In Which The Traveler Tries to Kill Us All

(Now, hold on. I know you may be thinking “What?” at that heading—or, alternately, “Who cares?”—but it’s accurate. Though he denies it, I am convinced that The Traveler was trying to kill us that night in Oxford. It is the only explanation for why he chose to do what he did—a malevolent soul enacting revenge for some unperceived slight.)

We returned to the girls’ flat and, after another comment about me being ‘loverman,’ The Traveler dumped the Tesco bags onto the girls’ counter and gathered a few mixing bowls, a couple knives, a pot, and a cutting board. The items on the counter were, roughly, as follows:

-       A pound of chicken breast fillets

-       A pound of jumbo shrimp

-       Four links of chorizo sausage

-       A regular onion

-       Garlic granules

-       Cajun spices

-       Hot chili powder

-       Turmeric

-       Three bell peppers of various colors

-       Five chili peppers

-       A few supremely wrinkled peppers known as a Scotch bonnet peppers

-       Some olive oil

-       An even more wrinkled mass of a pepper (looking like it was about to collapse in on itself) known as El Pepper del Diablo

-       And, finally, a pound of rice.

The most complicated meal I’d made involved eggs, toast, and a tomato—and I managed to make the tomato explode in a frying pan. Seeing such an array of foods sitting on the counter boggled my mind. That a person—a regular person, not a chef—could think they could successfully juggle such a collection of foods was laughable.

“Traveler,” I said, “what are you doing? There’s no way you’ll be able to handle all of this.”

“Oh?” he said.

“That’s really not that much,” said The Student. Well, it’s a lot of food, don’t get me wrong, but I think I know what he’s planning.”

“My friend,” I said, “I know when something’s doomed to failure, and this is definitely doomed to failure.”

“What are you making?” asked Dee.

The Traveler opened the chicken and diced the fillets. “I’ll tell you when its done.”

“I know what it is,” said The Student, in a childish sing-song voice.

“And I’d ask you not to tell anyone. I think you may be—”

“Oh, shit,” said The Drunkard, coming out of the bathroom, “you’re maki—”

The Traveler threw one of the red chili peppers at The Drunkard. “Shut it.”

The Drunkard shrugged. “Whatever.”

“What,” I said, “you know cooking?”

“Of course I know cooking. Used to cook all the time in undergrad. If The Traveler’s making what I think he’s making, then this was my specialty.”

“And do you cook now?” asked Dee.

“Nope. Can’t. I live with five French nihilists who go to class, come back, and sit and smoke in the kitchen all day and night. Tobacco smoke ruins food, in my opinion. Now I mostly eat ramen.”

The front door opened and Lena, tossing her backpack into her room with a dancer’s fluid motions, walked in. She put up her hair and I went, “Guh.”

“What’s cooking?” she asked.

“It’s a secret, apparently,” said The Narrator.

“Mmhmm,” said The Traveler. He’d finished dicing the chicken, sausage, and peppers, and put the chicken in one bowl and the sausage and bell peppers in another. “Also, if you wouldn’t mind buggering off somewhere while I prep and cook, that’d be great. I picked up the habit of talking to my food while cooking, and it kind of unnerves people.”

“You talk to your food?” I asked.

“Yeah. Strange habit, I know. Got it from a friend of mine who claims that it brings herself and the food into a closer relationship—almost a Zen sense of oneness.”

The rest of us got a pack of cards and played poker, hearts, and, finally, Go Fish. I lost every game we played except Go Fish. I was never a card player. In high school, while other people were getting together on Saturday nights and playing Texas Hold ‘Em, I was over at a friend’s house, where a group of us would gather and shout at each other over Mario Kart.

An hour or so after starting, The Traveler announced that the food was done, tapped a big ladle on the side of the big black pot, and set out five plates.

“Already?” asked The Drunkard. “For this, I thought it was supposed to be longer.”

“Yeah,” said The Traveler, leaning up against a wall in the kitchen and letting us serve ourselves first. “Normally, I’d agree with you. But I figured we didn’t have two hours to let the stuff stew in its own juices and bought quick cook rice.”

“This smells delicious,” said Dee.

“Take a bite.”

She got a fork from a drawer, stabbed some of the yellow rice-meat-pepper mound on her plate, and ate. In a second, her face turned red and tears streamed out of her eyes. “Good God,” she coughed.

Lena had the same reaction.

The Drunkard took a big bite, nodded, and smiled. “Good job, man.”

The Student took a plate, heaped some on, took a bite, and shouted, “Milk! Give me milk!”

“Narrator,” said The Traveler.

After seeing the reactions of everyone else, I was hesitant. Suddenly, I just wanted my usual dinner of microwaved lasagna or spaghetti. Still, I was determined to be the alpha male. I took the ladle, dug it into the mass inside the pot—and, man, it did smell amazing—scooped out a giant hunk and slapped it on a plate. I took a fork, dug it in, and took a bite.

While I didn’t black out, I wished I had. This was beyond spicy. There was no mirror, so I couldn’t see myself, but judging from the grin on The Traveler’s face, I reacted a lot like The Student. I kept in the pain, bottled it up, and tried my best to pretend that I wasn’t turning redder than a tomato and sweating like I’d just run a marathon. “Good,” I coughed. “Not trying to insult you, but my grandmother made spicier.” (In the interests of being an honest human being, I will attempt to transcribe what actually came out of my mouth: “Gub” cough. “Nah hayin” cough cough “inhul” cough “ranmot” cough “her made spicier” long stream of coughs.)

“Here,” said The Student. He pulled a chair out from the table and I sat down with the plate in front of me.

The Traveler took a mouthful on a fork and ate it like it was salad. “This is jambalaya.”

The Student, Lena, Dee, and I let loose a barrage of coughs. The Drunkard shoveled the rest of his plate down his apparently iron gullet, let the fork clatter to the plate, and said, “Traveler, I have a lot of respect for you. Don’t misunderstand me, that wasn’t the best I’ve had, but considering you cooked that up in an hour… well, let’s just say it’s worthy of seconds.”

The Traveler pointed to the pot, and said, “Help yourselves.”

The rest of the group sat down at the table. The Drunkard took the ladle and heaped some more on his plate. The Traveler opened the fridge, said, “Lena, you mind if we use your milk? I think The Narrator’s about to explode.”

“Am not,” I said. This was, of course, a blatant lie. (A while ago, I’d come up with something called The Narrator’s Ratio. Essentially, it says: 80% of what I say is a lie; 10% is half-truths; 10% is truth. The Narrator’s Ratio, of course, may or may not be a misrepresentation.)

“Please,” Lena said. “I might need it more than he does.”

