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His
eyes
go
side
to
side
across
the
paper
,
and
he
giggles
.
"
The
second
rule
of
fight
club
is
you
do
n't
talk
about
fight
club
.
"
I
hear
Tyler
's
words
come
out
of
my
boss
,
Mister
Boss
with
his
midlife
spread
and
family
photo
on
his
desk
and
his
dreams
about
early
retirement
and
winters
spent
at
a
trailer-park
hookup
in
some
Arizona
desert
.
My
boss
,
with
his
extra-starched
shirts
and
standing
appointment
for
a
haircut
every
Tuesday
after
lunch
,
he
looks
at
me
,
and
he
says
:
"
I
hope
this
is
n't
yours
.
"
I
am
Joe
's
Blood-Boiling
Rage
.
Tyler
asked
me
to
type
up
the
fight
club
rules
and
make
him
ten
copies
.
Not
nine
,
not
eleven
.
Tyler
says
,
ten
.
Still
,
I
have
the
insomnia
,
and
ca
n't
remember
sleeping
since
three
nights
ago
.
This
must
be
the
original
I
typed
.
I
made
ten
copies
,
and
forgot
the
original
.
The
paparazzi
flash
of
the
copy
machine
in
my
face
.
The
insomnia
distance
of
everything
,
a
copy
of
a
copy
of
a
copy
.
You
ca
n't
touch
anything
,
and
nothing
can
touch
you
.
My
boss
reads
:
"
The
third
rule
of
fight
club
is
two
men
per
fight
.
"
Neither
of
us
blinks
.
My
boss
reads
:
