I don’t know. Couldn’t tell you, he said. All this. Stuff. Too much stuff, Bobby told his friend. Piles of it. Everywhere. You can’t walk through the house. He turned in his swivel chair; torn leather, yellow foam seeping through cracks.

Over the years, Tom looked around. Things accumulate. Stacks of magazines get higher. Dishes go unwashed. Trashcans overfill. What can you do? Clean? Downsize? Too much work.

We need a woman, Bob said. They have an eye for this sort of thing. Attention to detail, he pulled out a chewed on cigar from his desk drawer.

Don’t light it. The whole place could burn. One little spark. Just chew on it.

That’s all I do is chew on it. After a while, you want some results.

Just pretend.

That’s all we do is pretend, Bob yelled. Ever since we met. Years ago. We pretend.

About what?

This, he pointed around. We live amongst trash. 

Don’t say that, Bob. This is ours. Belongs to us.

We still could use a woman. 

A cleaning woman?

Yes.

How would we pay for that?

With beer. Alcohol.

Right.

All those whores on Broadway willing to sell their souls for a drink. We’ll just ask one. Buy her a six-pack and let her go to it. It’ll be like having mom around. 

Your mom was a whore? 

Watch your mouth, he laughed. Just a tremendous drunk who kept a tidy house. And the whore could cook for us too. Hamburgers, meatloaf, potatoes, all kinds of exotic foods.

All for a six-pack?

Yes. You’d be surprised. We’ll choose a different one every week. You put in three bucks, and I’ll put in three. Get em something nice like Miller High Life.

The champagne of beers.

Yeah. The champagne of beers.