"Poker chips!" Phil offers.

"So, uh . . . that Heaven chick? She's hot, man," Zach says. "What's going on there? I detected a little sexual tension."

"Nothing going on. She's just the local pain in my ass."

"Then may I?" Zach asks.

"No, you may not," I say.

"Knew it," he says.

"What about the friend?" Phil asks. "She looks like she'd take it in the poop chute like a champ . . . if you catch my meaning."

"No, Phil," Zach says. "We have no idea what you mean."

"What is wrong with you?" I ask. "Never mind."

"I have some stuff to show you," Jonas says, and he pulls out his latest incarnation of the Cinnamilk mock-ups. It's much better. No sign of the mystery meat. Bacon and eggs. Some buttered toast. And Cinnamilk. Glorious Cinnamilk.

"Love it," I say. "I need a tagline. You guys got any ideas?"

"How about . . . 'Who needs the cereal when you have the leftovers?'" Phil offers.

"It's not about cereal," I say.

"You said it's like the milk left over in the bowl after Cinnamon Toast Crunch-"

"But it's about the milk. Chocolate milk may resemble the milk after a bowl of Count Chocula, but they don't talk about Count Chocula in the ads."

"Okay, I got it," Phil says. "'Because you're too young for fiber.'"

"What does that have to do with anything?" I sigh.

"Fiber cereals!" Phil explains.

"I know, Phil. So we're back to cereal. Cereal I just said I didn't want to use. And by the way, you're never too young for fiber."

"Dude, no shit," Zach says. "I didn't eat enough for dinner last night, and the first thing I ate this morning was pretzels. It was like a giant fist trying to come out my ass."

"Not helping the plight," I say.

"Okay," Zach says. "How about, 'Cinnamilk! Two of the worst bad-breath creators . . . together at last!'"

"Fuck you," I say. "Cinnamon is good. They make mints . . . gum . . . cinnamon freshens breath."

"I've always hated cinnamon gum," Zach says.

"This isn't gum!"

"'Cinnamilk! When you're done . . . smack your lips and gums! It'll sound like two beavers fucking.'" This gem comes from Phil. Then he walks over to my refrigerator and swings the door open. "Dude . . . speaking of-the typical protocol is to chuck the milk before it goes brown."

"Ah, but not just any milk," I say. "Cinnamilk-that's it. Want a sip?" Phil shrugs and begins to lift the plastic container to his mouth. "DUMBASS," I shout. "That's okay for me, but I have home-field advantage." I grab down a motley assortment of glasses, at least two of them clean, and pour three samples. Zach is the first to bite the bullet.

"You know something?" he says.

"What?" I say excitedly.

"That tastes exactly like cow piss." He sees I take this seriously and quickly corrects. "Kidding. Brady . . . you may be onto something."

Jonas nods his head. "I wouldn't give up regular or chocolate milk for it, but not bad," he says.

Seeing the others' reactions, Phil downs his. "Yes, indeed. Definitely . . . very good. Really. I'd pay for this shit." Then he returns to the refrigerator. "But let's move on to that other brown beverage I saw in here." And he pulls out four beers. All in all, very positive, considering the generous helping of negativity and humiliation these guys normally dish out.

"Hey, thanks for the new artwork, man," I say to Jonas.

"No problem. We'll think of a tagline. Don't worry," he says. "Hey, Jenny and I are selling our living room carpet, since she's forcing me to remove anything manly and stylish from our apartment in favor of more feminine furnishings. Before I post any flyers in our building or at work, you want anything? You know that killer rug I have? It's in great condition. Be perfect here, dude. Looking for around ten thousand dollars, but that's highly negotiable. I'm thinking around fifty bucks."

"As much as the offer's appreciated," I say, "I think I'm going to pass. I am intent on getting a nice Persian rug."

"To allow for some nice Persian rug burns," Zach chimes in.

"Suit yourself," Jonas says.

"Dudes . . ." Zach says, "try this one on for size-"

"Oh, God," Jonas says. "Here comes another imperfect crime."

