Previously on Weeping Willow: Lee Harris volunteers at the local theatre, the Willow Lane Theatre, which is a theatre on Willow Lane in River Bend. While taking a box of pigments to the mysteriously named "Roger's Room," he is frightened by what he assumes to be the theatre's requisite ghost. Meanwhile, two stop lights and a yield sign to the left, someone is checking up on his finances. Which is odd because he doesn't have any. So, put the kids to bed, it's time for...

Installment Six (6) (VI) (after 5)
"The Dick"
(Finally, a title I can stand behind.)

His scream still echoed in his ears, almost drowning out the sound of his critically over-taxed heart.

Something large, glowing translucent white, with prodigious wings, was poised in the middle of the air, ready to attack. It took him several moments after his initial terror to realize that it wasn't alive, wasn't sentient, wasn't going to feast on fear-sweat basted flesh, which is how ghost lights prefer their human served. That and a side of garlic couscous with shallots. And saffron. As he calmed, and his eyes were more able to focus, his mind was able to more correctly interpret what he saw. It resolved into a huge papier mache angel hanging from the ceiling of the men's dressing room that swayed slightly in the soft breeze created when Lee pulled back the curtain. It wasn't translucent at all, but quite solid. The afternoon yellow sunlight streaming in the dressing room window had tricked his eye. It still didn't make sense; large papier mache angels generally don't hang from ceilings, taking up most of the room in which they hung.

He started to laugh. It began in his stomach mixed with hysteria, and overtook him so completely that he had to sit in order not to drop the box he was carrying. Through the laughter, he heard the heavy footfalls of at least two people running through the theater.

"Lee?" Peter shouted, as he rounded the corner of the set, followed closely by Stella. "What happened?"

Lee tried to explain, but was laughing too hard, so he finally just pointed at the angel. He managed to say, "ghost," and Peter and Stella both put it together at about the same moment, and joined his laughter, which wasn't quite as hysterical any more.

"It's for the town square set in the next play," Peter said when his eyes stopped watering. "Look Homeward Angel."

"I feel like such an idiot," Lee said, which, of course, made Peter and Stella begin laughing even harder. Through his embarrassment, Lee felt included, like he had somehow, through his stupidity, broken a barrier. He felt an embarrassed glow in his face which manifested in a warm smile, and his heart seemed to float in his chest like a diver must feel when he glides off the edge of the board into the warm inviting Olympic pool. It was the first time he really felt a part of something since the Jerk, and he wanted more. "Where do the men dress while this is hanging here?" he asked as he stood and brushed the seat of his pants.

"You saw Gamma Rays," Stella said. "There are no men in it."

As she walked away, Lee felt unincluded. As if, through his stupidity, he hadn't noticed the wall behind the barrier. The glow disappeared from the embarrassment, and the smile froze on his face, hiding the tightness in his throat as his heart felt like the diver must feel halfway down when he realizes his shorts flew off in the back-draft up at the board. He tried to think of some way to defend himself, tell them that he knew. But he knew she knew he didn't know. Idiot, he thought, trying not to let the smile slip any further. She flipped her full, dark hair as she turned, and it settled lushly back on her shoulders like a cashmere shawl. Her perfume sailed back in her wake, caressed him softly, then followed her like a dutiful valet. If only it were bad perfume, he thought. It would be so much easier if she wore bad perfume. Or too much perfume. Or smelled like an old gnu. Or a new gnu. Or his mom. Or Beverly. He watched her disappear around the edge of the set with a haughty, yet somehow seductive turn of the hip. Her footfalls on the wooden stage had a confident rhythm that faded from his ears long before it faded from his head. He was really confused. He looked at Peter, who smiled and shook his head.

"Stella is a gay man trapped in a woman's body," Peter said, and Lee started laughing again. "Wanna go have a beer tonight?"

Lee stopped laughing.

"I can't," he said sadly. "I can't afford it."

"It's Tuesday. Dollar Draft Night."

"I still can't afford it," Lee said, even more sadly.

"I'll buy. You drive."

"I drive a Stingray bike."

"I'll pick you up at Twain's at eight," Peter said with an exaggerated sigh. (Two "g"s in exaggerate? Really? Of course. You have to have too many "g"s in a word like exaggerate.)

