There’s a serious problem in this city, and it’s not those secret-shopper-money-gram schemes that get me every time. And it’s not the HVAC guy whose shoddy workmanship froze my puggle to near death. Those are problems but not as serious as this problem. The serious problem is the prices of Naked juices. Specifically Naked Protein Zones. Those are the Nakeds with the protein sprinkled in. I drink a PZ everyday. The PZs at the bodega by the subway cost $3.50. As do non-PZ Nakeds. That’s a good price for a Naked. But some mornings I don’t buy my PZ at the bodega near the subway. Some mornings I’m on the go, I’m out and about running my errands or exercising, and I’ll buy my PZ elsewhere, like the Khim’s on Graham. The PZs there cost $4.50. That is not a good price for a PZ, and what’s baffling about the Naked prices there is that non-PZ Nakeds retail for $3.50. Why are they charging more for PZs?

I used to buy my PZs at the Duane Read on Eighth Ave. in the city, where they go for $3.69. As do all other Nakeds. I’m fine with that price. It’s higher than the bodega near the subway, but that’s the city, after all. Some mornings I buy my PZ at the Khim’s on Driggs. Now, I want you to guess how much those PZs go for. It’s not $3.50, and it’s not $4.50. They charge $4.99 for a PZ. Five bucks basically, because you and I both know you’re not walking out with that penny. And yet the other Khim’s, the one on Graham, sells PZs for $4.50. If you’re curious, the non-PZ Nakeds at the Khim’s on Driggs go for $3.99, I think. You’d think a company would charge the same for a product across the board, at all locations. But, like life, PZ prices in New York are unpredictable and trying to wrap your head around it will only leave you asking big, unanswerable questions so you might as well drink your PZ and stop thinking so much.

One morning I was at the Khim’s on Graham and I confronted the girl at the counter about her PZ prizes. “Why do you charge more for PZs?” She said it’s because they have to pay the wholesaler more for PZs than non-PZ Nakeds. And I said, “Everywhere else but Khim’s sells PZs for the same price as non-PZ Nakeds. I don’t think the wholesaler s charging you more. And if they are, they should stop. And maybe you’re unaware, but the Khim’s on Driggs is selling PZs for $4.99. You sell them for $4.50.” “Huh,” she said. “Well, it costs $4.50.” The next day I was at the bodega near the subway (which, as you’ll recall, sells all Nakeds for $3.50, a good price, a price I would pay everyday if it weren’t for my errands) and I asked the guy if he has to pay the wholesaler more for PZs than for non-PZ Nakeds. He said no. “All Naked juices cost the same.” As they should! “Some places,” I said, “are charging more for PZs than they are for non-PZ Nakeds. They say the wholesaler charges them more.” He said, “We pay the wholesaler the same for all Naked juices. Why would they charge more? There’s not much of a difference. It just has the protein in there.” I said, “Well, some places in the city are charging more for PZs and they blame the wholesaler. It’s a problem. And two different Khim’s are charging different prices for PZs.” “Khims,” he scoffed. “Well, we charge $3.50.” I said, “That’s a good price for a PZ.” I gave him the $3.50, left the bodega and quickly drank the PZ. The protein surged through me and soon I was ready to run my errands.

