o I sell vaporware for a living, what's that prove? The money's decent, and maybe the stuff'll work the way the company hopes, the way I guarantee my customers. You can't hang me for giving it a shot. This is America, last I heard.

A woman leaves messages on my machine. She insists she still loves me, uses words like "anodyne" and "inevitable"—but then why'd she move 751 miles away with my brother? I answer the messages. My phone bill is enormous. I wrote a postcard saying this is ridiculous. On the other side were Greetings from Colorado and a jackalope the size of a bull. She gave it to me years ago, during a "cute" period. "Cute" was her word. I trust "cute" about as far as I can spit an eight ball.

So here I sit, naked, taking a day off from peddling vaporware. I drank coffee till noon, beer after that, watched two Steve Martin movies on the VCR, and read half an inch of The Executioner's Song. I'd bet the farm that postcard arrived today; she'll plan to give herself time to think it over but won't make it past sundown. I debate whether to put in The Jerk. The phone rings. The machine answers.

"You return my present to tell me I'm not worth a few toll calls? I'm not that easy to erase. I love you and don't you forget it. This is the eighties, lover. This is America, last I heard."