Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

Coiled Cobra

Blue

Through repetition, Daddy and Self
Worked swing shift with her
She, not yet 1, playpen gape
We, mockingbird machines
Kept at Helen with waterfalls of
“What color is this?”
“What color is this?”
Relentless
And the key turned
Baby girl said, “blue”
Every time prompted
However briefly, she had learned,
Mommy soon edited
Baby girl’s first word was
“Buh-buh”, for “milk”
Teeth and fangs fight, biting off our heads
Insisting, feral, on her Freudian message of
“Here’s your congenital idiot start.
Mommy loves you.”

To the little girl I hit with a brick, 1967

I, uh
I really, truly did not know
‘That’, is what would happen
I honestly meant no harm
I realize it seemed callous
When I morphed right away into
Concerned Citizen
But you were bawling loud enough
Adults were gonna hear
And “passerby”
Was my only Groucho glasses
See, I Really Didn’t Know
And to suffer for learning, was
Even at that age
Antithetical

In Praise of “The Love Book”

In 1966, Stolen Paper Editions,
a San Francisco publisher,
published (that’s what publishers do)
Lenore Kandell’s “The Love Book”,
a small book containing only 4 poems
(or 2, depending on how you count).

In November of that year,
San Francisco police raided two bookstores,
“The Psychedelic Shop” and the famous
“City Lights Bookstore”.
The police considered the book obscene
and told one of the book stores’ employees
that its sale “excites lewd thoughts”.

That statement may have been based
on a reading of the short book or by simply
taking one of the titles, “To Fuck With Love”
as evidence of obscenity (Actually, there are
three poems -- “To Fuck With Love Phase I”,
“To Fuck With Love Phase II”, and
“To Fuck With Love Phase III” – that may
be considered one or three poems. Hence the
count problem).

The subsequent obscenity trial became the
longest running trial in San Francisco history,
up to that time, and, in 1967, the obscenity
conviction was upheld and the book was banned.

In 1974, the Federal District Court overturned the
conviction and the ban was lifted – but no new
edition of the book was published until 2003
(I have #438 of a limited edition of 500).

The “offensive words” in the book
(not offensive to me) are “cock”, “cunt”
and “fuck” (I guess that under that law
this poem would have been banned!).

As one might expect, the censors
missed the real point of the poems
(but censors usually do, I guess).

The first poem, “God/Love Poem”,
sets the tone of the whole short book
-- when we fuck with love, it is a holy
experience (my words)
“love touches love
the temple and the god
are one” (her words)
and
“my GOD the worship that is to fuck”
and
“sacred the beautiful fuck.”

Obscene?
The book is a prayer and we should
all be lucky enough to be
of the faithful.

bio

    John F. McMullen, “johnmac the bard”, is the Poet Laureate of the Town of Yorktown, NY, a graduate of Iona College (BA – English Literature) and the holder of two Masters degrees from Marist College (MSCS – Information Systems & MPA – Criminal Justice), a member of the American Academy of Poets, Poets & Writers, the Hudson Valley Writers Center, the Mahopac & Yorktown Poetry Workshops and the Mahopac Writers Group, the author of over 2,500 columns and articles and eight books, six of which are collections of poetry, and is the host of a weekly Internet Radio Show (over 280 shows to date). Links to the recordings of all radio shows as well as information on Poet Laureate activities is available at www.johnmac13.com.

Praying To God

In a Facebook conversation
the other day, an old friend
asked me
What God do you pray to?

The question seemed to
make no sense in the
context of the conversation
(and it turned out that it didn’t;
it should have been addressed
to another who mentioned prayer)

BUT

When thinking about it
It is a good question for me
and anyone who prays occasionally
and thinks of a “God”

My Prayer —
— not the Platters’ song
tends to happen only
in church and I tend not to
ask for any gifts or global changes
I think that that stuff is
already done – or not done.

However,
It is still a good question
and leads to even a better question
Who or what is this God
(if there is such a being)?

After all, Christians
(of I am one)
Jews, Muslims, Hindus,
and so many others
all have their own
concept of a God and
were even willing to
kill others who
held different concepts
(while calling their
own religion peaceful)

Can we not find a common
definition that allows us to
both understand “God”
and live in peace?

Perhaps God or
simply a divinity
is within each of us
and our mission
on earth is to
find a way to
unlock that divinity
to be more caring
and more at peace
and each of these
traditions is simply a way
to unlock this divinity
and each prayer
is really only saying
Dear God
Help me to be better

And, if you don’t
agree with me,
The hell with you

bio

    John F. McMullen, “johnmac the bard”, is the Poet Laureate of the Town of Yorktown, NY, a graduate of Iona College (BA – English Literature) and the holder of two Masters degrees from Marist College (MSCS – Information Systems & MPA – Criminal Justice), a member of the American Academy of Poets, Poets & Writers, the Hudson Valley Writers Center, the Mahopac & Yorktown Poetry Workshops and the Mahopac Writers Group, the author of over 2,500 columns and articles and eight books, six of which are collections of poetry, and is the host of a weekly Internet Radio Show (over 280 shows to date). Links to the recordings of all radio shows as well as information on Poet Laureate activities is available at www.johnmac13.com.

coiled cobra

i was an angry child
carrying your anger inside of me

you made you pain a weapon
used it to scald me
like the hot water of a pan
it flew up and burned in a slow simmering boil

until all i could feel were explosions
of rage in me
that weren’t mine to own,

and i cannot fathom all these fires burning;
cannot cope with all these rivulets
of things that are not mine
flowing inside my veins—

your kindness cannot, does not erase
the past;
and nothing you can say or do will ease

everything i still feel
bound and coiled inside of me like a cobra
waiting to strike
at any given moment.

even dead flowers

broken, shattered
the glass looked up at me
fragmented as i was;
and for a moment a happiness
shimmered in me—

it was something i could control
when my life was spinning out of my grasp
i broke that jar on purpose
just threw it in a fit of rage
didn’t drop it like i told my parents,

when i was younger i was the best liar
had a tongue no one could steal the silver from;
i grew a conscience and realized
that it was wrong to be this way and tried to mend
my ways and found that no one liked my honesty—

pretty lies are easier to swallow than bitter truths
every one will accept life, but so few will see death;
but i know there is a beauty in everything
even dead flowers evoke a sense of beauty to
my eyes.

wasn’t faking tears

“i’m sorry for your loss”
just doesn’t really
touch the numb pieces of me,
and i smile and i say
thank you
because that’s what you do
when someone
dies;
but every part of me
felt broken
my tears fell without ceasing
in private
because i was ridiculed
for crying in public once
so i vowed never to do it again—
once i was told depression
is just a mindset,
you can get over it;
so many unhealthy things i was told
torment me to this very day
in short never accuse of someone
faking how they feel—
some scars open at the most
inconvenient moments,
wasn’t faking those tears then
nor the ones i cried now.

A Senior’s Take on the Spirit of Spring

As I look out of my window;
I often see him there, swinging
on a wooden gate

Patches of sunshine creating
rainbows in fair hair straggling
a grubby shirt collar

Faded blue jeans, testament
to carefree playtimes when life
was a bundle of laughs

Face wreathed in smiles, one
for every songbird on the fence
dividing alley and garden

You catch me watching, wave
an eager hand, beckon me come
and be a part of it all

Part of all what, I’d ask of life
as I do now, distanced light years
from any springtime?

No answers then. Now, I know
better than to ask, a part of it all
for better, for worse

Images pass in and out of view,
kaleidoscoping seamless seasons
of mind-body-spirit

Ah, but the child I was still waves
to me, last seen swinging on a gate
into an eternal spring

Yesterday-Today-Tomorrow

Yesterday, I’d traverse deserts,
goaded by false images to kneel and drink
from oases of illusion

Yesterday, I’d climb leafy trees
browse the words of ancient philosophers
in passing clouds

Yesterday, I’d swim in the oceans,
bear witness to creatures choking to death
on human waste

Today, I’ll try to pass on something
of lessons learned by the mind-body-spirit
in poetry and prose

Today, I’ll try stirring cloth ears
all but glued to mobile phones into hearing
global warnings

Today, I’d do an Internet search
for answers to questions ever plaguing me,
but, dammit, no wi-fi

Tomorrow, I’ll join other nomads
(still) misled by fake news, kneeling to drink
from oases of delusion

Tomorrow, I’ll ask the few trees left
how Earth Mother might have had us comply
had we but listened ...?

Tomorrow, I’ll start thinking of ways
to prevent stereotypes slamming down the lid
of the box they put me in

Yesterday-today-tomorrow, live streams
of consciousness calling on Earth to reconcile
nature and human nature

Yesterday-today-tomorrow, last heard of
sailing under false colours, as good an excuse
as any for getting it wrong

Yesterday-today-tomorrow, making hay
while the sun shines, taking from the good earth,
giving precious little back

Nostalgia

I was much happier
Working on the title

Only Humans Kill for Gain and Lust

Tis a blazing hot day, just like most others in the African Savannas
The sweet scent of the Acacias around present in the air
Tis here when often, like most of the days
A lion: big and strong, chases a terrorized doe!
Racing away, in an attempt to survive an almost certain quietus,
The unfortunate doe trips and collapses onto the grass!
The lion instantly pounces on it,
Attacking, biting, tearing into its skin until it bleeds
The grass around bloodied heavily.
The doe screaming, struggling for life breathe desperately its last few breaths
Until its inevitable demise!

For animals must kill, merely for their survival.

In the northern half of the Americas,
On an icy cool evening in the woods,
A wild bull elk darts away, fleeing the scene of bloodshed
A pack of grey wolves chasing swiftly after it – craving its flesh.
The Elk runs with all its heart as fast as it could,
But alas the wolves catch up to it!
Two of the wolves jumping and attacking it until it is fallen,
Then come the rest of the pack, catching up to them
And then begins the collective onslaught as the elk screams for it’s life!
But tis of no avail as it too is eventually dead – just like the rest of the gang!
Ultimately, its lifeless carcass is buried away uneaten in the snow – just like most of the gang!
Many a layman deem it to be slaying in surplus, but the animal boffins know it to be only for future use
For when the weather gets harsh and hunting adverse.

For animals must kill, merely for their survival.

But what for us humans? Why is it do we kill?
All the wars that we start, all the bombs that we drop, the fellow humans that we massacre
All the animals which man hunts and dispatches,
Sometimes for food, at times merely for entertainment
Despite his physique being predisposed to consume plants.
From assassinations of the eminent or threatening to the lynchings of the innocent,
The murder in the wombs, of the fetuses, to the abandoning of infants on the streets – leaving them to die.
What for then does man murder?

For animals must kill, merely for their survival,
Tis only the humans that kill for gain and lust.

I Am Grateful That We Gather

And you ask me for “A Poem To Save The World”
And i reply “It has not yet been written-let us meditate upon its creation”
For every Breath is Extension of Creation. Every Dream Served a seed tree planted.
Tiny birds born have others to paint their nests. Art serves Life (but does not replace)
Footsteps can be dance. Breath can be song. Love can be Respect.
Many Paths to, within and through The Forest.
And when the Forest is clear felled, new songs are born-
with titanium nests, drones for wings, mutants for choirs
Radioactive Forest? City of Centralized pollution?
Or the lungs of Gaia wishing to clear these obstructions?

(for EXTINCTION REBELLION)

When you breathe your last, Sister

Could you take me with you when you depart from the world?
I cannot live without you even for a moment
You are my rhythm if you go, I will lose my rhythm of life
What will I do alone here when I don’t have your company?
I don’t need this life when your kind words I cannot hear in my deep heart
You are just a little cute doll for me with whom I want to share my joy and sorrow
Let me also go with you when the world carries your coffin to the graveyard
I don’t want to mourn behind you
That is the end of my life when you breathe your last
Don’t leave me behind
Hold my hand when you close your eyes forever
Do not betray me if you move alone
I will not forgive you if you don’t take me with you
Promise me, you will not go alone
Please keep the promise not to break it at any cost

Tell death to visit me once

Tell death to visit me once,
I want to taste its nectar
It won’t be more painful than this empty life
And releases me from this sadness

I don’t live but exist,
When others are asleep
And I am awake
To ring the bell of eternity

My body is not mine
And a great soul hugs me every time,
That tell me that
The world is a fiction
Where truth hardly reflects

Guns Everywhere

Georgia’s governor would like you to know that God
in His Heaven gave us the right to carry guns almost
everywhere so we can shoot
1. the tyrannical government
and 2. people who break the
tyrannical government’s
rules. Let us pray.

About Catherine Zickgraf

    Catherine Zickgraf’s main jobs are to hang out with her family and write poetry. Her work has appeared in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Pank, Victorian Violet Press and The Grief Diaries. Her recent chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is published through Aldrich Press.

Own your own original Zimmerman painting!

—created by the hand that shot a young man.
Celebrate your white right to shoot dead a black kid
who should have run and hid not stood with confidence,
who forgot which system applied to him.

About Catherine Zickgraf

    Catherine Zickgraf’s main jobs are to hang out with her family and write poetry. Her work has appeared in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Pank, Victorian Violet Press and The Grief Diaries. Her recent chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is published through Aldrich Press.

A Dead Dog

I felt as dead inside as
the dog I had just removed
to the shoulder of
the road that spelled its end.

Or should I say
the vehicle
that drove on the road
that killed the dog.
The road was guiltless
I supposed.

I wanted to know
who, or what kind of a person,
would leave a dog
there in the road
after killing it...

Where was this fuck’s decency;
his or her fucking compassion?
It angered the hell out
of me; struck a discordant cord
deep inside.

I looked down at the dog
With its terrible & bloody grin;
wiping that gore on my stained jeans
& wondered
who would be missing
him by nightfall?
Or ever at all?

Was it a stray or
maybe an escapee of something awful?
I stood there thinking that,
wishing I had a chance to know him
If we had met earlier
in the morning.

As cars rushed by
I squat down & stroked the
dogs’ furry head;
closed its eyes,
& placed its tongue
back in its twisted maw.

I got to thinking about it
once upon a time
being
a fuzzy & happy pup...
I reckoned, maybe 3 years before.

Was it loved by a child?
Or was it an abused dog
that ran for its life,
away- as far away,
as it padded feet would take it?

I wondered what its name was.
It had no collar or I.D. around
its broken neck.

Destiny is strange
& sometimes cruel as fuck.

I decided that me & the dog;
or so it seemed,
may have had much in common
& this unfortunately
was how we had to meet.

That morning I woke
in my truck
on the shore of an inlet
of Narragansett Bay.

I had no place to call home.
Perhaps the hound was also homeless
scrounging for its next meal
& a safe place to sleep
at night.

I began wondering how
my life would end.
Would somebody move
my broken body off the road
& mourn just a little bit
for me?

I decided to bring
my new friend
to the beach I had just left
& give it a proper burial,
maybe plant something on the grave
so I would recognize the location
when visiting every now & then.

Yes, the dog & I had much
in common.

Imagery of Place

I entered the imagery of place
And found it wanting. Then a wall
That was not a wall appeared
Without a door and then a door
Within the wall opened into opacity,
A candle aglow from long strings of lace,
Lace afire with drops from a leaking faucet,
An upside-down toilet flushing papers
Onto heavily lined streets full of windows
And screens, flint and barb wire fencing.
In the distance, a cloud colored
As if it were photosynthesis green
And a rainbow marked by variations of gray.
As the sun set, and rose, and set again,
As the time piece moved itself into two D,
As the second hand, the hour hand, the colander,
Decades and peanuts, a great galley of print,
And then the soft yelps of thunder,
A lack of rain but blue lightning, and silver,
And when gold washed itself down the drywall,
The place went wanton, a merging of flesh
And fur, feet and paws, long hard tongue.
Somehow feathers began to sew themselves,
Needles rose up on long legs, and all of us,
Dog and people, amoeba and lizard,
Hercules ant and locust weed, thrush and agate
Flew counter productively into the space of air
Mucous yellow and bloody green, streamlined,
Smacking into gravity and, yes, gravity
Began to layout the long path of grace,
Greed, grown children, gowns, and grave
Thinking people who used their hands
And not once their feet or their vocal chords.

The Unveiling
from “Mabel: Selected Lifeography”

In the beginning
there was no such thing as a screen credit:
all of us, behind or in front of the camera,
were hidden in anonymity,
which suited the money men just fine;
unknowns have no bargaining power
We couldn’t remain hidden forever, though;
the moviegoing public clamored
to know the names of some of us
Even then
the Biograph Company tried to stiff us
by giving out made-up names
The one they tried to pin on me
was Muriel Fortescue;
can you imagine such a thing?
It was one of the many reasons
for my leaving Biograph

Mabel’s Adventures
from “Mabel: Selected Lifeography”

I loved swimming and diving
onscreen and off,
loved driving fast cars,
loved being a passenger in a fast car
if I couldn’t drive
I wanted to learn to fly
but never got around to it,
though
I think I was the first woman
filmed flying as a passenger
Later ages might have called me
an adrenaline junkie;
then as now
there was no shortage of derogatory names
for those who enjoyed life

Mabel’s Busy Day
from “Mabel: Selected Lifeography”

Being made up for the camera
Acting (often with dangerous stunts involved)
Writing (many more than the six
I was given credit for)
Directing (many more than the ten
I have been credited with;
Charlie and I were essentially co-directors)
Reading anything and everything
Leisure activities (a wide variety)
Sleeping when I must

A Stranger In Moscow

For Andy

Moscow is a long way from
Boston
But America will never
let her children go hungry
and the song plays again
as men sit at the table
in the community kitchen
searching for brotherhood

we still believe in democracy
though hackers crown our
rulers
I tell a friend about a russian
poetry book, i downloaded
on my tablet

i wonder if anna karenina
could spit rhymes on point
and look cool in bling ?

i pray to god daily, but i still
believe the election was
rigged

but he’s just a man,
we are a country

i won’t allow myself to
be blinded by the bling
of the christmas lights
and black friday specials
i know who i bow to

i hear the song again
as i walk the streets
of moscow
i let the rain pelt me
it feels like diamonds

a comrade walks by me
he speaks to me in a
“moose and squirrel”
accent

it feels like home

Coffeehouse Poem #309

A tall girl comes in
Wearing a blue
Dress
I stop myself from
leaving long enough
To put her into
Poetry
I wonder does she know
The sight of her
Could make the world
Stop?

