David Alan Dedin
Special Interest Groups
Twenty-Four
Special Interest Groups
2016
Patrick awoke to the crinkling sound of tight leather restraints.
“How’s that feel, buddy? You like that?”
Sitting up on one of the couches in Stephanie’s apartment, Patrick tugged on a T-shirt and a nearby pair of jeans. His eyes adjusted to the space’s fluid light, and the four pairs of cats’ eyes watching him from various heights, on shelves with glowing blobs of yellow, orange, and red lava. He smiled slightly when noticing the time – 4:27am – and on realizing Steph had brought home yet another man that she’d obviously met on an app.
In addition to having grown into a woman, Stephanie was rapidly becoming a woman of the night. She was not a prostitute; she didn’t charge for what she did. But God knows that should she ever choose to, she’d have made a mint because what she did, she did very well…and when the mood struck her, two to three times a week on average, she was never short of takers.
hummmmmm…
“Do you like how it feels when I just barely touch your glans like this?”
Patrick looked up to the loft, where Stephanie kept her low, Japanese-style bed. A pair of bare men’s feet had been tied off to the corners, with Steph – shirtless – kneeling between them, the heels of her black leather boots clearly visible from below. The entire loft area was lit by flameless candles, while Daughter’s Run played softly from an iPhone, just loud enough to mask the young man’s whimpers as he was edged towards the type of orgasm that can only be achieved with bondage.
hummmmmm…
“Oh God, oh God…!”
Grabbing his socks, boots, jacket, and wallet, Patrick hurried into the hallway in hopes of missing the inevitable.
“OH GOD, OH GOD, OH, OH, OH” –
He didn’t quite make it.
* * * * *
Schoolhouse Rock, the refurbished grade school that held Stephanie’s communal loft, was the tallest building on DeKalb Boulevard, a street known only to locals, parallel to Main in the Las Vegas Arts District. Erected in the late 1940s, Steph’s residence had clearly been one of the first structures on the street, with everything that followed added in the nineteen-fifties and sixties.
Saxophone music played as Patrick stepped onto the sidewalk; he paused to light a cigarette and to take in the neighborhood’s carnival atmosphere. Now showered and dressed, he pulled up his jacket collar and smiled. A month had passed since he’d commandeered Stephanie’s sofa, yet he still found it hard to believe that this had become his temporary home, as he slowly put his life back together. The sax player blew him a riff, as though sharing the sentiment –
How the hell did we end up here?
DeKalb was every bit as busy as the Strip, only rather than tourists, the street was alive with early-rising locals, third-shift millennials coming home, and the usual spattering of red-eyed college students who weren’t quite sure if they were leaving a kegger or heading to class. Like the neighborhood where Bob Gross once had his office, DeKalb was a community filled with oddly-shaped, 1960s-era strip malls – all of which had been remodeled over the past twenty years, and set against a backdrop of newer, mid-80s apartment buildings and the pricy art galleries one street over.
Patrick tipped the musician a five as he walked down the street with purpose.
DeKalb Boulevard was a crazy mix of twentysomethings, low-income families, and adults like Patrick who’d chosen Vegas to rebuild their lives. The sidewalk’s mid-century storefronts were full of student galleries, vegan restaurants, fun dive bars, record and gaming retailers, produce co-ops, and hookah dens. The neighborhood was far from a slum, but it definitely wasn’t the place one would find a Coach store.
Jingle…
And for a man like Patrick who’d lost a decade in prison, it was no less than perfect.
* * * * *
“Morning, Pat!”
Hugh Laurie glared from a sidewalk sign as Patrick flicked his cigarette and entered The Coffee House with the front door’s bell. “Morning, guys.”
“We just created a new macchiato!” Heath, a skinny barista with long, red hair in a ponytail, said excitedly from behind the counter. “It’s made from fresh goat’s milk, with unroasted green coffee beans. Here – try it.” He offered a sample when Patrick entered the server’s alley, losing his coat and tying on his apron. Patrick took an unfortunate taste – “Mmmph!”
“I just milked the goat this morning,” Heath told him. “What do you think?”
“It’s” – Patrick struggled for words, his mouth full of chunks. “It’s kind of thick.”
“That’s the natural protein. It binds with the coffee and corpuscles.”
“Mmmph.” Patrick tried not to be rude while looking for someplace to spit.
“It’s good, right?”
