I must have fallen asleep at some point during the night because my alarm clock went off at seven in the morning and made me jump out of bed. “Shit!” I said as I slammed the snooze button, which knocked the alarm clock off my desk and under the bed. That’s great; starting the day with a profanity. Most normal people probably just yawn and scratch themselves. Not me. I curse and break things in true Rabbia fashion.

After a minute of stretching and groaning, I got myself out of bed and went downstairs into the kitchen where my mother was making some eggs and toast. My father had already left for work and Bogart was in the back yard chasing squirrels and whatever else he could find. If he was left out there long enough, he would try to dig under the fence so he could hump the neighbor’s Golden Retriever to death. If anyone tells you that neutering a dog calms them down, do not believe them. Bogart was still as active and horny as he was the day before they snipped him.

“Good morning, Peter,” my mother said in a cheerful voice. She was a very petite woman and looked like a little kid wearing her mother’s robe. “I’m making you some eggs before you go to work.”

“Good morning, mom,” I said as I plopped down and poured myself a glass of orange juice. “Where’s Shirley?”

“Still sleeping,” my mother replied. That pissed me off but I was too tired to say anything. You see, I was forced to get a job the second I was old enough but not my sister. They never pressured her to do anything. I remember my first job at a shitty restaurant called People’s Delight. I was fifteen or sixteen years old and the fucker who owned the place had me cutting raw ribs with a gigantic razor-sharp knife and deep frying chicken, which I never seemed to cook long enough. After the fifth complaint in less than a month that the chicken was still red in the middle, I was asked not to come back. I didn’t really give a shit since I hated the job. To top it off, the owner of the place got arrested shortly after I was fired for dealing drugs out of the delivery door. He went to prison and the restaurant was closed down. That really cracked me up. Poetic justice is something I live for.

“At least she was here last night,” I said as I finished my juice and poured some more. “I’m surprised she wasn’t out all night with her friends.” When I was in high school I was never allowed to go to parties or stay out late. My sister? Shirley had no curfew that I knew of and she went out all of the time whereas I would hide in my closet to avoid having to go out with my friends and try to “hook up” with a girl. And on the rare occasion when I did venture outside to be social, I spent the entire time looking at the clock to make sure I didn’t get home late and piss off my father.

“Shirley’s different than you were back then,” my mother said as she loaded up some eggs and toast on a plate and served it to me.

“She is,” I answered while I began to eat. “She has no responsibilities and I was watched over like a terrorist spy.”

“Stop that,” my mother said. She had placed the dirty pan into the sink and was pouring herself a cup of coffee. “You are the oldest, Peter. Your father and I were doing the best we could. You paved the way for your sister.”

“Is she still failing math and science?” I asked. I was actually interested but the question came out much more sarcastic than I had wanted.

“Peter, that’s not fair,” my mother scolded as she stirred in a splash of whiskey into her coffee. She always called is a “splash” of whiskey. It looked more like a shot of whiskey to me but it was none of my business. “Your sister is not like you,” she continued. “She has more trouble with school than you did.”

“I guess,” I said as I inhaled the rest of my breakfast and brought the dirty plate over to the sink. I didn’t want to start anything with my mother so I bit my lip and refused to remind her what my father did in order to make sure I kept my grades up. Back in seventh grade, I got a C in math class and my father flipped. “You spend too much time playing with your stupid toys!” he screamed at me after he and my mother got back from the parent-teacher meeting. Maybe he was right? I still loved to play with my G.I. Joe toys back in middle school and I never liked doing homework. Well, to prevent me from wasting too much time with my toys, my father dumped the box I kept them in all over the floor and proceeded to jump up and down on them, smashing battle-hardened soldiers into useless bits of plastic. I cried of course but I made out in the end. Overcome with guilt, I got loads upon loads of G.I. Joe figures and vehicles that Christmas. And since I salvaged the broken pieces that the Hulk smashed, I had casualties of war to spread out on the battlefield. Still, why would anyone do that to their child?

Just then, my alarm clock went off. “Damn!” I cursed as I ran up the stairs to shut it off. I completely forgot to turn off the alarm.

“Asshole!” my beloved sister screamed from behind her bedroom door.

“Thanks, Shirley,” I replied as I cracked my knee on the desk chair and dove under the bed to shut the alarm off. “That hurt,” I moaned as I rubbed my sore knee. “Today’s going to be awesome, I can just tell.” It was getting late anyway and I had to catch the bus to work since the Falcon was…well…the Falcon. So I grabbed a towel and hit the shower to clean up. After a quick scrub, I brushed my teeth, shaved, and popped an anti-anxiety pill. Once I was dried off, I limped back into my bedroom and got dressed. Since I worked at a bank run by tools, I had to dress “professionally” so I put on a pair of black pants that could have used a date with an iron, a navy blue dress shirt that had terrible ring around the collar, and the grandest article of tool clothing one could wear…a tie; black with a dark blue diamond pattern. At least I didn’t wear a bowtie like a complete dipshit. I then put on a pair of black slip-ons and went downstairs. I loved slip-on shoes. Not having to tie laces was one of life’s little pleasures.

“What time do you have to be at work?” my mother asked. She had finished the dishes and had just opened the door to let Bogart back in. The big goof flew into the kitchen and steamrolled right into me. My wrinkled pants were now covered in yellow dog hair slobber.

“Eight thirty,” I answered as I fended off my canine buddy.

“Are you going to be late?” my mother asked. “You can take my car if you want, Peter. I’m just cleaning up around the house today and don’t have any plans to go anywhere.”

“That’s okay,” I answered as Bogart gave up his attack on me and ran downstairs to have a quick drink out of the toilet and lick himself silly. “I have plenty of time. The bus comes in ten minutes and it only takes ten minutes to get to the bank.” My mother drove a pretty decent green Subaru Outback but I didn’t feel like taking it to work. God forbid something went wrong as I drove those few miles between my house and the bank. My father would hit the ceiling. Better to be safe and take public transportation. Besides, sometimes there were pretty girls to look at on the bus.

“Well, have a good day at work, Peter,” my mother said as she scooted up to me and gave me a kiss and a hug.

“Okay, mom. I’ll see you later.” I left the house and made my way around the corner to the bus stop. It was a nice day; not too warm and not too humid so the chances of me sweating through my shirt were minimal. My knee began to feel better the more I walked and I took in a deep breath of air and tried to enjoy the moment. It was still early and a lot of water sprinklers were on and several of them made rainbows as the sun hit their mists. Although it was a clean and safe place to live, I always thought my neighborhood was kind of bland. It was built right after World War II during the baby boom and apparently there were only four models of houses to choose from and they all looked the same. Our house was a split level, which was the most popular model in the area. The others were ranches, colonials, or bi-levels. But somehow they all seemed to look exactly the same. Mine was the land of vanilla.

