Clarence Clemons

My tribute to the late great Clarence "Big Man" Clemons has been published by Lawrence Kirsch, creator of two of the finest books ever on Bruce Springsteen, For You and The Light In Darkness...

http://www.thelightindarkness.com/news/

Thank you, Lawrence

For the Benefit of Horton Bagg

“Hello, Mr. Bagg.”

Horton Bagg looked up from the vinyl sofa where he’d been doodling on the back of a parking receipt. He then rose and crossed the paneled room as the vacated cushion hissed back to form.

“Doctor.”

Doctor Vandeberg Floss stepped back allowing entrance to his dark-wooded corner office.

Horton tossed the parking receipt into the wastebasket before entering, then took his customary position in the low-backed chair opposite his therapist. He was unshaven, but sporting far less growth than usual. The doctor had noticed an increased effort on Horton’s part to improve his appearance.

“Before we begin,” Floss said, “we need to go over something; Something I need to address as the senior doctor of this group practice.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Of course not,” Floss said. He paused. His brown hair was of an in-between length; not short, but certainly not long enough to justify the forced ponytail he obviously took pains to wring together each morning. “We need to discuss a matter that falls outside our patient/ therapist relationship.”

“I see.”

He didn’t.

“It’s rather delicate,” Floss said. “And I must insist that everything we’re about to discuss remain confidential.”

“Okay.”

Horton realized he was nodding his head a little too eagerly and stopped.

“Just between us,” Floss said.

“Agreed.”

Floss paused again, placing more weight on Horton’s scale of anticipation.

“Starting today, I’m going to ask that you enter and exit our building through the side entrance.”

Now it was Horton’s turn to pause. He narrowed his eyes and tried to think of something to say while processing what the doctor had said.

“Side entrance?”

It was the best he could come up with.

“I realize it’s an unusual request,” Floss said, “but I assure you there’s good reason.”

“You mean this door here?” Horton pointed toward a windowless door he’d always assumed was a closet. “Wouldn’t that dump me out onto Pillage Street?”

Floss looked over his shoulder as if he hadn’t considered where the door was or where it led. “Nobody’s dumping you anywhere, Mr. Bagg.”

“But I park on Braylon Avenue. It’s way over on the other side of the building.”

“I know it’s an inconvenience, but I need you to avoid our waiting room.”

Horton dipped his chin, pillowing his loose neck like a soft inner tube.

“Why?”

“We’ve had complaints.”

“Complaints? About me?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What kind of complaints?”

“They say you skip merrily through our waiting room each week following your appointments.”

“They? Who are they?…I don’t skip.”

“They say you act as though you’re walking out of a comedy club.”

“Who? Who said these things?”

Another pause. Floss breathed deep like someone preparing to cross a narrow footbridge over a deep gorge. He was a decent actor.

“The people you pass in our waiting room each week.”

Horton’s eyes widened.

“Really? They talk about me?”

“Yes.”

“I had no idea they even noticed me. I mean most days they seem to just sit on those slippery sofas and stare at their shoelaces.”

Floss crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap.

“Mr. Bagg, that waiting room is a sanctified haven. There needs to be some measure of civility and tranquility. Some of our patients have suffered, and continue to suffer, great emotional trauma.”

Horton wasn’t listening. He was looking out the room’s lone window, which offered an unobstructed view to an always-deserted courtyard. He raised an index finger as a thought occurred.

“Though, there was that one time, the skinny guy with the buckteeth, he seemed to look up and give me a quick flat-mouthed mourner’s smile. I remember because I left here thinking you don’t see many people with buckteeth anymore. Modern dentistry, I guess.”

“Mr. Bagg, I know this is awkward…”

“Huh?”

“The people in our waiting room, they’re unhappy with your conduct.”

“My conduct? What’s wrong with my conduct?”

“They say you behave inappropriately.”

“What did I do?”

“They say you whistle.”

Horton considered this.

“Yeah, sometimes. So?”

Floss continued, “They say you whistle happy songs. Last week it was The Beatles. A Ringo song, they said.”

Horton smiled.

“Octopus’s Garden,” he said. “It’s kind of funny because I hate that song. I like Ringo, but not that song. I must’ve heard it in the car. You know how a song can just take over like that.”

“They don’t find it amusing, Mr. Bagg.”

Horton’s smile disappeared.

