"I . . . [punch] don't . . . [punch] need . . . [punch] the Heimlich!" the man says.

"Marco!" I say. "The man can speak! If he can actually say Heimlich, he doesn't need it!"

Marco puts the man down and looks at him. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"No!" says the man. "I was just clearing my throat and you beat the living crap out of me!" Marco looks like he's going to cry.

"We are incredibly sorry, sir," Bruce says. "Our busboy is new to the country. He's very stupid and very sorry."

"Yes," Marco says. "I am terribly sorry. I thought perhaps you had one shrimp from the soup there inside of your throat."

The man throws his napkin onto the table.

"Your lunch is on us," Bruce offers meekly as the man storms out. Bruce then whirls on Marco. "Don't ever do that again."

"And if he was choking?" Marco asks.

"Let him die!" Bruce yells and storms out after the old man to do damage control.

I get home and Brady's blasting music so loud I can hear it while I'm still in the elevator. I get out and go straight to his door. He's listening to Massive Attack. I bang on his door. No answer. I bang again. Nothing. I should know by the choice of music that maybe I shouldn't just barge in, but the door is slightly open. So, I think, Fuck it. I go in.

And fuck it is exactly what I walk in on. Brady is fucking it-that monster of an ex-girlfriend of his. She's on top, riding him like a cowgirl. In the middle of his living room. On the floor. I should, of course, turn and leave immediately, but I'm so shocked that I actually stay and watch for a second. Literally a second. Which is all it takes before Psycho-girl sees me, and the next thing I know Brady is howling in pain and I am out the door.

Brady.

Sarah shows up at my apartment in those wrap-around-the-ankle, all-the-way-up-to-the-knee, fuck-me heels and . . . what do you want me to say? You've seen those shoes.

Honestly, I wasn't even going to go there, but she had this take-charge thing going on and just pushed me down onto the floor and began having her way with me. Believe me, she'd have preferred a bed with 800-thread-count sheets, but we were on the floor because I still have no furniture.

Sarah was never all that adventurous in the bedroom and rarely spent time on top. This time was definitely an adventure. I think, partly because she's trying to win me back, and partly because, as I said, we were on the floor-and she'd be damned if she'd be on the bottom.

So there she is, putting on quite a performance. Touching herself to try and get me hotter as she rides me into my hardwood floors. I should really get an area rug. Anyway, she starts really getting into it. She's thrusting up and down, up and down, harder and harder. You know how it is when girls really start going at it. That kind of raw, animalistic, your-cock-means-more-to-me-than-chocolate-or-even-diamonds-right-now kind of way. First off, forget about the twinges of pain in places I don't need to have pain, but there's always that chance she goes up too high-and it pops out. And then she comes crashing down on you. Down comes a hundred-and-twenty-pound bag of flour onto your cock. It's like running into a wall at top speed with a hard-on. It fucking kills. People don't talk about it, but I think most guys are terrified of this happening.

But she's off . . . going higher and higher. All I can think is: Please don't go up and down so hard, please don't go so high, please for the love of God be careful. Shit, I wonder if it can break. I mean, I know there are no bones in a boner . . . but as hard as it is, maybe it can snap. And man, would that hurt.

And just as I'm picturing my dick snapping in two, Heaven comes prancing into my fucking apartment, and every single one of my fears are realized. Sarah sees her, which throws her off her game. I pop out, she comes crashing down, and bones or no bones . . . I think she broke my dick.

Sarah is gone, I am sitting on the floor with a bag of frozen peas on my dick, and I want to cry. Then she knocks on my door.

"Go away!" I yell.

"Can I come in?" Heaven asks.

"No," I yell again. And then it gets quiet. I think for once she's listened to me. Maybe she's gone back into her lair.

"Captain Kangaroo died," she yells through the door.

"I never liked him anyway," I yell back. "Him and his freak-of-nature walrus mustache."

"That's not very nice," she says.

"I'm not a nice person," I say. "Look, can you come back another time? What you did-you have no idea what you did," I say. I look at the quickly thawing bag of peas and wonder if I should actually see a doctor.

