The Elevator Trilogy

02. Last Picked

Two co-workers contemplating a date.

Nothing but dialogue.

Hey.

Hey. …I’m just finishing up. What can I...

Some of us are going out for burgers, the little Happy Hour kind. Why don’t you join us?

Well, for one thing, I don’t eat beef and I have absolutely no social graces.

Why don’t you eat beef? Is it a religious thing?

No. It’s a saturated fat thing.

What about forks? Do you eat with your fingers, or do you use forks?

Only when I order soup.

Great. What more can a girl ask? You’ll fit in perfectly.

I tend not to relate well to people.

How do you know if you never go out with them?

Twenty-four years of experience.

I thought you were twenty-three?

It started the moment I was conceived. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but I have a prenatal memory of my parents giggling through intercourse. I think they may have been drinking, at a minimum.

Intercourse?

When two people…

I know what you meant. It just seemed like an overly technical description of what they were doing. Maybe they just had funny sex. Maybe they actually liked each other. Sometimes people who like each other giggle during sex, you know, because they’re having a good time.

Are you saying that it’s normal for the girl to laugh?

It all depends?

On what?

On whether she’s laughing with you or… Come on. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

I’ll say something embarrassing. People I work with and who respect me will know for sure how socially awkward I am rather than just assuming it.

Don’t worry. No one you work with respects you.

Good point.

Okay, how ‘bout if I be your wingman, figuratively speaking? ‘Wing-woman,’ to be precise.

You’d cover for me?

Absolutely. I’ll tell them we’re going out for the evening, so we can’t stay long. We’ll leave before you make a fool out of yourself and you can take me out for a real dinner. How ‘bout that?

You’re beautiful and impeccably dressed in a casually fashionable way. I, on the other hand, am not. Shouldn’t I be the boy version of you for ‘us’ to be believable?

I don’t know. You have potential.

A diamond in the rough?

More like a cubic zirconium.

I’m not sure what that is, but I get the point. ...I don’t think they’ll buy that we’re dating, particularly since no one has ever seen us together at work.

You’re right but, if we play it right, we can make the shock value work for you. They’ll start imagining positive things about you that clearly aren’t true.

So, your aura will be rubbing off on me?

Figuratively speaking. There won’t be any actual rubbing involved.

I get it. …What will we talk about?

It’s a sports bar. How about sports? What sport did you play in college?

Chess?

That’s not a sport.

You’ve never seen me play.

What about high school? Did you play any team sports?

Does the debate team count?

What about phys ed?

Are you asking what sports I played on the days when no one stuffed me in my locker?

Yes.

I was good at running.

Sprints? Hurdles? Cross-country?

It depended upon where I was when they started chasing me?

Were you beaten up often?

Not really. It never occurred to our high school thugs that I could pick the lock to the janitors’ supply closet. I had a flashlight and used the time to read my History assignments on a desk I made out of rolls of single-ply toilet paper.

How creative.

In retrospect, it was good preparation. My apartment is only slightly larger.

Word around the office is that you have a Murphy Bed.

Not exactly. I have a bed that folds into a couch. ‘Murphy’ is my cat.

You have a cat?

Not really.

But, let me guess, telling people you have one makes you seem more normal?

I left Murphy with my parents because my apartment is too small.

"Sorry. Being normal is over-rated. ...Do you miss him?

Who?

Murphy?

Not so much. We FaceTime on the weekends. He has his own iPad.

That’s nice.

It could be worse. At least I have a place of my own.

I live with my parents.

"And I would too, if they were my parents."

I’m kidding. I just wanted to see how you’d react under pressure.

How did I do?

If pathetic was what you were after, you nailed it.

…And you were what? A cheerleader? Homecoming Princess, maybe even the Queen? Student government President?

I liked softball, but didn’t get to play much, but I was on the school paper and the debate team.

You too? Hm. Hard to believe we have something in common. …Brainy intellectual sex kitten, my favorite.

You’re not going to drool, are you?

No. ...It’s a chronic, weather-driven saliva disorder for which there’s no known cure. They really need to turn the air conditioning dow...

Brainy intellectual, maybe, but these... These didn’t show up until my freshman year at college.

You didn’t date much in high school?

You could say that. No one asked me out to the prom, if that’s what you’re wondering. Well, that’s not strictly true. No one asked me that I wanted to go with.

I would have asked you?

My point exactly.

…So why me?

Wow. You really don’t get it, do you?

