Today, you're going to deliver a baby on the bus!

Could be worse.

Today, you'll be riding on a bus when it comes to a sudden stop because a woman riding in the back has unexpectedly gone into labor.  You're preoccupied at the moment, because you're looking out the window at that short skinny girl that you have a crush on who is at that moment walking past your window (she's someone else's girlfriend though, what a shame).

Your thoughts are interrupted by the pregnant woman's exclamation that someone needs to deliver her baby for her, and everyone on the car will look at you because you’ll be wearing surgical scrubs. You aren’t a doctor. You’re just the guitarist in a Bob Marley cover band called No Woman No Cry.

You’ll explain that the surgical scrubs actually cost you a lot of money and you might not be able to afford to replace them if you get placenta all over them, but everyone will promise to chip in to buy you new scrubs.

‘We’ll all just feel better if the guy doing the delivery is at least dressed like a doctor,’ one of the passengers will say.

The pregnant woman will howl at a contraction and you’ll realize that there’s no time to argue.

‘Let’s go crazy,’ you’ll say before you get down on the floor and reach in between the woman’s legs to pull her soaking wet panties down from underneath her skirt.

Tell the woman to breathe a bunch of times, then tell her to push. Her vagina will get wider and wider and it will even tear a little bit. When the baby’s head starts to poke out of the woman’s vagina, place your fingers around it and pull very gently. Even though you don’t know the woman, it’s okay if you accidentally touch her on the vagina a little. Everyone will know by how much you argued about having to help deliver the baby that you’re not some pervert who only gets turned on by vaginas that have babies coming out of them. She knew when she got pregnant that one day someone she doesn’t know might have watch her vagina get really big and might have to touch it even. She never thought a whole subway car full of people would get to see it, but she knew there was a very small possibility.

Or at least an elevator full of people.

Anyway, the baby will eventually come out, followed by all this other terrifying stuff and it will look like a massacre happened. You’ll all take a vote on what to do with the umbilical cord and you’ll decide not to do anything about it because the only knives that are on the train will belong to some teenage gang members and they won’t be able to remember if they washed the blades after their last rumble.

Once the baby is wrapped up in newspapers, you’ll remind everyone that they’d better chip in to buy you some new scrubs.

‘These were twenty one dollars before tax,’ you’ll say. At first everyone will balk, hoping the guy with the briefcase will just give you the full twenty-something. But he’ll complain about an ex-wife and a daughter in college, so the others will all chip in and give you around eighteen dollars, which isn’t bad.

The mother will ask you your name so that she can name her son after you. Tell her your name is Kyle, even though it’s not. You don’t want some kid who was born on a subway to be your namesake, do you?

Alternatively, you could tell her your name is Adolf which would be funny if she goes for it.

Today, there will be a gripping moment at the Diner.

Parking lot handjob optional.

You're learning to spend some time alone. It's going well enough. You're finding that your thoughts can be good company, especially since you're always thinking about what it would be like to have two girlfriends, and the ability to teleport.

Tonight you went to the diner. For a coffee and a view of the street. You've been there for around forty minutes with a vision of falling off of the Empire State Building, but teleporting to the Denny's across the street right before the moment of impact, as your two smokin' hot girlfriends hop up and down and cheer you on.

Yes, it's a pretty regular 'ol Saturday night for you.

In your mind your drinking some powerade and giving an interview to a reporter when you shake the fantasy away to notice the mailman with a mailbag slung over his shoulder stopping in front of the diner to check the address. The mailman looks at the postcard in his hand

You look at your watch and see it's 8:53 PM. 

"That guy woke up late today," you think. The mailman enters the diner and speaks with the cashier.

You drift back to the Starbucks where you and your two girlsfriends, Julie and Lorraine are trying to coordinate your plans for the evening. Julie wants to see the new Twilight at 8, and Lorraine just wants to make sure the movie lets out early enough for you to meet her and her visiting parents for a drink at the hotel where her parents are staying. 

