Precarious Configuration

Bailey was never thrilled to come home from work and find me playing video games in my underwear, but this last time was the worst I'd seen. With a hint of despair in her voice, she asked me how my search for a new job was going, and I had to admit to her that I'd forgotten that was what I was supposed to be doing during the day. In my defense, it really hadn't felt like two years since I'd been laid off. Bailey helpfully reminded me of the full extent of my forced sabbatical later that night when she took us out to dinner for our anniversary.

"Surely it hasn't been that long," I said, my voice muffled from the last bite of the chocolate volcano cake.

"Don't you remember?" she said as she signed the bill. "It was on the morning of our third anniversary."

"And this is...?"

"Our fifth. And it's our last if you don't start looking again."

I knew she was just kidding about that last anniversary remark, but Bailey's point was loud and clear. My days as a stay-at-home dad were over (not much a shock, considering we didn't have any kids). I held the door for Bailey and made sure to not get sex wrong later that night.

My first stop the next morning was the mattress factory where I used to work. Maureen, now one of those managers that has an office overlooking the assembly floor, informed me that the factory still didn't need my services.

"That's weird," I said to her as I looked down at the horde of employees. "It looks like more people work here now than before I left."

Maureen changed the subject to the Cardinals' chances of getting into the playoffs and I decided to not think too much about the extra workers manning my old post at the memory foam station. As I left, Maureen promised to let me know if anything opened up.

"Thanks, that's awesome," I said. "I'll just wait to hear back from you before I look elsewhere."

"No, you should still look elsewhere," she said, a bit too intensely.

The trip to my old job left me a bit deflated; Maureen's advice to keep looking had stung a bit. I shook it off, knowing that she only had my best interest at heart. The months that we had worked at the factory together had forged a lifelong friendship. And she likely had Bailey's best interest at heart as well, their being sisters and all.

I drove around town for a while after that, doing my best to concentrate on the type of job I might want. My thoughts kept zeroing in on the idea of ice cream, though I wasn't sure if I wanted to break into the ice cream business or if I just wanted a double-scoop of mint chocolate chip. After some careful consideration, I pulled off to the side of the road to ask Waze to find me an ice cream shoppe. As the application loaded, I looked up and saw the thing that I had been searching for, right there on the corner of Cornish and Doublet.

It was a construction site, one of those bustling assemblies of man and machine hinged in service to some magnificent new structure. I sat there in my car and thought, I could do that. There were dozens of strapping roughneck types swinging hammers, digging ditches, and wheeling wheelbarrows around. They were wearing casual clothes and most of them appeared to be in good spirits, if not exactly cheerful.

The longer that I watched, the more I recognized a crude semblance of a hierarchy. The foundation diggers seemed to be competing with the wheelbarrow operators for lowest rung on the ladder. Above them, hammer and saw tradesmen crafted elegant pieces to the whole. Though their thumbs were under constant threat of an accidental smashing or severing, these tool wielders were obviously more skilled than the others, and likely better paid.

But then I noticed someone off to the side of the manual labor flow and saw my future. He was a gentleman that was just kind of watching over all of the other workers. He'd offer passive requests to the laborers here and there, but nothing too urgent. He certainly did not physically exert himself in the least. This was something I could definitely do.

Waze instructed me to turn left in 1000 feet to begin a quest to a nearby ice cream shoppe. Instead, I discontinued the app and began to devise a plan.

I really wanted that supervisor job, but I knew better than to go up and ask the supervisor for it. He'd surely be as protective of the position as I'd be once it was mine. I began scanning the signs that were posted around the site for a phone number or company name, anything that might aid me in finding the supervisor's boss.

I had my answer after about another hour of watching. A heavyset man wearing a bright green tie and carrying a clipboard approached the supervisor and said a few words to him. My new rival nodded to Green Tie, before relaying some instructions to one of the hammer guys. Green Tie was obviously the boss; I recognized the chutzpah. He checked off a few items on his clipboard and then went into a trailer sitting on the far side of the site. The side of the trailer had "El Dorado Building Company" in large, bold type with a phone number plainly visible underneath. I somehow hadn't noticed it earlier.

I got out of my car and walked through the construction site, past the men that I would soon be supervising. I did my best to walk and behave as though I belonged there, though I overheard several of them commenting to each other that they had seen me "creepily staring at them" from my car. Also, I was likely betrayed somewhat by my cargo shorts and Backstreet Boys t-shirt, which I sometimes wore because I liked their music.

I let myself into the El Dorado trailer, which was kind of a makeshift office, and introduced myself to Green Tie, whose actual name I eventually wrestled from him.

"Fine, it's Barry," he said, a bit irate. "Now will you tell me what you want?"

Offering a fist bump, I told Barry my name and that I was interested in the supervisor position. I estimated that I was more than qualified to watch over the guys that were digging and wheel-barrowing things.

"Maybe not the hammer and saw people," I explained. "Not just yet. But with time I could learn."

Barry was clearly a man that didn't like to rush into important decisions. He looked me over for a moment and then rubbed his chin.

"You're a real go-getter, huh?" he asked me.

"I sure am," I said, deciding Barry needn't know about my habit of playing video games in my underwear.

"That's good," he said. "It's quite a commodity on these jobs. Why don't you come back here tomorrow morning, say 7 o'clock? I think we can find you something to do."

I reminded Barry that I was really only interested in the supervisor position and that I'd be perfect for any of El Dorado's other sites if this one was already plenty supervised. He assured me that the workers at all of their sites appreciated a foreman that spent a little time getting his own hands dirty before throwing dirt onto theirs. There wasn't a mattress factory equivalent to this idiom, so I nodded and told him that I'd be happy to try out a few of the other jobs for a short while.

"That's good to hear. Of course, you'll need work boots," he said, pointing to my sandals. "For insurance reasons, you see."

"Could I borrow a pair from one of the other guys?" I asked, hoping I wasn't also inadvertently asking for some strain of foot fungus.

"Sorry," Barry said. "It's our one rule. You gotta wear boots and you gotta bring your own."

Before I could remark that this sounded like two rules or some sort of compound rule, Barry suprised me by finally returning my fist bump. He then politely asked me to get the hell out of his office trailer. Walking back to my car, I proudly strode past the other construction workers. I didn't need to act like I belonged anymore, because now I did. I got into my car and drove to the nearest mall, where I ate ice cream and spent several hours shopping for a sturdy pair of boots.

Bailey came home from work that night and saw my new work boots sitting by the front door. I had accidentally left the sales receipt on the table where we put our keys and cellphones, and she gasped when she saw the total cost. During my years of between-employment, Bailey and I had agreed to some basic rules about major purchases, most of which I had broken when I bought my new work boots.