“I’m trying to help them.”

“Help them how?”

“Just because I suggested ending my therapy last week doesn’t mean I’ve lost touch with how I felt when I first came here. I’m trying to demonstrate what things are like when you start to feel better.”

“Yes, I remember you sharing your views on terminating treatment. I agree you’ve made significant progress, but I’m not sure I follow…”

“Have you ever spent time in your waiting room, Doctor? I mean really sat down as if you were waiting for an appointment?”

“No, I can’t say as I have.”

“It’s like cold storage out there. Those people act as though they’ve been prematurely pumped with embalming fluid. They’re supposed to be here getting better, right? Well, I’m trying to show them that it’s possible.”

“What leads you to believe you’re qualified?”

“You remember when I first came to you? I was so paranoid someone was trying to steal my identity I almost erased myself. I paid for everything in cash, made most of my phone calls from payphones, and put my mail on hold. When bills arrived, I tore them up in long strips and drove them around to different dumpsters in a borrowed car. One night, I went back and recollected everything so I could burn all the traces, but got pulled over by the cops because there was so much trash in the car you could barely see in or out. When they asked me to identify myself, I got arrested because I didn’t carry a license or anything else that could prove who I was. They thought I stole the car and profiled me as an identity thief. It took four hours for them to locate the friend I’d borrowed the car from so he could vouch for me and bail me out. I lost that friend, my job, and, eventually, went on disability. Since then, that has become my identity; I’m basically a ward of the state whose paper trail runs through a health insurance policy that ends at this address.”

“But you’re driving your own car again, carrying your license with you.”

“Exactly, and that’s what qualifies me; I’m getting better. I’m even using curbside garbage pick up again. Things are turning around for me and part of my recovery has been the belief that I can help other people. People like the ones out in the waiting room.”

“So you feel compassion for them?”

“Yes, I do. In fact, I think I’m the only one who does. I’m setting an example. You should be thanking me.”

“Please explain.”

“If I walk out of here through that mausoleum you call a waiting room with my head down tracking that cheap, foam carpeting, it’s like an advertisement saying we’re stuck. It’s like saying to those people what’s eating me is hungrier than what’s eating them. You should be encouraging me to bounce out of here every week instead of sneaking off like some two-timing snake. Waiting room? Tell me, Doctor, what are they waiting for?”

“So, Mr. Bagg, you consciously bounce and whistle your way out of here in an provocative effort to draw attention to yourself?”

Horton folded his arms across his chest.

“I figured if they saw someone coming out of your office in a breezy state they might appreciate that it could one day be them.”

“Well, they don’t appreciate it, Mr. Bagg.”

Horton bit down, causing the muscles in his temples to pulse.

“What do they appreciate? You walk by them and they crinkle like crepe paper, like if you poured water on them, they’d wilt onto the floor as the color drained out of them. That one woman, with the black sweater, she wears it every week, she never shows any signs of improvement. What the heck are you doing for her?”

“First of all, she’s not my patient. Second, you shouldn’t be concerned with anyone’s treatment but your own.”

“Not your patient? You run this practice. Aren’t we all your patients?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, but I’m not involved with every client on a one-on-one basis.”

“Was she the one who complained?”

“Actually, they all complained.”

“All at once?”

“They approached me last week after you left. We had a meeting.”

“Wait a minute, you’re telling me that those discontinued souls actually speak to one another?”

“Apparently, they’d been debating for some time.”

“Debating? They debate? About what?”

“About how to handle the situation. One of them suggested a physical solution. Of course, we couldn’t condone that.”

“Of course.”

Horton looked around then back at Floss and spread out his arms.

“Where was this meeting?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not like you’ve got a conference room. Where did the four of you meet?”

“Seven.”

“What?”

“There were seven of us; three patients and the four doctors who make up this practice; Dr. Logman, Dr. Plum, Dr. Rawhart, and myself.”

Horton wrapped his left hand around his right wrist. He did this to prevent hand wringing; the effect was the same.

“Sort of like an underhanded, illegitimate intervention.”

“Not exactly how I’d put it, but I understand how you might look at it that way.”

“Except the interventee wasn’t invited. So, where did you go?”

“Mr. Bagg…”

“You must’ve gone somewhere.”

“We went just down the street. Place called Chloe’s.”

“You mean that place where they give you a mini fruit cup with every meal?”

