In that 20 minutes, she told me about Tom, Tom who didnt love her, Tom the well-paid asshole with the gorgeous apartment, Tom who fucked her like a beast and then went out drinking with his friends thats where he was right now while kind, warm, enthusiastic, broke-dick Gary sat holding her hand in a bar, his balls turning to dust. Gary Benchley, the true friend.

Watching her cry, I knew Benchley had hit bottom. I had reached the mythical state of total anti-rock, which I call Train, after the band. When the head of every drum is torn, and all guitars out of tune, when the microphone melts in your hand, thats Train, and I was in Train all the way up to my drops of Jupiter.