Buddies Together Quotes

Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' No, what?' I would say. A piece of dust.' Then, just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.' And of course Buddy wouldn't have any answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick or couldn't sleep.

You take up for your buddies, no matter what they do. When you're a gang, you stick up for the members. If you don't stick up for them, stick together, make like brothers, it isn't a gang anymore. It's a pack. A snarling, distrustful, bickering park like the Socs in their social clubs or the street gangs in New York or the wolves in the timber.

Just like the good old days: marching together into the unknown, searching for missing magical weapons and risking painful death. I’d missed my buddies!

So tonight I reach for my journal again. This is the first time I’ve done this since I came to Italy. What I write in my journal is that I am weak and full of fear. I explain that Depression and Loneliness have shown up, and I’m scared they will never leave. I say that I don’t want to take the drugs anymore, but I’m frightened I will have to. I am terrified that I will never really pull my life together. In response, somewhere from within me, rises a now-familiar presence, offering me all the certainties I have always wished another person would say to me when I was troubled. This is what I find myself writing on the page: I’m here. I love you. I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long. I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it—I will love you through that, as well. If you don’t need the medication, I will love you, too. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and Braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me. Tonight, this strange interior gesture of friendship—the lending of a hand from me to myself when nobody else is around to offer solace—reminds me of something that happened to me once in New York City. I walked into an office building one afternoon in a hurry, dashed into the waiting elevator. As I rushed in, I caught an unexpected glance of myself in a security mirror’s reflection. In that moment, my brain did an odd thing—it fired off this split-second message: “Hey! You know her! That’s a friend of yours!” And I actually ran forward toward my own reflection with a smile, ready to welcome that girl whose name I had lost but whose face was so familiar. In a flash instant of course, I realized my mistake and laughed in embarrassment at my almost doglike confusion over how a mirror works. But for some reason that incident comes to mind again tonight during my sadness in Rome, and I find myself writing this comforting reminder at the bottom of the page. Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a FRIEND… I fell asleep holding my notebook pressed against my chest, open to this most recent assurance. In the morning when I wake up, I can still smell a faint trace of depression’s lingering smoke, but he himself is nowhere to be seen. Somewhere during the night, he got up and left. And his buddy loneliness beat it, too.

People come together and move apart. It’s the age-old ebb and flow of relationships. Some are shorter journeys, and others were meant for a lifetime. That goes for friendships as well. We

What the hell," I said, pushing off the wall, ready to take off the head of whatever stupid salesperson had decided to get cozy with me. My elbow was still buzzing, and I could feel a hot flush creeping up my neck: bad signs. I knew my temper. I turned my head and saw it wasn't a salesman at all. It was a guy with black curly hair, around my age, wearing a bright orange T-shirt. And for some reason he was smiling. "Hey there," he said cheerfully. "How's it going?" "What is your problem?" I snapped, rubbing my elbow. "Problem?" "You just slammed me into the wall, asshole." He blinked. "Goodness," he said finally. "Such language." I just looked at him. Wrong day, buddy, I thought. You caught me on the wrong day. "The thing is," he said, as if we'd been discussing the weather or world politics, "I saw you out in the showroom. I was over by the tire display?" I was sure I was glaring at him. But he kept talking. "I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together." "You got all this," I said, clarifying, "at the tire display?" "You didn't feel it?" he asked. "No. I did, however, feel you slamming me into the wall," I said evenly. "That," he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to me, "was an accident. An oversight. Just an unfortunate result of the enthusiasm I felt knowing I was about to talk to you.

In the village he [My friend Moe] said once, "Me and her is buddies, see? If her gate falls down, I go and fix it. If I git in a tight for money she helps me if she's got it, and if she ain't got it, she gits it for me. We stick together. You got to stick to the bridge that carries you across.

Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, ‘Do you know what a poem is, Esther?’ ‘No, what?’ I would say. ‘A piece of dust.’ Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, ‘So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you’re curing. They’re dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.’ And of course Buddy wouldn’t have any answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn’t see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn’t sleep.

Listen, I know there were days you wanted to die when the sky was so clear you’d stand obnoxious underneath it begging for stars to shoot you just so you could feel at home. I know about the ways you misplaced all the right words, stockpiled every important social cue you ever missed from the first time you learned you were wrong, waited to make it right once everyone stopped watching. I know you let them beat up your beauty in bed because redemption was still alive in you, howling relentless, gathering strength. Felt like ecstasy when they pounded it out of you in the hard dark. Those days of dead weather got all strung together and they spoke for you, wore you down to telling everyone here it was a good life so you could run back into the wails of your windfight. I know the parts of your past that haunt you the most are the days you weren’t being yourself, and I know that’s why most of your past haunts you. There were so many who found you out, and they were right. You were good. So un- numb.

Buddy and Angela keep track of daytime just by figuring out the last and next time they will come together and how long alone. They become the heated habit of each other.

Oh,” Jace said carelessly, as if he hadn’t been waiting out here for the express purpose of seeing Simon off. He looked up, golden gaze casual, then looked away. “You.” Being too cool for school was Jace’s thing. Simon supposed he must have understood and been fond of it, once. “Hey, I figured I wasn’t going to get the chance to ask this again. You and me,” Simon said. “We’re pretty tight, aren’t we?” Jace looked at him for a moment, face very still, and then bounded to his feet and said: “Absolutely. We’re like this.” He crossed two of his fingers together. “Actually, we’re more like this.” He tried to cross them again. “We had a little bit of initial tension, as you may later recall, but that was all cleared up when you came to me and confessed that you were struggling with your feelings of intense jealousy over my—these were your words—stunning good looks and irresistible charm.” “Did I,” said Simon. Jace clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, buddy. I remember it clearly.” “Okay, whatever. The thing is … Alec’s always really quiet around me,” Simon said. “Is he just shy, or did I tick him off and I don’t remember it? I wouldn’t like to go away without trying to make things right.” Jace’s expression took on that peculiar stillness again. “I’m glad you asked me that,” he said finally. “There is something more going on. The girls didn’t want me to tell you, but the truth is—

I was having dinner…in London…when eventually he got, as the Europeans always do, to the part about “Your country’s never been invaded.” And so I said, “Let me tell you who those bad guys are. They’re us. WE BE BAD. We’re the baddest-assed sons of bitches that ever jogged in Reeboks. We’re three-quarters grizzly bear and two-thirds car wreck and descended from a stock market crash on our mother’s side. You take your Germany, France, and Spain, roll them all together and it wouldn’t give us room to park our cars. We’re the big boys, Jack, the original, giant, economy-sized, new and improved butt kickers of all time. When we snort coke in Houston, people lose their hats in Cap d’Antibes. And we’ve got an American Express card credit limit higher than your piss-ant metric numbers go. You say our country’s never been invaded? You’re right, little buddy. Because I’d like to see the needle-dicked foreigners who’d have the guts to try. We drink napalm to get our hearts started in the morning. A rape and a mugging is our way of saying 'Cheerio.' Hell can’t hold our sock-hops. We walk taller, talk louder, spit further, fuck longer and buy more things than you know the names of. I’d rather be a junkie in a New York City jail than king, queen, and jack of all Europeans. We eat little countries like this for breakfast and shit them out before lunch.

With a deliberate shrug, he stepped free of the hold on his shoulder. “Tell me something, boys,” he drawled. “Do you wear that leather to turn each other on? I mean, is it a dick thing with you all?” Butch got slammed so hard against the door that his back teeth rattled. The model shoved his perfect face into Butch’s. “I’d watch your mouth, if I were you.” “Why bother, when you’re keeping an eye on it for me? You gonna kiss me now?” A growl like none Butch had ever heard came out of the guy. “Okay, okay.” The one who seemed the most normal came forward. “Back off, Rhage. Hey, come on. Let’s relax.” It took a minute before the model let go. “That’s right. We’re cool,” Mr. Normal muttered, clapping his buddy on the back before looking at Butch. “Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up.” Butch shrugged. “Blondie’s dying to get his hands on me. I can’t help it.” The guy launched back at Butch, and Mr. Normal rolled his eyes, letting his friend go this time. The fist that came sailing at jaw level snapped Butch’s head to one side. As the pain hit, Butch let his own rage fly. The fear for Beth, the pent-up hatred of these lowlifes, the frustration about his job, all of it came out of him. He tackled the bigger man, taking him down onto the floor. The guy was momentarily surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Butch’s speed or strength, and Butch took advantage of the hesitation. He clocked Blondie in the mouth as payback and then grabbed the guy’s throat. One second later, Butch was flat on his back with the man sitting on his chest like a parked car. The guy took Butch’s face into his hand and squeezed, crunching the features together. It was nearly impossible to breathe, and Butch panted shallowly. “Maybe I’ll find your wife,” the guy said, “and do her a couple of times. How’s that sound?" “Don’t have one.” “Then I’m coming after your girlfriend.” Butch dragged in some air. “Got no woman.” “So if the chicks won’t do you, what makes you think I’d want to?” “Was hoping to piss you off.” “Now why’d you want to do that?” Blondie asked. “If I attacked first”—Butch hauled more breath into his lungs—“your boys wouldn’t have let us fight. Would’ve killed me first. Before I had a chance at you.” Blondie loosened his grip a little and laughed as he stripped Butch of his wallet, keys, and cell phone. “You know, I kind of like this big dummy,” the guy drawled. Someone cleared a throat. Rather officiously. Blondie leaped to his feet, and Butch rolled over, gasping. When he looked up, he was convinced he was hallucinating. Standing in the hall was a little old man dressed in livery. Holding a silver tray. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes.” “Hey, are those the spinach crepes I like so much?” Blondie said, going for the tray. “Yes, Sire.” “Hot damn.” The other men clustered around the butler, taking what he offered. Along with cocktail napkins. Like they didn’t want to drop anything on the floor. What the hell was this? “Might I ask a favor?” the butler said. Mr. Normal nodded with vigor. “Bring out another tray of these and we’ll kill anything you want for you.” Yeah, guess the guy wasn’t really normal. Just relatively so. The butler smiled as if touched. “If you’re going to bloody the human, would you be good enough to do it in the backyard?” “No problem.” Mr. Normal popped another crepe in his mouth. “Damn, Rhage, you’re right. These are awesome.

they had had some good times together, and Buddy had made a decent meal in the end. Really, what else could you ask from a parent? He

I’ve watched it time and time again—a woman always slots into a man’s life better than he slots into hers. She will be the one who spends the most time at his flat, she will be the one who makes friends with all his friends and their girlfriends. She will be the one who sends his mother a bunch of flowers on her birthday. Women don’t like this rigmarole any more than men do, but they’re better at it—they just get on with it. This means that when a woman my age falls in love with a man, the list of priorities goes from this: Family Friends To this: Family Boyfriend Boyfriend’s family Boyfriend’s friends Girlfriends of the boyfriend’s friends Friends Which means, on average, you go from seeing your friend every weekend to once every six weekends. She becomes a baton and you’re the one at the very end of the track. You get your go for, say, your birthday or a brunch, then you have to pass her back round to the boyfriend to start the long, boring rotation again. These gaps in each other’s lives slowly but surely form a gap in the middle of your friendship. The love is still there, but the familiarity is not. Before you know it, you’re not living life together anymore. You’re living life separately with respective boyfriends then meeting up for dinner every six weekends to tell each other what living is like. I now understand why our mums cleaned the house before their best friend came round and asked them “What’s the news, then?” in a jolly, stilted way. I get how that happens. So don’t tell me when you move in with your boyfriend that nothing will change. There will be no road trip. The cycle works when it comes to holidays as well—I’ll get my buddy back for every sixth summer, unless she has a baby in which case I’ll get my road trip in eighteen years’ time. It never stops happening. Everything will change.

Starkly in an instant she saw herself as she really was-alone in a wood standing among blue shadows with no sounds and the air a sort of black ice. She had no coat. All the people she’d known had forgotten her. Her mother, biting off thread between her teeth, couldn’t hear her, and her father with his eyes turned sorrowfully inward did not see her. They never had. Those she loved did not need her. Lila and Carl danced together in a bubble. Ralph Eastman picked lint from his sleeve. Buddy tucked in his shirttails, jumped in a truck and drove away. Fiona Speed showed the back of her hat, heading downtown in a cab. They all had more important concerns, they were all in their own lives, and there was no room for her. At night their doors were shut and through lit windows she could see them consulting one another, checking the baby, looking after business, licking envelopes, turning back the bedcover, shutting off the light switch, while she was left stranded out in the chill night in the true human state, lost, in the dark, alone.

