Fight Song A Novel

Student of the ocean


“One more peep and you’re going in the glove box,” Coffen says to Schumann, who will not shut up with his squeaks. Björn’s given Bob a dental bib and now Coffen sits in his car, contemplating what to write on it. Or trying to contemplate, if the damn mouse would shut up.

Bob’s threat seems to work because the rodent immediately goes silent.

Is that contrition in his beady eyes? He sulks on Bob’s shoulder, minding his manners, a furry little gentleman.

Nobody wants to be in a box, Coffen thinks. Not even a mouse.

It’s hot in Bob’s car. He can smell the sautéing-cabbage funk from his armpits. And the mouse, he reasons, is probably producing his own stench.

A meteorologist might call the barometric pressure unseasonably high.

Coffen texts his daughter: Wanna see real life sea horses at aquarium today?

Coffen texts his son: Sea horses at aquarium today?

Margot: How long will it take?

Coffen: Only a couple hours. There’s fro-yo in it for you.

Margot: No thanks

Then Brent’s response comes in: i’m gaming

Bob: Please?

Brent: fine

Pick you up in 20?

fine

And off Coffen and Schumann zoom. He places the mouse in the glove box, says, “It’s best if my family doesn’t see you.”

The mouse squeaks and peeps his counterargument, but to no avail.

Bob figures it’s also wise to wipe the Kiss makeup off his face before he has to explain it to the kids. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to it, but he can always ask Ace to reapply it later.

Coffen calls Jane on the way, wanting to warn her of his impending arrival at the home he’s verboten from, but it’s Erma who answers Jane’s cell with, “What?”

“I’m coming by to pick up Brent.”

“We already know.”

“Has Jane said anything about the show I invited her to tonight?”

“We think it’s an unnecessary distraction the night before she goes for the record.”

“What does she think?”

“We’re concerned that any unnecessary stimuli the night before could clutter her psyche, like garbage in the ocean.”

“That sounds like Gotthorm.”

“He’s brilliant.”

“Does Jane want to come with me tonight?”

Erma, talking to somebody, presumably Jane, yells, “He’s asking questions about the magic show.”

“She has the tickets I left with Gotthorm, right?” Bob asks.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve got the tickets stuck to the fridge.”

“Can I quickly talk to Jane? For like ten seconds?”

“He wants to talk to you for like ten seconds.”

Coffen can’t make out Jane’s voice in the background, but soon Erma says, “Honk when you’re here and Brent will come out.”

Erma hangs up.

Coffen honks when he’s there for Brent to come out.

But it’s not his son who exits first. “Hi, Dad,” Margot says. “Are you sure you guys aren’t getting divorced?”

“I’ll be home after your mom breaks the record.”

“G-Ma is packing up a lot of your stuff.”

“Don’t worry about G-Ma. Only worry about your mom and me.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“Why don’t you want to come to the aquarium today?”

“I’ve been in the ocean all week.”

“Please?” asks Bob.

“Fine. Let me go get my iPad.”

“Leave it. Come on. Let’s go have some fun.”

“I need my iPad.”

Bob can make this concession, so long as she comes along. “Fine, go get it.”

Margot walks inside the house, and Bob hears some scratching noises coming from inside the glove compartment. Some of Schumann’s past peeping was obviously negative, yet these scratches sound supportive to Coffen, somehow optimistic, as though each rake of unruly rodent nail says, Way to play it, Bob. I think you’re on the right road.

“I have to be home by 2:30,” Margot says, walking back up to the car. “Ro and I are going to ancient Greece.”

Coffen has to be done by about that time, too, so he can go prepare for his big plan, his way of luring Jane to come with him to the show, with the help of French Kiss. “We’ll have you home in plenty of time to travel the world. Here comes your brother.”



The aquarium is on the outskirts of their suburb, bleeding into the adjacent one. If kids still liked going outside their rooms to play, this part of town would be immensely popular. There’s a bowling alley, a roller-skating rink, and of course the aquarium. But these escapisms aren’t in vogue.

