Hero of Car Seven

By Bettyann Moore

You’ve probably seen the video. It went viral within hours, though I don’t quite understand why. It had like a gazillion views in the first week, second only to the opera-singing 2-year-old. You know the one. Then came the one where that foreign princess denounces her husband, crown and country – in that order – at her own wedding dinner and that topped them all for at least a couple of weeks. That’s a long time in Internet fame terms.

Of course, you can’t really tell it’s me, which suits me just fine. All you see is the inside of the packed subway car and people jumping up on their seats or holding their legs straight out so as not to touch the floor. Then you see the rat, doing what rats do, scurrying along the side of the car, under the seats, then out in the middle, confused. People are either laughing, crying or screaming. And there’s one who’s mouth is wide open and if you’re watching the video, you think there’s something wrong with the sound at first. Her face is red, her neck muscles taut; tears stream down her face. This is some serious screaming, you think, and you’d be right, except there’s no sound coming out of her mouth. I wondered if maybe she’s a deaf mute. It’s eerie and unsettling, and that’s why I stepped in when I did.

You just see the back of me, wearing a tan overcoat over gray sweat pants and carrying one of those dome-shaped gym bags with the holes on the ends. All the better to share the sweaty stink of your work-out clothes and shoes with the rest of the world, I guess. It wasn’t what I used it for, but it worked.

There’s too much commotion to hear what I say to her, the non-screaming screamer. You see me set down the bag and hold out a hand to her. I gently touch her arm, though what I wanted to do was throttle her. I put my mouth close to her ear.

“Can you hear?” I ask. She nods. “I’ll get it,” I say. “But I need you to relax a little. Can you do that? Will you take a breath and let me take care of it?”

She looks down at me from the seat she’s standing on, tears streaming down her face. Her face crumples, but she nods and shoves a fist into her mouth. People are watching by now, and the car goes quiet.

I reach into my side coat pocket; you can see the outline of my hand through the pocket. I kneel down, holding out something (it’s a cheese and peanut butter cracker, but you can’t see that in the video).You see the rat come close, closer, sniffing its sensitive rat nose. Then, boom, I have it by its tail, unzip my bag and drop the surprised rodent in and have it zipped back up before you can say “wow,” which is what a lot of people said on the train. I’m that good.

Then there’s a bunch of cheering even as the subway pulls into its next stop and people make for the door, including the person taking the video. And the non-screamer. The subway waits for no person.

You’d think that would be the end of it, wouldn’t you? As far as the video goes, it was, but there was more. Oh, so much more.

A week later I was back in the same car at around the same time of day. I probably spend more time down in the subway than most homeless people or commuters. I’m neither.

Anyway, I’m just hanging onto a strap, with my duffel between my feet, and I feel this tug on my sleeve. I didn’t look down, figuring it was just a panhandler; they’ll go away if you ignore them. I clamped the duffel tighter between my feet. They don’t give up, though, and I hear this slightly squeaky voice say “You’re him, you’re that guy. Oh my god, it is you!”

People have been known to mistake me for a younger Tom Cruise – no seriously, I’ve even signed autographs just to make them go away – but I’m not in the mood for it. I put on my “Who the hell do you think you are?” face and look down.

At first, I didn’t recognize her. Without the swollen eyes and the snot running out of her nose, she was kind of cute. It was the non-screamer, of course, all five foot nothing of her, smiling up at me. I had to bend down to hear what she was saying.

“I never got a chance to thank you,” she said, “you know, for getting rid of that awful creature?”

“It was just a rat, but you’re welcome,” I said.

“It wasn’t justa rat to me!” she squeaked. “You saw what it did to me. I couldn’t even scream! And it was huge! It was a hideous, disease-carrying specter of death!”

She actually talked like that. The rat wasn’t that big anyway.

“I take it you’re not fond of rats,” I said, stating the obvious. She shuddered cutely.

“I loathethem,” she said. “I wish they’d all get a rat plague that would wipe them all out!”

“Not likely,” I replied. “Rats and cockroaches would probably survive a nuclear blast.”

“Don’t say such things!” she cried, holding her hands over her ears. “That is the stuff of nightmares!”

I have to admit I was rather enjoying myself. I was about to share some of my vast knowledge of Rattus Rattus, when she tugged on my sleeve again.

“Seriously, though,” she said, “I really want to thank you for what you did. There’s a great Indian restaurant at the next stop. Can I buy you lunch?”

I knew the restaurant well. If she had any idea how many rats could be found just outside its back kitchen door, she’d probably swoon.

“You don’t have to, really,” I said. “Your thanks are reward enough.”

“Oh!” she cried, blushing. “I hope you don’t think I’m coming on to you! But if you’re married or something and think it would look bad ...”

“No, not married or something,” I said. I had things to do, but what the hell, huh? “Okay, sure, let’s get a bite to eat.”

The skin around her small, dark eyes crinkled up with pleasure. I have to say it made me feel pretty good.

“I’m Minerva Ratliff,” she said as we walked the couple of blocks to the restaurant. “And don’t say it.”

“Say what?” I asked, all innocent, though I was cracking up inside.

“I know you want to,” she said. “Everyone does. I’ll say it for you: ‘Ratliff? Perfect name for someone who hates rats!’ Am I close?”

“Well …”

“Trust me, I’ve heard it all. And, no, no one calls me Minnie … not if they want to live.”

Now I was really dying inside.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh, Beau, Beau Anderson.”

“Bo? Just Bo? Short for Bowen? Bob?”

“No, not that kind of ‘Bo,’” I said. “B – E – A – U, like Beau Geste or boyfriend.”

And, as unlikely as it may seem, that’s exactly what I became: Minerva Ratliff’s beau … or Minerva Ratliff’s Beau, if you prefer. And most days I felt like I was her possession, which wasn’t a bad thing.

We took it slow, got to know each other. I confessed that I had a thing about nose hair. Drove me nuts. She revealed that it wasn’t just rats that set her off; any creature that moved swiftly, with intent, could do that. Spiders, snakes, rats, mice, centipedes … it was pretty wide open. I told her how much I loved Spam. She liked to gorge on processed cheese. We both shared a love of high thread-count sheets and down comforters. They got a lot of use.

For a number of reasons, I was reluctant to bring her to my flat. My lousy housekeeping, for one. I work at home and I guess because I’m used to living in sweats – boxers in the summer – I’ve become what my mother would call slovenly. Whatever. There’s my hobby, too, which would send my dear Minerva running for the hills, non-screaming all the way.

