Tara’s ex-husband Rick Newman sits in his car at a dark edge of the Norelco plant’s parking lot, across the street from the television studio. He too once worked at WGTV. For one glorious year, in fact, he was the weekend anchorman. The anchor. The man. He and Crazy Whore started there at the same time, both of them 22, both of them just graduated from Packer, boyfriend and girlfriend, news-tape editors working side by side. How’s that for an eternity ago. Now, thanks to her, he sells Saturns. He still gets recognized, though. Every now and again.
When he sees her spot the turd on the Lexus' roof, he smiles. Didn’t even expect to, really. Thought he was putting it there perfunctorily, dutifully, just because something should mark the six-month anniversary of their divorce. But when she finds it and curses a tiny thundercloud into the cold air, he smiles involuntarily and broadly, watching himself in the rearview mirror. It’s a reminder: Don’t ever underestimate the peevish, childish pleasures. The pleasure of pulled hair. The pleasure of Indian burn. The pleasure of smashed toy. It’s so good, in fact, he follows her home, staying well behind her (he doesn’t want that turd on his windshield), seeking some further shabby gratification. Hey: Six months is an accomplishment. And he’s got an hour to kill before he picks up his niece anyway.