I’m just being realistic.

Okay, let’s see. You leer at me less than the other guys I know.

I avoid looking at you on purpose and it’s not easy. Even Morgan stares at you and he’s legally blind.

You write well. I’ve been reading your blog.

What blog?

’ImNotJustinTimerberlake.com’

Oh. That one.

You have sense of humor.

True, I’m good at sensing humor when I hear it. ...Is that it?

No. …You have no pretense. I’ve lived in a world of pretense ever since I went to college.

Ever since you grew boobs?

You know, I think you may be onto something?

Can I write about your boobs on my blog? ...in the context of a strictly academic discussion of the impact of late developing body parts on self-image and personal relat..

No. ...But maybe we can talk about them later if you buy me a really, really nice dinner?

Okay, let’s go, but I still won’t eat any beef.

You just knocked the pencil cup off your desk. ...I can’t believe you use a blotter.

That happens sometimes when I stand up suddenly without pushing back my chair all the way.

How often do you do that?

I don't know. Should I be keeping track?

Can you dance?

I vibrate. Is that okay?

By the way, I heard you’re being promoted to Project Manager. Congratulations.

Thank you. I’ll be hiring and would consider allowing you to sleep your way to the top.

Wouldn’t that be harassment?

You’re right. How about if you sleep with me, but I don’t hire you?

That might be okay. We’ll see how dinner goes.

Uh, for the record...

What?

I’ve been working on getting up enough nerve to ask you out.

I know.

Really?

A girl can tell.

Well, thanks for taking the initiative and asking me out first.

I got tired of waiting.

…I mean it.

You’re welcome but, in case anybody asks, it was the other way around.

Of course. …Maybe they’ll have veggie sliders.

Will you stop talking if we hold hands?

Table of Contents

03. The Prophecy

In retrospect, had there been anyone left to tell the story, it seemed to take forever for the glass to tumble from the edge of the desk to the floor, which was no longer where it used to be, losing its few leftover drops of last night’s wine along the way to oblivion.

The sound was deafening and deep, everywhere, but from nowhere in particular, building to a crescendo no one who hadn’t been there would ever fully appreciate – fodder for endless future speculation among both our ordinary and most sophisticated minds.

Twenty minutes earlier…

It was a postcard morning, as it had been every day since they arrived in Nassau to celebrate their fifth anniversary. The view from their eighth-floor ocean suite might as well have been painted on the air outside, it was that hard to believe. The door to the balcony had been open all night, the breezes that were everywhere on Paradise Island pulling the sheer curtain outward, like the flowing white dress of some unseen spirit that had come to watch over them. Below, on the beach by the cove for which the hotel was named, the morning sun reflected off the water and colored the white under-feathers of the sea birds with an iridescent turquoise that seemed unreal.

Well-rested, they were up early, anxious to get their place on the beach in the perfect position for a long day of reading, writing, talking about everything and nothing in particular. Now and then, when it was too hot, they would cool themselves with walks along the edge of the warm ocean water and with frozen banana daiquiris artfully prepared by one of the always-friendly locals at the nearest beach bar. Their first five years had blown by. This week at the Atlantis complex was just the long overdue break they needed.

Atlantis was on Paradise Island, separated by Nassau Harbor from New Providence Island in the Bahamas, a billion-dollar resort with hotels, beaches, elaborate pools and water activities, all built around the theme of its namesake, the legend of Atlantis. It was a Hollywood-style re-creation of the ancient, mythical city that once disappeared beneath the sea. Andy and Carolyn were staying in the more exclusive, more adult, less theme-park section of the resort – the hotel with the two-story lobby with no walls, the Mesa Grill and cushioned islands in the middle of the pool through which waiters waded out to bring you drinks made from rum and fresh fruit. They planned to eat at the Grill tonight, either that or go out for conch fritters and shrimp at Bad News Jack in the city. They figured they were young and their colons could take it.

Honey, Carolyn was too busy packing her beach bag to see what it was all about, you’ve got an e-mail from Amanda, his younger sister.

I was wondering why we hadn’t heard from her. Missing a birthday or anniversary wasn’t like Amanda. She was a professor of ancient history at Columbia and had taken the summer off to do research in Athens on the work of some ancient scientists. Andy sat down, double clicked, and began reading to himself.

What’s she have to say for herself? Carolyn shouted past the open double doors to the bathroom, putting on the parts of the pricy bathing suit she had purposely purchased one size too large just for their vacation. If not to have sex and eat, what’s the point of going on vacation? she had told herself to justify the cost.