Forsooth! Such grace! Such humor contained in such a fine vessel! (Sweat continued cascading down my forehead and dripping onto the table as I let loose a near unbroken chain of coughs.) That someone such as she could, maybe, perhaps, find a glint of the sublime in such a flawed example of the human form as I. But soft, there might—

“Hey,” The Drunkard said, poking me in the side after he sat down. “You can wait between bites, you know? You don’t have to continue eating if it’s causing you physical pain.”

“What physical pain?” I asked, mopping my forehead with my arm. “Physical pain schmysical pain. I—dear sweet God, Traveler, never use the Diablo pepper again.”

The Traveler, now sitting next to Lena, gave me a Cheshire cat grin. “Can’t handle the heat, get out the kitchen, boy.”

“I’m out of the kitchen. Where’s your remedy now?”

“You know,” said The Student. “You bring up the Diablo pepper, and I can’t help but think that, if they were to serve food in Dante’s Hell, then this would be the punishment for gluttony.”

The Drunkard, Traveler, and Dee chuckled. Lena and I laughed. The Student, reeling in a finally successful joke, grinned, took a bite from the jambalaya, and said, “Shit!” before diving for the milk.

In Which I Grow Tired of Flowers

“Lots of plants here,” I said.

“These are the Botanical Gardens,” Dee responded, using the tone of a teacher at the end of her rope.

Indeed, these were the Botanical Gardens. However, the gardens are not something I wish to spend time in describing. (You probably don’t care about the amazing variety of foliage—and if you do, too bad.) A small river cut through the Gardens. Trees—perilously close to losing all their leaves and becoming big sticks—were plentiful. If there were bluebirds, they would have been singing—however, this is England and it is a well-known fact that the only indigenous birds are gigantic crows, gigantic seagulls, pigeons, and those tiny birds that hop around vacuuming up crumbs.

On top of being largely disaffected by manicured beauty, I had The Drunkard to worry about. He was snapping out of his absinthe haze and was no longer whimpering. Perhaps the gardens and the trees helped him, or perhaps the stuff was weaker than I thought. Regardless, he hung in the back with me, while The Student and Dee walked ahead remarking on this tree or that plant.

“I’m a shit, aren’t I?” asked The Drunkard.

“What?”

He groaned.

“Nah, man. You’re, er,” I didn’t quite know what to say here. Sincerity and giving advice were never my strong points. I could tell a joke—that was easy. Helping people deal with problems in a serious manner, though, was hard. I’d briefly considered going to rabbinical school, but decided against it when I realized that, just maybe, a couple getting married wouldn’t want to hear “What’s another name for marriage? Meshugas!” under the canopy. “You’re a good guy. Just a little, um, crazy sometimes. Yeah?”

The Drunkard craned his neck to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot. “I’ve tried to attack The Traveler twice on this trip. I’ve spent most of the time tripping balls on absinthe. I’m a schmuck.”

“Nah.” I shook my head. If I did that enough, it would convince him otherwise. “You’re a good guy.” I patted him on the back.

“Right,” he said. “You tell that to Julie.”

“Er.” Yep, this was going into dark, frightening, and, most important, serious places. I looked ahead and saw The Student gesticulating with his hands and making some point—probably about an obscure novel he’d just read—which meant, in other words, that I had no hope of enlisting his help. “Nah, we just need to find you—” Find him what? “We just need to find you a nice Jewish girl.”

“Oh?” shouted The Drunkard. His face went from pale to beet red in about a second and the veins in his forehead popped out. “Is that what we need? Let’s find The Drunkard a Jewish girl, cause all of these shicksehs are bad for him! Is that right, you schlub?”

I backed into one of the black iron railings along the path. I wished that I had a shell at that moment—for though The Drunkard, in his fury, would inevitably break through such a defense, it would tire him out enough so the rain of endless blows would not cripple me.

“Let’s just find him a girl with –stein at the end of her name and everything will be all right. Hey, I know,” he said, jabbing his index finger into the air, “let’s turn The Drunkard into The Student! The Student managed to find a nice Jewish girl, didn’t he? Well fuck you, sir.” He dug his hands into his pockets, bolted to a bench, and sat down. I could practically see steam billowing out of his ears.

I blinked a few times. I looked around. Thankfully, no one noticed The Drunkard’s explosion. The Student and Dee were still talking up ahead—moving further and further away. Everyone else in the gardens was having too nice of a time to pay any attention to the American having himself a nice conniption.

About five or six years ago, I told someone that I wished they would stop sending me articles about Rush Limbaugh and was given a death threat. This event flashed through my mind, but, judging from the adoring looks I’d spotted The Drunkard give Julie (actually, they were more like the looks a puppy gives his owner), this was a completely different beast.

I watched The Drunkard. The vein throbbed for a little bit more, then stopped. His eyes steadied, and he stared at some flowers across the path. His left leg—which, when he first sat down, had been bouncing up and down like a jackhammer—stilled. I gave it another minute, buttoned my coat, and sat down next to him. “Sorry.”

He grunted.

“I didn’t mean to say that finding a Jewish girl would solve your problems. In fact, finding one would probably drive you mad, as they’re all balabustas.”

The Drunkard mimicked a rimshot.

“You know what Mel Brooks said. ‘Humor is just another defense against the universe.’ For me, it’s the only one.”

“Yeah,” The Drunkard said. “I’ll explain later.”

“Wanna catch up with The Student and Dee?”

He snorted. “You kidding me? You hear what they’re talking about? They’re talking about Brecht. Fuck that, my friend.”

“Well hey, there’s half the group,” The Traveler called.

I turned to my left and saw him carrying a couple of plastic bags stamped with the Tesco logo. “Heya, Traveler.”

“Enjoying the Gardens?” He asked. He put down the bags and sat between The Drunkard and I.

“Eh,” I said. “It’s getting tiresome, this looking at flowers and trees business.”

The Traveler nodded. “I’ve got this English friend, right? One day, I went down to his place in town and asked if I could break a bottle in his yard so I could make a guitar slide.”

“Why don’t you buy one?” asked The Drunkard.

“You kidding me? You want to be authentic, you make one out of a bottle neck.”

“Good answer,” The Drunkard said, slapping The Traveler on the back. “The answer of a true guitar player.”

“So,” continued The Traveler, “the guy says no. I asked why not, he says that the garden is the Englishman’s castle.”

“What was his castle like?” I asked.

“Overgrown with weeds, disheveled, and littered with trash. But, as the man said, it’s his castle. I see The Student and Dee are getting on well.”

“They’ve been talking about Brecht since we walked in the Gardens,” The Drunkard said. “Hearing such a conversation and not being a drama student is akin to being decapitated by a blunt guillotine.”

