I had to park behind Borders at the mall the other day, and one of the employees was carrying a box of books with the covers torn off out to the dumpster. I asked and he gave me one, since they were just going to get tossed anyway. Turns out, they were copies of Guy Fieri's new cookbook, "Guy's Gnarly Grub." I've transcribed a handful of the recipes here, since the book was apparently recalled by the publishers. I haven't tried any of them myself, but the little sidebars on each page where Guy talked about the recipes weren't too encouraging.
Barkin' Burger Dogs
Ingredients (per serving):
One hot dog, sliced in half lengthwise
One hamburger bun
One slice of Kraft(R) American Cheesefood Product
Guy's Sizzlin' Smashmouth Sauce [ZB- The recipe for this sauce was given at the front of the book, as it is recommended for use in many of the dishes. It is a 3:1:2 mixture of ketchup, tabasco sauce, and jarred gravy.]
Directions: Cook hot dog. Place on hamburger bun. Top with American cheese and Guy's Sizzlin' Smashmouth Sauce.
Guy Sez: My nephews love this recipe because it's so WACKY and OUT THERE, like wearing sunglasses backwards! You could even wow some guys at a tailgate party or family barbecue, or anywhere you want to get krazy and shake things up!
- - - - - - - -
Euro-Fusion Kielpasta Stew
Ingredients:
One box of Kraft(R) macaroni and cheese dinner
Half a cup of milk
Two tablespoons of butter
One medium-sized kielbasa, cut into half-inch sections
One bottle of Kraft(R) barbecue sauce
Four eggs
Directions: Cook macaroni according to directions on box, but stir cheese powder packet, butter, and milk into water as it comes to a boil. Add sliced kielbasa halfway through cooking time. When pasta is cooked, do not drain. Stir in barbecue sauce. Divide into serving bowls while still hot, crack an egg into each bowl and stir rapidly. Serves four.
Guy Sez: I learned this recipe from my friend and fellow Food Network star Rachel Ray, but put my own personal spin on it by adding some zesty Kraft(R) barbecue sauce! Better make sure your friends can handle the heat before serving up this bad boy! Yowza!
- - - - - - - -
Truckstop Taco Take-Alongs
Ingredients (per serving):
One handful of ground beef
One small 'travel size' bag of Fritos(R) corn chips
Salt to taste
Directions: Cook ground beef in skillet until browned. Open Fritos(R) bag at the top, add the ground beef, then hold the bag closed and shake until well-mixed.
Guy Sez: The travel size Fritos(R) bags are perfect to just tuck into the pocket of your bowling shirt if you need to eat on the go! The foil bag will also keep the food and your chest warm!
- - - - - - - -
The Main Man's High Mein
Ingredients:
One package of spaghetti
One can of Veg-All
Two small cans of vienna sausages, diced
One cup of soy sauce
Half a cup of Guy's Sizzlin' Smashmouth Sauce
Half a cup of Kraft(R) shredded cheese
Sweatband on forearm
Four of those long, skinny Chinese onions
Directions: Prepare spaghetti as directed on packaging. Once cooked and drained, place in skillet with Veg-All, sausages, Guy's Sizzlin' Smashmouth Sauce, and soy sauce to heat through. Place in serving bowls, top with shredded cheese. Stand onion straight up in the middle of the noodles. Serves four.
Guy Sez: I had to call this one high mein because you sure aren't going to be lo after tasting it! Having the onion for garnish makes it look like an entree from one of those really fancy restaurants that won't let me in wearing cargo shorts! Alton Brown was trying to tell me that spaghetti is different from lo mein noodles but whenever he talks it's all like bloopity blah science molecules and junk. Totally not how I roll.
- - - - - - - -
The Pizza Bong
Ingredients:
One large Boboli(R) pizza crust
One jar of tomato sauce
One bag of Kraft(R) shredded cheese
Toppings of your choice
Guy's Sizzlin' Smashmouth Sauce
Toothpicks
Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cut a straight line from the center of the pizza crust to one edge so you can fold it into a funnel shape, holding it in place with toothpicks and Guy's Sizzlin' Smashmouth Sauce. Fill the funnel with tomato sauce, cheese, and toppings. Place on bottom rack in oven for 18-20 minutes, or until crust has browned. To serve, hold The Pizza Bong above your head, bite off the bottom tip, and suck the pizza filling out of the crust. [ZB- This was accompanied by a diagram, but I do not have a scanner at present.]
