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6:30 a.m. Tuesday. September 30.

"...gooooooood morning world! It is half past six on this beautiful, sunny, and hot Tuesday morning on the last day of September. Your horoscope, provided by a Miss Jamala, no, sorry, Miss Jahala Willtoodles, hailing from the beautiful island country of Jamaica, has told me that the Sun is in Libra and the Moon is in Leo. whatever the heck that means. She also says that something unexpected will mess with your perfect routine and you shouldn't let it go. You should embrace it and then emulate it. folks, I don't even know why I bother reading this thing anymore! Anyway, hi, hello, and good morning, and you're listening to the morning show with Joe-Joe, Kenny-Boy, and CC McPherson right here on WPLZ 104.5."

I roll over and turn the radio volume down. My feet are freezing; I really should have worn socks to bed last night. It's probably about 20 degrees outside, and probably worse in my townhouse. Unfortunately, Chuck, the 300-pound landlord with a beard and face like a drunken dwarf from one of my favorite fantasy movies, hasn't fixed the heat since two Septembers ago. I grab my faded yellow t-shirt from last night hanging over my bed post, put it on, and lay my head back down on my pillow. I'm just going to rest my
eyes for a few minutes. Just a few minutes.

* * * * *

6:43 am.

I roll over and attempt to smack the snooze button on my six dollar alarm clock from Target, but I miss and knock off the graduation picture of me and my mother. The glass shatters into about twenty pieces, as the frame smacks against the dark brown, hard-wood floor.

I could clean that up now, or I could get four or five, maybe six, extra minutes of sleep.

I roll over and close my eyes.

* * * * *

7:12 am.

Just five more minutes, I swear, then I'm getting up.

* * * * *

8:08 am.

Dammit! I'm gonna be late! I jump out of my bed and scream as pain as my foot hits the broken glass. Dammit! Can I have one morning where I actually look forward to getting up in the morning? Stupid job, stupid work, stupid boss, stupid Conan marathon on last night.

* * * * *
8:38 am.

I flip off my little TV in my kitchen, and run some hot water over my dishes from a few nights ago. The mac and cheese is turning brown and is probably super-glued to my two-dollar green Target plastic dishes. Being single makes you so lazy and disgusting. I wish I was dating someone, because then I'd have an excuse to do my dishes. That and I'd be happy. That'd be nice.

When you're dating someone, yes, you're glad to be doing all the kissing and the touching and the sex. And I'm glad too. But I'm also glad for the sleeping next to each other and the hand holding and the eating dinner with. How I miss cooking tacos with my college sweetheart Sara and then passing out with her on the couch in her dorm room while watching re-runs of The A-Team.

OWW! I step on my right foot and feel a sharp pain. I pull my foot up, take off the sock, and yank yet another piece of glass outta there. I still can't believe I broke that picture frame of me and my mother this morning.

It's funny, and strangely metaphorical, because that's my fifth frame in four years since that picture was taken. Mom bought me the first one, but I dropped it when I was moving into my first apartment in South Orange and it fell out of one of my boxes and skipped along four flights worth of stairs.

The second frame I bought at Target, but I dropped it in the parking lot as I left. The third frame, was bought the same day, as I went back in the store, and I broke it when I was cleaning a few months later and I knocked it off my mantle in my living room. The fourth frame, was a gift from Mom before she died last year.

I broke that one on purpose.

It could have been the last thing she ever gave me, and I didn't want it to be. I didn't want to remember her with a frame. So I broke it on purpose by punching the glass with my fist.

And the fifth frame, was, not surprisingly, another Target frame that cost me about six and half dollars. I bought it last week.

As I remind myself to pick up another frame later this week, I walk over to the table and begin my morning routine.

I tap my back right pocket. Wallet. Check.

I tap my front right pocket. Keys. Got it.

I check my digital watch, it's 8:42 a.m. I gotta get going.

I tap my front left pocket. Cell phone. Yup.

I check my suit jacket pocket. PDA. Check.

I check my left side. Nothing. Whoa. Shit!

I turn around and grab my Blackberry electronic text-pager off the table and attach it to my belt.

