Boiled Frogs with Mock Toast: The worst political candidate we all wanted

By Cameron Johnson

Evan has a good job, good friends, and very little to worry about. In fact, none of the people who live in the village have much to worry about, really. When was it then, that the impulse to shake the tree became so pervasive? Was it really a sense of social responsibility? Was there really a debt owed to those who had no voice? Aren’t they the same people who don’t care enough to speak up? He has too much at stake to take overt risks or public positions on the proposals for new development projects, it is too hard to pluck the ones that will really hurt from the ones that are really needed. His position as a biologist with the US Fish & Wildlife Service’s endangered species division gives him an insight to the upcoming plans. He knows what’s coming, and he knows who is behind it - he just needs a champion to fight for the cause.

The village is a tight knit group, they have known each other for along time, long enough to know each other well, long enough to know what each other is capable of, and what they are capable of tolerating. Evan knows very well what Desmond cares about, and what he doesn’t. He understands what his best friends want and what they feel obligated to do, and he understands the difference. But this time it may be worth pushing the line, it may be worth risking friendship for principle. What he needs is a fresh candidate, what they all need is someone who cares enough to step up. . . or someone who really doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks- that might work just as well.

Since they don’t have the perfect candidate, they will have to create one. Goodenough for Government!

A humorous and honest peek into the real lives and relationships of modern men, Boiled Frogs with Mock Toast is about taking the time to notice what is going on in the face of the overwhelming boredom of responsible living. It is the story of what happens when we squeeze leadership from reluctant friends, ask for them to express opinions that we know we will disagree with, and create expectations where they never existed. It is the story of those who care, and their influence on those who don’t.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Johnson
• Release date: Mar 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310183898

Cameron Johnson

Cameron Johnson had started, run, and sold twelve successful companies by the time he was twenty-one. His business successes have been featured in Time, Newsweek, BusinessWeek, USA Today, and many more publications, as well as on the Today show and Good Morning America. When he was fifteen he became an advisory board member of a Tokyo-based company, and his autobiography, 15-Year-Old CEO, published in Japanese, became an instant bestseller. He has consulted to Fortune 500 companies and spoken at The Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. Every one of his businesses has been a success, even in the worst days of the Internet bust. As a college freshman, he started CertificateSwap.com, an online marketplace for gift cards, which was a runaway success and for which he was offered $10 million in venture capital. He lives in Blacksburg, Virginia.

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Boiled Frogs with Mock Toast

By Cameron Johnson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 Cameron Johnson

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Art by Dana Jordan

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

To my wife - primarily because she agreed to let me buy a fast car. . .

and because I love her dearly.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

A Note From The Author

Chapter 1

Evan looked up from the bike wheel long enough to confirm it was Desmond walking through the front door, the wheel was just bent enough to hear it squeaking rhythmically when braking hard, just enough to be annoying. Desmond walked in, tossed his bag down on the floor behind the door and headed to the kitchen silently. Fucker, Evan said, that bag is going to keep the door from opening far enough to walk through. Evan noticed the screwed up corner of Desmond’s mouth and realized that he had some philosophical bullshit to share with the world. Forget about the bag, he corrected, just save whatever is on your mind for someone else, OK?

So, I have been noticing, Desmond paused long enough to ensure he had captured his audience, that there seems to be something wrong with Al. I mean it, I’m really worried about his behavior.

"You’re worried about his behavior. For fuck’s sake man, just leave him alone. He’s stressed out, just stay out of his way and it will pass."

No man, I’ve seen this before. My last roommate wound up in jail and then a psychiatric facility. Al has all the same signs, he’s moody, he doesn’t want to hang out; he’s basically acting like a bitch.

Des, the only thing Al has in common with your last roommate is you. You ever think about the fact that that last poor bastard may have wound up in that place because you would never leave him alone? Jesus, you have some fucking nerve- worried about his behavior. Go back to the desert and eat some more peyote and keep your damn mouth shut.

Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed it.

Of course I’ve noticed it. I just haven’t worried about it. He’s under stress, leave it. Besides, what do you want to do, have a fucking intervention? I can just hear this crap ‘Hey Al, we have really been worried about your mental health. Is there anything you would like to share with us? Would you like to write about it in a journal?’ That is a damn good way to get your ass kicked for no good reason. Besides, you have the tact of a fucking drill sergeant.