So, I hired a cleaning service. I did, however, lock the door to the second bedroom. Only I would clean in there. I told Minerva – sorry, but in my head she was always Minnie Rat – that it was my office and that I was too embarrassed to let anyone see it. She seemed cool with that.

The very first time Minerva came to the house, she hit it off with Mrs. Gleason, my landlady. She’s blind. I always feel pretty clumsy in Mrs. G’s company. I guess I want to help too much. She doesn’t want, or need, help with most things. Right off the bat, Minerva knew that, and Mrs. G knew that she knew that. Turns out that Minerva had a blind brother who died when she was 12. When she told me that, I figured she’d tell me some horrible tale about how a rat ate out his eyes or something. If that was the case, she never said.

If I’m guilty of anything, it’s stupidity, I know that. Doesn’t make what happened any easier to live with, but I’m sure no one – excuse the cliché – gives a rat’s ass about that.

It was my birthday and I was in a hurry. Minerva had a surprise planned for me and we were supposed to meet at a bar a few blocks away. I might be a slob about keeping my own home clean, but one thing I’m completely scrupulous about is keeping my pets’ homes clean. I was in the middle of that weekly chore when the phone rang. She might not need my help maneuvering through her world, but it’s not uncommon for her to require some help on a household chore.

“Beau?” she said, in that creaky old voice of hers. “Beau, I need your help.”

“What’s up, Mrs. Gleason,” I asked. “What can I do?”

“My ring,” she says, giving me no information at all.

“Your ring?”

“Yes, my diamond ring, the one that Mr. Gleason, rest his soul, gave me on our 40^thwedding anniversary!”

Blind, old lady,I thought, reminding myself to be patient.

“What about your ring, Mrs. Gleason?” I asked, trying not to let my voice betray me. She’s got the hearing of an owl, that woman.

“It’s gone missing!” she cried. “Can you help me find it?”

I glanced around the room, thinking I should be able to give Mrs. G a hand, finish up what I’m doing, grab a shower and be down at the bar in plenty of time, if I hurry.

“I’ll be right down, Mrs. G,” I said. I put down the phone, closed the “office” door and headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She was waiting for me at the door in a house dress and apron, wringing her liver-spotted hands.

“Oh, Beau, thank you, thank you!” she said. “I won’t be able to rest until I find it. I’ve never misplaced it before.”

“I’m sure it’s around here someplace, Mrs. G,” I said, coming inside. She kept the place like an oven, but it was clean and neat. I wondered, briefly, how she managed to keep it that way. It was also very dark. “Could we turn on a few lights in here?” I asked.

“Certainly, certainly, dear,” she said, walking straight to a light switch and flipping it on. Outside, Mrs. G uses one of those white canes, but in her own place you’d never know she was blind.

“Where was the last place you remember having it?” I asked.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she said, wringing her hands again. “I only take it off when I wash the dishes. I put it in a little cup every single time, but it’s not there!”

I headed to the kitchen, flicking on another light as I went. The little cup was perched on the edge of the sink, empty. “Did you knock it over by accident?” I asked. “Wash it by mistake?” Naturally, I peered into the drain, but it was too dark to see.

“I’ll need a flashlight,” I said. “I’ll go get mine.”

“No!” she cried. “I have one right here.” She pulled out a drawer and handed me a small mag-lite.

I shone the light down into the disposal. “Did you run the garbage disposal?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I always do that after washing the dishes.”

“It didn’t make any strange noises?”

“Not a one! It ran smooth as silk. My Bernie put that unit in for me just two months ago; it’s wonderful. He’s going to get another one to put in your sink as well, isn’t that nice?”

“That’s nice, Mrs. G,” I said, shining the light down the other side of the sink. The strainer wasn’t in the drain opening. It, too, was perched on the side of the sink. A ring could easily slip down there. My heart sank.

“I don’t suppose you have a pipe wrench?” I asked, hoping she didn’t. Her Bernie, being such a plumbing expert, could handle this, I figured.

Her wrinkled old face lit up. “I do!” she cried. “My Bernie left his toolbox here to do your sink.” Then her face crumpled again. “But, oh my, do you think it could be down the drain?”

I eyed my watch; just 30 minutes until I had to meet Minerva. This could take awhile. I’m not exactly Mr. Fix-It. I pulled out my phone and tried to call. No answer, so I left a message. She loves Mrs. G so much, she’ll understand.

“Could be, but if it is, it’s probably in the drain trap,” I said to Mrs. G. I’d heard of drain traps before, and hoped that was what they were for – trapping things.

Her face brightened again. I wondered if I’d ever get used to the fact that her eyes remained stone-dead cold no matter what the emotion.

“The toolbox is in the pantry,” she said. “Oh, Beau, you’re such a lifesaver! No wonder Minerva likes you so much. Our hero, Beau, to the rescue!”

I probably blushed, but it was wasted on Mrs. G.

It doesn’t matter how clean a person keeps their house, drains are gross. I pulled out all the cleaners and stuff she had under the sink and set a bucket under the drain. Turns out I didn’t even need a wrench because the trap was made of plastic and the nuts turned easily. I pulled it all apart and let the gunk fall into the bucket. I stirred it around with a screwdriver that was in Bernie’s toolbox. No ring. I hoped it hadn’t gone past the trap and into the pipes. That would mean bye-bye ring for sure.

“Sorry, Mrs. G,” I said, screwing everything back together again, “your ring isn’t in here.”

More hand-wringing. “Oh my, where could it be?” she wailed. “Could you use the flashlight and look around the house?” she asked.

I looked at my watch again. I was already late and there was no way I’d even have time to shower, let alone finish my chore.

“What time is it, Beau?” Mrs. G asked, rather eerily I thought.

“It’s 6 o’clock,” I said. “I better give Minerva another call.”

Again, there was no answer. I left another message, hoping she’d understand and that the surprise she had waiting for me could keep. The apartment was small, so it shouldn’t take too long, I figured. I picked up the flashlight and started scouting, starting with the kitchen.

“Please feel free to open any drawers or cupboards, dear,” Mrs. G said.

I groaned inwardly. I wasn’t planning on looking in drawers or cupboards, just on the floor and counters. I moved as quickly as I could while Mrs. G stayed out of the way. By the time I’d checked the kitchen, bathroom and living room, another 30 minutes had gone by. I was already an hour late. Why hadn’t Minerva called back?

“I’m surprised that Minerva hasn’t called you back,” Mrs. G said, reading my mind again. I was on my hands and knees checking beneath the bed while she hung out by the doorway.