Patrick shook his head no. Turning to the espresso machine, he expelled a mouthful of unpasteurized froth into the swirling dip well. “Does the health department know we’re serving this?” He rinsed out his mouth with a handful of water –
Even toilet wine tastes better.
“I told him it’s disgusting,” Rudy, a fellow barista, said flatly.
“Maybe if you served it with a spoon?” Patrick suggested.
The front door jingled. Stephanie entered, showered, dressed, carrying a backpack and accompanied by last night’s gentleman caller. Patrick smiled when he saw them – “Coffee?”
“Two in a mug, one to go,” Steph told him.
“Three?” Rudy asked, handing Steph’s hookup the to-go cup. The dude nodded thanks, said goodbye to Stephanie, then headed out the door – jingle. Steph grabbed the two steaming mugs and motioned for Patrick to join her.
“You guys mind if I take a minute?” Patrick asked. His coworkers shook their heads. Coming into the seating area, he pulled up a chair to Steph’s table. She opened her laptop and turned it his direction. She clicked on the photo browser.
“If you’re showing me pictures of last night,” Patrick joked, “I think I already have a pretty good idea of what happened.” He gestured towards the window, where Stephanie’s latest conquest was climbing into an Uber. The guy moved like he had a manhole cover between his knees.
“Don’t be a wise-ass,” she said, scrolling through files. “I want to show you something.”
“Well, since you’re up” – Patrick changed the subject – “there’s something I need to tell you. Heath’s roommate is leaving at the end of the month, and I’m going to take his spot.”
“Seriously?” Steph nodded towards the hippie barista, who was spooning what looked like hot cottage cheese into an oatmeal bowl. “You know he doesn’t even have a couch to sit on, right? His living room is full of bean bags.”
“I don’t think you’re one to talk about odd living arrangements.”
“Check this out,” she said, clicking on a file labeled Congress Hotel 2015. The laptop screen filled with men in leather. The photo was obviously taken at a fetish convention.
“What am I looking at?” Patrick asked.
“Have you ever heard of IML?” Steph sipped her coffee. “It’s a convention held in Chicago every year. It’s always on Memorial Day weekend.”
“Actually, I have. Alan used to go to it.”
“I think he still does,” Steph said, enlarging the picture. She used the curser to point out someone in the crowd. Patrick squinted at the image. It was a man Alan’s age, wearing a starched white oxford, red tie, and black leather boots, pants, and vest. His head was shaved bald, with a neatly-trimmed goatee. There was a bit of a resemblance, but little more than that.
“Steph, that could be anybody.”
“I think it’s him.”
“He doesn’t look the same. And he’s heavier than what Alan used to be.”
“Well, guys get fat when they get old,” she said. “And Alan would be in his late forties by now.”
“Are you saying I’m fat?” Patrick smirked as the door jingled with customers. “And how much time did it take you to find this picture? Don’t you have better things to do? Like maybe, you know, finally finishing a degree? How many majors do you have again?”
She ignored the remark. “Don’t you think this looks like him? Seriously. Take another look.” Patrick sighed, squinting again.
“I suppose. Maybe. Steph, I honestly don’t know…”
“If Alan was at IML last year, then he’ll probably go again this year,” she said.
“And your point?”
“Well…if Alan feels safe enough to come out of hiding, maybe we could go to IML ourselves and find him. He probably thinks that he can blend in with all the costumes, but we could do the same.”
“Wait…you want to go to IML?”
“I do.”
“Steph…don’t you think that’s a little obsessive?” Smiling sadly, Patrick stared at her hair. It reminded him of a crocheted winter hat today, with spiked blue yarn that mimicked a Roman soldier’s helmet. And how exactly will you blend in when you look like a manga Marge Simpson? “And you don’t think that this is something the police would have checked out?”
“Ten years ago, maybe. But not now, not after all this time.”
“Did you show them this picture?” he asked.
“I emailed it.”
“And what did they say?”
“You know they don’t care anymore,” Steph told him. “They said they’d look into it, but after all this time, the police have better things to do. Alan’s not exactly on the most-wanted list.”
The door jingled again. Patrick watched more customers enter the coffee shop, forming a line. The street outside was turning blue with the sunrise. He glanced at his watch.
“Steph, I need to get to work.”