Voice of the Ancestors

Little children, make no haste to die
For vain is death,
In our time, we lived in peace and harmony
We bonded that we became a bond
Today, you prefer bondage that you hate yourselves.

In our time, we respected elders and honoured our parents
Today, your elders respect you and your parents honour you,
You fan trouble and cheer war,
And you wonder why you die young.

In our time, we neither betrayed nor deceived one another,
We loved, trusted, and sacrificed for each other
Today, you do otherwise
And wonder why you prosper not.

Honesty, humility, and integrity
Discipline, obedience, and unity
Faithfulness, and truthfulness ruled us,
Today, pride, arrogance, lust and hate guide you
And you doubt why you rise not.

You worship money and seek fame
You abolish norms and ordain taboos
You institute sacrileges and abominations
You plant curses and water immorality
You bury traditions and wipe off cultures
You preach condoms and erase customs
Yet, you baffle why you progress not.

Look, your barns are empty
And your wells, dry
Your lands are porous
And your waters, polluted
Your life is endangered
And your future, uncertain
Yet you hastily chase death.

Beside this red sea is a Jordan
In this wilderness is a bloody oasis,
At the peak of this mountain is a fountain,
You must climb up there to quench your thirst.

When the blood is black
The body can never be white,
Africa is your root
So take her route
No matter your boot
To preserve your foot,
Little children, make no haste to die
For vain is death.

PROFILE

    Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a Nigerian poet/writer/thinker, a graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting.

    She has published over two hundred and forty poems/articles in over twenty countries and featured in over forty international anthologies.

    She has published three poetry books and coauthored one with a Kenyan literary critic, all are available at Amazon, one also in Bookemon.

    She has numerous words on marble. She has won many awards, and she is a one time BEST OF NET NOMINEE.

Untitled (snow)

Early winter snow
falling softly over pines
crunching autumn leaves

Genesis Six-Nine:
    an Apocalypse/
    Doomsday
    Prepper’s Take

Everyone’s been seeing the signs.
People who believe in global warming
are screaming that tornados, typhoons,
hurricanes and tsunamis are on the rise —

and you know, they’re probably right.
I mean, whatever you think is the cause,
somethin’s most definitely up. And if
nature’s not the culprit, then it’s the evil of man.

You think I’m wrong? Then hear me out...
floods may destroy the U.S. eastern coast,
and sure, that sucks, but if humans weren’t so
stupid to build so close to shore they’d be fine.

And California wildfires destroy tons of trees
and homes, but if the Government would allow
brush clearing, those fires wouldn’t spread
so damn fast. But if it’s not humans and weather

then it’s humans taking religious sides and attacking
each other for it. Muslim terrorists want to
destroy Christianity because of their wealth,
Christians want to bomb abortion clinics,

then throw some anti-Semitism into the pot —
and trust me, there’s a lot of hatred there —
mix it in with past burning of witches (translation:
hatred of women because they were smart)

and it amounts to the hatred and evil in all mankind.
I can remember the paranoia starting with nuclear
bomb shelters (and don’t forget the insane duck-
and-cover mentality to appease the ignorant).

I mean, Japan’s Godzilla was even a metaphor
for nuclear weapons, to show ultimate destruction —
no matter who started it — that man couldn’t control.
Listen to this: school shootings are happening about

once every ten days now. Do you really need me
to argue that the planet’s goin’ down the tubes?
I mean, I know that now we may be living
longer and longer, but the wickedness of man

grips at my heart, and I fear the end is near.
I truly believe my only option for real grace
in these times is to prepare myself for the end,
so I can survive it, and we can start this world anew.

I mean, I can’t repent for what others have done,
for the violence, for the corruption; I can only
try to be righteous, and try to help the ones I love
to save us — and even wildlife — from total destruction.

I’ll build a shelter. I’ll use gopher wood, or cypress wood,
I’ll waterproof it — think of my covering this shelter
as atoning for all we may have done, so we can
survive, so we can start anew in a barren new world.

So now, okay, I’ve stockpiled, I’m ready, with MREs
(meals ready to eat), water rations, basic first aid,
even stuff saved to make fire, or to preserve stuff too.
We’ll be happy to wait, days, months, to be free again.

And don’t call me crazy, but if you do, that’s fine too.
It’ll be me saving humanity, and all animals on earth.
And when I open my shelter, the birds will fly free,
and every creeping thing can creep upon the earth again.

I will build again, because I have been delivered.
I have learned that cold and heat, summer and winter,
day and night, shall not cease, but what will cease
in my heart is the killing of man. When I shed human

blood, I shed my own, and if I love life, I love all life.
This is my covenant with me and man and the earth.
I will plant again, make my family — and the world — grow,
until I die.

Genesis Eleven:
the Tower of Babble

At the beginning there was the great town of Babble;
back then all from different lands spoke the same language
and speech, and all revered this one sacred place.

Eventually the people in the town of Babble realized
that the only place where different social types can
genuinely get along with each other is in heaven^*,

so they decided to build a tower, one so tall, taller than
any skyscraper you could ever imagine, so that it could
actually reach heaven, and people could be like gods.

So people from different lands came together to
create brick and mortar for this tower to the sky;
now, they say that once they all had one language,

but with enough time apart, people create new words
for new things in their different environments, and before
you knew it, no one could understand each other at all.

Even the valley girls and the girls from Sherwood Ohio,
even though their towns were close, they seemed to
speak different languages. “What’s your damage?” the

Ohio girl would ask. “Like, gag me with a spoon!”
the valley girl would answer, as they would babble...
“Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?”

“Like, take a chill pill.” “You’re such a pillowcase.”
“But you’re like, grody to the max!” And they would
continue to trade insults that no one could understand.

When thinking about the Tower to heaven in Babble,
these girls could at least agree, still stating in their dialects,
“This so like, so totally tubular!” and “This is so very!”

As people came from far and wide to build the bricks
for this great building, men from the east came,
exclaiming this was “Ono što mi treba u životu,”

while women from the south and east said this building
to heaven was “Mga Kailangang ispiritwal sa buhay” —
and “ceea ce avem nevoie în viaţă” was extolled

by women from the north and mid-east, while
men from the west and south exclaimed that the
Tower of Babble was “que necesitamos en la vida...”

Wine-filled men from the north even sang that this tower
and get-together was “was wir auf das Leben brauchen,”
but no one understood a single word from each other,

even if they were all probably saying the exact same thing.
More people came from other lands, saying more things
no one could comprehend, and so it came to pass

that no one knew what materials to use in this sacred town
to build the best bricks for this imagined tower. So no, they
never built their tower to the sky, no stairway to heaven

has been made in any giant tower. But it’s good to know
that even though there are plenty of language barriers,
humankind can share a station at the edges of our sky

to learn not only about the earth from way up high,
but also about the earth deep at the bottoms of the seas,
and all over this land, making earth a bit more like

the one place we all imagine, the one place we were never
so impractical as to try to build a tower to. We can all
do things here to make earth a little more like heaven.

* Quote from Jason Dean in the movie Heathers.
Quoted argumentative phrases are also from
Frank Zappa’s song Valley Girl and the movie Heathers.

Genesis
          Eighteen
          to Nineteen

She was taken away from her city;
she loved this city, but had not choice.
She was told it was for the best,
and she always does what she is told.

After leaving, for years she heard
reports about the violence in her city;
she would hear of so many killed,
even during celebrations for the Lord.

While away from the city she loved,
she would even hear people ask
her questions about how dangerous
that city really was. All she could give

was her word that the entire city
was not this way; only one small
section of the town was to be feared,
and the rest of the city was wonderful.

But she was away from her city,
she could no longer walk down
the streets, the ones that made her
feel safe and the ones she feared...

She wanted to have that back,
she wanted to be back in her city,
her home. Her blood ran as hot
as this town, and her pulse matched

the rhythm she felt in her home.
Her blood pressure rose ever
since she was taken away, and
she couldn’t get herself in sync.

So she made a point to come back
after a year and a half; the people
changed, but the pulse of the town
stayed the same. So she would

go to her old stomping grounds,
and although she knew no one
by name, she was still treated
like this was where she belonged.

It broke her heart when they said
she had to go again, so she had to
leave the only place attuned to
her soul, to live out her days, away.

Another year-plus later
she returned once more,
and while there she even found
a place where she could worship,

and sitting there gave her an
inner peace that she hadn’t
felt in her years away from
the city that made her complete.

#

It approached the time
when they would take her away
again, so she returned to her
sacred place she just found

to try to come to peace again
before she had to leave.
And she couldn’t commune,
she was so tense and so wound up

that she had to leave, that
anything associated with any
religion could begin to help her.
So after finding failure everywhere

on her last days in her city,
while she stopped at a bridge
to look beyond the river,
to take one last look at the city —

just then a bearded old man,
old, but disturbingly ominous,
walked up, turned to the city and
stood next to her on the bridge.

She did not know this man,
and it alarmed her when he
started to speak to her.
“The cry of this city is great,

and their sin is very grievous,*”
he said, and she was shocked
this stranger spoke these
words to her so. “The entire

city is not like that,” she said,
“it’s not riddled with crime.”
“I have seen that violence
here,” he replied, “of young men

shooting what they claim are
enemies, and killing mothers and
children alike,” he answered.
“But I tell you, that’s not the

entire town,” she exclaimed,
“there are good people here
everywhere, it’s a wonderful
place to see — and to be.”

“If it’s only in one small area,”
the old ominous man said,
“then why is it that as we’re
looking downtown, down toward

where the police force, the ones
who are supposed to serve
and protect, why do we look where
they shoot unarmed people repeatedly?”

She suddenly remembered
reading the story of a cop
shooting an unarmed teen
sixteen times in the street,

even after one shot made
the boy drop to the ground,
and it was only the energy
from the extra fifteen bullets

that made the victim move.
A fear gripped her; maybe
her city has gotten worse
since she had left, but still,

she didn’t care, she’d
take her chances, this was
her home. The old man
saw her lost in thought,

so he asked her: “I believe
you said there are good
people everywhere here.
How many can you name?”

That is when she finally
turned toward him, he was
staring right at her,
and her eyes were saucers.

“I...” she paused. “I...”
She blinked. “I don’t live
here anymore,” she finally
said. “Find me fifty,”

the old man said, “or
maybe name five names.”
He didn’t even give her
a chance to respond

before the old man said,
“Can you even give me
one name? Just one,
other than you, who

no longer even lives here?
“I don’t have to prove
anything to you,” was
all she could answer.

This is when this old
ominous man stepped
closer to her. “Young lady,
I believe you,” he said

as he then took your hand.
She didn’t know if she
should run away or try
to push him into the river,

but her faculties evaded her
and all she could do was
stand there, with her eyes
wide open, as he held her hand.

“I believe you,” he repeated,
“I’m sure you’ve seen good
here, this city has a
colorful past.” And suddenly

she remembered the past
mafia rule over this town,
where crime ran this city, and
mafia employed her grandfather.

“And the buildings here are
really well designed,” the old
man continued, which pleased
her, because she loved

the architecture in this town.
“But even buildings crumble,”
the old man said, though
she thought they’d last

longer than the blues music
that is another hallmark
of this great city. “Well,”
she said, “Buildings may

crumble in time, but the
spirit of the soul with a
proven and cherished
set of beliefs will endure.”

Suddenly her gaze seemed
stronger than his, so he said,
“You are correct. And it is
not very often when I meet

someone with such a strong
set of beliefs. And, I ?want you
to stay strong...” the ominous
old man said, with a sudden

caring in his voice and his face.
“So this is why I want to tell
you, please heed these words,
the evil undercurrent

flowing through this city —”
“It is not all bad!” she
interjected. “My young lady,”
he continued, “you may

be righteous, but the sinners,
the sinners infect this town.
And I truly believe this city
will not survive.” And she,

after hearing his opinions,
suddenly started to tune
him out. “I’m sorry, m’lady —”
the old man interjected,

which surprised her, because
a word like that is only used
when a common man refers
to a woman of high stature.

“All I was trying to say,
young lady, is that I believe
this city will not survive.
All I can ask is that you

vacate this city, now. Before
it happens.” She looked
at him, and thought about
how she had to leave again.

The old man started
to smile, and his ominous
tone seemed to diminish.
“You truly seem to be

a righteous soul, so I trust
that you, and any of your
loved ones —for I know
they are righteous too —

will know to leave here. I
know you say you love this
city, but I know your leaving
is the right thing to do.”

She thought briefly about
how she was about to leave,
to be taken away again,
so maybe it would be best

to just agree with the old
ominous man and leave
it at that. So she said
okay, she’ll heed his advice,

and he smiled at her
as if he was forgiving her,
though she knew not for what,
then he turned and walked away.

#

It startled her, but she
tried to think nothing of it
as she began to leave,
to take her away once again

from the city she always loved.
She knew they called this
the Windy City, but it was
not for the winds whipping

but the longwinded politicians
who ruled over this city,

the city the ominous old man
called so evil, so grievous, so
utterly wicked. She packed her
things, and as she stepped outside

and was about to leave, she
had to turn around and give her town
one final look. And yes, they say
this is the Windy City

but at this one look the winds
picked up and were eerily
all too violent. She looked for
something to hold onto, but

found nothing, as trees were
immediately uprooted and
sudden cyclones swept the streets
hurtling high-rise bricks and glass

through the sky. Concrete flew
and metal spun through the air.
If she were to know
that her demise would coincide

with the death of her city,
versus anywhere on the planet,
she would think that there was
no other place she’d rather be.

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), KOOP (91.7FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images. Starting at this time Kuypers released a large number of CD releases currently available for sale at iTunes or amazon, including “Across the Pond”(a 3 CD set of poems by Oz Hardwick and Janet Kuypers with assorted vocals read to acoustic guitar of both Blues music and stylized Contemporary English Folk music), “Made Any Difference” (CD single of poem reading with multiple musicians), “Letting It All Out”, “What we Need in Life” (CD single by Janet Kuypers in Mom’s Favorite Vase of “What we Need in Life”, plus in guitarist Warren Peterson’s honor live recordings literally around the globe with guitarist John Yotko), “hmmm” (4 CD set), “Dobro Veče” (4 CD set), “the Stories of Women”, “Sexism and Other Stories”, “40”, “Live” (14 CD set), “an American Portrait” (Janet Kuypers/Kiki poetry to music from Jake & Haystack in Nashville), “Screeching to a Halt” (2008 CD EP of music from 5D/5D with Janet Kuypers poetry), “2 for the Price of 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from Peter Bartels), “the Evolution of Performance Art” (13 CD set), “Burn Through Me” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from The HA!Man of South Africa), “Seeing a Psychiatrist” (3 CD set), “The Things They Did To You” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Hope Chest in the Attic” (audio CD set), “St. Paul’s” (3 CD set), “the 2009 Poetry Game Show” (3 CD set), “Fusion” (Janet Kuypers poetry in multi CD set with Madison, WI jazz music from the Bastard Trio, the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and Paul Baker), “Chaos In Motion” (tracks from Internet radio shows on Chaotic Radio), “Chaotic Elements” (audio CD set for the poetry collection book and supplemental chapbooks for The Elements), “etc.” audio CD set, “Manic Depressive or Something” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Singular”, “Indian Flux” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “The Chaotic Collection #01-05”, “The DMJ Art Connection Disc 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Oh.” audio CD, “Live At the Café” (3 CD set), “String Theory” (Janet Kuypers reading other people's poetry, with music from “the DMJ Art Connection), “Scars Presents WZRD radio” (2 CD set), “SIN - Scars Internet News”, “Questions in a World Without Answers”, “Conflict • Contact • Control”, “How Do I Get There?”, “Sing Your Life”, “Dreams”, “Changing Gears”, “The Other Side”, “Death Comes in Threes”, “the final”, “Moving Performances”, “Seeing Things Differently”, “Live At Cafe Aloha”, “the Demo Tapes” (Mom’s Favorite Vase), “Something Is Sweating” (the Second Axing), “Live In Alaska” EP (the Second Axing), “the Entropy Project”, “Tick Tock” (with 5D/5D), “Six Eleven” “Stop. Look. Listen.”, “Stop. Look. Listen to the Music” (a compilation CD from the three bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds & Flowers” and “The Second Axing”), and “Change Rearrange” (the performance art poetry CD with sampled music).
    From 2010 through 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting weekly feature and open mic podcasts that were also released as YouTube videos.
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), the three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound ISBN# ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, Prominent Tongue, Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# ISBN# hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry (with poems written for every element in the Periodic Table), a year long Journey, Bon Voyage! (a journal and photography book with select poems on travel as an American female vegetarian in India), and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. 2017, after her October 2015 move to Austin Texas, also witnessed the release of 2 Janet Kuypers book of poetry written in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and a book of poetry written for her poetry features and show, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (and both pheromemes books are available from two printers). In 2018, Scars Publications released “Antarctica: Earth’s Final Frontier” and “Antarctica: Wildlife” (2 Janet Kuypers full-color photography books from the first passenger ship to Antarctica in 2017), performance art books “Chapter 48 (v1)” (2009-2011) and “Chapter 48 (v2)” (2011-2018), the v5 cc&d poetry collection book “On the Edge”, and the interview/journal/poetry book “In Depth”.

Now That I Have My Own Place

I’m awkward in other’s people’s houses now.
It’s not just where to sit, should I use a coaster.
I feel as if it’s their taste I’ve blundered into,
good or bad, and I don’t belong here.
My furniture has no ambition.
Theirs are replicas with ideas above their station.
My carpet is stained with good times.
Any laughs in the oriental weave beneath our feet
were surely chuckled by some child laborer in Malaysia.
Once a house meant nothing to me.
It was just a way to get to the people.
But there’s more and more invitations these days
from friends of friends.
They live in hope of what they’d do
with real money.
If they saw my place,
their affectations would take a hit.
I live in an apartment which I could describe
in the same words as I would myself.
A mattress does for a bed.
One of my tables is a packing crate.
In my world, the best to be hoped for
is to come in useful.

