When the people came, they accepted it, accepted the shotgun against the back of the head and when it went off the ruin of his skull and a fine ten gallon hat; accepted the thick noose and feet twitching while the moon watched off the sea. Both were grateful to have had those last few moment of comprehension and peace, and anything that came after was merely the end of the road.

“Excuse me,” said the turtle.

“Oh!” said Hope. “I didn’t realize you spoke.”

“People usually don’t listen,” said the turtle.

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Hope.

“Since you are listening, may I ask you a favor?” said the turtle, craning his neck so that he could look Hope in the eye.

“Of course,” said Hope.

“I miss my pond,” said the turtle sadly. “This is a very nice tank, but it does not have big floating logs or sunshine. These pellets are very nice too, but they are not as tasty as flies. Do you think you could help me go back to my pond?”

“I will certainly try,” said Hope.

(Any illustrators among my readers?)

She recognizes inevitability when she sees it.

Dan shook his head, trying to compute this new information. “You mean… like Ghostbusters?”

“Kinda,” Fitzgerald said. “There’s more than ghosts, though. You should see Sidney Ponson fight zombies. He’s a master with his chainsaw.”

“Sidney Ponson?” he said weakly. His brain felt like a dry sponge assaulted by a firehose, the Babe Ruth poster behind the desk swimming in and out of focus.

Fitzgerald nodded. “Use your brain, Holland. Why do you think Ponson always has a job? It’s not for his changeup, let me tell you.”

There was a brisk knock at the door, and without waiting for a response,
Eduardo Lopez poked his head into the room. “Holá. Fitz, ¿dondé ésta el shotgun?”

“Sawed-off?” said Fitzgerald.

“Sí.”

“Jones had it last. Ask him when he’s done burning his unlucky bat.”

“Gracias.” Lopez gave a cheery little wave to Dan and withdrew.

Dan, without quite knowing how it happened, found that his head was between his knees, and that his lungs were burning curiously as he tried to draw deep breaths. Fitzgerald’s voice sounded strangely far away when he said, “No worries, Holland. You should have seen Lopez when I told him. He ralphed all over the desk, took weeks to get the smell out of here. Warn me if you need a bucket.”

Great, Dan thought, his stomach churning. He wished he hadn’t had enchiladas for lunch.

I sighed. “I need a girlfriend.”

Holly looked at me sympathetically. “Two years isn’t so…” she trailed off at the expression on my face. “Okay, yeah, it kind of is. Want me to break your leg?”

I blinked. “What?”

“I’ll break your leg. Then you can be all noble in your suffering. Girls love playing Florence Nightingale, I swear.”

“Uh… I’ll pass, thanks.” Though six more months of this hard-up misery and I’d probably cave.

…yep, I’ve got nothing this morning. (I choose to blame the arrival of my converted mini-cassette bootlegs of 1990s touring productions of various Broadway musicals. Yes, I am that much of a geek.)

In the stands today, we have a fan with a very important question…

“Ooh,” Jack said, breaking off my explanation of the infield fly rule. “Someone’s about to make a grand gesture.”

Samuel wants to know…

We both looked up at the Jumbotron as it cut to section 114 — “He sprang for the good seats,” I said, impressed in spite of myself — showing a young guy sitting next to a pretty blonde.

“How much do you think that costs?” Jack said. I shrugged in response.

Under the video onscreen, big block letters spelled out JUDY, WILL YOU MARRY ME? as the young guy knelt. Cheering broke out around the stadium.

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Lot of romantics here today.”

“Nah, just optimists. You have to be to root for…” I trailed off as the applause turned into unsettled muttering. The blonde had her hands over her mouth, shaking her head “No.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jack said.

The guy put his hand on the armrest, leaning in, still on bended knee, saying something. The girl’s headshakes became more vehement, nearly violent. “Christ,” I said, my throat tight. “Cut away. Why don’t they cut away?”

Agonizingly slowly, the young guy settled back on his haunches. The Jumbotron switched to a shot of the batter’s box. Even the DH looked unnerved.