"You spent two hundred and thirty six dollars on boots?" she asked. I quickly paused my game and began to put my pants back on.

"Well, I have this new job," I told her. "I'm going to be a foreman. A foreman is kind of like a supervisor for-"

"Yeah, I know what a foreman is," she said, cutting me off. "Why did you need to spend two hundred and thirty six dollars? I could have gotten you work boots for sixty bucks. Maybe less."

I knew which ones she was talking about. Those so-called work boots didn't have steel loops or circumflex technology in the soles, though I doubted Bailey cared about such features. I explained to her that among people that did manual labor all day, boots were a status symbol. They were a way of setting myself apart from the non-foremen, as I wouldn't be the wearing the ties or carrying the clipboards that management did to set themselves apart. I also told her that impressive boots would serve as a good talking point during lulls in conversation, which was almost as important as the other reasons I had given her.

"Well, at least you found a job," she said. "I'm proud of you."

"You're not upset that I didn't think to look for a construction job sooner?" I asked her. Bailey smiled and changed the conversation to a TV show that we had been binge-watching, and I forgot to circle back for a follow-up on the job question. It was a line of questions better left untouched anyway, as I had forgotten to ask Barry what the job paid before I accepted it.

The next day, I promptly arrived back at the corner of Cornish and Doublet at 8 a.m. sharp, forgetting that Barry had asked me to be there at 7. The workers' glances at my footwear informed me that I had made a smart purchase. I let myself into the El Dorado trailer and was several lines into my tardiness apology when I realized that Barry had been replaced.

"I'm not a replacement," Barry's replacement said, after I had referred to him as such a fourth time. "Managers are called to different sites for a number of reasons. However, Barry told me all about you and what you hope to offer the EDBC. My name is Danny."

Off my look, Danny explained that EDBC meant the El Dorado Building Company. I had encountered my first bit of industry jargon in the world of construction. He then escorted me out the trailer office to meet my new supervisor.

"Well, he's technically my supervisor now, but I'll be taking over soon enough," I told Danny as we walked past some of the other EDBC guys.

"Yep, that's what Barry told me you'd say," Danny replied.

The foreman was introduced to me as Monty, but I couldn't think of him as anything except my professional rival, one that I hoped to replace in a way that Danny had apparently not replaced Barry.

"Take good care of him, Monty," Danny said as he left us and went back to the EDBC trailer.

Monty smiled at me for a long time. He appeared to be even friendlier than Barry or Danny. I was secretly thankful to end up in such a courtesy line of work, even though I hoped to ruin Monty professionally by the end of my first week. I decided that I would try to do it in such a way as to not prevent Monty from ever working in construction again, which was somewhat my original plan.

"Well, let's see," Monty said, sizing me up a bit. I stood tall and jutted out my chest. "Hmm, I can't decide if you'd be better at digging or choosing the songs that the other guys listen to while they work. Which would you prefer?"

I hadn't realized that song chooser was an available position. I had assumed that the music that played at the site was coming from a radio set to a rock station. Music selector seemed like even a sweeter job than being foreman. I'll call myself the Atmosphere Coordinator, I thought. Excited by the prospect, I told Monty that I had excellent taste in music and would very much enjoy giving the song chooser job a try.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Monty said, and then he smiled a bit. "I guess what I'm describing is a disc jockey, and we don't have disc jockeys around here."

"I'm sorry?" I leaned in a bit, which was a mistake.

"I said, we don't have deejays here, you idiot!" Monty picked up a nearby shovel and flung it at my feet. "Pick that up!" He was yelling at me. "Pick that up, moron!"

I quickly snatched up the shovel and held it like an umbrella, my shoulders raised to my ears. A few of the other workers were now gathered around us and smiling at these proceedings. I felt a little foolish when Monty revealed the punchline of his joke - and the yelling was unnerving to say the least - but I knew that hazing the new guy on the job was a time-tested tradition. Back at the mattress factory, Maureen would routinely spit at new employees and smear dog poo on the back of their heads. In hindsight, that seemed a little harsh too.

"Hey, anybody want a new pair of boots?" Monty said. Like the song chooser job, this also seemed too generous an offer to be true. However, once I noticed where everybody else was looking, I realized Monty was talking about my new pair of work boots. I tried to protest as two men dropped their tools, pulled me to the ground, and held me down as Monty tried to pull off my recently-purchased footwear. The boots held fast to my feet though, so Monty had to spend a full two minutes undoing the knots and unlacing the top five loop sets.

He tossed the boots into the crowd and flung another shovel at my feet. There didn't seem to be any shortage of shovels at the construction site.

"Now march your ass to the dig zone and start digging, maggot!" he screamed. A few other guys repeated some of the names that Monty had called me, adding "scum sack" and "no boots" to the list. My socks became filthy as I trudged toward the group of men that were digging the foundation. They looked at me with contempt and I realized that the lowest place in the hierarchy of construction work was the new guy with no shoes on his feet. Soon after, I also realized how difficult it was to push a shovel into the earth while wearing just socks.

Later that night, I told Bailey everything that had happened to me. We were sitting on the couch and finishing a spaghetti dinner. She told me that I should quit, but also to really try and get the work boots back. I told her that it had taken me two years to get the construction job and I wasn't about to quit it on my second day.

"It didn't take you two years," she said. "It took you less than a day. It's not like you were looking before then. You don't even know what else is out there."

"It doesn't matter what else is out there," I said. "I'm not good at anything."

Bailey sat back and thought for a moment. "Well, you're a pretty good husband. Usually. And I don't know if you're any good at video games, but you seem to like playing them." I nodded and she continued. "And you look halfway decent in your underwear. There. Maybe look for something in that field." She laughed and flung a throw pillow at my head, causing a meatball to roll from my plate onto the floor. This caused her to laugh even more and then, for a third time that night, Bailey made me tell her about how I had tried to call the cops on Monty during my lunch break earlier that day.

Then we watched TV, and then it was bedtime.

Summer Blue

The weather has finally warmed up enough for Cal to go outside and really give some attention to his home's backyard patio. He dusts off the slightly-wilted wicker furniture, remembering so recently when it was adorned with icicles. He checks inside the grill to make sure he hasn't left old and rotting charcoal from last season in it. He smiles as he works. If the temperature can keep above 65, Cal hopes to invite some close friends over for a cookout on Sunday. He hasn't seen many of them in several weeks, the cold being their main excuse for not visiting.

