Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 7: Book 1

By Jason Matthew Zalinger, A. G. Travers, Russell Carmony and Ian Naranjo

95 North by Jason Matthew Zalinger Myron Oygold has returned home after a tumultuous and toxic relationship with the love of his life. Now in therapy, he recounts how it all began. 95 North explores how we make sense of our decisions in the aftermath of love gone wrong.

The Thing in Violet Springs by A. G. Travers When a young family travels into the cold desolate woods of Violet Springs, they are confronted by a vicious monster hell-bent on stalking, catching, and devouring them. Their only hope is to escape the woods before sundown, but with no car, no phones, and the storm of the century brewing, escape from Violet Springs seems further and further out of reach.

James and the Transparent Nudist by Ian Naranjo James is a film critic married to a beautiful man named Sam. His life is fairly normal, until one day Sam changes. Sam is a biochemist, and he's become completely transparent... Literally!

Graffertiti by Russell Carmony An artist who goes by the pseudonym TM FlÂneur falls for Nina, a server at a neighborhood cafÉ, and paints their story in murals across New York City.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Wild Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781955062664

Book preview

RUNNING WILD NOVELLA ANTHOLOGY

VOLUME 7, BOOK 1

EDITED BY LISA DIANE KASTNER

Running Wild Press

Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 7 Book 1

Text Copyright © 2023 Held by each novella’s author

All rights reserved.

Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com Educators, librarians, book clubs (as well as the eternally curious), go to ww.runningwildpress.com for teaching tools.

ISBN (pbk) 978-1-955062-65-7

ISBN (ebook) 978-1-955062-66-4

CONTENTS

95 North

by Jason Matthew Zalinger

The Thing in Violet Springs

By A.G. TRAVERS

James And The Transparent Nudist

By Ian Naranjo

Graffertiti

By Russell Carmony

Biographies

About Running Wild Press

Logo

95 NORTH

BY JASON MATTHEW ZALINGER

To my nieces, Olivia and Chloe

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

BACK HOME IN MONROE, CONNECTICUT, ONE YEAR AFTER WE GOT SICK IN D.C. TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED

I guess it's because I'm always trying to fix people that everything happened. My new shrink, Carl, said that's part of it. He thinks it's also because I hate being alone. I guess I haven't learned my lessons yet, so that's how I ended up here.

Feeling alone is like sitting on a seesaw with the other end up in the air. I didn't know much back then, but I knew that balance was the elusive key. I guess that's what I always looked for. Or so I thought. Carl probably disagrees, but this is my story, and I want to tell it my way. I'm sorry if it doesn't come out right, and I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused anyone. All I ever wanted was to find someone. Is that so bad?

Carl's always trying to get me to talk about Ilana and D.C., and Scarlet and everything that happened, but it's hard, you know. Sometimes, I don't want to talk about anything, but Carl told me to write it all down in my journal, so that’s what I’m doing. Here’s the first thing I’ll tell you: Sometimes, I feel guilty even though I didn’t do anything at all.

CHAPTER TWO

CONNECTICUT

I had just turned twenty-two and graduated with my English degree from the University of Connecticut. I knew my dad was proud—even though he couldn’t look me in the eyes and didn’t come to my graduation—but I also knew the truth. I knew UConn marched all of its humanities Lemmings towards a cliff, and handed us degrees, and watched us free fall into the world with parachutes that, when you pulled the cord, $30,000 in federal loans floated out.

The idea of being alone, in debt, without my cozy dorm and friends and the structure of college life terrified me. If you’re lucky, you get to experience American college dorm life. But what they don’t tell you is that it has to end, and if you don’t have a plan–I’ve never had a plan–it just ends. Then you just float around until you are old and go to a nursing home, which is like a dorm for old people. I could feel the middle part coming, and it felt lonely and scary. So, I made up my mind to find a girlfriend. I had never before wanted a girlfriend. I’d never had one. But for some reason, I decided I would find a girlfriend. I thought that would make me less lonely. Carl is always telling me that we should not look to external things to make us happy, to fill us with joy. I get it, but don’t we also need hugs? Looking back, I probably should have gotten a Golden Retreiver. Sorry if that sounds harsh. I’m still working things out, you know?

