Last night you said you didn't remember what happened twenty years ago. But I know you still remember. You had found an old brick in the garage and spent hours carving it with a chisel, creating an amazing tiki statue. And when you showed it to me, I grabbed it, ran into the house, and then appeared on the second story balcony. I held the tiny statue over the railing. From below, you begged me not to do it. But I did. Your beautiful brick tiki statue broke into four chunks on the patio.
I really don't remember, you said. Not a big deal, you said. It is a big deal, I said.
So I showed up at your place at one a.m. I brought a sledgehammer and went to town on the brick planter (I knew you wouldn't hear; you were pretty drunk last night). Luckily, out of the rubble, four bricks were salvageable. I also brought along a regular hammer and chisel. I sat on your lawn with a tiny flashlight between my teeth and chiseled like mad. Unfortunately, none of the bricks look like your tiki statue (I was pretty drunk, too), but more like statues of bug-eyed, lop-sided-nosed old men. I placed them in a row on the lawn, all facing the street, earnestly watching the horizon.
It's the least I could do.
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