Cal grabs his broom from its spot next to the outdoor kiln and begins to sweep the patio. As he pushes the first gathering toward the edge of the granite flooring, he notices a small pile of bright blue powder on the grass, just beyond the patio's brick steps leading down to the lawn. The mysterious mound is only a few inches tall, not much bigger than a pyramid-shaped softball. To Cal, it looks like discarded, sugary contents of perhaps a couple dozen blue-flavored Pixie Stix. He quietly curses whatever neighborhood child decided to pull this strange prank on him.

Out of fear of the sugary substance attracting ants, Cal decides he shouldn't spray the pile with water or knock it asunder with the broom. He retrieves a dust pan from the spot by the kiln and begins to gather the blue powder onto it. However, Cal notices that the blue dust has a delicious smell, much more appetizing than merely sugar. He stops gathering the dust onto the pan.

Squatting before the mound, Cal touches a finger to his tongue and then drags it through the blue substance. He brings it to his nose and sniffs. The powder smells almost like a mix of roasted garlic and a robust cheese, like from a fine pasta dish. He inspects it, marveling at its perfect deep ocean color. It doesn't even have a hint of a dirt speck in it. Cal knows that he shouldn't, but he cannot help himself as he touches his blue-powdered finger to his tongue. The taste is unbelievably good, filling a void Cal didn't know existed in the world before.

After several more finger-to-powder-to-tongue transfers, Cal has to force himself to stop. He feels like he has eaten a giant helping of some savory, pan-seared Italian dish - Cal's favorite kind of food, but he is still not full. Shaking off a submerged feeling, he springs to his kitchen and fetches a small Tupperware. At first he is careful to not get dirt mixed in with the Blue as he scoops it into the plastic container, but then Cal notices that the Blue somehow repels the dirt. It remains pure as he gets every last speck into the container. He places a lid over it and carries the plastic tub to his kitchen's counter top. As he sets it down and walks away, he resists the urge to grab a spoon. The smell seems to seep through its plastic enclosure.

Cal sleeps deep that night and dreams of the things that he will serve his friends at the cookout on Sunday. The Blue will make every bite delicious, but he knows that he'll have to wait until after sundown to serve them, outside and by candlelight, so as to hide the strange color that might discourage their appetites. But once they have sampled the Blue, they will all be swimming in the same waters as one. Cal knows that his friends will stay with him after that because the Blue inside of him tells him that they will.

Cal dreams of this eternal togetherness as another pile of Blue crawls into place on his backyard lawn, beginning its not-very-long wait. This mound is slightly larger than the first one, and a darker shade of blue. It will soon be joined by many more Blues, each of them necessary for all the new friends that Cal will serve over the long summer to come.

Mix-Up at the Quartz

Every team needs a mascot, even the teams that always lose. We weren't a sports team, but Mix-Up was kind of like the Quartz's mascot. He gave me and the other movie theater employees a strange sense of pride, quiet as he mostly was. He even saved a life once. It was raining on the day that he did it and it rained again the day he left for good. It's weird how every day feels like a rainy day when you're at the movies.

It wasn't the name on his name tag, but the whole staff at the Quartz 16 knew him as Mix-Up. It didn't seem to bother him, but nothing much did. Mix-Up was a tall guy in his late twenties with super-short blonde hair, freckles splayed across his pointy nose and high cheekbones, and he always looked as though he had just woke up from a fitful sleep. I guess you might accuse someone that looked just like him of being a druggie or a night owl at the very least, but Mix-Up wasn't spaced out or anything; he just seemed kind of over all the nonsense that comes from working at a place like this.

He had torn tickets and shoveled popcorn at the Quartz for over ten years, making him the longest running employee to push Old Betsy, our oft-malfunctioning vacuum, across the lobby's old domino-patterned carpet. The math didn't quite add up, but Mix-Up's tenure practically went all the way to the 1990's, back when the theater first popped up by the Riverway Mall. I guess that's why I say he was like a mascot: Mix-Up was a permanent fixture in the Quartz's history.

I was not the permanent type, however. I found it hard to believe anybody could have worked at the movies for longer than six or seven months. The days and nights were all the same and most of the movies we showed weren't that much different from one another. Once you'd seen a giant alien snatch a car from midair and devour it, you could bet a big robot or pissed-off dinosaur would do it pretty much the same way. I had started with an exit strategy from the beginning, and a big part of me felt sorry for the long-timers like Mix-Up or our slimy manager Doug (who seemed to live at the Quartz, which would explain his constant want of a shower).

I used to work a lot of weekend nights next to Mix-Up at the concession stand. He was lousy at up-selling soda sizes and all the other extras, but he was fast with scooping popcorn and making change. Every now and then a customer would try to make small talk with him and he'd try to steer the conversation to the latest thrash metal album that he'd bought. It seemed to shut the customer up pretty quick, but I wasn't so sure that shutting them up was necessarily Mix-Up's intention. I think he really wanted somebody to talk about thrash metal with.

I once asked Jordan Delmonico if she knew why Mix-Up was called Mix-Up, and she just looked at me as though I had asked her why the sun was hot. We were prepping the big room, Theater 1, for the 8:30-to-10:15 transition (an every-Friday-night headache courtesy of Doug the Slug). Jordan didn't answer my question at first, she just kept on picking up trash and spraying away sticky floor gunk with a squirt gun filled up with Windex. But I could tell she was thinking about it.

"I don't know, Trace," she said after a minute. "Maybe he used to mix up orders. Like if somebody asked for a Sprite, he'd give them a Dr. Pepper by mistake." Jordan had worked there longer than I had, but I could tell she was just as ignorant on the matter as I was.

"I guess that could have been the case once." I was using my dustpan to scoop up a trio of chewed-up Jolly Ranchers someone had spit onto one of the aisle floors, desperately hoping I wouldn't have to touch them with my hands. "But, you know I've never seen him mix up anything. Especially not at the concession stand. He never gets an order wrong or lands in the weeds."

"Well, he's been doing it since the dawn of time. I don't know, Trace." She sighed. "Maybe it's just like a, you know, ironic nickname then." Jordan stopped rolling the trash bin to consider that a second before adding, "Though, I don't know why anybody would hold onto an ironic name for all those years. Not one that puts him down, anyway."

"I wouldn't put up with it," I said. "You wouldn't either, probably. But I don't know about Mix-Up. He's too...it's like nothing gets to him. I'd hate to see what bad news would have to come along to break that ice."

She contemplated this as I accidentally smacked one of the Jolly Ranchers with the dustpan, launching it somewhere to the back of the screening room (as good as gone in my book). Jordan was standing next to the lobby door with the roll-bottom trashcan while I finished checking my section. Finally, she said to me, "I think Mix-Up is just mixed up in general. How else do you explain somebody his age working here without ever complaining about it?"

