Dodger Read online

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

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

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

  A no brainer. What a jerk.

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

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

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

  109,256.

  In three hours.

  I. Am. Blowing. Up.

  Justin Bieber, eat your heart out.

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

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

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

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

  Ray's call takes a bit longer.

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

  “Dude.”

  “I know.”

  “It didn't even touch you?”

  “Nope. Not a graze.”

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

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

  “Dude.”

  “I know.”

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

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

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

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

  How could she not want to be with me?

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

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

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

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

  Boom.

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

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

  “Hey, I know you.”

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

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

  “That's me,” I say. “The robbery stopper.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

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

  “Were you scared?”

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

  But I doubt he'd get it.

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

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

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

  Our general manager Bernie is there to greet me.

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

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

  I find out in a hurry.

  “Holy shit, it's the Dodger!”

  “Dude, you're like a God!”

  “Unbelievable, man, just unbelievable.”

  “You... are... God!”

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

  “You do couples, right?”

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

  Why can't I dodge that?

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

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

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

  Cabbin' it.

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

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

  The rest of the messages are fluff, people wanting t
he skinny, the slope, the sovereign. No call backs for them. The only message that resembles importance is one from Channel Eight News Chicago, and it's the same lovely reporter who interviewed me before.

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

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

  I'm a fraud.

  I never meant to dodge the bullet.

  The world must know.

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

  She agrees to the stipulation.

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

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

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

  A plain, black tee shirt.

  Perfect.

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

  It's Neo.

  The Real Life Neo.

  And damn, he looks good.

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

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

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

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

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

  I shake. “That's me.”

  “I'm Phil. Phil Jinx. I'm your driver.”

  “Phil Jinx?”

  “Yup.”

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

  “I could show you my license if you want.”

  “Well you are my driver, so yeah, maybe you better.”

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

  I toss it back. “Cool beans. Let's roll.”

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

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

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

  “Can do.”

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

  “Nice dodge.”

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

  I inhale. “Shoot.”

  “Were you scared? During the robbery, I mean.”

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

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

  “So how did you... dodge the bullet?”

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

  He puffs again, passes.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Real Life Neo, indeed.”

  “There is no spoon.”

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

  “That's you,” Phil says.

  “That's me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Or me, an idiot who dodged a bullet.

  Yeah. Minibar good.

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

  “Yup, come in!”

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

  “Oh, hi.”

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

  “Jim.”

  “The Dodger.”

  “I guess that's my claim to fame.”

  “That was really brave what you did.”

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

  “I volunteered.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause I think you're sexy as hell.”

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

  Kara.

  Fuck.

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

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

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

  “Fine. Hold still... Dodger.”

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

  Drink.

  Through a straw.

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

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

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

  Great.

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

  “Five minutes, Mr. Bailey.”

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

  Empty.

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

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

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

  “Wonderful. Let's go.”

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

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

  Big whoop.

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

  And their jobs are important.

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

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

  Why?

  Cause I've earned it.

  “Jim, are you all right?”

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

  “I'm terrific, Paiger, thanks for asking.”

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

  “Paige?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I'm full of shit.”

  She finally looks at me. “What?”

  “I'm... full... of... shit.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

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

  “Jim...”

  “You don't understand. Paige, I'm ---”

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

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

  Kathleen Downs.

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

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

  “In three... two... one...”

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

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

  She hesitates before speaking but keeps it together.

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

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

  “Good morrow.”

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

  I look at her, puzzled. “Why? Why what?”

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

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

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

  She nods. I wonder if they bleeped ass clown.

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

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

  She nods again, smiling. I continue:

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

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

  Kathleen snaps out of it.

  “So... so what are you saying?”

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

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

  “Jim... who's Kara?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yo, Jim!”

  I turn. Phil Jinx.

  “Nice timing, Phil. Get me the hell outta here.”

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

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

  “I guess I've got a knack for honesty.”

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

  “Oh, well, no reason to be unprofessional.”

  “Ha! You kill me, Dodger.”

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

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

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

  “So tell me.”

  “About Kara?”

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

  “Special isn't even the word.”

  “So what is?”

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

  Swig, pass it back. He swigs.

  “Wow, I'm sorry, man. That sucks.”

  “Yeah Phil, it does.”

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

  It doesn't really matter anymore.