Two towns make me sick: Las Vegas and Milan, Italy. Las Vegas makes me sick for all the usual reasons; Milan makes me sick for highly unusual reasons. People in Milan don’t have anything to do but walk around and look at each other’s clothes and then go home and blog about the clothes and then email the blogs to each other. They’ll keep emailing blogs all day and all night until one of the people whose clothes were photographed for a blog receives the blog post in their email and says, I’m on the internet, tres chic. It makes me sick. I’ve never been on the internet, and I’m always walking around my town running errands and visiting family. I live in Tuscon, in Arizona, but don’t think I’m the kind of girl who loves cactuses or the hot heat, ’cause I’m not, and I’m not the kind of girl who goes on and on about how Arizona weather is good for your constitution and sinuses. Because honest to God, I don’t think it is. I think it’s a scam. Doctors here want sick people to move here because when sick people move somewhere, guess who profits. The doctors. I want to puke up my guts when I hear someone talk about how much they love the Arizona weather, or how they painted cactuses on a platter in a free art class provided by the city council. Cactuses are cool-looking and I am glad they are in my backyard and heck, free art classes? Sign me up for every single one. I’ll paint tiny dots on my new Keds; that’ll kill a Sunday. But why do people here have to talk about the cactuses as much as they do? They’re plants, they don’t talk, they don’t move, you can’t make love to them, at least not the usual way. So why talk about them so much? It’s like I’m living in Milan, but instead of clothes and blogs it’s cactuses. Milan men didn’t flirt with me when I was there three years ago which was disappointing because Dina from work said Italian men are dogs. She said they’ll follow you up a tree even after you say, Leave me alone, you dog. And you if you wink at them, it’s all over: give them an inch and Italian men will be cooking you dinner and gnawing on your feet and calling you a chow bello. My former best friend and current boss Ada was hit on every night we were in Milan. Ada has a good bod. She’s a smart girl with good hair, and she knew how to drive Italian men wild with a wink and a lip-lick. Chuck: short Italian man, poor and uneducated, bad bod, but he was romantic. When he first saw Ada he approached her and said, Your legs! Are they real? They can’t be. Ada said, Yes, these are my real legs. Chuck said, I don’t believe you, they must be the work of a plastic surgeon, they are perfect. No, Ada said, they are real legs. Chuck said that he must have them. I must chop them off and sell them to the Museum of Perfect Things! Ada said she would not like that, but she gave him the phone number of the hotel we were at and later that night Chuck showed up in an ironed blazer with roses and a bottle of expensive Italian wine, and off they went a-walking around town, pointing at beautiful things they saw in the street like flower pedals and a deflated balloon, and then they walked along that famous river and back to Chuck’s apartment where they got all eepa, eepa, oopa oopa in bed and on the couch and all over the kitchen floor too. They went at each other as ferociously as two things on earth can go at each other. One good bod and one bad bod, entangled in every possible way. I know all this because I followed them on their date and sat outside Chuck’s bedroom and watched them go at each other for hours, and when they were done, while Chuck wiped his mess off of Ada’s neck with a hanky, I knocked on the window to get their attention. Naked Ada said, What are you doing here? I opened the window and crawled in all graceful. I just wanted to say that she’s a liar. Don’t believe her lies. Chuck said, Please go away! Her legs, I said, they are fakes. Chuck looked at Ada; Ada looked at me; I looked at Chuck and then Ada. Check them, check them, I said, run hot water over them. They’ll turn black because of the chemicals in the fake skin. It’s a chemical reaction. Chuck turned to Ada. Is this true? he said. Of course not, Ada said. My legs are real. Chuck said he wanted to believe her but he didn’t because trust hadn’t been built between them yet. He ran into the kitchen and quickly returned carrying a mug with steam rising from it. He said, I’m sorry, but I must know. Then he splashed hot water on her legs. Ada screamed and began to cry. The water must have been very hot. Her knees turned bright pink. She ran into the bathroom to wash them with cool water, and from the bathroom she screamed, These are real legs, you sick fuck! Chuck turned to me and said, You said they would turn black. You said they were fake. What is with you? Why would lie about that? I loved her, but I blew it. What were you thinking? Is it because men didn’t hit on you at the cafe? That’s it, isn’t it? You want to know why? It’s because you’re a dog. Your face is like woof woof and your bod is saying, I apologize for being so gross but please hop on me anyway. Ada has a good bod. She’s smart and her hair is nice. That’s why men hit on her. Men don’t like to go on dates with dogs unless they are loons. Go hang around the looney bin and find yourself a sicko. A real sicko, that’s what you need.

From: Tanya Carpenter
Date: Thu, Aug 18, 2011 at 2:33 PM
Subject: Hi! I’am Tatiana / oh88we

Hi! How are you?

My name is Tatiana.
I’m 20.
I’m from Russia, Moscow.
It’s hard to me to write this … ummm I badly like you<3, because you look cool.
Me look over your picture in another’s account.  Amazing, isn’t it?

I’m lonely, because recently my boyfriend cheated on me.
It was very painful. So now I want to find a boyfriend who’ll be really love me. I’ll be happy to have boyfriend from other country.
So if you interested in me write me, please.

