MacGuffin Files: Carats and Cold Meat

By Greg Jackson

Thomas Foolery is a man living in his own world,
surrounded by fictional, televised tales, scripted
worlds of crime and endless Hitchcock marathons.
He's unfit, he smokes like a chimney and sees
nothing wrong with his voluntary agoraphobia. He's living life on his own terms...and under the watchful eye of his therapist.
Angie Earhardt is the only person Thomas truly trusts, even if there are ulterior motives to his dedication to therapy. When she tells him that there's more to life than selling online collectibles alone, Tom starts to open up.
And when he sees a critical flaw in the rolling footage of a major crime breaking, he decides to take Angie's advice and journey out into the world and live out his fantasy...being at the center of an elaborate mystery.
Adopting the alias...Matt MacGuffin and with his unending knowledge of fictional skills, he embarks on a dangerous journey into the real criminal underworld, where his life...and Angie's, will be pushed to their limits and hang in the balance.
Matt and Angie learn quickly to trust no one, humidity sucks and you should never, ever vomit on a corpse.
Will Matt survive in this world, where all of the players are cold and the cadavers are much, much colder? Find out in this darkly twisted, darkly comic crime novel!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Jackson
• Release date: Aug 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476251790

Greg Jackson

Greg Jackson is author of Prodigals: Stories, for which he received the National Book Foundation's 5 Under 35 award and the Bard Fiction Prize. In 2017, he was named one of Granta's Best Young American Novelists. His fiction and essays have appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, Granta, Tin House, Vice, Conjunctions, Virginia Quarterly Review, the Los Angeles Times, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and The Guardian, among other places.

Book preview

ONE

Misery. Despair. Pity. Some, mostly the people that can profit from medicating me, would call it a flat-out depression. However, I would call it a typical Monday in Florida. The day was so typical that it cloned the previous six days, leaving nothing to tell the difference but the spelling and its physical placement on the calendar. My mental state in society has nothing to do with where I live. From what I’m told it has everything to do with who I am, or more importantly, who I am not.

I was at a point where all of the people that I knew over the course of my life have vanished, with the exception of what little family I have left. It was almost as if the first thirty years of my existence were merely a test run and somewhere along the line I wasn’t deemed worthy of associating with anyone. It has become almost like I was living someone else’s life inside my own body, giving me an awkward sense that everything around me was being painted and imagined by Salvador Dali.

Oh, by the way my name is Thomas. Actually, my whole name is Thomas Foolery, which may play a part in why I am in the isolated stage of life that I am in right now. It doesn’t play much of a part anymore but I’m sure that if I gave a shit enough to look back into my childhood, I would be able to see a lot of people making my life a living hell for my name alone. The name was appointed to me thirty-three years ago, almost to this date. And from what I understand, I was never meant to roam this earth in the first place. I was just persistent and had an uncanny ability to chew through rubber, that’s how my mother put it anyway. Not that she would know or remember, she was so whacked out on drugs and alcohol when she named me she just thought it would be funny. She still laughs when she says it out loud and yes…when she speaks it, you can still smell the alcohol on her breath.

Other then the name, I still haven’t pinpointed the exact moment in my life when I was on the right track to the point where God seemed to want to play evil genius and hit the railroad switch, careening me from my path into a wide open space that was well populated with absolutely nothing, with the exception of some rolling tumbleweeds. There were only desolate, yet mildly active weeds covering the rusted railroad buffers on a dead-end track that overlooked a wide open space that stretched as far as the eye can see.

That’s why I am writing all of this in my journal. It was actually my therapist’s idea that I get all of this down on paper, the idea being that when I revisit it later on I can get a different perspective on the content of the journal and reassess it. You know, to gain a delicate balance of my mind so I can live up to my full potential and all that garbage. She said that it would more or less put me in her chair. It would enable me to reach a conclusion through objectivity, knowing that my mood changes every day. I have no idea if any of this shit works. I am only going along with it because she is absolutely one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. Am I shallow? Absolutely, but she seems to genuinely want to help, so I will suspend my negativity on her behalf.

My therapist’s name is Angie Earhardt. She is just about my age and had that classic movie sex appeal that seems, in other women, to have been lost and forgotten in the path to pseudo-perfection by way of implants and face injections. She’s a brunette who is reminiscent of an old-school Hollywood vixen, like Theresa Wright or Linda Darnell. I would even go so far as to say that she’s like my personal Kin Novak and I’m the Jimmy Stewart who wants to see her devious other side.