I don’t know. She seems anxious. Doesn’t even mention our anniv… Wait a minute. What’s she talking about? He was quiet for moment while he read the next few paragraphs. Apparently, she was doing research on this one guy who was writing about another writer who he – the first one – claimed had originated the ancient legend of Atlantis.

That’s nice, Carolyn was standing behind him now, her hands on his shoulders, his arms folded in front of her laptop along the edge of the desk near their bed. Let’s get out of here. I know exactly where I want to sit. There was this one lone palm tree right at the beach, maybe 20 feet from where the water and dry sand break even. Sitting under it was like having your own, personal oasis.

Hold on for a second. She says, it turns out that the originator wasn’t claiming to be writing about something that had happened, but was making a prediction, a prophecy about something that would happen centuries in the future. ...Hm. Today, in fact, as far as she can tell. The guy was some kind of genius scientist who actually offered what she thinks might be a pretty good reason for when and why it was going to occur. She’s asked a friend of hers – some Greek geologist she’s been dating…

Oh, give me a break.

…to help with the translation. She wants us to…

Hey, come on, she told him, leaning forward to kiss him on the back of his neck, just below his right ear, causing the usual instinctive crunch of his neck toward his shoulder. You can finish reading and get back to her later.

I don’t know, she seems pretty worked up. I mean, look at this, she isn’t even taking the time to proof what she’s written. It’s not her…

Carolyn moved her hands from his shoulders to around his neck, faking strangulation.

Andy didn’t need convincing. Yeah, yeah, he started to say as he rose up from his seat. Head for the door. I’ll get my hat.

Turning to her right to look out and over the balcony, she had an idea. If you ask me, every room should have its own waterslide directly to the beach.

Carolyn left for the door, pressing the button to ask housekeeping to make up their room while they were out. Andy, right behind her, just barely slipped into the hallway before the door chunked shut behind him, and they were off, pretending to race each other on their way to the elevators.

Minutes later, in their room, the sound of the ocean wafting through the open glass doors was interrupted by the boop, boop of the breaking news ticker across the bottom of Carolyn’s laptop screen. USGS scientists are reporting widespread, significant seismic activity in the British West Indies, the message began. In retrospect, they turned out to be pre-shocks for something much, much bigger.

A wine glass next to the computer, still showing the last few ruby drops left over from the night before, began to vibrate, the bottom of the stem taping, first slowly, and now more rapidly, as it drifted across the glass surface of the desk. The screen on their laptop went dark, and all of Nassau sank beneath the warm, suddenly tumultuous waters of the Atlantic.

At least they were together when it happened.

Table of Contents

04. Finding Dana

October 4, 1966.

"Jeff?"

For a moment, lying there in the twilight of their bedroom, he thought he heard someone calling his name from whatever was playing on the TV that Dana insisted had to be on all night. He turned to look, thinking how surreal the flat screen seemed on the wall across from the bed, like a painting come to life. Slowly, he turned back to stare at her face, barely illuminated by the soft light coming from their lamppost through the blinds. It was the middle of the night, 3:48 AM to be precise, according to the glowing numbers on the radio, on the nightstand next to the side of the bed where he’d been sleeping.

He was up, but tired. He never did need much sleep, but lately, now in his early sixties, getting up in the middle of the night had become routine. Sometimes, he’d go downstairs to do the dishes leftover from a late dinner the night before, or write pieces, articles that no one would ever read. Writing was the passion that practical choices and the circumstances of life had denied him, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Finding Dana made whatever material things he hadn’t accomplished seem unimportant.

He would stay downstairs until he was tired, so his restlessness wouldn’t disturb her, and then go back to lay beside her, tucking his hand under her side to help him fall back to sleep.

Tonight, he got up, but stayed in the room to sit down on the edge of her side of the bed where he could watch her sleep. Her face, despite the years, seemed ever so slightly older, but then even more beautiful than the evening he’d first seen it. What he saw was as new as it was familiar if anything could be both at the same time. It was Dana. She was the girl, now woman he’d love to meet, and yet somehow had always known. Forty years together and he still couldn’t take his eyes off her, but instead of love, what he felt was sadness and fear. The night seemed like such a waste, given how relatively little time they had left. What, maybe 20 more years if they were lucky, if he could live that long? A long time when you’re twenty, when there’s so much more after that, but no time at all when there isn’t.

