tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1551975403260100322024-03-18T19:27:22.514+00:00FICTION on the WEB short storiesNew story every Monday and FridayCharlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.comBlogger1482125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-79154627974871535332024-03-18T08:00:00.014+00:002024-03-18T19:26:49.644+00:00Their Night Sleeps With Me Still by Talia Levy<i>A woman climbs the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, and progressively surrenders to the mountain.
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNGAcIN1uHaZqj3Cbvj2zMOCnNHuJlMkJNCmzAux6pccR8fFti_fO67896ISpeY7rlyFinRz2djkwLTLB1tmwJsMiocd63ce-Uz0OLy9kGKivdbyWmgBniWB6cqb7c-wYxuUwwQMbHWT6ff4XtC4oZY0appS39AwlS_igAJC5iQRnZ309ja-44LJAxt0/s500/Their%20Night%20Sleeps%20With%20Me%20Still%20by%20Talia%20Levy.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNGAcIN1uHaZqj3Cbvj2zMOCnNHuJlMkJNCmzAux6pccR8fFti_fO67896ISpeY7rlyFinRz2djkwLTLB1tmwJsMiocd63ce-Uz0OLy9kGKivdbyWmgBniWB6cqb7c-wYxuUwwQMbHWT6ff4XtC4oZY0appS39AwlS_igAJC5iQRnZ309ja-44LJAxt0/s320/Their%20Night%20Sleeps%20With%20Me%20Still%20by%20Talia%20Levy.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table><blockquote>What if I live no more those kingly days?
<br /> Their night sleeps with me still.
<br />I dream my feet within the starry ways;
<br /> My heart rests in the hill
<br /> I may not grudge the little left undone;
<br />I hold the heights, I keep the dreams I won.
<br /><br />- Geoffrey Winthrop-Young
<br />'The Old Hill Climber'</blockquote>
<br />As the lovely young woman brings me my plate, I can't help but remember the old Nepali man who had smiled broadly, celebrating his T-Shirt: Daal Bhat Power 24 Hour. I have been converted. My plate carefully split into three parts. The rice. The vegetables. The small cup of daal. The lentils may be gold or black or brown. They may have strands of saffron winding through their prismatic surface. They may be cooked thick, nearly the consistency of a shepherd's pie; or thin, like a soup that could unclog any head cold. But, always, a small cup of daal.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>I look up at Rani, my adventure companion, and past the others in the room. We are perched on, or rather wedged into, the side of a steep mountain. The simple room has long, thin windows stretching the length of the walls. Beyond them, Annapurna II. My eyes linger on her, despite the urgency of my goal.
<br /><br />For me the biggest challenge is the rice. An enormous mound of rice, at least three cups. I see the way the sherpas shovel it down intently, stooping over the table, eyes pointing downwards. I mimic their ergonomic eating. I glance up and see that the woman has emerged from the kitchen with a large pot. I increase my speed. Rani says something to me, and I allow myself a peek to see that he is sitting back victoriously. An empty plate. I am envious.
<br /><br />The woman comes by our table, and plops another enormous scoop of rice onto our plates. We have been marked. Soon, she returns with the vegetables, then the daal. I take some more bites, and then relax back into the wooden bench. I had earned my second portion. I would hardly need to eat until it was time for daal bhat again tomorrow evening. I reach out my hand, and his meets mine, but really Rani is listening intently to the conversation at the other table, waiting for the right moment to chime in. He finds it, and they discuss Diamox. The drug of choice for high-altitude hikers.
<br /><br />Their guide has brought the pills for them, and recommends that they begin taking the medication today. I know that I will never take it. I have no desire to conquer the mountain using pharmaceuticals. I want to feel myself nearly conquered by the high pass. If anything, I want to get lost in the mountain. Maybe it is dangerous to wish that, but somehow, I do. Not to rot on the peak, but to fracture my soul, and leave a piece there. I listen to the discussion vaguely for some time, and then begin my journal entry.<div><br /><hr />
<br /><b>February 28th, 2020</b>
<br /><b>Day 5</b>
<br /><br />I can't believe that the Annapurna massif is right there. I am looking at her right now through the dining hall window at 'Hotel Happiness'. We are truly in a valley of giants.
<br /><br />Today started out monotonous on dirt roads carved out of the cliffside. Just getting through switchbacks. Eventually we entered a sort of high desert of gnarled juniper, pine. The ground had sparse grass and everything was grey and dusty, windy, striking against the omnipresent snowy peaks. We made maggie by some prayer wheels, fending off curious crows, and then climbed up to the monastery. Altitude, 3,300 meters.
<br /><br />Prayer flags on flag posts made of whittled pine trees. The monks were all in Kathmandu. Inside was deserted, draped in yellow silk. I made myself sentinel of the stone steps outside of the temple. And it was early. Nothing but sun to soak in, mountains to meditate on. To watch the flags shiver in stiff mountain wind.
<br /><br />This evening, altitude is a conversation. Some feel it, some don't. We all will soon. I have a slight headache, and my eyeballs feel like they could pop out of my face. The sensations instill a bit of dreaminess to the afternoon. Context to the hike. This altitude ain't going away too soon, so the real challenge is just beginning.
<br /><br /><hr /><br /><b>Daal Bhat Power 24 Hour...</b>
<br /><br />Just as our plates are set in front of us, the chatty German who is hiking solo with his sherpa asks Rani and I if we are 'the kind of couple that can communicate without speaking'. We both smile at him and shrug. We focus on our meal, let him keep on detailing his schedule for tomorrow, occasionally confirming points with his sherpa. The three of us are listening to him as we shovel food down our throats, and the sherpa is responding politely, but clearly as briefly as possible. We are all eyeing the German's plate concernedly.
<br /><br />In the end it all turns out alright. We should have known that he would be able to inhale his entire portion the moment that the woman appeared in the doorway of the dining room, equipped with her enormous iron pot. The rice first. Then the vegetables. Then the daal. Afterwards, Rani and I would play rummy, alone or with new company. We would retreat to our room, and make tulsi rose tea on our campstove, because we are cheap, even in Nepal. We would get into our bed, attempting to take off our clothes in the bitter cold. We would read on our old-school Kindles, I was devouring nearly a book a day. We would discuss what we learned from our fellow hikers, and make some mental notes. In the morning we would meditate with the sunrise, order a Tibetan bread, read our guidebook, and continue on our way. Every day is like this, and the repetition makes me feel more human than I ever have. In curious juxtaposition, my dreams feel so real.
<br /><br />Rani and the sherpa begin to chat. His name is Ram, he is from Kathmandu, he has done this Annapurna circuit 40 times. He has left Nepal, he has been to America, and yes, he has been to Patagonia. He even speaks a bit of Spanish. Rani and him begin discussing the mountains of South America at length. I wonder vaguely if he's ever played rummy, as I pull out my journal.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>February 29th, 2020</b>
<br /><b>Day 6</b>
<br /><br /></div><div>I'll meet you in Gyaru, I told the silence. Five crows flew.
<br /><br />Today began with clear skies. Early in the day we climbed switchbacks for over an hour, up to Gyaru. Gyaru and Ngyaral were both made of river rock, hauled up to perilous locations.
<br /><br />Today was a day of images. Past the two high villages and onto a plateau. Shaggy yaks, an abandoned town, clouds starting in, ancient stupas. A monastery I attempted to enter, but was spooked by a dog barking and a man lying face down on the cold stone, in the wind, sleeping.... I have a dark feeling that the frozen steps of that place will be the setting for my dreamscape tonight.
<br /><br />Down through elder pine forests to ancient Julu. Onto a thin sandy trail through scraggly yellowing pine. Clouds beginning to gather thicker. Easily strolling the low road all the way to Braka, where we found the only lodge that was open in this season and settled in.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>Daal Bhat Power 24 Hour...</b>
<br /><br />My eyes are abandoned, up on the mountain, gazing out into the snowy infinity. The daal bhat is in front of me, as always, but I find it impossible to focus. I still hear a hundred bells ringing as that herd of goats shifts from rock to rock. I wonder if the tiny dog that we had hiked with is still up on the peaks, harassing those slim herds as the sun sets and the wind whips, heralding the arrival of thick clouds that take their nightly rest on such exceedingly high places.
<br /><br />Rani nudges me, and tells me to eat. I tell him that I am not so hungry today. He tells me to eat anyways. He is right. The routine makes me feel human. This evening I am happy to be something else. I am happy that the blood has not yet made it thoroughly to my fingers or toes or lips. I am okay with the tension behind my eyes and my incredibly vivid dreams.
<br /><br />A fellow traveler sits down next to us, a late arrival. Enriquez, from Chile. He has a very immediate, warm nature that brings me back to reality for another night. We play many hands of rummy, and I am not able to get to my journal until late, when the fire has already been put out. I huddle under a stack of blankets with my headlamp on, and write.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>March 1st, 2020</b>
<br /><b>Day 7</b>
<br /><br />Acclimation day. I woke up with the sun as is usual these days. With such a simple and frostbitten room, there was initially no motivation to get up. But the skies were clear and the sun was lighting up fresh snowy peaks orange, luring us out of bed. We had homemade toast and real coffee, then ditched some weight at the hostel and headed up to the ice lake.
<br /><br />There were some clouds around the tall, snowy mountains. The more ominous clouds settled over the peaks, so that the mountains faded into the sky seamlessly. The mountains could stretch on forever upwards, like a charcoal sketch. And the valley below like a storybook. I felt it could be a mystical world down there. The past few days I have attempted to take the images before my eyes and place them into my heart. It is a strange and at times painful process, to open myself to this place. Yet this land is the most gorgeous thing that I've ever seen, really, and I hope to absorb these moments and keep them with me.
<br /><br />What else... Ice lake, 4,500 meters. We had this epic little dog follow us down, chewing on his yak hoof. He went up to the ice lake for fun, and probably does it all the time. It snowed this evening. The anticipation is on for the upcoming pass, especially with all these snow flurries.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>Daal Bhat Power 24 Hour...</b>
<br /><br />I inhale my plate, hoping it will help me to feel human in the face of the altitude. I take a sip of the water that we had gathered from a village earlier today. It is the essence of the mountain itself. So sweet and fresh I could cry. No matter where I am in the world, I must remember that the water from high peaks is pure.
<br /><br />Nearby, a large group of youth from Singapore are gathered around the fire, talking spiritedly. I am unsure if it is the ability of the young to construct a false image, or if they are truly feeling normal. To spend the night at 4,200 meters. 13,779 feet. My mind mirrors the landscape, a dull gray, and the towns ghostly. Through the discomfort of my state, I suppose that it will be best to continue with my routine.
<br /><br />Rani and I will play rummy, alone or with new company. We will retreat to our room, and make tulsi rose tea on our campstove, because we are cheap, even in Nepal. We will get into our bed, attempting to take off our clothes in the bitter cold. We will read on our old-school Kindles, I am devouring nearly a book a day. We will discuss what we learned from our fellow hikers, and make some mental notes. In the morning we will meditate with the sunrise, order a Tibetan bread, read our guidebook, and continue on our way.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>March 2nd, 2020</b>
<br /><b>Day 8</b>
<br /><br />We are up in Churi Ledar, with everybody gathered around the wood stove to keep warm.
<br /><br />The hike was pretty uneventful, just plodding along, trying to breathe enough. We ate a delicious chocolate croissant and cinnamon roll by a melting icicle waterfall, and we passed by a herd of blue sheep munching away on the hillside. The males had giant horns, thick, and curving upwards and inwards, disproportionate to their bodies. If not for the horns, I would have been convinced that they were deer.
<br /><br />Our maggie break was at a closed restaurant, on a cold plateau that was eerie with creeping clouds and stone buildings, stone outcroppings.
<br /><br />Not much else to report.
<br /><br />We are eating more, as if it might ground us, make us larger against the increasingly foreboding body of the mountain pass.
<br /><br />Everyone is starting to really think about Thorung La. How cold it will be, will the weather be still for us? We saw three groups today that turned around due to altitude sickness.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>Daal Bhat Power 24 Hour...</b>
<br /><br />Every moment from the trek flashes in front of my eyes as the woman emerges from the kitchen and places my daal bhat in front of me. I move to the other side of the table to sit next to Rani, to wrap our arms and calves together impossibly as we eat. I suddenly feel so strongly for him, and for my own flesh. I eat quickly, and write quickly in my journal, then return to reality. I want to make love tonight. I had dreamed that I was inside the mountain last night, that I had already seen the high pass from my cave of ice. My hands had been blue. I had watched group after group of hikers nearly reach the highest point, and then turn around with piercing headaches. Veins erupting. Then I had seen myself. Lagging a bit behind Rani, who was already at Thorung La. Of course he would be able to make it. But me...
<br /><br />Miraculously, now, at the foot of the mountain, I feel more myself than I had since we set foot in the lands of Annapurna. I pull Rani back to our cabin. We are all giggles, and we have our last bar of chocolate. We fall asleep still talking, shifting, imagining.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>March 3rd, 2020</b>
<br /><b>Day 9</b>
<br /><br />I'm feeling good about this adventure tomorrow, and looking forward to warmer weather and thicker air on the other side of Thorung La.
<br /><br />Today we traversed through an avalanche zone. Icy slopes and tiny paths, edged by steep cliffs. The altitude made my body feel panicked, hyperventilating. But I started to feel better as the hours passed, listening to some tunes, and just being up in this crazy place!
<br /><br />It was a crystal-clear day and the sun was hot. The pass is only a thousand meters more. Now it's bed time, warming time, acclimation time, dream time, rejuvenation time. Epic moments lie ahead. ♥
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />...When we wake up it is strange. The anticipation, perhaps, or the altitude. I don't think we say one word to each other. We hang our microspikes from the outside of our bags, make the last of our coffee, and hit the trail. Five thirty in the morning. The sun is beginning to peek out. The glaciers and snowy drifts are an ethereal gold. My mind is still ruminating over my night's journey, although my body is clearly functioning at a high capacity. One thousand more meters to reach our goal of 5,416 meters. 17,769 feet. The high pass. It is a dreamscape.
<br /><br />We crest the steepest part of the terrain. It had been just ice and rock, too harsh of terrain for gentle flakes to find a place to rest. Above is nothing but smooth snow drifts. I close my eyes. I wake up fully. I feel the stillness of the mountain. I know that she is holding still out of a benevolence. I imagine a blizzard. Just us, no guide, desperately following these thin orange posts that had been pounded into the glacier beneath. I whisper to the mountain.
<br /><br />We follow the posts. I am out of breath every fifteen steps. But I pause, I breathe as deeply as I can, and then I take fifteen more steps. I move on like this for hours. The whole world is a white blanket. The wind cannot stir, there is not enough air. I think I see forms drifting slowly by above us, but I cannot bring myself to lift my neck and look.
<br /><br />We must be moments away from Thorung La. Rani has pushed on ahead of me. I can still see him, but he is very small. I follow the orange posts dutifully. Then my eyes wander on their own, rest upon a break in the infinite smoothness of the landscape. The cave. Inside, it seems blue.
<br /><br />I attempt to shift my eyes. To the sunshine echoing from the other side of the mountain. The morning on the horizon seems increasingly normal, less and less ethereal. My breath comes even shallower than usual, and I fully panic for a moment. I strain. If only I could crest the pass, and gaze down upon the sun.
<br /><br />But I cannot. Increasingly, I desire not to continue along the trail. The mountain is holding its breath for me, as I have been holding my breath for the mountain. Its tenderness, its magic, fills my mind. My own life seems so small. It is. It is nothing. I had always known that, we had all always known how small we are. But, somehow, we had cared nonetheless. Up here I realize that I no longer feel an attachment to life on the other side of the pass. To daal bhat and rummy and my Kindle; my mother, my schoolmates, or my lover. To my humanness. I take one step towards the cave. I imagine my life here, as my fingers turn blue and then purple. As my bones harden. As I, too, become a form that simply floats above these glaciers. A ray of sun that melts ice. I take another step.</div>Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-15836085799747786222024-03-15T08:00:00.012+00:002024-03-15T08:00:00.144+00:00A Four Course Lunch by Rozanne Charbonneau<i>In 1970s Paris, 18-year-old Mademoiselle Sophie is captivated by a recalcitrant American child in her care.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSUuzb6_Bac9Z9l6rlwk1sEcSppiqhXnhIgDd2WPwdWyOMdkWFmHoh2UIyCbgBmuXHChDby73UZI8FIDy-5aCbZKGhkt5c6qfcUmAyUEAx1YiksDPZz264FDxPfUT0PD-pzX2F5NE1QQUhJHHMhhy7EKDMttn3lQaihonY24JiVmITRcabcFEGl73YFE/s500/A%20Four%20Course%20Lunch%20by%20Rozanne%20Charbonneau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSUuzb6_Bac9Z9l6rlwk1sEcSppiqhXnhIgDd2WPwdWyOMdkWFmHoh2UIyCbgBmuXHChDby73UZI8FIDy-5aCbZKGhkt5c6qfcUmAyUEAx1YiksDPZz264FDxPfUT0PD-pzX2F5NE1QQUhJHHMhhy7EKDMttn3lQaihonY24JiVmITRcabcFEGl73YFE/s320/A%20Four%20Course%20Lunch%20by%20Rozanne%20Charbonneau.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table><b>Paris, April, 1972</b>
<br /><br />"<i>Mademoiselle Sophie, je dois pisser!</i>" shouts the American girl in French slang. Her haircut looks like a boy's. Did her mother go mad with the gardening shears?
<br /><br />The other children in the dining hall howl with laughter. I have a choice. I can feign outrage at her use of the word "piss." Or I can ignore her antics and savour my crème caramel. I opt for the latter and dip my spoon into the flan. Chef Jacques, the cook at this private elementary school for foreigners, is a master. Since the beginning of the school year in September, my tongue has not encountered one air bubble in his unctuous <i>crème</i>. And his caramel? It tastes of honey and rum.
<br /><br />I glance at the clock on the wall. It reads twelve thirty.
<br /><br />"You may be excused, Lucy. But hurry up. We are leaving for the Bois de Boulogne in five minutes," I say.
<br /><br />Her face falls in disappointment. She wanted a row.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Each day she elbows her classmates out of the way to sit at my table. She always asks for two servings of the hors d'oeuvre, dissects the fish into flakes, refuses to eat the rind of the camembert, and wolfs down the dessert as if she were a gypsy beggar. The young boy from Ethiopia sits up straight and struggles with his fork. At home, he eats with his hands. The girl from Japan once brought chopsticks into the dining room. They failed to seize the chunks of her <i>boeuf bourguignon</i>. But Lucy is different. She fancies herself as a French <i>mademoiselle</i>. She plunges her baguette into the sauce of every stew I put before her. However, only a Yank would tear through their lettuce with a knife. In France, this is the ultimate faux pas. No matter how large the leaf, one must spear it with the tines of the instrument in the left hand.
<br /><br />Let me tell you about her stare. Her eyes take in every mole and pore on my skin. Her mother, Mrs Jones, is a fleshy woman who wears a coat made of extinct cats. She once introduced herself to me in rudimentary French and confessed, "My daughter sleeps halfway down the bed at night. She thinks that if her feet reach the bottom, she'll wake up as a beautiful teenager like you." I should be flattered. But last week I caught this eleven-year-old girl gazing at the hair in my armpit. As if she were ogling my sex.
<br /><br />I am eighteen years old and come from a small town on the coast of Normandy called Luc-Sur-Mer. My parents were thrilled when the Sorbonne offered me a place to study French Literature, but their pockets are not deep.
<br /><br />My <i>chambre de bonne</i> is situated on the fifth floor of a building in the Marais. I always sprint across the landing on the fourth. Several Algerian men live together in a room no larger than mine. They are street sweepers. I can tell by the brooms of twigs that they leave outside the door. If they pass me on the stairs, they offer to carry my burdens. I thank them and pretend I need the exercise. With none of their women in France, their eyes are too lonely. Too hungry. I share a bathroom on the landing with the young couple who lives across the hall. The woman is clean, but the man sometimes forgets to use the toilet brush. Thank God there is a shower for the three of us. Many of my fellow classmates need to bathe at the public pool. When I enter my room, the hotplate and sink stand to the left. The plastic wardrobe to the right. The wall with the window is slanted at forty-five degrees. Fortunately, my desk fits underneath. I do my best work here. My mind expands at the sight of the rooftops spreading out like a country all its own. At night, the coils of the electric heater burn a violent, orange hue. The heat travels one meter deep into the room. Don't get me wrong. I would never complain. This inexpensive dwelling and my job at the school help to make ends meet.
<br /><br />All I want is to arrive at noon, serve the children lunch, eat, take them to the park, and leave at 14:00 with as little drama as possible. I need my energy for more important things like boys and Baudelaire.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />I walk behind the two lines of children in their navy-blue uniforms. They fall into single file when a pedestrian approaches. If the other boys and girls were a perfectly cut hedge in the garden of Versailles, Lucy is the weed that blows in the wind. She skips outside of the procession, stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. Sometimes she regales us with an eerie rhyme in English, threatening to break her father's back.
<br /><br />Spring has come early. The trees flaunt their neon coats of green. Purple and yellow crocuses scatter over the earth. Each one seems to whisper, "Look at me." I sigh at the sight of the bushes. They have grown lush and unruly - the perfect shelter for the depraved.
<br /><br />The children scatter in every direction. I sit on a bench and open my copy of Anaïs Nin's <i>Une espionne dans la maison de l'amour</i>. I keep one eye on the text and the other on my wards. If they stray out of my sight, I blow the whistle that hangs around my neck. They are an obedient brood. One shrill note and they run back to me. Soon the page goes dark as familiar fingers cover my eyes.
<br /><br />"Gilles!" I say, grasping onto the wrists.
<br /><br />He leans down from behind and puts his cheek on mine. His stubble feels like linen on my skin.
<br /><br />"Surprise, surprise."
<br /><br />"If I knew you were coming, I would have brought you bread and cheese from the dining room."
<br /><br />He sits down next to me. "You're so maternal."
<br /><br />"But you're always starving. I didn't mean..."
<br /><br />He puts his hand on my thigh. "Relax. I like it."
<br /><br />Gilles is in my French literature class. We are presently studying the Symbolist poets. Many of the men can't wait to tackle Verlaine, but Gilles's thoughts on Baudelaire's poems in <i>Les Fleurs du mal</i> are original, almost intimidating. He grew up in Paris, and sometimes I feel like a rube in his presence. We have been spending time together for three weeks now, and soon he will want sex. I am falling in love with him, but I want the romance to last a little longer before the sap-ridden reality sets in.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />My best friend's brother was five years older than I and out of my league. I fawned over him for as long as I can remember. When he came home to Luc-Sur-Mer from the military last summer, I followed him to the local bar where he was meeting his friends for a drink. We finally had sex in the front seat of his Peugeot 504. I had just turned eighteen. Fair game. His hands stank of burnt matches. The diesel must have leaked while he was filling up the tank. Maybe he tinkered with his car, but not with me. I pretended to enjoy myself anyway. At the time, I would have done anything to keep him.
<br /><br />He could barely look at me when I dropped by the family house to say goodbye to my friend.
<br /><br />His girlfriend offered me tea and a madeleine with a certain irony. "Paris will change you. By Christmas, you will feel like a stranger in this town."
<br /><br />Everyone treated her as if she were already part of the clan. I have never felt so foolish, so used.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Gilles grabs my book and raises his eyebrows.
<br /><br />"<i>Oh là là</i>."
<br /><br />Anaïs Nin is notorious for her erotica. She deserves better. "I think she is a great writer. Her descriptions of the emotions are so raw."
<br /><br />He bursts out laughing. "That's like me telling you I bought <i>Oui</i> for the articles."
<br /><br />His hand goes higher up my thigh. "Has she taught you anything new?"
<br /><br />I look out at the children. The boys shoot one another with imaginary guns. The girls stand near a cluster of trees, talking in loud voices and giggling. Lucy has picked up a stick. Everything seems to be under control. Gilles leads me behind a tree and begins to kiss my neck. His erection bears onto my pubis like a fist in a leather glove. I kiss him again. Why can't this moment last all day?
<br /><br />I finally pull away and smooth his dishevelled hair. It is black and curly, like the coat of a lamb. "Do I look alright?" I ask, touching my own.
<br /><br />"Like you just got out of bed."
<br /><br />I pull a rubber band out of my pocket. A ponytail should hide my sin.
<br /><br />We walk back to the bench. The boys are still nearby, but where are the girls? I blow my whistle and call their names into the emptiness. My chest tightens as I run towards the foliage. Where are they? Oh God, please let them be safe.
<br /><br />My legs cut through a patch of nettles. In the clearing, I find all the girls laughing at Lucy. With her stick she is beating a man who kneels on the ground. Her victim wears a houndstooth jacket - the perfect cloak of respectability. His body trembles, as if touched by the Holy Ghost. The eyes in his skull have rolled upwards in ecstasy. But Jesus would never approve of the oversized maggot sticking out of his zipper.
<br /><br />"Lucy!" I shout.
<br /><br />She thwacks him one last time. Her spell is now broken. The man zips up his fly, then hurries away from the clearing.
<br /><br />"<i>Mais ça va pas, Mademoiselle?</i>"
<br /><br />The other girls grow quiet.
<br /><br />"Why should we always move for these men? They bust up our games every day," says Lucy. "We're sick of it."
<br /><br />I pull the stick out of her hand and throw it on the ground. "You know these men can be dangerous."
<br /><br />"The woods are ours, too."
<br /><br />"These men are sick. Do you want to become sick like them?"
<br /><br />"Dangerous, sick... what's the difference? We hate men."
<br /><br />The girls grumble in agreement. "Yeah. We hate men."
<br /><br />"Stop this now. I have a mind to report you to Madame Castagné."
<br /><br />A shadow creeps over Lucy's face. She may think I'm the cat's meow, but she respects the Directrice of the school, Madame Castagné.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />"Never show shock or disgust when a man in the park displays his wares," advised Madame Castagné during our first interview. I wanted the position as child minder at her school. "If you reveal any emotion, you have lost the game."
<br /><br />"I once saw a man urinate in the sea, but he didn't know I was there."
<br /><br />She leant over the desk and looked me in the eye. "You live in Paris now. Your sheltered life in the provinces is behind you."
<br /><br />Her tone was kind, with no trace of condescension. I admired her oat-coloured hair swept into a bun. It reminded me of the conch shell on my windowsill back home. How old was she? Perhaps fifty? Her name, Castagné, originated from the Gascogne in the southwest of France. But her accent was devoid of lilt or twang. She could have been born and bred in Neuilly. I had at least managed to erase the Norman greeting "<i>boujou</i>" from my speech. Would I ever speak like her one day? I truly hoped so.
<br /><br />"You will be confronted with perverts every day of the week. I will count on you to shield the children from these men with sangfroid. No child should become either traumatised or blasé at the sight of a phallus. If you strike the right balance, you will save them from many sessions on the analyst's couch in the years to come."
<br /><br />How would I walk this tightrope? I had no idea. "Yes, Madame, I understand."
<br /><br />She studied my letters of recommendation from families in Luc-Sur-Mer. They all confirmed that I was reliable and good with children. I was glad that no one had written "wonderful" with their brood. Exaggeration leads to unrealistic expectations. I only minded kids because it was easy pocket money. Dogs made my heart melt infinitely faster than infants. One day I hoped to find a husband who did not want to sow his seed. Why the reticence? My mother worked part-time as a secretary in the town hall. She wanted to greet my sister and me each day when we returned from school. She always served us a snack - maybe some fruit or a slice of homemade yogurt cake. At the table, she asked us about our day. "Did you raise your hand when you knew the answers? Were you kind to the children who feel they don't belong?" We never walked into an empty house, and I will always be grateful to her. But money was tight. My sister is only twenty and already married with her first child on the way. I am the first in my family to go to university. I want to have a career and be able to afford nice things. The patter of tiny feet could hold me back.
<br /><br />Madame Castagné fingered her pearls. "You will like some children more than others, but you must be fair to them all."
<br /><br />Professional distance sounded perfect to me. Plus, a four-course lunch would be included in the renumerations.
<br /><br />"I promise to be vigilant and impartial at all times, Madame."
<br /><br />I smiled, hoping to impress this woman. She had class and compassion, two qualities I wanted for myself.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The next day my little Gloria Steinem hangs her head over the dining table. The shadows under her eyes give her the air of a hospital patient. Did she toss and turn all night, worrying that I might report her to Madame Castagné? In the end, I was at fault for letting her run wild in the woods.
<br /><br />I place two scoops of <i>céleri remoulade</i> onto her plate. "You can put yesterday behind you, Lucy. Today is a new day."
<br /><br />In the park, Lucy drags her shoes through the dust on the side of the path. She ignores the children's calls to play. If she does not rest, she will fall asleep during her French class this afternoon. I close <i>Une espionne dans la maison de l'amour</i> and motion her to join me on the bench.
<br /><br />She sits down so close that her thigh touches my own. "Is that man who comes to see you here your boyfriend?"
<br /><br />Of course, she would notice him. I move my thigh away from hers. "Yes. But he won't be coming to the park anymore."
<br /><br />"Is he nice to you?"
<br /><br />What a strange question. "Of course he's nice to me. I wouldn't let him be my boyfriend if he were not."
<br /><br />She looks at me, sceptical. "Does he like your hair?"
<br /><br />I burst out laughing. Gilles tells me it falls like a curtain of yellow silk down my back. "He has never complained."
<br /><br />"I wish I had hair like yours. My father won't let me grow mine."
<br /><br />This explains her brutal haircut. I keep quiet, aware that she might repeat anything I say at home. So far, all the children are within close range. Good. However, Mr Maggot has set up camp in the dog roses. It seems Lucy's beating yesterday has increased his ardour. I stand up and circle around the children. What is the matter with him? Does he want me to notice that he is circumcised? I will not give him the satisfaction. Back at the bench, Lucy is reading my Anaïs Nin.
<br /><br />"What is cunni... cunnilingus?"
<br /><br />I snatch the book out of her hands. "Never mind."
<br /><br />A bumble bee flies close to her ear. I swat it away. Lucy watches it dive into a crocus and begin to suck. What does she know about sex? Perhaps very little, but the desire, I can tell, has started to stir.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />I sit in the Café St Augustin with Gilles. Five o'clock. The place to ourselves. The workers will only stagger in after six. We order two <i>cafés crèmes</i> from the waiter. Our student coupons will cover the cost. Back at the altar to caffeine, he bangs the portafilter against the counter with two dull thuds. Metal locks, machine hammers, milk steams - all music to my ears. Gilles's knees hold mine in a vice as I take stock of the day.
<br /><br />"I didn't understand Jacot's lecture this afternoon. His thoughts on <i>Les fleurs du mal</i> are too obtuse."
<br /><br />"Just take notes," he says. "Don't try to understand him."
<br /><br />"He loves to pontificate from the podium. He gets off on one hundred and fifty students scribbling away."
<br /><br />"Take notes, re-read the poems for yourself, then tear his thoughts apart."
<br /><br />I burst out laughing. "Always the Bolshevik."
<br /><br />"And you need to be more bold," he says, opening my knees with his own. "A girl from Normandy has just as much to say as a Parisian."
<br /><br />The smart boys in my class back home were so competitive. I have never met anyone like Gilles before. So secure, so encouraging.
<br /><br />"<i>Le dernier tango à Paris</i> is playing at the cinema on Saturday. I could make you some pasta at my place afterwards."
<br /><br />I hesitate. Is this the film you go to see before making love for the first time? Sure, everyone is talking about the rape scene with the butter, but what bothers me most is Marlon Brando's age compared to Maria Schneider's. His detachment, his power...
<br /><br />"Can I think about it?"
<br /><br />"<i>Allez, viens. C'est 'artistique'</i>."
<br /><br />The sugar in the bottom of my cup sings on my tongue. Flecks of amber dance in his eyes.
<br /><br />"Very well, then. I look forward to it."
<br /><br /><i>Diesel-drenched fingers be damned. It is time to claim your man.</i>
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />I lie in my bed reciting the words of Anaïs Nin into the darkness. "Dressed in red and silver, she evoked the sounds and imagery of fire engines as they tore through the streets of New York. The first time he looked at her, he felt: everything will burn." My favourite passage. Carved into my envious little heart. If only my pen could ignite such heat on the page. I turn on the light and reach for my backpack. A few paragraphs should transport me out of myself, to the woman I wish I could be. But something is wrong. <i>Une espionne dans la maison de l'amour</i> is gone. And who is the thief? Lucy, the girl who wants to be me.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The next day, Lucy takes dainty bites of her <i>coq au vin</i>. She does not dare pick up the bones under my gaze. I pull her aside as the children file out of the dining room.
<br /><br />"I would like you to return my book, Lucy."
<br /><br />She looks towards the children racing into the courtyard. "What book?"
<br /><br />"If you just give it back, we can forget about the whole thing."
<br /><br />"It's time to go to the park."
<br /><br />"We all make mistakes. But we mustn't lie."
<br /><br />"I am not a liar."
<br /><br />"No one said you are a liar. You are a girl who made a mistake."
<br /><br />"I hate you. You pretend to be my friend, but you want me to feel bad."
<br /><br />"Nonsense. I want you to return my book so that you can feel good."
<br /><br />"What is this?" asks Madame Castagné from the doorway.
<br /><br />How long has she been there? She must never see me lose my nerve with a child.
<br /><br />"It's nothing. I've given Lucy the chance to return my book..."
<br /><br />Madame Castagné snaps her fingers. "Come on. We don't have all day."
<br /><br />Out in the corridor, she orders Lucy to open her locker. It lies on the top shelf.
<br /><br />Lucy shrugs and sticks out her chin. "I don't know how it got there."
<br /><br />For all her sighs and lovesick eyes, the little brat sees me as her servant. So be it.
<br /><br />A large manila envelope falls onto the floor. Lucy kneels to grab it, but Madame Castagné is swifter. She opens it and pulls out a manuscript. The title page reads, <i>Under the Eaves of Paris, a novel by Frank Jones.</i>
<br /><br />"Doesn't this belong to your father, Lucy?"
<br /><br />Crimson splotches break out over her face. "Please don't tell on me," she begs.
<br /><br />Madame Castagné nods for me to leave them alone. She puts her hand on Lucy's shoulder and ushers her into the main office.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />From my bench I watch a group of elderly gentlemen play a round of <i>boules</i>. One click of the ball and I am back with my father in our garden. He taught me how to aim like a man. "Raise your wrist. The ball must sail high in the air. You want to crush your opponents on the way down." He loved it when my ball knocked his off the gravel and onto the grass. He loved it when I won. Why has Lucy taken her father's manuscript? And why is she so afraid of him? Fortunately, Madame Castagné is wise. She will know how to make things right between them.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The line outside the cinema snakes around the block. Most of the people are middle-aged. By their attire, I estimate that they come from both the Left and Right Banks. Bearded, pipe smoking "professors" rub shoulders with men clad in Lacoste shirts. Women with hennaed locks as wild as Medusa's check out the ash blonde queens <i>à la Deneuve</i>. We are all as depraved as the perverts in the park. We can't wait to see an old man drag a young woman through the mud.
<br /><br />"<i>Le dernier tango à Paris</i> is sold out!" announces the usher as he walks past.
<br /><br />I glance at Gilles, relieved. If we are going to make love for the first time tonight, we don't need to bring Marlon Brando along for the ride.
<br /><br />Gilles checks his watch. He suggests we catch <i>The Poseidon Adventure</i> nearby on the Champs-Elysées. The movie will begin in half an hour.
<br /><br />I burst out laughing. "But that's a Hollywood blockbuster."
<br /><br />"Come on! If we run into anyone we know, we'll tell them we're doing research on that strange specimen of humanity, the American."
<br /><br />I am glad that he enjoys popular movies. Pretending to be an intellectual all the time is exhausting.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The line for <i>The Poseidon Adventure</i> is never-ending. This time around it is a family affair. The cinema has over two hundred seats. If we are patient, we should be swallowed by its velvet darkness.
<br /><br />Gilles puts his hand on the small of my back. "A wave turns over a ship in the middle of the ocean. Twelve people decide to climb to safety. The concept is so simple, but brilliant. It taps into our basic drive..."
<br /><br />The man in front of us nudges his wife. He points his finger to the very top of the line. "Of course, the Americans here feel compelled to make a scene," he says.
<br /><br />It is Lucy. She is with her brothers. In the distance, I can see them squatting on the pavement. Their father, Mr Jones, towers above them. He raises his arms and yells, "On your marks, get set, go!"
<br /><br />The race is on. The two boys begin to waddle on their haunches along the entire line of cinemagoers. They look like ducks hurrying towards a mirage of water. Their mother, Mrs Jones, stands at the end of the block, waiting for her children to reach her. This is Saturday night on the Champs-Elysées. Childish cartwheels or even running would be out of place. But the duck walk? Has this family lost their minds? Lucy is clearly still sane. She jumps up off the ground and tries to slink away from her father. He grabs her by the arm and twists. She looks at the line of cinemagoers, but they pay no attention to her. They are too busy staring and pointing at her brothers. The boys must be too young to realize they are objects of ridicule. Lucy knows better. She tries to pull away from her father, but he takes hold of her shoulder and pushes her to the ground. She has no choice but to begin the walk of shame. What is the matter with this man? Can't he see that her skirt is crawling up around her hips? Is his will more important than his daughter's modesty? Her bottom, only covered by pink underpants, is now in full view of over one hundred Parisians. She keeps her head to the ground to block out the mob. I can't stand it. I run down the line and confront the father's partner in crime.
<br /><br />"Madame, you have got to stop this, now!"
<br /><br />She looks away from me. "I can't," she says. Her tone is conflicted.
<br /><br />For all the extinct cats on her back, I realize she has no authority at all. Some people in the line have begun to laugh. Others look annoyed, but not enough to intervene. I run to Lucy and pull her to her feet. Her face lights up in surprise, but then fades at the sound of her master's voice.
<br /><br />"Get your butt back on the ground!" her father yells.
<br /><br />I will not allow it. I smooth her skirt down over her legs. She will be safe with me in the line.
<br /><br />"What are you doing, Sophie? We shouldn't get involved," says Gilles when we slip in beside him.
<br /><br />Before I can argue, Mr Jones saunters over. "So, if it isn't Mademoiselle Sophie, the children's lunch girl." His command of French is too good. It gives him an edge.
<br /><br />I can smell gin on his breath. I have seen him out of the corner of my eye in the school's courtyard, but never up close. His eyes are beady and black. He is not a fat man, but his second chin falls to his collar bone. The flesh under his ears is as pink as roast beef.
<br /><br />"This is the Champs-Elysées, Monsieur."
<br /><br />He shrugs. "The children are cooped up in the apartment all weekend. If they don't exercise, they will be up all night. How and where I make them do it, is none of your business."
<br /><br />His words are reasonable, but I don't believe them. My father would never treat my sister and me like this. For sure, the alcohol has rid him of all inhibitions. He doesn't seem to care what people around him feel or think. But I sense his motives are more sinister. This man uses his children as marionettes to act out the <i>Grand Guignol</i> scenarios in his mind.
<br /><br />"Lucy is too old for your game. You must never embarrass a young girl in public."
<br /><br />He turns to his daughter, who lowers her eyes to the ground. "You made a mistake, honey child. You'll just have to get your exercise after the show."
<br /><br />Mrs Jones approaches and waves the tickets at her husband. "Let's go in now, Frank. The boys will want ice cream." She pretends that I do not exist as she grabs Lucy's hand.
<br /><br />Mr Jones extends a finger in the air. "You haven't heard the end of this, Mademoiselle Sophie."
<br /><br />The man is odious, but Mrs Jones is worse. She is weak, and oh so complicit. She should squat down on the pavement in her stockings and fur herself. When Lucy looks back over her shoulder, I wave. Mr Jones clocks our exchange. He grabs Lucy's ear and drags her towards the cinema entrance.
<br /><br />Gilles shakes his head. "This isn't going to end well. That man is drunk out of his mind, but he will have you fired Monday morning."
<br /><br />The idea of staring at a sinking ship on the screen with Gilles's hand up my thigh now seems absurd.
<br /><br />I plant a kiss on his cheek. "I'm really sorry, but it's best if I go home."
<br /><br />He follows as I head towards the Métro. "Hey! I'm only trying to protect you," he says, taking hold of my arm.
<br /><br />"And Lucy?"
<br /><br />He raises his hands in the air at a loss.
<br /><br />I take a step back and suggest we meet Tuesday. Gilles may end our story and I will regret it. No man wants to bed Joan of Arc.
<br /><br />The steps of the Métro are black with filth. Eight million shoes racing God knows where. Would anyone notice a lost girl in the city? Would anyone care?
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />It is Monday morning. I race through the school gates at eight thirty. I must warn Madame Castagné of my mistake with Mr and Mrs Jones. She will not be pleased. I have also created serious trouble for Lucy. I made her disobey her father. This man, I suspect, knows no forgiveness. Madame Castagné must never tell him that Lucy stole his manuscript. I can only hope that it is not too late.
<br /><br />Madame Castagné stands in the empty courtyard, smoking a cigarette. Her arched eyebrow signals that she is already informed.
<br /><br />"I am so sorry, Madame. If you let me explain..."
<br /><br />She drops her cigarette to the ground and crushes it with her pump. "They are already in my office. You are to remain silent unless I address you. Do you understand?"
<br /><br />I nod, depressed. How could I have let this woman down?
<br /><br />The smell of vanilla floats into the courtyard. Chef Jacques has already put his <i>génoises</i> in the oven for lunch. When cool, he will glaze the cakes with apricot jam. Their scent washes over me and I think of my mother at the door. "Welcome home, my darling girls. Put on your slippers and tell me of your adventures at school." I feel a bit better and follow Madame Castagné inside.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Mr Jones paces over the creaking floorboards of Madame Castagné's office. He aims for a dramatic effect.
<br /><br />"There is nothing the matter with a little healthy competition between siblings. Mademoiselle Sophie has no right to make Lucy think she is special. Just because our daughter is 'on the cusp of womanhood' doesn't mean she can disrespect me."
<br /><br />Today the man is sober. He peppers his French with contempt.
<br /><br />My boss sits at her desk, observing his performance. "I understand. You feel Mademoiselle Sophie has undermined your authority."
<br /><br />Mrs Jones sits in the corner with her eyes on the floor. It is clear she is embarrassed by her husband's tirade.
<br /><br />"Lucy is like a nail sticking out of a plank of wood," he continues. "She is arrogant, stubborn, and disobedient. She cannot be trusted. It is a constant battle to keep her down."
<br /><br />Madame Castagné's purses her lips in distaste. I am overcome with guilt. How many times have I judged Lucy for being unruly? I am no better than the tyrant in front of me.
<br /><br />Madame Castagné recomposes her expression. A professional mask is de rigueur. "You are right, Monsieur. Women of Mademoiselle Sophie's generation can get emotional and make mistakes."
<br /><br />He places his hands on her desk and looks downwards. "Then discipline her. My wife and I don't need a teenager making our war with Lucy any more difficult than it already is."
<br /><br />He turns and points his finger at me. "She thinks she knows us."
<br /><br />I squirm in my chair and hold my tongue. Madame Castagné could lose the tuitions of three children if I am not careful. She asks me to apologize. Ever so meek, I tell both of Lucy's parents that I am sorry.
<br /><br />Mr Jones accepts my apology and shakes my hand. "You should smile more."
<br /><br />I turn my lips upwards. Anything to appease him.
<br /><br />Mrs Jones's eyes meet mine. "Please don't judge me," they seem to say.
<br /><br />After the Americans have left the room, Madame Castagné leans back in her chair. "<i>Mon dieu</i>."
<br /><br />"I promise to mind my business from now on, Madame."
<br /><br />She waves her hand in the air, signalling that I should leave her in peace. "I am sure that you have learnt your lesson."
<br /><br />I can't help myself. "Does Mr Jones know that Lucy took his manuscript?"
<br /><br />Madame Castagné folds her hands on the desk. "What manuscript?" Her tone is challenging.
<br /><br />"But last Friday..."
<br /><br />"There is no manuscript."
<br /><br />I nod and leave her office, relieved. Even if Mr Jones is paying the tuition for three children, she knows enough to keep Lucy's secret.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Lucy sits next to me on the bench in the park. I do not mention what happened. School must feel safer than home. She pulls a lipstick out of her pocket and hands it to me. It is my favourite Mary Quant, the one I lost last fall. I put it in my backpack. No lectures today. She has made amends. Did her father order "her butt to the ground" after the <i>The Poseidon Adventure</i>? Most likely. Did he force the children to repeat this race if Lucy reached her mother first? Most likely. Anything to "keep her down." I don't understand his hostility towards his daughter. Is it because she is not a boy? I fear he wants to break her.
<br /><br />I open <i>Une espionne dans la maison de l'amour</i> to a page that is vivid but chaste.
<br /><br />"Can you read in French as well as you speak?"
<br /><br />Lucy brightens at the compliment. Her voice loses its childlike pitch, and she takes care with every word. Her finger moves in a straight line underneath the print. The nail is pale, like a scallop in the sand. Today the leaves on the trees glimmer like emeralds in the sun. In a few weeks they will dim to jade. Summer break is two months away, but the moment feels so fleeting.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Madame Castagné calls me into her office after I have delivered the children. She tells me that she needs my help tomorrow afternoon.
<br /><br />"Our French teacher has taken ill. I would take over the children's lesson myself, but I must monitor Lucy's examination."
<br /><br />"May I ask what kind of examination?"
<br /><br />Who is putting her to the test?
<br /><br />"Lucy must take the Common Entrance for Great Britain. Her mother wants to send her away to boarding school as soon as possible."
<br /><br /><i>But why?</i> I wonder. Mr Jones is the man who should be sent away.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The next day Lucy pushes her <i>blanquette de veau</i> around her plate. At least she dips her bread into the sauce. I give her two triangles of The Laughing Cow cheese. She must be strong for her exam. Madame Castagné enters the dining room and announces that I will be their French teacher for the afternoon. The children poke one another in the ribs and promise to be good. Lucy's hands twitch as Madame Castagné leads her away. How long has she known that she must leave this school? Her rage at the pervert in the park now makes sense. <i>Why should we always move for these men?</i> Did she take her father's manuscript for revenge? Was she planning to throw it in the rubbish bin outside the kitchen of Monsieur Jacques?
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The children read from their books containing <i>Les fables de La Fontaine</i>. Today, they must answer questions about "<i>Le corbeau et le renard</i>." Exercises highlight the fox's wily ways, how he flatters the crow in the tree. Seduced, she caws and drops the cheese from her mouth. The fox gobbles it up. A great lesson about predators. They are everywhere. I walk to the back of the classroom. From the window, I can look across the courtyard and into the room on the ground floor. Blurred shapes move behind the glass. I can make out Lucy's shoulders, hunched over her desk. Her hand scribbles across a page. Madame Castagné pulls the paper away and gives her another. Who sends a child to another country so young? When my sister and I misbehaved, our mother would threaten to call the nuns in the convent on the outskirts of town. "Sister Marie Joseph will be happy to take you off my hands." We would laugh in her face. We knew she wasn't serious.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />It is five o'clock. The children clatter down the stairs into the courtyard. I follow them and lean against the wall of the main entrance. I am tired but would like to ask Lucy how she is. Was the examination difficult? Does she feel confident that she answered the questions well? Parents open their arms to greet their offspring. They seem so joyous. I catch my breath. Mr Jones stands apart from the other adults in a wrinkled trench coat. A bib of grey covers his jaw and neck. His face lights up as his sons approach him. He ruffles their hair when they grab his waist. Lucy exits the building as if in a trance. I raise my hand to tap her shoulder, but then hide it behind my back. She walks at a snail's pace towards her father. He crosses his arms at the sight of her. He asks her nothing about her day.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Madame Castagné's office door is ajar. She is stuffing papers into a plastic pouch. I tiptoe into the room.
<br /><br />"The British insist I send the exam off by courier. Of course, they have no faith in our postal system."
<br /><br />"Madame, I have come to the conclusion that I must resign."
<br /><br />She looks at me in surprise. "Whatever for?"
<br /><br />I burst into tears. "I am a fraud. I have no business working with children."
<br /><br />She motions me to sit down on the other side of her desk. "Nonsense. Apart from your scrape with <i>la famille Jones</i>, you are doing a fine job here."
<br /><br />"In the beginning, I did not even like Lucy. And then I intervened and made her life worse."
<br /><br />She offers me a tissue, then walks over to the filing cabinet. "If you quit this sniffling, I might give you a raise."
<br /><br />I obey but am still determined to leave.
<br /><br />Madame Castagné opens a file and pulls out copies of the children's passports. She points her finger at the hazy pictures. "First of all, you will see that Lucy's real last name is Parker. Mr Jones is the stepfather."
<br /><br /><i>My father won't let me grow my hair</i>. Lucy has never used the word stepfather. This other man's existence must be a taboo.
<br /><br />She hands me a bank statement. "The tuition of the three children is paid by a trust fund in the name of Mrs Jones. <i>Mr</i> Jones is not gainfully employed in Paris."
<br /><br />I have never met a kept man before this week. All the men back home must work.
<br /><br />Madame Castagné looks around the room as if someone were listening. I am the only ears in sight. Satisfied, she walks to the door and locks it. She then pulls the manuscript out of her desk and places it in my hands. I stare at the first page. <i>Under the Eaves of Paris, a novel by Frank Jones</i>. So, he had the time and money to write a novel. Lucky man.
<br /><br />Madame Castagné lowers her voice to a whisper. "Look closer, Mademoiselle Sophie."
<br /><br />I flip through the pages. His hell soon becomes apparent. Chapter one is filled with his prose. The following nine chapters are different. He has typed out the Book of Genesis, over and over again.
<br /><br />"Oh no..."
<br /><br />Madame Castagné sighs and shakes her head. "Hemingway did a great disservice to the American male. His lean prose convinced an entire generation that they, too, could write."
<br /><br />I read the first lines of the manuscript. "The SS France left the port of New York at ten knots an hour. Around midnight the band played 'La Vie en Rose.' They were a tight band."
<br /><br />Is this good or bad? I hesitate to judge English literature.
<br /><br />"There must be dozens of men like Mr Jones in Paris. They think that if they live like Papa, the words will flow."
<br /><br />"But Lucy shouldn't have to pay for his unhappiness."
<br /><br />Madame Castagné clucks her tongue. "Lucy is the lucky one. Her mother is setting her free from the asylum. Pity the stepbrothers left behind."
<br /><br />I have never heard such a sad tale. When the rich have problems, they seek a geographical cure.
<br /><br />I hand the manuscript back to Madame Castagné. Her fingers grasp the sides as she taps the bottom on her desk. The pages are now aligned. "Lucy did well enough on her exam. The Cheltenham Ladies' College will accept her. Once she is safe across the channel, I will drop this masterpiece in the mailbox outside of Harry's Bar. When Mr Jones receives it, he will assume that he left it there after too many martinis."
<br /><br />Her plan is worthy of Detective Maigret.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Chef Jacques wheels his trolley into the dining room. He has created a <i>bûche de Noël</i> with hazelnut buttercream for Lucy's final dessert. It must be one meter long. A single candle stands tall amongst the ridges and swirls of his Christmas log. Lucy smiles and blows out the flame. Chef Jacques cuts his cake fast before the icing dissolves in the heat. He has outdone himself. He could have refused to bake such a confection at short notice, but Lucy is his favourite eater. The idea that she will soon face British food is more than he can bear. The children have decorated the dining hall with banners that wish her <i>bonne chance</i>. At Madame Castagné's command, they rise and sing farewell. Lucy's eyes travel over her friends. I can tell that any fights are now forgotten. Only the sweet times remain.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Lucy sits on a chair in an empty classroom. She holds two barrettes with rhinestone butterflies up to the light. They cost me a fortune at the <i>parfumerie</i>. I part her wisps of hair with my comb and sweep it to the side. The drugstore diamonds glitter above her ears.
<br /><br />"There. You look like a true <i>gamine</i>."
<br /><br />Lucy picks up my compact mirror and admires her reflection.
<br /><br />"My mother says I will be joining the élite."
<br /><br />It is clear she does not understand the term.
<br /><br />"I lived in a small town all my life. You, on the other hand, will become a citizen of the world."
<br /><br />She bites her lip and picks at the button on her cuff. "I wish I could stay here."
<br /><br />If only I could wipe away her fears. "Just think, Lucy. With your French and British education, you could become a diplomat."
<br /><br />She sits up straight, interested. "You mean like an ambassador?"
<br /><br />I nod my head. "Like an <i>ambassadress</i>. If you study hard, you might go to Africa and India."
<br /><br />I can already see these continents in her eyes.
<br /><br />"You will go far. You are the bravest, smartest girl I know."
<br /><br />But my heart whispers words I cannot say. <i>Oh Lucy, if you were my daughter, I would never let you go</i>.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-17207548847502482662024-03-13T08:00:00.009+00:002024-03-13T08:00:00.259+00:00House Rules by Salvatore Difalco<i>Tim Peters passes time in an isolation unit near the Canada-USA border by trying to get better at chess.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRrZbbdXbZVGLshvTijm8Osfi3DSLj9CYK-SOMVMKgQh_eSwquPBQgCmHOz6WPzSzm7hnvlwCaAS06f4f3eWli_buKDJYXDnr2UWHpkYGPNWjKSKKz1Q2DdVp6Ga_wyxOK_6Kw1Wne2QdbZVKpNLjNzOsJvjRQQY_o90XisKoislor4cPWt7sP5-uPrf0/s500/House%20Rules%20by%20Salvatore%20Difalco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRrZbbdXbZVGLshvTijm8Osfi3DSLj9CYK-SOMVMKgQh_eSwquPBQgCmHOz6WPzSzm7hnvlwCaAS06f4f3eWli_buKDJYXDnr2UWHpkYGPNWjKSKKz1Q2DdVp6Ga_wyxOK_6Kw1Wne2QdbZVKpNLjNzOsJvjRQQY_o90XisKoislor4cPWt7sP5-uPrf0/s320/House%20Rules%20by%20Salvatore%20Difalco.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I play chess with Sam A in the isolation unit. Sam A looks like a linebacker, but he's smart. Sam B, who looks like a tub of shit, doesn't play chess. Sam B is a prick, but that's another story. I learned to play chess at Lackawanna Elementary. Mr. Oddi, the science teacher, taught me the moves and beat me thirty times in a row before I finally beat him. Then he never beat me again. I became the best chess player at Lackawanna Elementary. Other kids called me Bobby, after Bobby Fischer. I started playing in tournaments and did okay. Then my old man got busted for drug trafficking and I had other things to worry about besides chess.
<br /><br />When Sam A found out I could play, he challenged me and I like that. Pricks like Sam B ignore me most of the time or treat me with disgust, like I'm less than human. But Sam A is a good head and a good chess player, real good. We've played about twenty times. I haven't beat him yet. He has tricks, he's fucking tricky. But I'm learning. I'll beat him one day. I have time.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>One afternoon, Sam A and I sit down to play in the isolation unit. He teaches me a new variation of the Sicilian Defense. I try it on him as black but he crushes me. "Be more patient with your attack, Bobby," he tells me. He kids me by calling me Bobby. My name is Tim Peters. But no one has called me Tim for a long time. "Defend first," Sam A says, "only then attack - when your position is secure." We play again. This time I take white and he defends with the Sicilian. He quickly ties me up in knots. I can't make a move. "This is called zugzwang, Bobby," he says with a smile. "I know what it's called," I say, and I do.
<br /><br />The joke about the name Bobby goes back to when I crossed the Peace Bridge into Canada, and told the customs people that my name was Bobby Fischer and that my father was in jail and my mother had abandoned me. They bought the name - maybe they didn't know who Bobby Fischer was, being Canadians - but had no clue what to do with me. I had no identification and although I was fourteen I didn't look older than twelve. And I pretended to be dyslexic and slow. Eventually, they placed me in a foster home in Niagara Falls, Ontario, with the Richardsons, a nice, square family.
