TODAY WAS JUST ONE MORE s**t day in a long succession of s**t days for Bobby Coyle, but he didn’t care. Twenty-three years of failure upon failure and a now daily regimen of crystal meth and pot had made him completely numb to the world around him.
Bobby was, by all accounts, unreliable. It was for this reason he’d lost a long string of jobs ranging from pizza delivery boy to usher in an all-night porno theater. This was also the reason he was now close to losing his job as a gay phone s*x operator.
For the second time this week, Bobby was a half an hour late for work. And, as usual, he looked like s**t. His bushy blond hair was flattened on the left side of his head where he’d been lying, his face was unshaven, and his clothes—a t-shirt and faded blue jeans—were as unkempt and dirty as