The Wit and Wisdom of Voltaire’s Candide
part two

    “When my mother sold me on the coast she said to me: “My dear child. Bless our religious idols. Always adore them. They will lead you to a happy life. It’s an honor to be a slave for our white masters.” Not making this up. It’s in Levin’s text. “Very importantly you’ll make a fortune for your father and mother.”
    “I don’t know if I made them a fortune but I didn’t. I’m a thousand times more miserable than dogs, monkeys and parrots. The Dutch priests which converted me told me each Sunday that we are all children of Adam, black and white. If the preachers are speaking true we’re all second cousins. Or you must admit that my parents treated us in a most terrible way.”
    “Oh Pangloss,” Candide moaned. “You’d never have divined this abomination. If the slave’s story is accurate, I would renounce Optimism.” What does it take Candide?
    “What is Optimism?” Cacambo quickly asked.
    “It maintains that everything is good when in fact some times it’s bad.”
    “I thought we’d never get there,” Cacambo opined.
    Candide sends Cacambo to Buenos Aires to ransom Cunegonde from the Governor’s lascivious clutches. In the meantime Candide negotiated with a Dutch merchant to transport him and his two pack animals to Venice Italy.

    Fortunately a French trading vessel was preparing to leave for the port of Bordeaux. Candide sought a companion for the trip. Because he’s Candide being Candide, he conducted a most unusual selection process. He’d pay the passage for an honest man, under the condition that the man was the most miserable person in the country. He settled on a poor librarian who had worked for ten years in Amsterdam. This man claimed he’d been robbed by his unfaithful wife who promptly ran off with the ice man; beaten by his money grubbing son for dropping books on his toes; abandoned by his randy, impatient daughter eloping with a Portuguese fisherman; persecuted by the biased Sunday minister for his politics; and losing his poor paying job to a replacement who spoke no Dutch. Voltaire had tilted many times with booksellers from Amsterdam. He couldn’t abide them either including them in his grand critique. Predictably Candide was impressed by the man’s resumé of misfortunes selecting him to take the trip to Bordeaux.
    The old librarian’s name was Martin. During the trip they discussed many serious issues about good and evil, the Devil’s influence on human behavior, and the awesome and unwholesome power of the aristocracy. By chance they witnessed a naval battle between a French vessel and Dutch pirates. During the battle Candide’s pack animals were accidentally released. Fortunately Candide was able to convince the Captain to retrieve a pack animal with a load of El Dorado diamonds. He and Martin never stopped talking for 15 days. They finally see the coast of France.

    “Have you ever been to France Martin?” Candide politely inquired.
    “Oh yes. I’ve visited many provinces. At least half of them were filled with mad men. For the general population the principal occupation was love, the second was slander, and the third was stupidity.” Candide paused for a moment after this harsh criticism.
     “But Martin. Have you ever been to Paris?”
    “Yes. A bunch of people desperately seeking pleasure with few ever realizing it. I was robbed of everything by pickpockets. At the Fair of Saint-Germain. I was misidentified as a thief spending eight days in prison. Yes indeed. Paris was a memorable experience.” Changing the subject drastically Candide invited Martin to join him searching for Cunegonde in Venice.
    “Martin. Do you believe that men will always kill one another as they do today? Will they always be liars, cheaters, traitors, ingrates, robbers, weak, fickle, cowards, envious, gluttons, drunkards, misers, ambitious, sanguinary, slanderers, debauchees, fanatics, hypocrites and fools?” Nineteen nouns or adjectives take you pick. A truly monumental screed. In contrast Martin’s response was less than brief.
    “Do you believe that when hawks find pigeons they will always eat them?”
    “Yes. Of course,” Candide agreed
    “Then why do you expect men to change their ways?”
     With the end of the discussion they arrived at Bordeaux. Candide was still peeved losing his pack animals. This became more acute when it was reported that the Academy of Sciences of Bordeaux had proposed the origin of the red color of pack animals as the question of the year. That Academy must have run out of important social issues a long time ago. Further Candide noted that German scientists usually won the annual contests. One savant demonstrated that A plus B, minus C divided by Z produced a red coated pack animal. Imagine that. Unfortunately they usually died from rot.
    Candide wasn’t impressed with this argument. Voltaire was an associate member of this Academy receiving its publications. He wasn’t a big supporter of mathematical analyses of metaphysical problems. A shot fired across the bow of savants Spinoza and Maupertuis applying these methods.

    Other fellow travelers encouraged Candide to go to Paris. Upon entering Paris Candide became so sick the doctor called in a priest to administer Extreme Unction. The priest required Candide to sign the notorious “billet de confession” before administering the sacrament. This was a papal bull unequivocally denouncing the Jansenists. As sick as he was Candide didn’t want to do so because there was no reason for such an irrelevant practice.
    Martin was more explicit and proactive: “Let’s throw the bloody priest out the window just before the next stage arrives.” Still the priest stubbornly insisted he wouldn’t bury Candide if he didn’t sign the papal bull.
    Martin angrily asserted, “I’ll bury you with the papal bull, if you don’t grant him Extreme Unction.” You gotta love Martin a little bit. He grabbed the priest’s shoulders violently shaking him causing a scandal resulting in an official report. This incident in Candide’s life was another shot by Voltaire ridiculing nonsensical practices of organized religion.

    Fortunately Candide recovered from his sickness. He and Martin attended a theater. Later Candide encountered theater critic Abbe Perigourdin. “How many plays have you reviewed in France?”
     “About five or six thousand,” the Abbe replied.
    “ That’s a lot of plays.” Captain obvious said. “How many good ones or bona fide hits?”
    “Fifty or 60 at most,” the Abbe answered.
    “Only 0.01%. Way too low. Not very encouraging,” Candide exclaimed.
    “Not very good playwrights,” Martin interjected.
    Supper was like every other social event in Paris.
    “Have you read the new book by Master Gauchat, Doctor of Theology ?” the Abbe asked. Gauchat had written about the refutation of modern statements against religion in which Voltaire, a prime player, was severely attacked.
    “Yes,” responded one of the dinner guests, “but I didn’t finish it. He’s provided a mass of impertinent comments. All of which do not approach his level of impertinence.”
    “And the miscellaneous works of archdeacon Trublet?” the Abbe further queried
    “Deadly dull and wearisome,” responded a lady diner. “He curiously tells us something that everyone in the world knows. Heavily discusses some things not worth knowing. Affects to be witty as he spoils what he steals. How he disgusts me.” Trublet had the audacity to criticize Voltaire’s epic Henriade. Not nice to fool Mother Nature or Voltaire. With modern social media, thin-skinned Voltaire would’ve become apoplectic interacting with tweeters Candide and Martin suspected as assassins were arrested and thrown into a dungeon. The charges were eventually dropped. They planned to go to Venice seeking Cunegonde. At the first opportunity he’d take the route to Venice. Naturally they travel to England first.

    Approaching Portsmouth, England, Candide and Martin experienced a puzzling scene.
    “What in the world is this?” Candide asked Martin.
    “This is something bad. Definitely abominable. England’s mad as France. Only another type of madness. Can you imagine both nations uselessly fight in North America over thousands of leagues of uninhabited ice, snow and innumerable lemmings. They’re spending much more than its worth. There are more people in England fit for the mad house than in any other country. I may not be smart enough to resolve its problems but in general the people we see along the way are extremely atrabilious.”
    As they approached their landing they saw a strange sight. A large crowd had gathered on the dock and surrounding area. A blindfolded man was kneeling bent over on the deck of a vessel. Four soldiers were posted around this man, each had fired three balls into his head.
    “What’s this all about?” Candide curiously inquired. “What demon rules throughout this nation? Who was this man so sorely used in this horrific ceremony?”
    “This was an Admiral,” a bystander responded.
    “Why was this Admiral executed?” Candide indignantly persisted.
    “If you must know, it was reported he hadn’t pursued their vessel with appropriate vigor.”
     “Let’s get this straight. You’re telling me,” Candide uncharacteristically argued. “Since your Admiral wasn’t killed in battle, he deserved to die at your hands? Why, the French Admiral was just as far away from the fighting as the English Admiral.”
    “That is undeniable,” the man responded. “Don’t know why you’re so upset. In our country it’s common practice to execute an Admiral or General from time to time to exhort and encourage others to fight. By executing a war leader we can better rationalize uselessly sacrificing sailors and soldiers to fight better.” This anecdote involved an actual execution of an Admiral for “not having done his utmost.” Sounds like the British.
    Candide stunned at the above conversation turned to Martin for support. The latter merely shrugged his shoulders mumbling something about “madness and I told you so.” Candide was so shocked with this experience he declined going ashore. He bargained with the vessel’s Captain to transport them without delay to Venice. The never ending search for Cunegonde continued.

    One evening Candide and Martin sat at a table with people from the same hotel. There were six dethroned kings who related their tales of woe. Out of nowhere Cacambo appeared to his former master who was overjoyed by his reappearance. Cacambo quickly informed Candide that Cunegonde was in Constantinople. Candide allowed that now that he had his estimable servant Cacambo back and traveling companion Martin, they would leave for Constantinople right after dinner.
    Cacambo, who had been enslaved by a Turkish sovereign and was on leave, welcomed Candide and Martin with his usual pleasant manner.
    “Well now,” Candide asked. “Where’s that paragon of beauty Mademoiselle Cunegonde? I’ll love her always. How do we get to her place of residence? Without a doubt she’s purchased a palace in Constantinople.”
     Cacambo replied: “Ah! Not exactly my dear master. She’s currently washing dishes on the banks of the Propontis for a Prince who has few dishes. She’s a servant in the house of an old sovereign named Ragotski. The latter pays the Grand Turk three crowns per day for a place of residence. But that’s not the worst of it. Mademoisle Cunegonde has lost all her former beauty becoming wretchedly unbecoming because of all the work she’s been required to perform.”
    “I am a man of honor,” Candide proudly exclaimed. “Beautiful or ugly my duty is clear. It’s always love. We must hasten to remove her from such an abject state.”
    “Don’t forget to render two million sequins to the Governor of Buenos Aires to cover Mademoiselle Cunegonde’s ransom,” Cacambo reminded him.
    “I would dearly like to speak with Cunegonde and the Prince. I would readily make a servant out of this dethroned sultan,” Candide boldly stated “What a chain of calamities, one after another. But after all, I still have some diamonds and I’ll immediately release Cunegonde from servitude. This will make up in some small way for the loss of her former beauty.”

    When they got to the Bosphorus, Candide readily ransomed Cacambo from his Turkish master. Candide hired a galley to go ashore hunting for Cunegonde.
    On the galley there were two slaves who rowed badly, scarcely keeping up with the other rowers. Because of their ineptitude from time to time the Captain lashed their bare shoulders to get the two up to speed. Naturally Candide was drawn to the dreadful plight of the beaten rowers, regarding them most attentively. Their distorted and disfigured faces strangely resembled Master Pangloss and Mademoiselle Cunegonde’s brother.
    Moved by this notion he said to Cacambo: “Not only have I lost my teacher Pangloss, I clumsily killed the Baron. You might think I’m crazy Cacambo” (Cacambo must have harbored this thought and worse more than once.) “but I believe the two are rowing in this galley.”
    At the sound of hearing their names the two galley slaves uttered a great cry stopping their rowing. The Captain ran over to them redoubling his lashing efforts.
    “Stop! Stop! Captain,” shouted. Candide. I’ll give you as much money as you want for those two slaves.”
    “Who is it?” one of the slaves asked.
    “You’ll never believe this,” the other one responded. (We don’t either.) “It’s Candide.”
    “Is this a dream?” asked Candide? “That I’m on this galley. Is this the Baron I killed? Is this Master Pangloss who I saw burned?”
    “The very same,” they both shouted.
    “Is this the great philosopher?” Martin queried unimpressed.
    Candide shouted to the Captain: “How much money would it take to ransom these two?”
    “Look. They’re nothing but Christian dogs,” the Captain snarled. “Since you think these Christian dog galley slaves are something special you can redeem them for 50,000 sequins.”
    “You will have it my good man, if you return us with lightening speed to Constantinople. You’ll be paid at once.”
    Candide heartily embraced both men many times. “How come you aren’t dead dear Baron? And my dear Pangloss how are you still alive after having been burned?
    “How did both of you end up as galley slaves in Turkey?” Yeah. We’d like to know how this preposterous situation emerged also.
    “Is it true my dear sister’s in this country?” the Baron asked.
    “Yes,” responded Martin.
    “I’m seeing you again my dear Candide,” Pangloss cried. They all embraced one another again, all speaking at the same time. The ship flew through the water to the port.
    Candide directly exchanged 50,000 sequins in diamonds to the Captain for the ransom of the Baron and Pangloss. Both were speechless at Candide’s generosity.
    “Is it possible my sister’s in Turkey?” the Baron repeated.
    “Nothing’s impossible,” Cacambo offered. “But at present she’s washing dishes.” Candide sold still more diamonds and they set off again in another galley to deliver Cunegonde.

    The Baron recounted his adventures ultimately leading him to be a galley slave. Of course Pangloss’s account was more interesting and fantastic.
    “It’s true my dear Candide you didn’t actually see me die. If it hadn’t been raining, I might’ve been a goner.” The rainstorm must have been unusual coming up so suddenly. For three of Pangloss’s fellow victims had been burned. Lucky for him. Not for them.
    “The downpour was so heavy it rapidly reduced the flames and burning ashes. The Executioners said not to worry. They assured me a good old hanging would satisfy the demands of the day’s executions. We both agreed on that. Of course I was relieved, I hadn’t become a problem or a source of embarrassment for them.”
    “When a surgeon finally arrived he incised a cross on my chest. Maybe he’d been drinking. Maybe he was just a back-up surgeon. Who knows? Working at the franchise level. But he didn’t do his best work complaining the job was beyond his skills. Wasn’t what I wanted to hear. The High Executioner of the Holy Inquisition apologized acknowledging his specialty was burnings, not hangings. The rope around my neck was wet. Didn’t slide easily. Poorly knotted. Lucky for me I could breathe once again. A close call to be sure.”
    “The sign of the cross on my chest elicited a great cry from the crowd startling another surgeon causing him to fall over backwards. Apparently he believed he was dissecting the Devil. He fearfully fled falling down the staircase. His wife responded to the noise from another room. She stretched me out on a table with my incision cross. I thought this was going to be it. Turned out she was more fearful than her husband, and she fell fleeing me.”
    A little later I heard a woman say: “What can you be thinking of dissecting a heretic? Don’t you know the Devil abides in their body. You’re going to release the Devil? Not on my watch. I’m going to find a priest to exorcize him.”
    “As you can imagine,” Pangloss emphasized, “I trembled at this proposal crying out: No! No! Not an exorcism. Have mercy on me.” Pangloss was almost burned alive. Almost hung for a while. Partially dissected. Rowed as a galley slave and here he was concerned receiving an exorcism from a priest. “Finally another surgeon and his wife were summoned. They plucked up the courage to sew me up somewhat. I was back on my feet in 15 days,” he boasted.
    “I was then sold to a Venetian merchant traveling to Constantinople. One day I ran afoul of an Iman. He called for help when he found out I was a Christian. For this slight transgression I received 100 strokes upon the soles of my feet and was duly sent to the galley. There I received 20 strokes a day for good behavior.”
    Candide was enthralled with the story. “Ah! Well my dear Pangloss. When you were almost burned at the stake. Almost hung. Beaten almost unconscious. Partially dissected. Starved and exhausted toiling at the oar. Did you always think this was the best of all possible worlds?”
    “As you know my dear Candide I’ve always proposed this as my first and fundamental theorem for I am a philosopher.” Something he never let’s us forget. “It is not befitting that I retract my word. But Leibnitz was wrong about the pre-established harmony being the best possible thing in the world together with the plenum and subtle matter.” Voltaire ridiculed the pompous and artificial technical vocabulary of these metaphysical terms as jargon used by Leibnitz and his followers.
    Our gang all struggled for time to relate their trials and tribulations along the way. They arrived by a Turkish galley at the home of the Prince. Conveniently the first people they met were the old woman and Cunegonde spreading out towels on lines to dry them.
    Her brother the Baron cringed at the sight of his once formerly beautiful sister. Candide seriously blanched seeing his beautiful sunburned, Cunegonde with blood shot eyes, withered neck, wrinkled cheek, red roughed arms and hands. He withdrew three times but seized by honor he advanced with good manners. She vigorously embraced Candide and her brother who embraced the old woman. With no further adieu Candide ransomed both women.

