It was totally out of line that Dave had bailed on getting together tonight, no matter how many times I’d told myself that he was allowed to hang out with his friends, especially when they were depressed. He knew what a big night this was for me. And besides, it was a Saturday night.

But the main reason I was so mad was that I was sitting here in the dark and not watching my show, because Dave had told me not to. Just because he had other plans didn’t mean that I shouldn’t enjoy my big night. This was special to me. Lord knows, I had watched every episode of Militia Man he’d directed.

I set my beer down and reached for the remote. The TV came alive in front of me, and I caught the end of a promo for the episode designed to persuade audiences not to change the channel but stay instead and catch “A whole new recipe for murder!” as the announcer boomed.

I turned the set off. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I would be cheating on him if I watched the show on my own. Dave was ruining the whole experience for me.

This whole mess had me conflicted. One side of my head was trying to tell me that he was with his friend, who was broke and out of work, and that I shouldn’t be so selfish. The other side thought I was justified in being mad. I thought about both sides, and then said out loud, “Fuck him.”

I decided to do a drive-by, just to be sure that his friend Isaac was there. I jumped in my car and headed down the hill to Highland. Taking a right, I drove south on Highland, making a left onto Franklin. Traffic was all backed up, because of that stupid Kodak Theatre out-door mall. This time of year, you couldn’t even get near this intersection, because American Idol taped some of their big performance shows at the theater. At a dead stop, I yelled out the window, “Damn you, Ryan Seacrest!”

Finally reaching Beachwood Canyon, I stopped at the bottom. I didn’t want to drive by and have Dave and his friend come out front and bust me. I couldn’t see anyone, so I slowly started down Dave’s street. I didn’t want to appear to be stopping and looking if anyone glanced out the window. As I pulled closer, I could see another car in his driveway. Dave’s classic VW could fit inside the garage, but Dave never wanted to risk scraping one of the wide-swinging car doors, so he always parked in the covered driveway.