"Sure, man, mock my pain," Brad said. "Only way I could've joined a band is as a roadie, and carrying heavy gear, living in a van, watching people with actual talent use it…that just doesn't sound like a whole hell of a lot of fun."

"But this is?"

"When you're plotting sedition, sure," Brad said. "It's all how you play the cards, man. And anyway, it's the holidays, yo. What better place to be than right here? We've got Christmas displays up on doors, novelty reindeer on desks, and best of all, nobody actually here at work. Oh, and that massive power vacuum I keep talking about."

"Well, you work out the details of how we overthrow Robert, and then maybe I'll think about it," Marion said. "But I don't think plotting right here is really the best idea. Sound carries in this place. He's probably listening to us right now."

"Oh, c'mon – dude wouldn't notice if we got into a yodeling contest," Brad said. "All he hears are the gears turning in his head hour after hour. Smoking like a chimney while he tries to do the work of the whole damned office by himself. The ultimate micromanager. But at least it keeps him too busy to notice the rest of us very often."

"You do realize this brings up a slight issue with your plan, right?" Marion asked.

“Nuh-uh. What issue?"

"Well, all things being equal, he is a fairly benevolent dictator," Marion said. "Maybe we're better off not removing him from power."

"Oh, sure, bring up the legitimacy of his reign, why don't ya’," Brad said. "You spoil all my best plots."

"Brad, I'm pretty sure this is the first time you've suggested any sort of plot, coup, or activity of any sort. So it's a little unfair to say I spoil them all."

"True," Brad said. "But that's just because I know what you'll say before you say it. So I hardly ever try to recruit you to my nefarious plots. Plus, your office is all the way on the other side of the building. Long-distance revolutions never work, man."

"We have an intercom system, you know," Marion said. "You know, that thing on your desk, that you claim you can't answer when it's here in reception."

"Hey, man, I've always been anti-phone," Brad said. "I'm pretty sure I'm the only dude my age who doesn't own a cell phone. That probably qualifies me for automatic admission in most survivalist militia groups, y'know. It's up there with owning a .50-caliber sniper rifle, or having three wives without claiming any relation to the Mormons. I'd do the full beard thing, but having a beard just makes my face itch."

"Guys look horrible with beards anyhow," Marion pointed out. "I don't know how anyone kissed back in the 70s."

"Yeah, and think about how big camping out was back then, too," Brad said. "So, you wake up next to some dude who hasn't had a shower, has a giant beard, probably with a few beans stuck in it from last night's cookout, and you both have morning breath. No wonder birthrates plummeted. Everyone blames Roe v. Wade, but really, it was just a personal hygiene problem. If not for Barry White and Al Green, the human race, at least in this neck of the woods, might've gotten snuffed out. In a literal and figurative sense, y'know?"

"Things would've been peaceful," Marion said.

"You feel that way, too?"

"Like the world could use a few billion fewer?" Marion asked.

"Yeah. Less cement. More trees. Not to be a hippie; just so it'd quiet down some, so you wouldn't have to see so many different faces on the street. Maybe we'd all quit trying to run away. Move around so much, I mean, if that were the case. I don't think our mobility is so much about money, as it is about having money and trying to react to some natural desire to escape crowds. Just look at Bozeman. Most expensive city in the country to live in, all because the richest dicks in the country have turned it into a jet-assisted bedroom neighborhood for L.A. and Seattle."

"Doesn't really explain population patterns, though, does it," Marion said. "Not on the larger scale. The behavior of the ultra-rich never really has much bearing on the rest of us."

"Nah, not particularly. People are pragmatic. They mostly move where there's no winter. So you get cities like Houston: just one, giant, concrete pancake supporting a moderate-density hive of humanity, with the occasional, exclusive, high-end suburb sprinkled in for good effect. But at least if you live in the hive, you get to see most of the good concerts. Kinda hard to catch stuff in Baton Rouge. Even if you run out to New Orleans, a lot of stuff passes you by. Gotta be an after-effect of Katrina. I'm sure they'd at least stop in New Orleans, back before it turned into the American Atlantis."

Brad slumped down in his chair, now that he'd decided this conversation was headed toward a longer-term status. In the process, he managed to catch some genitalia in between his leg and pants-seam, and he had to do a brief, sea-lion style jiggle-dance to free the enclosed member. He hoped it didn't appear quite as absurd as it felt.

