Our backyard sloped down like the tongue of a thirsty dog. Its steepness made for excruciating leaf raking, impossible lawn mowing, and unbelievable sledding. Of course, my fondest backyard memories are from sledding season. My two brothers and I would fight over the runner sled, which our family had owned for so long that it creaked like a rocking chair and made its own decisions, steering-wise. With enough grease on its runners and a good push, this sled really got going. The company that made it—during Colonial times, we figured—had named it “The AstroGlider.” The paint had mostly worn off, but we could still faintly read the sled’s motto, printed on one side: The Smoothest Ride Around. Our parents thought this was funny.

He manages his finely tuned anti-élan with bureaucratic flair, killing the life out of the walls and people in our tiny office on Porter Street. He stalks the hallways with his organizationally upright diction, walk, and mannerisms. His indefatigable confidence is both boring and compulsive. Skinny, like an assemblage of toothpicks holding up a suit, the visibility of his bone structure shows a love of desk, paperwork, and company–a willingness to persevere to starvation in order to fulfill the demands of a deified “efficiency” and to bring misery to those who don’t.

Dad started acting crazy after our mother died. Little things, mostly. Awoke four times a night to check the stove. Enrolled my brother in women’s self-defence classes. Painted our basement yellow, then grey, then wallpapered it cantaloupe orange.

Twice a week he’d call the school to check that there was fruit in our lunches.

It all seemed harmless.

When Philip had woken up this morning, he’d found that his arms had disappeared.

“Well, this is no good,” he said, examining the smooth skin that now covered the place where his torso should have met his shoulder. He had no idea where they’d gone; he didn’t remember lending them out to anyone or leaving them somewhere. They must have either been stolen in the night or had walked off on their own—as much as arms can walk, anyway.

I just wanted to thank-you again for auditioning me in your upcoming sure-to-be-a-Blockbuster hit, Stretch Armstrong.

I don’t want to jump the gun or anything, but I think you’ll agree that besides a few minor hiccups, it went perfectly. I feel like I was born to play “Guy Sitting Next to Stretch Armstrong in the Diner”. The character just comes so naturally to me, it’s like I’m not even acting, I’m actually that guy, sitting at the diner beside Stretch Armstrong. And the stand-in and I had some real chemistry going, wouldn’t you agree? I could tell he was really feeding off my positive energy.