Three weeks home from rehab and I'm sitting at The Busker Coffee and Tea House with Will and Danny and Will is jabbering on and on about his life as a stand up comedian. He makes it sound like he's Hollywood A-list material. He is not. Will is tubby and usually jovial like you'd think a fat guy with curly hair would be. Sometimes he's a bastard though. Danny seems to be fascinated by every word that comes out of Will's mouth, but Danny is fascinated by everybody who talks to him because he is a skinny hippie. I mostly just sit and listen to them and drink my coffee. Lately, it's a full time job to keep my nerves from jangling me up into a little dance. My sponsor says I have to practice sitting still and listening. Which is maybe fine for right now because I haven't seen these guys in months.
Will says, “You know what I want? I want to have my picture taken with some shit on fire behind me, you know? Like, I'm standing there dressed up in a suit with a really skinny tie and I have this blank look on my face, and in the room behind me, everything is on fire. Like something real artsy, you know?”
“That'd be the shit,” Danny says. He has his head in his hand, staring at Will like Will himself is the shit.
“That would certainly be the shit. Maybe that'll be the cover of my live album. It says to the listener, 'He literally lights the room on fire,' or, 'Don't put this disc in your CD player if you don't want your shit burned up.' Right?”
“Ha, ha, that's hilarious,” or something is what Danny says.
“I don't know how they'd take that picture, like if they superimpose me over the fire or if they light the fire and have me stand there for a couple of really quick shots and then put the fire out, you know, after I move out of the way.”
“That would be great if they made you stand there with a huge fire two inches behind you,” Danny says.
“I'd call the record, 'Will Arnold: This Shit's on Fire,'” Will says.
“I think you should call it, 'Will Arnold Better Get the Hell Out of This Room Before His Ass-Hair Gets Singed Off,'” I say.
They laugh a little. I strain to hear the guitar player sitting way back in the corner, some little guy with tattoos on his face doing acoustic covers of Ramones tunes. There's a ratty mic in front of him with a ratty wire going to a little Fender amp and the whole thing is scratching out a ratty sound. I remember how I used to want to front a punk band in high school and I would mohawk my hair up with glue and I remember too, how I used to sniff a lot of glue back then. Ha ha. I take a sip of my decaf.
Will's career IS taking off a little bit. He and I started out in comedy together. We used to hit all the open mics. I was actually a lot funnier than him. My sponsor wants me to practice telling the truth and sometimes telling the truth is hard and sometimes it's not-so-hard and this is a case of it being not-so-hard: When Will and I started out telling jokes (several years ago at this point), I was a lot funnier than he was. I had this one joke, which was my favorite, about if I were a pro baseball player how I would draft myself for my own fantasy team. I can't remember the whole bit now because it was awhile ago and because, since then, I've done a good job of frying my brain. That's one where it's harder to tell the truth, but I will tell it: Coke and heroin have fried my brain, at least to some degree. I'm a lot jumpier now, sometimes I slur my words, I get the shakes out of the blue, I can barely handle any kind of caffeine, and it's hard for me to remember shit, even shit that didn't happen all that long ago. Really, I'd be afraid to get back into stand-up right now. I think I'd get on stage and end up improvising half my set because I'd never remember my set list. Or else I'd have to get it tattooed on the palm of my hand and pretend I was wiping my forehead every thirty seconds. And keep getting it erased and re-tattooed whenever I changed things around.
Anyway, not too long ago, Will got this part on a little sit-com. He plays a character called Sid on a show called “Meanies, Inc.” on Adult Swim. Sid is a bully and this show is about a gang of suburban dads who've lost their jobs and form this club of adult bullies that go around suburbia finding the people that were mean to them in junior high and revenge-bullying them. Eventually they form this bullying business called “Meanies, Inc.” It's like the Latin Kings meet a Dockers commercial. When Will told me about it, back when he got the gig and before I went to rehab, I remember I said, “It's just Adult Swim.” He said, “What's your problem?” We were living together and I think he had to wake me up to tell me because I was passed out on the floor. I hurt his feelings and I should've just said congratulations. I still have never said congratulations to him. The show has been on for a season now and it's been a minor hit with the hipster crowd. They talk about it on all the TV websites and blogs. I have only been able to bring myself to watch half an episode so far.