I know it sounds horrible and sexist, but when she looks at me through those sexy little glasses of hers, I would immediately forget how I came to be sitting in her office in the first place. Sadly, knowing that she would never date me kept me there. As always, I was in the middle of a demented catch-22 that I subconsciously created for myself and I was just waiting to drool at the sound of the bell she’d ring in my direction any day now. Yes, I was one of Pavlov’s dogs and she was holding the bell.

She knows all of this is in my journal and I’m hoping that some part of her is flattered. In a perfect world, she would read my journal, look into my eyes while A-Ha’s Take On Me played in the background and throw everything off her desk in slow motion as the mysterious wind in her office whisked through her perfect hair. Never mind, she’d rattle off about it being transference or something. Yeah, I guess imagining us in the throes of a Tawny Kitaen Whitesnake video is the actual reason I’m in therapy.

Angie reads through these journals with me once a week to see how my mental state is coming along and after a few weeks, she finally noticed that I was embellishing, so everything from now on is on the level. You don’t try to mess with Angie. I learned that the hard way.

I don’t think I’m crazy at all, I just don’t know where I fit into all of this crap that we call life. I had great friends long ago; some of them have died, some of them have settled for people that give them attention and found that their lives are so much better than mine that they stop associating with me for fear that I will interfere with their perfect Cleaver family dynamic.

I also used to have a real job. I have worked steadily since I was sixteen. My last one was with a phone company, which stole six double-standard years from me that I’d never get back, leaving me with just about nothing to show for it but a ‘Thanks for your six years and one sick day taken…we’re laying you off’. Sure, there were a lot of great people there, the people that have the same yearbook-signing farewells after my lay-off: Keep in touch! We’ll still see each other! We’ll go out for drinks! But I only talk to two of them still and that’s only a few time a months through emails, the rest of them have fallen by the wayside. Not that I’m not sharing some blame here. I’ve lost the interest in trying as well. It is what it is. Is that crazy? Not really.

Once I even saw a guy I was good friends with at the store with his girlfriend. He walked the other way when he saw me, avoiding the conversation entirely. Events like that are not exactly conducive to a good mental state, in my honest opinion but it’s an everyday occurrence for me.

That six year era also marked the last time I was interested in dating. I made the mistake of telling the girl I worked with (one-to-one) for two years how I felt about her, I was under the impression it was mutual. She was mysteriously missing at the moment I got laid off so she didn’t have to see me again or risk that I would attempt to contact her. From what I gathered she decided to make it easy and show me how forgettable I really was to her, no matter how much I helped her with various things in her life. For so long we kidded that we spent more time with each other than our own families and that we were always so good together and it all just stopped in an instant. None of it was acknowledged ever again. Maybe she was afraid of her feelings, maybe she was just a bitch and honestly I could care less now. I hope she’s doing well either way in whatever little world she’s created for herself. She was really incredible when she was happy and I wish for nothing less for her.

So this is how I got here. This is how I started sitting in my house with the blinds drawn on a daily basis, staring at what once was a decent body as it morphs into man-tits, or ‘mitties’ as I like to call them, topped off with a not-so-healthy dose of stomach chub. This is why I started buying and selling collectible toys online so I only had to leave my house to shop for more products and the daily cup of coffee and some groceries and cigarettes. Somewhere in the back of my mind I always thought that I can always whip myself into shape. That way I would always have a goal to strive for. Like the fast food commercials tempting you to eat and then you flip the channel and buy a diet plan while you’re sucking down a double cheeseburger, only to turn around a month later and repeat the cycle. The country relies on dependence to live. I just chose the side of lazy and comfortable, so I’m content with just schlepping it on the couch.

Circumstances like this were the reasons why I stopped giving a shit about shaving and all of the other daily grooming activities that would make me appealing again to the people outside of the blinds, like shaving or grooming that patch of hair on the land bridge that connects my two eyebrows. It wasn’t like I looked like a Cro-Magnon man but in a few more weeks I’d have a hair shield on my forehead, a permanent shade in the blistering Florida sun. People don’t care who I am and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I couldn’t give two shits less about who they were. They were all so comfortable in their perfect little lives on the good tracks that it makes my confined little caboose in the wasteland, resting next to the buffers, seem like comfort to me. Call it what you want, I am okay with being alone.

