“Make sure you look both ways,” he said… [trigger #49]

“Make sure you look both ways,” he said. So I slammed the car door and jogged across the street without looking.

Who does he think he is anyway?

I mean, first off, I’m nine years old. I know that you’re supposed to look both ways before you cross the street. Plus, he’s not my dad. Just because my mom invites him over for dinner and lets him spend the night for like, sleepovers, or whatever, doesn’t mean he can tell me what to do! I’m practically an adult, I definitely don’t need a new dad. I was getting along just fine without him around giving advice about street crossing and whatever else he decides to warn me about.

Maybe he should look both ways, so he’ll see it coming when I punch him in his stupid face.

i haven’t laughed like that in years. [trigger #11]

Every summer, while the other students were getting full-time jobs during the break, all three of us would get in Jeremy’s old station wagon and drive across the country to the coast of southern California.

We would find a beach, park the car, and live off the money we’d saved during the school year. We slept in the car every night for two months, and I swear it was the best sleep I’ve ever gotten. The rotation had it so that we’d take turns stuck sleeping in the passenger seat, while the other two shared the back where they could actually spread out their legs like a human being.

We’d wake early every morning to see the sunrise, then we would surf for as long as the mood might take us. In the evenings we’d go wherever there were girls with an earnest desire to get laid. We always kept a running tally of our successes, with a $50 pot at the end of the summer for whoever won.

Of course, Jeremy always won, that goes without saying. His blue eyes, perfect smile, and the way his hair feathered into perfectly sexy shapes with no effort made it a fool’s errand to compete with him, but for some reason it was impossible to resent him for it. Besides, beach girls always travel in packs, and we always got his runoff anyway. I think Todd and I knew there’d be no chance we’d score as often without Jeremy around.

Most nights, whether or not we lured any tasty morsels back with us, were spent around a fire by the station wagon on the beach. We’d spend most of the night drinking and getting high and telling stories. Jeremy’s stories were always highly dramatic tales of things that had happened back at school. Most often, Todd or I or both of us had been with Jeremy for whatever adventure he was describing, but we never corrected him or called bullshit on his many exaggerations and flat out lies. To be honest, Jeremy’s version of events were always better than the real life story. I’m sure there are stories I remember incorrectly because my brain simply chose Jeremy’s falsehoods over the actual facts without my conscious assent.

It seems like those summers were perfect. It was a two month escape from everything that felt boring and worthless about our lives back home. We weren’t three boys from the midwest anymore. We were heroes, kings, gods.

I still wonder all the time what I gained in letting it all go to join the real world. I haven’t felt that exhilarating sense of pure joy like I did in those days in a long time, I haven’t laughed like that in years.

Sometimes I take out my phone, staring at Jeremy or Todd’s number. I think about calling, about asking them to set off on another adventure where we pretend for just a moment that we can be gods again. But, then I put the phone away and go back to my meeting, or yard work, or reality show, and wonder why my kids think I don’t know how to smile.

make mine a double. [trigger #10.]

**continuation of Trigger #5**

Bruce made the long walk back to Gotham.

Every part of him hurt.

The back of his head was throbbing, but had finally stopped bleeding. His face was raw, his left eye swollen, his lip fat and busted. The sharp aches screaming through his ribs and kidneys made him wonder what the hell Falcone’s goons had done with his body while he was unconscious. All that was topped off by a healthy dose of cold rain, chilling him to the bone.

All he wanted to do was walk back home, get some sleep, and then get in touch with Selena Kyle; but first he needed to try and confirm a suspicion that had been growing. That meant it was time to see Grayson again.

Even after two years, Grayson was still something of a mystery in Gotham. When arriving in town, he claimed he was moving over from Blüdhaven. That was about as much as he’d said about his past, and no one seemed to be able to settle on what his story was. There were all sorts of outlandish tales about who he was, the most absurd being that he’d grown up travelling with the circus. Bruce was in the dark about this 20something kid, a reality he’d need to remedy very soon. For now, he just hoped Grayson might have some more information.

Grayson had provided Bruce with the Falcone lead, and always seemed to know what was happening around Gotham. While somehow never directly involved in any of the city’s shady dealings, he was never ignorant of them either. It was as if he had a preternatural ability to feel the pulse of the criminal underworld. He was a wiseass, but somehow always knew just when to back off to avoid an beating. In spite of himself, Bruce like the kid.

Bruce made his way to Finger’s Pub in Old Town, glad as he swung the door open that Grayson was there, true to form, sitting in a booth by himself nursing a scotch on the rocks.

Bruce gingerly slid in across from Grayson.

“Well, Dick. You were right.”

“Jesus, what the hell happened to your face, Bruce?”

“Like I said, you were right.”

“What’d you do, just knock on Falcone’s door and ask him if he was involved?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Grayson just whistled through his teeth and rolled his glass between his hands.

The waitress came up and looked at Bruce. “You need something, sweetie?” The sweetie did nothing to dent the unmistakable bordem she exuded. She was already walking away by the time he spoke.

“I’ll have what he’s having. But, make mine a double.”

An affirmative wave of her hand over her shoulder was the only response.

first and third, base hit, go two! [trigger #9]

**continuation of trigger #8**

Emily and I try to make our way toward the nearest hallway away from the field, but so many people are pressing to see what’s happening on the field that the way is completely jammed.

Idiots!

An idea suddenly strikes me that’s absolutely terrible, but might be our only option. I go with it, leading Emily down to the field. We jump onto the grass. She asks where we’re going and I tell her that if the zombies are only coming from the Sox clubhouse, then the new private player’s entrance from player parking to the Yankees clubhouse might be our best way out of danger, or at least farther from it.

We move toward the infield, and even during Z-Day the absurdity of me walking on Yankee Stadium grass isn’t lost on me. I can’t enjoy it long though, shit’s getting worse over by the Sox dugout. We reach the infield in time to see Adrian Gonzalez save Jeter’s life by beating Youkilis’ head in with a bat. Jeter arms himself by ripping third base out of the ground.

Just as I’m wondering if that will be any use I see him jam the metal post into a zombified Yankee fan’s eye. It gives new meaning to the phrase ‘base hit.’

Two more undead Yankee fans are closing in on Jeter when he uses the base to quickly dispatch each, as if he’s been fighting off zombies with bases his entire life. He brings the base post crushing down on zombie #3’s head with impressive finality. Already, his count has gone from one kill to three. Then again, Jeter always did go from first to third as well as anyone in the game.