"I'm sorry," she says.

And then she's quiet again. Peace. I start to draw a glass of milk. I'm going to make a presentation to show Schultz when I get there, and I think a mock-up is a good idea.

"Did you know that the host of Romper Room got mugged last week?" she now yells. "She did. And they stole her mirror. The one she'd look in and say who she saw. She never saw me. I used to wait for her to say my name. She never did. I used to cry when it ended because she'd never see me. 'I see Tommy and Mary . . . and Lucy . . . and Kevin . . .'"

I can't take it any longer. She's not going to fucking shut up.

"'And Karen . . . and Lisa . . .'"

So I get up and open the door.

"What do you want?"

"They stole her mirror!" she says. "The muggers."

"Okay. They mugged the Romper Room lady and Captain Kangaroo is dead. I hear you. I understand. Bad week for kids' TV. Too bad Mr. Rogers died last year. Could have had a hat trick. Does this conclude your morbid update of children's TV hosts of yesteryear?"

She looks at the bag of peas in my hand.

"Cooking?"

"No."

"Look-I'm sorry about before. Your door was open."

"That doesn't mean come in," I say. "It means I-or someone else-didn't close it properly."

"Someone else like Sarah? That was Sarah your crazy ex, right?"

"Yes, it was Sarah."

"Guess you two are on better terms today," she says.

"What do you want? What did you want when you came barging into my fucking apartment?" I say, waving my arm for effect. And then, smack, I end up hitting myself in the crotch with the bag of peas. "Fuck!" I yell.

"What is wrong with you?" she asks.

"Nothing," I say, one whole octave higher.

"Seriously, are you okay?"

"I would be if you'd leave me alone."

She pauses. "I only came back because I heard her leave."

"And?"

"I was going to give you my opinion on the stuff in the catalog. The Pottery Barn."

"I don't care anymore."

"Then why did you shove it under my door?" she says.

"Because . . . God, you are annoying! Can you just leave it alone? I don't want to talk about the fucking Pottery Barn right now."

"You're very hostile," she observes. "Is this a side effect of that herbal stuff you take when you want to have sex with Sarah? Who you supposedly hate? Funny way of showing it, by the way."

"We're done here," I say, starting to close the door.

"Fine," she snaps. I slam the door in her face. Hard. I'm fuming. I stand there for a minute, then open the door again.

"It's yohimbe," I call out. "I don't take it regularly. I haven't taken it in months, in fact. And not that it's any of your business, but right now I wish I did have problems getting it up. If I'd been Mr. Softy today when you came barging in, I wouldn't be in the massive pain I'm in right now. But I wasn't soft. I was hard as steel, baby! And it was all natural." But . . . she doesn't respond. I peek my head out, and she's not there. But our other neighbor is. This fat Polish nanny who watches the kids across the hall. She looks somewhat shocked and not even a little bit amused. She shakes her head in disgust, and I meekly smile at her and then duck back into my apartment. I hate Heaven.

I'm back at the office, and Phil wants to know how Florida was. I feel bad. But not bad enough that I don't spend the first twenty minutes filling him in on the elaborate details of my trip.

The truth is, I don't feel like I did enough to get the ball rolling on Cinnamilk, but it's not easy. My buddy Jonas, who's a graphic artist, offered to make some sample ads for me so I'm looking forward to seeing what he comes up with. Anything remotely professional looking will further the cause.

"Get any?" Phil asks. Which reminds me that I did get some, and worse, reminds me of the pain in my crotch. I actually took Advil this morning before leaving for work. It's not helping.

"I don't kiss and tell," I say.

"You dirty dog. Tell me everything."

"Nothing to tell." Except that my dick is now broken. What do they do to fix it? What can they do? Did I really break it? Is that possible? What's the cure? Surely not a cast. Viagra for a week? Keep it hard and in place? I don't even want to think about the options.

"Fine," he relents. "I want you to hear this band. I think I found our new saviors."