So this was like any other Monday. I mail out my packages, hit the stores for a couple of hours for some more products, get some coffee and come home to continue my personal marathon of Hitchcock movies and television shows. Once a week I’d pop into my favorite pizza place and have a beer accompanied by a calzone with a lot of garlic and sauce. Normally I wouldn’t attach myself to a place like that but there’s an unattainable waitress there that is just plain hot. Like I said, I enjoy filling my life with unattainable hopes. It keeps me where I want to be, hungry for something more than what I have.

It’s been going on like that for over a few weeks now. For whatever reason, every night I found myself stuck watching the DVD of my personal favorite Hitchcock film Shadow of a Doubt, with Joseph Cotten and Theresa Wright. I guess it was the perfect rationalization for my life: The people you thought you knew really aren’t who they say they are. They’ll wind up hurting you in the end, no matter how hard you try to believe otherwise. Maybe if I switched the movie I would have a different outlook in the morning. Maybe not but it’s a great movie regardless.

It’s still early in the morning I guess. The blinds don’t let the light in but based on the muted TV in front of me, my morning show was on so it must have been somewhere between ten and eleven a.m. I turned on the radio and started listening to whatever station was on that was broadcast out of Tampa. I have listened to those shows for years, going full time with them (usually, depending on my erratic sleep schedule) when I self-employed myself. Some host was going on about his assistant not knowing where some country was. I realized that the live shows were over at this time of the morning but I listened to the remixes anyway, trying to fill in the blanks for the things I’ve missed through the week, which wasn’t much. It always pisses me off when I oversleep through the live shows in the morning. It throws my whole day off.

I hopped up after a few minutes of silent morning television and hit play on the CD player during the planned commercial break of the morning whatever that was on. Mike Patton starting belting out Faith No More’s "Falling to Pieces" as I walked into the bathroom to take a shower. Yes, I know that the song was made in the early nineties but it still held up and in some way summed up the life that I have been living for so long now. I mean, it is journal day at Angie’s in about an hour. I at least have to make sure my parts smell alright to take an active part in my conundrum.

For God’s sake I don’t want to offend my therapist. Shit, I don’t even have time to get my coffee first. This is going to be a bad day, I could tell. See? I miss the live morning show and I can’t get it together. For such a lazy guy I really have a strict schedule for my life. It’s odd how that works.

I walked into Angie Earhardt’s office and immediately took out a Marlboro and started smoking it, blowing out the first puff without inhaling. Somewhere along the line I learned that the majority of carcinogens that can hurt you were in the first puff. If that was true at all was anyone’s guess. I did it all the time even know I knew the remainder of the cigarette itself was no saint itself. But I figured this is one of the few places in the world that people would let you smoke, as long as they figured it was a stop on the road to good mental health. You try telling a psychopath that his dirty air is killing you. It’s not worth the hassle for the therapist so I run with it. Tom Foolery wins by a loop hole. Take that society!

Angie’s office was in Tarpon Springs (the Greek capital of Florida), so the smoke smell went by the wayside when she opened her window anyway. The scent of freshly cut sponges, gulf water and lamb meat and feta cheese usually drowned out the tar and nicotine that I provided with frequency. I blew smoke in the general direction of the window, thinking that I really would like a piece of baklava right about now. It’s never too early for honey and almonds, maybe there’s time for a nice lamb shank. My stomach started to grumble loudly with the thoughts I was sending to it via my olfactory sense.

Still smoking Tom? Angie asked as I sat down.

I noticed immediately that she chose to wear a nice gray skirt that rested nicely on her athletically enhanced legs. I’ve always thought that she was a soccer player or a softball player but never got around to asking. Therapists have a million ways to dodge any questions. God forbid they reveal something about themselves, even if they knew of my weird fantastical intentions in the knowledge. Jesus, I haven’t dated in years so can’t a guy get any mental files together for later use? I just bought a box of tissues so my love life is truly amazing.

Obviously. I said as I pulled a drag from my cigarette like it was my last one on death row, nervously waiting for a pardon. I was mentally trying to keep my eyes off of her legs but they were stubborn little shits. They kept staring anyway, ignoring the warnings my brain was sending.

You’re still keeping the journal? She asked. And I am up here, Tom. Those are my legs.

"Yep, and might I add you are the best parts of the journal, legs included. If only you weren’t my therapist I might leave the house for something other than a necessity."

That’s nice Tom. Do you remember why I am in that book in the first place?

