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I caving it up today. I’m sorry but I just cant, don’t narc me out, okay? Just this one last time. I’m taking a Sick Day .
    She can’t do that. She can’t take a Sick Day if she’s not sick. She can’t take a Sick Day because she’s sad about someone she loves being sick. And she certainly can’t take a Sick Day because she’s sad about someone she loves being in jail.
    I count out ten Reserve Crackers and work all morning on the pictographs.
    Around noon the door to her Separate Area flies open. She looks weird. Her hair is sticking up and she’s wearing an I’m With Stupid sweatshirt over her cavewoman robe and her breath smells like whiskey.
    Janet is wasted? Wasted in the cave?
    “What I have here in this album?” she says. “Baby pictures of that fucking rat Bradley. Back when I loved him so much. Back before he was a druggie. See how cute? See how smart he looked?”
    She shows me the album. He actually does not look cute or smart. He looks the same as he looked the other day, only smaller. In one picture he’s sitting on a tricycle looking like he’s planning a heist. In another he’s got a sour look on his face and his hand down some smaller kid’s diaper.
    “God, you just love the little shits no matter what, don’t you?” she says. “You know what I’m saying? If Bradley’s dad woulda stuck around it might’ve been better. Bradley never knew him. I always used to say he took one look at Bradley and ran off. Maybe I shouldn’t of said that. At least not in front of Bradley. Wow. I’ve had a few snorts. You want a snort? Come on, live a little! Take a Sick Day like me. I had three BallBusters and half a bottle of wine. This is the best Sick Day I ever took.”
    I guide her back to her Separate Area and push her sternly in.
    “Come on in!” she says. “Have a BallBuster. You want one? I’m lonely in here. You want a BallBuster, Señor Tightass?”
    I do not want a BallBuster.
    What I want is for her to stay in her Separate Area keeping very quiet until she sobers up.
    All day I sit alone in the cave. When the quality of light changes I go into my Separate Area and take out a Daily Partner Performance Evaluation Form.
    When I was a kid, Dad worked at Kenner Beef. Loins would drop from this belt and he’d cut through this purple tendon and use a sort of vise to squeeze some blood into a graduated beaker for testing, then wrap the loin in a sling and swing it down to Finishing. Dad’s partner was Fred Lank. Lank had a metal plate in his skull and went into these funks where he’d forget to cut the purple tendon and fail to squeeze out the blood and instead of placing the loin in the sling would just sort of drop the loin down on Finishing. When Lank went into a funk, Dadwould cover for him by doing double loins. Sometimes Dad would do double loins for days at a time. When Dad died, Lank sent Mom a check for a thousand dollars, with a note:
    Please keep , it said. The man did so much for me .
    Which is I think part of the reason I’m having trouble ratting Janet out.
    Do I note any attitudinal difficulties? I do not. How do I rate my Partner overall? Very good. Are there any Situations which require Mediation?
    There are not.
    I fax it in.
    20.
    Next morning in the Big Slot is no goat, just a note:
    A question has arisen , it says. Hence this note about a touchy issue that is somewhat grotesque and personal, but we must address it, because one of you raised it, the issue of which was why do we require that you Remote Attractions pay the money which we call, and ask that you call, the Disposal Debit, but which you people insist on wrongly calling the Shit Fee. Well, this is to tell you why, although isn’t it obvious to most? We hope. But maybe not. Because what we have found, no offense, is that sometimes you people don’t get things that seem pretty obvious to us, such as why you have to pay for your Cokes in your fridge if you drink them. Who should then? Did we drink your Cokes