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Time Again

Summary:

Rita Hanson is also experiencing a time loop on February 2nd, 2017 in Punxsutawney. But it's not quite the same.

Notes:

Follows the chronology and characterizations from the 2017 musical by Tim Minchin and Danny Rubin, but it's similar enough to the 1993 movie that I tagged both.

Note: When originally posted, I accidentally left out a large chunk of the beginning of Chapter 2 - it's back now!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Day One

Chapter Text

The door to the Burrow Bar clicked shut with Buster’s departure. When the rush of cold air was gone, Rita took a deep breath and lifted her pen.

I am writing something here. It is going to stay here until tomorrow.

(Which will happen).

There. Proof of physical permanence. Or lack thereof come the next day.

The text looked lonely on the page. If this was her litmus test, might as well go for it.

Writing something here. “Here” being my journal with the black and white cover.

Which is supposed to be at the bottom of my sock drawer. Along with the Lisa Frank journal, the inspirational quotes journal, the Fuck the Patriarchy journal, the custom journal Phil got me that I never finished, and everything else I’ve written in real time.

Which is a good six years or so from 2/2/2017. The day I'm apparently reliving over and over.

Rita checked her watch. It was only 8, she still had time to kill. Ironic, given the situation. She doodled a few shapes below her text. She knew people whose doodles looked like they belonged in the Met. Rita’s wouldn’t pass muster in a 2nd grade classroom. She put down her pen and sighed.

Please don’t let me be crazy. Things have really sucked lately, but I never thought I was losing it.

She bit her lip in an attempt not to cry. Billy the Bartender, the room’s only other occupant, seemed nice enough. But there was no way in hell she was letting Phil see her like this. Especially the over-the-top asshole version of Phil that haunted this bizarre, sideways world.

Please just let this work.

 


 

The Burrow Bar’s front door closed with Buster's cheerful exit to the Groundhog Banquet. Rita took a long swig of her sweet vermouth on the rocks with a twist. At least there was no chance of running out of alcohol.

She looked down at her journal, the pages once again blank.

Well, so much for that.

Today is still February 2nd. Yesterday was also February 2nd, and at this rate next week will be too.

There won’t be any record of this the next time today rewinds. At least any hand cramps will also disappear? But my grandma was right. Writing stuff down down always makes me feel better. And I always journal, so that’s consistent, even if the flow of time isn’t.

I know I've been saying I want a change of pace, but what the hell?

“You want another drink, Miss?” called Billy the bartender. Rita set down her pen. “Sure.”

“What’ll it be?”

Rita loved sweet vermouth on the rocks with a twist, a drink she discovered on study abroad as an undergrad. They always made her feel indulgent. Lately it was too much of a good thing.

“Bartender's choice,” Rita said, ready for a change of pace.

“You sure?”

“Just surprise me.”

Billy gave her a sly smile and went to make her drink. It occurred to Rita this was probably flirting. A few minutes later Billy put a tall glass of something bubbly in front of her. “Got to finish off a few things we don't usually use. Let me know if you don't like it.”

It tasted like an alcoholic version of Peppermint Patti's, but in a good way. Rita raised her glass in approval. Billy grinned.

“Hey Billy-” She stopped herself. Had Billy introduced himself in the current loop? “You said your name was Billy, right?”

“Sure,” offered the bartender, who probably got weirder things on a regular basis.

“Do you remember those...I can’t remember what they were called, but they got taught in Geometry. You had to put together a couple of statements about acute angles to prove...something...”

“Uh...sure?” Billy grabbed a few empty glasses. “Oh wait, I remember this. Proofs, right? You wrote down those postulate things in columns that would prove a theorem.” He gave what could only be described as an eyebrow waggle. “Geometry was one of the few things I was good at.”

“You remember more than me.” These days Rita’s math skills were solely used to calculate the department budget, or lack thereof.

Billy returned to the kitchen, and Rita to writing.