When I got to the bus station there was another guy already there who looked like he was ready to fall asleep on the bench. He was wearing beat up construction clothes and a worn Mets baseball cap. “Fucking bus better not be late today,” he grumbled through his blonde beard and mustache, which unleashed a tsunami of liquor stench right into my face. “My boss will be pretty fucking pissed, ya know what I mean?” It’s funny how you can always tell the difference between the people who were taking the bus because they wanted to and those who were taking the bus because of a recent court order.

“Yeah, that really sucks,” I answered as I searched far and wide for the bus. “It’s usually on time though.”

“Fucking better be,” burped the unwanted atrocity of a human being. “I can’t afford to lose this fucking job, ya know what I mean?”

“I sure fucking do.” When in Rome, right?

“It’s bad enough guys like us can’t afford to drive, we don’t need to be starving either, ya know what I mean?”

“You better fucking believe it, brother.” Great, now he thinks I’m some poor drunken shit head too. I looked at my phone to check the time. “The bus should be here in a minute.”

“Hey, dude?” The vulgar bus patron pulled himself off the bench and staggered over to me. “You seem like a straight shooter. Would you mind if I used your phone for a second? I swear it’s a local call. My girlfriend’s expecting me to call her and I don’t have a fucking phone, ya know what I mean?”

I knew what he meant but I was not about to give a drunken stranger my phone. Call me callous, but it just made me feel uncomfortable. Fortunately, the bus turned the corner and pulled up just before I had to respond. Quickly, I changed the subject. “Hey, what do you know? On time as usual. You have nothing to worry about, ya know what I mean?” The second the doors opened, I jumped on the bus, paid the driver, and took a seat next to an older gentleman who was busy reading a newspaper. There were plenty of empty rows on the bus but I did not want to take the chance of having to sit next to my new buddy. I even put my head back and closed my eyes to pretend I was going to take a nap.

A few seconds later, I heard a commotion at the front of the bus. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and saw the bus driver explaining something to the construction worker.

“That’s all I have, man,” he said to the bus driver as he desperately searched his pockets.

“Sir, I’m sorry but that is not enough. Please get off the bus.”

The construction worker was looking panicked. “Mister, you don’t understand,” he pleaded. “I can’t lose my job again, ya know what I mean? I have a girlfriend and a kid to take care of.”

“Sir, I am sorry but you do not have enough money to pay for the fare,” insisted the bus driver. “I cannot allow you to ride the bus. Please get off.”

“Get off the damn bus, you bum!” yelled the old man who was sitting next to me. “Some of us have places to go!”

I didn’t like that. Calling someone a bum was pretty mean. Maybe he was a bum but there was no need to make him feel like a bum. I got up and walked over to the bus driver. “How much does he owe?”

“Two more dollars,” said the bus driver.

“Seriously?” I asked in disbelief. “You’re busting his balls over two dollars?”

“Those are the rules, sir,” explained the bus driver. “If I let him on the bus without paying the full fare I could lose my job.”

“Fine.” I quickly took out my wallet and handed the bus driver the two dollars. “Now let him on.”

“Dude, thanks so much,” said the construction worker. “I owe you big time, bro.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as I put my wallet back into my pocket and sat back down next to the old man. I still did not want to sit next to a guy who smelled like a bottle of Jack and I was sure he would talk to me the entire time and ask to borrow my cellphone again. The construction worker made his way to the back of the bus and immediately pulled his hat over his eyes as his ass hit the seat. I was quick to notice the dirty looks he was getting from the other passengers.

“That was nice of you,” said the old man next to me as he put away his newspaper. “I bet he doesn’t even have a job to go to. Just some damn bar or something.”

“It was just two dollars,” I replied. “I didn’t see the big deal. The driver could have just let him on.”

“Why should he help out a bum like that?” said the geriatric asshole. “The bus driver was just doing his job.”

“So were the Nazis,” I replied as I got up and moved to an empty seat next to a window. For the remainder of the ride I just looked outside and daydreamed of a little old man tripping and falling down the stairs of the bus to the delight of everyone on board. After about ten minutes, I was brought back to reality when the bus pulled up to my stop and I saw my place of business looming in the distance…Bank of Freedom. What a stupid fucking name.

I got off of the bus without saying another word and walked over to the front doors of the bank, which were still locked since we didn’t open for another twenty minutes. I rang the bell and waited for somebody to let me in. As I waited, I noticed a few cars already lined up at both of the drive-up lanes and there were two very large Lincolns in the parking lot with little old ladies in them signing their social security checks. It was just a matter of time before they got out of their land barges and jockeyed for first place when the bank opened.

As luck would have it, the security guard let me in before I was torn apart by angry grandmas. “Sir, please show your identification,” he requested in a militant tone. I didn’t know his name since the security company we used sent over a different guard almost every day of the week. Besides, they all looked the same, which is to say they were overly muscular men with crew cuts wearing super tight black tee-shirts covered in a black bullet proof vest with “SECURITY” labeled on the back in large yellow letters. They also sported black military pants and a pair of boots that looked like they could kick in a head pretty handily. To top it off, they had very prominent 9mm semi-automatic hand guns strapped to their right legs like they were being deployed to an African civil war. So much for the days of chubby Officer Brady with his blue uniform, night stick, and approachable demeanor. Shit, if a lost child went up to one of these lunatics they might get tasered or placed in a choke hold. In order to avoid being labeled a terrorist, I quickly took out my employee card and presented it to the security guard.

“Thank you, sir,” he said and let me in. Despite his vigilance and abundant use of steroids, I still would not give him a snowball’s chance in hell if he got in the way of the two little old ladies who were now pacing around in front of the glass doors like zombies.

“Good morning, Peter,” called the bank manager, Susan Conroy, from her desk across the room. She was so short that I would not have noticed her if she didn’t say anything.

“Good morning,” I called back. Susan was a really nice person and always seemed to be in a pleasant mood. Every day, she wore a long skirt with a matching business jacket and shiny black heels. She had short cropped hair, a thick jaw, and made a swishing noise when she walked. I didn’t know if it was because of her skirts or her shoes but I found it pretty amusing.

Sitting at the other customer service desk next to Susan was Bethany Cassola. She was already on the phone and simply waved hello to me. For a woman in her thirties, Bethany was really attractive. She had wavy red hair and pale skin that was decorated with just the right amount of freckles. She was in really good shape too and liked to tell us stories about her track and field days when she was in high school and college. I also liked that she wore bright red lipstick and nail polish. I was especially happy to see that today she was wearing a low-cut yellow halter top, white pants, and yellow high heels.

“Do you want to work the drive-up today?” Susan asked, snapping me out of my perverted reverie. “Amy was scheduled to do it but her back’s bothering her today.”