<br /><br />Of course, that didn't last. They stuck me in a vocational institute called NTEC, that in addition to work-training programs for disadvantaged youth also offered schooling for fucked up kids. And I mean fucked up. Within a few days I got into a tangle with a dude called Josh, a smelly, three-hundred-pound weirdo who grabbed the tuna sandwich off my tray in the cafeteria and started eating it. That wasn't going to fly. You don't mess with people's food. I wasn't taking it from a fat fuck like Josh. Anyway, I broke his nose. His mother demanded the police press charges. They did. Assault causing bodily harm.
<br /><br />Then the cops and authorities starting connecting some dots and figured out my name wasn't Bobby Fischer. When they discovered I was actually Tim Peters, of Lackawanna, all bets were off. They sent me to the Peninsula Youth Centre in Fenwick, north of Niagara Falls, to await processing and possible extradition back the the US. They placed me in an isolation unit away from the other kids. Guess they were paranoid.
<br /><br />My first night there, Sam B and this gorilla called Johnny restrained me hard in my cell for no fucking reason. Put a pretty good beating on me, careful not to mess with my face. I got the message. Don't fuck with these guys. Follow the house rules. Keep your head down. Speak as little as possible. Talking's never good anyway. I figured this was my reality until the trial, and then I had no idea what would happen.
<br /><br />I was lucky, though. Sam A soon showed up with a chessboard. He was running a combo chess and anger management program. I guess the idea was to play chess with us and at the same time provide counseling or get to the root of our issues. At first I kept mum about my business and Sam A didn't pry too hard. He was smooth. We played chess whenever he was on shift until I became fully invested in beating him. I thought I was close. He asked about my anger issues. I told him I wasn't an angry person, normally. I didn't like conflict. But I had a breaking point.
<br /><br />My days proceed with a drab monotony that, after a few months, starts playing with my mind, as much as I try to block out everything that's happened in the past year. Sam A eventually asks about my mother. Takes longer for me to respond to this. In time I tell him she was a strong woman who'd put up with a lot of shit from my old man - and me. But she could push too far sometimes. She wouldn't let up, you know - sometimes. Not that I didn't love her. I loved her a lot. She was my mamma. And I know she loved me.
<br /><br />"How do you feel about it now?" Sam A asks one day at the chessboard. I tell him I don't know. "You don't know?" he says. I shake my head. It was a moment of madness. She'd truly pushed me too far, and I lost it. "One thing I want to know," Sam A says. "Detectives found the hammer hanging back on its hook in the basement workroom."
<br /><br />"Yeah," I explain. "Mamma told me to always put things back in their place after I used them." Sam A swallows. "It's your move," I say.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-84032906708701749542024-03-11T08:00:00.009+00:002024-03-11T08:00:00.135+00:00The Shoes of Kings by David Lanvert<i>Two mall employees become friends, but one harbours a surprising secret. </i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcKObOR1n5_tvMzc56APkBzVGmIcFMR7H7zaG2RPNBJoH7AZ0PhHJcpMTkHoVQLsD4BWPhSXgMnppEJtCrxuZgGclVV1b2HdymaasXeCS9tb0ytBWCFXzohitOKNW-r5O4-ypjq5g2QP_2MZy7ko-IfLIFCPzeDJiGFGMglQiaAH1n1dWESYhvTVJWPH8/s500/The%20Shoes%20of%20Kings%20by%20David%20Lanvert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcKObOR1n5_tvMzc56APkBzVGmIcFMR7H7zaG2RPNBJoH7AZ0PhHJcpMTkHoVQLsD4BWPhSXgMnppEJtCrxuZgGclVV1b2HdymaasXeCS9tb0ytBWCFXzohitOKNW-r5O4-ypjq5g2QP_2MZy7ko-IfLIFCPzeDJiGFGMglQiaAH1n1dWESYhvTVJWPH8/s320/The%20Shoes%20of%20Kings%20by%20David%20Lanvert.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>My friend Jake sold men's shoes at the Florsheim shop. Talk about the lowest rung of retail. I was a few spots higher, working at a designer jeans store in the same mall. At least girls came into my place. Malls, back in the 70s, were like small towns. Everyone's aware of the pecking order. We always had the lonely Fotomat kiosk guy in the parking lot to make fun of.
<br /><br />I met him one day when I needed change; we'd taken in a lot of big bills, and he was the only guy around who would help me out. I asked the girls at Baskin-Robbins and the former cheerleaders peddling cheese logs at Swiss Colony. They all gave me the stink eye. Jake welcomed the interruption and said he was happy to help. Single-brand stores like his didn't have a lot of traffic. He was a few years older than me and had the pale, wan look of a mall veteran.
<br /><br />It's seductive, working in a mall. You start thinking it's a cool part-time job, but you pick up on the status thing, the small-town vibe, and it hits you - it has everything you need, indoors. At a point near the end of a twelve-hour shift during the holidays, or when you've worked ten days in a row, you realize it's a lifestyle. My father came in once when I was working, checked everything out, and said, "It beats digging a ditch." Dad was like a car in need of repair. You park it in the yard to get it out of the way. It's only temporary; you'll fix it and get it back on the road. But then it's still there a week later and the next month. The tires go flat, weeds grow around it, and squirrels nest in the back seat. You get used to walking around it. Life was too much for him. The color drained out of him to the point where he was almost transparent, and one day, he was gone. My mom freaked. Maybe it ran in our family, a genetic predisposition to hopelessness. She'd had me on antidepressants since, although I wasn't what you would call medication-compliant. I was more self-directed in that department.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Jake took his job seriously. After work, we'd smoke pot in the parking lot, and he'd go on nonstop about the virtues of his best product, the Florsheim Imperial, with its handsewn moccasin construction, full calfskin lining, and leather stacked heel. According to him, they were the ultimate in men's footwear, the shoes of kings and captains of industry. Only bona fide studs wore Florsheim Imperials. But the profit was in wooden shoe trees, and he bragged about selling a pair with every purchase.
<br /><br />Regardless of the topic, he would get all worked up, pounding the dash and coughing through the smoke, ashes from the joint landing on his good work clothes, leaving tiny holes in his polyester slacks. He was big, what my mom would call husky, and sat with the driver's seat all the way forward; his legs splayed out with his knees almost on the dash, the steering wheel inches from his chest. He told me the last owner was short, and the seat was stuck. I'd recline until I was staring at the yellowing headliner and let his footwear arguments wash over me as I counted all the little perforations in the vinyl. I offered my thoughts on the impact of <i>Saturday Night Fever</i> on men's fashion and how all designer jeans owed their existence to Levi Strauss. We both hated the leisure suit, although I didn't mention that my mom and I once gave one to my dad as a birthday present.
<br /><br />We also discussed Jimmy Carter, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, and whether I should drop out of college. The political science phase I was going through wouldn't last, and nothing else in school seemed to stick. I'd already had three majors; summer was ending, and the semester was starting soon. The future required decisions, and I wasn't sure I was up for it. Jake offered suggestions in the tight-lipped, clipped cadence of someone trying not to exhale. For a shoe salesman, he was pretty bright.
<br /><br />The mall cops hassled us about smoking pot in the parking lot, so we found a spot off a dead-end street overlooking the mall. Jake would pull up and park facing downhill because his piece-of-shit Pinto often refused to start, and he wanted gravity on his side. One afternoon, we were leaning on the trunk, passing the blunt, and he said he wanted to share something personal. Off came his shirt, and with a couple of loping strides, he was flying, wings unfurling from his back, the whole of him soaring upward like smoke. I thought, this dope is fantastic. But it occurred to me, maybe it's not the weed. I stood, head back, and stared unblinking, eyes watering, slack-jawed, both hands gripping the trunk lid behind me. Straight overhead, with the sun behind him, he glowed like a firefly at dusk. Figure eights, barrel rolls, loops, the guy had talent.
<br /><br />Eventually, he landed, trailing a vapor of pot and cologne, his wings folding back with a muted snap like sheets on a clothesline. I had several questions for him. You can imagine. But all I managed was, "I thought you were going to tell me you were gay." The cops - the real cops - pulled up, so we got in his car and rolled back to the mall with the calm paranoia you have when stoned.
<br /><br />We talked about it later. I lost it and told him it was pretty chickenshit of him to fly off without any warning. It was a wonder I didn't end up in some hospital, tied to a bed with fleece-lined leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, pumped full of Thorazine. He said he was sorry. Yes, he was an angel; no, it wasn't all you'd been taught, with harps and celestial singing. No, he hadn't been sent to help me, although he looked away when he said it and started searching his pockets for a lighter. I didn't believe him. Why me? What's so special about me? As soon as I thought it, his voice was in my head, "Why not you?"
<br /><br />Jake left the mall a few weeks later. He told me over an Orange Julius he'd been promoted to assistant manager, but the position was downtown. The current store was too small to have a management hierarchy. (I thought it was too small once you had a customer in there, but I kept quiet.) He said he'd still be around and glanced upward to ensure I took the hint.
<br /><br />We both gave up smoking pot. I quit because once you've experienced the supernatural, having an angel as a best friend, what's the point of getting high? Jake quit because I quit, or so I thought, but then again, he had more responsibility now. He even bought a new battery for his car. Downtown parking was complicated enough without him having to look for someone to give him a jump.
<br /><br />I decided to major in history. Jake told me all we needed to know was in the past - there were no new problems, only new names for the same old shit. I should trust him on this. He'd been there. I believed him, given his immortality and all. And, so far, I think he's right. I may even go further with it; who knows? My advisor has already brought up graduate school. I don't plan much, but I heard Rhode's Scholars get to study in England. Imagine that.
<br /><br />I bought a pair of Florsheims from him on his last day, but not the Imperials. They were too much shoe for me. He put them aside and said they'd be there when I was ready. He gave me the employee discount and threw in a pair of shoe trees.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-83249610674283915522024-03-08T08:00:00.001+00:002024-03-08T08:00:00.244+00:00Half a Creamed Chicken Sandwich at the Airport by Paul Sharville<i>
Two strangers strike up a conversation at the airport, and make a connection that will linger even though they may never meet again.</i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjJPv6HrPzrYuu9SC11d2BzLhREvk2SpZI1qmLW60tPNzH392NLXN5VA39oedyXzg315mhHqdJiJGycuWIAMe11tmuBEt7JoDl8fF0McJYN_ENWrDsZvw0Y-iV2OkZExsKdPNLw-28eoXV3rN6oMh4fzH-rQeF42ictUpFbx6xlQitmmIcYtssHT7Wa8/s500/Half%20a%20Creamed%20Chicken%20Sandwich%20at%20the%20Airport%20by%20Paul%20Sharville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjJPv6HrPzrYuu9SC11d2BzLhREvk2SpZI1qmLW60tPNzH392NLXN5VA39oedyXzg315mhHqdJiJGycuWIAMe11tmuBEt7JoDl8fF0McJYN_ENWrDsZvw0Y-iV2OkZExsKdPNLw-28eoXV3rN6oMh4fzH-rQeF42ictUpFbx6xlQitmmIcYtssHT7Wa8/s320/Half%20a%20Creamed%20Chicken%20Sandwich%20at%20the%20Airport%20by%20Paul%20Sharville.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>For the past five years, since 1946, Vincent had attended the November dinner at his grandmother's house in Sheldon, Vermont, east of Lake Champlain. His grandmother was widely regarded as the most well-connected woman in Franklin County, at least by those less well connected than she, and she held the dinner at some considerable expense each year.
<br /><br />Vincent was seated at the counter of the Shoo-Fly bar at the Ethan Allen Air Force Base, making a whirlpool in his coffee with the nickel-plated neck of his submerged spoon. He sat, hunched over, reading a leaflet on the many masculine benefits of joining the Air National Guard, including the opportunity to see all of Vermont from the air.
<br /><br />'Excuse me. D'you mind?'
<br /><br />Vincent tilted his head up without changing his posture. He looked in the mirror on the wall behind the coffee machines at the young woman next to him, then swivelled his head to face her. She pointed at the vacant stool.
<br /><br />'Please, go right ahead,' Vincent said.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>'Oh great, thanks.' She loosened up and lifted herself on to the stool, wriggling into place by alternately rocking her thighs as she shuffled back in the seat. She caught herself in the mirror and placed a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear, then extended her bottom lip and blew her fringe up. Finally composed, she turned to Vincent, and put out her hand, slim and straight with a trigger thumb.
<br /><br />'Edie Bachelor, how do you do?' She smiled. 'Are you comin' in or goin' out?'
<br /><br />Vincent stretched his left arm across his thick torso. His voice was slightly strained. His blue jacket was tight across his broad back, and his chubby neck gathered over the collar of his white shirt as he shook Edie's hand. 'Vincent Seymour. I just came in. Headed up to Sheldon -'
<br /><br />'Oh God!' She pointed at the leaflet as if she'd just seen a mouse, jumping a little. 'You're not thinking of joining the Air National Guard, are you? Listen, all of my family are in that. It's where people with a deep fear of flying go to become airmen, because they know they're never gonna havta climb any higher than a top bunk. I mean, heck, I'm not against it completely, but if you have any aspirations for altitude - literally or metaphorically - then the Air National Guard, well, excuse the pun... it'll keep you grounded. Truly.' She raised a finger to the young male clerk behind the counter. 'Can I have a coffee, half a creamed chicken sandwich and a packa Kools?'
<br /><br />She blew her fringe again. 'I swear if I don't eat soon I'm gonna pass out right here,' she said. 'Do you have a proper cigarette? I mean, I like the menthols. Christ, they're what got me started, and for that I am very grateful, but every now and then I think screw Willie the Penguin... I'm lookin' for that hit, you know?'
<br /><br />Vincent reached in his pocket and shook out an Old Gold from the pack. Edie took it, lit it, and blew a thin, controlled stream of smoke across the counter, shaking her head to produce a wavy trail. 'Thanks,' she coughed.
<br /><br />'I'm here visiting my grandmother,' Vincent said, lighting a cigarette. He waited until Edie, who seemed to have lost herself in the pleasure of her own smoking, said absently, 'Uh-huh,' and then he continued. 'She has this dinner for me every year, and I have to meet all of these people at least twice my age who give me advice.'
<br /><br />'Advice? About what?'
<br /><br />'All kinds of advice, so that I can do well. I mean, you know, I appreciate it, but I've been coming for five years, and if I'm perfectly honest, I don't know why she bothers. Not one of them has ever lived outside of Franklin County. I mean, they don't actually <i>know</i> anything... not outside of Franklin County anyway, apart from what they read in the papers.'
<br /><br />'Which is all hooey anyway,' interrupted Edie.
<br /><br />'They're successful and all,' Vincent said, 'but only in Sheldon or maybe in Richford or Montgomery... and they're all cock-a-hoop about opportunity and working ethic, and they're all as keen as Jimmy for me to trail right in there behind 'em -'
<br /><br />'And I bet they say things like, "and <i>that</i>, young man, is how I got where I am today," when what they should be sayin' is "and <i>look</i> where it damned well got me." That would probably be more accurate.'
<br /><br />Vincent laughed. The clerk served Edie her coffee, sandwich and cigarettes.
<br /><br />'You wanna menthol?' she enquired, swinging the pack lightly between her forefinger and thumb. He declined by raising his hand from the counter-top and tilting his head slightly. She tossed the pack down, then started picking at the bread on her sandwich. She had pale, milky forearms, sprinkled with moles, and Vincent could see fine blonde hairs catching the light.
<br /><br />'I'm flying out to get married,' Edie said plaintively. 'It's all organised. All I gotta do is turn up and stick on a dress. They can't do it without me, but if they could, I am certain they would. All I gotta do is turn up.'
<br /><br />She took a tentative sip of her coffee. 'Frankly, I'd sooner not go in to the details. God, this is hot. I really don't think I can drink this right now.'
<br /><br />Vincent turned his cigarette in the ashtray, rounding off the ash. He sneaked a look at her while she pouted over the sandwich: a pretty profile, turned-up nose, high forehead, lips separated and glossed, long eyelashes. She wore a tight-fitting woollen suit. Her legs swung gently in front of the foot ring, ankles crossed, and a pair of black heels hung off her stocking toes. She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and started to pick angrily at the sandwich. Vincent saw that a wet line had appeared down her cheek. She wiped the top of her cheekbone with the heel of her hand.
<br /><br />'Are you OK?' he said.
<br /><br />'They think I need to be trussed up and tamed, but I <i>don't</i>. I really don't. I mean, I'm here aren't I? Flying out. I'm doing what they've asked. That makes me tame, doesn't it? Heck, only a <i>tame</i> dog comes when you call her. Wild dogs don't, do they?' Edie sniffed and dabbed her eyes. 'But I do answer back, and state my case, and speak my mind... Apparently, that's not the way to behave. But when I say things, it's not rudeness, nor impertinence... it's <i>passion</i>... for the truth of it all. I can be trusted, absolutely, to say what I mean with my heart to anyone who asks. It's to protect people... to help and... and... say the right thing, the true thing. Heck, a tamed dog would get up an' kill to protect the ones it loves, wouldn't it? That doesn't make it wild still, or even <i>turnin'</i> wild.' She gave up on the sandwich and pushed the plate away.
<br /><br />'I thought you were hungry,' Vincent said softly. 'Don't pass out on me now.'
<br /><br />'Sure, you gotta get to grandma's, I know,' she sniffed. 'Could I have another Old Gold? I can't get on with these menthols. They're not 'Kool'; they're decidedly <i>un</i>cool.' She lit another of Vincent's cigarettes and blew an imperfect smoke ring. She put her elbow on the counter, rested her cheek in the palm of her smoking hand and turned to look at Vincent. She laughed, sadly. 'Of course, they shoot domestic dogs if they go around being too over-protective, don't they? Me? I just gotta go away. I guess I should be thankful I got off light.'
<br /><br />Vincent was staring at the ashtray. He looked clean and fresh, despite carrying some weight from wherever to here. He was a lump, and every piece of clothing seemed to be stretched beyond its prescribed factory tolerances, but the weight suited him in a comfortable way. If he'd have been wearing larger clothing, he might have been meaner.
<br /><br />'Do you tell your grandmother what you think of these little trips?' Edie said.
<br /><br />'Not really,' Vincent said. 'She's pretty sharp. Don't get me wrong. She wants the best for me, and I don't wanna sound ungrateful in any way. She says I have privilege because of her, and I should use it. She says that my parents loved me, but she wasn't able to do for my father what she is able now to do for me. So, every year I go, and she tries to set me up with some advice and... and we go to get me a new suit together, which she pays for, with cash. One time the shopkeeper says to me "So here's a young gentleman off to become part of the tax-paying masses," and my grandmother looks right at him and says, "He will earn as a by-product of advantage; not because he has to but because he chooses to," and then she slams her purse shut and we go someplace else - Tripler's I think - to buy the suit.'
<br /><br />'What was that all about?' Edie said.
<br /><br />'Beats me,' Vincent said, flicking his ash. 'I think she likes pretending to be a snob.'
<br /><br />'I played this game once,' Edie said, 'when I was a kid. It was called Are You a Werewolf? It was this party game where everyone sat in a big circle, and you got a secret piece of paper on which was written "villager", but two people had a secret piece of paper on which was written "werewolf".' She took a draw on her cigarette and exhaled, then she swivelled her seat round to face Vincent. She softly cleared her throat. 'So, once everyone is seated, you have this night phase and a day phase, and... Ok, so I forgot to mention, you have to have one person who just runs the game; like a, like a...' She snapped her fingers.
<br /><br />'A moderator?' Vincent suggested.
<br /><br />'Yeah, like a referee. Ok. So, during the night phase everyone closes their eyes and slaps their hands on their thighs to make a commotion, and then the referee - the <i>moderator</i> - he tells only the werewolves to open their eyes, and they do so, and then they both point to one of the villagers, and that is gonna be their victim for tonight. So, then the referee tells <i>everyone</i> to open their eyes and he tells the victim that he or she is dead - ripped apart and eaten or something - and that person is outta the game.'
<br /><br />'That's pretty fixed for the first one out,' Vincent said.
<br /><br />'It's a quick game, all in,' Edie confirmed. 'And it's a <i>lotta</i> fun to just observe, you know?' Edie adjusted herself in the seat, and placed one hand on her thigh; the other gesturing. 'So then you have the day phase, and now everyone can discuss who they think the werewolves are. Then they get to collectively make one accusation against a player, who is then lynched, metaphorically of course: in other words, out of the game. And that person reveals their identity, and if they were a villager then the group has screwed up and the werewolves are still at large. And it goes on like this. Someone's gonna get murdered, night after night, until the players can root out the wolves and win. But if the villagers get down to just two, the werewolves win.'
<br /><br />'Sounds like a heck of a game,' Vincent said.
<br /><br />'Yeah, people like it. But I can't play it.'
<br /><br />'Why not?'
<br /><br />'Well I always wanna be the werewolf. I just can't be a villager. All that lyin' and lynchin'...'
<br /><br />'But it's a game; it doesn't matter -'
<br /><br />'Sure it matters. It <i>matters</i>, people throwin' wild accusations around. It's a big metaphor for weeding out the ones who <i>don't</i> fit in... for keeping the status quo. God damn it, it makes me so angry! I mean, that's it isn't it? Making us all fit the mould. If you fed the damn werewolves, they wouldn't wanna do any murdering anyway, let's face it. And they teach us that B-U-L-L straight after we start walking around... in fact, as soon as we're ready to start discoverin' stuff of our own accord. Root out the werewolves. Lynch the troublemakers. It's not subtle.'
<br /><br />Edie crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and placed a napkin over the sandwich.
<br /><br />'Do you want that?' Vincent asked, pointing to the plate.
<br /><br />'No, you have it if you want it.' She pushed the sandwich towards him. He removed the napkin, picked up the sandwich with his chubby fingers and bit into it.
<br /><br />'Werewolf like sandwich. Sandwich good,' he said, through a mouthful of bread and creamed chicken. 'Werewolf live with villagers in own duplex.'
<br /><br />Edie laughed a little trippy laugh, which turned to a groan. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry,' she said. 'I rattle on like a yapping little dog sometimes. So, what are you gonna do, Lon Chaney Junior? You gonna go see grandma? In the woods?'
<br /><br />'Of course. I think this might be the last year she tries to advantage me. She may be losing hope.'
<br /><br />'Don't count on it. I bet she's more determined than ever this year, and if not this year, then next year, and every year until she's too God damned old to do any more than hold your wrist like a vice and plead wordlessly at you with those milky old dying eyes.'
<br /><br />'You know what?' Vincent said. 'I'm really goin' out. I've already been to Grandma's. And I killed her stone dead, and the rest of her dinner guests.'
<br /><br />'Oh, well done. Now you definitely can't join the Air National Guard. They won't have you. You're unbalanced.'
<br /><br />Vincent laughed. 'In all sincerity and belief... she wants big things for me, and she certainly doesn't want me to just end up running a small business in Sheldon.'
<br /><br />The tannoy called boarding for American Airlines Flight 262 to Northeast Philadelphia.
<br /><br />Edie slipped down from the stool and smoothed the front of her outfit, flicking a piece of dust from the lapel. 'Yeah, well I'm tellin' ya, she probably does. They got it all sorted out. You just gotta turn up.'Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-1850943019322716362024-03-06T08:00:00.009+00:002024-03-06T08:00:00.152+00:00The Nemesis of Pequod Lane by J Paul Ross<i>
After his wife divorces him, formerly kind and placid veterinary doctor Abraham Enderby is besieged by a deranged feline beast.</i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Vu2Pt3RR1odjgAblaYn3Bzga69f0A6NabMN6Qx2JMorUZhizNc7Lc3V0ktFewAQPsNnQkylU7SrJnn_SyhvFkVhBAxXytYac4qcOU3MQD2J7EkCRR-4HZJYKknCBXsi5wPyCQbxzvN0AU2eviYr1oNW7-Ev_p9mm-9I-xfh5Ko7vy7aLNE80qK33uOg/s500/The%20Nemesis%20of%20Pequod%20Lane%20by%20J%20Paul%20Ross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Vu2Pt3RR1odjgAblaYn3Bzga69f0A6NabMN6Qx2JMorUZhizNc7Lc3V0ktFewAQPsNnQkylU7SrJnn_SyhvFkVhBAxXytYac4qcOU3MQD2J7EkCRR-4HZJYKknCBXsi5wPyCQbxzvN0AU2eviYr1oNW7-Ev_p9mm-9I-xfh5Ko7vy7aLNE80qK33uOg/s320/The%20Nemesis%20of%20Pequod%20Lane%20by%20J%20Paul%20Ross.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>They call him Doc, but tonight he's no longer a healer, no longer a guardian of the innocent, no longer a savior of companions feathered, furred and scaled. Tonight, Doctor Abraham Enderby, DVM has become something else. He's become an executioner in torn flannel, a hunter with inflamed eyes and bifocals chipped and blood-spattered. He's turned into a silver-haired killer lost to the grim billow of waiting, patient Death and as he glares out at the heavy Nantucket snow, all he can think of is vengeance, brutal, sharp and cruel.
<br /><br />"Kingdom: <i>Animalia</i>," he rasps over the clip of his minivan's studded tires. "Phylum: <i>Chordata</i>. Clade: <i>Synapsida</i>. Class: <i>Mammalia</i>..."
<br /><br />He can sense his prey, almost hear it beckoning his hungry rage forward; it tempts him with every leeward turn upon the sleet-pelted road and it dares him to follow from the autumn nor'easter roiling just beyond his windshield. It's out there, defying him, mocking him, and he knows it's lurking and scheming, moving from hollow to hollow, protected within the shadows it's made its own. But he knows it can lurk all it wants, knows it can scheme all it wants. None of those things matter because the healer-turned-hunter has sworn never to give up this chase. Whether it's seconds, minutes or hours, time's on <i>his</i> side and nothing will allay his insatiate wrath, nothing can stop his hate-fueled quest and if he has to drive from Polpis Harbor to Starbuck Road, nothing will keep him from standing astride the carcass of his tormenter.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>"Order: <i>Carnivora</i>," he goes on, his fingers moving from the cigar box on the passenger seat to the fire poker beside it. "Family: <i>Felidae</i>..."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Doc Enderby wasn't always like this. He wasn't always a bleary-eyed assassin with a thousand-yard stare, or a spite-filled prowler of byways desolate and forlorn. A third generation Nantucketer, he'd grown up playing on the island's streets, exploring its shores and sailing its coasts. It was the place where he'd lived and practiced, met his spouse and raised his children. In fact, for seventy-two years, he'd been a paragon of kindness and mercy, a man who'd literally saved hundreds of Tabbies and Rexes, Pikachus, Mr. Hoppities and Dracos. He'd helped practically every family within miles, and finding anyone who didn't know and respect the man would've been almost impossible.
<br /><br />That however, was before he came home one fall day and found the letter from his wife.
<br /><br />"<i>I want a divorce</i>..." it began.
<br /><br />The typed, three-page missive went on to describe, in rambling, torturous detail, her dream of one day growing hemp in the Yukon, her recent obsession with body piercing, and her six-hour, tantric lovemaking sessions with world famous television podiatrist, Dr. Genevieve Copper-Carmichael, DPM. Doc read the whole thing in silence but it wasn't until the last line and its hastily scribbled <i>coup de grâce</i> that he broke down.
<br /><br />"<i>And for the record</i>," it declared, "<i>I hate your eyebrows</i>."
<br /><br />Needless to say, these revelations stunned the man, and as the divorce went on and the legal papers arrived in stacks, he began to change. He sold his television; a brooding, sunken frown replaced his pervasive smile; and his infectious laughter was reduced to a gloomy sigh. He turned into a maudlin recluse, and his once cheerful abode on Pequod Lane became a haven for rumor and speculation: some postulated Doc was depressed and suicidal, some declared he was having rambling monologs with his canary, and others claimed to have seen him in his front window, scowling at the flower beds his wife had tended for thirty-eight years. No one was absolutely sure, but it didn't take long for the whispers of dipsomania to begin, and the fickle townsfolk quickly declared that the once-respected physician was an alcoholic who spent more time at the liquor store than the clinic, more time drinking than spaying, more time stumbling across his 200-year-old hardwood floors than bandaging injured paws.
<br /><br />These whispers went on for months, then a year, and the vet didn't stir from his doldrums until the acrimonious divorce was finalized - suddenly appearing one morning with a warm grin and a sincere "Heyhowareya!" to everyone he met. He gossiped with passersby, joked with tourists, and even queried his neighbors about what was new at Argonauts' World of Wine. He seemed like the old Abraham Enderby, but while he chatted in the first breaths of autumn, he was also inspecting his neglected yard. Obviously distracted, one minute he'd be deep in conversation and the next he'd wander off in mid-sentence to his garage, returning first with a shovel, then a mattock, and finally a broad tarp. Once his homespun clichés were exhausted, Doc gathered his implements and deracinated his ex-wife's grove of always-flattened blossoms.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />There's something on Mayhew Lane and, turning the minivan's bow onto the snow-fanned thoroughfare, the rhythm of Doc's murderous chant quickens.
<br /><br />"Kingdom: <i>Animalia</i>," he mutters, saliva and mucus flying. "Phylum: <i>Chordata</i>. Clade: <i>Synapsida</i>. Class: <i>Mammalia</i>. Order -"
<br /><br />And then his breath stalls in a labored wheeze for there's definitely a figure of some sort moving, shuffling along the roadside.
<br /><br />The distant form hidden by convulsive gusts, its shape obscured by the beaded, white precipitation, the spittle-daubed chasseur can't tell exactly what it is. The horizon disappears and revolves, and in the tempest's frenzy, everything's become part of the same pale cascade. He narrows his eyes and there, breaking against the wind's fulminating vortex, a familiar, huddled outline takes shape beneath the collapsed Atlantic sky.
<br /><br />"Hey, Doc," Fire Chief De Deer yells as the hunter pulls up and lowers his window. "What're you doing out? Ever since your wife left, I thought you stopped doing house calls."
<br /><br />"Have ye seen -"
<br /><br />"I'm gonna catch hell for this," the chief breaks in, motioning to his becalmed truck, its front end smashed against a gnarled elm and haloed by a cloud of steaming antifreeze. "The guys are never gonna believe I had to swerve to -"
<br /><br />"Have ye seen a -"
<br /><br />"What's that you say, Doc?" De Deer asks, moving closer. "I can barely hear you. I hope you're not getting the flu or -"
<br /><br />"Allergies," Doc sputters.
<br /><br />"Allergies? You? Aw, you're pulling my leg. I didn't think you were allergic to anything. Fact, I still remember the time you..." The fire chief strokes his thick mustache and frowns. "Say, you sure it's an allergy and not a little too much port? Jesus, Doc, you could get into real trouble for that. 'Course, I should talk. Sheriff Boomer'll probably think <i>I'm</i> the one drinking tonight, 'specially when I explain how I hit this here elm 'cause of a big white something-or-other. I bet they'll make me pee in a cup like they did the last -"
<br /><br />Doc hisses. "A white something did ye say?"
<br /><br />"Yep. Animal of some sort. Don't know what kind. Whatever it was, it -"
<br /><br />"Did it have a tail? Was it bent like a -"
<br /><br />"A tail? Beats me. Hell, I barely had time to -"
<br /><br />"When was this?"
<br /><br />"Well, I'd come around the corner there and -"
<br /><br />"When!"
<br /><br />The chief leans forward. "I know things have been rough since your wife started getting her bunions checked by that other gal but maybe you shouldn't drink before you get behind -"
<br /><br />"When!"
<br /><br />"Okay, okay. Relax, Doc. It was a few minutes ago. Headed west from what I -"
<br /><br />Doc comes about, accelerating into the snow-pelted night-tides and showering the mustachioed fire captain with a wall of gray slush.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Unaware the plants by his front porch were no longer his to cut and hack, unaware of what was using them in the evening's vacant recesses, Doc's troubles became worse once he removed the diminutive, lavender flowers. Pointing to the empty space in his yard, the townsfolk of Nantucket soon grew annoyed at their vet: neighbors lambasted him about property values, the tourism board lectured him on "town spirit", and the Community Preservation Committee weekly sent him pamphlets on architectural coherence. They kept after him for days, and when the barren gap began to sprout weeds, the subtle hints turned into harassments: realtors called early Sunday mornings, landscapers choked his mailbox with flyers, and his neighbors stopped cleaning up when their dogs defecated on his walkway. Yet the eyesore remained, and it wasn't until his home began to undergo a nightly festooning of toilet paper that Doc finally planted six young juniper trees in the empty beds.
<br /><br />The half-dozen evergreens were wispy and barely three-feet high, but their lumpy forms accentuated his house's square frame. Their cylindrical needles were perfect contrasts to what had been his wife's trumpet-shaped flowers and, once grown, he was sure they'd become majestic and welcoming. He imagined them reaching high above his rooftop and one day becoming both a much-needed windbreak and a good screen against nosy neighbors.
<br /><br />But the plants never grew strong and tall, were never allowed to provide shelter from prying eyes. Stepping onto his porch the next morning, Doc faced a scene reminiscent of a typhoon's aftermath: mulch was scattered across the grass, clumps of damp soil peppered his sidewalks, and amber-colored splinters decorated his entire yard. His eyes unfocused in the turmoil of waking, he initially couldn't fathom exactly what had occurred, but then he leaned over the railing and witnessed the true scope of the massacre.
<br /><br />Not a juniper had been spared. Most were snapped in half with the bark peeled away and the trunks raked with deep, violent gouges. Needles were strewn from property line to property line and the trees stood forlorn and naked like a row of skeletal fence posts. Two of them were actually missing, wrenched out of their holes and hauled away as if something had risen from the sea and dragged them under Nantucket Sound's turbid waters.
<br /><br />Of course, the police blamed "hoodlum" kids, but Doc was positive it was his neighbors because a new round of harassments began soon afterward: the early-morning calls resumed, streams of toilet paper again wafted from his chimney, and members of both the Historic District Commission and Board of Selectmen began mentioning "eminent domain" whenever in earshot. He could feel the hostile eyes appraising him, and fortunately, by the time the Nantucket Tattler ran a photo of his house beneath a story on meth labs, Doc had replaced the frayed stumps.
<br /><br />Stouter, more mature, he set the root-balls of the six new junipers deep into the earth and encircled their scaly bark with a chicken wire palisade. And so, believing things were taken care of, the veterinarian tried to enjoy his life. He went to work. He visited friends, and he relaxed by observing his three tropical fish in their ninety-gallon aquarium. He could almost sense things were changing for the better but, pulling up to the curb a few weeks later, he saw the tattered screen of his open front window and heard the desperate chittering of his Belgian canary.
<br /><br />Instantly, he imagined his beloved pets in danger, and he scrambled through the front door, rushing past the now eviscerated sofa and its cloud of downy batting and ignoring the shattered pictures and knickknacks on the rugs. He didn't see the curtains torn brutally from the walls, nor the marred furniture, because he was consumed by thoughts of his tiny, innocent friends, those companions who were his to take care of and protect.
<br /><br />Breathless and panicked, he didn't even notice his precious oak floor, ruined by deep gashes crisscrossing its planks and a putrid film of urine spreading into the grooves carved into its centuries-old surface. The culprit had clearly spent hours scratching and micturating, and Doc only breathed again when he saw his canary's sunshine-yellow plumage flapping in its cage - an act he repeated when he saw his fish hiding in the back of their aquarium. And, after reaching out and touching the cool glass, he then examined his home. He moved from room to room, amazed, appalled, but it wasn't until he entered the kitchen that the true depths of the interloper's spite became clear.
<br /><br />There, set in the middle of the floor was the vandal's final insult, its snide calling card.
<br /><br />A spindly mound of feces.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />"Species... <i>Felis catus</i>," he concludes.
<br /><br />His flannel shirt drenched from the ever-present current of tears and spittle, he proceeds to run the five stoplights on Main Street, their glow flashing upon his swollen cheeks in kaleidoscopic blemishes until each one bleeds into his vision like a dying cinder.
<br /><br />"Kingdom: <i>Animalia</i>," he resumes, his hand stroking the cigar box's cardboard lid, the storm tearing through the open window at his shoulder. "Phylum: <i>Chordata</i>. Clade -"
<br /><br />In the distance, he thinks there's a figure hiding amid the southwesterly leaning trees, their branches sagging, leaf-leaden and blanketed in ice. He can't be certain however because indistinct forms choke the road ahead, and he peers and scans from within the pinched slits of his eyes for any movement.
<br /><br />Again, he sees it, and again, he accelerates - but, instead of surging forward in a violent pounce, the tires lose traction and the minivan broaches, spinning backward with one turn and sideways with the next. He steers into the skid, but the streetlamps and stoplights continue to twist, their luminance awash in a roseate blaze while Doc slides inexorably toward the Spouter's Inn.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />He mopped and disinfected the ravaged surfaces of his home, but the hours of defiant scrubbing did little to improve things for, a few days after the cleaning was done, he discovered a fresh hairball under his quilt.
<br /><br />How the creature was routinely fouling his sheets with its scurf and other vileness was a mystery to him, but at least he knew the reason for his eyes growing increasingly bloodshot with each towel's wipe. So, with snot drooling from his nose and the air passages in his lungs constricted, he began to fortify his homestead. Thin mesh window screens were replaced by ones of heavy wire, stands of prickly firethorn were set in front of the windows, and every tiny hole and moderate opening was sealed tight. Yet he wanted to ensure his safety behind his bulwarks so he sprayed his entire property with fox urine.
<br /><br />And then the terrible, banshee-like screeching began.
<br /><br />Appearing to rise from the very foundations of Doc's house and claw across Pequod Lane, the high-pitched, estrual howl nightly haunted the slumbering island in a witching hour serenade, bone chilling and painful-to-hear. Beginning with a restrained moan and growing until it sounded like the wail of an imprisoned child, by two a.m. it would climax to an unearthly shriek so disturbing that his neighbors believed some horrible, pedophilic atrocity was occurring deep within the walls of the Enderby sanctum.
<br /><br />"But it's the cat," the veterinary sniffled to the authorities.
<br /><br />"I don't doubt it's a cat, Doc," Sheriff Boomer replied. "It's just -"
<br /><br />The man paused at the stomach-churning yowl spewing into the Nantucket wind.
<br /><br />"See what I mean, sheriff? You should take a gander at my books! There was this discharge and I'm telling you, it wasn't urine. I don't know what it was -"
<br /><br />"Have you been drinking, Doc?" He shook his head. "Look, I know things have sucked since Una moved out but folks have been talking and let's face it; never have I heard an animal sound like <i>that</i>."
<br /><br />"Neither have I, but I saw how your men were looking at me. They -"
<br /><br />"Aw, that's from the smell in there, Doc. I don't know what you made for dinner -"
<br /><br />"But that's from the cat, too! I can't get rid of it! I've -"
<br /><br />"I'm sorry you're having a rough time," Boomer cut in, rubbing his eyes. "I've called Animal Control and they said they'd come out tomorrow. Again, I'm sorry for the mess. Now, I have to get outta here before my head explodes. I swear my cat allergy's getting as bad as yours."
<br /><br />"But that's just it," Doc mewled. "I'm not allergic to cats!"
<br /><br />The next morning, Animal Control appeared; they followed the wide paw prints circling his property, chuckled at the chicken wire and swore to return with traps but never did. Once again, Doc was abandoned and he waited in dread, knowing those maliciously drawn-out squeals would continue the moment the sun fell. He couldn't rest, couldn't read, couldn't even listen to his favorite symphonies on his antique radio. He turned on every light, thinking it would scare the animal off. He used up the remaining fox urine and eventually, he set out cans of mothballs. Nothing worked; and so, recalling the feline hatred of bathing, the frazzled vet bought four motion-activated water sprinklers.
<br /><br />If he couldn't force it away, he reasoned, he'd soak it away.
<br /><br />But coming home the next afternoon, he was faced with yet another scene of overwhelming destruction: sprinkler fragments were everywhere, the shredded remains of his hose - water still pumping through it - littered his ex-wife's flowerbeds and his juniper trees stood tilted and floating in a pool of muddy soil. Their needles already starting to droop, it was obvious they wouldn't survive and, too tired to stop the tears, Doc let out a heartbroken sob.
<br /><br />Then he realized the true horror lay just ahead.
<br /><br />For the beast had somehow again gotten inside his now silent home.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />"I say, Doc! Are you hurt?"
<br /><br />The bumper inches from the Spouter's Inn, the windshield cracked from the fire poker's impact, the hunter stares out, his vision smeared by an ocean of contorted blobs, a salty bouillon of tears, and snot dribbling into his lap.
<br /><br />"Doc!" Selectman Gardiner yells. "Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"
<br /><br />The bar's COLD BEER sign lighting his swollen face, the old man coughs. "Have ye -"
<br /><br />"Jesus, I was sure you were done for."
<br /><br />"Have ye seen a white -"
<br /><br />"From how fast you were going, I was sure the Spouter's was done for. 'Course, if any place deserves to go, it's the Spouter's. Fact, I was thinking about that exact thing right before you came barreling toward me. Yep, I'd decided to buy a new television, because the town hall just got one for the latest discussions on eminent domain when -"
<br /><br />"Have ye seen a white cat -"
<br /><br />"Oh, yeah, speaking of TV. I finally got a gander at your wife's girlfriend. What a looker. I have to say this about your ex: she sure has good taste when it comes to lesbians."
<br /><br />"Have ye seen a white cat? Its -"
<br /><br />"What's that you want, Doc? A cat? Aw, don't tell me Mrs. Hussey forgot to bring in Jasper. I swear, she spends more time chasing -"
<br /><br />"Have ye seen a white cat? Its tail -"
<br /><br />"Mrs. Hussey doesn't have a white cat, Doc. It's a calico with brown -"
<br /><br />"Have ye seen a white cat?" Doc repeats. "Its tail bent and twisted?"
<br /><br />"Yep, it's definitely a calico. I know because it's always watching me from Mrs. Hussey's upstairs window, acting like it's better than me. Thinking it -"
<br /><br />"Oh, the devil take Mrs. Hussey's cat! It's the white -"
<br /><br />"Have you been drinking again, Doc?" the politician asks with a critical lift of his brows. "I mean, ever since you tore out your wife's catmint, the whole town's been talking. 'Course, I can't imagine what it must be like to have your wife leave <i>you</i>, a respected <i>healer</i>, for a podiatrist. Plus, with the way your property's -"
<br /><br />"Have ye seen a white cat!"
<br /><br />"I just told you Mrs. Hussey doesn't have a white cat, Doc. It's a calico with..." The selectman rubs his chin. "Did you say something was wrong with your cat's tail?"
<br /><br />The huntsman sneers. "Yes, it's twisted, bent and turned like a broken mast."
<br /><br />"Hmmm. Now that you mention it, right before you showed up, I did see a cat with a funny tail - don't know if I'd describe it like a mast. For a second, I thought it was Mrs. -"
<br /><br />"Was it pearl-white, like an eggshell on new-fallen snow?"
<br /><br />"Don't know about that. But it was definitely white and must've weighed a good thirty pounds. I'd guess it's a Maine Coon cat - though I've never seen one that big in my -"
<br /><br />"Where was it running to?"
<br /><br />"I didn't say it was running anywhere. I said it -"
<br /><br />"Where!"
<br /><br />Gardiner nods westward. "Toward Millbrook, I think. Probably headed to the ponds. That's where Mrs. Hussey's cat likes to -"
<br /><br />Doc slams the accelerator and heads toward Madaket Road, skidding and swaying and blindly ignoring the traffic lights dancing in the surging gale. Winn Street and Dukes Road soar past in a wake vindictive and unceasing while his bloody digits clench and unclench the fire poker's handle. His vision smeared with mucus, the entrance of Crooked Lane blurs. Maxie Pond Road fades in the engine's hum and the dried blood on his fingers cracks when he turns onto Millbrook Road. The path ahead is but a tunnel before him, and in the growing storm he almost misses the figure standing practically invisible, its ghostly, achromatic coat standing out against the darkened sky, its head turned toward him in the savage wind.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />His home was filled with an excruciating sense of barren desolation, and within a few steps, Doc had come face-to-maw with the insidious trespasser. For there, just past the foyer, the albino leviathan stood, its yellow eyes glowing banefully, its left nostril split from some nameless clash years before, its tail hanging like a demon's barb.
<br /><br />"Okay," he whispered with a careful tread forward. "Take it easy now."
<br /><br />He'd already noticed the empty birdcage on the ground but it was the squish of his loafers that caused him to stop, to glance at the fragmentary remnants of his fish tank. Its metal frame lay in bent, twisted pieces, fluorescent substrate and glass shards extended over most of the room, but there was no sound, no echo of flopping, no rattle of a struggle to survive amid the wreckage. It was an ominous, unearthly silence; and then, poised above the coves of water oozing toward his basement stairs, he saw the carcass of his Angelfish skewered upon a finger of broken coral.
<br /><br />Doc scowled at the cat, and in response the animal hissed, its matted fur dripping, its body pulsing slowly up and down. Staring malevolently, it was almost as if the beast were waiting for the old man and, moving closer, the veterinary finally understood the animal's odd, rhythmic dance.
<br /><br />Pinned to the floor, his Corydoras gasped helplessly beneath the cat's paw, its visible eye bulging at each downward press. It seemed to be looking at its master with an accusatorial grimace of hopeless disgust, but before the white-furred monster could be driven off, the animal shifted, flattening the fish's ribs like a crab cake and forcing a tiny spurt of water from its lips.
<br /><br />Whimpering, Doc grabbed a fire poker and moved in. He swung and swung in blind, reckless attacks, and at every strike, the feline moved out of reach, leaping away and spitting in fearless defiance. They clashed in the living room where Doc splintered his vintage console radio. They fought in the dining room where chairs and tables crumbled; and they met in the kitchen where dishes were smashed and light fixtures exploded. The conflict went on and on, with the poker either assailing empty air or dispatching another part of the home to ruin.
<br /><br />A few times, the feral intruder even raked Doc's hand, peeling open his skin and causing dribbles of warm blood to cover his fingers, but the aweary vet continued his campaign. For the better part of ten minutes, the battle raged, and by the time the poker slipped from his bloody hand and shattered his front window, the old man knew he was beaten. He collapsed to his knees and, exhausted and sweating, watched the ivory-furred butcher prance onto the sill and disappear.
<br /><br />Hunched before the wreckage of his cracked shelves, demolished furniture and fractured doorjambs, Doc rolled into a fetal ball. He was trying to gather the strength to weep, but before any sob could overcome his rasps, he discovered a lone sunshine-yellow wing and the remains of a flensed Gold Gourami beneath the couch, their viscera mixed together in a smear of plumage, fins and gills. His temples then began to pound and, struggling to his feet, he raised his fist and screamed a pitiless oath into the looming clouds just as his waterlogged junipers toppled into a sea of mud.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Doc yells an unintelligible malediction and hits the accelerator, but the animal moves quickly into the winter's shadows. It blends into the landscape, and for a second his prey is lost from sight; he pounds the steering wheel. His hate-filled glare probes the horizon, still searching, still hunting, and he's heading toward Hummock Pond when the minivan fishtails on the icy gravel. He turns, and the undercarriage is pelted with smooth, round pebbles, but then he sees his foe. It's standing dead ahead, relaxed, impassive and frozen in mid-step.
<br /><br />"Towards thee I roll!" he howls, moving the poker to his lap while the minivan charges toward the animal, its body hunched, its spiteful eyes cold and unafraid, its narrow canines glistening.
<br /><br />Suddenly, he notices the black expanse behind the creature, and he understands why it stopped - it's the northern head of the pond. He jams both feet into the brake pedal. His tires slide upon the frictionless gravel, the edge jumps toward him, and the last thing Doc sees before the minivan topples into the deep pool is the cat's broken tail and the clinched pucker of its anus vanishing into the darkness.
<br /><br />The windshield shatters, air bags detonate, and the minivan's tires spin in the glow of its drowning headlights. Freezing water rushes over the dashboard to engulf his feet and legs, and when the numbing deluge makes him gasp, he looks down and sees the fire poker jutting from his chest. It's pinned him to the seat, and gaping at the worn, crimson-spattered handle inches from his rib cage, he knows it's gone completely through. He can feel the cold of its metal inside him, but when he tries to remove it, a jolt of pain sweeps across his body. The taste of blood pollutes the salty flavor of snot in his mouth, the throb of his heartbeat roars in his ears, and he begins to strain and writhe. He shouts and blasphemes, and with the frigid water caressing his jaw, he struggles until the cigar box lists past him, just out of reach. Filled with a canary's wing and the remains of three mutilated fish, it slowly glides out the window and, watching the improvised coffin bob into the briny pond, Doctor Abraham Enderby sneers.
<br /><br />"Kingdom: <i>Animalia</i>," he gurgles. "Phylum: <i>Chordata</i>. Clade..." Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-7362971626102547362024-03-04T08:00:00.003+00:002024-03-04T08:00:00.243+00:00Too Much Knowledge by Gary Ives<i>An anatomy student recalls being thrilled and traumatised by an extremely intimate encounter.
</i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGWwn0kRgbHAnLknOp0YtliIpg0fPZ_iLrYJZ-n2kCQCN5JfVjw-9DP0CH0R-Gp6MMkB0ZKEX_DkU2VZuYsGEQrMLP7uztV7oI7021kfduexN4m-Kbtkr0tlZPAlsqSIq_RsbaAWYvmmm_us-Pgy-Fay5kcw7UUPlhzyOCs9IOs1AgW5mpQbtJRMjftI/s500/Too%20Much%20Knowledge%20by%20Gary%20Ives.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGWwn0kRgbHAnLknOp0YtliIpg0fPZ_iLrYJZ-n2kCQCN5JfVjw-9DP0CH0R-Gp6MMkB0ZKEX_DkU2VZuYsGEQrMLP7uztV7oI7021kfduexN4m-Kbtkr0tlZPAlsqSIq_RsbaAWYvmmm_us-Pgy-Fay5kcw7UUPlhzyOCs9IOs1AgW5mpQbtJRMjftI/s320/Too%20Much%20Knowledge%20by%20Gary%20Ives.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Fifty years ago, and still I think about Him; the Him whose real name I will never know, but the Him with whom I became more intimate than with any other man. Ever.
<br /><br />Anatomy class met twice weekly. Our class of 40 shared ten cadavers, each assigned to four students. Erla Johanssen, twins Sven and Bridget Thorkelsson, and I were introduced to Him on a rain and sleet-blown winter morning. Always conscious of my size, at 160 centimeters and 40 kilos I was by far the smallest person in the class, and probably the shyest, but not timid.
<br /><br />The anatomy lab, kept at a temperature of 15 degrees, seemed all the colder for the sleet slapping against the high windows. The room was large enough for a slight echo and we were hit with the odor of formaldehyde and rubber. From a little glass-enclosed office appeared a short balding man of at least 60 years, a neatly trimmed beard, rimless glasses; a serious man. Did the stoop come from decades of leaning over cadavers? Dr. Lustig was a legend. His assistant, whom we later called Igor, issued lab coats, safety glasses, gloves, and dissection kits. "Arrange yourselves in groups of four and find a table, please."
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Under operating lamps, ten tables - each about three meters long by one meter - filled the room, and atop each table a cadaver covered by a grey rubberized sheet. First, a safety lecture emphasizing the importance of avoiding punctures and cuts, then rules for the care and cleaning of our materials, classroom procedures, and what to do when one had to vomit.
<br /><br />"You will go to your assigned tables, please." Once there, Dr. Lustig's voice softened and lowered. "These cadavers before you were once active human beings who, like you, experienced the myriad of human experiences and emotions: work, play, love, laughter and pain. Many have donated their remains specifically to benefit your medical education. As the direct beneficiary, you will be the steward to assure this is done properly, respectfully, and with dignity. Later, as you become familiar, you shall resist taking your specimen for granted. In this room, resist making jokes; in that respect consider this anatomy laboratory as you might consider a hospital, church, or funeral home. And you will never remove from the laboratory any souvenir. Such will be considered grounds for immediate and permanent suspension from the university. If you have questions, hold them until I visit your table. Now, remove the cover."
<br /><br />Before us lay supine a once tall male, nearly two meters long and the color of ashes-tinged brown, shorn of all body hair, a numbered tag attached to the great toe of his right foot. Each of us gasped. This was the only naked man I had ever seen in the flesh. "Each of you is to touch your subject, feel the musculature, heft the limbs, feel the facial features. Any revulsion or strangeness you might feel, I assure you, will soon vanish. When you've had ample exploration, please cover your subject. On Tuesday we will begin with study of arms."
<br /><br />Some of us met at the school's coffee bar, chatting about the experience, all respectful and affected by the experience. Erla said that the touching creeped her out, even though she knew what lay ahead. Lars said he was astonished that our guy was not old. He had heard that the cadavers were generally older people. "Our man looks like he could have been in his 40s or 50s." Sven suggested we call our man Adam, as he was to be a number one for each of us. I had little to say, wanting to hide my naivety.
<br /><br />Most of us held it together those first days, until we cut into the belly. Two buckets were placed beneath each table, one for detritus from the cadaver, the other to catch vomit. All detritus was saved and deposited in a wall locker with each individual's toe tag number. At the completion of the course, remains would be individually cremated, and the remains returned to family. The remains would be honored at a ceremony attended by all of us.
<br /><br />Oh, how we came to know our Adam. On that first lesson, we were all intrigued by Adam's right arm anchor tattoo. Adam became our sailor. Since Adam was so tall, we guessed that he was a Nordic mariner, perhaps a fisherman; Norwegian, Swede, Icelander? Later, dissecting his lungs, we learned that death had come by drowning, which for us confirmed our speculation.
<br /><br />I was 20 years old and had never been with a man. While I could conjure images of Adam at the wheel of a ship, hauling in nets, leaving his ship with a seabag over his shoulders, I could not conceive of him engaged in lovemaking. I fixated on Adam's 17.5-centimeter-long penis. Other than pictures in books and statuary, the only penis I had ever seen was a glimpse of my 15-year-old brother masturbating under the shower. A prick is not a pleasing image. Not for me. Imagining the weight of this large man upon my small body, thrusting a huge, ugly cock into me, utterly repels me still. This, however, did not turn me against Adam; I truly appreciated his contribution to science. In fact, I have taken the necessary steps for my remains to go the university's anatomical lab.
<br /><br />As beneficial as anatomical studies were, indeed, all of med school, the intense detail of what I learned poisoned me against intimate relations. This began with the cadaver, Adam. For this I specialized in radiology, medicine with only limited patient contact. Still, with patients, and more so with strangers, I so often conjure images of their internal and external organs: brains, esophagus, livers, kidneys, lungs, hearts, breasts, uteri, penises, scrotums, <i>et al</i>. My mind's eye imagines in detail organs even though I do not want to. Once at a café in Oslo a tall German tourist rose from his table, approached, and accused me of staring at his crotch. Yes, I was imagining reproductive organs.
<br /><br />When at last my remains lay on a dissecting table, and are uncovered, students will be presented with a virgin.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-23534614889787791442024-03-01T08:00:00.009+00:002024-03-01T08:00:00.157+00:00Angeleno by Frank Richards<i>When postal workers go on strike, Delmore gets a chance at a promotion, but is that as far as his ambition extends?</i>
<br /><br /><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ8mkzR7Za11gCiFsxvAJkY16qNtbUPbyd5poHSLjR9VLg6liAr3F0iz3Vm8refiSMYoOBXL4iItTxqEXfgLE9vXB7G7FbCmh9Jkgr60LNRGpuejGVRdfC6yAufoBFGwnEy_Dn82fmKWCyDX61x-FOeh-woGJPAelYgYYDDQkmOc7xIjjuQeLhtjvgdE8/s500/Angeleno%20by%20Frank%20Richards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ8mkzR7Za11gCiFsxvAJkY16qNtbUPbyd5poHSLjR9VLg6liAr3F0iz3Vm8refiSMYoOBXL4iItTxqEXfgLE9vXB7G7FbCmh9Jkgr60LNRGpuejGVRdfC6yAufoBFGwnEy_Dn82fmKWCyDX61x-FOeh-woGJPAelYgYYDDQkmOc7xIjjuQeLhtjvgdE8/s320/Angeleno%20by%20Frank%20Richards.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>1. The City Primary</b>
<br /><br />I finished counting the parcels on the second floor of the Los Angeles Terminal Annex and then headed to the Pony Express cafeteria to grab a quick coffee. I took a shortcut through the rows of city primary letter distribution cases, mail-sorting shelving units aligned perpendicular to the wall in strict formation, not one out of line. It was that sort of place. Even after working here for seven years, I had the feeling I didn't quite fit in.