Guy Sez: The editors said I can't tell you to put beer in it, but you can totally mix beer in it if you want or just pound some Nattys before and after eating it! Watch out for the toothpicks because that's how my bud Fitzy had to go to the ER this one time.
_
23 December 2009
15 November 2009
Cannon Fodder
Pilot idea for a new network police drama. To make it extra syndication-worthy, I've included every single cop drama cliche aside from Christopher Meloni getting mad at a pedophile and punching a locker. Maybe he could do a guest spot during sweeps or something.
With a squealing of tires and a blaring of Led Zeppelin, Leon Sharkburn swerved into the police station's underground parking lot, losing a hubcap during the turn that ricocheted off of the lot's speed limit sign and made it spin around like a top. With precise timing, his GTO skidded to a stop right in the middle of his two reserved spaces, where he proceeded to leave it with the top down. On his way into the elevator he could overhear the lot attendant mutter, "I gotta get me one of those," the same way he did every morning. In the elevator, after pressing the button for the lobby, he rolled a cigarette and placed it in the corner of his mouth that didn't already have a toothpick in it.
Before he had even passed through the metal detector in the lobby (where the guard knew to overlook the diving knife strapped to his leg, as well as the two sewn in to the lining of his jacket) he could hear the chief's all-too-recognizable curses coming from down the hall. On his way to the chief's office he made sure to have his badge already in hand, in case he needed to turn it in again. Such are the mornings of a loose cannon.
When he opened the door, the chief was already pacing back and forth behind his desk. A dartboard on one of the walls had several darts embedded around the perimeter and a penknife jammed into the center.
"Damn hell, Sharkburn! You're in shit up to your knees this time!" The chief stopped pacing and turned to face him, slamming his fist on his desk.
"Then I'll need to charge the department for a new pair of shoes," said Leon, sitting in the chair in front of the chief's desk and snuffing out his cigarette in a dish of hard candy the chief always had out.
"Don't you get cute with me, Sharkburn! The department can't keep footing the bill for your no-nonsense approach to playing judge, jury, and executioner -- and that ain't part of your job description!" The chief slammed his fist again for emphasis. This could be assumed at every exclamation point of his.
Leon eased back in his chair, putting his feet up on the chief's desk.
"What can I say, forensics gets pretty boring to a man that's won three jeet kune do tournaments. I mean, when I'm there in the lab cataloguing evidence, I can't help it if my mind starts drawing connections based on it, and I can't help it if the connections turn into leads, and those leads turn into the names of high-ranking drug cartel operatives."
"You can help it by staying in the God-damned lab instead of tracking the perps to their base of operations down at the docks!"
"You can't stop an infestation just by killing the rats, chief. You have to destroy the hive." Between the sentences, Leon donned a pair of sunglasses.
"Those two-bit analogies of yours don't cover the property damage when you go shooting up the docks every other week!" After this fourth slam of his fist, the intercom on the chief's desk began to beep. He slammed his fist again and pressed the talk button. "I'm in the middle of a reprimand, Jessica."
"I'm sorry, chief," chirped the speaker, "but Lt. Mendoza from SWAT is here. There's a hostage situation at the bank."
"Damn it! Send her in."
Lt. Mendoza opened the office door and stepped in, wearing a knee-length skirt that certainly wasn't standard issue.
"I know you're busy, chief, but this-" she paused when she noticed Leon.
"Hi Sara," he said, taking his feet off of the desk and removing his shades.
"This is urgent, Mendoza," said the chief, producing a handkerchief and dabbing his head with it. "Give me the details."
She approached the chief's desk and spread several black-and-white photos on it. Leon leaned forward.
"We weren't able to get much footage from the bank's security feed before they cut the power, but our tech guys were able to enhance the few facial shots we had. They're running them through the database right now."
"Have they made any demands?" said the chief.
"No, but-"
"When they do, tell them we don't negotiate with terrorists."
"That's no ordinary terrorist," said Leon, standing and striking a match on the chief's nameplate. "That's Verner Karnov."
"Don't tell me you know this scumbag," said the chief.
"Of course I know him," Leon said between drags of his cigarette. "He's my brother in law."
"Not that Verner Karnov," said Lt. Mendoza.
"One and the same." Leon took an exceptionally long drag of his cigarette. "I warned Myra at the wedding that I'd have to kill him one day."
"I remember that," said Lt. Mendoza. "I thought you were joking."
"I don't joke about trash, I just take it out." Leon exhaled the last of his cigarette before stubbing it out on one of the pictures. "Call off your team, Lieutenant. This job's mine -- and it's personal."