“The Student seems to like it,” said The Traveler.

The Drunkard nodded. “He also reads Joyce for fun. No one does that. Joyce’s wife didn’t do that.”

“She read his letters,” I said.

The Drunkard shivered at the mention of the letters. (Read them, if you dare.)

“Well,” said The Traveler, “what say we catch up with them? I’ve got the ingredients for food tonight, so I’d say after we’re done we can head back, feast, and then go out for some drinks.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Yeah,” said The Drunkard. He stood, took off his ballcap, scratched his head, and said, “Look, I should apologize for the absinthe thing. I’ve had a shitty time recently and—”

“Yup,” said The Traveler. He held out a Tesco bag. “You carry that and we’re fine.

The Drunkard took the bag and we caught up with the other two. They were now discussing Samuel Beckett and whether or not he was completely insane. For someone in the sciences, Dee knew an awful lot about theater, and, as such, I fell deeper in smit.

Anyway, we walked around the Gardens some more. However, I zoned out and, next thing I knew, we were back at the car.

Sub-Par Bagels and More Problems

We left the college and walked into the bright sunlight. I saw The Drunkard blubbering in the fetal position on the ground. The Traveler stood over him, looking around at the confused tourists walking by. I rushed over and said, “Dear God, Traveler, what did you do? Why did you use your capoeira powers on the poor man?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, raising his palms in the air. “Someone stepped on a beetle and The Drunkard just collapsed onto the ground in tears. I don’t think he just has absinthe in his flasks.”

“Can he get up?” asked The Student.

The Traveler shrugged. He gently kicked The Drunkard in his ribs. The Drunkard’s blubbering grew louder for a second and then subsided back to slightly louder than a whisper.

The Student crouched down and said, “Drunkard, it’s okay. That was a bad beetle.”

“What?” asked The Drunkard.

“Yes. He was a bad Beetleborg. You remember Beetleborgs?”

The Drunkard’s blubbering ceased. “I do remember Beetleborgs.”

“That was a bad one. Someone killed one of the bad guys.”

“Good,” said The Drunkard. He straightened from the fetal position, craned his neck to look at the squashed beetle carcass near my feet, and smiled. “Good.” He finally stood. His face was pallid. Veins stood out and his eyes were bloodshot. “We should eat.”

Dee nodded. “Good idea. I know a good bagel place right outside the gates.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good bagel.”

“I know,” The Student said. “The ones over here? Treif.”

We walked out of the gates, across the street, through the pedestrian traffic, and into a bright blue shop. It was set up like an ice cream place in the States—probably because, in addition to bagels, they had thirteen flavors of ice cream (nothing on thirty-one, I know, but it was England, after all). There was a long bar—part freezer, part bagel bar. At the end of the bar furthest from the entrance were three racks of bagels and displays of delightfully British fillings and toppings. By ‘delighfully British fillings and toppings,’ I mean smoked salmon, plain cream cheese (they refer to it as ‘soft cheese’), cucumber, and mayonnaise. There were a couple of others—lettuce and a couple meats among them—but, overall, it looked like they were trying to make a sandwich bar.

There are times when I really pity the British, for they don’t know what they’re missing. I pitied them now: they did not—and, barring a trip to the U.S., would not—know what made a good bagel. Their options were limited to cinnamon raisin, plain, and sesame. They would never know the joy of challah rolls, or potato bagels, or asiago bagels, or—I should stop this train of thought, as I am starting to dribble over the keyboard.

“Help you?” asked a man wearing a dark blue shirt and black apron from behind the counter.

“No,” I said. “It is you who needs help.”

His eyes darted from side to side—what he was looking for, I do not know. Possibly a hidden camera or a Bible to fling at him from some hidden space—and he said, “Sorry?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. I’ll have ice cream. Your bagel selection is, frankly, insulting to my people, who—”

“Narrator,” said The Traveler, holding a cup of ice cream. “Order your food and let’s go downstairs. Dee’s holding a table till we get down there.”

I nodded, ordered my food, paid, and we walked down a narrow wooden staircase to a seating area downstairs. “I notice,” I said, “that you’re not holding a bagel.”

He snorted. “You see that selection? Please, any place that doesn’t at least have an asiago shouldn’t legally be allowed to refer to itself as a bagel place.”

“Amen.” We clunked our ice cream cups together and joined the others.

The seating area downstairs had enough space for about twenty people. The walls were hospital white with some paintings featuring cows in famous places across the world—naturally, places where one would not expect to find a cow. We sat down at a booth set at one of the walls and Dee went upstairs to order. None of my friends had bagels. I pointed to the ice cream. They grunted.

At this time, a group of students descended the staircase. Most of them wore cardigans and clutched Moleskine notebooks. I twitched. In my mind, there are two types of people who use Moleskine notebooks: the first group are the Writers of the world; they fancy themselves the crème de la crème and nothing but $15 notebooks shall contain their thoughts. The second group—and even worse—are journalists. Journalists are the scum of the earth, for they live in a dying medium and do not acknowledge it. (Of course, it goes without saying that I would never say that to The Drunkard, for he would gouge out my eyes and them force them down my throat.)

“Well,” the first one—a tall, thin man in a maroon cardigan, thin-rimmed glasses, and an immaculately-trimmed goatee—said as they sat down at a booth nearby, “it’s incredibly hard to plan out an issue of a magazine without knowing how many people are going to be writing articles.”

I snapped my plastic spoon in half. Journalists.

The Drunkard stood up. He grinned out of one side of his face, showing some teeth. A disturbing look, made all the more so by his eyes, which arced up at the sides, giving him a look somewhere in between a serial killer and the mask representing Comedy. “Drunkard,” The Traveler said, “where are you going?”

The Drunkard, unresponsive, walked to the journalists. “Er,” I said.

The Traveler turned to me and arched an eyebrow.

“What?” I asked.

“What’s he doing?”

“How should I know?”

“You two are buds, aren’t you?”

“We’re friends, you think that means he telegraphs everything he’s thinking to me?”

“Did I say that?”

“Guys,” said The Student, “you need to stop that.”

“But—” I said.

“No. Chains of questions don’t help anyone.”

I looked back at the group of students. The Drunkard scraped a chair across the linoleum floor, straddled it, and stared directly at the man in the maroon cardigan from behind a woman in a green shirt. “Hi,” said the man. “Can I help you?”

The Drunkard, slowly, shook his head. “Nope.”

“Um,” the man said. He looked around, shrugged. He unwrapped his Moleskine, opened it, and said, “So, Stephen, could you—”

The Drunkard burst into a coughing fit. “Oh, whoops,” he said when he stopped. “Sorry.”