Seriously? I just worked the drive-up the other day. Tell Amy to pop a few pills and deal with it. “No problem, Susan,” I answered as I swiped my employee card to get to the back room where the vault and, most importantly, the kitchen was located. It was also the only way to get behind the teller “blockade” unless you were angry enough to jump over it to strangle one of us. If anyone else other than the elderly actually went to the bank anymore, I would see it as a real possibility.

Since I wasn’t a coffee drinker, and since it was almost time to open, I went straight for the vault to retrieve my cash box. When I brought it over to the teller station at the drive-up area, there were even more cars, vans, and SUVs lined up in both lanes. The first person in Lane 1 was a pepper-haired man dressed in a brown suit who was eyeing my every move behind his pilot sunglasses. I simply ignored him and logged on to the terminal. Working at a bank drive-up makes you appreciate the crap that the primates at the zoo have to endure; you just sit there all day like a schmuck while strangers gawk at you and make silly gestures in order to grab your attention. Meanwhile, all you really want to do is hide and scratch yourself with a long stick while thinking about redheads in yellow halter tops.

With just a few minutes left before the bank opened, my two fellow coworkers strolled out of the kitchen area and went over to their stations to log on and get ready for the geriatric tsunami that was building by the front doors.

“Good morning, Peter,” barked Carol Tanner, a little old lady who looked like she was at least ninety and sounded like she started smoking cigarettes in utero. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Carol pulled out her key and stood on her tiptoes in order to unlock her drawer. With her first task a success, she proceeded to climb into her chair, which was like watching a puppy try to climb a flight of stairs. This was especially true since Carol had a full head of gray hair that she would afro perm, making it look like a poodle died on her skull. Although it would be funny if she tipped over, I’m sure it would hurt. I decided not to help.

“Good morning, Carol,” I replied with a smile, picturing a ninety-year-old lady falling off a chair in a flower-patterned dress and dead poodle on her head. By now, the man in the brown suit was waving his hands at me and pointing to his watch. I simply turned away and continued to ignore him. “I just got here a little while ago.”

“God, today is going to be terrible,” moaned Amy Burns as she lumbered over to her station like a soldier shot in battle. Amy was tall and extremely skinny. She had short black hair and smelled like she fell into a tub of lavender oil and pain relieving cream. Middle-aged as she was, Amy loved to complain about anything and everything.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Next to Amy, Carol finally conquered the climb into her chair and let out a dusty sigh of relief.

“I must have slept the wrong way last night,” she said in a miserable tone. “My back is just killing me. And of course my husband and kids don’t give a damn. They just want breakfast and…”

“It’s time to open, everyone!” called Susan from the front lobby. She swished over to the front doors and unlocked them. As the little old people wandered in, she stood there and greeted them with a nice, pleasant smile. “Good morning. Welcome to Bank of Freedom.” The security guard simply stood still and waited for some serious shit to go down; or for someone to throw him a banana.

I turned towards the drive-thru window and flipped on the green lights and the microphone. “Good morning,” I said to the now-livid man in the brown suit as I pushed the drawer open for him to place in his transactions. The sound of the tube sucking in a transaction from Lane 2 helped put me in a working frame of mind.

“It’s eight thirty-five!” the angry tool replied.

“Our clocks show eight thirty, sir. We can’t open until eight thirty.”

“Well your clocks are wrong! I have a job to get to!” My first customer of the day threw his transaction into the drawer while muttering a few incoherent words of advice. He gave me a check and a deposit slip that told me he wanted some money back and the rest put into his checking account. Of course he didn’t sign the deposit slip.

“Sir, I need you to sign the deposit slip,” I said as I pushed the drawer back, somehow forgetting to include a pen.

“Why do I need to sign a deposit slip? It’s a deposit slip, isn’t it?”

“Because you’re getting money back, sir. You need to sign it if you want money back. It’s bank policy.”

The tool in the brown suit grabbed the deposit slip, raised his sunglasses, and looked all over his car for a pen. “I need a pen,” he finally said in disgust. “Do you have a pen I can use?”

“One second.” I pulled the drawer back in and placed in it the oldest pen I could find. I would have given him a dried ink pot and a quill if I had one. I pushed the drawer back out. “Here you go, sir.”

The customer didn’t say a word. He just grabbed the pen and tried to sign the deposit slip. Of course no ink came out so he pressed harder and harder on the paper and ripped it. I tried not to smile. “This pen doesn’t work! Can I have a different one?”

I pulled in the drawer, popped in a new pen and pushed it back out. The angry douche in the brown suit signed the tattered deposit slip and flung it back into the drawer like it was a lit stick of dynamite. I then proceeded to pull the drawer back in and finish up the transaction before the other people on line got agitated. With the deposit made and the cash stuffed neatly into an envelope, I pushed the drawer back out, hitting the customer’s hand because he had it outstretched in anticipation of the end of his morning visit to the bank. Before I could even tell him to have a good day, the lovely gentleman in the brown suit grabbed his money and peeled off into the morning sunshine. Behind me, little old ladies and little old men had formed a little old line in the lobby while they waited to be attended.

Overall, the morning was going as most mornings at a bank drive-up usually go. You make a deposit into one account and make a withdrawal from another account. Some people are pleasant and greet you with a smile while others look like they are ready to commit murder. You also have people who forget their account numbers and ask you to look it up for them and you have people who spit and curse when you ask them for a form of identification. The highlight of the first couple of hours came when a woman talking on her cellphone drove too far past the tube in Lane 2. Using one hand, she decided to back up and swing closer so she could more easily reach the canister. As luck would have it, she hit the device with her side-view mirror and scraped her door on one of the support beams. Fortunately, she did not damage anything other than her car and her ego. You can tell she was embarrassed because she tried to play it cool and kept talking on her phone as if nothing happened.

Once the morning rush had subsided, I had more time to think about Friday and my date with Laura. Since it was still a few days away, I wasn’t sure if I should call her again or if I should just stick with the plan and call her after my interview. Just then, I got a call from the mechanic but decided to let it go to voicemail since we were not supposed to talk on our phones while behind the teller counter. Remembering all of the other times the Falcon was in the shop for repair work, I knew it wouldn’t be very good news anyway.

“Peter,” groaned Amy. “Can you cover for me for a few minutes? I need to take some more medicine or I might not make it the rest of the morning.”

“No problem, Amy,” I answered as she practically tumbled off of her chair and painstakingly made her way to the kitchen area and her medicinal salvation. Of course the second she turned the corner, a few customers walked into the lobby. One was Mr. Carlos who owned a Mexican restaurant in town. He came in every day smelling like burritos and sweat and would make a cash deposit from the tips the night before. It was always a large stack of singles with a few five and ten dollar bills thrown in for good measure. “Buenos dias, Carol,” he said in a very thick Jersey accent. You see, Mr. Carlos’ real name was Brian Callahan and he was about as Mexican as I was. Despite the front, Mr. Carlos’ Mexican Cantina made some incredible Mexican food and was always busy. It was also staffed with plenty of illegal immigrants from Mexico so the name was not too misleading if you really cared enough to think about it.