"Do it, Mendoza," said the chief. He and Leon exchanged a knowing glance.
"But Leon," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder as he turned to leave. He paused for a moment, then handed her his cell phone.
"If Myra calls, tell her I'll be sorry for her loss." With that, he reapplied his sunglasses and left the office in a determined stride. Lt. Mendoza then shut the door and marched around the chief's desk.
"Why do you keep letting him break protocol like this?" Her posture was as confrontational as her tone.
The chief sank into his chair and placed a piece of hard candy into his mouth, winced, then spit it out.
"Look, I know he's a loose cannon that plays by his own rules and doesn't know the meaning of fear; but damn it, he gets results. What it all boils down to at the end of the day, when all bets are off and you separate the wheat from the chaff, he keeps the streets safe. As long as he's out there doing what needs to be done, people can feel a little bit safer walking home at night."
"I took this job to uphold the law, and I won't stand aside as he takes justice in to his own hands while acting like rules were made to be broken."
The chief ran his handkerchief over his scalp, regaining his composure somewhat in the process. "Alright, Lieutenant, you go by the book and keep your team on the scene, but hold back a little. Give him time to lure Karnov into a tense showdown on the roof of the bank."
"He'll get ninety minutes. Any longer than that and we're going in." She placed Leon's cell phone on the desk and turned to leave.
"You still love him, don't you?" said the chief. It was more statement than question, and it stopped her in her tracks.
She turned to address him, hands on her hips, brow as flat as her tone. "I keep my personal and professional lives separate, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do."
"One more thing, Lieutenant."
The chief threw something to her, which she caught. It was a credit card.
"Find out what kind of car he's driving this week and get the dealership to hold one for me."
_
With a squealing of tires and a blaring of Led Zeppelin, Leon Sharkburn swerved into the police station's underground parking lot, losing a hubcap during the turn that ricocheted off of the lot's speed limit sign and made it spin around like a top. With precise timing, his GTO skidded to a stop right in the middle of his two reserved spaces, where he proceeded to leave it with the top down. On his way into the elevator he could overhear the lot attendant mutter, "I gotta get me one of those," the same way he did every morning. In the elevator, after pressing the button for the lobby, he rolled a cigarette and placed it in the corner of his mouth that didn't already have a toothpick in it.
Before he had even passed through the metal detector in the lobby (where the guard knew to overlook the diving knife strapped to his leg, as well as the two sewn in to the lining of his jacket) he could hear the chief's all-too-recognizable curses coming from down the hall. On his way to the chief's office he made sure to have his badge already in hand, in case he needed to turn it in again. Such are the mornings of a loose cannon.
When he opened the door, the chief was already pacing back and forth behind his desk. A dartboard on one of the walls had several darts embedded around the perimeter and a penknife jammed into the center.
"Damn hell, Sharkburn! You're in shit up to your knees this time!" The chief stopped pacing and turned to face him, slamming his fist on his desk.
"Then I'll need to charge the department for a new pair of shoes," said Leon, sitting in the chair in front of the chief's desk and snuffing out his cigarette in a dish of hard candy the chief always had out.
"Don't you get cute with me, Sharkburn! The department can't keep footing the bill for your no-nonsense approach to playing judge, jury, and executioner -- and that ain't part of your job description!" The chief slammed his fist again for emphasis. This could be assumed at every exclamation point of his.
Leon eased back in his chair, putting his feet up on the chief's desk.
"What can I say, forensics gets pretty boring to a man that's won three jeet kune do tournaments. I mean, when I'm there in the lab cataloguing evidence, I can't help it if my mind starts drawing connections based on it, and I can't help it if the connections turn into leads, and those leads turn into the names of high-ranking drug cartel operatives."
"You can help it by staying in the God-damned lab instead of tracking the perps to their base of operations down at the docks!"
"You can't stop an infestation just by killing the rats, chief. You have to destroy the hive." Between the sentences, Leon donned a pair of sunglasses.
"Those two-bit analogies of yours don't cover the property damage when you go shooting up the docks every other week!" After this fourth slam of his fist, the intercom on the chief's desk began to beep. He slammed his fist again and pressed the talk button. "I'm in the middle of a reprimand, Jessica."
"I'm sorry, chief," chirped the speaker, "but Lt. Mendoza from SWAT is here. There's a hostage situation at the bank."
"Damn it! Send her in."
