The usual disclaimers apply - and no MM have been harmed in the making of this story ... though Hal is at the end of his rope some days.

To the Jello pit - thanks for the support - and pass the shooters.

The Ultimate Debate
Chapter 03
By Alfonsina

If I'd been alone, I wouldn't have had any problems with the menu. If I'd been alone, I would have ordered grease on a bun with an order of catsup on the side, oh and a chocolate milkshake, small. I am cutting back, a little.

Was I alone? No. I am still being punished by the gods who rule over electronic devices and protect their idiot users, I was at lunch with Brett. Normally while I don't hate Brett, I don't seek him out either. I tried to ditch him, but feel like I owed him lunch since I accidentally deleted his Sports Illustrated Bikini Edition Screen Saver. I was still smarting from having him hoisted on me for what felt like forever and I'd been lashing out. It isn't like he was the one who loaded it anyway, it was a pirated copy from Lester.

"Can you lend me five bucks for lunch?" he asked.

"Sure," I sighed realizing I didn't have any cash money with me. At least this place took plastic. I just hate to have to debit such a small amount, it hardly makes the bookwork worth it later; I usually forget and then fight when I balance out at the end of the month. I should probably look into getting one of those little gift card things for myself, I come here enough.

"Which do you think is healthier, the burger or the chicken sandwich?" he asked.

I wanted to beat my head on the steering wheel, I wanted to beat my head against the window, I wanted to leave Brett where he was and let him walk back to the office.

"Burger is better," I said. I'd actually read the nutritional facts on a website somewhere explaining what the 'best' choices were at a place like this.

"But chicken is what they always recommend when you're dieting," he said looking at me like he'd been eyeing my love handles.

"Do you want to go in and look at the nutritional guide they have to post now?" I bit out. I really didn't want to debate with him again. "We only have twenty minutes before we're due back at the office."

The line for the cars was long, but the crowd inside appeared to be longer.

"I just can't make up my mind," he said. "I want health, nutrition and something fast." At least he wasn't announcing he wanted sex, drugs and rock and roll.

There's got to be some way for me to survive working with Brett and 1) not go grey before my 28th birthday and 2) not pull each hair out of my head individually as a way to handle my frustration.

"We're going in," I said as I pulled the truck out of the line and found a parking space.

"But do we have enough time," he started. "You said …"

"Never mind what I said. We're going inside." I pulled out my cell phone and called Tank. "Got a minor delay, we'll be back in about 40 more. Yeah, I'll get you an ice cream cone."

"Cranky much?" Brett asked.

The small chocolate shake was just upgraded to the large. The burger went from one patty to two. The fries were no longer just the snack size and were now the extra value size. OK, fine. I do know why I can't lose that extra ten pounds, the problem isn't exercise or diet. I actually do know how to eat. The problem is Brett. If I can get rid of Brett I can not only lose 180 pounds of unwanted bulk, but I can shed that pesky ten that are sitting around my middle before my birthday.

~x~x~

I've done a lot of thinking about the difference between Brett and me. He was probably made of Teflon; nothing, ever, sticks to him. Me? I'm probably made of cast iron; I have to be properly seasoned and lubricated to get the best results.

"Dude," he said.

Articulate much, Brett?

Last night, we had once again been paired to work a surveillance shift together. Because it is almost Christmas, I deigned to have the radio on during our vigil. His words still echoed in my ears.

"God, you are so old fashioned and boring," he'd said.

True enough. I am not trendy, I know this. I prefer to think of myself as classic. Classics don't have to worry about the current trends. Existing is supposed to be good enough for the classics, right? Well, once in a while a new coat of paint is good or new upholstery, but overall the classics stand the test of time. Dylan was a classic, so were the Stones, Marilyn Monroe and Paul Newman; no one messed with them or called them boring. Did they?

"It stays on Christmas music," I huffed. I didn't want to listen to hip hop or death metal in the car tonight, or any night, really. I'd kind of figured he'd go along with Christmas music.

"Can we at least take it off of the orchestral channel? I like to sing along to the tunes and sometimes I forget the words."

This was coming from a man who couldn't remember all the words to Jose Feliciano's "Feliz Navidad". You know the song has like a handful of words: Feliz navidad. Prospero ano nuevo y felicidad. That's pretty much all of it and the song goes on forever. Brett had been trying to sing along only he was singing "The police have my car. The police have my car." I guess if you are drunk, hearing impaired and tone deaf it wasn't all that bad but I'm none of those things.

"Fine. But no singing in the car." I would brook no arguments nor would I allow myself to be pushed into another interminable debate. I turned it to the other All Christmas All the Time radio station and hoped I wasn't deaf at the end of the night.

If I couldn't check text messages and get the world news, he couldn't sing. Simple Besides, I didn't think the glass would survive if he sang, he might break it with his voice.

"Tell you what, I won't sing here but I need for you to help me when we get back to Haywood, it shouldn't take you that long."

"Whatever."

Right now all that mattered was peace, quiet and the end of the shift. Only three hours and fifty minutes to go, and counting.

The shift ended with Brett humming along to Alvin and The Chipmunks. I will probably die with the sound of that song playing in my head, or worse, God will torture me with it and it will become the soundtrack to my dreams. At least he wasn't trying to sing 'All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth"; he couldn't hum that one and kept mouthing the words. I am going to have to look into a way to bribe Tank so I don't have to do Brett duty anymore.

