Should we start with a poem? Eh? A poem from dear Hank? Wouldn't that be a laugh? Shall we then?

       Mororse, full of regret, paying my bills.
       Drinking too much, smoking too much, popping pills.
       Then the phone rings and I decide not to answer,
       Probably just a doctor saying I have cancer.
       Once upon a time, I had things in the bag,
       Now I just sit here watching my pale skin sag.

  The moon is out and it is full, mocking him again.

  Howard Henry Fairbanks Jr. III has just recieved a fundraising letter from Terry Abernathy, who is overjoyed to accept the position of Chairman of the Board of Trustees of Drew College. The letter encourages Henry to send in a donation, even one of $25. It gives him instructions on how to set up a painless monthly withdrawal from his checking account.
       "Show your support for our community. Help Drew give to others what it gave to you."

  Terry Abernathy, class of '70. Terry Abernathy, successful attorney and investor. Terry Abernathy, the man who took from Fairbanks not only the lead role in the 1970 Drew College production of Oklahoma but also his girlfriend Sarah James, and then later his wife Melissa Fairbanks. And then later his tool and die company and finally his used car lot. Terry fucking Abernathy. You'd think these people would think about their mailing list before they'd ruin a day on which the sun had shined. You buy something nice, then you pay credit card bills for the rest of your life.

  Howard Henry cracks the label on a bottle of Bacardi. As he pours a double he sees himself in the mirror. Slithering newt, pathetic clam, obsequious weasel. Howard Henry. Hank. Enjoin the cracked mirror and lacerate your apertures with their forks. Twisted wraith, why did they kick you off the board of directors? Why? Drew College. That stinking swamp. Crew champion seven semesters. President: avaitors club. Ph.D. in theoretical poetry. And then, president of the Board, whose inestimable talents might be called upon at any point to correct a color the designer has chosen for the university's web site. Who are you kidding? It was no university. It was a college. College. Doesn't really rhyme with knowledge. No, not really. Rhymes with sausage. Drew Cossage. That's how those thick-necked hemp jewelry-enrusted boys pronounce it. With their frisbee golf and legalization rallys, their thin and pitted women floating in sun dresses on clouds of patchouli, their naive dreams, Save-the-Earth thermal travel mugs, hiking gear, and endless health. I remember when I thought I was the first person to read beat poetry, he grits his teeth at the memory.

  There had been glory days. The reading at the White House, the handshake with President Gerald Ford, the riding mower and the cabin in Cornicopia, the suggestion of a pina colada flavored pickle which had won him a patent and some shelfspace during the avantgarde condiment craze. He and Melissa, toasting the future with two martini glasses filled each with rum and a pickle. Where the wind comes sweeping down the plains. Cruising down to the coast in their choice of used cars.

  But everything that rises must... be remaindered. When she left, when the settlement awarded her a majority share in Fairbanks Tool and Die, when sweet bird of youth left him splattered, he had fallen asleep and woken up behind the wheel of a car partially submerged, having driven across the Drew College quadrangle into the fountain beneath the statue of Steve Tomasula. He blinked. Or was it Lenin? Nothing like being dragged across Red Square by furious Muskovites, breath flammable from vodka.

  A disgrace? Not even.

  Lately he had been forgetting the names of things and ideas he once held dear. He had forgotten, for instance, the name of the profession which entails exclusively the handcrafting and sale of hats. He had forgotten the logic of trickle down economics. He had lost the distinction between penumbra and perenium. He could no longer tell you whether perrenials would come back or die forever.

  The day he got all the emails saying Osama bin Laden had been captured he had a parade down the middle of Main street to express his happiness. But it turned out to be an email hoax, as he learned in jail.

       So, what did he have to lose,
       right? We all leave this earth
       sometime. Why not go out with
       flare? And take some motherfuckers
       with him. Like Terry. And Melissa,
       that bitch. Hell, might as well
       take fucking Drew College off
       the map as well. And then he woke
       up.