The memory of that day in the dump made him a little sentimental for his father - they had had some good times together, and Buddy had made a decent meal in the end. Really, what else could you ask from a parent?

You haven't stopped smiling since you came in." "You want me to yell?" "No, no," Buddy hastily assured him. "You just keep right on smiling." He picked delicately at the remaining pie. "You sure did sleep late today." Tate grinned at him. "Yep." "Didn't go fishing, either." "Nope." "Sure was a lot of tromping around going on upstairs a few minutes ago. What were you doing?" "Just moving a few things." Tate took a drink of coffee. "What things?" He was beginning to wish he'd strangled Buddy at birth. "My things." "Were you moving them somewhere in particular, or just dragging them up and down the hall for the exercise?" Tate ground his teeth together. "I was moving them to Abby's room." "Oh." Buddy gave a half grin. "Can I have some money?" "No." Tate glared at him. "Well, it was worth a shot. I should have asked while you were still smiling.

looking down at my trusty right hand later that night. “Well, I guess it’s you, buddy. My fated mate. You and me, together forever.

No, buddy. I won’t be mad. In fact, I’m mighty happy God brought you to the perfect family in His perfect timing just like we prayed for.

She didn’t owe me anything, we weren’t together, we were simply bed buddies. For the first time in my life, I hated that. I wanted more. I wanted the right to call her mine.

There is nothing that you and I could not accomplish together, if we gave our minds to it.

But that’s the way life is; felicity and expiation play together in the narrow lanes of life like bosom friends, inseparable. You find one, and the other is always around the corner.

The memory of that day in the dump made him a little sentimental for his father—they had had some good times together, and Buddy had made a decent meal in the end. Really, what else could you ask from a parent?

We’re not having dinner together. We’ve been reduced to the worst of all possible worlds—fuck buddies, without the buddies part. The sex is incredible, but I really miss my friend. I miss laughing with him. I miss everything.

Everybody was a hero. Hadn't we all joined together to kick the hell out of de Gruber, and that fat Italian, and put that little rice-eating Tojo in his place? Black men from the South who had held no tools more complicated than plows had learned to use lathes and borers and welding guns, and had brought in their quotas of war-making machines. Women who had only known maid's uniforms and mammy-made dresses donned the awkward men's pants and steel helmets, and made the ship-fitting sheds hum some buddy. Even the children had collected paper, and at the advice of elders who remembered World War I, balled the tin foil from cigarettes and chewing gum into balls as big as your head. Oh, it was a time.

I don't want to die, Buddy.' She put her head on his chest. 'I know this cancer probably won't kill me. But I think about dying all the time. I dream about it. What do you think? Do I get to see Pat on the other side, or do I just lie there in the dirt forever?' ...Buddy wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. 'I think dead is dead,' he said softly, near her ear. 'But that's not so bad. I think of it as following. Following the rest of them...My mother and father. Your sister. Your mom. But not just them. All of them. All of us. People...Maybe it's just a way to feel less lonesome about the whole thing, but I think of dying as a path we all go down separately at first, but eventually, together.

And she’d also found Logan again. Now he was her … what? New-old boyfriend? Lover? Skype buddy? Pen pal with benefits? Whatever his title, his e-mails filled her inbox. Sometimes he sent five a day, short and quipping. Other times he sent longer, more serious ones. She kept her tone light when she replied. That’d always been her MO—a joke, a jab. A way to deflect from what she was really feeling. A way to keep the nonstop ache of missing him from becoming too painful to survive. And honestly, what was there to say that would come close to what she felt? The moments they’d spent together before he’d shipped out on his latest naval tour had been the most peaceful she could remember—even with her anxiety about her dad. It’d been the first time she’d felt complete in a long time. And then, just like that, he was gone again.

The next thing about the air in the library is that no other place smells anything like it. If you close your eyes and try to pick out what it is that you’re sniffing you’re only going to get confused, because all the smells have blended together and turned themselves into a different one. As soon as I got into the library I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I got a whiff of the leather on all the old books, a smell that got real strong if you picked one of them up and stuck your nose real close to it when you turned the pages. Then there was the smell of the cloth that covered the brand-new books, the books that made a splitting sound when you opened them. Then I could sniff the paper, that soft, powdery, drowsy smell that comes off the pages in little puffs when you’re reading something or looking at some pictures, a kind of hypnotizing smell.

I didn’t think so,” she says. “Let’s work together on this one, OK, buddy? No sense throwing each other to the wolves.” Margot is thinking about her future. You’re gonna pump my gas someday, Daniel. I’ve got big plans. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” She thinks, That is how a man speaks. And that is why.

I took her face in my hands and brought her close so only she could hear. “This is the day we meet for the first time and the rest of forever.” “I still don’t understand,” she cried, so I kissed her lips and prepared myself for what came next. “You promised me a long time ago that when it was all over, you’d bring me to my knees.” I let go of her face and took her hand. “I hope one will do.” I lowered myself to one knee and looked her in her eyes. “You chased away the monsters and became my reason—my forever. I’m yours, Lake Monroe. Will you marry me today?” “Yes, I fucking will,” she screamed. Just then, a light showering of flower petals rained down on us, and when she looked up, her breath caught. Buddy sat on the edge of the monkey bars with a handful flowers, sprinkling them over us. “Buddy!” “You were my hero.” He grinned. She smiled up at him and then turned to face me, and I nodded at the priest to begin. “We are gathered together to celebrate the very special love between bride and groom, by joining them in marriage…

ULTIMATE BETRAYALS: [OH GOODY—ANOTHER SECTION ON MOMMY DEAREST. WE GET IT. SHE’S CREEPY. I DIDN’T FIGURE IT OUT FAST ENOUGH, AND SHE USED ME FOR A WHILE. BUT THAT’S ALL DONE NOW, AND IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE I TAKE HER DOWN. LET’S MOVE ON, SHALL WE?] A FOOLISHLY DANGEROUS PLAN: [I SHOULD PROBABLY BE OFFENDED BY THAT TITLE. BUT… RUNNING OFF TO JOIN THE NEVERSEEN DEFINITELY WASN’T MY SMARTEST MOVE. I THOUGHT I COULD TAKE THEM DOWN FROM THE INSIDE. AND YEAH, IT PRETTY MUCH BACKFIRED.] [I DID LEARN SOME STUFF, THOUGH!] [SORT OF…] [I’M STILL PIECING IT ALL TOGETHER. I MEAN, I WOULDN’T DO IT AGAIN OR RECOMMEND IT TO ANYONE ELSE OR ANYTHING (HEAR THAT, BANGS BOY???), BUT IT WASN’T A TOTAL WASTE.] [OKAY, MAYBE IT WAS.] A WAY WITH ALICORNS: [IT’S TRUE. GLITTER BUTT LOVES ME.] [SAY IT WITH ME: KEEFE! KEEFE! KEEFE!] EMOTIONAL SUPPORT STUFFED ANIMAL: [YOU GUYS MADE AN OFFICIAL RECORD ABOUT MRS. STINKBOTTOM???? I CAN’T DECIDE IF THAT’S AWESOME, OR REALLY, REALLY SAD.…] [SAD FOR YOU GUYS—NOT ME. SLEEPING WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL IS THE BEST. YOU SHOULD TRY IT SOMETIME!] [ALSO: DOES THIS MEAN FITZY HAS A SECTION ON HIS SPARKLY RED DRAGON SNUGGLE BUDDY????????] A MERCADIR—WITH THE SCARS TO PROVE IT: [EESH—THANK GOODNESS I CAN REDACT THIS. I REALLY DON’T NEED ANYONE REMINDING FOSTER HOW MAD SHE WAS AT ME. THE POINT IS: I BEAT THE OGRE KING IN A SPARRING MATCH. I DOUBT EVEN GIGANTOR COULD DO THAT!] FINAL NOTE: [WHY IS THERE NOT A SECTION ON MY AMAZING HAIR????] [HERE, LET ME FIX THAT FOR YOU!] [IT’S DIFFICULT TO DESCRIBE THE ABSOLUTE PERFECTION OF KEEFE’S TRADEMARK HAIRSTYLE. COUNTLESS OTHERS HAVE TRIED TO EMULATE IT, BUT THEY’VE ALL FAILED. THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE LORD HUNKYHAIR. IT’S A RESPONSIBILITY THAT MUST BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY!] [HUNKYHAIR → OUT]

Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, 'Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' 'No, what?' I would say. 'A piece of dust.' Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.

Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, “Do you know what a poem is, Esther?” “No, what?” I would say. “A piece of dust.” Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, “So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you’re curing. They’re dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.

Sounds like an acid head, of course. What they all saw in … a flash was the solution to the basic predicament of being human, the personal I, Me, trapped, mortal and helpless, in a vast impersonal It, the world around me. Suddenly! —All-in-one!—flowing together, I into It, and It into Me, and in that flow I perceive a power, so near and so clear, that the whole world is blind to. All the modern religions, and the occult mysteries, for that matter, talk about an Other World—whether Brahma’s or the flying saucers’—that the rational work-a-day world is blind to. The—so called! friends—rational world. If only they, Mom & Dad & Buddy & Sis, dear-but-square ones, could but know the kairos, the supreme moment … The historic visions have been explained in many ways, as the result of epilepsy, self-hypnosis, changes in metabolism due to fasting, or actual intervention by gods—or drugs: Zoroastrianism

Most days what I felt was this: the minute you put a first name and a last name together, you've got a pair of tusks coming right at you (i.e., Watch out, buddy). but on days when I didn't disapprove of everything on principle--days when the whole cologned, cuff-shooting ruck of my co-workers didn't repulse me from the moment they disembarked from the sixth-floor elevator and began squidging their way along the carpeted track that led to the office--my thinking stabbed more along these lines: a name belittles that which is named. Give a person a name and he'll sink right into it, right into the hollows and the dips of the letters that spelled out the whole insultingly reductive contraption, so that you have to pull him up and dance him out of it, take his attendance, and fuck some life into him if you expect to get any work out of him. Multiply him by twenty-two and you will have some idea of what the office was like, except that a good third of my colleagues were female.

I dream in tunnel vision, I think. I remember in tunnel vision, I think. The question remains, when my tunnel vision goes, as it will very soon, what will I remember seeing? How will I remember? All I can do is write it down and keep writing. How else can I hold this picture, this life, or this face together? The view from here is of a boy with a softball, ready to let it go. His is an ironic gift from the past, as if the young me is aiming at the old, saying, "Here, buddy, let me help you with that." I wanted to let the ball fly at my lens, whatever was left of it.

This is our #1 commandment, and it is hands down the most important thing you can do for yourself. The idea is to get him out of your system—and he's much less likely to continue to wield his power and stay under your skin if you don't have any contact. Furthermore, laying down the sixty-day rule gives you the opportunity to take control of a situation that has you reeling out of control. It's your chance to call the shots. We don't care if he (or you) still wants to be friends, if he still has some of your stuff, or if you were fused together in a welding accident. You can revisit all these issues two months from now when you have some clarity.

Early on the first morning at the rifle range, we began what was probably the most thorough and the most effective rifle marksmanship training given to any troops of any nation during World War II. We were divided into two-man teams the first week for dry firing, or “snapping-in.” We concentrated on proper sight setting, trigger squeeze, calling of shots, use of the leather sling as a shooting aid, and other fundamentals. It soon became obvious why we all received thick pads to be sewn onto the elbows and right shoulders of our dungaree jackets: during this snapping-in, each man and his buddy practiced together, one in the proper position (standing, kneeling, sitting,

If you don’t have any other cats already at home, though, I would strongly recommend that you do consider taking two kittens. Adopting or purchasing two kittens will be a very rewarding experience. They’ll continue to learn from each other as they grow, they’ll have companionship (because you can’t always be around), and from a behavioral standpoint, it’s a heck of a lot easier to bring two kittens into a household together than to get just one and decide after he’s an adult that he needs a buddy. Adult cats are territorial and introducing a second cat takes finesse. I can’t even count how many owners of adult cats have told me how they wished they’d adopted a second kitten when they had the chance.

