While driving on I-75 north of Cincinnati make sure to roll down the windows and let the smell of the Jim Beam distillery fill the car. Its smell is rather sweet and mild, like honey. The Proctor & Gamble soap, sponge and synthetics factory is closer to the river and that sucker really does smell like a factory. They make soaps and sponges and other synthetics there but after smelling it you’ll think they made dirty diapers. It’s the oldest factory in the city (1886) so the families living in nearby Addyston should be accustomed to the smell by now. This one family we used to carpool with, the Bayers, had to move to Addyston and after that we’d only see Trevor Bayer if the Addyston Orioles made it to regionals. (We always made it to regionals.) One year Sammy “Cakes” Frost said that he could smell the factory smell on Trevor when he tagged him out at third. When our teams shook hands after the game a few of us managed to get a good whiff of Trevor and we confirmed that he did indeed smell like a factory. Trevor also thought that he smelled like a factory but he said he didn’t mind so much because any girl he would consider getting with would also be from Addyston and she would also smell like a factory, or at least she would think that she smelled like a factory, and she wouldn’t mind getting with a dude who smelled like a factory. Trevor’s father was at the game but he left during the seventh inning stretch to get back to the factory. Trevor’s mother left the game soon after her husband left and a few of our parents said they were pretty sure she drove to Hyde Park to see the man with whom she was having an affair. At the time we thought that she was having the affair because she wanted to have sex with a man who didn’t smell like a factory but we now realize that it was likely more complicated than that.

Are these the softest sheets I’ve ever had sex on? What kind of sheets are these?

- What kind of sheets are these?

-Pima.

-Pee-ma? How do you spell that?

-P. I. M. A. Pima.

-Are they expensive?

-They were a gift.

-From whom?

-An old boyfriend. My old sheets gave him a rash, he said, so he bought me new ones. I don’t think they actually gave him a rash. He probably just wanted an excuse to buy me something nice.

-That’s nice.

-You’ve never bought me anything.

-I buy you your salary.

-A salary is not a gift. You could buy me something once and a while. Something little.

-Like what?

- Something little.

-Like a key chain?

-Fine. A key chain.

-FINE. Fine is not fine. You understand. I’m in a tough spot here. I can’t buy you anything big because someone could notice and a big gift could send the wrong signal: Here is a fancy bracelet, which means I want to leave the wife for you. Or: Here is a necklace, but if someone sees it you have to say it’s from your mother or an ex and you only recently started wearing it for some reason. See what I mean?

-Fine.

-But if I get you a small gift like a key chain, it’d be a joke and you’ll think that I think that our Thing is a joke. And I don’t think that. Honestly, I don’t. Maybe you do.

-I don’t think we’re a joke.

-Good. What about a nice meal? I could cook for you. Pork tenderloin maybe. And a good wine.

-That’s not a gift.

-It’s funny you say that because the other day the wife was saying how much she’d love for me to put together a picnic for her like I used to. Years ago when I gave a shit about shit I’d get some brie and some good bread and a bottle of rosé and maybe some porchetta and put it all in a basket and we’d go to a park and eat and sit for hours and listen to an iPod with one bud in my ear and one in hers. It was all very cute.

-Sounds like it.

-And we’d fool around in the grass. It was like one of those paintings with a satyr and a what’s-it-called? and they’re both drunk and getting frisky in a meadow. Once a month or so we’d do this and sometimes another couple we barely knew would see us, maybe a friend of hers from school, and the dude and I would bullshit about beer or whatever and the girls would talk real estate. I swear I’ve had the same conversation about Dogfish Head IPA and what the difference is between the 60- and 90- and 120-minute and which ones we like more because all these dudes read a few articles on Wikipedia and they start to fashion themselves beer experts so when they get one-on-one with a guy who works in the food industry they get all foodie and try to impress him: I like the hoppier one, which is that, the 120-minute? But that’s just me. They sample a few good beers and now they have a license to bullshit about good beer but really, they don’t know anything, like, absolutely nothing, and before they sample an absurdly wide variety of shit they should keep their mouths shut because they’ll make asses of themselves in front of their girlfriends and the sad part is, their girlfriends don’t even realize what asses they are making of themselves. They think: Oh, that’s my man, talking about beer like he always does. He’s such a wealth of knowledge. Such a well-rounded man of the world. NO, lady, your man doesn’t know anything. He has been on the internet before and he’s had Dogfish Head a few times. That’s it. And in a more honest society I would have said: Listen man, I appreciate your interest in what I do but talking to you about IPAs is like… it’s like… Oh I don’t know, Keith Richards talking about the blues to a deaf baby, you know.