Here we go. Postulate Number 1 (look at me being fancy): Today is February 2nd, 2017, at least in my lived reality. I know that’s not right, even if I don’t remember what day it’s supposed to be. I think sometime in winter, but we weren't up to February yet. And it definitely wasn't 2017.

Maybe I am going crazy. But if that’s in the equation (ha ha, get it, equation?), then all bets are off anyway and there’s no way I can figure this out logically. I’m not ready to go there yet. I have memories of things happening after 2023 - world events, celebrity scandals, things in my life. I have to trust those memories are real.

As illogical as it sounds, I experienced 2023 before I experienced today, which is February 2nd, 2017. New Theorem: Time isn’t going in the right order. If I-

The bar’s door opened with a blast, followed by Jack, the town's sheriff, and his trusty deputy, Wilbur. Strange. They were usually at the Groundhog Banquet by this time. Rita had a bad feeling about this.

'Well, that's a first,” said Jack as he sat down at the bar.

“What is?” asked Billy, clearly accustomed to being the first in the know around town.

“That a would-be car thief would go after the town's snow plow,” said Wilbur, joining them.

“How does that even work?”

“Eh, Ralph left the keys in the ignition. I don't think he realized how slow snow plows are.”

“But Ralph was practically born in that thing.”

Rita prayed silently for this conversation to go another way.

“Not Ralph, that weatherman.”

Apparently God wasn't listening.

“You're saying Channel 5 forecaster Phil Connors tried to steal our snow plow?”

Rita finished the rest of her drink in one gulp. 

“So if you have a bonafide criminal, what are you two doing here?”

“Eh, he’s not going anywhere for awhile. Figured we might as get something to drink first.”

She hastily scribbled one last line in her journal before bolting out the door.

Postulate Number 2: I'm repeating this day with the embodiment of Chaos.

 


 

Rita couldn’t justify why she was at the Punxsutawney sheriff’s office at 11 at night. Given the scene before her, it could only be for her professional pride.

“I can’t even begin to apologize for this,” she told Wilbur, who had somehow managed to beat her to the office. “I have no excuse for his behavior, truly.” For once she was thankful the day’s reality wasn’t sticking, because if it did there was no way in hell she could show her face at the station (or maybe on the planet) ever again. This kind of shit did not happen on her watch.

“Eh, it happens more than you’d think,” Wilbur replied, handing her the bail paperwork. Rita winced at the number written at the bottom. Even if her money was infinitely replenished, this was insulting. “People sure get crazy in the winter. That one just went quick.”

“I told you,” came a loud, irritated voice from the back. “I need to get out of here.”

“The only place you’re going is a nice cell,” replied the sheriff. “Now could you tell me if you’ve consumed any alcohol tonight?”

“If you have to ask if I’ve been drinking, I am definitely not going to tell you, buddy.”

Rita looked down at the paperwork, and then back up at Wilbur. “You know, I’m not really in any rush.”

“Please, ma’am,” Wilbur said a little too quickly. “I know it’s not fair to ask you, and I know our little party must look silly to you out of towners, but the Groundhog Ball really is the highlight of the year for us.”

“Were either of your parents 1970s porn stars?” came Phil’s disembodied voice. “Because that would explain the mustache.”

“Why, you little-”

Rita nodded slowly, and picked up the pen. Wilbur seemed like a good guy, he didn’t deserve this. “Just know that I’m only doing this for you.”

 


 

“You want anything else, honey?” asked Doris.

“Just more coffee,” Rita said. She found herself shielding the journal pages from view, which was ridiculous since there was currently nothing on them.

And now I have to start over from the beginning. At least it’s a new day, doesn’t mean much, but it’s nice to be out of the hotel and with other people. (No offense, Billy, you know you’re still my number one).

Or maybe it’s that I can get coffee at the diner. Coffee makes everything better.

So, Unsolved Riddle Number 2: What the ever loving fuck, Phil.

