He was in his early thirties, everything was behind him now, he was in the epilogue of his life, and there were still so many years to get through.

Nestor turned on the truck, put it into gear, and started off toward Morelia. The tires kicked up dirt and Benjamin looked at his aunt and uncle start to fade in the dust and mist.

Seven hours until they drove away. Ten hours until their plane lifted off of Mexican soil and he was free. The plane would cross into America and his life would be restored.

From the ground, Benjamin lunged at his brother's legs, and David went down on his back. David got a leg free and started kicking Benjamin on the top of his head with the heel of his shoe. He kicked until he felt Benjamin go slack.

His wife wasn't talking, was standing a little bit behind him with her head down. She wore a long, faded, purple and burgundy long-sleeved dress, and she had a blue scarf tied around her head. Benjamin could see her sneakered feet under the gate. He was surprised that they weren't carrying a picture with them, but then he realized that they probably didn't have a picture of their child.

Neither David nor Benjamin had ever been tested. They had managed to get through their lives without ever having to make a decision that would change everything—how they would view their pasts and their futures, how and what they thought of themselves and each other. They had gotten off free.

Okay, it's been a while. Here's the truth: I ran out of funny stories, and I don't want to be the cause of nation-wide depression and/or suicides. So, if you're really depressed, don't start to read this story because it's gonna get bleak as hell and I can't be there to talk you down from the overpass. If you're just having a bad day, you'll probably be all right. If you've got the blues, that's going to have to be a judgment call on your part. Just how blue are you?

1.
    "Are you saying my mom is a skank?"
    "It could be your grandmother."
    "What?" Richard Wilson thought of his sweet grandma getting it on with somebody other than grandpa. "Chuck, I'm gonna be sick here."
    "No. It's your mom. She's the skank."

I started this story 23 July 2001, finished it shortly thereafter, and sent it to Esquire. I figured, since the story was trivial and sort of stupid, that it would be right up their alley. A few short weeks later, I got the story back with a note that said that they, whoever "they" are, thought the title was pretty funny, but that they were taking a pass. That note is one of the most fucked up rejection letters I've ever gotten. Apparently, on that story, I did my best work on the first ten words that I wrote; it was all downhill from there.

This is the part where I start putting up my stories for your reading pleasure.