-You’re the Keith Richards of good beer?

-No. But these dudes, they’ve had whatever beer is on tap at those five good bars they go to and all of a sudden they fashion themselves beer experts. And I have to nod and agree and pretend like they have valuable opinions, and I have to educate these idiots instead of saying: This is dumb. This is a waste of time. My wife and I going home to have sex now and it will be much more interesting than talking to you about beer. Why can’t a dude just say that? It’s what we’re thinking anyway. It’s probably what he’s thinking, too. He’s thinking: Alright, we both don’t want to talk to each other but this guy runs a restaurant so he’ll want to talk about beer and I’ll tell him that my bro prefers the 90-minute but I’m hard enough to handle the 120-minute. It’s all a weird sort of round-about foreplay. I’m only talking to this guy for my wife and he’s talking to me for his wife. I’m doing it so she can talk to her kinda-friend about who’s moved to which neighborhood and they can keep their see-ya-once-a-year friendship in tact even though they’re both thinking: There is a reason I see this person once a year: we don’t like talking to each other, but I’m doing it so I’ll come off as social so the next time the couple sees another couple at a thing they ask about us the couple we saw in the park will say: Oh, they’re doing very well. And the dude who’s hosting will tell that other dude the thing that Richard prefers the 90-minute Dogfish Head but man oh man, I just can’t get enough of that 120-minute. Thinking of that hoppy 120-minute IPA makes me so fucking hard and I swear to God I’ll ream anyone who gets between me and my six-pack of Dogfish Head. HEY HONEY. Bring out the 120-minute IPA. Richard just got here and I’m trying to convert him. I’m gonna make him a 120-minute man. Where is it? It’s in the garage? Well I can’t get it. I’m busy talking to the what’s your last name again? I’m one of those people who are SO BAD with names oh Jesus H. we have so much fun at parties. Honey, maybe we should have kids after all so they can run out to the garage and grab the beer while we’re entertaining guests. You want to? Grrreat. Let’s get to the fucking then. Party’s over. Get these assholes out of our house. Or you know what? Let them stay. What 120-minute man doesn’t like to watch his bro fuck? Get the hummus off the table so we can fuck on it.

- Do you have a therapist? Because you should definitely have one.

-What? Am I wrong?

-You’re not wrong, just unoriginal. Do you think you’re the first person to have these types of opinions and feelings?

-Maybe I’m not.

-You’re definitely not. This is all standard-issue shit and frankly, it’s pretty boring and depressing. So. What time is it?

-I should go.

-OK. I’ll be in around three today. Robbie told me we’re probably going under and I’ve already started asking around. Oh, and fuck you for not telling me.

-I was going to.

-Right. So. That was probably the last time.

-What do you mean, the last time?

-The last time we’re going to have sex. I don’t think I can sleep with someone who has such predictable outbursts like that. It’s bad for me for a number of reasons.

-That was a fluke. I’m sorry. What if I bought you earrings?

-Take me dancing and I’ll reconsider.

NEXT: The Story Of Gary And Me So Far

My guitar teacher encouraged me to start singing, but I didn’t want to. We argued about it and that led to another argument about whether or not I should learn jazz and how much I would benefit from him writing out tabs to Sublime songs. I decided I needed new guitar teacher. I called Jim McCutcheon, a beloved Dayton-area celebrity who had recorded a CD of kids’ music and taught at the University of Dayton. You have a lot to learn, he said after my first lesson. And if you don’t learn some classical tunes, you’re wasting my time and your time. So I grew out a few fingernails and learned a flamenco song that I figured was classical-sounding enough to be considered classical. Lessons 2 and 3: Jim made me play that flamenco song again and again, for half an hour. You’re trying to try but you’re not trying as much as I know you can try, he said. He also wouldn’t write out Sublime tabs and told me to Google that garbage.