Scott still stares at Sid, then turns to Alice and hands her the Scotch. “We’re going to go see Joanie today,” he says. Alice grins. “And Chachi?” she asks. Sid bursts out laughing and Scott turns back to him, then places a hand on his shoulder, which makes me fear for his life. “You be quiet, son,” Scott says. “I could kill you with this hand. This hand has been places.” I shake my head and look at both Sid and Alex. Scott lifts his hand off Sid’s shoulder and turns again to his wife. “No, Alice. Our Joanie. Our daughter. We’re going to give her anything she wants.” He glares at me. “Think about what she would want, Alice. We’re going to get it for her and bring it to her. Bring it right to her bed.” “Joanie and Chachi,” Alice chants. “Joanie and Chachi!” “Shut up, Alice!” Scott yells. Alice looks at Scott as though he just said “Cheese.” She clasps her hands together and smiles, staying in the pose for a few seconds. He looks at her face and squints. “Sorry, old gal,” he says. “You go ahead and say whatever you want.” “It was funny,” Sid says. “All I was doing was laughing. She has a good sense of humor. That’s all. Maybe she knows she’s being funny. I think she does.” “I’m going to hit you,” Scott says. His arms hang alongside him, the muscles flexed, veins big like milk-shake straws. I know he’s going to hit Sid because that’s what he does. I’ve seen him hit Barry. I, too, have been hit by Scott after I beat him and his buddies at a game of poker. His hands are in fists, and I can see his knobby old-man knuckles, the many liver spots almost joining to become one big discoloration, like a burn. Then he pops his fist up toward Sid, a movement like a snake rearing its head and lunging forth. I see Sid start to bring his arm up to block his face, but then he brings it down and clutches his thigh. It’s almost as if he decided not to protect himself. The end result is a punch in his right eye, a screaming older daughter, a frightened younger daughter, a father trying to calm many people at once, and a mother-in-law cheering wildly as though we have all done something truly amazing.

up for it, and I’m sorry. That’s not enough. You’re going to search until you find something, and you’re going to tell me. Right now. Sheri. Please. You do it now or we’re gone. You give me some way to have some sympathy for you as I stand in this nice house, all lovingly redone, and think about the broken house you left us in, with its leaky roof and no heat and no insulation and nothing. Tell your sob story about the fucking war, whatever it was that my mom thought you were so broken about. My grandfather closed his eyes. No story ever explains. But I’ll give you what you want. I think I know the moment you want, because I made a kind of decision. There was some change. But I can’t start the story at the beginning. I’ve never been able to do that. I have to start at the end and then go back, and it doesn’t finish, because you can go back forever. Do it, my mother said. I don’t think Caitlin should hear. She can hear. Okay. You’re her mother. That’s right. So I won’t give the awful details, but I was lying in a pile of bodies. My friends. The closest friends I’ve ever had. Not piled there on purpose, but just the way it ended up because I had been working on the axle, lying on the ground. And the thing is, the war was over. It had been over for days, and we were laughing and a bit drunk, telling jokes. There was something unbearable about the fact that we’d all be going our separate ways now. The truth is that we didn’t want to leave. We wanted the war over, but we didn’t want what we had together to be over. I think we all had some sense that this was the closest we’d ever be to anyone, and that our families might feel like strangers now. So that’s it? You couldn’t be a father and husband because you weren’t done being a buddy? No. No. It’s the way it happened, in a moment that was supposed to be safe. After every moment of every day in fear for years, we were finally safe, and that’s when the slugs came and I watched my friends torn apart and landing on me, dying. That’s the point. We were supposed to be safe. And with your mother, too, I was supposed to be safe. A wife, a family. The story doesn’t make any sense unless you know every moment before it, every time we thought we were going to die, all the times we weren’t safe. You can’t just be told about that. You have to feel it, how long one night can be, and then all of them put together, hundreds of nights and then more, and there’s a kind of deal that’s made, a deal with god. You do certain terrible things, you endure things, because there’s a bargain made. And then when god says the deal’s off later, after you’ve already paid, and you see your friends ripped through, yanked like puppets on a day that was safe, and you find out your wife is going to die young, and you get to watch her dying, something that again is going to be for years, hundreds of nights more, all deals are off.

Out of nowhere the lovely woman in question appears beside me, standing between our bar stools. “What’s going on? What is this?” I open my mouth to explain, but Warren beats me to it. “Relax, Katie. Me and Evans…just buryin’ the old hammer.” “Hatchet.” “That, too.” Her eyes flicker back and forth between us. I smile calmly. Reassuringly. She’s not convinced. “So, what? You two get into a fight, have a few beers, and now you’re all buddy buddy? You gonna go outside and pee on the wall together, too?” Warren holds up his hand. “Let’s not get crazy. It’s not like we’re gonna hang out and play foosball or something. But if Evans here ever needs an extra hand with an assisted suicide?” He taps his chest. “I’m your guy.” I raise my glass. “Well said.

A few hours later, lying on a mat during rest time, Vladimir embraced the tiny curled-up creature beside him, his first best buddy, just as Mother had promised. Maybe tomorrow they could go to the Piskaryovka mass grave together with their grandmothers and lay flowers for their dead. Maybe they would even be inducted into the Red Pioneers side by side. What good fortune that he and Lionya were so alike and that neither of them had siblings...Now they would have each other! It was as if Mother had created someone just for him, as if she had guessed how lonely he had been in his sick bed with his stuffed giraffe, the months spinning away in twilight gloom until it was June again, time to go down to sunny Yalta to watch the Black Sea dolphins jump for joy.

The human eye has three kinds. One type excels at detecting red and associated wavelengths. One is tuned to blue. The other optimally perceives light of two colors: purple and yellow. The human eye is superbly equipped to detect these colors and send a signal pulsing to the brain. This doesn’t explain why I perceive them as beautiful, but it does explain why that combination gets my undivided attention. I asked my artist buddies about the power of purple and gold, and they sent me right to the color wheel: these two are complementary colors, as different in nature as could be. In composing a palette, putting them together makes each more vivid; just a touch of one will bring out the other. In an 1890 treatise on color perception, Goethe, who was both a scientist and a poet, wrote that “the colors diametrically opposed to each other . . . are those which reciprocally evoke each other in the eye.” Purple and yellow are a reciprocal pair.

Some incidents of facial profiling have been more inconvenient than others. I’ll never forget walking through airport security when I was flying to give a speech to a Christian men’s group in Montana. The Department of Homeland Security screeners obviously didn’t recognize me as “Jase the Duckman” from Duck Dynasty, and I felt like I was one wrong answer away from being led to an interrogation room in a pair of handcuffs! Hunting season had recently ended, so my hair and beard were in full bloom! The security screeners saw a Bible in my bag, and I guess they figured I was a Christian nut because of my long hair and bushy beard. Somehow, I made it through the metal detector and an additional pat-down, and I guess they couldn’t find a justifiable reason to detain me. But as I was getting my belongings back together, I accidentally bumped into a woman. She screamed! It must have been an involuntary reflex. It was a natural response, because she thought I was going to attack her. Once she finally settled down, I made my way to the gate and sat down to compose myself. After a few minutes, a young boy walked up and asked me for my autograph. Finally, I thought to myself. Somebody recognizes me from Duck Dynasty. Not everyone here believes I’m the Unabomber! Man, I could have used the kid about twenty minutes earlier, when I was trying to get through security! I looked over at the boy’s mother, and she was smiling from ear to ear. I realized they were very big fans. I signed my name on a piece of paper and handed it to the kid. “Can I ask you a question?” he said. “Sure, buddy,” I said. “Ask me anything you want.” “How much does Geico pay y’all?” he asked. My jaw dropped as I looked at the kid. “Wait a minute, man,” I said. “I’m not a caveman!” “What do you mean?” the boy asked. “I’m Jase the Duckman,” I said. “You know--from Duck Dynasty? Quack, quack?” It didn’t take me long to realize the boy had no idea what I was talking about. In a matter of minutes, I went from being a potential terrorist to being a caveman selling insurance.

The pièce de résistance, put into the can on the very first day, owed its inspiration to Little Richard, who would whip audiences to further frenzy between numbers by self-congratulatory cries of “Well...all right!” Buddy turned the phrase into a gentle love song infused with all his special quality of patience and optimism and his developing ability to make personal sentiments into universal ones. “Well, All Right” is a riposte to all the criticism and condescension that teenagers faced from their elders in the rock 'n' roll fifties—and have in every decade since. The setting is as adventurously simple as that of “Everyday”: Buddy plays flamenco-accented acoustic guitar, with only a plashing cymbal for company. The mood is not one of youthful anger and defiance but of maturity before its time: calm, stoical, steadfast in affirming its “dreams and wishes.” The intimacy in the voice could equally be that of lover or elder brother. Girl or boy, you can imagine you and he are alone together, gazing into the fire and imagining a bright future when the young will “live and love with all our might,” which could almost be a prophecy of the sixties' hippie culture.

My mother loved giving me math challenges. At Kmart or Winn-Dixie, she’d have me pick out books and model cars and trucks and buy them for me if I was able to mentally add together their prices. Over the course of my childhood, she kept escalating the difficulty, first having me estimate and round to the nearest dollar, then having me figure out the precise dollar-and-cents amount, and then having me calculate 3 percent of that amount and add it on to the total. I was confused by that last challenge—not by the arithmetic so much as by the reasoning. “Why?” “It’s called tax,” my mother explained. “Everything we buy, we have to pay three percent to the government.” “What do they do with it?” “You like roads, buddy? You like bridges?” she said. “The government uses that money to fix them. They use that money to fill the library with books.” Some time later, I was afraid that my budding math skills had failed me, when my mental totals didn’t match those on the cash register’s display. But once again, my mother explained. “They raised the sales tax. Now you have to add four percent.” “So now the library will get even more books?” I asked. “Let’s hope,” my mother said.

Willie called me one night in September 1991 after I had been gone a few weeks and said, “Let’s get back together.” I knew I loved him, but I told him I wasn’t sure about it. He was trying to change my life, and it was really his way or no way. I just didn’t know what to do. “Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow.” I was convinced she’d found someone else. I was telling all my buddies that it was over between us, and I was gathering other girls’ phone numbers to prepare myself to move on. I just knew it was over, and I wasn’t waiting to hear it from her the next day. I was convinced she wanted to end our relationship but couldn’t muster the courage to tell me. Korie called me the next day, and I was ready to tell her that I didn’t want to get back together anymore and that our relationship was over. I was certainly going to end it before she ended it. I just knew she already had a new boyfriend at Harding. “I’ve got something to tell you,” Korie told me. “What do you want to say?” I asked her, deciding it better to hear her out first. “Let’s get back together,” she said. My ears started buzzing. I threw all the girls’ phone numbers in the trash can. About a month later, Korie and I decided we were going to get married.

Korie: Willie and I dated for about eight months, and then I was getting ready to leave for school at Harding University. Willie was still attending seminary school, and I wanted him to go to Harding University with me. But Willie said he wasn’t leaving West Monroe. He wanted me to stay in West Monroe with him. We broke up before I left for school in August, and I’m sure he thought I’d find someone else at college, because that’s what typically happens when you leave home. Willie called me one night in September 1991 after I had been gone a few weeks and said, “Let’s get back together.” I knew I loved him, but I told him I wasn’t sure about it. He was trying to change my life, and it was really his way or no way. I just didn’t know what to do. “Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow.” I was convinced she’d found someone else. I was telling all my buddies that it was over between us, and I was gathering other girls’ phone numbers to prepare myself to move on. I just knew it was over, and I wasn’t waiting to hear it from her the next day. I was convinced she wanted to end our relationship but couldn’t muster the courage to tell me. Korie called me the next day, and I was ready to tell her that I didn’t want to get back together anymore and that our relationship was over. I was certainly going to end it before she ended it. I just knew she already had a new boyfriend at Harding. “I’ve got something I want to tell you,” Korie told me. “What do you want to say?” I asked her, deciding I’d better hear her out first. “Let’s get back together,” she said. My ears started buzzing. I threw all the girls’ phone numbers in the trash can. About a month later, Korie and I decided we were going to get married. Korie: I had turned eighteen in October 1991, so legally I was allowed to do whatever I wanted. But I knew I had to call my parents, Johnny and Chrys, to get their permission. We had had some discussions about my getting married that summer that had not gone so well, so I knew they were not going to be excited about it. I mustered up the courage to make the phone call. “Look, I’m legal, so I’m just going to say it,” I told them. “I’m getting married, and you’re going to have to be behind me or not.” Of course, my parents told me it was the worst idea ever, and they were naturally worried that I was going to leave school and come home. They asked me to at least wait until I’d finished college. I hung up the phone and called Willie immediately. “I just told them and it didn’t go so well,” I blurted out. “They’ve already called me and they’re on their way over here,” he said.

