Knock-a-Door, Inc.

One breezy day in July of 1997, the four of us – Mike, Eric, Oliver, and I – set out on an enterprise I shall never forget. The idea was simple, although its moral implications completely escaped us. We were to stroll around our neighborhood, and at whim turn onto nice-looking driveways leading to nice-looking town houses. Next, we would give good, hearty knocks on each elected door. Once a person appeared in the doorway, we would politely expound on the purpose of our visit:

"Pardon our intrusion, Ma'am/Sir, but we are, in fact, collecting money for a school-funded class trip that will be undertaken no later than next spring. If you wish to make a contribution to this cause, why, goodness gracious, that would be mighty appreciated."

After engaging ourselves all day long in such activities, we would gather in a semi-circle upon the dewy grass, enumerate the coins and bills thus acquired, and then divide the stash equally between the four of us. Simple as pancakes.

As we turned the above described aspirations into deeds, we found that most everything went according to plan. In fact, the whole business was more prosperous than any of us could have imagined. Our child-like pleads, put forth by the untainted lips of innocent youngsters, awakened great generosity within our neighboring community.

Men and women, young and old, welcomed us heartily at their doors. Craggy ladies, crouched over canes or wheeled walkers, peered at us with hazy eyes, fumbling for their pocketbooks. Sometimes we caught glimpses of curious children, hiding behind the stature of parental legs, wide-eyed and breathless at the sight of towering fourth-graders. Once, an older gentleman expressed vexation, pertaining to the idea that money should not be handed over without a mutual exchange. In the end, he did yield to the piercing innocence of our gazes, albeit closing the door behind him with grumpy mumblings.

Needless to say, our endeavors were not trumped by a lessened generosity of our neighbors, nor by a lack of approachable doors, but rather by the inevitably darkening sky. Eric, who was patient and meticulous, sat down and counted the money, while the rest of us awaited the final tally with trembling anticipation.

Twenty-seven dollars and forty-eight cents. To you it may seem scant after half a day of tireless work. To boys our age it was nothing short of a fortune. We told ourselves that this affair had been a roaring success, and we should surely embark upon it again. In fact, we all agreed that the very next day would be suitable for another fortuitous adventure.

Mike eagerly suggested that we should quit school altogether and earn our keep solely by wandering from town to town, applying our infallible scheme to ever so credulous populations. Why bother with high school and college and such nonsense, when entrepreneurship is the inexhaustible source that feeds into the success of every enterprise? Eric, thus inspired, thought it a good idea that we would buy ourselves a permanent dwelling – a headquarters, of sorts – where we could bank our money and otherwise regroup after each workday.

It was at that time that I found myself impelled to interrupt the elation with a prudent remark:

"Wait a minute”, I said. “You want us to start a company, right? Well, companies have names, you know."

At this we fell silent, nodding and thinking in solemn quietude. A few feeble suggestions slipped through the silence, but they were uttered with such self-doubt that none of them awoke urgency within the group. However, it took but a minute before I raised my head, sweeping my gaze from one associate to the next, while sporting a smile that could have split a thinner face than my own.

"Knock-a-Door, Inc."

I said it not without pride. My friends tasted the name, hesitantly at first, then repeatedly with greater vigor. It was settled.

As our organization had been given a proper name, our official proceedings could thereby resume. We decided that we should store the money in one secure place. There was, after all, no need to divide it between ourselves so soon. This was merely a tease and a glimpse of the fortune that was yet to come. It was pointed out that Oliver's room would be an appropriate hide-out, for it was located on the third floor and as far away from his parents as any regular settlement would allow. Thereto, his mattress was embedded in a closet-sized nook, creating a den that seemed perfect for the concealment of our treasure.

Evening had fallen with grace, and various dinner engagements were pulling us in separate directions. We exchanged the kind of careless goodbyes that friends do when they expect to see each other again very soon. At home I was greeted with a supreme feast: black-charred, barbecued pork drizzled with scoops of Bearnaise-sauce, and fresh, boiled potatoes on the side. Come bedtime, I was so excited at the prospect of tomorrow that it took me a long while to fall asleep.

The next day we met at noon by a big rock underneath the branched canopy of a birch tree. When I arrived, Mike and Eric were already waiting. The three of us buzzed with anticipation. Presently, Oliver arrived. By a quick glance, we knew something was wrong. His hands were pocketed, his neck craned like that of a vulture, and his general disposition immediately prompted us to ask what was the matter.