“Yes.”

“I love that place. Was the guy with the British accent behind the bar? I think his name’s Stuart. He uses the word “bloody” a lot, as in, ‘you’re bloody well right, lad,’ and sometimes he swears, but never in front of women; bit of a hypocrite, if you ask me, but everyone seems to like him.”

“We didn’t sit at the bar, Mr. Bagg.”

“Oh.” Horton’s hand tightened around his wrist. “How did you settle the tab?”

“I don’t see how…”

“Did you split it seven ways?”

“The clinic paid the bill.”

“As a business expense?”

“We considered it business, yes.”

“Isn’t that fraud?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Was alcohol served?”

“Of course not, Mr. Bagg. Many of our patients are on prescription medications.”

“Not one drink? That big guy out there, wears the Cat Diesel Fuel hat, I bet he’s visited the bottom of the Yukon Jack bottle a few times.”

“What would that mean to you? If we’d had a drink or two?”

“It would mean that things probably got pretty loose at your business meeting. Tell me, Doctor, was there laughter?”

“What do you mean?”

“At the meeting, did anyone laugh?”

“I don’t recall anyone laughing.”

“Not even of the nervous variety?”

“I really can’t…”

“Because I don’t like it when people laugh at me.”

“No one was laughing at you, Mr. Bagg.”

“So, what did you talk about?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss other people’s cases with you.”

“No, but it sounds like you’ve got an open-door policy where my case is concerned.”

“We only talked about the issues in the waiting room. We didn’t discuss anything that’s gone on in treatment. And Mr. Bagg, I must insist that you refrain from discussing this issue with anyone as it falls under doctor/patient privilege.”

“Privilege? What are they going to do sue me for being happy? I’m the only one trying to make a difference for those people and this is how they repay me?”

“Please, Mr. Bagg, keep your voice down and try to remain calm.”

“Why? Are you afraid I might bring them out of their comas? And stop calling me Mr. Bagg. We’ve been working together over seven months.”

“Okay, Horton, but please try to relax.”

“I was relaxed. Now I find the entire practice has turned against me.”

“You feel betrayed?”

“Of course I feel betrayed. Your job is to get those people well. But all you do is sit there in your superior chair playing this bizarre game of psychological ping pong feeling threatened whenever your opponent holds serve.”

“That’s an interesting way of looking at it.”

“No, it’s not. It’s far from interesting. I could do without your manipulative, condescending manner. And don’t start staring at me. I fucking hate it when you stare at me. Is that what they teach at the shrink school? Is it just one big staring contest?”

Floss waited.

“Maybe after you’ve mastered staring, it’s off to get your degree in contemplative finger steepling.”

“Horton we’re…”

“Or how about voice lessons? You’ve all got the same coach, right? Who is it, Bob Newhart? Teaches you that fair-minded tone, along with that charitable delivery, without the irony, of course. I wonder what you sounded like before the degrees started piling up.”

“Horton…”

“Call me Mr. Bagg, my father called me Horton. I hate that name.”

Horton grew silent at the thought.

“Tell me more about you father,” Floss said.

“Don’t change the subject. I’m not telling you anything.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I can’t trust you.”

“Everything you say here is confidential.”

“What about your sneaky little ad hoc meetings?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re sorry? This whole building owes me an apology! And a free meal! How come I don’t get to go out to dinner?”

“Horton, you’re not responsible for the well-being of anyone but yourself. Each of our patients has a unique emotional make-up. We feel we know best how to deal with their treatment. This is a clinic, Mr. Bagg. My colleagues and I must establish some guidelines as to how our patients govern themselves.”

“What about how you govern yourselves? Taking patients out for a meal so you can all gang up on someone. And let me tell you something about this place you call a clinic; it smells. It smells of dread. Every week I walk in here and expect to find leaky pipes and bars on the windows. And those foolish white noise machines? They don’t filter out the bad things, Doctor. They don’t cover up those anguished, high pitched sobs that escape when you’re short of breath and don’t even realize you’ve made a sound until after it’s already out. They get through, under that door.”

Floss raised his eyebrows. “Please, continue…”

Horton didn’t need the prompt.

“And what about that daybed? It’s standard issue, right? Have you ever actually analyzed anyone? Seems to me it only serves as a coat rack and catch basin for your overflowing bookcase.”