"Who are they?"

"Superhero."

"No," I say. Honestly, when he said the name, it didn't even register, I had my "no" cocked and loaded, and would have fired at whatever he said. Such was my state.

"You know them?"

"We don't need another band with 'Super' in the name. There's Supergrass, Supersuckers, Supertramp . . . far too many in the universe already."

"Aside from the name," he says.

"Superdrag . . . Superchunk . . . Super Furry Animals-"

"Forget the name!"

"What are they like?" I ask. Because the truth is, we really do need a good band, or we're going to have to call it a day with this record company thing.

"Catchy songs, good harmonies, bluesy rock. Three kids from SoCal. Seventeen, seventeen, and the drummer is fifteen. He's sick. I swear the kid just shreds."

"Did you just say 'SoCal'?" I ask, turning to face him in disbelief.

"That's what they call it." He pops in the demo, and surprisingly they're really fucking good. The first song has a great hook. They've got this kind of Wilco-esque wit and depth, MC5-ish unrehearsed energy-the raw impact of the Replacements, the heart of a young Nick Drake, and the soul of the Cure (without the doom). None of that Screamo bullshit that's been clogging up the airwaves.

"Where'd they come from?" I ask, surprising myself by saying this aloud when I had been dead set against showing Phil even a drop of interest.

"My cousin goes to school with them. Nobody knows them yet. It's a beautiful thing."

"Can we get them to change their name?"

"Maybe," he says. "They're playing next weekend."

"Here?"

"No, not here," Phil says. "In California. They're still in school. They're not on a national tour."

"Not yet," I say and smile at him. I'm smiling for two reasons. One, I am going to go to California next weekend to see what these kids can do live. If they're half as good as the demo they recorded, this is our next signing.

And two, California is right next to Seattle. Sure it's an hour or two by plane or . . . well, I don't know how many hours in a car, but it's right there. I can check out the band and then head up to Seattle to meet with a certain someone. I hope Jonas has the mock-ups done. And I really need to figure out the real address of Starbucks Corporate.

And like a gift from up above, I hear the ding on my e-mail. It's from Jonas.

Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up Date: 1/25/2004 5:54:39 PM Eastern Standard Time From: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com To: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com Dude-it's rough, but it's a start. Tell me what you think.-J I click on the attachment and it starts to download. We'd discussed what it should be. A hearty breakfast sitting next to a big tall glass of Cinnamilk. Eggs . . . toast . . . waffles . . . bagels and cream cheese, maybe?

The download finishes and it's . . . different. There's a girl stretching in the background wearing workout gear. I like that. Nice touch. The Cinnamilk looks good, too. But what is that on the breakfast table? I can't be certain. There are some nice-looking tomatoes. And then some kind of bread with a smear of something on it, and then rolled up . . . something. Some kind of meat. Whatever it is, it looks like nothing I'd want to eat, and more important, it sure as shit doesn't look like breakfast.

I don't want to make him feel bad because he's doing this out of the goodness of his heart, but fucking hell. I write back, trying to focus on the positive.

Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up Date: 1/25/2004 7:24:41 PM Eastern Standard Time From: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com To: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com Jonas- Nice work, man. Excellent color on the Cinnamilk. Not too brown, not too white. Just the right touch of color to really look right. (hey, I rhymed) Well done, brother. And I love the workout girl. Really great stuff. Thanks so much. Hey-just wondering . . . we'd talked about having the ad feature the Cinnamilk with "breakfast." I wasn't quite sure what we had there in the forefront. What exactly was that?

Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up Date: 1/25/2004 7:31:32 PM Eastern Standard Time From: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com To: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com Thanks for the compliments. It's fresh tomatoes, and bagels with lox.

Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up.

Date: 1/25/2004 7:36:06 PM Eastern Standard Time.

From: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com.

To: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com.

J- Again-really nice work. I gotta say, though . . . that doesn't look like bagels to me. Or lox even. Are you sure? Didn't we talk about . . . like bacon and eggs or something?