"She took it", he said, avoiding our stares. "All of it."

"Who did?"

"Mom."

Mike swore. "Is she going to call our parents? Is she going to tell them what we did?"

Oliver shrugged, while his eyes remained downcast. "I don't think so. Mom says we have to give the money to our teacher. She says we have to use it for the class trip, since that's what we told all those people."

I spitefully kicked some gravel off the walkway, while Mike plopped down as if this horrible injustice had anchored a great weight around his waist, thus forcing him to the ground. Eric, in turn, spit out a string of cussing that I dare not reiterate herein lest I should seriously offend some of my readers.

Oliver scratched his head. "I've got to go, guys. Mom said I had to be back by 12:30."

We nodded in unison.

"Sorry you had to take the heat", Eric said, not without sympathy.

Oliver said nothing. We watched him as he trundled off and we felt for him, such as fellow pigs must feel while observing a porcine comrade being led to the butcher's.

That marked the end of the short-lived enterprise known as Knock-a-Door, Inc. As with most things, we had soon forgotten all about it. Not until a few years later was I reminded of that strange affair.

I was in seventh grade and we were putting on a school play. Mike and I were both acting in it, awkwardly perhaps, but quite willingly. It was the night of our first public performance, of which I shall refrain from elaborating upon. When the curtains closed, we swept off the stage and into the audience to greet our family and friends. Among them we found Oliver and his parents. Mike and I spoke with our dear fellow, who we had not seen in a year or two, and we began to reminisce about the golden-glazed days from elementary school.

"Oh, and do you remember Knock-a-Door, Inc.?" said Mike suddenly.

I burst out laughing. "My God, I had totally forgotten about that", I admitted.

Mike turned to Oliver's mother, who had recently joined our midst. "We really have to apologize about that whole thing, Ma'am. You remember, right?"

Oliver's mother smiled, cocking her head to one side. "I don't believe I do."

Mike took the initiative. He loved to tell stories.

"C'mon! You've got to remember how Oliver came home one day with about thirty-five dollars in cash, and he told you that we'd stolen it from a bunch of strangers while pretending we were collecting money for a school trip?"

I laughed heartily, and so did Mike, until we both realized that we were the only ones laughing. Thus silenced, we looked at Oliver. His face had turned red, and he was fidgeting as an autumn leaf. Oliver's parents looked slightly stunned, like disoriented turtles washed ashore by the tide. The realization struck Mike and I at the very same moment, and we exchanged the flash of a glance within that rapport.

Knock-a-Door, Inc. may have dismantled that summer day in July of 1997, but there was one associate who made profit despite our bankruptcy; a back-stabbing con-man who not only knew how to trick a stranger, but who employed the treacherous skills as to mislead his own friends.

The Others and I

I had wanted to get some writing done that night. I didn't. A lot of staring, and napping, and munching? Yes. Writing? No. Since time did no wonders to my productivity, I decided to utilize the only remedy I know of.

I went for a walk.

As I stepped onto the pavement outside of our apartment complex, aimless and filled with an uncharacteristic void, I found myself a-swimming in a sea of strangers. It was loud; a busy, busy world full of nameless, faceless people, laughing, and cheering, and clinging to each other in needy throngs. I mingled through a mist of smoke, perfume and alcoholic breaths. Everywhere: the clatter of high-heel shoes, boisterous music, and intermittent speckles of neon flickering behind passing pedestrians.

This was not the clearing of thought I had in mind. I tried to look past the bustle, beyond the mass of muddling stimuli, where there would be room for silence, just enough so I could hear my thinking.

It was in this state of determination that I began to see the others. The unsolicited few among the many. Those who edged along the buzz, never partaking in the clusters. Those who had stories to tell, but no one to listen. Those who were looked through rather than looked at, like sheets of glass hidden in plain sight.

A young man crouched against a brick wall, hugging his knees. He had pulled his sweater over his head so no one could see his face. A tuft of blond hair stuck out from the shirt hole. I could see the sweater bulge and settle, bulge and settle with each breath. He was shivering;

A woman stood parked outside a smoky jazz bar, drenched in the light of neon. Twenty years ago she could have looked great in her short-cut skirt and tube top. Mascara-streaked and stiff, she had turned her face to the night, blinded to anything but her thoughts;

A young girl slumped in front of a movie theatre, her face downturned and lit up by a blueish glow emanating from her cell phone. She raised her head, sweeping over those that passed by. Her gaze was dull, eyelids sagging with despondence;

A bearded man played the guitar on a bench, his body swaying to an acoustic rhythm. He watched his own fingers as they fumbled for another chord. The final note rung, feeble as a handful of feathers, and his posture deflated when the music suffocated in the nocturnal din.