No, I can be tactful. I’m serious.

Desmond turned and removed a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap off, and sat at the table next to Evan with his best I really care face, which looked remarkably like his this is a really good beer face, and his I’m deep in thought trying to solve the problems of the world face. Silence fell across the table and Evan resumed work on the wheel.

The door opened, but not quite far enough for a full-sized man to walk through, and Al entered with a scowl. He looked at the bag, looked at Desmond, then proceeded to walk to the kitchen toward the fridge.

Hey asshole, said Desmond, Evan and I want to know what the fuck is up your ass.

Eat shit Des. Hey, are you drinking my last beer? Goddamn it dude, you really are a dick, you know. Al walked back to the door, opened it onto the bag, then picked up the bag with frustration and hurled it through the door, easily clearing the front porch. Without looking back, he walked through the door and onto the sidewalk, stepping on the bag with force as he passed.

That was tact?

See, I told you there is something wrong with him.

You’re an idiot. Several more moments of silence passed while Evan spun the wheel between his knees. Hey, are you going to go get your bag?

Yeah, soon as I finish Al’s beer. I hope he didn’t wreck my laptop.

Evan smiled. After several minutes of working on the wheel, it seemed to be about as straight as it was going to get. He walked to the front porch, retrieved his bike from the side of the porch couch and remounted the wheel to the front fork. He spun it one last time for good measure and walked it down the front steps. If it was a mountain bike he would have ridden down the steps, but it was a road bike and so he had to behave. Uncivilized riding is likely what bent the wheel in the first place. He mounted the bike, and without hesitation, rode over Desmond’s bag, still stranded in the front yard. He turned to the right, headed down the roadway at coasting speed to judge the wheel. At the end of the block, he turned, shifted the bike to a low gear and headed back up to the house. The bike was riding well and felt good, but a real ride would have to wait. He turned back into the front yard, crushed Desmond’s bag one last time and dismounted, lifting the bike and taking all three steps in one motion. He leaned the bike against the side of the porch. As he entered the house he noticed that Desmond had moved to the front room and wondered if he had been caught crushing his laptop. He paused, looked at Desmond’s vacant stare, judged that the mood was not the least bit hostile, and slouched into the overstuffed chair next to the house couch.

What are you doing now, trying to figure out how to tactfully diagnose everyone else’s emotional and mental problems? I mean, since you did such a good job with Al.

Nope, I’ve moved on man. You just can’t help everyone, you know. I mean, there’s only so much effort you can put into reaching out to people.

Yep, you must be exhausted.

Desmond picked up the remote control for the television and switched it on. It was likely the oldest remote controlled television still in use and they had taken to calling it the prototype. The prototype was huge, or at least the casing for it was, the screen was only about 16-inches, but it took two guys to lift it. For that reason, it had been moved into the house, set down on the floor, and had not been moved again. It had not even been turned to face the couch and watching it at a slightly oblique angle was difficult. The prototype acted more as a giant coffee table than anything else, and Evan was somewhat grateful that it was so difficult to watch; if it was easy, they would likely have wasted countless days sitting in front of it while life passed unlived.

I can’t believe you are actually turning the prototype on. You must be pretty committed to sitting on your ass for a while. The prototype started with a flash, which quickly diminished to a single point of green light in the center of the screen. It took several minutes to warm up, and the picture was green for several more. The audio began working almost immediately and, if you knew what you were listening for, you could channel surf without need of the video at all. Desmond listened to The News Hour with Jim Lehrer for a few minutes. As Jim’s face was beginning to gain some red hues, he became tired of listening to the newest news in the Middle East and switched the channel to a local news station. A blond bimbo was introducing Chet Davis, the Sports Guy, with an update on local high school prep sports and the NFL roundup.

Desmond grinned. See that, he nodded toward the television, been there.

What, you nailed Chet Davis? I didn’t know you had it in you, you filthy bastard.

Nope, the chick.

Yeah, so what. Just about every guy I know has done that. She came on to Al a couple of weeks ago at the O. She was so sloppy she was almost speaking clearly.

The newscaster’s name was Heidi Marksdale, and she had almost everything necessary for a successful career in local news with one exception; she had a subtle speech impediment causing her to lisp, almost imperceptible, barely noticeable.