Phil Connors and I met once before Groundhog Day 2017, when we worked on a story about melting snow banks flooding the suburbs. It was hectic. I don’t think we exchanged two words not about camera angles, and what words we did were blunt. When I asked Phil about it (after we started dating), he insisted that day was so crazy he hardly remembered any of it. I took him at his word. I really was just grateful that we got a second chance. I can say a lot about Phil, but he's never been anything close the rumors I heard when I first started at Station 5.

But back to Groundhog Day 2017. The truth is that day was fantastic, blizzards and relationships that didn’t last and all. I've always said people don't just fall for each other in just one day. Looking back on it, who knows if it was “love,” whatever that means. But I know something was different that day. It was one of those days that made you feel like there’s more to the universe than you’d think.

Even if I’m bitter about how me and Phil ended, I want to hold onto that.

(I’m trying to hold onto that. I don’t think I’m doing a good job lately. Whatever lately is).

I haven’t talked to Phil in at least a year, not since he left Channel 5 for that travel show gig. My head hurts whenever I think too hard about the present, but I think they just wrapped up the second season? I caught it once when I was flipping through channels. Turning it off would just prove there was anything to bother me. The whole thing was very Anthony Bourdain Meets Weather Phenomena. Kind of cheesy, but also charming.

Phil’s good at fooling people, but he looked genuinely happy interviewing those four generations of corn farmers in Indiana. I don’t think that was just for the camera. Maybe Phil’s figured some stuff out. That’s a good thing. Really.

I can hold two things at the same time. Both that my first date with Phil was something special, and that it hurts to think about it. That in of itself would make my current situation awkward. The thing is, I’m not reliving that perfect day with Phil when we watched drunk people hurling from the top of the utility tower.

No, I’m doing it with Phil’s evil twin.

 


 

“Hey Phil,” called Larry. At least Larry was always happy. “We’re about ready to get started,”

Phil didn’t so much as look up from his spot on the bench. Gobbler’s Knob was crowded at this time of the morning, but there was a 10 foot radius around Phil. Anyone who breached it was instantly cut down by a dirty look. Or maybe lasers shooting out of Phil’s eyes, at the rate this was going.

Maybe it was best to cut their losses and run. Professional pride, Rita reminded herself yet again.

“Phil?” called Larry again. Still no response. Gingerly, Larry sat down on the bench and waved his hand in front of Phil’s face. Without looking up, Phil caught Larry’s arm and twisted sharply.

“Ow!”

“I will not do the broadcast,” said Phil, his words clipped but firm.

“Phil-” Rita wasn’t sure if Larry was more alarmed by the pain in his arm, or the thought of being a cameraman without a subject.

He lowered his tone to a whisper, finally meeting Larry’s eyes. “Try that again, and I will destroy you.”

Okay. Time to do some producer magic.

Rita cleared her throat and put on her brightest smile. “Phil Connors. I’m Rita, your new producer-”

“-Associate Producer,” Phil cut in.

When did he have a chance to figure that out this loop? “And I thought maybe we could chat about how things are going, what your vision is for the segment-”

“No force in this universe is going to get me to go near that rodent.“ Maybe looks really could kill.

Okay, time for a different tactic. “I should remind you that unless you’re physically unable to do the job or have a qualified family or medical emergency, your contract does require you to give 24 hours notice…”

He wasn’t listening. Impressive given that Rita was only two yards away.

Plan C, then. Phil had considerable size and height on Rita, but she had years of experience with older brothers. And the element of surprise. Coming around the other side of the bench, Rita yanked upwards on Phil’s other arm. He scrambled out of her grasp, only to stumble forward and narrowly avoid falling flat on the snow in front of them.

“This is employee harassment,” Phil said, still braced on his hands and not getting up.

“And this is me not caring.” Rita’s tone held no mercy.

Larry looked terrified. Rita promised herself she would make it up to him later.

