The phone-booth was a rickety glassed aluminized contraption tucked away in the corner of the break-room next to the pop machine. The guys on swing were filing in so it must have been around 6:30 or so.

As we spoke, the hum of the mill would permeate the booth each time the break-room door swung open then settle to a muffled hiss as the door slowly closed. Barroom-phisst, baroom-phisst. And every other guy it seemed got a pop. Baroom-phisst-kerchunk, barroom-phisst, barroom-phisst-kerchunk, barroom-phisst. Like something large waltzing stepping on the noise and squishing the air out of it.

So anyway, the gal on the other end said she was from ‘The Times’ and doing a story on inner-city junkies, methadone programs, and how they (the junkies) were dropping like flies what with all the good dope on the street and all.
Said she’d heard about Pedal and thought perhaps a suburban/domestic/OMG! slant might be good, and would I feel up to a little Q-n-A on said slant. I supposed.

“Were you aware of her addiction?” she said
“Yes” I said.
“Did her addiction affect your relationship?” she said.
“The effect was nominal I guess,” I said.
“How so?” she said.
“How?” I said
“The aspects of the affect, to the relationship,” she said.
“It was noticeable, the effect,” I said.
“In what way?” she said.
“Way?” I said
“The substance abuse, how it affected the family?” she said.
“It was just her and I,” I said.
“Were there any indications, did she leave a note?” she said.
“Yes” I said.
“Indications?” she said.
“No” I said.
“A note?” she said.
“Yes” I said.
“Where did you find it?” she said.
“Find it?” I said.
“The note,” she said.
“On the refrigerator,” I said.
“What did it say?” she said.
“Say?” I said.
“The note on the refrigerator,” she said.
“Take your vitamins!” I said.



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