“I had to stop by my parents’ house this morning,” he says through gritted teeth. “To pick up Johnny Depp for Nana and take him to the vet for his procedure next week.”

Johnny Depp? The vet? I am so confused.

“Did you? And why did you take him on a Saturday if it’s not until next week?”

Paul rolls his eyes. “He’s some kind of mystic hippie who says he needs the extra days to commune with Johnny Depp’s animal spirit. But joke’s on him. Johnny Depp is dead inside.”

“That right?”

“So imagine my surprise,” Paul says, “when we get into the Prius, and Johnny Depp screams at me about how I’ve kidnapped him and am taking him to the woods to rape him. So I call Nana to ask her what the hell is wrong with her stupid parrot, and she tells me that you were over to visit and had a, and I quote, ‘long and frank conversation with Johnny Depp about how much you hate him, and really, Paul, couldn’t you be nicer to him? He so deserves it.’”

“You should be nicer to him,” Sandy says, taking muffins out of the oven. “All I hear is animosity from you.”

“He was screaming about kidnapping and rape!” Paul shouts. “When we were stopped at an intersection with the windows rolled down! There was a Greyhound bus stopped next to us with old people on their way to bingo or hospice, and they heard every single word he said. And once he got going, Wheels started howling like he was being kidnapped and raped, too, and I just know everyone on that bus thought I was some kind of weird animal-fucker getting ready to pile-drive a dog and parrot because I’m some sick and twisted fuck who gets his jollies by running an animal compound called the Heavy Petting Zoo where other sick and twisted fucks just like me pay a nominal monthly membership fee to come in and participate in the carnal act of bestiality!”

“Heavy Petting Zoo,” Sandy snorts. “That’d be a great name for a Christian gospel rap group.”

“Christian gospel rap?” Paul echoes. “How would that even work?” And then, as if the world isn’t strange enough, he starts to rap. “You know what it is, you know what’d be nice? You and me, boo, and the body of Christ.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s going to be offensive to at least half of your prospective market,” Sandy says. “Especially since you just rapped about a three-way with Jesus.”

Paul suddenly grins, and it’s adorable. “Guess what the song would be called?”

“What?”

“‘The Holy Trinity.’”

Sandy gasps and throws a dishcloth at him. “You’re going to hell, Paul Auster! No one would buy your music!”

“I don’t care! I don’t want to be in a Christian gospel rap group called Heavy Petting Zoo! Stop trying to change the subject!”

“You’re the one rapping about lying with Jesus.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “Oh please. Why else do they always make him with these great abs and always looking so fine?”