I woke up at nine o’clock in the morning, yawned, stretched, and scratched myself silly in order to get rid of the slight haze that was still lingering in my head from forgetting to take my medication before going to sleep. I got up and looked out of my window. The morning sky was dotted with light gray clouds and the leaves on the trees moved slightly as a warm summer breeze made its way through my neighborhood. I also noticed that my father’s car was not in the driveway and that my mother’s Subaru was parked in its usual spot. After a few more stretches and one last crotch scratch, I opened my bedroom door and went downstairs.

My mother was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee steaming in front of her. She looked tired and her eyes were read and puffy like someone who had been crying. Of course when she saw me she put on a huge smile, jumped out of her chair and ran over to give me a kiss. “Good morning, Peter,” she said in a hoarse voice. Her breath smelled like strong coffee but with a tinge of alcohol; brandy to be exact.

“Good morning, mom,” I said as I gave her a hug and a kiss. It always cracked me up to remember just how petite my mother was. Nobody could ever believe that people the size of me and my sister were able to squeeze out of her without killing her during childbirth.

“Where were you last night? I got worried when you didn’t come home for dinner.”

“I came home but you and dad were screaming about Shirley so I just left.”

My mother looked away and went back to the table to have more coffee. “You heard that?”

“Mom, everyone within a five mile radius could hear the two of you.” Another thing about Rabbias is that we genuinely think that we’re quiet people when in actuality we are as subtle as an elephant running through a mine field. “I heard you guys from the corner.”

“Really?” my mother asked, her voice breaking up like a boy going through puberty. “I think you’re being dramatic, Peter. Your father and I weren’t yelling. We were just talking loudly.”

“Whatever,” I said, dropping the debate of what qualifies as yelling or simply “talking loudly.” “I wasn’t in the mood to come in so I went out to get something to eat. When I got home, you and dad were gone and Shirley told me that dad cut his hand punching the door downstairs.”

“Yeah, he needed five stitches,” my mother said. “I’m sorry you had to come home to that, Peter. You and Shirley deserve better. I don’t even know what to say anymore. Your father and I love each other but we just don’t know how to act with one another.”

Not wanting my mother to have to cook, I grabbed a box of cereal and some milk and sat down at the table. My mother poured me a glass of orange juice and handed me a bowl and a spoon. “Thanks, mom,” I said as I made myself a quick breakfast. “Is dad’s hand okay?”

“I don’t know,” my mother replied. “He said he needed five stitches but he wouldn’t show me his hand. So, what are you going to do today? It’s nice outside. You should go and get some fresh air.”

“Miller’s going to pick me up in a little while and we’re going to hit the beach.” I looked out of the kitchen window and saw Bogart sniffing around the backyard in search of an errant squirrel or rabbit. “After that, we’re going to stop by the mall and get my suits.”

“That’s right. Don’t forget to get them. It’s important. Are you getting ready for your interview Friday?”

“I am, mom. I’ve been doing some research online and stuff like that.” I hated lying to my mother but she was in too shitty of a mood already for me to start up with my antics.

“Okay, that’s good,” she said with a smile.

“Where’s Shirley?”

“Still up in her room sleeping. I don’t want to bother her after last night. Dad’s going to take her out later for a new phone.”

“What about the door downstairs?” I asked as I finished my cereal and put the empty bowl into the sink. “Is dad going to fix it?”

My mother looked at me like I was crazy. “Of course he is,” she stressed. “He said he’ll do it this weekend. Don’t worry about it, Peter.”

“Yeah, I know, mom.” The problem was I did worry about it. It was embarrassing and I didn’t feel like explaining to my friends that my dad went ape-shit on a closet door. Throughout my childhood I was forced to answer questions that no adult should have to answer, let alone a child. “Peter, why is there a hole in the wall? Why is your dining room table broken and sitting out with the trash? Why are there food stains on your ceiling?” It was just a bit depressing to say the very least. As I went back to my room to get ready for the beach, I recalled numerous past events that led me to ask my father questions that he probably thought he would never have to answer. “Dad, why did grandpa throw grandma’s dinner out of the back door? Why did grandpa break the windshield of our car? Why does grandma look so sad? Why didn’t you fight grandpa when he was punching you in the front yard?” The more I thought, the sadder I became until I just couldn’t take it anymore and jumped onto my bed and buried my face into my pillow. I think the worst question I ever asked my father was, “Dad, why did grandpa spit at mommy?”

I had just finished crying when Miller pulled up in the Gray Ghost and honked the horn. Quickly, I wiped away my dumbass tears as best I could, grabbed my bathing suit and a clean tee-shirt, and hustled into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get changed. Just as I got out of the bathroom, Miller, apparently tired of waiting in the car, rang the doorbell and my mother let him and Bogart into the house. This was nothing new to any of us. Bogart knew how to open the front gate and when he saw someone coming up to the house, or when we forgot he was out in the backyard, he would use his nose to open the latch to the front gate and either run over to greet our visitors or wait patiently for someone to open the front door for him. More often than not, we would get a phone call from our neighbor across the street letting us know that Bogart was sitting by the front door. Apparently, even our dog was too stupid to realize he should just run away and be done with us.

“Miller!” my mother shouted as the tall goofball swaggered into my house. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hey there, Mrs. Rabbia. I’m doing great. Just waiting on Mr. Lazy up there so we can go to the beach.”

“Hey, dude,” I said from the top of the stairs. “I’ll be ready in a second. I just have to grab my towel and my gear.” I quickly ran back to my room and stuffed a backpack with a beach towel that was still crusty with salt, sunblock that had expired two years earlier, a block of Mr. Zog’s Sexwax that was melted and embedded with sand, and my body board flippers that Bogart had gnawed on more than one occasion. “I’ll see you later, mom,” I said as I gave my mother a kiss on the cheek, which was followed by a good ear scratch for Bogart. “Later, Bogart.”

“You two be careful,” my mother said as we left the house. It was a fantastic day outside. Nice and warm and dry with a slight breeze that carried with it the scent of mowed lawns and salty tides. “Have fun today, Peter.”

“Okay, mom.” I took a quick detour into my garage to grab my bodyboard and to slip into my grungy flip-flops that had seen better days.

“Dude, come on!” whined Miller. “Don’t ever complain about me not being ready ever again.”

“Suck it,” I retorted as I flung my gear in the back of Miller’s car.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Rabbia,” Miller called over to my mother who was still standing at the front door watching us. We jumped into the Gray Ghost and sped off towards the solace of the beach. A split second later my lunatic friend went up and over the curb as he tried futilely to make a U-Turn. Once we stopped bouncing like idiots, Miller got out to make sure he didn’t damage the front tire. Satisfied that everything was still in one piece, he got back in, waved goodbye one last time to my mother, and we were gone.

“Did I ever tell you that you drive like shit?” I asked with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

“You say it every time you’re in the car with me, Pete. If you don’t like the way I drive, why don’t we take your car instead? Oh, I forgot! The Falcon in a giant heap of crap and never works.”

“Touché, dude. Touché.”

“What’s up with you today, anyway?” Miller asked as he weaved his way through our neighborhood as if being pursued by the police. “Your eyes were all red and puffy before.”

“That was just my allergies,” I lied. “I had a massive sneezing fit just as you pulled up and then my eyes starting itching like mad.”

After a few more ignored red lights and stop signs, not to mention one very lucky squirrel, we pulled onto the highway that led to the beach. With my troubles temporarily behind me, I lowered the passenger window, sat back and took in the scenery as the Gray Ghost floated down the road towards our destination. Miller and I were so in tune with each other that we didn’t even have the radio on. I think he knew I needed a few minutes to myself because he didn’t talk or ask me any questions for a while. For that, I was especially grateful.

About ten minutes later, we crossed the causeway that led to the shore towns. From the highest point of the causeway, you could see the ocean. Today, I not only saw the water, I saw some really nice looking sets rolling in, which immediately delivered a much-needed boost to my dour mood.

“Looks pretty sweet,” said Miller, breaking the silence. “This is going to be awesome, dude.”

“Which beach are we going to?” I asked. “Where were you guys yesterday?”

“Seven Presidents,” said Miller, which was exactly what I wanted to hear. That was our favorite spot. It took a little longer to get there, but it was worth it for many reasons. One was that it was not overrun with BENNYs, which was always a good thing. Back in the day, BENNY stood for people from Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York. I believe it was what the old train tickets used to read but nowadays it just meant people from up north who littered the beach, had tribal tattoos, played soccer on the volleyball courts, and were just altogether unsavory. The other good thing about Seven Presidents was that you could park off premise and avoid parking fees. If New Jersey was good at one thing, it was nickel and diming people at every turn.

Fifteen minutes or so later, we arrived at Seven Presidents and Miller quickly drove down some shamble of a side street where he found one last available parking spot, which brought the Gray Ghost dangerously close to a fire hydrant but Miller was able to pull it off by simply boxing in the little hybrid parked behind us. As soon as the car was turned off, we jumped out, grabbed our gear, and walked over to the parking lot fence.

Once we were at the six-foot chain-linked barrier, we quickly surveyed our surroundings and, not seeing any security guards or snitchy old geezers, we proceeded to throw our boards and other belongings over to the other side of the fence. Paying a fee to gain access to a natural resource was something that Miller and I never quite understood. New Jersey is the only state in the nation that allows beachside towns to rape its visitors from their hard earned cash by forcing them to pay a fee to access the shoreline. Miller and I have had many discussions about this atrocity and we always came up with the same answer, which was, “Fuck them.”

