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of a heart attack.
    J [laughing hysterically]: “DWI — Driving While Intickleicated!”
    D: “Okay. To answer your question, no. I haven’t recovered, if you’re talking about the diner
    — ”
    J: “LeeAnn! What a babe!”
    D: “Who?”
    J: “LeeAnn? The girl at the diner? Hello? Earth to Duckomatic?”
    D: “Oh! Well, you know, I had no idea — ”
    J: “SURPRISE! You should have seen the look on your face! HOW WAS THE RIDE HOME?
    — HAR HAR! Did you have a good time?”
    D: “Okay … you want the truth?”
    J: “No, JUST THE DETAILS!”
    D: “As a matter of fact, it was miserable. So was the dinner itself. I felt humiliated and awkward and trapped and I can’t believe you did that to me.”
    Dead silence.
    J [Deep sigh.]: “You blew it, huh?”
    D: “Whaaat?”
    J: “Duckmeister, if you want the girl, you have to make conversation. You can’t expect to score if you don’t play the game — ”
    D: “I wasn’t playing a game! I was having dinner!”
    J: “You know what I mean. It’s like a game. With rules and penalties and fake-outs and long shots — just like basketball. You have to talk the talk, walk the walk — ”
    D: “What you did was WRONG, Jay. You should have told me in advance. I thought it was going to be just you and me — not you, me, Lisa, and a total stranger.”
    J: “She’s not a stranger. She’s one of Lisa’s best friends.”
    D: “I DON’T CARE!”
    J: “Okay, so you didn’t like her, it didn’t work out, whatever. It happens. Now look, there’s this other girl I know — ”
    D: “Jay, hello? Do you understand a word I’m saying?”
    J: “I understand a lot. You didn’t have a Valentine, dude. I’m concerned about you. Plenty of UGLY guys have Valentines. Why shouldn’t YOU? You just have an inferiority complex or something, that’s all. Nothing that a real girlfriend wouldn’t cure. Anyway, her name is Barb —
    ”
    D: “Is this all you can think of — girls? What is with you? You NEVER used to be like this!”
    J: “I’m trying to help you, Duckovich. Most guys would be thanking me. You think it was easy getting a babe like LeeAnn to go on a blind date? I had to talk you up. I said you were buff.
    Did you ever think YOU may be the one letting ME down?”
    There’s the mall. The gate to the garage is in sight, but you have NO INTENTION of going in, so you pull up to the curb and nearly shear off your whitewalls.
    D: “YOU ARE MISSING THE WHOLE POINT, JAY!”
    J: “YOU’RE the one missing the point! Of life!”
    D: “Get out.”
    J: “Huh?”
    “D: “You heard me.”
    Jay unbuckles. Opens door. Steps out. Slams door.
    You step on the gas. You are out of there.
    THE END
    C “D” McC
    +
    J “J” A
    Friendship
    R.I.P.
    Epilogue
    A Day Later
    Wishful thinking.
    It wasn’t the end. You drove around two blocks, following the one-way streets. You parked.
    You wrote down your thoughts. Then you went back.
    Jay was still standing on the curb.
    And you just drove up and told him to get in.
    Fool.
    That was STUPID, McCrae.
    You could have left him there. He would have gotten home somehow — walked, or met some friend in the mall who drives, SOMETHING.
    You know WHY you should have done that? Because YOU would’ve had time to cool off. And HE would’ve realized how serious you were.
    But you didn’t. There you were, trusty old Ducky, everybody’s pal.
    And Jay was laughing, as if he KNEW you would return. And he called you something like
    “Duckerino, Driver from Hell” as he climbed in, and that comment did NOT help your mood.
    NOT
    ONE
    BIT.
    And you wanted to smack yourself for your own stupidity, for being loyal to someone who just dumps and dumps and dumps on you.
    Clamp. Step on the gas. Backs flat against the seat.
    As you raced past the mall, Jay shouted out, “HEY, I HAVE SHOPPING TO DO.”
    You screeched to a stop and gave him a choice: shop by himself or catch a ride home.
    He decided to stay in the car, and as you drove, he