“Go on…”

“You go on. Let’s hear what you think. You’re supposed to be nonjudgmental. Now I find out you’ve got an entire jury set up making observations behind my back. Deciding things.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Floss’s eyes shifted up and to the left then back again.

“What was that?”

“What was what, Mr. Bagg?”

“Why are you checking the clock?”

“We have to stop now.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll see you next week.”

“What?”

“That’s all the time we have.”

“But, you said, ‘Before we begin.’”

“What do you mean?”

“When I first came in, you said, ‘Before we begin, we need to go over something.’”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been going over it since I walked in. We haven’t actually begun.”

“We can pick this up next week.”

“No we can’t. This has been your time. You and your back-stabbing committee. I’ve still got 45 minutes coming to me. You didn’t even take notes.”

“I don’t always take notes, Horton. I’m sorry, time’s up.”

“What is this, some kind of half-assed Monty Python sketch?”

“Mr. Bagg, I have a schedule to keep and patients to see.”

“Fine, I’m calling my insurance company and telling them not to reimburse you.”

“I wouldn’t advise that.”

“And what would you advise, Doctor? Another six months worth of visits? Keeps you downstream on the co-payment river, doesn’t it? Helps pay for that month-long vacation in August. What’s up with that anyway?”

“What’s up with what, Mr. Bagg?”

“Why August? I mean, is that off-season for mental illness? You’re not the first therapist I’ve been to; you all seem to take the month of August off. I don’t think it’s by accident, either. I’ve seen the word “august” used as an adjective in books; it means majestic; inspiring reverence. I think it was some doctor’s idea of a twisted joke; let’s take the month with a name worthy of our eminence.”

Floss rose from his chair signaling with an open palm for Horton to remain seated.

“Excuse me for one minute.”

He opened the door extending his head out into the waiting area.

“Wait!” Horton said, “What are you saying out there?”

Floss closed the door.

“I was just letting them know we’d be a few more minutes.”

“Just letting them know, huh? Don’t tell them anything. It’s none of their business. We’re done!”

Horton Bagg stood and headed for the main entrance.

“Horton, please use the other door.”

“To hell with that!”

“Will I see you next week?”

“You better believe you will, I’m not done with you yet.”

Horton opened the door and walked flat-footed to the middle of the waiting room, stopping long enough to look at each of the three people seated about the room. They were all in their customary positions; the man with the buckteeth by the door; the woman in the black sweater beneath the hanging plant; the man in the Cat Diesel Fuel hat on the long couch. They were spaced as far apart from one another as possible, but equidistant. Their posture was rigid like coach passengers on a turbulent flight. Horton shook his head and reached for the door. Then he stopped, turned around, and walked over to the wastebasket. Bending down, he noticed the liner had been changed. His parking receipt was gone.

Floss’s door was still open.

“Where’s your janitor dump the garbage?” Horton said.

“Mr. Bagg, are you alright?” Floss said.

“Where?!”

“The dumpster’s around back.” Floss swung in his chair. “It might be quicker if you go out this way…” But when he turned back, Horton was already out the door.

Inside his office, Floss’s phone rang.

“Doctor Floss…Yes, Doctor Plum…Everything went well…Yes, Mr Bagg is still my patient…A timely meeting, indeed…Almost lost one there, didn’t we?…Those three? He won’t confront them, he still thinks he can save them, he’s focusing on me now…Good day, to you, too…Oh, and Dr. Plum, let’s cancel that order for the new white noise machines…No, turns out the ones we have work fine after all.

DOWN IN FRONT!

Ten Indicators That The Rock Concert You’re Attending Probably Won’t Be Everything You’d Hoped It Would Be

1.)A month before the concert, you receive a courtesy e-mail informing you that, due to historically high demand, rather than add more shows, the concert has been moved from the 5,000-seat performing arts venue to a nearby 60,0000-seat outdoor sports megaplex. In addition, the promoter promises to exchange your tickets for a comparable pair just as soon as every season ticket holder for every team that calls the megaplex home gets a shot.

2.)As you enter the concert hall, you look up and notice the performer’s name preceded by “AN EVENING WITH...” on the marquee. This usually means one, or all, of the following...
·The performer was once part of a great band and will be attempting to resurrect his or her career with new solo material.
·The performer will be playing his or her favorite cover tunes accompanied by a little known, but classically trained clarinet player.
·The performer no longer has the drawing power to attract large audiences, so they bill the show as “AN EVENING WITH...” to make it seem as though the intimacy was their choice.