“Me too,” I said. “It’s not like her.”

“But it’s after 6, right?” she asked.

“Long after,” I said, moving to the closet. Mrs. Gleason was back to wringing her hands.

I was in the process of turning shoes upside down and shaking them when Mrs. G cried out.

“Oh!” she said. “Here it is!”

I looked around and saw her pulling her hand out of her apron pocket. She held the missing ring up. Well, shit, I thought.

“I’m so sorry, Beau! I had it all along!”

By then I was up and headed for the door. I had to get back to my pets and maybe drag a comb through my hair.

“It’s okay, Mrs. G,” I assured her, though I was steaming inside. “I have to go, though.” I squeezed past her, ran out of the apartment and scrambled up the stairs. Imagine my surprise when I found a dozen friends, laden with presents, standing on the landing just outside my door. They were just as surprised to see me.

I got the full story afterwards and pieced together the rest, but I think I was sedated at that point.

Minerva and Mrs. G had hatched a plan to get me out of the apartment in order for Minerva to put together a party for me. Mrs. G – and she’ll never forgive herself for this, so I can’t be angry – even gave Minerva a spare key. So, while I was ostensibly looking for Mrs. G’s “lost” ring, Minerva was supposed to be upstairs decorating. She never got a chance to. That was my fault. In my hurry, I forgot to lock the spare bedroom door.

She was either just curious, or she heard something inside. We know she screamed, but it was one of her silent screams. We know because we found her – the party-goers and I – on the floor, her mouth in a permanent scream, her eyes (and none of us will never forget this), popped out of her head and lying on her cheeks.

It was Ana who did it. I had left her out while cleaning her cage. Ana, the anaconda, all 18 feet of her, my most prodigious consumer of rats.

Minerva must have froze and Ana, really quite an affectionate sort, wrapped her full, muscled length around my poor little Minnie Rat and squeezed the life out of her.

A Night at the Theater – Part Two

I consider sending my boss out to get help while I make my escape. Unfortunately, my disappearance would only fix a memory of me in his mind. I look at my partially ruined jacket, 100 percent virgin wool, still salvageable if I get it to my cleaner on time. I sigh and close my eyes as I place it on the floor and use it as a shield to shimmy my way back under the stall’s door, virgin no longer. My boss stares at the jacket as I walk past him.

“Aren’t you going to pick it up?” he asks.

“No.”

“That jacket still has value, are you going to let that go to waste? I can give you the name of my dry cleaner.”

I can give you the name of my janitorial service, I want to say. I should be thankful he’s distracted, but I want to throttle him. When a board member’s shoes stick to his theatre’s bathroom floor, he should have better things to do than lecture someone on dry cleaning costs. He’s always missing the dollars floating above his head while scrambling for pennies on the floor.

“It was fifteen bucks on clearance,” I lie. “Don’t worry about it.”

In the lobby, Clarice asks after my health, and makes the appropriate sounds as I tell her I am fine. My boss laughs and makes a joke about my jacket being a casualty of the night, which Clarice and I smile at. I attempt to extract myself for the night, but Clarice insists that I stay.

“You promised the man martinis, Checkers, and I must say I’m in the mood for one too,” she says.

*

So here I am, in a bar, a glass of clear, noxious liquid before me. I hate martinis, but I take a sip anyway. My boss has taken us to Croons, which is one of the worst places for someone like myself to remain anonymous. I take a chair with my back to the room, hoping that no one will recognize me. I hear the laughter from the CEOs of at least four Wall Street brokerage firms sitting in a back room. They break down and critique Tiger's swing though there's not a scratch golfer among them. A NASDAQ board member holds hands with her husband in a secluded corner. I sent them an anniversary card last month, looks like they’ll stay together at least another year.

“How is it treating you?” my boss asks too loudly. He doesn’t even realize the people in this room can tell he’s new money; a tourist in their world, really.

“It's strong,” I say.

“It's an acquired taste,” says Clarice. “But soon, you'll appreciate it.”

I smile as best I can, and wonder if I can down the drink and walk out under my own power before I'm discovered. My stomach is NOT happy with me.

"So Checkers tells me you're in finance”, Clarice says.

The other John is in finance; I'm in accounting which is not the same thing. Do I lie to her?

Instead I say, “Checkers? That's an interesting name. At the office it's Mister Pierquot.”

“She's got the benefit of having paid for the marriage license,” my boss says.

She smiles at him over her glass. "May I tell him I dear?"

"Strictest confidence, okay, John?" He says with mock seriousness that still seems to hold a menacing undercurrent.

"I can keep a secret," I say.

Clarice waves a hand as if to fan any all her husband's machismo. "He's so gruff, but he's a big puppy," she says. "What you may not know is that your manager here was once one of the top-ranked chess players in the world."

"Junior national level," my boss says, "long before I could drive or chase debutants from the Cape.”

Clarice hides a smile as she takes a large gulp of martini. “He could have been a grandmaster, but one day he saw a movie about Bobby Fischer and Kasparov. His coach idolized their total devotion to the game."

My boss takes Clarice's hand and breaks in." And I told him that I'd be happier playing checkers than live like them. Quit the team right then and there," he says with a nod.

"And now you," Clarice says. "Tell us something about you."


I've prepared for this question, ready with a bland anecdote about fourth grade, Tommy Smith, and milk coming out my nose at lunch. A story everyone has in one form or another and therefore not that interesting. I tell myself to relax and begin when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Teddy? It is you! Jacklyn insisted you were someone else, but I'd know you anywhere." He grimaces as he sees my drink. "When did you become a martini man?"

If my boss and Clarice are surprised, they hide it well. I shake my head. "Just trying one out on the recommendation of my friends here, William," I say.

William shrugs, not bothering to acknowledge my boss or his wife. I hope they don’t take it personally, William’s just always been something of an ass. It's their shoes. Anyone can buy Chanel or Armani, but shoes will tell out every time.

William half-closes his eyes and puts on the smile he uses when he thinks he’s being clever. "I have the boat next week, and plan on taking a trip to the Caymans. Any chance you'd be game? I could use a mainsheet trimmer that knows the local water." Which was William's way of asking for a drinking buddy who could read the GPS on a yacht that could sail itself.

"Sorry, William," I say, "I've got some things to tie up around here for a few weeks, but maybe next time?"

"No problem, amigo," he says. "I know how you like to do your due diligence with your investing. Do you have any tips for me?"

