Dirt's friend Rob is still exiled from his home several hours from Metamuville, and he's nearing Week Three of sleeping in his car in Dirt's driveway. I don't really have a pony in this race. I know his wife had him arrested for breaking her windshield during an argument and that he subsequently spent two days in jail, so my empathy for him is nil. I also just don't much care. He is a prop to me, the mope on Dirt's back deck who's between me and the cigar cutter.
He is in a familiar place, though: utterly heartbroken, his fate in the hands of someone else, utterly disoriented by the swift and complete devastation of his life. He hurts. A lot. It's fun to be around. The only time I've seen him smile in two weeks was when he showed me his newly obtained state Medicinal Marijuana ID card, and in its photo he's grinning broadly like, well, a man who just scored a bunch of pot legally.
When I visited last night, he was on Dirt's deck, alone, reading a self-help book called About Anger.
"Well, the good news is that you have officially bottomed out," I greeted him.
No smile. Tough room.
I thumbed through the pamphlets some Buddhist whackjob gave him about causation. Written in both Chinese and English, it demonstrates through cartoons how if you have a lame finger in this life, it means you scolded your parents in a previous life. For every offense, you are punished in the next life. Suffice it to say that as my punishment for how I've lived, I will enjoy a protracted bachelorhood in my next couple lives.
Rob checked his phone for the seventh time. Answering my unspoken question, he confessed: "I'm checking to see if her Facebook status is still Married."
I could take it no more. I channeled Dorkass. "That's it, man. Report to the nearest counter and turn in your penis."