A week has passed since John hung up on me. My house is so neat. I washed the kitchen floor last night on my hands and knees. I should take photos of it. If I had a family I’d get everybody down here now, dressed up, and take the Christmas-card picture before the place got messy again. If I were married and had kids. But where would I get a Christmas tree this time of year? And who would I marry? I’ll tell you who I should marry: myself. With my cat Skippy as the mascot. We could sail around the world together. I’d get Skippy a tiny yellow rain suit. “Man the mizzenmast, you little furry wog,” I’d say. “Get me a halyard.” The ship would be my kingdom. I’d have a sword and an eye patch, some movies on video belowdecks, for when the wind dies. I’d love the seagoing life. Maybe out there I’d come across something I could understand.

NOT THIS

AM I A good person or a bad person? I’m not a great person—I know that. I’ve been a certain way my whole life: Mr. Showcase, Mr. Jokey, Mr. Handshake. After a while, even I can’t stand it. I look down on people. I’ve got a short fuse. I piss on my friends. I always thought the benefit of being this type of guy was that you forget the things you do to people, and you go on living in a happy pink bubble. You’re not such a winner, but you’re allowed to forget.

I had gone over to Kiffany’s with the idea of persuading her. I took the gun. I have a confession to make: As a kid I was fascinated by Nazis. I hated them, like everybody else; I would think up tortures to pay them back—gouge out their eyes with a rusty fork, rip off their balls with pliers and shove them down their throats—but I also thought they were terrible and dangerous and, so, worth thinking about. I drew swastikas on my notebook. I ordered a catalogue of war paraphernalia from the back of a comic book, and in it were wool uniforms and spiked German helmets, Third Reich binoculars, leather holsters, and guns—cigarette lighters made to look like guns—and, after all these years, I still had the gun I got then. It was a lighter that looked like a .45, the American gun. It was fun to use. A big flame came out of the barrel. At my place, Kiffany lit her smokes with it seven times a night. It was big and heavy. It looked real.