On Thu, Aug 18, 2011 at 3:04 PM, Ryan Grim wrote:

Hi Sarah,

Can I call you Sarah? My cousin’s name was Sarah and even though she has passed on to heaven (or hell or the in-between) I will always love her dearly, and not in the normal way a normal man loves his cousin, but rather in the way a man should not love his cousin. I’m talking about carnal love here, Sarah. (See, Sarah, I’m already calling you Sarah without even realizing it. Ha.) So, Sarah, what do you think about Uncle Craig’s new haircut? I know, right? What is he going for? It’s like, Woah Uncle Craig, is that haircut part of a Halloween costume? Who are you supposed to be, a young Andre Agassi after he walked through a car wash? For real, though, don’t tell Uncle Craig I said that. If he found out I was making fun of his haircut he’d murder me for sure, just like he murdered you, my only love. Oh Sarah, light of my life, fire of my loins. My muse, my sun, my moon — come back to me. Oh my dead Sarah, you beautiful mess of bug food buried deep in my garden, I beg you: let my tomato plant’s roots suck up whatever nutrients remain in your rotting body so I may one day pluck a tomato that grew ripe off your essence and vicariously sink my teeth into you yet again.

-Lars

From: Tanya Carpenter
Subject: Re: Hi! I’am Tatiana / oh88we
Date: Thu, 18 Aug 2011 23:04:36

Hey honey!
I will go to your city in a couple of weeks…!!

I don’t check my MailBox often, at last I have waited your answer to email…

but I constantly On line on site http://dateritn.ru , my nickname is ‘Nevesta’ find me on this project.

You can look there my photos at my profile, … after u Sign UP..

Please, write me where you live exactly and something more about yourself in personal message and add ur picsOn

On Fri, Aug 19, 2011 at 3:32 PM, Ryan Grim wrote:

You’ll be back in Sandusky in a couple of weeks? As a ghost?! What joyous news. Until you return I will refrain from engaging in my morning self-abuse sessions as to preserve enough ejaculate to thoroughly douse your face. I pray that dying hasn’t diminished your love of being doused with ejaculate. Does ejaculate go right through ghost face? It likely does. We will put down that old fuck tarp just in case.

Oh, Sarah, you playful slut, you wily little girl. You know where I live. I’m still in the cottage we shared, and I haven’t changed a thing. Your linens are still hanging on the line in the garden; your dirty dishes are still in the sink. The morning Uncle Craig stabbed you, you promised me you’d take in the linens and wash the dishes and I’m going to hold you to that promise, you dead little slut. Ghosts can do chores, can’t they? Ghosts can get on top and do fun stuff in bed, can’t they? When you come back, don’t give me that “I’m a ghost now so I can’t get on top and do fun stuff in bed” routine. I don’t want it to feel like I’m fucking a pile of leaves. I want it to feel like I’m fucking my ghostcousin.

Each morning when I make my tea I stare at the dishes and think, Nothing else in the cottage reminds me of you like these dishes. Your little paws were all over the dishes shortly before Uncle Craig took that letter opener to your throat. Each morning I scrape a bit of food off a plate – was it hummus you were eating? and peanut butter? – and place it under my tongue, and if I’m in the mood I’ll sit on the floor and rub my belly like you used to, and I’ll do other unsavory things to this body, this body you said you wanted to be buried next to. And believe me, I am still game for being buried in the garden with you. On cold nights, when the girl from the community college whose warmth I pay for can’t join me for dinner, I think of sniffing ricin and leaving a note with detailed instructions for my burial for whomever finds me. Now, in which position shall we eternally rest? 69? Or maybe my favorite: 68. That means you do me and I owe you one, in case you forgot. I must owe you a hundred by now! Good thing eternity is a long time!

To hell with what Uncle Craig will say about my burial plans. We never cared much about others’ opinions. We were (are?) rogue lovers. Like that time we went to the fish fry in Chillicothe. You were the drunkest slut in that rectory. You were kissing any boy who asked you, What up, girl? Father Tom pulled me aside and said, “Please tell your girlfriend to stop kissing my alter boys. They are getting riled up.” And I said, “She’s not my girlfriend, man. She’s my cousin. Whom I fuck.” Those fish fries were bullshit anyway. Ten bucks for some bullshit tilapia and ONE warm Stroh’s? Who cares that we’re blackballed?

Wait. You’re online dating now?

-Lars

From: Tanya Carpenter
Subject: Re: Hi! I’am Tatiana / oh88we
Date:  Fri, 19 Aug 2011 23:46:49 +0400

Hey honey!
I will go to your city in a couple of weeks…!!