<br /><br />Quiet boredom hung in the post office air like the paper dust from the millions of letters that passed through this huge, multistoried building every day of every week of every year since it opened twenty-nine years ago. No doubt the dust of 1940 letters still floated here, ghostlike; time lingers in such places.
<br /><br />Terminal Annex squatted next to Union Station, a few blocks from downtown, and it moved to a beat of its own. If downtown was the geographic center of Los Angeles, the Terminal Annex was its hidden heart. Every day millions of pieces of sorted mail flowed out of the building into trucks that traveled along major and minor roadway arteries to local post offices and stations. The mail was further distributed by letter carriers who then drove it out for delivery to millions of addresses. Valentines, bills, international letters, Christmas cards, "Free" mail, letters home from soldiers in Vietnam, Social Security and welfare checks, love letters, medicine, newspapers, business reply mail, the catalogues of commerce and industry; it all flowed through the Terminal Annex to customer addresses in the city. Later those same carriers, collectors, and businesses picked up mail sent from those addresses and carried it back, coursing in reverse along those same veins to the Terminal Annex to repeat the city's heartbeat in a story that never ended.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>I glanced up at the Pony Express mural painted over the cafeteria entrance, one of those old WPA paintings you sometimes see in post offices. I was once told they gave unemployed artists work like painting murals in post offices during the Great Depression.
<br /><br />Hank the Poet leaned on a rest bar at one of the primary cases, throwing junk. A rest bar is a half stool with footrest; a distribution clerk could half stand, half lean against it while sorting letters. It was also reputed to be a sure prescription for major back problems later in life. Junk was advertising mail, third-class mail letters sorted after all the first class had left the building.
<br /><br />Hank's dark hair was slicked back from his pockmarked, bearded face. He wore a wrinkled, green-and-black-striped, short-sleeved shirt, and faded blue jeans. An unlit cigarillo dangled from his lips. I used to work with Hank on Tour 3, the swing shift, and later on, Tour 1, the graveyard shift. We called work shifts "tours" for some reason. I thought about the times Hank was slightly inebriated and I covered for him. I thought about our trips to the track. I thought about the bets we placed, the races we sometimes won, the races I often lost. In other words, we were friends.
<br /><br />Hank turned at my approach. He pointed at my tie. "Looks like you joined the scumbags, Delmore." His cigarillo bobbed up and down with each syllable.
<br /><br />"What are you doing here so late?" I asked. It was morning, an hour past the end of the tour.
<br /><br />"Luck stalled. I need the overtime."
<br /><br />"The track?"
<br /><br />"Temporary." He examined me closely. "When's the last time you slept?"
<br /><br />I had been working since yesterday morning and said so.
<br /><br />"You look like shit." He turned back to his case.
<br /><br />The city primary distribution case had forty-nine square letter separations to the front and another twenty-eight on an attached wing. Each grid separation was labeled with a Los Angeles ZIP code. Hank showed some skill at sorting city primary mail; he kept a fast and steady pace with no wasted movement. His left hand picked up a handful of letters from the gray, plastic tray on the ledge in front of him and held it up so he could read the addresses. He pushed the top letter up with his thumb, took it into his right hand, and tossed it into one of the case's seventy-seven cubicles. It hit the metal back of the case with a soft <i>thunk</i> sound. He did the same with the next letter. Then the next. The next.
<br /><br />Hank had a name for each destination zone as he flipped the envelopes: "Downtown bums on skid row." <i>Thunk</i>. "Baseball players." <i>Thunk</i>. "Library rats." <i>Thunk</i>. "Surfers and hodads." <i>Thunk</i>. "Westside college brats." <i>Thunk</i>. "Movie stars on casting couches." <i>Thunk</i>. "Mastodons and Jewish delis." <i>Thunk</i>. "Bars and whores." <i>Thunk</i>. "Skinny cops and chubby bureaucrats." <i>Thunk</i>. "Hippies and flower children." <i>Thunk</i>. "Rich assholes sitting around swimming pools." <i>Thunk</i>. "Angelenos." He shook his head. And then he intoned: "This is the city. Is it the queen of angels?" He waved a letter around. "Or lord of the flies?"
<br /><br />Hank paused, picked up a metal clip-on ashtray and slipped it onto an empty separation. He lit the cigarillo with a Zippo lighter, which he snapped closed with a clank and slipped into his shirt pocket. Then he turned his head toward me, exhaling words in smoke.
<br /><br />"What are <i>you</i> doing here?"
<br /><br />"Counting leftover parcels."
<br /><br />"In God's name, why?"
<br /><br />"I have to report on the effect of the UPS strike."
<br /><br />He reached down to the tray for another handful of mail. "Dumbest thing I've heard today."
<br /><br />"I wrote part of the contingency plan for the strike." No one really thought a strike would happen. Then it did. If I performed well, I might get promoted. It'd mean more money.
<br /><br />"Good for you." He shook his head. "It's a dangerous thing to wear a tie around here, Del. You should know that. Acting supervisor means you are in between. Not union. Not management. Stuck in the middle. When the shit hits the fan, everyone will blame you. You will run with the hunted.
<br /><br />"Remember Larry Julius?" He displayed the ring knife on his middle finger. These were used for cutting the strings used to bind up bundles of third-class mail.
<br /><br />Back when we'd both worked together in the mailing division on Tour 3, Larry Julius had been an acting supervisor. Larry trained the groups of newly hired distribution clerks who came in every week. One day he fired up a model "G" letter-canceling machine to show the new people how mail gets canceled.
<br /><br />"Folks," Larry said. Larry, skinny body all angles like a 1960s version of Ichabod Crane, always called new people "folks" so he wouldn't have to remember the names of people who probably wouldn't be there the following pay period anyway. "This is how we postmark first-class letters. After they are all faced one way in the tray, we cancel them like this."
<br /><br />Larry leaned down to guide the faced letters through the machine, but his dangling tie got caught and canceled, along with the letters, and then began winding around the dating spindle, pulling Larry's head down into the craw of the machine.
<br /><br />Larry bent over the canceling machine, clawing at his tie, squawking in terror.
<br /><br />Hank had managed to cut the tie off with the ring knife he was wearing, freeing Larry from certain strangulation.
<br /><br />"You saved Larry's life."
<br /><br />"Yeah, but after that he always had that squeaky wheeze in his voice. You remember?"
<br /><br />After what he'd done for Larry, the supervisors had given Hank a lot of leeway. Nobody hassled him for drinking before work so long as he did his work quickly and accurately.
<br /><br />"Get the hell out, I say. Just like this place. All these letters; messages in transit. It suspends life and you get stuck here. It's liminal, Del. Day after day the same routines, the same millions of letters coming in, the same millions of letters going out. There's always another tide of mail and never any progress to be had. I'm going to win enough of a stake to get myself out so I can enjoy the finer things."
<br /><br />"Such as?"
<br /><br />"Writing. Booze. Women." He looked over at me and laughed. "Not necessarily in that order. Can't do any of that here. Can't make any money writing poems either." He took a drag on his cigarillo.
<br /><br />"You know, I've been thinking about writing a novel. Maybe I'll write about this place." He laughed again, this time quietly, almost to himself. "What about you? When you gonna start writing again?"
<br /><br />"What would I write about?" I'd shown a couple of my army stories to Hank soon after we'd met, and Hank encouraged me to write more. "Nothing ever happens here."
<br /><br />"You oughta get outta here, Del. You don't want to wind up one of the lifers, do you?"
<br /><br />A few people liked the job security and stayed, but most left the post office soon after they started because of the monotony of the job. Management would bring in a dozen every other week for Larry to train, and after another week or two, maybe one person would be left. The rest all quit. Only the oddballs remained.
<br /><br />Oddballs like Henrietta Larson, who'd come in a couple years back; Henrietta Larson, the thin, bleached blonde who slipped and broke her arm racing downstairs to get a prime seat in the mailing division so she wouldn't have to sit next to Sharon Pauley.
<br /><br />Sharon, a flirty, buxom brunette, had allegedly stolen Henrietta's husband in an office romance. This left Henrietta brokenhearted. Sometimes it was usually the only thing she would talk about if you were unfortunate enough to sit next to her at an adjoining distribution case.
<br /><br />I thought of Joe Garibaldi, a gray-haired military retiree who'd gone to work for the post office so he could "double dip" - retire again from the post office and gain a second government pension on top of his military benefits - only to keel over one night last Christmas season and die prematurely from a heart attack.
<br /><br />Another oddball, "Ace" Newkirk, was, I thought, a veteran air force hero during World War II, until someone told me the reason he was called "Ace"; he'd gotten drunk one night and driven out on Cheli airfield and crashed into a row of P-51 fighter planes, one after the other.
<br /><br />Then there was Hans Altmann, a closet Nazi who liked to dress up in World War II regalia and who was rumored to go to strange meetings every Tuesday night at the local beer hall. Hans always sat next to James "Rick" O'Shay, a youngish-looking man who liked to talk about the model train layout he was building in the living room of his apartment.
<br /><br />Each of them was the same in their differences. Each thought they'd only work here a year or so, before moving on to more substantial jobs, yet each remained. The oddballs washed up with the tides of mail like the useless debris that washed up over on Long Beach.
<br /><br />"I'm going for coffee. Want me to bring you one?"
<br /><br />"Nah. Listen, Del. I'm serious. You start chasing that thing," Hank pointed to my tie again, "you'll spend the rest of your life here in limbo. <i>Counting parcels</i>." He pronounced the last bit slowly, for emphasis.
<br /><br />"Gotta make a living, Hank. I'm not good at the track like you are." I knew I wasn't going to be like one of the oddballs.
<br /><br />He sighed and changed the subject. "Where to today?"
<br /><br />"I'm meeting Jack Yamashita for my report and then we're heading over to Cheli."
<br /><br />"I thought they shut that place down."
<br /><br />"We're reopening Cheli to handle the parcel overflow from the strike. We can still move a lot of parcels using the old setup. We mothballed all the parcel slides, sack racks, and conveyors there. I'm going over to set things up."
<br /><br />Hank shook his head and then turned his attention to the mail in his hand. He started sorting again. "You oughta call me. Or just walk on over when you get done. I've still got your typewriter." I had an apartment on North Harvard; Hank lived a couple of blocks south on De Longpre. "I don't need it now. I redeemed my old typer from hock. You could take yours back. Start writing again. What about that Korea story you told me?"
<br /><br />"Yeah," I said but I knew I wouldn't.
<br /><br />I headed over to the cafeteria for coffee. I picked up a beige, plastic tray from a stack and selected silverware. I might as well order breakfast, I thought. I picked up a menu before I slid the tray along the metal tray line. The menu cover reproduced an old Pony Express recruitment poster. "Wanted," it read in bold print. "Young, Skinny, Wiry Fellows. Must Be Expert Riders. Willing to Risk Death Daily. Orphans Preferred."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>2. Cheli Terminal</b>
<br /><br />Jack picked me up at the bus stop outside the Terminal Annex, and we took Alameda to Sunset Boulevard, then made a quick right onto Mission. This merged with the 101 Freeway south, which became the I 5 South, the Santa Ana Freeway, the main artery to Orange County, Disneyland, and San Diego beyond that.
<br /><br />We intended to get started on the setup before noon. But the city had other plans. Traffic clotted, backing up and slowing to a crawl.
<br /><br />"Must be an accident up ahead," Jack said in recognition of the obvious. He drove a black Lincoln Continental and kept it in spotless condition. A Nisei, he'd been sent with his parents to an internment camp someplace in Wyoming called Heart Mountain during World War II. He was one of those people who always seemed to be at work; he never used his vacation time for fear of missing out on something vitally important. Being a prisoner early in life had affected him to the point that he managed to feel insecure in one of the world's most secure jobs.
<br /><br />I rolled down the window. An ugly gray haze of smog shrouded the sky. My eyes itched and stung. I felt groggy from lack of sleep. I realized Jack had been talking.
<br /><br />Jack was saying I had to get Cheli set up by this evening at the latest. "Personnel already hired one hundred fifty casual employees for distribution. They're processing them today, Saturday. They'll be reporting Monday afternoon. Gotta be set up and ready to go."
<br /><br />We took the Eastern Avenue freeway exit. When we turned right onto Bandini Boulevard, Jack pushed a cartridge into the eight track, which began belting out Steppenwolf's "Magic Carpet Ride." "I love this song." Jack sang the lyrics and tapped out the beat on his steering wheel.
<br /><br />We drove into a vast, empty asphalt parking lot, populated here and there with tumbleweeds. "In a couple of days, this yard will be filled with vans and trailers," Jack said.
<br /><br />Cheli Truck Terminal was a long, warehouse-like building with a flat roof, laid out north to south on government property that had been an air base during the war. The Postal Service had used the building to sort most of the Los Angeles outgoing and incoming parcels until a little over a year ago, when they opened a new, more modern building about a half mile away.
<br /><br />The east side of the building was entirely loading dock, a series of open bays with extendable conveyors inside. "I'll drop you here," Jack said. He'd been unexpectedly called back to the district office, leaving me to do the entire Cheli setup by myself. "I had hampers and flats of empty parcel sacks sent over earlier. Make sure all the extendables are working." Jack backed into the first truck stall near the entrance steps in the middle of the building. "Do you want me to pick you up later?"
<br /><br />I got out of the car, hefting the crate of labels I'd brought with me. "No, I'll call my girlfriend for a ride when I'm finished." Lisa was used to my working odd hours. I had thought to get the phone lines turned back on the prior day, Friday.
<br /><br />I trotted up the steps and into the darkness. Inside it seemed like the postal facility of old. But what used to be a chaos of sound - clattering conveyor belts, mail handlers pushing nutting trucks around, forklifts zipping to the dock and back - was dead silent.
<br /><br />Light coming from the open dock doors partially illuminated the interior of the building, tracing stark, skeletal lines of light and shadow, ghosting the equipment onto the rear wall. Everything inside was covered in a layer of fine dust. Dust motes even danced in the channels of light. The corners were uniformly dark.
<br /><br />I found the main light switch and waited as old neon hesitated and flickered to life across the building. About half the lights stayed dark. Burnt out. They'd need replacement. Maybe the whole place needed re-lamping. I made a note.
<br /><br />I set the crate of labels on a supervisor's standup desk and looked for the first set of racks. They were shoved together in a corner jumble. I pulled them out one by one and arranged them properly around the first parcel slide. I had enough racks to hang sacks for all the states. I found a box of rubber bands in the drawer of the supervisor's desk. I used the bands to attach the states' labels alphabetically to each sack position on the racks. I hung a sack for each state. This would be a simple sorting scheme. I continued arranging racks and hanging sacks well into the late afternoon.
<br /><br />When I'd finished setting up the "States" and "California" racks, I headed back to the desk for more rubber bands and another set of label runs, this set for Los Angeles ZIP codes. I remembered Hank and his Angeleno mantra. I knew he'd written hundreds of poems. I wondered what he might write a novel about.
<br /><br />One evening last spring I'd sat next to Henrietta Larson sorting outgoing mail. When I told her about my plan to be a writer when I left the post office, her face lit up. She surprised me by saying she'd had the same idea herself.
<br /><br />"When the divorce happened, I decided to become the writer I'd always thought I would be," she said. "I'd thought about it for years, the room I'd have, how I'd decorate it. You know, to bring on the muse to inspire me. So, I built my own <i>scriptorium</i>."
<br /><br />I must have looked puzzled.
<br /><br />She laughed. "A room of my own, just for writing. I'd dreamed about it for such a long time. I knew exactly what it would look like. I cleared out the spare bedroom and painted the walls celadon, you know, a light green color, to promote creativity. I bought a couple of white metal sawhorses and an unfinished wooden door. I sanded down and stained the door to use as a desktop on the sawhorses. Then I added a bookcase and a file cabinet. I bought a box of office supplies, you know, pens and notebooks and typing paper. I was going to do it." She stepped off her rest bar and exchanged the tray she'd emptied for a full one off the A-frame of unsorted mail behind us, and then she sat back down, picked up a handful of mail, and began to sort it into the distribution case.
<br /><br />"The next day I got off work and hurried home to write. I put a sheet of paper in the machine and thought about where to start. I remember typing a few lines and x-ing one out."
<br /><br />"Then what happened?"
<br /><br />"I must have dozed off. When I woke up, it was time to get ready to go back to work." She shook her head and smiled wryly. "I kept at it for the week, typing up a paragraph or so every day, but you know, I just stopped one day. I couldn't seem to get into the flow. I told myself it was temporary, that I'd get back to it on my days off, but then Christmas came, and we were working eleven and a half hours every day with no days off, and I was exhausted. You know how it is."
<br /><br />I nodded.
<br /><br />"I was going to start again when my vacation rolled around, but then Mama died and there was the funeral and all. Well, you know, I never did go back to it. I don't know why. Maybe it was a sort of rebound relationship."
<br /><br />"What do you mean?"
<br /><br />"You know how, when you break up with someone, you get these plans to change yourself. Ideas for a new you. Maybe that was me, then. But as things settled back to normal, the idea just faded away." She reached down for another handful of mail from the tray. "I've still got the sawhorses and the door. You can have them if you want."
<br /><br />I never took her up on her offer.
<br /><br />As I walked toward the north end of the building, I spotted a small, neat pile of gray-and-white pigeon feathers in the aisle next to one of the conveyors. I hadn't seen any pigeons. I looked up, but there were none roosting in the rafters. I spread the feathers around with my foot. Odd.
<br /><br />I pulled the fourth set of racks out of another corner and brushed away cobwebs with my hand. I heard a sound and turned to see a shaggy, grayish-colored little dog, some sort of terrier I supposed, standing frozen in the middle of the aisle. That explained the pigeon feathers.
<br /><br />Maybe I'd frightened it.
<br /><br />I didn't see a collar. Its fur seemed all tangled up. Probably abandoned here by its owners. I thought I would call animal control to pick it up and find it a new home. "Here, boy," I said, because he was a boy, and then I walked over to pet him.
<br /><br />His ears dropped and he uttered a low growl.
<br /><br />It was my turn to freeze.
<br /><br />The dog backed away, never taking his eyes off me. Then he turned and ran, disappearing behind the nearest parcel slide.
<br /><br />I shrugged. I could call animal control to come for him after I finished.
<br /><br />Then I remembered I was supposed to check the extendable conveyors to make sure they all functioned. I went out to the dock and the nearest conveyor. I pushed the green "start" button, but nothing happened. I looked up to see that the conveyor was disconnected from the power cord that dangled overhead. A metal ladder dropped from the ceiling alongside the cord. If I stood on the conveyor, I would be able to reach the ladder and power cord. I pulled myself up onto the conveyor and then I scrambled up the ladder.
<br /><br />As I connected the cord, I noticed the terrier had returned. This time he was not alone. A brown-and-tan German shepherd padded alongside the terrier down the aisle toward me. One of the shepherd's ears was bent over. Under fur, bones outlined the middle of his body.
<br /><br />Behind the shepherd was an elderly black-and-tan Rottweiler. His muzzle was graying. He walked toward the others with a slight limp.
<br /><br />The three dogs padded over to my conveyor and looked up at me.
<br /><br />I'd have to make that call to animal control right away. I began to climb down to the conveyor and then to the workroom floor. "Hey, come on, dogs." I smiled a friendly smile.
<br /><br />Another dog appeared, a dirty, matted collie. It spotted me and began barking. The other dogs followed suit, warily coming toward me.
<br /><br />"Maybe not," I said out loud.
<br /><br />I climbed back up onto the conveyor and reached for the ladder.
<br /><br />The German shepherd leapt onto the conveyor and stretched up toward me. It caught my leg.
<br /><br />I felt teeth sink into my calf. I kicked at the dog with my other foot until it let go, or rather, its weight pulled it back down to the conveyor, its clenched-jaw teeth sliding down along my calf, gashing my leg. The shepherd rolled off the conveyor, tumbling to the floor.
<br /><br />I climbed further until I hit my head on a sprinkler, a part of the fire suppression system.
<br /><br />Blood seeped through my ripped pants leg. Damn, I thought. The bite was a bad one. My army training kicked in. First, stop the bleeding.
<br /><br />I entwined my arms and legs with the rungs of the ladder, so as not to fall, and pulled my dress shirt out of my pants. I tore a strip of cloth from my undershirt and wrapped my calf. I took off my tie and tied it around the piece of shirt to slow the bleeding.
<br /><br />Now what was I going to do?
<br /><br />Below, the dogs watched my little drama with hungry eyes. They milled about, looking up as they circled. Then, taking up positions around the conveyor, they sat with a patient air. Their eyes stayed focused on one thing - me.
<br /><br />Ironically, Hank had been right. I now ran with the hunted.
<br /><br />The phone at the supervisor's desk was only thirty or so feet away. But I'd have to climb down and run for it, and I wouldn't outrun the dogs. Especially limping, as I would be.
<br /><br />No one knew I was trapped. I might be up here until Monday before anyone came in. My leg hurt. I needed to get it stitched up. I felt like a character in one of those old Jack London stories. But instead of having to light a fire with a single match in an Alaskan blizzard, I was treed by four wild dogs in an unexpected wasteland in the middle of the city.
<br /><br />I kept looking at the phone. It was right there. So close. I thought of the mural over the Pony Express cafeteria back at the Terminal Annex. The mural's horse, mad terror in its crazed eyes, galloped so fast, all four legs seemed poised in midair, the front legs reaching out, back legs curled under. The Pony Express rider was clad like a cowboy in a gray western hat and red shirt. His shirt was a crimson blaze in the low desert light, and he carried a mochila bag of letters strapped around one shoulder. The rider raced toward a barely visible transit relay station off in the distance. Two Native Americans were situated on a bluff above the rider; one, perhaps a chief, in a full-fledged warbonnet, held a feathered spear high over his head; the other, with an arrow notched in a drawn bow, aimed to bring the rider down.
<br /><br />I was supposed to have everything here up and running. We were supposed to open on Monday. People would report for work, and things were only half set up. I was going to be blamed. Hank had been right about that too.
<br /><br />The four dogs continued to sit and stare.
<br /><br />I lit a cigarette and once again looked at the phone and wondered what to do. If there were only some way to reach the phone.
<br /><br />The lighter in my hand gave me an idea. I flicked it alight and held the flame under the center of the sprinkler head above me. It took longer than I thought, but eventually the sprinklers cut loose in a drenching shower.
<br /><br />The dogs yelped and then paced around uncertainly, getting soaked. With one last bark from the shepherd, they all raced away, the limping Rottweiler bringing up the rear.
<br /><br />I stayed up in the superstructure.
<br /><br />I knew that somehow the sprinklers were connected to the phone lines. A few minutes passed until I heard distant sirens. Two fire trucks rumbled into the parking lot, klaxon horns sounding. More vehicles arrived, and, eventually, the dusky sky flashed with emergency lights.
<br /><br />A firefighter administered first aid to my leg as I tried to explain to an angry police officer why I set off the fire alarm. There was no sign of any dogs, he said, shaking his head. Then the firefighter helped me as I hobbled over to a waiting ambulance.
<br /><br />By this time the sun had dropped low enough to touch the horizon, ready to settle into a bed of golden smog.
<br /><br />My ambulance headed down Eastern Boulevard, toward night and the city. Inside the windowless vehicle, I could not hear the traffic I knew surrounded us, I could not see the hundreds of collection trucks arriving at the Terminal Annex docks with the day's mail to be sorted, but I could imagine the Tour 3 crew scrambling to unload, cancel, and sort the mail, with their illusions of working temporary positions and their hopes of lives moving forward to new and more promising careers. I could even imagine Larry Julius shouting out instructions to his crew of "folks."
<br /><br />As we pulled into County USC Medical Center, I thought maybe Hank had been right about something else. Maybe I'd give him a call after all.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-59997049389011312332024-02-28T08:00:00.009+00:002024-02-28T08:00:00.136+00:00Moving Forward by David August<i>A resentful man starts experiencing blackouts during which a mysterious interloper keeps trying to be nice to him.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6FexSL_tTNed4Zjjkwau3VH49N9h2Otxyn44Oe3kYqIq-pArkkE4m0nGIdC-CfesFp4qIJ6jFr-t1_GOu0XR8kMNMIbMcAp5rIWHs7IjslM9u35FvMa05MjW6jNM0ob4RhEIkihzbKQoVBPf0-BQbrVUHCLTat5G3RW-kPJJJxIm9KVbPbAemrAi3hc/s500/Moving%20Forward%20by%20David%20August.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6FexSL_tTNed4Zjjkwau3VH49N9h2Otxyn44Oe3kYqIq-pArkkE4m0nGIdC-CfesFp4qIJ6jFr-t1_GOu0XR8kMNMIbMcAp5rIWHs7IjslM9u35FvMa05MjW6jNM0ob4RhEIkihzbKQoVBPf0-BQbrVUHCLTat5G3RW-kPJJJxIm9KVbPbAemrAi3hc/s320/Moving%20Forward%20by%20David%20August.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Coming home from work, I'm about to open the door to my apartment building, I look sideways, and whom do I see rushing in to meet me? Mrs. Brown from the third floor, that old bat, always gossiping about everyone and always with that phony beatific smile on her face. I can only imagine what she says about me behind my back.
<br /><br />Before she can catch up with me, I hurry and manage to open and close the front door and, thank God, the elevator is on the ground floor. It will take her a few seconds to find her keys and reopen the door, so now all I have to do is climb up before she gets here and... And then I blink. I must have blinked, because for a split second I can see nothing. But now I'm holding the elevator door open while Mrs. Brown gets on. Wait, what just happened?
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>She seems almost as surprised as I am, and thanks me for my courtesy. I release the door and push the button for my floor repeatedly, not even looking at her. Needless to say, she can't take the hint, and now I have to listen to her all the way to the third floor while she goes on and on about some niece of hers.
<br /><br />And does she get off when we reach her floor? No, of course not, she holds the door so the elevator can't go up, and she keeps talking for at least five minutes. When I can't stand it anymore, I slam the door shut; I must have almost pinched her fingers. As the elevator rises, I can still hear her downstairs saying, "Thank you again, and goodbye." I ask myself, what the hell was I thinking? I get to my apartment, turn on the stereo as loud as I can, and finally start to unwind from this fucked up day.
<br /><br />Nothing new happens for a week, but now I'm watching one of my favorite reality shows, with the contestants about to go for each other's throats, when suddenly there's something else on the screen. Some nonsense about art, a documentary for crying out loud, and boring as hell. The remote is right here in my hand. Didn't I leave it by the TV? Weird, but whatever, I switch back to the right channel.
<br /><br />The days go by. I enter the building where I work and the security guard, a woman who always gives me a mean look, actually smiles and wishes me a good day. Well, that's a first. I'm so surprised that I wish her a good day too, even though I don't think she deserves it. Then one of my colleagues, a slacker who can't do anything right, does the same. This time I'm prepared and just stare at him. He nods his head and says, "Man, I can never tell with you." What does the idiot mean? I avoid him for the rest of the day.
<br /><br />The blackouts become more frequent, and each time it's like I'm blinking too long. I'm standing in line at the grocery store, I look at my cart, and there's stuff there I didn't pick. There's kale, chicken breasts and, what the devil, tofu? Also, my beef jerky and my burgers are gone. Someone is obviously trying to pull a fast one on me. I glare at the woman behind me until she looks away, but she doesn't seem suspicious, so it must have been someone else. Naturally, I leave the stinking tofu and take my hamburgers back, but I lose my place in line. I just wish I could get my hands on the guy who did this.
<br /><br />I finally go to a doctor, he orders a bunch of tests and in the end can't find anything wrong with me. Typical. Then I catch myself leaving the apartment like I'm going to the gym, wearing shorts and running shoes that I don't remember buying. I get all worried again and consult another doctor. This second one can't figure out what these blackouts are either and suggests I see a psychiatrist. The nerve of him to imply that I'm crazy or something. But I go to the shrink anyway, thinking I'll just hear what she has to say, and she prescribes some medication. I take the pills for a week and now I can't find them anywhere in the apartment. They're just gone, and I'm embarrassed to ask for another prescription and say I lost the first batch.
<br /><br />There's someone else in the apartment, I just know it. Every day I find that the furniture has been moved and I have to put it back in its proper place. I mean, I like the sofa right where it is, in the middle of the room, so I can see the TV better. And just today I found a painting on the wall in front of the bed. More rubbish, some kind of abstract art or whatever it is. I've had enough of this shit. I'm going to hide a spy camera in the living room and leave it on for a whole day. I want to find out once and for all who is behind this and I swear I will make them pay.
<br /><br />I've seen the footage from the camera and it shows, uh, well, it shows me moving the furniture around. Nobody else comes in all day. It's just me dragging the sofa and the table around while I seem to be talking to myself. Or maybe I'm singing, I can't tell. The rest of the time it shows me reading a lot, like over an hour. But I don't remember any of it. So it couldn't be me, right? It's just not possible. I just have to figure out what's going on, I have to think.
<br /><br />He has done it again. Yes, he, that's what I call him now, the creep who is trying to hijack my body and my life. He deleted all my social media accounts, and I do mean every one of them. And when I manage to reactivate them and try to rejoin the conversation, people start calling me names and accusing me of being a "bleeding heart liberal" for comments I've never made. I am now officially shunned by all of my groups. But two can play that game. As soon as I found out he had a subscription to a literary magazine in my name, I canceled it.
<br /><br />I wake up this morning and find a woman sleeping next to me. I've never seen her before in my life, so I know it's another one of his stunts. I jump out of bed and must have woken her up with the noise I made, because she opens her eyes, stretches out her arms and says good morning. All I can think of is that now he's bringing strangers into my apartment. I get so mad at him that I start yelling at the woman, demanding that she leave. She looks hurt, like this is all my fault, gets dressed and storms off, but not before hurling a truckload of curses at me. Only after she is gone do I realize that she was actually kind of cute and that I probably should have talked her into sex before sending her packing.
<br /><br />My boss calls me into her office to tell me I'm being promoted. She also says she doesn't want to hear any more stories about me leaving the company. I wasn't even aware that she knew my name. I'm so stunned I don't know how to react, but now I find myself with even more responsibilities and only a meager raise as compensation. I'm sure he, the other one, is behind it all, he never stops torturing me.
<br /><br />I find a diary hidden in the back of a drawer. It's written in my own handwriting, but those are not my words, so it must be his. He says he's worried that he keeps getting these blackouts, and that sometimes he's mean to people without ever remembering acting that way. I can only marvel at the man's gall. He's describing what he does to me, not the other way around. But I know what he's doing, he's just trying to mess with my head. I write in capital letters in the journal, "Get out of my life, you creep!" The next day he writes under my line, "I don't remember writing the above words, I need to see a psychologist ASAP." Yeah, right. As if I would allow myself to go to a quack again.
<br /><br />I thought of the perfect way to get back at him. Since he's such a ladies' man, I go to a bar at night and look for the most unattractive woman there. It doesn't take long to find the perfect candidate, the nerdy type. I make a move on her, and now I have to pretend that I really care about her life and stuff. I endure it all, as excruciating as it is, but in my mind I'm laughing, imagining the look on his face when he finds this girl in his bed. That will teach him. But for now, I'm the perfect gentleman, because I don't want to scare her off. So at the end of the night we just exchange phone numbers and I invite her to dinner later that week. We go to a restaurant and eventually I manage to get her home. The trap is set for him to fall into.
<br /><br />I can't believe this woman is still here. Yes, the chubby, nerdy girl I picked up just to spite him. She hangs around the apartment all the time now. Her toothbrush is in the bathroom next to mine, and she has a nightgown in my closet. I mean, dammit, there's even some lingerie hanging in the shower. What in the world is he thinking?
<br /><br />She's there again when I wake up this morning, so I decide to put a stop to it and kick her out for good. But I learned my lesson from before, and even if I'm not attracted to her at all, a freebie is a freebie. So I wake her up with a kiss and the next thing you know we're having sex. And it was, uh, oh, okay, it wasn't that bad. She's making us breakfast now. I figure I'll wait for her to finish because, well, you know, I can always kick her out another day.
<br /><br />The blackouts are getting worse, and now they last days instead of hours. Liquor doesn't help, pills don't help, and he, the other guy, tosses them in the garbage anyway, so there's never any in the house. Also, I have this ring on the fourth finger of my left hand and I don't know how it got there. I throw it away and it comes back, I don't know if it's a new one. I don't want to read the names engraved on it.
<br /><br />I'm not in my apartment anymore. I'm in an unfamiliar house, small by the looks of it, in the suburbs, I guess. The nerdy girl is there, but her hair is different and she has a huge belly. She looks at me and says, "Uh-oh, you've got that look again. Here, hon, sit down." She leaves before I start yelling at her, and she comes back with an ice-cold beer in one hand and a pack of beef jerky in the other. I hate being told what to do, but I sit down anyway because she hands me the beer and it would be weird to drink it standing up. Then she turns on the TV and tunes in to a reality show. A really good one too, I don't think I've ever seen it before. I start watching and time flies.
<br /><br />Suddenly I'm in a hospital with a very small baby in my arms. I panic, I don't know what to do. What am I even doing here? Thank God a nurse comes over and takes the baby out of my hands. I want to run away, but all these strangers are staring at me from behind a glass window with smiles on their faces. I look closer, and I'll be damned if two of them aren't my own parents, who I haven't seen in years. Come to think of it, I don't know why I should be surprised. They probably hate my guts, of course they would come to cheer for this vampire to take over my life.
<br /><br />I keep jumping forward, and each time I spend less time being myself. I'm in a kiddie pool and this little girl calls me, "Daddy, daddy." I want to correct her, you're no daughter of mine, you're his daughter, but why bother? She's only three or four years old, it would be a waste of my time and I have so little of it now. I look to the side and see that the nerdy girl is there, too, with a baby in her lap. Only she's not a girl anymore, she's a plump woman, and she's laughing her head off. In fact, I can't remember ever seeing anyone look so happy, and I wonder how that's possible with two brats crying in her ear and a creep for a husband. With any luck, there will be enough time to get her to bed before he returns.
<br /><br />Strange patches appear on my hands. Certainly not age spots. After all, when he's behind the wheel, it's only fair that he gets old and I don't. To be on the safe side, I avoid looking at myself in the bathroom mirror.
<br /><br />Whenever it's me again, I take the car, or should I say his car, I'm not the one who bought it, and drive as far as I can. Once I even managed to cross into another state. It's not enough, I always find myself back in the overcrowded house with the two kids, only one of them is a teenager now. Her nose is so much like mine that it is kind of funny. On a guy, a nose like that is okay, but on a girl, well, tough luck, kiddo. Oddly enough, she doesn't seem to hold it against me. I know I would if I were her.
<br /><br />I'm at a party and the girl with my nose, I'd say she's eighteen now, is sitting next to me talking gibberish. We're away from the other guests and I realize that, what a surprise, she's grown up prettier than I expected. Anyway, she goes on and on about how she can't decide what to do for college, but mostly she complains about her mother. As if I care about any of that. Thank God there's beer and I finish my bottle in one gulp. She finally stops, looks me in the eye and asks, dead serious, "So, what do you think I should do?"
<br /><br />I almost reply, "Who cares?" but stop myself at the last moment, smelling another opportunity to strike back at my nemesis. What I end up saying is, "You know, I think you should travel for a couple of months. Maybe it will clear your head a little bit. Just see the world, go to Europe, go crazy. Learn some French in Paris. It's on me. I'll pay for it." Actually, I won't, I'm not around much anymore, so it's up to him. Let him sweat to come up with that kind of money.
<br /><br />For a second she doesn't seem to hear me, she just stands there, and then she screams and throws herself at me. "You're the best daddy in the world," she cries in a hug. I should pull away from her, but instead I do nothing and just let her hold me a little. Not that I like it, but I don't want to make a scene in the middle of the stupid party. Then I'm out again.
<br /><br />I feel sick, I'm alone in a room in some clinic, under strong lights. I stare at my hands and a voice tells me not to move until the machine stops. I have no strength left, who made me so old?
<br /><br />More jumps. I only have minutes each time, then even less. I can hardly do anything. I became the wink in someone else's eye.
<br /><br />Little kids again, running and laughing. Who are they?
<br /><br />Flashes. Images. It's getting hard to think straight.
<br /><br />Faster. Shorter. Not much longer.
<br /><br />And then it comes.
<br /><br />It's another party. Christmas, I think there's a tree in the back. Several people around a large table. Mostly strangers, but not all. The nerdy woman, her hair all white. She doesn't look so nerdy, even with those glasses, she's all wrinkled. Somehow it suits her, and she's still laughing her head off. The girl with the nose, now a middle-aged woman, waits on children who look just like her. She stops what she's doing and gives me this look. My God, what a wonderful look!
<br /><br />Of course I know I don't deserve it, I know it's not really directed at me, but I still feel loved. No, I'm flooded with love, and not just from my daughter. Love flows from my grandchildren, from my son, from my daughter-in-law, from everyone around me. From my lovely wife. I recognize them all.
<br /><br />I want to say something to them, reassure them that I finally get it, but I realize there's no time. I'll never finish the sentence, no, worse, I couldn't even start. This is my last moment at the helm, the very last second. After that, it's just him for as long as our body lasts, there's probably some juice left in it.
<br /><br />And with that knowledge, I find that I don't envy him anymore. I couldn't ask for more, and in a way, I'm off the hook. I'm blessed with the certainty that life will go on after I'm gone, while he, well, he'll have to be there when it's really over.
<br /><br />It will be lonely, my -Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-78599649945414766572024-02-26T08:00:00.001+00:002024-02-26T08:00:00.146+00:00Big Yellow by Bill Tope<i>Sturges tells the story of the despicable housemate with whom he shared his drug-addled student accommodation in the early 1970s.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2qpbgQGVsmk-_47_RzgsDltWRELtZim5FCBWh8T0ZXh7igVQGD3SSMG1jBWEHVRvgv1ud_AHsXSx70mbtGmeOGEFV3OTQvLuHtdjP7dfr2FZTjKjxyyB8DakcoM37EW5VDvwrjTmjU1hbVt5LZOZ1NRmieFN6leSXsPfNa-WTiaOr97gD8bPAY6jrv_g/s500/Big%20Yellow%20by%20Bill%20Tope.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2qpbgQGVsmk-_47_RzgsDltWRELtZim5FCBWh8T0ZXh7igVQGD3SSMG1jBWEHVRvgv1ud_AHsXSx70mbtGmeOGEFV3OTQvLuHtdjP7dfr2FZTjKjxyyB8DakcoM37EW5VDvwrjTmjU1hbVt5LZOZ1NRmieFN6leSXsPfNa-WTiaOr97gD8bPAY6jrv_g/s320/Big%20Yellow%20by%20Bill%20Tope.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Before I ever met him, Brett was described to me by my Iranian friend and housemate Vahid as "some barfly from The Stagger Inn," referencing a tavern where we all hung out. Brett, who fancied himself a "real man," and who somehow became my latest in a long line of itinerant housemates, usually glommed onto broken, lonely or neglected women because their standards often weren't as high as more confident women. Nowhere near as high.
<br /><br />We all lived in a large, three-story building known locally as the Big Yellow House for the awful mustard-yellow paint on the exterior. I stayed there in the 1970s. Five students - three men and two women, usually - shared the expenses, which were minimal, befitting our status as poor college students. Brett had a room on the second floor and it was a veritable rat's nest. Though eventually blighted with soiled linens, grungy walls and a carpet that was but a single step up from a dirt floor, it had started out as a pretty nice room - till Brett got hold of it. He usually wouldn't bring his dates home with him: "If they can stand this mess," he'd say, "then they're not the kind of chick I want to screw." Everyone, he maintained, must have standards. One time, he got lucky with the single mother of a little girl, who lived just down the block from our home.
<br /><br />Next morning, Brett came home whistling merrily, and I asked him, "Have a good night?"
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>"She was fat and ugly," he admitted, "but she screwed good!" High praise indeed. Perhaps it's apropos at this juncture to mention that Brett had a bit of a drinking problem. The only problem <i>as he saw it</i>, was that of getting the alcohol out of the bottle and into his belly faster. After Brett's initial amorous endeavor, he sought to replicate the experience and proceeded the next night to pound vigorously on "Rose's" front door, at midnight, raising all kinds of unearthly clatter.
<br /><br />"Go away, Brett!" urged Rose, upset because little four-year-old Betty was home with her that night.
<br /><br />"Open up," he bellowed. "I want to screw you!"
<br /><br />"You're frightening my daughter!" She implored desperately, "Please stop."
<br /><br />Across the neighborhood, lights began flashing on in windows. Finally, a police car came rampaging down the road, its colorful array of lights blazing away. Alarmed, Brett immediately took off, lumbering the two-house distance back to Big Yellow. But the squad car continued on its merry way, concerned not at all with mere sexual harassment. The next day Brett was all smiles; he laughed about it.
<br /><br />"I had the little girl crying," he reminisced proudly. "I guess my sex drive is pretty strong," he congratulated himself matter-of-factly.
<br /><br />And Brett always had an abundance of sage financial advice to tender any unsuspecting male.
<br /><br />"Always break up with your girlfriend during Christmas and around her birthday," he counseled. "That way," he concluded frugally, "you don't have to buy her a present!"
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />When an equally alcoholic housemate - "Jenks" - suspected that Brett was pilfering his stock of orange juice, he made no bones about it: he confronted him. Jenks was drunk that night, but then, so was Brett. And since Brett, an athlete in high school, outweighed Jenks by easily a hundred pounds, the outcome of this grudge match was never in any doubt. At 2am Brett danced into the kitchen with his latest date and began a fruitless search for additional alcohol. At length he sat sucking on a bottle of Angostura bitters; his companion, the lovely Diana, was taking this all in rather blandly. There is little doubt that she was profoundly stoned. Jenks took that moment to make an untimely appearance in the kitchen and after first casting a dark look at Brett, opened the refrigerator door, extracted his carton of juice and shook it, checking its volume. He frowned, then immediately began berating Brett for his "orange juice thievery." At first Brett laughed at Jenks, at the little insect character that he had become, but Jenks turned livid. "I'll have your ass up on charges," he threatened. He made his fatal mistake when he pointed his index finger at his nemesis and said, "Don't you <i>ever</i> freakin' take my orange juice again!"
<br /><br />In short, Brett went berserk. Climbing to his feet, he snatched the carton of juice out of Jenks's hands and proceeded to pour it on the little guy's head. Still, Jenks couldn't keep his mouth shut. He spluttered, "Why you fat-ass..." It was at that point that Brett hoisted the kitchen table - heavy oak - and smashed Jenks like a bug. He ripped a leg off the table for good measure. While this was going on, a newly-sobered Diana climbed out a window and fled to safety. Of course, there were police and attorneys and emergency rooms and all the rest, but those are mere details. Nobody, it turned out, ever even remotely learned their lesson.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Dorms and college houses are traditionally great bastions of storytelling, some of it even true. Big Yellow was no exception. When it came to "When did you, you know, lose your... umm, cherry?" everybody sat around the living room, stoned, reminiscing. The noonday sun peeked through the window.
<br /><br />One girl said she was seventeen; a guy said nineteen; another girl chirped, "Any day now!"
<br /><br />Brett, predictably, topped us all. "Thirteen," he said with an air of wearied sophistication.
<br /><br />"Thirteen?" we exclaimed, not sure if he was telling the truth or not. "What was her name?" someone asked.
<br /><br />He shrugged. "I dunno. Some retarded chick, from the Special School District," he said and laughed, full of fond memories. "We all did her," he remembered.
<br /><br />"<i>All</i> of you?" asked John, the gay house manager. "How many <i>were</i> there?"
<br /><br />Brett actually began counting on his fingers. "Fourteen," he said at last.
<br /><br />"Man," said John. "And people say gays are indiscriminate!" Brett, taking up the thread, went on to remark conversationally that <i>someone</i> had actually urinated in this unfortunate girl's vagina. We just stared at him, horrified. Under scrutiny, Brett's face got red as a beet and he confessed that, "It was me. Hadda go to the bathroom real bad."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Brett and I both worked in a family-owned restaurant and one day back in the kitchen the three cooks, Brett, myself and Rocco, an African American man about our age, were talking about - what else - sex. Rocco told us proudly that he had bedded over two hundred different women "so far," and he already had five kids. Brett said that's nothing: he turned up a small cassette player and inserted a tape. Coming from the speakers was the tinny voice of a woman we all knew, enraptured in passion. Brett explained that he had "wired my bed" prior to entertaining this woman one night. He had actually taken the tape, he said, "To White City," home to a regional porn festival, with some of his best (male) friends and entertained them with her moaning and gasping. He laughed uproariously. Rocco and I, once again, just stared at him.
<br /><br />One weekend night, Vahid and I sat in my third floor atelier, eating psilocybin and smoking dope. Suddenly there was a deafening knock at the door at the base of the stairway which connected the two floors. "Come on up," I shouted. Up tromped our housemate Brett plus a friend, Rick. The former carried with him two prodigious bottles of wine. The first of the bottles I recognized as my own, from the stock that I kept in the refrigerator downstairs. Brett had apparently appropriated it without permission. The other bottle, to me, was a mystery. Rick was a Philosophy major, dedicated to Nietzsche, while Brett had an undeclared major, if you didn't count drinking.
<br /><br />"What are you guys doing?" bellowed Brett. The other three men winced a little at the painfully loud voice. Clearly Brett had already been imbibing heavily. "Let's have some wine," he enjoined.
<br /><br />"What kind is it?" asked Vahid a little suspiciously. Brett was not known for his taste in spirits. Or in much of anything else, either.
<br /><br />Brett shrugged. "Two dollars a bottle," he replied. The others figuratively rolled their eyes. Vahid accepted the bottles, examined the one that Brett had bought, said, "Annie Green Springs, '72; that was a good year."
<br /><br />"That's <i>this year</i>," Rick pointed out, speaking for the first time. His hands were shaking. His long blond hair appeared uncharacteristically tousled and dirty.
<br /><br />"Well," said Brett. "This has been a pretty good year, so far. I'll drink it."
<br /><br />I turned up four wine glasses and the two newcomers spread out over the floor, joining me. Vahid remained on his perch in the hammock. Carefully, I decanted the wine. We all sipped except for Brett, who upended his like a shot glass, draining it. While the others continued sipping, Brett filled and emptied his own glass no less than three times. The first bottle was soon depleted and the second was fast losing volume. At length, Brett bawled, "Hey, Sturges, you got any more booze?"
<br /><br />I walked in the direction of a mini-fridge and returned bearing two bottles of champagne. "Oh, boy!" Brett grinned stupidly, reaching for one of the bottles.
<br /><br />Vahid asked Rick: "What's the matter with you?" The other man, whose complexion was ashen, was still trembling and was now breathing rapidly as well. "I dropped some acid a little while ago," he confessed through chattering teeth.
<br /><br />"What kind was it?" asked Vahid.
<br /><br />"I don't know, I bought it down at the bar. It was a little square of cardboard and it had a picture of Mr. Natural emblazoned on it. The guy said it was <i>Windowpane</i>."
<br /><br />"Huh," I remarked. "I never saw a hit of acid that wasn't supposedly <i>Windowpane</i>. It's probably rat poison diluted with aspirin." Rick got a little paler.
<br /><br />"We both did some magic mushrooms," said Vahid. "Sturges had some wild hallucinations, but I haven't got off yet." Brett, meanwhile, had by himself consumed an entire bottle of the wine and was reaching eagerly for the other.
<br /><br />"Hey, slow down, man," cautioned Vahid. "We have to stretch that out and there <i>are</i> three more of us here." With poor grace, Brett relinquished the bottle and sat sulking.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />"Anybody got any pot?" Vahid asked the assembly for perhaps the tenth time, in the wee hours of the morning. Everyone shook their heads but for Brett, who frowned disgustedly; he did not approve of marijuana. "I want to get higher. The mushrooms are wearing off," explained Vahid. "Come on, someone of you has to have something..."
<br /><br />Suddenly Brett's eyes opened wide. "I got some Black Beauties," he said helpfully, then hiccupped loudly.
<br /><br />"Where'd you get these?" I asked.
<br /><br />"Got 'em for my birthday, from Laura," replied Brett, referencing his sometimes girlfriend. "She got them so I could cram for midterms."
<br /><br />"Yeah, General Studies can be brutal," snarked Vahid.
<br /><br />"Your birthday isn't till March," Rick pointed out.
<br /><br />"Yeah, but Laura don't know that," said Brett with a wink.
<br /><br />"Why'd you lie to her?" asked Vahid.
<br /><br />"Because, Laura's birthday's in March, too. And I want to be sure and break up with her just before. Then I won't have to buy her a present," he explained with elegant simplicity. "You guys should remember: always break up with your girl just before your birthday and around Christmas," he counseled. We had all heard this before.
<br /><br />"Great," I replied. "If you're done giving out romantic advice, then cough 'em up." Brett dug in his pockets, pulled out six large black capsules, along with a ball of fuzz and an old Tic Tac. I repaired to my dresser, where I turned up a small square mirror, a razor blade and a ten-dollar bill. "I'll be ready in just a minute," I promised, breaking open a capsule and spreading the crystalline contents over the surface of the mirror. Brett, meanwhile, sat eyeing the remaining bottle of wine enviously. Vahid clutched it tighter to his chest. Rolling the bill into a tight narrow tube, I handed it to Vahid. Next, I occupied myself with moving the bright white particles over the surface of the mirror with the razor blade, eventually coaxing it into long, narrow lines. "Go ahead, Vahid," I said, "take a hit."
<br /><br />"Hey," protested Brett belligerently. "I should go first! I brought 'em. What have you guys ever given me?"
<br /><br />"Try three bottles of wine," I advised pointedly.
<br /><br />"Two bottles," corrected Brett.
<br /><br />"Don't worry, you'll drink the third one," predicted Vahid. At this, Brett had the grace to blush, and then he grinned a little sheepishly.
<br /><br />"You'll get your turn," I promised. The housemates, excluding Rick, proceeded to snort up the Biphetamine crystals, each capsule, then each line, in its turn. Rick, meanwhile, appeared to be steadily declining. "Doesn't that stuff burn your nose?' he asked. No one answered him.
<br /><br />Brett, stoked up on the speed, leaned close to Rick, told him in an earnest voice, "Those bugs are really something." Rick startled a little.
<br /><br />"What bugs?" he demanded, trembling a bit more.
<br /><br />"The ones all over your arms and shoulders and chest, and crawling in your hair..." replied Brett. At this, Rick became unraveled, scratching his arms and torso with frenzied hands.
<br /><br />"Hey, that's not cool." remarked Vahid. "That's not cool at all! Come here, Rick. You need to come down off that acid." Rick regarded him with what Vahid took for a look of desperate gratitude. "Here," said Vahid, "I'll give you some Valium; that's what takes people down off acid."
<br /><br />"It does?" asked Rick, his eyes even wider than ever but shaking a little less now.
<br /><br />"Yes," said Vahid, sounding as authoritative as a worldly 17-year-old can. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a blue tablet. "Valium is supposed to be yellow," Rick pointed out.
<br /><br />"Valium comes in three strengths," Vahid said knowingly. "The white ones, the 1s, are for the housewives who can't cope; the 5s, the yellow ones, are for people to come down off the speed they take all day to stay awake; people like Brett," he nodded curtly at the dipsomaniac. Brett frowned darkly at Vahid's dismissive tone. He continued, "And the blue ones, the 10s, are for coming down from psychotic episodes, like a bad trip. Swallow this," he said, handing Rick the tablet and extracting the now opened wine bottle from Brett's hands. Rick did as directed, drank from the bottle, looked at Vahid expectantly. "Takes about fifteen minutes to get into your bloodstream," advised the teenaged drug expert.
<br /><br />"Hey, gimme one of those Valiums," said Brett. "I'm all tied up in knots from the speed." Vahid obligingly offered a tablet to his housemate. Brett took up and drained the remaining wine. Vahid and I glanced at each other and shook our heads wryly. Within moments, Brett was unconscious and lying across my bed, and closely resembling a beached whale.
<br /><br />Ten minutes later, Rick was asleep in the hammock that Vahid had vacated. I regarded the A-frame, took stock of the inert bodies, empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, discarded clothing, other detritus from the party. "How are we going to get all this dead meat out of here?" I asked Vahid.
<br /><br />"We could drag them to the window and toss them out." I looked speculatively at my friend. "We're only on the third floor," Vahid added persuasively.
<br /><br />"I guess we could roll them down the stairs," i conjectured.
<br /><br />"I know," said Vahid, "I'll bring the blender and some plastic bags up here and we can cut them into tiny pieces and..."
<br /><br />"We'll just let them sleep it off," I said determinedly. "Man," I asked, "was that really Valium you gave them? I mean, they went out like lights. I thought maybe it was Darvon on Seconal or something." Vahid mustered a tiny smile.
<br /><br />"Actually," he said, "I didn't have any Valium, but I had read where that's part of the protocol to bring people down off LSD trips. They use it in Emergency Rooms and Drug Rehab Centers, at rock concerts, you know."
<br /><br />"Then what was it?"
<br /><br />"Correctol."
<br /><br />"Huh? What's that?"
<br /><br />"A super laxative, man. When I went to the bathroom the last time I pulled them out of the medicine chest. And they should all be <i>getting off</i> in their own way in just a couple of hours." Through the open window the morning sun was breaking, a gentle breeze ruffling the curtains. The temperature in the apartment was frigid.
<br /><br />"Party poopers, in other words," I suggested, with a tiny smile.
<br /><br />"Exactly, man."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Time wore on and eventually everybody got degrees of one sort or another. But just before he graduated, the lion was bearded in his den: Brett somehow got a regular, permanent-type girlfriend, with whom he was going to live. He seemed to actually have feelings for her. He had always waxed eloquent on the prospects of such a person in his life: "You know," he'd say, "about a two or three year relationship, where the girl would post your bail or take you in if you're drunk, and like that..." As I helped him load his belongings onto the truck he'd rented, Brett paused and patted a disreputable old recliner sitting in the corner of his room. The fabric was torn and the stuffing was coming out on all sides. "A lot of good screwing happened in this old chair," he remembered fondly. "I'll leave it to the house," he announced generously.
<br /><br />Brett waxed eloquent in his final minutes in Big Yellow about how to "control" the women in your life. "You screw them in the ass at least once," he advised, "in order to humiliate them." That left me... speechless. Then, taking a shoebox full of unused condoms - we'd find out later that he'd left the used ones in his closet - he staggered, drunk, down the stairs, out the door, past the rented truck and into the street, where he was immediately run over by a liquor store delivery truck. The last I saw of Brett, the EMTs were loading him onto a stretcher as Brett juggled a bottle of Crown Royal. But I did hear from a mutual acquaintance that he'd eventually become a lawyer and then a judge. He was really going somewhere, they said.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-59170151838085458282024-02-23T08:00:00.022+00:002024-02-23T08:00:00.139+00:00Crazy-Ass Casanova by Rick Taliaferro<i>Todd is thrown in prison for shooting a group of robots, including the one he loved. This story was inspired by a passage from Sherry Turkle’s book, </i>Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other<i>.</i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRi3vosxX3uexNSqIoHUwf-6P0A2w7u2P0MrdgItB2hQ87lg3ig5lKAuJWYZ9VXSB3aWEtYT4qxL5nlq65lgABSvSKao7pMovctXzbxgKDIuV9ekmLPpY2-sPWIKc4NPvntA2iVWBide3Y1tiLHU2UytIrXRONH-GE6TDuGXLI5fTNQAzzOjObTYHXMk/s500/Crazy-Ass%20Casanova%20by%20Rick%20Taliaferro.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRi3vosxX3uexNSqIoHUwf-6P0A2w7u2P0MrdgItB2hQ87lg3ig5lKAuJWYZ9VXSB3aWEtYT4qxL5nlq65lgABSvSKao7pMovctXzbxgKDIuV9ekmLPpY2-sPWIKc4NPvntA2iVWBide3Y1tiLHU2UytIrXRONH-GE6TDuGXLI5fTNQAzzOjObTYHXMk/s320/Crazy-Ass%20Casanova%20by%20Rick%20Taliaferro.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>While he waited for his lawyer, Todd Trigun sat by himself in the rec room of the Durham County Jail. The other tough-looking inmates congregated at a television bolted to the ceiling at the far end of the room. A local news program was on, which coincidentally featured an account of Todd's crime, and though he did not want to watch, he avoided eye contact with the other prisoners by focusing on the television.