Meaning the trip. "Gas is six bucks a gallon in the Caymans, and it's seven dollars for a jar of peanut butter."

"Is that a lot?" he says.

"Just bring a bit more cash along or plan on stopping at the bank a lot."

"Right. Thanks, Teddy."

Mister Pierquot and Clarice stare at me. I shrug apologetically.

"That was Robert Swenson's son, wasn't it?" Checkers asks.

"We went to prep school together." And roomed at Yale, but no need to rub that in his face.

"He called you Teddy."

"My real name. I have a confession, Mister Pierquot, and it's that I know how far the company is leveraged, and how much money it's hemorrhaging."

"That's not public knowledge," he says.

"No, but I was part of the foursome with your company’s president and the guy in charge of approving your business loans. No matter how many drinks your president bought back at the clubhouse, I could tell his company's credit line wouldn't be extended."

"So how did you end upon my finance team?"

"Accounting, actually. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the company would look for an investor or an outright buyer. There was an opening in accounting, so I applied. "

"And saw everything about the company from the inside," Clarice said.

I raised my glass in salute and sipped, wincing at the pine-tar aftertaste. “I know most of senior management, but I didn't know how well the company was put together, how the gears moved, so to speak."

"And?" Pierquot said.

"I'm not buying the company. Not because of anything you did, Mister Pierquot, but because I don't think there's hope."

Checkers' face flushed. "So what now, I'm going to lose my job? Nobody's shown interest in us, from what I heard."

"Someone might, and the company may limp along for a few more years, or change and become profitable, but I'd bet against it."

Clarice's lips were white, hovering at the rim of her glass.

"Look," I say, "You have good people under you, but the company isn’t using them effectively. I would bet the first round of layoffs hits the entire department. Put that grandmaster's brain to work and find them a landing spot. Except for Maloney. He's a total tool."

Checkers stares at me for a long minute, jaw clenching and relaxing. Then he nods, decision made.

"Does this mean you'll be skipping my team meeting tomorrow?"

"That's safe bet."

"Maloney is the VP's nephew, and huffed a lot of glue in high school. Got any leads on someone who's looking to absorb a team my size?"

It occurs to me that William has always fancied himself a venture capitalist. For all his failings, Checkers isn’t a bad manager. I wouldn’t put him in a corner office, but I’d trust him to keep his teams on task. If I can get William interested, then we’d just need to find someone with a worthwhile idea.

"I'll have some options for you by next week."

Looks like I'll be in the Caymans next week after all. But I’m bringing my own peanut butter.

A Night at the Theater - Part One

Image by yiftah-s via Wikimedia Commons

The ballerinas wear gas masks, and I wish for one too. Someone sitting near had hit the garlic too hard, and tried covering it with cologne. A rotten spiciness mingled with peppery flowers causes my eyes to water. I can’t decide whether it is worse to breathe through my nose or mouth, and I wonder if I can get the usher to throw the offender out, or at least douse them with a bucket of something less offensive, like fish heads.

Of course, it could be a plant. Any director that would attempt interpreting trench warfare through ballet, with the prima wearing the spiked helmet of a Prussian officer would not be above gassing the audience. Then again, the production budget and meager cast can’t waste a warm body in the audience. Perhaps there are packets of garlic oil and gutter-quality Chanel under our seats. This is off-off-Broadway after all, dear. Kiss-kiss. Can you handle it?

I am the only accountant in the room. White hipsters living in the former ghettos sit in front of me, arguing if Samuel Adams is really a craft brewer or mini-Budweiser. Two haute couture designers to my left with gravity-defying asymmetrical haircuts whisper  to an immaculately groomed black man so small that I believe him to be a Pygmy. To my right, three Eurotrash gay men in summer-weight scarves hold hands and twirl their feet in synchronicity. The masses of malnourished actors in black sit in either the front or back rows according to some pecking order I cannot fathom. I feel the collective gazes on me and the unspoken question: what’s he doing here?

If I had a notebook out, I could masquerade as a critic or a blogger. I can’t see why I should have to justify myself to them. I can blend into any background it seems, but this one. At work, no one notices me. At meetings, I always take a chair near the back, but not in the actual back row. I never make eye contact with the presenter, but stop shy of looking down. I usually stare over their heads. I wear glasses, and I shaved my beard down to a nondescript mustache. Lunches are late when there are few in the break room; white bread sandwiches only.  I bring a book to read so no one bothers me. Two more weeks under the radar, and then I can leave the office forever.

Sometimes, bringing out a phone and pretending to text or play a game will put you beneath notice, but in the theater, it has the opposite effect. So would a steno notebook, as some may play a game where they try to guess which paper I work for, eventually leading to someone approaching and asking to verify the winner. I don’t need that tonight, just a bit of avant-garde theatre to scrub the corporate newspeak jingo-lingo from my head. The other day I caught myself using the VP’s favorite word this quarter, choiceful, in a sentence. If that continues, I’ll be ruined for life.

The stench is a problem. Breathing through the nose is torture, and I don’t know if I can hold down dinner if I open my mouth and suck in whatever molecules the fetid cloud carries. Draping my shirt over my lower face, bandito style, would only partially help the smell but it might also draw attention. Then again, a coughing fit or barfing over the floor would definitely do so. How can everyone around me stand to ignore it all?

What was I even doing here? What path of pretension and poseur-ness convinced my better judgment to come to this show when I could have stayed in and watched Netflix? Thousands of worthy movies, hundreds of cinematic masterpieces, a cavalcade of award-winning miniseries, and I choose to see a bunch of anorexics with bad toes cavort around a punching bag. This won’t make me a better person, or entertain my numb soul, and certainly won’t get me laid.

Get me laid. I should be in the bars and clubs finding a woman. I should be finding my soul mate so I don’t have to come to these things alone. Or at all. I should be having wild, guilt-free sex with beautiful girls instead of burying my nose in my shirt because my own BO is better than the outside atmosphere. Patience, I tell myself. In two weeks I can carouse as much as I want, but I need to stay focused.

A couple sits next to me and I suppress a curse. It’s my boss. His head jerks as he recognizes me, then smiles and elbows his wife. Clarice is an aging trophy, which to my boss’s credit, he has not traded in for a newer model. She has seen the surgeon’s scalpel, but it isn’t as obvious as it could be. Eyes and breasts lifted, though not sculpted or enhanced. A nose too straight to be natural, but most wouldn’t notice. She smiles at me as if we were old friends or more likely, as she would to a favored nephew.