Danny turns to me and says, rather suddenly and seriously, “It's good to see you, Mikey.”
“You guys too,” I say.
“No, I know, but it's just good to see you, man.”
“You guys too,” I say. Again.
“You're looking so normal,” Will says, “I think the last time I saw you, you looked like Skeletor without the fucking muscles, but with the blue skin.”
“I probably did have blue skin.”
“I mean it. It is really good to see you. Your old self,” says Danny.
“Yep. Here I am. Same old guy you used to know from down by the schoolyard,” I say.
“What the fuck?” Will says.
“Like me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard?” I say.
“Uh, why did you just reference a Paul Simon song?” Will says.
Truthfully, it just popped into my head like so many things do. I don't know where it came from or why. But I say, “Because of all the fucking whistling. I was just thinking about how much I love whistling.”
“So, what was rehab like?” Will says and it sounds condescending to me, but maybe it isn't. Will and I have always had this competitive thing between us. Always unspoken, and if you ask either of us about it, we would both say, “Ah, c'mon,” but we are really competitive. Back when we were both playing out, I'd come home from a few days on the road and say, “I played a couple of shows at USC and got laid by a sorority girl.” He'd say, “Awesome, bro. I played UCLA, got laid by the whole sorority and booked my next gig at the sorority house during Naked Rush Week.” So, I always have my defenses up around Will. Which is probably not fair to him.
“Rehab was really fun,” I say. Sarcasm. Bad, bad, bad. Not conducive to recovery.
“Like, was it arts and crafts and shit? Did you make a basket out of reeds or what?” Will says. I try to tell myself that I think he's trying to understand my time in rehab. He's not doing a good job being honest with himself about his desire for this particular understanding, but he's reaching out. I will say about myself that I am truly starting to look beneath the surface of things, which is encouraging, but still, I bet my blood pressure has gone up.
“If you really want to know, we got up every morning at six and went to a meeting. Had breakfast. Went to more meetings. Had lunch. Had some personal time in the afternoon. Sometimes doctors would come and do little exams. Had dinner. Went to sleep around ten. That's what it was like,” I say.
“So you spent the day in meetings,” Will says, “Like, secret illuminati meetings?”
Fuck you, Will, I think. Anger. Also bad, bad, bad. Not conducive to recovery either.
“Twelve step meetings. Like NA, you know? Like the twelve steps,” I say.
“What, specifically, do you talk about in the twelve step meetings?” Will says.
“A lot of stuff. Mostly support, you know, you hear everybody else's stories and find out you aren't alone. Shit like that,” I say. That was a really great description I tell myself. More sarcasm. I tell myself to just be honest. I don't want to talk recovery anymore, is the honest truth. I say, “It's all very boring,” which is not the honest truth, but a means to, hopefully, an end.
“Why did you do it, then?” Will says.
“Because I was about to kill myself.”
“You bored yourself back to life at rehab?”
“When I said it was boring, I was just saying some shit.”
“Why'd you say it then?”
“Because I don't want to talk about it anymore.”
“You should have just said that.”
Oh man, this was the guy I used to call my best friend. If I still had dope needles with me, I'd jab one in his eye. I think my blood must be churning like lava in a Mexican caldera. Grrr, I think, but I say, “You're right, Will. I should have just said that. I don't really want to talk about it anymore.”
Will looks at me with a disgusting, triumphant look on his face. I take a sip of my coffee and pretend I don't notice. Why does he feel the need to win? What is there to win? Are we playing some kind of game? It's the kind of smile that says, 'I just fucking beat you, you little twerp,' but what's his problem? He beat me with his questions about my rehab? I don't want to talk to him about that shit like that because he'll do what he just did. More honest truth is bubbling up in my brain. He beat me at getting a better comedy career? True. I hate to say that, boy do I, but it's true. He's got regular gigs that pay money and he's on a show that people like, and me, I'm a wet baby bird walking through the world, shivering and quivering and trying to stay away from speedballs. So, two different paths, you might say. But his world doesn't automatically win.
Poor fucking Danny. Just sitting there. I'm sure he's thinking, “Nothing's changed.” But he's so damn diplomatic. He changes the subject. That's just what he does.
“What's next for you, man?” he says to me.