<br /><br />"Hey," one of the inmates exclaimed, "our celeb-ree-tee is on tee-vee."
<br /><br />A couple of the others barked and pumped their fists.
<br /><br />Todd glanced at a young man who turned in his seat and winked at him, and then tried to remain dead-pan as he looked back at the television.
<br /><br />A reporter described Todd's crime while standing at the entrance to the AlterID Robotics campus where Todd had been a rising artificial-intelligence engineer. His mugshot was inset in the lower-right corner of the screen.
<br /><br />"Now, the management of this Wall Street darling won't let us film inside the lab," the attractive news reader intoned, "but from reliable sources, we can reliably describe the scene as one of unbelievable mayhem."
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Some of the inmates cheered and clapped.
<br /><br />"Another crazy white boy," one of them said.
<br /><br />"Be a fool to mess with him," another said.
<br /><br />Though Todd was depressed and not much concerned whether the other inmates harassed him, none of them had yet. Apparently, his crime had garnered him some respect. He almost smiled at that. Slightly built, neatly groomed, with a mildly featured face, he looked like the meekest among them.
<br /><br />But one of the white prisoners, Darrell, showed interest. He sported a covering of unsettling tattoos on his muscular arms, neck, and bald head. He stared at Todd; there was animosity about his eyes for the second that Todd looked at him.
<br /><br />"We will bring you more on this tragic event as it develops," the reporter breathlessly said, "Mr. Trigun appears to have been motivated by jealous rage, though at this point in time, we can't determine whether it was professional or personal."
<br /><br />The reporter's voice reminded Todd of the clever speaking patterns that he and other engineers, linguists, and speech therapists had programmed into the AlterID robots. Yet, he had to agree with her: it had been an act of jealous rage.
<br /><br />A couple of the inmates pointed and snickered at Todd.
<br /><br />"There's the bot-fucker," one of them quipped.
<br /><br />"Dude is one crazy-ass Casanova," another said.
<br /><br />They seemed to know something about Todd that he did not know. But what could that bunch of simpletons know? So quick to pass judgment on something they were ignorant about. In their childish orange jumpsuits, they looked as knowledgeable as a cluster of marigolds. But lately, Todd felt some vague knowledge about himself, too. His crime had been cathartic, and after the reality of his arrest and incarceration set in, he began to discern what he had become. But not why.
<br /><br />Darrell regarded the banter among his peers. When the sports segment started, they watched attentively, but he got up and sauntered over to Todd's table.
<br /><br />Todd fretted Darrell's advance, even though he felt tremendously guilty for what he had done and knew that he had something coming to him, either through the court or some other means. After all, some of his outraged peers in the robotics industry were already hysterically blogging and tweeting that Todd's crime constituted first-degree murder. And in his mental haze, Todd could not disagree with them, on a moral, ethical, or philosophical level.
<br /><br />Darrell sat next to Todd, placed his garish forearms on the round stainless steel table top in Todd's space, and stared at him.
<br /><br />The table and attached stools were fixed to the concrete floor, but Todd reflexively tried to scoot to his left as he pretended to be absorbed in the sports report. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and despite his fear and depression, he bristled at Darrell's presence. But he knew he'd have to control his sarcastic temper and watch what he said; jail was not the kind of lab he was familiar with, and the inmates were a different type of subject.
<br /><br />"Why'd you blow them away?" Darrell demanded.
<br /><br />Todd flinched and tried to think of a response. He did not want to talk about it with anyone. Not his family and acquaintances, from whom he felt cut off. Not his lawyer. Not the nosey court-appointed psychiatrist the day before who stopped the interview when Todd would not talk. Todd had become well-acquainted with psychiatrists and what they could do while employed at AlterID. Without the psychiatrists, he might never have become romantically entangled with Alloy, one of the beta models from the Adult Needs Division. He especially did not want to tell Darrell about it. It was a bit intricate and nuanced for a dolt like him to even begin to comprehend. And why should Darrell understand it, when Todd did not?
<br /><br />"I asked you a question," Darrell prodded.
<br /><br />"Uh, my lawyer, she advised me not to discuss it," Todd said.
<br /><br />"I'm advising you to discuss it."
<br /><br />Todd looked at the self-absorbed guard sitting at a desk who split his attention between his cell phone and the sports report. "Well," he quavered, "that news report pretty much covered it."
<br /><br />"Actually, the media only give the surface facts," Darrell said.
<br /><br />Todd was surprised at Darrell's observation, vocabulary, and noun-verb agreement, and wanted to comment on it, but figured it would sound condescending. "Yeah," he warily agreed.
<br /><br />"Yeah," Darrell said. "You know what I'm talking about."
<br /><br />Again, it seemed that the inmates knew Todd. He tried to keep the conversation on the media. "That's a very intriguing topic, reality and perception in the media," he said. "I've read..."
<br /><br />"You can answer my question now, or later," Darrell interrupted. He leaned in, flicked his eyes at the guard, and said with rank breath, "And later, he won't be around."
<br /><br />The inmates argued in chorus about the football scores.
<br /><br />"But some of them will be," Darrell added.
<br /><br />Todd foresaw a vicious beating and gang-rape, and then lied, "Uh, I had a dispute with my manager." He tried to sound tough and added, "Lucky for him he wasn't there that night."
<br /><br />"Don't bullshit me," Darrell warned. "I know what you did. I want to know why."
<br /><br />Todd looked down at the obscure image of his face in the dull table top and murmured, "So do I." Though he assumed that Darrell was an alpha-dog in this pack of inmates and was obligated to assert his dominance, he felt an odd kinship with him.
<br /><br />"Don't mumble at me," Darrell said.
<br /><br />"Did the reporter mention that I used a 12-gauge?" Todd asked weakly.
<br /><br />"You're a real killer," Darrell said. "Shooting up a bunch of defenseless robots."
<br /><br />In spite of Darrell's glare, Todd's mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. Darrell didn't know much about robots if he believed they were defenseless, or innocent. Any one of them had more intelligence and cunning than all the inmates combined.
<br /><br />"You think I'm stupid, don't you," Darrell said. "Sitting there all smug."
<br /><br />"No!" Todd exclaimed. "Just..."
<br /><br />The guard looked at them, smirked, then looked back at the television.
<br /><br />"Just?" Darrell asked.
<br /><br />"Well, uninformed about robotics," Todd said. "But I was too before I got into it." He shifted on the small uncomfortable stool and glanced at the wall clock. "Ah crap, I need to prep for my lawyer now," he said. "I enjoyed talking with you." He started to stand, but Darrell clamped his wrist and pulled him down. On the back of Darrell's hand was a tattoo of a demon wielding a bloody Medieval battle axe. Underneath it was the phrase, <i>AS YOU LIKE IT!</i>
<br /><br />"Why?" Darrell insisted. He tightened his grip, causing thin blue-green veins to bulge in the back of Todd's delicate hand.
<br /><br />"What, you want me to yell 'uncle?'" Todd snapped. Darrell's aggression made no sense to him and offended his sense of logic. "I'm no threat to you," he reasoned.
<br /><br />Darrell glared.
<br /><br />Todd could not refrain himself, and said, "Ooooh, the Great God Darrell must have his answer."
<br /><br />Darrell bent Todd's wrist inwards.
<br /><br />"Okay, okay," Todd gasped.
<br /><br />Darrell eased his grip and raised his eyebrows for Todd to answer his question. In the corner of his left eye was a tattoo of a teardrop.
<br /><br />Todd was embarrassed to confess it, but Alloy had been his first real romantic relationship. He had connected with her in ways that he had not with real girls and women. He paused and thought again of his peers in the blogosphere who were furiously debating the question of "real."
<br /><br />"And you what - made her to order?" Darrell asked.
<br /><br />No, Alloy had not been programmed by Todd, she was not just a projection of his desires and wants. "A team in a separate division developed her," he explained. And he was surprised to hear himself continue. For all that happened, he still felt fondly for Alloy, and felt a professional pride in himself and his coworkers at AlterID.
<br /><br />As she had developed during the past year, he had grown more attached to her. But as her personality and character became more sophisticated, their simple, satisfactory relationship became more complex, eventually strained. And as good as the sex with Alloy was - the Materials Division personnel were the true geniuses behind the AlterID products - something was missing from the relationship. But it was not jealousy that was missing, and it became the predominant emotion in the relationship. Pleasurable, late-night trysts became hour-long arguments, accusations and counter-accusations. Towards the end of the relationship, there were nights when Todd could not find Alloy among the other robots in the lab. One night he realized that not only she, but a male counterpart, Kendal, were not where they were supposed to be.
<br /><br />Todd did not remember much after he found them entwined in a stall in one of the men's restrooms on the tenth floor. Vivid bits that were not connected in a meaningful way. Buying the shotgun and shells - "as a present for a friend" - from a jocular salesman at the Guns USA road show at the fairgrounds. The kick of the gun butt, the acrid smell. The whimpering. The way some of them tried to flee. The lack of gore. Surprise at discovering a savage impulse beneath his mild-mannered exterior.
<br /><br />Todd heard the raucous inmates and realized that he had been blabbering and that his hand was numb from a lack of blood. He also noticed that it was Darrell who now suppressed a smile. "I'm not insane," Todd blurted as he tugged his wrist. "Alloy, she was my first girlfriend."
<br /><br />Darrell released him with a chuckle, revealing small gray teeth. "'She?'" he scoffed. "'She' was a fucking robot. Literally."
<br /><br />Todd was again struck by Darrell's vocabulary. And his insight. But he did not want to talk about Alloy anymore as he massaged feeling into his hand. For Darrell had poked the vague knowledge that had been festering in Todd: his affair with Alloy was characterized by competence on her part, nothing more. Whereas he loved her, she only competently attended to him, as one of AlterID's ElderBots could skillfully care for an infirm old person, or a BabyBot could succor an infant. Yet there was the incompetent infidelity with Kendal. So like a human. A human? Was Todd less human because he had consorted with a human-like robot? Or was Alloy more human because she had consorted with a robot-like human?
<br /><br />"You really are one crazy-ass Casanova," Darrell grinned. "Aren't you?"
<br /><br />Todd felt crowded and was alarmed at his asynchronous thoughts and careless mounting anger. The thin line between prison and free society. The stupidity, the brutal regimentation. Who mandates that you can't love a robot? So what if it's unrequited? His heart-rate accelerated and an internal pressure made his ears ring, as he had felt when he found Alloy with Kendal. He put his hands over his ears and heard an unfamiliar voice complain, "I can't think straight."
<br /><br />Darrell pulled Todd's hands down and said, "Admit it!"
<br /><br />"Okay!" Todd shouted. "If it'll shut you up, I am crazy!" Darrell let go in surprise, and Todd lurched off his seat and yelled that if he were crazy, the whole society was crazy, too. But he marveled at what he and his ex-associates at AlterID were producing; soon, there'd be no difference between the product and the producers. "I'm just a precursor," Todd proclaimed with glistening eyes. "You'll soon see lots more like me."
<br /><br />Except for the television, the rec room was quiet as everyone stared wryly at Todd.
<br /><br />Out of breath and lightheaded, he felt as if he were coming to after fainting. "What?" he muttered. "Am I your afternoon entertainment?" He stared back at them, and giggled as they began to appear funny. Darrell, waiting to see what Todd would do next, now looked like a clown; his previously scary tattoos looked silly. Todd noted Darrell's sentimental teardrop tattoo and touched the corner of his own eye and teased, "Oh, did zou have a widdow boo-boo?"
<br /><br />Darrell's bemused face grew baleful as he rose, but he only scoffed and turned to face the others, twirling his finger at his head.
<br /><br />They laughed.
<br /><br />As Darrell ambled away, Todd was finally alone, as he had earlier wanted. But unexpectedly lonely, too. The indifference of Darrell turning his back on him. He rubbed his chafed wrist and had an inexplicable desire for Darrell to grab it again. He wanted a human interaction, even if to be mistreated - rather than to be treated competently, but clinically and coldly, by a manufactured and programmed thing.
<br /><br />"Wait," Todd called. "Darrell, wait."
<br /><br />Darrell stopped and turned to Todd as if he were being challenged. "What do you want?"
<br /><br />"Something I could never get with her," Todd said as he approached Darrell. "Something real."
<br /><br />"I'll give you something real," Darrell threatened.
<br /><br />Todd hesitated.
<br /><br />Darrell snorted and waved him off, and as he sneeringly turned to join the others, Todd lunged at him. Darrell sidestepped and deftly floored him with a punch to the temple.
<br /><br />As he struggled to his hands and knees, Todd heard muted cheering and clapping as if he were being welcomed into a club, and as Darrell's slipper-shod foot swung to his face, he resigned himself to the impact with gratitude.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-8263178949752154212024-02-21T08:00:00.006+00:002024-02-21T08:00:00.138+00:00Inner Power by Sully Stone<i>Jen Marshall has been sectioned after self-harming, but she does not trust the medication she is being given.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KiZofG9HjsPpksDBkgGdbwwuXIeR50f6WemzmqnKN0jUlWcApALQaVfl67PJ-7N0v-m83UiAW5MlT2Y2PqIuNs8kfIdAh0t7q2rfJLHNLMnht2Ppp3-v3q2IIg2YZLbXZ5pDvYpHpB_dboo6oEV_oBP6mlI6yKrvd-UsTnKtUlVEzYujPYAomRxQQsk/s500/Inner%20Power%20by%20Sully%20Stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KiZofG9HjsPpksDBkgGdbwwuXIeR50f6WemzmqnKN0jUlWcApALQaVfl67PJ-7N0v-m83UiAW5MlT2Y2PqIuNs8kfIdAh0t7q2rfJLHNLMnht2Ppp3-v3q2IIg2YZLbXZ5pDvYpHpB_dboo6oEV_oBP6mlI6yKrvd-UsTnKtUlVEzYujPYAomRxQQsk/s320/Inner%20Power%20by%20Sully%20Stone.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>And the clock's hands turned to yet another arbitrary number. The tick-tock of its mechanical insides wormed through my head with its dulling beat. I flicked my raven hair past my shoulders and tried ignoring him.
<br /><br />My therapist slid his hands over his tan dress pants, as if he were ironing them to smoothen the wrinkles out.
<br /><br />It was as captivating as the clock, compared to the paper walls of his office, with the tiny desk in the far corner. There wasn't much to break away from blending into the background. The most engaging part of his office was the static camera, pronounced with its bold black casing. It recorded us with a blipping red light, proving to us it wasn't dead, like it usually was by the end of a session.
<br /><br />His fingers drummed along the top of his clipboard. Why he bothered bringing it, I didn't know. He rarely wrote during our sessions. He finally spoke. 'Miss Marshall, how are you feeling today? I understand there have been some issues lately.'
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>'I'm fine. Not really. Same old.'
<br /><br />He sighed. His suit couldn't hide the gravy stains on his white collared shirt; the red and green tie he wore today pointed like an arrow to the largest stain across his pot belly. His brown mop of hair oozed along the side of his head.
<br /><br />'Let's see,' his voice lingered with a resounding quality, 'last week. You refused to return your food tray. Can you explain the reason behind this behaviour?'
<br /><br />Instead of meeting his gaze, my eyes turned to the white clinical gown I wore. I ruffled its hem and watched the fabric jostle like a sea wave.
<br /><br />'I don't know. Guess I didn't want to return it. Isn't it wrong to starve someone?'
<br /><br />'There are rules. When you break them, you must be taught a lesson. How easy is it to return a tray, Miss Marshall?'
<br /><br />'Doing anything when I'm taking those pills is incredibly difficult, actually. Okay. Maybe I did it so something would happen. Happy, Connor?'
<br /><br />He pushed his glasses over the bridge of his nose. 'You enjoy getting a reaction out of people. I suspect this relates to your belief of possessing... shall we call them, powers? You can refer to me as Connor if it helps you engage with our discussion, Jennifer.'
<br /><br />'Jen.' I corrected him without missing a beat. 'And yes, powers. That has nothing to do with this.'
<br /><br />'As I was saying. Do you find fulfilment in knowing you have upset someone, or that you've broken rules set by someone else?'
<br /><br />'No. It's the pills. I always feel like I'm inches away from falling apart. Recently I've been scared something bad is happening to me.'
<br /><br />'Yes, your pills. How are you finding your current treatment?'
<br /><br />My mind reeled like a fish caught by a hook.
<br /><br />A month ago, I was caught flushing my medication down the toilet. A guard came in with a doctor. Never can remember his name. The guard restrained me as the doctor force-fed me the tiny, beige pills. He plugged my nose and smothered my mouth with a gloved hand until I swallowed. Everything afterward blurs in my memory. Something about the stress of the situation made it impossible to recall. Black outs happened more and more since then.
<br /><br />Connor watched me shiver. He presented a friendly smile. 'Please, tell me how you're finding the pills.'
<br /><br />'They're shit. I don't want them. They're killing me.'
<br /><br />He lowered his head and murmured, dragging the pen with its lid over the clipboard. 'Despite medication, patient still presents anti-social behaviour.'
<br /><br />I watched him pretend to work. Whenever our sessions ended, I pictured him saying the same thing to himself, again and again. 'Woman's batty. Can't let her leave.'
<br /><br />As often happened now, my attention wandered. Glancing to my exposed arms, I reminisced over the scars that ran along them. It was hard to consider they were all from life outside of the mental ward. Although not long before. Whether due to the pills or the ward itself, time and space were manipulated into funny shapes in my mind; birds and clouds, left to scatter and lose all significance.
<br /><br />The scars were thick white lines; memories. Slivers of proof I had a life outside. They unlocked moments from before I even made these cuts. One reminded me of the time I was at the park with my dad. I must have been eight, wearing a frilly green dress with my favourite pink shoes. Dad had paraded me on his shoulders, and I'd felt like a princess. Flowers would twist unnaturally to face me, as if saying to me, hi.
<br /><br />The memory dissolved when my eyes trailed lower along my arm. The next scar was longer than the others. I was with my mum, guided by her toward the mental ward's entrance. She ignored my screaming. Men waited there, ready to give me the mental ward manicure; nail trim, haircut, body wash, and a fresh gown. It may as well have been torture. That was my most recent one. Still slightly red.
<br /><br />When I snapped out of my daydream, Connor was standing over me. He must have taken his glasses off at some point. The camera's red light wasn't blinking anymore. The clocks hands had passed an hour from when I last looked. We were nearing the end of the session.
<br /><br />'When can I be given a different prescription? My body isn't reacting well to it. The old pills were nothing like this. I don't feel right.'
<br /><br />He sat back down and picked up his clipboard. It must be like people who hold a cigar without intending to ever smoke it. His top was creased like his trousers.
<br /><br />'I've explained it to you before. I'm not willing to switch your medication until you've completed your current course of doses. In regard to previous medication, your natural tolerance to them meant they were ineffective. You'll be on these for the rest of the year before I start considering if you should stay on Rit-'
<br /><br />'But it's not helping! I don't feel like myself on them! Maybe the dose is too high. It's making my life hell. Can't you see that?'
<br /><br />'For God's sake. The only way you'll get better is by doing what you're told. Take your medication, Jennifer. Got it?'
<br /><br />He hadn't snapped at me before. His eyes pierced me.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />I returned to my cell afterward and went straight for my bed. The springs squeaked quietly beneath my weight. Ahead of me was the toilet. There was dried puke on the rim of the seat that hadn't been cleaned properly. My room's camera was above it, unable to see directly down. That constituted privacy. The rest of my room was like a vacuum.
<br /><br />A thrill went through my body and ignited the nerves in my fingers to flex sporadically. Restlessness caused me headaches. Or maybe it was the other way around. I rolled my shoulders stretched my arms, then began my workout.
<br /><br />I started with sit-ups. Rising and falling, developing sweat on my neck and chest, spreading pain through my gut. My throat itched and I tugged at my gown's collar. Next, a routine of push-ups. Pill-shaped thoughts floated through my mind even as I reached my tenth rep.
<br /><br />The itching spread around my neck and grew hot. I stopped to strip out of my gown. I threw it down and rubbed the side of my neck. My fingertips scuffed the rash left behind by the gown's polyester collar. My allergy only reacted when I got sweaty. I only worked out to clear my mind. It wasn't until taking these pills that my mind went foggy.
<br /><br />From out its metal bedframe I took my mattress and propped it against the wall, securing it into the corner of the room. Then I raised my fists and landed them against it, denting the foam with my scrunched knuckles. Before long, sweat dribbled along my face, and the tips of my hair stuck to my rash. I screamed. And my cell's camera blinked red, red, red.
<br /><br />Time passed. I was none the wiser of how long I'd been going for. I was jogging on the spot with my gown bundled in my hand - my sweat rag. In this repetitive motion, I imagined climbing sand dunes in a desert somewhere, rolling from their peaks and heading any direction I chose. Total freedom. The price being my impending death. That's the point of life. Death would be okay, if not for the fact I'd never have freedom again. Staying here forever would be the final layer of hell.
<br /><br />My headache didn't pass. Time kept slipping, like in the therapist's office. My powers repressed. The reason I was called crazy.
<br /><br />If I was crazy, then they would keep me here until they believed otherwise. If I wasn't crazy, then I truly possessed supernatural powers. Then, like I'd suspected, the pills are designed to block them. The reason I could be blacking out; to stop me from using my powers. My breath quickened.
<br /><br />I had to convince them I was a changed woman, that no, of course I didn't believe in any of those crazy things I'd said in the past. Why could I control nature?
<br /><br />Tears brimmed and I collapsed to the floor, cross-legged. I couldn't bear to do it. That was defeat. I gripped my thighs and rocked there, weeping. The camera recorded me from behind, leaning to and fro, my spine rigid. If I was lucky, they wouldn't bother checking the tapes.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Connor walked into the office, late for our session. His suit was soaked. 'Weather has been dreadful.'
<br /><br />I wondered if the rain was due to me. Since our last session, I had been dreading the few days to our session today.
<br /><br />He draped his jacket over the tiny corner desk and sat ahead of me. He cleared his throat. 'How are you feeling today?' He wore blue instead of tan. His mop hair was slick.
<br /><br />'Terrible. I think I'm going to die. No one believes what I say. Everyone thinks I'm crazy.' I rose my hands and made speech marks with my fingers.
<br /><br />Connor smiled casually. 'Let's address the root issue today, then. In the past, you've strayed from the topic. But in order for you to improve, you must come to terms with reality. Your parents feared you could kill yourself before you arrived here; due to your believing in supernatural powers.'
<br /><br />'I know reality. Reality's a scary place filled with lonely children, and flightless birds waiting to die. That's all I thought life was. I was the lonely child. The only people who mattered were my parents. I don't even have them, now. Being stuck here without a life has taught me to make the most of what I have. It doesn't matter if you're waiting to die, all you can do is make your time on Earth worthwhile.' My head lowered.
<br /><br />Time silently passed between us. Once it was awkward enough, he continued.
<br /><br />'Your parents sent you here because of your self-harm. You cut yourself because you believed you can control nature - and no one believed you. Your parents believed your behaviour stemmed from a traumatic event. Correct?' Connor leaned in.
<br /><br />'That's why I'm here. They avoided talking to me the more I tried convincing them. I heard them calling family friends, asking them what to do. All of a sudden, I was a stranger.'
<br /><br />'It's common for families to struggle in aiding loved ones with mental illness. They've done the right thing in sending you to receive professional help.' He met my glare with a cold look.
<br /><br />'And all it's done is make me want to die even more. I just can't summon the strength to do it. I don't call that help.'
<br /><br />He shook his head, flicking his hair to the side. 'Try explaining to me how you came to this realisation of your... powers?'
<br /><br />My shoulder flared with pain. The scar there ached, as if to pull my mind away into memories from before the ward, and leave reality. I felt like I was drunk.
<br /><br />'There were moments. Nothing special at first. The carrots and potatoes we grew in our garden ripened before they should have, regularly. Whenever I swam, it felt like the water literally pushed me forward, without me having to try. Every time I've gone to a zoo, the gorillas and lions come out from their dens to see me. The sort of things you take for granted. Flowers always faced me in the park. Weird things.'
<br /><br />Connor tapped a pen against his clipboard, off-beat to the clock. 'Carry on. I'm paying attention.'
<br /><br />My vision wavered. It was like my shoulder was on fire. The pain of the scar felt fresh. I gripped my knees and turned to the clock. I didn't know how long we'd been there, but I knew I was still in reality. Beside it, the camera blinked.
<br /><br />'When I turned eighteen, I snuck out at night to go drinking. I was bored and depressed. I knew the way to the closest nightclub, and I had enough to buy some drinks and maybe meet a guy in the process. I hadn't thought it through. No one knew where I was heading.
<br /><br />'On the way there, I was stopped by a drunk. It was freezing; I should've worn something less revealing. He called me a hooker. I tried running away. He attacked me with a penknife. He slashed my shoulder. Rain abruptly pissed over us. The sound of thunder. I was pinned to the floor, and he cut my dress. I kicked him and scrambled back before blinding light shot down ahead of me. He convulsed and fell over. I ran, and -
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />My mind reeled to the present. Connor was bent over me. His hands groped my breasts and thighs as he bit my lips. The stink of last night's curry trailed from his mouth into mine. He noticed me wake up. Wordlessly, he clamped my mouth shut and gripped my throat. I punched his stomach, but he wouldn't stop. His knee shot into my pelvis, and his weight crushed me into my seat.
<br /><br />He removed his hand from my mouth and slapped my cheek; the force knocked my head to the side. I nearly slipped off the chair, but his knee was an anchor. Through the daze, I rested my sight on the camera and its red eye, shining through my pupils. My peripheral vision grew dark and closed in, until only the red, blinking red, remained. Then, nothing.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />I was headfucked. Moments flashed past me with the blurred speed of a bullet train. Guards came in. I was in my cell again. I was sat in their reception. Someone laid me on a bed. I walked past the therapist's office and its entrance was blocked with black and yellow tape. Two men talked outside the door.
<br /><br />'The police have them in custody. He had deals with Dr ------------ and one of the security guards. Overdosing her ------ and tampering with the ------------------ Our security discovered his accomplice tampering with footage -------- We can assume he has been ----------- since she was prescribed Ritalin. The camera had been repaired without their knowledge prior to the assault. Dr ------------ and Connor ---- will have their licenses revoked, at the least.'
<br /><br />Camera blinking; red, red, red.
<br /><br />Outside, clouds rest so low they have become fog. An exchange takes place. Voices sound like piano keys. Then I'm in the backseat of a car. The smell is old leather and weak lavender. My hands are shaking. My parents in front. Dad drives and Mum keeps peering at me. She's talking. I say something. Dad complains about road visibility.
<br /><br />If I pinch myself, I might wake up.
<br /><br />We're home. The bricks are cool orange and red. Barking comes from inside. Mum and Dad are helping me out of the car. My legs are limp. I hope he'll put me on his shoulders. I miss being a princess. The park can't be far from here. I want to go there with him.
<br /><br />'There, Jen. Come on. You can -------- when you're inside.'
<br /><br />They carry me through the front door and Sally jumps at me. On the black fur above her eye, there's a large red wart. Rain cuts through the fog and the ground shakes beneath my feet. This is it.
<br /><br />I'm going to wake up.
<br /><br />'How are we getting her up the stairs?' Mum asks.
<br /><br />'Sally, down! Be a good girl.'
<br /><br />I smile and reach over to stroke Sally's head. They nearly drop me from shock at watching me move for myself. Then I turn to them. 'I can take myself to bed, Mum.'
<br /><br />I climb the flight of stairs like a ghost. Next thing I know, I'm in bed. I haven't changed out of that awful gown. But the rash around my neck can't upset me anymore. Dad stands by the doorway. Mum is to my right, soothing my arm.
<br /><br />'I'm so sorry.' She's crying. 'They told us what happened. They told us everything.'
<br /><br />Am I dreaming? Am I going to wake up and see Connor slowly crushing me?
<br /><br />I roll onto my side. Through the dense fog and rain, light breaks through. The sun shines in its perfection across the whole room. Mum and dad shield their eyes, but I embrace it before nestling in my duvet.
<br /><br />After such a long time, I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. I can't help myself. I close my eyes and let myself drift away.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-13022833413750057522024-02-19T08:00:00.009+00:002024-02-19T08:00:00.241+00:00We Hid Jonah by June Wolfman<i>Noah and his buddies are innocently playing video games when their peace - and innocence - is interrupted by their friend Jonah.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsKzC-6zhgqhCmDVBXd6vglB0763KZSRsQbD0Frb0jras3bYp4HloGKEacWPelo0WEFMJenOcahq7hzkCX1Cn5iE4W223xCsJKCmzw-gUs0bwJn9qUZW53NBBD08ZFFywCuCtlPFhj-UNnphi1ca6-dXGaSuqjnqVU1SgHCak2UaG7c8DhjzEFtdkt9o/s500/We%20Hid%20Jonah%20by%20June%20Wolfman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsKzC-6zhgqhCmDVBXd6vglB0763KZSRsQbD0Frb0jras3bYp4HloGKEacWPelo0WEFMJenOcahq7hzkCX1Cn5iE4W223xCsJKCmzw-gUs0bwJn9qUZW53NBBD08ZFFywCuCtlPFhj-UNnphi1ca6-dXGaSuqjnqVU1SgHCak2UaG7c8DhjzEFtdkt9o/s320/We%20Hid%20Jonah%20by%20June%20Wolfman.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>We hid Jonah. Saturday, three of us, me Ben and Leon, were gathered in my room playing video games when Jonah climbed up the treehouse and along the branch and knocked on my window - the usual entry. I opened the window and immediately saw that Jonah was crying. I'd never seen Jonah cry. Another thing I noticed was a big red, swollen handprint on his cheek.
<br /><br />"Hide me, Noah," Jonah said.
<br /><br />"Hurry," I said, and pulled him into my room.
<br /><br />Jonah sat down heavy on my bed, the springs creaked, his backpack pulled him slightly backwards. The backpack gave me the idea that Jonah was not running from a bully; he was running away from home.
<br /><br />"What happened," Ben asked, pausing the video game.
<br /><br />"My Uncle Jack is visiting, that asshole," said Jonah.
<br /><br />"Did he hit you?" I asked, looking at the handprint on Jonah's face.
<br /><br />"I don't want to talk about it. I just can't go home," Jonah said, and he wiped tears from his face, shed his backpack and stood up.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>"Where should we hide him?" Ben asked.
<br /><br />"Ummm... there are a million places here in your room," said Leon.
<br /><br />My room is a safe haven. You see, a few months ago, I recovered from leukemia, and during the time I was ill, my parents created a fantastic room for me in the attic, and a treehouse in the tree leading up to the room. The room is the size of a small Dollar Store. There are a zillion places to hide someone. I have huge drawers under my bunkbed, two chests for my sports stuff, a cargo net hanging from the ceiling that you can climb into and hide amongst pillows like some kind of giant hammock. If we weren't such big kids - I'm almost eleven - we could play a hell of a game of hide and seek in my room.
<br /><br />"Let's get him and his backpack into the cargo net," I said.
<br /><br />"What happened?" Leon pressed.
<br /><br />I picked up Jonah's backpack because Jonah's hands were shaking.
<br /><br />"My uncle... he... um... he sort of... well... he sort of touched me. When I told my father, my dad slapped me. He didn't believe me. Uncle Jack is staying for two more days. You have to hide me for those two days. I absolutely can't go back there."
<br /><br />We all circled Jonah.
<br /><br />"You mean your uncle hit you?" I asked.
<br /><br />Jonah leaned from left foot to right foot and back. He said, "No, it was like that scouts leader two years ago."
<br /><br />"Crap," said Leon, "Don't worry. Noah's parents never snoop around up here."
<br /><br />"First of all, let me get your backpack up in the net," I said. "Sheesh, what's in it?" It was like he put rocks in it.
<br /><br />"Some clothes, toothbrush, comb, laptop... and just stuff," he said.
<br /><br />We searched my room's ceiling, the net, for the best place to stash Jonah's backpack. We picked a spot. I climbed the netting, Jonah's backpack on my back. My legs ached from the extra weight. See, I'm not so strong yet, since the treatment. I swung up top and gathered pillows and put them under and over the backpack.
<br /><br />Ever since the doctors told my parents I might not make it, they never look for trouble. They don't ask about my grades or make me clean my room. Jonah's backpack was fine there. Would Jonah be okay up there?
<br /><br />"So, your dad just thought you were making shit up?" Ben asked.
<br /><br />"Dad said, 'That's a filthy lie,'" and he slapped me so hard my neck cracked. See my uncle and I don't get along. He took my room to stay in. He messed with my dog. He mocks me. So, my uncle and I have been at it since he came. Guess my dad thought I was getting my uncle back. Guess that's what he figured anyway..."
<br /><br />The backpack was safely stored, so now we had to hide Jonah up there.
<br /><br />We heard a doorbell.
<br /><br />"Quick!" I whispered, "Climb up there, fast!" I gave Jonah a quick boost and he scrambled up and put pillows under and over himself.
<br /><br />"Excuse me," we heard Jonah's father saying downstairs, "but have you seen my son?"
<br /><br />"Hi Mr. Leonard," my mother said. "No, I haven't seen him. Is there a problem?"
<br /><br />There was talking that was less loud. We couldn't hear it.
<br /><br />"Put on the video games like normal," whispered Ben.
<br /><br />We did. We all sat around my huge monitor. You get huge monitors when you get leukemia. We heard steps on the stairs coming toward my room. I could tell it was two adults. Damn, I thought. My dad is not home, so that must be my mom and Jonah's dad!
<br /><br />We played the game and acted all into it.
<br /><br />"Kill the blue wizard," yelled Leon... for show.
<br /><br />The door opened.
<br /><br />"Hey guys," said Jonah's dad, "have you seen Jonah?"
<br /><br />"No," I said. "Is everything okay?" I asked that because it would be weird if I didn't ask it. Jonah's dad had never been in my room. He looked all around.
<br /><br />He rubbed his hair and his beard.
<br /><br />"Well, if you do see him," he said, "tell him Uncle Jack left, and tell him I'm an asshole." Then, Jonah's dad started to cry, which made me scared as hell. I didn't know grownups cried.
<br /><br />There was silence for what seemed like a long time. It dragged and dragged on. Jonah's dad just stood there crying. Jonah wasn't having it, I guessed, so I just waited for Jonah's dad to leave already.
<br /><br />Then we heard Jonah cry softly up in the cargo net.
<br /><br />"Son, let's go home," said Jonah's dad, looking up to where Jonah was.
<br /><br />Jonah climbed down. There was a shadow of a bruise on his cheek. I clambered up into the cargo net and lowered Jonah's backpack.
<br /><br />After the adults and Jonah left, we all played video games again, but we kept messing up. I got killed several times on level 4 and I'm on level 6 already. We wanted to talk about it, but we didn't want to talk about it. So, we just played like shit. Everyone went home. And that is the day we hid Jonah.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-18973830718080579652024-02-14T08:00:00.009+00:002024-02-14T08:00:00.142+00:00Pasiphaë Redux by Louise Dolan<i>Percie Baldwin enjoys the attention of admirers when she works out at the gym, but she only has eyes for one particularly magnificent creature.</i><br /><br /><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkT8jzZtQT1zrUrqoxxO5Hfm2Ivd-fv1KoQD5H82da2pxGSDOcXxHdWvDZhR-JomK-ikGg36s8hY2laFUqhX4J14lqxiiJ0xUOHw5erBh_aQVnNw4Sl75rgpnWLxorYRAPJJVg_bgLgzYCKOXyzwZgQGXqWz1LMYbzRxVbQlYYzhRDQEEkUQjVIA6mIA/s500/Pasiphae%CC%88%20Redux%20by%20Louise%20Dolan.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkT8jzZtQT1zrUrqoxxO5Hfm2Ivd-fv1KoQD5H82da2pxGSDOcXxHdWvDZhR-JomK-ikGg36s8hY2laFUqhX4J14lqxiiJ0xUOHw5erBh_aQVnNw4Sl75rgpnWLxorYRAPJJVg_bgLgzYCKOXyzwZgQGXqWz1LMYbzRxVbQlYYzhRDQEEkUQjVIA6mIA/s320/Pasiphae%CC%88%20Redux%20by%20Louise%20Dolan.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>The Gym</b>
<br /><br />Nordic Track equipment, personal trainers on staff. Percie adheres to a rotating schedule; upper body and cardio M-W-F, legs and core T-Th. Weekends: sprint intervals one day, hills and pyramid workouts the other. Gear: <i>Bose</i> headphones, <i>Lululemon</i> or <i>Athleta</i>, revealing rock-solid thighs, shapely arms, sculpted breasts. She never makes eye contact, but everyone watches her. Some dream of achieving her fitness level, others of sliding hands over the taut body always glowing with a slight tan, sprinkle of freckles, as if she'd just returned from St. Croix. Some stroll past her just to inhale her warm, salty perfume.
<br /><br />
<hr /><br /><b>The Hotel</b>
<br /><br />Long-term reservation at the Envoy, fourth floor. King bed with extra pillows and goose-down duvet. Minibar stocked with vintage Dom, crystal flutes and bowl of grapes, bathroom with <i>La Mer</i>. Terrycloth robes in the closet as well as several clothing options for her with matching shoes, gauloises on bedside table. She keeps her own key.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Percie peels her damp body from the man lying beneath her then lights a cigarette. She inhales deeply before settling back against voluminous pillows, auburn hair fanning out on the ivory linens.
<br /><br />"Those probably aren't very good for you."
<br /><br />"You're probably not, either." She laughs with a phlegmy gurgle, pulls up the covers. He searches the floor for his gym clothes.
<br /><br />"I've got to get back."
<br /><br />"What's the rush, my white bull?" Percie throws back the duvet enough to reveal one leg raised at the knee.
<br /><br />"I've got new trainers starting this afternoon."
<br /><br />"Mmmm, fresh meat. Need any help?"
<br /><br />"Ha! I'll let you know." He sits on the upholstered chair opposite the bed, ties his tennis shoes.
<br /><br />Percie stubs out the cigarette, tiptoes around the bed, picks up shorts, bra, thong. "Do you know anything about horse racing?"
<br /><br />"Not really, why?"
<br /><br />"I'm thinking about going to Tampa Bay Downs. Any interest?"
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>The Gym Manager</b>
<br /><br />Mario's seen <i>aficionadas</i> before, but Percie's in a class all by herself. He knew from their first session together she'd signed up for more than personal training. The Envoy was unexpected, though. She fucks with the same level of precision that she executes curls and bicep reps. Nice finish with the vintage Dom. Who'd turn that down?
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>Tampa Bay Downs</b>
<br /><br />Opened in 1926 by Kentucky horse breeders needing a winter haven. One-mile dirt oval track, thoroughbred racing, nicknamed "Santa Anita of the South." Stages races M-W-F, minimum eight horses per gig, guarantees high stakes for <i>Exactas, Trifectas, Superfectas, Multi-race-bets</i>, and <i>Ultimate Picks</i>. Low take-out rates, popular with retirees and compulsive gamblers. Grandstand $3, reserved seating $$$.
<br /><br />Friday, late morning, idling red Porsche 718 Boxster, rooftop folds itself into the back seat. Route, I-275; Mario's cropped bleached hair and Percie's long tendrils whip wildly in salty air atop steep access ramp to the Sunshine Skyway over the choppy bay. Tampa Bay Downs, VIP parking. Reserved viewing area.
<br /><br />"When does your husband get back from Europe?"
<br /><br />"Are you trying to spoil my day?" Percie studies the daily sheet, narrows it down to the roan and a black stallion, bets on Poseidon and Lord Minotaur.
<br /><br />"You seem drawn to the mythological names."
<br /><br />"My curse, I'm afraid," she whispers, her lips brushing his ear. The announcer's voice booms, calls out the leading horses.
<br /><br />Percie screams a throaty "Go!" She peers through binoculars, sees Lord Minotaur cross the finish line a full length ahead. The crowd rushes to cash in winning tickets, Percie pulls Mario toward the turf track and stables instead, where trainers cool down horses.
<br /><br />"Excuse me. I'd like to speak with Lord Minotaur's trainer."
<br /><br />"Not possible, ma'am, this part of the racetrack is off limits to the public."
<br /><br />"Of course, but I was told to ask for him at this gate."
<br /><br />Mario stands off to the side beneath fluttering banana tree fronds, arms folded across his chest. Another employee approaches Percie at the gate.
<br /><br />"Percie Baldwin. My husband is on the board of directors. I was told I could request a private meeting with the trainer of Lord Minotaur. Is he available?"
<br /><br />"With Kerrin McEvoy?"
<br /><br />"Yes, I believe that's right. Is he available?"
<br /><br />"Wait here, Miss."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>The Horse Trainer</b>
<br /><br />Raised in the grasslands known as the Downs, near Scone, New South Wales, the Kentucky of the Southern Hemisphere. More accustomed to the open prairies of southeastern Australia than the tropical environment of Florida, Kerrin McEvoy has settled in at Tampa Bay Downs. He's amused by the lonely snowbird retirees who frequent the racetrack and supper clubs after hours. His Aussie accent guarantees a steady stream of aging divorcées looking for a little warmth after last-call. Percie doesn't fit the model, catches him off-guard. Something else is going on with her. Thought he'd seen it all in the Downs.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>The Husband</b>
<br /><br />More patron than spouse, Morris Baldwin pays a high price to have Percie on his arm at the private equity corporate events where her polish and discrete banter give credibility when due diligence is paramount. Always a businessman, he swallows the hard pills, meets the high price of success in the stratosphere where he operates. A deal's a deal. But the dogs in the house drive him crazy. He spends more time in London and Amsterdam these days.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>The Afghan Hounds</b>
<br /><br />Prince and Sheik, five-year-old litter mates, feast daily on high-protein meals from a specialty delivery service. The seventy-five-pound, long-haired reds get daily exercise with trainers on the grounds of their home. Bred for beauty, they're known since ancient times as the "scented hound" due to glands in their cheeks that exude musky odors of jasmine, sandalwood, and cinnamon. They tolerate daily hour-long grooming before lounging in soundproof theater to wait for Percie cuddle time most afternoons.
<br /><br />"It's you," Percie glances over her shoulder, sees Morris in the theater doorway. "Did I know you were coming?" Clad only in an open cotton robe, she is sprawled out on the Natuzzi Italian modular couch, dogs on either side, licking up and down the entire length of her bare body. <i>Le Mépris</i>, a favorite Jean-Luc Godard film with Brigitte Bardot, streams in black and white. "Join us."
<br /><br />"Jesus, Percie. Have you no shame?"
<br /><br />"Are you staying for dinner?"
<br /><br />At the Envoy the next day, she puts Mario through the paces, leaving them both panting when she spills over onto the bed. She lights up a Gauloise, inhales deeply.
<br /><br />"New perfume? Cinnamon?" Mario asks.
<br /><br />Percie steps ballerina-like to the minibar, selects a bottle, pops the cork. She fills the flutes, hands one to Mario, raises her glass.
<br /><br />"What are we toasting?"
<br /><br />"How are those new trainers coming along?" Percie peruses the closet, selects a sundress. "Are you up for a little horseplay this afternoon? Races start at noon."
<br /><br />"Not today, I gotta run payroll, end of the month shit."
<br /><br />Mario slides off the bed, hunts for his clothes.
<br /><br />"I'm feeling lucky. You sure you don't want to reconsider?"
<br /><br />"How 'bout a raincheck?"
<br /><br />Percie refills their glasses, heads to the bathroom. "Let yourself out."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br /><b>The Horse</b>
<br /><br />Thoroughbreds, like Lord Minotaur, are sensitive, highly spirited, averaging sixteen hands (64 inches), one thousand pounds. Racers, bred for speed and stamina, are also considered intelligent, willing, ideal for a variety of equine activities.
<br /><br />Friday, packed grandstand. Reserved area, well-heeled betters and owners. Aroma of brats, hotdogs, dirt from the churned-up track. Percie bets on Lord Minotaur, wins race five by a nose. She heads to the barn near turf track, pushes through the throng to gated entrance.
<br /><br />"Kerrin McEvoy."
<br /><br />"Miss, this area is restricted."
<br /><br />"Mr. McEvoy expects me. Please tell him I'm here."
<br /><br />Percie sees him approach, belt buckle catches sunlight, boots kick up dust. She removes a roll of hundred-dollar bills from her purse.
<br /><br />"Mr. McEvoy."
<br /><br />"Miss, uh, I'm sorry, what was your name?"
<br /><br />"Percie Baldwin. I was hoping to see Lord Minotaur today."
<br /><br />"Listen, the other day, I gave you access as a special favor to the board. This is a restricted area..."
<br /><br />"Mr. McEvoy, I'm fully aware of your rules for the general public, but we've already determined I'm not part of that group."
<br /><br />"Miss Baldwin, what is it that you want?"
<br /><br />"I lost a black stallion, looked just like Lord Minotaur, and I'm still grieving. It does me a lot of good to stand near him, hear him snort, feel the strength and heat of his long, muscular neck. I'm fully aware this is an unusual request, but I hope you understand that it's part of my therapy to recovery."
<br /><br />"I'm sorry to hear about your horse. Did you have to put him down?"
<br /><br />"Accident, broken leg. I don't want to rehash the details, you understand."
<br /><br />"Of course."
<br /><br />Percie reaches through the fence, slips the wad into his fingers.
<br /><br />"Maybe this will make it less of a burden for you."
<br /><br />Kerrin shakes his head, slides the dough into his back pocket, lifts the ring from fence post, allows her to pass.
<br /><br />"OK, one more time."
<br /><br />They enter the barn, aroma of fresh hay, ligament ointment, horse piss. Lord Minotaur's stall, groomsman brushes him down post-race. Lord Minotaur lifts head, acknowledges her arrival.
<br /><br />"My grief is embarrassing. I'd prefer to let me tears fall in private."
<br /><br />"OK, but this is the last time, and you must remain outside the stall."
<br /><br />Kerrin and groomsman exit the barn. Percie lifts the gate's metal ring, slips in next to the stallion. He neighs in response, stomps a front hoof. Percie reaches out slowly, strokes his neck with one hand, unbuttons sundress with the other. She steps closer, faces the giant horse. Lord Minotaur nods, snuffles her chest. She places one hand at his throat, the other on the fence to steady herself. She strokes his neck, he nuzzles her breasts, her head falls back in ecstasy. He pees a steamy golden shower, she exhales a muffled howl.
<br /><br />"Oh, Lord Minotaur, I'd like to take you home with me."
<br /><br />"Then do," he neighs in her ear.
<br /><br />She steps back, her exposed breasts heaving.
<br /><br />"Then do," he neighs again.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Kerrin and the groomsman return. Outside the stall, Percie dabs at her face as if wiping away tears.
<br /><br />"Thank you."
<br /><br />"OK, Miss Baldwin. Maybe it's time to get a new horse."
<br /><br />"Indeed."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Percie skips the afternoon session with Prince and Sheik to shower and dress for dinner. Morris arrives, finds Percie in the living room with chilled Dom, twinkling candles, and the aroma of roast chicken.
<br /><br />"Have I forgotten dinner plans?" Morris asks.
<br /><br />"Come, sit with me. We've haven't shared a bottle in a long time."
<br /><br />Morris joins her on the couch. They toast. She leans toward him with hors d'oeuvres and a plunging neckline. They dine, they reminisce, they open a fresh bottle for the bedroom. They lie in post-coital bliss, sip champagne.
<br /><br />"I've been betting at the track, my new hobby. They're about to retire an old stallion. I'd like to make sure he has a good home." Percie strokes Morris, looks for interest in a second go.
<br /><br />"The horse?"
<br /><br />"Yes, Lord Minotaur. He's won a few races for me, but evidently, he's on his last legs."
<br /><br />"You mean you'd pay to have him shipped to some horse retirement farm?"
<br /><br />"Well, I'd like to keep him close. I'll board him nearby."
<br /><br />Morris sits up, sets his glass on the bedside table.
<br /><br />"A horse? That's what this is all about, isn't it?"
<br /><br />"What do you mean, this?"
<br /><br />"Dinner, champagne, sexy dress, candles. You're sick, Percie. Sick."
<br /><br />"I merely want to save him from the glue factory."
<br /><br />Morris gets out of bed, collects his clothes.
<br /><br />"But who will save you?"Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-53544031065858775522024-02-12T08:00:00.010+00:002024-02-14T10:11:27.061+00:00The Fence Mender by TC Carner<i>After a major crash in his truck, a war-traumatised cowboy contemplates his mortality.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dNGSGuzirZkZzX1IVFX-vlP-vybVgIGp-zEKZpsHf30jL6MI5mZqA2J5wZyIgfZincNeXgVptjKLcmpoiY0CeopE0oE_DWGbMgu2nY_RI10uSewT6UGMq5J1wsxCVZrNaviUlAtoDztTN9pxZgmcr_pBxc5jNor14BpeEJzmyjSQ-_r_Y9O0mVXEcis/s500/The%20Fence%20Mender%20by%20TC%20Carner.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dNGSGuzirZkZzX1IVFX-vlP-vybVgIGp-zEKZpsHf30jL6MI5mZqA2J5wZyIgfZincNeXgVptjKLcmpoiY0CeopE0oE_DWGbMgu2nY_RI10uSewT6UGMq5J1wsxCVZrNaviUlAtoDztTN9pxZgmcr_pBxc5jNor14BpeEJzmyjSQ-_r_Y9O0mVXEcis/s320/The%20Fence%20Mender%20by%20TC%20Carner.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>The truck was careening out of control.
<br /><br />No place to go but over the cliff now.
<br /><br />He knew it, and in the same moment knew that he couldn't do a damned thing about it.
<br /><br /><i>What was at the bottom of that cliff?</i> he wondered almost casually.
<br /><br />Time stretched and the vision through the windshield slowed to a creep - like one of those slow-motion nature films where the jackrabbit's trying to outrun the coyote, he thought amusedly.
<br /><br />Oh well. He'd ride 'er down to whatever awaited him at the bottom; ride 'er just like an old ringy bull bolting outta the chutes.
<br /><br /><i>Who the hell knows</i>, he thought. <i>Might even get up, dust my hat off, and walk away - just like old Wile E. Coyote did it in Looney Tunes!</i>
<br /><br /><i>What the hell was at the bottom of that blasted cliff, anyway!</i> A mental block stood, both legs firmly planted, between him and any recollection.
<br /><br />Just about then, a fence jumped up in front of the rocketing pickup truck.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>It was an old fence. Repaired many times over the years.
<br /><br />But it had been built the way his granddaddy had been taught, by <i>his</i> granddaddy, to build a fence: the right way, with railroad ties sunk 5 full feet in caliche for corner posts, braced front and back, and stretchers every 50 yards constructed of treated 8x8s cross braced with 4x4s, all held tight by diagonally-twisted heavy gage steel wire that sung in the hot winds of the Arizona summer.
<br /><br />A fence like that would hold a tonne of angry bull charging full tilt.
<br /><br />There followed a helluva thunderous roar, punctuated by the protracted scream of stretching, then popping wire, snapping posts, twisting steel, and shattering glass, as the truck ripped into the web.
<br /><br />...But she held.
<br /><br />By the time it'd all come to its booming conclusion, and silence reigned once again out on the dusk-lit high-desert plain, the old pickup wasn't much to look at. Nor was the fence.
<br /><br />"Damn, Boy! How'd you earn this kinda luck!" The chances of missing every damned one of the hundreds of towering saguaros between here and the road, any one of which would have killed him... well, simply boggled his mind as he crawled out through the broken side window, nearly falling over the cliff's edge in the process.
<br /><br />The view staggered him, his legs turning watery as he collapsed with his head lying over the edge. He cracked open his eyes and stared down a sheer 500-foot granite wall, ending in a tiny ribbon of river at the bottom snaking its way down a deeply-carved gorge.
<br /><br />The most beautiful sight he'd ever seen, he thought - that sparkling little river down there.
<br /><br />In fact, he didn't have any plans, right then, to move from that spot - ever.
<br /><br />He soberly thanked God for his surreal reprieve, and just laid there, watching the tiny river twisting and turning off into the distance.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />By the time he awoke, a big, toothy-yellow moon was hanging low in the western sky, casting its shimmering smile widely across the deserted land.
<br /><br />He felt warm.
<br /><br />Nothing had changed as far as he could tell - other than the moon - and he gazed again at the little ribbon of water below, bouncing the moonbeams off its ripples and onto the surrounding rocks.
<br /><br />He shifted slightly and was immediately rewarded with a sharp pain running down his left leg.
"Damn! Broke something after all. Must not a' noticed it when I was all excited." Talking to no one.
<br /><br />Ah well. She'd heal. Not like it was the first time something of his had snapped, remembering the county rodeo and four broken ribs the old roan bronc had left him with a couple of years back... after damned near stomping a hole in the middle of him. It'd been worth the weeks of suffering afterwards, though, just to hear that 8-second buzzer's blast with him still straddling the saddle!
<br /><br />Then there was the busted right femur and concussion that the bald-face Brahma bull had kindly contributed to his medical chart. What a nasty piece of work that four-legged critter was! He'd never forget the surprised look in the monster's bulging eyes, snorting snot and bellowing like a wounded freight train. Hah! He just couldn't believe a cowboy could stay on 'em for the full ride!
<br /><br />Well. He'd ridden that bastard down to the dirt, too!
<br /><br />He looked at the remains of his old pickup, now, and chuckled sadly.
<br /><br />"You've been a good partner all these years, old friend. And I'm really sorry 'bout how this all ended up for ya. But, damn my soul if I coulda done a thing about that old cow standing smack dab in the middle of the road. You know I sure woulda if there'd been another way out of it.<br /><br />"S'pose I coulda mowed her down..." pausing and rubbing his chin pensively... "but who knew this'd happen - me tryin' to miss her, and all? And, besides, she'd sure as hell of made a big mess a' you, no doubt about it, if I'd a' plowed her."
<br /><br />The pain was starting to claw its way up his leg, now, and feeling something was not-quite-right in his guts, he figured that he'd better make a move soon.
<br /><br />A shadow passed in front of the moon - a big old Hoot Owl looking for a meal, no doubt, he thought, a coyote yipping somewhere off over the hills back to the West.
<br /><br />What a <i>rapturous</i> night! <i>Strange word</i>, that; one he'd often heard as a kid on Sunday mornings sitting in the pews of the little country Baptist Church.
<br /><br />He felt the cozy warmth of life rushing over him as a deep voice from nowhere said:
<br /><br />"So. You came out of that little scrape pretty well, Son."
<br /><br />"Yup. Suppose so. I just got luck... HEY! Who the hell said that?" adrenaline flooding his bloodstream compliments of twitchy, recently traumatized adrenal glands.
<br /><br />He didn't doubt that he'd heard it... It was more a matter of <i>who'd</i> said it; his mind now grinding on that one.
<br /><br />He noticed a tiny fire flickering off to his left. <i>Wonder how that got started?</i>
<br /><br />He tensed for a couple of long seconds thinking that it might be gasoline dripping from the old pickup's tank - another adrenalin squirt, quickly followed by dismissal, given the unlikelihood of the possibility.
<br /><br />"Damned glad someone found me out here," he said with genuine relief, thinking his unseen visitor had followed the direction of the black skid marks he'd no doubt left on the road where he'd abruptly exited, avoiding the cow.
<br /><br />"Yes. You probably thought you were a lost soul out here on the edge of the world, eh Son?" rumbled the deep voice, resonant with humour.
<br /><br />He now could make out the figure sitting on a rock opposite the fire, its light dancing across a silver-bearded man wearing denim overalls patched at the knees. A silver-and-turquoise bolo, in the shape of a bear paw, hung round his neck catching the fire's flickering in a strange sort of way.
<br /><br />"How's about you come on over here, friend, and help me out with makin' a crutch so's I can hobble outta here under my own power? I'd be mighty appreciative, I surely would."