There were upsides to a world without consequences.

 


 

People make fun of Twilight for many reasons, and a good chunk deservedly so. My college roommate would always ask, “Why do the vampires go to high school over and over? Really, you’re an ancient immortal, and you spend eternity going to high school?”

I think I watched one of the movies once, and there was probably some plot reason why Edward and Bella repeat high school over and over.

I never really thought about it. And yet here I am.

You gotta hold onto something.

 


 

“I’m going to pretend I don’t smell the alcohol in there,” Rita said at Gobbler’s Knob the next morning. She looked straight ahead so as to avoid Phil’s eyes. Even if yesterday didn’t happen and Phil didn’t remember a thing, things still felt awkward.

“You’re the one who keeps saying it’s a party,” Phil replied, deadpan. (Had she said that? The days were blurring together). “I’m getting into the festive spirit.”

Rita had long since accepted that this was Dark Phil, but this was still too much. “I take it that’s the reason your shirt is on backwards?” Rita tried.

“It’s not,” Phil said without so much as blinking. He took another swig of the sludge in his coffee cup.

“Are you okay, Phil?” Rita asked. It was so easy to fall back into caring about him.

He gave her a blank look and took another sip of the slime/booze combo. “Are any of us ever okay?”

That was too close to her Phil. The one that she couldn’t help but worry over, no matter how frustrating he became. “You just seem kind of…” Off? Demented?

Phil beamed a smile, the expression out of place on his stoic otherwise face. “Too pretty for this hellscape?”

So much for that mental image. Rita put her hands up. “You know what, forget it.”

 


 

Another thing I should mention, if you haven’t already figured it out, dear Journal. Phil is the one thing that always changes around here.

And yes, I’ve asked him questions about 2023. Even a few about us, and he just seemed confused. This isn’t Modern Day Phil, but it’s not the one I met on Groundhog Day 2017 either.

I don’t know where that Theorem fits into all of this.

 


 

Apologies Journal, I’ve been neglecting both you and Billy. I’ve missed you both. But I’ve been putting my energy lately into figuring out what the hell is going on here.

This week (series of loops?) I’ve been busy checking myself into Punxsutawney First Clinic for a medical/psychiatric/karmic/whatever evaluation. Gotta tell you, I was scared shitless. Too many bad horror movies. And let me tell you, it's awkward telling a medical professional that you're looping in time.

I know what you’re probably thinking: Um, Rita, wouldn’t any sane person start by making sure they didn’t have a brain tumor? And you’re right.

The thing is, everything around here feels...slippery. I don’t know how else to put it. I can’t pinpoint when I first started living This Day in History over and over. No moreso than I can remember what led up to this. When I try to go through it logically, I always drop one of the pieces and have to start over.

Let me put it this way: When you’re dreaming, you never think about why you’re walking around without shoes. You just do.

I have to give credit to the people of Punxsutawney: I don't think any of them believed me for a second, but they have always been kind. The alternative therapist even offered to lend me his spare sweat crystal (yes, you read that right).

The good news is that there’s nothing wrong with my brain, I’m not going insane, and my aura looks great. Unfortunately, I’m still reliving Groundhog Day 2017. (Oh, and apparently I have a cavity, or I did six years ago).

Just one last thing to try.

 


 

“You wanted to talk, Rita?” Larry asked.

Rita could feel her heart hard in her throat. She could make this go away just by making an excuse, or finding any other subject to talk about with Larry. But she needed to give this a shot.

So she told him. About being from the future. About living today over and over. About not remembering how it had even started.

Larry gave her his full attention. His eyes creased with concern and care.

Rita knew without asking that he didn’t believe her. He was just too kind to say so.

“I’ll stay with you until tomorrow, okay?” Larry looked briefly alarmed as he considered the implications of that. “I mean, not in a creepy way. I’m just saying that I can keep you company if you’re worried.”