“You’re good, dude,” I said as I kept watch while Miller scaled the fence with ease. Being tall and thin allowed one to scale fences with little to no complications. Me on the other hand, well, I have had several poor results in the past, which included ripped bathing suits, shoes falling off, my phone falling out of my pockets, cuts on my thighs, pinched fingers, torn shirts, and even landing in dog shit, which was really just a result of bad luck and not my shorter and thicker physique. Still, I would rather suffer these embarrassing events a thousand times than fork over six dollars to some fucking beach Nazi every time I wanted to feel the sand between my toes and cool waves of salty water washing over me.

“Go for it, Pete.”

I quickly jumped up on the fence and proceeded to scale it to the top. That was always the easy part. The chain-linked atrocity was fairly worn and not very taught, which made it easy to get a good foothold even in flip-flops. It was the top of the fence that gave me the most trouble. The second I lifted my leg to swing it over to the other side, the entire structure would wobble and quake; this time was no different.

“You got it, dude,” said my buddy in a sincerely supportive voice. “Just hurry up.”

“I know, I know,” I grimaced as beads of sweat began to gather on my forehead. Once my one leg was over, I held myself up with my arms and brought my other leg over as well. Stupidly, I did it the wrong way and was now sitting on the top of the fence with no way to turn around and go down backwards. Of course, the entire structure felt like it was about to throw me off so I decided to just jump down. Six feet may not seem like a lot, and it isn’t, but it sure as hell feels like a lot when you are about to fall off and break your neck. Fortunately, the ground was not concrete or blacktop, but soft grass and weeds littered with bottle caps and shards of broken glass. I landed with a thump and rolled under a nearby pine tree; flip-flops still securely on my feet.

“What the fuck was that?” asked Miller as he started to crack up. “Dude, you just failed your dexterity check!”

“Shut up, jerk” was all I could say as I crawled out from underneath the tree and brushed dirt and pine needles off my entire body. “At least I didn’t land in dog shit this time.”

We gathered our gear and made our way through the maze of cars that were baking under the late-morning sun.

“Stuart’s here already,” Miller announced suddenly.

“Did he text you or something?”

“No, that’s his moped over there.”

Yes, it was true. Parked in one of the “Fuel Efficient Vehicles Only” parking spaces was a bright yellow moped. Stuart had purchased his sputtering little runabout back in high school, since you could ride one at the age of fifteen in New Jersey, two years earlier than you can obtain a driver’s license. Stuart always loved anything that had gears and motors and the Farting Banana, as we secretly called it, was his foray into the world of gasoline-powered transportation. What confirmed this particular yellow moped as Stuart’s and not some other sorry sot’s were the faded, peeling stickers that adorned its mini wind deflector and dented chassis. Classics such as “No Fat Chicks in Bikinis” and “That’s What She Said” still clung proudly, as did other more profound visuals, such as the marijuana plant and the pissing Calvin, though it was so badly eroded it just seemed like Calvin was pissing on the moped itself.

Back then, Stuart would take his moped everywhere. He drove it to school when his parents would allow it and he would drive it to the beach with his bodyboard and gear strapped securely to his back. He let me ride it once, and I do admit it was fun, but my parents would never let me own one even if I had the means to do so. Also, there was a joke that I heard once, which is probably true. It had to do with mopeds being like fat chicks. Sure, they were fun to ride, but you would never want anyone seeing you on one.

“What the fuck it he doing with that?” I asked in disbelief. I had not seen the Farting Banana since Stuart got his driver’s license, which was over five years ago! “Where’s the Cor-Stang?”

“Dude, you didn’t hear?” Miller asked with an evil chuckle.

“Hear what?”

“Dude, the Cor-Stang caught fire last week.”

“That’s fucking awesome!” Stuart’s first car was a hand-me-down blue Toyota Corolla sedan that his dad had given him after he traded up for a newer Toyota Corolla. Stuart hated the Corolla with a passion but it was free and beggars can’t be choosers. So, instead of complaining that he didn’t have some rally-inspired whip, he pretended he had some rally-inspired whip and drove the Corolla like he was in the final heat of the Dakar. Stuart abused this poor car like it was his sole mission in life. He took it on dirt trails, he hammered it down gravel fire roads, and he plowed through snow banks with reckless abandon. Of course we all loved being in the car with him since it was a lot of fun and it wasn’t our cars that were taking the abuse. Eventually, even the proud, reliable Toyota could not hold up any longer; a piston blew one day and the entire engine went to shit. Instead of scrapping the car and getting a new beater to drive, Stuart found someone who was selling an old V-6 Mustang engine and decided that it would be a grand idea to mate it to the Corolla. Despite the entire universe explaining to Stuart why dropping a crappy V-6 Mustang engine into a crappy Corolla engine bay was a seriously asinine idea, he forged ahead and, to everyone’s surprise, actually got the damn thing to work. The Cor-Stang was born. I shouldn’t say it was born, as it was really more of a living abortion that anything else. It was far from road worthy, and even further from safe. I only had the courage to sit in it a handful of times and Stuart always made sure he showed off his engineering prowess by flooring the car at every possible opportunity. If I remember correctly it was pretty fast and hellishly loud, but every time I got out of the car I smelled like gasoline and wanted to puke.

“How did it catch fire?” I asked once I stopped laughing.

“Stuart was at that strip joint, Heels, last week and was showing it off to some guy in the parking lot.” Miller was laughing so hard that tears were flooding his eyes. “Apparently he forgot to latch down the hood and it flew up and slammed into the windshield while he was driving home.”

It took me a minute to gather myself. We all loved Stuart to death. The guy would do anything for anyone but he just had a knack for coming up with the craziest schemes and ideas, none of which ever came to fruition. “How did it catch fire?” My stomach hurt from laughing.

After a few deep breaths and some serious self-control, Miller was able to compose himself long enough to spit out an answer. “When the hood flew open, something landed in the engine and ruptured a fuel line! The Cor-Stang was a flaming chariot!”

After a good while of nonstop laughter and high fives, Miller and I were finally able to gather our senses and head to the sand.

“Dude, you have to promise me you won’t laugh at Stuart,” Miller begged as we walked past the showers and food court that populated the entrance to the beach. “He’s seriously upset about this. The Cor-Stang was his pride and joy.”

“Of course, Mill,” I said. “I don’t want him to get all pissed at me. I just don’t know why he would rather ride the Farting Banana than get a ride with you or me. Shit, I’d rather take the bus down here with the alcoholics than be seen on that thing.” Once we left the food court behind us, we continued on a well-worn boardwalk that cut through some sand dunes. There were benches located on either side of the wooden construct, which had turned gray and angry after enduring years of abuse from Mother Nature. Usually, I would see some moms utilizing these benches to take care of their children but today I spotted a few less fortunate souls who decided to traverse the wooden boardwalk barefoot and were now pulling out the consequences of their ill-fated decisions.

“He’s just quirky that way, dude” continued Miller, snapping me out of my reverie. He was right; Stuart just did things differently. Ever since I first met him in middle school, it was obvious that his brain worked differently, which is probably a good thing since it allowed him to graduate high school with over a 4.0 GPA, get his bachelor’s degree in Mechanical Engineering from NJIT, and commute back and forth to Rutgers University to work on his master’s.

After cutting through the protected sand dunes, the boardwalk ended with a few steps that led down to our final destination. Immediately, the sound of crashing waves and lifeguard whistles demanded that we pay attention to more important matters, such as bodyboarding and hot women sunbathing with their tops untied.

“Let’s do this,” I said as I kicked off my flip-flops and walked down to the water. We quickly found Stuart’s towel and gear and dropped ours right next to his. Keeping my eyes fixed on the waves, I took off my shirt, rubbed sunblock wherever I could reach (guys would rather get skin cancer than ask each other to get their backs), grabbed my board and my flippers and went down to the water. The foamy water that rushed up to greet my lower extremities was pretty chilly but nothing I couldn’t tolerate; Stuart and I were always able to deal with colder temperatures more than Miller who would probably wear a wet suit to sit in a hot tub if it were socially accepted. Quickly, I slid on my flippers, strapped my body board tether to my wrist and jumped into the water to get the cold shock done and over with. In a matter of seconds, I was comfortably peeing in the ocean and shaking small pebbles out of my flippers while waiting for Stuart to zip up his wetsuit and join me. As I waited, I spotted Stuart with a few other guys who normally surf this area out by the sand bar, which was around fifty yards away, waiting for the next set to roll in. Happily, I also spotted a few women in bikinis splashing in the water and, in my mind anyway, looking me over with sinful, decadent thoughts.

“You ready, dude?” asked a neoprene-clad Miller as he jumped in next to me and immediately started paddling past a small group of swimmers, waders and floaters to head for the breaks. “Stop checking out the chicks, pervert.”

Happily, I started paddling too and after a few short moments, I was out in empty waters heading towards the sand bar to catch some waves with my friends. As I got closer to the sand bar, I realized that my timing of the sets was way off, probably due to me checking out bikinis, and a rather large wave was heading towards me at full speed. With nowhere to hide, I simply paddled as hard as I could and, just as the wave crashed down in front of me, did a duck dive in order to avoid the brunt of the onslaught. After the wave violently washed over me, I popped back up to the surface, pulled up my untied bathing suit, and paddled fiercely in order to make it to the rest of the lineup before another one broke.

“Hey, Pete!” Stuart called to me as he sat on his board. His blonde hair was buzzed down to a crew cut and he wore a big grin on his tan face. “Bad timing on the set, huh?”

I paddled up to Stuart and stood up on the sand bar in order to tie my bathing suit. “Yeah, I wasn’t paying attention. I was busy waiting for Miller to put on his damn wetsuit.

“I heard that,” Miller said as he paddled up next to us and sat on his board. “What’s going on, Stu? When did you get here?”

“I got here over an hour ago. You guys are too slow for me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You even beat us on your moped.”

“I know, I know,” Stuart replied with a little humility. “I don’t want to talk about it. I really messed up the Cor-Stang this time. I don’t know if I can fix it.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “At least you have the moped. The Falcon is still in the shop and I have to rely on this mental patient to drive me around.” With that I splashed a nice wave of water into Miller’s face.