Suddenly there was movement behind him and Dan's hand appeared on his shoulder. "Raven, what's the matter? What are you staring at?" Dan covered Raven's hands with his own. Raven's fingers seemed to have frozen and Dan tried to uncurl them and pull them off the rail. "Hey, buddy, it's OK. I've got you. You're perfectly safe. We're just going to kneel and go back down the steps. All you have to do is let go and kneel down. I've got you, I've got you." Suddenly there was nothing holding him. A strangled sob escaped him. "I've got you, I've got you. Look, I'm right here, you can't possible fall. I'm right behind you." Dan put an arm round his waist and gripped him tight and told him what to do with his hands and feet, and they began co climb down together. It took for ever. Raven's fingers were so cold he could hardly feel them. Moving each foot down a rung seemed to take all the strength he had. "Don't let go," he said, his teeth chattering loudly in his mouth. "Don't let go, don't let go, don't let go." "I'm not going to let go, Raven" Dan said. "I promise Matey, I'll never let you fall." They finally reached the ground. Raven was so wobbly he could hardly stand. He felt Dan envelop him in a tight, strong hug. "You're all right, mate," Dan whispered. "You're all right." Raven clung to him. He never wanted Dan to let go.

This is the best idea you’ve had all day. And you’ve had a ton of good ones. You are so the idea girl. Quitting your job? Great idea. Getting Lay to give you the latex replica of yourself? Stellar. Just gotta follow through. The excessive drinking? Also masterful. And now we’re going to kick ass in person. I love it. Let’s dress you up, though. We’ll make Hudson’s balls cry big, girly tears when he thinks of all the anal he could have had with you tonight.” “Did I tell you he has his tongue pierced? And his dick pierced?” Verity asked, holding Angie by her face. “Do you know what that means to a vagina? Are you aware of the commitment he’s made to my vagina’s happiness? He slapped his man meat out somewhere…” She waved a boozy hand at the city. “Thought about pleasure, and took a stab in his pee hole. Do you even understand that?” “You did mention that already. And the tongue one is hard to miss.” Angie nodded seriously. “Let’s find the hottest thing you own and pour your boobs in it. Have I told you you have great tits? Your tits are the sweetest friends with my tits.” They proceeded to bump their boobs together. “Okay, let’s go.” Angie dragged Verity to her closet.   Verity Michaels @VerityPics03 I’ve never thunk Fireball was a bad idea. #RageDrinking   Verity Michaels @VerityPics03 Angie made me sexlicious. #GreatTitBuddies   Verity Michaels @VerityPics03 Pierced dicks are fucktacular. #PoundTown

On November 3, 2015, the day after the Trump Organization transmitted the LOI, Sater emailed Cohen suggesting that the Trump Moscow project could be used to increase candidate Trump's chances at being elected, writing: Buddy our boy can become President of the USA and we can engineer it. I will get all of Putins team to buy in on this, I will manage this process. . . . Michael, Putin gets on stage with Donald for a ribbon cutting for Trump Moscow, and Donald owns the republican nomination. And possibly beats Hillary and our boy is in.... We will manage this process better than anyone. You and I will get Donald and Vladimir on a stage together very shortly. That the game changer.327 Later that day, Sater followed up: Donald doesn't stare down, he negotiates and understands the economic issues and Putin only want to deal with a pragmatic leader, and a successful business man is a good candidate for someone who knows how to negotiate. "Business, politics, whatever it all is the same for someone who knows how to deal" I think I can get Putin to say that at the Trump Moscow press conference. If he says it we own this election. Americas most difficult adversary agreeing that Donald is a good guy to negotiate. . . . We can own this election. Michael my next steps are very sensitive with Putins very very close people, we can pull this off. Michael lets go. 2 boys from Brooklyn getting a USA president elected. This is good really good.328

The sky was so blue. It’s only been five years. My skyline was never marked with an absence. Remember that wine school? Windows on the World? I had been underneath them, on the F train coming from Brooklyn just one hour before. I was late for high school but glued to the TV. I had taught a class there - on Rioja - on the night of September tenth. Chef made soup. So I heard something and looked out my window - you know I’m on the East Side. It was too low. But it was steady and went by almost in slow motion. The Owner set up a soup kitchen on the sidewalk. No, I haven’t been down there. The smoke. The dust. But the sky was so blue. My buddy was the somm at the restaurant - we came up at Tavern on the Green together. You guys never talk about it. I was going into a class called, I’m not joking, Meanings of Death. I always wondered: If I had been here, would I have stayed? And I thought, New York is so far away. My cousin was a firefighter, second-wave responder. Nothing on television is real. But am I safe? Because what else is there to do but make soup? But I really can’t imagine it. I was pouring milk into my cereal, I looked down for one second… I was asleep, I didn’t even feel the impact. A tide of people moving up the avenues on foot. Blackness. Sometimes it still feels too soon. It’s our shared map of the city. Then the sirens, for days. We never forget, really. A map we make by the absences. No one left the city. If you were here, you were temporarily cured of fear.

Chip had been in there for a few very long hours. I had all kinds of awful thoughts about what might have happened to him in there. What if he’d been roughed up? Strip-searched? Who knows what awful things could have happened in a place like that? I saw scary-looking characters come and go as I sat in that cold, concrete lobby, trying to make myself invisible. Finally, out came Chip. “Hi, baby. Thanks for bailing me out,” he said. He sounded almost chipper. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, yeah! You’ll never guess who I saw in there. Alfonzo! Remember the lawn guy who used to work for me? We had a good time catching up.” Only Chip could go to prison and come out talking about all the friends he’d run into there. I came out and I was like, “Whoa! That was awesome. Jo, I met this guy. He did this thing. You know this old guy that I used to tell you about--he and I used to work together? He’s doing great. Well, he’s in jail, but things are really good otherwise.” Two of the policemen were also buddies of mine. These guys were literally standing on the other side of these bars going, “Why are you here? What’s the deal?” We had this endearing conversation right there, while I was in a jail cell. I used to live out in the boonies when I was in college, and I had mowed this one guy’s grass. So I told him what I was in for. “Long story short, I got these dogs running around.” And he was like, “Oh, dude, you’ll be fine. I’m sure they’ll get you right out of here.” It was just another day in my new life with Chip Gaines.

You don’t want this butterblast, do you?” He took a huge bite of a round, golden pastry topped with giant sugar crystals. If it weren’t for her injuries, she would’ve leaped out of bed and wrestled it away from him. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you a bite. But first you need to go one solid hour without your stomach growling. So ignore me”—he took another giant bite of the butterblast—“and focus on Krakie. Or you can focus on Krakie’s new buddies.” He set three Prattles pins on her tray—a jaculus, a kelpie, and a sasquatch. “Meet Bitey, Scaley Butt, and The Stink—your new bandage buddies! We need to figure out the perfect place to put them. I think Scaley Butt should be near Krakie so it looks like they’re swimming together. And then Bitey could be close to The Stink so it looks like he’s trying to chomp him.” “You’re a very strange person, you know that?” she asked as he pinned the new creatures in place. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘awesome.’ I’m an awesome person—who stopped you from thinking about how hungry you are for, like, five minutes.” “And then reminded me,” Sophie noted with a stomach growl. “Oops. Well . . . okay, your new hour starts now!” It was a very long afternoon. But it was worth it when Keefe gave her the last bite of butterblast, which was chewy like a doughnut but tasted like pancakes hot off the griddle and was filled with some sort of thick, maple-y cream. It was quite possibly the most amazing thing she’d ever put in her mouth—and that was saying something, considering she lived in a world with mallowmelt and custard bursts and ripplefluffs and pudding puffs. “If you want another,” Keefe told her, “you’re going to have to let Ro carry you with me into the secret cafeteria.” “Not happening,” Elwin warned. Keefe smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.

Inmates would overwhelmingly welcome segregation. As Lexy Good, a white prisoner in San Quentin State Prison explained, “I’d rather hang out with white people, and blacks would rather hang out with people of their own race.” He said it was the same outside of prison: “Look at suburbia. . . . People in society self-segregate.” Another white man, using the pen name John Doe, wrote that jail time in Texas had turned him against blacks: '[B]ecause of my prison experiences, I cannot stand being in the presence of blacks. I can’t even listen to my old, favorite Motown music anymore. The barbarous and/or retarded blacks in prison have ruined it for me. The black prison guards who comprise half the staff and who flaunt the dominance of African-American culture in prison and give favored treatment to their “brothers” have ruined it for me.' He went on: '[I]n the aftermath of the Byrd murder [the 1998 dragging death in Jasper, Texas] I read one commentator’s opinion in which he expressed disappointment that ex-cons could come out of prison with unresolved racial problems “despite the racial integration of the prisons.” Despite? Buddy, do I have news for you! How about because of racial integration?' (emphasis in the original) A man who served four years in a California prison wrote an article for the Los Angeles Times called “Why Prisons Can’t Integrate.” “California prisons separate blacks, whites, Latinos and ‘others’ because the truth is that mixing races and ethnic groups in cells would be extremely dangerous for inmates,” he wrote. He added that segregation “is looked on by no one—of any race—as oppressive or as a way of promoting racism.” He offered “Rule No. 1” for survival: “The various races and ethnic groups stick together.” There were no other rules. He added that racial taboos are so complex that only a person of the same race can be an effective guide.

… The frayed and gritty edges of everyone’s world were being worried away by neighbors you’d never noticed until the air spilled over with the tragedy of their loss. The war had taken them or their children; killed them, lost them, torn off body parts, shipped them back brain-fried…. … Tales fell from hearts in heavy, wet tones of grief and confusion…. … Even when rare moments of relative calm and clarity crept briefly through our days, they crawled in with head hanging through that most familiar of all tunnels, our sense of loss. Each new friend seemed only to step in and announce himself with his last breath. Why hadn’t we loved him earlier when there had been more time? That overriding sense of loss was the dismal cloud through which you viewed the world. Dreading life’s relentless advance, but knowing your locks could never keep it out…. … As the late 60’s gave in and died, and I trudged through my first year as an art student in college, even the old folks were growing up. Their World War II glories clouded over. Someone had shot the president, his brother, and a great civil rights leader, dragging us all out of our warm, snuggly innocence. People seemed infested by life, burdened by the stifling weight of it, until we could only force shallow, labored breaths. Each new day was just an old one playing through again, a dust-laden August, a storm always riding right on top of you that never quite cut loose. It settled into your joints until they grew achy, too heavy to lift; tarring all hearts with a dark, heavy plaque. Days stuck together as walking and breathing grew tedious. Until even my bubbly sister couldn’t offer up a smile without a shadow lurking inside it. We trudged through life as our mighty nation killed our sons and broke our buddies, defending itself from skinny barefoot farmers with sticks, in rice swamps somewhere on the other side of existence, where you couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad. Some lost tiny nowhere that hadn’t even existed when you’d been a kid; when the world had been innocent and untainted. Back when Father Knew Best, Beaver’s mom fed his dad all the answers, and Annie Oakley never had to shoot to kill…. - From “Entertaining Naked People

The first time he’d cut off ears because he was there and it was being done, but that was it. He wasn’t one of those who once they were in all that lawlessness couldn’t wait to get going, the ones who weren’t too well put together or were pretty aggressive to start off with and only needed the slightest opportunity to go ape-shit. One guy in his unit, guy they called Big Man, he wasn’t there one or two days when he’d slashed some pregnant woman’s belly open. Farley was himself only beginning to get good at it at the end of his first tour. But the second time, in this unit where there are a lot of other guys who’d also come back and who hadn’t come back just to kill time or to make a couple extra bucks, this second time, in with these guys who are always looking to be put out in front, ape-shit guys who recognize the horror but know it is the very best moment of their lives, he is ape-shit too. In a firefight, running from danger, blasting with guns, you can’t not be frightened, but you can go berserk and get the rush, and so the second time he goes berserk. The second time he fucking wreaks havoc. Living right out there on the edge, full throttle, the excitement and the fear, and there’s nothing in civilian life that can match it. Door gunning. They’re losing helicopters and they need door gunners. They ask at some point for door gunners and he jumps at it, he volunteers. Up there above the action, and everything looks small from above, and he just guns down huge. Whatever moves. Death and destruction, that is what door gunning is all about. With the added attraction that you don’t have to be down in the jungle the whole time. But then he comes home and it’s not better than the first time, it’s worse. Not like the guys in World War II: they had the ship, they got to relax, someone took care of them, asked them how they were. There’s no transition. One day he’s door gunning in Vietnam, seeing choppers explode, in midair seeing his buddies explode, down so low he smells skin cooking, hears the cries, sees whole villages going up in flames, and the next day he’s back in the Berkshires. And now he really doesn’t belong, and, besides, he’s got fears now about things going over his head. He doesn’t want to be around other people, he can’t laugh or joke, he feels that he is no longer a part of their world, that he has seen and done things so outside what these people know about that he cannot connect to them and they cannot connect to him. They told him he could go home? How could he go home?