  "Yes, yes, I'll pay the charges. No, no, I don't care what you're wearing. Really, no, really, I don't want it hot. I just -- I just want to talk."
  —What do you want to talk about?
  "I don't know. How's the weather out there?"
  —Out where?
  "Wherever you are. Where are you, anyway?"
  —Bhopal, India. Even sex lines get outsourced these days.
  "Really? So you're an Indian?"
  —No. Originally from Akron, but had to move here to get a job.
  "I know someone in Akron, though I forget his name. Some computer guy."
  —Then you don't really know him, then, do you?
  "Well, I'd recognize him if I saw him."
  —Yeah, ok. I "know" people like that.
  "It depresses me. The number of people I've met, lived with, worked with, etc. and I don't remember their names. It can get embarrassing at times. Like at a high school reunion."
  —Been to one recently?
  "Yeah. Never again. Too many reminders of how old I am."
  —I hear you. I went to one of mine once. Got in a fight with an old boyfriend.
  "Bummer."
  —I don't want to be rude, and it's your dollar, but you're paying a lot for this service. I could tell how bad the weather is in Bhopal and I could tell you my sob story about how spent the last three months getting over a severe case of dysentery or I could listen to all your problems and say boohoo but that's not my game. And I don't like it when customers bring up bad memories. And I'm not a shrink, okay?
  "I'm sorry." -I'm sure. And I'm sure you have it bad, don't you?
  "Well I've not been feeling myself lately."
  -Get with the program. You better start feeling yourself if you want this to be worth your four dollars a minute.
  "There's no need to be rude."
  -I'll bet you have air conditioning.
  "Yes."
  -Turn it off.
  "Okay."
  -I want you to do something for me. Okay?
  "Alright."
  -Ask me about my pussy.
  "I'm sorry, I'm really not into--"
  -My pussy? You're not into my pussy? You fucking twerp. My pussy isn't good enough for you?
  "Okay, okay, tell me about my pussy."
  -It's hot, and it's wet.
  "Uhhm, is it really or are you saying that?"
  
