KUMQUAT

By Jeff Strand

Kumquat copyright 2014 by Jeff Strand

Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

Subscribe to Jeff Strand's free monthly newsletter (which includes a brand-new original short story in every issue) at

http://eepurl.com/bpv5br

CHAPTER ONE

"This can't end well."

--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 1

"I think I'm having a stroke."

My roommate Craig's eyes briefly dart in my direction. "What are your symptoms?"

"It's kind of hard to breathe."

"That doesn't sound like a stroke."

"Could you at least pause the game?"

He does. I feel legitimately bad about the request; this is a really difficult level and requires intense concentration. Craig doesn't go so far as to set down the controller, but he looks away from the television and stares at me for a few seconds.

"You don't look like you're having one."

"What would I look like?"

"I don't know. Twitchier?"

"I don't feel good."

"Isn't a stroke one of those things where if you think you're having one, then you really aren't?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's like Alzheimer's. If you think that you have Alzheimer's, then by definition you don't. People who really do have Alzheimer's always insist that their memory's fine. My grandmother kept saying she was okay even when she drank out of the goldfish bowl."

"Did she drink a fish?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there. I don't think so. Mom would have mentioned that."

I lean back on the couch. "Maybe I'm not having a stroke."

"You're probably not. If you were, I'd be worried, and I'm not all that worried."

His eyes flick back to the television screen. This level has required an incredible amount of practice, and I know he's concerned about losing the muscle memory if he's distracted by other matters for too long.

"I'm sure I'm okay," I say. If it were a stroke, I assume that I'd have already died from going this long without medical attention, so I allow myself to relax.

There are plenty of online resources where I could find out the actual symptoms of a stroke, but if I'm going to be completely honest with myself I have to admit that I don't really believe I'm having one. It's just kind of hard to breathe. Might be from a cold. If I look up some medical information and find out my health is truly in danger, I'll freak the hell out. I'm a strong believer in the soothing power of ignorance.

"Maybe you should take the day off," Craig says.

I shake my head. "I only have one vacation day left."

"So take that one day."

"It's only February."

"Oh." Craig frowns. "I thought it was March."

"Leap year."

"They still do that?"

"Yeah."

"Weird."

"Anyway, I'm going to go to work."

"Want my honest opinion? If you're working for a place that's so inhuman that they'd make you come in after you thought you had a stroke, then screw them. Those heartless bastards don't deserve to have you work for them. They don't care if you live or die. That's exactly the kind of thing that causes hard-working employees like you to have strokes in the first place. You should sue."

"I'll consider it. I'm heading off now."

"Tell The Man I said hi."

Craig no longer has to work for The Man. He made a small investment in a mutual friend's start-up business that paid off in a big way. When our friend bought him out, Craig calculated that he could do nothing but sit around and play video games for the next five-point-two years. I assumed that he'd eventually get bored with the lifestyle, but three years into it he's still going strong.

I was offered the same opportunity to invest in our friend's business, but declined.

* * *

I don't hate my job.

This sometimes bothers me, because I feel like I really should hate it. It's not a very good job. It's certainly not the kind of job anybody should stay at for nine freaking years. I basically take forms that customers have filled out using outdated, curious devices like ballpoint pens, and type that information into a computerized form.

My co-workers and I like to say that a trained monkey could do our jobs. Once, as a joke, we snuck an actual monkey into the department after hours, to make a video of it sitting at somebody's desk, doing their job. The monkey belonged to Jay's cousin, so Jay was the one responsible for keeping it on the leash, while my task was to record the hilarity. Kylie and Lori had no official role; they just wanted to watch the monkey in action. After I booted up my computer and started the data entry program, Jay set the monkey on my chair, hoping that it would start pounding away at the keyboard.

The problem with this plan was that the monkey was a total asshole. It kept trying to climb off my chair, and then finally it bit Jay on the hand and wouldn't let go.

"It's biting me!" Jay screamed, even though we could all see--mostly with shock and horror, but admittedly with some delight--what was happening. "It won't let go!" he added, also unnecessarily.

As the videographer, I needed to keep filming, or this whole venture would have been for naught. But I felt that it was rather tacky of Kylie and Lori to make no effort to help our poor co-worker. They merely screamed (Kylie) and laughed (Lori).

Finally, the monkey removed its fearsome jaws from Jay's tender flesh and scampered away. Its leash popped out of Jay's hand (the one that wasn't covered with blood). The monkey jumped up onto the printer, made a ferocious monkey sound at everybody, and then squatted.

"He's going number two!" Lori shouted. This narration actually turned out to be useful, since I was jiggling the camera too much for it to be clear to the viewer exactly what was happening.

Jay's cousin had warned him that the hurling of fecal matter could be an issue, and Jay had dutifully passed this information along to us. But being hit in the face with monkey poo is something that, deep inside, we all believe happens only to other people.

When Jay got hit, everybody but Jay laughed. When Lori got hit, everybody but Jay and Lori laughed. When Kylie got hit, that left only me to laugh. I tried to be mature about the whole thing, because I knew that the harder I laughed, the greater my downfall when I became the next target. But I was unsuccessful. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Finally, the camera was hit, striking the lens so perfectly that some YouTube viewers would later accuse me of digital enhancement in the comments section. The camera shielded most of my face, but not all of it, and I did indeed receive an appropriate punishment for the fact that I didn't laugh with my mouth closed.

We weren't the kind of scoundrels who would leave this mess for the custodian, so we eventually recaptured the monkey and cleaned up. Well, Kylie and I did; Lori drove Jay to the hospital after winning the game of rock/paper/scissors.

This whole experience proved that a monkey could not actually do my job, which was kind of a relief. Jay would later pose an alternate theory, that even a monkey who would fling its own feces on camera had too much self-respect to do our job. Jay has since found employment at a different company.

Anyway, for nine years I've worked for the same place, in the same building, in the same department, at the same desk, drinking from the same coffee mug. I'd complain that there was no upward mobility, but that wouldn't be true. I just don't want it. I don't want to be a manager. Being a manager decreases your ability to not give a crap.

I know I should be more ambitious than this. I'm not a slacker, though. Every form that goes into my in-box gets entered, and my audit score is the best in the department. I pay my own half of the rent. I buy my own groceries. I don't borrow money from my parents. Granted, I'm thirty-five years old, so these are not amazing accomplishments, but still...

Do I sound defensive? If so, I assure you it's not because anybody is getting on my case about this. "So, Todd, what do you want to do with your life?" is not a topic of discussion that comes up frequently. Nobody is calling me an underachiever. I'm content, and everybody around me is content with my state of contentment.

I eat lunch at one of the same five restaurants every day. To be fair, there's not a huge selection in this area; there are maybe a dozen places that are doable within my forty-five minute lunch break. The others are fine, I guess, but I just stick to The Five.

I at least try to break up my formula. So instead of going to the Tex-Mex place on Tuesday, I'll sometimes go on Thursdays, even if that means I miss the two-for-one taco special. The pizza place doesn't have to be my Wednesday spot. Sure, burgers make a nice Friday treat, but aren't they just as good on Monday?

I'm not anti-social. Occasionally I go out to lunch with my co-workers. But the other seven people in my department tend to be more of the economical "bring your own lunch to work" type, and I think that some of my contentment comes from making sure that I get away from the building for forty-five minutes every single day.

Maybe if I brown bagged it once in a while, I'd go sufficiently nuts to want to seek a better job.

* * *

When I get home, Craig is seated on the couch playing video games with Julia, one of his two friends with benefits.

Their relationship began a few months ago, and Craig described it as the greatest arrangement in the entire history of human civilization. She comes over, they talk for a few minutes, they have sex, she hangs out a while longer (but not too long), and then she leaves.

It doesn't surprise me that Craig thinks this is awesome, but I honestly don't get why Julia is okay with it. With all due respect, my roommate is no great prize. Though he's not a disgusting boil-covered green-slime-oozing troglodyte, he definitely has the body of somebody who sits on the couch playing video games all day. Sure, he's got a little bit of money, yet there's no evidence that he spends any of it on her. His hygiene is scattershot. I suppose he could be an incredible lover, since his fingers are in top physical condition, though aural evidence from their bedroom sessions seems to indicate otherwise.

She's twenty-two, beautiful, fit, tattooed, and full of energy. I have no idea how he landed her. I suspect there were some untrue statements involved.

His other friend with benefits is Margaret. She's a forty-five-year-old separated mother of three who always looks like she's just been crying. She thinks video games are stupid, which works out fine for Craig. Less time wasted socializing.

Julia and Margaret don't know about each other. I've asked Craig why; in theory, if they're just friends, then it should be totally okay. If you have one friend, you're still allowed to have other friends, right? Craig has never given a satisfactory answer to this question.

I suspect that there will be a day when Margaret shows up at our door with all three of her children and asks if she can live with us for a while. Craig will tell them no and claim that I'm the uptight bad guy. If I'm in the room when it happens, I'll assure them that it's fine for them to stay, at which point I'll not only have four houseguests, but a roommate who's angry at me for not playing the villain role.

"Hi," I say, hoping that Craig and Julia's gaming session is post-coital instead of foreplay.

"Hi," Julia says. She really should adjust her shirt a bit, because I can see a part of her that would be blurred on television. I'd tell her, but I'm not sure if that would be interpreted as polite or pervy. She's probably fully aware of this. I guess that if you went through all of the discomfort of getting a tattoo there, you'd want an audience for it.

"How're you feeling?" Craig asks.

"Fine."

"See, I told you it wasn't a stroke."

"You had a stroke?" Julia asks.

I shake my head. "Thought I was having one this morning."

"Oh, you poor sweetie!" Julia gets up off the couch, crosses in front of Craig (causing him a half-second of intense annoyance) and gives me a hug. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

It's clear from her tone that she's offering something innocent like a bowl of hot chicken soup, rather than anything Craig has touched.

"I'm totally okay," I assure her. "It was scary, but no big deal."

"It wasn't that scary," Craig says.

"Oh, hush," Julia tells him. "If it happened to you it would be terrifying."

She gives me another hug, tighter and longer this time, and for a moment I am incredibly jealous of my roommate.

CHAPTER TWO

"How many more of us have to die before we take action?"

"I don't know! I don't know! I'm not good with numbers!"

--Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 7

I don't mind going to the movies by myself. I'm not saying that I prefer it that way, but if I can't think of anybody to invite, which is almost all of the time, I'm perfectly happy to go alone. Some people believe that going to the movies alone is a sign that you're a loser. I completely disagree. Talking in the movies is a sign that you're a loser.

This weekend is the first annual Tampa Bay Filmmakers To Watch Film Festival. I bought the fifty-dollar all-access pass, so I can get into any screening I want, all weekend long. It's at a hotel instead of a real movie theater, and I'm not sure if there'll be concessions, so I've loaded up my backpack with Red Vines, Raisinets, Slim Jims, a four-pack of Red Bull, a couple of cans of Sprite, and a small pillow in case we're sitting on folding chairs. When I go to a film festival, I don't mess around.

There are two tracks of programming. Last night, I went through the schedule to plan my days. I've never heard of any of these movies or filmmakers, which is the whole point of the festival, but I don't like to read the plot descriptions because those usually have too many spoilers. So I base everything on genre. Comedies get top priority, then horror movies, then animation, then science fiction, then action/adventure (though this particular festival doesn't have anything in that category), then thrillers, then documentaries, then dramas.

The first movie on my list is a horror flick that starts at 10:30 AM. However, in the other screening room there's a documentary about Africa that starts at 10:00 AM, so I might as well check out the beginning of that.

There's no line at the Will Call table. The friendly elderly lady at the table only has to flip through a few envelopes to find my pass. I'm not sure they even needed to alphabetize them. My pass is laminated and comes with a lanyard. Fancy.

She points me in the right direction, and I walk into the screening room, which I incorrectly assumed would be occupied by at least one other human being. There are about fifty folding chairs set up, and it's clear that this is not going to be a state of the art presentation. I'll be lucky if the screen doesn't fall over.

At exactly ten o'clock, seven people walk into the room, and it looks like they represent at least four generations of the same family. Six of them sit in the back row, while a young black man walks to the front of the room. He's clearly disappointed by the turnout but smiles at me.

"Every day in Africa, young children suffer atrocities that the rest of the world ignores," he says, projecting his voice as if the room were full. "My film is a cry for help, and a message to those who will not listen."

He gestures to the back row, and one of his relatives turns out the light. He walks over and starts the movie. Apparently, at the Tampa Bay Filmmakers to Watch Festival, the directors have to press play on their own DVDs.

The first shot is of an emaciated African girl with no legs. This is not how I wanted to start my morning.

The film alternates between horrific/depressing stock footage and interviewees telling us how horrific/depressing this is. I'm feeling queasy and bummed out, though also, admittedly, grateful to have all of my appendages.

After half an hour, I know that it's time to go to the other movie, but I'm at the world premiere of this guy's documentary, and his family is here, and I'm the only person in the audience. I can't walk out or he'll be crushed.

I'm screwed.

I consider reaching into my pocket to discreetly turn my cell phone back on, after which I'll pray to receive a call, and then I can walk out of the room staring at the display with a look of intense worry on my face. But I can't be the guy whose cell phone goes off during a movie, even if it's part of a plan for escape. Anyway, the plan would fail because hardly anybody ever calls me. I think there's a way to make the ringtone go off without receiving a call, but that doesn't address the crucial issue that I can't be the guy whose cell phone goes off during a movie. I just can't.

I'm feeling a little dizzy, and I want to give all of my money to limbless African children.

This is not a short movie. I shift around occasionally, to help ensure that I don't get blood clots in my legs. I want to open my pack of Red Vines, but the children in this movie don't even have regular food, much less candy, so the idea of eating licorice while they suffer feels wrong.

Please, please, please let somebody else walk in. We could do a seat exchange. If anybody else joins the audience, I can leave without any karmic damage. Please. I don't want to see any more dying children.

One of the dying children has a starving dog, and I just about lose it. This isn't fair. I want to watch the gore-filled horror film.

Finally the movie ends, unless I'm merely hallucinating. Somebody turns the lights back on, and the filmmaker walks to the front of the room. "Does anybody have any questions?" he asks, looking at me.

I don't have any questions. But I have to ask one, or his family will think that the sole audience member was not engaged enough by his film to desire further insight.

"What was your budget?" I ask.

"I prefer not to disclose that. It can impact getting a distribution deal."

"Oh."

"Are there any other questions?" he asks.

"How long did it take to make?"

"About two years."

"Oh. Well, good job," I tell him. "You made that place look like a hellhole."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Are there any other questions?"

"I'm out of questions. I'm really sorry."

"That's perfectly fine. Thank you for being here."

I politely wait until he ejects the DVD, so that his family doesn't think I sprinted for the exit. Then I leave the room, quickly but not too quickly, pretending to be lost in thought over the images I have just viewed.

I've got five more movies scheduled for today. The next three are in the other screening room, so after a restroom and stretch break, I walk in there. It's empty except for a blonde woman seated in the front row center. When I watch a movie, I like to sit in the center, a couple of rows back, but since I'm the only other person in the room it would be creepy to walk up behind her and sit there. I pick a spot off to the side.

Apparently the filmmaker is not in attendance. A bearded guy with dark circles under his eyes comes in, starts the DVD, and leaves without a word. I get up to turn off the lights then return to my seat.

The movie is a comedy, although apparently not the kind that strives for the goal of audience laughter. I think it was shot with somebody's cell phone; not a contemporary model. The actors perform their roles with the passion of people being forced to say hi to imprisoned Uncle Frank on a Christmas video. The story is a cautionary tale about a married couple that wins the lottery, and how it doesn't bring them the happiness they expected. Quite honestly, the film makes winning the lottery look pretty freaking fantastic, but otherwise the movie is so boring that it makes me want to...well, not mutilate myself or anything, but it does make me want to leave.

About halfway through, I decide to bail. I pick up my backpack and stand up. The woman turns around in her seat.

"You're not abandoning me, are you?" she asks.

"I can't take this one anymore," I say.

"I'm miserable too. At least we can share the pain."

I sit back down.

"I was completely joking," she says.

"I know."

"You can go."

"I know."

"Really. It was a joke. You don't have to stay."

"I know. I'll tough it out."

"Please don't stay on my behalf."

"I'm staying."

"Don't."

"Maybe it will get better."

The movie does not get better. I stop thinking that the low quality is incompetence-based, and wonder instead if the writer/producer/director actually dislikes me personally. This could be part of some elaborate revenge scheme. Three years ago, I cut him off in traffic, and this is the culmination of his sinister master plan where I am subjected to this movie. The poor woman in the front row is collateral damage.

Or perhaps she's the target, and I'm the collateral damage. What could she have done to make somebody despise her to this extent? What lover could she have scorned? Whose child could she have flung into a bottomless well? What pet could she have deep-fried?

(I don't typically occupy my mind with these kinds of ridiculous thoughts, but I have to get through the movie somehow. Otherwise madness could creep in.)

Finally, mercifully, God or Satan, whichever one is in charge of this, decides I've suffered enough and lets the movie end. I get up and flip the lights back on. The woman turns around in her seat.

"I'm so sorry about that," she tells me.

"No problem."

"I really didn't mean for you to stay. I promise you I was kidding. Now I feel terrible."

"It's completely fine."

"If I read a book or watch a movie, I have to finish it, no matter what," she says. "It's kind of an OCD thing. But you shouldn't have had to endure that." She's being playful, but I think she genuinely feels bad that she made the socially awkward guy stick around.

She's probably in her late thirties, and she has a wonderful, nerdy kind of beauty, even without glasses. Her long blonde hair is completely straight.

"Are you staying for the next one?" I ask.

She nods. "I can't take the risk that I'll die and this will be the last movie I ever saw."

I want to invite her to sit next to me. It seems like that would be a perfectly appropriate thing to do. She wouldn't say, "How dare you, sir? How dare you?" This is exactly the kind of situation in which people ask other people if they'd like to sit next to them.

Instead, I pop a Red Vine into my mouth.

"I will give you a million dollars for one of those," she says. "Cash money, right now."

"You can have one for free."

She immediately gets up and sits next to me. I hand her the package, and she withdraws a Red Vine. Well, two, since they stick together.

"It's not theft if they stick together," she informs me.

"You can have as many as you want." I've never been stingy with my Red Vines. Though I'm not suggesting that I am a man without flaws, being greedy with candy is not one of them.

"Thanks. I assumed they'd sell snacks here, but the hotel gift shop isn't even open. I hope there's a vending machine somewhere so I can get a drink."

I reach into my backpack. "I've got Red Bull, if you need something to keep you awake for the next one."

"Oh, I can't do Red Bull, but I appreciate the offer."

"I've also got Sprite."

"Sold."

I take the can of Sprite out of my backpack and give it to her. "It's not very cold."

"That's fine." She pops it open, takes a deep swig, and then extends her free hand. "I'm Amy."

I shake it. "Todd."

"Amy Husk, if you want to be a completist."

"Todd Bryan."

"Oooh, double first names. Great to meet you, Todd Bryan." She bites off both ends of a Red Vine and sticks it into the can, using the licorice as a straw. I don't get the sense that this is a conscious attempt to be endearing; I think she frequently drinks her carbonated beverages in this manner. "What's up next to torture us?"

"Something called Dead Reach."

"Zombies?"

"I assume so."

"Cool." She slurps some more Sprite, then glances down. "You've even got a pillow! You are a guy who knows how these things work."

"Do you want to borrow it?"

"No, no, no. You're the one who planned for butt comfort."

A college-aged kid with a baseball cap and goatee walks into the room. He's wearing a red "Filmmaker" badge and he makes absolutely no effort to hide his frustration as he goes to the front of the room.

"Are you it?" he asks us, incredulous.

"As far as I know," I tell him.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Two people?"

"Sorry."

"The entry fee was thirty-five bucks! I paid thirty-five bucks for two people to show up! They didn't cover my goddamn hotel room, they didn't reimburse my goddamn gas, they're not paying for any goddamn meals--they didn't do goddamn jack shit! This festival's a joke!"

"Sorry," I say again.

"Screw this. I'm not showing my film for two people. It was meant to be seen with a large audience. It's a shared experience. That's the whole fucking point."

"Well, I mean, I think you still have to show it," I tell him. "We bought our passes."

"You don't get to tell me what to do with my art. Did you make this film? Did you work eighteen-hour days every weekend for a month? I'm in credit card debt up to my ass. They're trying to repo my car. I'll probably come home to an eviction notice." He runs a hand through his hair and for a moment I think he's going to burst into tears, but thankfully he maintains his composure. "Okay, maybe we could give it another few minutes and see if anybody else shows up."

"That sounds reasonable," I say.

He sits down in the front row and hunches over, burying his face in his hands. My prediction is that Dead Reach will suck and suck hard, but I'm not going to let him get away with not showing the movie that we paid for.

Amy slurps some more Sprite, emptying the can. She pulls out the soggy Red Vine, takes a bite, and chews thoughtfully.

"We could switch to the other movie," I say.

She shakes her head. "I want my zombies. But I'm going to take a quick restroom break. Hold my spot?"

"Sure."

She hurries out of the room. Now I'm alone with the filmmaker guy, who sounds like he may really be weeping now. I try to think of something comforting to say, but whereas "selfish with candy" is not one of my flaws, "bad at thinking of comforting things to say" most definitely is.

"I'm looking forward to your movie," I tell him.

He lets out a loud sigh.

I wonder if Amy will actually come back. Maybe she just used the restroom as an excuse, and is currently sprinting through the hotel parking lot, hoping to get to her car before I realize that she's gone.

That's unlikely. She strikes me as the kind of person who would say "Sorry to be blunt, but I'm truly repulsed by you and wish to leave your presence immediately." Then again, we've just met. She could be anything. She could be a man-hating serial killer who dispatches her victims with a rhinoceros horn.

But she does come back. She sits down next to me, and our hips touch, and I think that no matter how awful this movie is, it's going to be one of my all-time favorites.

CHAPTER THREE

"Look, one of us has to climb down into that hole, and as the guy who was sucked on by an alien today, I think I'm exempt."

--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 4

Dead Reach exists right on the verge of being so bad it's good without ever quite crossing that line. Acting, dialogue, special effects, continuity...if any of these elements were slightly worse, the movie might generate entertainment value, yet it manages to sustain enough of a competence level to be merely tedious.

I'm not worried about hurting the filmmaker's feelings, because he walked out five minutes into the screening. But Amy already said that she never abandons a film in progress, and as long as she's sitting next to me, I'm not going anywhere.

We watch in silence. She shifts every once in a while, and I can tell that she's not enjoying this cinematic experience. Despite my hatred of movie-talkers, I'd be okay with her making ironic comments or starting up an unrelated conversation. In fact, if her cell phone went off and she started happily chattering away, I'd be cool with it. But she doesn't. All she does is accept the Red Vines I offer every ten minutes or so.

Some lady joins us about halfway through the movie. She only lasts for a couple of scenes before walking back out.

This movie needs more damn zombies. It has enough zombies that you can't say "It's subverting expectations by telling a zombie story without zombies!" but not enough of them to give you your money's worth out of a zombie flick. And it's all computer-generated blood. I'm no ghoul, but I like to see Karo syrup instead of pixels.

Fortunately, this one is short, barely feature-length. The credits move at an excruciatingly slow pace, as if to pad out the running time, and I wonder if it would be rude to get up and turn off the DVD player. I decide that it would be.

It's a good thing I don't touch the machine, because there's a bonus scene after the credits where a zombie jumps at the camera. That's what I think, with great sarcasm: Oh my, it's a good thing we didn't miss that. And right after I finish thinking it, Amy says, "Wow, I'm glad we stuck around for that." She's being sarcastic.

The movie switches to the DVD menu. The menu music is grating.

"Break time?" Amy asks.

"Sure," I say, and together we get up and leave.

We step out into the hallway. The filmmaker is seated right outside the screening room, drinking from a flask. He doesn't ask us what we thought of his motion picture.

I reach into my backpack. "Slim Jim?" I offer.

"Oh, yeah," Amy says. She takes it, rips open the package with her teeth, and pops the Slim Jim into her mouth. "Mmmm," she says. "Greasy nutrition."

"I actually do eat vegetables and stuff," I tell her. "Not every single day, but the majority of days." It's true, and I'm not even being sneaky about it by counting pizza toppings or potato chips. My film festival diet does not reflect my normal diet, though admittedly I eat very few green vegetables that are not slathered in ranch dressing.

"Well, of course. You'd be horrified at how healthy my regular diet is. Hor-ri-fied. The water, the whole grains, the fruits...it's awful." She finishes off the Slim Jim. "What were you going to watch next?"

"Jonah's City." It's a documentary about a teenager with Down syndrome who sings karaoke every week and wins a major competition. My rule about avoiding plot spoilers doesn't apply to documentaries.

"Is it supposed to be any good?"

"I haven't heard."

"What's our other choice?"

I take out my schedule. "The Student Shorts Showcase. Short films by kids."

"That could be interesting," says Amy.

"Not as interesting as the Down syndrome karaoke singer."

"How committed are you to seeing the next movie?"

"Not fully."

"Do you want to go get something real to eat?"

"Absolutely," I say. "My treat."

She shakes her head. "You've already fed me. I don't want you to think that I'm a leech. Where do you want to go?"

I don't know this area, but I don't want to seem indecisive. "Do you like seafood?"

"Sure."

I've got an app on my cell phone that shows nearby restaurants. I give it a moment to find our current location, then search for seafood restaurants. The closest one has three dollar signs after the listing, so we sure as hell won't be going there, but there's a one-dollar-sign restaurant about nine blocks away.

My car is a vehicle that can graciously be called "unimpressive," so I'm grateful when Amy suggests that we go on foot.

As we walk, Amy asks me if I go to a lot of film festivals. I say, not too many, a couple a year maybe, and ask her the same question. She says no, not really. She won a free pass in an Internet contest. She loves movies, especially independent ones, but is a newbie to the film festival circuit.

She asks what my favorite film festival discovery was, and I tell her about a movie called Wretched Excess, which I thought was just going to be a mindless gorefest (a concept to which, admittedly, I have no objection) but was actually an intelligent, well-acted, genuinely creepy and surprising horror flick. It never got a theatrical release, and as far as I know it never got any kind of home video distribution either, even online, so it's kind of cool to be part of a very small group of people who are aware of the existence of this minor masterpiece.

That conversation gets us all the way to the restaurant. I open the door for her, we walk inside, and suddenly Amy hesitates. The place is definitely fancier than I would expect from a one-dollar-sign restaurant, and I wonder if that's what made her stop.

A hostess immediately greets us and leads us to our booth. We slide into our seats as she places the menus on the table. I order a Dr. Pepper and Amy orders a glass of water.

We flip through our menus. Amy's mouth is a tight frown. My piece of crap app totally screwed up the number of dollar signs.

"Seriously, I'm happy to pay," I assure her, hoping that she's upset by how expensive this place is and not by the sudden realization that her choice of meal companions could have been better.

"You know what? I'm going to take you up on that. But we have to call this an official date."

"I have no problem with that."

"Good. It's our first date."

"Cool."

We silently study the menus for a couple of minutes. "What are you going to get?" she asks.

"The grilled salmon with dill cream sauce."

"Sounds good. I'm getting the shrimp cocktail appetizer as my meal." It's not quite the cheapest item on the menu, but it's close.

I want to suggest that we split the shrimp cocktail as an appetizer, and then she can get an entrée. But that might feel like I'm bragging about being able to afford a full meal for two at a seafood restaurant. I don't want to come off as arrogant.

I wish I had more dating experience.

The server arrives with our drinks, takes our orders, and leaves. It's the kind of upscale place where the server doesn't even write down your order, which always makes me nervous.

"You don't have a girlfriend, right?" Amy asks.

"Of course not."

"I didn't think so. This didn't start out as a date, so I'm just making sure. I promise, I wasn't suggesting that you were the kind of guy who would cheat on his girlfriend, but you might have just been being nice to me with the licorice and soda and beef sticks, and then suddenly it turned into a date through circumstances outside of your control and you weren't sure how to break the news to me."

"No girlfriend."

"Are you divorced?"

"No."

"Gay?"

"Not that I've discovered yet."

"Anti-social?"

"Sort of."

"Me too."

"But not too bad. I mean, I like people. And I've had girlfriends. Not tons of them, but I understand the mechanics." My definition of "not tons" is "two," though I don't want to confess to my embarrassing lack of quantity quite yet.

"Hey, I really do apologize for the way I said the thing about the girlfriend," Amy says. "That sounded kind of accusatory. It's because I'm anti-social."

"No offense taken."

"Anyway, I'm divorced," Amy says.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"How long were you married?"

"Eleven years. Exactly eleven years--the divorce became final on our anniversary."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. And it's not like we rushed into the wedding or anything. We met in high school, but we dated for four years before we got married. Anyway, it was my fault."

I wait for her to elaborate. I don't think it would be appropriate to use "Did you cheat on him?" as my follow-up question.

She doesn't elaborate, so I come up with a different follow-up question. "Any kids?"

She shakes her head. "You?"

"Nope. Do you want any?"

For a split second, her face is overcome with intense sadness. She recovers quickly and smiles. "It's not going to happen for me."

Another inappropriate thing to ask about: her uterus. I move to safer territory. "What are your favorite TV shows?"

"Have you ever seen Exit Red?"

"I love that show! I never miss an episode. I mean, I sometimes miss an episode, but I always watch it on DVR. One of the best shows of all time."

"Only one of?"

"Top ten, easily."

"Best ever," Amy says. "Cheesy dialogue and all. It is the greatest thing society has ever created. No offense to Shakespeare and Thomas Edison and all of those other smart productive people, but Exit Red is the pinnacle of achievement. I'm obsessed with it."

Exit Red is about a group of eight archaeologists who discover a cave in South America. The cave contains countless portals, and when you step through one, you find yourself on a different continent, in a different time, or even in a different dimension. Unfortunately for those poor archaeologists, the things they do after going through a portal have an impact on the real, current world, and they've really made a mess of things.

The show follows the efforts of the archaeologists to put things back to the way they were before they started interfering with forces they didn't understand. In any given episode, the characters are split between various eras and locations. The portals have an inconvenient habit of disappearing, so our heroes often have to befriend/fight with/be kidnapped by the locals (human or otherwise) to find them again.

The show is heavily serialized, with a jaw-dropping cliffhanger at the end of almost every episode. Everybody agrees that the first season was brilliant. The second season was even better. With the third season, it started to lose its way, as the show continued to introduce new mysteries and complications without resolving enough of the old ones, and the fourth season sucked donkey balls. But with the fifth season it got completely back on track. The sixth season, which has only eight episodes left, will be the final one, with creator/executive producer Blake Remark promising that all of our questions will be answered.

It's a great show. It hasn't had blockbuster ratings since the second season, but there's a hardcore loyal fan base keeping it alive.

"Are you caught up?" Amy asks. "I don't want to ruin anything."

"Yep."

"Could you believe that Alicia shot Darwan? I know she was defending her son and all, but holy crap!"

Exit Red is not afraid to kill off its characters. Only three members of the original cast are still on the show, though occasionally the departed reprise their roles in flashbacks, as hallucinations, or in other dimensions.

Our discussion of Exit Red lasts until the entrees arrive. I already loved the show, but Amy's enthusiasm makes me want to watch the whole series again from the beginning to catch the details I missed.

"Oh, jeez, this is good," says Amy, chewing on her first bite of shrimp cocktail. "I mean, this is really, really good. I don't know what they did to these shrimp, but they're delicious."

I take a bite of my salmon. It's pretty darn tasty. I'm thankful that our first date won't end with projectile vomiting.

"Do you think they'll be able to pull off a satisfying ending?" I ask. "Because they've got a lot of loose ends to wrap up."

Amy nods. "Sometimes it feels like they're making it up as they go along, but apparently there's always been a top-secret high-level outline of everything that's going to happen. They've promised they won't leave us hanging. And the final episodes are already done."

"Well, we'll find in two months if we've wasted our lives."

"I hope so."

I'm not sure what she means by that. Amy eats another shrimp, then leans forward. "It's always hard to decide when to share certain things with people," she says, speaking quietly. "You know, like an STD--which I don't have, don't worry. Do you say it right away, in case it turns out to be a deal-breaker, or does it come off like 'Whoa! Too much information!' if you say it too soon? I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet. So I apologize if this is uncomfortable, but I want to get this out before you invest too much time in me."

"Are you dying?" I ask.

She pops another shrimp into her mouth. "Yeah."

"Seriously?"

She taps her forehead. "Brain aneurysm. Right behind the eye. Unruptured but inoperable. This sucker is gonna pop."

"Jesus."

"I hope I didn't mess up our meal. For all I know, you don't even like me that much, and we'll never see each other again after today. But, I don't know, if there's a second or third date it just seems kind of mean to suddenly say 'Oh, by the way, this is a short-term relationship.' Maybe it's egotistical of me to think that it'll upset you. But it's out there now. Please eat your salmon."

I take another bite of my salmon. It doesn't taste quite as good anymore. I don't think it's just because this piece didn't have as much of the dill cream sauce.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Please tell me that dead body on our floor isn't Ben Franklin."

--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 12

I'm glad she told me, but yeah, the meal is suddenly awkward. I think to myself, At least she didn't say she had herpes, and then I feel guilty, because I'm relatively certain that most people, given the choice, would take herpes over a brain aneurysm.

"How long do you have?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Nobody can say. It's hard to put a timer on this kind of thing. Could be as long as a year from now. Could be tomorrow. I might never find out how Exit Red all turns out. Is that a bummer or what?"

"Isn't there anything they can do?"

"Nope. There are medical procedures, like one where they cut open your head and pinch part of your brain with a clothespin to keep the blood from flowing into it, but it's not an option for me. I'm at the point where if they poke around in there, there's a really good chance it could pop early and then I'd lose what little time I've got left."

"You're kidding about the clothespin, right?"

"Yes, but it really is like a clothespin. It's a tiny metal clip that they leave in your brain forever. I'd be so much less lonely if I had it; I know how much you guys dig chicks with brain clips."

"That's hawt," I say.

"I know, right? Body piercings, tramp-stamps...none of that can compare to having doctors cut through the back of your skull to put a clip on an artery in your brain. I would be the most metal chick in the bar." She shrugs. "But they can't do it for me, so the point is kind of moot."

"I'm sorry." Even though I truly mean it, I've never been able to say the non-apology version of "I'm sorry" without sounding insincere. I can't get the inflection right.

Amy shrugs again. "I've come to terms with it. God is well aware of my opinion on the matter."

"So what do you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you still work?"

"Sure. I can't just quit my job. I'd die sooner if I couldn't buy food."

"Do you like your job?"

"Not really. Customer service. Makes me feel better about being anti-social."

"You don't go around checking items off your bucket list?"

"I haven't really been in a skydiving, go to Paris, learn to play guitar, or Brad Pitt/George Clooney threesome mood lately. This film festival is really the first time I've gone out in a while." She smiles. "I sound like a real prize, don't I? Whoa, did you ever hit the jackpot with the depressed dying girl. At least I'm getting everything out there right away."

"Unless it's a cover for even worse stuff," I say. "Tell the truth, how many stuffed dead husbands do you keep in your closet?"

"I find that question offensive. I've never kept more than one dead husband in my closet at a time, and I would never stuff them. That's just gross. I properly dispose of their bodies after a few weeks, like any civilized human being."

"My mistake."

"And I don't marry every man I kill. That would be way too much work."

"Not if you reuse the dress."

"Have you ever planned a wedding? There's a lot more to it than just picking out a dress."

"Well, if you were going to kill the groom anyway, I figured you'd just do a quickie wedding at Vegas."

Amy shakes her head. "No, no, no, you don't understand anything. The groom doesn't know he's going to die. Some of them want their families to see them make this lifelong commitment. Maybe one in three will go for the Vegas idea, but that leaves two in three who refuse to elope, so you're still looking at a huge amount of time spent planning these things. That's no way to live."

"You're right," I admit. "I don't understand how the world works."

"I should say not."

I think for a moment, but I don't have any more jokes to add to this comedy routine. We should probably let it drop.

"Anyway," says Amy, "I mentioned this because I wanted to make it less of a big deal, not more of one. Let's talk about other stuff besides giant unruptured saccular aneurysms. What's your favorite music?"

I don't like to talk about music, because my musical tastes are shamefully narrow. I basically listen to the same nine or ten albums over and over. My iPod, which was a Christmas gift from my mom, is maybe four percent full.

"Wait, let me ask you one more thing," I say. "Let's pretend your bucket list only had one item. What's the one thing you would do?"

"The Brad Pitt/George Clooney threesome."

"I figured."

"I'm just kidding. It would be Nathan Fillion and Neil Patrick Harris. And yes, I know that Neil Patrick Harris is gay, but in the real world, I have as much chance of being with him as I would if he were hetero."

"Okay, so how about a non-fantasy thing?"

"Paris. Generic, I know, but I'd love to go. What about you? What would you do?"

"I don't know," I say. "Travel."

"Too vague. Where?"

"Europe?"

"Still too vague."

"Ireland."

"Getting closer."

"Or maybe New Zealand."

"New Zealand isn't in Europe."

"I know. I switched continents."

"Okay."

"Do you want me to make an embarrassing confession?" I ask.

"Oh, hell yeah."

"A few years ago I was watching this show on one of those all-food-stuff networks. One of those where they go around to different junk food places."

"Man V. Food?"

"Not that one, but like that. They went to a dumpy little hot dog place in Rhode Island, basically just a shack, and it had all of these weird toppings. Since I saw that I've always wanted to go there."

"So your bucket list is to go get a hot dog?"

"Yeah."

"That's awesome."

"No, when you think about it, it really isn't."

"I disagree," Amy says. "Can you imagine how great it would be to drive from Florida to Rhode Island just to get a hot dog? It's the most frivolous trip I can think of. Why haven't you done that?"

"I guess because it's the most frivolous trip I can think of." I'm kind of ashamed to have said it out loud. What a loser.

"I would totally do that. Hot dogs are a fun food. It's not like you're driving that far for something snobby. Nobody can be in a bad mood when they're eating a hot dog. I think it's a great idea."

"Do you want to go with me?" The words are out of my mouth before my brain has had the opportunity to consider and reject them.

"Sure."

"Seriously?"

"Sure. It would be a blast."

"How far is it to Rhode Island?"

"You've never mapped it out?"

I take out my cell phone. My pulse is pounding at a dangerously rapid rate, and I wonder if I'm going to die of a heart attack long before Amy dies of her brain aneurysm. What the hell did I just do? I can't drive all the way to Rhode Island with a woman I met today. That's utterly freaking insane.

I enter the details on my map app. "Almost twenty-two hours."

"Who else in history has driven twenty-two hours for a hot dog? You'd be a pioneer."

"You're messing with me, right?"

"Not at all. I'm serious about doing this. I need an adventure."

"I can't drive that far."

"Why not?"

"I don't have the vacation time."

"How much time do you have?"

"One day."

"D'oh!"

"I go through it pretty quick. I don't think I've ever had time left between the middle of March and the end of December."

"Can you call in sick?"

"My sick days and my vacation days are part of the same pool."

"That bites. What do you use it on?"

"Being sick."

"Really?"

"Feeling sick. Maybe not actually being sick." I'm over-sharing. I'm self-aware enough to know that I'm a hypochondriac, but I shouldn't be blabbing this to Amy.

"One big advantage a brain aneurysm has over cancer is that it doesn't eat up all of your sick time," Amy says. "When do you get off work on Friday?"

"Four-fifteen."

"And when do you start on Monday?"

"Seven-thirty."

"All right, that gives you...seven hours and forty-five minutes on Friday, plus twenty-four hours, plus twenty-four, plus seven and a half...twenty-four plus twenty-four is forty-eight, seven plus seven is fourteen, plus another hour and fifteen minutes, so that's...forty-eight, fifty-eight, sixty-two, sixty-three hours and fifteen minutes. See, you could do it without even using any vacation days, if you had somebody to help you drive. And if you took your last day you'd have all the time in the world. Think about it."

I'm thinking about it. A road trip with Amy sounds incredible. Yet I can't help think about the whole I wouldn't want to be part of any club that would have me as a member concept, although my version is Any woman who would want to go on a road trip with me this soon after meeting me must have dismemberment on her mind.

Or maybe it doesn't have to be slaughter. She could just be a con artist. I'll wake up in a rest stop in Atlanta without my wallet or my car.

She seems to realize what I'm thinking. "I just want you to know, I don't make a habit out of going on road trips with strange guys. I've never done this before. I'm not that kind of girl."

Okay, I was thinking homicidal maniac, but she was thinking slut.

"I understand."

"I'm just comfortable around you. You're obviously a nice guy. And we'd both have fun."

It is better to regret the things you've done than the things you haven't done. I've never lived my life by that mantra. It seems like a good way to totally fuck things up for yourself. Climbers with broken legs freezing to death on Mount Everest aren't thinking, "Well, at least I won't regret not doing this!"

But I'm pretty sure I will regret this if I don't do it.

"Okay," I tell her. "I'm in. We're going to get a hot dog in Rhode Island."

She breaks into a huge grin. "This is so cool."

"Can you get Friday off? Instead of doing this as an endurance test, I'll just use my last day and we can leave Thursday afternoon."

"Sounds good. I never go anywhere or do anything, so I've got plenty of vacation time. And even if I did go places or do things, it's only March."

"Or..." Now it's my turn to propose something crazy. "Technically, I can get three days for bereavement."

"Holy shit! Don't kill your grandmother on my behalf!"

"My grandparents were all dead before I even graduated high school, but my boss doesn't know that. She wouldn't make me bring in a death certificate or anything. As long as I don't do something stupid like post where I am on Facebook, I think it could work."

"Are you sure you won't get fired?"

"I'll be fine."

"No. I'm okay with being a bad influence, but I'm not going to be responsible for you losing your job. We'll go on Thursday."

I nod, but now I'm really attracted to the whole fake dead grandmother idea. If I'm going to throw caution to the wind and live life without a safety net, why not start immediately?

No, this idea is stupid. And morally wrong. If I pretend that my grandmother is dead, somebody close to me will die for real. I can wait until Thursday.

Anyway, my car needs a tune-up and probably new tires, or else we'll be spending our spur of the moment vacation standing on the side of the road waiting for a tow truck.

"All right," I say. "Looks like we're having a second date."

"I'll do half of the driving and pay for half of the gas," Amy says. "One of us can sleep while the other one drives."

"Works for me."

"And no sex."

I'm not quite sure how to respond to that, so I say, "Works for me" again, which is not all that great of a response.

"It's not anything personal," Amy explains. "If we set a no-sex rule from the beginning, then we won't spend the whole trip wondering if it's going to happen. This is just about the hot dog." She grins. "That sounded wrong, didn't it? What I mean is that I want this to be a fun, relaxing trip, and not complicate it with a bunch of sexual tension. We're just two friends going on an adventure. Fair enough?"

"Sounds good to me." I didn't actually think I would be getting laid on this trip, so it's not a devastating clause to add to the contract. Virtually every social situation I am a part of ends without me having intercourse.

"Great!" Amy finally returns her attention to the shrimp cocktail that she's been neglecting. "I can't wait!"

CHAPTER FIVE

"Any last words before I shoot you in the face?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"Seriously? Nothing?"

"Nope. Let's do this."

--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 3

I can't help but think that there will not be a second annual Tampa Bay Filmmakers To Watch Film Festival. The audiences are slightly larger for the evening screenings, reaching numbers as high as six, but the quality of the features remains somewhere between "dismal" and "Argh! My eyes! My eyes!"

One director introduces his movie with genuine passion. This guy has bucked the system, overcome countless hurdles, and made a movie with a message that he truly believes in, all on his own terms. I'm rooting for his film to be great.

His film isn't even a little great. It's actually worse than the lottery comedy. I understand that watching a bad movie is not equivalent to, for instance, starving to death in a third world nation, and that treating it as a mentally scarring experience is basically just confessing that I've had a pretty easy life up to this point. That said, sitting through this movie hurts. It hurts my eyes, my brain, and my ass, even with the pillow.

When our day of movie watching comes to an end, just after midnight, Amy gives me a tight hug and tells me how much fun she had. We're going to brave through the second day in hopes of discovering a hidden gem. All it takes is one and these events are worth it.

It doesn't feel like a kiss moment, so I don't kiss her.

And then we go our separate ways.

* * *

Craig is exactly where I expect to find him. "How was it?" he asks, not looking away from the television.

"The movies themselves were pretty bad," I say.

"That blows."

I stand there silently for a moment. I thought it was obvious from my tone that I had additional things to say about the film festival that did not relate to the movies, but Craig doesn't pick up on this.

"There was a stabbing," I say.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Eighteen dead."

"That blows."

"All at once, with one really long knife. Skewered them like shishkabobs."

Craig pauses his game. "I'm sorry, what did you say? I think I zoned out."

"I met somebody."

"Oh, shit, is she waiting outside? Should I do the dishes really quick?" I know it's not a legitimate offer, but it's nice of Craig, nevertheless.

"No, she's not here."

Craig unpauses the game. "Okay, good. Look, dude, I know I haven't been wearing pants very much lately, but if you've got a girlfriend now, I'll start putting them on again."

"I appreciate that."

"I just want you to know that you're not going to bring a chick back here and find me sitting on the couch without pants. I would never do that to you."

"Are you going to ask how we met?"

"I thought you said it was at the film festival."

"That's all the detail you want?"

Craig repauses the game. "I guess not. How'd you meet her?"

"It's not important. Her name is Amy. We're going to Rhode Island on Thursday."

"Whoa. What?"

"Rhode Island. Thursday."

"Like, to meet her family?"

"No, to get a hot dog."

Craig actually sets the game controller down on the coffee table. "I think I wasn't paying attention to an important part of this conversation. So you met a chick named Amy, and you two are flying to Rhode Island to get a hot dog?"

"Driving."

"To Rhode Island?"

"Yes."

"In February?"

"March."

"In March?"

"Yes."

"For a hot dog?"

"Yes."

"Not a lobster roll?"

"Nope."

"That's crazy. Their lobster rolls are great."

"We might have a lobster roll while we're there, but that's not the reason for the trip."

"Do they even call them hot dogs in Rhode Island? I thought they were called soggies."

"What the hell is a soggy?"

"A Rhode Island hot dog. Look it up."

I look it up on my phone. "You're right. Saugies. I guess people there use it as a generic term, but it's really a specific brand." It concerns me a bit that I didn't know the regional name of the food that I'm driving twenty-two hours each way to acquire.

"If I give you some money, will you bring me back a lobster roll?"

"Sure."

"Sweet." Craig picks up the game controller again. "She's not going to steal your kidneys, right?"

"Nah."

"You're not going to steal her kidneys, right? Don't implicate me in this shit if you are."

"You can go back to your game now."

Craig unpauses the game, then pauses it again. "By the way, I used the condoms you had in your drawer. I meant to say something sooner. I was going to replace them but I forgot, and I figured you didn't need them. I just thought you should know in case you wanted to bring them on your trip."

"You did this today?"

"No, no, a few months ago."

"The box was still there this morning." It's not that I obsessively keep track of them; I use the drawer for other things besides prophylactic storage.

"I probably should have thrown that away when I used the last one. Sorry. If you want I can go buy you another box."

"Yeah, that would be nice." I have every intention of respecting the no-sex agreement, but Craig doesn't need to know that. Pretty much any other time, my response would have been "No, no, that's okay," and Craig knows it, but for some reason I don't feel like being a pushover today.

"Now?"

"It doesn't have to be right now."

"Do you want the same brand?"

"I don't care."

"We'll stick with that brand. Those worked pretty well. They're ribbed, which I guess is a good thing."

I can't help but laugh. "You really are a terrible roommate."

"A terrible roommate who wears pants. I mean, starting tomorrow."

I decide that there's no compelling reason to keep talking to Craig. I take a shower and go to sleep.

* * *

I arrive at the hotel, wearing my film festival badge and slightly nicer clothes than I wore yesterday. The first movie of the morning is something called The Cements. Amy isn't in the screening room, but I see her walking down the hallway toward me. She waves, grins, and gives me a hug when she reaches me.

"Ready for another day of misery?" she asks.

"You bet."

"What if we changed our plans?"

"To what?"

"Are you still willing to kill your grandmother?"

"Uh...I think so."

"I was thinking about this on the drive home. Why wait until Thursday? Like you said, if we don't tweet or post on Facebook where we are, how would your boss ever know? We should do this totally spur of the moment. Leave now."

"I didn't pack any clothes."

"I did. We could share." She smiles. "Kidding. We'll just stop by your place, throw some clothes and a toothbrush into a bag, and go."

I'm not sure if I should thank some sort of deity or run away screaming. This is not standard operating procedure for a newly dating couple. I wonder if maybe she just needs a ride to New England.

"Are you sure we shouldn't just go on Thursday?" I ask. "That'll give us time to plan it out a little more."

"We can do that," Amy says. "I just thought it might be more fun to grab our things and zoom off. Spontaneity, you know?"

I'm all in favor of spontaneity. Well, okay, not really, but I'm in favor of spontaneity if it means spending more time with Amy. Still, this seems kind of extreme.

"Are we ever coming back?" I ask.

She playfully swats me on the shoulder. "Of course we're coming back."

Screw it. I'm going to go. I want to go.

"All right," I say. "Let's do this."

"Whose car should we take?"

"My car is not awesome," I admit.

"The air conditioning and heater are broken in mine."

"Mine has a weird smell."

"A noxious smell, or just weird?"

"Just weird. Kind of like trail mix. But I've never had trail mix in the car." This phenomenon actually creeps me out a little. I bought the car used and got a fantastic deal, so presumably somebody could have been murdered in it, and trail mix could have been somehow involved. I do not share this thought with Amy.

"The passenger door on mine doesn't open from the inside, so you'll feel like you're being abducted, even though I promise you're not."

"Only one of my speakers works."

"Oooh," says Amy with a wince. "That could be a problem."

"I know."

"A snake died in my car. I got rid of its body, but that doesn't change what happened."

"You win," I say. "We can take mine."

Amy can't just leave her car parked at the hotel, so I follow her home. I spend the entire twenty-minute drive feeling simultaneously giddy and terrified. What if I do get busted on the dead grandmother lie? Would I lose my job, or would it be less severe disciplinary action? I certainly don't want to be terminated, but I feel that going on this trip would be worth a stern lecture and a written warning.

We arrive at her apartment complex. It's not in the best part of town, but no crack dealers open fire on us as we park. Amy climbs into the passenger seat and tosses her pink duffel bag into the back.

"It does smell like trail mix," she says.

"I know. Isn't that bizarre?"

"Sorry you had to make the extra drive. I could have just called you before we got to the hotel, but honestly, I hadn't one hundred percent made up my mind until I saw you."

"Not a problem at all. We've got a twenty-two-hour drive ahead of us, so a twenty-minute detour is nothing. And it's mostly on the way to my place anyway."

We spend the next fifteen minutes talking about how much fun this is going to be. I looked up the name of the hot dog place--Hunky Dory Dogs, which is in Providence--last night, and that is to be our only official destination. Any other stops will be exclusively on a "Hey, that looks cool!" basis.

After we park in front of my apartment building, I ask if she wants to come in with me. I'm just being polite and hoping she'll decline, but I can't rescind the offer after she says "Sure."

We walk in. Craig is asleep on the couch. He is, to my intense relief, indeed wearing pants. Pajama bottoms, technically, but as long as the shape of his penis is indiscernible to visitors, I'm okay with it.

"That guy is supposed to be there, right?" Amy asks.

I nod and we sneak past him into my bedroom.

Craig, in a rare display of ambition, has already replaced the box of condoms. It's in the center of my bed. The fucker has topped the box with a bright red bow.

I don't know the proper reaction to this. Shrieking and swatting the box off the bed doesn't seem like a good one, nor does shoving Amy back out of the room and shouting "Avert your eyes! Avert your eyes!"

"Interesting," Amy says. She kind of sounds like she might be amused, but it's sort of a tentative state of amusement, one where it's very, very important that I explain the motivation behind this gift properly, or else there will not be a trip to Hunky Dory Dogs.

I force a chuckle at the wacky oddball humor of the situation. "I told him we were going to Rhode Island together, and that reminded him that he used up all of my condoms--not that our trip should have reminded him about that; it's just the way his mind works--and so he said that he was going to replace them. He doesn't replace things very often, so I guess that's why he thought he would try to be funny and put the bow on it." Is this a good place to stop? I can't tell. I decide to forge onward. "The box was in my dresser drawer. It's been so long since I used them that I didn't even notice the box was empty. I'm not that active. Sexually. So I never had any reason to look in the box. We discussed the fact that he should have just thrown the box away, but he didn't, because he's kind of a lazy person. He'll use the last of a roll of toilet paper and then just leave the empty cardboard tube on the holder and set the new roll on the side of the bathtub. One time I was out of town for a couple of weeks and when I came back there were four empty tubes on the side of the bathtub. I should get my own place."

"Yes," Amy says. "That sounds like it might be a good idea."

CHAPTER SIX

"I don't know about the rest of you, but when an orange man with four mouths tells me it's not safe to be here, I listen."

"See, to me, it's irrelevant that he's orange."

--Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 11

I take my suitcase out of my closet, toss it on my bed, unzip it, and open it, all while making a very strong effort to ignore the condoms. I don't want to spend a lot of time mulling over my clothing choices, so I just grab two casual shirts, three sweaters, and five pairs of jeans. Five pairs of boxer shorts and five pairs of socks follow. I don't have a jacket intended for northern climates, but I've got a decent blue one, and I'll just dress in layers. Amy has not yet announced the cancellation of our adventure.

"Let me grab my toothbrush and stuff," I say, leaving the bedroom. I get a gallon-sized plastic bag from the kitchen, take a moment to glare at Craig's unconscious body, and then hurry into the bathroom for my toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash, deodorant, shampoo, electric razor, charger for my electric razor, extra box of contact lenses, a bottle of aspirin...am I bringing too many toiletries? Maybe I shouldn't shave while we're gone. Well, no, I should at least keep the option open. I throw everything into the plastic bag, seal it up, and then leave the bathroom.

Craig opens his eyes. "You're home? Did I sleep through the whole day?"

"No."

"Bummer."

I ignore him and return to my bedroom. I toss the plastic bag into my suitcase and zip it back up. "Okay, I'm ready," I tell Amy, since she has yet to say anything along the lines of "I am so not getting in a car with you, and you know it."

We walk back into the living room. Craig sees Amy, and I know he's going to say something completely inappropriate.

"Hi," he says.

But he says it in a completely inappropriate manner. Craig is good at making "Hi" sound like "I'd like to bend you over this coffee table and pound away at your Xbox."

"Hi," Amy says. "The bow was a nice touch."

"Did you like that? That was a spur of the moment decision."

"It was very clever."

"If they're not the right brand, I can--"

"This is my horrible roommate Craig," I tell Amy. "I dislike him. Craig, this is Amy."

"Nice to meet you." Craig doesn't go so far as to stand up, but he does lean forward and extend his hand.

"You don't want to shake that hand," I tell Amy. "Anyway, Craig, we're leaving for Rhode Island now."

Craig looks extremely confused. "Is it Thursday?" For somebody who doesn't do drugs, he is remarkably adept at acting like a pothead.

"No. We're going early."

"What about work?"

"I'll explain everything to you when I get back."

"All right. Call me every night."

"I will."

Amy and I leave. Murdering another human being is wrong, but it also seems morally incorrect not to murder Craig at some point in the near future.

"Sorry about that," I tell her, as we walk over to my car. I pop the trunk and throw my suitcase inside.

"He seemed nice."

"He could be worse. At least he doesn't try to lick my ears while I sleep. And I'm sorry about the gift. I promise you, I had no--"

"We're going to erase that part of our history," Amy says.

"Thank you."

We get in the car. I can't believe we're really going to do this. This is completely unlike me. This is Todd 2.0. (Maybe 3.0. When I was nineteen, I did go through a phase where I spoke with a British accent.)

(An unconvincing British accent.)

(Not one person was ever fooled into thinking that the United Kingdom was my country of origin.)

(I prefer not to discuss that particular phase of my life.)

As I insert the key into the ignition, I suddenly feel like this is all a cruel joke. The car isn't going to start and I'm going to hear the loser theme from The Price is Right. No way am I really off to do something this exciting.

Of course, a large percentage of the world's population might suggest that going on a ridiculously long road trip just for a hot dog isn't very exciting at all. There are probably those who wouldn't travel fifteen minutes for a hot dog, much less twenty-two hours. This may be a story that I'm embarrassed to share in my later years. "Gee, Grandpa, you sure did do some lame-ass things when you were in your thirties!"

Not that it's about the hot dog, of course. It's about being with Amy. We'll find out pretty soon if we can stand to be around each other for extended periods of time. Some people don't discover this information until much later in the relationship.

The car starts just fine.

And, all of a sudden, I realize that I've spent very little time focusing on the fact that Amy is going to die.

* * *

My car is a twelve-year-old Honda Civic. It's only the second car I've ever owned, because I have no real interest in cars except as a means of transportation. I take an I'll replace this car when driving it puts me in severe physical danger approach to my vehicle. I got my first car in high school (very used) and kept driving it until the day it suddenly wouldn't go above 15 MPH on the freeway, and I spent nine terrifying miles whispering "Please, oh please, just get me home, that's all I ask!" It did, and then the poor thing never started again.

I glance up at the little reminder sticker on the corner of the windshield. I'm not overdue for an oil change, but I'm pretty close.

"I should probably get the oil changed," I say.

Amy leans over, looks at the sticker, then looks at the dashboard. "You don't really need one every 3000 miles. That's just something they say to get you to pay for more oil changes."

"I know, but now I've said it out loud. If we get stranded with engine problems, we'll have to look back at the moment where I said that I should probably get the oil changed. It will tear us apart." There's some sort of line, I assume, between being spontaneous and being kind of stupid, and if Amy judges me harshly because of my desire to responsibly change my oil before embarking on a road trip, then perhaps we weren't meant to be together.

"Then let's do it," Amy says.

Good. There's still a chance that we're soul mates.

The workers where I get my oil changed always try to upsell. They never alter their tactic: they change the oil and do their fourteen-point inspection, and then they tell me that my car is in fantastic shape, the tires are perfect, oh my God, they've never seen power steering fluid in such amazing condition, this car will run flawlessly for the next decade, it's obvious that I take great care of this vehicle, wow, the other employees can't stop talking about how this car literally has absolutely nothing wrong with it, this car is pristine, this car is the basis by which all other cars of this model should be judged, this car is the textbook example of automotive perfection, except one little thing, not an emergency but not something I would want to let go for too much longer, and they're happy to fix it, no problem, in fact they're running a special on that particular procedure today, although there's nothing they can do about the cost of the parts, that's the distributor's fault.

Sometimes I succumb. Sometimes I don't. This time, I don't. "Just the oil change," I say.

The worker asks me if I'm sure. Like he said, it's not an emergency, but this kind of thing can turn into a major repair pretty quickly, and though he's not suggesting that the car is unsafe to drive, this isn't something you should ignore.

"Thanks," I say. "Just the oil change for now."

The worker nods, though his nod indicates that when my automobile bursts into flames, he won't bother to visit me in the hospital's burn ward.

Our next stop is a gas station. I start to get out, but Amy waves for me to stay in my seat. "I'm getting this," she says, opening the door.

"You don't have to pay for gas."

"The hell I don't. I'm cheap, but I'm not a moocher."

She gets out of the car, swipes her card, and starts pumping the gas. I decide to stop offering to pay for expenses that we really should share. I don't want her to think that I'm trying to be a sugar daddy. Anyway, I'm not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination; I just don't buy much stuff.

She finishes pumping the gas and gets back in the car. "I'm totally serious about paying my share."

"I understand."

"I know I panicked a little bit over the prices at the seafood place. I'm clawing my way out of a financial mess from my divorce, but I'm not living paycheck to paycheck anymore. I threw away my credit cards, built up a cushion in my bank account, and I'm fine. Fifty percent of this trip is coming out of my debit card. No argument."

"Did you literally throw the cards away, or did you shred them?"

"I cut them up with scissors."

"Did you throw them away in the same bag of garbage?" I ask. "Identity thieves can piece those together."

"I guarantee you that I am more paranoid about that kind of thing than you are. Try finding out that somebody bought three thousand dollars' worth of fishing equipment on your stolen credit card number right before you go in for an MRI."

"That's a lot of lures."

"Yeah."

"Okay. I defer to your level of paranoia about identity theft. You win."

"Thank you. You're very agreeable."

"Not always. I didn't let that douche upsell my oil change."

Amy grins. "You're right, you didn't. So are we ready?"

"Should we run in and pick up more snacks?"

Amy shakes her head. "I've got some. Also pills and heroin. Not top-grade heroin--like I said, I'm cheap--but it'll get the job done."

"No meth?"

"Oh, fudge, are you a meth guy?"

"Yeah. My father was into meth and so was my grandfather, so there's always been a lot of pressure for me to become a meth head, too. Sometimes I just want to take my own path, but I don't have the courage."

"You should get out of your father's shadow. Don't let him control your life."

"I know, I know, but I just can't."

"You know what? Who am I to tell you how to live? First truck stop we see, I'll earn us enough money to get whatever you want. You deserve it."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

I've never known somebody who would joke about prostituting herself at a truck stop for meth money. I love her mix of sunshine and darkness.

My car doesn't have a GPS, but there's one on my phone, so we know that we need to get onto I-75N, where we'll be spending the next 79.2 miles of our 1316.08-mile journey.

"Does your car have an adapter for an iPod?" Amy asks. "I made us a 'Road Trip To Providence' playlist."

"Sorry, no."

"That's okay." She leans back and grabs a small case out of her duffel bag. "I've got CD's, too. What do you want to listen to first?"

She lists musician after musician that I don't recognize. Then she gets to a band whose name I recognize, but I have no idea if I like their music or not.

"Do you have anything hot dog-themed?" I ask.

"Not literally. Metaphorically, pretty much every other song."

I believe that is a dick joke, but I'm not positive, and I don't ask for clarification.

"You pick," I say.

She puts in a CD for a band called Cowlick Shaved. The guitars screech, but you can completely understand the lyrics, and I kind of like it.

We exit off 275 onto 75 and I accelerate to the speed limit of seventy miles per hour. Then I decelerate as I see red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

"Is that for us?" Amy asks.

"I don't think so...I think he's after...no, wait, yeah, it's us." I pull onto the shoulder and the cop stops behind me.

"You were kidding about the heroin, right?" I ask. I'm ninety-eight percent kidding when I ask her if she was kidding.

Crap. I don't know this woman at all. What if there's a warrant out for her arrest? What if she's on parole and she's not allowed to cross state lines? What if this turns into a hostage situation and bullets start flying?

I wasn't speeding. My taillights are in working order. I didn't run any red lights or do that thing at a stop sign where you almost stop but don't quite reach a state of motionlessness. This has got to be about Amy.

I turn off the engine and take out my wallet. "Could you get the registration out of the glove compartment?" I ask.

Amy opens it. "Wow. That is one tidy glove compartment."

"Thanks."

She doesn't seem to be any more nervous than any regular person might be when pulled over by a police officer. There's no evidence yet that she's going to put a gun to my head and shout "Drive, asshole, drive!"

The cop, a young, tall woman, gets out of the car and walks over. Her partner, a middle-aged man, also gets out of the car but does not approach my vehicle.

I roll down the window. The cop gives me a friendly nod. "May I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, sir?"

I hand it over. My hands are trembling a bit, but I don't drop anything, which is good, because when I reached down to pick it back up it might look like I was going for a gun, and that's never a good impression to give when a police officer has pulled you over.

The cop glances quickly at the stuff I've given her. "The reason I've pulled you over, sir, is that it's against the law in the state of Florida for your tag to be obstructed. You have a license plate cover that partially blocks the tag."

My license plate cover is in the shape of shark jaws. It's pretty neat.

"Oh," I say. "I didn't realize it was blocking anything. Sorry about that."

For a split second I'm tempted to ask why this hasn't been a problem in the six years that I've had the shark jaws cover, but I don't. I hate when people do that kind of thing ("But they let me on the plane with my oversized luggage on the first flight!") and I'm not going to be that guy.

"This won't be a ticket or a written warning," the cop assures me. "Just make sure your tag is not obstructed."

"I will."

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

She leaves with my paperwork. The other cop immediately walks over to my car.

"Hello, sir," he says.

"Hi."

"The officer you just spoke to is currently in training, and I would like to ask you a couple of questions about her performance. Did she clearly explain the reason that you were pulled over?"

"Yes."

"Did she ask for your license, registration, and proof of insurance?"

"Yes."

"Was she courteous and respectful?"

"Yes. Very." Is he going to ask me to fill out a comment card?

"And you know that it's against the law in the state of Florida for your tag to be obstructed, right?"

"I do now."

"Just try to get that taken care of as soon as you can. She'll be back with you in a couple of minutes. You two have a pleasant day."

"We will. Thank you very much."

The cop leaves.

Amy looks at me. "Well, that was...polite."

I'm extremely relieved, although I suppose they could still come back and explain that my passenger has left a trail of dead bodies from Phoenix to Tampa.

The female cop returns, hands me back my license, registration, and proof of insurance, then tells me to have a good day.

I don't want these cops to hunt me down ("I told you not to let your license plate cover obstruct your tag, motherfucker!") so I pull off at the next exit and park at a gas station. We get out and walk to the rear of the car.

One of the shark's teeth covers a sliver of one of the numbers. Yes, I can see the cop's point, but you can totally tell it's a 2. Still, I'd better take care of this.

"Did you pack a screwdriver by any chance?" I ask.

"No, sorry."

I didn't, either. There's no tool kit in the car, because I didn't anticipate having to do an emergency license plate cover removal.

"They might have one inside that you can borrow," Amy says. "Want me to ask?"

"Nah, I think I can just bend it out of the way."

My thirty-five years of life have not been free of mistakes. That said, I'm not the kind of man who bumbles his way through his existence, goofing things up left and right. I'd like to believe that, overall, my ratio of good decisions to bad ones favors the good ones. If I were to break my arm flying a kite, people wouldn't chuckle and say "Yep, that's Todd for ya!"

But trying to bend a metal shark tooth with my bare thumb? Not my most brilliant idea.

I let out a wince--okay, a yelp--and recoil from the vicious license plate cover. My thumb is already bleeding. I'm not sure how deep the cut is, but based on the level of pain, I expect half of my thumb to fold over like a banana being peeled.

Amy lets out a wince--a real wince--and takes my hand in hers. "Do you have a first-aid kit?" she asks.

"No."

I decide that spontaneous vacations suck. We should have gone on Thursday. Then I might have brought a screwdriver and a first-aid kit.

"I'll be right back," Amy says, hurrying into the gas station.

The pain is...well, after the initial sting, it's not really unbearable. There's no reason to be a baby about it. I inspect the wound, and though nobody will hire me as a thumb model (at least not while the blood is still gushing) I don't think it will need stitches.

And the blood isn't really gushing. It's just leaking.

If it leaves a scar, I'm going to tell people that it was a shark bite. (Though, of course, I will quickly follow that with a clarification of the actual circumstances. I'm no liar.)

I'm not getting dizzy. I refuse to get dizzy. Accidentally cutting myself in front of Amy probably won't have much of an impact on this trip, but if I pass out before we've even left Tampa, she may reconsider.

A woman pumping her gas is looking at me. I get the sense that she thinks that a person who is just standing around bleeding all over himself is not very smart.

Amy returns, holding some paper towels and a box of Band-Aids. She wraps a couple of the paper towels around my thumb, and I wait for the cloth to suddenly turn red. Though it does turn red, it's a more gradual process than I predicted.

Amy takes the paper towel away. "It doesn't look that gross," she says. "How bad does it hurt?"

"Not too bad. It's fine."

"You should rinse it off," says Amy. "But not in there. That's no place to clean a cut. Trust me. It was a bad, bad restroom."

She wraps my thumb again, and we walk over to the gas station next to this one. It's hard to imagine that the previous restroom was worse, though I take solace in the fact that I can't actually see the bacteria leaping into my wound. I rinse my thumb off. It's not so grisly. The whole digit will still be attached when I wake up in the morning.

"How is it?" Amy asks as I emerge from the gas station. I give her a bloody-towel-wrapped thumbs-up. She carefully puts a bandage on me. "There," she says. "All better."

Because my dignity is a bit shaky, I'm relieved that she doesn't give my thumb a mommy-style kiss, but also a bit disappointed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Wow, you squished the crap out of that moth."

--Exit Red, Season 5, Episode 10

Using the bottom of her shirt to protect her fingers, Amy tries to bend the shark tooth out of the way. I'm certainly not rooting against her, but I'd also prefer that she not effortlessly complete this task in half a second.

Apparently the license plate cover is of higher quality than I would have suspected from something I bought at a theme park, because she can't get the tooth to move. The amount of time I spend focusing on masculine pride is infinitesimal, yet I can't help but feel grateful that she didn't make me look even more like a dumbass.

One of the employees in the gas station lets her borrow a screwdriver, and she hands it over to me. The screws are rusty, but I get them out without showing evidence of a struggle, and remove the cover.

So the day I start to live my life in a more dangerous fashion, I have to take the shark jaws off? What kind of stupid symbolism is that? I should be adding more shark jaws to my car!

Amy returns the screwdriver and then says that she'll take the first driving shift. This is kind of disappointing; I think that somehow, deep inside, I believed that I'd impress the hell out of her with my astounding driving endurance. But the more I protest, the more she'll be thinking I can't believe I have to drive first shift because this dork cut his thumb, so I say "Sure," and get into the passenger seat.

Once again I have this gut-wrenching feeling that the car isn't going to start.

But it does. We get back onto I-75, and now our adventure begins.

I hope I'm not carrying the plague in my thumb wound. It would be incredibly irresponsible to drive through several states, spreading disease. I don't want to be Patient Zero.

I cleaned the cut thoroughly. Yes, there was rust in the screws, and yes, microscopic particles could have coated the metal shark teeth as well, but there's really no need to seek medical attention. That would totally ruin our trip. Amy would be right to abandon me.

Not that I ever actually seek medical attention. I just think about seeking medical attention.

My thumb is fine. I know my thumb is fine. I need to squelch the hypochondriac part of my personality for the next few days.

I ask myself, what would Craig say?

(Approximate answer: "Shut up.")

"Did you call your boss?" Amy asks.

"Not yet. I figured I'd do it this evening."

"Don't forget."

What if we're having so much fun that I forget? Such a thing is entirely possible. "I should probably call her now."

"Do you have your story planned out?"

"Yeah. I'm going to keep it simple." An obvious sign of a lie is when you give too many unnecessary details. I promise this isn't something I know from extensive experience as a liar.

"Do you want to practice?"

"Sure." I close my eyes to get into character. "'Hi, Gigi, this is Todd. Sorry to do this to you, but I've had some bad news. My grandmother just passed away, so I'm on my way to Rhode Island for the funeral. I'll keep you posted, but I don't think I'll be back until Thursday. Sorry again. Talk to you later. Bye.'" I include the Rhode Island part, because when one is lying it's best to use as much of the truth as possible. Again, I swear this is not a skill set I've put to frequent use.

"That works."

I take out my cell phone, suddenly feeling very guilty about this whole idea. I don't know why. It's a victimless crime, unless you count the corporation that will be paying me bereavement time when I'm not really bereaved. I'm pretty sure the stockholders will be okay.

Granted, that's the kind of rationalization people use for criminal activities all the time, but...screw it, I want to go to Rhode Island, and therefore my grandmother has to die again.

I go to my contacts and find Genevieve Stein's work number. She's at least five years younger than me, and in fact I trained her when she first started, but her career trajectory from my trainee to my boss doesn't bother me at all. I can just sit there and peacefully do my work. She has to deal with crap like auditors, performance reviews, and employees calling in fake grandmother deaths.

"Do you need to sound like you're crying?" Amy asks. "I could tell you a sad story or squeeze your thumb."

"Nah."

"Would it be funny if I shouted 'Untie me, you son of a bitch!' while you're leaving the message?"

"Hilarious, but please don't."

"Okay."

I press the call button. Gigi's phone rings a couple of times.

It's Sunday. 11:54 AM. The expectation that I would be delivering a short rehearsed message into her voice mail was perfectly reasonable, so I actually flinch when she answers.

"Hello, Genevieve Stein."

"Uh..."

Our phones at work don't have caller ID. I could have hung up on her if I hadn't said "Uh..."

"Hello?" she repeats.

"Hi, Gigi, it's me."

"Todd?"

"Yeah."

"What can I do for you?"

"I've had some bad news today. Do you remember my grandmother?"

She's never met my grandmother, obviously, or even any of my non-deceased relatives. I'm babbling already. This could be problematic.

"I don't think you ever introduced me to her. Oh, God, did she pass away?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, that's terrible! You poor dear! I'm so sorry to hear that! Did she suffer?"

"No, no, she died in her sleep."

"How old was she?"

Somebody who was not freaking out over lying to his boss would give an intelligent answer, such as, perhaps, eighty or eighty-one. Instead, I say: "Sixty."

"Sixty? Oh, that's so young! I had no idea!"

I've just created a scenario in which my grandmother had my mom when she was thirteen, and my mom had me when she was twelve. This is why my career involves typing and not my extemporaneous speaking skills.

"Sorry, I meant sixty-eight. It's been a rough day. I'm not thinking straight."

"Well, of course you're not, you poor thing. Are your parents holding up okay? Was it your mom's mom or your dad's mom?"

"My mom's mom. She's doing all right, I guess. About as well as you can expect under the circumstances." I had no idea that the human body could produce so much perspiration. I wish I'd packed more shirts.

"That's so sad. You'll be in my prayers." She sounds like she's about to cry. I am a crappy, crappy, crappy person. Gigi even lets out a sniffle.

"Thank you," I say. "That means a lot. Anyway, I'm on my way to Rhode Island, so I won't be able to come in tomorrow."

"I didn't know you had family in Rhode Island."

"Just my grandmother."

"Where in Rhode Island?" She asks this as somebody who is legitimately curious, not as an interrogator, but my body finds hidden reserves of sweat to wring out of my pores.

"Providence."

"Oh, I love Providence! I know you'll be busy while you're there, but you'll still have to eat, so make sure you try the lobster rolls."

"I will." If she'd said saugies, I'm sure I would have immediately blurted out a confession and started sobbing and begging for forgiveness.

I hope Amy doesn't cough. She doesn't look like she's going to cough, and she hasn't coughed the entire time I've known her, but I still really hope she doesn't cough.

"Do you have the name of the funeral home? I'll make sure we send flowers from the whole department."

"Oh, no, I don't know it yet, but as soon as I know I'll let you know." I'm surprised I don't end that sentence with "you know?"

"Please do. I'm really sorry about this, Todd. Are you doing all right? Do you want to talk about it? I was absolutely devastated when my own grandmother died, and it really did help to talk about my feelings."

"No, my feelings are okay. Honestly, I was never around her very much." This is true of all four of my grandparents, although their early deaths played a role in that. "It's really more about my mom." I did say that it was my mom's mom, right? Shit. I'm pretty sure I did, but I'm not one hundred percent positive. Shit. I might be messing this up. Shit.

"Okay, well, if it becomes difficult and you want a sympathetic ear, just give me a call. You have my cell number, right?"

"Yes." She hasn't called me out on a continuity error, so, I must have said that it was my mom's mom. I feel like I'm going to vomit. If I don't end this call in the next few moments, I may have to explain it away as grief puke.

"Don't be afraid to use it. Are you driving up alone?"

Unless I've been hiding a local sister, the answer pretty much has to be "yes," so that's what I say. Please don't cough, Amy. Don't cough...don't cough...

"That's a long drive. Why didn't you just fly?"

"Airline tickets were way too expensive."

"Really? Tampa to Providence shouldn't be that bad. With gas prices so high I'd think that the cost of an airline ticket would almost be a wash. How far out of town are you? Do you want me to see what I can find?"

Using as much of the truth as possible was a stupid idea. Why would I drive all the way to frickin' Rhode Island by myself? "It happened last night," I say. "I'm already a few hours into the trip, and I wanted this time to help me work things out."

"Make sure you take lots of breaks."

"I will."

"And take care of yourself."

"I will."

"Call me if you need anything. I'm just here working on some reports that have to be done first thing tomorrow, but again, don't hesitate to use my cell. And let me know which funeral home she's at so we can send the flowers."

"Okay."

"Are you sure you don't want to talk? I can multi-task."

"No, I should probably check on my mom."

"Give her my best and tell her she's in my thoughts. Don't worry about anything here. We'll make sure your desk is covered. Family has to come first."

"Thank you."

"Let me know if you need anything."

"I will."

I hang up.

"Are you okay?" Amy asks.

"I might need you to pull over so I can throw up, but I'm not sure yet. Give me a second."

I sit there, eyes closed, taking deep breaths, counting to ten. By the time I reach ten, I'm fairly confident that I am not going to vomit, so I open my eyes again.

"I'm good," I say.

My phone rings again. It's Gigi.

I don't want to answer, but I probably should. "Hello?"

"Hi, Todd. Sorry to bother you again, but I can't believe I didn't ask what your grandmother died from. That was so thoughtless of me."

"It was a stroke," I say.

"That's awful. I'm sorry again for your loss."

"Thank you."

"The second I hung up I couldn't believe how rude I'd been. You'd think I was the one who just had a family tragedy."

"It's okay."

"Anyway, I'll talk to you soon."

"All right."

I hang up.

"She just wanted to ask what my grandmother died of," I explain.

"Didn't you already say she died in her sleep?"

I frown. Yes, I did. But that's not quite the same as telling her the actual medical cause. I don't think Gigi was trying to catch me in a lie.

"She's just concerned," I say.

Amy looks kind of distressed. "I didn't get you in trouble, did I?"

"No. She's a very caring person. That's what makes her a good boss."

Amy sighs with relief.

"She did ask me to give her the name of the funeral home so she can send flowers. That's not so awesome."

"Hmmm." Amy thinks about that for a moment. "Tell her that in lieu of flowers, your grandmother wanted donations to her favorite charity."

"That's a good idea."

"I'm sorry I led you down the criminal path."

"It's okay."

"Though I have to admit, it's a relief to know that you're such a shitty liar."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Do you want me to beg?"

"No, Abner, I want you to--actually, yeah, a little begging sounds good. Let's go with that."

--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 9

Now that the issues with law enforcement, employment, and mutilation have been resolved, the drive begins to go smoothly. We don't talk about anything deep or important, mostly just movies, books, and our shared lack of interest in the Winter Olympics. I'm shocked when we reach our exit--those eighty miles went by in no time.

The next forty miles go equally quickly, despite one missed turn because I wasn't paying enough attention to the GPS on my phone. In the pre-GPS world, it would have taken about seventeen turns and eight thousand words' worth of cursing to get back on course, but modern technology allows us to correct this with very little inconvenience. And then we're on 1-95N, our highway for the next 560.1 miles of our journey.

We've been munching on our film festival rations, but we haven't had lunch yet. I had asked if we should stick with groceries or chain restaurants on the way up, so that we don't diminish the glory of Hunky Dory Dogs, but Amy said no, we should find cool places along the way.

"We should be on the lookout for a really scary barbecue place," she says.

"Scary as in, homeless people keep disappearing in the vicinity?"

"Not quite that bad, but the best barbecue places are the ones that look structurally unsound."

"I don't think I've ever eaten at a barbecue place that felt like it was going to collapse on me."

"Then you're missing out. What's the best one you've ever eaten at? Non-chain."

I think about this question for a moment. My answer is kind of pathetic, but I'm done with my web of lies for the day, so I have to be honest. "I'm not sure I've ever eaten at a non-chain barbecue place."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Food-wise, I'm not very adventurous."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-five."

"In thirty-five years, you've never eaten at a skeevy barbecue place?"

"Nope."

"Was your family vegetarian?"

I shake my head. "My parents were carnivores. I just don't vary things much."

"When you eat out, do you always order the same thing?"

"Not all of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"Pretty much most of the time."

"So do you get the salmon with dill cream sauce every time you go to a seafood place?"

"Not always with dill cream sauce. And sometimes I'm in the mood for fried stuff. I shake things up a little; I'm not a robot."

"Well, I'm not going to judge you," Amy says. "But we are going to find a delicious-smelling barbecue joint and get the best pulled pork you've ever had. Or we're going to get food poisoning. One of those. See what you can find on your app."

I take my cell phone out of my pocket and check the restaurant-finder app. A few options pop up. "We're 5.3 miles away from Sandy's BBQ. Next exit, then right."

"Then we're going to Sandy's."

"Average rating is 3.8 stars."

"Don't look at reviews."

"Can I call to make sure they're open on Sunday?"

"Yes, you can do that."

The app has a handy "Call" button, so I touch that. "Hello?" a cheerful female voice answers.

It feels kind of silly to ask if they're open, since somebody answered the phone. "What are your hours today?"

"Noon to around six."

"Thank you." I hang up and put the phone back in my pocket. "They're open. Do you think they'll have a happy pig on their sign?"

"Most likely. Pig cannibalism is a recurring theme in these places."

"Do you think that those mascot pigs actually enjoy eating their own kind, or are they faking it to keep from being eaten themselves?"

Amy furrows her brow in mock intense concentration. "Hmmm. Bacon is pretty delicious, so you can't really blame the pigs. I don't know what human flesh tastes like, but if it tasted like bacon, I mean, come on."

"I hear it tastes like chicken."

"The flavor of chicken isn't enough to make me cross that moral line."

"So what you're saying is that if human flesh tasted like pig flesh, you'd become a cannibal?"

Amy shook her head. "That's not what I'm saying at all. Stop trying to twist my words. We're talking about the pig mascots, not me. You're trying to make me out to be a monster, and I won't have it."

"My bad."

"Do people still say 'my bad'?"

"In this car they do."

"Gotcha. My true opinion is that these poor pigs are horrified by the idea of devouring their own kind. They're haunted by what they've become, and every night their sleep is disturbed by unspeakable nightmares, yet what choice do they have?"

"You know," I say, "I don't think I've ever seen a pig mascot who was actually eating the barbecue. They're licking their chops and smiling as if it looks and smells delicious, but you never see a pig with a rack of ribs in its mouth."

"You're right. Maybe they're forced to endorse the practice but not actually partake of it themselves."

"They're forced to be hypocrites," I say. Then I wish I'd said They're forced into hypocrisy, which might have been slightly funnier.

"That's what I think is going on," says Amy. "Or at least, those are the motives I attribute to cartoon pigs that never existed. Can you imagine if they used a picture of a real pig with a plate of bacon in front of it?"

"You mean if they Photoshopped a smile onto it?"

"Yeah."

"I probably wouldn't eat there."

"Me either, but I don't like Photoshopped pictures of animals in general."

"Yeah, those give me the creeps," I say. "But we're getting derailed from the cannibalism discussion. Have you seen the signs where the pigs aren't happy? I used to drive by one every day where the pig was tied over an open flame. He was scared and sweating like crazy."

"I'd much rather know that my food was okay with the idea of being consumed."

"Absolutely. You'd think they'd want to--sorry, this is our exit."

She takes the exit, and with no wrong turns we pull into the dirt parking lot of the barbecue place. There are a few other cars there. It's always a good sign when other human beings have made the same restaurant choice as you.

Of course, it's not actually a "restaurant," it's more like a tent with an open pit next to it. A jolly guy who looks like he frequently samples his own wares is tending to the pit, while an equally jolly but less rotund woman takes orders. There are about ten people ahead of us, so we take our place in line. The aroma is extremely promising.

There is no pig on the sign. The Q in "Sandy's BBQ" had to be compressed to fit.

The menu is handwritten on a dry-erase board. A couple of items have been rubbed out.

"Do you want to split a combo platter?" Amy asks. "We'd get ribs, pulled pork, beef brisket, and two sides."

"Sounds great."

"Which sides? You pick but I get veto power."

"How about potato salad and coleslaw?"

It's clear from her expression that this would not be her choice, but she doesn't invoke her veto power.

It's a slow moving line, because the lady running the register is also doing several other jobs, as well as chatting with the customers. The man in front of us lets out an annoyed sigh approximately every fifteen seconds. By the time he is four people away from being able to place his order, he has graduated to muttering "C'mon, let's get a move on" and "For Christ's sake, what's taking so long?"

I want to tell him to chill out, but he looks about six-three and has the build of a football player. I am not six-three and do not have the build of a football player. Nor do I have a Japanese symbol tattooed on my neck (I don't know what it means, but I'm guessing it's Japanese for Man Who Believes Japanese Symbol Tattoo Makes Him Look Like Badass). So I settle for rolling my eyes at Amy.

When he finally reaches the front, he orders a full rack of ribs with a side of applesauce.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie," the lady says with a friendly smile. "We're out of applesauce."

"You're what?" He steps back and glances over at the menu, as if to find proof that she's a goddamned liar. You can see where applesauce has been rubbed off the dry erase board. "How can you be out of applesauce?"

"It went quick today. It's all homemade, but I'm making a whole new batch tonight."

"Well, that doesn't do me any good now, does it?" He sighs with a cosmic level of annoyance. I wonder if this applesauce was instrumental in a plan to save the world. He mutters something under his breath. "You guys need to plan better."

The lady's smile doesn't waver. "I do apologize. It's just the two of us doing everything, you know?"

"Well, if you can't run a restaurant by yourselves, hire some help. This is bullshit."

Now her smile wavers just a bit. "There's no call for that kind of language, sir. How about our coleslaw? I make it fresh every morning."

"How about not? Just give me..." He steps back and looks at the menu again, taking a surprising amount of time for somebody who was so concerned with the speed of the line. "You know what, just skip the side."

"You sure, sweetie? We've got baked beans, potato salad, macaroni salad..."

"If you're out of applesauce, I don't want anything."

"I do apologize, sir."

"Yeah, well, that and a nickel will get me..." He trails off, apparently unable to figure out what that and a nickel will get him.

The lady grabs a paper plate and goes to retrieve his ribs. The man looks back at me. "Don't bother trying to order the applesauce," he says.

"I won't," I assure him. "They'd already erased it from the menu."

He stands up straighter and glares at me. I'm pretty sure that the next words out of his mouth will be "What the hell did you just say to me, you little prick?"

But the lady returns with his lunch, and he grudgingly pays her instead of kicking my ass. When she hands him his change, he shoves it into his pocket, then pushes the plate back toward her. "Could you get me different ones?"

"Is there a problem, sir?"

"Look at them. They're nothing but fat."

Though I admittedly don't have ribs every often, they look fine to me. To her credit, the lady does not stab him in the face with one of the rib bones, but instead apologizes and retrieves a new rack.

The man looks at his replacement order and shakes his head. "You know what? Just forget it. Give me my money back."

Amy lets out a very tiny snort of derisive laughter.

"Got a problem?" the man asks her.

"If you're looking for a fat-free food, maybe barbecue ribs aren't the way to go."

"Mind your own business, skank," he says, then extends his palm as the lady refunds his money.

In my life, I have only had two true girlfriends. Also two relationships that I thought were boyfriend/girlfriend but the female may have disagreed. Only one of the relationships lasted more than a year. That's a pretty small part of my life spent in a relationship, but still, I've got some girlfriend experience. So it surprises me that this is the first-ever instance of me needing to defend a woman's honor.

What am I supposed to do? Punch him out? Kick him in the nuts? Ignore his comment and hope that Amy is turned on by guys who fear confrontation?

The answer is clear: ask him to apologize.

My stomach feels like I've shotgunned a can of acid.

I try to put myself in his shoes. Maybe he'd had a rough day so far, and the one ray of sunshine in his life was the thought that he'd get to have some homemade applesauce from Sandy's BBQ. As his life crumbled around him, he kept thinking Yes, my wife just left me, I got laid off from my job, my daughter is a pregnant prostitute, my son tried to assassinate the governor, and the bank is foreclosing on my home, but I won't shove the barrel of a revolver into my mouth just yet, because I know that my life will seem like less of a hellhole once that sweet applesauce passes my lips.

What if I demand an apology, and that's the thing that pushes him over the brink? Can I bear to have his suicide on my conscience?

The police officer will shake his head sadly at me as he takes photographs of the brains and blood that litter the side of the BBQ place. "You couldn't have just let the skank comment slide, huh? I hope it was worth it. Yeah, he was a picky eater, but did he deserve this?" he'd ask, scooping up a handful of brain matter.

It's possible that I'm overthinking this matter.

I glance at Amy, hoping that maybe she didn't hear his comment.

She did.

Okay. Well. My options are limited.

Machismo is not part of my lifestyle, but unless I go with the grab-Amy's-hand-and-flee tactic, which is unlikely to create a pleasant environment for the rest of the trip, I have to ask him to apologize.

"Sir, that's really not cool," I tell him. "I think you owe her an apology." I should probably have been firmer, but overall that wasn't too bad.

His entire body seems to inflate. I suspect that he will not be offering the apology.

"Get out of my face," he says.

I was nowhere near his face. "I understand that you've probably had a bad day," I tell him, "but you can't talk to my girlfriend like that."

Did I really call Amy my girlfriend? Shit. Somehow I've just added an extra level of awkwardness to this situation.

"Piss off," he tells me. The phrase sounds weird when it's not spoken in a British accent. During the phase of my life that I don't like to talk about, I used it all the time.

The lady at the register says nothing, but she kind of looks like she wants to see a fight.

"You should do the right thing and apologize," I tell him. I hope that "or I'll beat the crap out of you" is implied, but not so blatant that he takes it as a challenge.

"Maybe you should let this drop," he says. His fingers seem to be slightly moving in the direction of clenching into a fist, though it may be my overactive imagination.

Amy takes me by the hand. "Come on, let's go," she says, turning back toward the car.

If she leads me away, do I still get credit for having tried to defend her honor? Should I do something to indicate that I'm being dragged away against my will?

I give a very gentle tug.

My hand pops out of hers.

Fuck.

And then I see the man's fist moving, with great velocity, toward my face.

CHAPTER NINE

"I'm going to give you a break because you just watched your mother get burned away by lava, but if you talk to me that way again, I'll kill you."

--Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 4

It turns out that I am not a great ducker. His punch gets me right in the mouth. My jaw explodes with pain. For a split second I think it might have literally exploded, but fortunately it was just a figurative explosion.

I'm pleased to note that I don't drop to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been cut, which is sort of how I'd always expected I'd react. I remain fully upright, despite a minor wobbling in my legs.

Several people around us gasp.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry!" the man says, his eyes widening in horror. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that! Are you okay? I didn't hit you that hard, did I?"

I nod, although I'm not sure which of the questions I'm answering.

The man raises his hands, palms-out, to show that he's not going to hit me again. "I'm sorry, I just..." He closes his eyes and starts to tremble. A tear trickles down his cheek.

"Do you need me to call 911?" the lady at the register asks.

I rub my jaw. "No, I think I'm okay." My lip is bleeding and the pain is still brutal, but a quick test with my tongue shows that all of my teeth are in their original positions.

Amy pulls me a couple of steps back, out of further harm's way.

The man opens his eyes. "I lost my job this morning," he says. "They're moving our department to Portland. I like Portland and all, but I can't move my whole family there. I haven't told my wife. I've known since Friday, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. So I thought I would make myself feel better with some Sandy's BBQ, but the line took forever, and the ribs they gave me were all fatty, and they didn't have the applesauce, and..." He succumbs to tears again.

Everybody is staring at us. I almost feel like I should give him a comforting hug.

A drop of my blood hits my shoe.

"Oh, God, can I..." The man frantically glances around. "...can I get you a wet wipe?"

"He's fine," says Amy, continuing to lead me away. "Sorry about your job."

We walk back to the car. I'm still not sure if I was heroic or pathetic.

Amy opens the door for me. I climb inside, dabbing at my bleeding lip with the bandage on my thumb.

She gets back in on the driver's side, shuts the door, and fastens her seat belt. "Thanks for defending me," she says, her tone non-committal. "That was nice of you. You didn't have to do that."

"No problem."

"But don't do it again."

"He called you a--"

"I heard. In the future, though, just walk away."

"All right."

Amy sits silently for a moment, key in the ignition, not turning it.

"Okay, I have to be honest. If he'd called me a skank and you'd just walked away, I would have been disappointed. It's completely unreasonable to expect you to take a punch for me, but I appreciate that you did. So thanks again. However, now that you've defended me once, I really mean it, don't do it again."

"I won't."

"Good."

She turns the key in the ignition. I just know that the car isn't going to start, and the man is going to suddenly realize that we've got unfinished business, but once again the car starts fine. I should probably stop worrying about it.

I glance over and see the lady (Sandy?) running toward us with a Styrofoam container. I roll down the window as she reaches the car.

"I'm sorry you had an unpleasant dining experience with us," she says, handing me the container. "Please accept these ribs on the house."

"Did you throw in some applesauce?" I ask, trying to show that I'm not in too much pain to say something funny.

The woman frowns.

"I was joking," I tell her. A drop of blood patters against the Styrofoam.

"Please come again," the woman says. I roll the window back up as she leaves.

"Free ribs," says Amy. "Nice work. If you're willing to take a few more blows, you could subsidize the meals for our entire trip."

I open the lid. The sweet aroma of barbecue sauce fills the car. "I hate to say it, but looking at them up close, I think he was right. These ribs are pretty fatty."

Amy glances down at them. "Jeez, there's nothing but fat on them."

I swipe my index finger across the top of one of them and pop it in my mouth. "Good sauce, though."

Amy does the same. "Yep. But look underneath the sauce. Pure fat. Oh, no, wait, my mistake, I do see a bit of gristle right there. And, mmmmm, an unidentifiable blob. Nummy."

"The sauce is coagulating faster than my lip blood."

Amy points to one of the ribs. "Why is that part purple?"

"Should we throw them away?" I ask.

"Hell no. Free ribs!"

We sit in the car and eat the ribs. We feel a bit of shame as we do so, in much the way that I could never fully enjoy a deep-fried Twinkie, as if a line of human dignity has been crossed. But I have to admit that these grilled strips of fat are actually rather tasty.

The man who punched me is sitting at a picnic table, nibbling on the corner of a rib, looking forlorn. Though I know I shouldn't pity somebody who split my lip and insulted Amy, I can't help it. He just seems devastated.

"I feel bad for the guy," I tell Amy.

Amy nods. "Yeah, me too." She picks up another rib, then sets it back down as she sees my expression. "Oh, I thought you were kidding. I don't feel sorry for that psycho at all."

"Do you have any gum?"

"Why?"

"I thought I might offer him a piece of gum."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"You're a weirdo."

"He lost his job."

"That doesn't mean he gets to act like a bully. When I found out about my brain problem, I didn't go around punching people. He's a jerk."

"I guess you're right."

"Yeah, I'm right. At least wait until your lip has stopped swelling before you feel guilty."

"I don't feel guilty. I just feel sorry for him."

Amy looks over at him. "He does seem pretty sad."

"Yeah."

She sighs. "Fine, fine. Give the psychopath some gum." She wipes her hands with a napkin, then picks up her purse and rifles through the contents for a couple of minutes. "I thought I had some gum but I guess I don't. I've got spearmint Tic-Tacs." She rattles the plastic container. "Two of them."

"I'll take 'em."

She hands me the box. "Don't get punched again."

"I won't."

I get out of the car. This is really unlike me. I'm not very outgoing under normal circumstances, much less prone to reaching out to people who've committed acts of physical violence against me. Am I subconsciously showing off for Amy? I hope not. That would be really lame.

The man looks up as I walk over to him. He seems confused, though not particularly concerned that I might kick his ass.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey."

"I want you to know that I forgive you. I understand what you're going through, so I'm sure your wife will understand, too."

"Thank you," he says. "I wasn't worried about my wife not understanding, though. I was worried about her being sad."

"Oh. Well, yeah, I assume that she'll be sad. But you'll get through it."

"You don't know me, or my wife, or what job I lost."

"You're right. I don't. Do you want a Tic-Tac?"

The man stares at me for a long moment, then gives me a slight nod. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, I do." He holds out his hand and I shake the two remaining Tic-Tacs into it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Why do you even care what happens to me? I was a total fuckhead to you."

I shrug. "I'm not sure. You just looked bummed out."

He pops a Tic-Tac into his mouth. "Well, you being cool about the whole thing helps. I mean that."

"No problem."

He extends his hand. "I'm Howard."

"Todd." We shake hands.

I don't have an exit line for this conversation, so I just give him a friendly nod and return to the car.

"I'm not going to lie," says Amy. "That was very odd."

"I know. Let's get out of here."

* * *

I don't believe in the idea that you can tempt fate, or even the idea of fate itself. However, when I start to say, "I wonder what my next injury will be?" I stop myself, just in case.

Before we get back onto the highway, Amy stops at a convenience store. "I'll be right back," she says. "I'm going to get you an ice pack."

She returns with two of them. I can't fault her logic.

We get back onto I-95, and then for the next hour...we sing.

There is a very wide chasm between our singing abilities. Amy might not have a professional musical career ahead of her, but her voice is pleasant and she can definitely carry a tune. I can carry a tune about as well as I can carry an ocean liner. My voice sounds like I'm singing badly on purpose, even though I swear I'm trying my best.

I also don't know many song lyrics, which means that I can only sing along to the refrain, with about thirty-two percent accuracy. But I'm having a great time, and unless Amy is good at faking it, she is too.

"Ooh! Ooh!" she says, pointing ahead. "Gummi bear tractor!"

"Where?"

"On the sign. The next exit has the gummi bear tractor."

"Well, damn, we can't miss that."

"We sure as hell can't. I hope your phone is fully charged, because we've got some serious photo ops ahead of us!"

She pulls off at the next exit. I don't see any billboards announcing this amazing marvel. "Which way?"

"Left at the light, then seven miles. That's okay, right?"

"Absolutely!"

She makes the left turn. "I don't know why they didn't have a sign earlier. We could have been anticipating the gummi bear tractor for the past couple of hours. It shouldn't be a spur-of-the-moment decision; families need time to plan."

As we continue along the road, our surroundings feel less and less like the kind of place where we won't get attacked by feral children. I don't know if there's a campground nearby, but if there is, a crazy old man will warn us not to go there.

After about five miles, a sign reads "Gummy Bear Tractor" with an arrow pointing forward. I have a very minor pet peeve about it being spelled "gummy" instead of "gummi," but this is not a quirk I wish to share with Amy at this time.

We drive for a couple more miles, avoiding potholes the size of hot tubs, and then we arrive at a fairly non-descript gift shop. A large sign indicates that this is, indeed, the "Home Of The Gummy Bear Tractor."

"All right, are you prepared for this?" Amy asks me. "Do you need a few moments to collect your thoughts?"

"I'll never truly be ready."

"I understand completely. C'mon, let's go see something majestic!"

We walk into the gift shop. Right there in the center, cordoned off by a thick yellow rope, is the gummi bear tractor, which is the size of a real tractor. The amount of detail is astounding, though the colors of the gummi bears don't all correspond to the colors of tractors found in nature. The tires are red, the body of the vehicle is yellow and green, the seat is orange, and the scoop (which I don't think is actually called a "scoop") is clear. I don't care what it says about my intelligence level; the gummi bear tractor is freaking cool.

"Wow," says Amy.

An old man who is restocking a cooler with soda walks over to it. "It's really somethin', ain't it?"

"Yes."

"Took eight months. 'Course, not eight months of full-time work, but it was still a hefty project."

"Did you make it?" Amy asks.

The old man chuckles and shakes his head. "No, no, I'm not that creative. How many gummy bears do you think it took?"

"Six-hundred and fifty thousand," I say.

"Well, no, that's way too many. One hundred and seventy-eight thousand, six hundred and four. But that's pure gummy bear. No filler."

"Wow."

"What makes them stick together?" Amy asks. "Saliva?"

"No, it's some sort of resin. I don't pretend to understand it. It was painstaking work."

"What brand are they?"

"A mix, I think."

Amy and I stare at the tractor some more.

"Does anybody ever try to take a bite out of it?" I ask.

The old man shakes his head. "Nah. A little kid tried to lick it once."

"Well, that was rude."

"Yeah. His mom dragged him away pretty quickly. She was more concerned about germs than the integrity of our tractor, though."

"Did you have to disinfect it?" Amy asks.

"Nah. If multiple people put their tongues on it, I suppose we'd have to make sure things were sanitary, but my knees ain't what they used to be, and I'm not gonna crawl around on the floor 'cause of one not-very-smart kid."

"Makes sense," I said.

We stare at the tractor some more. The way the light reflects off the gummi bears is hypnotic.

"I guess that ain't entirely true," says the old man. "If we started getting a lot of autistic kids in here, or developmentally disabled ones, I'd make sure that the tractor was safe to lick. I have nothing but sympathy for them, and I understand that their parents can't watch them every single second. But this kid wasn't autistic, and he wasn't developmentally disabled. He was just rock-stupid. You could see it in his eyes. I've got no sympathy for a dumb kid. I guarantee you, if you put a spinning fan in front of this kid and said 'Hey, wanna know what a fan tastes like?' he'd do it. He'd do it twice. He'd stick his tongue in that fan once, run off screaming to his momma, and then you could say 'This other fan is grape-flavored' and he'd do the same damn thing!"

"That's a very unintelligent child," Amy agrees.

"I'm not saying that I want him out of the gene pool; don't get the wrong impression. I don't wish harm on the kid. I wouldn't actually do the fan trick. I was just astonished by his stupidity is all."

"Was he ugly, too?"

"Nah, I wouldn't say that he was particularly ugly. He was about average looking. I don't think he'll be cashing in on his good looks or anything like that, but he could still grow into a handsome young man. I had no problem with his appearance."

"Can we take a picture of the tractor?" I ask.

"Please do!"

I take several.

"Well, thank you very much," Amy says. "This was great."

"Do you want to buy a cold beverage?" the man asks.

"Yes. I think we'll buy two cold beverages."

We buy two bottles of Coke, which the old man helpfully opens for us. As we walk through the doorway, Amy suggests that perhaps we should just drive back home, since we've already reached the pinnacle of our vacation and everything else will be anticlimactic. We could scale a volcano while being pursued by genetically engineered gorillas with flame breath and laser eyes and it couldn't compare to the sheer majesty of the gummi bear--

"Where did we park?" asks Amy.

I look around. The parking lot contains a grand total of six spaces. One of them is occupied by a green truck, leaving the other five vacant. Forgetting where we parked our car would be quite a feat. Even at my most forgetful, even if some brain cells were knocked loose when I got punched in the face, there's no way I could lose the car here, leaving me to draw the very unpleasant conclusion that my car is gone.

CHAPTER TEN

"Look, if we spend every waking moment worrying about destroying the space-time continuum, we'll never get anything done!"

--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 3

The first thing we do is walk all the way around the building. You can't have a nervous breakdown over a missing car until you've done a lap around the place you parked.

There is no sign of my vehicle.

"Did you leave the keys in the ignition?" Amy asks.

I shake my head and take the keys out of my pocket. "We would've heard a tow truck, right? Somebody must have hotwired it." We were inside longer than the average person probably spends looking at a tractor made of gummi bears, but we weren't in there that long. Would there really have been time for somebody to break into my car and hotwire the engine? Since I have no idea what the standard timeframes are for these activities, it's kind of a pointless mental question.

"It's the perfect scam," Amy says. "Distract people with an object of beauty, and then steal their car." She's trying to sound lighthearted about this, but her voice is tight and her features are pinched.

"It'll be okay," I tell her, because this seems like the perfect time for meaningless reassurance.

We look around for a few more moments, as if we might have missed my car hiding under a squirrel or something. That effort is unsuccessful.

I take out my cell phone to call the police, then decide that I should talk to the old man first. Maybe he knows something. Certainly they wouldn't just leave their treasure undefended, so perhaps they've got high-tech security cameras installed to keep the criminal element at bay.

Amy and I walk back inside. "Needed another look, huh?" asks the old man with a smile.

"Somebody stole my car."

His smile disappears. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Not this nonsense again."

"You know who did it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know exactly who it was. Don't worry, they're just on a joyride."

"Like...a destructive joyride?"

"Look, I ain't gonna promise you that the Meller boys won't damage your vehicle. They're rambunctious and they don't always think about the consequences of their actions."

I don't anger easily, but this seems like an appropriate moment for rage. "How often do they steal cars from your customers?"

"Counting you?"

"It doesn't matter. However you want to share the data."

The old man frowns, lost in thought. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that it's a frequent occurrence, but I suppose I also wouldn't say that it was necessarily infrequent."

"I'm calling the cops."

The old man nods. "Some time in the poke might be good for 'em."

Outside, an engine roars and tires screech. Amy and I hurry out of the building. My car is driving in small fast circles. The driver looks about sixteen years old, and the little creep hanging out of the passenger window can't be more than twelve.

"Cha cha cha cha!" he shouts. He waggles his tongue and makes devil horn signs with his hands. "Satan Satan Satan!"

"Give me back my car!" I scream at him. I almost add "You damned kids!" but I don't want to sound old.

The kids don't heed my request. They continue doing donuts. The twelve-year-old cackles with laughter and then says "Satan Satan Satan!" again.

The old man comes out of the building, holding a shotgun. Amy and I let out a simultaneous "Whoa!" as he points it at them.

"Don't shoot them!" I shout.

"I'm just going to take out a tire."

"Don't shoot my car!"

The old man lowers his shotgun. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Don't do anything! Take that gun back inside!"

"Cha cha cha cha! Satan Satan Satan!"

The car speeds toward me and I step out of the way. I'm getting really pissed, though not pissed enough to let the old man create carnage.

My car just narrowly misses the green truck, and then even more narrowly misses the corner of the building.

"The police are on their way!" Amy shouts at them. This (false) information does not change their behavior.

The old man has not yet gone back inside with the shotgun. "You sure you don't want me to open fire?" he asks. "I know somebody who'll cut you a good deal on a new windshield."

"Real sure," I tell him. Someday this whole crazy experience will make for an amusing anecdote, unless it ends with one of the kids getting his head blown off.

My car speeds at me again, then swerves. By now I'm so mad that it overrides my fear, and I step forward, slapping the twelve-year-old in the face.

It would have been a pretty good slap anyway, but he was in a moving vehicle. The kid cries out in pain, and the car brakes to a stop. The door flies open and the kid gets out, a great big red mark on his face.

"I'm gonna kill you!" he screams. "It's on! Oh, it's on! You made a big mistake!"

As has been established, I have a lack of fighting experience, and a general lack of bravery. Still, I can't find it in myself to be frightened of an obnoxious little pre-teenager. He storms over to me, unleashing a vicious series of threats, and when he reaches me, I slap him in the face again.

"You--you--you--you dummy!" he shouts.

His brother gets out of the car, fists raised and ready for battle. The old man, who has yet to heed my request to get rid of the weapon, points the shotgun at him.

I have an instant of self-loathing. Juvenile delinquent or not, there is nothing funny about a gun being pointed at a sixteen-year-old boy...and yet, the noise he makes is inarguably hilarious. My conscience is eased by the fact that I do not actually laugh out loud.

The kid turns and flees. He trips, falls on his face (the shotgun is no longer pointed at him, so I feel no guilt about my amusement), scrambles to get back up, and then resumes his fleeing. He disappears from sight, never looking back.

"You want a piece of me?" the twelve-year-old shouts at me. "Do you? You think you're tough? I'll make you my bitch!"

I've had enough of this kid. I spin him around and twist his arm behind his back. As he squeaks in pain, I walk him over to the green truck and then slam him against it.

"I'm done with your crap," I tell him. "Why aren't you in school?"

"It's Sunday!"

"I don't care what day it is! Do you want a broken arm?"

"No."

"You do anything like this again, and I will hunt your ass down. Do you understand me? I'm not playing around, you little shit. You know what you're doing from now on? You're going to mail me copies of your report cards. Every single quarter you're going to send over that report card, and if your GPA drops below 3.0, I will mess you up, motherfucker! Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"Let me go!"

"And you're going to sign up for some fucking extracurricular activities! If I find out that your ass isn't in a team sport or the band or the fucking chess club, I will rip your arm right out of its socket. Is that what you want? Is it?"

"No."

"So we understand each other?"

"Yes."

"What's your e-mail address?"

"None of your--"

"What's your goddamn e-mail address?"

He gives it to me. I slam him (gently) against the truck again and release his arm.

"I'll be in touch. I'm the bogeyman, and you do not want to find me under your bed."

* * *

As Amy and I get back in the car, I ask her if she thinks I went too far.

She shakes her head. "There aren't many circumstances where it's okay to almost break a little kid's arm, but this was one of them."

"I didn't almost break it. I just twisted it a little."

"That's fine. You do seem to have a lot of violent conflicts, though."

"I really don't. Until today, one hundred percent of my life was spent not twisting little kid's arms behind their back. Literally one hundred percent. But maybe the kid will go on to become Secretary of State or something."

I turn the key in the ignition. The car doesn't start.

* * *

Those rotten little brats messed something up when they hotwired my car, so Amy and I sit in the waiting area of Cliff's Auto Repare. To maintain my sanity, I choose to believe that "Repare" is an aesthetic choice, a devastating critique of the rampant conformity in today's society.

We've been sitting here for three hours. If we'd known it was going to take this long, we would have walked to a bookstore or something, but every ten to fifteen minutes we are assured that it will only take another ten to fifteen minutes.

A pitcher of liquid is available, though we aren't certain if it is very weak coffee or dirty water. A taste test does not resolve this issue. There are also some orange slices as garnish, making the mystery beverage even more of an enigma.

At least the trip in the tow truck was uneventful, once we agreed to buy some candy bars from the driver for his daughter's fundraiser. There is nothing specific to indicate that, if we refused, things could have gone poorly for us, but that was the general vibe.

The auto repair guy peeks into the waiting area. "It should just be another ten or fifteen minutes."

"Thanks," I say.

He winks and leaves. He winks every time he gives us an update. I wish he wouldn't.

"I'm sorry," I tell Amy. This is the fifth or sixth time I've apologized to her, even though cognitively I know that I don't really owe her an apology for my car being briefly stolen. If I truly wanted to place blame, which I don't, the root cause of this incident would be when Amy suggested we go see the gummi bear tractor. Still, it's my car, and I can't help but feel responsible for our current misery.

"If you apologize again, I'm going to stick my thumb in your eye," Amy says.

I almost apologize for apologizing, but catch myself just in time. "Should we break open our chocolate?"

"Sure."

We unwrap our candy bars. The chocolate has that white color it gets when it has melted and solidified again, and it tastes eerily similar to the substance in the pitcher, but that's okay, it's really about sending a little girl on a class trip to Salt Lake City.

"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple," Amy says.

"Excuse me?"

"It's a game. You add something that begins with B. It's a memory test."

"Oh. I'm going camping, and I'm taking a bagel."

"You have to do the apple, too."

"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple and a bagel."

"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a bagel, and a cot."

"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a bagel, a cot, and a dustpan."

"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a bagel, a cot, a dustpan, and Excalibur."

"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a banana, a cot--"

Amy makes a buzzing noise at me.

"What?"

"Bagel, not banana." Amy playfully swats me on the arm. "Did you really lose before we even got to the letter F? On your own word?"

"Are you sure it was bagel?"

"Positive."

"I guess I was thinking banana but said bagel."

"I'm going to be perfectly frank with you: that's not the best performance I've ever seen in the camping game," Amy says.

"Rematch?"

"No, I think you should remain in eternal defeat."

"Poop."

"I'm sorry. This must be very embarrassing for you."

"I'll get over it."

"You pick the next game."

The auto repair guy steps back into the waiting room. "Okay, you're all set!"

I stand up. "Really? What was wrong with it?"

"Nothing. You were here for an oil change, right?"

"No. My car won't start."

"Are you the Ford Fusion?"

"No, Honda Civic."

He glances down at his clipboard. "Oh, my mistake. Sorry about that. It should just be another twenty to thirty minutes."

I sit back down as he leaves.

"We're trapped here forever," I tell Amy. "You know that, right? This is our new home. See that picture?" I gesture to a calendar with a photo of a cross-eyed baby. "That's our view until the apocalypse."

"It's totally fine."

"You know, you are remarkably patient for a dying girl."

It seems like a clever little comment as my mouth is forming the words, but as soon as they're out there, I feel like I'm going to be sick. What the hell did I just say?

Amy's expression is indecipherable. Is she going to burst into tears? Smack me? Laugh? Call me an asshole? Discover a previously unrealized penchant for stabbing people who make thoughtless comments? I think I'll actually be more upset if she cries than if she stabs me.

She smiles. Not a broad, happy, oh-Todd-you-are-so-delightfully-amusing smile, but also not a smile where she's gritting her teeth into tooth dust.

"I'm sorry," I say. "That was inappropriate."

"It's fine."

"No, really, that was a douchebag comment."

"I promise you, it's fine." Amy taps her forehead. "This isn't my favorite thing to talk about. Most of the time I try to pretend it doesn't exist--the aneurysm, not my brain itself.  Though I'm also pretty good at pretending my brain doesn't exist. But I don't tiptoe around the subject like it's some shameful secret, and it's not an off-limits topic of conversation. And, yes, I am remarkably patient for a dying girl."

"So does waiting around like this bug you more than it used to? I'd be losing my mind."

Amy shrugs. "We're all on the clock. Not to be rude, but based on your track record this trip, I feel like I could outlive you, easily. That said, I do think the government should issue Short Timer cards to people who have less than six months to live that gives them front-of-the-line privileges. So if I'm in the grocery and there are more than three people ahead of me, I flash my card and go right to the front. Same thing for the post office and waiting for a table in a restaurant."

"Do you think that could lead to people scamming the system?" I ask. "People might befriend terminally ill patients just to skip the wait at busy restaurants."

"If they get new friends out of the system, so much the better. It's win-win."

"But they're not true friends. They're just using them."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right. The problem is that if you restrict the companions, then Short Timers could only eat with other Short Timers, and that would be depressing."

"Maybe there could be something where you had to know the person before their diagnosis to share their benefits."

"So, what, you're saying that when the doctors say you have a terminal illness, you'd have to fill out a form predicting who you might have meals with for the next six months? That's crazy talk."

"It wouldn't have to be a form," I say. "They could link it to your existing Facebook friends list. People who friend you after your card is issued are out of luck."

"I don't like the idea that terminally ill people can't make new friends."

"They can make all the new friends they want; they just can't get the first available table with them. If they want to wait in line like everybody else, that's perfectly fine."

"What if you became friends with somebody after the diagnosis, but now it's five months or so later and you've forgotten the actual timing of when the friendship started? When they scan your card, it's going to be a really awkward and uncomfortable moment, at a time when you're trying to have a good meal and enjoy the little bit of life that you have left. I've had credit cards declined before. It's humiliating. This whole idea is basically dissuading you from going out to eat with friends because of the risk of public embarrassment. I wouldn't even feel like having dinner after that."

"Hmmmm," I say. "I guess that would also require them to check ID's of everybody in your party, and if the restaurant is so busy that you'd need to use your card to skip the line, they probably don't have time for the extra workload. You're right. It's a flawed process."

"So we'll simplify it. You can't use your Short Timer pass to get into restaurants or movies or theme parks or other purely recreational activities, but you can use it at the grocery, post office, and DMV. People aren't going to leech off of dying people to skip ahead at the grocery, because the time you save in line is erased by all the time you'd spend dividing the groceries up after you've checked out."

"That works. Have you called our congressman?"

"Not yet."

"You should."

"I will."

"Now?"

"Later."

"Okay."

"But, seriously," Amy says, "No, it doesn't bother me to wait. I wish I could say that I've been living my life as if every second counted, but since I found out, I've wasted most of it. Last month I spent an entire day lying in bed watching the channel guide. Every half hour the menu would move forward a block."

I honestly can't tell if she's kidding or not. "Was it...interesting?"

"No. But the remote control was on top of the TV--I could see it there--and it didn't seem worth the trouble of getting up. And when I eventually got up to go to the bathroom, it still didn't seem worth the extra ten feet to walk over to the television, so I collapsed right back into bed and watched the TV menu some more."

"Jesus."

"I'm a lot less sunshiny than you thought."

I'm really not sure what to say. I don't want to make a joke about this, yet I don't have anything profound to say. I'm not a liar, but I'm not good with sincerity.

"Was this after your divorce?" I finally ask.

She nods. "He stuck with me for all the tests and stuff, held my hand, but once the doctors officially said 'Sorry, this is how it's going to be,' he was gone the next month. He said I was sucking his life away."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope."

"I don't even know how to process that."

"I didn't, either."

"I mean, that's, like, pure evil. That's something a supervillain would say."

"It is, but it's also not quite as bad as it sounds. I mean, it is as bad as it sounds; there's just more to it. There were a lot of pieces I hadn't put together, but once I was able to think logically about the situation, I realized, oh, duh, he was cheating on me. It used to be that he would answer his cell phone any time it rang, right in the middle of dinner or whenever--it drove me crazy--but suddenly he was getting calls, checking the number, and saying 'It can wait.' And even though he was always a morning shower person, every once in a while he'd come home in the evening and jump right into the shower. Nothing ridiculously suspicious, no lipstick stains or perfume or anything, but enough to mess with my mind after the fact. Once everything started to click, I did some research, scary stalker shit, and, oh yeah, he had himself a girlfriend. He didn't even trade me in for a younger model; she was older and not all that hot. I didn't confront them, but I confronted her, and she confessed. And by 'confessed' I mean she literally fell to the ground sobbing."

"Did you do anything to her?"

"No, no, no. Didn't even threaten her. But she admitted that she'd been trying for a year to get him to leave me. And once I got my bad news, he finally did." Amy has not yet shed a tear, but her eyes glisten.

"The timing on that doesn't make sense," I say. "Why would he...I mean, wouldn't he...?"

"I know, right? If the bitch wife you want to leave is going to die, why not wait it out? Let the world think you're the tragic widower instead of a cheating bastard who'd leave a dying wife."

"Yeah. I mean, everybody hated him after that, right?"

Amy nods. "He was not the most popular person in his family. I think he still loved me, still loves me, and couldn't handle the thought of living with me and knowing that I was going to die. It absolutely terrified him. He always took sort of an 'out of sight, out of mind' approach to his problems, and if he didn't have to look at me every day, he could deal with the idea of me dying. Combine that with the affair, and you have a very confused, scared, messed-up man making a horrible decision that he couldn't take back."

"Did he try to take it back?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I'm sorry," I tell her. It sounds so stupid when I say it. But I don't know what else to say.

"Anyway, that's why I haven't been living life to the fullest."

"You've got a pretty damn good excuse."

"Maybe. I don't know. Either way, I'm done with that. And I'm also done talking about my mortality for a while, if that's okay."

"Definitely."

Twenty to thirty minutes later, the auto repair guy lets me know that my car is fucked.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I don't care how many places my hand has been; it's not going in there."

--Exit Red, Season 5, Episode 1

The repair guy, Jakey, has got the hood open, and he's pointing to various parts and saying things that I don't really understand, but ultimately it comes down to this: the guy who did my oil change was right.

Jakey can fix it, probably, but it's going to take three days, minimum, and cost almost as much as the car is worth. If he was in my shoes, he would cut his losses, sell this thing for whatever I can get, and buy a new vehicle.

I thank him for this information.

We haven't even made it out of Florida yet. We haven't even made it halfway out. This really, truly sucks.

"I'll give you a thousand for it, cash," Jakey says. "That's not quite the blue book value, but it saves you a tow."

"I'm not sure. I wasn't planning to make any decisions like this today. We're supposed to be on vacation."

"Oh, yeah, there's nothing worse than car problems while you're on vacation. Takes all the fun right out of it."

I have no idea what to do. We can't hang out here for three days, and I don't want to waste time towing the car around trying to get a second opinion. Should I just sell him the car? Does that make me wild and impulsive like a dangerous bad boy, or does it make me a complete dumbass? I don't want Amy to think I'm a complete dumbass.

"Is there a car rental place anywhere around here?" I ask.

Jakey nods. "About six miles."

"Can I leave the car here while I think about it?"

"You can leave it here overnight, no problem."

I desperately wish I could figure out what Amy would want me to do, without looking weak and asking Amy what she wants me to do. I need to be decisive. Dangerous bad boy or dumbass? Dangerous bad boy or dumbass?

Why am I driving myself insane trying to figure out how Amy will judge me for my decision? I want to resolve this car issue as soon as possible and get back on the road, even if it means that I'm kicking myself after the weekend is over. I need to go with my instinct.

"Eleven hundred and a ride to the car rental place," I say.

"Done."

"Are you sure you shouldn't think about this?" Amy asks me.

"I'm sure."

Jakey counts out eleven hundred dollars, which makes me feel absurdly rich even though I'm technically much poorer. As I tuck the bills into my wallet, there is admittedly a slight feeling of Aaack! What have I done? What have I done? What madness have I unleashed upon my life? but I'm sure I'm doing the right thing.

He tells us to sit down and relax for a few minutes until his mom gets here to give us a ride.

"I guess we should have taken my car," Amy says.

"Yes. That probably would have been better."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. We'll just rent a car and keep going."

"Are you sure we shouldn't turn back?"

I shake my head. "No way in hell are we turning back. We're going to Rhode frickin' Island. We're getting that hot dog if we have to crawl there."

"But you weren't expecting it to cost this much."

"I don't care. This is a quest now. Maybe it's not the holiest quest ever, but it's a quest. We're doing this. Assuming you still want to...?"

"Yes, I do."

"Good. So it's a quest."

"We could also hitchhike."

"No, no, it's not a quest worth getting murdered for. I'll just rent us a car."

Jakey's mom, Vivian, arrives. She's probably about seventy. She's wearing gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt, and she's not very happy that she has to be our chauffeur service. I know this because the first thing she says is, "Just so you know, I'm not very happy that I have to be your chauffeur service." We apologize to her, throw our bags in the trunk, and get in the back seat of her car.

Vivian gets in and looks at us in the rearview mirror. "One of you needs to sit in the front. This isn't a limo."

I hurriedly get in the front seat.

"Are you a writer?" she asks me.

"No, ma'am."

"I am. Working on my first novel. Let me emphasize one of the words I just said: working. I'm not at home goofing off. Do you think my son respects that?"

"I'm guessing he doesn't."

"You're right. 'Oh, Mom's retired, she's not doing anything, I'll just have her be my errand girl.' Do you think I can just turn my muse on and off whenever I want?"

"I really do apologize for this. If I'd known you were busy, we would have taken a cab."

"He doesn't understand at all. Do you know what he says to me?"

"What?"

"'I don't hear any typing.' He thinks that writing is just typing. I have to write in my head, first."

"We'll be quiet if you want to keep writing in your head while you drive us."

"Are you patronizing me?"

"No, ma'am."

"I can't write while I'm driving. I need complete silence and I need to look at the pond in my backyard. That's where my inspiration comes from. But it's all ruined today. I might as well just watch soap operas like any other retired lady with nothing else to do."

"What's your book about?" Amy asks.

From the way Vivian's face lights up, I think this may be the first time she was ever asked this question. "Do you like romance novels?"

"Of course," says Amy, though I don't think she's telling the truth.

"What does every woman want in a man?"

"I don't know. Sense of humor?"

Vivian lets out a derisive snort. "You don't have to perpetuate that lie just because your boyfriend's in the car. Seriously, what does every woman want in a man?"

"Loyalty?"

"I'm talking about an occupation."

"Cowboy?"

"Cowboy! Exactly! And...?"

"Doctor?"

"No."

"Lawyer."

"No."

"I'm not sure."

Vivian sighs with exasperation. "A fireman! Every woman who reads a romance novel wants a cowboy or a fireman. You don't have to admit it out loud, but you know perfectly well that if a fireman asked you out, you'd leave your boyfriend right there on the side of the road. Every other romance novel has a cowboy or a fireman. So do you know what my hero is?"

"A cowboy or a fireman?" Amy asks.

"Close."

"Ummmm..."

"A cowboy and a fireman. He's a cowboy by day and a fireman by night."

"Does that leave him with any free time for romance?"

"That's the whole conflict! You can't be a cowboy, a fireman, and a lover, so he has to choose!"

"Which one does he choose?" I ask.

Vivian scowls at me. "Do you really think I'm going to give away the ending of my book before you buy it?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"Women will go nuts for this. If I could ever get some uninterrupted writing time, I'd be rich."

"You'd probably make even more money if she dated a fireman and a cowboy," Amy says.

"I'm not writing some kinky smut book. If you want to pander to the lowest common denominator, you go right ahead."

"What's your title?" I ask.

"Cowboy on Fire."

"That's actually pretty awesome."

"I spoke to an actual firefighter to do some research. He was very knowledgeable, for a Negro."

Amy and I go very, very silent.

"I didn't speak to him alone, of course. I made sure Jakey was right there, just in case. But he did have some interesting things to say about his job. Do you know how much their equipment weighs?"

I shake my head.

"Seventy pounds. Think about that the next time you're climbing some stairs and you're not carrying seventy pounds of equipment."

"I will."

"Of course, the hero of my book won't be a Negro. I'm certainly not going to limit my potential audience that way. But he did have a surprising amount of information to share."

"I don't mean to be rude," said Amy, "but I wish you wouldn't say the n-word."

"That wasn't the n-word. The n-word is--"

"I know, I know. It just makes me uncomfortable."

"Should I sound like an inbred hick and say he was 'colored'?"

"No. You could say 'African American.'"

"I don't know for sure that he was American. What if he was Canadian? Should I insult an entire country just to avoid calling somebody a Negro?"

"We should let this drop."

"Don't think for one moment that he wouldn't have called me 'whitey' if he could do it without disciplinary action."

"Letting it drop now."

"Have you ever seen the brain of a colored person? The number of wrinkles in your brain are what determine your intelligence level, and studies have proven that colored people have fewer wrinkles."

"That's extremely untrue," says Amy.

"It's science. I believe in God as much as the next person, but it's foolish to ignore science."

"So what kind of cowboy research did you do?" I ask.

