The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine (11 page)

Twelve

A
NGIE CLEARS HER THROAT
and says, “Hi, everyone. Thanks for coming. Most of you know that I’m shooting a short film. It’s an experimental piece, and Dylan is both my lead actor
and
the subject of the story. The screening, which I hope you’ll all come to, will be in early November at NYU. Tonight I’ll be going around asking questions, getting some information together.” She turns to me and grins. “There’s no script. So beware, Dylan,
anything
can happen.”

At the nearby table, Headbone pipes up. “Wow, Dyl, this is
so
cool! Can I get a body autograph?” He stands, pulls a felt pen from his pocket, and hikes up his shirt. A huge mistake, seeing that Headbone’s idea of a six-pack is sitting at the bottom of my dad’s liquor cabinet labeled
HEINEKEN
. Headbone could also use a bra, and without a trace of embarrassment he points to a spot above his left boob. “Right here’s perfect.”

Before I can tell Headbone to shut up, Chloe yanks him back into his chair and Angie shoots him a warning look. “Okay, I think we’re ready to begin,” she says. “Doug? Will you bring Dylan a chai latte, on the house? Venti. And I believe he prefers soy milk. Now, Headbone, since you’re so eager to talk, we’ll start with you.”

While Doug brings me one of his overpriced drinks, mumbling about how nice it would be to actually have some
paying
customers, Angie pulls out a small notebook and takes a seat across from Headbone. “So, Headbone, you’ve known Dylan for quite a long time, right?”

Headbone nods and flashes me a goofy grin. “Yep. Dylan’s my bud. We’re tight.”

“Okay, great. How would you describe him?”

Angie should know better than to ask Headbone a vague, open-ended question. “Hmmm,” Headbone says, “let’s see….” While the idiot stares up at the ceiling, I peer more closely at him, wondering if he’s high. In my experience, the more weed he’s smoked, the more he’ll talk. Finally he says, “Dylan is…neat.”

“Neat?” Angie says. “As in cool, groovy, neat-
o
?”

Headbone shakes his head. “No, no. Neat as in
clean
. Orderly. He likes to dust, vacuum, put things away.” He laughs a little. “The rest of us”—he glances at Chloe—“oh, excuse me, Clo,
the guys in the band
are slobs, so it’s one of those mutually agreed-upon, you know, symbiotic relationships.”

If this is Headbone’s epic description of me, it appears that he may actually
need
a few hits. Angie jots something in her book. “Um, can you give me a specific example of how Dylan is orderly?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure, that’s easy. Dylan’s got this really far-out collection of vintage LPs. Which is very cool, but he keeps them in”—he pauses and lowers his voice to a whisper—“alphabetical order.”

I hear a few chuckles from the Nerd Posse. Angie and the band already know this embarrassing fact about me, but it would have been nice to keep it a secret from everyone else. While Angie scribbles in her book, I take a long drink of my chai latte and concentrate on burning a hole through Headbone’s head with my laser-beam eyes. “Anything else you’d like to add?” Angie says.

Headbone thinks for a moment. “Nah, that’s about it.”

Unbelievable.

“Hold on, dude!” Moser says. “You’re forgetting something
very
important!” He looks at Angie like he’s had this major epiphany. “Dylan can cook! I’m telling you, that guy makes a
tasty
vegetable lasagna. Oh, and he’s an excellent shopper. Reads
all
the labels. Won’t allow anything artificial to pass his lips. Or ours. Especially yellow number 5. That stuff shrinks your balls.” Everyone except me laughs. “Hey, it’s true!” Moser says.

“All right, all right,” Angie says with a sigh. “We’ve got neat, orderly, good cook, good shopper. Anything else, Moser?”

Moser scratches his head. “Um, no. Not at the moment.”

It’s amazing, the things I have to put up with.

Suddenly, Nick, who’s been pretty distracted this whole time with peering out the window, pipes up. “Listen, Angie, you’re wasting your time interviewing these two clowns. Just ask
me
a few questions, and maybe we’ll get somewhere.” He sits back, all cocky, like he’s suddenly the Dylan Fontaine expert.

“Okay,” Angie says. “Nick, how would you describe Dylan?”