Sorry if I sound a little defensive. I'm a sensitive guy and that's a good thing. I form bonds quickly, but it also means the world can crush me. This world is not designed for empaths. Sometimes I wish I were a selfish asshole. Life is so much easier for people like that. But that's not who I am, and there is no clear path for creative, naïve people like me. I told a wise man one time that I was very trusting, and he said, "The question is, can you be trusting and survive in this world." I still don't know the answer. So, trusting, empaths like me meander through life's bear traps and get clamped and bloodied. Pure madness. All of it.

CHAPTER THREE

CONNECTICUT

A few weeks after my lonely graduation, I moved back home with my dad. We lived in a little brown house in Monroe, Connecticut. I sent my poorly formatted resume to a hundred places, and, somehow, I got a job. Not a career. Just a job. There's a difference, but I didn’t know it at the time. I made $28,500 a year doing tech support for some company whose name doesn't even matter. When I got the offer, I went down to the garage to tell my dad. He was wearing his black sweatpants and construction boots. On his workbench, he had disassembled an old something. My dad was always taking apart an old something and fixing it. He had this really bright lamp so he could see what he was doing. And he had all these tiny tools that looked like toys, but they were intricate and delicate and he used them like a surgeon operating on a dead patient, trying to bring them back to life with tiny defibrillator paddles. Unlike a surgeon, my dad could resurrect dead things. Radios and clocks and lawnmowers.

One time I watched him fix an old screwdriver whose handle had broken. He literally fixes stuff that fixes stuff. Tools filled his garage. The walls were covered with hammers and wrenches and strange metallic objects that clamped and pinched. He organized his metal shelves with boxes where he wrote with a medium-thick Sharpie things like finishing nails, washers/small, and 17 rubber bands. Everything was orderly the way I had systematized my bookshelves into fiction, nonfiction, and books on writing. We both had libraries filled with tools, I guess.

My dad was examining what I realized was my desk lamp. He had each part laid out on his bench. He stood over it (he always stood), and he cleaned something. I wish I knew what he was doing. All these years of watching him, and I learned nothing. I can turn a lamp on or off, but if it breaks, I just bring it to him, and he fixes it. One time, we were visiting Rick, a longtime family friend. Rick's lawnmower broke, and he was outside staring at it, and he looked at me and said, Whadda you think?

About what? I said, genuinely confused.

"What do you think's wrong with it?"

I shrugged my shoulders and said, I guess it’s broken.

Rick looked at me and said, How can you be Avi’s son?

I had no answer. Later, my dad fixed it for him while I was reading some Raymond Carver stories on the deck, dreaming of the great book I would write someday.

Honestly, I don't know how to do anything, except listen. I'm good at that. There are so many talkers in this world, but how many know how to really listen?

In the garage, I told my dad about the new job. He turned and said, Congratulations. He shook my hand and said, Welcome to the world. He meant it in a nice way, but it scared the hell out of me. I'm always scared of everything. Carl says that 10 percent of life is what happens but 90 percent is how we react. Well, Carl, I said, my reaction is usually to fucking panic.

I started to tell my dad about the job as he turned back to this piece of the lamp and cleaned it using a Q-tip dipped in some kind of cleaning fluid. I think it was rubbing alcohol. I told him all about what I would be doing and how much I would make. I said something about benefits, and he said, Sounds great. I waited for something else to happen, but that's the funny thing, nothing ever happened, at least not the way I hoped. Carl told me to stop expecting people to react the way I wanted. I guess he's right, but still, at some point, someone has to say what I hope they will say, right? I kept talking, and I started to pace because I was nervous, and my dad kept cleaning with the Q-tip very carefully. He didn't say anything about me pacing. Eventually, I went inside, and the next day I found the lamp back on my desk. I turned it on, and it glowed nice and warm.

CHAPTER FOUR

CONNECTICUT

It was a horrible job in a corporate park with concrete buildings and tinted windows. Every day I went into that office, with its fluorescent lights and Windows 2000 logons, I felt like it slashed a meaty chunk out of my creative energy like some invisible raptor. I could feel it eating me. I had to get out of there. I had to leave before I even started. But first, I needed to find someone because I didn't know how to do anything by myself. I was coddled as a child, so the world was a scary place.

