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        I step on one of the cracks, just to see what happens. Nothing. I'm disappointed. How could life be so ordinary all of a sudden? I sometimes suffer myself to believe in karma. To recognize that there is a cosmic balance, a natural retribution and reward system to uphold justice. I pass an old fuzz-head, grisly and grimy all over, wearing his pants high on his waist with his flannel shirt tucked in. I scream at him inside my head. I imagine curses and swear words. His shocked, silly expression. I want to be his nurse or his wife (she's probably divorced him by now) or his mother (she's probably dead by now). To fix his collar and his cuffs and to buy him a new wardrobe. I should be run over by a car soon. Or bitten by a mosquito and infected with West Nile Virus, or Malaria, or Dengue Fever, or whatever the hell they give you. But the mosquitoes have packed their bags and left--it's winter here, in this desolate hole. And I'm way too careless at intersections.
        Damn. And to think I used to be chit-chatting away the night just a while ago. Well, I stood in the corner and watched the mad hatters, jokers, and social butterflies jibber-jabber their fluttering hearts away until a warm light was switched on in their head, behind their eyes, and everything was electrified. I felt that too. Magic in action. An explosion, no less. But now my eyes are burning from that smoke and my ears are too hot from trying to pay attention so hard over that lousy music. One of us actually tried to get the bartender to change the station, but he just ignored us. The bastard. Unbelievable!
        Enough. I'm lost in the moment. I'm staying afloat in a wonderful caramel sea by thinking positive thoughts. Puppy dogs and rainbows and so on. Welcome to Candy Land. May I take your order? With pleasure, sir. Anything you say.
        Just like a tumbleweed--western ghetto frontier that this part of town is--a big clumsy sheet of newspaper blows right on to me. Starts humping my leg then clinging to my ankle out of sheer desperation, then groveling and dancing this pitiful ditty at my feet. Yeah, we've run out of frontiers, so we figure if we build our cities big and confusing and creepy, there'll be enough adventures around. Enough alleyways that could host a showdown at sunset. Enough boarded-up windows that robbers with snot-rags over their faces might shoot pistols out of. I pick up the paper. Just for shits and giggles. Just a teenie-weenie peek. No harm done, no harm given.
        Classifieds. People selling lawn mowers and lawn ornaments. People selling cars. People selling themselves or their services or seeking other people. Looking for one tall, dark, handsome. Please call XXX-XXXX. That fits me exactly. Okay, so I'm more lanky tall, awkward, jet black, and entirely harmless. Okay, the ad doesn't really ask for tall, dark, handsome anyway, but it might as well. And I'm probably the only fool dumb enough to bite.
        I fish in my pocket for change. There's just enough to make it. Hoorah!--I'm in karma's favors. I pump the glittering silvery disks into a run-down old payphone, riddled with BB holes, covered in graffiti and flyers--for missing children, for the nonbelievers, for the alcoholics, for the selfish demented souls just about to kick the bucket out from beneath themselves and fall. I have to struggle to keep the paper straight while I punch in the numbers. While I listen to the ringing, I read a bit. Only honesty, dedication, and personal commitment to Jehovah will save you from the bottle. Bill + Laura 4EVAH! I shift around from foot to foot. I feel all of a sudden like I've got to piss my pants so bad. This always happens when I'm calling someone. Doesn't matter who.
        She picks up on ring number five. Is this any way to treat a potential soul mate? She sounds younger than I expected--younger than she should. And not quite so desperate. Maybe for me this isn't a whimsical joke anymore. And maybe for her this was a joke all along. She's finally hit pay dirt. I swallow. What a sucker. What a chump. I clear my throat--right into the speaker--no sense whatsoever.
        "Hello?" Clatter erupts in the background.
        "Um. Hi. I saw your ad in the paper and--"
        "Ad? What ad?" A running television. Popcorn crunching.
        "Well--uh--the kind that go 'Looking for one tall dark, handsome.'"
        "Ohhh! Maybe you're looking at the wrong number, though. That's not what I--" Muffled giggles. My cheeks turn red. I run a sweaty hand through my hair.
        "I know, I know. I was just saying, in general."
        "Listen, could we do this some other time? This is really not a good moment for me." Outright laughter.
        "All right. Sure. You have second thoughts. I get it."
        "No, no really. Just, uh, not right now, okay?" More clatter.
        "Okay. When?"
        "Uhh... shit. Let me call you back or something." Talking, talking, talking (muffled) in the background.
        "Sure. My number's 428-3756." Is this a good idea?
        "Okay, okay. Gotcha'. I've gotta' go now." Click. She hung up. What the hell? Life's all of a sudden impossible to figure out. I try to ask the moon for some answers. The big dumb moon just grins back at me, mute. The Zen master moon. A hood should be stepping around the corner to mug me right about now. I don't think I'd pay him much attention. I take the huge, grimy sheet of paper and carefully tear out the ad. She didn't even tell me her name. The ad says it's Demona, but that's such a fake-ass name. Who'd name their kid Demona? Weirdos and occultists, I bet.