“John, what the hell are you doing here?” he whispers. The Couture twins hiss as each covers the ear of the pygmy between them. My boss nods at them.

“Helen, Deliliah,” he says to them with an apologetic smile.

“Mister Pierquot, I had no idea …” I whisper as he sits next to me.

“I’m on the board of directors. Season tickets.”

“I’ve never seen you here before,” I say and instantly regret it. I’ve given too much of myself away.

“Clarice and I could only get late reservations for dinner, so we have time to kill.”

We watch the dance for about five minutes before he leans in.

“What’s that smell?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are these dancers any good?”

“No.”

He gives a curt nod, the same one he uses in meetings when he comes to a decision. He leans over and whispers to Clarice, who shrugs, grabs her purse, and stands.

“Life’s too short to sit through this,” my boss says, “We’ll just wait at the lounge bar and go back stage afterwards. Would you like to come with us?”

Social interaction with someone I’d rather not, or sit in a miasma and watch bad ballet? In half an hour, I can leave the scents behind, but awkward conversation with the boss will leave a lasting impression I didn’t need.

My stomach twists as nausea spreads through me. My mouth waters, and all I know is that I have to get out. Blocked on one side by my boss and on the other by the Couture Twins, I nod and evacuate.

“Sure,” I say, “that would be fine.”

“Great! The first martini is on me,” my boss says. “Are you a Bombay or Beefeater man?” I sense he’s testing me.

“I don’t know.” Just keep moving, and I’ll like whatever you want, boss man.

“A virgin! Great! That’s just great!” He beams and shuffles along the seats behind his wife. “We’ll get you one of each, and you can do a taste test.”

At the top of the stairs, the usher avoids eye contact with my boss, but glares at me. In any other context, I swear the old lady would throw a right hook right at my nose. She would land it too, I sm in no condition to defend myself. My throat attempts to turning itself inside out. I push past my boss and Clarice and sprint for the bathroom.

The walls of the bathroom are finished in a wallpaper that had been maroon velvet paisleys over a gold background, some neo-Victorian theme that may have worked at the time, but now just serve as a way to collect more dirt and grime when the place runs out of hand towels. The first stall is occupied by a couple either negotiating for drugs or sex, the second locked without any apparent occupant. The sink, the urinal, or the locked stall, my stomach says, I don’t care which you pick, just do it right now.

I should have picked the sink. My sport jacket takes the brunt of the floor’s grime as I crawl under the stall’s door, and I wish for leather elbow patches to slow down the bacteria that are undoubtedly eating through the fabric on their way to my pristine, pink skin. I stand over the toilet and feel as if I were twisting inside out as my stomach empties itself.

“You okay in there, John?” says my boss through the door.

“Peachy.” I spit into the toilet and flush. I turn and discovered why the door wouldn't open. Some jackass wedged a screwdriver in the door latch and broke off the handle. I look at the smeared trail I made coming in and my stomach flutters.

“You going to be okay to come into work tomorrow? I really need those numbers on Project Quantum and the Platinum Initiative for the director’s meeting in the afternoon.”

I don’t work on either of those projects. Another John in the office babysits those helpless cases. There is hope yet, if only I can escape from the filthiest theater bathroom in New York.

Losing Game

By Bettyann Moore

“Jesus, Dorkshire, where the hell you been? I’ve been freezing my ass off out here!” Chuck Copiski ground out another cigarette with the toe of his shoe and blew on his fingers. The sidewalk at his feet was littered with butts smoked down to the filter.

“You said 7 o’clock, right? I just heard the church bells ring.” Doyle Dormeyer hobbled up to his friend, out of breath.

“That was 15 minutes ago, Dorkus.” Chuck hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit it onto the walk, just missing Doyle’s shriveled left foot in its built-up shoe.

“Sorry, sorry,” Doyle said. “My ma needed help with Petey. He ain’t feelin’ the best.”

Chuck knew better than to challenge anything to do with Petey. “Yeah, well, don’t let it happen again, Dorkmeister. Come on, we gotta meet The Wop over by the pool hall.”

The two set out, one reed-thin and limping, the other short and stocky, leading with his jutting chin.

“Why do you call him that?” Doyle said, struggling to keep up.

“Call who what?”

“The Wop. Doesn’t he get pissed off?”

Chuck stopped short and Doyle nearly plowed into his back.

“I don’t call him that, he calls himself that, Dorknut. Guy like that wants to be called The Wop, a guy like me does it. Capice?”

“I hear he carries,” Doyle said, with awe in his voice.

“Now you’re gettin’ it!” Chuck said, punching Doyle’s arm. “There’s hope for you yet, Dorkputz.”

Doyle wasn’t sure, exactly, what he was getting, but he nodded anyway and rubbed his arm.

“You got any money?” he asked as they plodded ahead.

“You know I have money,” Chuck growled. “I been saving it up for months to make this buy. A dollar here, a dollar there, the old man never misses it. Why?”

“Kinda hungry,” Doyle said, even as his stomach growled. “Petey didn’t get enough supper, so I gave him mine.”

Chuck groaned. Petey again. He stopped and considered. He had a wad of bills buried in his front pocket, $120 exactly. The stuff shouldn’t be more than $100. He looked over at Doyle who was clutching his stomach and looking longingly at the convenience store up ahead. Chuck was feeling expansive.

“Yeah, what the hell,” he said, “I gotta buy some butts anyhow. I smoked ‘em all up waiting for a certain someone. Com’n we gotta make it quick.”

A buzzer sounded as they pulled open the heavily barred door. A man wearing a turban stood behind the counter. He looked up and glowered at the teens, then took a quick look at the camera aimed at the door. Incense burned in a brass holder behind him.

“Phew!” Chuck said, waving his hand. “Some sorta stink in here!”

Doyle kept his head down and went straight to the display of Slim Jims. He grabbed a few, then plucked a couple of candy bars from a box on the counter. Coconut, his favorite.

“This okay?” he asked Chuck, who was looking over the rack of cigarettes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Chuck said. “Gimme a pack of them red Marlboros,” he said to the man.

“You got ID?” the man asked. “I need ID.”

Chuck patted his pockets. “Well silly ol’ me,” he said, making his eyes go wide. “I must have left it in my suit.” Instead, he pulled out a twenty dollar bill, one of two in the wad of one dollar bills; he knew this guy’s game. As long as they had the money, no one ever needed an ID in this joint.

The man eyed the bill. Without taking his eyes off the duo, he reached to the cigarette rack behind him, pulled out the Marlboros and set them on the counter. Doyle dumped his loot next to them.

