For some reason, Kim, Kevin, Erik, Mom, Dad, and I were all on vacation together. We went to a weird hotel-type thing. We watched a movie about washed-up basketball stars. Everyone started crying. Then we down a flight of stairs. It was the team’s old locker room. Their areas were about the size of a bathroom stall. Charlie, an elderly black man, was sitting and crying. Boutros Boutros Ghali’s area was empty. I went upstairs to the front desk to see if there was any mail and to move Dad’s car. There was a packet for me from Pigeon Poetry, a magazine who was rejecting my poetry. I opened it up to read my poems and I didn’t remember writing any of them. Most of them were “I hate society” types of poems. so I left it here with some stuff for my mom. I went to move Dad’s car, but it wouldn’t start. It finally rolled . . . right into the back of a car. But it was moved. Dad came out and told me that if I ever had an accident, he’d understand and he wouldn’t blame me. Mom forgot to pick up the stuff from the front desk. We drove by a water tower and two guys were jumping off. Dad asked me if Dan Cortese was dead. I said yes and looked for him, but all I saw was a black guy with an afro.