I had to agree with Jordan's logic. I had only worked at the Quartz for two months by that point, but even my grand exit strategy (which was no more complicated than quitting right before school started back) didn't keep me from telling the whole world how much working at the movies sucked. It wasn't what I anticipated, working at the Quartz. Sure, the movies were a disappointment, but it was more crushing than that. Usually it was so boring that I'd make any kind of dumb small talk to avoid having to think about how much my feet hurt. Other times, it was embarrassing, selling Junior Mints to Terry Hampton as he took some girl to the latest Sandra Bullock movie or explaining to my friends that I couldn't sneak them into shows or even give them free popcorn.

Finally, curiosity got the best of me and I finally just asked Mix-Up to his face how he got the name. We were working a Tuesday afternoon concessions shift together and the whole lobby was deserted, the pah-pah-pah of the popcorn popping serving as the soundtrack.

"What?" he asked, maybe not paying attention or maybe deflecting the question.

"I asked why everybody calls you Mix-Up," I said. "You don't seem to get stuff wrong, or...you know, mix things up." He looked at me like I was explaining a calculus problem. "So, I thought maybe you used to get into fights or something. Like, mix it up with people?"

"You thought I went around hitting people?"

"Well, no. I mean...I don't know."

"Yeah, that's not it," he said. Mix-Up stared out the lobby window after that and I thought we'd reached the end of the conversation, if you could call it that. I was about to ask him if he'd heard any new thrash metal bands over the weekend, but then he started talking again. He continued to stare out the window while he told me about the mix-up that had given him his name. It was ten times more than all the other times he'd ever spoke to me before combined.

"Before Riverway Mall took over the Quartz, this old guy named Mr. Laytner owned the place. He was a cool guy. Well, he was way behind as far as technology went, kept saying that projectors were projectors and didn't want to shell out for digital. And he thought Ms. Pac-Man was the last great arcade game. You know, a really old dude. But he was cool."

"Laytern," I said. "Never heard of him."

"Laytner," Mix-Up corrected. "This was like a decade ago. Anyway, I was young when I started working here, younger than you. My mom had to sign something to say it was okay. But we really needed the money and Mr. Laytner wanted to help us out." Mix-Up shot me a quick glance, just for a second. "She's fine now, by the way, my mom. Inheritance stuff from her parents when they passed."

I didn't know how to respond, so I let out a relieved "Oh, good."

"Anyway, things were rough for a long time and I started stealing." If Mix-Up saw my eyes get wide, he didn't pause to address it. "Just candy and junk at first, but then I started pocketing cash. I knew there weren't any cameras around, so it seemed like something that I could get away with. Doug and I used to work concessions together, but he spilled a super-large Coke into the popcorn more than once and Mr. Laytner told him he'd be better off selling tickets."

It was hard for me to picture Doug the Slug as a clumsy kid being pushed around, but I liked the idea quite a bit.

"Anyway, it was around that time that the girl got hit by a car right out front."

I knew this story, or the broad strokes at least. I didn't know what part Mix-Up had played in it, but the Quartz had three speed bumps right out front because of the girl we only knew as Judy. Customers were always complaining that the speed bumps were unnecessary, so Doug made sure that we knew about Judy so that we could defend their being there if the conversation ever got too heated.

"It was raining just like so super hard, like a typhoon. I never talked to the girl after the ambulance took her away, so I don't know for sure, but she could have looked both ways before darting toward the parking lot and still might have missed a car that didn't have its headlights on. Anyway, we didn't hear the car hydroplane and slam into her, but we heard the screams and honking after. I was working Popcorn Town when it happened. I was standing right here, actually."

He shot me another glance, maybe just to see if I was still listening. I don't think my face could have possibly hid my rapt attention. I was so glad we were talking about this - real stuff - rather than the latest Marvel movie or how Halloween was less fun for kids these days. And the next time that Mix-Up wanted to talk about thrash metal, I'd be sure to repay him for this story with my attention then.

"So, I jumped over the counter and ran out into the rain. She was just like this twisted mess in the middle of the road, but she was still alive, still breathing. But her breath was short and labored; you could just tell she was in so much pain. She wasn't the one screaming though, that was coming from people that had gathered over by the ticket booth. None of them were helping her though, I'm not sure why. Even the driver that had hit her was sitting in his car. He was on his cellphone, but I think it was to call 911. I hope that's what it was. Because that's too much if he was talking to someone when he hit her.

"Anyway, the downpour was so heavy, water was just pouring into her mouth, and her neck was just about snapped so there was no way she could turn her head. I called for Doug to grab a jacket or even a garbage sack, just something to shelter her face until the ambulance came. He just shouted back that he couldn't leave his post. He sounded normal, but I know he must have seen the whole thing happen. It probably threw him into shock.

"So, I took off my shirt and did my best to hold it taut above her, like an umbrella. And this whole time she was just looking at me, her eyes so wide. She couldn't do anything but look at me and take those short breaths. I told her to stay calm and soon...well, I don't know how much time passed till the ambulance got there. Could have been a minute, could have been fifteen. They put her on a gurney and then she was off to the hospital. I put on my shirt, but my clothes were all soaked through. Doug told me that I needed to make sure that nobody had taken anything from the concession stand when I 'abandoned my post'. I might have given him the finger as a reply. Mr. Laytner wasn't here, but he heard about the accident somehow and called to give me the rest of the day off, along with the whole week if I wanted it. He told me he'd pay me for every shift I missed. Like I said, he was really cool."

Mix-Up paused for a moment and laughed a little under his breath. He said, "Doug told me later that Laytner had told Doug that he was proud of him for not leaving his post at the ticket booth, but I'm pretty sure that's bullshit. But Doug's Doug, you know?"

"Yeah," was all I could say.

"So, yeah. I had done the right thing once, there with the girl in the rain. But I'd done the wrong thing about two dozen other times and finally I was caught red-handed by guess who?"

"Doug the Slug," I said, my voice so low it cracked a bit.

Without smiling, Mix-Up laughed a bit and nodded. "You know, I called him every name in the book when he threatened to turn me in, but I didn't think of that one."

"What did you call him?"

"Eh, just the normal stuff. It was pretty pathetic, but I was just ashamed, felt like a real piece of shit. I promised to repay every dollar if he wouldn't go to Laytner. I really respected the old guy, like, for real. So I knew that was a big part of it. But I also needed the job still. Bad. I promised Doug that I'd clean bathrooms when he was picked to do it and all the other extra work that he was asked to do. No good though. He marched right into Laytner's office and told the old guy that he'd seen me pocket money from the register."