“So, you don’t think its him?” she asked, holding firm. Patrick chose his words carefully before answering:
“What I think is that you’re chasing ghosts when you should be focused on what’s happening in your own life now,” he told her honestly. “I understand your wanting to find Alan again, but I’m telling you Steph, this obsession isn’t healthy. You’re dwelling in the past. You need to move on with your life.”
Stephanie glared at him. “I hate it when people say that.”
“That you’re dwelling in the past?”
“No…that I need to do something,” she said. “We need to do this, you need to do that. It’s like a group of managers who have a problem with their staff. But instead of fixing the problem, they just talk about fixing the problem. And all that ends up doing is make the problem worse.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Patrick asked. More students came in from the sidewalk. He could hear grinding beans as the air filled with the acidic aroma of hot espresso shots.
“The problem is that Alan got away, and we can’t let that happen,” she told him.
“Steph,” Patrick began, finishing his coffee. He nodded to his coworkers – just one more minute, guys – before touching Stephanie’s arm to emphasize his point. Again, he chose his words carefully –
“Look, Steph, I get it – I really do. I spent years thinking about what Alan did to me, and those were very, very angry years. But anger is dangerous. And it does nothing but make a bad situation worse. I can’t tell you how many times I went to sleep in my cell, and thought about the different things I’d do to Alan should I ever see him again” –
“And I thought about some very dark things,” he added. “Darker than I’d ever admit out loud.”
Steph looked up. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“How dark?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both,” Patrick admitted, standing up. The tables were starting to fill with customers, and he had to get to work. Smoothing out his apron, Patrick smiled softly at Stephanie. He knew exactly where she was in her head, but this wasn’t the time or place to have this particular conversation. But the topic is now on the table, he thought.
Stephanie sighed. “So, we’re just going to drop this, then?”
“Not at all,” he assured her.
Most definitely not at all…
* * * * *
Whoosh!
Long red hair shot by in a flash as Heath, Patrick’s coworker, zoomed passed on a skateboard, his dirty green apron tied around his neck like a cape. Lady GaGa’s Bad Romance echoed throughout the theater, intertwined with rolling wheels and bodies slamming against sweat-stained walls and sharp wooden obstacles. Schoolhouse Rock’s old auditorium had once been home to grade school plays and choral meets…but had now been repurposed into a popular – and extremely dangerous – indoor skateboard park.
Whoosh!
The movie-style seating had been removed to provide a large, pitched surface for people to practice their leaps, twirls, hardflips, boardslides, and occasional tourniquets. Numerous plywood ramps and ledges divided the hall into a sort of life-sized game board, with a basic path for players to follow, similar to balls on a pinball machine.
Whoosh!
The whole place was an OSHA nightmare.
As twenty or so skateboarders did laps around the circuit, Patrick watched from the observational bleachers, an iPad in his lap. He looked up when he noticed Suzanne, one of Stephanie’s housemates, approach.
“I thought you hated this place,” she said, smiling.
“Makes me nervous,” Patrick admitted. “But it has free Wi-Fi.” He winced as a young girl took a corner so fast, her skateboard’s wheels literally hit the wall at four feet. “It looks like fun, but I can’t believe how dangerous it is. I’m surprised more people don’t get hurt.”
“Someone once called it compound-fracture-land,” Suzanne said.
“Oh, to be young again,” Patrick reminisced. To be young and fearless, unafraid to take the dangerous path. He winced as a student lost his footing in a depression between two wooden ramps. The kid went sailing into the path of an oncoming skateboarder, who effortlessly jumped over him before continuing on –
“Seriously, this place is a death trap.”
“A scene from Rollerball,” Suzanne joked.
“Definitely,” Patrick said. “I can’t believe how much skateboarding has changed since I was a kid. It’s so violent now. It’s almost like a contact sport.” He glanced at a nearby wall, where a sign seemed to emphasize his point:
THIS SKATE PARK IS NOT SUPERVISED
ALL INDIVIDUALS UNDERSTAND AND FULLY ACCEPT
THAT THEY ARE USING THIS FACILITY
AT THEIR OWN RISK
“Want a change of venue?” Suzanne asked. “I’ll give you the password – you can use the Wi-Fi at my gallery.”
“Gladly.” Patrick jumped off the bleachers and followed her through a sideline of hipster onlookers, and into a passageway below a sign that read:
GO THIS WAY
The Skate Escape The Coffee House The Elysian Fields
The entered the corridor in time to overhear the onlookers gasp as a skateboarder nailed the park’s proscenium, breaking a bone in the process – crunch.