Crisis averted.

I check my other suit jacket pocket. My college graduation pen. Ready.

Time for work. My gray 1993 Chevy Nova awaits me. I hate this car with a passion. It has no style, no substance, and no history (with me). Most people say a car is for just getting around. Not me. A car should mean something. Yeah, I know it's crazy, a frame doesn't mean anything at all to me, but a car does?! The thing is. you can't "work on" a frame the way you can work on a car.

* * * * *

9:29 am.

"...traffic is stalled for at least six to seven blocks. Yessire,
horrible, horrible day to be driving anywhere in Manhattan. Gotta wonder why people drive into Manhattan instead of taking the subway? It's like a parking lot out there. If you haven't left already, don't bother leaving your house until at least after eleven. This is it for the Joe-Joe, Kenny-Boy, and CC McPherson early morning show. We'll talk to you crazy fellas and ladies tomorrow right here on WPLZ 104.5."

I turn off the radio, rest my hands on the steering wheel, adjust my somewhat lop-sided dark sunglasses in my rearview mirror, and stare blankly at my empty coffee cup laying down on the passenger seat next to me.

* * * * *

10:44 am.

As I pour myself my fourth cup of coffee of the day, I spot Beth, the tough talking new secretary (sorry, administrative assistant) tapping her two-inch long fire-red fingernails on her desk to the rhythm of some song from my past that I can't quite remember the name of. My my my my boogie shoes, she taps.

I turn to look and smile, to which Beth responds with a, "Hey, hun." I smile back and then realize I'm still pouring my coffee and now I'm pouring boiling hot java all over my right hand. I yelp and drop the cup my mother gave me at graduation a few years ago, breaking it and spilling coffee all over my freshly polished Timberland bargain outlet loafers ($32.50 marked down from $69.99).

What is it with me and dropping things on the floor today? I'm not usually this clumsy. Unless I'm thinking of more than two things at once. If I have to remember to do my laundry, I won't remember to set my VCR. If I have to remind myself to call a friend of mine back, I'll forgot I was supposed to meet my boss for lunch. And if I'm changing the radio station in my car, I forget to watch the road.

As I bend down and start to wipe up the mess with some paper-towels, I notice Beth looking at me with disgust and pity. I guess she's not impressed by the clumsy guys in the office; she likes the guys with the big salaries like Peterman instead. She pushes back her straight jet-black hair (last week she had blonde hair, and the week before that, she had hair as red as a flashing exit sign), and goes back to her tapping.

"It's my thirty-first day. Please cut me some slack," I tell her.

"Whatever, honey," Beth says as she continues to tap. My my my my boogie shoes.

* * * * *

11:22 am.

I highlight the section about the Targeted Financial Committee under the Analysis section with a big pink highlighter. It's a nice soothing color that also is good and bright (I hate yellow highlighters. sometimes you can't see that you even highlighted anything at all!).

What I loved about college was that projects rarely lasted more than a week. And when you finished them, you could cross them off a big list. I loved being able to cross through something and see it X-ed out; it made me proud. That was the greatest feeling in the world: crossing those damn things off that damn list. But here, at Barnalbee, Tyrone, and Fischter, I never cross things off because the assignment is constantly changing. Or, I use my Palm Pilot and I delete the entry; I don't get to see it crossed out anymore!

I've been working here for just about a month, and I'm still working on the project I started on my first day: something called the Theory, Deployment, Analysis reports; or TDA reports. Long story short, they're all about the big goals. I hate having big goals. You're never around long enough to finish them. I like short goals. I like worrying about buying a new TV. I like worrying about deciding when to see a new movie I'm interested in. I like worrying about picking out my dinner for that night.

Long-term or big goals, however, I hate. Despise. I hate doing TDA reports that are constantly changing. I hate worrying about buying a house that'll take me years and years to be able to afford. And I hate having to worrying about whether or not I'm pathetic because I haven't found a nice girl yet.

* * * * *

12:54 pm.

"I'm heading out to grab a quick bite, before coming back and finishing those TDA reports," I tell my boss, as I pop my head into his office.

"Foley, I really need those TDA reports at 12:30."

