Spitball Army

An ad warns against putting feet on theater seats, depicting an offender pelted by a soda cup. One bad behavior replaces another.

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MER Y CHRIS AS announces the flashing LED sign beside the Alabama gas station. FRI D PICKL S $1.00

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I see how little kids might find you creepy, she says between potluck bites, referencing his age and name-checking Santa Claus.

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I never lie, he tells them, you should know that about me. Beat. But (peering over glasses) are you sure I wasn’t lying just then?

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Here’s my Halloween mix! he says: I’m Your Boogie Man; Jungle Boogie; Boogie Nights. Thus am I horrified by discotheque spectres.

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The e-mail tells me that the guidebook to El Camino de Santiago is waiting at the library. This is how the cash-strapped travel.

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Wrestling with intangible tsuris at my desk: bills, job, future. At my feet, the cat leaps in joy with his tangible plastic straw.

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The neighbor’s cat saunters into my office, onto the desk, and paw-tweets an emoticon: [p\. Just in case his friends are online.

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The yellow neon Dollar Tree sign glows at night above plate glass revealing newly bare white walls: warning or sign of fellowship?

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CT tech says to hold my breath 30 seconds: “Most people can’t.” I make it 62 to prove all those swimming years good for something.

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