بخش 03

Was it, was it ticking?

Actually throwers don’t worry about ticking cuse modern bombs don’t tick.

Sorry, throwers?

Baggage handlers.

But when a suitcase vibrates, the throwers have got to call the police.

My suitcase was vibrating?

Nine times out of ten it’s an electric razor.

But, every once in a while it’s a dildo.

Of course it’s company policy never to imply ownership in the event of a dildo.

We have to use the indefinite article, a dildo, never your dildo.

I don’t own, I had everything in that suitcase.

My CK shirts.

My DKNY shoes.

My AX ties.

Never mind.

Hey!

That’s my car!

Home was a condo on the 15th floor of a filing cabinet for widows and young professionals.

The walls were solid concrete.

A foot of concrete is important when your next-door neighbor lost his hearing aids and going has to watch game shows at full volume.

Or when a volcanic blast of debris that used to be your furniture and personal effects blows out of your floor to seeling windows and sails flaming into the night.

I suppose these things happen.

There’s, nothing up there.

You can’t go into the unit.

Police orders.

Do you have somebody you can call?

How embarrassing.

A houseful of condiments and no food.

The police would later told me that the pilot light might have gone out letting out just a little bit of gas.

That gas could have slowly filled the condo, 1700 square feet with high ceilings for days and days.

Then the refrigerator’s compressor could have clicked on.

Yeah?

I can hear you breathing…

If you ask me now, I couldn’t tell you why I called him.

Hello?

Who’s this?

Tyler?

Who is this?

We met, We met on the airplane.

We had the same suitcase?

The clever guy?

Oh, yeah.

Right.

I called a second ago.

There was no answer.

I’m at a payphone.

Yeah, I *69’d you.

I never pick up my phone.

So what’s up?

Well.

You’re not gonna believe this.

You know, it could be worse.

A woman could cut off your penis while you sleeping and toss it out of a window movie car.

There’s always that.

I don’t know.

When you buy furniture, you tell yourself, that’s it.

That’s the last sofa I’m gonna need.

Whatever happens, that sofa problem is handled.

I had it all.

I had a stereo that was very decent.

A wardrobe that was getting very respectable.

I was close to being complete.

Shit, man.

Now it’s all gone.

All gone.

All gone.

Do you know what a duvet is?

A comforter.

It’s a blanket.

Just a blanket.

Why do guys like you and I know what a duvet is?

Is this essential to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of world?

No.

What are we, then?

I dunno.

Consumers.

Right.

We’re consumers.

We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession.

Murder, crime, poverty.

These things don’t concern me.

What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear.

Rogaine.

Viagra.

Olestra.

Martha Stewart.

Fuck Martha Stewart.

Martha’s polishing the brass on the Titanic.

It’s all going down man.

So fuck off with your sofa units and Strinne green stripe patterns.

I say never be complete.

I say stop being perfect.

I say let’s let’s evolve.

Let the chips fall where they may.

But that’s me, and I could be wrong.

Maybe it’s a terrible tragedy.

It’s just stuff.

Not a tragedy…

You did lose a lot of versatile solutions for modern living.

Fuck, you’re right.

I don’t smoke.

My insurance is probably gonna cover it, so…

What?

The things you own end up owning you.

Do what you like, man.

Oh, it’s late.

Hey, thanks for the beer.

Yeah, man.

I should find a hotel.

What?

What?

A hotel?

Yeah.

Just ask, man.

What are you talking about?

Oh, God.

Three pitchers of beer and you still can’t ask.

What?

You called me because you needed a place to stay.

Oh, hey.

No, no, no.

Yes, you did.

So just ask.

Cut the foreplay and just ask, man.

Would, would that be a problem?

Is it a problem for you to ask?

Can I stay at your place?

Yeah.

Thanks.

I want you to do me a favor.

Yeah, sure.

I want you to hit me as hard as you can.

What?

I want you to hit me as hard as you can.

What do you want me to do?

You just want me to hit you?

Come on.

Do me this one favor.

Why?

Why, I don’t know.

Never been in a fight.

You?

No.

But that’s a good thing.

No, it is not.

How much can you know about yourself, if you’ve never been in a fight.

I don’t wanna die without any scars.

Come on.

Hit me, before I lose my nerve.

Oh, God.

This is crazy.

So go crazy!

Let it rip.

I don’t know about this.

I don’t either.

Who gives a shit?

No-one’s watching.

What do you care?

This is crazy.

You want me to hit you?!

That’s right.

Where?

Like, in the face?

Surprise me.

This is so fucking stupid.

Motherfucker!

He hit me in the ear!

Well, Jesus, I’m sorry.

Ow, Christ!

Why the ear, man?

I fucked it up.

No, that was perfect.

No, it’s all right.

It really hurts.

OK.

Right.

Hit me again.

No, you hit me.

Come on!

We should do this again sometime.

Where’s your car?

What car?

I don’t know how Tyler found that house but he said he’d been there for a year.

It looked like it was waiting to be torn down.

Most of the windows were boarded up.

There was no lock on the front door from when the police, or whoever, kicked it in.

The stairs were ready to collapse.

I didn’t know if he owned it or was squatting.

Neither would have surprised me.

Yep.

That’s you.

That’s me.

That’s the toilet.

Good?

Yeah, thanks.

What a shit hole.

Nothing worked.

Turning on one light meant another light in the house went out.

There were no neighbors.

Just warehouses and a paper mill.

That fart smell of steam.

The hamster-cage smell of wood chips.

What have we here?

Hey, guys.

Hey.