Looking confused, I say, "That was almost twenty minutes ago, sir."

"Exactly," my boss tells me.

"I really, really wanted to get going to my lunch because." I never eat lunch before 1:30, and it's been given me stomach problems. My doctor suggested that maybe I'd have fewer headaches and have less trouble sleeping at night, if I ate on a regular schedule.

"Peterman is really looking forward to going through those TDA reports," my boss tells me, as he leans back on his chair and quickly minimizes the Internet Explorer window that suddenly popped up on his desktop. "So, Foley, if you could just, help me out, help us all out, that'd be, well, that'd be just swell."

"I'll uh," I stammer, "I'll uh, have them to you by 1:30."

My boss sits up in his hair, leans his elbows on the desk, rests his head on them and says, "1:00 will be great, thank you, we, really appreciate all your hard work, Foley."

I hate how he makes it seem like I write these TDA reports because I like being a team-member. How can I feel like a team-member just by writing these stupid reports that are actually for people far more superior and important than me? They're the ones who have to reach those goals. Hell, they're the ones who come up with the goals in the first place! I just write them down in nice color schemes so it'll be supposedly easier for them to reach these stupid goals in the process! I don't write these TDA reports because I want to feel like a team player; I write them because it's my job and they give me a small amount of money for it. I just wish he knew that and would admit it. I'm sick of him being so fake and walking all over me.

How I wish I could be living in Massachusetts, working on a car, while Sara was inside, feeding the kids peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches and waving to me from the kitchen. Sara would make some money by selling crochets at a flea market downtown; I would make money by working on everyone's cars and doing some freelance journalism writing. But none of that will ever happen.

I look at my watch, ignore the thoughts in my head telling me to tell him off, and say, "Right, sir." As I walk out of the room, I'm still wondering what the hell web-site he was looking at. And why I'll never say anything to him; probably cause he'll fire me.

* * * * *

2:55 pm.

As I turn the page in my USA Today to check out the weather, I knock my 16 oz. Mr. Pibb soda cup all over the paper, my table, and my half-eaten cheeseburger and fries. As I start to wipe it up, I overhear the couple seated next to me talking. The kid with the dreadlocks looks like he's about twenty-four, while his girlfriend looks about eighteen.

"I need to ask you something," he says.

"Okay."

I throw away the napkins I used to wipe up the soda as he tells her, "I love you so much." He pants heavily as he says it.

"I love you too, honey. What's up?" she asks.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plasticky-looking gray ring with a skull on it and asks, "Will you marry me?" No offense to the poor kid (I mean God bless him, he found true love), but it looks like he got it out of one of those rubber dome balls that you get out of the quarter vending machines in a entrance to supermarket.

"I will, of course, I will. I love you so much."

"Oh, no, I love you so much."

"I love you. I'll love you for all my life."

"I'll love you for all my life," he says.

I turn the page of my USA Today, take a bite of my barely cooked and now-soaked hamburger, shove a few fries in my mouth, and smile at the now engaged couple. Good for them. At least they found happiness.

Sara and I actually talked about marriage one night. We talked about how maybe while Sara was in grad school, and I was starting to build up a savings account, we could start looking at an engagement ring. I never asked her to marry her, she never asked me, but we both knew we wanted to do it. We just never got around to it, I guess. After she died, after her life stopped, I decided my life should stop too. It was only fair.

But lately, I can't do it anymore. I can't live like this anymore. I want the happiness those two kids have.

* * * * *

3:12 pm.

"Hello," I say, picking up my cell-phone, as I start walking along
43rd Street back to the office after lunch.

"John?" a woman's voice asks. The voice sounds like my mother at
first; sweet but with an ever-present soft, grating sound that makes you want to shove a pen in your ear to drown it out.

"No."

"John?" she asks, again.

"No, I said."

"John is that you?"

I'm getting really frustrated now; I only get so many cell-phone
minutes a month. "I said no," I say.

"I can barely hear you, John."

"My name's not John."

"Oh, my bad, my bad. Oops, hold on tunnel. Hold on. hold on. hold.
there we go. I'm sorry, by the way. I'm looking for John."

