I FEEL LIKE KILLING MYSELF

(FORMERLY KNOWN AS: MADAME SALTY EGGS)

Harry Jonathan Chong
Introduction
Dearest Reader,
Before you put away this document, or throw it away into the recycling bin (hopefully not the garbage
bin), I'd like to ask you to give this humble pile of papers a chance. Because it is not just words on dead
trees, it is a manuscript, or memoir rather, of a very important time in my youngish life. Its significance
which can only be revealed until the very end.
While reading it you may not agree with the choices I've made, or my personal thoughts, or my
political views, but if you try to stay open minded, and read what I've written you will discover the
reason why I've done what I've done, and why you are what you are. In here is the plain, undecorated
truth of your beginnings.
Much Love,
Zelda M. Baker
Chapter 1: The Big Rotten Apple
The shadows of the skyscrapers fell upon my shoulders, their gray faces, barely reflecting the
diminutive sun being blocked by the dark clouds. While the cold, late March winds chilled me to my
bones the people around me huddled in their tiny glass shelter, the glass shelter, which was adorned
with an almost mocking poster for vacations in hot, hot Spain.
I stood outside on the fringes, quietly on the littered, cracked sidewalk. As I watched the traffic
going by, zooming back and forth, I suddenly had the urge to into it jump. I spread out my arms in front
of the red colored bus and heard the tires screech.
My life did not flash before me, but I caught my reflection in the windshield, and saw the messy
blonde hair on my head, my dull blue eyes, large glasses, and big body seemingly made for carrying
firewood. Then in mere moments public transportation had come to a halt. In spite of this, I still got hit.
The bus had stopped 1/15th of an inch too late. The force was enough to knock me onto my
back, but somehow I was alright. The bus driver came out onto the road and yelled at me.
"Jesus Christ, whaddaya crazy!?" he yelled.
I lifted my head, just barely, and looked at him.
"Whaddaya do that for?" the bus driver continued, trying to suss out an answer from me.
I barely had the energy, but I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to tell him that I was
depressed that I was almost 30 years old and had nothing to show for my age. I wanted to tell him how
I was feeling, how I was feeling as a woman not able to produce a baby from an infertile womb. I
wanted to tell him how I failed to realize my dreams. I wanted to tell him how it felt being in a
relationship with a man who did not love you. I wanted to shout and scream, and weep about how
everyone else I knew was moving ahead of me, and how they had achieved so, so much, and here I was
lying on the ground, a long time college drop out, with nothing of note, except a crappy minimum wage
job.
"Sorry," I said, sheepishly, "I was having, umm, hot flashes."

"Well, yah better get up," said the bus driver. He took me by the hand and pulled me up in a
subtly aggressive manner. "Someone might actually run yah over."
"That was the point," I said quietly.
"What's that?" said the bus driver.
"Nothing," I said. "I better get going."
"Wait," said the bus driver, he adjusted his blue cap. "I think I gotta take you to the hospital to
have you checked out. You took a pretty nasty fall."
"I can't," I said, "I'm going to be late."
"For what?" said the bus driver.
Chapter 2
After fumbling around in my black poxy purse, I fished out my keys, and opened the door to my
apartment. When I stepped inside a splash of cold, chilling water hit my face, making my skin instantly
raise with goosebumps. I opened my mouth, and wiped off my face. There was my husband -- sorry, I
mean my life partner, since he chose to be modern, and not get married -- standing before me with his
arms tightly folded. He had a big, fat, bald, round head, a moustache that got in the way when he ate,
and glasses, which strangely was what made me attracted to him the first place. I thought that us both
having glasses made us soul mates or something like that.
"Harris," I said. I clutched my purse.
"Zelda Montgomery Baker," said Harris. He had a deep, rumbling voice. "Do you know what
time it is?"
"I'm well aware," I said.
"How many times have I told you?" said Harris. "When I come home from work, I expect my
dinner to be ready, and cooked...unless you think you could do my job?"
"I'm not qualified to be a doctor, you know that," I said. "I haven't taken the Hippocrates Oath."
"Are you getting sarcastic with me?" said Harris.
"No, I'm not," I said.
"And I can't believe it, you want to be a chef," said Harris. "You want to own a restaurant, and
you can't even keep a schedule. Missus Can't-Get-Anywhere-On-Time is what you are."
As I stood in front of Harris, thinking what to say next, he took in a breath, which seemed to
come from deep within his big belly.
"And you know," he continued, "80% of small businesses fail within the first 5 years; you'd
have a snowball's chance in hell with a restaurant."
Isn't it funny how society encourages you to follow your dreams? Yet the people around you,
the ones you really need encouragement from, are the ones that actively discourage you. A few kind
words here and there wouldn't hurt. Even if you don't truly believe in someone, what harm could come
out of saying something nice?
"I ran into some trouble on the way here," I explained.
"Oh boy, let's hear it," said Harris.
"A bus hit me," I said.
Harris closed the door behind me, and sat me down on the dusty green arm chair, which he used
to watch TV. He looked me over, especially my face, feeling/examining me with his thick sausage-like
fingers. He was definitely not a surgeon.
"You seem to be okay," said Harris. He pressed my forehead. "Does it hurt when I press here?"
"Yessss," I said.
Harris rushed off into the kitchen of our dingy apartment, that certainly didn't look like it
belonged to a doctor, and went to the decade old freezer for some ice. Harris, he was quite gruff at
times, but when it came to my physical health he was always worried about me. I suspected it was

because he wanted to keep my uterus in good shape. Or maybe it was instinct?

"It's cold," I said as Harris placed a bag of ice against my forehead.
"It'll help the swelling go down," said Harris.
I pushed the bag of ice away, and then realized that my forehead had a massive lump on it. It
was about the size of a golf ball, but felt smooth and squishy. Why didn't take Harris take note of it
when I first entered the apartment? I suppose he was in too much of a rage.
"I'm sorry for splashing water on you earlier," said Harris, while caressing my pasty white skin.
"I only splashed water on you because I was agitated. I didn't mean to do it. I meant to throw up my
arms in frustration, but forgot I was holding a glass of water. Purely accidental."
I knew it. I knew it was an accident. Why would he ever do such a thing? I mean, I wasn't sure
how he felt about me these days, romantically, but to throw a glass of water at your life partner? It's
absurd. I wouldn't wish a glass of water on my own worst enemy.
"I know," I said.
"Do you forgive me?" said Harris.
"It's okay," I said. "It was an accident, wasn't it? Let bygones be bygones."
"Thank you," said Harris. "How is your head feeling now?"
"Like it's been on vacation to Canada," I joked.
"Ha-ha, you're so funny," said Harris.
"Am I really?" I said.
"Sure," said Harris. "Where you lack in looks you make up for with your personality."
"Is that so?" I said.
"I didn't mean it that way," said Harris.
He stroked my head. His fingers nearly got caught in my messy hair.
"Come on," he said. He took my hand. "Let's have some sex."
How romantic.
"I'm not in the mood," I said. "I think I'm gonna go read a book or something."
Harris squeezed my hand. Hard.
"I insist," he said.
"I, I have to cook dinner first," I said. "I almost forgot about that."
"Forget about dinner," said Harris. "I'm not hungry."
"Well," I said, "what am I going to eat?"
"Don't worry about food," said Harris. "You don't need to eat. You really don't."
Harris pulled me, just an inch. I knew I couldn't resist. I tramped down our imitation Persian
rug, still with my shoes on, and went with my life partner into our bedroom. When the door shut he
immediately went to work. It was a passionless, unmemorable, sterile experience. It felt like I was out
of my body, like I was not there, like I was outside as a spirit, outside of my body, waiting outside the
door of my own bedroom, listening, and waiting for it to finish. Sure, I know, every now and then I
would give a scream, but they were habitual, and not screams of passion.
Soon, after three or four minutes, we were finished, then I found myself back in my clothes,
fully covered, laying limp beside Harris. I had the blankets up to my neck. We had two blankets,
because he accused me of being a blanket hog. For a while we juggled with the idea of having two
beds, but he thought it would be too weird.
Harris went into his white, plastic, night drawer, and took out a pack of cigarettes. He took one
out, put it in his mouth, and lit it with his rusty Zippo. The strong smell of tobacco burned the insides of
my nose.
"Can I open the window?" I said.
"It's freezing outside," said Harris.
"But the tobacco," I said. I made up a hokey idea to persuade Harris. "Isn't it bad for the, the
sperm?"

"It doesn't matter," said Harris. "My sperm is strong and mighty. It's your dysfunctional uterus
that's the problem."
"How do you know that?" I said in a rising tone. "What if it's you?"
Harris reached turned to his side and looked at me. He blinked only once in the ten seconds he
stared, then pinched my arm as if I were a naughty child.
"Ow," I said. "Why do you always have to pinch me like that?"
"Holding in your anger isn't good for your health," said Harris.
"What about my health?" I said.
"A pinch won't do you any great harm," said Harris. "Plus, it helps you remember your
mistakes."
I took in a deep breath.
"But I love you," I said. "How can you pinch someone who loves you?"
"I know you love me," said Harris, "and that's why I pinch you."
"Yeah," I said, rubbing my arm.
"By the way," said Harris, "could you go in the kitchen, and get me a cup of coffee?"
"Decaffeinated?" I said.
"What else?" said Harris.
I got up, went into the kitchen, and put a kettle of water onto the stove. I turned it on high, and
waited for it to boil. When the steam arose, wafting into the air, I poured the hot water into a Starbucks
coffee mug. Just the way Harris liked it. He was too cheap to go to Starbucks, but liked to pretend that
he was drinking it. I threw in some instant coffee, stirred it around, and then added the sugar, and
cream.
After, I stood on my tippy-toes, went into the high cupboard, and took out a bottle with black
liquid. The label was worn off, but I knew what it was. I poured it into the coffee mug.
As I walked back to our bedroom, I heard Harris yell, "Where's my coffee, already?!"
"It's coming," I said, with a grin. "It's coming."
Chapter 3
While Harris was lying in bed, with his arms behind his head, waiting for me, I brought in his coffee. I
placed it on his nightstand as he requested. When it cooled down a bit, he grabbed the mug by the
handle -- you always grab coffee for some reason -- and took a sip. I slipped back into bed.
"Good coffee," he said.
"Really?" I said.
"Good for the price, I meant," he said.
I looked at him keenly.
"So," I said, "do you feel any...different?"
"Different?" Harris repeated. "Why would I feel different? Did you put some poison in my
coffee?"
I went wide-eyed and tried not to tremble.
"Just joking," said Harris. "I know you'd never do something like that. You don't have the guts."
"Yeah, maybe you're right," I said.
Harris sipped his coffee, "Heh. Yup."
I turned over for the night and went to bed without brushing my teeth.
The morning sun shone on my face. Lying in bed, I looked at Harris to see whether he was dead from
the extra ingredient I poured into his coffee the night before. I checked his pulse, and took note that he
was very much alive.
I rubbed my eyes, rolled out of bed, and jumped into my bunny slippers. After taking a wee,

and brushing my teeth, I headed straight for the kitchen, where I prepared Harris' breakfast: two strips
of bacon, no salt, one poached egg, yolk runny, three slices of whole wheat toast, with margarine, cut
into triangles, and to top it off, of course, a cup of budget coffee.
This was only for Mondays though -- for health reasons, he told me, and because Mondays are
depressing. A good breakfast would brighten his day. But what about my day being brightened? I guess
it wasn't a priority, since I wasn't the bread winner. Bread maker sometimes, but never the bread
winner.
In ten minutes time, Harris woke up, and groggily came to the kitchen table. He wasn't much of
a morning person, and neither was I. He kissed me on my cheek, as a reward for my servitude perhaps,
sat down, and then let me serve him. He had yet to brush his teeth. I could tell, because when he
yawned his saliva, sticking to his teeth, looked like falling spiderwebs. I thought that he should brush
his teeth before giving me a good morning kiss, or eating, but he insisted that it would be a waste of
time. His breath would get smelly again. I suppose I agreed.
"The bacon's too salty," Harris grumbled.
"The packet says no salt," I said.
"I guess you cooked it incorrectly," said Harris. "Jeez. How can you become a chef, if you can't
even cook bacon properly, Zelda? It's the first thing you learn to cook in cooking school."
"Is that a suggestion? Maybe I should go to culinary school then?" I said.
"No way," said Harris. "We can't afford it."
"I'll use my own money," I said.
"Your own money?" Harris said. "I pay for everything around here. Your salary couldn't even
pay for all the toilet paper you use."
"Despite the stereotypes," I said, "you seem to use more of it."
Harris grasped his knife, and held it up straight.
"No, I don't," he said.
"Oh, okay," I replied.
I then angled away my body at the counter, and attended to some cleaning.
"By the way," said Harris, "could you pick me up something when you go to the grocery store?"
"I'm off today," I said. "I don't have work."
"I know that," said Harris.
"You want me to make an extra trip?" I said.
"There's a sale on lady fingers today," said Harris, "and I don't want to go buy myself."
"You don't want to go by yourself?" I said.
"I mean, I don't want to go buy it myself," said Harris.
"Alright," I said. "Okay, I can do that. But I think the extra trip will negate the savings."
"We've other groceries that we need too," said Harris. "Take a peak in the fridge, if you're not
too busy. I'm almost certain you're not."
"I'll have a check," I said.
"By the way," said Harris. "I looked over our credit card statement. There seems to be an
erroneous charge. Do you know what it is?"
Harris dipped his toast into the runny part of his egg.
"What ever do you mean?" I said.
"There's a $50.00 charge for one Madame Saltyeggs," said Harris.
"Oh that," I said. "Um..."
"Out with it," said Harris.
"She's, she's a psychic," I said. "I went to visit her the other day for some help."
"You know that's bullcrap, right?" said Harris.
"Is it?" I said.
"Yeah," said Harris, "and I don't want you going there anymore. If we get another charge..."

"No," I said, "it won't happen again."

"Good," said Harris.
He finished his breakfast, and got up. He went to the bathroom, then returned to me in a white
coat. He gave me a handshake to say goodbye. But before he could leave I stopped him to ask a
question, which I'd never asked before.
"Why do you shake my hand before leaving?" I said.
"Hmm?" said Harris, seemingly still half asleep.
"Why not kiss me like when you kissed me before breakfast?" I said.
"I may not be your husband, technically speaking," said Harris, "but I have obligations to you as
if you were my wife. I kiss you on the cheek to maintain the stability of our relationship."
"But why not right before leaving?" I said. "Why when you just wake up?"
Harris grinned. "It's easier to kiss you when I'm half awake."
Why'd I even ask about this? I knew he would give a stupid answer. Yet I continued my queries.
"So, then what's the deal with the handshake?" I said.
"I don't know," said Harris. He thought for a moment. "Maybe it's because when I was a kid my
dad used to shake my hand every morning before I left for school. But then when he stopped my mom
left him for another man. A much more handsome man, I might add. I feel like the handshake is for
good luck."
I didn't know what to say. Did he really think his dad ceasing to shake his hand might have
caused the divorce between his parents?
"Yeah, okay then," I replied.
Harris shook my hand one more time, grabbed his hat, and put it atop his shiny head, and left
for work. He worked at an office that was right across from our apartment. He really did not like to
travel much, and I suspect he wanted to keep a close eye on me. Sometimes he would call me up at
random, and ask what I was doing, or who I was with. On occasion I would tease him, and tell him I
was with a handsome man, and then I'd hear the steam escape from his ears. Afterward I would have to
reassure him it was just a joke. Cruel, yes, but funny. Humor was what kept me alive.
But enough about my childlike pranks, if you can call them that; now I had to go on a
rendezvous to the grocery store, and meet my psychic named Madame Saltyeggs, to ask her about the
potion I had slipped into Harris' drink.
^^
Chapter 4
I came off the bus, and stepped onto the sidewalk. I looked up at the sign that simply read "MADAME
SALTYEGGS" and went through the front door. As I went inside, into this small retail space, a plethora
of chimes sounded off to announce my presence. I squinted my eyes, looking around for Madame
Saltyeggs. The place per usual was lit with purple lights, and had a strong gypsy theme. There were
shrunken heads about, crystals, unidentifiable glass objects, incense, and mystical symbols hung on the
wall, like the pentagram, and the Buddhist symbol for peace, which many associate with the Nazis.
"Greetings," said a plump black, middle aged woman, wearing a crimson red turban as large as
a watermelon. "Ave you come to see Madame Saltyeggs?" She had a thick, possibly faux, Jamaican
accent.
"Yes," I said. "I have to ask her about this potion."
I held up the bottle of black liquid which I'd put in Harris' coffee.
"Aaah, am so sorry," said Madame Sweetmilk. "My sista ain't in right now, y'hear?"
"I hear," I said.
"But I can assist you," said Madame Sweetmilk. "Am jus' as good, y'know."
"Alright then," I said, "can you tell me why my potion didn't work?"
"I dunno squat about potions," said Madame Sweetmilk. "Am not a wizard."

"I thought you said you could help me," I said.

"Not everyt'ing," said Madame Sweetmilk. "We have a different set of skills. In my own regard
am just as good."
"Oh," I said.
"What was the potion for anyways?" said Madame Sweetmilk.
"Love," I said.
"A love potion is black?" said Madame Sweetmilk. "I s'ppose that makes sense. Love is often
dark, ain't it?"
"Indeed," I said.
"Come, have a seat," said Madame Sweetmilk.
I looked around and saw nowhere to sit.
"There's nowhere to sit," I said.
"Ah, I know," said Madame Sweetmilk. "My sista's out shoppin' for new furniture. We only got
cushions for our batties. I'm Madame Sweetmilk by da way."
"Batties?" I said. I looked down and noticed the cushions in the middle of this place.
"Sit," said Madame Sweetmilk.
I finally saw the cushions on the ground. There were two of them around a crystal ball, and
were made out of some blue silky fabric. I lowered down, carefully, as I wasn't the spring chicken I
used to be.
"Now," said Madame Sweetmilk, "how can I help you? What would you like to know?"
"Well," I said, "Madame Saltyeggs used to do Tarot Cards for me."
"I don't do Tarot (she pronounced the T) Cards," said Madame Sweetmilk.
"What do you do then?" I said.
"I palm read, and I mind read," said Madame Sweetmilk.
She grabbed my head, putting her palms flat on my temple, and started humming.
"Yes, yes," she said, "I see great pains, and struggles, and challenges in your life... Am I along
the right path here?"
Despite trying a love potion on Harris, and despite previously being served with Tarot Cards, I
had to try not rolling my eyes at the absurdity of Madame Sweetmilk's mind reading. Why didn't she
just tell me that I required oxygen to live? I must say, Madame Saltyeggs was much better. At least she
gave me some useful insights about life that weren't necessarily psychic-ly, and she sure told funny
stories. The cow story is my favourite.
"Er, yes," I said to Madame Sweetmilk. "That's pretty accurate. I suppose."
"I'm sensing somet'ing else as well," said Madame Sweetmilk. "You are having much
relationship troubles."
"You could have guessed that from me showing you my love potion," I said. "Which by the way
didn't work."
"Shhhh, child!" said Madame Sweetmilk. "Am getting more t'ings comin' in! The spirits speak
to me!"
Madame Sweetmilk rubbed my head more vigorously than before. I could feel my skin starting
to burn.
"Great change is a comin'," she said. "Many things will happen to you, some good, some bad,
but as long as you stay true to yourself, and see the truth it will all work out."
"What changes?" I said.
I pulled my head away from Madame Sweetmilk.
"Changes," said Madame Sweetmilk, "that are great."
"Could you be more specific?" I said.
"It has to do with your relationship with your significant udder (other)," said Madame
Sweetmilk.

"What happens?" I said.

"Like in a romance novel written by an amateur, middle-aging, housewife," said Madame
Sweetmilk. "You will have to make difficult decisions. You will have to turn over stones. You will have
to face the truths and challenges that you bury deep within you."
"What are these truths and challenges?" I said.
"You know it in you're heart," said Madame Sweetmilk. "Sorry, I mean 'your heart,' but you're
in denial. Dere (there) are demons within you, fighting back and forth, and you don't know which way
to go. You're hot one day, and cold the next minute. You must pick. Now is the time. Face it head on.
Don't let nobody tell you otherwise. I mean 'don't let anybody tell you otherwise.'"
"That still doesn't help me," I said.
Some psychic she turned out to be.
"I can tell you more," said Madame Sweetmilk, "but I cannot do it yet..."
"Why not?" I said.
Madame Sweetmilk rubber her finger together, gesturing for cash. If I'm not mistaken she licked
her lips too. They were as red as her fingernails.
I sighed and retrieved my poxy purse. I got out my lady's wallet and opened it. I became silent;
for which Madame Sweetmilk became annoyed.
"Why ahren't you saying anything?" she said.
I took out my credit card -- under a shared account with Harris -- and was bewildered while
looking at it. Or what remained of it. My credit card was cut vertically into four strips.
A Post-It note attached had the words: "Spending is a crime, restraint is sublime."
I recognized Harris' handwriting. He often rhymed when he was trying to impart so-called
lessons.
"Helloooo," said Madame Sweetmilk, waving her hand. "You okay, girl?"
"Yes, I'm fine," I said.
Madame Sweetmilk reached her paws out and grabbed my wallet, letting her eyes see my
shredded credit card.
"Ah!" said Madame Sweetmilk. "This is a bad sign!"
"I know," I said.
"How yah gonna pay?" said Madame Sweetmilk.
"Huh?" I said. "Oh... I have cash. Do you accept Canadian Dollars?"
"Oh, child," said Madame Sweetmilk, "all money is welcome."
Madame Sweetmilk took some money from my wallet, I think a fifty, and handed it back to me.
"$50, huh?" I said.
"Yes," said Madame Sweetmilk. "I've given you a discount because I like you so, so much. You
remind me of a teddy bear."
"Thanks," I said. "But could give me a better discount than that? I'm kind of on a budget. You
should know that, shouldn't you?"
"Hmm," said Madame Sweetmilk.
Madame Sweetmilk reached into her bra, and gave me a moist $10.00 bill.
"Thank you," I said.
"Now, let us continue on," said Madame Sweetmilk. "I's about to give you some mad important
life advice. Would you like to hear it?"
"For $40, yes," I said.
"Bu'n fire!" said Madame Sweetmilk.
"Huh?" I said.
"Leave your husband," said Madame Sweetmilk. "Start anew, and you will be taken to
prosperity."
"I don't have a husband," I said.

"Den (then) what do you have?" said Madame Sweetmilk.

"A life partner," I said.
"You know what I mean," said Madame Sweetmilk. "Don't be shtupit (emphasis on the "up")
Pack your bags, and leave."
"I'm not going to do that," I said.
"Aren't you unsatisfied?" said Madame Sweetmilk.
"Our relationship isn't perfect," I said, "but it's pretty good by most standards. He's a doctor, you
know that? How many women can say that they're in a relationship with a doctor? Huh?"
I don't know why I was getting so defensive. Maybe it's because I've invested so much into my
relationship that I don't want to admit I've made a mistake. Or maybe that's what you do when you love
someone. You defend them whether you're right or not.
"BOMBACLAT!" said Madame Sweetmilk. "If my psychic power don't betray me, then I know
you are in distress!"
I stood up.
"I thank you for your services," I said, "but I must go now."
"Wait," said Madame Sweetmilk. "I have something for you."
She slipped a small object into my palm and closed my fingers into a fist.
"Look at it when you get home," she said.
"What is it?" I said.
"It is something to help you find the way," she said. "Just follow it and listen, child. It will show
you the signs that you need."
"Um... Is this extra?" I said.
"No charge," she replied.
Chapter 5
I returned home with the groceries. I put away my things -- coat, boots, and fabulous poxy purse -- then
went into the kitchen, where I set down my yellow shopping bags. My hands were sore, but I was glad
to be back in my apartment in one piece. I opened the fridge to place in the milk. As I moved aside a
tub of "Wow! I Totally Thought It Was Butter" I noticed the cheesecake platter that had a sticky note
on it. It had Harris' name, with an exclamation mark at the end, and underlining. It also had a warning
that read "Do NOT eat."
Don't know what annoyed me more, all these sticky notes of him claiming his territory, or how
he would arbitrarily capitalize words he thought to be important. Still, my mouth watered, as I adored
freshly bought cheesecake, especially Chicago style, and all the other goodies that Harris had labeled
with his name. I wanted to eat them all, including the puddings, the Jello, the Baklava, but could not for
fear of being admonished.
I brushed aside the idea and finished putting away the groceries, including my life partner's lady
fingers. Don't know why he liked them. They're as plain as ever.
But never mind my ponderings of the universe, I had to begin preparing dinner. Tonight we'd be
having bolognese with spaghetti. I got out the meat, sauce from a jar, and got to work. A half hour later
I was finished. I meticulously placed the dishes on our rectangular, Ikea, four person dining table, and
covered everything with covers to keep in the heat.
Not 30 seconds later, Harris came home. He threw off his two coats, one gray and one white,
and plopped down his leather bag.
"Hello, dear," I said. "How was your day?"
"Did you get my things?" he said.
"Yes," I said. "And how was your day?"
"Must you always bother me?" said Harris.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Yeah, my day was okay," said Harris. "I'm just a bit tired."
"You came home later than usual," I said.
"Must be the case," said Harris. "You've made dinner on time for once."
"Don't exaggerate," I said. "I'm more punctual than you think."
"Whatever you say," said Harris.
Harris sat down at the dining table.
"Aren't you going to take a shower first?" I said.
It was unusual of Harris not to first shower after a day of work. While I wouldn't call him a
germaphobe, I would like to note that whenever he went out he would always carry hand sanitizer.
That's how we met. I asked to borrow his hand sanitizer after touching the handrail on the bus, which as
we all know are all shared with homeless people. (Fun fact: Those poles you hold onto are called
stanchion poles.)
"Well?" I said.
"Please," said Harris. "Would you get off my dick?"
"Such language," I muttered.
Harris grumbled, and began eating his bolognese, aka tomato and meat sauce. I sat down to join
him. Carefully. He seemed on edge. His open mouth chewing was even sloppier and louder than usual.
I tried not to push.
"Alright!" I said. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, nothing at all," said Harris.
"Why the tone then?" I said.
"Have there been days when I haven't taken a tone?" said Harris.
"Yes," I said. "Religious holidays and Easter."
Harris grumbled incoherently. I kept my eyes down, but not from shame, but because I was
trying to control my temper. I was annoyed that my life partner realized that he was a boor with me,
and that he simply didn't care. I always chocked it up to him being an extrovert, a person who wasn't
the slightest self-aware, but now I know. Staring into my plate of spaghetti, I've come to the conclusion
that he knows, all about everything, about me, about himself, and about our relationship, and really just
doesn't care. Harris he understands me, but he doesn't care. But I'm not which is worse... Being with
someone who understands you and doesn't care, or someone who doesn't understand you and does care.
"Zelda," said Harris.
"Yes?" I said.
"I'm sorry for my rudeness," said Harris.
"It's okay," I said. "I understand...You're stressed out. You have a difficult job. You're a doctor.
It's not anything like what I do, stocking shelves for minimum wage."
"That's true," said Harris.
"Go on," I said.
"That's it," said Harris.
"Right," I said.
Harris finished eating. He got up, without putting away his dishes, leaving me to clean them per
usual, and sat down on his couch to watch some TV. He was watching a Mixed Martial Arts (MMA)
fight on Fox. I stood, and cleared away the table, then joined him when I was done with my chores. I
sat on the same piece of furniture as him, but left a space between on us. I could see he was on edge.
His eyes kept darting up and down, side to side, or maybe he was just analyzing the fight.
"That was a good punch," Harris said as someone's jaw broke with a crunch.
"Very good," I said.
"I'll show you how to do that one day," said Harris.
"You can throw a punch like that?" I said.

"I used to be an amateur boxer," said Harris.

"I never knew that," I said.
"You don't know a lot of things about me," said Harris. He paused. "By the way, you didn't
waste my money by visiting that psychic today, did you?"
"I try not to waste your money," I said.
Harris extended his arm and pinched me.
"A simple yes or no is all I need to know," he said.
"I didn't use your money to visit the psychic," I said. "Someone cut up my card. I had to use my
pocket money."
"I can't believe you," said Harris. "And what bullcrap did the psychic tell you?"
"Um...nothing," I said. "You're right. It was bullcrap -- but, she did give me this nice pendant."
I took out a pendant, hung from a red string, and showed Harris what I had got. The pendant,
round as a coin, was gold colored, and was decorated with a picture of a phoenix, and around it a snake
eating its own tail (an ouroboros if you like). The backside had a phrase in Chinese, which I didn't
understand. Perhaps it said "Good luck" or something like "10,000 more years." I had no clue.
"Pretty isn't it?" I said.
"How much did that cost you?" said Harris.
"$40 with the reading," I said proudly. "Tax-free."
Harris turned off the TV and snatched away my pendant.
"What're you doing?" I said.
Harris went over to the window, peeled off the plastic wrap that covered it (to save energy, he
insisted), and held my piece of jewelery outside. I could see it dangling, turning in the wind.
"Don't do it," I muttered.
"Waste not," said Harris, "want not."
And he let my pendant go. I could see it my mind's eye, dropping down in slow motion, and
smashing to bits on the dirty city floor. Then the scrap collectors, picking it up for smelting/recycling.
Of course that was all in my imagination, as the pendant, being made out of some type of relatively
metal, probably would not fragment as I dramatically envisioned. Still, I felt devastated. I had not yet
figured out the message on the back of the pendant (it was written in a foreign language), and was
dying to know. I'm certain it was something important.
Chapter 6
In the middle of the night, Harris nudged me, and woke me up. He told me that I was tossing and
turning.
"Sorry," I said, "I was having a nightmare."
"I can't afford to lose sleep," said Harris. "Could you please toss and turn elsewhere?"
"Where elsewhere?" I said.
"The couch is available," said Harris.
"But my alarm clock's here," I said. "How will I wake up if I sleep on the couch?"
Harris opened the drawer of his nightstand, and handed me a portable alarm clock. It was an old
piece of machinery, that was round, had two bells atop, and a face with numbers, and arms, and
everything.
"Should be easy enough to use," said Harris. He closed his eyes and rested his head back to his
pillow.
"Well, alright," I said. "Good night once again."
I took my blue blankie, and Harris' alarm clock, and "set up shop" in the living room. I took rest
on the couch, and drifted off back to sleep in a matter of seconds.
The nightmare, for which Harris awoke me, continued. I found myself in school, but instead of

being a child, I was a fully grown adult -- meanwhile, surrounded by all my old school mates, who
were of the appropriate age. That is, they were still kids.
There was Danny, the boy who made up my nickname "Fat Ma'am of the Opera," (I used to like
the Phantom of the Opera); Jilly, the girl who used to tie my hair into knots when I wasn't paying
attention; Rupert, the boy who'd constantly pick his nose and wipe it on me; Cindy, the girl who had the
rich father and would mock me for dressing like a poor person; Craig, the boy who liked poking my big
belly; Janine, the girl who would steal my snacks; and Rob, the boy who would throw snowballs in my
face whenever winter came rolling around.
Nobody of significance, I suppose, except for Gina and Duncan. Duncan was the boy I was in
love with, from elementary school, all the way to college, and even after I dropped out. As an adult he
was a fantastically handsome person. He was tall, had broad shoulders, creamy brown hair, a jaw that I
swear could cut wood, deep blue eyes, and a voice that sounded like God talking to Moses.
Gina, on the other hand, was my best friend at the time. She was slim, blonde, had warm brown
eyes, perfect teeth, perfect eyelashes, and impeccable taste in fashion. She looked like a model... Pretty
much my total opposite. But she had a good personality, and I was her best friend for a reason, but then
we drifted apart when she started dating Duncan. I stepped aside, so I thought, and let the best woman
win. Come to think of it, I always doing nice things like that.
As I recall, when we were in school, we both wanted to be writers. However, I proved to better
than her. She liked to write using a lot of cliches. Her stories would include people fighting back tears
and legs that wouldn't quit. I got lots of praise from our teacher, Mrs. Fry -- but one day I decided I had
to quit. It started when I caught Gina hiding and crying by her locker right after school. She got big red
marks on her story for English, and a D -, while I got an A +. It made her very jealous, though not in a
malicious way. I had to reassure her that she would improve, and I helped her whenever I could. In fact,
I practically wrote a lot of her stories, and therefore didn't have time for my own.
Eventually, I left behind my dream to be a writer like Stephen King. Enough horror existed in
the world, after all. I soon gained the dream of wanting to be a cook/chef. The world needs to eat, what
could be a grander career?
Now, what was I saying? Right, on with my actual dream...or was it a nightmare? So, anyways,
there I was sat in class, behind a way too small, desk, surrounded by all my old classmates. Up at the
front, teaching everyone was my life partner Harris. But not regular Harris, a 15 foot version of him,
where he had to bend at the knees to fit in the room. He had a meter stick in hand, and used it to smack
me on my nose.
"Ms. Baker," he said. His voice was deeper than ever. "Quiet down will you?"
"I wasn't speaking," I said.
Harris, 15 foot Harris, picked me up by the nape of my neck, and pulled open my mouth. For
which he stuffed in a handful of papers. I was dropped back down and let to look at what I had been
given. They were tests, and exams, and unfinished homework I hadn't done! I had only minutes to
finish them or face failing school. I picked up my pencil and started on the first test, which was a maths
test. As I tried writing, my pencil broke in half. I got out another one and that broke as well. This
continued on, until I had a pile of broken in half pencils as high as the ceiling.
Then, when I'd finally found a proper pencil, one that worked, I began writing down my
answers. But my answers were jumbled, and didn't make sense at all. Furthermore, I had the inability to
read anything that I laid my eyes upon.
The world seemed in slow motion. I scratched my head, in my confusion, causing liters of blood
to pour out of my skull. Meanwhile, at the back of me, Gina was screaming at me.
Screaming, "Monster of the deep blue sea!"
At that moment, I fell off my chair and looked aside, and purple, slimy tentacles, that smelt like
the rotten rivers of rural China, burst through each window, spilling shards of glass everywhere. I
screamed was grabbed up. I cried for help, but nobody would help me. Duncan despite having a

harpoon and a spiffy yellow rain jacket did nothing of use. All he did was give me useless advice.
"Don't struggle," said Duncan. "You'll only make it more angry. Keep still."
How could I keep still when the ugly, giant squid, with its yellow bulging eyes, had me hung
upside down, swinging outside in the blistery winters that bit my skin? This monster had each and
every tentacle, all over my body, as if it were looking for some hidden treasure.
I screamed, and kicked myself free, and fell to the ground in a pile of snow. I awoke to see what
was causing me this nightmare.
Chapter 7
I awoke. Blue early morning light was coming in through the window. I blinked my eyes trying to get
the fog out of my vision, and I sat up just enough to see over my sacks of flesh. Harris had his hands
under my night shirt, his fingers almost grabbing at my fleshy love handles. His nose buried under my
bellybutton. He sniffed like some sort of hungry animal.
I pulled myself back. "What are you doing?"
"Hm, oh, you're awake," said Harris.
"What are you doing!?" I said.
"Nothing," said Harris.
"Were you trying to have sex with me?" I said. "While I was asleep?!"
Harris shrugged. I pushed him away and stood up, disgusted.
"How dare you," I stammered "How, how dare you treat me like a piece of meat."
"Relax," said Harris. "You're acting like I'm some sort of stranger."
"I'm not your personal fleshlight," I said.
"What's that?" said Harris.
"Um..." I was unsure how to explain. "You put your thing into it and -- never mind what it is!"
Harris wiped his mouth as I began to storm off.
"Where you going?" said Harris.
"I have work," I said.
"Yeah, 'work,'" said Harris.
"Did you just put work in quotation marks?" I said.
"Maybe," said Harris.
"Anyways, I may not be saving lives like you," I said, "but I do take pride in what I do. I don't
know if you can understand that."
"Well, if that's the case," said Harris, "then why don't you do your job full time, hm?"
"They won't hire me full time," I sighed. "I'm still on probation."
I paused by my bedroom door, awaiting a response; however, was only met with silence. I
stretched my neck out only to see Harris napping on the couch. He couldn't even be bothered to finish a
conversation with me, and he was snoring. Never mind, I had things to do.
I changed into my clothes, freshened up, and left my apartment. I had ten minutes before work
and about a twenty minute commute. I stopped outside my window (though it was several stories up),
and looked on the asphalt, dusted lightly with snow, and scanned the area rapidly moving my eyes. I
bent over to pick up my pendant from Madame Sweetmilk, but as I did another hand, a gloved one,
took hold of it.
"Let go of it," said the homeless man. "It's mine!"
"No, it isn't," I said.
I had trouble standing my ground, as the bum had a particular odor to him, of booze and
something like rotting milk. My nostrils burnt sharing the same air with him. He had on a black pea
jacket, missing buttons, equally black winter gloves, some patched up blue jeans, faded reddish
Converse sneakers, missing teeth, and dark oily hair, and one blind eye.

"You better let go," said the homeless man.

"I'm not going to let go," I said. "This is my property."
"It ain't your property," the homeless man grumbled. "It was on the floor and I grabbed it first.
The gold is mine!"
"It's not gold," I said.
"How do you know that?" said the homeless man.
"Because it's my property," I said.
"Is it?" said the homeless man.
He snatched away my pendant and broke the red string the held it. He turned his body at an
angle, hiding it from my view.
"Alright then," he said. "If it really is yours then, you should know what's on it."
"Easy, a snake eating itself, and a phoenix," I said.
"Yes, we both saw that part, didn't we?" said the homeless man. "What's on the back? There's a
message on it. What does it say?"
"What does it say?" I said.
"You don't know?" said the homeless man.
"I do," I said. I didn't like lying, but I had to give it a shot. I told him what I thought most
logical, based on the pendant's image. "It says," I said, "'what goes around comes around.'"
The homeless man looked at me with his eyes askance.
"No," he said. "The pendant reads, in Klingon, 'Confucius say: The road to true happiness is
filled with misery.'"
"That doesn't sound like a Confucius saying," I said.
"That's what it says," said the homeless man.
"Well," I said, "I --"
The homeless man threw a snowball in my face, to distract me, and ran off with my pendant. I
wiped my face and spat, as he had used a wad of dirty snow (also known as snirt). I could do nothing
but make a fist to shake.
"That's not real gold!" I said while the homeless man made his getaway. "It's fake! Faker than a
waitress smiling at you because she thinks you're just too cute!"
I eventually stopped yelling nonsense and caught my breath. A rumbling noise, that traveled
through my body, causing it to shake, made me turn around. When I saw that my bus had arrived, I
raced across the street to get to work. According to my watch, I was going to be late. I hope I hadn't
forgotten my transit tokens.
Chapter 8
I arrived at work, out of breath. As I was about to punch in on the time clock, my manager rapped me
on the shoulder, and made me face his scowling face. His thick unibrow was in a twist. I could see
sweat seeping through armpit area of his blue button up t-shirt, which accented his solid red tie, and
one size too small black pants.
"Eh-heh-heh," I giggled nervously.
Morgan folded his dark, hairy, hairy arms. He reminded me a bit of a wombat or some other
equally furry creature.
"Ms. Baker," said Morgan. "How many times have I warned you about being late? You do
realize that you are on a probationary period?"
"Well, you see," I said, "I bumped into this homeless man and got into an argument with him."
"Getting into an argument with a homeless man?" said Morgan.
"It's not as it sounds," I said.
Morgan's large pressing unibrow made me retract my statement.

"Alright," I amended, "it is as it sounds, but it's not as frivolous as it sounds. I had good reason
to stand my ground with that bum. He was trying to take something that belonged to me."
Morgan raised his arm in the air, as if he were Zeus about to throw a lightening bolt.
"One of these days, Zelda," he said, "bang, zoom, straight to the moon!"
"What does that even mean?" I said.
"It means get your shit together," said Morgan, "and get to work."
Morgan stepped aside and put his hand out, signaling for me to go forth along an imaginary
path. I lowered my head and did as demanded.
I settled into my day of work, stocking shelves. Our grocery store had toilet paper on sale, really cheap
too, like 15 cents per double roll; people were going ape. But I kept my calm, humbly un-boxing sour
cream and onion chips.
I looked over my shoulder and heard a woman scream, "They's no mo' toilet paypa!"
"No more toilet paper!" another voice echoed. "This is a sham!"
"How will I wipe my ass?" someone added. "With clam shells?!?!?"
The crowd grew more furious, squabbling and quarreling, and keeping an eye out for
employees. I angled my body sideways, trying to make myself shrink (hard to do with my body type),
but someone spotted me. Morgan rapped me on my shoulder.
"Ms. Baker," he said. "I need you."
"Yes," I said.
"Ms. Baker," said Morgan.
"Yes," I said.
"Ms. Baker," said Morgan, "could you tell the fuming customers that we are out of toilet
paper?"
"Even in the bathrooms?" I said.
"Except there," said Morgan.
I looked at the crowd gathered around the pallets (those wooden squares for carrying stuff)
which were supposed to be holding toilet paper. They could not be consoled. What with the price of gas
these days fruitless trips to the grocery store were not tolerated.
"Are you going or not?" said Morgan.
"Are you crazy?" I said. "They'll tear me to pieces. We're in a double dip recession Everything
is being cut back, especially wages. I saw people in the park cutting down trees for firewood."
Morgan whopped his fist into his palm.
"Ms. Baker," he said, his head trembled ever so slightly, "Ms. Baker, Ms. Baker -- there is no
eye in team." He slapped my fat rear like the coach of a football team. "Now you go out there and get
'em!"
I gave Morgan Singh the stink eye...which was hard to do on account of his ridiculous unibrow.
"Okay, Morgan," I said, sternly. I pointed. "I have an idea."
"What's that?" said Morgan.
"How about you announce we're out of toilet paper," I said, "and I won't sue you for sexual
harassment? What do you think?"
Morgan sighed. "You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Baker, but I'm willing to compromise."
He then walked out into the crowd, stood up on a wooden crate, and put his arms out to the
irritated crowd of customers.
"My friends..." he began.
And as I walked away, I heard a WHUMP! noise. But I couldn't turn back, for fear of being
consumed by the sea of furious consumers. What could I do? I am but a fragile woman. Well, not that
fragile, depending who you ask.
I made my way over to the baked goods section. I wasn't actually doing any work, I was just

sniffing around, and taking in the wonderfully sweet air for my own amusement, though I made sure it
looked like I was working. I checked the bags of bread, verifying their freshness, and made sure that
nothing was moldy.
To tell the truth I only once found a bag with moldy bread, and when I took it out, Morgan
placed it back on the shelf. He removed the moldy slice and then slapped on a "Reduced for Sale" 20%
off sticker. My conscience wouldn't let me do that, so I bought the bag myself, thus saving a customer
from becoming potentially ill, and getting 40 cents off a loaf of bread.
But that was a while ago; today I didn't think things would be just that exciting. Going up and
down, searching for abnormal starchy products, I found nothing to be removed. All was well in the
bakery section, I thought, that was until I turned my head to the bulk food section. There was a
"customer" (note the quotation marks) helping herself to cashews. She was stuffing them into her wide
mouth without a care for the clearly marked sign that said "No Sampling Please."
I went over to this customer to gently remind her of our policy. I stood in front of her and
cleared my throat. She was a dark blonde, strung out looking lady, with hazel brown eyes, and a brown
top on, which I believed showed far too much of her shriveled, pale, spotty chest. It was one of those
pieces that all those vapid celebrities were wearing, that looked a lot like a vest, except the middle was
kept wide open for showing off your goodies.
I tapped my foot. She was still busy munching nuts. She didn't even pay attention to me. I think
she was hoping it would get awkward and I'd just go away on my own. That has been known to work
though. For example, when you're in a meeting, and you fart -- thinking you could sneak one out -- and
you accidentally poop your pants, then someone suspects it was you, and they look at you, hoping to
get a sudden confession, but then you just pretend like everything is dandy, and they will have to move
along their eyes to someone else or just forget about it. However, it doesn't work if you're in impolite
company, where nobody is willing to ignore the smell for the sake of someone's dignity.
I am in such a place, but thankfully have not committed the egregious error of a shart, and here I
was staring down a lonesome, cashew-stealing "customer."
I cleared my throat once more. "Excuse me, miss." I spoke louder as she seemed to be deaf.
"EXCUSE ME, MISS."
She casually turned her head toward me.
"What do you want?" said the cashew thief. (My nickname for her.)
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I noticed you snacking on our lovely cashews that cost $8.00 a pound,
and --"
"I wasn't snacking on any cashews," said the cashew thief.
"I just saw you," I said.
"Bollocks," said the cashew thief.
Bollocks? Who the hell did this woman think she was? JK Rowling?
"It isn't bollocks," I said.
"Whatever you think," said the cashew thief, "it can't be proven."
"We have security cameras," I said.
"Where?" said the cashew thief.
I pointed out a video camera to the cashew thief, the one that was directly above her.
"There," I said.
"Ah, how interesting," said the cashew thief. She took in a deep breath and gazed silently.
"Well?" I said.
Suddenly the cashew thief pulled back her arm as if she was going to punch me, but then, after i
stopped flinching, she stroked both sides of my face with her crusty druggie hand.
"I curse you," she whispered.
"Sorry? What was that?" I said.
"I curse you!" said the cashew thief.

"With what?" I said.

Oh God almighty, please let it be that "thinner curse." I could really stand to lose some weight.
"Bad luck," said the cashew thief. "Wherever you go misfortune shall follow."
"Ha!" I said. "You're a couple years too late for that. Look at me. I'm a nobody."
"That's quite an objective view you have of yourself," said the cash thief. "Most people aren't
objective at all, especially when it comes to themselves."
"Thank you," I said. "I do take pride in my self-honesty...which has robbed me of my selfesteem."
"What a shame," said the cashew thief.
I shook my head, "Anyways, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come along with me for
just a moment."
The cashew thief appeared anxious. Her eyes were darting side to side, and she had had her
fingers curled like claws. I don't know why, but I took her by the hand.
"Alright now," I said, "let's --"
"HEY, Zelda!" a cracking voice interrupted. "HEY, Zelda!"
I turned my head.
Chapter 9
Dudley, the spry teenaged kid, with dark, slicked back hair -- as oily as his face -- called out to me. A
coworker, I called back to him, "What do you want, Dudley? I'm kinda busy here."
He beckoned, gesturing me to come.
"In a minute," I said. "I have to deal with a shoplifter here."
When I turned my head back, to the cashew thief, she was gone. I looked around, baffled.
Dudley came over to me, excitedly.
"HEY, Zelda!" he said once again.
"I'm right here," I said. "You don't need to yell, please."
"Sorry," said Dudley, full of energy. He grabbed my hand and started pulling me along.
"C'mon!"
"Where're we going?" I said, resisting.
"It's beautiful," said Dudley, "absolutely beautiful!"
"What?" I said.
"The 'ghini," said Dudley.
"Huh?" I said.
Dudley then dragged me (not drug!) all the way to the vestibule (the area before you enter a
building, made to keep the heat in); when I looked through the glass I saw a most magnificent machine.
And we made our way outside, despite my protest, through the automatic sliding doors. Sitting on the
curb of our grocery store was a hot silver Lamborghini. I had to keep my eyes half shut to keep from
going blind.
"She's a beaut' ain't she?" said Dudley.
He adjusted the collar of his uniform (which was all black, except for the big yellow banana on
his shirt) as if he were about to go out for a date.
"Yes, dandy," I said, somewhat speechless.
Dudley nodded. I was never one for cars, but goddamn this was something else. It looked like it
came from the year 2099. I could smell the hot gas and even feel the rumble of the engine going
through my body. To call the car immaculate would be an understatement. However, I was more
interested in the driver of this particular vehicle.
He stuck his head out the window.
"Yo, yo!" said Ezekiel.

Ezekiel was an older black boy, who worked at our grocery store. He was almost eighteen and
he had an afro the size of an exercise ball. I'm not sure how he managed it.
"So, that's where you've been," I said.
"Yah, quit work the other day," said Ezekiel. "I told Morgan to stuff it."
"Really?" I said.
"Naw," said Ezekiel, "but I did quit. No more unpacking boxes for me, huh."
"But I thought you were saving up for college," I said.
"Bu'n that," said Ezekiel. "I don't need no college anymore. Am rich as a white person. Maybe
richer."
"But how?" I said.
"Hop in," said Ezekiel. "I'll explain."
"I can't," I said. "I know it's harmless, but what would Harris think?"
"I'm sure he'd be fine with you getting into a fancy car, alone with a handsome, young, black
man," said Ezekiel.
"If you insist," I said.
"And what about me?" said Dudley.
"We'll swing back around..." said Ezekiel, "...if we don't go back in time."
"Huh?" said Dudley.
"Back to the Future," said Ezekiel. "88 miles per hour, don't you know?"
"Huh?" said Dudley.
Ezekiel grumbled, "Freaking kids don't know about classic movies."
The right-side door to the Lamborghini lifted up at a sharp angle. It made a nice whoosh sound.
I got in carefully. It looked rugged yet gentle. Loud yet silent. Fast yet careful.
"You like my wheels, huh?" said Ezekiel.
"Yeah, it's alright," I said.
"Now what were we talking about?" said Ezekiel.
Before I could answer he stepped on the gas of his Lamborghini, and in the blink of an eye we
were already on the road. I quickly put on my seat belt and held on for dear life. Ezekiel, being the
young man he was, had no sort of driving etiquette, just enough to pass a test. We were weaving in and
out of traffic, which seemed frozen as we went by them.
"Don't you think you should slow down?" I said.
"Naw," said Ezekiel, "then what's the point of having a fast car?"
"I feel sick," I said. "Where did you learn to drive -- China?"
Keep your eyes forward, Zelda, I told myself in my head, that way you won't throw up.
"Oh yeah," said Ezekiel, he snapped his fingers, "now I 'memba what we were talking about.
You wanted to know how I afforded this very fine transportation machine?"
My stomach (but not brain) started to settle as I kept my eyes forward and steady.
"Uhmmm, yeah," I said.
"Not by being clever," said Ezekiel.
"Won the lottery?" I said.
"Better," said Ezekiel, "my uncle died."
"That's terrible," I said.
"Yeah, he was chasing a squirrel with his dog and fell off a cliff in Dover," said Ezekiel. "What
a way to go, but at least something good came out of it, namely my Lamborghini Aventador."
"He was a rich man was he?" I said.
Ezekiel drifted his Lamborghini on a turn. I looked around for something to hang onto, but
could find nothing. It was all smooth and sleek inside. There wasn't even a Jesus handle (aka a grab
handle, that thing you hold onto above the door when someone is putting your life in danger.)
"Yeah," said Ezekiel. "I think he was a computer entrepreneur or something. I got no idea why

he put me in his will; I can barely remember his name. What was it? Donald? Donald something..."
"Smith?" I said.
"Naw," said Ezekiel.
"Jackson?" I said.
"Naw," said Ezekiel.
"Williams?" I said.
"Naw," said Ezekiel.
"Hanks," I said.
"His name ain't Tom," said Ezekiel.
"Thompson?" I said.
Ezekiel scratched his head, which I didn't think was a good idea at the speed we were going.
"Naw," he said. "It's something to do with nature. Nature, nature, I dunno why am thinking
nature."
"Wood?" I said.
"Underwood!" said Ezekiel. "His name was Donald Underwood. Yup. That's it. Good ol Donald
Underwood, left me a million bananas."
"A million dollars!" I said.
"It ain't much as it sounds," said Ezekiel. "Do you know how much this car costed [sic] me?"
"I dunno," I said. "I know these things are pretty expensive."
"Take a guess," said Ezekiel.
We stopped at a traffic light, which gave me time to think...and let the fluids in my head stop
spinning.
"I know Lamborghinis are pretty expensive," I said. "I'm guessing, $100,000?"
"HA!" said Ezekiel. "Try $387,000! And I had to pay taxes!"
"Christ," I said. "That's as much as a house."
"Relax, it's a collector's item," said Ezekiel. "Production was limited to 4K. I can resell this
puppy."
"I just think it's lavish is all," I said.
"You don't appreciate the fine piece of machinery this is," said Ezekiel. "It can go up to 217
miles per hour, it can go from zero to sixty in under three seconds, and it has a V12."
"V12?" I said. "What's that mean?"
Ezekiel shrugged as the lights ahead turned green.
"Zoom zoom?" he said.
"Zoom zoom..." I repeated under my breath.
"Oh, by the way," said Ezekiel, "could you go into the glove compartment? There's something
in there I need to show you."
Jewelery! Oh, God, I hope it's jewelery...or perfume! Awfully greedy, I know, but why shouldn't
I expect something like that? After all, I am sitting next to someone who's acquired a small fortune,
plus I think he has a thing for me. Big butts are all the rage these days, and so is wanting "real women."
Not that I think I'm more real than anybody that can fit into clothes several times smaller than mine.
"Go on," said Ezekiel.
I excitedly opened the glove compartment. Out fell a document of some 30 pages (I guessed)
bound inside a green Duo-Tang. There was a title on the front that was nothing but a jumbo dollar sign,
and the name of the author, Ezekiel P. Smith.
"What is this?" I said.
"Have a look inside," said Ezekiel.
I opened Ezekiel's Duo-Tang. It contained a business plan for a restaurant called Ezekiel's
Vegan Buffet. There was an introduction, table of contents, color photos, and everything. The big,
computer generated, concept picture of the restaurant was particularly enticing. It captured a wonderful

atmosphere, with hanging flowers, petite tables, bright colors, wood trimmings , exposed brick, and
arched windows, going all the way up to the ceiling. Although running a restaurant made me a bit
apprehensive, I could see myself there, just relaxing, sipping a hot coffee, talking to all the friendly
waiters and waitresses.
"What's a vegan?" I said.
"It's like a vegetarian," said Ezekiel, "but to the x-treme."
"Do you think that's a good idea?" I said. "I don't think many people are vegans."
"Whatchu talking about, girl?" said Ezekiel. "Lots of people are vegans. Former heavyweight
champion of the world, animal rights advocate, and one time rapist Mike Tyson is a vegan. So is
Mayim Bialik."
"Who's that?" I said.
"Blossom," said Ezekiel.
"Um, right," I said.
"So what do you think?" said Ezekiel.
"You really want my opinion?" I said.
"Isn't it your dream to open a restaurant or be a chef or something?" said Ezekiel.
"Yes," I said.
"And that's why I'm asking your opinion," said Ezekiel.
"Oh, well," I said, not wanting to be discouraging, "I have no idea."
"You got no idea?!" said Ezekiel. "You, the over-opinionated, tough as balls white lady?"
"I'm...what?" I said. I shook my head. "Anyways, what do you care about what I have to think?"
"I want you to be my business partner," said Ezekiel. "You and me. We can do this together."
"I, I can't," I said.
"Why not?" said Ezekiel.
"Aside from the fact that you're selling me on a vegan restaurant," I said. "Well, I just wouldn't
have the time."
"You can quit working at the grocery store," said Ezekiel.
"I know that," I said, "but I would still have to work a lot. Probably all day and all night. I
couldn't manage... What would I do with Harris? He expects me to have a hot dinner for him on time
whenever he comes home from work. Plus there's all the cleaning, and other miscellaneous jobs I have
-- like having sex with him."
"You make it sound like a chore," said Ezekiel.
"I don't really enjoy myself," I said. "I just kinda lay there while he jackhammers away. It's a bit
of a blur, but usually I'm sore by the end of it...although maybe that's how sex should be. I wouldn't
know; I haven't been with anyone else."
"Wow," said Ezekiel. "You serious? You only been with one person?"
"I know," I said, "I'm a total prude, huh? Well, not entirely, because I didn't save myself for
marriage. I wanted to actually, but then partway through my relationship with Harris he refused. I don't
know why, because he was really enthusiastic at first, then suddenly he just changed his mind. Now he
says marriage is an old, antiquated practice that serves no purpose in this modern day and age. His
words, not mine, of course."
"And you're trying to have a baby with this man?" said Ezekiel.
"Yes, that's why I'm a willing participant to his love making," I said. "Sort of."
"Maaaaan," said Ezekiel, we turned onto a quiet road, "you gotta drop that fool like a bad habit.
Go out and find some new dick."
"Yuck," I said, "I am not going to find some new dick, alright? He might have his problems, but
relationships take work, Ezekiel. You can't just drop things when they become slightly inconvenient.
That's the problem with today's society; people abandon things at the slightest hint of trouble, and that's
why we live in a such an apathetic, uncaring world. Nobody wants to work for anything anymore,

including love."
"Fine," said Ezekiel, "so you not going to partner up with me?"
"For the restaurant?" I said.
"What else?" said Ezekiel.
"No, I'm sorry," I said. "I, I can't. Maybe later -- when the time is right."
"The right time is now," said Ezekiel.
"Is it?" I said.
"Zelda, trust me on this," said Ezekiel. "Don't wait for things to line up, and be perfect,
otherwise you'll never achieve any of your goals. Look at me, I do stuff on the fly, and now I'm a
millionaire."
"Your rich uncle died," I said.
Ezekiel glared at me. But that quickly faded into a smile.
"Yah, so you wanna drive my car or what?" he said.
"I can't," I said.
"You can't, you can't, you can't," said Ezekiel. "Is that the only sentence you know?"
"I don't have a driver's license," I said.
"Why not?" said Ezekiel.
"It's a long story," I said.
"Okay, forget it," said Ezekiel.
"Not that long, I suppose," I said. "It's just that when I was younger my parents wouldn't let me
drive. They told me it was too expensive. Of course they didn't stop my sister. No, they bought her a car
in fact, and paid for her insurance and gas."
"Alright," said Ezekiel.
"But of course I'm an adult now," said Zelda, "so you're probably wondering why I still haven't
gotten around to getting my license."
"Please, do tell me," said Ezekiel.
"Well, I wanna drive, I really do," I said, "but Harris won't pony up for a car. He told me if I
wanted to, I could do it on my own, but of course you know where we work -- well, where you used to
work. I mean how could I afford to get a car on my own? But you know what? Even if I did get a car
and everything, I'm sure Harris wouldn't take the time to teach me how to drive. He really doesn't like
the idea of me puttering around the city on my own. Don't know why."
"Hey, isn't he a doctor?" said Ezekiel.
"He has a high six figure income," I said.
"Wow," said Ezekiel. "What a stingy cunt."
"HE IS NOT A CUNT!" I said.
Ezekiel almost spun the car out of control when he heard my roaring voice.
"Jesus," said Ezekiel.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"S'okay," said Ezekiel. "You still wanna drive?"
"You did hear what I said several seconds ago, right?" I said.
"Live a little, Zelda," said Ezekiel.
Ezekiel pulled his Lamborghini Aventador to the side of a quiet, nearly empty road. He put it
into park and got out. He came to my side and opened the door.
"What're you doing?" I said.
"Let's go," he said. "You're gonna drive us back to Nob Head Farms."
Nob Head Farms was a nickname we had for our lil grocery store, actually called Nob Hill
Farms.
"What?" I said.
"I said," said Ezekiel, "you're gonna drive us back to Nob Head Farms."

"What?" I said. One more time.

"Say 'what' one more time," said Ezekiel.
He took me by the arm, pulled me gingerly, and heckled me to switch spots. So it ended up, he
in the passenger side and me behind the wheel. When the doors were closed, and I was sitting against
the road, I couldn't help but shake a bit. I was responsible for a car costing nearly half a million bucks,
and I pretty much knew squat about driving; although I did once get hooked on those Grand Theft Auto
games, but in San Andreas it was okay to run over hookers. In reality not so much.
"Put your foot on the brake," said Ezekiel. "And hold onto your socks."
He lifted a cover on the middle of the console, and pressed a red button that had the words:
"start/stop." The Lamborghini made a lion-like roar, starting up the engine, and all the components
within. Wow, I thought.
Ezekiel gave me a rundown on how to drive his car, and how a semi-automatic automobile
functioned. You needed to shift gears, he told me, but you did not need to to make use of a clutch pedal.
And after this tutorial, I was ready to go... Not really, but due to peer pressure, I pretended to.
"Let's roll!" said Ezekiel.
Then I looked at the Lamborghini's electronic instrument cluster, which said in the center:
"Press brake to engage gear."
Here we go, I thought.
Chapter 10
And the Lamborghini took off...at a whopping 30 MPH. I didn't mind. Driving a car like this, at this
speed, was fine by me.
"Slow and steady wins the race," I muttered.
But Ezekiel wouldn't have it. He clapped his hands together in a mocking manner.
"C'mooon!" he said, egging me on to drive faster. "Let's pick up the pace!"
"Easy does it now," I said.
"What's the point of having a ride like this, if you ain't even going to faster than an old lady?"
said Ezekiel. "I feel like I've wasted my money... BOO! GO FASTER!"
"Fine," I said. "You want fast? I'll go fast!"
I bumped up the speed of the Aventador to 41 MPH. That's all I could muster -- especially
considering, I had no driver's license, and we were braking the speed limit for this particular road.
"Yeee, baby," said Ezekiel, "now that's what I'm talkin' about!"
I started to relax.
I smiled, "This is kinda fun actually."
"I knew you'd like it," said Ezekiel. He put his hand on my shoulder. "See what happens when
you take risks, Zelda? You enjoy yourself."
I glanced at my side-view mirror; I thought I saw some headlights.
"What if we get caught by the cops?" I said.
"We can go faster than a cop car," said Ezekiel. "Way, way faster."
"I'm not getting in a race with a cop car," I said.
"Fine," said Ezekiel, "I'll step on your foot and force you to drive."
"Nice compromise," I said.
Ezekiel rubbed his throat.
"What's the matter?" I said.
"All this driving is making thirsty," said Ezekiel.
"We're heading back to Nob Head Farms," I said.
"Nah, I want some coffee," said Ezekiel. "Take a turn on Kennedy street, I think there's a Tim
Hortons."

"Okay," I said.
"Oh and watch out for the owl," said Ezekiel.
"Owl?" I said.
An owl came flying toward the windshield of the Lamborghini. Of course, I did the only logical
thing possible. I reacted by sharply turning the steering wheel, so sharp in fact that we spun around in a
circle, caught our wheels in an inconveniently placed pothole, jumped into the air 15 feet, and rolled
several times like an old person falling down the steps.
We then crash landed and ended up upside down. Instantly the world went black. But when I
opened my eyes, I started seeing colors, blobs of yellow, orange, and black. A fireman was reaching
inside to me. He cut off my seat belt and pulled me into the outside world. I had no time to thank him
as paramedics had me surrounded. They placed me onto a stretcher to wheel me away. I turned my
head, just barely, and saw Ezekiel being carried off too, but he was in far worse shape than I. His eyes
were closed, and he wasn't moving. There was blood covering his entire face.
"Ezekiel," I said.
I tried sitting up, but one of the medics gently pushed me back down.
"Relax ma'am," she said. "We're getting you to the hospital."
Chapter 11
A guardian angel must have been with me that day, the day of the car accident, because I had escaped
almost completely unscathed. Other than a couple of bumps and bruises, and a cut on my forehead, I
was not found injured. However, some us can't be so lucky. Ezekiel, as it turned out, got it far, far
worse than I. He had been out of the hospital for more than a week, and was still confined to a
wheelchair. The doctors told us he would never walk again. Officially he was a paraplegic.
What's worse is the medical bills ate up the small fortune that he had gained from his uncle. He
was now a regular Joe, working at the supermarket, except without use of his legs. Everyone tried to
make accommodations for him, but he was slow as could be. The only reason he remained employed
was out of sheer sympathy from Morgan.
I snuck up behind Ezekiel and put my hands over his eyes. He was putting away frozen entrees
into an island case freezer. (You know, it's sort of shaped like a sandbox.)
"Guess who?" I said, trying to lighten the mood.
"Fat, sweaty, pudgy hands," Ezekiel thought aloud, "that smell like an assortment of meats... I'm
gonna hafta say it's Zelda."
My face went red. I removed my hands from Ezekiel's eyes. He turned himself around in his
wheelchair and glared at me, waiting for a reaction.
"What's the matter?" I said.
Ezekiel pointed to me, something I had never seen him do before.
"You put me in a wheelchair, Zelda!" he said. "Look at me! I look like Joe Swanson from that
Family Guy cartoon!"
"I'm sorry," I said.
"As if 'sorry' is gonna get me walking again," said Ezekiel.
"What do you want me to do?" I said.
"Become a scientist and cure me," said Ezekiel.
I crossed my arms.
"I don't even have a college education," I said. "I dropped out, because..."
"You met Harris, right?" said Ezekiel.
"How did you know?" I said.
"Yeah, you're always going on about Harris," said Ezekiel. "It kinda gets annoying."
"Fine, I won't talk about him with you anymore," I said. "Happy?"

"I'd be happier if you quit working here," said Ezekiel.

"You want me to quit?" I said.
"Did I s-s-stutter?" said Ezekiel.
"Yes, you did," I said.
"Never mind what I said. I don't wanna see you anymore, Zelda," said Ezekiel. "Your face
upsets me."
Ezekiel spun his wheel chair around to face away from me, but I grabbed the handles on the
back to prevent him from skipping off.
"You're not going anywhere until we resolve our problems," I said. "You're going to have a dose
of conflict resolution."
Ezekiel tried harder to turn his wheels.
"Let go," he said, "I'll get blisters on my hands!"
"Not until we work this out," I said.
As I held onto Ezekiel's wheelchair, I saw Dudley waving to me. He came springing toward me
and smiled. His hair, oily like always, was glaring into my eyes.
"Yes, Dudley," I said, "how can I help you?"
"I have something for you," he said.
At this point Ezekiel stopped trying to make his getaway. He turned his head to see what Dudley
was talking about.
"What is it?" I said.
"Guess," said Dudley.
"I don't have time for guessing games," I said.
"Alright," said Dudley, "I have a present for you..."
"What about me?" said Ezekiel. "I'm in a wheelchair."
"You're rich," said Dudley. "You don't need anything from me."
"I'm not rich anymore," said Ezekiel.
"Did insurance not cover your car?" said Dudley.
"No," said Ezekiel, "because Zelda was driving it at the time. She was not under my plan."
"Dang," said Dudley. "All that money."
"I know," said Ezekiel. "Anything else I had left went toward taxes and medical expenses. You
know how much this wheelchair was? $500!"
"You complain about $500?" said Dudley. "When you spent almost half a million dollars on a
fancy car?"
"My financial status has changed," said Ezekiel. "I am no longer the rich black man I once was.
Now I am just a poor black man. Typical, isn't it? A black man going into poverty because of a white
person... Naw, ha-ha, I'm just joking. That's racist."
I cleared my throat.
"My present?" I said.
"Oh yes," said Dudley. He went into his pocket, and gave me an envelope. "Here is your
present. I hope you like it."
I opened it excitedly. I had never been given a random present before. This was my first to tell
you the truth.
"Do you like it?" said Dudley.
I held two concert tickets in my hand for the band called S-Club, formerly known as S-Club 7,
until several members left to pursue other more lucrative things. Now only three were left: Paul,
Bradley, and Jo. Regardless, I was excited. Could this be my first legitimate concert? I shook Dudley's
hand -- as you should as to not make your life partner jealous -- and thanked him for the tickets.
"Thank you so much," I said. "I really appreciate this. It means a lot to me."
"No hug?" said Dudley.

"Is that why you did this?" I said. "You slut."

"Okay, never mind," said Dudley.
I relented and gave Dudley a bro-hug.
"How's that?" I said.
"Good enough," he said. "...So, how are we going to get to this concert? You can't drive, I can't
drive, that'll be a problem."
"Wait a minute," I said. "What is this 'we'? You thought we could go together?"
"Ummmmm, yes," said Dudley.
I slapped the tickets back into Dudley's hand.
"Sorry," I said, "I'm flattered, but I am a marri... Well, I'm not married, but I do have a life
partner, and he wouldn't be too pleased about this flirty occurrence. In fact, the bro hug was pushing it.
As you know, I don't like pushing things."
"I, I understand," said Dudley. "You're rejecting me."
"Yes... Yes, I am," I said.
"Okay," said Dudley, "but you can keep the tickets. I don't need 'em. What's the point now?"
Dudley insisted I take the tickets. I had no choice. He looked to be on the verge of tears. I felt
awful, but became a bit more upbeat thinking how much money I could get for them off of eBay.
"And can I give you something else too?" said Dudley.
"Alright," I said, reluctantly. "What is it?"
Dudley gave me another present. This one was wrapped and had a bow on it. It was in the shape
of a tube, and about, maybe, three feet long? It felt hollow inside. I tapped it.
"Is it a poster?" I said.
"Yes, how did you know?" said Dudley.
I handed it back to Dudley.
"What? You don't want this either?" he said.
"No," I said, "it's not that. Could you put it in my locker?"
"Right now?" said Dudley.
I nodded, then Dudley ran off like a deer in the forest. Now it was just me and Ezekiel, standing
in the frozen section. Um, well, he wasn't standing.
"So, what were we talking about before?" I said.
"Nothing," said Ezekiel.
He flipped me off and started wheeling himself away. Out of anger, I picked up a box of sweets,
(the frozen section was shared with the sweets) and threw it at his head. When it hit the back of his
skull he turned around to face me. He picked up his own item -- Tim Tams -- and hurled it at me. His
pitch was fast. It smacked me bang in my boobies.
"How dare you," I said. "That's sexual harassment."
I threw tea biscuits at him, didn't know what brand, and then he did the same in return. In a
minute's time we were having a food fight with packaged biscuits, crackers, and sweets, and, yes,
batteries. Customers, who I hardly noticed, were staring; others decided to run off.
I guess one of them called management, because I felt a tap on my shoulder, and a voice go,
"HEY, HEY, HEY! WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!"
A packet of Voortman's vanilla wafers hit Morgan in his forehead. Ezekiel had an "oh shit" look
on his face.
"Morgan," said Ezekiel, "are you okay?"
"I'm fine," said Morgan. "Now. What is going on here?"
Ezekiel and I pointed to each other.
"She started it," Ezekiel blurted out. "She threw a box at my head. I was just defending myself."
"Is that true?" said Morgan. He folded his arms, and leaned his face toward me. His nose
twisted up.

"Technically," I said.
"Okay then," said Morgan, "I guess this won't be so hard after all."
"What won't be hard?" I said.
"I have to lay someone off," said Morgan. "HQ says we have one too many employees. We need
to cut back and increase our profit margin."
"Please," I said, "don't fire me. I'm, I'm, I need this job."
"It's either you or Ezekiel," said Morgan. "Why don't you choose? Hey, isn't your husband a
doctor?"
"He's my life partner," I said, "and yes, he is a doctor."
I started sweating.
"Are you really leaving this decision up to me?" I said.
"I don't want to do it," said Morgan. "I stayed up all night thinking about who to let go, and then
this opportunity happened."
Ezekiel gave me a look of terror. He wasn't a well educated young man, like myself, and hadn't
much to his resume. He needed this job.
"What's your decision?" said Morgan. His thick unibrow pushed down.
"How about we toss a coin?" I said.
"No, you have to make a decision," said Morgan.
"Fine," I said. "I'll do it."
I then bit my lip, so hard that it started bleeding. I closed me eyes, and gave my answer.
Chapter 12: Diary Entry #90
Dearest DIARY,
I don't write in you every day, but when I do it's because I have to. You're the only one that really
listens to me, and I am here to tell you that I am disheartened by what society has become. Modern
society has become apathetic, uncaring, superficial, and self-absorbed. That stuff about "Ask not what
your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country" has gone down the toilet. It's
"every man for himself" and "what about me?" Not that everyone's like that, but most people are, aren't
they? Everyone cares about themselves. Our society's morals have shifted from help each other out, and
work hard and make sacrifices to -- don't be a fool, think about yourself first.
For example, used to be that having an abortion was a big deal. Not anymore these days.
They've all moved to the left, so to speak, and aborting a baby is just a nonevent, as well the fetus is not
even considered anything close to a human being. I can see the practical side of making it legal,
because otherwise that would put the woman in danger, but doesn't anyone hold life to be precious
anymore? Have we gone sociopathic?
For example, why is it that "we" always sympathize and get interested in the killer in a crime,
but not at all the victims? It's always about the killer, and how their welfare is going, and they get all
the star power. Meanwhile the rights of the victims, and justice for them, is goes to the wayside.
Seems nobody these days care about the victim. Why, I was reading a story about two 10 year
olds in the United Kingdom, who intentionally molested and brutally murdered a 2 year old baby. They
stole him from his mother, when she wasn't paying attention, and threw paint in his eyes, violated his
anus with batteries, and bludgeoned him with bricks, stones, and a 22 pound pipe until he was a goner.
In total he acquired 42 injuries. His skull was cracked like an egg. That poor baby suffered an
ordeal lasting several hours. The parents then as a result divorced -- not able to face their grief together
-- and the dad, out of mental torment, developed an alcohol problem.
And what happened to these two murderers? They served 8 years only, and then were let out,
made to go into a protection program, practically given unlimited government assistance, and then one

of them turned out to be a pedophile.

So what did the far left, liberal society think of all of this? They sympathized with the
murderers, were quick to forgive them due to their young ages, and were outraged at how poorly they
were treated by the legal system. They said it was just an accident, but what they neglected to mention
is that the boys who murdered this baby had previously tried to kill another baby. They tried pushing
another toddler under a bus to see it die, to satiate their morbid curiosity, but (fortunately?) were
unsuccessful.
Does that sound like an accident to you? Yet these libs stick to their ideals, believing that no one
as young as ten, who molested and beat a 2 year old baby to death, could know the difference between
right and wrong. They act like, despite these heinous deeds, that two baby murderers can return to
normalcy, and be reintegrated into society, safely, and do something of use. But like I said, one of them
turned into a pedophile, and I'd like to point out the flaws in any such expectations. I mean how can
you take someone who murders a baby and make them normal again?
Doctors don't even have a cure for cancer, or AIDS, or even simpler diseases like herpes...and
they've been working on that stuff for ever it seems. So how can those libs expect, with our limited
degree of knowledge, to fix and normalize the minds of two kids that intentionally, without mercy,
murdered and practically raped a child?
The poor, little baby died a horrible, almost unimaginable death at the hands of these two
monsters, and the parents of the baby suffered permanent mental anguish. But no, modern society don't
care about the victims, who disappear in the background during a media circus. No one is interested in
the victims. The victims are uninteresting. They're not the stars. The murderers, the criminals, they are
the stars, and they get all the help, and all the unwarranted sympathy for the crimes they perpetrated.
We live in a sick society, I tell you. Why, just the other day I was reading a confession on the
internet about how a man raped an under-aged girl, a teenager that'd just turned 15. He came up to the
message boards and confessed all the things he did. Apparently, he was on drugs, he said, and got some
prison time for his rape. Drugs was a good enough excuse apparently, and practically everyone there
felt nothing but admiration and sympathy for him, as he had gone back on to what is known as the
"straight path."
Yet there was an absence of emotions for the victim. No one asked how she was doing or where
she was. And anyone who admonished this one time rapist would get verbally reprimanded. "Everyone
makes mistakes," they wrote and "You've cleaned up your act, so now you're a-okay in my books."
But what did he do beyond helping himself out after serving time? Not anything for anybody
else, besides stopping drug usage, and getting a regular ol' job. It's not as if he set out to make two
rights for each wrong. He just went on with his life, and for his own good, to get a burden off his chest,
made an anonymous confession.
Meanwhile, once again, victims' rights went to the wayside. Nobody cared about the victim.
Nobody asked how the rape victim carried on with herself. Nobody asked whether she was doing okay.
All they were concerned about was the person who did the raping, and the confessor, and they wanted
to let him know that "good on him" for getting back to the straight path.
Again, this behavior, excessive adornment for the wrong person, is a product of a superficial
society, in which we focus on the stars -- the star in any criminal case of course is the criminal. But
lemme tell you, I cannot see myself having sympathy for a rapist, or a murderer of an innocent person,
or someone who tortures, or grievously assaults another human being, or even an animal. I'm sorry, but
I draw the line at rape, murder, torture, and assault. You can only do so much before you become a
villain in my eyes.
I know that we live in a society, where forgiveness is admired, but sometimes you can do too
much forgiving. And when you do that that's when you become a doormat. I realize that a lot of these
criminals have had hard lives, especially growing up, but haven't we all had our own troubles?
Everyone has their own cross to bear. Why should I have sympathy for someone who decides to take

the wrong path? It isn't right when there are good people in this world, who've had it just as tough, and
not a single tear is shed for them.
No siree, Bob, you won't get sympathy from me, and I firmly believe being mistreated by
society is no reason for murdering a baby, raping a teenager, or going on a rampage. If it were, then the
Jews would be out of control.
Look at them Jews. They've been beat, battered, and whipped around, (this sounds like someone
making a cake), yet they've maintain their civility and decency. You don't see people who follow that
religion, going on stabbing and shooting rampages, do you? No, never! Those Jews are upstanding
people. In fact, I once considered converting to Judaism, but, because of how fat I am, I could not stand
to cut bacon out of my diet. So, I really do have a lot of respect for them. They have a lot of smarts and
discipline. It's no wonder they're producing people like Albert Einstein, Steven Spielberg, and Yosef
Trumpeldor.
But enough about my mild Zionism. Let's get back to my thoughts on society, diary. Just
between you and me, I don't think I can ever have hope for the world at large. It's far too cruel and
uncaring. As evidence let me point you to babies. Think about how "we" treat babies. Babies! The most
vulnerable, innocent, lovely creatures in existence.
Yet I suspect that most of society just doesn't care about babies in general... Other people's
babies at least. I mean why should they care about them? Why care about a a little baby? Babies don't
have much of an identity do they? They're helpless, they can't walk, they can barely talk; They're these
little, seemingly pointless wads of flesh that just eat, shit, and scream. They're absolutely useless.
Unlike animals, which can do things on their own as soon as they pop out of their mother's vaginas
and/or egg sacs. A giraffe, for an example, can walk within a few minutes of being born. It takes a
human baby a year to walk on its own!
So, I can certainly see why some people think babies aren't all they're cut up to be, but I think
it's wrong. It's wrong that the lefties are totally fine with babies dying. They don't care about some
older kids bludgeoning a 2 year old to death, and they most certainly don't care about things like
abortion. It's all pro-choice, about the mother's rights.
But what about the thing that's living inside of her? Does that count for nothing? How can you
squat out and dispose of something that is born from you, something that has fingers, and eyes, and
given enough time, a working heart, and a brain that can respond to the outside world, despite being
kept inside someone's tummy? While I understand the practicalities of making it legal, to avoid harm to
anyone that must do it, how can they not see at least a degree immorality?
I know that they won't though. That's the way people are. It's all about self. It's all about me, me,
me, and no one wants to be inconvenienced, and no one is willing to do the hard things to be a good
person. If you're pregnant, why not just squat that puppy out (and by puppy I mean baby), and give it
up for adoption? Or learn to use fucking contraception and prophylactics properly?!?!?!
God, Jesus, Lord Almighty, I just want to kick some of these people in their stupid, ungrateful
faces. Here I am trying to have a baby, so, so bad, trying to create something with the man I'm in a
relationship with, and they go and squander their opportunities.
They look at their fetus like a piece of meat that's not worth the inconvenience of changing
diapers, sleep deprivation, and a significant amount of loss of money.
"BUT WAIT," you say, diary, "why not adopt, if you want a baby so bad?" First, I'd like to say
that I think people who adopt are absolute angels, and I love them as much as you can love a stranger,
but there is a reason for me wanting to have my own baby.
Narcissistic as this may sound, I am enamored with the idea that you can get together with
another human being, who you love, and express your love physically for each other, and literally
create life. You can make a brand new, human being, who will be the spitting image of you, and you
can say, "That's my boy," or "That's my girl" and really mean it. How amazing is that? The idea that we
can create life, we can create new human beings, and we can share our existence on earth with someone

who would not otherwise be here. To me that is powerful stuff.

Chapter 13
Morgan tapped his foot. It echoed through the grocery store. He was waiting for me to make a decision
about who to let go, either myself, or Ezekiel
"Are you going to make a decision or not?" said Morgan. "I don't have all decade."
"Alright, fine," I said. "I've decided."
"Okay?" said Morgan.
Ezekiel looked at me, hoping I wouldn't say what he thought I would say, but I didn't say what
he thought I'd say, I decided to not be a selfish person, and go the other way.
"Myself," I said. "I choose for you to fire* me." (*The British equivalent to this is SACK by the
way.)
"Oh, interesting," said Morgan. "You have chosen your co-worker's well being over yours. That
is very admirable."
"Thank you," I said half-heartedly.
"So that being the case, Ezekiel, you are fired," said Morgan.
"What?" said Ezekiel. "But she said she wants you to fire her instead of me."
"I know," said Morgan. "It was all a test. Have you not heard the story 'The Judgment of
Solomon?'"
"Why'd I know about that?" said Ezekiel.
"In it, Ezekiel," Morgan explained, "King Solomon is faced with two women, who claim that a
baby is theirs. To make them tell the truth -- or to see who is the most worthy of the baby -- Solomon
tells a palace guard to slice the baby in half lengthwise... So then, with that command, he takes the
baby, slices it in two, and distributes the halves to each of the women. And the woman that wept the
most was declared the child's true mother."
"I don't think that's how it goes," I said.
"Either way," said Morgan, "because you chose to sacrifice yourself, and be a good person, I
will be firing Ezekiel for his perversion of my grocery store, and because HQ says I have to."
"But!" said Ezekiel. "This isn't fair!"
"Don't make me wheel you out," said Morgan. "Unlike you, I have the ability to walk and push
things around."
"Better not to rub it in," I whispered.
"Okay," Morgan said to Ezekiel, "you can go now. Clean out your locker by the end of the day."
Ezekiel wheeled past me. His head was low, but he gave me one, quick, fleeting glance. Which
seemed to cut into me like a knife. And why wouldn't it? By my idiocy I had ruined this young man's
life. Not only did I put him in a wheelchair, I cost him his job as well. And where else could he work?
Especially with his level of education? Ezekiel was no dummy, but you can't get ahead without a proper
education. These days you're expected to know just about everything, from E=MC2 to the capital of
Australia. I can't bear a silly question like that -- what's the capital of some country you've never been
to? I don't know. Sounds ignorant, and it is, but what is the use of learning things you'll never use?
"Zelda," said Morgan, "clean up this mess."
I nodded.
"If it's not clean by the time I get back," he said, "I'll ask you to do it again, but be much more
angry."
I nodded once more, and Morgan walked off. I bent over to pick up all the items that were
strewn around. Customers coming into the aisle wondered what had happened, though they didn't stick
around long when I placed 15% off stickers on all the damaged boxes. Standard practice at any grocery
chain really, although some smaller shops foolishly decide not to discount, and let their products

languish, and then they have to give a heavy discount near expiration.
Chapter 14
Feeling worn down, and dirty, smelling like meats and various produce, I only realized I had forgotten
to make Harris' dinner when I woke up from my power nap. I looked at the clock on the wall, its hands
ticking away, and sprang to my feet. I splashed some water on my face, and got to work. I felt the same
pressure that contestants do on those overproduced cooking shows. I got out a hunk of beef from the
freezer, and sliced it as thin as possible so that I could throw it into a hot pan.
But as I was in the middle of slicing the door swung open. I got spooked and cut open the tip of
my finger.
"Goddamn it!" I said.
I ran my hand under cold water and wrapped my finger in a paper towel. The paper towel
almost instantly became red as it soaked up all my blood. I watched Harris put away his coat, put his
shoes aside, and put a grocery bag on the counter.
"Evening," said Harris. He had on a smile.
"Why the big smile?" I said.
"Must you judge me at everything I do?" said Harris. "Can a man not smile?"
"I'm sorry," I said. I looked at the white, plastic grocery bag. "So, what's in the bag?"
Harris took out a fancy packet of Sushi, one of my favorite foods that I seldom enjoy. After all,
it can cost upwards to a buck a piece. It generally just wasn't in our budget.
"Oh, sushi!" I said. "Is that for me?"
Harris looked at me with sidelong glance, "No. It's for me."
Of course.
"That's okay," I said, "I'll prepare dinner for myself."
"You haven't prepared dinner yet?" said Harris.
"I took a little nap," I said.
"Oh Zelda, you're so unreliable and stupid," said Harris. He shook his head. "How do you even
expect to become a chef one day? Those people work around the clock. It's sweat and tears. You can
barely manage my suppers. Missus, Can-Barely-Manage-My-Suppers!"
I felt the blood rising to my head. I couldn't become a chef because of him. (Or anything else for
that matter.) He forbade me from going to culinary school and didn't want me working odd hours at any
type of restaurant -- for fear my attention would be divided.
"Alright," I said, "but --"
"Just eat the left overs in the fridge, okay?" said Harris. "Don't waste it."
"So only I have to eat the left overs do I?" I said.
"It's your fault," said Harris. "If you hadn't made an awful dish, I would have eaten it off. Plus,
you know what they say: One man's trash is another man's treasure. I'm sure you'll enjoy it even though
I didn't."
"Can't I just have a bit of your sushi?" I said. "There's at least twenty pieces there."
"It's not enough for the both of us," said Harris.
"I only need one,"I said.
I don't know why, but I teasingly reached for the black plastic box with its transparent lid -Harris slapped off my hand. Yes, the one with the bloody finger that he did not notice.
"This isn't for you," he said. "Don't be such an ingrate. I pay for everything around here. You
should thank me for getting you a night off from cooking."
I put up my bloody finger (for I dared not point), wrapped in my now soppy paper towel,
hoping for...what? Sympathy? Hoping that he would notice my finger if it was nearer to face, and mend
my wounds? His doctor instincts tended to kick in whenever I got injured.

"This isn't how you should treat your life partner," I said. I wagged my finger. "You should give
me some sushi."
Harris sighed. Begrudgingly he opened his plastic case of sushi.
"Close your eyes," he said. "I'll give you a surprise."
I covered my eyes with my hands, but secretly kept an eye open, looking down at which sushi
piece he would give me. The one with the expensive pink salmon on top, or the budget veggie one,
with cucumbers and carrots? I couldn't see properly. Harris was being hasty. But when I opened my
mouth, I felt rice fall on my tongue. I chewed it and discovered it wasn't salmon.
"There, happy?" said Harris.
What type of person is happy after getting a single piece of vegetable sushi? And without soy
sauce?
"Yes," I said. "Thank you, Harris."
"Come on," said Harris. "Let's have dinner. I don't want my delicious sushi to dry out."
After Harris showered, he and I sat down at our dining table as usual. He sat on one end and I
sat at the other. This made awkward silences much easier to handle. I sipped a glass of water, and then
dug into my leftovers -- Lima beans. I watched Harris slurp up his sushi, savoring it, dipping it in soy
sauce with his spicy Wasabi (Japanese Horseradish), and smiling.
I don't know why he was smiling. He usually doesn't smile this much. Usually when I see him
after work he's stone faced and miserable. I had to know. Was the sushi that good?
"Excuse me," I said. "Harris, um, honey." He looked up and frowned...but as he glanced down,
breaking his eye contact with me, he would grin. "I know I already asked you this...but why do you
keep smiling like that?"
"Don't ask; don't tell," said Harris.
"I really think you should tell me," I said. "Is it something I said? Do I have something on my
face?"
Harris banged his fists on the table.
"I'm busy all the time," said Harris, "I work late hours, to support you, and you can't ask me
anything better? How's my day? How about that?"
"How was your day?" I said.
"It was okay," he said. "What've you been up to?"
"You really want to know?" I said.
"No," said Harris, "but you asked me, so I'm asking you."
"Well," I said, "I've been maintaining my diary."
"Why, why do you have a diary?" said Harris.
"No grand reason," I said. "It's something to do."
"Not writing anything bad about me?" he said.
"No," I said. "I never write about you."
Harris went "hmmm."
"Okay," he said, "I guess that's good. So, what do you write about?"
"Anything really," I said. "I write about how I'm feeling, and what I think about different topics,
and what's going on in my life, and stuff like that."
"Sounds like a real party," said Harris.
"I know you're being sarcastic," I said, "but writing down my feelings helps me a lot. It's like an
outlet for my frustrations really."
"Frustrations about what?" said Harris.
I didn't want to divulge too much detail.
"Y'know," I said, "just stuff in general. Life stuff. Complaints."
Harris scoffed. "What right do you have to complain about anything? You got it good. Thank
God you're not an orphan living in Africa. Or an ugly, Chinese beggar."

"Harris, having it good doesn't mean you'll never have any complaints," I said. "We each have
our own, individual lives, and we all have our own problems. Me having a complaint does nothing to
diminish what others are going through. I know that I have it better than lots of people. I'm not
complaining to belittle anyone. It's not a competition."
"Ehhh, 'Quit your moaning and be a man," said Harris. "That's what my dad used to tell me,
anyway."
"So," I said. "I take it you don't like me having a diary?"
"Not my cup o' tea," said Harris, "but if you wanna waste your life scribbling gibberish on
paper, go ahead."
"Hey, you never know," I said. "My diary could be turned into a novel...or a movie. Like Anne
Frank. She wrote a diary and they made her life story into a film."
"She must be rolling in the money now," said Harris.
"Not exactly," I said.
"What do you mean?" said Harris.
"She's dead," I said. "She died in the holocaust?"
"Oh, that's why they made her life into a movie," said Harris. "Because of the holocaust -- I
suppose you won't have enough luck to be involved in something that interesting, will you?"
"I should hope not," I said.
Harris put another piece of sushi in his mouth. I was beginning to salivate.
"You want another piece?" said Harris as he saw me staring.
I nodded.
"No," said Harris. "Ha-ha-ha."
"Right," I said.
I sighed.
"No sighing at the table," said Harris. "You know how much it annoys me."
"Oh no," I said sarcastically, "I hope it doesn't put you off your mood." (Mood for sex.)
"Actually," said Harris, "I'm not in mood today. I don't feel like having sex. If that's alright with
you."
It was stupid, but I should have just nodded, and carried on with my meal -- but I was hurt. Did
he suddenly find me less attractive? Have my looks gotten even worse? Only once has Harris never
pawed at me to get sex, and that was when he was ill with swine flu.
I turned my shoulder and fluttered my eyes. I lightened my voice to seduce him. I hoped that
my touch was not lost -- not that I ever had a touch in the first place, but if there were to be a touch it
would be now.
"Oh, Harris," I said. "You're so funny."
"Am I now?" said Harris. "I wasn't trying to be funny."
"How about you finish your sushi," I said, "and we can do a little boom boom in our room?"
Boom boom in our room! What the hell was I going on about?
"Please, no," said Harris. "I do not want any boom boom. Really."
I was so frustrated. I walked over to Harris, and sat on his lap, trying to be as slutty as possible.
Because guys like sluts, right? And sluts like to sit on men's laps, don't you know?
"Please," said Harris, trying to push me off his lap, "I am trying to eat."
I continued sitting on Harris' lap and even puckered up for one of my slutty kisses. He moved
his face away, but I kept darting my lips at him, but he just blocked it with his hand, swatting it away
like flies.
"Goddamn it!" I said. "What does a lady have to do to get a little action around here!?"
Harris stood up as quick as I did, and he put his face in my face, so that we were almost
touching noses.
"Yeah, you really want it?" he said.

"I want it so bad I can smell it!" I said.

Harris grabbed me by the waist, a feat in itself, and lifted me onto his right shoulder fire-man
style. I don't know what got him so quick in the mood, maybe it was my enthusiasm. He carried me off
into our bedroom and kicked the door shut with his foot.
And this time was different than any other time before. Instead of having that whole outer body
experience -- where I was like a spirit waiting outside my own room, not seeing anything, and waiting
for everything to finish -- I had a coma-like experience, in which I was asleep, and now was suddenly
awoke.
I know that it may sound like a horrendous thing to say, on the subject of love making, but it
was in fact like being asleep, and I found it to be quite refreshing. I blinked and then opened my eyes,
and was fully clothed (as I usually was, as the temp in our apartment was always lower than it should
be), and was quietly laying next to my life partner. His fat tummy rose and fell as he heavily breathed. I
could smell the fresh smoke off his breath and see his coffee stained teeth. While I was pleased at the
outcome, I was not pleased as in happy, or ecstasy; rather I was feeling good that I still had this thing
that they called "it." Though I wasn't exactly sure what "it" was.
"That wasn't too bad," said Harris.
"Yeah, I guess," I said.
"I can't believe it," said Harris. "Everything's coming up 'Harris' tonight. Talk about two wins."
"Two wins?" I said, staring at the ceiling.
"Um, huh, erm, yeah," said Harris. "The hospital gave me a raise."
"Did they?" I said. "How much?"
"Nothing big," said Harris. "A few bucks."
"I don't know what it means," I said.
"Never mind," said Harris. "I handle all the financials. Just don't worry about it, babe."
Babe? What am I? A pig? ...Some would agree.
"Okay," I said. "Never mind."
Harris clambered out of bed. He tossed aside our checkered sheets and stood on his pudgy feet.
He took several strides forward, and made his way to the poster that Dudley had given to me (in a tube
at the grocery store.) It was a poster of the round faced actress colloquially called Juicy Jessica.
While I wasn't a huge fan of her movies, about wizards fighting zombies, she did have her own
website that I enjoyed very much. It was full of videos she made: sketches about coffee addiction,
stickers, and general, British nonsense.
I liked Juicy Jessica a lot. She'd a great sense of humor, and a really unique sense of fashion.
And her face, and her smile, she was so warm and bright -- like a moon, but in a good way.
"Admiring my poster?" I said.
"Where'd you get this from? Who is this hog?" said Harris. "Oink-oink."
"She is not a hog," I said. "I think she's very pretty. Plus, she's my favorite actress."
"Wait, I recognize her now," said Harris. "She was in those silly children movies, wasn't she?
The one about wizards fighting aliens. Or was it wizards fighting zombies? Something retarded"
"Zombies," I said. "They made me a little sick, not my cup of tea, but she does do other things
too. She has her doodles, and her YouTube videos, and, and, and her Twitter jokes. Really entertaining
stuff."
"Wait," said Harris, "you're wasting my internet, looking at this hog's videos?"
"They're very short," I said.
Harris eyed my poster up and down.
"What are you doing?" I said.
He grabbed my poster by the top and ripped it down. Then he crumpled it into a ball, and kicked
it off like a soccer ball. Or a poorly mistreated hedgehog.
"Would you kindly take that to the trash?" he said.