"I wonder what the new room boss could have possibly seen in her? Jesus, she really is terrible."

Dude, I suspect it’s the same thing you saw in her, and Al saw in her, and half of the guys I know saw in her.

Shit really, Al?

You know, most guys would be bummed to find out they had nailed the same chick as half the men in town. With you, you’re upset that you and Al have something in common.

Yeah, wouldn’t you be? Just think about it - fucking Al.

Chet was interviewing the driver of the winning car at the local stock car race. The man was at least sixty years old, was coughing and hacking in between Chet’s hard-hitting questions, and appeared to have at least two missing front teeth. He wore a dirty white driving jumpsuit with at least twenty-five patches representing local sponsors sewn onto it, and an equally dirty baseball cap with the name of a local tire supplier embroidered on it. He was thanking his team which translated into sound bites for the sponsors emblazoned on his uniform; it was carefully rehearsed. He started with the sponsors corresponding to the largest patches, and worked in the smaller patches as Chet pressed on with his questions on racing strategy.

Look at that. This is the land of opportunity, man. You can be a fucked up senior citizen with a smoker’s hack, and as long as you can afford a stock car, you can be a local hero and they’ll put you on TV.

Someone off screen handed the driver a baseball cap with a local hardware store’s logo on the front. He removed the tire shop cap, replaced it with the hardware store and seamlessly moved on to the next answer, working in the name of the store and of two more of the smaller patches.

Did you see that Des? Man, that was brilliant. That hillbilly doesn’t have to afford his own car, he has at least twenty other people who buy it for him. That bastard really has something figured out. That is the trick. If he didn’t look like a complete rock biter, that guy could go somewhere.

Yep.

The door flew open and Alex walked in carrying a grocery bag. He walked through the living room to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Desmond looked sideways at Evan and smiled as he heard the familiar clinking sound of bottles being loaded into the vegetable crisper. The hillbilly had been replaced by a droning list of local high school winners and losers with occasional shots of football players shot through a shaking video camera. Al walked in and threw himself onto the house couch next to Desmond. He had three beers and an opener. He opened one, then passed the opener to Desmond, who shuttled it onto Evan. They were used to the ritual. Al bought, which meant that he drank first. After he took his first pull off of the bottle, he handed the two unopened bottles to Desmond. Desmond handed both to Evan, who opened one and handed it back, then opened the third for himself.

Jim and Mike are coming over in a bit. I ran into them at Sally’s. Sally was the owner of the local quick-stop liquor, deli and video store, and a local celebrity. She was in her mid-forties, looked like she could be Suzanne Somers’ more attractive younger sister and knew every customer by their first name. Sally had gained notoriety by beating back a public attempt by a local developer to buy most of the block, including her store, in order to build a senior citizens home. By the time Sally was done, the local media had painted the developer as a money hungry bastard out to smash the little guy. The truth of the matter was that the City Council had encouraged the developer to purchase the properties and had specifically re-zoned the block to accommodate a much needed senior center. The developer could more appropriately be described as a philanthropist. The facility had eventually been built on the outskirts of town on an abandoned dairy farm site resulting in a setting that literally smelled bad, had contaminated ground water, and forced the city to create a new local tax on alcohol to pay for the transport of old folks into town for basic necessities and services. In the end, Sally got to keep her store and the beer-drinking population got to keep Sally. It was a unique political solution that essentially balanced the needs of invalid seniors with Sally’s need to sell booze, and the needs of the local guys to stare at Sally’s rack while they bought beer and sandwiches at a twenty percent markup over the local supermarket; everyone won.

So, how is Sally today? Evan asked.

Looks good. She said to say hi to you guys and to tell Des that she ordered the special cheese, whatever that means.

Oh good. So when are Jim and Mike coming over?

I don’t know, whenever they are done staring at Sally’s tits, I guess.

Well, that could be any time between two minutes and whenever Sally kicks them out.

She won’t kick them out. She likes having people around.

As if on cue, Jim kicked the front door open and walked into the living room holding a bag in each hand. Mike walked in two steps behind carrying only an open beer. The bags plopped down onto the prototype and Jim looked up Al, you missed it man, some idiot tried to rob Sally and we were standing right there. He had everyone’s attention.

Evan was the first to speak OK, I’ll bite. What the hell are you talking about Jim?

Exactly that. We were standing there, Sally was making sandwiches and this douche bag walks up to the deli counter and put a gun right in Sally’s face.

Mike added Yeah, it’s true, there are cops all over the place right now.

Ignoring Mike’s comment, Jim continued So he looks at her, and you know what he says? He goes, ‘Hey, this is a fucking gun.’ Sally didn’t say a word. She had a spatula in her hand covered in mustard for my sandwich. And then, get this, she smiled at him. He has a fucking gun in her face and she smiled at him. Sally has got to be the coolest person on the planet, man. Then she took the spatula and wiped the mustard on her tits. The guy just stood there with his mouth open. Then he just walked out.

Yep, that’s pretty much exactly what happened man.

So then what? The guy just walked away? Isn’t this kind of a big deal? Evan asked.

She wiped the mustard on her tits? Al said. Shit, five more minutes and I could have seen that.

Desmond perked up, So when she wiped the mustard on her rack, was it just on the top, the part above her plunging neckline, or did she stick it way down in her shirt?

Just on the top.

Hey shut up about Sally’s tits for a minute. What happened to the thief? Evan seemed to be the only one in the room who noticed any part of the story that didn’t directly revolve around Sally’s tits.

Jim sighed as though complying with Evan’s request was truly off-topic. He just walked out, like I said. She just walked over to the phone and called the cops, then she finished making the sandwich.

Desmond gave Evan a look as though he was standing in the way. So, she finished the sandwich with the mustard still on her tits? Did she use the same spatula? Dude, do you have the sandwich?

Yeah, and when we left the cops were just getting there and she still had the mustard on her tits.

Evan cut in Weren’t you supposed to stay to give a description to the cops?

Uh, no, Sally knew who the guy was. The cops are probably beating his ass with a hose in some cell right now.

Desmond looked through the front window, Might have been worth it. Then he focused momentarily Hey, goddamn it, Cheop just pissed on my laptop. Fuck Jim, can’t you keep your damn dog under control? One of these days Mary is going to show up and shoot him.

Cheop was a huge dog. As a puppy everyone agreed that he was supposed to be a Doberman, but turned out to be something a lot bigger. Jim lived in the shack next door and had built Cheop a dog house to fit a Doberman, but Cheop had outgrown it within six months. Cheop lived within the neighborhood, wherever and whenever he liked, and with the exception of Mary Cunningham the landlady, everyone indulged him. He was only Jim’s dog when he was doing something viewed as impolite, destructive, or dangerous, and according to Mary, that meant he was Jim’s dog all the time. Mary owned real estate comprising the entire block and rented out every single shack for top dollar. Those who lived there called it Mary’s village and referred to themselves as the villagers. She did virtually no maintenance in exchange for leaving everyone alone and with the exception of collecting rent and responding to complaints by neighboring property owners or the police, she kept her end of the deal faithfully. It was an overt agreement she had with her tenants; no one would dare summon Mary to fix a leaking pipe or broken light fixture for fear of reprisals by the neighboring tenants. She looked like an Asian version of Dr. Ruth Westheimer, with platinum bleached hair, and she drove the biggest Chevy four-wheel drive pickup ever made. Nobody knew where she lived, or anything about her, but everyone knew to keep their mouths shut around her and to pay their rent on time to keep the peace. At one point, Mike had been short two hundred dollars in rent and the villagers took up a collection to avoid dealing with Mary. In exchange, Mike had agreed to mow the lawns of the contributors for half a year.

You know, Jim responded, I don’t know why in the hell everyone thinks he is my dog. He doesn’t live at my house any more than at yours. I don’t feed him. It’s not like I brought him here, he just showed up for Christ’s sake.

Al responded You built him a house, he’s your dog.

I built him a house because he was going to freeze to death. Besides, he doesn’t even live in it.

Look, all I know is if Mary gets pissed off enough, she is going to come crawling around and make everyone’s life a living hell.

Fuck you Al.

Cheop walked in the front door and picked up a paper bag from the top of the prototype. He dropped it to the floor, gave it a sniff, then picked it up and walked out. Al spoke what everyone was thinking. You see, you do feed him, he’s your fucking dog.

Desmond looked up from the green television screen, Oh shit, was that the sandwich with the mustard?

Everyone turned in unison and watched through the window as Cheop leisurely strolled across the driveway to Jim’s yard and dropped the paper bag. He gave it a second sniff and then tossed it up into the air just high enough to get a good grip with his premolars. After a good chomp, he put it back onto the grass, placed a huge foot onto the bag, and began to tear it apart. Look at that, Mike announced he made damn sure his dinner was dead before he started tearing it apart. After removing most of the paper, Cheop swallowed the entire sandwich with a single effort. That fucking dog has no idea what he just ate, volunteered Desmond, animals really are inferior to us- they just don’t have the same appreciation for the finer things. Cheop looked around as though surveying for an additional easy meal, finding none, he took three steps further into Jim’s yard and proceeded to defecate. See Desmond, he’s not really all that different than you after all, is he? said Al.

Crap, said Jim, that was supposed to by my dinner.

The news was coming to a close. Heidi was filling in for the normal weather guy, who was feeling under the weather. The normal weather guy had been nick-named Smiley Boy by Al, and it stuck. The station manager seemed to be making grand efforts to show his progressive stance on human resource management. He had hired the bimbo, but then couldn’t have her act as the weather girl; it would have been too obvious. Smiley Boy turned out to actually know something about meteorology, and had taken to providing mini weather and meteorology lessons to the viewing public. His mini-lessons actually were well thought-out and he soon had a cult following in town. Smiley Boy is probably out interviewing for a real job. He is way too competent to stay at this bullshit station said Mike.

Desmond interjected, Yeah, I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute; competency is a good enough reason to fire him at Channel Seven. Who does he think he is, after all? I’ll bet he thinks he’s better than Chet and Heidi.

Dude, he is better than Chet and Heidi Evan responded.

The truth of the matter was that Smiley Boy was largely responsible for increasing the news station’s ratings well above the other competing local station. He was young, blond, well-spoken, and clearly intelligent. The local women loved him, which naturally caused the local men to question his sexuality. Unlike Heidi, he didn’t hang out in the local bars making himself available to his adoring public and clearly advertising his preferences. If Smiley Boy was gay, he was just butch enough to keep the local rednecks watching, the women slobbering over him, and the station manager happy. The station had begun to promote the news by plastering Smiley Boy’s face next to Heidi’s on the side of the old folks’ bus.

Heidi signed off the evening news which seemed to bring everyone marginally back to life.

Let’s go to the O, said Mike as he drained the last of his beer, I want to talk to Oliver about setting up a gig.

Evan tried hard to swallow a laugh, A gig, huh? So you have been playing guitar for what, three weeks now, and you are ready for your public debut?

He’s actually not bad Jim volunteered.

Uh-huh.

So do you want to go, or not?

OK. Evan stood up, drained his beer and set it on the prototype. Without speaking, Al, Desmond, and Jim followed suit. They shuffled around, Desmond turned off the prototype while Alex Trebek was mid-sentence, and they headed for the door in single file. The O was three blocks past Sally’s place and they walked it almost entirely in silence. They slowed down to catch the scene as they approached Sally’s. The local police were still there, taking notes and asking questions. Evan pointed out that the mustard had been cleaned up; maybe collected as evidence. There were eleven or twelve officers on the local police force, and like the news station, there had been a clear effort to integrate the staff with a diverse workforce. Side by side, the police looked like a United Nation’s representative gathering, evenly mixed with whites, blacks, Asians, men and women. The big push for ethnic representation of the 1980s and ‘90s had largely died, and had been replaced by a new sensitivity for sexual identity. As a result, one of the newest police officers was named Jean Jackson, and she was, ironically, the most stereotypical lesbian figure imagined. Jean was questioning Sally with the same enthusiasm shown by all of her customers, and using her mirrored sunglasses as a veil to stare at Sally’s chest.

Sally seemed cheery through it all Hey guys.

Al responded for the group Hey, hope everything is OK.

Don’t worry, it’s fine.

The exchange ended quickly, and the procession continued northward toward the O. The streets were named after trees, in typical 1950s style. They continued past Linden and Ash, and headed west on Olive. The O was a dive by the most generous description. The front of the bar had two small windows, both a least five feet off of the sidewalk and both filthy with the dust collected since the 1950s. It was the kind of place you went when you did not want to be noticed. The bar’s current owner was a retired lawyer named Oliver Harrison. Oliver had practiced law in town for at least thirty-five years and professed to hating every minute of it. He had begun to visit the O shortly after he moved into town and set up his firm. He had represented every local degenerate, drunk, and wife beater within the county at some point during the past decades and had developed a reputation as the go-to criminal defense lawyer. As the years passed, Oliver began to spend more and more time at the O and developed a significant drinking problem. He told himself he would quit cold if it ever affected his performance at work, and true to form, he eventually did exactly that. What surprised everyone was that he quit his job cold, not his drinking. It had eventually consumed time he should have been devoting to cases and he had lost his edge, his reputation began to suffer. When Oliver lost three DUI cases in a row that should have been slam dunks, he decided it was time to get out. Oliver had offered the firm to his junior partner at a bargain price and had purchased the O outright. The decision made perfect sense to everyone who knew him. Oliver was a bar owner trapped in a lawyer’s body, and he had been able to come out of the closet.

Mike walked to the bar while everyone else took the booth closest to it. Hey Oliver, two pitchers. Oliver looked up at Mike and nodded, then spoke toward the booth. Hey Jim, you taking care of my firm?

Jim responded Yeah, but we have improved the clientele. We don’t take the same bunch of flashers and public masturbators you specialized in. How’s the bar I paid for performing? Neither question was answered. Jim had never had a tolerance for the slime-bags who Oliver had represented, and had even suggested that Oliver ask some of the regulars to use the back door of the practice. Oliver’s most famous client had been a local named Kenneth Jenks who had been arrested for indecent exposure in local parks on at least six occasions. Oliver’s first two defense strategies revolved around First Amendment freedom of speech and expression, the second two around mistaken identity, and the fourth and fifth on clinical depression and abuse at the hands of Kenneth’s childhood elementary teachers. The local judge, a man by the name of Geoff Masterson, had become less and less patient, and the sentences had become increasingly harsh. The last straw had been when Kenneth exposed himself to a group in the upper portion of Century Park led by the local Audubon Society. The group consisted of at least four people armed with high powered digital cameras and evidence was presented that was indisputable. During the sentencing, Judge Masterson had congratulated Oliver on presenting a Thoughtful and clearly reasoned case, and for doing it all with a straight face and without showing the slightest bit of embarrassment. Kenneth had been a great client, not because he was a cooperative client, but because he could be counted on to return regularly, and even though he did not come from a wealthy family, they always paid Oliver’s fees in full. The last sentencing found Kenneth in jail long enough to cause Oliver to have his file placed in the inactive cases section of the filing room.

Jim knew that Oliver had made a fortune doing criminal defense, and had given him the firm at half the price he could have received. Oliver knew that while he viewed the practice as a necessary way to make good money, Jim was in for the long haul and actually enjoyed practicing; the firm he had built was in capable hands. Jim had quickly changed the focus of the firm to environmental and land-use law and within twenty-four months he had developed a client base that kept himself and the five person support staff flush with billable work. They routinely each billed sixty to eighty hours per week. The success was exactly what Oliver had worked to avoid, the firm had never owned Oliver.

Mike brought the pitchers to the table and set them down heavily. One pale ale, one wheat. Oliver rounded the bar with six mugs and sat down at the booth. Desmond poured the entire pitcher of pale ale into the six mugs and they each took one.

Mike took a long pull from his beer and looked up, Hey Oliver, I wanted to talk to you about doing an acoustic show sometime.

Acoustic show, huh? I didn’t know you played anything other than yourself. The insult drew smiles all around the table, including from Mike. Desmond added Mike is an American Master, all right.

Seriously, I want to do a show. I’ll do folk classics, Bob Dylan stuff mostly and a couple of my own I have been working on. It will help with your sales for sure because people will stay for a while to listen.

Uh huh, and you think that will go over at the O?

Well, it can’t possibly hurt sales, can it? I mean, your normal group is going to drink the same whether they like the playing or not, right?

Mike was right, of course. The typical crowd at the O was interested in the same thing that had originally drawn Oliver to the bar, getting drunk in obscurity, nothing more, nothing less. But the idea that Mike crooning Dylan classics would somehow improve the bar’s sales was ridiculous. Tell you what Mike, why don’t you let me think it over for a bit, huh? The regular crowd was pretty well settled; it would take more than a few bad songs to drive their fat asses away. They typically began to roll in at five thirty or six and dissipated by midnight on any given night of the week. Oliver had been more committed than most, and he often wished he had more model customers, as he had been. A group of three men and one woman walked through the door and Oliver got up to assume his position behind the bar. It was Friday evening and he expected the crowd to be good.

