Randy had always believed that good things happened to good people and that bad people got what was coming to him. Until the day he walked in on his wife having a threesome with his sister, Peggy, and a transvestite named "Scooter".
Fifteen minutes after that scene, Randy found himself staring at the cracks in the sidewalk on Second Ave, vaguely aware that he was sitting in someone else's puddle of urine. Eleven o'clock at night. A Tuesday. He clutched the divorce papers from his wife, Madeline, in his hand. He was tempted to let them flutter off in the wind.
Randy just didn't get it. Scooter was an ex-con recently paroled after shooting someone. Peggy was a compulsive liar with expensive taste and sticky fingers. And Madeline, she'd never had a job and sucked him dry every paycheck. They all looked so happy with themselves. Even after he'd stumbled upon them and run out of the house in tears. Hell, they hadn't even stopped the action when he was there.
And Randy, he was a good person, right? Nine-to-five job. Taxes paid. Church services attended. It just wasn't right.
"Tough evening?" The voice floated to Randy from the shadows on his left. The speaker sounded gritty, wary.
Randy didn't answer. Any interaction meant he had to start accepting where he was - let in awareness that it was so cold his face hurt and that drops of icy rain had started to pelt his head. It was better to pretend this wasn't happening.