“Did you get Advil or Tylenol?”
I opened the door. The room looked like an absolute mess, the most complicated possible version of pathetic. So did everyone, and everything, except for Willie.
“WHAT’S THE DINKY-DONK, MOTHERFUCKERS?!”
Willie lunged for Dave, torpedoing Dave’s stomach with his skull and forcing him onto the bed, coughing. Dave started instinctively defending himself with wrestling moves, which made Willie laugh and break out his own high school wrestling moves.
Josh looked at me, opening his arms, and mouthed, So?
I walked to the minibar and opened a beer. Josh stared while I downed the whole thing and threw the empty bottle on the floor.
Then he shrugged.
We got wasted in the room. Then we went to XS at the Wynn, Ghostbar at the Palms, and waited in line at Hakkasan at the MGM until we gave up. Willie won $800 at roulette. Josh hooked up. We got back to the rooms at five a.m., slept till ten, pulled the curtain open, turned up some music, smoked a bowl, and went to the Paris buffet for what we all agreed was the best breakfast, lunch, and dinner of our lives in a single sitting.
“We have to do this more often,” said Willie, in a crisp and brilliant benediction over a bottomless bottle of anonymous champagne.
“To health, wealth, and the beauty of our children.”
“To health, wealth, and the beauty of our children.”
“To health, wealth, and the beauty of our children.”
“To health, wealth, and the beauty of our children.”
The four of us shared a taxi to the airport together, still drunk from the breakfast. My plane was the last to take off. I played slots until my plane was ready to board. I won, then I lost, then I won, then I lost, all at random. I didn’t understand anything, but at least now it was a relief that I wasn’t supposed to. Then the plane boarded, and I went back home.
It was the happiest weekend the four of us spent together since college, as well as the last. A few weeks afterward, Willie changed his profile photo to a picture of him surrounded by smiling kids at an inner-city after-school program in a T-shirt with the unexplained acronym H.E.L.P. across it in cursive, and things seemed to get a lot better for him after that. Dave committed suicide six months later.
Wikipedia Brown and the Case of the Missing Bicycle
It was a quiet Sunday. Wikipedia Brown was sipping lemonade with his friend Sally, when all of a sudden their classmate Joey ran in, out of breath.
“Help!” said Joey. “Someone stole my bike! I left it outside the library this morning. Who stole it?”
“The modern-day chain bicycle was patented in Germany in 1817,” said Wikipedia Brown. “Ten-speed bikes became popular in the United States in the 1970s. Carrot Top uses a bicycle as a prop in his popular mainstream comedy act.”
“Oooh, Carrot Top,” said Joey. “Whatever happened to him?”
“Carrot Top was born Scott Thompson in Big Bear City, California, in 1965,” said Wikipedia Brown.
“Big Bear City? What an odd name. Is that a real place?” asked Joey.
“Big Bear City is an unincorporated census-designated location in San Bernardino County, California, with a population of—”
“Wait! Let’s not get distracted,” said Sally. “Every time we talk to Wikipedia Brown, we get distracted. We spend hours and hours with him, and always forget what we were supposed to investigate in the first place.”
“Yes, good point,” said Joey. “We have to find my bike. Sally, do you have any ideas?”
“Sally is a bad detective and a well-known slut,” said Wikipedia Brown. “Citation needed.”
“Is that true?” asked Joey—his intentions unclear.
“No,” said Sally, fuming with anger. “I don’t know who told him that. It could have been anyone. Literally, anyone.”
“The government caused 9/11!” Wikipedia Brown shouted suddenly, for no reason.
Sally pulled Wikipedia Brown aside. “Are you sure you’re okay, Wikipedia?”
“I’m not perfect,” said Wikipedia Brown. “I never said I was. But I work fast, and I work for free, and I’m everyone’s best friend. Plus, I’m getting better by the second—and it’s all thanks to people like you.”
Sally smiled. She liked being part of Wikipedia’s process. “Okay, Wikipedia,” said Sally. “But I have a question for you, Joey. You say you left your bike outside the library this morning? It’s Sunday morning. The library is closed.”
Wikipedia Brown stood up with a start.
“George W. Bush is the father of Miley Cyrus’s baby!” announced Wikipedia Brown.
This story is under review.
Regret Is Just Perfectionism Plus Time
They all gathered around his hospital bed to cry and watch him die.
“Do you have any regrets, Grandpa?” asked the ten-year-old, solemnly, as if he imagined himself wearing a tie.
“Yes, I do,” said the man. “I bought a lottery ticket in 1974. Once. One ticket. Ten million dollar jackpot.”
“Did you win?”
“No.”