On Friday evening, Phoebe arrived at Karl’s house at 8:00 wearing jeans, a fitted blouse and high-heeled boots. Karl answered the door in cut-offs and a very faded U2 t-shirt.

“Come on in,” Karl said and led the way down a dark hallway crowded with tools, bikes and something that could have been a partially disassembled car engine. The hallway dumped them out into a living room filled with half-dying plants, cast-off furniture and the smoke from several cones of incense.

“Does it smell OK in here to you?” Karl asked. “Because Phillip’s girlfriend said it smelled like feet.”

“Who’s Phillip?”

“One of my roommates.”

It hadn’t occurred to Phoebe that Karl might still be of the inclination to have roommates. She looked around the room as if one might pop out from behind the sagging couch or the stack of milk crates being used for bookshelves.

“How many do you have?” she asked.

“Only four. But Augustine lives in the basement and we never see him. He’s going through some stuff right now.” Karl pointed to a chair that was losing its stuffing. “Have a seat.”

Phoebe sat and Karl disappeared into the next room. She heard the clinking of glasses and clanking of a pot.

“Have you eaten anything?” Karl called out to her.

“Uh… I had a sandwich before I came. Nothing fancy though, if you’re…”

“I’m making hot dogs. Want one?”

“Uh… Sure, I guess.”

“I’m also having a beer but I know you said no alcohol so how about some orange juice?”

“Orange juice?”

“Milk?”

“I could just have some water.”

“Well, the tap water is a little iffy,” Karl said. “Old pipes. We usually have bottled but we’re out.”

“I guess juice then.” Phoebe waved some of the incense smoke away from her face as the air currents in the room shifted.

Karl padded into the room with two paper plates, a can of beer and a glass of orange juice. He set it all out on the coffee table, carefully using the end that didn’t look like it had been charred in a fire. He disappeared and then came back with napkins and a bottle of ketchup.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more fancy,” Karl said. “But I screwed up on my taxes and now I owe a shitload of money to the IRS so its hot dogs for me, twice a day, until I get enough money to pay it off.”

“I didn’t know someone could live on just hot dogs without developing something horrible, like scurvy.”

“Well, that’s where the orange juice comes in,” Karl said and nestled onto the couch cross-legged, holding his paper plate on his lap and tackling the first of three hot dogs. “I didn’t spring for any mustard this week. I should have.”

“You know, I could have brought some food over,” Phoebe said.

“No, its fine.” Karl said, unperturbed by his dire financial situation. He set his hot dog down and jumped up from the couch. “Let me put some music on.”

Karl spent several minutes flipping through albums that were stored in still more milk crates around a gigantic stereo system. It seemed to Phoebe that if he sold the stereo and speakers, he’d be able to pay off his tax debt but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she concentrated on her hot dog, which tasted very good. Perhaps it was the surroundings.

Karl decided on Trompe le Monde by the Pixies, put it on the turntable and came back to the couch. Phoebe sipped her juice and studied a nearly wall-size poster of Jim Morrison.

“So, what could we do?” Karl asked. “Watch TV? Watch a movie? Play a game?”

“A game?” Phoebe snapped to attention. “What sort of game?”

“Uh… I don’t know. I think we have some games around here somewhere.”

Karl leaned all the way forward and flipped over so that he could look under the couch. He reached into the dark space and pulled something forward. First an enormous dust bunny emerged. Karl quickly stuffed it back under the couch while hoisting up a beaten box containing Trivial Pursuit.

“I’m pretty good at this,” Karl said. “If you’d like to play it.”

“I love trivia,” Phoebe said. “I hope you’re ready to be pounded into the dust.”

They moved everything off the coffee table and set up, hunting around the room for missing pieces and cards. Finally, they started to play. It became apparent very early on that Karl had been modest about his trivial knowledge, as he collected his blue, pink and brown wedges all within five minutes. This caused Phoebe to try harder, pressing her fingers to her temples when it was her turn, and pondering each question so long Karl would get bored and wander off to the kitchen for another beer or over to the stereo to see about another record. The harder she tried, the more she goofed up or her brain locked and even simple answers wouldn’t come to her. But Karl moved around the board with ease and it was amazing to watch him, not only because he answered his questions with ease but also because he looked very nice in his glasses and his hair was tousled in just the right way. And the t-shirt, which Phoebe had found very off-putting at first, was now very cute.