“You’re fee to walk, buddy,” Miller said while giving me the finger. “The Gray Ghost will never die.”

“Heads up!” somebody said from down the line. As I turned around, the next swell was coming in and it was beautiful. We all immediately stopped talking and positioned ourselves for the paddle. Stuart was up first and quickly started to paddle as the swells closed in.

“Go! Go! Go! Go!” I called after him as he caught the wave and took it to the right. From behind the wave, I was only able to watch Stuart for a second or two before he dropped down and disappeared behind a veil of saltwater.

I was next and the second wave was coming in right behind the first. I guessed it to be a three to four foot wave, which may not sound like much but when you are lying flat on a hunk of foam at the mercy of the ocean, everything looks huge. Quickly, I positioned myself and got ready to paddle.

“It’s all you, Pete!” Miller cheered on. “Go! Go! Go! Go!”

Just before the base of the wave reached me, I grabbed both sides of my board and started to kick my legs. My flippers easily propelled me through the water and before I knew it, I had it. The peak of the wave was now under me and I had the momentum to catch it. I performed a quick dolphin kick and pushed down on the top of my board. In front of me was a beautiful wall of water and I was the only person allowed to ride it. Since the wave was breaking from the left, I followed Stuart’s lead and went right. Dropping in on a wave is one of the most amazing feelings in the world. I went straight down the face for a second and then pulled back up and to the right in order to dig in my rails and ride it out. It is always tempting to keep going straight down but that only results in a face full of water and a quick wipeout. Since this was my first wave of the day, I decided to simply enjoy it and get a feel for the conditions.

“Nice ride, Peter!” called Stuart as my wave died out and I pulled off to start paddling out again. “Did you see mine? Did you see it?”

“Yeah, I saw it, dude. Awesome, wasn’t it?”

“Here comes Miller!”

Stuart and I stopped paddling and watched as our friend took his wave all the way into the shore. I never did that unless it was a really great ride. But with smaller waves I never found it worthwhile since you then have to navigate through the bathers and get even more pebbles in your flippers.

“Today is solid!” Miller called out as he paddled back out. “I’m not leaving today!”

It’s a great thing being so stoked that you start to act like a little child again. It’s even better to feel like that when you are surrounded by your friends. It’s a definite bonding experience and I could not have been in better company.

For the next several hours, I caught wave after wave, each one more enjoyable than the last. The other group of surfers eventually paddled off to a new section of beach and the three of us were alone for most of the day. Eventually the tide began to come in and the waves became less rideable. Thanks to the Army Corps of Engineers and their beach replenishment atrocity, the waves would eventually all but disappear during high tide until they got so close to the shoreline that you would break your spine if you caught one and stayed on too long as it slammed onto the dry sand. But hey, at least there is more room for paying customers. Sure you might lose a few kids here and there to killer shore breaks but think of the profits?

“Dude, that was awesome!” Miller said as we walked over and dropped down next to our gear. “I give it a solid eight today.”

After every session, we would rate the waves on a scale from one to ten, with ten being the highest and one being so bad you are a moron for even paddling out. “I would go with a seven or eight too,” I said. “Definitely the best it has been for a really long time.” This was true; New Jersey was not Hawaii or California and most of our good surf came along in the dead of winter, which was not something I ever intended on trying. The very thought of bodyboarding in forty-degree waters with outside temperatures hovering around freezing made my testicles temporarily sterile.

“Yesterday was a ten,” Stuart added. “Today is more of a seven for me.” Stuart was the type of guy who always had to one-up you. You land front row seats to a concert? Stuart had backstage passes. You get a two-percent raise at work? Stuart got a five-percent raise. So it was no surprise that since I wasn’t at the beach yesterday, it was better than today. I missed out and only Stuart was able to have a good time. Having been friends with him for so long, I should have been used to his “quirks” as Miller called them, but I wasn’t.

“I don’t think we will ever know what a ten is, dude,” I said. “A ten is what people in Hawaii or California experience. Our eights are probably threes or fours in most places.”

“I’m telling you, Pete, it was a ten yesterday. Mill, am I right or what?”

“It was pretty damn good yesterday,” Miller replied. “Maybe a nine but not a ten.”

“Well for me, today is an eight and I could not be more thrilled. I’m glad you guys had two days of great waves but I had to work yesterday.”

“Chill out, dude,” Miller replied in a long, drawn-out voice. “Are you hungry?”

“Pretty much starving, why?”

“Because you are always a grumpy bastard when you haven’t eaten,” Miller said.

“I’m hungry too,” said Stuart as he sifted through his backpack to grab his phone and his wallet. “Let’s get something at the snack area.”

I grabbed my phone and wallet too, but also put on my tee-shirt whereas Stuart and Miller went topless. A positive self-image was something I never had and probably never would. Can’t imagine why, especially after the wonderful day I had at work yesterday. The last thing I needed was to be harpooned by some Japanese whaler while I lumbered up the beach in search for food. “Don’t forget your shoes,” I reminded the guys as I grabbed my flip-flops.

The snack bar was crowded with kids, mothers, and the elderly all looking to see which food cost the least amount of money. I knew from experience that the French fries and bottled water was the best bargain, but since I had not eaten all day, I decided to splurge and get chicken fingers and an iced tea to go with my fries. Twenty dollars later, I took my lunch over to the toppings bar and pumped a few squirts of watery ketchup onto my food before looking for a seat.

“Over here, Pete!” Stuart called over. He had found a table with an umbrella, which was always a nice bonus, and was already scarfing down his first of two hot dogs that he bought. “Where’s Mill?”

“Over here, dummy,” Miller said from another table. Apparently, my two friends forgot to communicate with one another while we were on line. “Come to the dark side,” he said in his best Vader voice. “I will not move for rebel scum.”

“Screw that,” I said as I sat down at Stuart’s table. “We have an umbrella, dipshit. Enjoy baking in the sun.”

Miller realized the wisdom of my words and brought his pizza slice, cheeseburger, fries, and vanilla milkshake over to where Stuart and I were sitting. “I am starving,” he said as he inhaled the pizza in two monstrous bites.

We ate in silence for a little while and then went over our bodyboarding session. We talked about the size of our waves, any tricks we pulled off, and the length of our rides. Eventually, the conversation switched to women, whereas I proudly announced my upcoming date with Laura.

“That’s great, Pete!” said Miller with a mouthful of cheeseburger. “So you called her the other night?”

“I did. I took your advice and for once it paid off. I’m going to meet up with her after my interview on Friday.”

“Good for you,” said Stuart, patting me on the back. “Hopefully you get laid, Pete.”

“You’re an idiot, Stuart,” I said as Miller laughed. Again, I should have known better than to get mad at Stuart, but I couldn’t help it. “Yeah, maybe I’ll take her the second I see her, right?”

“Grab her and take her!” Miller called out, somewhat paraphrasing Grace Jones’ character from the crap-fest known as Conan the Destroyer.

“Whatever works,” Stuart said obliviously. “Laura’s that chick you met at school, right?”

“Yeah, I met her this past year.”

“She’s from Piscataway, right?”

“Ramsey.”

Between laughter, Miller continued to take bites out of his food.

“What does she look like again?” Stuart continued.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “She looks like a girl. She has hair and eyes, and a nose followed by a mouth.”

“No, no, no, Pete. I mean, is she hot?”

“She’s really cute, Stuart. I like her looks. She looks nice.”

“Does she have nice tits?”

Now I was pissed off. “Huge tits, dude! Massive tits! Her tits are so big that each one needs a flying buttress just to keep them from falling to the floor.”

“Ha, ha, ha, Pete. Very funny,” Stuart replied but I wasn’t done yet.

“Her bombs are so damn massive, she had to have titanium rods shoved up her spine to prevent her back from breaking.”

“Okay, Pete,” Stuart continued.

“When she showers she needs to tie the washcloth to the end of a stick just to clean those whoppers.”

Miller was laughing so hard he was crying. Stuart just shook his head and finished up his lunch. “You just don’t get it, Pete,” he said.

“I guess I don’t.”

After a few minutes of silent eating, I decided to check my phone. I had received two text messages and one was from Laura.

“Hey there. Just saying howdy. Work is very boring and I am losing my mind listening to Freedom 100.3 FM, where light country lives. Ugh…kill me! Hope all is well. Looking forward to seeing you Friday. Also, don’t forget about your job interview! LOL!”

That made me smile. Laura was bored at work and actually thought about me long enough to come up with a text message. I texted back, “Howdy, Laura. Sorry to hear that work is boring. If I had to listen to country music all day I’d boil my own head! At the beach with the guys right now. What interview?”

“Who are you texting?” Miller asked.

“Just Laura,” I said as I gave Stuart a dirty look.

“That’s cool. What’s she up to?”

“Just bored at work, I guess.” The next message was from Walter Secchione.

“Lord Rabbia,” it started, “I await your response to our possible gaming session this eve. For I have a wonderful adventure prepared should you and the other gallant knights care to partake in the revelry. Just let me know what time I can expect your arrival.”

God, he was such a dork, which was awesome. “Working on it now,” I texted back. “Will let you know ASAP.” I didn’t want to keep him waiting all day for no reason.

“Are you texting Laura a love story or something, Pete?” Stuart asked from across the table. “Is she already your ball and chain?”

“No, dipshit,” I said angrily. “If you must know, I also got a text from Secchione.”

“Oh my God!” swore Stuart. “Walter Secchione!” It sounded as if Stuart was just confronted by a long lost lover who birthed his bastard. “What the hell does that kid want?”

“He sent me a text yesterday to see how I was doing.”

“I didn’t know you still kept in touch with Walter,” said Stuart with a smirk.