In a matter of sixty short minutes, that thing could whisk Neil away to civilization, I thought. Hmm. My goodness, that was a beautiful prospect. Somehow I had to get on that chopper with him. I packed in thirty seconds flat, everything from the past three months. I taped a white cross onto my sleeve, and raced out to where Neil was sat waiting. One chance. What the heck. Neil shook his head at me, smiling. “God, you push it, Bear, don’t you?” he shouted over the noise of the rotors. “You’re going to need a decent medic on the flight,” I replied, with a smile. “And I’m your man.” (There was at least some element of truth in this: I was a medic and I was his buddy--and yes, he did need help. But essentially I was trying to pull a bit of a fast one.) The pilot shouted that two people would be too heavy. “I have to accompany him at all times,” I shouted back over the engine noise. “His feet might fall off at any moment,” I added quietly. The pilot looked back at me, then at the white cross on my sleeve. He agreed to drop Neil somewhere down at a lower altitude, and then come back for me. “Perfect. Go. I’ll be here.” I shook his hand firmly. Let’s just get this done before anyone thinks too much about it, I mumbled to myself. And with that the pilot took off and disappeared from view. Mick and Henry were laughing. “If you pull this one off, Bear, I will eat my socks. You just love to push it, don’t you?” Mick said, smiling. “Yep, good try, but you aren’t going to see him again, I guarantee you,” Henry added. Thanks to the pilot’s big balls, he was wrong. The heli returned empty, I leapt aboard, and with the rotors whirring at full power to get some grip in the thin air, the bird slowly lifted into the air. The stall warning light kept buzzing away as we fought against gravity, but then the nose dipped and soon we were skimming over the rocks, away from base camp and down the glacier. I was out of there--and Mick was busy taking his socks off. As we descended, I spotted, far beneath us, this lone figure sat on a rock in the middle of a giant boulder field. Neil’s two white “beacons” shining bright. I love it. I smiled. We picked Neil up, and in an instant we were flying together through the huge Himalayan valleys like an eagle freed. Neil and I sat back in the helicopter, faces pressed against the glass, and watched our life for the past three months become a shimmer in the distance. The great mountain faded into a haze, hidden from sight. I leaned against Neil’s shoulder and closed my eyes. Everest was gone.

One other thing. And that's all. I promise you. But the thing is, you raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam `unskilled laughter' coming from the fifth row. And that's right, that's right - God knows it's depressing. I'm not saying it isn't. But that's none of your business, really. That's none of your business, Franny. An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and *on his own terms*, not anyone else's. You have no right to think about those things. I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. You know what I mean?" ... The voice at the other end came through again. "I remember about the fifth time I ever went on `Wise Child'. I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast - remember when he was in the case? Anyway. I started bitching one night before broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again - all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and - I don't know. Anyway, seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on air. It made *sense*." ... "... Let me tell you something now, buddy ... Are you listening?" ... "I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, in can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret - Are you listening to me? *There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.* That goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone *any*where that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know - listen to me, now - *don't you know who that Fat Lady really is?*... Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.

One other thing. And that's all. I promise you. But the thing is, you raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam `unskilled laughter' coming from the fifth row. And that's right, that's right - God knows it's depressing. I'm not saying it isn't. But that's none of your business, really. That's none of your business, Franny. An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and *on his own terms*, not anyone else's. You have no right to think about those things. I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. You know what I mean?" ... The voice at the other end came through again. "I remember about the fifth time I ever went on `Wise Child'. I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast - remember when he was in the case? Anyway. I started bitching one night before broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again - all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than one just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my time. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and - I don't know. Anyway, seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on air. It made *sense*." ... "... Let me tell you something now, buddy ... Are you listening?" ... "I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, in can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret - Are you listening to me? *There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.* That goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone *any*where that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know - listen to me, now - *don't you know who that Fat Lady really is?*... Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.

One other thing. And that's all. I promise you. But the thing is, you raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam `unskilled laughter' comming from the fifth row. And that's right, that's right - God knows it's depressing. I'm not saying it isn't. But that's none of your business, really. That's none of your business, Franny. An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and *on his own terms", not anyone else's. You have no right to think about those things. I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. You know what I mean?" ... The voice at the other end came through again. "I remember abouut the fifth time I ever went on `Wise Child'. I subbbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast - remember when he was in the case? Anyway. I started bitching one night before broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I sais they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again - all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than one just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my time. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio goin full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and - I don't know. Anyway, seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on air. It made *sense*." ... "... Let me tell you something now, buddy ... Are you listening?" ... "I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, in can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret - Are you listening to me? *There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.* That goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone *any*where that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know - listen to me, now - *don't you know who that Fat Lady really is?*... Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.

I’ve recently suggested that Betty and I should do a TV series about two seniors living together in an unlikely pairing of a widow and a naughty gay best buddy. We could call it Friends with Government Benefits.

37. Be Kind Enthusiasm, ability and aptitude all have to be on someone’s CV before I’ll take them into a life or death situation, but when I am putting a team together for an expedition, there’s one other quality I’m always looking out for - kindness. Expeditions into jungles or across deserts or raging oceans are never easy. However much we might romanticize the lives of explorers, when you are in the middle of an inflatable boat with 50-foot waves all around, you haven’t slept for three days, or you have been struggling with an injury in silence for a week, it is the little things that count. What you really want from the people you are with is that they are kind - to know that they are on your side when the chips are down. Let me give you a couple of examples: once you get above 25,000 feet (7,500 metres) on a mountain, and the temperature drops to minus 45°, if you don’t get a headache - the kind that grips your head like a nut in a pair of pliers - then you’re not human. Part of this is the altitude, part is the inevitable dehydration that comes from the thin air. So working hard 24/7 to keep hydrated is essential. The only way to get water, though, is to melt the ice. But at that height, at that temperature, melting enough snow and ice to drink can take hours. The good expedition member is the one who gives their buddies the first sip or the last swig of that precious water. In the extremes it is the little things that stand out. So try and look at all those sorts of moments as chances to distinguish yourself - and it is the kind, unselfish mountaineer who is loved and is often the real bedrock of a great team.

Labor unions have more and more been expressing their dismay about ObamaCare as they have realized in practice the thing isn't working. Recently the labor unions came to the Obama administration and said, We want an exemption too. Big businesses got an exemption, Members of Congress got an exemption. Shouldn't labor unions, shouldn't union bosses get an exemption? And with much fanfare the administration reportedly told them, No.   I am going to make a prediction right here and now. If the Congress does not act, if we don't show leadership in defunding ObamaCare, if we don't stand together in imposing cloture on Friday, if we don't act to avert this train wreck for the American people, before the end of this President's term we are going to see him grant an exemption for labor unions. That has been the pattern. Friends, political buddies--they get a slap on the back. They get special treatment.   It

Who Needs A Holiday? Homecoming: We tailgate all football season--it’s almost a religion--but nothing compares to homecoming. Darling, you better watch that mild-mannered man of yours. You never know what’s going to happen when he gets together with his old college buddies.

Adam: Adam was a young man whose anxiety turned into a monster. Where Shelly had a very mild case of social anxiety, Adam’s case could only be called severe. Over a period of several years, his underlying social fears developed into a full-blown school phobia. A quiet, unassuming person, Adam had never stood out in the classroom. Through elementary school and on into high school, he neither excelled nor failed his subjects. By no means a discipline problem, the “shy” Adam kept to himself and seldom talked in class, whether to answer a teacher’s question or chat with his buddies. In fact, he really had no friends, and the only peers he socialized with were his cousins, whom he saw at weekly family gatherings. Though he watched the other kids working together on projects or playing sports together, Adam never approached them to join in. Maybe they wouldn’t let him, he thought. Maybe he wasn’t good enough. Being rejected was not a chance he was willing to take. Adam never tried hard in school either. If he didn’t understand something, he kept quiet, fearful that raising his hand would bring ridicule. When he did poorly on an exam or paper, it only confirmed to him what he was sure was true: He didn’t measure up. He became so apprehensive about his tests that he began to feel physically ill at the thought of each approaching reminder of his inadequacy. Even though he had studied hard for a math test, for example, he could barely bring himself to get out of bed on the morning it was to take place. His parents, who thought of their child as a reserved but obedient boy who would eventually grow out of this awkward adolescent stage, did not pressure him. Adam was defensive and withdrawn, overwrought by the looming possibility that he would fail. For the two class periods preceding the math test, Adam’s mind was awash with geometry theorems, and his stomach churning. As waves of nausea washed over him, he began to salivate and swallowed hard. His eyes burned and he closed them, wishing he could block the test from his mind. When his head started to feel heavy and he became short of breath, he asked for a hall pass and headed for the bathroom. Alone, he let his anxiety overtake him as he stared into the mirror, letting the cool water flow from the faucet and onto his sweaty palms. He would feel better, he thought, if he could just throw up. But even when he forced his finger down his throat, there was no relief. His dry heaves made him feel even weaker. He slumped to the cold tile and began to cry. Adam never went back to math class that day; instead, he got a pass from the nurse and went straight home. Of course, the pressure Adam was feeling was not just related to the math test. The roots of his anxiety went much deeper. Still, the physical symptoms of anxiety became so debilitating that he eventually quit going to school altogether. Naturally, his parents were extremely concerned but also uncertain what to do. It took almost a year before Adam was sufficiently in control of his symptoms to return to school.

23. Honour The Journey, Not the Destination As a team, when we came back from Everest, so often the first question someone would ask us was: ‘Did you make it to the summit?’ I was lucky - unbelievably lucky - to have reached that elusive summit, which also allowed me to reply to that summit question with a ‘yes’. My best buddy Mick found the question much harder, as a ‘no’ didn’t tell even part of his incredible story. He might not have made it to the very top of Everest, but he was as near as damn it. For three months we had climbed alongside each other, day and night. Mick had been involved in some real heroics up high when things had gone wrong, he had climbed with courage, dignity and strength, and he had reached within 300 feet (90 metres) of the summit. Yet somehow that didn’t count in the eyes of those who asked that ironically unimportant question: ‘Did you reach the top?’ For both of us, the journey was never about the summit. It was a journey we lived through together; we held each other’s lives in our hands every day, and it was an incredible journey of growth. The summit I only ever saw as a bonus. When we got that question on our return, I often got more frustrated for Mick than he did. He was smart and never saw it as a failure. He’d tell you that he was actually lucky - for the simple reason that he survived where four others that season had died. You see, Mick ran out of oxygen high up on the final face of Everest at some 28,000 feet (8,500 metres). Barely able to move, he crawled on all fours. Yet at that height, at the limit of exhaustion, he slipped and started to tumble down the sheer ice face. He told me he was certain he would die. By some miracle he landed on a small ledge and was finally rescued when two other climbers found him. Four other climbers hadn’t been so lucky. Two had died of the cold and two had fallen. Everest is unforgiving, especially when the weather turns. By the time I was back with Mick, down at Camp Two a couple of days later, he was a changed man. Humbled, grateful for life, and I had never loved him so much. So when everyone at home was asking him about the summit, or sympathizing with him for narrowly missing out, Mick knew better. He should have died up there. He knew he was plain lucky to be alive. ‘Failure had become his blessing, and life had become a great gift to him. And those are great lessons that many never learn - because you can only learn them through a life-changing journey, regardless of the destination. Consider the billionaire who flies into the South Pole for an hour to ‘experience’ it, compared to the man who has toiled, sweated and struggled across hundreds and hundreds of miles of ice, dragging a humble sledge. You see, it is the journey that makes the man. And life is all about our growth, not our trophies.

asked my artist buddies about the power of purple and gold, and they sent me right to the color wheel: these two are complementary colors, as different in nature as could be. In composing a palette, putting them together makes each more vivid; just a touch of one will bring out the other.

We don’t need to decide now since I’ll be gagged by your cock anyway, but think about it. If we’re going to be cumpanions—” “I’m sorry, what?” “Like companions, but with cum. I thought it sounded better than bum buddies.” “Neither of those is great.” He thinks for a moment. “What about fap brothers?” “Dude, no.” I wrinkle my nose. “Like frat brothers who fap together.” “I know what you meant, and it’s still a hard no.” “Cumpanions it is, then.

You are brave, buddy. It’s okay to be afraid sometimes because you have me, and together, we can be brave. We can face anything.

