Sam and the Milfords woke up at dusk that Saturday evening, to the sound of fireworks, whistles, cheers, singing, gunshots, drag-racing and even pots and pans clanging together. Fire engines sounded in the distance, and he was still drunk. He had never ever thought he would be happy to have a hangover, let alone a hangover that had set in before he was sober. But after leaving them together in their stunned bliss, he had staggered home and fallen asleep on the living room floor.
Marie didn’t come home until Monday morning, and barely had a word about the near earth body that had almost ended everything and mysteriously vanished after orbiting the earth once over the northern hemisphere than dropping down over the South Atlantic and exploding over Antarctica; dissolving into ‘harmless ice-confetti’ Jack had called it, not even killing a penguin.
All Marie had to say was, “Ain’t that some shit. I’m glad I didn’t come up for air all weekend or I would have been miserable. Speaking of business, Baby: Mrs. Marsden texted me about a special. Make sure you suit up.”
“Shit, I hate dressing up like John Wayne! It’s bad enough having to walk through that retirement community game room while they’re playing bridge and staring at me, let alone like a horse-riding clown!”
Marie had just winked at him and ‘tisked,’ “Don’t make me fire you Sam—and don’t forget the pineapple juice. I know you’ve been dumping it out.”
The life of a whore—my life.
How much longer can life go on like this, before I grab it by its pretty throat an—
“Baby,” sparkled Marie, from her walk-in closet, “You won’t believe this! I’ve already got you booked for the month—in one morning! This is ridiculous… Hell, we’ll be retiring early—you better eat your Wheaties, Baby.”
Oh, fuck me—no, on second thought, just leave, please.
