[Ann is shopping at Michaels. The one in the city, not the one in Queens. She approaches a Michaels employee.]

-Hi. Do you carry tiny decorative martini glasses?

-I don’t think so, sorry.

-What about tiny beer cans or bottles?

-We might. Let me check.

[Ann follows her down the aisle and they turn into another aisle.]

-If we had them, they’d be right here. But I don’t see them. Sorry. We have small wine glasses. Would that work?

-Yeah, I think so.

-They’re right over here. Are you throwing a party for Barbie or something? [she laughs a lot]

-That is very funny, but no. I’m actually making an artisanal birdhouse for a crafting competition.

-A what for a what?

-It’s a birdhouse, but it’s art. The piece is a critique of my boyfriend’s bacchanalian tendencies. On one side he’ll be partying with beautiful people on the moon, and on the other side I’ll be breast feeding a baby in front of the TV. Or maybe there’s no TV and it’s just me and the baby in a white space. The hole in which a bird sticks its head will be where his liver is, so his liver will be getting pecked at. God I hope I can make this happen. Typical wildly ambitious Ann, putting people on the moon.

-DAMN.

-One time I tried to make a birdhouse depicting the scene in Blow Up when David Hemmings’ character finds the dead body in the park, and I must have spent like three hundred dollars on it but I just couldn’t make it happen. It looked like two buffalo grazing in a meadow.

-So here are the wine glasses. You need anything else?

-What do you sell that most resembles cocaine?

-You could use powdered sugar for that.

-You’re absolutely right.

-Sorry again for not having the tiny beer bottles. We usually do, but we must have just ran out.

-Sorry is a word for the unmindful. I try to avoid saying it.

-Alright.

-Have a nice day, Fortuna. [she says after inspecting Fortuna's name tag. she walks towards check-out]

NEXT: Ann’s Artist’s Statement

He comes home drinking a flask. Ann and Little Ann are on the couch. Ann says:

-What have you been up to?

-Guess who gave me this bourbon.

-I don’t care. Z?

-Way better than Z.

-Who?

-Guess.

-I don’t care, it’s three o’clock in the morning. Where have you been?

-My friend Bill. Bill Murray. HEARD OF HIM?

-I’m going to bed. Tell me about in the morning.

-So me and Z are this dude’s place. Not sure if I’d call it a loft but it was loft-y. Super-high ceilings. And the dude had drums everywhere. Like, EVERYWHERE. Bongos, a few drum sets, fucking maracas, a gong. All sorts of drums. He must’ve been a drummer. And there so many chicks there, Ann. I recognized one of them from the Hudson. She always drinks alone at the bar, maybe she’s a hooker.

-Nice.

-What was I saying? Right. Bill Murray. So Z and get there around two, two thirty, and it’s super-crowded. I have to piss so I get in line for the bathroom, and it’s a long line, and everyone in line is drunk and kinda pissed off, and this old lady behind me, well, she wasn’t old old, but older, 60-something, this old lady says, I thought you young people pissed fast. She said to no one in particular. And then Z turns around and says, They’re not pissing, they’re being careful with their drugs. And she’s like, I see. So I’m in pain here because you kids need to get high in private. You know. Years ago, we always did it out in the open. Nobody cared. I don’t understand why everyone has to go in hiding nowadays. The kids today are so-anti-social. We all know what’s going on when three ladies hang out in the shitter for twenty minutes. They’re not comparing their turds. It’s not like: “Oh Tiffany, your pellets are so elegant. Just like you.” She said something like that, I don’t remember, but this lady was hilarious. She double-dared Z to piss in the sink. Oh! So she keeps talking about coke, right, and she says she hasn’t done drugs since 1990. She’s like, So I’m on a dig in Turkey and — oh, right, she said she teaches archeology or classics, or maybe both, at CUNY, I think. So she says she’s on a dig in Turkey, back in 1990, and all these students are driving her insane.

-Just tell me tomorrow.