My dad moved the two of us to Monroe when I was in fourth grade. It's a nice little town with a bunch of white people doing white-people stuff. They went to work, mowed their lawns, yelled at their white children, and watched TV as if it were prescription medication. It's like they went to the doctor, and she said, "What I want you to do is to watch two more hours of TV each night. That will make all the pain go away." What else is there to say? All I know is that I wanted more from life, but I needed someone first and then, once I had her, I could really begin my life. Carl says that too many people live inside an if-then sequence.

"We keep thinking, 'If I can just get through this, then everything will be OK.' Then the next thing happens and we repeat the cycle over and over, and we never really thrive. We just survive."

I get that, now. But back then I was a total if-then person. I kept thinking If I find a girl then I can feel balanced and move on to the next thing. Man, was I wrong. Sometimes Carl is right about things.

I spent my weekends in New Haven, my favorite place. I loved wandering around in the shadow of Yale. It cast a powerful shade and light upon downtown. The ancient, gothic buildings have a weight to them. They provided a sense of stability to me, so I walked around with my book bag, imagining I was a Yale student, trying to picture someone on the other end of my seesaw. I tried not to feel like a balloon floating through the sky being pushed around by Scarlet's mocking wind.

CHAPTER FIVE

CONNECTICUT

When I was a kid, I don’t remember having any anxiety. It wasn’t until my junior year in college when the panic attacks appeared. It was like I was in a dark room, oblivious. I had no idea that anything was wrong. Then someone flicked on the light, and there was this monster in front of me. I didn’t know anything about G.A.D., or Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I didn’t go to therapy back then. I didn’t know anything about Clonazapam or Lexapro. I had never read about mindfulness, never meditated. I had never read The Art of Letting Go. I guess it was always there, waiting for me. It’s almost like it was alive. Like it was very quiet and patient. It had a long-term plan, like a terrorist. And one day, it flew a plane into the building of me, and everything changed. When the first panic attack crashed into my body, I came crumbling down. I remember being a fairly happy little guy. Then bang! I remember being curled up in my dorm room bed, like I had the flu. I could not move. If I moved, something worse would happen—the monster would see me. It became some kind of sick game. I never told anyone. And I think that’s when Scarlet showed up. You see, I’m pretty inventive. I love stories. So, instead of this monster, I created Scarlet. She is the manifestation of my anxiety. Scarlet is my anxiety. But instead of a monster, she’s this super-hot chick that never says anything and kind of hangs around me. If she is around, chances are I’m feeling anxious, and sometimes I don’t even know why.

If you ever go to therapy—and whoever the hell you are, you should—you may learn about defense mechanisms. Well, Scarlet is a defense mechanism. I didn’t have any good pills back then so I created the opposite of a slimy, dripping monster. I created this sexy little thing with short, straight black hair. You probably think I’m crazy, but I don’t give a damn. I never hurt anyone and neither did Scarlet. Some people, they get upset or have some kind of problem, and they try to hurt other people. All I did was invent an imaginary frenemy. She’s not my friend. She’s not there to hurt me, either. Sometimes, she would even kind of warn me. I guess our relationship is complicated. So, think what you want. But that’s what she was–or is. I mean, I don’t see her around much anymore, and I guess Carl and the good pills helped with that. It also helps to write all this down, even if no one ever reads it.

CHAPTER SIX

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT. I FIRST MEET ILLANA

I was searching for someone, and three weeks after I graduated, on a Saturday afternoon in downtown New Haven, I met the love of my life, Ilana Berkowitz.

I was walking down the blue-stoned sidewalk of Chapel Street passing boutiques, Atticus Café, Book Trader Coffee House, and the famous Claire's vegetarian restaurant when I saw her. She stood in front of Wave Gallery. She was slender and had straight black hair and a beautiful Jewish nose. She wore tan shorts, and her ass was like two grapefruits. Her high-heeled sandals gave her an extra inch, but she was no taller than five feet, two inches. Perfect for me since I'm only five foot, seven and a half. She wore a navy-blue t-shirt that said Yale in white letters. I assumed, correctly, that she was a Yalie. I watched her for a few moments. It was early June, and the sun was strong and bright as if it were stretching itself out, doing yoga, getting ready for a long summer. Light slanted all around her as she looked through the large glass window. Other people passed by, and I was vaguely aware that some of them were women and maybe even beautiful, but all I saw was Ilana. She stood with one hand holding her purse strap over her right shoulder. Her left index finger lightly touched the tip of her beautiful chin as if lost in thought or making mysterious decisions and calculations. Eventually, she walked in. I hesitated. Then followed her. I had no real plan. I've never had a plan in my life--that's another thing Carl says I need to work on. All I knew was that I wanted to be near her. What's so bad about that? I opened the heavy wood door, and a little bell jangled.