I take another sip and I tell the truth, the one I'm supposed to tell, the one I really do mean, but it sounds so horseshitty in front of these guys. I say, “I'm going to stay clean to start with.”
“Right on, man. Good for you.” That's what Danny says. Right on. Go for it, champ. You can do it, pal. Buddy. Sport. You can do anything you set your fried little mind to. If Danny weren't a hippie, like if you turned his dial over to the right, he'd be a perfect father, like if he got himself a wife and kids and a dog and a soccer ball and a two story house in Orange County. He's just a couple of degrees away from suburban fatherhood, and you know what, he would love it. Oh man, I would never tell him I thought that, but if some caveman stepped on a different butterfly way back in the Pleistocene age, the butterfly right next to the one that made Danny a hippie, Danny would be the father of three and coach their YMCA teams and commute to work in a white Hyundai with well-tuned suspension. I try to picture Danny without the dreadlocks and wearing a polo shirt. Tough to do. But it's so there.
We sit there in silence for a little while. It's not really silence. We're quiet, because we weirded ourselves into quiet, but the coffee shop is kind of loud around us. The scratchy playing of the acoustic Ramones guy is lurching it's way through the place. It sounds like he's singing and playing from inside a can. There are a few other people sitting around. Two girls with tattoos on their forearms are a few tables over, leaning in toward each other and whispering. A guy with a crew cut is reading an alternative literary magazine in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. A young girl is sitting next to him and keeps going, “What are you reading, what are you reading?” Behind the register, there's clinking and hissing and wooshing and chinging. The sound of money and lattes.
After a few minutes, I say, “You guys, I'm going over to listen to that guy play guitar. I'll be back.”
“That guy? That guy sucks. Why?” Will says.
“Because he looks interesting.” Evidently his honesty thing is going to be a big issue when it comes to my relationship with Will. To be honest, I would have said, “Because sitting with you guys right now reminds me of my hideous failures.”
“You haven't seen your buddies in months. Why do you want to go over there?” Will says.
“I'll be back,” I say.
Will looks at me. So does Danny. They have the same expressions on their faces. 'Why, why, why? We thought you loved us' looks.
“Come on, don't make me feel guilty,” I say, “I'll be right back.”
“Aren't you supposed to tell us something anyway? Isn't that why we're really here?” Will says.
“What?”
“Aren't you supposed to tell us you're sorry?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Isn't that one of the twelve steps? You're supposed to go around to all your friends and tell them you're sorry for everything and to try to make it up to them?”
I hesitate and sort of stutter over my thoughts.
“Really? Did you really just ask me to apologize to you, Will?” is what I eventually say.
“Don't you want to?”
“For what?”
Now, I know I owe both of these guys apologies. That's such a trivial way to put it. I owe these guys my life as an indentured servant, and I'm surprised as hell they're sitting here with me today. I can't fucking believe that, actually. I fully expected, when I left rehab, to enter a new world with new everything including new friends, because all the old stuff, including Will and Danny, probably, I figured, disappeared in a puff, and who could have blamed that stuff for disappearing from me? I've said sorry to my mom and, if I could find my dad, I'd say sorry to him too, but what would be the point, because he doesn't know his kid turned into a junkie for a while, he doesn't know his kid turned into anything for that matter, but anyway, suddenly, I'm feeling sorry for myself and all the alarms go off in my head. Self-pity is your new archenemy my sponsor said. If you thought you made enemies in your addiction, you can forget about them, because you will only ever have one archenemy again for the rest of your life and that archenemy is self-pity and in this moment facing these two guys I'm getting attacked.
“For what?” Will says, “I can't believe you asked 'for what'?”
“Guys. Guys,” Danny says, because he probably senses impending doom.
I'm dumb enough to keep going. This is how hard of a time with the truth I am having. It's looming right in front of me, but I want to piss Will off and I don't know how to express remorse to these guys yet, to ask for forgiveness. So, I keep going.
“You don't ask somebody for an apology unless you are his father,” I say.
“You're acting like a little kid. Shouldn't I act like your father?”
“Okay, Horse's Ass, if I feel like apologizing to you, I'll come to you and apologize.”
“Well, here the fuck we are, sitting right the fuck in front of fucking you.”
