Nope.

He flipped back to the funny pages. Yeah, the comics were way more interesting than the classifieds. Even the ones without punch lines like Gasoline Alley. Gasoline Alley.

He liked to draw. At least, he used to.

Maybe it was time to restart his hobby...

CHAPTER T TWENTY G GLIMPSES.

1978.

"And here in the last panel, he says, 'Glub, glub,' as they dunk him into the toilet." Toby pointed to the carefully rendered artwork. "What do you think?"

No.

"But it looks like a toilet, right? Do you know how hard it is to draw a toilet and make it look three-dimensional?"

No.

"It's a pain in the ass. I really wish you had a better sense of humor, because I need to test these gags out on somebody who can laugh at things other than me hurting myself."

"Perfect!" Henry Lynch, an editor at the Orange Leaf Times Orange Leaf Times, held up Toby's work and examined it closely. "Absolutely perfect. Yes, you're hired."

Toby grinned. He'd cut himself pretty bad with the razor blade, trying to cut the newspaper copy to the exact specifications, and he'd gotten hot wax all over his sleeve when he did the layout, but he didn't tell that to Mr. Lynch.

"I need to hire older people more often. Kids today, they have no patience for the art of newspaper layout."

"Thank you, sir."

"Okay, which do you like better? This"-he held up the drawing of Rusty with a mustache and goatee-"or this?" He held up the drawing of Rusty, clean-shaven.

Owen offered no immediate opinion.

"Please don't poke this one with your claw."

When Toby completed his twenty-fifth satisfactory comic strip, he celebrated by making a homemade banana split with extra hot fudge, extra strawberries, extra pineapple topping, extra whipped cream, and three maraschino cherries.

He felt a little sick afterward.

Then he reread the strips in order and decided that none of them were even remotely funny. Instead of throwing them away, he taped them up on his bedroom wall, where they could haunt him and provide a constant reminder to do better.

"Look what I've got here. Oooooh yeah." Toby took the Styrofoam container out of his backpack and popped open the lid. "Two New York strip steaks. One medium well, one rare. Mr. Zack still cuts me a special deal."

He erased the pencil drawing of Pugg's hand for the tenth or eleventh time. It was incredibly difficult to draw a dog holding a telephone receiver. Paws weren't meant to hold telephones, he supposed.

After another half an hour, he got the details just right, and reached for the ink.

"Not that you asked, but I still don't have a title. Peanuts Peanuts doesn't actually mean anything, as far as I know. Maybe I'll call it doesn't actually mean anything, as far as I know. Maybe I'll call it Tomatoes. Tomatoes."

1979.

"What do you know about proofreading?" Mr. Lynch asked.

"Uh, nothing, but I can learn."

"Can you learn today? Helen's having her baby early and I'm kind of stuck."

"So what do you think of this? The strip wasn't working out, but I did these five as a single panel. I think they're pretty funny. I couldn't get Rusty's hair right so I got frustrated and added a cowboy hat, but it makes him more visually interesting, don't you think? No? Do you even understand art?"

Toby reached for his glass of apple juice, spilled the bottle of ink all over the seventh version of the drawing he was working on, and used several words that he could never include in the comic itself.

"I'm calling it Rusty & Pugg. Rusty & Pugg. Not inventive, I know, but it has a nice rhythm to it, right? Not inventive, I know, but it has a nice rhythm to it, right? Rusty & Pugg. Rusty & Pugg. Rusty & Pugg. Rusty & Pugg. I'd read it, wouldn't you? Also, I'm going back to the strip format instead of the single panel." I'd read it, wouldn't you? Also, I'm going back to the strip format instead of the single panel."

Mr. Lynch tossed the newspaper on his desk in front of Toby. "I got three different complaints about this typo. It's right in the headline. Makes us look stupid."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Raccoon has two c c's."

"It doesn't have to. Both spellings are correct."

Mr. Lynch frowned, then grabbed a dictionary from the corner of his desk and flipped through the pages. "I'll be damned, you're right. What the hell is wrong with these idiot readers?"

"I know there aren't any monsters in it, but it's pretty good, don't you think?" asked Toby, flipping through the pages one by one.

Yes.

"I'm going to mail the samples off to a few syndicates tomorrow. Wish me luck, buddy."

Happy.

"Me, too."

1980.

"Do you know what today is? I bet you have no idea. Exactly twenty years ago, I discovered your cave. Can you freakin' believe that? We've known each other for twenty years! That's crazy! It's more than half of my life! And we've both got some gray hair to show for it."

He scratched Owen behind the ear, which is where most of the monster's gray hair had sprouted, though he also had small tufts on his shoulders. Toby hadn't really noticed his own until his last haircut, when he looked at the pile of hair on the barbershop floor and saw more gray than black.

"To celebrate twenty years of friendship, I've decided that this bullshit about me walking four miles each way to your cave has got to stop. So look what I drew for you."

Toby unfolded a large piece of paper and handed it to Owen. The talon of Owen's index finger tore through the center.

"That's okay, it's just a copy. That's the plan for your new house. Shack, to be more accurate, but it'll be nicer than what you've got here. I've picked out a nice spot maybe a mile from my house, we're going to cut down some trees, and we're going to build you a nice new dwelling."

"Hear anything yet?" asked Mr. Lynch.

"Not yet."

"Not from anybody? How long has it been?"

"Nine weeks."

"Well, if Rusty & Pugg Rusty & Pugg gets picked up, I'll happily cancel gets picked up, I'll happily cancel Hagar the Horrible Hagar the Horrible to make room." to make room."

"What are you drawing?" asked the woman, pausing to glance at his table as she walked to her own booth. Her tray had a single burger and fries-maybe she was having lunch alone.

"It's a comic strip."

"Oh, are you a cartoonist?"

"Trying to be." Toby tilted the strip, which didn't really help her see it better but gave him something to do with his hands. "The dog is Pugg and the human is Rusty."

He sat there, watching nervously as she silently read the strip, which involved Rusty getting a letter from the IRS. She looked a couple of years younger than he was, had curly red hair, and had eyes that were such a beautiful shade of green that they seemed almost otherworldly.

Would she laugh at the punch line? Or at least smile?

He could imagine her smile. Radiant. Perfect white teeth.

"Hmmm," she said, showing no sign of amusement as she looked away from the strip. "Interesting. Good luck with it." She walked to her own table and sat down to eat.

Toby crumpled up the strip.

Toby had found a spot where he could make sufficient room for Owen's new home by only cutting down three trees, which he was pretty sure he wasn't actually supposed to be doing, so he hoped nobody would hear the crashes.