I wanted to throw something heavy at him. “You don’t know a lot of things, Stuart. Hence you still riding a moped in your early twenties.” Unlike Miller, it took me longer to cool down. Stuart got the hint and finished up his iced tea in silence while thumbing through his smartphone.

“So what does he want?” asked Miller.

“You know what he wants, dummy. I told you last night. He wants to know if we want to play D&D tonight at his place.”

“Really?” asked Stuart in a surprisingly interested tone. “We haven’t played in a long time. I don’t even remember where I stashed my books and dice. That could be fun.”

“Yeah, he said he has an adventure all set up and ready to go. We just have to go there and start playing.”

“Does his house still smell like cat piss?” Stuart asked. “Remember that, Mill? Every time we went there it smelled like a filthy litter box.”

“A filthy litter box that was steeped in sour breast milk,” added Miller with a laugh.

“What the hell does that even mean?” I asked. Stuart actually seemed interested and if he and I were on the same page, Miller really had no choice but to join us. D&D sucked when you had too many or too few people. One Dungeon Master and three to four players was ideal.

“I don’t know, Pete,” Miller whined. Walter’s kind of a weird dude, you know? The last time we played, he had us riding bugs and stupid shit like that.”

“That’s right,” said Stuart with a high pitched chuckle. “My character almost got killed by some stupid colony of ants. What’s he have in mind for tonight?”

“We’re not going to be shrunken down, that I can promise you,” I lied. “Come on, Miller. It’ll be fun. When do you think we will have this chance again? Everyone’s so damn busy all the time.”

“You guys really want to play that badly?” Miller asked me and Stuart. I can tell I had him.

“I do,” I replied. “It’ll be fun. Walter’s harmless.”

“What about you?” he asked Stuart. “You don’t have plans to hit the strip clubs or something tonight?”

“I’ll pass on going out tonight,” said Stuart. “I’m up for a little D&D.”

“Okay, then,” sighed Miller. “I guess I’m in too. But I am not bringing anything to Walter’s house. No beer, no soda, no pizza. Nothing. Squat.”

“Why do you have to act like such a penis anytime you don’t get your way?” I asked.

“Listen, Pete. I told you last night I didn’t want in on this. You two are forcing me so I am not going to participate in anything but rolling my dice and that’s it.”

“Whatever, Mill.” I quickly sent Walter a text telling him that the three of us would be at his house at seven. “Well, it’s done. Be at Walter’s at seven.”

After lunch, we went back down to the beach and sat around for a little while to see if the sets would clean up and improve but after waiting for an hour or so, we decided it would be best to leave.

“Too bad you missed it yesterday,” Stuart said as he packed up his gear.

“You’re relentless,” I said to him.

We continued to pack our supplies and then head over to the showers where we washed off our boards and fins, as well as ourselves. As much as I love the beach, there is nothing worse than the ride home if you are covered in sand, sweat, saltwater, and sunblock. It was the absolute worst feeling in the world. So, despite my reservations about taking clothing off in front of people, even I took off my shirt and washed off.

“Wow, Pete, what happened to you?” Stuart asked in an unnecessarily loud voice.

“What?” I asked. Was I bleeding? Am I covered in scabs or sores?

“Your back is covered in hair, dude!”

“Seriously?” I tried like a moron to look over my shoulders to see what Stuart was talking about but just looked like a dog chasing its tail. “How much hair?”

“You look like that wrestler, George ‘The Animal’ Steele.”

“Dude, it’s not that bad,” Miller said in a far more relaxed and quiet tone, which I greatly appreciated. “It’s just some hair on your shoulder blades.”

“Great, just what I needed.” I always knew that I was destined to be bald but I had always hoped and prayed that the hairy gene would skip me. My father was a fairly hairy guy now but he didn’t start getting hairy until he was in his forties. When he was younger, he was just fine. My grandpa, however, looked like he was being raped by a black bear. He was hairy as hell and apparently was hairy as hell most of his life. “Thanks for noticing, Stuart,” I said as I walked over to the fences and threw on my tee-shirt. I was so humiliated that I didn’t even bother to dry off first.

“Pete, it’s not that bad at all,” Miller assured me. “I didn’t even notice it until Stuart said something.”

Stuart looked at me and smiled as he dried off and put on his shirt. “Maybe you’re a real life Wolverine?” he asked. “Maybe your mutant genes are just kicking in now?” Even Miller had to laugh at that jab, which even I had to admit was pretty damn good.

“Maybe,” I said. “If I get claws, I’ll be sure to turn you into a eunuch.”

“Alright, alright, guys,” Miller cut in. “Enough with the bickering, you two. Let’s get out of here. Stu, we’ll see you later at Walter’s place, okay?”

“Sounds good, guys. I’m going home to shower and look for my D&D bag.”

“Later, Stu,” I said dejectedly, as I gathered my freshly washed board and gear and followed Miller back to his car.

Fortunately, leaving the beach was a far more easy process than entering. Since we were heading out, and the badge checkers only gave a crap about people entering, we simply walked out of the main gates without incident. I assumed that one day one of the Nazis would realize that they never saw us enter and ask to see our daily pass, but so far that had never happened. Besides, we already had come up with the lie that we entered the park at “the other entrance” and simply misplaced our passes. It was a deviously simple alibi. If that didn’t work, we would just run away.

Away from the delight of the ocean breeze, the day had grown pretty hot. I could see the waves of heat rising off the streets and the air was just very still. In the trees, the cicadas sang their summer songs as I began to sweat profusely while the heat of the pavement made its way through my worn flip-flops.

When Miller unlocked the doors to the Gray Ghost, we had to wait several minutes for it to cool off before we were able to stow our gear and get in. Of course the metal belt buckles had gotten to what seemed to be five-thousand degrees so we had to make sure we sat on our towels and wrap them around our waist to prevent third-degree burns. Once we got going, Miller turned on the air conditioning and the car quickly cooled down to a more tolerant temperature. “I’ll never get over how powerful the air conditioning is in this car,” I said as I kicked off my footwear, stretched my body and took a nice deep breath.

“It must be some sort of spell or something,” Miller said with a smile. “I don’t even remember the last time the A/C was serviced. I’m sure it was long before my parents handed me the keys because I know I sure as hell never got it done.”

“Do you ever get anything done?” I asked jokingly. The response from my friend was a middle finger raised and aimed in my direction.

After just a couple of miles, we got stuck behind an open drawbridge, which was run by the same little old man who I remembered from when I first moved to New Jersey. Like a fine bottle of wine, he became very dusty with age. For whatever reason, this particular drawbridge was not fully automated and we had to wait for the bridge keeper to walk outside to manually lower and raise the gates on both sides of the road. It was something that took far too much time to complete and if you were in a real rush, crashing through the gates and jumping your car to the other side was always a tempting option. As we sat there in the traffic, a few people got out of their cars to watch the sailboats go through the channel or to snap a few pictures of the archaic structure and its lich-like keeper.

“You know what would be funny?” Miller asked.

“What’s that?”

“If that old dude also made people answer questions before they were allowed to drive across the bridge.”

“What is your name?” I asked in my best English accent, which I must admit was pretty damn good.

“My name is Sir Miller of Hazlet.” Miller’s accent was pretty spot on in my opinion as well.

“What is your quest?”

“To catch some tasty waves.”

“What is the capital of Assyria?”

“What? I don’t know that! Ahhhhhhhh!”

“Maybe if he pranced around and banged two halves of coconuts together,” I went on, “he wouldn’t be so damn slow.”

“It would at least be funny to watch,” Miller agreed with a laugh. “Come along, Patsy!”

After a few more quotes from one of the most important films in history, I began to think of matters even more pressing than the lineage of Jon Snow, that bastard. “Is it that bad?” I asked.

“Is what that bad, dude?”

“My back,” I answered miserably. “Is it as bad as Stuart made it seem?”

“Truthfully, dude, it got pretty hairy back there. I wasn’t lying though when I said I never even noticed it before.”

“Great, just what I needed.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Miller assured. “A lot of guys are hairy.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Mill. You look like you still haven’t hit puberty. Apparently I look like I went thought it twice. No wonder women run away from me. I’m freaking Beorn from The Hobbit.”

“You need to relax, Pete. I have never seen a girl run away from you. Besides, you have a date with Laura Friday, right?”

“Yeah, but she has never seen me with my shirt off. I’m sure once she finds out, she’ll request that a park ranger take me down with a tranquilizer gun and drag me back to the zoo.”

“At least you have everything in perspective, Pete.”

“It’s true, Mill. I guarantee she laughs at me when she finds out. It’ll be horrible.”

“So you plan on having sex on Friday?”

“Of course not, dumbass. But what if we decide to go to the beach together or go swimming one day? What about-”

“Listen,” Miller cut in. “As always, you are overreacting. You didn’t even go on a real date with the poor girl yet and you are already going swimming and having sex with her. How about you just go with the flow for once? Stop being such a salmon all the time.”

“I know, I know,” I said. Miller was right, as usual. “It’s just that you guys never have a hard time hooking up with chicks or getting dates or girlfriends. It’s always a struggle with me and for the most part I am usually the guy sitting at home polluting his tube socks on a Friday night.”

“Way, way, way too much information there, dude.”

“What?”

“First of all, what are you, twelve? Use a tissue or something you throw away, not an article of clothing. Second, shut up already. You have a big day Friday. Stop fucking it up before you even give yourself the chance to fuck it up.”

“Finally!” I said as the evil little bridge keeper raised the gates to allow traffic to move again. “I just never had much self-worth, you know?”

“I know, Pete. Trust me on that. I know you real well, dude.”

“And now that I have to worry about something as stupid as back hair, I just feel like running away and calling it off.”

“Calling what off?”