    There was a small, empty farm house near the neighboring village. The old woman proposed it as a temporary residence for the group. Cunegonde didn’t realize she had lost her illustrious persona and beauty. Not surprisingly no one wanted to inform her:
    “Oh! By the way. Cunegonde you’ve become rather gnarly.”
    She quickly reminded dear Candide of his former vow to marry her. Resolute and honorable Candide did not dare refuse her.
    “Baron. It’s my intention to marry your sister.”
    “Do I have to hear this garbage again? We’ve discussed this before. You’ve got to be kidding. My sister’s children would never be accepted in respectable German society. No. Never will my sister marry anyone but a baron.”
    Cunegonde dramatically threw herself at her bother’s feet bathing them in tears. But he was inflexible.
    Candide finally had had enough and assuming an unusually argumentative posture. “Confound idiot. I’ve traveled thousands of miles searching for your sister. Beaten to within an inch of my life. Nearly eaten by a bunch of cannibals. Suffered innumerable misadventures and humiliations. Freed you from the galley. Paid your sister’s ransom from the randy Governor and another ransom from washing dishes, doing laundry and various other heavy domestic and rural duties. I have the goodness to make her my wife and you persist opposing it. If I were to yield to my anger, I would probably try to slay you again.”
    “Huh! Then you’ll have to try and kill me again and do it more competently,” the Baron raged. “You will marry my sister over my dead body.”
    “We can arrange that “over my dead body bit” mate,” Martin eagerly opined. “That can be accomplished right here and now.”
    “Steady Martin. Steady,” Candide cautioned.
    Pangloss finally came through with a useful suggestion for a change. “Why don’t you enter into a morganatic marriage.”
     As usual Martin was more direct. Earlier in Paris he’d offered to throw the priest out the window. “Let’s throw the bloody Baron into the ocean, though I’m unsure any sensible animal would want to eat him. I’ll do it myself, if no one wants to help.”
    Cacambo’s suggestion was more subtle and insidious than Martin’s. “Why ... don’t we return him to serve in the galley. If he survives that we’ll send him to Rome for the Father General to administer some good old-fashioned, hard-nosed Jesuit discipline.” The old woman liked either suggestion. The Baron said nothing to his sister wisely keeping his mouth shut. The marriage contract was finalized with a generous dowry provided by Candide.
    It seems natural to assume that after all these misadventures Candide et al had experienced, these would lead to a more pleasant life. But life is rarely always pleasant.
    Every day Cunegonde became more ugly, shrewish and insufferable. The old woman became more infirm becoming even more bad tempered than Cunegonde.
    Cacambo, who worked in the garden, was exhausted from traveling back and forth selling vegetables in the village. He cursed his destiny. Pangloss was in deep despair and frustration for not becoming a luminary in some prestigious German university. Martin was convinced that life was bad everywhere, committing himself to patiently wait life out as it is. These opinions prompted some new directions.
    “I would rather live a life of upheaval than face the lethargy of boredom,” Martin contended. Candide didn’t offer an opinion lest he unnecessarily stoked the fire of complaints.
    Pangloss ,who had suffered mightily, maintained: “This was a time of wonder, I could always support and now believe in nothing.”
    There was in the neighborhood a famous dervish considered the best philosopher in Turkey. They periodically picked his brain about a variety of issues. Pangloss, the elder statesman, volunteered to head up the consultation.
    “Teacher, we’ve come to you to pose the question: why was such a strange animal as man formed?”
    “Why would you be concerned with such an inane question,” the dervish responded. “It’s really none of your business.”
    “But reverend father,” Candide interjected. “There is a horrible amount of evil in the world.”
    “What is important,” the dervish answered edgily, “is what you do with good and evil and how you handle those two imposters.” Sounds like Kipling’s poem If. “When his Royal Highness sends a ship to Egypt is he solicitous or not about the comfort of the mice aboard ship?”
    “How’s that again? Teacher I’m unsure of your message here,” Pangloss responded.
    “What does a bunch of mice on a ship mean?” Candide thought to himself.
    Pointing to Pangloss losing his patience the dervish snapped: “You call yourself a philosopher posing a question like that. Do us a favor. Think before you talk. Failing that. Ferme’ le bouché for a while.”
    Completely missing the dervish’s admonition Pangloss answered: “I can’t tell you how flattered I am debating with you about cause and effect, origin of evil, nature and the pre-established harmony.” With that the dervish slammed the door in their faces.
    “Was it something I said? “ Pangloss innocently asked Candide, “What’s wrong my dear pupil?”
    “The mice! What about the mice on the Royal Highness’s ship? What was their fate?” Pangloss wearily shrugged his shoulders, finally realizing Candide was a lost cause. He hadn’t improved Candide’s intellectual level one iota throughout this rocky odyssey. All parties returned to the small farm discussing a variety of topics.
    “I know,” Candide opined, “we should all cultivate our own garden.”
    “You’re right,” Pangloss replied, “Man was put in the Garden of Eden to cultivate it by himself. This proves man was not put here for rest.”
    “Ah! Gentlemen. Can’t we for once dispense a long harangue about the value and nobility of work,” Martin exclaimed. “Work is the only means of making life supportable.”
    Everyone in the small community committed themselves to this praiseworthy goal. Cunegonde in truth was getting even uglier. But she’d become an excellent pastry cook satisfying their sweet tooth. The old woman patiently awaiting her MVP kept them clean seeing to their linen. Cacambo continued responsibly and resolutely traveling to the village selling their vegetables there. The Baron continued to pout. Martin with every ones approval continued looking for an opportunity to off the Baron. The great bloviator Pangloss being Pangloss contributed his last blast of pseudo-sophistry.
    “All events are interconnected in the best of all possible worlds. For if Candide had not fallen in love with Mademoiselle Cunegonde; if he had not been driven away from the beautiful chateau by her father; if he had not been recruited by the Bulgarian Army receiving many beatings; if he had not traveled through South America on foot; if he had not given a sword thrust to the Baron; (who was still sore by the way); if he had not been eaten by the Oreillons as a Jesuit; if he had not retained one pack animal with diamonds from El Dorado; if he had not been challenged by the Inquisition; if he had not acquired Martin as a traveling companion; if he had not ransomed Cacambo; the Baron, Mademoiselle Cunegonde and myself, all of us would not be here reaping the fruits of our labor.”
    “Master that is so eloquent,” Candide whole heartedly praised his tutor. “It is certainly right that we all cultivate our own garden.”
    Candide’s statement summed up Voltaire’s great tale. One can positively endure life by consistently engaging oneself in directed productive industry.

Semper Fi

    He was known around the city as Dog; a name given him by local street folks years before. He liked it fine. He came merely by chance to live in Providence. He didn’t intend to stay in this city, but his Caddy’s motor died right there in the vacant lot, and there it and Dog stayed. He was originally from south Boston; born, baptized in the Catholic Church, schooled, and raised there. His given name was Daniel (Danny) Ryan.
    ...
    It was going on 7:00 AM. Sitting sideways on the front seat, he’d been awake for an hour or so. Dog was slouched over- head hovering above his knees. He had the morning dry heaves once again. His aching gut would only give up that nasty, acid yellow shit.
    The steering wheel sitting to his right, he reached up and over, grabbed a hold, and pulled himself erect. Half in-half out of the deceased Cadillac, he jammed his hands into the pockets of a ragged, drab olive army field jacket. They were arthritic, gnarled, and trembling for lack of strong drink.
    It was just another miserable morning in his neighborhood; the west side ghetto he called home off Cranston Street. The March wind, chilled and damp, bit the left side of his face. A storm would soon be coming in from the Atlantic. He heard the report on his piece of shit portable radio just minutes before.
    Strong winds and stinging drizzle rushed down the bay. On its northern shores, the capitol city caught the nastiness smack in the ass. Dog reached up with both hands to massage his grimy neck; the pain always there these days; had been for several years now. He couldn’t quite remember when it started; didn’t give a fuck- it was just how it was.
    Lonely in his thoughts, he hears the sharp sound of air brakes. It was the number 12 city bus heading west as it came to a stop not 50 yards away. He looks up for an instant watching it unload and reload passengers that were on their way to work or some such destination. They were the same faces each day of the work week. Life was predictable for the beaten man.
     Dog remembers being called Thumper. He thinks back on basic training at Paris Island. He remembers the first day on Vietnam soil as he stepped off the C130 transport. He was drafted in 1967, green and scared; but no sniveling over all that. “Fuck it all.” he groans hoarsely.
    He sat there deciding on a plan for another fucked up day. Anger driven, he lives in resigned surrender, disgust, and a haunting loneliness born of buried memories. He suffers from a rage born of yesterdays; mulls over his past and the promises of lost youth; the dreams he once had. Not anymore. He knows what life can do to a man- what it did to him. He wants to hurt something, perhaps, someone...
    The brown bottle of whiskey was less than half full and soon would be empty. It sits in the crotch of his filthy green khaki military fatigues. The booze is Dog’s morning wake up. He considers the bottle for a moment; trying to get up the nerve for that first swallow. Leaning forward he spits once more. The brown juice of chewing tobacco lands on a mess of black ants busy at something dark; the remains of a chocolate donut from Faith Rescue Mission’s kitchen the day before. Dog grins uneasily. “Mighty soon for ants.” he says out loud and spits out the entire contents of his mouth.
    He tears another chaw off the ‘Day-O Work plug of tobacco between stained and broken teeth. He doesn’t smile much- has no cause to, lifts his leg to fart, thinks twice. He holds off; afraid he’d shit himself. Dog needed to get over to Prime Drug Store to use their bathroom and grab another pint of liquor. They sell it to him out of the back door this early in the morning. His liver was shot and his belly hurt something awful.
    Thoughtful for a minute, memory invades his head. Out of nowhere comes a flash of his childhood dog, Buster; a dark brown and tan mongrel that showed up in the backyard of the tenement he and his family lived in. Buster never left. He caught himself smiling sad. He grinned a bit, nods his disheveled head and whispers. “He was a good fuckin’ dog alright.”
    He steps up and out of the car, moves to the front of the vehicle. It was a white and disabled, beat up 1962 Cadillac. With a grunt and groan he manages to hop up onto on its rust pitted, left front fender. He sat facing Cranston Street and watched as folks shuffled on by.
    It was difficult getting comfortable sitting on his bony, undernourished ass, but that’s the way it was. This was his car, his pride and joy once upon a time. It was now his shelter, his home; a hard and cold reality. The cops left him alone. He wasn’t a problem for them. He kept to himself and the beat cops felt pity for the old soldier.
    Looking around the vacant lot and then up, he peers at the cold, and unforgiving, blustery grey skies. The voices in his head; the ones always there, whispers doom. Dog shakes his head- slaps the side of his skull with the palm of his right hand. He knows it’s not long before the end of all things comes calling.
    Grumbling to himself, he ejects early morning venom. “Fuck it!” and spits again. For a moment, a brown string of saliva, hangs on his lower lip then snaps. The majority lands on his greasy right pant leg. Wiping the spittle off his lip with the cuff of his jacket he spouts. “Well, so fuckin’ be it.” then croaks a laugh.
    With a brutal hit from the whiskey bottle, Dog polishes off the last of his Wild Turkey wake up. He heaves the bottle high in the air. It lands in a strangle of vines and thick brush back and to his right. That side of the lot gave refuge to a hoard of hung up plastic bags, and discarded bottles and cans that had accumulated over the years. His was a forgotten city lot that once was occupied by a deserted four-story tenement building built in the late 19th century. There once sat a splendid Victorian that was burned to the ground during the black riots of the late sixties.
    Nothing new was ever built to replace it- not in this neighborhood, but that was fine with Dog. The lot every now and again housed discarded and abandoned homeless folks that had no place to call home. Crude shelters of plywood, sheets of plastic wrap, and cardboard were erected time to time. But near soon as they were raised the cops would evict the homeless and put an end to their occupancy. Dog’s sanctuary was never affected by the cops tiresome rousting of city undesirables.
    He takes shelter here and sleeps in that broke down ‘62 Caddy, but doesn’t complain. He thinks to himself on how long he’s lived in this old gal. Four, maybe five years now- going on six. It’s fuzzy.
    The entire lot was his yard; the one he calls his and his alone. He tells them all. “If you wanna stay, it gotta go through me first!” It was Dog’s private property. He nailed up hand painted signs. “Keep Out!” and “Beware of Dog!” Folks respected that.
    He lives here year-round. It makes him sick in the lungs and gut, wooly in the head, yet he seeks no help for his failing body from the Veterans Hospital. He’s ailing from liver disease; knows it’s there but doesn’t give a shit. The booze, broiling summer heat, winter’s freeze, spring, and autumn’s cold wet rains, are his nemesis- his lethal companions.
    Everything he possesses is stored neatly with military efficiency in the trunk of his Caddy. He lost the trunk key of the old beast years back, had to pop the lock. He uses a screwdriver that he keeps under the right rear fender to open it. He hides it where the fender skirt had partially rotted away. All that he needs is right there in that compartment. He calls it his footlocker and nobody better fuck with it.
    Dog’s oily, shoulder length, brown and grey streaked hair, hangs in strips. His head and thick dark beard at times become an enterprise for lice. Every once in a while, he has to buy the sulphur and tar shampoo over at the drug store to rid his head of vermin.
    Hopping down off the fender his game right leg buckles a bit. Dog straightens with a wince. Like the walking dead he moves. The old soldier endures the pain of drunkard’s, hunger, shakes, and hated memories.
    ...

    Fire from a long-ago war in an emerald green jungle, sent him home to Boston disfigured, scarred, and horrible to look at. He thinks to himself. I never wanted to leave- the job wasn’t finished. “Bullshit- Fuck em’ all!” he shouts to the wind. Dog curses God, spits ugly, and gets on with it. Reaching in his filthy backpack he retrieves his scribbled cardboard sign and looks it over. He reckoned this would be its last day. He’d have to make a new one before he heads out the next morning.
     It reads, top to bottom,

    “VIETNAM VET
    WILL WORK 4 FOOD
    OR MONY”

    Nobody ever wants to hire him though. They might hand him a dollar from a car window or pocket change on the street, but hardly ever looked him in the eye. Most would surrender the loot then quickly move away. Occasionally the neighborhood mom & pop grocery stores or the two gas stations down a way on Cranston Street would let him sweep their floors and front sidewalks. In the winter he shoveled snow around the neighborhood but that was about it. He was a panhandler.
    Off he trudges; a fearsome looking, limping shell of a man, towards the off ramp of I-95 South in South Providence. It sat across from Rhode Island Hospital. This was his own private money hole. Nobody panhandles on his turf- not on Dog’s spot.
    With a humph and a nod, that’s right, he thinks. Loud and bitter, raising fist to sky, his crazies fire out. “They know better than to fuck with me!”
    ...

    His breathing is labored. Spitting out another spent wad of tobacco on the sidewalk he says to himself. “It looks like dog shit.” He grins at that; thinks on the folks who’ll walk around it in disgust, holding their noses. “Ha-ha-ha-ha!” He grins at that, moves on, and tears another piece off his plug of tobacco with his teeth.
    Dog lets out an awful laugh and contemplates. Maybe I should find a fuckin’ gun and stick in my mouth. But he knew deep down; deep where it counts that he didn’t have the balls to mess with his maybe God. Walking in the opposite direction, a young Asian woman makes a wide swing around him. With a backward glance she quickly moves on. He smiles weakly. Many folks do the same. They fear him.
    ...
    He drifts back 30 years to his last R&R in Thailand where he picked up the Hep. He was remembering that cutie pie Thai whore, drinking beer, and slugging strong drink. “What a lay she was!” he laughs. Follows with, “Gave me the crabs and gonorrhea, that delicious little bitch!” He roars with laughter.
    These memories were crisp. That was two weeks before his last patrol in the bush. The dice didn’t go his way that week. “Shit” he murmurs, “It ain’t nuthin’ but a God damned thang!” His comrades, in country, said that all the time. If a buddy caught a bullet home in a body bag, maimed, or was wounded- “It ain’t nothin’ but a god damned thang.”
    He remembers being young and happy. He remembers all right. Vietnam and two tours took that away. He was ‘Thumper’; carried a Russian automatic pistol, a 9mm Stechin APS that he took from the dead NVA captain he shot and killed. He also handled the M79 grenade launcher. That’s where he got the name ‘Thumper’. He treated that thing like a lover. But he and his buddies lost everything that horrifying afternoon.
    He fires out in anger. “We all lost our asses that day! Lost it all to a bad fuckin’ call... but it ain’t nuthin’ but a thang!”
    He again starts to walk. A liquor store lay dead ahead. A young black girl at the bus stop he passes pretends to read, closes her legs tight. He moves along disregarding of the girl’s fear. He knew why. The deep grey furrows around Dog’s eyes display a grimace.
    The young folks back home said he deserved the disfigurement. They called me a baby killer in ‘68, he thinks to himself. He mumbles to himself “When I kick the bucket- I wanna’ go hard and painful- like a God damned warrior; a fuckin’ gladiator with beau coup, honey drip nurses washing my stinkin’ ass in bed.”
    With a half ass grin, he cackles, “Ha- Yeah, that’s right!” Dog shakes his head. Almost 40 years gone by since the way back. His mind drifts. A dangerous smile crosses his lips. He killed men. “Sure, as shit I killed ‘em a’right.” His rage bursts it’s seams. “Men!” he shouts. “That’s Right, Fuckin’ Men!” He lays it to rest, buries it - but only them fuckin’ bastids that was tryin’ to kill me, you hippy assholes... Dog takes a hit off the new bottle of whiskey he just purchased with pocket change. “God Damn You All!”
    ...
    He wasn’t sure if he’d go to Hell; thought he was already there; been there since ‘68. Didn’t know if he even believed that shit anymore.
     He put his life on the line as he saw it, for a fucking country of long haired, dope smokin’ hippy assholes too pansy to pick up a gun and answer the call. Sure, as shit he did. They was all ready to go runnin’ north of the border to Canada if their number came up. But that wasn’t him. No, he saw it as duty; didn’t like it, but saw it as duty to his country.
    He trudged on in the cold drizzle accompanied by his scarred mind, the babbling head committee, and a barren soul. Why the fuck didn’t they get it? Wasn’t my fucked-up war. I wasn’t born to be a warrior; wanted to be an artist, write a book. It was just plain shit luck. It was Uncle Sam’s dirty fucking bumble fuck of war and I was carrying out orders... just business.
    Dog bursts out brutal to a passing Volvo full of teens heading to school he imagined, “Never a Fuckin’ Woman or a Kid!” They all laughed, shouted out the car windows. They called him a fucking nut.
    He hears the jeering, pays it no mind. Another gob of meaty tobacco juice erupts from his lips. He splatters the sidewalk muck brown. Damn if the splatter didn’t look like the state of Florida. He grinned deadly.
    With bitter memory he plods on; pisses himself a little as he coughed up yellow and red phlegm into a once white handkerchief. He needed to take a piss; had to often these past years; his prostate was the size of a lemon.
    For now, Dog just tended his bottle of disregard to forget it all. He hadn’t enough money for the Wild Turkey he enjoyed. The generic shit had to do until that afternoon.
    All he cared for was to forget the nightmares, calm the shakes, and keep the crazies away. He didn’t mind taking the handouts, taking the pity, or taking the revulsion for his scarred face, body and hands. His were hands nobody would shake.
    Dog knew his liver was in rough shape with all the booze. The pain in his gut told him so. He first damaged it long ago with the hepatitis he picked up in Vietnam after shooting dope. There was plenty of it there. He came home an addict. Soon enough he thinks. He spits brown slime once again, says to nobody, “Soon enough!” It was a waiting game. He stares at and studies his scarred and broken paws for an instant... He grumbles. “Courtesy of those low flyin’, fast movin’ Navy asshole fighter jocks with beau coup bad Intel is what it was.”
    He kept moving- finding himself on Eddy Street already. Didn’t quite remember the walk there; wondered how he got there so fast. Standing under the overpass, he sees the hospital just 50 yards away to his right; the off ramp to the left.
    “I Need A God Damn Gun!” He bellows. A passing hispanic woman under a black umbrella quickly looks away, widens her distance, skips to the other side of Eddy Street- pretends not to see him.
    ...