I don’t check my MailBox often, at last I have waited your answer to email…

but I constantly On line on site http://dateritn.ru , my nickname is ‘Nevesta’ find me on this project.

You can look there my photos at my profile, … after u Sign UP..

Please, write me where you live exactly and something more about yourself in personal message and add ur picsOn

Before Aunt Suze made him go to law school Uncle Rick was in Wapakoneta’s second fiercest biker gang. The Toads were the second fiercest because they treated women well. The Sturgeon did not treat not women well, and if you want to know more about that, ask Aunt Suze to tell you about the Sturgeon she rode with who sanded down her nose with her own nail file who is now a district court judge, no joke. The Toads had a policy: each spring they’d go on a trim hunt in Columbus. They’d plop ladies on the back of their hogs and ride to Toledo for Meat Fest. If a lady stayed on the hog all the way to Toledo, and didn’t let another Toad get up on her in the motel’s pool– and yes, they’d try, to test the ladies — AND she seemed to enjoy Meat Fest enough, then she was officially that Toad’s ladyfriend and none of the other Toads could try to get up on her anymore. Then the Toads would ride down to Trotwood where they knew a guy who lived in an old schoolhouse and they’d party there until the ladies got restless. If a lady stayed on the hog all the way to Trotwood then she was officially her Toad’s old lady. Old ladies were temporarily honorary Toads. Toadettes. Nobody called them Toadettes, though, and they didn’t get a Toad jacket or Zippo, but if they had the time and wherewithal they were permitted to make their own Toad swag. A Toad couldn’t get up on his old lady’s friends, but he could get up on his ladyfriend’s friends as long as a) he was very drunk and other people saw that he was drunk, and b) the ladyfriend’s friend whom he was getting up on wasn’t another Toad’s ladyfriend or old lady. If a Toad had an old lady he had to be stealth: he could only get up on other ladies who were in no way affiliated with his old lady or the Toads, and he couldn’t be seen with the other lady by a Sturgeon because those dudes were meddlesome and they’d tell the Toad’s old lady to stir up shit.

If an old lady stayed on the back of a Toad’s hog all the way back to Toad HQ in Wapakoneta, then the Toad had to make a choice: he could say a) “I’m a rolling stone. Toads don’t mate for life” and take her back to Columbus; b) “First you were a stranger, then you were my ladyfriend, and now you’re my old lady, lady. It’s time to meet my momma” or his aunt or sister if his momma had passed, and he’d make it a real Christian thing with her; or c) “It’s been great, but I need to demote you to ladyfriend status. Toads don’t mate for life, and while I couldn’t imagine not having you in my life right now, I need other ladyfriends to live a full life.” C) was the most common choice. One Toad used c) so often he had it tattooed on the bottom of his foot. Instead of saying it to an old lady he wanted to demote, he would show her his foot, which was much easier. If an old lady said she was fine with being demoted to ladyfriend status then she became a permanent honorary Toad. No matter what happened between her and the Toad, she was a Toadette for life, you could say, not that a Toad would ever say that. Aunt Suze agreed to option c) and put up with Rick being a Toad for five years. She calls those years her chlamydia years. Uncle Rick was the first Toad to get married, and soon after he enrolled in law school the other Toads married their old ladies, too. Some Toads skipped a step and promoted their pregnant ladyfriends to wife status. Eventually every Toad sold his hog to pay for diapers and other wife shit, except for the Toad with the foot tattoo, who joined the Sturgeon.

[C.O.D.Y. the Robot Who Hangs Out and Darryl’s dad are hanging in Darryl’s dad’s basement. Darryl’s dad is on the phone and he is bummed out. He’s usually not a crier. The last time he cried was when he saw Wall-E, when Wall-E and Eva dance around the spaceship amongst stars and sparks, and she kisses him. Darryl’s dad loves that scene; he loves it when Wall-E asks the computer to define dancing. “That little hangbot didn’t know what dancing was,” he said, holding back the tears. He’s watched it on YouTube no less than ten times, and when he saw it in the theater – wasn’t he on a date with that ladybot from Trotwood who never called him back? – he let out a few sobs. But those sobs were nothing compared to the loud, gasping sobs he’s letting out now. Red-faced and teary, clutching the cell phone, he says:]

Darryl’s Dad: Who was he with? [sobs] OK, OK. [sobs] Where were they? [sobs] Jesus Christ.

