your penmanship. Or grown another tongue.

To Be Open

And then I became aware that everyone knew. That I'd been trying all these months to keep it a secret. Trying to be cordial, trying to understand. Turns out they were the ones talking behind my back, turns out I had nothing to worry about. And one by one they all came up to me at the party to ask what had happened. When did it happen, what exactly, what was the latest instance, he heard from her that I told her last year or something, et cetera, et cetera, we've all known about it for quite some time.

It wasn't freeing. It wasn't nice to talk to them about it. To be open. I thought it would be. But all I could think of was I'd rather have my secrets and go on hiding them badly.

The Blow

I woke up and she was crying. My mother-in-law. I asked her what was wrong and she left. Kerri came out of the bathroom, sad, but determined. She had a purse in her hand, overstuffed. I asked her what was happening. I never knew what hit me.

Nosh

I am excited to sit down and have summer sausage with a good cheddar. I've bought some water crackers to go along with them. I remember building a fort, redistributing my bunk bed so the beds were perpendicular. I hung sheets over the sides, kept them in place with books. I had a lamp and the small television we used to keep in the kitchen, along with our old VCR. I was going to watch British comedies. I was a clever kid.

I went to the kitchen for a snack. My mother suggested summer sausage, cheese, and crackers. We even had a good root beer, glass bottle and all. "Ah, having yourself a little nosh?" my father asked. "What's a nosh?" "A nosh," he said, "is just another word for snack. But I think it's better."

He was right. It is better. It elevates it. Still, I wouldn't call just any snack a nosh. I wouldn't call potato chips a nosh, or a banana a nosh, or a handful of nuts. But the time it takes to put the sausage and cheese and cracker together, the time some of the items aged. You're not grabbing something out of a bag. You're making something.

So I'll sit here now and have my nosh, remembering a simpler time. A time behind blankets and sheets, wrapped in pillows, inches from the screen, hungry for more.

Young Love Live

12:34 AM: These two kids are arguing outside the building next to mine.

12:38 AM: He just said, "You're overreacting."

12:39 AM: She just said, "No! Because I'm defending people!"

12:42 AM: How do I tell them that none of this matters and would they even listen?

12:50 AM: She says "fuck you" a lot, like it means something.

12:55 AM: Would I get in trouble if I slapped them both in the face? Like, for the greater good though.

1:01 AM: This chick just said "Don't act like you don't understand" uuugggghhhhhhhhh myyy grrrraaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhd.

1:06 AM: "If you're too fucking goddamn drunk" — if you're still living at home with your parents then that boy is young enough to be living with his and neither of you should be drinking anyway.

1:07 AM: AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT PAST ONE ON A SCHOOL NIGHT???

1:12 AM: Where are the parents?? Asleep?? How can one sleep with such pain in the world??

1:18 AM: The more someone says "fuck" the righter they are.

1:22 AM: Do they not care that I've been staring directly at them for twenty, oh wow, forty-five minutes. I'm not even hiding it anymore.

1:25 AM: I wish I had more lights to turn on in my house.

1:28 AM: When do I become a cranky old man and tell them to shut up and go to bed and that it doesn't matter and they don't matter and I don't matter and this is super gross and funny and also I hate them.

1:30 AM: "Your fuckin' girlfriend! The fuckin' person that you say that you love!" Hahahahaha you have absolutely no idea whaaaaaaaaaat you're talking about.

1:32 AM: "Are you thinking about other women when you're not with me?" No, he's thinking about them when he's with you, too.

1:40 AM: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now they're making out dsjdhfjdfhuwrsuidfnsjdknf.

1:41 AM: "Oh, the pain! Pain as I had never known it!" — Salieri

Truman

Truman got in.

"How was the bachelor party?" I asked. "Good weekend?" He went to his room, shut the door, nothing unusual. "How many hookers did you have to bury?"

When I went to work the next morning he was still in bed, door shut, still in bed when I got home. Under the weather, I thought.

Tuesday morning I woke up and pulled the covers over my head. The smell was back, some funky thing from the damp and dingy basement. It had been there before. But it was different this time.

I pulled back the shower curtain to see him there, fully-clothed in a tub of bloody water, fingers frozen dead around a razor. I called the police. I called Hector.

"What happened this weekend?!" Nothing unusual, Hector said. Except that Truman never showed.

I'm mad at him for a lot of reasons. Mad because we stopped talking. Mad because I never knew what was wrong. Mad because I have to move. Mad because he knew I'd find him.

They want me to say something at his funeral because I'm his oldest friend. Don't know that I could tell them anything they don't already know.
 