Two of Jim’s professor buddies interrupted our fourth lesson. They wheeled their bikes into Jim’s practice room. One of them said, We need you to settle something. I say that the longer I ride my bicycle, the more in-tune I become with the way the machine behaves and thus, I become part bicycle and the bicycle becomes part human. The other professor said, Charles won’t shut up about this nonsense and it’s ruining my birthday. Please, Jim, tell him to stop.

I’m with a student. This will have to wait.

Your student is more important than the most vital question of our time?

Your student takes precedence over this horseshit that is ruining my sixty-second birthday?

Jim asked if I would mind if they stuck around for a few minutes and I said no.

Charles: Fact: As I age I become less of a man and more of a corpse.

Jim: I disagree. But continue.

Charles: I will die someday. The bike will break and rust and thus, die someday, too. But until that happens, I will ride it. And while I ride it, our energies will mix and we will create a new energy that’s bigger than both of our energies combined.

Jim: Maybe. You could say that about people, too. The more you know someone, the more energy you get from them and the more you become them and the more they become you.

Birthday-Boy Professor: Don’t encourage him.

Charles: Exactly. And I should mention that I’ve begun dreaming as a bicycle. Sometimes I sit in a garage and other times a young boy is riding me on a dirt road towards a tennis court.

Birthday-Boy Professor: That doesn’t mean anything. You’re just horny and depressed.

Charles: No. But I think my bicycle is horny and depressed. And I think the young boy represents my father because he played tennis until he had a stroke.

Birthday-Boy Professor [turns to me and says]: I need dumb friends.

Charles: Eventually the bicycle will be as much of a human as I am a bicycle. We will achieve equilibrium. And that’s when we’ll both die. Jim, if you’re still farting around Earth when we die, I want you to make sure we’re burned together in a big pyre. Near the Masonic Temple, if you can swing it.

Jim: Will do. But if I die before you die [and he turns to me] you’ll have to make the arrangements. Exchange phone numbers with Charles before you leave today and have him call you before he dies.

Me: OK.

Jim: Good. End of discussion. Now. Who wants to hear some flamenco?

Birthday-Boy Professor: I do.

Before I teach you how to tie knots you need to wash up. So go wash up. But wait. Before you wash up you’ll need to take off that catcher’s mitt. Who taught you how to play catch? Not me. I know how to teach two things: knots and kissing, and you’re too young to learn kissing so I’m gonna teach you knots. But first go wash up.

[two minutes later]

Your hands are clean enough. They’re not clean enough to kiss but that is not a problem because you’re not learning kissing. You’re learning knots. You’re learning the Nimbus Knot today and you’re hands don’t need to be very clean to learn such a basic knot.

You should know that this is a boy’s knot. Not a man’s knot. So once you learn it don’t go around the playground thinking you’re a man.

Step 1: Take the rope into your left hand. Christ, son. Make the letter L with both of your thumbs and pointer fingers and whichever hand makes the letter L that’s not backwards is your left hand. Hmm. Looks like I’m teaching you leftsies and rightsies in addition to the Nimbus Knot. Two fer one. Lucky boy, you.

Step 2: Make the rope into a circle but leave some left over. We’re gonna call that leftover tail the Nimbus.

Step 3: Take the Nimbus in your teeth and bite down hard. Hard enough to split the Nimbus lengthwise. This will hurt your teeth but your knot won’t be a true Nimbus Knot if you don’t use your teeth to split it. Now do it. Do it with yer eyes closed and think of swimming in the ocean if it helps dull the pain. SPLIT THAT NIMBUS.

Good work. I tremble with pridefulness.

Step 4: The part of the rope you just split is called the Split Nimbus. Slide the part of the rope that isn’t part of the Split Nimbus into the Split Nimbus. Step 4 is the easiest step and yet people always struggle with it the most. I wonder why. It’s probably because people approach the easiest things in life without any trepidation and the hardest things with mucho trepidation. I always fuck up sledding, and it’s so easy.

