April.
I hadn’t heard from Ann for weeks. Was she blissfully involved with that Glen guy? Was she miserable? I didn’t know. And I couldn’t ask Ms. DeAngela, because she’d stopped coming to the eye.
April.
I hadn’t heard from Ann for weeks. Was she blissfully involved with that Glen guy? Was she miserable? I didn’t know. And I couldn’t ask Ms. DeAngela, because she’d stopped coming to the eye.
Thursday night. The eye
In a dark, back corner of the bar, Roger, pissed, reprimanded Jack. Jack grinned, embarrassed, a schoolboy talking to the principal. He hid a bottle of Corona behind his back and nodded sheepishly at everything Roger said.
Mike and I watched from a table.
“What’s he saying?” I asked.
“He’s telling Jack he’s getting too sloppy on stage. He’s gotta cut back.”
School cafeteria.
Bob ate lunch with Doug Borges and Charlie Martins. At the entrance to the gym area, a list had been posted. I read the list, and infuriated, tore it off the door, walked over to Bob’s table, and thrust it at him.
“What the hell is this?” I said.
“What?” said Bob.
“She’s a Witch?”
“So?”
“You signed up to do a Monty Python sketch?”
“Yeah. Is that okay, your highness?”
“No. It’s not okay.”