The man nodded. “Stephen, could you—”

“Hey,” said The Drunkard. “Hey. You. Maroon Man. You the editor?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. I could smell shit from across the room.”

The group of students grumbled. The Traveler hung his head, The Student looked to me, and I said, “Oh no.”

“Sir,” said the man in maroon, “I’d like to know what you’re insinuating.”

The Drunkard pushed in front of the woman and said, “I’m insinuating, you spineless coward, that you, as an editor, are naught but a fish-faced enemy of the people. How much you paying these guys, huh? Nothing, I’ll bet.”

“That’s more of a complaint to take up with—”

“Fuck you,” said The Drunkard. “I’ll take it up with whoever I want. Look,” he said to the woman. “This guy ever gives you shit, you take a dump on his desk. That’s the only way to handle editors.”

“I don’t th—”

“Hey,” The Drunkard said to the girl in green. “How many times he come on to you?”

“None, he’s a per—” she began.

“Pervert. Probably rubs one out thinking of you during meetings. Right, Maroon Man? You fucking letch.”

“Sir, I’m going to—”

“Do it right now.”

“Okay,” said The Traveler. He bolted out of his chair and dragged The Drunkard out by his collar. “We’re done here. Sorry about him, he’s deranged.”

“Your mother is deranged,” shouted The Drunkard. “Editors are scum! Spineless tools of the corporate world who don’t understand the risks of—get off me, Traveler, or I will—stop that!” The Traveler was now dragging The Drunkard up the stairs by his collar. The Drunkard’s shouts devolved into guttural screams, nonsense threats against The Traveler’s family. We heard a series of thumps on the floor above us, the ringing of a bell, and then silence.

Dee slowly plodded down the stairs with a confused look on her face. She held a plate with a salmon and lettuce-covered bagel.

“Ooo, went with lox, huh?” I asked.

She looked at her plate and said, “Yes. What was that?”

“Yes,” said the man in maroon. “What was that?”

Everyone turned to look at me—except for The Student, who stared at a magazine on the table with enough concentration to move the damn thing. “Ah,” I said. “Well. You see. The Drunkard—the man who just insinuated you were a sexual deviant—used to be a journalist. And, um, his father—who beat him with a length of rubber hose each night in rhythm to ‘Hey Jude’—was an editor. So, you know, he doesn’t really like editors.” I scratched my head.”

“You’re lying your arse off,” said a man in a navy blue cardigan. (Why were they all wearing cardigans? What was wrong with these people?)

“Maybe,” I said “But, just maybe, I’m not. And, if that’s the case, that makes you a rat bastard, sir. For my friend still carries the scars of his father’s ruthless shenanigans, and I shall be damned if I allow you, some cardigan-wearing poof, to say that my friend’s dark past is something to be scoffed at. Why, if I had a glove, I would throw it on the ground and challenge you to a duel. But, since I don’t, I bid good day to you, sir!” Then, since my train of thought essentially led me to turn tail and bolt, I did just that—although in a manner that said I could return and kick this guy’s ass six ways to Sunday.

The upstairs was still quiet from The Drunkard’s forced exit, and it entered a whole new realm of silence by the time I made it halfway to the front door. Before I left, I turned to the people, bowed, and said, “Thank you all, we’ve had a blast.”

Outside, I saw The Drunkard crumpled in a heap and The Traveler bouncing off of his hands back onto his feet. I sighed. “Again? Really?”

The Traveler shrugged. “We made it outside and he hurled a haymaker at me. I dodged it, tried to talk him down, he did it again and, well… there he is.”

I bent down and saw that The Drunkard was in the fetal position with his eyes open and blood trickling out of a gash directly above his right eye. “Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

“I’m going to sue,” he said.

“No you’re not,” said The Traveler.

“Fine. I want to go home.”

“Can’t. We’re taking the girls shopping tomorrow, and I’m cooking tonight.”

“Holy hell,” I said. “You cook?”

“Of course I cook. You don’t think I’d be fool enough to spend all my money on microwave meals, do you? God only knows what goes in those things.”

“Er,” I said. “Goodness. Goodness goes in them.”

“That’s what you eat, isn’t it?”

I shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Christ. I’ll teach you how to make something tonight.”

“Will you make spaghetti?” asked The Drunkard, sitting up. I wasn’t sure if he was dazed or still tripping from the absinthe, because that didn’t seem like a question that he would normally ask.

“No,” said The Traveler.

We stood around outside the ice cream/bagel bar for a while konger. It seemed The Student and Dee were content to let us revel in awkwardness outside. After about ten miinutes, they walked out, The Student saw The Drunkard on the ground and said, “You schmuck.”

Dee, possibly bowing to some maternal instinct made a whining noise and said, “Traveler, what did you do?”

“Capoeira. He tried to hit me with a haymaker. It was all in defense.”

“The man,” The Drunkard said, “is an animal. An absolute animal.”

“Right,” The Traveler said. “How much more absinthe do you have?”

“I’m out.”

“Prove it.”

The Drunkard took out four flasks, opened them all, overturned them. Not a drop fell out.

“Stand,” said The Traveler.

The Drunkard did so.

“I’m going to pat you down.”

“Aw, man, don’t do that.”

“What do you have to worry about? It’s not like you’re hiding anything else, are you?”

The Drunkard grumbled and pulled a flask from inside his pants and poured out a greenish liquid.

“Any more?”

“No. I hope you’re happy, Mr. I-Don’t-Acknowledge-The-Parrot-On-My-Shoulder.”

“I’m ecstatic.” He clapped his hands together once, turned to Dee, and said, “So, tour guide, where to now?”

“I was thinking the Botanical Gardens. They’re just down the street.”

“Okay,” said The Traveler, “while you’re doing that, I’m going to go get the ingredients for cooking tonight.”

“You’re not cooking,” Dee said.

“Yes I am. Lena won’t let us pay you guys for crashing in your flat, so I’m going to cook.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Spaghetti?” asked The Drunkard.

“No, not spaghetti.”

The Drunkard hung his head and The Traveler said he’d call us when he got done at the store. He walked off and The Student and I helped The Drunkard up and followed Dee down the street.

Inside The College; Or, We Get Bored Easily

The interior of Christ Church College looked like it should have been the interior for a film about a Tudor monarch. We entered via a walkway leading in from a courtyard. It was dark. Though there were plenty of windows set in the walls, the light streaming in was minimal. When my eyes adjusted, I saw beautiful stained glass windows, portraits of old college masters and a couple tapestries. I looked up and saw a few coats of arms on the ceiling high above. The entire place was beyond my abilities to describe in terms of architecture; however, I believe that the ceiling had flying buttresses. (I say that because it was the only architectural term I remember from my Medieval Studies classes.) There were crenated beams running from the walls to a large column—beyond that, I would direct you to a well-stocked photo library of Oxford.