Jack blew out a long breath. “Jesus.”

I shook my head. “This is why you never, ever ask unless you’re sure of the answer.” I stared resolutely at the pitcher’s mound and pretended not to feel Jack shifting next to me. “Now. If the batter pops up…”

She turned her head to the side and squinted at something invisible. “Do you think this is the way things should be?”

“Beg pardon?” I said, alarmed by the non-sequitur. “What things?”

“You know, things.” She gestured vaguely. “Life.”

I choked back the urge to add the universe and everything, because I suspected there was a right answer to be had here, and smartass geek snark surely wasn’t it. “Well,” I said, stalling, “there’s… always room for improvement.” Was that sufficiently vague and inoffensive?

She smiled faintly without meeting my eyes. “True enough.” I didn’t have enough time to process before she turned on a kitten heel and strolled off into the night. “See you around then,” she said over her shoulder.

It took me a second to respond, but then I called, “Yeah, see you,” my voice easily an octave higher than could possibly be considered cool.

I didn’t see her again. But now a woman is nothing without kitten heels.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“Because I didn’t want to talk to you.”

She had nothing to say to that.

From the steel walkway over the rail tracks, they could see five different fireworks displays — it overwhelmed the senses, that much light and sound and sulfur in the humid air.

Her face lit with blue and red flashes when she said, “Happy fourth of July,” before bouncing onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. She leaned over the railing to flick her cigarette, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that she missed his goofy grin.

When he splayed his hands across her bare ribcage, his mind flashed to the beach the previous summer — the wet crunch of snapping the steamed crab in two, the sting as a fragment of shell nicked his thumb, the feathery threads of lungs falling onto the brown paper tablecloth.

She didn’t understand why he rolled off so suddenly, and spent the rest of the evening wondering what she’d done wrong.

She wanted to leave when he destroyed the new radio trying to force it into the too-small slot in the dashboard, but she was twenty-nine years old and her younger sisters were already married.

He wanted to leave when she kept reading Nora Roberts while he talked about Reagan’s tax policies, but being with her distracted from the old obsessive fantasies about his ex.

Later they both stayed for the children, who prayed every night for a divorce.

I did in fact write something for today, but I’ve lost my notebook… if I left it at my mother-in-law’s, I’m going to jump off a bridge.

Holly:

I would like to start by saying I refuse to take the blame for any of this. Jake might be able to wallow in his own guilt for months at a time (having more or less majored in self-recrimination), but I’m able to look at things with a more analytical eye. Picking at scabs will get you nowhere. What happened wasn’t Jake’s fault, my fault, or really anyone’s fault that I know of, except maybe whoever made the door… the point being, some things are unexplainable. Fate, maybe. Or luck. Weird, weird luck.

***

Jake:

It was all my fault. I should never have moved into the house in the first place. Especially once I saw the kitchen.

Thomas: Fair ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am Thomas, a bard. I have traveled far and wide from my home of Stratford–

Friar: [interrupting] Stratford upon Avon?

Thomas: …yes.

Friar: My goodness! Just like William Shakespeare!

Thomas: [testy] Not exactly.

Friar:  I didn’t even know there was another bard from that town!

Thomas: Stratford upon Avon is certainly large enough to have produced more than one playwright, my good man. Now, if we–

Friar: Have you ever met him?

Thomas: [now decidedly snappish] I have.

Friar: Is he–

Thomas: –an overrated prat? Yes. Yes he is. If I may continue?

When she and Doug bought the house, the tiny, sunlit backyard had sent Angela into spasms of delight. Finally, a garden! She would plant tomatoes and turnips and basil and peppers and, and, and… But closing took forever, and by the time the floors were varnished and the furniture was in place, the grass had gone crunchy beneath the first frost.

Determined that the growing season would not be a complete loss, Angela grabbed a spade and lined the back fence with mint plants, her breath misting her glasses as she dug. Snow fell a week later, and that was the sum total of her first year of gardening.

Unfortunately, no one had told her that you need to plant mint in a pot, or it takes over. Two years later, Doug was gone, the floors were scuffed, and a sea of mint was suffocating everything in its path.