I forced myself to remain still: silently observing, ever tempted by a willingness to look away. Finally, I resumed my walk.

I returned to our apartment, no longer aimless.

I began to write.

Holmesian Musings: PART I

I wasn't a big fan of Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes. Strangely enough, it stuck with me though, like a stone in my shoe or an ingrown nail. I guess that's why I'm posting this review some 8 months after the its initial release. 

There are things about the movie I like. The cast is impeccable, the music riveting, and the cinematography is stylistic and slick. But in spite of these cinematic delights, the main problem I had with the movie relate to its lack of narrative umpf.

(and by the way, there'll be heavy SPOILAGE throughout)

When we are introduced to Holmes and Watson, they have already been partners for years and the good ol' Doctor is ready to move on. He wants to settle down with his wife-to-be and leave behind the adrenalin-pumping days of adventure. This is arguably the most important subplot of the film and it remains unresolved until the third act. The problem is, I don't buy it. I don't believe for a second that Watson would walk out on Holmes for the sake of a seemingly unremarkable girl. Puh-lease. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong together like PB and J.

Unfortunately, Watson is not as bright as all that (and one may think he should be after having spent years and years in the company of the most intelligent person on the planet). Consequently, I remain impatient as I await a predictable outcome to an uninvolving predicament.

But what about the meat of the story; its throbbing heart, its roaring engine – the murder mystery?

Well, it certainly is an entertaining ride, but is it engaging? Early on in the film, Holmes and Watson apprehend a madman responsible for a series of occult murders. As a result, the madman is hanged. We can easily deduce that we have not seen the last of this allegedly dead maniac – what else would be the point of devoting the entire beginning of the movie to him? We also know that the seemingly supernatural elements that are taking place must have common-sense explanations, or else the Holmesian tradition of using cold logic to solve a case would be violated.

So, while watching the movie, I start making assumptions about the direction of the story based on what has to take place in order to justify its beginning. It's distracting when the narrative underpinnings make themselves known like this. I feel like what Superman must experience when he first meets a stranger; rather than focusing on the personality and disposition of this new acquaintance, his X-ray vision distracts him with the sight of human tissue and bones.

By the time it is revealed that the occult murders are, in fact, part of a world-reaching conspiracy, my level of interest has already hit the bottom.

Also, I can hardly speak of this movie without mentioning the elaborate slow-motion sequences in which Sherlock Holmes quickly calculates a series of blows and kicks that will bring devastating physical damage to his opponents. These scenes are visually stunning. However, I think they ultimately come off as gimmicky. On the one hand, I suppose they honor the novels and short stories where Sherlock Holmes was portrayed as an expert in the martial arts. On the other hand, Sherlock Holmes was never about the muscle to me, but about the brains.

All in all, I can't deny that it's an entertaining film with an impressive production value and an electrifying cast. Maybe my perspective is simply tainted by an adoration for the source material. But truthfully, it's not a vision of Sherlock Holmes that resonates with me.

It Happens

Sometimes things go wrong. You know? It happens.

Let me give you an example. Imagine that you work at a store that sells cell phone devices and calling plans. Yeah, that'll do for now. Just so I can illustrate my point.

It's a Sunday and you are the only person working. You arrive at the store with a 24 oz. coffee in one hand and a fully charged iPad in the other. You clock in, you boot up the computers, turn on the OPEN sign, and perform all other morning tasks that come with the job.

Oh, and, also – for the sake of this little demonstration – you are a man. Okay?

You open the store to the public at 10:59AM, and then you sit down with your iPad and begin to flick through Facebook-comments as you sip your cinnamon latte. You know from experience that it's going to be a slow day.

A half hour passes. The phone rings. You pick up and say:

"Thanks for calling ---- --------. This is -----, how can I help you?"

A female voice answers. She explains that she will be coming in to the store to purchase a phone. She will be using an upgrade on another line on her Family account. She would like for the process to be quick and streamlined since her family is heading for the beach right after stopping by.

You assure her that all of her wishes may come true (for a moderate price of $49.99 plus tax). All she needs to do is pay your store a visit.

She hangs up.