Our quality of life has skyrocketed and our once staunch London loyalism has been replaced by an almost embarrassing enthusiasm for everything “Dansk.” The greatest change has been the shift in work–life balance. Whereas previously we might snatch dinner once Duncan escaped from work at around nine, he now leaves his desk at five. Work later than 5.30, and the office is a morgue. Work at the weekend, and the Danes think you are mad. The idea is that families have time to play and eat together at the end of the day, every day. And it works. Duncan bathes and puts our 14-month-old daughter Liv to bed most nights. They are best buddies, as opposed to strangers who try to reacquaint at the weekend. Cathy Strongman, The Guardian

I hurried into the living room, and the kernel grew until it filled my sternum. They weren’t there. The play mat was empty. “Elliot?” I called. “Where are you?” Only a second or two passed, but it felt like an eternity. Finally, Elliot appeared in the kitchen doorway, Joey in his arms. “We’re here,” he answered. My heart was still lodged firmly in my throat. “You’re holding her.” He had my daughter against his chest, facing outward, his hand on her belly to keep her stable. She seemed content, her head resting against him, his suit sleeve clenched in her fist. Somehow, this was different than when Raymond held her. Ray loved Joey, and they were buddies. It made me smile to see them together. But this…I wasn’t smiling. Despite myself, my thighs pressed together, and heat flooded my core. What is this? “She seemed bored, so I took her out back to see the birds.” He patted her round middle. “If I measure her enjoyment by the amount of drool that dripped on my arm, she liked it very much.” A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. This was all so surreal. “My daughter drooled on you?” “She did.” “You don’t seem mad.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not a monster, Catherine. I knew the risks of holding a baby and picked her up anyway.” He jiggled her softly, and she settled even more in his arms. I didn’t know how to handle this man holding my daughter so delicately—or my body’s immediate reaction. I walked toward them, intent on taking her back, giving him the schematics, and hustling him out of there so I could regain a semblance of equilibrium. “You’re limping.” I stopped moving. “Yes. I stubbed my toe. I’m fine, though.” He closed the distance between us. When Joey alighted on me, she gave me my favorite smile: open-mouthed with the sweetest little coo. “Hi, Joey-Girl,” I cooed back. “Did you get a ride with Elliot? He’s so tall, isn’t he? You’ve never been that high up before.” “Her father’s short?” I huffed. “No. He’s pretty tall too.

Farah answered the door and I knew immediately her pants had recently been off. When our eyes met, I sensed she knew I knew. Farah gave me a casual smile then realized her ponytail was hanging weird off her head. “Sex is fun, huh?” Lark said, walking past her friend. “We’re like rabbits too.” Farah laughed. “We got home late and needed to let off some steam.” “Four times,” Cooper announced, bouncing the stairs. Grinning, I was ready to smack that smirk right off his face. “We have news.” “Moving in together is such a great first step in a relationship,” Cooper said, wrapping an arm around Farah’s shoulders. “We remember those days, don’t we, baby? So long ago.” “You’re being obnoxious,” Farah murmured to her husband. “A giant obnoxious stud.” Lark laughed and winked at me. “Speaking of studs, Aaron knocked me up our first time while I was on the pill. Bam! That is some super sperm!” Farah burst out laughing while I gave Cooper two middle fingers. He just glared at me like I’d knocked up my new girlfriend just so I could make him look weak. Yes, everything in the world revolved around Cooper including my sex life. “Fuck you,” Cooper growled at me. “Don’t feel bad. I mean, you had sex four times,” I said, putting up four fingers. “Wow, you’re bound to have at least one good swimmer in the bunch.” When Cooper ran at me, I took off through the dining room, past the kitchen, and out the backdoor. My buddy was big and strong, but he was slow. I was in the front yard before he got past his excited dogs. Lark opened the door for me then we shut it on Cooper who started cussing until he realized kids were nearby. Farah was laughing so hard she sat on the ground to keep from falling. “Let me in,” Cooper said in a low pissed voice as he glared through the side window. “Say it first.” “Congratulations, jackass. Now, let me in my damn house.” “That’s not what I want you to say.” “Then what? I’m not saying please, so it better not be that.” “Not please. I was thinking something like, ‘Gee, Aaron, can your balls dumb down things for my balls? I’d be ever so grateful to know how babies are made.’ Yeah, something like that.” Farah was rolling around on the floor and no help to Cooper who clearly wasn’t saying what I suggested. Lark finally unlocked the door and smiled at Cooper who exhaled like a pissed bull. “You’re welcome,” she said, grinning. “For what?” “I talked Aaron out of mocking you as badly as he wanted. This was the tame version. So you’re welcome.” Cooper shook his head and finally smiled.

I stroked him again, loving the reaction. He fucked himself on my finger, and his breathing became shallow and quick. I kissed his face, his ear. Anything I could reach. Pleasuring Josh was my favorite thing to do in the world. There was nothing like it. Pausing for a little more of the magic liquid in the bottle, I tucked a second finger in with the first one, making Josh sigh and squirm against me. My own dick was throbbing, screaming for attention. Later, buddy, I promised. Hell. I might come from just listening to the impatient noises Josh made. “Caleb,” he panted. “Are you going to fuck me?” I stilled my hands on him for a moment, so that he would be able to focus on what I was about to say. “I wasn’t sure we should. Didn’t know if you’d feel bad about it afterwards. I mean… it’s more than just touching, you know?” “The Bible says not to.” His head lolled against my chest, and his tongue flicked out to lick my skin. “But I’ve always wanted it.” “Yeah? Do you think about it sometimes?” He flexed his hips, as if trying to restart my hands on his body. “In my daydreams, you hold me down and fuck me from behind.” Just hearing the words, my balls tightened. “Whew, Joshy. I want to. So badly. But if we’re trying this, I gotta see your face, okay? I have to know if I’m hurting you.” He began to suck on my nipple. His fingers closed around my dick, and he pumped me with his palm. “Caleb,” he whispered against my skin. “Just make me yours.” “You,” I said, kissing him on the forehead, “are already mine. You have always been mine. Now sit up with me.” I hauled us upright, until I was seated on the bed, my legs together, my back angled against the pillows.

HENRY CLIMBED INTO my truck and buckled his seatbelt with the grimmest expression I had ever seen. His hair stood out in every direction, and his hands shook. “You okay, buddy?” I asked, trying to be gentle. “Do you want to go see Robin instead? She’d be glad to cut it, Henry.” Millie had followed him out, tapping her way down the sidewalk with a concerned frown between her dark brows. She now stood holding onto the passenger side door. I could tell she wanted to ride along, but Henry didn’t seem to want her to. “It’s a man date, right Henry? Men go to the barber. Not the salon.” Henry tapped his fingertips together nervously and wouldn’t look right or left. “Kite flying is an official sport in Thailand!” Henry blurted. Amelie bit her lip but stepped back from the passenger door. “Bye, Millie. I’ll bring him back. Don’t worry,” I called. She nodded and tried to smile, and I pulled away from the curb. Henry’s tapping became a cadence. Clack clack. Click click. It sounded like the rhythm Millie made with her stick when she walked. “Henry?” No response. Just clicking, all the way to the barbershop. I pulled up to Leroy’s shop and put my truck in park. I jumped out and came around to Henry’s door. Henry made no move to disembark. “Henry? Do you want to do this?” Henry looked pointedly at my shaggy locks and clicked his fingers. “I need a haircut, Henry. So do you. We’re men. We can do this.” “Ben Askren, Roger Federer, Shaun White, Troy Polamalu, David Beckham, Triple H.” “Triple H?” I started to laugh. Henry was listing athletes with long hair. “You’re getting desperate, Henry.” “Larry Fitzgerald? Tim Lincecum?” “Tim Lincecum, huh? He plays for the Giants, doesn’t he? Your favorite team, right?” Henry didn’t respond. “Ah, shit. What the hell. I didn’t want to cut my hair anyway. I kind of think your sister likes it.” The clicking slowed. “You wanna go buy a kite? I hear it’s an official sport in Thailand,” I said. Henry smiled the smallest ghost of a smile and nodded once.

One of the strangest moments in my early days of sharing the Gospel occurred when I was introduced to a guy who suffered from Tourette’s syndrome. I didn’t know him, but I could tell he was starting to get anxious as I read him scripture. He also had a stuttering problem and couldn’t put sentences together as he tried to talk to me. All of a sudden, he started shouting four-letter words. I didn’t know the guy had Tourette’s, so I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I feared he might have been demon possessed! The more he blurted out obscenities, the louder I got in sharing the message. It was quite the banter. I was thinking I might have to revisit my thoughts on exorcisms until my buddy told me about his disorder.

Mind if I ask how you learned that?” “It was a long time ago—when I was in my last year of college. There had been some rapes around the campus and a bunch of us went to a self-defense instructor together. To tell you the truth, I was never sure that would work in a real situation. I mean, with an instructor, mats on the floor, everything rehearsed and knowing exactly what to expect—that’s one thing. But I wasn’t sure I could react the same way if a real rapist jumped out from behind a parked car.” “Now you know. He never saw it coming.” “Yeah, that worked to my advantage, too.” She sipped her coffee. “I didn’t see what he did,” he said. “I could tell by the stupid grin on his face and the shocked look on yours that something happened.” She put her cup on the bar. “Major butt grope,” she said. And she noted that Jack’s expression went instantly dark; mean, narrowed eyes, deep frown. “Whew, easy buddy, it wasn’t your butt. I saw you making a move—what were you about to do?” “Way too much,” he said. “I don’t like seeing something like that in my bar. I was watching him all night. The second he saw you, it was a target lock-on.” “He was a giant nuisance, but I’m pretty sure he’ll leave me alone now,” she said.

Jesus,” he muttered then he rolled until I was on my back, his weight was on me, his hips between my legs then he said, “you’re not real fast, are you?” If he’d said this in an angry or sarcastic way, rather than a resigned and a tad bit amused way, I would have lost my mind. Instead, I said honestly, “I’m not usually this clueless. But when my brother is murdered; I’m waiting for the next crazy gift to be delivered to my door which might cause my head to explode; I fall in love with a man and he moves in; and I have a future that includes another kid and I need to figure out how I’m gonna tell my daughters they might have a brother or sister sometime in the future, I get a little out of it. In my defense, most women would.” “What?” Joe asked when I stopped talking and I realized his body had gone tense again, so tense it felt like even his cells had stopped moving he had that tight a rein. I put a hand to his face and answered, “I thought you said you wanted a kid.” “Before that.” I thought for a second and asked, “My head exploding?” His body moved but only to press mine deeper into the bed. “After that, Vi,” he growled and I was getting confused again because he was sounding impatient again, very impatient, close to losing it impatient. “I’m in love with you?” I asked quietly. “Yeah, baby, that.” “What about it?” “What about it?” he repeated. “Yeah, um… do you… uh…” Shit! He wasn’t ready for that. Now what did I say? “Is that too much for you? Should I have –?” He cut me off by roaring with laughter. Roaring. So loud I was pretty sure he’d wake the girls (and Mooch). “What’s funny?” I asked him and he shoved his face in my neck but his hands started roaming. “You think maybe you might have wanted to tell me that?” “Tell you what?” His head came up. “Honey, keep up with me because this is pretty fuckin’ important.” I felt my temperature increase as my anger elevated and I did my best to lock it down. “I’m not following you, Joe. Maybe you could explain?” His mouth came to mine and he whispered, “You’re in love with me.” “Well, yeah.” “Didn’t you think maybe you should share that with me?” “Um… I thought I did.” He kissed me lightly then his mouth went away but not far away when he said, “Woulda remembered that, buddy.” “But, I gave up Mike and you’re moved in.” “Yeah. So?” “With me and the girls.” He didn’t say, “Yeah. So?” again, he let his silence say it. “Doesn’t that say it all?” I asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t let just any guy move in with me and the girls. I’m not like that. He’d have to mean something to me, like you do.” I felt his body relax into mine before he asked quietly, “When did you know?” “What?” “That you loved me, when did you know?” I felt my temperature decrease and my hand slid up his back and into his hair. “I don’t know. I just knew,” I answered softly. “Vi –” he said my name on a gentle warning. Quickly, to get it out because, being Joe he wasn’t going to let it go and when I said it, it was going to make me sound stupid, I told him. “When you said, ‘Baby, you aren’t wearing any shoes’ that second night we were together at your house.” Immediately, he replied, “I knew you were the one when you were standin’ in my living room, wearing those stupid-ass boots, your nightie and that ratty robe.” “That was the night we first met.” “Yep.” I was the one for Joe and he knew it the first night we met. He knew I was the one. The one. The one. And he knew it the first night we met.