Sullen, but not courageous enough to defend myself, I got up and picked up the poster from the
floor. I held the remains of Juicy Jessica in my hands. I knew I shouldn't have hung it up in first place.
Harris didn't like a cluttered looking room. He'd often nag me about cleanliness being next to
Godliness.
"Stop staring at me like that," said Harris.
But I kept staring. with mouth hung open, legs frozen, just holding my crumpled up poster.
"Do we have a puppy in here?" said Harris. "Because you're acting like I've just kicked one."
I opened my mouth to speak, but then suddenly started crying. Tears poured down my cheeks
like it was monsoon season, yet Harris didn't care. He simply sighed and slipped into bed. He turned off
the lights then shut his eyes. I didn't want to annoy him with my sobbing, so I went into the bathroom
to shut myself away. I looked at myself in the mirror and looked at my red eyes, my fat, wet cheeks. It
felt like I was staring at another person.
When I calmed myself down I sat on the toilet. I stopped wheezing and picked up a magazine. It
was this month's Playboy; Miley Cyrus, or someone who looked just like her, was on the cover. I was
disgusted that Harris felt he needed to look at porn when he had me, yet having no other reading
material, I opened it up.
As I half read the magazine article about how Miley gradually transitioned into hardcore
pornography, I noticed something sitting on the counter. It was Harris' mobile phone. I hadn't paid
attention to it while I was crying, but I was curious about what was in it. He was always overprotective
of it. He told me that there was nothing to see. He "only wanted to maintain his independence as a
man," whatever that meant.
I got up from the toilet and shut off the light. I ever so slowly opened the door to peek the crack
to see whether Harris was asleep.
"Harris?" I whispered. "Are you awake?"
No response. I heard nothing but snoring. I took that to mean he was asleep. So I took a step
back, closed the door, and repositioned myself back on the toilet. I sat down, and took Harris' mobile
phone into my quivering hands. I felt so naughty, but the temptation was too strong. I could not resist. I
pressed the power button and wait for the menu to come up. It came up, but there was a catch... It was
goddamn password locked.
But it couldn't hurt to guess, could it? I typed in several potential passwords, from Harris'
birthdate to his favorite football team. Nothing I could think of would work. Then I had an idea. I
remembered that his deluxe phone had an extra feature on it in case you forgot your password; you
could scan your fingerprint to access it.
No, I thought, that's crazy. That's ridiculous, that's insane, that's the stupidest idea you've ever
had, Zelda -- I'll do it. After all, I did fancy myself as a bit of a spy. (Harriet the Spy more than James
Bond.) I turned off the lights, with Harris' mobile phone clutched in my palm, and got down on my
hands and knees, and crawled toward my bed. (Yes, I know what you're asking, why crawl? Wouldn't
that make your look even more suspicious? Hey, everything's easier in retrospect, isn't it?)
I stood up and looked at Harris, who had drool running down the side of his mouth. For some
reason, I had the strong urge to smack him in the face, but instead stuck to my mission. I waited for the
right moment. He was on his side. His arms were wrapped around his body, hugging himself, which
made my mission all the more difficult. I started reaching my hand toward one of Harris' fingers.
"Zelda," Harris suddenly said, "what are you doing?"
I was about to panick...
"Zelda," he continued, "why are you riding that dragon? You know how I hate dragons. They're
not good pets. They track mud in the house, eat too much food, and can't do half the things a dog can."
Thank God. He was having a dream. I hastily but carefully reached for his index finger and
scanned it with his mobile phone. It didn't work. He must have used another finger.
"Zelda," said Harris, between snoring, "why are you touching my special areas?"

I persisted and went on to his next finger... Nothing. Next came the ring finger, the pinky finger,
and the thumb. What was going on here? No fingers registered. Not a single one. As I was having
second thoughts, and about to leave, Harris reached his arm out and grabbed me by the hand, the hand
which had his mobile phone. He opened his eyes warily.
"What are you doing up?" he said.
I wasn't sure his brain was properly functioning, being in his state.
"Your phone," I said, "you left it in the bathroom. I was just returning.'
"Ah, shit," he said, "you know I don't like you touching my stuff."
He looked to his belly, then haphazardly pawed at his mobile phone that was in my hand. He
took it and tossed it aside on his plastic nightstand.
"Go to be, Zelda," he said.
"Okay," I said.
Then immediately Harris closed his eyes and went back to his snoring, and murmuring. I snuck
a look at his nightstand, and saw the screen on his mobile phone: unlocked. What luck. His groping of
his digital device must have accidentally unlocked it. But could I take it?
"Harris?" I said. "Are you awake? Honey? Dear? ...Fatty fatty two by four?"
No response but a spit bubble. I grabbed Harris' mobile phone on his nightstand, and sprinted
back to the washroom to see what was on it. What was he always hiding from me?
Chapter 15: Diary Entry #74
Dearest DIARY,
Today is Love Day. I've been waiting for something nice from Harris, but with only 17 minutes left on
the clock until midnight, I still have my doubts that he will pull a surprise last minute. After all, he is at
the office, for who knows what, and I'm just sitting here in the bathroom, penning what is probably a
terrible collection of anyone's thoughts...
...And some of it is getting terribly smudged. I apologize for letting my tears fall on your pages,
diary. But I am in a terrible mood. Even if Harris brought me flowers, and sweets, and a funny greeting
card, in a nice little basket, I would still be suffering these wretched feelings. Once again, diary, I have
failed to reproduce.
Just days ago I was in an excited mood. I had actually thought that I, Zelda Montgomery Baker,
would be a full fledged mother. I even went shopping for baby clothes at Babies R Us, and browsed the
stores for furniture our baby boy or baby girl's room. It was nice to have that fantasy, to think that my
world would change in one fell swoop. I imagined my child, growing up, going to school, making
friends, learning to ride a bike, and hugging me during scary movies, fully expecting that I could
actually beat up a vampire.
For a time I felt a life force inside of me, and felt as if I finally had a purpose, but then in short
time I was robbed blind of that chance, when I went to the bathroom, and my misshapen uterus had
failed me once again. My fetus, my dear little baby, my child who could have been, dropped out from
body and fell into the toilet, where for seconds too long it swam in urine infested water. I scooped it up,
held it in my quivering palm, and stared at its oh so little body. Its pink, half formed body, with its tiny
dark eyes, tiny fingers, and even tinier toes. Sure, it wasn't fully formed, but to me it was my baby, my
baby that was lost. And as I held it, I cried it a shower with my tears, and imagined that they would
bring it back to life. But it didn't do a thing.
Chapter 16
Sitting in the bathroom of my apartment's bedroom, I maneuvered my finger across the touch screen of

Harris' now unlocked mobile phone. Having little time to peruse, I went straight for the guts: text
messages. But as I swiped and swiped, checking through his inbox, I found nothing of interest. Much to
my relief, and much to my boredom, all I found were doctor-related messages. Really boring stuff like:
"You're needed in emergency," "Meet w/ Mr Ovovitch at three," and "I've lost my scalpel.... Do you
know where it is?"
I sighed, and was about to turn of Harris' mobile phone, when a little feeling in my gut told me
to keep on snooping. I swiped the back button, and returned to the fancy tiled menu, then went into
videos. What I saw knocked the wind out of me. It was Harris, but not the Harris I knew. He had a full
head of hair, and he was at a party of some sort, in a club (?), laughing, smiling, and being friendly with
everyone around him. He was drinking shots, smoking cigars, dancing, making jokes. He seemed the
total opposite of what he is now -- absolutely happy. Not miserable like he always is.
I wondered what the occasion was for. But there was no occasion that I could think of. I saw no
particular theme. I believed he was just having a boy's night out. I continued watching the video to see
where it would eventually lead. Harris, "partying" amongst his comrades, was approached by a woman.
She was a young woman though, maybe 18 or 19 years old, and had the body of a seductive French
woman. She had jet black hair, red lipstick, long legs, and very tight clothing. The upper piece of her
ensemble was a trashy top that left the middle of her chest exposed (almost looking like an open vest),
and she had on shorts that only just about covered her bottom.
This woman was a whore. I could tell that she was a person who very much enjoyed penises.
This proven by the events that followed in the video, where Harris was heavily flirting. This French
woman, who I shall call the Slutmaster from here on out, was giggling, and kissing him on his cheeks.
She was drunk for sure, probably with a bit of help from Harris, who was making it "rain." He was
throwing money into the air like had an unlimited supply (though I'm sure he was only sprinkling dollar
bills).
I wanted to yell at him for being so wasteful, but forgot I only watching a recording, which
slowly got worse as it went on. The Slutmaster was really stepping up her game, if you can call it that,
and was really pouring herself all over Harris. She kissed him not only on his cheeks, which itself
infuriated me, but went around to his neck, and then to his lips...! Oh, and what a self-satisfied smile,
he had on. He smiled even more when he ripped open the top part of his shirt. The Slutmaster then took
the opportunity to impart some "wise words" on his chest, with a black marker, and wrote on his
bareskin: "Be Harris."
What was I to make of that? "Be Harris"? What did she mean by that? Was this his real
personality? Was he having some sort of midlife crisis, and making up for lost years? Or was he
actually infinitely different from the person I knew? I had to find out. I carried on, despite my anguish,
watching what he would do next with the Slutmaster.
Now, she was grabbing his flabby chest, and kissing from his fingertips, all the way up to his
shoulders, like Pep Le Pew. She once again worked her way to his lips, but this time was open
mouthing him, with tongue, gobs of saliva, and exchanging whatever bacteria festered about in their
food holes. I couldn't stand it. Despite everything, I cared for Harris dearly, and seeing him "make out"
with another woman -- who I dare say was far more attractive me -- boiled my sweets. It hurt me like
I'd never hurt before. I felt myself weaving, and heaving. Harris exclaimed how much he was enjoying
himself, how this woman was the most beautiful woman in the world, how she was the bee's knees,
how she rocked his world, how she was the light in his life.
Suddenly I felt the urge to get out of the bathroom, and shake my so called life partner awake,
slap him in the face, asking him how he could be so hurtful, so mean. But that wasn't an option...at least
not yet. If he knew that I had gone digging through his phone he would throw an insurmountable
tempter tantrum. I could not face his wrath. I had faced it once, and at the time was not certain that I
would come out alive.
I opened the bathroom door just a crack. I looked into our bedroom. As a shaft of light fell onto

Harris' face, he rolled to his other side. I pressed my eyebrows down and rubbed my wet eyes. I turned
off his mobile phone, placed it back on his nightstand, and went back to bed. I covered myself with the
small amount of blanket that was available. I looked at my life partner, staring at his bald head. It was
then that I realized something very important.
Chapter 17
I realized that Harris was bald. Not much of a revelation, unless you'd remember that on his mobile
phone he had a head full of (relatively speaking) luscious hair. Could it be that those videos -- in which
he was snogging with the "Slutmaster" -- were from a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away? There
was no way to know for sure, unless I confronted him. But I didn't want to do that for fear of my life. I
had to get information from him somehow, in a surreptitious, underhanded way. So, while in bed, I
concocted a plan that would get me the needed answers from him when he was in his most vulnerable,
brain dead, susceptible to suggestion state: I would do while he was watching his beloved TV. I closed
my eyes and waited for the next day to arrive. I found it difficult to sleep. I was soaked in sweat and
tears.
"Aren't you going to eat?" I said.
"No, I don't like what you've cooked," Harris said about my dinner (roast), which took several
hours to prepare, from start to finish.
"Oh," I said. "That's okay." I joked. "Heh-heh. More for me. "
"I hope not," said Harris. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"
"No," I said. "I try to avoid the mirror."
"Maybe I'll order pizza," Harris continued. "Do you have any coupons?"
"Mm, I have some for Pizza Hut," I said.
"No, no Pizza Hut," said Harris.
"Dominos?" I said.
"That's even worse!" said Harris.
"Papa John's?" I said.
"Too expensive," said Harris.
"241 Pizza?" I said.
"Ah, but is it really 2 for 1?" said Harris.
"Okay," I said, "what about Pizza Nova?"
"No way," said Harris. "They're so snobby."
I thought and thought, "How about Little Caesars?"
"Alright," said Harris, "Little Caesars it is. Do you have any coupons?"
"No," I said, "I only have coupons for Pizza Hut."
"Let's go with Pizza Hut," said Harris.
Half an hour later the doorbell rang. Harris, sat down on the couch, waited for me to go answer
it.
"Are you going to get that?" he said while watching the news.
Occasionally he'd scream at those "idiot politicians."
"But I wanted to ask you something," I said.
"Pizza first please," said Harris. "I'm starving."
Starving, huh? Because you haven't had pizza yet?
"Alright, dear," I said, and I got up, and went to answer the door.
I was greeted by a man in sunglasses, about 5 feet tall, 3 feet wide, wearing a black Pizza Hut
branded t-shirt, with a name tag. He was carrying pizzas in an insulated bag. He looked miserable as
hell. Not much more than me though.

"Hello," said Carl in a perfectly monotonous tone. "Did you order a pizza?"
"Ah, yes," I said. "Well, my husband did. How much do I owe you?"
"$25.00," said Carl.
I presented him a $3.00 off coupon. Then I looked back on the kitchen counter, its laminate
surface, and saw exactly $22.00 that Harris had left to pay for the medium sized pizza, with extra
cheese, and sardines. I took it and went back to Carl. I folded the money and put it into his palm.
"Keep the change," I said.
Carl, of course, had to check what I gave him. He opened his hand and counted out the money,
which only took half a second.
"No tip," he grumbled.
He stood around, waiting for me to ante up, or apologize. I could see the throbbing vein going
diagonally on his forehead. And I swear that I could literally hear his thoughts, which meant either I
was having a schizophrenic episode, or I had suddenly acquired psychic powers, or he was a
ventriloquist and throwing his voice.
I heard it as if he was speaking: "You cheap, fat, stingy, cheap, fat Jew! How dare you not give
me a tip! Who do you think you are?! What do you think you are?! I'm five feet tall, and I ran up 14
flights of stairs and this is what I get?! I should take out my pocket knife, and stab you in the face! You
dirty, nasty whore! You're worse than Hitler!"
I quickly took the pizza, and slammed the door shut. I took the pizza to the kitchen and put a
couple slices on Harris' plate. I brought it to him as he was changing channels on his beloved TV.
"Here you go, honey," I said.
Harris grunted. I sat close to him and leaned against his body.
"Please stop leaning on me, Zelda," he said.
"Sorry," I said.
Commercials came on. Harris picked up his pizza and put in his mouth.
"Goddamn politicians," said Harris. "They're ruining this country. Them and their quantitative
easing. It's just a hidden tax... But to be honest it's probably better than issuing bonds, if you ask me.
Building up a massive quantity of debt wouldn't be much better. I mean the outcome would be the
same; it would reduce our credit rating and eventually reduce the value of the dollar anyway.
Remember when penny candy existed? It doesn't exist anymore. You can't buy anything with a penny,
or a nickle, or a dime for that matter."
"I hear yah," I told Harris.
"The problem with this country is the politicians are in bed with the bankers," said Harris. "The
bankers are influencing policy, and causing economic instability to make money on derivatives. It's
despicable. I'm on the side of the hippies and those Occupy Wall Street people, but goddamn they're so
stupid. They have these big, broad messages, but they can't specify or get to the point about what they
actually need. All they can say is 'Stop being evil' and 'Capitalism is evil' because they know jackshit
about the economy. That's how people are. Most people don't know about the economy. Most people
are financially and economically illiterate. If they really did know about the economy, they would
know that they're no better than the people they accuse of evil; they would know that any scrap of a
good living they have is based on global in-discrepancies, and the fact that workers overseas and just
down south , who get up at 4 in the morning, and work 6 to 7 days a week for back breaking labor, are
making $2.00 or less an hour. So how dare these Occupy Wall Street people act like their struggled is
the only struggle and that they've never had it worse! They are feasting off illegal labor, and labor in
other countries that have absolutely no standards. What gets me is they demand this so-called living
wages, for any job, even ones that are as simple and easy as stocking shelves. They think that the world
owes them something, and that they deserve to live a cushy lifestyle, with their gizmos and gadgets,
and designer name brand clothes. They don't know what real work is, much less do they understand the
actual economy...which was the point I was getting to... Like do they know what Federal Reserve does?

Zelda, without looking it up, do you know what the Federal Reserve is? What's it do? How is it run?"
"Uuuuuuuuuh..." I said. "Regulating capital?"
"Lucky guess," said Harris. "You must've heard it from me before, but anyway, you know what
I mean. How can you comment on issues, and rebel against something you don't understand? How can
anyone not understand these things in this day and age, with YouTube and Wikipedia and Microsoft's
Bing.com? Damnit, if you want change, know what you want, know what you're talking about.
Understand how politics works. I say, how many of those young adults know the three branches of
government? What are they, Zelda?"
"Let's see," I said. "Legislative, judicial, and executive?"
"Anyways," said Harris, "if the government wants to make more money, then they have to start
cutting, not adding more money to our economy. First of all, they need to fire useless politicians -- I
doubt that will happen -- and secondly stop giving handouts. I'm sick of these welfare people. I met
these kids with welfare parents, and I asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, and guess what
they said? Guess!"
"Astronauts?" I said.
"No," said Harris, "on welfare! They wanted to be on welfare just like their parents! What
the...!"
"Harris," I said, "I have to talk to you about something..."
"Shhhh!" said Harris.
The commercial break was over.
"Harris," I insisted, "It's very..."
"Shhh! Shhhh!" said Harris. "I'm trying to watch!"
"But, Harris," I said, "I..."
"SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" said Harris. "What don't you understand about
'SHHHHHHHHHHHH!'?"
"But Harris!" I said.
Harris pinched me in the arm and repeated himself, "Shhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
I quieted down. I had to wait for another commercial break to come on. And that is when I
could query him. I felt pressed to come up with the right questions as an advert for a blanket-that-youcould-wear played in the background.
"Harris," I said.
"What?" said Harris.
"Before meeting me," I said, "did you ever have a girlfriend with, um, let's say, jet black hair,
and long legs?"
If Harris admitted to it, then I would know he wasn't cheating. If he denied it, then I would
know some shady dealings were definitely going on. After all, why would any honest person deny
something that happened in the past?
"That's awfully specific," said Harris.
"Just curious," I said.
"Hm, yah, I dunno," said Harris. "I had a lot of girlfriends in my younger days. It's kind of a
blur."
"Oh," I said.
"I'm not trying to brag, but I used to be sort of a player," said Harris.
"A player?" I repeated.
"Yeeeep," said Harris, who, looking a bit smug, had his thumbs in the waist of his pants, "I've
had sex with at least fifty different girls."
It was then, at this moment, I threw up in my own mouth. I also realized why people with
relationship experience would tell me: "Don't ask; don't tell." But mainly, what type of sick person
would sleep with fifty different people? I felt like crying, but my tears supply was exhausted. I

internally tried to console myself by telling myself that maybe he was simply exaggerating to inflate his
ego. C'mon, Zelda, I told myself, keep cool. After all, I was (slightly) more concerned with his possible
cheating than his previous relationships or nights spent with hookers.
"Oh, did you?" I said.
"Yah, but then I decided to settle down, and chose you," said Harris.
"Why me?" I said.
"You were a virgin," said Harris. "I respected that. You had self-respect for yourself. You were
so innocent and pure. You never came off as a slut, even your clothes were modest -- so bright and
colorful -- but all the other girls I dated were huge sluts, although the sex was pretty good. I'd say better
than the sex we have now."
"Is that so?" I said in a particularly offended tone.
"Don't be so insulted," said Harris. "It's just sex. Plus, those sluts and whores are out of my life
now. I don't care about them. You're more important to me than them."
"Thanks," I said.
"No problem," said Harris.
"...Now, what were we talking about?" I said.
"Beats me," said Harris.
"I was wondering," I said, "before meeting me, whether you used to have a girlfriend with jet
black hair...and long legs."
"How come you keep badgering me about that?" said Harris.
"Oh, it's just a thought that popped up in my mind one night," I said. "I don't mean anything by
it."
Harris closed his eyes to think.
"Mmm, yeah, maybe I did date someone with black hair and long legs," he said. "It seems
somewhat familiar."
Phew! I was so relieved. Harris wasn't cheating on me at all! Nosireebob! The video I saw
must've been from before we met. It had to be, because in it he had a full head of hair, and now he
confirmed it as a past relationship BEFORE meeting me. I felt happy...although the images still
lingered in my mind, and I found it to be highly upsetting. But between the two possibilities this was
far, far better.
"That's a relief," I said.
"Why's it a relief?" said Harris.
"Can I tell you the truth?" I said.
"Why, do you not regularly tell the truth?" said Harris.
"You know what I mean," I said.
"Alright," said Harris.
"But promise not to get upset," I said.
"I can't ensure I won't get upset," said Harris.
"Then I can't tell you," I said.
Harris groaned, "Fine. I won't get upset."
"Promise," I said.
"I promise," said Harris.
"Welllll, okay," I said. "I --"
"SHHHHHH!" said Harris. "The commercials are over."
I waited several minutes until another commercial break.
"You were saying?" said Harris. "
"Never mind," I said. "It's not important."
Harris pinched my arm.
"Ow!" I said.

"I hate when people do that," said Harris, "they bring something up, and they supposedly have
this big secret, and then they recant. Don't recant, Zelda. Tell me what you were going to say."
"Okay," I said. "I..."
"Yes?" said Harris.
"I looked on your mobile phone," I said. "I'm really sorry, but I saw a video of you getting
frisky with another woman, and I thought you were cheating on me. But obviously you're not, because
like you told me, that was a girlfriend from your past, and, of course, I could already tell because you
had a full head of hair. I just had to ask to be sure, you know."
Slowly Harris turned his head toward me. He picked up the remote and pressed the power
button, turning off the TV.
"Now remember, you, you, you promised you wouldn't get upset," I said.
"I'm not upset," Harris said in an icy voice.
"Are you sure?" I said.
"Oh, be quiet," said Harris.
Then he grabbed me by the arm, so hard that he lifted me off the couch, and started dragging me
along.
"Where are you taking me?" I said, while struggling to keep my footing.
He pulled us into our bedroom and opened the closet door.
"What're you doing?" I said.
"Naughty girls get a time out," said Harris.
And he shoved me into the closet, without even turning on the lights, and slammed shut the
door. And inside this cold, small, dark, musky smelling place, I could hear the sound of a chair being
pulled across the laminate floor. It meant only one thing: Harris was locking me inside the closet, and
he was placing a chair underneat the door knob to keep me shut in. Not only that, but he had used duct
tape to make everything extra secure. The only ventilation now was the remaining crack below the
door, and I instantly started feeling light headed.
Nevertheless I tried to make my escape. I grabbed the doorknob of the closet door, turning it to
retract the latch bolt, and rammed forward with my shoulder....... Ouch.
"Open the door!" I banged my fists on the door. "You can't keep me in here! Harris! Harris!
Harris?"
I heard footsteps walking away, then the front door opening, and slamming shut. He had left me
here, all on my own, to suffer in this encroaching cubicle of a space. I was beginning to get
claustrophobic. I felt my head beginning to spin. I did not like to be confined like this, especially in the
dark.
When I was a child, 8 or 9 years old, and my mom and dad were away from home, my older
sister would lock me in the cupboard and go out for a pack of smokes, and she would head down to the
local bar, and get free drinks from men inappropriately past her age.
Now I felt as if I was reliving the past as a small, hopeless child. I hugged my knees and rocked
back and forth. I hummed a special song to comfort me in this time of desolation: "When You Wish
Upon a Star." I don't know exactly why it comforted me. Maybe because it reminded me of better
times, or maybe because it reminded me of being hopelessly in love with that Disney-brand knight in
shining armor. Either way it made me calm down and now I had collected myself in a manner of
speaking.
"Okay, Zelda," I told myself. "What're you gonna do now? What's your plan? Wait till he gets
back or bust out of here?"
Bust out, I decided, but first I needed some tools to help me. "Where would I find those?" I
thought. I snapped my fingers, and remembered that Harris, who was somewhat a paranoid character,
kept an assortment of objects in his coats and jackets in case of emergency. So, I reached my arm up,
and dipped my hand into the pocket of one of his coats, searching for something to help me. But all felt

was something odd and furry. What was it?

"RAT!" I yelled.
Chapter 18
Keeeeerash! That was the noise I made when I charged out of the closet. The chair against the
doorknob, the duct tape were not enough to keep me trapped in a confined space with a dirty, diseased
rat. I jumped onto my bed and screamed. I wielded a pillow to defend myself, having nothing else that I
could throw or use to smash a rodent.
"Begone rat of the closet!" I said in a quivering voice. "I shall punish you!"
And then I threw my pillow onto the rat.
"Hath I slayed you?" I said.
Why was I talking like that? I waited for the rat to scurry out. Or to hear it groan from dying.
When moments passed and nothing happened, I cautiously stepped down from my bed, and went to
check. I squeamishly kicked off the pillow with my foot, making sure to use only my toes. There was
nothing beneath the pillow but a black haired toupee.
"What the eff?" I said.
I picked it up. For some reason I had the urge to sniff it. It smelt like Harris, coffee and
cigarettes, with a hint of cologne -- probably cheap cologne as it burned the insides of my nose, making
my hairs tingle.
An image flashed before my eyes, I remembered where I had seen this toupee. It was from the
video I saw, in which Harris was swapping fluids with another woman. This could only mean one
thing, and I had to sit down to bear it. Harris was cheating on me. What I witnessed on his mobile
phone was not from the past; it was from the present. He wore the toupee to give himself the
appearance of youth.
So it stood: My life partner was unequivocally cheating on me. I knew it, because I did the
math, I thought about all the times he came home late, how he'd smell like a new man when he got
home, and how he'd be acting happy for no reason at all.
I liked that he was happy...but not like this. Thinking about all that he had done, and thinking
about what he might have done (sex), made me literally threw up. I bowed forward and emptied my
stomach. Puke ran down the sides of my mouth as I contemplated Harris' infidelity. I groaned and got
to my feet. By the time I cleaned myself up Harris had returned. I heard him stepping through the
kitchen of our apartment.
The door to our bedroom opened just as I put away his toupee. I turned around, and was ready
to point my finger at him, ready to yell, but he took me into his arms and hugged me. He gave me
flowers and got down on bended knee.
"Zelda, my dear sweet," he said, "will you ever forgive me?"
He wants forgiveness? No, no goddamn way, no goddamn way I'll forgive you, you filthy, dirty,
cheating pervert!
"Well?" said Harris, looking at my face as I stared silently, shooting daggers with my eyes.
"Why should I forgive you?" I said.
"Look, I know I shouldn't have locked you in the closet," he said, "and I left you in there for too
long, but I was out looking for flowers to cheer you up. Don't you like 'em? Have a smell? They're
real."
I smelt the roses Harris had gave me. I had never received fresh flowers before, and they smelt
divine. It's something I always wanted.
"I'm so sorry," Harris continued with a tone of humility. "It'll never happen again." His puppy
dog eyes came out. "I promise."
"Let's forget for a moment that you locked me in the closet," I said. "YOU STILL CHEATED

ON ME!"
"What are you talking about?" said Harris. "I never cheated on you."
I went into the closet and took out his toupee.
"Then what's this?" I said, holding out his hairpiece. "Why do you have this toupee? It's the
same toupee from the video I saw. And what would you be doing with this toupee, unless you expect
me to believe you kept this dirty rag around for over ten years?"
"Zelda," said Harris. "You know me."
I folded my arms. I knew what he meant. Harris was as cheap as a day is short in winter. It
wouldn't surprise me if he'd kept a toupee for over a decade. I sighed. He looked at me, with his arms
folded, waiting for me to come to the right conclusion.
"Well, um, um, okay, maybe you didn't cheat on me," I said, "but I'm still not pleased with how
you treated me!"
"I know," said Harris. "And that's why I'm begging your forgiveness."
"I don't know," I said.
"I'm not a bad guy," said Harris. "I just, I sometimes lose my temper. Look, why don't you take
the day off, huh? Clear your head."
"Who's going to clean up?" I said. "Who's going to wash all your dishes and scrub the pots, and
sweep, and clean?"
"You can do that tomorrow," said Harris. "No rush."
"Right," I said. "I think I'm going to take a nap."
"So early?" said Harris.
"I have somewhere to go tomorrow," I said.
"Work?" said Harris.
"Not work," I said.
"Then where?" said Harris.
I didn't answer him. I crawled into bed and covered my head.
Chapter 19
I awoke from a nightmare and returned to the one called reality. I looked to my side and saw half of an
empty bed. I put on my slippers, and shuffled outside. Harris was asleep on the couch. He had left on
the television. I turned it off by pressing the power button and took a good look at him. He had one arm
hanging off the couch, and one covering his eyes. I had the urge to clap my hands, and like a drill
sergeant, yell at him for pushing me off that cliff. You see, earlier in the night, I had a dream in which
Harris pushed me off a cliff. I knew it didn't actually happen, but I still felt angry.
Never mind. I reversed my steps, went to the bathroom, and then got changed. I snuck out of
our apartment and went out for an early morning walk to clear my head. The road I lived on -- called
Wintermute -- was a semi-busy thoroughfare, full of potholes, surrounded by half dead trees, a cracked
sidewalk, and mounds of blackened snow, which I sometimes had to climb over. It wasn't the most
pleasant of places, but seeing as I had nowhere to go it would have to do.
I continued at leisurely pace, going past the convenience store, going past the pharmacy, going
wherever I pleased (though I kept a fairly straight route). Sometimes I would get stuck behind an old
couple, and remember a saying that my old best friend Gina used to tell me when we went shopping as
teenagers: "You're only as fast as the old person in front of you."
That was certainly true when I went out. Because of the left over piles of snow, pushed off by
the plows, the sidewalks were more narrow than usual, and I couldn't go around them. I had to patiently
wait behind the geezers. I know it sounds angry, but I rarely was. Once I accepted that I could only cut
past them at the traffic lights, I would amuse myself by wondering about their lives. I wondered how
anyone could stay together that long, and what they had been through, as a couple, and as human

beings. I admired them for not cracking under the pressure of everyday life.
I, on the other hand, was far more fragile, and today I was seeking some guidance. I crossed a
traffic light and got onto Riseborough Road, where my beloved church -- The Holy Trinity All Nations
Christian Fellowship Church -- was located. It was a big piece of an old civilization at the corner of a
metropolis. It was three stories high, had huge silver cross atop a pointed, triangular roof, the usual
stained glass windows, depicting lions eating Christians, red bricks, and dirty brown double doors
looking like they were ready to welcome Jesus.
But instead I went in. The lobby was empty. A red carpet led up some steps, which led to even
more doors. I went through them and smelled a peculiar smell. A smell of rusting metal, aged wood,
and marble. There were pews (long wooden benches) on either side of me. The path in the middle
clearly led to the altar. Weddings were big business, I heard.
I looked to the side, past a giant crucifix, and went into a booth, or as we call it, a confessional.
I put my knees on a red padded kneeler. I cleared my throat, and remembered I had to press a button to
call up the priest. As I was about to reach my hand outside, I heard a voice through the mesh, the
barrier that kept the sinner and the clergy separated.
"Yes, my child," said a voice.
"Hello, is that you, Father Greenspan?" I said.
"Yes," said Father Greenspan. "What's up?"
"Something about your voice sounds off," I said. "Are you sick?"
"Yes, how did you know?" said Father Greenspan.
"Oh, okay," I said. "Um... God bless you?"
"Would you like to make a confession now?" said Father Greenspan.
"Yes," I said, "but I need to ask you something first."
"What is it?" said Father Greenspan.
"I need some advice," I said.
"What sort?" said Father Greenspan.
"life advice," I said.
"Oh, do tell," said Father Greenspan.
I was hesitant. "Mmm, maybe I shouldn't."
"My child," said Father Greenspan. "Church is about more than fire and brimstone. If you have
need of guidance, I am here for you. What did you want to tell me?"
"Well..." I said.
"Yes, my child," said Father Greenspan.
"Well..." I said.
"Yes, my child," said Father Greenspan.
"Well..." I said.
"My child!" said Father Greenspan. His voice turned calm after his exclamation. "God only has
so many hours in the day."
"I'm thinking of leaving Harris," I quickly said.
"Oh, do tell," said Father Greenspan. "Who is this Harris fellow?"
"He's my hus -- my life partner," I said. "I, I guess you can call him my boyfriend."
"And you've been having premarital, um, sex with him?" said Father Greenspan.
"Yes," I said, "but I wanted to marry him, and, and, and he refused. He wanted us to be modern.
I didn't like the idea of living in sin, but he would have left if I didn't, you know, put out... In my
defense, father, I always had the intention to be wed, and I've committed to only having one partner.
Hence why I call him my life partner. But now --"
"Yes, my child?" said Father Greenspan.
"Now I don't know if i want him to be my life partner," I said.
"Gasp," said Father Greenspan, "and why not? Do you crave to have sex with another man?"

"No! Not at all," I said. "I just want to leave, because, because..."
"Because?" said Father Greenspan.
"My life feels empty," I said. "Every morning I wake up, and I feel like there's a void inside of
me, like something is missing. And it's not because I'm infertile, I want a child, but this is a different
feeling. It feels like...everyone's at a party you weren't invited to, and you're sitting at home in your
underwear, watching reruns on television, but you've lost the remote control, you're hungry, and the
only thing in the fridge is a half eaten tub a margarine. That's how I feel."
"So you think that leaving your 'life partner,'" said Father Greenspan, "would change this?"
"I don't know," I said, "but it would make my life different. That's for sure."
Father Greenspan went quiet.
"Father?" I said.
"Yes," said Father Greenspan, "I was just thinking."
"And what do you think?" I said.
"God will show you the way," said Father Greenspan. "Listen and look, and the answer will
come to you."
That's it? That's it? Listen and look? That's your big piece of advice, Father Greenspan? How
about quoting a bible passage at least? That way I can have a laugh.
"Okay," I said, "I'll do just that."
"Now, do you have any confessions to make?" said Father Greenspan.
"I think I'm done," I said.
As I started to get up...
"Wait," said Father Greenspan. "You can't leave without a confession."
I can't?
"After all," he continued, "this is a confessional. Coming in here and simply asking for guidance
is a violation of Catholic practice. You could be sent to the abyss for it."
"Never heard of that before," I said.
"I'm a priest," said Father Greenspan, "I wouldn't expect you to know it."
"But I have nothing to confess," I said. "I'm living quite a clean life, besides the premaritals, and
intrusive thoughts."
"My child," said Father Greenspan in an irritable tone, "one of us has to make a confession
before you leave."
"Oh," I said.
"Fine," said Father Greenspan, "since you're being so mealy mouthed, I'll make one for you."
"You're going to confess to me?" I said.
"Would you do me the honors?" said Father Greenspan.
"Uhhhh, sure," I said. "How long has it been?"
"It has been 50 years since my last confession," said Father Greenspan.
"That long, eh?" I said. "And what have you done in that time? My child?"
"I've molested and violated many, many children throughout my priestly career," said Father
Greenspan.
"What?" I said, almost choking.
"They were just so attractive," said Father Greenspan. "I couldn't help myself. Plus, you know,
the dedicating yourself to God thing, and not being able to have sex with women kind of forced my
hand. I'm really sorry I did it. But it felt so bad, yet so good."
"Are you being serious?" I said. "Please tell me this is a joke."
"Tis no joke," said Father Greenspan. "I've diddled a good amount of little boys and girls.
Mostly boys, because I'm a faggot."
I pressed my ear to the mesh between me and the father and heard some muffled giggling.
"Wait a minute," I said.

I got out of the confessional, and went to the other side, where Father Greenspan was supposed
to be. When I slid the doors open, instead of finding our local priest there, I found two sniggering, snot
nosed children of some 12 years old. Boys of course.
"What the hell are you two doing?!" I yelled so loud it echoed.
I grabbed one of them by the shirt and lifted him up against the wooden wall.
"You think this is funny?" I said. "You think my life is a joke?"
"N-n-n-n-no," said the boy whose weight I was supporting. "I was just doin' it for shits 'n'
giggles. Ain't nothing personal."
"Yeah, lady," said the other boy, "relax."
I turned my head to him and growled, "BE QUIET!"
It was so ferocious that I caused him to shrivel up like a raisin. I felt a bit bad, but it didn't last
too long when I realized what a bad ass I was.
"You both owe me an apology," I said.
Both boys said sorry.
"Alright," I said, "I'm going now. You're lucky I'm not reporting you to the authorities."
"What authorities?" they said.
"God!" I said.
I straightened my collar and began walking away.
One of them yelled at me, "Good luck with your life partner! You really do deserve better!"
I shook my head and went outside. I sat on the curbside as the confrontation had particularly
sapped my energy. While my head sat in my arms, I watched a snail crawling along the asphalt. I don't
know why, but this slimy creature stimulated my brain, and made me think about Harris, and how he
had kissed that woman he had kissed. An indelible memory. It burned into me like a hot match dropped
on wood. I cried as usual, then decided I would tender my resignation with Harris.
We would be breaking up.
Chapter 20: Diary Entry #20
Dearest Diary,
Something cruel and unusual happened today. Harris and I had our first argument. It happened when he
was hung over, and I tried feeding him some vegetables. I said eating meat was bad for the
environment, and cruel to the animals, and that we should take a break every once in a while. I argued
that they were like innocent babies, who couldn't fend for themselves. But he staunchly refused to eat
my meal. I'm not sure why he's acting like this. I suppose it was the alcohol coursing through his
system; though, I think, that if you can't handle your high you shouldn't be ingesting any substances at
all. What with his consumption of booze, cigarettes, and coffee, I'm highly worried about his health,
and his mental state. He says he knows his limits because he's a doctor, but I still have my skepticism.
I definitely hope he changes his ways and quits. I couldn't bare to have another argument. I'm
not that much of a confrontational person. At the end of any arguments I tend to cry. I try to suppress it,
but it just comes out naturally. This made me think that I need to become a stronger woman.
So, on my free time, between scrubbing and washing, I went to the book shop and picked up a
motivational audio book. I don't remember who it was by...it might have been Tony Robbins. Either
way, it kind of scared me. It kept talking about making big changes, and doing this and that, and living
your dreams -- all I wanted was to have some energy in the morning, and maybe become pregnant. I
think I'll listen to the rest later on.
Chapter 21

Walking back and forth furiously in our apartment, I yelled, "You had it coming, Harris!" I took a
breath. "You can't come grovelling back to me now! If you want me to stay, then you should have
played your cards right in the first place. I'm sorry, I just can't stand it anymore. No, no, no, no, no, you
know what? I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry for anything. This isn't my fault. I tried my best, and you
screwed it up, baby. Now it's time to accept what's happened to you and moved along."
I stamped my foot. Harris wasn't actually in our apartment yet, but I was preparing for my
speech. Now, I know what you're thinking, why would anyone leave a doctor? And how could you
leave him when you only have a minimum wage job? Well, have no fear, I have $3,000 in savings, a
bunch of silver coins which I bought from the Mint on a whim, and a plan to move in with my sister
Shirley. I know Shirley wasn't the best sibling growing up, but even she would not have the heart to
deny me and let me live lonesome on the street.
Not a moment too soon, Harris came into our apartment. He closed the door behind himself, and
per usual, tossed aside his things for me to tidy up. I stepped in front of him and put my hands on my
hips. Though I took a bold posture, but was still a bit nervous.
"Harris," I said.
He lifted his head.
"Zelda," he said. "We have to go to the hospital."
"Why?" I said, half joking, half serious. "Are you preparing for a broken heart?"
"What? What are you talking about?" said Harris. "No, my dad's sick."
"Huh?" I said. "What happened?"
"I never told you this," said Harris, "but my dad has been fighting cancer, and now he's took a
turn for the worse."
"You want me to come with you?" I said.
"Of course!" said Harris. "Who else would go with me?"
"Okay, gimme a second," I said. "I have to get my things."
The sliding hospital doors went wahoosh as they let us inside. I followed Harris' lead as he marched us
through the lobby. I found it to be a foreign place as we were not at the hospital where he regularly
worked. I glanced around and noticed people of all ages, crumpled up into hard plastic seats. There
was a Tim Hortons serving coffee and donuts to the side, which I thought was an odd choice of food for
a place like a hospital.
Harris went to the information desk and queried the man, who was typing on his computer that
appeared to be from the late 1990s. He was a fiery redhead, and his pale skin was full of freckles. He
looked up and smiled.
"Hello," said Ariel.
"Ooh, like the Little Mermaid," I said, reading his name tag.
"NO," said Ariel. "It's a male Jewish name. It existed before the Little Mermaid movie, which, if
I remember correctly, came out in 1992."
"You're Jewish?" I said. "You don't look Jewish."
"Why, because I'm a redhead?" said Ariel. "Well, I am Jewish, thank you very much."
"But don't you think it's weird that you were named Ariel and you're a fiery redhead?" I said.
"Ariel in the movie was a redhead too."
"Okay, fine," said Ariel, "I'll level with you, my parents named me after the Little Mermaid
character because they really wanted a girl. They used to dress me up in bright pink frocks, teach me
how to bake, and would actively contribute to my sticker collection. I once got a set of stickers from
Mongolia."
"Mongolia, huh?" I said.
Harris slapped his hand down on the information desk. "We are here to see my father, who is
very ill. May we please know where he is staying?"

"Name?" said Ariel.

"Harris O'Leary," said Harris.
I nudged Harris and whispered, "Not your name."
Harris glared at me.
"Harold O'Leary," said Harris. "My father's name."
Ariel tapped some keys on his computer and drew up a list.
"Alright," said Ariel. "It appears Mister Harold O'Leary is staying in room 506. Can I help you
with anything else?"
"No, that'll be all," said Harris.
Harris took me by the hand and we started walking away.
I heard Ariel in the distance shout, "You're welcome!"
Harris and I piled into an elevator with several others. When the doors closed a woman suddenly
started crying. She was a small woman, of maybe five feet two inches at best, and had on no shoes. I
hated to say this, but we all tried ignoring her -- but her cries became louder, and louder to the point I
thought my eardrums were going to burst.
I tapped her lightly on the shoulder, "Excuse me, miss."
She didn't look up.
"Excuse me, miss," I repeated, this time getting her attention, "are you alright?"
"No," she said. "If I'm honest."
"What's your name?" I said.
"Vivian Lee," said Vivian.
"Now what's the matter?" I said. "Why are crying...so loudly?"
Vivian took in a deep breath. "Someone died."
"Oh no, I'm so sorry," I said. "Was it someone close to you?"
Vivian nodded. "Yeah, you can say that."
"A mom?" I said. "Or an uncle?"
"No," said Vivian, "Dumbledore."
"Harry Potter?" I said.
"Yeah," said Vivian, "I just finished reading Deathly Hallows. He gets killed."
Spoiler alert, I thought, I hadn't gotten around to that. Also, what? Who cries over that sort of
thing? Actually, I'm starting to feel a bit sad... I rubbed Vivian's shoulder.
"Never mind," I said. "Uh, I'm sure he'll be brought back for the next series. It happens a lot in
comic books."
"Thank you," said Vivian. She hugged me.
"Since when do you read comic books?" Harris asked me.
"Nothing big," I said. "A few things here and there. Mostly Archie comics."
At this moment the elevator stopped on floor 5. Harris and I stepped off, leaving behind Vivian.
We walked down the hallway, went past a couple nurses, and got to our destination: 506. There was a
cart outside with hand sanitizer and masks for filtering. A note told us to put it on in order to keep
patients safe from a new type of flu -- bird flu or squirrel flu, I can't remember.
Harris put on his mask, and then put one around me. After cleansing our hands with disinfectant
we stepped into the room. We went past another patient, who was asleep, and made our way down all
the way to where the window was. Light was shining down onto an old man that had a close
resemblance to Harris. He was wrinkly as a bulldog, but through it all I could see this was indeed his
father. He had clear plastic tubes shoved up his nose to give him the gift of oxygen.
"Dad," said Harris in a slow, sad tone.
"You came," said his father, Harold O'Leary. He put out a trembling hand.
I witnessed the strong bond of father and son, as Harris took his father's hand and caressed with

his thumbs.
"Don't I look a mess?" said Harold.
"You look better than I thought you'd look," said Harris.
"Might have been a false alarm," said Harold.
"Thank God," said Harris. "You had me worried there."
"Glad you came," said Harold. "You done me proud, son."
"Thanks, dad," said Harris.
"Who's the pretty lady?" said Harold, looking at me with squinted eyes.
"Oh, this is my girlfriend," said Harris, introducing me. "Zelda. She's a very sweet girl. The love
of my life really."
The love of his life? That's what he regarded me as? After the way he treats me? I wonder what
he does to his enemies.
"I love you too," I reluctantly said.
"Gee, what a cute girl," said Harold.
"You know, Zelda," said Harris, "my dad's a war hero. Fought in Nam."
Harold looked at me like he waiting for me to say something.
Harris whispered to me, "Thank him for his service."
"Why?" I whispered back.
"He fought for your freedoms," said Harris.
"How?" I said.
"Never mind," said Harris.
I then shook Harris' father's hand.
"Thanks for your service," I said.
"You're welcome," said Harold.
"Attagirl," Harris again whispered, and he squeezed my love handles in a most patronizing
manner.
That's it, I exclaimed in my head, this can't go on any longer! We have to break up!
"Could I talk to you out in the hallway?" I said to Harris.
"Why?" he said.
"Just for a minute," I said.
So, Harris and I stepped outside in the hallway. I pulled down my mask, ready to break up with
my so-called life partner. I had enough of it. Like Obama I wanted change. This was it. No heading
back.
"What's the matter?" said Harris as I stared at him.
I paused to think before answering. I wondered whether I was just doing this because I was
having some sort of quarter-life crisis. Then again I think I was probably way past the age to have a
quarter-life crisis. No, I shook my head, I decided. There was no turning back. Life partner to a doctor
or not, this was it.
"Harris," I said, "I want to br --"
A discordant, garbled scream interrupted me. I turned back, and rushed back into the hospital
room with Harris. His father, Harold, had his mouth agape, gasping for air, and his hands were curled
stiff into claws.
"Call a nurse!" said Harris.
I ran out into the hallway, and caught a nurse walking by. I told her what was happening and she
rushed into the room. However, it was all for nothing when Harold passed away shortly. There was
nothing they could do. Death was inevitable. Even Father Greenspan, our priest, could not come
quickly enough to perform Last Rites.
As for the breakup I was going to have with Harris, I called it off. He needed me right now and
abandoning him in his time of need would be selfish. I guess we would be staying together for a very

long time... Or would we?

Chapter 22
Dying on a Monday, during winter, is probably the worst time of all to die. The funeral home turn out
was less than stellar. Maybe there would be a smidgen more people, if the place were more jolly.
Flower-patterned wallpaper and royal purple carpet isn't exactly appealing. How about some colors?
Yellow? Pink? Or baby blue?
I guess they figure it's a place of mourning, so should the decor match the mood. But if I were
to die, I would much prefer that my guests be happy. I would have cake, and ice cream, and wine, and a
comedian to tell jokes. Family would reminisce about the good times and there would door prizes to
give out. I mean why's it gotta be dreary? The cost of this shindig is almost $20,000; you'd expect it to
at least lift your mood.
"My father was a great man," Harris said, eulogizing his father Harold...maybe a bit too much.
"He was my #1 dad. Oh, sure, he didn't walk on the moon, or invent a medicine, or rescue a baby from
a burning building, but he was a military hero, and real man, and he was always there for me, and he is
the person who made me who I am today, and he has inspired me throughout my life. Unlike my
mother he did not abandon me for another hot shake."
I looked at Harris' mother, whom I seldom saw, and watched as her mouth slowly opened,
perhaps from shock or disbelief.
"Am sorry, mom," said Harris, "but you dropped the ball. I loved you, but you screwed up my
childhood. We could have had so many great memories together, but you had to chase after another
man, and where is that man now? He's in prison! So, la-di-la it was all for naught. The only thing you
got out of that relationship was the scars that you left behind for me. Mom? Do you understand how I
felt when I saw you kissing a man who wasn't dad? Do you know what it's like to have an identity, and
a life you love, and have that suddenly snatched away from you? Being divided, and watching all the
happy, normal functioning families play together in the park? I was devastated, and furthermore...it's
your fault I'm bald! Male pattern baldness is a recessive gene! It came from your side of the family!"
I'm not entirely sure, but I believe Harris was a bit a drunk. Father Green, who was in
attendance, whispered into his ear and tried coaxing him away. He grumbled something, which I
couldn't hear, and then stepped down. Then a time later, that felt like hours, the funeral was over. The
burial, and all was done, and the only thing left to do was have a consolation dinner. How people could
eat after seeing a dead body was beyond me, but there we were at the buffet called: "Mr. Wang."
Mr. Wang was a cheap buffet, but it had a decent selection of food. Egg noodles, sticky rice, wonton
soup, stir-fry, and fortune cookies. The fortune cookies unusually were available right now, rather than
after. Sitting beside Harris, who had his plate piled to the sky, I cracked one open, and pulled out the
slip of paper.
"What's it say?" said Harris, while chomping down on a Chinese pork chop.
I was sweating bullets. The fortune said: "Think about leaving your husband or wife." What
type of rubbish fortune is that? Are the Chinese really giving out this sort of advice? Then again who
takes advice from a fortune cookie?
"Well?" said Harris.
I cleared my throat, a thing I did sometimes when preparing to tell a lie.
"It says," I said, "a clean house is a healthy house."
"Really?" said Harris.
"Yes," I said.
Then I quickly put the fortune cookie paper into my pocket to avoid Harris asking to see it.
"I've always said those Chinese are smart," Harris. "They're right up there with the Jews."

I nodded silently.
"So, aren't you going to eat?" said Harris.
"I don't have an appetite," I said.
"You better eat," said Harris. "Do you now how much this shindig is costing me?"
"I'm not a duck," I said. "I can't be force fed."
"Please," said Harris. "I'm not forcing you to do something you don't want to. I've seen how
much you can eat. You put the Nutty Professor to shame."
"Who is that?" I said.
"Eddie Murphy," said Harris. "Now, go and get something to eat. I don't want you wasting my
funeral money, hm."
"Okay," I said.
I got up out of my seat, leaving behind my poxy purse, and went to the buffet line. I felt a bit
gun shy. I didn't want people judging me for my eating habits, but at the same time I had to get enough
food to get "my money's worth" as Harris would tell me. I put some salad on my plate to save myself
some calories, then added fried chicken wings, clams, chicken balls, stir fried beef, fried shrimp, sushi,
duck, and lastly calamari. After filling a bowl with Wonton soup, I finally made my way back to my
table.
As I was ready to take my seat, I noticed Harris with his head down. His mom, Judith -- an
equally portly individual, who had on a Kentucky derby hat -- was behind him caressing his shoulder. I
wasn't sure whether to interrupt. But then she left. Where to?
I joined Harris at our table and gingerly put down my food.
"Harris," I whispered, "are you okay?"
I touched his hand.
"I'm fine," said Harris.
He had his hand on his mouth, as if he was thinking.
"But I have to tell you something," he said. "But, Zelda, promise me you won't get angry."
I nodded reluctantly.
"Because I want to be honest with you," Harris continued. "I want a clean, fresh new start. I
don't want to keep secrets from you anymore. I want you to trust me. I want us to have a trusting
relationship. I don't want to be like my parents."
"Go on," I said.
Harris took in a breath.
Chapter 23
"Remember that video you saw on my phone?" said Harris.
"Yes," I said. "The one where you were kissing with the Slutmaster?"
"Uh, yeah," said Harris. "Remember how we somehow arrived to the conclusion that I didn't
cheat on you?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well," said Harris, "I did."
"You what?" I said.
"I kissed her during our relationship," said Harris. "But in my defense I'm a man, and I have a
naturally high libido, and humans aren't built for monogamy, and I was much younger back then."
"How much younger?" I said.
"A week?" said Harris.
"A week?!" I repeated.
"Look," said Harris. "I'm 40 years old. For a man, I'm still in my sexual prime. You can't blame
me for following my instincts. I am still relatively young. Young people make mistakes and we should

forgive them for it."

I stood up and was ready to sock Harris across his stupid face.
"And, and," said Harris, "I only kissed her. That's all it was! Nothing more than that! They were
just kisses!"
Just kisses?! JUST KISSES?! How could he say that? The audacity! Picturing what he did, at
this very moment, made me feel like retching!
"Please, sit back down," said Harris. "Don't make a scene. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I had to
confess. It was eating me up inside."
"I have to make a confession of my own too," I said angrily.
Harris looked up at me, afraid for once.
I took in a breath, and I blurted it out, without dignity or grace, I just put it up on front street.
"I'm pregnant!" I said.
Everyone in the restaurant turned their heads, I swear. Was it because they cared about the
production of my offspring, or was I just being far too loud?
Nevertheless, I exclaimed, "I'm carrying your baby, Harris!"
Harris didn't react the way I hoped he would react. He didn't feel guilt. He didn't have a look of
worry or concern.
All he said was, "Oh. That's nice."
"What do you mean 'that's nice'?" I said. "I am the mother of your child. I am your baby-mama.
Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Harris sighed, "I'm not going to get my hopes up again. I haven't forgotten about your
misshapen uterus. I know we aren't going to have a baby. You'll probably have another miscarriage."
I looked Harris dead in the eye.
"I'm 3 months pregnant," I said.
Harris gasped. I think it was a gasp.
"You're lying," he said.
"I'm not lying," I told him.
I went into my purse and took out a pregnancy stick and showed it to him. It had two pink
highlighted stripes on it, which indicated I was pregnant.
"You see that?" I said. "Pregnant."
"But wait," said Harris, "you don't look pregnant."
"I'm fat," I said. "I constantly look like I have a big balloon under my shirt."
"Don't exaggerate," said Harris.
"Come, have a look," I said.
I lifted the bottom of my shirt. Harris crept toward me like a confused animal, and put his hand
on my belly. After feeling it, like a doctor would, he put his ear against my skin. He was listening for
the baby. I didn't know you could do that.
Harris pulled away and stood up.
"Well?" I said. "What do you think?"
"I can't believe it," said Harris. "Why didn't you tell me about this? I can't believe I didn't notice.
You were throwing up in the mornings and I didn't even put two and two together."
"You don't tend to notice much about me, do you?" I said.
"All kidding aside," said Harris, "what are we gonna do?"
"About what?" I said.
"Marriage," he said.
"I thought you were against marriage," I said. "You said it was an old, stupid idea, and a waste
of money."
"You are the mother of my unborn child," said Harris. "We have to get married now, don't we?
Or should we continue living in sin, like two stinky hippies?"

I hesitated to answer. In truth, I didn't want to get married to Harris anymore. After what he put
me through -- hell, I didn't even want to be in a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship with him. I loved him
but was not able to see a future with him by my side. He'd be the ruin of me. He was a filthy cheater,
who wore a cheap toupee.
"Well?" said Harris, trying to snap me out of my hypnotic state I often went into.
"I don't know," I said.
"You don't know?" said Harris. "You've been wanting to get married for how long?"
"Can't I change my mind?" I said.
"It's because of what I did, isn't it?" said Harris.
Harris got down on bended knee and looked up at me like it was the first time we had met. And
he said, with a droop in his voice, "I know I said this before, but I wanna say it again, Zelda. I'm sorry
for all that I've done to you. And I promise you I will change, for the better, and I will sincerely do my
best to make it up to you. Just gimme another chance? I'm down on my knee just for you. I will do
anything to make you my wife. Whatever it takes."
I had never seen Harris grovel like this. Usually it was me who was doing the groveling. But
here he was on bended knee, begging me to get married. It sounded so sincere too. However, that did
not matter.
"Zelda, darling," said Harris. "Please give me an answer."
"No," I said. "We can stay together, but I'm not committing to a filthy cheater. Who knows what
you'll do in the future?"
"So is that your worry?" said Harris. "That I might cheat again?"
"That and some other things," I said.
"Fine, let me know, and I'll fix it," said Harris.
"No, you won't," I said. "Once you get your way, I know you, everything will go back to the
way it was. I'm not marrying you."
Harris got off his knee. He towered above me and looked down, with his chest puffed out.
"Zelda," he said, "you're having a baby. It's a big responsibility. A really big responsibility.
Marrying me will ensure that we stay together, and that's what you need when you have a child. If you
stay only my girlfriend (life partner) I could skip off and have absolutely no responsibility. Think about
what's inside of you, and stop being selfish. You have to take care of it."
I hated to admit it -- but he was right. Everything he said was right. I had a responsibility to my
child. I couldn't continue being someone's girlfriend forever. I had to make a commitment -- but to
Harris? I had to weigh the pros and cons. I began with the pros:
1. He's a doctor.
2. I don't want my child to grow up without a father!
3. Weddings are really romantic.
4. I still loved Harris, despite all that I'd been through.
"Okay," I said, "I'll marry you, but I have some demands."
"What is it?" said Harris.
"I want you to surprise me with a romantic proposal," I said, "and I want a rock the size of a
grape on my finger. Also, for our wedding, I want it to be in a church, and I want beautiful flowers, and
a cake that goes all the way up to the ceiling."
Holding his chin, Harris went "hmmm" thinking about my offer. Then he took my hand and
shook it.
"Deal," he said.
I wondered how he would propose to me.

Chapter 24
Day by day, with a camera, I recorded the progress of my ever growing belly. There were enough
photos by now to make a neat, little, flip book. But amidst this time Harris did not propose to me like
he had promised. I waited, and waited to be surprised, until one day I got frustrated, and confronted
him.
I waited out in the hallway, outside of his apartment, until he appeared. Today he came home
early. When he saw me he paused and pulled his head down. He wanted to retreat inside, but I wouldn't
let him. I stood there with my arms folded.
"Harris," I said firmly, "don't you have something to say to me."
I was so angry I forgot to mentally add a question mark to my question.
"Nooo," said Harris, "what's there to say?"
I stuck up my hand and held out my ring finger.
"Are you flipping me off?" said Harris. "You're using the wrong finger."
"Where's my ring!?" I said. "You promised you'd propose to me. Where's my proposal? It's time
you to propose to me. Look at me. Look at my belly. I look like a whale after a shrimp buffet. I'm about
to burst for Godsakes!"
"Calm down, just calm down," said Harris. "I have a plan in mind."
"Do you even have a ring?" I said.
"Yes, I do," said Harris.
"You're lying," I said. "This is another one of your lies, isn't it?"
Harris looked at me like my head was empty. But my hormones were raging, and in my
impregnated state, I attacked him. I shoved him against the wall, and started feeling his body. The
technical term is frisking.
"What are you doing?!" said Harris.
"Trying to find a ring!" I said in a Smagol-like voice.
Then not a moment too soon, I found something. I reached into one of Harris' many pockets,
and pulled out a red velveteen box. I held it in my hands, staring. I imagined how it would look. I
pictured the shining gold ring and its brilliant, sparkling diamond the size of a grape.
I opened the box. My face sagged when I saw what I saw. The ring was not gold. It did not have
a diamond. It was silver with a white pearl, sitting in the middle. I stared it down, hoping it would
change, or that my vision was incorrect. Alas, my eyes did not deceive me. But I told myself something
is better than nothing. I usually did this when I didn't get exactly what I wanted -- which seemed to be
often.
"Well, that's just great," said Harris, interrupting my thoughts, "now you've totally ruined the
surprise."
I ignored his criticisms, wrapped up in my own concerns.
"Traditionally," I said, "a man proposes to a woman with a gold and diamond ring."
"Don't get me started," said Harris, "that's way more than you deserve. I splashed out."
I had to admit it, but for him this was splashing out. I couldn't disagree.
I sighed, "Alright, fine." Then I closed the box and returned it to Harris. "I await my proposal.
Just hurry it up, okay? Before we actually have this child?"
"I'm not wasting my time with a 'proposal,'" said Harris. "There's no point anymore. There's no
surprise. I may as well just give you the ring and that's that."
"No," I said, "you have to give me a proposal. A proper proposal. Like you promised."
"Fine," said Harris, "get down on your knees and let me put the ring on you."
"Um, you got it backwards," I said. "You're supposed to get down on your knees."
"Let me get this straight," said Harris. "I'm giving you a ring, and I'm the one who has to
grovel? That's not fair, is it?"

"It's not supposed to be fair," I said. "It's tradition. Now, I expect a proposal, okay? It has to be
memorable too."
"No, I'm not doing it," said Harris.
"But you owe me," I said.
"I owe you nothing," said Harris. "You might think I'm a scum bucket, but I've done a lot for
you."
"I know that, but we agreed to this," I said. "It's an oral contract."
"Oralshmoral," said Harris.
"Goddamn you," I said.
"Don't goddamn me, this is your fault," said Harris. "If you had the patience, you would have
gotten everything you wanted."
"I've had patience!" I said. "I've waited a very long time, when the hell were you going to pop
the question exactly?"
"Tomorrow," said Harris.
"Why tomorrow?" I said.
Harris rapped on the side of my head.
"Knock-knock, hellooooo," he said, "is anyone home? Don't you know what day tomorrow is?"
"What?" I said.
"Your birthday!" exclaimed Harris. "I was waiting for your birthday to propose."
I forgot it was my birthday tomorrow. I guess I blocked it out of my mind. Turning thirty isn't
exactly an age you want to hit -- when you're a complete and utter failure, who has nothing to show for
spinning your wheels furiously, since the day you left high school. Nevertheless...
"How romantic," I said, even though I suspected the plans for a proposal on my birthday would
be to make it easier for Harris to remember dates.
"I know," said Harris, "and you had to be a snoop."
"Oh, you can still do it," I said. "There's no problem. I can act surprised."
I made a surprised face. It was mostly my mouth hanging wide open.
"No," said Harris. "I won't do it. It's not the same now. It'll feel artificial."
"Please," I begged with my hands clasped.
Harris sighed. "We were going to have cake and everything, and I invited a bunch of people you
know, and they were supposed to jump up and say, 'Surprise!'"
"Oh, wow," I said. "I've never had birthday party before, much less a surprise one. Won't you
reconsider?"
"No, I will not," said Harris. "I'm canceling your birthday, and your proposal -- in which,
apparently, I have to get down on my knees and beg you for marriage like a dog."
"Please," I said, "this is the first time ever that you've ever remembered my birthday on time.
Don't put it to waste. You don't have to get down on bended knee."
As we stood in the hallway, Harris was silent. I stared at him, looking him in his eyes
wondering what he'd decide.
Then he cleared his throat, and told me, "Okay."
"Okay what?" I said.
"Okay, I'll propose to you," said Harris. "On your birthday. Like I planned."
"What made you change your mind?" I said.
"I shouldn't punish you for being eager," said Harris. "Plus, we all mistakes, don't we?"
"Yeah," I said, "lots of mistakes."
Chapter 25
The next day arrived. When I got off of work (Morgan gave me a half day off for my birthday), Harris,

to my surprise, came by to pick me up in a car. A rental car as we did not own a car ourselves, and he
only had a license for legal reasons. Car ownership, like anything else remotely fun, was a waste to
him. However, I could not complain. I got in.
After I took a shower at our apartment, I changed into a lovely red wine dress -- donated by my
sister Shirley, who thought it out of fashion -- then me and Harris headed downtown. The bumble bee
yellow rental car we drove in hurt my eyes, but it didn't matter when I was inside. I enjoyed my time in
it, rolling along the road. It gave me a sense of freedom. Save for when we got stuck in traffic and
Harris would honk the horn and swear. I think this is really why he didn't drive, not because of money,
but because it wasn't good for his blood pressure.
Regardless, we had a smooth trip, and arrived at our destination: "The Grandstand Restaurant."
Known for its deep fried wings, beer, misplaced chandeliers, and scantily clad girls. A real boy's place,
if you ask me, but at least it wasn't Hooters.
We parked right up front. Harris came around, and like a gentleman, opened the door. Now that
was a surprise. He took me by the hand, and led me inside. Since it was a Tuesday night there weren't
as many people as usual. A hostess, with a bust which I both envied and despised, came out to greet us.
She was awfully perky. Who wouldn't be perky if they had a body like that?
I looked at Harris' face to see whether he was having a gander too. Nope, he wasn't even paying
attention to it. His eyes were set at a perfect level, just above her neck. Real smooth, I thought. I began
to think he was serious about all those things he said, or maybe it was just to avoid arguments, which
he tended to win anyway.
"Hi," said Big Breasts -- er, I mean Lindsay (it was on her name tag), "how can I help you two?"
"We have reservations," said Harris.
"Must be," said Lindsay, "the both of you look gorgeous. Like wow. Like you're going to prom
or something."
Harris smiled.
"Thank you," he said. "You'd be surprised what kind of clothes you can get at thrift shops when
you make an effort to look. I got my entire spiffy ensemble for less than $20.00."
"No, you're joking?" said Lindsay.
"Nope," said Harris, quite proud of his thriftiness. "I got it the other day."
"Well, then," said Lindsay, "let's put that suit to good use. What's your name, big boy?"
Harris told the hostess his name, then she took us into the bowels of the Grand Stand
Restaurant. We came to a table filled with various men. I had no idea who any of them were.
"Surprise!" they shouted.
I was disappointed. They were supposed to hide and jump out. Guess you can't do that in a place
like this.
"Who are all these people?" I whispered to Harris.
"Don't your recognize them?" said Harris. He pointed. "There's Bill, and Mike, and Walt, and
Chuck, and --"
"These are people from the hospital," I said. "They're your friends. What about my friends?"
"You have no friends," said Harris. "No real ones anyway."
I sighed. I wanted to disagree, but I couldn't. It was true, I had no -- WAIT! I did have a friend.
Gina, the slim, brunette, with the warm brown eyes, the girl who knocked just about every guy off of
their feet. My best friend when I was in school. She was only a couple months younger than me, but
looked about twenty three.
"What about Gina?" I said.
"Gina's not your friend," said Harris.
"Yes, she is," I said.
"How can you count her as a friend?" said Harris. "You haven't seen her in ages. When's the last
time you two hung out?"

"Uhhh, I don't remember," I said.

"Yeah, anyway, actually," said Harris, "I did call her."
"And?" I said.
"She couldn't make it," said Harris. She told me she was too busy. Something about Duncan."
Duncan...! The boy, or man rather, who I once thought was my one true love.
"What about Duncan?" I said.
"Why are you so interested in Duncan all of a sudden?" said Harris.
"Erm, you brought him up," I said.
"Well, never mind," said Harris, "I don't know what's going on with those two. All I kept
hearing was things falling to the floor. Crashing, you might say...but it's none of our business, now is
it?"
How strange. I would have to call up Gina later. I don't remember her number though; I think
she has it listed on Facebook.
"Alright then," I said, "let's sit down. My feet are killing me."
Harris and I sat down. I got squished into the middle of the booth, beside a man, who I didn't
know. All I knew is he was making me uncomfortable. His large tree-like legs, were rubbing up against
my large tree-like legs.
"Haaappy birthday!" said Chuck. "How old are you now (he didn't know my name) uuuh -you? Wait! Let me guess, I'm quite good with numbers. Okay, okay, okay, gimme a minute." He looked
me up and down. "Telling by the way you dress, and your demeanor, and your body, I'm gonna hafta
saaaay, 40?"
"I'm not 40," I said.
"Ho! Ha! I got it wrong," said Chuck. "I know I shouldn't have tried to be flattering. You're
older than that, aren't you? Well, I stand corrected. Guess I'm not so good with numbers after all."
"You think I'm older than 40?" I said. "I'm turning 30."
"No, I, uh, wait," said Chuck. "Did I say 40? I meant 20."
"C'mon, what is it about me that made you say that?" I said. "You can be honest. I'm not a
sensitive person. Give it to me straight like a pear cider that's made from 100% pears."
The others sitting opposite to me looked real tense. Their mouths looked like they were wired
shut.
"Is it my looks?" I said. "Of course it's my looks. I look like the love child of Suzanne Boyle
and Stewart Lee. I have a 1990s Eskimo Face, don't I?"
"What? No," said Chuck. "It's something else. It's more of a feeling. Like your aura is out of
whack."
"My aura?" I said. "What do you know about my aura?"
"It feels tense," said Chuck. He put his hands out, and felt the air around my body. "It's not like
other young people's auras. Yours is stiffly, and dense, and heavy. I can barely move my fingers through
it."
"What the hell are you going on about?" said Mike. He stuck his hand out and tried touching my
aura too. "I don't feel anything at all there. There's nothing there."
"That's because you don't have the gift," said Chuck.
"Of stupidity?" said Mike.
"Oh, that's it!" said Chuck.
Harris put an arm in front of his friend, to hold him back.
"Guys, guys, please," he said, "it's my lady's special night tonight, can we not bicker like
children?"
"Children don't bicker this much," said Bill.
"Whatever the case, let's remain civil," said Harris.
"Alright," said Chuck, "you win this round, Michael."

Not a moment too soon the waitress arrived.

"Is everyone ready to order?" said Bavani. (She was Indian.)
Harris nodded and ordered for the table: a gargantuan plate of BBQ chicken wings, Coke, and
fries. The chicken wings you could order by the pound.
"Anything else?" said Bavani.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," said Harris, "I'd like to order a slice of cake. For the birthday girl.
Special order." He winked.
"Why did you wink at me?" said Bavani. "I might be dressed in a kilt and have my boobs out,
but that does not mean I should be treated like an object."
Harris whispered (loudly), "We discussed this before hand, remember?"
"Not ringing a bell," said Bavani.
Harris gestured, making the shape of a ring with his fingers.
"OH!" said Bavani. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I remember now. It's as clear as mud."
"Mud isn't clear at all," said Harris, "but thank you."
"Okay then," said Bavani, "if that's everything, I'll be back with your food."
Bavani left and it was just me, Harris, and his friends again. There was an awkward moment of
silence, before someone thought of something to say.
Walt cleared his throat, "D'you know what's crazy?"
"No," said Chuck, "why don't you tell us?"
"It's crazy that you can imagine everything in your head," said Walt, "except not existing. Being
dead -- it's literally unimaginable. Because once you think about it that is the very opposite of what
death is. And it kinda freaks me out. One day I'm going to die, and that's it. Lights off. I won't even
know that I'm not there. Then after my kids, and my grand kids die, I'll be all but forgotten."
"At least you got kids," said Mike. "I have a cat who hates me."
"That's because you smell like a dog," said Chuck. "Haw-haw!"
"Not funny," said Mike.
"Yeah," said Bill, "you know Chuck is self-conscious about his odor. Don't remind him."
A second later the waitress, Bavani, returned. We lifted our elbows off the table, and she put
down our chicken wings, Coke, fries, and piece of cake. The cake had a single candle in the middle.
"Happy birthday," said Bavani. "I would sing the happy birthday song to you, but the copyright
is owned by a big, evil corporation who will sue anyone given the chance."
"That's okay," I said, "I don't like that song, anyway."
"Well, enjoy your food," said Bavani, "lemme know if you need anything."
Then she left and everyone at the table waited for me to blow out the candle on my cake (slice).
They stared at me, impatiently. Although they weren't being rude.
"Make a wish," said Harris.
So, I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined my perfect life. In it I was pretty, I was smart,
I was young, I was popular, I had loads of money, and a perfect family. An adorable baby boy, and a
virtuous husband, who loved me just like you see in all of those crappy romance movies.
I wished and blew out my candle. Everyone at the table clapped. Wasting not time whatsoever
they immediately started digging into their food. I have to admit I was pretty hungry, being pregnant
and all, but I was afraid of getting my fingers bit. So, I took a co fries, and grabbed a fork to enjoy my
cake.
Harris looked at me and grinned, watching me eat for some reason. I grinned back, then
continued on to my early dessert. I stared almost blankly, not really paying attention to my
surroundings, as I was still fantasizing about my perfect life. I dipped my fork into my cake, took out a
chunk, and put it into my mouth.
I dropped my fork. It hit the floor with a bang. I held my throat and stood up, gasping for air. I
was choking. The cake was making me choke. I tried to speak, but no words would come out. My face

turned red, and then purple. It seemed like so much time was passing me by, I was helpless, I could do
nothing. It was like drowning in a dark lake.
But Harris jumped up, grabbed me from behind, and did the Heimlich maneuver. Since I was
pregnant, he joined his arms around above my belly, and pulled toward my body. Thrust! Thrust!
Thrust! I felt myself come off my feet. I opened my mouth, and tipped forward, out came a wedding
ring. I say a wedding ring, and not my wedding ring, because this one was gold, and it had a diamond
like I had asked for.
However, that wasn't of great importance as I caught my breath. Yet Harris grabbed the wedding
ring, and got down one knee. He presented it to me.
"Zelda Montgomery Baker," he said, whilst everyone watched in excitement, and maybe fear,
considering only seconds ago I was choking, "will you marry me, and make me your husband?"
I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine. What was only seconds felt like hours, but then
I opened my mouth, and I said: "Eaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!" What that was was a wail, a
scream, an outpouring of pent up emotions, which was followed by immense weeping.
"I guess that's a no," said Chuck.
I breathed out, and got control of myself.
"It's not a no," I said. "It's a yes. I was overwhelmed with emotions."
"Women, huh?" said Chuck. "They cry when they're happy; they cry when they're sad. Is that
confusing or what?"
Harris was still confused.
"Yes," I said. "My answer is YES."
He sprang to his feet and gave me a big hug. Quite unusual of him, I'd say. I think he was
touched that I was touched. Feelings can be contagious. It's like when someone laughs, and you laugh,
and you have no idea what the hell is actually funny.
"My dear wife," said Harris.
"Not quite yet," I said.
"As far as I'm concerned you are my wife," said Harris. He squeezed me some more. "And I'm
going to cherish you, and take care of you, and we'll be together forever."
"What romantic talk," I said.
Something inside of me was aroused. It came from the deep, inner pits of my stomach, and
slowly rose up to my heart. What was happening to me? Then I mentally snapped my fingers. For the
first time in years, I actually felt happy. I felt content. Here I was being appreciated, and hugged, and
cared for, and even though it wasn't exactly as I had hoped for, I was thoroughly satisfied.
And it made me start thinking that Harris was actually starting to turn over a new leaf. How
could that not be the case, as he upgraded my ring from silver to gold, threw me a party, and did
whatever I asked of him? I dare say this might be a brand new chapter in my life.
But only the wedding could tell.
Chapter 26
After weeks of planning we were finally ready. The big day was here: MY wedding. Exciting, huh? Not
as much as it was nerve-wracking. There I was in a big, fancy Church, with stain glassed windows,
dressed in a white dress one size too small, standing in front of a priest, beside my husband to be, and
all of his family, and all of his friends.
My family and friends however did not show up in droves like I thought they would. My
parents were absent, due to the distance I'm told, and my old schoolmates opted out. None of the cards
sent out were RSVPed, and on Facebook they replied with "maybe" and "screw you." Alright. The last
bit never happened, but that's how I felt.
However, one person from my lackadaisical educational career showed up, and that was Gina.

My once best friend. I asked her to be a bridesmaid, but she had thoroughly declined. She told me she'd
gotten way too fat. Yet when I looked at her face I could see her high cheekbones, rather than the
congealed mass she described herself as over the phone.
Oh and there was Duncan too, my one time world's biggest crush, sitting right beside her. He
looked up at me and gave me a fleeting glance. His face looked quite tired. If I'm honest he didn't
appear too happy with Gina. I suppose that time does dull the luster of any marriage, no matter how
good everyone else thinks it is.
But who cares about them, right? It's MY wedding day! Look at me! Look at my lovely, fluffy,
white dress that cost an absolutely fortune, which I will only use one time! A total waste of money, isn't
it? But that's why I love it! How nice that Harris is wasting all this money on me... Me, me, me, me,
me.
Oh, God?! What's happening? Have I turned into Bridezilla? I'll answer that question later on as
the priest is looking at me, waiting for an answer to his question.
"Do you, Zelda Montgomery Baker," said Father Wendly, "take Harris Benedict O'Leary to be
your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for
richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do you part?"
Ha! Why even bother asking? Isn't the answer obvious?
"No," I said.
Save for the children, everyone in the church dropped their jaws. What just happened? What did
I do? Why did I say that? What was going on? I should have said "yes"! But the words kept coming out
of mouth, completely involuntarily. It was if I was possessed. By what? I ask.
"I'm sorry," I said to all my guests, "I can't go through with it."
Then I leapt off the altar, so it seemed, and ran down the aisle. But as my legs went into motion,
the heel of my shoe caught onto my dress, and I took a dive on the wine red carpet. Luckily, I broke my
fall with my double chin.
I thought I heard some gasps. Nevertheless, I got back to my feet, and continued on. I found
myself bursting through the double doors, and traipsing down the concrete steps. I didn't have a plan
for my escape, nor did I know where to go.
I simply retreated into the garden. I went to the far back of the church and sat upon a bench,
amidst the flowers. I huffed and puffed, catching my breath. Though I couldn't see it, I'm sure that my
face was absolutely red. My eyes felt watery. I put face into my hands. What was I thinking? What was
I thinking? That was what I kept on thinking.
While the cold breeze blew back my hair, I struggled with the idea of going back, apologizing,
and finishing the ceremony. However, I believed it the right thing to do. Why throw away a marriage,
the thing you always dreamed of as a little girl? Why throw it all away when everything was going
your way?
Only a fool wouldn't go back. So, I stood up, slowly, and turned around. No sooner did I take a
single step than Harris appeared in the distance. He was staring, calm, eerily quiet. I could only hear the
chirping of the birds. I stood frozen, whilst he made his way forward. The world seemed in slow
motion as he marched in my direction.
"Harris, honey," I said in my sweetest voice, hoping to placate him, "I'm sorry about running out
like that."
He slapped me across the face, "You worthless cow!"
"Now, Harold," I said, "I understand that you're angry, but --"
He hit me again. And again, and again, and again. So hard that my nose was bleeding. Blood
was dripping onto my brand new wedding dress. As he beat me he continually added insult to injury,
calling me every name in the book, should such a book exist.
He called me fat. He called me stupid. He called me a whore. He called me good for nothing,
good for nobody, yet I could say nothing in response. There was no way to defend myself verbally or

physically. I was weak. I was balled into the ground, covering my face as he pummeled by body.
After what seems several hours (in reality it was minutes) the violence stopped. I could hear the
wind whistling again. The birds were chirping. I looked up, carefully, through my fingers and saw
Harris was no longer towering over me. He was headed back to the church. I cried out for him, telling
to stop, but his ears would not listen.
Then the next moment he was gone. When I was sure I was alone, I stood up with a stagger. I
walked slowly but surely through the garden, and came to the path that laid before the "Lord's home." I
put my foot down onto the asphalt, like when one dips their toe in water, and began to leave. I looked
back, second guessing my decision, but then I decided that our relationship was no more. Harris and I
were through.
Sure. I could tolerate his general ineptitude, his stinginess, his hurtful words, his lack of
appreciation, and his infidelity -- but the physical abuse, one time it may be, was far too much for me to
bear. No woman or man should ever have to be afraid of their spouse. And that is why I must go.
Chapter 27
I got to the road, and waited at the bus station. The person beside me gave me a weird look. I suppose it
was because of my blood stained wedding dress.
"What're you looking at?" I said to the lady, who was holding an umbrella over her head,
despite there being no rain.
She turned right toward me, eyed me up and down, and said, "Not much, mhm."
Then came the bus. I clambered up the steps, and paused by the coin box. I remembered that I
left my purse and all my things at the church. I had no money at all, not even a dime to my name. At
least in this very moment.
"Could you hurry it up?" said the lady with the umbrella.
"Uh," I went, "uh, I don't have any money."
"We accept tokens," said the bus driver in the most monotonous voice I ever heard.
"But I don't have tokens," I said.
"Then I must ask you to leave the bus," said the bus driver.
"Couldn't you just let me on?" I said.
"You are wasting everyone's time," said the bus driver. "If you do not leave, I will personally
have to escort you off."
"Ye', get yo' damn big booty off the bus," said the lady with the umbrella. "I got places to go,
sista."
"Why are you talking to me like that?" I said.
"Just tellin' it like it is," said the lady with the umbrella.
I looked at the bus driver and clasped my hands together, pleading.
"Pleeease," I said, "I'll pay you back later."
"I am not the bank," said the bus driver. "You cannot pay me back later."
"So that's it, huh?" I said. "You're gonna leave me hanging?"
"I would never leave anyone hanging," said the bus driver. "I am simply here trying to maintain
order and a profit for the company that I work for. There is nothing wrong with my military-like
diligence."
"Okay, I'm going," I said, "but just to let you know you're putting a poor lady out on the road. I
could get mugged or molested."
"Not my problem," said the bus driver.
I turned around to exit the bus. The lady with the umbrella presented her umbrella to me,
making some sort of peace/pity offering.
"You better take this," she said. "Weatherman say it's gonna rain today."

"What do you care?" I said. I looked outside at the blue sky, with its few shining white clouds.
"You have a very nice dress there," said the lady with the umbrella. "Wouldn't want it to get
soaked."
"Thanks for the offer," I said, "but I don't need your umbrella. The weather's perfect."
I then stepped off of the bus, and watched it disappear down the road. The road which I had to
walk along in uncomfortable heels. Eventually, I took them off, and went barefoot, save for the
imitation silk stockings that I had on.
I knew a long journey was ahead of me, back to the apartment to get my stuff, but I wasn't sure
exactly where I was going, and my feet become sore rather quickly. Blisters formed on the soles of my
feet. With each step I took, I started regretting my decision to end the wedding. Maybe if I ran back to
Harris, and begged his forgiveness he would take me back? Or maybe I could play it hard, and
blackmail him. Tell him that if he refused to be with me, I'd call the cops, and have him put in prison
for treating me like Rihanna.
Nah. That probably wouldn't work. The man was slick. He'd probably screw me over easy in
court. It wouldn't surprise me if he had a whole file on my person. I can see my description: Weak,
sickly, fat, jealous, insecure, and an abandonner of weddings. An abandonner of weddings -- but I had a
good reason, right?
I didn't know. My long walk made me question what love actually is. Is there any sensibility to
it at all? Or must it always be blind, fraught with anxieties, worry, uneasiness, and heart break? Seeing
as I was never a popular girl, I didn't know. I had no comparisons to anything else. I had no
relationships that I could compare to what me and Harris had, or didn't have rather. It made me feel a
bit lost.
But after several hours of walking, I came to my apartment building. I paused, and stared up at
it, afraid to go in. Its long shadow weighting upon my shoulders, I had to turn my head away from it, as
if avoiding its gaze, its ever staring windows, beaming down awful memories into my brain. While my
head hung low, I noticed a footprint made in red. The red, as a I described it, was in fact my blood.
Blood from the soles of my feet.
I walked and left behind a streaking trail of blood. I went into the apartment building (I slipped
in when someone was coming out), I and made haste into the elevator. I pressed number 13 and doors
slid shut. There was a man here with me, who I'd seen before. He was a grumpy fellow, but generally
minded his own business. He had thin, greasy hair, a square head, mottled skin, and thick black glasses.
I stood close to him, hoping he would say something. The last time I didn't much care for any
commentary, but now for some reason I was craving it. I hit the man with my dress, trying to get him to
say something. But he did not respond. So, I cleared my throat.
He turned to me and said, "You should pick up some cough drops for that."
Then he got off onto floor 11, and I got off onto floor 13. I made my way to the front of my
apartment. Once again, my memory was not functioning right. I forgot that I had nothing with me,
other than my stained wedding dress, and shoes I was now carrying along. I stood outside the door to
my apartment like a dummy.
I didn't know what to do, I just didn't. What to do? Kick down the door, whilst using profanity,
and bust in and take my stuff, and leave -- or wait for Harold to return, and discuss the future, the one
without him? I was afraid. I'd never been more afraid in my life.
But when I looked down at my belly, the thing growing inside of me, I knew what I had to do. I
had to protect it all costs. This is what I've always wanted, a child of my own, and I damn well wasn't
going to let anyone put it in jeopardy. They say that the worst thing you can do your child is to be in a
relationship where you hate your spouse.
However, I didn't hate Harold. I still loved him. I don't know why, I still had feelings. They
hadn't evaporated completely. He was a good provider, and he was the first person who was ever
attracted to me. At one time he made me feel wanted, he made me feel needed, and loved. I suppose

that when he got used to me he became complacent, and took me for granted. That's what happens
when you're in a relationship long enough. The romance evaporates. The beat of your heart slows
down, and you forget why you were attracted in the first place, then everything becomes mundane
routine, and at least one of you returns to yourself before you met.
"Excuse me," a voice said; it was the man I'd bumped into on the elevator. "I don't mean to pry,
but why are you in a wedding dress...with juice or wine stains?"
"They aren't juice or wine stains," I said. "I wish that they were."
Nathan, his name I came to found out, looked me in the face. He knew something was "up."
"Someone hurt you?" he said.
I lied. I didn't want to stir up more trouble than had already occurred.
"Yes," I said. "Some, erm, young African Americans tried to rob me."
"Oh no," said Nathan. "Did you call the cops already?"
"Yes," I said. "They were quite racist about it, so I left the police station hastily."
"I see," said Nathan, "and, uh, why are you in a wedding dress?"
"I am, erm, I just saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show," I said. "I dressed up for it for a special
viewing."
"Hm," said Nathan. "I didn't know any of the characters wore a wedding dress for the movie."
"Double check," I said. "You will see."
"It's okay, I'd rather not," said Nathan. "That movie is quite stupid."
"Yes, yes, it is," I said.
"So, who are you waiting for?" said Nathan. "Wait, no. You live here, right? Yeah. Yeah, I think
you do. I've seen you around a couple times."
"You noticed me?" I said.
"Yup," said Nathan. "You have quite a presence about you."
I didn't know what he meant by that.
"Glad you noticed," I said.
"I take it you're locked out?" said Nathan.
"I lost my purse with all my things in it," I explained. "No one's in there to open the door for
me, so I'm playing the waiting game."
"Don't worry," said Nathan, "I know a little trick. Only works on cheap locks though... So, it
should work here."
Then Nathan took out a credit card, slipped it between the space between the door, and pushed it
open.
"Wow," I said, "how clever of you."
"Yup, It works on almost all non-deadbolt locks," he said.
"Thank you so much," I said, "how can I ever repay you?"
"No need," said Nathan. "It's my neighborly duty. Just don't use this trick for nefarious
purposes, huh?"
"I won't," I said.
Then I headed inside, and waved goodbye to my kind neighbor. I closed the door and let out a
breath. I stood frozen, dumbfounded in my own home. Despite its (relatively) small size it felt so big
and empty and echoey. It felt different, and I think it's because I knew that I would never come back
here. Today was my last day. As soon as Harris returned I would lay down the law, and that would be
the end of it.
Of course, I was no fool, I stepped into the kitchen and armed myself -- with a mallet. A meat
mallet. I didn't have enough courage to stab anyone, even in self-defense. A mallet would suffice, I
thought. Not that intimidating, but Harris has always told me that humans are far more delicate than we
imagine. Not like in the movies, no, he said, where characters can easily jump through a glass window
unscathed. In real life, he lectured, a single precise blow to the head would mostly kill someone,

especially without proper, medical treatment.

How odd that, of all the things he's told me, I remember that. Never mind, I didn't come here to
psycho analyze myself, I had to get ready to leave. I went to the bathroom, ripped off my wedding
dress without care to what damage it would do, and jumped in the shower. After the shower, I freshened
up by the sink, and I changed into some nice, modest, comfortable clothing. Jeans a t-shirt.
I then went to my bedroom, and started packing a suitcase. I was on my knees, thinking what to
carry. I hadn't formulated a proper plan yet, and had no idea how long I'd be wandering around in the
city, looking for shelter from the elements. I had to choose wisely, because my belly looked like it was
going to burst. Or my vagina rather. Have you ever seen that movie "Aliens"?
Chapter 28: Diary Entry #31
Dearest Diary,
I caught Harris eyeing a woman at the mall today. We were sitting down having a coffee and tea in the
food court, and he was flagrantly staring at her, with an almost open mouth. And why not? She had
long, flowing, black hair, and even longer legs -- which comes in stark contrast to my curly blonde
waves and limbs that I call stumps.
He looked so excited to see her, as he was, I'm sure, undressing her with his eyes (which wasn't
hard to do, as she didn't have that much on in the first place). When I asked him about it he told me he
really found her disgusting.
Was that a complete lie? To spare my feelings? Yes, he continued on drooling. I badgered him
playfully about it, and he shushed me, and pinched my arm. Very hard. It made me quiet, only because
I was confused. Wasn't sure whether he was trying to be playful like me and got over excited, or it was
something else.
Nevertheless, he continued on drinking his coffee, and then got up, walked past her, and looked
down her low-cut shirt. After they whispered something to each other, he returned to our table.
Immediately after told me he was feeling horny. He grasped me by the wrist, and dragged me outside.
We went into his car, and he tried unbuttoning my shirt, but I stopped him before he could get past
button number two. I didn't want to get in trouble with the police. Nor did I want to be the type who
voluntarily gets screwed in a car.
I wasn't surprised that when we went home he was being all icy to me. It made me think
perhaps he was a sex addict. He did watch an awful lot of pornography. I'd tell him not to do so,
because it made me upset. He would retort it was his right as a man, and that I didn't understand. He
was right, I didn't understand.
Chapter 29
I finished packing my suitcase. It contained comfortable clothes, money, any valuables that I had, like
silver coins I collected over the years from the Mint, toiletries (such as toothpaste), my trust diary, into
which I poured my thoughts, and snacks for when I got hungry. Twinkies mostly.
With it I sat on the sofa waiting for Harris to arrive. In spite my state, my cut and bruised body,
my big belly, I felt stronger than ever before. To tell you the truth the only reason he succeeded in
beating me up was because I was in a state of shock. I didn't know what to do. I didn't expect him to
hurt me like that. The disbelief is what made my freeze up.
But now that I had all my senses working, I knew I could stand up to him. Why, in my youth, I
used to do karate and jiu jitsu. If he tried anything again I had it all planned out in my mind. I would
kick him in his groin, then give him a kick in the face, and scream, "HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYAHHHHH!"

I hoped, however, that I wouldn't need to resort to that. I would be peaceful, if he chose to be
peaceful as well. And so, I sit here, staring at the wall clock from Ikea, awaiting him to burst through
the door like an idiot, perhaps begging me to go back to him, or not get him tossed in prison.
That didn't happen. Harris never paid our apartment a visit. Hours upon hours went by. He was
nowhere to be found. I was growing impatient. I then figured he would be avoiding me for a while. So,
I decided to make myself comfortable. I closed my eyes, and went to sleep. I wasn't going to stay
awake for him. Those days are over. I am a new woman.
Chapter 30
Days passed. Harris never returned. He was nowhere to be found. I made phone calls, trying to find out
what happened, yet everyone was clueless. Including myself. Nevertheless, I carried on with my usual
routines, going to work, making idle chat with random people, and doing whatever house-chores
needed to be done. Though I kinda had a hard time coping -- after being in a relationship for so many
years, and of course once being on the verge of marriage, I found myself with a bit too much time.
Yes, I did my regular routines, but between that and whatever tasks popped up during the day,
that needed to be done, I would wind up in a sort of dead zone. In this dead zone, I felt loneliness,
confusion, worry, and anxiety. I often sat up, stark, asking myself, "What the hell am I doing with
myself?" It made me wheeze.
To alleviate this, I tried taking naps as much as possible to silence my worries and thoughts, but
then as it turned out that did little to help me, because I would simply wake up at a later time, and be up
at 2:00 AM, even deeper in solitude. To tell the truth, I kinda missed having Harris around. But from
moment to moment, when I got into that kinda thinking, my brain would remind myself about how he
had hurt me, then I would try as best as possible to vanquish him from my mind.
I did everything possible to get him out of my mind. I tossed all his pictures, I got rid of home
videos, I even stopped listening to The Beatles. A hard thing to do, but the love songs reminded me of
him, as he liked listening to old music, and there was one of the singers who was named George
Harrison.
Silly, I know, but it had to be done. Today, I twiddled my thumbs, once again waiting for some
grandiose moment, where my once-life-partner would return, and I'd drop the bomb on him. Telling
him how he was scum and I was leaving. But almost a week had gone by. Thankfully it wasn't time to
pay the bills, because I couldn't manage them on my own.
I thought I'd pass the time by checking the mail, as opposed to taking a nap. I put on a robe, and
went into the elevator, where I met Nathan. I held the door open for him and let him inside.
"Ahoy," Nathan said in a joking tone. "How's my favorite neighbor?"
"Am I really?" I said.
"Of course of horse," said Nathan. He pressed the button to close the elevator door. "You're the
only person friendly enough to have a chat. Everyone else here is so terse."
"Terse?" I said.
"You know," said Nathan, "really short. Like they don't want to talk."
"I see," I said.
"So, what've you been up to lately?" said Nathan.
"Going to work," I said. "Saving up for a rainy day. Not much really."
"That's all, eh?" said Nathan.
Nathan said that like he knew something. But I wasn't about to to tell him about my private life.
Friendly as he was, I hardly knew him... But then I caved. God, I haven't had human contact in quite a
while.
"I've split up with Harris," I said. "Permanently."
"Oh, no, what happened?" said Nathan.

"There should be no 'oh, no'," I said. "It's a good thing. He was an abusive a-hole."
"So, wait, where is he?" said Nathan. "Don't you two live together? Wow. That's always
awkward, breaking up with someone that you live with."
"One question at a time," I said.
"Sorry," said Nathan.
"I don't know where Harris is," I said. "After I ran out on our wedding, he hasn't contacted me
since, and he hasn't returned to our apartment either. It's just me living alone. Not as awkward as you
think really. A benefit though is I do have a lot of extra time on my hands however. I'm now trying to
fill it in with productive hobbies."
"Yeah, like what?" said Nathan.
I took out a paper hat.
"Is that a paper hat?" said Nathan.
"Yes," I said, "did you not read the sentence before you said that?"
"Huh? What sentence?" said Nathan.
I pointed to the paper hat, which had the words "this is a paper hat" written on it in black
marker.
"I wrote it down to clarify my work of art, you see," I said. "There's nothing worse than a work
of art that makes you think."
"Ah, yes," said Nathan, "like that painting of that man in a bowler hat, and there's a green apple
in front of his face. That's confusing."
"Exactly," I said.
Then I put the paper hat on Nathan's head. He didn't seem to mind.
"Emmm, thank you very much," said Nathan. "I'm sure it'll come in handy for when I become
captain of a very fine boat."
"You're welcome," I said.
Then the elevator came to a stop. We had reached ground level of our apartment building.
"Ladies first," he said.
"How sexist," I said.
"Oh, I, I was only joking," said Nathan.
"Ha-ha, I was too," I said.
I got off and Nathan followed behind. As I headed toward the mailbox he put his hand on my
shoulder. I paused and turned back to see him.
"Zelda," said Nathan.
"Yes?" I said.
"I want you to know," he said, "that any time you need me, I'll be here for you."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll take you up on your offer, if I need it."
Nathan nodded with smile and then left. Where he was going, I wasn't sure. I went to the
mailbox area, and opened up my personal mailbox: #1315. Inside was a single brown envelope. I took
it out to have a look. It was addressed to me, and I recognized the handwriting. It was Harris'
handwriting. Messy as ever, yet someone legible enough for postal workers.
I opened it up, and found a letter. The letterhead was for a hotel, the Four Seasons in Las Vegas.
I began to wonder whether this was an elaborate prank. I darted my eyes back and forth along the
paper, and read his letter:
"Dear" Zelda,
I am writing this letter to inform you that I no longer wish to be in a relationship with you. I am sorry
that I have to end it through a mere, handwritten letter; however, I find that I best function when you
are at a great distance.

This is most difficult to say, but, Zelda, you were always a thorn in my side. You were holding
me back from true happiness, and you were holding me back from being myself, an achieving my
personal goals. You did nothing but keep me down. All the great things I did for you were never
enough. You were always greedy, and selfish, constantly thinking about yourself. I was Atlas...but
instead of carrying the globe upon my shoulders, it was you.
You were the big, hefty object weighing me down. Yet I do not regret the time that we had
together . It made me grow as a person, and through the pain and struggles, it strengthened me. Your
selfishness, your self-centeredness, your obnoxiousness, and your huge ego have made me a better
person. Because if I can tolerate someone like you, am I not an amazing person? I have the patience of
a Saint!
Anyways, if you're wondering where I am, I am enjoying myself in Sin City. That's right, babe,
Las Vegas, and for the first time ever I am having fun. Do you know why? Because you aren't here! I
don't have anyone to tend to. I don't have to care for a needy, whiny, spoilt baby, and furthermore, I
can wear my wig. This thing is a godsend. It makes me look 10 years younger. The women are all over
me. I've slept with 3, count 'em, 3 people already. AND they were amaaaaze-balls in bed. (That's a new
word I picked up.)
Anyways, I'll be sending someone over to get all my stuff. Please keep an eye peeled for my
friend. I have to go now. There's a line of ladies behind me, waiting to get a piece of this ol' hound dog.
So, so long, and farewell!
Yours Truly,
Harris "The Man" O'Leary
P.S. By the way, good luck with the apartment and everything. I'm sure your fantastic job (sarcasm
alert) will help you pay for it. Ha!
Suddenly I felt my blood boiling. I opened my mouth and made a scream that sounded like a
gorilla attacking a jaguar, and I ripped up the letter with my shaking hands. Unbelievable that man! He
thought that I was self-centered? He thought that I was selfish? That I was a burden upon his
shoulders? Who the hell did he think he was when we were together in our relationship -- Mahatma
Gandhi?!
Now, in my rage, I imagined him dying a slow, painful death. Yet somehow that was
unsatisfactory, because I felt that if I actually went through with it he would somehow be painted as a
martyr, a SAINT for dying at the hands of his evil ex-girlfriend, and I, of course, would be thrown into
prison, where his relatives and friends would be rooting for me to get involuntarily buggered. No, not
even in my head could I have a pleasing fantasy. A type pf reality always kicked in for me.
But what else could I do? I felt absolutely powerless. Then I snapped my fingers, and I had an
idea. I know what I can do to get revenge.
Chapter 31
I went out and bought a hammer from that hardware store. I returned to my apartment and started
swinging at whatever I could find that reminded me of Harris.
A list of things I smashed:
-Harris' mobile phone
-Harris' framed photos
-Harris' particleboard nightstand
-Harris' pornography collection!