“Good morning, Mr. Carlos,” answered Carol in the most flirtatious voice a living mummy with almost-certain throat cancer could muster. “Step right over here and I’ll take good care of you.”

The second customer who walked into the lobby was none other than my good pal Mr. Rogers, a very sweet old man who came in each and every day to deposit five dollars into his savings account. “Good morning, Officer Peter,” he said in a high-pitched voice as he stood in line. “Working the drive-thru I see.” I am not joking when I tell you that Mr. Rogers was convinced that I was an undercover FBI agent. His biggest, and only, piece of evidence was that he never knew of a bank teller who wasn’t a woman. “There is no way they would hire a man to be a bank teller,” he would say. “You must be doing some undercover work.” Of course when he said that my response was, “Mr. Rogers, I like you and I refuse to lie to you. I can neither confirm nor deny your suspicions. I can only say that we should just act normally, especially with all of these security cameras around.” And ever since, Mr. Rogers would come up to me and ask me insane questions about bank robbers, counterfeit bills, and where I hid my gun.

“I can take you over here at Amy’s counter, Mr. Rogers.”

“Oh that would be just swell, Officer Peter,” Mr. Rogers replied as he strolled over while whistling some tune I could not understand. When he got to the counter, instead of the usual five dollar deposit, he handed me a withdrawal slip for five hundred dollars. “I’ll need that as a money order payable to the Montreal Lottery Sweepstakes.”

“Mr. Rogers,” I said in a very serious tone, “this is a scam. Trust me, you do not want to send your money anywhere. These lottery scams happen all of the time.” It really upset me that Mr. Rogers was being taken advantage of by some tool bastard up in Canada. As it stood, the old guy only had a little over one thousand dollars in his account and five hundred would be putting a huge dent in it.

“Oh, no, no, no,” my friend answered. “I spoke to their lawyer about this and the five hundred is covering the taxes and legal fees. Once they get the five hundred, I will get the lottery winnings.”

“They actually called you and told you that you won the lottery?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t win the grand prize. No, no, no. I won the third prize. The lawyer was very nice about it too. I haven’t been to Canada in such a long time. I forgot how polite they are up there.”

“Mr. Rogers, I’m telling you that this is a scam. You’re going to be out five hundred dollars.” With that, I waved over to Susan so she could help explain things.

“Good morning, Mr. Rogers,” Susan greeted as she swished over to the teller area. “What brings you to Bank of Freedom today?”

“Oh, hello Susan my dear,” Mr. Rogers answered. “I was just talking with Officer Peter about this lottery I entered.”

“Officer Peter?” asked Susan.

“Nevermind that, Susan,” I said hastily. “Mr. Rogers is just joking around, isn’t that right, Mr Rogers?”

For someone who was very willing to get robbed, Mr. Rogers was quick to pickup on the hint. “Oh, yes, yes, yes,” he said to Susan. “I’m just having some fun with this fine young man.”

I did not want to get off topic. “Susan, I think Mr. Rogers is making a mistake and I’m worried he is being taken advantage of. He wants a money order written out to some lottery in Canada.”

“Oh, I see,” said Susan. “Mr. Rogers, would you like to have a seat at my desk? I can get you a cup of coffee or tea and we can take care of everything there.”

“Some tea would be lovely,” said Mr. Rogers. With that, he and Susan went back over to the customer service area. Just as they sat down, the buzzer for the drive-up went off and Amy came wincing back over to her seat. Over by Carol’s station, Mr. Carlos finished up his transaction and left a scented trail of Mexican fare as he left the building.

A few minutes later, Susan came up to Amy’s station with a signed withdrawal slip for five hundred dollars. “Amy, please make this withdrawal for Mr. Rogers and create a money order payable to the Montreal Lottery Sweepstakes.”

“You couldn’t talk him out of it?” I asked in disbelief.

Susan looked pretty upset about the whole situation. “No. He insists that it is legal and that he knows what he is doing. There’s nothing else we can do. It’s his money.”

“But he doesn’t even have any money,” I said. “That’s half of what he has saved in the bank. If he goes back to putting in five dollars a day it’ll take him one hundred days just to get to where he is now.”

“I know, Peter,” Susan replied. “Some people have to learn the hard way, I guess. It’s a shame but he won’t listen to me.”

I just turned around in disgust and stared out of the drive-thru window while Amy printed out the money order. A short while later, I could hear Mr. Rogers thanking Susan before leaving the bank to go and mail his money to some piece of slime in Canada.

“That’s a real shame,” croaked Carol. “There’s no such thing as easy money.”

“Sure there is,” I said angrily. “You just have to be a big enough lowlife to take advantage of people.”

“There’s also the lottery,” added Bethany who overheard the conversation as she walked past and swiped her card to enter the back area.

“That reminds me,” said Amy. “The Jersey Freedom Jackpot is over eighty million dollars! Anyone want to chip in for tickets? I can get them at lunch. I need to go to the drug store anyway for more ibuprofen for my back.”

“I’ll put in a few dollars,” Carol barked as she reached precariously for her handbag, which was hanging underneath her counter. “Why the hell not?”

“Count me in,” said Bethany. She was in the vault and I could not help but watch as she leaned over to get some sort of stamp off of the top shelf. I decided that white pants were pretty awesome.

“Susan,” Amy called. “Do you want to chip in a few dollars for the Freedom Jackpot? It’s over eighty million!”

“Sure, why not?” answered Susan from across the lobby. “I’ll give you the money in a few minutes. I just have to make some calls first.”

“Peter?” asked Amy. “Do you want to join us?

“No thanks, Amy,” I replied. “I don’t support that sort of thing.”

“What do you mean?” Amy asked in disbelief. “If you want, I can loan you a few dollars and you can just pay me back.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” I said. “I don’t play the lottery. It’s all bullshit.” I could tell that Amy was not prepared to hear what I had just said. She just stood still for a few seconds.

“It’s not bullshit if you win,” she responded. “Someone has to win, right? Why not us?”

“The lottery was created by the government to give people hope when there really isn’t any hope to be had.”

“It’s just a fun game, Peter” croaked Carol who had successfully grabbed her purse without falling off of her perch. “You get so upset over nothing. A young man like you should be on top of the world. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

I decided to ignore Carol and focus on the debate I had started. “What is the slogan of the New Jersey Lottery?” I asked.

“Give your dreams a chance,” Amy answered. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I asked. “Think about what you just said, Amy. Give my dreams a chance?”

“Yes,” Amy answered. Carol just sat still and counted out a few dollars to chip in for the lottery. Bethany was now just standing outside of the vault with her arms crossed while she listened in.

