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they call and have me banned.”
    â€œGuess you broke your own record.”
    â€œWhat was the reason? Because I said goddamnit? ”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œWhat’d they say?”
    â€œWhatever,” Rodney says. “Same thing anyone ever says: You’re difficult. You’re a prima donna. You’re spoiled.”
    â€œSpoiled? How do you figure?” Spence asks. He looks at the fleabag hotel in front of him, then back at his car. There’s an Aquafina bottle on the floorboard full of his own urine from when he was heading into Enid the other day and didn’t want to pull over to leak. He wonders if Steve Martin ever had to pee in a bottle and if it made him feel spoiled.
    â€œYou complain too much,” Rodney says.
    â€œOh, screw them.”
    â€œScrew them?” Rodney says. “Screw you. I get tired of having to clean up after your crap.”
    â€œOh, please,” Spence says, “this is always because of something stupid that should be handled before I get to town.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œSince when do I not get paid by the night, Rodney? They shorted me two hundred bucks because they canceled the Friday late show.”
    â€œThat was just for that one gig,” Rodney says.
    â€œWell, it was bullshit.”
    â€œYou made that clear, yeah.”
    â€œForty-plus weeks a year you get me paid by the night, and suddenly I’m paid by the show?”
    â€œHey,” Rodney snaps. “It was either that or no gig at all. You’d rather have been unemployed this week?”
    â€œNo—”
    â€œI could have sworn you even got lucky last night, right?”
    â€œJust next time tell me you’ve made that deal before I make an ass out of myself to the guy running the show.”
    â€œYou do that on your own,” Rodney says. “Did you tell him something about how much you love Transformers or something?”
    Spence has to take a minute to figure out what Rodney is talking about. When it dawns on him, he almost laughs despite being so pissed off.
    â€œNo,” he says, “I was trying to make a point about popularity.”
    â€œHow’d that work out for you?” Rodney asks.
    â€œThat jackass wanted to sit there and tell me how it’s bullshit I don’t sell the place out like a hypnotist. Tell him to advertise his own show and they’ll sell more tickets.”
    â€œThat’s not the problem”
    â€œYeah? What’s the problem, then?”
    â€œThe problem is you like to screw with people.”
    â€œI do not.”
    â€œJust do the shows and get paid,” Rodney says. “Stop whining about what they tell you to do. If they want you to be clean, be clean. It’s always a fight with you.”
    â€œIf they want the show squeaky clean, they should hire a squeaky clean comic.”
    â€œYou would make more money if you worked clean, you know,” Rodney says.
    This again? Spence thinks but instead says, “I’d also make more money if I were a hypnotist.”
    â€œGood idea.”
    â€œYou’d probably like that. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about how spoiled I am.”
    â€œYou are your own worst enemy,” Rodney says. “You always have been.”
    Spence winces when he hears that. It never feels good, mostly because it’s true. He tries to count all the times he’s been fired or banned from clubs simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. After he counts six in as many seconds, he shakes his head and kicks the ground. He used to be so good about just smiling and doing whatever he was told. Once he started working the saloon gigs and awful one-nighters he started talking back when he should have just learned to nod his head.
    â€œI’m not wrong here, Rodney.”
    â€œBeing right never got anyone work,” Rodney says.
    Spence kicks some more gravel and stares at his left shoe. He needs new shoes. He