"You establish a fake museum in a country that doesn't exist," Zach says. "You go all around to the great museums toting these phony programs for past sold-out shows, hyping your exhibition to the curators, pissing them off that every other guy's best Impressionist piece is going to be in your show, but not theirs. They'd be throwing the stuff at you. Van Goghs . . . Monets . . . Manets . . ."

"Mayonnaise," Phil chimes in.

"Renoirs," Zach continues, ignoring him. "Anyway . . . you'd get these great works of art delivered to your door."

"What's the address of this imaginary country," I ask.

"It's actually a warehouse in the Bronx," Zach says.

Phil, Jonas, and I all simultaneously roll our eyes. Then Jonas, thankfully, changes the subject. "I made a reservation at Brother Jimmy's on Ninety-second for Thursday's game." Jonas went to Duke with Phil and me. Zach went to Carolina. Thursday's game is Duke/UNC. "Thursday night, Brother Jimmy's. Good vs. Evil. You in?"

"Go to hell, Heels," I say. "Yeah, I'm in."

"Oh yeah, Tarheels," Jonas says. "I was, of course, referring to us vs. Zach, but I guess the Good vs. Evil applies to Duke/UNC as well." Zach tosses a burnt mini-pizza at Jonas.

"Hey!" I say. "No tossing of food items. Especially after the olive incident." Zach and I bow our heads simultaneously and say, "Rest his soul." Phil and Jonas look confused but don't ask.

"All right," Jonas says. "Count on Scott Mulcahey coming along as well. I think you guys have met him before. He's the asshole who blew the curve in every class I took freshman year. Lady Zachary, pending the outcome of any bets that may or may not be placed, should I make ready your corset?"

"No need for that," Zach says. "However, after you're done with your impotency pills, I'm sure Brady'll want some."

"Those things don't work," Phil says.

"No shit," Zach says. "I'm taking like ten Levitra a day and I still can't throw a football through a tire."

"That's okay," Jonas says. "I'm loaded up on Cialis and can't even find my rubber ducky."

"I don't have herpes," I say. "But those Valtrex commercials sure do make it seem like a hell of a lot of fun."

"Are we playing poker or what?" Zach asks. And we settle into a poker game that lasts till some time between three and four. In the end I'm too tired to look. Or too depressed. I lose. Again.

Heaven.

Everybody is just waiting for me to fuck up again at work. I can feel it the minute I walk in, and it doesn't go away. It's like I'm in an alternate reality watching myself go through the motions and even I'm waiting for me to fuck up. This is not a good feeling, and I can't shake it.

So I start thinking about the worst possible scenarios and imagining how they'd play out. And I write a fake letter of complaint about myself just to ease the tension and make a joke out of it-an example of how asinine some of the customers are. Here's how it turns out: February 2, 2004.

Temple Restaurant ATTN: Manager 575 Mercer Street.

New York, NY 10003.

Dear Sir and/or Madam:.

I have had occasion to dine at your establishment approximately six or seven times during the last few months. I think it is fair to say my wife and I are "regulars." Though the service and food are generally exemplary at Temple, I regret to inform you of our most recent-and decidedly unsatisfactory-visit to your restaurant.

On the evening of January 21, my wife and I arrived for dinner at 7:30. We were seated in the section of a young woman who appears to still be "learning the ropes" of the restaurant business. This is by no means reflective of a sexist attitude-my wife and I share a joint checking account, in fact.

This young lady introduced herself as "Heaven"-an unusual name, which I assume is fake to go along with the "Temple" restaurant theme.

In an attempt to get things started "on the right foot" I made a joke, arguably inappropriate, in which I mentioned that my wife was menstruating-an event which generally heightens her appetite. "Better get her fed quickly, Heaven. This time of the month, she's ravenous!" Heaven seemed annoyed by this comment-even though I was talking about my own wife's menstruation-to which I have a right. I'm sure you'll agree? In any case, it was no excuse for the events which followed.

My wife asked what wines you offered by the glass and she told us merlot, cabernet, chardonnay, pinot grigio, and white zinfandel. My wife asked for the white zinfandel and this waitress returned with a glass of pink wine. Pink!