"There's no John here."

"John?" she asks again.

"I said there's no John here."

"Oh I'm, sorry, I was looking for a John."

"My name's Glen. I'm the only one. Just Glen, dammit!," I say, as a
young mother pushing a baby carriage walks by and glares at me for talking so loudly on my phone.

"John?"

"GLEN!"

"Sorry. I guess I have the wrong number."

We both hang up. I put my cell phone back in my pocket. That's so
frustrating, especially since it happens all the time lately. It's getting
so that wrong numbers or unimportant phone calls outweigh the actual use
behind my phone. But I find myself not wanting to throw it away. I don't
know if it's because I've had it for so long, or that I feel like maybe I'll
need it in an emergency, or that I feel like I want to really need it (maybe
cause it'll make me feel more important); but whatever it is, I can't get
rid of the damn thing.

I continue walking to my building again when my phone rings.

"Hello," I say, picking it up.

"John?"

* * * * *

4:31 pm.

My boss sticks his head in my cubicle, but bangs it against the blue
padding, and in the process knocks the picture of my High School sweetheart
off one of the walls. It's a picture of us in front of the 1964 Belaire
that I fixed up a few summers ago; I crashed it the following summer. Sara
died in that crash.

"Foley."

"Yes, sir," I say as pick up the picture of Sara and me and tack it
back to the wall.

"I was looking over the TDA reports."

"Yes, sir," I say.

"I noticed a problem with them, Foley."

"Yes, sir, what might that be?" I ask, as I twiddle a pencil in my
fingers.

"I noticed the headers over the Theory section of the TDA reports are
blue. I specifically asked for red. Peterman likes red."

I drop my pencil. "I'm sorry, sir, but I thought you liked those in
blue. You said red is hard on you eyes."

"Yellow is hard on my eyes, Foley. Red is soothing."

"Then what's blue?" I ask, as I pick up my pencil and begin twiddling it again.

"I have no idea, Foley. All I know is that when I'm pouring over these TDA reports, late at night - since I'm a team player - I'm going to want those numbers in a soothing color." Again with this team player bull-crap. Why do I let him talk to me like this? I am such a team-player.

I stayed up till 4 am last week because he complained that I used Arial font instead of Times New Roman, that the margins were too big, and that I should have the staple vertical in the corner of the page instead of slanted.

"Some people say blue is soothing," I say, deciding not to pick a
fight with him. I mean, it's just a silly color after all.

"5:00 will be great, if you can have them on my desk by then." I check my
watch, it's 4:37 p.m.


"Sir, I can't get another parking ticket." I stammer.

"Fine, fine, I'll give you till 5:10."


"That's actually worse, sir, I mean."

"Fine, fine, 5:00 will be just fine. Thanks for helping out. We really
appreciate all your hard work."
As my boss leaves my jail cell, I open up the TDA reports on my desktop.
WINDOWS ERROR 617. ALL WORK THAT WAS NOT SAVED HAS BEEN LOST. WE APOLOGIZE
FOR THIS INCONVENIENCE.

Screw you and your goddamn inconvenience.

I start re-typing.

The tack falls out and my picture of my car and Sara floats to the ground.
I miss the days of joyriding with Sara. Skipping out on class just to go
for a ride. Skipping out on class just to go for a cup of coffee. Skipping
out on class just to go have sex. I miss all of that stuff.
But it's my fault it's all gone.

* * * * *

5:36 pm.

"...It's six o'clock, time for a check of the weather. That sun you enjoyed all day. yup, she's on her way out. And not because it's getting dark, but because the clouds are starting to move in. Be careful of a slight chance of rain on the commute home. Have a safe trip home everyone, and keep listening to WPLZ 104.5."

I come outside just in time to see my car getting towed. Goddamn him.

For a second, I think about heading back inside to tell my boss off. I think about telling him how much I hate his guts. I think about telling him how much I hate my job. I think about telling him how much his guts and this job make me hate my life. I think about telling him how bad the coffee Beth makes it and that I only drink it so I can stay awake during the day.