Then you notice the waiter is standing by your table and not refilling your coffee. You look up to see the waiter with a postcard in his hand.

"Are you Jimmy...uh..." the waiter checks the postcard. "Jimmy...Abbot?"

You are. "How'd you know?"

The waiter drops the postcard on the table. You pick it up and read.

Jimmy Abbot
c/o Zingo's Diner
Third Booth By The Window
333 Buck Owens Blvd
Bakersfield, CA

Boy, get down! Head to the tabletop! Now!

You throw your nose to the table and wait for the gunshot. You turn your eyes up just in time to see a straw wrapper shoot past and float down onto the empty seat of adjacent booth. If you had not gotten that postcard, the straw wrapper would've slammed directly into the back of your head.

You sit back up and look behind you to find a little boy with a crewcut, the naked straw to his lips aimed straight at you. The boy's mother takes the straw from his mouth and motions for him to finish his hamburger. You go back to the postcard and read the rest.

Hope this helped kid.

Sincerely,

Tom Cruise

You check the postmark. It says "Hollywood."

Today, you're gonna get thrown out of Weinerschnitzel!

The black guy dies first.

Today, you'll find yourself completely unable to wait for lunchtime because lunchtime is when you get to talk to Sarah, the 17-year old girl who works behind the counter at Weinerschnitzel. 

Sarah looks exactly like Annie, a girl you were on a date with from high school who died on Prom Night. 

A bit of history.  Years ago on Prom Night, you were driving the car and you bet everyone in the car that you could make it across the train tracks before the train passed. 

No one in the car took the bet and they begged you to just take them to the Prom so that everyone could live out the night they had dreamed about throughout their teens, but you thought that by them being scared it would just make Prom Night all the more memorable when you sailed past the train tracks with only half a moment to spare as the train horn screamed in the night, already retreating behind you, with your laughter drifting out the car windows. 

Oh, you were all so young.

It didn't work out that way though, because everyone in the car died except for you.

Which is why you like ordering lunch from Sarah every day because it lets you pretend that the world stopped just minutes before you were all hit by that train, and it lets you pretend that Annie isn't dead, but that she's still 17 and she got a job at Weinerschnitzel.

Unfortunately you find yourself unwelcome in Weinerschnitzel and unable to enjoy a nice simple chili dog because eventually the manager stepped in front of Sarah and told you that you aren't allowed to eat lunch there anymore since every time you ordered something you followed it up by screaming "I'M SO SO SORRY!" and then lunging across the counter to try and hug Sarah and it scared his customers.

So tomorrow you'll head over to Fresh & Easy, where one of the cashier guys looks like Jared, one of your friends who was in the backseat.

Except more of a mexican version of Jared.

You can't wait for lunch tomorrow!

Today, a top secret spy mission at a top secret laundromat.

If you think about it, 
we're all spies...in the pentagon of love.

Your spy clothes had gotten a bit dirty during your last spy mission, so now you decide it's time to clean them. Accordingly, you'll slip on an outfit which you figure will help you blend in with the inhabitants of this city, then bundle up all your clothes and head down to the local laundromat.


Inside the laundromat, all will be it should be. Washers spin clothes about wetly. Dryers spin clothes about dryly. And the people just watch and hope for the best. There'll be no-one here who might recognize you, so you'll step inside and prepare for an ordinary afternoon of laundering.

You'll survey the laundromat for possible alternate exits but there won't be any.  Briefly, you'll consider the idea of establishing some sort of underground railroad to a top secret mountain stronghold but realize that you don't have that kind of time.

The mission calls.

Get some change from the change machine. You already have enough change, but a few people will be watching, and there will be no need to arouse suspicion about exactly how you have acquired the change.

Then you'll survey the scene as you walk over towards the washing machines - about twenty people of various sexes, age ranges and ethnic groupings - most reading or otherwise occupied.  I'll hardly be noticed at all, you'll think to yourself with a devious smile.

