It is eleven-thirty-three when I awake, or come to, in my bed, still wearing flip flops. I slip into the hallway.
How in the hell do we know so many people? It’s a real crowd downstairs and newcomers are being greeted. They all love Andy and they also apparently love cold cuts and they are all discussing me. What’s going to become of him, they worry, like I’m a foundling, cradled and passed around.
A man’s voice says, “This is a minefield of s**t for Barry to handle. And the first piñata says lawsuit.”
I haven’t even thought of legal action, but it will be inescapable, no matter who initiates it.
My friends blaze a curious distraction from grief, forming a salon to talk about the deaths of others. More specifically, bizarre, public deaths, as though Andy’s was competing for a red ribbo