Forty-five minutes later (corresponding to three Facebook comments and half a blog post) a lady and her twelve-year old son rushes in through the store entrance. The Lady wears a blue dress with white flowers and her hair is put up in a tight, tight bun. The Son is tanned and freckled and impatient. There's a riled up smell about them, an odor of stress.

You stand up from your chair, you greet them and ask how you can be of service. She looks confused.

"Where's that woman that usually works here?"

You explain that she is not in today, but that you would be happy to assist them with whatever they need.

"Oh", she says, unconcerned with hiding her disappointment. "So, she must've left then. I just spoke to her over the phone."

This is when you realize that the “woman” she is referring to, is actually you. Perhaps you have a feminine voice. Or maybe you have a unisex name. No matter what the cause of this misunderstanding is, you conclude it is quite embarrassing.

You must quickly make a decision: Will you acknowledge that you were the person she spoke to or will you simply pretend that this mysterious female worker has left for the day?

In the flash of an instant the decision is made.

"Oh, I see", you say, very understanding of course. "So what did you and the lady talk about?"

You lie. There's no way around it. It's done.

The woman reiterates to you what you already know. However, it seems more complicated when she explains it the second time. She will be doing an upgrade for her son, but you will need to swap the upgraded handset to another line, and you need to add a data plan that does not interfere with the original data plan on the original line, and... Confusing to say the least.

You take a deep breath. You go into the back of the store and get the phone that her Son has picked out (it's a -------- -------- with a 3" touchscreen, a back-lit keypad and a front-facing 5 MP camera). You ask for the woman's ID and the last four digits of her social security number and you log onto her account.

At this point, a girl in her twenties enter the store with an envelope in her hand.

"Hello there", you say with a smile. "I'll be with you as soon as I can."

The Twentysomething does not smile back. The Lady with the Son does not smile either.

"I'm just here to pay my bill", says the Twentysomething.

You hesitate. What does the customer service handbook say about this situation?

"Uhm", you begin, turning to the Lady with the Son, "would you mind if I assist in paying her bill first? It won't take more than a minute."

The Lady with the Son sucks her lips together. "I suppose that would be alright. But we do need to be on our way soon. We're going to the beach."

You help the Twentysomething with paying her bill (it does take two minutes rather than one). She leaves and you swing around to the Lady with the Son again.

Your fingers scramble over the keyboard and you can feel your heart pounding as you succumb to the inner voice telling you to "hurry up, darn it, they're going to the beach". Finally. You're almost done with the upgrade and the customer summary is printing and... you realize you got it wrong.

You made a mistake. The phone you just upgraded is connected to the wrong phone number.

So, you start switching out the SIM card, but that in itself will not solve problem, because the SIM card belonging to her other son's phone must also be swapped out to make up for your mistake. As you try to explain this technical nightmare to the Lady with the Son, you can see her forehead crinkling with every word you utter, how her shoulders tense, and her eyebrows sink.

Another customer walks into the store.

You say: "Hello there", and you really try to sound cheerful, "I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"I just want a car charger", says the Other Customer.

"Oh, okay. Well, let me finish up here and then I'll help you in a minute."

The Other Customer sighs. The Lady with the Son gives you a stare that could shatter glass.

At last, you get through the upgrading process, and you manage to explain to the Lady which SIM card goes into which phone, and you begin to type her information into your point-of-sales system so you can print her an invoice, and the clock is ticking, and the minutes pass by.

As you open your mouth to declare the total amount due, the Other Customer exclaims:

"Are you gonna sell me the charger, or what?"

You tell him it will only be a minute, but he is furious, and he turns around, and leaves a trail of cussing and complaints in his wake as he exits the store never to return again.

Forcing a smile, you redirect your attention to the Lady with the Son. Relieved that this will all be over soon, you may finally tell her what she needs to pay so that she can be on her merry way:

"So, the total amount due will be $89.49."

The reaction you get is not what you had hoped for.

"Excuse me?" spurts the Lady with the Son in a tone of voice that is normally devoted to expressions such as: "Are you out of your !#*@$%& mind?!"

You hesitate and then repeat what you just said.

"But the phone is only $49.99", she growls.

"Yes, but the sales tax is added on top of that."

"So I'm paying 40 bucks in taxes?"

"Yes", you agree, "the sales tax is actually calculated on the retail price of the phone, which in this case is $329.00, rather than the subsidized pricing."

"That's outrageous! I've been coming to this store for many years, and they've never charged me this much."