You'll notice a young mother and her child who are playing cards while they wait for their washing machine to finish. You won't be able to help but notice that there's no man with them ... and then you'll suddenly realize that nothing else will make a better cover.


"Hi honey and daughter!" you'll exclaim in a loud and natural voice, as you plop down your laundry atop a machine and stand beside the two. "Playing with that deck of cards I got you during my BUSINESS TRIP to New York two years ago, I see," you'll say with a bit of a wink.

The woman will stare at you blankly. Her daughter looks a little nervous.

Damn, you'll think, they aren't catching on.

Here's where you'll open your eyes wide and glare at them in a manner which will express the danger they are all in, and say, "So, how are you today, WIFE and DAUGHTER?"

"Who are you?" the woman will demand in a voice which is slightly too confused to be truly angry.

The daughter will put down her hand and begin moving towards her mother's arms. She looks as if she might cry.

"I am your husband ... a NORMAL, ORDINARY BUSINESSMAN named Lance Puttnam...HONEY," you'll say, taking a quick look over your shoulder to perform some minor damage assessment.

About a dozen people are now looking your way; some seemed concerned. This was getting a little tense.

"How is your concussion anyhow?" say, and peer at the back of her head intensely, desparately. "I forgot that you accidentally HIT YOUR HEAD ON A BOAT WHILE WATER-SKIING last week," you'll say in a voice that is simultaneously forceful and pleading.

"I think you're confusing me--"

"I'm NOT confusing you HONEY, YOU are my WIFE and SHE is my DAUGHTER," you'll  exclaim in response, half to the woman, and half to the other customers. "I am an ORDINARY BUSINESSMAN NAMED LANCE PUTTNAM."

Now the daughter will start to cry and the woman will gather the girl up in her arms. A few of the other customers will began to mutter and point. They won't look happy.

Damn, you'll think to yourself, I've blown my cover again.

Now, reach into your utility spy belt, toss off three nerve gas grenades and slip on your personal breathing apparatus with one swift, fluid movement. The room will quickly fill with mist. The other customers will slump to the floor and shake a little before becoming still.

You'll set down the thermonuclear device and leave to try your luck at Starbucks.

Today, you won't let just ANY little nervous breakdown deter you from sending Mama to Goldfish Heaven!

The Porcelain Gates

You've known all of your adult life that is was thanks to your Mama that you developed the aspirations to become the devoted Professor of Biology that you are. Truly, there was no finer instructor in all of the residing state colleges in all of Vermont. Parents and students alike sang your praises and your unquestionable aptitude in every aspect of your field from evolutionary theory to chromosomal research. Sometimes it seemed that you could hear barely perceivable kudos emitting from the jars full of formaldehyde in which the frogs and baby pigs resided, waiting for that eventual day that they would receive the honor of being vivisected by capable students under your noteworthy gaze.

Mama was so encouraging, so easily approachable with any situation or problem. You still remember the time that she escorted you to the Junior Spring Fling Formal in High School after Marsha Littleton ditched you as her date in order to attend the same prom with the Obsessive Compulsive "Special Needs" student that she coached in Speech Class every wednesday after school.

On the way to the Formal in your Mama's purple '81 Toronado, you smiled and thought about how you rather preferred going with Mama instead of with some bubblegum-chewing hussy that would stoop so low as to go to Formal with a 15-year old korean exchange student possessing the irresistible desire to hoot like an owl every time somebody turned a light switch on or off.

Really, you were better off.

Mama told you to ignore all the teasing that you encountered when walking into the Vista View Room at the Radisson Hotel, telling you that all these bumblefuck teeny-boppers couldn't find prettier dates if they had been pedophilic doctors specializing in eating disorders.

And when "Livin' La Vida Loca" pulsed out of the speakers later that night, Mama and you took the dance floor and Cabbage-Patched your asses off like it was 1999.

Ever since then you have taken Mama's word as gospel.