Thomas: So, what shall we perform next, then?

Choir Girl: Ooh! Ooh! Romeo and Juliet!

Thomas: No.

Choir Girl: [leaping up and down] But it’s the best play ever! Did you know I met Mr. Shakespeare once? He was soooo dreamy, and he sparkled in the sunlight like diamonds, then he got out his quill and he gave me his signature right here– [starts to pull down her bodice]

Thomas: [interrupting] Yes, yes, yes. That’s all well and good, but sadly, we don’t have a copy of the script. Better luck next time.

Choir Girl: It’s okay! I’ve memorized every line!

Thomas: …of course you have.

She lifted her fingers from the keyboard and smiled at her daughter. “Do you hear now how the triplets work? It’s very simple.” She pulled the bench out from the piano. “Your turn.”

“Mo-om…” Olivia said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t reach the octaves. My fingers are too small.”

“Oh, honey, they’ll stretch. I was playing this when I was six. You just need practice, that’s all.” She pointed mock-sternly at the sheet music. “I’m going to go make macaroni, and by the time I’m done, I want to hear the first three pages with no mistakes, okay?”

“I always make mistakes,” Olivia muttered.

“You’re learning! I know you’ll get it this time,” she said. As she walked up the stairs, she called, “Half an hour! Make use of it!”

Olivia opened her mouth, closed it without saying anything, and sat down at the piano.

I am going to say it, he thought, watching her pull her stockings back on. This time I am going to say it.

As she zipped her skirt, he saw his opportunity — shoeless, hair down, still a little flushed — but his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t think of the right words. Then her hair was clipped and her glasses were on and the perimeter fences were in place.

“I’ll see you Monday,” she said. “Have the Stevenson Spreadsheet ready — I crunched the numbers and they look solid. Tony said he wanted the pie charts in blue tones.”

“Right,” he said.

She left, and he spent an hour berating himself before he finally fell asleep.

Jessica sorted her mail — bill, bill, Visa offer, Gap coupon, bill — then opened the only envelope with a handwritten address. And scowled at the contents. “Fuck that shit,” she said, tossing the letter directly into the wastebasket.

“Collectors again?” her roommate said, not looking away from American Idol. Jessica thought about telling her to get her feet off the coffee table, but they’d grabbed the thing off the side of the road anyway (back when they were sophomores and that still seemed cool), so to be snappish about proper treatment of dumpster furniture would sound kind of stupid. Anger displacement, the psych minor part of Jessica’s brain informed her. Fuck off, said the other part — the fifty grand in student debt part.

“Nah.” Jessica sank into the recliner, idly watching Simon make a girl in a halter top cry. She hesistated, then said, “High school reunion. Ten years.”

“Oh, you should totally go,” her roommate said. “When I went to mine, the head of the girl’s lacrosse team had had four babies and her hips were wider than her shoulders. It was awesome.”

“Not worth it,” Jessica said. “The Pep Club chick did gain a hundred pounds, but I can see that on Facebook.”

“So what’s the problem? Were you an outcast? If so, you should definitely go in the little black dress. And the red boots. The red boots are made of win.”

“No, I was popular.” She folded her legs underneath her. “I was voted most likely to succeed.”

“And?”

“And I work at Target.”

“So?”

“So… I work at Target.”

Her roommate looked away from the TV for the first time. “Yeah, well, who cares? You’ve got a college degree.”

“And I work at Target.”

“You’re smart. You’re always reading.”

“And I work at Target.”

“You’re dating a really sweet guy that brings you ice cream and everything.”

“Who also works at Target.”

Her roommate rolled her eyes and turned back to the TV. “Forget it. There’s no talking to you in this mood.”

They watched American Idol in silence for a couple of minutes. “I think Paula’s drunk,” Jessica said in way of a peace offering.

“Sure as hell looks like it,” her roommate acknowledged affably. Randy said “dawg” a few times, then– “So, can I have him?”

“Huh?”

“Jed,” her roommate said. “I don’t care that he works at Target.”

