How would you react to your best friend telling you she was pregnant?

Holy crap, Amy!  Who's the father?  You're freakin' forty-two years old!  Why would you do this?  How can you even...  I mean...  Okay, I'll ask.  How can you even hope to pay for a kid right now?  Wait!  Where are you even going to put it?

Geez.  No.  Seriously.  You live in a one-room apartment over a garage.  You barely have room for your cats, so how will a baby and all its stuff fit in there?  Hold on a moment...

When did this happen?  I mean, when are you due?  Have they been able to tell you about this baby yet?  Is it...okay?  I know we're not ancient yet, but, still, the odds of genetic disorders goes up.  And since when were you regular enough to even get pregnant?  What are the odds of that?  Alright, back to the genetic thing.  Is the baby okay?  Can they tell?

No, wait.  Go back further than that.  Who's the father?  How did you...  Who did you...  When did you...  Was it...natural?  Did you purchase a...um...donor?  Does the guy know?  Will you tell him?

Yeah, you're right, I think I'm hyperventilating.  I've got to find a paper bag.  Hold on...

Okay.  I'm back.  While I'm breathing here, you tell me.

Uh huh.

You only have how long left?  That'll be this year!  Okay...  Breathing.

Uh huh.

No, I don't remember you telling me.

Uh huh.  Well, I don't check Facebook regularly so I didn't...

Uh huh.

Okay, that's good.  But what about...

Uh huh.  And your parents are alright with that?

Ha!  I'll bet they did!  Was it your mom or your dad who...

Oh, my God.  Well, that's good, I guess.  Okay.  Hey, can you paint your old room purple again?  Ha!

Uh huh.  You're naming it what?

Weren't those your cats' names?

Ha!  You can't do that!  Do your parents know those were your cats' names?  Ha!

Huh.  Well, all right.  It sounds like you have it all planned out.  That's good.  I'm just so shocked.  I thought it would be you and me who never had kids.  Now it's just me, I guess.

No.  He's had a vasectomy.  Unless a miracle occurred between the tubes, it's not happening.

Yeah, well, I guess yours is a miracle.  Congratulations, Amy.  Hey--at least it's not twins!

What?!?

What makes you blush?

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I still reply it in my mind.

Horrible.  Stupid.  Lame.  But that's the way public restrooms are.  I rejoice in the empty public restroom, but how often does it stay that way?  Spying between the cracks.  Maybe even ducking to check for feet.  Listening carefully for sounds.  Nobody there?  Hurry!  Into the stall to paper the seat and do your business before anyone enters, except...  The paper wouldn't come loose.

I spun and spun.  It was full roll, but I couldn't find the end!  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  Somebody enters and goes into the handicapped stall.  Spin, spin, scrabble and spin.  Where's the frigging end?  I gave up.  I left the stall and futzed around at the sink.  The other other stall had some fat woman trickling in little bursts and shifting her tiny feet stuffed into tiny shoes on the tile floor.  I pretended I was busy.  I had to pee so badly, but I was too stupid to figure out the toilet paper!  Maybe it was because I had to pee.  I paced.  I listened for the sound of pants being lifted, and the door opened.  You walked in.

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry you asked me if I was going into that stall because what could I say but, "No."  I couldn't add that I was too stupid to figure out where the end of the roll was.  You went in.  The fat lady rolled out.  I ran in and held my breath from the stink while you spun the roll.  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  And cursing.  Cursing me.

I came out first and was washing my hands as fast as I could, but I wasn't fast enough.  You drip-dried and burst out of the stall like a gunslinger slapping open the doors to the cantina.  You saw me and your eyes narrowed in the mirror.  You faced my reflection and I blushed and blushed and blushed and thought, "Oprah waits for the handicapped stall because she likes it.  Maybe that's what I was doing.  Maybe that's it.  That's it.  I didn't even know.  How could I know?  Maybe I only decided at the last moment I should pee.  How do you know I was even in that stall?"  You knew.

"You could have told me.  That was awful, not telling me.  You let me go in there, and you knew.  You're horrible."

I'm horrible.  I know.  Public restrooms.  Horrible places that bring out the horribleness in me.  I can't talk in a public restroom.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, but I couldn't tell you.  I can't discuss anything bathroom-related, much less public bathroom-related.  I wish you hadn't been there.  I wish I had been able to talk.  I wish you had found the end of the paper the way I thought you would.  I wish you hadn't yelled at me and looked at me with such hate.  Such hate that twisted your face and haunts me to this day.  I wish I could let go, but I'm like that toilet paper: stuck in a loop.  I'm sorry, lady.  Forgive me.