-Real quick. She’s on this dig and the students won’t do any heavy lifting. All they want to do is sit around and drink. But she’s there to dig. At night they’re allowed get hammered, but they have to work during the day. But the kids never want to work. She said our generation is so fucked up because we never had to fight in a war. And you know what, she’s absolutely right. She is absolutely right about that.

-Good God, what are you talking about? I’m going to bed.

-Wait. It gets good. So the kids won’t dig and the professor is pissed. She says that it was easily the least productive dig she’s ever been on. But the silver lining was that she’d invited her friend Bill. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s an actor. Bill Murray. That’s what she said, for real. So ridiculous: he’s an actor, maybe you’ve heard of him. At night on these digs she and Bill would party with the students. Isn’t that awesome?

-Kinda.

-Can you imagine? You go on this dig to get a few credits or whatever and you’re digging shit, you’re digging shit, you’re digging shit, and it sucks, it’s hot, and then at night your teacher’s like, alright, kids, it’s time to get fucked up with Bill Murray. That would be crazy. So that one time, the time she was talking about, Bill Murray brought coke. And she said, Jesus, Bill, how’d you get that coke through customs? Bill Murray doesn’t say anything. He just points to his butt. He brought coke to Turkey in his asshole. She said, The man has timing. He’s bastard and a liar and a lousy fuck, but he has timing. Z’s losing it, I’m losing it, the professor lights a cigarette. No one else is smoking, mind you, but no one bothers her about it. The line’s not getting any shorter. She said one time in Turkey Bill Murray made out with a girl, a student. Outdoors. Like, on the ground, in the dirt, and all the kids were watching them. Isn’t that insane? Imagine that, you’re a chick, and you sign up for a dig, and you get there, and you’re digging, you’re digging, and then at night fucking Bill Murray starts hitting on you and the next thing you know you’re making out with him on the ground while your professor watches. Isn’t that insane?

-I guess so. I’m going to bed, for real. Come on, Little Ann.

-Wait. I didn’t even get to the best part, the part about Bill Murray giving me the bourbon. So we’re in line, and all of a sudden the front door opens and this dude bursts in carrying two huge garbage bags. Guess who it is. Guess.

-Obama.

-It’s Bill Murray, and he’s in sweat pants, like, sweatshirt-material sweatpants. He reaches in one of the garbage bags and pulls out a handle of Svedka. Fucking Svedka! He reaches in again and pulls out another bottle of Svekda. And then another one. He brought ten bottles of Svedka to this party, and he started walking around the loft filling people’s cups with Svedka. He’s saying, You can’t spell Bushwick loft party without S-V-E-D-K-A. And the professor’s like, Oh, there you are Bill. Get over here. He walks over and kisses her hard in front of all of us. Later on, Z and I decided that is was heaven must be like. You die and the next thing you know you’re in line to piss at a party and Bill Murray comes in with ten handles of Svedka in garbage bags and he Frenches the eccentric classics professor you were bullshitting with. Man oh man, what a night. So he gets in line with us and we start chatting about which girls at the party Bill wants to fuck. He only liked the short ones. So he could toss ‘em around. The professor plays along with it but we could tell she was getting jealous. I showed him a picture of you and he said he’d give you a poke. He said he’d even poke you sober.

-Great, thanks.

-So he’s coming over tomorrow. I’ll take Little Ann to the park for a hour and you will pleasure Bill Murray. Do whatever he wants.

-As long as he doesn’t have toilet paper on his dick it’ll be a step up from what I’m used to.

-Look at you, making jokes and shit. He’s not actually coming over later. But the professor did say that Z and I are invited to her book launch next weekend.

-What’s her book?

-Statues something something. Whatever. Open bar, right?

-Sounds fun. Goodnight.

-So. The bourbon. Bill sees that I don’t have drink and he’s like, Have some vodka. He starts pouring me a cup of Svedka. But I say that I don’t like vodka. So he pulls a flask of bourbon from his pocket and he says, No one goes thirsty around me. I won’t abide it. And he gives it to me. THIS WAS HIS PERSONAL BOURBON. The bourbon he was going to drink himself. He gave it to me. Crazy. So I’m not gonna finish it. I drank most of it at the party.