That's one thing about Will that I have always found endearing you might say; his masterful ability to put cuss words where they have no business being. He puts them in the midst of syllables sometimes. Even in the midst of the syllables of cuss words. One time, I heard him say, “Fuck-fucking-ing,” without stuttering. Brilliant. That thought disarms my anger for a second.
“Keep your voice down,” I say.
“You fucking keep yours down,” he says.
“Both of you, keep both of your voices down,” Danny says.
“We're doing this,” Will says, “This motherfucker, I can't believe him. Won't tell his buddies sorry at least for jacking them around for a couple of years while he was high as a fucking kite, twentyfuckingfour seven.”
My anger recollects itself. I want to throw an acid pie right in Will's fucking face, but just then, this girl comes over to the table. She's just come into the coffee shop. She doesn't know what we're fighting about. She hasn't even ordered yet. A tall girl with long brown hair and an army cap she probably got at the surplus store. She has a skull belt buckle. I'm standing there, my face red, about to have a stroke. Will is up out of his chair, I mean, he's posed to fling his chair across the room and fight me, and Danny is there, quivering dreadlocks down his back, about to fall to his knees to beg us both to shut up and this girl comes over to the table, and she says, “You're Sid,” and we all look at her.
“Sid,” she says.
This is a very cartoon moment for all of us. The picture that zaps through my mind is the three of us as Loony Tunes characters, our hands around each other's throats, eyes bugging out, staring at this girl, totally dumbfounded. I can't help it, a little smile forms on my lips.
“Sid, from 'Meanies, Inc.',” she says.
Will's next words are, “Hi, how's it going?” which, instead of the dirtiest fighting words he thought he was about to say to me, are probably the dorkiest, generic words he ever said in his life. It was all he had.
“I love your show,” this girl says.
Danny and I relax a little bit.
“Thanks,” Will says, “Thanks a lot. Will Arnold.”
“Gina,” she says.
“Gina,” Will repeats. Then they stand there looking at each other for a couple seconds. It's weird, actually. Finally, Will says, “Well, Gina, have you been watching the show long?”
“Ever since it started. I think it's the best thing on TV right now.”
“That's great, that's great,” Will says.
“Well, I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I just saw you and I had to make sure, you know, I said hey.”
“No, no, you weren't interrupting anything,” Will says. He looks at Danny and me. “We were just talking. We haven't seen each other in awhile,” he says. He doesn't introduce us.
“That's cool. Well, I'll leave you alone, but it's cool to meet you,” Gina says.
Will looks right at me. Then, he says, “Look, why don't you join us?”
She looks at Danny and then at me and then at Will again, and the smile on her lips fluctuates a little, like the smile itself has to think about it.
“I'm meeting some friends, actually. I don't want to bother you guys. I just wanted to say hi,” she says.
“It's no bother,” Will says, “I love to talk to fans of the show, you know? Find out what other things they're into, or just talk, you know?”
“Nah,” she says. Will is getting shot down in front of us, I realize. I hope Danny realizes it.
“You sure?” he says.
“Yeah. My friends are waiting. I just wanted to say hi,” she says.
“Your friends can come too.”
“You know, no thanks,” she says.
“...because I don't see anybody else here that looks like they're waiting for you.” I can't believe Will says this. He says it in a joking way, but a joking way where you can tell he means it.
“Wait. Do you think I'm lying to you about meeting my friends?” Gina says. I hold my breath.
“No, no,” Will says, “I just don't see anybody else in here who might be, you know, waiting for you.”
“How would you know?” she says.
“Like, nobody got up and said, 'Hey, Gina, over here,' or anything,” Will says.
“Because I'm getting a coffee to go. I'm meeting my friends at their apartment.” Gina is not smiling at all now.
“Alright,” Will says, “Alright. Only if you're sure, though.”
Gina just glares at him. She says, “I'm sure.”
“Okay,” says Will. He puts his hands in his pockets.
“Okay, well, you know, have a nice day and everything,” Gina says. She is still looking at him, but she is walking backward.
“You too,” Will says.
“Bye,” she says.
“Bye,” Will says.
She turns around and Will says, “We'll be sitting here if you change your mind.”
She kind of turns her head and nods, but kind of maybe she isn't actually turning to look at Will either. It's tough to tell. She goes up to the register and orders what has to be whatever is the fastest thing to make, and she pays and takes it and walks out the door without looking toward our table.