Evan scanned the room for familiar faces and found none. Al, Jim, Desmond, and Mike seemed as content as anyone could possibly be. Evan wondered if Al’s mood was improving, but thought better of probing in any way. He figured that either it would pass completely or that Desmond could be counted on to pick at the wound in some version of his own special brand of sensitivity. They passed the balance of the evening sitting at the booth and discussing the crowd as it grew, then slowly began to dissipate, leaving only the serious drinkers. The O did not maintain the party crowd beyond about eleven o’clock- they generally came into the O to preheat prior to moving on to the more hip establishments. At eleven o’clock, the news began on the television mounted at the end of the bar. Oliver walked to the end of the bar and seemed to be engrossed in Heidi’s commentary. Hey, check this out he said while simultaneously increasing the volume. Heidi was interviewing Officer Jean Jackson regarding the attempted robbery of a local establishment. The perp entered Sally’s establishment at approximately 6:45, attempted to rob and or assault the owner, and then fled on foot. He was armed with what we believe to be a .357 Magnum revolver. We have identified him as a local man named Robert Keilling. At approximately 7:52 the subject was apprehended at his residence on the west side of town. He is in police custody and is currently being questioned. Evan noticed that she was still wearing her sunglasses even though it was clearly dark during the interview and wondered if Jean was checking out Heidi during the interview.

Oliver turned to the group Jesus, she’s talking about Sally.

I know, said Jim Mike and I were there when it happened. It sounds like Heidi is blowing it way out of proportion to make a better story. It really wasn’t that big of a deal.

She’s making it sound pretty bad, Jim.

Well it wasn’t. Sally pretty much handled the whole thing.

I know that guy, Jim. He is a pretty bad dude. I defended him once for sexual assault. In fact, I defended his brother as well- rough family. They still owe the firm money. Oliver thought for a moment, Did you give the police a witness account?

No, like I said, it really wasn’t a big thing. Sally said she knew who he was, so we figured it didn’t really matter.

Jesus Christ Jim, you’re a fucking attorney, you know better. You need to go talk to the cops. And take that dipshit buddy of yours with you.

OK, I’ll call them in the morning.

I’ll get you the phone. You’ll call them now.

Jim looked like he had been scolded by his mother. OK, but don’t worry about the phone. I’ll go call them from the office. I’ll take the dipshit with me.

Mike looked up Hey, the dipshit is sitting right here for fuck’s sake.

Jim and Mike got up and left Evan, Desmond, and Al sitting at the booth. Not two minutes following Jim and Mike’s departure, Sally walked through the front door. Al noticed her first. Hey Sally, you closed the shop already? It’s not midnight yet.

Yep, I have had about a million people stop by tonight, and not a single one of them wanted to buy anything. They all wanted to make sure I was OK. And the fucking news even stopped in to bother me. I got fed up, so I decided to lock up.

Yeah, we just saw the report on the eleven o’clock.

Buy you a beer? Evan offered.

You can buy me a beer and a shot of whiskey. Sally sat down and Evan got up to go to the bar.

Desmond leaned forward and put one elbow on the table Oliver said the guy is a pretty badass dude, Sally.

Yeah, I know. I know who he is- I know who his family is. He’s a pretty unstable guy. He’s been coming in to the store for the past four or five years at least. Half of the time he’s pretty personable, the other half he’s a total whack job.

Yeah, but what kind of whack job? I know lots of freaky people, almost all of them are harmless, and none have ever put a gun in my face.

I know. I think maybe he’s a druggie. When he’s straight, he’s OK, when he’s strung out, he’s scary. The last time he was like that, he yelled at me for not selling porn. For Christ’s sake, I’m not a dirty old man, I don’t sell porn. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a shit if anyone else sells it, or buys it for that matter. It just always seemed like it would invite trouble.

Evan returned with Sally’s drinks and set them in front of her. She immediately tossed back the shot and chased it with one deep swallow of the beer. Evan noticed that her hands were shaking and