“OK,” Karl said, “I’ll take a History question.”

“Who was the only Russian-born prime minister of Israel?” Phoebe read.

“Golda Meir,” Karl answered, already shaking the die and moving to a blue space.

“What U.S. state would you be in if you made the short trip from Citronelle to Tangerine?” Phoebe asked.

“Florida,” Karl said, scanning the board for the best way to access a green space, Sports and Leisure, the only piece he still needed.

“What NFL footballer saw his weight reach a league-leading 340 pounds in 1988?” Phoebe asked. “Oh, who doesn’t know this one?”

“William ‘The Refrigerator’ Perry?” Karl asked.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Phoebe said.

“Telling you.”

“That’s right,” Phoebe said and sighed. “You already have all your pieces and I only have Entertainment.”

“But remember I still have to get in the middle for the final victory question.” Karl said, trying to be nice. “Usually green is my downfall. I’m terrible at sports questions.”

At this moment, two of Karl’s roommates arrived home, slamming through the front door and pounding down the hallway. One of them took a detour into a bedroom as the other came into the living room with a paper bag, which he peeled away to reveal a six-pack of Mickey’s.

“Hey, man,” the roommate said.

“I thought you guys were going out,” Karl said, frowning.

“Nah. The bar was lame. We’re going to listen to records.”

“This is Phoebe,” Karl said. “Phoebe, this is Sven.”

“Hi, Sven.”

Sven didn’t answer. Instead, he went over at the stereo, removing the record they’d been listening to and flipping through the ones in the milk crates.

“Oh, dude, how about a little ‘Convoy?’” Sven asked Karl.

“Well, I don’t know… Phoebe, do you like the song, ‘Convoy?’”

But Sven had already cued it up and turned up the volume, so that the sound of a honking semi-truck filled the room. At this point, the other roommate emerged from the bedroom and helped himself to a Mickey’s. He opened one and nodded to Karl.

“Phoebe, this is Phillip,” Karl said.

“Hi, Phillip.”

“Hey. What are you guys playing? Trivia?” Phillip asked. “I thought we set that on fire.”

“No, it seems to have survived,” Karl said. “Aren’t you seeing Alicia tonight?”

“She’s a bitch. Did I tell you what she did?” Phillip settled on the couch. “Turns out she’s still talking to her boyfriend from college – that guy named Regis?”

“Yeah, Regis,” Sven called out over the din of “Convoy.” “Isn’t that a total stroker name? Hey, do you dudes want to hear a little John Cougar Mellencamp after this?”

“I think it’s just John Mellencamp now,” Karl said.

“But when he recorded this album, he was still The Cougar,” Sven said.

“Well,” Phoebe said. “Maybe I should go.”

“I’d play some trivia with you guys,” Phillip said.

“Well, I should go,” Phoebe said.

“I guess we could start over,” Karl said to Phillip. “What color do you want?”

“It’s getting late,” Phoebe said and stood up.

“I’ll be brown,” Phillip said.

“Uh, OK, I guess,” Karl said. “Are you sure you have to go, Phoebe?”

“I should go,” Phoebe said.

“Well, OK. Thanks for coming over,” Karl said, reaching for one of the Mickey’s. “It was fun.”

Phoebe stood uncertainly in front of the chair. Sven played “Little Pink Houses.” Phillip poked through the dilapidated Trivial Pursuit box for more wedges. Finally, Phoebe made her decision and moved towards the door. At the entrance to the hallway, she looked back over her shoulder but Karl was busy lining up his wedges for the next go-around at Trivial Pursuit. She walked down the hall, her boots echoing on cheaply covered plywood and fumbled with the door. It seemed to be locked but no amount of flipping of latches released it.

“I think I’m stuck,” Phoebe called out, straining to be heard over the theme song from The Dukes of Hazzard.

“Just pull up on the knob a little,” Karl yelled.

Annoyed, Phoebe jerked up on the knob while also twisting it and the door sprung open. She let herself out and stalked all the way to the bus stop with her fists clenched, half-hoping to be mugged or at least verbally harassed. Then Karl would feel bad for not being more chivalrous. Then maybe he’d learn to get up when a lady left the room, to see her to the door, to turn on a porch light and offer to walk her to through dark streets to catch her bus.

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