[Scene: A Home Depot store in the Flatiron District of Manhattan, 20 minutes to closing time on a scorching hot summer Sunday evening. I am wandering the store searching for a small portable fan, when I spot nemesis David Bowie (see Scene #1 and Scene #2 for backstory) in a hardware aisle. He is wearing a white pique polo shirt, collar popped, a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts, and orange Chucks with no socks. I stare at him unseen for a few seconds, then run to the carpet section and grab two large samples. I run back to where David Bowie is still ruminating over small metal items sealed in plastic.]

Me: (placing the carpet samples on the floor next to David Bowie, then lying down and rolling around on them, hysterically laughing) AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! HAHAHAHAHA! WAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! (pauses, taking a deep intake of breath) AAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

David Bowie: (at first startled, then settling into a unhappy smirk, slouching perceptibly) Oh, fantastic. Fantastic. FAN. TASTIC. Can you not for once find SOME OTHER PLACE TO BE?

Me: (wiping away tears of laughter, remaining on back, maniacally grinning upwards towards David Bowie) Oh, god. Look at you. Where do I begin? It’s like Christmas for me. Do please tell me what you – YOU! – are doing here!

David Bowie: You should stay like that on your back all the time. Really flattens out all those deep wrinkles.

Me: (frowning, sitting up quickly, then rising) Charming as ever, Jones. Answer me.

David Bowie: If it will dispatch you to the foul Hell from whence you spewed forth with more rapidity, then fine…one of our toilets is running and it needs a new dunker.

Me: (bursting with explosive laughter) BRAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! AAAAHAH! Dunker??? DUNKER??? Do you mean a “floater?”

David Bowie: (irritated, scowls) WhatEVER…that black balloon thing in the tank.

Me: (unable to stop grinning) Right. So why on earth didn’t you call a plumber?

David Bowie: You try getting a plumber in Manhattan on a Sunday night. And anyway, I am perfectly able to make a simple home repair myself.

Me: I will pay for your “dunker” and almost anything else you’d like to have in the universe if you would allow me to just stand there and watch you try to fix a toilet.

David Bowie: Judging by your overall shabbiness, I doubt you can afford bus fare back to whatever disreputable hovel you’re squatting in at the moment.

Me: (irritated) You look like Grandpa Vampire Weekend.

David Bowie: (angrily) At least I’m not covered in coffee stains and dog urine!

Me: (very angrily) ARROGANT CLOWN-SHOD JERK!

David Bowie: (very angrily) MALEVOLENT MIDDLE-AGED MEDUSA!

[A physical tussle ensues, sending the carpet samples and toilet fixtures flying. A crowd gathers. The Home Depot store manager, whose nametag reads “Armand,” crouches in a far corner of the store, shivering and quietly weeping. Store security arrives, separates me and David Bowie, and escorts us to the door.]

Me: (singing loudly) “…Ashes to ashes, funk to funky, Bowie’s toilet needs a dunky…

David Bowie: (shouting to wife Iman, who is waiting in a limousine idling at the curb) THAT’S IT! WE’RE BUYING THE SPACE SHUTTLE!

Me: (continuing) “…for heeeere, am I sitting on my home can, faaaaar above the world, my toilet is screwed and I can’t make my dooo…

David Bowie: (entering limo) SHUT! UP!

Me: (yelling to limo as it screeches its tires as it jerks into traffic) Wait! Wait! You forgot to pick up a Laughing Gnome in the Garden Section! HAAAAA!

David Bowie: (yelling with head out the window, 3 blocks away) I hate you SO MUCH, Marianne!

[I turn, smiling, and walk down the street, fanless. Quietly, a private ambulance pulls up into the space vacated by the limo to take Armand to a well-regarded and peaceful psychiatric facility on Long Island.]