"Jesus wept! What exactly did you have for dinner anyway?" 
 
I didn't care for his tone. 
 
"We didn't really have time for dinner," I told him. "I snacked later." 
 
"Snacked on what? Baby skunks and ass?" 
 
"You know, the usual. Pepper rings, dill pickles, celery and Chicken-In-A-Biscuit crackers," I recalled. "Oh, and nine beers." 
 
"Well that's just rude," he scolded. "You stink and, quite frankly, you smell bad too." 
 
"I don't know why you're so upset," I said. "What's the big deal? This is a conference call..." 
 
"Not for me it isn't," he answered back. "Not for me." 

"And so what have you been working on these days?" 
 
"Not a lot. Mostly just staring at my monitors and trying to stay awake." 
 
"Hey," he apologized, "I didn't mean anything by that and I know it's not my place to ask you questions. I'm just making conversation is all." 
 
He stirred his coffee nervously - frenetically even. 
 
What he didn't know was that I'd answered him truthfully and without sarcasm. 
 
I'm new at this. He'll learn. Or he won't.

The cart rattled and whined like a spastic monkey on the lam - hopped up on the good stuff and never looking back. 
 
"Oh for fuck sake!!" 
 
I didn't think she needed to be so snippy. She certainly didn't have to shout like that. 
 
"Go get a different cart!" she ordered. "What is wrong with you?" 
 
"I didn't pick the cart," I explained. "It picked me." 
 
She knew I'd spoken the truth.

She stopped me before we could even get out of the house. 
 
"Whoa! What's with the shoes? You're NOT wearing those..." 
 
"Yeah, I didn't want to but I parked on one of the black ones." 
 
"You parked your car on your shoe?" 
 
She had a right to be incensed. 
 
"I did," I explained calmly, "I parked the car on my shoe." 
 
"So just move it!" 
 
"I can't," I stressed. "There's a car on it. Try to keep up."

I suspect the bumper sticker represented the costliest accessory ever applied to the rusty old truck. 
 
"If my American Flag offends you please call 1-800-LEAVE-USA" 
 
I wondered aloud as to where the homegrown patriot might have driven his old Ford. To imagine that he'd offended people in such great numbers as to necessitate this peculiar explanatory message intrigued and distracted me to interaction. 
 
"You know, I don't have a problem with your flag," I told him, "but your bumper sticker is more than a little embarrassing. Do I call the same number or can you just give them my message?"

"Dry or die." 
 
"Your resolve in this matter is refreshing." 
 
"Surely it's not uncommon," he said. "I mean, you must know a lot of people who insist on feeding their cats only dry food." 
 
"Oh it's not that," I told him, "it's just that I've never known anyone to have an actual saying for it is all."

I'd had enough. I felt a little sorry for him as he'd already lost - so far from home. 
 
"It's funny how you just seem to keep talking," I said, "Why do you do that?" 
 
"I guess because there's always hope, right?" he replied. 
 
"No," I answered, "there's not always hope. The truly successful accept that they'll lose more often than they'll win." 
 
He could poorly hide his frustration. He'd traveled a long way for this opportunity. 
 
"Does that mean they need to give up? Does that mean they need to stop trying to win?" 
 
"Yes," I told him, "That's exactly what it means." 
 
I left the room and I suppose he flew home. 
 
He'll mend. He'll be back and I suspect he'll win the next time I see him. 
 
 

"You SUCK!!!" she shouted - more angrily than I'd come to expect from the prodigy. 
 
"Sure," I conceded, "but I do other things too."

My daughter approaches me as I move to let her pass: 
 
"What are you doing?" 
"Standing here." 
"Why there?" 
"Why not?" 
"Because when you stand there you're sort of creepy." 
"Where would you prefer that I stand?" 
"Not there maybe?" 
"Sorry. That's not a place."

"Why are men so fascinated with breasts?" she asked, so very conversationally. 
 
"Why would you pose such an absurd question and then look at me as if you really expected an answer?" 
 
"I though that perhaps you could shed some light is all," she explained. 
 
"No. You didn't. Now let's talk about what's really on your mind." 

She accused us of using “Smutty Wisecracks.” 
 
“Smutty Wisecracks.”  
 
I haven't heard the two words together since the argument with my grandmother that changed our relationship forever. 
 
In my defense, Lawrence Welk couldn't have had such a greenish hue in real life and he did sort of sound like he was talking with a penis in his mouth - for all I knew anyway.

She slipped in next to me on the 6 and said a “good morning” that struck me as more a test than a greeting. 
 
“Isn’t it sad that people feel they can’t reach out and talk to their neighbors on the subway?” she asked. 
 
“No,” I replied, “it’s not.”

"Listen to me," she whined, "and you might learn something. You might even live through this." 
 
"I wish I could extend you the same courtesy," I told her, "but you just talk too much for my taste." 
 
"Are you threatening me?" she asked, suddenly interested in my opinion. 
 
"No," I assured her, "but I just might have to kill myself if you don't find a way to shut the fuck up anytime soon."

"I was wondering when you might finally get around to taking down your Christmas lights." 
 
She'd stopped to talk to me from the sidewalk. Something about my demeanor must have invited the exchange. 
 