But you never knew your worldview was to come crashing down all around you until now, standing at the front of your 10:30 AM Biology 3 course, with the entirety of the class erupting in cruel laughter.

Somewhere in your brain you are transported twenty-six years back in time. You are nine years old and your goldfish Boris has just hit the proverbial dust. His tiny little golden body floats placidly in the water as you hover over his bowl and turn the water to salt with your tears.

You remember standing by the toilet as Mama held Boris by his back fin and committed him to eternal rest into the toilet bowl with a tiny plop.

"But Mama, if Boris is going down into the sewers, how is he going to float up the sky into Heaven?" You inquire through your tears.

Mama hesitates before speaking. "Sweetheart, little fishies have their own Heaven to go to. And everybody knows that the only way to Goldfish Heaven is through the sewer pipes that run under our city and empty out into the promised land for every good little fishy."

You nod, and sniff. "So if Boris swims through the sewers to Goldfish Heaven, did my kitty Leonardo dig his way to Kitty Heaven through the hole in the backyard?"

"Quiet, honey. It's time for Mama's afternoon snack," came Mama's reply, as she rummaged through the liquor cabinet.

You snap back to reality. Your students are still laughing at you as you fondly rhapsodize about Goldfish Heaven, and your #1 student Stanley Wu is looking at you with pity as he stands with an expired Artie in his palm, the goldfish that is your lab mascot.

Finally you burst into tears and run out of the classroom toward the only place where you can get a grip on yourself; the retirement home where Mama is now housed.

At the Home, an emotional reunion takes place. Mama is unresponsive in her coma, but you know that on some level she can hear your voice, feel your palm on her forehead.

Mama always listens.

"I only hope that you can go to someplace as nice as Goldfish Heaven, Mama," you sob as you jerk the plug out of her life-support machine.

That evening you are apprehended by the authorities as you slog through the sewers underneath the city, but even before the White-Coats gag you, you don't mention Goldfish Heaven even once, because no one understands like Mama.

Today, you're going to piss in the wastebasket!

A bit ornate, but let's not be picky.

It's not that you mind the uncomfortable sensation of your kidneys filled to bursting, but try as you might to think about the mundane aspects of life like grocery shopping, crying in the shower, or lurking on your ex-girlfriend's facebook...you're simply unable to put leaky faucets and waterfalls out of your head. 

How many times have I been drunk, you think to yourself.  Not just drunk, but so drunk that I would lay in bed the next morning and have a serious debate with myself about whether I should actually GET UP to pee, or whether I should just go in the bed?

Your prostate feels like an overripe honeydew.  DEW.  SHIT.

You ponder thrashing around limply in your pathos, but quickly decide against it.  This is the interesting part.  If your life were a movie, this is where the score would consist of plucked violins, maybe a hesitant xylophone overture, as you put your virtual thinking cap on.  The camera would zero in on your squinted eyes as you formed your devious plan.

You make a few hops sideways on the futon, closer to the edge.  This is harder than it seems as you are mainly kicking your legs for the momentum, and the sloshing of your bladder makes you groan.  Thankfully it is morning and you are in a state of semi-arousal, so you think you can just barely manage to arc the stream of urine across half of the bedroom and into the awaiting wastebasket in the attached bathroom.

You're going to have to push.  It might hurt, but this is the point of no return.  You take a deep breath and-

It's...BEAUTIFUL.


Your stream is powerful, the world is just.  The wastebasket in the bathroom nearly topples, but your aim is true.  Unfortunately pressure does not last and the finishing touch offends the white carpet, but just...barely.  This might not present a problem.

If you can find a way to get out of these handcuffs, the girl you met last night at Sizzler that lashed you naked to her futon might not get back in time to find out you pissed all up in her business.

Good luck!

Today, you'll say goodbye to your son.

Those crazy rock n rollers.

They're in the driveway waiting to take him away to the life of rock n roll.

"Let me talk to them," you'll say.