-Harris' video games

-Harris' records
-Harris' sweater
I don't know that I smashed his sweater, as much as I smooshed it up, but I was in quite a furry. I didn't
know what I was doing. I was even tempted to smash in his fancy TV, which he enjoyed so much;
however, at the last second, I came to my senses, and decided that I would rather sell it, and pocket it
the cash. I figured I could get $400 or so, if I wrote a decent advert. It was quite large it was. Put on its
end it stood just the same height as me.
I sat in front of it, exhausted, having burnt out a good part of my rage. But not all of it. I sunk
into the sofa that I figured was mine now, seeing as Harris left, and put down my trusty hammer. I
needed to think about my future, what I was going to do about this apartment. What I was going to do
about this baby inside of my belly!
The only plan I had was asking Morgan, my manager at the grocery store, for a nice, juicy raise.
But I had my doubts as to whether or not he would give me that raise, him being kind of a cheapskate -understatement of the year -- but, as they say, "Life is more enjoyable when you stop giving a fuck," so
I turned on the TV, and picked up the remote control.
In most cases I'd choose a book over the "boob-tube" to get my mind off things, but in my far
too long relationship with Harris, which I considered more of a stupor, he made me get rid of my
library. He told me that reading fiction was a total waste of time, though I suspect his motivations were
really to save space in our apartment. I had quite the collection. you see. It went up to the ceiling. We
could've used it as an extra column.
However, that wasn't justification enough to keep around all my books, and my beloved copy of
the big P&P (Pride and Prejudice). Harris encouraged me to look into eBooks. He said not only would
it save space, but I'd be able to pirate books as well.
"Why waste money into supporting your favorite authors?" he'd say in a roundabout way.
I'd retaliate, then we'd get into an argument about eBooks versus paperbooks somehow. For
eBooks he'd talk up the conveniences of instant downloads, being able to hold a library in the palm of
your hand, and the fact that you can buy from independent writers.
Strangely, all of which I acknowledged, but then I asked, "What about the coziness of paper
books?"
The weight of it in your hands, the wonderful smell, being able to thumb through the pages, and
touch and feel the words, being able to pass it down as you please. That's what I like about paper
books, because you can give it to someone else that you care about. Giving someone your old book is
like giving a part of yourself, like giving a piece of history. When they read and hold that old book in
their hands, they know that other people have enjoyed it too. They know that other people, who have
lived perhaps vastly different lives, have enjoyed the very same thing that they are enjoying.
With a digital copy you get none of that. It's just bits and bytes. Cold information, with no
history whatsoever. When you get a book online you're not downloading an old copy that your
grandmother and grandfather used to read. No, you're downloading information, dished out from an
impersonal website that doesn't know even know you exist.
And that's why I like paper books. Yet here I was watching TV. Vegging out, eating Doritos. The
President was having a press conference. They were talking about, what else, the economy.
"Mr. President," said Miss News Reporter. "I'm a bit confused. How exactly do you plan to
simultaneously lower taxes, while getting the country out of its massive, massive, massive, massive,
massive debt? Seems like those two things are contradictory, don't you think?"
Mr. President -- standing behind a podium, adorned with an eagle themed emblem -- cleared his
throat, looked Miss News Reporter straight into her eyeballs, and then grinned.

"My fellow Americans," said Mr. President in his thick Southern accent. "I am going to do this
by cutting the fat."
"Oh, that'll be a hard task," said Miss News Reporter. "After all, we are living in America. The
world's fattest nation. We're right up there with Kuwait."
"Kuwait?" said Mr. President.
Someone in a spiffy suit whispered into Mr. President's ear.
"Ah, yes," said Mr. President. "I remember them from the, uh, Gulf War."
"Right," said Miss News Reporter.
"Anyhoo," said Mr. President. "When I was talking about cutting the fat, I wasn't talking about
obesity. I was talking about government expenditures."
"Like the military?" said Miss News Reporter.
"Ha-ha," said Mr. President.
"What's so funny?" said Miss News Reporter. "Military expenditures last year were over $100
billion."
"You know that I do want to get reelected," said Mr. President.
"Okay," said Miss News Reporter. "Then what are you going to cut back on? How do you plan
to get the economy back in shape?"
Mr. President whapped his fist into his palm. Whap!
"By getting rid of the boondoggles!" he said. "I am going to make sure this administration is as
lean as can be. I am going to cut back on the handouts and unnecessary waste. For starters no more
unlimited money for those people on welfare, those lazy, drug addled, losers, who contribute nothing to
society."
"Not all of them are lazy, drug addled, losers," said Miss News Reporter.
"Oh, yes," said Mr. President. "I forgot about those knocked up teenage sluts."
"That's quite insulting," said Miss News Reporter, "don't you think?"
"Why, are you defending these leeches?" said Mr. President.
"No," said Miss News Reporter. "I'm just saying that --"
"You're one of them, aren't you?" Mr. President interrupted.
"I beg your pardon?" said Miss News Reporter.
Mr. President leaned over his podium and pointed to poor, old Miss News Reporter.
"A WELFIE! YOU'RE A WELFIE!" said Mr. President. "You're on the welfare! A drain on the
system! You're sucking away all our resources, so that you can smoke your crack pipe, and make love
to a man, who may or may not be the father of your child! Isn't that the truth?!"
"No," said Miss News Reporter, "no, it is not."
I turned off the TV. Then at that moment I heard an irritating buzzing noise. I got to my feet, quickly,
and went to the intercom. Who could it be? Maybe Harris was returning after all! I know it sounded
strange, but I actually kind of missed him. Sure, he wasn't a good person, but I was feeling pretty
lonely. I pressed down on the intercom button marked "listen."
A man's voice came through the speaker. It sounded like he was using an electrolarynx. I knew
about these things, since Harris was a doctor. An electrolarynx is basically an artificial voicebox, a
device to help people speak. Though the side effect is you sound something like a robot.
"Let me in," said the voice.
I pressed the other button on the intercom for speaking.
"Who are you?" I said.
"Let me in," it repeated itself.
"What do you want?" I said forcefully.
"I need to come in," it said.
"I will not let you in until you tell me who you are!" I yelled.

There was a pause. Then a buzz. I pressed the listening button.

"I'm here for Harris," said the voice. "I have come to collect."
"Collect what?" I said.
"Things," it replied.
"What things?" I said.
"An assortment of things," it said.
"Go away," I said, "you're not welcome here."
"I will come up it," it said.
"I'm not letting you in," I said.
I walked off and didn't bother to listen to the intercom. But it kept buzzing. And buzzing, and
buzzing, requesting that I answer. Not able to turn it off, I got a pillow from the sofa, and covered the
speaker. I duct taped it down, so as to leave it sticking with the wall.
"There," I said, "peace and quiet."
Yet I suspected this would not be the end of it. Then there was a knock at the door. Two quick
knocks at first, and then a final one. It was the voice I heard just moments before.
"Let me in," it said.
Shivers went down my spine. I stood still, frozen, trying not to make any noise.
"I can hear you breathing," it said. "I know you are in there. Come on out."
I decided not to take his advice. I covered my mouth, to muffle the sound of my breathing, and I
stood in place until I thought he was gone. I waited at least 20 minutes. When I believed it was safe, I
took a single step in the direction of the guest bathroom. I had to take a shit real bad.
KNOCK, KNOCK! KNOCK! the door went.
"I'm still here," said the voice from 20 minutes previous. "Why won't you let me in?"
Screw this! I ran to the toilet to do my business. I dropped my pants, and squeezed out my
"chocolate bunny rabbit." Out of habit, I picked up something to read, taking whatever was available in
the magazine rack. I picked up a pornographic magazine. A Playboy. Residue from my relationship
with Harris.
I began reading a short story, written by the famous Japanese author H.M. Suzuki. It was about a lonely
Japanese girl, an only child of adoptive parents, who, on the day of her birthday, has to leave her office
job early when there is an earthquake.
With the rest of the day off she returns home to her quiet apartment. She checks her mailbox
and finds that she has a birthday card from her childhood friend, who she hasn't seen in years. She
reads the greeting inside and sees that there is an invitation to her friend's home, which is near the sea.
The following weekend, following a confusing map, she finds herself at the local fish market.
While trying to locate her friend's home she is knocked over by a boy hastily pulling along a wooden
cart filled with tuna.
The boy stops to apologize, and checks on her. Seeing she is okay, he then offers her some fish.
When she politely declines he notices the locket she is wearing around her neck. He has the exact same
one.
"What picture is inside yours?" he says.
The girl opens her locket, then the boy does the same. Not only is it the same locket, but the
pictures are the same too. They are pictures of their biological parents. And so, a sister and a long lost
brother reunite. The brother, who has errands to run, takes his sister into his wooden cart and pulls her
to her destination.
After promising to meet each other later, the girl gets off, thanks him, and visits her friend. Her
friend, Natsumi, takes her in for some cake and tea. The two reminisce for what seems a while, and at
the end of it Natsumi presents her friend with a gift. The girls open it and finds that it is her pink,
stuffed bunny rabbit from when she was a child.

Natsumi confesses that she was the one who stole it in 4th grade class. The girl forgives her, and
then takes her gift. She goes on her way, and meets up with the boy that she met earlier, supposedly her
brother, by the pier at 7:00 PM sharp.
The girl and the boy, the siblings, aren't sure what to do or say. To help the conversation along
the girl shows the boy her pink bunny rabbit. The boy takes a look at it. While doing so, an owl
(thinking it is prey) snatches it away, but then drops it into the water upon realizing it is a mistake.
The boy jumps into the sea to get it. He looks and looks, for what seems ages, yet fails to find it.
The girl says that it's okay and begs him to come back onto dry land.
Later on the girl goes to visit the boy's place, and find out that he is poor, and living in
something the resembles a shack. The boy explains that their parents had no money, and that they died
from poverty 1 year ago.
The girl is sad that she didn't get to meet them. But the boy says he has dreams, and he hears
them calling him to the bottom of the sea, asking him to visit. He says that he thinks spirits don't go
into heaven, but rather they live deep in the waters, where no one can find them. He suggests that
tomorrow when the sun is out they go diving for her bunny, and searching for the spirits of their
parents.
"Two birds with one stone," he says. "Not that I would kill innocent birds."
The girl thinks he is crazy and refuses. The boy tries to persuade her. He shows her a diving suit
that he made. It is big and clunky, and made out of metal. There is some sort of filter on the front, for
absorbing oxygen in the water. Also, on the back a sealed terrarium, full of plants. To it are tubes
connected.
"For more oxygen," he says.
"Does it really work?" says the girl.
I stopped reading the short story. The voice from outside was calling to me.
"Let me in," it said. "Let me in. Let me in. Let me in. Let me in. Let me in."
Finally, I finished on the toilet. I wiped my keister, washed my hands, and put on my pants.
When I got out, the front door to my apartment burst open. Standing before me was a man dressed in a
tuxedo. Over 7 feet tall, he came inside, by lowering down, and ducking under the door frame. He then
stood straight, and folded his arms in a most annoyed manner.
"H-hello," I said, giving him a fake smile, "welcome to my home. Sorry about the wait. I had a
bathroom emergency."
"I apologize," said Gargantuon. (I gave him that nickname.) "I barged into your home on
account of thinking you were in trouble. I was not trying to break in."
I noticed that Gargatuon smelled like cheap cologne, or some sort of after shave. And his voice
was not coming through an electrolarynx as I thought. His robotic inflection was all natural. I suspect
that his long, long neck had something to do with it.
"Why are you wearing a tuxedo?" I said.
"I've to attend a wedding soon," said Gargantuon. "That is why I am in such a rush."
"And what do you want?" I said.
"Only here to collect some things for Harris," said Gargantuon.
"You're his friend?" I said.
"Some would say so," said Gargantuon.
"Okay," I said. "Can you give me a moment?"
"As you wish," said Gargantuon.
Then I left and returned with a cardboard box. I gave it to Gargantuon, who was patiently
waiting with his hands folded.
"Here it is," I said. "All of Harris' stuff. Important papers, documents, pens and pencils, his
passport, things of that nature, y'know. I took great care of them, despite our falling out. Aren't I a good

person?"
"You are," said Gargantuon. "Thank you."
"I guess you have to leave for your wedding, hm?" I said.
"Not quite yet," said Gargantuon. "I was given a list of everything that was to be collected."
"You were?" I said.
Gargantuon nodded and produced a list from his breast pocket. I was surprised. At first I
thought it was just a pocket square. You know, that decorative fabric (handkerchief?) that hangs out of
tuxedos, which seemingly have no use. That's what I thought it was.
"Let's see," said Gargantuon. "I have to get: One mobile phone. One collection of photos. One
particleboard nightstand. One... Ahem, pornography collection. One collection of videos. One set of
records. One sweat. And one television." He cleared his throat. "You wouldn't mind me going around
and getting these things, would you? I'll only be a moment. My arms are quite long, you see, I can lots
of items. More than the average person."
I cleared away the lump in my throat.
"Um, actually," I said, "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why?" said Gargantuon. "Did you smash everything in a fit of rage?"
...
"How did you know?" I said.
"Ha-ha," Gargantuon laughed. "I've been in relationships myself. I know how it is. There is a lot
of passion and raged involved. Often times passionate rage. I totally understand, if you've smashed up a
couple of Harris' things. I've done it myself."
"You got angry at Harris too, huh?" I said.
"Oh, no," said Gargantuon. "I meant in my own relationships."
"Of course," I said.
"Yes," said Gargantuon. "I recently broke up with my girlfriend. When she dumped me I was so
distraught that I kidnapped her dog, and killed with a screwdriver."
"You killed a dog with a screwdriver!?" I yelled. "You monster!"
I imagined a poor, little Wiener Dog yelping, being stabbed to death with a pointy screwdriver.
It made me want to cry. Dogs are like babies, so innocent, helpless, and unassuming.
"Aah, no! Ugh!" said Gargantuon. "I meant like the drink. A screwdriver. It's made of alcohol.
Orange juice and vodka. Yes. I left a glass of it on my coffee table, and the dog knocked it over, and
slurped it up while I was out. It died from alcohol poisoning. As you know dogs are allergic to alcohol."
I folded my arms, "Well, that's still pretty irresponsible."
"I know," said Gargantuon. "I feel awful about it. Sometimes I have nightmares about it. Why,
in my last nightmare I was a dog. In it a scorpion asked for a ride on my back to cross the waters. But
as we were traveling through the lake, he took his tail, put it in my mouth, and injected alcohol into my
belly. I felt woozy, and threw up, and then started to slowly sink. Before I went under, I asked the
scorpion why he made me drunk when he knew I was keeping him afloat. He replied, 'It's in my nature.'
WEIRD, huh?"
Not as weird as you, pal.
"Oh, yeah," I said. "That is kinda weird."
"Anywho," said Gargantuon, "what do you have of Harris' that's intact?"
Nothing, except for the TV. But I didn't want to tell this freakishly tall stranger that. I was going
to sell that puppy for cold, hard cash.
"Everything of his broken," I said. "Unfortunately."
Unfortunately, my ass.
Gargantuon looked around. He stretched out his neck, and swiveled his head.
"Wait, what about that?" he said, pointing to the TV. "That looks in okay condition."
Uh-oh... I was caught. He was going to take away my favorite most electronic device, and there

was nothing I could do to physically stop him. At his height, he could pick me up, and toss me out the
window. Knowing that, I did the only thing I thought rational -- I jumped in front of the television and
spread out my arms to block it.
"It's mine!" I said. "You can't take it! I won't let you! You shall not pass!"
Then Gargantuon took a single step forward, and stared me down. When his foot landed it made
a loud THUD! sound.
"Lady," he said, "I appreciate your situation. But I don't have time for these games. Please move
aside, or I shall have to come down upon you with a great fury,"
You shall "come down upon me with a great fury"? What does that even mean? Furthermore,
who actually talks like that? Is he saying that he's going to have his way with me? "Come down with a
great fury" certainly sounds that way.
Hmm, well, I guess I better play it safe. I'll call the cops on him -- but give him a fair warning
before I do so, because, you know, when faced with a dangerous situation the thing to do is let
criminals know ahead of time what you're about to do. This allows them to intervene and clear up any
types of miscommunication.
"Stay back," I said, "I'm calling the cops!"
Then I ran to the phone beside the sofa. After fumbling to pick it up, I sprinted back in front of
the TV, regaining my position, and then pressed the number nine and the number one. I showed this off
to Mr. Gargantuon.
"Come any closer, and I'll press the last digit," I said. "The cops will come arrest you, and you'll
be in hot soup. You'll put it in your mouth, and you'll go, 'Ah!' because you tongue will burn."
"Wait," said Gargantuon, "am I in the soup, or am I drinking the soup? I am genuinely
confused."
"You," I said, "you, uh, you are in the soup! You are in the soup, drinking the soup. Think of it
like being in the bathtub and drinking your own bathwater."
"Besides being yucky," said Gargantuon, "that doesn't make any sense. If I got into hot soup I'd
be dead in a matter of seconds. I wouldn't have the desire, or, more importantly, the ability to drink the
soup that I am in."
"You get my point," I said. "Stop being a pendant."
"Pendant?" said Gargantuon. "Do you mean to say 'pedant'?"
"Hm, that's exactly what you would say, isn't it?" I said.
"That's it," said Gargantuon. "I've had enough of this."
And he marched toward me, grabbed me by the back of my neck, and, with a single arm, lifted
me into the air. As I screamed, he tossed me onto the sofa, and took the TV off its stand, yanking out all
the cords in a fit. Much to my protest he began hauling it away. While doing so, he stepped on the
cordless phone, which I had accidentally, in the fray, dropped on the floor. It made a distinct CRUNCH
noise.
"Was that your phone?" said Gargantuon, barely looking down to see whether it was.
"Yes," I said. "Are you going to pay for it?"
"I'll give some money to Harris," said Gargantuon.
You what?! I was so enraged that I sprang forward and wrapped myself around Gargantuon's
leg, trying to stop him from leaving. "Trying" being the main word here.
"You're not leaving," I said, "until you pay for that bloody phone."
But Gargantuon was unphased.
"Please get off me," he said, as he continued walking forward, pulling me along like I was
nothing more than a rag doll. "You are making a fool of yourself."
When we were out in the hallway I told him, loud and firm, "I'll scream, and everyone will
come outside. I'll tell them that you were trying to touch me -- ME, A PREGNANT LADY! They'll be
on you like cancer on a smoker's lungs!"

Suddenly Gargantuon stopped walking. He looked at me and sighed. Was he going to return my
TV?
"I almost forgot something," said Gargantuon, his hands full. "Could you reach into my back
pocket? I have something for you. Left side please. The right side is where my wallet is. You touch my
wallet and I may have to destroy you."
Not wanting to be destroyed, I reached into Gargantuon's left back pocket. I slipped in my hand
and pulled out a parcel. The parcel was slightly larger than an envelope, but was not an envelope. It
was yellow, and felt soft, and the flap to close it was at the very end, rather than running lengthwise.
(Was it a bubble mailer.) I took it and held it to the light, attempting to see what was within. I couldn't
make it out.
"Welp," said Gargantuon. "I guess my business here is done."
"Oh. Is it?" I said.
Gargantuon nodded, and carried away the television and cardboard box I had given him. Then
he disappeared into the elevator, leaving me alone with my curious gift. What did it contain? A letter?
Money? Jewels? A winning lottery ticket?
I laughed at the idea of that. Not a fun laugh, but a quiet, sad one, like when you've been caught
peeing in the sink.
Chapter 32
I could hardly sleep through the night. My window was stuck open, and would not close. When the
chilly winds came in, I felt extra lonely in my big, empty bed. Minus what was in my big belly, I had
no one in the world. No one to complain to, no one to cry to, no one to listen.
At this very moment, I desperately wanted someone to talk to or hug, but then staring at
nothingness, turning in my blanket, thinking about all the people I've met throughout my life, Harris
included, maybe, just maybe it would be better to be alone.
To Quote the Upanishads: "It is better to be alone, than to be surrouned by those who make you
feel alone."
I looked at my alarm clock, it was 3:00 AM. I got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of
water. Sat on the counter, by the sink, was the yellow parcel from Harris, given to me by Gargantuon. It
was not yet open, as I wanted to have that man, and everything associated with him, completely out of
my life. Remembering what he wrote in his last delivery, I was not too keen.
Yet I could not bring myself to throw it away. Who knew what was inside it? To avoid
temptation, I grabbed it, and stuffed it into the bottom of my poxy purse, where it would remain lost
for as long as I wanted.
Now, I drank my glass of water, and stumbled back into bed. I fell asleep at about 5:00 AM -less than three hours of sleep, since work started at 8:00 AM sharp. The earlier the time the shaper it is.
Chapter 33
I was on the bus, on my way to work, on my way to the grocery store. I was sat up by front, in the
elderly/broken foot/and pregnant people's area. It was stifling hot and humid inside. I had difficulty
breathing. My lungs felt compressed. The rumbling caused by the potholes on the road did not help one
bit. Dozens of people crowded around me, trying to get as much space as they could, without
encroaching on my personal space.
But one man couldn't stop leaning his lower body into my big belly, pressing his baby-makers
against my baby. He had two hands grasped around the bars above, yet couldn't keep control of where
he was swaying. Granted, it was a bumpy ride.
"Excuse me," I said to him. "Do you mind?"

"Mind what?" said Humphrey.

Was his name Humphrey? He looked like a Humphrey.
"You're rubbing into me," I said. "Please. Kindly move back."
"I'm not moving," said Humphrey.
I became flustered.
"And why not?" I said.
"I like my position on the bus," said Humphrey. "I've grown accustomed to it."
"You've been here for less time than me," I said. "How is it that you've grown accustomed to a
place you've been standing in for for 20 minutes?"
"That's a long time, if you're a fly," said Humphrey.
"You're not a fly," I said.
"I am too a fly," said Humphrey.
He made a buzzing noise, similar to that of a fly -- or a bee. I can't really tell the difference. I
poked Humphrey.
"Get your junk away from me," I said.
"I can't, it's too crowded, " said Humphrey.
"Pull your hips back," I told him. "Because if you rub me the wrong way again, I am going to
flip my lid. Every lid I have will be flipped."
"Lady," said Humphrey, "you have no right to tell me what to do. It's not my fault I'm touching
you. It's your fault. You should have to reposition yourself, not me."
"What do you mean by that?" I said.
Humphrey literally looked down at me, "Suck it in, fatso."
"Don't you call me Fatso," I said. "I'm pregnant."
"Even if you weren't pregnant," said Humphrey. "You'd still be a fatso, I bet. I can see it in your
face. You have a fat jiggly face."
"What's that got to do with anything?" I said.
"Welp," said Humphrey, "if you only had a big belly from pregnancy, and normally would were
quite trim, you would have a slim face. But since you don't it means you were always fat looking. You
are really fat. Disgustingly fat. Greasy too."
"That's sweat," I said, "it's warm in here."
"Excuses, excuses," said Humphrey. "Seriously, listen to me, lady. I'm giving you good advice
here. Cut back on the McDonald's and forget about the Burger King. You don't want to die prematurely
from a heart attack, do you? By the way, I'm being rhetorical. Obviously, no one wants to have a heart
attack. Maybe an ART attack."
"You are an a-hole!" I said.
I didn't want to swear, because I heard that babies can hear in the womb.
"Don't get angry at me because you're fat, and this uncomfortable position is all your fault," said
Humphrey. "I wasn't the one who fried your foods. Okay, Miss Piggy?"
Somewhere inside of my brain, I saw a volcano erupting, then I splayed my palms, and went,
"AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! HIYA!" I used all my strength and pushed back
Humphrey the fat person hater.
Humphrey went flying back, and landed right on his tail bone. I swear to Lord Jesus I heard it
go crack! The people around him winced. They gave me their slitty eyes, but I thought he got his cummuffins.
"You pushed down that man," I heard someone say.
"You assaulted him," said another.
"You whale of a woman," chimed in the next person, "you should be ashamed for using
violence!"
"It wasn't my fault," I said, "my baby kicks really hard."

"You've a baby?" one Irish sound person said. "Aye, me thought it was a big, blarney gut."
"I'M PREGNANT," I said, "face it, people."
Humphrey got up and yelled, "Bus driver! Stop the bus!"
The bus driver looked back, "What's that matter back there!? Is it a teenager?!"
The people miraculously cleared a path straight to me, and let Humphrey point his judgmental
finger.
"This woman assaulted me," he said. "She is a threat to everyone on the bus. She needs to be
kicked off. I feel unsafe. My comfort zone has been compromised, good sir."
"A pregnant woman? A threat?" I said. "What sort of man are you exactly?"
"She's not pregnant," said Humphrey. "She's just a whale of a woman."
"STOP CALLING ME A WHALE OF A WOMAN!" I yelled. "YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"
Suddenly the bus came to a grinding halt. Its wheels screeched against the asphalt. My nose
tingled as I thought I smelled the scent of burnt rubbed. Everyone, except those seated, fell over. The
bus driver then got out of his seat and came to confront me.
The bus driver looked his nose down at me, and had his hands on his hip. His name tag read
"Larry."
"Miss," said Larry the bus driver, wiggling his ridiculous, handlebar mustache (the one where
the edges curl up), "I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You are stirring up more trouble."
"I'm not stirring up trouble, and I shouldn't have to leave," I said. "I paid my good money."
"Please, get yer fat ass off that seat," said Larry the bus driver, "or I am going to call the police."
"Go ahead, call the police," I said. "I'm sure a REAL man would take my side. This is a clear
case of abuse."
I folded my arms, refusing to move.
"Kick her out already," said Humphrey. "She is gone loco."
Larry the bus driver grabbed my wrist.
"Miss," he said, "you leave me no choice. You are holding up my route."
"But, but," I said, "I have to get to work. I can't be late. I can't! I'm asking my manager Morgan
for a pay raise to help out with my bun in the oven."
"If you're so tight for money," said Larry the bus driver, "get an abortion."
"An abortion?" I said, wagging my finger. "Not only is that illegal at this stage, but it is highly
immoral. It is a living creature, taking shelter in my body. I am supposed to protect it."
"Oh, boo-hoo, it's just a clump of cells," said Humphrey.
"A clump of freaking cells?" I said. "You call the beginnings of a fully fledged human being,
God's gift to humanity, a thing that has a heart and brain, and eyes hoping to see the world, a clump of
cells? Even a single sperm is extremely sophisticated. The information held within a single sperm is
roughly equivalent to 37 million bytes of computer data. Just as a comparison, the NASA Voyager 1
Space Probe -- the first man made object to travel beyond our solar system -- launched and flew on
only 40 thousand bytes of memory."
Humphrey looked angry and confused. All he could say to me was, "Errr, shut up, you stupid,
Catholic, college, school girl."
I replied wittily, "No, you're a, uh, stupid, uh, Catholic, college, school girl."
"That's it," said Larry.
Then he pulled me up from my seat, and took me aside. From behind, he began pushing me
forward. I resisted, but kept stumbling ahead, because I was so off balance from my big belly.
Eventually I was kicked off the bus. I meant that in the literal sense. Larry the bus driver, put a boot to
my back, and gave me a shove. And he closed the doors and drove off, leaving nothing behind but
black fumes.
I got up from the ground, and shook my fist. Then I looked up at the street signs to see where I
was: "14th Avenue and Keele Street."

"14th Avenue and Keele Street," I repeated in my head.

Goddamn it, I was lost. I was too used to getting on the bus, spacing out for 30 to 45 or so
minutes, and only paying attention when it came right to my stop. No problem, however, as I had the
option of going the exact same route. Straight down, I saw a bus sign by end of the sidewalk, which of
course I went to immediately.
At this time, waiting for another bus to arrive, I took out my wallet, and looks in the coin pocket
for at token. But there were no tokens. I had forgotten to stock up. They are quite expensive after all,
and I'd only buy them as needed. What to do? I stupidly had no money either.
I turned to a stranger, passing by, and stopped her to ask for some help. She had on a large hat
with a flower atop, a long, white dress, and an equally white dog. She seemed to be very overdressed
for a mere morning stroll. She looked like one of those old ladies trying to bitterly fight the process of
aging.
"Excuse me," I said to a lady, who I later came to find out was named Lou-Ellen, "could I
trouble you for a minute?"
Lou-Ellen, turned her head sharply, and had her nose in the air all the while talking to me.
"Yes, dear, what is it?" she said.
"I don't have any money or tokens for the bus," I began, "do you think you --"
"Get a job," Lou-Ellen interrupted. "That's the best way to make money to take the bus."
"I do have a job," I said, "but I'm in a bit of a pinch."
"It's not my fault," said Lou-Ellen.
I started becoming irritated.
"Yes," I said, "I know that, but if you could help me out --"
"No, I'm sorry," said Lou-Ellen. "I can't do that. The more money we give you people, the more
you waste it. You must learn some responsibility first. Would you like a book on financial planning?"
"All I need is a bus token," I said, "or a very small amount of money. I can owe you back if you
give me your address."
"Alright," said Lou-Ellen. "I shall be a good person and help you out. Put out your hand please."
I put out my hand, and Lou-Ellen put a token into my palm.
"Thank you," I said.
When I was about to turn away, Lou-Ellen put her hand on my shoulder.
"Wait just a minute," she said, "aren't you forgetting something?"
"I think said 'thank you,'" I said.
"My address, you haven't taken down my address," Lou-Ellen barked. "How will you ever pay
me back?"
"Aaah, right," I said. "Give me a moment please."
Then I took out a piece of pen and paper, I mean -- a piece of paper and pen, and jotted down
Lou Ellen's address. This is how I came to find out her name was Lou-Ellen...Margaret Mildred
Thackston the Third. What a delightful tongue twister.
"Okay," I said, "I got it."
I folded the paper and put it away along with my Bic Cristal pen. These things have a tendency
to explode, so I had it wrapped up in a napkin.
"I'll be on my way now," said Lou-Ellen, "and best of luck to you in your endeavors. I know
what a hassle it is to be a woman. I was one myself once."
"Oh, er, thanks," I said.
She tipped her hat and began walking away. Not without incident, however, when her dog saw
another dog, a bitch to be specific, and started chasing it. This pulled Lou-Ellen along faster than she
anticipated, and she was speedily taken away.
"God speed," I murmured.
As I watched, I noticed that Lou-Ellen had dropped something on the ground. It must've fell out

of her pocket. I jogged over to it and picked it up -- it was a lottery ticket. I waved it at Lou-Ellen.
"Wait," I said, "you dropped this!"
I was about to run after her, but then my bus came. Already late for work, I had to go. I stepped
onto the bus to enter. The new bus driver kept his wary eyes on me, waiting for payment. I opened my
palm and found in it a button. The woman, who I thought to be a kindly old lady, had not given me a
token. She had given me a button. It was silver and round, some would say pretty, however, not quite
what I needed. Not what I needed at all.
Chapter 34: Diary Entry #42
Dearest Diary,
Bad news. Today I popped the question to Harris. Well, not THE question, but an important question. I
asked Harris whether we would get married, one day, and have a family. He told me he didn't want to.
He told me about all the complications, and wedding costs, and how it was so old fashioned. Not only
that but he squealed at me that "a child is nothing but a big burden." I was devastated. But with a little
gentle coaxing we both came to an agreement.
Yet I wondered what our future held. I asked how long we'd be together, if we'd be together for
life. He said yes, and so, on my assistance, I announced us as life partners. Afterward, I agreed that we
could make love if he had a life long commitment to me. I was excited as I was nervous that I was
going to have my first time, finally. I didn't know much about sex, but I heard it was like a train going
into a tunnel. Except the train might give you AIDS if you're not careful. Especially a train being driven
by a Spaniard.
Chapter 35
"Only 15.4 minutes late!" I declared, rushing into the grocery store. "Not too shabby."
I punched the clock and slipped in as quietly as possible, after having yelled, "Only 15.4
minutes late!" I snuck through the least populated aisle, the one containing light bulbs, pet food, and
garbage bags, and went to the butcher's section.
I went over to Mel, the rotund man sporting the mullet, and whispered, "Pssst! Have you seen
Morgan?"
Mel turned his head, whipping back his creamy, blonde hair.
"Nah," said Mel, "but yous better not annoy him. He seems to be in a real bad mood taday."
"What for?" I said.
"Corporate headquarters gave him a call," said Mel. "They said he wasn't running the store up to
snuff, whatever that means."
"That's it?" I said. "They tell him that all the time."
"Yeah, but not like this," said Mel, cutting a piece of meat, and getting blood splattered onto his
white apron. "The drubbing left him in tears."
"In tears?" I said.
"Yeah," said Mel. "The pressure got to him. Maybe it's because he's going through a rough
patch. His wife Paulina decided to become Paul, and ran off with a friend of his, then his dog died, his
house accidentally got set on fire, and someone in the store called him a Paki that was stealing
everyone's jobs. He isn't even from Pakistan. Poissonally [sic], I was surprised."
"Well, that's good news," I said. "He won't even know that I was late this morning."
"I dunno," said Mel. "He seems to be on to the next stage of his emotions. How does it go
again? Sadness, then anger, then denial, then acceptance?"
I shrugged my shoulders.

"Anyhoo," said Mel, "won't he check your punch card?"

"I know. I'll just tell him, I absent-mindedly forgot, and that the whole time I was here," I
explained. "He should buy it. I'm a pretty good actor. Remember that time when I convinced the world
that I do not exist? Pretty slick, huh?"
"That's not the way I recall it," said Mel.
"Anyway," I said, "if you bump into Morgan, remember you saw me arrive here at 8:00 AM
sharp."
"I can't do that," said Mel.
"Why not?" I said.
"I came in late," said Mel.
"Um, well, erm, pass on the word," I said.
"I dunno if I can lie," said Mel. "I'm an honest, little boy."
"Really now, I have a lot at stake here, Mel," I said, showing off my protruding belly. "Just do
me this favor, huh?"
"Okay, lady," said Mel, "you've twisted my arm. But next time try not to get into so much
shenanigans, huh?"
"No shenanigans at all," I said. "Thank you."
I walked away, headed west for the locker rooms. Every employee had to use the lockers to lock
away their things, otherwise, as Ezekiel used to say, "Your shit would get jacked." I got to the female
locker room, and quietly went through the throw-up pink door.
My footsteps echoed as I went over to my locker. I looked around to see whether anyone was
around. Not a soul in sight. I opened my locker, locker #8, and put in my jacket, and my purse. After I
closed it, I waddled to the wooden bench to have a seat. My feet were already sore. I knew I shouldn't
have been resting on my plushy bottom, but I needed the rest I felt so tired; I used my belly as an
armrest.
"Whew, what a morning," I said.
At that moment I heard a noise. I turned my head and stood up.
"Hello? Anyone there?" I said.
Without consideration to all the horror movies I watched as a child, I tiptoed over to the source
of the noise. I found myself in the shower area, which was the darkest area of the locker room. I
scanned the area using my eyes. A damp, unidentifiable smell made my nose tingle.
"ZELDA MONTGOMERY BAKER," someone said loudly, almost to the point of yelling.
I jumped back. A shower curtain pulled open and Morgan came out to greet me.
"Morgan," I said, "uh, what are you doing here?"
Morgan wagged his finger, "Where were you this morning?"
"Here on time, like always," I lied. "Oh, but I forgot to punch in. It says I punched in like 15.4
minute late, but that's not true. Well, no, it is true. But I'm saying it's not indicative of my actual
arrival."
"That's pure bullshit," said Morgan. "I was here since before opening time. I watched everyone
come in. You were not here."
I wasn't sure what to do with these accusations. Tell a bigger lie to cover up my other lie, or
confess and be honest about what happened?
"Yeah, no," I said, "you're mistaken. I totally was here on time. But the reason you didn't see me
is because I was, erm, wearing an invisibility cloak."
"Is that so?" said Morgan. He put his hands on his hips and leaned forward. "May I see this
fantastic invisibility cloak then?"
"You can't," I said in a smug tone, "it's invisible."
"Verrrrrrrrrrry clever," said Morgan. "I should fire you rrrrrrrrrrrright now."
"You're not really going to? Are you?" I said. The grin from my face disappeared. "Because as

you can see, I'm pregnant. I got responsibilities now."

Morgan shook his head, "I'm afraid I have to let you go. I have forgiven you too many times."
I was about to cry.
"Don't cry," he said, "I am immune to tears, and people's emotions. That's why I became a
manager."
"So, that it?" I said on the brink of sobbing, "You're, you're, you're , you're, you're, you're going
to fire me? Give me the sack? After all my loyal years of hard work?"
"You put items on shelves and occasionally push a broom," said Morgan. "It's not that difficult.
A smart monkey couple replace you... Wouldn't that be something? A monkey working in a grocery
store. He-he-he."
"This is no laughing matter," I said. "Are you not going to fire me?"
"It is a hard decision," said Morgan. "I hope there are no hard feelings."
He raised his arm in the air, and I could see he was going to set it down like a gavel to say,
"You're fired, Miss Baker!"
I had to think quick to save my rear end.
"Wait!" I said.
"What?" said Morgan.
"Before you go," I said, "I have one last request."
Morgan went "hmmm" and thought for a moment.
"Go on," he said.
"Could I have a picture with you?" I said. "So that I can remember your face? I'll never get to
see you once I'm gone."
"That is a good idea," said Morgan. "For the memories... Where's your camera?"
"I am not an owner of a camera," I said, "but I thought maybe we could use yours, and then
you'd e-mail it to me?"
"Ah, I love technology," said Morgan. He nodded. "Okay, let's do this."
And he took his cellphone out, and we stood side by side for a two person selfie. Can you
actually do a two person selfie? Or does the term selfie only apply to a single person?
"Ready?" said Morgan.
"Ready," I said.
"Cheese," said Morgan.
"Cheese!" I repeated.
I heard the sound of a shutter going off, despite there being no shutter in Morgan's cellphone
camera. What's the point of that? I suppose it's just a noise we're all used to.
"There we go," said Morgan, and he showed me our picture, in which I had the phoniest smiled
I'd ever seen. "Pretty good, huh? Better than JJ Abrams. No annoying lens flare."
"Thanks," I said, "could you e-mail it to me now?"
"Right now?" said Morgan.
"Unless your phone isn't capable of such a thing," I said. "How old is it?"
"Of course I can do that," said Morgan. "This is a top of the line mobile. It's made by Tata
Motors."
"Who?" I said.
"Never mind," said Morgan. "What's your e-mail address?"
Morgan held his cellphone near my mouth.
"It can do voice," he explained. "Say your address and it will record it."
I cleared my throat, "hotchik_96@gmail.com."
"Why 96?" said Morgan as his cellphone miraculously recorded my e-mail address, even taking
into account my alternative spelling of the word "chick."
"Oh," I said, "I wanted to put 69, but it wasn't available."

"Nice," said Morgan. "Okay. I've sent our photo to your e-mail."
"Thanks," I said. "By the way, what else can that cellphone of yours do? Can it take back emails it's sent out?"
"Ha, I wish," said Morgan. "That would be...amazing. Imagine how many Christmases I
could've saved had that existed."
I took in a deep breath.
"Okay, that's great," I said. "Now, unfire me."
"You want me to what?" said Morgan.
"UNFIRE me," I said.
"Zelda," said Morgan, "we discussed this earlier. You have to be let go. You're a boil on the
bottom that is this business. You make up the bottom 10%."
"Either way," I said, "you can't fire me."
"Oh no?" said Morgan.
"I might sue you," I said.
"For what?" said Morgan. He was beginning to look angry and confused.
"Sexual harassment," I said. "Hiding in the lady's locker room."
"And what evidence do you..." Then Morgan realized my clever scheme.
I had fooled him into taking a picture in the lady's locker room, and sending me a copy. Now I
had his proverbial balls in a vice grip, and to be honest, I was quite proud of it. Seldom do I get the
upper hand in anything.
"Well?" I said. "What's it gonna be?"
Morgan was seething.
"Keep in mind," I said, "I have a very good lawyer available to me. He's Jewish...and black. A
black Jew. His name is Johnnie, erm, Cochraneovich. So, you know he's up to the task. It's in his
blood."
Morgan, in a fit of rage, threw down his cellphone. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spreading
across the floor, like a broken glass jar. It wasn't long before he regretted that decision.
"Argh!" Morgan went. "Bloody hell!"
"Does your warranty cover that?" I said.
As Morgan bent over to pick the pieces, I kicked him while he was down -- so to speak.
"By the way, " I said, "I also want a pay raise."
Morgan rose up in an instant, and I swear to God, he started foaming at the mouth, and speaking
in tongue...or his native language. I couldn't understand a single word, but I knew this was the angriest
I'd ever seen him. His face was so close to mine that I could feel his hot, smelly breath on my face. I
won't lie to you, I became afraid. This sort of moment is the moment one has right before they shoot up
a school or a post office.
I slapped Morgan across the face.
"Calm down!" I said.
"T-thank you," said Morgan, his voice now sounding placid. "I needed that."
But for good measure I struck him several times more, going, "Slap, slap, slap, SSSLAP!" For a
moment I felt like E. Honda, except my hands were quite sore. Yes, I know they say violence doesn't
solve anything, however, this was for his own good. It hurt me more than it hurt him... Nah, not really.
"Morgan, are you alright?" I said.
"P-lease, no more," said Morgan.
"I'm glad you're okay," I said. "Can we discuss my pay raise now?"
"Meet me in my office," said Morgan.
After spending some time in Morgan's tiny, little office, I had managed to blackmail -- I mean negotiate
-- a pay raise in the sum of ten extra dollars per hour (twice my normal salary). To disguise my new-

found and unjustified wealth, I was given a promotion, and a brand new title. No longer would I be a
lowly shelf stocker. I would be a logistical placement assistant.
Sooo, basically, I would stock shelves and clean up. Exactly as I did before. Sure did sound
fancy though. I was a bit worried, however, as I wasn't sure how Morgan would explain my new salary
to corporate HQ. I figured his brother, who owned the franchise, would forgive his idiocy. Though his
reputation was that he was a pretty ruthless fellow.
Nevertheless, I went back to work for once with a smile on my face. And why not? I would be
able to make rent now. That's a pretty good feeling.
Chapter 36: Diary Entry #50
Dearest Diary,
So excited! After Harris told me I needed to get off my caboose and get a job, I finally found one. The
new grocery that opened up was hiring, it seemed, on a first come first serve basis. Right now I'm only
part time, and I only have to stock shelves and clean up, but I'm hoping to move up in rank. I became
fast friends with two boys named Ezekial and Dudley.
Everyone here is so great. My manager, Morgan, is a really swell guy. He gave me a gift basket,
welcoming me to his team. He's always saying positive things about the staff, and asking us if we're
doing alright. I really like him.
I know that I'm not earning a ton of dough right now, but it's okay. I like the environment. Plus,
now that I'm officially employed, Harris said that we can finally share a place together, since I'm
carrying my own weight -- some it, apparently.
Anyways, we went to Ikea to do furniture shopping. Man, that place is big. I actually got lost.
Me! A full, grown adult. I had to use the PA system to have Harris come and get me. But it was okay.
After that we were dandy. We got some Swedish meatballs, and bought a Schlipunsnorin bed. It was
within our budget too. Unfortunately, assembly was required. Up to that point, I had never seen a
mattress that required a screwdriver to be put together.
Chapter 37
A good week passed. I had my pregnancy up and downs, like morning sickness, but for the most part I
was feeling settled. Leaving Harris was the best thing I ever did. Sure, there were moments of
loneliness, and self loathing, and eating an entire bucket of ice cream in one sitting -- and there were
moments of happiness too.
I felt young again. The world was ahead of me, and it didn't take me too long to get used to my
new lifestyle. Heck, I even went out on a date -- with Dudley. He was 16, sure, but boy could he snog.
Just joking. It was a pity date. I never did anything of that nature. There wasn't even a hug. There was
an awkward moment though when he tried yawning and putting his arm around me in the cinema.
Instead he overextended, and put his hand on the shoulder of a very large, angry man, and got a stare
down that I think made him wet himself.
Truth be told, I would've preferred avoiding the whole ordeal, but Dudley accused me of
leading him on, and said that I owed him for the S-Club concert tickets, which I never used. We're cool
now though.
I swept the aisles like usual, then I saw him again. Dudley and a crew of workers gathered
around me.
"Hi, Dudley," I said. "How are you? Looking for another pity date?"
"Was not a pity date," said Dudley. "Was legit."
"Sure it was," I said. "Sure it was."

A big, husky lady, that had hair touching her knees, came to the front. I recognized, who she
was. Her name was Bobby McBride.
"Excuuuse me," said Bobby, raising a finger. "But have we forgotten what we came here for?"
"What did you come here for again?" I said, finding myself surrounded by a mob of my coworkers.
Customers slowed along as they pushed their carts, trying to see what was happening.
"How much money do you make?" said Bobby.
"That's a rude question to ask," I said.
Bobby grabbed my shirt and pulled me toward herself, "Spill it!"
"$20.00 an hour," I said.
"You're making $20.00 an hour as a shelfer?" said Bobby.
"No," I said, "I'm a logistical placement assistant."
"You think we's stupid?" said Bobby. She let go of my shirt. "We know what you do. Your fancy
title ain't foolin' us."
"Clearly," I said.
"I can't believe this!!!!!" said Bobby with five exclamation points. "I'm busting my hump here
while you're making twice what I earn -- what we all earn. This is horseshit."
I cleared my throat, "Who told you about this by the way?"
"I can't reveal that information," said Bobby. "I've made a promise to keep it a secret."
"Give me a clue," I said.
"No clues," said Bobby.
"One clue," I said.
"Alright," said Bobby. "One clue... His name rhymes with cuddly."
"Dudley?! What the hell!" I said. "You told everyone my secret! I took you to that alien movie
fer nothing."
Dudley hid behind Bobby. It wasn't too hard.
"I'm, I'm sorry," said Dudley. "I had some wine coolers, and it just came out one day."
"There's hardly any alcohol in wine coolers," I said.
"Did I say wine coolers?" said Dudley. "I meant wine from coolers."
"Good God, Dudley," I said. "I can't trust you anymore. You're like Neville Longbottom."
"Who's that?" said Bobby.
"A character from Lord of the Rings," I said.
"Love those novels," said Bobby.
"It's a novel?" I said.
"Zelda," said Dudley. "You aren't mad, are you?"
"Of course I'm mad," I said. "I'm going to be mad at you for as long as I live. You've put me in
quite the bind."
"But what's the big deal?" said Dudley. "Okay, so I told everyone in the store your salary. Is that
really so awful?"
"You don't understand how adults works," I said. "If they know I make more money than them,
they'll be all snarky, and bitchy, and mean to me out of jealousy."
"That's not true," said Dudley.
Bobby stamped her foot down.
"That's it," she said. "No more time for chit-chat. We have to take action."
Everyone around her nodded and agreed.
"What action?" I said.
"We are going on strike," said Bobby. "We want better wages. We want what you're getting."
The whole group turned around.
"Uh, wait," I said. (They glanced back.) "Why don't you ask Morgan for a pay raise first, before

actually going on strike?"

"That's a good idea," said Bobby. "We will do that. We're reasonable people... Come along,
Dudley."
Before I knew it, Bobby, Dudley, and the others were confronting Morgan. They intercepted
him as he was leaving his office. I stood back, in the distance, and watched. I made myself look busy
by holding a broom.
"Hello, everyone," said Morgan. "What the hell is going on here? Why aren't you working?"
"We want more money," said Bobby.
"Then go to the casino," said Morgan.
"No," said Bobby. "We want you to double our wages."
"Am I hearing what I am hearing?" said Morgan.
"Just like you did for Zelda," said Bobby. "We don't deserve any less than her."
I lowered my head, hoping Morgan wouldn't see me.
"Oooh, what did Zelda tell you?" said Morgan.
His unibrow pushed downward.
"Nothing," said Bobby, "but we know how much she's making, and we want in."
"I have a business to run," said Morgan. "I can't double everyone's wages. Our grocery store
will go bankrupt like Greece."
"It's not fair," Bobby whined. "We want a living wage too."
"What you have now is not a living wage?" said Morgan. "So, what are you? What am I looking
at here? A zombie?"
"You know what I mean," said Bobby. "We want more moneh!"
"I can't do that," said Morgan. "It's not in our budget."
"Budget shmudget!" said a voice.
Bobby glanced over her shoulder, and put out her hand, gesturing it to calm down.
"Calm down," she said, "I got this under control."
Morgan put his hands on his hips, then Bobby turned back to him.
"Yes," she said, "budget shmudget! We want more moneh!"
"For what?" said Morgan. "Opening boxes, and putting stuff on shelves? Sweeping up pubic
hairs? Putting coins into a till? Telling a customer where to find Kraft Dinner? Pushing shopping carts?
C'mon, guys. You get paid what your labor is worth. These jobs are easy, and unskilled, and this isn't
socialism. The broom pusher doesn't get to make as much as the doctor. We are living in a
meritocracy."
"Morgan," said Bobby, "I like you as a human being, but as a manager you are getting on my
last nerve."
"I want to pay you all more, I really do," said Morgan, "but where am I going to get it from?
The magic money tree?"
"Fine, you leave us no choice," said Bobby. She stamped her foot. "We are going to have to take
action."
"What action?" said Morgan.
"We are going on strike," said Bobby.
"Now, come on now," said Morgan, "let's be reasonable."
But Bobby turned to all the workers surrounding her and shot her fist into the air: "THE
STRIKE BEGINS NOW!"
And they all marched outside, leaving Morgan behind. Or rather leaving me behind with
Morgan. Whilst I swept up, he stood in front me, and cleared his throat to get my attention. But I
pretended not to hear. Then he tapped me on the shoulder, said my name, and clapped his hands. All
with the same result. I wasn't keen on confrontation.
Finally, Morgan grabbed me by the chin chin, and lifted up my head -- forcing very awkward

eye contact.
"Ah, hello," I said. "Didn't notice you there. I was busy working."
"Zelda," said Morgan, "how long have you been standing here for?"
"Not too long," I said.
"Did you see what happened?" said Morgan.
"Erm, some of it," I said.
"Look what you did," said Morgan desperately. "You have put this entire grocery store in
Jeopardy."
"Boo-hoo," I said. "So, they're going on strike. It's not a big deal. If you don't like it, then give
them their raise."
I turned my head. I could hear chanting outside. When I looked through the windows, I saw
them marching around angrily, sometimes stamping their feet. Bobby was already holding a placard.
The placard read: "We Want More Moneh!" Granted, this event seemed quite off the cuff, so I didn't
have too many expectations.
"Zelda," said Morgan, he kept saying my name, "are you paying attention?"
"I am," I said. "Like I said, it's not that big of a deal. This whole thing will blow over."
"Is that really what you think?" said Morgan.
"It is," I said. "Just relax. You'll be fine."
Or so I thought.
Chapter 38
Two weeks later the grocery store shut down. More than shut down -- it was a pile of rubble. Morgan
was sitting on the curbside, drinking a beer, and having a cigarette. I didn't know that he drank alcohol,
nor was I aware that he smoked.
"What's going on here?" I said, confounded.
"What does it look like?" said Morgan.
"Renovations?" I said. "Major renovations?"
"No, genius," said Morgan, "guess again."
I went "ummmmmmmmmmmm" thinking what it was.
"We've shut down!" said Morgan. "No more work. Go home."
"But, but what happened to the building?" I said.
"My brother sold off the land," said Morgan. "The wrecking crew came and knocked the whole
thing down. It's going to be turned into a hotel for cats and dogs. And ferrets."
There was a great strain in Morgan's voice when he said that last sentence.
"This is a joke," I said. "Right?"
"A joke, you think this is a joke?" said Morgan. "I knew it. It's all one big joke to you, isn't it?
Well, I have a joke for you. Knock, knock!"
"Who's there?" I said.
"Zelda," said Morgan.
"Zelda who?" I said.
"Zelda, we're screwed!" said Morgan. "Go home, already!"
That's not a very funny joke. I don't think that's a joke at all actually.
"But why?" I said. "How's this possible? How's it that our store got shut down and sold after
just two weeks of striking, and then got bulldozed? Two weeks. That's a bit hasty to make that sort of
decision, isn't it?"
"Two weeks in business is a lot of time," said Morgan, "especially when you're up to your
eyeballs in debt."
"Wait a minute," I said, "isn't this a franchise? Aren't you just a subunit of a larger

organization?"
"Yes, we are," said Morgan, "and because they have debt, and financial obligations, up to their
eyeballs, apparently, they've decided to make it a policy to shut down all under-performing stores."
"But -- not including the strike -- we weren't losing money, were we? I'm sure of it."
I tried having a little pride in our former grocery store.
"Out of all the grocery stores in this franchise we were the least profitable," said Morgan. "Sure,
ten years ago we were doing fine when there was no competition, but now supermarkets are popping up
every minute. Then this strike comes along, and it's the final nail in the coffin. Did they honestly think
we could pay everyone what they were demanding? They were asking for money than I made, and I'm
the bloody manager."
"I'm really sorry about what happened," I said. "If you must know, I'm in a bit of financial
trouble myself. The strike has affected me too. I ate through what savings I had. I'm actually pretty
worried."
Understatement of the year.
"Oh, boo-hoo," said Morgan. "You think your petty, little troubles can even compare to mine? I
am the failure of my family. The black sheep. The loser. Six kids, my parents had, and everyone's been
successful in their life except for me. If my brother weren't the head of this company, I wouldn't even
be qualified to be manager, and now I've proven to him what a screw up I actually am."
"You have a lot of baggage, don't you?" I said. I really didn't know what to say at that point.
"An inferiority complex isn't baggage," said Morgan. "It's a psychological condition, which I
can't help."
"I never said anything about an inferiority complex," I said.
Morgan pulled at his hair, of which he had little.
"I can't do anything right!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" he yelled, and then he fell to his belly, and
started pounding on the ground like a child having a temper tantrum.
I slowly backed away. It's not that I didn't care to help, but I had to leave. Unsure of the future
of the grocery store, while everyone was on strike, I applied for a job as a chef at a small restaurant. My
dream job, I believed.
I hopped on a bus and took myself to that small restaurant. The restaurant's name was Haggis
McDaniel's. It was a Scottish-themed place, where outside was a neon sign of a bearded man in a
glowing kilt. Every other second his kilt would fly up, and he would try to hold it down as if Marilyn
Monroe.
I wasn't sure what to think. All I knew was: I was desperate for this job. So, I took in a breath,
and went into the restaurant, setting off a set of chimes hanging above the glass door. Nervous, knees
shaking, I looked around whilst clutching my poxy purse.
There was a strong odor of meat and scotch. There was also a bar, with a brass railing at the
bottom, stools, and old looking tables and chairs made out of wood. The floor was an earthy ceramic
tile, and the off-white stucco walls had pictures of various Scottish characters. One such character was
Sean Connery. Sean Connery in a kilt, imagine that.
I stood around nervously, waiting for someone to come out. There were maybe a dozen people
in here, but I didn't see any servers. I walked ahead and sat down on an available chair. It gave me a
direct view of the old gay couple, who were wearing what seemed to be mini kilts, and swapping
fluids. Not my sort of thing, but to each their own.
The next moment I saw a door swing open. Out from the kitchen came a burly, blond man, who
I estimated to be in his early 40s. He was wearing a white button up coat, and had a face that was more
squished-looking than I had anticipated. I surmised he was the chef as he was holding a big butcher
knife.
He came up to me immediately, and said in a deep, mincing voice, "Who the bloody hell are

you?"
Why was he picking on me? I guess I stuck out because I was the only one standing. Other than
himself.
"I'm here for an interview," I said.
(Forgive me for using censorship here, because I greatly dislike it, but I'll have to bleep out
some of his swear words. Please use your imagination.)
"What the f*** are you doing here?" he said. "You were supposed to come around the back, you
twonk."
"What's a twonk?" I said.
"Holy Christ," said Gaetano. (Pronounced: Guy-ah-tan-oh.) "Is this one daft."
"What did you just call me?" I said.
Gaetano carried on, as if I had never questioned. "And look at that big belly. Even if you get a
job here I'm not sure you could fit into the back of the house."
"I'm pregnant," I said. "Can't you see that?"
"And you want to work in a restaurant?" said Gaetano. "Ha! You couldn't handle it. This is a
tough business. It isn't for morons who don't know how to use prophylactics."
"I'm not a idiot," I said.
"Fine," said Gaetano, "if that's the case, then step into my office."
Gaetano took me to the bar area, and made me sit down on a stool way too high for me,
meanwhile he kept on the other side, where he had access to booze. He began asking me questions after
knocking back a drink or two -- or three.
"Now then," said Gaetano, I could smell and feel his hot, beer breath. "Let's get this thing
started for f***sakes. What is your bloody name?"
(You might've noted the asterisks, where a swear word normally would be. Sorry to do this to
you, but believe me, it is for your sake. This man swore like sailor. Or a chef.)
"Zelda Montgomery Baker," I said.
"And what position are you looking to fill?" said Gaetano.
I stammered, "Emm, w-well, I was hoping to fill in the position of chef."
"Chef!" said Gaetano. "You think you could handle being a chef? What experience do you
have? Let me see your resume."
"I faxed it to you," I said.
"Oh, did you?" said Gaetano. "Well, f*** me, because I don't have it."
"Okay," I said.
"What experience do you have?" said Gaetano.
A customer came up to the bar, holding a plate of food, haggis mostly, and interrupted the
interview.
"Excuse me," said the innocent customer, "are you the chef? I have a complaint about my food."
"Do you?" said Gaetano. "Then get the f*** out of my restaurant, and write a postcard to your
ugly girlfriend! Because I don't give a shit! My food is perfect! You probably have the palate of a
diseased cow!"
The customer didn't even say anything. He just walked away like he'd been hit in the face by a
stray flying duck. Gaetano turned his head back.
"What were we talking about?" said Gaetano.
"My experience," I said.
"Yes, what about it?" said Gaetano.
"Well," I said, "I used to work at McDonald's when I was a teenager."
"You think McDonald's has prepared you for this?" said Gaetano. "Maybe it's prepared you for
the world of idiots you'll encounter in this business, but that in no way is bloody enough to be a chef...
My dear, you need grit."

"I can cook grits," I said.

"Not grits," said Gaetano. "Grit! G-R-I-BLOODY-F***ING-T. It means perseverance."
"Why didn't you just say that then?" I said.
"How should I know what sort of vocabulary you have?" said Gaetano. "For all I know you
could be a stupid, bloody wanker."
"Well, I'm not," I said. "I can understand words longer than four letters, and I'm a darn good
cook."
Gaetano slammed his fist down, "The job available is not for a bloody cook! A cook is not the
same thing as a bloody chef. Comparing the two is like comparing a bloody chihuahua to a bloody,
bloody wolf."
How many times was he going to say the word "bloody"?
"Alright then," I said, "chef it is. I'm a darn good chef."
"Excuse me," said Gaetano, "but your illustrious career as burger turner doesn't fill me with
much confidence."
I sighed.
"I know I don't have the experience you're looking for," I said, "but can't I somehow prove to
you that I'm capable? That I can do the job? I am a woman, after all. Shouldn't that count for
something?"
"Listen," said Gaetano. "I really need someone to replace me. My doctor told me, if I keep
letting the stress get to me, I'll have a bloody heart attack, and explode. But I am not going to do it at
the expense of my business I worked so f***ing hard to build. Why would I hire a pregnant lady,
whose only experience with food is working at the worst restaurant in the world? My bollocks are on
the line here, lady."
I was silent, trying to figure out what he meant by the term "bollocks."
"Come on!" said Gaetano. "This isn't the internet. I don't have time to piss around with morons.
What do you propose I do?"
I thought for a moment.
"How abouts we arm wrestle?" I said. "If I beat you, you hire me as chef, huh?"
"What the f*** are you going on about?" said Gaetano. "I'm not going to hire you based on that.
Plus, I'll definitely win."
"Emm, I was only joking," I said. "I was trying to lighten the mood."
"You have failed like a f***ing donkey on the grill," said Gaetano. He slammed his hand down.
"And I think my time is up here. Normally, I would stand and leave, but I'm already standing."
Gaetano started walking away.
"Wait!" I said. "I have an idea." I thought as hard as I could. "Let me... Let me work for a single
day. Just a single day. If you see I can do the job, properly, then you hire me to be your chef. If I can't,
then I'll be out of your hair forever."
The chef's squishy face contorted more than ever before, as he was thinking what to do. I could
see that he was sick of the hire and fire process, and was ready to have a new employee. I looked at his
mouth, waiting for an answer. Then his lips began to form a shape.
Chapter 39
"No," said Gaetano. "I'd rather not."
"Please," I said, clasping my hand together, trying to raise my voice to be heard, but at the same
time keeping it low enough, so that customers in the restaurant would not hear, "you don't understand.
This is my dream. I've always wanted to be a chef."
"Always?" Gaetano repeated.
"Well, to literally always," I joked. "There was that period in my life when I couldn't walk or

talk, and I had to have someone ass my tush for me."

Gaetano looked glassy-eyed and said, "Ah, yes. Being a teenager is difficult, isn't it?"
A swing and a miss.
"Uhhh, sure," I said.
"Anyway," said Gaetano. "Bloody hell. If it's your dream to be a chef, and you're not just
pulling on my bollocks, or looking for a quick paycheque, then who am I to stop you? I'll give you the
chance that you need. Come here on the weekend, two days, and I'll see how good your performance is.
Should I see that you can cut the cheese you'll have the job as head chef. You will take my position."
"Not one day?" I said.
"Bloody hell," said Gaetano. "You getting lazy already?"
"No, no!" I said. "I'll do it."
Despite my ills, and my morning sickness, the days of the week somehow passed by. Soon it was
Saturday and I had to pay Haggis McDaniel's a visit. I was nervous. I was scared. This was my once
chance to live a little, childhood dream. I entered the restaurant through the back, so as to avoid
customers, and came into an empty kitchen.
"Bloody hell," said a voice. "Where were you?"
I looked to my left and saw Gaetano holding a frying pan filled with hash browns. Every second
or so, as he spoke to me, he would be sure to flip them.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm not late," I said. "I'm exactly on time."
I showed him my plastic watch.
"Bloody hell," said Gaetano. "The time I tell you is when the rush begins! You have to come
early for prep!"
"Oh," I said.
"Never mind," said Gaetano. He threw me an apron. "Put this on, and head to your bloody
station."
"Where do I put my jacket and purse?" I said.
"Chrissakes," said Gaetano. "In the closet, where else?" He hit his palm. "Now get to it. I have
to finish this dish, then go shag my wife. Trying to patch up our relationship, you know."
"Right," I said.
When Gaetano left, I changed into my apron, and went to the place where you cook. I found it
to be very intimidating. Not friendly at all. Everything was big and gray, and made out of hard metal.
Nevertheless, I persevered. While standing, I tried remembering the TV shows that I used to watch.
Pasquale's Kitchen Express came to mind, but I didn't learn much from that other than how to sing.
Not a moment later tickets (orders written on pieces of paper) from the waiters started pouring
in. There was an overwhelming amount of food I had to prepare. Several batches of chips (French
fries), and Haggis galore; fifteen of them was the exact number, I recalled.
Here's where my trouble began. I had no idea how to make, cook, or prepare haggis. I began
biting my nails, thinking what to do. Fess up and risk losing my potential job? Or do it completely
wrong and be discovered as a fraudster?
While thinking to myself a head popped in through the kitchen window. Normally, this is where
servers would collect dishes to give to customers.
"Oy!" said the waitress named Candy. She had hot pink lipstick, star tattoos on her face, and
pigtails. "Where's the food? Customers are getting agitated in here. One lady was so angry, she got up,
and left her purse dog behind."
"Purse dog?" I said.
"Yeah, those crappy, little dogs you can put in a purse," said Candy. "Usually owned by spoiled
brats."

"Alright," I said. "I'm new to the job. Just gimme a minute. I'll have everything ready."
"Okay," said Candy, "but don't dawdle. These Scottish people don't screw around."
"Yes," I said.
Then I nodded agreeably, and was left alone. At least for the moment. Now, I pressured my
brain into thinking of an idea to get me out of this pickle, and not a second too soon it came to me like
a light bulb over my head. I noticed a laptop computer on the corner table. I opened it up and checked
to see whether it could connect to the internet.
NO! There was an error! "Cannot connect to the internet!" it read in big, bold letters! Goddamn
Microsoft! Goddamn Obama! I made a fist and smashed the keyboard in anger.
...Then in a fortuitous turnout, which I couldn't explain, my violence had fixed the problem. I
got a connection to the "WiFi."
"Finally," I said.
I opened up the internet browser and went to Google.com. I searched for a video on the
production and preparation of Haggis. By the time it was over I felt like throwing up. I ran to the
trashcan and bent over, feeling a tingle of stomach acids crawling up my throat. I opened my mouth
and noticed a cardboard box. It was decorated with a tartan pattern (looked like plaid), and a picture of
a steaming pile of haggis.
I picked up the cardboard box and flipped it over. There were instructions on how to prepare
and serve it.
Place in Microwave on High for 3 to 4 minutes. Wait 30 seconds to cool down. Enjoy.
Easy enough to follow, I thought; so, I went to the cooler under the counter, and brought out a
load of haggis. I stuffed them into a microwave and set it for something like nuclear. After which, I
worked on the chips (also known as French fries), Wasn't too difficult either, though I was standing
before a pool of hot oil that could cook a pig. Once being a girl of the south, I was used to making deep
fried foods.
You ever heard of deep fried turkey? How about deep fried turducken? It's a chicken stuffed
into a duck that is then stuffed into a turkey. Three birds in one. Can't say I ever found it appetizing, but
it sure was popular where I hailed from.
"Oy, what's going on back there?" said a voice, interrupting my delightful thoughts. "I been
waiting since the dawn of time here. Where's me [sic] grub?"
I turned back and saw a customer in the kitchen window. He looked awfully Scottish.
"In a minute," I said. "I'm microwave... I mean, I'm cooking your food."
"And where's the bleeding waitress?" said the customer, who I named Scott. "I asked for a glass
of water umpteen minutes ago. Has she disappeared into the abyss?"
"I don't know," I said. "I'm only the chef. I am not aware of her whereabouts."
"She's gone awol for Pete-sakes," said Scott.
"She has not," I said.
I took another glance by the kitchen window and saw beside it, facing my general direction, was
a sticky note from our waitress, Candy.
Zelda, darling, could you please cover for me? I've had an emergency and I've to go deal with
it. My dog has foolishly run away.
Cheers,
Candy
Wait a minute now. There were no other servers in the restaurant. Was I expected to be both a

chef and waitress? I wandered off to look for help. There was nobody to be found, other than me, and
my customers. I was all alone. I returned to the kitchen window, where Scott was still waiting -angrily. I knew he was angry, because I could see some of his veins popping out.
"Your food is almost ready," I said. "If you go back to your table, you will be fed."
"That a fact?" said Scott.
"Yes," I said.
"Right then," said Scott, "but don't you be late. My belly is growling like a wind chilled puppy."
(What?)
When Scott left, I turned around, and tended to the food. I shook the fry basket, and I peered
into the microwave oven. There were a few minutes left till everything was ready, yet everyone was
growing impatient. I could hear people going, "Waiter! Waiter!" and "Garcon!"
Irritating as it was, I answered all of their calls. I put their food onto clean white plates,
squeezed a side of ketchup on each, and served them like a proper restauranteur. I hustled, and bustled,
working off my tush. By the end of it they were all stuffed, and I presumed happy.
I felt exhausted, even though it was a slow night. All but one gone, I walked around, looking for
my tips. Looking for my tips, I never found any. Every plastic tray had exactly enough to pay for their
food. Keep in mind that I wasn't on the job. I was only doing a trial. This meant I would literally get
zero pay for my work.
I walked over to the last customer, who was slowly nibbling on a single fry.
"Why are you eating so slow?" I said.
"Mm, it makes you feel fuller," said Jennifar, "and that helps you keep off the pounds."
But Jennifar looked to be twice my weight. I looked at her table, where I had left the plastic tray
for making payments, and noticed again there was no tip.
"Sorry," I said.
"None taken," said Jennifar.
"I've noticed that you haven't left me a tip," I said. "May I ask why?"
"You expect a tip?" said Jennifar. "Your job is to take a tray and carry it to a table. How hard can
that be?"
"I also cooked your food," I said.
"That so?" said Jennifar. "Then it seems you have two jobs. Two jobs equals twice the pay. I see
no reason to put a cherry on top of your sundae then."
"I'm getting paid nothing," I said in a matter of fact tone.
"In that case you should quit and find another job," said Jennifar.
"So, that's how it's going to be?" I said. "Not even a single penny left behind for a tip?"
"Heavens no," said Jennifar. "That would be insulting. Leaving a small amount of money
behind is more insulting that nothing."
"And why's that?" I said.
"Because society is retarded," said Jennifar.
She then went on to another fry.
"Soooo, no tip then?" I said.
"I don't get why you think you deserve a tip," said Jennifar. "Jos the Farmer, who actually grew
my food, makes 50 cents an hour, and he doesn't have his hand stretched out."
"Maybe he would have his hand stretched out if he were here," I said.
"That's not my point," said Jennifar. "My point is he deserves way, way, way, way more than
you, yet he gets nothing from me or your other customers. Is that even fair? Should you get 10% of the
bill while Jos the Farmer, who works in a dirty field under the hot sun, gets nothing?"
"Customarily," I said, clearing my throat, "servers expect more than 10%... 20% is good."
"Again with the self-entitlement!" said Jennifar. "First it was 10%, then 15%, now it's 20%?
Who's making these rules anyway? Where's the goddamn rule book on tipping? Why are we expected

to know all of this when it hasn't even been written down? And why the hell am I required to do math
at the end of the meal? This is worse than school. At least in school, if I get the answer wrong, I don't
get spit in my food."
"I'd never do such a thing," I said.
"You know who deserves some tips?" said Jennifar. "Teachers! How about that? They're passing
down knowledge, raising our kids, making the world work, and putting up with bullshit day in and day
out; where's their horse and chariot? Why are you more important than teachers? Oooh, you carry a tray
around. Big deal."
"What's this have to do with teachers?" I said. "Why are you giving me so much grief?"
"I'm Sorry," said Jennifar, "Ah, the truth is I didn't bring enough money for a tip. I really
thought I had more money in my wallet."
I sighed. "So, you were trying to debate your way out?"
"Again, I apologize," said Jennifar. "But mistakes happen. I'm only human."
"It's okay," I said. "I'm human too."
"But, hey, if you want some money, I can still help you," said Jennifar.
"Oh really?" I said.
"Mhm," said Jennifar.
She showed me the front page of a newspaper on her tablet. It had an illustration of question
mark, surrounded by dollar signs, and white balls with numbers on them.
"Lookie here," she said. "An unclaimed, winning lotto ticket. It's worth $400 million before
taxes. All you have to do is find it."
"How am I going to do that?" I said.
"Dunno about you," said Jennifar, "but I've been in contact with my psychic. She told me that
I'd bump into the winner. So, I've been going around telling everyone I know to check their tickets. In
hopes that I get a percentage for being so kindly."
"Guess you're out of luck," I said, "I never play the lottery. The odds of winning are 1 in 70
million. You have a better chance of being struck by lightening -- from Zeus."
"What've you got against Zeus?" said Jennifar.
"Nothing," I said.
"Alright then," said Jennifar. "So, would you like to know the winning lotto numbers? Who
knows? You might find the lost ticket. Knowing the numbers would help."
"This won't make up for my lack of tip," I said, "but okay. What are they?"
"9, 8, 11, 13, 16, 48," said Jennifar. "Oh and the winning ticket expires in exactly a week."
"A week!" I exclaimed most incredulously. "That's not a lot of time!"
"Yes," said Jennifar, "it sure ain't."
"But what's it matter?" I said. "It's not like I'll ever find it."
"Don't rule that out," said Jennifar.
"Why's that?" I said.
"I have this theory about life," said Jennifar. "We're each a character in a book, or a movie, or
the equivalent of that, and out there there are gods in another universe, watching each of of our lives for
their own amusement So, something exciting is bound to happen to everyone, at least once."
I rolled my eyes. "Are you sure you can't afford to give me a tip?"
"If I had money for tips," Jennifar insisted, "do you think I'd be eating out in a third rate, Haggis
restaurant? This place is terrible. I think I'm your only customer here right now actually."
I looked around and it was true. It was just me and Jennifar.
"I don't agree with what you say," I said, "but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
"Really?" said Jennifar. "To the death."
"Erm, maybe not to the death," I said.
Jennifar stood up.

"Welp, I gots to go," she said, "take care of yourself, hm?"

"I will," I said.
Jennifer got up, and left, without leaving a tip. Sighing, I cleared off her table, and all the others,
then began to clean up. I swept, and mopped, and wiped down. Soon the place was cleaner than ever
before. Sweating, I opened a window, and sat down to rest. I got thinking about the missing lottery
ticket.
I imagined what my life would be like if I were rich. I imagined having a nice house, a shiny
red car, beautiful clothes, and vacations spent traveling around the world. Via first class, no less. I also
thought about how I'd tell everyone off, who'd wrong me in the past. Glorious revenge, they'd come up
to me with their hands out for money, and I would say: "Sorry, ol' chap. I don't have money for people,
who've been mean to me in the past. Please, go away, I'm trying to enjoy the weather, which is extra
nice for rich people, because when you're rich the world is a grand, wonderful place to live in. What
worries the poor folk is an exciting adventure for the wealthy. Take for example, camping. You get rid
of all your modern conveniences to make a fire to keep warm, scrounge for food, and piss up a tree.
That's what poor people do everyday, it is."
Hmm, yes, that is exactly what I would say. But first I'd have to win the lottery. So, I closed up
the restaurant and decided to visit the convenience store to make my luck. I took a stroll down the
cracked sidewalk, and went into a place called "Kwikk Stop Shop."
After the chimes went off, I ambled to the counter, where I found the clerk, a lady with an
orange tan, and a most officious looking beard.
"Welcome to the Kwikk Stop Convenience Shop," said Abdullah Rashmatti in a loud, bellowing
voice. "If you are ever to be in need of help, for that I am here to serve thee."
"What's with the beard?" I said. "Has Gillette gone bankrupt?"
"If you must know," said Abdullah, stroking her beard, "I am genderqueer."
"What's that?" I said. "You mean like a transsexual? So, you got both a wiener and a punani?"
"Awp!" said Abdullah. "I'm not a freak! What you've described is a hermaphrodite. Ew, yucky.
They're so gross. Brrrrrrrrr, my skin shivers just thinking about it. It's like, what are you? Man or
woman? Make up your mind."
"Yah, okay," I said, "I'll be at the back filling out a lotto sheet."
I walked to the back of the convenience store, and went to the blue plastic table, where there
were stacks of sheets of paper, each with tick boxes to pick whatever number or symbol you fancied.
Must've been at least a dozen games here, from betting on your favorite sports teams to playing fake
poker.
None of that appealed to me, however, as I was only here for the big "pick six." I grabbed a
sheet and reached my hand out to take a pencil, but damnit there were no pencils. I looked over my
shoulder at Abdullah, who was busy filing her nails. Never mind her, I probably could conjure up my
own pencil.
I reached into my purse, deep into its bowels. I swam my hand around all the miscellaneous
objects I owned, and searched for something long, and woody. And then I felt a prick on my finger, and
knew that I had it. I wrapped my hand around the pencil, and, perhaps from being in pain, yanked it out
impatiently.
This had a disastrous result. The contents of my purse spilled out, all over onto the ground.
Trying to avoid embarrassment, I scrambled to get everything back inside, of which included a plethora
of tampons.
While picking up my things, I noticed a peculiar lottery ticket that I had almost forgot about. It
came from the old lady I bumped into, days ago, who gave me a button as bus fare -- accidentally? I
wasn't too sure.
"Well, what do we have here?" I said, reading the re-found lottery ticket. "9, 8, 11, 13, 16. 48."
These numbers struck me as incredibly familiar. I didn't know why. Was I having a case of Deja

Vu? I ran to the checkout to the bearded lady, and showed her (him?) my ticket.
"Could you please check this ticket for me?" I said. "I think it's won."
"Probably not," said Abdullah. "These things are designed to lose. It's a tax on the stupid, fat,
and slow witted."
"JUST. CHECK. IT," I said.
"Fine," said Abdullah, "but you will be disappointed."
Abdullah took my ticket, and scanned it under a machine. Then I took in a deep breath.
"Hm, looks like you lost," said Abdullah, "too ba --"
Suddenly flashing lights and mad sounds coming from a speaker interrupted her voice.
"Whrrrr! Whrrrr! Whrrrr!" it went. "Jackpot! Jackpot! Jackpot winner! Congratulations!
Whrrr! Whrrrr! Congratulations! Jackpot winner!"
I clutched my chest. It felt like I was having a mild heart attack. I couldn't believe it, I won. I
was going to become one rich son of a bitch. Abdullah grabbed my hand and shook it.
"Congrats!" she said excitedly. "You're a multi-millionaire!"
Chapter 40: Diary Entry #56
Dearest Diary,
Booyakasha! Finally, I have some good news for you! Earlier today Harris went to pay his parents a
visit. I don't know what they told him, but now he's suddenly in the mood to have kids and marry. I'm
sooooooooooooooo happy!!!!! Words cannot describe. But since that's all I have, that's all you'll get,
Mrs Diary. Toodles for now though. Let's hope that my luck keeps up.
Chapter 41
After being declared a multi-millionaire, I ran out of the convenience store, jumping, and screaming,
"I'm rich! I'm rich! I'm rich, bitch!"
But then I stopped dead in my tracks. I remembered something and was overwhelmed with a
good dose of Catholic guilt. The lottery ticket wasn't mine. It belonged to someone else. "Who?" you
ask. The old lady that gave me a button for a bus token: Lou-Ellen Margaret Mildred Thackston the
Third.
I could not deny that this ticket was hers. I remembered it as clear as mud. I wrote down her
address and everything. There was no reason not to give her back her winning lottery ticket -- other
than greed.
"What are you going to do, Zelda?" I said to myself. "Be honest and poor, or live life as a filthy,
rich liar?" I then declared, "Filthy, rich liar!"
What else was I to do? What sort of fool would give up $400 million? No one, that's who! And
so, with my head hung low, I made my way to the bus stop, which was running on the blue line
schedule. After midnight buses would run on the blue line schedule, arriving every half an hour,
instead of every 15 minutes.
Sounds kinda crappy, but it's better than it was before. Before they wouldn't provide any service
at all, between midnight, and 6:00 AM, but then the unions fought for more over time and hours. In
most cases union demands don't work out for the public, but in this case it had.
I stood waiting for the next bus. I put my lottery ticket away, and stood inside the glass shelter,
trying not to be noticed. I buttoned up my coat, and held onto my purse. I didn't want anyone to rob me.
I was in the bad part of town. Most parts of the town were bad, but this one was particularly notorious
for muggings, and rapings.
As luck would have it, the bus arrived without problems. I got in, paid my fare, and found

myself on a packed bus. I was shoulder to shoulder with more than one stranger.
As we took off, I heard a voice say to me, "Hey, lady, are you pregnant?"
I groaned. Someone, like the British say, was taking the piss out of me.
"Yes," I said, "I am pregnant. I don't have a big belly because I'm fat. Well, um, sort of. Anyway,
it's none of your business how I got this way."
"No, ma'am," said the voice. "I's just wondering whether you wanted to sit down."
"You want to offer me your seat?" I said.
"Sure," said the voice.
A young man got up, and offered me his seat, which was situated at the front. I sat down and
thanked him.
"No problem," he said. "You look like you could use a rest."
"So, where you headed?" said the voice.
"Where am I headed?" I repeated. "To my apartment. Why?"
"Aw, that's nice," said the voice. "I's just wondering what a little lady like you is doing on a
midnight bus. It can get real dangerous around these parts. My brother got stabbed in the eye once. We
call him Pirate Joe now as a little joke."
"How interesting," I said, making conversation. "So, where are you going yourself?"
"I'm going to the local homeless shelter," said the voice. "This is what I do on my days off. I
love helping other people out. It makes me feel good. Of course am not doing it for just a good feeling.
It's my Atheist duty to help others."
"You have a duty to help others as an atheist?" I said, confused.
"Sure do," said the voice. "As an atheist you gotta prove to people that you're a good person.
You need to show them that you're not just a hedonistic scumbag, who's only interested in sex, beer,
gadgets, and fast cars."
"I hear yah," I said.
"But I think my main motivation is," said the voice, "is to make the world a better place. To sow
the seeds of morality for tomorrow's generation. We have to set an example, and take care of earth.
Because we only have one planet. Let's not be greedy, and selfish for a few extra dollars. Being honest,
and helping others out is not so hard, is it?"
I sat there taking in what this stranger was telling me. Then I clenched my fists, and shouted,
"DAMN YOU!" with capital letters.
"Sorry?" said the voice.
I blurted out my dilemma. "I could've been rich! But now I can't be rich!"
"Come again?" said the voice.
"I found a winning lottery ticket worth millions and millions of dollars," I explained, "and now,
because of my guilt, because of you, because I want to set an example for my son or daughter, who's
yet to be born, I have to return the greatest stroke of luck I've ever had in life, all in the name of
goodness, and honesty."
"Wait a minute," said the voice, "you found a winning lottery ticket worth millions and millions
of dollars, and now you're deciding to return it to its rightful owner, who I presume you know in some
tenuous way? Are you out of your mind?"
"Come again?" I said.
"You should keep the ticket," said the voice. "Cash it as soon as you can."
"But what about what you said?" I said.
"Listen, lady," said the voice, "there are times when you are to be good, and there are times
when you are to be sensible. Now is the time. Don't be a fool and squander your good fortune. The
gods have been kind enough to grant you this opportunity. Don't spit in their faces. Take it. It's meant
for you."
"What about being a good person?" I said.

"You can still donate a portion to charity," said the voice. "In fact, why don't you give me your
phone number, and when you redeem your lottery ticket, I'll give you call, and let you know how you
can donate to the homeless shelter I work for?"
"Okay," I said, "that sounds like a good plan."
As I reached into my purse to get out some paper and a pen, another voice, another person,
joined in the conversation.
"Don't do it," said voice number two. "Not only is it immoral, it's illegal. If you get caught you'll
go to prison for theft."
"Will I?" I said.
"Fat chance that'll happen," said the voice, aka voice number one. "How can anyone trace it?"
"It's not impossible," said voice number two. "What with cameras everywhere, and computers,
they'll know. They'll catch you like the dirty rat you are."
"I'm not a dirty rat," I said.
"Keep the ticket," said voice number one. "Trust me. If you don't you will regret it. But don't
forget to be a good person, and donate to my homeless shelter."
"Now wait," said voice number two, "what's the total of the ticket worth?"
"$400 million," I said.
The four eyes of the two people in front of me bulged out in exact unison. Everyone else within
earshot was staring my way.
"Goddamnit that's a lot of money," said voice number one. "I thought we were talking small
cash here, like, two or three million dollars."
"Apparently not," I said.
"Forget it," said voice number two, "it's not really your ticket."
"I know," I said, head hung low.
"But who cares?" said voice number one. "How the hell can you return a lost lottery ticket
anyway? Do you even know who the owner is? You said you found it right?"
"Actually," I said, "I do know who the rightful owner is, and I have her address."
"Then return it," said voice number two. "You know what you must do. Do the right thing."
"But," I said, "I reeeally wanted to be rich."
"I agree," said voice number one, "you deserve to be rich, and donate to my charity."
"Hold on a minute," said voice number two. "There's no reason she can't be rich. Or at least well
off."
"Whaddaya mean?" I said.
"If you return that ticket," said voice number two, "you will be rewarded. Let's say she gave you
10% of the ticket's value. That's $40 million! Even if she's stingy, and gives you 1%, that's $4 million.
Are you telling me $4 million isn't enough for you?"
"Wow," I said, "that does sound like quite a bit."
"So, return the ticket," said voice number two, "and get your reward. It will be morally and
legally yours. What more could you ask for? Don't be a douchebag. This is a win-win situation."
I took a moment to think. I sunk my face into my hands, and then lifted my head after what
seemed a minute. When I did everyone on the bus, save for the driver, was gone. They disappeared into
thin air. Because the "two voices," and all the others, were nothing but my conscience. The late hour,
the stress of my job, my pregnancy, and my wild imagination made me see something that was never
there.
Warily, I stood up, and pulled the yellow wire running down the bus. No sooner than the "ding!"
sound was heard we came to a stop.
Chapter 42

The early morning came. I had an obligation to go to the restaurant; so I set my alarm clock an hour
and a half earlier, and went to visit the old lady named Lou-Ellen Margaret Mildred Thackston the
Third. I stepped off a bus, onto the curbside, and found myself in front of some very tall, wrought-iron
gates, with spears at the top.
Behind these gates a palatial home. Not quite a mansion, but more than enough room to make
house cleaning a whole day's job. I looked around, wondering how I could get inside. I then noticed on
the column beside the gate a black box with a button. I pushed the button to use the intercom.
"Who is it?" said Lou-Ellen through the speaker.
I'm sure it was her.
"Um, hello," I said. "I --"
She cut me off, "Go away! I don't want no goddamn Watchtowers, and if you're from the other
one, you two have very stupid looking uniforms."
"I think you have me confused for someone else," I said. "I'm not from a cult."
"Then what do you want?" said Lou-Ellen.
"I'm here to chew bubble gum, and kick ass," I joked, "and I'm all outta gum."
"Oh, God!!!!!" said Lou-Ellen. "I'm calling the police!!!!!"
"Wait!" I said. "I, I, I was just, I was just joking. I'm here to return something you lost.
Something very important."
"If it's my dog," said Lou-Ellen, "I don't want him returned. He became a wild beast once he
shat on my expensive rug."
"No, it's not your dog," I said.
"Hrmmmmmmmmmmm," said Lou-Ellen, "I'll be out in a moment then. Give me a couple
seconds, I've to adjust my girdle."
25 minutes later...the old lady came out. I stepped back. The gates in front of me swung open. I
squinted and saw Lou-Ellen come out of her home. She was wearing a spiffy ensemble, which included
a large white hat, adorned with purple flowers, and gold brooch the size of a baby's heart. Also, she was
also holding two bright, red leashes, on the end of each a doberman pinscher.
I waved at her, and tried to walk forward, but she warned me, "Stay back! If you approach
they'll bite!"
I stood my ground and waited. I was anxious. Despite the chilly weather that had my skin red, I
was working up a sweat. Finally, Lou-Ellen and I met.
"My dear," she said, "what can I help you with?"
She held back her dogs that were baring their fangs at me.
"Hurry up," she continued, "I've a tea party to hold very soon. What do you have for me?"
I took out the lottery ticket. As I held it out to her, trembling, she looked at it as if it were
nothing.
"What's that?" she said.
"Your lottery ticket that you dropped," I emphasized. "Your WINNING lottery ticket. You have
to cash it right away, otherwise it'll expire. I suggest you do it today."
"Why should I do that?" said Lou-Ellen. "Haven't you heard about my tea party?"
My voice went high, "This ticket is worth millions of dollars... Don't you want to be rich?"
Lou-Ellen put two leashes to one hand, and then took the lottery ticket from me.
"If you must know," she said, "I already am rich."
"How rich?" I said, most curious.
"I'm heir to a fortune," said Lou-Ellen, "of over a billion dollars. As long as I don't make a sex
tape, I will be inheriting the bulk of it."
"And how was this fortune made?" I inquired.
"How else?" said Lou-Ellen. "Buy low, sell high."
"Right," I said, wondering what that meant, "so what about the lottery ticket?"

"What about it?" said Lou-Ellen.

"Not to be rude," I said, "but seeing as it's worth millions, do you think I could have some sort
of reward for finding it?"
"Reward?" Lou-Ellen repeated. "Is that why you did this? For a cash benefit? Whatever
happened to doing things purely out of the kindness of your heart?"
"I did do it out of the kindness of my heart," I said, "but I'm not an idiot. Anything at all will be
gladly accepted. 10% of the winnings, or 5%, either-or."
"I have another proposition," said Lou-Ellen. She put the lottery ticket into her breast pocket.
"You leave before the count of ten, or I release my dogs on you."
"What?" I said. "You're joking, right?"
Lou-Ellen began to count, "One, two, three... Ten!"
I picked up my heels, and ran as fast as I could. I raced down the sidewalk, but because of my
enormous belly I found it to be more of a quick waddle. The next moment I glanced over my shoulder
and saw that the terrible, old lady had in fact released her dogs on me. They were chasing me as if I
were a piece of meat, or a rabbit on a racetrack. I shrieked as they nipped at my heels. I was too slow
for them. Desperate to escape, I made a rash decision.
I jumped into traffic. The drivers in the cars, barely seeing me, stomped on their brakes. The
rubber on their black tires melded into the asphalt, trying to stop. Amidst the honking, I was almost hit,
but, nevertheless, I continued on, and made it to the other sides.
The dogs, however, were not so lucky. Being dark colored and low to the ground did not help
their case. Both of them were struck with the front end of an SUV. Almost instantaneously they flew
into the air, and when they landed they were nothing but a bloody canine mess. I cringed at the sight. I
felt sorry for them, but did not stay around to see whether there was a slim chance they made it. I had to
leave, lest I be charged for my crimes of unintentional dog-slaughter.
While jogging away, I heard Lou-Ellen scream. She was cursing my name, and cursing that she
had lost her pair of prized purebred Dobermans.
"You stupid, fat cow!" she yelled. "Look what you've done! You've killed my purebreds! They
understood five different languages -- including Klingon! Yeeeeeagshahshah!"
I wasn't 100% sure about it, but I believed that Lou-Ellen had some sort of mental breakdown.
Welcome to my world, I thought. Then I turned a corner on the road and came to a plaza. Peanut Plaze,
it was called.
Too tired to go any further, I dashed into a phone booth to hide. I caught my breath, waiting for
the pandemonium to die down. I inverted my jacket to disguise myself. I picked up the phone receiver
pretending to make a call. There weren't many phone booths around these days, but most of them, I
noticed were decorated with penises drawn in permanent marker. How artistic. (Sarcasm.)
I looked out into the yonder, hoping no one would notice me. A police car had already arrived.
Its splashing red and blue lights, and siren were unmistakable. Instinctively I turned my head away, in
doing so, I looked down, and saw my clothes. My white shirt was splattered with blood. It appeared
that the explosion of the two Doberman's had soaked me in their vital juices.
Shit. I remembered I had to go into the restaurant today. My plastic watch told me it was not an
hour away. I waited a couple minutes, then left the phone booth. I caught a bus to my apartment.
I let myself into my building. Going through the front doors, I headed to the elevator area. The elevator
was broken. Out of service, I had to take the stairs. Step by step, waddle by waddle, I made it to the
13th floor. Finding myself out of breath, I slowed walked down the hallway, where I spotted my land
lord.
Her name was Jerry, a well toned ginger lady in her early 40s. She inherited this business from
her parents. She seldom made appearances, unless, in her words, "It's an emergency, eh." I suspected
that she grew up somewhere in Newfoundland.

I stood back and observed her, squatting by my door, in oil stained overalls, literally screwing
around. It appeared that, if I'm not mistaken, she was changing the locks... Changing the locks? Why?
And what was that mysterious cardboard boxing doing beside her? I cleared my throat. She stopped
and looked my way.
"Excuse me," I said, "what the heck do you think you're doing?"
"What's it to you, eh?" said Jerry.
"I need to get into my place to change my clothes," I said.
"This isn't your place anymore, eh," said Jerry.
"What. Do. You. Mean?" I said.
"You've been kicked out," said Jerry. "Found a new tenant, eh."
"Why would you find a new tenant?" I said. "What's wrong with me? I haven't missed a
payment."
"Eh, that was your boyfriend, eh," said Jerry. "He's since eloped, and I know how much you
make, eh, and you wouldn't be able to afford this place anymore, eh. It's far too luxurious for you, eh."
"This run down place you call an apartment unit, is too luxurious for me?" I said indignantly.
"This, this, this, this, this is an outrage!"
"I'm sorry," said Jerry, "but I have a business to run, eh. This ain't no charity, eh."
"Can I at least have some time to get my stuff out?" I grumbled.
"It is out, eh," said Jerry. "I did all that for you already. Courtesy of management, eh."
She pointed to the cardboard box beside her.
"Okay, where's the rest?" I said.
"Sorry, eh," said Jerry. "I think some peoples came along and pilfered your goods, eh."
"How?" I said.
"I put all your things out here in the hallway," said Jerry, "but then I had to go to the toilet for a
while, eh. On account of my big breakfast. Ate one too many beaver tails, with Map-o-Spread, eh."
I clenched my fists and stamped my foot like a child having a temper tantrum, except in my
case it was justified. I couldn't believe it. What luck -- ! Well, least I had my purse with me, which had
a lot of important stuff, cash, cards, pieces of identification, tampons, et cetera.
I pointed my finger at Jerry, "This is all your fault. You're responsible for everything I lost."
"If I say I'm not, eh?" said Jerry.
"Eh?" I said.
"If I don't want to be responsible," said Jerry, "what are you going to do about it, eh?"
Bitch called my bluff. What was I going to do about it? Nothing, that's what. I didn't have a
lawyer on call, nor was I particularly good at Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Triangle choking her would not be an
option.
"Fine, forget it," I said. "You'll get your comeuppance via karma one day."
"I don't know a single word you just said," said Jerry, "eh."
She went back to her door-work. I tried to contain my rage, and grabbed my cardboard box. I
opened it up. All that was inside was my diary. I kept a diary, but didn't write it in it daily. I wrote in it
only when I felt angry, or annoyed, or sad...and not tired as hell. But rarely did my emotions and a
surplus of energy coincide.
"Okay," I said, "I'm going now. I hope you're happy."
"I'm not happy, eh," said Jerry. "Tossing you out onto the street before we're about to be hit with
cold Canadian-like weather brings me little to no pleasure, eh."
"I'll have a place to stay," I said. "I'm not going homeless. My sister lives in this very city. I'm
going to pay her a visit."
"Good luck, eh," said Jerry.
I responded with a sigh.