“Fans,” Will says. Like they're always bugging him.
None of us say anything. There are a thousand thoughts that go through my mind, most of which are pretty incendiary. Like, 'Why do you act like such a douchebag?' or 'Have you ever talked to a fan before, ever in your life?' or, 'Just in general, why are you the way you are?' But I don't let them out. It's weird, because the honest thing would be to say those thoughts, wouldn't it? I don't know. Though he is savvy about his career, I will give him that any day, I do know that Will has always been mostly socially klutzy.
“Weren't you going to go listen to that guy play guitar?” Will says.
Danny is looking into his empty coffee cup.
“Nah. I changed my mind. I think I'll stay here,” I say and there is a twitter of a smile in the corner of my lips. I don't try to hide it from him.
I go to all these weird places in my mind sometimes so the next thing that happens, and it happens pretty much immediately, is that I find myself looking at myself, pretty much straight on, like I am looking at myself in the reflection of a TV that is turned off. I see this little angel version of me, with the robe and halo and all, descend from the heavens and tap me on the shoulder.
The angel-me says, “I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm just trying to be honest with you. Who is it that's got a disgusting, triumphant look on his face now?”
Angel-me knows me pretty well. I think about that and then I have a sincere moment of revelation, the first time I've had one of those since rehab. It's me, of course, with the smile. It's true. I try to make any hint of a smile on my face disappear.
“That's a nice effort,” the angel-me says, “but you still pretty much mean it in your heart, don't you?”
In my heart?
“You do though, don't you?” angel-me says.
Are we in a Disney movie?
“I've touched a nerve,” angel-me says.
Now you are being a dick.
“No, I'm just being honest. I wouldn't try to get the upper hand with me, just as a warning,” he says, “Focus, okay?”
Then, poof, just like in the cartoons, the angel-me disappears. I mean, he disappears into a cloud of flat, gray, cartoon smoke. Then the TV me sitting across from me disappears along with the whole TV and I'm back at Busker's. I can't believe that's really how my new conscience works.
I look at Danny and Will. They're having their own private moments with themselves right now. Who knows what is in either of their heads? Is Danny thinking, 'I wish I had some patchooli?' That's mean. He is probably thinking 'Why do I waste my time like this? My hippie friends are a lot nicer.' Still a little mean. He is probably really thinking, 'Why wouldn't Mikey just say I'm sorry to us?' Will, I bet he is feeling dumb over Gina and comforting himself with thoughts of the last show he killed at. That's what I would be doing if I were him right now. I sigh.
“I am being a cock,” I say.
They look at me at the same time.
“You shouldn't call yourself names,” Danny says. Bless his heart.
I turn and face Will. He is kind of looking past me.
“I'm feeling a little gloaty over that little exchange with Gina we just witnessed. Why would I feel that way? I don't know. But I want to tell you I'm sorry for being a turd,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” he says.
“Well, I was watching you twist in the wind there, and I was secretly enjoying it.”
“Twist in the wind?”
“Yeah, that wasn't an awkward couple of moments for you?”
“With Gina?”
“Yeah. I'm sorry.”
“That was fine, what's the problem? What's your problem?”
“You thought that was fine?”
“Yeah.” He looks at Danny with a confused expression. “Did I miss something? She didn't want to have coffee with us. So?”
“I just thought,” I started, “I mean, the way she said it and everything. The way you said it. It felt a little bumpy. Didn't you think so?”
“No,” Will says, “She just couldn't have coffee now. She was going to meet her friends. What do you mean, 'the way I said it'?”
“Well, it was weird how you said, 'I don't see anybody else here waiting for you.' That could be offensive, you know, like you implied she doesn't have any other friends,” I say.
“I didn't imply that. What is this? It just didn't seem like she was meeting anybody else here.”
“Just the way you said it.”
“I said it fine, asshole.”
“Come on, you guys,” Danny says.
I take a couple of breaths. I say, “Look, what I'm trying to do is tell you that I took some mischievous delight at your expense and I'm sorry. That's all.”
“You're saying you're sorry for something that's not even there. Even if there was something there just now, who gives a shit?” Will's voice is louder now.
“I'm practicing apologizing. That doesn't make you happy?” I say.
