Chapter 12: The Clean Underwear Fiasco
Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10. Chapter 11.

     One week late in April, Liz asked if I’d like to accompany her to Nova Scotia. “I’ve always wanted to see the Atlantic,” she said. “Maybe check out some whales.”
     “What about your classes?” I asked.
     “Fuck ’em,” she said. “Life is the ultimate learning experience, right?”
     “Could be,” I told her, though I was inclined to make a case for death. But why quibble?
     To tell the truth, I wasn’t much for whales, and I preferred small trout streams like the one in my cabin to the Bay of Fundy, but it was important to Liz, so I agreed.
     Here’s the thing about being dead: the hours are long but the travel can be exhilirating.
     So we flew to Boston to stay with a friend of Liz’s who went to Boston College.
     “I’d like you to meet Robin Glenn,” Liz said as Robin greeted us at the door.
     “Pleased to me you,” I said.
     Robin looked past me, confused. “Who are you talking to, Liz?” she asked finally.
     Liz looked at me uneasily, and I just shrugged. Her face was white as a debutante’s ass. “Nobody, I guess,” she mumbled.
     “Because you look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Robin said, taking Liz’s suitcase and sliding it under a table by the door. “Anyway, come in, come in!”
     So we did, we did.
     Robin didn’t offer to take my luggage. I had to carry my own bag, which was nothing more than an old leather backpack filled with Velveeta Cheese and blackberry jelly sandwiches, and a couple of bottles of Boone’s Farm wine, strawberry.
     I had even neglected to pack clean underwear.

****
Chapter 13