by GREG BAXTER

First thing my unhappy ass does every morning is walk this fat chick’s smelly fucking poodle.  I ran over her cat one night, and now she thinks she owns me.  And that’s just the beginning.  I’m her booty call.  Every Friday, Saturday night, one hundred seventy pounds of mean, dejected African pussy.  I weigh a very light and white one sixty, too.

She thinks she’s fine.  It’s a common trait among fat black chicks.  They think everybody wants to get on them.  Across the street, there’s an actually fine girl named Elisha, and one time the fat ho caught me trying to ask her out.  She came by later that night and laughed at me for an hour.  I thought she was going to punish me in bed, but instead she cooked an omelette and left.  You don’t know how good you got it, she said.

The second thing I do is go to work.  Work offers little respite.  My boss is an uppity Negro named Simon who went to Dartmouth and played tennis.  You have this feeling that every day he hopes he will somehow graduate to whiteness.  Like Dan Quayle is going to show up and give him a diploma.  He calls meetings and talks about “going forward” and “productivity targets” and holds his hands just in front of his mouth, as if in prayer.  I’m like, I’m blacker than your ass.

The good thing is he gives all the black dudes at work shit for underachieving, but he leaves me alone.  I just play video games all day.  My main job is to go through all the content on our website first thing and make sure the dates are right.  I go through every story and move the date one day ahead.

Shit was going on one Friday as it usually finds itself doing until lunch.  By lunch I have killed approximately a thousand hapless dudes from around the world on that video game.

The head cameraman, Marcus, who is a gold-tooth motherfucker, was like, Let’s go get some good food.  No more fucking chicken wings from Sonic.

Right on, I said.

But we went to Sonic anyway and got chicken wings.  It was August and humid, and the traffic was jammed just in front of us.  It was a balmy, polluted motherfucking day.

When we were finished and had about five minutes to smoke and then drive back, Marcus said, Do you ever wonder how two people can eat the same thing every fucking day for lunch?

I said, Dude, that’s Elisha, the fine sister I was telling you about.

Where?

I pointed.  Stuck in traffic.

She was in the passenger seat of a white Escalade, bopping her head to some music.  Her hair was tied in a white bow, and she was drinking a bottle of water.

Marcus said, Damn that girl fine.  He whistled.  Everybody in the lot and on the whole street stopped and stared.  Elisha didn’t so much turn to us as tilt her head sadly.  Some women have that look.  Like their beauty is so unbearably big that they are completely alone, because everybody wants to use them.  She squinted, and I had no choice but to wave.

She waved back, at least I think it was a wave, and then whoever was in the driver’s seat rolled up the window.  Some serious motherfucking player.  What the fuck ever.

I told you she was fine.

Damn.  I didn’t think white dudes knew which sisters were fine.

Oh, she’s fine.

I believe you, motherfucker.  When we get back to work, I’m going to give you a certificate says you know what the fuck you’re talking about.

From the car, as we were just turning from the Sonic lot into the gassy hot standstill, we watched that white Escalade crawl about a quarter mile up the road and then turn into an auto store’s parking lot.  The dude got out, but Elisha’s door didn’t open.

You thinking what I’m thinking? said Marcus.

What are you thinking?

Certificate revoked, white boy.  That shit is mashed potato.

What the fuck am I supposed to tell her?

Tell her you’re throwing a party tonight.  I can throw a party in a day.  I run this motherfucking town.

Well, I said.

He pulled onto the shoulder and buried the gas, and we were flying perilously, sand and rock exploding everywhere, cars honking.  He turned his hazards on.

What the fuck you turn your hazards on for?

White people do this all the time when they want to break the rules.  I gotta explain to a white dude why I put the hazards on?

We parked next to the Escalade, and I got out.  I didn’t know which dude inside the place was the driver, so I had to move fast.  I ran to her window and knocked on it.  It rolled down to reveal her smiling face, and a huge gust of dry, cool air blasted onto my face.  She had big brown eyes.

You live down the road, she said.

That’s me.

How was Sonic?

I hate Sonic.  I just can’t think of anything better.

She nodded, but she didn’t really understand.

There’s a party at my house tonight.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.

I thought you had a girlfriend.  That lady with the poodle.

No, I just killed her cat.  Accidentally.

I started to sweat.  The driver’s door opened, and this dude in a black jacket–I was like, jacket? –hopped in.

Hey, I said, I’m Elisha’s neighbor.  But the window was already going up.

