Madhouse Fog. Sean Carswell

clothes and his awkward way of talking with all those crazy transition words—of course, perhaps, like I said, again, understand. No one talks like that. No one dresses like that. Walters came at me as if he were trying play the role of the bad guy in a movie. He acted as if he were on stage, his costume selected for him, his dialog written by some hack. It raised all kinds of questions in my mind, like, if he’s the actor, who’s the director? Who’s in charge of this performance? Or was this his own vehicle, the play he was writing, directing, and producing himself to catapult himself to the nineteenth floor? And, of course, since I was in a place that blended willful ignorance with performance, I could imagine that I was just being overly suspicious, paranoid.

      I opened the flap of the envelope and peeked inside. A stack of one hundred dollar bills. Enough of them to solve a number of my problems. I didn’t count them. I closed the envelope and stuck it in the front pocket of my pants. I stuffed the waitress’s number next to it. I knew I wasn’t going to call her. I guess I just didn’t want to hurt her feelings by leaving the number there for the bus boy to stack on top of all the other trash.

      I walked out of the big box restaurant, my pockets weighed down by things I didn’t want and didn’t feel right throwing away.

       9

      A week and a day later, my wife appeared.

      I returned from work on Friday night, unlocked the door, and dropped my keys on the newspaper rack/table. Clint Dempsey greeted me. I squatted in the foyer, in front of the surveillance camera, and tried to pet him. Clint Dempsey jumped up and down, twisting, wagging his tail, trying to lick my face but missing, looking for affection but unable to settle himself long enough for me to give it to him. I did my best. I said, “Wanna go for a walk?”

      “Sure.”