His cries of pain seemed to come from everywhere.
* * * * *
The Elysian Fields was the coolest gallery on DeKalb Boulevard, the perfect balance of bad student art and provocative pieces from talented local artists. It’s ground floor store front was small, but the gallery itself was huge; it took up almost two-thirds of the Schoolhouse Rock basement, with a painted cement floor, visible ducts and pipework on the ceiling, and red brick walls reminiscent of Checker’s in Peoria. Its location was actually perfect for an art gallery.
“Have you been here before?” Suzanne asked Patrick, as the two descended the metal stairs into the cavernous exhibition space. She nodded to a fellow curator, who stood like a statue with his hands behind his back. Fun’s “We Are Young” played softly on the gallery’s sound system.
“Honestly, no,” Patrick said. “I’m not much of an art person. And to be perfectly honest, this place always seemed a little” – he caught himself midsentence.
“Pretentious?” Suzanne asked.
“Yes,” he admitted.
She smiled. “That’s okay. A lot of people think that art galleries are pretentious. Then again, those tend to be the people who buy their art at JCPenny. Or decorate their walls with movie posters.” Walking to her desk, Suzanne wrote the password on the back of a business card – “Here.”
“Thanks.”
“Wanna’ tour?”
“Sure,” Patrick said. He typed in the password before setting the tablet on Suzanne’s desk. She led the way.
“Welcome to my chocolate factory,” Suzanne said proudly, strolling through the sculptures displayed on pedestals. Patrick followed her through the floor, past serious buyers and students killing time, and listened to her narration as she explained various pieces.
“This is a total piece of garbage,” Suzanne said, gesturing towards a sculpture of a shirtless skateboarder banking a curb. It was surprisingly well done. The ceramic figure seemed as perfectly carved as Michelangelo’s David. “And before you ask, that’s really its name.” She pointed at the piece’s information card:
A Total Piece of Garbage
$3,500.00
“A for talent, but D for the name,” Suzanne said.
“It’s really good,” Patrick said.
“It’s a local guy,” she explained. “Deals blackjack on the Strip by day but likes to sculpt on weekends. He brings me a piece about every two months.”
“Is he a skateboarder?”
“No – he’s actually missing a leg. And he’s in his sixties.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I’ll show you his website later on,” Suzanne said. “He’s done some outstanding pieces. I honestly wish he’d quit his job and focus on art full time, but he needs the insurance. Can’t really argue with that.”
“And what about this?” Patrick asked, walking towards a sculpture that was made entirely of science fiction action figures, painted neon colors. Its information card read:
The Software to My Imagination
“Are these…Star Wars figures?”
“And Micronauts and Battlestar Galactica, and about a dozen other out of package toys from the seventies and eighties,” Suzanne said. “I like it because it’s so colorful. He did a similar piece with old cell phones.”
“Suzanne?” the second curator interrupted politely. “We have interest in the – ahem – McSchizzle piece.” The curator nodded towards a wealthy tourist couple, who were admiring a sculpture of an anthropomorphic banana with a Mr. Potato Head face. It was peeling off its lower skin, revealing something yellow…and obscene. The couple looked like they had just hit the penny-slots jackpot and were now shopping for a nice piece of gallery art to complement their Davenports.
This will look so good with our Thomas Kinkade prints!
“I’ll be right there,” Suzanne told the curator before whispering to Patrick, Now, that’s a total piece of garbage!
Patrick smiled slightly as she put her salesman game face on, approaching the couple as though they were admiring a Renoir. Suzanne was a shapely woman in her late thirties, a little on the heavy side but confident in her style. She was dressed all in black, with gorgeous long hair and Egyptian-themed jewelry that twinkled in the gallery’s lighting. Patrick had to cover his mouth while overhearing:
“This is a very personal piece from a well-known local artist. The banana itself represents the bountiful fruit of life, while the phallus is a metaphor for our ability to create abundance.”
“Err, yes Sir…phallus means penis.”
“The artist is well known because he has so many DUI’s,” the second curator whispered to Patrick. “You want something to drink? We serve Gallo to the clients, but Suzanne’s friends get the good stuff. Would you like a Chardonnay?”
“Sure.”
The curator went in back.