At eleven thirty-two, Jim Ackerman dropped his valise on the bed of the motel room and opened it. On top of the neatly folded designer knock-off clothing was a file folder. He picked it up and looked at the top entry on the neatly folded green and white lined computer printout that was at the front of the file. The place where the credit card had been denied was called "Twain's". He set the file back in the valise and went out to the office to ask the clerk if he knew where it was. The afternoon sun glinted blindingly off the surface of the water of the swimming pool which was surrounded by cyclone fencing. Private investigators notice things like that.

"Hi, buddy. You Twain?" he asked the disheveled man behind the counter as soon as he entered the diner. The man simply nodded. "I'm Jim," he said. "My dad loved the Rockford Files. Jim Ackerman." It was twelve-o-three.

The guy behind the counter, Twain, just nodded again. Jim took out the picture. The one of the guy and his wife that had been in the file his father had given him. Looked like it must have been at their wedding. She was in a wedding dress. He was in drag (Steve!) a tuxedo. "Do you remember if this guy tried to use a credit card here?"

The guy, Twain, glanced at the picture.

"His credit was denied," Twain said. Then added, "She's a dish."

Jim nodded, then noticed the raised platform with a microphone stand in the corner. A private investigator would notice that. It was intriguing, but had nothing to do with this investigation. At least, not yet. He sighed, not sure what to do next. Twain stared at him, waiting impatiently. Dad had always told Jim that you can find out almost anything at a local newspaper.

"Um," he said just as Twain turned to walk away. "You know where the paper is, big guy? I mean the newspaper office?"

Twain told him, and he headed out. A few moments later he came back in. Twain, who was wiping the counter, picked up the photo of the guy and his wife in the wedding dress from where he had left it and handed it to Jim, who nodded and headed back out. It was five after twelve.

After the harrowing experience with the paint pigment, Stella gave Lee a safe job with lots of light, making sure he knew she didn't trust him with anything more taxing. She also, somehow, kept sending her perfume his way in annoyingly alluring little puffs.. He spent the rest of the day stuffing flyers for The Willow Lane Theater's next production, "Look Homeward Angel", into envelopes.

The Stingray bike ride home after that novocaine shampoo was as exhilarating as moving slowly through still afternoon air could be, like jumping into a fjord must be after dining in a Norwegian restaurant. The air had that dusty, sweet smell that predicted rain. He looked to one side of the sky which was brilliant blue, and to the other which looked like a late evening charcoal gray, thick with heavy clouds, and to the other which was closed for repair. He pedaled a little faster. The air began to stir, which felt good and just a little scary, which also felt good. As he turned the corner that would lead to Twain's, he stopped to watch a white plastic bag twirling about half a foot off the ground, dancing a sensual ballet with golden, fallen leaves. After a few seconds, he got bored and rode on.

When he rode up the sidewalk in front of Twain's, he noticed that the hood to his car was up and someone was playing around in its guts. Maybe this was the guy that Twain told him had been looking for him yesterday. He jumped off the Stingray which flopped to the ground with its wheels still spinning valiantly like a fallen comrade, and ran toward the car, stopping a safe distance away, in case the guy was packing heat. Or carrying a gun. Or stinky.

"Hey," he shouted. "What are you doing there?"

It was Twain. And he wasn't packing heat, so Lee came closer.

"Fixing it," he said, then he closed the hood, swiped his hands together and walked back into the diner. Lee stood looking back and forth between his car and Twain, then followed Twain in. A moment later he came back out and picked up the fallen Stingray and brought that in.

"Thank you," he said to Twain, who seemed to be ignoring him. "But I can't afford to pay you back for that, those belt things are a hundred bucks."

"Got it for fifteen at the junk yard. I put it on your tab."

Lee was nonplused. "Um," he said. "Thank you." He stood a moment, then put his bike in the hall and went in back to start on the lunch dishes. (We used "nonplused" last installment. I know, it's a callback. What's a callback? A reference to something previously mentioned for comic effect. Oh.)

Jim got lost twice trying to find the newspaper office, but finally parked in front of it six minutes before five. He came in brandishing the photo of the guy and his wife.

"Hi, there, big guy," he said to the guy at the desk. "I'm Jim. My dad liked the Rockford Files©."

"You can't copyright a title," the guy snipped. "Can I help you with you something?"

Jim showed him the picture. "Do you have any information on this guy?"

"Do you have his name?"

"Um. Oh. Yeah, back at the hotel."

The guy glanced at the wall clock and told him they closed in five minutes. Jim turned to leave, then stopped.