Rita knew that he would stay with her. She wanted that, badly. As if the comfort of a good friend would end this bizarre dream.

But it wouldn’t, and Rita knew that witnessing that would break her heart.

Instead, she squeezed his hand before heading back to her own room. “Good night, Larry.”


 

I’m scared to write this down, but I might as well admit it: I don’t remember what I was doing before I started reliving That One Groundhog Day. I know the general stuff. My name is Rita Hanson, I’m 42, Blood Type A, etc. I could even tell you specifics, like how I need to renew my renters insurance or plans for my niece’s birthday. But when I try to grasp onto what happened before Groundhog Day: Infinity Version, I just can’t.

Sometimes I can grasp a feeling. That’s about it.

But it’s more than that. Something isn’t right.

Like I was saying the other day, you know when you have dreams where you walk around without shoes all day? (Wait, is that just me? Whatever). That's how I feel. There's a part of my brain that questions why I would ever leave the house without shoes. You're talking to the girl with the world's coldest feet. But at the same time, Dream Rita is still walking around barefoot.

It’s funny. Sometimes it feels like the days drag on. Other times I feel like everything could happen in the blink of an eye or the snap of a rubber band, and there I would be again, lying in bed and waking to the eternal crooning of Carly Rae Jepson.

I know I'm missing something.


 

Today I played hookie from work.

So much for my professional pride, right?

Punxsutawney really is a little known gem of Pennsylvania. The fact that it’s “Phil’s place” doesn’t take away from that. My issue isn’t around replaying this particular day over and over.

The truth is, I’m really tired right now. Of producing, aka dealing with frustrating people with a smile.

I pride myself on being able to put up with it all, to bring out the best in people, and doing it all with confidence and a smile. That’s what a producer is supposed to do. But sometimes I think we get so caught up in Fixing Things and Making Sure Everything Is Fine, Dammit, that we refuse to see any other reality. It’s one thing to make a project work through sheer force of will. It’s another to make everything okay.

(Confession: That’s something Phil - the real Phil, said a few times when we were fighting. That I was always trying to produce everything, including us. Which I always thought was unfair, especially coming from a guy who was so God awful at talking about the serious stuff. Sure, I’m stubborn, but at least I deal with the facts and situation at hand. Phil could teach a masterclass in avoidance).

I went to the other side of town, a feat given the weather. In the future - ha - I need to find out who has snow shoes I can borrow. There’s not much to Punxsutawney, at least in terms of geography and distance. A few businesses and the town center, then some houses, and then a bunch of fields. Nothing is growing right now, but they're pretty anyway.

I was better at crying when I was a kid. I wasn’t a drama queen, but the waterworks would come when I was really upset or when I just needed to get something out of my system. I'm not sure when it got hard. These days, even when I'm alone and I want to, it’s hard to cry.

The truth is that sitting there and being miserable for a while made me feel better. In all the time I’ve been in Groundhog Day 2017, I’ve never really been alone. I mean, I could be in my room at the Punxsutawney Hotel. But the place is always hopping throughout the day and I’ve practically memorized the morning conversations from the family staying in the room next door.

I really do love this holiday, association with my ex be damned. Everyone is so happy to be here, no matter what else in their life is happening. It’s like a way of saying, “Screw you, world. You give me a blizzard and we will fucking make snow angels out of that shit.” Or something.

But today I needed to Grinch a little and feel sorry for myself.

You wouldn’t think so, but it felt really good.

So here I am a few hours later, having a late night drink and maybe feeling a little better.

Billy has come up with some really fun mystery drinks the last few loops. I hope he knows that he could have a future at a fusion bar somewhere. Then again, he seems happy in Punxsutawney.

I don’t know how to deal with a world that doesn’t make sense, with a forever that never changes. But tonight I feel okay, and that’s enough for now.

 


 

“Is anyone sitting here?” Rita asked, indicating the empty diner counter stool. The place was packed.