Yeah, it was something clinical. You are a hot one though. I took out all of the drawings so I didn’t offend you.

Angie shook off the off-placed comment, which she always did. It’s because you idealize me. It has nothing to do with how I look; it has everything to do with me being one of the few people who will actually talk to you.

Well thanks for the ego boost. I took another drag off of the cigarette and blew the smoke directly at her. It was one thing to dig through me personally to help me but to throw ‘digs’ at me like that were unprofessional and unnecessary, no matter how hot she is. It was like High School all over again.

Angie could tell that she crossed my widely-drawn line. I wasn’t fragile, I didn’t care about most things and it takes a lot to piss me off. Luckily for me, she knew exactly how to do it.

That came out wrong. She said. What I meant to say was that I am trying to help you, and the only problem you have is that you’ve lost touch with people around you, except for me.

I didn’t lose it, they dropped it. All of the people I know, minus about three think I am just forgettable. You know, they love me while I’m there but something better always comes along.

And that’s why you idealize me. That’s why you come here once a week to talk to me because I am someone that you can’t have. I am a safety net that can’t possibly hurt you, right?

So I am the ‘better’ that came along for you? I smiled. See, things are looking up already. You just need to burn my records and walk off into the sunset with me, preferably naked.

Again, I stated that wrong. I guess I walked right into that one. She cleared her throat while I pulled another drag that would make the Marlboro Man proud. Take that Surgeon General! What I mean is that finally you have someone to talk to that will actually listen to what’s on your mind, not just dismiss it because you don’t fit into their concept of the world.

I just stared at her. She was getting to the point of figuring me out but I could tell in her eyes that she knew there was really nothing clinically wrong with me. I hoped to God that she didn’t figure out that I just liked her company, with which the fee was submitted to my insurance. I was just fed up being temporary in people’s lives. More to the point, I was fed up trying to find someone who didn’t do that. It just wasn’t worth the hassle; people just weren’t worth the hassle. It’s like working really hard to buy the car of your dreams and the transmission falls out a mile down the road when you drive it off the lot.

See, you do understand. I smiled. That’s why I come see you. Other than the fact that you’re insanely pretty, you’re not one of those ‘Oh, you had a bad day, here’s a pill’ kind of therapist. I am not depressed, I just prefer to live by myself and enjoy my time on this earth without other people’s stupid bullshit getting in the way. Because when it all comes down to it, everyone makes other people deal with their bullshit but then get all cold and distant when you have your own bullshit to unleash.

Angie set her sexy eyes in stone and pointed them at me. She was boring a hole through me and I can’t lie and say it didn’t excite me a little.

Have you entertained the idea of getting a pet? She asked.

I can barely take care of myself and you want me to take care of a pet? That’s why I’m in therapy in the first place. Wouldn’t that just be adding to the problem?

I just thought maybe some companionship might do some good for you.

You already know that I’m not much for the whole companionship thing. I have my world exactly the way I want it. It’s not a crime to like things my way. Besides, if I want companionship, I know the best places to find someone for the night and they’re not greedy tippers.

That’s a little on the selfish side and I don’t take you for someone who entertains the idea of hookers.

Hookers? I laughed. I thought you’d go all PC on me and call them walking relaxation specialists.

They are who they are and I thought you’d appreciate the direct comment.

Oh I do. I smiled, knowing that she was trying to connect with me. Next stop, world domination!

I still think a pet would do you wonders. She continued, not wanting to drop the subject.

Some people just aren’t pet people. I said, smoking more. I know that’s hard for everyone to comprehend but contrary to popular belief, that doesn’t make me a monster. I like other people’s pets; I just don’t want to own any.

Okay, fair enough. She said as she started scribbling in her legal pad.

Whatever. I said. I like my couch, I like watching the shows and movies I want to watch and I don’t want anyone coming in to mess with my system. Plus, seeing me without a shirt on would definitely guarantee that I wouldn’t get a second date. I didn’t want to offend you with the animal thing. You seem like a cat person, no?

Angie nodded her head and looked confused at my sudden and correct assessment.

I figured. I smiled at my correct assumption. Man, I was good at this. Maybe I should open a practice. You look like a cat person. Intelligent, likes to go your own way. You are very feline, Dr. Earhardt. I’d definitely feed you every day and you already know how to use a toilet. You do know how to use a toilet, right?