You’re not doing it right. Slide the rope into the Split Nimbus. That is NOT the Split Nimbus. THAT part of the rope is what’s known as the Folly Trail. I didn’t tell you earlier that that part is called the Folly Trail because you don’t need to know what the Folly Trail is to make a Nimbus Knot but now that you’ve slid the part of the rope that isn’t the Split Nimbus into the Folly Trail it seems appropriate to alert you to the fact that that part is called the Folly Trail. Or is it called the Fool’s Tail? Or the Tally Fail? Folly Trail, Fool’s Tail, Tally Fail: doesn’t matter what. You fucked up the easiest part. Like I knew you would. And now we need a new rope.

Go get one outta the shed.

Not THAT shed; that’s the kissing shed. The other shed. My rope shed.

GARY 2 sits at the bar drinking a gin and tonic. His unfortunate clothes indicate that he is not a busy or vital man. He is talking to the bartender:

GARY 2: Now hold on. I don’t think destroying them is the answer. But maybe we could round ‘em up and put them somewhere.

Bartender: Like Indiana.

GARY 2: Now you’re talking.

Bartender: There has to be a farm in Indiana that could accommodate a hundred or so robots.

GARY 2: Oh, definitely. None of those farms are growing food anyhow. You know that they get paid NOT to grow food. And those hangbots would love it out there. They could hang out all they want and have all the sex they want.

Bartender: Oh, I meant to tell you: on my way to work today I passed by a hangbot and ladybot sixty-nining, right on the sidewalk. They were going at it hard, too.

GARY 2: Jesus. How’d you know they were robots?

BARTENDER: Sometimes you can just tell, man. And who else would be doing that on the street at 1 in the afternoon?

GARY 2: Good point.

BARTENDER: I took a few photos. Wanna see?

GARY 2: Of course.

[Bartender takes out phone and show Gary 2 the photos of the hangbot and ladybot sixty-nining.]

GARY 2: She is smokin.

[Gary 1 walks in the bar and takes a seat next to Gary 2.]

Gary 1: What’s that?

GARY 2: Photos of a hangbot sixty-nining a ladybot. Check it out. [and he passes him the phone]

GARY 1: Nice.

Bartender: I think it’s disgusting, actually. What if I were a six-year-old boy and I had to see that? What if the first time I saw people doing it they weren’t real people but robots? Now something isn’t right about that.

GARY 1: Wait a minute. Aw, man.

GARY 2: What?

GARY 1: That’s Josephine. My ladybot.

GARY 2: Are you sure? Her face is kinda blocked by that hangbot’s balls.

GARY 1: I’m sure.

Bartender: You’re going out with a ladybot?

GARY 1: We’re not going out. But I thought maybe she would want to.

GARY 2: Sorry man. Hey. Forget about her. She’s an effing ladybot. You don’t want that.

GARY 1: You’re probably right. But goddamnit. Right on the street, Josephine?

GARY 2: We were just talking about how someone should round up all the robots and put them on a farm in Indiana. That way we wouldn’t have to put up with their shit.

GARY 1: That’s not a bad idea.

GARY 2: Think about it: these effing scientists at Wright State make all these robots for no good reason and let them loose. They look like humans and they talk like humans and all they want to do is hang out and have sex. They don’t contribute anything to society. Why do we put up with it? Because the INSTITUTIONS are in control.

GARY 1: They are good at fucking, though. If someone does start rounding them ‘em up, you should try to get with a ladybot before that.

GARY 2: Maybe I will. But really, these institutions: the government, the educational system, the church, the Better Business Bureau. They do more harm then good, and they make people into spineless little robots. Even though we’re not the real robots. The robots are the real robots but we behave like robots too, you know?

[Bartender hands them fresh drinks.]

Bartender: Settle down, man. These are on the house. My apologies for the photos.

GARY 1: Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know.

GARY 2: So I don’t know why the cops aren’t harder on them. It’s like those hangouts have a free pass to be fuckabouts.

GARY 1: I bet this shit goes deeper, man. Like, the city council and Wright State are in on something together.

GARY 1: Like the government is using Dayton for an experiment. We could be a guinea pig city.

GARY 2: Yeah. Like they’re trying to replace workers with robots, but first they wanted to see how they’d do in society. Or maybe they want all the hangbots and ladybots to have sex with us and then see what the hybrids look like and then do tests on them.

GARY 1: It’s probably a little of both ideas. Soon regular dudes will be second-class citizens. Only robots and politciains and businessmen will be in power and we’ll all have to bow down to them.

