As he boarded the train, Myles squeezed the penny between his thumb and index finger, suffocating poor old honest Abe. He had just picked it up outside the station. The penny was as shiny as his bald head, as shiny as his daughter’s eyes when she made her announcement.
Myles considered the parameters of the find-a-penny-pick-it-up rule. Did the “all day long” part refer to the next twenty-four hours after finding the penny, or would he only have good luck until midnight on the day that the picking up occurred? If the latter, Myles wished he’d found hit earlier. Three hours of luck would hardly be enough to resolve the situation.
Also: did the good luck conferred by the rescued penny make you a good person? That’s what Myles really needed—to know he was a good person.
Over brunch that morning his daughter had revealed her sexual preferences to him, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t give her a hug; he didn’t even smile. He just got up from their table and left. Now he was confused. Was he homophobic or simply shocked? He’d prefer shocked, but he wasn’t certain it was true. Walking out on a soul-baring lesbian daughter seemed like a pretty homophobic thing to do.
Presidential trivia tonight. Have I mentioned that I'm gogo dancing with Old Town School's Monkees Ensemble before the Peter Tork show this Sunday? If you're into The Monkees (and why wouldn't you be?), you should go.