Coffen had actually been surprised that the aquarium was still in business when Schumann mentioned it. Judging from the empty parking lot, he’s not alone.

In fact, to say that the sea horse exhibit is exhibiting a sparse public interest would be a vulgar euphemism. The aquarium is empty. Only the Coffens and a few straggling employees. Why would nobody come and bask in the unmitigated splendor of these underwater steeds? Anybody’s guess.

But the silver lining in this sea horse cloud is that Coffen, Margot, and Brent can easily view each aquarium. There are sixteen small ones, all in the middle of the room and shaped like little domes with varying species of sea horse. The nice thing about the size and shape of the individual orbs is that they allow a 360-degree view of the horses’ habitats—Margot and Brent rotate all the way around the tiny universes, following the creatures as they slalom about. Some of the sea horses are the size of coffee beans, while others stretch out six, maybe seven inches. There’s a wide array of colors and patterns on their bodies, but they all have those thin, elongated noses.

Coffen stands next to his daughter, watching the sea horses. “Is it better than seeing them online?” Bob asks her.

“It’s different. I don’t know if it’s better or not.”

“They are beautiful in person, aren’t they?”

“I can zoom in and get closer to them when me and Ro go swimming.”

“Right, but here you can actually appreciate their uniqueness. There are living, breathing sea horses contained in this environment.”

“Right, but if I zoom in I can really analyze that uniqueness.”

“Right, but seeing them here gives you a sense of scale.”

“Right, but if I swim up quietly, I can hold one in my hand.”

“Right, but that isn’t your real hand.”

“Right, but it serves the same purpose. There’s a fish in my hand that I’ll probably never get to see in the wild.”

“You should learn to scuba,” Bob says, hoping to find Margot a real-world hobby. “I’ll happily pay for those classes.”

“Maybe.”

Now there’s an employee’s voice calling, “Hey! Hey!” and waving at the three Coffens. “This one’s about to give birth. Get over fast and observe science firsthand.”

They make their way to the aquarium in question.

“How do you know?” Coffen asks the woman.

“Because I’m a college-degreed scientist is how,” she says.

The particular sea horse in question is in the dome alone. It is bright orange, almost fluorescent orange, or that’s the association Bob makes. It’s near the bottom of the tank and has wrapped its tail around a rock to steady itself. A hole has opened in the abdomen. Its body lunges in staccato, contracting motions.

“She’s going to be a mommy?” Brent says to the crabby scientist.

But it’s Margot who answers: “A daddy. With sea horses, the daddies give birth to the babies.”

“Aren’t you a smart girl?” the scientist says.

“I spend a lot of time under the sea.”

“Good for you.”

“She means under the sea on the computer,” Coffen says.

The scientist smiles at Margot. “You’re smart to take advantage of every resource to learn more about nature.”

At that, there’s the first volley of newborns flying out of the hole; somewhere between twenty and thirty tiny sea horses shoot out, rolling in the water. They are pale, wiggling, the size of slivers of fingernail. Once birthed, they swim haphazardly, directionless.

Margot pulls out her iPad and starts shooting video.

“Enjoy the moment,” Bob says.

“I am.”

“Just be here.”

“I am.”

Another large burst of brand-new sea horses dash from the abdomen.

“Just exist in the here and now,” he says to her, knowing that she’s not going to hear him, that she’s incapable of listening to any of his words. What she doesn’t understand is that they’re warnings.

“I am here. I am now,” Margot says.

More babies tumble from the father.

“Does the daddy feed them all?” Brent asks Bob.

But that doesn’t stop a certain scientist from piping up. “They aren’t like people. The daddies don’t care for the babies once they’re born.”

“Who does?”

“They have to take care of themselves,” Margot says, continuing to film it all.

“You are a fantastic student of the ocean,” the scientist says to her.

“Thanks for noticing.”