-I can see that.

-But I’m never going to finish it. Never. You can’t drink it either. It’ll be our special little thing, the bottle of Bill Murray bourbon we keep in the freezer. If we ever have a party we’ll have to hide it. I’m thinking years from now we’ll drink it together and remember the night I partied with Bill Murray and the professor.

-Good God, you’re an idiot sometimes.

-Why am I an idiot? Why is little Ann still awake? Where are his parents?

-Goodnight.

-Hey, Little Ann. If I catch you drinking this Bill Murray bourbon I’m going to kick the shit out of you.

NEXT: Typical Wildly Ambitious Ann, Putting People On The Moon

In Cincinnati there’s a bar called Grammer’s that is probably haunted by a ghost or a few ghosts. Ask the bartender for a tour and he’ll lead you through an underground tunnel into the cellar and he’ll show you the room where Mr. Grammer died. He’ll also tell you about the time a burglar tried to break into the bar and how it must have pissed off a ghost because later that night the radiator got cranked up all the way and the bar got super-fucking-hot and when the HVAC guy came to fix it he couldn’t crank the radiator down so he determined that whoever cranked it up was stronger than a human.

Pewter steins are on display in glass cases to remind patrons that the bar had been a hangout for Germans back when Over-the-Rhine was a German neighborhood. Grammer’s used to serve German food but now they only have popcorn and, on Saturdays from 5 to 9, free dog bones for dogs.

Here’s a Grammer’s story that used to be a secret but now it doesn’t matter who knows about it: From 1932-‘35 the first Tuesday of every month was Roma Night. Cincinnati’s small Romani population would go to Roma Night at Grammer’s to mingle and swap stories about how they ended up in Cincinnati. The general public stayed away from Grammer’s on Roma Night because to them there was nothing worse than a bar full of drunk gypsies. The city’s gay population, however, loved Roma Night. It gave them a chance to dance and cruise freely, and by the summer of 1933 there were as many gays at Roma Night as there were gypsies.

On December 23, 1934, Roma Night regular William Howard Taft III wrote in his diary, “I look forward to dancing with my friends at Roma Night more than I do celebrating Christmas and New Year’s Eve with family. The gypsies don’t bother us because who are they to cast judgment? They are gypsies, after all.”

Rumors spread. July, 1935. Vogue sends a photographer to document the debauchery.

William Howard Taft III shows up to July’s Roma Night dressed as a Spanish inquisitor. He gets shitty early and sings “Tell Me, Little Gypsy” with the band. By midnight he’s chain-smoking and rambling about the weird and illegal stuff his father and uncle like to do. My grandma was there, and while she doesn’t remember what the weird and illegal stuff was, she does remember that he was making a scene. The photographer snaps photos and interviews people. He makes the mistake of telling William Howard Taft III’s friend that he works for Vogue. The friend tells William Howard Taft III about the photographer and William Howard Taft III gets upset and demands that the film be destroyed. The photographer doesn’t give up the film. They try bribing him. He still doesn’t give up the film. The photographer leaves but a few dudes follow him. They tackle him in the parking lot and force him down into the bar’s cellar. As the band plays “Little Brown Jug” the dudes beat the photographer with bottles and steins. The dudes drag him into the men’s bathroom and beat him some more. The photographer dies, or he goes into a coma; Grandma isn’t sure. Two gypsy women fight in the street. The photos are never developed and Roma Night at Grammer’s is canceled.