"When do you open in the morning?"

"Eight."

"I'll see you then, buddy."

"I'll alert the media."

At precisely eight o'clock Tuesday morning, Jim was standing at the front door of the River Bend Bee carrying his file folder, waiting for the door to open. At precisely eight-o-seven and ten seconds, the guy unlocked the door and let him in.

"Hi. Jim Ackerman. I was here yesterday."

"The Rockford guy. With your file."

Jim smiled. He looked at the folder.

"His name is Lee Harris," he said and the guy told him to wait a moment. Jim set the file down and noticed the photos and clippings on the walls. PI's notice that sort of thing. He didn't notice the jar on the counter filled with quarters. He read one of the clippings which was about flooding in Jakarta, Indonesia, but that has nothing to do with this story. Just as he was about to read another clipping, the newspaper guy came out from the back with a page from a newspaper. Jim read it. It was a police sheet. Lee Harris had been arrested outside of a bar called The Office. Odd name, he thought. Wait, arrested? Could that be right? Could his father have sent him to find a con? That couldn't be right. Cool. I finally get a dangerous one, he thought, and started to leave, his heart beating excitedly, then stopped and turned to thank the guy. Then he started to leave, but stopped and asked the guy where The Office was. He got the directions and started to leave, but stopped and turned, sure he had forgotten something. The newspaper guy handed him his file on Lee Harris.

"Thanks, pal," he said, and leaved.

Jim Ackerman arrived at the bar called The Office at eight forty. The sign out front said it opened at noon.

Not wishing to appear too anxious, he returned at twelve fifteen. The bartender was still taking the chairs down from the tables. Jim sat at the bar and ordered a beer. Private investigators often ordered beer in the early afternoon. Domestic, of course. When the bartender gave it to him, he introduced himself and showed the bartender the wedding photo.

"Yeah, I recognize him," the bartender said. "That was, God, maybe a month ago. He was drinking Tanquerey and tonic, talking to Kim Anderson. She was drinking 7&7. Rocks."

The waitress, a tall drink of water (that's what gumshoes called waitresses), came in and said, "Hey, Headline."

"Why'd she call you that?" Jim asked. But that has nothing to do with this story. (Steve! Sorry.)

"That's my nickname."

"Why?"

"I know a little about everything." Jim was skeptical. "Test me."

"Name the three original shows on the NBC Mystery Movie."

"Easy. Columbo, McCloud and McMillan and Wife."

"Wasn't Rockford Files part of that?"

"No, that was years later. Same network, though."

He also asked who discovered helium, and was surprised that Headline actually knew the answer. Then he got down to business and asked who this Kim Anderson person was and where he could find her. Headline wiped the counter in front of him with a ribbed white towel that smelled slightly of mildew and old beer while he explained that she often worked at the Willow Lane Theater, was actually stage managing the current show, The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-In-the-Moon Marigolds, and that she would probably be there Wednesday afternoon as they often had a pick-up rehearsal Wednesday evening and she would have to get everything ready. He also gave him directions to the theater, knowing he would probably want to go there. He knew a little about everything.

"Thanks, chief," Jim said as he paid.

"No problem, champ," Headline said. "Good luck."

Jim left the bar, then turned around to go back to get his wallet which he had left on the bar. It was twelve thirty-seven. He had the afternoon to himself. He thought he might check out this intriguing town. It had a certain curious charm.

Peter showed up at Twain's a little before eight. Lee dried his hands on the towel that he had draped on his belt, put the towel on the counter next to the sink, set fire to the topiary giraffe in the corner (Steve! Sorry. Can he light a candle? No!), and told Twain he and Peter were going out for a beer.

"Have fun," Twain said, sounding like an indulgent mother. Except with a much deeper voice. And whiskers. Well, Steve's mom has whiskers. (Hey, she reads this stuff! Sorry, Mrs. Steve's Mom. That's better.) "Stay out of jail."

Lee momentarily broke stride, but decided to carry on without comment.

The sky had opened up, and a wonderful, dense rain was turning the entire town aquatic. (Okay, Browning.) The air was damp and clean, and the atmosphere was charged. The water pounded on the roof of Peter's car like a steady stream of ten-penny nails. There was a drippy leak just above Peter's right shoulder, and Lee was fascinated by the way Peter was able, almost unconsciously, to drive twisted to the side, not get a drop on him, and still hold up his end of the conversation.