It was a ridiculous…

"Hey, Jeff?" He heard it again, now with the sound of other voices and music in the background.

Whatever it was, he’d ignore it.

It was a ridiculous question, the kind only an over-active mind would consider. On one hand, he wanted to go first, to never have to live without her. On the other… On the other hand, he loved her too much not to be there for her until the end.

His eyes starting to close, he let himself fall back to sleep, the hint of a smile just beginning to show at the thought of the girl he’d always loved even before he met her...

"Hey, buddy," his friend, Howie, was standing next to the booth Jeff had been holding for them, seeming unusually short. Behind him, an anxious waiter was holding a tray over her head while his friends blocked the narrow aisle. Pushing on Jeff’s shoulder, Howie tried again, a little louder this time. Jeffrey?! I really need you to…

"Yeah? Hi. Hi! ..Sorry, I was just… Actually, I’m not sure what I was thinking about. More like," his voice started to fade, I was dreaming... actually. Looking up, his eyes blew past his chubby friend, past Bunny, the girl Howie had been dating, to her friend with the green eyes, short blond hair and instantly familiar smile.

He stood up carefully, worried he’d forget that the booths were one step up. He’d made a mental note not to make a fool of himself when he first got there and asked the girl at the door if he could hold the table for his friends. The Pub, which was all the simple sign over the door said, was one of those places every college town has, right off campus, where bad cheeseburgers on Kaiser rolls and fat steak fries couldn’t have tasted better.

"Hi," he smiled back at her, extending his hand to shake hers. It was too proper, close to being weird. He knew that but did it anyway. I’m Jeff, he told her, as if she didn’t already know.

"Jeff," Howie decided he needed to make a formal introduction. This is Dana. Dana, this is Jeff. For some reason, the exchange of names made her giggle.

He was still holding her hand, but finally let go on the way to inviting her to sit next to him on his side of the booth. Howie and Bunny squeezed in across from them. The table, he thought, was too wide, too far across for them to talk.

Turning to his left to face her, while Howie passed out The Pub’s badly typed menus in plastic folders, Jeff said it again. Hi.

"You already said that," she answered, leaving him to wonder if she punctuated every sentence with that same smile.

"Yeah, uhhh… We need to go out."

"We are out."

"I mean on a date."

"This isn’t a date?"

"I meant, without Howie, Bunny or any other animals."

"Don’t you want to see how tonight goes?" she asked, knowing already how it was going to turn out.

"No, no. I already know we’re going out again."

"You do?"

"I just wanted to dispense with the usual, awkward chit chat after I walk you back to the dorm… so I can spend more time kissing you goodnight."

Suddenly, Howie and The Rabbit, as he sometimes referred to her in private, stopped over-talking each other and were staring across the table, their eyes moving from one of their friends to the other.

Pausing for a moment, Dana leaned forward, planting a gentle, perfectly long-lasting kiss on Jeff’s lips, a little bubble of saliva popping as she broke away. It felt like a week before he opened his eyes, but she waited before saying anything. There. Now that that’s out of the way, maybe you can buy me something to eat.

Table of Contents

05. Precocious

My name… he stopped for a moment to think about it, ...is Jake. Just Jake. I’m an agricultural microbiologist for a consulting firm. The name of the company isn’t important. They had nothing to do with what I’m about to describe. Besides, by now whatever personal records I kept at the office have been removed or altered to fool any investigation. These people don’t erase any evidence of your existence. That’s way too hard, too suspicious. Better to leave you out there, stripped of your credibility. By now, my life has been tweaked, altered with finesse just enough to make anything I say here seem unbelievable, at best the ramblings of an over-active imagination.

They have taken from me the fraction of my life that made me special. It was hardly anything, but everything that made me unique. The technique was the proverbial telltale partial fingerprint proving their involvement. I have now become extraordinarily ordinary, of no particular interest to anyone. The records I have, but that they don’t know about, are quite probably the last surviving evidence that what I am about to tell you is true. I fear for my life. Even more, I fear that what I have done, however innocent and well meaning, will be left to prove, in horrible retrospect, that my story was authentic, and the danger all too real.