Now,
this
should be interesting. Let’s see what the snake in the grass has to say. “Well, the way I see it,” Nick goes on, “Dylan’s an all-around good guy. I mean, yeah, he’s kind of straitlaced, and he can be obsessive about food and his LPs, but he’s cool. Also, I hadn’t heard him play in a while, but after tonight I’d say he’s an
excellent
classical guitarist.”

For the first time in my life I feel a strong sense of appreciation for Nick. Maybe he’s not so bad after all. As Angie takes notes, he adds, “Oh, one more thing. Dylan can
draw
. He’s done a lot of nice pieces, but that old master sketch he worked on this summer is really good.”

Uh-oh,
I think. Did Nick
have
to mention my artwork? I glance at Chloe. She elbows Randy. I try to stifle my laughter, but pretty soon all three of us are cracking up. “What?” Nick says. “What’s so funny?”

Chloe reaches over and pats Nick on the head. “Nothing, Nick. Chill.”

Headbone rolls his eyes like he’s in on the joke, even though he’s completely clueless. “Ah, forget it, Nick. Moser probably farted. What else is new?”

“Hey, I did not!” Moser says. “Jeez, Headbone, why do you always blame stuff on
me
?”

Angie shoots Moser and Headbone another warning look. “Okay, moving right along.” She glances around the table until her eyes land on Chloe. “Chloe? What would you like to say about Dylan?”

From the corner, Jonathan hits the zoom button for a close-up. Meanwhile, I wait in eager expectation, hoping Chloe will begin by listing all my wonderful attributes, including my fabulous taste in music and what an excellent kisser I am. But instead, she purses her lips, draws her eyebrows together, and seems, well, confused. “I…haven’t known Dylan very long,” she says. “He’s kind and thoughtful and sort of shy, but…” She glances at me with a sad, apologetic smile. “He’s also insecure and has a hard time expressing his feelings. He’s angry, too—about a lot of things.”

The room grows quiet. A huge knot is forming inside my throat. I swallow and stare down at my feet while Angie scribbles in her book. I figure she’s going to ask Randy a few questions next, but instead, she gets up, touches my shoulder as she passes by, and takes a seat beside Jake.

“Jake? You and Dylan have been friends for a long time. How would you describe him?”

“Oh, Dylan’s a great guy. A friend you can always count on. And as far as talent goes, besides guitar, he’s the best forward on our AAU team. He’s got a real good chance of making varsity this year.”

I cringe, grateful for the kudos, but did Jake
have
to mention varsity?

He’s about to continue, but Headbone interrupts. “Um, Jake, dude, with all due respect, I have to disagree. I mean, yeah, for the most part Dylan’s a loyal guy, but we’ve seen him play some pretty dirty basketball. Pushing, shoving, flagrant fouls, stuff like that.” He jabs his thumb in Randy’s direction. “Practically killed his own brother. Just ask Randy, he’ll tell you.”

Angie gives me a tentative glance. Slowly she walks over and takes a seat with the band. “Randy? Is…that true? Does Dylan play dirty basketball?”

Randy and I stare at each other. I can tell right away he’s straight. “No, Dylan doesn’t usually play dirty. But he
did
lose it that day we played a game of one-on-one. The truth is he’s been acting pretty crazy lately. I’m not sure what his problem is, but like Chloe said, he’s angry. Mostly with me. Seems to think I’m wasting my time playing with the Dead Musicians Society. But what my brother doesn’t understand is that my first commitment is to the band.” He pauses while Angie jots something in her book. “Also, Dylan seems to be
seeing
things lately—things that aren’t really there.”

Angie looks up, puzzled. I realize I haven’t told her about the weed under the floorboards.

“And one more thing,” Randy says. “I’m sorry you got arrested, Dylan. Really. It should have been me.”

You could hear a pin drop. Angie sets down her pen and comes over to me. She whispers, “Dylan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to get so intense. Maybe we should stop now.”

Before I can answer, there’s a rap on the coffee shop window. A second later, Franz Warner walks in. He motions for Randy and Nick to follow him outside, but Nick shakes his head and pulls up a chair. Franz sits down.

“No, Angie, keep shooting,” I say, glaring at Franz. “It’s my turn to talk now.”