3.)You approach the turnstile and realize the date on your ticket is not a match to the date on the calendar.

4.)You notice, as the band walks on stage, one of their founding members has been replaced by another member’s son or daughter.

5.)The crowd around you is drunk, rowdy, nearly out of control, and the nearest usher resembles your great-aunt Clara.

6.)After opening with a flurry of hard rock anthems, the lead singer steps to the mike, and says, “We’d like to try something a little different tonight...” Meanwhile, the roadies are placing stools in front of mike stands, and swapping out electric instruments for acoustic ones.

7.)The person beside, behind, or in front of you is an asshole.
For example...
General admission:
·Person beside you decides it’s a good night to introduce the one-man mosh pit.
·Person behind you likes to whistle and sing off-key and has breath like raw sewage.
·Person in front of you is wearing a baseball cap and keeps turning to talk to his friend obstructing your sightline with the cap’s bill.
Assigned seating:
·Person beside you constantly drifts into your personal standing space (for you drifters, that’s the area directly in front of your seat – use the armrests as your guide)
·Person behind you remains seated, yelling, “Down in front!” while everyone else stands during up-tempo numbers.
·Person in front of you brings a sign.

8.)The person beside, behind, or in front of you is an asshole and you paid for their ticket.

9.)You’re on the floor, halfway back, when some nitwit decides to hoist his girlfriend, who is 5 feet tall and can’t see, onto his shoulders, erecting what amounts to an eight-foot-high asshole-totem-pole in the middle of the floor.

*Standing on your seat creates the same effect – asshole!

10.)You arrive well before showtime to stake out an amazing spot down front, but when the lights go out, you find yourself drowning in a sea of assholes as wave after wave of stage divers and crowd surfers threaten to swamp you under.
Remember: YOU DO NOT HAVE TO CATCH THEM...let the bodies hit the floor...let the bodies hit the floor...It’s not easy to crowd surf in a body cast.

I really do love going to rock concerts, and don’t mind sitting or standing alone, which, if you hadn’t already guessed, is how things usually end up.

Star Search

(A short story)

In a little old house in a little old suburb north of Boston, Boyfriend and Girlfriend are enjoying a little old bottle of wine on Valentine’s Day night. We join them moments after Boyfriend has received his gift and is about to present Girlfriend with hers...