“Everything,” I said as I threw my hands up in the air. “Every little fucking thing. This stupid job interview I don’t even want to go on, my date with Laura, which I know will suck, playing D&D tonight, smelling like cat piss, going to work tomorrow to see that bitch again, going home to watch my mother drink while she fights with my dad, my reclusive sister, everything. I wish I could just call it all off!”

“I think you need to chill out and reflect on your life, dude,” Miller said with a thoughtful look. “You have a lot more positive things going for you than you think. Shit, half of what you just mentioned are positive and you’re treating them like negatives.”

“Yeah, I guess. Whatever.” He had me. I was acting like a little bitch as usual. “It’s just back hair, right? I can always shave it or wax it.”

“If not,” Miller said with a smirk, “you might be able to make some money off of it.”

“How so?” I knew I set myself up for a stupid joke but Miller was a good friend. I knew his jokes were just that, jokes.

“You can call those dipshits on T.V. who are always looking for a Sasquatch. Make a deal with them to run around the woods while they capture you.”

“Sure, I’ll call that inbred guy, Bobo or whatever the hell his name is and meet him in the woods of West Virginia.”

“See?” asked Miller. “When life gives you hairy lemons, make a sasquatch video.”

“Hairy lemons?” I asked. “That’s nasty, dude.”

After a good laugh, Miller turned on the radio and, amazingly, I was reunited with one of my most favorite songs of all time. It kind of depressed me but somehow made me feel better at the same time. It was like Anthony Kiedis knew how I was going to feel one day years ago all the way from California. I turned up the volume and closed my eyes as I drank in the wonderful opening melody.

“Sometime I feel like I don’t have a partner. Sometime I feel like my only friend is the city I live in, the city of angels. Lonely as I am, together we cry.

I drive on her streets ‘cause she’s my companion. I walk through her hills ‘cause she knows who I am. She sees my good deeds and she kisses me windy. I never worry, now that is a lie.”

As the song went on, the Gray Ghost made its way home past the crowded shore towns and back over the causeway. Soon enough, the beach was behind us and Miller had his car zooming up and down side roads in order to miss traffic lights and mothers crossing the street with their children. I was so preoccupied with my dementia that I didn’t even care when he ran a red light and did sixty miles per hour over a speed bump in some abandoned parking lot. It was just before five o’clock when we pulled up in front of my house and in my opinion, we had gotten there too quickly.

“Okay, Pete,” Miller said as he popped the trunk so I could grab my belongings. “I’ll see you at Walter’s place at eight, right?”

“Seven!” I yelled back. “Don’t do that, Miller. Be there at seven, okay?”

“Alright, alright,” Miller replied. I could tell he was pushing my buttons. “I’ll be there at seven. I’m going to go home, shower, eat and take a nap first.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll probably do the same thing. See you later, Mill.” I stood there for a second as the Gray Ghost zoomed away and left me to my own devices. After I cleaned off my board and fins, and put everything back in the garage, I entered the house and, as usual, was greeted by one hundred pounds of Labrador Retriever. “Hey there, Bogart!” I shouted as I threw myself on the floor and wrestled my favorite family member. “Where is everyone?” I asked him as his gigantic tongue licked my entire face and neck. “You all alone, buddy? Where’s mommy?”

Once Bogart has finished mauling me, I got up and walked into the kitchen. “Hello?” I called out, but nobody answered. I knew my father would not be home yet, but my mother or sister would normally be around. “Anyone home?” I saw a note on the refrigerator addressed to me or my father. It was from my mother. Apparently, she and Shirley went out to get something to eat and that my father and I were welcome to the grilled chicken breasts and salad left in the fridge. My mother also asked that I walk Bogart since he had not been out all day.

“You hear that, Bogart?” I asked the dog, who just sat there looking at me with his tongue sagging out of the side of his mouth. “It’s just you and me for now. How awesome is that?” Again, the dog just sat there and looked at me but I could tell he was smiling. Bogart probably dealt with more shit than I did. I was at least able to leave this house. The poor dog’s only hope was to be euthanized.

Because I wanted to be done with dinner as soon as possible, I grabbed some chicken from the fridge and put it in between two slices of bread with some mayonnaise and lettuce from the salad my mother had made. I poured myself a glass of iced tea and proceeded to inhale the entire meal in just a few minutes. Then I went upstairs, showered, and put on some comfortable cargo shorts and a green t-shirt that said “This is How I Role” on it with several kinds of polyhedral dice lined up underneath the words. It was pretty awesome. Then I went downstairs and grabbed Bogart’s dog leash. Just the sound alone was enough to get my buddy all worked up. When he knew he was going for a walk, Bogart literally spun himself in a circle and made very funny whining and moaning sounds. “Sit!” I said to him as I knelt down and tried to put on the leash. I was greeted with a massive yellow head slamming right into my nose. “Sit!” I said angrily ad I made sure I wasn’t bleeding. Bogart must have known I was serious because he did sit still long enough for me to leash him, although he still continued to whine and wag his tail on hundred times a second. Once the leash was clipped to his collar, the dog jumped up and opened the screen door all by himself and dragged me outside.

Bogart was actually pretty well-trained but something happened to him when I took him for walks. He never pulled my mother or my sister and my father could even walk him without the need for a leash but with me, it was no holds barred. He turned into the world’s biggest schmuck. “Bogart, walk nice!” I yelled as he pulled ahead so hard that you could hear his throat collapsing. “Walk nice!” It was no use, the dog simply did not respect me. Maybe I was more of his playmate than an owner? Either way, it was something I had gotten used to over the years and why would this night be any different? It had cooled off a little bit and I was only sweating a little by the time we had made it halfway around the block. Being a male dog, Bogart made it a point to piss on everything that stuck out of the ground. I had to hold on to him tightly when I saw two girls walking their little runt of a dog on the other side of the street. It was the same kids and dog that I saw the other day as I was walking to American Spirits, minus their little brother. It really was a cute little dog. It was mostly black but it had splashes of brown and white on its face and body. Its tail even had a white tip on it. Although it could not have been more than nine pounds when wet, it was trying its damnedest to cross the street and say hello to Bogart. Bogart wasn’t vicious at all but he did like to play with smaller creatures and smack them around with his massive paws. The last thing I wanted was to have my dog hurt a little puppy and traumatize two little girls in the process so I simply waved hello and pulled my beast along with me.

A short while later, Bogart slowed down and sniffed the ground with a true sense of determination mixed with a splash of urgency. “Crap,” I muttered as I realized what was going on. Bogart was doing his shitty walk and I forgot to bring a bag with me. “Come on, Bogart,” I said desperately as I walked faster to try and coax the dog back into a brisk walk but it was to no avail; Bogart needed to crap and his quivering hind legs and arched back made it perfectly clear that nothing was going to stop him from his date with destiny. Fortunately, I had Plan B, which was to simply keep pulling Bogart forward and calling, “Come on, boy,” as he crapped up the sidewalk. We had done this specialized maneuver plenty of times before and it always worked. Basically, the dog crapped while walking, pretty much like a horse does but far less majestic. But desperate times called for desperate measures and Plan B was all I could think of. “Come on, boy,” I called as Bogart reluctantly followed, back still arched and hind legs still quivering. “Come on, boy. Almost home, boy. Good boy, Bogart. Good boy.” A quick sprint after the last chunk hit the pavement made sure that I was far enough away to take any responsibility should the homeowner suddenly walk out of his front door. I did feel bad that someone else was going to have to pick up the mess but what could I do? It was simply collateral damage and could not be avoided.

When I got home I still had time for a quick nap before heading over to Walter’s house so I went upstairs to my bedroom and set my phone to go off in forty-five minutes. I must have been pretty tired because it seemed as if the second I laid down and stretched, the alarm went off and woke me up.

“Peter, is that you up there?” my father called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m home. Be right down.” Sluggishly, I got off the bed and went to my closet to grab my red duffle bag that held my D&D gear. Then I went downstairs and into the kitchen to say hello to my father.

“What were you doing up there?” he asked with a mouthful of chicken. “Didn’t you hear me come in?”

“No, I didn’t hear you. I must have had my headphones on or something.” Telling my father that I was tired from hanging out with my friends all day at the beach was not an option. “How was work?” I asked with immediate regret.

“Work? I told you and your mother to stop asking me about work. It’s the same as it always is; it sucks. My boss is an asshole and the people I work with are morons. I’m the only one there who knows how to do anything. When something good happens, I’ll be sure to tell you, okay?”

“Sorry, I forgot. Mom and Shirley went out to eat. I already had something too.”

“What’s in the bag?”

Shit. Why did I take a nap? “It’s nothing. I’m meeting a few of the guys to play some games tonight at Walter’s house.”

“Games? Don’t lie to me, Peter. You’re going to play that Dungeons and Dragons crap. I know what you’re doing.” Ever since I began playing in middle school, my father hated D&D. He thought it was a waste of time and, even worse, one step away from devil worshipping. Back then I was struggling a little bit with my grades and anytime I got a bad report card he would fly off the handle and forbid me from wasting my time pretending I was a wizard or an elf with a magical bow. I would have to sneak around and lie about what I was doing just to get in some game time. His biggest and most ogre-like moment came during my freshman year of high school. I got a ‘D’ in English one marking period and my father completely freaked the hell out. He ran up to my room, grabbed my D&D books and proceeded to tear them up and throw them in the garbage. He even tore up a few D&D computer games. The pisser was that none of the stuff he obliterated was mine. I was borrowing Miller’s books so I could create a new campaign for everyone to play and the computer games were also on loan from my laid back friend. Since the rule books, maps, Dungeon Master screens and computer games are pretty damn expensive, my father was forced to hand over two hundred dollars so I could replace the damaged goods. What made matters worse was that, while I felt humiliated by having to tell my best friend that my father ripped up his books thinking they were mine, my dad thought it was pretty funny. I remember him telling Miller, “I’m sorry, I thought it was Peter’s stuff,” while trying to pull it off as some sort of funny mix-up.