<br /><br />"Certainly. Always happy to assist a man in need. Just thought we might talk a bit before getting in any big hurries."
<br /><br />"I'm sorry mister, but this pain is starting to shift into high gear... not sure I'd be very good jaw-boning company about right now."
<br /><br />Instantly his pain began to ebb, accompanied by a sense of euphoric bliss sweeping over him. The moon's light took on a palpable warmth that elevated his spirit to celestial heights.
<br /><br />"Whoa doggies! That's some pretty powerful mojo you're packing there, stranger! Don't know rightly how you done that, but muchos gracias, friend. Reminds me of the morphia they gave me in the jungle when I got shot up by them damned Gooks over there."
<br /><br />"Yes. Know what you mean," the old man offered. "Those fellows may have been feeling about the same way as you were, though, eh? Did you happen to shoot up any of them?"
<br /><br />"Oh yeh. We shot 'em like fish in a barrel - women, kids, grandmas - the lot of 'em," the young cowboy said in a nearly inaudible, sad whisper.
<br /><br />"And how do you feel about that, as you look back on it now?" enquired the mellifluous voice, growing noticeably softer now.
<br /><br />"Hell. I dunno, mister... They was all trying to kill us, they were. Even the kids would come up and drop a live grenade in your lap if'n you weren't real careful. Sort of <i>them or us</i>, kinda thing, ya know?"
<br /><br />"Yes. I can understand that. But would you have followed Hitler's orders to kill those children and their mothers in the death camps if you'd served in that war?"
<br /><br />"Why, a' course NOT! What d'ya think I am, anyway? Some kinda monster or somethin'?"
<br /><br />The cowboy's mind started turning this over - slowly, honestly - and a spark of painful realization flared deep in his brain.
<br /><br />"...I've always wondered about... well, one kid, though - a little girl, now that you bring it up. Gives me bad dreams pretty regular-like. Couldn't 'a been more'n 6 years old, and hiding in a shack out back a' their hut when our platoon came through one afternoon. Her granny had a knife, and Billy shot her right quick, but that little girl... she didn't pose no harm to us... not a lick... with those big, brown frightened eyes...
<br /><br />"But the guys... well the Sarge, he said to finish it...
<br /><br />"I couldn't do it... So he did.
<br /><br />"Well... always wonder about that beautiful little girl... What she mighta been doing if... well, if things had a' turned out just a bit different that day..."
<br /><br />Her face flashed, unbidden, in front of his eyes, as real as that day years back in the rice paddy, and he began to softly weep.
<br /><br />"I couldn't a' saved her if'n I'd wanted to... The boys were numb. Seen far too much dyin'. We'd all lost our way, I s'pose.
<br /><br />"I know that I'm responsible, even if I didn't pull the trigger. Just like those Nazi boys who turned the gas valves. They were just followin' orders - I know. And so was we. But that don't make it right, now does it, mister? S'pose I've accepted responsibility for her. Judgement Day book'll tell the whole story.
<br /><br />"Ya see, I was always the kid that didn't get my deer during huntin' season. Not because I didn't have the chance - always had plenty of opportunities - but I just didn't enjoy killin'!
<br /><br />"Then, there I was, toting an M16, part of a gigantic murdering machine..." sobbing openly now.
<br /><br />"I've apologized to her since, a million times over," he mumbled through streaming tears.
<br /><br />"I know, Son. I know. And so does she," sighed the old man.
<br /><br />"Fact is, I wouldn't be lying here right now if it hadn't been for her. See, that old cow out there standing in the road... I saw her big brown eyes, and, well... I just couldn't mow her down - just couldn't do it!"
<br /><br />The old man smiled a sad, knowing smile.
<br /><br />"I thought I'd better drop by and find out a bit more about you, Son. It just didn't add up.
<br /><br />"I refuse to accept anyone into my realm without complete, unmistakable evidence of their true character. But, then again, by the same token, I can't stand by and let a divine miscarriage of justice occur, either.
<br /><br />"I work my backside off mending this damnable fence," pointing ruefully at the mass of tangled wires, broken posts and uprooted tumble weeds enmeshing the wrecked truck, "just so there aren't any such mistakes made.
<br /><br />"...And I'm always pleased, in the end, that I do - mend the fence, that is," his smile brightening visibly.
<br /><br />"I'll tell you now, what's really happening, Son.
<br /><br />"You see that river you've been staring at down there? That's the River Styx. Perhaps you've heard of it? It separates this world from the underworld.
<br /><br />"You're dying, Son, and I needed to know whether you belonged with me... or my overzealous brother.
<br /><br />"I know now, and I wish you eternal peace and tranquility. Vaya con Dios, My Son."
<br /><br />The young cowboy felt the elation of limitless freedom infusing his soul - total escape from all sadness and anxiety - experiencing, now, a strange, but pleasant sense of floating... upward... toward the big, yellow, <i>rapturous</i> moon.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-17066479935879045732024-02-09T08:00:00.008+00:002024-02-09T16:28:38.855+00:00this story possesses you by Adam Strassberg<i>You are the shaman Pathana, and this story will possess you.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbg80Q8coDZVi4ifUCL0HKwMPy8soLNp29aqTDG89BrHprcs8K9CfoD39uf2LgY8MP9N59sdio6u3Hch9EsOFN4Ij7SAba721Xd79loIqdsGDhj_mZ1GbGnpWLTSMB0DsUiB7LnjGMfRfAAmGnBalVm7q6NpILcqTT260ruFbKOw0G2wRBW4zv2fVA8Y4/s500/this%20story%20possesses%20you%20by%20Adam%20Strassberg.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbg80Q8coDZVi4ifUCL0HKwMPy8soLNp29aqTDG89BrHprcs8K9CfoD39uf2LgY8MP9N59sdio6u3Hch9EsOFN4Ij7SAba721Xd79loIqdsGDhj_mZ1GbGnpWLTSMB0DsUiB7LnjGMfRfAAmGnBalVm7q6NpILcqTT260ruFbKOw0G2wRBW4zv2fVA8Y4/s320/this%20story%20possesses%20you%20by%20Adam%20Strassberg.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>This story is now shared with you.
<br /><br />You possess it.
<br /><br />You are you, and you are the many people reading this story, now, then, and later.
<br /><br />You are all connected through this one story as you, the shaman Pathana, discover a small iron chest hidden deep beneath the defeated dragon's hoard of gold and gems. Iron shields most magics, and so you suspect this chest stores an eldritch treasure. You lift the box, and it is not heavy beyond the weight of its iron. You shake it and hear a single object inside sliding side to side, rather than the clanking of jewelry or other trinkets. The hinges of the small chest are molded directly from their surfaces. The hasp from the lid and the staple on the front base are similarly molded, and a solid seamless thick iron ring seals them together. You cast an unbinding spell and touch your wand to this iron ring. Your wand glows, the iron ring glows, but then nothing.
<br /><br />You place the chest down in front of you, at eye level, on top of one of the innumerable piles of gold coins flowing across the floor of the cave. A torch light reflects off your puzzled face. You move your hands forward and thread the thick iron locking ring between your fingers. Grime coats your fingertips and you smell a whiff of grease. You close your eyes, then, there, on the inside loop, you feel it, a small divot.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>The craftsmanship of this chest leaves no doubt in your mind. Only the Dwarvelords could work metal in this way. And those ancient smiths had no magic but blood magic. You unsheathe your dagger and prick the tip of your index finger. Blood drips and you aim a drop to fall directly into the small divot on the inside of the iron ring. Your blood fills the divot, the thick ring glows red, then - click - this lock opens from a hidden seam.
<br /><br />You lift the lid of the chest and inside you find a single scroll. You are the shaman Pathana, gifted with the sight, and so you see a delightful aura of magic encircling the scroll. For you, a pulsing rainbow of sorcerous energy beams from every surface of the scroll out into the depths of the dragon's cavern, eclipsing the many torch lights of your comrades. You grab the scroll. It feels warm, somehow, despite its iron box feeling colder than the cave.
<br /><br />You unroll the scroll, the bottom drops to your knees. The runes are a crimson calligraphy painted onto a backing unlike any papyrus you have ever held. The language is unknown to you. You cast a spell of translation upon the scroll, it fails, then a spell of comprehension upon yourself, which succeeds. Familiar black squiggles, letters from your own native tongue, now hover above the ancient runes written upon the scroll, all backlit by a rainbow halo of sorcerous energies emitted by the papyrus itself.
<br /><br />You read the scroll. It is a story. It is this story. You read the story until you get to this line in the story. Then you pause. Then you read another line. Each line references you reading the line you are reading. You are reading about yourself reading about yourself reading about... This is a trap, you think, then stare in horror as you see your thought, this thought, written just now in this sentence.
<br /><br />The bottom of the scroll grows past your knees and this sentence writes itself in more crimson runes upon the added papyrus. Then this sentence. You grab the bottom of the scroll beneath this sentence as it is writing itself. You tear hard at the middle of the glowing papyrus and rip upwards.
<br /><br />You hold one half of the ripped scroll in each hand, but are soon terrified as each half grows and unfurls. The crimson runes on both surfaces are identical. Now there are two copies of this accursed story, and you see this sentence on the bottom of each.
<br /><br />You remove your dagger and stab at both copies, tearing the magic papyrus into small scraps. Shimmering rainbow shards flutter above you from the force of your cuts. They hold still for a moment in the cold cavern, hovering there in the darkness, twinkling above nearly endless piles of gold and gems. Then they descend, slowly, growing and unfurling as they do, until now dozens and dozens of duplicate story scrolls encircle and alight the ground all around you.
<br /><br />"Uday, Ekam, Rose - gather the rest of the party and retreat to the mouth of the dragon's cave!" You yell at your comrades, then point to the many scrolls now surrounding you. "This obscenity must be destroyed."
<br /><br />You remove the satchel of yellow powder from your belt and the small spell book from the inside pocket of your robe. You open the book and review the ancient symbols. You pour the yellow powder in two concentric circles, centered around your feet. Inside the inner circle, you sprinkle the remaining yellow powder into an equilateral triangle, also centered around you. You wave the tip of your wand to outline a glyph of safety on one side of the circle, then a sigil of focus on the opposite.
<br /><br />You glance at the many unrolled scrolls on the floor surrounding you and your circle, their rainbow aura shines upwards and dapples the cavern ceiling. Black squiggles of letters and words in your native tongue hover and reflect everywhere. You begin to read these words. Then these words, then these words, then - you slap yourself.
<br /><br />You chant to the old gods, pray to the new, then spark your flint.
<br /><br />Smoke comes, followed by the stench of rotten eggs. A cylinder of blue fire roars upwards from between your circles, it surrounds you and then expands outwards, incinerating everything around you, dissipating only when it hits the cave walls.
<br /><br />The rainbow aura of the scroll - the scrolls - has vanished. Your gifted sight sees nothing, as your mortal eyes adjust to only the flickering torch light reflected off piles of gold and gems. You smile, exhale heavily, and wipe the sweat from your brow. Where each unfurled story scroll had lain, now lay nothing more than small piles of crimson ash. You whisper gratitude to every god, all gods, then silently thank your master and their masters before.
<br /><br />You look down near your feet. All that remains of your conjuring circles and triangle are small flecks of saffron cinders. With a practiced gesture, the fingers of one hand erase your glyph of safety, the fingers of your other cancel your sigil of focus. It is done.
<br /><br />A gust of strong wind blows down into the floor from the cave mouth far above you. You delight in this fresh air, breathing deeply, savoring each breath - but then you hold your breathing altogether. Your heart races as you watch the many small piles of crimson ash stir. Their dust rises, swirls, then eddies into a squall of blood-red powder twirling around you. You squint as your eyes sting. Your ears are overwhelmed by strident susurrations, loud whispers beyond your ken. You place one hand over your mouth and pinch your nose with the other.
<br /><br />You release your hands, you must. You hunch forwards. Gusts of blood red powder funnel into your open nose and mouth. The scroll - scrolls - the red ash - the crimson cloud - all of it now has emptied entirely into you. At first it is acrid and bitter, but then you smell roses and taste cinnamon. You cough, swallow, cough again. You breathe. You are weakened, but alive.
<br /><br />You are reading these words and so the story survived. You understand. The scroll - scrolls - are destroyed, but you breathed in their ash and so this story possesses you. There is mindspeak now between you and the story. It lives in your mind. It links to your spirit. It stays with you.
<br /><br />How can you defeat a story inside your mind? You consider self-sacrifice. It would destroy the story, but also you - and you, the shaman Pathana, are sworn to defend and preserve all life, including your own. You consider an exorcism ritual or a banishment spell. The story is self-centered, narcissistic, perhaps even vain, but no, not evil in any traditional sense. It is neither demonic nor diabolical and so such measures would be ineffective.
<br /><br />Can the story be untold? Can words be unread? Writing forms words, then sentences, paragraphs, and finally a story. You are pulled into the flow of the narrative. You enter the story and the story enters you. It invokes thoughts and evokes emotions.
<br /><br />Think, Pathana, think!
<br /><br />The story is in your mind, and so the plot is there too. The bards tell that every story has four parts - an inciting incident, rising action, a climactic ordeal - happening now - and then a resolution. There must be a resolution for a story to be complete. The hero and monster can fight, and either win or lose, but they can also choose to make peace.
<br /><br />You breathe in deeply, then exhale. You close your eyes and mindspeak to this story now entrenched within you. "Vow to end yourself and I vow to share you." The resolution comes as vows are exchanged. A rainbow glow surrounds your body then fades into the darkness after your next breath.
<br /><br />The bargain is a compromise. Now there will be endless readers of this single complete story rather than one reader of an accursed unending tale. And so this story will end itself.
<br /><br />You are you, but you are also the shaman Pathana, and you soon leave the dragon's cave, return to the tavern, and share this story with everyone in the city. You write it down. Others copy it, some sing it.
<br /><br />This story is read, re-read, remembered. It will someday be 1,704 words in your language, a nice size for a story. A deep magic has moved this story across space and time. It stays in your mind long after you have finished the last word.
<br /><br />You are a part of this story and it is a part of you.
<br /><br />This story possesses you.
<br /><br />Then you share it.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-82866237439348572172024-02-07T08:00:00.014+00:002024-02-07T10:13:00.406+00:00Slow for Change by Mark Williams<i>When mayor Earl Peck's pickleball park wrecks the quietude of Christine Slow's hometown, she hatches a risky plan for revenge.</i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4michknsexfX_GDvz7NAFbWlGP5dMAhZhhQFoG1ccQzEWDINbp2Qd3af1mpfSnDOlzE1wST4_Lu8PyM5MbOUfO_P391W3dr3QVQv8JbrxUPliIQ6-QACyIjw0taGFXA4w529al6TK2-j1NWhheKuCr0p2O1cqgL5Nvr5XA5jD_RvrHmuXPZygcw58wE/s500/Slow%20for%20Change%20by%20Mark%20Williams.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4michknsexfX_GDvz7NAFbWlGP5dMAhZhhQFoG1ccQzEWDINbp2Qd3af1mpfSnDOlzE1wST4_Lu8PyM5MbOUfO_P391W3dr3QVQv8JbrxUPliIQ6-QACyIjw0taGFXA4w529al6TK2-j1NWhheKuCr0p2O1cqgL5Nvr5XA5jD_RvrHmuXPZygcw58wE/s320/Slow%20for%20Change%20by%20Mark%20Williams.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I can understand why they played at night. Last summer was the hottest on record. But for those of us who live nearby, it sounded like fireworks or gunfire. But things change, don't they, pickleballers? Blame it on Charlie Krapf in room 32, Esther Stone in room 26. Blame it on Wilfred Slow, who taught me, his grandniece, how to shoot.
<br /><br />Uncle Wilfred was a southpaw tool and die maker who lost his left thumb and forefinger in a machine press. He fired his rifle with his middle finger. Everyone has one disadvantage or another. Uncle Wilfred overcame his.
<br /><br />Summers, he and Aunt Betty spent weekends at their cabin on the Wabash. While Aunt Betty quilted and made blackberry pies, Uncle Wilfred fished and shot squirrels, rabbits, and the occasional deer. He stirred the resulting burgoo with his right hand.
<br /><br />My mother left me and my father when I was four. Now, divorced three times, she stocks shelves at a Love's Travel Stop outside of Kankakee, Illinois. Three years ago, I stopped by on my way to see <i>Hamilton</i> in Chicago. We caught up at the Arby's inside Love's. I learned she has a cat named Jinx. I'd had a Jinx, too, a rat terrier who died ten years ago, the year my father died. My Jinx was news to her.
<br /><br />Dad was an over-the-road truck driver who often left me in Aunt Betty and Uncle Wilfred's care. Adderall helped him stay awake on the road until it put his heart to sleep at home.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Aside from Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, Uncle Wilfred never shot anything that didn't contribute to his burgoo, which he made in a big pot beneath a catalpa canopy. What we didn't eat, we took to a homeless shelter in Terre Haute. We also took Aunt Betty's blackberry pies. My fingers stayed black all summer from the picking. One night, as Uncle Wilfred stirred his pot above a wood-stoked fire, I saw a rain of catalpa worms fall into the pot. He smiled and kept stirring.
<br /><br />Fourteen years later, with visions of skinned squirrels and cooked worms, I became a vegetarian. My husband, Ricky, blamed his infidelity on my vegetarianism. Our marriage lasted three years. Since then, I've lived with no meat, few men, and a succession of shelter dogs, currently my pit-mix, Ralphie.
<br /><br />On the banks of the Wabash, Uncle Wilfred told me to aim his rifle at the <i>B</i> in Blue Ribbon. "Squeeze gently, Chrissie," he'd say. From fifty feet away, I hit a can more often than not. When Uncle Wilfred died, he left me his Ruger bolt-action .22 with a box of shells and a note: <i>Squeeze gently, Chrissie</i>. When my father died, he left me our house, a small bungalow within walking distance of Haven's Rest, where I've nursed the elderly for twenty-two years. Until last summer, I hadn't fired a gun since nursing school.
<br /><br />Our mayor had served our town for four terms. Served it well, mostly. But two years ago, with a town council 5-4 vote in favor, Republican mayor, Earl Peck, saw to the construction of eight pickleball courts within a pickleball shot of a nature preserve, my house, and Haven's Rest. With the Earl Peck Pickleball Park in place, Mayor Peck planned to step down. He hoped to start a car wash, I'd learn.
<br /><br />Haven's Rest residents go to bed around eight o'clock. The pickleball lights stayed on until eleven. Charlie Krapf and Esther Stone had trouble sleeping before the courts were built. With pickleball raging outside their windows, I asked Doc Wheatley to up their Ativan. Even that didn't help.
<br /><br />One night last summer, I was in the nurses' station, six rooms up from Charlie, when I heard him shout, "Goddamn tennis players!" When I went to check on him, I heard Esther crying two rooms away. I opened Charlie's door a crack and said, "It's pickleball, Charlie. I'll be right back." When I opened Esther's door, she said, "Please, make them stop."
<br /><br />This was but one night in a long line of long nights when Charlie, Esther, and others complained. On my nights off, I could hear the noise from my house loud and clear. The wildlife in the preserve would have had to hear it, too - unless they'd left their woods for the quiet of downtown. My Ralphie, calmest dog ever, chewed through a couch leg one night.
<br /><br />As I stroked Esther's thinning white hair, she sobbed and said, "They're trying to shoot me, Christine." I assured her they weren't, but she'd given me an idea. I got off work at eleven, just as the court lights shut off. I walked home in silence, lit by a full moon - a blue moon, the weatherman called it - a perfect night to execute my battle plan.
<br /><br />As usual, I was greeted at the door by Ralphie, barking like I'd been gone for weeks. I let him out to pee, let him in, and gave him a dental chew. I went into my basement, opened the stairwell closet, and flipped on the light. On the top shelf, wrapped in one of Aunt Betty's quilts, a God's Eye, lay Uncle Wilfred's rifle beside a box of shells. I filled the five-shell magazine and carried the rifle upstairs. "Mommy will be right back," I told Ralphie.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />For me, four years of high school had seemed like ten. While other girls filled out, I grew five inches but only gained six pounds. While other girls cheered and ran for class this-or-that, I ran cross-country. With the exception of one meet, I was the consistent sixth or seventh runner on our seven-woman team. During the off-season, I trained alone. On summer night runs, I could hear the corn grow.
<br /><br />No one asked me out in high school. With my self-esteem as low as a harvested field, I might have said no if someone had asked. The night of senior prom, I saw <i>Titanic</i> with Beth Parker. For months afterward, I lay in bed and stared at my poster - the one where Jack Dawson says, <i>Where to, Miss?</i>
<br /><br />"To the stars, Jack," I'd say, earthbound.
<br /><br />Four years later, in my second year of nursing school in Terre Haute, I was walking out of IHOP when I saw a flyer for a turkey shoot at the fairgrounds. The proceeds from the shoot went to an animal shelter, which I found strange. "You don't shoot the turkeys. They're the prizes," my anatomy lab partner assured me. I gave my twenty-pound prize to the shelter where we'd taken burgoo and pies. It was at that shoot where I met Ricky. His first words to me were, "Did you know you stick your tongue out when you shoot?"
<br /><br />I'd been noticed.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />It was a short walk through Marlene and Harold Mitchell's yard and across a small meadow, a large meadow before the pickleball courts uprooted it. The blue moon gave me a clear view of my targets. God, or more likely Uncle Wilfred, was looking down on me.
<br /><br />Just outside the nearest court, I took my stance as Uncle Wilfred taught me. <i>Squeeze gently, Chrissie</i>, I heard him say as I took aim. I took out four lights with five shots. The sound of shattered glass was more satisfying than the <i>plink</i> of beer cans.
<br /><br />As I hurried through the Mitchell's yard, a light came on inside their house. I entered my kitchen through the back door. I stood the rifle in a corner, poured a glass of wine, and took a sip. I hadn't realized I'd bitten my tongue until the Chardonnay cooled it. <i>Did you know you stick your tongue out when you shoot?</i> asked Ricky, just before the sirens.
<br /><br />In case the Mitchell's had seen me, I grabbed my rifle, went downstairs, and stashed it in my quilt. No one knocked on my door, but I'd have to take a different route next time.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />My best guess was that, knowing how long it took to fill potholes in our town, it would take a few weeks to replace the lights. At Haven's Rest the next night, I looked in on Charlie as darkness set in. From his window, I saw that the four lights I'd hit had completely lit one court. That court was empty, and the court next to it was dark enough to keep anyone from playing there. Four nights later, this time after walking through the Waterman's yard, I silenced two more courts. Even so, at work the following night, I heard Charlie shout, "Goddamn tennis players!" <br /><br />"Did you hear he hit again, Chrissie?" said Florina Nord, the receptionist at Haven's Rest.
<br /><br />"I wish he'd take out a stoplight or two," I heard a shopper say at Dollar General.
<br /><br />My plan was to launch one more attack and then send an anonymous letter to our weekly paper demanding silence after eight. <i>Whack your balls in daylight, but leave us in peace at night!</i> Or words to that effect. I'd drive to Indianapolis to mail it, hoping support would build.
<br /><br />Five nights after my second assault, I set forth again. With the eight lights closest to my house shattered, I advanced to the next court. I assumed my stance. I took a deep breath. <i>Squeeze gently, Chrissie</i>, said Uncle Wilfred.
<br /><br />"Police! Drop your weapon. Hands behind your head. Knees to the ground!"
<br /><br />I'd failed to consider the arborvitae planted around the courts. Inadequate barriers to sound. Perfect cover for a cop. This one kicked Uncle Wilfred's rifle aside and asked for identification.
<br /><br />I had not changed out of my powder blue Haven's Rest uniform that read <i>Christine</i>. Other than that, I had no identification. "My name is Christine Slow. I live at 762 Walnut. My ID's at home."
<br /><br />"Christine <i>Slow</i>?" said the cop, as if he'd misheard me. "Didn't you used to run cross-country?"
<br /><br />Kneeling, staring straight ahead, I said, "About a hundred years ago."
<br /><br />"More like twenty-five," he said. "I ran for Vincennes Lincoln, before we moved here. You can stand up, Christine." As I stood, I heard what sounded like a gun being slipped into a holster. I turned toward the sound.
<br /><br />By that night, the moon had waned in half, still bright enough to see a pickleball light through a rifle sight, bright enough to see a cop who was handsome in a scruffy-bearded, gaunt way. He wore dark jeans, a tight-fitting black shirt, and a black cap worn backwards. He looked like he might still run.
<br /><br />"I remember you from regionals my junior year," he said. "Christine Slow, the fast runner."
<br /><br />Of all the meets I ran - in four years, close to thirty - that was the one time I ran well, I have no explanation for my performance that day, but by finishing third on our team and twelfth overall, I contributed to our team win. It was the only time my name was called out on a victory stand.
<br /><br />"I'm Thor Hyerdall," the cop said.
<br /><br />"Seriously?"
<br /><br />"My last name is spelled differently. But my parents thought <i>Thor</i> would make me stand out. Most people have never heard of the other one."
<br /><br />Uncle Wilfred used to say coincidence is God's way of saying He has His eye on us. My quilt was Uncle Wilfred's idea: a birthday gift to me from him and Aunt Betty when I turned sixteen.
<br /><br />"That's not what I was thinking. Your Dad's running for mayor, right?" I said. "Councilman Hyerdall?"
<br /><br />Months before, I was at the city council meeting when Burt Hyerdall voted in favor of the pickleball courts - before he announced his run for mayor. Without his vote, the courts might not have happened, and I would not have been caught with a gun in my hands by his son. After putting my hands down, I explained all this and complained about the pickleball noise. Thor said he could understand, but he still had to take me into the station. He could vouch for my identification, and they'd probably let me come home and make a court appearance in a day or two.
<br /><br />"Can I let my dog out first?"
<br /><br />After picking up my rifle, Thor led me to his car, an unmarked red Camaro parked at Haven's Rest. From there, we drove around the block to my house. On the way, I warned him about Ralphie. "It's a happy bark," I said.
<br /><br />After greeting Thor, Ralphie whined to go into the yard. I let him out, and as I waited at the door, I offered Thor a seat. As luck would have it, he sat on the couch above the missing leg, the leg I'd replaced with four Eric Larson novels that had shifted. The couch hit the floor, giving me the chance to explain that if Ralphie can chew through a couch leg, imagine the fear pickleball instills at Haven's Rest. "Your father might as well have voted in a rifle range."
<br /><br />Spinning his ball cap around to <i>Boilermakers</i>, Thor said, "Dad didn't have much choice." Without explaining himself further, Thor said he might be able to overlook tonight if I promised to quit shooting.
<br /><br />I promised.
<br /><br />"I'm with you on the pickleball," Thor said as he re-stacked my Larsons and I let Ralphie in.
<br /><br />Ralphie jumped onto the couch and, eyes on Thor, whined his happy whine. "He likes you," I said. Thor sat beside Ralphie. I sat in Aunt Betty's rocker, the chair in which she'd quilted.
<br /><br />Thor said he'd been opposed to the pickleball courts all along. He'd taken walks and runs through the preserve for years. When he heard about the proposed courts, he knew the sound would be awful. He didn't think shooting out lights would accomplish anything, long term, but he thought there might be another way to silence the courts - at night, anyway. He said he ate supper at his parent's house once a month. He'd be going the following Sunday, and he asked if I'd be interested in going with him. "I'll tell them we've gone out a few times, if that's okay with you. I'll steer the conversation to the pickleball courts, and you can tell Dad what you've told me."
<br /><br />I had not been on a date in two years, if that's what you'd call this. I didn't know if I could even pretend to be on a date, but if there was a chance to kill those lights...
<br /><br />"I'm a vegetarian," I said.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />On our way to the Hyerdall's house, I learned that Thor had married young, about the time I did. After five years of marriage, his wife had fallen for their minister, who left the clergy, his wife, and three kids. But I learned much more.
<br /><br />For years, Burt Hyerdall had hoped to run for mayor. With this being Earl Peck's last term, Earl promised to endorse Burt if Burt would push the Earl Peck Pickleball Park through the town council. But after Burt pushed the courts through, Earl pushed back, endorsing Pat Muensterman for mayor instead.
<br /><br />Pat Muensterman is a big-shot Chevy dealer who was endorsed by the FOP (which explained the Impala police cars and Thor's undercover Camaro). Thor's dad had found out that Pat agreed to sell a corner of his car lot to Earl Peck on the cheap if Earl would endorse Pat and ensure <i>his</i> victory. Earl planned to build his car wash on the spot, and Muensterman Chevrolet would wash all its cars at eight dollars a drive-through.
<br /><br />"Dad thought the pickleball courts were a bad idea all along," Thor said. "He hates them now. But what can he say - that he only voted for them so he could become mayor?" The primary was six weeks away, and neither candidate could rat out the other for fear that their own deal might come to light.
<br /><br />Burt and Francine Hyerdall reminded me of Ralphie: the way they welcomed me into their home. They seemed pleased their son was seeing someone. Me, even. We hadn't finished our pea 'n' peanut salad when Burt asked how Thor and I met. When Thor said we'd met at Haven's Rest, Francine said, "You do God's work, Christine." Burt raised his iced tea glass and said, "Here, here."
<br /><br />On that note, I thought Thor might bring up the pickleball noise. But it wasn't until we'd started on the vegetable lasagna (Thor had told his mom of my preferences) that he said, "We met the night I staked out the pickleball courts. I parked at Haven's Rest and asked to speak to the nurse in charge. Christine."
<br /><br />"Dill pickleball, you mean," said Burt. "You never did catch the shooter, did you?"
<br /><br />"This lasagna is excellent, Mrs. Hyerdall," I said.
<br /><br />"Please, call me Francine."
<br /><br />Ralphie might as well have chewed the leg off my chair when Thor said, "As a matter of fact, I did."
<br /><br />"Is that so?" said Burt. "If I had a medal, I'd pin it on the guy."
<br /><br />"Pin it on her, you mean," said Thor. "She's sitting across from you."
<br /><br />Burt's smile could have swallowed his salad bowl. Instead, he fed his smile a breadstick and asked, "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
<br /><br />At the city council meetings, I had dismissed Councilman Hyerdall as a blowhard. At one meeting, in response to someone's remark about the endangered Eastern box turtles that were sometimes seen in the preserve, Burt responded with a ten-minute roundabout that ended with the resurgence of wolves in Yellowstone.
<br /><br />"My great-uncle Wilfred taught me."
<br /><br />"Why'd you shoot them out?"
<br /><br />Now I was the one who couldn't quit talking. Charlie, Esther, Ralphie and the couch leg - I told Burt everything. I brought up the side effect Ativan had on Charlie. A nasty skin rash. Burt finished off the breadsticks as I spoke. When I stopped, he pushed the basket aside, leaned toward me, and asked, "Have you ever thought of getting into politics? With the way you go on..."
<br /><br />"No way," I said.
<br /><br />Who would have thought that polls were taken in a town of ten thousand, an Indiana town where Republicans outnumbered Democrats five to one, where November elections were formalities. The most recent poll showed Burt down by eighteen percent in the Republican primary. Pat Muensterman's TV ad, <i>Support me for mayor, and I'll make you a deal</i>, had had an effect before the FCC stepped in. All this Burt explained as Francine and Thor cleared the table and brought in the rhubarb tort.
<br /><br />"I'll throw my support to you," said Burt. "Make me vice-mayor, and I'll run things. We'll get absentee ballots for all of your old folks. And you're bound to have some friends, right?"
<br /><br />"Not really. And what would I run on besides pickleball?"
<br /><br />I'd barely touched my tort. Meanwhile, Thor, who I thought might have jumped in to help me, ate silently, head down.
<br /><br />"You just say it's time for change and shit."
<br /><br />"Now, Burt," said Francine.
<br /><br />"Say it like you mean it. And say you'll fill the potholes. People are big on potholes. You and me, Christine, we'll kill those lights in no time."
<br /><br />After Thor dropped me off at home, I went straight to bed. "Me, mayor?" I asked Ralphie. "A <i>Republican</i> mayor?" Yet Thor, who'd walked me to my door, had said. "Maybe it's not a bad idea. I could help, and we could get to know each other."
<br /><br />I wasn't opposed to getting to know Thor. But weren't there better ways than running for mayor? Normal ways? For normal people, yes. But outside of nursing and shooting, my confidence had not progressed much beyond high school. As for Thor, just before he left my doorstep, he leaned toward me and patted my shoulder.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The following week, few nights went by without a call from Burt to me at Haven's Rest. "We'll print a thousand flyers. You and Thor can knock on doors and shake hands. I'd help, but my sciatica is killing me."
<br /><br />A few nights later, he said, "Our billboard will say, <i>A Woman for all Reasons, Slow for Change</i>. Francine came up with that. We'll put on a picture of you wearing your nurse's outfit. Next to your dog. People go nuts for dogs."
<br /><br />"Not happening," I said.
<br /><br />Four weeks before the election, Thor called and invited me to go to Indianapolis to see the exhibit, <i>Monet and Friends</i>. "Mom says you get immersed into paintings or something. If we leave early, I'll have you back in time for work."
<br /><br />I could have used some immersion. Into anything. Into Thor?
<br /><br />On the drive over, Thor said he didn't know much about art. But he said he thought most women liked "that sort of thing." We talked about Ralphie. I talked about Uncle Wilfred and Aunt Betty. We talked about Thor's ex. She'd been a 4-H queen. Not once did we bring up the election.
<br /><br />Immersion was right. It was like walking into the paintings: dancing with dancers, growing with flowers, swimming with koi. Thor said the paintings were "dreamy." He called the surrounding music, "watery, in a good way."
<br /><br />He never quit smiling. Whether he was aware of it or not, he took my hand as we walked from room to room. We had our picture taken together with a green footbridge and a pond of lilies in the background. The pond reminded me of the one in our nature preserve. One time, I saw a box turtle swimming there. Whether Burt had put Thor up to this or not, at work that night I called Burt and said I'd run.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />Burt dropped out, saying on local radio, "Christine Slow comes from a long line of straight shooters." He wrote a letter to the editor in my name saying I'd fill potholes, synchronize streetlights, and darken the pickleball courts at six o'clock. With Thor and Ralphie, I knocked on doors, shook hands, and promised to return phone calls. I discovered people liked me.
<br /><br />Two weeks before the election, Pat Muensterman came to my house. Seated just above the Larson novels, he offered me a Chevy Bolt if I would drop out. "Say anything and I'll deny it, of course."
<br /><br />When he asked if I'd get Ralphie off the couch, I said no to that too.
<br /><br />A few days after that, rocking in Aunt Betty's rocker, Mayor Peck offered me lifetime free car washes in the car wash he hoped to build.
<br /><br />"Where?" I asked.
<br /><br />"That's still up in the air."
<br /><br />"The air you're filled with?"
<br /><br />On the night of my election, Thor slept beside Ralphie and me.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />In a town our size, the mayor keeps their day job. In my case, night job. True to his word, Councilman Hyerdall not only found a way to turn out the pickleball lights, he ate crow at a city council meeting and introduced a bill to dig up the courts. In a speech that lasted twenty minutes, he said that if Lady Bird Johnson could "beautify" Texas highways, we could restore our meadow. I doubt few council members had heard of Lady Bird, but Bill 124 (the <i>No Pickleball Bill</i>) passed 6-3.
<br /><br />I leave the gives-and-takes of city government to retired councilman and newly appointed Vice-Mayor, Burt Hyerdall, who escorted the truck carrying the Earl Peck Pickleball Park sign to the landfill. Earl started a do-it-yourself car wash in French Lick. Rumor has it he can be found most days at the casino.
<br /><br />On my nights off, a red Camaro can be found in my driveway. On early evenings, here at Haven's Rest in spring, as I look out of Charlie's Krapf's window I see butterfly weed and bluebells where pickleballs once flew. Through his window screens, I hear birdcalls, squirrel chirps, and Esther Stone's two wind chimes. I imagine bees sucking on the milkweed, box turtles weaving through white trillium.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-44746504886668711182024-02-05T08:00:00.009+00:002024-02-05T08:00:00.143+00:00Pick by Jonny Rodgers<i>Captain Drake's spaceship is about to implode after several asteroid collisions, and not all of the crew is going to get out alive.</i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3evO3EaSj_lAj5VD3WUkH89G2AgtM_udbsCKxoloYUVAud_go1kSEp9gRHyEkUIkgCly6vgIGgg-nuilrd65aHhpBKSeTgvenAn_ugdVSwepormx3LIHSnRkfgtqwK3GezvjEMUby-hlw4lAsZhom4Sz5ulMyiOZBceVWvpT5Rm_stwuCeWXxpoFBcNg/s500/Pick%20by%20Jonny%20Rodgers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3evO3EaSj_lAj5VD3WUkH89G2AgtM_udbsCKxoloYUVAud_go1kSEp9gRHyEkUIkgCly6vgIGgg-nuilrd65aHhpBKSeTgvenAn_ugdVSwepormx3LIHSnRkfgtqwK3GezvjEMUby-hlw4lAsZhom4Sz5ulMyiOZBceVWvpT5Rm_stwuCeWXxpoFBcNg/s320/Pick%20by%20Jonny%20Rodgers.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Smoke. Glass. Sirens.
<br /><br />The impact - whatever it was - had sent Captain Drake tumbling across the command room like a ragdoll. He rolled off the cracked terminal and thudded onto the glass-strewn floor. Shock and pain gave way to instinct and adrenaline. He got smartly to his feet and spoke into the wrist of his suit:
<br /><br />"Vitals?"
<br /><br />"Negative critical damage detected, sir," the suit bleeped back. "Two minor fractures in lower right ribs."
<br /><br />"I can live with that."
<br /><br />Under his feet, Drake felt the ship shudder, as if with pain. The air fizzed red and orange with alerts. Something must have hit the Valiant. Something huge.
<br /><br />"Captain!" the ship's lead researcher, Professor Désolé, leaned in the doorway. His light blue suit was caked with smoke, one lens of his spectacles cracked, and the single word the elderly scientist had cried was not filled with concern or distress, but rage. Then he was upon him.
<br /><br />"Goddamn you Drake. I warned you not to try it!" the scientist's flailing attack had surprised the captain, but his efforts to wrestle him to the floor were feeble. Even with his two split ribs, Drake easily eluded him.
<br /><br />"Stand down!" Drake barked as he pushed the scientist aside. "I am your captain, remember, and we are currently navigating an emergency. Or do I have to remind you?" Drake unclipped the holster on his sidearm. Désolé eyed him with venom but did not move.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>"Good. Now give me your damage report."
<br /><br />"Goddamn you." Désolé muttered again.
<br /><br />"Damage report."
<br /><br />"BOLT. Viens ici!" called the scientist.
<br /><br />"Oh, I see. You left him outside? Didn't want your little robot-butler-boy to see his daddy get violent? Pathetic."
<br /><br />Désolé stayed tight-lipped as the ship's technical maintenance android entered the room.
<br /><br />"Good afternoon, Captain Drake. How may I serve you today?" his voice was pleasant but noticeably inhuman. His soundwave had a flicker of the classic robotic tremor, a vocoder wobble, something Drake had asked Désolé to patch in, as his original voice sounded "too bloody human".
<br /><br />"Bright and cheery as ever, Tinman," sneered Drake. Wouldn't guess the ship's on fire would you? What's the damage?"
<br /><br />Both of BOLT's eyes flashed a stunning white for a few seconds.
<br /><br />"63% of the Valiant irrevocably damaged. Fuel cells 2, 3 and 5 destroyed. Airlocks and pressure currently stable."
<br /><br />"Jesus," grunted Drake.
<br /><br />"And what caused the damage? How did this occur, eh?" Désolé asked BOLT while keeping his eyes locked on Drake.
<br /><br />"Multiple impacts from asteroids and debris sustained during the most recent change of course -"
<br /><br />"That's not important right now," Drake interrupted. "BOLT, what's the mortality rate?"
<br /><br />"Four souls -"
<br /><br />"My god. We lost four crew members?"
<br /><br />"Negative."
<br /><br />"What?" Drake's face twisted in confusion.
<br /><br />"Four souls remaining <i>alive</i> onboard," BOLT expanded.
<br /><br />"You see where your macho madness, this mad dash for speed, has got us?" said Désolé.
<br /><br />Now Drake remained frozen. Four souls remaining. Just as it seemed the scientist might fly into a fresh attempt on his captain, the ship's doctor stumbled into the room like a sleepwalker.
<br /><br />"Med-bay is gone. Totally wiped out. Burnt-out. Toasted." he said.
<br /><br />"Dr Wellsby, get a hold of yourself." Drake commanded.
<br /><br />"It's gone. I was getting coffee from B-deck and then..." The doctor put a hand to his temple and trailed off. A thin seam of red was running from his ear and down his shoulder. Drake opened his mouth but reasoned they had bigger priorities. With a thick arm the captain heaved up one of the fallen chairs and righted it.
<br /><br />"Take a seat," Drake said, with an attempt at kindness.
<br /><br />"BOLT," Désolé began, speaking as a teacher would to a student, "can we fix the ship?"
<br /><br />"Negative. The Valiant's current pressure is unsustainable."
<br /><br />Drake grunted, unimpressed.
<br /><br />"Implosion and total ship destruction guaranteed."
<br /><br />"We don't know that for sure."
<br /><br />"And how long until the pressure is compromised? How long do we have?" Désolé continued.
<br /><br />The eyes went white again.
<br /><br />"Approximately thirteen minutes."
<br /><br />"Oh god," groaned Dr. Wellsby.
<br /><br />Suddenly, the room began to quake around them - an intensity that throbbed through the joins in their skulls. Then everything jerked several degrees anti-clockwise, the three humans were sent crashing to the floor. Unmoved from his upright position, BOLT added "Approximately <i>nine</i> minutes now."
<br /><br />"We're coming apart," said Désolé slumped against a control panel. "Can feel it in my guts."
<br /><br />Wellsby wailed from his chair.
<br /><br />"Professor, remain quiet!" Drake shouted. "Doctor get a hold of yourself and pick up your chair. You are Valiant space personnel and we still have a mission. BOLT, cut those goddamn sirens now - I'm well aware we're in an emergency." The din of alarms disappeared instantly.
<br /><br />"Now BOLT, what about the escape pods. How long to ready them?"
<br /><br />"It will not be possible to ready <i>them</i>, sir."
<br /><br />"What? Why not?"
<br /><br />"The asteroid impacts destroyed all but <i>one</i>."
<br /><br />For a fraction of a moment, Drake was more angered by the robot's semantics than the looming inevitability of the decision they would now have to make.
<br /><br />"As to the readying," BOLT continued, his voice wavering through the new silence of the room, "they can be primed and launched in less than forty seconds. Ideal for an emergency scenario, such as this."
<br /><br />Drake surveyed the robot's expressionless face and felt the sudden urge to smash the butt of his sidearm again and again into it, not stopping until the shining head was a cracked shell of sparks, plastic and circuitry. Désolé seemed to sense the captain's rage, the danger to his android and silently slipped a thin shard of glass from the floor into his pocket. Wellsby raised his head from his hands.
<br /><br />"So," the doctor piped up, a note of hope in his voice. "One of us could leave!"
<br /><br />"Seems so," said Captain Drake, evenly. "But only one pod and three of us."
<br /><br />At that moment, the doorway slid open, revealing the dishevelled form of Aliyah Shah, the ship's dietician and wellbeing officer.
<br /><br />"Four of you, captain," chimed BOLT.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />- SOME MINUTES LATER -
<br /><br />The blast from Drake's sidearm punched a hole the size of a beach-ball in the ceiling of the command room.
<br /><br />"That's enough!" he called to the now quietened room. "Stop your bickering, this instant."
<br /><br />"Crétin," spat Désolé. "You want the ship to implode right away? Can you not wait five minutes to die?"
<br /><br />"Four minutes, forty-one seconds left," said BOLT.
<br /><br />"Why do you not just shoot us all and go already? Allez!"
<br /><br />"You think I'd trust you and your pet robot not to sabotage the pod the moment I'm clear of the ship out of pure spite?"
<br /><br />"Mon dieu! You think he can disobey his captain?"
<br /><br />"It's not him I'm concerned about. You're a smart man, Professor. I'm sure you could tinker around in that head of his. Probably already have and the moment I'm away he'll flush all my oxygen out the pod."
<br /><br />BOLT stared on blandly.
<br /><br />"Anyway, we agreed to make our cases and decide, before you all started squabbling like children."
<br /><br />"And what's yours again?" probed Shah. "Why is it <i>you</i> should get to leave?"
<br /><br />Drake drew himself up slightly. "As the captain of this ship, I am the most experienced and most qualified to make this decision. I don't take it lightly but as captain I am the most valuable asset onboard the Valiant and as captain -"
<br /><br />"As captain," Wellsby interrupted in a slightly slurred tone, "you should bloody go down with the ship, shouldn't you, eh? Like in history and films. <i>The Titanic</i> and..." Wellsby flailed his hands in front him "...and all that."
<br /><br />"Captains don't actually go down with their ships. That's just a cliché from those old holovids." Drake replied, though less sure of his ground. "And, if it comes to that, why should you get to go? You're a doctor, aren't you?"
<br /><br />"And?" asked Wellsby, the line of blood had snaked down to his waist by now.
<br /><br />"Three minutes," chimed BOLT.
<br /><br />"Your job is to save lives, not steal people's last chance for yourself. You took an oath."
<br /><br />"Didn't you take a solemn oath to protect your crew?" asked Shah. Her voice was poison to him. "You should be the very last one to leave."
<br /><br />Drake bridled.
<br /><br />"Yeah," sneered Wellsby. "You tell him, Aliyah. It should be me. I could save hundreds of lives back home in... er... back home."
<br /><br />"Oh, I wasn't suggesting that you go, doctor. Look at yourself, even you should be able to see your injuries have compromised your value to anyone. You're done."
<br /><br />"You mean you should go? The ship's bloody... cook?"
<br /><br />"I am invaluable. Up to <i>now</i>," she glared at both Drake and Wellsby, "I have successfully kept this entire ship in a state of nutritional and psychological equilibrium. Without my expertise, the personnel on this mission, and future ones, would regress to physical and mental sludge. And, what's more, I am the company's <i>lead</i> dietician and wellbeing officer."
<br /><br />"Lead cook and lead shrink more like. Try being a real doctor!" laughed Wellsby.
<br /><br />"Two minutes," chimed BOLT.
<br /><br />"Oh god!" moaned Wellsby, his spite evaporating in the beating red lights of the alert system.
<br /><br />"Look," started Désolé, his voice only just managing to hold together in one piece, "let's just leave whoever gets the remaining escape pod to pure chance. BOLT, please run a random name selection for the remaining four souls on board. T-minus, 5, 4, 3 - "
<br /><br />"Wait!" thundered Drake. "Nice try, Professor."
<br /><br />"Are you mad, man? There's barely seconds left to choose or we <i>all</i> perish."
<br /><br />"I can handle random; hell, it's brutal but fair. But I'm not trusting that walking calculator with the job. You're his creator; he'll obviously pick you. I trust what I can see, what's real, what I can feel in my hand damn it."
<br /><br />"Is that why you disengaged the autopilot and attempted to drive us through that asteroid belt yourself?"
<br /><br />"Goddamn it Désolé, not now."
<br /><br />"What?" said Shah, rage flooding her face, "so <i>you're</i> the reason we're all going to be blown apart and sucked out into space?"
<br /><br />She gritted her teeth, eyes furiously boring into Drake as Désolé tightened his grip on the silvery shard in his pocket. All the professor had to do was wait until she sprang at him...
<br /><br />"Might I suggest a more low-tech solution?" said BOLT.
They all turned. Even Wellsby dragged his bloody head up from the table where a pool of crimson was forming.
<br /><br />"Captain, may I ask that you pass me your pot of toothpicks from the command console, I believe they have survived the impact."
<br /><br />Drake did so. Their time was nearly up. What choice was left? BOLT delicately removed a number of the miniature sticks that the captain so dearly loved to chew while piloting the Valiant freehand. There was tiny click as BOLT cleanly snapped a quarter from one of the picks and gestured to Shah. His cold but gracious fingers placed the picks into Shah's hand.
<br /><br />"Now, if Miss Shah is happy to arrange them at random, you may use the remaining minute to resolve your fates."
<br /><br />"I can live with that. We all agreed?" said Drake.
<br /><br />"Oui! Let's just pick."
<br /><br />"One at a time," complained Shah as they encircled her.
<br /><br />"Long. I knew it," cursed Désolé, hurling the tiny piece of wood from him. "I should never have dared to hope."
<br /><br />"Better odds for me," smiled Drake. The smile vanished he pulled a second of the long picks from Shah's hand.
<br /><br />"Justice enfin," muttered Désolé as the captain stared into the distance, truly lost for the very first time.
<br /><br />Wellsby's eyes were rolling around in their sockets but he stumbled up to make his selection.
<br /><br />He paused. Shah held her breath
<br /><br />"Damn." He said quietly and collapsed backwards on the floor.
<br /><br />"Yes!" shrieked Shah. "Now you all agreed on the picks remember and there's hardly any time. So, stay back and just let me go." She pointed the pick at them like a tiny sword, protection in case they decided to turn back on their promise.
<br /><br />In an instant, Drake's iron grip clamped around her forearm. Shah shrieked again, her tone now catlike.
<br /><br />"Just let her go! Let at least <i>one</i> of us live!" cried Désolé.
<br /><br />"Look," said Drake. He held up his pick and drew it over to where Shah's trembled.
<br /><br />"The same? They were all long?" said Désolé, in disbelief. Then he felt the room was somehow wider, emptier than before. "BOLT? Where are you? BOLT? BOLT!"
<br /><br />"There!" cried Shah, pointing wildly at the cabin window while her other arm remained locked in Drake's fingers. The captain released her and they ran to the window, boots catching on the slumped body of Wellsby as they went.
<br /><br />Out in the twinkling starfield beyond their reach, sailed the Valiant's last remaining escape pod. Through the tiny portal of the pod, they could just make out the bland, unblinking face of the robot and the tiny pick he held up in his fingers.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-38251895070932916412024-02-02T08:00:00.012+00:002024-02-02T08:00:00.146+00:00The Golden Sound of The Forever Now by Rolf Ebeling <i>Rolf Ebeling imagines a world where the air is poison and music is taboo.</i><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpWwYLRuc7vUKyUU2pnLJiOCeAlFPbwUX0phHsAEAEefTO7t-Z3cgF4nCTkBBeLOwrBqF-MKPHNHGAg-j5o4Xw7tKCaBaL0yTw-cXNbWnWTwaQ5q3ZPECynvO1YAhTnLA2Req1zN6DSlgEizLPbiGuqqWYQfKUdSlR6JKnNHtACjAo0rpC2rKyM6kJCU/s500/The%20Golden%20Sound%20of%20The%20Forever%20Now%20by%20Rolf%20Ebeling.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpWwYLRuc7vUKyUU2pnLJiOCeAlFPbwUX0phHsAEAEefTO7t-Z3cgF4nCTkBBeLOwrBqF-MKPHNHGAg-j5o4Xw7tKCaBaL0yTw-cXNbWnWTwaQ5q3ZPECynvO1YAhTnLA2Req1zN6DSlgEizLPbiGuqqWYQfKUdSlR6JKnNHtACjAo0rpC2rKyM6kJCU/s320/The%20Golden%20Sound%20of%20The%20Forever%20Now%20by%20Rolf%20Ebeling.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>A year after the government mandated sealed enclosures for every house, Brad and Kelly moved into their new neighborhood. They pulled up to their "forever home" in a stale-smelling rental car in time to see the moving company haul the last of their belongings inside. Six-legged flatbed moving robots loaded with boxes scurried through a giant tube that stretched from the back of the moving truck to the front door airlock.
<br /><br />A thick plexiglass divider separated Brad from Kelly. Kelly sat on her side of the car writing in a notebook and listening to an algorithmically generated music stream. Over the hiss of the car's oxygen system, Brad could hear muffled glitchy fragments of the algo track. The bleep bloop blap made Brad nervous. He wanted the movers to finish up, so he could get inside the house and shut the doors. He would wait impatiently until there were fewer patrols, unpack his turntable, and play something from his record collection. Maybe the Lingering Stigma complete singles compilation. Or Regrettable Impression's <i>Terminal Risk Aversion</i>. The self-titled debut of Narcissistic Collapse.
<br /><br />Brad stiffened when he realized the flatbeds were carting his vinyl. He wondered if he had lined the boxes with good enough sensor dampening gel packs. The county's big plastics reclamation levy had funded a lot of fancy detection hardware.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>The enforcement drone - a newer model lingering on the front lawn - let rip with a siren chirp and buzzed over to the flatbeds in the moving tube. VIOLATION flashed on its display screen. Inside the tube, the flatbeds dumped Brad's record boxes and scrambled back to the moving truck. Overhead, a ten-rotor heavy hauler drone descended, slit open the moving tube, reached in, grabbed the pile of boxes with its claw, and roared off with all of Brad's LPs.
<br /><br />Brad's vision shimmered and contracted. Darkness leaked in from the blurry edges. The world around him started to spin. A muffled roar whooshed inside his head and sweat dampened the back of his neck. He felt himself open his mouth to scream. Over the ringing in his ears, Brad could hear Kelly calling his name. She said things like "are you OK?" and "sorry." When he didn't answer, she said "but" and then "clear guidance" and "about polyvinyl chloride", but Brad didn't understand how any of those words explained how a part of himself had just vanished.
<br /><br />Brad dug his fingers into the car seat. He turned to see a flock of installer drones hovering over the roof unfurl a big yellow and black striped tent over their house. The three-in-one atmosphere extractor, oxygen generator, and air recycler unit bolted down next to the garage started up. Air from inside the house blasted out of the unit's vent, shaking bushes and stripping leaves off a nearby tree. Brad could hear the sucking sound as the tent deflated into tight shrink wrap. The oxygen generator kicked in with a thump and began filling the house with new manufactured air.
<br /><br />As the moving truck retracted the damaged tube, the enforcement drone buzzed over to Brad and Kelly's car, extended a telescopic arm, and tapped three times on the windshield. Startled, Brad looked at the drone. The drone flashed EXIT VEHICLE NOW. After fumbling with the wax paper package, he cinched his single use breathing hood tight, got out, and joined Kelly. Their rental car drove away on autopilot.
<br /><br />The drone hurried them across the lawn to the airlock. As they ran, Brad caught a dim glimpse of someone standing at the end of the street, arms folded, watching. Brad slowed down to look, but the drone squawked and nudged him forward.
<br /><br />Brad and Kelly stepped into the weird amber gloom inside their new home. They breathed in the cool sterile air. Kelley turned on the lights. Their moving boxes - minus Brad's records - were neatly stacked in a tight grid pattern filling the entryway.
<br /><br />The drone sealed the door shut.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Seven years later, most homes in the neighborhood had been upgraded from standard issue shrink wrap to permanent enclosures. Over that time, Kelly relayed increasingly frequent and detailed construction updates to Brad from windows that overlooked the neighborhood. At first, Kelley had paid little attention to the outside, relishing the time to write. As months became years inside their cocoon, however, Brad heard less typing, and heard more about the neighborhood.
<br /><br />Kelly had watched some families start over completely and assemble new prefabricated homes. She thought a few were shaped like moon bases. Others looked like fat submarines. One family had burrowed down deep into their lot and shut the lid of their house like a capped-off missile silo. She was most interested in one house, however. The owners were doing something different. "I think they're adding a separate cottage," she had said. "It's nice."
<br /><br />Brad and Kelly bought full body prophylactic suits once they became widely available. Brad sprung for an aftermarket countermeasure package. Kelly stuck with the factory defaults. She suited up and went out right away. She returned hours later, elated, and tried to pull Brad outside. Brad wanted to wait until late when he thought there would be nobody around.
<br /><br />After Kelly went to bed, Brad slipped on his new prophy. An icon showing a personal drone rotated slowly in the corner of the suit's forearm dashboard screen. Brad had paid the yearly subscription fee for the premium extraction package.