Vivian continues to glare at Amy in the rearview mirror. "I bet if I'd said he was a Spaniard you wouldn't have been offended."

"Not if he was from Spain, no," says Amy.

"I didn't say that we should reinstitute slavery."

"I understand that."

"You'd think I said we should go lynch us a darkie."

"Still trying to let this drop."

"I can't believe this. I'm doing you a favor, giving you a ride, and you act like I'm a member of the Klu Klux Klan."

"It's Ku Klux Klan, not Klu."

"No, it's Klu Klux Klan."

"Okay."

"Don't go acting all superior, young lady. You're a hypocrite. If I dropped you off in the middle of a crowd of Negroes, you'd be sweating bullets."

"How many chapters have you written so far?" I ask.

"Why don't we do that? Why don't we drive around until we see a gathering of Negroes and then I'll let you out of the car to fend for yourselves? Does that idea worry you? Does it make you feel a bit unsafe?"

"I think you should let us out of the car now," Amy says.

"Why? Because we're not in a poor neighborhood? Negroes can acquire wealth too, Little Miss Racist. You're not safe anywhere. Oh, look, there's a Negro over there! Let's ask him for directions!"

The man she's pointing to is actually Latino, but I don't correct her. I wonder if we're going to need to leap out of a speeding vehicle. I hope not.

"Right here is fine," says Amy.

Vivian pulls into the parking lot of a Laundromat. We get out of the car, and Vivian drives off before Amy has even closed the back door.

"Our stuff!" Amy shouts.

I take off after Vivian. Vivian, who no doubt believes that I mean to cause her physical harm, speeds up.

"No!" I shout after her. "Our bags are in your trunk!"

I catch up to the car and pound on her trunk, but she doesn't stop. Now I have to make a crucial decision: do I jump onto the back of her car, which I assume will persuade her to apply the brakes, or do I let her get away?

I should jump.

No, I shouldn't jump.

Jump, I tell myself. Just do it. Unless she suddenly goes into reverse, you're not going to get hurt.

I reach for the trunk and jump.

It's a pretty damn good jump, much better than I would have expected from myself. Clearly my adrenaline is pumping. That said, I still miss the car completely and crash to the pavement.

Vivian speeds off, taking our stuff with her.

I let out a nice little bellow, one that expresses both my disappointment that our possessions are gone and how much my knees hurt.

Amy crouches down beside me. "Are you okay?"

"I think so."

"Can you stand up?"

"I don't think so."

Amy helps me up. My knees do not appreciate her assistance. I can see through my torn jeans that I've scraped them all up. With my arm on Amy's shoulder, I limp out of the parking lot and sit down next to the building.

"Todd, I am so sorry about that. I'm usually good at ignoring dumb things that people say, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine! We lost our bags."

"Worse than that," I tell her. "My wallet fell out of my pocket in the car."

"Oh my God."

"No, I'm kidding." I tap my back pocket. "I've got my wallet, you've got your purse...was there anything really important in there?"

Amy thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. "Just clothes and my toothbrush and stuff. Well, no, also my CDs."

"We should get your CDs back."

"Yeah. Actually, no. Screw 'em. They're all on my iPod. Until this weekend I hadn't listened to the actual discs in years."

"Are you sure? I can call Jakey and get it back."

"No, let's just forget about it. I can buy new clothes. It's not like I lost a formal gown."

"Okay. Good."

"How are your knees?"

"In excruciating pain."

"Do you want to wait here? I'll find a store and get some antiseptic."

"No, you might need somebody to protect you from the African Canadians."

Amy helps me back up. It hurts, but I'm pretty sure that the pain is only from the several layers of skin that have been removed, and not any broken bones. After a few wobbly steps, I'm able to walk on my own.

"Is this still a quest?" Amy asks.

"More than ever."

"Because we could find a movie theater or something, do a double feature."

"Absolutely not. Hot dog or death."

"We should put that on a T-shirt."

"We will. We need new shirts anyway. I am not giving up on this." I ignore the pain in my knees and walk with purpose. Or at least as much purpose I can muster on legs that aren't functioning at their maximum potential.

Then I wonder if Amy is still into this. If I'm dragging her along on a trip that she doesn't want to take anymore, then this sort of wrecks the whole point.

"You're still into the quest, right?" I ask. "If this isn't fun for you anymore, we can go home."

"I'm still all in."

"Sweet." Sure, maybe this means there's something deeply wrong with her, but I don't care.

We manage to walk to the car rental place without incident.

At the car rental place, there's a minor incident related to the fact that they don't have any cars available. We're polite about it, of course. I think about sliding a couple of twenties across the counter, giving the guy a knowing look, and saying "Are you sure you don't have anything for us?" but I don't follow through.

There's another car rental place right next door. We walk there without incident. We are helped by a man whose breath is far from spectacular, but we don't count that as an incident. I let him sell me an upgrade and the full insurance package.

* * *

"Ohhhhhh," I say, sinking into the seat. "It's like sitting on chocolate cake."

"With extra frosting."

We both just sit there for a moment, eyes closed, enjoying the luxury of these car seats. I don't care that it cost too much. Why were we ever driving around in a twelve-year-old car? Newer is better. I feel like I could pull up a blanket filled with angel feathers and sleep until dawn.

The car has a built-in GPS. No more relying on my phone like some sort of primate. And the windshield wipers don't make a sound like a pterodactyl. This is paradise. I want to make love to this automobile, but Amy would probably frown upon that, so I don't even try.

How about I just rub your feet instead? the car asks. I know how to take care of you. I'll make you feel sooooo good.

The car does not actually say any of this, but what other message could I take from this exquisite comfort?

There is, however, a small problem. Immediately after escaping The Terror of the Racist Aspiring Romance Novelist, it was easy to take a "screw it" attitude toward our lost possessions. Now, it occurs to me that she's got my phone charger and my electric razor, not to mention a perfectly good suitcase. We should get our stuff back. It's not like she's dangerously violent or anything.

We stop by the auto repair shop. It's closed.

We call the number on the sign. It goes to voice mail. I leave a message explaining that Jakey's mother accidentally drove off with our bags and tell him that if he could call me back as soon as possible, that would be great, thank you.

And now we're pretty much stuck here. Joy.

We stop at a drugstore, where we purchase the materials to clean my knee wounds. Amy buys the extra-large bottle of iodine, and I'm not sure if she's trying to be funny or practical.

I always find it amusing in action movies when the hero takes punches, kicks, bullets, broken glass, and various other types of physical abuse without anything more than a manly grunt, yet when the heroine dabs his cuts with antiseptic, he lets out a loud wince. I think about this as I let out my own loud wince, although it's really not an appropriate comparison, since I also winced when I scraped myself up in the first place. Overall, I feel that I've dealt with each injury in a satisfactory manner, though I really wish they'd quit compiling.

There are seven or eight restaurants that look pretty good, but they're all closed, so we accept defeat and have fast food burgers. It's not like we're food snobs.

Now what? We could get a hotel here and pick up our stuff in the morning, if Vivian hasn't burned it, but I'm not tired and I'd hate to lose the extra driving time when we're already so far behind schedule.

Just as I finish the last of my fries, my phone rings. It's Jakey.

Ten minutes later, a young black man walks over to our booth and drops our bags on the table. "Look, if this is drugs or terrorism shit, I don't want any part of it," he says. "I don't know nothin'. The lady said you'd give me fifty bucks to deliver these bags, so that's all I'm doin'."

"Oh. Uh, okay." I'm not sure what else to do, so I reluctantly take out my wallet.

The man laughs. "Put that away. You think that just because I'm a black man that I'm going to take money to deliver bags to strangers? Jakey says hi."

CHAPTER TWELVE

"I dreamt...I dreamt that we were all going to die."

"I dreamt that we were all naked in a giant bowl of oatmeal. I win."

--Exit Red, Season 4, Episode 5

I didn't pay that much attention while I was packing, but I'm almost positive my bag is missing a pair of underwear. I'm not sure who took it, why they wanted it, or what they plan to do with it, and I decide that I will not only remain blissfully ignorant, but I will refrain from brainstorming any possible scenarios.

We're back on the road and loving the sound system in this car. I didn't realize the true depths of crappiness my own car's sound system had reached until now. I might as well have been listening to music with a pair of tin cans and string.

A sign welcomes us to Georgia. We've done it. We've successfully crossed our first state line.

We want to have a celebratory peach, but it's after midnight and no place that sells peaches is open. We find some peach-flavored chewy candy in a rest stop vending machine and eat that instead. It's not very good.

"From this point forward, nothing else is going to suck," I announce.

"Here, here. But why do we say that?"

"What?"

"We say that things suck. 'That movie sucked.' People say 'suck my dick' like it's a negative thing, when really it's one of the kindest, most generous things you can do for somebody."

"I guess I never thought about that," I admit.

"If somebody is being a jerk, we say that they're being a dick. Why? There's nothing wrong with the behavior of a penis. When you say that somebody is being a dick, it should mean that they've won an award or something. 'Stop being a pussy.' Why? Stop being something that's passionately sought after? It's like saying 'Stop acting like that pile of gold over there.'"

"You make an excellent point."

"Sorry for being crude. It's just something I think about every once in a while."

"No, no, that's fine. Be as crude as you want."

"I'm done now."

She's put an image in my mind that I'm not in any hurry to banish.

"Do you want to sleep?" she asks. "I'm totally fine to drive for at least a couple more hours."

"You sure?"

"Yep. No problem at all. I'll wake you up the first time I drift into the opposite lane."

I recline the seat all the way back--oh, such sweet comfort was unimaginable in my old car!--close my eyes, and fall asleep in approximately three seconds.

In my dream, Amy leans over and does things to me that are incredibly unsafe when one is operating a motor vehicle on the highway. Even in my dream, I want to say "Uh, if you're not going to watch the road, maybe you should at least drop below sixty-five." Instead, I say, "Your face has turned into an alien," which it has, because that's what often happens in my dreams.

Then I turn into an alien, and we have weird-ass alien sex. It's uncomfortable but awesome. I'm thankful that I paid for the full coverage on the car, because we've really messed up the interior. Even for spike-covered fluid-leaking aliens the damage is excessive.

Then we're not aliens anymore. Amy is still using her mouth on me, and she's right, "suck my dick" is such a terrible pejorative, why the hell would anybody use that phrase in a negative manner, what's wrong with the idiots who invent insults, we're definitely going too fast for her to be so distracted, I should probably grab the wheel, but if I do that she might become aware of the danger of being distracted and stop what she's doing, nobody wants that, does she have two mouths, I think we missed an important turn, I don't think we're on the road anymore, I'm not entirely sure the car is still upright, I should really finish up so she can get back to driving--

I open my eyes. It's daylight. For a truly horrifying split second I think that I was masturbating in the passenger seat while Amy drove, but no, my hand is on my lap but not my crotch, and Amy is not staring at me in disgust.

Why is it so light out? It should still be dark, right?

I raise the seat and glance at the clock. After a moment for my eyes to focus, I see that it's 7:37.

"It's 7:37," I say. The standard quality of my comments immediately after I wake up isn't very high.

"I know."

"Did you drive all night?"

"Yeah."

"You should have woken me up."

"I never got tired."

"Are you tired now?"

She shrugs. "Not really."

"Where are we?"

"Virginia."

"Wow."

"You missed South and North Carolina."

"Were they nice?"

"It was hard to tell in the dark."

"I feel like a lazy bum."

"Don't. If I'd needed you to drive, I would have woken you up."

"Are you a cyborg?"

"Maybe. A cyborg with a faulty chip."

I flip down the visor and look at myself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, unshaven face, swollen lip, wacky slept-on hair, a small but unmistakable drool stain...not my best look.

"We're coming up on a truck stop. I figured we could take showers and change clothes."

"Sounds good to me," I say, though I hadn't anticipated that we'd be showering at truck stops. I'd assumed that when we were not having sex, our abstinence would be at a motel.

Having never been in a truck stop shower before, I was expecting something ghastly involving rust, pools of greenish-yellowish-brownish slime, and the not-so-distant roar of chainsaws. But it's actually quite clean and unfrightening, and the water pressure is fantastic. It may even be bruising my chest, but I don't care. I didn't realize until now how much my shower at home resembles bathing under a watering pot.

Soon I'm washed, shaven, deodorized, and in fresh clothes and bandages. I am ready to drive.

Amy meets me in the café. Her blonde hair is still wet, she's not wearing any makeup, and she looks absolutely fantastic. We each order a ham and cheese omelet.

"You really shouldn't have driven all night," I tell her.

"I decided that if you woke up, we'd swap. But you didn't wake up, and I wanted to let you sleep. Besides, while you were asleep I stared at you in a creepy manner."

"Did I snore?"

"Like a 400-pound man with a breathing disorder."

"Really?"

"Nah, just a little. Not bad."

"Good."

"You did talk a bit."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"What'd I say?"

"'Ellen.'"

"Ellen?"

"Ellen."

"Who's Ellen?"

"I don't know. You said it."

"Ellen DeGeneres?"

"You didn't give any context."

"I don't know anybody named Ellen."

"That's the name you said."

"I didn't say anything else?"

"No, you just said 'Ellen...Ellen...Ellen.'"

"That's really weird."

"You were kind of mumbling. I guess you could have been saying 'alien.'"

"Oh. Okay."

"Does that make more sense?"

"No, no, I was probably talking about Ellen Page or something. Did you see Juno?"

"Yeah."

"Great movie. Also Inception. Loved both of those. And Hard Candy and Super. She's done quite a few really good movies, actually."

The server arrives with our omelets, giving me an excuse to stop babbling. There is so much ham and cheese in this thing that the egg can barely contain it, and we both savor its deliciousness in silence.

When the meal is done, we return to the car. Amy puts the passenger seat all the way back. "Wake me if you need me," she says.

"I will," I say, although the only way if I'll wake her up before the eight-hour mark is if the car catches fire.

Amy goes to sleep, and I drive through Virginia.

I set the cruise control, sip some Red Bull, and drive. My finger, knees, and face don't hurt anymore. Honestly, I feel pretty damn great. It doesn't matter that I've been repeatedly injured and I have to buy a new car and we almost lost all of our travel supplies; this has been a great trip. If I'm having this much fun with somebody when we're surrounded by disaster, how fantastic will it be when things are going well?

I can't see Amy in the rearview mirror. I want to reach up and adjust the mirror, but no, it's okay for her to joke about watching me, but me tilting the mirror to watch her really would be creepy. And I should have the rearview mirror at the correct angle, for safety reasons.

I glance over at her every once in a while, watching her chest rise and fall as she breathes.

Beautiful.

I'm not well enough in tune with my emotions to know if I'm in love. I don't think I am. It's much too early for that. It's not as if I'm having visions of us holding our grandchildren on our laps. I just really like being around her, even when she's lying there asleep on the passenger seat.

I know that my previous relationships weren't love. It was more astonishment on my part that they wanted to be with me. "Holy shit, this is a joke, right?" works out pretty well at first, since I'm certainly not an inattentive boyfriend, but I guess it gets tiring after a while.

I glance over at Amy again.

Has her chest moved?

I don't think her chest is moving.

I don't even know what's supposed to happen to her. Will she be alive one second and dead the next, like somebody flicked off her light switch? Will there be screaming and blood spewing from her mouth? Will she be in agony? How the hell did I start on a twenty-two hour road trip with her without researching the symptoms of a brain aneurysm? I should know this stuff. I don't want to know this stuff.

Her chest rises.

And falls.

And rises.

God, I'm sweating. And I'm not even sure that watching her breathe is reassuring me that she's okay.

I should wake her up.

I should not wake her up. She's only been asleep for an hour.

What I should do, starting right this second, is pay attention to the road.

I don't want to lose her.

I'm going to. That's just the way this is going to work out. This relationship has an expiration date. I bought the milk when the "Sell By" date has already passed, which doesn't mean there's anything wrong with the milk yet, the milk is perfectly fine, but I'm not going to have fresh milk for much longer.

Comparing Amy to expired milk. I'm quite the romantic. I'm surprised I haven't serenaded her with a song about how much I adore her boogers.

My phone rings. Crap! Amy opens her eyes as I dig it out of my pocket. I apologize to her, and then answer. "Hi, Craig."

"So what happened to calling me every night?"

"I'm sorry. I forgot."

"You forgot. You forgot. Well, that's nice, because I certainly didn't stay up all night worrying about you."

"I'm really sorry. I got distracted."

"Oh, I'm sure you did. Why concern yourself about your roommate being worried sick if there are distractions around, right? Because it takes so very long to pick up a phone and say 'Hey, everything's cool.' I'm even in your contacts list. You only have to touch your screen three times to let me know you're okay. Three touches. That's it."

"It won't happen again."

"Do you know how close I was to calling the police?"

"Hopefully you would have called me before the police."

"I did call you first. I'm calling you now. But the police would have been my second call if you hadn't answered."

"Like I said, I apologize. That was very uncool."

Craig is silent for a moment. "You are okay, right? It's not like you know that lady at all. If you're not okay, if you need me to contact the authorities, say 'sleeveless gown.'"

"I'm totally fine."

"That wasn't a good one. That's kind of hard to work naturally into a conversation. Sorry. Margaret came over last night and she wanted to show off this new sleeveless gown she bought for her sister's wedding. I literally had no opinion on it. So if you're in danger, say 'apple.'"

"I'm not in any danger, Craig."

"You're not on speakerphone, right? She can't hear me?"

"No."

"Okay. Don't let this happen again. I've got enough stress in my life without worrying about whether you're safe."

"I'll call you tonight, no matter what."

"You'd better."

"I will."

"Jerk."

"Sorry."

Craig hangs up. I shove the phone back into my pocket.

"Everything okay?" Amy asks.

"I forgot to check in with Craig."

"Oops."

"He'll get over it. I'm pretty sure he was exaggerating his level of concern. You should go back to sleep."

Amy raises the seat. "Nah, I'm awake now."

"You only slept an hour."

"But I feel refreshed. This seat is weirdly comfortable."

"Well, you won't hurt my feelings if you fall asleep while I'm talking."

Amy remains awake and alert as we drive for the next couple of hours. I'm impressed. It's been a long time since I've been able to survive without a full night's sleep.

We stop at a rest area for a bathroom break, where we are accosted by a man with a huge facial scar and a hook hand.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"And...the Nazis have just won World War II. Nice going, jerk."

--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 13

We've used the not-so-very-tidy restroom facilities and are headed back to the car when he walks over to us. He looks about sixty, with long scraggly gray hair, a couple of days' worth of stubble, and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. The deep scar runs from the left side of his chin to just under his eye. Instead of a right hand, he has a pair of metal pincers.

"How're you doing?" he asks, giving us a wide crooked-yellow-toothed smile.

"We're fine," I say, instinctively putting myself between the man and Amy, which is much better than shouting "Do with her as you will; just leave me unharmed, scary sir!"

"My name's Eddie. I've had a run of bad luck, and I'm just trying to get home. Is there any chance you can give me a ride?"

"I'm sorry, I don't think so," I tell him.

"Anything you can do for me, man. Even one more exit north would help. I'm really in a bind."

I feel bad for the guy. I really do. But this seems like the kind of situation where Amy and I could end up dangling from the ceiling of a shed staring at our exposed entrails and feeling rather silly about our recent choices.

"I just--I can't help you."

Eddie scratches his nose with his hook-hand. I don't think his nose really itches.

"It's because of my hand, isn't it?" he asks, still scratching his nose.

"No. Not at all."

Eddie nods. "Yeah, it is. You're looking at my hand and thinking 'Oooh, anybody with a hand like that must be a serial killer! He must be right out of a campfire story! Better not let him into my car!'"

"I don't think you're a serial killer," I semi-lie.

"You do so. You think I'm going to add your head to my collection. You think this scar is proof that I'm a bad person."

"That's not true."

Eddie traces his scar with his hook-hand. "Whoa, what a frightening scar! Nobody without evil in their heart could possibly have a scar like this! If it were a lightning bolt on my forehead, you'd say 'Goodness, how charming!' but if a man has visible scar tissue on the side of his face, run for the hills, because he must be up to no good! There's gonna be heads in boxes tonight!"

"That's not it."

"Then why do you keep staring at my hand?"

"Because it's right up by your face."

He lowers his hand. "C'mon, man, give me a ride."

"I can't."

"I'd do the same for you. You don't see me judging you because your lip is all swollen up, so why can't you get past the fact that I'm an amputee?"

"It has nothing to do with your hand," I say. "But you keep mentioning heads in boxes, and I'll be honest with you, that's kind of a deal-breaker."

"But I'm saying it from the perspective that you think I'm going to cut off your head just because I'm missing a hand, and I'm trying to convey the message that you're making ridiculous assumptions based on my physical appearance. What I'm saying is that I'm not going to cut off anybody's head and that it's wrong of you to have thought that in the first place."

"I understood your point. I'm just saying that if somebody keeps talking about heads in boxes, even if they're saying they won't cut off your head and put it in a box, you don't want them in your car. If I kept saying that I didn't have any explosives on me, just kept saying it over and over, would you give me a ride?"

"Here's the thing," says Eddie. "You wouldn't have had to insist that you didn't have any explosives, because I wouldn't have immediately looked at you with distrust. I would have seen you as a fellow human being in need, instead of a psycho killer."

"I don't see you as a psycho killer."

"You do. And the next time you stop your car, I guarantee you're going to check the door handle to make sure my hook-hand isn't dangling from it."

"I'm not going to do that."

"I lost my hand in the service of my country. The doctors didn't give me some high-tech prosthetic hand with fingers and flesh-color; they gave me this hook-thing." He opens and closes the pincers. "Somehow this makes me sinister, huh? Somehow this means that I'm going to do you harm. You know, your hands aren't immune to injury. Someday you could lose one, just like me, and people will refuse to give you rides."

I glance over at Amy. She gives a very tiny shake of her head.

"It's not the hook-hands," I insist.

"Then what is it?"

"I already said. The heads in a box."

"And I already said--"

"Also, you're kind of belligerent."

"Oh, I'm belligerent?"

"Extremely. Even if you had hand-model hands, I wouldn't give you a ride."

Eddie frowns. "I'm sorry, man," he says, sounding genuine. "I'm just sensitive about these things. I'd get on some meds, but then people would say 'Oh, look, it's a drugged-up vet with a hook-hand!' and I'd be even worse off."

"Well, you know, a small amount of meds might not be so bad."

"You sure I can't have a ride? You'd really be helping me out."

I pull my wallet out of my pocket and take out a twenty-dollar bill. "Here," I say. "We can't give you a ride, but maybe you can use this to pay for gas if somebody else gives you a ride."

Eddie plucks the bill out of my hand with his pincers. "Thanks. A ride would be better, but I appreciate this."

"We have to get going," says Amy, taking me by the arm.

"Excuse me! Sir?" I hadn't noticed this, but a woman in her thirties has been standing off to the side, observing our conversation. She's beautiful but looks exhausted, probably because she's seven or eight months pregnant. An eleven or twelve-year-old girl with pink streaks in her hair stands with her. They walk over to us.

"This is my dad," says the pregnant woman. "He can be kind of intense. But we really need a lift."

"Hold on," says Amy. "He was trying to get a ride for all three of you?"

The woman nods.

"I'm not an expert on this kind of bait-and-switch," Amy admits, "but wouldn't it have been better strategy to use the pregnant woman and the little girl as your representative?"

"That shouldn't be necessary!" says Eddie. "I shouldn't have to trot out my knocked-up daughter to get sympathy! A truly decent human being would--"

"Enough, Dad," says the pregnant woman. She holds out her hand to Amy, who shakes it. "My name's Bonnie and this is my daughter Lynsie. L-Y-N-S-I-E. We're trying to get to my mom's house in New Jersey, but our car broke down and we've been hitchhiking. We could really use your help."

"I'll throw in twenty bucks for gas," says Eddie.

Bonnie glares at him. "I promise we'll keep him quiet."

Amy gives me a questioning look. I think she's trying to say Which one of us is going to be the bad guy here? but I don't know that for sure. I was fine being cold-hearted when it was just Eddie. I'm much less okay turning away a mother-to-be. I kind of want to ask her to lift her shirt so I can verify that it's a baby belly and not a hidden cache of weapons, but I don't think that would be well received.

"Is it okay if I talk to my friend for a moment?" I ask.

Without waiting to receive official permission, Amy and I take a few steps away. I wonder if we can sprint to the car and speed off before they catch us. There are other people in the rest area, so Eddie is unlikely to leap onto the car and break through the rear windshield with his hook.

"What do you think?" I ask.

"We can't just leave them."

"Well, I mean, we can. It wouldn't be that hard."

"She's pregnant."

"I know," I say. "That bites."

"I think that if he was a serial killer, it would be difficult to actually hunt prey with your granddaughter and pregnant daughter around. I mean, if things got tense, how tough would it really be for us to use one of them as a hostage?"

"Okay, to me, once this has reached a point where we're talking about taking pregnant women and little girls hostage, it's time to remove ourselves from the situation."

"I just don't think we'd be in any danger," Amy says.

"I think we might be."

"I think the level of danger is below the level of feeling like a horrible person if we don't help them."

"He was talking about heads in boxes."

"Right, but he was saying that he wouldn't put our heads in a box."

"I understand that. He made the same point. I feel, though, that if I had said, hey, Amy, we should go to Rhode Island together, and, oh, don't worry, I won't chop off your head anytime during those twenty-two hours, we wouldn't be on this trip right now. Do you disagree?"

"No, I agree."

"Good."

"What if we find out that something happened to them?"

"I'd feel awful. But what if we find out that something happened to the people who gave them a ride?"

"We can't live our whole lives in fear."

"No, but we can live a small part of them in fear. A tiny little percentage of smart fear."

"Do you really, truly believe that Eddie is a serial killer?"

"No. That doesn't mean we couldn't be his first victims."

"You're being silly."

I sigh. She's right. "Can we at least tell them that if we don't show up at our destination by a certain time, a letter will automatically go out to the authorities?"

"Sure. Let's get on the road."

* * *

I'm sitting in the back, on the right side. The back seat of this car is spacious and comfortable...unless one is seated behind a pregnant woman who has her seat slid back and reclined down to your knees. Then it's a bit less comfy. But I insisted that she do it, so I can't really complain.

Lynsie is next to me, engrossed in a thick fantasy novel. I'd asked her if she read a lot, and her curt response indicated that she preferred the act of reading to talking to boring adults about reading.

Eddie is on the other side of Lynsie. He doesn't smell fantastic. Though it's not a gag-inducing Air! For the love of God, I need fresh air! aroma, he smells like a mix of cigarette smoke, body odor, and wet pug. I have no idea how I am able to narrow the dog scent down to "pug."

I don't want to be a whiner, but the trip is somewhat less enjoyable now.

Fortunately, after about fifteen minutes or so I stopped worrying that we were in danger. Eddie's hook-hand isn't sharp or anything, and when you really think about it (which I have) it's actually less dangerous than a regular hand. It would require an immense amount of strength to jab it through my skull. It might leave a bruise, but that's about it. And if he did have psychopathic intentions toward me, he almost certainly would not have placed his granddaughter between us.

Even at my most paranoid, I don't think Lynsie is a threat. Hopefully that won't be my downfall.

"So what're you doing in Rhode Island?" Eddie asks me. "Visiting family?"

I shake my head. "Sightseeing." I'm not ashamed that we're driving all the way up there just for a hot dog, but I don't feel like saying it out loud.

"Beautiful place," Eddie says.

"We're hoping so."

"Smallest state in the union."

"That's what I've heard."

"And not an actual island."

"Nope."

Eddie lets out a wistful sigh. "I could go for a big bowl of clam chowder right now."

"Gross," Lynsie says, not looking up from her book.

"What do you mean, gross?" Eddie asks.

"Clams are gross."

"No, they aren't."

"They're all slimy and gooky."

"Have you ever had clam chowder?"

"No way."

"Bonnie, why hasn't my granddaughter ever had clam chowder?"

"I don't know."

"That's outrageous. Never had clam chowder. After you two get all settled in with Gramma, I'm going to take you out and we're all going to have a bowl."

"Gross."

"Have you ever had escargot?" Amy asks her.

"No."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Snails."

"Right. It's fancy."

"Gross."

Eddie ruffles Lynsie's hair. "The only reason people eat escargot is because it's socially unacceptable to just drink a cup of garlic butter."

"I've drank a cup of garlic butter before," Lynsie says.

"Have you ever had a kumquat?" Amy asks.

"What's that?"

"A kind of fruit."

"Is it really?" I ask.

"You've never heard of a kumquat?"

"I've heard of them. I just didn't know what they were."

Is the definition of kumquat common knowledge? Is this something I should have been embarrassed to admit, like the fact that I wasn't one hundred percent sure if Rhode Island was a real island?

"They sort of look like really tiny oranges," Amy says.

"Okay, I've probably seen those. Or maybe I was looking at really tiny oranges."

Eddie reaches over and ruffles my hair as well, which is more than a little unnerving, though at least he doesn't use his hook. "It's all right. I didn't know what a kumquat was, either."

Bonnie sits up and turns around to look at him. "You didn't know what a kumquat was?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Because you're sixty-one."

"I apologize for never having crossed paths with a kumquat. I'm like Todd: I've heard of them, I just didn't know what they were."

"What did you think they were?"

"I don't know."

"An animal?"

"Nah, maybe a plant. So I wasn't too far off."

"Can you believe this?" Bonnie asks Amy.

"Nope."

"I disagree with you two trying to shame us," I say. "I think a kumquat is an obscure reference."

"It's really not," says Amy. "They might not be a first-tier fruit like apples or bananas, but people know what they are."

"Would you say they're more obscure than a pomegranate?"

"Maybe. But people should know what a pomegranate is, too."

"It might be a cultural thing," I say. "Do you know what vegemite is?"

"Yeah, it's a food spread they use in Australia."

"Okay, you do know."

"And the 'cultural thing' excuse doesn't work if you're from Florida. We have kumquats there."

"I guess I had the flu when we had the annual Kumquat Parade," I say.

"Maybe I have had kumquats before," says Eddie. "Are they really sweet?"

"No," says Bonnie. "They're kind of bitter."

"Oh. I'm thinking of something else, then."

"Kumquats aren't bitter," Amy says. "They're really sour."

"Kumquats?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think so."

"They are."

"Those little things that look like oranges?"

"Yep."

"Shaped like olives?"

"Yep."

"They're sour?"

"Yep."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Maybe I'm not thinking of kumquats, then."

Lynsie has returned to her fantasy novel.

"If we pass a grocery store," says Amy, "we'll get some kumquats and make sure that everybody is fully educated."

Everybody stops talking about kumquats for a while. Talk of food, even obscure sour fruit, has made me kind of hungry, but I'd like to get Eddie, Bonnie, and Lynsie to New Jersey with as few delays as possible so Amy and I can resume our regularly scheduled vacation.

Eddie and I sit in the back, mostly being quiet, while Amy and Bonnie talk about various things. Bonnie asks her about our relationship, and Amy says that we're "great new friends." Bonnie looks back at me and gives me a wink, implying that her definition of "great new friends" means "banging each other's brains out," but she is discreet enough not to say this out loud.

Amy asks about the baby's father. Bonnie starts to explain the whereabouts of her baby daddy, but is interrupted by Eddie, who says that she knows he hates the term "baby daddy." She asks if she should say "sperm donor," and he says that no, she should not use that term, either, and asks what's wrong with simply calling him the "father." Bonnie says that there's nothing wrong with that, and if "baby daddy" bugs him so much she'll stop using it, and Eddie says that she already knows perfectly well that he hates that term, and yet she continues to use it. This goes on for a while. Anyway, he's in jail for drugs.

It's obvious that the relationship between Eddie and Bonnie's mother is a touchy subject, which does not stop Amy from asking about it. The marriage ended badly many years ago, and apparently Eddie will be swallowing a great deal of pride upon their arrival.

The imprisoned baby daddy is not the same man who fathered Lynsie. There are two possible candidates for that honor, though Bonnie does not know the names of either one. She is not unnecessarily graphic, but she does explain that her inability to narrow it down to a single father is compromised by the fact that the child was conceived during a threesome. This is not an adventure that I, personally, would share with strangers when my father and daughter were in the vehicle, but Eddie and Lynsie seem nonplussed. They've heard the story before.

I have no good answer when Bonnie asks me why guys feel the need to high-five each other in this situation.

Amy asks if she has a suspicion on the father's identity, based on Lynsie's physical appearance, and Bonnie explains that they were twin brothers. Amy stares at Bonnie for a moment, then the women high-five.

I unsuccessfully try to change the subject back to kumquats.

"Would it be rude if I got some sleep?" Bonnie asks. Nobody in the car is so morally abhorrent that they would deny sleep to a pregnant woman, so we all assure her that it's totally fine, and she's asleep within fifteen seconds. A few minutes later, Eddie is asleep as well. Lynsie continues to read.

Amy and I try to talk quietly, but Bonnie opens her eyes and turns her head, and though she doesn't actually say "Do you mind?" the message is clear. I lean back in my seat, and we drive for the next couple of hours in silence.

* * *

When they wake up, Amy takes the next exit and pulls into the parking lot of a McDonalds. We all get out of the car, and I let out an involuntary moan of pleasure as I stretch. My legs were in agony. Lynsie gets out of the car and immediately shoves her face back into the book.

I'm not sure what the social etiquette is regarding feeding hitchhikers. Are we obligated to pay for their meal? Is it Dutch treat? Would it be tacky to buy food for Bonnie and Lynsie and leave Eddie to fend for himself?

It doesn't matter. It's just fast food. I've got a big wad of cash in my wallet, and...

Now that I'm standing up and my butt is no longer quite as numb, it doesn't feel like I've got a big wad of cash in my wallet. I take it out of my pocket, open it, and see that I've only got a couple of twenties.

And then, to my dismay, I suddenly discover that I've become the kind of person who would say the f-word in front of an impressionable little girl.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"And...the Nazis have just won World War I. I mean II. Shit."

--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 13 [Outtake]

"What's wrong?" Eddie asks.

"Oh, like you don't know!" I'm so mad that my hands are shaking, and if Eddie was an adorable little puppy I'd drop-kick him.

"I assume that there's an issue with your wallet."

"Hey, good guess! Great guess!" I want to punch him. I'm not a violent person, but, damn, I want to punch him right in the mouth. However, he'd probably hold up his hook-hand to block the punch, which would not work out well for me, so it's better that I don't.

"What's going on?" Amy asks.

"It's gone! My money's gone!"

Eddie looks me straight in the eye. "I think you should calm down before you do something foolish like accuse me of stealing your money."

"Foolish, huh?" I ask. "Foolish? Foolish? I had eleven hundred dollars and now I don't! You basically force yourself into our car, messing up our vacation, and you're rude, smelly, and unnerving! And now my money's gone! How do you explain that, huh?"

"I didn't take your money."

"Oh, really? Really? Really? Where did it go, then?"

"That's something we'll have to figure out."

"Yeah, it's a huge mystery! Wow! What possible explanation could there be for money disappearing out of my wallet? So many reasons! If this was the point in time where we split off into alternate universes for each possibility, the branches would be infinite! Infinite!" I stretch out my arms, miming the concept of infinity.

I don't like that Amy is seeing me this enraged, but my fury is justified. I almost want him to take a swing at me with his hook so I can bash him into the side of the car. "Almost" is a crucial word, though. I'm not quite there yet, and at my current level of fury I'd prefer that he not take the swing.

Lynsie has not looked away from her book.

Is the story that good?

Is she accustomed to people accusing her grandpa of thievery?

Or...?

Accusing an eleven-year-old girl of stealing my money doesn't seem like the most endearing behavior, but what else can I do? I'm not going to let her get away with it.

Eddie notices me looking at her. "Don't even think it."

"Why not? She was sitting next to me the whole time!"

"My granddaughter did not steal your money."

Lynsie hasn't lowered her book.

Now I'm not sure which emotion is stronger: anger at the little scoundrel who stole my money, or the shame of knowing that a kid that age can swipe cash right out of my wallet without me noticing.

Amy and Bonnie are both watching the altercation. Amy looks positively horrified. Bonnie just looks tired.

"Are you sure the money was in your wallet?" Eddie asks. It's such a stupid question that I want to laugh in his face. Isn't it bad enough to raise a kleptomaniac granddaughter? Does he have to insult my intelligence on top of that?

Suddenly, there's a bit of doubt in my mind. I'm not sure why.

The balloon of this doubt quickly inflates, getting bigger and bigger, until it's a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Underdog balloon of doubt, and as I stand in front of Eddie, Lynsie, Bonnie, and Amy, I realize that I am, in fact, a gigantic jackass.

"Okay," I say, "here's what happened. I had this money in my wallet, just like I said, and then I thought that maybe I wasn't comfortable having that much money in my wallet, and the possibility exists--well, it's more than a possibility, I guess, I have a pretty clear memory of it now--that I put the money in my suitcase in the trunk."

"I see," says Eddie.

"So when I got all bent out of shape and suggested--but didn't actually say--that you or your beautiful granddaughter might have stolen it, I wasn't thinking clearly, because we haven't had a lot of sleep this trip--Amy's had much less sleep than me, but still, I haven't had a full night of rest or anything like that--and...I'm sorry."

"It's okay," says Eddie.

"Lunch is on me, of course. Anything you want. You want eight Big Macs, I'll buy you eight Big Macs."

"All right."

"It had nothing to do with your hand."

"I believe you."

I look around for a good place to curl up and die. There aren't any decent places within eyesight. I try to think of a time when I've been more mortified, and though I do come up with a couple of them, it doesn't ease my current pain.

"So, anyway..." I say, trailing off and hoping that somebody else will guide the conversation past this point.

"Everybody makes mistakes," says Eddie, although I feel that in his mind he's adding the phrase but you're still a reprehensible piece of crap.

Bonnie just glares at me. I kind of want to point out that some might consider not knowing the father of your child something of a blunder, but that would be a douchebag move. I don't want to be a douchebag right now.

Technically, I haven't verified that my money is in my suitcase. For all I know, my cash is in Eddie's pocket right now, and he's getting a great big giggle out of watching me flounder and sweat. That son of a--

No. Unless he somehow has the ability to get into a locked trunk from the inside of a car, while never leaving my sight, and also has the psychic ability to know that there is cash in a suitcase in the trunk, it's safe to assume that my money is fine. No need to have a complete mental breakdown here.

"Let's go get something to eat," says Amy.

* * *

The five of us sit in a booth. Eddie has eight Big Macs stacked on the tray in front of him. I didn't really expect him to take me up on that offer, and I truly hope he doesn't eat all eight of them. I think he's just trying to make a point. Everybody else ordered a reasonably sized meal.

"Don't read at the table," Bonnie tells Lynsie. Lynsie nods and sets the book on her lap, though she's still peeking down and reading it. Now that I don't think she's a criminal, I like this kid.

Eddie holds his first burger in his good hand, looking at me as if daring me to make a comment. I'm not sure what kind of comment he's daring me to make. ("I see that, when dining, you prefer the use of your real hand to your artificial one. How interesting.")

Nobody is saying much. Amy asks me for an extra napkin, which I provide. I'd like some ketchup for my fries, but the packets are over by Eddie, and instead of asking him to pass them to me I elect to go without.

Finally, I can't stand the uncomfortable silence any more. "How did you lose your hand?" I ask Eddie.

"In the army."

"I know, but what actually caused it to come off?"

"Infection."

"How did it get infected?"

"Do you really want me to talk about pus while we're trying to eat?" Eddie asks, through a big mouthful of burger. "Do you want me to describe tendons being severed? Do you want a detailed report about how difficult it is to get through bone?"

"No. But you can tell me how it got infected without getting into the whole part about tendons."

"Even if I tell you the tame version of the story, even if I tone everything down to a PG-13, you'll hear things you aren't ready to cope with. I wouldn't put that burden on you."

"Knock it off, Dad," says Bonnie.

"What did I do?"

Bonnie looks at me. "The anesthesiologist put him to sleep before they amputated his hand. He has no idea how difficult it may or may not have been to get through the bone."

"I drifted in and out of consciousness," Eddie says. "It was horrific."

"You've never once said that you were awake for any part of it."

"I was sparing you the details! A good father doesn't feed his daughter nightmare images. What do you think, they just popped my hand off like a Lego?"

"No, but you're trying to make it sound like you sawed it off yourself."

"I said no such thing."

"You implied it."

"I did not!"

"Your daughter's right," I say. "I was totally envisioning a DIY project."

"With a rusty knife," Amy adds.

Eddie keeps his attention on Bonnie. "I can't believe you're downplaying the amputation of my hand. My right hand. I'm right-handed, you know."

"I know."

"Let's see you sign papers with your left hand."

"Nobody is downplaying your injury," Bonnie says. "All I'm saying is that it was a surgery performed by medical professionals."

"Do you know how much pus is involved when a hand has become so infected that it requires amputation?" Eddie asks all of us.

"Don't be disgusting, Dad."

"Do you think it's a small amount or a large amount? This is a serious question. Small amount or large amount? I'll give you a hint: it's not a small amount."

A young couple sitting next to us moves to a different table.

"It's hard to believe that a man can lose a limb in the service of his country and take a bunch of crap from his own daughter about it."

"So how did it get infected?" I ask again.

"I don't want to get into it."

"C'mon. Share the details."

"It's not important."

"I'm curious. Let's hear it."

"It's not a story I wish to recount."

"I need to know."

"It could provide an important life lesson," says Amy.

Eddie sighs. "Fine. Whatever."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, everybody at the table is weeping.

While serving his second term in Vietnam, Eddie was taken prisoner. He describes in great detail the ordeal of living in a cage, starving, surviving on the occasional handful of rice or moldy fruit. He once caught a rat and ate it raw, but got so sick that he hallucinated for the next three days.

He tells us of watching the other men in his unit who were captured--five of them--be systematically executed. His eyes are wet as he names each of his friends and tells us how they died with honor. But you can die with honor and still show fear. You can die with honor and still shed tears when the barrel of the gun touches the back of your head.