"I asked for white zinfandel," my wife said.

"That is white zinfandel," Heaven replied. Does this woman think we are stupid and color blind? This wine was no more white than the majority of your staff.

The salads arrived in short order and were excellent. I tried to extend an olive branch to Heaven by quipping that there'd be "no more menstruation comments-period." I thought this rather clever, but it did not improve her mood. When our entrees arrived late, Heaven told us that the kitchen was a little backed up. I pointed out that, given my dodgy colon, I too am often "backed up," but I wouldn't use it as an excuse for poor service. Well. In an angry tone, which was highly inappropriate, Heaven told me that she had no interest in hearing any more about my colon or my wife's vagina. Let me repeat-your waitress mentioned my wife's vagina.

Finally-the piece de resistance. As we drank our coffee at the end of our meal, I found myself needing to blow my nose. Generally I carry a handkerchief, and certainly I should have had one with me. But, alas-I did not. Since our tablecloth had been somewhat stained by my wife's spilled glass of "white" zinfandel (Ha!), I assumed your establishment would have the need to launder it after our departure. Given that fact, I couldn't see what difference it made if the cloth was a little more soiled. Although I'm not proud of this fact, I was in great discomfort, so I discreetly blew my nose into the tablecloth.

Unfortunately, Heaven had singled us out for her wrath on this evening. She must have been watching me from across the room because she stormed over and asked me if I "needed a tissue." Can you believe the nerve of this girl? I found this to be highly impertinent and, frankly, embarrassing. I told her, "No, thank you-just the check."

Not content to leave bad enough alone, Heaven pointed out that I had left "a big bloody booger" on the tablecloth.

A "booger."

Sir or Madam: Zagat's gives your restaurant their highest rating. And you risk your reputation by having a waitress who uses crude language to customers. Appalling.

Naturally, I was quite indignant. I told her that as far as I was concerned, that "booger" could serve as her tip.

This seemed to (finally) put her in her place. She flounced off without another smart-alecky comment.

I'm sorry to complain, but-really-what are things coming to when a man can't spend a dignified evening enjoying some fine dining with his wife without a churlish (although attractive) trollop ruining the evening with her gutter mouth?

I would be happy to accept one year's free dining as compensation for this nightmarish experience (provided we can sit in someone else's section!). I sincerely hope to resolve this matter absent the threat of litigation.

Sincerely,

Royston Felcher, Jr., Esquire.

I enjoy my composition so much and think it's so funny, I print it out and mail it to the restaurant as a joke. I can't wait till they get it.

I see Brady on my way out of the apartment building, and he's got a cactus in his hand. It appears to be dead.

"You managed to kill a cactus?" I say.

"Yeah. I remembered the no water bit but forgot the plenty of sunlight part."

"Sorry. So what are you doing with it?"

"Honestly?" Brady says. "I don't know. I felt bad throwing it away. I couldn't do it. So I thought I'd . . . I don't know. Lay it to rest somewhere out here. Maybe near a tree or in a bush."

"That's really sad," I say, because it is. It's also kind of heartbreaking. And sweet.

"Yeah, I've kind of been wandering up and down the block looking for the right spot," he says.

"Maybe it had a great life. All plants die," I say, trying to make him feel better. "It's a living thing. And all living things die." That didn't come out as uplifting as I'd wanted it to. "So cheer up," I add. "Because today it was just a cactus. Someday it'll be you." Yeah, that wasn't much better.

"What's next? You gonna tell me Santa Claus isn't real?"

"Worse-you know how they tell you when you go to the Olive Garden, you're family? You're not really family."

"That hurts."

"Love to stay and chat, but I gotta go to work," I say. "Sorry again about your cactus."

"Thanks," he says, pretending to wipe a tear the way Letterman sometimes does.

I've decided I'm going to speak with an accent at work today. I think this is a good idea for two reasons. One, it's a good way to entertain myself, and two, it may help me stay out of trouble. If I'm busy focusing on the accent, and therefore in character (somewhat), I won't react to bad customers in my normal fashion.