The Last Constellation

Risa wakes me up dead middle of the night. Right in the middle of one of my cycles it feels like, because she's pulling me out of something deep. Come on, she says. I ask her what's going on, and she's so excited. There's coffee brewing and she's laid out some clothes and a raincoat for me. It hasn't rained in days.

We get in the car and she drives. I think it's a perfect time to go back to sleep, but Risa won't have it. She wants me to look out at the stars. So I look out at them. There are a lot but none I haven't seen before. I wonder when the last constellation was named, she wonders. I say that I don't know but it was probably a long time ago. Some of these stars are dead, she says, but we can still see their light because of how far away they are. It seems like they're shining even though there's nothing there.

She pulls over, gets out, puts her raincoat on. We're at Juniper Falls, this waterfall just outside of town. She takes my hand and leads me over the gate and across the wet rock. And there's the sound, the water, the rushing, the waterfall in the dark. I follow her cautiously along the path of stones, I'm still not completely awake, one bad step and it's into the pond I go.

We pass under some side-spray to the carved-out bench behind the fall. At the top, through the water, you can just make out a full moon. Risa rests her head on my shoulder and she must know what I'm thinking because she tells me not to fall asleep. You'll sleep when you're dead, she says. Yeah, I want to tell her, but I'll go through life exhausted.

Everclear

What he didn't know is that the other shots had water. There was only his with vodka. They hadn't told him that. He also didn't know about the Everclear they had poured into his rum and Cokes, his whiskey gingers. And when his nose started bleeding, unannounced and uncontrollably, it was a laughing matter. He didn't want to go to the strip club. He didn't want to convince the bouncer that, it's OK, he was fine, he was fine. Nice girl that she was, he didn't want her breasts so close to his stubble. And he didn't want to vomit on the side of the cab. He only wanted to be mad at his friends. But he couldn't even do that.

From Lemonade to Lager

He cracked the thin layer of ice over that shallow sidewalk puddle. Tapped it just so with his Italian loafers, a light dance step. Autumn has crunching leaves, winter has thin ice. It was like something from yesterday, it was simple. He looked around to make sure no one saw him.

Thin ice meant that spring was coming. Spring only has the thaw. The great grey slush, everything mixing into a brown. Summer has so many things, he thought. Sitting on his porch and having a drink after work. From lemonade to lager, but the heart of some things never change.

Was this a sad moment? Perhaps, he thought. It was hard for him to tell anymore.

At the Bar

They're looking for a guy to talk to them.

How do you know?

Remember when we were at that art show?

Yeah. It was terrible.

I know. But we still wanted girls to talk to us.

Good point.

It doesn't matter that one of them plays for a terrible touch football team. Or that they're coming from a wine bar. Or that they must be in their mid-thirties. Or that their names are bland, and stale, and easy to forget.

What matters is that they got into their cab. And drove away. And could have easily met you. But didn't.

You Said There was Rain

It wasn't raining when you said it was. I asked the weather and you said rain. That the wind was howling and the water was beating down. I planned accordingly. I put on my overcoat and grabbed my umbrella. When I opened the door there was nothing. I saw, felt, none of those things. You said it must have stopped. But the ground was dry, the leaves were matte, I could not feel the moisture from the after-pour. When I asked you to explain yourself you seemed confused. When you came to the door you seemed it further. But, you said, the rain, it was here, it was there, it was everywhere. It was raining, you said. It was raining. OK, I said. OK. I opened my umbrella and walked out into the sun.

Walk of Shame

"Taking into consideration the events of yesterday, we have no choice but to let you go."

Can't say I'm surprised to hear the words coming out of her mouth. A little surprised at the timing. You think they could call or email instead of making me come in on a Friday. Everybody likes a three-day weekend.

"We appreciate everything you've done for the company—"

LIES.

"—and we're going to be sorry to see you go."

AND THEY KEEP ON COMING.

"But we feel that after the photoshopping of Mr. Pryweller there's no longer a place for you here."

"Why is that?"

Georgia stared at me for a very long time, that HR witch. "Tony, all the desktop wallpapers changed to that... image."

"Which image?" I wanted her to say it.

"You know very well to which image I am referring." I had him giving it up the backside of that bastard Yurte in accounting. The two of them are so chummy it's disgusting. I imagine they're letting me go for not only the photoshopping but the gay-porn-site-visiting on company time and equipment. But who's to say? Maybe they just don't like me. Takes thirty-eight to know one.

Yeah, I could just leave. I could have put in my letter of resignation. But where's the fun in that? There's no Beast with a Yurte-Pryweller Back in that scenario. I heard the laughs. I saw the pointing. I did something that people enjoyed, something they wanted to do, that they wanted to see, that they were thinking. Hell, Georgia probably even thought it was pretty spot on. But there's a trail with these kinds of things, one I don't know how to cover up.