“So nobody thinks it’s completely messed up that the state of New Jersey is telling us that our dreams have no chance of coming to fruition unless we get lucky enough to win money? Why did I go to college then if my dreams hinge on the odds of hitting the lottery? Why do we have jobs that we hate? Why do we even bother to get up in the morning if our dreams depend on getting lucky enough to match a few randomly drawn numbers? I had always believed that our dreams are what make us who we are and that we are the ones who can give them a chance. Not some scumbag in Trenton.”

“I don’t think that’s what the slogan means,” insisted Bethany as she rolled her eyes and handed a few dollars over to Amy. “It’s just some fun and games, Peter. You need to lighten up, chubby.”

“Bethany, that wasn’t nice,” said Amy. “He’s entitled to his opinion. You didn’t have to call him that.”

Bethany didn’t say a word to me or Amy. She just turned around and walked to the kitchen. I was so embarrassed I didn’t even check her out as she left. I just shut my mouth and wobbled my fat ass back over to my station. It’s funny how people always resort to personal attacks when they are either wrong or uncomfortable about something. It’s also funny how those personal attacks always seem to work; especially when they come from an attractive person who you can’t defend against.

“What’s going on over here?” asked Susan with a hand full of some money for Amy. “It got really quiet all of a sudden.” Fortunately for me, a customer pulled up and I immediately took her transaction and got to work. I could hear Amy, Susan, and Carol whispering behind my disgustingly fat back. Soon enough, another customer walked into the lobby and the party was over. Susan swished back to her seat to make more calls and Carol attended to the customer while Amy went to lunch to buy some lottery tickets and more pain killers for her back. I didn’t give a shit where Bethany was.

As always, I volunteered to take the last lunch that day. According to my reasoning, it was better to go to lunch later because you got back to work later in the day as well, which meant you didn’t have much longer to go until it was time to go home. In my mind it was a classic George Costanza move. I even kept my work area messy on purpose because it made me look like I was busy all of the time. The one thing I could not figure out, however, was a way to build a small bed under my station so I could take naps throughout the day.

“Where are you going for lunch, Peter?” Susan asked as I made my way across the lobby towards the ever-vigilant security guard. She had a concerned look in her eye and I could tell she felt pretty bad for me.

I was still really embarrassed about my earlier conversation with Bethany and could not look any of my coworkers in the eyes. “I’m not sure,” I mumbled with my head down. “I’ll figure it out.” With that, I wandered outside and took a deep breath of the warm summer air.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon and I was hungry. Since I didn’t have a car to go anywhere that might have qualified as a nice little break, I walked across the parking lot to Patriot Pizza and ordered a couple of slices and a diet soda from a guy named Anthony who was coated in flour and sweat and always wore an American flag bandana wrapped around his head. Since it was pretty late in the afternoon to be having lunch, and too early for dinner, the restaurant was empty and I was able to grab a nice seat in front of the window where I could eat in peace and check my phone to see if I had any texts or voice mails, of which I had several.

First, I checked my voicemail and saw that I had just one message from the mechanic regarding my car. “Hey there, this is Nicky from Liberty Mechanics calling about your Regal. We ran a few tests and took it for a test drive and you have leaky valve seals. That’s why you are seeing smoke. You also need new spark plugs and a tune up on top of it. That should cover the shaking you are feeling. Should have it all done by tomorrow. Call you then.”

Wonderful, the Falcon will be out of service for another day. To be honest, the Falcon was in the shop so often, I was more used to not having a car at this point. I didn’t even give a crap how much all of the work was going to cost. That’s why God made credit cards, right? Next, I looked at my texts.

“Dude apes on fire today!” was the first text I had from Miller. I immediately laughed at the thought of a dude ape on fire. Knowing that Miller was a complete moron when it came to sending a text, I scrolled over to the next one, which was once again from Miller.

“Dude, waves are firing today! Stupid autocorrect!” This message added salt on the fat wound I received from Bethany. Not only was I stuck at work surrounded by people who hated me, I was missing some really good waves. That always seemed to be the case; when you are off from work, the waves were nonexistent but when you had to work, it was epic conditions. I finished off my first slice of pizza and went to the next message.

“Greetings, Lord Rabbia. Do any of you brave adventurers care to game tomorrow’s eve?” It was a message from a guy named Walter Secchione who lived around the corner from me. Walter was a year younger than me and we became friends when I was in eighth grade and he was in seventh. I was riding my bike one day and saw him sitting on his front porch with a huge collection of comic books. Since I was also an avid collector of certain titles, such as Spider-Man and Transformers, I rode up and we bonded rather quickly. If Walter had any problems, it was that he was a massive nerd. Seriously, he was a classic, textbook geek; short and fat with tight, curly black hair that was littered with flakes of dandruff. His face was covered in pimples and thick black glasses. And to top it off, he didn’t have the best personality. In fact, he was pretty damn weird. On the school bus, Walter would normally sit in his seat and giggle to himself. Of course, he was bullied and made fun of each and every day for just being who he was and I think that’s why I always remained friends with him. He wasn’t a bad person. He just didn’t fit in. Despite my pleas for understanding and mercy, Miller and Stuart didn’t really care for Walter either but they tolerated him enough for us all to get together and play Dungeons & Dragons as much as we could throughout middle school and high school. Once we graduated, our gaming adventured became less and less frequent. Whereas we used to play at least four times a week during the zenith of our geekdom, our nights of gallantry and trying to fuck over each other’s characters as much as possible dwindled down to just a few times a month and eventually none at all. I tried really hard to remember the last time we all got together to play and could only come up with a cold night last December during Winter Break. Walter had come up with some convoluted adventure where our characters were shrunken down to the size of ants and had to figure out a way to get back to normal. So instead of fighting cool ass trolls, goblins, and demons, we were rolling our dice to either fend off or kill bees and caterpillars. It was quite lame. When we had to wrangle and ride butterflies, it was decided that Walter no longer act as Dungeon Master. Walter, in his weirdness, simply sat in his chair and giggled while eating cheese doodles. Oddly enough, these memories made me want to play again. I’d have to talk it over with the guys and try to convince them to dust off their character sheets and sharpen their pencils.

“That could be fun,” I texted back to Walter. “Let you know tomorrow for sure.”

Not surprisingly, my next text was from Miller again. “Stuart’s hairdo,” it said. Moron.

I went to the next text, which said, “Fucking autocorrect! Stuart is her ado.”

I went to the next text from Miller. “Stuart is also here. We will both be back tomorrow. Waves are awesome!”

After deciphering Miller’s ranting, I realized that it was almost three o’clock. I quickly finished my second slice of pizza and sucked down the rest of my soda before tossing away the garbage and heading back to work.

“Thank God you’re back!” barked little old Carol the second I stepped foot in the lobby of the bank. “I need your help! The drive-up lane’s a mile long! What took you so long?”