“But…,” Angie says. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m positive.” I motion for Jonathan to continue and fix my eyes on Randy. “You’re absolutely right, Randy,” I say. “I
have
been acting crazy lately. But you forgot to mention one
very
important thing. After Mom left us, and Dad checked out, and you started getting stoned every day of your sorry life, it’s like I had no one. So yeah, maybe a person
can
start seeing things. In fact, maybe a person can lose his
mind
.”

I glance around the room. Everyone’s eyes are on me. “Oh, and the other thing Randy didn’t mention,” I add, “is that
he’s
the real artist, and the best musician I know. Most of you have only heard the cover songs he does with the band, but before that he used to write his own music. His own lyrics, too. Really great stuff. I only wish I had a fraction of his talent. I know one thing—if I did, I’d never waste it.”

Randy’s glaring at me now. Chloe reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move. “Go ahead,” I say to Angie. “See if he has anything left to say.”

I can tell Angie doesn’t want to do this. She takes a deep breath. “Um…Randy? Anything else?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Dylan needs to stop putting me on a pedestal. The truth is I’m
not
that good, bro. There are millions of talented people out there, and guess what? I’m not one of them. So stop looking to me for answers. Besides, it’s time you got your
own
life. And you’d better get used to being alone, because pretty soon
I
might be gone too. Then it’ll just be
you
, the
Vagina Head
, and
Vanya
. One big happy family.” In one swift motion, Randy gets up and walks out the door, and as I sit there feeling like I’ve just been sucker punched, Franz Warner and the rest of the band follow him.

Chloe’s the last to get up to leave, and when she’s halfway out the door I yell, “Chloe, wait!”

She hesitates, then quickly walks over to me. “Hurry, Dylan, I want to make sure Randy’s okay.”

“What’s he talking about? What does he mean, he might be gone soon?”

“Oh…Nick got a call from the manager of the Sewer Rats. They’re going on tour in a month, and they asked us to be their opening band. I told the guys it’s a stupid idea—that we can’t just blow off school—but they’re not listening to me. Anyway, right now, it’s all talk, so don’t worry.”

“But…I don’t understand. I mean, even if they
were
serious, it’s impossible. Randy
hates
the Sewer Rats.”

“I know. The whole thing’s crazy, Dylan. But listen, I better go. I’ll talk to you later.”

I guess Doug feels sorry for me, because he brings over a whole tray of chai lattes for me and my friends and tells us they’re on the house. So while my brother is out making his drug deal and formulating a plan to leave home and tour with the Sewer Rats, I hang out with Jake, Angie, and the Nerd Posse. I even manage to tolerate Jonathan talking about what a
classic
night it’s turned out to be and how Angie’s film is going to have newfound depth and turmoil because of my raw honesty. The whole time, I’m feeling pretty numb, and when the Beanery is about to close I pack up my guitar, explain to everyone that I need a little time alone, then say goodbye and head home.

Inside our house it’s dark and empty. As usual, I’m hungry, so I forage around in the refrigerator until I find a tray of Vanya’s leftover pork and sauerkraut—which turns out to be pretty good even when it’s cold—and eat until I’m stuffed. After that I head upstairs. Outside Randy’s room I smell incense burning, and when I peek through the keyhole I see there’s a small light on. Since Randy only burns incense when he’s trying to cover up the smell of pot, I figure he scored big with Franz and is in there now getting stoned. This, along with every other sucky thing that happened tonight, really begins to infuriate me, so I push open the door and yell, “What are you gonna do now? Burn down the house?”

That’s when I see Randy and Chloe in bed. Together. Thankfully they’re under the covers. Randy’s jeans are slung over a chair in the corner, and there’s a black lace bra on the floor. Randy’s box of condoms from inside his old chemistry set is sitting on his nightstand. Ribbed. Lubricated. Opened. I stand there gaping. “I…I’m sorry…I—”

“Dyl!” Randy says. “Shut the door, will you? And from now on,
knock!
”

Chloe gives me a shy smile from under the covers and waves.

I close the door and stand there for a while, breathing in the smell of incense and listening to the bed creak. I’m not sure what to think about any of this, but I know one thing: as far as our buddy Nick is concerned, my seminude drawing of Chloe is
nothing
compared to what’s going on right now in my brother’s bedroom.

Thirteen

O
N SATURDAY I AGREE
to meet up with Angie and Jonathan for another round of shooting. A big mistake, I’m sure, but after my unforgettable debut Thursday night at the Beanery, I figure I’ve got nothing to lose. Also, considering my questionable mental state, a day in Washington Square Park might be just what the doctor ordered. Mingling with New York’s finest freaks and weirdos can only make me feel like the sanest dude on the planet.