“DID YOU KNOW,” Stephanie asked Patrick, suddenly appearing at his side, “That Vincent Price was just as known for his appreciation of art as he was for starring in horror movies?”
“I honestly did not know that,” Patrick said, surprised. “How did you know where I was?”
Steph held up her iPhone. “You’re using my iCloud account, remember? I used the track my iPhone app.” She gestured towards Patrick’s iPad, sitting on Suzanne’s desk. Her hair looked like blue propane flame as it caught the gallery’s spotlights –
“Ooh, speaking of horror movies, take a look at this.”
She led him towards the back of the gallery, where the larger sculptures were displayed. They passed a giant apple, a paper-mâché Volkswagen, and a horse made out of coat hangers before arriving at a ghoulish statue that stood nearly eight feet tall. Patrick’s eyes widened –
“It’s…grotesque.”
“It is a bit gargoyle-like,” Stephanie said, “but I wouldn’t call it grotesque. It actually reminds me of those friendship circles that you always see on Unicef Christmas cards.”
The sculpture was of a trio of faceless figures, thin and sinewy like a Tim Burton graphic, each touching the others’ right shoulder with their respective left hands. Their right hands reached forward, coming together in the air, in the piece’s center; the three individual hands were holding a single knife – in a manner that clearly showed metal cutting painfully into flesh.
Grotesque…
What made the statue particularly disturbing was the deceptively colorful way it was painted – like a deadly plant with lovely flowers – as though luring visitors with brilliant plumage, then snatching them up once they got too close. All three figures were painted the same…black at the bottom, then red melding into orange, then yellow becoming white at the top. The colors were uniform throughout the trio, both front and backsides.
The warm colors made the knife the sculpture’s focus; it was a bright popsicle blue contrast, as striking as Stephanie’s hair. Most unsettling of all was the fact that the statue was lit from below, rather than above. It was a truly beautiful monstrosity, out of step with the rest of the gallery.
“I did that,” Suzanne told them from behind.
Patrick and Stephanie turned around to face her. She was holding three glasses of wine, the good stuff, of which she offered two.
“It’s stunning,” Patrick told her.
“Thank you.”
“What does it represent?” he asked.
“What do you think it represents?”
“Dude, you’re never gonna’ get a straight answer from an artist,” Stephanie told him. “I’ve been living with her for years, and she hasn’t even told me.”
Suzanne smiled. “Would you like a hint?”
“Yes, please.”
Suzanne nodded towards the sculpture. “One of the three is holding the handle, while the other two are holding the blade.” She smiled devilishly. “Why do you think that is?”
“Suzanne, the clients are ready to purchase,” the second curator interrupted politely. “And they’d like to know if we have anything else that’s” – he cleared his throat snobbishly – “yellow.”
“Please excuse me,” Suzanne told the two.
“Think we should buy some art?” Stephanie asked Patrick, as the two stayed behind, their heads cocked in unison on the colorful statue. “Maybe a little something to spruce up Heath’s apartment?”
“I hope you’re not mad that I’m moving out, Steph. I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I need to find a place of my own. Besides, I’ll only be a couple streets over. I won’t be far away.”
Stephanie sipped her wine. “Hey – I have something to show you.” She motioned for him to follow her back to Suzanne’s desk. Once there, she brought up Facebook on Patrick’s iPad. She tapped the screen a few times, then showed him the screen –
The page displayed had a Checker’s banner.
“What’s this?”
“It’s your alma mater,” she said. “It’s a group of former Checker’s employees. This group is specifically for those who worked in Peoria. I think you should join.”
He smiled. “Not a good idea, Steph. I was fired for theft – remember?”
“Yeah, but you still worked there. And I’m sure half the people in this group got fired or walked out. Again, you should join.”
“For what purpose?”
“For old times’ sake?”
“You know, the biggest thing that’s changed over the last ten years, is how dependent people have become on social media,” Patrick told her. “Everyone has smartphones. Everybody texts. No one seems to talk anymore, or at least not in person.”
“And that’s a problem?” Stephanie asked.
“It’s an observation,” Patrick said.
“But you say that like it’s a problem.”
“Again Steph, having been gone for as long as I was, I feel like I’ve been parachuted into an unfamiliar world. I mean, I can see how much things have changed in that time. I can see how dependent people have become on things like Facebook and apps.” He chuckled, gesturing towards her studded leather wrist band. “Even you use apps to meet guys. Or, at least to meet the type of guys you’re looking for.”