Afternoons at work are worse than mornings because Simon doesn’t have shit to do.  That day some blonde chick from network was there carrying Simon’s dick in her briefcase.  I caught them in the lounge.  Simon was asking, Would you like some herbal tea?  I like orange mango cinammon.  I keep this for emergency though: strawberry raspberry loganberry.  I couldn’t live without this stuff.

Ooh, she said, I’ll have the one with all the berries.

It’s berry good.

Ma ha ha.

Har har har.

Marcus was on the phone, talking to his people.  I told him to forget about it.  She wasn’t coming.  But he said, How big’s your backyard?

I went to my desk, and I had an email from the fat ho saying she was thinking about buying another poodle.

A cackle came crashing out of the lounge, which sadly was not the blonde woman but Simon.

At about three, I put my head on my desk and tried to get a little sleep.  All the reporters were out on stories, and things were pretty quiet except for Simon going around with the blonde woman, talking about “best practice” and “human capital.”  That motherfucker had a serious hard-on for terms that sounded important but had no meaning.  They allowed his little mind to achieve minor greatness, greatness over things in his world.  But I wasn’t bitter.  I was just sad for the brother.

I hardly think you have time for a nap, he said.

I picked up my head, and he was right behind me.  The white chick with him was pretty hot.  I made her uncomfortable by staring at her calves.

Do you need to go home and get some sleep? he said.

We lost the server, I said.  Motherfucker had no idea what anything was.

Oh, he said.  How long?

Support said ten minutes.

Right.  Let me know.  He was about to walk off, and then he snapped his fingers.  Hey, I heard you’re throwing a soiree tonight.

A what?

He chuckled.  Motherfucker couldn’t ever just laugh.  A party, he said.

Oh yeah.

A little while later, the newsdesk guy started going, Pssst, pssst.  I looked over, and he gave me the sign.  He was this short white dude with curly Negro hair, and all he ever did was get high.  I was like, Hell yes.

We climbed the fence between our lot and the big satellite dish.  We stood behind a small metallic shed under the dish and got high.

It’s supposed to fuck you up even more, getting high by a satellite dish, said the newsdesk guy.  And this one’s as big as a house.  Can you feel it?

Whatever, I said. Just give me that shit.

I heard you’re throwing a party tonight.

Not really, I said.

That’s cool.  A couple buddies are driving in from Lake Charles.

It’s not that big.

Well, they said they’d hook us up.

I shook my head.  All right, dude.  Whatever.

Do you think I’m ugly? he asked.

Huh?  What are you talking about?

My girlfriend cheated on me.

I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.

I’ve been hooking up with the receptionist.

Dude, she’s like forty, and fat.

She said I was nice, but she needed somebody better looking. Could she come tonight?

No way.  Not a chance.  Do you understand?

Yeah.

Fuck, dude, I know you’re going to bring her.

I won’t.

When we got back inside, Simon was standing on a chair, screaming.  He was slurping down herbal tea.  He saw me and said, Where’s the web?!  Where’s the goddamned web?!  Channel 9 is kicking our ass!

While we were smoking out, some dude had robbed a bank, stolen a truck and killed the driver, smashed up a bunch of cars that were trying to get home early–including one with a state senator in it–put some cyclist in the hospital, driven to a day-care center, and finally taken an unknown number of little kids and one teacher hostage.

Simon was on three different phones, telling reporters he didn’t have time for their shit. I was trying to get some information I could put in Breaking News, but everybody just kept running by.  Newsdesk guy was freaking out.  He was slapping himself in the face to try and take this seriously, but he couldn’t help laughing.  Everybody else was in their element, or at least they wanted to be.  This was the shit they lived for.

Channel 9 was truly kicking our ass.  Simon was about to cry.  The blonde chick was taking notes.  This one reporter chick with massive tits was giving updates on camera four, right beside me.  Me and the newsdesk guy are always in the background of the four shot so this place looks buzzing.  Simon has a term for it.  “Noisy silence,” or something like that.  Simon told the producer to tell the reporter to pull her neckline down, which she did.  Her tits were the only reason anyone in town was watching us.

I was still pretty damn high, so I put some shades on and started killing dudes again.  If nothing else, it made me look busy.  I was intensely sad about the fact that once fat ho heard music at my place, she was coming over.  She was going to dance and eat everything in my fridge and then fuck the shit out of me.

The crazy hostage-taker started shooting at the cops, and our dude on the scene missed it.  Simon called him to tell him he was fired, and they sent this young kid out.  When he heard he was going, the kid couldn’t stop fixing his hair.  On his way out, he said to me, Yo, man, I heard you’re having a party.