As we walked in, both The Student and I went, “Oooo,” and stood and looked with stars in our eyes.

“Yeah,” said The Student. “I should have gone to Oxford.”

“You think you could have gotten in?”

“Oh, God no,” he said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that, in a just universe, I should have gone here.”

He spoke the truth. It was a damn shame that this wasn’t a just universe. “So,” said Dee, who hadn’t seen us stop, had walked up the stairs, and now had to come back down, “this is where they filmed parts of the college scenes in Harry Potter.”

We turned our attention to Dee. “What?” I asked.

“Never saw it,” said The Student.

“Really?”

I nodded and started up the stairs. The other two followed.

“Did you read the books, at least?”

The Student dug his hands into his jacket. “I haven’t had the luxury of reading anything for fun in, oh, six years.”

“Woah,” I said. “Really?”

He nodded like a man in mourning. “What with reading lists, critical interpretations, scholarly articles, and philosophical readings relating to the subjects undertaken in the literatures of different regions—nay, cultures—I can barely form a normal thought any more.”

“And you?” Dee asked.

I shrugged. “I read them when they came out. Thought they were decent, but I never thought it would be worth the time to see the movies.”

“But the cinematic brilliance—” she started.

“Pah!” shouted The Student. His objection echoed off the stone walls. We passed through a large archway at the top of the staircase and walked into a massive dining hall. The tables looked like they were about fifty yards long. At the end of the hall, there was a gigantic stained-glass window (the shapes had some significance to something or other, but, frankly, I didn’t care—we were in a dining hall). Small lamps were placed around the tops of the tables, generally one lamp for every two seats. Along the walls there hung large portraits of men wearing wigs. “Pah,” repeated The Student, a little quieter due to the glare he received from an usher. “Cinematic brilliance? Hardly. If you want cinematic brilliance, watch Kubrick.”

“Pah,” I said. “If you want cinematic brilliance, watch Spielberg.”

“Spielberg’s tripe,” The Student said.

“Your mother is tripe. Good for Kubrick, he can adapt novels.” I gave a slow clap that earned a glare from the usher.

“Pah,” said The Student.

“Pah,” I responded.

It should be clear to the reader, who is probably infinitely wiser than I, that neither The Student or I were impressed by the display of every stereotype of Oxford portrayed in this room. I wasn’t impressed because I realized that we had just paid five pounds to view a dining room. I guessed that The Student’s temporary fascination with buildings that weren’t built in the 1960s (as the University of Kent was) was fading. We left the dining room after about one minute spent scoffing at each other and, as we left, realized that Dee was still inside. We looked back in and saw her gazing around the room with a giant grin on her face. Clearly, she was a big fan of the movies.

“Still wished you went to Oxford?” I asked.

The Student scratched his chin. “Well, it would have looked nice, having a degree from Oxford. But, really, when it comes down to it, literature’s all about an individual’s perception of a work, or ‘work,’ and taking a degree is about formulating, postulating, perhaps, a critical standpoint—be it Marxist, feminist, post-modern, anything really. So it doesn’t really matter what university you attend. You know, have I ever told you my thoughts on Conrad’s ‘The Secret Sharer’ as an Oedipal—”

“Shut up,” I said. “You’re going into literary criticism mode, and I fear that may lead to you throwing feces around the room. Stonework is a bitch to clean, and I’d rather not spend the afternoon scrubbing defecation from centuries-old college walls.”

The Student, presumably seeing the wisdom of my idea, silenced himself and we looked at a sculpture of a man named Cyril Jackson. I have no idea who this man is, but I expect that he is Michael Jackson’s ancestor—for no reason other than he was sitting, and I’d heard that, from time to time, the King of Pop enjoyed a nice sit-down.

Finally, Dee, dazed, walked out of the living room. “You could almost see the owls flying in from the roof.”

The Student turned to me with a bewildered look on his face. I shrugged. It appeared that students in the sciences were no less prone to being kids than we in the humanities. “Here,” I said, pulling a chair over from a small table in the corner, “have a seat while you gather your senses.”

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.” She sat down, still grinning.

“So,” I said. “How bout them Yankees?”

The Student blinked. “What?”

“The Yankees. They won the Series.”

“Ah.” The Student sniffed. “I presume you don’t like the Yankees.”

I shrugged. “I’m more of an Astros fan.”

“Houston? Why in God’s name would you like them? They’re terrible. I don’t watch baseball and I know they’re terrible.”

My nostrils flared. “Gotta support the team. Home team. For it’s root, root, root for the home team.”

The Student turned his head to one side. “What? You turning into Rain Man over there?”

“I was born in Houston. You have to support your home team.”

“Please, that’s bullshit. You’re free to go with whomever you want.”

“Well maybe I want to cheer for the Astros.”

“I repeat my earlier question: Why in God’s name would you want to support one of the consistently most disappointing teams in baseball?”

“Because I believe in a little thing called loyalty.”

“More like stupidity.”

“Why you—” I raised my fist in the air and Dee jumped between the two of us.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s go.”

I dropped my fist and nodded coolly at The Student.

The Drunkard Flips Out

We parked half a mile away from the college and piled out—The Student, lacking coordination, tumbled out of the back seat and laid groaning on the ground. The Traveler took The Drunkard aside and whispered. Dee walked to a guardrail near the river running through the city and I followed.

“So. What do you study?” I asked.

She turned—I was normally ambivalent about blue eyes, but here, I melted—and said, “I study the genetic mutations between generations of e. coli bacteria in conditions that resemble Arctic winters.”

“That’s cold.”

“Yes. Very cold. You?”

“I, er, I do a special branch of literary criticism.”

“Which is?”

“Well, it’s a new field. Kind of ridiculous. There’s no real term for it. It’s… well, it’s studying how what makes something literary.”

“Ah, and what are your conclusions?”

I took off my hat and scratched my head. I had problems with this in my essay—it is incredibly hard to come to a conclusion about anything when no one knows what they’re looking for—and, certainly, had problems explaining it now. “Erm,” I began, “you’ve got some stuff that’s High Literature, and some that’s not. Some of the literary stuff is good storytelling—but a lot isn’t, and descends into rants about something or other. Some that’s not High Literature may be good storytelling—but, at the same time, a lot isn’t.”

Dee nodded slowly. The sort of nod one gives a madman. I recognized that look and despaired. “I see,” she said. “And what makes something literary?”

It was an incredibly hard question. “So far, research indicates that being George Orwell, Mark Twain, Alduous Huxley, or Sinclair Lewis helps.”