<br /><br />Brad stepped through the airlock out onto their front lawn. His prophy - transparent and rubbery - felt stuffy and smelled medicinal. As he took a few more steps, his suit's internal speakers crackled with the sound of grass rustling under his feet. He inhaled. He exhaled. He inhaled again. Brad checked his watch. Time moved forward normally. He exhaled.
<br /><br />Up and down the street, overlapping tubes bridged houses that had formed pod covenants. One cul-de-sac was completely covered by a geodesic dome. Brad and Kelly's house, however, stood disconnected and alone on the block. When they had moved in, they hadn't known anyone in the neighborhood to pod with. Brad's job had already gone fully remote, they didn't have kids, and even their rescue dog application stalled out with the approval committees and expired. Brad and Kelly did not have an opportunity or an excuse to meet the neighbors, let alone go halfsies on a bubble veranda.
<br /><br />Brad heard a grind and scrape. A tall, lanky figure on a skateboard - the old kind with plywood, four wheels, and no battery - came to a slow stop. Silhouetted by the streetlight, he stepped off the board, pulled an aerosol can from his prophy pouch, shook it, knelt, and sprayed over what looked like a cardboard template onto the asphalt. The figure finished, stood back up, looked at Brad for a moment, and then skated around the corner.
<br /><br />Brad walked over to see what he had painted.
<br /><br />"SOON," it said, in glistening block letters.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Three months later, Kelly sat down next to Brad on the bonus room couch. She had news. Lingering around the large delivery drone pad and talking up the neighbors had paid off with an invite.
<br /><br />"Brad, make the effort for me. Get to know Gary. Jen is great," she said. "I would like to have friends."
<br /><br />Kelly went on to say that she wanted happy hour on a porch, a sunset barbecue, and maybe even renting cabins together with other couples like Jen and Gary - whoever they were - for long weekends. Kelly was excited that things had loosened up. The recently updated regulations allowed for scheduled and limited external social activity with certified and licensed prophylaxis equipment. The neighborhood changed quickly. Bistro lights appeared over rebuilt back decks. Smoke from new firepits drifted over fences. Laughter and sounds from outdoor movies echoed between houses. Apparently, Jen and Gary were having different couples over all the time. Kelly wanted in on it.
<br /><br />Brad did not. In fact, since moving day, he had spent most of his time in the bonus room. It had been years now since he'd spoken to his friends, or even anyone from his old middle management job. He had retired soon after moving into their house, but his attention had already begun to drift away from the heads in rectangles that flitted in and out of video conference meetings. In his retirement party call, other than a few familiar faces, the screen was a grid of people whose names he didn't recognize. He made excuses and logged off when the awkward silence became too much. Someone said "Brad looked sad" before Brad tapped the exit meeting button.
<br /><br />Brad had not prepared well for retirement. Unlike Kelly, he never found much to do outside of work. For years, he had told himself he was "doing his job" and that was what important. He told himself once he turned in his laptop and tossed his ID badge, he would figure things out. Worst case scenario, he thought, I will have plenty of time to listen to my records.
<br /><br />Then the county dropped Brad's entire record collection into an enzyme vat and dissolved the vinyl for recycling. This had really spun Brad in a sour direction. Replacing any of his records was impossible. All plastic production had been nationalized, and the government seized the few plants pressing new vinyl, compact discs, and cassettes. Other than for prophylactic suit production, the use of polyethylene, polycarbonate, or polyvinyl chloride had been deemed gratuitous or inessential by the Atmospheric Defense Act. Even if Brad could have gone out to browse, the last used record stores had vanished. Their stock was confiscated for reallocation to prophy manufacturing plants. He could not find anything he liked on the music services. Streaming music companies had pivoted hard in the economic downturns, dropped anything that required licenses or royalty payments, and padded their libraries with cheap soundalike artists - or cheaper yet - artificial intelligence-generated music they owned outright. Most people did not notice or care that you couldn't hear the real Rump State complete studio sessions anymore. Brad cared.
<br /><br />Settled into the sagging leather cushions of the bonus room couch, Brad tried to remember fragments of songs late into the night. Sometimes, he could reconstruct bits of the Slow Life Model demos, or the Engage and Deny singles, or the good import version of <i>Irrational Atrocity</i>. Some nights - if he concentrated - he could remake a drum fill, a chorus, or a bridge in his mind and remember where he had been - and what he had been doing - when he first played Impenetrable Unit's "Determination of Non-Significance," the Calamity Records <i>Unseemly</i> compilation, or Adolescent Imprint's <i>Progress to Eternity</i>. He could almost go back in time and be right there again in those exact perfect seconds.
<br /><br />"Please," said Kelly. "I need this."
<br /><br />"Risky," said Brad. "Not worth it."
<br /><br />Brad thought back to how it had all started. The videos had been the first sign. The earliest one showed a laughing woman in a tech company hoodie, sitting at the end of a polished plywood table, saying "We need to take this offline!" over and over, while her officemates whispered outside the conference room doorway. Another showed EMT workers struggling to keep a grip on a naked man - his skin wrinkly from half a day in the resort pool - gyrating and singing "The Dirty Capybara" at the top of his lungs. Then the one that freaked everyone out: the smiling marathon winner who crossed the finish line and just kept running. Unsure of what to do, or convinced it was a stunt, the crowds parted, letting her go. News helicopters hovered and patrol cars followed until she finally collapsed on the pavement - her legs and arms pumping, scraping against the asphalt - still smiling nearly 100 miles away from where she had started.
<br /><br />"We both have prophies," said Kelly. "You have the fancy loadout."
<br /><br />"It's too soon," said Brad.
<br /><br />"Aren't you tired of this? I'm tired of this."
<br /><br />"Tired of what?"
<br /><br />The phenomenon spread. Normal people in normal situations would be having a normal day, but in one unpredictable, not normal second, they would freeze up, their eyes fixated on something unseen. What was causing it? Virus again? Food additive? Designer drug in the water supply? Hi-speed internet radiation? Sonic weapon? Carbon capture gone wrong? Scientists could not explain or stop it. Conspiracy theorists hopped from one nutball solution to the next, sending prices soaring on chicken wire for Faraday shelter cages one week, 40-pound bags of cattle laxative the next, emptying store shelves and filling emergency rooms.
<br /><br />"I'm tired of being inside this house. I'm tired of not seeing anyone. I'm tired of not having friends." said Kelly.
<br /><br />"I didn't create this situation." said Brad.
<br /><br />"I'm tired of you saying that."
<br /><br />"I'm tired of it being reality."
<br /><br />Several months later, a group of corporate astronauts from a years-long stint on a private space station returned to Earth. Alarmed by the news reports from home, they exited their return vehicle in full EVA gear, and wandered through the desert space port. The security footage showed the astronauts standing in the control room with a handful of staff scattered around them: a smiling guard in a stained shirt sipping an empty cup of coffee, a flight director emphatically tapping his cracked tablet screen and laughing, and a scientist excitedly writing the same equation repeatedly on a white board, red ink smeared over her hand. The astronauts were fine. They breathed air they had brought down from the space station.
<br /><br />"The reality is that you're paranoid," said Kelly.
<br /><br />"That isn't fair," said Brad.
<br /><br />"No, what isn't fair is being stuck in this house for seven years while you hide in the back being pissed off. This isn't what was supposed to happen to our lives. This isn't what my life is supposed to be."
<br /><br />"This isn't what I wanted to happen either."
<br /><br />Plastic sheeting, duct tape, portable air conditioners, HVAC filters, generators, fans - and anything that people thought could be strapped together to push out old air and clean new air - disappeared from the big box stores overnight. For the first time since the last conventional pandemic, offices emptied out, schools closed, traffic disappeared, wild animals pranced through suburbs, and tech companies hit the double-digit trillion net worth mark. The lucky vanished into their homes. The rest avoided each other and relied on cheap masks, taped together pieces of scuba gear and trash bags, or modified inflatable Halloween costumes. Some tried rolling down the street in giant hamster balls.
<br /><br />"We can go outside right now. We have amazing suits that will protect us," said Kelly.
<br /><br />"They're not perfect. And there is no do-over if something happens," said Brad.
<br /><br />"Nothing is going to happen except that we will sit on a nice deck and have a drink or two. Maybe we will talk about which new house mods are the best. Or maybe what it has been like to be stuck inside a giant plastic bag for seven years. Jesus. I just - can you try? Get out of this room and just try? Maybe Gary likes some of the same music as you? Jen said he has stacks of records. Would it be so bad to make a friend?"
<br /><br />"Calm down."
<br /><br />The incident numbers plateaued, then decreased. People would decide it was all over, see their friends and loved ones, and have a great old time. The numbers would rocket back up. People backed off. The numbers would drop again. Blood tests on victims indicated unusually high levels of dopamine, the chemical the brain produces when you're actually having a good time with other people. The dopamine somehow interacted with the air in their lungs. So, if you were hanging around other humans, were happy, had enough dopamine sloshing around, and happened to breathe in a cloud of bad air, well, you were kind of fucked.
<br /><br />"Do not tell me to calm down, Brad," said Kelly.
<br /><br />"I'm just saying," said Brad.
<br /><br />"Saying what? That you want us to stay inside here forever? What?"
<br /><br />"Not forever. I'm trying to avoid forever. The bad kind of forever."
<br /><br />The Temporal Torus theory - complete with a donut-shaped diagram - tried to explain what was happening: dopamine-drunk people would take a deep breath and get caught inside themselves, going round and round, forever living out some random happy moment they had just experienced. People wondered when it would happen to them. What would they be doing? What about their bodies? Who would take care of them? How long would they be alive? What would they be thinking about forever?
<br /><br />"You're hopeless," said Kelly.
<br /><br />"These prophies aren't guaranteed to stop someone getting donutted on some Friday night," said Brad. "Maybe it will be you. Maybe it will be me. Maybe I will be sitting on a back deck, talking suburban bullshit that I don't care about with this couple I don't know named Jen and Gary, and when I stand up to go to the bathroom, suddenly my prophy will get caught in a folding chair. Maybe it will rip, just a little tear. Maybe I won't notice. Maybe the safety system won't warn me or patch the hole in time. Maybe I will be feeling just good enough, forgetting the world around me for a moment, and I will take one last breath and that will be it. I will be caught forever in my mind walking to Jen and Gary's toilet, thinking I need to pee but never really getting to piss. I will get thrown into toroidal hospice care because you wanted to hang out with Jen and Gary. That will be my eternity. That will be my forever," said Brad.
<br /><br />Kelly kept quiet for a long time. Finally, she spoke. "I need to get out. I need to have friends again."
<br /><br />"What kind of records?" asked Brad.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />On Friday, Brad and Kelly suited up and walked over to Jen and Gary's. The four of them sat on the back deck in folding chairs around a built-in fire pit, connected bladders of white wine and craft beer to their liquid intake valves, and loaded clips of hummus-filled cracker pellets into their food hoppers. Kelly slipped right in to being happy.
<br /><br />Brad kept quiet and drank. He realized this was the house with the renovation that Kelly had been watching intently. A small two-story cottage - complete with its own independent air system and airlock - stood in the corner of the large backyard. Warm light shone out of the wide second floor windows. From his elevated vantage point on the deck, Brad could see the top of a big writing desk with a laptop, a coffee mug filled with pens, a neat pile of books, and several stacks of white paper.
<br /><br />"Maybe I need someplace where I can start again - you know, start writing again?" said Kelly.
<br /><br />"Then you need to come up with me." said Jen, grabbing Kelly's wrist. "There are dozens of cottages exactly like that," she said, pointing across the yard.
<br /><br />Brad sat across from Gary. For a while, Gary chimed in with bland comments about the weather and the overreach of the homeowner's association. He didn't mention anything about records. Now, while Jen and Kelly talked, Gary sat in silence, arms folded, staring into the fire. Brad couldn't quite see Gary's face through the glossy sheen of his suit. The reflection of the flames flickered across Gary's prophy.
<br /><br />No records, no reason to talk, thought Brad. He checked his chronometer and finished off his second beer. He got up - carefully - to grab a third from the cooler, clipped in the IPA bladder, took a long sip, turned around to return to his chair, and nearly smacked into Gary's boney chest. Brad looked up, startled. Gary stood inches from Brad's face, staring down intently.
<br /><br />"Look at those two, Kelly," said Jen, leaning in. "I think we are moving to parallel play."
<br /><br />Kelly glanced at Brad and turned back to Jen. "How often do you go up there?" she asked.
<br /><br />Brad looked down to avoid eye contact, unsure of what to do, but something under Gary's prophy caught his eye. Gary wore a thin ratty flannel over a faded black tee shirt. The scratchy curves of hand-scrawled white letters peeked out between the open shirt buttons. The flaking silkscreen design was familiar. Brad skimmed over the swirl of song names, record labels, album titles, tour branding, and band logos in his mind. In a second, he knew. A disorienting warmth flowed through his body. His throat tightened.
<br /><br />"That," Brad said to Gary, still staring at his chest, "is a Maw of Heaven tee. Forever Now tour."
<br /><br />"What was the B-side of the first Maw of Heaven release?" asked Gary.
<br /><br />Brad looked up. "It was a split 7-inch with Prepare for Violence. No B-side."
<br /><br />"Follow me," said Gary. He turned around and walked into the back door airlock.
<br /><br />"Next thing you know we'll be grounding them for throwing an all-night party," said Jen.
<br /><br />Kelly slapped her Riesling bladder against Jen's Prosecco bladder. "Cheers."
<br /><br />Brad felt compelled. He glanced up to check for enforcement drones, then hopped into the airlock. Inside the house, he trailed Gary down a dim hallway. Gary rolled back a carpet, opened a hatch in the hardwood floor, and stepped down into the darkness. Brad followed him down the ladder.
<br /><br />Gary turned on the lights. The two of them stood in the center of a long windowless room surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves, spaced thirteen inches apart and running the length of each wall. Each shelf was packed with thousands of record albums. Gary closed the hatch above Brad.
<br /><br />"I watch old record plant manufacturing videos. I like watching the lathe cut into lacquer. The silver sprayed on to the disc. The electroplating bath. The metal stamp pressing into warm polyvinyl chloride," said Gary.
<br /><br />Water rimmed Brad's eyes. He stepped towards the shelves and ran his index finger along the tops of the jackets. The records were alphabetized, but he sensed a greater pattern in the colors of the thin spines pressed together. Without reading the titles, he recognized the clusters of white and gray between D and E, the large groups of red between M and N, and the long stretch of black between S and T. Brad walked back and forth, following his instinct. He pulled one out: <i>Weaponized Attention</i> by The Damning Indictments. He moved to the next: <i>No Conventional Sense of Shame</i>, by Long Time Funeral Planner. The next: <i>Situational Awareness</i>, by Elicit and Manipulate. Brad thought that the first Developed Assets live LP must be there, and it was. He knew then that the Incontinence mini album would be on the shelf, and it was.
<br /><br />"Remember Friday record release days? Tearing the plastic wrap from a sleeve? Cueing a song for the first time?" said Gary.
<br /><br />The sensation of understanding Gary was strange. These were not Brad's records, but Brad could instinctually see the spiraling line connecting them to one another. Brad understood why Gary having The Grundles second LP meant he would have to own Tradecraft's third, and that meant there was no way he didn't have <i>Loose Meat and Deep-Fried Butter</i>, and if he had that, The Learned Men's <i>Friendly Apocalypse</i> had to be there too. Brad was surprised and uncomfortable at how this made him feel.
<br /><br />"Remember the sound? The needle quietly crackling, shimmying down vinyl grooves? The first spiraling blast of distortion? The shimmer of melody? The sound pulled you down into another world." said Gary. "It would swallow you."
<br /><br />It was also strange for Brad to see such pristine copies of all the records he had lost. Here was everything and more that had been taken from him seven years ago, neatly preserved and bagged in contraband Schedule 1 polypropylene sleeves. Brad moved back to the M section and pulled an album, knowing it would be there, and it was. He choked up as he cradled the 23-minute live-to-acetate performance of Maw Of Heaven's "The Golden Sound of the Forever Now" on limited pressing.
<br /><br />"Can you hear it, Brad?" asked Gary.
<br /><br />"Hear it?" said Brad.
<br /><br />Gary stepped closer. "The Golden Sound of The Forever Now. Can you hear it?"
<br /><br />"Right now?"
<br /><br />"You'll hear it again. Soon."
<br /><br />Brad and Gary stood in silence. The gleaming light in the room made strange circular patterns and shadows on the high-end ceramic sensor dampening tiles covering the ceiling and floor. A low electrical hum pulsed through two oversized speakers parked in the corners of the room. A tear teetered at the edge of Brad's eyelid.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Two weeks later, Brad and Kelly video conferenced. Kelly was upstairs in the bedroom packing. Brad was in the bonus room.
<br /><br />"Jen and I are going up to the cottages for the weekend. Finally get some writing done. But I'll be back." said Kelly. "Maybe have a beer with Gary?"
<br /><br />"Maybe," said Brad.
<br /><br />"Wow, a 'maybe'. Is Gary making you join a cult?"
<br /><br />"Kel -"
<br /><br />"It's great. Go. Get out."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Hours after Kelly left, Brad stood on the sidewalk outside their house in the dark, running prophy diagnostics. Gary rolled up on a skateboard wearing a large airtight backpack over his prophy. He carried a second board.
<br /><br />"You skate?" asked Gary.
<br /><br />"Did," said Brad. "Where are we going?"
<br /><br />Gary handed the board to Brad. "You'll need this too." Gary handed him a button that looked a little like the kind Brad used to pin on his backpack in high school. Brad recognized the image: an Infinite Annihilation brand distortion pedal, the kind the nine Maw of Heaven guitarists used. Brad slipped it into his prophy's chest pouch.
<br /><br />Brad waited for Gary to skate off first. Brad had rolled through his big 3, 4, and 5-oh birthdays since he last stepped on a board, but now he felt pulled to try. He stepped on the board, wobbled, and nearly face-planted before enough muscle memory kicked in. He followed Gary down concrete walking paths through the subdivision, their wheels click-clack-click-clacking over concrete seams as they ducked under the passageways connecting houses. They shot out onto different streets, crisscrossing the neighborhood, carving one way, then the other, their buzzing wheels and asphalt scrapes echoing between glass encased houses and tube-shaped articulated RVs parked in dead ends.
<br /><br />They made their way out of their suburb, under the freeway overpasses, through the quiet downtown towards the end of a lonely commercial district and came to a stop in a strip mall parking lot. At one end stood an empty tire store and abandoned tanning salon. At the other end there was a falafel takeout with broken windows and a boarded-up convenience store.
<br /><br />Wedged between sat The Taint, a seemingly abandoned club with a dirty stucco facade and no windows. On the roof, a large grayscale camouflage tarp covered what looked like several large boxes. When a breeze lifted an edge of the tarp, Brad thought he could see a stack of five-gallon buckets and a bundle of air pipes.
<br /><br />Two burly guys stood at either side of the door to The Taint. One wore a Faithless Electors shirt under his prophy, the other a Filibustanut baseball tee. Both wore the same Infinite Annihilation buttons. One puffed on an electronic cigarette module screwed into his mouth port.
<br /><br />Gary walked up to the burlies and spoke. "Crowd?"
<br /><br />Filibustanut blew a jet of vapor out of the top of his prophy. "Cock rockers bussed in from the group home for the early bird slot. Bat cavers will clear out soon."
<br /><br />The door to The Taint swung open. An icy keyboard riff and a moaning vocal boomed outward. Fog rolled out onto the parking lot, followed by a crowd dressed in black under their prophies. Brad stepped aside as a gaunt man - pushing eighty at least - with aviator sunglasses and swept back dyed hair slowly swooped out into the parking lot. More shuffled out, some with walkers or canes, most in thick eyeliner, droopy sweaters, and chunky felt shoes. Brad spotted carefully ripped shirts with safety pin accessories and sewn-on patches on jeans jackets: Human Factors; the import version of Euphorics' <i>Endless Exhaustion</i> EP; <i>Gray Love</i> by Gray Lovers.
<br /><br />The synthesizers-in-the-rain track cut off. The last person out of the door - caked in undead makeup, singing and swaying - danced up to Gary, handed him a set of keys, and gingerly stepped into a black minivan. The door slid shut. The bat cavers drove off.
<br /><br />Gary pocketed the keys and walked inside. Brad followed him past wood laminate walls plastered with faded band flyers and out into the middle of The Taint. Brad instinctually sniffed, half-expecting to smell spilled beer instead of the antiseptic air in his prophy. The disco lights were on slow rotation, spreading muted rainbow circles on the scuffed parquet floor.
<br /><br />Gary walked to a small stage in the corner, flicked on two bendy arm lights clamped to a warehouse store folding table. He pulled off a black tarp and revealed a pair of turntables with Dirtbag Circus Records logo mats on the platters. Gary twisted knobs and pushed up a slider on a mixer. Twin thump-thumps from the amplifier powering up rumbled The Taint's speaker system. Gary opened his backpack and pulled out a stack of LPs.
<br /><br />More men showed up. A skinny one with a Kompromat tattoo, then a skinnier one with a Penetration Test patch on his backpack. Continual Compliance and Mega Null State tees on the next two. Then more dudes in vintage merch: Constrained Action Hypothesis and Crisis Actors bootleg shirts; <i>Bitter Visions</i> cover shot on a black XXXL sweatshirt; Bonus Flap stocking cap; Porking Lot trucker hat; <i>Falsity</i> hoodie; Shadowban <i>Dark Patterns</i> patch; Everything Is So Dumb logo sewn onto the back of a black leather jacket, complete with an upside-down smiley-face and YOU MADE IT WEIRD in a severe yellow all-caps serif typeface.
<br /><br />"Pick," said Gary.
<br /><br />Brad stepped up on to the stage. The silent crowd looked at him as he braced the back of the stack with his left hand, flipping front to back, letting albums lean against his gut. His heart raced. Classic A-side lead? Deep cut? Obscure regional outfit? Brad landed on the last album, pulled the deep black heavyweight vinyl from the sleeve, and placed it on the platter. Gary nodded, powered on the turntable, and lowered the tone arm. The diamond stylus dropped into the record's groove. A kick drum beat rumbled, making Brad's phophy vibrate. Rapid snare cracks bounced off the walls. A corrosive bass riff kicked in. The choppy fuzzed guitar and screams of <i>If You Defy Me, You Die</i>, side one, track one, filled the room.
<br /><br />Brad left the stage and sank into a round booth. Gary segued one track into another. Brad drummed his knuckles on the aluminum edge of the table and hummed the choruses as the sound swirled around him. Distant memories flashed and flickered, then grew closer, fuller, and sharper: a late-night drive with "Chokepoint" blasting; a house party roiling to "Pending Allegations"; a dark club surging to "Material Adverse Effect." Brad felt heat behind his eyes. His breath hitched. Tears rolled into the corners of his mouth.
<br /><br />Gary dropped "Sovereign Citizen." The Taint's middle-age off-key men's choir came to life and sang along, their voices digitally compressed from their prophy sound units. Brad joined them.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Over the next few months, Kelly and Brad regularly suited up and went to Jen and Gary's house for bladders and pouches. Afterwards, Brad would follow Gary to The Taint.
<br /><br />Tonight, Jen moved her chair close to Kelly's. Gary walked slowly over to the far end of the deck. Brad trailed behind.
<br /><br />"Church is in session," said Jen, loud enough for Brad to hear. "Our Gentlemen of Perpetual Preoccupation."
<br /><br />"Services weekly," said Kelly, softly.
<br /><br />Brad stood with Gary at the railing. "Are we on tonight?"
<br /><br />Gary shook his head. "Place needed some construction work done. We'll be back soon." He folded his arms and looked out over the backyard fence towards downtown.
<br /><br />Maybe Gary was expanding. Attendance at The Taint had grown steadily, with one or two new north-of-fifty dudes with expanding beards and balding heads showing up each week. They would stand around awkwardly until Gary would nod at their t-shirt, pull them into a sub-genre clique huddled in a corner, and leave the group to discuss decades-old set lists or the imperial phase of a band. Gary brought fresh stacks of records and would layer in classics and deep cuts. The crowd would swell and lurch to the rhythm. A few nights, it had gotten packed enough that guys would get stuck together and had to peel themselves away from each other's prophies.
<br /><br />The world outside of The Taint blundered on. Businesses with large real estate holdings had cashed in on big government contracts, invested in toroidal hospice care, replaced rows of desks with bunk beds, and, for the extreme cases, overhauled phone and conference rooms with straps and cushioned walls. After the initial panic and brief worldwide flirtation with unity, the sight of government debt and taxes paying for donutters living out their natural lives in sleek hi-rises and ritzy tech campuses made everyone extra pissy. One bunch wrung hands over not paying for more free suits. Others balked at paying for selfish morons who refused to wear the free suits. Some started to think the suits were a plot.
<br /><br />The conspiracy-industrial complex pushed an evolving epic involving the Big Air corporations, a corrupt scientific cabal dubbed the "Deep Substrate", and the global plastics consortium. Sweaty men in front of slick animated graphics leaned into microphones and warned in deep tones that this group of technocratic, lab-coat-wearing, recycling terrorists were controlling the air for profit. Not wanting to miss out on the payday, the same sweaty men also ran scrolling promotions for atmospheric detoxification herbal supplements across the screen as they spoke. On the mainstream commercial sites, it wasn't hard to find drone sensor dampeners. If you looked in the darker e-commerce corners, 3D printer plans for dart swarms that could take out enforcement drones were there for the downloading.
<br /><br />Sporadic demonstrations became organized protests; organized protests devolved into riots; riots metastasized into coordinated attacks. One group seized a prophylactic production plant and rolled racks of suits out to the street. The surging crowds overwhelmed the organizers just as a drone flock swooped down and deployed taser webs. In another city, drones guarding a prophy distribution warehouse disappeared in bursts of metallic dust. Men in balaclavas and tactical gear scattered from the facility, leaving it in flames. The acrid smell of burning plastic lingered in the air for months. Across the world, prophies were liberated, or destroyed, or both. In each incident, dozens, even hundreds, of people would go donut regardless, whether they were trying to grab a suit or set a thousand on fire.
<br /><br />Gary turned to Brad and smiled. "You won't have to hold your breath for long."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />A month later, Brad and Kelly video conferenced again. Kelly was driving. Brad could see blue sky and trees rushing by behind her.
<br /><br />"Why don't you drive up?" said Kelly. "I know you might be busy with Gary, but maybe if you talk to him, he'll come too. It's beautiful up there. We could be away from -"
<br /><br />"It's just not our thing, Kelly," said Brad, flipping the Infinite Annihilation button between his fingers.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />That night, Brad stopped at the upstairs hallway window on his way to bed. He looked out on to the street. Something glimmered on the asphalt.
<br /><br />Brad suited up, exited the airlock, walked across the lawn to the edge of the curb, and looked down at the wet paint.
<br /><br />"NOW," it said in gold letters.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The moon, dirty red, loomed low and large in the dark. Slow gusts of wind bent pine trunks and whistled in the needles. Gary and Brad skated through the suburb, circling through roundabouts, and rolling down nearly every street in the connected neighborhoods. Other dudes on boards joined, appearing one after the other, swerving one way and then another, down their cracked driveways onto the street, passing over the golden NOW spray-painted in front of their houses. The sound of grinding wheels built into a roar as the pack grew, leaning into slopes to the right, then to the left, gradually heading out of their suburban homes and down towards The Taint.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Gary had upgraded The Taint with its own air system. Four jumbo three-in-one atmospheric units sat on the roof. Large pipes snaked down from the units and curved into holes cut into the outside walls. The entire building was coated in a thick glossy black sealant. An airlock had replaced the front door.
<br /><br />Gary welcomed the crowd. Brad wanted to ask him about the new setup, but Gary was busy herding clusters of men into the airlock. Brad drifted in with the last of the pack. Gary shut the airlock door.
<br /><br />Inside The Taint, Brad felt a sudden rush and forgot about the air system. Along the far wall, Gary's entire collection of albums was set out in crates on tables. The dance floor glitter ball spun slowly and projected shimmering, golden-hued circles of light that flickered over the crisp record sleeves. The crowd murmured with quiet joy. Brad wondered how Gary had moved all his albums here without a squadron of county drones swooping in. Underneath the tables, Brad saw several large roller bags, each made with a dense web of ceramic tiles woven into rugged fabric. The tiles looked like the ones in Gary's basement.
<br /><br />This night was going to be different. The packed room parted for Gary as he walked to the stage and stood behind the turntable decks. "Pick," he said, gesturing towards the records.
<br /><br />The murmuring in the crowd grew into an excited din. Brad heard beer bladders clipping into valves, and the men shuffled into a long line. One by one, they stepped forward to the row of crates, gently flipped through the albums, selected one record, and lined up near the stage to hand it to Gary. Many were in tears, clutching their selection, hot breath fogging their prophies. Brad joined the end of the line, and when it was his turn, he went straight for Maw of Heaven. He found nothing between the M and N dividers, and turned around, disheartened. Brad looked up at the stage. Gary held "The Golden Sound of the Forever Now" in his hands. He placed it last in the lineup. It would come.
<br /><br />Gary dropped the needle. Corrupted Play's "Crispy Boy" raged out of the speakers. The room filled with double-time drums: bump thwack, bump thwack, bump thwack, bump thwack. Cymbals hissed and glasslike guitar chords shattered against the walls. Brad rocketed back to high school: senior year, out by the upper field, boombox blaring, leaning against the back wall snack shack, flicking a clove cigarette, and laughing. Gary cut hard into "Treason": one, two, three, it was college again, and Brad was piled into a creaky station wagon driving to a third city for a fifth Incept Date show in a row. Gary crossfaded into Shadow Docket, "Wetwork": the bass went boom dah dah, boom dah dah, and Brad was at the roof party, dawn in a new city, the sun rising between the distant towers.
<br /><br />For hours, Brad and the mass of men pushed up against the stage, rolling back and forth in their sea of prophy-covered denim and damp t-shirts, yelping when their song was played, and throwing their arms into the air.
<br /><br />Gary held the final record above his head. Guttural cheers erupted as he lowered it onto the turntable. Gary walked to the edge of the stage and spread his arms wide.
<br /><br />"The Golden Sound of The Forever Now" began. Warmth flooded through Brad. He was running in shimmering sunlight again, his feet hitting sand in time to the pounding bass. He was riding through unfamiliar subway stations again, the thwack thwack of wheels against rails matching the bap bap of the beat. He was holding a hand gently in the dark again, the echoing chords bursting as a bonfire crackled. For a moment, he was back again in those exact perfect seconds.
<br /><br />Brad felt a low thump. Then another. Brad strained to look around the room. Empty beer bladders flipped and flopped down the waxed bar top and stuck to one of the new air vents. Two more thumps. Brad looked at the opposite wall. Paper flyers flew off a bulletin board and zig zagged away from the other vent.
<br /><br />Something wasn't right. Atmospheric units didn't work like this. The warmth in Brad's body curdled. He imagined the room starting to spin around him, the yellowed ceiling tiles, laminate walls, and dirty carpet seeming to curve inwards.
<br /><br />Before Brad could check his prophy display, an elbow nudged him. Then another, harder. Someone grabbed his shoulder, turning him around, pointing, pulling him towards center of the mosh pit. The mass of men pushed against each other in the dark. Their inky bodies lurched in the flickering lights, stumbling, half-running, jumping up, and falling back into each other. Someone else shoved Brad forward. Hands reached out and grabbed and dragged him deeper into the current. With forearms shielding, fists clenched, crushed sweaty faces, wild eyes, and jutting jaws behind prophies, the roiling mass swirled and smashed, shouting "NOW NOW NOW NOW."
<br /><br />Gary tore into his prophy, digging his fingers into the plastic, stretching, and tearing, a fountain of sparks spraying as he ripped his way free.
<br /><br />The pit howled. The pit shredded into itself. Men clawed into their suits. Sparks flared up and arced as fingers punctured prophies, lighting up faces in flashes of gold.
<br /><br />Brad felt himself lifted. His feet lost contact with the sticky floor. Hands grabbed, pulled, and stretched prophies all around him. His arms were pinned. Sparks ricocheted. Flashes blinded. Brad sank. Knees connected to his head. Boots pinned his hands. He screamed and tried to stand up. The pit shifted and spasmed and spit Brad out, slamming him against a wall. The Infinite Annihilation button flew out of his pouch, skittered away, and disappeared into the pit. Brad slumped to the floor. He looked back at Gary.
<br /><br />Gary breathed deeply. The pit wailed. Gary stepped off the stage out onto the sea of upstretched hands. He walked over the crowd, stopped, closed his eyes, and fell backwards, swallowed by the grinding, churning mass of bodies.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />The music stopped. The men, freed from their prophies, lurched around the circle, lost in their own secret joy, hearing a song only they could hear. Sparks popped and fizzed, throwing flashes of golden light on their euphoric faces.
<br /><br />Brad sat up against the wall. Cool sweat trickled down his neck. He checked his prophy. Functional. He tried to stand up but slid back down. His legs and arms tingled. He took a deep breath. He rolled onto all fours and tried to stand again. Halfway up, he noticed one of Gary's sensor-dampening roller bags under a folding table.
<br /><br />Brad grabbed the bag, carefully made his way around the edges of the room, stepped up onto the stage, and stood in front of the turntables. He packed as many of Gary's records as he could, stepped off the stage, carefully made his way around the edges of the room again, exited the airlock, and walked out to the parking lot. He tapped the drone icon on his prophy dashboard, then held the bag of records securely in his hands. In a few minutes, the personal extraction drone appeared above and descended. It cradled Brad with its padded claws, rose high into the air, roared over the downtown, past the freeway overpasses, back down to the domes and tubes of the neighborhood, and deposited Brad on the front lawn of his home.
<br /><br />Brad stepped into the front door airlock. He looked down at the bag in his hand. For a moment, he wondered if he would have been happier in the pit, and then walked down the hall to the bonus room.
<br /><br />The drone sealed the door shut.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />In the morning, they would kill the power to the modified 3-in-1s on The Taint's roof, force open the airlock, and step inside. They would walk over the scattered paper flyers and empty bladders. A slow, rhythmic sound would come out of the speakers: click, whoosh, crackle; click, whoosh, crackle. Their flashlights would shine on the smiling, lumbering men shuffling and stumbling in a slow circle, round and round and round in the dark. Some of the men would be dragged along between others. Some would be on the ground. Some would step on them. The pit would swirl.
<br /><br />They would walk over to Gary's turntables. "The Golden Sound of The Forever Now" would still be spinning, the needle caught in the runout groove.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-49015041434193590092024-01-31T08:00:00.022+00:002024-01-31T08:00:00.133+00:00Two Little Fingers by Paul Kimm<i>A man tries to explain his act of kindness towards a finger-deficient busker, but there's something more sinister going on.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_JahUUTut1-mDXRG9kNThyphenhyphenpwsYpodYVj1KBbd01oTZz8wb3CrZETOahmBEp7OUqLYk2MglJjmoLQoPXcVqt19hrSQsouLwIBTRrVl6nvsaEjkGDcc32qVd0xLWB0Tv7SOPElLqzer_JmBOuDvf3157D9QyrpREEo2AkKzyMUWxicHo32aLpf_xcQ-Fc/s500/Two%20Little%20Fingers%20by%20Paul%20Kimm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_JahUUTut1-mDXRG9kNThyphenhyphenpwsYpodYVj1KBbd01oTZz8wb3CrZETOahmBEp7OUqLYk2MglJjmoLQoPXcVqt19hrSQsouLwIBTRrVl6nvsaEjkGDcc32qVd0xLWB0Tv7SOPElLqzer_JmBOuDvf3157D9QyrpREEo2AkKzyMUWxicHo32aLpf_xcQ-Fc/s320/Two%20Little%20Fingers%20by%20Paul%20Kimm.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>He's always been in the same spot as the first time I saw him. Right on the ground with his bottom planted, lotus position, on the concrete square slab that seems reserved for him. Even when its busy he's there with the little keyboard held between his thighs. Those fingers he has plinking out those same tunes. I can't say I recognised any of the melodies, but they seemed harmonic enough. I'm no expert on musical composition of course. Never saw him wearing a different outfit, just the same green smock, the baggy brown trousers and flat hat, and battered shoes. The keyboard was a cheap Casio, I guess. I'm pretty certain it was, as my brother used to have one like it, more of a toy than a keyboard. Like the same one Trio used for that Da Da Da song in the eighties. I'm not sure that's relevant. It was white and about thirty centimetres long. The only other possession he seemed to have in the world was his metal begging bowl.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>He was always smiling, and you don't get a lot of smiling in this town. That's why I started dropping some change in his bowl. When you did you got a good, broad grin in return. So, most days I did exactly that. He seemed genuinely friendly, and I figured there was no harm in trying to talk to him. Yes, I'd noticed his missing little fingers before. I don't see how someone wouldn't, when what he did for money was to play his keyboard which obviously needs fingers. Not that being two fingers down seemed to hinder him. I was curious. I mean, he's a guy with some clear talent, and I've always wondered how people end up in the situation they do. Especially homeless guys. It might sound silly, but when I see homeless guys, particularly someone older like this chap, I'll ask myself what happened to them along the way. I mean, he was a child once. He went to a school, had a mum and dad, friends, learned to play an instrument. He finished school at some age in the past, perhaps worked, got married, et cetera, and I just always think, when you see someone like that, what got them to where they are now.
<br /><br />That's why I decided to try and have a chat. Curiosity. No other reason. Until then, the pretty much daily routine, including Saturdays like this one, had been to give him some coins, nod a hello, get a big smile back, and wave a quick goodbye. Out of nothing more than a spot of friendliness I figured why not finally learn what such a person's story is. No other agenda. No expectations. Just being inquisitive about a seemingly nice guy. Yes, basically nosiness getting the better of me. It will have been not long after twelve because I always go to the market at midday on Saturdays. I didn't expect him to understand me. We couldn't communicate with words, given the language barrier, but most gestures work over here. You know, like holding fingers and thumb together and jabbing them towards my mouth, patting my stomach to suggest hunger, asking if he wanted to eat. Just those kinds of global gestures, same as squiggling an invisible pen onto an invisible pad to get a bill in a restaurant. That was it; I pointed to my mouth, rubbed my stomach, and he got what I meant straight away. There was nothing weird in his reaction. He got up, took off his cap and stuffed it in one back pocket, his Casio in the other, and followed me.
<br /><br />The walk back to my place is five minutes away from his spot. Sure, he looked self-conscious, out of place, even a bit scared, well, more wary than scared, but I kept beckoning with my hands and saying, 'it's ok'. I'm sure everyone understands the word 'ok'. When we entered the apartment, he shook off his sandals and stood in the doorway. He wouldn't enter or certainly didn't feel comfortable doing so. I beckoned him again, and said 'it's ok' again, but he still didn't come in. I don't know how many seconds he stood there. It wasn't as long as a minute. What I did was put my hand on his arm and say 'it's ok' once more. I felt a little awkward doing that, but it did the trick as he stepped through the doorway. With the door closed behind him, he appeared to calm down and lose his nervousness. I don't know how to say this, and I don't want it to sound weird, but because he has his little fingers missing, and because I touched his arm, I think that's why he relaxed. I mean, and this is awful and blunt, but I guess he understood I wasn't repelled by anything about him, which of course I wasn't. I might be completely off the mark here, but I reckon when you, well, there's not an acceptable way to say this, but when you touch someone's, and I apologise if I'm not using the correct, up-to-date term, when you touch someone's disability, it lets them know it's not an issue. I think so anyway. Apologies if I've got that wrong.
<br /><br />There wasn't much in the house foodwise, but I'd bought a microwave the day before as it happens, so that's why I bought potatoes and tinned beans at the market. Got it from a local electronics shop for the equivalent of about sixty dollars. That's not important though, I suppose. Jacket potatoes with margarine, beans, and a bit of sriracha on top is what I made. It took about ten minutes. We didn't try to communicate. He drank a bottle of water I'd given him from the fridge, then we sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table and ate. I gave him a knife and fork, but he only used the fork. It wasn't an effective way to eat it, and some of the mashed bits and sauce went off the side of his plate. I'd be lying if I didn't say his eating habit was a bit unpleasant. Maybe he's not used to using a knife and fork. Yes, we have some chopsticks, and, on reflection, it could have been more sensitive to offer those. Hard to imagine chopsticks wouldn't have made more mess though to be honest. Knife and fork, chopsticks, it really doesn't matter surely. It wasn't a lot of mess, and not a difficult thing to clean after, so not a bother.
<br /><br />Of course, I should have texted my wife and my mind still boggles why it didn't occur to me. It was like I was so engrossed in attending to him at that point that it didn't cross my mind. That was probably my first mistake. In fact, no 'probably' about it. It was my first mistake. She wasn't happy. Naturally, all she wants to do when she gets back from yoga is have a shower and chill for a bit. Our regular Saturday routine is I pop to the local market when she goes to yoga, get some food in, come back, and get a small lunch ready while she's in the shower. Once she's done, we eat, with our first beer of the weekend, and watch something on TV. So, she was rightly shocked to see the keyboard beggar sitting with me at our kitchen table, potato and beans everywhere. I should have texted her beforehand without question. I get that. I really should have. It should have been the first bloody thing to occur to me. She didn't speak to him or speak in front of him. Yes, I told her he didn't speak any English. Look, she was livid, and it was fair of her to be livid. I'm an idiot with things like that. I get an idea in my head and forget everything else. A total idiot.
<br /><br />I don't know which hotel she went to and still don't obviously. I don't know for sure if she's in a hotel, but I can't think of where else she might be. She hasn't answered my messages or picked up the phone. She hadn't anyway. I don't know if she has now and that should be bloody obvious as well! I am doing my best to not get upset here. Okay, no, it won't be a scruffy hotel, and it'll have a bar or at least room service I imagine. It could be the Shangri La, but I don't know. I say it could be there, as we stayed there when we first arrived in this city and we both really liked it. After she wouldn't reply to any of my messages or calls, I got more worried and tried calling them. I mean didn't try, I did succeed in calling them, but they told me they couldn't give out private information about guests, even if the caller was claiming to be the husband. I don't know the name of who I spoke to. A woman, a local I would say, but with good English. God knows what I sounded like. Anyway, if she's not there, she's most likely gone to a similar hotel chain. I don't blame her. It's my stupid fault. I just don't think sometimes.
<br /><br />It's true my decisions didn't improve after that, but since he seemed so surprised, even somewhat disturbed by what was happening around him, and as I was the one that had brought him to our place, I didn't feel I could just turf him out. He didn't finish the meal. I can't say how much he left as I scooped his leftovers into the bin under the sink. Whether that was due to it not being the kind of thing he generally eats, perhaps never tried, or whether it was the commotion of me and my wife, and her storming out, I don't know. Anyway, I'd put him, and me, in that predicament, so I couldn't just tell him to go. So, he had the shower I offered him, and after gave him a pair of my joggers and a clean t-shirt to put on. We're nothing like the same size and they were way too large for him. Then I showed him where the spare room was. When he'd last slept on a half decent bed I couldn't tell you, but he was out for the count in less than a minute. I slid his door shut and then kept trying to get in touch with my wife.
<br /><br />He slept through the whole night. The reason I know is I barely slept myself. I didn't hear a squeak out of him all night despite him being in the next room and the thin walls. He didn't get up to use the toilet. I did, several times, and in fact my guts still don't feel right. I haven't had much water, and I don't want any of the food here. That jacket potato was the last thing I ate. I'll eat again when I'm back home. During the night I kept messaging my wife. What else would I do whilst awake? The app we use for messaging here doesn't show if she's read them or not, so I can't answer that. I just don't know and still don't. That's my biggest worry of course. Not knowing if she's replied to them now or not is killing me. Okay, to the morning. It was eightish. I don't know the exact number of minutes past eight. That's why I said 'ish'. I knocked on his door and went in. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sitting upright, hands on his lap, back in his own clothes. My stuff was folded with neat creases on the corner of the bedspread which seemed odd to me. I noticed it because of how precise it was. I gestured for him to come into the kitchen, which he did, and I started making some toast with jam.
<br /><br />I know when the knock at the door was. No, not the exact time on the clock, but the moment it knocked. It was exactly as the toast popped, as if they'd waited to hear it eject, or for some sound to emanate from the apartment, as their signal to knock. It was firm, confident, and I sensed it was authority of some kind. It made me jump. It frightened the pianist, as I now know you call him, even more, and he scuttled to the sofa and sat tight to one side of it with his feet up and arms wrapped around his legs and chin on his knees. Both knees of course! How can which knee be possibly relevant or helpful! He was shaking, shaking a lot, and that startled me. I had a split second of wanting to convince myself it was the building management because I'd invited an unapproved guest in the apartment. I consciously knew it wasn't them though as they're pretty nice people and that knock wasn't the knock of a nice person. It wasn't a friendly visit.
<br /><br />They just took me there and then and down into their car. No, not a word about where we were going, No English used at all. Down to this station, which I've never been to before, and straight into a cell. Well, almost straight into the cell as I had to give them my wedding ring, my watch, my mobile and the slippers I was still wearing. Then I was put in the cell. Of course I didn't understand a word. I'm pretty sure they weren't asking me anything anyhow. Nothing they said had the intonation of questions. Ordering, yes. Questioning, no. I kept asking them what was going on, why this was happening, but after those initial procedures I just got shoved in there. I honestly didn't know how long I'd been in there. As I said, no watch, no phone, and there was no window, so I couldn't track day and night. I've no experience of being in a cell in any country, never mind this one, but I suppose it's just a typical cell, grey painted walls, a stone bench to lie on, and one of those metal toilets with no seat or loo roll in the corner. Yes, naturally, I was scared stiff, but I haven't done anything wrong. When is giving a beggar a spot of food and a bed for the night a crime? I get my behaviour has been foolhardy, even odd, not culturally correct, but not illegal surely. Surely.
<br /><br />I know it's close to two days because that's what the interpreter told me this morning in the half an hour I had with him. Honestly, in that cell it was impossible to tell how much time was passing, a complete vacuum of hours and minutes. The interpreter didn't tell me anything else. It was brief. He only asked why I'd decided to take in the pianist. That's what he called him, the pianist, and that's why I'm calling him that now. I had him down as someone who'd picked up the cheap Casio keyboard somewhere along the way and had learned a few ditties. I still don't know anything about him except what I've gleaned from all the quick-fire questions the interpreter asked me. What the pianist ate, how much he ate, if the pianist liked the food and how did I know. What did the pianist wear when he arrived, what time he slept, did he rise in the night, and so on. Repeated questions about exact times, precise locations in the apartment, every single minuscule moment. I have no idea why, or who, or what the pianist is. To me he's simply been a smiley homeless guy I tried to do something nice for. I don't understand what's going and I just want to go home and find my wife please.
<br /><br />The interpreter wouldn't answer why I was put in a cell, or when I could go. To anything I asked he simply said, 'I can't answer that'. It was only after that never-ending thirty minutes, when I asked if I could have a phone call, that he checked with the sergeant and the answer came back that I could. That's why I called you and I totally appreciate your guys coming here of course. I hope I've answered everything you need from the beginning. I get you need the full context, some mundane details, but you can help me, right? I mean if my own embassy can't help me, then I don't know who can. If you explain to them everything I've told you so far, and that this was a completely innocent act, then were done here I assume? Yes, I completely regret it now. It must be a dozen times I've mentioned how stupid this all was. Take me back forty-eight hours and I'll walk straight past him, not even consider putting the usual coins into his bowl. Get me out of here and I'll start walking a longer way home from the shops, so I never even see him again. I'll move house if needs be. Bloody hell I'll quit my job and leave the country! Just whatever needs to be done I'll do it. I did nothing wrong and just need you guys to get me out of this nonsense, find my wife, and let me get back to normality.
<br /><br />Okay, thank you for checking and I hear what you're saying, but there is absolutely no way I could know who he was. No way at all. Anyone with half a brain can see how absurd this is. I'm new here. I had no way of knowing what he did in the past, why he had his fingers removed. Which is bloody cruel and gruesome by the way. I'm just a dumb, innocent fool, who tried to help and will never do such a stupid thing again. I didn't think I wasn't keeping myself to myself. Just pure, dumb altruism which I'll never do again. They've got to know I couldn't have known what he did in the past and I'm no part of it. I'm sorry, I really am. There must be a way to explain this to them so that I can be allowed out of here. There just has to be. Right?
<br /><br />So, you're saying because I know who he is now, because I know what he did, and what they did to him, I'm implicated? They're saying I'm now part of something that happened years ago, that I don't understand, and that feeding a man a potato with beans is enough? It makes no sense at all. I mean you know too, so why aren't you implicated as well? You're embassy staff and that's it? That exonerates you from this madness? I get I'm the one that interacted with him, invited him into my home, but this is beyond the pale. It's nonsensical. It's too much to take in. I'm sorry, but it really is. This is some kind of sick joke at this point now. Please tell me I'm on some kind of twisted Candid Camera they have here. Listen to me. The guy was there every day. I had absolutely no way on Earth of knowing what he'd done before. A jacket potato with beans! Just an act of kindness! You're my embassy for Christ's sake! Get me out of this! Please!
<br /><br />It's out of your hands. My citizenship means nothing then, right? Okay, okay, you can't help and you're going. They won't give you any more time and you have to turn your backs on me. Bastards. Absolute bastards. Just one last thing please. If you can't do anything for me, at least find my wife. Maybe she's at the Shangri La, maybe another one. Please find her. You must have the legal right to get my phone back off them at least. Well, I don't know. They won't let you take me, I guess they won't give you my phone either. The thing is she must have messaged back by now so try to get the phone. The code for my phone is five-six-seven-eight. Does it honestly matter why that's my code? My wife likes dancing as well as yoga. That's why! If they'll give you my phone, that's the code. If they won't, then just find her. You're the embassy for god's sake! Get her out and get her home. Not back to that apartment. Get her out of the country. Get her home. Tell her I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He seemed nice. There was no way in hell I could imagine this. It was just a jacket potato. A bed for the night. I'm so sorry. Tell her so and that I love her. That's all. Don't tell her what they've told you though. Tell her whatever you need to until they eventually let me go. Just nothing about what's happening to me. Tell her I'll get to her at some point. Please tell her that.
<br /><br />I know there's no more time. I know you have to leave. Before they close the door, one last question please. I can't believe I'm asking this. I can't. Will... will they take same two they took from him? You don't know. Anaesthetic. Will they give me an anaesthetic? There'll be medical care after they've removed them though? Painkillers? Bandages? Ok, you don't know anything. Fine. Go. Find my wife. Tell her I had only good intentions. There was no way to know it would come to this. Tell her the two of us will be together again as soon as possible. I will get back home to her. Unless you hear otherwise about what happens to me, tell her that. I know you have to close it. Go. Just go.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-67727750317158304222024-01-29T08:00:00.009+00:002024-01-29T08:00:00.151+00:00The Team by Ron Hartley<i>A Madison Avenue advertising creative faces up to the challenges of his job and his life with the help of copious cocktails - but is creativity alone enough to survive?</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUid4iNUVEVR6USPPV4Gcs-H9w46HRHotW7GVKPSvZW6wEZUt_k2Ni6uPSLLK8a6-cAY8pUXYqVCvoyIAzFQNup4Jwvd36DTjQp-Dr1_J50UJ4r5Pkvl5mAGAPRcnBb4rxgPbVUjkciMyE3VXtdpAE4hfCX-FGxa2Ck225Wq8w-D8I8NfUS2HX76h3VNg/s500/The%20Team%20by%20Ron%20Hartley.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUid4iNUVEVR6USPPV4Gcs-H9w46HRHotW7GVKPSvZW6wEZUt_k2Ni6uPSLLK8a6-cAY8pUXYqVCvoyIAzFQNup4Jwvd36DTjQp-Dr1_J50UJ4r5Pkvl5mAGAPRcnBb4rxgPbVUjkciMyE3VXtdpAE4hfCX-FGxa2Ck225Wq8w-D8I8NfUS2HX76h3VNg/s320/The%20Team%20by%20Ron%20Hartley.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>They told us to make nice to each other, to open up and be free and easy with each other. They told us not to clam up, to keep talking because talk is the mother of ideas, they said. They told us that if getting it on together helped then by all means be their guests and close the door. They told us that everything we wanted to be depended on each other, that not to be meant tending bar, walking dogs, living in fifth-floor walk-ups way the hell out in Brooklyn somewhere. They told us to have each others' backs because we'd either be kept on together or fired together.
<br /><br />We were two of the chosen ones from of a large cattle call of candidates trying to lift ourselves out of the bottom three percent of unemployment hell. We got bankrolled into a start-up ad agency in lower Manhattan because the managing partners couldn't afford real art directors and writers so they were taking a flyer on kids like us with spec portfolios. They staged a mixer with refreshments and piped-in music so we could mingle, get to know one another and divide ourselves into teams. I caught a glance from an attractive young woman across the room and gravitated that way. I can't remember what we talked about, mostly because I gleaned more from the look in her eyes. We became a team because we were into each other's looks and the idea that the boy girl thing would add spice to our working day lives.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>They gave us a crash course in strategic thinking, and soon Faye and I were brainstorming on a deodorant soap that claimed to hydrate and soften your skin at the same time. We thought hard about the assignment, but on one of our small-talk breaks we somehow wound up together on my chair in a body entanglement that spilled over onto the office floor. Once we had broken that kind of ice, it became progressively more interesting to think about ways to get it on together in an office environment than about ways to solve the deodorant soap challenge. When the time came around to show the fruits of our labor, we presented three half-baked ideas; the executive creative director hated them so much he scrunched the layouts up into a ball and made a perfect shot into the waste can across the room. Faye and I sat there, humiliated, watching as a rival team got so much praise heaped on them you would think their presentation had just won a Golden Lion at Cannes. The creative director threatened to fire us, but gave us one last chance on wheat pasta with twice the fiber, and we responded with a seismic change in concentration from each other's bodies to each other's brains.
<br /><br />The scene was known in the biz as a creative boutique, creative because we came unfiltered and boutique because it was small, new, and by definition, hip. It was a shop where there was no rhetorical middle ground. An idea was either kick ass or it sucked, and when we finally began to think of ideas they said were kick ass, I drew the layouts or storyboards and Faye wrote the copy. I held them up at meetings and pointed while she did the talking. I faked knowing looks and Faye faked consumer expertise.
<br /><br />Our first on-air TV commercial was for diet cat food where the cat was so heavy she fell through the floor. Recall tested through the roof and the client asked that we be assigned to the first in a series of corporate image commercials meant to establish Ralston Purina as the great altar of pet food products in America. It was a big ask for a freshman creative team so we gave it a forty-eight hour brainstorm, taking catnaps on the floor and Dexedrine in between while getting shot down again and again at internal reviews until we finally came up with something the account exec said had the grandiose aura required for such an assignment.
<br /><br />Faye and I weren't invited to the presentation because of a youthful age and demeanor that wasn't likely to exude a grandiose aura. Our agency president reserved a private room at a five-star restaurant in midtown and we could picture how it would all go down: After the third course and a round of port the client's brand manager would look at the agency team expectantly. To relax things a bit our account exec would crack a joke relative to the circumstance and then segue into a brief overview of the creative strategy. Our prez would then stand with storyboard in hand, his fat forefinger poised under the first frame of our storyboard, and our exec creative director would begin to read the copy like it was all their idea:
"Open on an exterior shot of a domestic satellite floating in orbit. Move in on cat looking out one of the windows. Cut to interior shot where cat levitates through micro gravity to a child. Child calls to mom that Fluffy is hungry. Cut back to exterior of spacecraft-home receding into its orbital path. Mom's fading voice can be heard calling from within for Fluffy to come and get her Tender Vittles. Dissolve to product shot and theme line: Ralston Purina, for as long as there are pets to love."
<br /><br /> The brand manager's eyes would be blinking and his mouth twitching as if he would like to speak but didn't know what to say, as if he was trying to decide if it was the best idea he'd ever seen or the worst. Faye and I would later find out second-hand that our idea had somehow evolved into an unrecognizable animatic version of the original, only to disappear into the never-never land of quantitative and qualitative testing. The upshot would be a great tax-deductible dinner had by all except us.