Lt. Mendoza opened the office door and stepped in, wearing a knee-length skirt that certainly wasn't standard issue.
"I know you're busy, chief, but this-" she paused when she noticed Leon.
"Hi Sara," he said, taking his feet off of the desk and removing his shades.
"This is urgent, Mendoza," said the chief, producing a handkerchief and dabbing his head with it. "Give me the details."
She approached the chief's desk and spread several black-and-white photos on it. Leon leaned forward.
"We weren't able to get much footage from the bank's security feed before they cut the power, but our tech guys were able to enhance the few facial shots we had. They're running them through the database right now."
"Have they made any demands?" said the chief.
"No, but-"
"When they do, tell them we don't negotiate with terrorists."
"That's no ordinary terrorist," said Leon, standing and striking a match on the chief's nameplate. "That's Verner Karnov."
"Don't tell me you know this scumbag," said the chief.
"Of course I know him," Leon said between drags of his cigarette. "He's my brother in law."
"Not that Verner Karnov," said Lt. Mendoza.
"One and the same." Leon took an exceptionally long drag of his cigarette. "I warned Myra at the wedding that I'd have to kill him one day."
"I remember that," said Lt. Mendoza. "I thought you were joking."
"I don't joke about trash, I just take it out." Leon exhaled the last of his cigarette before stubbing it out on one of the pictures. "Call off your team, Lieutenant. This job's mine -- and it's personal."
"Do it, Mendoza," said the chief. He and Leon exchanged a knowing glance.
"But Leon," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder as he turned to leave. He paused for a moment, then handed her his cell phone.
"If Myra calls, tell her I'll be sorry for her loss." With that, he reapplied his sunglasses and left the office in a determined stride. Lt. Mendoza then shut the door and marched around the chief's desk.
"Why do you keep letting him break protocol like this?" Her posture was as confrontational as her tone.
The chief sank into his chair and placed a piece of hard candy into his mouth, winced, then spit it out.
"Look, I know he's a loose cannon that plays by his own rules and doesn't know the meaning of fear; but damn it, he gets results. What it all boils down to at the end of the day, when all bets are off and you separate the wheat from the chaff, he keeps the streets safe. As long as he's out there doing what needs to be done, people can feel a little bit safer walking home at night."
"I took this job to uphold the law, and I won't stand aside as he takes justice in to his own hands while acting like rules were made to be broken."
The chief ran his handkerchief over his scalp, regaining his composure somewhat in the process. "Alright, Lieutenant, you go by the book and keep your team on the scene, but hold back a little. Give him time to lure Karnov into a tense showdown on the roof of the bank."
"He'll get ninety minutes. Any longer than that and we're going in." She placed Leon's cell phone on the desk and turned to leave.
"You still love him, don't you?" said the chief. It was more statement than question, and it stopped her in her tracks.
She turned to address him, hands on her hips, brow as flat as her tone. "I keep my personal and professional lives separate, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do."
"One more thing, Lieutenant."
The chief threw something to her, which she caught. It was a credit card.
"Find out what kind of car he's driving this week and get the dealership to hold one for me."
_
03 November 2009
Excerpt from 'Townie Travels: A Hiker's Guide to Central Massachusetts'
I found this book at Savers the other day, and got them to knock the price down to fifty cents because the cover was torn off and most of the pages were stained and crinkled, like they'd been dipped in soda and dried carelessly. This is from one of the more legible articles, about a town twenty minutes outside of Amherst.
It's true that Massachusetts, at least in coffee table books, is known to consist primarily of trees and covered bridges. The town of Treebridge, however, wasn't named solely for its two most calendar-selling features. Back when the town had just been settled, before property lines and comptrollers and whatnot came into the scene, it was home to a large number of transcendentalists.
The transcendentalists, to my understanding, were a peculiar feature of New England in the nineteenth century: essentially a group of traveling philosophers that went around in musty clothes and wispy beards and worshipped nature as the ultimate means of God expressing itself unto the physical world. Sort of like Gypsies, but without tambourines and curses.
So back around 1850 or so, after taking a nap beneath some juniper bushes and writing a poem about the experience, one of these transcendentalists by the name of Martin Twigswidth felt a need to wander the earth and just sort of dwell among the ferrets and voles, as transcendentalists were inclined to do. Marching forth from the little shanty-town where he lived, he soon came across a ravine impeding his way, too broad to leap across and too steep to descend safely. Not to be deterred by a minor wrinkle in God's great bedsheet, or whatever weird term they used for the landscape in those days, he resolved to follow the length of the ravine until he found a point at which he could cross.
