There are mornings when the universe aligns with such alarming clarity that a man knows, with the bone-deep certainty of someone who has given the matter far too much thought, exactly what he was put on this earth to do.
This very morning was one of those.
I entered Egret Cafe and Dance Bar with my earbuds in, singing along to a song I won't name because naming it invites commentary. The point is, I was enjoying it when my internal auditor’s voice, that’s Princess Amy, cut through the music with the surgical precision of a laser aimed directly at my dignity.
"People are staring," she said.
"Let them stare," I replied, with the serene detachment of a man at peace with his morning.
"Your earbuds aren't plugged in, Duffel Bag."
I looked down. She was right, of course. The cable jack was dangling freely, in a state of cheerful, absolute abandon from the device it was meant to serve.
"But I can still hear the song crystal clear," I offered.
"You can hear it because you know the lyrics by heart. That's your imagination you hear. What everyone else hears is you."
I processed this information, surveyed the pained expressions of nearby patrons, and decided the only dignified response was to pivot briskly and pretend nothing unusual had transpired. It’s a technique refined over a lifetime of practice.
"Never mind that," I said, plugging the jack in with the unhurried calm of someone who had nothing to be embarrassed about and who intended to rely on stout denial if anyone asked questions.
"I have news. Significant news. I’ve found my 2026 initiative."
"You and your initiatives."
"Don't scoff."
"Fine," she said, using the tone reserved for holding a scoff in tactical reserve. "Where did you actually go, anyway?"
"The distinction is purely academic.”
“You went to Ocean Isle, didn’t you? You always go there when thirsting for a vision.”
The point is, I’m back, and I’ve found my purpose. Are you ready for this?"
"Probably not, but let’s have it."
I leaned forward, striking the pose of a man about to deliver a statement that demands physical gravitas.
"I’m going to become a bounty hunter."
A heavy silence followed.
"A bounty hunter," Amy repeated flatly.
"A bond enforcement agent, if you prefer the technical term. Though 'bounty hunter' has a certain sort of, oh, I don’t know—"
"I’ve warned you," she interrupted. “I’ve warned you so many times about that imagination of yours. I told you that one day it would carry you right over the edge, and now here we are, free-falling."
"I haven't come close to the edge of anything. I’ve done the research."
"You probably watched a movie."
"I read thirty-two novels," I said, drawing myself up. "The complete Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich. Thirty-two, Amy. That’s a substantial body of professional literature."
"Those are fiction."
"They are extensively researched fiction, written by someone who clearly knows the trade. And furthermore…" I raised a finger to signal my knockout point. "I’ve nearly finished the entire run of Teenage Bounty Hunters."
"That's a television show," she said. “A series that lasted only one season."
"It deserved a second!” I said with considerable heat because I'm still extremely miffed that Netflix cancelled the show. “I’m certain the pandemic is the cause of its short run," I said. "The timing alone—"
"The timing had nothing to do with it, and you know it."
"The point," I pressed on, maintaining the momentum of a man fully committed to his vision, "is that if teenagers can do it, I can do it. That’s an entirely reasonable position."
"It is an absurd position."
"There's no licensing exam, Amy! No formal qualifications required. It is something a person can simply decide to be."
"And yet," Amy said, "even though there are no obstacles to becoming one, most people don't."
"Most people haven't read thirty-two books on the subject."
When she spoke again, her voice carried the quiet sympathy reserved for someone delivering bad news to the hopelessly optimistic.
I paused there to muse on her words because I was genuinely charmed by the whole exchange. This is what Amy does, and she does it magnificently: she engages every debate with the same fierce, loyal, completely unreasonable opposition, as though the quality of her resistance is itself a form of love. I've come to treasure it, even when I have absolutely no intention of changing course.
I sat with that for a moment, observing the morning rhythms of the coffee shop: the barista, the patrons who had just witnessed my live unplugged performance, and I pondered destiny, initiative, and the thirty-two paperbacks currently stuffed into my nightstand.
"That's a fair point," I admitted.
"It's the only point," she said. "But I appreciate you acknowledging it."
I inserted the earbuds and Dolly Parton’s "9 to 5" was playing. The song speaks volumes and, if I know anything about manifest destiny, it fully vindicates my strategy.
There are mornings when the universe aligns with perfect clarity, and there are afternoons when it plays reruns of Jack Parr's Tonight Show. I've decided to trust mornings. After all, a man who can sing an entire song with his earbuds unplugged has already proven he can perform without a net.
My 2026 initiative needs no further research. Stephanie Plum managed just fine, and if she explained herself to a judge more than a few times. That's a detail best saved for volume thirty-three.
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