Anyway, Saturday morning, while I’m in the kitchen pulverizing a high-energy drink complete with green tea, bee pollen, and wheat germ, Randy stumbles in. Now that he’s no longer a virgin, thanks to his best friend’s girlfriend, and considering a band tour with the sucky Sewer Rats, he’s a little distracted. In fact, he’s basically ignored me for the past couple of days. “What’s up, Randy?” I say, pouring my frothy concoction into a glass. “Rough night?”

He grunts, then opens the refrigerator and pulls out a loaf of Vanya’s pumpernickel bread, along with a bowl of some nasty-looking German meat pâté. Normally Vanya waits on us hand and foot, but right now she’s upstairs vacuuming and singing a seriously off-key rendition of “Edelweiss.” Randy takes a seat at the table and begins spreading the creamy brown mixture on a hunk of bread while I chug down my drink and watch. I know this sounds crazy, but ever since I walked in on him and Chloe the other night, I’ve been studying my brother closely, looking for some kind of change—an outward sign that he has indeed slept with a girl. But as far as I can tell, he’s exactly the same. It’s a little disappointing.

He sniffs the meat and takes a bite. “So,” I say, breaking the long silence. “I hear the shredder and his metalheads are coming over today.” Randy doesn’t know it, but last night Headbone spilled the beans—told me that the Sewer Rats were coming to our house this afternoon to jam and discuss their upcoming tour de force with the Dead Musicians Society.

Randy stops chewing. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, Randy. I know all about your
plans
. But honestly, I can’t believe you’re stooping this low. I mean, you’re the one who told me that the Sewer Rats
suck
and that their lead guitarist is a shredder. Remember when we heard them play at that dive club in Canarsie? The guy’s got no talent at all. He just cranks up the distortion and plays random notes on the guitar as fast as he can. He sounds like a train wreck. The rest of the band’s no better.”

I expect Randy to fight back, maybe even tell me where I can shove it, but he doesn’t. He spreads another wad of goop on a piece of bread and takes a huge bite. “Yeah, well, I haven’t heard them play in a while,” he says with his mouth full. “Maybe they’ve changed.”

“Changed?” Randy looks like he could use a drink, so I open the fridge, pour him some orange juice, and take a seat at the table. “You’re just kidding yourself. Guys like that don’t develop talent overnight.”

He takes a long swig of the juice and plunks down the glass. “All right, fine. Whatever. Maybe they
do
suck. Maybe they have no talent at all. So what? The reason they got booked for this tour is because a lot of people like their music. If we open for them, at least we’ll be playing. At least our band will get heard. Besides, you’re the one who keeps telling me to play my original songs. That’s what I’m planning to do. If we go on tour we can’t just do covers.”

What I want to tell Randy is that he’s selling out, that touring with the Sewer Rats is like musical suicide for someone with his ability. But since that would probably end our discussion, I decide to focus on the more practical issues. “Well, what about wheels?” I say. “How are you going to get around? Cart all your stuff? I doubt the Sewer Rats are providing you guys with transportation.”

He shrugs. “No problem. Nick’s got it all worked out. Some guy he knows is hooking us up with a van. Supposedly it’s a really good deal.”

This sounds pretty shady to me, but I let it go and offer my next argument. “All right,” I say. “What about school? Headbone and Moser’s parents will never agree to this. Dad will wig out. Mom, too, if she ever comes back.”

Randy waves this away like it’s nothing. “The guys aren’t asking
permission
from their parents, and I don’t care what Mom
or
Dad says. Besides, I only need a few more credits to graduate. I can easily make it up in the summer.”

“And kiss college goodbye?”

He looks into my eyes. “Listen, Dyl, this could be our big break. Every band has to pay their dues, and if it means dropping out of school and touring with the Sewer Rats—guys who happen to have an established fan base—well, that’s what we have to do. Okay? Are you finished with your interrogation?”

“Almost.” My energy drink didn’t exactly fill me up, so I rip off a piece of pumpernickel and sniff the pâté. “What
is
this stuff?”

“Beats me,” Randy says. “But, surprisingly, it’s pretty good.”