“Yes, I’m going to play Dungeons and Dragons with my friends. What’s the big deal, anyway? I’m twenty-two years old and I still haven’t conjured any demons. Maybe I should sacrifice a chicken or something.”

“Don’t be a wise-ass, okay? You ready for your interview on Friday?” My father had a special knack for reminding people that they are always forgetting something.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” I lied. “I was doing some research earlier and going over answers I’ll give to the generic questions I might be asked.”

“Good,” my father said as he shoved more chicken into his mouth. “How did the suits fit?”

Fuck! I completely forgot to pick up the suits! Shit! I tried to come up with a lie but it was too late. I never had a good poker face and even if I tried, my father would see right through the façade. “Never bullshit a bullshitter,” was what he would tell me.

“Did you get the suits today or what?”

“I forgot,” I admitted. The truth will set you free, right? “I’ll get them right after work tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you, Peter! What else did you have to do today that was so important? Did you have work?”

“No.”

“Then what? What could you have been doing that was so important that you would forget to get your suits? What?”

“Nothing. I just forgot. I’ll get them tomorrow.”

“What if they need to be adjusted? What then, jackass? They won’t be ready in time for Friday! Un-fucking real! Nobody in this house can do a goddamned thing!”

I was at a loss for words. It was an honest mistake but my father was never one to understand that people actually make mistakes. You fuck up even a little bit and he is all over you like a mad dog.

“I’ll just get them tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“You better hope they are fine!” he said as he got up and threw out the rest of his dinner. “I lost my fucking appetite!” he shouted. “Go! Go play your games with your friends. Go pretend you’re a wizard or something! That’s important, isn’t it? I’m sure you won’t forget which spells to use, that’s for sure!”

I didn’t say a word for fear of getting my head handed to me. I just turned around and left as my father continued his tirade by smashing his dirty dishes into the sink and slamming his chair into the kitchen wall. It broke my heart to see Bogart hiding under the dining room table looking at me as I closed the door and left. My nap, it would seem, was a poor choice.

Walter’s house was just around the corner from mine so it only took me a few minutes to walk there. Unfortunately, it was not long enough to get over my less than pleasant conversation I had with my father. Still, as I turned the corner, Stuart pulled up on the Farting Banana wearing a backpack that contained his D&D gear.

“So you found your stuff?” I asked as he put down his kickstand and got off the bike. “Where was it?”

“It was in my closet,” Stuart answered. “Behind a million other things that I forgot I had. Remember that Darth Vader helmet I got for Christmas one year?”

“The one that changed your voice when you talked into it?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“You found it?” Stuart and I had some fun nights prank calling people while wearing that mask. Our favorite was finding people named Luke and calling them just to say, “I am your father,” when they asked who was calling.

“I did. It needs new batteries though. So, is Miller here yet?”

“I don’t think so,” I said as I looked around for the Grey Ghost. “He said he’d be here.”

Stuart also gave a quick look around and then shrugged his shoulders. “Should we wait for him out here or should we go inside.”

“I think we can go inside,” I laughed. “Walter’s not Buffalo Bill. I think we’ll be safe.”

“I just don’t want to spend any extra time in the presence of cat piss, Pete.”

“That was such a long time ago,” I said. “Hopefully, the cats died or ran away or something.”

Stuart and I walked up to the front door and gave it a polite knock to let anyone inside know of our presence. A few seconds later the door swung open and Walter came out to greet us. He looked pretty much the same as he always did when we got together: Dandruff still present in his black curly hair; thick-rimmed murderer glasses; black tee-shirt decorated with a massive dragon being ridden by a voluptuous female warrior; baggy cargo shorts that were basically so long they were capris; white tube socks and black-leather sneakers. The one thing that did change was Walter’s physique. Whereas he was always on the “soft” side of the spectrum, he had become downright obese since the last time we had seen him. I looked over to Stuart and could tell he was thinking the same thing.

“Welcome, welcome,” greeted Walter in his high-pitched nasal voice. “Punctual as always, I see.”

“Hey, Walter,” I said. “How have you been?”

“What’s up, Walter,” Stuart said politely.

“I’m good, you guys.” Walter backed up and waved us in. “Come in, come in. We have the castle all to ourselves this fine summer’s eve.”

Walking into Walter’s house was a true blast from the past because I was immediately blasted with the pungent scent of tomcat piss and litter box chunks.

“Did you get more cats, Walt?” Stuart asked as he entered the house and frowned at me.

“I’m not too sure, why?” asked Walter as he closed the door behind us and made his way into the kitchen.

“No reason,” I answered casually. “I just know you guys always had a few cats around.”

“Yeah, we still have Tiger and Socks,” said Walter. “Buttons died a long time ago but we got a new cat we named Lady from a shelter. She had a litter of kittens in the garage a few months ago. She’s around here somewhere I’m sure.”

“What about the kittens?” I asked. Stuart was still looking around and holding his breath. “Did you keep all of them?”

“Well, we gave away most of them but kept two. A white male we named Ghost and a black female we named Shaggydog.” Walter immediately began to giggle when he said the name of the black cat. Apparently, he thought himself very clever.

“What do you mean by ‘we’? Stuart asked, apparently unable to hold his breath any longer.

Walter giggled some more. “I meant I did, of course, Mr. Mernok. My mother has no clue what A Song of Ice and Fire is let alone the names of the direwolves of the Stark children.”

“What about your dad?” I asked. “He was kind of into all of that stuff, right? I remember he was also a huge Star Trek fanatic.”

“That’s right,” said Stuart. “Didn’t he have a Conan the Barbarian sword replica?”

Walter stopped smiling and got quiet for a few seconds. “Actually, Dad died last year,” he admitted sadly.

“Shit, dude. I’m really sorry to hear that.” I didn’t know Walter’s family too well but his father was always nice to me. Back in middle school, he and Mrs. Secchione invited me on a trip to visit the Statue of Liberty with Walter and his older brother, Vincent. “How did that happen?” I asked.

“Cancer,” Walter replied. “It spread so fast that the treatments couldn’t keep up with it. It started in his pancreas I think. He only lived for five months after he was diagnosed.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” said Stuart. “How’s your mom doing?”

“She’s okay,” Walter said in a deep sigh. “She got a job at Americana Jeep on Route 35. She’s their office manager.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“Yeah, she likes it well enough. She needs the medical, you know?”

“How’s Vincent been? You see him anymore?”

“Vinny’s good,” Walter replied. “He moved down to South Carolina with his wife and kids after Dad passed away. We talk a few times a week but he works nights now so it’s hard to get in touch with him.”

“Did he take his weapons with him?” I asked. Vincent was every little brother’s wet dream. He was the exact opposite of Walter, which we all thought was hilarious. Although he was kind of short, he was very athletic and muscular. What made him special to us was his cache of weapons that he kept in his room. He had it all! Blow guns, swords, knives, crossbows, nun chucks, throwing stars, darts and even slingshots. He would amuse himself by trying to take out squirrels and birds from his bedroom window. Vincent also loved to fight. He had one of those sexual looking practice dummies in his room that he used to punch and kick. In the garage he had weights and heavy bags. When I first moved to New Jersey it was rumored that Vincent put some guy in the hospital by punching him in the face so hard that he broke the guy’s orbital socket. It was no surprise to me, or anyone, when he eventually became a local police officer.

“Yeah, he did,” said Walter with a light chuckle. “He took it all with him. I’m sure he even added a few guns to his armory by now.”

“Hey, Walt,” Stuart interrupted. “Mind if I use the bathroom? It’s downstairs, right?”

“Sure, Stu. Yup, just downstairs and to the left.”

“I’ll be right back,” Said Stuart as he went down to the family room.

Just as Stuart went downstairs, Walter’s eyes widened in terror as if someone just dropped his gaming dice down a sewer drain. “Stuart, wait a second!” he called as he ran downstairs, knocking over a kitchen chair in the process. “Wait a second!”

“Is that manga porn?” Stuart asked in disbelief from the family room.

“What?” Quickly, I ran downstairs but it was too late as Walter had already made it to the television and turned it off. “You were watching manga porn?” I asked.

“Yeah, dude!” said Stuart excitedly. “I just saw it! It was that Japanese cartoon porn. Like hard-core Pokémon or something!”

“No, no, no!” Walter replied. “I was watching Dragon Ball Z.”

“It was manga porn,” Stuart insisted. “Turn it back on!”

“I’m telling you it was Dragon Ball Z,” Walter insisted. His face was as red as a beet and he was getting all sweaty and shaky.”

“I believe the proper term is hentai,” I corrected for no obvious reason other than to show my friends that I was cultured. “It’s okay, Walt,” I assured my humiliated friend. “We all watch porn. Stuart, remember that Batman hentai I had on my computer back in high school?”

“That was some funny stuff,” answered Stuart. “Who gave that to you? It was that albino kid with the runny eyes right?”

“It was Dragon Ball Z!” Walter spat. He then began to have a coughing fit.

“Okay, okay,” Stuart said. “It wasn’t porn. Maybe I saw it wrong. All that Japanese animation looks like porn to me anyway. Everyone always has their mouths wide open and their eyes closed tight like they’re having sex or something. I used to think Voltron was porn when I was a kid with all of their moaning and screaming.”

“Yeah, dude,” I said. “Stuart just saw what he wanted to see.”

“It was probably some weird preview or coming attraction,” Walter said as he calmed himself down by clenching and unclenching his fists and taking in deep breaths of urine-perfumed air. “Let’s go back up to the kitchen. I’ll grab some snacks.”

