I went to the kitchen and got some potato chips and took them back to my room and sat there in front of the TV. I was still stuffed from dinner. I ate so many for so long—I don’t know how many, it was a big bag—that when I got up to change the channel I was nauseated, and my stomach swung like a watermelon, and the bag was still pretty full. How many potato chips is that—a thousand? A million? The numbers don’t do it justice. I felt like I’d eaten sand.

I shut the TV off and got into bed. I fell asleep but after an hour woke up suddenly, not drowsy, wide awake. I felt electrified. I turned the TV back on and thought about my conversation with Dave from before. Sure, it was unlikely—it was a long shot they’d ever need my help. Or would they? Dave smoked a lot of herb in college. Maybe it zapped his supply. Here was my older brother, really scared, and I was his confidant—me, his crummy little brother. What if they did need me? I’d be the father. All of a sudden I was Dave’s confidant and possibly a whole lot more. Dave and Denise and me, Uncle Vince, and my semen. I lay there in the guest room, thinking random thoughts, like what if I suddenly went blind in five years. Would I use a cane or a dog? Would the kid come and see me? Would the state provide me with adequate housing? Medicaid would never pay for a prostitute, but could I find a nurse somewhere to give me hand jobs? Then I came up with a new way to arrange the equipment in the recording studio at work. I could order this special stacking table. There was a bunch of backlog we could dump.

We would be so close, Denise and Dave and me; still, despite my pledge of loyalty to Dave, I would indeed be the father. He took a risk in asking for my help. Maybe one day, when my kid was forty, I’d pull him aside and tell him. “Son,” I’d say, “sit down.” That would be cool. No, maybe not. Anyhow, I had given my worthless word to do this, because that’s what Dave and Denise wanted, and you don’t shortchange your family. I wanted to do it. I wanted to help so badly. I was dying to be of service in their embarrassing time of need.

I lay there in the pitch dark, out of breath, practically. I started singing that old Tom Jones thing, “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone.” The next line I thought of—“It’s not unusual to be drugged by anyone”—came out in this high-pitched voice like a sixth-grader’s, so I stopped.