I go into my house and lock the front door behind me. I put my eye to the peephole that faces east, toward the vacant house. Overgrown timothy grass nods against the glass, but I still have a good enough view. I watch as a white truck pulls up. It says EZ Moving in orange letters on the side. A woman comes out the front door, lopes down the steps in easy strides and unhooks the gate at the back of the truck. She has a fixed look around her mouth. It makes her seem older than she probably is. She doesn’t look like she sleeps much. A man in a brown uniform gets out of the driver’s side of the truck. Together they begin to unload. Boxes, lamps, a toaster. An easy chair. Not much stuff.

The woman looks toward me, where I lie in wait. Her eyes seem to pierce through the screen of timothy into the dark room where I sit. I duck even though there is no way she can see me. This is very bad. People have eyes to look and ears to listen, and women look and listen more carefully than men.

I am so upset I have to go to the kitchen and make bullshots. I’m sad to say I didn’t invent these. You can probably find the recipe but I’ve made some little changes of my own so I’ll record this.

After a long hunt I find the machine under the bed. I kicked it there by accident I guess.

Recipe for Bannerman’s bullshots. Boil up a little beef bouillon and season it with pepper and Tabasco. You can add a teaspoon of mustard. I like to add celery salt too. Then put in a shot of bourbon. Or two, maybe. You are supposed to add lemon juice but people who like lemon juice are the same kind of people who love salad. I won’t have it in the house.

I have three before I feel any better. I follow it up with my pill, and before I know it I’m nodding pleasantly. Like Mommy used to say, if you have pain you take medicine. If you have a cut you get stitches. Everyone knows that.