“That be $21.57.”

“What?” Chuck screeched. “For a lousy pack of cigarettes and some junk food? That’s highway robbery!” In the few months he had been smoking, Chuck was used to copping butts from his father; he’d never actually bought a pack.

“Maybe you tell story to tax man,” the man said, a slight smirk on his face. “Or maybe you find ID and go someplace else.”

Redfaced, but defeated, Chuck pulled two more bills from his pocket. His hands shook as he scooped up the change and the cigarettes. Doyle stuffed the candy and two Slim Jims into his coat pocket and started peeling open the other one.

“You eat outside!” the man bellowed, shooing them away.

“Don’t get your undies in a twist, Ragtop, we’re going,” Chuck said. He grabbed hold of Doyle’s sleeve and pulled him out the door while the man raged at them, his fist cutting the air.

“Fucking loser,” Chuck yelled as they scurried down the street. “This city’s full of fucking losers!”

Doyle was trying to open his Slim Jim with his teeth as he struggled to keep up. He’d heard this all before.

“Guy’s got some balls, I’ll tell you!” Chuck went on. “I could have him shut down like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Effin’ losers, I’m telling you. They’re all effin’ losers.”

Doyle had finished his first Slim Jim and was tearing into the second.

“Only two kinds of people in this world, Dorkstein: winners and losers. And, trust me, the losers outnumber the winners by a long shot.” Chuck took a deep breath. This was Doyle’s signal to cut in.

“Can losers become winners?” he asked.

“Ha! It happens, but it sure as hell ain’t because of no hard work. None of that ‘nose to the grindstone’ crap, that’s for sure. It’s all about having that winning gene. You either got it or you ain’t. Most ain’t.”

Doyle never asked the question he wanted to ask because he knew what Chuck’s answer would be – Doyle was a loser and Chuck was a winner. Instead he asked,“Well, then, can winners become losers?”

“Most of them can,” Chuck answered, as Doyle knew he would. “They’re losers-in-training from the get-go. Take Bob the Bum.” They were crossing an alley entrance and Copiski nodded down its black length. All Doyle could see was an overflowing Dumpster and stacks of flattened boxes along the brick buildings.

“There,” Chuck said, pointing to a large stack of boxes halfway down the alley. Doyle could make out a shape lying there; a square box where the head should be.

“Keeps the pigeon shit from your mouth,” Chuck said knowingly. “Thing is, Bob the Bum used to be Bob the Builder, one helluva big shot in this town.”

“Yeah?” Doyle knew the story, but tried to keep things flowing.

“He had it all! Or, it seemed that way. Big government contracts that he paid good money for, Cadillac convertible, big house, a sexy wife, a bimbo on the side.”

“What happened?”

“What was supposed to happen to a loser-in-training. He got drunk, the bimbo talked him into flying out to Vegas and they got married.”

“Wasn’t he already married?”

“Riiiiiight, Dorkshit, that he was. He gets back here and the next thing he knows, the bimbo and the other wife are suing his ass off. The wife even goes to the press with all sorts of evidence of bribes and kickbacks. It was all downhill to loserville from there … lost his home, lost his license, lost both wives (cuz they were in cahoots all along). He didn’t do no time and he didn’t find Jesus, but he did find the bottle. Total loser. ‘Nuff said.”

“What about The Wop?” Doyle said, nodding toward a dark shape on the corner. “Is he a loser or a winner?”

Copiski stood straighter, frowning. “Cut the shit with the winner/loser stuff, Dorkdog,” he said. “We have business to conduct.” Chuck had never bought drugs in his life, but it was Doyle’s 16^thbirthday and Chuck has promised him this one present. So what if Doyle didn’t seem interested? A promise was a promise.

Chuck strutted toward the figure, his hand deep in his money pocket. “My man!” he said raising a fist to bump when they were abreast of him.

“Keep moving,” the Wop hissed, ignoring the gesture. “We’re just three buds out for a stroll.”

“That’s cool,” Chuck said, falling into step and leaving Doyle to catch up.

“Thought you were coming alone,” The Wop growled, though he kept a fake smile pasted on his face.

“Dork … uh, Dormeyer’s cool,” Chuck said. The two looked back at Doyle who was stuffing half a candy bar in his maw.

“Whatever,” The Wop said, obviously unhappy. “In here,” he said, nodding toward a seedy-looking theatre.

The ticket seller gave the group a small nod, but no money exchanged hands. Chuck was impressed. He and Doyle followed The Wop up some dark stairs, through a curtain and into a small balcony. Doyle wished they’d stopped for some popcorn first. Below them, three or four people seemed to be sleeping while a loud, old Western flickered on the screen.

“You got the money?” The Wop asked even before he sat down. Chuck dropped into the seat next to him, but Doyle made his way to the front row, eyes glued to the screen.

“Yeah, sure, sure I do,” Chuck said. “But that ragtop down at the C-store ripped me off so I’m a couple bucks short.”

The Wop started to rise. “The deal was a hundred on the nose, Copiski.”

“It’s a coupla bucks!” Chuck said, standing and reaching into his pocket. “I’m good for it.”

The Wop sat back down. “Let’s see it,” he said, holding out his hand.

Chuck hesitated. “So, yeah, that’s cool,” he said, keeping his hand in his pocket, “but do you, you know, have the stuff?”

“You gotta be shittin’ me, Copiski.” He held out his hand and sighed. “Let’s see it,” he repeated.

Chuck pulled out the wad and handed it to him.

“Fuckin’ A, man, you save up your weekly lunch money?” He started counting the bills.

Chuck blushed, glad it was so dark in the theatre.

“Is this some kinda joke, Copiski?” The Wop stood up and shoved the money against Chuck’s chest.

“Whaddya mean? It’s just two bucks short! You want the 43 cents in change, too?”

“Two bucks my ass, more like twenty.”

“Twenty … no way, it can’t be!”

“Count it yourself, loser. I’m outta here. I’ve wasted enough time on this shit.”

Chuck was frantically trying to count the bills before The Wop left. It was true. There was just $78 in the pile; the other twenty was missing.

“What the hell?” Chuck was getting suspicious. “You tryin’ to scam me, man?”

The Wop spun around. In seconds flat, he had Chuck’s right arm behind his back and a switchblade pressed against his throat.

“What was that you said, loser?” The Wop hissed in his ear.

“Nu … nu … nuthin’, dude. I musta messed up.”

