An ancient, but working, TV sits atop a maple desk I salvaged from my neighbor’s yard sale last summer. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine, and has a matching chair. The room’s only window shows half dirt, half sky. It’s split horizontally, and the top half pushes open about six inches, just enough to let the weed smoke out.

By way of introduction, I’m Buddy Pancake.

I’ll pause a minute, while you bust my balls. Go ahead, ask me if Pancake is my real name.

It is.

Ask me “What’s Mrs. Butterworth?”

I don’t know. What, maybe five bucks?

Hilarious.

Move along to where I live.

Yeah, that’s right. The Pancake House.

I know. You got a million more.

Do me a favor. Put the pancake thing on hold while I tell my story. You won’t be sorry, it’s a helluva story.

For five days I was the luckiest man in the world.

And then I wasn’t.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Like I said, here we are, me, Mike and Richie, in my basement office. My wife, Lissie, on her way home with a pound of pasta and a bottle of Patsy’s All Natural Puttanesca Sauce.

Me, telling my friends the origin of the name puttanesca: “It means Whore’s Sauce.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Mike says.

I pass him the joint and say, “No, for real. Puttanesca was a cheap, quick dish Italian hookers made between tricks. The ingredients can be found in any Italian larder.”

“Listen to you,” Richie says. “Larder. Jeez. How gay is that?”

I flip my middle finger in response.

Mike, pensive, says, “Ever been with one?”

“What, a hooker?”

“Yeah.”

“Get real,” I say.

Mike passes the torch to Richie, and we’re quiet a minute, thinking about doing it with a hooker.

Mike breaks the silence. “Well, you got Lissie. Don’t know how you managed it, but who needs a hooker when you got a looker, eh?”

We laugh, take another hit off our communal joint, blow it in the general direction of the window, and chase it with a swallow of scotch.

“But say you didn’t have Lissie,” Mike persists. “Who would you want?”

“Whaddya mean?”

Richie, getting into it: “Say you can have any chick in the world. Who would you choose?”

“Wait,” I say, “You mean like for one night? Who would I want to fuck?”

My friends nod.

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Mike says.

“I mean, I never thought about it.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Richie says. “I know who I’d take.”

Richie knows we’re looking at him, so he makes us wait a few seconds. Then he says, “Megan Fox.”

Mike nods. “Yeah, okay. I thought you were gonna say Angelina Jolie, but yeah, Megan’s hot. Me? I’d take Katrina Bowden.”

“Who?”

“Chick on 30 Rock.”

“Oh, right. Wait. The receptionist?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, she’s hot. Great ass.”

Richie locks onto my eyes, says, “Your turn.”

I smile. I’m with friends, and know that the words I’m about to utter will never be heard by my wife.