He struck a pose and pointed at me, suggesting a pop quiz. “In which Order will we find D. sylvestris?”

“I’m not doing this, dude.”

“Hymenoptera,” he said, proudly answering his own question.

“How long did you have to train your eight neurons to remember that?”

“A while,” he said breezily, removing a blunt from within his hair somewhere.

“You can’t smoke that in here.”

“I know that.” He sniffed it and returned it to his haybale.

In one of his many attempts to push me to broaden my horizons, Patton had tried to get me to audition for Jeopardy (R.I.P. Alex Trebeck), convinced I’d make a bazillion dollars. What he failed to appreciate was that the only way for me to win would be if every single category was natural science. I don’t know jack about much else.

Okay, I also know a lot about clocks. Mainly watches. Ugh. This is so embarrassing.

If areas of knowledge were like college specializations, then entomology, with a focus on bug-sex, would have been my major, with a minor in time pieces.⁶ Antiques, for the most part – anything older than about three decades. Imagine seeing a watch and having your head suddenly flooded with facts about said watch, while at the same time not giving two shits about the watch or the facts. A six-thousand-dollar Rolex that gains five seconds per day is said to be within tolerances. That’s over a thousand dollars for every second it steals from the Universe. The NASA astronauts who landed on the moon were wearing Omega Speedmasters, all except Neil Armstrong, who left his inside the lunar lander as a backup clock. Watches on display are almost always set at ten past ten or ten till two because the hands form a smiley-face, a subtle form of suggestion for the prospective buyer. Do I come from a family of watchmakers or antique dealers? Nope. I just know. And it’s exhausting.

“Well if you won’t do it, then at least train me, man,” said Patton. “Be like my game-show sensei. Just put all your knowledge up here.” He popped the side of his head with his palm.

“Plenty of room.”

“I know, right? So, there’s no excuse. Please dude? Winning gameshows is the only way for me to get enough cash to start my own Formula One racing team.”

“No.”

“When you off?”

“Seven.”

“Want to get wings?” he asked.

“No, busy.”

“Not research again. Come on, dude. Every night?”

“You know the drill,” I said.

“It’s Friday though. Friiiiiiiiday.”

I gave him serious-guy face.

“Alright,” he relented. “Roll over to my place in the morning. Aunt Lisa will make us chorizo empanadas and refried beans and we can play Simon.”⁷

“Your Aunt Lisa microwaving frozen breakfast empanadas is not making breakfast. And I’ll pass on the beans. But Simon is awesome. I’ll be there.”

“Yeah!” He reached around the counter and patted the underside of that bit of my belly that hangs over my belt buckle. I fired a palm into his sternum and he crashed satisfyingly into a rack of indicators. “Duuuuuuude,” he wheezed, accepting my justice.