Wave Gallery was filled with over-priced artisan trinkets. Lots of hand-blown glass bric-a-brac adorned every glass counter and shelf. It was impossible to tell what half these things were. I saw a few ashtrays with little price tags on them which, in delicate ink, someone had written $75. They sold retro, wooden rocking horses from the 1950s and Tiffany-style lamps that glowed with nostalgic black-and-white affluence. The floor was made of dark mahogany and it creaked a little as I browsed the narrow aisles and pretended to be interested in the colorful nonsense they were selling. I worried that if I turned too sharply, I may knock something expensive off a glass shelf with my book bag. I walked slowly and calmly, though Scarlet began to take hold--she always tries--as I spied Ilana staring at a tall floor lamp in the back. The lamp had four bulbs and each one had a different color: Sky blue, forest green, violet, and pink. Each bulb was adjustable in a snakelike way, so you could easily focus the light anyway you wanted. She was bending the light, and I crept a little closer. Then a little closer, careful not to knock down a stack of hand-blown glass salad bowls.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NEW HAVEN

There was an attractive woman at the counter, and she smiled as if to say Hello little Yalie. How might I take your parent's money today? She asked if I needed any help. In a small voice, I said, no, thank you. I moved a little closer to where Ilana stood. She adjusted the lamp shades then stood back a little and did that thing where she touched her nose, thinking, planning, plotting.

It occurred to me that I had no idea what to say to her, but I felt compelled to say something, anything. I pretended to be interested in a $150 miniature glass horse and picked it up. It felt surprisingly heavy in my hands, but I didn't want to drop it or damage it. I hate glass objects of any kind: ornaments, decorations, shelves. And I really hate glass tabletops. Why would anyone want something so breakable in their home? A table is meant for putting up your feet while wearing a cozy pair of Smartwool socks and reading. Although, as I held the little horse, I had to admit it was very lovely. I put it down gently so that it didn't make a sound on the glass shelf. I don't want to break anything. I never want anything to break. Suddenly, Ilana turned and faced me. She smiled, and I realized her teeth were almost perfectly straight and white except for one little snaggle-tooth on her upper-right-side. Oh, that smile! She then walked past me and asked the woman at the counter about the floor lamp. I listened to them but acted like I was not. Ilana wanted to know if they could help her package it up so that it would not break during shipping. I guess she was like me. She didn't want anything to break.

It's for my mom, I heard her say.

Oh, how lovely, the counter woman said, smiling like a used car saleswoman.

I wasn't really thinking about what to say, but my body began to move towards the lamp, and I found myself staring at it and gently touching it as if it were a horse that needed to be approached with gentleness. The price tag was $225. She must be a rich Yalie, I thought.

Suddenly Ilana was next to me like a magic magnet. She looked right at me and smiled, and it felt like a little sun was radiating inside of Wave Gallery. I smiled back, and my mind sprinted for something to say, so I said, Good morning, which must have made me sound like an idiot. Scarlet laughed next to me.

Hi, she said, in a voice that was powerful and stable like a 747 cruising with dignity at thirty thousand feet. I felt my own voice like a weasel in comparison, and I've never felt that before. At UConn, my voice sounded rooted like a great oak tree. I still don't understand how I changed so quickly. Carl says that college is a cruel trick, that it's almost criminal. He says we give everyone the good life in school then rip it away and spit everyone out into the cold world. I agree with Carl, at least about that.

It's a nice lamp, I said, stupidly. My armpits became upside down ponds of sweat. The woman at the counter was making her way over. I gripped my book bag tightly. Scarlet poked my armpit with a slender finger. I wanted to run, and I wanted to stay. Ilana looked at me as if to say, well? The counter woman's red heels clicked on the hard wood. I hate heels. I always get nervous when women wear heels. I always think, what if you trip? You could snap an ankle! Why not wear sensible shoes? The sun-calm I felt when Ilana looked at me faded as quickly as it appeared. I felt Scarlet just over my shoulder, but this was before I had ever heard of Clonazapam, so I didn't know what to do about her besides stand there. Why did everything always feel so intense for me? Carl says it's my G.A.D. or Generalized Anxiety Disorder plus my hypersensitivity plus the PTSD from everything that happened in D.C. plus the fact that I'm a neurotic Jew from the Northeast, and that's just the way it goes. That's all true, I guess. But I think, looking back after all this time, I was feeling the first Vicodin wave of true love begin to wash over my anxious little mind, and didn't know what do. My dad always knows what to do. He gets a tool, and he fixes it. Simple, right? But when I met Ilana for the first time it was like everything I thought I knew vanished. Love is a fucked up magician.