He tugged at his shirt as soon as he'd finished slumping, in the continuous effort to somehow disguise his girth by putting airspace between his body and the fabric with which he swaddled himself, as if, somehow, if it didn't cling to his body, people might be fooled into thinking he was a skinny guy who just happened to trap a lot of air around himself due to his choice of reduced breathability fabrics. Like he was wearing parachute pants. And a parachute shirt. And maybe a parachute neckerchief that happened to be skin-colored. Of course, all of that wouldn't explain the triple chin, but screw it – you had to give up eventually. Maybe he could pass that off as some weird genetic trait, like high cheekbones, only jigglier.

"New Orleans still catches most of the good acts," Marion said. "At least the stuff that bothers touring the South at all. Half the bands I've ever liked never seem to venture south of the Mason-Dixon line. They hit the West Coast, the Northeast, and then do the world tour thing. I don't know if it's because we don't have enough fans down here, or if we're just not cool enough."

"Or somewhere in between," Brad said. "Probably some sorta feedback loop there. Not enough fans makes you less cool, which makes you have not enough fans. Plus, there's NASCAR. Anyplace with this many fans of driving in a circle can't be truly enticing to the latest hot act to claw its way out of the womb of New York or L.A. So we get the acts that tour every single friggin' venue on Earth, all the country music we could care to choke down, and every so often a little cool local stuff, like Lucinda Williams. But that's sorta scarce. Plus, I never hear about that kinda crap until after it's over. Seems I never get into a band until they've broken up, or gone into hiatus, or something. I've got this weird radar for band death, man. It's really depressing."

Brad felt like he had to pee. Or, more specifically, as if he already had peed. He was fairly sure he hadn't, but instinct was hard to resist. He bent forward, hands clasped in his lap, like some old-fashioned supplicant awaiting an audience with the king.

Nothing felt wet. The feeling made no sense. Typically, he had it when he was in bed. He'd drift awake from a dream about taking a leak and have the creepiest feeling like he'd just wet the bed. But the bed'd be dry, and when he'd go to the bathroom and actually pat himself down like a puppy owner patting the carpet to see if that glistening bit was a trick of the light or Rover's latest mistake, he'd be totally urine-free.

He didn't get it. It was, like so much else, a personal affront. A betrayal, put forth by a body in continual revolt.

He hadn't pissed himself. He hadn't. He couldn't have. He'd know. There'd be so much moisture. It'd be obvious.

He peered at Marion, eyes open and direct, no averted gaze. Did she know what he was doing? Could she sense his discomfort? Was he giving off some universal vibe – some body-language cue you picked up in the early, early days of life, back when such accidents really did happen?

He couldn't tell by looking at her. She returned his gaze steadily, with a Mona Lisa smile. Maybe she was amused to see him looking at her that way. He was
usually more a stare-at-the-ceiling, stare-at-the-floor type. Looking someone in the eyes was one of his supreme vulnerabilities, like they knew everything about him, and maybe he knew something about them, too. It was an uncomfortable form of intimacy that he always figured, somehow, would end badly. So, like most intimacy, he avoided it.

"Maybe you should put that radar to work," Marion said. "Get hired by one of the labels. You could warn them about doomed bands, so they wouldn't be taken by surprise."

"Sure, man," Brad said. "I could be like one of those cancer-sniffing dogs. Just sit me down there in the basement somewhere, constantly keep piping in new music to listen to. If it catches my ear, they know they've got an act headed for destruction. But I dunno. Moving ain't my thing. I tend to have a lot of inertia. It's like the rock band thing. It's too late for me at this point."

"You want to stage a coup, or hit the road and just keep driving, but you're not ready for Los Angeles?" Marion asked. "Seems like you've got some self-contradiction there."

Brad shrugged. "Or self-delusion. Or maybe I like trying to talk you into stuff, 'cuz I figure if I do, then I'll have to go through with it myself. The trick to doing something brave isn't being brave. It's figuring out a way to make yourself just do it. You don't jump out of the plane to jump out of the plane. You jump out because you counted down from three, and at one, there was nothing left to do but jump. That, or count past zero. Which'd seem pretty stupid, what with a parachute strapped to your back. ‘Three. Two. One. Zero. Negative one. Negative two. Yeah, shut the hell up; I'll jump when I'm ready. Negative three. Negative four. No, I don't give a good damn if I'm holding up the line. Negative five. Negative six. Negative seven. Yeah? Well, up yours, too, buddy. Jumping out of a plane is a pretty momentous decision. I'd think you'd be a little cooler about this. Negative eight. Negative nine. Negative ten. Holy crap, quit shoving me! I'm gonna fall out! You motherfuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!’ You see, that last bit gets cut off, 'cuz you're free falling, and you can't really say much, aside from screaming maybe."