The run from the car to the tavern drenched them both even before Lee slipped and landed flat on his back in the middle of a puddle. The water crested away from him on both sides, and splashed Peter's trouser legs.

"Oh, my God," Peter shouted. "Are you okay?" When he realized Lee wasn't hurt, he tried to help him up and squelch the laugh that was trying to escape.

"Damnit," Lee said. Peter looked at him with concern.

"I'm fine," he said, and forced a smile.

Peter made sure Lee was balanced before he let go of his arm.

The Office was jumping for a rainy night. Not as jumping as the last time Lee had been there, but the crowd was just as young. Except for Peter and Lee who sat at a table with a mug of beer each. And Zsa Zsa who was working the back room. The noise was somehow soothing, and Lee was glad that the special was beer. He would probably never have a Tanquerey and tonic in public again. Maybe not even in private. After a few sips of his beer, he stood to make sure he was still stable. Peter thought the movement odd, but noticed that Lee's pants were bunched on the side as if he had cinched his belt too tight. Lee sat again. His shirt was soaked. There was a sizable and growing puddle under the table. The sound of the rain muffled through the roof and ceiling was the sound of distant underwater drums, and it mingled with the juke box and the crack of ceramic pool balls.

"Not a fit night out for man or beast," Peter said.

"Then what are we doing in it?" Lee said and drained his mug with a small shiver.

"Tuesday night," Peter said. "Dollar beer. Want another one?"

Lee stood to make sure he could have another, then sat.

"It's okay," Peter said, misinterpreting the movement. "I told you I'd buy. I gotta hit the head. Would you mind picking up the next round?"

He gave Lee three dollars for the round and a tip, then he headed for the head.

Lee stood at the bar clutching the three dollars in his hand, waiting for the bartender to see him.

"Hey," Headline said when he finally noticed him. "Tanquerey and tonic?"

"What?" Lee said, startled. He couldn't decide if he should be flattered at being remembered or repulsed at the memory. "No," he finally said. "Just two beers."

"Two bucks."

Headline pulled the drafts and set them on the bar in front of Lee, who dropped the bills reluctantly. When he released his grip, the blood returned to his fingers with a tingle, and the bills fell, a damp clump, on the bar.

"That guy ever catch up with you?" Headline asked as he tried in vain to smooth the bills out.

"What guy?"

Headline told him about the dick who was asking about him that afternoon. Lee asked what he wanted. Headline said he didn't ask, and turned his attention to the pretty redhead who had just called his name.

"Right there," he said to her with an electric smile.

Peter was already back at the table when Lee returned.

"What's the matter?" he asked him.

Lee breathed in to answer, then turned his face off.

"Nothing," he said as he set one of the frothing mugs in front of Peter. "Cheers."

Jim Ackerman arrived at the Willow Lane Theater shortly after twelve-o-six, Wednesday afternoon. He had spent the previous afternoon walking around the town. There was the dry goods store, the notions shop, (what's a notion? I think it means an idea. Why do they have a store for that? I haven't a notion. Now, that's just stupid. Sew?), the five and dime and Gucci's®. He went down an alleyway between two major streets, just past the tattoo parlor. It was a normal alleyway except that the old brick walls on either side of it were covered with gum. Years worth. Some forming brightly colored pictures, some grey from age. Some spelling names and some so high he wondered how they had gotten up there. He took the Beechnut out of his mouth (Private dicks often chewed Beechnut) and put it into a vug in the wall, adding his mark to the town, and continued on through, past the almost completed depiction of the Last Supper with the Lord's face rendered in Black Jack and Bazooka.

When he got to the theater, the box office was open. There was a nice blue-haired lady sitting on the stool behind the window reading a bodice ripper. When he walked up, she greeted him with a vapid but helpful smile.

"Hi," he said. "Jim Ackerman."

"Hello, Mr. Ackerman," she said, the smile still helpful.

"Jim. Yeah. My father liked the Rockford Files."

She stared at him blankly with the same vapid smile.

"Tickets start at fifteen dollars," she said.

He told her he was looking for a woman named Kim Anderson. She had no idea who that was, but called in back for someone named Peter, who came out from somewhere in back. Peter was portly, had an unkempt beard, disheveled hair and was wearing an odd combination of clothing. His cologne smelled slightly of pepper. Detectives took note of such things. He said that Kim wouldn't be there until around five.