"Wait," I said, interrupting. "So, I know you didn't get fired. I mean, c'mon." Mix-Up just looked at me. "Okay, so what did he do to you?"

Mix-Up smiled, but not at me. Just to the world in his head. I don't think I'd ever seen him smile for real until that moment.

"He let Doug say his piece, a pretty clear and damning case, really. And then Mr. Laytner turned to me. I really thought he was about to ask me for my side of the story. I knew I wouldn't be able to lie to him, so I was basically screwed. I might have had tears in my eyes. Yeah, I probably did. But the old guy didn't say a word to me. He just turned back toward Doug and said that he didn't think I'd done anything wrong, that Doug was mistaken somehow. Doug was furious, saying that he knew what he saw. Mr. Laytner told him that he totally believed that he'd seen something, but that it wasn't what he thought it was. Laytner told him that there must have been some kind of mix-up."

A chill hit me and continued up the back of my neck.

"That was pretty much the end of it. I stopped stealing, of course. It was hard to look Laytner in the eye at first, but he made sure that I did soon enough. I guess he saw something in me." Mix-Up shook his head. "Doug didn't see anything except a charming thief though, so he took to calling me 'Mix-Up' every chance he got. Never around Mr. Laytner though, that wouldn't have been good. But by the time the old guy had packed up for Florida, everybody here knew me by the name."

"Whoa," I said. "So, Doug gave you the name?"

"Well, in a way they both did."

"Yeah, but Doug's the one that used it against you." I was upset. "That's so not okay. I feel like me and everyone else has been a part of this cruel joke that we didn't even know was, was...hurtful."

"No, no," Mix-Up -- Trevor -- said.

"I feel like so awful and I think Doug's a piece of shit for doing that to you. I think we ought to get him back."

"No, you don't understand, Tracy. I like the name Mix-Up."

"What? Why?" I was already starting to see 'Trevor' spelled out in big letters over his head.

"It means that even though I'm capable of doing bad things, it doesn't make me a bad person. And it means that if somebody can still look me in the eyes when faced with something shameful about me, then I can do the same for anybody else. Even slugs like Doug."

Mix-Up smiled again and so did I. "Okay," I said and that was it. Trevor was gone and Mix-Up was back. We leaned against the counter and stared out the window across the lobby, enjoying the buttery smell and the soft pah-pah-pah sound coming from the popcorn machine.

Later that night, I tried to look up that girl Judy on my computer. I searched for almost an hour, but I couldn't find anything about her or the accident out in front of the Quartz. I guess it could have been something small enough that nobody reported on it - it's not like every accident gets in the newspaper, especially if nobody dies. But it seemed like such a big thing to me. And I hated that it was just a story people told each other now, that there was nothing to prove it was real.

A few days passed and a gentle storm settled over the city for much of the following week. I showed up for an evening shift at the theater; Jordan rushed to meet me at the lobby door. As I shook the rain off of my umbrella, she told me that Mix-Up had quit not an hour earlier. The speed of gossip caused her voice to flutter from talking so fast that she could hardly breathe. She told me that Mix-Up had apparently just walked into Doug's office and told him that he couldn't work at the Quartz anymore, didn't really give any specific reason. Doug wasn't taking it well, she said.

I felt as though I'd been sucker-punched. I hadn't had a concessions shift with Mix-Up since the time we had the talk about his name. I wanted answers, wished more than anything that I could have asked him about it, even just to get one more piece of the puzzle. I didn't know where Mix-Up lived (not that I would have felt right going to his place to pry more information out of him anyway). I would just have to live with the mystery. If there was a beauty to that realization, I didn't feel it then. I just felt defeated and a little angry at the man who loved thrash metal.

In the end, the story of his name was just one of many. My remaining shifts at the Quartz overflowed with all sorts of Mix-Up stories and quotes we all remembered, making the days seem to go by lightning fast. It was a generous parting gift that I hadn't anticipated. And then August arrived, making it my turn. I put in my notice with Doug the Slug, which didn't seem to surprise him much. I was really just a summer hire, after all. School would be starting back in two weeks; my friends and I would all have so many other things to talk about soon enough.

Crucial Post

As I was leaving work yesterday, I found several crumpled sheets of paper wedged underneath a waste bin in the B3 stairwell of my company's parking garage. I untwisted the mass of stationary and tried to make sense of the document. The six grimy pages contained what looked like a manifesto, or perhaps notes for a speech. The handwriting was terrible, a puzzling maze of smudged scrawls and scribbled asides. It looked as though some frantic mental patient had written it on a dare, and the apparent subject matter didn't discourage my assumption.

I spread the pages on top of the trunk of my car, fetching a notepad and pen from my briefcase. With care, I began to decipher each word and piece together every sentence. As I worked, a few people from my office entered the parking level. They were on the way to their own cars, ready to leave for the day, and noticed that I was up to something. I slid my briefcase over the pages of the speech as they approached me. I told them everything was fine, to go off and enjoy their night. They eventually left me alone, and I continued my work.

It took quite a long time to legibly transcribe the entirety of the speech. I was careful to maintain the proper order, as the treatise seemed to veer off into wild digressions as it slowly snaked its way toward resolution. Once every bit of text was there in my notepad, I was able to read the document in full. However, its purpose still eluded me, still begged for comprehension that the document itself did not provide.

If this were indeed a speech, it surely would have been meant for a department much different than the one I managed. Its conclusion was unfathomable to me. I couldn't imagine anyone from the company suggesting that my team should open the trench, that we should peer into the hypnotic eyes of our shadow selves on the other side of the invisible fold. After all, it was my department's job to keep the dark portrait of humanity from that other world as far away as possible.

I packed up and drove home, tried my best later to hide my unease from my wife and kids.

I couldn't get to sleep that night; nothing seemed to quiet my mind. It occurred to me that the speech was likely an early draft, carelessly abandoned in favor of an updated version. Or versions. That was the natural order beyond the trench, after all: many versions of the same world, bound together by the one that was determined to absorb all the rest. We enjoyed ignorance for far too long, but we learned from the absorption of others what horrors can fill a void. If this speech was a call for us to abandon our crucial post, then I would have to be ready to demonstrate the depth of the trench.

Today, I am ready for the next phase. Perhaps it will be an unscheduled meeting, perhaps it will circulate as an office memo from an unknown source. That's all it will take for me to alert my superiors on the 38th floor. If they will not listen to me, or if they are already party to this madness - which I fear that they are - then I will alert the other inhabitants of my world. I will start with my coworkers and our clients, then every contact I've encountered in this business over the years. I will hide out for a while on B3, bide my time until those that would silence me have stopped looking, and then I'll escape the building to warn anyone within earshot of my voice until I can reach the largest stage that I can find. I have prepared a speech of my own.