GARY 2: WE ALREADY DO, MAN. The American man isn’t at home in his own country anymore.

GARY 1: Back in the ‘70s if you had arms and legs and high school degree you could get a good job in Dayton. Now look at the way things are. You can’t even walk to work without seeing two robots sucking each other off in the street.

GARY 2: All this nonsense started when they stopped letting cigarettes advertise on TV.

NEXT: Do We Need Cynar? 6

No? Was that a No, I would love to help if I had the money? Or: No, I have the money but I don’t want to give it to you? Am I allowed to feel shitty about this? Should I have expected more? Doesn’t he owe me? Didn’t I make him talk to that tipsy girl at Dave’s BBQ and didn’t they get together later that night, and when he asked me later what I thought of her, didn’t I say Go for it even though she seemed petty and she was rambling about her ex the PhD candidate and wouldn’t let anyone else speak? How do I remember this: wasn’t the ex researching rape in rap lyrics and literature and didn’t she say it was a turn-on at first but then it got weird because he treated sex like rape? And didn’t things go perfectly for Karen and Mike? Wasn’t it the kind of perfect relationship you never hear about? How long did it take before people were referring to them as Karen and Mike or Mike and Karen? After two months weren’t they all Gilbert and George and Tim and Eric and Laurel and Hardy? Is it pathetic when the bundling happens so quickly or is it what we secretly want?

Who else has money? Or should I just pack it in and become a bartender? But shouldn’t I beg for another month? So: Who else has money? Would the wife’s parents step up? Didn’t her dad pay for the honeymoon but after that: I only have love for you two, capice? CAPICE? Was he a dick when he was a teenager or did he gradually become one as he made money? If the restaurant does well and we get money will I become a dick too? And would that be so terrible?

Oh what would sort fury would there be if I asked him before consulting the wife?

-Hey Jealousy is going under.

-I figured. It’s the crowd. HJ doesn’t appeal to thirty-somethings. Real people with money.

-You might be right. But you have to stop calling it HJ. HJ means handjob.

-Who cares what I call it? At this rate there’s not gonna be an It to call HJ, so what does it matter? I’ll call it Failuretown Bistro if I want.

-Why are you such a stick in the mud?

-Oh don’t even, Richard. You should serve more seafood. And nix all that taxidermy. And get some pretty servers and bartenders, for Chrissakes.

-We have pretty girls.

-No you don’t. What’s that one girl’s name? Emma?

-Just M. The letter.

-Case in point. She’s not helping. She always look like she’s smirking.

-That’s just what her face looks like. I like it, actually.

-Oh you do? Would you want me to start smirking all the time?

-Maybe.

-Good. I’ll start smirking so I’ll look more like M. the smirking bartender whom my husband has a crush on.

-At this point, I don’t care what you do.

-Good.

-Oh. So. Do you think your parents would want to invest–

-Are you serious?

-I’m sorry.

-Fuck Richard, probably not. But yes, I can call them.

-Sweet.

-SWEET. This is what you say? SWEET? JESUS H.

-Sorry. How about: thank you, wife.

-Do you know how much stress you bring into our life?

-Yes.

-Good. Because you’re a shitstorm of stress. You’re a dumb erect stress-dick.

-I know.

-Every time you come to me with anything, it’s always: Nobody’s buying the pork loin. M.’s sick again and Robbie can’t cover. The cheese plates are better at Marlow and Sons. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a bitchy lump of shit and it’s giving me pain. Never once do I hear: It’s a beautiful day so I’m going to take my wife to one of the many parks this city has to offer and I’m going to use my culinary skills and put together a picnic and then I’ll romance her the way I used to and then she’ll thank me the way she used to.

-Oh Good Lord.

-No. No. It’s valid. Blowjobs prevent divorce, you know.

-Who said anything about divorce?

-No one. You know, after you whined about Cynar the other day I had to get a massage, and the masseuse said, What do you like? and you know what I said? I said, I need you to rub out the Richard. And she said, Who’s Richard? And I said, he’s my husband and he’s knotting up my shoulders with his bullshit attitude.

-Did it work?

-Yeah. Jessica’s the best.

-Good. So you’ll call your parents?