Chapter 43
Half an hour late, I stepped into Haggis McDaniel's. The restaurant was unusually full of people. The
waitress Candy was hauling ass, trying to get pre-prepared Haggis out to customers. I could hear, even
from where I stood, Chef Gaetano swearing. I sheepishly went into the kitchen. I looked at Gaetano
deep frying Mars bars.
"Bloody, bloody hell," he was saying.
I loudly cleared my throat to get his attention. He did a double taken, then stormed over to me.
"You look like a bloody mess," he said, hitting his hand into his other hand, "and where the hell
have you been? You're later than my period."
"I'm sorry," I said, "it's just that --"
"I don't want to hear it," said Gaetano, "I'm not hiring you. Pick up and get out."
"B-b-b-but," I said, "what am I going to do for a job? What about my dream? To be a chef?"
Gaetano grabbed my head, and pressed it in ever so slightly, pushing my cheeks inward, giving
me the slight appearance of a bulldog.
"No one," he said, "gives a shit about your dreams. The only person who cares is you, and if
you don't give a damn enough to do what's required of you, then you're bloody out of luck."
My lips began to quiver. My eyes began to well up. I got down on my knees, and begged for
mercy, "Please, I'm sorry! It was a mistake, a mistake, I tell you!"
I gave him my story as fast as possible as he was losing his patience:
"WhathappenedwasIwenttovisitanoldladyandreturnherwinninglottoticket,butshesiccedherdogso
nme.TheywentsplatandIgotsoakedintheirblood.Iwentbacktomyapartmenttochangemyclothesbuthelandlo
rdkickedmeoutandallmystuffwasstolen.ThenthebusIhadtotakecamelate,andthebusdriverwastextmessagi
nghismistress,andgotintoanacccident,andIhadtowalkallthewayhere.AndI'mpregnantfortheloveofPete!"
Gaetano looked like he wanted to smack some sense into me, then he let out a deep breath, and
cried back, "Alright, bloody hell, fine! I'll give you one more chance. But that's it. You muck this one
up, and I'm tossing your arse out the door with week old Haggis."
I nodded my head, "I understand. I promise I won't screw up. You have my word."
"Words mean little these days," said Gaetano.
He tossed off his apron, and left me in charge. Once again, I took helm of the kitchen. I'm not
sure why he put so much faith in me, but it was up to me to have this place running like clockwork. I
donned my chef's hat, which I bought from the Dollar Shop, and got down to business.
Just like that two hours went by. I was harried, stressed out, and confused. Dishes kept getting return, I
kept hearing complaints, and people were yelling at me left and right. I had to keep using a dish towel
to swab the sweat from my forehead. My fingers were sore, my back was killing me. I could barely
keep focus.
I stood in front of the fryer, making Scottish-style food, and every so often the hot oil would
splash up, and burn the skin on my arm, to which I'd say, "Son of a bitch!"
As I was preparing fries, Candy tipped her head through the kitchen window.
"Hey," she said in a harried tone.
"What is it?" I said, lowering a wire basket into a vat of vegetable oil. "I'm trying to give people
diabeetus here."
"One of the customers wants to see you," said Candy. "She's really impressed with your cooking
apparently."
"That so?" I said.
"Mhm," said Candy. "Do you want to see her? Or should I tell her to piss right off?"
"Uh, don't do that," I said, "I'll go see her."

Somehow, on my way from the kitchen to the dining area, I got the idea in my head that this woman I
was about to see was a very important person. I thought, hey, maybe she's a producer from TV, and she
wants to make me into the next Rachael Ray. Or more relevant, Paula Deen. Although I never
considered myself to be racist.
I got into the dining area and saw an arm in the air, waving me over. So, I drudged past the
diners, and met a woman at her table. She had jumbo sized glasses, not unlike myself, and curly blonde
hair, with matching blue eyes. She had a stocky build, but I could not call her fat. Actually, she had
quite nice legs. Her thighs were nice and slim, like sticks... Wooden sticks.
"My name's Karen," said Karen, "are you the chef?"
I adjusted my tall white chef's hat, "How did you know?"
Karen continued on, "Anyways, I just wanted to give you my compliments. You are an excellent
chef. This is the best Irish food I've ever tasted."
I glanced at Candy, who was just nearby, but I didn't think she heard.
"Thank you very much," I said to Karen. "What did you --"
I stopped talking when I noticed something peculiar about Karen. The sweater she was wearing.
It was mine. I know people often have the same clothes, after all they do mass produce clothes them in
countries like Bangladesh, but was for sure that Karen's 1990s style sweater was not her own. On the
upper right hand-side I could see it was monogrammed with the letters "Z.M." (For those not paying
attention, those are my initials.)
"Excuse me," I said to Karen, "but could I ask you a question?" Karen stopped yammering and
nodded. "Where did you get that lovely sweater from?"
"Oh, this ol' thing," said Karen. "I got it as a present from my brother. A real nice gesture too,
considering he's an ex-felon. Just got out of prison a week ago."
"That's nice..." I said. "Do you know what the letter Z.M. on 'your' sweater stands for?"
"Not sure," said Karen. "I think it's the company. Maybe it's African. Zimbabwe
Manufacturing?"
"It's not Zimbabwe Manufacturing," I said. "It stands for Zelda Montgomery."
"Who's that?" said Karen.
"Me," I said, "and you're wearing my sweater."
"Am not," said Karen. "This was given to me by my brother. I know he's an ex-felon, but he's
cleaned up his act, he has."
"Please," I said, "just return my sweater. I know it's mine because it has my initials."
"I'm not giving you my sweater," said Karen, "you loon."
"Who are you calling a loon?" I said. "You're the loon. You sweater stealing loon."
Karen stood up and got in my face, she puffed out her chest, "Madame, you are cruisin' for a
bruisin'."
"Give me back my sweater," I said.
"It's not your sweater," said Karen.
"It too is my swear," I said.
Karen, who was a tad shorter than me, looked up my nose.
"Sister," she said, "you better back off."
"Or what?" I said.
"There will be consequences."
Then suddenly Karen reached out and grabbed my hair.
"You stupid slut," she yelled at me, yanking me back and forth, "who do you think you are?!
Some kind of super star?!"
I didn't know what she was talking about. All I could think about was my hair that felt like it
was being torn out. I couldn't see it, but I imagined blood dripping from my scalp, my red, swollen
skin.

As Karen pummeled me, I went from cowering to becoming enraged. I know I wasn't the most
congenial person in the world, but I did not deserve this. With all my strength I yanked off Karen's
hands, stood up, then threw the hardest punch I could.
My fist landed on Karen's forehead. Apparently, it's the hardest part of a person's head. That
proved true when the bones in my hand all cracked at once. "Ow!" I went. Was it broken? Sure felt like
it. Karen laughed at my stupidity, while I reeled from the pain.
"Haw-haw-haw!" Karen laughed. "Don't you know punches are weak? Kicks are much more
effective."
She spread out her feet, standing in what I would describe a Kung-Fu stance. Then she leapt
into the air and did a spinning kick aimed at my head. Before it could touch, just at the last second, I
ducked. She missed and went crashing to the floor.
Karen was rendered unconscious. The noise caught the attention of everyone in the diner,
including Gaetano, who rushed over to the scene.
He looked at me with eyes wide, "What the f*** did you do?
"Nothing,"I said, "why do you see something the matter?"
"You wanker," said Gaetano. "You think I'm some sort of an idiot? I saw everything. You got
into a bloody fight with one of the customers. Who is now bleeding. Bloody hell, what is wrong with
you?"
"In my defense," I said, "I was only trying to get back my sweater. She's wearing my sweater,
and she won't give it back to me."
Gaetano bent down, took off Karen's sweater, folded it neatly, and handed it to me.
"Here's your ugly sweater," he said. "Now, get out."
"When should I come back?" I said.
"Never!" said Gaetano. "You aren't allowed back in here as either my worker or a customer. You
are bloody banned."
"But I need this job," I said. "I need the money. And it's my dream, remember?"
"You want to be a chef at a Scottish restaurant," said Gaetano, "go work at McDonald's. I hear
they're hiring for minimum wage."
"But McDonald's sucks," I said.
"Please get out of here before I toss you out," said Gaetano.
He pointed to the door. I made no more protest. I put on my jacket, took my purse from the
kitchen, and left. I hung around outside a bit, hoping Gaetano would come running out to call me back,
and apologize for the mistake he made. That never happened. What happened was, I found myself
dumbfounded, with nowhere to go.
I held my sweater in my hands, thinking about my bitter victory. The chilly wind made me
unfold it, so I could put it on. However, I stopped when I noticed the tag. The tag read: "Zimbabwe
Manufacturing." The lady was right. The sweater wasn't even mine. I got into a nasty fight, and lost a
potential job, all for, for an article of clothing that didn't belong to me.
"Christ almighty," I groaned.
Embarrassed, I placed the sweater in front of the restaurant, and hastily left. I waddled down the
sidewalk, trying to figure out what I needed to do to avoid becoming homeless.
Chapter 44: Diary Entry #60
Dearest Diary,
Turns out I'll never have a baby. Apparently, the fertility clinic tells me (I'm paraphrasing) my womb is
not up to snuff. Harris got angry at my inability to birth. He threw the remote control for his TV,
cursing the sky, and saying how ridiculous it is that we have the technology to make pocket computers

yet not fix women.

However, amidst his cursing, he gave me no words of comfort. It made me feel alone in my
misery, and it wasn't as if I could pour my heart out to anyone else, Harris was literally my one, and
only, and he wasn't up to the task of being a shoulder to cry on.
So, I kept to myself as usual. When I calmed down, and stopped dripping salted water, I asked
Harris whether we would still get married. The answer was no. To him it was all or nothing. Marriage
and a kid, he insisted, nothing more and nothing less. For now we remain life partners.
Chapter 45
I once uttered the words: "I know Shirley wasn't the best sibling growing up, but even she would not
have the heart to deny me and let me live lonesome on the street."
I put that to the test when I paid her a visit at her mansion. The outside of mansion was a perfect
white, and had a tower sitting in the middle. Inside were 7 bedrooms, 12 bathrooms, one full sized
swimming pool, a jacuzzi, a sauna, a gym, a private theater, an arcade, a mini bowling alley, a two floor
library, a banquet hall, and (best of all) several butlers.
After I was let through the gates, I was led inside, and made to wait by the grand staircase. A
moment later Shirley, my dear sister, who was one year older than me, appeared, and called my name.
She came gliding down the steps, in a wine red dress, and greeted me with open arms. She was my
complete opposite: rich, successful, beautiful, and, smart. Or rather I should say cunning.
"Dawling," said Shirley, "it's so nice of you to visit!"
Shirley had long, flowing, smooth, beautiful, golden hair. Her eyes were an icy blue, her nose
petite, turning up at an angle ever so slightly. Lips were full as well as her breasts, and every curve on
her body was to be admired. Somehow she stayed in shape without going to the gym or dieting.
I was absolutely jealous. How is it that we came from the same two people, and she's got
everything? Is this how genetic is supposed to work?
"What have you been up to lately?" said Shirley.
I grinned and patted my protruding belly.
"Oh," said Shirley, looking down, "I see you've gained some weight. Well, that's alright. Not
everyone has the genetics to look trim and slim."
"Thanks," I said. (Sarcasm.)
"So, what happened exactly?" said Shirley. "Have you become a competitive eater now? Didn't
you once tell me you were training to eat 50 hot dogs in 12 minutes?"
"Yes," I said, "when I was 12 years old."
"You're not a competitive eater?" said Shirley.
"I'm pregnant," I said.
Shirley gasped, "Omigad! Congratulations! I can't believe this, I'm gonna be an aunt. Ugh. I feel
so old." Shirley waved her wrists. "Can you hear that? Can you hear my joints rotting away?"
"Sorry," I said, "my hearing's not that good."
"Oooooh," said Shirley, "do you think it'll be a boy?"
"I'm hoping for a girl," I said.
"Boys are better," said Shirley. "They can build, and fix things, and make money, and do actual,
real stuff. Girls on the other hand are useless. All they can do is take care of babies and clean the house.
Why do you think no women have been on the moon yet?"
"I don't know," I said.
Shirley chuckled, "It doesn't need cleaning."
"What the heck," I said. "Are you not a woman? You should be on our team."
"I'm kidding," said Shirley. "I just said all that stuff to segue into a joke."
"Still," I said, "it's in poor taste."

"Anyways," said Shirley, "so what're you gonna name it? I know, how about Shirley?"
"I'm not naming it after you," I said. "That would be weird. Plus, I already have a name in
mind."
"What is it?" said Shirley. "It can't be as good as Shirley. Because my name rhymes with
whirley. Shirley Whirley."
"No, thanks," I said, "I'm gonna name her Hermione. You know, Hermione Lodge from Archie
comics. I'm a huge fan. Do you still read Archie comics?"
"Not anymore," said Shirley.
"How come?" I said.
"Comics are for children," said Shirley. "Although I'm not sure Archie comics are actually
appropriate for children. There's a lot of smut in it. Veronica is such a whore. How many freaking
people does she date at a time? Also, I'm pretty sure she and Reggie are bed buddies."
"Veronica is not a whore," I said.
"I know they don't show it," said Shirley, "but it's strongly implied. Look at how she dresses,
with her little titties hanging out, and her legs showing off. Ugh, what has society come to?"
"It's a comic," I said, "it's not even real."
"But it's based on real, human behavior," said Shirley.
"Ehhh, sure," I said.
Shirley nodded.
"Anyway," I continued, "I need to ask you a favor, Shirley."
"What is it?" said Shirley.
I hesitated.
"Could I live with you?" I said, sheepishly.
Shirley hesitated too.
"Don't you have a place of your own?" she said.
"No," I said, "I was tossed out."
"Okay," said Shirley, "you'll find a new place to stay."
"I don't have the money," I said.
"But your husband is a doctor," said Shirley.
"He's not my husband," I said. "Don't you remember what happened at the wedding?"
Shirley had a blank look on her face.
"I ran out on it," I said, "we went splitville."
"Did you?" said Shirley.
"Were you even there?" I said.
"I was," said Shirley, "but I had to leave early."
"You left early!" I exclaimed.
"Who cares?" said Shirley. "You two didn't even wind up getting married. Plus, I got those
shoes I wanted."
"You skipped out on my wedding for shoes?" I said.
"They're really great shoes," said Shirley. "Limited edition."
"Okay, anyway," I said, "can I live with you?"
Shirley had a blank look on her face.
"Well?" I said.
"What about mom and dad?" said Shirley. "Can't you go live with them?"
"No," I said, "they're in another country. Not only can I not afford the plane ticket -- we haven't
talked in years."
"High time you reconnect with them, isn't it?" said Shirley.
"Please," I said. "You know I feel about them."
"Okay, but the thing is," said Shirley, "I don't have any room for you here."

"I'll sleep on a sofa," I insisted.

Shirley shook her head, "No. I can't do it. Zelda, you have to learn to stand on your own feet.
You have to learn to be independent. If I help you now you'll be a loser your whole life. I cannot let that
happen to you. I want you to be successful, and make it yourself."
"I'm not going to be staying with you long," I said. "Until I get back on my feet. It'll only be a
few months at most."
"Yah, first it's a few months," said Shirley, "then it's a few years, then before I know it you'll be
retiring here."
"That won't happen," I said. "I promise you."
"No," said Shirley. "I flat out refuse."
"Why?" I said.
"Listen to me, Zelda," said Shirley, "you have to be independent. You can't keep using everyone
as a crutch. Be on your own for once."
"I should be on my own for once? I should be on my own for once?" I said. "When have you
ever done that?"
Shirley spread out her arms, as if to show the grandeur of her mansion.
"Look at how well I've done for myself," said Shirley. "My independent mindedness has
obviously paid off."
"You married a rich man," I said. "You never earned any of this."
"Oh, I'd have to say otherwise," said Shirley. "If it weren't for my cleverness we would've never
got together, and therefore I would not be living this amazing life style -- no mansion, no walk in
closet, no team of butlers, no seven cars, nothing."
I was beginning to get angry.
"I hope you don't think pretending to be heterosexual is cleverness," I said, "because it's not.
You're living a lie. You're a big, fat lesbian."
"Untrue," said Shirley. "I'm not fat at all."
"It's despicable," I said, my voice raising. "How can you pretend to be something you aren't just
for money?"
"Ha!" said Shirley. "People do it everyday when they go to work. They plaster on fake smiles,
and suck up to their asshole bosses to keep their jobs. This isn't any worse."
As my sister looked at me, fluttering her pretty eyes, I squeezed my forehead with my fingers
from frustration. Then I suddenly had an idea.
"You know what," I said, "I think I'll enjoy living in your mansion." I started walking up the
grand staircase. "Which one is my room?"
Shirley followed me up, and then ran in front of me. She put her hands on her hips.
"Did you not hear what I said?" she said. "You can't stay here. You're going to cramp my -- um,
my, um, effort to make you independent. Like me!"
"I hate to do this to you," I said, "but I have a human being growing inside of me, and nowhere
to stay, and no one to help me, so I'm going to be blackmailing you here."
"What's that mean?" said Shirley.
"I'm going to tell your husband that you are a swindling lesbian," I told my sister, "unless you
let me hang out here for a while."
Shirley started laughing, "Ha-ha. Is that all you got? Is that your ace up your sleeve?"
I was befuddled that she seemed completely unperturbed.
"Are you not afraid?" I said.
"No!" said Shirley. "Because it won't work. My idiot husband thinks homosexuality is a choice.
I convinced him that I switched sides. You can't dig up any dirt on me. Were you planning on showing
him a picture of my old girlfriend?"
"Uh, to be honets, I didn't think that far ahead," I said.

"Hmph, you were actually going to betray me, eh?" said Shirley.
"No," I said. "I wasn't. I'm not that big of a scuzbag."
"But you're enough of a scuzbag to blackmail me, right?" said Shirley.
"Hard times makes you do hard things," I said. "You can't blame me for that."
"You know what they say," said Shirley, "your true character is revealed when times are bad, not
when they're good."
"I just don't see why I can't live with you," I insisted. "You have so much space here. I literally
could get lost in it."
"Hmph," said Shirley, "between the two of us there isn't enough space in the world."
"Are you still angry from when I threw that battery at your head?" I said.
Shirley brushed back her hair, revealing a tiny scar on the corner of her forehead.
"Look at that," she pointed, "you've left permanent damage on me. It's caused me self-esteem
issues and depression. Nothing can make it go away."
"It's not that big," I said.
"NOT THAT BIG!" said Shirley. "You could see it from outer space. I can't believe how cold
and insensitive you are. Honestly, I thought you were better than this. I guess not everyone matures
when they grow older."
"What about when you used to tease me about my weight," I said, "every day, in and out,
without fail? Oh, sure I wasn't perfect, but you weren't any better. You were equally as bad, if not
worse, but just in your own way. Don't act like I'm Satan herself over here."
"Either way you're not living here," said Shirley.
"Fine," I said. "I know you won't budge on the issue, but I'm sure your husband will."
"I told you, you can't blackmail me," said Shirley.
"I won't do anything of the sort," I said. "I am simply going to ask him, and, if my hunch is
right, he'll say yes out of the kindness of his heart. After all, I am your dear sister."
I maneuvered around Shirley, and started going up the staircase again. She blocked me once
more.
"You'll be wasting your time," said Shirley. "My husband is a cold, heartless, ruthless man. He
trusts no one, and looks down on the poor. He is worse than a bucket of chum."
"You did say chum," I said. "Right?"
"Zelda, go back down those steps," said Shirley.
"I've met him before," I said. "I know you're exaggerating. Sheldon is a very nice person."
"You don't really know who he is," Shirley insisted. "He is a terrible person. If he doesn't
destroy you mentally right away, he will chip away at you slowly, until you go mad, and want to jump
off a bridge. Believe me. I'm telling you the truth now. This marriage is more of a sacrifice than you
think. Giving up my body is the easy part."
I shook my head, "You always have to get your way, don't you? You can't even stop lying to me
for a single second."
"Dunno what you're talking about," said Shirley. "I never lie."
As I was about to reply, Shirley, and I heard someone clearing their throat. We both looked up,
and saw Shirley's husband, Sheldon. He was a portly fellow, and wearing an all white suit. He also
carried along a cane that I didn't think he needed. Reminded me of a pimp.
"Dawling," said Sheldon. "Who is this guest we have hyaw?"
(I think "hyaw" meant "here.")
"Nobody," said Shirley, with gritted teeth. "She's leaving."
"Aww, why?" said Sheldon, tweaking his graying handlebar mustache. "She's quite the looker."
I extended my arm out to Sheldon.
"I'm her sister," I said.
Instead of shaking my hand, he took it, and kissed it.

"It is most pleasurable to meet you," said Sheldon. "You are a beauty amongst beauties."
"Er, thank you," I said.
"Zelda," said Shirley, "I think you should go now. You've overstayed your welcome."
"Why, this wonderful lass?" said Sheldon, looking deeply into my eyes. "She'd never overstay
any sort of welcome."
"I'm glad you brought that up," I said. (Shirley tried cutting my off, but I spoke over her.) "I'm
having a bit of financial troubles, you see, and I was wondering whether I could live with the both you
for a while. Till I get back onto my feet."
"I don't want her here," said Shirley.
"Hold on, dear," said Sheldon. "Maybe we can work something out here. Zelda, what could you
do in exchange for my hospitality?"
I took a moment to think.
"Well," I said, "I can cook and clean."
"We already have help around here for that," said Sheldon. "What other skills do you have?"
Not sure what else I could do, I asked, "What do you have in mind?"
Sheldon reached out and rubbed my belly in a slow circular motion. A moment after I felt my
baby kick.
"If you'd provide me with every man's fantasy," said Sheldon, "you may stay as long as you
please."
I tried thinking what that meant.
"Sheldon!" said Shirley. "This is highly inappropriate."
"Can't a man dream?" said Sheldon.
I stood there befuddled.
"What dream?" I said.
Shirley whispered into my ear. When I took in what she said, I was both shocked, and/or
appalled. I glared at her husband.
"You sick, disgusting, old man," I said. "You are aware I'm pregnant?"
"Well awares," said Sheldon. "That's what delights me...especially if it's a girl, that'll mean
there'll be one extra."
He winked. I threw up (mentally).
"Are you mad?" I said.
"Not at all," said Sheldon. "I feel quite happy actually. Tis the life of a billionaire, I s'ppose.
Nothing gets you down but the stormy weather."
"Whatever the case is," I said, "Colonel Salacious, I decline your offer."
I turned around and began descending the grand staircase. I glanced over my shoulder at
Shirley, and Sheldon. Shirley shrugged at me as if she didn't know what just happened. I had a feeling
this was all a ruse simply to get me to go away. Even if it wasn't, I don't think I'd be too keen on
staying. Yet as I made it to the front doors, I paused for a moment, hoping they would call me back,
and insist I be their guest.
That never happened.
Chapter 46: Diary Entry #68
Dearest Diary,
Harris is out having a boy's night out. He's celebrating getting his medical license. I asked him whether
I could come along, but he told me no. So, here I am, left all alone, waiting until he comes back. I am
passing the time writing, and hope he brings back a doggy bag, because I'm as hungry as a horse.
Sure, there's food to eat in our apartment, but all the good stuff isn't mine. Harris has either

labeled his treats for his consumption only, or hidden them away from me in a cupboard. He is quite
controlling and possessive of his food. He tells me it's not to be mean, but because he doesn't want me
to get fatter than I already am. His medical opinion is that I may be up for a heart attack, if I continue
the way I'm going.
I find it a bit offensive, but he is a doctor for a reason. Looking out for the health of other
people is what he does for a living. I suppose his heart's in the right place. I think.
Chapter 47
The day was slowly dripping away. Having no place to stay, I began feeling desperate. I became a
vagabond in my own city. There was no one who could help me out. Yet I kept on thinking, racking my
brain, trying to come up with a solution. The only thought I mustered was, "I wish I was popular, and
pretty, and everyone loved me." Then I fantasized somebody would magically come out of the sky,
riding a rainbow, and rescue me from all my woes.
That never happened. What happened was I found myself in a lady's restroom, throwing up into
a very stained toilet bowl.
While doing so someone knocked on the stall door, "Excuse me. You've been in there a real long
time. Are you okay?"
I groaned, "I'm, I'm fine."
"Can I please use the toilet?" the person outside responded. "I have to take a dump real bad."
"I'll be out in a second," I said.
Then I picked up my hair, tied it in a pony tail, and left the bathroom stall. A tall lady, with pink
hair, and a big Adam's apple, darted past me to take my spot. She slammed the door shut, and
immediately sat down on the toilet. She wasted no time doing her business. The sound of her dropping
a deuce echoed throughout the pink bathroom. The smell was equally bad too. I guessed she was a
vegetarian.
With those merry thoughts in my head, I cleaned myself up at the sink, and made my way out
into the mall. The mall was not a mall like you'd imagine however. There were few people around, and,
word was, it was losing lots of money. Maybe it was because the decor was from several decades ago,
and the stairwell that was often full of drug addicts.
Whatever the reason I kinda felt sorry for this place. They were once a shining beacon to the
community. Though when the other mall next door was constructed it seemed that they could not
compete. It reminded me of life.
You know, you build yourself up, and make yourself the best you can be, and you think it's all
going pretty great, then later on a shiny, new neighbor moves in next door. And this person is a hundred
times prettier than you are, smarter, has more money, and steals the guy you've had your eye on for
years. You lament how you're not good enough, but everyone tells you to stop complaining, or to keep
your chin up. So, you persevere, and carry on, thinking if you work hard enough to improve your
situation, your situation will actually change.
Unlike tales of fiction though it doesn't. Once you've begun the descent the momentum carries
you on, and then you find out it's a bottomless pit. That guy you loved is now marrying your pretty next
door neighbor, and you've tried your hardest for nothing. You cry every time you see them holding
hands, and kissing, and you think, "If she wasn't there I'd be with him." Then you start telling yourself
the truth, and you realize whatever you tried wouldn't have made a difference. You were always a
stinking pile of trash.
That's what I thought about Marshmallow Mall: a stinking pile of trash. A failure of a business
from the get-go, with a name that made no sense at all. The only shop that brought people in was the
toy store. Not that it was particularly exquisite, but it was the only toy store that happily welcomed

children. All the other toy stores were really just places for mommy and daddy to buy stuff for their
(probably) spoilt kids.
I stopped in front of Tiny Tom's Toyshop. I stared through the glass. The owner, Tiny Tom, who
was dressed as an elf, and was the size of one, was preparing a display of toys. The toys were called
"Poopee Dolls." They came in shiny, iridescent boxes, the sort that changes color when you look at it in
different angles. Like what you see on a soap bubble.
I leaned in closely to read the details on the packaging. Apparently the doll was a marvel of
technology. Why, it could poop, pee, cry, laugh, crawl, feed on a bottle, speak, and even remember your
face, and your name -- not all at once, I hoped.
"Hello, there," said Tiny Tom, popping out from behind the glass to speak to me. "Why don't
you come in and have a look? You're most welcome to browse."
"Oh, no, thank you," I said. "I can't afford anything in your shop."
"We give special discounts to people who are on hard times," said Tiny Tom. "It is nearing the
Christmas season, after all, and no child should be without a proper toy."
"What's the discount?" I asked.
"40%," said Tiny Tom. "That's not a bad deal, if I must say so myself. It's more than anyone else
will give you, those stingy bastards."
"Wow," I said, "that's quite generous of you. How much is the Poopee Doll?"
"Welp," said Tiny Tom, "the price is $99.00 regular, but for you it'll be under sixty."
"What about taxes?" I said.
"Screw off with the taxes, I say," said Tiny Tom. "We can do this deal under the table. I'm not
about to give the government any more than they deserve. It's a bloody racket, it is. Them and big
business have of us over a barrel. They'll do anything to squeeze a dime out of you, even it means your
blood."
"Yah, what a world we live in," I said.
"So, you interested int he doll? said Tiny Tom.
"No, I can't afford it," I said.
"If you really want it," said Tiny Tom, "I'll knock off an extra ten, and take a hit for it. I assure
you I won't be making any money."
"You're really trying to get rid of these, aren't you?" I said.
"Not at all," said Tiny Tom. "I got a good product here. They're gonna fly out the door soon, I
tells you. It's just that I want my business to be about more than money. I really love the children that
come here, seeing their happy faces when they get that toy they always wanted. It's brightens my day, it
does."
"That's really sweet of you," I said.
"Thank you," said Tiny Tom. "
"Well," I said, "I guess I ought to get --"
"IT ALL STARTED WHEN I WAS A CHILD," said Tiny Tom. "Me [sic] family was too poor to
afford presents or toys. For years it was always the same thing. Me, me sis, and lil brother would run
downstairs, hoping for something to unwrap...but all we got was a lump of coal, which we had to
surrender immediately to heat our home. Parents told us it was because we were naughty kids, but we
knew better. They were too embarrassed to tell us the truth about our poverty. I wouldn't say it was any
worse than them kids in Africa, but we definitely had to scrounge about. Missing a meal was not
something unusual for us. That's why I'm the size of a dwarf. Improper nutrition."
"If you were so poor," I said, "how come your family owned a home with an upstairs? Because
the price of real estate these days is crazy. Young people can barely afford to rent out a basement
apartment."
"It stinks, don't it?" said Tiny Tom. "But my home wasn't no palace, y'hear? It was something
we inherited from an old aunt that died. It was a run down, smelly, rat infested, damp place that

constantly needed repairs. And the upstairs actually only led to a single bedroom, which we all had
sleep in. Mum and dad got the bed, while we kids got the carpet. But that was okay. The worst part was
the single toilet. To share it proper we had to stick to a rigorous schedule, and spaced out all our meals,
so that we'd each shit at different times. Anyone who wanted to take a wee had to do it out in the
garden, where we grew fruit and veg."
"You ate that fruit and veg?" I said.
"Course," said Tiny Tom. "There was nothing we could do about that. We couldn't pop down to
the market, and pick up a packet of Oreos -- unless we were willing to steal."
"Did you ever steal?" I said.
"I'm not proud of it," said Tiny Tom, "but sometimes I'd shoplift."
"What did you shoplift?" I said.
"Sometimes I'd go to the bank, and steal their mints," said Tiny Tom. "I'm incredibly ashamed.
It's a part of my past I wish I could just forget. What a scoundrel I used to be."
"You know those mints at the bank are free?" I said.
"Wut?" said Tiny Tom. "You kidding me?"
I shook my head.
"I'll be darned," said Tiny Tom. "I used to cut myself out of guilt."
"Isn't that something?" I said. "Well! I have to go now."
"Merry Christmas," said Tiny Tom.
"Same to you," I said.
I start walking off, but then I was struck with an idea. I stopped, and went back to the toy shop.
"Hello, again," said Tiny Tom upon seeing me. "Did you forget something?"
"I was wondering," I said, "do you need any help?"
"Help?" said Tiny Tom. "Sure, if you can take some of these boxes and put them on the top, I'd
be ever so grateful." He shifted around some boxes for his dolls, trying to make them balance.
"I mean paid help," I said.
"Oh," said Tiny Tom. "I'm sorry, but I'm actually not hiring at the moment."
I don't know why, but I was far more disappointed than I thought I would be. I started crying
aloud. There I was, a grown woman in her 30s, bawling like a child. Tiny Tom, though already so small
in stature, looked like he was trying to shrink himself. He came up to me cautiously and used a low
voice to speak.
"Look, miss, I can't hire anyone right now," said Tiny Tom, "that hasn't changed, but maybe I
could make it up to you somehow? "
I was inconsolable. But then...
"Alright, alright," said Tiny Tom. "I'll give you a job."
"Really?" I said, wiping my tears.
"Yes," said Tiny Tom. "Just please keep it down. You're scaring the children."
I picked up Tiny Tom, and hugged him, which was a bit awkward considering the "state" of my
belly.
"Thank you, thank you, oh, thank you," I said. "You don't know what this means for me. I
thought I was headed straight to the poor house."
"Well," said Tiny Tom, "anything I can do to help. Now, could you please put me down?"
"Anything you want," I said.
I placed down Tiny Tom. He dusted himself off.
"Okay," said Tiny Tom, "we'll get started right now. Help me out with these dolls? I've trouble
reaching the top."
"No problem-oh," I said.
Then I picked up Tiny Tom again, and lifted him up, so that he could reach the top of his
display. While stacking up these Poopee Dolls, a little man popped out (seemingly) from nowhere. Like

Tiny Tom he was dressed as an elf. He was short but nowhere near the size of a dwarf. He had a big,
round belly, a bald head, and graying stubble on his chin, and a black eye patch, which reminded me of
Pirates of the Caribbean.
"Oy, what's going on 'ere?" said Puny Peter in a most irritated tone. "Who's this lass here, eh?"
Tiny Tom whispered, "You best put me down."
As soon as I put down Tiny Tom, Puny Peter stepped over to him, and turned down his nose.
"You ain't answered my question," he said.
"This, Peter," said Tiny Tom, "is a new employee of ours." He gave me a quick glance. "What's
your name again?"
"Zelda," I said.
"Right," said Tiny Tom, "Zelda. She'll be helping us out during the Christmas season. You know
how busy it gets."
"Ah, for the love of gravy," said Puny Peter. "I know what you're doin', Tom, and let me tell
you: we ain't a charity. Why you hiring when we're already overstaffed? You've given every Dick and
Jane a job, and half of 'em don't know their head from their arsehole. Joey Timpton came in an hour,
late, and went on a cigarette break after working for a total of 20 minutes; he left the register
unattended, and someone stole 800 bucks! The worst part is you don't have the competency to fire
him."
"I'll do it a week after Christmas," Tiny Tom insisted. "We can't be sacking people right now.
Baby Jesus would cry. After all, he is the reason for the season."
"I won't have it,' said Puny Peter, stamping his feet. "Our business is going under, and all you
care about is buying a ticket into heaven. For Godsakes start thinking about what's happening right
now. You're being used as a doormat. People see you as a free meal."
"It's not a free meal," said Tiny Tom. "They're working. Ummm, well, sort of."
Puny Peter grabbed Tiny Tom by the collar, and pulled him in.
"Look here," said Puny Peter, shooting daggers with his eyes, "you are my brother, but I am this
close..." He gestured using two of his fingers. "...to quitting, and starting a rival toy shop. And you
know that between the both of us I am the real businessman. I keep this company afloat."
As I looked down, Tiny Tom sighed, and turned around to speak to me. He barely lifted his
head.
"Miss," he said in a remorseful tone, "I'm terribly sorry, but I can't --"
"It's okay," I sighed. "I know. You can't hire me. Say no more. C'est la vie."
Tiny Tom gave me a candy cane.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
"Bah! Humbug!" Puny Peter growled.
"Will you stop acting like such a Grinch?" said Tiny Tom.
Puny Peter poked Tiny Tom. "Why don't you make me?"
"You midget," said Tiny Tom.
"Dwarf," said Puny Peter.
Before I knew it Tiny Tom and Puny Peter were in a full blown fist fight. It was odd to watch. I
found it so cute, because of how small they were, yet so terrifying. I was rooting for Tiny Tom, of
course, but knew he would lose. Tiny Tom was much too gentle.
So, I did what anyone would have done, and left the two brothers to themselves. Soon after,
when I was well in the distance, I watched them make up, and shake hands. I was amazed at the
strength of their brotherly bond. One minute fighting, trading blows, the next making up. Not like
women. Women keep grudges forever.
I sat down on a bench to rest my feet. I let out a deep breath. I was tired both mentally and
physically. I started asking myself questions like: "What am I doing with my life?" "Why am I here?"
"How come things never work out for me?" "Does God hate me?" "Does God exist?" "Who made the

decision to stop manufacturing Vanilla Coke?" It was a good product.

While I contemplated these profound questions, a woman came out from the grocery store, and
took a seat beside me. She crossed her legs, leaned back, with her arms on top of the bench, and
yawned in a most arrogant manner, as if the air in here wasn't good enough for her.
She sure looked familiar. I looked once; I looked twice. Yes, I recognized that face, that long,
slim face, that petite, freckle nosed, that blonde, pixie haircut, those rabbit teeth. It was an old
acquaintance of mine: Edwina Meyers.
Although nowadays she went by the moniker "Elana R.R. Meyers." For you see that was her
nom de plume. Elana was a successful fiction writer, an internationally famous author, who has sold
millions of novels for a book series called "The Pluto Planet Mysteries." It was about a crime-solving
alien that lived on Pluto. While admirable some attributed her success to the large amounts of people,
who still choose to believe that Pluto is an actual planet. I, for one, have no opinion on the matter. I
prefer to stay out of hot, political debate.
I kept my head straight and avoided eye contact. Edwina, however, noticed me.
"Zelda," said Edwina, "Zelda Montgomery Baker, is that really you?"
I turned my head slowly toward Edwina. I hesitated to talk. No, it wasn't because I was a jealous
bitch. It was because in school Edwina was my bully. She would constantly tease me...about my height,
my weight, my clothes, my skin, my hair, my family, my strange religious values, my
handwriting...anything there was to make fun of.
But not only that she'd push me around, and poke me, and punch me, and pull my hair, and burn
me with her lighter, and play embarrassing pranks on me. I remember one time we were waiting for the
bus together, and she, and her little gang, picked me up by arms, and legs, and tossed me face first into
the freeze snow. While they laughed I cried, without a single friend to console me.
I have no goddam idea why Edwina was trying to chat to me. Maybe she wanted to apologize?
Bury the hatchet, so to speak?
"Oh, hello," I said hesitantly.
Edwina slapped me on the shoulder. "Zelda, you haven't changed a bit."
Was that a compliment?
"Erm, thank you," I said.
"So, what the hell have you been up to?" said Edwina.
"Not much," I said. "You know, living life, and so forth..."
"Same here," Edwina said eagerly. "Just taking it one step at a time. You have to when you're in
my sorta position. I mean one day you're a nobody, and the next you're on top of the world, selling
millions of novels as a successful writer/author. Zelda, I tell you, I am exhausted from traveling around
the world, and doing all these book signings. I can't even get a break when I'm not working. I go out in
public, and hoards of fans come up to me, asking for autographs, and pictures, and giving me all these
compliments, telling me what an amazing influence I've been on their lives, how I'm a huge part of
their childhood. I mean what am I supposed to say to that? It's way too overwhelming. Like chill your
boners, people. I know you admire me, and look up to me, but really, all I did was write some stories
about aliens. I mean, yeah, they were pretty damn good, and I put my sweat and blood into it, but let's
keep it in perspective, huh?"
"Wow, what a burdensome life you have," I said in a dry, placid tone. "I wouldn't wish that on
my worst enemy."
"I'm glad you understand," said Edwina.
"Sure, no problem," I said, trying to disengage from the "conversation."
"Yeeeah, so, you're probably wondering what I'm doing in a drab place like this," said Edwina.
(I wasn't wondering.) "I'm just waiting for a friend. She's picking up some stuff for a book launch party
we're going to tonight. It's gonna be amazeballz."
"Amazeballs?" I said.

"Yeah, you wanna come?" said Edwina.

"No, thank you," I said firmly. "I'm busy."
"Come on," said Edwina. "What could you possibly be doing?"
"Stuff," I said.
"You'll be missing out," said Edwina. "Even if you don't care about books they'll have free food
there. Caviar, champagne, Ritz crackers. Real expensive stuff."
My belly rumbled from hunger. I wanted to tell Edwina to bug off, but I couldn't help myself.
She piqued my interest with the words "Ritz crackers."
"Alright," I said, licking lips, "I accept your invivation."
Edwina looked at me, with a self-satisfied grin. Then she burst out in shrieking laughter,
"Nyaaah-ah-ah-ah! You're such a yutz, Zelda!"
"Huh?" I said.
"You really think I'd be seen with the likes of you?" said Edwina. "God, I can't believe it. You're
still such a pathetic loser. Why in the world would you ever think that I, Elana R.R. Meyers, world
famous author, would want to hang out with someone that looks like a Treasure Troll? Zelda, were you
always this dense?"
I wanted to say something...something cutting, and witty, something that would make her reel
back mentally. All I could think of was, "You, you, you -- yooou!" I clenched my hands, and stood up
in front of Edwina. As she laughed I pulled back my fist, so that I could sock her good in the jaw. But
then I was interrupted by a voice.
"Zelda," it said in a familiar, chirpy tone. "What in the world are you doing here?"
I whipped my head around. It was my old best friend from school, Gina Bobina... Fee-fy-feena!
Gina! Gina! (Note: Bobina is not her real last name.)
"Gina!" I said excitedly. "Omigod! Hi!"
I could see Gina was holding grocery bags. Sticking out from the top one of them was a box of
Ritz crackers.
"Hi," said Gina. She repeated herself. "So, what are you doing here?"
"Ah, not much, just window shopping," I explained myself.
"HA," said Edwina. "That's probably all you can afford to do."
"Don't say that," Gina came to my defense, "that's mean. Plus, Zelda is doing very well for
herself. She's in a relationship with a doctor. They're life partners, apparently. Whatever that means."
"Actually," I said. "I'm single now."
"Oh no, what happened?" said Gina. "I thought you two patched things up?"
"No, no, I did not," I said. "It was unpatchable."
"In that case we should fix you up with someone," said Gina.
"That'll be a hoot," said Edwina.
"No thank you," I said firmly. "I'm not interested."
"But you're thirty," said Gina.
"And?" I said.
"You're getting old," said Gina. "If you stay single for too long, you'll stay single forever. You
don't want to be single forever, do you?"
"What's wrong with being single?" I said.
Edwina crossed her legs and leaned back with her arms behind her head.
"That's doublespeak," she said, "for 'I'm not attractive enough.'"
"I, I am attractive enough," I stammered, only half believing what I said. "I just don't see the
fanfare in having to be attached to someone at all times. You don't need to be in a relationship to be
happy. You don't need a man to feel good about yourself. A woman should be independent. She should
be self-reliant, strong, and intelligent. Because life, Edwina, isn't only about guzzling cocks."
"You ought to follow your own advice," Edwina sniggered.

I was getting proper annoyed.

I hissed to Gina, "I can't believe you're still friends with her, after all these years."
"I can hear you," said Edwina. "How rude of you."
"I know you don't like her," Gina said to me, "but she's not as bad as you think."
"Remember the time she lit my hair on fire?" I said.
Edwina nodded. "Good times."
Gina looked me in the eyes, "I swear. She's changed."
"Okay, but what about us?" I said. "How come we don't hang out anymore?"
"'Cause you're boring," said Edwina.
"You're not boring," Gina told me. "It's just that...we're both busy people. I don't have much of
any time to do anything. I have to prioritize."
I pointed toward Edwina with my thumb. "This is what you consider a priority?"
Gina had a guilty appearance on her face. Why?
"It's because she's rich and famous, isn't it?" I said.
"One time," said Gina, "we went to a party, and watched Robert Downey Junior snort cocaine
off a vagina. How exciting is that?"
I folded my arms.
"BUT," Gina added, "that's not the only reason me and Edwina are best friends."
"Yes, I'm quite a wonderful person," said Edwina.
"Wait," I said. "you two are best friends? I thought we were best friends."
"Are we?" said Gina.
"Yes," I said. "Remember in high school? We spent so spent so much time together. I helped
you with your writing, your history, I tutored you in math... You had to do Romeo & Juliet for drama
class. I went to your everyday after school, and I'd play the part of Romeo. Also, when you wanted to
spend time with Duncan, I'd babysit your little brother for you."
Gina had a blank look on her face.
While I awaited a response, Edwina, staring at her nails in a most self-satisfied manner, thought
she would clue me in.
"Hmmm," she noted, "what an interesting relationship you and Gina had in your school days."
"What's that mean?" I said.
"Think about it carefully," said Edwina. "Think about how you two spent time together."
"PLEASE, Edwina," said Gina.
I looked at Gina, and then Edwina, then Edwina and Gina, and back, and forth, trying to figure
out why there was this awkward silence between us. What were they thinking? Then, after a moment
that seemed too long, a light bulb went off above my head. This light bulb was a bit dim, and it was
prone to flickering.
"Goddamnit," I said to Gina. "You used me as a tutor, didn't you? And a babysitter."
"Look," said Gina, "I didn't do it intentionally. I really wanted to pay you, but you wouldn't take
my money, and since you were helping me for free, well, how could I refuse? I wanted to let you know
we weren't friends, but you were such a nice person. How could I break your heart like that?"
"Wait," I said, "we weren't even friends at the time?"
Gina had an ashamed look on her face, her eyes were looking off to the side.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I was a teenager, and I was stupid. I thought you were a huge nerd."
I let out a deep breath. I didn't know how to respond anymore. There was no way I could walk
away from this, and not feel like an idiot. I felt so gutted. The one person I thought to be my friend
wasn't. She only used me for homework help, and to watch her baby brother. I guess it's my fault
though. I'm the one who offered.
"Are you okay?" said Gina.
"NO," I said. "I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay in any way."

"We get that you're not okay," said Edwina.

"Shuddup," I said. "I'm sick of your bullshit."
"Ooooh," said Edwina. "I'm so scared."
I returned my gaze to Gina, and I stared at her so hard that if I was Superman it would've burned
a hole straight through her skull. She took a step back. No kidding, I think she was scared.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" said Gina.
I unclenched my hands, then sat down on the bench beside Edwina. I let out a deep breath. I
was too exhausted to put up a fight. What would be the point, anyway? I always lost.
"Are you okay?" said Gina.
"I am many things," I said, "but okay is not one of them."
"I could've told you that," Edwina snickered.
I glared at Edwina. Gina then sat in the middle of the bench, separating the both of us. I thought
it was a rather political move.
Gina put her hand on my knee. "So! What've you been up to lately?"
She was trying to make small talk. I gave her small talk.
"I'M PREGNANT AND I'M ABOUT TO BE HOMELESS," I thought.
But I was too ashamed to say that aloud. I didn't want to give Edwina the satisfaction of
knowing that I was a complete, total failure of a human being. No, no, why would I do that? I instead
chose to tell a lie. A very stupid one, if I must say so myself.
"Ahhh, yeah, I'm writing a novel," I said.
"You're joking," said Edwina.
"No, I'm not," I said.
"Wow," said Gina, about my fake novel, "that's really great. Heh. Maybe you'll be as famous as
Edwina one day."
"I really doubt that," said Edwina.
"Why the doubt?" said Gina.
"Because writing is hard," said Edwina. "Think about this: It takes 14 years of education to
write like a high schooler."
"...Naaah, I don't think it's that hard," said Gina. "I mean, I've seen you work. You just sit down,
in your underwear, clackity-clack on your keyboard, and bang, a best seller. I really think writing is
way easier than you're making it out to be. Listen, I'll write a novel right now, off the top of my head: It
was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and on a dark and stormy night on 4 Privet Drive..."
"NO! Writing is hard!" Edwina yelled. "Do you know how long it took me to establish myself
as an author? I began when I was 10 years old. I've been pursuing this summabitch for two decades.
Good novels that everyone wants to read don't fall out your ass. It's an arduous, mental process, a
journey of creativity, filled with pits, and cliffs, and spikes, and fire breathing monsters. It is not for the
faint of heart. You have to give it your all. Does anyone realize how many sacrifices I've made? I
missed my mother's funeral, because I had to make a stupid, arbitrary deadline for a book. Then when it
came out the first reviewer gave it 2 out of 5 stars. That was three years of my life."
"Wait a minute," said Gina, "your mother's not dead."
"I was being metaphorical," said Edwina.
"Yes, writing is very hard," I agreed. "I know that, because I'm writing a novel."
"You aren't writing a novel," said Edwina.
"How do you know that?" I said.
"You're trying to impress Gina," said Edwina.
"No, I think Zelda is writing a novel," said Gina. "When we were in Grade 3 she'd show me he
stories, and stuff, and say how she was going to be the next Virginia Wolf... Woolf?
"It's true," I said. "I am quite good at the, uh, putting together of words. It's like my mama used
to say, writing a novel is like making a baby. The baby is your novel, and the pregnant woman is the

writer, carrying it along for 9 months, nourishing, and feeding it, protecting it, and vomiting in the
morning."
"Yeah?" said Edwina. "Who's the man supposed to be then?"
"The man is the editor," I explained. "He has a part in making the baby, but doesn't fully
comprehend what it's like pushing out a human being through your vagina."
"Heh, who's the doctor?" said Gina.
"The doctor is the publishing house," I said.
"Why's that?" said Gina.
"Well, the doctor delivers the baby," I said, "and is way richer than everyone else."
Edwina sniggered.
"How oddly amusing," she said. "What's your novel about by the way?"
I darted my eyes. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I had to make up something on the fly.
"What's it about?" I said.
"Yes, what's it about?" said Edwina.
Was she genuinely interested or was she trying to catch me in a lie? Either way I had to come up
with an idea. So, I wracked my brain, and thought as hard as I ever thought in my life, and come up
with this:
"It's about vampires," I said.
Edwina rolled her eyes. "Vampires, you says?"
"Yeah," I said. "Vampires. But, a, uh, a, uh, a, uh -- a world of vampires! Half the world is
vampires, and half the world is, erm, not vampires. Think World War 2 plus vampires. Humans versus
the blood drinkers."
Edwina yawned. But not an actual yawn, one of those fake, over-exaggerated yawns you do to
let people know you're bored. Damn her.
"But wait," I said, "there's more. The vampires are sexy, and stuff, and they like having vampire
orgies."
Edwina placed her hand on her in a contemplative manner.
"Yeah, I could see that working," she said. "Women love erotic novels. Actually... Can I tell you
guys a little a secret?"
Gina and I gave Edwina our full attention.
"I used to write erotic novels," said Edwina. "I did it to make money when I was struggling as a
writer. I wrote under the pseudonym Ivanna Duet."
"Omigod," I said. "I'm, I'm a fan of your novels."
"Me too," said Gina.
"Well, well, well," said Edwina, "I didn't know you two were sick perverts."
"We're the sick perverts?" I said. "You're the one who came up with all that stuff. You're the one
who wrote 'The Gay Dungeon Master,' and 'Bananas for Monkeys.'"
"That story was unsettling," said Gina.
"Look," said Edwina, "when a writer writes a FICTION story it has nothing to do with who he
or she really is. For example, Stephen King writes the most gruesome, horrific, horror novels
imaginable, but you don't see him murdering more than one or two people a year."
"Yeah, I suppose..." said Gina.
Then for a full minute we all sat in silence.
Until I couldn't take it anymore, and stood up. "Okay, you guys. I hafta be going now."
"Where to?" said Gina.
"Umm, I don't know," I said.
"What do you mean you don't know?" said Edwina. "Are you brain damaged?"
I tried thinking of something. I couldn't, nay, I wouldn't let Edwina know that I was on the brink
of becoming a smelly bum. So, I did what all people do in this sort of situation, I lied.

"I'm going back home to, er, work on my novel," I said.

"Really?" said Edwina.
"Really," I said.
"Jeez," said Edwina, "I thought you were just pulling our legs about that."
"And why is that?" I said.
"You can't write a novel," said Edwina.
"And why is that?" I said...again.
"You don't got the brains," said Edwina. "First you come up with this ridiculous plot, and then
you go on to tell us about the birthing process of writing. I can't imagine you'd make anything of value
to society."
"And writing about mystery solving aliens is?" I said.
"That's only what's on the surface," said Edwina. "It's about more than that. My novels are about
morality, racism, xenophobia, poverty, sexism... The aliens thing is only there to serve as a vessel for
my thoughts about society."
"Well, I don't care what you say," I said. "I'm going to be a writer, just like I always wanted to
since I was a kid, and my novel is going to be the best damned novel ever, and people are going to
respect, and admire me, and come up to me on the street, and say, 'OOOh, Zelda Montgomery Baker,
can you autograph my chest?' I'll be bigger than Dean Koontz, I tells you!"
"Now I know you're delusional," said Edwina. "No one can be bigger than Dean Koontz.
"Yeah," said Gina, "he's the Stephen King of horror novels."
"Stephen King can lick my left nut," I said. "I am going to be a novelist... A great novelist!" I
pointed my finger. "You'll see! You'll all see! One day my name is going to be in lights!"
Determined to prove them wrong, I spun on my heels, and prepared to storm off dramatically.
However, as luck would have it, I tripped over my own foot. Whilst speeding toward the floor, I made a
sound that sounded something like "YERAAGH!" then I landed smack dab on my pregnant belly.
Gina stood up and looked. "Zelda, are you okay?"
"Don't worry," said Edwina, "her giant gut has cushioned her fall."
I groaned, feeling like a turtle on its back. Why is it that humans never developed the ability to
lay eggs? I hated being pregnant. The only good thing about it was not having a visit from "Aunt
Flow."
As I lifted my head, and pressed my palms into the sticky floor, so I that could get up, a man's
hand lowered in front of my face. I recognized that hand. It was someone I knew...all too well.
Chapter 48
It was Duncan, my sweet Duncan, the boy, now man, who I was once madly in love with in school. He
and Gina were married, and, despite their problems, I envied their relationship. Duncan was still quite
the looker too. He was in the same shape as he was in college, not having gained a single pound. He
was tall, muscular, had a strong, manly jaw, and broad shoulders you could rest your head on -- yet he
was gentle as a rabbit. His eyes were a deep blue, which matched his soothing voice.
"Are you okay?" he said, picking me up off the mall floor.
I held my belly. "I think I squashed my baby."
Duncan then angled his head, and gave me a proper (second) look.
"Zelda, is that really you?" he said. "Wow. I didn't know it was you."
What a swell guy. He came to my aid, thinking I was a total stranger.
"Duncan," I said, containing my excitement."Long time no see."
Me and Duncan shook hands. Then he gently put put his fingertips on my belly, giving me
goosebumps.
"So, you're pregnant, huh?" he said.

"I can't hide it," I said, "can I?"

"Actually, I would've never guessed," said Duncan. "You look in good shape -- considering the
circumstances."
I wondered exactly what he meant by that.
"D'you think I'm pretty?" I asked.
Gina and Edwina were staring our way, as if they could read lips. Duncan glanced over his
shoulder at them, and then turned back toward me.
"Of course," he said in a quiet but clear voice. "You always look pretty."
My cheeks turned bright red.
"Thanks," I said.
Duncan smiled. "What are you going to name your baby?"
"If things keep going the way they're going," I said, "I'll probably have to name her Charity."
"That's an interesting name," said Duncan.
"No, I was sorta trying to make a joke," I said. "Ask me why I'm naming her Charity."
"Why are you naming her Charity?" said Duncan.
"Because the way things are going," I said, "she'll probably be a charity case."
Duncan scratched his head. He didn't get it.
"Duncan," I said, desperately, "do you care about me?"
Duncan averted his gaze. I stared at him, awaiting a reply. Every second felt like an hour, every
minute a day. Perhaps he sensed my desperation? Yet I hoped he would say yes, I hoped that at least
someone on this un-Godly Earth would say that they cared for me, that they worried about me, that
they gave a damn whether I ended up in the gutter -- if not for me, but for the semi-formed human
being in my body.
Come on, Duncan. Help me out. Don't be a disappointment. Don't let me down like everyone
else. Don't be one of those people who pretends to care, but really doesn't. Don't be them. I need you
more than ever. The winter is here and its cold bite is unforgiving.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" said Duncan.
I sighed, "Never mind."
As I was about to walk away, Duncan took my hand, and told me, "I do care about you, Zelda.
But why are you asking about that now?"
I tried to hide my grin. I could see that Gina and Edwina were headed our way. So. hastily, I
grabbed Duncan's arm, and dragged him into the CD shop. There was no one around, except the clerk,
who was busy reading a comic book.
"Are you okay?" said Duncan.
"No," I said. "I'm not. I, I need your help."
"What is it?" said Duncan.
I explained my situation. The highs, the lows -- mostly the lows. But by the end of it I was sure
I had a friend. Or at least someone who had some sympathy for me.
"Okay, I can help you," said Duncan. "Just let me go ask Gina."
And before I knew it he was rushing back to go and see her. I told him to wait, but he didn't
seem to hear. I got worried about him announcing my dilemma to Gina, because I knew Edwina was
there, and she'd have no qualms reveling in my misery. I could already see her laughing.
Wait... No, that was happening right now.
"Ha-ha," said Edwina, "you're poor."
"I'm not poor," I said. "I'm struggling. There's a difference."
"And what's that?" said Edwina.
"Well," I said, "there's no precise definition, but a senior citizen once told me, 'When you're at
that point in your life, where you genuinely consider putting a wiener in your mouth for money that is
when you know you're poor.'"

"Eeyuck," said Duncan.

"Fear not," I said, "I am not that type of woman."
"Yah," said Edwina, "you're far worse."
As I glared, Duncan came between us.
"Please," Duncan told Edwina, "don't tease Zelda."
Edwina twisted her face in a most displeasing manner, like when a child doesn't get what it
wants. But we got back on topic, and Gina had some things to say.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm not comfortable with this idea."
"Aw, c'mon," said Duncan. "It's X-mas."
Gina stamped her foot. "It's not X-mas just because retailers have started promoting it already.
We're nowhere near X-mas. We haven't even removed the glow in the dark skeleton from our porch
yet."
"But it's December," said Edwina.
"But it feels like September," said Gina. "This whole global warming thingy is quite trendy."
"Well, the weatherman says it's going to snow," said Duncan, "and we might be headed for an
ice storm. I think we ought to take in Zelda. After all, she is, you know, PREGNANT."
"Exactly," said Gina, "and I don't want a crying baby in our house. It's going to wreak havoc on
our lives. Why do you think I got my tubes tied? For fun?"
Duncan was getting frustrated fighting my case. I could see it in the way he wrinkled his
eyebrows. I felt sorry for him, as I imagined these sorts of arguments were typical in his relationship.
Because Gina never was the "meet me in the middle" type of person. She usually got her way. Not for
nothing, but she was a pretty girl.
"Okay," said Duncan, "is that how it's gonna be? You're gonna leave this poor woman alone, in
the cold, to fend for herself? Just because she has a baby on the way? I mean so what if it makes a little
noise? Or a lot of noise? Why do we have to be Grinches when we got a spare room?"
"That isn't a spare room," said Gina. "It's where I do my yoga and my paintings of fruit."
"Fine, what about the couch?" said Duncan. "Can she stay there?"
"No," said Gina.
"Why not?" said Duncan.
"The baby," said Gina. "The noise, the noise, I can't stand the noise. Now, if Zelda didn't have a
baby maybe I'd think about considering letting her couch surf."
Duncan looked at my belly.
"But she doesn't have a baby," he said. "I think it's gonna be in there for a while."
"Are you kidding me?" said Edwina. "She looks like a hot air balloon."
I wanted to retaliate, and yell at Edwina's stupid, ugly face -- but was not in a position to do so.
Hands folded, I stood there quietly, trying to use psychic powers to influence the outcome of my
situation. I concentrated on Gina's face, sending imaginary signals to her brain. However, it was all in
vain.
"No," said Gina. "I refuse."
"But Gina," said Duncan.
"You can't make me," said Gina, "and don't try an' make me feel guilty. I'm not a bad person. I
don't see anyone else volunteering to help out. I don't see any famous millionaires, getting out an extra
set of keys for their house in the Hamptons."
Edwina sneered. "If you must know, I'm quite a generous person. I always give to charity, and
would help anyone in need..."
"Except for me," I said.
"See," said Edwina. "See how annoying she is. I hate when people finish my sentences.
Especially when you all know I'm a writer. I can write for myself, okay? I can devise my own lines, and
paragraphs, and chapters. I do it for a living. Very successfully too."

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Oh, get off it," I said. "You act like you're such a big deal. All you do is tap keys on a
computer, and make up bullshit. Anyone can do that."
"Yeah, anyone can do it poorly," said Edwina, "but what's it take to get it right? I'd say at least
half a brain -- which you don't seem to have!"
"Why, those are fighting words!" I said.
"Put up your dukes!" said Edwina.
Soon a squabble broke out. Me, Gina, and Edwina jumped down each other's throats -- in which
we reduced ourselves to the social skills of angry, high school teenagers. Because we talked trash, we
talked smack, we pointed fingers, we brought up anything remotely relevant, or even tangentially
related. Matters from years, and years ago came up, unresolved issues bubbled to the surface. Names
were dragged through the mud.
Our ruckus became so loud that a security guard stopped by to intervene. It wasn't enough that
Duncan was trying to get us to quiet down and return to a rational volume.
"Excuse me," said Stanley the security guard, "what in holy heck is going on here?"
Edwina spoke over me, "This woman is harassing us!"
Stanley as he tapped his nightstick in his palm.
"Is that true?" he said, looking my way.
"No, ot's not true," I said.
"She lies," said Edwina.
"Do you lie?" said Stanley.
"I cannot tell a lie," I said.
"Hmm, we must get to the bottom of this," said Stanley. "May I take a survey? Who here claims
this portly, blonde woman has been causing trouble?"
Gina and Edwina raised their hands. I looked at Duncan for help, but he gave me a "I'm staying
out of this" face.
"There we have it," said Stanley. "Democracy at work. Ma'am, would you please leave the
mall?"
"I shouldn't have to leave," I said. "I wasn't causing any trouble, and plus -- I was here first."
"First or last," said Stanley, "I would prefer it if you left. Please go, you are no longer wanted
here."
"But I'm being ganged up on," I said. "This, this isn't fair."
"Life's not fair," said Stanley, "and neither is my skin."
"You can't kick me out," I said. "I'm a customer."
"Have you bought anything?" said Stanley.
"I was thinking about it," I said.
"I'm sorry," said Stanley. "I'll have to escort you out."
He maneuvered behind me, with the deftness of a cat, and grabbed a hold of my arms. Duncan
tried speaking up for me, but still I found myself being dragged away. Only my heels touched the floor.
"I hope you're pleased," I said to Gina. (Gina was not pleased.) "I did so much for you, and this
is how you repay me? Karma will return to bite you in your ass... When I die, I'm going to come back
to earth, as a ghost, and haunt you! I won't be a friendly ghost either, not like that pussy Casper!"
"Quiet down now," said Stanley.
He put his hand around my mouth to keep my silent, then shoved me out the door. I turned back
in protest, but he used his keys on a hoop to lock me out. There was no way to return inside, unless I
were to break the glass.
"You won't hear the last of me!" I said from outside.
"In that case," said Stanley, "should I call the cops?"
"NO, no...no, don't do that," I said. "I'll behave."

"Good," said Stanley, then he walked away like I was nothing.

And so, it was my fate to stand outside in the cold, and what did yah know, the snow started to
fall. What is this? Nunavut?
Chapter 49
With nowhere to go, I wandered the city aimlessly. As the snow fell on my hair, I thought about a story
that my mom used to tell me. Whenever it snowed, she said, God was battling Satan. The snowflakes
were a result of God putting out Satan's flames.
I really thought it was a stupid story, but never told that to her face. If I did I probably would've
got slapped. My mom and my dad would hit me a lot growing up, they'd call me names, and put me
down. But what really irritated me was they'd never do that to my sister, Shirley. They'd spoil her. Get
her whatever she wanted. Shower her with gifts, just because she was pretty, and popular. Popular
because she was pretty. However, if I wanted anything I had to beg for it. Nothing was handed to me
just because. It was always hard won.
Looking back at my childhood, I guess it explained a lot about my personality -- particularly
why I was in a relationship with Harris for so, so long. It was because I was used to abuse. It was
normal for me. My experience of "love" was through the lens of someone constantly being mistreated. I
never really had the bright idea that it wasn't normal, and it wasn't to be tolerated. Yet I hung on,
thinking that was just how it worked.
Once I realized that I deserved better, I left, and now it all came to this. Me, walking around, in
a thin jacket, under the snow, in the wind, trying to blow off steam, looking for something, human or
not, to turn me around in the right direction. Perhaps, serendipity would be on my side.
I turned a corner. I slowed down as I came to a shop window. There were old items on display,
like film cameras, black and white TVs, and paper books. I looked up, and saw that this was for a
charity shop.
I liked charity shops. I went inside to see what they had for sale. It was quite plain inside, with
white floors, fluorescent lighting, and beige metal shelves. There was an assortment of miscellaneous
items around, but they mostly had clothes, which were kept on circular racks. IT reminded me of an old
store I visited once called Zellers, which I think is now no longer is in business.
I went to the clothing section to see what they had. I was in the market for a sweater or a winter
jacket. They had lots of them actually, but none of them were to my liking. Lots of them were stained,
stitched up, too bright in color, or just not my size.
A Filipino lady in a blue vest was walking by. I stopped her to ask for help.
"Excuse me," I said. "Could you please help me find some clothes?"
Mindy sighed, "Extra-extra-extra large clothes are kept at the back."
"Thank you," I said sarcastically.
I went to the back of the shop and browsed around. While doing so I met a young woman
named Syndi. She had pink hair, star tattoos on her face, and two big hoops in her ears. Not like
earrings though. These hoops stretched out her ears, so that each had a huge hole in the middle. I asked
her about it, reluctantly, and she told me they were called gauges. The gauges sorta made me feel
uncomfortable, because I had a strong urge to stick my hand through one of them.
But I didn't. We kept talking and got on the topic of pregnancy.
"I could never have kids," said Syndi. "Yah, like, that's stretches out your whole vag. Doesn't
it?"
"It goes back to its original form factor," I said. "I think."
"Still the responsibility of having a kid," said Sydni, "it'd be soooooo annoying. It'd be all
WAH-WAH-THIS and WAH-WAH-THAT. I'm surprised the human species has continued on for as
long as it has."

"You're not wrong there," I said. "There will be bad times -- but good times too. And in the end
it'll make you happy. You'll be glad you did it."
"How do you know?" said Syndi. "You haven't even squatted that thing out yet. What if it grows
up to become a serial killer?"
"What are the chances of that?" I said.
"Not for nothing," said Syndi, "but white people are kinda crazy."
"You're a white person," I said.
"And that's how I know about it," said Syndi. "Just think about it, okay? Think about the world's
greatest atrocities... The Holocaust. The Atomic Bomb. The Spanish Inquisition. Slavery. Microsoft
Windows. All made by white people."
"But that's so long ago," I said.
"That doesn't matter," said Syndi. "It still applies today. You don't believe me? Go ahead and get
into an argument with a white person. The shit they say is mental. It's off the rails. Especially when
they threaten you, they get really, really nasty. A black person will be like, 'I'm a gonna shot you in the
head.' A white person will be like, 'I'm gonna rip your balls off. Then I'm gonna make you eat them.
Then when you take a shit, and shit out your own balls, I will take that shit, and stuff it down your
throat. You will eat your balls twice.'"
I struggled to think of reply.
"Interesting," I said.
"Yah," said Syndi, "so, like, you come here a lot?"
"No," I said. "It's my first time. Actually, to tell you the truth I'm kind of embarrassed."
"Why?" said Syndi. "They have some rockin' vintage clothes here."
"Vintage?" I said.
"Yah," said Syndi. "Real retro stuff."
"You mean old?" I said.
"No, not old," said Syndi. "Retro, vintage, blast from the past. But not old. Old is for people
who wee themselves."
"I see," I said.
"But yah," said Syndi, twirling her finger around in the big hole in her ear, "I'm not just here for
the vintage clothes. I'm also trying to save some money."
"That's very level headed of you," I said.
"I have to," said Syndi, "I'm poor."
"I'm sorry to hear," I said.
"Thanks," said Syndi. "It is rough being poor, you know." She took out her cellphone. "Look at
this."
"What about it?" I said.
"It's a Nokia," she declared.
"What's wrong with Nokia?" I said.
"All my friend have Apple," said Syndi. "Like damn them."
"Hey, not having exactly what other people have doesn't make you poor," I said. "There's
nothing wrong with what you got."
"Don't judge me," said Syndi. "You don't know what it's like to be me. You don't know what it's
like to be in true poverty. You don't know what it's like to be a poor college student. You know, my car
is almost 10 years old. What do you have?"
"I don't have a car," I said.
Syndi, who wasn't listening to me, continued her diatribe.
"Like, why can't the government do something to help out poor people, instead of lining their
pockets all the time?" she said. "They're so greedy. Just print out some money, and give it to people!
How hard is that?!"

"I don't think that's how economics works," I said.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" said Syndi. "A greedy, capitalist pig. Well, let me, like, tell
you something, capitalism has failed us."
"Fine, what's your alternative?" I said. "Communism?"
"That sure would be better than what we have now," said Syndi.
"How'd you figure?" I said. "Aren't Chinese people amongst the poorest in the world?"
"Like what's this got to do with Chinese people?" said Syndi. "They're stealing our jobs, right?
Everything these days is made in China. Those scummy, slitty, eyed monkeys. Ruining it for the rest of
us! This is why I'm dirt poor."
"So, first you're poor," I said, "now you're dirt poor?".
Syndi twirled her finger in her hair.
"Hey, listen," I said. "You are not poor, okay? You have a car, and a cellphone, and you're in
college, learning, and getting an education, and doing it in one of the best countries in the world. So,
just because some people have things a little nicer than you does not make you poor. Just because you
can't afford everything you want does not make you poor. Just because you are struggling a little does
not make you poor."
I continued ranting. "My friend, no, you are not poor. You know who's poor? People who have
to shit in holes they dug themselves. You are just being self-centered and indulging in self-pity. And the
reason why is because now that you're semi-independent, and mommy and daddy aren't paying for
everything, you are in shock at what the real world is like, and your brain is struggling with the idea
that people actually have to work and buy their own stuff on a daily basis. But you gotta grow up, and
deal with it like an adult, rather than acting a victim when clearly you are not.... Instead of whining,
whining, whining, and complaining, thinking you've got it tougher than anyone else, try being positive
for once. Stop being so down on everything, especially your own situation. Focus on what you have
rather than what you don't have. Stop the comparing. Stop being jealous. Stop thinking that the world
owes you something. And stop acting like everyone is against you. For Godsakes have some
perspective."
I let out a big breath after my long winded adult-talking-to-young-person lecture.
"Excuse me," said Syndi, "but I do work, and at that very hard too. FYI: I'm in customer
service. It is literally the hardest job in the world."
"Again with the hyperbole," I said. "What exactly do you do, anyway? Do you work at a WalMart? K-Mart? McDonald's? Sears? Zellers, Tim Hortons, the Bay, what?"
"I happen to work at a department store," said Syndi. "Which I prefer not to name."
"Okay," I said, "so, you think the job you have is the hardest in the world, do you?"
"Of course," said Syndi. "The customers -- ! I wish I could take a gun in shoot them all in the
face."
"First off," I said, "if it weren't for the customers you wouldn't have a job. Secondly, I used to
work at a grocery store. It's not that hard. Sure, you have to deal with the dick-hole customer every now
and again, but it's not the dilemma you're making it out to be. Most people, surprise, are polite.... You
wanna know what a real hard job is? Try being a marine. When a customer gives a marine an earful at
their workplace it's usually accompanied with a bullet. So, are you saying your job is worse than
theirs?"
"Why are you jumping down my throat, and questioning my intelligence like this?" said Syndi.
"Do you hate me because I'm beautiful?"
"No, I'm telling you this stuff," I said, "because you're young and you don't realize how good
you have it. I'm trying to help you out here. I'm telling you that your life isn't as bad as you think it is.
So, enjoy it while you can, while you're young, and while you got some energy to do things, instead of
frittering it away by grousing about everything under the sun. Remember, lots of people have it way
worse than you. Look at Helen Keller. She had it pretty rough, but did you ever hear a peep out of her?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute here," said Syndi.

"What?" I said.
"You're complaining about me complaining too much," said Syndi. "Don't you see the irony
here?"
"Like most people, I don't know what the term irony actually means. So, no," I said, "I do not
see the irony."
Syndi sighed. She folded her arms and rolled her eyes.
"Whatever," she said.
It was in that precise moment I believed everything we talked about seconds earlier emptied out
from her brain. Afterward, she touched my belly. "So, like, what's the deal with the baby?"
"What do you mean?" I said.
"What're you gonna name it?" said Syndi.
"Not sure yet," I said.
"Hm, doesn't sound like you're too attached to it," said Syndi. "In that case maybe you could
abort it. I bet you probably think children are the future, and everything, but telling by the way you
look, I don't think you could afford it. You look poor."
"Sorry, I don't think I can do an abortion," I said. (Speaking on the matter of legality.)
"But, but it's a woman's right to abort babies," Syndi stammered. "Every woman should do it at
least once in her life. Take the opportunity to express yourself. Be a real feminist and don't let anyone
dissuade you. Remember: it's your body, no one else's, you can do what you want with it."
"I don't think having an abortion makes you a feminist," I said. "Nor is it something to be
admired. And to be Anne Frank I don't buy this 'do whatever the hell you want with your fetus because
it's your body argument.' Yeah, it is my body, but I'm sharing the space with someone else. To me it's
akin to renting. When you rent, the landlord owns your place, but that doesn't mean he can do whatever
he want to it, while you're there. He can't set it on fire, or take your stuff, or drill holes in the walls, and
spy on you while you're showering. Because that's wrong, and there's a limit to what he can do with his
own property when other people are staying there."
"That's different," said Syndi. "You're talking about real estate. I'm talking about human beans."
"My thinking," I explained, "can be applied elsewhere too, if you'd like."
"Oh yeah?" said Syndi with a haughty tone of attitude.
"Oh yeah," I said. "For example, let's say, oh, I dunno, you went in for surgery. But in the
middle of it a surgeon decides to skip off for a nap because he feels, and you die on the operating table.
Then when the surgeon is questioned, he goes, 'Well, it's my body, I can do what I want with it.' Is that
a proper excuse? Of course not. Because there's something we all have, and it's called: responsibility.
We all have obligations, inconvenient or not, to do the right thing. I mean look, if you don't wanna raise
a kid that's fine, but don't murder it. Have it and give it to someone else, who can grow it into a fine,
young adult."
"Hmph, you're one of those, eh?" said Syndi.
"One of what?" I said.
"An abortion shamer!" said Syndi. "Abortion shaming! Abortion shaming!" She poked me in
the belly. "There is nothing wrong with abortions, lady! Get on the right team, and have that abortion
like a real woman...unless you're for the patriarchy?!"
"Listen, I can't have an abortion, okay?" I said. "That's final. How come people keep
encouraging me to abort my baby?"
"So, you're gonna wuss out, huh?" said Syndi. "I can't believe you're supporting the men, after
all they've done to us. Why you wouldn't want an abortion? It's making use of your rights. It's like
voting. It's a good thing. It's helping the female species."
"Is it?" I said. "Are you aware that in China women have abortions to abort female fetuses?
Yeah, so they can have males instead. What do you think about that?"

"That is irrelevant," said Syndi. "I am talking about our society. Not some country in Africa."
Africa?
"You should abort your baby," said Syndi. "Wait... Why am I calling it a baby? It's not even a
baby. It's worthless genetic material, like semen, or spit, or a chicken egg."
"Please don't compare my BABY to spit," I said. "Or a chicken egg."
"Just do the abortion," said Syndi.
"No," I said. "It's not possible, and anyways if it were, my answer would still be the same: N-O.
I am against abortions. They are evil! You're killing someone, so that you won't inconvenience yourself.
How selfish is that?"
"Why, how dare you, madam," said Syndi. "How dare you speak against abortions like that. Ayn
Rand fought hard and long to get you these rights, and you slap her in the face like that?!"
What was this girl going on about? Was she real, or was I having a hallucination? Why was I
still standing here? I couldn't take it anymore.
"Excuse me," I said, "I must be going now. And by the way the spelling of your name is
ridiculous."
Syndi looked offended. I didn't care. I grabbed a winter jacket off the rack in my size, but not in
my color, and headed to the checkout. I slapped the jacket down onto the counter. Mindy, the cashier
(read from her name tag), looked up at me.
"Hello, and how are you?" said Mindy.
"I'm, I'm okay," I said.
"You don't sound okay," said Mindy.
"Aw, it's nothing," I said. "I was just arguing with someone. They told me to get an abortion.
Can you believe it?"
"Ah, what did you say?" said Mindy.
"I told her that I couldn't," I said.
"Good choice," said Mindy. "Jesus Christ would be proud of you."
"Thanks," I said.
"I got pregnant once," said Mindy. "My boyfriend kept encouraging me to get an abortion. I told
him no, and went ahead with the pregnancy."
"That's really courageous of you," I said.
"Thanks," said Mindy. "It's too bad my kid is a retard."
"That's not a nice thing to say," I said.
"No, really," said Mindy. "Look, he's here in the store."
Mindy tilted her head, directing my eyes to a man of at least 20 years, skipping over an
imaginary rope, and going "la-la-la." He was odd looking, with overly big eyes, and a tongue that hung
out his mouth, all limp, and loose. I looked down at my belly, and wondered whether I might give birth
to a child with special needs.
"That's, er, nice," I said. "He's cute."
Mindy scanned my jacket, and the price total came up, which she announced.
"$27.67," she said.
I got out my wallet, and found that I only had $10.00. Mindy tapped her fingers, waiting on me
as I thought of an excuse. My brain wasn't functioning properly, and neither was my ability to control
my sweat, which was dripping down my forehead. I stammered, trying to come up with an idea that
would save me from embarrassment.
At this very moment Syndi appeared.
"Greetings, all," she said chipper as ever.
"Excuse me," said Mindy in curt tone, "but I'm afraid you have to leave the store."
"Why?" said Syndi. "Don't you like me?"
"No one likes you," said Mindy. "You come in here, and you go to the back, and you do your

drugs. Then you pester our customers. Why can't you go somewhere else? Out of all the places
somebody would choose to stay this makes the least amount of sense...or considering your state of
mind actually it makes the most amount of sense. EITHER WAY, I don't want you hanging out here
anymore. Okay?"
"You're mean," said Syndi. "Can't you see I'm only here because I want to have contact with
human beings? I have no friends. My family doesn't speak to me anymore, and my mom, who did used
to speak to me, died. Also, this the only place that won't call the cops on me."
"That's because," said Mindy, "they won't come here. They say it's too dangerous."
"Well, well," said Syndi, "their loss. Now they won't get to meet all the wonderful people we
have here......................... Hello, Margaret, Hello, Jillian, Hello, bobby, sue, tOm, DicK, ShEila,
HaRRy, h0w R we all dooin taday??? HAW! HAW!! HaW1! Yesssss, I wood Like to go 2 on dat tripp
with u, but i'M short of cash at the moment. Take some from the till, u say?????? Don't mind IF i do!"
Then in the blink of an eye Syndi sprung over the checkout counter, and ripped out the drawer
from the cash register. She took it, and flung it into the air. As the drawer made its way down to Earth
my wallet was knocked to the floor, and became entangled in the explosion of money. Coins and bills
went everywhere.
"Holy crap!" said Mindy. "What do you think you're doing?"
Syndi put her hand in front of her face, then pulled it away as if tearing away a mask.
"I AM THE ABORTION QUEEN," she said. "Fear me! Tremble at my presence! Above all,
FEEED ME!"
And she grabbed my belly with a claw-like grip, and tried ripping my fetus out of my body. As I
screamed for help this drug-addled woman chanted, foaming at the mouth, "Babies, babies, yum-yumyum!"
Mindy yelled at her, "Let go of her!"
Mindy got out a broom and began thwacking Syndi on the head. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Syndi, however, was able to resist the onslaught. I, on the other hand, felt a crushing pain in my belly. I
felt like my baby was being squeezed to death. I pulled away, and fell on my ass.
Syndi jumped up, and did some sorta weird tribal dance, then ran opposite to me and the shop
clerk, and literally ran straight through the glass door.
(When I say literally, I mean literally as in it actually happened, not like in the misused sense,
where people use the term literally in a very, very ridiculous way. For example, they'll say something
like, "My mind was literally blown!"
No! No! Impossible! Your mind was not literally blown, otherwise you'd be dead. But then they
say, "Relax. It's only hyperbole." Okay, I get that, but guess what? It's stupid. So, so stupid. The phrase
"my mind is blown" alone is already hyperbole. You don't need to say "literally" to drive the point
home about your exaggeration. If you do you are being totally redundant. Learn to use the English
language properly, Goddamn you.)
"Holy crap," said Mindy, referring to the shards of glass. "I'll have to clean that up."
"What a shame," I said, sarcastically.
Then I got up and dusted off my bottom.
Mindy looked at me. My shirt was torn at the bottom.
"You okay?" she said.
I stared back at Mindy.
"Actually," I said, "I think I'll be f..."
Something inside of me was wrong. I felt a popping sensation in my belly, and then there was
wetness running down, between my legs. I could feel it. It was warm and slippery. My pants became
damp. It had looked like I peed myself.
"Omigod," said Mindy. "Did you just pee yourself?"
A lump formed in my throat. "I think my water broke."

Chapter 50
Mindy screamed, "You're pregnant?!"
"Yeah, I know," I grumbled, "you just thought I was fat."
"We have to get you hospital right away," said Mindy.
"You mean THE hospital?" I said in a strained voice.
"Yes, hospital," said Mindy. "You wait here. I'm going to call the ambulance."
Mindy grabbed the store phone, which was was a rotary style phone, and began dialing.
Meanwhile, I spent my time groaning, and clutching at my belly.
"Hurry," I said. "I'm about to burst."
"Hang on," said Mindy, "I'm trying my best. I'm not getting through."
I leaned against the checkout counter. I was breathing heavily. In and out, in and out. I felt like
one of those people in the movie "Alien." You know, where the alien bursts through that man's chest?
Yeah, that one.
Mindy looked at me like she was stumped. "They said that a pregnancy is not a medical
emergency, and won't send an ambulance."
"Seriously?" I said.
"So serious," said Mindy.
"Fine," I said, "I'll take the bus."
"No bus," said Mindy. "They're on strike."
"Why?" I said.
"They want more money," said Mindy. "The head of the union says a living wage isn't enough. I
don't know what that means. Living wage? If you don't having a living wage does that mean you're
dead? Like a zombie?"
I grunted, "Honestly, I don't know."
"Hey, how about you call a taxicab?" said Mindy. "They can get you to the hospital for sure."
"I can't afford a taxicab," I said.
"Why not?" said Mindy.
"I'm shopping in a charity shop for clothes," I said. "I'm not exactly flush with cash."
"Okay," said Mindy, "I'm going to take you to hospital."
"Really?" I said enthusiastically. "You have a car? Thank God."
"No, I don't have a car," said Mindy.
"Then how're we going to get to the hospital?" I said. "Bicycle?"
"No, but we will use wheels," said Mindy.
Then she sprinted away, and returned in a moment. She was pushing along a wheelchair.
"Get in," she said.
Without hesitation I sat down.
"Hospital's only a few minutes away," said Mindy. "We can get there in time. I hope."
Mindy began pushing me. I sorta felt relaxed now that someone was taking care of me.
"Wait," I said, "I dropped my wallet."
Mindy backtracked, and bent over. She found my wallet amidst her exploded cash drawer. She
picked it up, and gave it to me.
"Thank you," I said. As we were about to go off... "Wait." I looked inside my wallet. "I'm
missing some money."
"How much?" said Mindy.
I really only had $10.00 before the incident, but needed enough cash for the winter jacket I had
buy. I lied, and, like a politician, inflated the number.
"$50.00," I said.

"Are you lying?" said Mindy.

"Erm, no," I said, defensively. "Why would I, erm, do that? I'm no crook."
"Okay," said Mindy.
She shrugged her shoulders, scooped up some cash from the floor, and gave me $50.
"Wait." I pointed to the bright, fluorescent winter jacket I picked out, and left on the counter.
"Before we leave could I buy that, please?"
Mindy took the winter jacket, and put it around me.
I presented Mindy with $30.00.
"It's alright," said Mindy. "You keep it."
"No, no, it's not right," I said.
(It really wasn't.)
"I can't take it," said Mindy. "You have a baby on the way. You need lots of money to raise it.
You keep your money."
"Are you sure?" I said.
"Yes," said Mindy. "I'm not greedy. As long as I have my job, and I win millions of dollars in
the lottery, one day, I should be fine."
Sincerely, I said, "Good luck."
Mindy started pushing me in the wheelchair. She wheeled me through the frame of the broken
glass door. It was cold, but my new used jacket kept me warm. I looked back at Mindy.
"Are you sure you can abandon your shop like this?" I said. "Shouldn't we at least clean the
money off the floor? Or seal the door with some plastic?"
"Ain't nobody got time for dat," said Mindy.
"I am really sorry about everything that happened though," I said.
"It's fine," said Mindy.
Mindy and I stopped at the traffic lights. On the corner we waited for the sign to tell us to walk.
I was controlling my breathing, afraid that my little baby would accidentally pop out. Despite having a
winter jacket on, and being relatively warm, and sitting in a wheelchair, I was sweating profusely.
Mindy noticed, and gently dabbed my forehead with a napkin she took out from her back pocket.
"You look nervous," she said.
"I've never been pregnant before," I said. "Is it anything like the movies?"
"Yes," said Mindy. "It's exactly like the movies."
"Really?" I said. "That's kinda surprising."
"Please note," said Mindy, "I am being sarcastic."
"Oh..." I said.
"But don't worry," said Mindy. "Having a baby is easy business, if you've got a really big
vagina. Do you have a big vagina?"
"I don't know," I said. "These things are sort of hard to measure."
"Never mind," said Mindy. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
The lights turned green. The sign told us to walk. Mindy started pushing me across the street.
While we were making our way through, a Chinese man in a very expensive car, started honking his
horn at us. I could tell by his lips he was saying "hurry the fuck up" as he tried to make his turn.
I was furious, absolutely furious, but Mindy was calm, and she slowed us down to a snail's pace.
I wasn't even sure she was pushing me. What was she doing? Was it intentional? The Chinaman in the
car was honking his horn more and more, until someone tapped on his window, and told him to roll it
down.
It was a police officer.
"Excuse me," he said, "do you mind not honking your horn so much at these two ladies? One of
them is in a wheelchair."
The driver was flabbergasted.

"Also," added the police officer, "I'm going to have to give you a ticket."
"Why?" said the driver.
"Driving with a cracked windshield," said the police officer. "It's a safety issue, because it
obscures your vision."
"What? I don't have a cracked windshield," said the driver.
The police officer took out his extendable baton, and swung it down, and cracked the driver's
windshield. I guess it was a bit more than a crack.
"See, right there," he pointed. "Do you see it?"
The driver gnashed his teeth. I could see he wanted to say something bad so bad, but had to bite
his tongue.
"Hey, something wrong with you?" said the police officer. "You're not saying anything. Are you
a mute?"
"No, officer," said the driver. "Am I free to go now?"
When me and Mindy got to the other side of the street, she looked back, and waved at the police
officer. The police officer smiled, and waved back.
"You know him?" I said.
"He's my cousin," said Mindy with a smile.
I smiled back, then we continued on our way. After a couple of minutes we reached an empty
street, which I noticed sloped down precipitously. I stretched out my neck trying to get a better look;
however, the plethora of dead post lights did not allow me to see.
I shivered, and said, "Maybe we should take another route."
"We have to," said Mindy. "Your water's broke. There isn't much time left. Dillydallying is not
an option."
"But I feel okay," I said. "I..." I suddenly arched my back."Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh! Bloody Jesus
Christ!"
"Oh, no, it's happening, it's happening," said Mindy. "The contractions are growing like a
cancer. We must get you to the hospital ASAP."
"Fine," I grunted, my back in pain. "Let's get going then -- !"
"Worry not," said Mindy. "This is a very good shortcut. Just hang on tight."
"Wait," I said. "I..."
But before I could say anymore, we were off. Mindy pushed the wheelchair, and latched onto
the back. We went racing down the sloping street. I screamed, telling her to stop. However, at the speed
we were going it was next to impossible.
Chapter 51: Diary Entry #84
Dearest Diary,
I think I'm depressed. I don't know how much longer I can last in this relationship. I love Harris, but
he's been wearing me down. He's not the person I thought he was. Last night I tried to coax him into
taking me on a date. He said we couldn't afford it, then he pinched my arm, and told me to stop being a
gold digger.
I suppose he has a reason to be angry with me. But he always seems to be angry with me, like I
can't do anything right whatsoever. He makes me feel like a failure of a human being. I can't believe
how much he's changed. Hot and cold that one. It makes me wonder if male PMS is actually a thing.
Maybe medical science will find out one day.
Chapter 52

Eventually we crashed. We rolled down the street, and jumped over a curb. Thankfully, we arrived at
the hospital. Mindy helped me up. I dusted the snow off my face, then my belly.
"You okay?" said Mindy.
"I think so," I said.
"What a crash landing, huh," said Mindy. "But at least we got here fast."
I pressed my hang against my back, which was aching -- not just from the pregnancy though.
"Thanks for all the help," I said.
"No problem," said Mindy.
I picked up the wheelchair and sat back down in it.
"Okay," I said, "let's go."
"Wait," said Mindy. "I have to leave."
She looked at her watch.
"But, but," I said, "I don't have anyone else."
"I have to get back to the shop," said Mindy. "I can't leave it unattended for too long. The
manager is dropping by for employee evaluations. If he sees I'm not there again, I'll be fired."
"But," I said.
"I promise," said Mindy, "I'll come back to the hospital to check on you. I am not abandoning
you. Actually, technically, I am abandoning you, but only temporarily. To save my job."
"It's okay," I said. "I think I can manage on my own."
Mindy stepped behind the wheelchair. "You need a little push?"
"I'm fine," I said. "A bit sore, but I think I can wheel myself inside. Thank you... Really, I mean
that. Thank you, Mindy."
"Wait," said Mindy. "I don't even know your name."
"You don't?" I said. "I'm sure I told you."
"Don't remember," said Mindy.
"My name is Zelda," I said.
"Nice to meet you," said Mindy. She shook my hand. "Good luck with the baby."
Then we both said goodbye to each other, and I was left alone. I grasped the handrims of my
wheelchair (the rings on the outside used to turn the wheel), and away I didn't go. I was so weak, so
lethargic, I couldn't bring myself forward. I struggled with maintaining a grip. After trying for a minute,
I was out of breath.
I got up, onto my feet, and decided I would walk the distance. Though it was only about 50 feet
away, it felt the distance of trip to India, or some other far away country. Because my legs were
wobbling, and I could hardly stand. Yet I persevered, the troop I was, I went forward. Struggling,
sliding my feet through the snow, I got to the front entrance...
...Where I barfed all over my own feet. Undeterred, I kicked my legs to throw off the vomit,
wiped my shoes on the ground, then went through the emergency entrance. I walked along to the
waiting area. It was packed with people. There was a good lot coughing up their lungs, and senior
citizens clutching at their chests, begging for help. There was a man screaming in pain about his
kidney stones, meanwhile another person with a hatchet in their leg was quietly reading a book.
Mad as it was, I went in, and waddled over to the reception area to check in. A beast of a man,
who was in a bright white getup, unfolded his arms.
"Can I help you?" said Baxter the male nurse.
I struggled to speak, yet my incredible sense of humor remained in tact.
"I need to squat out a baby," I replied in a gruff manner. "ASAP."
Baxter took some time to look at a most official-looking clipboard. I think he was trying to
figure out the triage.
"Mm'kay," he said, "I'll just need you to do a couple things first."
He gave me a credit card reader.

"What's all this then?" I said.

"Before we can admit you into the hospital to deliver your baby," he said, "we'll need you to pay
in advance. Or pay cash."
"That's insane," I said.
"We're a business first, and a hospital second," said Baxter.
"Oh, c'mon," I said. "You know I'm good for the money. I'll owe you back later."
"We can't take that chance," said Baxter.
"But I don't have a credit card," I said. "Some asshole cut it up, because he thought I was
wasting money."
"If you recall," said Baxter, "we have the option for you to pay in cash. Do you have any cash?"
"How much does it cost to deliver a baby again?" I said.
Baxter rolled his eyes like I was an absolute idiot.
"$10,000," he said.
"Christ almighty," I said, "you expect anyone to have that amount of money in cash?"
"Most people have credit cards," said Baxter.
"Either way," I said, "I can't afford this."
Baxter sighed.
"If you can't afford to have a medically supervised birthing," he said, "then you should've
aborted your baby. I mean it's juts a clump of cells. Or is it a bundle of cells? I forget now. I passed
university by cheating -- on my wife. Slept with all my female professors, I did."
I couldn't believe it.
"You're a terrible person," I said in a raised voice. "How dare you tell me that I should've
aborted my lovely baby. I will never abort my baby! I will love it, and protect it, and care for it as long
as I live. I will be by its side 23 hours a day."
"And the extra hour?" said Baxter.
"That's me time," I said. "Everyone gotta have time for themselves, y'know."
"Anyways," said Baxter, "I guess you can't abort this one. But the next time that you get
knocked up please seriously consider it. For your sake."
"No," I said vehemently. "I'm not going to abort anything. Because I never give up, and I never
quit. I'm like legs. Legs that don't quit."
"Lady," said Baxter. "How are you going to eke out an existence, if you keep pumpin' out babies
like an Irish woman? You're broke as fuck. I mean look at your horrible jacket. Looks like you picked it
out of a 1990s dumpster."
"I did not pick it out of a dumpster," I said. "It's vintage. It's all the rage these days. Also, I may
be broke, but I'll have you know that I am crafting a novel as we speak. And I am going to be a
successful writer one day."
Baxter rolled his eyes and groaned.
"What? What?" I said.
"I hate writers," said Baxter. "I knew someone once that was a writer. He was a miserable,
depressed, antisocial, wretch of a human being. Which is fine, but he was so full of himself. And of
course why not? You have to be a narcissist to want to be a writer in the first place. I mean there you
are, sitting in front of a typewriter, trying to create this imaginary world, because you don't think what
already exists is good enough for you. It's mental masturbation."
"You're wrong," I said, "most writers use computers. Not typewriters. What year do you think it
is? 1942?"
"Okay," said Baxter, "but my point still stands."
I folded my arms.
"I haven't offended you, have I?" said Baxter.
"You have offended me," I said, "but I will defend to death your right to say it."

"To the death?" said Baxter.

"Well, no, not to the death," I said. "Maybe I'd get a paper cut for you."
Baxter looked behind me. There was a line forming.
"Excuse me," said Baxter, "but you'll have to leave. Unless you have some money now."
I hit the counter with my fist. "You expect me to have $10,000 on hand? I know it doesn't really
cost that much to deliver a baby. You're just being...
"Being what?" said Baxter.
"Unfair!" I said.
"Lady," said Baxter, "it's not automatically unfair, just because you say so. People have to make
a living for themselves. We can't do this for nothing. We all work very hard here. Doctors have to go to
into hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt, give up their social lives, and go to school for an extra
ten years -- is it so wrong that they are trying to recoup their investment of time and money?"
"Maybe," I said.
Then an old, one-toothed man, with a big white beard, who was wearing a tie-dye t-shirt chimed
in.
"Damn Skippy!" he said. "The corporations have gone out of control! Profits, profits, profits,
that's all you care about! How about people before profits?! Can't you guys ever be generous? Fer
gawdsakes help out your fellow man."
"Oh," said Baxter, "and I take it you're someone who donates to charity on a regular basis?"
"No," said Skippy, "I'm not a millionaire. Not like you. Look at you and all of yer fancy teeth."
"I'm not a millionaire," said Baxter. "Also, most people my age have all of their teeth in place."
"Ye, that's yer opinion," said Skippy.
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm about to have a baby here. Can I get any help whatsoever?"
Baxter handed me a pamphlet entitled: "So, you're having a baby!"
"What am I to do with this?" I said.
"Read it," said Baxter.
"I'm ten minutes away from having a baby!" I said.
"It's a pamphlet," said Baxter. "It won't take more than three minutes to get through."
"Please," I begged, "can't I pay you guys later? Aren't you legally obligated to help me?"
"This isn't Canada," said Baxter. "Now, go away, or I'll have security drag you out."
Baxter pointed to two butch-looking ladies with nightsticks. They were smacking them in the
palms of their hands, staring at me.
"Fine, I'm going," I said, "but I'll be back."
"Good luck," said Baxter.
Didn't know whether he was being sarcastic, but I sure was miffed off. I stormed out of the
hospital. At the moment I left, I started feeling woozy, and sick. There were immense pains in my belly,
back, and legs. I wobbled around, thinking what to do. I circled around, and found myself at the back of
the hospital, where no one else was.
I was beside a dumpster. I could smell a stench that burnt my nose. I sat down on my bottom,
and took off my pants, and underwear. I spread my legs. There was nothing else I could do. It was
going to come out. This was it.
Chapter 53
I screamed ungodly profanity, then with a heave, my baby came out. I took a deep breath. Sore and
dizzy, my sense were barely functioning. There was a pool of blood rested around my bottom, and it
was only after several minutes that I looked at the newborn which had left my body.
I picked it up, into my arms, and saw it was a girl. But I became worried because it was so
quiet. I did what I had to do. I put it into my palm, face down, and smacked its back. When it cried, I

decided it was the perfect moment to cut the cord.