It’s late. If you care, I’m working in the dark, except for the glow of my screen, in the upstairs bedroom of one the kids of an acquaintance who’s on vacation. I overheard him leaving his house key with his secretary for her to take care of his plants and made a copy while she went out for lunch. He doesn’t know I’m here and I borrowed a friend’s car in case they were tracking mine. No one followed me. I should be okay for the next few hours – time enough to write this, get some sleep, and be up and out of here early before any of the neighbors notice. I’m afraid to use my cell phone. In fact, I've turned it off and taken out the SIM card just in case. And these people don’t have a landline. It sounds corny, I know, but I’ll give you instructions later for how you can reach me by running a personals ad online – maybe in the Post-Examiner. …I’m talking too much. I’m so tired, but I’ve got to get this out.

My particular specialty is protecting agricultural products from exposure to environmental and biological elements which, when those agricultural products are consumed, would cause harm to the public.

I’m not much of a writer, but I’ll do my best to explain what’s happened, and then I’ve got to go. This will be an e-mail addressed to the Editors-in-Chief of the major television news networks and most prominent newspapers. Hopefully, one of you will take me seriously, investigate on the odd chance that I’m not a crackpot and do something about it. I can’t, and don’t think I’ll live long enough to do it myself, even if I could. At best, you’ll staff it out, if it even makes it to your desk. At most, you might do your duty and forward it to the local office of the FBI who will treat it as routine junk material until it’s too late. At worst, these notes will be one more inconspicuous item for the nice Hispanic lady who empties your trash after you’ve gone home for the day. With luck, you’ll never realize or feel guilty about how many lives you could have saved had you only paid attention.

Some months ago, I was approached by someone who identified herself – verbally and with written credentials which I verified with her agency – as Rebecca Kloonz, a senior analyst with Homeland Security. Ms. Kloonz was an almost too attractive blonde, as stunning as she was friendly, the consummate professional you couldn’t get out of your head no matter how hard you tried. What I did, to be honest, I did for my country, so I thought at the time, but pleasing her was certainly part of it.

When I first met her, she was accompanied by a suit claiming to be a lawyer with the same agency. I’ll attach scans of the business cards they gave me. Although I now know they are imposters, both of them checked out when we first met. I called Homeland Security, and there used to be a handful of citations on Google and a Facebook page, but they’re gone now. Kloonz, the analyst, was to be my contact. The lawyer was supposedly there to explain the handful of forms and agreements I had to sign related to federal secrecy statutes.

The gist of what they wanted was to hire me, outside of our company, to participate in what amounted to a game in the war against terrorism. My job was to devise and precisely document three to five means by which terrorists could infect the food supply so as to produce the most widespread, most frightening harm to our people, with devastating effects on the economy. One simple example that she gave me, far less sophisticated and effective than what she knew I could propose, was to introduce Mad Cow’s Disease in multiple herds around the country, destroying the American beef industry and all the various related companies whose products derive from that core ingredient. But MCD was too obvious. What they wanted from me were techniques that would kill as many people as possible, quickly, before the root cause could be determined, and for which there would be no obvious or convenient solution.

Other experts, as unknown to me as I would be to them, would then be tasked to devise means of protecting against these threats that I had proposed, and recovering from such an attack. In later games, our roles would be reversed. It was the patriotic thing for me to do. It’s unbelievable, but I even met with Ms. Kloonz at her offices in the Homeland Security building in Washington. Why wouldn’t I believe her? While I was there, some senior gentlemen stopped by to thank me for agreeing to work with them on behalf of the American people who, he explained, would never appreciate the value of my clandestine efforts and that of other scientists like me. Who knows what he thought I was there to do? Was he in on it, or not? God forgive me, but who wouldn’t have thought this was real?

Attached to this e-mail are copies of the three suggestions I made, including detailed formulas, instructions for manufacturing and plans for distribution. Their insidious effectiveness never disgusted me. Their cleverness made me proud of what I could do for my country, but then they counted on that, didn’t they, that I would be so highly motivated to do the right thing.

Of the three proposals I made to Ms. Kloonz, the one in which she seemed to be most interested wa… Hold on. I think there’s a car pulling up in the driveway. A large black SUV. Jesus, it’s after 1 AM and Jack isn’t due home until next week. Hold on… It’s just one man. F**k, he’s working the front door! He’s coming in. I’m going to e-mail this now and send you the attachments later, as soon as I…"

Hi, honey. His mother gave her smiling husband a quick kiss on the lips just as the front door was closing behind him – and then turned to shout upstairs to her favorite (and only) son. Nelson! Come on. Daddy’s home. I’ve got dinner ready to go. Get your sister and come on down. We’ve still got to pack so we can get an early start tomorrow morning. They’d put off going to the beach until almost the end of the summer.