You assure her that you are not at liberty to adjust the sales tax.

"Then the price tag is misleading", she claims.

And you can only agree that perhaps the price tags should be revised with greater clarity in this regard.

"And", she adds, "that is not what the lady on the phone told me when I called in earlier today."

At this moment it strikes you that a lie may not be morally defensible, but it may nevertheless be convenient.

"She didn't?" you say with well-timed surprise.

"No. She most certainly did not."

"Well, once again, I am terribly sorry that you were misinformed."

The Lady with the Son grinds her teeth as she pulls her wallet from her purse and scatters bills of various denominations over the counter. You walk over to the register and get her change. You print out her receipt. She snags it from you as if you were smitten with the plague.

You wish her a great day at the beach as she whips around. She does not say a word as she leaves the store with her Son scampering in her tracks. You watch them through the window, how they walk to their car, and get into it.

You conclude to yourself that that could not possibly have gone any worse.

However, within mere seconds you realize it could.

As you glance through the heap of paperwork that the Lady with the Son left behind, you discover that the most important document of them all – the one stating that she will in fact adhere to the terms and conditions of her two year service agreement – has not been signed. To not acquire a signature on this piece of paper is one of the deadly sins while working in this particular business.

Once again a decision has to be made. And fast, because as you grab the document and start running into the parking lot, the Lady with the Son is already backing out of her spot.

You hurry towards her car, scrambling over the asphalt. For a second, your eyes lock with hers and there's not a doubt in your mind that she will drive off. She's going to step on the pedal and leave you in a cloud of dust with an unsigned document symbolizing an unbinding contract.

Luckily for you, you're wrong. She does stop, rolling her eyes as she rolls down the window.

"What?"

You hand her the document and ask her to please sign it. She does and then hands it back. She does not even ask why.

You thank her. Twice. She drives off.

As you watch her merge onto the highway, you can't help but laugh a little.

You laugh at yourself and your capacity for human error. You laugh at the little things in life that sometimes give rise to disproportional frustration and stress. You laugh at the very idea of remaining disquieted about this whole affair.

Because sometimes things go wrong. And you know what? It happens.

5 Reasons to Stop Making Lists

1. A common yet erroneous belief among our species is that life exists in a state of controlled chaos, when in fact our empirically proven laws of physics have all drawn upon a principle of chaotic control. Rather than allowing our natural tendency for chaos to prosper, the making of lists simulates an illusory control of the biological process we call thinking, and therefore violates a fundamental principle of the universe.

2. If you make lists by hand, consider the following: An average $0.50 ballpoint pen can draw a continuous line for a quarter of a mile before the ink runs out. This roughly corresponds to a three week period of list-making if you write one 10-item list per day with a moderately sized handwriting. If you include the cost of paper, you would be spending at least $11.72 per year, which adds up to about $656.32 in the lifespan of an average list-maker. Would you call that a responsible investment?

3. The relationship between "list-making" and "listening" is not solely explained by a shared linguistic origin. A Harvard University study performed in 2001 concluded that list-making tends to decrease a persons capacity for listening with about 22.7%. This is due to a psychological process known as neural filtering that takes place among people who regularly make lists. They will mentally reject any form of communication that is not itemized on the grounds that the information is simply too "dysfunctional" and "disorganized".

4. Consider the definition of the word listless: "Disinclined for any effort or exertion". Now, answer truthfully: Would you prefer to be drained of the sap of life as you toil and exert yourself needlessly, or would you rather spend the rest of your days in blissful comfort and ease? If you're like me, then only a listless lifestyle may bring you the long-lasting satisfaction you seek.

5. I knew this guy up in Sacramento, California. He was a three time triathlon champion with a wife and a 3-year old kid. About a month ago he sat down and wrote a list of all the things he wanted to accomplish in life. 36 hours later, they found him dead in his bathtub, drained of all blood and with bite marks on his thigh. True story.

Following

It was 6:28 PM when I set the security alarm to ALL ON and locked up the store. A sense of forgetfulness tickled me as I twisted the key. I ignored it.

To get to our apartment from where I work, I take a fifty minute walk. It was chilly that evening, in a California sort-of-way. I noticed a certain carelessness to my step as I wallowed in the freedom of pastime.

A girl with red short-cut hair came towards me, flittering lightly over the pavement. She wore stonewashed jeans, a green top and a red purse. She smiled at me. I did not have time to smile back before she had passed.