“Nope!” said Debbie, motioning for her to sit down. That’s right, she was Debbie Johnson, not Kleiser yet. Didn’t they get engaged on the real Groundhog Day 2017?

“Thanks.” Rita took the seat next to them.

Fred cleared his throat. “Um, so you really work for Channel 5?”

“I do!” Rita said, straightening her posture.

“Not to fangirl all over you, but Fred and I are total addicts,” Debbie confessed.

“She’s not wrong,” Fred agreed.

“Hey, you’re talking our brand here, I’m not going to complain. Anything to get ahead of those jerks at Channel 3.”

The couple exchanged a look.

Rita laughed. “Just kidding, a lot of my friends work for Channel 3. I just saw Alice Russell last Thanksgiving-”

Rita stopped. “Last Thanksgiving” was years in the future. She took a breath and reminded herself she hadn’t yet said anything out of the ordinary. Fred and Debbie waited for her to continue.

They won’t know the difference, Rita realized. I could just talk to them. Like regular people.

So she did.

In between, Doris brought out sandwiches, pie, and was just delivering more coffee when Rita made the mistake of telling the pair about the winter she spent in Switzerland.

Fred laughed. “Whoa, someone’s fancy.”

“It’s not nearly as pretentious as it sounds. I had a few weeks off after my study abroad and I worked at a Swiss ski resort in exchange for a room and a mountain pass.”

“Study abroad,” teased Debbie, not unkindly.

“Hey, not all of us get to live with prophets of the future, we gotta do something to keep it interesting.”

Debbie gave Rita a reassuring clap on the shoulder. “Oh, it’s not a competition. Besides, I wanna hear about your fancy resort life.”

“I mean, I got in some good skiing, but I also cleaned things in the resort bathrooms that would make lesser men’s hair turn white.”

“Like what?” Fred asked, eyes wide with innocence.

Debbie gave Rita a knowing look. “Trust me, if you don’t know already, you don’t want to. Besides, Rita gets to work with the stars, I don’t want to ruin your image.”

And time to get away from that conversation. “Well, there was the time I had to get flown off of the mountain.”

Doris took their plates as Rita recounted the tale. “I was pretty stubborn in my twenties. I had a crush on one of the mountain staff, so there was no way in hell I was going to get myself flown off the mountain with him there. So I tried to go down the triple black diamond course on my own, even though I was so out of my league.”

“And?” asked Debbie, taking a fry from Fred’s plate without so much as blinking.

Rita laughed. “I was scared shitless. Trust me, you have never seen a hill like that.” The instant she said it, Rita knew she was in trouble.

 


 

 An hour later, Rita was at the top of Mount Motherchucker in a pair of borrowed snow boots.

“Are you sure this thing can hold three people?” she asked her new best friends.

Fred dismissed the notion with a wave. “I once got me and all four of my cousins in here,”

“Yeah, when you were eight,” countered Debbie. “Don’t worry, Ms. Hanson, I’ll take the front so you can have your legs all the way in.”

She snorted. “If we’re doing this, I promise you can just call me Rita.”

The snow crunched with the first few inches. “Sorry,” said Fred. “Just gotta get ‘er going.”

They hit the beginning of the incline, and the sled began to gain traction. Soon, they were heading down the hill at a decent pace. Gave you a nice view of the town.

“Careful, curve!” shouted Fred, his voice muffled by the wind.

“On it!” Without warning, the sled veered sharply to the left. Debbie caught Rita’s eye and grinned. “Okay, this is where it gets good.”

Rita couldn’t see where the dip came from, but the sled bumped, and suddenly their speed doubled. “Are you sure we shouldn’t-”

“No way!” shouted Debbie from the front of the sled.

Fuck, that was a tree dead ahead. “Break! Break!” yelled Fred.

“What’s a break?” called Rita, even as she tried to do something to slow down the sled down.

