One Percent More Humid Page #3

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Oh.

Hey, Santa's a psychosexual killer.

- Tuna on white.

- Huh?

Thank you.

That guy your boyfriend?

No, he's my roommate.

- Hi.

- Hey.

Uh, I'd like a roast beef on

white with tomato and mayo.

Hi, Iris.

Hi, Gerald.

Here you go, lover.

Enjoy.

I can't come up.

What? Why? No, no, no.

I told you about that memoir

I bought, from the Navajo girl?

Remember, the pageant on the reservation?

Yeah, I was literally one hour

away from the first pre-release,

and I find out she's

an Orange County Korean,

headed to Penn.

Wow.

Teenage girls are f***ing batshit.

Well, can't you just make it fiction?

That's so disgusting.

That's what I'm doing tonight,

rewriting all the press

releases, blah, blah, blah.

How's your writing going?

What, you want a word count?

I should go. I have a

long night ahead of me.

Bye.

Bye.

Don't.

I'll call you tomorrow morning.

Don't stay out too late.

And if their lawyer calls,

you do not talk to him, okay?

I mean it. Catherine, this is serious.

You know what? Maybe we shouldn't go.

What? No. Oh, my God, Dad, go.

It's... I won't talk to anyone.

I'll be with Mae.

Iris.

I'll be fine.

Jesus.

- Hi.

- Hi, Jack.

How are you?

Uh, good. Good, good. Good.

Have you seen Iris?

Uh, Iris? Yeah, she just left.

She went to have dinner

at her thesis advisor's.

Dinner? Oh.

Well, you know, she was

wearing a very small skirt,

and she took a really long shower.

Oh? Was it a suede skirt?

Uh-huh.

You know that's her "f*** me" skirt?

Interesting.

Yeah.

Um...

Is that your boyfriend?

Well, that's Che Guevara. And I'm not gay.

And if I were, it wouldn't

be with a man in a beret.

Nice.

Uh...

Sorry, uh, what are you doing now?

I don't know.

Um, it's nice seeing you.

See you.

Hang on!

- Hey.

- Hi.

- How you doing?

- Good.

- Come on in.

- How are you?

- I'm good.

- Yeah?

Sorry it's so hot in here.

I'm sweating like a pig.

Um, ice cream.

You're a gentleman.

I mean, I get it for free,

in the sense I just steal it from work.

I hope you believe as I do that, as

Americans, we're obliged to consume

mass amounts of unusable

carbohydrates that numb our brains

and make us better television

watchers, 'cause I'm making pasta.

Mmm.

Food of my people.

You look Irish.

I also look innocent.

What can I get you?

- Can I have a vodka soda?

- Sure.

And can I order something,

a drink for someone?

Absolutely.

The guy with the blue hat.

- Whatever he drinks.

- Okay.

Thanks.

- Yo, Billy.

- Yeah?

Just take it.

All right, look, you need to leave.

Can I just talk to you?

I don't even want to publish

another book, you know.

I mean, nobody needs some

white guy with poor vision

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