“Carol, I wasn’t even gone an hour,” I answered as I swiped my card and walked back to the drive-up counter. I took a quick look and saw just four cars in Lane 1 only. “Why isn’t anyone over at Lane 2?”

“I shut it down,” croaked the old bag as she impressively pushed off the counter so she could roll to the terminal and punch in the transaction. Then, once everything was done, she shoved off again and rolled over to the drawer and microphone. “Thank you,” she barked at the customer. Then, she pulled on the counter hand over hand until she made her way back to her terminal that was out by the lobby, leaving me to handle the remaining customers and the closed lane, which I promptly opened up again by flicking the light switch to the ON position. As soon as that light went from red to green, the person who was last in line floored it and drove like an asshole to prevent the person in front of her from changing lanes and getting a better position.

“Amy,” I called over as I took in the next transaction from the customer at the window. “Why did Carol cover the drive-up while I was at lunch?”

Amy spun around in her chair and put on her very best expression of pure agony. “My back is not letting up,” she moaned. “I tried to cover for you but standing too long is just too painful.”

I didn’t respond to Amy and just went about my business of cashing a few checks and making a withdrawal for the customer. As I was at the terminal I heard the sound of the tube sucking in the transaction of the customer in Lane 2. Knowing that it was the jackass who drove like a maniac a few seconds earlier, I took the next person in Lane 1. I’m like the Wyatt Earp of the bank tellers.

In my mind, one of the best parts about working the drive-up is the microphone. Not because it allows you to converse with the dipshits out in their cars, but because it allows you to feel like a rock star, should you feel the need to sing. The last thirty minutes at the bank were always the slowest. Most people get their transactions out of the way either early in the morning or during lunch. Afterwards, you have a few stragglers here and there but for the most part, you are reconciling your transactions and “zeroing out” your account, which is basically making sure you didn’t mess up any transactions that would have you end with a negative or positive balance, depending on how you screwed up. As for me, I had already balanced my account and was looking out of the window and thinking about the unsolicited insult that Bethany called me earlier. I’m not one to forget things easily, especially when it comes to my weight. If she had called me a jerk or a loser, I would have simply laughed it off. But I have always been really self-conscious about my weight, thanks to loads of pricks and assholes throughout my school career. And here I am, twenty-two years old and I am still being called names. And to top it off, I am being called tubby by someone who I thought to be really sexy and attractive. With the inevitable downward spiral of my mood, I decided to turn on the microphone and sing one of my favorite songs from the best band to have ever laid down a tune.

“I’m so happy, ‘cause today I’ve found my friends. They’re in my head. I’m so ugly, but that’s okay, ‘cause so are you. We broke our mirrors. Sunday morning is every day for all I care, and I’m not scared. Light my candles, in a daze ‘cause I found God. Yeaaah, yeaaah! Yeaaah, yeaah! Yeaaah, yeaaaaah!

I’m so lonely, but that’s okay, I shaved my head, and I’m not sad. And just maybe I’m to blame for all I’ve heard, but I’m not sure. I’m so excited, I can’t wait to meet you there, but I don’t care. I’m so horny, but that’s okay, my will is good. Yeaaah, yeaah…”

“Excuse me, are you open?”

Shit, someone heard me. I quickly snapped out of my Cobain, and opened my eyes to see a man wearing running gear and sweating profusely at the drive-up window. In his one hand, he was holding onto an envelope while using his other to tug his spandex shorts from his taint. To top it off, he was not in a vehicle of any sort. Believe it or not, this happens more often than it should.

“Sir, you are going to have to come into the lobby. I cannot work on your transaction at the drive-up.”

Apparently, that did not sit too well with the jogger. “Why do I have to come in? There’s nobody on line out here.”

“Because, sir, it’s not safe.”

“How’s that?”

“Look, as much as I might enjoy it, if a car swings around the corner over there, the driver might not see you and you will be run over and then sue the bank for not protecting you. Please come inside and we will be more than happy to take your transaction.” Fortunately, the explanation worked and the angry jogger left me to my misery.

Five o’clock came soon after the jogger left the lobby and Susan promptly swished on over and locked the front doors while I all-too-eagerly flipped the drive-up lights and microphone to the OFF position. Since I had zeroed out my account ahead of time, I simply had to shut down my terminal and return my cash drawer to the safe.

“Boy, what a busy day,” yawned Carol as she stretched her arms and legs from atop her chair. Surprisingly, no bats flew out of her mouth as she said it. “I can’t wait to get home and relax.”

“You said a mouthful,” agreed Amy as she stood up and did a few twists to stretch her back. “I’m just going to go home and jump in a hot bath. The family can fend for themselves tonight.”

Across the lobby, Bethany gathered her transactions, stamps, and piercing insults and quickly walked them over to the vault. Although I was ready to head out too, I waited until she was done so we wouldn’t be in the vault at the same time. “Goodnight ladies,” she said as she left the back room and made her way to the front door. Despite my best efforts, and despite the fact that she did not address me when leaving, I still checked her out as she said goodnight to Susan, who was talking to the security goon, and went out the front doors. That’s the power of white pants, I guess.

“I’m heading out,” I announced as I returned my drawer to the vault and tried to ignore the fact that it still smelled amazing from Bethany’s perfume. “Have a good one.”

“Goodnight,” Amy called back. Carol said something too but I was too far away, both mentally and physically, to understand.

“Goodnight, Susan,” I said without slowing down. “See you later.”

“Okay, Peter,” said Susan, again with the look of pity in her eyes. I was just a few feet away from escaping when she swished over and gestured for me to bend down so she could tell me something.

“What’s up?” I asked, now dreading that I was going to be asked to work tomorrow.

“Listen, don’t let what Bethany said to you today bother you. She had no right to say that and I’m going to have a talk with her tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m not,” I lied. “I don’t even remember what she said.”

“She called you a fat tub of shit, Peter.”

“Actually, I think she just called me tubby, Susan.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Peter. That’s not what I was told.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I insisted, trying to quell my sudden urge to run outside and jump into oncoming traffic. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Well, it’s not okay” Susan continued, “And I just want to let you know that you’re a great guy and you are not even close to being a fat ass. You look great and you’re a great person.”

“Thanks, Susan,” I said while my face quickly started to feel like it was under a heat lamp. “I’d rather not talk about it, to be honest with you.”

“Understood, Peter. See you on Thursday, right?”

“Yeah, Thursday,” I said while I straightened up and left the bank. “See you Thursday, Susan.”

Outside, it was still very warm and very bright. Wanting nothing more than to go home, throw on some comfortable clothes and hang myself, I made my way to the bus stop and waited for my diesel chariot to whisk me away from what turned out to be just another miserable day at work. Fortunately, the bus pulled up on time and was full of refreshingly cold air and plenty of seats. In a short while, it pulled up to my stop and I got off and headed home.