“It’s scary that nobody takes care of them,” Brent says, looking up at Coffen. “Don’t you think that’s scary?”

“Yes, it’s scary,” Bob says, “but you’re safe. Don’t worry.”

Everybody is staring into the aquarium. They are transfixed. Coffen can’t comprehend why he ever felt so seduced by artifice. What was so enthralling about the unreal? Why had he stationed himself away from the present? What could have ever seemed more compelling about fake lives when all this life was happening around him?

“Isn’t it incredible to witness stuff like this?” the scientist says.

Every Coffen nods, spellbound.





Scout’sHonor!®


Tilda isn’t buying the story Coffen stammers through. He’d hoped that she’d kind of accept the fact that the quarterbackclad mouse he now swings slowly by its tail before her eyes is Schumann. Unfortunately, she’s proving impervious to the spell of his spiel.

This is transpiring at Taco Shed in the late afternoon—after fro-yo, after Bob had dropped his children off at home. Tilda mans the register. As this is the chain’s pre-dinner lull, no other customers or employees are there. Her muscles seem especially plump on this fine day, in that fine uniform.

Her eyes stay trained on the dangling mouse. “I didn’t know there were any other ways men could break up with me; I thought I’d seen it all before, but now you’re trying to tell me an evil magician turned him into a mouse.”

“He’s not an evil magician per se,” Coffen says. “Honestly, his motives remain pretty obtuse to me. But I wouldn’t say outright evil.”

“I knew Schumann was married and that our affair, no matter how torrid, had a short shelf life, but now you’re waving a mouse in my face saying that’s him? Jesus, I didn’t think it would get any worse than when that welder gave me gonorrhea on Valentine’s Day.”

Coffen continues to swing Schumann back and forth by the tail like he’s trying to hypnotize her. “Tilda, I wouldn’t make this up. Frankly, my imagination isn’t capable of making something like this up.”

“I thought me and you were friends.”

“We are.”

“Then why are you lying to me?”

Bob Coffen is not the man for the job of mouse-sitting right now. Normally, sure, he’d be happy to place Schumann in a shoebox with some handfuls of newly shorn grass, a wedge of fine Danish cheese for him to nibble the day away, an exercise wheel to burn off those heavy dairy calories. But not tonight. Tonight has to be all about Jane and the show with no distractions.

“I was hoping you’d baby-sit him,” Coffen says to Tilda.

“What now?”

“Will you watch him for a few hours?”

“Baby-sit the mouse?”

“Please.”

“You make that welder who gave me the drip seem like the most romantic man in the universe.”

“Between you and me, I’m about to go try and win my wife back. I can’t be responsible for Schumann tonight.”

“Maybe that welder’s number is still listed. Gonorrhea really isn’t that big of a deal when you think about it in context with all the other atrocities going on in the world today—a little gonorrhea, big whoop … ”

There are certain sentences that human beings are never prepared to utter until they leave the lips, and here goes a doozy from Bob: “I would never say this mouse was Schumann unless this mouse was indeed the notorious Schumann.”

“No wonder my daughter lives in a car with a bun in the oven. No wonder she loves that loser. Look at the example I set. Jesus, will you stop swinging him by his tail?”

Bob stops swinging him by his tail, stows him on his shoulder once more.

“On the off chance I did screw that mouse last night, treat him with a little respect, will ya?”

Now Schumann pipes up a bit on his own behalf, squeaking and peeping. Both humans look at the wee quarterback. Tilda even nods a couple times as though she understands his rodent dialect.

“Maybe that is Reasons with His Fists,” she says, “but either way, this is a restaurant, and I can’t harbor a rodent here. If the health department found out, I’d lose my job. You’re on your own.”

“I understand,” Coffen says, not understanding at all—wait a hot damn sec: She runs an intercom-sex operation out of this joint but is worried about boarding a mouse for a few hours?

“Did he say anything nice about me?” Tilda asks.

“What?”