Not That Dude

"I'm not that dude," was a troubling form of punctuation that Diane had heard Connor use on several occasions. Usually the conversation would be about some vague scheme with unclear motives, such as "I could be on the news any day of the week, but I'm not that dude." Diane never asked him to go on, would usually mutter something non-committal like "Uh-huh," or "Yeah," as a new red flag silently joined the others already residing in her brain.

Of course, this didn't stop Diane from answering his late-night texts, and it certainly didn't stop her from "dropping by" Connor's house on Brierwood Lane Friday evenings after work. She'd usually arrive at dusk, armed with a six-pack of Rolling Rock or a fifth of whatever was cheapest that week at Turnstile Liquor. Conner would open the door without saying hello, and she'd kick her shoes off just inside his front door, already anticipating the inevitable escape she'd pull off before the sun would rise on Saturday.

It was on one such Friday night that Diane pulled her blue Civic up to Connor's curb. She never parked in the driveway. She did at first, but Connor was picky about how people parked, so she started parking at the curb to avoid the topic altogether. She grabbed a plastic Turnstile sack from the passenger seat and walked across his lawn, perfectly manicured as ever despite the trademark shittiness in every other aspect of Connor's world.

That includes you, you know, she thought.

"Oh, right. I hadn't thought of that," Diane said to no one as she pressed the doorbell. Reflex caused her legs to feel as though they would carry her inside almost immediately, like the ghost of a Panama City undercurrent tugging on her ankles after a long day in the ocean.

The door stood closed. Diane pressed on the doorbell again just as she heard shouts erupt from behind her. She scanned the neighborhood and saw Connor across the street, struggling to stand in the front lawn of the house that faced his own. His shirt was ripped at the collar and there was a bloody spot near one of his eyebrows. Connor was yelling at a man that Diane had seen before, a neighbor, though not one that lived in the house across the street.

The man stood tall and shirtless from the front porch. Connor attempted to walk up the porch stairs, maybe to go back inside the house, and the neighbor effortlessly shoved him back. This caused Connor to careen backward off the porch and land on his shoulder with a thud on the grass. Diane gasped, though it was obvious that the push wasn't the first of it. Through the house's open front door, she saw pieces of broken glass glint up from the carpeted floor inside.

It took a few attempts, but Connor eventually picked himself up and staggered away from the house across the street, back toward his own place. He shot his middle finger upward as he walked, which almost caused him to trip on the curb. The man watched him get as far as the street then went back inside. Before the door closed, Diane saw a woman hand the tall man a beer and smack him on the ass. It sounded like they were listening to disco music over there.

Connor continued across the street and noticed Diane's car before he noticed Diane. He leaned against it and pulled a flattened pack of cigarettes from his jeans. Diane walked to him. Connor put one in his mouth and fished around for a lighter somewhere on his body, but couldn't seem to find one. His eyes, glassy and bloodshot, crawled up Diane's body and found her face.

"Got a light?" he muttered. Diane wasn't sure if he was drunk or on something, but it was definitely one of the two. Probably both.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked him.

He sighed and put the bent cigarette behind his ear.

"Who was that guy?" she continued. "Are you in trouble?"

"Don't worry about it, 'kay? Just some stuff." He grabbed Diane's hand and began to pull her with him as he started toward his front door. "C'mon," he said. "You know I'm not that dude."

Diane jerked her hand away from his and stood her ground on his lawn, waiting for a real explanation. Connor slowly turned to look at her. The blood was now rolling from his brow down to his cheek and he looked tired, but nothing in his eyes seemed to register that something was wrong. He shrugged and stumbled into his house. After a moment, Diane plucked the plastic Turnstile bag from Connor's perfect lawn and joined him inside.

Several hours later, she was back in her blue Civic, pulling it away from the curb and down Brierwood Lane. It was time for Diane to be home, not for any reason other than that's where she wanted to be.

Diane didn't live far from Connor, only a five minute drive from his house to her apartment on Ash Street. It was exclusively within the span of that distance on these dark, early Saturday morning drives that Diane would wonder what Connor considered their relationship to be, or if he considered what they had to be a relationship at all. For her part, she tried to not think of it in those terms, though she recognized that wondering was usually the first step.

If she really had to admit it, either to herself or to anybody else on the planet that wanted to know, she hoped Connor wasn't that dude.

Opening to "Cave Demon Roommate" (1984)

An upbeat, jazzy intro to the show's theme song begins. Edison explains the premise over the music; clips from the pilot episode tell the story.

"Rent was too high in the city, so I found a nice cave to move into. Well, 'nice' might be pushing it - it was okay. My first night in the cave was lonely, but I didn't know that Miles, a demon, was watching over me. We didn't exactly get along at first, but now we're the best of friends."

The saxophone solo from the intro ends and the theme song proper, "The Best of Each Other" (sung by Bobby Caldwell), begins playing over a montage of the following basic scenarios: Edison and Miles hanging out at a pet store (Miles eats a tarantula), going to the library (Edison wants to talk to a pretty girl, but can't), and eating ice cream cones on a park bench (Miles gets brain freeze). Back in the cave, they place a "Home, Sweet Home" sign crookedly over a pile of human bones.

Finally, the duo are shown on a mountain peak surrounded by swirling dark clouds. Edison clumsily hands Miles a sacrificial dagger, apparently meant for a goat that looks on nervously from the background. Instead of that gruesome act, Miles uses the dagger to divide a sandwich into three parts, one for Edison, one for himself, and one for their dark master, Forneus (played by reoccurring guest star William Hickey), who takes the biggest sandwich piece and open-mouth smiles to the camera.

The song ends on a freeze frame of Edison and Miles shaking hands while wearing cheerleader uniforms (also from the pilot episode). Over this still, the executive producer credits appear for Carla Reed, the Church of Putrid Decay, and Jerry Hewitt.

Each week's episode usually opens with an exterior shot of the cave.

Home Inspection

It had been a long time since Greg had gotten any real satisfaction from robbing houses. Lately, it just felt like he was evening the score, like pulling out an old, dusty eraser and wiping the slate clean. Well, as clean as it could get with a dusty eraser.

He knew what to look for, which neighborhoods to hit. When he had first started out, those dark and desperate days back in Houston, he hadn't liked anyplace with more than one floor. But now he sought out the two-story houses, sometimes three. He needed the challenge as much as he needed the money that Zachary would give him for whatever he brought back with him.