“You got it, dude.” Stuart tapped my shoulder when Walter wasn’t looking and gave me a huge smile and thumbs up to convince me that he definitely saw something perverted on the television. I angrily mouthed to him to shut up and followed Walter upstairs while Stuart went to take a leak.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang and Walter went to greet the final member of our party.

“You are late, Lord Miller!” shouted Walter like a massive geek. “But I see you came bearing gifts so you are most welcome here.”

“What’s up, Walter?” Miller asked as he entered the house with two boxes of pizza in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other. His smile did not last long however, as the pungent waft of cat excrement permeated his senses. “Holy crap, dude!”

“What?” Walter asked excitedly. “What’s the matter?” I knew the reason for the rude statement but prayed my best friend would be able to pull it all off as something less offensive.

“No, nothing, dude.” Miller started. I could see in his eyes that he was working on something really clever. “I just haven’t been in your house in a while. Your parents did a lot of work to it since I’ve been here.”

What a terrible lie. Walter’s house did not change a single bit since he and I became friends all those years ago. The walls were still a dirty yellow from people chain smoking all day, the floors were still covered in either matted brown shag carpeting or worn brown vinyl and the smell was as pungent as ever.

“Yeah,” Walter somehow agreed. “Thanks for noticing. Come on in. Everyone’s in the kitchen.”

“Hey there, Mill,” I said with a knowing smile. “What have you got there? Pizza? Beer?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” crooned Miller. “Watch it or I’m not going to let you have any.”

Without asking and without any napkins or plates, Stuart attacked one of the boxes of pizza and grabbed two slices with one hand.

“You greedy slob!” scolded Miller. “Wait until Walter gets something to eat on!”

“But I’m so far away,” explained Stuart. “Besides, now I have guest rights. I have drank your beer and eaten your meat so you can do me no harm unless you want the wrath of the gods to come down upon you.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Miller said. “It’s bread and salt not beer and meat.”

“I think it is really just food,” I chimed in.

“Yeah,” agreed Walter as he sifted through some cabinets. “Bread and salt are just the traditional provisions but any food will suffice.”

While Walter was busy looking for clean plates and napkins, I looked at Miller and just shook my head in disbelief. “What got into you?” I whispered.

“What?”

“First you’re telling me that you don’t want to come and then you show up with all of this? What gives?”

“You and your accusatory questions, Pete. Not everything is a conspiracy, you know? I said I was allowed to change my mind, right? Besides, I fell asleep after my shower and didn’t have time to eat.”

Once Walter came back with the dinnerware, we all settled down and broke out our dice and our character sheets while Walter, being the Dungeon Master (DM for short) for the evening, took out his screen and a few books.

“We’re not going to be fighting beetles tonight, are we?” asked Stuart, which made all of us laugh except for Walter.

“Not this time,” Walter replied with a scornful look. “Since we haven’t played in a while, I came up with a pretty straightforward adventure. You guys ready to begin?”

“Let’s do it,” Miller replied with a huge, geeky grin.

Our party was made up of a cranky dwarf fighter named Kraven Stone who was played by me, a gnome druid named Myrstar of the Vale played by Stuart and a half-elf wizard named Shadowflame played by Miller. Despite being the DM who basically held our fate in his hands, Walter also decided to play the role of a dwarf cleric named Father Bill. Since Walter knew what the overall adventure held in store for us, we all agreed that Father Bill would not be able to participate in any decision making. He would simply fight alongside us and, being a cleric, heal anyone who was injured.

As Walter stated, the adventure was pretty straight forward. Our party was hanging out in a tavern one day and was called to visit the local lord. Once there, we were given a mission to hunt down and destroy a band of orcs who were terrorizing farmers and plundering merchants travelling the more secluded roadways. Our reward would be a shitload of gold and a nice swath of land to call our own.

Everything started out well and I was having a really good time. We encountered and eradicated a few groups of orcs and a couple of trolls and ogres, which helped us gain the locals’ favor. Our determination and good fortune eventually led us to find a map that led to a series of caves that we figured the orcs were using as some sort of base. It was when we entered the cave that things started to get ugly and even a little disturbing.

“As you make your way down the cave,” said Walter,” you hear the voices of two orcs having a conversation. It appears that they do not know you are there.”

“Must be guards,” I suggest. “Does anyone have something to put them to sleep of kill them quick and silently?”

“I got it, I got it!” Shouted Stuart. Stuart loved to play druids, which were kind of like magic users but all based in nature. They did not have a lot of powerful spells and were more of a complimentary class of character. Still, this did not stop my good friend from constantly trying to be the leader of the party every chance he got. “I call down thunder strike!”

“What?” Miller asked in disbelief.

“Stuart, that’s stupid,” I explained. “Let Miller’s wizard put them to sleep.”

“No, I don’t care. I cast thunder strike. It’s a great spell.”

Walter rolled a few twenty-sided dice and giggled. “Your spell works perfectly, Stuart. Myrstar of the Vale stands in front of the party and slams his staff to the ground. A massive clap of thunder explodes over the heads of the two orcs and they both collapse lifelessly to the floor. Upon quick inspection, they are both dead.”

“See?” Stuart asked triumphantly. “It worked.”

“However,” continued Walter as he tried to stifle his giggles, “the thunder you conjured echoes through the caves like, um, well, like thunder. You immediately hear the blaring of horns and the sound of many orcs heading in your direction.”

“You moron!” Miller swore.

“In a matter of seconds,” our DM went on, “you see dozens of pairs of yellow eyes and burning torches heading in your direction from down the cave. What do you do?”

“Well,” I started, “I pull out my axe and look for a place to set up an-”

“I got this,” Stuart interrupted. “I walk in front of the party and cast a wall of thorns to block the orcs.”

“Seriously?” Walter asked. Miller and I just looked at each other and took a swig of beer.

“Yup,” Stuart replied. “I cast Wall of Thorns, baby.”

“Brave Myrstar stands before the party once again and weaves his hands in an intricate pattern,” Walter explained. “Just as the orcs turn the corner, they are blocked off by thick vines decorated with nasty spikes. The orcs cannot get to you but you cannot get to them either.”

“Way to go, Stuart,” I said. “So now what do we do?”

“We run away,” said Stuart matter-of-factly. “Right?”

“Dipshit,” Miller said as he slammed down his empty bottle of beer. “We can take them. I can kill most of them with one spell but now we have to wait for your stupid crap to wear off.”

“No we don’t,” said Stewart. “I cast Flame Strike on the wall and burn it! Ha, ha!”

“Brave, mighty Myrstar casts Flame Strike on the wall of thorns and it immediately ignites. You now have a wall of fire in front of you and you start to choke on the smoke that is filling the cave and your lungs.”

“Wow, you suck, dude,” I told Stuart. “I forgot how bad you can be at this game. Why didn’t you wait for everyone to come up with a plan?”

“Fuck off, Pete,” said Stuart. “At least I’m doing something. What has your guy done so far?”

“Your characters are choking more and I’m going to have them start rolling to see if they pass out or not,” said Walter. “What do you do?”

“I cast Cloud Burst,” Stuart announced. “It will put out the fire.”

Walter giggled some more and even Miller had to laugh.

“What now?” Stuart asked miserably.

“Cloud Burst is just a fog,” Miller explained. “It’s not going to do shit.”

“The mighty dullard Myrstar casts yet another spell,” Walter went on while giggling uncontrollably, “and this time a huge fog falls upon the flaming mass of thorns, creating a thick smog that is unbearable. You realize that your only choice is to flee or suffocate.”

It was then that I had a great idea. “I kick Myrstar into the flaming wall and run away,” I said.

“Yes!” Miller cried out in pure ecstasy.

“Really?” Walter asked as he wiped tears of joy from his eyes and grabbed another slice of pizza from the greasy box.

“I sure do,” I said while ignoring a seething look of death from Stuart. I proceeded to roll one of my twenty-sided dice on the kitchen table and stood up in victory when it landed on eighteen.

“You suck, Pete,” said Stuart. “You better watch your step from now on.”

“Angrily and most justifiably,” Walter stated while beginning to giggle and sweat even harder, “the powerfully angry Kraven Stone leaps forward and kicks the druid gnome in the back with his boot and-”

“Metal-tipped boot,” I corrected. It was all Miller could do not to spit out his beer in laughter.

Walter, in between massive bites of pizza and complete hysteria, continued to describe the scene. “Correction; kicks the wee little gnome in the back with his metal-tipped boot and sends him flying forward into the flaming wall of thorns.” Walter then rolled a few six-sided dice. “Stuart, Myrstar of the Vale takes eight points of damage and his robes are now on fire.”

“Thanks, Pete,” said Stuart as he cracked open another beer and shoved a slice of pizza into his mouth. “I’ll remember this.”

It took Walter a long time to stop laughing before he could continue. “As Kraven runs for safety, the rest of you see your companion rolling on the floor in flames. Miller, does Shadowflame try to help?”

“Nope,” said Miller. “I run away to get some fresh air too.”

“So does Father Bill,” said Walter as he rolled a twenty-sided die. “Stuart, Myrstar is able to put out his flaming robes without taking any more damage. As he rises off the floor, he realizes that he will soon die from smoke inhalation. What does he do?”

“Gee, let me think?” said Stuart with more than a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

“That would be a nice change,” I said.

“Obviously, I run out and meet up with the rest of the party.”

“Okay,” said Walter. “So, once the party is outside you realize that you have time to lick your wounds and heal up while the fire burns itself out. Father Bill casts Cure Light Wounds on Myrtsar twice and he is fully healed.”

“What about his robes?” I asked. “How badly burned are they?”

“I don’t know, Pete,” answered Walter. “Not too bad I guess, why?”

“Yeah, why?” asked Stuart. “What do you care?”