Nah, I said, but he didn’t listen.  He saw himself in a reflection and fixed his hair again.  I’m all over it, he said.  I am the fucking shit, yo.

Marcus came back to unload some video, and he walked over to my desk, laughing his ass off.

Dude, I’ve been watching the two of you all fucking afternoon on the four shot.  You motherfuckers are so fucking high.  Aaaaaaaagh!

After he stopped laughing, he leaned in to me.  Yo, man, that nigger in the white Escalade is some half-ass producer.  Some dude with money thinks he’s fucking bad.

Simon came by and told Marcus to get his ass back to work.

Tell me the hostage-taker ain’t black, said Marcus.  Please let it be a white dude.

Of course he’s black, said Simon.

About fifteen minutes before I was supposed to go home, one of our reports somehow found the hostage-taker’s wife, and he got the woman and a couple little kids to come out on the front porch and cry a lot.  It was just a whole lot of crying.  The woman begged her husband to come home, and she begged the cops not to kill him.

Simon said, Now we’re kicking Channel 9’s ass!  Ha Ha HA HA!

At the scene, on the other side of town, our cameraman got the cops storming the house.  We had a sweet, high, unobstructed shot of a cop getting knocked down by gunfire, and then the cops killed that motherfucking dude.  They killed him in the way that cops kill people who shoot at cops.  Simon had never been happier in his life.

Our reporter at the house started relaying the news as he heard it, and the wife became hysterical.  Her little kids started running into the street, and the bitch just turned to jelly.  The people in the newsroom stopped applauding themselves long enough to look upon the action solemnly, and then the ten o’clock anchor said, That really is excellent television.

I went to the liquor store after work and got a bunch of beer and vodka.  I went to Sonic and got some chicken wings.  I got back home and set the playlist for the night and started it.  It was still early.

At eleven I was halfway through a bottle of vodka and watching the History Channel on mute when someone knocked.  It was the newsdesk guy and the fat old receptionist.

It’s empty, said the receptionist.  Great.

I got him a beer and made her a drink, and then we all sat down on the couch and watched the picture on the television.  I turned the music up because the receptionist bitch was a loud breather.

Newsdesk guy started dancing.  Motherfucker had moves.  I was like, When did you learn to dance?

I’m half black, motherfucker.  I didn’t learn nothing.

There was another knock at the door, and it was his two buddies from Lake Charles.  They came inside in their own cloud of burned-out stank.  They were exactly as I expected.  They just started laughing and went outside to smoke more.  Newsdesk guy went with them, and then it was just me and the receptionist.

Can I have another? she asked.

I was about to say, this isn’t going to be one of those parties where my ass runs around making you happy, but instead I just got up and made her another.  I opened the fridge door for some mixer, and she came up behind me and put her hand on my dick.

Do you want to touch my pussy? she asked.

What?

I heard a knock, and I ran for the door.  I was going to hug anybody on the other side, even that fat ho with the poodle, but it was Simon and the blonde chick.  He was in a pink Izod.  She still looked hot.  He gave me a bottle of wine.  This is for us, he said.  Then he gave me another, which was lighter and had a screw top.  And this is for everybody else.  Har har.

Are we early? the blonde asked.

I was like, I’m calling Marcus.

Marcus was in a club.  Don’t sweat it, he said.  My niggers won’t show up till two anyway.  Kick those people out and take a fucking nap if you want.

No fucking way, I said.  Get your ass and your gold fucking tooth over here.  This is your party, man.

Just kidding, he said.  I’m out back getting high with some fucked-up dudes from Lake Chuck.

The kid with the hair-fixing problem smashed through my front yard in his big-ass Yukon, and he and three chicks stumbled out laughing.

Yo yo yo yo yo yo YO! he said.  Yo yo YO!

My nigger, I said, which pleased him.

Marcus came inside.

I thought you owned this town, I said.  Turns out you own shit, motherfucker.

Not even a problem.  Black people do not show up on time, man.  He looked over his shoulder.  Except for Simon.

The hair-fixing dude made me stop the playlist and put on House of Pain.  He and the chicks he brought started hopping up and down going, Jump! Jump! Everybody jump! Jump! Jump!

The fat receptionist kept patting the cushion beside her.  Marcus was like, Who is that fucking bitch?