[The person on the other end talks for a while and Darryl’s dad sobs even louder. C.O.D.Y. sips from his Stroh’s and puts an arm around his friend.]

Darryl’s Dad: And he was unconscious when the ambulance showed up? [sobs] Uh uh, OK, and what did he take? [sobs] Jesus Christ, Darryl, you idiot.

C.O.D.Y.: Psst, who are you talking to?

Darryl’s Dad: [to CODY:] The cops, shut up. [Into phone:] Sorry, I have company over, and he’s being rude. No, I don’t want an autopsy.

C.O.D.Y.: Autopsy? Draaag.

Darryl’s Dad: Shut up! Does his mother know? [sobs] OK. I can call her later today. What else can you tell me about what happened?

[Darryl’s dad listens to the cop. Tears run into his mouth. It's the saddest thing CODY has ever seen: Dayton's legendary hanger-outer having the worst hang of his life.]

Darryl’s Dad: Thank you for the call, we’ll be in touch.

[He hangs up and sobs, and these are the worse sobs yet: louder than before, and there’s spit coming out of his mouth now. He falls into CODY's arms.]

C.O.D.Y.: What’s wrong?

Darryl’s Dad: It’s Darryl. He’s dead.

C.O.D.Y.: Dead? You mean dead-dead?

Darryl’s Dad: Dead-dead.

C.O.D.Y.: Have they double-checked? I’ve read stories about people thinking people are dead, but then at the funeral they pop out of the coffin and they’re all like, Why’s everyone so bummed? I’m totally fine. Let’s party!

Darryl’s Dad: They’re sure, Cody. He’s dead.

C.O.D.Y.: But you should double-check.

Darryl’s Dad: I’m going to the coroner’s tomorrow.

C.O.D.Y.: Niiice. How did he die? Do you want me to guess, or do you want to just tell me?

Darryl’s Dad: It was an –

C.O.D.Y.: Spider bite?

Darryl’s Dad: No, it was – [sobs]

C.O.D.Y.: Wolf bite?

Darryl’s Dad: No.

C.O.D.Y.: Brown recluse bite?

Darryl’s Dad: It wasn’t a bite. He O.D.’d, OK. He took too many drugs.

C.O.D.Y.: Drugs? I didn’t think Darryl hung like that. He was Eagle Scout, for chrissakes.

Darryl’s Dad: Fuckin aye, he was.

C.O.D.Y.: One time Darryl taught me how to tie a square knot, just ’cause, I didn’t even ask him to. We were playing foursquare or roller hockey or something and he pulls out a rope and says, Hey, do you know how to tie a square knot? And I say no. And he says, Do you want to know? And I say, Not really, what do I need to know how to tie a square knot for? I’m not a rope guy, don’t care to become one now, probably never will be one. Darryl says, Well, CODY, life is about getting better at shit, don’t you know that? Don’t you want to be good at one thing? Your thing can be square knots. I’ve never thought that, I said. I’ve always thought we were supposed to hang out and have a good time with people we like having good time with and not worry about being good at shit. And Darryl says, That’s what people who are bad at shit say. But people who are good at shit know the truth: that you’re supposed to be good at shit. And if you aren’t good at shit then you should work harder at being good at shit. Do you want to be someone who’s good at shit, or someone who hangs out all the time? Here, take this rope, let me teach how to tie a square knot. It’s easy. And so he taught me, and it was easy, and for a few days after that I was a square-knot tying fiend: I’d tie square knots around trees; I’d tie ‘em around people’s hands and necks if they let me. I was teaching everyone I knew how to tie square knots. Your son made me the Johnny Appleseed of square knots.

Darryl’s Dad: He was a good boy. Before he met Simone.

C.O.D.Y.: I couldn’t tie one now to save my life. Guess I’ve been hanging out too much. [he makes a shaka sign with his pinky and thumb and waves it around] Who’s Simone?

