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towards the house in frustration, but then the signal gets warmer, definitely. Joe meanwhile is doing a real number on Barb, I can’t believe she’s falling for this but I guess she went as far as to marry the guy at some point so she must be a sucker. His big soliloquy goes “SweetcheekS, all I’m Saying iS we Shouldn’t Say no, never, nothing. We Should Say, you know ... Something! Someday, poSSibly ... I miSS you Sugar ...” et cetera.
    We strung all of the wire back through the living room, through the kitchen, and out the back patio into Mark’s yard, which is pretty large and which isn’t separated from the other yards by fences, yet, although there is one guy down the block who’s installing fence posts and the whole neighborhood is up in arms about it because: this guy is some rich yuppie who bought the house a year ago and still never talks to his neighbors except to ask tactless questions about their property and their equity in it, like he’s waiting for all of the rest of us to move away so he can own the whole block, and apparently also he doesn’t recycle. But anyway, we start walking out across the lawn and the signal is getting warmer, warmer still. Emma at this point has given up trying to keep the cord wound and is just playing with it, whipping it up and down, sending waves along its length. Mark follows the signal across his yard, across his next-door neighbor’s yard, and runs out of extension cord halfway through the yard after that, which is the yard of the Bad Taste People who have covered their back yard with tiny ugly green concrete frogs from Fred Meyer, and flimsy plastic-resin injection molded lawn furniture, also from Fred Meyer, which is all fallen over because it won’t stand up on anything but concrete, and which is laced with glistening slug trails. Also they have a dwarf picnic bench, also pre-fab also from Fred Meyer, and also they have a 50-foot extension cord hanging on a little hanger under their back porch next to their lawn mower, which cord Mark immediately grabs and splices into the power line. He doesn’t even stop to consider not doing it or asking first. When he gets done and turns the TV back on, the signal is so hot that every sibilant S is like pressurized air escaping from a car lift, and Mark at this point is laughing and shouting “We’re reading you Joe! We’re picking you up loud and clear!” The extra extension cord takes us out of the Bad Taste Zone and across another yard and into the yard where the aforementioned fence is being dug. There’s lots of other high-end landscaping stuff beginning to happen there. Bags of high-grade horseshit are stacked in a pile along with sacks of cedar chips, there’s a couple cords of cedar deck lumber fresh from the mill, and behind it all there’s a pit dug where I guess they’re going to put in a hot-tub or a pond or something. So we’re standing there, we’ve run our of extension cord, Mark is peering around in the dark, pointing the blue-blinky TV light around and looking for the free extension cord that he’s expecting to find in every neighbor’s yard apparently. Emma is just looking up at the house. I follow her gaze to see that there’s one light on in an upstairs window and one silhouette is talking on the phone, and it penetrates my stoned brain that yeah, this is probably Joe’s yard, that’s probably Joe up there talking! This looks like his kind of yard. Mark’s obviously had the same thought, because he’s looking up there too, and now he’s silent, and we’re all standing in the yard, looking up at the window, listening to Barb’s voice as she’s sort of letting her emotional guard down and confessing embarrassing things, it’s become black outside, the snow from the TV is casting this light that’s now blue, now pink, and then I hear this weird sound, a buzzing, clicking sound, and I smell sparks .. and I look at Mark and see that he’s sort of shaking ... he’s being electrocuted!