I went outside and smoked a cigarette.  Two other cameramen from work showed up, Rod and Pierce.  They were cool.  I heard the two dudes from Lake Charles splashing around in the hot tub.  The light in my bedroom came on, and I saw the blonde chick walking backwards onto my bed, taking her shirt off.  Then the light went off.  I was like, Oh, great, Simon is fucking that chick in my bed.  He’s going to have that shit on me forever.

Fat ho with poodle came walking down the road just as I was finishing a third cigarette.  That officially made this a party almost entirely of people I didn’t want.

Thanks for inviting me to the party.

There’s not supposed to be a party.

Just as I said that, two car loads of people I didn’t know arrived.  They walked by us without saying anything.  The hair-fixing dude knew them, though.  They started wrestling.

After they pinned hair-fixing dude to the ground and he tapped out, they stood up, and they all fixed their hair.  They were like, ’Sup, man?  One dude gave me a Rage CD and said, Can I play this?  I just got it for like two bucks!  Rage!

That was when Simon and the blonde chick came out of my bedroom.  They didn’t look happy.  If Simon couldn’t get it up in my bed, I was in for even worse shit.  I was hoping they would leave, and it looked like Simon wanted to, but they didn’t.  They just went to the kitchen and sulked.

That was about half past one, and I was thinking I might escape the night, but at two, the whole fucking party showed up in one bright hurling seizure of a moment, like at the end of Cannonball Run.  A black one.  Marcus met them outside with me.

See, he said.  I own this motherfucker.

At least one of these dudes might fuck fat ho with poodle, I thought.  I turned around and saw her dancing with newsdesk guy.

One big motherfucking brother came up with an iPod and said, Play this shit, cool?

I looked at Marcus, and Marcus said, Play the man’s fucking music, Negro.

I set it up.  Motherfucker knew his music too.  From then on it was a different party.  Funny how music can do that.  Hair-fixing dude and his buds went around throwing grips at any brother who accidentally made eye contact.  The white girls were all grinding each other to the music, which the black girls considered slutty.  Simon’s blonde chick disappeared, and Simon was sitting in a corner, way out of his element.  I told him I’d call him a taxi, but he was like, I’m just going to sit here.      Turned out newsdesk guy was the best motherfucking dancer on the planet.  People watched in astonishment until it got around that he was half black.  Receptionist bitch got up and told him if he wanted to be the center of attention, she was going to leave.  She said, Everyone’s just laughing at you anyway.  Then something strange happened.  Fat ho with poodle reached over and hit receptionist bitch.  Receptionist bitch went, What!  And then they both had to be restrained.

Hair-fixing dude screamed, Now it’s a party!  Yo motherfucking YO!

Newsdesk guy watched fat ho get dragged away.  His eyes were big and glassy.  I was like holy shit, newsdesk guy is in love with fat ho.

At about three Marcus walked over to me.  Good news, man.  I saw Elisha out back.

Seriously?

Yeah, man, her and this other chick.  She’s being eaten up by smooth niggers, though.

Yeah, I said.

What you mean, yeah?  Go out there.  This is your fucking house, man.

There must have been a hundred people crammed into my little backyard.  And a lot of them were really tall brothers.  Black people talk about seriously different things at parties than white people.  Hair-fixing dude was among them taking mental notes.  I found Elisha and her friend surrounded by a bunch of dudes in suit jackets and bright yellow ties with crests on them.  Southern law students.  They tried to squeeze me out, but Elisha said, Hey there.  I like your party.  And then those motherfuckers had to make room.

Hi, I said.  I’m glad you came.

I got away, she said.

I’ll make you a drink.

One of the Southern brothers said, Drink’s been taken care of.

He moved in front of Elisha, and this seemed to make her very sad.  I didn’t really know what to do.  I didn’t want to make her any sadder.

The back gate burst open, and three grim-looking brothers came in.

Oh shit, said Elisha. Found again.

The brothers knocked through a lot of chilled-out people on their way to her.

Southern brothers said, There a problem?

No problem, said the brother in the middle. The producer. Had to be.  He looked at Elisha.  Come on.

Motherfucker, you got a problem now, said a Southern brother.  They formed a little wall of preppy, well-cut Negroes.

No, I haven’t, he said.

One of the brothers with the producer flashed a piece, and the Southern law dudes were like, Bullshit.  But it was over.  They hauled Elisha away.

When they took off, the party lost some steam.  Once a threat is introduced, it’s there all night.  Motherfuckers always looking over their shoulders.  I heard hair-fixing dude in my neighbor’s yard.  Help me up, he was telling somebody.  I’m over here.  His hand was bouncing up above the fence.

When he saw the piece, he had jumped over.