  -Take off your pants.
  "What?"
  -You heard me.
  "Uhhm, I don't know if I'm comfortable doing that."
  -What's your name?
  "Hank."
  -Hank if you don't take off your pants and start jerking off right now I'm hanging up.
  "Okay, I've removed my trousers."
  -And your underwear.
  "Do I really need to?"
  -Christ. My pussy is hot and wet and now I want you to fuck me hard.
  "Hold on, there's someone on the other line... Hello?"
  -Hank?
  "...Yes?"
  -It's Terry. Terry. Abernathy.
  "Pardon my French, but what the fuck are you calling me for?"
  —Look, Hank, I know we've had our issues . . .
  "Issues? Issues? Is that what they call back-stabbing, wife-fucking, company-stealing betrayal these days?"
  —Hank . . .
  "Fuck you, Terry. Take your cell phone and shove it up your ass, you goddamned prick."
  —Hank, I know you don't like me much, but . . .
  "Like you? I don't even hate you I loathe you so much. You fucking have ruined my life. And then you have the unmitigated gall to call me and . . . and . . .why did you call?"
  —I've been trying to tell you. Will you let me? Without chewing my ear off?
  "Why should I?"
  —Because . . . because I need a favor and . . . well, it might help you even the score a bit.
  "Right. Seeing you crucified in the middle of the quad being pissed on by the Drew College Fighting Artichokes might make the score Terry: 809 / Hank: 3. You know, I'll admit I'm curious, but it occurs to me that hanging up on you right now might give me more satisfaction."
  —Hank . . . please. Hear me out. Then do what you have to do.
  "Haberdashery."
  -What?
  "Never mind. Sorry. You were saying?"
  -I've always admired you, Hank.
  "Yeah?"
  -You've been through a lot, but you never give up.
  "Terry, don't they have people to do this, I mean, shouldn't some sophomore on work study be making this call? Terry, you're the chairman of the board of trustees, Terry. And I'm not giving one red cent to Drew. You hear me? One red cent."
  -This isn't a fundraising call.
  "And the reason I'm not going to give one red cent--"
  -Hank, that's not what this is about. By the way, where does that phrase come from?
  "What?"
  -One red cent.
  "It's--it's from--I don't know--I think it has something to do with blood.
  -I was wondering. Because you know, you're "in the black" or you're "in the red," and I wonder if it has something to do with that. But blood makes sense too.
  "Terry, I've got another call on the other line."
  -Hank this is important.
  "I have important business to attend to. You asshole.
  -I'll wait, Terry, go ahead and put me on hold. This is important.
  "Fine, Terry, fine."
  "Hello."
  -Oh, you're still there?
  "Yes, I'm here."
  -Hey big spender. Is your cock hard?
  "I've never, to be honest, referred to it that way."
  -As a cock? Well then what do you call it?
  "I don't know, my 'thing,' my 'penis,' my 'organ,' my 'dick,"
  -All the same to me. Do you mind if I call it your cock?
  "No, that's fine. You can call it my cock. I guess."
  -Hank, you have a really big cock. Your thing is enormous. Your organ, your throbbing organ, your pulsing--
  "Tumescent . . ."
  -Cock is absolutely gargantuan. My pussy gets wet just thinking about it. Oh you make me horny. Are you horny, Hank?
  "Could we just take one step back for a second?"
  -Fuck me, Hank. Fuck me hard. Fuck me with your big cock.
  "I don't even know your name."
  -Okay, okay, okay, ooookay. Hank, my name is Sarah, and you make me so hot, Hank. I'm touching myself. Sarah is touching herself, oooh.
  "Sarah?"
  -Yes, yes, Hank, it's Sarah, your little love kitten.
  "Sarah James."
  -Sarah wants big daddy Hank inside her now.
  "Fuck. I gotta go."
  -Whatever, asshole.
  "Sorry. I just gotta--
  -Can't finish what you started?
  "I have some important business to attend to."
  -Jerkoff.
  "Terry. You still there?"
  —Yeah. You were gone a long time.
  "Surprised you waited."
  —Like I said, this is important.
  "I'm beginning to believe you."
  —I know where red cent came from.
  "Oh?"
  -It's because pennies are made out of copper, as it turns out. And copper's red in color. I had my girl look it up while you had me on hold.
  "Your girl. Huh. Are you fucking her?"
  -She's my secretary, Hank.
  "So? If memory serves, you fucked anything that didn't run away. Besides, as you just said, she's 'your' girl."
  -I don't own people, Hank.
  "That's subject to debate."
  -Look, you want to know the truth? I don't fuck anything these days, not after my prostrate blew up on me.
  Okay? Satisfied?
  "Hardly. What's wrong, can't afford Viagra?"
  -Gives me migraines. Can't use any of those drugs.
  "Ah, poor baby."
  -Hank I always felt bad about the way things turned out.
  "Spare me the bullshit. So why did you call, Mr. Limp Dick?"
  -Geez, I knew this wouldn't be easy, but cut me some slack, will you?
  "I don't see why I should, but okay, to prove I'm a bigger and harder man than you are, I'll shut up and just listen. This had better be good."
  -It's about Melissa.
  "Oh Christ. It's bad enough that I have to talk to you, but you want to talk to me about her? You really are a piece of work."
  -She's dying, Terry.
  "No."
  -And she wants to see you.
  "Yeah?"
  -She never forgot about you, you know.
  "She was my fucking wife. We did get fucking married."
  -Hank, let dead dogs lie.
  "It's sleeping dogs, Terry. Sleeping. Not dead.
  -Are you sure about that?
  "Have your girl look it up. What's wrong with Melissa? Cancer?"
  -No. It's not really a medical condition.
  "I don't understand."
  -I'm no psychiatrist, but the best way I can describe it is that she seems to be willing herself to die.
  It goes beyond just giving up, like I've heard happens with some terminal patients. As far as I can tell, and as far as her doctors can tell, there's no physical problem. But she's definitely dying.
  "Sounds like you're pulling my leg."
  -I'm not jerking your chain, Hank.
  "Let me get this straight. Melissa is killing herself by thinking deadly thoughts and she wants to see me before she succeeds?"
  -Pretty much. Actually, my hope is that you can stop her. I really think she's killing herself with guilt.
  "Oh, and I'm supposed to save her by forgiving her and pleading with her to stick around?"
  -I don't know what she wants from you. Maybe she wants to apologize or explain herself.
  "Yeah, well, I'm not sure I'm in the mood."
  -Hank, she's dying.
  "Frankly, Terry, for me, she died a long time ago."
  -So, you won't see her?
  "Haven't decided. Right now, I can't say I have much of a desire to do so."
  -Will you at least consider it?
  "I might. To tell the truth, it seems to me that there's a certain poetic justice to all this. Mr. Stud can't get it up and my ex is finally paying the price for being a fucking whore. Gloating seems the appropriate response, don't you think?"
  -I didn't think you'd be that heartless.
  "Look in the mirror, Mr. Humanity. You reap what you sow."
  -So that's it, then?
  "For now. But who knows, maybe I'll decide to buck for sainthood."
  -Speaking of poetic justice, there's something I wanted to tell you, something I've been meaning to tell you for a long time. It took me a long time to realize this. You remember Senior year, when we were both you know, sort of star poets?
  "That's a stretch, Terry. I don't remember you writing anything but drivel."
  -Whatever. We were both good, Hank.
  "But I won the Kleepham Prize."
  -You did, Hank, you did. And I was always jealous of you for that. And that poem of yours about Daedelus--
  "Wings on Fire, Waxing Down"
  -That was pretty good, that was a pretty good poem. But you got to admit that "Hey Man" was much more relevant to the things that were going on at the time, the Vietnam War, the draft, Cambodia--
  "You were no Phil Ochs."
  -But anyway, I just wanted to come out and admit that as I watched your career flourish, first with that, then with the string of publications, the Spoon River Quarterly, the Paris Review, and that day that opened the Alumni magazine to see you shaking the hand of the President, like some kind of junior fucking Poet Laureate, well I hated that Hank. Not to mention the New Yorker.
  "Yeah. That was a high point."
  -Well, I had to take you down, Hank. There was no way around it. And at this point in my life I realize -- I realize that a lot of the things I did to you were maybe a little unfair. And I realize -- I realize that I spent a lot of my life living yours. As I watch Melissa dying, I realize that my wife, my wife really isn't my wife. If that makes any sense. All the affairs, everything. I have wasted time. And I'm sorry, I'm sorry and I apologize for what I've done to you. But even more, I apologize for what I've done to me.
  "Terry, you're an asshole."
  -Yeah. Well, fuck you too, Hank. Your poetry was always second rate and I'm glad I took your old man's tool and die shop and your grand-dad's used car lot. The first time I fucked Melissa it was in the back of your Dad's Mercedes, the day I bought that sorry junkyard and paid half of what it was worth. Wait -- that's not what I meant to say --