As I made my way up the block, I tried to get over the insult that Bethany had called me earlier. I convinced myself that I was not tubby at all and that I could and would start eating better to lose some weight and slim down. I was certainly active enough. I just needed to eat better.

My mood was beginning to lighten as I turned the corner to my street but was quickly vanquished as I heard a loud commotion coming from my house. Since I was still three houses away and was able to clearly hear what I assumed was yet another argument between my parents, I was no longer sure that my crappy day was at an end. Since I refused to enter the house and witness the chaos first hand, I stealthily snuck into my backyard so I could assess the situation from the outside.

“Why can’t you be more patient with her?” my mother screamed. “She’s not stupid, you know! You always make us feel like we’re stupid or something!”

“How many times do I have to talk to her about her fucking schoolwork?” my father screamed back. “She keeps failing! She doesn’t listen! She sits around on her stupid ass all day and giggles like a moron on her phone!”

“I do not!” Shirley shouted back. “School’s hard, okay? Sorry I’m not as smart as you are! God, I hate this fucking house!”

Then, I heard a door slam followed by something fragile breaking against a wall.

“Frank, that was her cell phone!”

“No shit!” my father answered. “I bought the fucking phone anyway. Now she can’t piss away her day talking to her friends. Are they going to pass summer school for her? No!”

“There’s something wrong with you, Frank! You’re a goddamned terrorist!”

Something else that was meant to be handles gingerly crashed against a wall and then another door slammed shut.

“Yeah, I’m a terrorist, alright!” my father shouted. “Well, this terrorist is hungry and is eating with or without any of you!”

Since I was not going to even try to enter the house and diffuse the situation, I quickly came up with Plan B, which consisted of me walking away and getting something to eat at a local dive called American Spirits. It would be a good twenty-minute walk in my very uncomfortable work clothes but it was a better idea than stepping foot into my house. The thought of a nice, cold beer and a rare burger with onion rings helped keep me motivated as I trekked through my suburban settings. I couldn’t help but feel envious as I watched other parents pulling up in their cars or trucks after a long day at work while sporting smiles and overall pleasant demeanors. I really got despondent when I saw some guy walk up to his house and have his wife, three kids, and some little runt of a dog run out to greet him. I don’t think Shirley or I ever ran up to my dad when he got home from work. Normally, we kept hidden and quiet until we knew he and my mother were not going to get into a fight. Only then would we slowly make our way downstairs and slither into the kitchen for dinner. What happened next depended on how we did on our most recent tests at school or if we got in any trouble at all.

When I walked into American Spirits, the bar was loaded with people who were eating, drinking, and watching the news on an extra-large television that was hung at the far wall. Most of the rickety wooden tables that were scattered throughout the dive were occupied by families and friends who must have felt the need to get out of the heat and have someone else cook for them. I told the not-so-bubbly greeter at the front door that I was willing to sit anywhere and she gladly walked me back to a small table in the far corner of the establishment where I sat down and ordered a beer. Soon enough, a waiter came over with my drink and asked if I was ready to order.

“I’ll have the Ole Glory Burger, no cheese, with jalapeno slices.”

“How do you want that cooked?” the waiter asked while concentrating heavily on the television.

“Rare, please. And can I swap out the fries for onion rings?”

“Sure,” he answered, still watching the television. “Do you want freedom fries with that or liberty rings?”

“Onion rings,” I answered. “And cook the burger rare, okay?”

“Sure, oh, I’m sorry,” said the waiter as he realized what he was doing. “I apologize for that, sir. That’ll be one Ole Glory, no cheese, rare, and with liberty rings, right?”

“That’s it,” I said politely, although I knew he missed the jalapeno slices. “What’s going on with the news?”

“Another hostage standoff in New Mexico,” the waiter answered.

“Really?” I asked in disbelief. “That’s the third one this month.”

“Yeah, this one is some crazy author who said he is tired of deadlines or something,” The waiter simply shook his head in disgust and left to place my order while I simply sat at my lonely table for one and sipped my beer in silence. I was already upset about my parents fighting and what Bethany called me at work. I didn’t need to get even more upset about the latest NRA terrorist standoff.

A little while later, the waiter brought me over a cheese burger and fries and a second beer. I didn’t even have the courage to tell him that the order was completely wrong, as I always felt that would lead to itty bits of phlegm and other debris making their way into the food while the staff members make you the correct order. As I bit down into the burger, I was delighted to find out that at least it was cooked rare. The beer was also nice and cold and hoppy, which made me feel even better. So as to not look like a complete weirdo eating alone, I pulled out my phone and started to go over my texts and work schedule as I ate. I didn’t want to finish too soon because that would force me to go back home and endure the rest of the latest family struggle. I also didn’t want to keep my head up and look around too much because it was a local place and that meant an impromptu high school reunion was always just one facial recognition away from reality. The last thing I needed was to meet one of the many people I despised while I was in high school.

After I finished my dinner, I paid my bill and left American Spirits. The sun had gone down and I knew it would be dark by the time I got home. As I embarked on my return journey, my phone rang and I saw that it was Miller.

“Hey dude, what’s up?” I asked as I answered the phone and continued to walk home.

“Nothing much, bro. You still on for tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I answered. “Sounds like the waves were really good today.”

“You have no idea, dude,” said Miller. “We were in the water all day. I didn’t get out until my legs started cramping. Stuart too. He got tubed at least five times, Pete.”

“That’s awesome,” I said. “Hopefully tomorrow is just as good.”

“It should be,” replied Miller. “The low is stuck off the Carolinas so the surge should be just as good tomorrow as it was today.”

“Very cool,” I said. “What are you doing the rest of the night?”

“I’m beat, dude. I’m just going to chill out and rent a movie or something. I can barely walk right now. What’s going on with you?”

“I’m heading home from Spirits.”

“You should have called me,” Miller said. “I would have met you there. What’d you eat alone or did you go with the family?”

“I just had a really shitty day at work and when I got home my parents were arguing over Shirley’s school work so I just walked on over here to get something to eat. It wasn’t planned or anything.”

“That sucks, bro,” said Miller. “I’m surprised your parents fight so much. I always have a great time with them when we’re all together.”

“That’s because you get to go home,” I said. “Anyone who knows they can leave just loves my family.” That made Miller laugh.

“Dude, don’t get all down about it. All families are fucked up, trust me.”

“I guess.”

“So, what time do you want me to pick you up?” Miller asked, probably changing the subject for my benefit.

“Just tell me when and I’ll be ready,” I answered.

“I’ll get to your house around ten o’clock, okay?”

“Sounds like a plan, Mill. Oh yeah, I almost forgot; guess who sent me a text today?”

“I don’t know, dude. Who?”

“None other than Walter Secchinoe.”

“Get the hell out of here,” said Miller in disbelief. “Walter texted you? God, how long has it been since we heard from him? What did he want?”