He stayed in that cage for nineteen months, surrounded by his own filth, muscles atrophying, praying each night that tomorrow would be the day when help arrived. He spoke to God, and God told him to be patient, told him that he would make it out of this hellhole. That was the only thing keeping Eddie from taking his own life. He had nothing to use to slit his wrists, but fantasized about rubbing his wrists raw against the wooden bars of his cage, parting the flesh enough for him to bleed out.

On the day he escaped, the men who showed up and slaughtered everybody else in the camp weren't even there to rescue him. In fact, the Vietnamese man who opened his cage probably would have just taken him to be a prisoner elsewhere, if Eddie hadn't played dead. Eddie does not tell us how he killed the man, but his voice trembles as he tells us that he didn't even feel human by this point. He was an animal in a cage.

He crawled through the jungle, delirious, hands bleeding. He doesn't remember how he was rescued. He does remember the American medic telling him that it was a "goddamn miracle" that his body hadn't just shut down. And he remembers sobbing and begging them not to take his hand, even though he could clearly see that it would be the thing to finally kill him.

I'd thought Eddie was going to say that he scraped it up in a skeet shooting accident.

* * *

I'm relieved that Eddie doesn't eat all eight of the Big Macs. He does eat three of them, though, which is a personal record for the most Big Macs I've ever seen a human being eat. He takes the rest with him.

We're back in the car. I'm driving. I'm still not entirely comfortable with the idea of Amy sitting in the back with Eddie, even if Lynsie is between them, but she insists that she's fine with that, and more importantly, she says that her lack of sleep is catching up with her. Every occupant of the vehicle agrees that they'd rather not careen off the road because the driver lost consciousness, and so I'm behind the wheel.

Eddie drifts off to sleep pretty quickly. I'm not good at making small talk with pregnant women, so I'm relieved when Bonnie also falls asleep. In the back seat, Amy closes her eyes for a few minutes, then seems to give up sleep as a lost cause.

"What do you like to do for fun?" she asks Lynsie.

Lynsie doesn't look up from her book. "Read."

"Well, that's obvious. Anything else?"

Lynsie shakes her head. "Nope."

"No sports?"

"No way."

"Music?"

"My mom makes me take piano lessons."

"Do you like it?"

"Nope."

"It's great that you like to read so much. That's a lot better than watching TV. Except for Exit Red."

Lynsie looks up from the book. "You like Exit Red?"

"Yep! Do you?"

"Yeah. Duh. It's only the best show ever made."

"I'm not sure you have the frame of reference to make that statement, but I'm going to agree with you anyway. Put 'er there." Amy puts out her hand, and Lynsie takes it. They shake hands as mutual Exit Red fanatics. "Who's your favorite character?"

"Trogger."

"You are awesome," says Amy, and they shake hands again.

"The guy who plays him was at New York Comicon, but Mom wouldn't take me."

"That's not cool."

"Nope. Everybody was there."

"Blake Remark, too?"

"Who's that?" Lynsie asks.

"The guy who created the show."

"Oh, yeah, he was there. I watched it online. He was funny. He's going to be at PhaserCon in San Francisco next weekend, but Mom won't take me to that one, either."

"Well, I'm sorry you didn't get to go."

"Me too."

It would have been great to bring Amy to something like that. I wonder if Blake Remark would tell the ending of the show to somebody who might not live to see it...?

They excitedly talk about the show for a while longer, until Lynsie seems to decide that she's done interacting with grown-ups for the time being. She returns to her book. Amy leans back and, from all outward appearances, sleeps peacefully.

* * *

Eddie's ex-wife Denise's home in New Jersey isn't really on our way, but I insist that we take them there anyway. Though I know it's irrational to have this much guilt, I feel as if I'm more likely to regret not taking them to New Jersey than I am to regret doing it. Amy feels the same way. It's hard not to give a ride to somebody who went through Eddie's experience, even if he's really freaking obnoxious.

Bonnie and Eddie insist that taking us all the way there isn't necessary, and Amy and I insist that it is, and I secretly hope that their insistence will win out in the end, so that I can have my guilt eased without actually taking such a big detour, but they accept our offer on the second try.

After a not-so-enjoyable adventure through New Jersey traffic, we drive through a fairly nice suburban neighborhood. Eddie is squirming a lot in the back. His ex-wife has remarried, and though her new husband is more than happy to allow Bonnie and Lynsie to stay with them in their time of need, he was a bit more tentative regarding Eddie's presence. He's only going to stay with them for a few days, but Eddie does not expect to enjoy those few days.

Eddie glances at his watch. "Hey, we're a little earlier than we told them...maybe we should go get a beer first." The GPS said that we'd arrive at 9:58. It's 9:58 now. When Bonnie called, she told them 10:00.

Bonnie smiles. "It'll be fine, Dad."

"What if the guest bedroom isn't ready yet? Your mom used to flip out if somebody saw the house with a speck of dirt on the floor." Eddie looks at me. "Todd? Beer?"

"Sorry. I can't help you."

"I promise you it will be okay," Bonnie tells him.

"The first few minutes are going to set the tone for the whole visit," says Eddie. "I'm telling you, that woman won't be able to handle it if we get there early. It's going to be panic, panic, panic. Hell on earth for everybody."

"If you really feel so strongly about it, I'm sure Todd and Amy will let us wait in the driveway for two minutes."

"That's fine," I say.

"Then what happens when she peeks out the window and sees us just sitting there? She'll think we're plotting against her. She is the most suspicious woman I've ever known."

"Dad? Calm down."

We pull into the driveway of their home. Damn. It is nice. Eddie's ex-wife remarried well. I guess I can understand the blow to Eddie's pride.

Everybody gets out of the car. I wish I had my jacket, even though it's unseasonably warm and I really shouldn't be such a thin-blooded Florida wuss. The front door opens and two friendly-looking people step outside, beaming. Bonnie runs over and gives the woman a hug. Even Lynsie looks excited to see her grandmother. Eddie waits by the car.

"Well, it's been interesting," I tell him, extending my hand. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Thanks." Eddie shakes my hand. He sighs, looks over at the house, then sighs again. "Um, yeah, I'm not going in there. Let's go to a bar."

He opens the car door, gets back inside the front seat of the vehicle, and closes the door. Amy and I exchange a quick What the hell are we supposed to do now? look while Bonnie walks back over.

"C'mon, Dad," she says, rapping gently on the window. Eddie stares down at his lap, refusing to make eye contact.

What do I do? Drag the old guy out of the car, kicking and screaming? I'm embarrassed to admit to myself that I'd probably enjoy that, if only a little.

"I'll get your stuff," I tell Bonnie. I pop the trunk and take out their bags.

"I'm sorry about this," Bonnie says.

"It's okay. We'll just...I guess we'll take him to a bar."

We get their luggage to the front door, then awkwardly return to the car and get back inside.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Eddie," I say. "This new plan doesn't really work for us."

Eddie doesn't look up. "Just a few drinks. Then I'll be fine. I promise."

"We're supposed to be on our way to Rhode Island."

"Can I go?"

"No."

Eddie continues to stare at his lap and doesn't say anything else. I start the engine and back out of the driveway.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"A ninety-seven percent success rate is incredible for this kind of technological experimentation! And, yes, I will admit that the three percent of his body that didn't teleport successfully was a crucial portion, but alive or not, we have teleported a human being!"

--Exit Red, Season 4, Episode 3

We picked the first bar to show up on the GPS, which may have been a mistake. The place is called Julian (no possessive case). A better name would have been The Filthy, Miserable, Depressing Bar Where Patrons Get So Drunk On Cheap Booze That Maybe, Just Maybe, They'll Forget To Hang Themselves Tonight. That probably wouldn't fit on the sign.

Eddie wept for most of the drive, which was uncomfortable to watch, and now he's doing a lot of blank staring, which is worse. He's on his third shot of whiskey. Amy is drinking a peach wine cooler. As far as I can tell, I'm drinking a glass of warm tar, though I'd ordered a root beer.

A cockroach scurries across the counter. The bartender snaps his towel at it, scoring a direct hit and knocking the insect onto its back. It lies there, legs flailing. The bartender makes no move to remove it and instead returns to drying off some glasses.

"I'm a piece of crap," says Eddie.

"You're not a piece of crap," Amy assures him.

"I can't take care of my family. Do you know how humiliating it's going to be to stay with Denise and Mick? That financially secure son of a bitch. What kind of a name is Mick? Sounds like somebody didn't know how to spell Rick."

"It's probably short for Mickey," I said, unhelpfully.

"Mickey. Fuckin' mouse name."

"Maybe he was named after Mick Jagger," I say, fully aware that my words are failing to move the conversation forward.

"He's too old to be named after Mick Jagger," Eddie tells me. Then he face falls. "At least I think he is. Jesus, that's all I need: Denise getting boned by somebody young enough to have been named after Mick Jagger."

"You don't have to be very young at all to be named after--"

"Anyway," says Amy, interrupting me, "you're not a piece of crap."

"Prove it."

Amy hesitates. "I can't actually prove it. But everyone falls on hard times."

"Have you ever had to take your pregnant daughter to live with your ex-wife and her rich husband?"

"No."

Eddie looks at me. "Have you?"

"No."

Eddie seems disappointed by my answer.

"I know this is rough," says Amy, "but you'll get through this. You need to focus on your daughter and her needs. This isn't about you."

The cockroach is still trying to right itself. I guess the bartender is waiting for it to starve to death.

"If you take me with you, I'll sit in the back the whole time," Eddie insists. "I won't say a word. I won't make fun of anybody's name. I'll ride in the trunk."

"If this is about your pride, I don't see how riding in our trunk would help your situation," I say.

Eddie gestures to the bartender, who pours him another shot of whiskey. Eddie downs it. "Just take me to a hotel, then."

"Do you have money for a hotel?"

"I'll sleep in the goddamn Dumpster behind the hotel. I don't care. I'll use a trash bag filled with used hypodermic needles as a pillow. I'll tear out my hair to use as a blanket."

"This is getting kind of dark," I say.

"Really, this isn't about you," Amy tells him. "It's about your new grandchild. You have to stop focusing on yourself and do what's right for your family. Riding in our trunk won't help anybody."

Eddie picks up his shot glass. He licks out the last drop of whiskey from the bottom, then places the glass over the roach. "You're right. I know you're right. And I think I'm drunk enough to do the right thing now."

"I'm glad to hear that," says Amy. "We'll take you back."

Eddie nods. "Let me take a piss first."

"Okay," I say. "You take that piss, and we'll be waiting."

Eddie slides off the barstool, then stumbles over to the restroom.

"He went into the ladies' room," Amy notes.

"He'll be okay."

Amy finishes the last swallow of her wine cooler. "Why is your drink doing that?" she asks.

I glance down at my root beer. "I think that's the carbonation."

"It looks like a bubbling tar pit."

"I know."

"Don't drink it."

"I haven't been."

"What's that floating in it?"

"I don't know. I think it's some kind of bone but I just don't know." I push my drink aside. "Does it make us bad people that we're not bringing him with us?"

"He's got a grandkid on the way. It would make us bad people if we did bring him."

"Yeah, you're right. I just feel guilty. He's really upset."

"He's lucky that Bonnie has such a nice place to stay. I get that it's embarrassing for him, but he could have much worse problems. What if they were out on the street? What if they didn't have somebody to take care of her? He should be grateful that his ex-wife is being boned by Mick."

"I agree. He just looks like he wants to kill himself."

We both sit there silently for a moment.

"Okay, which one of us goes to make sure he's not killing himself?" Amy asks.

"He's in the ladies' room and you're probably better at talking people out of suicide," I say, sliding off the barstool, "but if you see his penis, that may be what pushes him over the edge. I'll go."

I hurry over to the restrooms. With a man's life at stake, I feel terrible for my momentary thought of I can't go into the ladies' room! That's madness! but I get over it and push open the door.

Eddie is standing at the sink, the hook up to his throat.

There's no time to talk him out of this. I have to move quickly. The only option that immediately occurs to me is to tackle him.

He's in his sixties and I'm in my thirties, so in theory the physical advantage should be mine. But he's a Vietnam veteran and I type on a computer all day, so it actually doesn't surprise me all that much when I find myself careening toward the door of the restroom stall. I bash into it and fall to the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Eddie asks.

"You were going to kill yourself!"

"I was not!"

"Yes, you were! You were going to slit your throat with the hook!"

"This thing isn't a razor, you idiot! I couldn't slit my throat with it!"

"I didn't actually mean slit your throat! I meant jam it into your throat! You were going to jam it into your throat!"

"I was not! It's not sharp at all! Do you know how hard I'd have to slam this thing into my neck to break the skin?"

"Why was it up by your neck?"

"Because I was scratching my chin! People do that! Chins itch sometimes! What's the matter with you?"

I'm feeling very sheepish again. "Well...you acted like you might kill yourself."

"I said I had to take a piss! This is where people go to take a piss!"

Suddenly the stall door opens and a woman runs out. "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me," she pleads, dashing for the exit. We let her go.

I push myself back up to my feet. "Okay. I may have made a mistake. But you're in the ladies' room, so we've both made mistakes."

"Are we?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Shit. No wonder there wasn't a urinal."

We leave the restroom and return to the bar. "He wasn't going to kill himself with his hook," I tell Amy.

"Well, I never thought he was going to do it with his hook," says Amy. "That's really messed up."

"Can we just go?" I ask. I notice that the shot glass is still upside-down on the counter but the roach is gone. I don't want to know. The three of us head for the exit.

* * *

We pull back into Denise's driveway and get out of the car. When I reach out to shake Eddie's hand, I worry that he'll drop to the ground and latch onto my leg, but he doesn't.

"I think this is going to be okay," he says. "I appreciate the ride, and I appreciate your unnecessary suicide intervention."

"No problem. I hope everything works out."

Amy gives him a hug. Eddie winks at us, and then walks over to the front door.

I won't say that we necessarily rush back into the car, but we don't amble, either. And, yes, I glance in the rearview mirror a couple of times before we round the corner.

* * *

I'm exhausted. Amy got much less sleep than I did, so she's got to be exhausted, too. We really should just get a hotel for the night, but I don't want to be the one to suggest such a thing. I'm hoping that she'll suggest it. Maybe we've got a deep enough connection that--

"I'm totally fried," Amy says. "Let's just stop at a motel and get a fresh start in the morning."

* * *

We don't discuss the issue of separate rooms. It seems like a silly waste of money. Surely it's fine for us to share a room. You can share a room and not violate the no-sex rule. Siblings do that all the time.

We stop at the first motel that does not proudly advertise "Color TV" as an amenity. There is not a single cockroach, rat, or rabid dog in the lobby, so that's a good sign.

"King or two doubles?" asks the guy at the front desk.

I do not glance over at Amy for confirmation, because to do so would imply that I think there could be a different answer. "Two doubles."

Amy pays for the room. We're on the second floor. We discuss our mutual aversion to people who take the elevator up a single floor, but after a few minutes of being unable to find the stairs, we become exactly the kind of lazy losers we have ridiculed.

The room is actually pretty nice for such an affordable place. If there was a ghastly triple-murder, the housekeeping crew did a good job cleaning up after it.

"Rock paper scissors for first shower?" asks Amy.

"Nope. You can have it."

"Thanks!" She takes her bag with her and retreats into the bathroom. I sit down on my bed and turn on the television. There's an ad for pay-per-view porn, which I very much doubt we will be watching. I switch to the National Geographic channel.

I hear her turn on the shower.

She's naked in there.

Jesus, what am I, a hormonal fourteen-year-old boy? I've had sexual intercourse before. I should be able to handle the idea of Amy taking a shower without going all horndog.

She takes a very long shower.

Finally, the water turns off, and a few moments later, the door opens. Steam billows out. Amy emerges.

Her nightgown was clearly not intended for seduction. It's plain, worn, frayed, and kind of baggy. She still looks absolutely gorgeous.

She smiles at me. "Your turn."

The hot shower feels fantastic. My thumb cut stings when the water hits it, but otherwise, it's pure bliss. I didn't even get all that grimy, but I think I perspired a lot today. I lather up.

I notice that a specific region of my body is receiving a much more thorough soaping-up than if I were, say, showering for a day at work. Not that my usual bathing process is lacking, but there's typically only one round of lathering.

It doesn't hurt to be extra-clean, just in case.

Nothing is going to happen.

We've already discussed that nothing is going to happen. I'm certainly not going to make a move. Our adventure thus far has largely been one catastrophe after another, so she's probably completely non-horny. This extra soaping effort is all for naught.

Maybe I don't even want this to happen yet. What if she's disappointed? Though I am an attentive and grateful lover, I do have ongoing issues with my motor skills. I like to believe that I am reasonably competent, but I also know that we won't be going at it with such godlike bravura that the people in the next room ask us to teach classes.

Honestly, I'm still kind of scarred from my last experience.

(Mentally scarred. Physically scarred would be much more impressive.)

* * *

Karen was on top, moving slowly. We'd been doing this for a couple of minutes when she looked down at me and said, "I'm bored."

"Bored with our relationship?"

"No. Bored now."

"Now?"

She nodded.

"Oh. Uh, okay. Should we...I mean, uh, do you want to pick up the pace?"

Karen shrugged. "I've been setting the pace the whole time. I think that part's okay."

"Do you want me to play with your breasts?"

"Yeah. Try that."

I did. Her breasts were large and firm, but with nipples that never seemed willing to fully commit. I could quickly tell that even with both thumbs working, this wasn't doing the trick.

"Sorry, but I'm just really bored," she said. "I'm not trying to be mean or anything. We've always said that we should be completely honest with each other, and honestly, I'm bored."

"No, no, honesty is good."

"Let's just watch some TV."

"What if I rolled you over?"

"I guess we could try it."

Karen dismounted and rolled onto her stomach. I don't know how it works for other guys, but for me, being told "I'm bored" has a direct negative impact on my erection. At least it did that one time. Perhaps I'd eventually get used to it.

I tried to forge onward, but I quickly realized that since she found the whole experience rather dull while I was actually inside of her, waiting around for me to achieve re-entry was not going to boost her interest level.

"What do you want to watch?" I asked, picking up the remote control.

"Is The Colbert Report on?"

"I think so."

"Let's watch that."

I turned on the television. "So we're breaking up, right?"

"I don't know. Yeah, I guess we probably should."

"Okay."

"Do we have to make a big production out of it? Could you maybe just go home, and then maybe just not call me anymore?"

"I can do that."

I felt like I wanted to get in some sort of mean-spirited dig, like "You weren't exactly a hellcat yourself," but...no. That's not what I do.

And so I left.

* * *

I'm almost positive that my experience with Amy wouldn't be like that, but it does make me think that we should wait until she's more invested in me.

Honestly, the smart thing to do would be to masturbate. Get it out of my system.

But what if I step out of the bathroom and she greets me in the nude? I'd regret having just masturbated. Her feelings would be hurt when I couldn't get hard right away, and I'd have to tell her the reason, and then she'd think I was some deviant who couldn't stop himself from whacking it in the shower.

I'm a mature adult. I can handle the sexual tension.

I'll sleep much better without it, though.

She is not going to greet me in the nude. This is not a pay-per-view movie. Nothing is going to happen between us tonight.

If that's the case, then some sort of release is a fine idea.

To jerk off or not to jerk off?

I'm so turned on right now that I could probably go for a second round in record time, in which case she might not even notice that I'm in recovery mode.

But what if she wants to go at it multiple times? I'll be one short. If we're going to run a marathon, I don't want to have already run a hundred meter dash.

It's very possible that I'm overthinking this.

Okay, here's what I'll do: I will not take this opportunity to masturbate. If I discover later that my case of blue balls is interfering with my ability to fall asleep, then I'll return to the bathroom and discreetly finish myself off.

Perfect. Masturbation plan acquired.

I rinse off and put on my pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I brush my teeth, swish some mouthwash, make sure my hair looks nice, and then walk out of the bathroom.

Amy is in her own bed, asleep.

I turn off the television. She's snoring, but it's a very soft, adorable snore. I want to kiss her on the forehead. I won't, though, because she might open her eyes just in time to see me hovering over her and scream.

I get into my own bed, and I quickly fall asleep as well.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"That's one hell of a salmon."

--Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 11

(also Season 4, Episode 7)

Somehow we are able to get through our free continental breakfast without any mishaps or wacky hijinks. We each have a non-descript bagel, some non-descript scrambled eggs, and some non-descript toast and then we're back on the road. We have less than five hours to drive until we reach Providence.

"It feels good to have my brain working again," says Amy.

"Yep. And I think today will--" I stop talking as my cell phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket, keeping my eyes on the road, and check the display.

Aw, crap.

"Dude, what the fuck?" asks Craig when I answer.

"I am so sorry. It's been crazy."

"So crazy you can't give your fucking roommate a little peace of mind? Do you think I like sitting up all night worrying about you? Do you think it's a hobby of mine? Couldn't even send a fucking text message, huh? One fucking tiny fucking little fucking text fucking message. Do you know how many characters it would have taken to send me a text message to let me know that everything was fine? Two. Two fucking characters. 'O' and 'K.' That's it. 'OK.' You could be chased by dinosaurs through a burning forest and still have time to text 'OK.'"

"If that were happening, I wouldn't be okay."

"Is this a fucking joke to you?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"It's like you have no regard for my feelings. I kept you calm when you thought you were having a stroke, and this is the way you treat me."

"You know, if you texted me first, I'd reply."

"That's not the fucking point. I shouldn't have to remind you."

"Okay. It won't happen again."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Are you having fun?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I've gotta go."

"I promise I'll call you tonight," I say.

"Oh, by the way, Margaret is living with us now. Her kids have your room."

"What?"

Craig hangs up.

"Angry roommate again?" Amy asks.

"Yeah." I decide that the issue of Margaret and her kids is one that can wait until I get back.

I give Gigi a call and am relieved to get her voice mail. I leave her a message saying that everything is okay, then I tuck the phone back into my pocket. I wait a moment, thinking that she'll call me right back and I'll further entangle myself in the web of deception, but my phone remains silent.

"And now our adventure can resume," I tell Amy.

She smiles. "So let's talk. Tell me about your parents."

"Well, they're still together, believe it or not. They live in Vermont. My dad sells electronics and my mom's a pharmacist."

"Do you talk to them often?"

"Yeah, pretty often," I say. Although maybe I don't. I guess I only talk to them on the phone every month or so and see them at Christmas. Am I the kind of guy who takes his parents for granted? Dammit. I hope Amy doesn't delve into this issue further.

"So...once a week?"

She's delving. Argh.

"Not quite that often."

"You don't have to share if this is a touchy subject."

"No, no, it's not touchy at all. It's actually just kind of uninteresting. I mean, not that my parents are uninteresting, I'm not trying to say anything like that, they're actually very interesting people in their own way, and in other people's way too, they're definitely not boring, it's just that I'm in Florida and they're all the way over in Vermont and we don't see each other that much, or, you know, talk on the phone that much, even though that, you know, kind of makes distance irrelevant. I call them about once a month."

"That's not so bad. Some people never call their parents."

"I should call them more. As you may have guessed, phone contact isn't one of my strengths."

"Do you e-mail them?"

"No."

"Were you close?"

I nod. "Yeah, I think it was a pretty standard parent-child relationship. I'm an only child, but they didn't really spoil me. I went through my bratty toddler years, and my whiny self-absorbed teenager years, and I leeched off them a little bit after college, but there weren't any falling-outs or anything. We've never not spoken to each other. I just don't call them enough. That's going to change."

"Are you going to call them right now?"

"No. That would be rude to you."

"You're not a bad son. Some kids only call when they want to borrow money."

"I haven't borrowed money from my mom and dad since I was...well, technically, I've never borrowed money from them. I haven't allowed them to purchase goods or services for me since I was twenty-three." I pump my fist in an exaggerated victory gesture. "Yes! Financial independence! What about your parents?"

"Magicians."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Well, a magician and his assistant. The assistant does all of the real work, you know."

"That's beyond awesome. So you got to spend your childhood touring with a magic act?"

Amy shakes her head. "They weren't successful magicians. Some shows, but mostly birthday parties. Lots of balloon animals. My dad was--is--a genius with balloon animals, but twisting a balloon into a wiener dog doesn't really compare to being on the stage in Vegas, right?"

"Balloon animals are pretty amazing, but I can see your point. Are they still together?"

"No."

"Sorry."

"It was the best thing. Lots of bitterness there. Oh, they could do a children's show and make you think they were the happiest couple in the world. But once the show was over, there was a lot of blame over the fact that they'd just done a show in somebody's backyard for fifteen snot-nosed seven-year-olds, and the blame all came from her."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah. She used to beat him."

"She beat him?"

"Uh-huh. And it sounds like it should be kind of funny, right? My dad is this six-foot-two guy, solid build, more like a Penn Jillette than the skinny-geeky magician type. And my mom was this petite little wisp of a woman. When she'd start hitting him, there was no way he was going to fight back. And there was no way in hell he was going to call the police for domestic abuse. So my dad would literally have to stand there, maybe a couple of times a week, and let this woman pound on him--I mean actual punches with her fists--and there wasn't anything he could do but just take it."

"What did he do while she was hitting him? Anything?"

"He'd say 'Rosanna, this needs to stop.' That's all he'd ever say. And once when she went for his face he blocked her hand. But that's it. 'Rosanna, this needs to stop.'"

"How old were you?"

"They were magicians when I was born. Things didn't start to get outwardly bad until I was eight or nine, maybe. It was a slow-working poison."

"What did you do?"

"Cried a lot. My mom didn't try to hide any of it. I'd be right there in the living room while she was abusing him. Even if she was so much smaller than him, and she wasn't causing him any visible harm, it was abuse. It might conjure up a funny image, but it wasn't funny at all."

"It doesn't sound funny."

"One time I was staying with my uncle--my dad's brother--and I started crying out of nowhere. He asked me what was wrong, and I said nothing was wrong, and he persisted, and so I told him. And he laughed his ass off. Laughed his ass off."

"Did he talk to your dad?" I ask.

"Oh yeah. My dad was not a yeller, but he sure yelled at me that night. Said I'd humiliated him. Told me to mind my own goddamn business."

"Jesus."

"He apologized in the morning, and it was sincere, but you'd better believe that I didn't tell anybody else. I didn't talk about it again until I got married."

"What did your husband say?"

"Credit where it's due: he didn't laugh his ass off."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. Makes me feel kind of bad for having such a normal childhood."

"You should never feel bad about things going well," Amy tells me. "Though you should call your parents more."

"I will."

"They finally got divorced, and since the abuse was totally off the record, I ended up living with my mom. Fortunately, the target of her failed dreams didn't shift to me. My teenage years weren't so bad, I mean aside from being your standard depressed lonely teenaged girl. But I was never abused myself or molested or anything, so I got through life pretty well."

"Is your dad still a magician?"

Amy shakes her head. "He started working in retail after the divorce. He still does. I used to beg him to do card tricks, and if I kept begging long and loud enough he'd eventually do something cool. But one time he messed up the trick, and I could just see the heartbreak in his face, and I quit begging."

"That really makes me sad," I say. "Maybe it's just because I like magicians."

"I can't watch them anymore."

"That makes me sad, too."

"What's the saddest thing you've ever seen?"

"Seen or had happen to me?"

"Seen. In real life--not on the news or in a movie or anything."

I think for a moment. "Seeing homeless people in New York made me sad."

"That's too general. Give me one specific instance of the saddest thing you've ever seen."

"My default answer on this would be one time when I was a kid and I saw a dog get run over in front of its owner. This nice bulldog's collar came off and it ran into the street and got hit by a car. But what's horrible about that incident is that, yes, it made me sad, but my reaction was really more about going to my friends and saying 'Oh my God, you won't believe what I saw today!'"

"That's how kids are."

"I know. I remember the owner shrieking, but my reaction to that was barely sympathy--it was just 'Whoa! The lady went totally nuts!' I feel like a complete bastard sharing that. If a bulldog got hit in front of us right now, I assure you I'd feel much sadder."

"Noted."

"The one that sticks with me the most, and it's really nothing, was this guy in the airport. Tattoos, leather jacket, beard--complete Hell's Angel looking guy. This was maybe five years ago. And he was there with his son, this kid who was maybe twelve. And he was talking to the kid, and he was laughing, and he was all upbeat, and then it was time for the kid to go through the security line, so he ruffled his hair, and he gave him a thumbs-up sign, and he shook the kid's hand because apparently they weren't a hugging family, and then he sent the kid through and walked away. When he turned away, he immediately wiped a tear from his eye. Like he'd been holding himself together the whole time and broke the second he turned away. That's it. One little tear and it just about killed me to see it."

"Sometimes it's the little things that stick with you," says Amy.

"Yep. I've seen dogs get hit, homeless people, an old lady in a bus station reading a letter and sobbing, I've been to a funeral for each of my grandparents--and I'm on my way to a fifth one--but the thing I flash back to is that biker guy wiping away a tear. It's really weird."

"Are we thoroughly depressed yet?"

"Nah. Let's talk about leukemia."

"What's the funniest thing you've ever seen?" asks Amy.

"Well, one time my co-workers and I snuck a monkey into the building, but that's probably more of a 'you had to be there' moment. I'll show you the video sometime."

"I'm always up for a monkey video."

"If we continue the theme of images that have stuck with me, even if it's not the most ha-ha funny moment of my life, I was at a drive-in. Not a movie, a restaurant. Is that what they're called? Drive-ins? What are they called?"

"Drive-in restaurants."

"Okay. I don't know why I thought they were called something else. So I was there with my sort-of-but-not-quite girlfriend. The service was insanely slow, and the burgers had this thick layer of brown sludge on the top, but Lucy and I were both introverts and we weren't going to say anything. It was fine. The fries were good."

"The fries are the most important component of any drive-in meal."

"I disagree with that," I say. "It's the milkshakes."

"I retract my statement."

"Thank you. You could eat in your car like any other drive-in, but there were also some outdoor tables. This old guy--well, I guess he was middle-aged, not old--had obviously had the same bad experience that we did, and he was pissed. He stormed away from the table and threw his entire meal onto the ground. Just flung it down right in the middle of the parking lot. But then he just stood there, because he wanted somebody who worked there to see what he'd done, but nobody had. I may have been the only one. And the poor guy didn't know what to do. He was frozen there, looking around like 'Why has nobody noticed my tantrum?' He would take a couple of steps away, look around, and walk back, and I could tell that it was driving him absolutely insane that nobody had seen him throw that food. He kept looking down at it like he wanted to pick it back up and throw it again."

"Did he?"

"No. Finally he went back to his car and left. But you could see the unbelievable frustration. I picture the guy lying in bed, tossing and turning, knowing that when they did find the food on the ground they probably just assumed that somebody accidentally spilled it and was too lazy to clean it up."

"Sucks to be him."

"Big-time."

"Okay, lightning round. What's your--"

"No, wait, what's the funniest thing you've ever seen?" I ask.

"Oh. Sorry. Once, when I was with my parents at a magic show, I accidentally walked in on two clowns having sex."

"Seriously?"

"No, they were doing it humorously."

"Ha-ha."

"Every time he thrust, he honked his nose."

"Bullshit."

"I swear to God. I am not making this up. He was taking her from behind, and he honked his big red nose every time he thrust. Honest truth."

"You're making that up."

"I am not making this up."

"You're trying to top my story about the man throwing his food."

"No offense, but I could have topped that with any reasonably amusing anecdote."

"You did not see two clowns having sex."

"I did."

"In full makeup?"

"Yes. And they both had their clown costumes on, except for their pants."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Did you even know what was happening?"

"Sure. I recognized the sight of two clowns boinking."

"Did it traumatize you?"

"Nah. Although I guess that since I myself have never had sex with a clown, maybe the damage is there."

"I still think you're making that up."

"Put me under hypnosis."

"We've known each other since Saturday. How did the clown sex story not appear in our conversation until now? How was that not the first thing you told me? I mean, you have to have flashed back to that moment every hour of your life since then, haven't you?"

"Honestly, since we met, I hadn't thought about it until I asked you the funniest thing you've ever seen."

"And yet you were going to move on to something else before you answered the question yourself. If I hadn't said anything, I still wouldn't know that you'd watched two clowns screw. That's just incomprehensible to me."

"Well, I'd thought I might save it for an awkward silence."

"Admit it, you're at least making up the part where he was honking his nose."

"Nope."

"Was she honking her nose?"

"No. She might have been before I walked in, but her nose had fallen off. So, yeah, they might have both been honking their noses at the beginning, and then maybe the rough motion that was caused by his repeated pelvic thrusts caused her nose to fall off, and she was too preoccupied to put it back on, as any of us would be in that situation."

"Did they just keep going when you walked in?"

"No, no, no. I'd come inside to use the bathroom, and I heard the honking inside the bedroom, which is what compelled me to open the door. He only did a couple more thrusts and honks before they saw me."

"Did you tell anybody?"

"Nah. They bribed me with a balloon to keep quiet. And I didn't want to get a couple of poor clowns in trouble."

I shake my head in disbelief. "I would have run out of the house shouting 'Clowny sex! Clowny sex!'"

"The balloon was shaped like a great big purple penis."

"Really?"

"No. That part I made up. Everything else is true."

"I think your life has been more eventful than mine."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"I guess it was inevitable that we'd be fighting an army of killer robots. Still kind of a bummer, though."

--Exit Red, Season 6, Episode 2

"Favorite color?" Amy asks.

"Green."

"Any particular shade of green?"

"Kermit-green."

"Mine's red. Blood-red, but not because of blood. Favorite animal?"

"Dog."

"What kind of dog?"

"Any dog under fifteen pounds. You?"

Amy considers the question. "Hippo."

"Hippo? You know they're killing machines, right?"

"I meant that they're my favorite animal when they're not being killing machines. Have you seen them bounce around in the water? No animal is happier."

"I can't get behind that choice," I tell her. "You might as well say that your favorite animal is a shark with a baby between its teeth."

"I won't lie. That's up there. Favorite stand-up comedian?"

"Bill Cosby."

"I was going to say Steven Wright, but now I'm going to change my answer to Bill Cosby. Chicken heart!"

"Favorite sport?" I ask, even though I personally do not have a favorite sport.

"Baseball. You?"

"Baseball."

"What's your favorite team?"

"I like them all equally."

"Favorite football team?" she asks.

"Equal preference there, too. They all work really hard."

"I like the Orange City Ropers."

"They're okay."

"That's not a real team."

"Yes, it is. They played from 1973 to 1978. Made it to the Super Bowl."

"Did I really just make up a real team name?"

"No."

"Smartass."

"You don't get to call me a smartass if I'm continuing your lie," I inform her.

"I figured that maybe I'd heard the team name before and it stuck in my subconscious and I just thought I was making it up."

"Nope."

"New topic. What was your last breakup like?"

"That story is boring."

"What about the one before that?"

I don't want to tell her this.

* * *

Charlotte was cheating on me. I knew this because the bed sheets were rumpled, there were several empty beer bottles on her nightstand, and there were some condom wrappers on the floor.

I felt that I should confront her about this.

"Did you have somebody over?" I asked.

Her eyes darted to the floor. Her guilt was intense. "Yes," she said, in a very quiet voice.

At this kind of revelation, you're supposed to feel like you've been punched in the stomach, but for me it was more like being kicked in the head.

"Who was it?"

"His name is Steve. You don't know him. I don't know him very well, either."

"Oh, well, that makes me feel so much better."

"Are you mad?"

"Uh, yeah."

Her eyes glistened with tears. "I'm so sorry, Todd."

I surveyed all of the evidence of what she'd done. "Couldn't you at least have cleaned it up before I got here? This is insulting."

"I wanted you to discover it for yourself. I thought it would be less emasculating."

"This is like rubbing my face in it. Letting me see the room like this is one small step away from literally rubbing my face in the wet spot."

Now the tears fell. "That wasn't my intention. As soon as it happened, I knew it was a mistake, and I knew I had to confess to you. I thought this would make it easier to handle than if I told you with no warning."

"You didn't decide it was a mistake as soon as it happened. There are three condom wrappers."

Charlotte looked down at the floor again. I thought it was shame, then I realized that she was glancing down at a fourth wrapper.

"For God's sake," I said.

"We didn't do it four times," she insisted. "One of those was when we switched from..." She trailed off. "Will it help the healing process if I tell you everything?"

"No! I don't want to know anything!"

She threw her arms around me, hugged me tight, and began to sob. "I'm so, so sorry, Todd. I love you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I don't want to lose what we have together. Please forgive me. I'm begging for your forgiveness. It was a mistake. An awful mistake. I screwed up so badly, I know that, and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm asking you for it anyway. I can't promise this will never happen again, but if you take me back--"

"What?"

"What do you mean by 'what'?"

I broke the hug and stepped away from her. "Did you really say that you can't promise me this will never happen again?"

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded.

"Why would you even tell me that?" I asked.

"Would you rather I lied about it?"

"Yes! Yes! In this particular scenario, I'd rather you lie about it! You can't just tell me that you're going to cheat on me again and expect that I'm going to take you back!"

"I didn't say I was going to cheat on you. I said that I couldn't promise it wouldn't happen again. There's a big difference."

I wished I were the kind of person who expressed his rage by throwing furniture across a room. That would have made me feel so much better.

"I probably wasn't going to take you back anyway, but surely you can understand why the lack of a promise might be a problem for me, right?"

"I was being honest with you! Don't I get credit for honesty? I was weak, okay? I met him online, and I told him not to come over, but by then I'd already given him my address, and he showed up, and I asked him to leave, and he didn't leave fast enough, and we did things that I'll tell you about if you really need to know, and then he left. That's all that happened!"

"We're broken up now," I told her.

* * *

"What's your favorite fruit?" Amy asks.

"Strawberry. Yours?"

"Kumquat."

"I feel like you've stopped giving serious answers."

"I'll give a serious answer to the next one, I promise."

"Favorite clown-fucking position?"

"Ow, wow, that's a tough one." Amy pretends to be deep in thought, or at least I think she's pretending. "Ummmm...I'm trying to turn 'doggy-style' into something related to clowns and I can't quite get there..."

"Clowny style?"

"No, I went there but rejected it."

"Maybe something with clown cars?"

"We haven't known each other long enough to start talking about clown gang bangs."

"You're right, you're right."

"Reverse clowngirl? No. Maybe a Bozo reference? I've got nothing. We're going to have to move on."

"That's very disappointing."

"Sometimes things don't work out the way you hope. Life is filled with tragedy."

* * *

We're not saying anything now, and the silence is amazingly comfortable. I'm not much of a conversationalist, but I'm worse at letting a silence linger. Yet this feels fine. It feels great. With the occasional stretch break, I could stay in this car forever. My various injuries don't even hurt anymore, and the swelling in my lip is almost completely gone.

Hunky Dory Dogs is only an hour away. It makes me sad to realize that our adventure is so close to the end, but then I remember that we still have to drive all the way back to Florida, and I feel less sad.

Maybe silence isn't even the right word. More like peace. Serenity would be melodramatic, but I'm definitely at peace.

At peace in a rental car with a doomed woman. How did that ever happen?

I wish I could say that I'm not even aware of how long the peaceful silence lasts, but I'd said something when we were exactly an hour away, and when she speaks I notice that we're forty-eight minutes away. So it was twelve minutes of peaceful silence.

"Have you ever done any mountain climbing?" Amy asks.

It's an odd question, though I suppose not significantly odder than some of our other topics of conversation. "No. Have you?"

"Not with the ropes or spiked boots or anything. I was actually thinking more of a hill."

"I've climbed hills before. I don't have any specific memories of doing that, but I know I've done it. Probably more like walking upwards than climbing."

"What I'm basically saying is that I'd like to kiss you before we get to Hunky Dory Dogs, but I don't want to do it in the car, and I thought that maybe we could climb to the top of a hill and have our first kiss there."

"I'll find us a hill," I say, picking up my cell phone.

Amy gently takes the phone out of my hand and sets it back down. "We'll find one without it."

It is entirely possible that Amy had seen a previous sign for Ruby Hill that I didn't notice. I don't ask her about this because I don't want to spoil the magic. But I make the turn a mile later, take a few more turns following a few more signs, and then we're parked in front of Ruby Hill. Parking is free. No pets allowed except for guide animals for the visually disabled.

According to the wooden sign at the beginning of the trail, the elevation of Ruby Hill is six hundred and forty feet. The hike to get to the top is only a three-fifths of a mile. We are not climbing Mount Everest for this moment; we won't even break a sweat. If I do break a sweat from the exertion of this hike, Amy would be right to leave me behind and go kiss somebody else.

We take each other's hand. It's not her taking my hand, or me taking her hand--our hands just move toward each other's in an unplanned, completely natural movement. In the grand history of legendary lovers, this is not a big deal. Romeo and Juliet did not say Holy shit! We both just reached for each other's hands at the exact same time! Now we know we're totally meant for each other, unless there's some sort of suicidal bloodbath! (Or something to that effect, in iambic pentameter.)

But the fact is, in those extremely rare occasions when I'm with a new girl, I'm always stressing about this kind of stuff. Is this the right moment to reach for her hand? If she reaches for my hand first, is she disappointed that I didn't take the initiative? Am I doing any of this correctly?

It's also worth mentioning that I have sweaty hands, and that, historically, they get about seventy-five percent sweatier the first time I hold hands with somebody. This would not be the first relationship where the physical intimacy began with a look of mild disgust. But my hand isn't sweating. Not at all. I have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about in terms of perspiration. Yes, perhaps this is due to the low temperature outside, but I also want to believe that somebody is trying to say The two of you are meant for each other, and so I'm going to give you a break from the sweaty clammy hands. You're welcome.

We walk up the trail. We don't say anything. There are occasional placards with facts about the flora and fauna of Ruby Hill, but we don't stop to read them. Amy looks like she might be nervous. I'm not. Not even a little bit. It's weird but wonderful.

We don't pass any other people. Even when we reach the top of Ruby Hill, there is nobody else around. The hilltop is just for us. There were a few cars parked at the bottom, so it does sort of make me wonder what happened to these people. Carnivorous vegetation?

I don't make a joke about carnivorous vegetation, though I probably will when we're back in the car.