Using a Swiss Army knife from my purse, I flipped out the scissors, and snipped the umbilical
cord. Blood rushed out the umbilical cord, adding to the mess already surrounding me. Not that it
mattered, because I was outside.
"Oh, God," I said to myself.
I picked up my baby again and bundled it into my new-used winter jacket. Despite the wintery
weather, I didn't feel cold. I was sweating profusely. Giving birth had taken a lot out of me, especially
blood. I had so little energy, I couldn't even stand up. I just sat on my bottom, waiting to recuperate...
Then I passed out.
Chapter 54
A waving, white light woke me up. I opened my eyes. There was a police officer shining his flashlight
at me.
"'Scuse me, ma'am," said the police officer, "but you can't but you can't be staying here."
"Where am I?" I said.
I rubbed my eyes and looked around. I wasn't in the same place I was in before. I was on an
unknown street, sitting by the gutter.
"Ah, you're drunk," said the police officer. "I'm warning you though, if you get belligerent, I
will pepper spray you in the eyes."
He put his hand on his utility belt.
"I'm not drunk," I said, "I just had a baby."
"Where is this baby then, hmm?" said the police officer.
I peered down into my arms. My winter jacket had returned to me, but no baby. After gasping
thoroughly, I sprang up in a panic. My eyes darted. My head jerked left to right.
"Baby," I yelled, "where are you?!? BABY!!!"
"Calm down," said the police officer, "I think I know where it is."
"You do?" I said.
The police officer stood by the newspaper dispenser box and tapped the plastic window, using
his baton.
"Over here," he said.
I looked into the newspaper box. There was my baby girl, fully clothed, wrapped in a blanket,
laying on a stack of newspapers. To be honest, it looked quite comfy in there, and Japanese.
"How did she get in there?" I said. "Omigod. I actually pulled a Homer Simpson."
"Never mind the mystery of how your baby got in there," said the police officer. "Get her out."
"Right," I said.
I got out my wallet and looked in the change pocket. There were only two quarters in there,
which I kept in case I had to make a phone call. But it wasn't enough. A newspaper was 75 cents.
"Go on," said the police officer.
"I only have 50 cents," I said. "You know, like the rapper."
"I don't care for rap music," said the police officer.
"Do you have a quarter to spare?" I asked sheepishly.
"No, sir," said the police officer. "I only use debit and credit card. Sometimes my phone for MPesa, but not as much these days though."
"Uh, okay," I said. "I'll go to a shop and get some change."
"Shops are all closed," said the police officer. "It's two in the AM."
"You liar," I said. "Pants on fire."
"I am not a liar, pants on fire," said the police officer. He pointed at me with his baton. "You
stay here, while I go to the police station, and get the jaws of life. I'll be back as soon as possible, then

we'll get your baby out, and I can arrest you for child abuse and/or negligence."
"Wait," I said, "what?"
The police officer jumped into his squad car, crashed into a fire hydrant, then sped off, leaving
me alone. I looked at my baby in the newspaper box. I tapped on it like one would tap on an aquarium.
"Hang tight," I said. "Mama's gonna get you out."
I wrung my hands, thinking of a plan.
"What would Jesus do?" I thought.
Then a light bulb went off in my head. I made a beeline for the alleyway, and dumped out the
contents of a local trashcan, hoping to fine soda cans and bottles for recycling. I did find that, but also
-- a cat! Someone had discarded a tiny, lovely kitty! Despite hanging out in the rubbish, and me literally
scaring the crap out of it, it was clean, and white and fluffy, much like a cotton ball.
I decided to name it: Katherine, or Kat for short. I put Kat onto my head, and scooped up some
my recyclables into a plastic bag.
"I'll be back," I told my baby trapped in a newspaper box.
Then I walked down the street and inspected one of those fancy recycling machines. It was gray,
tall and rectangular, and had a hole for inserting plastic bottles and aluminum cans. There was a small
screen to the side, a green button, and a slot that I assumed to dispense money.
I put my plastic bottles and cans into the machine. I saw the screen counting my money. I
stopped at 75 cents, so that I'd receive a quarter. But instead of receiving quarters, or money for that
matter, I was only given a coupon. A coupon for 75 cents off an RC Cola.
"Damn you!" I said. "Where's my money?! What is this trickery?! I don't want a coupon for 75
cents off an RC Cola! Who the hell drinks RC Cola anyway? It's the bronze medal of colas."
I heard a voice muttering, "You ungrateful, little..."
"Wuh, who's there?" I said.
I spun around. A smelly homeless man was scolding me for be spoiled. Are they ever not
smelly?
"What do you want?" I said. "I don't have any money."
"Look 'ere," said the homeless man. "If you don't like RC Cola, I'll give you some money fer
yer coupon."
"Thank you," I said.
I showed my coupon.
"I'll give you twenty five cents," said the homeless man.
"Twenty five cents!" I said. "That's highway robbery. This is worth at least seventy-five big
ones."
"Fine, you driver a hard bargain," said the homeless man. "I'll give you thirty cents and no
more."
"Deal," I said. "BUT I want a quarter. Don't nickle and dime me...except for that one nickle
which should be there."
"'Kay," said the homeless man.
We made our exchange, one RC Cola coupon for one quarter and a nickle. When the homeless
skipped off to God knows where, I returned to my baby. The baby was still in the newspaper box. I put
in my 75 cents and opened the door the door. I took my her out, along with a copy of the Daily
Cornucopia. After all, I was paying for it.
I folded it and put in my back pocket. With a kitty on my head, and a baby in my arms, I went
wandering the city. I needed a place to stay. I need to stave off the cold and the winds that were
reddening my face. After a couple minutes, I came up to a motel. It was called Motel California.
Imagine that, a slice of California, out here in the East, where the only surfing people do is on the
internet, or on a couch.
I went into the lobby and met with an empty reception desk. I rang the silver bell on the lurid

green counter. A head popped up, and a girl, who looked to be no more than 12 years old appeared
before me. She was quite cute. She had short blonde hair, freckles, and hazel brown eyes. She spoke
using a trans-Atlantic accent. If you don't know what it sounds like, say the word "really" as "realleh."
"Hellooooooooooooo," said Gemma. She used her sleeve to wipe drool off her mouth. "How
can I help you?"
"I'd like a room, please," I said.
"Do you have a credit card?" said Gemma.
"No," I said.
"Cash?" she said.
"Yes," I said. "What is the rate for a room?"
"Why is there a cat on your head?" said Gemma. "No pets allowed by the way."
"Oh, I know," I said. "It's not really a cat. It's a, erm, realistic-looking toy robot. It's Japanese."
"Ah, yes, the Japanese," said Gemma. "They are good at this robotics business. And sushi."
"So, how much?" I said.
"We're running a special this month," said Gemma. "$10.00 a night."
"What a bargain," I said. "I'll take a room in that case."
"No problem," said Gemma. "Now, you told me you don't have a credit card, so i'll need a
deposit."
"How much?" I said.
"$300," said Gemma.
I nearly dropped my baby. "Are you kidding me?"
"I'm not kidding you," said Gemma. "I take my job very seriously. I'm half Japanese...in spirit."
"Is there another way around this?" I said. "I have nowhere to stay, and I have a baby with me...
LOOK AT IT. LOOK AT HOW CUTE IT IS."
Gemma leaned over the counter to look at my baby. I could tell by her twisted face that she was
not please. But of course, I had to show off a newborn. They tend to have the appearance of slimy,
diminutive aliens, which only a mother could love. I mean, yeah, you carry that pile of flesh around for
9 months, then you squeeze it out your hole; you're going to especially appreciate it when it isn't inside
of you.
"I'm sorry," said Gemma. "Actually, I'm not. But your baby isn't going to change our policies for
having a deposit. Lad, you won't believe the sob stories we get in here. Everything from 'my dog died'
all the way to 'I have AIDS.' OR 'my dog died from AIDS.'"
"What if it were true?" I said.
"I don't care," said Gemma. "It's not my problem. And if it is my problem, I'd probably solve it.
If my dog had AIDS it'd be cured ASAP."
"Are you going to school for biology or something?" I said.
"No," said Gemma. "I'm studying art history."
"Then what makes you think you could cure AIDS?" I said.
"You old people don't understand the modern world," said Gemma. "They already have the cure
for AIDS. It's just that big, greedy pharmaceutical companies don't want to release it, because treating
the symptoms is more profitable than the cure."
"That still doesn't explain how you'll cure your dog's AIDS," I said, "if that's possible."
"Ye' of little faith," said Gemma. "So, all I have to do is hack Pfizer's databank and get what I
need, then from there it's smooth sailing. I'll be an hero."
An hero?
"Yes," said Gemma, "you must be astounded at my newfangled ideas. I bet you think me quite
clever too. Welp, I am going to university, and I edit Wikipedia."
"And that makes you some sorta genius, huh?" I said.
"Why, no," said Gemma, "but I am smarter than almost everyone I meet. I blow their minds

away with my progressive, liberal theories. For example, I'm pro gay-marriage, pro choice, and I think
both our education system, and prison system need a major overhaul. BECAUSE GAYS ARE
PEOPLE. FETUSES AREN'T. THE PRICE OF KNOWLEDGE IS TOO DAMN HIGH.
REHABILITATION WORKS, NOT PUNISHMENT. STOP THE WAR ON TERRORISM, AND
STOP THE WAR ON DRUGS. RAISE MINIMUM WAGE TO $100 AN HOUR. CORPORATIONS
ARE EVIL. THE SYSTEM IS BROKE! USE MY IDEAS AND WE WILL ALL LIVE IN A
UTOPIAN SOCIETY, BECAUSE I KNOW MUCH MORE THAN EVERYONE ELSE, EVEN
THOUGH I'VE DONE NO LEGITIMATE RESEARCH INTO ANY OF THIS WHATSOEVER."
"What specious intelligence you have," I said. "But I do agree about the whole gay marriage
thing. They are people and should be able to get married, like anyone else."
"Thank you," said Gemma. "I'm glad you agree. Some people, on the other hand, don't
recognize my incredible intelligence. That's what I'm working here as a corporate slave. But one of
these days they'll see my genius, and bang, zoom, straight to the the moon! My name's gonna be in
lights, babe!"
I wasn't sure what was going on at this point. Was I hallucinating? All I knew was I needed a
place to stay, and $10.00 a night was just the right price. If I could kiss this girl's rear end right maybe
she'd waive the deposit. It just might work. Because the Sigmund Fraud inside of me told me she was
insecure and had a major inferiority complex. Also, sexual frustration. That's why she kept bragging
about herself. Subconsciously she yearned for validation.
"Oh, yes," I said, sucking up to Gemma as much as humanly possible, "you really do look like
an intellect."
"I do?" said Gemma.
"Mhm," I nodded, "there's something about you that just looks smart. To be honest, I think this
job is holding you back, and if society wasn't so foolish, they'd recognize your amazing brain, and they
would get out of your way, and let you flourish, and change the world, as you are meant to do."
Gemma stared at me like I was on drugs.
But then she smiled. "Thank you so much. I'm glad someone around here recognizes my talent."
"And as an intellectual," I said, "you know that this capitalist system is broken, right?"
"Of course," said Gemma. "It's more broken than an Ai Weiwei vase."
"I know!" I said. "And that's why you should waive my $300 deposit requirement. Because
that's, like, outright, capitalist greed. This hotel policy is favoring the rich. We proles are getting the
short end of the stick here."
"By gum," said Gemma, "you're right as rain. I shall wave the $300 deposit."
"Thank you," I said.
"But I'll need to see some identification," Gemma added.
"No problem-oh," I said.
I showed Gemma my student ID from school. It was the only form of identification I had, since
I didn't have a driver's license. There was my citizenship, and birth certificate, but those were lost when
I got tossed out my apartment, and my stuff was stolen.
"This is so old," said Gemma. "And expired. I'll need to see some valid identification.
Something recent. Not from 100 years ago."
I huffed. "Aw, c'mon. Can't you let me use it?"
Gemma shook her head.
I slapped my hand onto the counter. "Gemma! I thought a young lady of your intelligence would
know better. You are supporting the patriarch, a male run society, where everyone woman is objectified,
and made into a commodity that must be identifiable at all times for the purpose of male acceptance
and denial. I ask, is that fair?! Should we not be able to roam around, and have the freedom of not
having to provide an identification at all times to a male ruler?!"
Gemma looked me dead in the eyes... "You're just manipulating, aren't you?"

The jig was up.

I stammered, thinking how to back out, "W-well, erm, the thing is --"
"Eh, whatever," said Gemma. "If you wanna stay here so bad you can. I'm not stopping you."
She handed me a key to a room. It had a tag on it for the room number. Room 101.
"Thanks," I told Gemma.
I gave her a $10 bill and left. Since this was a motel, I had to enter my room from the outside. I
walked a few feet down the sidewalk, and found room 101. The door was red, and marked with white
lettering. I inserted the key and went in, with my baby, and cat.
As soon as I went in, a blast of hot air hit my face. It smelled precisely of cigarettes, cheap
cologne, alcohol, and old sweat. I wanted to turn away, but had no choice. It was this or be homeless on
the streets. So, I closed the door, and gave the place a once over.
The room was tacky. The carpeting was orange, the wall decorated with flowers, and the ceiling
made of speckled tiles, in which the lights flickered ever so slightly. There was furniture too of course:
a fake wood dresser, a cabinet holding an old TV, a velvet brown couch, a mushy bed with a powder
blue blanket, and a purple, plastic nightstand.
Sorta reminded me of my old apartment, the one I used to share with you-know-who...except
this was a lot better. Because it was all my own. Plus, the temperature was actually room temperature.
The motel wasn't trying to save money by making it several degrees below room temperature.
At any rate, I was feeling sticky. So, I took Kat off my head, and then laid baby down carefully
on the bed. I left for the bathroom, and took a quick shower. When I returned there was a cacophony in
the room. Kat was meowing. The baby was crying.
I knew exactly what it was: they were hungry. I was hungry too, but only had $50.00 left to me,
and it was meant to stretch out for the week. I needed to find a way to feed these little creatures. What
was I to do? I went over to the mini fridge, beside the TV cabinet, and looked inside. There was food in
there, and drinks!
None of which I could afford. But I remembered that I never made a deposit here. Nor did I
leave a credit card number. If I ate some of their stuff they wouldn't be able to get any money out of
me... Then again the motel girl was nice enough to trust me. Then again I was hungry. I grabbed a
handful of food out the fridge, and dumped it onto the bed.
I gorged myself on sodas, chips, and other various junk food. I knew it had next to no nutrition,
yet it filled my tummy. B y the end of it I was quite full. I could feel my energy replenishing. Or
perhaps it was simply a sugar high? Nevertheless it made me feel better. Eating lots of sugary, salty
food makes you feel better, doesn't it? At least for a couple seconds after you're done.
"Now," I thought aloud, "what to feed the others?"
I looked at their whimpering faces. I knew what baby needed, but wasn't sure what to give to
Kat. I didn't have any pet food. But as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. I pulled
back my damp hair, making it into a pony tail with an elastic, then gathered Kat and baby, and made a
blanket fortress, where I -- breast fed the both of them.
Because I was ashamed. I wasn't sure whether this was bestiality or simply distributing milk. I
needed to give myself the extra security provided by a blanket fortress. It was kind of fun to construct
actually, but it wasn't just for fun. I mean imagine that the cleaning lady walking in on me, and seeing
beast and baby hanging off my breasts, suckling. What would she think? That I feared. At least,
however, it did the job. Both appeared quite satiated.
I, on the other hand, felt drained. My nipples were sore, swollen, and red -- redder than a
baboon's ass. However, in each cloud is a silver lining. I was loving how huge my breasts were. They
were huger than ever. They looked like watermelons. Not cantaloupes though, those're far too spherical.
I yawned and stretched. I was exhausted, yet couldn't fall asleep. I had to keep an eye on Kat
and the baby, who seemed quite at ease. so, I decided to relax on the couch and do the crossword
puzzle in the newspaper. I got out a pen and unfolded the Daily Cornucopia.

My eyes set ablaze. Who should I find on the front page? None other than Lou-Ellen Margaret
Mildred Thackston the Third, the old lady whose winning, jackpot, lottery ticket I had returned. She
sicced her dogs on me, because she didn't want to share her prize money.
I was livid. I was furious. I was raging inside. My hands were shaking as I read over the title of
the article: "Anonymous Samaritan Returns Winning Lotto Ticket, Refuses Compensation."
I refused nothing! Here I was living like a loser, while Miss Moneybags, and her already rich
husband celebrated their winnings. I wanted to reach inside the photo and throttle the both of them.
Nay, worse than that, I wanted to chop their heads off with a samurai sword, and then stick them up on
posts like some crazy, Oriental warlord.
I tore the newspaper in half and tossed it aside. I couldn't stand to see it. I got up and plunked
myself down on the bed, almost knocking baby off. I picked her up, and seated her between my legs. I
needed to kill some braincells with TV. I picked up the remote control, which was sticky for some
reason, and started channel surfing.
Nothing good was on. Half of it was reality TV. Honestly, who gives a damn about the
Kardashians? Why would anyone waste their time, watching a show about a group of fat, overprivileged, Armenian whores. Have we, as a society, actually fallen that low? What happened to the era
when it actually took talent to be seen on television by a nation of people? You know who I blame?
Gallagher. That's right, when he started smashing those watermelons, and getting paid for that, a light
bulb went off in people's heads, and they went, "Why not me?" Gallagher, you bastard!
Anyway, as they say, if you don't like what you see, then change the channel. And so I did. I
changed the channel, going up and down, down and up, that is until baby started hooting and hollering.
She smiled, and made baby noises, while reaching out her arms as if to touch what she was seeing.
What was is that caught her interest? I went back to the cartoon channel, but right away in her scowl I
saw that it displeased her.
I clicked the remote control, looking for what made baby laugh and smile. I was confounded at
what it was. Then after a couple minutes, I got it. Baby was smiling, reaching her hands out. I brought
her closer to the TV, and she touched the screen. She was getting excited over a commercial. A toy
commercial. A toy commercial for a doll. A toy commercial for a doll called the Poopee Doll. It was
just like the one I had seen in the store. It was "the realistic doll that could poo, pee, and more."
The theme song from the commercial went like this:
"Baby Poopee! Look at her go! She can poo, she can pee, she can wiggle, she can jiggle, she
can laugh, she can crawl, she can move, she can cry! Baby Poopeeeee!"
Kinda catchy, but I wondered why baby was so interested in a doll. Maybe she wanted a brother
or sister? Well, I wasn't ready to be pregnant any time soon. She would have to wait. However, I was
delighted at how she smiled. How she looked so happy.
Then she said to me, pointing to the doll on TV: "I want."
Wow. What a materialistic, little girl I've already raised... But, wait, her first words! But wait!
Isn't it unusual for a newborn to be able to speak? Omigod. She's a genius! Something I've produced is
actually of high quality. Wonder whether that's a good thing. Smarts can make it hard to socialize, and
overburden you with knowledge. They do say ignorance is bliss.
"I want, I want," baby repeated, pointing to the TV playing the Poopee doll commercial. "I
want."
"You know," I said, "I would've preferred it if your first words were something like 'mom' or
'mommy' or 'mama'. 'Mum' would've also been acceptable."
A second later the commercial stopped playing. Baby began crying. I found it again, and made
her stop crying, but she repeated her demands.
I tried explaining it to her. "Mama can't afford that. We don't gots the money. We's broke,

darling."
"Please," she said, surprising me even more with her vocabulary. "I want. I want...it."
It was so hard to say no. Her voice was so tiny, and squeaky, and cute.
"No," I said. "Toys will have to wait."
"Please," she said. "Please."
Good Lord, this baby knew how to work me over. She opened her eyes wide and made the most
adorable sad, sad, puppy face. My heart was melting. I started thinking, "Why shouldn't she have it?"
Why should she have to live like me, making sacrifice, after sacrifice, never enjoying her life, and
never having even a bit of joy? Yeah, I know that a doll is frivolous right now, but damn did I want it.
Not for me. For her. She deserved the best. Could I provide her with that? My hours of motherhood
were being called into question.
"Okay," I said to baby. "I'm going to get you that toy. I promise."
Baby smiled at me as if she knew exactly what I was saying.
"But," I added, "for Christmas only. Do you know about Christmas? It's coming up. They say
that a big, fat, bearded man in a red suit brings you presents. Well, it's not true! I'm giving you this
present, okay? It's from mommy."
"Mom...my," said baby.
Now, I know these sorts of moments are a dime a dozen, and that other people's kids aren't that
fascinating, and technically this wasn't baby's first word, but darn I was proud. I lifted up baby and
hugged her. She knew my name, she knew who I was, and that made me feel good inside. It felt like
getting a promotion. One day you're just that fat lady, with the weird walk, and the next you're mommy.
It's hard to explain my elation, but imagine always being #2, #3, or #4, or #552. Then when you
have your kid you automatically become #1. You're their #1 because you're their one and only. You're
their only mother. You're their world. You're the first human being they come into contact with. And
furthermore it isn't as if someone can waltz into your life and take that away from you. Unlike
everything else in life, you are irreplaceable.
But with that also comes a huge burden. In particular, when your precious child takes a crap all
over your shirt -- aw, God! I looked down. Baby had squeezed out a mess from her keister. In light of
recent event my brain forgot that babies need diapers. Not like the cat, who just casually went off the
corner to do her business -- !
It's a mystery how such small things can leave behind such big messes. Alright, Zelda, roll up
your sleeves.
Chapter 55
After I cleaned up, and made an improvised towel-diaper for baby, I put her to bed, and spent the night
hours awake thinking about random stuff. Like: "What the hell am I doing with my life?" and "What
am I going to do for money?!?"
Get a job was the obvious answer; however, I was in a conundrum. I had no permanent address
and I did not have proper identification, as I was robbed of my possessions.
I remember I told myself some days back that: "Well, least I had my purse with me, which had a
lot of important stuff, cash, cards, pieces of identification, tampons, et cetera."
I was dead wrong. I was an idiot. I didn't have enough cash, all my identification was expired at this
point, or not considered valid, and I had no tampons. Me relying on Harris for the longest time had
made me less independent. I'd always piggyback off him for everything -- including identification! If I
recall correctly, he'd sign for everything on my behalf, acting as a liaison. Damned cheapskate he was.
He discouraged me from renewing and getting my IDs on the grounds that renewal costed [sic] too

much. I mean, yeah, it did, but not having them was more than an inconvenience.
Now I was thinking that if we all had fingerprint identification we'd be much better for it. You
can't lose that nor does it expire, huh? It's a pain the way everything is set up now. For example: If you
move out of state, and you need a new driver's license, you need a birth certificate. And to get a birth
certificate, in the case you don't have one, you need a driver's license with your current address. WHAT
MADNESS IS THIS!? Do these bureaucrats not know what a catch-22 is?!
Also, how the hell do you un-homeless yourself? People say get a job, get a job, get a job... But
you need certain things to get employment, don't you? A permanent address, a telephone number, email, valid identification (government issued, unexpired), and access to a bank account. Also, you must
be presentable enough, and have a long work history, and a printed resume.
But where exactly do you get all that when you're homeless?
- If you have no home that means you have no permanent address.
- No address, no home means no telephone. Especially not e-mail, or a printer for printing out
your resume...the library you say? You need a library card to access their computers. Oh, but you don't
have a library card, because you didn't think you'd need one, because adults on average read a single
book a year. Sign up for one? You can't, because you don't have an address.
- Identification? What happens when they're expired? You need to renew them, and that costs
money you don't have, and even if you did have that money, you don't have a home to receive them.
- Then there's the bank for which you need a valid ID to draw out any cash, but when that's
expired, or you plain don't have it, they will keep your money, and give you a 0.25% interest rate.
- And don't get me started on the hiring process neither. If you've been homeless for too long,
you don't have any recent work history. Even minimum wage jobs expects a certain amount of
experience. References? Who is going to give references to a homeless person?
- But, hey, let's suppose you have all of the above in working order. You got your IDs, you got
access to the library, a PO box, a pay-as-you-go cellphone, and whatever else... How do you make your
yourself presentable enough for an interview? Remember, you're eating tinned beans for breakfast, and
you can hardly afford anything for yourself, how do you get proper clothes to impress an employer?
They say "dress for success," but how can you do that when you have to do your shopping at charity
shops, where everything is decades old, and it doesn't fit, and it's stained in the armpits.
- Lastly there's the important issue of a nice, hot shower. You're living on the streets, you smell
like last week's hot garbage. A normal person won't stop to talk to you, what makes you think a
business will want you to work for them?
G-d, so many damn hoops you gotta jump through just to get employed -- unless you opt to
work under the table. But how could I work under the table for $5.00 an hour when I had a baby, and a
cat, to take care of? That's wouldn't be enough even for the cheapest babysitter.
I was starting to realize why there're so many bums and hookers milling around town. Because
no one thinks they'll ever go poor, and then suddenly it happens, something shitty happens. It doesn't
have to be dramatic either. Maybe something in your house broke, like your furnace, or your toilet, or
maybe your car needs repairs, or you're a little late on your credit card bill, or you injured your
knee...that'll push you over the edge.
And before you realize what's happening, before you can prepare, before you can tie up all the
loose ends, you find yourself packing up, and leaving to God knows where. And you become separated
from society, and those piece of plastic, and paper, and that list of numbers you have in your phone,
quickly mean nothing. Some part of your life has gone sour, and you can't seem to turn it back.
Everything becomes a Catch-22.
Because y'know when I first heard the saying "it takes money to make money" I thought it only
applied to people looking to get rich quick. Apparently this transfers over to getting a measly, minimum
wage job too.
To be honest, I was beginning to get worried. I looked over at Kat and Baby, who were sleeping

sound. I had no idea what to do with myself. I screwed up huge. I got sucked into this vortex, and
slowly but surely let myself go both mentally, and financial.
Yet I was determined not to let this get any worse. I would fight it tooth and nail, and get my
"shit together" as they say. And you know what else? I would buy my baby that doll. I refused to be like
everyone else with all their broken promises.
Chapter 56
I spent until the morning doing a resume in long hand, and working on my novel. I got exactly two
pages done. If you were wondering the novel's about a mermaid with super powers. An ass kicking,
superhero mermaid... Why not?
After writing down a couple more notes on the general plot, I put down my pencil. I got up and
decided to make some decisions about my life. I swallowed my pride, and told myself to call my sister
for help. I didn't want to, but what choice did I have? Plus, there's no way she'd refuse a second time,
now that I had a baby. Not sure what she'd say about the cat though.
Dead tired, I shuffled over to the phone. After figuring out what buttons to press, I made the
call. I remembered her phone number, since she was one of only a few people I would contact. I put the
received against my ear, and waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. No one was picking up on the
other side.
Out of anger, I slammed the phone receiver back onto its base. But then I took a deep breath,
and told myself to calm down, that I was overreacting. Maybe she was busy or not at home? I instead
called her cellphone. While I waited for an answer time seemed to go by extra slow. As I looked at the
clock on the wall I could see the second hand moving, going tick, tick...tick, tick.
Finally, someone picked up.
"Hello?" said Shirley. "Who is this?"
It was hard to hear her voice. There was a fuzzy sound and rumbling background noise, like a
truck, or something large moving on a road.
"It's me," I said.
"Me who?" said Shirley.
"Your sister," I said.
"Which sister?" said Shirley.
"You only have one sister," I said.
"Right," said Shirley. "What do you want? Make it snappy. I'm kinda in the middle of something
here."
"Well," I said, trying to sound chirpy, "as you know, I've just had a baby..."
Shirley groaned. "You want to live with me, don't you?"
"Yes," I said. "How did you know? Just for a while though, so I can get back on my feet."
"I'm sorry," said Shirley, "but I'd rather not. Stay with someone else."
"I don't have someone else," I said.
"Then find a place of your own," said Shirley. "If you need to pay a deposit, borrow some
money from mom and dad."
"I can't," I said.
"You can," said Shirley. "You're just being stubborn. You're too proud."
"I'm not too proud," I said. "If I were, I wouldn't be coming to you for help."
"Trust me," said Shirley. "Call 'em up and they'll send you some cash. I know they're in another
country, but pretty sure it's possible."
I shook my head. "No. I'm not begging them for help."
Shirley sighed. "Ah, you're so spoiled. You're never willing to compromise. Why? Why is that?
Why can't you suck it up and ask mom or dad for some money. It's not like they're going to make you

get down on your knees and beg."

Something in my brain snapped. I gnashed my teeth and then yelled into the phone as loud as I
could.
"NO!" I said. "I'M NOT GOING TO ASK MOM OR DAD FOR HELP, WHEN DAD RAPED
ME WHEN I WAS A KID, AND NO ONE DID ANYTHING TO HELP ME! I'D RATHER NOT
RELY ON THOSE SCUMBAGS!"
I started crying. I wiped my eyes while holding the phone receiver. I could hear nothing as my
sister went silent. She was stunned at my secret that I had been holding in almost my entire life. She
could not even say a single word.
Finally, when I pulled myself together, I spoke up. "Shirley? Are you there?" No reply.
"Shirley?"
I felt numb. My hands were shaking. I couldn't believe what happened. My sister actually hung
up on me. I know you're thinking that it was a mistake, but she was the type who did that. It's happened
before. If I was ever getting unruly, or raising my voice, or saying something unpleasant she'd hang up
the phone, and ignore me for the rest of the day, or week.
But why would she ignore this? Who, who is that, that, that evil!? Then I thought about it. I
knew what happened. As soon as I started yelling, the first sentence out, she decided to hang up. She
didn't even hear my confession. I basically blabbered it aloud to myself in this motel room. I thought I
got something off my chest, but I guess I didn't.
Just to be sure I called her again -- still to no avail. No one picked up. I sighed and slumped my
shoulders. I felt defeated already, when the day hadn't even begun yet. I looked down at the floor, then
clenched my fists.
"No," I said.
I wouldn't be ignored.
Chapter 57
In the bitter cold of December, I walked toward the mansion. The hood on my winter jacket was up,
and baby was bundle up in a blanket, and attached to my chest via an impromptu sling I had created. I
noticed the gates were wide open, which I thought quite weird. Shirley seldom left them open. She was
acutely paranoid about having a home invasion.
Nevertheless, I headed toward the mansion. While doing so, I looked to my left, and noticed a
large, white truck, the door of which rolled up. Inside was furniture. It all looked very expensive, but
what do you expect in a place like this?
I got to the mansion doors. I raised my arm and knocked. A strange lady, dressed all in black,
who was sipping on a cup of tea, came out in an instant. She was very tall. I estimated 6 feet or so.
"Welcome to my humble abode," said the strange lady.
"Who are you?" I said.
"You're coming to my home, and asking me that?" said the strange lady. "Now I am confused.
Are you not the maid?"
"No," I said. "I'm not... Where's my sister?"
"How should I know that?" said the strange lady.
"She lives here," I said. "Doesn't she?"
The strange lady sipped her tea. Loudly. "Aaaaaaaaaah, I see what's going on here. You've come
looking for your sister and she hasn't told you she's moved. That's a very mean thing to do."
"I don't know if she's trying to be mean," I said. "She told me she's mercurial."
"Anyways," said the strange lady, "thank you for your life story, but I must be going now."
"Wait," I said. (At which the strange lady stopped.) "Do you need any help? Can I have a job?"

"I'm afraid," said the strange lady, "I have all the help I need. In fact, I'm overstaffed."
"Oh, okay," I said.
"But if you need money," said the strange lady. There was hesitation in her voice. "I am willing
to buy your baby. I can give you $1,000,000."
I took a step back. "Are you mad? I'm not selling my baby to you -- also, who pays a million
bananas for a freaking baby?"
The strange lady looked at me like she was going to cry.
"An old, infertile woman," she responded.
"Surely you can do adoption?" I said.
"They wouldn't let me adopt," said the strange lady. "Something about me being too old and not
having a husband. But I could, I really could be the greatest mother in the world, if I had the chance."
"I'm sorry," I said, "but my baby is not for sale. And if she had shoes, I wouldn't even sell those
either."
The strange lady frowned. Then she got down on her hands and knees, and begged with her
hands together. "Please, I'll double the amount! $2,000,000!"
At this point I was starting to drool. I knew this strange lady had deep enough pockets to pay
me, and, telling by the strain in her voice, I believed the offer on the table to be genuine. What a strange
amount of occurrences I've had recently; however, they would both end up with me having nothing
(financially), seeing as I was intent on being a mother, and I wouldn't give away my child for anything
in the world. I wrapped my arms around baby, and held her close to my body.
"You've lost your mind," I said to the strange lady.
"I'm perfectly sane," said the strange lady. "My therapist could tell you that."
"Look," I said, beginning to get wary, "if you wanna buy a baby off the black market, fine, but
it's not gonna be mine. Okay?"
"But," said the strange lady, "I don't want just any baby anymore. I want this one. I want yours."
"Why?" I said.
"She reminds me of my daughters I once had," said the strange lady.
"What daughters?" I said.
"I had twins," said the strange lady. "One was given up for adoption, and the other ran away
when she turned 13 years old."
"I don't understand," I said. "If you're so motherly, why did you give your child up for adoption?
And why'd the other one run away?"
The strange lady sighed. "The first was given away, because me and my husband at the time
didn't think it financially wise."
"What about the other one?" I said.
"She ran away when she was thirteen," said the strange lady. "Because of the divorce and
because I neglected her for my career. Once again, putting money before my family."
"Well then, you've had your chance to be a mom," I said. "You don't need another baby."
"I do," said the strange lady. "I want to have a fresh, new beginning. I want to start with a clean
slate. I want to raise, a young, wonderful, kind, beautiful, intelligent woman -- rather than a daughter,
who runs away, because she thinks I hate her."
"So?" I said. "That's not my fault. Why should I give you my baby, just because you were
irresponsible with your own? The blood is on your hands and you need to accept what's happened.
Don't try to make up for your screw up by making someone else suffer."
"Have you no sympathy?" said the strange lady.
I bit the inside of my lip. "Er, is it bad if I say no?"
"I see how it is," said the strange lady. "Fine. I will pay you $3,000,000, but that is my final
offer."
I couldn't stand it anymore. This lady was absolutely bonkers. None of this made any sense

whatsoever. So, without a word, I turned around, and began walking away at a hasty pace.
"Where are you going?!" said the strange lady. "Come back!"
I glanced over my shoulder.
The strange lady shook her fist at me. "You will regret this!"
I didn't think I would.
Chapter 58
Failing to get help from my sister, I sat at the back of a bus, dejected as ever. I had no particular place
to go to in mind. I just went around in a loop, staring out the window, seeing all the people pass by.
Secretly, I hoped that in one of the crowds there'd be someone who would step forward, and be my
knight in shining armor. I did hate the idea of being a stereotypical damsel in distress, but right now
having a hero come into my life, and rescue me seemed really appealing.
I know self-reliance is important, but what's the harm in getting help? It didn't matter, I guess,
because I knew nobody would help me. Everyone was busy with their own lives, and they only cared
about their own problems, and what they were doing. Not a single person I'm looking at even knows
I'm alive. I don't exist. I'm not on their radar. I'm like a prop in a movie...there, but not really there.
If they could see the storm cloud over my head maybe they'd pay me some attention.
I decided to blow off some steam, and went to the local mall. I ambled around a for bit, while tending
to my baby every now and again, then eventually found myself window shopping at Tiny Tom's
Toyshop. Right away I noticed they had no Poopee dolls on display. I was thinking of getting one and
putting it on layaway.
I went inside to inquire. Tiny Tom's brother, Puny Peter, was counting money at the cash
register. I was about to clear my throat to get his attention, when he looked up, and said, "Don't you go
breastfeeding that thing in the shop now. This is a place for children and we have a strict no nudity
policy."
"Excuse me," I said, "but I have a question to ask."
"Before you begin," said Puny Peter, "I have to tell you a couple things. #1 - We don't give away
toys to charity. #2 - We ain't hiring. #3 - There are no Poopee dolls left. We're fresh out. And there ain't
any in the back, if you must know."
"How'd you know what I wanted?" I said.
"These dolls are the hottest thing since Kate Upton," said Puny Peter. "Everyone's been comin'
in here askin' for 'em."
"But you had so many before," I said. "There was a huge display at the front."
"Yes, and we sold 'em all," said Puny Peter. "Made a tidy profit too when we marked up the
price astronomically. Why, it's allowed me to move into a bigger home. The place I live in now has a
double level pool."
"Wait, why would you need a bigger home?" I said. "You're a midget."
"A MIDGET?!" said Puny Peter, banging his fist on the counter. "Why, them's fightin' words!"
Suddenly Baby started crying. I quickly placated her by cooing her, and gently rocking her back
and forth.
"My apologies for the outburst," said Puny Peter. "I jus' find the term midget insulting. Now,
what were you sayin'?"
"I wanted a Poopee doll," I said.
"All out!" said Puny Peter.
"But why?" I said.
"Mm, guess people are materialistic," said Puny Peter, "and greedy, and selfish, and stupid, and
mean, and fat... Why, you should've been here to see the chaos! I put out a couple dolls yesterday, and it

was a literal mob. One feller tried to get a doll, and a granny elbowed him in the nose. Blood went all
over the floor."
"I meant," I said, "why did the dolls sell out? What's happened since two weeks ago that made
them so popular all of a sudden?"
"Aaaah, yes, that," said Puny Peter. "Some Hollywood hotshot featured it on their TV show, in a
give away, and then everyone went mad after that."
"So, I can't get one?" I said.
"For the right price," said Puny Peter.
"How much is that?" I said.
"$500," said Puny Peter. "...Oy, what's the matter? You look pale all of a sudden?"
"Your brother was offering it to me at a discount for $60," I said.
"Ha! Well, he be a fool then," said Puny Peter.
"Why?" I said.
"Hmph," said Puny Peter. "He's got a soft spot fer people. But I say, why should he? Customers
only care about themselves. Do you know what it's like being in the retail business? It's somewhat
difficult."
"Speaking on your brother," I said, "where is Tom anyway?"
"He's playing an elf for the hospital," said Puny Peter. "Giving out toys and what not. I told him
no, but he argued it'd be a good way to promote our shop. Although, I don't think that was his real
motivation."
"That's nice," I said, "but shouldn't Santa be giving out toys?"
"Yeah, but who'd believe him as that?" said Puny Peter. "He needs a stool to reach the bathroom
sink. No way kids would buy him as the real Santa Claus. Maybe midget Santa Claus. Ha!"
"You shouldn't laugh at your brother like that," I said. "It's mean. You ought to be nicer. He's
family."
"Bugger," said Puny Peter. "Just because he's family don't mean he's good."
"Well," I said, "based on your attitudes, I think he's much nicer than you."
"Yeah, that's just what you see on the outside," said Puny Peter. "You ain't privy to what's goin'
on behind closed doors. Why do you think I'm crabby? Because I'm gettin' stressed out, and Tom acts
like a total twat, 'specially with our money. Are you aware he has a gambling problem? He almost sent
our business into bankruptcy, then I had to get a second mortgage to keep our shop afloat."
I wasn't sure how to respond.
"Remember," I said, "what would Jesus do?"
Puny Peter growled and waived his hand at me. "Ah, buy something, or get out of here, yah
annoying idiot."
What a jerk.
"Fine, I'm going," I said, biting my tongue for the sake of baby, "but you've just lost a potential
customer."
"Aghhh," said Puny Peter, "like you were going to buy anything. You look poor and filthy. And
slutty. And your baby is ugly too."
That's it! I grabbed Puny Peter by his shirt and pulled him into the air. "Look here, little man. If
you insult me again, the next words you'll be saying are: 'Is there a doctor in the house?!' Got it?"
Puny Peter nodded. I put him back down, and then stormed off. I went around the mall, letting
off steam. I couldn't believe how rude these people were, and, also, why I kept coming back here. After
a couple minutes of brooding, I stopped by what appeared to be a new grocery store called "Life is a
Peach."
I went inside to look around. The floor was white, brand new, and shiny. Everything was set up
neatly as if it all had just come out of the box. The shelves were all wooden, and there were chrome
plated baskets to hold various fruit, of which I had never seen. They had star fruit, jack fruit, dragon

fruit, and something called durian. The Durian scared me. It was all sharp looking and spiky. Curiously,
and stupidly, I touched it and pricked my finger.
"Ow," I said, putting my bleeding finger into my mouth.
The person arranging the fruit sneered at me. "You people...."
"What did you say?" I said in a strong, womanly tone.
The fruit arranger, a skinny fellow named Liam that I estimated to be about my age, turned to
me, and looked angry. Very angry. Like the Hulk. "You people are so irritating and stupid. How is it
that you injure yourself on a piece of fruit?"
"It's a ball with wooden spikes on it," I said, "and I don't know what you mean by 'YOU
PEOPLE.'"
"Customers," said Liam. "Why can't you guys ever give me a break? Like pull your heads out
your asses and use your own brain. Stop asking me stupid questions. Figure it out yourselves."
"First," I said, "I never asked you any questions. Second, let me tell you something, mister
meanie, if your customers had no questions for you, and could do everything themselves, you'd be out
of a job. Because guess what? You're working here to help people."
"To a degree," said Liam. "I mean there has to be a limit to this madness. Someone took a shit in
front of the biscuits shelf. Now who's going to want to pick up a packet of Tim Tams? They're already
the color of feces."
"Okay," I said, "I get it, but you don't have to act all snotty, and act like you're better than
everyone."
"Not better than everyone," said Bill, "but I am better than the customers that come in here.
That's for sure."
"If you're so much better," I said, "then why're you working at a job you hate? Not smart enough
to find employment elsewhere?"
"Because," said Liam, he collapsed onto his knees and started weeping, "I failed high school!
Boo-hoo-hoo! My dad was right, I am a loser!"
I can't believe it, but I actually felt sorry for him.
"Hey, hey," I said, putting my hand on Liam's shoulder. "I was just joshing around. Don't take it
so seriously. I'm only a stupid customer, right?
I helped Liam off his knees.
"Thank you," said Liam. "You are as kind as you are beautiful."
"Thanks" I said. "I do have a baby, after all, and that means someone had sex with me."
"Uh, yes," said Liam. "I suppose that's true... Cute baby by the way. What's her name? It is a
she, right?"
"Yes, she is a she," I said, "but she has no name."
"No name?" said Liam. "How odd. Guess you and your husband couldn't decide?"
"I don't have a husband," I said.
"Boyfriend?" said Liam.
"Life partner," I said.
"Does that mean you're married?" said Liam.
"No," I said, "I'm not married. Never was. Came close but I ran away from that altar... Kind of
cliche, I guess. Come to think of it, the term cliche is a cliche."
"So," said Liam, "does this mean you're single?"
"What do you think?" I said.
"Yes," said Liam.
"You know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?" I said.
"You're hardly a girl," said Liam, and, "hold on a second. I just thought of something... Your
baby is a bastard. Ha! She is a bastard baby."
"What? She is not a bastard," I said. "What makes you say that?"

"You said you were never married," said Liam. "A baby born out of wedlock is a bastard. Is that
not what a bastard is?"
"No," I said.
"You're intentionally disagreeing with me," said Liam.
I looked Liam directly in his eyes, and glowered, "If the answer is not for ye, then the answer it
not be."
"Are you saying ignorance is bliss?" said Liam.
"Something along those lines," I said.
"So, are you happy now?" said Liam.
"I'm never happy," I said.
Liam laughed. But when I scowled at him he stopped. "Oh! I'm sorry! I thought you were
joking around."
"I'm going through quite a stressful situation in my life right now," I said, "and I don't appreciate
being laughed at."
"Why's it a stressful time in your life?" said Liam.
"I'm not going to tell you," I said. "You're a total stranger."
Liam took my hand and shook it. "Hello, my name's Liam, and you?"
I pulled my hand away. "I'd rather you not touch me. You've been handling fruit all day."
"And?" said Liam.
"Pesticides," I said. "And if it's produce from Japan, nuclear radiation. I might turn into
Godzilla."
"I assure you," said Liam, "our organic fruits and vegetables are free of both pesticides and
radioactive nuclides."
"And how do you know that?" I said.
"Someone told me," said Liam.
"Who?" I said.
"The store manager,," said Liam.
"You trust him?" I said. "Who gave him his information?"
"A website, I think," said Liam.
"And who is running this website?" I said.
"The produce people," said Liam
"The produce people trying to sell you fruit?" I said. "Do you not see a conflict of interest
here?"
Liam sighed. "You're not buying any of the fruit. Why're you asking all these questions?"
The truth was I was feeling lonely, and I didn't really know what to talk about. Socially, I was
atrophied. Not having any friends, and only ever having been with one man, made me into an awkward
person. Reflecting on my past made me cringe. The woman I imagined myself to be in my head was far
different from reality.
"Ummm, for some lively debate," I replied.
"Ha, you call this lively?" said Liam. "If this moment was in a novel, not only would I put it
down and go read something else, I'd write the author and tell him what an idiot he is."
"That's mean," I said. "Writers have feelings, don't you know?"
"They do?" said Liam.
I nodded. "I'm a writer myself. I know about these things. We're emotionally sensitive."
"You write?" said Liam.
"Yeeep," I said, feeling proud, "been working on my novel recently. Not to toot my own flute,
but I think it's pretty amazing. I'm on my way to fame and fortune."
Liam laughed at me. Again. "Are you serious? Are you really serious? You think writing will
give you fame and fortune? Writers make terrible money. Out of all the artists, if you can call them that,

they make the least amount of money. They are the paupers of the entertainment industry. And of
course they are. Who actually reads these days? For entertainment? Why read when you can play a
video game or watch a movie, which is way more fun by the way?"
"Excuse me," I said, "but I must be going now."
"Hold on," said Liam. "I didn't mean to insult you."
I started walking away. Liam jumped in front of me.
"Please don't go," he said. "I really like you."
"Well, I don't like you," I said. "
"Harsh," said Liam. "But I'm willing to give you another chance."
I wanted to fold my arms, but baby was in my way. Liam went into his pocket and took out a
piece of paper, on which he wrote something. He tried giving it to me.
"Here, take it," he said.
"If this is your phone number," I said, "I don't want it."
Liam was insistent and slipped it into my pocket.
"You know I'm just going to throw it away?" I said.
"Maybe if you think about it a little bit," said Liam, "you're reconsider."
"I'm not even sure why you're attracted to me at all," I said.
"Hm, I dunno," said Liam, "I guess you kinda remind me of my mom."
"Wait," I said. "What?"
Then someone called out Liam's name.
"I hafta go," said Liam. "I'll see you later?"
"We'll see," I said.
Liam sprung away like a deer, and left me alone. I slipped into one of the aisles that sold bird
seed and various pet goods, and then took out the piece of paper he gave me. Surely enough there was
his phone number, and on the bottom a suggestion for a baby name. He suggested he call my baby
Bebe. I liked the name Bebe, it sounded cute, but it sounded a little too close to baby. I decided to
consult.
"Baby," I said to baby. "What do you want your name to be? You can still talk, right?"
"Fwankenstein," said baby.
"The heck," I said. "You will not be Frankenstein as long as I'm your mother... What do you
think of the name Bebe?"
Baby gave me a thumbs up. I was astonished at her intelligence. I hated to say it, but I think her
smarts came from her (biological) father.
"Okay," I said, "I'm naming you Bebe. Is that alright? Once you pick you can't go back."
"Fwankenstein," said baby.
"No! No Frankenstein," I said. "You're not even Jewish. Pick a better name. It can be Bebe or
something else of that nature."
Baby looked up at me, and said slowly, in her small, diminutive voice, "Bebe. I am Bebe. Bebe!
Bebe! Bebe!"
So, it was settled... MY BABY WOULD BE CALLED BEBE. (Do you like my capital letters?)
Finally, I had a name for her. It wasn't my own concoction, but I liked it. Bebe, because what else
would you call your baby? I know that Emma, Sophia, Katniss seemed to be picking up in popularity,
but those I thought were terrible names. Granted, Emma and Sophia were some slutty jerks that I went
to high school with, and one was the protagonist of a novel I never read.
"Yes," I said to Bebe. "Your name is Bebe. I hope you like it."
After Bebe nodded, we went around the store, wandering the aisles. I felt a little stupid looking
at things I couldn't afford, but it was this or spend my time cooped up in a grimy motel. I didn't mind
this too much at all; however, I'd get green eyes watching other shoppers shop. As this was quite a posh
place to shop, people were loading up their carts, without giving it a second thought.

The items were expensive too: $3.00 for a tiny box of coconut juice, $6.00 for organic, gluten
free bread, $8.00 for something called Agave syrup. Although not everything was so high brow. As I
went down an aisle labeled junk food, I noticed they had Twinkies, and Kool-Aid, and Passion Flakies.
It immediately stirred up my desire for sweets. I started salivating as I hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch
for the past two days.
I did have dinners though, but not by design. That matter was it took me time to find food to eat.
Sometimes I'd go into restaurants, and take the stuff people left behind. However, it wasn't always so
easy, as a lot of them would pack up what they couldn't finish. It kinda made me angry, even though I
had no claims to it. I suppose they would call that irrational anger, no?
"Bebe," I said excitedly, "would you look at that?"
Bebe grabbed my nose. I removed her hand and stared at the shelf in front of me. They had
something I had not seen for a very, very long time.
Chapter 59
Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid. It was a combination of three artificial flavors: banana, strawberry, and
orange. I remember it from when I was a kid, when I was in grade 3. My mom wouldn't let me drink
sugary drinks, and I really wanted very badly to taste Kool-Aid. So, I traded my packet of chips with
this pale looking boy for his box of Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid. I put it in my desk to save it for later.
Me, being a kid, I was really excited to have it at lunch time. It was pink, and everything, and on the
box was Kool-Aid man, riding a pink shark.
But when lunch time came, I looked in my desk, and my Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid was
missing. The pale kid ate my chips and stole my Kool-Aid. I complained to my teacher, but she didn't
give two shits. She actually used to hit me with a yard stick, and once literally tried washing my mouth
out with soap.
So, that was the end of that. No Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid for me, because shortly after they
discontinued it, and I never saw it for years, and years -- until now that is. The Kool-Aid people were
doing a retro reissue of vintage flavors. And here it was, Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid staring me in the
face. I must note it was in a powdered form, but to me it would be the same thing.
I picked up the packet of Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid powder and looked it over. It was a
missing piece of my incomplete childhood. I really, really, really, really wanted to drink it. However, I
was broke. I couldn't afford it, even though a single packet was only $1.50. More than normal, I think,
because this grocery store had seriously jacked up prices.
Oooh, I wanted that Sharkleberry Fin juice in my gullet so bad. But spending my money in this
manner would be foolish, especially considering my financial situation, and the fact I was in the midst
of both saving and searching for a Poopee doll. I refused to sacrifice my daughter's childhood
memories for the sake of my own. I'm a full blown adult now. I shouldn't be ruminating on recapturing
long gone memories, or in this case memories that almost were.
But damn it was tempting. I kept staring at that Sharkleberry Fin. It begged me to take it. It
begged me! I looked around. No people were in the aisle, other than Bebe, and no video cameras in
direct view of me. I decided to do a little shoplifting. I reached my hand out, which was trembling, and
tried grabbing some Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid off the shelf -- but in my haste, I dropped them on the
ground.
I started sweating. I bent down to pick them up. While placing them back on the shelf an
employee popped up. Her jolly head leaned into the aisle with a faux smile. "Hi! CAN I HELP YOU?!"
Startled, I sprung up.
"No, no, no, no, no -- I'm fine!" I said in a guilty voice. "But, er, thanks you for your service! It's
much appreciated."
"Alllllrighty then," said the employee named Karamela. "But let me know, if you need any help.

I'll be in the biscuits section doing some cleaning. Someone left a shit in there."
"Yes, thank you," I said. "See you later."
Karamela waved goodbye and left. So then, by myself, I picked up the packets of Sharkleberry
Kool-Aid and started placing them back on the shelf. But while doing so, I became tempted by the
devil. I stole a single packet of Sharkleberry Kool-Aid by slipping it into my jacket pocket.
Immediately afterward, I left the aisle, and carefully made way to the exit.
As I was about to leave, I felt someone grab my wrist. It was Karamela.
"Excuse me," she said, "but could you step back into the store, please?"
I became afraid. My eyes went wide, my body began shaking.
"I can't," I said. "My legs don't function that way."
"Moonwalk back then," said Karamela.
I wasn't prepared to moonwalk. However, I was prepared to make a run for it. But when I tried
taking off, Karamela held my wrist even tighter, and then wrapped me up by putting me into a full
nelson hold. Her hands locked in my arms, and pressed against the back of my head. Maybe because of
a lack of nutrition, I was too weak to escape it.
"Let me go!" I said, struggling. "I didn't do anything wrong!'
"I know you stole something," said Karamela. "I've already called the police."
"Gah, how did you know I stole something?" I said.
"I became suspicious when you were being nice to me," said Karamela. "Customers seldom are
nice, unless they're up to no good."
"C'mon, man," I said, "I only took one packet of Kool-Aid. I'll pay for it, I swear."
"It's not the Kool-Aid that matters," said Karamela. "It's the principle of the matter. You should
never steal from a large corporation."
"Please," I said, struggling, "I meant no harm. Let me go. I, I'll never do it again."
"I'm afraid I can't take your word on that," said Karamela. "You thieving scums like to lie."
Then she tightened her hold on me. I was having trouble breathing.
"Thieving scum?" I said. "You think I'm thieving scum?"
"Yes," said Karamela.
"Why?" I said.
"You thieves have no remorse for what you do," said Karamela. "You steal without remorse, and
you justify by saying that you're 'only taking from a big corporation.' But a corporation, no matter their
size, are just made up of people. When you steal you raise prices for everyone else, and you cause
employees to get lower wages, because we can't be paid as much when people are coming in, and
stealing. I'm sure if my company made more money I would get a pay raise -- that's how it works,
right? When businesses do better they share the wealth?"
"Good God, who told you that?" I said.
"Manager," said Karamela.
"How old are you," I said, "fifteen? Have you ever heard of the term skepticism?"
"So, it's not true?" said Karamela.
"Well, erm, some of it's not true," I said. "At least the part about getting a pay raise when your
company makes more profit."
"Those bastards," said Karamela. "So, they lied to me."
"You'll let me go now?" I said.
"No," said Karamela. "What you did is wrong."
"Is stealing always wrong?" I said. "What is bad about stealing a loaf of bread to feed your
family?"
"You didn't steal a loaf of bread," said Karamela. "You stole Kool-Aid."
"But it's full of Vitamin C," I said. "You don't know, what if I have scurvy?"
"I'm not letting you go," said Karamela. "You're a bad person."

"Please," I said, almost crying. "I'm not. I just fell into the wrong crowd is all. An older kid told
me to do it."
"Likely story," said Karamela.
I struggled, trying to get free, but it did me no good. I was firmly locked in place. Now, I was
beginning to get scared. I couldn't imagine myself going to prison and getting raped by a large, butch
Lesbian.
"Hey," said a familiar voice, "you gotta let her go."
The other store employee named Liam tapped Karamela on the shoulder.
"What do you want?" she said. "I'm tryin' to do something here."
"You know company policy," said Liam. "We are not supposed to detain thieves. It's considered
a liability."
"Liability, how?" said Karamela.
"If we get hurt," said Liam, "it is on our company's head. So to speak."
"This woman couldn't hurt a fly," said Karamela.
"I'm warning you," said Liam. "If you don't let go of this woman -- who I don't know -- I will
have to report you to the higher ups."
"Yer bluffin'," said Karamela.
"You wanna find out?" said Liam.
"Fine," said Karamela, "I'll let the fatty and her baby go."
Reluctantly, Karamela released her grip on me. I almost fell to the floor, on account of being
hoisted up, standing on my tippy toes. I turned back to Liam. He grinned a boyish grin at me.
"Thank you," I said.
"Ooh, how quaint," Karamela interrupted, "a thief with a heart of gold."
Liam whispered, "Good luck."
Then I spun on my heels, ready to bolt, as I saw two police officers coming down the mall's
corridor.
Karamela yelled and waved to them, "She's over here! Hey! Over --"
Liam covered her mouth.
"Hurry!" he said.
I began to run, hoping the police officers wouldn't shoot me in the back.
Chapter 60
The clock on the wall ticked. I had but a few minutes left to stay in my motel room. At 4:00 PM my
time would be up. I would be forced to leave. I sat down with Bebe and Kat on the bed, wracking my
brain, trying to come up with a solution for my imminent demise. My only thoughts were to build a
barricade to keep anyone out, or hide in the closet. I had my doubts about either.
Finally, the knock at the door came. I went to answer it. The motel people asked me why I didn't
check out, and to vacate the premises immediately for paying guests. Also, they found out about all the
minibar food I ate.
"Sure," I said. "I'll pay for it. How much is it again?
"$223," said Gemma.
Jesus Christ. I had a total of two quarters in my pocket.
"Uuuh, sure," I lied, "I'll pay for that. But I left my wallet in my car. I just have to go and get it."
As I tried to step around, Gemma blocked me. "We'll need some collateral first. Do you have
anything you can leave behind?"
I whispered to Gemma, "I thought you were against capitalism?"
"I am," Gemma whispered back, "but my boss is here, and I don't wanna lose my job. I already
got in trouble for letting you in here without a proper ID and a credit card."

Hearing us whisper, Gemma's boss asked what was going on.

"Oh, it's nothing," replied Gemma. "It's just woman stuff."
The boss, who was a man, nodded affirmatively.
"Now," said Gemma, looking at me, "about the collateral."
"But I don't have my wallet," I said. "I have nothing of value here, other than my clothes, and
you don't want me to take off my clothes, do you?"
"Ew, yuck," said Gemma. "No, keep your clothes on Godsakes."
"Then what do you propose then?" I said.
"How about," said Gemma, "you let us keep your cat?"
"My cat?!" I said. "No way! I love this fluffy, furry, cotton ball. She's my soul mate."
"Fine," said Gemma. "How about your baby?"
"Are you mad?!" I said. "That's even worse!"
"Then give us the stupid cat," said Gemma. "You'll get it back after you return. Won't you be
returning?"
"Of course," I said. "Of course, of horse. That is exactly what I intend to do."
"So, the cat?" said Gemma.
"Can't I give you something else?" I said.
"THE CAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" said Gemma.
Sigh. I let out a deep breath, and (so very) reluctantly handed Kat over to Gemma. Gemma took
Kat in her arms, and stroked her head gently. Kat purred in delight... Traitor.
"You can go get your wallet now," said Gemma.
"I'm going," I grumbled.
I pushed past the motel workers, and headed into the parking lot. When I got to the end, I
walked over to a nice looking car, and approached it like I was going to get in. Then I glanced behind
before I made a run for it. Once again, I played the fugitive.
I heard Gemma yelling in the nearby distance: "She's getting away -- get her!"
I ignored it and kept on footing, without even looking back. I ran, and ran, until I was about
ready to drop. I leaned against a brick wall and tried catching my breath. Like a paranoid, I kept staring
around me, watching out for the people from the motel. After a few minutes, I realized there was no
one around, except me, and Bebe, who somehow managed to stayed girdled to my chest. I suppose the
little, carrying sack I made to keep her in place did the trick.
Exhausted, mentally more than physically, I found a bench and sat down. It was red, and the
paint was stripping away. I'd say it looked about as worn as me. I breathed in and out, slowly, trying to
calm myself down. I was swimming in a sea of anxiety. What was I going to do with myself? I wanted
to ask Bebe, but didn't think a baby could provide any certain answers. Also, she crapped herself.
"Oh, God," I said. "Not now."
I got up, and began looking for a place, where I could duck into, and use their sink. I needed to
wash the cloth diaper I made for Bebe, which was really just a white towel, and some safety pins.
"Sowwy [sic]," said Bebe.
"You may be some sort of genius," I said, "but you still managed to poop yourself... I suppose
the two aren't 'mutually exclusive.' Why, look at Stephen Hawking."
Speaking of Stephen Hawking, I found a nearby cafe/bakery, possibly with some bathrooms.
The green and gold sign told me it was called the Three Sisters Bakery and Cafe. I peered into the
windows. As it didn't seem so busy, I made my way inside. I strolled in casually, trying not to arouse
any suspicion; however, attention was brought upon me immediately when the door chimes clanged
above me.
"Hello," said a young, gingery looking, Irish girl. "Welcome to the Three Sisters Bakery and
Cafe. How can I be of assistance to you?"
But I didn't want to buy anything. I only wanted to use their bathroom. Using my quick

thinking, I decided I'd order up a complicated Irish dish that took long enough to prepare, so I could nip
out to the back, and use a toilet.
"Uh, do you have any Lucky Charms?" I said.
The way the gingery, Irish girl glared at me, I could tell she had heard this joke a few thousand
times or more. In my defense, I wasn't making a joke. I simply made a blunder. I usually made
blunders, many, many, many blunders. An unfortunate characteristic of mine was trying to make things
better only to make them worse. Sometimes I wished life were like a video game. You saved your spot
and went back, if you screwed up. However, knowing my luck, the disc would probably get scratched.
Either way it was no use imagining. That technology didn't exist, and now I had an angry, Irish
woman to deal with, who probably thought I was a massive racist. I giggled nervously.
"He-he, I guess you think I'm racist, huh?" I said. "Well, I was only making a joke. And c'mon,
it's not like I called you a, I dunno, nigger. Now that would be wrong."
"Excuse me, did you just say the N-word?" said Mairead.
"Uh, yes," I said, "but I was trying to make a point. Bringing up Lucky Charms to an
Irishwoman, surely, is not as bad as saying something else racist, like, again, nigger...or chink, or wop,
or gook, or Jap, or jungle bunny. It's just not."
Mairead's face went red, redder than it ever was. She shot daggers at me, with her eyes, and
asked me to leave.
"Get the hell out of here," she said.
"Why?" I said fretfully.
"We don't serve your kind," said Mairead.
"My kind?" I said. "Now, who's the racist?"
"I meant biggots," said Mairead. "We don't serve biggots."
"Oh," I said, "that's what you meant." I slumped my shoulders. "Fine, I'm going. All I wanted to
do was clean my baby's diapers, anyway."
Mairead perked up. "Is that all?"
"What's it to you?" I said.
"Ack, I'm a new mother myself," said Mairead. "I know -- ! I know what you're going through.
Can be quite sleep depriving to have a newborn. Sometimes your brain just can't get up to full speed,
even if you've had a dozen cups of coffee."
"Wait a minute," I said, "you never thought I was this baby's mother before?"
"Mmmm, I dunno, maybe you were babysitting," said Mairead. "Because the baby is awfully
cute. You two look nothing alike."
"Thanks," I said. (Sarcasm.)
"Anyway, you can go ahead and use the toilets now," said Mairead. "Get that little stinker out of
here."
So, I took Bebe to the little girl's room. I'll spare you the details of how I cleaned up, but I'll will tell
you that I got some shit on myself. Minutes later, I left the bathroom in a haste. Mairead stopped me.
"Hold on," she said. "Why don't you stay and have some coffee? Or a slice of cake? It's green."
"I, I can't," I said.
"On a diet so soon?" said Mairead.
"No," I said. "It's more like I can't afford it. You see, I'm sorta having some financial and
emotional difficulties right now... Okay, sure, I know being a single mother isn't the worst thing in the
world, but sometimes I feel like curling up in a ball and crying, under a warm blanket."
"Ah, yes, you've postpartum," said Mairead. "Well, don't worry. It'll go away after a couple
weeks, my dear. But why don't you sit down anyway, and have some coffee, and cake? How'd you like
it?"
"I really can't," I said.

"On the house," said Mairead. "Absolutely free."

"Why?" I said.
"Let's call it Irish hospitality," said Mairead. "But you aren't English, are you? Because if so,
then sod it. Never forget Bloody Sunday."
"Er, I'm not English," I said. "And yes, I think I'll accept your offer."
"Have a seat," said Mairead.
I went near the window, and sat down by a squircle shaped table. (Squircle being the fancy
name for a square with rounded corners.) Immediately, I noticed the wooden surface had a large
Shamrock etched in the middle. Words beneath it read: "'Top of the Morning to Yah' Is Not a Real Irish
Phrase." Hm, what an odd thing to point out.
Not a moment later, Mairead came to my table. She placed down a cup of coffee, and a warm
bun in the shape of a crescent moon.
"How interesting," I said, referring to the bun. "What do you call this?"
"A Luna Bun," said Mairead. "My beautiful sister, Caoilainn , invented it while she was drunk.
She invents a lot of stuff while drunk actually."
"Caoilainn?" I said. "How is that pronounced?"
"Kay-Linn," said Mairead. "My name is Mur-aid by the way."
"Thank you," I said. "That cleared up a lot of confusion."
"Excuse me," said Mairead, "but I have some business to attend to."
"Thank you for the food," I said.
When Mairead left, I looked down at my Luna Bun. It was shaped like a crescent moon, and
was sunny yellow. Specks of dark and white chocolate were baked into it as well. I picked it up and
took a bite. The bread was warm and fluffy, as was the inside, which had a sweet, buttery filling. It felt
like it was melting on my tongue. I chewed it slowly, knowing perhaps it would be my last bit of food
for a good while.
I told myself in my head it was going to be okay, but my mind wouldn't accept the idea. I was
still worried as hell. While eating, and drinking, I tried being calm and carrying on. I didn't want to give
off a bad vibe to Bebe. Despite her age, she was smart. Having her realize what was really happening to
us would make our situation all the more worse. I didn't need two people with a severe case of anxiety.
So, I looked up at the flat panel TV to calm my nerves. There were some men on screen,
running around, catching, and whacking a ball with a stick that had what seemed to be a paddle on the
end. Shortly afterward, I found out the game I was watching was called Hurling, apparently, Ireland's
national sport. However, it did nothing to put me at ease. If anything, it made me more excitable. It was
the fastest game I ever saw on grass.
Four minutes later, I finished my coffee, and bun. Yet I sipped at my cup, pretending I still had
something left to drink. I was loitering, because I had nowhere else to go. Here, unlike the outside, it
was warm and comfortable. If I was to worry, I'd do it while warn and comfortable. Not too
comfortable, however, as I was wringing my hands from worry. Then when my palms became sore, I
started spinning my engagement ring on my finger. It gave me an idea.
I got up and left the bakery.
Chapter 61: Diary Entry #1
Dearest Diary,
Hello! How do you do? This is my very first entry. I'm writing to you, because -- I can't contain myself.
I met someone today, a wonderful man, who tells me he's going to become a doctor one day. His name
is Harris O'Leary. He is the most handsomest man I've ever seen. He's slim, tall, and, omigod, what a
wonderful head of hair. I just wanna dive in it and swim around.

But looks aside, more importantly, he is nice. I can't remember the last time anyone's ever been
nice to me. Harris is so gentle and caring. After we literally bumped into each other, he picked up all of
my groceries, and helped me carry them all the way home. Sure it was only a block away, but still,
appreciated the effort.
I invited him inside for coffee. While I was eating biscotti, he took me by the hand, and stroked
it gently. He told me I had the voice of the angel, and that I was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Me? The most beautiful woman in the world? Tee-hee! Makes me giggle to think about it.
At the end of it he asked me out for a date. My first date?! I'm so nervous. Where will we go? A
restaurant? A movie theater??? Something more exciting? Like rock climbing? Okay, maybe not rock
climbing, but either way I'm excited. I tell you, I think this is the beginning of something amazing. I
might be falling in love.
Chapter 62
Harry's Pawnshop smelt of cigarettes, booze, and sweat. The blue carpet was dirtied and stained,
having lost its luster over the years. I walked through the piles of what seemed to be junk, and made my
way to the glass counter, where various watches or jewelery was being displayed. A man in his early
60s in a green visor locked eyes with me, never letting me off his gaze. He had thick glasses, greasy
white hair around his round head, and frown that sagged as much as his skin. Basically, he was a
human bulldog.
"Watcha selling?" said Harry in a light, Southern drawl.
"Hm," I said. "You get straight to business, don't you?"
"Watcha selling?" Harry repeated.
I stuck out my hand to show my ring finger.
"What's this?" said Harry. "You selling your hand?"
"No," I said, "my engagement ring."
"A silver engagement ring?" said Harry. "With a poil (pearl) on top?"
"They're quite trendy," I said. "How much can you give me for it?"
"Let me have a look-see," said Harry.
I slipped off my ring and placed it down. Harry picked it up and examined it, using a
magnifying device called a loupe.
"How much can I get?" I said.
"Not much," said Harry.
"$200?" I said.
Harry laughed. "Try five bucks."
"You're trying to rip me off," I said. "I knew I shouldn't have come here."
"Lady," said Harry, "I ain't tryin' ter rip you off. Silver's only $20 an ounce. How much you
think your ring weighs?"
"I guess it's pretty light," I said.
"Also," Harry added, "your ring ain't even silver. It's silver plated. And the pearl on top is made
out of plastic."
I couldn't believe it. I was so angry, I started to stammer. "Are you... Are you... Are you..."
"Am I what?" said Harry.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" I said.
"Lady, keep it down," said Harry. "You's gonna wake up your baby."
I clenched my fists. My whole body started shaking. My engagement ring from Harris was a
piece of junk, barely better than what you got from those red machines you put a quarter into.
"I know yer angry," said Harry, "but I can't do anything about it."
"Alright, you know what?" I said. I slapped my hand down onto the glass counter. "I'll take the

$5.00."
"I can't give you that much," said Harry.
"What?" I said.
"Yah," said Harry. "I'm runnin' a shop here. I need to make a profit. $5.00 is retail price. I can
only give you two bucks. Or two-fifty credit."
"Seriously?" I said.
"As serious as serious can be," said Harry.
"Well... Okay," I said. "I'll take the two dollars."
"You sure 'bout this now?" said Harry. "Isn't this an engagement ring?"
"It doesn't matter anymore," I said. "We're no longer together."
"Now, this ain't none of my business," said Harry, "but do you mind me askin' what happened?"
I looked aside, down at the floor, and put my arms around Bebe. All those memories of Harris,
good and bad, came flooding back into my head.
"The usual," I said. "He broke my heart."
"Ah, yes." said Harry. "That reminds me of saying my pappy used to have. He used to say 'love
is like a magnifying glass.' You get under it, and it exposes you. It shows the world your flaws, makes
you feel vulnerable, and everything seems a whole lot bigger. The joys are bigger. The misery is bigger.
Life is bigger. But most of all, when the magnifying glass is on you, you're liable to get burnt. Most of
us get burnt, because we're all just ants, ain't we?"
"Really?" I said. "Your dad said all that?"
"My pappy was a bit of a pessimist," said Harry. "Also, he's been divorced five times. Not his
fault though 'cause love is difficult, innit? I mean you fall in love with someone, then when you're in
balls deep you find out they're all wrong for you. Or they're perfect, but you can't be together, because
she or he don't find you attractive enough. The shitty part about it is, you don't just get over it. It's a
long lasting, torturous pain. Falling in love is like getting cut with a knife. It bleeds you out, and then
you're left with a big, ugly scar to remind you of what happened."
"Wait," I said, "I thought you said love was like a magnifying glass."
"No, that's my pappy's analogy," said Harry. "Mine is the knife one. It is like a knife though,
innit? A knife can be used for good or evil. Just like love."
I nodded reluctantly.
Harry chuckled. "Heh, ain't I the college philosopher over here?"
"Sure are," I said.
"But on the real," said Harry. "There are other types of love, which aren't all too bad, like the
love between you and your dog. That's the realest love I ever felt. Every time I get home, he comes
running to me, like I'm the best thing ever."
"Look," I said, "I'm not saying your dog doesn't love you, but you are the one that feeds him.
You're his sole source of sustenance. Of course he'll suck up to you. He has to, if he wants to live."
Harry leaned towards me, so much so that his head hovered only inches above Bebe, who was
(of course) against my body.
"Listen here," he said. "I have very few things left to look forward to in life. Don't gimme your
sass mouth and ruin them, hm?"
"Sure," I said. "Whatever you want. Can I have my two dollars now?"
Harry opened his cash register and gave me two dollars in change.
"Now, don't forget," he said, "all transactions are final. Y'understand?"
I nodded, and then took the money. I put into my purse. Not a moment later, Harry placed my
his silver ring on display. He wrote the price in marker: $50.00.
"Hey," I said. "You gave me two bucks for my ring, and now you're selling it for $50.00? You
ripped me off."
"That's not what I'm actually getting fer it," said Harry. "People come in here and bargain with

me. Or on occasion I have a sale. Marking it down 50% always entices customers to make a purchase.
It feels like you're saving money."
"Sneaky," I said in an angry tone.
"Don't hate me for being clever," said Harry.
"Never mind," I said. "I have to go."
Then I turned around and started walking away.
"Wait," said Harry, "aren't you going to to buy anything?"
I stopped. "What could I possibly want here?"
Harry bent down, behind the counter, and picked up a bag. He showed me something that made
me (mentally) drool.
"Kids love these things," Harry said, while holding up a Poopee doll.
I gasped, and immediately went over to Harry. I looked at the doll in disbelief. For the last few
days I had been foolishly looking the city up and down for one, but it was nowhere to be found. Now,
here it was, brand new. Bebe was eager to have it. She kept reaching for it, trying to touch it. Harry,
however, kept it at a safe distance.
"It's not yours yet," he said to Bebe.
"How much?" I said, forgetting I had next to no money on me.
"$400," said Harry. "Tax not included."
I stared in disbelief.
"What's the matter?" said Harry. "You got some wires loose?"
"It's too much money," I said.
"Market price," said Harry. "These dolls are goin' for $400 to $500 on eBay. I'm giving you a
little markdown."
I groaned. "Why is everything so expensive?"
"It's not expensive," said Harry, "you're just poor. Now, do you want it or not?"
"Yes, I do," I said, "but not for that price."
"I'm not giving it away for less the $400," said Harry.
"But, but that's four times normal price," I said.
"Hey, abnormal prices for abnormal times," said Harry. "Everyone is trying to get their hands on
one of these."
"It's nothing but plain, greedy capitalism," I said.
"You got any better ideas than capitalism?" said Harry.
"I'm not a political scientist," I said.
"Even if you were," said Harry, "a political scientist isn't even a real scientist."
"My point still stands," I said. "What you're doing is greedy. You're greedy."
"What a double standard," said Harry. "When I try to benefit myself it's greed, but when you do
it somehow it's different... Anyway, I'm not that greedy. You wanna talk about greedy? Them politicians
canceled a power plant and it's cost taxpayers over $1 billion. That's one thousand million! And for
what? Something that wasn't even built? Where'd all that money go?"
I could see Harry was mad. "And what gets me gillies is," he continued, "they're only going
after the chief of staff. Talk about frying up the small fish. How about grilling the people who were
actually directly involved in this scam? Is that too much to ask? Bringing down the people who're
responsible?"
As Harry complained about: political corruption, incompetent, lazy government workers, postal
workers, lawyers, the justice system, military, police, Microsoft, TSA agents, banks, brokerage firms,
various financial institutions, casinos, insurance companies, credit card companies, cable companies,
telephone companies, energy companies, garbage collectors, unions, bus drivers, Chinese drivers, sluts,
teenagers, celebrities, writers, pseudo-intellectuals, mechanics, plumbers, furnace repairmen,
construction workers, tradesmen, contractors, and clowns, I couldn't help but tune out just a little.

Sure, he had his points. Sure, these people let us down a lot, and liked screwing us in the bum,
but at the moment I didn't care. I was fixated on the Poopee doll sitting in front of me. I kept staring at
it, lusting to hold it. I wanted it so, so bad. The thought of not having it for Christmas for my little Bebe
made me grieve. Why shouldn't I, for once in my life, have a proper Christmas? With gifts? And
delicious food? And a tree with a star on top? Can't I have what everyone else has?
Harry finished his ranting. "...And that's why we need to build a death ray."
"Excuse me," I said, "but would it be possible to reserve that doll?"
"Hm, how's that?" said Harry.
"I don't have money now," I said, "but I can pay for it later on. Can you hold it for me?"
Harry looked at me like I was an idiot.
"No can do," he said. "First come, first serve. But try your luck, why don't you?"
Try my luck? TRY MY LUCK?! I've been trying my luck, since I came out of the womb.
"Please," I begged. "I, I really want this."
Harry seemed to take sympathy with me. He took a moment to think.
"Mmmmm...okay," he said. "What the hell. I'll hold it for two day, but after that it goes to the
whoever has the cash."
I was pleased, but not really happy. Two days wouldn't be enough to do anything, especially
considering my situation.
"Can you do it a bit longer?" I said.
Harry shook his head. As I was about to retort the phone at the back rang.
"Scuse me," said Harry, "I'll have to be getting that."
He walked away. I tried getting his attention, but he only ignored me.
"Alright, fine," I said in a loud voice, "I'll get you your money. Two days!"
Receiving no reply from Harry, I turned around, and walked to the door to leave. I stepped
outside, where a blast of cold air hit me. Carrying Bebe, I used my hands to shield her face. I walked
along the snowy sidewalk, wandering around. I needed a quick way to make money. I paused and had a
thought.
But I shook my head, "No... No.... I CAN'T!" The idea of it nearly drove me mad.
Chapter 63
Looking at Bebe, her warm blue eyes, it made me change my mind. I chose to swallow my pride, and
get the that help I needed. I backtracked into the pawnshop, and asked to borrow Harry's laptop
computer. At first he was reluctant to do so, but gave in after I begged.
"Hurry up now," said Harry, as I was typing in Facebook. "I need that machine fer you know
what."
I didn't know what, and I didn't want to guess. I kept my head down, and logged onto Facebook.
Right off that bat I saw I only had nine "friends." One less than before; I lost 10% of my friends. It
shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. To me Facebook is the least amount of contact you can have
with someone, without them being a total stranger, and them deleting you is like saying they want you
to stay a stranger.
Still, nine friends was better than nothing, although seven of them were only online. The other
two were people I actually knew: Harris, of course, and a real estate agent, who once tried to sell me a
house.
Shirley was on Facebook too; however, we weren't "friends." I made a comment that annoyed
her, so she deleted it, and blocked me permanently. All I did was point out a grammatical error in one
of her posts. And apparently that upset her. She said I made her look like a fool, but I had the best of
intentions. I wanted her to know the difference between your and you're. They are two totally different
things.

Anyhow, I clicked on Harris' name on Facebook to browse his profile. Upon seeing it my heart
skipped a beat, but not in a good way. I was shocked that so soon he already had a girlfriend. His status
read: In a Relationship. Not to mention, there was a photo of them, shall I say, "swapping fluids." I
know that I left him, and that his visage made me recoil, yet I felt hurt. There was a tiny, little crushing
feeling in the middle of my chest. I was sure Bebe could feel it too, because she reached her arms out at
Harris' picture saying, "Da-da."
"That's not your da-da," I said to Bebe. "At least not anymore."
I sighed and scrolled through Harris' page. I looked at what was posted on his "wall." Most of
the comments were of Harris' girlfriend flirting with him, calling him handsome, and smart, and strong,
and funny. You know, stuff guys like to hear. I ignored them, and scrolled back up to the top of the
page, where there was some contact information. I took down Harris' new phone number.
"You done?" said Harry. "I'm closing up shop now."
"So early?" I said.
"Early to bed, early to rise," said Harry. "It's keeping me healthy."
"Wait," I said, "before you close up, can I ask you a favor?"
"You can ask," said Harry, "but I cannot guarantee."
"Can I please use your phone?" I said. "Just for a couple minutes."
"Okay, but it'll cost you $5.00," said Harry.
"What!" I said. "The telephone booth outside is only fifty cents."
"The charge is for my time," said Harry. "I have to keep this shop open extra long, so you can
jibber-jabber on the phone. That don't come free."
"Fine," I said, "shove me out into the cold, why don't you?"
"Go home then," said Harry. "Make your call there."
"I don't have a home," I said.
"Oh," said Harry, "you're homeless?"
"Wow," I said, "you almost say that like you care."
"I'm not the Grinch," said Harry.
He reached into his pocket, and then tossed me two quarters.
"For the phone call," he said, with a self-satisfied grin.
"Thanks," I said.
Harry got off his stool, and went around the shop turning off lights, even before I could leave. I
stumbled in the darkness, then once again made my way outside. It felt even colder than before. It was
certainly darker. The sun was going down.
"Well," I said to Bebe, holding her tight, "it's just you and me now. But don't worry, I can take
care of you. We'll be back on our feet in no time, y'hear me?"
Bebe was unresponsive. She was fast asleep. I took care not to make any loud noises, as I
headed to the nearest phone booth. Which was hard to find, since they were rapidly going out of
fashion. After a mile's walk, finally, I found one.
Resting my body, I leaned against the foggy plastic that I assumed was once clear. I noticed it
was riddled with graffiti. The "artwork" varied, ranging from the usual penis all the way to an ugly
frog, wearing a king's crown.
You know, in a way I almost felt sorry for these "artists" (aka delusional artists), because all
combined they had less artistic talent than a six year old -- who eats his own boogers. I mean really
how stupid can these people be?
Number one, they are moronic enough to vandalize their own city that they live in, which is like
destroying your own house. Number two, what is going on in their head that makes them think anyone
wants to see what they've done? What is this, a frog, a poorly drawn frog? Does that really have enough
merit to deserve being permanently displayed on a phone booth, or in a bus shelter, or on a newspaper
box?

I surmise the person who drew that frog, with the crown, is probably a stinky, ugly person, with
no friends, and a double digit IQ. What a giant loser. Does he have nothing better to do with himself?
Does he think ruining something with his crap art is a way to leave his mark on the world?
I want to say to him: Hey, pal, you're a jackass, okay? You suck at art. Stop trying to force your
crap art down other people's throats. No one wants to see it. And this goes double for all you other
delusional artists/vandals/graffiti "artists." You all suck at art. No one cares about your stupid name
tags, and your doodles. You are all huge losers, who are a waste of oxygen, and you should be lucky to
graduate high school...if that.
Anyway! Never mind these people, I had more important things to do in this phone booth. I
took in a deep breath and picked up the receiver. I put it against my ear. I took my time, as I was quite
nervous. I wasn't exactly sure what to say. I played out a conversation in my head. I didn't think it
would pan out that way, but I would try. I put two quarters into the phone's coin slot, and dialed Harris'
phone number.
The phone began ringing. It felt so slow. After what seemed like an hour, a voice on the other
line picked up. Indeed, it was Harris.
"Hello?" he said.
"Harris," I said in a sheepish tone. "C'est moi."
Chapter 64
"Me who?" said Harris.
"Don't you recognize my voice?" I said.
"Jillian?" said Harris.
"Not Jillian," I said. "It's me. Zelda."
"Zelda!" said Harris, like he was angry. "How did you get this number?"
"Facebook," I said.
"I'm blocking you," said Harris.
"But, wait," I said.
Before I could finish my sentence, Harris cut me off. "Look here, Zelda, I don't want you
contacting me, okay? I have a new life and I'm happy. I won't let you hold me back anymore."
Holding him back? I was holding him back?! The nerve! But I remained calm. I had to.
"I need your help," I said. "I'm homeless."
"Oh, you're just so full of shit, aren't you?" said Harris.
"I'm not full of shit," I said. "It's real. I'm in a phone booth with my baby. Our baby. Here,
listen."
I held the receiver up to Bebe's mouth.
"Say something," I told her.
She opened her eyes for a moment and then shut them back to go to sleep.
"I don't hear anything," said Harris.
"She's asleep," I said.
"Okay," said Harris, "so what do you want from me?"
"Send me some money via Western Union," I said.
"How much?" said Harris.
"The limit is $2,999," I said.
"Ha!" said Harris. "You expect me to send you that much money? Through Western Union, no
less?"
"I'm homeless," I said. "Or at least about to be. Your help would be very much appreciated right
now."
"No, I don't believe you," said Harris.

"What's not to believe?" I said. "Why would I make this up?"

"You're just trying to screw me out of money," said Harris. "You've always been a bit of a gold
digger."
Gold digger? He thinks I'm a gold digger?! Grrrrr! If I didn't need his help, I'd give him a piece
of my mind.
"Harris," I said in my most chirpy voice, "you have to believe me. I'm not lying. Have I ever
lied to you in the past? I'm not a liar. You know me. I'm as honest as can be.
"Zelda," said Harris, "I'm going to hang up on you, and when I do, I don't want you contact me
again. If you try, you won't get so much as a peep. Okay? Because I've left you behind, you're in the
past, I'm not with you anymore. I know you think I owe you something, and I realize I've made
mistakes, but how much longer do I have to feel guilty? I've made my amends. I'm going to anger
management. I'm treating people for free at my clinic. I give food to the food bank. I adopted a puppy
for Godsakes. What more can the world ask of a guy?"
"But, but, but what about your child?" I said. "Don't you care about her?"
"I don't know if it's mine," said Harris. "You probably cheated on me."
"There are a lot of things I am," I said, "but I am no cheater... You're the cheater."
"I've changed," said Harris. "I'm a one-man woman."
One-man woman?
"I mean, one-woman man," said Harris.
I started gnashing my teeth in anger.
"So, are you going to help or not?" I said.
"I've already helped you enough," said Harris. "What the hell did you do with that cheque I sent
you?"
"What cheque?" I said.
"After I left," said Harris, "I sent you a cheque."
"Cheque?" I said.
"Do you have a hearing problem?" said Harris. "I sent you a cheque. It was in a yellow
envelope. Or bubble mailer. I don't know what the hell they call it."
Right away I knew what he was talking about. I remember receiving a parcel in the mail from
Harris after he left. If I recalled correctly, I didn't open it. Rather, I stuffed it down into the bottom of
my purse, which I was now frantically digging through.
Then I found it. I found the parcel. I tore it open and pulled out a cheque for -- drum roll, please
-- $1,000! Not a monstrous sum of money, but very decent, especially considering who it came from. I
started crying. I was saved from living out on the streets.
Chapter 65
Cheque in hand, I hung up the phone in the phone booth, and ran to the nearest bank -- only to find it
closed. I stared at the clock they had inside. It was 5:00 PM on the dot.
"Goddamnit," I yelled.
Why is it that banks close so early? Don't most people work 9 to 5, anyway? How can they use
the banks when they're only open when they're working? You know why banks do this? Because they
can. That's how life is. Anytime you need something, and you have to rely on one company, or one
person, you are going to get it straight up your bum.
After I was done fuming, I looked at Bebe. She seemed calm about the whole situation. For a
baby she was unusually quiet. I adjusted her against my bosom, and fixed the sling I made to hold her. I
was surprised it never came apart at any point.
"Well, Bebe," I said, "it looks like we might be in a bit of trouble. What do you have to say to
that? Are you worried?"

"Bebe, okay," said Bebe.

"That's good to hear," I said. "Do you have any ideas about what we should do?"
Bebe made some spit bubbles.
I sighed. "Okay, let's go for a walk around the city then to clear our heads, shall we?"
Chapter 66
It was dark. The moon and stars were covered by clouds. The dim city lights, hardly illuminated the
streets. Many of them were out, half-dead, or flickering. I walked the streets with Bebe. Every now and
again cars would pass by. None of them paid me any mind, even when I was trying to cross. I was
wandering, trying to think what to do next. We had no place to go.
I became so desperate that I thought about knocking on the door of a stranger and asking for
help. Which is what I did. I found a house that looked neat and tidy. Like a cliche from a painting, there
was a white picket fence, freshly fallen snow on a grass lawn, red bricks for walls, and mail box that
had a red flag. I walked up the concrete steps, where I faced a green door that had a gold knocker.
I knocked it thrice. Knock. Knock. Knock.
I awaited an answer, and then a grandfatherly looking man came out. He had on slippers,
corduroy pants, and a plaid button-up shirt. He had rosy cheeks, gray hair, and a warm smile, which
gave me hope.
"Hello, there," said the grandfather. "How can I help you?"
"My name's Zelda Montgomery Baker..." I said nervously.
"Nice to meet you, Zelda," said the grandfather. He shook my hand. "Cute baby by the way."
"Thank you," I said.
"What's the matter?" said the grandfather. "Are you lost?"
"I'm not lost," I said.
"Oh?" said the grandfather.
"No, I'm homeless," I said. "Well, about to be, if I don't get any help. Am wondering, if you
could let me and my baby stay with you? I know it's really odd for someone like me to ask for help,
from you, someone I don't even know, but I'm desperate. It's cold outside."
The grandfather looked me in the eyes, and pulled up the corner of his mouth. "Why don't you
come in?"
He stepped aside, and opened the door wide. Me and Bebe went in. The place smelled like
cinnamon, and spices, there was a clean, quaint look to it. We found ourselves, first thing, in the living
room. There was a fireplace, a television hanging above it, and a set of pearl white couches, and an old,
wooden coffee table.
"Have a seat," said the grandfather, after closing the door.
I sat down on the loveseat. The grandfather disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a cup
of hot cocoa. It had tiny marshmallows floating on top.
"Oh, is that for me?" I said.
"Yes," said the grandfather. "Why don't you unstrap your baby and you can drink it?"
"Good idea," I said.
"Hold on," said the grandfather.
The grandfather left, and returned with a baby stroller. A deluxe baby stroller. He took Bebe,
and placed her gently inside. He covered her body with a clean, fluffy blanket. I picked up my cup of
hot cocoa from the coffee tabled, and brought it to my mouth. I supped it slowly, savoring its
sweetness.
"Fantastic cup of cocoa you make," I said to the grandfather.
"Thanks," said the grandfather. "I put real chocolate in it. That's why it tastes soooooo good."
"I like how you say your 'so,'" I said. "It's quite extended."

The grandfather, whose grandfather I didn't know, sat down beside me. He patted me on the
knee. "What's a pretty, young girl like you doing out on the streets with a baby?"
"It's a long, sad story," I said. "But it all began five years ago, when I was twenty five...."
I told the grandfather my whole story, not leaving out a single detail. He sat there, looking at
me, absolutely fascinated. He listened to the whole thing. His attention undivided.
"Wow," said the grandfather. "You ought to turn your story into a book. It is amazing -- you're
amazing."
"I appreciate the compliment," I said, "but I'm already busy working on a novel."
"Wow," said the grandfather. "So, you're a writer, huh? Most impressive. I knew you were
clever the first time I saw you. So, what's this novel about, anyway?"
"Super hero mermaids," I said. "They go around the sea, beating up bad guys, and solving
murder mysteries."
"Very nice," said the grandfather. "But why mermaids?"
"When I was a child I wanted to be a mermaid," I said. "In a way, I suppose I'm living a
childhood dream of mine. Isn't that silly?"
"No," said the grandfather, "not silly at all. I admire your tenacity. You are very tenacious. I
mean look at you, single mother, with your baby, slugging it out on your own. You don't even need a
man. You're independent. You're fierce. You're like a lioness, protecting her only cub, and for that you
deserve nothing but admiration. Zelda, my dear, you are a a smart, beautiful, wonderful woman. If
there were more people on this planet like you we would all be better off. You are nothing less than a
hero."
I didn't know what to say. I was getting all these compliments, and I wasn't used to it.
Criticisms, insults, bad looks was what I was really acclimated to. But this? What to do? All I could do
was nod and smile. What luck I found this lovely, caring, old man. Imagine growing up, if he was my
father. What would I be today were that the case? Maybe I would be rich, and successful... But upon
thinking about it, I decided I wouldn't want to change a thing. For I could not imagine a world without
my little Bebe.
"So," I said, "what's it like being retired? You are retired, aren't you?"
"Yessum" said the grandfather. "Sure am. Have been for two years now."
"So," I said, "what do you do for fun around here?"
The grandfather took a moment to ponder my question.
"Wellum," he said, "I collect bottles caps, and newspaper clippings. Also, I do tricks with my
cane."
"Wowee," I said, "that's really great. I didn't know old people could do stuff."
"Yeeeeep," said the grandfather, "would you like to see mah skills?
"Heh, how much for tickets to the show?" I said.
"Free entry for pretty ladies," said the grandfather, "and cute babies."
"Sign me up, doc," I said.
Not a moment too soon, the grandfather conjured up a wooden, walking cane. He starts twirling
it around, and tossing it in the air. He even did a back flip. And the splits. I was totally amazed. Did not
know a man of his age could ever do that. I stood and clapped.
"Thank you," said the grandfather, bowing. "You are too kind."
"I feel like I should throw flowers," I said.
"No need," said the grandfather. "Jus' lemme poke you in the face with my cane."
"Say what?" I said.
The grandfather took his cane and began poking me in the face.
"Stop it," I said, but I somehow I found myself defenseless.
Try as I did, I couldn't do anything to stop him from poking me. I couldn't even move. I
despaired, asking him to please leave me alone. But then I woke up from my dream.

Chapter 67
I opened my eyes. My vision was still blurry. My mind was groggy. I looked around, and saw that I was
reclined in a car seat. Beside me was a finger poking me in the cheek.
"Wake up, sleepy head," said a familiar sounding-voice. "It's morning time."
I lifted my arms, and felt Bebe resting against my chest. I placed my hand on the car
windowsill, and gazed outside. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. There was a woman, standing
before me, who looked exactly like me, and I don't mean she was similar. When I say exactly, I mean
exactly, right down to the way she moved her mouth.
I was baffled for a moment, but realized that she was no more than my doppelganger. A
common phenomenon apparently, seeing as there are over 7 billion people on earth; sometimes God
runs out of designs.
"Ugh, what's going on?" I said, my eyes darting. "Why am I in here?"
"I rescued you," said my doppelganger. "You should be thankful. My name's Veronica by the
way."
"Wait, you rescued me? How?" I said.
"I think you fainted," said Veronica. "Anyway, I found you lying on the ground, so I dragged
you into my car, so you'd be protected from the wolves."
"What wolves?" I said.
"The city is full of wolves," said Veronica, "and crocodiles, but they mostly live in the sewers.
No need to worry about them, I think."
"What time is it?" I said.
"About 10:00 AM," said Veronica. "What's your name by the way?"
"Zelda," I said. "My baby's name is Bebe. Clever name for a baby, no?"
"I think it's cute," said Veronica. "By the way, did you notice that we look exactly alike? You're
my doppelganger."
"Who's to say you aren't my doppelganger?" I said.
"Let's agree that we're both doppelgangers to each other," said Veronica.
"I don't agree to that," I said.
"No?" said Veronica.
"Let's say we're twins," I said. "It sounds way less creepy."
"Gee," said Veronica, "I never had a sister before. This is exciting. Who's the older one then?"
"Technically speaking," I said, "we would be exactly the same age, if you counted our age from
conception."
"That's true," said Veronica. "Isn't it?"
I smiled, very lightly.
"Alright," I said, "I'm gonna get up now. If It's not too much trouble --"
Without asking, Veronica opened the car door, and then stepped back to let me out. I got to my
feet and stretched my arms, with a hearty yawn. I had a surprisingly good night of sleep. I was feeling
alright today.
"I'm glad I found you," said Veronica. "I've been feeling down lately, and knowing I have a
sister makes me feel really, really, I dunno -- not unhappy?"
"Er, same here," I said. "Well, I have to be going now."
I started walking off. Veronica came in front of me.
"Wait," she said, "why don't you stay here with me? Don't be homeless on your own. It's a
dangerous world out there."
"I'm not homeless," I said.
"You have a home to sleep in?" said Veronica. "Must be so nice to sleep in a nice, warm bed."