What question have you never been asked that you want to answer?

I have a great apartment.  Crappy, but great.  It's in a terrible part of the city, but it's the entire second floor of a commercial building.  My mother thought I'd be assaulted and raped every day, but I've not yet felt very threatened, even late at night.  Inside is sanctuary, if a bit sparse.  It's an open floor plan and has high ceilings, which means I essentially live in a giant brick box.  I bring my bike up one of those old-fashioned service elevators that I dreamed of ever since I saw Flashdance in the theaters, twice.  I have to bundle like an Inuit from late fall through spring, putting on more winter gear inside than out.  To turn on my computer, I have to unplug everything in my kitchen, but it's worth the slight hassle to have the freedom of the place, and the giant windows looking down on the street.

In high school, I was a dope.  I guess every teenager is a bit dopy simply because of the learning curve, but I look back and have complete and total awareness of my dopiness.  I lived in the suburbs and the sidewalks were rolled up by 9:00 pm.  I had terrible insomnia brought on by thinking about the miserable state of my love life, and about how I wanted to be taller and blonder and more fit, and about how I wanted to live an adventure like I saw in the movies.  I would crawl out of my little twin bed and sit on my dresser to look out the window.  I would crank the casements open and wrap myself in a comforter so the radiant baseboard heat would keep me warm.  I'd even take out the screens so I could look out clearly, just in case.  In case of what?

In case Jason from sixth period Government would finally have succumbed to his desire for me, found my address, and ridden his bike over at three in the morning to whisk me away.  I wanted to be ready.

In case Bill from third period Chemistry would ditch his weird obsession with my friend and instead walk the streets of our town, calling my name, and wishing as badly as I did that I would hear him.

In case Indiana Jones would ride up on a motorcycle and ask me to join him in the sidecar because he needed a companion on his next trip to Egypt.

God, was I a dope.

What's worse is that I'm still a dope.

Here I sit, the same goddamn comforter wrapped around me, in my ill-advised open window at three in the morning, wishing something would happen, someone would need me, I would have somewhere to go.

If you could be any ice cream flavor, which would you be and why?

The ice cream truck in my neighborhood peddles death.  Not even hiding it.  The music is out of tune and changes pitch and rhythm.  It sings, "Here he comes, the ice cream man, he's come to scoop your brains out."  And yet, they run.  The tinny tinkling and the footsteps thunder taking them all one by one.  Not just the children, but the adults who should know better, too.  The darkest days, with lowering clouds, rumbles of thunder, ominous and low, you can feel it in your chest before you realize what you hear.  The streets shadowed in the light grey of dusk, the time of day you're most likely to be hit by a vehicle.  Leaves and dried things scurry and hide, but the customers, the customers always come running.

Pageant Question: Compare yourself to your favorite food.

He was in hot water, and he knew it.  Detective Jamison dreaded the meeting he'd have with the chief, seven minutes with him could seem like hours, but he had to get it over with.  Jamison was still stiff from the run in he'd had with the latest suspect, a motorcycle gang member they called Bear, and he needed to try to loosen up.  When he got into the chief's office, though, Jamison realized the man had been hitting the sauce.  It wasn't like Chief to drink, much less during the workday, so something horrible must have happened.  "Chief, you wanted to see me?"  The man's bloodshot eyes and red nose meant more than just the sauce.  "What happened, sir?"

The chief swallowed a couple of times.  "Marianna.  She's...dead."

Detective Jamison couldn't believe the news.  His partner.  Dead.  It couldn't be.  "Where?  How?  How is it possible?  How do you know?"

"Easy now, detective.  It has been confirmed.  But her body hasn't been found."


NOTE: did you get my not-so-subtle hint at one of my favorite foods?  Even the last line has a slightly more subtle hint...

Pageant Question: What have you done to make a difference in someone's life in the past three days?

Jesse had always believed he had a guardian angel.  His grandmother had been the one to introduce the concept.  Jesse's parents hadn't been all that religious, but Grandma Jean sure was.  She hung the crucifix in his room.  She gave him his first rosary.  She taught him how to pray before bed.  And she was the reason he thought his good luck came from a guardian angel.  His grandmother didn't know Jesse talked to Max every night, and sometimes when the days got a little rough.  His grandmother, who died before Jesse graduated high school, also wouldn't know that at age 29, Jesse still believed.  Not even "believed"; Jesse knew.

Pageant Question: What food best describes your personality?

