They greet each other and Gene launches into the whole sordid story; sick, by now, of the details that he shares with Jason.

Jason: I’m really sorry to hear that, man.
Gene: Yeah, listen though, I really need a place to crash for a day or two—get my head together.
Jason: You got it, bro. You can stay at my place. Or, if you would prefer some privacy and quiet, we could set you up a cot at my studio.
Gene: Actually, man, I think I could use some company.
Jason: That’s cool, then. I’m not going anywhere today. C’mon by whenever.
Gene: Thanks a lot, man.

They say goodbye and hang up as another gust from the sea kicks up and blows into the minivan, bringing along up from the shore a small white and gray gull that lands near the van and looks at Gene from the side of his head—maybe expectantly, but gulls are hard to decipher. Gene responds by digging through his lunch refuse again for a fry and tosses it to the bird who deftly jumps into the breeze and catches the morsel in mid-salty-air with maybe a thankful cry—maybe triumphant. It’s easier to be happy when you don’t want much, Gene thinks. Then he thinks, I hope I don’t get killed by ten million pounds of sludge from New Jersey, though. “You wouldn’t know what the hell hit you, buddy!” The gull looks on—maybe suspiciously—maybe like he would know what ten million pounds of sludge looked like. Then Gene wonders how long it will be before he’s ever happy again.

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