I could hear a twinge of jealousy in her tone.

"Not exactly," I said. "I lost my home, but I'm going to get back on my feet real soon."
"Oh, I know what this is," said Veronica. "You're in denial. Yeeep. Same thing happened to me.
The first few days, I didn't think I was homeless. I just told myself I was on hard times, and that I'd find
a place in no time. Then a few days turned into weeks, then weeks into months, then months into years,
and here I am."
"How interesting," I said, "but I'm not homeless. I'm not in denial either. There's no way
someone like me could be in denial. I face my problems head on, directly to the forehead."
"Either way," said Veronica, "if you need my help, I am here to help."
"Thanks," I said. "By the way, how long have you been living out -- where are we exactly?"
Veronica took me on a tour of her home. We were under an old bridge, marked with graffiti, that
supported a train track. There was a grassy hill beside, but the hard ground was littered with needles,
cracked alcohol bottles, cigarette butts, dried chewing gum, and miscellaneous garbage. The place
looked like a dump for people, and the stray, mangy cats, who were roaming about, searching for
scraps of food.
I wondered how anyone could live here, but Veronica pointed out all her "amenities." She had a
barrel, which she filled with newspapers, and lit on fire for heat. She had jugs of water set aside for
drinking and cleaning. She had hand sanitizer, stolen from public bathrooms, to replace a lack of soap.
She used a bucket and a dish rag to bathe, and to clean her clothes. She also had a rope to dry her
clothes. As for food, she would go dumpster diving, and pick out edibles that stores did not deem good
enough to sell. She told me she once found an entire box of perfectly good pizzas, which she shared
with whoever she knew.
"Okay," I told Veronica, "I really have to be going this time."
"Where?" said Veronica.
"The bank," I said. "And, as you know, the hours there are inconveniently short; so, I'm in a bit
of a rush."
Veronica followed behind me as I walked. "Can I come?"
"Why would you wanna come with me to the bank?" I said. "It's a terrible place to be. It's like
visiting the post office. Or the DMV. Or your in-laws."
"I'm your sister," said Veronica. "At least I think I am. We should spend some time together."
In truth I didn't want Veronica following. She was homeless, and, as shameful as it sounded, I
didn't like homeless people. But I didn't want to be cold-hearted. If she was my sister she deserved to
be treated better. I paused and turned around to Veronica.
"Alright," I said, "let's spend some time together."
The winter weather was mild this morning. No falling snow. No winds a blowing. We took the scenic
route the city had to offer and arrived at our local SouthSmiler Bank. Originally it was just called
Smiler Bank, but then Big South Bank bought it out in a hostile takeover. With it came changes in
banking policies, and how they treated their customers. This meant more fees, and less leniency on
loans. It became more profitable, but turned into every other bank. The only remnant of Smiler Bank
that remained was their free coffee and donuts table. Which we gorged on.
"I think someone's watching," I said, feasting on a glazed donut.
"Relax," said Veronica, "it's free. There's no sign that says no limit."
"I don't like the way they're glaring at us," I said. "The security guard's giving us the stink eye."
"Don't worry about him," said Veronica. "He's just angry, because he's a forty year old security
guard."
After finishing two boxes of donuts, pretty much all the donuts for everyone, went slipped into
the queue. It was a long, rambling line of some three dozen people. Most passed the time on their smart
phones, while others crossed their arms, and tapped their feet. Me, I chatted with Veronica.

"So, you're a single mother, huh?" said Veronica.

"Yes," I said. "How did you know?"
"Ah, yah, it's really trendy these days," said Veronica. "I'd like to be one myself, but no one's
willing to
Silence.
"So, what're you gonna do with all that money you get from that cheque?" said Veronica.
"$1,000. That's a lot. How many Kinder Eggs could you buy with that? Like a bunch."
"I'm not going to buy Kinder Eggs," I said. "I'm going to find an apartment, and with what's left
I'll be buying a Poopee Doll."
"Oooh, I know about that," said Veronica. "Those super realistic dolls, right? I hear they're all
the rage with the kids these days. Aren't they expensive?"
"$400," I said.
"!" said Veronica. "You can't survive on $600. Unless you sell your baby. Are you planning on
selling your baby?"
"What? No," I said. "I'm not selling my baby. I'm going to find a cheap apartment that I can
share with four struggling immigrants. Anything divided five ways is going to be affordable."
"That sounds like it would work," said Veronica, "but isn't there a chance you'll have to sleep on
a sofa? Not to mention you'll have to share an apartment with four stinky immigrants."
"Who says they'll be stinky?" I said. "Why would they be stinky?"
"It's the food they eat," said Veronica. "After they eat it, they sweat out the aromas. You ever
met an alcoholic? Or a cigarette smoker? You can smell it, can't you? Same applies to immigrants and
their ethnic dishes. Eat enough curry, and you'll sweat it out, or fart it out. But if they're kind enough
they won't fart around you. So, not really a huge problem, methinks."
Finally, it was my turn to see a teller. A lady in a green t-shirt waved me over.
"Yoo-hoo," she said. "Over here."
Me, Bebe, and Veronica walked over to the teller named Marlene. She was wide as she was tall,
and had jet black hair. Her peculiar, red glasses had wing tips on the sides. She looked us up and down
as if we didn't belong, then plastered on one of those fake smiles you always see.
"Mmm, yes, what can I do for you?" she said.
"I'm here to cash a cheque," I said.
I presented my cheque from Harris.
Marlene took it to examine and pursed her lips. "Could you please swipe your banking card?"
Not having banked in a very long time I stood dumbfounded.
"It's green," said Marlene. "Has a black strip on the back."
After some fumbling I retrieved my bank card. Per Marlene's instructions I swiped it into the
little, plastic machine.
"Now your password," said Marlene.
I stood dumbfounded a second time. "I, I don't remember."
"Take a guess," said Marlene.
"I think it began with a four," I said.
"Not aloud," said Marlene. "On the machine."
"Right," I said.
I proceeded to guess my own password. I began with the number four, and went from there. I
punched in different numbers over and over again, while having to say "wait a second" intermittently
for more time. But eventually I admitted defeat.
"I guess it's not working," I said, sullenly.
"Then I can't give you your money," said Marlene.
"There has to be another way," I said.
"Yes," said Marlene, "if you have proper identification."

I showed Marlene the only ID I had. It was rejected.

"C'mon," I said right after. "It says my name and everything. So what it's a little old? And it's
not from the government?"
Marlene shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't."
"You should not allow this," I said, trying to appeal to the progressive Liberal within Marlene.
"It's wrong to support this greedy capitalist construct, where we have to pay to be be identified, and
accounted for at all times. What about our freedoms?"
"Ma'am," said Marlene, "that is the stupidest thing I ever heard."
I became red.
"A-a-alright," I said, trying my best to control my temper, "so I can't cash my cheque? At all?"
Yes," said Marlene. "No, wait. I think you can. I remember we recently implemented a new
system. If you can answer a security question we'll cash your cheque for you."
"Alright," I said, "that's great. What's the security question?"
"First," said Marlene, "we must scan the cheque."
Marlene took my cheque and put it into a tiny, rectangular, silver machine. Kinda reminded me
of a printer, where there's an angled tray atop, and you feed in paper.
"How's that work?" said Veronica.
"We put it into the machine," said Marlene, "then an optical device takes imagery of the cheque,
verifies the signature and all relevant information, and transfers it into our computer-based system.
Once done the money can be transmuted into cash."
"Very clever," said Veronica. "Don't you think it's clever, Zelda?"
"Sure," I said, nodding, "very clever."
And I watched my cheque be fed into the machine, then at the other end come out as shredded
paper.
"Oh, crap," said Marlene.
"What do you mean 'oh, crap'?" I said. "Did the money deposit?"
"No," said Marlene. "It did not."
She smacked her computer, trying to make something give.
"Damn, well," she said, "I guess that's it."
She handed me back my shredded cheque.
"What's this?" I said. "What am I going to do with this?"
"I dunno, out into an Easter basket," said Marlene. "Then get another cheque from the person
who gave it to you."
"I, I can't," I said.
"Hmph," said Marlene, "you haven't even tried yet."
I growled. "This is your fault. You owe me an apology."
"I owe no one an apology," said Marlene. "Because it's not my fault. It's not my fault computers
are needlessly complex, unwieldy devices that constantly malfunction. So, you want someone to
blame? Blame the nerds. If you want you can write them an angry letter. I don't recommend e-mail
though. Nobody pays attention to e-mails these days."
"I am in no mood to write a letter," I said. "I just lost a thousand bucks." Upset, my eyes began
watering. "Don't you even care?"
"We're the bank," said Marlene. "We only care about money. Like any other business, the value
of a customer is based solely on the amount of profit they produce for us. You ma'am would be a zero
out of a hundred." Marlene looked at her computer. "Look at this. You have no money in your account.
Actually, you have a negative balance. You owe us fifteen dollars."
"For what?" I said.
"For having not having any money," said Marlene.
"That's outrageous," I said. "I'm never banking here again."

"Ha," said Marlene. "Where you gonna bank then? We're the only bank around for miles. And
the other banks outside the city? We own them too. Also, even if you do manage to find another bank,
they're pretty much all the same."
"So, that's how it is, huh?" I said. "You treat your customers like crappy because they have no
other choice?"
"Hey," said Marlene, "don't act like we're the only ones who do it. Have you heard of a
company called PayPal? Or Ticket Master? Or AT&T? Or Comcast? Or Rogers? We are not the only
ones who take advantage of the fact that people that rely on us can't get our services elsewhere. This
sort of behavior is very common. I mean if you had the power to jerk people around, what would you
do?"
"I would never jerk people off," I said. "Or was that around? Anyways, I'm not a bad person.
Unlike you.
"I'm really not a bad person," said Marlene, "individually... But when I'm backed by the powers
of a large, semi-ruthless organization, suddenly I feel more sassy. I imagine it's the same for everyone
else, no?"
I let out a deep breath.
"For such an introspective person," I said, "you really have a terrible attitude."
"Bah," said Marlene, "who cares what you think? Does anyone care what you think? Does your
opinion actually matter in this world? I bet nobody cares what you think."
Veronica put her arm around me, and said, "I care what she thinks."
"Welp," said Marlene, "I don't care what you think. So, it doesn't matter, does it?"
"I'll make you care," said Veronica.
Then all of a sudden she pulled a pistol out of her coat pocket. She grabbed Marlene by the
collar, pulled her forward, and pointed the barrel to her head. At this point anyone who realized what
was going on, including the security guard, had fled.
"Please, don't kill me," Marlene wept. "I have a family."
"We don't want to kill you," said Veronica. "All we want is that $1,000 you lost -- and another
thousand for emotional distress."
"We?" I said. "Who is this we?"
"I'm sorry," said Marlene, "the bank doesn't have more than $500 at a time in its safe."
Veronica pressed the pistol into Marlene's temple. "DON'T LIE TO ME! THAT'S THAT MOST
RIDICULOUS LIE I EVER HEARD!"
"OK, OK," said Marlene, "I'll get you your $2,000."
"The price has just risen," said Veronica. "I now want $5,000."
"$5,000?" said Marlene. "That's a fortune!"
"I'm sure you can afford it," said Veronica. "You ought to be rich from foreclosing on all those
houses."
"That doesn't make sense," said Marlene.
"It doesn't have to make sense!" said Veronica. "Get the Goddamn $10,000 already!"
"$10,000?" said Marlene.
"$10,000!" said Veronica.
"OK," said Marlene, "I'm going!"
So then, being followed, Marlene accessed the bank's vault. She took out $10,000 per Veronica's
demands, and put it in a bag, and handed it over.
"There that's all we got, I swear," said Marlene.
"Likely story," said Veronica, "but I'm not greedy. I don't want anymore money. This is all I'll
take, thank you."
"Wait," said Marlene, her face panicked as the bank vault door shut on her.
Veronica hopped over the teller's counter, and smiled at me. However, I could not return the

gesture, neither did Bebe.

"You look scared," said Veronica. "What's the matter? I'll be sharing my loot with you. What do
you think of $5,000?"
"I can't be a participant in your bank robbery," I said. I stroked Bebe's head. "I don't want my
daughter thinking her mother to be a criminal."
"Are we the criminals?" said Veronica. "You know how much money the banks have stolen
from this country? I'm just taking some of it back."
"Yes," I said in a careful tone, not wanting to anger Veronica, "but that's not the bank's money
actually. It's someone else's money."
"I've done the deed already," said Veronica. "I can't turn back now. Do you see a Delorean
around?"
Veronica took me by the arm, and started taking me along.
"Hurry," she said, "before those pigs come and make us into fertilizer."
We got outside the bank. Veronica kept urging me to walk faster.
"Come on," she said, "time is of the essence."
I stopped. "No, I can't. I won't be part of this crime. I'm not taking your money. I don't care how
desperate I am."
Veronica put her hands on her hips. "Fine, if that's what you want. But anytime you wanna come
visit me, and share in my fortune, you know where I am. I'll be hiding under the bridge."
I nodded.
"Promise not to tell anyone about my crimes?" said Veronica.
"Of course," I said. "I'm not an ingrate."
Before I could add anything more to our post-bank robbery conversation, Veronica took off like
a deer in the forest. She ran through a red light and disappeared. I let out a breath, and started walking
the other way.
Chapter 68
I revisited Harry's Pawnshop. Though I did not have enough money for the Poopee Doll I put on hold, I
wanted to have another look at it. Harry brought it out from the storeroom. Bebe seemed happy to see
the toy, as she reached her arms out, and kept touching the boxing.
"You got the money yet?" said Harry.
"Not yet," I said. "I'm working on that."
"Y'know," said Harry, "I can't hold it much longer for you. At the end of the day it's up fer
grabs."
"Please," I said, "can't you do me a one week extension?"
"Hoo, boy," said Harry. "You're pullin' my leg now, ain't yah?"
As I was about to say something, two people walk through the front door. They came up to the
counter and right off the bat noticed me holding the Poopee doll.
"Wowwee," Justin said to Harry, "do you have any more of these?" (Referring to my doll.)
"Yesum," said Lance, the second customer, "I'd like one as well. Two if you have."
I turned my head to Justin and Lance, "I'm sorry, but this one is reserved."
"Reserved?" said Justin. "You've gots to be kiddin' me."
"Yes," said Harry. "I'm afraid so."
"But I need it for my kid," said Lance.
"Me too," said Justin. "My wife'll kill me if I don't get one of these. My daughter's been going
mad for this doll. She scribbled her demands all over our white walls."
"How'd you punish her?" said Harry.
"No punishment," said Justin. "Apparently, according to my wife, that would stifle our precious

child's creativity."
"So," said Lance, "how much for that doll?"
"I've got it on reserve," I said.
"I'll give you your asking price," Lance said to Harry. "Straight, cold cash on the spot."
"It's $400," said Harry.
"$400?!" said Lance.
"Not to worry," said Justin. "I'll give you $405."
"Hm," said Harry.
"Remember," I said, "I have this on reserve till the end of the day."
Harry grabbed back the doll. "My promise is not a legal contract. If these gentleman are willing
to pay more, I am obliged as a merchant."
"But, but that's not fair," I said.
"Shove off," Lance told me, then he looked to Harry. "I'm willing to pay $410, old man."
"Outrageous," said Justin. "I'll give you $411."
"$413," Lance returned.
"$415," said Justin.
Harry grinned. A bidding war had just started between these two men. They shouted their prices
and raised their fingers up as if to assert their dominance.
"$417!" one shouted.
"$424!"
"$429!"
"$440!"
"$455!"
"$460!"
"$490!"
"$500!"
"$1,000!!!"
I noticed Harry rubbing his hands together. "$1,000, are you sure?"
"Very sure," said Lance. "I got a big Christmas bonus this year."
"Oooh, big man," said Justin.
Lance sneered.
"Remember, no returns," said Harry.
"I understand," said Lance
"Now, wait a minute," I said. "I had this doll on hold. Rightfully it should be mine."
"Aw, piss off," said Lance. "I won this fair and square." He put down his credit card for Harry to
swipe. "Hurry up, old man. I have a family to go home to."
Begrudgingly (it seemed), Harry took Lance's credit card, and swiped it. After making a charge,
he handed over the Poopee Doll to Lance. Lance was excited, and smiled, but not a happy smile, more
of a smug, self-satisfied smile. I stepped in front of him to block his way.
"Excuse me," said Lance, "you are in my way."
"That doll should be mine," I said.
"I paid for it," said Lance. "So, move your fatty ass."
"Who are you calling a fatty ass?" I said. "You uneducated, swamp water drinker!"
I grabbed the Poopee Doll box, and pulled it, trying to wrestle it free from Lance's hands. He
fought back, stood his ground, unrelenting.
"Let go!" he said.
"It's mine!" I said.
"It's not yours!" he said.
"No!" I yelled, and then using all my strength, I gripped the box with a crushing force, and

leaned back to allow gravity to assist me. This did the trick. Lance lost hold of the doll, but in doing so,
made me fall down. Really terribly. My head smacked into the glass counter behind, causing shards of
glass to sprinkle all over my face. Luckily, I went semi-unconscious before hitting the ground, and had
closed my eyes.
After making sure Bebe was okay, she was, I brushed the glass off my face, and strained to get
to my feet. Then with only 80% of my senses intact, I pulled back my arm, and swung out a punch. My
unconditioned fist made contact with Lance's forehead, the hardest part of the human head.
"Owwwww!" I exclaimed, shaking my hand to get the blood circulating.
"Hmph," said Lance, "serves you right. I hope you get cancer."
And he picked up my the Poopee Doll, and left the store in a hurry. From the inside I could see
him hop into his brand new, black Mercedes. Meanwhile, Harry and Justin were glaring at me for all
the trouble I caused. I told them to quit staring, and to go screw themselves, and then I went outside.
Passively I tell you, the weather was unpleasant.
Chapter 69
The hours went by. I spent my time in Trumbo Cafe. It was a dim, rustic, almost woody looking place. I
sat in a corner, on the upstairs level, where I thought I wouldn't be noticed by staff. I had a small
notepad out and a red pen. I was writing notes for my novel, creating a plot. It helped my mind escape
reality, but every now and again, I'd lose my concentration. I'd look out the small, and notice the people
passing below. Even though I knew nothing about them, I realized they were probably like me, living
their own lives, with their own troubles, and their own drama.
While staring down one stopped to look up at me. I thought maybe he had that sonder thing too,
but instead he twisted his face, and gave me a "Why's that weirdo looking my way?" look. I got out of
my seat, along with Bebe, and changed my spot to face the wall. Here I had a direct view of the
calendar on the wall, which displayed the month of December. There were numerous red X's marking
off the days gone by. Above it was a picture of carolers singing: "Have Yourself a Merry Little
Christmas."
"Excuse me," said a voice. "But it's closing time now."
I looked up. "Can I just finish my coffee, please?"
"You've been drinking the same coffee for ages," said the barista, "and it was complementary
too."
I glanced at the clock on the wall, the second hand going by at a rapid pace. I began sweating,
despite having my jacket off. In my desperation, no more options left, I asked the barista something
silly.
"Look," I said, "I know this is embarrassing, but --"
"Go on," said the barista, "I have an open mind."
"Can I stay with you tonight?" I said. "Do you have your own place?"
"You what?" said the barista.
"Me and my baby have nowhere to go," I pleaded. "If no one takes us in we'll be on the streets. I
know this is really bizarre, but do you think you'd be kind enough to let a stranger stay in your home?
Temporarily of course."
I could see a lump going down the barista's throat.
"You seen like a lovely lady," she said, "but I have no room in my apartment."
"A sofa is all I ask for," I said. "I'll keep out of your way.
Have I gone mad? Asking a complete stranger for helping? What are the odds? Slim is the
answer.
The barista shook her head. "It's a really small place. I already have some people couch surfing
too."

"Is that really the reason?" I said.

The barista twitched her eye. "Don't make me feel guilty for not wanting to take a bum in my
home, okay? I make minimum wage, plus tips. My life is hard already. I can't house some stranger, who
probably has a drug problem, or a mental issue. If you killed me my ghost wouldn't even have the
satisfaction of knowing its killer is locked up. You'd use that 'I'm mentally ill' loop hole to get off Scotfree. That would be unfair to me and my hopefully, grieving, loved ones."
I was a bit confused about why anyone would worry about their ghost.
"But I don't have a drug problem," I said, "nor do I have mental issues... Pretty sure I don't have
mental issues. I think."
The barista huffed and shook her head. "No, I can't. It's too much for me to handle. I hope
you're not angry.'
"I'm not angry," I said.
"But I want you to know," said the barista, "I sympathize with your situation."
"You say you sympathize?" I said. "But not enough to help?"
The barista took my hand and put into it a pile of loose change.
"Not everyone is cold hearted," she said. "But what you're asking is too much. You can't expect
people to take on such a huge burden."
Is that what I am? A huge burden?
"Okay," I said, lowering my head. "I understand. What I asked was too much. Gone are the
days, I suppose, when you could rely on the kindness of strangers?"
"You'll have to leave," said the barista. "It's closing time." She got a guilty look on her face. "I
hope everything works out for you."
"Don't worry about me," I said. "I'm sure I can swing it -- I just don't know about my baby. She
seems a little soft, not a tough character at all."
Without a word, the barista turned around, and went pitter-patter down the stairs. I took it she no
longer wanted to talk to me. That was okay, I wasn't angry or anything. I'd run in the other direction
too, if I met myself as a stranger.
Chapter 70
I left Trumbo Cafe. I stood outside it and looked back for a moment, watching the workers inside clean
up, and lock down. Even though they complained about where they were in life, and how much money
they made, I still felt envious of them. They were young. The world was ahead of them. I realize I am
"only 30 years old" but it seemed all the doors open to me once were now closed. A woman three
decades old is expected to have everything in order by now. No one has their arms open, welcoming me
to go out, and make something of myself. A woman my age is expected to have a family, and to be
settled down, and to be a good mother at this point.
Was I a good mother? I didn't have time to ponder that question. I was in the midst of figuring
out what to do with myself, and Bebe, who at random mentioned Veronica's name. Could she help us?
Was I so desperate as to ask a homeless woman for help? I didn't have a choice. Any help, anyone who
gave a damn would do me good.
So, I backtracked my footsteps, and found my way to the old bridge just as a train was passing
over. I felt the rumble going through my body. After it left, I placed my hand above my brow, and
peered down, squinting, searching for signs of Veronica. There was only a garbage can aflame
illuminating the area.
"Veronica?" I said.
I climbed down the hillside, and roamed the grounds of her makeshift home. I kicked random
bits of garbage aside as I went along searching. I found Veronica not too far away. She was pushing a
shopping cart full of I didn't know what. When I called her name she came to me.

"Hey, sis," said Veronica, "what's happening?"

"Um, I don't know if we're really sisters," I said.
"Pffft, we look exactly alike," said Veronica. "It must be the case. I don't believe in this
doppelganger nonsense."
"Okay," I said.
Veronica nodded.
"Anyway," I said, "what's all this stuff in your shopping cart?"
"Some items I found while dumpster diving," said Veronica. She gestured to whatever she had.
"Clothes, recyclables, toys, food...."
"Wait," I said, "you aren't going to eat any of that are you? I mean food from a dumpster that
sounds really unsanitary."
"It's still perfectly edible," Veronica insisted. "Shops will throw out anything that's a little stale
or not aesthetically pleasing. Personally, I don't care if my strawberry pie is squished up. Food is food.
It all gets chewed up and turns into shit. Why does it matter how it looks?"
"Good point," I said, "but I thought you wouldn't need to dumpster dive."
"How's that?" said Veronica.
I whispered, "Remember when you robbed that bank?"
"Ah, yes, good times," said Veronica.
"So?" I said. "Where's the money?"
"Why, you want a loan or something?" said Veronica.
"Actually," I said, "I would like a little help, financially speaking."
Veronica reached into her shopping cart and got out her strawberry pie. She started eating it in
front of me.
"You want some?" she said.
I stared at Veronica, as if she was mad, and then I said, "yes."
We stood around eating strawberry pie (apparently) from a dumpster. By some miracle it was
still warm.
"You're right," I said. "It's still edible."
"See, told you so," said Veronica. "The only problem is it's squished up."
I cleared my throat.
"Now about that money from the bank," I said, eager to get my share. "Where is it? You know
that I deserve a cut, right? I took you to the bank. I helped."
"Last time you told me you wouldn't be a part of it," said Veronica.
"I can change my mind," I said. "Can't I?"
"Course you can," said Veronica, "but it doesn't matter anymore."
"What are you trying to say?" I said.
"The money is all gone," said Veronica.
"You spent $10,000 in a single day?" I said. "Impossible...!"
"I didn't spend it," said Veronica. "I, er, gambled it."
"You what?" I said.
"I went to the casino," said Veronica.
"What? Why would you do that?" I said. "Was $10,000 not enough?"
"No, see, the thing is," said Veronica, "when you refused to take my money that really inspired
me. I decided to go to the casino because of you. I thought that I could double my money, and then
return half of it back to the bank. That way it would be like I never stole anything at all."
I groaned.
"I almost won too," said Veronica. "I was playing Black Jack and I got 21. But I was so excited
that I told the dealer 'hit me' again, then I went bust. Good news though, they let me eat at their buffet
for free. I probably ate $200 worth of food."

"That's nothing compared to what you lost," I said, somewhat annoyed. "They got at least
$9,800 profit from you."
"Zelda," said Veronica, "it was never my money in the first place. Plus, that's all in the past. No
use having regrets. It's not going to change anything."
"I guess you're right," I said. "I'm just disappointed you gambled away your money."
"I know, me too," said Veronica. "Gambling is sorta how I became homeless. I was doing pretty
well for myself before they opened up that casino. True story, I used to be a veterinarian. I even had a
home by the beach. Water front property and everything."
"Oh, wow," I said, "that sucks."
"Mmm, you get used to it," said Veronica. "The first day is tough, but after a while you accept
it, and that's your life."
"Doesn't it bother you?" I said. "Doesn't it bother you that you had it all and you dashed it
away?"
"It's kinda crappy, I admit it," said Veronica. "But I don't necessarily regret it . Things used to be
a lot worse."
"How could it possibly be worse?" I said.
"When I was a kid, I used to live with my mom," Veronica explained. "Just me and her. But she
was always busy, and I hardly got to see her. But when she was around she used to hit me, and call me
names, and constantly criticize me, always calling me fat, and stupid. She was also kinda strict too. She
wouldn't allow me to eat any sweets. She wouldn't let me go out with friends. She wouldn't let me drive
a car. She was...unbearable. So, I ran away from home when I was thirteen. Afterward, I met some
people, and they helped me out. I got educated, and I became a veterinarian. But even then it wasn't
that easy. I had so much debt from going to school, then when the casino opened up, I thought it was
going to be free money. At first I only gambled a little, but then after a while,I got hooked, and I kept
making the bets larger, and larger to make up for the losses I took in the past. Eventually, I put too
much on the line, and they took my home. Now, here I am... It's kinda crappy, I admit, but at least I
have my freedom, and no one is here to call me a fat piece of shit. Yeah, y'know, even if my mom
found me here, and told me she'd take me in, I would tell her no. Creatures comforts are not worth
being abused."
"I respect that," I told Veronica. "But what happened to those people who helped you? Can you
get help again?"
"Not really," said Veronica. "It was a one time thing."
"One time thing," Bebe repeated.
"Not now, Bebe," I said to Bebe.
Veronica rubbed Bebe's head. "I love your baby. She's so cute."
"Glad you think so," I said, "because I have a favor to ask you."
"Oh yeah?" said Veronica.
"Can I stay with you?" I said. "We can sleep together in the car tonight. After that, I'll be out of
your hair. In the morning, I'm going to see if the church can help me out."
"The church won't help you," said Veronica. "They only collect money for themselves. At least
the one around here. I'm sure that's different elsewhere."
"Alright," I said, "so can I stay with you?"
"I'm sorry," said Veronica. "I don't have my car anymore. While I was at the casino, apparently,
some scrap metal collectors came by and took it. Also, I'll be leaving town for a while. I heard around
the cops are still looking for me."
"If they caught you," I said, "how much jail time would you be looking at?"
"None," said Veronica.
"That's good," I said.
"No, it's not," said Veronica. "I get caught, they'll turn me into pet food. Yeah, that's what they

do with homeless people, who break the law. They don't put them in jail 'cause that's not punishing
them; it's giving them a warm home. Instead they put us into a big blender, and make us into cat chow.
Why do you think cats are so evil? It's because of all the tainted food they're eating."
"I don't believe that," I said.
"Believe it," said Veronica. "You know how bad they treat us homeless?"
"Us homeless?" I said. "I'm not homeless."
"You're homeless," said Veronica.
Veronica handed me a white card with some information on it: an address and phone number.
"What's this?" I said.
"It's for the homeless shelter," said Veronica. "You should go there."
"I'm not going to go to a homeless shelter," I said.
"You have no choice," said Veronica. "Come on. Don't die in the cold because you're too proud.
Just go there. Get some help."
"What kinda help do they offer?" I asked.
"Not much, I guess," said Veronica. "A bed, some food, toilets. That's pretty much it. They used
to be a full service facility, then the government cut back on them. But that's okay, because with the
money saved up the politicians can now raise their salaries 40%. No problem, eh."
"Wait," I said. "How long can I stay at the shelter?"
"Not sure exactly," said Veronica, "but I know it's not forever. They'll kick you out after a
certain time... Oh and you can only stay there during the night to sleep. To save money, during the day
they turn off all the lights, and turn down the heat, just enough to keep the pipes from freezing over."
"I don't get it," I said. "What's that got to do with us not being allowed to stay there, other than
being uncomfortable?"
"Ah, there's a law that won't allow it," said Veronica. "Something about tenements, and poor
living conditions."
"That makes no sense," I said. "So, they'd rather we go outside, where it's much, much colder?"
"What can I say?" said Veronica. "Most people are stupid."
"Well," I said. "I'm not stupid."
Veronica looked me deep in my eyes. "You really believe that?"
I frowned.
"I'm sorry," said Veronica. "I didn't mean to say it in such a jackass way."
"It's okay," I said. "You're right. Most people are kinda stupid. You know the average adult reads
less than one book a year? Less than one book, not even a whole book."
"Yeah," said Veronica, "that's the world we live in. It's being run by people, who think a
McFlurry spoon is also a straw."
I sighed. "Well, I might not be the brightest person in the world, but I know my daughter is. She
can already talk."
"Hmm, never heard her speak yet," said Veronica, "but I'm sure she's very clever."
Veronica gently rubbed Bebe's head, then after stepped back as if to leave. I took a moment to
stare at Veronica. We stared at each other. I didn't want her to go. She was my only friend in the world,
and someone who seemed to understand me, and care about me -- a rare combination of a person.
Most people either fall into the category of they understand but don't care, or they care but
don't understand. Veronica was someone who understood me and cared about me. That's something
you only get from a person who's been in your shoes.
"Well," said Veronica, "I gotta get going now. You think we'll ever see each other later?"
"I know we will," I said.
I wrapped my arms around Veronica, as best as I could with Bebe, and hugged her tight. After
we said our goodbyes, Veronica took her shopping cart, and started walking in the opposite direction.
She waved to me, one last time, and then I watched her disappear into the darkness. I could only

imagine where she was headed. Somewhere good, I hoped.

Chapter 71
I took out the card Veronica gave me. I double checked the address on it, standing in front of a single
level, plain, gray building. I could see no signs telling me whether this was the homeless shelter. I tried
looking through the windows, but it was too dark to see inside. I went to the door, which was marked in
graffiti. It gave no indication what was within.
Feeling cold, hearing the wind whistle, I decided to take the risk. I turned the handle of the door,
and ever so slowly pulled it open. I put my head through, and saw a dim light. I walked down a dark
corridor. At the end was a desk, and a lady asleep, arms being used as a sort of cushion. I cleared my
throat and said, "Excuse me."
The lady awoke. I jumped back a bit when I recognized her face. It was Mindy from the charity
shop, the Filipino lady that got me to the hospital.
"Mindy?" I said.
"What are you doing here?" said Mindy. "Oh, I see you've had your baby. Congratulations."
"Is this a shelter?" I asked.
Mindy switched on a lamp, illuminating the area. It was just as gray inside as it was on the
outside.
"You should find somewhere else," said Mindy. "It's no good here."
"How bad can it be?" I said.
"Believe me," said Mindy.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter, I have nowhere else to go," I said. "Do you have any room left?"
"If you really insist on staying here," said Mindy, "I can squeeze you in. Keep in mind it is very
packed, meaning you'll have to leave the baby here with me. I don't want her going in there with you."
"You make it sound so terrible," I said. "Well, I won't be scared off. I'm only going to be here
for a short time. One night isn't going to hurt me."
Mindy nodded.
"I guess I'll be off now," I said. "If you could show me where to go?"
"Give me your baby," said Mindy. "Then I'll show you where to go."
"I dunno," I said. "I prefer she stay with me."
"Trust me," said Mindy. "You will thank me." From behind the desk, Mindy got out a nice
looking baby stroller. "Here, she can stay in here. It's a good stroller. Very comfortable. Oh and I also
have formula, and diapers, and baby wipes, if needed"
Why?
"I have my own kids," said Mindy. "Sometimes my husband comes here and drops the young
one off when he has errands to run. I keep these items around just in case. It's always good to be
prepared -- actually, do you want this stroller? Do you need it? Seems like you need it. You can have it
for free. This one is a spare. I won it in a contest for cutest Asian baby."
"Really?" I said.
"Really," said Mindy. "My baby is very cute."
"I mean, I can have the stroller?" I said.
"Yes, but keep your baby here," said Mindy, "and I'll keep an eye on her."
"Hmm, well, alright," I said. "I'll leave Bebe behind."
I unstrapped Bebe from my body and laid her down into the stroller. Right away Mindy covered
her with a blanket, a colorful Sesame Street blanket. The Sesame Street characters made me feel at ease
-- my back especially, which hadn't been given a rest in a very long time. I stretched out my arms.
Having Bebe off me felt like taking off a tight bra after a long, hot day.
"Alright," said Mindy, "shall I take you to the resting area?"

"Yes," I said. "Please."

After Mindy tucked the stroller away safely into a corner, she took me by the hand, and led me
through a creaking door. We came into a dark, narrow corridor. Our footsteps echoed as we walked.
While I was wondering what laid ahead of me, Mindy gave me a tour of sorts, pointing out the
bathrooms, and whatever else I needed to know.
Then, after what seemed a minute gone by, we came to the end of the corridor. The last door
was before us. Mindy, turned the rusted knob, and carefully pushed it open.
"In there," she whispered. "Everyone's asleep. You should find an empty spot in the middle.
That's usually the last place to be taken."
"Alright," I said, "but --"
Waah! Waaah!
Suddenly the noise of Bebe crying interrupted my question. I was going to run back to see what
the matter was, but Mindy insisted she was going to take care of it. I knew little about Mindy, yet I
trusted her completely. After all, she had a family of her own, and I was still a new mother. So, here, I
was left on my lonesome to enter what I presumed to be a room with warm, comfortable beds.
But I entered the resting area, as it was called, and found myself stumbling in the dark, in a
place lit only by the orange glow of the moon. I looked down. Around me were at least a hundred
people, who as far as I could tell had not bathed in several days. The stench stung my nostrils. I wanted
to turn around, and run away, but where could I go at this time of night? I decided this was only
temporary and that I could breathe exclusively through my mouth.
Continuing on, searching for a spot to sleep, I stepped over several people who were in sleeping
bags. There were no beds here, not even simple cots. As I walked around, I almost tripped. The floors
were so sticky my foot got stuck. I cringed thinking what might have made the floors so sticky.
Finally, like Mindy described, I found a free spot to sleep, dead center, in the middle of all
vagabonds, vagrants, tramps, transients, and homeless. It looked to be a tight squeeze. I wasn't sure
whether I could fit. Nor was I sure what I'd sleep on. Was I expected to go to bed on the bare floor? I
scanned the room with my eyes, trying to find a spare sleeping bag. Off in the corner, I saw what
appeared to be a blanket. I went over to it, and grabbed it, as if someone else would snatch it away from
me.
I returned to the middle of the room, where I could lay down. I wedged myself between two
large men, and covered myself with the checkered blanket. The blanket didn't even go down to my
ankles. It was thin, and itchy, and had a light scent of smoke. I folded it into a square, instead using it as
a substitute pillow. Afterward, I laid my head on top of it, then loosened my winter jacket, turned it
around, and put it over my body to stay warm.
Despite this improvisation, I had difficulties getting to sleep. Someone's cold toes were touching
me from above. The man next to me was snoring. The odor, the stench, the humidity was unbearable. I
was more tired than ever, yet my eyes remained open. Lying under the skylight, I stared up at the sky. It
felt like the stars were twinkling for everyone but me. Tonight they seemed dull, almost colorless.
I didn't want to look anymore. I covered my eyes with my arm. I needed to get to sleep, but my
mind kept running away. There were whispers in my head telling me negative things. I asked them to
leave me alone, but they wouldn't listen. How could they listen when I had no voice?
"Your life is this," they told me. "It is never going to get better."
And it was to be spent in a homeless shelter, where I was a stranger amongst strangers,
surrounded yet alone, without a soul who truly knew who I was. Not a shoulder to lean on, no one that
could comfort me, no one to listen, no one to tell me it was going to be okay.
I know they say self-pity is the worst thing you can do for yourself, but I admit I felt sorry for
myself. I stood in my gloom. It was a storm cloud directly above me, that only followed me, and only I
could see. The rain, thunder, and lightening were my personal failures, my everyday disappointments,
my financial woes, the bitterness I had inside of me, worries about the future, people who let me down.

I asked myself: "Why is it nothing ever works out for me?" "What is there in life that's worth
living for?" "What type of mother am I, who can't get her daughter a simple toy?" "Am I cursed?" "Is
there really a God?"
For in my greatest time of need the only person I had was myself. There was no one to turn to in
this hour of desperation. Laying here I felt nude, as if someone had stripped me of my last human trait.
I cried silently, wondering when this night would end.
Chapter 72
I became a beggar. During the night Bebe and I would stay at the homeless shelter, and in the mornings
we'd go out to the streets to beg. The first day I thought I'd be clever and ask for money in the richer
parts of town, but I found the rich to be quite stingy. Later on, I settled on a spot in a firmly established
middle class area. I stood between the narrow gap of two buildings, where the sidewalks ended. It was
the only place I wouldn't be shooed away.
I was told that to make enough money, I needed a gimmick. I didn't have any gimmick, other
than keeping Bebe conspicuously by my side. That seemed to make people give me money. They
would see her, then fish out change from their pockets, and put it into my coffee cup. Of course most
people were not so nice. The majority of them treated me like I was invisible, while others treated me
like I had a disease, averting their gaze, and stepping away to make ample distance between us.
I thought I'd eventually get used to it, but in reality I could not see that happening because it
hurt my feelings way too much. Here I was a human being, asking for help, and people acted as if I was
not a part of of their world -- in truth, I wasn't. I was an outcast. I was a person on the outside, looking
inside, staring though a window, hoping to be invited into a house, where everyone but me was eating
well, and being merry.
"Get a job!" someone said passing by.
"You're just lazy," a woman retorted.
"Get off the drugs," added another.
"You're only going to buy alcohol and cigarettes," one stranger lectured.
"It's your fault for getting pregnant," an old man grumbled. "If you didn't want to be poor, you
shouldn't have gotten pregnant."
I sighed. A simple "no" would suffice, yet those who I begged to felt the need to add their
commentary. They were angry that I dared ask them for a dollar, as if this were some sort of get rich
quick scheme. It wasn't. It was a humiliating experience. I've never done anything so humiliating in my
entire life, and what's worse I had to do it in front of my daughter, who as far as I suspected was
unaware that this was not the way to live. Thankfully, she mostly kept quiet.
I checked on her to see whether she was doing okay. She was sound asleep in her stroller. I
readjusted her blanket, and continued my begging. In doing so, I spotted a group of teenage boys
marching down the street. I don't know why, maybe by instinct, I stuck out my hand and asked, "Spare
some change?"
Immediately they stopped to surround me. The boy, who seemed to be the leader of the pack,
gave me a toothy, wolf-like grin. His fangs glinted in the light. He reached into his pocket and took out
a wad of change. As I was going to take it, he dumped it onto the ground. He said "whoops" and asked
me to pick it up. I bent over to pick it up, and he pushed me down. When I stood up to confront the boy,
I felt a hand on my back. Someone shoved me from behind.
Soon hands were all over me. The teenagers had me in a small circle, and were pushing me back
and forth, back and forth. I tried resisting to no avail, as I was small, weak, and hardly had a voice.
"Stop," I squeaked, "stop pushing me."
I felt helpless as they laughed, jeering, and sneering, pushing me in anyway I could go. My head
flopped about like it had no weight. I put my arms out for balance to keep myself from falling. Tears

rolled down my puffy, reddened cheeks. I covered my face, hoping they'd lose interest, and disappear -or I'd disappear.
All of a sudden a voice yelled out, "Leave her alone, you scum buckets!"
I spread my fingers and looked through them. A handbag came swinging from the air, and
knocked one of the teenaged boys in the back of his head, so hard it rendered him half conscious. While
he stumbled around, everyone turned to see what was happening. Before they realized it the heavy
handbag swung at them too.
A ferocious woman was on the attack, giving these teenagers no mercy, battering the skulls of
anyone who dared to get close. The eventuality of it was they all fled with their tails between their
skinny jean legs.
"Are you alright?" said the ferocious woman.
She extended her hand to me. Hesitantly, I took it, and got up with a grunt. I wiped away my
tears, then saw who had rescued me. It was none other than my old school mate Gina, i.e. Duncan's
wife. II made eye contact with her and became red from embarrassment. I turned around. She grabbed
me by the cloth of my shoulder.
"Stop," she said. She stepped in front of me to block my way. "Zelda?" She lowered down to
look at my face. "Is that you?"
My brain momentarily shut down.
"Zelda," said Gina, "what are you doing here? How come you're dressed like a bum?"
"I AM A BUM," I said.
Gina seemed dumbfounded. "...Is this a joke?"
"Excuse me," I said, "I have to be going now. You know me, busy, busy, always busy."
I grabbed my stroller and started wheeling away Bebe. I leaned against the handle of the
stroller, feeling more lethargic than ever. Having no home to go to, not being welcome anywhere, we
went down the street in no particular direction. I really just wanted to avoid Gina. Gina, however, had
other ideas when she followed me from behind. She grabbed the fabric of my shoulder.
"Zelda," said Gina, "I want to talk to you."
"What's there to talk about?" I said, with a lump in my throat.
As Gina opened her mouth to reply, I maneuvered around her, and crossed over on a green light.
"Wait a minute," said Gina, cutting off my path. "I have something important to say to you."
"I don't want to hear it," I said. "Now, if you please, move out of my way, I've some things to
do."
"Zelda," said Gina, "I know you're sour on me, but I'm not the asshole you think I am."
"I never thought you were an asshole," I said. "I thought you were my friend... Oh and by the
way, thanks for helping me out back there."
I turned my stroller around once again, and started walking off at a hurried pace. Gina, however,
was persistent. She continued blocking my way.
"Why are you being so stubborn?" said Gina. "I have something important to tell you -- to ask
you."
"Whatever it is," I said. "I don't have time for it."
"Goddamnit," said Gina. "Won't you just listen to me? For ten seconds?"
I folded my arms. "Alright, ten seconds."
Gina took in a deep breath. "Zelda, I want... I want... I want..."
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" I said.
"I want you to live with me," said Gina. "You and your baby."
A moment of silence came between us. I was speechless, in disbelief. Was Gina being serious?
Or was she teasing me, dangling a carrot in front of my face, only to be snatched away.
"Y-you're joking?" I stammered. "You're going to tell me this is a joke, aren't you?"
"I'd never tease you about such a thing," said Gina. "I'm your friend."

I stared at Gina for what seemed a half minute, then I fell forward, and hugged her. But it was
not a hug of affection. It was a hug of relief, a hug that you give a person, if they have rescued you
from a most troubling dilemma.
"Thank you for your hug," said Gina. (I could see she was uneasy.) "Shall we get going now?"
"Yes," I said. "Let's do that."
Chapter 73
After packing the stroller into her car, Gina began driving me and Bebe to her house. I was very
anxious to get there. En route I imagined myself taking a shower. I imagined eating a hot meal. I
imagined a warm, fluffy bed. I imagined my new, cozy bedroom. Speaking on the topic of showers, I
wondered whether Gina would let me wear her clothes, not that they could fit me.
20 minutes later we arrived. I looked out through the passenger-side window. My breath fogged
the glass. I wiped it away, with my sleeve, and saw what would be my new home, at least temporarily.
Now it wasn't a palace or anything like that, but it had its charm. It had a brown roof, red brick walls, a
long, asphalt driveway, a white picket fence, and a basketball hoop. Right away, I visualized Duncan
out in the warm weather playing basketball in his shorts. I shook my head, telling myself not to covet
my good friend's husband.
"Why'd you shake your head?" said Gina.
"No reason," I said.
"Any time someone says 'no reason' there's a reason," said Gina.
"Uhhh, I guess I'm the exception," I said. "Aren't I special?"
Gina didn't reply. She pulled into the driveway, silently, and shifted into park. Then we got out
and retrieved Bebe, and her stroller. We pushed it up the brown brick path, leading to the front door.
Here Gina checked the mailbox. Nothing in there, she took out her keys. She slid the key into the
golden key slot, but had this peculiar look on her face. She seemed hesitant to open the door.
"Something the matter?" I said.
Gina's eyes were starting to water. I knew this would be bad.
"I'm so sorry," said Gina. "I can't do it. I can't let you into my home."
My head instantly drooped.
"You don't understand," said Gina. "Duncan and I aren't doing too good. I really think having
you here would make it a lot worse."
"I, I don't think I'd make it worse," I said. "Maybe I can help you guys out? I'm not as stupid as I
look."
Gina grabbed me by my shoulders. "You really don't understand, do you? We are having marital
difficulties. This isn't a problem you can fix."
But naively I said, "What sorta marital difficulties?"
Gina seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Her skin went white, and she was trembling,
buckling at the knees.
"Duncan's not in love with me anymore," she blurted out in a frenzied manner. "I gave him the
best years of my life, and he's no longer interested. I'm boring, he says. I'm not smart, he says. I have
no personality, he says. He says, I'm just a pretty girl -- and you know what? I believe it. I'm not even
friends with Edwina now. She told me I was holding her back socially."
I wanted to feel sorry for Gina, but in truth, I didn't. All her life she lived like a princess, getting
by on her looks, and her popularity, and her money; now it's come back to bite her in the ass. The time
she spent having fun, partying, flirting with boys, everyone else was working on their personalities.
Gina's faded beauty has finally made Duncan realize that he is married to someone, who's not much of
a human being. After all, she is the type to make a promise to a homeless person, and break it without
remorse.

"Why is this happening to me?" said Gina.

"I don't know," I said. "Sometimes bad things happen. If there's nothing you can do about it,
you'll just have to accept it."
"I'm not like you," said Gina. "I have higher standards. I have a lifestyle I'm used to. I can't just
accept it."
"Then what do you want from me?" I said.
"Listen to me," said Gina, "that's all I ask. Be a friend."
"A friend?" I said. "How can I be your friend? You won't even let me stay in your home."
"So?" said Gina. "No friend is obligated to do that."
"I know," I said, "but you promised me. You picked me up and brought me here, making me
think you'd help me out."
"You don't understand," said Gina.
"Oh, I understand," I said, "you're a selfish woman. But that's okay, because I accept it. I accept
that most people are selfish, because that's how you survive. You survive by taking, not giving."
"This issue is more complex than it appears," said Gina. "I couldn't possibly explain it to you."
"Try me," I said.
Gina looked away, and then returned her gaze.
"Duncan's not just not interested in me," she said. "He's in love with someone else."
"Who?" I said.
Gina sighed, "You."
"M-m-m-me?" I said.
"Yeah," said Gina. "He's had these feelings for you for a very long time. That's why I didn't
wanna help you out. I can't stand the idea of you being in the house with him. If you do stay I know
he'll take advantage."
"Gina," I said in a reassuring voice, "no matter what you think of me, I am not a home wrecker.
If you took me in as your guest, I would never even dare look at Duncan in the wrong way."
"I don't know," said Gina. "I want to help you, but it's too much of a risk."
I put my hands on Gina's shoulder and looked her dead center in her eyes.
"Gina," I said, "let me stay in your home, and I promise I'll help you out with your marriage. I
know now that I can."
"How?" said Gina.
"Duncan's in love with me, right, or so he claims?" I said.
"Yah," said Gina.
"Well, then I will make him not love me anymore," I said. "I will treat him as cold as humanly
possible, and by the end of my stay, he will no longer have feelings for me."
(What was I saying? I liked the idea that Duncan loved me. It made me feel special and warm
inside.)
"You'd really do that for me?" said Gina.
"For you," I said, "and Bebe."
"Okay," said Gina. She opened the door to her home. "Come on in."
Bebe and I got the grand tour of Gina's house. It was a nice place, clean, kept neatly, and lightly
smelling of Pine Sol. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than nothing being out of the ordinary.
"So," said Gina, "what do you think of the place?"
"I like it," I said. "If I were a Stepford husband, I'd be quite chuffed. I mean this place is very,
very, very clean. Not planning on becoming a maid are you?"
"That's the last thing I'd wanna do," said Gina. "Also, it didn't used to be this way."
"Oh, no?" I said.
"No," said Gina. "I've only recently started cleaning up around here and making everything

nice. It's my way of showing Duncan I love him."

"Not for nothing," I said, "but I don't think men really care about how clean their houses are that
much."
Gina folded her arms.
"Why don't I show you where you'll be staying now?" she said.
"Alright," I said, enthusiastically, "let's go."
And I headed for upstairs. But as my foot landed on the first step -"Wait," said Gina. "You won't be staying upstairs."
I backtracked down to ground level.
"Ah, I guess I'll be couch surfing then?" I said. "That's not too bad. Do you have a pull out bed?
Or a cot?"
"Not exactly," said Gina.
She opened the basement door, which was by the stairs.
"Is that the basement dooor?" I said.
"Sorry," said Gina. "I wish I could give you a bedroom upstairs, but I can't clear out Duncan's
office, and I need my studio."
"Of course, I understand," I said. "Anywhere I can stay is fine with me, so long as it's indoors.
Heh-heh."
"Come," said Gina. "Put Bebe back into her stroller. We have some stuff to move around."
I put Bebe into her stroller, and went back to Gina. I stretched out my arms.
"I'm not as strong as I used to be," I teased, "but I think I can carry more than you."
"Am very sure of that," said Gina. "Come on now."
Gina flipped a light switch, and turned on a dim, orange bulb. She led me down the bare,
basement staircase, which creaked and groaned with every step. Was this where I was going to stay? It
was chilly, and dark, and upon arriving at the bottom, I could see the floor was bare concrete that only
had a thin layer of dark-blue paint.
Or maybe the paint was actually light blue and only appeared that way, because of alack of
light? There wasn't much light at all. The windows in the basement were barely windows. They were
two small, un-openable rectangles, covered in plastic (I presumed) to keep out the draft.
Gina ran her hand along the wall by the stairs and found the lights. A fluorescent tube turned on,
revealing the basement. I noticed two things right away. First, the floor was indeed a dark blue, as I had
surmised, and second, the place was packed with boxes going to the ceiling.
"Is this where I'll be staying?" I said. "It looks awfully cramped."
Gina pointed upward. "We need to get that box down. You think you can reach it?"
I rubbed my hands together.
"I think I can," I said, and I jumped up in front of the tower of boxes, and swatted at the highest
box. Swatting at it was not my intention, however, that was all I could do.
"Sorry" I said.
"Hmm," said Gina.
"Can we tip it over?" I said.
"No," said Gina. "It'll break."
"Do you have a ladder?" I said.
"Yeah," said Gina, "but it's too big to fit in here."
"Okay," I said. "We obviously need a chair."
"No can do," said Gina. "I just dusted those. Bringing a chair down here will make it dirty."
"Well, jeez Louise," I said. "What do you want to do then?"
"Get down," said Gina.
"Where?" I said.
"Get on your hands and knees," I said. "I'm going to step on your back and get the box at the

top."
"You want me to be a footstool?" I said.
"Well, I can't do it," said Gina. "I'd collapse under your weight."
"How do you know I won't collapse under your weight?" I said.
"I'm a size four," said Gina.
I sighed. "Alright. I'll be your footstool."
I got down on all fours, and let Gina step onto my back. From that position she reached up for
the highest box. She got a hold, then yanked it off. In doing so she caused the tower of boxes to fall,
which in turn knocked down all the other boxes, causing everything to call like a set of dominoes.
Crash, crash, crash! was all I heard.
Afterward, Gina stepped off my back, and looked down at me. "This is all your fault."
"My fault?" I said. "How is it my fault? Neither did I stack the boxes nor was I the one
retrieving it."
"Your back is so cushiony," said Gina. "I was destabilized because my feet were sinking."
"Were they?" I said.
I got to my feet and stood up. I was going to argue, but then quickly bit my tongue. I was
already on thin ice. I couldn't risk being kicked out of the only home that welcomed me.
"Yes," said Gina. "It was like quick sand."
"Oh, okay," I said. "I'm sorry... Pass me that box, will you? I can carry it."
"It's just blankets," said Gina. "You get the cot."
"Where?" I said.
"In the furnace room," said Gina. "The door at the end."
I checked the furnace room.
"No cot here," I said.
"Ahhh, must be in garage," said Gina. "Follow me, if you please."
Me and Gina went into the garage. We entered through the door attached to the main foyer. The
garage, like the basement, was dark and dusty. The space was large enough to hold two cars, but only
one was parked. Off to the side there was some type of tent. Or a cot? Looked a bit like both. (Imagine
if a tent and a cot had a baby.)
"Is that what we're here for?" I said.
"Yes," said Gina. "It's the tent cot."
"Why's it out here?" I said.
"Whenever Duncan and I get into an argument," said Gina, "he tells me he needs his space, and
he comes out here to sleep. Can you see there's a heater over there? You can set it using a timer."
"Want me to bring that in too?" I said.
"Umm, actually," said Gina. "I think I'm gonna keep it here."
"Okay," I said.
"After all," said Gina, "you'll need it to stay warm. In the garage."
"You're joking?" I said.
I stared in disbelief -- but then Gina grinned.
"Aaaaah, you're just teasing me, aren't you?" I said. "Gina, you old salt, how dare you tease me!
Heh-heh!"
"I'm not teasing you," said Gina.
"Then why're you grinning?" I said.
"I grin when I'm nervous," said Gina.
"So, so, wait," I said, "you want me to stay in the garage? This is where I'll be sleeping?"
"It's better than being out on the streets," said Gina.
"But what about Bebe?" I said. "Are you actually going to keep a baby in your garage? Don't
you think that's a little cruel?"

"No," said Gina, "because she'll being staying inside of the house, in my room, where I can keep
an eye on her."
"You think you know how to take care of a baby?" I said.
"Can't be that hard," said Gina. "Feed her, change her diapers, what's the big deal?"
(Ooooh, Gina, you arrogant, little -- !)
"How exactly will you feed her," I said, "without my breasts?"
"I'm going to go to the store to buy stuff," said Gina. "I'll be picking up some baby formula, and
baby stuff, and don't worry, m'dear, you won't have to owe me back a cent for the costs of my
shopping."
"Hmph, how generous of you," I said.
"Don't take that sarcastic tone with me," said Gina. "For Godsakes have some appreciation. This
is way more than anyone else has done for you."
I stammered, "Uh, uh --"
"Isn't it?" Gina continued. "I mean, I don't see your rich sister helping you out, or even your
parents. You should be grateful that someone you just went to school with is lending you a helping
hand."
My head dropped. She was right.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You're right. You are being very, very, very generous. You and Duncan, I
ought to show more appreciation."
"Zelda," said Gina, changing the topic, "I know you don't like it, but this is how it has to be. I
can't have you coming near Duncan, especially at this stage in our relationship. I'm vulnerable. We're
vulnerable... You don't want to be the straw on the camel's back, do you?"
"I understand," I said.
"Anyway," said Gina, "you can come inside to take a hot shower, and use the toilets, and
everything. Not as if you'll have to squat over a bucket. This is just where you're sleep, and, um, I
dunno, entertain yourself. I have a lot of books you can read. Most of them are by celebrities though."
"No thanks," I said, "I'd rather walk to the library, and read something of actual value."
"Alright, your loss," said Gina. She put down the box in her arms. "You can come inside now to
take a shower and eat by the way."
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome," said Gina.
"But can I have a minute alone?" I said.
"Why?" said Gina.
"I just wanna set up some of my stuff," I said.
"What stuff?" said Gina.
"You know," I said.
"Oh, okay," said Gina, "I'll be inside tending to Bebe. Come in whenever you want."
I gave Gina a nod. When she left me alone, I swiveled my head about, and looked at the garage.
I put my hands on my hips, leaned back, and took in a whiff of the air, which smelled of motor oil,
dust, garbage, and lilac air freshener.
I went over to the tent-cot and zipped it open. I crawled in to see what it was like. I got into a
resting position, and stared up at the pale green fabric. I wished I were dead.
Chapter 74
5:00 AM. I awoke by the blaring sound of a portable alarm clock. I rubbed my eyes to diminish the
morning fog, then shivered despite being covered in two blankets. I got out of my tent-cot to change
into my clothes. The clothes didn't fit so good though, since I borrowed them from Gina. She told me
they were from her fat days, yet I still found them too tight.

I yawned, and stretched out my arms. I went into the house, where I gave the toilet a visit. I
took a quick pee, then washed my hands, and face. After brushing up my teeth, I headed into the
kitchen, where I tore a page off the calendar. I could see the days gone by, that we were very near
Christmas.
The calendar was one of those motivational calendars. Today it told me that: "Mistakes are
proof you are trying." Little comfort these words gave me; I took a moment to look out the glass door.
The sun had yet to rise. Why was I getting up before the sun? No person should have to get up before
the sun.
I hated getting up at this hour, but could I complain? Was I in the right to complain when I
knew, once being a homeless person, that life could be a lot worse. Here I was, getting help from
someone I hardly knew, and she was getting me back on my feet. This was a step forward. Not my ideal
type of step forward really, but who was I to say I deserved better?
I began making breakfast for Duncan, who had work at half past five. Not being much of a
cook, I prepared buttered toast, vanilla flavored coffee, bacon, and two lightly salted, soft boiled eggs. I
hoped that he'd like it.
20 minutes later, I heard footsteps. Duncan was coming downstairs. I greeted him with a smile.
"Good morning," I said. "How do you do?"
"Jus' fine," said Duncan, returning a smile. "Thank you very much for asking."
"How's Bebe?" I said.
"Gina's keeping a good eye on her," said Duncan. "Although I think it's a bit strange that you
two sleep separately. That woman can be as stubborn as a mule sometimes. I forget her explanation.
Something about Feng Shui and having too much feminine energy."
I pulled out a chair for Duncan.
"Have a seat, darling," I said.
Duncan sat down. "Did you call me 'darling'?"
Remembering my promise to Gina, about treating Duncan in such a way that he wouldn't love
me, I shook my head.
"No, no," I said. "I said 'Darwin.' I, er, thought it would be a funny nickname for you. You're so
smart. He's smart. You both believe in evolution. Why not?"
"Oh, um, okay," said Duncan. "Call me whatever you'd like in that case."
I put a plate in front of Duncan and dished out his food. He took in a deep breath through his
nostrils, smelling his breakfast.
"Ah, it all looks so delicious," said Duncan. "Thank you very much for making me breakfast,
Zelda. You're a real good cook."
"You haven't even eaten yet," I said.
"I'm sure it'll be good scrum-diddly-umptious," said Duncan.
I giggled at the word "scrum-diddly-umptious."
"You like that word?" said Duncan. He put his spoon into his egg. "Scrumb-diddly-umptious!"
He-he-he-he-he! I couldn't help giggling -- even though it made me feel guilty.
"Stop," I told Duncan. "You're such a ham."
"Heh, sorry," said Duncan. "I'll try to eat in a more serious manner."
Duncan grabbed my hand and held it caringly. It made me feel warm and safe, but I knew I had
to pull it away.
"Erm, arhm, ah," I stammered, pulling away my hand, "would you care for some coffee?"
"Indubitably," said Duncan.
I poured vanilla flavored coffee for Duncan. He drank it like it was the best thing ever.
"Lovely coffee," he said. "Exactly the way I like it."
"It's actually instant," I said.
"Is it?" said Duncan. He looked at his mug. "I can hardly tell the difference. You must have the

magic touch."
"I really don't," I said.
"I think you do," said Duncan.
"I don't!" I said.
Duncan looked crestfallen when I raised my voice.
"Oh, alright then," he said, going back to his food.
"Or," I said, trying to turn around the mood, "maybe I do have the magic touch?"
"Ah, that's the spirit," said Duncan.
"Thanks," I said.
"By the way," said Duncan, "are you going out today?"
"Probably not," I said. "I have so many things to do."
"But if you are," said Duncan, "be sure to put on a raincoat. It's going to be wet out."
"How do you know?" I said.
"Ha, I'm a meteorologist," said Duncan. "I know the weather like the back of your hand."
"Surely you mean the back of your hand?" I said.
Duncan touched my hand again.
"No," said Duncan. "That's not what I mean at all."
I shuddered, then stepped back, creating an ample amount of distance between me, and Duncan.
"So," I said, trying to change the topic, "what's it like being a weatherman?"
"I stand in front of a green screen, and point stuff out," said Duncan. "I'd say it's a pretty good
living."
"Do people recognize you?" I said.
"Sometimes," said Duncan. "It's mostly women though."
"Are they pretty?" I said.
"None as pretty as you," said Duncan.
"I'm not pretty," I said.
"I disagree," said Duncan. "You're very pretty, but somehow you're not a pretty girl."
"I'm pretty, but not a pretty girl?" I said.
"I know it sounds odd," said Duncan. "But you know how pretty girls are. They're dull, and
stupid, and self-absorbed. You have the looks but not the flaws, is what I'm saying."
"Thank you," I said, "I think."
Duncan stretched out his arms. "Oh Zelda, don't you ever wish you could just drop everything,
and run away from the world? With your favorite person?"
I shook my head.
"I want to do that," said Duncan. "It's always been a fantasy of mind. Leaving it all behind to
bask in the sun and do absolutely nothing on a warm, tingly, bed of sand."
"Maybe you and Gina can take a vacation?" I said.
"I tried," said Duncan. "But all she wanted to do was go shopping. Shopping on a vacation is
such a waste of time, when nowadays you can get anything you want from anywhere in the world. Go
online and order it by the click of a button."
"Women!" I joked.
Duncan laughed. I looked at his face, staring at his laugh lines. I wanted to reach out and caress
them.
"Ah, you're so funny," said Duncan. "You remind me so much of Pietra."
"Who's Pietra?" I said.
"My cousin from Ireland," said Duncan. "She was my favorite cousin. Absolute favorite. She
was the nicest, sweetest, funniest person you could ever meet. I used to visit her in Swords and we'd
hang out all summer. I never had a brother, or a sister, so she kinda filled that gap, I guess."
"Is she still in Ireland?" I said.

"I believe she is," said Duncan.

"Then you should go visit her," I said.
"What's the point?" said Duncan.
"I thought she was your favorite cousin," I said.
"Was my favorite cousin," said Duncan.
"Oh no, what happened?" I said. "Did you two get into a quarrel or something?"
"No," said Duncan, "she died. Yeah, she got cancer and passed away in the hospital. I didn't
even say goodbye. I didn't even visit her while she was sick. I tried getting time off to see her, but the
station wouldn't let me. Sure, I could've just told them to fuck off, but that would've meant losing my
job. Honestly, at the time I didn't even care about getting fired, but Gina threatened to leave me, if I did.
I guess I understand. We'd just bought a house, and everything, and we really needed the money. But I
tell you it eats me up inside. Pietra was my best friend."
I didn't know what to say. I wish I had something to say. In truth, I was totally dumbfounded.
All I could do was put my hand on Duncan's shoulder, hoping to comfort him. Yet he seemed
inconsolable.
A moment after he pushed back his chair and stood up.
"I have to be going now," said Duncan. "Thank you for making me breakfast, Zelda. I really do
appreciate it, but I no longer have an appetite."
"Want me to wrap it up and stick it in the fridge for later?" I said.
"Or you can eat it yourself," said Duncan. "If you put it in the fridge it'll probably get thrown
out, and I hate wasting food."
"Oh, okay," I said. "I'll think about it."
Duncan then stood over me and kissed me on the very top of my head, hair and everything.
"I'll see you later," he said.
Before long, I was waving him goodbye.
"Goodbye," I said, "goodbye," as if he were going away forever.
But I knew he'd be back. When he was gone, I sat down in his seat by the kitchen table, and felt
the warmth his body left behind. I dug into his food and drank his coffee. I wiped my mouth, thinking
about that kiss on the top of my head. As cheesy as it sounded, it made me feel special.
Only for a moment, however. I returned to my mood when I went in my pocket,and retrieved my
list of chores:
- Make breakfast
- Wash the dishes
- Sweep the floors
- Vacuum the carpet
- Dust the furniture
- Do the laundry
- Take out the garbage
- Sort the recycling
- Windex the windows
- Scrub the toilets
- Scrub the tub
- Feed the baby
- Clean the baby
- Change the baby's diapers
- Retrieve the mail
- Make Gina's lunch
- Make dinner

- Give Gina a foot massage (!)

I barely started the day and I was already tired. I yawned and lowered myself onto the kitchen table,
resting my head on my folded arms. I breathed in and out, slowly, trying to mentally prepare myself for
the rest of the day. Two minutes later, I fell asleep.
I had a dream, where I was back in my old home, in the house I grew up in. Naturally, I visited
my bedroom. It was just as I remembered. The walls were turquoise, and the carpet a lurid pink.
Clothes were strewn all around my closet door like someone was looking for something to wear.
"Hello?" I said in an echoing voice. "Is anyone here?"
I went to my faux wood desk and opened my diary. I began reading a page in the middle, which
appeared completely jumbled, and incomprehensible, yet I was able to interpret.
"Dearest Diary," it read. "I hate boys."
I put down my diary, and looked out the window. On the tree that extended its branch to the
house was a girl who looked exactly like me when I was 11 years old. She waved to me and then
disappeared. I turned around to see she was directly behind me.
"Who are you?" I said.
"I am you," said Little Zelda.
"Me?" I said. "That's impossible. I'm right here."
"I'm you as a girl," said Little Zelda.
"Are you now?" I said.
"Why do you think I look just like you?" said Little Zelda.
"Alright," I said. "What do you want from me?"
Little Zelda climbed up the wall, like Spiderman, and sat on the ceiling. I tilted my head back to
look.
"I have a couple things I wanna say," said Little Zelda.
"I'm listening," I said.
"Number one," said Little Zelda, "I wanna ask how you grew up to be such a loser."
I tried replying, "Well, I --"
"Look at you," Little Zelda interrupted. "You're disgusting. You're a big, fat hippo with the skin
of a rhinoceros. And you dress like you're a mentally ill clown. But it's not only your looks that turn me
off as a human being. You're also incredibly stupid, and sometimes you can be a selfish asshole. Sure, I
know you're poor, and you're going through a real rough patch in your life, but being unfortunate
doesn't mean you're devoid of flaws. An asshole who suffers is still an asshole, if they act like an
asshole."
"Um, is this how I really talked when I was eleven?" I asked.
"Sure is," said Little Zelda. "You were a foul mouthed kid, and you were disgusting too."
"I know I'm disgusting," I said. "You already told me that."
"I mean disgusting in other ways," said Little Zelda. "Remember when you were in school, and
you stole Duncan's photo album, and masturbated to it? At home of course. Not at school. That'd be
weird."
"That was a, a, a, a rumor," I said. "It never happened."
Little Zelda folded her arms. "Come now. Are you really trying to trick your childhood self? We
all know what you did, you little trollop."
"It's not my fault for what I did," I said. "Erm, it's Duncan's fault for being so attractive. If he
didn't want people stealing his photos and masturbating to him, then he shouldn't have worked out so
much."
Little Zelda shook her head. "Oh, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda. What is your problem exactly?
Why can't you be like everyone else and get your shit together? I mean you've been an adult for 12
years."

"Being an adult is harder than you think," I said. "You're underestimating the effort it takes to be
successful. Things get in the way."
"Things, is it?" said Little Zelda. "Blaming things? What things?"
"Mmmm, society?" I said.
"Don't you point your finger to society," said Little Zelda. "You had all the opportunity in the
world to succeed. You have no one to blame but yourself."
"Bleh," I said, "stop telling me stuff I already know. What is the point of this conversation?"
"I'm lonely," said Little Zelda. "I'm an only child and I have no friends 'cause I'm a weirdo. I
thought you of all people would understand that."
"Wait, wait a minute," I said. "You're not an only child. What about Shirley?"
"Okay," said Little Zelda, "it's like I'm an only child. I hardly ever see Shirley. She's always
goin' out and doin' stuff, but she never tells me what it is. Do you think she's a serial murderer?"
"She's not a serial murderer," I said. "If she was she'd tell everyone."
"Sounds like something she'd do," said Little Zelda.
"Anyway," I said, "I need to go now."
I started walking away.
"Wait, where're you going?" said Little Zelda. She teleported in front of me. "I want to talk to
you some more."
"I have chores to do," I said.
"Is it 'cause of that baby?" asked Little Zelda. "She's causing you trouble, isn't she? You should
get rid of her. Put her in a basket and float her down the river."
"You child of Satan," I said. "What kind of mother do you think I am?"
I began fuming, huffing and puffing. My nostrils flared out. I didn't like this kid whatsoever.
"Frustrated with me, huh?" said Little Zelda.
"Well," I said, "you're pushing my buttons."
"But I'm frustrated with you too," said Little Zelda. "I don't wanna turn into you. It's a dismal
future. I'm already worried."
"Hmph," I said. "You should be proud to be me. I'm a, a, a -- survivor! I'm a tough woman."
"Ha," said Little Zelda. "You cried when you watched Spiderman 2."
"Every female warrior must shed a few tears," I said. "Otherwise, what is she?"
Little Zelda stretched out her arm, doubling its length, and patted me on the head.
"You're so cute and naive," she said.
I folded my arms.
"I have a present for you," said Little Zelda. "Close your eyes?"
I closed my eyes, and then felt something soft being placed in my hands.
"Open your eyes," said Little Zelda.
I opened my eyes. There in my grasp was something I was desperately searching for. It was the
Poopee doll I wanted to buy for Bebe. I pressed its tummy and it cried, just like I'd seen in the
commercials.
"Is this really for me?" I said.
"Thought it might cheer you up," said Little Zelda. "See. I'm not such a bad person."
"Thank you so much for this," I said. "Bebe is going to love it."
"I'm sure she will," said Little Zelda. "But keep a watchful eye on it."
"I will," I said, nodding.
"There's a toilet water monster living in our house," said Little Zelda. "He is a mischievous
creature."
"You're making that up," I said.
"I'm not making it up," said Little Zelda. "I've seen him. He's big, and blue, and blobby, has a
mouth like a shark, eyes as big as oranges. He has four arms that can stretch as far as the length of a

room. Oh, and, naturally, he smells like crap."

"I'll be sure to avoid him," I said.
"Goody, goody, gum drops," said Little Zelda.
"What?" I said.
At that moment a there was a knock at the door.
"Who could that be?" I said.
I glanced at Zelda, who shrugged her shoulders.
"Why don't you answer it?" she said.
So, I opened the door. There in the flesh was the toilet water monster. He was just as described:
big, blue, and blobby.
"Argh-arghuble!" he went.
"What do you want?" I said.
Then the toilet water monster reached its four arms out, as fast as a whip, and grabbed the
Poopee doll I was holding in my hands. It opened its mouth and swallowed it. I could see the toy
floating serenely in its belly.
"Hey!" I said. "You give that back!"
But the toilet water monster did not. The insolent bastard, turned around, and started heading for
the hills. Literally heading for the hills.
"Quick, go after him!" said Little Zelda.
I ran up the hill after the toilet water monster. However, it proved difficult as I could only run in
slow motion. No matter how I tried my legs and arms could only move as if they were enveloped in a
large quantity of molasses syrup.
"Return my doll!" I yelled to the toilet water monster.
The toilet water monster stopped at the crest of the hill, then facing my general direction,
pointed its thumb to its nose, and wriggled its fingers as if playing a trumpet. How dare he mock me! I
dove forward to stop these shenanigans. Back arched, floating mid-air, I reached out for the Poopee
doll imprisoned in the toilet water monster's belly.
Problem was I couldn't stop my momentum. I landed slap-bang in the belly of the beast. The
toilet water monster inhaled me into its middle. I became immersed in stinky, stingy, blue liquid. My
eyes felt they were on fire. My lungs yearned for air. I kicked my feet, and motioned my arms, trying to
break free. But the toilet water monster laughed and in a moment's time, I suffocated, and died.
When I opened my eyes, I saw I was leaving earth, ascending into the skies. None to soon, I
popped through a fluffy, white cloud, and found myself at the gates of Heaven. As cliche as it sounded,
yes, Saint Peter was there, and my grandparents, and my pet hamster, and my goldfish that I
accidentally killed with tap water.
"Am I in heaven?" I said.
All but Saint Peter stood in smiling silence.
"Very near to it," said Saint Peter. "You are at its gates."
"Wow. I can't believe it," I said. "I'm getting into heaven! This is grand, most grand!"
I took a step forward to which Saint Peter put out his hand.
"Hang on a minute," said Saint Peter. "We have to look at your record first."
"Oh, of course," I said. "Do as you please."
Saint Peter took out his iPad and turned it on. Every second or so he'd swipe at the screen, while
nodding his head. After about a minute he looked up at me.
"Okay," said Saint Peter. "I have some goods new and some bad news --"
"Bad news first," I blurted out.
"Okay, the bad news is," said Saint Peter, "you won't make it into heaven."
"I'm going to hell?" I said.
"No, that's the good news," said Saint Peter. "You won't be going there either."

"Sooo, where you sending me?" I said.

"Where else?" said Saint Peter. "Purgatory."
I saw the faces of my grandparents frowning.
"Purgatory?" I said. "That sucks."
"Now, now, be careful with your language," said Saint Peter. "You don't want to tip the scales do
you?"
(Now, let's hold on for a second here. Let me give every young person here a good life lesson.
When you are angry do not do, or do not say, straight away, what comes to your mind. Turn around,
walk off, and cool down first.)
"Let me tell you something, Mr. Saint Peter," I said. "I lived a miserable life on Earth, where no
one cared about me, and I was the trash of society, and you can't gimme a break, and let me into
heaven? I know, I have an idea, why don't you, Jesus Christ, and God, go fuck yourselves? This whole
worship thing is bullshit! Supposedly God loves us all, yet he has no compunction about sending us to
rot and burn for eternity in a fiery pit called Hell? In what world does that make sense?"
Off in the background, I saw my grandfather slapping his own forehead.
At that very moment Saint Peter cleared his throat, and said, "Actually, I was just kidding about
the purgatory thing. We were going to let you into Heaven."
My face was red with embarrassment.
"Were you?" I said.
"Yep," said Saint Peter, "but now I have no choice but to send you to Hell."
"Please, no, I'm sorry," I begged. "Can't you gimme another chance? You guys are pretty big on
forgiving people, right?"
"No, that's just Jesus Christ," said Saint Peter. "The rest of us are pretty much hard asses."
And with that Saint Peter used his telekinesis, and sent me flying off the edge of Heaven.
Instinctively, I screamed, and I thrashed about as if there were something I could grab. Then soon I
reached terminal velocity, in which my body set aflame, and I crashed into the hard ground. I lifted my
head and saw Little Zelda standing over me.
"What are you doing here?" I said.
"Since I'm actually just you," said Little Zelda, "I have to spend my time in hell too."
I stood up, and dusted myself off. I looked around. There was a street ahead of me, with trees,
houses, a blue sky, and birds. No, not birds of Hell, just regular birds that you'd see flapping around.
"Hey," I said, "this looks just like Earth."
"It is Earth," said Little Zelda.
"So, I didn't go to Hell?" I said.
"No," said Little Zelda. "You did go to Hell. EARTH IS HELL." (Play the Carl Orff music.)
I pulled at my hair and screamed a blood curdling scream.
"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooo!"
And then I awoke from my dream. I opened my eyes. My face was on the kitchen table, resting
in a warm pool of drool. I lifted my head, slowly, and squinted. Gina was standing in front of me,
holding Bebe.
"How long have you been there?" I said.
Gina said nothing and walked past me.
"Good morning to you too," I said.
Gina shook her head. "It's 3:00 PM."
Chapter 75
It was a Monday when they called me in. I was mopping up the floors.

"Zelda," they said, "can we speak to you for a moment?"

I put my mop aside, and slowly stepped into the living room, where Duncan and Gina were sat,
enjoying their coffee. Bebe wasn't here as she was asleep, upstairs in her crib.
"Yessum?" I said.
Gina handed me a pile of papers.
"What's this?" I said.
"We're getting you back on your feet," said Gina. "It's paperwork you need to fill out."
"What sorta paperwork?" I said.
"Well," said Gina, "since you were dumb enough to lose all forms of identification, we'll need to
get you back your birth certificate."
"I wasn't being dumb," I said. "I was robbed."
"Either way," said Gina, "fill out those papers. It's for the..." She spoke her words slowly.
"...vital, statistics, office."
"Oh, okay," I said.
"Yah, once we get your birth certificate," said Gina, "we'll be able to get all your other IDs too,
and then we can apply you for social assistance. There's some hoops to jump through, but I think you
can get it."
"Wait, social assistance?" I said. "Don't you mean 'welfare'?"
"That's not what they call it nowadays," said Gina. "The name is 'social assistance.'"
"I don't care what cute name they've given it," I said. "It's still welfare. I don't wanna on
welfare. It's, it's embarrassing."
"You know the saying," said Gina, "beggars can't be choosers. At least not in this house."
"I dunno," I said.
"Why would you be embarrassed?" said Gina. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. So,
okay, you screwed up, and you failed at life, and now you need help at the expense of honest,
hardworking, tax payers -- that's okay. As long as you don't turn into a leech on society, and you have a
plan to get back on your feet, it's totally cool."
Duncan nodded.
"Okay, fine," I said. "Anything else you wanted me for?"
"Ah, yes," said Gina. "I'm having a Christmas party this Saturday."
"Oooh," I said, excitedly. "I rarely get to go to parties. I think I'm gonna dress up Bebe as an elf.
All I need is some red and white felt. Do you have any?"
"Zelda," said Gina. (Why is it whenever someone starts a sentence with my name, I get
nervous?) "I'm sorry, but you're not really, um --"
"Um?" I said.
"Um?" said Duncan.
"You're not really invited," said Gina.
I was offended. I was shocked. I was hurt. I wanted to cry. Why couldn't I go to the Christmas
party?
"I need you to be the help," said Gina.
"So, I don't get to participate?" I said.
"You will get to join in the Kris Kringle gift exchange," said Gina. "But we need you to serve
drinks and collect people's coats, and stuff. You see, Edwina, and her agent are coming by. I really want
to impress them."
"You don't need me to be a butler to impress them," I said. "Just serve them Ritz crackers. That
is pretty fancy."
"No," said Gina, "it's not enough. If I wanna get back in good graces with Edwina, I'll need your
help."
"But I want to join the party," I said.

"Look," said Gina, "I've done so much for you. Can't you do me this one, teeny, tiny favor?"
"Do I have to?" I said.
"There will be lots of parties for you in the future," said gina. "Can't you just let this one go?
Plus, why would you want to attend a party you're not invited to? That's kinda pathetic, don't you
think?"
"Gina," said Duncan, "don't be so mean."
"I'm not being mean," said Gina. "I'm being honest."
"Too honest, maybe?" said Duncan.
"There's no such thing," said Gina. "The world's full of liars. A bit of honesty is what this planet
needs."
"I don't disagree with that," said Duncan, "but be a little sensitive?"
"You're such a namby pampy," said Gina.
"It's okay," I said. "I'll be there to serve your guests. I'm living under your roof. You're helping
me out, a lot. This is the least I owe you."
"Nah, I still think it's a dick move," said Duncan. "You should be attending the party as a guest,
Zelda. You should be our guest."
"No," said Gina. "She already agreed to help us out."
"Can't you see you hurt her feelings?" said Duncan.
"Zelda," said Gina, "did I hurt your feelings?"
I didn't want to lie, but I didn't want to butt heads with Gina."
"No," I said, "of course not. I'm an adult, not a baby who cries at every little thing. I'll be fine."
"You sure now?" said Duncan.
"Very sure," I said.
I was in my tent cot crying. I wanted to join the Christmas party. I didn't want to be its butler. I wiped
my eyes, telling myself to get it together. But the 17 year old spirit in me arose, and said, "It's not fair!"
Then I fell asleep.
Chapter 76
The day of the Christmas party came. The house was full of colors: red, white, and green. A wreath
adorned the door, while tinsel strewn wrapped around the banisters. There was a seven foot Christmas
tree that had a star on top, and display of lights. As semi-modern Christmas-themed music played, I
went around offering the guests hors d'oeuvres (snacks) and alcoholic eggnog. Did I mention I was
dressed as an elf?
"Psssst, Zelda," Gina whispered.
I glanced behind.
"I need to talk to you," said Gina.
"Can it wait?" I said.
Gina folded her arms and tapped her foot.
"I'll be just a second," I told the guest, who was trying to chat me up. "I won't be long."
"Hurry," said Gina.
Then me and Gina went into the hallway of the first floor, in front of the basement door, where
it appeared nobody was hanging out.
"Zelda," said Gina, gritting her teeth, "are you trying to make me look bad?"
"What do you mean?" I said.
"You're acting so dull and bored," said Gina.
"I am bored," I said.
"I want you to look like you're having a good time," said Gina. "Don't drag the mood down. Try

to be jolly. Have some holiday spirit."

"I've about as much holiday spirit as someone can have in my position," I said. "Look at me, I
look like an idiot. I'm wearing curly shoes. Which doesn't make sense at all for an elf. If an elf is a
master craftsman, capable of making toys, why would they make such rubbish shoes?"
"D-uh," said Gina. "It's fashion. Fashion is pretty much retarded. Do you even pay attention to
what women wear? High heels, which are bad for the feet, and tight trousers and pants, which sharply
increases the chances of a yeast infection."
"But elves are traditionally men," I said.
"Okay, fine," said Gina. "You know what? The curly shoes don't make sense. But just be a little
more peppy for me, alright? Do me this favor?"
"If you do me a favor," I said.
"How many favors have I done for you already?" said Gina.
"Please," I begged. "It's just a teeny, tiny one."
"Hm, well, it is the holiday season," said Gina. "Alright, what do you want?"
"Introduce me to Edwina's literary agent," I said.
"What, I can't do that," said Gina. "I don't know him."
"Then ask Edwina to introduce me," I said.
Gina folded her arms, seeming to be in a mood now.
"Why?" she said.
"I'm writing a novel," I explained. "It's so close to being finished. I even have a title for it now.
It's called 'Princess Charlotte and the Lake Dwellers.' It's about mermaids. You like mermaids, don't
you?"
"Okay, fine," said Gina. "I'll have a talk with Edwina. But I make no guarantees."
"Thank you in advance," I said.
Gina sighed. "You're welcome."
"I mean it, this really means a lot to me," I said. "This could be my big break. Can you imagine
me being a rich, famous writer?
"Yes, because all writers are rich and famous," said Gina.
"Mhm," I said.
"Now," said Gina, "could you please get some wine from the basement and serve our guests? I
think they're starting to sober up."
"No problem-o," I said.
"But pour the box wine into the glasses before you come up," said Gina. "I don't want anyone
knowing what they're actually drinking."
"Will do," I said.
Gina stretched her neck and looked out.
"Quickly," said Gina, "I see Edwina coming. I'm going to talk to her."
I nodded and shuffled down the basement steps. I was sure to close the door behind me, as I
went into a crevice of a space, where there were heaps of box wine, and clean wine glasses, ready for
use. I set the glasses on a silvery tray, and began pouring out the wine. I felt a little smile on my face,
thinking about the idea of being a writer. Working ay home, and not having to take the stinky bus to
work sounded like a treat.
I picked up the tray and made my way up the stairs, but when I got to the top, I heard Gina, and
Edwina chatting about me. Instead of serving wine, I stopped to eavesdrop. I put my ear near to the
basement's door, and listened surreptitiously.
"...What do you think about that?" Gina said to Edwina.
"Really," said Edwina, "I'd rather not. Harvey already has a lot of clients. He doesn't need
another wannabe to suck up his time."
"So, you can't do it?" said Gina. "You can't introduce Zelda to your silly, literary agent?"

"I'll have you know," said Edwina, "he is the top lit agent in this country. He's sold millions of
copies of books. He is a gem."
Gina sighed. "Zelda's gonna be heart broken."
"She'll be fine," said Edwina.
"Nah, she's really sensitive," said Gina. "Sometimes I hear her sobbing in the garage."
"Ha," said Edwina, "what a loser. They don't make 'em any worse, do they?"
"Must you be so mean?" said Gina.
"Oh, here we go again," said Edwina. She did an impression of Gina. "'Oooh, Edwina, be a little
more sensitive. People have feelings. Bwaaaaah!' Good God. You two are such babies. How about you
guys grow a pair?"
"I'm a woman, I can't grow a pair," said Gina.
"If I knew you only invited me here to use me," said Edwina, "I would've never came."
"This wasn't planned," said Gina. "Zelda asked me last minute."
"Ah, she's that sort, is she?" said Edwina.
"What sort?" said Gina.
"The sort, who uses people," said Edwina. "You know the type. They prey on the mercy and
sympathy of others, then drain them for all they're worth, like a vampire."
"She lives in my garage," said Gina.
"But what really grinds my gears," said Edwina, "is, if she wasn't so fat, and lazy, and stupid, I
honestly think she could achieve something in her pitiful life. But noooooo, she wants to take shortcuts.
She thinks being successful in writing is all about having the right connections. Lemme tell you
something, Gina. I've worked on my craft for years, and years, and I've sacrificed plenty, yet she thinks
she can stroll in here, and get a top tier agent at the snap of her fingers. What an arrogant piece of shit.
Once a loser, always a loser."
"Edwina..." Gina said in a disappointed voice, and then I heard footsteps, she and Edwina
leaving their spot.
Still on the other side of the basement door, I put down the tray of wine on the steps, and
lowered my head. I breathed in and out, heavily, and felt a tingly in my nose. My lips trembled, then
my eyes watered. My fists clenched.
"Don't let 'er get to you," I told myself. "None of that is true."
"You know it's true," the other side of me said. "You are a loser."
"I'm not," I said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Prove it."
"I will."
"Go on."
"Gimme a second, will you? I'm psyching myself up."
"Any day now."
"Alright, I'm ready!"
I opened the basement door and went upstairs. I turned a corner, and spotted Mr. Harvey,
Edwina's literary agent, who was chatting it up with Gina, and Edwina. I marched over to him, and
introduced myself.
"Hello," I said, taking his hand and shaking it. "My name's Zelda Montgomery Baker. I hear
you're a literary agent."
Harvey seemed a bit put off. He pulled his hand back, as if I was making him uncomfortable.
However, he smiled at me.
"Nice to meet you," he said under his thick, gray beard. "Yes, I am a literary agent. Thank you
for noticing."

"Go away," said Edwina.

"Now, now, now," said Harvey, "there is no need to be so rude. You should never be impolite to
the help. They are the providers of snacks and alcohol."
"Where are those by the way?" said Gina.
"Mister Harvey," I continued. "I'm an aspiring writer. Could I give you my manuscript?"
"I'm quite busy these days," said Harvey.
"Pleeeease," I said. "It's very good. I've been working really hard on it."
"We don't care," said Edwina. "He's not interested."
"Now, now, now," said Harvey. "Let's not be so hasty. Why don't you go and fetch your
manuscript, m'dear?"
"Really?" I said.
"Yes," said Harvey.
"Thank you so much," I said.
I jumped up and clicked my heels. I ran to the garage, and returned with the almost complete
manuscript for my novel. At this point Harvey had finished his drink. I took his glass and handed him
my baby. Not my actual baby, my novel.
Harvey felt the weight in his hands, and then ran his thumb on the top corners of the pages. He
took in a breath and licked his lips.
"It's quite thick," he said.
"I wrote my heart out," I said.
"Can I have a moment, please?" said Harvey.
"Sure," I said.
Harvey put on his reading glasses and started reading my novel. He nodded his head every
second or so. After what seemed five minutes, he put his glasses back into his front pocket.
"Well, what do you think?" I said.
"Yes, what did you think?" Edwina repeated in an irritated tone.
"Would you like me to tell you here?" said Harvey.
"Very much," I said. "Be as honest as possible. In fact, be brutally honest."
Harvey took a moment to think.
"This is the worst thing I've ever read," said Harvey.
"Wha'?" I said.
"I can't believe you wasted my time," said Harvey. "You write like a total moron. All the purple
prose, the adjectives, the grammatical mistakes, the lack of structure, the ridiculous plot -- what were
you thinking? This has to be a joke."
"It's not a joke," I said. "I really want to make a living as a writer."
"You've a snowball's chance in hell," said Harvey. "You should think about doing something
else. Your writing gave me a headache."
I was in shock. I didn't expect this sort of criticism. I expected praise. I expected compliments. I
excepted a pat on the back. In my head there was supposed to be a parade, with balloons, and colored
confetti.
"How could you be so mean?" I blurted out.
"You told me to be brutally honest," said Harvey.
"Yah, you kind of did," said Gina.
"I didn't think you'd actually go through with it," I lamented to Harvey. "You could've at least
sugar coated it a little. After all, it's one of my dreams to be a writer. You crushed my dream."
"I'm not at fault," said Harvey. "I only gave my opinion like you asked. Don't be angry at me for
telling you the truth." He sighed. "See, this is why I don't like taking on unsolicited writers. They put
the blame on me for their inability to write."
"I, I understand that," I said, trying not to choke on my own words. "But I was just saying that

you could've been a bit nicer. I mean haven't you ever had dreams of your own? Don't you understand
what it's like to be -- shot down like this?"
"I shot at nothing," said Harvey, "and if I did, I only shot at your egregious delusions."
"He's got you there," said Edwina.
I whimpered. Wouldn't anyone come to my defense? Gina?
Harvey yawned. "Now, now, now, don't get in a tizzy. I'll give you another chance."
"You will?" Edwina and I said at the same time.
"Yes," said Harvey. "You only have to do one thing for me, and I will take you on as a client."
"Name it, and it's yours," I said.
Harvey flung my manuscript across the living room.
"What did you do that for?" said Gina.
"Zelda," said Harvey, "pick that up, and you can be my newest client."
How odd, I thought.
"Okay," I said. "That should be no problem. No problem at all."
I walked over to where my manuscript was, and started bending down to pick it up, when
Harvey interrupted.
"With your mouth," he said.
"My mouth?" I said.
"Yes, get down on your hands on your knees, and pick up your manuscript with your teeth,"
said Harvey. "Then bring it back here, and give it to me like a little dog."
I felt the whole room staring at me. They were just as bewildered as I.
"Ummm, is this a joke?" I said.
"No joke," said Harvey. "Go on. Pick it up."
"Okay," I said, reluctantly.
I lowered down on my hands and knees, and, crawling, made my way toward my manuscript. I
stared at my name on the front cover, what seemed several seconds. Then I lowered my head, and
opened my mouth to pick up the collection of papers below me.
As soon as I had my manuscript between my teeth the room, all but Duncan (who'd just came
in), erupted into laughter. Hastily, I crawled back to Harvey.
"That's a good, little doggy," he said, rubbing my head. "Would you like a treat? Aw-haw-hawhaw!"
"What the hell is going on here?" said Duncan.
On my hand and knees, with everyone guffawing, I looked up at Duncan. Something about him
seeing me like this made me lose it. I began sobbing uncontrollably.
"Zelda," said Duncan. "Are you alright?"
He then picked me up, held me, and caressed my back Looking through my watery eyes, I saw
Gina ever so slightly frowning, uncomfortable with the idea of husband comforting me.
"She'll be fine," Gina told Duncan. "You don't need to baby her. We were just having a laugh."
"What exactly happened?" Duncan said in a firm tone.
Gina hesitated to explain, but nevertheless explained, how I was made to pick up my manuscript
with my mouth, and that's the reason why the room was laughing. Upon hearing this Duncan let go of
me and stepped over to Harvey.
"Can I help you?" said Harvey.
"You scumbag," said Duncan. "I oughta sock you in the jaw."
"Try it, Mr. Weatherman," said Harvey. "I'll sue you for all you're worth, which probably isn't
very much. But it's the principle of the matter."
Duncan pulled back his arm as if to punch, but Gina grabbed him, held him back.
"Stop," said Gina. "You're embarrassing me."
"You should be embarrassed," said Duncan. "You invited an asshole to your party."

Edwina whispered to Harvey, "I think we should leave."

"Fine," said Harvey, "this party is a drag, anyway.... Toodles, everyone!"
Not a moment too soon, Harvey and Edwina made their exit. Gina saw them out the door.
Whilst I stood around awkwardly, Duncan paced back and forth, angry, and swearing. Needless
to say, the jovial atmosphere of the Christmas party went dead. Guests were slipping out the back door,
trying to leave without being noticed. When Gina returned there were only a handful of people left.
"Where'd everyone go?" said Gina.
"They left," said Duncan.
"God," said Gina. She glared at me. "You ruined my Christmas party."
"She didn't ruin your party," said Duncan.
"Oh, no?" said Gina.
"Yah," said Duncan.
Gina stamped her foot at me, and pointed to the exit.
"Get out of my house," she said. "You're not welcome here anymore."
But Duncan stopped me.
"No, she's not leaving," Duncan said to Gina. "We're not throwing her out. Zelda has a baby, and
more importantly she's our friend. Yes, you don't kick friends out of your house in the middle of winter,
when they're in need."
Gina stepped up to Duncan, tilted back her head at him.
"Make your choice," said Gina. "It's either her or me."
"I'm not doing this," said Duncan. "You're being childish."
"CHOOSE," said Gina.
"Keep your voice down," said Duncan, "you're going to wake up the baby."
"That's your decision, is it?" said Gina. "I'M LEAVING."
Gina started walking off.
"Come back," Duncan said while following. "You're being silly."
"Piss off," said Gina.
Gina went through the front and slammed the door behind her. Duncan opened it, and put a foot
down onto the porch, however, did not continue following.
"Fine!" said Duncan. "Goodbye! Good riddance to you! You're not wanted here!"
"Yah, well, who wants you?" Gina yelled back. "Yah, you think you're so special? Because
you're on TV? Guess what! You're just like everyone else in this world; you're a half-baked, shiftless,
witless, wad of repugnant meat!"
"I have no idea what you said," Duncan screamed, "but I bet it's retarded -- like you! Retard!"
"Well, I hope you die!" said Gina. "I hope you, and your mom, and your dad, and your
grandparents, and your best friend are all in a minivan, and you swerve to avoid hitting a raccoon, and
you crash into a semi, and you all die a horrible, shrapnel filled death -- and then your corpses get set
on fire, and you're all burnt so bad that no one can recognize your ugly faces!"
"That's dark, even for you," said Duncan.
"I don't care!" said Gina. "I'm gone!"
And with that Gina disappeared into the black, wintery night, leaving behind I and Duncan.
Duncan slammed the door shut. I stood behind him and put my hand on his shoulder, hoping to comfort
him whilst he seethed.
"That woman is going to be the end of me," he said.
"Don't worry," I told him. "I'm sure she'll back."
"I don't care if she comes back," said Duncan. "I hope she wanders off and gets lost in a fucking
forbidden forest."
"I know you're angry now," I said, "but don't saying anything you'll regret. After an hour goes
by you'll definitely start missing her."