So here’s some shit: Sarah’s still super-upset about me not watching Wipeout with her. When it comes on I go outside and clean the bobber. Or I bring a beer out there and pretend to clean it and actually listen to the radio. I don’t like the show, period. She can’t me watch something I don’t want to watch. Simple as that. There’s a Bob Dylan quote I like and I think it applies here: What’s money? A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do. I do what I want to do and watching Wipeout is number 20,000 on the list of things I want to do, right behind make out with Dr. Philbin. Sarah says she doesn’t like watching it alone because she likes to laugh at the people and it’s no fun to laugh when no one else is around. So a few nights ago after dinner she says:

-How about this: If you watch Wipeout with me, I’ll give you some good head when it’s over.

That sounded alright so I said yes. It’s not that she wouldn’t be doing that for no reason anyway, but to get it on a weekly schedule would be alright with me. Funny, ‘cause I’ve thought about proposing a b.j. regimen of some sort, maybe like every other Tuesday or something, but I figured she wouldn’t be into it so I kept my mouth shut.

So. Tonight was the first night of our b.j.-for-Wipeout deal. It didn’t go well. And I blame her. She should’ve have mentioned two stipulations: 1) She’d be talking throughout the entire show, and 2) When I try to say something about how dumb the show is or how funny the fat contestants look when they wipeout, and they wipeout often, she’d threaten to cancel the b.j.

-What, I can’t talk at all?

-You can talk, but I don’t want to hear all this negativity from you. Negative, negative, negative, all day from you. This sucks, that sucks, those people are fat. You’re not supposed to laugh when they get hurt.

-YES YOU ARE supposed to laugh when they get hurt. That’s the point. It’s like cheering when cars crash in NASCAR. Wipeout is NASCAR but with people.

She tells me to cool it and that I’m only allowed to have one more beer. Or, I can drink all I want but I wouldn’t get the b.j. Treating this b.j. like it’s some holy grail is building it up way too much ‘cause hers are just OK anyway.

-Can’t you just enjoy a TV show with me for once?

-Maybe I can’t.

-Well. You should learn.

The worst part was during the commercials. There were three ITT Tech ads and each time one came on she said, Oh look, honey, it’s just two grand a semester. We could save up for that. Or: I could see you as an HVAC repairman. Shit like that.

-My dad says you need to get your shit together.

-My shit is together.

-How much money do you have?

-Why do I have to tell you?

-He says you don’t know what you’re doing with that bike and that it’s never gonna get finished unless he takes it to his guy.

-Oh did he? Well I’ll tell you what. Your dad just bought the bike ‘cause it gave him an excuse to buy a leather jacket and fancy boots, and he probably has leather pants too.

-I don’t think he has leather pants.

-Oh yeah he does. It was sitting in his garage for ten years and now he wants to take it to his guy? Bullshit. Tell him not to come over anymore.

-He’s coming over tomorrow.

-Goddammit. Why?

-He says you need help.

-I don’t. He just doesn’t have anything to do all day because he doesn’t have any friends because dentists are assholes.

-I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.

-What’s THIS?

-All drunk and shit.

-I’ve had four beers. You want me to get drunk? I’ll get drunk.

-I’m going upstairs.

-And I’m coming with you.

-Not tonight.

-What?

-The hmm-hmm, the you-know-what, it’s canceled. Next week maybe.

-That is fucked up Sarah. I sat through fucking Wipeout.

-Your bullshit attitude ruined it for you. I can’t do that to a man who calls my dad an asshole.

-I said dentists are assholes.

-I’m not going to waste my energy arguing about this. [and she goes upstairs]

[Luke on driveway with beer in one hand and cell phone in the other.]

-Hey. How you been? Same old. Oh yeah? Yeah? Shit, girl. Do you need help? Yes I’m serious. I could help. I’ve been fixing this bike up so I’m getting better at tools and what not. Yes I’m serious, seriously serious. I’ve never put up dry wall before but I could read about it online. You know me, I get shit done. You just buy the drywall and then nail it in there, right? Yeah, fuck it. I can put up drywall. What else? Plumbing? I’m your man. Light sockets? I can do those in my sleep. How about carpeting? My middle name is Carpeting. Luke Carpeting Apples. You never knew that about me? What’d you think it was? Nah, I just tell people it’s Anthony. It’s actually Carpeting. Lots of carpenters in my family so some of the Apples kids got Carpeting as a middle name. You’re right, some carpenters don’t put in carpeting but SOME do. The Apples family carpenters do carpeting AND carpentry. What else you need done? Oh. Oh wow. Shit, girl. That’s a tough one. I’ve never dealt with a fox before but I could come over tomorrow and give it my best shot.

