When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey

the mall and sit together at the Yogurt A Go-Go in their own separate spheres of mobile devices.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that?”
    â€œIt’s destroying the art of conversation!” said Serge. “I love conversations!”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause we’re all crazy!” said Serge. “And that’s how society makes progress: imaginations getting together and glancing off each other in accidental tangents of invention.”
    â€œThat sounds crazy,” said Nicole.
    â€œThink about it.” Serge chugged from his coffee thermos. “We all know how schizophrenics talk from our time on the streets interacting with the underpass community, and we’re thinking, ‘Jesus, I’m glad I’m not like this loopy guy jabbering about time travel, drone aircrafts, and guilt-free dog treats.’ . . . But that’s only because we’re not aware of how our own conversations sound because we’re inside them. It’s like you don’t know your own voice unless you have a tape recorder. And if you did have a tape recorder, and recorded a hundred different conversations in a restaurant, where people at leisure have no agenda other than to enjoy each other’s company, the chitchat is all over the road, jumping from topic to topic until it’s miles from where it began, which nobody can remember. In movies, the talk is a logical straight line, moving plot from A to B. But in real life, it starts with the weather, then office gossip, vacation plans, childhood mishaps, a funny story about a trombone, the benefits of testing batteries with your tongue, why Esperanto never took off, what about Morey Amsterdam?—the heartbreak of psoriasis, the trouble with Tribbles, the thrill is gone, fashion disasters throughout history, turtle migration, my bologna has a first name, you’re soaking in Palmolive, then suddenly Einstein blurts out something about the decay of matter and, boom, Nagasaki . . . So how ’bout it?” Serge looked over at Nicole. “Want to try a real human conversation where people actually listen? I’ll go first: the Ice Age. Your thoughts?”
    â€œI want my cell phone back.”
    Serge’s head fell back with a sigh. “Okay, then I want to talk about Snake.”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œYou two were making out at the curb in front of your house.”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œHe was being very disrespectful to your parents.” Serge wagged a finger. “The kind of man you deserve would walk you to the door and greet your mother and father.”
    â€œHow do you know my parents, anyway?”
    â€œMe and Jim go way back, through thick and thin.”
    â€œI heard some of the stories when I wasn’t supposed to. My mom really hates you.”
    â€œBecause she doesn’t understand me. But she’s a good woman, and you need to show her gratitude.”
    â€œI’m just surprised you and my dad are friends.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œBecause you guys are cool. You’re not afraid of anything.” Nicole looked out across the passing water. “And my dad is, you know, a little on the wimpy side.”
    Serge hit the brakes with both feet. A long, tire-screeching stop at the top of the bridge. He turned to Nicole with a mask of rage she had never seen before. “Jim is not wimpy!”
    Nicole retreated as far as she could and sank against the passenger door.
    â€œYour dad is one of the most courageous people I know! You think guns and liquor and dope and an excellent car is cool? Well, it is. But your dad has chosen to take on responsibilities I could never dream of . . .”
    Car horns blared behind them. Coleman stuck his arm out the window with a beer in his hand, waving in a “go around” motion.
    â€œ . . . There’s a war against women going on!” yelled Serge. “Not political. Just men.