Duncan turned around and put his hands on my shoulders. "Who needs her, when I have you?"
Then he leaned forward to kiss me. I pulled my head away and blocked him with my hands.
"No, stop," I said.
"What's the matter?" said Duncan. "Don't you like me?"
For the loyalty I had to Gina, and the promise I made to her, I made a choice lie to Duncan. It
burnt me up inside, but I did it anyway.
"No," I said. "I think you're mistaken."
"I meant in a romantic sense," said Duncan.
I shook my head.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't have any romantic attraction to you whatsoever."
"Not even a little?" said Duncan.
"Not even a little," I said.
Duncan looked perplexed. "I could've sworn that you were..."
"You were wrong," I said.
Duncan stepped away from me, and cast his gaze aside.
"Are you okay?" I said.
"I'm feeling a bit -- I dunno," he said. "Am gonna go and have a drink. You want anything?"
I shook my head. Duncan headed for the kitchen. He sat down and poured some Vodka into two
shot glasses.
"I don't want any alcohol," I said.
"It's not for you," he said. "It's for me."
Saying no more, Duncan grabbed the two shot glasses in one hand, leaned his head back, and
downed them both at once.
Chapter 77
Gina was never to return. I knew this by the way I watched Duncan sitting by his computer, yet only
watching the snow fall outside. Duncan tried contacting Gina through her phone, and through the
internet, but she blocked every possible method of modern communication. I felt sorry for him when he
cried because Gina blocked him on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.
Sounds so silly to sulk over being blocked/banned/deleted online, I know, but it is a form of
rejection. When it happens it makes you feel you're a pathetic loser. Think about Facebook. Say you see
someone interesting online, so you then muster the courage to make a friend request, and you get
rejected.
What does that say about that other person's opinion of you? Facebook is the least amount of
contact you can have with someone, without them being a total stranger. Being rejected on Facebook is
like them telling you they don't even wanna know you in the least, not even virtually. Nope. You're not
worth a second of their time. You're not worth the arduous effort of a single finger movement.
I guess that's their choice, but it annoys me that this is called social media, and social
networking, when really it's dividing people apart, and making it easier than ever to be cold, callus,
judgmental, and unforgiving. We've lost the human touch amidst this brain numbing technology.
"Duncan," I said, "maybe you should go and do something else?"
Duncan was unresponsive. I wanted to cheer him up. I went away and returned with Bebe. I
placed Bebe in his lap.
"Look at that," I said. "Random baby. Isn't it cute?"
"It's not a random baby," said Duncan. "Buuut she is pretty cute."
"Tickle her," I said. "She likes to be tickled."
"No, thanks," said Duncan. "I'm not much of a tickler."
"Try it," I said. "It's easy to make her laugh. Just lightly put your finger tips on her belly and

pretend like they're running."

Duncan was hesitant.
"Here," I said, "I'll show you."
I put my fingers on Bebe's belly and tickled her. Bebe giggled and waggled her arms.
"Eh-he-he-he-he-he!" she laughed. "Eh-he-he-he-he-he!"
"Go on," I said to Duncan. "Give it a shot."
Duncan tried. When Bebe laughed, he looked to be in the same foul mood he was in before, but
then his lips slowly curled upward, and he gave me a big, wide smile.
"Tee-hee," Duncan laughed. "She's so cute. As cute as a button -- no, no, cuter than a button.
Definitely."
"I'm glad to see you smile," I said. "I thought you were frown was going to be permanent."
"I could never let that happen," said Duncan. "It would be bad for my career."
"Uh, yah, so," I said, "you got any plans for today."
Duncan shut down his computer, and spun his chair to face me.
"Gonna go out, and see if I can find Gina," said Duncan, "in the physical world."
"I want you two to get back together," I lied, "but maybe you should enjoy being single for a
little while? Do something for yourself."
Duncan put his fingertips together and thought for a moment.
"But Gina," said Duncan.
"Gina Shmina," I said.
"You're right," said Duncan. "I should go and do something for myself. But what? I've never
been on my own. I don't know how to enjoy myself alone -- other than you know what."
"Mm, let's not have those thoughts with my only child sitting on your lap," I said.
"Sorry," said Duncan.
He handed me Bebe.
"I know," said Duncan. "I think I'll go to the grand opening of that new mall."
"There's a new mall?" I said.
"Yep, it's called Eden Center," said Duncan. "Literally just opened up today. People are kinda
mad about it though, because they had bulldoze a park to make it. One of my colleagues did a news
report on it. Originally, there were protestors trying to blocks its construction."
"Oh, I remember," said Gina.
"It was going pretty well too," said Duncan. "They got the backing of the mayor and everything,
but then someone threw a Molotov cocktail at one of the police officers, and they lost all support."
"That is grim," I said.
"No worries," said Duncan. "The police officer lived. I mean he is badly scarred all over his
body, and had to retire, but he's still alive."
"I'd rather be dead," I said.
"Yeah, so, I'm going to Eden Center," said Duncan. "Do you wanna come with?"
"Yes, please," I said. "I've been cooped up in here so long."
"Should be fun," said Duncan. "I've never been shopping without Gina."
"Not once?" I said.
"Well," said Duncan, "I don't mean literally. I mean since we got together."
"This will be a real adventure for you then," I joked.
"Ah, yeah," Duncan sniggered. "I'll get to visit all the cool shops. Not like when I'm out
shopping with Gina. She always dragged me around, looking for clothes. Like how much clothes and
shoes does one person need? She has twenty-eight pairs of shoes for Godsakes, and guess who pays for
it?"
"You?" I said.
"And what's worse is, I hate her clothes," said Duncan. "The fashion is so typical. It's always

something low-cut, or tight, or uncomfortable looking. Like, c'mon, clothes aren't just for fashion. They
have a practical purpose. Who in their right mind would you pay extra to increase the odds of skin
cancer, foot pain, and yeast infections?"
"That sounds really gross," I said.
"It's true," said Duncan. "When you expose too much of your skin that increases sun exposure,
and your chances of skin cancer. Foot pain, obviously caused by high heels, and yeast infections come
from tight clothing."
"I'm not a high heels person myself," I said. "Those women who wear them look far too
wobbly."
"Yeah," said Duncan, "that's why I like you. You're a real down to Earth girl. You don't dress
like a skank."
"Thanks..." I said. "I think."
"Women, they love dressing like skanks these days," said Duncan. "So much cleavage. Is
cleavage supposed to make you look hot? No, it doesn't make you look hot. It reminds me of a
plumber's ass crack."
"Wait," I said. "What about when men walk around without shirts? Hm, sounds like you have a
double standard here."
"No," said Duncan. "Okay, other men do it, but I don't. I always have on a shirt. Even when I
shower."
"You shower with a shirt on?" I said.
"Mhm," said Duncan. "You never know."
"Never know what?" I said.
"Suppose there's an emergency, like the house gets caught on fire," said Duncan. "I don't wanna
be caught off guard, and running outside with my nipples all hard, and exposed to my adoring public.
That would be a PR nightmare."
"Okay, but it still doesn't really make sense," I said. "How come I can't go around shaking my
boobs? Why's that illegal? ...Not that I'd ever do that by the way."
"I've given that some thought," said Duncan. "I think it's something to do with liquids. See, your
nipples can potentially spray liquid, while mine can't."
"Yeah, who cares about liquids?" I said.
"Yeah, well, a long time ago, in the early days of human beings, we would use our liquids to
attack each other, and animals," said Duncan. "So, covering your holes that can shoot liquids is only
polite behavior.'
"But our mouths?" I said. "In almost every culture we leave it uncovered. And the mouth is way
worse than nipples. It can spit, it can bite, and it's literally a sphincter. When people kiss it's two people
connecting their facial sphincters together."
"The distinction is subtle, but your nipples, your wee-wee, and your bum hole, are not the same
as a mouth," said Duncan. "A mouth is first and foremost for ingesting, taking stuff in. Your other
naughty bits and pieces only have a single function, which is to spew their waste, and/or liquids. A
mouth, really, is multifunctional. It's like the difference between a pocket knife, and a gun. A pocket
knife can do many jobs, while a gun is only for a single task, and when you see a gun you know what
sort of harm it can do."
"My nipples aren't a gun," I said. "They shoot delicious milk, not bullets."
Duncan stared at me a good three seconds, saying nothing.
"What?" I said. "Why aren't you saying anything? You think I'm mad, don't you? I'm not mad.
You started this whole bizarre conversation. And anyway so what if I've tried my own milk? Is that so
wrong? If I'm feeding it to my baby, I have to make sure it's not spoiled or anything."
Duncan stood up.
"This chat has made me feel a lot better," he said. He patted me on the shoulder. "Let's go to the

mall now."
"I was just joking about trying my own milk," I said.
"I know," said Duncan, steadily walking away. "I know."
Chapter 78
Me, Duncan, and one Bebe in a stroller headed for the Eden Center. It was a shiny, silvery, monolith of
a building. Dozens of people were going in and out the entrance, which was comprised of several
revolving doors. I noted a single person leaving was empty handed, even the children were carrying
something. Might've been because, to celebrate the grand opening of this mall, all week there were
sales galore, prices marked down anywhere from 10% off to 90% off.
"This looks dandy," I said.
"It does," said Duncan.
"Let's go home," I said.
"Why?" said Duncan.
"I can't afford anything here," I said.
"Just put it on your credit card," Duncan sniggered.
"You're as funny as the jokes on the back of a cereal box," I said.
"Come on, I'm kidding," said Duncan. He put his arm around me as I pushed Bebe's stroller.
"Let me treat you to some holiday shopping, huh?"
Duncan opened his wallet to me, and fanned out $500 in cash for me to take. I pushed his hand
away.
"No, I can't," I said.
"Why not?" said Duncan. "Are you too proud? Are you trying to impress me or something?
Don't want me to think you're a gold digger? Look, am not like those men who think all women are
gold diggers. I don't think you're a gold digger."
"I know, I'm not," I said, "but you've already given me more than enough. I can't take your
money. I don't deserve it."
"What do you mean you don't deserve it?" said Duncan. "Of course you deserve it."
"No, I don't," I said.
"Wow," said Duncan. "You've got some self-esteem issues here. People play the lottery all the
time, thinking they deserve million of dollars, and you won't even accept my measly gift of five
hundred bananas."
"What can I say?" I said. "I'm not a materialistic person. Although on occasion I do enjoy
bananas... What are we talking about again?"
Duncan stuffed the $500 into my pocket.
"I won't take 'no' for an answer," he said. "I know you have your pride, but I think you need to
swallow it."
"I'm not much of a swallower," I said.
"Either way," said Duncan. "You're keeping that money. Unless of course you spend it, which is
what I want you to do."
"Okay," I said, "I'll take your money. But I'm not a gold digger."
"I know," said Duncan.
Chapter 79
We entered Eden Center. It was full of people shopping for Christmas presents. Like the people we saw
outside, not a single one wasn't carrying a shopping bag. I pushed Bebe's stroller ahead as Duncan
followed behind.

"Wow," I said, "this place is enormous."

"There are over 1,000 shops," said Duncan. "Making this the largest mall in the world."
"No kidding?" I said.
Duncan grinned. "You can count 'em, if you want."
I tilted back my head. Never had I seen consumerism in this big of a magnitude. There were six
floors, hallways as wide as football fields, and a walking path that had no end in sight. The place was
bright and modern. A ceiling of glass let in light, which shone onto silver banisters, shining to be
noticed. Even the floors were state of the art. They were embedded with advertisements that moved as
you went by.
"Where should we head first?" I said.
"How about the electronics shop?" said Duncan.
"Okay," I said.
"Really?" said Duncan. "You're fine with that?"
"Yes," I said, "why not?"
"Oh, I can taste the freedom already," said Duncan. "I'm way in over my head here -- !"
"Take a breath," I said. "Which electronics shop do you want to visit?"
"There's so many to choose from," said Duncan. "Let's look at that map."
Me, Bebe, and Duncan went over to an illuminated map that was at least six feet high. There
was a large, red X pointing out where we were.
"Oh, wow," said Duncan. "Look at all the choices. They have: Best Buy. Future Shop. 2001
Audio Video. Fry's. Curry's. Yogenfruz."
"Yogenfruz doesn't sell electronics," I said.
"I know," said Duncan. "I want some Frozen Yogurt."
So, we went to the frozen yogurt shop, and got some frozen yogurt. I had a raspberry flavored
cone, while Duncan had blueberry. After we paid for our treats, we made our way to a nearby store
called Zeus's Gadgets. The moment we entered we noticed the array of television sets that were all set
up to look like one helluva giant display. By my estimation it was as big as a football field.
"Imagine watching porno on that," Duncan said with a chuckle.
"What type of porno?" I asked.
Duncan glanced at me. "Your heard me?"
"Yes," I said, " and your carnal desires have made me question your religious values."
"Oh, God," said Duncan. "I always do that. I think I'm thinking in my head, but I'm actually
talking out loud. It's really gotten me in a lot of trouble. I almost got fired once."
"Why, what happened?" I said.
"I was telling people about the weather," said Duncan, "and I accidentally said that 'George
Bush hates black people.' Don't know why. Just came out."
"How odd," I said.
"I know," said Duncan. "Let's never mention it again."
I nodded and Duncan led us through the shop known as Zeus's Gadgets. An assortment of
strange objects caught our curiosity. On the shelves they had: a robotic dancing monkey, an alarm clock
that awoke you via scent, a refrigerated cup, an MP3 player designed by Willie Nelson, a laptop
computer that a projector built in, a bacteria resistant towel in the shape of an amoeba, a love meter,
and a 4D television -- the fourth dimension being smell."
"Who actually buys this crap?" I said.
"Well, let's see," said Duncan. "Crazy people, people with too much money, crazy people with
too much money. But I do think the 4D television is kinda cool. Imagine watching 'Human Centipede'
and being able to smell what they smell.'"
"Yep," I said, "you're one of those crazy people with too much money."
"I'm not ashamed of my rich, crazy heritage," said Duncan. "Why, I think I'll even buy this love

meter here. First, I have to test it out... Hold this will you?"
Duncan put one part of the love meter in my hand, while he held the other. The love meter was
comprised of three elements: the part in the middle that gave a read out, and two metallic rods.
"There it goes," said Duncan, describing the action. "The needle is waving."
"It's going toward the left," I said. "Seems like it's 'platonic.'"
"Wait," said Duncan. "It's not done yet. Oh, no. Look at that!"
The love meter settled on 'Hot Lovers,' and started flashing a red light, and making siren-like
noises. Woooop! Woooop! Woooooop!
"Oh, God," I said.
I felt everyone was staring at me, though in reality they were not.
"We're hot lovers," said Duncan. "How about that?"
"I don't think so," I said.
My face turned red.
"Then why are you blushing? Hm?" Duncan said in a teasing voice. "The idea of us being hot
lovers turns you on, doesn't it?"
"No, I'm not turned on," I said. "In fact, I've never been turned on in my entire life."
Duncan held up the lover meter. "Are you telling me this machine lied to us? That is an insult to
the scientists, who created this."
"If this is what scientists are doing," I said, "they should just kill themselves."
"How dark," said Duncan.
"We're living in dark times," I said.
"Ummm, let's go look at something else," said Duncan.
Duncan led the way, whilst me, and Bebe followed behind. When we got to the video games
section Duncan hopped to the screen, and started playing a game, where you stole cars.
"You seem enthralled," I said.
Duncan sweated, trying to shoot down a helicopter.
"Oh yeah," said Duncan. "Gina doesn't let me play video games. She says it's for kids. How can
shooting down a helicopter and stomping a hooker to death be for kids? What a woman."
I covered Bebe's eyes. As Duncan was moving his thumb-sticks around wildly a group of
women, who I estimated to be in their 40s, came up to us.
"Seasons greetings," said the woman, who looked like a Vaudevillian. "How do you do?"
"Hello," I said.
"I was talking to the gentleman playing the video games," said Vicky (the Vaudevillian).
"Oh," I said.
Duncan paused his game and turned to the gaggle of gals.
"Hello, ladies," he said with a grin. "How do you do?"
The women (the gawkers) stepped in closer. I felt myself being pushed out of the way.
"It this your baby?" said Vicky. "She's so cute."
"No, it's my friend's baby," said Duncan.
"Ah, it's not so cute," someone behind Vicky said.
"So, what can I help you with?" said Duncan.
"We're wondering if we could have your picture?" said Vicky.
"No problem," said Duncan.
"And your autograph," Vicky added. "Or autographs rather."
"Okay," said Duncan.
Vicky handed me her camera. "Be a dear and take a photo of us?"
"Yah, sure," I said.
Vicky and her pals stood around Duncan. After I took a couple pictures, they each took out a
little notebook for Duncan's John Hancock. They handed him a black pen and he happily signed

whatever he could.
"Thank you so much," said Vicky. "You are very kind."
She handed Duncan a slip of paper.
"What's this?" said Duncan.
Vicky winked. "It's my phone number."
"What for?" said Duncan.
"You can call me up," said Vicky. "I'm free any time."
"For what?" said Duncan.
"No strings attached," said Vicky. "No protection neither. Bare back, I'm up for that."
"Are you trying to seduce me?" said Duncan.
"Yes," I said, "are you trying to seduce him?"
Vicky pushed me ever so slightly. "I am merely offering my body to a young, strapping man,
who is obviously in in need."
"Wait," said Duncan, "are you a prostitute? Or what is that euphemism? Lady of the night?"
Vicky gawped. "Sir, I am no prostitute! I was trying to give you my company!"
"I don't want it," said Duncan. "I have a wife."
"Oh yeah?" said Vicky. "The one who's been bad mouthin' you on Twitter?"
"What? When?" said Duncan.
Vicky showed Duncan her smart phone, displaying Twitter. Twitter showed messages from
Gina, publicly decrying against her fair husband. She was saying that he was mean, and ugly, and
stupid, and insensitive to her feelings.
"What does it say?" I said.
"She called me a used dildo," said Duncan. "Ew."
"How mean," I said.
"Quite mean," said Vicky to Duncan. "You ought to find another woman."
Vicky winked.
"No thank you," said Duncan.
"What?" said Vicky, flaring out her large hip. "Don't like what you see? Don't wanna a real
woman?"
"All women are real," said Duncan. "Unless, of course, they're not real, and they're made up."
"Hm, picky this one," said Vicky. "So, what've you got in mind?" She pointed to me.
"Something like this?"
"Like what?" I said.
"We're just friends," said Duncan.
"Don't lie," said Vicky. "She's your hot soup on the side."
(I think this is the only time someone has called me hot, albeit as a soup.)
"I don't know what that means," said Duncan.
"Drop the whale," said Vicky, "and you can have a whale of time."
Wink!
"What are you suggesting?" said Duncan.
"I want your scrotum," said Vicky.
"Gross!" said Duncan. He grabbed my hand. "Let's go!"
"Come back, Mr. Weatherman," said Vicky. "I only want your mayonnaise-decorated sausage in
my warm bun!"
"Wait," I said, "the baby."
Duncan grabbed the handle of Bebe's stroller, and started pushing it as fast as possible, without
being reckless. Meanwhile, I jogged behind to keep up. We kept going until we were out the store, and
well away from Vicky, and her friends. Five minutes later, in another area of the mall, we stopped as I
was out of breath.

"Hold on," I said, panting. "I need to take a break."

I sat down on a bench. Duncan stood beside, keeping watch of Bebe.
"Can you believe that woman?" said Duncan. "These people. They think because they watch me
on TV we're best friends or something. I don't know any of them, nor do I care to get to know them."
"I take it this happens a lot?" I said.
"Well, not a lot," said Duncan, "but percentage-wise it's very high. I tell you, the women these
days have no sense of decency. Really -- ! One time I was crowd surfing at a rap concert, and some
girls tried fingering me."
"Can we not talk about this?" I said. "I find it a little upsetting."
Duncan sat down with a sigh.
"It makes Gina upset too," he said.
"Still thinking about Gina?" I said.
"I never stopped thinking about her," said Duncan.
"Oh, is that so?" I said.
"Can I tell you something?" said Duncan.
"Of course," I said.
"Remember when I told you about my cousin Pietra?" said Duncan. "How Gina said she'd leave
me, if I lost my job?"
"I remember," I said.
"Well," said Duncan. "That's not the full story. Yeah, she threatened to leave me, if I lost my job,
but she took it back right away. Actually, after, she encouraged me to go to Ireland to visit Pietra. But it
was me, me who insisted on continuing working. It was my fault for not getting to see Pietra. I just
didn't really think she was going to die."
"It's not your fault," I said. "You have to earn a living."
"That's the thing," said Duncan. "I don't need to be a stupid weatherman on TV. My uncle can
get me a very well paying job at his company. Money for me is not a problem."
"Glad to know," I said. "I feel less guilty about the $500 you gave me."
Duncan continued on, as if he didn't hear me.
"Maybe this is why me and Gina don't get along anymore," he said. "Because I've been putting
my job between us. That's the real problem in our relationship. I know being a meteorologist sounds
like a doofy career, but I have to travel around, and hobnob, and spend a lot of time away from home,
and then there are the women who flirt with me -- even when I'm in front of Gina. I'm sure it makes her
feel shitty. It must, we always get into arguments, and then I end up sleeping the garage."
"So, why don't you quit working at the station then?" I said.
"I can't," said Duncan.
"Why not?" I said.
"I'm a man," said Duncan. "I have a large, fragile ego. I like being popular. It makes me feel, I
dunno, valid. Don't you ever want to feel valid?"
"Not sure what that means," I said.
"Accepted," said Duncan.
"Yeah, I do," I said. "I always feel like I'm not a part of this world. Like I'm an alien. Like I
belong on another planet."
"Perhaps you're just unique," said Duncan.
"I might be unique," I said, "but it's most certainly in a bad way."
"I disagree," said Duncan.
Duncan turned to me, with legs crossed, and gently touched my chin. I pulled away my head.
"There are people watching," I said.
"So?" said Duncan.

I clenched my fists and stood up.

"Let's go and talk somewhere private," I said.
"What about?" said Duncan.
"You'll find out," I said.
Chapter 80
After shuffling past a hoard of shoppers, Duncan, and I, and Bebe found a quiet spot in the mall. It was
an empty pocket, located next to the calendars shop.
"Come on, out with it," said Duncan.
"Okay," I said, taking in a breath. "I know this is none of my business, but the reason your
relationship with Gina isn't working out, is because -"Yes?" said Duncan.
I hesitated to answer.
"Why are you holding me in suspense?" said Duncan.
"I can't believe you haven't figured it out already," I said. "Isn't it obvious?"
"If it was obvious," said Duncan, his eyes darted at the people passing by, "I wouldn't be
pressing you. And, you know, I hate when people say they're going to tell me something, and then they
try backing out. Don't be an Indian giver of words."
"That's racist," I said.
"Is it?" said Duncan. "Okay, uh, sorry. What's the proper term? Native Americans? First Nations
people?"
"Alright, listen up," I said.
Duncan came in closer to listen to me.
I whispered into his ear, "Gina thinks that................"
"Zelda!" said Duncan. "Stop stalling and tell me!"
"Gina thinks that you don't love her," I said. "That's really why you two are having trouble in,
erm, you know, paradise."
Duncan stood straight and lifted an eyebrow.
"That's silly," I said. "Of course I love her. I love her more than Coca-Cola. Why would she
think I don't love her?"
"Hey," I said, "I'm starting to think you have Alzheimer's disease. Seven minutes ago you told
me you were letting your career get between the two of you. Don't you think spending time away from
home too much, and flirting with your fans is making her think otherwise? Duncan, are you already in
denial?"
"Well, I thought it was causing some of the trouble," said Duncan, "not all of it."
"A 40 year old lady offered 'her buns' to you in the electronics shop," I said. "Is that not a bit
obscene?"
"Okay, okay, I getcha," said Duncan. "So, I have to rethink my career?"
"You have to rethink a lot of things," I said.
"How?" said Duncan.
"Take me and you for example," I said.
"Okay," said Duncan.
"You are constantly flirting with me," I said. "Yet supposedly you're still mad for Gina. Does
this make sense? Is this conducive toward a working, loving relationship with your wife?"
Duncan threw up his hands. "Oh, gawd! This is all my fault! I've been acting like a jerk. But,
but, but you get a slice of celebrity, and you just, you, you go mad with power. Fame's like a drug. It's
addictive, and it ruins lives."
"Calm down," I said. "You can fix this."

"How?" said Duncan.

"I'm sorry, I don't really know how," I said. "I only point problems out. I don't solve them."
"I know," said Duncan, "it's up to me to figure it out."
I nodded.
"I have to make changes," said Duncan. He took a moment to think. "First order of business, I
have to be respectful of Gina's feelings. I can't flare up her jealousy. There shall be only one woman in
my life. Zelda, that means our friendship is kaput."
"Are you serious?" I said. "I thought you liked me... No, I thought you loved me."
"You thought I loved you?" said Duncan.
Suddenly, I became nervous.
"Yes," I said. "You're always so flirty with me."
"I do care for you," said Duncan, "but love is kind of a strong word here. I really, really, really
like you."
"But Gina said you loved me," I said.
"That's her paranoia," said Duncan.
"What about when you stood up for me at your Christmas party? What about when tried to kiss
me?" I said. "Did that mean nothing?"
"I stood up for you because that was the right thing to do," said Duncan. "I tried kissing you
because I was having trouble with Gina. It was indiscretion. Plus, even if we did kiss, what does a kiss
even mean these days? It practically means nothing. People give them out like sweets. My dear Zelda,
we're living indiscriminate society."
"And you're part of that," I said.
Duncan sighed. "You make me feel so bad."
"What can I say?" I said. "I'm Catholic."
Wordless, Duncan began walking away. I followed after.
"Wait," I said, "where are you going?"
"I'm going to wait in the car," said Duncan. "I can't be here with you. It's not right."
"Please," I said, "don't leave me. We can still be friends. I don't see why we can't. Remember?
Gina was the one who invited me over to stay with you guys? She likes me. You can like me too."
Duncan took a moment to think.
"Hmm, I suppose you're right," he said. "But know this, Zelda Montgomery Baker, I am a man
determined to change. In other words: Don't tempt me, woman."
Thump! He beat once on his chest.
"Worry not," I said. "I shall be an absolute lady."
"Right," said Duncan, "where we going next?"
"Not sure," I said. "Let's walk around a bit?"
"Okay," said Duncan.
So, me, Duncan, and Bebe walked around for a bit. While doing so, an older man in a Santa
Claus suit, who was ringing a golden bell, stopped us.
"Care to make a donation to the Red Army?" said Santa Claus. "Hey! Aren't you that
weatherman?"
"Yes," said Duncan. "Would you like an autograph?"
"Hell no," said Santa. "I jus' wanna let you know that your weather predictions suck. You said
we weren't going to get snow, and what did we get? Snow! My back's killin' me from all that shovelin' I
had to do."
"I tried my best," said Duncan.
"Your best wasn't good enough," said Santa.
"I'm sorry," said Duncan, very sarcastically.
"Don't take that tone with me," said Santa. "I may look jolly and fluffy, but I can toss an elf

twenty yards."
"Yah?" said Duncan. "You look more like the type to toss a salad, you bearded, piece of --"
"Alright!" I exclaimed, trying to stymie an argument. "What exactly does this charity do, Mr.
Santa Claus? Why is it called the Red Army???"
Santa turned to me, looked at Bebe, and smiled.
"RED is an acronym," said Santa. "It stands for 'Relief of Extreme Diseases.'"
"So, 'Relief of Extreme Diseases Army'?" I said. "What sort of diseases do you guys fight?"
"Small pox," said Santa.
"That sounds like a worthy cause," I said. "So, since this is an army, do you guys ever shoot
people?"
"We're not actually an army," said Santa. "Just as much as I'm not actually Santa."
"Not Santa?" said a squeaky voice.
At that same moment we all looked down at a child passing by. He exploded into tears. His
mom had to drag him away, while he wailed on about his most fraudulent childhood.
"He'da learned eventually," said Santa. "Everyone does."
"As they say, ignorance is bliss," I said. "Or is it? I don't really know."
"Anywho," said Santa, "how much money would you like to donate today?"
"We're not donating anything," said Duncan. "This charity of yours looks shady."
"No more shady than the media," said Santa.
"That sounds pretty shady," said Duncan.
Santa folded his arms. I stepped forward and dropped a $10.00 bill into his sphere-shaped jar.
"Never mind him," I said. "Here's some money. Paying it forward, I am."
"Forward not back?" said Santa. "Are you really that arrogant?"
"What?" I said.
"You said paying it forward, instead of paying it back," " said Santa. "That's really narcissistic
of you. You're implying that you have no debts to society and that you don't owe anyone anything.
Surely, that can't be true."
"Maybe it is," I said.
"She lives in my house for free," said Duncan.
"Ohp! You've turned against me," I said.
"Santa's got a point," said Duncan. "What's with all this 'paying it forward' horseshit? what
happened when people used to give, and say they were 'paying it back'? As if no one's accumulated any
karmic debt to anyone."
"Fine," I said to Santa. "I'm paying it back. 'It' being society, am I correct?"
"Winner, winner," said Santa, "chicken dinner."
"You're welcome," I said.
"Thank you," said Santa. "Would you care to make another donation?"
"Another?" I said. "I just gave you $10.00 already."
"Ooooh, $10.00," said Santa. "Big whoopity doo. What do you want, a gold medal? We have
small pox to cure here, lady! I need more money! I mean, we need more money."
"That's it," I said. "Let's go."
Taking Bebe's stroller we started rolling away. Of course, Duncan followed behind.
"Zelda," said Duncan, "you seem P-O-ed."
"I don't get people," I said. "It's X-mas. Why's everyone being so mean and grumpy?"
"Like you said," said Duncan, "it's X-mas. It's the most depressing time of the year. People are
stressed from having to buy gifts they can't afford, it's cold, there's snow to shovel, you hafta visit
family you don't really want to see, and, of course, of horse, there's the New Year ahead, staring you
dead in your eyes, saying, 'Why haven't you achieved anything? What about all those resolutions your
made? You loser!'"

"Guess there's no upside to the season, is there?" I said.

"Well, there is one," said Duncan.
"What's that?" I said.
"Less noise," Duncan said. "God. In the summer time all those retirees fiddle about their yards.
It's non-stop lawn mowing. For Godsakes, how can anyone think with all that noise? Don't they have
anything better to do than shortening grass? Why don't they just lie down, relax, and enjoy the warm
weather in silence? Instead they gotta power up these loud, polluting, death machines, just so they can
maintain a look that no one really cares about."
"Wait," I said, "why are they death machines?"
"There are creatures living in the grass," said Duncan. "They get literally get destroyed when
the lawnmower passes over them. Lord almighty. Last summer, I was doing some work on my
computer. So, I get up to take a break, and stretch by the window. I look out and what do I see? My
neighbor running over a family of rabbits. And a mouse. Blood was everywhere! And for what?! What,
Zelda?! A military haircut for a lawn?!"
I didn't know what to say.
"I think we should agree to disagree," I said.
"Right," said Duncan.
I looked ahead and saw a bookshop. "Hey, why don't we turn in here?"
"Booker's Books?" said Duncan, reading the signage. "What novels do you seek? Perhaps a
bawdy tale in which there are many shades of gray? Or maybe a collection of ancient India intercourse
positions?"
"Uh, I was thinking more along the lines of Anne of Green Gables," I said.
"This Anne of Green Gables," said Duncan, "is she quite attractive?"
I slapped Duncan on his arm.
"Come on," I said.
"I was only teasing," Duncan said as he followed me into the book shop.
"I know," I said.
We went into the self-help section. The books were neatly kept on shelves made out of walnut
wood. There was a light scent of vanilla in the air, and smooth, green carpeting, lit by incandescent
lights.
"Self-help, eh?" said Duncan. "I thought you wanted to check out ol' Annie."
"Something caught my eye," I said. I picked up a book called: Think Your Way to Success.
"Look at that. It's only 99 cents. What a bargain."
"Anything under a dollar is not worth the price," said Duncan.
Regardless, I opened the book and began my cursory reading.
"What's it all about?" said Duncan.
"Apparently," I explained, "all I need to do to succeed is have a positive attitude, and visualize
what I want in life, then the universe will give it to me."
"Try it out," said Duncan.
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers against my temples, visualizing a perfect life. In it I
owned an orange cat, whose name was Pumpkin, but when she ate too much I'd teasingly call her
Garfield. Also, I had a four bedroom house, two cars, and Duncan was my husband, because Gina died
in a tragic car accident in which her vehicle careened off a cliff, whilst she was rocking out to
Gangnam Style.
"So?" said Duncan.
I opened my eyes.
"What did you wish for?" said Duncan.
"I'll tell you when it happens," I said.
"I have my doubts," said Duncan.

"It's not even been 5 seconds," I said. "Let's give it some time."
I looked around, waiting for something to happen.
"The damned book costs 99 cents," said Duncan. "Obviously it doesn't work. If it did the author
wouldn't need to hawk her wares for less than a buck."
"You don't know," I said. "Maybe it's her dream to help others for a ridiculously, low, low
price."
"Again, I have my doubts," said Duncan.
"Doubting Thomas," I said. "Or is it Doubting Duncan?"
"Clever," said Duncan.
I put away the book in my hand, then we all headed to the fiction section of the shop. There
were plenty of books, but not much in terms of variety. The shelves mostly were mostly filled with
vampire, magic, zombie, and dystopian novels for teenagers. Not my thing really. I preferred the
classics like: Anne of Green Gables, the Little Prince, and a Journey to the Center of the Earth.
Today, I wanted to find something new that I'd never read before, something that would lift up
my spirits, and make me feel warm inside like all good books do. I scanned the levels with my eyes,
and spotted a bright, baby blue book, sitting beside a Tom Clancy novel.
"Ah, 'The Boy in the Striped Pajamas'," I said, reading the title out loud. "This looks cute."
Duncan grinned, and leaned forward to whisper in my ear.
"Oh, no," I said. "That's terrible."
I flipped around the book, and read the synopsis for The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Then I put
it back.
"What, you don't want it anymore?" said Duncan.
"Look, it's not that I don't care to read about the Holocaust," I said, "but I wouldn't buy this
book, unless it were written by a survivor. I just don't think people should be profiting off memories of
the Holocaust. That would be blood money. We ought to have the utmost respect for such a tragic
human event. Don't you think?"
"I completely agree with you," said Duncan.
"Thanks," I said. "I think I'll choose something more lighthearted though."
I picked up something called The Fault in Our Stars.
"This looks promising," I said.
"Nooooooooooo!" said Duncan.
Then he grabbed The Fault in Our Stars book out of my hand, took out a lighter, set it on fire,
and lobbed it five aisles over. Quickly, we both hunkered down beside Bebe's stroller, and there was a
roaring KABOOM! Bits and pieces of paper went flying into the air.
After a moment, I stood up. "What just happened?"
Just as I said those words an employee of the shop made his way over to us. He was a skinny
fellow, but had shoulder length hair, and a full set of star tattoos on his neck and face.
"Uh, hey," said Jared in a strained, jittery voice.
"Hey?" said Duncan.
"I'm afraid," said Jared, "I'll have to ask you to leave the store."
"No need to be afraid," said Duncan. "Ask away."
"Hm?" said Jared. "Uh, alright. Could you please leave the store?"
"Why?" said Duncan. "Whatever did we do?"
"You lit a book on fire," said Jared. "We don't allow book burning here."
"But it was a bad book," said Duncan.
"Yeah, like, that's your opinion," said Jared.
"Alright, we're going," said Duncan. "How much do I owe you for the book?"
"Don't worry about it," said Jared. "We were going to throw it out anyway."
"Ah, thanks," said Duncan. "Okay, Zelda, let's go."

And so we made our way to the exit. When we stepped out, a lady ran into the shop, and
grabbed Jared by his shirt. Jared looked afraid with his eyes wide open.
"Jared!" she said. "Come with me!"
"Wha', why?" said Jared. "I'm working."
"No, you don't understand," said Betty. "This is more important than your job."
"What could be more important than having a job," said Jared, "so my parents'll stop telling me
I'm wasting my life?"
Betty put her arms into the air, and exclaimed, "The Poopee doll! I know where we can get
one!"
"Stop shitting me," said Jared. "You're shitting me."
"I am not shitting you," said Betty. "They have a whole supply of them at Peter's Toy Shop. He's
selling them to the public, at regular price, for his grand opening."
"My goodness," said Jared. "If I could get my hand on a Poopee Doll my little sister would be
thrilled. Thrilled, I tells you."
"No time for dilly dallying," said Betty. She grabbed Jared's hand. "We hafta go. There's already
a long line up."
"Wait," said Jared, "I --"
Betty pulled Jared along like he was a string toy.
When their backs were turned to us, going into the distance, I whispered to Duncan.
"We have to follow them," I said.
"Don't you think its a bit to early to be stalking people?" said Duncan.
I shook my head.
Chapter 81
We stalked followed Jared and Betty. After what seemed several minutes we came upon Peter's Toy
Shop. The sign above had a picture of a familiar face. The mascot was the infamous dwarf, Puny Peter.
Duncan and I stretched out our necks, trying to see what was happening. There was a hoard of people
standing in front of the locked doors. They were shuffling their feet, pressing forward, staring, groaning
like zombies.
"Maybe we should come back later when it's less crowded," said Duncan.
"We can't," I said.
"What are you?" said Duncan. "An American or an American't?"
"Ah, what?" I said.
"Never mind," said Duncan.
"Oh, look," I said. "Someone's coming out."
A teenager, in a shirt emblazoned with his store's logo, slipped out one of the doors. He kept
close to it, preventing people from sneaking in. He stood as tall as he could, and waved. The crowd
barely paid him any mind, until he cleared his throat, and started speaking.
"Ahem. Hello, everyone," said Gilbert. "Thank you all for coming out. We appreciate your
patronage. However, we will not be opening today..."
The crowd went "awww!" and started swearing.
"...Until ten minutes have passed," said Gilbert. "We are arranging some items inside. So, I ask
you all to be kind, and have some patience."
"What about the dolls!" someone yelled. "Tell us about the freaking dolls!"
"Unfortunately,," said Gilbert, "we don't have anymore..."
The crowd groaned again.
"...Power Ranger toys," said Gilbert. "But if you're asking about the Poopee Dolls, then, yes, we
have ample supply."

"How much supply?!" said a voice.

"Two pallets worth," said Gilbert, "meaning we have 120 dolls."
"There are more than 120 people here," replied the voice. "There isn't enough."
"Calm down," said Gilbert. "Not everyone wants a Poopee doll. I'm sure others are here to buy
something else."
The crowd became nervous, and agitated. People looked at each other, trying to somehow
ascertain who exactly was hoping for those doll. In my estimation, it was everyone.
"Also," Gilbert added, "there is a limit of one doll per person. We will not cater to greedy
shoppers, who buy up everything for themselves. Anyone who disobeys will be shot..."
Everyone gasped.
"...With a camera, and be banned from our store," said Gilbert. "As well we will not tolerate
rowdy behavior. Remember, folks, it's just a toy."
We all nodded in agreement.
Duncan yawned.
"Bored?" I said.
"A little," said Duncan.
"I guess you can leave, if you want," I said. "Take Bebe with you. You two can perambulate
around the mall. But meet back here in a half an hour."
"Cool," said Duncan.
He grabbed Bebe's stroller, and tried turning around. I say tried, since we were completely
surrounded by people, encased in a crowd, which had grown double in size. I want to leave, but had to
stay for the doll. I tilted my head back, and breathed, trying to catch some fresh air. Where I stood it felt
hot and moist. People's elbows were pushing into my back.
"Are you not leaving?" I said.
"I'm trapped," said Duncan.
"Ask them to move, politely," I said. "They can't refuse."
"Never mind," said Duncan. "I'll come along. It should be no big deal. What could go wrong?"
A moment later Gilbert was standing atop a footstool. He put his hands together, and announced
to the crowd, "Ladies and gentleman, we are now about to open. Please remember to be kind to each
other. There are children in the crowd. Pushing and shoving may endanger them."
Everyone nodded.
"Okay," said Gilbert, looking down at his wristwatch. "OPEN THE DOORS!"
Employees inside unlocked the doors. Instantly, the crowd rushed forward, so much so that I
could not keep my footing. I tripped and fell forward. When I stood up against a wave of people
pushing and shoving, I found that Duncan was gone. He'd been swept away amidst the exuberance.
"Duncan!" I said as loud as I could. "Duncan! DUNCAN!"
There was no response, as I was voiceless in this sea of bodies. Everybody was making noise,
yet no one was listening. Not being heard made me feel small. But I was used to it. It was not a new
feeling.
"Damn these people to hell," I said.
Yet not wanting to lose out, I followed the others. We flooded inside of the toy shop, however,
were made to stop when a metal, fence-like barrier came in our way. There was a collection of
employees behind it holding hands. On a platform, elevated above the crowd was the dwarf named
Puny Peter. He was dressed in a business suit, holding a megaphone to embiggen his voice.
"Welcome, everyone to the grand opening of my toy shop," said Puny Peter. "I am very glad
that so money -- I mean, so many people have come out. I consider you all to be my guests. So, please,
relax, and enjoy yourselves. In a moment's time we will be handing out the Poopee dolls."
Puny Peter turned to one of his employees, and whispered, "Tell fatty to bring out the dolls, hm?
And make it snappy."

The employee disappeared into a back door, and returned empty-handed.

"What's the matter?" said Puny Peter. "Where is she? Where're the toys?"
"I don't know," said Terry. "I looked around. She isn't there."
"Fine," said Puny Peter. "Bring out the dolls yourself."
"Dolls ain't there either," said Terry. "The stock has mysteriously disappeared."
Puny Peter stamped his foot. "I can't believe it. That tubby ginger girl done thiefed. Last time I
trust a female."
"What do we do?" said Terry.
"Hrm, I dunno," said Peter. "Perhaps I could give the crowd an emotionally rousing speech,
convincing them to be less materialistic, and to focus on their families instead of chasing after --"
"HURRY UP WITH THE TOYS!" a man shouted. "MY URGE TO MURDER IS RISING!"
Puny Peter tugged on his collar. Sweat dripped down his pudgy forehead. As he was about to
run away, a young woman, wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt, called his attention.
"Peter!" said Janice. "Where are you going?"
"Janice," said Puny Peter. "You're supposed to be working. What is yer lardo arse doin' there?"
"I'm sick of your bullcrap," said Janice. "You think because you employ me and gimme pocket
change you own me? I'm not your slave. I deserve respect. You can't treat people like garbage, and act
like they're lower than you, just because you provide them. And by the way my name's not fatty, it's
Janice. Remember it, you vertically challenged, husk of a human being! Viva La Revolucion!"
"Wait!" said Puny Peter.
But it was too late. Janice already had out the transmitter for her r/c helicopter, and she flew the
blades of it into a rope on the ceiling, holding aloft a net filled to the brim with Poopee dolls. Puny
Peter looked up. There was no time to do anything, other than covering himself up with his arms. Then
the toys all dropped at once, and crashed around him, encircling him in a wall of shiny boxes.
The hungry wolves smelled the blood. Without a second wasted they charged forward. They
reached out their arms, grabbing at the dolls. I tried doing the same myself, but was blocked by a
bulwark of bodies, so tightly packed together that nothing could slip through.
Yet "Let me through!" I squealed.
As I gave it another go, a shopper shoved me out the way, and soon, in the mad rush, I found
myself thrown to the very back of the crowd. Barely could I see what was happening; however, I heard
all the screams, and shrieks, and unrestrained use of profanity.
At this point, I did not think I was going to get my toy, but then a Christmas miracle happened:
a fight broke out. A group of men, and women, were arguing, playing a tug of war for a Poopee doll.
They yelled at each other to let go, and to (put it lightly) bugger off. In a bit of self-admitted bias, I
rooted for the group of women to win.
"Back off!" said the women.
"This isn't yours!" said the men.
"Bullies!" said the women.
I swear, I could feel the tension in the ear [sic]. You could've cut it with some sort of thin, sharp
instrument. Then it happened, one of them reached their breaking point. One of the women in the group
totally bitch slapped one of the men. Dumfounded, the man stood there, and stared -- and then
retaliated with a most gruesome uppercut.
The woman flew back, and (involuntarily) threw her arms up, causing the Poopee doll she was
holding to go flying into the air. When it came down, by sheer luck, I was the one who caught it. I
became ecstatic. I actually jumped, and clicked my heels; I couldn't believe it.
The others, however, were not so enthused.
They looked at me, and yelled, "Oy, fatty! Give that back or we will murder you!"
Life threatened, I turned 360, and dashed between an aisle to hide. It was a bad plan. I found
myself against a wall, stuck between shelving units, where the only exit was through the growling

shoppers.
"Stay back," I said. "I have every right to this as much as you."
But they did not listen. They only lurched forward to try and take away my doll. I wouldn't let
them have it. I wracked my brain, in the seconds I had, thinking of a plan to escape. Then it hit me, I
could simply climb away.
I lifted my leg, and took a step onto the shelves. Letting my weight down, I didn't think it could
hold me. yet I kept on going. As someone grabbed the back of my foot, I kicked, and lifted myself up,
onto the top of the shelving unit. I looked down below at all the arms reaching out, trying to grab me.
They were a persistent hoard. One of them got the idea to start climbing too. His hand came up,
and wrapped around the edge, where my foot was. Naturally, I stepped on his fingers. Naturally, he
plummeted, and fell onto the others.
While on the floor, he rolled on his belly, groaning that his back was broken, yet those around
him paid him no mind. They stepped atop him to get to me. For a brief moment, it made me question
whether this toy was worth the effort.
I turned my head and looked out. High up, I saw the cash registers in the distance. There were
people with their credit cards out, ready to scratch out that last toy on their list. They were smiling, but
nervous, worried that their victory could be snatched away from them at any moment. Luckily for
them, security guards protected each line, allowing them to make their purchases (relatively) hassle
free.
I thought that they should be over here protecting me, but I figured there weren't enough of
them to go around. I bit my fingernails, nervously. I had no way to get to the registers. While I wasted
my time fretting, two people managed to climb up to the top of the shelf with me. Each man inched
their way toward me. Their eyes glowed with greed.
"Give us the doll," they hissed, "and we promise we won't hurt you -- too badly."
"Never!" I said.
I turned around, and leapt onto the next shelf, and the one after that, and the one after that. I
barely made it, but I made it. I looked back at the two men, who seemed rather befuddled. They then
decided to copy me. Each took a half step back, and charged forward, with a jump.
"Geronimo!" I heard one saying.
Then he fell short of his jump, and smacked his face into the shelf, crumpling to the floor. The
other had a similar fate too, which made me pump my fist in triumph. Now, alls I had to do was climb
down, then make my way to the checkout. Looking down, however, I saw no clear path. There were far
too many people in my way, and they were all fighting, and screaming. Not a one was spared. Children,
the elderly, the mentally handicapped, blind people, they were all part of the mayhem that included
flying fists, leg trips, and high, Kung-fu kicks.
"C'm'on," I told myself. "You gotta get down now. People are starting to notice you."
For a second, I thought I could lay low, and wait until enough shoppers left, but then someone
pointed up at me and yelled, "She's got one of 'em dolls!"
The people below started pushing on the shelving unit. I spread my feet apart to steady myself. I
felt like I was caught in the middle of an earthquake. I began to lose my balance, as well as my sanity.
"It's just a toy for Godsakes!" I yelled, trying to bring them to reason. "Why don't you leave me
alone?!"
"We need it," they said, "we need it!"
"I need it more than you!" I said.
Then as I was being rocked back and forth the entire shelf that was the ground beneath my feet
suddenly tipped over. By instinct I grabbed onto an edge, and went down with the proverbial ship. All
the shoppers in the way got squished, while those behind were knocked back. The ones knocked back
created a domino effect. Their bodies knocked down other bodies, and those bodies knocked down

more bodies, and that carried on, until almost half the store was flat on the floor.
Seizing the opportunity, I came down from the sideways shelf, hastily stepped over everyone
who was lying in the way, and my way to a cash register. The security guard there nodded and let me
slip into the line.
"I did it," I said with my Poopee doll tucked under my arm. "I actually did it!"
A moment after the cashier greeted me. She, like the other workers, was a teenager. She looked
quite grungy, but I didn't really care.
"Seasons greetings," said Roxanne. "How are you doing today?"
"Not bad," I said. "Yourself?"
"Same ol', same ol'," said Roxanne. "Just another day in retail."
"Well," I said, "erm, merry Christmas then."
"You too," said Roxanne. She scanned the barcode for my Poopee doll. "$106.92, please."
I gave her what money I had, and was returned my change. The bills I noticed were all wrinkly,
and tearing. It annoyed me, but I let it go. I was excited to finally have my Christmas toy. Roxanne
bagged it up and handed it to me.
"Here you go," she said. "Enjoy your toy, and please come back again."
"I will," I said. "Thank you."
Excitedly, I jogged off, and left the toy store. I couldn't believe my luck. I actually succeeded in
doing something. Triumph, I shouted "woo hoo!" then took a moment to breathe. I stopped and opened
my shopping bag. I took out the Poopee doll to stare at its wonderful, plasticy face. Others who saw
what I had looked to be quite envious. I paid them no mind.
"This is great," I said, gleefully. "I wonder how Bebe will react when she sees it Christmas
morning?"
I put away the doll, and sat on a nearby bench. Figuring Duncan would come back eventually, I
awaited him patiently. While doing so, legs crossed, I noted a gang group of cops heading for the toy
shop. They chucked in a can of teargas, which made a loud BANG! noise, and then charged ahead
screaming something that sounded like, "Eeewaaaarugh!"
I couldn't see what was going on, though I could hear the sounds coming from within. The
police were swearing, and from my deductions, tasering shoppers pepper spraying them, and beating
them with batons.
Chapter 82
I started coughing from the gray gas and pepper-flavored air making its way to my lungs. (Cough!
Cough!) While my eyes were watering a flaming ball came flying from the toy shop and landed beside
my leg. I turned my head to look. The flaming ball was in actuality a toy, a dancing baby toy engulfed
in fire.
It was then that I decided to leave. I got up off the bench and went searching for Duncan about
the mall. In my walk, I passed several dozen shops and stores, of which included: a pet store, a video
game store, a baseball caps only store, an "as seen on TV" store, a cell phone store, an arts 'n' crafts
store, and a dollar store.
Actually, I nipped into the dollar store but left when I found everything was more than a dollar.
Afterward, I got distracted, and spotted a shop overcrowded with women. Clamoring for a bargain, I
got through the queue, and found myself in a leggings shop. I'm not a fan of leggings. According to
doctors tight clothing increases your chances of yeast infection. You're supposed to let your fanny
breathe.
I agree. Right now, I'd say, leggings is probably the worst trend we have in fashion. But I get it.
I get the stretchy pants. You buy one size and they'll always fit. You don't have to get new pair after
you've bloated up. No need to admit that you've gotten fat when you've got leggings. They stretch out

to accommodate your extra cushiony arse.

Psychologically that's pleasing to us, because we women are fixated on being a certain size.
Anything that tells us otherwise is not going to do very well for itself. And the fashion industry knows
this. They constantly exploit our insecurities to make money. It's not enough these days to just be an
intelligent woman. No, we have to wear heels and be extra tall; we have to enhance our faces with
makeup; we have to bare our skin to the world be eye candy.
Damn it all to hell. I like my loose, comfortable clothes that protects my fair skin from the sun. I
like that what I wear is practical and not dictated by manipulative corporations, conspiring to make us
feel bad. Alright?
At least that's what I told the woman in the shop when I tried on a shirt, and the buttons popped
off. But, hey, it's Christmas. This is holiday weight. There's no need for name calling. If I was 7 feet
tall, I'd have the correct body mass index. Hmph, the gall of that young worker. Never suggest a lady is
fat when she's shopping for clothes. Women get very offended easily.
I'll give you an example. When a woman is called a cunt she loses her mind. But you tell that to
a man he might get annoyed, but not totally have a fit. And it makes no sense at all. Why would you be
offended at being called a cunt? A cunt is a vagina. A vagina is an essential organ of the human body. It
is nice, warm place. It is a giver of life, and a bringer of pleasure. It's not like a penis, which is hard,
and stiff, and ugly, and rapes people. Cunts are great compared to them.
Now, right now you're saying, "What's this got to do with anything?"
Well, I'll tell you. While I was browsing around this shop, I spotted my sister Shirley. She was
by a clothes rack, looking at night gowns. I thought I'd lost her forever, and boy, was I angry at her for
not contacting me all this time. However, I kept my cool.
"Shirley," I said. "Is that really you?"
Shirley barely turned her head.
"Who wants to know?" she said.
I stepped in front of my sister, so she could see me.
"It's me," I said.
Shirley stopped looking at the night gowns. She lifted up her sunglasses. She was dressed in a
matching tight, black dress.
"Well, I'll be," said Shirley. "It is you."
"Where the heck have you been?" I said.
"I moved places," said Shirley. "Didn't you get the memo?"
"No," I said. "I didn't the memo."
"Well, gee, golly," said Shirley. "That's too bad...! So, how're you doing, my dear sister?"
"Going through some very hard times," I said.
"On a scale of 1 to 10?" said Shirley.
"11," I said.
"Oh, wow, an eleven," said Shirley. "That sounds like a real doozy. I'm sure all the African
orphans are nodding in agreement right now."
"Don't gimme your sarcasm," I said. "I was looking for you for some help, but you just up and
left. If you're going to do something major like moving, the polite thing to do is tell people. In person.
Before you go. A memo doesn't cut it."
"Wait, wait, wait a minute," said Shirley. "So, the only reason you wanted to see me was
because you wanted help? Oh, Zelda, you little leech."
"I wasn't going to ask you for the world," I said in an irritated tone. "It wouldn't have killed you
to lend a hand. For Godsakes I had a baby beside a dumpster, and I became homeless."
"Well, what's your situation now?" said Shirley. "Couldn't be too bad. I see you're doing some
shopping."
"I'm okay now," I sighed, "but it would've been a lot better if you were there for me."

"Zelda," said Shirley, "what have I told you about being independent?"
"But you're my sister," I said. "I needed you."
"Wah-wah-wah," said Shirley. "All I hear from you is complaints."
"I'm not complaining," I said. "I'm...expressing myself."
"Take my advice," said Shirley, "and you'll be a much happier person: Be more positive. The
world is a wonderful place. Why, last week, I went on a tour of the Galapagos islands. The locals
cooked us up some tortoise. Mm, best thing I ever tasted."
"That's disgusting," I said, "and if you must know not everyone can go on a tour of the
Galapagos islands."
"Excuses, excuses," said Shirley. "All you have to do is save up your money. It's not impossible.
In fact, I know many, many people who've gone on the same tour as me."
"Your friends are all rich," I said.
"Not all of them," said Shirley. "Randal Smith the Third and his family only make $300,000 a
year. He's considering firing his gardener." Shirley laughed. "The poor fool. We always tease him for
being poor."
I stared at Shirley for a long moment. I was thinking about uppercutting her into the sun for
being so dumb.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" said Shirley.
"No reason," I said.
"Are you angry at me?" said Shirley.
"I'm not angry at you," I said. "Maybe I'm angry at myself."
"Hold on," said Shirley. "Did you say you have a baby?"
"Yeah," I said. "You wanna see her?"
"Sure," said Shirley.
"Oh, I forgot, I don't know where she is," I said.
"You lost your baby?" said Shirley. "Mm, this is just like when we were kids. You lost our
rabbit. Mister Snow Puff was like my best friend at the time."
"I didn't lose my baby," I said. "She's with Duncan."
"Why???" said Shirley.
"I live in his home," I said. "He took me shopping today, but we got split up."
"Typical male," said Shirley.
"So," I said, "where are you living now?"
"Just up north by the coast," said Shirley. "My hubby had a yearning to be by the water. He
bought a yacht and everything. Oh, I do hope he drowns. Fingers crossed."
"I know you're a lesbian," I said, "but don't you care for him in the least?"
"Why would I care for him?" said Shirley. "He's a smelly, wrinkly, disgusting, self-absorbed
man-child, who chews like a cow when he eats."
"Regardless," I said, "I still think it's wrong to wish death upon your husband."
"But if he dies I'll be rich," said Shirley.
"Money is not a reason for someone else to die," I said.
"But if he dies I can get married to the person I really love," said Shirley. "Do you remember
Clarissa from school? She's my secret girlfriend."
"You're cheating!" I said.
"Shh, shh, shh!" Shirley yelled. "Not so loud!"
"I can't believe it," I said in a lowered voice. "You're literally living in sin."
"Oh, stop slut shaming me," said Shirley. "There's nothing wrong with sex."
"Yeah, there is nothing wrong with sex," I said, "when you're married and doing it faithfully.
But sneaking behind your husband's back and scissoring with some girl? How could you?"
"This is not just 'some girl,'" said Shirley. "Plus, you're no better than me. What about your

relationship with Harris? The two of you weren't even married."

"I didn't cheat on him," I said, "and he was my life partner. Sure, it's not marriage, but it's the
Atheist equivalent. Not that I'm an Atheist. Well, no, sometimes I'm an Atheist."
"What does that even mean?" said Shirley. "You weirdo."
I sighed. "Forget it."
Shirley patted my head. "Zelda, you are such a silly, little fool. A life partner is not the same as
having a wife or husband. When you get married that is a legal contract. It protects you. If you have a
child, and you are married, your husband can't just leave you. He has certain legal obligations. Ladies,
take my word: Don't have a child without being married."
"Who are you talking to?" I said.
"Oh, there are some people eavesdropping," said Shirley. She darted her eyes. "So!" she
continue. "I didn't know you were into leggings, my dear Zelda. I guess you're growing up and catching
on with the trends?"
"I'm not catching on with the trends," I said. "I hate leggings. They look so slutty."
"Again," said Shirley, "there's nothing wrong with being a slut. Sluts rule the world. And plus,
it's not the worst thing I've ever seen. Look at this."
Shirley held up something that looked like an opaque bra.
"That's a bra," I said. "So what?"
"No, it's not," said Shirley. "It's a bralet. You wear it without a shirt."
"So, wait," I said. "That's all you wear?"
"At least on top," said Shirley. "It's quite the rage with the kids these days. They're such whores.
Look at this."
Shirley held up a dress that had a big slot down the middle, allowing a woman to show off her
side boobs.
"What sort of skank master would wear this?" said Shirley.
"Hold on," I said, "what is the point of this conversation?"
"Conversation need not have any point," said Shirley. "We're merely passing the time."
"Oh, okay," I said.
"My point is," said Shirley, "when you think things are bad, they aren't always as bad as you
think. Step back and get a new perspective."
I rolled my eyes. "Thanks for the lesson, professor."
"Again with the attitude," said Shirley. "I'm only trying to help you."
"Help me with some money," I said. "I don't need to know how disastrously whorey women's
clothes are these days. That's not going to make my life better."
"Grrrrrr," said Shirley. "You're so greedy. Is that all you think about? Money? My money?"
"I'm sorry for being rude," I said, "but it is the worst of times."
"And the best of times?" said Shirley.
"No," I said.
Shirley groaned. "Why isn't it that we get along? How come we can't be more like those African
American twin sisters on TV?"
"They're twins," I said. "They're pretty much alike. But us, we're different. Much different."
"How so?" said Shirley.
"People adore you," I said. "You look like Scarlett Johansson. If this were a novel it would be
by a French writer, and he would get sued."
"Please," said Shirley. "I don't look like her. I'm way better looking."
I rolled my eyes.
"Stop rolling your eyes," said Shirley. "That is not attractive behavior -- unless you're having
coitus, then that signals to your partner you've made orgasm."
"Listen," I said. "The bottom line is you're pretty; I'm ugly. People treated us differently

growing up. That's why we don't get along. I see the hard, cynical side of the world, how human beans
really are, while your world is a bed full of thornless roses."
"What are you saying?" said Shirley.
"Shirley," I said, "people treat me like garbage because of how I look. So, I'm sorry, if I'm a
little different, if I'm a little grumpy, but this is psychology 101. It's classic, instrumental conditioning. I
mean I want to change...to be more positive...but change is hard. And, anyway, should I really change
just to please other people?"
"Listen," said Shirley. "First off, psychology is a bullshit science. Second off, if you want more
attention, and to be treated right, maybe you should dress more sexy? You want me to get this bralet for
you? No charge, since I know you're going through hard times."
"You don't get it," I said. "It's not that simple. You can't put toothpaste back into its tube. Also, if
I did dress sexy, you know what people would tell me? They'd be disgusted and tell me to cover up. So,
I can't copy what you do, okay? I have to think differently to attract people. I have to sell them on my
personality. That's something you don't know how to do, I'm sure."
Shirley clenched her teeth together and gave me the death stare. She was holding her breath. I
could see her face starting to turn read.
"You might think I'm bad," said Shirley, "but I'm a better person than you give me credit for.
Not an hour ago, I was thinking about volunteering at the local animal shelter."
"Really?" I said. "That's swell of you. So, when will you be going to the animal shelter?"
"What?" said Shirley. "I'm not actually going. I don't wanna mop up a pool of cat piss. I was just
thinking about it. And that's more than most people do. Some don't even have that thought in their
mind. I should feel proud of myself."
I sighed. "I'll talk to you later."
I turned around to walk away, but Shirley followed behind.
"Wait, where you going?" said Shirley. "Don'y you wannt talk some more? I like talking to
you."
"I have to find Duncan," I said.
We left the leggings shop.
"Oh," said Shirley. "Isn't that the man you're in love with?"
I paused.
"I'm not in love with him," I said.
We continued walking through the mall.
"Alright, you're not in love with him," said Shirley. "But I know you have some sorta feelings
with him. Why don't you let me help you out? I do know how to bag a man -- and don't say it's because
I'm pretty. I'm a total dyke. You oughta gimme some credit."
"I wasn't going to say that," I said.
"You were thinking it," said Shirley.
"Anyway," I said. "I'm not going to pursue Duncan. He's a married man. It wouldn't be right,
even if he is in a crumbling relationship with Gina."
"If that's the case," said Shirley, "then you should prepare. Start laying down the bricks. A smart
lady always plans. Like when you don't break up with your boyfriend, until you know you have another
waiting. That sorta thing."
"You make women sound so conniving," I said.
"They are conniving," said Shirley. "Who do you think invented the NSA? Women!"
"How specious," I said.
"See, that's another problem you have," said Shirley. "You use big words ordinary people don't
understand. Dumb yourself down a little. You'll get along with others much better."
"Mm, I'd rather not," I said.
"Oh, and giggle at random when talking to guys," said Shirley. "It'll make you look fun and

spontaneous."
"Shirley," I said, "I don't need advice on how to socialize. I'm not autistic."
"Fine," said Shirley, "but we can at least make you look better. I'm sure Duncan would
appreciate it."
"Shirley," I said, "I don't --"
Shirley stepped in front of me, and grabbed my face. She looked at it carefully, inspecting it to
see what could be done about it.
"What are you doing?" I said.
"This can be fixed," said Shirley. "Mhm, I think I can bring you up to at least a six"
"Six out of what?" I said.
"Ten," said Shirley.
"You don't think I'm a six out of ten already?" I said. "What am I exactly?"
"Never mind the details," said Shirley. "Let me work my magic."
"Wait," I said.
But Shirley retrieved some makeup from her hang bag, and started smearing my face.
"Okay," she said, after powdering my cheek one last time, "I think we're done."
Shirley took me over to a mirror that was affixed to a column.
"So," she said, "what do you think?"
I stared at the blue plastered onto my eyelids, the powder on my cheeks, and the bright red
lipstick I was wearing on my lips.
"What is this?" I said. "I look like a clown. A clown that's a prostitute. A clown prostitute."
"No way," said Shirley. "You look hot. You look like you're ready to go to a club, and dance
your ass off."
"Ugh, I hate clubs," I said. "They're loud, and dark, and stinky, and filled with whores."
"Why do you hate whores so much?" said Shirley.
"I'm Catholic," I said. "It's pretty much a given. I mean our female mascot is a virgin, who got
pregnant."
"Still," said Shirley, "don't act like the term whore, or slut, or skank is negative. It's not. It
means you're attractive. Attractive people have sex. Lots of sex. Plus, in general, whores are very nice
people. They're very friendly. Sometimes too friendly, but friendly nonetheless. Don't be so judgmental,
okay?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I just, I just, I have a lot of issues, and baggage. That's pretty much why I'm
fat, because I eat to forget."
"What? How does eating making you forget?" said Shirley.
"You stuff yourself until you can't stand it," I explained, "then your tummy gets big, and you get
a bellyache, and you go, and lie down, and that makes you forget. It's kind of like when you're giving
birth and the nurse injects pepper into your skin to distract you."
"Oh," " said Shirley, "an intradermal injection of capsaicin."
"A what?" I said.
"Come along," said Shirley, "let's see if you can pick up any guys."
We began walking again.
"I don't wanna pick up any guys," I said.
"You have to learn how to pick up guys," said Shirley. "Otherwise, you'll be alone forever."
"Is that so bad?" I said. "Whatever happened to cherishing solitude?"
"Solitude is for introverted losers," said Shirley. "Now, chin up."
I sighed.
"Stop sighing," said Shirley. "It's unattractive. Smile, giggle, flutter your eyes."
"I'm not in the mood to smile," I said.
"Doesn't matter," said Shirley. "Smile anyway."

I tried smiling. I strained the lower half of my face, trying to curl up my lips. But I couldn't do
it. It came out all wrong.
"That would be a good smile," said Shirley, "if you were a wolf."
"Forget it," I said. "I'll smile when I'm happy."
Shirley sniggered. "Might be a while then, Miss Moody."
...
"So," I said, "where's your husband?"
"Ah, I almost forgot about him," said Shirley. "He's doing some sorta Christmas, Charity work
in Africa."
"Oh, really?" I said. "Didn't think him to be the type."
"Nah, he's just going to dig a couple of ditches, and then write it off as a business expense," said
Shirley. "It's really a safari."
"That's bad," I said, "right?"
"No, a lot of people do it," said Shirley. "They go to 3rd world country, then say they're helping
out, but they're really having a vacation. Assholes."
"That means your husband's an asshole," I said.
"I'm not denying it," said Shirley.
"Shirley, I know why you're doing what doing," I said, "pretending to be hetero for financial
gain, but couldn't you have picked another rich guy? Someone you got along with?"
"Lord no," said Shirley. "If I liked the guy there'd be no way I could rip him off. Hate was
always a part of the plan. You know, you don't rob someone you like."
I nodded in agreement.
"Hmm," said Shirley, turning her head left and right, "it doesn't seem anyone is noticing you."
"Typical," I said.
"Wait a minute, here comes someone now," said Shirley.
A handsome man waved.
"Hi!" he said.
"This is it," Shirley whispered to me. "Be on your best behavior. Alright?"
"So, how're you doing on this very fine day?" said the handsome man.
Thinking what Shirley told me, I forced a smile, then giggled, and fluttered my eyes.
"Just fine," I said. "Yourself?"
"Shut up!" said the handsome man. "I wasn't talking to you! Ew, disgusting! How dare you even
think I'd waste my time on you! You look like a clown prostitute!
Me and Shirley stood there dumbfounded. I looked at her, wondering what to do. Then all of a
sudden Shirley grabbed the handsome man by his shirt, and slammed him into a wall. Her fists pressed
into his neck, so much so he had trouble breathing.
"Listen here," she said with a growl. "No one makes fun of my sister...except for me. You got
it?"
"I, I, got it," said the handsome man.
Shirley shook him violently.
"I got it!" said the handsome man.
"Good," said Shirley.
Then she threw the handsome man down to the floor.
"Merry Christmas," she said.
The handsome man got up and ran away.
"I normally never say this," I said, "but jeez, Louise! What was that?"
"Oh, heh, I used to be a bully in high school," Shirley said with a smirk.
"Don't smirk," I said. "There's nothing to be proud of. I hate bullies."
"Listen," said Shirley. "I used to be a bully in high school."

"Well, I guess it's okay, if you changed," I said.

Shirley laughed. "Now I'm a bully outside of high school! Ha-ha-ha!"
I wasn't sure that was something to laugh at. While I folded my arms, Shirley turned her head
away from me, and squinted.
"Hey," she said, "is that who I think it is?"
I looked the same way she did, then ran ahead to the banister. I leaned over it ever so slightly. In
the distance, on the first floor, I could see Duncan, and Bebe below -- and Gina too. They were
clustered together, talking by the big Christmas tree.
The big Christmas tree was the centerpiece of the mall. It had a shining star atop, that nearly
touched the ceiling, and numerous hand painted decoration, which hung off each branch. But right now,
I wasn't interested in that. I wanted to see what Duncan was up to.
I waved to Duncan, at which point Shirley came beside me.
"Hey, you know," said Shirley, "I can read lips."
"You can?" I said.
"Mhm," said Shirley. "I'll tell you what they're saying. If you want."
"Does this count as eavesdropping?" I said.
"Not for you," said Shirley.
"Okay," I said. "Let's hear what they're saying."
Shirley put her flat hand above her brow and stared out. She watched Duncan and Gina's lips
carefully. From what I could tell they were having a heated conversation. They were making big
gestures with their hands, and frowning every now, and again.
"It's hard to translate," said Shirely. "I don't have binoculars to see. But I think they're having a
Kbler-Ross moment."
"Who?" I said.
"Elisabeth Kbler-Ross," said Shirley. "The Swiss psychiatrist."
"What's that got to do with this?" I said.
"The five stages," said Shirley. "Look at how Gina and Duncan are gesticulating to each other."
"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be looking for," I said.
"See," said Shirley. "It's in stage #1 now."
"Which stage is that?" I asked.
"Denial," said Shirley.
"Denial?" I repeated. "No way."
"Duncan's saying he's not so bad compared to other guys," said Shirley. "Now Gina's telling him
that he's wrong. He's pointing to other people he knows. He's saying something about someone he
works with... Gus or Russ? He's saying Russ visits strip clubs, and is a fiend for pornography. And he
gambles away all his earnings on Mahjong. Also, he never wins."
"Ooooh," I said, "I don't like this Russ character already."
"Listen, this is moving fast," said Shirley. "They're onto stage #2: anger."
"I can see that," I said.
Gina was waving her arms and shaking.
"Gina's mad at Duncan for ignoring her," said Shirley. "She's saying he's egotistical, puts his
needs over other people. He doesn't notice the things she does for him. Duncan is saying he's trying his
best."
"What else?" I said.
"They're on stage #3," said Shirley. "They're bargaining. They're making concessions with each
other. Yeah, Duncan is saying he's going to spend more time with Gina, and focus on her more, and he
won't go out late at night. Gina says she'll be more sensitive, and not say mean stuff about him."
"Did they say anything about me?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," said Shirley. "They're mentioning you."

"Yeah?" I said.
"Gina's saying how she's depressed that Duncan likes you," said Shirley. "So, wait? This is stage
#4?"
"I think," I said.
"Now," said Shirley, "Duncan is denying having any feelings for you. He's saying that Gina is
far more beautiful, and smarter, and better than you."
"Is that so?" I said.
"Wait," said Shirley. "This is the final stage, #5. They are accepting their situation, and agree it
has to be fix. They're going to work on it. Put their relationship as their first priority. They're
complimenting each other. Laughing. Touching. Oh, I think something going to happen."
Then it happened. Duncan and Gina made up. They embraced each other with a passionate kiss
-- and in that instant a great physical pain overcame me, like the wind had been knocked out of my
body. I breathed heavy, short breaths. While my eyes watered, my chest felt squeezed, and my knees
began shaking.
When the two kissed again, I knew exactly what was happening: I was insanely jealous. And as
I continued watching them, I got sicker, and sicker to the point I had the urge to throw up. Time seemed
to slow down, yet my mind went racing. I had all these different thoughts all at once. First, I regretted
rebuffing Duncan's advances, and second, I felt worthless. I felt ugly, and stupid, and horrid, and
unattractive all at once.
I was in emotional agony. I wish had someone to blame, but I knew it was my fault. Maybe if I
were better...maybe if I were different, this would have never happened, and I wouldn't be alone. I
shook, and I trembled. I so badly desired to scream at the top of my lungs, to yell out at the world, to
curse them for not letting me be happy.
But I didn't want to make a scene, so I sucked back my feelings, and held in my tears. Shirley
put her hand on my shoulder. She tried looking me in my eyes. I averted my gaze.
"Are you okay?" she said.
"Of course, I'm okay," I said. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You look a bit upset," said Shirley.
"Well, I'm not upset," I said in a high, frantic tone. "I'm perfectly okay. Hell, I might be better
than perfectly okay. Actually, I'm feeling 110% perfectly okay. That's 10% more than perfectly okay.
Ha! Isn't that something? Isn't it, Shirley?"
Shirley frowned -- as well as I.
"I think I'm gonna go," I said. "Could you do me a favor? Tell Duncan I'm waiting for him by
his car."
"You're going to wait outside?" said Shirley.
"Yeah," I said. "I don't feel like stickin' around."
"It's cold," said Shirley.
"I'm used to the cold," I said. "It's always cold."
"Okay," said Shirley, "but take care of yourself. Don't do anything stupid."
"I won't," I said.
Then I left.
I exited the mall doors, and headed to the parking lot. I paused, and stood still against the blowing
snow. I took in a deep breath. My lungs filled with wind. I looked out and noticed that, other than
myself, no one was out here.
Nevertheless, I kept my eyes open, and searched for Duncan's silver car. While trekking about, I
cursed his name for picking such an idiotic car colour.
"Where the hell is it?" I thought.
I circled round, and round, until, twenty minutes passing, I finally found it. I remembered we

parked beside a shopping cart corral, which is where I decided to wait. But despite the walls around
me, I still found myself freezing. So, I pulled down my sleeves, sunk my neck into my collar, and kept
my legs together for warmth.
For a moment, I wondered whether I would get frost bite, then I forgot all about it when I
started remembering Duncan and Gina. I shivered, thinking what I lost, but comforted myself, telling
myself that at least now I had a Christmas present for Bebe. This plastic doll I held in my arms was the
only thing keeping me from losing what remained of my sanity.
"Where the hell is that Duncan?" I said.
At that very moment, I saw figure walking through the snow. Was it him?
"Duncan," I said. "What took you so long?"
The figure emerged and revealed itself to be a stranger. An average-height man, he was dressed
in all brown, and strangely, wearing shorts. His eyes, and hair were dark, and his teeth yellow. His
pallid skin hardly stood out in snow.
I wondered what he wanted. My answer came to me after he pulled out a very long knife.
"Wallet, keys, and the shopping bag," he said.
"What? Is, is this a robbery?" I said.
"I'm not playing around," said Mr. Robber. "Gimme your shit."
I looked at the crest on Mr. Robber's jacket. The gold color, and letters, I recognized. This guy
worked for the post office.
"Do you work for Union Postal Service?" I said.
"How did you know?" said Mr. Robber.
His voice was as angry as it was surprised.
"Your uniform," I said. "I recognize it. Why would you wear your work uniform?"
"Stop judging me, this was the only clean set of clothes I had," said Mr. Robber.
"I''m not judging you," I said.
"Anyways," said Mr. Robber. "It doesn't matter if you know where I USED to work. I'm going
to still rob you."
"Come on," I said, trying not to crumble to pieces on the spot. "We're so close to Christmas.
Why would you do this to me?"
"I got bills to pay," said Mr. Robber. "They shut off my electricity, and gas, and water."
"Find a homeless shelter," I said.
"I WILL NOT STOOP TO FINDING A HOMELESS SHELTER," said Mr. Robber. "Plus, I got
a family to feed!"
"Please," I said. "Can't you rob someone else? Find someone rich. Take from the rich and give
to the poor...the poor being yourself, I guess."
"This isn't fucking Robin Hood," said Mr. Robber. "I can't just swoop into someone's castle, and
collect bags of gold."
"You never tried," I said.
"Hand over your damned stuff!" said Mr. Robber. He stepped closer to me. "I'm warning you."
I recoiled back, bumping into a shopping cart. The noise made me startled.
"Please," I said, "do I have to give you everything? How about I give you half? That's pretty
good, right?"
"Half ain't gonna help," said Mr. Robber. "The bills are pilin' up."
I nodded, unsure what to do.
"And what gets me is," Mr. Robber continued, "they gave us the sack, without any warning. I
didn't even have time to prepare! Do you know who the CEO of my company is?"
"N-n-no," I said. "But I'm sure he's a nice person."
"Nice?" said Mr. Robber. "He made me lose me job.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said.

"If you're wondering the asshole's named Deepsuk Chopra," said Mr. Robber. "He wanted to
save our company money, so he started replacing us postal workers with community mailboxes. Yeah,
that's right. No more jobs for people doing door to door delivery. You just go to a lifeless metal box,
and collect your parcels, with a key and lock."
"That sounds terrible," I said. "Especially for people with no legs."
"But you know what really gets me?" said Mr. Robber. "The fact that the CEO made these
cutbacks because he said we were losing money. What's that? We only started losing money when he
came in, and you know what else?"
"What else?" I said.
"There are 22 presidents, and vice-presidents working for our company!" said Mr. Robber.
"How about that? He's kicking out all the people who do the real work, and letting his friends have
these cushy, executive positions! 22 presidents and vice-presidents for one company! How crazy is
that? That Deepsuk is infuriating. He's hacking and slashing, telling everyone he's trying to save, yet he
thought it was fine to give himself a 33% raise in his salary!"
"Guys sounds like a real dick," I said.
Mr. Robber waved his knife around as he gestured wildly with his arms.
"I can't stand being unemployed," said Mr. Robber. "But I can't find work. Other than a postal
work, what line of work requires you be experienced in walking long distances, and dropping off boxes
at people's houses? Yeah! None! So, basically, my experience basically means squat. And what gets me
is when I tell people I'm unemployed they act like the time off I get is something good, like I'm on a
vacation. I'm not on vacation, morons. You can't have a vacation without dosh, okay?"
"What's dosh?" I said.
"Shut up!" said Mr. Robber. He came even closer to me. "I'm sick of this game. Gimme your
wallet, your keys, and your goddamn shopping bag."
I shook. I trembled. I felt like throwing up again, but I wouldn't let him have my doll.
"No," I said. "I'm not going to let you bully me around. I don't owe you anything. You can't have
it."
Mr. Robber stopped, stepped back, then turned around, like he was going to leave, but then he
returned to me, and slashed my face with his knife.
"I'm not screwing around!" he said. "Give me the stuff!"
But I couldn't move. I was shaking too bad. I was in shock. Blood was gushing from my face,
and a full stream of hot piss was running down my leg. While I remained petrified Mr. Robber took the
opportunity to steal my wallet, and my doll, and then he ran off without so much as a word.
It was at this point I collapsed, and began sobbing. I was so consumed with grief that I didn't
even bother to wipe the blood and tears off of my cheeks. I simply let them fall to the ground and
freeze.
Chapter 83
Duncan and Gina helped me pack up, which didn't take long, since I had few worldly possessions.
Everything I owned was carried in a single shopping bag. I begged them to let me stay, but I was
informed it was time for me to move out, and start anew. They had priorities of which I was not a part
of. The two had to patch up their relationship, and that meant they only had time, and resources for
each other.
Duncan told me that he arranged everything for me, and he found someone for me to live with,
and I would be getting some financial assistance from the government. He called it financial assistance;
I called it welfare.
In the late afternoon, when the sun was going down, Duncan dropped me off at a strange house
that I suspected was haunted. The jutting edges, the sharp angles, the peeling paint, the dark colours,

foggy windows, creaking noise, and bitter smell all made me extra wary.
I turned my head to ask Duncan a question.
"Hey, Duncan," I said. "Is this really where I'm stay -- ?"
He was already gone. I didn't even catch a glimpse of the back of his car. All that he left behind
was tire marks in the snow.
"Well, Bebe," I said, "I guess it's just you and me again. This might not be to your exact liking,
but I think we're on the right track. Aren't we? Look at us, two intrepid females, trying to make it on
our own. Once again."
I looked at Bebe, who was sound asleep. I pushed her stroller up the walkway, and got to the
door; there we met our hostess.
Chapter 84
Our hostess was a young, dark haired woman named Nicole. She was half British, and half Asian. She
was a thin thing, who was obsessed with fashion, and looks. Her mother was a business tycoon of some
sort that sent her here on account of her addiction to alcohol, boys, and partying.
Nicole, like most young people, did not accept the blame. She said her behavior was because of
her parents' divorce, having to cope with neglect, and not being able to see her father.
I felt sorry for her in that regard; however, she got on my every last nerve. She was the type of
person, who didn't change the toilet paper, despite using most of it. And she didn't wash her dishes, she
didn't do her laundry, she didn't sweep up her crumbs, and she constantly mixed in recyclables with the
garbage. As a self-proclaimed environmentalist, I wanted to bitch slap her with a branch.
But also she was kind of creepy person. Almost every time I went to the bathroom, she would
be outside, standing, staring, waiting for me to leave. She had obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) I
believed, which is why she was always making use of the little girl's room. She had to wash her hands
whenever she touched something she thought to be dirty.
In fact, she had two pen holders on her desk. One was for her so called dirty pens, and one was
for her clean pens. I'm not sure how she made that distinction, but I was careful not to mix them up,
because if I did, she would yell, and get angry at me, telling me I was causing cross contamination.
I thought she was pretty much bonkers, and I half suspected she brought me here to be some
sort of maid or motherly substitute. I didn't allow myself to complain though, since I was on the
welfare. Most welfare-folk (as they called it) weren't very welcomed as tenants in anyone's home.
Lucky me, I was the exception.
Today, while Nicole left to visit one of her boyfriends, I decided to visit the community
mailbox. I put on my jacket and went outside. I walked along the snow and searched for my spot. I
opened it with a key, and saw there was a bevy of parcels inside, lots of envelopes, and a cardboard
box. I took out the envelopes, and tried getting out the cardboard box. Tried, because it was stuck. I put
my freezing fingers on it, and made an effort to yank it out. However, it proved mighty difficult. The
second attempt had me on the ground. I pulled, lost my grip, tripped on ice, and cracked my bottom.
I rolled over, in excruciating pain, holding it where it hurt.
I heard Bebe ask if I was okay, and I replied, "No!"
I groaned, and moaned, and groaned some more. I crawled to a skinny, dead tree, wrapped my
hands around it, and used it for support. I got up, collected the letters, then limped back to our haunted
house: 42 Cheshire Street.
I cursed while going inside. It was a hell of a time lifting Bebe's stroller into the house. But I did
it, and then I got some ice from the freezer, put it in a bag, and placed it on my tush. I wondered
whether that was ironic, using ice to relieve the pain, when it was ice that made me fall. Damn you ice!
I took Bebe down (slowly) into the basement. We went in the furnace room, where there was
our second hand crib, kept together with duct tape, and a small, used mattress. There was also a desk.

This was where I put my letters. But before I could open them Bebe let me know she needed a diaper
change.
"Again?" I said.
Affirmatively, Bebe nodded. I took her to the bathroom, and changed her diapers. Since they
were cloth diapers, I had to put the baby crap into the toilet, and wash up. This whole process took me
about ten minutes. When I was done, I went back down to the furnace room.
The reason we were staying in the furnace room, was because I couldn't afford an upstairs room.
An upstairs room would've cost me $59 extra a month. Seems like a small amount to most, yet I could
not afford it.
Now, I sat down at my 2nd hand fiberboard desk, and opened my letters. I saw that one was
from Duncan and Gina, telling me their relationship was going very well. I threw it in the recycling bin,
and looked at what I had next. There was an identification card from the government, which I was quite
excited about, and a new welfare debit card.
Apparently, they did this so people could be on "welfare with dignity." In truth, I questioned its
merits. It allowed us to spend without restriction. Lots of people were worried about single moms being
irresponsible with their money, buying things they didn't need, like alcohol, lottery tickets, and illegal
drugs. But I ask: What drug dealer accepts debit? Not sure really.
Either way I was pleased. Having a debit card made me feel like I wasn't a leech on society,
though some would argue otherwise. Why, a little earlier, some gingery kid came to the door, asking for
donations. When I told him I had nothing to spare, I was a welfare case, he looked at me with complete
disgust like I kicked his puppy. Then he went on a rant, saying I was a leech on society, and a Jew, and
a welfare a queen. It infuriated me so much that I slammed the door on him. It squashed his nose a
little, I think, which satiated my need for petty revenge.
Still, I was in a frustrated mood. I went upstairs, and snuck into Nicole's room. When she was
out I'd use her computer to pass the time. I got addicted to solitaire, and minesweeper. Right now,
however, I was way too busy for that.
The super information highway beckoned me, and I was on the hunt for another Poopee doll.
With Christmas approaching fast, there wasn't much time. I went on eBay to look around. Everything it
seemed was out of my price range. Every time I made a bid for a Poopee doll someone would come in
at the last second, and outbid me.
My latest auction there was 30 seconds left on the bidding clock, so I got up to take a pee. When
I returned someone won the Poopee doll by paying 25 cents extra -- ! I was infuriated! I was livid! I
was sad.
I was unsuccessful in my endeavors in finding that doll. I wanted it so bad for Bebe. It would
make the perfect Christmas present. Since I don't think I'll be having another baby, a doll could make a
nice companion to play with. After all, it talks, and moves, and does all sorts of stuff. It was the latest
technology.
I sighed, and squashed my face into my hands. Feeling the stress of the holiday season, a lot of
it in my back, I rolled off Nicole's chair, and laid on the floor. I stared up at the ceiling, until everything
started becoming hazy. As I was about to fall asleep Bebe started crying.
I tried to ignore the noise, but my ears would not shut it out. I got up to see what the matter was.
I know I changed her diapers, and I fed her too. What was the problem? Bebe told me she wanted to go
out for a walk with her stroller.
"Now?" I said. "It's freezing and my back hurts."
Bebe kept on crying. So then, having no other option, I bundled her up like a caterpillar, and
took her outside into the winter weather. We went around Cheshire street headed in no particular
direction.
After a couple minutes, I became bored. So, I took a detour down a path I never traveled. It was
quiet. It was dim. And it was winding in such a manner I could never see the end. The path also had

white wooden fencing on either side, and there were trees hanging over in such a way there was an
extended archway made of branches. As I dragged my feet along the ground, and the stroller went
through the snow, I noticed the floor was made of red and yellow cobblestones.
The colours reminded me of summer. They made me long for the roaring sun, the waving grass,
the golden flowers. I closed my eyes, and imagined myself lounging on a white, sandy beach. No
troubles in the world. The only goal: relax.
But soon I reached the end of the winding path, I opened my eyes to reality. There was a
homeless person, trying to push a shopping cart. The front wheels appeared stuck in the snow. I walked
over to her, and she lifted her face. I recognized who she was.
"Zelda?" said Veronica. "Why, what a pleasant surprise."
"Veronica," I said. "What are you doing out here?"
"Am homeless," said Veronica.
"I didn't mean it that way," I said.
"Oh," said Veronica. "Would you mind helping me out here? My shopping cart is stuck in ice. I
dropped my water, and it froze the wheels to the ground. It's like glue now."
I nodded, and helped Veronica free her shopping cart. While she pushed, I pulled, and the
wheels became unstuck.
"Thank you," said Veronica. "I just don't have the strength these days to do this stuff on my
own."
"Not a problem," I said. "Glad to help."
Veronica smiled.
"By the way," I said, "not that I mind, but weren't you on the run from the law?"
"Yep, sure was," said Veronica. "But I got home sick and decided to return. Plus, I realized, they
won't put me in jail."
"Why not?" I said.
"Giving someone, who lives on the street, food, and warmth is not a punishment." said
Veronica. "To them, I'm a waste of time."
I wasn't sure what to say. "Makes sense, I suppose."
"Welpers," said Veronica, "a merry Christmas to you. I'll be returning to my bridge now."
As Veronica tried maneuvering her shopping cart around me, I stepped in front.
"Wait," I said.
"What is it?" said Veronica.
"Won't you join me for dinner?" I said.
Veronica was silent, then grinned. "I'd be delighted."
It weren't much, but Veronica, and I had a hearty meal for dinner. I borrowed some freshly expired
ingredients from Nicole, and prepared mashed potatoes, mushroom soup, salad, and toasted bread, with
margarine.
We sat at the dining table, eating atop newspapers that acted as placemats.
"How's the food?" I said. "Not too plain?"
"Mm, no," said Veronica. "It's nice and hot. I like it."
She dipped her bread into her soup.
"I'm glad you came back," I said. "It's really nice to see you."
"Likewise," said Veronica.
"What've you been up to?" I said.
"Not much," said Veronica. "Same ol', same ol'... You?"
"Well, I think my luck's turning around," I said. "I'm getting all my affairs in order, and, as you
can see, I'm not on the streets."
"Must be real swell to be a millionaire," Veronica teased.

"It may not the best, but this is a stepping stone," I said. "Still it kinda makes me sad."
"Don't be sad," said Veronica. "There are people out there who have it much worse than you,
and I'm not talking about myself."
"Knowing people have it much worse than me doesn't make me feel better," I said.
"How's that?" said Veronica.
"Well," I said, "why would knowing others are suffering improve my mood? That doesn't make
sense."
"I think they call it schadenfreude," said Veronica. "You heard of that? It's when you feel better
because someone else is suffering."
"How morbid," I said.
"Eh, it's human nature," said Veronica. "We're inclined toward benefiting off the suffering of
others. Look at this mushroom soup we're eating. All these mushrooms died so we could eat."
"Yes, I said. "Er, I feel sorry for the little guys too."
"Hey," said Veronica.
"Yes?" I said.
"What do you think of Buddhism?" said Veronica.
"I won't lie to you," I said. "I'm more of a Jesus Christ fan myself."
"Yeah, but do you think Buddhism is bullshit?" said Veronica.
"I dunno," I said. "Maybe all religions are bullshit."
"Probably," said Veronica, "but I'm not going to close my mind off to it just yet. I like some of
their ideas."
"Like what?" I said.
"Oh," said Veronica. "Just the other day while I was passed out in the gutter, I was thinking
about this reincarnation thing. Wouldn't it be wonderful, if we could all come back as something else,
or someone else?"
I sighed. "If only...."
"I think it's possible," said Veronica. "The first law of thermodynamics. Energy cannot be
created or destroyed, only transformed. So, we're made out of energy, right? If we die we'll transform
into something else. Won't happen right away, but eventually, given enough time, it could."
"So," I said, "you're thinking of become a Buddhist or what?"
"Am thinking of killing myself," said Veronica.
I spit out my corn. "W-what?"
"Yeah," said Veronica. "I know they say committing suicide is selfish. But what's more selfish?
Committing suicide to end your own, personal anguish, or forcing someone to stay alive and suffer, so
you can live in your perfect, happy, little bubble? Hm?"
"Still," I said. "Shouldn't you --"
"No!" Veronica interrupted. "I'm sick and tired of being myself. 'Myself' is worth no more than a
fresh, steaming, dog turd. So, why not be someone else? Something else? If I commit suicide, I can
reincarnate, and come back as a new person. Maybe in my next life I'll be cute, and pretty?"
"You look fine already," I said. "You don't need to kill yourself. It's silly. I don't believe in
reincarnation, anyway."
"What do you believe in?" said Veronica.
"Heaven, I suppose," I said.
"Then between Heaven, and reincarnation," said Veronica, "there's no way I could lose. Either
option is cool with me."
"Yeah, but what if you return as a worm?" I said.
"What you come back as depends on how you've treated others," said Veronica, "and I've been a
very good person. If you may recall, I'm a vegetarian. Also, I donate to charity."
"You donate to charity?" I said.

"Of course," said Veronica. "Why not?"

"Well," I said, "I didn't think, errr, you had anything to give."
"Heh, it's not much," said Veronica, "but I spares what I can. Because whenever you think you
got it bad, someone out there has it way worse."
"How much worse can it get?" I said.
"I could be you," said Veronica.
"Oh," I said.
Veronica laughed, "Hee-hee! I'm just pulling your leg, Zelda!"
"Umm, yes, very funny," I said.
Veronica spooned some mash potatoes in her mouth, and talked while chewing.
"So," she said, nonchalantly, "I'll be killing myself on New Year's Eve by the ol' bridge. Will
you be there to send me off?"
"What? Are you being serious about this?" I said.
Veronica nodded.
"Please," I said. "Don't kill yourself."
Veronica pointed with her spoon. "I'm going to do it whether you like it or not. You may as well
make my Earthly departure pleasant."
I didn't know how to respond. How do you respond to someone who is in such suffering that
they want to die?
"And how are you going to kill yourself?" I said. "Just out of curiosity."
Veronica put a finger against her nose as if to say "shhhh."
"I'm keeping that a surprise," said Veronica. "You'll find out when you get there."
"Veronica," I said. "I really do not approve of this."
"I told you," said Veronica. "You can't stop me. If you stop me on the day of, I'll just reschedule
for later. So, make my Earthly departure pleasant."
"I'm not going to be a part of this," I said.
"Pleeeeease," Veronica begged. "I promise it'll be fun. They will be cake, and juice, and
snacks."
"How can something like this be fun?!" I said. "Are you out of your mind?"
"I'm going to splurge, and buy fireworks," said Veronica. "It'll be my first time playing with
fireworks. They've always fascinated me."
"Why's that?" I said.
"I think it's like a metaphor about life," said Veronica. "At first you're like dust, and then a fire
lights you up inside, and you take off, and dazzle the world."
"Yeah," I said, "but that's the end of you, isn't it? You've been extinguished."
"No!" said Veronica. "I'll live on in the memories of others."
"What others?" I said.
Veronica stared at me as if lost. "You?"
I was about to reply when at the door there was a knock.
"Excuse me a moment," I said. "I'll be back."
I got up from the dining table, and went to answer the door. It was Nicole.
"Nicole," I said. "You're back early."
Nicole pushed past me. I noticed she had marker writing on her body, and she smelled of
alcohol, and hairspray. She had a scowl on her face. I closed the door to keep out the chill.
"Partying hard?" I said.
"Ah, be quiet," said Nicole. "What do you know about parties? You never get invited to parties.
You're not popular like me."
Nicole went into the kitchen and started freaking out.
"What is this?!" she said, pointing to the bananas. "Why are these here?!"