    The date was August 12, 1968. That horrifying day on recon hit him like a molten avalanche. That was the day he was humping through some shit hole province named Quang G’Nai. Yeah, that’s where the dogs from hell broke loose their chains- That’s where all that heavy shit went down.
    Dog threw his gnarled fist to the saturated grey and sunless sky, screamed to the unknowing; the unseen. Snot and tobacco flew. “It was a hell of a day! A great fuckin’ day in the bush, man!”
    He ponders for a moment. It was lousy fuckin’ timin’ to be a jar head though. Yes, it was. Those fighter jocks was scuttlin’ death’s fire into the fuckin’ canopy on all of us!..
    The unquenchable fire was friendly fire. It spilled over his entire squad. He shouted. “We was the good guys- you navy pricks!” He shakes his head and lets out a hoarse cackle. “The Gooks must have had a good laugh over that!” Only him and Stevens made it. Now he was dead too. Dog remembers the day he reported for the draft in Boston. “For Fuckin’ What!” he hollers.
    His head pounded- the committee was in session. Yeah... tragic fuckin’ heroes is what we was- like those Greek Spartans at them hot gates at Thermopylae fightin’ Persians. Dog looked around, thinking he was somewhere else. He shook his head finding he was across the street from the off ramp. ‘Cept they died to the last man. They was fuckin’ heroes, Heroes remembered for all time for bravery- for duty. And what was we remembered for?

    Dog’s mind was being strangled. He wanted to be left alone. A comfortable bed and beau coup morphine cocktails at the VA in Providence is his final wish. His end stop would be the veteran’s cemetery in North Kingstown. It was a nice place, he remembered. A good place to rest under the ground. Six feet down, a granite marker, and a new flag planted in front of it every year on Veterans Day. Eternal sleep is what he prayed for.

    He had his doubts and not much confidence in a heaven or hell, or God for that matter, but he hoped it was true. He thinks it all may just be chump bullshit, but he wasn’t solid sure of that. It didn’t really matter anyway.
     His only hope was to be buried alongside all the other soldiers; his true comrades. They were just waiting on him, calling to him louder now.

    He could hear the voices of his brothers - their mingled laughter, the horsing around- their screaming, burning, dying. It was Stevens he heard; his calm calling...
    “Heads up, Thumper. You slipped away once. It’s time to didley bop stateside from the bush, corporal - time to come on home boy- time to come home...

    He spits brown, held up his sign.
    “Yeah, soon e-fuckin ‘nuff, ole buddy, soon ‘nuff.”

Keep Our Country
    and Save Ourselves

I try to remember to thank veterans when I see them
and we’re supposed to even have a day to remind us
to be thankful for their service — they do things
the vast majority of us wouldn’t think to do, would
hate to do — what they need do to keep our country.

So when Veterans Day rolls around, we thank more
people wearing military hats, the same way we say
“happy holidays” or “Merry Christmas” in December;
we make a coin donation from our pocket and wear that
plastic poppy and feel we’ve accomplished something.

What if you drive down the street after paying for breakfast
at some diner where you’re a regular and they know
your order. Driving, you see a sign on a homeless person
saying they’re a veteran, please, anything will help.
And you start to panic because you don’t know if this guy,

a regular beggar at this corner, is actually a veteran
or just trying to pull on someone’s heartstrings, and,
wait a minute, it’s Veterans Day, maybe you should
stop this one time, hand him your leftovers along
with a little money. It’s cold out. And then you wonder.

Are you giving because it’s Veterans Day? Do you panic
because you don’t know if they’re a veteran or not?
Is it because this day forces you to remember, and to care?
Maybe the point is that you should care for veterans
every day of the year. Help them from their nightmares,

and help them get back to being in the real world again...
whatever that may be. Because you suddenly wonder,
everyone you know is on this trek, on this cycle,
and it’s sometimes a cycle that can drive you insane.
So maybe it’s time to save the veterans... and ourselves.

Company of Angels, Company of Men

    With eight hundred miles of road under my butt in the last three days, my blood sugar barely holding the line, a couple of old wounds still talking sass to me, whatever else was bugging me besides my errand, fell off the face of the Earth when Disher Menkin’s wife Elsie, the new widow, still somewhat of a knockout though she’d collected some flesh under her chin she’d never try to hide, a few other imperfections lost in a surprisingly good figure, hardly ever taciturn at best, said, “Where the hell have you been, Coop, when we needed you most?”
    A kick in the ass if you ever had one. And she didn’t bat an eyelash, stood there at her doorway as though she was measuring, or sorting out, what other kind of welcome she could generate in my direction, finding her own energy before she could dash mine into some ugly pieces. I’d always known how she’d handle a few things from Disher’s outspoken resume of her total attributes.
    Of course, he’d always arrive at a final delivery with, “That’s some kind of woman I married. Some kind of woman.” That probably meant, “I love her nevertheless,” or “You can really skip most parts except for the good parts.”
    I’d made that long drive to bury a good buddy and comrade, Disher Menkin, whom I had not conversed with lucidly and face to face in more than thirty-five years. We’d sized up death before, me and Disher. Me, an old man now, Cooper Bothwaite, feeling the grenade rolling in my gut, road dust a new talcum on my teeth, the continual gray light coming off the hood of the car hurting my eyes, as if a mirror had sat mounted on the dashboard the whole way. This is the way it is every day now, stuff coming in bunches, life a bit of companionable misery or whatever you want to call it.
    Normally that kind of jibe Elsie threw at me will knock the hell out of any kind of gathering, but in a funeral home, the body on display like sleep was unbroken from the night before, it’s as strident as early morning bugle calls. But I always hated reveille and all the other horn-blowing, for that matter. The only one I liked was Call to the Colors. It still gets me, right where it hurts the most. But here’s this hard-line new widow giving it to me who’s been out of the picture more or less for those long thirty-five years, and her, I know, with a chain saw tearing up her heart and loneliness and doubt hitting her right in the face with the reality of five-card draw.
    It’s not new. I’ve been there, and it is an odd lot.
    God, even being trim and shapely outside of the neck thing, she looked tough, bags under her eyes, tunnels leaning backwards out of them as if she had been there and back in a hurry, large dark spots on her arms as if they were badges of some sort not to be hidden. I know what those oversize freckles are saying out loud to the whole world. But there’s no long sleeve cover-up for Disher Menkin’s lady. She was front and center as she had always been, as memory served me. Truth is, she had scared the hell out of Disher right from the start. Thing was, he could not stand fakers. The claptrap of bull-shitters really bothered the man. With Disher you had to be up front, and not piecemeal. No phonies ever made it with him, so the straight-out talking lady from Brunswick, Maine impressed him the first time she opened her mouth: “You know, soldier, your uniform looks like frigging hell. Why didn’t you have it pressed?” I think Disher fell in love with her right then. Must have been something, because it went on for more than forty-five years, her speaking her mind, Disher hearing every word.
    Whether he believed it all is something else. Even foxhole buddies like we were don’t tell all, even when the Grim Reaper sits atop the hole with his dark visage and terrible eyes and the edge of the scythe keen as a new bayonet, the sun’s glow sitting on the thinnest edge like a match’d been struck.
    “Coop,” she said, not at all backing off, as if nothing else had happened in the way of the curt introduction, “this is my daughter MayBelle and her husband Nicholas.” I could remember Disher saying, on that old gray bucket going toward Europe in 1943, the Atlantic in its own turmoil, rank odors like real characters aboard every corner and stairwell of the ship, “My first-born, if it’s a girl, will be called MayBelle. Was my mother’s sister’s name, and she drowned in the Amicalola River down in topper Ca’lina looking for frogs when she was a kid.”
    I swear MayBelle looked a bit like her father, eyes as serious as one can make them, like measurement is always going on, and blue-green as if not sure which way to lead. I measured her at the forty years of age I knew her to be. Her skin was nice, and there was no tiredness coming off her face. The ease of one good child can do that for you, and she had but the one boy.
    I bet she was more like her father than her mother. Her husband Nicholas, somewhat uncomfortable in a dark suit, was another case. On one hand there was but a finger and a thumb, and the thumb oversize to begin with. Immediately I wondered about their lovemaking; did he make special use of that odd hand? I had heard other stories of such graceful impairment. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. But Nicholas was of good size, perhaps a shade over six feet, a full head of blond hair, dark brown eyes rather at acceptance than measurement. I was pretty sure that he was unaware of all the other people in the room. Something in him, in his handshake, in those dark eyes, said he seriously wanted to talk to me.
    A crisp impatience kept touching at his person, like a loose ignition wire working its way to something unusual.
    “So, you’re Coop!” he said, shaking my hand with that odd hand, the grip almost malevolently hard, like handcuffs in operation, but he released the grip quickly. If I didn’t have a thumb to counter its slide, he could have manacled me in a hurry. “I’ve always wanted to meet you. Knew it would come sometime, but never thought it would be this way. Disher loved you, Coop. I can say that without a bit of reservation. We used to sit down in the cellar in summers, cooling off from the hot sun, sipping on beer he made in a big porcelain crock, like dipping in a well with a ladle, stories falling by the wayside on occasion. Those were good times. I think he liked them too, as much as me.”
    The smile on his face was a full and bright smile loaded with memory. I decided, on the spot, I trusted him. The ladies looked surprised at the quick revelations he spun off. I truly believed he had not spoken of such things with them, had not shared Disher with them, at least not that way, but he could readily share with me.
    “He said I’d get to see you sometime if you were still alive, Coop. I guess he was thinking about this.” Around the room he looked, a long while at Disher’s face over the edge of the casket, then shrugged his shoulders.
    “He was positive that I’d meet you. I guess what he was saying is that he knew you’d be here if this happened.” He went through the survey with his eyes again. Not once did he look at his wife or his mother-in-law but kept his eyes on mine. I knew he had something else to say; it was there, just off the edge of his voice, behind a small screen in his eyes. His mouth seemed to hold back other words. I felt the impatience again, the distraction of it almost electrical.
    Disher’s widow said, “Why didn’t you come earlier, Cooper? He was ranting and raving at the end. Said your name a hundred times. I sure thought you’d be here earlier. Your buddy, huh?” Pure iron-plate caustic with a phony question mark.
    When MayBelle put her hand on her mother’s arm, to hold her back a mite, her mother continued, “Disher must have been hiding something all the time. Never once ever said anything to me about a fire, or kids. Never once. But I thank you for making the long trip. They don’t get any easier.”
    Even with that the edge was ax-sharp in her voice. MayBelle jumped in again. “I’m sure Nicholas would like to talk to you away from all this.” She took her mother by the arm and was about to lead her toward a couple that had just come into the viewing room. With that move I knew she was Disher’s daughter.
    Disher’s widow Elsie said, “I tried to call you for the last four days. There was no answer. Why don’t you have an answering machine? Everybody has one of those contraptions these days. How did you find out about Disher?”
    I said, “They called me from the vet’s hospital.”
    “How’d they get your number?” There was a jiggle to the flesh under her chin, and her head was cocked at an angle, the measuring mode still in place.
    “I gave it to them four or five weeks ago when I was there to see him.”
    The bare bones of surprise came up lightly on her face. “He didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you call me?”
    “He couldn’t tell anybody anything. And I came to see Disher, not to socialize.” It was a slice of her own cake and she ate it easily. We had made a small peace, if that’s what it can be called. I knew that I had been between her and Disher forever. It’s like that sometimes, but we never exploited it.
    Nicholas, that large thumb hooked onto his pants pocket and partially hidden, and the single finger sitting like a curse along the edge of his pocket, though somewhat undisturbed by any of it, walked me to an anteroom. It was quite evident that he wanted to talk out of earshot of the two women, that he had broached the possibility in front of them and it seemed he had depended on his wife to carry off his subtle need. Her response was, I thought, expected.
    Nicholas’ shoulders were a good span, his head shapely in an angular and regal manner and the blond head near full of curly tresses cresting the back of his neck. Though there was no other hippie look about him; no beard, no mustache, no heavy growth over the ears, a bit of the rebel mark sat on him, sort of an invisible tattoo. I was not sure if it was the hand that made him different or his locks. With faint stripes that may have been a tint of orange, the dark suit he wore fit him well, saying he was somewhat comfortable in such dress, but not fully at ease. I’d bet he’d get out of it quickly when this occasion was finished.
    The anteroom’s No Smoking sign was small and almost unobtrusively noticeable, the law now a matter of fact, and three elderly gents, sure to be older than my 78 years, had gathered their almost three centuries of experience in a small huddle. It appeared as if they did much of their talking with their hands, their eyes, the almost casual shrug of a shoulder. They could have been marionettes. It reminded me of the ward in the vet’s hospital where I last saw my buddy Disher breathing, rolling his eyes at some unknown and past sight, mumbles buried and barreled deep in his throat. I remember thinking then that if this was down the road for me, I’d make sure the road had a bridge that was washed out and I’d drive like hell heading for it.
    With that solitary and awful finger, showing an ordinary use, Nicholas pointed to two big easy chairs sitting in a far corner of the second anteroom. “Those ought to do us.” Over his shoulder he looked and said, “There are times when I have to stay out of earshot of that woman. She does take aim when she wants. Never bothered Disher, that I know of.”
    I just had to ask. “What was all that about back there, other than Elsie being her curt self? She hasn’t changed a bit though I haven’t seen her practically since ever. You and MayBelle must keep a good chunk of Disher handy.”
    Nicholas had made himself comfortable in one of the chairs, though sitting near the edge, and he let the awful hand sit in his lap like a bone remnant on an empty plate. Looking at me, his eyes were locked on a sadness I could only guess at. His blond eyebrows, close to a gray snow left over from plowing, aged him slightly but with a kindness. He would have been, I assessed quickly, a welcome companion, a comrade, dependable, durable, on for the long ride wherever it went, Grim Reaper and all.
    “I wanted to talk to you about that,” Nicholas said. “It’s been bugging me. Hell, it’s been bugging Elsie like a burr under her bonnet. I guess she suspects that whatever was going on with Disher at the end, down there at the vet’s hospital where they took such damned good care of him, like a baby I swear, you somehow have privy to and she doesn’t. It was not something he was letting go of, perhaps repressed and trying to come out of him at the end. And it looks like she can’t let go of it either, her not knowing. She’s one tough woman, fair as hell, but tough. The shot’s there to be fired, take it; or take the one coming back at you.”
    “You mean Disher was talking at the end? I was with him for four hours one day, just weeks ago, and he never uttered a sound. He looked at me a few times, like he knew who I was. I suspect he did, his eyes settling on me an old look, a glance of sorts I might have seen before in him, but never said my name once, nor anybody’s name. None of the old outfit. Not a one.”
    I twisted around in the chair as Nicholas’ awful hand settled in his good hand, peace settling down in place like ashes. “What happened? What did Disher say that’s got to Elsie so hard?” I wanted to ask if it was the French girl he had spent the night with in an old farmhouse one Christmas Eve. It hung on him for a long while afterward, but I kept it all back where it belonged, in the past.
    Nicholas looked over his shoulder, back at the viewing room, and the ladies out of sight, the first nervous strain he’d shown to me, a new side of him under some import I am sure. “He was kind of noisy at the end, old Disher, the last couple of weeks, on the downhill run if you want to know, getting so thin, like he was melting away. I’d swear to God his face was like the side of a cereal box, pushed in, his dentures big as lumps in his face, oversize like. Lots of crying, calling out some strange names, ones I’d never heard, then kept crying more and yelling out, “The babies! The babies! He did that loudest. I mean, that’s when he got really loud, and then wailed like a lost kid himself, shaking in the bed. Jeezus, his arms were going crazy, his legs kicking, his head jerking around like he’s looking for somebody or something. We had to tie him in a few times, get restraints from the ward nurse. I don’t mind telling you, Coop, he scared the hell out of me.”
    Again, he looked back at the other room. “I know some of the names were French girls’ names, at least they sounded that way to me. Elsie never heard or never said anything. I figured she didn’t hear or recognize them because, knowing her, she sure would have had a few things to say about it. Wouldn’t be like her to let something like that get by her, I don’t care how long ago it was.”
    At first nothing came to me, as if a silence had been etched, a darkness convened. Being notoriously drunk for some period of your life locks away lots of memories. For a drunken rifleman, a footslogger, soldier of the earth, being a stranger in a strange land, loss of some kind is guaranteed. So, it was not surprising that nothing immediately in that anteroom, near the visible death of my old comrade and fellow warrior, his widow’s tongue tart and afoot, made a connection for me; not Nicholas, not any picture on the walls, not the ladies in the other room whose voices were barely audible in turning that corner between us.
    To me there is such a thing as horizon-peeking, a cyclical break in the clouds, an opening. Perhaps it’s a light down a narrow tunnel or through an old casement window of sorts, and, at best, ephemeral. Slowly but surely the face of a French girl came to me, pale but pretty, eyes set up with a haunting deep as caves, the half globes of her cheeks tarnished by something I could not read other than war. Perhaps, I surmised, she came out of a cloud, certainly she was cloud-like, just as if she was lit up, neon-ed, her face in a sunny glow, the softness of her lips her sole and most animate prize.
    She had spent the night in a barn with Disher, a barn leaning every which way to ruin; the doors missing so that you could see out the back end, but not see the stalls or the haymow, or where the dusk coming in took them. They were like kids in love for one night.
    Next morning a German .88 took her and a kid brother at the well. She was standing there in a blue dress with the ladle in her hand, leaning against the rock wall like sex personified and perfected, the thrust of her stomach arched and tormenting, the little brother waiting to take his turn, and wham! they’re gone. Just like that! I heard the stuff coming in but didn’t even have time to duck. You couldn’t pick them up with a blotter, neither one of them. Of course, I’d been on that royal drunk and didn’t know how much it hit Disher until later. But we were all screwed up. We’d pillaged a small village. Brandy and cognac were like water around us, coming up out of cellars and dim recesses and who knows where else. Some was given to us, some was taken, retribution for time spent, wounds received, hell paying out its dues. I drank the stuff like I drink beer sometimes, guzzling it. Lord, I could have washed in it. I was thinking that a whole bunch of some of those days had passed me by, lost for years.
    Now here’s my buddy, gone from me, gone from all of us, bringing me back, waking me up. I can smell the day, the village, the liquor, the hay, the barn, the smoke, can see them at the well and then gone from the well. In the back of my head, at some point where it seemed I had been raking the compost of that mind, scenes and images are breaking down, coming apart, falling out of the darkness like a pile of dominoes being spilled. Pictures. Pictures. Pictures.
    Then it came. Over the long years it came. Over half a century of my life, through darkness and uncertainty, through turmoil, and this newest death, it came. And there was another barn and a German trooper, half dressed, we’d cut down in a small farmyard, a hail of bullets going in there, raking him, a gray tunic in one hand and his rifle in the other, not quite ready for the rest of the war. I saw smoke, and the barn is burning and tossing off clouds of black smoke and a woman’s screaming and we see her at the haymow window. She’s holding a baby. There’s another kid at her elbows, standing right beside her. Disher runs up to the barn. ‘Throw the baby down! Throw the baby down!’ he yells. She doesn’t know what to do I guess, Disher probably no different from the German we’d just shot, the one not dressed all the way like he’d been taking his own liberties. Then Disher says, back over his shoulder, after trying to get the door open,
    “There’s a lock on the door. The Kraut locked her in!” Disher doesn’t use his rifle to shoot the lock off. He runs back to get an ax or something from the farmhouse porch and a Six-by drives into the yard. Disher jumps up in the seat and pushes the driver over. I heard him yell, ‘There’s kids in there.” He drives the Six-by over to the barn and points to the canvas top. ‘Throw the baby down,’ he says and makes gestures to the mother.
    She throws the baby down and it lands on the canvas top. Christ, it almost bounced off the canvas, the baby. Another GI grabs the kid. Disher yells at her again. “Throw the other one down.” She doesn’t move. He backs the truck up and rams the locked door. The building shakes and the woman disappears. Puff she’s gone! And the other kid disappears and the roof comes down on the whole goddamn barn. Flames come shooting like only dust is burning, or gases. Lots of it. Like acetylene. Like a frigging torch and Disher goes batty. Loses it, he does. The whole thing. Thinks he knocked her deeper into the fire, was the cause of her death, who knows how many kids might have been in there.
    You think I’d been drunk on that toot, man? You ought to see Disher after that, fucking hoot-owl drunk for nearly three days, and we kept moving and I kept him out of the limelight and out of serious trouble. Pulled a detail or two for him. When he woke up one morning, rank but sober, he never mentioned it again. Hell, I had forgotten it too. But it looks like Disher never let go of it, him being with that other girl too, like he had been punished for the little fun he had. Like he worried about Elsie coming at him the way she can, all mouth and hellfire, and I swear the end of the world in it. But he loved her. Old Disher never let go of that either. He loved her right to the bitter end.”
    I had to lay off Nicholas after that, so much coming at him all at once, and the voices rising in the other room, as if they were on the way to invade our privacy. I looked at Nick and said, trying to poke it all together for him, “They’re going to say in the funeral service that he’ll soon be in the company of angels. I knew him in the company of men. And he was the best of them, old Disher was.”
    “There they are, locked up in some more damn secrets I’ll bet.” I didn’t even have to look up to see who was talking. And Disher was probably totally deaf by then.