Nuts, Nelson thought to himself, interrupting his typing to press on the center of his frames, pushing his glasses up his nose that, sadly, would eventually be more than large enough to no longer need his assistance.

He’s not packed yet? his father asked, putting down his briefcase on top of their cat that he hadn’t noticed was sitting in his favorite family room chair. You’d have thought Jack, the cat, would have screamed, but then he was used to it, and looked forward to them leaving him home for a week of peace and quiet. What’s he been doing all day?

Writing. I don’t know. I haven’t packed either. And then she laughed, not wanting to make fun of their son, but unable to help herself. He’s been grumbling that he has less than three weeks before school starts to come up with a really cool nickname.

It’s summertime. Why isn’t he busy with his dorky friends inventing something?

Hey, they’re not that dorky, his older sister, Samantha, always protective of her younger brother, had just come around the corner into the kitchen. He’s just a kid – a really, really smart kid with an overly active imagination. He’ll be okay as soon as he starts Middle School after we get back.

Nelson!!! His mother couldn’t stand not serving dinner when it was ready.

The cringe was a reflex he couldn’t suppress. Still upstairs, standing up from his desk, Nelson moved the mouse arrow to Send/Receive and pressed the left key below his synapse pad. Maybe it’ll make the news, he said out loud. That would be cool.

NELSON. This time it was his father calling him. Sam, please go get your brother.

Nelson Metcalf Goldstein. Jesus, what were they thinking? he muttered under his breath, closing the lid of his laptop on his way to his bedroom door. I’m never going to get a girl to go out with me. Never, ever.

Table of Contents

06. Dialogue

God, I love Sunday mornings. …Richard?

What?

Could you at least not read the paper until we get there? You can’t walk and unfold the paper at the same time. You’re just smooshing it all up. You know I like it crisp, the way it was when we bought it.

Fine, fine. I’ll wait.

Come on. What’s not to enjoy? …Watch it, that guy’s turning. Let’s wait for the light.

I’m waiting.

Waiting for what?

For the light. You just asked me to wait for the light, didn’t you?

Could you get back on the curb?

But I like the idea of being married to a taller woman. …Come on. We have 24 seconds to cross the street.

It’s perfect. We sleep late, throw on some clothes, pick up the paper and take as much time as we want reading it cover to cover over some fresh coffee and a toasted bagel with extra-saturated fat, mmmm, mmm delicious walnut honey cream cheese. …Life is good.

Hm.

Richard, you promised.

Okay, okay. I’ll put it away, but you’re getting breakfast.

Deal. Now hold my hand and pretend like we actually enjoy hanging out together. It’s the one day we both have off. …There, isn’t that better?

You just want to remind your friends that we’re the only marriage they know that isn’t on the rocks, and that’s just because, in four years, we’ve only spent one day a week together. What’s that, 108 days, roughly three months? No wonder we’re still happy.

208 days. Four times 52 is 208. Seven months.

Whatever. Technically, we're still newlyweds. At this rate our marriage could last forever.

But we have great sex, don’t we?

Confirming my theory that it’s best if only one of us is awake at a time. …I need to write a paper on that.

Hey, any time you want to move to the suburbs, we can both stop working 12 hour days.

What, and not eat out every meal?

We could save some money. That would be… Brenda!

Jesus, stop waiving. She’ll want to join us.

Try smiling. She’s got a morning session with her trainer, and please don’t say anything. I already know what you’re thinking.

I am trying to smile. This is the best I can do.

Alright, kill the smile. You’re beginning to scare people.

There, the table on the end. The one by the Ficus with the squirrel pooping in the pot.

How do you know it’s a Ficus?

I don’t. It’s the only potted tree name I know. Besides, I like the way it sounds. ‘Ficus.’ If we ever have a kid, I want to name it ‘Ficus.’

It? …Would you mind if we took this chair? …Thanks.

Boy. Girl. Who cares? Ficus is one of those names, like ‘Dana, that works either way. Have you got money?"

I do. It’s in my sock. …Don’t ask.

I won’t.

I’m too young for a fanny pack.

Did you notice, I didn’t ask. Just make sure my croissant is perfect. And make sure, actually tell him not to slice it. I like tearing my croissants apart.

I’m going.

I mean it! Don’t take it if he... slices it. She can’t hear me. I’m just talking to myself.

