Reggie got so high, she couldn’t remember where she’d put her keys. She’d left the meeting with the studio execs, one of them offering her blow in the men’s restroom but where were her keys? She’d just been holding them. No worries. He offered his. Mr. Globby, Gelled Perm. The questions on this guy. Where did she grow up? With the big guy looming-over-her-whole-life-surely-obviously-his-life-too-you-couldn’t-believe, Mel, Looney Tunes Heroic, The Million Voices. God Himself, how Slimey spoke of him. Hespokelikesentenceswereoneword. Loved Looney Tunes, first love, got him into this business, infinitum. Reggie felt empty in her chest, her gut. It chewed on her like dogs with their toys. Night-dogs. Void. Reminded her of this book she’d been stuck in the middle of, Georges Perec— mysteries, dyings, missing links in our own minds. She felt, by the row of sinks, herself in the mirrors on mirrors, disconnected from who she thought she’d be in her childhood. She’d driven UPS twenty cycles of the Sun, or however the orbits worked. Built her pension. Spent money on her kid. The rest on weed, soon-to-be hole in her nose. Mr. Boogers here, still going, not conversing but connecting the dots of his own thoughts too quick to follow. She’d stopped listening to her gut since she couldn’t remember when. Often chocked it to indigestion. The feeling used to foretell her best possible decision, divine intervention, neon pointer finger from God. Mostly during noontime while she worked, not sure where or how she should redo her choices so she ignored it. The Sun fell mystic on the green neighborhoods but something’d gone wrong. Evenings, she received no intuitions. Helping her kid with History projects. Drying bowls, utensils, cups in the kitchen. Sitting on the couch. Not even stillness. Nothing. Smoking on the porch. Brushing teeth before bed. Routine of rushing her blood got rougher, white pills of silly sizes, mixing booze with pot with powders, get-togethers with coworkers’, club music overwhelmed by its own boom. Mr. Boogies looked like he might try to kiss her but he didn’t, too reverent for her bloodline, like he’d convinced himself he mustn’t, the mutt, lesser being, too simple for the role of would-be son of Mel. Speechless yet so fucking full of speech for the guy who’d fucked Reggie’s mom, left, returned to ween his guilty conscience, never truly tried, pretended to in the beginning, blurs of memories from the outer limits of her mind, wished she’d known those youthful voices from TV, thinking he told bedtime stories but she couldn’t remember, mind spinning like a bullet disintegr— punchlines, poems, fingers, lips, eyes, sideburns, bedside, yellow light like a river of butter he softly pushed her down with stories of Bugs, Sylvester, Robin Hood, none of it connected, none of it turned into sense, nothing she could hold, on ‘n’ on, different restrooms with different executives, pitching her reboot of the kids’ show she’d been working on, they let her shoot her shot due to who they connected her with, Big Guy Mel, humored her, got so high she got lost, different kinds of shit she got her system fried on, no words for, for, no feelings, nothing, no beginning, no end, missing something, there then gone, gone then bright memory of being there, Mr. Slimey exiting, limp expression like she’d been the a-hole.