Trying to suppress my laughter, I explained. “I just want to know if Kraven is going to be spending the rest of the adventure looking at a gnome’s singed ass.” This brought everyone at the table, with the exception of Stuart, into roaring laughter.

“It should be the front, actually,” said Miller. “Are his little gnome nuts burnt? Do we smell burnt hair?”

“Fuck you guys,” cursed Stuart. “At least I’m roleplaying. None of you are doing anything.”

“You aren’t giving us a chance,” explained Miller. “You keep running around like a lunatic before any of us have a chance to do anything.”

“Let’s agree that from now on,” I said, “we act like a party and prepare before saying what we do?”

“Fine,” agreed Stuart. “So what do we do now?”

We all agreed to let the fire die out before going back into the cave. When we reentered, the orcs too had apparently retreated and we were able to move forward without incident. The next couple of hours were spent exploring the cave system, finding antechambers and fighting a few groups of orcs, trolls and goblins. The party was playing much better and Stuart eventually cooled off and began to smile and joke around with the rest of us. I had even begun to think that Walter created a rather cool little adventure for us until we somehow came upon a group of halflings who were simply hanging out in a luxurious antechamber we found behind a secret door. Female halflings to be precise.

“As the party enters the lavishly decorated antechamber,” explained Walter in a very serious tone, “the secret door closes behind you and you find yourselves facing more than a dozen female halflings. All of them are eyeing the party hungrily and you immediately notice that they are very scantily clad.”

“Obviously this is some sort of trap,” said Miller. “They must be vampires or some sort of shape shifters.”

Walter went on with the scene. “Several of the halflings are holding tankards of ale and more than a few of them seem eager to know you better. As they slowly move about you notice a large, round bed built into the middle of the floor. It is adorned with red silky sheets, soft pillows and two nude halflings fooling around with each other.”

“I ask Father Bill to cast Detect Evil,” I said. “This has to be a trap.”

“The godly dwarf casts his spell and informs the rest of the party that everything seems fine. “There is no evil here,” he says, “just fine looking company.””

“So what are we supposed to do?” I asked Miller and Stuart. “Do any of them have weapons?”

“No,” Walter answered. “You do not see any weapons. Just drinks, food and even a few playful toys, if you know what I mean.”

“I ask the closest halfling her name and what she is doing down here,” said Stuart.

“My name is Tink,” said Walter as he role-played in a really disturbing feminine voice. “We are all sex slaves to the orc tribe. You have saved us all and we are eager to repay you for your heroism.”

“What?” asked Miller, almost choking on the beer he was drinking.

“Stuart,” said Walter in his regular voice, “Tink begins to rub Myrstar all over and slides her soft hands up his worn robe. “You are safe here,” she says. “Enjoy the moment, my hero.” The rest of you see Father Bill remove his clothes and walk over to the giant bed. “There’s plenty of room for all of us,” he says to the rest of the party as several other halflings remove their clothes and head over to join him.”

“Dude, what the fuck is going on?” I asked in disbelief. “This isn’t a trap or something?”

“It’s not a trap,” insisted Walter. “We don’t have to fight monsters all of the time. Sometimes you get to have fun too.”

Miller began to laugh again. “So you want us to have an orgy?”

“So?” replied Walter, his face having turned beet red and sweaty. “Why not?”

“That’s really messed up, Walt,” Stuart said as he started putting his papers and dice back into his bag.

“I thought we could have some fun,” Walter continued. “It’s not like anybody will know.”

“And on that note,” I said, “this game has come to an end. It’s almost midnight anyway, Walter, and I have work tomorrow. It was fun until the naked halflings showed up.”

“If it’s because they are halflings I can throw in an elf or a gnome for you guys,” pressed Walter as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s just role-playing, you know? It’s all about our fantasies.”

“Sorry, dude,” Miller answered as we all got up and walked to the front door. “This just got really weird and I’m done here. Keep the rest of the beer, Walt. See you around.”

“Just give it a chance, guys,” begged Walter as he got up to follow us.

“Dude, do you have a boner?” Stuart asked.

“No, no I don’t! It’s just my pants!”

I simply refused to look. “Later, Walt,” I said as I stepped outside and closed the front door.

“That was fucked up,” spat Stuart, bringing me out of my peace and back into the reality of what had just unfolded in Walter’s house. “Do you think that’s why he brought us here?”

“Definitely,” answered Miller. “He wanted to have an orgy with a bunch of halflings.”

“Way to go, Pete,” said Stuart. “You set us up for some sort of perverted fantasy.”

“How the living hell is this my fault?” I asked in disbelief. “I’m just as repulsed as you guys.” This happened any time one of my plans went to shit, which was a decent amount of the time. If I suggest seeing a movie and it’s crap, suddenly I was the director of said movie. If I suggest going bodyboarding and there aren’t any waves, suddenly I am Poseidon and played a cruel joke on everyone.

“You talked us into coming here,” explained Miller. “Walter didn’t call us, you did.”

“I suppose I am also responsible for the cats pissing all over the house and the hentai playing on the television?”

“Absolutely!” my friends replied in unison.

“You guys are a bunch of boners. I’m going home.”

“Walter had the boner, Pete. Didn’t you guys see it? It was massive! I’m scarred for life, dude!”

“Go back inside and measure it,” I said.

“Alright, alright,” Miller said in his laid back drawl. “Don’t get upset, Pete. It’s not your fault that Walter apparently wanted to have some sort of sex with us but it is your fault that we are here. You understand that at least, right?”

I wanted to jump up and roundhouse kick Miller right in his face hole. Instead, I laughed and shook my head in disbelief. “Sure, dude. It’s my fault the two of you are here. Can I go home now?”

“Yes, go home, Pete,” Miller said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Stu, did you walk here?”

“Yeah, I walked, why?”

“Hop in and I’ll drive you home.”

“Okay. Later, Pete.”

“Later guys.”

Even though it was a short walk home, it was long enough to clear my mind of Walter’s perversions and my friends’ demented accusations. It was a warm evening and the air was full of the sounds of crickets, tree frogs and cicadas. I always loved summer nights. The air was always scented from the trees, flowers and cut grass and the sounds of the nocturnal creatures simply put me at ease. As usual, a small amount of anxiety started to build in my gut as I turned the corner to my block but it quickly diminished when I saw that all of the lights at my house were off and I didn’t hear anyone screaming or yelling. I opened the front door as quietly as I could and crept inside. Bogart was lying on the ground wagging his tail like a fiend but even he must have known it was not time to jump around and act like a loon. I gave him a quick pat on the head and a scratch behind his ears and went upstairs to use the bathroom to brush my teeth and take my medication before going to bed.

There was a note taped to my door, which I pulled down and read once inside my room. It was from my mother.

“Peter, Gail is picking me up tomorrow morning and we will be in Smithville all day. The keys to the Subaru are on the kitchen counter so feel free to use it. I also made you a sandwich out of the leftover chicken that’s in the fridge. Take it for lunch. Love you!”

Oddly enough, there was also a one-word message written under my mother’s note. It was not nearly as gentile and caring, having been written so harshly that it ripped a few holes in the yellow sticky-backed paper. This handwriting, having looked as if it were carved out of flint from a caveman, made it quite easy to guess the mystery author.

“SUITS!”

I threw out the note and quickly got changed for bed, leaving my clothes to rot on the floor. When I was comfortably resting on my bed, I immediately thought of my mother’s friend, Gail. Gail was really sexy; pixie-cut auburn hair, green eyes and always dressed as if she were twenty years younger than she really was. Still, instead of grabbing for a sock, as was my modus operandi, I decided to grab my phone instead to see if Laura was awake. “You up?” I texted. Happily, after only a few seconds, she replied.

“I’m up for now. How’s it going?”

“Good. Just getting ready for bed and wanted to say hello.”

“What did you do tonight?” asked Laura.

Not about to tell my would-be girlfriend that my friends and I were lured into a pervert’s sexual escapade, I decided to text the half-truth. “Me and the guys rolled some dice tonight.”

“Be honest,” texted Laura. “What does rolling dice mean? Gambling? Were you in Atlantic City?”

“If you must know, we were playing a little D&D,” I replied.

“LOL. Such a weenie!”

“Stop it.”

“Did you guys hang out at Super Weenie Hut Jr’s? Or was today Goofy Goober Wednesday?”

“No, wisenheimer,” I answered. “We were at an old buddy’s house around the corner from me.”

“I’m kidding with you…kind of,” said Laura. “Did you do any research yet for your interview?”

“Nope. Maybe tomorrow after work.”

“Be sure to do that,” advised Laura. “Companies love it if they see someone sucking up to them.”

“I know, I know,” I replied. “Not really looking forward to Friday at all.”

“Not even seeing me?” Laura asked. “That makes me sad. ☹”

Boy, am I a blockhead. “Not what I meant of course,” I answered. “Seeing you is going to be the only good part of the day.” Now I felt like I was screwing things up big time. It was late and I should have just grabbed my sock instead of my damn phone. I would have been sleeping by now instead of messing up my chances with the only girl who ever showed any interest to me.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Piety” texted Laura. “Petey not Piety. OMG. I think it’s time for bed. TTYL!!”

“LOL!! OK!!” I answered like a schmuck. Fortunately, Laura did not respond and I was able to put down my phone and stretch out on my squeaky bed. The thought of going to work Thursday did not sit very well with me one bit. As I closed my eyes, I thought of what it must be like to love my job; something no Rabbia I knew of was ever able to accomplish. I assumed that loving your job would somehow make it not a job. It would be some sort of career or something. I think careers are better than jobs. But what can I do as a career? I used to dream about playing first base for the New York Yankees but that window was just about shut. I like beer a lot, I thought. Maybe I could start my own brewery? Writing is fun too but I think every person on Earth is writing or blogging about some shit. Tolkien had to start somewhere, right? Even GRRM must have…and sleep finally came calling.