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”
Boyfriend hands Girlfriend a piece of colored parchment paper. She puts down her wine glass and examines the document with furrowed brow.
She says, “Thanks,” but it comes out sounding like a question.
“It’s your very own star, baby!”
“Oh,” Girlfriend says. “It is?”
“Yeah, I named a star after you with the Global Star Federation! That’s your certificate of authenticity. It’s all very legit and on record with the US Bureau Of Intergalactic Affairs.”
Boyfriend’s eyes, mouth and arms are open wide in anticipation. He can’t believe how masterfully romantic he’s become, stunning her with his ingenuity. Soon she’ll rush to his embrace.
“Is this that thing you hear about on the radio?”
Or not.
He straightens up a bit.
“No, those guys are frauds. This here.” He points at the paper. “This is the real deal.”
Still looking at the paper, eyes scanning up and down, left to right, Girlfriend says, “Gee honey, you shouldn’t have.”
“Think nothing of it,” he says, aware he may be aiming a little high.
“No, I mean you really shouldn’t have.”
A pivotal moment, Boyfriend attempts to rally.
“But wait till you see it. It’s beautiful.”
He hands her another piece of paper. She turns it over and back.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a sky chart, so you can locate your star.”
“Show me.”
Boyfriend moves beside Girlfriend.
“Well.” He squints at the chart. “It’s about a trillion miles...Oh, never mind. Come outside and I’ll show you.”
Boyfriend leads Girlfriend through a slider out onto the deck. It’s February in New England, about 15˚ above zero. Boyfriend walks Girlfriend to the far corner where a heavy-duty tripod with a fork arm mount supports a three-foot long telescope pointed toward the heavens.
“Viola!”
He’s excited again. All is not lost, yet.
She hesitates, unsure of what to do.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Just look through the viewfinder.”
Girlfriend inspects the end of the telescope closest to earth.
“No, no,” Boyfriend says, pointing. “The eyepiece is there, on the side.”
Sweeping her hair behind an ear, Girlfriend leans forward. A visible chill, more about winter than anticipation, runs through her.
“There’s just a great big cluster,” she says.
She backs away, examining the instrument.
“Let’s see what this does.”
She begins adjusting the pan handle, rotating the unit away from Boyfriend’s prefixed coordinates.
“NO! WAIT!”
“Now it’s all blurry,” she says.
Boyfriend moves over and not so gently nudges Girlfriend aside.
“That’s because you just pointed it toward another galaxy! It took me over an hour to find that star.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Girlfriend says, beginning to shiver steadily from the cold. “It was really sweet of you to go through all this trouble.”
Boyfriend peers into the telescope, spanning the cosmos.
“Where are you little star...”
“It’s really not that big a deal, baby. I’ve got my certificate right here.”
Fingers growing numb, Boyfriend doesn’t seem to be making any progress. Exasperated, he mumbles, “Stupid fuck.”
Girlfriend’s eyes narrow.
“What was that?”
“Huh?”
He looks at her innocently.
“Oh, I said, ‘Cupid’s luck.’ You know, losing the star and all.
“Uh-huh,” Girlfriend says, nodding, teeth starting to chatter. She looks up at the sky. “Well, you better hurry Galileo, it’s getting cloudy, pretty soon we won’t be able to see my present.”
“Well, maybe if you hadn’t messed up my calibrations we’d be back inside by the fire, all...what did you call it? Snuggy wuggy?” This last part drenched in sarcasm.
“Don’t be so sure of yourself. You keep this attitude up and you won’t be all snuggy wuggy with anyone.”
She fills her lungs with frigid air then exhales, watching her icy breath flitter away like ghostly vapor.
Going for one final attempt to salvage Valentine’s Day, and avoid frostbite, Girlfriend says, “It’s okay, really. I’m pretty sure I saw it somewhere up there.”
“Somewhere up there? That’s just great. Do you have any idea how much all this costs?”
“You mean your new telescope? Don’t tell me you bought that for me. Besides, I’ve got my proof of ownership right here.” She holds out the paper once again, points at the bottom line, tapping it with her finger. “See right here, it says, SCHMOOKIE BEAR.”
Boyfriend looks up from the viewfinder, rage creeping into his eyes.
“Perhaps I should’ve called it SHIT-FOR-BRAINS-BEAR!”
Silence.

Another pivotal moment arrived at during all Boyfriend - Girlfriend arguments: Boyfriend crosses a line, usually with a personal attack featuring language he wouldn’t use in front of Girlfriend’s mother. Sometimes Girlfriend cries and Boyfriend sleeps on the couch, other times Girlfriend digs in, eager to engage.

Eyes glistening, Girlfriend’s chin quivers. Then, in an Incredible Hulk-like moment, her jaw sets and the tears recede. She’s digging in.
“You bastard! I give you a Cartier Pasha watch for Valentine’s Day and you give me a fucking needle in a goddamned celestial haystack. Which, I might add, you can’t even find. Why didn’t you save some money and drive up to Good Harbor and name a grain of sand after me? For all we know there’s some other idiot over in the next town trying to show his girlfriend the same star, claiming she owns it. Or maybe somewhere out in Texas. Or Moscow. How could you fall for such a scam?”
“It’s morning in Moscow, genius. No one’s showing anyone stars in Russia at this hour.”
Boyfriend’s clearly lost his edge. If he quits now, he might still get the couch.
“Not the point,” Girlfriend says. “Did you even stop to wonder who the hell gave this...” she looks at the paper again, “Global Star Federation, the naming rights to the universe? What if some of those stars were already named by some other beings on some other planet? Such arrogance.”

The argument has reached the point where neither party has the slightest clue what the other might say next. They’re so angry they no longer feel the chill that has turned their lips blue.

“Let me get this straight,” Boyfriend says. “You’re making a political statement out of this?”
“NO, I’m making a final statement about THIS!”
Girlfriend waves the paper in an exaggerated arc, meant to take in the entire scene on the deck. She turns and heads toward the house.
“Looks like you bought yourself a nice telescope, honey.”
Boyfriend’s voice, softening, “Does this mean no snuggy wuggy?”
“Happy Fucking Valentine’s Day Asshole!”
And just before the slider slams shut.
“Same to you, Bitch!”