A strange feeling settled into Jessica’s stomach. “No. You can’t have him.”

“Okay.” Without missing a beat, she continued, “I don’t think Paula’s drunk so much as she’s stoned. Look at her eyes. They’re worse than her nail polish.”

Jessica almost pursued it, but she wasn’t sure how. Lethargy won out. “I don’t know,” she said, picking up the TiVo remote. “Let’s rewind it and take a closer look.”

“Sweet.”

He spent forty-five minutes inching along, cursing the sedan behind him, the SUV in front of him, the entire state Department of Transportation, and Henry Ford for inventing the automobile in the first place.  And when he finally passed the obstruction — a Chevy Cavalier flipped on its back, crushed like a tin can — he was surprised to find the sight did not release him from his anger.

On Friday they drew her blood. They said they would call with the results in a week, and she managed to drive herself home even though the roads were slippery and her vision was covered in grainy spots.

On Saturday she had lunch with her mother, who chattered about the neighbor’s new privacy fence in between bites of chicken and avocado sandwich. She thought about mentioning the test and the upcoming call, but there never seemed to be a proper segue. Besides, mulling over the possible implications of Mrs. Sanders setting up a privacy fence after twenty years of cup-of-sugar-borrowing friendliness was kind of fun.

On Sunday she skipped church and ate cereal for dinner.

On Monday she went to her friend’s house for chili and knitting. She had planned to start an afghan to replace her old throw/picnic blanket from college (the one covered in grass stains), but settled on baby booties for her nephew instead.

On Tuesday Jim the copy guy asked if everything was okay. A polite smile and a sincere “Oh, just fine, it’s just that the radiator in my apartment keeps banging and making it hard to sleep — I really need to get around to calling the super” ended the line of inquiry, but Jim interpreted the fake cheeriness as flirting and kept chatting for twenty minutes. She wondered how she kept getting herself into these things.

On Wednesday she paid the bills, wondered if she should just blow off the Visa payment, and then wondered if doing so would be a jinx. She decided to pay twice the minimum monthly just in case. Then she went to the grocery store and bought a package of Double-Stuf Oreos.

On Thursday she took the bus and told herself it was because she was being environmentally-friendly and not because she couldn’t see the stoplights.

On Friday they called. She hung up the phone, poured a glass of milk, and ate the Oreos.

The Ewok: When was the prophetic baby born? For that matter, when was it conceived?

Dungeon Master: Well, you’re Dragonborn. Roll a Nature Check for human physiology.

The Ewok: [rolls] Uh…

The Wookiee: [looking at the die] What is this whole ‘born’ business? The relevant question is when the egg was laid!

Robin G.: And how this baby is EVER going to grow strong if the sire doesn’t start regurgitating some partially digested sheep for it to eat.

The Wookiee: Yeah, he’s been getting so hungry that he’s been trying to eat his mother’s chestflesh. And she doesn’t try to stop him.

DM: Must be some kind of local custom.

The Ewok: Weird creatures, these humans.

Communication is everything.

1987

Daddy and I are having a Fight. I wanted to watch Cartoons, he wanted to watch The News. I hate The News. I know how to use the New Remote now, so I put on Cartoons. Daddy yelled, and I went to my room.

For a little while I kick things because it is Not Fair. I kick my toy bin and my bed and my Care Bear and my blanket. Now my room is a mess and my toes hurt but I’m not so mad anymore, but I feel bad for my things, because I wasn’t mad at them. So I hug my toy bin and my bed and my Care Bear and my blanket and tell them I’m Sorry. I don’t think they forgive me yet, but I will play with them later and then maybe they won’t be so sad.

I wonder if it’s okay to come downstairs yet. I wonder if there’s tuna fish sandwiches. I Sit-Go-Down on the stairs, like I did when I was Little, because it is quiet and I can peek around the bottom of the stairs and see if Daddy is still mad.

Daddy is sitting in the Recliner, with his face down. He might still be mad. I try to sneak into the kitchen, but Daddy sees me and says, “Robin.”

Uh-Oh.

“Come here.”

I do.