“I’m not saying he is a mouse. But for the sake of argument, before he got turned into that thing, did he say any nice stuff?”

“Tilda, he raved about you.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I don’t even care if you’re lying. Would you like a Mexican lasagna for the road?”

“I’d love one.”

She disappears into the back for a couple minutes, comes back out with it. “Will you eat it here?”

“I have to run.”

“Stay a couple more minutes and eat. It’s the least you can do after waving that mouse around and telling me I took it to bed.”

They make small talk, bicker some, stay away from any more direct discussions about wee Schumann shelved on Bob’s shoulder. It only takes about six bites to choke down the Mexican lasagna. Coffen should chew more when he eats. If he doesn’t want to do it for his digestive tract, then he should do it for anybody forced to watch the splattering pageantry in person.

Then he and Schumann walk out front to depart Da Taco Shed.

Coffen barely has time to unlock his car when Tilda throws the restaurant’s door open and comes tearing into the parking lot after him, screaming, “I need to ask you a couple questions, Bob.”

“Of course.”

“Is that mouse on your shoulder my lover, Reasons with His Fists, a.k.a. your neighbor, Schumann?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Please answer the question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell me.”

Coffen nods. “Yes, I think this mouse is maybe Schumann.”

Tilda stares at Coffen’s face. She’s staring at his face in such a way it’s making him really uncomfortable.

“What are you doing?” he asks, growing more alarmed with every second of her measured appraisal.

“Watching your nose.”

“Why?”

“For blood.”

“Why would I have a bloody nose?”

“I chopped up a Scout’sHonor!® and laced your Mexican lasagna.”

“What’s Scout’sHonor!®?” Coffen asks.

“It’s a pill. An over-the-counter truth serum.”

“That’s a real thing?”

“Tell a lie while you’re on it,” Tilda says, “and a pond of blood will rip-roar from your nose.”

“How long has that been on the market?”

“Let’s stay focused on the questions about Schumann.”

“Is it FDA-approved?”

“If you don’t wanna tell me the truth from your mouth, your nose will tell me what I need to know,” says Tilda.

“Why’d you lace my lasagna?”

“I have to know the truth. So please say it once more: Is that mouse really my lover, Reasons with His Fists, a.k.a. your neighbor, Schumann?”

Bob doesn’t know how to answer that. His head says no, of course not. His heart says, I doubt it but it is the tiniest bit conceivable, after Bob saw Björn morph the ballroom floor into ice baths. In a sense it doesn’t matter what he thinks about the likelihood of Schumann’s mouse status. It’s up to Scout’sHonor!®.

Bob decides to go with his heart: “Yeah, I’m pretty sure the mouse is Schumann.”

“I need a definitive answer.”

“It’s him.”

She ogles Bob’s nose, which stays bone dry. Tilda looks surprised. So does Coffen. Then once she’s convinced that there’s nary a deception on the premises, Tilda says, “Now that I know for certain you’re not lying, I’m happy to baby-sit.”

“Maybe the truth serum doesn’t work,” says Bob.

“I don’t know if I can believe your story, and I certainly don’t believe that hustling magician. But I’ve used Scout’sHonor!® many times on many men and I know that it works like a charm.

“Life is getting weirder,” she says, taking the mouse from Bob, holding her palms flat so Schumann can nose around, walk in little circles, tickle with his whiskers. She brings him up close to her face and makes smooching noises. He responds with squeaks that seem jubilant.

Then she holds him right up to her left eye: “My god, it might really be him.”

“It’s a lot to stomach, I know.”

“Sorry for dosing you.”

“I understand why.”

“You’re a good friend,” says Tilda.

“So are you.”

“And our list keeps getting longer.”

“Our list?”

“Cops, monsters, prudes, and mice,” she says, still eyeballing Schumann.





The Coffen front lawn


Bob, his new dental bib, and French Kiss are all in the band’s van, driving to Coffen’s house. It’s time to launch OPERATION WIN BACK JANE.