Do we have any more candles?” she asked him. “Not that I know about.” “How about flashlights?” “Yeah, I have a couple of those.” “Get the strongest one. If he starts to come before John gets here, I might be able to hold the light for you.” “For... Me?” “Jack, there are only two of us here. One of us is going to push him out, one of us is going to catch him. Which job do you want?” “Oh,” he said, going for the flashlight. He took it back to her and demonstrated its strength by shining it right in her eyes. She winced and he turned it off. She rubbed her eyes. “Oh, brother. Maybe you should push him out. I’m calmer. Yeah, I vote for you,” she said. He knelt with one knee on the floor beside her bed. “Melinda, how can you be sarcastic right now?” “You know, you own a bar and you don’t keep alcohol at home,” she said, breathless. “I could have had a shot—it sometimes slows labor.” “We’ll have some on hand for the next one.” “You keep talking like that’s gonna happen,” she said. “How ridiculous.” “I think my record speaks for itself. But, Mel, I just want to make them, not deliver them.” “I hear ya, buddy,” she said, and then was gripped by another contraction. She tried to pant through it, but they were getting tougher—longer and closer together.

Literary friendship is impossible, it seems; at least, it is impossible for me. Indeed, all male friendships outside of work sometimes seem to be impossible: you look at each other at the restaurant at some point in the conversation and you know that each of you is thinking, man, this is futile, why are we here, we’re wasting our time, we have nothing to say, we’re not involved in some project together that we can bitch about, we can’t flirt, we feel like dummies discussing movies or books, we aren’t in some moral bind with a woman that we need to confess, we’ve each said the other is a genius several times already, and the whole thing is depressing and the tone is false and we might as well go home to our wives and children and rent buddy movies like Midnight Run or Planes, Trains, and Automobiles or The Pope of Greenwich Village> when we need a shot of the old camaraderie.

Eventually, at 7:22 A.M. on the morning of May 26, 1998, with tears still pouring down my frozen cheeks, the summit of Mount Everest opened her arms and welcomed me in. As if she now considered me somehow worthy of this place. My pulse raced, and in a haze I found myself suddenly standing on top of the world. Alan embraced me, mumbling excitedly into his mask. Neil was still staggering toward us. As he approached, the wind began to die away. The sun was now rising over the hidden land of Tibet, and the mountains beneath us were bathed in a crimson red. Neil knelt and crossed himself on the summit. Then, together, with our masks of, we hugged as brothers. I got to my feet and began to look around. I swore that I could see halfway around the world. The horizon seemed to bend at the edges. It was the curvature of our earth. Technology can put a man on the moon but not up here. There truly was some magic to this place. The radio suddenly crackled to my left. Neil spoke into it excitedly. “Base camp. We’ve run out of earth.” The voice on the other end exploded with jubilation. Neil passed the radio to me. For weeks I had planned what I would say if I reached the top, but all that just fell apart. I strained into the radio and spoke without thinking. “I just want to get home.” The memory of what went on then begins to fade. We took several photos with both the SAS and the DLE flags flying on the summit, as promised, and I scooped some snow into an empty Juice Plus vitamin bottle I had with me.* It was all I would take with me from the summit. I remember having some vague conversation on the radio--patched through from base camp via a satellite phone--with my family some three thousand miles away: the people who had given me the inspiration to climb. But up there, the time flew by, and like all moments of magic, nothing can last forever. We had to get down. It was already 7:48 A.M. Neil checked my oxygen. “Bear, you’re right down. You better get going, buddy, and fast.” I had just under a fifth of a tank to get me back to the Balcony. I heaved the pack and tank onto my shoulders, fitted my mask, and turned around. The summit was gone. I knew that I would never see it again. *Years later, Shara and I christened our three boys with this snow water from Everest’s summit. Life moments.

said, “Those are cool. I have an idea.” He brought me over to his desktop to explain. Together we looked at his buddy list on AOL Instant Messenger (AIM). There was a little feature called Status. It was there so you could say that you were away from your desk or out to lunch, and so on, so people would know why you weren’t responding to their messages.

I said he was a shitty agent, not a shitty politician.” Claire still couldn’t read the man’s expression. “You don’t sound like a fan.” Nolan clasped his hands together on the table. “On the surface, it seems like we’re making progress, but when I think back on the last few minutes of our conversation, I get the feeling that you’re questioning me instead of the other way around.” “You’ll make a great detective one day.” “Fingers crossed.” He flashed a grin. “I want to tell you something about the FBI.” “You always win?” “Sure, there’s that, and terrorists, of course. Kidnappers, bank robbers, pedophiles—nasty fuckers—but nuts and bolts, what we at the ol’ FBI deal in day-to-day is curiosities. Did you know that?” Claire didn’t respond. He’d clearly given this speech before. Nolan continued, “Local cops, they find something curious they can’t figure out, and they bring it to us, and we either agree that it’s curious or we don’t. And generally when we agree, it’s not just the one curious thing, it’s several curious things.” He held up his index finger. “Curious thing number one: your husband embezzled three million dollars from his company. Only three million dollars. That’s curious, because you’re loaded, right?” Claire nodded. “Curious thing number two.” He added a second finger. “Paul went to college with Quinn. He shared a dorm room with the guy, and then when they were in grad school together, they shared an apartment, and then Quinn was best man at your wedding, and then they started the business together, right?” Claire nodded again. “They’ve been best friends for almost twenty-one years, and it seemed curious to me that after twenty-one years, Quinn figures out his best buddy is stealing from their company, the one they built together from the ground up, but instead of going to his buddy and saying ‘Hey, what the fuck, buddy?’ Quinn goes straight to the FBI.” The way he put it together did seem curious, but Claire only said, “Okay.” Nolan held up a third finger. “Curious thing number three: Quinn didn’t go to the cops. He went to the FBI.” “You have domain over financial crimes.” “You’ve been reading our Web site.” Nolan seemed pleased. “But lemme ask you again: Is that what you’d do if your best friend of twenty-one years stole a small, almost negligible, amount of money from your zillion-dollar company—find the biggest, baddest stick to fuck him with?” The question gave Claire a different answer: Adam had turned in Paul to the FBI, which meant that Adam and Paul were not getting along. Either Adam Quinn didn’t know about the movies or he knew about the movies and he was trying to screw over Paul.

We can do slow and sweet later. I want you fast and rough, and I've been begging for a while now." She hooked a leg around his, bringing their bodies together as close as possible. "If you missed the memo, buddy, I've been trying to get you inside me half the day." With a low groan, he picked her up and lowered her to the bed, his mouth and tongue setting up a rhythm to match the fingers he slid inside her. "Not that," she said. "You. Now." "Bossy Cajun woman." He gave her a tousle-haired, lopsided grin as he rolled into the cradle of her thighs, positioning himself at her 'entrance...

Mercy said to tell you hi next time I talked to you and that she thanks you for sending her bear back.” Damn. Cat must have done that too. She’d been a busy woman the last couple of days. “Tell her I appreciated the loan.” “I will. Enjoy yourself, buddy. The company can run without you for a while. Get your marriage in order. A few months ago I wouldn’t have understood how important that is, but I do now. If she’s the one for you you need to invest time in her.” Harper knew he was right; it was just hard taking a step back. Daring to go out on a limb, he cleared his throat. “I left because of the anxiety and the paranoia. I thought I was going to hurt someone.” Silence stretched for several seconds. “But if you leave the good because you’re worried about the bad, the bad wins, right? You have a better chance of getting right in the head if you have the right foundation at home.” Harper sighed. Though he had a few years on his boss age-wise the guy had the right of it. “Yeah, I know what you’re saying is sound—it’s just hard. The worries are persistent.” “I know, but I also know you’re more persistent. You’re a damn bull. You need to find a way to keep your family together.” There

managed to snag the last available table and all three ordered the special with sweet tea to drink. “It’s like Thanksgiving,” Shiloh said. “Not for me. Thanksgiving was working an extra shift so the folks with kids could be home for the day. Christmas was the same,” Bonnie said. Abby shrugged. “The army served turkey and dressing on the holidays. It wasn’t what Mama made, but it tasted pretty damn good.” Since it was a special and only had to be dipped up and served, they weren’t long getting their meal. Abby shut her eyes on the first bite and made appreciative noises. “This is so good. I may eat here every Sunday.” “And break Cooper’s heart?” Bonnie asked. “Hey, now! One night of drinking together does not make us all bosom buddies or BFFs or whatever the hell it’s called these days.” Abby waved at the waitress, who came right over. “I want this plate all over again,” she said. “Did you remember that we do have pie for dessert?” the waitress asked. “Yes, I’ll have two pieces, whipped cream on both. What about you, Shiloh?” She blushed. “I shouldn’t, but . . . yes, and go away before I change my mind.” “Bonnie?” Abby asked. Bonnie shook her head. “Just an extra piece of pie will do me.” “So that’s two more specials and five pieces of pie, right?” the waitress asked. “You got it,” Abby said. “I’m having ice cream when we finish with hair and nails. You two are going to be moaning and groaning about still being too full,” Bonnie said. “Not me. By the middle of the afternoon I’ll be ready for ice cream,” Abby said. “My God, how do you stay so small?” Shiloh asked. “Damn fine genes. Mama wasn’t a big person.” “Well, my granny was as wide as she was tall and every bite of food I eat goes straight to my thighs and butt,” Shiloh said. “But after that wicked, evil stuff last night, I’m starving.” “It burned all the calories right out of your body,” Abby said. “Anything you eat today doesn’t even count.” “You are full of crap,” Shiloh leaned forward and whispered. The waitress returned with more plates of food and slices of pumpkin pie with whipped cream, taking the dirty dishes back away with her. Bonnie picked up the clean fork on the pie plate and cut a bite-size piece off. “Oh. My. God! This is delicious. Y’all can eat Cooper’s cookin’. I’m not the one kissin’ on him, so I don’t give a shit if I hurt his little feelin’s or not. I’m comin’ here for pumpkin pie next Sunday if I have to walk.” “If Cooper doesn’t want to cook, maybe we can all come back here with him and Rusty next Sunday,” Abby said. “And if he does?” Shiloh asked. “Then I’m eating a steak and you can borrow my truck, Bonnie. I’d hate to see you walk that far. You’d be too tired to take care of the milkin’ the next day,” Abby said. “And you don’t know how to milk a cow, do you?” Bonnie’s blue eyes danced when she joked. Abby took a deep breath and told the truth. “No, I don’t, and I don’t like chickens.” “Well, I hate hogs,” Shiloh admitted. “And I can’t milk a cow, either.” “Looks like it might take all three of us to run that ranch after all.” Bonnie grinned. The waitress refilled their tea glasses. “Y’all must be the Malloy sisters. I heard you’d come to the canyon. Ezra used to come in here pretty often for our Sunday special and he always took an extra order home with him. Y’all sound like him when you talk. You all from Texas?” “Galveston,” Abby said. “Arkansas, but I lived in Texas until I graduated high school,” Shiloh said. The waitress looked at Bonnie. “Kentucky after leavin’ Texas.” “I knew I heard the good old Texas drawl in your voices,” the waitress said as she walked away. “Wonder how much she won on that pot?” Abby whispered. Shiloh had been studying her ragged nails but she looked up.

It’s for you from Miss Tempy.” Aletta stood and stretched from side to side, then accepted the offered treat. She started to take a drink, then paused and looked back at him, doing her best to make her frown look real. “If it’s for me, then why is half of it gone?” He grinned. “I didn’t want to spill any on the way so I drank a little.” She laughed and took a sip. Delicious as usual. She’d finally managed to watch Tempy mixing a batch one day and had learned the woman’s secret—a little salt and vanilla. And, of course, a generous amount of cream. “Are we ready to hang the star yet, Mama?” “Almost. But I’m to the point now where I’m going to need some help putting it all together.” He jumped up. “I’ll help.” She tousled his hair. “I appreciate that. But I think you and I might require a third person for this next part.” Just then Aletta looked over to see Jake walking from the house, past the barn and toward his cabin. “Captain Winston!” she called. He turned, gave a quick wave, and headed in their direction. “Evening, Aletta.” He knelt and gave Andrew a playful poke in the tummy. “Hey, buddy, how you doing?” “I’m good, Ja—” Andrew cut his eyes in her direction. “I mean . . . Captain Winston, sir. You want some cocoa? Tempy made some just now.” Jake smiled. “That sounds good, thank you.” Aletta caught her son’s gaze, appreciating how he’d corrected his mistake. “Do you plan on drinking half of the Captain’s too?” With an impish grin, Andrew darted back to the kitchen. “Fine boy you’ve got there, Aletta.” “Thank you. I think I’ll keep him.” “With good reason.” Jake eyed the booth lying in pieces on the barn floor beside the manger, and knelt to examine her work. “Very impressive. Your father taught you well.” “I only wish I’d learned how to carve like he could. He would’ve taught me, but I didn’t consider it important enough at the time.” He ran a hand over the manger and looked up at her, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “It’s never too late to learn something new.” “I’ve got yours, Captain Winston!” They looked up to see Andrew slowly walking toward them, his attention homed in on the cup in his hands. Captain Winston took the cup from him but eyed it suspiciously. “Tell me now . . . how much of mine did you drink?” Andrew grinned. “Not as much as Mama’s.