“And you?”

“Are clearly none of them. So.” I shrugged. “If you have any suggestions, feel free to send them my way.”

She nodded—this one warmer, less of the I’m-talking-to-a-madman slow nod I got earlier. “We should head back. It looks like your friend’s recovered from his near-coma.”

We did.

After we rejoined them, I up to The Traveler and said, “Two questions.”

“Shoot.”

“What’d you tell The Drunkard?”

“I told him to keep drinking, but if he starts freaking out, we’re leaving him.”

“Fair enough. Second question: What did I do last night?”

“Oh, you’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. Very much so. Please tell me.”

The Traveler took a deep breath as we left the car park, walked onto the sidewalk and followed Dee through double-decker-filled, pedestrian-laden streets to Christ Church College. We passed by multi-storey bookstores, specialty shops, and a variety of tourist gift stores. “I don’t know. I kind of like you freaking out like this.”

“What did I do to you?”

“Absolutely nothing. This might be a subconscious sense of schaudenfreude that I don’t show enough.” He looked around, dodged a couple of running children and their running, shouting parents, and said, “Yes, I believe that’s it.”

I grumbled.

“Relax,” said The Traveler. “We’ll tell you. Eventually. Maybe.”

We passed by a gatehouse. Looking through, into a courtyard, we saw a large, circular, domed building. “Hey Dee,” I said. “What’s that?”

“That’s the Camera. It’s one of the main libraries.”

“Looks like an observatory,” said The Traveler.

“Can we go in? Can we go in?” The Student’s eyes dilated and it looked like he was on the verge of leaping up and down.

“I wish you could, it’s lovely in there. They’re very particular about their libraries here, though, and non-students can only get in during certain hours.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Unheard of! Absurd! It is a universal, human right to check books out of a library. The thirst for knowledge cannot go impeded by petty things such as university tuitions.”

 “Why did you just speak in a speech bubble?” asked The Drunkard, blinking rapidly and leaning towards me. “Are you a comic character? Are we in a comic?” He turned to the stone wall and licked it. “We’re not in a comic. That has a taste.”

The Student pointed to The Drunkard and said, “Dee, should we bring him with us?”

“Probably not,” she said. “I’ll take him for a walk around the grounds while you guys are inside.”

The Drunkard turned to her and smiled. “Pretty lady take for walk?”

Dee gave him a pat on the head. “Yes, when we get there.”

It was another few minutes before we got to Christ Church College. The college was located behind walls the size of Canterbury’s city walls, and I assumed that we were near Oxford’s castle (Oxford has a castle, right? Every city in this country has a castle) before Dee walked us through a black wooden gate and into the college grounds.

The grounds looked like Hyde Park—if you were to ignore the giant building to the left. It looked like a manor house from a period drama—an impression helped by the grounds. Immaculately landscaped, there was a large field—there were a couple games of football, a few people flying kites, and people lounging around on blankets. It was a nice day for it—the cutting wind so prevalent in Canterbury was not here, and the sky (joy!) was a rich blue. There was a lake in the middle of the field. Gravel paths stretched to the other side.

Closer to us, near the entrance gate and leading to the college itself, there was a lovely garden, bursting with colorful flowers. “Okay,” said Dee, “you’ll go up to that gate over there—” she pointed to an archway in building, and, after that, told The Traveler what to do.

I didn’t pay much attention because I was preoccupied with The Drunkard. He stood next to the flowers and gazed. I can’t describe it in any other way: he simply gazed. Then, he started crying and crouched on the ground. I walked over and said, “You okay, man?”

“They’re so beautiful.”

I looked at the flowers. They were pretty nice. I wasn’t going to disagree with The Drunkard on that. But there wasn’t, as far as I could tell, any reason for him to break down in tears at the sight of a well-manicured garden. I nodded. “Well, sure. I guess. They—”

“Must be set free,” he mumbled.

I couldn’t have understood him correctly. “What?”

“They must be set free,” he said—quite clearly this time. He stood up, looked around him, and yelled, “They must be set free!” He hurled himself into the flowerbed and began ripping and tearing at the flowers, sending them flying behind him like a dog digging a hole.

I stood in awe for a moment, my eyes widened, paralyzed. The Student rushed over, shouting, “Drunkard, what the hell are you doing?” He tried to pull The Drunkard out of the flowerbed.

“They must be set free—yesyesyes—and I am the man to do it,” The Drunkard shouted as he grasped the flora.

I came to my senses and hurled myself into the fray. We managed to jerk him out of the bed, and I saw his face. It was beet red and he was twitching. We pushed him across the pathway—past our fellow shocked and cowed tourists, who stood, looking on, cameras at the ready. “Nothing to see,” I called. “He’s just a fan of flowers.”

“They’re imprisoned for their beauty!” shouted The Drunkard. “We all are! We are all beautiful creatures in the jail of reality! Free yourselves!”

“No we’re not,” I said. “Most of the people here are hideously malformed.”

A low rumble went through the tourists. I looked for The Traveler and Dee, and it seemed they had disappeared off towards the gate. How they managed to not hear the commotion was beyond me. I turned back to the crowd. Turns out, a lot of them were hideously malformed. “Just saying that to calm him down, folks,” I lied. “He gets a little excited when we let him out of his cage.”

The Drunkard sputtered, and we let him crash to the ground. He burst into tears. “I am scum,” he stated. He clutched his head in his hands. “I am scum.”

Finally, The Traveler and Dee ran over. The Traveler knelt down near The Drunkard and looked up at me, his face a mixture between confusion and anger. “What the fuck did he put in his absinthe? Acid? It shouldn’t make him flip his shit this much.”

I shrugged. “I’ve never touched the stuff.”

The Traveler grunted. “Well, fuck. Dee, you go in with The Student and The Narrator. If this schmuck freaks out again, I can handle him.”

“Are you sure?”

I snorted. “You should’ve seen him yesterday. Traveler went all Apeshit Bird Man and kicked the shit out of him.”

She raised an eyebrow at The Traveler, who shrugged. “I landed a couple of good kicks and managed to convince The Drunkard of the error of his ways. Anyway, guys,” he said, “it’s five quid to go inside. And, apparently, it’s where they filmed bits of Harry Potter.”

“Joy,” I said. “My favorite film of all time.”

“I thought so,” said The Student. “You seemed like a Harry Potter freak. Running around, playing quidditch, casting spells and whatnot.”

“Okay,” said Dee, who, I’m guessing did not share our joy in making things up about each other. “Shall we go?”

“Lead on,” I said.

She did and we followed.