        Home is small. A constrictive little box. Compact. Utilitarian. Oh so cozy. Drab. I should just start taking photographs and taping them to the walls. Add a splash of color. But I'm not that dedicated. Not a trained interior designer. And frankly, I don't think this is a long-term commitment. I expect my landlord, nice chap that he is, to come a-knocking any morning now with an eviction notice.
        All my vim and vigor starts to leak out my toes. I don't know what to do with myself. Just collapse. On the curb-side veteran chair? On the hand-me-down couch with ancient vomit stains? On the sagging mattress? The phone rings. Shrill yelp. Screams "pay attention to me!" Who could it be? Telemarketers? Have they begun a campaign to stalk people at 11:00 p.m.? My mom, recently awakened--all sweaty and terrified by a reoccurring dream where I lose my job, lose my money, get the wool pulled over my eyes by some seedy gal, and meet an unfortunate end--who has to report every detail and check to make sure that I'm still alive and on the straight and narrow? Yeah, probably. We've been working on this for a while now.
        "Hello."
        "Hey. Me again. I just wanted to ask you something quick."
        "Fire."
        "You aren't some sort of creep or anythin', are ya'?"
        "Well... define creep." She snickered.
        "Please, don't be cute." I decided to play dangerously.
        "So what if I am?" I could picture her rolling her eyes.
        "Okay, Mr. Creepy. Tomorrow, at noon, meet me by Joey's Restaurant. Know where that is?"
        "Joey's Restaurant. Yup."
        "And try to keep your hands off the waitresses."
        "Heh heh. Will do. I've got one--er--two actually--questi--" Click. She hung up.
        I plunk myself down and wring out my hands. What to do? What to do? I pick up the remote to my TV--the crazy, dusty old mind-controlling vegetable box. Haven't turned it on in ages. Oh the drama I've missed. Who's cheating on who. Who's carrying whose baby. All these perfumed and powdered celebrities pretending to know how to party or flirt with disaster. The dialogue's evermore cutting but the products being sold are the same. I turn to a channel with no reception. Static. The beautiful black, gray, white fluctuating specks. The void. The hum of emptiness. No more.

        Poof! The remainder of yesterday night just disappeared in the froth of a sleeping potion. Here I am again. Tomorrow morning come today. Whittling away my savings. Enjoying the absence of an alarm clock wake-up call. And this block of twenty four hours needs to feel somehow different from the rest. Cereal and Joey's Diner--what a dive. Milk and Demona--what a dumb name. Sugar and sugar and some more and me--such an idiot. But why not? Shave. Shower. Yesterday's clothes still look clean; still feel comfortable.

        Joey's diner is congested. Dilapidated parking lot full of crummy cars two steps away from the junk lot. Red linoleum tables and red benches in wooden booths. Today's special is scrawled on a chalk board behind the countertop. A waitress waddles up to me with a menu. Asks me if I want anything to drink. "Coffee will be all," I tell her. I hand her back the menu. She raises an eyebrow and walks off. I fidget with the table tents. One advertisement goes for the kids--has a chicken patty with a smiley face on it. How could you eat something when it's staring right back at you? I doodle on the back of my placemat, using a crayon supplied by the house.
        My eyes roam around. I try to imagine what she's supposed to look like. How would she walk? Or sit--slouched down, feet propped up? Nope--that one's too old. So is that one. Obviously not that one--way too perky. I try to find some good conversation to overhear. The couple behind me wonders if they should buy a snow mobile or a lawn mower. And so sad that they could not have both--their son needs to get a new driver's side car door. I take off my tassel hat because my ears are starting to get red.
        "There you are." The waitress hands me a pitcher of coffee and a mug.
        "Thanks," I say. She rips off my bill and lays it face-down on the edge of my table. I take a sip. Mud, scraped from the bottom of swamps. Awful. I rip open a packet of creamer. The clock reads 12:10. I scan the room again. Every candidate gets the leer. How late is fashionably late? Karma coming back to bite me in the ass--the brutal minister of The Golden Rule.
        12:30. I decide to leave. I've been duped and deserved it. The coffee is too much. Stuff my hat in my pocket and watched every single crack and avoid each one like the devil. Scowl. I must look miserable. Yesterday a peak, today a valley. I need to even out.
        A girl sits conspicuously on the hood of her car--a bruised, beat-up, desperate old jalopy. Short blond hair. Puppy dog eyes smothered in mascara. Choker. A Pink Floyd shirt on top of long underwear top. Black pants. Tapping long fingernails on the metal of her car. She looks horribly bored. I glance at her once, averted my eyes after I realize the possibility--scared. What if that's her? I try again. What if it isn't? Shit. Classic dilemma. How did this happen? She catches me red-handed, staring.
        "You're the one who called, aren't you?"
        "Uhh. Yeah, how'd you know?"
        "You look silly and desperate enough." She pointed at the top of her head. I felt my wild hair and put my hat on.
        "Hey, wait a minute. I was just goofin' around. You're the one who put an ad in the paper."
        "Maybe I was just goofin' too." She smiled. Wry.
        "Got me." I shrugged.
        "Didn't touch the waitresses did you?"
        "What?! No!"
        "That place is so slimy. What the hell were you doing in there?"
        "I thought that's where we were meeting." She shook her head slowly.
        "I didn't say inside."
        "Hey, what's your real--"
        "I don't think I caught your name... or do you want to be known as--" she leaned in close, looking at the red and white patch on my navy-blue jacket. "--Patrick?" My brother had given it to me before he left for college.
        'No, it's Jordan... You're not really Demona, are you?" She burst out laughing.
        "Dana." She extended her hand. I grasped it loosely. We shook. "Nice to meet you Jordan."