I took another long drag from the Marlboro. Mondays are typically bad days for me. Why not mess with the process a little bit to break up the monotony?

Look, I said, everyone has the same outlook I do but they don’t have the balls to exercise it. No, people settle so they don’t have to be alone and then when the territorial disputes start, the divorces begin. Why the hell would I want that headache? I just cut out all the factors that would nauseate me.

We’re not talking about pets anymore, are we?

No. I said plainly. I won’t change my mind on that so there’s no point in continuing.

Angie just looked at me like I was ready to be sized for a straightjacket. Hell, maybe she was right. I had no idea. No one did, not even Angie, which made this whole process a little on the stupid side. Everyone made their way the best they could. But I guess when your outlook doesn’t match the created and accepted ‘norm’, you get therapy. It’s no wonder the world is so screwed up.

Well at least I’d be in a rubber room and we all know that I can chew through rubber. Again, it’s the circle of life. Funny how that shit works.

You are definitely an acquired taste, Tom.

And you acquired me. Aren’t you lucky? I smiled. Angie tried not to smile but it leaked out anyway.

So what do you watch on television, Tom? Angie said as she started scribbling again in her pad.

We went through all of this already. I said.

I think it would help if you mentioned it again. You seem to take all of this personally when in fact it’s only television. And the shows that people watch are like a window into who they really are as people.

"Only television? Without people like me watching, there’d be no shows to watch. I mostly watch crime shows. I said. I watch some sitcoms but for the most part its crime and forensics for me. If they stray from the whole procedural, predictive thing, that’s perfect."

And why is that? Why do you drift towards the cop shows and not the others?

Do you want all of my reasoning? I asked.

Angie reluctantly and slowly nodded, knowing that I could talk for hours on the subject but hey, she’s getting paid by the hour, right?

First, sitcoms nowadays dumb down the dialogue to make you laugh, like toilet humor, sex humor and the inevitable double-entendres. And most of them use a fake laugh track that’s added later. I don’t like being prompted to laugh.

"Like Three’s Company." Angie said.

"Don’t even trash Three’s Company. It’s a brilliant show, brilliant concept, one of my favorites to this day because that style was never really done like that before and hasn’t really worked since. It was revolutionary for its time. No one had to be prompted to laugh; the show was smart enough to make people laugh all on their own."

"You do know that Three’s Company was a remake from a show in England, don’t you?"

"Most things on TV are remakes from England’s shows. There’s a difference though. England shows know when to quit. Three seasons and they kill them off before they get horrible. With them it’s about the integrity of the story arcs. With American shows after the 90’s, it’s about branding and milking the stars for American consumption. Three’s Company wouldn’t work today because everyone’s too sensitive. Now we have toilet humor."

I took another drag off of the cigarette, looking at it appreciatively before returning to the type of rant that makes people run from me like the plague. But what the hell? I’m an opinionated dick.

And the ironic thing is, without smoking we’d have no I Love Lucy. Without Lucy, we’d have no comedy like it is today; she paved the way for that type of comedy, especially Three’s Company. Hell, she even hosted the tribute show for it back in the day. We’d have no Dick Van Dyke, we’d have no Friends, and we’d have no Seinfeld. There’d be no Golden Girls and we wouldn’t have Mary Tyler Moore. And seriously, can you imagine a world where there wasn’t a Betty White? Cigarette endorsements paid for Lucy’s show and it changed the world. And now I have to hide in a corner and puff like a criminal because we’re awful, dirty, smoking human beings.

Well, it isn’t very healthy, Tom.

Then tell me not to smoke in here. I’d respect it because I respect you. I respect my non-smoking brethren. But don’t tell me how to regulate my own body.

It doesn’t bother me and you know that.

Ah, finally a true American. I smiled as I pulled another large drag off of my Marlboro.

And what about the crime shows? She said, sensing that I was just about to go off on something. I tried my best not to because above all else, I respected her as a woman and a friend. So I just smiled at her creativity and her preemptive strike.

"The crime shows don’t falter much. There’s three of one type of show, about ten that deal with forensics but let me tell you, all of those shows don’t treat people like they’re stupid. They keep the jargon in there and let the people look them up if they want to. They just tell good stories that need to be figured out. I especially like the ones where they mentally profile people. That whole process is just incredible to me. It’s kind of what you do but they wrap up the episode in an hour, you charge by it."

Is that an insult? Angie said as she looked as pissed as a hot therapist can look.