I smear some on the bread and take a bite. Randy’s right, it’s not bad. I eat the rest of that piece and take another. Now for the most important question. “So…,” I say, “have you told Nick about the situation with you-know-who?”

Randy chews slowly and gives me a measured look. “Nope.”

“What are you waiting for,
bro
?”

“Nothing in particular,
Dyl
.”

I’m not about to leave it there. Since I have to live vicariously through my older brother, I want details. “Well…tell me. How was it?” I raise an eyebrow so Randy knows exactly what I’m talking about. S-E-X.

He keeps chewing and looks up at the ceiling, savoring his mouthful of food like it’s some rare delicacy, like it’s the best-tasting thing in the world. After a while, he can’t help it; he grins. “It was great, dude. Awesome. Let’s hope you live long enough to find out.” And that’s when I finally see it. The thing that’s changed in Randy. He’s happy. Really happy. I haven’t seen him this way in a long time.

“Hey, Randy? About the other night, at the Beanery, when Franz walked in, I’m sorry, I guess I lost it, and—”

“No, you don’t need to apologize, Dyl. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I didn’t buy any pot from Franz that night. Chloe’s asked me to cut back, and I told her I would. And I’m sorry for what I said to you. I guess this thing with Mom has really gotten to me, you know? I just…I never thought she’d leave for good.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Me neither.” I’m really glad to hear that Randy’s planning to cut back on the weed. I just hope he can keep his promise. “Randy? If you do go on this tour, you’ll come back, right?”

“Of course.” He gives me a playful shove. “What do you think, you’re gonna get rid of me that easily?”

As we sit there grinning at each other, Vanya pokes her head into the kitchen. “Oh, wonderful!” She walks over and places a beefy hand on each of our shoulders. “You boys found the pumpernickel and
leberwurst
. How do you like it?”

“Um, it’s not bad,” I say.

Randy picks up the bowl and studies the contents. “Hey, uh, Vanya? What exactly
is leberwurst
?”

“Oh,
leber
is German for
liver.
Cow’s liver.
Very
nourishing for growing boys like you.”

I look at Randy. “Really, did you
have
to ask?”

As planned, I meet up with Angie and Jonathan at the Ninety-fifth Street station and the three of us hop the train to Greenwich Village. The subway car is crowded, but Jonathan manages to weasel into the seat next to Angie while I take the spot across from them. As the two short-film junkies chat, pausing only to cast conspiratorial glances my way, I begin to think about what Randy said to me at the Beanery—how I should stop looking to him for answers, figure out my own life. And even though it hurts, I think about what Chloe said too. That I’m insecure, and angry about a lot of things. It’s all true.

We change for the D at Thirty-sixth Street, and by the time we exit at West Fourth, I’ve come up with a plan. It’s a new scene for the film—something that will blow Angie and Jonathan away—but more importantly, it’s something for me. So while the two of them buy sodas and hot dogs from a street vendor, I cross the avenue and head for the Cage. The Cage is this totally awesome fenced-in basketball court where legends like Doctor J and Walter Berry used to play. Nowadays, the best ball handlers and shooters from all over the city—the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan—come here to jam, slam, flush, and alley-oop. I lean against the fence and watch as a game of five-on-five—shirts vs. skins—starts up.
Man,
I think,
if Jake knew what I was planning, he’d
freak. The two of us have always dreamed of playing inside the Cage, only that’s all it’s ever been: a dream. The reality would be suicide.

A few minutes later Angie and Jonathan join me, and as Angie offers me a bite of her hot dog, I look into her incredibly green eyes, and since I’ve already poisoned myself with mounds of Vanya’s
leberwurst,
I take it. As I’m chewing and noticing the way the little blond hairs on Angie’s cheek kind of glimmer in the afternoon sun, she says, “Dylan? What’s wrong? You seem a little…I don’t know, spacey.”

“Oh? Do I?” I reach over and wipe a dollop of ketchup from the corner of her mouth. I consider going further—leaning in and kissing her on those full pink lips, but then I decide: first things first. So instead, I turn to Jonathan, pluck the can of soda from his hand, take a long, sugary swig, hand it back, and say, “All right, dude, listen up, time to start filming. And whatever happens, don’t stop.”

Angie’s eyes grow wide. She peers into the court. “Dylan, you can’t…I mean, those guys in there are like…
scary
.”