“Yeah, you messed up all right.” The Wop released the shaken boy and pushed him away. “Don’t ever,” he said, “let me catch you in my part of town again. Capice?”

“I got it,” Chuck said, holding a hand to his throat. The dealer gave him one long, last look and sauntered up the aisle and through the curtain.

“Fuck!” Chuck swore, kneeling down to grope for the fallen bills. “Get over here and help me, Dorkshit!”

Doyle, who had been engrossed in the shoot-em-up movie, snapped to attention.

“You get the stuff?” he asked. “What’re you doin’ down there anyway?”

“I’m praying, what the hell do you think I’m doing? Help me find the rest of these bills.”

As usual, Doyle helped where he could, even if he didn’t know why.

Out on the street and walking as fast as they could from The Wop’s neighborhood, Chuck swore a blue streak even as he counted and recounted the money. Those who would look to steal a wad, even a wad of ones, stayed clear.

“He fuckin’ ripped me off, man! I can’t fuckin’ believe it! And he called mea loser. That’s a loser, Dorkman, if you ever saw one! I give him six months before they find him floating in the river.”

Dormeyer knew better than to say anything. He knew it was possible, just possible, that his friend had miscounted to begin with. Or given the store owner two twenties and not one. To say so, though, not a chance. He did wonder what they’d do next. After Chuck quieted down a bit he asked.

“We headin’ home now?” he asked.

Chuck gave him one of his looks. “No, we’re not going fuckin’ home!” he bellowed, more determined than ever. “We’re going to find Milo.”

Doyle stopped mid-stride. “Milo? The mysterious Milo Fassbender? That Milo?” He hoped he’d heard wrong. It had been known to happen.

“Yeah, that Milo, Dorknob. What other Milo do you know?”

Doyle screwed up his face and thought for a second.

“None,” he said, “unless you count old lady Morris’s dog, but he got run over by a garbage truck.”

“I swear, Dorkton ...”

“She buried him right in her front yard. There’s a little cross and everything.”

Copiski ignored him and started walking again.

“I thought you said you’d never deal with Milo,” Doyle said, hurrying to catch up. “Besides, you know what they say, ‘You don’t find Milo, Milo finds you.’ Know what else they say?” he asked. “They say that it feels like he’s walking around inside your head when he does find you. Gives me the creeps.”

“We got no choice now,” Chuck grumbled.

“We could, you know, just forget about it,” Doyle said softly.

Chuck knew that was true, but he also knew that backing down was the sign of a true loser. Chuck Copiski was no loser.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Dorkwood,” he said. “Besides, it looks like Milo found us.”

Up ahead, near Jerry’s Diner, they saw the large, hulking figure of Milo Fassbender, wearing his trademark polo shirt and Bermuda shorts, a rolled-up newspaper or magazine tucked under his arm. It was hard to tell, but it seemed like he was looking right at them. He gave a slight nod and pulled open the door to the diner.

“That place has been closed down forever,” Doyle whispered. “How’d he get in?”

Jerry’s Diner had one greasy window, cracked diagonally and held together with duct tape. Tattered and faded signs hung crookedly from yellowed tape, flanked by curtains that may or may not have been checkered at one point. The formerly red and black Closed sign was faded to a pale pink and gray.

A small bell rang overhead as Copiski pushed open the flimsy door. He gave time for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. A fine layer of dust covered every surface except the far booth where Fassbender sat facing the door.

Chuck slid into the bench opposite him, pulling Doyle down beside him. Milo didn’t look up from the comic book he had on the table before him. He had one giant hand wrapped around a grimy Coke glass while the other turned pages.

“Yo, Milo,” Chuck said, “how they hangin’?”

Fassbender continued to ignore the boys. He flipped another page and chuckled to himself. Doyle felt shivers going up his spine and nearly jumped out of his skin when a waitress appeared out of nowhere at his elbow.

“Gitcha sumpthin’?” she said.

“My friends here will each have a Jerry burger, large fries and Cokes,” Milo said, without looking up. “I’ll have the usual.”

“No, we just uh ...” Chuck began.

Milo held up one finger. “First we eat, then we conduct business,” he said more to the comic book than to Chuck and Doyle. “On the house, of course,” he added.

Doyle’s eyes went wide and he completely forgot his nervousness.

“Do you, like, own this place?” he asked, looking around with new eyes.

For the first time, Milo raised his head and fixed his thick-glassed stare on Doyle.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. He coughed, or chuckled; the two boys weren’t sure which.

Chuck’s knee bounced up and down and he kept tapping the table with his thumbs as the trio waited for the waitress’s return. They heard no sounds of cooking or activity behind the swinging kitchen door.

“Ants in the pants, Chuckster?” Milo said, turning another page. “Got places to go, people to see?”

The booth stopped shaking and Chuck jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

“Just cold is all,” he said.

“Seriously?” Doyle said. “I was just thinking it was too hot in here.” Milo coughed or chuckled again.

Chuck swiveled his head slowly in Doyle’s direction and gave him one of his “shut the fuck up” stares. Doyle knew very well how to read them.

Finally, their meals arrived. Doyle was wolfing his down even before the others’ meals were on the table. Milo’s “usual,” Chuck saw, was some sort of mystery meat drowned in gray gravy over potatoes, not unlike their meals at school. There was a lot of it.

While Milo ate slowly, almost prissily in Chuck’s view, the other two downed their Jerry burgers and fries in record time. The waitress came to clear away their plates while Milo continued to eat, fork by slow-moving fork.

“So,” Chuck said, unable to sit still any longer, “we’re lookin’ for …”

“I know what you’re looking for, Chuckwagon,” Milo said, “but we haven’t even had dessert.”

Chuck slammed back on the booth and groaned while Doyle’s rubbed his hands expectantly.

“All good things in good time, Chuckles,” Milo said, poking another bit of meat into his mouth.

Chuck fumed as the waitress set down a slice of pie in front of Milo and banana splits in front of him and Doyle. Doyle wasted no time digging into its gooeyness; he was so happy, he actually hummed as he ate. Chuck would have growled, but knew it would just earn him another smart-assed comment – and nickname – from Milo.

At long last, the sticky plates were cleared away and the waitress disappeared; now they could get down to business.

Milo fixed his gaze on Doyle. “How’s Petey doing?” he asked with genuine concern on his face and in his voice.

Doyle gulped. How’d he know about Petey? “He’s ah, not doin’ so hot,” he said. “Ma’s real worried.”