No. That’s fiction, you’re real life. Their fiction is pretty damn good but you’re reality is much, much better.

Angie smiled. Do you want to know what I think?

I have a feeling that you’re going to tell me that there’s a reason for my behavior. I hope you do, your hourly rate isn’t very low. Thank God for insurance, right?

So, in essence, you like to solve mysteries. She said. I nodded. And your whole life is something to solve and you’re the main character.

Oh…kay? I said slowly, drawing it out for effect.

My point is that you can’t see things simply. You can’t have a first kiss without thinking twelve steps beyond it to see where it would lead.

Are we going to kiss? I asked.

Shut up. She smiled. You don’t live in the moment. You sabotage everything good before it even has a chance to take its course.

Maybe I know where it will lead and that’s why I think it to death. I replied nonchalantly.

But when you do that, you subconsciously plant the seed of doubt in your mind. You may enjoy that first kiss but you’ve attached a negative vibe to it that will subconsciously dictate your behavior towards sabotage.

Wow. I said. Yeah, I was officially shocked. That actually makes total sense.

It’s not like I have those degrees for nothing. She smiled. By assessing any problems that may arise down the line, you systematically destroy the present. And do you know what that does?

I shook my head, scared to say anything.

It gives you a reason to rationalize about it for months on end. You effectively give yourself a reason to deduct and relinquish yourself from human contact.

Wow, you’re making me sound like Norman Bates playing Sherlock Holmes.

Tom, have you ever heard of Houdini? She asked, her smile fading a little.

Do you mean Harry Houdini?

Yes, the magician.

I shook my head. Correction, I wouldn’t consider him a magician. I would consider him a very brilliant escape artist. He dealt with some illusion but actually escaped the things he was encased in.

Okay, that serves my point better. I am working on a subject for my book and it deals with escape, and as you can guess, my preliminary subjects are the people associated with the world of magic and how what they do says about them psychologically.

Harry Houdini was good at something and marketed himself well. I think he should be the subject of a business class. He gave faith and hope to the world when they needed it most.

I smiled as I listened to myself. It was like I was going for a role as a narrator on The History Channel.

You are like a psychological Houdini, Tom. You watch these shows constantly and pick them apart on how they’re made, the casting choices and the actions of the cast, yet you sit on your couch incessantly and just watch as it happens, even though it loathes you.

What’s wrong with creating your own chaos? I asked with a decent amount of demented pride. "It keeps you paid."

Nothing if it spices things up for you for the better. I’ve seen your journals and your writing. Why don’t you try that in your downtime?

I tried that once, only a few people knew I finished it, even though I told them. And only a few people bought it. All of them great friends though. Not to dismiss them, I’m grateful that they’re there. I don’t talk to them much but they’re always there for me and vice versa.

Success isn’t designed to be something that’s financial. Success should normally mean that you set a goal and accomplished it. And you did, so you are successful Tom. You just don’t think people listen and you look on the negative aspects of it. You’re obsession with Hollywood; I think had clouded your definition of success.

I nodded.

She kept talking. And the reason you like those cop shows and all of those forensic shows? I think it’s so you know in your head that you can out-think those people and figure it out, even though you’re only out-smarting the writers. The actors are just reading what others wrote. In the meantime you’re pushing aside your real life that needs to be figured out. Angie exhaled deeply. You are an escape artist, Tom. You just escape into the words that someone else has written and the actors who bring them out visually. They can’t hurt you; they can’t let you down, right?

I nodded again. Basic psychological concept, I got it.

They are a constant for you. She said. They go on hiatus too but they don’t leave you hanging after all of the devotion you gave them. You’d watch the reruns and see if you came to any different conclusions, am I right?

I nodded again.

Give me an update with your mother? Why don’t you try to help her or figure out her problems? She’s been a major source of problems for you so maybe if you helped her she’d, help you in the process without even knowing.

She’s always on some big, drunken hiatus. I said. I wish sometimes that the casting department would change her.

And what about your dad? Angie asked.

Like I told you, last time I talked to him was about a year ago. He moved away when I was a kid and became a pretty successful psychologist. I would have held him back. Nothing has changed since I told you about him last time.

"There’s always time, Tom. You just have to trust that the writers who are telling your story aren’t keeping you out of the loop. True, it’s their business but if they screw with you too much, they’ll lose. It's the same thing with your mother. On the other hand, helping her all of the time would just enable her to keep