We look out at the beautiful view from six hundred and forty-feet above ground level, Rhode Island in all of its glory, sunshine and water and grass and roads and buildings and other hills besides the one we're on, and it's not the kind of view that would sell millions of postcards, or that you'd even attach to an e-mail, but it's our view, and I'd say that I'll remember it forever, except that we only look at the view for a couple of seconds before we have turned our full attention to each other.

I assume that there will be an element of awkwardness to this first kiss, and I'm okay with that. Our lips will be slightly off-center, or somebody's nose will get in the way, or a bug will land on my cheek, or something will bring us back to the messy reality of the situation. I don't need this to be a flawless first kiss. Not seeking perfection. It would be nice if we didn't accidentally cough in each other's faces, but apart from that, I'm not expecting a fairy tale kiss that ends on a freeze-frame or slowly fades to black before the credits roll.

Our lips meet.

And then we're walking back down the trail, hand-in-hand, and I literally have no idea how long we were kissing. I didn't think it was possible to give yourself so thoroughly into a kiss that nothing else exists, that there's no mental running commentary, that no actual words are running through your mind. I am thirty-five years old and this is a completely new experience.

We walk silently down the trail. I can't stop smiling. Amy is smiling too. I don't think I've ever been this happy in my life, and though I don't want to speak for Amy, she looks truly happy in this moment.

We reach the car, and then we kiss some more. An obnoxious little kid whistles at us and tells us to get a room, which keeps me from being as fully lost in the moment as before, but it's still one hell of a kiss, and I hope there will be millions more.

When we're back in the car, we lean over and kiss each other yet again. Then I start the engine.

"I wonder why nobody else was on the hill?" I ask. "Do you think the vegetation is carnivorous?"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"I'll see you in hell."

"You know what? I'm not going to kill you until you come up with something better than that. I mean, that's just embarrassing for both of us."

--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 13

And we're here.

Hunky Dory Dogs is a run-down little shack, just as I saw on the television show. There's no actual parking lot, just a haphazard line of cars. A large sign depicts a beagle holding a mustard-covered hot dog while winking and giving a thumbs-up. (Yes, this particular beagle has a thumb.)

If the name Hunky Dory Dogs had already been taken, they could have called the place Shit That Never Belonged On A Hot Dog. Their menu includes the PBJ Dog (with peanut butter and your choice of grape or strawberry jelly on top), the Clucker Dog (a hot dog topped with scrambled eggs), the Parasite Dog (a hot dog wrapped in a gummi worm), the Coco Puffs Dog (self-explanatory), the Kinky Dog (two hot dogs in the same bun), the Rental Dog (red-hot chili), and the Blasphemy Dog (served with ketchup--a note says "We Do Not Sell This Under Any Circumstances"). They don't call any of them "saugies," which is inexplicably disappointing.

To be honest, I'm kind of in the mood for a regular old hot dog with mustard, relish, and onions, but after such a long journey, I feel like I have to order one of the bizarre ones. "What are you going to get?" I ask Amy.

"I'm not sure. Either the Six-Cheese Dog or the S'Mores Dog. You?"

"I'm not sure, either. Probably one of the deep-fried ones."

"Go for it. You only live once. And briefly, if you eat one of those."

"Or maybe I'll just get a corn dog," I say. I'm kidding, of course.

"If we drove all this way and you order a corn dog, I'll kill you before your clogged arteries do."

I decide to go with The Porker, a hot dog topped with pulled pork and BBQ sauce. We walk up to the front counter and are greeted by a smiling middle-aged man with thick glasses and black hair down to his shoulders. "Welcome to H.D. Dog," he says. I'm not sure if he abbreviates the name because he doesn't think it's a very good name, or to save time. "What can I get you today?"

"Do people actually enjoy the S'Mores Dog?" Amy asks. "Or do they eat it ironically?"

"Do you see any hipsters in here?"

Amy looks around at the ten or so people inside. "At least three."

"Well, there you go. But we have a 'satisfaction guaranteed' policy. If you don't like your hot dog, we'll let you buy another one." The man is extremely amused by this joke, even though he has presumably heard himself say it trillions of times.

"You've sold me. I'll take the S'Mores Dog."

"And you, sir?"

I suddenly decide that The Porker isn't weird enough. "I'll take the PBJ Dog."

"Strawberry, grape, or boysenberry jelly?"

"I didn't know boysenberry was an option."

"We're always trying new things."

I decide that boysenberry is too risky and order grape. "We're really looking forward to this," I tell him. "We drove all the way from Tampa."

"That's quite a drive. Visiting relatives?"

I shake my head. "The whole trip was just to come here."

"No way."

"It's the truth," says Amy.

The man looks flabbergasted. "Are you telling me that you drove all the way from Florida to Rhode Island just to get an H.D. Dog?"

Amy and I both nod.

"Oh my God...that's...that's..." His eyes begin to moisten. "I don't even know what to say. We have people drive from all over New England, but from Florida?" He wipes some tears from his eyes. Now his shoulders are trembling.

"We didn't mean to make you cry," Amy says.

"No, it's okay, I want to cry. I need to call my dad. He'll want to meet you. You're dining in, right? It won't take him long to get here. He lives close."

"That's totally fine."

The man takes a couple of napkins out of the napkin holder on the counter, turns away, and blows his nose. "I'll wash my hands before I prepare your food," he assures us.

"We appreciate that," Amy says.

"My name is Reginald. Reginald Shef. Ironic, considering that I'm a chef, but it's not spelled that way. It's S-H-E-F. Did you want anything else?"

We order fries (with cheese sauce) and soft drinks (without cheese sauce) and sit down at a corner table. The décor, like many restaurants these days, is in the style of Random Unrelated Items Hanging From The Wall. Not many of them seem to be hot dog related, but the overall impact is rather charming.

Our table wobbles a bit, which is also rather charming.

"So we're here," Amy says. "Our quest has come to an end. It wasn't the holiest of quests, and we didn't really contribute anything to society, but very little property was destroyed and nobody was killed, and ultimately, isn't that what it's all about?"

"Absolutely," I say. I'd hold up a drink but we haven't received ours yet, so I hold up an empty hand that mimes holding a drink. "To minimal property destruction and nobody getting killed!"

"Here, here." Amy clinks her invisible glass against mine. "The drive back doesn't count, so people can die left and right."

"Awesome."

We lapse into another comfortable silence. Amy reaches over and takes my hand. "I want to thank you for what you've done for me. You don't know how badly I needed this."

"I needed it too," I tell her. "Best weekend of my life."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Amy gets kind of a funny look, only for a split second, and then she smiles and squeezes my hand even tighter.

It takes me a moment to get what that look was about. It went from mild surprise to uncertainty to pity. I may have misinterpreted one, two, or even all three of those; still, the overall impression I get is that, though she's having a great time with me, she can't honestly put this into the "best weekend of my life" category. Probably not even the top five.

Why should she? She's been married, and before things turned to crap, they would've had plenty of wonderful experiences together. I'm sure she's kissed in the rain, made love on a beach, danced the night away, spent evenings dining on fondue and laughing with friends. This road trip has been fun for her, but not legendary.

Well...so what? She's had a less superficial existence than me. If she's had more fun in the past, good for her. What's important is that we're having a great time now, and not how this particular experience compares to others in some arbitrary ranking system.

Hell, based on the actual events, a lot of women would call this an absolutely miserable trip. They'd never want to see me again. The fact that Amy has any positive feelings about this weekend whatsoever makes it a total win.

And though it remains unspoken, I hope I'm correct in assuming that Amy and I will stay together when our trip is over. It's not a one-time adventure. This is officially a romance, and I'm confident that we'll be together until...

Reginald sits down at our table. "How is everything so far?" he asks.

"Fine," I say. We haven't yet received our food or drinks, so I assume he's talking about the ambience.

"What was it about H.D. Dogs that made you want to drive all this way just to visit us?" he asks.

"I saw it on TV."

"That segment generated a lot of business for us. What specifically about it made you want to come all this way?"

I shrug. "It just looked cool."

Reginald nods with vigorous understanding. "I totally get that. We put a lot of hard work into looking cool. Again, I'm not saying that we don't get visitors from all over the world. Just last week we had a family in here from Indonesia. But we weren't the sole purpose of their trip. Have you made long road trips for restaurants before?"

"First time," says Amy.

Reginald wipes at his eyes again. "That's just...it's so...I'm sorry..." He grabs a handful of napkins and leaves the table. We hear him blowing his nose.

A few minutes later, Reginald returns with an elderly man. "This is Reginald Shef Sr.," he says. "Dad, these are the people I told you about."

They both take a seat at our table. The old man extends his hand to me and I shake it. I'm a little embarrassed by how much his iron grip hurts.

"How old do you think I was when I sold my first hot dog?" Reginald Sr. asks us.

"Twelve," Amy says.

"Nope."

"Fourteen," I say.

"Nope."

"Sixteen," Amy says.

"Nope. But I'll give you a hint. You're moving in the wrong direction."

"Ten," I say.

"Nope."

"Eight," Amy says.

"Nope."

"Just tell them, Dad."

"Six," says Reginald Sr. "I was six years old when I sold my first hot dog."

Based on our pattern, that would've been our next guess. I'm not sure why Reginald Jr. picked this particular moment to stop the game.

"I was at my grandfather's store," Reginald Sr. continues. "I loved to hang out there because I kept hoping he'd give me a free chocolate milkshake, though the cheap bastard never did. Well, one day I was at the store, and there was some kind of problem back in the kitchen, and he had to leave the front counter unattended. And a customer came in. I marched right up there, looked him in the eye, and took his order."

"That's sweet," says Amy.

"Oh, my grandfather beat the dickens out of me. I was six--I didn't know how much to charge. But from that moment on I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I opened Hunky Dory Dogs fifty-one years ago, and to hear that my life's dream meant enough for somebody to drive all the way from Tampa, well..."

The old man succumbs to tears. Reginald Jr. puts his arm around him, but within seconds he's succumbed to tears as well. The two men just sit there, overcome with emotion.

"So when did you come up with the idea of the weird toppings?" Amy asks.

Reginald Sr. points at his son. "That was all him. Me, I thought it was nonsense. Chicago Dog--that's the only proper way to eat a wiener. But how can I argue with the results? You're here from Tampa."

"Can I take your picture for our Facebook page?" Reginald Jr. asks.

"Oh, uh, no," I say. "We're really not supposed to be here."

Reginald Jr. frowns. "Are you on the run?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"You sure? We could give you plenty of dogs. You could hide out for quite a while."

"We're not hiding out."

Reginald Jr. looks disappointed. I'd tell him that we were fugitives, but after the initial rush of excitement he'd realize that us being on the run from the law meant that we didn't really drive across the country just for his hot dogs, and then he and his father would be heartbroken.

"To get off work, Todd had to lie to his boss," Amy explains. I'm grateful that she doesn't go into detail about the dead grandmother, a lie that might not reside within the boundaries of everybody's moral code. "So we can't have her finding a picture of him online."

"We wouldn't have to tag your name to the picture," says Reginald Sr. I'm impressed that he's aware of that function of Facebook, which I suppose is kind of ageist of me.

The chances of Gigi stumbling upon an untagged picture of me at Hunky Dory Dogs are extremely remote, and it's not as if I wouldn't be allowed to go to a hot dog place for lunch while in town for my grandmother's funeral, but if she did stumble upon them at some point in the future, I'd be retroactively busted. I don't want to make up a story about having met Amy at the funeral. That wouldn't hold up to scrutiny. We don't necessarily have to be in the picture together, but if Reginald Jr. or Sr. chose to caption it, our connection would still be clear, and ultimately it's easier to just not have a Hunky Dory Dogs picture taken, even if it hurts their feelings.

With this level of caution, I'd probably make a pretty good criminal.

Finally, Reginald Jr. delivers our tray with great flourish and the Reginalds leave us alone to enjoy their culinary masterpieces. I look down at my hot dog with the peanut butter and grape jelly, and Amy looks down at her hot dog with the marshmallow, graham cracker, and chocolate, and I know that we are both reflecting upon the many regrets in our life, most notably this particular regret.

We each take a bite and chew thoughtfully.

Amy chews much longer than I do, because she's chewing marshmallow.

"You know," she finally says, "I'm ashamed to admit this, because it basically means that my definition of self-respect no longer applies, but mine is pretty good. How's yours?"

I glance around to make sure that neither of the Reginalds are listening. "Mine is disgusting," I say.

"Oh, no."

"Yeah," I say, trying not to laugh over my own surprise that a PBJ hot dog might not taste particularly good. "It's really, really, really bad. It might be because they used chunky peanut butter instead of smooth, but that's probably not it. I think it was just an unwise ordering decision."

"At least you tried something new."

"Yes, I certainly did. And do you want to learn a fun fact about me?"

"Sure."

"Because I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, I'm going to choke down every bite of this foul concoction."

"You can't do it."

"I can and will."

"I'll bet you that you can't finish it."

"What are the stakes?"

Amy gives me an extremely knowing look.

* * *

When I was in third or fourth grade, I went on a fishing trip with my dad and a few of his friends. On the way back (fishless) we stopped at a small restaurant. I ordered a hamburger, and it was absolutely enormous.

"I'll bet you two dollars you can't eat all of that," said my dad's friend John.

I accepted the bet, even though losing two dollars would be devastating.

So I ate, and ate, and ate, and I finished that hamburger.

John, however, shook his head. "You didn't eat the tomato."

I despised, and still despise, tomatoes. And this particular tomato was wilted and gooey. But with two bucks on the line, I was willing to make the sacrifice, so I ate it.

John still shook his head. "There's still juice and crumbs on the plate."

Even as a third-grader, I had far too strong of a sense of dignity to want to lick a plate in public. But it was for two dollars...

And then I realized where this was headed. I'd lick up the vile tomato juice, and then he'd say "But you didn't eat that paper salt packet." Or the plate itself. I wasn't going to get my two dollars. I'd eaten that tomato for nothing.

I glared at him with all of the fury that a completely unintimidating third-grader could muster, but John just smiled and chuckled.

"Where's my two dollars?" he asked.

I did not give him the two goddamn dollars, because I had fulfilled the clear expectations of the bet. But neither did he pay me. Yes, a fully-grown adult screwed a little kid out of a two-dollar bet, with no visible remorse.

This pissed me off for the next twenty-three years.

Literally every time somebody would propose a bet, I'd flash back to this jerk reneging on our hamburger bet. Long after I'd reached a level of financial security where the two dollars itself was no big deal, the principle of the whole matter thoroughly irked me.

Until three years ago, at Thanksgiving, when I brought up that memory, and my dad explained what had happened next.

He and his friends made life miserable for John after that. "Hey, John, wanna bet me two bucks that I can finish this Snickers bar? Haw haw haw!" "Hey, John, I'll give you two bucks if you can eat all of that corn, but you have to eat the cob, too! Haw haw haw!" They were relentless. The poor guy couldn't enjoy a meal with his friends for months afterward.

And that made everything okay.

* * *

This, of course, is a very different bet. I don't know for certain that Amy has just offered me sexual favors if I can finish off this PBJ Dog. In fact, it's reasonable to assume that letting her be a spectator to this kind of gluttony would impede the process of moving our relationship in that direction. But she hasn't clarified the meaning of her knowing look, so I'm going to stick with this fantasy until further notice.

And, yes, I eat the entire thing.

I don't lick the plate.

I wouldn't say that this makes me a hero, but I do feel proud of my accomplishment.

Reginald Jr. and Sr. return to our table. Reginald Jr. is holding another tray, which he sets down in front of us. This tray contains a large number of hot dogs.

"We didn't order anything else," I say.

"Oh, I know. But you can't drive all this way and only try one! You need the full H.D. Dogs experience! Dig in!"

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"It's actually kind of a relief that Hitler was so rude to me."

--Exit Red, Season 4, Episode 9

I don't want any sexual favors right now. I don't want to do anything but puke.

Again.

We're still in Providence, parked at a rest area. Amy has vomited five times to my three, though if you compare the number of ounces regurgitated they're probably about equal.

I'm not certain that you can get this sick just from overeating. There may also be food poisoning involved. The hell-chili tasted like it might have been a bit off, but it was sizzling my tongue too much to say for sure.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this," I say. "It was never my intention to hurt you."

"It's not your fault. I made my own choice."

"Tonight we'll burn the place down."

Amy shakes her head. "No. God will punish them." She opens the door, leans out of the vehicle, and adds another six fluid ounces to our running total.

I wish I could say that the sight of her vomiting is beautiful in its own way, but it's really not.

Yet perhaps our shared misery is bringing us closer together. If nothing else, it's not often that I look quite this repulsive, so if she doesn't run away (later, when she's physically able to run again) then we're meant to be together.

She wipes her mouth on one of the Hunky Dory Dogs napkins we took with us, closes the door, then flops back against the seat.

"Can you drive yet?" she asks.

"Not safely."

Amy groans. I groan. We groan in unison.

"Why did we let them do this to us?" Amy asks.

"We didn't want to hurt their feelings."

"Don't you think it'll hurt their feelings when our bloated corpses are discovered? Don't you think it'll be bad for business?"

"I guess you're right."

I won't regret any of this. I mean, I do now, as I wait for the cool, refreshing hands of the Grim Reaper to deliver me from this agony...but once we stop regurgitating, I'm confident that I'll be back to thinking that this was my best weekend ever.

My stomach alerts me that it's time for the next purging, so I open up the door and lean out. This one you can't really define as vomiting; it's more like heavy spitting.

I finish spitting, mop the perspiration off my forehead with a napkin, then lean back inside the car. I don't really have the energy level to pull the door closed again, but the aroma directly outside the car is far from spectacular, so I force myself to complete this physically demanding task.

We sit there, making various noises, some of them on purpose, none of which include human speech.

Someday we will laugh about this. Or our spirits will laugh as we haunt the car where we perished.

I peer at myself in the rearview mirror, then glance over at Amy. "Do my eyes look yellow to you?"

She gazes into my eyes. "No. They're kind of bloodshot, but not yellow."

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't hide that from you."

"Okay." I'm not even sure what yellow eyes would signify.

We sit there for a while longer. It kind of feels like the car is rolling down a hill, though the fact that nothing around us is getting closer or further away seems to indicate that it isn't.

I should say something inspiring. Or at least something that doesn't involve wallowing in misery. What inspiring thought can I share? There's got to be one.

"It's not about the journey, it's about the destination," I say.

"I think you've got that backwards."

"No, I'm pretty sure...hold on...journey...destination...wait, no, you're right. It's not about the destination, it's about the journey."

"True."

"So even though now we're wishing we were dead, we need to remember that there were other parts of this journey where we weren't wishing we were dead."

"Were there?"

"I think so."

"I don't remember them."

"There was at least one."

Amy smiles. Her smile is less radiant with that big blob of saliva dangling from her upper front teeth, but she's still beautiful. And we're still enjoying each other's company, despite our misery.

It's a shared desire to keel over and die. A bonding experience.

* * *

Amy feels well enough to drive before I do, so we switch places and we begin our journey back home. With the windows down and cool air blowing into my face, it isn't long until I'm feeling better, too.

"How do you think Eddie is doing?" she asks.

"I assume that wherever he is, whatever he's doing, he's being somehow disruptive."

"I can't help but like the guy. I'm not saying that I would want him to be my next door neighbor, or that I even necessarily want to ever see him again, but I'll always have fond memories of him."

I nod. "I feel the same way."

"The next time we do this, maybe we shouldn't have such a narrow focus for our destination," Amy says. "So instead of saying 'We're going to drive to Providence just to get some hot dogs,' we'll say 'We're going to drive to Providence.' That way, when the vacation is over, we can say 'We sure had a good time in Providence, even with that side trip for disgusting hot dogs,' instead of 'Those hot dogs that were the entire point of our trip sure were disgusting, but at least we enjoyed the other incidental activities.' Does that make sense?"

"Absolutely. Where do you want to go next?"

"Well, you're out of vacation time, and we don't want to use up any more grandparents, so it'll have to be a weekend trip. How about Cape Canaveral?"

"Count me in."

"Good. You're officially committed. No backing out."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Maybe that's where I'll pay off my bet."

"What did I win?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

I shake my head. "Nope."

"Oh. Well, essentially, we're going to fuck like wild animals."

"I see," I say, not disappointed.

"Wild animals. We're gonna break a bed. Which is selfish and wasteful, because there are a lot of poor people who can't afford beds, and here we are breaking one, but that's just the way it has to be."

I have a comment to contribute, something about planting trees to replace the wood we destroy, but my voice cracks and I only get through the first part of it.

"Or we can make sweet, gentle, tender love," Amy says. "Your choice."

"No, I'm fine with the bed destruction," I say, or will say, when I regain the ability to speak.

"You're blushing," Amy tells me.

"That's just the food poisoning."

"You are. You're blushing. Wow. I wouldn't have taken you for a blusher."

"It surprises me, too. Literally every six-to-ten days a woman tells me that we're going to fuck like wild animals. You'd think I'd be used to it by now." I'm actually able to say this.

"Have you ever broken a bed?"

"I've fallen off one."

"We'll count that."

"What about you?" I ask.

"Nope. I guess to break a bed it would have to be a very poorly constructed bed. My standards of craftsmanship are too high for that."

"Mine too."

"I did break a stained glass window, though."

"Seriously?" I ask.

"Yes. But not while having sex. So I guess it's not relevant to the current discussion."

"Have you broken anything while having sex?"

"My finger."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. And a condom. That was not a good day. What about you?"

"I hate to admit this," I say, "but I don't think my love life has ever included personal injury or property damage."

"That's a shame."

"Yeah."

"This doesn't make me a slut," Amy informs me. "Even if this entire trip only counts as our second date--and you could make a pretty good case that it counts as multiple dates--the sex will be on the third date, so it's completely socially acceptable."

"I would never have suggested otherwise." I'm proud of how cool and calm I'm playing this, even though my brain is doing high-fives against my skull (not literally).

"Is this making you uncomfortable?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure? That really is some serious blushing you've got going on. You look like you're going to spontaneously combust."

I touch my face. It does feel hot, though no blisters form on my fingers. "I'm completely relaxed about this. There's nothing you can say that will shock me."

Actually, there are quite a few things she could say that would shock me, including group sex, sadomasochism, bisexual experiences, bestiality, and necrophilia, though only the last two would upset me, and the bestiality would depend on the circumstances. My own sex life has been extremely vanilla. Probably the kinkiest thing I've ever done is dine upon a human hot fudge sundae. I used way too much whipped cream.

"I think I could shock you," she says.

"Let's hear it."

"One time my friends and I ordered a pizza. And when the pizza delivery guy came, we realized that we didn't have any money, so we all thought 'Goodness, however should we pay him?' Finally, after much discussion, we decided that...wait, I may be thinking of a movie I watched..."

"Did they ever eat the pizza?" I ask.

"You know, I don't believe they did. It was a major plot hole. I'm not sure they even opened the box. I don't think the production could afford an actual pizza."

"I delivered pizza the summer after high school," I say. "You'd be surprised how few times you're greeted at the door by nubile women looking for alternate payment methods."

"That's a bummer."

"I'm not saying that nubile people didn't greet me at the door. Just not the kind of people you'd want to see nubile. I used the word 'nubile' incorrectly, didn't I?"

"Yes, but I wasn't going to say anything."

"If you don't correct me, how will I learn?"

"Okay, you totally screwed up the word 'nubile' the second and third time you used it. The first time was fine."

"I apologize."

"So were there horrifying sights?"

I think about that. "No, not really. Lots of 'Maybe those sweatpants would look better if you wore a shirt' situations, but nothing where I wanted to claw my eyes out. I never had to actually recoil."

"Well, I'm glad you weren't permanently scarred."

"Yeah. I don't have any good anecdotes about that job. You'd think that going to dozens of houses every night would give me some interesting stories but...nope. They pretty much paid me and took their pizza."

Somehow I have transitioned this conversation from kinky sex to my job as a frequently under-tipped pizza delivery guy. Nice work.

"Do you mind if I pull off at this next exit?" Amy asks.

"For pizza?" I ask, though I'm actually thinking For sex? I'm hoping we have sex relatively soon, but I'd rather postpone until my mouth no longer tastes of vomit.

"I don't plan to ever eat again, but I wouldn't mind stretching my legs and getting a drink."

"Sounds good to me."

We get off the interstate and drive through a small town called Finsing. It has just started to get dark, but most of the businesses already seem to be closed. Finsing is not the Las Vegas of Rhode Island.

"Jackpot!" says Amy, pulling into one of the many available downtown parking spaces.

We each get a frozen strawberry lemonade from a small cafe, then walk hand-in-hand down the block, sipping our drinks.

Up ahead, we hear guitar music. Amy picks up the pace.

It's a street musician, sitting in a lawn chair, an open guitar case on the sidewalk in front of him for tips. It's hard to tell how old he is because of his voluminous facial hair. He's strumming away even though there's nobody else around.

He notices us, smiles, and nods.

I don't recognize the song, but Amy clearly does, because she bobs her head in perfect time to the beat and mouths the words. He's pretty darn good. We stand there until he finishes.

I take a dollar out of my wallet and toss it into the guitar case.

"Thank you, sir," he says. "Got any requests? The more obscure the better. I know everything. I'm a human iPod."

Amy grins. "Cowlick Shaved?"

"Of course."

"For real? Nobody knows Cowlick Shaved."

The musician begins to play and sing an acoustic version of a song that I clearly recognize from the CD Amy played at the beginning of our trip. He sings the first verse, then switches to another song. Within a few minutes, we've had a twelve-song medley of the Cowlick Shaved oeuvre.

"You're a genius," Amy says.

I have no idea how obscure the band really is, since almost all bands are obscure to me, but I'm still blown away by this musical achievement. I toss a twenty into the guitar case.

"Thank you, thank you. I'm Jack Tin. Any other requests?"

"Do you mind if we stay for a while?" Amy asks me.

"Not at all. I'd love that."

We sit down on the sidewalk in front of him. "You pick the next one," Amy tells Jack.

Jack launches into an up-tempo old song that even I recognize. I'm not positive that the song is actually called "Daydream Believer," but that phrase is prominently featured throughout.

This guy is really good. He should be playing stadiums, not on sidewalks for a food-poisoned audience of two.

Amy leans her head against my shoulder as we listen.

He finishes the song, and I take out my wallet again. I've already set the precedent of a twenty-dollar tip, so I toss another twenty into the guitar case, though I will downgrade to a much smaller denomination if we stick around for another song.

"You've just bought yourself a full concert," Jack informs us. "Stay as long as you'd like."

He plays another extremely catchy song that I half-recognize, then asks if we want to hear an original. Of course we say yes. He tells us that the song is called "I'm All Like You."

"You're all like, let's look in each other's eyes.

I'm all like, we'll soar into the skies.

You're all like, let's watch the sun go down.

I'm all like, we'll never wear a frown.

You're all like, and let's hold hands.

I'm all like, and get gold bands.

You're all like, tell me who you love.

Just tell me who you love.

And I'm all like, you.

I'm all like you."

Even somebody like me, who doesn't know crap about music, understands that these are pretty weak lyrics, but I don't care. It's my favorite song ever.

After a couple more verses he finishes "I'm All Like You" and goes into another song that may or may not be an original. We sit there on the sidewalk, listening to our private concert.

About eight songs in, he starts to look thirsty, so I go buy him a frozen strawberry lemonade.

We listen for about an hour and a half. When our concert is over, I toss a hundred dollars into his case, and we promise to follow him on Twitter. And as Amy and I walk back to the car, I think that I've never had a more perfect night.

CHAPTER TWENTY

"Admit what you've done! You've altered time!"

"All I did was tell my past self to lose the mullet! I had no idea it would have such far-reaching consequences!"

--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 2

We're back on the road.

But not for long, because as soon as we cross the state line into Connecticut Amy asks if I want to get a hotel room for the night. She asks this in such a way that even a truly dense human being such as myself can figure out that a room with a single bed will suit our needs.

I don't stop at the first hotel we see, but I also don't spend an excessive amount of time searching for different options. We go to a convenience store and buy a box of condoms from a college-aged guy who looks kind of bitter about having to work behind a register while people like me are doing things that require prophylactics.

We do not lunge at each other as soon as we enter the room. We take the time for thorough tooth-brushing and mouthwash-swishing. And then we each take a shower. I almost suggest that we share the shower, but of course showering together is the most overrated of sensual activities, at least in my experience.

Then we lounge around in the bathrobes that the hotel has thoughtfully provided, sipping vending machine caffeine-free soft drinks.

Amy looks kind of nervous.

"I'm kind of nervous," she admits. "I talk a big game, but I haven't been with anybody since my husband."

"That's okay. We don't have to do anything."

"Oh, I'm not looking for an escape route. We will be fornicating. We will be fornicating our groins off." Amy puts her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. "Did I really just say that?"

"You sure did."

"Can we pretend I didn't?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think it was such a bad comment."

"It was awful. It would probably have stopped you from getting any if you'd said it."

"I'm glad I didn't, then."

"You should be."

We sit there for a moment. This time the silence is not quite as comfortable as our previous silences. I feel like I should be making a move. I wish I had a move.

"Kiss me," Amy says, eliminating the need for a move.

I take her up on this offer (okay, technically it was more of a command) and put my arms around her as we kiss. Gently at first. Not gently for very long. Within moments we're ravaging each other, kissing with intense passion, tongues fully involved.

Soon we're lying on the bed, and I'm on top of her, and then she's on top of me, and then I'm back on top of her, and we haven't broken the kiss, and I'm vaguely aware that all of this rolling around could result in us falling off the bed, in which case the kiss would probably be broken in mid-air. Right now I don't really care.

Okay, I care a little. Breaking our necks would be a really extreme cock-block. So I devote ninety-eight percent of my attention to Amy's lips and two percent to monitoring our position on the bed so that we remain unharmed.

We stop to catch our breath, and I almost blurt out I love you but I stop myself in time. I don't want to do anything that will make her say, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, dude--I'm just here to get laid!"

We've successfully caught our breath, so we resume the kissing.

She grinds against me. I'm rock-hard.

I guess that's not completely true. If you bashed a rock against my penis, my penis would lose. It's more accurate to say that I am fully erect.

I don't have the endowment of a porn star, but my equipment is of average size and girth (if my Internet research is correct) and I don't think there's anything about my physical size or my behavior that would have led Amy to believe that I have a huge dick. She won't be disappointed. It's fine.

She rolls off of me and unfastens her robe. I unfasten mine as well. We remove our robes and toss them onto the floor.

I realize that I am biased at this particular moment, but she has the most visually appealing breasts I have ever seen. I have not a single complaint about their appearance. They are absolutely stunning.

I'm staring at them. It's okay. In this situation, it's polite to stare. I think.

Amy sees that I am filled with admiration and brings them closer. "Like what you see?"

"I do."

Am I drooling? I may be drooling a bit. Staring is fine; drooling is kind of off-putting.

I'm not inclined to look away from her breasts, but there are even more elements to this visual feast, so I lower my eyes. This provides no evidence as to whether she is a natural blonde.

"Okay," says Amy, "I did do maintenance down there, but that doesn't mean I planned for this to happen. I fully intended to stick to the no-sex rule...but, you know, it's still good to be prepared."

"You would be astounded by how little that bothers me."

"Kiss me some more."

We resume our kissing, this time with our nakedness pressed together, which improves an already fantastic experience. Our hands slide over each other's bodies, and her breasts feel even better than they look. Her nipples are rock-hard...again, not in a literal sense.

I'm not sure how long we kiss. Long enough that my fingers have thoroughly mapped out all of the breast terrain. Occasionally she reaches down and strokes my penis, which almost makes me want to let out a girlish giggle, though of course I go with a manly moan.

She rolls off of me again. "Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who goes down on who first?"

"Works for me."

"Is it supposed to be whom?"

"I'm not sure."

"Maybe we should look it up."

"It's definitely whom."

"Are you certain?"

"Positive."

Amy raises an eyebrow. "Having sex does not free us from proper grammar. If I used the wrong word, I'd never be able to look you in the eye again." By the time she finishes speaking, I am licking her breast. "Okay, I'll make you a deal. Keep doing that for a while, and we'll pretend I used the correct pronoun."

I accept her terms.

Her left breast has not received nearly the amount of attention as the right one when Amy pulls away. "Rock, Paper, Scissors. Now."

I play scissors. She plays paper.

"I win," Amy says.

"Scissors cuts paper."

"I can understand why one might think so."

"You're cheating."

"How odd. That doesn't sound like something I'd do."

"I guess if you had a big enough ream of paper and dropped it on a pair of scissors, it might--"

Amy puts her finger on my lip, shutting me up. "We'll continue the comedy routine when you're done. If your tongue isn't too numb."

She rolls onto her back and opens her legs. Instead of diving straight for the target, I kiss my way up her left leg. And then I dive for the target.

As I lick, she makes up for my lack of speech ability at the moment by unleashing a fast-paced monologue that is so unbelievably filthy that I can't quite believe what I am hearing. It is the raunchiest, nastiest, least politically correct bedroom talk I've ever heard, and that includes the actors in pornography. Though I did not expect that our conversation would be a highly literate wholesome discussion of thematic devices in classic novels, I certainly didn't think I'd hear the c-word.

If I do this wrong, I can't blame a lack of feedback.

I mean, she is really, really, really filthy.

I'm not saying that I disapprove. But I keep thinking "Oh my God!" The number of asterisks that would be necessary to make her comments family-friendly is staggering.

Meanwhile, she squirms, writhes, arches her back, and sends out various other physical indicators that she is having a pretty good time.

Then Amy touches my head. No! Not the tap! Not the I appreciate your efforts, but it's time to move on to something else tap! I know she hasn't climaxed yet, because she would have said something. I thought this was going so well.

She runs her fingers through my hair. Oh, good. It wasn't the tap.

I continue.

It doesn't take her much longer to reach orgasm, and I was correct when I predicted that she would notify me of its arrival. She comes loudly, violently, and with generous use of profanity. I hope there are no children anywhere within a six-room radius.

I'm motivated to go for multiples, but this time I do get the tap. "Kiss me," she says, out of breath.

We kiss for a while, and then she moves downward. She looks up as she kisses my belly. "I totally cheated at Rock, Paper, Scissors," she confesses.

"That's quite all right."

Moments later, I'm in her mouth.

Her passion for giving matches her passion for receiving. I have never had a blowjob delivered with such enthusiasm or attention to detail. Usually the attitude I encountered was Well, I suppose this has to be done. Amy is giving it her all, though her ability to make filthy comments is compromised.

She pulls her mouth away. "I want you inside me," she says. It's a surprisingly discreet comment from somebody who was graphic enough to fuel a hundred NC-17 ratings.

I agree that this is a fine idea. The process of putting on a condom is completed with a surprising lack of frustration over the difficult-to-tear wrapper, and then I'm lying on my back and she is lowering herself onto my penis.

As soon as I'm all the way inside of her, I realize that this encounter may be notable for its extreme brevity.

I'm sure she's not expecting forty-five minutes of vigorous pounding, but it would be nice if my number-of-seconds-lasted count made it into double digits.

Think about something else.

Think about something else.

Think about something else.

I think about ice fishermen.

Ice fishermen, shivering in the cold.

Big ugly ice fisherman, their thick beards covered with frost, eating from a can of beans while they stare at the hole in the ice and wait for a--

Nope, didn't work.

The decreased sensation from the condom may have bought me an extra second or two, but it's all over for me. I let out a loud moan of ecstasy as I climax. My orgasm is so intense and extended that I suddenly worry that the condom won't be able to handle the volume of ejaculate. Then it occurs to me that I am most likely not the one guy in the world who can exceed the maximum capacity of a rubber and I stop worrying about it and just enjoy the moment.

Amy lifts off of me. "That was expeditious," she says, grinning to let me know that she's fine with it.

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize. We were both really horny. Our second session will last longer."

Our second session does indeed last longer. Not as long as I would like, but of sufficient duration for somebody who never pretended that he was awesome at the act of lovemaking.

I've never understood exactly how you keep count of the number of times you have sex in a night. Obviously, if you follow a fuck/cuddle/fuck/cuddle pattern, it's easy to figure out, and I assume that the male orgasm is generally used as the identifier of where one session ends and the next begins, but if my orgasm leads directly into me pleasing her with my fingers, and I'm hard again before that's done, does that count as once or twice? What about orgasms that aren't derived from intercourse?

Anyway, we use three condoms, but I think we do it four times before falling asleep in each other's arms.

When I wake up, Amy's head is resting on my chest. She's been drooling, which I think is kind of adorable. I don't want to wake her, but I desperately need to go to the bathroom and I think she'll be much less receptive to bedwetting than premature ejaculation.

I try to ease myself away. There's some light streaming in from a gap between the curtains. We really should have made sure they were closed all the way. I hope nobody watched us. Or if they did, I hope they watched a session other than the first. I don't want to find myself on an amateur site, Quick Shootin' Dudes.

As I slide out from underneath Amy, her face leaves a thick red streak.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"This is all one big cosmic joke."

--Exit Red, Season 5, Episode 13

I gasp and slam my hand over my mouth.

No, no, no, no, no.

This can't happen.

She's okay. She's fine. Everything's cool. There's nothing wrong. It's a bad dream, or I'm seeing this wrong, or it's my blood. I've bled this weekend. It could be mine.

"Amy...? Amy...?"

I can't panic. Her life may depend on me not panicking.

Is she breathing? Is she breathing?

I can't tell if she's breathing.

Why isn't she breathing?

Amy opens her eyes.

She raises her head a bit. The bottom half of her face is caked with blood.

I'm not going to freak out. Absolutely not going to freak out.

"Amy?"

"Todd?" Her voice is slurred. "Why are you crying?" She touches her face. "Oh, shit."

I scramble out of bed. "You're going to be okay," I promise her. "I'm going to call an ambulance and everything is going to be okay." Where the hell is my cell phone? What did I do with it? Shouldn't it be on the nightstand?

In my pocket. I left it in my pants pocket.

Where the hell are my pants?

Amy's breaths are quick and shallow. She gestures to the hotel room's real phone. Yes. That's a much better solution than frantically searching for my cell phone.

I pick up the phone and dial 911.

Why is it taking them so goddamn long to answer?

"911. What's your emergency?" a female dispatcher asks.

"Hi, I'm at the..." What hotel are we at? Didn't we make fun of the name last night? Wait, it's right there on the phone. "...Hotel Marinara. 1500 Westhand Street. I need you to send an ambulance."

"And what is the nature of your emergency, sir?" The woman is cool, calm, professional. It's not her first day on the job. That's good. I didn't get a newbie. That'll help.

"My girlfriend. I think she had a brain aneurysm. I mean I think it ruptured."

Amy shakes her head but doesn't actually say anything.

"Okay. Please stay calm, sir."

I thought I was. "I will."

"Paramedics are on their way. Which room are you in?"

I don't remember. I glance at the phone, but Amy says "214."

"214," I tell the dispatcher.

"Your name, sir?"

"Todd Bryan."

"And the name of your girlfriend?"

"Amy Husk."

"Is Amy conscious?"

"Yes, she is."

"Yes, I'm what?" Amy asks. She still sounds kind of disoriented. "What am I?"

"Conscious."

"Does she have blurred vision?" asks the dispatcher.

"Do you have blurred vision?"

Amy reaches for the phone. I hand it to her.

"Hi," she says. "It makes more sense to talk directly to me. No, I don't. No. Yes. A bad nosebleed. Right, I understand that. We're just being cautious. No, it hasn't. Yes. Ummmm...really energetic sex." Amy half-smiles but then wipes tears from her eyes. "Thank you."

I hurry into the bathroom and return with a wet cloth.

Amy flexes her left arm. "As far as I can tell my motor skills are fine. It doesn't feel like anything is too wrong, but it's a lot of blood."

She gives me a brave smile, but she's scared.

I wipe the blood off her face as well as I can while she's talking on the phone.

"I don't think we need to wait in the room," she tells the dispatcher. "I can walk fine. We'll meet them out front." To me, she says, "Pack up our stuff and get dressed. They'll be here in four minutes."

She hangs up the phone.

"You'll be okay," I tell her. "I promise."

"When a brain aneurysm ruptures, you don't bleed from your nose. It doesn't work that way. I'm okay. I really think I'm okay."

"I'm sure you are." I'm losing it. I'm losing it in a big way. Got to stay calm. Got to stay calm.

"We've got to be smart about this, of course. I'm not saying we should send the ambulance away, but I think it's just a bad nosebleed."

"I think so, too."

"I assure you, I do not feel like I have permanent brain damage right now. I'm not good at being jolted out of a dream, but I don't want you to panic, because this is going to turn out to be nothing, okay?"

"Okay."

I quickly wipe most of Amy's blood off my chest and start to put on my clothes. Within three minutes we're packed, dressed, and headed downstairs.

We can hear the siren as we step outside of the hotel. As the ambulance pulls up, Amy gives my hand a tight squeeze.

"Would you do me a quick favor?"

"Anything."

"Go inside and warn somebody at the front desk that there are bloody towels and sheets in our room. I don't want some poor housekeeper to think she stumbled upon a murder scene."

No blood actually got on the sheets, but, yeah, we don't want to cause any unnecessary heart attacks. I hurry inside. Nobody is at the front desk. I ring the bell.

I wait a moment, then ring it again.

"Hello?" I call out.

Nobody answers.

"Hello? Anybody?"

"I'll be with you in a moment, sir," a guy says from the back room.

"I just need to leave a message."

The guy doesn't emerge from the back room. "I can take care of that for you in a moment, sir. Please be patient."

"I just need to tell somebody that there are bloody washcloths in our room, and there's an ambulance out front to pick up my girlfriend, but I don't want anybody to worry if they see all of the blood."

"Which room are you in, sir?"

"I forget. Just tell the housekeeping staff that one of the rooms is going to have bloody washcloths in it, and not to panic when they see them."

"All right, I'll pass the message along."

"Thank you. And we apologize for the blood."

I'm positive that it wasn't necessary to apologize for the blood, but I can't help how I'm hard-wired. I hurry back out of the hotel. Amy is already in the back of the ambulance. I climb in with her.

A paramedic is taking her blood pressure. He seems to know what he's doing. He's not referring to an instruction manual. Good. Excellent. First the 911 dispatcher, and now the ambulance paramedic seem to be well trained at their jobs. Awesome. Perfect. Sweet.

