Of course, I wasn't sure how I was actually going to be able to relax, since I'd vowed to get back on the wagon and not smoke anymore.

As I was pondering this, I heard the neighborhood dogs barking excitedly, as if they were on the verge of catching an 18-wheeler. Then I heard a man yelling, "Don't just stand there staring at 'em—show 'em who's the boss of their sorry, barking asses!"

Before long, I knew just how Lloyd Bridges' character in Airplane! felt when he said, "Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue..."

Mister Meme had sprung into action, hissing and growling and making a fuss right as the dogs ran past our house. Soon, they were yapping and yelping like they'd just had a cauldron of hot water thrown on them. Not content with this reaction, Mister Meme most likely chased after them for five miles, probably thinking they'd never find their way back.

As I suspected he might, Citizen Jim appeared not much later, decked out in khaki trousers, a white polo shirt, a khaki vest, camouflage-patterned wrestling shoes and a safari hat with the brim rolled up on one side. Behind him, he dragged an olive drab duffle bag that looked almost as big as me. In a holster around his waist he was packing a water gun and a plastic pirate's cutlass.

"Time's a wastin'!" he yelled as he struggled to clamber up a slope from the gravel road to our yard. "You better have your bags packed by the time I step on that porch, or you're not going with me!"

Though I was thrilled to see Citizen Jim, I just leaned against the porch railing and rolled my eyes. "Where're you going, the Steak and Shake? I'm very busy."

"You know what your problem is?" he said, still twenty feet away. He stopped and released the duffle bag from his grip. It sounded as though it were full of tin cups and plates, plus a lot of cheap silverware. He left it on the ground as he continued to approach the porch. "Your problem is that you've never had any sense of adventure. You always want everything planned out to the last detail, and if all those details aren't followed to the letter, you get bent out of shape."

"So what?" I said. "That's just how I am. It's not a problem, though."

With ten feet to go, he ran up to me and grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back. "BUT IT IS NO WAY TO LIVE!" he shouted. "Now get your bags packed! We're gonna go hunt us some BIGFOOT!"

He let go of my arm, propelling me toward the door at the same time. Tears sprang to my eyes when what he had said finally registered with me. "I don't want to go hunt for Bigfoot!" I wailed. "Why don't you take Robey? I bet he'd love that!"

Citizen Jim shook his head, hands on his hips. "That's just typical! I got us a good deal on bus tickets to Malaysia and went to the trouble of getting a permit to hunt for some Sasquatch, and you don't even appreciate it. This is like the Roger Waters concert all over!"

"That's not true! I loved the Roger Waters concert!" I insisted. And it was true. Even though Citizen Jim had abandoned me to get closer to the stage, I'd had a grand time with some well-dressed men who looked like bankers or lawyers, and who offered me a puff of the joint they were passing around. All that aside, though, "You don't have any stinkin' permit to hunt for Bigfoot—it's just another trick!"

He reached inside his vest and pulled free some folded papers. He shook them in my face. "What do you call this, Missy? These are signed by the Malaysian Forestry Department!" he yelled, unfolding the papers and pointing to an illegible scrawl at the bottom of the top page.

"I think they probably have enough people in Malaysia to hunt the Bigfoot without us," I said.

"Ha! That's what you'd think, but they didn't have a single taker in the whole country. That's why I got these sent to me from the Forestry Department's web site. They cost me a dollar a piece, so get your shit packed! That bus is leaving from Greenville in two hours."

Despite the seeming authenticity of the documents, I still had visions of Citizen Jim abandoning me as he had at the Roger Waters concert. Only this time, he'd be leaving me in the wilds of the Malaysian jungle. No map. Left at the mercy of nature. Probably eaten by wild animals, or boiled alive by ethnomusicologists flush with Ford Foundation money, studying indigenous music of the natives .

"I'll have to pass on this one," I said. "I do appreciate the gesture, but—"

"Bah! You don't appreciate anything! You'd rather spend the weekend with your girlfriend and your cats, sitting in these rocking chairs on the porch and relaxing," he said, as a lone tear worked its way from the corner of his eye to his chin. It fell onto the porch with a loud PLOP!

I felt terrible. "I feel terrible," I told him. Desperate to stop my best friend in the world from crying like a a big, spoiled sissy-man, I said, "Is there any way I can give you a rain check?"

"Screw your rain check, and screw you!" he sobbed. "All my life I've wanted to see a Bigfoot! I was gonna catch me one and bring him back to the states to live with me," he said.

"Oh, Precious Lamb! That's the craziest thing I've ever heard," I said.

"Crazy? I guess you haven't though of how much money I could make with a Sasquatch sharing my apartment! I'd charge folks five bucks a head just to watch him cook me spaghetti and wash my drawers in the bathroom sink."

"You couldn't bring a little monkey back to this country from Malaysia, let alone a giant human/ape hybrid. It's not about the money," I said. "Just tell me why you really want to hunt a Bigfoot. "

"Okay, but you've gotta promise not to tell anyone. If you do, I swear to God I'll rip out your voice box and cook it in a soup with your tongue."

I held one hand up and placed the other over my heart. "Promise."

"Okay. Well. I used to fantasize about making pals with a Yeti, playing foosball with him, going on double dates! And a Bigfoot would be great to take to a concert, because I could get on his shoulders and see the show better than anyone! But I wouldn't ask him to wash my drawers, or cook. We'd just sit around watching TV, drinking root beer and eating cheese. And now you've ruined EVERYTHING!"

"Maybe we can plan a trip this summer," I said. "I have a week's vacation in August."

He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "August? Do you know how hot it would be in the jungles of Malaysia in the middle of summer? I'd never hear the end of your complaining. It'd be worse than being eaten by a Bigfoot, listening to you bitch and moan about the bugs and heat."

I shrugged. "Okay. I'm sorry you feel that way."

"I don't just FEEL THAT WAY! It's the TRUTH, and you KNOW IT!" he shouted. "Now pick up my duffle bag and carry it out to the main road, or I'm gonna stuff you inside it and make you go to hunt the Bigfoot with me whether you want to or not!"

Just as he raised his hand to strike me, Mister Meme came barreling out of the woods, making a flying leap at Jim and practically eating off his hand. Between his shrieks of pain, Citizen Jim—bleeding, his arm swelling up—screamed, "This is your last chance! If you don't say you're going, I'll leave without you!"

I didn't want to have to tell him again that I wasn't going. So I just waved goodbye.

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