I put the tray down, grabbed my   
coffee, and went to wait near the back 
door. They never lasted long, but what 
surprised me was that Barry never swore
except at the end of one of these      
arguments.                             
     He’d tell her he could afford it, 
and she’d tell him he couldn’t, and    
back and forth they’d go, until he     
came steaming out of the room.         
     “That woman is just so fucking    
stubborn,” he’d say, and I’d agree with
him, just like every other fucking     
time.                                  
     He went outside to check on Grunt 
again. I followed, and except for his  
weight, Barry told me, “He’s as fit as 
a fiddle, and will probably outlive us 
all.”                                  
     “Ever since we put him out here   
* with his family, he’s been eating like   
a little pig,” I said, and then apolo- 
gized to Arnold and his crew, “No in-  
sult intended.”                        
     Arnold snorkeled something back   
that sounded like, “Fuck you,” and     
Barry laughed, and I had to laugh too, 
because it was funny.                  
     On the way to his car, he promised
to come by Friday and pick up Fishy.   
     I thanked him again for what he   
did on TV, and he didn’t know what I   
was talking about.                     
     “Didn’t we already go through this
on Sunday?,” I asked, and then added,  
“You know, the stuff you said on TV    
last week.”                            
     “I mean, the less I know, the bet-
ter,” he explained, and then winked,   
“but you’re welcome anyway.”           



CHAPTER 3: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22nd
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