"No, you don't get it," he says. "You're fired."

I don't even argue. I can't. There's no point. I take off my apron and walk out the door.

I'm only four or five paces down the street when a pigeon shits on my head. Perfect.

So that's it. I'm fired. I knew it was coming, and yet it's still a little shocking. I'm not really angry about it. I don't wish ass cancer on Bruce or Jean Paul. But it doesn't feel good-being fired never does. I have failed-and officially been told so. It's like a big red stamp came down and plastered FAILED on my forehead. And when I look in the mirror, there it is. Although it saysFAILEDbecause I'm looking in a mirror, and mirrors always reflect images backwards. But I still know what it means. I think the normal things that people feel after being fired are anger, guilt, and shame. Me? I feel like having several drinks.

I think it's safe to say that I'm drunk. I'm with Sydney at Dos Caminos and I've had several margaritas. I called her when I got fired, and she insisted that we go out drinking.

"And did I tell you I got shat on? By a pigeon?"

"Several times," she says. "And I told you that it is supposedly good luck."

"Then let them shit on you. That kind of good luck, I don't need."

What I do need is some fresh air. I finish my drink and walk outside. We walk up Park Avenue and cut over to Third. I spot the Rodeo Bar a couple blocks up and insist we go in. Sydney hates country music of any kind. She doesn't get alt country or rockabilly or psychobilly. She's not in touch with her inner redneck. I drag her in anyway.

There's a band onstage. A three-piece country/rockabilly band and Sydney can't stand it.

She immediately chimes in, "I just don't get this music. It's twangy and whiny-"

"I love twangy. Twang is good," I say.

"Twang is not good. And what are they singing about? Every song is like, 'My girlfriend's cousin raped the cat.'"

"Somehow, I missed that lyric."

"It's just the whole mentality. I hate it," she says as she downs her drink. She's switched from margaritas to tequila shots. Patron Silver. No lime, no salt, because only wusses do that. "And why is he all tattooed? The tattoos don't go with the plaid shirt. It's dissonant. He's either the tattoo guy who is wearing the plaid shirt because he's trying to pretend he likes country because that's the only kind of music that he's good at . . . or he's the country guy who came to New York and felt like he had to fit in, so he got all the tattoos. Either way, they don't work."

"No, it does work," I explain. "That's a look. He's rockabilly."

"He's what?"

"Rockabilly."

"What is that? Like Hillbilly Rockstar?" she asks. I crack up.

"It's a music style. And a lifestyle. The tattoos and pompadours . . . hot-rod cars . . . hollow-body guitars . . . pin-up girls. And the girls all want to be Bettie Page. Well, Bettie Page with tattoos."

"But why mix country with the fifties?"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't get it."

"Oh . . . in that case," I say.

"Sorry," she says. "I'm just not a little bit country. I'm all rock 'n' roll. And speaking of-this sucks! 'BROWN-EYED GIRL'!" she yells out. I can't believe it. I know it just happened, but I still can't believe it.

The band looks out at us and I sink into the floor. "No, don't do that," I say.

"Why not?"

"Because they're not taking requests," I say.

"How do you know?" she says. The band suddenly starts walking off the stage. I think it's because of her yelling, but it's actually because they've finished their set. And at this very moment, a cowboy takes his cue.

One of the band members took the "Brown-Eyed Girl" shout-out as a mating call, and saunters over to Sydney and me. He's not totally inked, but the tats peeking out from his cuffed plaid shirt promise more to be discovered. Looks like he's ripped under that shirt as well.

"'Brown-Eyed Girl,' huh?" he says. "Haven't heard that one in a long time. At least a couple of minutes." I get it immediately, but Sydney seems to be listening more with her eyes, so she doesn't make out what he's saying.

"You guys sounded really . . . really good," Sydney gushes. "What was that last song?" Oh God.

"It's an original of mine," he says, smooth as a Jack Daniel's milk shake.

"Who wrote it?" Sydney replies. All I can do is smile at him as if to say "she tries." But he's way ahead of me.

"What about you?" he says to me. "Did you like our set?"

"Yeah," I say. "You guys are really good." I sip my Seven & Seven and sort of look away. Sydney's eyes widen a little bit as if she's sensing I'm not into him, and she doesn't want to let this one flop off the hook.

"Yeah, she liked it a lot. She loves rock-a-hillbilly. We both do. The whole thing . . . the lifestyle," she says. In that moment he looks at her outfit and I'm thinking, Yeah, you're in head-to-toe Prada. You're a regular cowgirl.

Picking up on her eagerness, he not-so-subtly drops, "I've got a '56 Chevy Stepside parked right out front. Wanna check it out?"

"Stepside?" Sydney echoes uncertainly, not knowing what the hell he's talking about. He takes this as girlish awe and leads the way. Sydney follows him outside to his truck, and I trail behind.

"Wow . . ." she says. "That's so cool!" Sydney coos. And I have to admit, chromed out with cherry-red metallic paint, which shines like lip gloss, bumper to bumper . . . it is decidedly cool-calculated cool-one bad-ass motherfucker.

"Wanna take her for a spin around the block?" he offers. I know Sydney doesn't know how to drive a stick, and Sydney sure as shit knows she doesn't know how to drive a stick.