"Were you really troubled by my lights, Elfaba?" I asked, knowing that I'd just prolonged an exchange that would end poorly. 
 
"Every day I walk by here," she explained, "and wonder to myself when you're going to get those lights down. It's after Easter for Pete's sake!" 
 
"These things that you wonder to yourself should be kept there, Elfaba," I told her, "because no good will come from you sharing them with me."

"I don't know what THAT'S all about!" she shouted in a huff. 
 
She looked at me and at those around me as if we might, collectively, know what 'THAT' was all about. 
 
Her gaze landed on mine and she held a look of pure exasperation and disgust- her hands still open as if to catch a child that might have been running toward her from a very, very long distance. 
 
"Don't look at me," I said, shaking my head, "I don't know what THAT'S all about either."

"The ninja speaks through actions and not words," I reminded her, "so stop talking and just do the dishes please."

heavy monotone 
must be my reflection. 
somebody poked a hole in this dream it seems. 
 
all the words i moan 
must be of affection. 
it's all in my head and god, don't fix the hole in my dream.

A sad spectacle and difficult to witness without averting my eyes. 
 
Something akin to the command performance of an aged guitarist who never really had talent to start.

"You know," I started, cautiously, "saying something over and over again does not make it true." 
 
"Maybe not," she conceded, "but it makes you want it to be true, doesn't it?" 
 
"Not really," I argued. "It just makes me weary and you irrelevant." 
 
"Well then I guess we're talking about the same things after all." 
 
She smiled and winked without closing an eye. 
 
I hate it when she does that.

I fell in behind him and noticed straight away that he'd missed a loop with his cheap belt.  
 
As I sat across the table from him for hours on end it became increasingly apparent that he's probably missed many things in his life.

"So what's the word?"  
 
I asked him as if small talk could put the room at ease. 
 
"We're waitin' for a part," he answered in a down-home way that struck me as affective if not somewhat passive-aggressive. 
 
"A part?" 
 
"Yep. A part." 
 
"For a Leer Jet? We're waiting for a 'part' for a Leer Jet?" 
 
"You got it." 
 
"Tell you what," I said, moving closer, "let's just wait and fly out tomorrow." 
 
"Your call," he chirped. 
 
"Yeah," I muttered as I moved away, "my call."

"Dysentery snow angels and turded scrappers." 
 
Oh, it's my handwriting alright.  
 
Scrawled at the bottom of the wine list from Café Centro - the one at 45th and Vanderbilt. 
 
So I must have been there. Right?

She read anger or disappointment in my gestures. 
 
I had neither but rather a layer of subtle embarrassment if not even shame. 
 
How would I have come by the power to inspire such doubt in this person?  
 
I've sought no such endowment.

I found the scene off-putting at best; disorienting at worst. They applauded and cheered as if I'd accomplished something. A simple rustle of coats and programs would have pleased me as much if not more. 
 
As a reflex I offered back to them a ridiculous, pointed-hand clap - turning around slowly, my arms extended and clapping silently, to nod and acknowledge the room. 
 
I felt more an ass than I did when the fracas had first arisen.  
 
An awkward stand-off; an indifferent David clapping down a bored Goliath. 
 
There's less of this where that came from I suppose.

"Why do you still read the New York Times?" she asked, "We're not exactly in Manhattan anymore." 
 
"Why do you still read the Bible?" I replied, "We're not exactly in the Middle Ages either."

I met Roland when he still had a first name. 
 
"I worry some days," he told me, "that perhaps the overzealous have mistaken my gamings for dogma." 
 
"Surely you understand and appreciate just how influential your writings have become," I said with an appropriate air of incredulity.  
 
"I'm not a fool," he answered, swirling and studying his wine, "and I'm a mediocre prophet at best. No, it's neither my legacy nor my influence that haunt me these days. It's rather the manner in which my father's name has come to be attached to both." 
 
"Good one," I replied, "very subtle."

She left the house before I had a chance to wish her a good day at school. 
 
Her mornings probably benefit little from the ritual exchange.  
 
My days are different from hers. 
 
From the window I could see her step on to the sidewalk and start her way up forty-seventh street. 
 
I took my phone and sent her a text message as she scurried away: 
 
"BURIED WITH A DONKEY.  
HE MY FAVOURITE HONKEY." 
 
She stopped, fiddled with her phone for a second and, without looking back, continued on until she'd passed out of my view. 
 
A few seconds later my phone buzzed to life with a much anticipated response: 
 
"WHY?" 
 
That'll do for this day. That'll do.

Something happened as I slept. 
 
The fantasies that buzz and hum around me now are replacements. 
 
I once knew and ordered people according to their dreams and representations thereof. 
 
What I find sketched on the pavement these days would seem to involve legless patriots screeching "Move That Bus!" while hordes of shameless strangers weep quietly and dab their noses with lotion-infused tissues. 

I'll never see the other side of the moon. 
 
You won't either. 

She gave me a stare and shook her head almost imperceptibly. 
 
"For someone so astute," she started, "you sure wipe your hands on your pants a lot. 
 
"Astute?" I asked her. "I don't think that means what you think it means."