Greg had his target: a two-story corner brick home on Levy and Bowerwood. He had watched it for a few days, more than enough time to figure out the old woman who lived there didn't move fast. A trip to the mailbox took her over a minute, which meant a trip to the supermarket or beauty shop would give him at least an hour.

That would have been the easy route, safe. But it was too easy for Greg's taste. That's why he decided to play dress up and steal from her while she was home.

"Morning, ma'am," he said to the old woman standing at her front door. He had found the coveralls he wore and the clipboard at a thrift store he'd visited the previous day. The baseball cap with the Buchanan Gas and Electric Company logo was his, custom-made. Mrs. Buchanan was a teacher from high school that Greg had especially hated.

"What d'ya want?" the old woman squawked. She was fully dressed in an old-fashioned and ill-fitted pants suit, looking as though she expected to preside over the world's most depressing boardroom meeting later that day. The wrinkles on her face tripled under the weight of the scowl she presented Greg.

That's perfectly alright, he thought as the difficulty meter in his head shot from a 4 to a 6, maybe a 6.5. Make this uncomfortable for both of us, you old sack.

"Ma'am, we're doing inspections on your block this morning, checking pipelines for a natural gas purge that we'll be running next week."

Carol Louten's glare judged the tool bag laying at his feet, more props in the grand bid for authenticity. She looked like she literally wanted to kick both the bag and Greg off of her porch. "Gas purge? Nobody told me about that."

Greg's mouth dropped open as his eyes searched for answers. This expression was second nature to him, higher than a genuine smile on his face's list of greatest hits.

"Ma'am, you haven't seen the notices that we've been posting?" He flipped through the papers on his clipboard and held up an inspection notice with the Buchanan logo clearly displayed. "This is just one of three. Did you get a letter from my company in your mailbox?"

"No. I don't think so. No." Carol Louten held her footing firm as Greg's confusion became real. He had dropped the BGE notice in her mailbox himself just two days prior. He had even made sure to misspell her last name so that he could have a conversation about a new girl at the home office who was lousy at her job, one of many deflections he relied on in his line of work.

"Well, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I'm required to check this home's excess flow valves, circuit breaker switch panel, the arc-fault ground connection point, and-" Greg flipped to the last page on his board. "And your second floor polarized receptacles."

"My what?"

"Electrical outlets." And off her look. "They're what the plugs plug in, ma'am."

Carol stared at Greg for a moment, lips pursed and eyes squeezed into fury. With a grunt, she pulled the door fully open. He nodded and smiled, exhaling as he crossed the threshold. The hardest part was over.

"According to the floor plan, your kitchen is back this way, correct?" he said, pointing to the left entryway from the small foyer they stood in. The woman quickly sighed and nodded. Greg opened his bag and pulled out an old radar detector that he had found at a flea market and later modified. He switched it on.

"What's that for," Carol asked. "Some kind of gas detector?"

"That's exactly what it is, ma'am." He gave her a grateful look as though she could teach him a thing or two. She closed her eyes and shrugged. He continued. "It measures carbon monoxide, which is a very deadly gas. One of your neighbors...do you know the Stensons?"

"Oh, yeah. 'Cross the street."

"That's them. Well, the Stensons had a small CO leak, hardly even worth the trouble of repairing. However, the gas purge next week very well might cause a rupture in the active pipe, which would be catastrophic for the Stensons. Well, it would have had we not caught it when we did." His tone straightened its tie and got serious. "And I don't think that I need to tell you what I mean by 'catastrophic'."

She grimly nodded as Greg sat his bag by the front door. He could see that Carol was picturing the Stensons' young girl going to sleep one night and never waking up. It was the exact image Greg needed Carol to have in her head for the next hour.

Greg began to walk through the house, Carol following closely behind. He made his way into a dark living room and darker hallway. Greg, ever the detective, wasn't surprised to not see a single family picture displayed on tables or hanging on any walls. "No family" was very attractive to Greg, but he was beginning to think that was where the romance ended. Outside, the house was neat and modern; even its lawn was cared for by a professional crew. But the inside was drab: bookshelves lined with dusty books, side tables covered with doilies, analog clocks sitting next to digital ones.

Old people stuff. Great. 

He walked into the kitchen and saw that Carol didn't even have a microwave. He couldn't help but roll his eyes. Even though his back was to the old woman, she must have sensed it.

"Is there a problem?"

Not yet, Carol. Don't jump the gun. That's later.

"No ma'am. I was just looking for the circuit breaker. The kitchen is usually the-" He walked to it. "Oh, here we go." He opened the panel and pretended to inspect it. He was about to tell Carol that the unit may need to be replaced when he heard a loud thump above him, coming from the second floor. He had no idea what it was, but it didn't sound like a dog hopping off a bed - not that he thought Carol had one.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning to the old woman. "Am I taking you away from company?"

Carol looked insulted. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"It's just...I thought I heard something. Upstairs."

"Nothing up there except three bedrooms, two closets full of old sheets, and an empty bathroom." She smiled a bit. "Oh, and all those polarizing resuscitators for plugs."

Greg returned the smile, in his way. "Okay. I just need to check the stove hookup and then I'll ask that you show me the backyard."

He glanced behind the stove and scribbled a few random letters on a random page. Carol craned her neck to see what he wrote, but she was slow and Greg jerked the clipboard nonchalantly to his side.

"Okay, now to the backyard, please. After you."

She guided him through a sun room, the darkest he'd ever seen. There appeared to be a futon set up in the corner, but Carol hurried him through to get into the backyard and sweet daylight. To Greg, it was like stepping out of the Addams Family house into the real world. The day was bright and birds were chirping. He didn't realize it before, but his sinuses had been stuffed up the entire time he'd been inside.

Probably all that dust. This is hardly worth my-

Greg saw something move from inside the house, somewhere in one of the second story windows. His peripheral vision had picked it up, maybe a curtain pulled to the side or a figure somewhere watching him. Whatever it was, it was gone. Everything was still.

"What in the heck are you looking at?" Carol asked. She had her hands on her hips in a way that reminded Greg of that old cow Mrs. Buchanan. He wished that he could pick Carol up and throw her over the fence.

"I was...," he looked over the perfectly-manicured lawn. "I was just noticing that this style of house doesn't have an arc-fault ground connection point. My mistake. We can go back inside. Do you have a basement?"

The basement held no more valuables than Greg had seen elsewhere in the house, but it would serve other purposes. He lifted the phony CO detector around the dirty room. He pushed a button that he had installed and the device emitted a series of quick beeps.

"What was that?" Carol shrieked, just the right reaction to Greg's ears. "Was that that carbon diocide?"