"Sure," she says. As I watch her take the keys to his classic car, it's as though it's all happening in slow motion.

"Sydney . . ." I say with all the reproach I can stuff into my voice.

"What?" she says, almost angrily.

"Use your blinkers." I smile.

Sydney jumps in on the driver's side, and he slides in on the passenger's side. I slide in next to him. The responsible thing at this moment would be for me to explain to this innocent country boy (probably Brooklyn born and bred) that he's risking his pride and joy on someone who's already well past tipsy-and can barely ride a bike on a good day. But I've got three drinks in me, I'm preoccupied with my own bad day, and those fuzzy dice he has hanging from the rearview mirror are making me feel lucky. Besides, I'm in that weird place that alcohol takes a person to, where ideas like a late-night bacon and broccoli sandwich start to sound brilliant.

Sure enough, Sydney's first act in her inaugural run with a manual transmission is to grind the gears raucously- SGRRRRAAAAAKKKKK. For a split second he looks alarmed, but then he's like, "Hey . . . happens to everyone," and he relaxes again into a studied slouch.

"Ready?" Sydney says with a nervous smile, and I detect a warning. Then-bang! All hell's afire, the pickup lurches forward on a sharp angle into a raging stream of Third Avenue traffic. Taxicabs are swerving left and right, horns blare at us from every direction, and I can actually read the "What the fuck . . ." on the lips of the driver to my immediate right. Abruptly Sydney makes her correction, wheeling to the right at just as sharp an angle. And I am sure I will not make it to twenty-seven . . . or marriage . . . or tomorrow-because barreling toward us is a gigantic garbage truck, resembling a charging prehistoric rhino. Its full-throated foghorn is trying to blast us out of the way.

I hear a high-pitched scream, and I think at first it may be me, but then I realize it's the manly cowboy to my left who has just turned instantaneously into a bug-eyed, dashboard-grasping Don Knotts. Now we're stopped dead in the middle of Third Avnue.

"Where to now?" Sydney asks, delightfully unabashed by the predicament and the chorus of car horns urging us to a decision.

"Out!" he yells. "Get out!"

I survey the situation, and honestly, jumping out of the pickup into moving traffic on Third Avenue seems safer than continuing on Sydney's road trip. I grab her hand at the front of the car, and we Frogger our way to the sidewalk.

"Wait!" Sydney screams. And I'm thinking some irate driver has decided to run us down. "I didn't give him my phone number!" she says.

"Don't worry," I say. "He'll never forget you."

I check my mailbox when I get home, and I find my mold test results. And something from American Airlines for Brady. Where is he going? I tear open my letter from Mr. Mold, and it says my test was inconclusive. In-con-fucking-clusive? What the hell is that?

So I may or may not have the black mold. All of a sudden I've got a headache. It's probably the mold!

I go upstairs, and once I'm inside my apartment I open Brady's mail. It's a plane ticket to California. What's in California?

I can't think about this right now. I'm drunk, I have a headache, my apartment is infested with poisonous mold, and my dog is missing. Where is Strummer?

"Strummer!" I call out. Nothing. "Struuummmmer . . ." In the middle of the second syllable I remember he's next door at Brady's.

I walk out and bang on Brady's door. He comes to the door in 3-D glasses.

"Can I help you, madam?"

"I've come for my dog," I say.

He sniffs the air around me. "Has someone been drinking on the job?"

"No," I say. "Someone got fired, shat on by a pigeon, and embarrassed at a honky-tonk. And went drinking."

"Come in," he says. And I do. "You got fired?"

"Yeah," I say as I slump into his beanbag. Which is new. "When did you get this?" I ask.

"Jonas donated it. Wanna talk about it?"

"No. Lots of people have beanbags."

"I mean the job," he says. "Or lack of it?" Strummer comes and sits on top of me.

"What's in California?" I ask.

"Huh?"

"You got a plane ticket."

"Oh!" he says. "Should've known. A band. I'm going to check out a band we might sign. Then I'm going to Seattle."

"What's in Seattle?"

"Howard Schultz."

"The Peanuts guy?"

"No, that's Charles Schulz," he says.

"Why do you want to see the Peanuts guy?"

"I don't. And if I did, I'd be shit out of luck because he's dead."

I look aside. Had I heard that? I guess so. So many people seem to be dying. I was almost one of them tonight. "Oh. Then why are you going?"

"You have been drinking, haven't you? I'm going to meet Howard Schultz."

"Who is he?"

"The founder of Starbucks."

"I love coffee." I beam.

"Me too," he says. "And you could definitely use some right now."

"No, I need sleep. But I can't go home."

"Why not?"

"Because I have the mold."

"The what?" he says.

"The mold," I say. I fall asleep on the beanbag with Strummer's head resting on my leg.

Brady.

Heaven is asleep in my apartment. She spent the night last night curled up in a ball on my beanbag with Strummer. It's actually pretty darned cute.

I'm drinking coffee when Strummer yawns a giant lion yawn and walks over to me.

"Hey, boy," I say. "Good morning."

"Morning," Heaven says.

"You're up?"

"I'm not sure," she says. She sits up, revealing a crease from the seam of the beanbag etched in the side of her face.