3D is filled with a dirty light and John is sitting in a meditative pose, cross-legged in the middle of the living room when Travis stumbles in, wiping sleep from his eyes. It is three-thirty in the afternoon. “That’s a first,” Travis says, commenting cynically on the fact that John is awake before him.

John has his eyes closed. “I was contemplating my penis.”

“That’s fascinating,” Travis says, crossing the room to the kitchen. The television is on, turned to channel ninety-nine and muted. “I see what you guys were doing after I crashed,” he says, passing into the kitchen.

“Do you know that I have the world’s most aesthetically pleasing penis?” John calls out after him.

Fishing through the cabinets for a bowl and his cereal, Travis replies, “I was very pleasantly unaware of that fact.” Opening the refrigerator, he pulls out a carton of milk, opens it, sniffs it, makes a face, and puts it back. The only other possibilities besides the soured milk were salsa, a cucumber, something in a tupperware container and a pitcher of lemonade. Standing and staring at his cereal, Travis hypothetically constructs the taste of Cheerios and lemonade, then shuts the door. He pours Cheerios into a bowl and returns to the living room. He sits down in the armchair and picks up the remote to flip through channels, stopping when he comes to Bugs and Yosemite Sam arguing over something in pirate hats. “What the hell are you doing?” he says, talking to the television, shoving a handful of dry cereal into his mouth.

“I told you. I’m contemplating my penis.”

Half-rotating in the chair and half-turning his head, Travis strains to look over his shoulder at John. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

Opening his eyes, John looks at Travis. “Cabalistic meditation.”

“Cool,” Travis says, stuffing another handful of cereal into his mouth and turning back to the television just in time to see Yosemite Sam get smashed by a cannon ball. “I love that part!” he declares, a few Cheerios falling from his mouth into his lap.

John gets up of the floor and sits down on one of the couches along the wall, beneath three of Nick’s strange and colorful four foot by four foot pastel renderings of bar scenes. The characters in the paintings are grossly twisted and faceless as they bend and melt over the bar and each other against a dizzying and meandering background. Striking, they never failed to catch the attention of any guest coming into the apartment. “Unmute it,” John says. Fetching the remote, Travis unmutes the television in time to hear Yosemite Sam scream as Bugs throws yet another match into the ship’s powder room. The two sit mesmerized for a few minutes. “Where’s Nick?” Travis asks.

“He said he had to get some supplies or something. You still feel like getting your amp fixed?”

“Yeah, you bet.”

“We should head out soon then. I think the shop closes at five.”

“That’s cool. I didn’t think about that.” He pauses for a moment, tearing himself away from Yosemite Sam, blackened and frozen from an explosion, flying through the air and what is left of his ship. “Let’s get the Fat Kid to go with us.”

“He probably won’t be back for a while.”

“No, the other Fat Kid.”

“Ian?”

Travis nods.

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”

Glancing to the television and back, Travis asks surprised, “Were you already up when Nick left?”

John rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I didn’t really go to sleep.”

Turning back to the TV, Travis just says, “That Cosmoblastarific meditation must be fun.”

“Cabalistic,” John corrects.

“Noooo!” Travis hollers in unison with Yosemite.

“Whatdya’ think he’s been up to?” asks John.

“Well, I hope he’s not dead. I don’t remember how this one ends,” Travis says.

“Ian, dumbass—whatdya’ think Ian’s been up to?” John says, sitting back on the couch.

Stuffing another large handful of Cheerios into his mouth, Travis mumbles, “Fa-tr-i-tee sh- tuffles.”

As though the answer might surprise him, John asks, “Do you think he’s been drinking?”

Muting the commercial, Travis turns the arm chair to face John with a squeaky zeal, but keeps turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees. “I can’t believe how drunk we got last night,” he says, riding the chair around, giving it another push with his toes.

John growls in his perverted uncle voice, “That’s Schlitz, baby!”

“My tolerance must be something awful these days. Seven or eight and I can barely drive.”

Patiently placing his hands together in a priestly fashion, John intones, “It takes practice, my son.”

“Did you finish that whole bottle of Cuervo?”

“No. There’s still about a quarter left if you want some.”

“I wonder if tequila tastes good with Cheerios?” Travis contemplates his bowl, and wrinkles his nose. “Let me take a shower and put on some clothes and well go.”

“Good. I’m not taking you anywhere smelling like that.”

Sniffing under his arm, Travis looks hurt. It wasn’t that bad.

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