They skidded to a stop, only feet away from the tree line.

“Woo hoo!” Debbie whooped, waving her arms in triumph.

Rita lifted herself upright, beaming a grin as she met Debbie’s hands for a high five.

She couldn’t remember the last time her heart beat so fast.


 

The next morning, Rita entered the diner and walked straight to the empty stool. “Hey, mind if I sit here?”

Of course, Fred and Debbie didn’t recognize her. But they would soon.

This time, she took the front of the sled.


 

I have a new job as of today, Journal. Not Executive Producer, although I’m still hopeful that’ll happen if I ever get back to the future.

No, as of today, I am Nancy Taylor’s bodyguard, with a specialty in PCC (that’s Phil Connors Cockblocking. Thank you, I came up with it myself).

It started this morning. Said hi to the marching band, told Larry where to find his spare power cable, and went to face our resident agent of Chaos. I’ve made an art out of saying just enough to Dark Phil to get the groundhog story done, and then bee-tailing it in the opposite direction for the rest of the day. I’ve got a time on Mount Motherchucker to beat, and I’m still trying to get Debbie to tell me whatever “the hamster story” is.

(I sometimes wonder, is it possible to be friends with people you meet for the first time every day?)

Nancy Taylor is a local around here. I’ve interviewed her a few times for Groundhog Day. Never about anything deeper than “Spring or more winter?”, but she seems nice.

This morning, Phil actually showed up for work sans my manhandling. I should have known something was wrong by his very, very good mood.

“Nancy?” he asked. “Nancy Taylor?” There’s no way Dark Phil would remember anyone from Punxsutawney. He barely remembers my name or how to tie his shoes.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but Phil had a whole story about how he and Nancy were in the same high school English class. (Which is hilarious. Even I never knew that Phil was still going to high school in his late twenties).

The weird thing was that Nancy kept buying the bullshit spewing from Phil’s mouth. He kept talking about names and events, and they kept clicking for her. I know I should give up on reality checks by now, but since when is Phil psychic?

Needless to say my eyes nearly rolled out of my head, food for the rodents scurrying nearby.

The last few days I’ve been catching up on my industry reading. The selection is limited given this is six years ago, but there are some good journalism classics available at the Punxsutawney Library. The hotel lobby is cozy, the chatter is soothing. I’ve even discovered that the hotel manager is willing to start up the fireplace if I ask.

So you can guess how much I enjoy getting interrupted by Dark Phil and Nancy on their way to “alone time.”

Look, Nancy is a grown woman, she can screw whoever she wants. So can Phil. But Dearest Journal, I have heard things that I can never unhear. Though time (loops) heal all wounds, my ears still bleed from the memory.

Certainly I’m entitled to some peace, right?


 

“Thanks for the drink,” Nancy said.

“No, thank you for the interview,” Rita replied. She felt guilty - Nancy seemed so touched that someone wanted to talk to her. You would think a girl like that, she’d have her share of conversation partners.

If for some reason tomorrow stuck, Rita promised herself she’d get one of the reporters to run with this story. Hell, if she got back to the real world, she’d make a trip out to Punxsutawney just to interview the 2005 Most Promising Western Pennsylvania Young Chalk Artist.

“You sure you’re okay getting back to the hotel by yourself?” Nancy asked.

“I’m fine. Besides, this seems like the kind of town where even bank robbers hold the door for you.”

“You should come back to Punxsutawney sometime,” Nancy offered. “I promise things aren’t so crazy, and that sometimes we talk about stuff other than marmots.”

The corner of Rita’s mouth quirked up. “Oh yeah?”

Nancy gave a small smile. “Oh yeah. Any one of us could talk your ear off about prairie dogs.” Nancy was able to keep a straight face for approximately two seconds, before they both burst into laughter.

Rita nodded. “You know what? Next time I get PTO, you’re on.”


 

Another loop, another night out. Maybe she should let Nancy get back to her normal routine. How gross was Rita, policing another woman’s sex life?