NEXT: The Bill Murray Bourbon

Son,

You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. Most of them have been about animals, and most of the time my answer is: Ask your mother. In the interest of saving my time and your time, I’ve written some guidelines you should follow when asking questions about animals. Get those headphones out of your ears and read on.

Your question is about toads (killing and eating them). Ask me.
Your question is about toads (naming and nurturing them). Ask your mother.

Your question is about rabbits (killing and eating them). Ask me.
Your question is about rabbits (naming and nurturing them). Ask your mother.

You find a tortoise under the deck and you’re not sure how to kill it. Ask me.
You find a tortoise under the deck and you want to dress it in women’s clothes but you can’t find any clothes that will fit the tortoise. Ask your mother.

You see a beetle in church and you want to know how to kill it without drawing attention from the entire congregation. Ask me. I’m very good at this.
You see a beetle in church and it lands on Jesus’ head and you want to write a poem about this but you’re not sure if the “God’s most hated creature landing on God’s most beloved creature” theme is stupid or worth exploring. Ask your mother. The only poem I’ve ever written was about your mother’s body and she made me promise to never write (or even help write) another poem again and to never show anyone the poem I wrote about her body.

A bird shits on your head and you get pissed and you want to shoot it, but you don’t have a gun and even if you had one you wouldn’t know how to use it. Ask me. I own four guns.
A bird shits on your head and you get pissed because you have cotillion in an hour and there’s no time to shower again and you can’t go to cotillion with bird shit in your hair and you just don’t know how to deal and maybe running away to the city would solve everything. Ask your mother.

A stray dog bites you and you get rabies and start convulsing, and you know the only thing that will stop the pain is a bullet in the head. Ask me.
A stray dog bites you and you get rabies and you need someone to drive you to the hospital, and later on you write a book of poems about what it’s like to have rabies and also what it’s like to have a father who refused to dress your tortoise with you. Ask your mother.

You find a stray kitten and it needs a name. Ask me or your mother.

When in Mount Vernon, grab a drink at the Yodeler on Sugar Street. Unless Greg has remodeled again there will be a booth in the back near the bathrooms. Sit in this booth. Get down on all fours and use a cell phone as a flashlight and read the graffiti written in black marker on the underside of the table: FUCK ART LET’S DANCE. People say it’s the work of the poet Robert Lowell. While attending Kenyon College in nearby Gambier, Lowell would get shitty and chase skirt at the Yodeler. When there wasn’t any skirt to chase he’d write stuff under the tables. People say Lowell tagged all twelve tables before graduating in 1940. In 1970 Greg’s mom remodeled. She replaced every booth but the one in the back near the bathrooms because her husband had carved her name in  that one. I asked Greg where the old booths were and he said a wholesaler bought them and probably sold them to bar owners who wanted their bars to have that dive-y look. One time I was at the Brown Derby Road House in Mansfield and I sat in a booth that resembled the fuck-art-let’s-dance booth at the Yodeler. I AM BEER had been written on the table in black marker. I AM BEER is also on a table at Arrow Bar in Marion. Both I AM BEERs could very well be the work of Robert Lowell.

C.O.D.Y. The Robot Who Hangs Out enters the laundromat. He’s dragging a large suitcase. Sarah stands near the counter.

CODY: Hey. How’s it going?

SARAH: Hey.

CODY: I brought some clothes. I want to do the one where you do the washing.

SARAH: OK. Now are these clean clothes or are they dirty clothes?

CODY: Whatever you want them to be.

SARAH: I want them to be dirty.