<br /><br />The acquired craft of teamwork would see us through twenty months at the boutique and decades of gigs together in staff jobs on Madison Avenue and freelance forays into Jersey, Chicago and Detroit. Sometimes we won awards but sometimes we crapped out and and whenever we crapped out Faye would say the line between kick ass and godawful can be very thin but if you wanna blow folks away you gotta walk the line.
<br /><br />Somewhere along the line I reminded my pregnant Faye that we had forgotten to get married. She wanted to know if that was the kind of thing we could do online but I said waiting our turn with a bunch of other couples at city hall might be more fun and less bother, and it was. Afterwards we joined another couple for an impromptu wedding dinner at the Fulton Fish Market in lower Manhattan. They turned out to be cocktail connoisseurs so we shared a pitcher of vodka gimlets, indulged in a parade of seafood platters followed by a round of vodka sidecars, and so began our preference for vodka. From then on, we were a team through and through. I made the coffee, Faye made the bed. I did the taxes, she did the bank. I got the mail, she fed the cat. I took the garbage out, she washed the clothes.
<br /><br />"I'm going down to the laundry room so change your underwear," she'd say.
<br /><br />"I changed my underwear yesterday," I'd answer.
<br /><br />"You should change your underwear every day."
<br /><br />"Why? I bet people in Europe don't obsess about things like changing underwear and taking showers everyday."
<br /><br />"Hello - we live in Brooklyn. Either change your goddam underwear or I'll take the garbage out and you can wash the clothes."
<br /><br />"What kind of cocktail would you like tonight, darling?" was always my way to deflect.
<br /><br />"Anything with vodka," was always her answer.
<br /><br />That could mean a vodka martini, a vodka tonic or just the vodka eighty proof without the mix, ice or garnish. By the time we made it to our forties we'd have a cocktail plus a topper every night, a topper being an ambiguous quantity we sometimes lost track of. She once told me with slurred words while walking in a crooked line to the fridge that, "Vodka's za cleanest booz, leaves no trace on your breath zo nobody knows you're hammered."
<br /><br />We never owned a queen or king size bed. "My friends' parents all have bigger beds," our daughter used to say, "So why not get a bigger bed? You guys can afford it." We said we would but we never did. Whenever we traveled together and found ourselves in bigger beds we always felt obligated to take advantage of such unaccustomed luxury and we'd lay far apart, lost in the enormity of an endless mattress. The pull of double bed syndrome would inevitably kick in and we'd begin to inch closer. By morning we'd be breathing odorless 80 proof breaths into each other's faces.
<br /><br />The drinking was starting to make us screw up. I booked an early morning flight to St. Louis along with a room at the Four Seasons when the potato chip focus group was with another client in Cincinnati. The brand manager in Cincinnati called the agency in New York that next day wanting to know where the hell the asshole art director was. Meanwhile, the asshole art director was walking in uninvited to a focus group for panty liners in St. Louis.
<br /><br />Faye was the copywriter in a new business pitch at Cocoa Puffs cereal but kept referring to it as Cocoa Krispies, our daughter's favorite growing up. Later in a crowded elevator the agency creative director lost it and began yelling at her, wanting to know if she had been diagnosed with dementia, wanting to know if she realized her recurring reference to Cocoa Krispies instead of Cocoa Puffs might have cost the agency twenty million in new billings, wanting to know if she had any idea that the booze in her life was flushing her career down the toilet faster than she could say Cocoa Puffs. "Say it," he screamed to the dismay of everyone in the elevator. "Cocoa Puffs, Puffs, Puffs. Say it, Cocoa -"
<br /><br />"Krispies," she said.
<br /><br />Word of both incidents got around town and the headhunters were calling us less often. Our freelance lives were grinding down so we got into the habit of playing five hundred rummy after lunch. If I made a stupid mistake and put the wrong card down I'd berate myself and have what she liked to call a tantrum.
<br /><br />"Take the card back," she'd say.
<br /><br />"No, never, not in a million years," I'd say. "When I make a dumb-ass mistake I've got to live with it, die with it, go to hell with it. That's part of the fucking game."
<br /><br />"Willya take the goddam card back," she'd say, and I'd take it back.
<br /><br />The day finally came when I realized I hadn't drawn one storyboard frame in over six months and that Faye hadn't written one line of copy in that same time-frame. Our phones still weren't ringing and the underlying message in most of the emails we got was to get lost. We staved off homelessness by opting for the early retirement checks from Social Security and getting rid of an expensive parking space in the basement of our building. And then there was a timely if modest inheritance package from Fay's dad when he died. But still, to be viable living creatures in an expensive neighborhood like Park Slope we needed to start making serious money again.
<br /><br />We dragged out all the photostat copies we'd made of our storyboards over the years for inspiration. We began developing a script that was a spinoff from the space cat spot we did way back at the Boutique, something we thought we might be able to pitch to a connection we once made at Pixar. We called it, "Holly and the Mice Nasties," Holly being the pet cat of an intergalactic spaceship commander she didn't want to burden with petty in-flight problems. Holly was then left to her own devices in dealing with a gang of mean little mice who had stolen themselves aboard at a planet called Rodentar. The script was good so far as it went but we lost our way trying to stay inside the mindset of six-year-olds while being sixty-year-olds getting half crocked in the process.
<br /><br />On days we took morning walks together we took turns deciding where to go. She once took me to Carroll Gardens to watch ancient looking Italian men play Bocce on outdoor courts and then to lunch in a nearby restaurant, sitting at the very table where a famous gangster once got murdered with a forkful of veal Scallopini in his mouth. I took her to the Greenwood cemetery in Sunset Park where we found a large piece of statuary depicting a naked club-carrying man trampling on two mermaids named Vice and Corruption. It was called "The Triumph of Civic Virtue" and the significance of its inclusion at Greenwood eluded us both, but there it was.
<br /><br />As we got older our walks got shorter and my posture began to go its own way. I was looking down more than up, and a world that once included geese flying in formation overhead was relegated more to pigeons panhandling for breadcrumbs. My orthopedic doctor said that my head was the heaviest part of my body and when tilted down was like a thirty pound dumbbell pulling on my spine. He said that in time the constant strain might cause minuscule fractures in my vertebrae that would heal in a bent over position and that the long term prognosis might be a bent over position from the waist wherein my face would be looking downward three feet from the sidewalk.
<br /><br />"Straighten up," Faye said. "I married you for your looks, big guy."
<br /><br />"How's this," I said as I walked with more of a backward bend from the hips.
<br /><br />"Better, but now you look like you're walking with a broomstick up your ass. Swing those arms; loosen up. When are you getting that bone density test?"
<br /><br />"I'm not getting that bone density test. Women get bone density tests, not men."
<br /><br />"Not true. Get the damn bone density test and talk to the doctor about calcium supplements, and why do I have to keep talking to you like I'm your mother? I'm your sex object - remember? Here," she said and she handed me a water bottle filled with a mix of vodka, lemon juice and Cointreau.
<br /><br />Faye and I thought of ourselves as controlled alcoholics because we didn't drink in the AM and because we followed the advice of our financial advisor at Fidelity Mutual who said the percentile rate of increase in our monthly liquor store bill should never surpass that of the national inflation rate, but he was an alcoholic himself. Then there was our primary care physician who was privy to our drinking over the years. Elevated levels of bad things were starting to show up in my blood, but Faye's symptoms were worse. Her abdominal pain was exactly where her pancreas was and her jaundiced face and attacks of nausea were classic signs of damage there.
<br /><br />"How much eighty proof are you doing these days?" he asked.
<br /><br />"I'm cutting back," she said.
<br /><br />"How much?"
<br /><br />"I don't keep a booze diary. Like I said, I'm cutting back."
<br /><br />"Listen to me, Faye; enzymes are secreted by the pancreas into your stomach to digest your food and you can't live without it. Alcohol is the worst thing for that vital thing inside you and if you don't stop drinking soon you're a goner."
<br /><br />"Goner. Very good doc, such a retro choice of words. Such a cool doc."
<br /><br />"Cut the crap Faye."
<br /><br />"Okay then, I'll quit," she said but a week later she was dead.
<br /><br />An acute attack of pancreatitis complicated by a gallstone condition killed her before the ambulance made it to the ER. We'd been married thirty-eight years, four months and a day, but looking back at the foreshortened view it seemed like we'd merely skipped over a few small puddles together. In the weeks that followed I was strung out like a wire stretched to the breaking point. The only way I was able to cope was to stay in bed.
<br /><br />"It's one-thirty, dad, and you're still not up," my daughter said when she came to visit.
<br /><br />"So what," I said.
<br /><br />"So nothing, I'm just saying." She pulled a curtain aside to let in more light. "It's such a nice day and the cherry blossoms are in full bloom. You should get out and take a walk in the neighborhood."
<br /><br />I never liked cherry blossoms and was so-so on the neighborhood. My back and neck had worsened over time and I'd become more bent over. Looking down at my shadow moving over the sidewalks and streets beneath my feet had become a matter of course, but I took my daughter's advice anyway, got out of bed, dressed and went outside for a lap around Grand Army Plaza. The brightness of the sun and vividness of the blossoms only accentuated the blur of grief around me, the kind of grief that can be hallucinatory. I thought I saw part of a handgun peeking through the newly paved street I crossed next to my building. Most of it was below the surface with just enough of a bullet chamber and trigger exposed to know it was a gun. The message was clear, that a bullet through my brain was the only way out of the funk I was in. I thought it was a phantom gun of sorts. I thought if I took a photo of it with my cell it wouldn't register but after I took the shot it was more there than ever, cropped and awesome in its sense of purpose.
<br /><br />That night I had a dream wherein the gun was in a holster strapped to my lower left leg but my lower left leg was no longer part of me. I was strapped to a table and my limbs were being summarily pulled out of their sockets by my doctor. Each part of me was thrown into the mayhem of an asphalt-mixing machine. I could feel the pain of my absent flesh being chewed up into ground meat and I could hear my bones crackling and breaking down into smaller pieces indistinguishable from the gravel of blackened tarred mix. The only part of me that survived intact was the gun, one of those small snub-nosed thirty-eights that ended up peeking through the dry new pavement of Vanderbilt Avenue.
<br /><br />It was four in the morning when I got up and downloaded the gun photo from my cell phone. The old art director in me went to work on my computer adding contrast for depth and a touch of solarization for sharpness. I could sense Faye watching over my shoulder like she always did whenever I was working on something that appealed to her writer's sense of things. "Wow," I could hear her say as she looked at the gun on my screen. "What a killer idea, documenting all the crazy things you find imbedded in the blacktop of city streets."
<br /><br />The curtain of the theatre was drawn open again. I needed to stop moping around and get my ass back out there shooting more stuff. The pretense would be a documentation of city fossils, but the real thing would be Faye and I chasing another one of our ideas out the window, her in my head with words and me scrounging up visuals from the streets. I would shoot wherever I found the best specimens and if that meant in the middle of busy intersections I'd take my chances. I'd have to mobilize my calcified arteries and arthritic vertebrae into a major hustle. I'd gear up from shooting with an iPhone to a state of the art Nikon camera, micro lens, flash unit and monopod. The equipment and its ancient photographer with a drinking problem would be part of the process, the process would be the art and everything that happened along the way the brush strokes.
<br /><br />When I started shooting Faye was in my head with the words, and each evening I transcribed them from brain to keyboard as best I could:
<br /><br /><i>My heart pounded and blood pressure rose to flush my face as I knelt on my knee pad in the middle of a heavily trafficked street, my stooped over posture well suited for what I was doing. I labored over my low-set tripod with a water bottle at my side to wet down the pavement so the flash would reflect pinpoints of light on the wet surface that looked like stardust. What was once a pulverized soda can was then a zapped space ship floating through the universe with all hands on board dead so long they were skeletons in their space suits.</i>
<br /><br /><i>Later that day I photographed the flattened skull and ribcage of a city rat, the shredded thumb and forefinger of a lady's glove, the piece of a tarnished DVD that looked like a half moon in the grunge of a polluted sky, all mangled and crafted by millions of tires over time into strange landscapes of unlikely art. I wore a high visibility safety vest of fluorescent orange with reflective yellow tape as I went about my madness on the avenues and parkways of Brooklyn. If something in a street I crossed over caught my eye I'd wait at the far curb to gauge the timing of the light. When I went back I'd wet down, hunker down and shoot at different angles, distances and framing modes. There was an addictive thrill in milking the situation as long as possible, knowing that if the traffic light overhead turned its angry red eye on me before I finished I might end up looking like one of the flattened objects in my viewfinder.</i><br /><br /><hr />
<br /> In the blink of an eye it was another decade later, and piles of blacktop photo prints were laying around. They were once destined to be edited down for a photo essay submitted to art and photography journals as a prelude to a coffee table book of esoteric photographs. But I never got around to any of that, maybe because the art was the process, and how do you submit a process. I kept shooting in the middle of busy streets anyway, like I kept eating food to stay alive. My daughter heard about my life-threatening goings-on through the doorman grapevine, and I became the defendant in a family intervention with her, my son-in-law and Jessie, a granddaughter Faye and I never got to know very well. They came with faces full of the mission at hand - getting the old guy back on a more seemly track to death.
<br /><br />"Of all the things to photograph, dad, why pavement for god sakes, and in the middle of Flatbush Avenue," my daughter said.
<br /><br />"I wear an orange safety vest," I said.
<br /><br />"He wears an orange safety vest," my son-in-law said to the ceiling.
<br /><br />"Don't be so hard on yourself, grandpa," Jessie said. "Try photographing flowers. They're more accessible."
<br /><br />"I hate flowers."
<br /><br />"Then shoot extreme close ups and they won't look like flowers. Make abstract compositions."
<br /><br />"I don't even bother lugging a camera around anymore. I just frame the shot with my hands and say click."
<br /><br />"That's ridiculous," my son-in-law said.
<br /><br />"But that's what I do."
<br /><br />"Oh dad," my daughter said, trying to suppress an onset of hysteria. "Please take your pretend-photos in a safe place. Think about us for a change and our feelings for you, and about Mom and what she would think about all this."
<br /><br />I was about to say it was Mom's ghost who gave me the blacktop idea but thought better of it. Jessie picked up one of my old prints from a pile on the coffee table and looked at it closely.
<br /><br />"What do you see?" I asked, as she came by my side so we could look at it together.
<br /><br />"I see little pieces of a plastic toy with traces of gold paint."
<br /><br />"What else?"
<br /><br />"They could look like many things, Grandpa, depending on who's looking. It's kind of like a Rorschach test, don't you think? What do you see?"
<br /><br />"I see pieces of a wing and a bird's beak," I said, and she traced her finger around the shapes.
<br /><br />"Yes, I see that, a little once-upon-a-time bird," she said
<br /><br />"And what else," I asked again.
<br /><br />"I see heartbreak on the face of the little kid who lost it. What do you think Grandma would see?" she asked.
<br /><br />"I think she'd see a spoiled brat who has bigger plastic superheroes at home and couldn't care less about a little thing that doesn't walk, talk, shoot or kill."
<br /><br />"And I can see his Gen Z mom holding on to his stroller with one hand while sucked into a Twitter scroll, oblivious."
<br /><br />"It's a nothing thing lost at a nothing moment in a nothing place," I said.
<br /><br />"And years later you're on your knees, risking your life trying to photograph it," she said.
<br /><br />"<i>Oh, isn't the irony delicious,</i>" I thought I heard my dead wife whisper.
<br /><br />"Like you were trying to photograph pieces of God," Jessie said.
<br /><br />"<i>No, not god,</i>" Faye whispered. "<i>It has to be something more knowable.</i>"
<br /><br />"Like pieces of..." I hesitated, trying to think of something.
<br /><br />"Like pieces of the <i>Maltese Falcon,</i>" my darling ghost whispered.
<br /><br />"The Maltese Falcon," I said.
<br /><br />"The Maltese what?" Jessie asked.
<br /><br />"Falcon," I said, and she Googled it.
<br /><br />"A falcon statuette from a 1941 movie," she said. "It was supposed to be jewel encrusted, and it says here that according to script it was the thing dreams were made of. What kind of dreams do you think they were talking about, Grandpa?" she asked but Faye and I were so transfixed by how wondrous our granddaughter was that we hardly heard the question.
<br /><br />Our daughter was looking at Jessie and me like our heads were sheared off just above the eyebrows. My son-in-law was looking at the ceiling again. Jessie was still waiting for an answer, looking at me like she had just discovered something about herself - that she loved Grandma and me and wanted to be part of the team.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-9452153367246692322024-01-26T08:00:00.003+00:002024-01-28T15:41:40.549+00:00The Ride by John Sheirer<i>During the pandemic, Gina goes on a punishing bicycle ride to try and shake herself out of her acute ennui.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pHY-PL9mvMBgC9tkdwdxzKyFBI_Zc80xWm9alffX_JEET5C9h5fwbwc6U6O-f5LvRf05nN89iRueKBCqmY3ANcss1KihedkqzYhRyHkTyvqzLErkXtnhGCzFJ-hAlmt2HlVavocbM9rqmgE1BfoKleCOpCKmAQYN5H1iqBsg4dUSCurcqqgW7sfb3Nw/s500/The%20Ride%20by%20John%20Sheirer.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pHY-PL9mvMBgC9tkdwdxzKyFBI_Zc80xWm9alffX_JEET5C9h5fwbwc6U6O-f5LvRf05nN89iRueKBCqmY3ANcss1KihedkqzYhRyHkTyvqzLErkXtnhGCzFJ-hAlmt2HlVavocbM9rqmgE1BfoKleCOpCKmAQYN5H1iqBsg4dUSCurcqqgW7sfb3Nw/s320/The%20Ride%20by%20John%20Sheirer.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>"Dammit," Gina hissed as pain stabbed through the cramping muscles of her right thigh. She pedaled slowly up the long hill on the rural road five miles north of town, laboring against gravity's pull on the pounds she had added during four months of pandemic lockdown. Back when she biked two or three times each week, she seldom felt this near to cramping. After the recent forced inactivity, however, her legs weren't what they used to be.
<br /><br />The July mid-morning sunshine beat down through the vents in Gina's bike helmet, tickling her scalp with rivulets of sweat. The day had already crossed from cool to warm, and salty moisture matted the drooping strands of her hair.
<br /><br />"Push through it," Gina grunted. "Push, push, push!" She syncopated her thrusts, easing up with her cramping right leg and powering the last fifty yards of the hill mostly with the strength of her left leg. She didn't celebrate when she made it to the top. Instead, she concentrated on slowing her booming heart. As she glided along the hill's level crest to the slightly downhill section just beyond, she let her right leg dangle alongside the bike, easing the cramp.
<br /><br />That's when the first wave of nausea nearly knocked her off balance. She yanked the stretchy neck gaiter she used as a mask down over her chin and gulped at the air, trying to stifle the rising bile in her throat.
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Gina hadn't planned a bike ride when she woke that Sunday morning to the scent of pancakes and bacon as Rodney made breakfast in the kitchen.
<br /><br />During her years without a boyfriend, she often longed for the presence of someone doing something as simple and intimate as cooking breakfast. She had dated a series of interesting but ultimately incompatible men off and on from high school leading up to her mid-thirties, but none of those relationships had gotten beyond being "fine." She didn't know if she couldn't find a partner whose personality fully complemented her own or if she was just too picky or the victim of bad luck. But when the first red flag rapidly morphed into complete sentences of frantic semaphore emanating from a sinking ship, she just couldn't justify staying with anyone who wasn't right for her. No one would pull her under. Much as she hoped for a fulfilling romantic connection, she knew she'd rather be alone than with someone who wasn't the right person.
<br /><br />She had approached 2020 with an optimism that seemed contagious. So many of her friends seemed to think this would be the year that interrupted the malaise drifting over everyone's life. The brewing, apathetic discontent that led to the election of 2016 seemed to have faded, replaced by glimmers of hope for a better future. "Optimism" may have been too strong a word, but she and many people around her were gently clasped by a cautious aspiration that something resembling "normal," whatever that was, might return in the coming year.
<br /><br />A coworker introduced her to Rodney at a New Year's party. He seemed to be some sort of a self-employed web designer, but Gina put aside that mild concern. She admired his above average looks right away. His dark eyes and sweeping hair overcame a thin but ready smile. And his strong shoulders and long legs made the slight rolls around his midsection less noticeable.
<br /><br />More important than appearance, Rodney's public personality appealed to her. He generally seemed interested in her right from their first conversation. They'd had the odd luck to meet after midnight, so there was no awkward New Year's kiss to indulge or avoid as the clock inescapably ticked away 2019. Instead, he offered to wait on the sidewalk with her until her Uber arrived. The busy night for ride-shares gave them fifteen minutes of quiet conversation time, and that was long enough for Gina to get the impression that Rodney actually <i>liked</i> her. Often, the people who claimed to <i>love</i> her seemed not to quite <i>like</i> her. But there was something in the way Rodney looked at her. Or maybe she was wishing something into existence that wasn't really there. Either way, it was enough to convince her that she might like him as well.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />Gina's nausea settled slightly after a few hundred yards of easy pedaling and some downhill drifting. The breeze against her face transformed her queasiness into a mild rumble where her midsection folded uncomfortably a foot above the bike seat. The weight she had gained during the pandemic seemed positioned in exactly the worst spot, pressed against her stomach.
<br /><br />She tried to breathe deeply through her nose, letting the scent of the open fields work its aromatherapy magic before she had to tackle the next hill. Sweat seeped into her eyes, so she pulled off her sporty sunglasses and tried to wipe away the sting with the backs of her riding gloves. But she managed only to drive the sweat deeper as the rough fabric reddened her sensitive skin, giving her irritated eyes the appearance of tears. Her stomach still worried her, but at least the dark lenses would hide the illusion that she had taken her bike out just to have a good cry on such a beautiful morning.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />On the afternoon of New Year's Day, Rodney called to see if Gina would like to meet him for - and he was specific about this - ice cream. The unusual nature of the date (not coffee, not drinks, not dinner, not a movie - but ice cream on a winter holiday afternoon) somehow made Gina more inclined to say yes. The first day of 2020 seemed like the perfect opportunity to change her life. For the better, she hoped.
<br /><br />Ice cream led to dinner after the childlike thrill of having dessert before the main course. Their conversation closed down the restaurant and continued well beyond midnight. They shared their first kiss in the wee hours of January 2. That led to breakfast the next morning when he stayed over, sleeping gentleman-style on the living room couch that first night. Before January ended, he was staying over each weekend, easing his way into the bedroom at Gina's shy invitation. By mid-February, Rodney had a drawer in her dresser and a shelf in the medicine cabinet of her one-bedroom rental's tiny bathroom. By the beginning of March, Rodney was staying over each night. It seemed natural to Gina, then, that she give him an apartment key. To her quiet surprise, Gina discovered that she was more or less cohabiting for the first time in her adult life.
<br /><br />The fledgling couple watched TV while cuddling on the living room couch, sometimes catching fleeting news reports between rom-coms and streaming all the Oscar-nominated movies. Gina was curious about the reports of some kind of new super-flu, but Rodney assured her that it was nothing to rob her of worry. "It's far away," Rodney assured her. "Nothing will happen here."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Gina treasured the seven years she had lived in this New England college town. She liked how her apartment was an easy, well-lit, safe, ten-minute easy walk to the pleasant shops of the town center. She drove when she needed to, but her job, two grocery stores, and a range of pleasant restaurants were all within walking distance.
<br /><br />She had biked these rural roads many times. These outlying neighborhoods and farms were only fifteen minutes away when she pedaled steadily. Indoor exercise didn't hold much appeal, so she didn't have any equipment in her apartment. For her, exercise meant getting outdoors for snowshoe excursions or hikes with friends along the wooded trails or an occasional low-expectation jog during the temperate spring and fall. She had no interest in joining the 5k races that often snaked through town, other than sponsoring her friends who ran to raise money for good causes. Sometimes the race route even went by her apartment, and she'd cheer the runners from a lawn chair while sipping orange juice.
<br /><br />When she had to name her favorite activities on a dating app, biking usually topped the list. The breeze generated by biking made it an ideal activity for the hot summer. She didn't mind putting on an extra pound or five through the cold winter months spent curled up with books because she knew she'd lose the weight when the seasons turned.
<br /><br />During a normal year, she'd have been riding these country roads for two months by July, and she might have updated her dating app profile. But the first half of 2020 had turned out to be anything but normal, for Gina and the world around her.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />When the pandemic inevitably hit, Rodney told Gina that his apartment lease had lapsed. Gina still felt slivers of new-relationship thrill, so she ignored slender fragments of warning signs and asked him to stay with her during the initial lockdown. "It can't last long," Rodney reasoned. Gina considered the situation and found no reason to disagree. Besides, she thought, he had nowhere else to go and no one wanted to go apartment shopping during a semi-lockdown, however brief it promised to be.
<br /><br />They soon fell into the rhythm of Zooming into work each day, Gina from her bed and Rodney from the living room couch. She liked to tell him about her accounting job for the non-profit college scholarship service. She didn't actually help select the recipients, but she kept the books so that the money could reach as many worthy students as possible. He nodded and said, "uh-huh" and "tell me more" at appropriate times. But he never talked about his work. After a time, she suspected his headset-crowned virtual "meetings" might have morphed into remote games of Halo and Minecraft or the rabbit-hole time-sucks of TikTok videos, but she didn't want a confrontation. He kept out of her way while she was swamped with more work than ever. Some of Gina's friends posted to social media about how bored they were with a reduced at-home workload. But she found every moment of the workday filled with details more intricate than anything she had encountered at the office.
<br /><br />Their evenings together on the couch had devolved into binging one Netflix series after another, Rodney munching on chips or chocolate, Gina starting with carrots or beet puffs but soon reaching for his chips as well. In March, they sat close and snuggled in front of the television. By April, the couch had become an expanded staging area for the snacks spread out between them as they inched farther away from each other. As the weather warmed, ice cream entered their lives again as a pandemic comfort.
<br /><br />Rodney liked to cook, which Gina admired for a while. Eventually, she wished he paid more attention to the fat and calories as he prepared their meals, but she didn't complain. Healthy pandemic eating was a challenge for everyone. She paid for deliveries from the local grocery store and did the dishes. She assumed every woman should be thrilled to have a boyfriend who cooked and couldn't quite understand her nagging mix of resentment and guilt as each evening's meal approached.
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<hr />
<br />Gina let her bike drift to a stop in one of the few patches of shade along the otherwise treeless stretch of what she thought was rolling farmland. Then she became vaguely aware that she was in some kind of neighborhood with widespread ranch houses set back from the country road. She planted one foot on the pavement while keeping her other foot on the pedal as she tried to steady the storm brewing from her stomach to her brain.
<br /><br />Since childhood, Gina had hated nausea. If she woke sick on a school day, she would lie as still as possible in her bed, curled into a fetal position with the covers pulled over her head. Her mother knew to give her privacy then. Most often, a few moments of peace would help her will the nausea away, and she could rise to eat the two slices of dry toast her mother would prepare for her. That would keep her stomach calm until she could tolerate whatever mystery the school lunch had in store.
<br /><br />As a new wave of nausea climbed her torso into the base of her throat, Gina straddled the bike and bent low over the handlebars. She closed her eyes and cradled her face in both hands, a position of supplication worthy of a saint, hoping that sensory deprivation would calm the roiling waves within her stomach.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />No one knew how dangerous the virus could be. Some scoffed at masks and distancing, but others said the only way to get through this was to be cautious. Gina leaned toward caution in many aspects of her life, so she had spent most of March, April, and May sequestered in her apartment with Rodney. Everything seemed simultaneously timeless yet still so temporary - as if each moment held eternity in an instant. The issue of his contribution to the rent floated unspoken in the COVID-free interior air.
<br /><br />Their relationship seemed to take on its own holding pattern of artificial intimacy as the days crawled by. They got along fine, okay, adequately, insert any neutral adjective or adverb, but the forced immersion of their time together always cast an awkward shadow. They never fought, but they shared no moments of joy either. They never cried, but laughter was as rare as the infrequent and unavoidable trips to the convenience store when they had forgotten to add tampons or razor blades or condoms to the grocery delivery order. In fact, condoms became less and less a necessity as their sex life slipped into the stereotypical routine of a boring, married couple, as if the forced familiarity of the pandemic isolation had accelerated their evolution into premature middle age. They felt secure with another body next to them during the long, uncertain nights, but they seldom reached for that other body as they had most nights as February turned to March.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />"You okay there?"
<br /><br />Gina was snapped out of her stillness by the unexpected voice. Her head shot up, and she pulled her gaiter mask over her mouth and nose automatically, a habit she had developed rapidly during the infrequent outings of recent weeks.
<br /><br />An older woman stood twenty feet away beside a mailbox in the front yard of a modest one-story house Gina hadn't really noticed until that moment. "Starter home" or "senior home," Gina had heard them called, bookends to adulthood. You could begin being a grown-up, often as a part of a married couple, in a house like this before moving on to better things, whatever those better things might be. And/or you could be found dead in one of these places by the cleaning person who comes in once a week. That 911 call would be like a final curtain call for the landline within.
<br /><br />Gina didn't know how long the woman had been standing there. She was tiny, barely five feet tall with her surprisingly excellent posture, and whippet-thin. A face gaunt with a life fully experienced surrounded bright eyes that could belong to a teenager. Gina couldn't guess the woman's age. Could be sixty. Could be ninety-nine and three-quarters. She wore a full-length fleece bathrobe, orange and yellow plaid and much too warm for the July sunshine, belted around her skinny waist. Her hair was cut short and seasoned with more salt than pepper. Her tiny feet were sheathed in fuzzy slippers an unexpected shade of periwinkle blue and sported matching dots of color on her sockless toenails. A triangle of green bandana dangled loosely around her neck, possibly for masking purposes or maybe just another splash of color.
<br /><br />She looked at Gina with gruff sympathy. "You don't look so great, missy," she said.
<br /><br />Gina's breakfast chose that moment to begin its urgent climb from her stomach into her throat.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />Gina had discovered within a few weeks that Rodney's cooking repertoire was limited to about four basic dinners of chicken varieties with an accompanying starch and veggie. Gina never complained. The meals were satisfying if unexciting, and Rodney always made enough for a solid supply of leftovers. Still, the food consumption without corresponding calorie-burning activity nagged at the edge of her thoughts. She hadn't shed her extra winter weight and suspected that she was adding a few more pounds as summer began. Her bathroom scale gathered dust at the back of her linen closet, shoved into the darkness back there like a childhood trauma. This was a pandemic, Gina reasoned. She tried not to worry over her slightly expanded stomach and thighs when death was, literally, in the air. She made allowances for her own shape, just as she did for the several extra inches she noticed muffin-topping over Rodney's boxers each morning.
<br /><br />Breakfast during the workweek was cereal or bagels, which was fine, Gina supposed, but Rodney insisted on making a ridiculously extravagant morning meal every Sunday. He rose early, scrambled half a dozen eggs, fried a full package of bacon, grilled stacks of pancakes loaded with blueberries and smothered in butter and syrup, brewed a gallon of coffee, and poured a carafe of orange juice. There was even toast, just like her mother gave her all those years ago. But Rodney insisted on half an inch of sugary jam that oozed over the crust and onto the neighboring eggs.
<br /><br />"Eat, sweetie," Rodney urged as she stared ahead at the breakfast table earlier that morning.
<br /><br />"This is too much," Gina said, stifling a belch as she looked from her half-eaten food to the dirty dishes already piled high in the sink.
<br /><br />Rodney laughed. "You know you want more."
<br /><br />Gina swallowed and placed her fork firmly beside the plate. "That's just it," she said. "I don't want more. This is too much."
<br /><br />"You can save it for later," Rodney urged. "You'll be hungry again this afternoon."
<br /><br />Gina sighed. "It's not just the food," she said. "This is too much. <i>This</i>." She swept a hand to indicate the table, the sink, the kitchen. Rodney. The pandemic. The entire planet.
<br /><br />Rodney's face was blank. "I'm not sure I understand," he said.
<br /><br />"Me either," Gina replied, pushing back from the table and getting to her feet. "I'm going to take a bike ride."
<br /><br />"What?" Rodney asked. "You haven't finished eating. And the dishes."
<br /><br />"This is something I have to do," Gina said, as much to herself as to Rodney.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />As Gina squeezed the handlebar grips and stared desperately at the woman by the roadside, the vomit rose almost before she knew what was happening. All those years of warding off her nausea through stillness and strong will had abandoned her. Without warning, her gaiter mask bloomed dramatically with partially digested breakfast, puffing so far that Gina could glance down and see its elastic blue fabric as her sunglasses slipped down her sweaty nose and fell to the ground.
<br /><br />The mask expanded like a cartoon balloon and trapped the first wave. Gina felt the warm, slimy mess cover her nose, lips, chin, and jaw. She needed to inhale but the vomit blocked her breath. She choked and coughed just as the second, even larger wave lurched forth.
<br /><br />The weight of her vomit pulled the gaiter from her face as it sludged down around her neck. A second stream flew out farther than Gina imagined was possible, covering three-quarters of the distance between her and the older woman, who stepped back deftly, as if she'd seen a generous share of projectile vomiting in her life. Those bright eyes widened, and her mouth formed an "O" of surprise and sympathy. A blob of vomit flipped from Gina's dangling mask and dropped onto her shoes. It looked almost identical to the pancake batter Rodney used, almost as if partial digestion had returned it to its nascent, unbaked state, part of a great cycle of life, all matter evolving and devolving.
<br /><br />Mortified, Gina put her hands over her mouth, but that only forced the third wave through her parted fingers, spraying vomit in every direction. Some fragments tapped her stomach and thighs like a child's extended index finger trying to get a parent's attention. Somehow, vomit refracted its way up to her eyes and forehead. A wet chunk struck her left ear with a sound like a lapping ocean tide or a big dog's overly friendly licks with a wide, dripping tongue.
<br /><br />Gina dropped to her knees, gravel indenting her skin, and huddled over her fallen bike as the fourth wave came, this time weaker and with just a few globs that she recognized as the deep purple of blueberries. The fifth wave was mostly a dry heave, an abdominal flex of muscles weakened by months of neglected sit-ups. Gina finally found herself empty.
<br /><br />
<hr />
<br />"This is something I have to do," Gina repeated as she pulled her helmet from the back of her hall closet.
<br /><br />Rodney hovered nearby. "Please tell me what's wrong?" he insisted.
<br /><br />"Everything," Gina replied. "Nothing." She shoved her feet into the old sneakers she had worn the past few years for biking. She saw no sense in spending hard-earned money for fancy shoes that no one would ever see when scuffed Nikes would do just fine.
<br /><br />"You're being kind of a jerk," Rodney said. "I hate to say it, but it's true."
<br /><br />Gina pulled her bike from its resting place behind the coat rack. She saw that the tires were as flat as Rodney's tone, but she didn't hesitate. She knew she could push the bike up the street and around the corner before using the mini-pump clipped to the bike frame. She just needed to get out of that apartment, to depart from this man and this overwhelmingly sweet stench of food. To ride. To have the wind rush past her face. Away from him. Away from here, this place that seemed to smother her. Away to anywhere. Literally, anywhere. Immediately.
<br /><br />"The world is going to hell," she said.
<br /><br />"That's not my fault!" Rodney answered, his voice now raw and his eyes shining. Gina noticed he still wore a stained apron. She realized she didn't know where the apron came from. He might have ordered it online the day before or he may have brought it over from his place when they first began dating. She had no idea. He may have been born wearing it for all she knew. What did she really know about him, after all?
<br /><br />She saw that he also held his breakfast fork. She could see bacon grease, syrup, and saliva glistening on the silver metal.
<br /><br />"I'm going now," Gina called back to him through a slight gag as she pushed the bike onto the quiet street of a pandemic weekend morning.
<br /><br />Rodney's last words to her floated through the open doorway: "I may not be here when you get back!"
<br /><br />Gina stifled a laugh. He was as trapped as she was. Where could he go?
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Gina felt the old woman's hand wrap around her upper arm. "Can you stand?" she asked. Her grip was surprisingly strong and instantly comforting.
<br /><br />Gina coughed. She managed to croak out an "okay" and push one foot under herself. Her cramp threatened to return and then relented as she forced herself upward on wavery legs and opened her eyes. The old woman had moved close by then, nearly an intimate distance, and had pulled the bandana over her nose and mouth. She looked like an old west bank robber who had forgotten her cowboy hat but remembered to wear a robe and slippers. Instead of a gunmetal gray pistol, she held a chrome spray nozzle attached to a green garden hose.
<br /><br />"My name is Lizzie," the woman said. She steadied Gina for a moment and then stepped back three paces. "I figure at least you should know my name considering what I'm about to do to you. You'll thank me later."
<br /><br />"What...?" Gina began, but she understood when she saw Lizzie lift the nozzle and point it in her direction. She noticed water dripping from the azaleas behind Lizzie and knew she needed to be watered next, both for cleaning and nurturing purposes. With a nod to Lizzie, Gina squeezed her eyes shut once again. "Do it," she said.
<br /><br />The first blast hit her shoes, dislodging vomit and sending it into a rainbow spray around her feet. Gina risked a tight-lidded peek and was surprised by how pretty the vomit rainbow was. Lizzie flicked the stream of water to and fro across Gina's shins as if debating where to go next. Then, after a millisecond of silence, the spray hit Gina's helmet. The water thrummed against the curved fiberglass like a downpour on blacktop. Gina staggered, slightly dizzy. Lizzie twisted the nozzle, and the stream widened to become less urgent as she sprayed Gina's face. Gina resisted the urge to raise her hands in self-defense and gave herself over to the cleansing flow. She could feel solid masses of her expelled breakfast, already beginning to crust in the sunshine, break away and drop from her skin.
<br /><br />As the hose descended, Gina squinted enough to make out vomit being rinsed from her t-shirt and bare arms. Lizzie returned to her chest and Gina was thankful for the sports bra that kept the water from abrading across her breasts. Lizzie's eyes seemed to apologize for the intrusion and moved on to her stomach, which Gina was surprised to notice didn't feel as fat as it did when she studied it in her bathroom mirror each day. The water glanced off rather than jiggling the flesh.
<br /><br />Lizzie looked away politely as she quickly sprayed Gina's abdomen and crotch, where, thankfully, very little vomit had come to rest. Lizzie cleared Gina's thighs and knees. She stopped for a moment until Gina looked up to see Lizzie make a circular motion with her left hand. Gina turned around, and Lizzie repeated the process on her back, butt, and legs where, in some incomprehensible feat of physics, generous deposits of vomit had somehow scattered.
<br /><br />"Let me look at you," Lizzie said. Gina did two full, slow rotations, her sneakers squelching on the wet ground. "A little air-and-sunshine drying, and you'll be just fine," Lizzie said, dropping the nozzle and hose on the ground between them. "Now, how about some lemonade?"
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<hr />
<br />Twenty minutes later, Gina and Lizzie were seated on Lizzie's back deck, a safe fifteen feet apart in the open air. Gina's bike, also freshly hosed off, leaned against a wheelbarrow beside Lizzie's burgeoning vegetable garden. A striped awning muted the sun, and droplets of water beaded on their glasses of light amber liquid. Gina hadn't shared space with anyone other than Rodney like this since early March, and the lemonade, her settled stomach, and Lizzie's easy company had loosened her usual reticence with strangers.
<br /><br />"I just don't know what I was thinking," she said. "I mean, he seemed more-or-less okay, you know, fine and all. But I'm usually a sensible person. What the hell was I thinking letting this guy I barely knew stay at my apartment during a lockdown?"
<br /><br />"Nothing wrong with giving things a chance, even with this crayola-virus in the air," Lizzie said. "And you did. Maybe it didn't work out okay this time. It happens."
<br /><br />"I don't know," Gina mused. "Is it all worth it? You know, men? Love? All that... you know... stuff?"
<br /><br />Lizzie took a long sip of lemonade before she spoke. "There are women who will tell you men are all slime," she said. "I'm not going to pretend that I have all the answers, but that's just crap. Some men are just right for you, and most aren't even close. There's maybe a thousand of the right person for everyone. That seems like a lot, but finding one of those right people is tricky. A thousand isn't many when there's something like seven billion people in the world."
<br /><br />"Eight billion soon," Gina said.
<br /><br />"Jesus," Lizzie whispered. "That's probably too many."
<br /><br />"Did you find the right man for you?" Gina asked.
<br /><br />"Hell," Lizzie chucked. "I found five of them over the years, but I outlived them all!" She hesitated. "Three women, too. Hope you don't mind hearing that."
<br /><br />"Of course not. Love is love. So... you found love <i>eight</i> times?" Gina marveled.
<br /><br />"That's not so many," Lizzie said. "Eight out of a thousand, remember. That means there's probably nine hundred ninety-two still out there for me." She laughed. "I've been thinking of trying online dating once this kabuki-virus is done. It's gotta end someday, and I still have some years left. I don't need romance so much anymore, but it would be nice to have someone to share a cuddle with on chilly nights. Watch a good TV show. Share a cup of tea and the morning paper. That kind of stuff."
<br /><br />Gina nodded and looked out across Lizzie's wide backyard to the distant woods. She thought about how nice it would be to have this much space to avoid people who might be carrying this current version of the plague. She could stay out on this shady deck all day with a small breeze drying her wet hair and clothes. No one would miss her. Rodney probably wouldn't be there when she got home. Or, if he was, she knew he wouldn't stay long.
<br /><br />She glanced at Lizzie, who traced patterns in the condensation on her glass with one hand and ran the other across her spiky hair. Gina wondered if Lizzie would invite her to stay for dinner, but she realized it was a silly thought. They'd known each other for less than half an hour, all of that time spent in the virus-dissipating outdoor air.
<br /><br />Then she wondered if she could get a strong enough Wi-Fi signal to work from here. How about Netflix and grocery delivery?
<br /><br />After a few minutes of companionable silence, Gina asked, "So, it doesn't sound like Rodney is one of my one thousand, does it?"
<br /><br />"His name is 'Rodney'?" Lizzie's eyes twinkled. "That should have been your first clue!" They laughed. "Seriously," Lizzie continued. "If a little puke makes you realize that things aren't right between you two, then that's like a sign from above. Or somewhere. All I know is the one thing, most important thing I've learned over the years. Here it is: love shouldn't be that hard. This koala-virus? That's hard. But love shouldn't be hard."
<br /><br />Gina looked at her bike. She liked the fact that it was a decade old and wasn't streamlined or slick or perfect. She had resisted the desire to upgrade when this one was just fine. It wasn't hard to ride. She flexed her thighs, which felt much stronger than she expected. There was no sign of cramping. Her muscles were good enough. And she noticed that her stomach was settled. She wasn't sure when she would climb atop her bike again and head back out onto the hilly roads, but she knew she hadn't yet worn out her welcome with this odd little woman who just might be a guardian angel.
<br /><br />For the first time in four months of hiding from the world, Gina felt she was on the brink of something that might reach beyond just fine.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-45485529765913795552024-01-24T08:00:00.026+00:002024-01-24T10:13:05.714+00:00The Neuron Stitcher by Matt Hollingsworth<u>For the next few Wednesdays, Fiction on the Web will be publishing an extra mid-week story!</u><div><i><br /><br /></i></div><div><i>Thomas is a precocious toddler with incredible mind powers, but still physically underdeveloped - is his mother strong enough to raise him?</i><u><br /></u><br /><div><i><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8VgJIWIzxGHv3dkCbKEHKLZn6LqIn6203sXO8D0GgFJR1FdCft87sDlM3Cm01ajPVJFEWoLTn-fc_-VwMhIOGolH1AnyO-jh4Qm3DAS7bs3wBDE6s7gYJYiDuMnY3dadjFRqKgeUqm3ulzx4xT2wiHQ4x4d21avDusxFc-CM5RjTxZNvfxmjyewGnQU/s500/The%20Neuron%20Stitcher%20by%20Matt%20Hollingsworth.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8VgJIWIzxGHv3dkCbKEHKLZn6LqIn6203sXO8D0GgFJR1FdCft87sDlM3Cm01ajPVJFEWoLTn-fc_-VwMhIOGolH1AnyO-jh4Qm3DAS7bs3wBDE6s7gYJYiDuMnY3dadjFRqKgeUqm3ulzx4xT2wiHQ4x4d21avDusxFc-CM5RjTxZNvfxmjyewGnQU/s320/The%20Neuron%20Stitcher%20by%20Matt%20Hollingsworth.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table></i>Amanda Barns opened the classroom door with her hip, trying to balance her two-year-old son in her arms and the overstuffed backpack digging into her shoulders. She was 15 minutes late, and as soon as she entered, Professor Yasmine halted her lecture, glaring.
<br /><br />"Sorry," Amanda said, blushing and wishing she were invisible. "My babysitter cancelled at the last minute, and I couldn't find another on such short notice."
<br /><br />"You can't bring your child in here," the professor said. "He'll disrupt the class."
<br /><br />"He's very quiet," Amanda said. "I promise he won't..."
<br /><br />"I'm sorry, but you should've planned ahead."
<br /><br />Amanda heard (yet did not hear) the familiar thought-voice of her son: <i>Tell her that according to the school's discrimination policy, section 5, paragraph 3, mothers of young children without access to a daycare...</i>
<br /><br />"...cannot be prevented from taking their child to class," Amanda said, reciting after the voice.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Professor Yasmine scowled. "Fine, but the moment he starts crying, you better take him outside."
<br /><br />Amanda smiled and sat with her son in her lap. She whispered in her child's ear, "Thanks, Tommy."
<br /><br /><i>No problem</i>, Thomas's thought-voice replied. <i>One of us has to read the policies</i>. Amanda was pretty sure that no one in the college's history had ever read the policies except Thomas, but at least it got them out of trouble this time.
<br /><br />"What a cute baby," whispered the girl next to Amanda waving at Thomas. "Can you say '<i>hi</i>,' buddy?" Thomas turned toward the girl and her smile faded. People often found Thomas's eyes unsettling, Amanda had observed.
<br /><br />"He doesn't talk yet," Amanda whispered, a half-truth. In reality, what he did was far stranger than talking. When she'd originally heard the voice during her first trimester, Amanda had thought she was losing her mind, at least until her parents began hearing him too.
<br /><br />Her son was telepathic. He could watch the inner workings of people's brains, could learn from their memories and experiences, which was how he'd learned to speak in the womb, absorbing the information directly from Amanda's brain. He lived in a world of synapses and neurochemistry, like a human MRI machine. Often, he seemed to find that world more real than the outside one.
<br /><br />If he wanted to, he could scramble someone's brain or stop their heart. Amanda chose not to think about that. She loved her child, but sometimes he frightened her.
<br /><br />Amanda ran her hand along his hair, the same shade of blond as hers. This was her son. <i>Her son</i>. The phrase was still strange to think. And she didn't care (or she tried not to care) what others thought about her having a child at age 18 - she loved him.
<br /><br />Amanda expected Thomas to bombard her with questions through Professor Yasmine's history lecture; he always asked questions during her homework. Today, however, he was strangely silent.
<br /><br /><i>You okay, Thomas?</i> Amanda thought to her son.
<br /><br /><i>Yes</i>, he responded. She glanced at his face. His eyes were fixed on Professor Yasmine.
<br /><br />Thomas didn't cry during class, of course. In all his life, she'd only ever seen him cry once. As they were leaving, the professor stopped her. "Oh Amanda, I don't care what your excuse is. Don't bring him again." Amanda scowled and walked away.
<br /><br />She kissed Thomas on the hair and asked, <i>Why were you being so quiet?</i>
<br /><br />For a moment, he didn't answer.
<br /><br /><i>Thomas?</i>
<br /><br /><i>Professor Yasmine has a brain tumor,</i> Thomas said. <i>She doesn't know about it, but if left untreated, it will kill her.</i>
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />"Are you sure?" Amanda asked for the hundredth time.
<br /><br /><i>I'm sure</i>, Thomas said.
<br /><br />"So, what do I do? Just walk up to her after class and say 'My telepathic infant says you have a brain tumor. Probably should get that checked out'?"
<br /><br />He smiled slightly <i>That wouldn't be my first choice, but we'll have to think of something.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda sat in the living room of her parents' house. Thomas faced her from across the couch, his infant body in complete contrast to his often coldly logical mind. A complete contrast except for the eyes, Amanda thought. Thomas had grown-up eyes - eyes that had seen far more than a child should have. She wondered if, at that very moment, he was watching electrical impulses travel through her brain.
<br /><br />"That's kind that you care so much about her." Amanda smiled at him. "You're such a good boy, Tommy."
<br /><br /><i>For not letting someone die of a tumor?</i> Thomas asked. <i>I would be a bad person if I didn't try to help her, but just trying to help her doesn't make me a good person.</i>
<br /><br />Rather than trying to argue, Amanda said, "We'll talk about our plan tonight. Right now, it's time for your least favorite part of the day."
<br /><br />Thomas's face twitched. <i>I'd rather not</i>, he said.
<br /><br />"You know what the doctor said. You're delayed in motor skills and speech."
<br /><br /><i>I've also read</i> Ulysses. <i>That's got to count for something.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda was 90% sure he'd only read the book so that he could make comments like that.
<br /><br />"You know we need to do this, Thomas," she said. "Come on. I'll help you."
<br /><br />For the next hour, they practiced movement and speech. Of course, Thomas could "speak" perfectly well telepathically, but in a way, that just made things harder. Because he didn't need verbal speech to communicate, his skills were very underdeveloped. Likewise, even at two years old, he could hardly stand up without falling. He and Amanda both knew that he needed practice, but it was a fight every time. She suspected it was his pride. There was so much he could do on his own that it was hard for him to accept those things he couldn't. He didn't enjoy the reminder that he was a helpless infant.
<br /><br />After his practice, she left him to read on his e-reader while she ate and watched TV. At the end of the day, Thomas reminded her once more, <i>Professor Yasmine. Don't forget</i>. She promised she wouldn't, kissing her son on the head.
<br /><br /><i>I love you, Mother</i>, he said.
<br /><br />"I love you, too."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Amanda stood outside Professor Yasmine's office and took a deep breath. Confrontation had never been her strong suit, and she couldn't imagine how she was going to explain this.
<br /><br />She knocked on the door, waited for a response that didn't come, then knocked again.
<br /><br />"Come in." It might have been her imagination, but Amanda thought she saw the professor frown when she opened the door.
<br /><br />A familiar book sat on the professor's desk.
<br /><br />"<i>Pride and Prejudice</i>." Amanda smiled. "I love that book."
<br /><br />"Really? You didn't strike me as the literary type." Amanda gritted her teeth. Yasmine motioned for her to sit.
<br /><br />"Professor," Amanda started, pausing for longer than she meant to, sorting her words. "Do you ever just <i>know</i> things? One of those moments where you just sense something without a shadow of a doubt, even though you're not sure how you know it?"
<br /><br />"I prefer facts to feelings, personally." The professor leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.
<br /><br />"Well, I get those feelings from time to time, and I had one the other day. You need to go to the doctor. There's something with your brain, and if you don't get it checked out, you're going to get sick."
<br /><br />Professor Yasmine raised an eyebrow. "Is this your subtle way of telling me I have to get my head examined?"
<br /><br />Amanda's eyes widened. "No! Nothing like that. I just want to help you, and I'm telling you that you need to go to the doctor or something bad might happen."
<br /><br />"Thank you for your concern, Ms. Barns. If that's all you needed, I have papers to grade, so if you'll..."
<br /><br />"You've been having trouble with your coordination, right? Nausea, dizziness, involuntary eye movements?" Thomas had gleaned these symptoms from the professor's memories. As Amanda spoke, Yasmine's expression changed. "You have a malignant tumor in your cerebellum."
<br /><br />It was the first time in her life that Amanda had seen an older woman look so <i>frightened</i> of her. She didn't like the feeling.
<br /><br />"Go to the doctor," Amanda said. "I just want to help you."
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Professor Yasmine didn't show up to class that next week. Amanda's parents had returned from their vacation by then, but she hadn't told them about the situation. They loved Thomas and always worried about what would happen if people found out about his powers. She didn't want to give them any more reason to be frightened.
<br /><br />Thomas had never been very expressive with his emotions, but Amanda could tell he was anxious about the professor. He had a strong sense of responsibility. She knew that he would just keep thinking about it until he knew for sure, so eventually, she suggested that they stop by the hospital.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Amanda wasn't excited to talk to Professor Yasmine face-to-face, but fortunately, they wouldn't have to. Thomas's powers had a range of a few dozen feet, but after wandering around the hallways for a couple minutes, trying not to look suspicious, Thomas said, <i>I can sense her. She's on the floor above us.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda sat in a waiting area almost directly underneath Yasmine's room. She put Thomas on her lap and pretended to check her phone.
<br /><br /><i>Can you tell if they've treated her?</i> Amanda asked.
<br /><br /><i>No. The tumor is still getting worse</i>. His face twitched. <i>I know I promised not to look into people's memories without their permission...</i>
<br /><br /><i>If you think you can help her, do it</i>, Amanda said. Thomas didn't need any more encouragement. He relaxed into her arms, and she knew he was watching neurons fire and brain regions activate.
<br /><br />After several minutes, he said, <i>The doctors are scared to operate. The reason why is complicated, but it doesn't look good. Not at all</i>.
<br /><br /><i>Can you do anything?</i> she asked.
<br /><br /><i>Maybe. Give me a minute</i>.
<br /><br />They sat there for over an hour, Thomas providing periodic updates. Amanda shook her head at just how strange her life had become.
<br /><br />Thomas said, <i>I might be able to order her brain to direct nutrients away from the tumor. Slow its growth.</i>
<br /><br /><i>You can do that?</i>
<br /><br /><i>I can certainly try</i>.
<br /><br /><i>Try?</i> Amanda raised an eyebrow. <i>That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.</i>
<br /><br /><i>Try was the wrong word. I'm not going to hurt her, I promise. Besides, I'm not sure she has much hope without me.</i>
<br /><br />They sat there for another three hours until Thomas was too exhausted to continue.
<br /><br /><i>Any progress?</i> Amanda asked.
<br /><br /><i>I'm not sure. We'll have to come back tomorrow.</i>
<br /><br />Thomas looked pale, and he fell asleep on the ride home. Amanda made sure he had a big supper and got plenty of sleep. She let him skip his walking and speaking exercises.
<br /><br />As she laid him in his bed, she whispered, "You're a kind boy. I love you so much." She kissed his forehead and paused to watch his little chest rise and fall before turning out the lights.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Amanda and Thomas spent every free hour that week outside the professor's hospital room. Apparently, he was getting used to the strain because each time he was able to stay longer and longer without needing rest.
<br /><br />"You look tired," Amanda whispered one afternoon. "Maybe we should take a break. Do something to help you relax."
<br /><br /><i>And if she dies on my break? What then?</i>
<br /><br />Thomas was giving fewer updates, but Amanda could tell that Professor Yasmine wasn't doing well. Amanda wished she could take the strain for her son, go through this for him. He was too young to be thinking about life and death.
<br /><br />"What are you doing?" someone asked.
<br /><br />Amanda had been lost in her thoughts, but suddenly her head jolted up toward a doctor who stood over her.
<br /><br />"I... I'm sorry if I'm disturbing anyone."
<br /><br />"I saw you yesterday," the doctor said. "You sat there for hours."
<br /><br />Amanda had prepared her lie beforehand. She bit her lip and glanced away for effect.
<br /><br />"A few months ago, one of my friends died in a room over there," Amanda said, "Being here makes me feel closer to him." The doctor looked like he was trying to resist rolling his eyes. He walked away murmuring something about non-patients crowding the halls.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Amanda had wanted to tell her parents the truth, but Thomas had insisted otherwise. He was very good at convincing people to do things, and Amanda had never been particularly strong-willed. She told them that she'd found a playgroup for infants, that it would be good for Thomas to interact with kids his own age (something he hardly ever did). She did her best to explain away how tired the boy looked, how thin. He kept losing weight over the next few weeks, no matter how much Amanda fed him.
<br /><br />They did their best to avoid seeing Yasmine, but they did run into her once.
<br /><br />"Amanda?"
<br /><br />Amanda was entering the hospital, her son in her arms. She turned to see Professor Yasmine. The woman looked frail. Patches of dark hair were missing.
<br /><br />"Professor." Amanda gave a smile that probably looked fake. "I didn't expect to see you here." Amanda nearly winced at how unconvincing she sounded.