Polk Salad Annie

    “Finally you meet a girl who’ll take off her top for you—outdoors even—and that’s when some jerk with a gun decides to get the drop on you.”
    I glanced up from my beer to take in the author of that outburst. It was Old Stumpy, alone in a corner of the Trinity River Bar, talking to no one in particular. Getting no reaction from the other patrons, he got to his foot, adjusted the crutch under his armpit, and with a final hitch of the rope suspenders holding up his trousers, (rope belts and suspenders were considered a fashion statement in that neck of the woods) he hobbled out the door. Before going though, he paused to mumble, “But he sure got his in the end.”
    I asked my friend Big Don what that was all about. Don was the town lawyer and he knew everything. Before he could answer me though, the band—that is to say, one guy sitting on a makeshift stage and playing a laptop guitar, launched into the opening riff of “Polk Salad Annie,” a Tony Joe White song from 1968 or thereabouts. He had a huge grin on his face and several bar regulars laughed as he played the riff a second time. Big Don however was one who didn’t laugh. Instead, he pushed back his chair, walked up to the goofy guitarist, and placed his hand around the fretboard, squeezing it with such force to make one believe he would snap it in two. My friend Don was a big fellow, broad shoulders, deep chest and all, although the years had added a few inches to his waistline; still he could be an imposing figure when irritated.
    “Son,” he addressed the six stringer calmly, “I appreciate a good tune as much as the next guy. But if you ever play that song again in my presence, I guarantee you’ll have to strum it with your sphincter muscle—if I make myself clear. Now why don’t you play something nice, say ‘Wildwood Flower’ for instance? I like that one.”
    The guitarist was a brash young punk, but after one look at the big hand squeezing the guitar’s neck, and thinking how it could easily be his own, promptly agreed to play the requested song— “As many times as you’d like, sir.”
    “Good grief, Don,” I remarked when he returned to our table. “I’ve never seen you so riled before; especially over a song.”
    “Aw, don’t pay it no mind.” Big Don resumed his former demeanor. “It’s just somebody’s idea of a joke. A joke I don’t happen to think is funny.”
    Now my curiosity knob was dialed to eleven and I pressed him for details. Don ordered another round of drinks and shifted his weight in his chair. The chair responded with a drawn-out creaking sound that seemed to express the mental turmoil clawing its way upward through Don’s conscience. After a moment’s silence, he took a generous gulp that half-emptied the container and told me his long-suppressed tale.

    “It goes back,” Don told me, “to around the time that song came out. You tourists consider us backward today but things were positively primitive back then. It was mostly pig farmers, trappers, and moonshiners, practically all of them drunks. I’m not condemning anybody, mind you; just stating facts. Still, we were largely decent people with only a few truly bad apples. Worst of the lot was Backwater Gary. An odd name, I know, but he was an odd fellow, your stereotypical bayou hick with overalls, straw hat, and scraggly beard. A powerful fellow too, although a lot of that came from him never coming within ten feet of a bathtub.
    “How he made a living, I don’t know. People suspected he was a moonshiner but you couldn’t prove it by me. All I can tell you is he was a mean, nasty drunk with a short temper and a long rifle.
    “One day Backwater Gary came into town and stopped by Stumpy’s general store. Stumpy wasn’t ‘stumpy’ back then. He had two perfectly good legs. Anyway, Gary shows up and there’s a girl with him; young thing couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She was attractive enough in an adolescent way, but skinny and underfed. Stumpy inquired, politely enough, who she was but Backwater Gary told him to mind his own business. The poor girl cringed at the sound of his voice. Stumpy pitied her and slipped her some hard candies when the old drunk wasn’t looking.
    “The rumor mill started soon after that. Some said the girl, her name was Annie, was a distant relative Gary gained guardianship of. Others said he won her in a poker game or that some out-of-state scumbag gave her to Gary to settle a debt. All we knew was he kept her at his place on the edge of a moss-covered swamp and seldom let her out of his sight. The only time he did was when he was sleeping off a drunk, or...”
    “Or?” I had to prod him to continue.
    “Or,” Don went on, “when he’d ‘rent’ her out for extra cash. It was a reprehensible situation to be sure, but what could we do? The protection agencies we have today didn’t exist back then. Besides, we had no proof and the lowlifes he dealt with weren’t going to say anything.
    “This continued for a year or two and all that time Stumpy grew more and more infatuated every time Gary brought her around to his store. Then one day Gary caught Stumpy slipping her some candy and he tore into her on the spot, jerking her around by one arm, slapping her, and tearing her clothes. Stumpy came from behind the counter with an ax handle and broke the thing over Gary’s head. It knocked him silly for a moment or two and in that time, Annie threw herself into Stumpy’s arms and thanked him. It was the first time anyone ever heard her talk and, well, to be nice, from her way of speaking, we gathered she was a bit slow. Maybe that’s how Gary landed her in the first place. The poor thing probably didn’t know any better and hooked up with him thinking he’d be an improvement over what she’d come from.
    “In any event, Gary soon came to and Annie went and helped him to his feet. Gary was more subdued after that. He and Annie walked to their truck, got in, and drove away. But the parting look he gave Stumpy could have withered the wood off a bodark, and we all knew he’d never come back to Stumpy’s store again.
    “Unfortunately that didn’t stop Stumpy from going to Gary’s place. Having held the tender girl in his arms, the seed had been planted and he had to have her again.”
    “Was Stumpy a bachelor at the time?” I had to ask.
    “Not then, no.” Big Don shook his head. “But that’s an altogether differently story. Anyway—
    “Stumpy took to prowling around Backwater Gary’s place nights and Sundays when the store was closed. Which was stupid seeing as Gary’s lived smack-dab in the middle of gator country. He had himself this plywood shack with a back porch patio overlooking a mud hole, at nights he’d get drunk and shoot at alligators and turtles from up there. Never killing them, mind you; Gary was too mean for that. He’d just shoot off their toes or put out an eye when he could. Like I said, he was a disgusting fellow.
    “So late one Sunday afternoon, while Gary was sleeping off one of his binges, Stumpy is out there watching and sees Annie off in a patch of polkweed. ‘Poke sallet’ was probably the only thing she knew how to fix; which came as a surprise to me given what we know of her mental state. You have to cook the stems three or four times, each time in fresh water to get all the toxins out of it. Folks say it tastes like cooked greens or spinach, but I wouldn’t touch the stuff. Still, it wasn’t spinach Old Stumpy was after. He comes upon her and she’s wearing this peasant blouse and skirt outfit, and what with her limited knowledge of men and knowing only the degenerate types Backwater Gary exposed her to, she pulls off her blouse and throws herself into his arms—only to have Gary show up behind him with his Winchester.
    “Well, Gary fired his rifle into the air and Stumpy took off running, straight toward the mud hole behind Gary’s shack—the same mud hole where all them alligators nested. Given the circumstances, I can’t say I’d have done different. He managed to cross the mud hole but not before the gators mangled his left leg. In the end, Stumpy lost his foot, his wife, and eventually his store; took to drink and turned himself into a first-class drunk. That’s when all the ‘Polk Salad Annie’ jokes broke out with people humming or singing the song every time he walked by. Stupid behavior on the townsfolk part, and spiteful; but that’s how some people are.”
    “What about Annie?” I interrupted. “What happened to her?”
    “Gary decided to teach her a lesson in obedience, although it was really just an excuse to vent his cruelty. I happened to be out that evening, coming back from drawing up some contracts for a client, when I passed the road behind Backwater Gary’s place. That’s when I heard the shooting. I figured it was him having his way with the gators only then I heard a loud scream; a female scream, terribly afraid and begging for mercy. Now I was one of the few people Gary would back down to, seeing as I was bigger than him and had faced him down in a fight some years before, so I took my chances and let myself into his shack and onto the patio out back.
    “I’ll never forget the horror that met my eyes that night. There was Gary, drunk as usual, sitting in a bamboo chair with his Winchester at his knee, and below him, at the bottom of the mud hole was poor Annie tied to one of the support posts, whimpering and crying in absolute terror as the gators stirred but a few yards from her. The drunken devil had tied her to a pole in punishment for doing the only thing she knew to do when confronted with a man. And there he was, waiting for any gator to approach her, then firing his rifle into their eyes and sending them flopping back into the stinking mud from whence they came.
    “The anger that welled inside me was indescribable. I grabbed the drunken brute by his shoulder, spun him about, and planted a fist so deep into his face I thought I’d need a crowbar to pry it back out. Then heedless of the gators below, I raced down and cut the girl loose and brought her into the house. After that I hauled Gary to town and had him thrown in jail.
    “That old mud hole must’ve lost six or seven gators that night. What Annie lost can never be explained. What Backwater Gary would lose, much later, could not have been anticipated.
    “Nothing came of the case however, for Annie would not press charges against him, and the judge would not accept my argument that the girl was mentally incompetent and needed someone to speak for her. From this I came to suspect our esteemed judge counted among those degenerate lowlifes with whom Gary bartered Anne’s services; how else to explain his ability to escape the long arm of the law despite the brute’s many run-ins?
    “And so things went back to the way they were. Then it happened some months later that my legal services took me back to the road behind Backwater Gary’s place. And as I hurried past, I once again heard screams. But they were different screams this time; screams, not of a woman, but of a man. My first thought was to wonder if Old Stumpy, in his constant foolishness, had gotten himself in trouble again. I walked on my toes through the bushes at the top of the path leading to the mud hole, peeped through the bushes and saw—
    “God only knows how it happened but there was Backwater Gary at the bottom of the mud hole, his arms tied above his head to one of the support posts while on the patio sat Annie with the Winchester in her lap, looking down uncaringly at the helpless screaming victim below. How that little gal dragged him down there, or tied his arms above his head, will always be a mystery. In any case, it was too late to do anything to help the bastard. Before I could act a large one-eyed gator leapt from the mud, took Backwater Gary in its powerful jaws, and pulled him to the bottom, leaving behind only an upper arm wrenched from its socket, still dangling from the post to which it had been tied.
    “I was sick then. Yes, the man was a brute and a drunken bastard, but even drunken bastards did not deserve this. Although at the same time, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t brought it on himself, given the way he hazed and tortured those gators over the years. And I told myself I’d defend them pro bono if it ever came down to a hearing.”

    Big Don finished his beer and set the glass down as if to indicate that was the end of the story.
    “Wait,” I stopped him. “There’s no way that’s all there is to it. What about Anne? What did the authorities do to her?”
    “What could they do?” Don shrugged apathetically. “According to her testimony, Gary got drunk and fell over the porch rail into the mud hole. She fetched his rifle hoping to help him, but she’d never been taught anything about firearms and didn’t know how to load, aim, or fire it.”
    “And they believed her?” I asked suspiciously.
    Again Big Don shrugged. “You have to remember, the judge ruled earlier that she was mentally competent to testify so they had to take her word for it.”
    “They let her go?”
    “Had to. Hear tell she relocated to New Orleans where at least she got paid for what she knew.”
    I took all of this in with mounting disbelief. “But what about the man’s arm tied to the support post? Surely that indicated some degree of foul play?”
    Don signaled for another beer and took a sip before answering. “Funny thing, that. When the sheriff went to investigate, all he found was a severed arm lying in the mud. There was no rope anywhere.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    “No; although they did find some footprints. I say prints, but it was really just one foot, as though someone had hopped about in the mud.”
    “You’re saying Stumpy—?”
    “I’m saying nothing of the sort. Although it could explain how somebody managed to tie Gary’s hands over his head. But then for all you know it could have been any number of men who had it in for the guy. Heck, even I could have done it if I had a mind to.”
    With that, my friend Big Don got to his feet and bid me goodnight. And it was only then I noticed that he too, along with the others in the bar, wore a belt made of rope instead of leather. But as I mentioned at the start of the story, people here still regard rope belts and suspenders as something of a fashion statement and an outsider shouldn’t go jumping to conclusions because of it.

