BUCKIN’ BALES isn’t the easiest summer job. It has its’ moments though. As our hay truck pulls up to Myer’s barn, we see an older guy pounding a two handled post hole digger into the ground. His suit coat and tie removed, vest unbuttoned, he is trashing the wing tips. In an open convertible is a very beautiful and pissed off blond gal. Monte sums it up: “Hard times in the banking industry. Let’s get to work fellers.”

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FAWN KNUTSEN’s naked silhouette in the doorway, briefly illuminated in backlight by sunbeams penetrating her thin calico dress, sends Bronski into limbo. The cheap brown liquor burns, but he dares not swallow, nor lower the smudged empty glass from his lips. As Fawn promenades across the soft neon glow of Large Lena’s Ka-Boom Room towards him, their eyes entwine. With a spit take, Bronski collapses akimbo in rapture.

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OUR LONG trek through the dense jungle pays off. We arrive undetected at a bluff overlooking the insurgent’s encampment. There appears to be only two possible paths to reach our adversary’s position. Corporal Swank discovers a third approach: leaning out too far, plunging 120 feet and landing face first in the rebel’s latrine area. They seem really surprised. But, Lieutenant Chang says that isn’t what we had in mind.

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“HELLO, THIS is Leonard.” The loud voice is from the next stall. Always irritating. But, as Leonard continues his lengthy cell phone conversation, it strikes Adam how the echoing old marble of the courthouse restroom really conveys a powerful tone of authority. “I am the great,” Adam shouts, “and . . . all powerful . . . Wizard of Oz!” A short silence follows. Then, a low whisper: “I’ll have to call you back, Nancy.”

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BEING ONE with the universe is a lot of effort. The floor is never comfortable. Assuming lotus position involves a lot of groaning and grimacing. Breath control and the vague “centering” thing only enforces awareness of discomfort. But, repeating a mantra he slowly drifts, concentrating on the smell of incense and soothing raga music. Then, a soft tap at the door. “What the fuck do you want? I’m God damn meditating!”

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HE’D CAREFULLY placed hundreds of small plastic army men and equipment on the dirt pile in the garden. The boy sat engrossed in throwing dirt clods, knocking down emplacements and making explosion noises when he felt Bob’s warm urine running down his back. The kid screamed, turning in time to see Bob’s wagging tail receding across the yard. It wasn’t until years later that the boy realized the wisdom of that old dog.

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A BATHROOM writer, that’s what he is. Every imaginable reference book is neatly arranged on shelves within easy reach of the commode. He hardly ever feels the need to refer to them. There is internet access on the Apple computer. Monitor, keyboard and mouse are set up on a custom made desk. Although it limits his productivity, he insists: “I never write anything that I can’t finish in the course of a bowel movement.”

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PANHANDLING THE plumbing aisle at Home Depot is a round figured young woman wearing no makeup, short cropped hair and men’s clothing. “Excuse me sir,” she says in an indeterminate Hollywood foreign accent, extending a piece of paper. I scan something about “Russia” and “Unification Church.” I’m remembering young women soliciting for Rev. Sun Myung Moon, from before she was born. She has no idea. “No,” I say politely.

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THE WEIRD part, aside from the sight of a swine floating outside his ninth floor office window, is he recognizes the glaring pig! His mind races back to a pot bellied pet with a heart shaped spot on its’ forehead. It was rooting around her apartment during his one nighter with . . . what was her name? He panics! “Pinky! I’ll call her!” he sobs. (What is her freakin’ name?) “Honestly Pinky! I swear I’m going to call!”

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“SMACKS OF Deus ex machina” is the only comment on the paper. That and a “D” circled for emphasis. I have to look it up. It apparently has something to do with the intervention of God, supernatural forces or dumb luck as a plot device. OK. Now, I know the rules. H.G. Wells suggested writers consider something out of the ordinary such as “if pigs could fly” as a story line. Apparently, he didn’t know the rules either.

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THE ARGUMENT is going nowhere. He yells and gestures wildly. Settling to the floor into a lotus position, she centers herself and focuses. She extends her right arm, hand palm up. As Volume VI of The Oxford English Dictionary levitates from the shelf, he stops and gapes. She smiles and drops her arm. The book rockets across the room and impacts his forehead. It is a consciousness altering experience for both of them.

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SHE LEFT him a note which reads: “You know I’ll always love you. I just don’t want to be married anymore. I’ll come for my finches when I get settled.” He surveys the few pieces of furniture left behind. Too worn for her to purloin, he guesses. He checks the back bedrooms. No furniture, but at least his guitars are still there. The moment is serenaded by her damn squeaky birds! “Cheep you assholes! Cheep!” he groans.

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