At five sharp, Jim entered the lobby of the Willow Lane Theater, went through the door to the left which led to the theater itself. The room was ablaze with light, and there was a blond woman in a loose fitting sweatshirt and tight fitting jeans carrying a stack of newspapers across the stage. He called to her and she came down the aisle. He showed her the photo. She vaguely remembered the guy from about a month before, seemed surprised and strangely disappointed that he was married, and said she had a lot of work to do before the rehearsal. He thanked her politely and left. He turned back to retrieve what he had forgotten, but couldn't remember having forgotten anything. He left the theater unsure whether he should go back to be sure or not.

He went back to the motel, completely perplexed, uncertain of what to do next. Where to go next. Who to ask what next. He retraced his steps in his mind. He went over each conversation, or at least what he remembered of each conversation. He took a shower to clear his mind. When even that didn't work, he decided to go to the bar. He got there at seven twenty-four. Headline told him the guy he was looking for had been there the evening before. Jim ordered a Boilermaker.

Peter got to Twain's first, followed shortly by Kim, and they took a booth. Matt took their order for Coke and heroin (you're so predictable) Seven®-Up. He knew there would be more joining them so he set a pile of menus down and went to get the drinks.

"So, who was that guy looking for you?" Peter asked Kim when they were both settled in with their beverage.

"What guy?" Kim asked, then remembered. "Oh, no, I don't know him. He was looking for someone I had a drink with about a month ago. Fellow named Lee. Harris, I think."

Peter's eyebrow went up. Just like Pop. From Speed Racer.

"What did he want with Lee?"

Agnes came into the diner and sat next to Kim.

"Kim. Peter, darling," she said and picked up a menu.

"I didn't ask," Kim said. "Hi, Agnes."

"I thought you had some sort of hot date, good looking guy like that."

"Ask what? Good looking?" Agnes asked over the menu.

Matt came to the table and she ordered a cherry lemonade. Three other people joined them. Lee, who had heard the hubbub build, came down to help out.

"Hey, Lee," Peter called to him, and he came over to the table. "Kim said someone was looking for you at the theater this afternoon."

"At the theater, too? For Christ's sake," he said as two more joined them, "who the hell is this guy?"

Then he noticed the ladies at the table. "Sorry," he said, turning a charming shade of pink.

Agnes put her hand on his arm.

"Such a gentleman," she said. "Shit, darling, don't worry about it. Peter, dear, aren't you going to introduce us?"

Peter dutifully made all the introductions. When he got to Kim, Lee thought he remembered her somehow, but was sure her name had been Loni. Loni said it was nice seeing him again. I mean Kim. Said it was nice seeing him again. Then Lee asked what the guy wanted. No one knew. No one in the whole damn town knew what the damn guy wanted, and, it seemed, everyone in the damn town but him had talked to the damn guy. Didn't he tell any of these people how he might get in touch with him? What was with this damn town?

Matt came up to take the orders and Lee went back to help Twain prepare everything. When all the food was well on its way, Twain went to the little raised platform, moved the microphone stand a little forward and stood behind it.

"The wind," he said, "blows before the storm. A color like gray chalk spreads across the sky, a dog barks, and I find I have no raincoat."

Twain continued on in this vein for some time. Lee was frozen, fascinated. He was even more fascinated that no one, it seemed, even noticed the odd behavior. Odd even for Twain. It almost superceded the feeling in his gut about the strange, even for River Bend, event of a strange man asking everyone strange questions about him. Almost.

"Here you go Mr. Principal," Matt said as he set down the hamburger and fudge. (Peter wouldn't eat fudge, he's a salt kind of guy. I know, Geoff, it's a callback. What's... oh, never mind.)

"Mmmm," said Peter. "Just like sex."

Lee gave Kim her grilled Velveeta on white and Agnes her nicoise salad.

As she cut the crust from her sandwich, Kim mentioned to Peter that she just remembered the guy that afternoon had also asked about Bubble Gum Alley, of all things. Then she ate the cheese from the crusts. Then she ate the crusts.

"What's Bubble Gum Alley?" Lee asked.

"It's a callback," Peter said.

When Lee turned to go back to the kitchen, he was almost positive that Agnes patted him lightly on the fanny. When he brought the big basket of fries for the table, he was sure she caressed his thigh. She's gotta be sixty, he thought. As he went back to the kitchen, he found himself almost aroused, which almost horrified him. When he came back out, she was standing by the counter, and leaned in close enough that he could feel her breath on his cheek.