Go outside and approach the coolest one in the band, the one with the longest feathers dangling from his ear ring.

"Do you all do drugs?" you'll ask.

The rock band member will think for a moment, then say yes.

"When you do drugs, will you keep an eye on my son to make sure he doesn't do too many?"

The rock band member will shrug and say he guesses.

"I assume there are girls in that van," you'll say to him.

He'll raise his hand for you to high-five him. You'll do so, hoping to raise your credibility.

"Any of them dead?"

The rock band member will shrug and say he ain't no doctor.

"If my son ever has sex with a girl and she dies, will you help him get rid of the body?  Help him drag the body to a dumpster and wipe off any of his DNA that might have gotten on her?"

The rock band member will say they have an agreement. You have sex with it and it dies, it's your responsibility.  It's the rock n roll code.

"So you believe in responsibility," you'll say to him. "That makes me feel more comfortable."

The other band members will stop playing air guitar and air keyboards so that they can set fire to your rosebushes. Watch the blaze rise and know that there's nothing you can do. 

There's nothing you can do.

"Rock n roll," you'll say. 

"Rock n roll," the rock band member will concur.

Turn to your son. "You're 14 now. I can't tell you what to do anymore. This seems like a rock band you can trust. I give you my blessing."

Say goodbye and hug him to your chest. His fishnet top will get caught in the buttons of your shirt. You and your son will laugh. The last time you'll laugh together, because rock n roll is going to change him.

Rock n roll changes everybody in the end.

Today, you're going to buy beer for a teenager

They're never too young.

 Today when you go to the liquor store, a teenager will approach you at the entrance and he’ll ask you if you can pick up a six-pack for him and his friends.

“We’re all underage,” he’ll say. “But we wanna get drunk and have the time of our lives.”

Say, “Well, you will need alcohol you’re right about that.”

“Is it as awesome as they say?” the kid will ask.

“I’ve been drinking 42 years now,” you'll tell him. “It just keeps getting better every single sip. Sometimes, when I get drunk enough, the world looks so beautiful I have to shut my eyes to keep from crying.”

“Wow,” the kid will say. “Please mister, help me see what you see.”

Tell him, “I want to kid, but how do I know you won’t sell me up the river?”

“Pardon?” he’ll ask.

“I know how you kids work,” tell him. “If you get caught doing something bad, like drinking beer or cheating on a test, you grab the nearest adult and you accuse him of trying to bang you. All of a sudden you’re the victim and you get accepted early admission to college while I go to jail on a kiddie raper beef.”

“But mister I wouldn’t…”

“Now you wouldn’t,” tell him. “But what about when your parents and the police and your faggot guidance counselor are all hovering over you telling you that it’s gonna go on your permanent record? What’s to keep you from telling ‘em all that you didn’t even ask for it, but some pervert outside the market offered it to you if you’d show him your pecker? My momma didn’t raise no fool, kid. Well, ‘cept for my brother.”

“Was your brother falsely accused of child molestation?” the kid will ask.

“Nah, he fucked those kids, for sure.  But I ain’t him! And I ain’t gonna fall for it," you'll answer.

“Mister,” the kid will say. “If you buy me this six-pack, if you introduce me to the beautiful world contained within those six aluminum cans, it would be impossible for me to betray you. How could I betray the man who opened my eyes to such a lofty panorama?"

The kid will have a point.

“You ain’t gonna tell nobody that I tried to rape you?” ask him once more. “You SWEAR it?”

“I swear,” he’ll say. And you’ll believe him. Not because you’ll think him honest, but because you know the truth found in a sip of alcohol. That truth is bigger than you, than that kid, it’s bigger than all your worries and all your cynicism. It’s big enough to hold a little faith.

“What kind you want?”

“I heard Steel Reserve is real good,” the kid will say.

“You heard right,” you’ll tell the kid.

Then you’ll go inside and buy him his very first glimpse of the perfect endless sky.