“You don't even know what to fucking apologize for,” Will says, “What about saying you're sorry for not paying your part of the rent because you shot your gig money into your fucking arm? What about that apology? How about for me bailing your ass out of jail? Or for me calling 911 that time because you were turning fucking green and foaming at the mouth and I thought you were about to die? Or for all the motherfucking lies, you cocksucker? What about saying you're sorry for that? Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”
Will is on his feet now. He's breathing hard and his lips are drawn back. You can see his teeth. Everybody in The Busker is looking at us. Danny is recoiling from the table. His eyes are wide. This might be amusing to me, if I were looking at it from across the room, like if it was somebody else. Will has never yelled at me like this before. I mean, he's yelled at me, but not like this. I put my hands up, kind of instinctively and I say, “Hey, I'm sorry, man. I was just trying to say I'm sorry.”
“Bullshit. About that shit with that Gina girl? Bullshit. I don't give a shit. That's like Hitler telling the Jews, 'Sorry for stepping on your shoes.' Once again, fuck you.” He puts his hands together, like he's an Indian yogi and gives this little bow and turns. The whole place is dead quiet. Will heads for the door. The little bells jingle jangle angrily as he throws his weight against it and shoves it out of his way.
Danny fidgets at the table. The guy playing guitar has stopped playing. It even seems like they've stopped with the wooshing and chinging behind the counter. I notice that I'm breathing hard and that my pulse is really fast.
“I was really just trying to say I'm sorry. I mean, really,” I say.
“Yeah,” Danny mutters.
“You don't think I meant it, do you?”
“Don't make it worse, man.”
“How am I making it worse?” I say. I mean it. I honestly mean this. I'm confused as hell.
“If you could just, like, just say, 'I'm sorry, Will' or something and just say that. By itself, you know? Without anything else.”
“I thought I did that just now.”
“No, man. No, you didn't. You just didn't.”
“I'm really trying to understand this. What about what I said wasn't sincere?”
Danny makes this exaggerated flailing motion with his hands and arms and he says, “You add something to your apologies. Like a smile or a little gesture. It makes it seem like whatever you're saying sorry for you think is really bullshit. I don't know man, just like your whole attitude is off right now.”
“What did I do?”
“That whole thing about how you thought it was bumpy or whatever you said about how Will talked to that girl Gina.”
“I thought it was really awkward.”
“But why point that out?”
“That was the whole basis of why I said I was sorry.”
“That's the problem man. That's the least of the things to tell Will sorry for.”
“What?”
“All that other stuff he said just now. Anyway, look, Mikey, I should get going too.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“I'm not staying here by myself.”
I push my chair back and follow Danny out the door. We stand and face each other in the bright sun outside of the Busker. Danny is squinting.
“Which way are you going?” I say.
“I parked over there,” says Danny and thrusts a long arm to point behind him.
“I'm back here,” I say. It's in the complete opposite direction.
“Well, I'll talk to you later, man,” Danny says.
“Wait. This is weird. I mean, it feels really weird between us. And Will too of course. I don't want to leave it in a weird way, you know,” I say.
I hate that feeling of a weird vibe between people. It's a new kind of feeling for me. I just started noticing it about halfway through rehab. My sponsor says it's a good feeling to start to develop. But he says I need to develop it. He says I probably have never had it before.
“You should give Will a call in a couple days. Or whatever,” he says.
“Alright. Alright,” I say.
Danny turns.
“It's good to see you, Danny. I really will give Will a call. And you too,” I say.
“Okay, man.”
He walks off and I watch him walk, dreadlocks swinging halfway down his back. They're a lot longer than they used to be. Hair takes a long time to grow, doesn't it? I've maybe missed a lot.
I turn and walk toward my car and I kind of curse myself a little bit. What's my problem and all that. I think when I talk to my sponsor next and I tell him about all this, he's going to tell me that I need to keep practicing humility, which is true, I suppose. It is true. I tell myself this kind of from a distance. And then it's another one of those TV moments. I see another version of me approaching from way down the sidewalk. I can't see my face, but I can tell it's me by the way I walk. Sort of casual, nonchalant. Maybe aimless and perpetually alone, I think. I fear. But maybe not. Hopefully not. I start walking and it's kind of like I'm approaching myself for the first time and I'm not sure what will happen. I'm really not, that's true.
2009