CODY: Why is that?

SARAH: Cody. I’ve already explained this to you. People bring dirty clothes here and we wash them.

CODY: Niiice. That’s awesome that you guys clean other dudes’ clothes.

SARAH: It’s not that awesome. OK. Let’s open this puppy up and see what we’re dealing with.

[she hoists the suitcase onto counter and unzips it.]

CODY: You’re so good at unzipping that.

[she takes out the clothes. they’re all nicely folded. she smells them.]

SARAH: Cody. These clothes are clean.

CODY: Drag. I want them to be dirty.

SARAH: No. You want your clothes to be clean so you can wear them.

CODY: Drag. So, hey. Can you wash them anyway?

SARAH: I’m not washing your clean clothes for you.

CODY: I have money. I won ten bucks in a darts tourney at Darryl’s dad’s house.

SARAH: You guys play for money?

CODY: Oh yeah. You should come hang sometime.

SARAH: Maybe I should. I’ve been hanging at my house too much and it’s been killing me.

CODY: Why have your house hangs been killing you?

SARAH: Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.

CODY: Hey. That’s a nice hair style you have there.

SARAH: Thanks.

CODY: What’s it called?

SARAH: What do you mean?

CODY: Don’t some hairstyles have a name? Like Bob or Rachel?

SARAH: [laughing] It’s a pretty basic updo.

CODY: Updo. Updo. My girl has an updo.

SARAH: Cody, stop. I’m not your girl.

CODY: Someday you will be.

SARAH: No, I won’t. You shouldn’t be doing this, you know. Hangbots already have a bad reputation and you’re just re-enforcing the stereotype.

CODY: I’m not sure what any of that means. Hey. Will you smell my clothes again? I liked that.

SARAH: Cody. I’m not going to smell your clothes again.

CODY: C’mon, man. Smell them. I’ll smell your clothes.

SARAH: OK. Listen. It seems like you’ve been coming here not because you have clothes you need me to wash, but rather to tell me that you have feelings for me, and I’m just not comfortable with that.

CODY: No, man. I AM bringing clothes for you to wash.

SARAH: But they’re always clean.

CODY: But I don’t know they’re clean until you tell me they’re clean. So, I need you. I need you to tell me that my clothes are clean.

SARAH: That is absurd.

CODY: Love is absurd.

SARAH: OK, that’s it. I think it would be best if you didn’t come here for a bit.

CODY: Drag. Why?

SARAH: Because, just because. I would genuinely like to be friends with you. I enjoy your company and you make me laugh.

CODY: Niice.

SARAH: And I want you to have someone who will tell you that your clothes don’t need to be washed. I want to be that person for you, but I just can’t. Not right now. I hope this makes some sense to you.

CODY: I don’t understand and I am bummed.

SARAH: Maybe you’ll understand someday.

CODY: What if I went to another laundromat first and someone there told me my clothes were dirty and then I brought them here and you washed them for me?

SARAH: That could maybe work in the future. But for now, I need a little distance. Please don’t come here for a while?

CODY: I’ll try not to.

SARAH: Hug?

CODY: Niiice.

[they hug. CODY grabs a pen and writes something on the receipt pad on the counter.]

CODY: Here’s Darryl’s dad’s house’s address. We play just about every night. You should come hang.

SARAH: Thanks. Have a nice day.

CODY: I’ll try to.

[he walks toward the door. the suitcase is still on the counter.]

SARAH: Don’t forget your suitcase. Here, I’ll zip it up for you.

[she zips it up]

CODY: Actually I’m going to leave it here. That way, I’ll have a reason to come back later and talk to you.

SARAH: Oh Cody. You can’t do that if the other person tells you to take the thing you’re trying to leave behind.

CODY: Drag. I thought it was a good plan.

SARAH: [she's upset now] Please, Cody. Take the suitcase.

[he walks back to the counter and takes the suitcase down. he drags it out the door.]

NEXT: She’s Not Going To Waste Her Energy Arguing About This