Darryl’s Dad: Simone is…Simone is Simone. Simone is the reason he’s dead, if you ask me. That’s who Simone is. You want to know who Simone is? I will tell you who Simone is. Darryl told me all about Simone, and he only tells me about the girls he’s crazy into, so he must have had it bad for her. He had it so bad for her from the get-go that he called me the day they met. They met while volunteering at the hospital. He was a good boy, always volunteering for this, that and the other, always helping his great-aunt with her cats and craft projects, and at the hospital he played piano for the sick kids, the cancer kids, the kids who weren’t long for this world. He played Raffi songs and songs by that that Bieber kid and whatever else they wanted to hear.

So one day, Simone starts volunteering there, in arts and crafts. You gotta watch out for girls who are good at making things with their hands: if they can mold and manipulate paper and clay and stuff, they will mold and manipulate you. But Darryl didn’t know that. They don’t teach you that in Eagle Scouts. But they should. There should be a Dealing With Deceitful Cunts merit badge. To hell with surviving the wilderness; we should prepare these boys for hardships they’ll actually encounter.

He called me the day they met and said, Dad, this girl at the hospital, she’s an angel. A ginger angel. She has curly orange hair and an adorable Cleveland accent. She grew up up there and moved down here to be with her dad, so she says the word mom like maahm and milk like melk. Darryl said that when she said, My maahm can’t drink melk because she’s allergic, he almost proposed. I don’t know why he liked that accent so much. They all sound like carnies to me.

[more to come about this]

Caesar Creek in Waynesville is a good place to hang if you like hanging with what a politician would call folks. You could call its beach a beach, but it’s as much of a beach as Caesar Creek is a creek. Don’t call Caesar Creek a creek unless you want the folks on the beach to think you’re not folk. Caesar Creek is a lake with an unlimited horsepower designation and four launch ramps; call it a fun time if you’re going to call it anything.

A family friend whose name I won’t say because who wants to be written about? killed two people at Caesar Creek last July. He says it wasn’t his fault, and last week when we were tubing at Caesar Creek he made his case:

-If Dina hadn’t been dancing with that dude she met at driving school and touching his dick in front of God and all creation then I wouldn’t have been drinking so hard that night. And when I start drinking like that on Thursday I usually don’t stop until Sunday night, especially in the summer, and double especially when Dina’s been sleeping at her sister’s. And when I saw Dina and that dude go to the bathroom together I drank some more and later in the parking lot I saw him lay her out on the hood of his Jetta and tickle her pussy like I like to. I’m sure she loves that Jetta. She loves things that are fancy but not good. That’s why I call her Pottery Barn when I’m mad at her.

So Friday morning she texts: don’t be mad. And I text: I don’t get mad at whores. She doesn’t reply. Hours later like a chump I text: I’m sorry, you’re not a whore. She doesn’t reply to that either. I text: are we still getting married? She doesn’t reply. So a few hours later I text: don’t reply to this text if we are still getting married. She doesn’t reply. I guess we’re still getting married.

I drink all day Friday and that night we’re out again and, no joke, she’s with that dude from the driving school again. She’s bent over and he’s dry-fucking her on the dance floor with his fingers in her mouth in front of God and all creation. Even Tom, who never says shit about other people, says that’s fucked up.

-Why didn’t you leave?

-I stuck around till two in case she actually wanted to go home with her fiancée and was just sucking that dude from the driving school’s fingers in front of everyone to make me jealous. Saturday morning I’m on bloody marys and then a few beers, and Tom and I hop in my car and drive to Caesar Creek thinking a day of boating and beaching, if you can call it a beach, would calm my nerves. We find some real estate on the sand and get to drinking, and Tom’s going off about how I can’t marry her now because everyone has seen what a whore she is, dancing with that dude from the driving school like a black girl and sucking his finger. Tom’s always been more racist than we like but that’s just his way, and he had a point: at least seven people we know saw that, seven people who are going to our wedding.

-I thought the wedding was off for now?

-Still up in the air. We’re waiting for the lawyers to put stuff together. So, of course, Dina and the dude from the driving school spread out a bed sheet right next to us. Tom, even Tom, is like, this shit is cruel. A minute later she’s putting lotion on his back and he’s putting lotion on her back and her tits.

-She was topless?