“Sorry to hear that, Doyle,” Milo said. “Either of you familiar with the 1967 song ‘White Rabbit’?” he added.

Now he wants to discuss the oldies? Chuck thought. He was about to say no when Doyle, the freak, cut in.

“I am!” he said. “My ma listened to it a lot.” Then, surprising them all, he started singing in a clear, tuneful voice.

“One pill makes you larger. And one pill makes you small ...”

“Jesus, Dorkmouse, what is up with you?” Copiski snarled as Doyle blushed and Milo clapped. “Milo, look, we just want some stuff; I’ve got money ...”

“You already have your ‘stuff’, Chucknuts,” Milo said. He slipped off his Coke-bottle glasses and started polishing them with a grimy handkerchief. His eyes were shrunken and white-rimmed on his moon-shaped face.

“What the hell does that mean? We got no stuff. You’ve got Dorksmith singing pretty tunes ...what kind of game you playin’ here, Fassbender?”

Doyle elbowed him. “Chuck, Chuck,” he said, “look.”

Copiski looked down where Doyle, a look of awe and fear on his face, was staring. Right on the table in front of them sat two large, multi-colored pills.

“What’s this shit, after-dinner mints?” Chuck grumbled. He scooped up one of them, popped it into his mouth and swallowed.

Milo grinned broadly, nodding his head. “You shouldn’t ought have done that, Charliehorse,” he said.

“Why the fuck not?” Copiski snarled. He slid over the bench toward Doyle, pushing him out. “We’re outta here,” he said. For good measure he nabbed the pill that was in front of Doyle and swallowed that, too.

Milo shook his head, a look of pity on his face. “Now, that you really shouldn’t have done,” he said. “Sit down and I’ll tell you why.”

Already feeling a little strange, Copiski flopped back onto the seat, curious.

“Those ‘after-dinner mints’ might have looked the same,” Milo said, “but they were different from each other.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, if you’re a winner, one of the pills will work a certain way. And if you’re a loser, the other pill will work a certain way. If you take the wrong one, well, there can be dire consequences. Frankly, I have no idea what happens when you take both. One pill was meant for you; the other was meant for Doyle.”

Doyle hung his head, feeling more like a loser than ever. Even Milo thought he was.

“That is such bullshit, Fassbender!” Chuck bellowed. “You into mind-fucking kids? Is that it?”

Milo just shook his head and slowly rose from the booth, his eyes on the window.

“Doyle,” he said, nodding toward it, “I think you’re needed.”

“What?” Doyle turned and saw through the greasy glass, a woman who looked a lot like his neighbor, Miss Sheridan, pacing in front of the building.

While Chuck still sat, trying to figure out why his hands and feet felt like lead, Doyle raced to the door, Milo close behind.

“Oh, Doyle!” the woman, who was indeed Miss Sheridan, cried, “we’ve been looking all over for you! Your ma has people all over town looking.”

“What is it, Miss Sheridan? Petey?”

The woman looked grave as she grabbed Doyle’s hand in her own. “He’s bad, son,” she said. “Your ma, she’s not sure he’ll ...”

“No!” Doyle shouted just as Chuck finally made his way out the door. Doyle started to bolt, but Milo stopped him with a meaty hand.

“Here,” he said, staring the frightened boy in the eye. He put something in Doyle’s hand. “The purple one is for you. The green one’s for Petey. You’ll know when to use them.” He pulled the boy closer and whispered something in his ear.

Doyle looked down at the tiny plastic bag in his hand; inside were two capsules. He looked back up at the big man, whose eyes told him what he needed to know. He took one last look at Chuck, who was pushing past Milo to get to him, and took off down the street, Miss Sheridan following as best she could.

“Dorkman, don’t leave me!” Chuck yelled, trying to make his feet work. “Doyle, come back!” He watched as his friend, moving faster than he’d ever seen him move, disappear around a corner.

“This is all your fault, Fassbender!” he cried, turning back to the restaurant. Fassbender was gone. Chuck pulled on the door, but it was locked, a metal grate he hadn’t noticed before firmly in place. He was alone.

Just two days after his brother’s funeral and one day after Chuck Copiski could have visitors, Doyle Dormeyer sat perched on a hard plastic chair next to his best friend’s hospital room bed. Chuck had yet to acknowledge his presence, but Doyle kept up a running monologue.

“So, he’s gone, but I know he’s okay, because I saw it, Chuck” he said, talking rapidly. “It was pretty awful when I got there, you know? He was just layin’ there, still as can be. It was like something sucked all the blood out of him. Ma left me alone with him and I crawled into bed with him and I just held his hand like he used to like me to. It was still warm, but barely.

“He opened his eyes once and just stared at me. Then I knew it was time, so I took out the two pills. I took the purple one and Petey opened his mouth for the green one, like he knew. I don’t know how he got it down, but he did. Then I just lay back down.

“It was awesome, Chuck! It was like a dream, but not, you know? And Petey was right there with me, I knew he was. There was everything there that he liked in the world: Sky-high roller coasters, fun houses, a gazillion kinds of ice cream and candy; cheeseburgers and pizza. There were even tame lions and bears he could pet and wrestle around with. And horses! Petey loved horses, even though he never, ever saw one before. But there was this black one with a little star on his forehead and he let Petey ride him like the wind all over the place. I never heard him laugh so much!

“There was a castle full of toys and stuff you could wear. Petey dressed up like a knight and fought a super cool dragon. I even think it was real.

“And then it was like I was just watching and Petey started changing, getting older. And there was this pretty girl with him and I was best man at their wedding, and godfather to their first little girl. They were so happy, but he kept getting farther and farther away from me, like he didn’t need me any more. But it was okay, it really was.

“There was this white fog that got thicker and thicker ‘til I could barely see him anymore. Then his hand came through the fog, clear as day, and grabbed mine. It was warm and healthy and he squeezed so tight.

“When I woke up, his hand was still squeezing, but pretty soon it let go and I knew he was gone. I cried like a girl when Ma came in, but really? It was like the best present I could have ever gotten.” Doyle fell silent, smiling at the memories. Next to him, Chuck stirred beneath his restraints.

“What did he say?” Chuck rasped.

“What was that? What did who say? Petey? He said a lot.” Doyle got up and looked down at his friend, whose eyes were wide open, but blank.

“No. What did Milo say? What’d he whisper?” Every word was a task to get out.

Doyle considered for a second, then shrugged.

“He said, ‘You’re not the loser.’ That’s what he said.”

Chuck nodded slowly, then shut his eyes.