I think about telling him how stupid those fucking TDA reports are, and how they don't mean anything in the long run, because the big boys in the big suits are constantly changing their long-term goals.
I think about doing all that stuff.

I think about restarting my life. I think about getting back on the road.

I've been off the road ever since that night with Sara. I'm stuck on the shoulder, in a ditch, in a rut. I want to get back into the driving lane.

But I only think about all that for a second.

Instead, I start walking towards the subway station.

Maybe I'll tell him off tomorrow.

* * * * *

6:05 p.m.

As I'm reading the billboard advertising the New York Public Library's new Horror Section above the woman in front of me, the man with black spectacles sitting next to me says, "I was thinking about bringing a gun on the train today and robbing everyone."

The man is dressed in what looks to be a very expensive suit; he's
wearing a dark black blazer, a dark blue shirt, and a dark red tie. He pushes his black spectacles up on his nose with his right index finger, and loosens his tie a little. I look for a bulge in his jacket, but can't find one. His pants look normal too; no bulges. He looks like any other business man on a train, except he's the only one who's just scared me half to death.

I look at him to see if he's kidding. Doesn't look like it. Then again, what kind of screwed person would kid about that anyway?

"Actually, I'm lying."

Okay, I feel a little better now.

"I was thinking about bringing the gun on the train and killing everyone."

Is this guy serious? Is this really how I'm going to die? I can't believe I've based my post-college life on a cell-phone, a Palm Pilot, and all that crap, and then to just have it all go away like that. Why couldn't I have just died in that car with Sara?

The eighty-year old lady sitting next to the man drops her copy of O magazine. The man with the blonde hair and ripped surfer t-shirt (in September?) sitting next to me swallows hard. The woman in the short black mini skirt next to him stops whistling and singing something about boogie shoes.

"I wasn't going to do it, though. I was just thinking about it."

"I'm glad you didn't," I say, "And I'm sure everyone else on this
train is glad as well, sir."

We sit in silence for a minute. The old lady picks up her magazine.
The mother sitting across from us tugs on one of her young boys' arms to get him to "shush up." Everything's back to normal. The business man sitting next to her dials another number on his cell phone. The teenager down at the other end of the car shakes her head back and runs her fingers through her blonde (with brown roots) hair.

"Am I crazy for thinking that?" the man asks, breaking the silence.

"No, I don't think so."

"Really? Or are you just saying that?"

"Why I would just be saying that?" I ask.

"Because maybe you think I have a gun," the man says, leaning his head back on his hands with his elbows pointing out.

Silence in the car again. Someone coughs in the back of the car.

Another person squeaks in their seat. The old lady tears a page of O as she is turning it.

"You sure know how to silence a subway car," I say.

"So you think I'm crazy for thinking that?"

"Honestly?" I ask.

"Hell yeah."

You're insane, I think. You're out of your freaking mind. You belong
in an insane asylum, tied up in a straight jacket an fed eight pills an hour. "A little bit," I say.

"Just a little?"

"Yeah. You're just a little crazy for thinking it. You'd be a
helluva lot crazy if ya actually brought the gun. And you'd be
out-of-your-freaking-mind nuts if you actually went through with the plan."

I stop. I did not just say that. I did not just say that, because if I
just said that, I'd just be getting a bullet in my stomach as I'm thinking I did not just say that.

"You have a habit of saying what's on your mind."

"Only when I'm terrified for my life, sir."

"Can I give you a piece of advice?"

My cell phone starts ringing. I look at the caller id. It's my boss.
I click END. I'm a little busy right now, I don't need to deal with any of
his crap right now. Too bad I don't have the courage to actually tell them,
but at least I'm at the point where I can ignore him. that's a start.

"You were saying?" I ask.

"I wanted to give you some advice."

"What?"

"Do something crazy in front of people."

"What?"

"You don't have to scare them, you don't have to impress them, but you should do something to surprise them."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"I'm going to need a better reason than that," I say.

"'Cause otherwise you're just be another nameless hack in a suit that drinks too much coffee, who is pushed around by everyone, relies too much on gadgets, and doesn't have a girlfriend."