“Well,” I said as if I was preparing to tell Miller he had just won the lottery. “He wanted to know if we would be interested in playing tomorrow night.”

Miller’s outburst of high-pitched laughter pretty much informed me that this was going to be an uphill battle. “Seriously?” he finally asked.

“I’d never joke around about D&D. Of course I’m serious. I thought we’d get some beer and pizza and have some old school dice-rolling antics.”

“Dude, I’m not going to sit at his parent’s house and fight off giant butterflies again. That shit was really lame. What did you tell him?”

“I said I would talk it over with you guys and let him know tomorrow.”

“I don’t know, Pete. Walter is seriously weird. And his house always stunk like cat piss.”

“I know, I know,” I said dejectedly. Miller was right; Walter’s house did always stink like cat piss. His parents had two or three tomcats and never changed their litter boxes. They kept them in the basement but the pungent stink of kitty urine wafted throughout the entire household. “Maybe the cats are dead or ran away?” I suggested. “It’s been a while since we’ve been there.”

“Maybe not,” answered Miller. “Maybe they’ve spawned and there are dozens of them now? Did you know I used to run home and jump in the shower every time we left that place?”

“Listen, dude, I told him I’d let him know tomorrow. We can talk about it at the beach so I don’t want an answer now anyway. We haven’t played in such a long time that I thought it could be fun. I’ll even tell him that we are not playing any adventure where we are shrunk and have to fight off ants and bumblebees.”

“Alright, alright Pete,” said Miller in his drawn-out, “calm down” voice. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’m not saying no right now. I’m just saying I will probably say no tomorrow. But you never know; I could always change my mind.”

That was a typical, convoluted Miller response. He always came up with a way to take absolutely no responsibility for anything. He was a true master of his game and I respected that. Still, I was too hot and too sweaty to continue the conversation, which would have just been an endless loop of Miller giving me the vaguest answers he could come up with. I resigned to the fact that I would have to deal with Miller and Stuart tomorrow. “Whatever, dude,” I mumbled. “We can talk about this tomorrow, then. I’ll see you at ten.”

“I can tell your pissed at me, dude.”

“I’m not pissed, Mill. I just had a pretty shitty day and it needs to end with my head hitting my pillow.”

“Okay, man. Cheer up and be ready tomorrow at ten. Catch ya later, Pete.”

By the time I got to my house, it was nice and dark outside and the temperature felt a little cooler than it did when I first left the restaurant. Even better, none of my parents’ cars were in the driveway, which meant that they were both out. When I unlocked the front door and walked inside, I was immediately attacked by my buddy, Bogart.

“Hey there, big guy,” I said as I crashed on the floor and let the giant Labrador jump on top of me and try to lick me to death. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” This went on for several minutes until I had enough roughhousing and pushed the beast off of me and went downstairs to watch some television. Of course, in order to sit down and watch television in my house, you needed to remove the pieces of “spiked wood” off of the couch first. If you didn’t do that, you would wind up sitting on a variety of nails. It wasn’t that my father was a circus performer or into Asian meditation techniques; it was that he simply did not want the dog on the couch.

Back when Bogart was a puppy, he used to sit on the couch with us all of the time. However, my parents eventually bought a new couch and of course Bogart, being a dog and a creature of habit, simply figured he would be allowed on it as well. To his chagrin, that was not the case. My father, being a vocal man, laid down the law by eloquently stating in his New York accent, “I don’t want the fucking dog on my new couch.” In order to make sure the dog followed this new law, he took some old boards of wood out of the garage and laid them across the cushions. It would then be the duty of the last person on the couch to place the wood onto the cushions before leaving. Bogart, however, was not so easily deterred and would either move the obstructions aside with his nose or simply lay on top of them without a care in the world. Well, once yellow dog hair was found on the couch, my father decided to up the ante by driving nails through the pieces wood. Needless to say, it only took the poor dog one night to learn that jumping on a couch covered in spikes was not more comfortable than sleeping in your own doggy bed. My friends, having long ago come to the realization that my father was fucked up in the head, simply cracked up at the sight of me moving torture devices from my own furniture before being able to watch a movie. Thank God I didn’t sleep walk.

With the spikes safely set aside, I sat back and turned on the television to hopefully catch a Seinfeld rerun or even The Honeymooners, which was a Rabbia family favorite. Apparently my family enjoyed watching people living in abusive, dysfunctional relationships just as much as we enjoyed living in them ourselves. Unfortunately, neither show was on so I settled on some obscure shopping channel where two rednecks were selling swords and knives for very competitive prices. It was when I decided to lay down on the couch and get more comfortable that I noticed something odd; the door for the water heater closet at the far side of the living room had five massive holes in it. I quickly got off the couch and took a closer look. After further inspection, I realized that the holes were exactly the same size as a grown man’s fist. A small trace of blood around one of the holes, presumably the last one created, confirmed my suspicions. Suddenly, I was not in the mood to watch television and decided to go to bed instead; after putting the wood back on the couch of course.

When I went upstairs to head to my room I noticed that my sister’s light was on. Gently, I knocked on her door. “Shirley, you in there?”

“Where else would I be, loser?” was the response I received from the other side of the closed door. I always cherished my sister’s relationship with me. It was full of love, laughter, and warmth.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “I heard everyone fighting when I got home so I just left.”

“You’re lucky. I was stuck in this hellhole with those two.”

“Are you okay? What the hell happened downstairs? The door to the water heater is full of holes.”

“Dad said it was either the door or mom,” my sister explained. “I’m fine. I just locked myself in here until they left.”

“Where the hell did they go?”

“Well, dad cut his hand open after he broke the door so he drove himself to get stitches or something. I guess he’s at the hospital. Mom called some friends and went to go and meet them at some restaurant.”

“Which restaurant did she go to?”

“How would I know?” snapped my sister. “I already told you that I locked myself in my room until they were gone. Who gives a shit where they went?”

I could tell that Shirley had enough of the conversation so I decided to end it there. “Okay, then. Sorry you had to be involved with all of that,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m used to it by now.”

“Good night, Shirley.”

“Bye, loser.”

After I brushed my teeth, I changed into my pajamas and fell into bed. Thankfully, I fell asleep rather quickly.

I awoke at 3 o’clock in the morning covered in sweat after having a terribly vivid dream about stepping on dozens of hypodermic syringes at the beach while trying to get from my car to the ocean. No matter how many syringes I pulled out of my feet, I kept stepping on more and more no matter how hard I tried to avoid them. Dizzy and more than a little disoriented, I got up and walked to the bathroom. After taking many deep breaths to calm down and slow my heartbeat, I filled a glass with some tap water and opened the medicine cabinet.

There is nothing quite like forgetting to take your anti-anxiety medication before you go to bed.

Next Chapter: Wednesday