Strewn on the bench before him were the innards of a rice cooker Barb’s aunt had given them the previous Christmas. Even when it was new, it hadn’t worked very well, but now it had fizzled out completely. With the extra time his unemployment gave him, Rick was whittling down his backlog of household chores. Nothing appeared out of place in the rice cooker. All the wires were tight. Nothing seemed fried. He didn’t know much about appliances, but he hated throwing things away, a sentiment not shared by his wife. She’d wanted to chuck the thing right into the trash two days after they got it. Said they didn’t need a rice cooker, all they needed was a pot with a lid. Rick had scoffed. If that was true, why did they make rice cookers? Yesterday, he’d been tempted to flip on the radio and see what was happening on the Circus. But he hadn’t. Was afraid he’d get sucked back in. Afraid he’d realize something he could do or say to improve the show. Afraid he might pick up the phone and call in, like one of the many loyal listeners who had followed him over the years.
