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testing the strength of the chain, wondering if this was some kind of not-so-subtle hint from my parents. Then my mother came to the door, shushed me, shut the door in my face, released the chain, and let me in.
    “Be careful,” she said as she blocked the door and left only a small triangle for entry. I slipped inside and followed her gaze to the floor. There was Rae, bundled up in her sleeping bag, clutching her teddy bear, sound asleep.
    “Why is she sleeping there?” I asked.
    “Why do you think?” my mother snapped back.
    “I have no idea,” I said, trying to keep the brusqueness out of my voice.
    “Because she wants to be just like you,” my mother said, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. “I found her on the porch two hours ago and after twenty minutes of coercion I managed to convince her to sleep in the foyer. You’re setting an example here, whether you like it or not. So don’t drive drunk, don’t smoke in the house, cut down on the swearing, and if you’re too wrecked to make it up the stairs to your bedroom at night, don’t bother coming home. Just do that for me. No, do it for Rae.”
    My mother, exhausted, turned around and walked up the stairs to her bedroom. I did change that night. I did what I had to do to keep Rae from becoming the mimic of a fuckup like me. But my mother set the bar too low; I was still me and I was still a problem.
    Phase #3: The Missing Shoe Episode
    Before I opened my eyes, I knew something was amiss. I could feel a breeze overhead and heard the hum of a ceiling fan, which led me to the logical conclusion that I was not in my own bed, since I don’t have a ceiling fan. I kept my eyes closed as I tried to piece together the night before. Then I heard ringing and quiet grumbling—the human kind—the male human kind. The ringing, or subtle chirping, was my cell phone. The moan was from a guy I must have met last night, although if pressed, I couldn’t tell you where. All I knew was that if I didn’t find my phone before it woke him up, awkward small talk would ensue. I knew I wasn’t in the mood for small talk, because when I opened my eyes and sat up in bed, my head began throbbing violently. Fighting back nausea, I staggered through the room, which was a dump and I’ll leave it at that. I found my phone under a pile of clothes and muted the sound. Then I noticed DAVID SPELLMAN on the screen and I clicked open the receiver and walked into the hallway.
    “Hello,” I whispered.
    “Where are you?” He didn’t whisper.
    “In a café,” I answered, thinking that would make him less suspicious of the whispering.
    “Interesting, since you were supposed to be in my office fifteen minutes ago,” he fumed. I knew I was forgetting something. Besides the last twelve hours, that is. I had a 9:00 A.M . meeting with Larry Mulberg, head of personnel for Zylor Corp., a drug company that was considering outsourcing their background checks. David occasionally throws business in our direction with clients of his firm. Although I was twenty-three at the time, I still would not have been charged with such a delicate responsibility, but Mulberg had called for the meeting at the last minute, offered no other scheduling option, and Mom and Dad were out of town on business. I suppose they could have asked Uncle Ray to handle it, but generally he refuses to get out of bed before 10:00, and Lost Weekends come on unexpectedly, just like the flu or a skin rash.
    While I was more than comfortable committing run-of-the-mill screwups, blowing the chance at bringing in another hundred thousand dollars a year to the family business was not a screwup I or my parents could afford. I tore through random male’s apartment, gathering my clothes and dressing as if it were an Olympic sport. I was already contemplating a professional career when I realized that I couldn’t find my other shoe—the match to the blue sneaker already on my right foot.
    I limped down Mission Street like Ratso