"Umm, the bananas?" I said. "They're for dessert, but you're welcome to have them, if you
want. I got them on sale, because they're bruised."
"You plebeian," said Nicole. "I'm allergic to bananas!"
"I didn't know people could be allergic to bananas," I said.
Nicole took the bananas and threw them at me.
"These can kill me!" she yelled. "Don't you have any consideration for me at all?!"
Just then Veronica came into the kitchen to join us.
"Hey," said Veronica, "you leave my sister alone."
Nicole looked utterly confused.
"Holy crap," she said. "I'm so drunk I'm seeing two of you."
"You're not seeing two of me," I said. "That's a friend of mine."
"Yes," said Veronica, "and you shouldn't throw food. It's wasteful."
"Yeah, yeah," said Nicole. "I know. Think of the starving children in Africa."
"And the starving people around you," said Veronica.
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Nicole.
"Ah, my friend is homeless," I said. "
Nicole flipped out. "EWWWWWWWW! GERMS! GERMS! What did you touch?! I'll have to
hire someone to have this whole place scrubbed from top to bottom!"
"Relax," I said. "She's perfectly clean."
"Actually," said Veronica, "I haven't bathed in three days."
"What!" said Nicole. "That's it you have to leave, you dirty bum!"
Veronica started touching everything around her.
"Ew, stop, stop, stop!" said Nicole. "Get out of my house!"
"No need to exclaim so much," said Veronica. "I'll gladly go, if you give me a little push."
Veronica stepped in front of Nicole, who was going to have a mental spasm.
"Zelda," said Nicole, "get this filthy mongrel out of here, or I am going to kick you out!"
"Veronica, you better leave," I said. "I can't risk getting tossed out."
Veronica sighed. "I was only trying to have a little fun."
"I know," I said.
I walked Veronica to the door, while Nicole stayed behind fuming. Her arms were crossed.
"You shouldn't have done that," I said to Veronica in a low voice. "I'm definitely in trouble
now."
"So, you'll get kicked out?" said Veronica. "It's no big deal. You can always stay with me under
the bridge."
"You said you're going to kill yourself!" I said.
"Maybe if I had company, I'd be in a different mood," said Veronica.
"I have a child to take care of," I said. "We aren't going to live under a bridge like two trolls."
"I'm a troll is it?" said Veronica.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Didn't mean it that way."
"No, I understand," said Veronica. "Who would want to be like me -- an outcast?"
"You're not an outcast," i said.
"Hurry up and get out of here," said Nicole, "before I call the cops!"
Veronica gave me a quick hug.
"Remember to meet me on New Year's Eve," she whispered, then she turned around, and left
before I could think of proper reply.
I whispered back, "I won't forget."
Chapter 85

On account of my exhaustion, I rode the wrong bus. I took the 36B when I should have taken the 36A. I
was dropped off, short of my place. I didn't have money to take an extra ride. So, I found myself half a
mile away from 42 Cheshire. Because of the snow, and ice, and my short, stumpy legs, it took me over
half an hour to get there, but get there, I did.
I took a shower, changed out of my cheap suit, and, after tending to Bebe, sat down on the sofa
to veg out with her. I was tired from filling out various paperwork, and job hunting like my life
depended on it. In the back front of my mind, I did not think anyone would hire me. I was a slob, with
no skills, no real work background, and no charisma, or jubilant energy.
The whole process was like a punch in the skull. They asked me all sorts of stupid questions.
They asked me why I wanted to sell donuts. Why would I want to sell donuts?Nobody wants to sell
donuts!I don't wants sell donuts -- I need the money, idiot! Of course that's not what I told them. I told
them I had a passion for donuts and sugary confections. They may have believed me too, seeing as I
am quite overweight.
I sighed and slumped into the sofa. I turned my head to Bebe, who I noticed was looking out the
window. She was reaching out for a red bird sitting on a fence. It had an orange beak, a pointed head,
and black around its face. I believed it was a cardinal.
"I want [sic] see closer," said Bebe.
"Not now," I said. "Mommy's tired."
"Closer!" said Bebe.
"Alright!" I said. "I'll take you closer."
I carried Bebe over to the window, so she could see the cardinal. As the cardinal sat another
cardinal, a female, perched beside. The two touched their beaks together, and flew off into the sky.
Seeing them disappear made me long for companionship.
I took Bebe upstairs, and knocked on Nicole's bedroom door.
"What!?" she said.
"Nicole?" I said. "I thought we could chat."
"I don't want to chat," said Nicole. "I'm busy."
"Can I come in?" I said.
I heard footsteps. Nicole opened the door, glaring at me.
"Hi," I said. "Thought maybe we could hang out?"
"I'm busy," said Nicole.
"Doing what?" I said.
"Social networking," said Nicole.
"Why?" I said.
"D-uh," said Nicole. "I need to boost my profile. I need to maintain an image... Look a certain
way."
"Why?" I said.
"You don't understand how the world works, do you?" said Nicole. "I have to make myself
attractive."
She showed me her cellphone.
"Check it out," said Nicole. "I'm telling people I'm poor."
"Why?" I said.
"D-uh," said Nicole, "so people like me. If I say I'm poor people will like me. And, you know, I
am poor. It's not a lie."
"I don't think actual poor people tweet about being poor on their smart phones," I said. "Also, I
still don't get the hullabaloo over your so called online image. What's the big deal?"
"Okay, listen," said Nicole. "What does hullabaloo mean? Anyways, when you finish meeting
someone -- what's the first thing you do?"
I tried answering.

"Yeah," said Nicole, "you look 'em up on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, AsianAvenue, whatever
freaking website you can get your hands on. That tells you who they are. If I'm not careful, I'll meet
Mr. Right, and he'll turn me down, because I made some blunder of a comment on YouTube. I don't
want the wrong information following me."
"So, what if you make a mistake?" I said. "It's there forever?"
"Sort of," said Nicole, "but you can fix that."
"How?" I said.
"Drown it out with even more information," Nicole explained. "Let's say you called someone a
wetback online, and then you get interested in some Spanish boy. Okay, you don't want him seeing that,
right? So, you gotta go on all your accounts, delete whatever you can that's offensive, and whatever you
can't catch, you drown it out with a deluge of info. Make it get lost."
"They won't look back at all that stuff?" I asked
"If there's enough information, no," said Nicole. "People are lazy. They're not going to sift
through your entire history. Up to a point. Just make sure you have the right quantity."
"What's the right quantity?" I said.
"I don't know," said Nicole. "It's kind of instinct for me. I keep going until I'm tired. But keep in
mind you want to space it out. This isn't something you do in one day. You do it over a period of time.
If you do it all in one day they'll notice the dates are the same, and know you're up to something."
"And this makes you more attractive?" I said.
"Yes, if you do it right," said Nicole.
"Ah, don't waste your whole life online," I said. "There are better things to do in the real world."
"First off," said Nicole, "the internet is a part of the real world. Second, spending time on it is
not a waste."
"In what way?" I said.
"Listen," said Nicole. "I know you're old as mother tree, so you don't understand all this
electronic wizardy, but the internet can really improve your life."
"Well, a little," I said, "maybe, but not in the amount you're spending on it."
"Listen," said Nicole.
"Okay," I said.
"Like, like, like," Nicole was thinking, "say you wanna meet a guy?"
Was that a question? You ever meet those people who constantly make regular sentences sound
like questions? I hate that. Have some confidence in your tone. You don't always have to end the words
"yes" and "no" with a question mark. Why am I ranting about this?
"Go on," I said.
"Like, say you wanna meet a guy," said Nicole. "You can go online, onto a website, and find
Mr. Right. They call it online dating, and what's great about it is you can meet them from anywhere on
Earth. You can have several boyfriends at once, if you want. Yeah, like, one in Canada, one in America,
one in Sweden, one in China, one in Mexico, et cetera."
"I don't care to two time," I said. "Or is that five timing? Is there such a thing?"
"Listen," said Nicole, "I'll show you. Come into my room."
Carrying Bebe, I walked into Nicole's room. I pretended that I hadn't been here before.
"Oh, wow," I said, "this is a really nice place...that I'm seeing for the first time."
"Sit," said Nicole.
I sat down at Nicole's desk. Bebe in arms, Nicole opened a web browser, and got us onto some
dating websites. I couldn't recall the names, but one had the word fish in it, and one had the word cupid
in it.
"Look here," said Nicole. "Enter your information."
"Alright," I said, doing as told. "Now what?"
"We'll work on one website first," said Nicole, "and then copy and paste it to the others."

"I don't want to sign up for this," I said.

"I know you're lonely," said Nicole. "I've been watching you."
"You've been watching me?" I said.
"Come on," said Nicole, pointing to her computer monitor. "I know you need a man in your life.
Fill in this stuff."
"I do not need a man in my life," I said. "I'm fine on my own. My life is not defined by the
relationships I'm in. I'm my own person. And, anyway, I don't care about men. Who wants men? They
just use you, and abuse you. They boss you around, tell you what to do... Do this, do that... 'Where are
you doing?' 'What do you think you're doing?' I like being single, okay, Nicole? Ain't nothing wrong
with being single."
Nicole huffed. "I know you're only saying that to protect your ego. You're saying you don't need
a man 'cause you don't want to get rejected. You don't want to get hurt again. Trust me. Put yourself out
there, and you'll find someone. He'll be different. You don't have to pretend you enjoy being alone."
"I call it solidarity," I said.
"Same difference," said Nicole. "NOW, fill thsi out."
I looked at the dating website. There was a blank, white box staring me in the face, telling me to
describe myself -- nay, to sell myself.
"This feels so unnatural," I said. "So forced. I want my romance to be organic."
"Unnatural doesn't mean bad," said Nicole. "Lots of stuff is unnatural -- but it's good. Cars for
example."
"They're polluting our planet," I said.
"You know what I mean," said Nicole. "Don't be smart."
What's wrong with being smart?
"Alright," I said. "Let's see what I can do here."
I laid my fingers on the keyboard, and began typing about myself. Right away Nicole took
control, and started deleting what I wrote down.
"Stop, stop!" said Nicole. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Writing about myself," I said.
"Is this stuff all true?" said Nicole.
"Yeah," I said.
"No," said Nicole. "If you want to find someone, you have to bend the truth a little."
"Lying?" I said.
"Don't say lie," said Nicole. "It sounds so awful."
"It is lying," I said. "And I'm very uncomfortable with lying. I mean, okay, let's say it does get
me a date. What's the point? What's the point of lying? You'll only meet someone you don't like. Your
dishonesty will catch up with you."
"You don't understand relationships," said Nicole. "You hafta lie. Get your foot in the door, first,
and then when he falls in love, you can drop all the bombs you want on him. Go ahead. Tell him about
those thirty-seven guys. Sure, okay he'll be sick to his stomach, but his love will make him forgive you.
But there is an exception, which is murder. If you murdered someone don't tell a soul. Take that to the
grave. Do not let him know that you got drunk, knocked an old lady over with a golfing cart, and
watched her drown, because you were too much of an idiot to locate the life saver."
"Right," I said, "but I don't have anything like that which I need to hide."
Nicole commandeered her computer, and started editing for me.
"Here, here, and here," she said, "We have to change this. See where it says you have a kid? Do
not say you have a kid. Big mistake. That scares guys off. Also, where it says you got out of a
relationship? No! That's gone! Do not mention the past. Here, watch. See, put it in here that you're a
virgin. Oooh, guys like that. Who doesn't want to be the first man on the moon, if you know what I
mean. I tell all the guys I meet that I'm a virgin. I tell them they're my first kiss. That makes them feel

special."
"I don't know about all this," I said. I pointed to the screen. "Why are you deleting that?"
"Do not say you're a writer," said Nicole. "Saying you're a writer is like saying you're a boring,
head in the clouds, self-obsessed, antisocial, pseudo-intellectual loser. If you're going to call yourself a
writer you may as well call yourself a stinky twat."
"Fine, what should I put as a career?" I said. "Unemployed?"
"Say you're a homemaker," said Nicole.
"A housewife!" I said. "I'm not going to put that. That's worse than being a writer."
"No, it's not," said Nicole. "Men love women that are homemakers. It's like having a free
slave.... Well, technically, most slaves are free, right? It's not as if you have to pay for them. You just go
to Africa and kidnap them."
"You know," I said, "this isn't helping to change my mind."
Nicole started writing my profile.
"What's this?" I said, looking at the computer. "Fuck cancer?"
"Yeah, let people know you don't like cancer, and you want it to bugger off," said Nicole.
"People will applaud you for being so empathetic toward cancer patients."
"But what does it do, if I say that?" I said. "What's the point? Cancer isn't a person. I can't tell it
do anything."
"Argh, you're so frustrating," said Nicole. "Always asking questions."
"Am I?" I said.
"Bollocks to this," said Nicole. "I'm sending it off."
She clicked a button finalizing my dating profile.
"Wait," I said, "what about pictures? And what does bollocks mean?"
"Damn, I forgot about that," said Nicole. "We need to take pictures. Go downstairs, and change
into some new clothes. I'll keep an eye on the baby, while I look for my camera."
"What should I wear?" I said. "I don't have much."
"I dunno," said Nicole. "Anything you think makes you look good."
"Okay," I said.
While Nicole went into her closet to retrieve her camera, I gently placed Bebe down on the
nearby bed, and left. I returned in a new set of clothes. Nothing fancy: blue jeans and a comfortable,
orange t-shirt with buttons.
Nicole turned to me with her camera ready to go.
"What is that?" she said.
"What's what?" I said.
"Why are you wearing that hideous ensemble?" said Nicole.
"This is the best stuff I have," I said.
"Ah, never mind," said Nicole. "Let's do this." She gestured to me. "Alright, stand by the wall."
I stood by the wall. Nicole pointed the camera my way.
"Look sexy for me," she said.
I gave her a smile.
"What! No," said Nicole. "Pout your lips, like a duck. Button down your shirt. Show off your
boobs. Hike up those pants. Gimme some leg. Let's see that arse of yours, love."
I declined her offer.
"I'd rather not," I said.
"How are you going to get a man?" said Nicole. "Come on! I want more Madonna, and less
Margaret Thatcher here!"
"I'm not going to make myself out to be a dumb blonde girl, who's crazy for guys," I said. "I
like the way I'm dressed. I feel comfortable."
"Rule of fashion," said Nicole. "If you feel comfortable you don't look good."

"I don't care about the rules," I said. "I'm a, er, a, er, a -- rebel! Yeah, that's it. I'm a rebel. Except
in my case I have a cause."
Nicole didn't get my 1950s movie reference. She rolled her eyes, then proceed to take pictures
of me. When we were done we went back to her computer to look at them. I had to admit, I wasn't very
photogenic.
"I look like a hippo," I said.
"Ah, don't worry about that," said Nicole. "That can all be fixed with a little bit of computer
magic."
Nicole then opened something called "Photoshop," and she took my photos, and started
modifying them by clicking various tools, and running them across my face, and body. By the end of it
I lost 20 pounds, lost the scar on my face, and had skin as fair as snow. I pretty much looked like a
movie star: fake but beautiful.
"How's that?" said Nicole.
She started uploading the photos.
"I don't look like me," I said.
"It is you," said Nicole. "But enhanced."
"What will they say when they find out I don't look like my photos?" I asked.
"Trust me," said Nicole. "They won't turn you away. It's called sunk cost fallacy. In for a penny,
in for a pound, that sorta thing."
"So, do you get lots of dates this way?" I said.
"Sure do," said Nicole. "They're always messaging me. I feel bad for turning them down."
"Really?" I said.
Nicole laughed. "WAh-ha-ha-ha! No! I don't feel bad. Why should I feel bad? You should read
my inbox. The drivel they send me is ridiculous. I have no guilt for turning down a dickhead. Look, let
me show you."
Nicole logged onto her dating website account, and accessed her inbox.
"Wow," I said. "200 unread messages. You really let these accumulate."
"This is only from today," said Nicole.
"Wow," I said. "Today."
Nicole then opened a message at random.
This is what it said:
hey hunny .. how r u doin???? ur beautuful. u liek guyz wit big diks? i got 9 inchs on me
"That's just one message," I said.
Nicole opened another message. And another. And another. And another. They were all in the
same tone. It was dumb guys, who couldn't spell, obviously, looking to get laid.
"Well, darn," I said. "I don't wanna do this anymore. I'd rather die alone."
"Come on, don't be discouraged," said Nicole. "Dating is like anything else. You gotta sift
through the crap to find the gold. I'll eventually find someone worth my time, and so will you."
"No, no," I said. "Delete me."
"I did all this work, and I took my time to help you," said Nicole. "I will not delete you."
"Fine," I said. "But how can I check my messages? I don't have my own computer."
"I have an old laptop computer," said Nicole. "You can borrow it."
"How old is it?" I said.
"Pretty old," said Nicole. "I think I had it for like two years. You don't mind, do you?"
"No," I said, "not at all."
Chapter 86

I got addicted to these dating websites. I kept tweaking my profile, trying to make myself more
attractive. Yet no matter what I did no one was keen on messaging me, or asking me out for a date. I
wondered what I was doing wrong. Surely, I thought, someone out of these hundreds of thousands of
men would take interest...?
I couldn't stand it any longer. I decided to be proactive. (Is that a real word?) I started messaging
men, trying desperately to get their attention. I must've contacted at least couple hundred people. I
didn't say much though, just enough, I believed, to stir up a conversation.
I waited by my laptop computer for a single reply, but found myself in a message-less abyss. I
was told there were plenty of fish in the sea, but I wasn't catching any fish. Where did all the fish go?
Was the world over-fishing, or was I just a crappy fisherman?
Finally, in the middle of the night, after waiting far too long, a little box popped in the corner of
my computer screen. I clicked it. It was someone wanting to chat. I accepted the request, and we started
talking. He told me I was attractive.
Chapter 87
I was as excited as I was nervous. The next day I had a date. Me! A date! But Nicole urged me to not to
through with it. I questioned her pessimism. She said it would end no good because he was not willing
to pick me up in a car.
"He's not not willing," I explained. "He said his car was in the shop for repairs. You know how
long these things take. Slow as molasses."
"Some excuse," said Nicole. "I bet he's just cheap. Doesn't have his own car? What man doesn't
have a car?""
"You're one to speak," I said. "You got your car for free from your mom."
"Free? I had to work for that," said Nicole. "Years and years of sucking up."
"Okay," I said, "but I'm still going out on this date. Not that I'm really keen on getting in a
relationship, but, you know, free food at a restaurant. I haven't had a fresh, hot meal in a very long time.
It should be a treat."
"Hmph," Nicole went. "You think he's going to pay for your meal? Bet he's gonna split the bill
like a Swede."
"If we split the bill that's fine," I said. "As long as he's nice. I'm not opposed to it. I just have a
preference is all."
"I still say you should wait until you snag a better guy," said Nicole.
I started getting wary of Nicole's remarks, and a bit suspicious.
"You really don't wanna babysit for me, do you?" I said.
"I had a pet hamster and it died," said Nicole. "What makes you think I'll be anymore
responsible with your kid, hm?"
"This isn't a hamster," I said. "You two are of the same species. You both have the same basic
needs. Just make sure she gets her milk, burp her, put her to bed in her crib, and, if necessary, change
her diapers."
"Oh God!" said Nicole. "Yuck! I have to change her diapers!?"
"Maybe," I said. "I'll try to get home as early as possible."
"Please do," said Nicole.
I put on my new coat that Nicole lent me. It was long, black, and had fur around the collar. She
also let me borrow her purse.
"How do I look?" I said.
"Stunning," said Nicole. "Then again it is my stuff, so of course it looks stunning. That coat
could make a a hooker look like a senator."

"You have good taste," I said. "You could be a fashion designer."

"You think?" said Nicole.
"Yeah, why not?" I said.
"Hrm, thanks," said Nicole. "My mom thinks I'm nothing but a tart."
"I like tarts," I said. "They're quite delicious."
"I suppose they are," said Nicole.
I preened my hair in my borrowed pocket mirror.
"By the way," I said. "Thanks for helping me out with everything. I really do appreciate it."
"Ah, no problem," said Nicole. "Always glad to help out a friend of a friend."
I looked up at the clock on the wall.
"Alright," I said, "I guess I best be goin' now."
I hugged Nicole.
"Take care," I said.
"Oh, wait," said Nicole. "Forgot to tell you. A box came for you in the mail. Lucky too, most
parcels don't get delivered until after the holiday season."
I stopped and backtracked.
"Where is it?" I said.
"Left it on the dining," said Nicole. "Let me know what's in the box, will you?"
"It's a toy," I said. "For Bebe."
I ran into the dining room and saw a large cardboard box sitting on the cherry wood table.
"It's here already," I said. "I can't believe it. That eBay auction was legit."
Elated, I grabbed a pair of scissors, and tore through the parcel. I turned it upside down, and
shook. Out dropped a piece of paper, and another box, which I came to find out contained rocks. I
double checked everything to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. I was supposed to received a Poopee
Doll.
"Where is it?" I said. "Where's my Poopee doll?"
I felt ill to my stomach. At this time Nicole entered the dining room.
"What's the matter?" she said.
"My doll," I said, frantically, "my doll, my doll. They were supposed to gimme a doll."
Nicole picked up the paper.
"Here it is," she said, showing me the paper that had a picture of a Poopee Doll.
"I did not order a paper doll!" I exclaimed. "I won an auction off eBay, and it was for a Poopee
Doll. You know what that is?"
"Sure do," Said Nicole. "I been seeing the ads on the tele' just about every ten seconds."
"Why did my package come with rocks, and a picture of what I bought?" I said.
Nicole's face turned.
"Oh, lord of mercy," she said. "You've been scammed."
"No way, man!" I said. "No way, man!"
Nicole took out her iPad.
"Gimme your login info," she said. "I'm gonna checks what you bought."
I gave Nicole my login info for eBay, and she checked out the listing for my Poopee doll.
"Ah, here's your problem," said Nicole. "The listing says this is for a PICTURE of a Poopee
doll, not an actual doll."
I grabbed the iPad out of Nicole's hands, and looked myself. It was true. It was for a picture
only.
"This can't be," I said.
"Look, that's what happens online," said Nicole. "People trick other people for their own
benefit. Nothing you can do about it now. Take it as a lesson, and next time don't get too excited. Read
what you're buying."

I started huffing and swearing.

"Easy," said Nicole. "You have a date to go to. Don't wanna be late, do you?"
"I'm too angry to go on a stupid date," I said. "I'll call him and tell him it's off."
Nicole looked into my eyes.
"Take my advice," said Nicole. "Don't burn your bridges, mate. Something bad happens to you,
put your chin up, and don't let it ruin what else good you got. There's no point calling off this date you
been looking forward to."
"But my money," I said.
"There will always be more money in the future," said Nicole. "Don't worry about it."
"How can I not worry about it?" I said in an irate tone. "I'm living on government cheese."
"Count yourself lucky you're getting help," said Nicole. "Not everyone gets help. Seldom will
you meet a soul as generous as myself."
I sighed. "Thanks."
"Please," said Nicole. "Go out on your date. Don't stay home and sulk. Crying never gets
anything done."
I lifted my head. "Fine. I'll go out on my date."
"Attagirl," said Nicole. "But before you go let me give you one last thing. Spread out your
arms."
"Why?" I said.
"Do it," said Nicole.
I spread my arms out as if on a crucifix, then Nicole spritzed my armpits with perfume. I
coughed at the smell.
"God," I said, coughing, "it's disgusting."
"This is very expensive perfume," said Nicole. "Trust me. It's well worth the cost. It'll drive the
men crazy. At least as crazy as you think the world's gone when you watch a perfume commercial."
I breathed through my mouth. "Are you sure men like it when women smell like whale
excrement?"
"Huh, what are you talking about?" said Nicole.
"Never mind," I said.
Nicole slapped me on the back of my shoulder. "Get going, Zelda. You'll be late for your date."
I started walking, while Nicole followed behind to see me out. When wee got to the front door
again, I opened it, and set a foot outside on the porch. The floor tiles were freezing cold.
"You look ravishing," said Nicole.
"Thanks," I said.
"I know you're gonna sweep this guy off his feet, and totally get laid," said Nicole.
"I'm not that type of woman," I said.
"Sure, you aren't," said Nicole.
"I'm really not," I said.
"It's okay," said Nicole. "I'm not judging you. A woman needs to feel fulfilled every once in a
while. Emphasis on the filled part."
"Goodbye," I said. "I have a bus to catch."
I began walking away. Nicole ran after me, barefooted.
"Wait, wait," she said.
"What is it?" I said.
Nicole put her cellphone in my purse (well, her purse actually).
"Take this," she said. "I unlocked it, and everything. Just make sure not to browse my photos."
"Do I really need this?" I said. "Also, if you're so concerned about my safety, why don't you
drive me to the restaurant?"
"Hellooooo," said Nicole, "are you forgetting all the important errands I have to run as lady of

the house? I need a set of wheels."

"Sure," I said.
"Look, if your date goes sour," said Nicole, "gimme a call, and I'll pick you up, alright?"
"What makes you think it'll go sour?" I said.
Nicole shrugged.
"Anyway," she said, "don't lose my cellphone. I'm not really concerned about the cost, but it's a
pain in the ass to replace, and if I have a question about the baby I can call you, and ask. Don't worry. I
promise I'll only ring you up, if it's super-duper important."
"Okay," I said. "I think I got it."
Suddenly, Nicole jumped. "Crap! I left the baby alone!"
She ran back toward the house.
"See yah later!" she said.
She waved goodbye. I waved goodbye back.
"Yeah, see yah later," I said.
I uttered under my breath, "Please don't kill my baby."
Chapter 88
I waited in the bus shelter till fingers started going numb. I wondered why the bus was running so late,
and then someone in their car stopped by, and pulled up to the kerb. He rolled down his window.
"Oy, miss," said the big bearded man. "Whatcha doin' in that bus stop thar?"
"What's it look like?" I said. "I'm waiting for the bus."
"Ain't no buses runnin'," said the big bearded man. "They're off on strike."
"You're joking," I said.
"Wouldn't joke 'bout that," said the big bearded man. "But if you want I can give yeh a ride to
wherever you're goin'."
"Rule number one of street smarts," I said. "Don't take rides from strangers."
"Yeh don't recognize me?" said the big bearded man.
"Why, are you supposed to be famous?" I said.
"No, but if yeh've been to church lately, yeh'd know am the priest thar," said the big bearded
man. He unzipped his jacket, showing his black and white collar, and crucifix. "I's jus' headed down to
the shelter to make some donations. Yeh see, there's boxes of foodstuffs in the back."
I glanced into the back of the big bearded man's car. There were in fact boxes of food. I spotted
some packets of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, or as it's commonly known: mac and cheese.
"I dunno," I said. "What if you murder me?"
"Do I looks like a murderer?" said the big bearded man.
"Why, yes," I said.
"Alright, ferget it," said the big bearded man. "But bless yer frightened soul, anyhow."
As the big bearded man was about to drive off, I shouted out to him, "Wait!"
He stopped his car.
"I'd like a ride, please," I said.
"Ah, what changed yer mind?" said the big bearded man.
"Taking a leap of faith," I said.
The big bearded man chuckled. He opened the door, and let me in.
In undue time we reached the restaurant, where I was supposed to meet my date. Taking into account
my wait at the bus stop, and the drive, I was one hour late. I didn't think anyone would be waiting for
me inside "The Rizzio."
I said thanks and goodbye to the big bearded man. Told him I could get myself home by giving

my friend (Nicole) a call. When he left I went on ahead, then I found myself in a quaint, yet well
decorated eatery. The tables were all round, with white cloth, and the carpeting was red. There was dark
wood paneling on the walls. The lights were hung by lines, so as to hover above their diners.
A lady in a vest said a man was waiting for me, and she led me to a booth at the end of the
restaurant. There was my date, still waiting for me, passing the time by reading a book. He put it down
and looked up at me with a smile that had no hint of bitterness whatsoever. He was far more handsome
than I anticipated. Wearing a gray suit, he had thick, black hair, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a
gleaming smile.
"Zelda?" said Eamon. "Is that really you?"
"Erm, yes, yes, it is," I said.
Eamon stood up and shook my hand.
"Please, have a seat," he said.
I sat down across from Eamon.
"I'm really sorry about being late," I said. "The thing is I had to take the bus, and I only just
found they're on strike. So...."
"It's okay," said Eamon. "It's my fault for not picking you up."
"No, it's not," I said.
"Either way," said Eamon, "I'm just glad you're here."
"So, you don't mind?" I said.
"Eh, I passed the time reading a book," said Eamon. "It's almost like I never waited at all."
"Ooh, you like books?" I said. "What're you reading?"
"He-he, don't make fun of me," said Eamon. "It's Anne of Green Gables."
"I've read that," I said.
"You like it?" said Eamon.
"One of my favorites," I said. "Those Canadians sure know how to write."
At this moment a waitress interjected.
"Sorry," Eamon told her. "We're not yet ready to order. I promise we'll make it quick though."
The waitress left without a word. Eamon and I then picked up our menus.
"Well now," said Eamon. "Everything here looks really good."
My eyes bulged, seeing the prices of the food. It was very, very, very expensive. Nothing I
could afford. What if Nicole was right? What if this Eamon wanted to go Dutch and split the bill? I
couldn't afford a single thing here. I tried gauging Eamon to see what he thought.
"The food is quite expensive here," I said, "don't you think?"
"It's a bit pricey," said Eamon. "But don't worry, my dear, I have you covered."
"You mean you'll be paying for dinner?" I said.
"You seem a little worried," said Eamon.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't mean to ruin the mood. It's just that this food is beyond what I can
afford. You see, I'm sort of on, uhhh, welfare."
Eamon went dead silent. Oh, crap...! What did I say that? Why did I tell him I'm on welfare? He
probably thinks I'm a loser now. He's not saying anything. He's grinning at me.
"I understand," said Eamon. "We all hit on hard times."
Well, this is a surprise. My first non-negative reaction to being on welfare. Most people who
find out about my welfare are either totally apathetic, or think I'm a some sorta blood sucker.
"You really don't mind?" I said.
"No, not at all," said Eamon. "I'm sure you're trying to get back on your feet. Right?"
"Right," I said.
"So, what sort of job are you looking to get?" said Eamon. "Maybe I could help you out?"
"Actually," I said. I intentionally disobeyed Nicole's advice. "I'm trying to become a writer."
Eamon grinned at me again, seeming very amused.

"A writer, huh?" said Eamon. "I guess I better get your autograph now before you get famous.
He-he."
"You don't think it's stupid, do you?" I said.
"No, not at all," said Eamon. "Why'd I think that?"
"Because I dunno," I said, "maybe I should do something that's actually useful to society?"
"Here's my view on that," said Eamon. "There are people who are meant to heal the mind, and
the body. There are those who are meant to nourish our physical needs. But then there are people like
you, who are meant to heal our souls. That's what artists are. They mend our souls, and affect us in a
way that medicine, or food, or machine cannot duplicate. And is that not important?"
I nodded furiously.
"I agree," I said. "I totally agree. That's exactly what I'm trying to do."
"By the way," said Eamon. "What are you writing about?"
"Oh," I said, excited that someone was actually enthusiastic about writing, "I'm penning a novel
right now about mermaids. You like mermaids?"
"Sure do," said Eamon. "They're so beautiful, and mysterious. Kinda like you."
"Me?" I said. "You think I'm beautiful? And mysterious?
"Alright," said Eamon, "not so much mysterious, but beautiful. Definitely beautiful."
I blushed.
"I don't want you to think I'm sucking up or anything," said Eamon, "and I don't want you to
think I'm a creep, but you, you're something else. Something about you just presses my buttons. In a
good way. In a very good way.... Can I be perfectly honest with you, Zelda?"
"Of course," I said.
Eamon leaned forward. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"You lie," I said.
"I am not lying," said Eamon. "I'm being completely sincere. You're dynamite."
I didn't know how to handle all these compliments. I was still skeptical about what he was
saying. He thought I was dynamite.
"So, really?" I said. "Out of all the women you've EVER seen, including that waitress, you think
I'm #1?"
"Yes," said Eamon. "To me, you're #1."
Wow! Me, #1? I've never been #1before. This most definitely was a first.
"I don't believe you," I said.
Eamon took my hand and grasped it gently.
"Believe me," he said.
The moment I blushed the waitress returned. Eamon and I then ordered our food. We proceeded
to have the most sumptuous meal I've ever head in my life.
"You have quite the appetite," said Eamon as I was gorging.
I stopped and looked up. I wiped the sauce of my mouth. "You think I'm fat, don't you?"
"What! Never," said Eamon. "You're not fat. You're the right size."
"Not everyone agrees with you," I said.
Eamon was about to reply, but I cut him off in my zeal.
"I went on the internet one time," I said, " and I put my picture up online. It was this website,
where they rate your looks. They gave me a 3 out of 10, Eamon! And what kills me is that picture I
posted up wasn't even me. No, it was a picture of someone that I thought was a better looking version
of me, and they still gave me a failing grade. Can you believe that?"
Eamon was calm, and patient.
"Listen to me," said Eamon. "They don't know what they're talking about. Forget about what
they think. Their opinions don't matter. You can't rely on opinions from the internet. Internets opinions
are worthless. Most of them anyway."

"Is that right?" I said.

"Yeah, the internet's where all the whackos go," said Eamon. "Doesn't matter how bonkers
people are they will always have a need to socialize, and if they're not getting it face to face, they'll go
where they can, which is online. Basically, Zelda, all the people you don't want to talk to in real life are
on your internet. The internet is basically a magnet for the insane, because it's open to everyone. Who
you are doesn't matter on the internet. That person you're talking to anonymously might just be a
murder. Or a snotty 10 year old. Or a dog. Are you going to take the opinion of a dog seriously?"
"A dog, eh?" I said.
"Arf, arf," Eamon went, imitating a dog.
I don't know why, but seeing my date stick his tongue out, and curling his hands like paws,
made me laugh out loud, so much so that tears came out my eyes. I was in absolute hysterics. Our
conversation following was nothing but joy. It was the most fun I had in years. We seemed to have that
thing they called chemistry.
With each word uttered we were on the same page. Eamon told me plenty about himself, and I
was eager to listen. He told me how he was a successful insurance salesman, and he'd been saving to
travel around the world, and he wanted a companion to take along. He hinted strongly at me being that
companion. I was excited. Very excited.
Since I could remember, I've always wanted to leave this country, and see an exotic place like
Canada, or America, or New Zealand, or Ireland, or Scotland, or Wales, or Belgium, maybe Greece.
Greece interested me a great deal as I wondered whether it was anything like the movie.
"Zelda," said Eamon, interrupting my daydreaming, "I don't mean to be too forward here, but
--"
"Yes?" I said.
"Would you like to come with me on my voyage?" said Eamon.
"Wuh?" I said. "I can't afford that."
"I know," said Eamon. "But if you aren't too proud, I can pay for your trip... Our trip. All
expenses covered. I think I have enough for the both of us. Maybe we can set sail this summer?"
"Setting sail?" I said. "You mean boat?"
"We'd be taking a cruise," said Eamon. "Because I love the water."
"Why do you love the water?" I said.
"It reminds me of your eyes," said Eamon.
"Oh, you," I giggled.
Eamon giggled back. He reached his hand across the table, and gently touched my cheek. He
moved his fingers back and forth, caressing my face, as if I were his beloved pet. I swear I felt the ice
around my heart melting, but then our date was interrupted by a call.
I went into my purse, and fished out my cellphone. Having never used a cellphone before, I was
slightly confused. I answered using speakerphone.
"Hello?" I said into the phone.
I heard Bebe crying in the background.
"Hello?" said Nicole, on the other side. "Hey, I'm not interrupting anything important am I?"
"What's the matter?" I said.
"I can't get the baby to stop crying," said Nicole. "Her nappies ain't full up, so what's the
problem?"
"Maybe she's too cold, or too hot?" I said.
"Perfect temp here," said Nicole. "I even have the fan blowing around to prevent sudden infant
death syndrome."
"Is she comfortable?" I said. "She could be uncomfortable."
"She looks real comfortable to me," said Nicole. "Can't see any reason to fuss."
"I think you may need to feed her," I said. "Make sure the milk is warm when you give it to

her."
"You sure?" said Nicole.
"It's my best guess," I said.
"Alright then," said Nicole. "Over and out."
"What?" I said.
Nicole hung up the phone. I turned my attention back toward Eamon.
"So, who was that?" said Eamon.
"That's my roommate," I said. "She's babysitting for me."
Eamon went wide-eyed.
"Meaning that baby crying is yours?" he said.
"That would be so," I said.
Suddenly, Eamon sat bolt upright, and narrowed his eyes.
"You lied to me," he said.
"What?" I said.
He continued in his searing tone. "On your online profile it told me you had no kids."
"Yes," I said, "I have no kids. I have a kid."
"That's not funny," said Eamon. "You lied to me. You pulled me in on a wheel of lies."
"I did not," I said.
"No, I'm sorry," said Eamon, "but I can't stand to be around liars."
"Please," I said, begging. "I only did it, so I could get a date. I'm lonely."
Eamon shook his head, and stood up.
"Come on," I said. "Is it really that big of a deal, having a kid?"
"You lied to me!" said Eamon.
"Okay, so I lied," I said. "Can't you forgive me?"
"Liars are the worst thing in the world," said Eamon.
"As if you've never lied," I said.
"I make a point not to do it," said Eamon. "And, anyway, even if I forgot that you lied, I still
don't want to date a woman who has a child."
"You're acting like a child is such a big burden," I said. "They don't need much. Just a bit of
TLC."
"Which I can't provide," said Eamon. He huffed. "Don't you see, I want to enjoy my freedom,
and travel the world? I can't do that with you. How? Are you going to leave your baby behind, while
we go trekking through the jungles of Borneo?"
"Who said anything about trekking through the jungles of Borneo?" I said in an irritated tone. "I
thought you wanted to take a cruise."
"I haven't set my plans in stone," said Eamon. He huffed again. "See, this is why I don't want to
be with a woman who has a child. I have to restrict myself. I can't do as I like. I'm attached to a bloody
leash here."
"Okay, so that's it?" I said. "You're going to end a potentially, amazing relationship because of
one, little, tiny human being?"
"Don't be so reductive," said Eamon. "I hate when people do that."
Eamon got out his wallet, and threw an uncounted amount of money onto the table. I begged for
him to return, yet he could only show me his back. A moment then gone, and I was left alone. In my
defeat, I lowered my head to the table, and rested my face in my arms, so that no one would see the
rejected loser I was.
"Excuse me, miss," I heard the waitress saying. "Would you like to see the dessert menu now?"
"Do I look to be in the mood for dessert?" I said.
"I suppose not," said the waitress. "But I --"
"Yes, bring the dessert menu," I said. "I'm still hungry."

Chapter 89
I called Nicole twenty times to come, and pick me up, but every time there was no answer. So, I left the
restaurant, and started walking outside. I kept my chin tucked, and my hands in my pocket. I shuffled
my feet through the snow. I figured at my speed I could get back to 42 Cheshire in a couple of hours.
After all, it was only 10 miles away... Right?
20 minutes later, I was ready to give up. Half frozen, and feet aching, and not sure where I was,
I went inside a bus shelter to take a rest. Thankfully there was a bench, which is where I sat. I rubbed
my hand together, trying to warm up. I cursed the male species, and grumbled to myself about how
they were a total waste of time.
Truly, I thought they were, yet for some reason I craved their attention. I suppose it's because I
wanted validation that I was worth more than what I thought I was worth. I wanted someone to tell me
all sorts of good stuff about myself, and I wanted to get gifts, and be treated like a real human being.
Then as I was lost in my thoughts a black stretch limousine pulled up to the kerbside. A baby
faced, blonde man stuck his head out the window, and called to me.
"Excuse me," said Leo. "Are you aware the buses aren't running?"
"I know," I said. "I'm taking a rest."
"You're homeless?" said Leo.
"I'm not homeless," I said. "I have a home to go to. I just have to get there. By walking."
"Through this snow?" said Leo.
"I imagine it's the only way," I said.
"Do you know who I am?" said Leo.
"Not really," I said.
"I can give you a ride home," said Leo.
"No, thank you," I said.
"Why?" said Leo. "Is it because you don't trust me?"
"How did you figure it out?" I said.
"OK," said Leo. "I get that you don't trust me. But if you must know, I'm not some nobody. In
fact, as far as my agent is concerned, I'm kind of a big deal."
"Good for you," I said.
"Really," said Leo. "I can't believe you don't recognize me. I'm a big movie star. Why do you
think I'm in this limousine? You don't get to ride in a limousine on a janitor's salary."
"Janitors are more useful than an actor," I said. "You can be replaced with computer animation."
Leo attempted changing the topic.
"You wanna see inside my limousine?" he said. "It's real fancy."
"I'm sure it is," I said.
"There's a hot tub in here," said Leo.
A hot tub?
"You're lying," I said.
"Come take a look," said Leo.
"Listen, I don't trust you," I said. "Once I'm by the window, it'll be easy as cake for you to grab
me. Or worse."
"Gosh, you're paranoid," said Leo.
"The paranoid survive," I said.
"Here," said Leo, "I'll prove to you there's a hot tub in here, and that I ain't no liar."
Leo opened another door toward the back of his limousine, and indeed there was a hot tub.
More interestingly there was a Poopee Doll -- ! It was just standing there off to the side, all lonesome.
"Wow," I said, stretching out my neck.

"Impressed, huh?" said Leo.

"I don't care about your silly hot tub," I said. "Where'd you get that doll from?"
Right away Leo knew what I was interested in. He picked up the Poopee doll, and held it close.
"Oh, are you interested in this old thing?" he said. "Yes. Everyone is. It's the hottest toy of the
season, isn't it?"
"I'd like to buy it from you," I said.
"It's not for sale," said Leo. "A beloved fan gave it to me."
"Why would they do that?" I said.
"I'm famous," said Leo. "People do things for me because I'm famous. Not that I really need the
charity."
"Then can I have your doll?" I said. "I'd really like to have it. You know, for Christmas."
"Come into my limousine," said Leo, "and we can negotiate."
"I'd rather not," I said. "Let's talk out here."
"No, thanks," said Leo. "I think me and my doll will be leaving." He shouted to his driver, who
was hidden behind a partition. "Step on it!"
As the limousine spun its wheels, I yelled out to it, "Wait!"
"Hold on," Leo said to his driver. "I think we might be having a guest tonight."
The limousine stopped and the door opened. Leo beckoned me in, gesturing his finger like a
hook. Reluctantly, desperately, I entered. Leo closed the door, and told the driver to get a move on.
"Wait," I said.
"We're already in motion," said Leo. "There's no stopping us now."
I sat as far away from Leo as possible. There was something about him I didn't like. He plunked
down beside me, and grinned.
"So glad you could make it," he said. "Now, what are you willing to do for this doll?"
"Just about anything," I said. "I'll pay you $10.00 for it."
Leo laughed like a hyena. "Eeh-heh-heh-heh! You must take me for a sucker, miss! I know how
much this toy is worth. You're not gonna pull the wool over my eyes just yet."
"Okay," I said, "what exactly do you want?"
Leo took my hand and kissed the top of it.
I screamed, "Disgusting!" then I pulled away my hand, and drenched it in hand sanitizer.
"Whoa, how dirty do you think I am?" said Leo.
"You're an actor," I said. "Naturally, you got dirty lips."
"Oh, yeah?" said Leo.
"This is how the order of dirtiness goes," I said. "#1 is prostitutes, second is porn stars, then
there's strippers, those Asian ladies who gives 'massages,' and right below that is actors."
"You really don't like celebrities, do you?" said Leo.
"Why should you be worshiped when the rest of us are treated like dirt?" I said. "What makes
you better? Because you're good looking?"
Leo sighed, and sat away from me, taking a spot at the far end of his limousine.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know I'm coming off as real snotty. But I'm really not trying to be. I'm
just intimidated is all, so I'm kinda acting over-confident. Or as most people call it: arrogant. But all I
really want is some company. Is that too much to ask for? I see a pretty lady at the bus stop, and I think,
'Hey, maybe we can talk to each other, and be friends.' Or more than friends. I don't think that's an
unreasonable thing to want, is it?
"I know, I know, I'm famous, but just because a lot of people suck up to me it doesn't mean I
have anyone that's really close to me that I can trust. It's a cliche, but it is lonely at the top. People are
always schmoozing up to me, because they want something. You know, they want a piece of me. They
want my fame, my popularity, my money.
"But I want to be normal. I want to meet someone, who doesn't know who I am, and likes me

for me. But I got nervous with you, so I started showing off, and acting all cocky, and promising you
things. It's because I'm insecure, not because I have malicious intent. But still I'm sorry. I apologize, if I
offended you. I make mistakes. I'm a human being. Just like you."
I sat beside Leo, and put my hand on his knee.
"I understand," I said. "I know what it's like to be lonely."
"So," said Leo, "do you want that doll?"
"Yes, if you can," I said.
"Alright," said Leo, "all you have to do is have sex with me."
"What!" I said. I smacked Leo on his shoulder. "I thought you were being nice to me! I knew I
shouldn't have come here. DRIVER, STOP THE LIMO!"
"KEEP GOIN'," said LEO. "I give the orders 'round here."
I went to the other end of the limousine.
"Look here," said Leo,continuing on, "I am being very nice to you. I'm giving you an
opportunity to have what you want, while giving me what I want. It's a fair trade."
"I am not having sex with you," I said. "You maniac."
"Am I a maniac for wanting to be intimate with someone?" said Leo. "Am I a maniac for
wanting to be touched, and caressed by a woman? Am I a maniac for wanting to love through my
body?"
"Sure as hell," I said.
"I guess I can't convince you?" said Leo.
"You cannot convince me," I said.
Leo looked dejected, not that I cared.
"Right, you wanna know something?" said Leo.
I sat silently.
"I'll tell you the whole truth of the matter," said Leo. "No more of this acting. No more of this
pulling the wool over your eyes."
I continued sitting silently.
"I'm a whore," said Leo. "I am a genuine whore. I'm the biggest whore you'll find in Hollywood.
I can't get enough women in my life. But, but, but you should know it wasn't like this. I used to be a
good, little boy. I used to be...pure."
"A virgin?" I said.
"Yeah, that's it," said Leo. "I used to be a virgin. I was the type, who was saving himself for
marriage, saving himself for the right woman to come along. Then what happened? I thought I met her.
She was just the most beautiful thing ever. She had hair golden like the sun, snow white skin, hazelnut
brown eyes, the cutest little freckles you ever seen, and lips that curled up ever so gently when she
smiled. And her voice was like that of an angel, and she was so charming, and polite, and sweet. So, I
fell in love with her. I mean really, really, really fell in love with her. Like the stuff you see in the
movies, I believed wholeheartedly that she was 'the one.' Every time I saw her, I felt like I died, and
went to heaven. But of course that was only in the beginning."
"Why?" I said. "What happened?"
"She broke my heart," said Leo. "She destroyed my insides by rejecting me. But I loved her for
many, many years, and I kept hoping that she'd turn around one day, and see me for that man that I am.
Hoping, however, wasn't enough. She kept me at arm's length, and kept running around with other men.
Do you know what it's like being madly in love with someone, and seeing...knowing they're being
intimate physically and emotionally with another person? It kills your soul."
I sorta felt sorry for Leo. I could see real pain in his eyes.
"And so," said Leo, "that's why I was acting the way I was acting with you. Because I want to
forget about her. I want to replace my memories of her, with memories of other women. If I can forget,
I can stop hurting inside. I can stop weeping, and crying, and burying my head into my pillow every

single night."
I looked at Leo, into his icy, blue, watery eyes, and I felt sorry for him. I got up, and we sat
together.
I lowered my head, and said, "Okay. I'll do it."
"Do what?" said Leo.
"I'll, I'll sleep with you," I stammered.
"Really? What made you change your mind?" said Leo.
"Listen," I said. "I have my needs too, and I'm not gonna feel guilty about it. I'm an adult. I'm
single. What's the problem with being 'casual,' right?"
"I agree," said Leo.
"But mainly," I said, "I'm doing it for that toy. This is more for me than it is for you."
"That's fine," said Leo. "But I'm not pressuring you here."
"Let's do this," I said.
"Okay," said Leo.
"Wait," I said. "Romance me a little first? It's so I won't feel so sleazy."
"Sure," said Leo. "One romantic gesture coming right up."
He then got out a guitar from I don't know where, and started singing me a song.
"Little woman," he sang, "little woman, you are my little woman. I want to take care of you. I
want to make you feel good. Because you are my little woman. My little woman, my little woman, my
littlest, sweetest, little woman. Make me yours, and I'll make you mine. No more tears, just the
sunshine. My little woman, you are my little woman...."
"Okay," I said. "I think I'm ready."
Leo grinned, and wasted no time unbuttoning his shirt. He then put his hands on my knees, and
leaned toward me. My whole body began trembling. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Leo used
his hand, and wiped away the sweat, and then he licked the tips of his fingers.
"You look ravishing," said Leo.
"Um, thank you," I said.
Leo zipped down my winter jacket and stared at me. Slowly, he reached his hands out, as if to
touch my breasts. It was at this point, I blinked my eyes, and began hallucinating. Leo's head had
transformed into that of a wolf. I grabbed his hands, and kept them away.
"Babe," said Leo, "what's the matter?"
"I don't want to do this anymore," I said. "It's wrong."
"You promised me," said Leo.
"I changed my mind," I said.
Leo started growling, bearing his fangs. His hot breath stung my skin.
"You can't change your mind!" he growled. "We have an oral contract!"
I wrestled with Leo's hands, doing my best to keep them away from me. However, he was
stronger than I anticipated, and he grabbed me, and threw me down to the limousine's floor, and he got
on top of me.
I screamed to the driver for help. The driver lowered the partition separating us, and when I saw
his face, he too was a wolf. They were both wolves.
"I'm sorry," said the limo driver, "but I'm afraid I have a family to feed, and I can't risk losing
my job."
The limousine partition went back up; meanwhile, I was on the floor, pinned, and mounted. Leo
hand his hands around my neck, and his mouth was open, dripping warm, sticky saliva down onto my
face. I held onto his arms, pulling at them, trying to relieve the pressure.
"Let. Me. Go," I said in a strained, struggling voice.

Leo tilted his head back, and howled. Flames poured out his mouth. His eyes glowed red like
hot coals. I could feel his claws digging into my skin, tearing at it, making it bleed. I felt myself about
to pass out. My mind raced, thinking how I could escape.
Acting on instinct, I reached my arms back, grabbed what I could, and swung it at Leo's head.
Leo fell back when his own guitar smashed into his temple. For a moment I was in shock, unsure what
I had done. I watched him stumbling around, hoping to regain his senses.
Not one to let opportunity slip through my fingers, I pounced on him, grabbed him by his collar,
and started punching him wherever I could.
"Tell the driver to stop!" I said.
"W-hat?" Leo said, almost senseless.
"TELL THE DRIVER TO STOP!" I said.
"S-s-stop the car!" said Leo.
I then heard the wheels of the limousine screech. We came to a stop. I grabbed Leo's ear, and
twisted it as hard as I could.
"If you ever do this to another woman," I said, "I will expose you for the depraved fraud you
are, and I will hunt you down. You hear me?"
Leo writhed in pain.
"You hear me?!" I said.
"I hear you," said Leo.
"Good," I said.
I got off Leo, and grabbed the Poopee doll.
"You can't take that," Leo groaned. "It's not yours."
"It's mine now," I said.
"Fine," said Leo. "But you're a thief."
"Is that supposed to make me feel bad?" I said. "You're rich, so what if I take this? You can buy
as many dolls as you want."
Leo reached out his hand, splaying his fingers, as if preaching. "And the sinners justified their
sins, so that they could continue on sinning. The slave owners, the wife beaters, the murders, the
thieves, the rapists, and the animal killers all had their excuses for doing what they did -- but in the eyes
of their Maker they were all still sinners, and it angered Him that not only would they commit these
acts of evil, but that they would be liars as well, and so as punishment he sent them to hell, where their
only torture was to live with each other for an eternity."
...
"I'm still taking your doll," I said.
I pulled the handle of the limo door, and kicked it wide open.
"OK, fine, go," said Leo. "Who needs you, anyway? I bet no one loves you. I bet you don't even
love yourself."
"SHUT UP!" I said, and I power punched Leo square in his stupid face.
Leo closed his eyes, and went limp. His body slid to the floor. I patted him on his cheek, trying
to awaken him, but he would not be awoken. I wondered whether I had killed him. Was it even be
possible? Was I powerful enough to take a man's life?
In a panicked state, I jumped out the limousine, and began running as fast as I could. I kept on
going, never looking back once, turning corners, and sprinting across traffic. After what seemed enough
running, I sat on the sidewalk to catch my breath.
I found myself in great pain. I took my foot, and lifted the front part of my shoe. My shoe was
so worn out, you see, that I could lift the front part to reveal only my toes. I looked, and saw that my
big toe was dislocated. It was so bent it was almost to the point of being backwards. Somehow, in my
effort to escape, I damaged my foot, and I tell you it wasn't worth it.
After the adrenaline dump, I came to the rational conclusion that Leo probably, very likely, was

not in fact dead. My guess was that he was a sadomasochist, who actually enjoyed my beating, and in
return for that I got a dislocated toe. Well, I did the only thing I could do, and I grabbed it, and pulled it
straight.
"Arghhhhhhhhhhh!" I screamed.
Then I put my shoe back on, and stood up. I limped along the sidewalk, until I came to an area I
felt safe. I went in my purse, and got out Nicole's cellphone to call her for the 21st time this night. I
waited in anticipation, and, finally, thankfully, she picked up. I explained to her where I was, leaving
out certain details, and asked her to come get me. She told me she'd be by as soon as possible.
Relieved, I hung up, and sat down on a nearby stoop. Here I looked upon the prize beneath my
arm. After all that drama, I finally had a Poopee Doll in my possession, and all it took was a bit of my
sanity. Yet how sweet the victory was.
I admired the toy through its clear plastic window. But while looking at its face, I began having
an uncomfortable, prickling feeling in my gut. Something about the doll made me want to see it closer.
I opened the box, and took it out. I squeezed its tummy to make it speak, and it said nothing. I then
shook it, hoping to get it to work.
It was at that moment I noticed the doll had a chalky substance on its clothing. I turned it
around, and saw there were stitches on its back. Curiosity getting the better of me, I pulled it wide to
see what was within.
An explosion of white dust hit my face. I coughed, and waved it away. As it turned out my doll
was a fraud. It was hollow, filled with an illegal substance.
Maybe this would be fortuitous for an addict. For me it was another one of life's kick in the
teeth. I took the doll, carrying it like an empty sack, and discarded it in a garbage can. I then dusted off
my hands, and sat back down. I tried convincing myself that I was better off without the doll, and that it
was bad to be materialistic.
...I was kidding myself.
Chapter 90
December the 25th. Christmas day -- not morning as one would expect, since I awoke in the afternoon.
Often I slept in late, if I could, and today was no exception. The only reason I woke up was because I
had a nightmare.
I dreamt that I was stranded on an island with all my old schoolmates. We built a shelter, and
went hunting for food. We figured out how to make fire, and created a smoke signal. A boat came for
us, landing on shore. Everyone rushed ahead, and got on. When I tried getting on board they told me
they were out of space, then they drifted out of sight.
I suppose it was just a stupid dream; however, it did not do anything to improve my loathsome
mood. We had nothing in the house to eat, other than the expired food in the fridge, a tub of margarine,
and condiment packets. Nicole, who was away visiting her mum in England, had neglected to go
grocery shopping. Not that it was her burden to carry.
Wearing a ragged sweater, I curled up on the living room sofa to read a trashy novel. Bebe was
kept nearby in her stroller, while I did my best to escape to fantasy land. I turned a page to the next
chapter, and began reading the first paragraph, which featured a unicorn. I licked the corner of my lips,
wondering what would happen next, and then I was interrupted by a noise.
I got up and followed the source of the noise, leading me all the way to the front of the house. I
opened the door, and saw Christmas carolers singing Silent Night for the next door neighbors. I brought
Bebe out to see. Thought it'd be a nice, free, Christmas memory.
Soon the carolers finished their song, and the neighbors gave them some money, and treats, and
said good bye. They left smiling, skipping past our place, without so much as a glance. I lingered in the
cold, looking at the neighbors who were now going inside. I stared through their window, seeing their

family, being merry, drinking cider, and eating hot, fresh food. My belly rumbled, my mouth drooled,
upon seeing this sight.
And I couldn't take it any longer, I decided to pay them a visit. I took Bebe with me, and we
trekked across a snowy path to visit my neighbors. I rang the doorbell, and was answered immediately.
There was Donovan and his wife Melisse. I didn't know much about them, other than that they were
immigrants from somewhere in Europe. This was my first time talking to them.
"Merry Christmas," I said, nervously. "How, how are you two doing? Don't mean to bother you,
but I'm your next door neighbor, and I'm a bit down on my luck. Was wondering whether I could have
some food to eat? I don't need much really. Anything you can spare is fine."
Donovan and Melisse stared at me like they didn't know what was going on. They started
talking to each other, very fast in words, I couldn't understand. I gestured to them that I wanted to eat,
motioning my hand to my mouth.
They got a twisted look on their faces, and started raising their voices. It seemed like they were
arguing. Then they shut their door. When it opened again Melisse smiled, handing me something
wrapped in aluminium foil.
"What's this?" I said.
"Take," said Melisse. "For you."
She pushed my hands back, and without giving me a chance to say thanks, she closed the door
on me once again. But I walked away, pleased that I got something. Bebe and I returned to our place,
and I sat down at the dining table. I licked my lips, hungry as ever. I wondered what it could be. Since
my nose was stuffed up from the weather, I couldn't tell from the smell.
Maybe there was turkey? Or chicken? Maybe roast beefy and gravy? Mm, some potato salad
would be nice, if I had to go vegetarian. Or, heck, even sponge cake. Haven't had any of that in a while.
"Okay," I said to myself, "here we go. A nice, Christmas treat."
I peeled back the foil, and what did I find? Fruit cake... I hated fruit cake. The mushy texture,
the juices, the mixture of salt, and sweet, the raisins, the chewy nuts, the bizarre taste, it all made me
feel sick. Yet my hunger could not stop me from eating it. I grabbed a handful of fruit cake, and stuffed
it into my mouth. I chewed it as little as possible, while avoiding breathing through my nose.
Not 30 seconds later, I was in the bathroom throwing up. When I got up, and looked in the
bowl, I could see sultanas floating around. I flushed the toilet, and made a hasty exit.
"Well," I said to Bebe, wiping my mouth, "why don't we celebrate our Christmas then?"
And we went into the firless living room, and sorted out some art supplies. I began drawing a
Christmas tree on the white wall. While doing so, I thought of my neighbors. I fantasized about being
Melisse, having what she had: a loving family, a well kept house, fresh, delicious food, new clothes,
and a Christmas tree, and presents to put beneath it.
I really didn't think my hand drawn Christmas tree could ever match the realism of an actual
tree; nevertheless, I finished the job. My impromptu tree had decorations, fake tinsel, and everything,
even a star on top. The star was made out of yellow sticky paper that I had cut to shape.
"Not bad," I said. "What do you think, Bebe?"
Bebe was irresponsive.
"I'm quite proud of myself," I said. "Now, how about we get you some presents to go with it,
hm?"
I got up, off my knees, and went searching around the house. I found some random stuff I
thought would be suitable, then I gift wrapped them in the comics section from the newspaper, and
labeled them. I laid them all under the drawing of the Christmas tree.
"Look at this," I said to Bebe. "Lots of presents for us."
There were three things total.
"Should I go first???" I said. "Okay, but only if you insist."
I read aloud the writing on the first present: "To mommy. From Beebs."

"Thank you, Bebe," I said. "This is most generous of you. Why, you don't even have a job. Let's
see what this is."
I unwrapped a can of expired peaches.
"Wow," I said. "A can of peaches. How did you know this is my most favorite fruit? I am
stunned at your generosity. But let's move onto your presents now. Would you like me to help you out?
Okay, but only if you insist."
I got another present, and read aloud the writing: "To Bebe. From Santa Claus."
"Wow-ow," I said. "Ol' Saint Nick actually came by, and dropped something off. It's too bad I
forgot to put out milk and cookies, huh? Not that I think he needs them. Anyway, let's see what you got
here."
I unwrapped a pink, plastic comb.
"Oooh," I said. "A bright pink comb. How 1980s. It looks really nice. I know you don't have
hair now, but just you wait, one day you'll have a head full of hair just like mommy"
I gave the pink comb to Bebe, and let her play with it.
"Now," I said, "we have one last present. Lucky number three. Saving the best for last. And
guess what? This one is from me. Dear old mummy."
I opened the last present for Bebe. It was a small stuffed bear I bought from a dollar store.
"Look at that," I said to Bebe, showing her the stuffed bear. "Isn't that nice? Now you have a
companion to play with."
I handed the bear to Bebe, but she threw it on the ground. I picked it up, and gave it back. This
time she lobbed it at my face.
"Bebe!" I said. "That is not very nice. I bought you a present here, and I think you ought to
appreciate it. Some people get nothing for Christmas, you know?"
I returned Bebe her bear, yet again she threw it.
"Come on. She's just a baby," I told myself. "There's no need to be upset."
But my feeling were hurt, and I was rather angry. Bebe had no comprehension of what was
going on, what I was going through. The adult inside of me told me to let it go. I took the teddy bear to
the kitchen, and threw it in the garbage can.
Chapter 91
It was still Christmas day, barely 6:00 PM, yet the sun had already gone to bed. In the meanwhile, I was
in the upstairs bathroom, giving Bebe a bath in the bathtub. Using a white rag, I cleaned her while she
sat submerged in lukewarm water up to her neck. I noted she had the habit of kicking her legs.
"Please, Bebe," I said. "Stop kicking your legs. Mommy's trying to give you a bath."
When Bebe ignored my behest something inside of me snapped. I let go of her head, and put my
hand on her chest to sink her down to the bottom of the bathtub, in which she was completely beneath
the water. I stared at her with dead eyes, as a flashing thought told me if she were no more all my
troubles would be over, and I could restart my life....
Ding dong! Ding dong!
I shook my head, and came out of my hypnotic state. The ringing doorbell made me come back
to my senses. I looked down at Bebe, who was being pinned by my hand, then I lifted her out of the
water. I didn't know how long I had held her down, but whatever it was it was far too long. My baby
was not responding to me. Her eyes were closed. She was limp. She was unconscious.
The doorbell kept ringing.
Ding dong! Ding dong! DING DONG!
The noise seemed to intensify. I panicked, and shook Bebe, trying to wake her.
"Wake up!" I said, desperately. "Wake up! I didn't mean to hurt you! I, I, I, I -- it was an
accident!"

By some miracle, Bebe began coughing, and came to. I hugged her, held her close to my body,
relieved she wasn't harmed. My eyes welled up with tears, thinking what I did.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I promise, I'll never hurt you again."
I kissed Bebe on her forehead, but something didn't feel right. She looked at me like never
before...as if the bond between us were broken. I had violated her trust, and she did not see me as the
person I once was. I was no longer her guardian. I was no longer her protector. I was someone to be
feared.
Nevertheless, I dried Bebe off, and put her in her clothes. As the doorbell was ringing, I went
downstairs, and answered the door.
"What do you want?" I said.
A familiar, old face greeted me. It was that Filipino lady named Mindy.
"Merry Christmas," said Mindy. "How are you today?"
"Mindy?" I said.
Mindy gasped. "I recognize you!" Her finger was pointed at me, wagging. "You're that woman."
"Yes, I am that woman," I said. "What are you doing here?"
"Going around asking people if they want to join me for dinner," said Mindy.
"Why?" I said.
"It's Christmas," said Mindy. "The reason for the season is to give and share, to help others in
need."
"And you're here to invited me to dinner?" I said.
"Yes," said Mindy. "That is the case."
"How did you know to come here?" I said.
"Oh, me and my husband are driving around the neighborhood," said Mindy. "We pick the
houses that look a bit run down."
I squinted and saw Mindy's husband in the distance. He was a stocky Asian man, sporting a
chevron moustache. He waved at me and smirked.
"Charity, huh?" I said.
"Yes, why don't you come over to our place," said Mindy, "and we can feed you. Unless you
don't want to, then we can leave, and return with some food. If you prefer the privacy."
"What do you have to eat?" I said.
"Certified humane turkey," said Mindy, "mashed potatoes, yams, halo-halo... Lots of different
things. There is plenty of balut. But most people don't seem to like balut. I don't understand why."
"Gee, that sounds nice," I said, "but I'm kinda in the middle of something here." (I.E. An
emotional breakdown.)
"Alright, sure," said Mindy. "I'll come back then."
Mindy turned around, but I grasped her by the cloth of her shoulder.
"Wait, no," I said.
Mindy returned to face me.
"Actually, I'd like to come along," I said. "It'd be nice to have some company. For a change."
Mindy smiled.
"Get yourself ready," she said. "I'll be waiting in the car."
We arrived at Mindy's place to have Christmas dinner. I was quite impressed by her home. It was
bright, clean, and attractive. There was a light, pleasant smell like that of freshly cut flowers. Mindy
showed me the upstairs, where there were five bedrooms in total. They were all nicely decorated,
except for the one at the end, which had nothing inside. I asked no questions about it, as I was far too
hungry to think.
"Let's go and eat now," said Mindy. "Dinner should be ready."
We returned downstairs, and were welcomed into the dining room. The dining room, which was

adjacent to the living room, had two tables connecting to each other to make one, large, super dining
table. I saw that Mindy's family was there, her husband, her three sons, and some other people, who I
didn't think had any relation.
Mindy's sons, who were 8, 9, and 10 pulled me out a chair, and helped me sort out Bebe.
"Why, thank you," I said.
"You're welcome," they replied in perfect synch, then they went back to their spots.
"Oh, what polite children you have," I told Mindy.
"Thank you," said Mindy.
"What's your secret?" I asked.
"Love," said Mindy. "And lots of guilt."
"Oh," I said. "Heh." I chuckled a little. "Well, whatever works."
When everyone was sat down, Mindy brought out a big, juicy turkey. I instantly began
salivating.
"Before we eat," said Mindy. "I'd like to say grace. Is that okay with everyone? If you're not of
our same religion that's fine by me. Participation in our prayer is not an obligation."
No one turned down Mindy's request for a prayer. We all joined hands, and lowered our hands
in silence. Mindy began her prayer.
"Dear God," said Mindy. "On this very fine Christmas day we are most appreciative of all that
you have given us. Even though we've hit on hard times, we are nothing short of grateful, and we thank
you for the company we receive, and all this fine food we have on our table. We also thank the turkey
for its grand sacrifice, and wish that this noble creature go up to heaven, for providing us nourishment,
and filling our bellies. Thank you, God."
"Amen," said everyone.
Then without wasting any time, we all dug into our food. I ate until my belly was full. It was a
wonderful meal. Everything tasted good, and there was more than enough for everyone.
In what seemed too short, the dinner was over. We had our dessert, and Mindy's guests were on
their way out. Her husband volunteered to drop everyone home. I, however, lingered around, wanting
to spend the rest of the night here. Maybe even longer.
While we were having tea, and Mindy's sons were playing with Bebe, I inquired about the
empty room. I asked her if it was available for rent.
"I can't," said Mindy.
"Why not?" I said.
Mindy lowered her head. "My baby died in there."
"Oh no," I said. "I'm, I'm sorry about asking. I think --"
"It's okay," said Mindy. "It was a year ago."
"Has the room been empty all that time?" I asked.
"No," said Mindy. "We only cleared it out last week, when Roland took me to a therapist. She
told me that to be happy I have to let go. So, getting rid of Emily's things is a part of the process."
"That's really sad," I said.
"I guess it is," said Mindy.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" I said.
"Unless you can bring her back, no," said Mindy. "There's nothing you can do."
Mindy and I decided to change the topic. We talked about other things, until her husband,
Roland, returned. Then soon, I was ready to leave, and we said our Merry Christmas's and goodbyes to
one another.
In a moment's time, I found myself stepping outside, returning back to 42 Cheshire. After I said
my thanks to Roland for dropping me off, I waved to him, and went to the front door of the house. I
glanced over my shoulder, and saw he was still there. I knew the reason why. He was waiting for me to
get inside, to make sure I was safe.

Eventually, I did get inside, and he took off to leave. I shut the door behind, kicked off my
shoes, and carrying Bebe, headed to the living room. While waddling along, with a full belly, I kept
thinking about Mindy, and her husband, and how sweet, and kind her family was. They were like no
one I'd ever met before.
"Well, Bebe," I said, "hasn't this turned out to be a very Merry Christmas?"
Much to my dismay, Bebe turned her head away from me. I was gonna something about it, but
then not a second after we reached the living room, I stopped in my tracks, floored at what I was
seeing. There in the corner of the room was a fully decorated, lit Christmas tree, and beneath it, sitting
quietly, a gift adorned in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer wrapping paper.
"Who left this stuff here?" I thought aloud. "...Maybe Nicole's returned?"
I put Bebe aside on the couch, and went to the tree.
I picked up the gift, and read the tag:
"To: Zelda and Bebe
From: Shirley
Enjoy your Christmas tree."
I carried the gift over to Bebe.
"What do you think's in here?" I said. "It's from your aunt, you know?"
I unwrapped the gift, and was in disbelief upon seeing it. In my hands was a Poopee Doll. The
toy I had been hunting for all month-long.
"It can't be," I said.
I inspected the box, looking to see whether it was false, or counterfeit. Nothing. It was totally
legit, and Bebe, I noticed, was now reaching out for it.
"Okay, okay, I'll let you have it," I said. "Jus' lemme get it out of the box."
I opened the box, set it aside, and gave Bebe the doll. I can tell you, I didn't expect this sort of
reaction from her. She threw the doll to the ground, then she grabbed the empty box, shiny as it was,
and started playing with it. She was quite clumsy, only able to do as a baby would, but I knew this is
what she had wanted all along. It was the shine of the box, its iridescence that attracted her.
I started to cry. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. I felt ashamed, knowing that the only
moment of joy for my child, since the day she was born, was not because of me. I came to the
realization I was not a good mother. I was a bad mother, and Bebe deserved so much better than me.
She deserved to be raised by someone kind, and caring, and smart, and beautiful...and above all, loving.
That was something I could never provide for her. How could I provide love to someone, when I
myself have never experienced it? What did I know about that?
When Bebe fell asleep, I took her in my arms, and placed her in her crib downstairs. I watched over her
while sitting at my desk. Soon the Christmas day ended and the clock struck twelve. I felt a heavy pain
in my chest that was the pain of regret. Yet I was determined to change my life...Bebe's life. Pen in
hand, I wrote down my final plan.
Chapter 92
Christmas ended and we were headed towards the New Year. In the following days, I had called up
Eamon, spoke to Nicole, and paid Mindy a visit. These three people would help set my final plan into
motion. Then of course there was my doppelganger, Veronica, who I was going to see tonight. I went
out to the market, bought some food, and drinks, and met with her by the old bridge, where the old
train passed over.
"Merry Christmas," I said.

"It's not Christmas anymore," said Veronica.

"Oh, oh yeah," I said.
"Merry Christmas to you too, anyway," said Veronica. She gave me a hug. "It's so nice of you to
come, and celebrate with me. But where's your lovely baby?"
"Got a friend to babysit," I said. "Mindy."
"Mindy rhymes with Cindy," said Veronica.
"...So, yeah, I brought some food and drinks," I said. "Where shall I put them?"
"Follow me, please," said Veronica.
Then she led me under the bridge, where there was a ratty looking sofa, and an array of candles.
Veronica lit these candles to warm us, and light the area.
"Whoa," I said, "where'd you get all these candles from?"
"Went dumpster diving," said Veronica. "Found the whole lot just sitting there. Can't believe
they were throwing them out. I guess that's people for yah. They're always throwing things out, if they
aren't perfect."
"Sure do," I said.
Veronica smiled. "Alright now, make yourself at home. Have a seat."
Veronica and I sat down. We leaned forward, nearing ourselves to the flames. I put my hands
out framing the fire between my fingers.
"Sooo," said Veronica, "what's in the backpack?"
I angled toward Veronica, and placed my backpack between us.
"Treats to celebrate tonight," I said. "Naturally."
"Oooh," said Veronica. "What sort? Did you get them from the dumpster?"
"Huh? No," I said. "I bought them fresh. Brand spanking new."
"You can afford it?" said Veronica.
"I borrowed some money from a friend," I said.
"Alright," Veronica said enthusiastically, "let's see."
I opened my backpack, and took out an assortment of goodies: chocolate, biscuits, cake, fruit,
pudding, chips, pie, and ravioli. Ravioli was something I enjoyed when I was a child.
"Oh boy, oh boy," said Veronica. "You have so many treats. What am I allowed to eat?"
"Anything you want," I said. "This is your party."
Veronica grabbed the bar of chocolate, and scarfed it down. It was gone in a matter of seconds.
"I'm sorry for my manners," said Veronica, wiping her mouth, "I haven't had chocolate in
years."
"It's fine," I said. "Glad you enjoyed it."
Veronica began eating the ravioli, as she claimed it would soon become frozen. Then I watched
her go through a packet of biscuits, a slice of cake, and four puddings. She was now onto the pie.
"So," I said, trying to make conversation, "what did you do for Christmas?"
"Nothing really," said Veronica, busy with eating. "For me Christmas is the same like any other
day -- except if I think about it too much, I get jealous over what other people have. Where's my Santa
Claus, huh?"
I nodded awkwardly.
"By the way," said Veronica, "where were you on Christmas? You never came by to visit."
"I'm really sorry," I said. "I slept in late, and --"
"I's just pulling your leg," said Veronica. "Ha-ha. It's easy to make you feel guilty."
I replied by giving Veronica a fake smile.
"By the way," I said, "I have something for you. I know technically Christmas is over, but..."
I gave Veronica a present wrapped in shiny, reflective paper.
"Wow," said Veronica. "Is this what I think it is? A gift!"
"Open it," I said.

"I've never gotten a Christmas present before," said Veronica. "Come to think of it, I've never
gotten any sort of present before."
I wasn't sure what to say. I spit out a cliche for lack of creativity.
"There's a first time for everything," I said.
Veronica excitedly shook the box and listened to the sound.
"I wonder what it is," said Veronica. "Could it be jewelery? They do say diamonds are a girl's
best friend. Let's see whether I'll get a best friend."
"They're not diamonds," I said.
"Oh," said Veronica. "That's okay. I was just having a little moment of fantasy there. Whatever
it is, I'm sure I'll be pleased."
Veronica unwrapped her present. It was the doll Bebe never wanted. I thought it should go to
someone more appreciative.
"A doll!" said Veronica. "Aaah, how did you know? I've always wanted a doll. It can keep me
company." She set it down beside her. "It's lovely. So life like."
"I thought you'd like it," I said.
"And I know you spent a lot of money on this," said Veronica. "$20.00, how about that? You're
probably some big cheese now, I assume."
"$20.00?" I said. "How'd you come up with that number?"
"Ah, yeah," said Veronica. "I went into a shop to use their bathroom, and I passed through the
toy section. They had like a hundred of these. They were all marked down to $20.00. Heh. Can you
believe it? The original price was $100. Who has that much money for a toy?"
I lowered my head. "Yeah, what an insane price to pay for a silly toy, huh?"
"Silly, but I like it very much," said Veronica. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said.
Veronica frowned. "But I don't really have anything for you. I'm sorry. I wish I could give you
something."
This was my window of opportunity.
"Well," I said, "there is something I'd like."
"What's that?" said Veronica.
"Do you have any photos of yourself?" I asked.
"Photos? You want photos of me?"said Veronica. "But I'm not very attractive."
"I don't want them, so I can touch myself," I said. "I want them, so I can remember you. My
sister, my dear sister."
Veronica looked at me. "But I don't have any -- wait! I know." She took out her wallet. "Open
your hand." She gave me her expired IDs, anything with her face on it. "You can these. I used to keep
them to remind me of better times, but I think it's better that you have them. Knowing you're looking at
me, and thinking of me kinda gives me a warm feeling inside."
I looked at Veronica's photo in her level 1 driver's license. It was from almost 12 years ago.
"You look pretty," I said.
"Yeah, I was a lot younger back then,"said Veronica. "Now I'm more...weathered."
"You look pretty now," I said.
"You really think so?" said Veronica.
"I know so," I said.
"I think you're prettier than me," said Veronica.
"That can't be," I said.
"And why not?" said Veronica.
"We're twins," I said.
Veronica laughed. I laughed too.
"By the way," I said, reluctantly.

Veronica turned her body towards me.

"By the way," I said, repeating myself. "Are you, are you, are you still going to...."
I struggled to broach a most painful topic.
"Still going to what?" said Veronica.
"Are you going to 'end it'?" I said.
"You mean kill myself?" said Veronica. "Oh, yeah. That's why we're having this celebration
here. Full steam ahead."
"Not that I'm discouraging you, not that I'm encouraging you," I said, "but whatever decision
you make, I'll respect that."
"Much appreciated," said Veronica.
"Before you go," I said, "do you think I could have your jacket? I mean why waste it, right?"
"Really?" said Veronica. "You want my dirty ol' jacket?"
"To remember you," I said. "And tell you what, I'll give you my jacket too. Think of it as a
holiday gift exchange."
"Okay," said Veronica. "That sounds like fun. To tell you the truth I've always envied you for
your jacket. It's wonderfully colourful."
Veronica and I then switched jackets. Unbeknownst to her, the jacket she was now wearing
contained all of my identifications -- and I didn't want them back. Speaking of identifications, I put
Veronica's away into my pocket. It was an important part of my plan.
"Wow," said Veronica. "I feel so warm and comfy. So, this is what it's like to be rich, eh?"
"I wouldn't know," I said.
Veronica stood up.
"Wait, where're you going?" I said.
"To catch the midnight train," said Veronica. "I don't want to be late."
Veronica opened a fruit cup, and dumped it all in her mouth. I suppose that was her last meal.
"So," I said, "this is really it?"
Veronica grinned. "Zelda, my dear sister, this is not it."
"What do you mean?" I said.
Veronica explained. "This is not the end. It is only the beginning."
"Right, I remember," I said. "You believe in reincarnation. You'll come back as a butterfly or
something."
"Nope," said Veronica. "I have a new theory about the world."
"What's that?" I said.
"I believe my life has been one, long nightmare," said Veronica. "And how do you wake up
from a nightmare?"
"I don't know," I said.
"You die," said Veronica. "You die, and you wake up. That's what I think will happen to me. I'll
die, and then I'll wake up from this disturbing dream, and then I'll find myself in a warm, comfy bed,
sleeping next to someone who loves me."
"You think that's what will happen?" I said.
"Yeah," said Veronica. "I mean how can this life be my actual life? There's no way it's supposed
to be this way. It can't be this pointless, and wretched. I highly disagree that humans are meant to be
this miserable...living yet not living, never getting what you want, or when you get what you want it's
taken away from you. No. No, no, no, Zelda. I'm living an illusion right now. I need to wake up. ...But
then again, do I deserve to wake up? Do I deserve to be happy?"
"You deserve to be happy," I said. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"So, it's settled," said Veronica. "I'll kill myself tonight, and wake up tomorrow."
"Wait," I said. "I said you deserve to be happy, but that doesn't mean I think you're living a
dream right now. I'm not a figment of your imagination. I have my own life that I live."

Veronica wagged her finger. "Ah, see. No one believes me. No one believes in this nightmare
I'm living. But I know that you, and the other naysayers, are just a part of my subconscious. You
represent all my self-doubts. Or you're just trying to keep me here longer, so that you don't go poof!
when I wake up."
"Really now?" I said.
"I think so," said Veronica.
I frowned, unsure how to respond.
"Listen," said Veronica, "I'm not sure what this is...what my world is, but I can see that you're
concerned. But I don't want you to grieve about me. I'm sick and tired of being treated like I don't
matter. When I kill myself, and I wake up, I'm going to be happy. So, don't try, and stop me, okay?"
Bad as this sounded, I didn't want to dissuade Veronica.
"Veronica," I said, "make the decision that's right for you. That you think is right for you,
without anyone else's input. After all, this is your life not mine. I won't stop you, if you really think this
is what needs to be done."
Veronica seemed to have a sudden change of heart.
"Oh, I don't know," she fretted. "Maybe I need to clear my head first."
She sat back down, and grasped her head, as if trying to keep her brain from falling out. Now it
was time to move onto the next phase of my plan. I brought out a little cooler, with some alcoholic
drinks in it. Real girly stuff, flavored with fruit.
"Here," I said, handing Veronica a strawberry beer, "have a drink. I brought these especially for
you."
I popped off the top with an opener.
"You want me to drink my woes away?" said Veronica.
"Well, some of them," I said.
"It's strawberry," said Veronica, sniffing the bottle.
"You don't like that flavor?" I said.
"No, I've just never seen anything like it before," said Veronica.
"Okay," I said, "have a sip."
"I don't want to drink," said Veronica. "I'm having a meltdown here. Can't you see that? What if
I kill myself, and when I wake up it's all the same? After all, dreams are a reflection of reality, aren't
they? What if I wake up, and I''m still lonely, and no one loves me, and I have nothing to live for again?
At least in a dream, even in your nightmares, there's the chance of turning things around using your
brain. But in reality, it's all set in stone, isn't it?"
"Reality is not set in stone," I said. "And if it is, you can chisel away at stone to change it. Can't
you?"
Veronica wouldn't listen.
"Oh no!" she said. "What if I kill myself, and wake up, and it's worse!?"
"Veronica," I said, "I doubt it's going to get worse than this."
"It could be worse," said Veronica. "I mean, you won't be there, will you?"
"Does it matter if I'm there?" I said. "I'm not that great of a person."
"Whether or not this is a dream," said Veronica, "you're my sister, and I love you. With all my
heart."
Naturally, I struggled for words, when I couldn't say the same about Veronica. I became
consumed with guilt. She stared at me, waiting for me to return her affection. I didn't have anything to
reply, except a long, awkward gaze.
"Yeah, so..." said Veronica.
"Why don't you have a drink?" I said, now only trying to change the melancholic mood. "You
might like it."
Veronica sighed and started drinking. She drank as much I had, as quickly as possible. Why not,

after I shattered her fragile heart?

"WELL NOW," said Veronica, tossing aside the bottles. "Am feelin' a bit better now. Head's a a
smidgen lighter, but I always thought I could stand to lose a few pounds."
Veronica stood back up, and stumbled around a bit. She raised up her arms, and stared into the
night sky. "Hello, world! I welcome your New Year! It can stay for as long as it likes, as long as it's not
more than a year!"
Veronica laid down on the ground, spread out her limbs. I went over to her, and looked down.
"Are you alright?" I said.
"Jus' fine," said Veronica. "Am enjoying the view of the stars here...one last time."
"Don't go yet," I said. "I have a surprise for you."
"Is it a good surprise?" said Veronica. "Usually I get bad surprises."
"Trust me," I said. "It's a good surprise."
"What is it?" said Veronica.
I went into my backpack, and took out a box of fireworks. Veronica sat up, and looked up as I
waved it in the air.
"Are those fireworks?" said Veronica.
"It is New Year's Eve, after all," I said.
Veronica sat up.
"Fireworks!" she said.
She ran over to me, and looked at the box.
"Ooooh," said Veronica. "The whizzer."
"Let's set them up," I said.
"Can I do it? Can I do it, puh-leeeease?" said Veronica.
"Uh, sure," I said.
We went to the hillside, where Veronica tore the wrapping off the box, and took out the
fireworks. She set them up on the ground for a show.
"Ah, perfect," said Veronica, placing down the last firework. "Now, we can begin. Stand back,
okay?" She shook her head. "Wait, something's not right here."
"You need some fire," I said.
"Right!" said Veronica. "Hand me a lighter, please."
I tossed my Zippo lighter to Veronica. She flipped off the top, then rolled the wheel to light the
wick.
"Ladies and gentleman," she said, "let the show begin!"
And the fireworks started going up into the sky. They went zoom, bang, and exploded in the air,
casting down colours of red, blue, yellow, and green. Veronica squealed with delight, jumping, and
clapping her hands like a little kid, as if it were the grandest thing she'd ever seen. Then before long it
was over. $40.00 of fancy gunpowder gone in two minutes. I guess it was worth it, considering the joy
it brought my (supposed) twin sister.
"Wow," said Veronica. "That was amazing! Wasn't is amazing?"
"Not too shabby," I said.
"A perfect way to end the year," said Veronica. She hugged me. "My sister. You really know
how to please a gal."
"Er, thanks," I said. "I think."
"Well, well, well," said Veronica, looking at her plastic wristwatch. "It's about time I go and
catch the midnight train. This is the last one for the year."
Veronica began walking away from me.
"Where are you going?" I said.
"I'm going to end this nightmare," she said. "Tomorrow, I awake!"
I trailed behind Veronica. We stopped at the foot of the hill that led up to the bridge when I put

my hand on her shoulder.

"Now wait a minute," I said. "Slow down."
"I don't want you following me," Veronica said with a sharp turn of her head. "I have to do this
alone." She averted her gaze. "As usual it's me against the the world. But it'll be worth it. When I wake
up, I'll, I'll be pretty, and I'll be smart, and I'll have lots of money, and everyone will love me. And, and,
and I'll have a wonderful husband, and a beautiful house, with a white picket fence, and kids, and a
dog, and a cat. I'll have everything I ever wanted, and you can't stop me from having that!"
I stared at Veronica. She was barely thirty years old, but her visage told me a different story. The
dark circles, the wrinkles, the rough skin, made her look like an old lady, who was ready to depart from
Earth.
Yet my intuition told me otherwise. That she was crying out for help. That she wanted someone
to stop her. That she wanted to know at least one last person in the world still cared.
But did I really want to stop her? My plan was already underway. I'd borrowed money from
Nicole to obtain a life insurance plan from Eamon, and Mindy, as Bebe's Godmother, was to be the cobeneficiary of a handsome payout.
Veronica, she was the last cog in my scheme. She was to help me pull off the ol' switcheroo.
Once she committed suicide her body would serve as evidence of my death. This is why I asked for her
photos. This is why I gave her my jacket full of my IDs. This is why I offered her booze, so no one
would suspect any foul play. It'll all be seen as an accident.
Agh -- I couldn't believe what I was thinking. Is this not the most evil thing you ever heard?
Must've been as there was a pang of guilt bubbling up in my belly. Take someone else's identity,
running committing insurance fraud, could it get any lower? Judge me, if you will, but it's not for
greed. It's not to escape my responsibilities. It's for the only thing that matters to me in the entire world:
my daughter. She deserved to have everything I never had.
Yet my conscience kicked in. By the time I came out of my stupor, Veronica was half way up
the hill, and it was a damned steep hill too, especially for someone like myself. It went up several
stories, seeming more mountain than hill.
I started climbing, and shouting out to Veronica, "Stop! Don't do it!"
Veronica stood on the train tracks with her nose in the air, and her arms out, as if to welcome
death. I got onto the train tracks and faced her.
"Hold on," I said. "Think this over a bit more. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary
problem, isn't it?"
"Is that what you believe?" said Veronica. "My problems are temporary, ephemeral, mere
vapor? Like they mean nothing? Like it's a paper cut that'll heal in a day? It won't heal, Zelda. I've lived
this nightmare too long. It's time to go. There's nothing for me here."
At this moment, I heard the beeping of Veronica's watch. It signaled the arrival of midnight,
New Year's Day. Veronica closed her eyes, and while crying, whispered, "I'm coming home." I looked
back and I stepped off train track to avoid being hit by the so-called midnight train.
However, it was not necessary. January the 1st, the start of another year, I realized it meant the
unionized train operators weren't working. They were entitled to have the whole day off, with full pay.
So, tonight there'd be no killer train. Suffice it to say, I was more than relieved. Veronica had been
bluffing to me this whole time, and I was too dumb, too wrapped up in myself to realize it.
I started walking toward Veronica.
"Stay where you are," she said to me. "The midnight train is a comin'."
"I know there's no midnight train coming," I said. "So, let's get off this bridge, huh?"
"Trains are always late," said Veronica. "You'll see. It'll be here soon."
"I'm tired," I said. "I wanna go home.
"So? Go home," said Veronica. "Why do you need me to follow you? I don't live with you. I'm
not a part of your life."

I felt terrible for Veronica. She had no one in the world to care for her. She was alone, even
more alone than me, and living a miserable life on the streets, and her misguided senses once
convinced her that I would be someone she could depend on.
Thinking about it made me want to weep. Then I decided in my head that I could be there for
her. I could give her a helping hand, even though I was, myself, living a meager existence. Maybe I
could convince Nicole to let her stay with us? Maybe I could get her psychiatric help? Or at least
convince her that her life is worth living.
And so, I continued walking toward Veronica, to get to her, to convince her to come off this
bridge, and see the future for what it could be.
But then a loud, whistling sound took my attention, and there was a sight in the sky that made
me think I was hallucinating. It was an old steam train, flying through the clouds. It had a round light
on the front that glowed a fiery orange. Reminded me of a burning matchstick.
"Are you seeing this?" I said.
My eyes and feet followed the steam train as it circled around, and then it swooped down, and
came towards us. Instinctively, I shrieked; I shuttered my eyes, and ducked. The train went through me
as if it were a ghost. I felt nothing, except a strong gust of wind.
After a moment, I opened my eyes. I wondered what had just happened. I stood up, turned
around. I squinted in the darkness, searching for Veronica.
"Veronica?" I said. "Veronica?"
I walked along the train tracks, only to find she was missing. Calling her name several more
times, in a louder voice, did nothing. There was no response... Perhaps she'd left on her own? I reversed
my steps to get off the bridge. I went to the hilltop, and began my descent.
As I was clambering down, I noticed something below. It was Veronica, her body, laying flat on
the ground, arms spread out, one going perfectly left, and one going right. She'd killed herself by taking
a straight back dive into the cold concrete.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at her face, her eyes, wide, open, listless, as if there was
never any hope in the world for her. I wished she hadn't done what she'd done, because now there was
no turning back -- for either us.
Chapter 93
17 years later... Time went by as if it were a blur in the mirror. I became a middle aged woman in my
late 40s, living on a second life. Even though I'd take the identity of my twin sister, I reverted to my old
name by legally changing it. I was still known as Zelda, but I was not the same person, since that day I
left it all behind.
There was a deep emptiness inside me, like something was missing. No matter what I tried,
nothing made that feeling go away. No person, no words, no vices to numb my senses could chase
away the void I fell into every morning I woke up.
Yet, objectively speaking, my life was now better in almost every single way. Financially, I was
independent. I had my own house, my own car, a career, friends, and two lovely cats named Joyce, and
Virginia.
So, what was the bother? What was the itch I couldn't scratch? Was I simply lonely? Did I need
companionship of the romantic type? No, that couldn't be the case as I enjoyed being single. I enjoyed
being on my own, and having my freedom. My problem was something else. But what?
I put that thought in the back of my mind and left my house. I went out for a drive, nowhere in
particular. I found a small, secluded road, covered in freshly fallen snow. I drifted along its tree lined
path.
There was a blue sky above me, and white clouds, blowing over a white moon. I could hear the
brown birds singing. Their melodic chirping was soothing to my ears. When I looked ahead on the

road, I saw it split in two. Not knowing exactly where I was, I had to guess whether I should go left or
right.
A feeling in my gut told me to go right. So, I turned the wheel, and that's where I went. As it
turned out that was the wrong decision. The road I chose pointed downhill, and had ground paved in
black ice. My car spun out of control, and I ended up in a ditch.
When I awoke, I found myself on a bed in a white room. I was in the hospital. I felt no injuries,
however, my vision was somewhat blurry. I could scarce make out a person by my feet. All I knew was
she was a young woman, holding some blankets. She looked at me, as I looked at her, and asked
whether I needed any help.
"I'm fine," I said. "But could you come a little closer? It's hard to see you."
The young woman came over to me and smiled. Her face stunned me into silence. She was
basically a prettier, more youthful, version of me. If we two stood side by side you could even say she
was...my daughter?
How could that be? I was in another part of the country. This city I was in now was practically
an antipode to where I used to live before. I figured it was just my brain, feeding me delusions. But I
had to find out.
"Oh my," I said, "what are pretty girl you are."
"Thank you very much," said the young woman.
"Are you working here?" I asked.
"I'm a volunteer," said the young woman. "Trying to get some experience. Someday I'd like to
become a nurse."
"It's a tough job," I said.
"It is," said the young woman, nodding, "but I think it's a good career for me. I like knowing
that I'm helping people get better, and earning a good living.'
"What's your name again?" I said.
The young woman opened her mouth, but words didn't come out immediately as time seemed to
slow down. And then she said, "Bebe."
At this moment I started to shake. Could it be? Was it she?
"Bebe?" I said. "That, that's a lovely name."
"Thank you very much," said the young woman named Bebe. "Apparently, it came from my
biological mother."
"You're adopted?" I said.
"Yep," said Bebe. "My parents are actually -- can you believe it? -- Filipino."
"Are they treating you well?" I said. "Kind of an odd question to ask, I know, but sometimes I
hear horror stories about adopted children."
Bebe smirked. "They're the best parents in the world. I couldn't ask for anyone better. No horror
stories here."
"Um, do you mind if I ask you what your mother's name is?" I said. "I think I might know her."
"Really?" said Bebe.
"Yes," I said.
"Mindy," said Bebe. "Her name's Mindy."
I was at a loss for words. I didn't know what to say. This was either my daughter, or one hell of
a coincidence. But I had to make sure.
"Mindy?" I said, not wanting to blow my cover. "I don't know her."
"Aw, too bad," said Bebe. "I could've told her hello for you."
"By the way," I said, "that's a peculiar accent you have."
"Is it?" said Bebe.
"You're not from this side of the country, are you?" I asked.
"How perceptive of you," said Bebe. "No. I'm not from around here. I came here to attend

college."
"What city are you from?" I asked. "I think we might come from the same area."
When Bebe told me where she was from it confirmed my every suspicion. I knew it now this
was my daughter, the one I'd reluctantly left behind 17 years ago. I started to cry. I couldnt help it.
After all this time, I knew she was safe, and happy, and doing well for herself. The relief overwhelmed
me. Tears ran down my face without hesitation.
"Are you alright?" said Bebe. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"
"No, I'm fine," I said. "I was just thinking about something. You remind me of someone I once
knew."
"Who is that?" said Bebe.
"My daughter," I said.
"Oh," said Bebe, with a shy grin. "That's funny. We sorta look alike, don't we?"
"Just a little," I said. "The hair and eyes."
Bebe caressed her long, golden hair.
"Well," she said, "I really have to get going now. Unless you need something?"
"No, thank you," I said. "I'm fine. I have everything I need."
"Well, alright," said Bebe. "See yah later?"
"See yah later," I said.
And just like that Bebe was gone from my world again, but this time I felt no sorrow. I knew
that all those years ago I'd made the right decision. My once daughter was going to college to become a
nurse, and she was kind, and smart, and had a smile that could melt an icy heart. She was doing better
than I ever imagined, and even though I didn't raise her, I was damned proud of how she turned out.
But soon after getting a clean bill of health it was time to leave. There was a taxi outside waiting
for me. I stepped off the curb, and went inside the bright yellow car. The driver asked me, "Where to?"
and I told him my address.
As we took off, I stared behind, through the rear window, watching the hospital ever so slowly
disappear. I then sat in silence, and took out a locket from around my neck. I opened it to see a picture
of a young me, and an even younger Bebe.
Looking at her petite face made me yearn to hold her again in my arms, but I knew because of
what I did that could never be. Yet a light in my heart shone, like the golden glow of an eternal sun.
Knowing my daughter was being kept in good hands, that she was growing into a smart, beautiful
woman, I was put at ease, and finally, after so many years, that empty feeling inside of me disappeared.
I now felt whole, and for the first time in my life I truly was happy.
THE END
Epilogue
A week later, when I found the courage I needed, I returned to the hospital to find Bebe. By coincide,
Mindy was there too, and I explained the whole situation to the both of them, what happened all those
years ago, and why I'd disappeared.
I expected them to be aghast, yet they welcomed me back into their lives with open arms. Bebe,
contrary to what I expected, had no bitter feelings towards me whatsoever. In fact, she was excited to
meet me, and shortly after I became a part of her world again. She considered me to be nothing less
than her mother, and I was there for her in all her moments of joy, and sadness, and pain, and love, and
I never ever left her side again.
We were inseparable.