Lost

    Lost?
    That, that . . . that thing. That thing that was now hidden. What was it that she lost? Crumpled in bed and staring up at the ceiling, nothing came to her mind. The ceiling, once covered in square white tiles, was now a mousy gray. It was littered with holes from drill bits piercing its surface to hang heavy, gray vinyl curtains that acted as screens. The screens blocked her view of the old woman who reclined to her left. They never spoke.
    Trying to turn to her right, something held her. She struggled. Her blue-veined hands pushed and plucked at something until it partially released her, and she turned. Blinking without her glasses, she saw a man. It was the same man who was always there whenever she turned to her right. Who was he? A stalker? Someone to be feared? He was once a heavyset man, whose stomach skin now hung loosely, tiny bits of mottled skin playing peekaboo among sparse patches of gray and white hair on his skull. She was still trying to decide who he was when there was movement beside her bed.
    “Good morning, Beulah,” chirped the nurse aide as she tried to toss back the pink sheet marked “property of” and the ratty brown blanket that covered Beulah. The aide was a plump matron of around 40 with a good size mole camped on her cheek. She thought it looked like the beauty marks worn by movie starlets of long ago, but most people just wished she’d clip the single curly hair sticking out of it. Years ago, she dreamed of being a doctor but dropped out after only a month of nurse’s training. Now she could only say, “Sweetie, you’ve done it again. You’ve got yourself wadded up in that sheet, silly girl. We tuck you in each night, and by morning you’re a little round ball all wrapped up.” Noticing Beulah’s gaze, the aide asked with a tone that joshed, “Oh, I saw what you were doing. Trying to catch a glimpse of that handsome husband of yours, weren’t you? Do you remember when that picture was taken? Was it your fiftieth anniversary or the sixtieth?”
    Beulah was confused. Husband? She had a husband? What was a husband? Hesitantly she asked, “Do . . . do I know that man?”
    Inwardly the aide felt a bit of sympathy for Beulah but covered it with a cheerful remark, “Why, Beulah, I just love your sense of humor. Pretending you don’t know your own husband. I’ll bet you two were quite the pair in your day.” Silently, she wondered if Beulah even knew her husband was dead.
    Beulah almost followed the thread of conversation, but then she lost it and it couldn’t be found again. Like a firefly on a summer night, sometimes just for a second, the dementia blinked on and off and she again remembered. But not today. Forgetting both the photograph and the aide’s remark, Beulah slowly inquired, “I’ve lost something. Can you help me find it?” As she asked, Beulah’s face faintly resembled that of a little girl who just realized that she lost her favorite toy. But now the little girl’s face was gone, replaced by the wrinkles of many years—a little wrinkle here and a slight wrinkle there, earned as she raised two girls and a boy. The little wrinkles were almost afterthoughts when compared to the enormous wrinkle slashed on her face, a result of the boy’s body coming home from Vietnam in a flag-draped coffin.
    Starting to lose her smile, the aide realized she was falling behind in her schedule. She had others to wake up, help to the toilet, and get dressed. “Beulah, let’s get you in the bathroom and then I’ll look around the room. What was it you lost?”
    Pause. Beulah’s gaze dropped. Long pause. “I don’t know. Can you tell me? I know it’s something important I need,” she mumbled.
    Now the aide with the mole was out of sorts. She rushed Beulah through her toilet routine, rather roughly dressed her in a blouse that was now two sizes too large, and sat Beulah on the side of the bed.
    “Beulah, I brought your walker. Here’s your walker. Beulah, get up,” said the aide, expecting Beulah to grasp the three-sided metal walker and pull herself up. Instead, Beulah just sat there quietly and then asked, “Did you find it?”
    Thinking of her failure to keep her assigned schedule, the aide quickly lied, “Why, yes I did. I placed it right next to your breakfast plate in the dining room. It’s right beside your orange juice.”
    “Do I like orange juice?” Beulah asked without much conviction.
    With that remark, the aide slipped her left hand under Beulah’s left forearm and then looped her beefy right arm around Beulah’s waist and heaved the old lady to her feet. She placed both of Beulah’s hands on the white rubber grips that encircled the walker’s side bars. With a little nudging, she guided Beulah the three steps needed to reach the room’s door then swung the walker to the right, Beulah trying to keep up.
    Escaping from Beulah, the aide, with a little cheerfulness now restored in her voice, called out, “There you go, the dining room is straight ahead. Just put one foot in front of the other.”
    Beulah just stood there.
    Alone.
    Slightly swaying back and forth as her gnarled hands grasped the white rubber grips.
    Then, with a tiny unsteady lean, the split green tennis balls on the walker’s feet began to slowly glide forward, one thin-soled slipper trailing the other behind the walker. Beulah’s brain was telling her to move. Her shuffling quickened and a faint smile almost appeared on her lips. Now she knew where she was headed and what she was doing. It was feeding time. Trixie needed to be fed, and the closet with the Alpo was just ahead. But it couldn’t be just any Alpo: It had to be the Prime Cuts variety or Trixie wouldn’t eat it. Trixie was one spoiled doggy.
    For 14 years Trixie was by her side, a loyal Pekingese who followed Beulah everywhere. Beulah remembered how Trixie loved sitting on her lap, loved having her long hair stroked, loved sprinting to the front door when the doorbell rang—her paws splaying out every which way on the slick hardwood floor. Yes, Beulah remembered everything—except the fact that Trixie had died in 2007. Beulah might have forgotten that one bit of information, but she was sure it was feeding time.
    Lifting one hand from her walker, she reached for the pocket of the apron she no longer wore. Seeing her patting the front of her blouse and fumbling around, an aide passing by stopped and asked, “Beulah, what are you doing? Did you lose something?”
    “Why yes, yes I did. I can’t seem to find my can opener. I’ve lost it.”
    “Beulah, why would you need a can opener? Is there something you need to open in the dining room?”
    “Well, you know, I do. It’s that time. I have to . . . have to . . .”
    And then it was gone, the thought.
    The thought was replaced by the briefest of flashes in Beulah’s brain. She saw her husband standing in the backyard with a shovel in his hand. She saw the overturned dirt, streaked with yellow and red seams of clay, piled next to Trixie’s still body. Beulah wanted to warn him not to get Trixie’s fluffy coat dirty.
    The aide looked concerned. “Beulah, are you alright? Did you lose your train of thought? Do you need something?”
    Slowly moving her hand from her blouse back to the metal walker, Beulah was confused. “No, I don’t think I need anything. Did I need something?”
    Patting Beulah’s hand, the aide replied, “Oh, I do the same thing sometimes. I’ll start to do something then forget what I’m doing. What you need is a good breakfast and then you’ll be fine. Keep going, the dining room is straight ahead.” With that, the aide turned and her condescending smile matched her thoughts as she walked away. God forbid she ever live that long.
    Shoulders stooped, Beulah trudged forward. The hallway seemed long but nice, and she enjoyed the big windows on the south side. Sometimes she sat beside the windows and watched the squirrels and the blue jays bicker with each other, but today they were gone. The trudging continued with the right foot seemingly telling the left foot to follow. Beulah continued onward until a nice young lady approached her.
    “Beulah, I was getting worried about you. I was afraid you’d be late for breakfast,” the young thing with the big smile said in a coaxing tone. “Come on, let me show you to the spot where you like to sit.”
    Saying nothing, Beulah just stood there, slowly opening and closing her mouth. “Beulah,” the girl resumed, “did you forget your dentures again? Don’t worry, let’s get you to your seat, and I’ll run back to your room and get them.”
    With her hand lightly placed in the middle of Beulah’s back, the girl guided Beulah to her chair. Miss Big Smile exclaimed, “What a great place! Look at all this good food! You know you love tiny bits of strawberries mixed in with your oatmeal and look, you have your favorite drink, orange juice. I’ll bet you remembered to tell the cooks last night exactly what you wanted for breakfast.”
    Remember? Remember? For a brief fleeting second, her mind opened and hidden facts, once lost, drifted into view. Beulah saw it for what it was and she knew. She saw the once-white tablecloth, the brown tile floor ten years past its prime, and the vomit-yellow walls with their faded paper. She saw the tables with only spoons and no knifes. She now knew what she lost.
    Her mind.

The Power of Prayer

    “Please, God, listen to my prayers.”
    It was just after 8:30. I was kneeling by my bed. The first light of the moon was seeping through the curtains. I could hear the birds singing and the crickets making their cricket sounds and even the light breeze blowing through our neighbor’s trees.
    Every night we said our prayers before we went to bed. That day I had been to the dermatologist. I said my regular prayer.
    “Make everybody happy,” I finished. “Help the starving children. Bring world peace.”
    I started to get up, but stopped. I thought how every night I pray, every night I make requests for others and the world, and not one night did I make any requests for myself. I remembered how hard it was going to the dermatologist. I hated going on the bus. They were always crowded. Sometimes a woman would get on the bus with packages and my mother would ask me to get up and give the seat away. I was tired and hungry—lunch and breakfast never enough. On dermatologist day, we hardly ate until we arrived home. This trip my mother had scanned me with her eyes as soon as we had found seats. Immediately I knew she was going to attack me in front of everyone on the bus. I took my lips and pulled them in so they’d be thinner. I covered one hand with the other to hide the scabs on my skin. I looked the other way. It never mattered. The attack came.
    “Get that crust off your eyes,” and she was loud.
    People turned to look our way.
    “And your ears aren’t clean.” Just as loud. And she smiled at everyone looking at her. Again and again. When she finally readjusted herself in her seat like a period ending a thought, I sighed in relief. That was the sign that told me she was done.
    When we entered the doctor’s office, it was always crowded. It was terrible. Our appointment was at 4:30, but we never went in until an hour later. I looked around the room and no one looked like they had anything wrong with them. I looked at my skin and felt like I was the ugliest thing in the room. Then my mother would start at me again. She pulled out a bottle of Vaseline and told me to put some on.
    In the doctor’s office, he rubbed his large hands over my arms with some kind of salve or medicine. That was the one thing I liked. For a few seconds I didn’t feel that my skin was ugly and terrible. For the few seconds he rubbed on my skin, I felt comfortable. Comfortable with myself and comfortable with the doctor. Then he ended it. Each time he injected a needle into my skin it raised my temperature until I was so hot, I couldn’t take it. After that I received a radiation treatment. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
    In my bedroom after my usual prayer I decided not to get up. I thought about the bus ride to the doctor. I thought about the shot and the heavy lead padding I had to put over my body during the radiation treatment. I thought about how I hated my skin. I was sick of it. I was sick of my mother’s insults. I was sick of the injections burning me up. I was sick of the bus ride home. I was sick of everything.
    “God, if you’re still there,” I began my prayer anew, “if there is a God, I would like to make a request. I hope you’re listening. I don’t like my skin. Please, God, let my skin be healed. Let my skin be like everyone else.”
    I remained kneeling by my bed and I closed my eyes.
    I thought about the long bus ride to the dermatologist. I knew my mother thought I was ugly and I knew she did not want to be seen in public with me. I knew she did not want to take the time to take me to the dermatologist. I knew she wanted more time for herself and I was an inconvenience. I relived the long bus ride home. Kneeling by the side of my bed, I shivered.
    “Please, God, please make my wish come true.
    I remained kneeling by my bed with my eyes closed. When I opened my eyes finally, five minutes had passed.
    I looked at my arm hopefully, expectantly, but the rash was still there.
    “OK, God,” I said aloud, “how bout a bowl of popcorn instead?”
    That prayer wasn’t answered either.

Correct Mistake

    Maxwell Lowe, a murdering short-tempered muscular MMA champion of Penal Colony Alpha twenty miles off the coast of Chicago was admitted to minimum security for minor surgery. His stretcher stopped at the surgical unit while the scanners mapped his entire body. The doctor’s holographic projection smiled and stated he’d administer the local anesthesia since he wanted to view the removal of the inguinal hernia in his groin area. Maxwell wasn’t a wimp and it would bolster his tough guy image. A person in all white clothing wearing a white protective mask guided his stretcher into the brightly lit O.R. There was something familiar about his long ponytail, curvy hips and tight-fitting uniform. He pulled down his mask. “I’m the nurse technician who will guide you through the surgical details, Maxwell Lowe, #414.”
    “Devvie, where you been?” Maxwell said, surprised to see his favorite victim. “You still got those curves.”

    Devin Cordin stood over the degenerate who sexually assaulted him repeatedly, moaning and groaning in his ear calling him, Devvie and whisper, “If you had tits on your back you’d be my woman.”
    “You are familiar with the protocol?”
    “Yes. I willingly and with full knowledge accept the surgery.” Maxwell said. And with that clear he was automatically strapped to the table. “I missed you, Devvie.”
    “I knoooow you did... now it’s my turn. Wow that wiped the smile off your face.” Devin went to the control panel. “Now, Maxwell, we proceed with the anesthesia.” Two metal rods with needle like appendages descended from an array of equipment overhead and opened his gown and injected the drugs in places on his lower torso, legs and groin. Several monitors dropped down and came to life, two for real time, and the others for the animated part. “The doctors will take it from here for your sexual re-assignment.”
    “What!!! What are you talking about?”
    “You forgot I was a medical professional who had a costly addiction that’s what got me here, but when I saw your name on the schedule I altered things to include an additional procedure.” Devin whispered in his ear. “If and when they catch it, it might be too late. Soon, you will not be able to scream. See you later, soon to be... Maxine.”

    “Hear those drills, Maxwell?”
    His eyes bucked, sweat and tears rolled down the side of his face.
    “Watch the birdy, Maxwell.” The screens moved closer. The robotic arms spread his legs and laid his penis to the side and raised his testicles. Another set of arms positioned themselves by the hernia.
    BP: 200/120, pause procedure.
    BP: 230/130.,/I>
    “Calm down, Maxwell.” Devin spoke softly into the microphone. The tentacle like robotic arms hovered over his genitals. The laser scalpel and other equipment remained activated, but the demonstration of the surgery continued on the animation monitor. Devin planned on scaring the mess out of him too, not have him stroke out. Where’s the fun in that? As long as his pressure was up the auto-stop software was in charge. Any second the surgeon would call for a diagnostic of the system. Poor Maxwell deserved the horror he was going through sealed in a plastic bubble with razors a hair from his balls.

    “There’s a glitch in the system, technician Devin. We’re locked out.” A surgeon said.
    “Locked out?”
    “That’s what I said.” His palms got sweaty, that tone meant trouble. “Need I remind you what’s at stake?”
    “No...I’m on it.” He moved files on the panels around as fast as possible; nothing unfroze the system. What is it? Maxwell’s blood pressure returned to normal, but nothing changed. Don’t act too nervous; being cool and professional kept him in this position, and it meant an earlier parole. He would fix the problem, but he still wanted to harass Maxwell. He couldn’t re-enter the sterile O.R., if he did they would hear and see everything. Maxwell stared at the ceiling; that gave Devin an idea. Retract the monitors and enlarge the viewing area to cover the entire ceiling and replay the procedural video repeatedly until the problem was fixed.
    “Technician...technician, the anesthesia won’t last forever. What in the hell is the problem?”
    “One second.” You can kiss my ass; a little pain will be good for that asshole. “It’s not a software problem.” Devin frantically checked everything, but the power back-ups. “That’s it, control. It was nothing but the circuit breaker. You’re back in business.”

    Maxwell felt a sensation in his groin area along with beads of sweat on his forehead. What was happening? The twin monitors retracted and the holographic images of the castration began. The testicle sack was lifted and the scalpel sliced the middle exposing two grey balls. NO...no!!! His heart pounded; he felt cold steel on his hips and penis.
    I’m going to kill you real slow...Devvie!!
    BP: 250/150. Surgery Cancelled.
    The projection disappeared. Maxwell’s head ached and he lost consciousness.

    “The report says you and Maxwell Lowe have history; assault and torture, right?” Devin nodded. “You tried to take advantage of a serious, unheard-of, mistake for your own vendetta, inmate.” The interrogator stated. He’d never admit it so why ask? “The mistake hasn’t been found from what I’ve been told.” And, they’d be too embarrassed to admit it. He remained silent sitting in a blinding white room with God knows how many sensor arrays, was pissing him off, but he was still in control of his vitals. Beating the lie detector was his specialty. He looked around the box. “Anybody there?”
    “I’ll ask the question, inmate. You do understand your significantly early parole is based on our decision of whether you tried to have Maxwell Lowe de-nutted, right?”
    “Yes.” Devin smiled. De-nutted...he’d remember that one.
    “What’s funny?” There was a hint of laughter in the interrogator’s voice.
    “Nothing.”
    “Maxwell Lowe chose to view the surgery of the hernia, but watching the sexual re-assignment surgery caused him to have a near fatal stroke. The doctors say he’s in for a long recovery. That video made my skin crawl...”
    “He accepted it.”
    “Don’t interrupt me again.” The interrogator cleared his throat. “Excuse me, the integrity of the experimental techniques at this penal facility is vital to the rehabilitation programs. We reviewed the videos and strangely enough the audio was lost in the glitch, or whatever you call it, so for the time being you’re free to go.”
    With the help of the warden and their special relationship three weeks later Devin boarded the ferry to Chicago. The almost Maxine, Maxwell Lowe was still comatose and for spite the parole board made sure Devin’s nursing license wouldn’t be reinstated for six months. Fine with him, they’d never see him again.

