Rain pounds Dildo in the winter. Baker, still here, bought a run-down houseboat, and at night while he slept, the rope unmoored and drifted out to the harbor. In the morning he found himself beached on Dildo Island, still in sight of the shore and had to be rescued. Now he sits, gripping a cup of tea, now tepid, staring out the same window he’s stared out every day for the past month, across the road to where they lit the big DILDO sign every night, while a song, maybe Interpol, sounds familiar but he can’t place, plays over the AM.
By Nikita Linivenko