I really wished the perp had shown up or had done something anything to break the monotony. In so many ways this job is like being a cop; you work and train like hell hoping the worst never happens and when it does, you feel like you've got your pants around your ankles. Instead, I got to watch a bottle blond mouth the words, incorrectly may I add, to Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

~x~x~

We got back to the office, filed our reports and headed back to the fourth floor.

"Can you help me now?" Brett asked.

I remembered that I'd offered to help him with something, but I had no real idea what it was.

"Sure, I guess."

"Great."

Hey, one of us was in a good mood.

"What do you need help with?" I asked as we arrived at his door.

"I'm on vacation starting," he said looking at his watch, "now. And I need some help packing my bag."

He opened his door and I looked inside and wanted to just keep walking. It looked like his closet had exploded all over the living room floor. Scratch that, all over the living room. I saw underwear and socks on every surface, not to mention economy sized boxes of condoms.

He had one suitcase and one carry on. It looked like there was no way he'd get everything in that he wanted to take, not without a miracle.

"… so I saw these vacuum storage bags on TV and thought it'd be a great idea to get me packed," he was saying.

"So you won't need my help," I said backing out the door again.

"Yeah, I do. I don't have a vacuum. I need for you to suck the air out of the bags so I can carry more stuff with me."

"Just how long are you going to be gone?"

"Ten days."

"Do laundry while you're there," I said before I realized I'd just opened another debate.

"Too troublesome to do it that way. Besides, I'm not planning on taking everything back with me when it is over."

"So you see your clothes as being 'disposable'?"

"Nope, I'm seeing them as souvenirs. Any hot chick who has the fortune of getting with me while I'm gone can have any item of clothing I'm wearing when we meet."

That's one way to cut down on laundry.

"Besides, it isn't like I'm going to wear it again. This stuff is all from last season."

OK. My estimation of Brett has fallen again. He's blond, young, a little too skinny, dim witted, convinced he'll give Lester a run for his money, and he's a fashion victim.

So instead of complaining and begging off, I decided to be adult. I helped him sort his clothing into those stupid bags. In so doing, I learned a little too much about Brett. Who knew they made mesh jockeys? How many thongs did he need? Evidently the number was 15. Just how many grooming products did one man need to take on vacation? Enough to fill the overnight bag and overflow into the checked bag.

After two hours, I got most of the air out of the bags by using pressure and rolling them. I wasn't going to suck the air out, that was just a little too weird for me.

I got everything into the bag but it was still too full, despite the compression techniques I used.

"Sit on it," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Sit on my bag to squish things down the rest of the way."

"Take out a couple boxes of condoms. They take up a lot of room."

"An unplanned kid takes a lot of money out of my checkbook. Condoms stay."

We went through other things that could be removed; everything was deemed important and mission critical.

"Sit on it," he insisted again.

God is he ever irksome.

"You sit on it."

"You weigh more."

That stung and it was true. I now only needed to lose 9.25 pounds in the next week to make my weight loss goal. Too much time with Brett had negatively impacted my waistline.

"Fine."

I sat on the bag and it did decompress just enough that it would have zipped. I sat for five minutes while he looked at me and did nothing.

"Zip it," I finally said. "I want to go to bed."

"I thought you could zip it."

"Zip it."

Christ, he was dense, helpless and stupid.

He finally pulled on the zipper and got everything closed.

I got off the bag and headed for the door. "Night man. Have a good time."

" Hal, can you take me to the airport? I forgot to call the shuttle."

Please let him have a late flight, please. If he has a late flight it'll conflict with my schedule and someone else will have to do it.

"Sure." No sooner had the words left my mouth than I realized what an absolute idiot I am. I saw him pick up his carry on and other bag and head to the door.

"Kind of need to leave now, man. Flight's in three hours and it's an hour to Newark."

Perfect. No longer will I be so easily convinced to do the right thing for Brett. The right thing felt like punishment.

We drove to the airport in silence. I let him play the radio on any channel and he could sing along as loudly as he wanted. I figured the clamor would keep me awake, sort of. If nothing else it would distract me. I could put something quiet on when he got out.

We were still five minutes from the airport when I decided to get a question of my own answered.

"So, Brett, how long did you want me to help you?"

"Since I booked the trip. I'm lousy at packing."

"How did you get through boot camp?"

"I did it because I had to and then flushed the knowledge. You know I was just a reservist, right?" I'd forgotten that, but whatever. "Besides, usually I have a girlfriend pack me."

"Why not this time?"

"No girlfriend this year."

OK.

I got him to the passenger drop off and was anxious to pull out into traffic. I only had four hours before my next shift and I wanted to be awake for it.

As Brett got out he said in a quiet voice, "Hal, I travel on all the holidays because I don't have any friends. Actually, I didn't until I found you. You're the best friend I've had for years. It's why I keep asking Tank to schedule us together. I don't fit in and you are the only one of the guys who doesn't make me feel like an outcast. Thanks for letting me hang with you."

What do you say to that? Nothing. I grunted and gave him a nod and a small smile. Besides, we weren't hanging, we were always working. Weren't we?

As he got out of the SUV, I said, "Safe journeys. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Hal." With that, Brett joined the throngs of last minute travelers hoping to escape their lives for the holidays.

A/N: Hal is not broken yet, really. His waist line won't continue to expand, really - but it is the topic of conversation on a regular basis. Next chapter will be explain the true and ultimate debate. Thanks for soothing Hal's nerves by reading and reviewing. Alf.