Okay, first, my name is Glen Foley and I doubt anyone else has as many coffee stains on their suit as I do. And I doubt many people got their suit at Target. Second, three pots of coffee a day is not a lot. And I'm not pushed around by anyone except my boss, and besides who isn't pushed around by their boss! And I don't rely on too much on gadgets; I just need them.

I mean look at all those phone calls I get from wrong numbers on my cell phone! And the final thing: who the hell am I kidding? The guy's 100 percent right.

My Blackberry starts beeping. I take it out and read the message it
displays: FOLEY, THE DEPLOYMENT SECTION HEADERS IN THE TDA REPORTS WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GREEN. GREEN IS SOOTHING.

"You're exactly right," I say as I hit CLR on my Blackberry and put it back in my pocket. I ignored him twice. Oh man, I'm going to pay for this tomorrow. And yet somehow, I can't seem to care.

"Can I confess something?"

"What's that?"

"I never thought of bringing a gun on this train."

"I kind of figured that," I say.

The old lady flips to the next page in her O magazine. She starts to
read an article about teaching yoga for wimps.

I watch the man in the black spectacles get up and head into another car. I get up and follow him. This man is fascinating to me. The way he can just say what's on his mind. The way he can just talk to strangers.

I've never been able to talk to strangers. ever!

I watch him as he sits next to a guy in a suit, writing something on
his Palm Pilot.

"You know what I was thinking today," the man in the black spectacles asks the other man, "I was thinking about taking out a joint and just lighting it right in front of everyone else right here in the train. Got a match?"

* * * * *

7:02 pm.

I walk in the pouring rain as I try to hail a cab back to my
apartment. I'm meeting a friend later to go see a movie we've been dying to see together. But I can't find a cab; everyone's either filled or off-duty.

So I sit down on a bus bench. I'm not waiting for a bus, but I just figure I might as well relax. A cab will pass me soon enough.

A middle-aged black woman sits down next to me. She's wearing a big red hat to shield her from the rain. It's a very bright, yet soothing red.

"Are you waiting for number 45?" she asks me for.

"No, I'm waiting for a cab," I tell her.

"You know, these are bus stops. There are no cab stands around here."

"I know," I tell her.

There's silence for a bit, then I ask her, "Do you know what song I
haven't been able to get out of my head? My my my boogies shoes. That's not the title, though, those are the words. Do you know what the title is?"

Sara and I were in my Belaire a few summers ago and the song came on.

I couldn't stand the song, but she loved it. She liked to sing along with it. I want to put on my my my my my boogie shoes just to boogie with you, yeah she'd sing. And while I loved Sara more than anything, her singing just drove through my head like a screwdriver. So I bent down to switch the radio and I took my eyes off the road long enough to lose control, hydroplane, and crash into a telephone pole. Sara bashed her head on the dashboard, because there was no airbag in my old, stylish car that I absolutely had to have. She died instantly, they say. Girl, to be with you is my fav'rite thing.

The middle-aged black woman stares at me for a moment. She's probably weirded out. But then, she says, "I'm not sure. I think it's just Boogie Shoes. By KC and the Sunshine Band."

I let go of the guilt over killing Sara a year or two ago. Lately, I just feel guilt over not feeling guilt. And that guilt is worse than the other.

Because I don't think I should get to go on with my life. Because she didn't. Because she couldn't. Because of me. And maybe that's why I let people walk over me. It feels like I'm walking in a trance half the time.

I just don't care about stupid things, because they're not important.
Hating your job is not important; watching the road while you're driving is.

People insulting you is not important; telling someone you love them every chance you get is.

"Thanks," I say.

* * * * *

8:34 pm.

Hi, Glen, it's Alex. Sorry, bud, but I can't make the movie tonight.
I've got to go to dinner with this girl who has been calling me all week, begging me to take her out. I saw the movie this afternoon anyway. But the third one. I swear, I will see it with you. Talk to you later in the week.

Press 8 to delete, press 6 then 5 to save, press 4 then 3 then 2 to.

I press 8, grab my coat anyway, and head out the door. I want to see this movie. I'm going to go see this movie. Who cares if I see it by myself? Why do I have to see a movie with another person? Don't I like myself enough to see a movie with myself?