Hey, Richard.

Oh, hey, Brenda. You don’t mind if I don’t get up, do you? Lisa insisted that we walk and I’m exhausted.

Richard, you only live eight minutes from here.

Well, it seemed like ten. Besides, if I stop reading, I’ll forget where I was and have to start over again.

Aren’t those the comics?

This one has more words than usual.

Your chair’s wobbling.

True, but it’s wobbling less than the other chairs. …Lisa’s inside getting food.

No, I’m right here. There was no one in line. Serge actually seemed glad to see me. Hi, honey.

I thought I was ‘honey.’

No, you’re ‘sweet cheeks.’ I’ll make you name tag when I get back. Brenda and I need to chat for a second. I’ll be right back.

You really think my cheeks are sweet?

Read the paper.

I thought we were going to read the paper together. Apparently not.

You were right.

That was quick. Right about what?

About Jeffrey. Hand me the ‘Arts & Leisure’ section.

Who’s ‘Jeffrey’? ...Here.

Her trainer. I think he’s 12, but Brenda says he has the maturity of a 15-year-old. …Oh my God! I can’t believe you dog-eared one of the pages. Have you learned nothing living with me??

Just read the review of Bob’s play. You can thank me later.

Richard, there’s a pigeon on the table.

None of my friends are pigeons. It must be one of yours.

Do I have poppy seeds in my teeth?

No.

Richard, put the paper down and tell me if I have poppy seeds in my teeth.

No poppy seeds, but your teeth seem unusually large today.

By the way, I meant to tell you…

Tell me what?

Hey, will you try not to dip the corner of the paper in my cream cheese the next time you turn the page. It has the perfect number of walnuts.

That’s what you wanted to tell me?

No. …I’m expecting.

Hm.

I said, ‘I’m expecting...

Expecting what?

…a Ficus.

We’ll put it on the balcony. It’ll be fine. …Did you take the ‘Finance' section?

Richard?

Hm.

Richard?!!

What?!

We don’t have a balcony.

Table of Contents

07. Creative Running

Heh, heh, whooo. Heh, heh, whooo. It was the cadence of his breathing, more prominent, in his head at least, than even the sound of his Nike’s hitting the pavement. As for the pattern, it was the letter U in Morse Code. He’d looked it up once. Beyond that, he didn’t know why he breathed like that when he ran and didn’t care – just one more idiosyncrasy among many he’d long ago given up trying to understand.

It was unseasonably cold that morning, not yet 5 AM, running in the dark slowly up the hill to Grey Rock. He’d remembered to take his baseball cap, but not his gloves, and now the occasional rubbing of his hands together was breaking his stri...

Heh, heh, whooo.

Jesus, I’ve even started thinking like I’m writing. That’s got to be an early, maybe not so early sign of mental illness, he thought to himself, which turned out to be the point of it all. He was a good twenty pounds overweight, but the shape he was in or out of had nothing to do with why he ran.

It’s my time to think. Just me, daydreaming to the rhythm of my breathing and the sound of the street, enjoying the contrast between running by the occasional streetlight and then through the pitch-black tunnels under the leaves of the trees between them. I like it. I can’t sleep more than four or five hours at a time, anyway. Why not run? I get some of my best ideas when I’m running, especially in the early morning. It’s the nice thing about living in the suburbs. No cars, no pedestrians, not this early. Just me and the noise of some insects I don’t ever want to see, doing whatever they do in the bushes and trees between the houses.

Speaking of running, there goes my nose. There, he paused for a moment to breathe in through it, I’ll just suck it up. …Gross. Thank goodness there’s no one else…

Good morning.

Hi. Hi, uh, he stammered his response, surprised by the really attractive thirty-something blond who ran past him, not a foot away to his side, coming in the other direction out of the darkness ahead of him. Crap. The one good-looking jogger in the entire neighborhood and she passes me when I’m snorting. Perfect. That’s what she’ll remember about me for the rest of her life. Every time anyone around her so much as sniffs, she’ll think about me, the guy with the runny nose and no Kleenex. Precisely the impression I’ve always wanted to make on hot women I meet. Who knows? Maybe she finds vulgar personal behavior strangely compelling. Not a bad trait for one of my characters, maybe a stunning, drop-dead beautiful woman with no apparent interest in personal hygiene.

Heh, heh, whooo. Heh, heh, whooo.

Hey! A car turning off one of the side streets just missed him, cutting its