"Dioxide. Yes, but I wouldn't be alarmed. A pocket of CO gas here and there is perfectly normal. But I'm going to need scan every room, just to be on the safe side."

She nodded. "Yes, okay." Greg hoped that he hadn't calmed her down too much. There were so many fine lines in his work.

"Now, are there any rooms on the first floor that we didn't pass through?"

"Yeah, one."

Carol slowly climbed the basement stairs and led Greg to an office study on the first floor. As she swung open the door, Greg had to keep himself from laughing. A large floor safe, likely a TL-30 or -40, sat squarely behind an oak Riverside Executive desk. His back twinged with old hurt from memory of such previous hauls.

Even if the safe's contents don't pay off, I can get a solid grand for the desk. I'll just have to back the van right up to the front door.

"I don't go in here much," Carol said. "This was Henry's room. He didn't like me going in here, and after a while I stopped wanting to."

"Is that right?"

Thump, thump from overhead. Greg looked up at the ceiling, then to the old woman. Her face was calm, bored even.

"Yes, that's right," she said.

"I think it's time I checked out the second floor," Greg told her. "See about those outlets."

"Don't you want to check this room for gas?"

Greg quickly waved the radar detector around from where he stood.

"It's fine. Let's go."

Carol led him to the staircase, just right of the foyer. Greg waited for her to begin the slow, arduous journey up the steps, but she just gestured for him to go up.

"Are you not coming upstairs?" he asked.

"No. I never go up there." The words hung for a moment, ominous. Then she smiled at Greg. "My knees, you know. I almost had to ask you to carry me up from the basement. It's too much trouble, so I just stay down here. Sleep in the backroom. Got everything I need down here."

"Oh. Well, that's fine," Greg said as he turned away and climbed the stairs, a rare smirk forming.

As dark as it was downstairs, it was even darker upstairs. He carefully went from room to room, checking for the source of the thumping. The last thing Greg needed was a hero barging in on the job. Especially if the hero was an underage relative that he had somehow missed during a stakeout over the past two weeks. He didn't find anybody, and it looked like there was nothing to take either. The rooms were mostly empty, the decorations more suitable for a life-sized dollhouse than a home. To Greg, this felt like a waste of space and a good reason why the rich needed less riches.

He peered out a window, wishing he could open it. His sinuses had flared up again. As he thought about it, the lack of upstairs loot was almost a relief to Greg. Carrying anything as large or heavy as the study desk down the staircase would risk personal injury. Still, he went about his quiet search for jewelry and any artwork that might pull in a few extra bucks.

Movement outside caught his eye, maybe a lawn maintenance worker. Greg quickly backed away from the window.

Home stretch now, kid. Not a good time to be seen.

A bit shaken, Greg decided to end the search. He removed the radar detector from his jacket pocket, ready to send beeps down the stairs for Carol to hear. It was time for the second hardest part: getting the mark out of the house.

He pushed the button, but nothing happened. Silence. This was not good. Carol was sold on the gimmick and the gimmick needed to be convincing. He hit the side of the device. Nothing. He knew that the batteries were new, but he took them out and put them back in anyway. Nothing. Greg had been using the detector for years and had never had an issue. He stood in the dark of the second story hallway, could only stare at the dim light coming from first floor, by the staircase where Carol stood below.

Greg thought of the backup plan, of the ropes and the gag laying in the bag he had placed by the front door. It was a shitty thing to do, but he was already in a hole with Zachary financially, and there wasn't another tactic that he could see to get Carol out of the house. He took a deep breath and began to walk toward the staircase.

His footsteps suddenly sounded sickeningly familiar. Thump.

Greg had been caught during a job once before, had served time for it. He had bought some access codes to an office building and was using them to search for petty cash and whatever equipment he could carry out with him. A security guard had wandered in and busted him, trapped Greg like a rat with no more than a can of pepper spray, which was more than Greg carried. The moment when the guard yelled "freeze," he actually felt the word take form. It was as though his neck was blasted by a cold breeze and the chill spread down his spine and across his shoulders.

If his shoulders were frosty then, they were twin blocks of ice now.

Thump. This one behind him, impossibly.

He slowly turned toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. He had closed the door when he had walked out of it earlier, but it was open again now. In the doorway, a pale woman stood in front of a boy around seven or eight years old. Her hand, bruised and bloody, was on his shoulder. They looked like a mother and son portrait, only one occupying the physical world and all of its gruesome dimensions. They looked as though they had been dead for some time. Their skin was grey, their eye sockets hollow. But they could still see Greg; he knew that they could.

The floor melted under his feet, causing him to slip until the ground's firm, hot grip took hold of his ankles. Greg steadied himself by pushing against the walls of the hallways, but he was still sliding down into the floor. As if in burning quicksand, he turned away from mother and child. As he did, he found himself face to face with an old man, half naked, his skin torn with lacerations. The old man was hunched over and sneering at Greg. He grabbed one of Greg's arms. With his free hand, Greg pounded on the floor, suddenly solid.

Thump.

Muffled from below, Greg heard his own voice. "Am I taking you away from company?"

Greg pounded on the floor again, trying to warn himself.

Thump, thump.

The old man pushed Greg's head down and he sank lower into the floor, his energy draining faster than his mind could try to save himself. Greg was powerless and he knew that it was almost over. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes for what might be the final time before he went under.

The old man was gone, mother and child too. Greg looked down and saw that he was kneeling on the hallway floor, his arms still stretched to the walls on either side of him. Slowly, he tried to push himself up, only to fall to his knees again.

Thump.

"Is everything alright up there?" It was Carol, calling up from the first floor. Greg realized that he had been whimpering. He looked at the doorway to the bedroom. It was empty, but his mind could still place mother and child there, too easily. "Hello?" Carol again.

Without answering, he stood up and walked back down the staircase. He made no effort to disguise any expression that he might have been wearing now, but that didn't stop Carol from smiling at him.

"Everything check out okay?" she asked. Greg reached the bottom of the stairs and stood face to face with Carol.

Greg tried to answer her. Stopped. Couldn't. From a far off place, he realized that he had dropped the fake detector upstairs. He instantly knew that it didn't matter, that nobody would find it up there. It wasn't a place where people went.

And knowing that - especially in the way that he now knew it - made Greg want to dent the old woman's face in with a crowbar.

Just like Mrs. Buchanan. Always with a lesson to teach.

"Yeah, I got what I needed," Greg said, picking up his bag, a saccharine smile plastered on his face. "Big time, ma'am. Everything is perfectly fine here."

"Oh, good!" she said, beaming. Carol Louten opened the front door, allowing Greg to stumble back into the warm Thursday morning again.