Do you like lamps? I asked. Scarlet laughed, and I wanted to die as soon as I said it. Ilana laughed in a sweet, musical way like strumming the six strings of a classical guitar.

It's for my mom, she said, She lives in Illinois.

I think she'll love it, I said, hoping I had more to say. I always had more to say, but I, I, I, was flailing around in the water, and Ilana could sense it. She was on shore, watching me, to see if I could gather myself and swim to her.

I'm Myron, I said, and held out my hand as if it were a business meeting between a prosecutor and defense attorney.

I'm Ilana, she said, shaking my hand more firmly than I anticipated. Tadpoles of sweat slithered down my right armpit. For some reason, my right armpit is always more sweaty. I kept my arms close, hoping there were no visible stains. Mercifully, the counter woman's heels clicked to a stop, and the two of them went off so that she could have the lamp packed and sent to her mom in Illinois. I imagined her mother as some kind of socialite in Chicago and her father to be a lawyer who had gone to Yale and then the University of Chicago. Holy fuck, was I wrong.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CONNECTICUT, AFTER A VISIT TO CARL

Driving home from Carl’s office I couldn’t stop thinking about some of the things he said. But it wasn’t bad. The thing about therapy is that it’s like going to the gym for your soul. I always felt calmer, stronger. Carl had challenged me. Sometimes, he does that. He asked, Do you feel like you are the kind of person who always needs someone? Then he took a sip of his coffee. The light turned green, and I drove towards the 95 South entrance. I let the sun warm my face and the wind cool me at the same time. Carl’s question kind of surprised me because I liked to think I was stronger and more independent. I guess we all do. But the thing is, Carl was right. I don't know how to be alone. Loneliness is like a wet shirt that you can't get out of, and you keep looking for someone to peel it off, hand you a towel, and give you a hoodie fresh out of the dryer all warm and soft. I guess that's what I always wanted. Someone to be my warm hoodie.

Carl says that anytime we seek external validation, we place ourselves in a dangerous position. Carl had been sitting with his legs folded, and he pushed up his round glasses. Then he said, "Everything in our culture is designed to reinforce the notion that wherever you are is not good enough. That you need something else, someone else. Every advertisement for a vacation to Miami or infomercial for some little piece of plastic crap is designed to make you feel that you are unfulfilled. That you need something to 'fix' you, to make your life better."

He says that all I need is inside of me.

You are enough, he told me and leaned back in his leather chair and smiled like a Jewish Buddha.

Sometimes I think Carl is full of shit, but I'm unemployed, living at home, broke financially, and broken emotionally, so maybe he does know something. Still, it's hard for me to let go of things. I want to let go, and I don't want to let go. All I do know is that, at the time, Ilana was all I could think about. Carl keeps telling me that we make the best decisions we can at the time. I think he's right. So why do I always feel so guilty about everything that happened? Why can't I let go?

CHAPTER NINE

NEW HAVEN, ILLANA’S DORM

Yale calls it the Hall of Graduate Studies or HGS. Like lots of buildings on campus, it looks like a gothic fortress. It stretches out for two whole blocks. It's all stone with a looming tower at its center. The front entrance is on York Street across from the main library. An arching iron gate about ten feet high stopped anyone without a key. There were two old iron torch holders on either side. They had shining lights in them, but I imagined they held burning torches two hundred years ago when severe young men in suits and hats came and went through that gate of power.

It was a Friday evening, and the sun was starting to go down. The thing about HGS is that it didn't matter if the sun shone bright or if it was dark or raining or an ice storm. HGS always felt powerful. I kept expecting tall men in tailored tweed coats with pipes in their mouths to call me a fraud and shoo me away with well-travelled leather briefcases and Yale-issued umbrellas.