* * * * *

9:55 pm.

As I'm waiting in line to buy tickets to Legend 2: Circle of Fire, over at the Loews Multiplex on 34th and 52nd, I look over and notice in
front of me, surrounded by other Legend geeks, a beautiful looking girl with short brown hair and a long flowing red dress. She seems out of place in a line where most people are either wearing T-shirts that said "I've seen Legend close to one hundred times and it's still not enough" or they're dressed up as elves, dwarves, or their favorite warrior characters while brandishing plastic axes street priced at $50 even though everybody knows warriors use swords more than axes.

What is about with this girl? She looks about my age, around twenty-three or twenty-four. One, she's not buying tickets for her son because she's not old enough. Two, she looks like she could floor any guy in a second just with a smile or by bending down to pick something up. So it's not like she's buying tickets for her geeky fat slobbery boyfriend.

Three, she looks like she has better things to do than wait out in the rain to buy tickets to a movie she could easily see next week. So it's not like she could be a crazy rabid Legend fan like the rest of us.

So what the hell was she doing here? She seemed so out of place. For one thing, she was the only bright person here who brought a red umbrella.

It's a nice soothing red color, too.

I'm not the kind of guy who normally goes up and talks to strange
women, but after the nice conversation with the middle-aged black woman, I have the strange desire right now to talk to her. I mean, it's very unusual for someone like her to be with someone like us (and for the record, I believe myself to be the coolest among the fans here since I am dressed nonchalantly in a Banana Republic shirt and Abercrombie cargo shorts). But there's a 300 pound problem directly in front of her scarfing down Cheese Doodles not caring it looked like he had just made out to a drunk gigantic orange Crayola that spewed all over his face.

He's scratching himself with his sword in a very disgusting spot, and every time he does, he almost hits me in the nuts with it. I'm so tempted to rip it out of his hands, knock him over the head with it, and then run inside and wash my hands with six gallons of pink movie theater soap.

The girl in the red dress turns around and asks him for the time. He coughs up a doodle, tells his buddy on the phone to hang on, and tells the women he didn't have a watch, despite the fact, he was wearing a Princess Fairy analog watch on his right flabby arm held together by duct tape because it was obviously made for a child, not a liposuction-waiting-to-happen-30-year-old-out-of-work-fan.

"You sure you don't know the time?" the goddess in the red dress asks him.

I check my watch. It's 10:05 p.m. I think about telling the girl in the red dress, but she's not looking at me, and I don't want to talk to her (well I do, but only if she talks to me first). She's gotta ask me first, and then I'll gladly tell her, and then maybe we'll have a really nice conversation.

"I said I don't, lady."

He just called her lady. How dare he! Things like that really bother
the heck out of me. Is it that hard to turn over his hundred pound arm to look at the time, and then tell the nice girl? Is it really that hard?

Stuff like that just burns me up. I mean really, makes me angry. And I can't hold this anger much longer.

And the girl doesn't respond. I can't believe she's just going to let
him walk over her like that. How can people let others walk all over them like that? Wait, what the hell am I saying? I do that all the time. Sara never did. If her food was cold in a restaurant, she'd sent it back. If a teacher yelled at her in class, she's laugh at him. If her Mom told her to stop dating me, she'd tell her she'd love who she'd want to love. She never let people walk all over her. So why should I?

"Look at the watch on your fat fucking arm, " I yell at the guy.

Did that just come out of my mouth? Woh, there is no way that just
came out of my mouth. I never, never stand up to someone like that.

"What the hell did you say?"

* * * * *

6:78 am. Wednesday. October 1.

It's sunny and mild, campers. Going to be a beautiful day. The Sun is in Libra and the Moon is in Leo. Others are having difficulty getting it together; you however, are on your way to something spectacular. Today is the true beginning today. Wow, Jahala is really optimistic today, huh folks? Anyway, good morning, and you're listening to the morning show right here with Joe-Joe, Kenny-Boy, and CC McPherson here on WPLZ 104.5.

My jaw still hurts and my watch is broken, but for once, I'm at least
looking forward to getting up in the morning. because I got her number.

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