"You're going to be fine," I assure Amy.

She nods.

I say it again. She nods again. I say it a third time, and then realize that perhaps I'm being more annoying than helpful, and I refrain from saying it a fourth time.

"Is there anything I can help with?" I ask the paramedic.

He assures me that he doesn't require my assistance.

I take Amy's hand. I'm trying to keep my breathing under control and wish I had a brown sack to breathe into. I don't ask for one.

I can't lose her already.

It's not fair.

Not that I believe life is supposed to be fair, but it should be more fair than this, right?

I should have been gentler while we were having sex. Shouldn't have tried to bring my A-game to the thrusting. That was reckless and stupid. When she told me to fuck her harder, instead of obliging I should have said, no, that's not a wise idea, we need to consider the possible repercussions of such vigorous intercourse. I did this to her. This is all my fault.

You need to calm the hell down, I tell myself, still working on controlling my breathing so that I don't hyperventilate and force the paramedic to give me an oxygen mask.

She's fine. It's not as if her nose is bleeding right now. If that were the case, yeah, panic would be the appropriate response, but it's not, so she's fine. She's talking and walking, two things that I assume would be difficult if part of her brain had ruptured.

And if there is damage...I'll take care of her. I'll push her around in a wheelchair, feed her, change her bedpan, whatever it takes. I'll talk to her, read to her, comb her hair...

Jesus Christ. She's not a vegetable. Why am I being so dark? She's fully conscious and coherent! In fact, she's squeezing my hand so hard that it hurts a little, and that's not the action of somebody whose motor functions are gone. If she squeezes any harder, I might need medical attention myself. She's fine. Totally fine.

I really wish I had a brown bag or an oxygen mask.

* * *

A couple of doctors wheel Amy off on a gurney, while I am directed to a seat in the waiting room and given some paperwork to fill out.

I've barely started the paperwork and I have to chuckle. I'm envisioning a scenario in which I'm her full-time caregiver and I don't even know her middle name.

I wonder what her middle name is? What fits best between "Amy" and "Husk"? Amy Annabelle Husk? No, probably something with two syllables. Amy Marie Husk? I can see that. Amy Marie Husk. My girlfriend's name is Amy Marie Husk.

I realize that I actually wrote "Amy Marie Husk" on the form. I cross out her middle name. She'll have to fill out most of this form herself, and I should stick to the fields that I actually know.

It's really hot in here. I wish they'd crank up the air conditioning. I'm sweating like crazy. The front of my shirt is sticking to my chest.

I wonder if they'd get mad at me if I went up to the receptionist and asked for a brown bag to breathe into? I don't want to bother them when they've got real medical emergencies to deal with, but I really am having difficulty breathing.

And my chest feels like somebody is squeezing it.

Aw, shit......

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"That's not a hand."

"But it has five fingers."

"I don't care. It's not a hand."

--Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 2

I wake up in a hospital bed.

Amy is sitting next to me. She looks intensely relieved when she sees that my eyes are open.

She runs her hand across my forehead and smiles. "Hi."

"Hi."

Amy looks perfectly fine. I'm too relieved at this moment to be humiliated by my own state, although I'm sure the mortifying nature of it will sink in before too much longer.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"All right. What happened?"

"They think you had a heart attack."

"Seriously?"

"A minor one."

"Oh. Jeez."

"Apparently you keeled right over in the waiting room."

"Hmmm."

"You'll probably have to change your diet."

"So how are you?"

"I'm fine." Amy gives me a sheepish smile. "Just a nosebleed. I used to get them all the time in college, but I hadn't in almost twenty years."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that."

"Yeah."

My cell phone, which is resting next to the bed, vibrates. Amy picks it up. "Hi, Craig. Yeah, he's awake now. I was just about to go get a doctor." She gives me a kiss on the cheek then hands me the phone. "It's your roommate," she says, heading for the door.

I take the phone. "Hello?"

"Dude, I'm researching plane ticket prices online. Stay with us, buddy."

"I'm okay."

"Oh, really? A heart attack is okay?"

"It wasn't a bad one."

"Sure, it was one of those good-for-you heart attacks."

"You don't need to come."

"I'm not gonna let you die in Connecticut."

"I'm not dying."

"If you die and I didn't come visit you, I'd never forgive myself."

"I'm not dying."

"Do you know that for sure? Have you ever had a heart attack before?"

"No."

"See?"

"I'd feel worse if I were dying."

"There could be an air bubble in your heart. Did you think about that? Do you know what happens when there's an air bubble in your heart?"

"It's nice that you called, but you're actually increasing my stress level quite a bit."

"We're going to get through this," says Craig. "We're going to put you on an exercise regimen, and we're going to start eating healthier, and you're going to get checkups every week!"

"I don't need checkups every week."

"I don't care what you think you need! I'm not going to lose you. I've already told Margaret that her kids will have to move out of your room. Well, I'm going to. I figured I'd call her from Connecticut. It would be mean to watch her cry in person."

"I appreciate this," I tell him. "But it's really not necessary for you to fly out here. Why don't you use that time to clean the place up, get it ready for my return?"

There's a long silence on the other end.

"So," Craig says, "I tell you how much you mean to me, and your response is to assign me chores?"

"No, no, not at all. I just thought it would be nice to have the apartment disinfected and stuff before I got back."

"Disinfected? It's not like you have cancer. It doesn't do any good to throw bleach around for a heart attack patient. Do you not want me to come? Is that it?"

"That's not it at all. But I don't know how long I'm going to be in here. I don't know anything. I just woke up. They may release me before you even show up."

"They're just going to dump you out on the street with a bad heart? That's grounds for a lawsuit."

"How about I call you back when I've got an update?"

"Fine. Fine. Whatever. I won't buy the plane tickets, then. I'll talk to you later. Oh, by the way, your boss is going to call. Bye."

Craig hangs up. My brain wants to reflect upon the idea that Gigi is going to call, but before any processing of that information can occur, Amy walks in with the doctor.

Having already judged people based on their physical appearance with Eddie, I'd like to avoid this with the doctor, but no amount of self-improvement on my part is going to change the fact that he looks like a mad scientist. He's got crazy hair and crazy eyes. He looks ready to let out a deranged "Muahahaha!" cackle and start doing bizarre experiments on my spinal column.

"Hello, Todd," the doctor says, without the "Muahahaha!" He shakes my hand. "You gave us a bit of a scare out there."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, no need to apologize. I'm Doctor Gary Doom."

"Doctor Doom?"

"Yes, but not the spelling you're thinking. D-U-M-E." He chuckles. "Nothing sinister about it at all." He seems kind of amused by this, even though reactions like mine must now number in the hundreds of thousands.

"Is that why you became a doctor?" I ask him.

"So I could be Doctor Dume?"

"Yes."

"No. I became a doctor to save lives."

"I guess that makes more sense."

Now I feel like I've pissed him off a bit, which isn't a good thing to do to somebody who has unlimited access to scalpels. At the same time, it would have been disingenuous to let the "Doctor Doom" thing drop after only one comment.

I start to tell him that we ate at a restaurant owned by a guy whose name also sounded like his profession, but decide that I should just shut up and let the doctor speak.

He begins to explain the situation. He uses lots of extremely large words that I don't understand, and some medium-sized words (like "ventricle") that I do. But, yes, despite being only thirty-five years old and in good health, I did indeed have a heart attack.

He says "surgery" and I feel like I'm going to have another heart attack right there in the hospital bed, but then I realize that he said it within the context of telling me that no surgery would be necessary.

He says "waltz," and I guess he's telling me that I'll never waltz again, which seems like an odd side effect for a heart attack, unless he means that all strenuous dancing is off limits for me, which is no major loss since I'm not exactly a big fan of dancing anyway. Then I realize that while I was panicking over the word "surgery" I wasn't paying close enough attention to the things he said immediately after that, and what he actually said was that I'm not going to be able to just waltz out of here.

I'm going to have to stay in the hospital overnight for observation and a few more tests. How delightful. How peachy. Dandy. I'll be surprised if Amy doesn't ask me to marry her right here. How can she resist the allure of Heart Attack Boy?

Doctor Dume finishes up, and I'm pleased that he makes no effort to graft the body of a cat onto my chest. I'm sure there'll be time for his ghoulish experiments while I slumber. He leaves the room.

"I'm really sorry about this," I tell Amy.

"You don't have to apologize for having a heart attack. I wouldn't apologize if I'd had a brain aneurysm."

"Yeah, but my medical problem is stupider."

"It's not stupid."

"I freaked out."

"You did not freak out. Freaking out would be if you ran around the hotel room flapping your arms screaming. You waited until the situation was completely under control, and then you had your heart attack."

"I guess."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. If anything, you should be milking this for sympathy. I'm the one who should be embarrassed. I got blood all over your chest."

"It washed off."

"Anyway, if you don't need me for anything right now, I'm going to take a cab to the hotel and get the car."

"That sounds like a good idea. Thanks."

Amy gives me a tender kiss on the lips, then leaves the room.

Yes, being in the hospital bites, but Amy is fine, and that's all that really matters. It's important not to let my heart attack distract me from the fact that I got mind-blowingly well laid last night. It was beyond awesome. Even if Doctor Dume did take me down into a dark basement, hook me up with electrodes, and start scraping away my cartilage wherever it might be found, the past twenty-four hours would have been worth it.

I glance over at my phone.

Gigi has not called yet.

I suppose I should call her first.

There's no reason to think this is going to be a bad phone conversation. If somebody was going to have a heart attack anyplace, it would be at a relative's funeral, right? Funerals are a stressful environment. At some point, I'll make a joke about how I think the funeral home was just trying to drum up some extra business. Ha ha! Too bad for them I survived!

Maybe I should wait for her to call. Calling her first might come off as desperate.

But if I don't talk to her soon, my anxiety level will reach epic proportions. That could cause me to make a mistake, like saying, "Oh, hi, Gigi, hard to believe I had a heart attack after having sex with--I mean, at my grandmother's funeral. That's when I had the heart attack. At my grandmother's funeral. There was no sex at my grandmother's funeral, I promise. At least none that I saw. It could have been happening in every other room for all I know." I'm unlikely to actually say all of that, but I could definitely mess up. I'd better call her.

As soon as I pick up the phone she calls. So now I'm startled as well as anxious.

"Hello?"

"Todd?"

"Hi, Gigi."

"How are you feeling?" Gigi asks.

"Not too bad."

"Everybody here is really worried about you."

"Tell them I'm fine. It was no big deal. I'll look back on it and laugh."

"When are they going to let you out?"

"Tomorrow. In the morning, I think. You know, just for observation."

"Well, of course. They want to make sure you're okay."

"Yeah. You can't say they're not considerate."

"Do you have a roommate?"

"No, there's just an empty bed. I may get a roommate later. I'm not sure. Nobody has said anything about it."

"Hopefully you'll keep your private room until tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, that would be nice. But, overall, I'm not feeling too bad."

"I'm really glad to hear that."

"Thanks."

"You know I have to fire you, right?"

I'm silent for a moment. "I don't know that."

"I do."

"Oh."

"You lied to get bereavement time, Todd. That's automatic termination. Even if I wanted to keep you, it's not my choice."

I want to explain that she could make it her choice; all she'd have to do is not tell Human Resources that I was a lying scoundrel. But that would involve her contributing to my web of lies, and I think that the even if I wanted to keep you portion of her sentence is telling.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"I'm sure you are." She says this without a trace of sarcasm. She actually sounds sad and hurt. I'd rather she called me an asshole. Although probably not a fucking asshole--that would be going too far.

I don't have anything else to say, so I just sit there, sweating onto my phone. I'm not sure if you can sweat from your ears. Seems like something a thirty-five-year-old should know.

"I debated whether I should tell you while you're still in the hospital," says Gigi. "I wasn't going to, but then I decided that you'll have plenty of downtime to think about your future, so I might as well tell you sooner rather than later."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Don't be mad at your roommate. He was just trying to help by letting me know what happened to you. And he tried to cover for it when he realized he'd said too much. He did a terrible job, but he tried."

Had I known that I'd have a minor heart attack and that Craig would feel compelled to notify my boss, I would have given him a heads-up about the dead grandmother scheme. It's not like he would have had a moral issue with it.

Gigi continues. "This could be a great opportunity for you, Todd. Use this to pursue your dreams."

"I don't have any dreams."

"Then find some."

She explains that they'll box up my personal belongings, and that I can pick them and my final paycheck up from Human Resources when I get back to Tampa. I actually use direct deposit, but I don't correct her.

Maybe this is a good thing.

Maybe this will allow me to focus on my...laundry? Nail-clipping?

I don't have any life plans that were impeded by a day job.

Can I even collect unemployment if I was fired? I think I can if I was fired without cause, but getting fired for fraudulent bereavement time probably falls into the "justified" category.

I want to cry.

I really, really want to cry.

And then I figure, screw it, Amy won't be back for a bit, so I do.

* * *

I finish crying long before Amy returns, though not before a nurse checks on me. The nurse says "Oh, don't worry, sweetheart, you'll be fine." I think what she means is "Oh, for God's sake, man up and grow a pair!" I'm glad she doesn't say what she means.

I call my parents. They're understandably concerned, but I assure them that there's absolutely no reason for them to fly over from Vermont. I promise to keep them fully updated.

I turn on the television and watch some cartoons.

It seems like Amy has been gone longer than necessary to retrieve the rental car, but she might have had trouble getting a cab, or she might have stopped on the way back to pick up something to eat. I decide that if she's not back in another twenty minutes, I'll call her.

What if she fled?

She wouldn't flee.

Would she?

I mean, I was mentally prepared to take care of Vegetable Amy, so if she left me because of a heart attack...

She wouldn't leave me stranded in a hospital. She's just not that kind of person. In fact, me considering such a horrible thing for even that fraction of a second means that I deserve to be stranded in a hospital. I suck.

Amy wouldn't just ditch me. I know where she lives. She'd have to realize that I'd show up at her place at an inopportune moment, perhaps a dinner party, and say, "So, Amy, mind telling me why you abandoned me in the hospital after my heart attack?"

She walks into the room.

She does not look happy.

Well, that makes sense. We're in a hospital. You're not supposed to look happy, unless you're in neo-natal care or someplace where happy things happen.

My first thought is that Amy wrecked the car. And that's okay, because she doesn't seem to be injured, and we got the insurance, though I do still hope she didn't wreck the car.

She silently walks over and sits down next to the bed.

Her expression is that of somebody who is carefully controlling their seething rage, and yet wanting to burst into tears. I don't think her seething rage is because of anything I did, but until she explains her current emotional state, I won't be able to say for sure.

"So," she says, "what did your boss want?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"At least it was a painless death."

"Drowning? Drowning's, like, one of the worst ways you can go."

"[Expletive Bleeped]"

--Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 3

"She called to fire me."

Amy's eyes widen. "She fired you?"

I nod.

"Because of me?"

"No, no--it was my fault."

"But you killed your grandmother to go on the trip with me!"

"It was my choice. I take responsibility for my own actions. If I hadn't had a heart attack, she wouldn't have caught me in the lie."

"If you hadn't thought I was hemorrhaging, you wouldn't have had a heart attack."

"We don't know that."

"If I hadn't called your roommate, he wouldn't have called your boss to let her know what had happened."

That point I cannot argue. But we won't dwell on it.

"It was time for me to start looking for a new job anyway," I tell her. "And it's good to get fired. Everybody should have that experience at least once in their life. I mean, what kind of loser makes it to thirty-five years old without ever being fired?"

Amy wipes her eyes on her sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Todd."

"Don't give it another thought," I tell her, even though my stomach cramps make it clear that I will be giving it many more thoughts. I wouldn't take back my weekend with Amy for anything. I mean sure, if I had access to a crystal ball, I would have certainly scheduled it in such a way that I didn't have to lie about bereavement time and lose my job, but I wouldn't take it back for anything.

Since Amy didn't know about my termination, I don't think that's what was bothering her when she walked into the room.

"Did you get the car?" I ask.

Amy does not immediately answer my question about whether or not she got the car.

"What happened?" I ask.

"We got the full coverage, right?"

"Yeah. What happened? Were you in an accident?"

Amy shakes her head. "When I went back to the hotel, the car was right where we'd left it, but it had been...treated poorly."

"What do you mean?"

"Somebody bashed the crap out of it! Completely trashed it! There's not a speck of glass remaining in any window! The entire lid of the trunk is gone! I'm sure they didn't actually take a chainsaw to it--that would've been too loud and attracted attention--but it sure looks like they did! It's completely destroyed!"

"So...by 'completely destroyed,' what exactly do you mean?"

Amy holds up a cell phone picture of the mangled car. I flinch and recoil.

"Jesus Christ!"

"I know!"

"What kind of sociopath would do that?"

"I have no idea. They were gone by the time I got there."

"Those are incredible anger issues!"

"I know."

I am so glad we paid extra for the full coverage, though it's still going to be awkward when we have to return what's left of the vehicle.

"And now I have to ask you a question," Amy says.

"What?"

"Did you leave the money in the car?"

I consider this. One would have to be quite the fool to leave a thousand dollars in the trunk of one's car when one is parked at a hotel. I, for one, am not a fool. I would never, ever be so unintelligent as to leave cash in the trunk of a car. That would be silly. I simply wouldn't do that.

Unless, of course, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the sex I'd be having in that hotel room.

I use many of the words that Amy used during our lovemaking session, though in a much different context.

"The police have filed a report," Amy tells me. "And they're going to review the hotel's surveillance footage. They might catch whoever did it and get your money back."

"Good. That's good. All's well that ends well, then."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Not right away."

"You're trembling."

"That's fine. That's the proper reaction."

"I'm going to get a nurse."

"No, no, I'm--" Amy has already hurried out of the room. She returns a moment later with the nurse who wanted me to man up and grow a pair. She takes my blood pressure, and I'm not surprised to learn that it is quite high.

The nurse gives me a pill, and I do a bunch of breathing exercises as the nurse and Amy coach me. Eventually, I stop feeling like I'm going to have a complete nervous breakdown and the nurse leaves.

Amy gently strokes my arm. "I'm not going to leave you," she says.

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

"That's not how I meant it."

"I'm confused."

"I'm going to dictate the note that I'd leave next to your pillow if I left you."

"Uh...okay."

"'Dear Todd, you don't deserve this. It can't end well, and all I'm going to do is destroy everything you've worked for.'"

"I haven't worked for all that much," I clarify.

"Let me finish. 'I will always treasure our weekend together, but you're a wonderful guy, and you belong with somebody who has a longer shelf life. I'll never forget you. Sincerely, Amy.'" She lowers the imaginary note, then raises it again. "'P.S. That one thing you did with your tongue was amazing.'"

"So...that was the note you were going to leave...?"

"It's the note I would leave if I were the kind of person who could break up with somebody by leaving them a note. Which I'm not. At all. Even if you weren't in the hospital I couldn't do it." She bites her lip. "I just wanted to put the message out there."

I'm extremely pleased that our relationship has progressed to the point where us parting ways would constitute an actual breakup, but I'm still hopelessly baffled. "So...you want us to break up...but you don't want to deliver the news with a note...so you're reading a fake note?"

Amy shakes her head. "I don't want to leave you behind. I think you should leave me behind."

"So...you're making me leave you...?"

"No."

"I think our communication skills are faltering right now."

"It's my fault. I'm not good at this kind of thing."

"Okay, if I'm understanding your hypothetical letter correctly, what you're saying is that you won't hold it against me if we go back to Florida separately and don't see each other again."

"Yes."

"So it's basically a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card."

"Yes."

I feel like the proper response here is to take her in my arms, hold her tight, and say, "Oh, no, sweetheart, that's the last thing in the world I'd ever do!" Yet I can't help but find her whole speech a little insulting.

"Then what you mean is, you're giving me permission to be the complete bastard that you think I am."

"No! That's not it at all."

"Then why are you trying to get me to walk out on this?"

"I'm not! I'm saying that I'd understand if you did."

"Well, that's stupid. I don't need you to ease my conscience. I knew what I was getting into."

"You knew you'd have to sell your car?"

"No."

"You knew you'd lose your job?"

"No."

"You knew the rental car would be destroyed?"

"No."

"You knew you'd have a heart attack?"

"No."

"So all you knew was that I have a defective brain. I'm not letting you off the hook for that. I'm letting you off the hook for everything else."

"I don't want to be off the hook." I still feel kind of insulted. I'm not sure why. "I'm not looking for something easy. Sure, easier would be nice right now, but not easy. I've done easy for too long. If you want out of this, that's fine, I totally get it, but don't push the breakup on me."

"That was the exact opposite of my intention," Amy says.

"Good. We're still together, then."

"Good."

"Please don't ever give me another 'Get Out of Jail Free' card," I say.

"I won't."

We kiss.

"We'll be okay," I say. "I've still got credit cards. No way to pay them off, but I've got them. Credit solves everything. We'll buy a couple of plane tickets and fly home. No problem."

Amy doesn't say anything.

"Bad idea?" I ask.

"No. It's a good idea. Technically."

"Technically?"

"I've never flown before."

"Seriously?"

Amy nods.

I grin. "You were giving me a hard time about my lack of worldly BBQ experience, and you've never been on a plane? This is awesome. It'll be a whole new adventure for you."

Amy goes silent again.

"No?" I ask.

"I'm not completely sure that I can fly."

"As in, the TSA will arrest you if you set foot in an airport?"

"Nothing like that," says Amy, apparently unaware that I was kidding. "It's just that my family hasn't had good experiences with air travel."

I immediately envision a horrific plane crash with dozens of severed heads rolling down the evacuation slide.

Wow. My thoughts aren't usually quite that macabre. Having a heart attack does dark shit to you.

"What kind of experiences?" I ask.

"Have you seen the movie Snakes on a Plane?"

"Of course."

"Well, imagine Snakes on a Plane, but with only one snake, and it's not a poisonous one, but, still, it bit you on the ankle. That's what happened to my mom. Bit by a snake on a plane."

"That's messed up."

"She never flew again."

"I get why she would be traumatized, but you have to understand that people aren't bit by snakes on airplanes very often. Hell, when we walked up that hill I'm sure there were more snakes around us than there would be on any plane. In fact, I don't make a lot of guarantees, but I can absolutely with complete certainty one hundred percent guarantee you that you will not get bit by a snake if we fly back to Tampa."

"I'm not scared of snakes on planes, Todd."

"Okay. Good. You were sort of implying that you were."

"That's just one example. You know how they warn you that items in the overhead compartments may have shifted during the flight?"

"Yes."

"I don't, because I've never been on a plane, but apparently that's what they say. Well, my Uncle Gary didn't listen to the warning. Opened the compartment. Got hit in the head by his own suitcase. Broke his neck. Spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair."

"Holy crap."

"Yeah."

"Well, that's definitely more likely than getting bit by a snake, but I'm happy to open the luggage compartment for you, and we'll make sure your head is nowhere near it."

"My dad almost choked on a piece of chicken from the in-flight meal. The man sitting next to him did the Heimlich Maneuver and broke two of his ribs."

"Ow."

"And my Aunt Ruth told me about that episode of The Twilight Zone with William Shatner and the gremlin sabotaging the wing of the plane."

"I guess that one scared me, too. Not the original episode, but the remake in Twilight Zone: The Movie with John Lithgow."

"I'm not saying that I'm scared of snakes, breaking my neck, choking, or a gremlin. I'm saying that my entire childhood was spent in a household of people who hated and feared air travel. And also, there was 9/11."

"I can respect that."

"I'll fly for you, though."

"You don't have to."

"I know I don't have to, but I will. I should. It's dumb to be this old and never have been on a plane. You can't drive to Paris."

The truth is that I don't really have anything to go back to, except for some possessions that are probably being rummaged through by three hyperactive children. (I've never met Margaret's children and I don't know if they're hyperactive, so I guess that was unfair. I just naturally assume that all children are hyperactive.)

"We could stay here," I tell her.

"In the hospital?"

"In Connecticut. Or someplace else. I'm unemployed, your customer service skills are marketable elsewhere--we could live anyplace we wanted! We could go anywhere! We could run away together!"

As soon as I say this, I realize that it's something I'll quickly try to blame on painkillers. Consummated relationship or not, it's far too early to invite her to run away with me. I can't believe I didn't veto that before I said it. I sound like an insane whack-nut crazy person.

Amy just stares at me. I have no idea what she's thinking, though Crap, he's an insane whack-nut crazy person, I'd better get the fuck out of here is a possibility.

Should I apologize? Take it back? Neither of those options are likely to work out in my favor. I think the only thing I can do is let my words hang in the air and be thankful that if Amy elects to jump out of the window, there's plenty of medical personnel in the immediate vicinity.

A tear trickles down Amy's cheek and she gives me a huge smile. "We could," she says. "We really could."

Wait a minute...she's saying yes?

I'm elated, but that's nuts. Why the hell would she say yes? It was a completely deranged thing for me to have suggested, and if she's cool with it, she must also be completely deranged. If two people have both lost their minds, does that make them perfect for each other? Is this going to turn into a cross-country crime spree? Is it going to end in a suicide pact?

I guess that's unlikely. Still, if I begin to sense that we're veering into suicide pact territory, I will adjust our behavior accordingly.

"I'd still give my two weeks notice at work," says Amy. "I don't want to burn any bridges there; I'll need my supervisor to give me a good reference. And it's the right thing to do. I don't want my co-workers to be stressed out because I left without notice."

"I agree."

"And I want to make sure I get my security deposit back, because we'll need that for our next place, so I'll need to work with my apartment complex to get out of my lease. I think I've only got three or four months left, so that shouldn't be a problem, but I'll need to make sure that it's all clean and everything. I accidentally knocked a hole in the wall in the hallway when I was moving a desk chair, and I should get that repaired before I move out. Are you good at repairing holes in walls?"

"It's not my strongest skill," I admit.

"That's fine. I'll call a repairman. Or maybe it's fine to just have it deducted from my security deposit. I'm not sure which option is cheaper. I'll look it up online. Am I babbling? I feel like maybe I'm babbling."

"If you are, it's wonderful babbling."

Amy smiles and gives me a kiss. "Storage unit. We'll need a storage unit. That way we don't have to sell everything at a garage sale, but we can still keep ourselves easily mobile until we settle on a place. Unless you want to sell everything at a garage sale."

"I'm fine without the garage sale."

Amy gives me another kiss, and then takes a deep breath. She exhales slowly. "I apologize. I woke up this morning with a death scare, and even though it was an illogical death scare because I knew my brain wasn't bleeding through my nose, it kind of made me overly exuberant about the future."

"Hey, I started it."

"You're right. You did. Your heart attack made you thankful to be alive, too. So maybe our horrific medical issues are the best thing that could have happened to us. If we were in good health, we wouldn't be planning our future together like this. We'd be...well, we'd be at the hotel having more of that red-hot sex. So there are also disadvantages to brain aneurysms and heart attacks. But still..."

A nurse comes in to say that it's time for an EKG. I start to make a joke about how rude it is for her to have interrupted our conversation just to keep me alive, but not every joke I've made in the past couple of days has landed properly, and I don't want to offend the woman who is tending to my faulty heart. I send Amy off to go get a nice lunch.

By the time my tests are done, I have a new roommate. His name is Chip ("Like the chip!") and he broke both of his legs when he fell off the roof of his home. He's on morphine and drifts in and out of consciousness. He keeps calling me The Breath Mint Man, even though he can't smell my breath from over in his bed, and also keeps asking if I want to see where his bone came through the skin. I actually do, a little, but he'd have to unwrap the thick bandages and I don't think the doctors would like that.

"It's weird seeing your own bone," he tells me in a slurred voice. "It's weird enough seeing other people's bones. Bones belong on the inside, that's my motto."

"It's a fine motto," I say. I'm just humoring him, though at least his logic is sound.

"It's weird even when it's a skeleton," he continues. "When I was in high school, our science class had this skeleton, and I couldn't stop thinking 'That thing used to have a face.'"

"That is definitely weird."

"A face! But not anymore. Not after it became a skeleton. There's a skeleton in you right now. Did you know that?"

"I did, actually."

"A whole skeleton. If a skeleton walked in here right now, you'd shit your pants, but technically there is a skeleton in here. Two of them."

"There sure are."

"Do you want to see the place where the bone came through?"

"You shouldn't touch the bandages."

"Seeing my bone was weird as crap. And bones aren't as white as you'd think. I'm not saying that they're green or anything, but they're not the shade of white you see in a classroom skeleton." He chuckles. "Breath Mint Man."

"You should get some rest."

"Don't steal my skeleton while I'm asleep."

"I won't."

"Were you there when I fell off my roof?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"My son threw his Frisbee up there. Do you own a Frisbee?"

"No," I say. For some reason this makes me very sad.

"He was showing off how high he could throw it, and it went right into a tree. He didn't start crying or anything, but I knew he wanted his Frisbee back. It was a purple one. I climbed up the tree and shook the branch, and the Frisbee came loose and landed on the roof. And then..."

Chip's story is replaced by the sound of his gentle snoring.

Dammit. I know how the saga turns out (Chip falls off the roof and breaks his legs) but now I'm invested in the details.

Life can be so cruel.

* * *

Amy returns with the update that the rental car was vandalized even more while she was gone.

The police have not recovered the money yet. The officer on the case explained to her that situations like these, in which money has been stolen, usually end with the money remaining stolen. They wish they could do more to help, but Rick's wife left him this morning, and it hit him pretty hard, because everybody thought they were getting along fine these days, and Brendan is back on the bottle after two years sober, so it's all really just a big mess.

"But that's okay," Amy assures me, "because do you know what time it is?"

"Time to join Brendan on the bottle?"

Amy shakes her head. "It's Tuesday night. Almost eight o'clock."

Whoa. I'd completely forgot. "Exit Red time!"

Amy picks up the remote control and turns on the television. They always show the previous week's episode before the new one, so we're in the final two minutes, where Alicia, mistakenly believing that Darwan was responsible for the death of her father, shoots him in the chest with a musket.

We hold hands and silently watch the new episode. (Darwan survived being shot, but the poor guy is in bad shape.) Shortly after the first commercial break, Chip mentions that he doesn't think the show is very realistic, and I learn that my girlfriend is capable of the most withering gaze I have ever seen a human being give. I'm not even the target and I can feel my testicles retreat.

Chip does continue to make the occasional comment about inaccurate physics, but to be fair, the morphine is probably clouding his judgment. I hope that I won't have to make a decision about whether or not to stay with a woman who has delivered a violent beat-down to a hospitalized man with broken legs.

She doesn't deliver the violent beat-down. Just the gaze and some shushing.

It's a damn good episode. In the final moments, Alicia discovers that she was wrong about Darwan. As she stands there in shock, two men in orange masks--the same masks we saw some villagers wear last season--jump out of nowhere and grab her. The screen goes black until the usual "Executive Producer: Blake Remark" credit.

"Holy crap," says Amy, shutting off the television. "If I don't live to see the end of this, I'll kill myself. Or something like that. You know what I mean."

And then I realize what our next adventure needs to be.

We need to find out how this thing ends.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"Infinity is a hell of a long time to live with regrets."

"I think you mean eternity."

"Shut up."

--Exit Red, Season 6, Episode 6

"But I don't want to know how it ends," Amy says. "There are spoiler sites out there, but I never check them. I would stab somebody in the neck if they ruined it for me."

"I'm not talking about spoilers. I mean actually seeing the final episodes."

"So...time machine?"

"No."

"Cryogenics?"

"I'm being serious."

"Continue."

"We go to a convention. He's going to be at PhaserCon in San Francisco this coming weekend. We'll track down Blake Remark. Tell him your story. Ask him to show you how it ends."

"Why would he do that?"

"We wouldn't he?"

"I can't possibly be the only doomed girl who wants to know how Exit Red turns out."

"But you're probably the cutest."

"There's no way he'd go for that."

"Why not?"

"Because he just wouldn't."

"You don't know that. It's not like you're faking it. Maybe nobody else has ever asked before. Or maybe there are hundreds of women with brain aneurysms who have seen the final episodes. You could be one of them!"

Amy scratched her forehead. "I don't know."

"What's the worst that could happen?" I asked. "Worst case scenario, he says, no, absolutely not, why would you even bother asking such a stupid thing, get out of my sight, burn in hell. So what? What have we lost?"

"Airfare. Hotel cost. Convention registration fee."

"Okay, yes, there is a financial risk involved. And, yes, I did just lose my job, so offering to pay for it would be reckless and irresponsible. But I don't care. So I'm reckless and irresponsible. So what?"

It suddenly occurs to me that "reckless" and "irresponsible" are two elements that might be a turn-off to Amy regarding our future together.

"I'm not comfortable with this," says Amy.

"I am. Let's do it. Right now. I mean, let's book the tickets now, and leave after the hospital officially releases me. No, I guess we should wait for the hospital to officially release me before we book the tickets, otherwise there might be a fee to change our flight time. But let's do this right after that."

"What if the ending sucks?" Amy asks. "What if we fly out there, convince him to show us the last episodes, and it turns out that they were dead all along? What if it was all a dream? What if it just suddenly cuts to black with no resolution?"

"That would indeed suck," I admit. "But it's worth the risk."

"What if my aneurysm pops right before he presses play?"

"I feel like you're focusing on the negative."

"You're right. I am. I'll stop."

"I didn't think it was that great of a show," says Chip. "If you want to fly all the way to California to find out how it ends, that's your choice, but it's a bit silly, if you ask me."

Amy gives him a sweet smile. "What's more silly is somebody going through all the trouble of getting his legs patched up, only to have them rebroken."

Amy's love for this show really brings out her violent side. I don't think Chip legitimately believes that she's going to rebreak his legs, but he does stop making disparaging comments about our taste in television.

* * *

Our cab driver is insane. I've used the word "insane" recently to describe Amy and me, in a We must be insane if we're talking about running away together! manner, but I did not mean that we were literally insane. Our driver, meanwhile, is (as far as I can tell without being a professional in the field of psychology) genuinely insane.

I'm basing this on the little giggle he lets out every time he misses another vehicle by quarter-inches. This happens often. I don't think he wants to kill anybody, since he is missing the other cars, but it's simply not how sane people behave.

The line to get through security isn't very long. Amy does get picked for a pat down, which--no judgment here--she seems to enjoy. It's a very attractive woman doing the pat down, and I wonder if there's an element of Amy's personality that has not yet been revealed. I won't delve into it anytime soon, but I will delve into it. It could be important and awesome.

As we sit at the gate, Amy does a lot of nervous fidgeting. I place a reassuring hand on her knee. "It'll be fine," I say.

"Easy for you to say. If we crash and die, I won't be able to hold you accountable for your bad info about our safety."

"It will be one percent as dangerous as the cab ride."

"That's not at all reassuring."

"One percent of one percent."

"Still not reassured."

"Cars crash every single day. People die in car accidents so often that it's not even news."

"All you're making me do is not want to get in a car."

"The odds of dying in your own bathtub are greater than the odds of dying in a plane crash."

"You want me to quit bathing? Really?"

"You're far more likely to die putting on your clothes than--"

She gives me a playful slap on the arm. "Enough."

A few minutes before we're supposed to board, we are notified that the plane has a mechanical problem, which shouldn't take too long to repair. Amy, to her credit, merely says, "Okay, then."

A few minutes after that, we are notified that the part will have to be delivered, but that it shouldn't take too long. "I hope it's not the engine," says a jolly woman next to us with a laugh. Amy, to her credit, merely says, "Me too."

A few minutes after that, they announce that everything is fixed and they're ready for pre-boarding.

"See, that wasn't such a bad delay," I say. "Compare that to how long we waited at the car repair place."

"And how did that work out for your car, Todd?"

I decide that silence is the best approach until the plane has taken off.

Soon we're on the plane. I take the middle seat. There are worse things in life than having the middle seat on a plane (global economy collapse, nuclear war, getting sprayed in the face with lava, etc.) but in simple plane-seating terms, I can't stand being in the middle. But if my sweetheart wants a window seat, my sweetheart gets a window seat.

Amy buckles her seat belt and smiles. "Okay, now I'm more excited than scared."

"Good."

She takes the motion sickness bag out of the seat pocket. "We may need more than one of these, though."

"You can borrow mine."

"I wonder how many other couples have seen each other vomit this many times this early in their relationship?"

Just as the flight attendant announces that they'll be closing the aircraft door very soon and we'll need to start shutting down our electronic devices, my cell phone buzzes.

"Hi, Craig," I say.

"Hey, Todd."

"We're on the plane."

"Is it a nice one?"

"Pretty nice."

"Cool."

"What's up? Are you just checking on me?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, that was part of it. How's your heart?"

"It's doing all right. Thanks for asking."

"No problem."

"You okay?"

Craig sighs. "You know that Margaret and her kids were staying at our place, right?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"What happened?"

"I didn't say that anything happened."

"Craig, they're going to make me shut off my phone any minute now."

"You knew that I was also seeing Julia, right?"

"Yes."

"Turns out, Margaret didn't know that. I thought I'd told her."

"You didn't."

"I meant to tell her."

"No, you didn't."

"I would have told her eventually. Anyway, these kids, they were running all over the place, shouting, getting into your things...I couldn't focus enough to tell Julia not to come."

"Oops."

"So Julia showed up at our door, and I told her that my aunt and niece and nephews were staying with us. And Margaret wouldn't go along with the lie! Can you believe that? She just started screaming at Julia and calling her a slut and stuff, which makes no sense, because I gave it to Margaret just as hard as I gave it to Julia. If you want to talk about being a slut, how about 69ing me when her kids are in the next room? So Julia left before Margaret could get all cat-fighty on her, and then Margaret started screaming at me. She wanted to know why I said she was my aunt instead of my sister. I said, hey, you're an older woman, that's just the way it is, what do you want from me?"

"Did that go poorly?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but at least you've got the place back to yourself again."

"Yeah." Craig does not say "yeah" in such a manner as to imply that he actually means "yeah."

"What's wrong?"

"Which one of them is hotter? Julia or Margaret?"

"Julia."

"Right. So about a minute into the screaming match with Margaret, I realized that this fuck-buddy arrangement wasn't salvageable. So I figured, I'd better go after Julia. Which I did. And she said that thing women say where they're all like 'It's not about what you've done; it's about the fact that you lied.' And I'll admit it: she'd asked me if I was sleeping with anybody else, and I'd said no, so I guess that was a lie. But we worked it out."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

"And...?"

"Huh?"

"And is that the end of the story?" I ask.

"Not all of it."

"Seriously, Craig, I'm going to have to shut off my phone in a second."

"Margaret burned up our apartment."

"What?"

"She sent the kids outside, and then just went batshit with her lighter."

I close my eyes and try not to emit any noises that might get us kicked off the plane. "What exactly do you mean by 'burned up'?"

"Well, it didn't reach the other apartments, so it's not as bad as it could have been."

"Okay."

"And there are no dead kids."

"Okay."

"Dead kids would be the greatest tragedy in the world, but like I said, she sent them outside before she started setting fire to things."

"Just give me the bottom line."

"All of our stuff is gone. She melted my Wii."

The flight attendant informs the passengers that we must now shut down our cell phones and other electronic devices.

"I've gotta go," I tell Craig.

"I just thought you should know."

"Thanks for the update."

"No problem."

I hang up and shut down my phone.

"Asking him what he meant by 'burned up' didn't sound good," Amy says.

"It was no big deal. He just called to let me know that his friend-with-benefits torched our apartment and everything I own has been destroyed. More considerate than sending it in a text, I guess."

"Jesus. I'm sorry."

I shrug. "Eh. Doesn't bother me. Possessions are stupid. I'm better off without them."

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic."

"Neither can I."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I think I'd rather discuss something else."

"Okay."

The flight attendants begin their safety demonstration, which Amy watches closely, even following along with the printed safety brochure that nobody ever looks at.

When the plane begins to taxi along the runway, Amy takes my hand, but it's in a This is so exciting! way instead of a We are moments from death! way.

I expect this to be an opportunity to show off my tender, comforting side, but it turns out that Amy absolutely loves to fly. She can't stop grinning. When we pass through the clouds, she's like a three-year-old. (A giddy three-year-old, not the screaming one in the row behind us.) I keep thinking that at some point the novelty will wear off and she'll join the rest of the world in proclaiming that air travel bites, but she never does.

There are no delays in the second leg of our flight, so we arrive in San Francisco just after 4:00 PM on Thursday. After a lively cab ride with another insane driver, though without the giggle, we arrive at our hotel.

It's a budget hotel for sure, but it's really not that bad. The room is small but carcass-free, at least upon our initial investigation, and there are no appalling scents. The towels have fewer than three holes each. The water is the proper clear color. When we toss our bags onto the mattress there is no crunch of bedbugs.

The room is perfectly fine. It's really just a place to sleep, anyway. The Exit Red panel isn’t until Saturday, so we've got plenty of time to enjoy the sights and sounds of the city.

* * *

We do not enjoy any of the sights and sounds of the city. Not one. We enjoy the tastes and smells of the mediocre pizza place next door. We'd do some sightseeing, but that would involve leaving the room for a while, and leaving the room would involve not having sex.

I'm not saying that we have a non-stop festival of intercourse. We sleep part of the time. We snuggle while watching TV. We share a relaxing bubble bath. But when one of us says, "Gosh, perhaps we should venture out and see the Fisherman's Wharf," the other usually agrees, and yet before we can quite accomplish the task of getting dressed, we're back on the bed, having sex.

Or in the shower. It turns out that when you have the right partner, showering together is not overrated. And I've never been quite so clean.

We stick to gentle lovemaking instead of frenzied fornication, not because we necessarily want to, but because it seems like a wise idea considering our recent health issues, and the doctor's warning that I should not exert myself. This is not the time for Yeah, baby, I'm gonna fuck your brains out! Strap in and hold on! Not that I would say something like that even if I were in prime physical condition. Just not my style. But it's our shared desire not to return to the hospital that molds these into the kind of lovemaking sessions where I make statements about wanting to be inside of her, rather than statements about wanting to tear up that ass.