I waited across the street, sitting on the curb eating a ham sandwich--I know, I'm a terrible Jew. I was waiting for Ilana. I had left work a little early and decided to drive up and look for her. It was pathetic, but I wanted to see her again, and this time I was ready to ask her out. At work, I had Googled Ilana AND Yale. Amazingly, I found one link about a graduate student named Ilana Berkowitz who had been a Fulbright in Germany and was now part of their esteemed master's program in International Global Stuff. I don't know the answers to most questions, but I know they usually begin with Google.

I waited on the curb, eating my sandwich, hoping that she lived in HGS and not off campus. I was taking a bite when, suddenly, there she was, walking down the long, stone hallway towards the iron gate. She emerged like some dragon goddess from a glittering cave. She opened the gate, and I could feel the Yale power radiating outwards like the hum of high tension wires. I rose to my feet and realized this was as far as my plan went. I was determined to be near her and ask her dinner, or, no, a movie. No! A movie is stupid. Maybe coffee or tea? I had no idea what to say. She wore the same tan shorts and high sandals, but this time she had on a navy-blue hoodie that said Yale in white letters. Her black hair looked wet and newly washed. She held her purse. I walked across the street thinking madly about what to say. She saw me and stopped.

Hi, I said, trying to smile, but I could feel my face looking stupid.

Hello, she said.

I realized my right armpit began to tickle.

What's that? she asked.

I realized I held a chunk of my sandwich in plastic wrap. It's a ham sandwich, I felt like a sweaty, gross fool, and wondered if I had ham-bits in my teeth.

She laughed. Aren't you Jewish? I was struck for a moment.

I'm the world's worst Jew, I said, Do you want some? Do you want some of my half-eaten ham sandwich that I got from a Mobil station on the ride up? Scarlet took a drag of her Marlboro Light and laughed into the sun.

Ilana laughed gently. Oh, that snaggle-toothed smile!

World's worst Jew? Hmm.

She said she had just eaten. I imagined I was in the HGS dining hall eating fresh greens and steak from heavy plates and Victorian-era silverware. I laughed, too, and tossed the sandwich in a nearby garbage can. I wondered if she would think that was a waste of food. She began to walk, and I walked next to her, uninvited. In awkward silence, we passed a small used bookstore and, next to it, Yorkside Pizza. Ilana stopped and smiled as if to say well? A few students passed by, and I heard someone say something about Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, and I felt my right armpit soaking itself with anxiety sweat like a sponge that filled and rung itself out. Thank God I was smart enough to wear a black polo. Ask her! Ask her!

Ilana didn't linger. She stood like a little oak tree. I swayed like a nervous sapling blown around by The Winds of Anxiety. I could feel Ilana begin to move towards the door, so I said, You want to get a slice of pizza?

Ilana smiled, and I wanted to lick her snaggle tooth.

I work here. I was shocked. How many Yale students work at pizza places?

It's terrible, she said, But I get free calzones and diet Coke.

Oh, well, maybe we can get coffee sometimes? I mean sometime. I heard Scarlet chortle behind me.

I don't drink coffee, she said, grinning.

How about a beer or tea?

I like tea.

Cool! Well, there's Willoghby's. They have good tea.

A student in a red bow tie and navy-blue shirt walked past us carrying a thick library hardcover of The Art of Letting Go by Pema Chödrön. He was reading and walking. I could feel his intellect vibrating off him like the thrum of a guitar amp.

People began to fill Yorkside. Someone opened the door, and I could smell warm dough and tomato sauce. Ilana said, I have to go to work.

How about we get some tea, whenever you are free?

She held the door open, smiled, cocked her head, and said, I'm a mess.

What? No. You look nice! I said. She laughed.

She touched her nose. She tapped it twice then she said, No. I mean, you don't want to have tea with me. My life is a mess.

So is mine, I said, and realized I was smiling. It was the first time I had smiled in three weeks, which is sad, if you think about it. The truth is, as soon as she said, My life's a mess, my heart opened up, and my dick got hard. Carl says it's the fixer in me. I wanted to know more. I could feel myself reaching for the toolbox in my mind.

No, really, she said, I can't.

She was about to walk into Yorkside, and I said, Everyone's a mess. We are all beautiful messes. Whatever your mess is, well, that's OK. Then I smiled. I actually smiled right at her.

"I have to go to work. Thank