The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

Today I came home from work and the back door of my apartment building was covered with microwavable pesto sauce. It made a slender arc, as if someone had stood in the alleyway about five feet away with a container of sauce and flung it like Tom Sawyer in front of the whitewash fence.

Last Saturday a friend of mine got thrown up against a cop car right as we were leaving a party, because they thought that his friend, who also had just left the party, was a hooker. They made us all go back inside the party while they spent twenty minutes alone with the girl. We never did find out why they thought she was a hooker, or what they were doing hanging outside of the party in the first place.

Yesterday my electricity got turned off because my temp agency has been scheduling me an average of ten hours a week. It was two in the morning when I discovered this, so I just went to bed, opening all of my windows and hoping the crack of sunlight at dawn would wake me up in time for work. It didn’t. The agency called me at work and yelled at me and when I explained what happened, they said, “Well, that’s not our fault.”

A week ago exactly I got yelled at by a homeless guy in McDonald’s because I wouldn’t give him any money. He looked at my tie and said, “Won’t give me any money, stupid cracker muthafucka.”

In two weeks the city of Chicago will be closing off an eight block area around the United Center for the Democratic National Convention. Anyone caught in the eight block area, for any reason, at any time, whatsoever, will be automatically arrested. They say it is for security reasons.

Four days ago I had a first date with a beautiful woman. We went to a party, got lost on the way there, laughed a lot, drank free liquor, and were inundated with half a dozen of my old co-workers, who all kept whispering to her behind my back about what a great guy I was. We both agreed at the end of the night that it had been a lot of fun and that we should definitely go out again. Two days later we ran into each other at the open mic we had met at. She said, “You know, Jason, I don’t think things between us are gonna fly.” She offered no explanation, and I didn’t ask for one.

Last weekend a friend drove me to a party, then refused to give me a ride home. My friend Steve was gracious enough to walk fifty minutes with me at six in the morning to his place and let me sleep there. On the way to his house, a black man passed us and said, “Two wrongs don’t make a right” and sneered. We passed another man at the corner of North and Damen. He claimed he was from the suburbs, had driven into town and spent every last cent on liquor last night, then found out his car was broken. If we would loan him train fare, he would go out to the suburbs, and three and a half hours later bring us back our money. He offered to let us hold his glasses as collateral. To this day, I still don’t know if the guy actually thought we were going to hang out at that intersection for three and a half hours.

A week and a half ago I watched a bomb blow up at the Olympics. Then everyone made fun of me because I was upset by it.

About three weeks ago I went to my friend’s new condo, the one he just bought. It has a spiral staircase in the middle of the living room that goes through a hole in the ceiling, straight to the bedroom. He has a quad speaker system hooked up to his television, and when you watch a Cubs game, it sounds like the crowd is literally sitting behind you. He showed me the $85 antique toy soldiers he had just bought. Later, after a few drinks, he admitted to me that he hates going out somewhere straight after work, because he still has his suit on and he “feels like a dork.”

In three days I go to my ten-year high school reunion. When I got the invitation, there was also a list of all the people they have not been able to track down. Included in the list were all nine girls I had crushes on during high school.

Five years ago I went to my five-year reunion. Everyone thought I was gay. When I would say that I wasn’t, they would say, “Well, you know, Chris Dabner came out his freshman year in college. Then he dropped out the next year, moved to Europe, and no one’s heard from him since.”

Also at the reunion, a stranger walked up to me and said, “Excuse me. You don’t know me, but I cheated off you in Psych class our entire junior year.” All I could think to say was, “What grade did you get?” He said, “B,” and I found it odd, because I got a C in Psych.

Exactly eighteen days ago, I received the one hundredth rejection of my novel. At the time, it didn’t upset me nearly as much as it does now.

Two weeks ago my brother got his wallet stolen in New York City. Two days ago I found out that he’s moving back into my parents’ house for the second time since college.

Three months ago I got called “homophobic,” “misogynist,” and “phallocentric,” twice, all in a two week period, all by women I was interested in.

Last night I was in a bar with a friend and started explaining how frustrating and stressful my life seems to be right now. A woman at the next table heard me and turned towards us. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said. “Look at yourself. You’re young, you’re white and you’re male. What -- I mean what could you possibly have to complain about?” I wanted to tell her everything I’ve just mentioned, but I thought this might bring about an incident, so instead I took another drink of my beer and just kept my mouth shut.