The band members are all in full French Kiss makeup.

Bob is wearing a new black suit. He’s going all-in to get Jane to come along to Björn’s show tonight.

His secret weapon, at least from Coffen’s own perspective, is the dental bib. He’s been lamenting what to write on it, deciding only a matter of minutes ago to write their names on it: JANE, MARGOT, BRENT.

If Jane needs a reason to keep trying, won’t this bib be the perfect answer for her? Obscenely bigheaded over his bib idea, he shows it to Ace. They are in the back of the van with all the gear. The French singer drives. The drummer rides shotgun.

“What do you think?” Bob says, fluttering the bib with pride.

“Meh,” Ace says.

“What do you mean ‘meh’?”

“It’s pretty sentimental.”

“This is the exact time to be sentimental. This is the life and death of my family.”

“Listen, I’m only one man,” says Ace. “I’m only one mortal man named Ace commenting on this dental bib, but I don’t think it’s the way to go.”

“If there’s ever a time to go sentimental, it’s tonight.”

“I’m only one mortal balding man named Ace, but I think you can do better.”

“Turn right up here?” the singer says.

“Yeah, right, then second left,” Bob says.

“Check.”

“I’m with Ace,” the drummer says, “don’t be so sappy.”

“You guys, I have to convince her to come along to the show. She’s not going to want to come and I have to make her.”

“Why won’t she want to come?” Ace says.

“She’s trying to break the world record for treading water starting tomorrow morning. Her coach says she shouldn’t go anywhere tonight, needs her rest.”

“The coach is right, dude,” the drummer says. “She needs to be well rested and hydrated.”

“Of course,” Coffen says, “but she’ll still get plenty of rest. The show is only from 7:30 to 9:00. We’ll have her in bed by 10:00 PM.”

“Chump Change, I’m on your side,” Ace says. “No doubt, you’re my dog in this race. We’re on our way to try and help you, remember that. But I have to ask: Are you doing the right thing? Shouldn’t you be in favor of her doing everything she can to prepare for the race, even if that means skipping this magic thingie?”

“She’s probably not even going to break the record,” Bob says.

“Whoa, that’s f*cked,” the French singer says.

“That’s disgustingly f*cked,” the drummer says.

“I gave up cussing,” says Ace, “but allow me to weigh in with Pig Latin: That’s uck-fayed.”

“It’s not uck-fayed,” Bob says.

“Dude, it’s totally uck-fayed,” the drummer says.

“I’m not being mean,” Coffen says. “I’m only saying she’s tried and failed at breaking this record four times already. We have to be realistic.”

“Dude, do you think she can break the record or not?” the drummer says.

“That’s not important,” Bob says.

“It’s pretty important,” says Ace. “Do you?”

“Of course I think she can break it.” The Scout’sHonor!® racing through Coffen’s bloodstream goes to work, its formula producing the promised results. Bob has lied. Now his nose starts bleeding.

“Did you do some blow or something?” Ace asks.

Coffen wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “No, it’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing.” Ace asks the drummer to see if there are any leftover fast food napkins in the glove compartment. Luckily, there are. Bob holds a bundle up to his face.

“Am I a rock star, Chump Change?” says Ace.

“I don’t understand the question,” Coffen says.

“Am I a millionaire rock star playing concerts at sold-out arenas around the globe?”

“Is this the left I take?” the singer says.

“Yes,” Bob says.

“Then what after that?”

“Then your third right into my subdivision.”

“Got it.”

Coffen says to Ace, “You aren’t a rock star.”

“Exactly right I’m not a rock star. But I am one to Kathleen. She comes to every gig I play. She loves me. She cheers like crazy. She believes in me, no matter what. Do you believe in Jane like that?”

