In The Punch Line

9∆9

Charles exhaled very slowly and tried to focus on the room around him. It was rather challenging. He wondered if there were anywhere to take a cold shower. Perhaps he could go back up to the room --The room. Oh, God. The bed.

The double bed.

He filed that away under things not to think about at the present. It was a large file dating back to the eighth grade that included gems like Worrisome US Demographic Trends, the inevitability of death, and the question "Is there any record of someone objecting to a blowjob?" had been bouncing insistently around his head since that afternoon.

"You're lucky," Sarah said quietly, yanking him out of his reverie.

"What?" Charles said.

"You two are crazy about each other," Sarah said.

Charles swallowed. "Aren't you supposed to be giving me some sort of pamphlet?"

"That's more Jeff's thing," Sarah said. She looked at the floor. "Unless you want the pamphlet."

She did have tremendous breasts. Charles worried that she might begin slowly tilting forwards if she remained stationary long.

"I think I'll pass."

Sarah smiled at him. "Jeff talks about you a lot."

"Ah."

"A lot," Sarah said again. "All the time. Constantly."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Charles said. "Is it mainly -- positive?"

"He carries a picture of you in his wallet to remind him to pray for your soul," Sarah said. She produced a wallet from her purse and Charles noticed with alarm that it held a photo of him in the tenth grade wearing a sensible blue cardigan and choking on a zucchini. The wallet contained no other pictures.

"Oh dear," Charles said. Sarah frowned. "He's been gone a while," she said, a puzzled expression spreading slowly over her face. "I hope he didn't get lost in the men's room again."

"Lost?" Charles asked.

"It's a shame that whoever designed all men's restrooms in the world made them so challenging to navigate," Sarah said, shaking her head. "Like labyrinths. It's awful. Sometimes it takes him a whole hour."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've never been inside one," Sarah added. "After all the things Jeff told me about the logic puzzle traps and the rotating saws, I am not sure I would ever be able to get out."

Charles stared intently at her. "You aren't joking," he said, feeling his mouth go suddenly dry.

"Once he was stuck inside one for three hours! I was so upset that I wrote to the mayor to complain about the hazard to public safety," Sarah said. "But the mayor never did anything. He just sent me back a postcard that said Thank You For Writing To The Mayor with a picture of him sitting on a tractor." She frowned. "I'm not sure he even read it, to tell you the truth."

Charles felt a bit terrible. "I think you'll find they aren't really like that," he said, as gently as he could manage.

Sarah shot him an expression of intense bewilderment, as though someone had struck her on the head with a frozen chicken. "Don't be silly, Chuck," she said. "Next you'll tell me that wearing blue cardigans and a brown wig to bed doesn't help a woman bear healthy sons."

Charles' mouth fell open and stayed that way.

"Yes!" Sarah emitted a screech of nervous laughter. It bore an eerie resemblance to a dial-up modem. "That's how Madonna came into the world."