March is beginning to rack up a bit of a bad reputation with me. I don't know how many more chances I'm gonna be able to give old March, just between you and me. I'm about to lose patience with it.

I used to look forward to this month every year. The last of the cold weather is usually gone by the time March knocks at the door; the trees begin to bud, the flowers bloom, my income tax refund arrives, and the Dream gets her tune-up. It's also the month of my true love's birth, so that adds to the speed. But this is twice in a row now that March has claimed someone I love.

I have to stop and ask myself, however, if March is really responsible. It could be those infernal comets instead. We've had a comet in the sky the last two Marches. Maybe these boys are just riding those comets out of here. Whaddayathink?

When Bob crashed into a snowbank in Minnesota on 22 March 1996, the FAA said, "recovery from uncontrolled flight not achieved prior to impact with terrain." I, however, accused the Colonel of simply being unable to resist the ultimate test flight. Figured he saw his big opportunity and took Comet Hyakutake on some mission or other.

Et tu, Terry? Was Hale-Bopp too much for you to resist?

I dunno. March ain't gettin' off that easy. I really think I see March's fine hand in all of this, comet or no comet.

March brought Reginald Terry Hinely into my life in the first place. And it was March that ushered in all the fireworks down at the Reload. Not the main blast, but the first bottle rockets bursting overhead. Some poor sod or other had just been drawn and quartered in the anteroom and the customers started leavin' right and left. That was when I got my initial opportunity to mount the skewer. But let me back up just a minute and begin at the beginning.

I had pissed off the proprietor when I first walked in the door because, well ... because I was just being me. He didn't like my name, for one thing. Thought it was presumptuous and arrogant. Enjoyed baiting me about it. I simply didn't respond. When I asked to be seated in the smoking section, I was rewarded with a vitriolic harangue on the evils of smoking and about 5K of graphic data describing the horrible death I could expect as a result. I sat there smoking, not saying a word.

Silence descended upon the room.

"Got a light?", someone whispered in my ear.

I turned to face the voice. It was Terry. He had a big grin on his face. In his hand was a cigarette, poised for fire.

"Never mind Bruno," he said, "he gets a little uptight every now and then about certain things. He'll get over it."

"Yeah? Well, I ain't so sure," I said, lighting his nail. "I ain't so sure I like his fuckin' attitude."

"You handled it just right," Terry said.

"Well, I ain't so sure about that, either. Ain't so sure I wanna be in this dump at all. What fucking business is it of his if I smoke? Don't I have a right to kill myself any way I want? Besides, I'm a gambler. I'm bettin' that something else is gonna kill me first. Like a Mack truck or a jealous lover."

Terry giggled.

"Yeah, me, too," he said. "I figure there's lots of things that can kill me quicker than cigarettes, so I might as well enjoy 'em while I can."

About that time Bruno spied the Spoon takeout menu I had stashed inside my motorcycle jacket.

"What's this?!?", he screamed, waving the menu in the air. "You traitor!! You turncoat!! You lying, scheming wench! You get the hell out of the Reload and don't you ever come back!!"

I pulled on my gloves and stood up, dropping the burning cigarette butt on the floor at Bruno's feet. I crushed it out with my boot. At the door I turned and looked back at Terry.

"See you down the road?", I asked.

"See you down the road!"

thanks for being my friend, kiddo ...