The Next Day

I woke up around noon shouting, “Vodka!” I was in a cold sweat and smelled like a distillery. I looked around me at the vaguely familiar walls, saw that I was inside a virtually destroyed sleeping bag (it looked like someone had taken a knife to the thing during the night) and, further, that I was in the room alone. The rest of the—intact—sleeping bags were vacant and the bed was made up. The door was closed. At my feet were the two empty mason jars, on their sides.

It was a good thirty seconds of lucidity before the massive headache hit me, and I clamped my hands to the sides of my head and groaned. After a few minutes, I got used to the feeling—as used to intense, throbbing pain as one can get, at any rate—and got out of the sleeping bag. I stood, stumbled, saw a note on the floor, picked it up and found that the headache made it completely impossible to read.

I pulled on my jeans and opened the door. The others were sitting around the table—The Student leaned against the wall—and drank what smelled like the best damn coffee in the world. “Raurgh,” I said.

The Drunkard turned. “Ah,” he said. “There he is.”

Lena, wearing white pajamas, turned and said, “Well hello, loverman.”

This pierced through the headache. I’d never been called that in my life. Not even in irony. It just wasn’t the sort of moniker people attached to me. “What—” I asked. That took a lot more effort than I’d hoped, and I groaned, took a breath, and started again. “What did you just call me?”

“Woah,” said The Student. “You don’t remember anything?”

My face contorted into expressions I can only describe as utter confusion—mixed with a supreme yearning to know what I did the previous night. I think—and it’s very hard to remember what your face is doing of its own accord—my left eyelid shut halfway and my eyebrow rose up a few inches. “No. What’d I do?”

The Student grinned, rose the cup to his mouth. “Oh, nothing. Hee hee.” He drank.

I spun and turned on The Traveler. I pointed at him.

He shrugged, grinning.

“Fuck all of you.”

“Oh,” said The Drunkard. “That’s slightly inaccurate.”

Now it was time to turn to Lena. “Did we…?” If so, that might have been bad. I hadn’t bought condoms since I was eighteen. Some might call it dangerous—I, knowing full well my habits, knew that I wouldn’t need them, so I called it fiscally sound.

She shrugged, raised her eyebrows, and sipped from her mug.

“This just isn’t fair. Not one Goddamn bit, guys.”

Dee walked in, windbreaker over a pink shirt and black jeans, and said, “Hey there, loverman.”

“Damn it!” I shouted.

“Er,” she responded.

“Right,” said The Traveler. “Shall we go?”

“Go where?” I asked.

“Christ, you didn’t have that much to drink.”

“Oh, wow. Now that you mention that, all of my memories come flooding back. Where are we going?”

“Christ Church.”

I tilted my head to the side. “We’re going back to Canterbury?” There was another university in Canterbury called Canterbury Christ Church. It was—by reputation—a haven for unique individuals with unique ideas and habits. I remember, about a month before we went to Oxford, The Student took me to meet a friend of his from when he was here before. We met in a pub on the High Street that catered to metalheads and Goths, and The Student and I were supremely out of place. We met his friend, who was with some people whose faces seemed to be made of metal rings, things escalated, and I was told that “if [my] Jew ass knew what was good for [me], [I] should leave.” So, I did. Steered clear of that place—and CCC, where those guys were apparently from. (I got an apology from The Student’s friend. Really, the incident is a testament to my ability to conjure up hatred from peopl. Anyway.)

“No,” said The Traveler.

“You serious?” asked The Student.

The headache started throbbing harder. “Look, I need you guys to pretend that I’m much dumber than I actually am. I don’t have the capacity to make logical conclusions right now, okay?”

“Christ Church College,” said The Traveler, “is the epitome of Old-World education—at least in England. It’s kind of like a massive fraternity in that, in order to be admitted to the college and allowed to live there, you need a juicy bank account.”

I must have had a blank look on my face, because he followed it up with:

“Also, it’s where they filmed bits of Harry Potter.”

Ignoring this—I didn’t feel one way or another about the books or the movies—I got my stuff ready and leaned against the wall.

The others gathered their stuff together, put away their dishes, and said bye to Lena—who was staying behind to do some coursework—and we filed behind Dee like ducklings. We got back in the car—Dee up front with The Traveler to give directions to a car park near the college—and I was in the back with The Student and The Drunkard. The Student was crushed in the middle, while The Drunkard spread himself out.

I turned to The Student—who was glaring ahead with an expression of absolute, unmasked displeasure—and said, “So, how’s the girl?”

He beamed. “Oh, she’s great. Fuckin’ great, man. You know, I’m really glad it worked out that I kept getting shot down at the beginning of the semester. It all worked out pretty well. Makes you think that, maybe, just maybe, the Chassids might not be completely insane when it comes to their philosophies on—”

“—Yeah, that’s great,” I said. “What did I do last night?”

“Really bothering you, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“And you had no interest in how things are going with Rebecca and I, did you?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Hmm,” he said. He scratched the beard that was slowly starting to appear. “Too bad, then. Seems I can’t remember what happened last night.”

“Oh come on,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Oh, get the fuck out. Drunkard,” I said, leaning forward. “What did I do last night?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

If Dee hadn’t been in the seat in front of me, I would have punched it with all the fury of… a man suffering from a blackout and trying desperately to remember the occurrences of the previous night. “You will pay for this, Drunkard! Do you hear? By all that is holy in the world, you shall pay for your transgressions this day!”

The Drunkard threw back his head and laughed. “Right. I can’t wait to read about what you have to say about me in that blog of yours.”

“How is the blog going?” The Traveler asked.

We turned a corner into the central part of the city—the part of Oxford that I thought of as “The Older Part with the Cool Buildings”—and immediately stopped due to a massive traffic jam. “Pretty well,” I said. We moved an inch and The Traveler, displaying his Americanness, laid on his horn, leaned out the window, and shouted that we were trying to drive here.

“That’s good,” he said, after bringing his head back into the car.

“Yep,” I responded. “Up to two followers, now.”

“Oh,” said The Drunkard. “A whole two! Tell me: out of those two, how many are your parents?”

“One,” I whispered.

“Aw, sweet,” he said. He leaned back, took a flask out of his jacket, and sipped.

“Drunkard,” said The Traveler, moving us up another couple of inches, “how’d you find the flasks?”

“Your mother,” responded The Drunkard.

I looked out the window. It was another nice day. Clear blue sky—one of the ten legitimately clear blue skies I’d seen so far this semester—with a nice, non-biting breeze. People were out on the sidewalks, walking through the gardens of the town, and here we were, sitting in a car inching along one of England’s stupidly tiny roads. (This, I thought, was why Europeans are in better shape than Americans: They’ll do anything they can to avoid driving.)