Fränkel-Conrat seems to have done the biggest thing with TMV, since Stanley crystallized it. He can add soluble TMV protein to soluble TMV RNA, aggregate the whole mess into rods of which 0.1% are infective!!! Naturally, you don’t believe it—neither did I nor anyone else, but unless he has made up the whole thing it now seems that it must be true. You can’t beat that for laughs, can you Buddy? Heinz Fraenkel-Conrat had taken particles of tobacco-mosaic virus apart, which had been done before—and then had successfully put them back together again. The virus is made of one long single strand of RNA and a large number of identical protein subunits—2,130 of these, it is now known, each a single polypeptide chain folded into a shape like the first joint of a thumb. As Watson had glimpsed in the summer of 1952, these subunits join up, side to side but slightly askew, to form a helix with all the thumbs pointing out. The overall shape is a rod with a hole down the middle like a short piece of macaroni. The subunits are held together by weak bonds between certain charged amino-acid side chains. The central hole is twenty angstroms across, and is empty. But the protein units, assembled, have a long continuous internal groove winding up beyond the wall of the central hole. In this groove lies the strand of RNA—which explains the discovery, which had intrigued Watson and everyone else, that all its phosphate groups lie at a common radius. By treatment with mild acid, Fraenkel-Conrat neutralized the charges that hold the protein subunits together, and the rod fell apart and stopped being infectious. He then separated and purified the protein. In a separate, parallel step, he treated virus particles with detergent to strip away the protein to allow the RNA to be recovered. Then he mixed the subunits and the RNA strands in solution once more—and got out normal infectious particles. With the electron microscope, Robley Williams confirmed that whole virus particles were there. The virus assembled itself: the architecture of the complete particle seemed to be an inbuilt consequence of the structure of the protein subunits.

But what if we live together? Have kids together? Own a chinchilla farm upstate together? What if not speaking for sixty days is an honest-to-God impossibility? Then your contact should be as brief and cordial as possible while you make plans to not live together or sell the chinchilla farm. If there are children involved, then clearly their well-being is paramount and you, being the super classy lady who is unbelievably graceful in trying situations, will rise to the occasion . . . while keeping the contact to a minimum and strictly about the kids.

I won’t settle for being your fuck buddy again. Our time together won’t be confined to a bedroom. I’m going to fuck you, but I’m also going to date the hell out of you, spoil the fuck out of you and love you as loudly as you let me.

When making your butch-buddy film, By Hook or By Crook, you and your co-writer, Silas Howard, decided that the butch characters would call each other “he” and “him,” but in the outer world of grocery stores and authority figures, people would call them “she” and “her”. The point wasn't that if the outer world were schooled appropriately re: the characters’ preferred pronouns, everything would be right as rain. Because if the outsiders call the characters “he”, it would be a different kind of he. Words change depending on who speaks them; there is no cure. The answer isn't just to introduce new words (boi, cis-gendered, andro-fag) and then set out to reify their meanings (though obviously there is power and pragmatism here.) One must also become alert to the multitude of possible uses, possible contexts, the wings with which each word can fly. Like when you whisper, You’re just a hole, letting me fill you up. Like when I say husband. Soon after we got together, we attended a dinner party at which a (presumably straight, or at least straight-married) women who’d known Harry for some time turned to me and said, “So, have you been with other women, before Harry?” I was taken aback. Undeterred, she went on: “Straight ladies have always been hot for Harry.” Was Harry a woman? Was I a straight lady? What did past relationships I’d had with “other women” have in common with this one? Why did I have to think about other “straight ladies” who were hot for my Harry? Was his sexual power, which I already felt to be immense, a kind of spell I’d fallen under, from which I would emerge abandoned, as he moved on to seduce others? Why was this woman, whom I barely knew, talking to me like this? When would Harry come back from the bathroom?

In the few weeks we've been in residence, Schatzi has kicked dirt in the eye of a Chihuahua, resulting in a squealing of eardrum-perforating shrillness. She nipped the fingers of a very nice young woman walking her terrier mix when she tried to pet her. She growled at a Yorkie so menacingly the dog had immediate violently explosive diarrhea. All over my leg. It was like some invisible hand just squeezed her in the middle and hot liquid poop shot out of her with such velocity that despite being only like eight inches tall, she hit me from ankle to over the knee. I'm still grateful she wasn't a bigger dog. Schatzi was never mean to other dogs, or owners for that matter, when we were in the West Loop. She had her neighborhood pals, Otto the black Lab, who always tried to give her gifts of mangy tennis balls, Lucy, the sweet old arthritic collie who would nuzzle Schatzi like a doting grandmother, and her best buddy, Klaus, a giant schnauzer, the perfect replica of Schatzi herself, just supersized. They would romp around and then put their square bearded heads together and have what appeared to be very serious conversations about things. Jimmy, Klaus's dad, would always lean over and ask, "Do you think they're planning to invade Poland?" which never failed to make me laugh.

Tucker sank back and whispered i Kane's ear. "WAWPOINT, COVER, QUIET CLOSE, TAKE ALPHA." He repeated the complex chain of commands. While Kane's vocabulary was impressive, he also had an amazing ability to string together actions. In this case, Kane would need to cross the road, find cover, close the distance between himself and their target - then attack. "Got it buddy? Tucker asked. Kane bumped his nose against Tucker's. His dark eyes twinkled with his answer: (italicized) Of course I do, you stupid ass. "Off you go then.

The teenager let out a deep, deep sigh, like he’d been holding it in for hours. “Dad’s gonna be so pissed.” “Yeah, but not at you,” I reassured him. The look he sent me was one that told me he wasn’t totally convinced that was going to be the case, but I knew it would. And I’d be nosey and eavesdrop. We headed into the house. I went to the table in the kitchen, picking up a hunting and fishing magazine stacked neatly in the middle as Amos went for the house phone and punched in some numbers. His face was gloomy as hell. I pretended not to look at him as he held the receiver and let out a deep breath. He winced right before saying, “Hey, Dad… uh, Ora and I think there’s a leak in the garage apartment… The ceiling has, like, pockets of water, and there’s drops—what? I don’t know how… I just went in there and saw it… Ora turned off the water. Then she turned off the power when the lights started flickering… Hold on.” The boy held the phone out. “He wants to talk to you.” I took it. “Hi, Rhodes, how’s your day going? How many people have you busted for not having a permit?” I flashed a grimace-like smile at Amos, who suddenly didn’t look so sick. Rhodes didn’t say anything for a heartbeat before coming on the line with “It’s going good now.” Excuse me? Was that flirting? “And only two hunters. How’s yours?” He was really asking me about my day. Who was this man and how could I buy him? “Pretty good. A customer brought me a Bundt cake. I gave Clara half when she gave me the stink eye. I’ll give Am half of my half so you can try it. It’s good.” Amos was giving me the funniest look, and I winked at him. We were in this together. “Thanks, Buddy,” he said almost softly. “You mind telling me what happened over there?

This theory is nicely illustrated by Yeroen’s choice of partner after he lost his position. For a brief while, Luit was alpha. Since Luit was physically the strongest male, he could handle most situations by himself. Furthermore, soon after his rise, the females one by one switched over to his side, most important, Mama. Mama was pregnant at the time, and it’s natural that females under such circumstances do everything to stabilize the hierarchy. Despite his cushy position, Luit was keen on disrupting get-togethers among other males, especially between Yeroen and the only male who could pose a threat, Nikkie. Sometimes these scenes escalated into fighting. Noticing that both other males wanted to be his buddy, Yeroen grew in importance by the day. At this point, Yeroen had two choices: He could attach himself to the most powerful player, Luit, and derive a few benefits in return - what kind of benefits would be up to Luit. Or, he could help Nikkie challenge Luit and in effect create a new alpha male who would owe his position to him. We have seen that Yeroen took the second route. This is consistent with the “strength is weakness” paradox, which says that the most powerful player is often the least attractive political ally. Luit was too strong for his own good. Joining him, Yeroen would add little. As the colony’s superpower, Luit really did not need more than the old male’s neutrality. Throwing his weight behind Nikkie was a logical choice for Yeroen. He would be the puppet master, having far more leverage than he could ever have dreamt of having under Luit. His choice also translated into increased prestige and access to females. So if Luit demonstrated the “strength is weakness” principle, Yeroen illustrated the corresponding “weakness is strength” principle according to which minor players can position themselves at an intersection that offers great advantage.

said. “It’s bigger than the first trailer we had,” Christine said. That reference to their shared past knocked the breath out of him. After all these years he thought she’d probably had those memories scrubbed out of her mind. Made herself believe their years together were a bad dream. They certainly felt like a dream to Buddy Lee. Hazy, half-remembered visions of a person and a time he occasionally didn’t believe he’d ever been or had ever existed.

Waiting for Steve to come back felt like forever. I had to be strong for Boney Pete, who paced the end stone the entire time, waiting for his friend to come back. I might have done the same if I wasn’t caring for Pete, stroking his spine and telling him that Steve was going to be all right. We knew he defeated Herobrine when Lucius began to glow. “Oh my!” he said as white light flashed from inside him, a lot like the ender dragon when it exploded, but he zero time to be afraid. The change happened so quick. One minute Lucius was a snow-white fox jumping in fright and the next he was a librarian villager spinning in circles, as if chasing his tail. When Lucius realized he no longer had a tail, he froze, and, trembling looked over his old body, newly acquired. “It feels so strange… I have hands. I - I have hands! HAHA!” He jumped for joy and ran to me, grabbing my hands and shouting, “Dance with me, Alex! Dance with me!” When he got tired of dancing he sat down. When he got tired of that he crawled on his hands and feet. “How did I ever get around on four legs? It is the most unnatural thing in the world.” Soon the realization hit us that it was over. Herobrine was defeated. Lucius paused party and looked back at the bridge. “But does that mean…” Boney Pete inched toward the bridge and whinnied into the void. He called and he called, but there was no answer. I walked up beside him and rubbed his neck. Boney Pete pushed his body against me and shuddered. I had to hold him up, or else he might have collapsed. “There there, buddy,” I said and pet his forehead, not sure how else to comfort an undead horse on the death of his friend. And the death of my friend… Steve… I could feel the stupid emotions filling me up and I hated it, but it also felt right, so I let the tears flow. I always hated crying, hated the way it made me feel—weak and powerless. Worse, I hated the way people looked at me when I cried, but I didn’t feel those things then. I just felt sad and crying felt good. I hugged Boney Pete tight and clung to his back. “I’m sorry, Pete,” I said. Then I heard something from the void bridge. A voice. “Ow… Ow… Ow… Ow… Ow…” Boney Pete and I raised our heads and there, coming across the bridge toward us, was Steve. We rushed to the edge of the end island, but still waited until he got off to crush him in a hug. Boney Pete got him first, and then me, and then Lucius. Steve winced each time we hugged him, and I saw why. His leg was twisted in a way that no amount of cooked chicken would heal. “Your leg…” I said and reached my hand toward it, but Steve flinched back. “Yeah, I used an ender pearl to escape falling into the void and the fall damage got my leg pretty good. I think my hero days are over, and honestly that sounds okay with me.” He rubbed Boney Pete. “What do you say buddy, are you ready to rebuild?” Together, the four of us left the end through the portal and reappeared in a birch forest.

Me and him are kind of buddies, in fact,” said Avery, nodding her head at Shade, while Arthur rolled his eyes—slowly. “Of course, as much as my kind can be friends with his kind.” “Oh, Ave,” Arthur breathed, looking at her like he felt sorry for her. “What?! It’s true. If our magic didn’t hurt each other every time we worked together, we would be,” Avery said. Heat spilled down the length of me—the bad kind. “What do you mean?” “Just that. His shadows hurt me, and my godlight hurts him. Not hurt hurt, but…you know. Very unpleasant,” she said, and words Arti said to me that day we first trained came to my mind. But it must have been much, much different for them than it was for me because Shade’s shadows never hurt me. His darkness was my safe place.