That’s us, two dudes and the girl with the iguana down her shirt. You can tell the bartender’s a little concerned. Yeah I would be too. But the iguana’s mine. Sylvia is Brian’s. We’re all on these big red horse tranquilizers that were Sylvia’s so in a sense we’re all--me, Brian, everyone else in the world, the bartender and the iguana--we’re all hers.

The bar is the bartender’s. The big screen TV is his and so is the cable. The draft Buds are ours only because we just bought them. Prior to that they were his. I’m not saying anything any normal person doesn’t already know. The palm tree and that planter with all the dirt the palm tree grows out of, are the bartender’s. The windows that remind me of sunlights because the whole joint reminds me of a greenhouse are his. I’m tired.

The Knicks are mine. The Pacers are Brian’s. The iguana is Sylvia’s now. It never sits still for me. I don’t even know why I brought it, but after we took the pills it seemed like the right thing. It bites me. It sits under her shirt, softly pressing its nails into her small white tits. Softly, I’m guessing, because, I’m guessing, it’s not breaking the skin or else she’s just not saying anything. She’s got its neck pressed into the blue vein at the base of her neck. Its tail rides out from underneath her shirt.

I tell her the thing’s going to bite. “It’s mine,” she says.

“You can have it,” I tell her.

“I’ll pay you,” she says. “I’ll pay the shit out of you.”

“You better just buy the next beer,” I say.

The bartender is yelling at his customers, the ones that raised certain concerns in quiet tones about the iguana being in the bar. He’s yelling for them to get out of his bar and take their quiet little concerns with them. “I’m supportive of regular occupants of barstools!” he yells. He’s not ready yet to call the barstools ours.

Brian wants his Pacers. He wants his Pacers bad. He didn’t know they were playing. He didn’t know he’d be watching his Pacers. Now he wants them though. “I love this team, man. I want this team,” he’s saying.

I lean over and nap. And when I hunch up, Sylvia has the iguana in the planter. It’s snapping at her and she’s thumping it with her jet-black nails. Brian is able to lift his chin off the bar because the Knicks are ahead. He’s forgotten his were the Pacers. The bartender is curled up in the corner asleep underneath the sinks.

Sylvia takes off her shirt and wraps the iguana’s head up in it. She flips it. It flings its tail at her. She spits on it. It hisses.

“Throw me a spoon,” she says. I throw her a plastic spoon. She spoons soil on it now.

“How do you have the energy?” I manage.

“It’s mine,” she says.