“I’ve never been surer in my entire life.”

There doesn’t appear to be any gate leading into the Cage, so I slip in through a hole in the fence and take a seat with the guys on the sidelines who are waiting to play. Pretty soon the current game ends and a highly theatrical MC, complete with megaphone and lots of bling, struts over to us. “All right, cats! Listen to me!” He pokes his chest a few times. “I, Toulouse-Lautrec, fellow hoops enthusiast and aspiring ar
tiste,
will be calling this game. So get out there, mix it up, and find a mean-looking dude to cover.” Since I happen to know that the real Toulouse-Lautrec was a Postimpressionist French painter, I’m finding this very hard to believe. But the guy
is
in charge, so I do what he says. The problem is none of the mean-looking dudes are taking me seriously, so I’m left standing there alone.

From the corner of my eye I see Toulouse-Lautrec surveying the situation. He walks over and scopes me up and down. “Listen, cat, this is the real deal. Are you serious about playing here? I mean, do you
know
where you are?”

“Um…yeah. It’s the Cage.” I glance over at Angie and Jonathan. I really don’t want this guy kicking me off the court, so I say, “I want to play ball, and, well, my friend”—I point to Angie—“she’s making a film. About me.”

Toulouse-Lautrec peers over at Angie. Soon a big grin spreads across his face. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’m
down
with that. After all, we need to support our fellow ar
tistes
in this fine city.” He raises his megaphone to his lips. “Come on now, cats! Don’t leave this man hanging! Surely there’s someone out there who wants to cover my friend Bony Ass!” It takes me a few seconds to realize that Toulouse-Lautrec has dubbed
me
Bony Ass. Which is really unfair, because my ass is probably the most muscular part of my body, but I’m not about to argue with the guy.

Pretty soon this short, stocky dude saunters onto the court. He points in my direction and calls out, “I’ll take this sucker!” He pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside. Across his chest is a huge tattoo that reads
MOTHER F
.

“All
right
!” Toulouse-Lautrec shouts. “Mother Francis! Coolest cat in New York City comes to save the day! Now, let’s play
ball
!”

Before I know it, the game starts, and right away I find out that my only advantage against Mother F is my height. Which, in this case, really doesn’t amount to much. He’s stronger, quicker, and meaner, and he can trash-talk a blue streak. He really likes to show off, too, because when he gets the ball he dribbles circles around me and laughs. “Pretty dizzied up there, hey, Bony Ass? Think you’re something special? Now watch this.” He tries faking me out, but I call his bluff and run with him to the hole. Then, just as I’m about to block his shot, he charges into me like a freight train. I fall back, slamming my head into the fence while Mother F dunks the ball. It’s pretty humiliating, but I get up and shake it off, and since Toulouse-Lautrec is busy strutting in front of the camera instead of calling the game, I decide I need a new strategy.

That’s when I notice that one of the guys on my team—the one Toulouse-Lautrec calls the Grand Pupa—has got some bad blood going on with Mother F. So when Mother F gets the ball and begins taunting the Grand Pupa, calling him a variety of politically incorrect names such as
faggot, wussy boy,
and
homo,
I reach in, steal the ball, and dribble down the court for an easy layup. It happens so fast I can hardly believe it.

I guess the rest of the players are shocked too, because they just stop and stare. I glance over at Jonathan to make sure he’s shooting. He is. Next to him, Angie is jumping up and down and cheering for me.
Wait till Jake sees this.

“Let’s hear it for my man Bony Ass!” Toulouse-Lautrec bellows through his megaphone.

Of course, Mother F is not pleased about this little turn of events. So the next time he gets the ball, he goes in for the kill and pulls one of the dirtiest moves in street ball—an ankle breaker, a vicious crossover that knocks me flat on my back. While I’m lying on the concrete wondering exactly how I got there, I see Jonathan running onto the court. He’s calling a time-out. Angie’s got the camera, and she’s shooting.

I watch in disbelief as Jonathan Reed, my longtime nemesis, marches up to Mother F in an attempt to defend me. “Um, listen, brother,” he says. “You need to lay off my friend Bony Ass.” Jonathan, I notice, looks the way Headbone did when he stole my bottle of prescription Vicodin, popped a few, and puked his guts out in the toilet.