I know I'm not the world's greatest lover. If Don Juan and/or Ron Jeremy watched me perform, they wouldn't say "Damn! That was frickin' amazing! Mind giving me some pointers, dude?" But, all ego aside, I have to say that this is going remarkably well. Nobody has been injured, the orgasms are inequitably distributed in her favor, and my own climaxes are so intense that at one point I think my penis has actually jettisoned off my body.

(Okay, I don't really think that. I'm just saying that my climaxes are extremely intense.)

It would be nice to think that I'm the best lover Amy has ever had. It's possible; at one point, while we're cuddling in post-coital bliss, she shares that her ex-husband was her first and only prior sexual partner, so I only need to be better than one other guy. But she doesn't tell me that I am, and I don't press her for this information. Ignorance is probably the way to go.

It's all very vanilla stuff. There's no Fifty Shades of Grey in our hotel room, which is fine with me, because my attempts at such things have generally failed. So what if we're not using whips and candle wax, and not giving attention to every single orifice? Everybody involved is having a delightful time.

I do occasionally start to worry about the fact that I'm unemployed and homeless, but then Amy goes down on me and all is forgotten. It's amazing--amazing--how effective a blowjob from a beautiful woman can be in making one's problems seem not so bad. It's like, "Oh, God, I don't even know where to start with a job hunt, and maybe nobody will hire me because I'll have to tell them why I was fired, and eventually I'll max out my credit cards and not be able to buy food, and I'll end up--oh, hey, what's that Amy's doing down there? I have not a care in the world!"

Finally, though, it is Saturday morning. Time to get up and get ready for...actually, we have sex again. However, Amy is on top and she makes sure it's a quick one. We shower together to save time, which ends up not saving us much time, but eventually we're dressed and waiting for our taxi.

This time, our taxi driver is not insane. He is, however, an angry gentleman. Very angry. Every other vehicle on the road seems to fill him with rage; not a violent road rage, just a seething inner fury. He's not going to run anybody off the road, but he may break into their home and poison their pets.

We arrive at the convention center and then get in the very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very long line for PhaserCon. The population of the United States is only three hundred million people, so it's probably fewer than that, but not by many. There are a lot of fellow geeks here.

And then we wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Put the gun down. Seriously, put it down. Let's discuss this like--c'mon, really, put the gun down. If you're not willing to put it down, could you at least point it someplace else? Just three inches away from me, that's all I ask. Please. This is starting to get upsetting. Just put the gun down. Put the gun down for one quick--"

--Exit Red, Season 6, Episode 7

The line for PhaserCon is where lifelong relationships are forged. Couples meet, fall in love, get married, have children, and die together in the time it takes to get through the Will Call line.

I suppose I am exaggerating, but not by much. Our morale remains high even as generations pass. It's good to know that Amy and I will grow old together.

Some entertainment value is provided by two guys in front of us, who are arguing over who is the bigger Exit Red fan. One of them, a curly-haired ginger in his early twenties, pulls up his shirtsleeve to display a tattoo that covers his entire upper arm.

"Check that out."

"That tat looks like crap," says the other guy, who is also a curly-haired ginger but about ten years older. "You can barely even tell it's Darwan."

"I know. Anybody can get a good Exit Red tattoo. It takes a special kind of dedication to permanently mark yourself with a terrible one."

"Takes a special kind of stupid."

"Do you know anybody else who would get a tattoo like this? Anybody else in the world?"

"Nobody smart."

Ginger #1 taps his tattoo with his index finger. "This is passion. This is commitment. People get tattoos all the time where they don't even know what they mean; they just think they look cool. Well, this tattoo doesn't look cool. Nobody would get this put on their arm unless they were the ultimate fan."

"Or unless they had a moderate to severe form of mental retardation."

"You don't think that what I'm saying makes sense?"

"I think that you went in to get a cool tattoo, and you got a shitty one, so you tried to figure out a way to justify the astounding shittiness of your tattoo. Wouldn't it be easier to keep your sleeves down?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

This is how their relationship starts, but by the time we reach the point where we can see the front of the line, they're friends.

A security guard nods at me as he walks past. "Love your Breath Mint Man costume."

I turn to Amy. "What did he mean by that?"

"I don't know."

"Who's the Breath Mint Man? That's what Chip kept calling me."

Amy shrugs. "Maybe he wears a blue shirt like that."

"I wasn't wearing this shirt in the hospital."

"I guess you just look like him. You should enter the costume contest."

"Do I sleepwalk? Maybe I star in commercials while I'm asleep."

"I'm sure that's it."

And then, old and decrepit, we reach the front of the line.

"You're in the wrong line," says the guy at the Will Call table.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask.

"The other line's behind the building. This is the line for people with yellow passes."

"Nobody said anything about yellow passes."

"I'm just messing with you. You're in the right line." He snickers. "I tell that to every tenth person. Some of the reactions I get are priceless."

"The line would probably move faster if you didn't tell that to every tenth person."

"That's what every tenth person says. But I'm a volunteer. I take my fun where I can get it. Here are your wristbands."

We take our wristbands and walk into the convention center. The scope of it is mind-boggling. People in costumes are everywhere. I've never been much of a collector, but if I were a collector, I'd be having a nervous breakdown over the variety of items that were available to add to my collection.

If I had income, I could be Amy's Exit Red sugar daddy. I had no idea that this much merchandise existed. The mauve aliens from Season 2 were only in one episode, and they've got a sixty-dollar limited edition action figure. For thirty-five bucks, we can get our picture taken with a character I don't specifically remember.

We wander through the dealer's room for about twenty minutes, and then it's time to get in line again. We don't want to get shut out of the Exit Red panel, which is only eight hours away. If this works, it'll be worth every second. If it doesn't...well, quite honestly, I'd find value in spending time with Amy in a Dumpster behind Waffle House, so what's wrong with spending time together in a ridiculously long line?

The curly-haired gingers are in front of us again. Their friendship has apparently crumbled since we've seen them last, and now the tattooed one is explaining that eight hours is nothing, eight hours is for amateur fans, he once spent an entire week camped out to get into an advanced screening of the Season 5 premiere. The non-tattooed ginger pokes a lot of holes in his story, and I have to admit that some of the details ring false, although the question of why somebody would make up a story about spending a week camping out into get into an advanced screening of a television show goes unanswered.

We wait some more.

I wish we could ask somebody to hold our place in line while Amy and I sneak off to have sex, but that would be morally wrong.

"What if this doesn't work?" Amy asks.

"It'll work," I assure her.

"What if it doesn't? What if I stand up there and ask, and I look like a complete jackass? What if everybody boos?"

"People aren't going to boo."

"They might! I can't handle four thousand people booing me."

"It won't happen."

"How do you know? I thought it was a great idea before, but now that we're standing here I'm thinking that if I were in the audience, and some chick asked to see the last episodes before she died, I'd probably boo her."

"You would not boo some poor girl with a brain aneurysm."

"I think I would. What makes her so goddamn special?"

"It'll be fine."

"I appreciate your reassurance," says Amy, "but we both know that I could end up looking like a complete idiot. And that assumes that I get to ask a question in the first place, which I probably won't."

"You're just nervous."

"Duh!"

"If you don't get to ask a question, we'll try something else. But the audience isn't going to turn against you. You're adorable."

"To you."

"To anybody."

"When you talk about me being adorable in empirical terms, I know you're full of shit. They're going to hate me."

"Nobody is going to hate you. You're being ridiculous."

"Will you hate me if I wuss out?"

"No."

"Because I feel like I'm close to wussing out."

"That's fine. Wuss out if you need to. We're here about to see the cast and creator of Exit Red! How amazing is that? I mean, this is something we should be doing even without the whole element of wanting to see the end of the show before you die."

"You're right, you're right. And, technically, if four thousand people do think I'm a complete douchebag, I'll be dead soon."

"That's the spirit."

Halfway through our eight-hour wait, the friendship of the gingers has reincarnated into something mildly homoerotic, which would be fine if they didn't look so much like brothers.  They seem to be flirting in a manner that they can pass off as a satire of flirting. Or maybe it really is satire. I don't know. I just wish they didn't look so much alike.

The truth is that I have no idea how the audience will respond. I can't imagine that they'd tell her to shut the hell up and sit down. More likely, she'll have them in tears, right? Tears are way more likely than boos. She'll capture their hearts and be the talk of PhaserCon.

Or she'll be completely mortified.

I'm not usually one to downplay the potential for public humiliation, and I'm also not one to offer reassurance without having carefully analyzed the situation to be certain that my reassurance is merited. But I really believe that this is going to work.

And if it doesn't, well, she looked silly in front of four thousand people she'll never see again. So what?

Okay, and perhaps in front of the unlimited audience of the Internet.

Crap. My girlfriend could become a meme.

It'll be fine. Completely fine. She probably won't get to ask her question anyway, and this whole part of the plan will be moot.

We continue to stand in line.

A rumor has circulated that Nathan Fillion is walking around the convention center in a Boba Fett costume, so every time we see Boba Fett, which happens frequently, there's a rush of excitement. But none of them remove their helmets and say, "It's me, TV's Nathan Fillion!" so the rumor remains unconfirmed.

The romance between the gingers disintegrates when the tattooed one punches the non-tattooed one in the stomach during an argument about Doctor Who. The tattooed one is removed from the premises. The remaining ginger looks smug and satisfied as his enemy is dragged away, but later he looks a bit forlorn.

We continue to stand in line.

I'm not comfortable with public displays of affection, so Amy and I really don't do much except hold hands and exchange the occasional quick kiss on the lips. Envisioning this scenario on the taxi ride over, I'd thought that it would be cruel to go into PhaserCon with a girlfriend, since nobody else would have one. But I think the girls may actually outnumber the guys here by a narrow margin, and there are handholding couples all over the place. This sure isn't the geek culture I experienced as a kid.

We continue to stand in line.

Amy puts her arm around me. "I just want you to know that however this turns out, even if I don't get anywhere near a microphone, I really appreciate what you've done for me."

"It's no big deal."

"It is a big deal. This isn't a once in a lifetime opportunity. I could've done this anytime, but I needed the kick in the ass."

"Well, I'm glad I could kick you in the ass."

We continue to stand in...no, wait, the line is moving! We begin to file into a huge auditorium, as conference volunteers tell us repeatedly not to run. I really want to run, but instead I follow the safety guidelines.

We get seats about twelve rows back, which isn't too bad.

Amy wiggles with excitement. "I can't believe we're here."

"It's awesome."

She points to the empty stage. "They're all going to be right there."

"I know."

"I could run up there and dry-hump two or three of them before they dragged me away."

"Please don't."

"I won't. But I could."

A woman walks up onto the stage. "If you would like to ask a question during the Q&A portion of this panel, there are microphones on the left side and on the right side of the stage. Please line up now. There will only be a limited amount of time for questions, so there are no guarantees that we'll get to you."

"Good luck," I tell Amy as she stands up.

"Thanks," she says. She gives me a kiss on the cheek, which is not a good strategy because it costs her a fraction of a valuable second. She joins the stampede.

As I watch her make her way to the microphone, I discover that Amy has an amazing skill for navigating her way through a crowd like a ninja. She doesn't shove or bludgeon; she merely darts and weaves her way through, securing herself the third spot in the line on the right-hand side of the stage. So if they alternate lines, she'll either be the fifth or the sixth question.

She looks over at me, grins, and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I return the grin, the thumbs-up sign, and one-up her by blowing her a kiss.

A man in a yellow suit walks up onto the stage and the crowd goes absolutely apeshit. "Hello, Exit Red fans!" he says, and the apeshit-level of the crowd doubles. "I'm Jack Wilky, host of the Wilky's Exit Red podcast, and have we got a treat for you! Are you ready to meet some people?"

The crowd indicates via clapping, cheering, whistling, screaming, and stomping their feet that they are, indeed, ready to meet some people.

"I can't hear you!" Jack shouts, although I suspect he's being disingenuous.

The audience, concerned about Jack's ability to hear them, freaks the hell out.

"Oh, yeah! Let's get this party started!"

Jack brings out each of the attending cast members, introducing them as if they're Jesus Christ giving the Beatles a piggyback ride. The audience is going absolutely berserk, and I'm unashamed to be going berserk right there along with them. I mean, the cast members are right there! Breathing approximately the same air as me! As their eyes roam the crowd, at least one of them has probably registered my presence! This is unbelievable!

The loudest cheers of all go to Blake Remark, the series creator and executive producer. He's a short pudgy guy with greasy hair, a bad complexion, and crooked teeth, but based on the squeals I'm guessing that the number of times he's getting laid tonight is limited only by the number of erections he's able to achieve.

The panel begins. The guy who plays Darwan, Jerry Previn, has a facial expression and body language that says "Contractually Obligated Appearance," but everybody else on the panel seems to be having a lot of fun. Blake Remark tends to dominate the discussion, but he's interesting and witty and, after all, he did create the show.

I notice Previn glancing at Amy every once in a while. At least I think he is. He could just be looking at somebody in the vicinity of Amy. It would certainly be ironic if I convinced Amy to come to PhaserCon, only to have her hook up with a TV star.

I'm not sure how I would handle that. I suppose that as long as he wore his costume and stayed in character, so that Amy was having sex with Darwan instead of Jerry Previn, I'd have to be okay with it. I mean, if I had the chance to score with She-Hulk, I'm sure Amy would...

I force myself to return my attention to the panel discussion.

Halfway through the hour-long panel, I start to get impatient for the Q&A to begin. There are at least twenty people on each side, so a lot of Q&A dreams will be crushed, but even Amy is going to get shut out if they don't start A'ing some Q's soon.

As if he read my mind, though he probably didn't, Jack says that it's time to get to the question-and-answer portion of the program. Jerry Previn visibly deflates a bit.

The first person in the left-side line, a petite woman dressed as an anime character that I don't recognize (though at least I recognize that she's supposed to be an anime character) gives a shy wave to the panelists. "I just wanted to ask if Heleno will be returning before the show ends."

The audience makes various noises of approval. It was a good question.

It would seem, though, that the answer should be a) Yes, b) No, or c) I'm not telling, followed perhaps by a compliment about the actress who plays the role. It does not, when you initially hear it, sound like a question that is going to require twenty minutes to answer, especially when Blake Remark is the only one answering.

But it does. It takes him twenty minutes to answer this question. And the answer is, distilled to its essence, "I'm not telling."

They're going to kick us out of this room in ten minutes, and there are four people ahead of Amy.

Maybe they'll just do a lightning round and try to get through as many questions as possible.

The first guy in Amy's line explains that his question is for all of the panelists. What's their next project now that Exit Red is ending?

With two minutes left to go, only three cast members have answered. There is absolutely no chance of Amy getting to ask her question. When the hell are we ever going to see Blake Remark again? This is it. This is our only opportunity to do this.

To make this happen, I'll have to become what I despise most: the asshole audience member.

I'm not comfortable with the mindset that what I have to say is so much more important than what anybody else here wants to say...but it kind of is, isn't it? Doesn't a girlfriend who may not live to see the final episode of Exit Red trump most of the other likely questions?

I stand up and wave my arms over my head. "Mr. Remark! Mr. Remark!"

Thousands of nerd-heads swivel in my direction. Not one of those heads contains a face with an expression that says, "My, how wonderful it is that this gentleman stood up and interrupted the panel!"

Blake looks at me, clearly annoyed, and doesn't say anything.

"I need to ask you something!" I shout.

I can actually feel the waves of anger radiating from the audience members. Four thousand people who hate my guts. Four thousand people who can't believe that, even by the standards of PhaserCon, somebody could be this socially inept.

"My girlfriend Amy has a--"

I say all five of those words, but the last three are completely drowned out by the sound of booing. Four thousand mouths booing me at once, excluding those that are shouting for me to sit the fuck down. My face burns. My stomach hurts. I'm so embarrassed that I want to cry, although I remain self-aware enough to realize that crying won't help me feel less embarrassed.

I'm sure Amy is mortified. I can't bring myself to look over at her.

Instead, I plop back down into my seat.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"Aw, crap."

--Exit Red (every episode except Season 2, Episode 7)

The audience stops booing me. Now that the crowd has made their disapproval of my interruption quite clear, Blake seems amused by the whole thing.

"I'm afraid we're out of time," says Jack. "Thanks everybody for coming!"

Jerry Previn leans over and whispers something to Blake. Blake looks at him, then in my direction, then gestures to Jack. "Hold on...can we have one more minute?"

Jack glances at his watch and shrugs. "Sure."

Blake points to me. "Stand up."

I stand up. I really wish I had a pocket mirror so I could watch for red laser-sighting dots to appear on my forehead.

It can't be healthy to sweat this much. The human body needs to retain some moisture on the inside, right? If this keeps up I'm going to start shriveling up like a dried apple.

"Jerry says you're on TV?" He asks this like a question, presumably meaning Are you on TV? and not Did Jerry say that you're on TV?

"Uhhhh..." I say. Obviously, Yes, I'm on television is the answer I should give, but if they ask any follow-up questions, they'll know I'm lying, and then we're more screwed than if Amy and I had never come to PhaserCon in the first place.

"The Breath Mint Man," says Jerry.

"Uhhhh..."

"Were you in Georgia this past weekend?"

"Yeah, actually, I was."

Jerry laughs. "I knew it. You look just like the picture. Reporters are trying to find you, buddy."

Should I play along or admit my complete ignorance? "I'm sorry, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"On Monday in Georgia this guy walks into his former workplace with a gun. He's going to shoot up the place, take out as many co-workers as he could, and then off himself. Everybody else has heard about this, right?"

Only a few people indicate that they've heard of it.

"He goes in, sits down at his old desk, and psyches himself up for a mass slaughter. And then he can't do it. His former boss finds him sitting there with a gun in his lap, crying. So of course the cops arrest him. They ask him why he changed his mind, and he says that after he got laid off he went to get some barbecue ribs to make himself feel better, and instead he wound up making a derogatory comment about your girlfriend and punching you in the face. He felt like an absolute piece of human crap for doing that, but you came over and gave him a Tic-Tac. A Tic-Tac, just to say, hey, no hard feelings, I know you're having a difficult time."

I'm in a state of shock, but I manage to nod. "I did! I gave that guy a couple of Tic-Tacs!"

"So, yeah, he sat there with his gun, and finally decided that in a world where he could be violently antagonistic to a stranger and have that stranger treat him with kindness in return, things didn't completely suck, and there was no reason to start killing people. You saved lives. I think he only had six bullets, so it's not like you saved dozens of people, but six is a pretty solid number."

"One of those deaths would've been the shooter himself," says Blake.

Jerry nods. "Yeah, but that still counts as a human life."

"And all six of them wouldn't have been kill shots."

"We don't know that."

"Was he a professional assassin?"

"I don't think so. It was a corporate office job."

"Then he was never going to get six kills out of six bullets. Even if they were just standing there in a row it wouldn't go bang, dead, bang, dead, bang, dead, bang, dead, bang, dead, bang, dead. There'd be some misses and injuries mixed in with the kills."

"Why are you downplaying this?"

"I'm not. Have you ever been shot in the arm? It's horrific. Absolutely horrific. If that guy--" Blake points to me "--prevented even one person from getting shot in the arm, then that's worthy of admiration right there. And what about office equipment? What if a stray bullet hit a printer? In this economy, businesses can't afford to go out and buy a new printer every time one gets shot up. I'm not downplaying his role in averting this tragedy at all. Well done, dude."

"Thank you," I say. I glance over at Amy, who seems to be in a state of shock even greater than mine.

"Anyway," says Jack, "we're over our time limit and there's another panel in this room, so we've got to wrap this up. Thanks to everybody for--"

"Hold on, let the poor guy ask his question," says Jerry.

The audience, which just one minute ago was filled with passionate hatred for me, is now cheering and applauding as if I were Joss Whedon. I still can't quite process what is happening, but I have to admit that the adulation is pretty nice.

The cheers and applause don't stop.

Time continues to pass.

Now I need the cheers and applause to stop.

I appreciate their support, but Jack is ready to shut this whole thing down. Even at my noisiest, I don't have the lungpower to shout loud enough to be heard over four thousand people. What am I going to do?

Strip naked?

No.

Why did "strip naked" even occur to me as a possibility? I should have come up with fifty or sixty other ideas before that one. Do I have a subconscious desire to strip naked in front of thousands of people? Am I secretly an exhibitionist? What other fun facts have I been keeping from myself?

I realize that the crowd has gone silent. Not because I have removed my clothes, but rather because Blake has done an I am the mighty Blake Remark, and when I gesture for you to go silent, you damn well better go silent gesture.

"Ask it quick," says Blake.

"My name is Todd Bryan. My girlfriend is Amy Husk. That's her in the Q&A line," I say, pointing to Amy.

Amy looks as if she's going to keel over at any second.

"She's your--" I start to say number one fan but I don't want to create any mental images of Annie Wilkes in Misery. "She's a huge fan. She's been watching from the very first episode, and she absolutely has to know how it all turns out."

"Is this leading to a question?" Jack asks.

"Yes, I promise. Amy has a brain aneurysm. The doctors don't know for sure when it's going to rupture, but they know she doesn't have much time left, and she may not live to see the last episodes. I've only known Amy for a few days, but I've already fallen in love with her..."

I trail off, because that's not at all what I planned to say. I knew I'd say it eventually, but I'd assumed that there would be about three thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-eight fewer spectators.

I've got to focus. "Anyway, what I'm asking is for you to do a favor for somebody who is an incredible fan but may not get to see how brilliantly you resolved everything." That was definitely brownnosing too much, but I can't take it back now. "I'm asking if it's possible for you to let her watch the final episodes before they air, just to make sure she gets to find out how it all turns out."

The audience is completely silent.

All of the Exit Red cast members are looking at Blake, waiting for his answer.

He strokes his chin.

I'm tempted to say, "Oh, by the way, I also had a heart attack," but that would be taking the plea for sympathy too far.

I think that even the inside of my nose is perspiring.

Finally, Blake chuckles and gives me a dismissive wave. "Nice try, dude."

* * *

The crowd files out of the auditorium and I stand there, not really in tune with my emotions. On one hand, I'm humiliated by the way this turned out. I looked like a complete moron. I failed Amy.

On the other hand...I stopped that guy Howard at Sandy's BBQ from shooting up his workplace! Holy shit!

When the crowd thins, Amy comes over and gives me a hug. "Well, we tried," she says.

"Yeah."

"I'm going to be weirded out by the whole Tic-Tic thing for a long time," Amy says. "So if I seem like I'm weirded out, that's the reason."

"I'll be weirded out right there with you."

"I told you not to give him one. If you'd listened to me, six people might have died."

"You didn't tell me not to give him one. You just sort of made fun of me for doing it."

"Okay, so if you'd been more susceptible to my teasing, there could have been a bloodbath." Amy seems genuinely upset by this revelation. "If I ever tell you not to do something nice for somebody who looks mentally unstable, just ignore me, all right?"

"I will." I give her another hug.

As we walk out of the auditorium, we're approached by a man in a black suit. He's in his forties, his hair is slicked back, and he looks very much like somebody you would hire to make people meet with a quote-unquote accident.

"Mr. Bryan, could I have a moment of your and Ms. Husk's time?"

I don't see any pistol-concealing bulges in his suit. "Uh, sure."

"I'm Bernard Riffen with SWK Entertainment. I'm sure you've seen our logo at the end of every episode of Exit Red. If your story checks out, my company would like to override Mr. Remark's hasty decision. Let's talk upstairs."

He takes us up to a very nice suite and offers us each a bottle of water and some chocolate chip cookies. I have never in my life declined an offer of chocolate chip cookies and I'm sure as hell not going to start now.

"Have a seat," says Bernard. Amy and I sit down on a leather sofa. Now I'm worried about getting cookie crumbs on such a nice sofa. I'll eat them later.

"Ms. Husk, I'm going to need the name of the hospital where you were diagnosed with the aneurysm. After I verify your condition, our legal department will send over a non-disclosure agreement the size of a phone book." He smiles. "I'm not saying it's strict, but trust me, having a brain aneurysm rupture is mild compared to the consequences of violating the terms." His smile disappears. "I hope you're okay with me making light of the situation in such a manner. I meant no disrespect."

"I absolutely am."

Bernard's smile returns. "You will, of course, not be allowed to discuss any details of what you've seen, no matter how minor, nor will you be permitted to disparage the content in any way until after the official airing. That means you don't get to talk about it with anybody, including Mr. Bryan."

"I don't get to see it?" I ask.

"Do you have a brain aneurysm?"

"No, sir."

"Then, no, you do not. However, as part of the terms of the agreement, you will accompany Ms. Husk in media appearances of our choosing. All media appearances related to this private screening, including television, radio, print media, and Internet, must be approved by SWK Entertainment. Do you wish to have an attorney present to look over the details of this agreement?"

"Do you think we need one?" Amy asks.

"As long as you understand that we pretty much own you after this, you'll be fine."

Amy nods. "I'm okay with these terms."

The chocolate chip cookies are amazing.

* * *

Bernard explains that we will not be permitted to walk around PhaserCon while we wait for him to confirm Amy's condition, because SWK Entertainment doesn't want us talking to reporters before they've issued a press release. Instead, we hang out in the suite, gorging ourselves with cookies.

I watch the news story about the Breath Mint Man. A sketch artist did a representation of me, and if that's really what I look like, then there are definite personal changes to be made. I mean, I know that my hair sticks up in the back, but is that really a major element of how the world sees me? How can Amy allow herself to be seen in public with somebody so grotesque?

At one point, Amy has to get on the phone to authorize the hospital to send over the X-rays, though first the hospital has to fax over a release form, which Amy signs and faxes back. The hospital doesn't have a digital file, so Bernard arranges for a courier to pick up the X-rays, scan them, and e-mail them to him.

Around nine o'clock, Bernard has some Chinese food delivered to the room. We eat it with three of the attending cast members of Exit Red.

Just before midnight, Bernard informs us that everything is set. We've signed the contracts, the marketing department has written up the press releases, and tomorrow morning Amy will get to begin her marathon of the final episodes.

"It may seem like we're overly paranoid about security," Bernard admits, "but paranoia is a recurring theme in Exit Red, so, hey, it works. You will be sleeping in this suite tonight."

It's a gigantic upgrade from the room we've got in the other hotel. We don't complain.

"Don't leave the room," Bernard tells us.

"We won't," I say.

"And the things you two might do when you think you're alone are probably not things you should do tonight. Just saying."

"We won't," Amy says.

"All right. Get plenty of rest. It's going to be an exciting day tomorrow."

* * *

We lie in bed in the darkness, holding each other. I'm very frisky, and I think Amy is too, but we remain completely chaste. Though the idea that there are hidden microphones and night-vision cameras in our room seems a bit farfetched, we both agree that we'd rather not be the stars of an adult video unless its exclusively for our private use.

"How much would it suck if tonight was the night the artery popped?" Amy asks.

"A lot."

"One final joke from the universe."

"You're being really cynical."

"Oh, I'm not saying that I think I'm going to die tonight. I'm just reflecting on how much it would suck if I did. To be this close? That would be brutal."

"Technically," I say, "if you believe in God and an afterlife, you've got to assume that they've got a pretty reliable DVR."

"You do have a point."

"And if the finale doesn't tie up all of the loose ends, there's probably a Heaven's Cut with bonus footage."

"Sweet."

Amy gives me a gentle kiss on the lips, then snuggles tightly against my chest. Within a couple of minutes her breathing becomes slow and steady.

I can't fall asleep.

I'm suddenly hit with a feeling of sadness more intense than anything I've ever felt.

Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I'm doing everything I can not to make any noise, but I can't stop sniffling and trembling and if I don't pull myself together I'm going to wake her up.

"What's wrong?" Amy asks, raising her head.

"Nothing."

"Seriously, Todd, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Really."

Amy leans over and turns on the bedside light. "Is it because I talked about dying tonight? Todd, it's not going to happen, I promise you. It would be too cruel of an irony. I've got time. I shouldn't have made that joke."

"Do you know when most old people die?" I ask.

"When a bingo hall explodes?"

"It's a serious question."

"No, I don't know when most old people die."

"After their birthday. They see it as a goal to achieve, and once they've made it, it's not as important to hold on for another year. People also die after the holidays, because they've seen their family, they've had a chance to tell people that they love them."

"So what you're saying is that you think that once I see the final episode of Exit Red, I'm going to drop dead?"

"I wouldn't say it in that harsh of a manner, but..." My nose is running, and I don't think I should wipe it on this luxurious pillowcase, so I get out of bed and hurry into the bathroom. I blow my nose into a Kleenex, wipe my eyes, and return.

"First of all," says Amy, "I'm not sure your science is accurate. I've heard about people dying after birthdays and family visits, but that phenomenon wouldn't really be relevant in the case of a brain aneurysm. Your body fights disease. It doesn't really fight an aneurysm."

"Okay," I say.

"Second--and I don't think I should have to explain this--seeing the end of Exit Red is not my ultimate goal in life. It's a television show. The best show of all time, one that will never be topped, but still a TV show."

"I understand. I wasn't trying to say that..." And the tears begin again. Crap. I should have brought more Kleenex with me. I walk back to the bathroom, blow my nose, grab a handful of extra tissues, and return. "I wasn't trying to say that..." No good. I succumb to another crying fit.

Amy gets out of bed and gives me a tight hug. "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

"I don't know. I just feel like this is the end."

"Of me or of us?"

I can't say the truth. "Of us."

"It's not the end of us," Amy assures me. "Not unless you want it to be."

I shake my head. "Hell no."

"Then that's not something you need to worry about." She kisses me on the lips and smiles. "You can say 'I love you.' It's okay. I won't get freaked out."

"I love you."

Amy hesitates, only for a split second but still a hesitation, and says, "I love you, too."

And I realize that I'm okay with her hesitation. There doesn't have to be an equitable distribution of feelings. This doesn't have to be a love story where we know after a week that we were meant to be together for the rest of our lives. We're together now, and that's good enough for me.

She's going to die. She's going to die soon, and I've known that from the beginning, but suddenly it absolutely terrifies me, because now that our adventure is almost over, I'm no longer convinced that I can handle it.

Amy is going to die. I'm going to be alone again. A week ago I was perfectly content with having only Craig for company, but now...

"I have a lot of other goals," Amy tells me. "I need to help you find a new job. A good one. I can't die with your unemployment on my conscience."

"You don't have to help with--"

She puts her index finger over my lips to shut me up. "I accept fifty percent of the blame for you getting fired. So I will help you on your job hunt. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say. My words are somewhat muffled since her index finger is still on my lips.

"You no longer have an apartment. Staying with me is a fine short-term solution, but I'm not ready to officially move in with somebody, I have a lot of quirks about my living space that will take you a long time to get used to, and I live in a tiny little studio apartment where we'd strangle each other. So my next goal is to get you into a new place. Unless you want to follow Craig to wherever he's living."

"I'll pass."

"Also, I want to go to Spook Hill."

"Spook Hill?"

"It's in Florida. Lake Wales, I think. It's a hill where you drive up to the top, put your car in neutral, and roll backwards, but it looks like you're rolling uphill."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh."

"How does that work?"

"It's either an optical illusion, or the gateway to another dimension. I intend to find out. And it's not that far, so you won't have to use any vacation days from your new job."

"All right. We're now both committed to a trip to Spook Hill."

Amy extends her hand. "Shake on it."

We shake hands. Then we hug. And then we kiss. We continue kissing, and I slide my hand up her side until--

"Under no circumstances are we going to fool around tonight," Amy says.

"We could--"

"Not even in the shower."

"But we could--"

"Nor under the bed."

"I wasn't going to suggest doing it under the bed. I don't think this bed has an actual 'underneath' part. But behind the couch there's really no--"

"Not a chance."

"If you look--"

"Not a chance in hell."

"Okay."

Amy kisses me again. "Nothing for you tonight." Then she whispers in my ear. "When we get home? Anal."

* * *

When I wake up, Amy is already out of bed and dressed. She's sitting on a chair, looking a bit troubled.

"Good morning," she says.

"Good morning. What's wrong?"

"Just thinking."

"About...?"

"I'm not sure I want to do this."

I rub my eyes and sit up. "Seriously?"

She nods. "Maybe this isn't how I should see it. Maybe I shouldn't binge-watch the last few episodes by myself. Won't we enjoy the experience more if we watch it together, week by week? I might not live to see the end, but isn't it worth the risk?"

"That's a really good point," I tell her.

"So I'm not sure what to do."

"Do you want my perspective?"

"Yes."

"If you don't go through with this after the humiliation I went through to set it up, I will smother you with a fucking pillow."

"Okay. Point of view understood."

"You should follow your heart, of course, but I wanted to make sure you had all of the necessary information to make your decision."

"I'm going to watch the show."

"Cool."

* * *

We do a couple of interviews. As an interviewee, I fill a somewhat different role than I might have expected, in that Bernard pretty much answers all of the questions for us. Amy and I get in our SWK Entertainment-approved sound bites ("It really is the best show of all time." -- Amy Husk) ("Blake Remark's generosity literally brought me to tears." -- Todd Bryan.) but say very little else.

I suppose that on some level I should be annoyed that they're so blatantly using us as their publicity puppets, but I'm not. Not at all. As far as I'm concerned, they can shamelessly squeeze every last drop of audience goodwill out of this.

As Bernard is answering one of my questions, I wonder if Gigi will change her mind about firing me, considering that I now have a track record for dissuading workplace violence. Probably not.

And then the interviews are done, Amy is taken off to an undisclosed location for her private screening, and I'm free to wander PhaserCon alone.

It's only been a week, but I'd forgotten that I'm able to have a perfectly good time by myself. There's all kinds of stuff to see, even if I don't stand in line to get into any further panel discussions.

And it's not like I'm even experiencing it by myself, because quite a few people come up to me to shake my hand. Some of them offer to buy me a drink, although after my sixth can of soda I'm done for the day. I'm far from a celebrity like William Shatner or the guy who owns that farting otter from the YouTube video, but I might as well enjoy my tiny speck of fame while it lasts.

PhaserCon even has an independent film festival, so I hang out in there for a couple of feature films and seven or eight shorts. All of them are pretty darn good.

I'm honestly not sure how well equipped I am to handle the fact that I'm going to lose Amy. I haven't had any real tragedy in my life. Maybe I'll have a nervous breakdown. Maybe I'll spiral into thirty years of depression.

Or maybe I'll just appreciate the time we had together.

This isn't going to end happily.

But, really, isn't that true of everybody's life?

Wow. That's way more morbid than the concept I was trying to work out in my head. Not what I meant. I'll try again.

We all have an expiration date. What matters is how you spend the time before that.

Hmmmm. Still not where I was trying to go with this.

Live for the moment?

Sort of, though of course I'll be seeking a new job and maintaining a sense of fiscal responsibility. I refuse to be a burden on our nation's taxpayers.

Ultimately, I guess the deal is that I'm going to stick with Amy for as long as we've got left (or as long as she'll have me), and we're going to have an absolute blast.

* * *

"So how was it?" I ask.

"Oh my God."

"Was that a good 'Oh my God' or a bad 'Oh my God'?"

"I'm not allowed to say and you know it. Just oh my God. You'll find out."

Seven And A Half Months Later

EPILOGUE

"So you're saying that none of this ever happened...?"

--Exit Red, Season 6, Episode 13

I'm kneeling in front of Amy's tombstone.

Amy Husk.

To our lives

She brought much love

'Til that anvil

Fell from above.

"Is it straight?" I ask. "It seems kind of crooked."

"Tilt it to the right just a bit," Amy says.

I adjust the foam headstone.

"Your other right."

I adjust it some more.

"Perfect."

We have turned our yard into the mother of all Halloween displays. There's no question that it's out of control, but, as Amy says, it may be her last Halloween, so it's her moral obligation to go nutzo.

Our decision to have separate apartments (in the same complex) lasted exactly one month, at which point we realized that it was kind of silly for me to pay for an apartment I hardly ever used. Amy was not kidding about having a lot of quirks about her living space, but most of them are kind of cute.

She did, of course, live to see the actual broadcast of the final episodes of Exit Red. Fan reaction was fiercely divided on the finale, which I thought was kind of lame and which Amy proclaimed to be "brilliant" and "the only way it could have ended."

Since nobody was actually shot up in a workplace tragedy, the Breath Mint Man publicity didn't last very long, and I wasn't able to use it to catapult me to fame and fortune. I did, however, score a temp-to-perm job doing basically the same kind of data entry I'd done at my previous job.

After a few weeks, I realized that I was going to go insane if I had to do this for the rest of my life, and I quit. (I did, of course, give the proper two weeks' notice.) Now I work in the marketing department of a mid-sized corporation. It's an entry-level position and way out of my comfort zone, but it's rewarding work so far.

Craig has a new apartment, a new gaming console, and a new friend with benefits. I've met her once. Without offering further comment, positive or negative, I can say that she's exactly what he deserves.

The police did not recover my money or find out who destroyed the rental car. I like to think that it was those kids who stole my car at the gummi bear tractor, even though that would be a far-fetched coincidence even by the standards of Exit Red. And it would also mean that they didn't take the path of righteousness after our encounter, which would make it a fail on my part. Still, I think it would be kind of funny if it had been them. We'll never know.

Also, it turned out that my existing liability insurance would have covered the damage to the rental car, so I got boned by purchasing the full coverage. Bastards.

We planted a kumquat tree in our backyard. Now I know exactly what they look, smell, and taste like.

Blake Remark executive produced a new serialized drama called Plummet, which started airing in September. We're watching it religiously. "Screw it," Amy had said. "Why not be optimistic?" Many news outlets have gleefully used the word "plummet" in their description of its week-to-week ratings (something the network really should have anticipated when approving the title), so Amy will almost certainly outlive the series.

When Amy tells me that she loves me, I know she means it.

I still don't think I'm mentally prepared for the unhappy ending of this story, but you never really can be. We're enjoying it for as long as it lasts. I hate to resort to saying something schmaltzy like "Every day is a gift"...but I just have, under the clever guise of pretending that I didn't want to say something like that. Now it's out there and there's nothing I can do about it.

Screw it: every day is a gift.

Oh, and you should totally go to Spook Hill. It'll mess with your mind.

The End

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Tod Clark, Terri Garey, Wendy Latham, Michael McBride, Jim Morey, Rhonda Rettig, and all of the awesome people who've helped (or WILL help--subtle hint) promote this book. You're all entitled to a great big hug, lasting just long enough to show my appreciation but without lasting so long that it becomes awkward and creepy. Maybe four seconds. Is four seconds too long for a book-appreciation hug? I should let you decide when to break away, shouldn't I? Yeah, that's how we'll work it. A great big hug and you pick the duration.

And I'm not saying that the hug is mandatory. Maybe that's just not your thing, or it is your thing but not so much when I'm involved, or whatever. It's your call. Thanks.

Subscribe to Jeff Strand's free monthly newsletter (which includes a brand-new original short story in every issue) at

http://eepurl.com/bpv5br

Books By Jeff Strand

Bring Her Back. A tale of revenge and madness.

Sick House. A home invasion from beyond the grave.

How You Ruined My Life (Young Adult). Sixteen-year-old Rod has a pretty cool life until his cousin Blake moves in and slowly destroys everything he holds dear.

Everything Has Teeth. A third collection of short tales of horror and macabre comedy.

An Apocalypse of Our Own. Can the Friend Zone survive the end of the world?

Stranger Things Have Happened (Young Adult). Teenager Marcus Millian III is determined to be one of the greatest magicians who ever lived. Can he make a live shark disappear from a tank?

Cyclops Road. When newly widowed Evan Portin gives a woman named Harriett a ride out of town, she says she's on a cross-country journey to slay a Cyclops. Is she crazy, or...?

Blister. While on vacation, cartoonist Jason Tray meets the town legend, a hideously disfigured woman who lives in a shed.

The Greatest Zombie Movie Ever (Young Adult). Three best friends with more passion than talent try to make the ultimate zombie epic.

Kumquat. A road trip comedy about TV, hot dogs, death, and obscure fruit.

I Have a Bad Feeling About This (Young Adult). Geeky, non-athletic Henry Lambert is sent to survival camp, which is bad enough before the trio of murderous thugs show up.

Pressure. What if your best friend was a killer...and he wanted you to be just like him? Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

Dweller. The lifetime story of a boy and his monster. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

A Bad Day For Voodoo. A young adult horror/comedy about why sticking pins in a voodoo doll of your history teacher isn't always the best idea. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Young Adult Novel.

Dead Clown Barbecue. A collection of demented stories about severed noses, ventriloquist dummies, giant-sized vampires, sibling stabbings, and lots of other messed-up stuff.

Dead Clown Barbecue Expansion Pack. A few more stories for those who couldn't get enough.

Wolf Hunt. Two thugs for hire. One beautiful woman. And one vicious frickin' werewolf.

Wolf Hunt 2. New wolf. Same George and Lou.

The Sinister Mr. Corpse. The feel-good zombie novel of the year.

Benjamin's Parasite. A rather disgusting action/horror/comedy about why getting infected with a ghastly parasite is unpleasant.

Fangboy. A dark and demented fairy tale for adults.

Kutter. A serial killer finds a Boston terrier, and it might just make him into a better person.

Faint of Heart. To get her kidnapped husband back, Melody has to relive her husband's nightmarish weekend, step-by-step...and survive.

Mandibles. Giant killer ants wreaking havoc in the big city!

Stalking You Now. A twisty-turny thriller soon to be the feature film Mindy Has To Die.

Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary). First in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Single White Psychopath Seeks Same. Second in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Casket For Sale (Only Used Once). Third in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to "Shirley"). Fourth in the Andrew Mayhem series.

The Andrew Mayhem Collection. All four novels for one low price!

Suckers (with JA Konrath). Andrew Mayhem meets Harry McGlade. Which one will prove to be more incompetent?

Gleefully Macabre Tales. A collection of thirty-two demented tales. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Collection.

Elrod McBugle on the Loose. A comedy for kids (and adults who were warped as kids).

The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jim Moore). The greatest theme park attraction in the world! Take a completely safe ride through an actual haunted forest! Just hope that your tram doesn't break down, because this forest is PACKED with monsters...

Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson). An outbreak of feral vampires in a secluded hospital. This one isn't much like Twilight.

For information on all of these books, visit Jeff Strand's more-or-less official website at http://www.jeffstrand.com