"You are an extremely handsome young man," she said with quiet confidence. He was a silly millimeter away from responding positively, which confused him. He hadn't been with anyone in a very long time. He was intrigued. And curious. Which confused him. He certainly didn't want to be known around town not only as the guy who got arrested for public intoxication and for being wanted by some strange stranger, but also as the guy who sleeps with sixty-something women. If there were no other women around, or no one around who might see, he may have gone for it. He found just enough pride somewhere to say "thanks" and move by her. He was very confused. Which was a state he found himself in all too often. It was somehow better than Illinois.

When the theater crowd left the diner, Lee went out and sat in his car. He wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, and now that the car was fixed, he could. Go into town. Get out of town. But there was only a quarter of a tank of gas, and he might need that for an emergency. And he wouldn't be paid his filthy twenty-five bucks for two days. What change he had wouldn't even be enough for laundry. If only he had a TV. Or a CD player. Or a ticket to a jazz club. Or a movie. Or a handy-wipe named Betty. Or money. He sighed heavily and went lumpishly, reveling in the exaggeratedly melodramatic movements, up the stairs to his Taj Mahal and slumped into a stupor on the green couch, punching the Naugahyde in a completely unsatisfying gesture.

Jim woke, still dressed in his knock-off Tommy Hilfiger trousers and Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, at eight fifteen Thursday morning, tangled in the motel bed sheets, with a thumping hangover. He untangled himself from the sheets, went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face to clear his mind. He sat on the bed and retraced his steps for the thirty-seventh time. He was at a complete loss. I should never have begged Dad for this job, he thought. He looked at the file folder on Lee Harris. He opened it and thumbed through the papers inside. He looked at the computer printout that had led him to the diner his first day in this stupid town. As he was looking at the top transaction, the one that had been denied, he noticed a transaction at a motel listed just below it. He thought for a minute, then looked over at the matches in the little ashtray on the bedstand. It had the same name as the motel on the printout printed on it. What an idiot. Why hadn't I tried to find a job playing basketball? It was the thing I did best.

At eight forty-seven he went to the motel office and asked the clerk if he recognized the guy in the photo.

"Yeah," the clerk said. "He's living at Twain's."

"That diner I went to the first day I was here?" Jim asked.

"That's who you're looking for?" the clerk asked. "You didn't tell me that's who you were looking for. You should have told me a week ago and not wasted your client's money. If you'd told me why you wanted to know where Twain's was I would have told you this then. You're not very good at this are you?"

Jim sadly agreed with him, making a mental note to admit to his father he had been right, and quit before the old man died and he had to take over the business. PI's always made mental notes. No, they didn't. They made notes on pads. He would never get this. He turned to go, then turned back and asked where Twain's was again. At exactly nine twelve, Jim Ackerman noticed that his watch had stopped at eight fifty-nine.

Lee needed a walk in the cool morning air. He had slept fitfully, dreaming of old women asking after him everywhere he went and PI's pinching him on the butt. As soon as he had gotten the diner set up for breakfast and given Twain his first cup of coffee, he went out to breathe in some normality. The sky was open with light, carefree clouds, and the branches of the trees moved gently in the pleasant breeze. Even the faint chimney smoke smelled clean, and the anxiety awakened in his dreams faded from his mind.

Jim walked down the sidewalk toward the diner. The air smelled like sooty fireplaces, and the wind felt cold and uncomfortable in his hair. The bright morning sun stung his hungover eyes, and he wished he had brought sunglasses. As he got closer to the diner, he saw someone come through the door. The person looked familiar. He stopped when he realized it was the guy. The guy in the wedding picture. The con.

Lee turned when he noticed someone standing on the sidewalk. The someone moved toward him. Seemed to recognize him. Oh, Lee thought. His body wanted to run but his mind needed to find out what this guy wanted.

What does the dick want?
Where does Agnes get her charm?
Why is there a microphone in the corner of the diner?
Who did discover helium?
When will we give up this futile effort and get real jobs?
Will Stella ever give Lee any respect?
Will Penny?
Or Marshall?
And what exactly was Zsa Zsa doing in the back room?

To find the answers to these and other esoteric enigmas, tune in to our next installment:
"The Dick"
I won't even qualify that with a response. You just did.
"Clean Up on Aisle Five"

(Hey, we didn't say "fuck" once! Geoff! Sorry.)