The microcassette in my answering machine is stuck in play mode and the phone just rings and rings until I pick it up, if I pick it up. It has been like this for a month now but I'm still enjoying the fantasy that I'm pissing off phone solicitors too much get a new one. I'm usually still in bed when they call in the morning but I'm always courteous and nice, if they're courteous and nice. I just lie that's all.  

"Oh, I'm sorry. "Mr --" is at work. What's that? Oh, he's usually back around 6 p.m." I'm seldom home before seven thirty. Sometimes I say Dad's not home yet, or I'm just the groundskeeper sir, or No, I'm not in charge of the phone, or Why, yes, as a matter of fact we do have a lifetime subscription to your lovely publication, or I'm sorry but I work for your competition. It amuses me I guess and it's so much easier that saying No which they don't understand anyway.  

On some level the person on the other end must know that I'm lying and having fun at his expense but he's bound by rules and he can't call me on it anymore than he can tell me he'd rather be having root canal than do this demeaning job of bothering people who'd rather have root canal than talk to him.  

This morning's solicitor was from a long distance service company. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears when I told him he just missed "Mr --" again (always a hoot, being called a Mr) and that perhaps he should try again "later, around five." It must've been his fourth or fifth attempt to reach me. I almost felt sorry for him.  

But you know, I was courteous and nice. 

People went home earlier than usual today. It's the weekend of course. A three day weekends is like a small planet; it has its own field of gravity and the closer it gets, the stronger its pull. It just sucks people out of their offices. No one even bothers to feign resistance. I imagine there will be a lot of family emergencies and sick people tomorrow. 

I myself am sorely tempted. 

I walk out of the lab at seven. It's still light, but not for long. I drive down empty backroads and shortcuts that connect Santa Paula to Dead Oaks. I drive by Basque's old high school on Central. It's as deserted as the road that stretches before me, the road that's unpatrolled by cops this time of the day. I downshift to third and floor it. Theo purrs, hums. It's a lovely sound, like tiny jet turbines: the road loves the car, the road loves the car. I believe it. We negotiate the mile-long Rabbit grade at eighty-five. We're flying.    

In Dead Oaks I talk to Empire who has been without human company for three days. He is listless and seems glad to see me but still cat enough to not really care. He is fat. He is much loved. I refresh his water bowls scattered around the house, scratch behind his ears until his eyes water in ecstasy.  

I water the plants outside that aren't reached by the sprinklers. I water the ones inside, the hibiscuses and the ones whose names I don't know. 

And now I'm hungry. I'm too lazy to defrost any of the meat or fish in the freezer. I find some onions and a couple of garlic cloves in the pantry, and a bag of Russet potatoes. I pick a few herbs from her garden and cook everything in a shallow pan with a little oil and a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper. I reheat a bowl of rice in the microwave and eat the simple meal in front of the TV. I'm watching the news: agents of the GAO managed to infiltrate sensitive government offices using fake papers. Big surprise. 

It's nine thirty. Dark now, and cold. The trenchcoat shifts from decorative to functional. I give Empire one last scratching and leave Dead Oaks. True Faith is playing in my head and I smile all the way home.