-No, but you know how she has those fake tits like volleyballs that push up against her neck? If you don’t lotion up the top half they’ll burn real bad like they did at Put-in-Bay two years ago. But she could have done that part herself. So they sit down and she looks over at me and says, Oh hey, I didn’t know you were going to the beach today. Oh yes she knew. And I don’t say a word. I look at the dude from the driving school. He’s so much fatter than me and there’s a little boner tenting his Umbros just from lotioning her tits. Now, I’m an easy boner too, but that’s pathetic. At this point I’ve seen this guy put is fingers in my fiancee’s mouth, I’ve seen him hump my fiancee on his Jetta and tickle her pussy, and now I’ve seen his boner. I was fed up. Tom and I are going boating, I said. We picked up the cooler and the bottle of Bulleit and walked over to the dock and Dina says all sweet, I’ve always loved your boat. Can we come?

-How did you crash?

-I barely remember. By that time I was sick-drunk.

-Why were you driving then?

-BECAUSE IT’S MY BOAT. If I am on my boat then I am driving my boat. Even if I’m getting sick over the side, no one else is driving my boat, especially not that boner from driving school, God rest his soul. He was like, Dude, you are so drunk right now, let me drive. And even Tom, rest his soul, was saying boner should drive. But it’s my boat, and the more I think about it, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot this past year, it’s all Dina’s fault. I would have drank less if she hadn’t been on the boat, enough less to swerve around that boat without hitting the other boat.

-You might be right about that.

-I’m going to cheat on her every chance I get.

[C.O.D.Y. the Robot Who Hangs Out enters the laundromat, Sarah’s laundromat, the one place in Dayton where he’s not allowed to hang out. He’s smoking a cigar. Because detectives smoke things. He puts on an intimidating face and approaches Sarah.]

CODY: I’m here to see Sarah Philbin. Do you know where she is?

SARAH: Oh no.

CODY: Is she hiding in the back room because she knows she’s guilty?

SARAH: What do you want?

CODY: I’m a detective and I am here to investigate a robbery. Are you Sarah?

SARAH: What do you want from me?

CODY: Tell me where the missing clothes are. I know you know.

SARAH: We’ve already talked about this. I don’t know where the missing clothes are. They were stolen from Teddy’s laundromat, not mine. You have no reason to be here.

CODY: Interesting. No. That is VERY interesting. How did you know they were taken from Teddy’s l-mat?

SARAH: Because you told me when you came in here a week ago.

CODY: Did I?

SARAH: Yes. You said she’s missing a red hoodie and an Ekoostik Hookah t-shirt and some other stuff. I’ll keep an eye for it.

CODY: For someone who is supposedly innocent, you know a helluva lot about this crime. Where were you when the clothes were stolen?

SARAH: I don’t know. Somewhere, I’m sure.

CODY: Guilty AND coy. That’s my kinda lady.

SARAH: Cody, stop.

CODY: Answer my questions and I’ll leave. Where were you when the clothes were stolen?

SARAH: When were they stolen?

CODY: Something like two weeks ago. On a Saturday morning. Or a Wednesday night.

SARAH: You don’t even know when they were stolen, do you?

CODY: No, I know. But I don’t want to tell you. It’s classified. And I am keeping my suspects on a don’t-know basis. So you don’t get to know.

SARAH: I think you mean to say a need-to — nevermind. How do you expect me to tell you where I was when the clothes were stolen if you don’t even know when they were stolen?

CODY: Ah, drag.

SARAH: You’re not a detective, Cody. You’re a hangbot. You hang out and chase ladybots. That’s it. That’s all you’ll ever do. Detectives interview actual suspects, not women they like. Detectives know when the crime happened. And I’m pretty sure detectives don’t walk around with Little Feat songs blasting from speakers embedded in their bodies.

CODY: Aw, you think so?

SARAH: I know so.

CODY: So what do I do now?

SARAH: What do you mean, what do you do?

CODY: If you were the detective for this case, what would you do?

SARAH: First, find out when the clothes were stolen. Then interview Teddy about it. He’s shady as fuck.

CODY: You’re so smart. [He takes her by the hand.] And your skin, it’s so smooth.

SARAH: No, it’s not.

CODY: Sarah, smart and smooth. That’s what I’ll call you from now on.

SARAH: I work with bleach all day. Mah hands are rocks.

CODY: They are smooth rocks. Rocks that were plopped by God in a river somewhere majestic. Like Ireland. Wait, NORTHERN Ireland. And for thousands of years, before humans were on Earth, that majestic Northern Irish water massaged those rocks into the smooth hands you have today. [He kisses her hand.]