After traveling about a mile north he came to large tree that had fallen across the width of the ravine and, apparently having been hollowed out by beavers and gnomes or somesuch, provided an effective bridge for the wanderer. Taking it as a sign that he truly was meant to go forth to dance across hill and dale singing about honeybees (or whatever it was that transcendentalist children dreamed about doing when they grew up) Twigswidth gave thanks to his God and began crawling through the natural bridge that had been provided for him. Unfortunately, since it was probably Dutch elm disease that had hollowed out the tree rather than gnomes, the thing cracked and gave way beneath him, dumping him into the swiftly-flowing current below and bouncing him along down the length of the river until he finally washed up a good distance southward of his original plunge.
Bruised, muddier than the average transcendentalist, and thoroughly displeased by recent gifts of nature's bounty, he climbed his way up the edge of the ravine and marched back to town where he denounced transcendentalism on the spot and took up a life of politics, becoming mayor once the town was formally incorporated into the commonwealth. The town was given its name in memorial of the event that showed Twigswidth the error of his former ways and, after he'd set fire to it out of spite, the tree's ashes were incorporated into the bronze used to make the first oversized mayor statue outside of city hall.
Twigswidth's statue still stands there today, glaring disdainfully at a willow on the nearby lawn.
_
It's true that Massachusetts, at least in coffee table books, is known to consist primarily of trees and covered bridges. The town of Treebridge, however, wasn't named solely for its two most calendar-selling features. Back when the town had just been settled, before property lines and comptrollers and whatnot came into the scene, it was home to a large number of transcendentalists.
The transcendentalists, to my understanding, were a peculiar feature of New England in the nineteenth century: essentially a group of traveling philosophers that went around in musty clothes and wispy beards and worshipped nature as the ultimate means of God expressing itself unto the physical world. Sort of like Gypsies, but without tambourines and curses.
So back around 1850 or so, after taking a nap beneath some juniper bushes and writing a poem about the experience, one of these transcendentalists by the name of Martin Twigswidth felt a need to wander the earth and just sort of dwell among the ferrets and voles, as transcendentalists were inclined to do. Marching forth from the little shanty-town where he lived, he soon came across a ravine impeding his way, too broad to leap across and too steep to descend safely. Not to be deterred by a minor wrinkle in God's great bedsheet, or whatever weird term they used for the landscape in those days, he resolved to follow the length of the ravine until he found a point at which he could cross.
After traveling about a mile north he came to large tree that had fallen across the width of the ravine and, apparently having been hollowed out by beavers and gnomes or somesuch, provided an effective bridge for the wanderer. Taking it as a sign that he truly was meant to go forth to dance across hill and dale singing about honeybees (or whatever it was that transcendentalist children dreamed about doing when they grew up) Twigswidth gave thanks to his God and began crawling through the natural bridge that had been provided for him. Unfortunately, since it was probably Dutch elm disease that had hollowed out the tree rather than gnomes, the thing cracked and gave way beneath him, dumping him into the swiftly-flowing current below and bouncing him along down the length of the river until he finally washed up a good distance southward of his original plunge.
Bruised, muddier than the average transcendentalist, and thoroughly displeased by recent gifts of nature's bounty, he climbed his way up the edge of the ravine and marched back to town where he denounced transcendentalism on the spot and took up a life of politics, becoming mayor once the town was formally incorporated into the commonwealth. The town was given its name in memorial of the event that showed Twigswidth the error of his former ways and, after he'd set fire to it out of spite, the tree's ashes were incorporated into the bronze used to make the first oversized mayor statue outside of city hall.
Twigswidth's statue still stands there today, glaring disdainfully at a willow on the nearby lawn.
_
03 October 2009
Upcoming Milquetoast Mystery/Thriller Series!
I know that blandly-written novels about conspiracies and pseudohistory are popular right now, and I've always been one to capitalize on an opportunity. As such, I've almost finished a novel and five almost-entirely-similar-to-the-first-book sequels about a museum security guard that discovers a treasure map hidden on an exhibit and gets pulled into a world of deception and intrigue where nothing, not even the female sidekick that's attracted to him but never outright says so, is what it seems. Or is it? Only time, and a political prisoner with access to Area 51, will tell. Or will they?
Anyways, here's the list of titles I've already gone and preemptively trademarked. One of these will get to be the novel's title, even if it's completely unrelated to the actual plot. Or is it?