“No, seriously, I’ll get the check,” Rita offered when Billy came around. It was the least she could do.

Nancy was the kind of girl who would have intimidated the shit out of Rita in high school. Hot, popular, always had the perfect comeback. But when Rita admitted so, Nancy outright snorted. “Opposite direction, girlfriend. Sounds like you were smart and actually did shit. My high school extracurriculars were just drinking beer with my friends by the bridge.”

“What about chalk drawing?” Rita got out her wallet. It was a cheap gesture to pay for Nancy’s drink when her money would reset, but Nancy seemed to appreciate it regardless. “It sounds like you were really into it when you were a kid.”

Nancy smiled sadly. “I was. I’m not sure what happened. I mean, I wasn’t ever going to do anything fancy like college, so after a while it felt like what’s the point. I still do it sometimes, in the back of my daddy’s house.” Something glimmered in her eye. “It’s funny. I won’t do it for a while, but when I do, I wonder why I haven’t. I know it makes me feel good, makes me feel smart, even though it’s just dumb-”

Rita swatted at Nancy’s arm. “I’ve told you about my stick figures, right?” (Had she this time? Maybe it didn’t matter) “Seriously, art is art.”

Nancy stuck out her tongue. “Fine. Seriously. I just...don’t know why I don’t do things sometimes. And then I realize that I’m just waking up every day, checking people out at the drugstore, and then going home and falling asleep to Netflix. And I don’t know why, but I do.”

“I think I get it.”


 

I think chalk drawing is out of the picture with the weather, but there are other possibilities.

I hope you don’t have any plans tomorrow, Nancy, we’re going to Paint Night.

 


 

Update: Paint Night was awesome, Journal. I wish I could show you my groundhog, but know that it lives on in another reality.

In the meantime, we have more serious business. I’m saddened to report that PCC hit a serious snag today.

I did my usual chit chat with Nancy this morning.

Usually if I hang around Nancy for long enough, Phil can’t get a word in. I mean, who wants to try to pick up a girl when she's on a nail date with her new BFF from Channel 5? (I got my toes painted fluorescent blue the other day, and they looked awesome). Phil’s persistent, but I’m a producer.

But today, no matter what I did, Phil was one step ahead of me. Larry couldn’t find his power cable and I had to help him. The next thing I know, Phil’s started up a conversation about high school English teachers. I’m about to interrupt when a loud sound comes from the van, and smoke starts spewing from the exhaust pipe.

By the time Larry and I return, covered in God knows what, Phil and Nancy are nowhere to be seen.

Once again, I have to repeat my daily mantra: Nancy is a grown woman who can make her own choices.

There's just something...eerily purposeful and precise about the way Phil gets to her.

 


 

I spent most of today reading Mrs. Cleveland’s copy of The Modern Witch’s Guide to Sex Positive Living. (Yes, her last name is actually Cleveland. Yes, she and her husband are from Cleveland. I have no idea about the witch thing).

I laid back on my usual couch. Phil had the right to screw anyone who would consent, but this couch was mine, dammit. (And why did he insist on having so much sex outside of his own B&B room anyway?)

I didn’t look up when Phil came by with a giggling Nancy, but I’d like to think the eyes in the back of my head did some damage.

I breathed, and reminded myself that anger just led to the decay of everyone’s aura. (I’m still not sure what an aura actually is - apparently that’s in the next book).

They were followed by a leggy brunette a moment later. And then...Fred Kleiser and Debbie Johnson.

In my innocence, I assumed that maybe they would play board games. Or shoot cocaine, or some other mental image I could live with.

And then the noises began.

I gave up and left the lobby after about 15 minutes. There’s being stubborn, and then there’s being masochistic.

An hour later, a fire truck pulled up to the hotel.

I draw the line when other people start getting hurt.

I’m just saying, Journal, two can play this game.