“Of course I … ” Bob trails off. He feels the faucet in his nose open up a bit more, the blood coming at a faster rate. Wow, had he not known this before? Was he aware of the fact he didn’t think Jane could break the record? It makes him feel like complete shit, this idea that he doubted her chances. Because Ace is right: He should be more like Kat; he should believe in Jane’s talent and skill and practiced abilities. He should believe that she can do anything she puts her mind to.

And it’s occurring to Bob that they’re also right about this evening’s itinerary. He is being uck-fayed. He is being selfish. He should not be asking Jane to go to Björn’s show. He should be encouraging her. He should be doing everything in his power to make sure she succeeds at everything that’s important to her.

“You guys are right,” Coffen says. “Let’s make a couple changes to what we’re going to do once we get to my house.” He turns the bib over, writes something else on the back of it, and fastens the sign around his neck.

Ace reads it and smiles.



Early evening, the sun creeps down the horizon. Coffen’s wife, two children, and Erma all stand on the front steps of the light gray house, summoned by Bob and his cohorts: the dulcet stylings of French Kiss, sans Javier Torres, of course, who’s moved onto greener pastures, ones where all passersby are no doubt awestruck by his sonic chops. The three remaining members—in full French Kiss makeup—serenade Coffen’s entire family.

Coffen had knocked on the front door once the band was all set up on the lawn. Margot opened the door and asked what was going on. Bob said, “Go get the whole family.” For once she did as she was told without making a big stink about not knowing why—or maybe she did know why and was rooting for Bob. Yes, he likes that idea quite a bit.

So:

See the whole Coffen clan congregated on the porch. Ace strums away on an acoustic guitar. The drummer keeps the beat on a snare drum that’s propped up on a stand in front of him. The French singer sings a yarn from the vault of the Kiss catalog, perhaps their most renowned ditty, “Rock and Roll All Nite.” They’ve done some progressive rearranging of the song’s components and currently, even though the rendition is only beginning, they are already playing the chorus, albeit a slower, jazzier, more romantic lilt than the original band ever intended.

Coffen wears his reconceived dental bib around his neck. On it is the following message: GOOD LUCK TOMORROW, JANE!

His family claps for French Kiss as the song ends.

Then Ace starts talking, “Thanks very much; you are too kind. Thank you. Wow. What a fantastic response. We’re really happy to be here playing the Coffen front lawn tonight.”

“Who are these guys?” Margot asks Coffen.

“My band.”

“Your band?” she says.

“Your band?” Jane says.

“Your band?” the band echoes.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Chump Change,” Ace says. “We’re not your band exactly.”

“I thought the gig went well,” Coffen says. “I want to learn bass and play with you guys. I’ll give my all and promise to practice night and day.”

“How about some beginner’s lessons and we’ll see how it goes?” Ace says. “We’ll start there.”

“So I’m in the band?” Coffen asks.

“No,” says Ace, “but you can consider yourself on a temporary French Kiss scholarship while we figure out the lineup situation. We won’t turn on your amp, but you’ll wear the signature look and work the signature moves. You’ll be our temp until we iron things out and who knows, if you prove to be a savant on your instrument, maybe you will find yourself a permanent addition to our lineup. That good enough for now?”

Bob nods, looks each member of the band in the eyes, and thanks them. He hadn’t expected to ask to be anything more than a onetime replacement, but it feels good to hear they’d consider him as a permanent member should he learn the bass inside and out. Now the onus is on Coffen. Do the work. Practice. And see what happens.

“I’m not totally sure what’s going on out here,” Jane says.

“Gotthorm wouldn’t like this,” Erma says.

“What’s going on,” Bob says, “is that I’m here to apologize to you, Jane. I’m here to say that I should never have suggested we go to Björn’s show tonight. I’m here because I love you and I love our children and I know you’re going to break the world record on this attempt.”

“You think I’m going to do it this time?” she asks.

“I really do. Get all the rest you need. Break that record. And we’ll talk after you’re the world champion.” Coffen grips the crumpled and bloodied napkins in his pocket, in case he needs to retrieve them to swipe at a bleeding nose, but not one drip falls from his nose. “Now can we get back to enjoying the music?” Bob asks.