-Later.

NEXT: All This Nonsense Started When They Stopped Letting Cigarettes Advertise On TV

The Y Bridge in downtown Zanesville was built in 1814 to span the confluence of the Licking and Muskingum Rivers. It’s shaped like the letter Y so if you enter on the east side of the Licking River and veer to the left you’ll cross the Muskingum and end up on the same side of the Licking that you started on. Veer to the right and you’ll cross the Licking and end up on the same side of the Muskingum that you started on.

Gahanna Jazz Camp, July, 2001. I befriend a crew of theater kids from Zanesville: Marcus, Evan and Tara. All three are singers, and Marcus and Evan seem gay when they sing. I ask Tara if they are and she assures me they aren’t. She says, I think I would know, if you know what I mean. And I did know what she meant. I say, I could drive you home one day if you would want that. And she says, Evan always drives us, but thanks anyway, but if you want to come hang with us in Zanesville sometime, you’re welcome to. For whatever reason I never go hang with them in Zanesville but Tara and I exchange AIM names. Cut to:

Fri Nov 23 15:01:25 2001

-What’s up?

-Nothing much. I just got a trampoline, you should come over and jump on it.

-Yes I should.

-We could do more than jump on it.

-Oh my. Won’t your boyfriends mind?

-Boyfriends? Evan and Marcus? That nightmare is over.

-What happened, you guys were so tight.

-It’s a long story.

-I love long stories.

-So at first I was having sex with Marcus and it’s nice. And then Evan says he wants to have sex with me too and I’m like, yeah I want to too and I ask Marcus if he’d be cool with that and he says he would be. So I have sex with Evan. Just once. Well, two times in one day. I tell Evan that’s it, nada mas, I want to be with Marcus. Evan asks Marcus if he could have sex with me again and Marcus says he doesn’t care as long I keep having sex with him. But I don’t want to have sex with Evan again. I only want to have sex with Marcus. But I don’t tell Evan this because I’m Evan’s best friend and he’s really sensitive because he used to live in a foster home. So Evan and I have more sex and it gets really weird because Evan writes all these songs about me and my legs for our band. I have great legs.

-Oh?

-Yeah. So Marcus quits the band but, according to him, it’s not because he’s pissed about Evan having sex with me but rather because he wants to record some solo stuff that’s weirder than the stuff me and Evan like to play. Evan and and I are like, fine, we’ll keep playing without you, and we do and we actually get pretty good, way better than we were when Marcus was in the band. We get a new bassist and we play a few parties. This whole time Marcus and I are still having sex, and it’s better, filthier sex than the sex I’m having with Evan. Here’s where it gets weird: At this one girl’s Halloween party all of us are drunk in the backyard and we dare Evan to touch Marcus’ dick. And he does it. And then he gives Marcus head for a minute, right there in front of four other people. They wouldn’t tell me but I think they fooled around a few times after that but then they had a nasty falling out over God knows what. The next week Marcus shows up to our band practice all drunk and he starts hitting Evan in the head with a tennis racket. Evan runs away. Marcus tells me that he’s not gay and that he loves me and he’ll love me forever if I quit the band and stop having sex with Evan. I say, Go home, you’re drunk. Marcus threatens to kill himself. I say, Fine, I’ll quit the band, just to get him to settle down. He tries to have sex with me right then and there on my driveway and I’m like, yeah, I’m game, but let me get a pop first and I go inside and call Marcus’ mom and tell her what’s up and a few minutes later she shows up all pissed about Marcus being drunk and makes him come home. Evan comes back to my house all bloody-faced and tells me that he’s probably gay and that he doesn’t love me like I love him and he probably never will. I go a little berserk, because what the fuck, right? We all agree that we shouldn’t see each other for a long time, maybe never again. And this is what we did: we met in the middle of the Y Bridge. You know what that is?

-Yeah.

-We met in the middle of the Y Bridge. We hugged for a while and said we’re sorry for everything. Each of us chose one part of the Y to exit on and we turned around and walked out of each others’ lives forever. We still see each other at school sometimes, so it’s not like we never see each other. But we needed a certain form of ending. Man, that walk became a complete personal drama.

That Sunday I drive to her house and toss her around on that trampoline.