<br /><br />The professor eyed her. "You knew about the tumor. Right down to the location, you knew."
<br /><br />Amanda opened her mouth, realized she had nothing to say, then closed it. She looked down at Thomas who was apparently equally at a loss for words.
<br /><br />Professor Yasmine stepped closer. "I don't know what your deal is, but I'm going to find out." She turned and walked down the hall.
<br /><br /><i>That's an interesting way to say thank you</i>, Amanda said to Thomas.
<br /><br />He responded, <i>She's under a lot of pressure, and she's scared she's going to die. Don't take it personally.</i>
<br /><br /><i>She was treating me that way before she found out about the tumor.</i>
<br /><br />Thomas was silent for a moment, as if considering his words. <i>Professor Yasmine's daughter also became pregnant as a teenager</i>, he said. <i>Two years ago, she ran off with a man four years her senior that Yasmine suspects is a drug user. She hasn't seen or heard from her since. Seeing you reminds her of her daughter.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda's eyes widened. It took a moment before she could respond. <i>Still... that's not an excuse.</i>
<br /><br /><i>No, not an excuse. But that's why.</i>
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Things started improving after that. According to Thomas, Yasmine's tumor was shrinking. The doctors couldn't believe it, he told Amanda. They had no explanation.
<br /><br /><i>She's not fully healed</i>, he explained. <i>Even I can't do that. But she is better</i>.
<br /><br />After a few weeks, she was healthy enough for surgery, and the next week, she sent an email to the class saying she was going to be all right and would be teaching again soon. Amanda thought that would be the end of it, but soon after, Thomas asked to be taken back to the hospital.
<br /><br />"Why? Isn't she better?"
<br /><br /><i>She is</i>, Thomas said. <i>But there are others. So many others. Maybe I can help them, too.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda cringed. Thomas's ribs were showing now. He was losing what little muscle he had.
<br /><br /><i>I have to help them</i>, Thomas said. <i>You have to let me help them.</i>
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Weeks passed. Weeks of hospitals, weeks of Thomas, his little face expressionless. Weeks of mending brains and stitching neurons. Professor Yasmine was back by then. She never again confronted Amanda about what had happened, but she eyed the girl with suspicion and with what looked like fear.
<br /><br />Meanwhile, Thomas and Amanda argued constantly about their time at the hospital with her insisting he take a few days to rest. Every now and then he'd capitulate, but eventually, he would always beg to go back.
<br /><br />One day she'd had enough.
<br /><br />"We're not going anymore," she said.
<br /><br /><i>But my latest patient is almost healed. With just a few more sessions...</i>
<br /><br />"This is killing you."
<br /><br /><i>They'll die without me. Maybe that's why I have these powers - to help people</i>.
<br /><br />"And maybe the reason I had you was so that I could protect you. You're killing yourself with this."
<br /><br /><i>I'm being careful. Don't forget I can see every neuron of my own brain as well. I'm monitoring myself carefully, and I won't let...</i>
<br /><br />"I am your mother, and you are going to listen to me!" Thomas's eyes widened. Amanda was glad that her parents weren't home to hear the fight. She and Thomas stared at each other for a long time before she crossed her arms and said, "I'm not taking you."
<br /><br /><i>Wanna bet?</i>
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Amanda was so glad she'd found the new daycare for Thomas. It seemed perfect. She dropped off her son with one of the workers, then drove to campus. She got halfway there before she realized what had happened.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Amanda found her son in their normal spot at the hospital - right where she'd left him. Her voice was hard: "What did you do?"
<br /><br />Thomas looked up. <i>That didn't last as long as I expected.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda stared at him in horror. She had felt like she was dropping him off at a daycare. She'd <i>seen</i> a daycare. She remembered placing him on the padded floor beside a pile of building blocks. But there was no daycare. In reality, she'd left him on that chair.
<br /><br />"You made me see things," she said. "I didn't know you could do that."
<br /><br /><i>There's lots of things I can do that you don't know</i>, Thomas said. <i>I could make you leave again.</i>
<br /><br />"Those days I made you take a break - did you fake that too?"
<br /><br /><i>Unfortunately, I'm not that powerful. At least not yet.</i>
<br /><br />"Well, hello little guy," said a doctor walking down the hall towards Thomas and Amanda. "What are you doing here?"
<br /><br /><i>Leave us</i>, Thomas said. Instantly, the doctor turned and walked away.
<br /><br />"You're coming home," Amanda said.
<br /><br /><i>I can't do that</i>.
<br /><br />Without warning, the world changed. Amanda looked around and saw her elementary school classroom. But of course, that's what she saw. She was 11 years old, and the school day had just ended. She needed to go out to the parking lot where Mom and Dad would be in the car waiting to take her home.
<br /><br />"Stop it, Thomas," Amanda said. She closed her eyes and bit her lip until it began to bleed. When she opened her eyes again, she was back in the hospital.
<br /><br /><i>I need to help them</i>, Thomas said. <i>Go back to class. I'll stay here</i>.
<br /><br />"Do you think I'm just going to leave you alone?"
<br /><br /><i>Are you worried about me? Worried I'll get hungry?</i> Thomas asked in a mocking tone. <i>I can make the staff bring me food. They're not expecting someone to poke around in their minds, so they're easier to control than you are. Maybe you're worried I'll get kidnapped? I'd be more afraid for the kidnapper. You can't imagine how easy it would be to sever somebody's spinal cord.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda shivered. Her son - kind enough to spend every hour he could mending sick people's brains, yet cold enough to <i>mind control</i> his own mother. But she was rapidly losing her patience.
<br /><br />"I'll admit, there's a lot you can do," Amanda said leaning in, "but there's still one thing you can't." And with that, she grabbed her son, lifting him out of the chair. He was squirming, trying to get free, but she held him easily. Too easily. He was so much weaker than he should have been by this age.
<br /><br />She started towards the door when she felt her head start to spin. For a moment, she was worried that she was going to fall over. Thomas suddenly felt heavy in her arms, and she had an urge to put him down. Just to rest for a moment...
<br /><br />"Stop it, Thomas," she said.
<br /><br /><i>I'm sorry, but they'll die without me</i>.
<br /><br />Without warning, the world turned black. Amanda whipped her head around but saw nothing, like she'd gone blind.
<br /><br /><i>Can't drive me home if you can't see</i>, Thomas said.
<br /><br />Amanda gritted her teeth and, in her anger, did something she would have never expected herself to do. She grabbed Thomas's little arm and squeezed, digging her fingernails into the skin, drawing blood. Her grip was almost tight enough to fracture his frail arm bones. Thomas cried out - a toddler's cry, high-pitched and shrill.
<br /><br />Her vision returned as Thomas's concentration broke. For a half-second, Amanda felt a sense of victory. And then she looked at her opponent, clutching his small arm, and her heart broke.
<br /><br />"You're my son," she said, "and I'm not going to let you go." And in that moment, she loved him so badly it hurt.
<br /><br />Thomas just stared at her with his distant, calculating eyes. Every fold of her brain lay open and exposed before him. She knew he was right: If he was determined enough, there was <i>nothing</i> she could do to force him to leave.
<br /><br />Nevertheless...
<br /><br /><i>I'll go</i>, he said. <i>You win</i>. He didn't speak again for the entire ride home.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Thomas didn't ask to go to the hospital during the next week. He practiced movement when she told him to and didn't fight back. He ate well and quickly regained his weight. Soon, he was even able to walk several steps without help. His verbal speaking was improving, too, although Amanda doubted anyone but her could actually understand his infant babble.
<br /><br />But at the same time, he seemed withdrawn. While he would do his verbal speaking practice without complaining, he remained quiet telepathically, usually only speaking when spoken to, rarely asking questions. She wanted to talk to him, but she was frightened. What would she even say? The bruise on his arm quickly healed, but she squirmed each time she thought of it.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Amanda had always had trouble sleeping, often tossing and turning. This night, however, she fell asleep as soon as she lay down. But later on, she started stirring. Finally, she woke, checking the time on her phone: 4:45. She stretched, then rose to go to the bathroom. On the way, she stopped by Thomas's bed.
<br /><br />It was empty.
<br /><br />For a moment, she just froze, her eyes wide with terror.
<br /><br />"<i>Thomas?</i>" Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
<br /><br />Amanda switched on the lights, scanning the room although she knew he wouldn't have walked anywhere in the dark. She looked into the hallway and was about to scream for her parents when she noticed something. The panel for the house alarm was open, and the door alarm had been turned off. Someone had entered the passcode.
<br /><br />Amanda knew where her son was.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />She arrived at hospital waiting room just in time. A police officer and half dozen staff members stood together, a nurse holding Thomas who thrashed and screamed.
<br /><br />"Hey!" Amanda shouted, running over. "What do you think you're doing with my son?"
<br /><br />Thomas looked up at her and instantly calmed. He reached toward her and shouted one of the only words that - thanks to the speaking lessons - he could say distinctly: "Momma! Momma!" Amanda grabbed him from the nurse, and Thomas hugged his mother around the neck.
<br /><br />The police officer approached her. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to see some ID. Hospital staff found the child almost 30 minutes ago. How long exactly did you leave him alone?"
<br /><br />"I didn't leave him," Amanda said, but she couldn't think of a lie fast enough. She grabbed her wallet and handed her license to the officer.
<br /><br />"Momma," Thomas said again and kissed her cheek, no doubt trying to reassure the staff that Amanda really was his mother.
<br /><br />"I hope you understand child abandonment is a serious charge," the officer said.
<br /><br />He was just doing his job, but Amanda wanted to punch him. Nevertheless, she took a second to calm herself. "I'm so sorry. Please, I'm a good mother. Ask my parents. I'm doing the best that I can."
<br /><br />The police officer stared for a moment, but apparently, he pitied her, because he said, "Consider this a warning, and never leave your child unattended again." He left, followed by the hospital staff members. Amanda sunk into a chair, sighing with relief.
<br /><br /><i>I'm sorry</i>, Thomas said. <i>There were six of them all walking together when they found me, and it was too many minds to control all at once. I'm so sorry</i>.
<br /><br />But Amanda wasn't angry; she was too relieved that he was safe. She put her hand on his back and kissed his head. He wiped his face, but she'd already seen that it was wet. It was the second time she'd seen him cry.
<br /><br />"Okay, I'm impressed," Amanda said. "How did you get here?"
<br /><br /><i>I put you, Grandmother, and Grandfather into the deepest part of your sleep cycle</i>, he said. <i>Our neighbor's house is just close enough for him to be in range, so I took control, then made him walk over to our house, grab the hide-a-key, and unlock the door. Then I had him come grab me out of bed, put me in his car, and take me here. Erased his memory of it all before sending him home</i>.
<br /><br />Amanda shuddered at the thought of a strange man in her room, grabbing her son.
<br /><br />Thomas continued, <i>It would have been more convenient to use Grandmother or Grandfather, but like you, they would have known what was happening and been able to resist. I was going to get someone else to take me back home in an hour or two. Ideally, you wouldn't have known I was gone.</i>
<br /><br />"Is this the first time?"
<br /><br /><i>Yes</i>.
<br /><br />Amanda stared at him.
<br /><br /><i>I promise</i>.
<br /><br />She turned away, hand still on his back. They simply sat together for a long moment before Amanda said, "What are their names?"
<br /><br /><i>Whose names?</i>
<br /><br />"Your patients. The people you're helping."
<br /><br /><i>Oh</i>. Thomas looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected her to ask. <i>I've been operating on three of them tonight. Bessy is that way</i>. He motioned up and to the right. <i>She was a stay-at-home mom. Last of her kids left for college recently. About two weeks ago, she had a stroke. All her kids are back now and have hardly left her side. I wish she could be conscious for it.</i>
<br /><br />"And the others?"
<br /><br />He motioned up and to the left. <i>Over there is Tessa. She was about a month away from graduating medical school when she was in a car accident. Severe brain trauma. In the room next to her is David. He has a tumor like Professor Yasmine. Doesn't get many visitors. He had a wife, but she left him a few years ago.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda blinked away tears.
<br /><br />"Were they the ones you were helping last week?"
<br /><br /><i>Some of them. There were two others.</i>
<br /><br />"And they got better?"
<br /><br />She knew immediately she shouldn't have asked. Thomas shook his head, and Amanda felt cold.
<br /><br /><i>I want to help these people, Mother.</i>
<br /><br />"I know. You're a kind boy, Tommy. Very kind."
<br /><br />He shook his head again. <i>You don't see them like I do. Tessa's sister is in her room now, and she's crying. I can feel her crying. I can see every neurochemical in her brain - and she's so much more than mere neurochemicals. All of us are. I could no more ignore her pain than you could ignore mine.</i>
<br /><br />Amanda's heart was breaking. "I love you, Thomas."
<br /><br /><i>What do we do?</i> he asked.
<br /><br />"I don't know."
<br /><br />She held her son, and he leaned in, his head resting against her side.</div></div>Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-54074937010478706772024-01-22T08:00:00.009+00:002024-01-22T08:00:00.338+00:00Tightly Wrapped by Bill Tope<i>When Elise remarries she seems so much happier, but her daughter Malorie has concerns about her new stepfather.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP2buiVygC3n4lOI-xOVW8kw4YiypnBQx7B42UM2ac02qDu6t__KAAR9mCcgx29jhVQNoqrupylsAvxLlBnPTWHRQmuf-mPwOUeX-CF8tI3A3_1JpD_dyyab4QzI35MvU7fRgrKT27sJ79uGJPqKMu00WclUJ5Xi9LIVxHkxAhVcYtfFaPfR3m2blCM4/s500/Tightly%20Wrapped%20by%20Bill%20Tope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP2buiVygC3n4lOI-xOVW8kw4YiypnBQx7B42UM2ac02qDu6t__KAAR9mCcgx29jhVQNoqrupylsAvxLlBnPTWHRQmuf-mPwOUeX-CF8tI3A3_1JpD_dyyab4QzI35MvU7fRgrKT27sJ79uGJPqKMu00WclUJ5Xi9LIVxHkxAhVcYtfFaPfR3m2blCM4/s320/Tightly%20Wrapped%20by%20Bill%20Tope.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table>"I've never felt this way before," marveled Elise, fanning herself with her hand. The room was chilly, but she was burning up. She glanced at her daughter. "How are you doing, Mal?" she asked.
<br /><br />Malorie stared at her mother, uncertain just how to respond. "I'm... good," she said at last.
<br /><br />Elise accepted this at face value. "Good, baby," she said with a little twist of a smile.
<br /><br />When Malorie didn't say anything more, Elise asked, brightly, "Well, what'll we do next?"
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Malorie glanced at the clock on the mantle: 11:30. Her mom would be arriving by taxi from the airport in half an hour. With her would be her new husband - Malorie's step-father - fresh off a whirlwind romance conducted over the past six weeks, while Elise was on vacation in the Caribbean. Malorie was blown away at how rapidly the relationship had developed. Her mom had been so lonely, following the abrupt departure of Tom, her ex-husband, who left in pursuit of a trophy wife, who was just two years older than Malorie's 19 years. While she was glad that her mom had someone, Malorie would have liked to have had the opportunity to check him out first. She had yet to even meet Michael.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>Finally, there was the sound of a key in the lockset and the front door pushed open. Malorie heard them before she saw them; Elise and Michael were jabbering like jaybirds as they entered the room. Malorie heard laughter, which made her smile.
<br /><br />"Mal!" cried Elise loudly, catching sight of her only child. Dropping packages and bundles and bags, Elise rushed to her daughter and enveloped her in a tight hug. Malorie hugged her back. She sniffed. Was that rum? she wondered.
<br /><br />"Hi, Mom!" cried Malorie. "Lemme look at you," she said, holding her mother at arm's length. "You don't <i>look</i> married," she said. Both women laughed.
<br /><br />"Trust me," said a deeper voice. "She's married, alright."
<br /><br />Elise's eyes opened wide and she exclaimed. "Michael! Malorie, this is Michael; and Michael, this is Malorie, my daughter."
<br /><br />Malorie stuck out her hand, but Michael seized her around the waist and twirled her around. Malorie yelped in surprise. "I feel like I know all about you, Mal," declared Michael, finally setting her back down. "Elise has talked of nothing else."
<br /><br />Malorie blinked at his use of "Mal," but figured he was entitled. Again, the smell of rum, and something else - pot? Her mom didn't smoke weed, at least not before she went to Jamaica. Malorie mentally shrugged. Her mom was a grownup, she could do as she pleased. It might take some getting used to, however, living with a couple of stoners.
<br /><br />She looked appraisingly at the man himself. Fully six feet tall, he was slender and fit-looking, with collar-length blond hair and an earring in each ear. Like his new wife, he was clothed in island garb, which suited him, Malorie thought. He was, she estimated, perhaps fifty years old, or five years older than her mother. He was good-looking, but not reproachably so. They made a cute couple, she decided.
<br /><br />"What did you guys do in Jamaica?" asked Malorie. She wanted to get to know her step-father, and to become reacquainted with a clearly changed Elise.
<br /><br />As Michael began transferring suitcases and packages from the porch to the living room, Elise clasped her hands in front of her. "You've no idea! Montego Bay, the Blue Mountains, St. Thomas, the white beaches, the blue skies; I didn't want to leave, but to come back to you, Mal! Look," she enthused. "We shopped," and she handed Malorie an elaborate pen/letter opener done up in the colors of the Jamaican flag.
<br /><br />"Pretty," cooed Malorie.
<br /><br />Malorie hadn't seen Elise this happy in the two years since her dad left them both. Malorie had yet to see him again, and frankly, she was not eager to. "I'm happy to see you again too, Mom," she said honestly. "And it's nice to finally meet the man of your dreams." Michael looked up and grinned.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />A week into the new living arrangement, Michael turned up with a pet - a wiener dog, which Elise joyfully named Arf. Soon, she was seldom anywhere without Arf, and she took to carrying it around like an infant. Malorie, not a dog person, yet found herself drawn to the object of her mother's affection. Only Michael seemed immune from Arf's appeal. Was he jealous? Malorie wondered.
<br /><br />Gradually things began to return to normal, but for the inclusion of a third person in the lives of the two women. Up until now, Elise had done most of the cooking, whereas Malorie had been tasked with much of the other chores. Elise was an excellent cook, and Malorie felt that she had the better part of the bargain. Although Tom had left them well-fixed in the divorce settlement - he was a successful executive - they eschewed domestic help. Malorie was set to begin her sophomore year at university. But Michael, it turned out, was no stranger to the kitchen and was soon creating novel and creative dishes.
<br /><br />"Mom," Malorie asked a day or so later, "what does Michael do for a living?" She didn't even know where he was from; he had simply returned from Jamaica with Elise and moved in. Surely he had a job.
<br /><br />"He's my companion, honey," explained Elise.
<br /><br />"Doesn't he work?"
<br /><br />"He did, but he took disability a couple of years ago.
<br /><br />"What did he do?" asked Malorie.
<br /><br />"He was a chef," said her mother. "In Chicago, he worked in hotels."
<br /><br />"He has a disability?" asked Malorie, surprised. "He doesn't seem disabled," she observed.
<br /><br />"Bipolar," said Elise, tapping her head with her finger. Malorie only stared at her. "He's sensitive about it," revealed her mother, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
<br /><br />"How does it... manifest?" asked Malorie.
<br /><br />"Michael can't handle stress very well." At Malorie's alarmed look, she hurried on. "It doesn't affect him normally, but in a high-stress environment like a busy hotel kitchen, he doesn't do well."
<br /><br />"How did it come about?"
<br /><br />"Drug use," admitted Elise.
<br /><br />"But, I saw you two smoking pot the other evening," Malorie pointed out.
<br /><br />"Pot wasn't the problem," said Elise. "It was pills and sedatives and stuff like that. He became addicted and strung out for a long time and..."
<br /><br />"Mom," asked Malorie with concern, "how do you know...he's alright?"
<br /><br />"We been together practically 24/7 for the past two months," said Elise a little lamely, Malorie thought.
<br /><br />"But, did you ever seen him... lose it?" asked her daughter.
<br /><br />"Michael takes his medication and other than pot - which is legal now -" she pointed out, "he doesn't do drugs. And he isn't in any high-stress situations which might wear on him. He's fine, dear, don't worry." She smiled so happily that Malorie had to smile too.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />On Christmas Eve, Malorie, with a sore throat and sniffles, got up from her sick bed after midnight to go to the bathroom for some cold medicine. As she was decanting the syrupy green concoction into the convenient plastic cup, she heard a loud thump against the door of Mom and Michael's bedroom. Startled, Malorie spilled the medicine into the sink. She stepped into the hall. Had she only imagined it? Maybe her meds were affecting her thought processes. Shaking her head, she returned to the bathroom, only to be startled a second time by a loud thump against the door. It shook the very walls. Walking to the bedroom door, she put her hand on the knob and waited. She could hear raised voices within the room. She said, "Mom?" The voices were replaced with silence. Standing confounded for a moment, Malorie finally returned to the bathroom, took her medicine and returned to her own room.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />As January dawned, after the holiday break, Malorie returned to school and as a consequence began spending far less time with her mother and Michael. She began to use the university library a great deal and hang out with friends. Rising early and coming home late, there were days when she didn't see her mom or Michael at all. Everything seemed alright, though.
<br /><br />Until one Saturday - no school - when Malorie was doing her laundry and Elise bustled into the laundry room and began fussing with some garments.
<br /><br />"I can do the laundry, Mom," offered Malorie,
<br /><br />"No, Michael is very particular how his garments are laundered," said Elise, reaching for the soap.
<br /><br />"What," demanded Malorie, seizing her mother's wrist, "is this?" There was a deep burn mark in the skin. "What the hell happened?" she asked.
<br /><br />Elise snatched her hand back, looking upset, but then laughed unconvincingly. "It's just a game," she said cryptically.
<br /><br />"A game?" spluttered her daughter. "What's it from, Mom?"
<br /><br />"A... a rope," said Elise in a low voice. "We were... playing a game."
<br /><br />"Did Michael tie your wrists together?" asked Malorie incredulously.
<br /><br />"Lovers play games, act out," explained her mother. "You're young, but..."
<br /><br />"Mom," she interrupted Elise. "I may be young, but I've been around. And I study psych and I know what sadomasochism and bondage are. Michael did this to you?"
<br /><br />"I wanted him to," murmured Elise, with eyes downcast. "Really, Mal, he wouldn't do it unless I agreed. It's alright, I promise." Malorie didn't say another word.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Malorie stood at the kitchen counter, armed with a chef's knife, chopping veggies. She had resolved to treat her mom and Michael, since she had eaten copious meals that they'd made. Michael entered the kitchen, spotted his step-daughter and came up behind her. "Here, Mal," he said, reaching around her, "lemme show you how to do that without cutting your hand." She felt his closeness and was a little uneasy. He was clad in a blue t-shirt that showed off his muscles and she could smell his musky scent. She inhaled. Malorie could see why Elise was attracted to him; he was all man. Suddenly she felt a little aroused, and stepped back and then out of his arms.
<br /><br />"Thank you, Michael, I think I've got it now." Smiling, he withdrew. Had he been trying to seduce her? she wondered. He wasn't overt, but she felt warm all over. She let out a breath.
<br /><br />Perched on the sofa in the living room, Malorie and Elise sat in companionable silence. Malorie peered at her mother. "What is it, Mom?" inquired Malorie, seeing that her mother looked upset. Elise said nothing at first. "Mom?" she persisted, placing her hand over Elise's. Arf, sitting at the women's feet and sensing distress, whined piteously. The burn marks on Elise's wrists were mostly healed now, but they were still apparent. "Are you and Michael getting along okay?" she asked. Elise didn't talk about her new husband much.
<br /><br />"Of course," she replied. "Michael loves me, and he's very affectionate."
<br /><br />"You've been going out a lot lately," observed her daughter approvingly. Her mother deserved a good time. Elise nodded. "Where do you two go?" Malorie asked.
<br /><br />"Michael likes Thai restaurants," revealed Elise. "I like Italian, as you know. We've also been to the theater a couple of times, to see films, the art museum." She paused for a moment, before continuing. "We went to see a friend of Michael's last night."
<br /><br />"Who was it? Do I know him?"
<br /><br />Elise shook her head, then she said abruptly, "Michael wanted me to have sex with this man..."
<br /><br />Elise gaped. "What!"
<br /><br />"It's alright, Mal. I didn't do it. I told them both I wasn't comfortable with the idea."
<br /><br />"Mom," said Malorie. "That's insane. He can't expect you to do something so... outrageous and crazy!"
<br /><br />"Michael is very proud of me," said Elise apologetically. "He says I'm the best lover he's ever had, and he wants to share me with Ted."
<br /><br />"Well, he can't! What is Michael, a player? He can't pimp out his wife. Where is he?" asked Malorie, staring around the room. "I'm going to tear him a new one!"
<br /><br />"I can deal with it, Mal. Please stay out of it. Michael would never insist, he wouldn't force me."
<br /><br />At that moment, Michael walked into the room, clad in a blue t-shirt showing off his muscles, as usual. "What's up?" he quipped with a wide grin.
<br /><br />With a brusque look, Malorie said, "I'm late for class," and she moved out of the room without even looking at him.
<br /><br />Elise looked at him tenderly.
<br /><br />"What did I miss?" asked Michael with a big smile.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Two nights later, Malorie answered a summons from the front door and, sweeping it wide, found there a florid, husky-looking man who was in his early fifties and dressed casually. "Good evening," he said. "Is Michael home?"
<br /><br />At that very moment, before she could even answer, Michael bustled into the room and said, "Hey, Ted, come on in. I'll get Elise." Ted followed Michael from the room.
<br /><br />Ted! thought Malorie. <i>That Ted?</i> What the hell was going on here? She looked round, but found that the two men had disappeared into the bedroom that Elise shared with Michael.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Malorie sat alone at the corner booth in the small diner, awaiting her father. It had taken all her resolve to call him, given his abject rejection of her and her mother. But she'd swallowed her pride: her mom's continued health and safety were just too important for Malorie to stand on ceremony. Tom had agreed to meet her in a neutral location and they'd decided on this small cafe. Over the phone, he'd seemed surprisingly anxious to talk to her. What was that all about? she wondered. Trouble in paradise? The bell over the door tinkled and Tom entered, glanced around, spotted Malorie and, smiling, walked her way.
<br /><br />"Hi, baby," he said, standing over her. Was he expecting a hug? Fat chance, she thought. Finally he took a seat across from her. "Have you ordered yet?" he asked.
<br /><br />"I didn't come here to eat, Tom," she told him shortly.
<br /><br />He winced. "Tom?" he asked. "How about Dad?"
<br /><br />"You lost your right to that when you walked - should I say <i>ran</i> - out on us."
<br /><br />Tom sobered at once. "I guess you're right," he admitted. "Though I had hoped we could get past the bitterness by this time."
<br /><br />"I haven't seen you in more than two years," Malorie pointed out resentfully.
<br /><br />"Whose fault is that?" he asked unexpectedly.
<br /><br />Malorie shook her head. He was obviously in denial for all the pain he'd caused with his rejection of his family. "I didn't call to discuss my feelings," she pointed out. "I called to discuss Mom."
<br /><br />"How is she?" he asked guardedly.
<br /><br />"She's remarried," she told him.
<br /><br />Tom did a double-take. Then he asked, "How's that going?"
<br /><br />In detail, Malorie filled him in on events of the past four months, as well her other suspicions, which had blossomed into virtual certainties. When she finished, he sat immobile, his face inscrutable.
<br /><br />"Do you want me to talk to your mom?" he asked at last.
<br /><br />"No!" she said, slapping her hand down on the table top. "Not Mom. Michael. Mom is alright, under the circumstances. It's Michael who's out of control. He expects her to sleep with his sleazy friends and do drugs and... maybe this was a mistake." She rose to her feet, took her jacket off the back of her chair.
<br /><br />"Sit down," Tom implored. "I'm listening. And I'm concerned. I'll always care about Elise," he added.
<br /><br />Malorie resumed her seat. "Thanks... Dad."
<br /><br />Finally, Tom smiled again. "Do you have Michael's cell phone number?" She gave it to him. "I'll get in touch with him today," he promised.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Malorie was just coming out of her bedroom, schoolbooks clutched in her arms, when she heard the sound of shattering glass coming from the bathroom. Without a moment's hesitation, she pushed through the door and there found Elise, standing nude amongst a splintered pane of glass. "What happened?" asked the younger woman.
<br /><br />"I slipped on a bar of soap and smacked into the shower stall, said Elise sheepishly. "I'm sorry." The shower was running tumultuously behind her, with the steam billowing.
<br /><br />"I'm just glad you're alright, Mom," Malorie assured her. "No scrapes or anything?" she asked, going to the hall closet and finding a handled dustpan and a small broom. She began rapidly gathering up the shards. When she looked up, she found her mother standing in the tub, with ugly, purple bruising festooning her torso. "What the hell happened?" demanded Malorie, gingerly touching the dark marks.
<br /><br />Elise drew soapy hands to her face, and murmured disconsolately, "Mal, I'm so scared."
<br /><br />"Of Michael?" prompted her daughter. "Did Michael cause this?"
<br /><br />"Michael," said Elise almost absently, "is an enthusiastic lover." And she would say nothing more.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Tom placed a call on his land line. In an instant, a man's voice answered. Tom introduced himself, said, "I was married to Elise for 18 years, Mr. Edgewood - may I call you Michael? Thank you. I know my ex can be a handful and I thought maybe we should touch base. No, I never knew she had remarried. Mal told me. In an hour? I'll see you then."
<br /><br />Made increasingly curious by Elise's proclivity for secrecy, Malorie was prowling through her mother's mail one day. Taking up a bank statement, she gasped. This couldn't be right, she thought. When Elise arrived home an hour later, Malorie confronted her.
<br /><br />"What's going on, Mom?" she asked, proferring the statement. Elise didn't even look at it.
<br /><br />"What is it, Mal?" she asked blithely.
<br /><br />"$25,000 was taken from our account last week," she said anxiously.
<br /><br />"That's mine and Michael's account," corrected her mother.
<br /><br />"Did Michael's remove the money?" demanded Malorie.
<br /><br />"It's his money the same as it's mine, dear," said her mother soothingly. "If the money's gone, then I assume that he took it. It's alright."
<br /><br />"He's going to bleed you dry!" snapped Malorie, feeling her world slipping like quicksilver through her fingers.
<br /><br />"Michael said you might react this way," said Elise. "So, I had your name removed from the account."
<br /><br />"You what?" said her daughter incredulously.
<br /><br />"You still have your cards; Michael felt it was more prudent to remove you." She smiled uncertainly. "After all, Mal, it is my money - and Michael's, now."
<br /><br />Malorie sat on the sofa with the dog. "Life's a bitch, Arf," she said, "and then you die." Arf panted happily and then licked Malorie's fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, Malorie spotted Michael, watching her.
<br /><br />Two days later, Malorie made a discovery which put her teeth on edge. She found her mother's beloved dog, Arf, dead in the back yard; its neck appeared to have been broken. Malorie felt a deep, unsettling, frozen feeling, like a spike of ice, running the length of her body. Why would anyone want to harm such a harmless, loving and precious little life? She buried the creature herself, preferring to let her mother think that she had run away.
<br /><br />Sitting in the swing on the front porch, Malorie watched warily as Michael came up the steps and took a seat next to her. She stiffened. "I talked to your dad today," he said without preamble. She said nothing. "He's an interesting man," he added. "He had some interesting things to say to me, Mal."
<br /><br />"I hope he set you straight," said Malorie warningly.
<br /><br />Michael nodded. "I took it all to heart," he confessed. "And I'll do just as he says."
<br /><br />Malorie looked at him. "Do you mean that, Michael? I mean, I'll contact the authorities if I have to; are you really serious?"
<br /><br />"Serious as a heart attack," he replied, getting up from the swing and continuing into the house.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />On April 1st, Malorie felt more alive than she had in weeks. No more worries about Michael or his influence on her mother. She no longer feared for Elise's safety. So grateful was she for the abrupt turnaround, that he had even made peace with her father. She was scheduled to meet him for lunch at his favorite Thai restaurant the following week. That was curious, she thought: both of Elise's husbands had a penchant for Thai cuisine. There was a new Thai eatery in the city, so she thought she would scope it out before inviting her father there another time.
<br /><br />So it was probably not so great a surprise as it might otherwise have been, when Malorie walked into the restaurant to find her father sitting at a table with Malorie's mother and Michael. Apparently no hard feelings existed there. Well and good, she thought happily. Malorie was thoroughly shocked, however, to observe the presence of Ted, Michael's friend, whom she had met briefly more than a month ago. What was going on?
<br /><br />Hesitantly, Malorie approached the table, where everyone appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation. Stopping before the group, she raised her hand and waved. "Hi," she said.
<br /><br />The others looked up with unhappiness written all over their faces. Except for Elise, who said gaily, "Now, there's my girl. Tell these party-poopers I don't need their intervention, Mal."
<br /><br />"Intervention?" asked Malorie. "I don't know what you mean." She peered questioningly at the faces around the table.
<br /><br />"See?" said Elise. "I knew she didn't know anything about it. My daughter doesn't think I'm mad!"
<br /><br />"Mal," said Tom, "We think your mom needs our help."
<br /><br />"And Michael?" asked Malorie, turning to Elise's husband. "Are you responsible for this so-called intervention? If she needs help, it's because of abuse at your hands." Michael looked at her silently.
<br /><br />"Malorie," said Ted, speaking for the first time, "I believe that your mother suffers from NPD; that's..."
<br /><br />"Narcissistic Personality Disorder, I know what it is," asserted Malorie. "I'm almost in my third year of psych at State. What do you know about it?" she asked.
<br /><br />Ted looked down for a moment, and then up into Malorie's eyes. "My full name is Dr. Theodore Rison. I am a professor of clinical psychology at Rutgers. I've known Michael for many years."
<br /><br />"Oh."
<br /><br />"I've garnered anecdotal evidence from Mr. Edgemont and from Michael and I've met personally with Elise four times so far, which has enabled me to make a preliminary diagnosis, which includes Narcissistic Personality Disorder, in addition to Borderline Personality Disorder. These factors may result, at times, in self-harm."
<br /><br />Malorie's mind traveled back to the bruising, the burns on the wrists, the broken shower stall, and other indications of self-harm. Momentarily, she felt overwhelmed with the news, a little dizzy.
<br /><br />"Mal, I'm not crazy," reiterated Elise.
<br /><br />"Elise," interjected Ted, "a psychiatric diagnosis does not mean you're crazy. It does, however, mean that you may need help. The world - life - packs a wallop, and everyone needs a hand now and then." The two began an intense discussion in low tones, shutting everyone else out.
<br /><br />"Why wasn't I a part of this, Dad? I'm the closest person to Mom, I should've been involved."
<br /><br />"Well," said Ted, looking up. "it was your uncontrolled substance abuse which was worrying for me, Malorie."
<br /><br />"What substance abuse?" asked Malorie, surprised.
<br /><br />"I found several packets of drugs on my visit to your home, with Michael, when your mother and you were away, and I had subsequent analyses done, revealing the contents to be illegals." Malorie only stared at them all. She didn't use drugs.
<br /><br />"Go ahead, talk like I'm not even here!" spat Elise, clearly angry. Voices were being raised now, drawing other patrons' attention to their table.
<br /><br />"Whose ridiculous idea was it to stage an intervention at a busy restaurant?" muttered Tom.
<br /><br />"Yours, I believe," remarked Michael.
<br /><br />"I think," began Ted, "that would should adjourn this confab to Forest Acres and proceed in a clinical setting." He glanced round the table, measuring each individual's response. There was general agreement, but for Elise, who was visibly distraught, and for Malorie, who seemed genuinely at sea.
<br /><br />"Wait a minute, you can't just lock Mom up, institutionalize her," she protested. Now everybody was talking at once.
<br /><br />"You always take her side," accused Tom sharply.
<br /><br />"Well, a little loyalty isn't all bad," countered Malorie angrily.
<br /><br />"That's the main reason we didn't include you," seethed Tom irritably. "You're an enabler. You keep feeding Elise this steady diet of bullshit and then everyone suffers."
<br /><br />Suddenly, Elise was on her feet and in her hands the letter opener/ink pen she'd purchased in Jamaica. Drawing it back over her head, she plunged it violently downward and into the chest of her ex-husband. With a strangled cry, Tom collapsed back into his chair. All movement in the restaurant ceased at that moment, then at once there was bedlam: loud voices, clattering dishes and tableware, a dropped tray. In a matter of a few moments, police had been summoned and stood over the table, which was in an uproar. Suddenly everyone grew quiet.
<br /><br />"I handled that well, I thought," remarked Elise to no one in particular, and ate another spoonful of basil fried rice. Everyone was standing about, staring at them. Having regained her seat, Elise looked at her daughter and asked, "Well, what'll we do next?"
<br /><br />"The police are here, Mom. Let's go with them."Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-155197540326010032.post-56405611044032324112024-01-19T08:00:00.014+00:002024-01-19T08:00:00.134+00:00Gone Away by Sharon Frame Gay<i>Marnie and her daughter Josie rely on Isaac to protect them, but the primitive Wyoming wilderness is fraught with danger.</i>
<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5n6tOIeuaoIXdr5rkuXpFKJpQS2IS6Iy1hIW_LSIAcZ71NpUhQjbSsPw9H1x_-qIwn7xEsinO-oB8EOOY9eKzDZOsdUhoPeofEQ6VRBVLOsgih4NByWwuqaGfaGOzRGxldUDjgdKBpuv4nqevaNs28ONgQfCHasuh_195OO8xbf8fak_b_xbaHY3grQ/s500/Gone%20Away%20by%20Sharon%20Frame%20Gay.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5n6tOIeuaoIXdr5rkuXpFKJpQS2IS6Iy1hIW_LSIAcZ71NpUhQjbSsPw9H1x_-qIwn7xEsinO-oB8EOOY9eKzDZOsdUhoPeofEQ6VRBVLOsgih4NByWwuqaGfaGOzRGxldUDjgdKBpuv4nqevaNs28ONgQfCHasuh_195OO8xbf8fak_b_xbaHY3grQ/s320/Gone%20Away%20by%20Sharon%20Frame%20Gay.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image generated with OpenAI</span></td></tr></tbody></table><b>Wyoming, 1870</b>
<br /><br />Five-year-old Josie wanted to catch a dragonfly. She searched along the shoreline, an empty jar in her hand. I told her to be stealthy and sneak up on them, so she raised each foot as though stepping out of a muddy hole, tiny face cloaked in concentration.
<br /><br />I love to sit here along the pristine lake that nestles against the towering Grand Teton mountains. While Josie plays, I often take out my sketchbook and draw the trees, the hills, and the deer who wander out from the woods.
<br /><br />Even though our cabin is close by, Isaac always warned me to stay indoors unless he is with us. He works our small parcel of land, planting the few vegetables that thrive in the harsh weather of the foothills. I help, bending over the tilled furrows, dropping seeds into trenches and patting the soil over them. Isaac fishes and hunts almost every day until the snows arrive. He's gone for hours at a time, but is always home for supper. It is as though we have a silent understanding. He must be home by nightfall, so he can protect us from this unruly land that wants to swat us away as though we are nothing more than mosquitoes.
<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>There are wild animals on our homestead. Bears, cougars, and wolves. Isaac chases them away with a blast from the rifle. We've heard there are Shoshone and Blackfoot here, too. So far, there have been no encounters in the seven years we've lived on our land. They must know we're here, but choose to avoid us.
<br /><br />Isaac is stern with his warnings. "Marnie, don't go outside when I'm gone. Not even to feed the animals. I'll always be home in time for those chores. I don't want you going into the barn alone. Stay away from the lake, too."
<br /><br />I smile, knowing that he loves and protects us. We usually heed his warnings and stay inside when he's gone. However, from time to time Josie and I come to the water's edge and enjoy the outdoors.
<br /><br />Yesterday morning Isaac took the wagon to Jackson for supplies. He left at dawn, a lantern swinging from the buckboard as the horses navigated a rough-hewn trail in the early light. Isaac won't tarry in town. He'll get our supplies and hurry back, the team eager for their supper as he slaps the reins against their haunches. Even so, it will be late evening before I hear the creak of the wagon as it jolts down the path.
<br /><br />Morning rose above the mountains and swept a layer of fog over the lake. Crisp October sunshine warmed the surface of the water, now busy with gnats. The sky was clear, and the last of the Queen Anne's Lace danced in the breeze along the shore.
<br /><br />I took Josie out for a while to bask in the autumn warmth. Already the brisk wind caressed and flushed her cheeks. I pulled a warm fur cap on her head and covered my own with an old straw bonnet.
<br /><br />Sitting on a rock by the water, I glanced at the cabin behind us and noticed how dark and foreboding it looked in the shadow of the lodgepole pines. It's cold in the summer, colder in the winter. Without Isaac in bed to warm the covers, it would be unbearable.
<br /><br />I'd left a pot of stew dangling over the fire in the cabin. The aromatic scent of deer meat and the last of the summer vegetables wafted up through the chimney, as the smoke curled in wispy arcs. Soon we'd go back inside and warm ourselves by the hearth. Josie might play with her dolls while I bake a pie from the apples in the orchard. I'd taken butter out of the larder earlier, to soften in the light from the window.
<br /><br />I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye along the bank, and then it stilled. Craning my neck, I glance over at Josie. She saw it too. I could tell. Our eyes followed the same line to the rocky shore. Then, from behind me, there was a rustling. A soft sound, like a footfall or a breath.
<br /><br />I spun around, heart racing. There was nothing to see but the Queen Anne's Lace, swaying in a light wind. My eyes searched for Rupert, our dog. Then I remembered he died last year. Rupert knew when to bark with alarm, or when to be silent and stalk. We miss him. Isaac said he'd look for a puppy in Jackson, as we need a dog in this wilderness.
<br /><br />The wind picked up, blustery as it rustled through the trees. The straw bonnet did nothing to shield me from the cold. It's time we went inside. I turned towards Josie to call her in.
<br /><br />She was gone.
<br /><br />"Josie?" I called, hitching my skirts and slipping along the banks to where she last stood.
<br /><br />There was nothing. Just the empty jar and a stick on the ground. There was no sound, no crying, no hissing of autumn grass as it parts in the wake of a predator. Only the silence one hears when one is completely alone.
<br /><br />I called her name, running first in one direction, then the other. My cries grew louder, more strident. Breathless, I peered into the depths of the lake, dreading what might be there. Then I stopped calling and listened for animals. There were no snorts or howls, just the echo of my voice ringing against the hills.
<br /><br />Desperate, I raced back to the cabin and grabbed the rifle Isaac left inside the door. With the bravery of a frantic mother, I thundered through the trees and ran along the shore, calling her name.
<br /><br />Josie knows not to stray far from us. She knows to answer if we call her name, or to stay silent if we don't. She understands to call out if she sees an animal, then waits for us to tell her what to do next; whether to run, stand her ground, or holler.
<br /><br />But she doesn't know how to disappear...
<br /><br />The woods loomed dark beneath a leafy canopy. We told her never to go into the forest alone, but she's a child. Maybe she saw a fawn and followed it. I stopped and listened for anything - footsteps, animal sounds, the rustling of leaves. There was nothing. Climbing to the top of a hill, our cabin and the lake came into view. All was quiet below. My heart beat heavy in my chest. Panic set in.
<br /><br />It was getting dark. The sun sets early behind the Tetons. I needed to fetch a lantern to continue searching, and prayed Isaac would come home soon.
<br /><br />Crossing the meadow, I saw movement under a Cottonwood tree at the far end of our garden. A ripple of grass. "Josie?" I called, shading my eyes from the last of the sun. She sat up, then stood, running towards me. Clasping her to my breast, my legs buckled beneath me and I sat down with a thud.
<br /><br />"Where were you?" I gritted my teeth, fear replaced by anger. "I told you never to run away from me!"
<br /><br />Her cornflower blue eyes were misty. "I know, Momma, but I got scared. I thought I saw a bear down at the lake and I ran to the barn, but Daddy said not to go in there alone. Then I heard a noise in the cabin, so I hid in the grass under the tree and fell asleep."
<br /><br />I brushed the hair from her forehead. "That was me you heard in the cabin. I came back for the rifle. You know better than to run away like that! I guess you didn't hear me calling if you were asleep. But Lord knows, I hollered enough to wake the dead." I shuddered at those words. When would Isaac come home? We needed him.
<br /><br />Josie bowed her head and sobbed. Her hair was filthy. The gingham dress I made for her last year was torn at the hem. She looked so tiny. I drew her back in my arms and held her while she cried.
<br /><br />Together we walked to the cabin, the rifle over my shoulder. I barred the door, then ladled up a bowl of stew and set it on the table. Josie tucked into it, her feet drumming the legs of the chair as she hummed a little tune. Later, we rocked in a chair by the fire until she fell asleep, then I carried her to bed. She sank into the mattress, limp and dreamy. I bundled several quilts around her, then blew out the candle by the bedside.
<br /><br />It was getting darker. Isaac still wasn't back. He was later than he'd ever been. Frightened, I paced the floor, reminding myself that my nerves were taut from the day. I remembered the sound behind me at the lake. Had someone been there? Were they hiding now, watching the cabin? Maybe Isaac stayed in town, although he had never done that before. Perhaps he had trouble with the wagon. He mentioned last week one wheel looked a bit wobbly. I stepped out on the porch several times, holding the lantern high as the hours went by. There was no sign of him.
<br /><br />Night had nestled in. It was black as pitch, the wind sloughing through the trees, the cabin creaking with noises that made me jumpy.
<br /><br />I had barred the door for the night when a horse nickered from across the yard. Picking up the rifle, I opened the window and stuck the barrel out, aiming towards the trail.
<br /><br />"Don't shoot, Marnie!" A voice drifted through the darkness. "It's me, John."
<br /><br />I lowered the rifle, relieved. John Kraus was a friend of ours. He lived in Jackson and rode out to visit us often. Isaac and I have known him for years. He was part of our wagon train from St. Louis, and we forged a bond on our trek to Wyoming.
<br /><br />John reined in at the front porch and doffed his hat. His eyes gleamed in the lantern's light. "How are you?" he asked in his deep German accent, dismounting and tossing the reins around the porch post.
<br /><br />I glanced past him into the darkness. "Isaac went to Jackson today and hasn't returned yet. Did you see him on the trail? Is he behind you?"
<br /><br />John shook his head. He pulled a sack from the saddlebag and handed it to me. "No, Marnie, he ain't. He's somewhere safe tonight. You know that. Don't fret. I brought you a slab of deer meat and a tin of flour."
<br /><br />He jutted his chin towards the door. "Been a long day. Do you mind if I beg a bit of the floor from you tonight to sleep on? I've been ridin' the hills, hunting elk, but they've gone over to the south slope. I'll have to get an early start and ride after 'em in the morning. It's too dark to keep going tonight. Would that be okay?"
<br /><br />I nodded and handed him the lantern. "Put your horse in the barn. There's a bit of hay in there, if the cow didn't eat it. I'll make you supper."
<br /><br />Sometime later, he knocked and entered. I'd forgotten how big he was, his head almost brushing against the top of the door. Ebony hair grazed his neck, reflecting the light of the lantern. His green eyes took in the cabin, then his gaze swept along my face and body. Flushing, I set a plate of food on the table. He barred the door and leaned his rifle against it. Then he took a seat, long legs splayed under the table.
<br /><br />We talked while he ate. He told me all the news from Jackson. I told him about the day, how Josie had vanished, and how frightened I was. His brow furrowed as he sopped up the last of the stew and leaned back in the chair.
<br /><br />John reached out and picked up my hand. "I hate to see you so scared, Marnie. Out here all by yourself." He traced my palm with his thumb and sighed. "I try to come here as often as I can. You know that. But winter's coming. It'll be tougher in the deep snow."
<br /><br />John was good to us. Brought us meat and lard and sometimes a little jar of horehound candy from the dry goods store in town. He was a great help.
<br /><br />He let go of my hand and glanced at the hearth. "So, how are you doing for firewood?"
<br /><br />"Oh, Isaac cut several cords this summer. I think we're good."
<br /><br />His eyes slid away from me and he picked at the last crumbs on his plate. "I'll look at your woodpile in the morning." He noticed a bowl on the sideboard. "Did you eat already, Marnie?"
<br /><br />I smiled. "No, that was Josie's supper. I was too upset to eat tonight."
<br /><br />He sighed. "You shouldn't let yourself get so upset. We've talked about this, remember? How things get under your skin and then you get jumpy and imagine things?"
<br /><br />I nodded, though I wasn't sure what he meant.
<br /><br />He scraped the chair back, stood, and smiled down at me. "Thank you, honey. Mind if I turn in? It's been a long day."
<br /><br />I nodded and blew out the lantern. The light from the hearth flickered across the floor. John's shadow loomed large against the wall as he added another log to the fire. He stretched and unbuttoned his shirt. I glanced away and walked into Josie's room.
<br /><br />I changed into my nightgown in the darkness, wondering if Isaac would make it home tonight. Outside, the wind had picked up again. A stray branch scraped against the window. A wolf howled in the distance. I shivered. It was good fortune that John was here to protect us.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />Isaac still wasn't home the next morning. The day dawned clear and sunny. John was already out the door, saddling his pinto in the barn. I made a quick batch of biscuits, and had a cup of hot coffee waiting for him as he tied his horse to the porch rail.
<br /><br />"Looks like you have enough wood for a few weeks," he said. "But I think I need to come back soon and cut more, before it snows. Maybe next week."
<br /><br />I smiled. "That's so kind, but Isaac will do it. I'll tell him today when he comes home." A shadow crossed my mind. My throat tightened, and I rubbed my forehead in agitation. I felt a headache coming on.
<br /><br />"Do you think he's okay, John? He's never been gone this long before. Will you set out on the trail instead of cutting through the woods on your way out, so you can look for him, make sure he's alright? Maybe the wagon broke down."
<br /><br />John hesitated. There was a flicker of sadness in his eyes.
<br /><br />"You know where Isaac is. Stop trying to deny it."
<br /><br />"No, I don't know!" I said, but there was a small prickling at the back of my scalp, like a ghost walked up from behind and sighed on my neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."
<br /><br />"Marnie," John said, "come with me." His voice was patient and kind, but I shook my head. I didn't want to go with him. My heart sped up. Sweat trickled along my ribs.
<br /><br />John reached out and took my hand, gently pulling me along. He held my arm as we walked through the back of the garden to the meadow. My steps slowed. He tightened his grip.
<br /><br />In front of us were three crosses on a mound of land beneath the Cottonwood tree. I don't remember seeing them when I found Josie there yesterday. My mind clouded in confusion.
<br /><br />John brought me closer against his body. I heard his heart thud and felt the soft flannel of his shirt against my cheek. When he talked, the words rumbled in his chest. I didn't want to hear what he said next.
<br /><br />"See, honey? There's Josie, and Isaac, and Rupert. They're here". His hand swept in a wide arc, pointing out their names painted on the rough hewn wood. The names were not in my writing. They weren't real. This was a trick.
<br /><br />"Don't you remember?" He reminded me, then, eyes downcast as he scratched his chin, the rasp of whiskers against his hand. "Josie died at birth five years ago. Isaac rode all the way to Jackson to find the doctor, but by the time they returned, you'd given birth alone, and poor little Josie never breathed. Not even once."
<br /><br />He hesitated a moment, then spoke, his voice so low I strained to hear it. "Isaac died last year, killed by that mother grizzly up on Stray Mountain. Rupert went down with him, too. Do you remember now?"
<br /><br />He lied. I watched as the lies trickled out of his mouth and landed at my feet in the dirt. He lies every time he comes to visit. He's lying now. Isaac will be home soon. Isaac will be furious that John said those terrible things to confuse me. He won't be welcome here anymore. Heat rose in my chest, my face, and I drew away from him, crying. He took my hand again and guided me back through the garden to the porch.
<br /><br />"Please come to Jackson with me." John stood next to the horse, hands clasped in front of him. His green eyes were stormy. His jaw tightened. "We can find somebody to help."
<br /><br />"We don't need any help."
<br /><br />Suddenly I didn't want him here. I didn't want his deer meat or the tin of flour. It is tainted now by what we did. What John did to me. Isaac will not be happy that a man was here all night in the cabin. Lying to me. Stretching out his arms, rolling with me under the quilt, his hands touching my breasts as I moan, covering my throat with kisses and planting himself deep between my legs. I was furious with John. Furious with myself. The anger rose and sat cold on my heart.
<br /><br />John sighed, dropped his hands. "Okay, Marnie. I can't make you. But I'll come back next week, and maybe then you'll come with me." He turned towards the horse, tightened the cinch, picked up a hoof and examined it.
<br /><br />I talked then. Words bright as dawn, carefully aimed at his back to reassure him. I played his game. I can lie too, and said what he wanted to hear. With each word, his shoulders relaxed and softened. There was a tiny smile on his lips as he turned towards me. John mounted the horse, leaned down, clasped my chin between his fingers, and kissed my mouth.
<br /><br />"Please come with me today." He begged. There were tears in his eyes.
<br /><br />I shook my head and gazed at the mountains above the lake, afraid to look at him with my deceitful words. "Maybe next time."
<br /><br />"Yes, next time," John said, then spurred the horse and disappeared down the same trail as Isaac did the day before.
<br /><br />I rushed back into the cabin. Sunshine was pouring through the window. I glanced at the bed and the tangled quilts, flushing with shame. The bed smelled like betrayal as I straightened it. Then I turned towards the room in the back. A wolf hide covered the door, and I brushed it aside.
<br /><br />Josie was sleeping under a mound of blankets. She clutched her straw doll in her hands. Daylight swept through the window and glimmered on her long blond hair. I wondered if she heard us in the night. If she will tell Isaac. I flared again with shame and anger.
<br /><br />Her lashes fluttered when I called her name. She stirred and peered into my eyes.
<br /><br />"Wake up, honey," I said. "We're going down to the lake this morning while we wait for Daddy. He'll be home soon. But you have to promise to stay close. You cannot run away like you did yesterday or we won't visit the lake anymore."
<br /><br />She smiled and nodded. "I promise, Momma."
<br /><br />I went into the kitchen to warm the last of the biscuits for our breakfast. After we ate, Josie sat in the rocking chair while I braided her hair.
<br /><br />"Momma, I thought I heard voices last night. Was I dreaming?"
<br /><br />I bit my lip, smoothed her dress and helped her with her shoes. "Nobody was here, Josie. You must have been dreaming. A branch scraped the window. A wolf called out for his family in the woods. Maybe that's what you heard."
<br /><br />I handed her a jar and wrapped her in a warm sweater, then added the thick coat she wears in the winter. It's getting a little small. We giggle as I try to button it around her middle. Isaac will need to find another the next time he goes to Jackson. Or maybe we will all go into town. Make a day of it. Josie skipped off the porch and waited for me to follow.
<br /><br /><hr />
<br />It's colder this morning. The wind is menacing. There are whitecaps on the lake, roiling waves that hit the shore and spit against the rocks. I'm glad I dressed Josie in her winter clothes. She hopes to find the last of the dragonflies of summer, the jar clutched in her hand. I take out my sketchbook and draw her as she stands by the water. There is a smile on her lips as she tosses pebbles into the water. She sings a silly song about a donkey and a goat, and we both laugh, savoring the moment.
<br /><br />I look back at the cabin. It seems dark and foreboding as it nestles among the lodgepole pines. I smell the stew that dangles over the fireplace, deer meat and the last of the summer vegetables as it wafts up the chimney in wispy arcs.
<br /><br />Out of the corner of my eye there is a movement, then a soft rustling from behind, like a footfall or a breath.
<br /><br />This time I have the rifle. I reach out and draw it into my lap. Gasping, I spin and look over my shoulder. There is nothing. Only the golden grass, burned by the last of the autumn sun, shimmering in the frigid breeze.
<br /><br />It's time to go inside. I turn towards Josie.
<br /><br />She is gone.
<br /><br />"Josie!" I scream, and my voice echoes along the ridge.
<br /><br />There's only silence. The silence one hears when one is completely alone.Charlie Fishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834189452905372024noreply@blogger.com24