Myra Bocca

    Just before the Shoppes of Wilton Manors, where Espresso Boys was located, Gabe and I passed a New Age bookstore called Sacred Ashes. We paused and looked in the window at a display of crystals and gemstones, silver and pewter jewelry, chalices, glass skulls, and crystal balls.
    “Let’s go in. Maybe they’ll have some books on grieving,” Gabe said. My aunt had just passed away. A male couple holding hands smiled at us as they passed. The warm breeze of the Florida evening felt good.
    “I’m not grieving. I didn’t like her much,” I said quietly.
    “Yes you are.” He took my hand and pushed open the door. Enya was playing softly and there was an overpowering smell of sage. A woman wearing a bright pink muumuu embroidered with a design of blue, white, and orange tulips that rose from the hem like a garden, waved to us from the register at the back of the store. “Come in. Come in. It’s so good to get a little business.”
    We passed a case with a wide variety of incense sticks (I assumed this is why the store was called Sacred Ashes), books, tarot cards, essential oils, prayer flags, greeting cards, postcards, photo frames, and several other new-agey items. The woman came out from behind her counter as we reached her. “I’m Myra. Myra Bocca.” She had a large toothy smile, and her eyes—golden brown behind blue cat-eye glasses that were popular in the 50s and 60s—reminded me a bit of my Nonna’s.
    “I’m Gabe, and this is Molly.”
    She looked us over. “You’re not a couple of course. He’s too handsome to be straight.” She waited for my response.
    “I’m not a lesbian, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    “Ya never know. A lot of lipstick lesbians in this town.”
     She pointed to the center of her forehead. “I’m a bit psychic. Both of you could be, too, if you rub this area right here.” She put her hand against my forehead. “Feel the energy, Molly?”
    “No.”
    “Well, I’m activating your forehead chakra. It’s the main switch for the universal force, the awakened spirit, the center of higher consciousness.”
    I burst out laughing. “I don’t believe any of that.”
    Myra frowned. “You will, dear, you will.”
    “Hey, are you from Massachusetts?” Gabe asked.
    “Yes I am,” she said. “See, Molly. Gabe’s psychic. She gestured to all the items that surrounded us. “Already, the universal force is doing its thing.”
    “Not really,” Gabe said. He lowered his head and smirked. “It was the way that you pronounced ‘dear’ that clued me in. You dropped the ‘r.’ ”
    “He’s a smart one,” she said, puckering her lips and raising her eyebrows, as she looked at me. She stared for a moment at my face. “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing. Why do you say that?”
    Gabe put his arm around my waist.
    “No one fools Myra. Something is bothering you. Did someone die recently?”
    “Lots of people experience death. That’s not psychic,” I said. Then to Gabe: “Let’s go get that latte and dessert.”
    “You’re avoiding the question.”
    “I don’t really think it’s any of your business, Myrtle.”
    “It’s Myra . . . . Okay, okay. I can tell you are upset. I just sense things is all.” She moved behind the counter and began opening a box. “New inventory.”
    “Molly didn’t mean to be rude,” Gabe said. “She’s just a private person.”
    I glared at him. “I can speak for myself, Gabe.” He cocked his head back slightly.
    “I thought there was a death.” She crumpled up the torn brown paper from the package and tossed it in a wastebasket behind her, then lifted up the box. “Perfect timing,” she said, repositioning her glasses and reading the box. “You know what this is?” Her voice was solemn as she looked into our faces.
    “Apache Tear Tumblestones,” I said. “Am I psychic, too?”
    Myra laughed, glancing at Gabe and placing the box on the glass counter. “Oh, she’s a tough one.” Then she smiled at me. “I like you. You’re headstrong and stubborn.”
    “And you’re Italian,” I said.
    She turned around and saw that I was reading a sign that read, “The trouble with eating Italian Food is three days later, you’re hungry again.” Both Gabe and Myra laughed.
    She nodded at the sign, then said, “Yes, Molly. I’m Italian just like you. I knew the minute you walked into this store. I said to myself, ‘Now there’s a strikingly beautiful Italian woman.’ And I also said to myself, ‘She doesn’t look like she’s married.’” She stared at me. “Why aren’t you married?”
    “Because I don’t want to be,” I said. “Men are a pain in the ass. Sorry, Gabe. And again, it’s none of your business, Myrtle.”
    “Hey, I agree.” He shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms upward.
    “It’s Myra. I have a feeling you’re saying the wrong name on purpose. But that’s okay. I’ve gotten under your skin. I tend to do that with a lot of people.” She bent forward, placing her elbows on the counter, resting her head in her hands. “So speaking of food, why don’t the three of us go to dinner sometime? My treat. You’re obviously new to Wilton Manors. I’m a wealth of knowledge about the area and Florida itself. Everybody knows me. Just ask around. I could tell you stories. Whadaya say?” She smiled.
    “Sure. Why not?” Gabe answered.
    “And you, Molly? There’s a nice old lady inside this muumuu. . . . What do you think by the way?” She lifted her elbows off the counter and twirled around. “I usually wear clothing that hugs my figure, but this thing is so comfortable.” As she finished her whirl, she knocked the box towards me. I caught it.
    “Oh, sorry about that. Good catch. Whew! I’m all out of breath. I gotta start working out. The problem is I’m too damn lazy and I like to eat.” She slapped her backside and turned around. Looking over her shoulders she said, “Just look at the size of this toosh. There’s a lot to grab onto, but in this town I’m outa luck.”
    “I’m sure there are a few straight men in Wilton Manors,” I said.
    “Yeah, a couple. I did have a fling with the Greek guy that owns the coffee shop you’re going to. Espresso Boys, right? And I’m not gonna pretend that was my psychic ability. All the gay guys like that place. He’s a nice guy, the owner I mean. Alexander Michaelis. Also from Massachusetts by the way. We used to get along. Had a little falling out. But that’s a story for another night.” She opened the box of Apache Tear stones and pulled one out.
    “This is for you, Molly.”
    “I don’t need it.”
    “It’s good for healing grief. Please take it.” I did.
     “Made out of a type of Black Obsidian rock,” she said. “Also good for grounding and protection. And keep it in your pocket near your genital chakra. Does wonders for your vagina, enhancing sexual energy.”
    “I think my vagina is in pretty good shape,” I said, smiling. “But I’ll use it for maintenance.” I put the stone in my pocket.
    “Of course it is. Not all saggy and dry like mine. Wait til your pubic hair turns gray. Depressing as hell.” She grimaced, patting her pubic area unconsciously.
    Gabe and Myra exchanged phone numbers before we left. Myra walked us to the door and gave us both a hug. “Welcome to Florida. Enjoy your evening.”
    After we passed her shop, Gabe said, “She’s a character. I like her.”
    “I find her a bit intrusive. And you know how I feel about this higher power shit. The New Age Movement is just watered-down religion. I get pissed that people like Myra take advantage of the tragedies and insecurities of others.”
    “But maybe there are powers and mysteries to this universe beyond our ability to understand? I know we’ve had this discussion before.” He smiled at me.
    I laughed. “Yes, yes we have. And you’re still trying to make a believer out of me.”
     We walked further down Wilton Drive. The street was bustling with gay men. An older man in a red Miata blared Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” Every once in a while I spotted women, mostly lesbians. Palm trees along the street moved in the wind. I was living in a heterosexual wasteland. I ruminated about the strangeness of the experience with Myra, the coincidences: she reminded me a bit of Nonna—the color of her eyes and her dramatic flair, but not her overall look, and I suspected not as intelligent. Nonna was also more beautiful. Myra had a receding chin and a wrinkled prune face. The coincidences—that she was part Italian and from Massachusetts, her statement about the recent death, and her opening a box of supposed stones for grieving—were a bit weird. What were the chances of her opening a box of “grieving” stones at that moment? Maybe the black stones had nothing to do with grieving and she was making it all up, just a good reader of people, a con. In her business, you had to be.
    Espresso Boys was busy. The slogan on the door read, “Where the coffee and men are robust.” Several men, varying in age from twenty to fifty something, sprawled on the comfortable black leather sofa, loveseat, and chairs. When Gabe and I entered, most looked at us. Gabe, of course, garnered the most attention. His good looks were nice “eye candy,” so I was told by his friend Walt. “He gets attention wherever he goes,” Walt told me once. “Go for it, I tell him. Enjoy the deliciousness of sex.”
    A Harry Potter movie played on the four television screens. Most of the men looked bored, barely talking to one another, instead texting on their cell phones or chatting on a “dating” app called “ManDate.” Occasionally, they flipped through gay rags called Buzz and 411, mesmerized by the glossy ads of sexy men selling anything from plumbing services to legal work. There were even ads for doctors. Gabe once showed me an ad with a bare-chested hunky doctor wearing a stethoscope.
    As we walked to the back counter to order our drinks, men continued to admire Gabe’s beauty from the tables along the sidewall. I got passing glances, but women, I soon learned, were sometimes met with hostility in establishments that catered to gay men. Some of the men were kind, and a lot would comment on my good looks, makeup, and hair. If you were a pretty woman, you got attention, especially if you were an accessory to a gorgeous man like Gabe. The term that I sometimes heard mumbled in reference to me was “fag hag,” which irked me.
    A handsome older man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair asked how he could help us. I looked at the desserts in the display case, none of which seemed too appealing.
    “I’ll have a large latte and one of those brownies.” I pointed.
    “And I’ll have a cappuccino,” Gabe said.
    “No dessert?” the man said.
    “No, I have to watch my waist.” Gabe patted his perfect abdomen. I rolled my eyes.
    “These young guys are crazy,” the man said to me. “When I grew up, men didn’t care about looking so good. The gay guys are just as vain as the women.” He laughed.
    I deduced that this was Mr. Michaelis, the gentleman Myra told us about.
    “Well I’m a woman, and I don’t worry about my looks.” I smiled at him. “It’s boring.”
    “That’s cause you’re lucky. You got those Mediterranean genes like me. What are you, Italian? Jewish?”
    “Italian.”
    “Ahh. The Italian women are some of the most stunning.” He laughed, making our drinks and talking over his shoulder. The latte machine whirred as he foamed the milk. “But Greek women aren’t so bad either.”
    “You’re Greek.”
    “How’d you guess?”
    “I’m psychic.”
    He laughed. “Yeah, like that one up the street. The owner of Sacred Ashes.”
    “We just came from there.”
    He put our drinks on the counter, then placed my brownie on a small white plate with tongs. “Ahh. Myra. Don’t trust a word she says.” He had a tired dark complexion with deep wrinkles around his penetrating eyes, which were brown and thickly lashed. The sclera that surrounded his irises was very white, accentuating his perfectly capped teeth. He was handsome, even with sagging jowls, and I could see why Myra found him attractive.
    “I hope you like the brownie. Not homemade, but I buy from good bakers.” He handed me the plate. Gabe grabbed our drinks.
    “Why shouldn’t we trust her?” I said, before following Gabe to a table at the back.
    “She’s a lying greedy bitch. She’d sell her sister if she could.”
    “Does her sister live here?”
    “Catherine lives up in Massachusetts. That’s where Myra and I are from. The sister hates Myra. They haven’t talked in years.” He looked at the blond guy in line behind me. “Can I help you?” The guy started to answer, but Mr. Michaelis cut him off, calling to me as I walked away, “Enjoy your brownie. Stop by again if you want to get the dirt on her.” He checked out my ass.
    When I got to the table, Gabe said, “I think he likes you. Dirty old man.”
    “He’s not that old. Late fifties.” I looked back at him. He was busy making another drink. “And good-looking in a Robert DeNiro type of way.”
    “I thought you were finished with men?” Gabe broke off a piece of my brownie.
    I sat up straight, brushed my fingers through my hair, and said. “It’s always good to be open to change.” A man with nice biceps at the next table smiled at me. By the front door, an intoxicated man entered, clutching the arm of his friend, who rolled his eyes and frowned.
    “I won’t argue with that.” Gabe’s eyes moved to the television screen on the opposite wall where Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets played. The character Ron was saying, “Do you think it’s true? Do you think there really is a Chamber of Secrets?” to Hermione and Harry. While I watched the scene unfold, I thought how life was one great chamber of secrets and wondered how any of us could ever begin to know what was true.

    I set the table and lit some candles. What I enjoyed most about living with Gabe was dinnertime and afterwards when we would sit together in the media area of the living room to enjoy news or a movie on the large-screen television.
    “This is delicious,” I said after my first spoonful of his risotto, a delicious blend of rice, asparagus, spices, and a creamy sauce.
    “Here. Have some bread,” he said, his mouth full, passing over the wooden server on which he has sliced a French baguette. I buttered a piece.
    “Remember, my mother and her friend Evy are visiting this weekend. They arrive Saturday morning and leave on Monday, Columbus Day.”
    “Yes, I remember. I love your mother. She’s so warm and funny. She doesn’t even realize how hilarious she is. What’s Evy like?”
    “She’s a great friend to my mother. A lady from Scotland with the best expressions. You’ll love them. Kind, absolutely lovely. She’s helped my mother a great deal over the years. When my mother was recovering from all those surgeries for her leg and back, Evy was a godsend. Of course, my sisters helped out, but they had to work. Evy was always there to assist.”
    He motioned for my wine glass and poured some more Chardonnay. “Oh, and we’re going to dinner with Myra on Thursday evening. Is that okay?”
    “Yes, I told you I want to be more social.”
    “She really likes us.” Gabe scratched his chin and sipped some wine. “I can’t figure it out.”
    I was silent.
    “What are you thinking?” He smiled. “I know when you are holding back.”
    “Gabe, I don’t want to say, because you will think I’m being a misanthrope once again, not giving people a chance.”
    “Oh, come on.” He moved the fingers of his hand in the air towards himself. “Bring it on. What’s your criticism?”
    “She makes me uncomfortable. You know I can be guarded. I just find it funny that she has taken such a liking to us so soon. She doesn’t even know us.”
    He laughed. “Maybe she truly is a psychic and knows that we will be great friends.”
    “I doubt it.”
    He paused the spoonful of food he was about to eat and stared at me.
    “Gabe, I told you, I’m going. I gave you my word.”
    “It will be fun. Even if she turns out to be a nut and your suspicions are true. Consider it an adventure, as my mother would say.”
    “I will. Here’s to adventures.” I raised my wine glass. He did as well. “A toast to a future filled with good times and friends.”

    On any given weeknight at the Backyard Cafe, three waiters and a busboy move quickly to serve a crowd made up of pairs or groups of older gay men, some whose bleary red-rimmed eyes divulge a week, or even an afternoon, of drinking and partying (doing drugs). The diner, which opened as a Greek restaurant in the 1980s, had changed hands a few times through the years. At one point it was a Hungarian restaurant; the most recent incarnation occurred when the owner of Charlie’s, the dinner club next door, purchased it. Since then the clientele has been mostly gay.
    There are about 16 brown formica tables with aqua-green padded chairs. The walls of the place are painted gray-and-white faux marble on top, and fire-engine red on bottom. Black wainscoting above an 8-inch wallpaper design of dancing coca cola bottles and caps runs the perimeter of the oddly-shaped octagonal room. A counter above a base wall of shiny aluminum sheet metal, seats about 10 people along the north side of the restaurant. On the walls are black-and-white photographic prints of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, and Fred Astaire. Behind the cash register is a large closeup of Liza Minelli’s face. The shabby drop-ceiling squares are painted steel gray to hide water stains, grease, and grime.
    I took in all of this, after Sal, a balding forty-something bear-type with round brown eyes, rubbed Gabe’s shoulders and took our drink orders. Myra was supposed to meet us here at 6:30. It was now 6:45.
    “Do you think she forgot?” I asked.
    “No. She’ll be here.” Gabe was reading the menu. “Have you decided what you’re gong to order?” He pulled his menu back and looked at me.
    “I’m going to have the Greek salad.”
    Sal brought our wine. “Who you waiting for?”
    “Myra Bocca, the lady who runs the New Age shop across the street.”
    Sal rolled his eyes. “She’s always late. Cheap as shit, too. Leaves 10 percent if I’m lucky. She can be entertaining though. Lots of the guys in town love her. They think she’s fabulous.” He laughed.
    The door opened and in she walked. She was wearing tight jeans, a black v-neck t-shirt that showed off her cleavage, and what I call come-fuck-me pumps. I thought she looked ridiculous for her age. Her makeup was overdone, especially the bright orangey-red lipstick and oversprayed hair that topped her head like a cresting wave. I imagined a mini surfer riding her crown.
    Gabe stood up. “Hi Myra. We’re over here.”
    Sal retreated to the kitchen.
    “Hey, aren’t you gonna ask me what I want to drink?” Myra called after him.
    “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
    She sat down. An overpowering sickly sweet floral perfume surrounded us. I coughed.
    “You getting sick, honey?” She put her hand on mine. I noticed a gaudy most-likely fake ruby ring and several age spots.
    “No. Actually, it’s your perfume. I think you put too much on.”
    Gabe smiled and pretended to read the menu.
    “You want me to wash some off? I was so excited to meet you, I think I got carried away.”
    “Yes, I would appreciate your washing some off. Otherwise, I’ll be coughing throughout the dinner. I have asthma.”
    “Sure. Sure. I’ll be right back.”
    We both watched her waddle towards the rear of the restaurant. She tapped Sal on the shoulder and ordered her drink. He looked irritated.
    “I didn’t know you had asthma, Molly.”
    “I don’t, but did you smell that shit? Makes me nauseous. It’s like she’s laid out and surrounded by flowers at a funeral home.”
    Gabe laughed. “What an image.”
    “Don’t you think she’s dressed a bit inappropriately for her age? Who wants to look at those sagging wrinkled breasts?”
    “Trust me,” he said. “No one in here is paying attention to her breasts.”
    “Is that better?” She asked when she returned.
    “Much. Thank you, Myra.” I handed her my menu. She looked around for Sal. “Where is that guy? He gives me the worst service. And I’m always so nice to him. Leave him the biggest tips.”
    Gabe and I looked at each other.
    “Why don’t you decide what you want to eat? I’ll get his attention.” Gabe signaled him.
    Sal came to the table with a whiskey on the rocks. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said, without looking up from the menu.
    “Have you all decided what you want?” Sal said.
     “I’m still making up my mind.” She waved for him to go away and said, “Come back in a few minutes.”
    Eventually we ordered and the food was brought—my Greek salad, Gabe’s turkey club, and Myra’s meatloaf with extra gravy. Myra dominated the conversation. She wanted to tell us all about her life.
    “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all the stories you hear. A lot of liars and jealous types down here. Like Alexander.”
    “Who’s Alexander?” Gabe said.
    Myra wiped some gravy that had spilled in her cleavage. “Mr. Michaelis, you know, the one who owns the coffee shop.”
    “He’s handsome,” I said. “Seems very nice.”
    “He can be charming. But don’t let those good looks beguile you. He likes to tell stories.” Her eyes teared up.
    “What’s wrong?” Gabe said.
    “It’s just that I went through quite an ordeal before I moved here.”
    “What happened?” I wasn’t buying it. She was a terrible actress.
    “I’ll tell you the God’s truth.” She held up her hand like a boyscout. “I was the wife of a very wealthy man. Lazzarus Bocca. Have either of you ever heard of Bocca hats?”
    I shook my head. Gabe said, “Yes. You mean those fedora hats that stars like Humprhey Bogart wore in Casablanca?”
    “Exactly.” She smiled at Gabe. Then she looked at me. “You know what he’s talking about, Molly?”
    “Well I know what a fedora is, but I’ve never been one for fashion. And I never watched Casablanca. I don’t like that genre of film.”
    Myra opened her mouth and raised her eyebrows. I saw bits of meatloaf on her tongue. “My God. Casablanca’s a classic. What’s the matter with you?”
    I laughed. “I don’t care if it’s a classic. If I don’t like something, I don’t pursue it.”
    “Hmm. This one is quite opinionated.” she said to Gabe. “I bet she can be a real bitch.” She laughed.
    “I bet you can be a bitch, too.” I smiled at her.
    She paused and looked at my hair. “You should consider a dye job. You’re getting a few gray strands by your temples.” She picked a bit of meatloaf off her lap and threw it on the floor. “I know a good hairdresser if you need a recommendation.”
    “I like my gray hair.” I looked at her head. “Cheap dye jobs look awful.”
    Gabe eyed me. “Back to your story, Myra. I want to hear.”
    “Well, when Lazzy died.”
    “Lassie?” I said.
    “Lazarus. My husband.”
    I laughed. “Sorry. I thought you said Lassie, but I guess you wouldn’t have married a dog.” I had finished a second glass of wine and could feel myself getting silly.
    “My Lazzy was a beautiful man. Very handsome.”
    I burst out laughing, spitting some wine. “I’m sorry. That just sounded funny to me. I keep picturing that beautiful collie from the series. Now that was a classic.”
    Myra ignored me. “After Lazarus died.” She looked at me. “My stepchildren—you see he was my third husband—they wanted to take the entire inheritance. We had set up a trust, Lazarus and I.” Once more she looked at me. I pursed my lips so I wouldn’t laugh, and I feigned interest. “And the deal with the trust was that everything would be dispersed evenly among his kids and mine from a previous marriage. His kids took me to court and I lost everything.”
    “How is that possible?” Gabe said.
    She picked up a napkin and wiped her jeans. While looking down she said, “Well he had three children. Two girls and a boy. The boy was one of those vindictive fag types. Jimmy was . . . . is his name. God, I wish he were dead.”
    Gabe’s eyebrows lifted and his eyes widened.
    “Oh, I got nothin’ against gays, Gabe. I wouldn’t be living here if I did.” She laughed. “It’s just that he was a big pain in the ass. Told me I was full of shit when I tried to explain my side of the story. All I ever wanted was for the trust to be settled fair and square. He was the ring leader in taking me to court.” She paused. “And you know what the bitchy queen did to me?”
    I took a sip of my third glass of wine. “I have no idea. Please tell me.”
    Gabe warned me with his eyes.
    She moved close and placed a hand on each of our forearms. “He reported me to the IRS for tax evasion and fraud. I lost all control of the trust. Now I’m broke.”
    “I’m confused?” Gabe said. “Tax evasion for what?”
    “I owned a little restaurant. Nothing fancy. Called the Sunnyside Café. My poor son. Worked so hard in construction, then he hurt his back and had to go out on disability. Well, I did what any loving mother would do. I let him work under the table at the Sunnyside. