In Search of Jason

By Andrew Grover

IN SEARCH OF JASON is the story of Jason Reilly, a lowly employee at B.

Pictures, a cut-rate New York City film production company, whose owner, Mr.

B. is a confidante of many curious characters inhabiting both sides of the

law. In the course of one of his many errands for Mr. B., Jason goes to hand

some papers to a diplomat at the United Nations and in the course of his

time there, misplaces a film script he was carrying.

From that loss, dire consequences arise, for the film for which the script

was written was to have been shot in the Caribbean, with the production

serving as cover for a drug-courier operation run by one of Mr. B.s

less-than-legitimate pals, an underworld dynamo named Sicky.

In addition to his illegal interests, Sicky has entertained a lifelong

legitimate interest in some day becoming a major feature film producer.

Thus, the idea of someone like Jason not only endangering his profits, which

would be bad enough, but also imperiling his cinematic opportunity of a

lifetime is an outrage to which the only answer can be one of summary

execution!

Now, its one thing when youre seeking to prove your innocence to a law

officer who, theoretically, is subject to some constraints, but when youre

trying to explain yourself to a paranoid gunman who acknowledges no laws

save those in his own, options become more limited. Such is the case for

Jason.

So, after narrowly avoiding being murdered in his bed and getting run over

by a speeding car aimed at a pay phone booth hes calling from, Jason makes

his escape from the city. He heads for the New Jersey Turnpike, Chesapeake

Bay, Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, the Florida swamps, Miami and,

finally, the Caribbeans blue carpet.

Along he way, he picks up a partner in crime - or perhaps innocence. Dr. Sam

Albert is a former 1960s college revolutionary, present-day psychiatrist and

off-hours bush pilot, whose set of wings Jason finds useful in Miami, when

the ships captain hes hired to take him afloat begins to cause problems.

Later, while island-hopping in the Caribbean with Albert, Jason gets,

unwittingly, another partner in the form of Aringapu, a Central American

Indian whose ancestors, 500 years earlier, were either massacred or driven

off the very island where Sicky now proposes to set up his supreme shoot.

You wouldnt expect Jason to come to earth practically right under Sickys

Ray-Bans. Youd think it would be the last place Aringapu would want to turn

up in, too. Youd think, above all, that the good Dr. Albert, skilled in

providing wise counsel and comfort, would look out for Jasons interests and

fly him out at once. Youd be wrong on all counts, particularly on the last!

You might also expect, on this page, to find out how it all wraps up, but

this place is meant to stimulate your appetite, not satiate it. All that can

be said for now is that, in a curious and appropriate way, the punishment

fits the crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 1, 2000
• ISBN: 9781465322609

Andrew Grover

Andrew Grover was born in New Jersey, graduated from Columbia University and attended the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism. He has worked in the film industry as a location scout, as a journalist and as a researcher. He is currently an editor and reporter for a trade paper in New York City.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Keep going, keep going, make a wide swing, now—

Stop! Stop right there, that’s it, that one, her!

The one there at the table? By the window?—That’s right.

Why?

You idiot! After all these years of practice, you should know the ropes better than that. Jason, look at her, she not only knows the ropes, she’s made for them.

Yes, it’s true what you say, I’d like to think of myself as something of a connoisseur. . . .

That’s the Jason I know speaking—okay, now keep holding that shot, don’t lose it. Now close in, slow and steady, that wins the race, old boy, get the legs, that’s what you notice first, see? Love the simplicity, the naturalness. None of that kohl, mascara, rouge, foundation, looks that can stand on their own—look at the way those bangs fall over the brow just an inch or so above the eyebrows, it couldn’t have been designed more perfectly by Euclid himself.

Oh, I don’t know—

What do you mean you—

Anything else sir?

What?

Would you like to order anything else, or maybe just some more coffee? We’re getting close to closing time.

Get rid of her!

What?

I said, would you—

We’re talking serious here, old boy, there’s no time for the god damned coffee, get rid of the bitch!

Bitch

Sir!

No—No, I wasn’t talking to you—

Are you alright? Maybe you’d better—

Get rid of her, people are starting to turn around!

Er—ah, just one more cup of coffee, please.

Make it a strong one!

Black, please.

Thank goodness she’s gone—

Thank god—who the hell do you think this is? Where the hell do you think this is? It’s a public place, you’d better get yourself under control!

That’s your worry, old boy, I’m just doing what comes naturally.

Okay, okay, go on, just try to keep it down.

You’re a sketch, you know? look around, it’s all forgotten like it never was. This in New York, not New Guinea, the natives aren’t going to stone you for breaking any taboos, there aren’t any taboos. Anyway, to go on—

Yes—

Don’t you like the way that tanktop rises and falls under the open shirt, the way the skirt is bunched up just a little bit above the knees, enough to show some teasing flesh, but not drowning you with it the way so many of them do? Those loop earrings, the way they hang and mingle with the curls, what kind of curls are those? They say that Empress Josephine used to wear them?

I don’t know . . .

Why the long face?

Him.

Who?

The twerp with her. How come he’s out so late, anyway?

Forget him, Jace, he doesn’t know the ropes. Not like you.

Oh, I’ve got all the aces, huh? So how come she’s on his arm, while I’m gawking like a horny baboon?

Just wait until you make your move.

I think I’ll leave—

You what—what are you doing, get back there, sit down! That’s it, stay there.

It’s twelve-thirty, they’re folding up the place.

Just what I mean, everyone is bunched up near the door waiting to get out. Okay, there she is, now, now get up, go up behind her, casually, catch her eye, say something like, oh, you know—Hi. Hi.

So what do you think? Is this one of the better Village night spots or what?

I couldn’t really say, I haven’t been to that many.

By the way, what’s your name? I’m Jason.

Ciao.

Ciao? What kind of a name is that?

It’s not any kind of a name, you asshole. There’s no name, and there’s no girl, and there’s no evening either, thanks to you breathing down my neck all the time. Go take a powder, huh?

No evening? No girl? What are you standing here flapping your gums for? Half of the thrill is in the chase. Go after her!

Awwww . . . c’mon.

No, go, look, she’s getting away, you still have a chance.

I don’t know . . . well, maybe . . .

That’s it, go out the door, keep a little distance, there they go, off down Thompson Street, easiest thing in the world to follow them, if you know what to do.

Geez, it’s a beautiful night out. Windy, though.

Made for love.

So what do you think, is she going to ditch that clod?

Love is in the air.

It’s too crowded on this street, I’m going to lose track.

No, you’re not. There they are over at that all-night foreign periodicals stand. She seems to be reading an Italian magazine.

How can you feel that from across the street?

I’m out-of-body, remember?

Oh. Yeah. Right.

Ah, Italy. Remember 1973, the Villa d’Este, that little marble bench by the reflecting pond with that girl, what was her name?

I don’t know, it was so long ago.

Janet, Judy, Christine. I forget.

It was Julie Wetzler.

O.K., so how come you’re playing games when you knew all along?

Speak, memory.

Julie Wetzler. She liked to be called Julia.

A lovely name.

I remember in the Borghese Gardens once, we were sitting, and the wind blew her hat into this fountain. Of course, I immediately volunteered to retrieve it and stepped onto a piece of submerged greenery, assuming it to be some kind of rock.

Only it was just a leaf.

And when I came out, Julie had this raincoat with her, she gave it to me to dry off with.

I remember. That was lovely.

Julie Wetzler. Quite a gal. She could read Italian, too.

Not bad legs, either. Like our prey over there.

What’s she doing now? Still reading. It’s some kind of photo spread. Those papparazzi over there, they’re really something aren’t they. Will you look at some of the bikinis on these girls? G-string would be an overstatement.

Hey, that’s not fair. You can see it and I can’t.

Just try to look inconspicuous.

How can I do that, with all that noise coming from this garage behind me?

Open up your briefcase, take out the paper, and read it. Don’t just stand there like a statue. Say, this is some wind. It’s blowing things every which way but—Holy Heaven, will you look at that?

Where? What?

At the newsstand, you ninny!

Her?

Yes! Yes!

Just as she was bending over, too! Came along and just blew it all the way up—you can see everything—My God—Those buttocks the color of milk cream, the cunt, I swear you can even see the—the—

Clitoris.

Really?

Forget your eighth-grade biology that fast?

I can’t see that well.

But I can.

Will you stop rubbing it in?

I can’t help it. It’s what I live for. I was here before you, before her, before time. I’m not you, you know. I’m in you, but not of you. A part of that primeval will, a part of which is spooned out to each and every individual for the time they’re here, then the creator takes it back and passes it along to somebody else. We have each other for but a brief while, but I go on eternally.

How many people have you—known?

I don’t know. Ten million, twenty million, fifty million, if I could give a precise figure, what would it matter? You’re all alike. And I love it. Moments like this. Look at you! Look at her! Look at you looking at her! That opium-taker in Vienna knew what he was talking about!

Freud?

My patron saint.

Hey buddy, move aside, we gotta get this truck out on the road.

Who’s that?

Mechanic making a house call. Don’t get run over.

It’s so awkward like this, with the newspaper out, and the briefcase open and—Oh! Oh! Oh! I knew it. That damned wind. There it goes, the entire New York Times, all four sections, all over the pavement getting mixed up with axle grease and banana peels. My pencils, my pens, office correspondence—shit, and they’re walking off, now!

Remember! The thrill of the chase!

Buddy!

What!

Forgot your C section!

Keep it!

Dammit, and I wanted that C section, too, I hadn’t done the crossword yet. Why do I let these things get to me?

Because you can’t prevent it.

Oh, I can’t, can I? Well, I am not going to slobber over that female like some puppy after its master. I am going to gather my wits together—

Yes.

And turn around and go back to my apartment and take a cold shower and watch the late show—

Yes.

And put all of this out of my mind—where are we?

Soho. Three more blocks.

What’s that building they’re going into? A disco?

Looks like an apartment building. Shit.

Want to hang around until daybreak?

Are you crazy?

We’ve come this far.

You’re incredible.

I’m the best.

Hey, I don’t feel like going back to the apartment. Let’s head on over to the Village and see what’s going on there. Do you like espresso? There’s this great little trattoria on Bleecker and I’ve heard the gals who hang out there are the absolute. . . .

CHAPTER TWO

Smack, smack, smack . . .

Smack?

Local jargon.

Oh.

For dope.

Ohhhhhhh.

Smack, Smack . . .

Beat it, okay?

Okay, man, no sweat . . . "

Creeps.

You said it.

Although they say you should try everything at least once.

Good idea. Let’s go knife someone.

You take me so literally.

I’m only human.

I’ve heard that excuse so many times.

You have such problems.

Let’s stop for some coffee. I want to watch the girls go by.

Sounds good. Inside by the window or outside?

Outside, of course.

Espresso.

Very good, sir.

See how easy that was? You quench your thirst, while I let my eyes and lusts roam all over the place. Boy, there sure are a lot of weirdos here. Is that a man jogging in ballet tights?

Yup.

Thought he was.

But at least he’s got company. You see the pair that’s jogging along with him?

Those gams?

I was thinking of a little further up.

They’re nice, too.

Why can’t I get her out of my mind?

The girl in the last coffee shop?

Not that I’m life’s lovelorn, you know. I date. I’ve got enough cash to treat a lady the way they like to be treated. I wasn’t suffering from anything terminal last time I looked. But—God! She turns me on so!

You want to tie her up.

What?

She arouses your fantasies. You want to tie her up.

You’re crazy. Kiss, hold, fondle and rough her up a little in bed, playfully, of course, but—aw, come on!

Don’t kid me. I can see down below.

Here you are sir.

You’re right. Sir?

Oh, nothing. Thanks.

Do you see what I mean?

Well—No, it’s just usual, normal passion. That girl who just jogged by.

It’s more than that, and you know it. You were fantasizing, weren’t you?

I was not.

Don’t try to hide it from me. I know all your tricks by now. Think you’re the first pair of legs with a scrotum between them I’ve seen?

Why is it you always put everything so discreetly?

Why are you kidding yourself?

Go fuck yourself!

Drink your espresso, it’s getting cold.

Will you take a rest?

At least you don’t have his problem.

Who?

The faggot at the table behind you. Boy, are his parents pulling him by the strings.

. . . and we know you’re happy now, dear. All I’m saying is, if you ever get tired of it, you can always come back to Minneapolis. . . .

I know, Ma, I know. . . .

. . . . in fact, I just saw Susan Bishop the other day, your friend from high school?

Yeah?

She asked about you. I told her you were doing just fine. . . .

You know, this is really dreadful. Absolutely sickening.

I think it’s sort of funny.

You would, wouldn’t you? You know, it was much more painless in the old days. They’d be castrated, disemboweled, drawn and quartered, burned alive, all over in a few seconds. But this.

The way of the world.

A tall blonde approached.

Excuse me. Do you have a light?

Sure do. Right here.

Hmmmm. Thanks. Nice lighter.

Thanks. I got it in Berlin.

Very nice. Well—bye.

Keep in touch.

Boy, I could go for her.

So why don’t you?

Nahhh, it’s too public. Anyway, she’s probably meeting up with some other guy, and then I’d be in the way. But, hey, thanks for thinking about me.

That’s what I’m here for.

Well, I gotta go. Sunday. Work tomorrow, you know. It’s almost one in the morning.

Oh, well, it was fun, Jason.

That’s what I’m here for.

CHAPTER THREE

Dirty streets, bottles, old rags, and crumpled cans were a drag at any hour.

Jason stopped at a newsstand and got something to read so he wouldn’t have to look at any of the litter. Lots of trashy old magazines with plenty of genitalia and pubic hair. Just the kind of thing to keep his attention distracted from the refuse. It wasn’t his forte, but he didn’t mind it either. The streets were pretty empty by now, so he wouldn’t run into anyone, and if there was anything else out there, his radar would pick it up without any trouble. After all these years, he was an old hand at disguising his fear.

This was the genuine article, all right. No air-brushing. He detested air-brushing. Let it all be there, all just natural, the way it would be in his own bed.

Come to think of it, why wasn’t it in his own bed?

Why the hell should he have to come home to an empty, loveless bed, just to spend several hours tossing and turning before getting up to go to work for that slob Mr. B.?

It seemed just a tad unfair when there were so many girls out there waiting to be kissed.

Especially when he aimed to kiss him a few.

And there’s that low-life doorman, Henry.

Eyyy. Out late, eh, Mr. Reilly?

Sorriest excuse for a working man nature ever produced.

Henry

Ey, you want a little nightcap before you hit the sack? Make you feel better when you have to go back to the office, eh?

Henry reached inside his jacket pocket.

Not tonight, Henry, okay?

Trouble with you, man, is, you are too uptight. Me, something feels good, I do it.

Don’t tempt me.

I’ll see you tomorrow. Against my will.

Ey, you take care now, Mr. Reilly.

Lord, just let me get up to the apartment in one piece. Inside the elevator, safe from Henry’s inquisitive eyes, he pulled the magazines out again and gave them the once-over. Fortunately, he lived on the twenty-first floor. No one else go on all the way. Time and space to hold out a magazine and let the centerfold fall down and dangle in front of him like Eve’s snake. Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!

Twenty-first floor.

21-B

Thank God. Get rid of this jacket! Now the sweater! Now the pants! Here I am in my shorts ready for bed. Darling, I’m too tired, you’ll just have to wait until another night, when you might be here. Hmmmmm. Almost one-thirty. I’ll set the timer for eight. There you go.

The phone rang.

I didn’t do it, detective, I swear! Oh, I know I left finger prints all over the place and I committed the actual physical crime, but, don’t you see, I didn’t really DO it, some demon had hold of me like Son of Sam, you do remember Son of Sam, detective, it was in all the papers, don’t you don’t you don’t you DON’T YOU, DETECTIVE?

Hello!

Jason, what’s the matter? Are you alright?

Oh, hi, Dad.

You sound like you just sat on a tack.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scream like that, I’m just a little tense.

What are you doing today?

I’m going to work.

Jason, why don’t you call in sick or something? We should talk about this a little more—

Why? What do you think is going to happen?

I don’t know what’s going to happen. How would I? I’m surprised that nothing’s happened already. Maybe nothing’s going to happen. But you must admit, lunch the other day wasn’t really all that helpful and I just thought—

Everything’s going to be all right. Maybe next week.

Would you like to MAKE A DATE now?

No. I’ll get back to you.

You have my number?

I said I’ll get back to you—Dad!

Okay, okay. Bye.

Bye, Dad.

The doorbell rang.

Can’t you take that light out of my eyes, detective, I can’t see. What is it you want? I’ve told you everything. I know my rights. I know my rights, I know Miranda. One call, I’m entitled to one call, and I haven’t made it yet, so I’d like to make it now. I WANT A LAWYER! I WANT A LAWYER, BECAUSE I’M INNOCENT, I TELL YOU AND HE’S GOING TO PROVE IT, DETECTIVE!!

Oh, hello, Jim. What is it?

Just returning that paperback novel you loaned me last week, Jason. Good reading.

Oh, uh—thanks.

Really keeps you guessing right up to the end, doesn’t it? But, you know, I had a hunch Luther’s sister sort of had it in for Duke all along, because—

Look, uh, Jim, I have to beg off. Work, you know. But thanks for returning it. Glad you liked it.

I oughta come around more often. This is better’n a lending library any day.

Anytime, Jim. Bye.

Bye.

Jason left the apartment much earlier than usual that morning so he could go to his favorite coffee shop and look though every page of the Times, the News and the Post while wolfing down his two eggs up, bacon, hash browns and buttered toast. Nothing anywhere that he could see. Were they hiding something from him? Maybe he should go back, call in sick and see his dad after all.

No. No No No No No.

The waitress came over to his table.

Anything else?

She was young, tall and blonde and Jason couldn’t stop staring at her.

What?

Anything else—to eat?

He snapped out of it, smiled, gave himself a mock slap on the cheeks in his best aw-shucks manner and shook his head.

Just a check.

Right away. She wrote it up on the spot. Really nice May weather we’re having, isn’t it? Usually it rains too much and it’s too cold, but the weatherman says it should be like this for another week.

Did he?

He sure did.

She lay the check face down on the table.

Surely, if anyone would have picked up on it, it would have been her.

That bimbo? She couldn’t find the San Andreas fault if it were right between her gams.

Will you—she’s a very nice girl!

Very nice, sort of like you-know-who, Wetzler.

Stop that.

I saw that look on your face.

All right, all right—point is—

I’m going crazy inside. What else is new?

Well, I’m getting out of here.

Mind if I come along for the ride?

Funny, very funny.

Come on. Cards-on-the-table time. You love neuroses. You love every second of it.

I’m going to be late.

You are not. And anyway, old fart-breath never shows up until later in the morning. You want to go to the reception desk and see if a certain party’s at the station and all that and maybe if there’s time (HA-HA-HA-HA) you can ask her to come to your office to take something down and then you take something down and then—oh hohohohohoho—

CHAPTER FOUR

Will you stop twisting your head all around? There’s absolutely no one around to help you!

No! Stop it! Somebody help!

And there’s no use screaming your head off, no one’s going to hear you, either.

Stop it! Let me go! What do you want ? Money? I’ve got money! Take it, take all of it, take the cards, too, I don’t care! Just let me go!!!

If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll put in something that will!

Help! Help! HEEELP! POLIIIIIICE!!

Rrrrrring—

What the fuck’s that—?

It’s the police at the door! I knew it! I knew it!

Jason!

Wha—Hey, come back here, you slut—

Jason!

You’ll get it now, you pervert, you diseased—

JASON!

WILL YOU BE QUIET!

WILL YOU PLEASE TURN THAT DAMNED THING OFF ALREADY!

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!

YOU IDIOT! THE ALARM!

ALARM?

THE CLOCK! IT’S TIME TO GET UP!

Ohhhh. . . . for Christ sakes, you interrupted everything for that?

It’s time to go to work, fella. Anyway, from what I was seeing, you weren’t making out too well. You should thank me.

Yeah, yeah. . . . Where are my slippers, it’s so dark I can hardly see. Ohhhh, my eyes. . . .

The bathroom’s over there to your right.

What time is it anyhow?

Eight.

Bare feet shuffled through the thick carpet to a tiled floor. Water, cold and sharp, dashed against skin, ran down cheeks and nose and chin and neck, dashed again against open eyes. Ahhhhhh. . . . rubs. . . . rubs them again and again and again. Where’s the towel? A vague yellow apparition hanging from a rack, looks from here like a slip or panties. You should be so lucky as to wipe your mug with that, you poor shit. Still, it was nice and soft to touch, flushing out the crevices and folds of the face where fatigue still lay.

That bastard.

That bastard pays for this, fella.

I don’t give a shit. He could put us up in the Waldorf Towers, he’d still be a prick. What color shirt should I wear?

You were plain last week. Try striped.

How’s this? Brown and orange?

Okay, but don’t forget a solid tie. Our basic black, not one of those neon numbers, OK?

Who the fuck are you, Calvin Clean?

Okay, it’s going to he one of those days, maybe I shouldn’t have woken you up after all. . . . turn on the radio, maybe that’ll help.

. . . . says that the improvement in the unemployment figures for last month is evidence that the upswing in the economy of the past year is not as transitory as experts had believed. In other news. . . .

C’mon, get rid of that.

. . . . ‘Strangers in the niiight. . . .

Ohhhh. . . .

Sounds like your little reverie there.

Turn it off.

Let me try just one more—

. . . . is that the vagina tends to constrict after a certain amount of time and that’s why. . . .

Jesus Christ!

No, actually, that was yesterday morning. Have to wait another week for that, I’m afraid. Let’s see. . . .

. . . . ‘doobie doobie dooooo. . . . ‘

Look! I’m turning it off and it’s staying off!

Okay, but it’s hard looking at that sour puss of yours with no diversion in the background.

So I’ll smile. See? How’s that?

Christ, I’ve seen better on sick cows. As you were.

Well, I’m ready. Let’s go.

In the full-length mirror, a brown and orange striped shirt, basic black tie, dark suit with vest, dark shoes with tassels. hair slicked down, combed back up over and down the skull, sideburns trimmed. Could use a haircut, been four weeks. Could use a new blade too. A little bit of stubble. What the hell!

Door open, door shut, door locked, case closed. Ahh, the superintendent making her daily perambulations. No way to avoid her look, I suppose.

Morning, Mr. Reilly.

’lo.

Hello, Jason.

Hrrrumph! Hello, Mrs. Stevens. How are you?

Fine, and yourself? Must be, I take it. Haven’t seen you all weekend, not since Thursday, been making time with the ladies, something like that?

Something like that.

You youngsters, I used to have energy like that, too, way back when. Don’t know where it went.

Boy, did that elevator ever take it’s own sweet time today!

Well, bye.

You know, someday I’m going to be independently wealthy and spend the rest of my life in bed.

The rest of your life?

Well, there’ll be someone else, of course. At least one. Oh, I’ll sit up once in a while to phone out for pizza, or the latest home cassette, watch television, that sort of thing.

What sort of a life is that?

Nirvana.

Jason?

Hm?

In case you haven’t noticed, we’re at the lobby?

Anyone there?

I don’t see a soul.

Relief. A quickening of the pace, and the world opens up onto a windy day in early May, leaves dazzling in bright of green, everyone rushing to the terminals, the stations, the cabs, the buses. The world of fashion. No more sweaters, no more boots, no more snow underfoot—God, look at that one walking up ahead, almost makes the day worthwhile after all. She’s turning the corner, she’s going down to the same platform I am, she is—she is—no she’s not, she’s turning, going the other way—

The grinding of wheels, the hiss of steam. Ding dong! Doors close and open and close again and the train starts and stops with a jolt and everyone is thrown against everyone else and the wino over at the front end of the train shouts something out in Spanish because someone fell against him and the bag he was drinking his cheap booze out of fell and broke and now it’s running all over the damned car mixing in with the dried urine from the other wino the other day and the damned car is just standing there and standing there and standing there and standing there and it’s getting later and later and later and he’s getting later and later and later—

God! Do I hate this! GOD!

He doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t hear anyone. Not down here.

Excuse me, excuse me please, going out, coming through, excuse me, watch your back, excuse me . . .

Buck fifty wasted. Nothing else to do. Up the stairs and hail a cab and get stuck in traffic and watch the meter click and click and click and click and click and get to the office and—

Mr. Reilly, I tried calling your home but you’d already left.

What is it, Joyce?

There was a fire in the building yesterday, nothing very big but the office is closed today. They’re coming in from the city to inspect, and Mr. B. said you can go back home and come in tomorrow.

Joyce, you’re a lifesaver!

Hey, buddy, my name ain’t Joyce, and you owe me five bucks, and I got another fare waitin’, so can we move it, huh?

Huh?

Dreamland, Jason. You were in dreamland again.

Oh, GOD! Do I hate this!

CHAPTER FIVE

Joyce looked up from her hunting and pecking.

I hate this, Jason. My parents didn’t pay tuition for me to hunt and peck.

Maybe they could pay for a new ribbon so I don’t have to hunch and squint.

Funny, funny, funny.

Bicker, bicker, bicker.

And a good morning to you, too, Mr. Reilly.

How’s B?

Don’t ask.

So I won’t. How was the weekend?

Don’t ask that either.

What if I made YOU some coffee? Black.

I thought you’d never ask.

The remark wasn’t entirely devoid of self-interest, Joyce. I could use a cup myself before going into conference.

Who are the big shots today?

The Salkowitzs. You know—Lennie and Bernie.

Oh—the English twits.

"I don’t know, I find them rather amusing. It’s you-know-who that’s driving me to drink. Here