Two weeks after the fight, things were set. I was sitting on the couch in Bruce's room. Next to me was Mike Davenport, the baboon, draining a bottle o... beer. Bruce sat slouched in an armchair next to Mike. On the TV was porn; some vanilla stuff, with a white chick getting nailed. Mike was playing with his crotch; wearing thin that already worn gray corduroy. Bruce and I exchanged a knowing head nod, as Mike tipped back his third bottle of Bud to the dregs. He was a lightweight, and we could. What was wrong with me? I had left the house at some god-forsaken hour of the morning—on a Saturday—to go to the beach and hopefully see some woman that I barely knew. I didn't know where she lived, how to contact her, or even her goddamned last name. I leaned against the car for a few more minutes and was quiet, letting the sounds and smells wash over me. After a while, I calmed down and decided not to worry about it. I hoped I'd see Callie but even if I didn't, I'd take advantage of a day. More

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