“That’s different,” she said. “You’re talking about a sex app. But what I’m talking about is Facebook. Everybody uses it. It’s a way to keep in touch with friends, and a way to reconnect with people from your past.”
“Steph, I honestly have no interest.”
“Well, actually…you are on Facebook,” she finally admitted. Stephanie tapped the tablet to bring up a new page, then showed it to Patrick. He grimaced –
She had created a profile in his name.
“Okay, this is something I don’t appreciate,” he told her. He reached for the iPad, but she held it at bay. “Steph, give me that.”
“Nope.”
“I’m serious, Steph. Give it to me.”
“I will, but you have to understand why I did it.”
“I don’t care why you did it. I just want you to take it down. Please give me the iPad.”
“Not until you hear me out.”
“Okay, now you’re making me angry…”
From a distance, between Suzanne and her clients, Patrick and Stephanie could be seen in a heated discussion, their movements becoming more physical. As Suzanne pointed out the yellow nuances of a Keane-inspired latch hook, Patrick yanked the tablet out of Steph’s hands with such aggression, the action inadvertently sent an expensive Tiffany desk lamp to the floor – crash!
Gracefully excusing herself from her clients, Suzanne bee-lined towards her desk, an angry smile plastered on her face – “May I ask what’s going on here?”
“Suzanne,” Stephanie said quickly, keeping her voice down. “I’m so sorry. Here…it was an accident.” She looked at Patrick to back her up, but he was already halfway up the stairs, iPad in hand, heading for the exit.
“Do I need to ask you to leave?” Suzanne asked quietly.
“No,” Stephanie assured her, embarrassed. “But I’ll leave after I clean this up. Again, I’m so sorry. And I’ll replace your lamp. I promise.”
Suzanne nodded silently, then returned to her clients.
Grabbing a nearby trash can, Stephanie knelt down to carefully gather the pieces of broken glass. She was cautious when she picked them up with her bare hands –
They were as sharp as knives, and she didn’t want to cut herself.
* * * * *
Later that night, as Stephanie led another guy up to her loft with a leash, Patrick gathered his things to give them some privacy. Before they began, he called up to her –
“Hey – can I borrow your laptop? I’m applying for a job online, but my iPad doesn’t have Flash.”
“Help yourself, Dude!”
“Thanks.”
Grabbing a cup of Ramen noodles, Patrick tucked both iPad and computer under his arm as he stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
* * * * *
The Goodwill website glowed on the MacBook screen as Patrick slurped microwaved noodles in the communal living room. He was reading the company’s mission page – “Goodwills meet the needs of all job seekers, including programs for youth, seniors, veterans, and people with disabilities, criminal backgrounds, and other specialized needs” – and scrolling to see what jobs were available. The thrift store was one of the few big employers to hire felons he’d learned, and there was a chance he might find a managerial position within one of their stores.
Darryl, one of the housemates, sat a few sofas down from Patrick, a box of wine between his legs. As Patrick filled out an online application, Darryl rocked back and forth talking to no one in particular, clearly lost in his head.
Patrick casually turned on the room’s TV, in an effort to soften the ramblings.
Once the application was complete, Patrick hit “submit,” then settled back on the couch. He set the open laptop aside, lit a cigarette, sipped some wine that Darryl had given him, then reached for his iPad – where Safari still displayed Facebook; he stared at the profile Stephanie had created for him, wondering if he should delete it.
I don’t know why this made me so angry –
Steph was only trying to help me acclimate. I need to apologize to her.
Returning to the laptop, Patrick closed the browser and went to shut the computer, but he stopped when he saw the desktop background – a blurry black & white photo, taken from a policeman’s dashboard camera –
I know this picture…
His eyes then focused on a once-familiar pickup truck, and the grainy nighttime image illuminated by the cruiser’s harsh white headlights – with Alan in profile, drunk, sitting in the driver’s seat, talking to an officer who was standing beside his vehicle –
But this wasn’t taken on Halloween…
This isn’t the night that Alan called me to bail him out.
As Darryl muttered to a listener only he could see, Patrick struggled to remember why he knew this picture, and why Stephanie felt it important enough to keep it as her desktop background.
Gasp!
And the moment that the answer hit him, Patrick covered his mouth in horror.