  Howard Henry Fairbanks Jr. III hung up the phone. In the mirror, Hank stared back, haggard, his scolioted spine a question mark over the rum. A poem then? Oh please yes let's!

       And the tumescent moon glows like
       a harlot with a tumor of puss its
       acne scarred face suggesting dried
       up seas mocking me, mocking me reflecting
       back those rays that should have
       shone on me, if I were free, dried up
       seas, mocking me, mocking me

  The phone rang. Undergraduates knelt by the stinking swamp, bottling pondwater for experiments. The phone rang. Hank leaned into his oar. The phone rang. Hank logged two hours of solo flight time. The phone rang. Hank ran as best he could in sandals in an arc across the quadrangle to catch the spinning disc as a dog wearing a red bandana followed at his ankle, a meandering Garcia solo oozing from a tinny speaker, Melissa, her face breaking out, looking on clutching a NORML pamphlet, smiling, a girl who can't say no. How he would write her theoretical poetry, seduce her in space-age nylon tents, take her flying. Standing beside the podium, as he reached to shake the hand of the robed graduate at the front of the line, his flask clattered to the stage floor. The phone rang.
  "Hello?"
  -There's one more thing I want to say.
  "What? Hello? It's a bad connection. I can barely hear you. Who is this?"
  -Hank, it's me.
  "Who?"
  -Melissa.
  "Yes?"
  -Hank, something terrible has happened.
  "What is it you want to say, Melissa?"
  -I want to say that I may have seen my son die this morning.