I continued to walk, perhaps twentysome steps, and then I stopped. I said a bad word, which I was not proud of, and threw glances all around me to ensure that my impulsive discourtesy had not attracted an audience.

You know that sinking feeling that settles in your belly when you realize you've forgotten something? That enervating inner voice that grazes your subconscious with a spiteful "I knew it"?

It can be frustrating to retrace your steps, to return to what you've already left behind. Sometimes it's quite necessary. It brings a different perspective to your journey. I headed back. I unlocked the store, turned off the alarm, and grabbed the iPad and my white-rimmed shades. Then: alarm back on, door relocked, and I was on my way again.

As I went through the Spencer's parking lot, that girl with the red hair (the one that smiled at me but ten minutes ago) stepped onto the pavement, wielding an overflowing grocery bag. She swept in front of me and was evidently heading in my direction.

I felt stupid. The girl and I had shared a fleeting moment of connectedness, an innocent smile in the passing. I wish we could have left it at that. As we again found ourselves sharing the road, I felt as if we were violating the anonymous exchange that had taken place between us. This was becoming too intimate with me tracing her footsteps like in a child's game.

My thoughts raced, plaguing me with possibilities of discomfort that could arise from this situation. What if the girl had recognized me outside the grocery store, and merely pretended it was not so? What if she suspected I was stalking her?

I slowed my pace. Just to be on the safe side.

Please, may she part from this road, I prayed, into a driveway, or onto a trampled path, or off to an anywhere but here.

She stayed her course, same as mine. Oh, the Gods must have giggled in their omnipresence.

But as the minutes slipped by, I soon came to question my anxious disposition. We were both walking on public ground, were we not? Furthermore, she was probably indifferent, why, even oblivious of me walking behind her. And frankly, I would have preferred to walk a little faster rather than conforming to this imaginary predicament. So, goshdarnit, I increased my pace, just a tad, so I could pass the girl, and spend the rest of my walk buried in abashed self-reflection.

To my utter dismay, she began to walk faster too.

So, she was aware of me after all. And she must think I'm a creep. What if she would panic, and start screaming for help? Maybe I should just turn around, and seek an alternative route...

She stopped. And here I made a serious mistake, for instead of just walking on, unperturbed, as if nothing had happened, I too came to a halt. I couldn't help myself. My legs froze in unison with hers, as if we shared an invisible corporal connection.

We stayed still. She did not look back. I did not move. It was very, very silent. Even the breeze held it's breath. Finally, she cocked her head just a smidge and spoke over her shoulder:

"Are you following me?"

"I, um", I stammered, "no, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You've been following me from the grocery store."

My cheeks were burning. "No, no. I'm just going home."

She swiveled around and that smile flashed over her face again.

"Then, why are you embarrassed, silly?"

I blushed. "I am... I don't know."

I started walking again, eyes downcast, but as I was about to skirt around her she held out her arm, like a palace guard protecting sacred ground. She pursed her lips.

"I think I might be lost", she admitted.

I hawked. "Well, it's sort of a common side effect."

"What are you talking about?"

I never had to answer, for her eyes suddenly expanded and the realization hit her like an arrow to the chest.

"Oh, no, you didn't!"

"Just, waitaminute..."

She crossed her arms, eyes blazing. "This is about that damn blog, isn't it?"

I tensed up, half-expecting to have to defend myself, and then realized there was no need for that.

"I don't even have a home, do I?" the girl said, lips pouting. "I'm a nobody. Just a paper-thin excuse for you to have something to write about."

I was silent for a few moments, thinking.

"Well?" she snorted.

"Do you feel any different?"

"No."

"Do you know where you live?" I asked.

"Of course I do, stupid. I live right there."

She whipped out a hitchhiker thumb and pointed at a yellow-paneled house only a block away. A scrawny, shirtless man stood in the driveway, polishing the yellow finish of a 1968 Chevrolet Corvette.

"I gotta go", she said with an air of nonchalance. "My boo and I are going skinny-dippying at Pirate's Cove."

"Oh. Sounds nice."

She shook her head. "Such a liar."

I shrugged. "It's kind of what I do."

She reached into her grocery bag and handed me an apple with a Red Delicious sticker on it.

"For the walk home", she explained.

I thanked her, but I didn't eat the apple right away. Neither did I eat it when I came home. I tried to tell myself I wasn't hungry. The truth is, I was scared. If I'd take a bite out of that gorgeous apple, would it be there still when I opened my eyes?