Spaghetti night meant Ragu meat sauce with thin spaghetti and Lender's garlic bagels, only in this house, they called them "beagles".  A portion of spaghetti was always left to the side in a bowl for Mara, who preferred plain butter to the sauce.  Mara's younger brother ate everything, mixed together.  Dean would even tear his bagel into pieces and mix it into the spaghetti with sauce.  Neither ever wanted to try the red wine vinaigrette salad, and they wouldn't until nearly high school.  "Finger tastes" of Dad's red wine were a must, but only with washed hands.  Finally, all the plates were out, the beagles warmed in the microwave and buttered, the console television turned towards the kitchen table, and Mara waited patiently to ask permission.

"May I?" she finally asked, her hands hovering over her bowl of buttered noodles.

Mom checked that the bathroom door was already open.  "Go ahead."

Mara gleefully grabbed her pile of spaghetti with both hands and bit through the middle, buttering the sides of her face.  Making sure the remaining noodles were back in the bowl, Mara announced, "Be right back!" and she raced off to the bathroom (door open) to wash her buttered hands.

Mom and Dad made eye contact and smiled wryly, while Dean broke his beagle into tiny pieces and dropped them into his sauce.

Pageant Question 34: If you could un-invent an invention, which would you choose and why?

My boyfriend is from another dimension.  True story.  He appeared in my bedroom, naked and screaming.  If that's not a fantastic way to start a weird relationship, I don't know what is.  It happened like this:

Me: sleeping, twisted in my ancient Hello Kitty sheets and comforter, drooling onto my pillow.

The sound and feel of a giant vacuum pulling all the air from the room, followed by a loud *pop!*

Han (my boyfriend): writhing on the ground in pain, sucking wind as hard as he can and letting it back out in a hair-raising scream.

My parents: moved to Vegas and left me the house when I graduated high school two years before, so I was alone.

My neighbors: tiredly expect my life to be weird.

Han, which is a ridiculously short abbreviation of his real name, has been living with me for a few months now.  I call him my boyfriend, but that's what I have to do because he lives here.  He is not, technically, my boyfriend.  I don't have anybody who could really care, but, still, it's easier to say "boyfriend" than to explain why this dude lives in my house and is with me all the time.

Pageant Question 30: Besides your family, who have you learned the most from and what did you learn?

From my piano teacher, I learned that mocking someone does not make them want to improve.
From my third grade teacher, I learned that rocking the boat makes people nervous.
From my general practitioner, I learned that a great deal of education does not necessarily make a person smart.
From the family who took my old truck for scrap, I learned that people can live on next to nothing.
From my first boyfriend, I learned that looks aren't everything.
From my landlord, I learned that you can't always tell who's a bigot.
From an old man I passed on the street, I learned that you can live right up to the moment you're dead.

What have they learned from me?  What should they have learned from me?

My piano teacher learned that his students are lazy, but he should have learned that students yearn to be good.
My third grade teacher learned that bullying works, but she should have learned that children remember forever.
My general practitioner learned that his wisdom was rarely heeded, but he should have learned to listen.
The family who took my old truck for scrap learned that if you ask, you may receive even more than you hoped for, and they should have learned that the world needs to know how the poor survive.
My first boyfriend learned that I wasn't right for him, but he should have learned that girls desperate for a boyfriend have no idea what they're doing.
My landlord learned that his audience will listen, but he should have learned that I thought he was wrong.
The old man learned that people stare at illness, but he should have learned that I wished him safe journey.

Pageant Question 17: Sell us your favorite product.

"Here's to good friends," Tony said, raising his glass, "tonight is kinda special."  The work group from Consolidated Conglomerate approved of the sentiment and drank from their Glassworx glasses or mugs, available in many different sizes to suit their needs.

George was new, so before standing with his own toast, he asked John, "Canai?"

Tony was surprised the new guy wanted to speak to the group already, but there was no reason why not.  "Yes you can."

George stood, clearing his throat.  "There's something special in the air," he began, and everyone began nodding, feeling it.  "We're doing what we do best and we try harder.  We think different.  Manly, yes, but women like it, too."  The others in Meyers' Clothiers Suits and Work-Wear laughed. When the laughter started to die down, George asked, "Can you hear me now?"  When they were silent and attentive, he continued, "With imagination at work, oh, the possibilities!  We bring out the best, and anything less would be uncivilized.  Thank you for your support."

During the rousing round of applause for the new guy, Tony stood and shook George's hand, "I love you, man."