Jane smiles, nods, stares at him.

“Yeah!” says Brent.

Even Margot, who’s got her iPad out to record all this, says, “Let’s hear another one.”

Ace laughs and says, “We love the enthusiasm we’re seeing from the crowd on the Coffen front lawn! Music is about the fans, and we love each and every one of you. You never know what to expect at a new venue, but the Coffen front lawn is winning a huge place in our hearts!”

The four Coffens all clap.

Erma stands with her hands on her hips.

Hopefully, no soulless spies from the HOA observe this unauthorized performance or they’ll no doubt pop off a belligerent email to Bob, a threat cluttered with propaganda and rhetorical questions—shouldn’t the music being broadcast within our subdivision’s collective earshot represent the tastes of all the residents rather than a mere few? Isn’t every one of our ears entitled to tones that tickle its tastes?

“Excuse me,” Jane says. “Will you play ‘Rock and Roll All Nite’ again? That’s one of my favorites.”

“Your taste in rock and roll is rock solid,” Ace says.

French Kiss strikes up the song again.

Bob pats his bib and says to Jane, “Good luck.”





Shame-cave


If one thing is utterly obvious to Coffen once he leaves his family for the night and goes back to DG, it is he has to stop lying to himself. What an oddly timed revelation earlier in French Kiss’s van, realizing consciously for the first time that he didn’t really support his wife. And that makes him wonder what else he doesn’t know. He’s still dosed on Scout’sHonor!® so he walks toward the bathroom to ogle his face in the mirror while he finds out about himself, one nosebleed at a time.

On his way there, however, he hears more Johnny Cash coming from LapLand. He opens the door and walks in. There the lifeguard sits, perched high in his chair, guarding an empty pool.

“Oh, fantastic, it’s the guy who thinks this is all a dream.”

“I now know this is real,” Coffen says.

“I’m pretty busy, so do you mind?”

“Will you play a game with me?”

“No thanks,” the lifeguard says.

“Is my nose bleeding?”

“Is that part of the game? Because I’m pretty sure I said that I didn’t want to play.”

“Is my nose bleeding?”

“You’re going to keep badgering me until I answer you, right?”

“Yes.”

“Your nose is not bleeding.”

“I love my wife and I believe in her,” Bob says.

“Okay.”

“Is my nose bleeding?”

“Nope.”

“I love my kids and I believe in them, too.”

Bob pauses, shrugs.

“Still no blood,” the lifeguard says.

“I love my job,” Bob says, not even needing to ask about his nose this time because he feels it rupture. The blood gushes and Coffen doesn’t even wipe it, lets it soak the front of his new suit. “I have to quit this job.”

“You and me both,” the lifeguard says. “You give me the creeps.”

“I’ve worked here for ten years.”

“You poor son of a bitch.”

“How do you make any big changes to your life once you have all these responsibilities?” Bob asks, although he’s turning to walk out without giving the lifeguard any time to answer.



Bob hadn’t expected any additional hours to work on Scroo Dat Pooch, but with an empty Sunday night, why not polish this turd to an incredible sheen? The code he writes makes the game look better, graphics getting downright good, and the better it looks—he reasons—the greater the opportunity for tomorrow morning’s status meeting to be an incredible unveiling, a self-sabotage of extraordinary measures.

“What time is it, Robert?” he says to himself.

“The plock strikes twelve, Robert.”

“Does it, Robert my boy?”

“Indeed, it does, Robert.”



Coffen codes away and his phone rings about an hour later. “Bob is me,” he says.

“Somebody gives you a gift of free tickets and you spit in his f*cking face of generosity?” a voice says, slurring his words dramatically.

“Björn?”