SARAH: Cody, stop.

CODY: Your pinky is the smoothest. Have you noticed that? It got massaged the most. It’s funny how nature makes some things that are beautiful and perfect and other things are stuff no one notices. Have you ever thought that?

SARAH: No.

CODY: Like, why did you get such perfect hands and some baby in China I read about was born without a neck? He’s just a head on two shoulders.

SARAH: I don’t know why.

CODY: He needs a neck more than you need smooth hands.

SARAH: I’m sure he’ll be fine. There are worse things to be born without.

CODY: Like what?

SARAH: Like the inability to recognize when you’re being a nuisance.

CODY: I don’t know what most of those words mean.

SARAH: I’m really busy. [The l-mat is empty.] You should go. I think I saw a guy wearing a red hoodie at Skyline last night. He looked like a thief. Go catch him.

CODY: Niiice. Which skyline?

SARAH: The one by the Home Depot.

CODY: Which Home Depot?

SARAH: The one by I-75. Or maybe the one by I-70. Check both. Check every Home Depot in Columbus, too.

CODY: You’re so smart. I’ll check ‘em out and report back to you. Let me see those hands again.

SARAH: No.

CODY: Sarah, we’ve been through a lot. We’re coping with a heinous crime. The least you can do is let me see your hands.

SARAH: WE haven’t been through shit.

[A country ballad blasts from Cody:] Oooh, sweet Sarah, won’t you give me your hand? / I want to hold it and kiss it and parade it ‘cross the land. / For you must understand that I’m sinking in quicksand. / But I’d rather sink in your sand than find another wo-mand. / Oooh, sweet Sarah, your fold those clothes so well. / You work all day and I’ll fix you supper and ring that dinner bell. / And when supper’s o’er and the moon is riding high / I’ll kiss your hands and then we’ll go to the bedroom / and then I’ll pet your silken hair and kiss your hands again / and then you’ll hate yourself for taking so long to come around. / But I don’t care how long it takes because detectives are patient folk.

SARAH: Cody, stop it.

THE SONG: And when you’re ready to live with me we’ll buy a home up on a hill / With a pond in the back and a hoop in the driveway –

SARAH: CODY. Stop it. [The music stops.] What song is that?

CODY: Oh, it’s nothing.

SARAH: Tell me. Did you write that song?

CODY: Maybe.

SARAH: And you recorded it?

CODY: Yeah, maybe.

SARAH: Oh, Cody. You wrote and recorded a song about us having sex and living together?

CODY: It’s about so much more than that. You’ve only heard the first verse. The second verse gets a little weird but the third verse is normal again.

SARAH: The whole thing is weird. You didn’t come here to investigate a robbery, did you?

CODY: Draaag. I’m so guilty!

SARAH: You came here to play that song for me.

CODY: Detectives don’t reveal everything.

SARAH: It’s a very sweet song.

CODY: Niiice.

SARAH: It’s also very creepy and I want you to leave.

CODY: Draaag.

SARAH: Listen: Please don’t come back. Don’t come here to investigate a robbery. Don’t come here to play me a song. Any song. That goes for songs you wrote or songs you think will make me like you. And that includes classic rock songs you’ve changed the lyrics to so they’re about me. Those are just as bad as an original song

CODY: But what if I want to wash my clothes here?

SARAH: You work at a laundromat! Wash your shitty clothes there.

CODY: You think my clothes are shitty?

SARAH: I do. I’m sorry, but I do. I can’t change they way I feel about your clothes.

CODY: Is that why you won’t – ?

SARAH: No, that’s not why. Oh, Cody, why do you have to do this? I’ve told you so many times it’s never going to happen. I have a boyfriend. And I love him very much. [She’s upset now.] He’s great. Luke is the greatest.

CODY: Luke must write excellent songs about you then. Maybe sometime I could check out the songs he’s written AND RECORDED about you. I bet his songs are twice as good as “Moon Hang.” They must be, if you like him so much.

SARAH: Is “Moon Hang” the title of your song about me?

CODY: It is.

SARAH: Why is it called “Moon Hang”?

CODY: Because in the third verse we hang out on the moon and Neil Armstrong marries us. You would know that already if you didn’t make me turn it off.

[CODY is very upset now and he leaves in a hurry.]