“Drunkard,” The Student said, “why are you giving The Narrator shit about the blog?”

“Pah, I’m just fuckin with him.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“What?” I said, turning to The Student. I did know it—kind of. But, damn it, I was not to be made into an overly-sensitive nebbish Jew in the presence of a gorgeous woman. I glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw her grinning. “Fuck off, this is what we do. Right, buddy ole pal of mine?” I reached over The Student and punched The Drunkard on his shoulder.

“You do that again and I’ll curb stomp you.”

I swallowed the fear—my brother forced me to watch that scene from American History X twenty times one night when I was little—and said, “Yeah, yeah, says you. I’ll break your still.”

“What,” said The Drunkard, his voice dropping what sounded like eight octaves and reaching into the realm of the demonic. “What did you just say?”

“Er.”

“Kids,” The Traveler said. “We’re almost there. Refrain from killing each other in the presence of our lovely tour guide, please.”

“Mmhmm,” said Dee. “If you don’t, I’ll take all of you to a nice bagel place right across the street from the college.”

“Bagels!” the three of us shouted in unison. There were times like these when I thought, just for a moment, just in a passing fancy, that we were the same person, just split up in some arbitrary manner, but these moments passed.

“I’ll ignore the still comment,” said The Drunkard. He took another sip from his flask. “But that’s only because the halo around your head is a pleasant shade of blue.”

A Public Service Announcement from The Justice Trio

SQUIDJEW and ALEKSANDER—28, pasty with curly black hair, wearing a black pea coat, jeans, and boots—stand at a bar in a roadhouse. It is dimly lit, with a few stools near the bar, some tables and chairs scattered around. Rock music PLAYS from some speakers around the walls.

SquidJew turns around, faces the camera, and READS from a teleprompter, as before.

SQUIDJEW

Oh, hello there. I did not see you come in. How about this

service, huh?

He LAUGHS, timidly.

SQUIDJEW (CONT’D)

We’re here today to see you—wait. To see that you don’t—wait.

DIRECTOR (OS)

It’s on the fucking prompter!

SQUIDJEW

I can’t see for shit, this lighting is the worst.

Aleksander turns around.

ALEKSANDER

Da, I agree with cousin Jew of Squid. It is hard to see.

He SLAMS his fist on the stool next to him.

ALEKSANDER (CONT’D)

And where is innkeeper? I had better service in Russia.

DIRECTOR (OS)

There is no innkeeper, there is no bartender. We’ve told you,

this is a soundstage. Do you want brighter lights? Would that

make it easier for you guys?

SQUIDJEW

Hey, sorry if having it so your stars can see is a hassle.

ALEKSANDER

Da. If I want to be blind, I will drink!

He BURSTS into laughter and SMACKS SquidJew on his back.

SquidJew doubles over in pain.

SQUIDJEW

Son of a bitch, Aleks.

The lights go up.

DIRECTOR (OS)

Better?

SQUIDJEW

Much.

Aleksander takes a silver flask from his pea coat and takes a swig.

ALEKSANDER

Da. Much, my friend.

DIRECTOR (OS)

What is that?

ALEKSANDER

What? This?

He points to the flask.

ALEKSANDER (cont’d)

Is vodka, my friend. Would you like some?

DIRECTOR (OS)

You can’t drink on the set.

The director SNAPS his fingers and a CREW MEMBER, 19, walks on to the set, takes the flask, and walks back off.

ALEKSANDER

You will pay for that.

DIRECTOR (OS)

I’m sure. Go from the top.

The two turn back towards the bar. The music STARTS BACK UP.

SquidJew turns and smiles at the camera.

SQUIDJEW

Ah, hi there. Didn’t see you.

He jerks a thumb at the bar.

SQUIDJEW (cont’d)

How bout this service, am I correct? Hey, Aleksander,

Look at who’s here.

Aleksander turns. He glares at the Director, saying his lines in an even deeper Russian accent.

ALEKSANDER

Well. Hello there, fellow Houstonian comrades. We did

not hear you come in, what with the raucous drinking.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

DIRECTOR (OS)

Cut. Look, Ivan, can you cut the threatening tone? This is a

P.S.A., for God’s sake.

ALEKSANDER

Fuck you.

DIRECTOR (OS)

…Right. From Ivan’s last line.

SQUIDJEW

We came here for a drink, but as long as you’re here, we

have something to tell you, right Aleksander the Drunk?

Aleksander still stares at the Director.

ALEKSANDER

Da, cousin. Drinking can be fun, but it can also be

dangerous. I will kill you, Mr. Director, for taking my flask.

DIRECTOR (OS)

Cut. Fine, give the freak his flask back.

The crew member returns the flask. Aleksander breaks into a grin and holds it up in the air.

ALEKSANDER

Nastrovia!

He drinks from the flask.

DIRECTOR (OS)

From the last line. Action.

ALEKSANDER

Drinking can be fun, but it can also be dangerous. After

all, not everyone, like me, can drink Death to death.

SQUIDJEW

That’s right. Nor should they even try, because that would be

a--

BOTH

Bad idea.

They mimic a baseball umpire’s ‘out’ motion.

SQUIDJEW

And we don’t like bad ideas, do we?

ALEKSANDER

Niet, cousin. Bad ideas are bad. As we say in motherland--

He pauses, cocks his head to the side.

ALEKSANDER (cont’d)

We do not say that in Russia. We do not call it motherland.

I am insulted by your insensitivity.

DIRECTOR (OS)

Cut. I don’t give a rat’s ass. You got your flask back. Read the

lines so we can get out of here. Action.

ALEKSANDER

As we say in motherland, “A bird in hand is worth two

in bush.”

Aleksander, once more giving the Director a death glare, takes a swig from his flask.

SQUIDJEW

I hear that. I wouldn’t have been able to take down

Dr. Omnikill if I’d been blind drunk.

SquidJew cocks his head to one side.

SQUIDJEW (cont’d)

I didn’t kill Dr. Omnikill. Killman killed

Dr. Omnikill.

DIRECTOR

It doesn’t matter. Next line. Keep it moving.

SQUIDJEW

So remember guys and gals: Don’t let good times

go bad by drinking too much.

ALEKSANDER

And always remember friend water.

DIRECTOR (OS)

Cut.

STAGE HANDS begin ripping apart the set.

DIRECTOR (OS, cont’d)

Finally. I’m getting tired of being stuck on hero duty.

You fucks can’t act worth a damn, you know that?

ALEKSANDER

(screaming)

You want for to make act? I will make act outside head!

You will think rock is dog!

Aleksander takes a bottle of vodka from his flask and chucks it at the Director, who flees the set.