304

Meanwhile, in the Seventh Circle of Hell, Drachmach was rolling grit into his fingernails when he felt the sudden and irresistible urge to stand, which he did, and turn in a circle three times, which he also did.  When he was done, Drachmach was no longer in Hell, the Seventh Circle, Molten Quarter, Drachmach's scrape-hole, but rather he stood in a cavernous room, the stone floor smooth, cold, and covered with chalk scratchings.  Torches flickered on the far away walls, and coals burned dimly in a portable fire nearby.  A man, a human, knelt outside the chalk scratchings, making noises and raising and lowering his hands.  It took Drachmach a few moments to work through his disorientation to realize what had happened: a human sorcerer had abducted him.

263

I dreamt last night that you died.

How horrible!  Was it?

No, because you were already dead.  I was helping set up your estate sale when I realized that it was you.  I was saddened, of course.

How did I die?

I don't know.  You did have some nice collectables for the sale.

Do you think it could be prophesy?

Not unless you have some vintage Christmas cut-outs in storage.

No... No, I don't.  I suppose that's good.

I wouldn't worry.  I usually dream about being lost in a labyrinth or losing teeth, and that's not yet happened.

Perhaps.

248

Script pitch: Love story about a shy man who suddenly finds himself reaching old age without a companion.

Lead role: Gene Wilder

Opening: An older man (mid-70s) sits alone in his rather large, neat, beach-front cottage home in Connecticut.  We see him go about his morning, making himself tea, doing the puzzle in the paper, and painting in his home studio.  We finally see him looking in his calendar.  Forthcoming are a few doctor's appointments and one art opening that looks important.  The man looks rather disappointed that he doesn't have a more full social calendar.  He makes a decision and grabs his "little black book".  The entries are old, and many are crossed off with notes like "married", "moved to California", and "deceased".

228

A warm evening wind rustled the tall grasses of the empty lots in the city.  The streets on the East Side were as quiet as the country, crickets chirping to herald the dark.  The crumbling sidewalks were absorbed into the scrubby weeds long ago as had any foundation and driveway remnants.  Only one in twenty houses still stood for blocks in any direction.  The city had become the country by neglect.

A few homesteaders had been able to take advantage of the urban blight.  Initially mocked by friends and family, they now owned huge swaths of land and often very nice houses.  Once such homesteader had a quirky, rather than "green", streak, and bought up three separate houses, two next door and one on the street behind, as well as acres of empty lots.

206

Living on a street like this in a fast-deteriorating part of a declining city was less difficult than those not acquainted with the neighborhood would think, but it was more disturbing.  Sheila's house had been broken into twice, but nothing had been stolen.  The first time, the man left when she screamed, and she thought maybe he was a squatter rather than a burglar.  The second time, she came downstairs, baseball bat in hand, to find the burglar passed out in a puddle of vomit on her kitchen floor.  Sheila made coffee, working around the man's snoring form, and sat, watching him, baseball bat across her robed lap, until he woke.  He cleaned up his mess, had two cups of coffee, and left before dawn.

195

She said it was going to go right out the window, and there it went.  Right out the window.  Frannie didn't even bother opening the window first.  Smash, crash...free fall...more crash.  Some yelling.  That laptop was old, anyhow.  Frannie didn't care about anything, or anybody, it seemed.  Could have killed somebody out on the sidewalk, but that was just like her to do the horrible thing she promised.  She always kept those promises.

148

Fern had her hands draped with heavy plastic grocery bags, but she was determined to burn extra calories this year.  A car was slowing to a stop for her in the crosswalk, and Fern saw it was Patty at the wheel.  Their eyes grabbed and stuck for just a moment before Patty dragged hers away and suddenly stepped on the gas.  Fern was forced to pull up short, her can-filled bags swinging and smile disappearing.

126

The stones tasted like cold earth-heart, and she liked it. When one stone, held on her tongue, pressing against the roof of her mouth, would warm to body temperature, she would replace it with another, fresh and cool. Gala's bare feet savored the feel of dirt and leaves and twigs and stones. She stopped often to lie full-out on the forest floor, face down, arms and legs splayed.

121

Take the chicken, he said. He said. Well, I didn't take no galldang chicken, and where did that land me? Where? In the whohaw. Right in the whohaw. That galldang chicken I never took, and he knows it. He's gone to the grave with it now. To the grave. And ain't I glad? I'm glad. I'm glad.

105

Marjorie did weird things when she thought no one was looking. Kaylee caught her sniffing her shoe. James saw her eating bits of eraser. Georgio wondered why she talked to her hand. When her teacher noticed her licking and replacing the class' boxed crayons, Marjorie was sent to the school counselor.