Reggie threw himself back into the drivers chair of his van. It wasn’t fair. He began to pick at a wristband, threadbare like his last few weeks. It didn’t help. He could feel it building under the surface. Rage. It played like a pedal against his brain. Tap tap tap. His leg jiggled in time. “Another universal failure, Reg?”. He could hear it, ‘Dette’s voice whispered from the back of his mind. In a flash of blind rage he whammed his hand down into the dash, where it scattered some of the “Final Notice” bill and eviction letters he’d piled up over the last few months. It wasn’t fair, Reggie had tried his hardest. One flew off into the passenger footwell. Leaning down to grab it Reggie instead found a picture of ‘Dette, his ex-girl. He froze.

Tap, tap, tap. This time it was the window. A blue shirt and pressed pants rent-a-cop knocked on the window. Reggie sat upright “What? I’m mindin’ my own damn business. Leave off” he spat. “You can’t park here son, you don’t live here anymore”. The shirt motioned for him to leave. “Look, I’m hurtin’ here. Gimme five, alright?.” “You’ve been parked here for five minutes already, this is private property and you need to move on.”

Reggie threw the van into first and lurched down the kerb, the window rolling down as it did. Reggie flipped the bird to the shirt as his leaving gift. The radio began to blare ‘Over and Over and Over’. As he drove, Reggie tried to reason it was another universal failure. He’d tried his hardest, and life had struck another sour note. He’d pick himself up, same as always, and within a week he’d be on top of the world again. He grit his teeth, picking yourself up is hard when you have less than 20 dollars and a rust bucket to your name.

His mind glanced back to the picture of ‘Dette. She’d taken a string of them at a bar they went to, one of those instant-booths. She’d come out tipsy and grinning sly as she handed him the pictures. “They’re for when you’re on tour next year, so you don’t get starry eyed when you have groupies”. Reggie had planned to tour Europe with his band, another of the universal failures. His band had kicked him out when he got drunk and knocked out some douche hitting on ‘Dette after a gig; it was then ‘Dette had also handed him another failure. “My soul wants yours, but you’re a real cunt.” was the last thing ‘Dette had said before she walked out. She’d ignored messages, calls, and even flowers at her door after that. God, he missed the way she called his bullshit. She’d known him best of anyone.