-Curse on the Potomac
-Hunt for Washington's Mummy
-The Franklin Family Fortune
-The Gettysburg Suspense
-The Aztec President
-Pachelbel's Cannon (Which He Used In His Secret Life As A Privateer Ah Damnit I Gave The Twist Away)
-Trapped in Taylor's Tomb
-Illuminati Descending a Staircase
-Hoover's Secret, No Not That One
-The Shriner Pyramid
-The Gold in Taft's Belly
-Decrypting Churchill
-Within Jefferson's Labyrinth
Keep your eyes on the supermarket checkout lanes, where all quality literature is sold!
_
Anyways, here's the list of titles I've already gone and preemptively trademarked. One of these will get to be the novel's title, even if it's completely unrelated to the actual plot. Or is it?
-Curse on the Potomac
-Hunt for Washington's Mummy
-The Franklin Family Fortune
-The Gettysburg Suspense
-The Aztec President
-Pachelbel's Cannon (Which He Used In His Secret Life As A Privateer Ah Damnit I Gave The Twist Away)
-Trapped in Taylor's Tomb
-Illuminati Descending a Staircase
-Hoover's Secret, No Not That One
-The Shriner Pyramid
-The Gold in Taft's Belly
-Decrypting Churchill
-Within Jefferson's Labyrinth
Keep your eyes on the supermarket checkout lanes, where all quality literature is sold!
_
22 September 2009
The Evening Air
Whenever I try to write a generic 'slice of life' piece, I usually get bored about three lines in and start taking it weird places just to amuse myself until I'm sure it's dead. See one such example below. I'll never make it on This American Life at this rate!
The 5:30 train home was nearly full -- just the way Mark liked it. He boarded at the far end and pushed his way through the mass of standing passengers, making sure to brush against as many as he could without making it obvious, while hoping to find an ideal spot.
Midway through the second car, he saw it: a single seat, vacant due to its position next to a man who was repeatedly blowing his nose. Mark darted over and slid into the seat, grasping the man's hand and shaking it warmly as he did.
"Hey there, neighbor!" Mark said, attempting a friendly smile.
The man was slightly startled, but soon transitioned into the conversation imposed upon him.
"Oh, hi there, um..."
"Name's Tim," Mark said, after a brief pause.
"Jeff," the man said back. "Nice to meet you."
"Allergies?" Mark asked, motioning towards a tissue that Jeff had dropped.
"No, there's been this seasonal bug going around the office for the last couple weeks-"
"Great," Mark said, as the train shuddered to a stop. He snatched up the fallen tissue and sprang to his feet, making his way through the standing crowd and out onto the platform. Jeff might have called something after him, but he already heard all that he needed.
There was a steady breeze outside, and Mark defied every mother's advice by removing his jacket. He was still nine blocks from his normal stop, but a long walk on a typical November evening could only help things along. He held the tissue over his nose and inhaled deeply, hoping the cool air would weaken his immune system enough to let strain 53 (by his count) incubate. Soon he would start sniffling, his throat would become coarse, and he'd know life was again flourishing inside him.
_
The 5:30 train home was nearly full -- just the way Mark liked it. He boarded at the far end and pushed his way through the mass of standing passengers, making sure to brush against as many as he could without making it obvious, while hoping to find an ideal spot.
Midway through the second car, he saw it: a single seat, vacant due to its position next to a man who was repeatedly blowing his nose. Mark darted over and slid into the seat, grasping the man's hand and shaking it warmly as he did.
"Hey there, neighbor!" Mark said, attempting a friendly smile.
The man was slightly startled, but soon transitioned into the conversation imposed upon him.
"Oh, hi there, um..."
"Name's Tim," Mark said, after a brief pause.
"Jeff," the man said back. "Nice to meet you."
"Allergies?" Mark asked, motioning towards a tissue that Jeff had dropped.
"No, there's been this seasonal bug going around the office for the last couple weeks-"
"Great," Mark said, as the train shuddered to a stop. He snatched up the fallen tissue and sprang to his feet, making his way through the standing crowd and out onto the platform. Jeff might have called something after him, but he already heard all that he needed.
There was a steady breeze outside, and Mark defied every mother's advice by removing his jacket. He was still nine blocks from his normal stop, but a long walk on a typical November evening could only help things along. He held the tissue over his nose and inhaled deeply, hoping the cool air would weaken his immune system enough to let strain 53 (by his count) incubate. Soon he would start sniffling, his throat would become coarse, and he'd know life was again flourishing inside him.
_
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