Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. ------ [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Harry was right. Santa Fe is gorgeous.  You know, being here, thinking about it being Harry’s favorite, thinking about the fact that she could be here, right now, with me, and she’s not… (sighs) It wasn’t…it wasn’t all bad. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Since I arrived, since going to the art museum, it’s like I see her around every corner, and I imagine what she’d look like going through the galleries, or pointing out the unique architecture, or insisting we find ingredients to make one of her favorite Santa Fe meals, whatever that might be.  It’s—it’s made me—I’ve been remembering the good times, I guess is how you’d put it. There was this one time, before everything happened actually, before that last job, way before— Richie had this unbelievably shitty loft in Alphabet City. Barely any heat, exposed wires, groaning pipes, warped glass in the old windows, just the whole thing. He was the only one of us who lived on the East side—even me of the unpermanent address tended to stick West—but he was also the only one who owned his place. Well, and Pete. We were all pretty sure that Pete owned a whole fucking brownstone in Brooklyn, but we were never able to confirm it. He was pretty secretive about his personal life.  But, anyway, Richie would sometimes let me crash at his loft and he had us all over with some degree of regularity—the place was huge, so great for big parties. The crew wasn’t big of course, but he’d invite all his weird beatnik friends and Harry would bring her art friends and Don would bring the guys he grew up with who’d always have some kind of Italian fruitcake with them and Pete and I would stand in the corner friendless and drinking heavily.  And one night, we’d all been there for hours and the crowd had dwindled and it was really just us and Don was doing his truly awful Perry Como impression and Harry and I were on the couch just…in stitches. And I think both of us were pretty sauced by that point, because once Don took mercy on all of us and stopped, someone had the brilliant idea of doing a game of charades. Harry and I were on the same team and we just…I don’t know, it was fun. It was really fun. We kicked everyone’s asses, it was…we were so in sync, it was strange. But Harry didn’t make fun of me for my pedestrian choices of what to act out and she didn’t pick anything that she knew I wouldn’t get and it was like… “Oh. This is what it could be like if we were nice to each other. I didn’t expect it to feel this wonderful” Anyway, then we sobered up and everyone went home and I passed out on Richie’s couch and then I didn’t see Harry again until our next job nearly two months later. And it was like that night had never happened. She was just as cold and condescending as ever. And I was just as snide as I always was.  But for that one night…I don’t know, it felt good. It felt like how things were supposed to be.  With your mysterious job and all, I wonder if you had any friends in it. If you ever goofed around with them. Or if it was all serious, all the time.  It must have been, right? If it went as badly as you say, hurt people, it must have been serious right?  I mean, I dn't know why I’m even asking, I— [click, static] I still don’t trust you, but not talking to you is worse.  [click, static] [beeps] .. - / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / -- .- - - . .-. ... It still matters