The television was the first place he saw her, sitting at the desk with that man. The man next to her was of no consequence. Ritchie didn’t listen when the man talked, only when she talked, because she was sending him messages. She always began with “Good evening. I’m Linda Connelly and this is the Channel 3 News of the Day.” She wanted to be sure Ritchie knew who she was, so she said it every night. Ritchie knew who she was, and he knew what she wanted.

Tonight she was wearing brown, with a gold chain necklace. “So you like it rough, huh?” Ritchie said to the television. “You wear that color for me, Linda? Yea, just for me.” He watched her turn in her chair to the man of no consequence. He watched her say, “Thank you, Todd.” He watched her turn back to face him.

“That’s right, Linda,” Ritchie said, nodding his head and smiling. “You tell that man he is of no consequence. Tell him you belong to me. Let me hear you say it, Linda. Let me hear you say it.”

“We’ll be right back!”

“Oh yea baby!” he cried out. “That’s right. You’re coming right back to your daddy. “Cause you know you want some of this.” Ritchie rubbed his hands over his chest and sizeable belly. “You want some of this.” He smiled, stretched his arms out and rested them on the back of the couch. The girth of his midsection tested the limits of the fabric of his t-shirt. The jeans he wore were worn through at the knees, the hems frayed. His feet were bare, dirty, the nails unclipped. Deciding he needed another beer, Ritchie leveraged his way to the edge of the couch and rose. He swayed his way to the refrigerator, his scraggly black ponytail buffeting between his fattened shoulder blades. Opening the refrigerator, he noticed the sandwich he had made earlier was gone.

“She stole it!” he screamed, his round face grimacing behind the crumb-filled beard, the mustard-stained moustache. “She stole my sandwich. Oh, she thinks she”s so clever. That’s why she’s wearing the necklace, to taunt me.” In a falsetto voice, flapping his hands as if in imitation of a small bird, he mimicked, “I took your sandwich, Ritchie, and it was good. Oh, it was sooo good. What’s you gonna do about it, baby?”

Ritchie grabbed a beer and slammed the door shut. He could hear the television as he walked back to the living room.

“The President today announced his intention to form a commission to investigate the impact of cable television on unemployment.”

“Are you going to start in on that? I’m looking for a job. What do you want from me?” Ritchie fell back onto the couch, popped open the beer. “Come on baby, get off that and tell me how you like it.”

“And now for the weather!”

“Oh yea baby! You like it hot!”

There was a knock at the door. Ritchie froze in mid sip. Slowly he lowered his beer. “Shhh,” he hissed at the television. “Be quiet, baby.”

There was another knock. A voice came through the door. “Ritchie, it’s Bill. You have to open the door or I’ll violate you. You’ll be back in prison by morning.”

“Uh… hang on a minute,” Ritchie called out. He pulled himself to the edge of the couch, and with effort, hid his beer beneath the end table, then made his way to the door. Opening it just a couple of inches, Ritchie peered out. “That you, Bill?”

Bill pushed against the door, the act one more of intimidation than force. Bill was five foot ten to Ritchie’s six feet, and he weighed one eighty to Ritchie’s two sixty. Ritchie stepped back.

Bill surveyed the room, then turned to his parolee. “Been staying away from the alcohol?” he asked. Ritchie nodded. “Been staying away from Ms. Connelly’s residence?”

“Oh yea, sure. I don’t even think about her anymore.”

Bill turned toward the television.

“Thank you, Todd. Those monkeys sure are cute. Well, that’s our News of the Day for this evening. Please join us again tomorrow morning at five for Channel 3’s Morning Show. Good night, everyone.”

The parole officer scowled at Ritchie. “You know, if they throw the stalker law at you, you’re done. You’ll be doing 15 to 25.”

“C’mon.”

“You’re a repeat offender, Ritchie.”

“C’mon. You know I wasn’t gonna hurt her. I didn’t even have a real gun. Just a toy I got at Wal-Mart.”

“It was criminal harassment,” Bill said. He put his hands on his hips, leaned in a little, and said, “You did six months. Next time the District Attorney won’t be so generous. With your priors, Ritchie, they’ll use the three-strike law.” Bill turned away, knelt onto the floor and retrieved the beer from beneath the end table. Holding the can in front of Ritchie, he said, “And stay away from the booze.”

Long after his parole officer had left, Ritchie was still sitting on the couch, watching television, drinking beer. He was thinking that maybe Linda sent Bill over, to check up on him, make sure he didn’t have another girl here. Or maybe, Bill was trying to get with Linda. Yea, that was it. He was snooping around here trying to find some way to violate him, send him back to the joint. Then he could get to Linda. Yea, that’s what was going on.

Finally, after he finished his last beer, Ritchie staggered into the bedroom, into the closet, and found the box. Carefully, he snapped open the latches and took out the gun, the gun his father had given him, the gun no one else knew about.

He was going to have to kill Bill.

He slid the gun beneath his pillow and lay down on the bed. For a long time, he watched the shadows on the ceiling. The shadows were his friends. They would make a plan for him to kill Bill, and whisper it to him as he slept. When he awoke, he would know what to do.

There were voices, in the living room. They were laughing, talking and laughing. Ritchie heaved himself from the bed. His eyes were red from drink and fitful sleep. His hair was tangled, his beard discolored from dried beer and drool. Down the hall he lurched, his vision blurry, his hands grasping at the walls for support.

There they were! Bill and Linda! Ritchie stared at the television, at Linda, with her hair pulled back and wearing a blue dress. She was sitting next to Bill, at the big desk. “What the hell is going on here?” Ritchie yelled.

“For those of you just joining us, good morning. I’m Mary Wetherall and this is Jonathon Tibbs. You’re watching Channel 3’s Morning Show. Now, let’s go live to Connie Banks at Laredo Park, where the students of Governor High are having a sit-in!”

“Don’t you run away from me,” Ritchie growled. “I knew you two were plotting against me.” Ritchie began an agitated dance across the floor, shaking his fists and growling. Suddenly he stopped. He pointed to the television, and said, very quietly, “I’m going to get my gun and shoot both of you. What do you say to that?”

“Well, Jonathon, those students have certainly found a unique way to raise money, haven’t they?”

“You think you can bribe me?” Ritchie said to the television. “I’m getting my gun.” Off he went, stumbling his way back to the bedroom. He went into the closet and saw the box sitting on the floor, empty. He backed out of the closet, sat down heavily onto the edge of the disheveled bed. “They stole my gun. They got into my house and stole my gun.” He could hear them out there, laughing, laughing at him. Anger, raw and red, rose up inside him. His girlfriend and his parole officer were having an affair, were plotting against him. They stole his gun. They were going to kill him. He had to do something, something to stop them. He was going to have to kill them first. The rage took hold, and Ritchie heaved himself up, headed down the hall to the living room.

“I know what you two are doing! I know what you’re up to. I’m gonna kill you with my bare hands!” Ritchie barreled toward the television and rammed into it, head first.

It was dark, completely dark. Ritchie tried to see, tried to move. He could hear voices, hear them saying, “His pulse is thready. It looks like the TV tried to eat him. We’re losing him.”

Then Ritchie saw a bright light, and he was sure that someone had finally turned on the TV. The light was beautiful, beautiful as Linda, and then he heard her say, “Well, that’s our News of the Day for this evening. Good night, Ritchie.”