They pulled him back, everybody laughing at his cowardly ass, and he said, Is it over?

Yeah, man, it’s over.

Dude.  I can’t get involved in shit like that.  I’m on TV.

I know, dude.  It’s cool.

I called the cops.

Everybody in the back yard heard him say that, and they all groaned.

Pussy white dude called the cops, one brother said.  Thought all us niggers were going to start shooting.  Where next?

The party cleared out in a hurry. I put on some blues, and about ten of us stood around looking at the destruction.  The cops drove by, and when they saw that things had ended, they kept going.  Hair-fixing dude said, Sweet! Party ain’t over!

He and a buddy and two hot young things got undressed and jumped in the hot tub.  On the dance floor, which used to be a living room with furniture, newsdesk guy and fat ho were dancing closely.  She was about four inches taller, but she didn’t seem to mind.  She had squeezed his little face into her tits.

I heard a crash in the back room, and Marcus and I went in to find Simon lying helplessly in a pile of boxes.  He had wine all over him.  He was drinking the cheap stuff.

Hey guys, he said.  I fell down.

Time to get you a taxi.

Time to get me a taxi.

What happened to the blonde chick?

Blonde chick, he said.  Where’s the blonde chick?  Blonde chick blonde chick blonde chick.  I’ll tell you.  You know what that bitch said?  She said, Dickslap me, you big nigger.  She said, I’ve always wanted to be dickslapped by a nigger.  Give me a black eye with your big fat nigger stick.

Marcus said, Where’d this bitch go?

She said she was going home with a real nigger who would beat her fucking silly with his dick.

Sorry, man, said Marcus, but that’s some funny shit.   You could have told my ass a couple hours ago, though.

Simon started crying.  We didn’t know what to do with him.

Talk to him, I said.  You’re black.

But he wants to be white.  You talk to him.

I just wanted to get ahead, said Simon.  My real name’s Jamal.  Can you believe that?  I had it changed when I was twenty-five.

Marcus kneeled down.  Well, whatever your name is, you’re black.  The only man on the planet who can change the color of his skin is Michael Jackson.  And that motherfucker is still black.  Have some motherfucking pride.

What should I do?

Easy, said Marcus.  Go call that blonde chick, drive over to her house, and hit that shit with your big nigger stick.

Word, I said.

Marcus started making the noise of a white bitch getting her face beat with a big black dick.

Simon started sniffling.  He liked the idea.

Marcus stood up.  All right.  Doctor’s out.

Where you going?

Motherfucker, it’s like four.  I’m going to Denny’s, and then I’m going to get some pussy.  I’ll come by tomorrow and help you clean up.

Don’t worry about it.

Well I’ll come over and watch you clean up.

Marcus poured Simon into Simon’s car, and then they were both gone.  Fat ho and newsdesk guy were gone.  I couldn’t believe it.  The only people left were hair-fixing dude and his crowd in the hot tub.  I was about to join them when I saw that the two girls were kissing each other on one side and the two dudes were kissing each other opposite.  That was going to get weird.  I cleaned up a little bit and went to bed.

Saturday was hot, and my AC had busted overnight, trying to cool the house with all the doors and windows open.  I couldn’t sleep past nine.

I got up, and hair-fixing dude was asleep on my couch with a chick.  I had to clean the kitchen a bit to make some coffee.  The idea of a cigarette made me sick, but I lit one anyway and went outside.  The party had left the whole street in grave disrepair.  It was going to take all fucking day to clean it.

Marcus came by at around ten, and that motherfucker hadn’t slept yet.

I went over to this chick’s house, he said, and she was out with some other dude, so I fucked her little sister.

We sat without saying much else.  Marcus listened to messages on his phone.  College GameDay was starting in the background.  I had the feeling hair-fixing dude was going to watch football here all fucking day and night, but at least he might clean up.

Fat ho and newsdesk guy came walking down the street.  They were walking the poodle together.  They stopped and said hello.  At first I thought she was going to try and make me jealous, but instead she just seemed happy.  They held hands.

What are y’all doing today? I asked.

We’re making brownies, said newsdesk guy.

She patted him on top of his nappy head, and they left.

You know, said Marcus, that fat ho ain’t all that ugly.  She’s kinda cute.

Fucking now you tell me, I said.

Hair-fixing dude came outside with a blanket wrapped around his nethers.  He left the chick on the couch naked to the daylight, which he thought was pretty funny.  She had a seriously cut body and big fake tits.

Man, he said, this place is messy.  We have any beer left?

