"11:11"

Last time we went down the rabbit hole, Tony the male stripper had fallen off a chair during a bachelorette party and seriously injured his foot.

"Hey, kid," says the doctor. "It's not broken, but you'll have to stay off that foot if you want it to heal. No more dancing. At least not for two weeks."

But Tony has bills to pay. Thirty bucks a month to Save the Children and another twenty for Humane Society dues. Not to mention money for food to feed his own four dogs, seven cats, six gerbils, two rabbits, and parakeet.

As Tony limps up the driveway to his house, he thinks how had been letting the customers at the strip club look down his g-string for a dollar a peek. He'd wanted to stop doing it because lately when he was alone with himself naked, he just didn't feel private anymore.

He notices that the house next door has a "For Rent" sign up again. No one ever stays in that house for very long. Once a pretty girl had lived there, and he took her out for dinner to a Greek restaurant on Colfax. When he brought her home, it was eleven minutes after eleven by the read-out on her Casio watch.

"Make a wish," she said, standing under the glare of the porch light and squeezing his hand. "You can always make a wish at eleven eleven." He had closed his eyes and prayed really hard that she would lean forward and kiss him.

She didn't.

Tony opens the front door to his house and the dogs rush forward. "Hello! Hello!" says Tony, trying to sound cheerful. He doesn't want the animals to sense there is any economic trouble.

Dumping the dog chow into the bowls and filling the cats' dishes with slices of fresh chicken, Tony can't help but think, "All this food is worth exactly six and a half peeks down my pants." He multiplies in his head the number of times he will let strangers stab at him with sweaty dollar bills and he thinks of the girl next door who didn't kiss him and he wishes and he wishes and he wishes.