“I turned your colleague into a rodent, Bob. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were antagonizing me by flaking on my show. I’m a big deal, man. I’m famous. I have over three thousand fans on Facebook. I’m a true miracle worker and you spit in the face of me and my show’s free tickets? Nobody treats me like I’m some walking colostomy bag and gets away with it. I mean, I have a statue of myself in my backyard.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Oh, sure, oh, yeah, my wife sought the solace she needed in the arms of another man and also two women she met in hotel bars because I failed to satisfy her sexually. But also she failed me in the realm of communication, right? I never knew that she wasn’t sexually satisfied or I would have done something about it. I am a sorcerer. I could have made her * grow to the size of a pie tin. I could have pleased her in ways she’s never even pondered, but again, I didn’t know there was a problem. The point is that the communication broke down. And now, me and you, our communication is faltering. I give you free tickets. I excuse your kidnapping. I wipe the slate clean. And you can’t even live up to your end of the agreement and come to the show?”

“So you’re wasted,” Coffen says.

“I’m so drunk that it should be called something else. I’m ‘floff-mongered.’ Float that new bit of slang around and see if it catches on.”

“Where are you anyway?”

“I’m in my shame-cave.”

“Your what?”

“This place I go when I need to be alone with my self-sympathy,” he says. “When my floff-mongering is front and center.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Tonight’s show was a disaster. I had to flee the scene as a fugitive. I could have used a friendly face in the audience, Bob. Shit went terribly wrong. It was a new illusion. I made everybody’s chair fly about fifteen feet in the air. I told them to hold on tight. I told them there was no real danger. As long as they stayed steadied, they’d only be floating there, say, thirty seconds or so before I let them back down. But then one woman puked. Then another did. And that made them all wobbly and woozy and soon one fell off and then another and pretty soon everyone was falling from the sky and landing on the carpet in screaming heaps. I kept saying to them, ‘You are safe, but you are vulnerable. That’s the balancing act. That’s what the flying-chair metaphor represents.’ But it was too late. They were already starting to fall.”

“Did anyone get hurt?”

“Lots of them got hurt,” Björn says.

“And you left?”

“Hell yeah, I left. It was a bloodbath. I split out the fire exit once they all started plummeting.”

“I’m glad we weren’t there, or Jane and I would have fallen, too.”

“Or maybe it would have gone as expected had you been there to cheer me on, man. Even magicians need friends.”

“Are you blaming me?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“How does that make any sense?”

Bob hears a noise on Björn’s end of the phone that sounds like a can opening, then a desperate sip being taken: “In my mind’s eye,” Björn says, “the floating-chair illusion made perfect sense. Everyone would sit, perched high and mighty, and I’d give an inspiring speech about the travails of monogamy, learning to balance all the chaos and unpredictability of life. But once the first lady fell, it was a total shit show.”

“What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought maybe two or three people would fall, total. Gotta crack a couple eggs to make an omelet, as the kids say. Now I need to get out of this town ASAP.”

“Not too ASAP,” Coffen says. “You have to turn Schumann back.”

“Oh, do I have to turn back your mousy associate?” he yells. “Is that what Björn has to do?”

“Can we meet first thing tomorrow—me, you, and Schumann? Please? Let’s talk about our options.”

“I haven’t totally decided whether I even want to turn him back. He kidnapped me. Let’s not forget that piece of the puzzle.”

“Well, that’s what we should talk about. Let me plead his case to you.”

“Fine, plead his case. Now I need to focus on my shame-cave. I need to sulk. Need to … Wait, what’s my new slang again?”

“Floff-monger.”

“Yes, I need some serious floff-mongering.”

Björn hangs up and Bob ponders magic. At first, it had seemed so clear that Schumann was not the mouse, but the longer this is going on, Coffen actually wants it to be true—wants to believe in Björn’s powers. Why not? Bob writes code, breathes code. He lives like a character in the worst video game of all time: slowly fizzling out, level by level, until there’s nothing left except a pile of fluorescent orange that needs to be swept up. If there’s some magic out there that can help him avoid the dust pan, well, it sure sounds good right about now.