Yo, said Marcus.  Check it out.

Elisha had come out of her house in white shorts and a white running top.

That girl is seriously fine, he said.

She started running our way, and I was worried I wouldn’t have anything interesting to say.  Then it came to me.  I would ask her to go out in New Orleans.  We’d get the fuck out of town.

But she ran on by, acknowledging us with a little finger wave.  Merely.  It stung, but then it was over.

Hair-fixing dude said, That was the finest chick I’ve ever seen.  Was she at the party?

On Monday, shit started all over.  I changed the date.  I confirmed the new day.  After that I had a coffee and read the paper.  A lot of people from the office had been to the party, and I was hoping shit had changed, but it really hadn’t.  Everyone was just busy again.

The noon show came, and I updated some of our stories.  We were following every possible angle on the hostage story you could think of.  It turned out the cyclist who was hospitalized was the grandson of the dude who invented the Etch A Sketch.  We covered that.  The teacher who was taken hostage had survived breast cancer, so we did a thing on breast-cancer awareness.  And so on.

We covered the wife until she stopped crying.  She stopped crying, I was told, around Sunday morning, and then she wanted to talk about how her man was a victim too, so we gave up on her.

Hair-fixing dude came by my desk and said, That dumb fucking ho is calling everyone.  The wife.  I talked to her. She was like, He was a good man. I said, He robbed a bank, murdered some innocent dude, took a bunch of kids hostage, and tried to murder a cop.  I’m sorry, but he’s scum.  Fuckers like that don’t get to make excuses.  I’m glad he’s dead.

You said that? I asked.

Not really.  But that’s what I was thinking.

Simon was walking around like his old self, and I was depressed as hell to think that motherfucker hadn’t changed after what that blonde chick said to him.  But then he sat down beside me.  I was playing the video game, and he didn’t even bother making a comment.

Listen, he said, you’ve been here a while, and you don’t really do anything.  Well, you do very little.

Yeah, I said.  I try sometimes, but everybody just runs past me.

Tell you what.  Think of something interesting to do.  Write something.  Add something to the site.  Whatever.  I won’t even ask questions.  Do you want to be here in five years doing this same shit?

He left, and I called Marcus.

Marcus, I said.  Simon took your advice.  I think he found that blonde chick and dickslapped her.  He’s a new man.

I know.  Motherfucker walked up to me this morning and said, ’Sup.  I was going to laugh, but he was pretty smooth about the whole thing.

I set out some thoughts.  It was supposed to be brainstorming, but it had been so long since I’d even considered working that it took all afternoon just to shake the cobwebs loose.  I paced around the place with a notebook.  I scribbled shit on the white board in the conference room.  Nothing.

I called Marcus and said it was hopeless.

Tell me about it, he said.  We work in the news, man.  We’re the problem.

A phone rang, and this one big neo-Nazi reporter, whose desk was covered in American flags, said, I’m not going to tell you again.  He took hostages.  He killed a dude.  Nobody cares about his problems.  Stop calling.

Marcus and I got a bite to eat after work.  We did not go to Sonic.  There was a cheap drinks night later at this one place with a bunch of seriously fine sisters, and he wanted me to come.

I’m fucking tired, man.  I’m going home.

He said some girl at the party had asked about me, and she was coming, but I just yawned and said, Tomorrow.

I went back to the office and saw hair-fixing dude.  He was working overtime.  He was going to cheap-vodka night later downtown, and he said, I know you’re coming.  I know you ain’t gonna leave a nigga on his own.

Maybe, I said.  Then I asked him for the address of the hostage-taker’s wife.

He didn’t even ask why.  He just gave it and snapped his fingers.  I’ll be there around ten, yo.  Then he started putting his makeup into a bag.

The house was in a bad fucking neighborhood, and I felt uncomfortable getting out of my car.  There were limits.  There were neighborhoods where whiteness and blackness were facts, not matters of opinion.  Where a guy like me had to admit I’d only ever be as black as Marcus let me.  There were a bunch of people on the porch, and they didn’t like the sight of me.  Kids ran everywhere.

The wife saw me.

I told her I was from the station.

I don’t want to talk to you.  You some heartless motherfuckers.

I can imagine.

You can’t imagine shit.  You just process lies.

I sat down and pulled out a notebook and a pen.  This will be different, I said.  I promise.  I don’t want to start with Friday.  Tell me where he was born.  Tell me the name of his mother.

Read the comments from Greg and Cincinnati Review’s fiction editor, Brock Clarke