So I pack up my desk, my little cubicle. Yurte comes over to me, not steaming, but not exactly chilled either. "You have a problem with the way I live my life?"

"Yurte, what in the hell are you talking about?" And that's when he socks me. Right in the mouth.

"Homophobic asshole." Then he spits, actually spits on me. Jesus, Yurte. It was just my curtain call. Honestly, I didn't even know.

I walk out, cardboard box with papers and pens and whatever other supplies I've stolen. And it's like so many girls do early in the morning with their high heels and matted hair and day-old makeup. Everyone's watching me. No laughs, no points, just Well it's about time's. I'm trying to remember what Pryweller said to me that set me off.

Love in the Air

I want to speak like a mandolin to you. I want the words to be plucked on my tongue and fly sweetly to you. A bass and an aching violin. I want to be all of these things at once, moving in and out of myself, weaving you love in the air. I can do none of them. I want to write you music, sing you music, be the instrument.

Maybe if I was a Civil War soldier. Then maybe I could write the words I want to say and it would be almost like hearing music, sitting by a fire early in the morning, a cresting sun. The soldiers then wrote so musically. But maybe I have Ken Burns to thank for that.

I am a dull pencil. I am not sharp. I am not attractive. And I am no musician, and certainly no instrument. I have only this voice. But maybe if I use it enough, and say all the wretched words first, whay will be left is what I want to say. And you could imagine that. I am asking for your help, to work, to listen between the lines, and for that to be enough.

Agitator

I'm gonna drink your beer. I'm gonna eat your fuckin' cheese. I'm gonna rustle my hair in your room so the dandruff gets embedded in your carpet. I'm a sadistic motherfucker like that.

I might unscrew the lid on your pickle jar, watch all those pickles go bad. Do pickles go bad? We're about to find out.

You get your mail from me when you get home. Maybe something happens to it. Maybe it disappears, sure, but maybe something happens to it. Maybe it's got a coating, an odor, a musk. And maybe that check from your office came weeks ago and I can't wait for the day when I can nail it to my wall like a goddamn portrait. Rembrandt ain't got shit on an envelope with your name.

I'm gonna trim your hair. While you sleep. I won't even keep it. It won't even be much. It'll just get a little shorter here, and a little shorter there, and a little shorter here, and a little shorter there, until you're asking yourself, Why do I look like the before picture?

I'll look in your mirror, put on your clothes, pretend I'm you. Is that really so much of a surprise? I'll put on too many clothes even, shirts and sweaters and more shirts and that terrible moldy bathrobe. I'll squeeze into pant, after pant, after pant. I wish I could stretch out your shoes but your feet are so goddamn big. You're like a clown minus everything funny about them, which isn't much, and then some.

I've read your books. I've got your number. I've replayed your laugh more times than I'll ever admit. I know all your secrets and I will take them to my grave. But just because I can keep my mouth shut doesn't mean the rest of me ain't busy.

Martini's Best Friend

"You hit my best friend! Get out!"

"All right, I'm goin'!"

"Mr. Bailey, you OK?"

"Who was that?"

"Mr. Welch. But don't worry, he don't come in this place no more!"

"Hey, what was that you said just now?"

"Mr. Welch, he no welcome here no—"

"No, I mean, you, uh... you called me your best friend."

"Yes! Mr. Welch hit my best friend, Mr. George Bailey!"

"You think we're best friends?"

"Yes! Well... Well, I just—"

"Since when are we best friends? For how long?"

"Well... for years, Mr. Bailey!"

"That's news to me. And why, because my company built you a house?"

"Yes, you build me a house! You build me house, you come here to drink, you... you, uh... uh..."

"Yeah, see now, Mr. Martini, you can't even name more than those two things. I come in here from time to time to get a drink or two. And I built you a house—well, not even me, really, my company did. And come to think of it, you haven't even had Mary and me over since we handed you the keys!"

"Look, Mr. Bailey, I-I-I-I get something for your face, it's bleeding."

"And that's another thing! What kind of best friends call each other 'Mister'? Mr. Bailey, Mr. Martini, these are not common salutations between best friends."

"Why you do this to me, Mr. Bailey? It's Christmas!"

"Yeah, George, take it easy will ya?"

"Stay outta this, Nick!"

"OK, OK. Yeesh."

"Look, Mr. Martini, you're a swell guy, I know that, heck, everyone knows that. But you can't throw the words 'best friend' around in reference to whomever you want just because we're friendly. Now, do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bailey, I do. I... I..."

"Yes, Mr. Martini? Yes? What is it?"

"I wish I'd never been born!"

"Ha ha, here we go again!"