Daddy puts me on his lap and hugs me. I hug him back. I’m glad we’re not mad anymore. Being mad makes my Stomach hurt (Ms. Strauss says it’s a Stomach, not a Tummy, and she’s usually right about this stuff).

Daddy says, “Want to Kiss and Makeup?” He is smiling.

I wrinkle my nose. I hate makeup. My cousin keeps trying to put Lipstick and Eyeshadows on me, and Mommy buys me Nail Polish, which works good on my paintings but looks silly on my toes. Barbies have big blue circles over their eyes, and even though Blue is my very favorite color, I think they look dumb. I hate makeup.

So I say, “I’ll Kiss, but I don’t want to Makeup.” I am about to say we should play something else, like Hungry Hungry Hippos, but Daddy looks madder than before, so I don’t say anything at all. He says, “Fine,” and he kisses me on the cheek and sets me down on the floor and he walks upstairs.

I guess I did something bad again.

2002

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to come,” The Wookiee says on the other end of the line. I sit down on the common room couch and trying to keep breathing.

“Why not?”

“I don’t… I can’t afford the ticket.” I know him well enough by now to know what it costs him to say that. He’s dirt poor. So am I. Flying out there last month had eaten most of my savings, even at post-9/11 airline prices.

Long distance relationships suck.

I don’t want to push it, don’t want to sound like the neediest, most co-dependent creature to ever walk the earth, but the words burst out before I can stop them: “But I want to see you.”

A long, sad breath. “I want to see you, too. But—”

I know the next words that are going to come out of his mouth, I know them, and the band around my chest squeezes so tight that I swear I can hear my ribs crack—

“—I just… don’t think this is going to work out.”

Oh, God.

“I’m sorry.” And he sounded it.

Of course it wasn’t going to work out. He lives a thousand miles away. A relationship can’t last when you can only see each other a few times a year. The amazing thing is that it actually lasted this long. He’s probably even interested in someone else out there, some Scandinavian blonde leggy thing that lives right across the street and isn’t the neediest, most co-dependent creature to ever walk the earth…

I put my head between my knees and tried to force some air into my lungs. Nellie and Sarah give me curious looks on their way to the dorm kitchen, but don’t stop.

“…Robin? Are you there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” Okay. Get off the phone. Pretend to be fine. Leave with your dignity, at least.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Leave with your dignity. Don’t beg. Do. Not. Beg. “So… it’s over, then?” My voice cracks. Of course it cracks. To leave with dignity you have to have some to start with.

“What? Over?” I can almost see him blinking. “You’re breaking up with me?” The words come out shocked and panicked.

Huh? “You’re… you’re the one that said it wasn’t working out. So, technically, you’re the one breaking up with me. If we’re putting it on the record.” Humor is almost like dignity, right? When you’re being dumped by a guy you adore and you’re hyperventilating, it’s best to take what you can get.

“What? No! I’m not – I meant the trip! I was thinking maybe next month instead of this month. It sucks, but… no! I love you! I’m not breaking up with you! I… Robin? Hello?”

The air rushes back into my lungs, and in between my sudden inexplicable laughter, I realize that this is the man I’m going to marry.

For this I blame The Chef entirely, because now I can’t get the fucking thing out of my head.

Once upon a time, I was deeply, deeply into Broadway musicals. This led to The Time In Drama, of which I may or may not speak at a later date. I don’t listen too much to showtunes anymore, mostly because my collection is largely based around the tastes of the angsty fifteen year old I once was, and it’s not healthy to listen to that much Andrew Lloyd Webber on a regular basis.

I’ve started going through my songs recently, however, because the annual cabaret is coming up, and The Wookiee will need something to sing with his brother, The Ewok. They’ve already done Agony from Into the Woods, and clever male duets are kind of hard to come up with beyond that. I’m gunning for Dirty Rotten Number form Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, but we’ll have to see, I suppose. And did you know that Schadenfreude is NOT in the Avenue Q piano book? What is this world coming to?

If anyone has any suggestions, by all means, post them here. I’m at a bit of a loss.