BRONSKI TAKES NOTE that the subject is heavily mulleted. While  discretely documenting from a distance said hair style with digital images, he checks his i-phone and confirms that it is, indeed, well into the 21st Century. But there it is: a crew cut backed with an incredibly ample ponytail. Mullet! Check! He seriously doubts the subject’s story that he ever had any contact with Fawn Knutson, much less “went steady” with her. Bronski knows from his brief encounter with Fawn Knutson years ago what a judgmental, mouthy bitch she could be. But why is mullet head lying? Bronski decides to call the office and arrange to put a tail on the subject. Bronski laughs so hard he throws up a little and drools down the front of his best tropical print work shirt.

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“The past is this moment escaping.” – Sam Shepard.

FOREST TRIES TO REMEMBER his last cigarette. It’s been about 23 years. Seems like it should be more memorable. There should be a good story attached:

 I took that one last drag as I stepped out of the El Divorcio Lounge about 2 am. A guy was pissing against the building right outside the door. Too drunk to care, I guess. I flipped the butt into his stream. It kind of sparked and sizzled to the ground. “That’s it! That’s the last one! I’m done!” I said.

That would be a good story, but it isn’t Forest’s.

Could his last cigarette be a traumatic memory he’s blocking out? Or maybe, Forest hopes there are more cancer sticks to come. It’s like the doctor will tell him: “I’m sorry. We’ve done all we can, but it looks like you’ve only hours to live.” That would be an entirely appropriate moment for Forest to say: “Well Doc, if that’s the case, could somebody run down and get me a carton of Raleighs and a bottle of Crown?” Who could argue with that?

Truth is though, it wouldn’t be the same. Even second hand smoke makes Forest kind of uneasy queasy these days. The smokes he craves are sense memories of freer times back in the day.

Forest can’t remember the last time he saw Bart. There is that guy that showed up a few years ago, but that doesn’t count. Every other word out of his mouth is “cocaine,” and he seems really attached to personal firearms. Tells the story about how he almost shot his dealer because he got the idea she is a narc. No more concern about killing somebody, somebody he thinks might be a cop, than hanging up on a telemarketer.

And there is Forest with a bad, but steady job, a girlfriend, a nice place to live and out of cigarettes to boot. There is somebody with his best friend’s face and Chuck Manson’s mouth. There should be some kind of amusing Hollywood narrative, a story  that wraps up the last of the good times running wild that doesn’t include psychotic transformations. There should be some kind of lucid, laugh about this later accounting of what the fuck  happens.

Forest doesn’t have it.

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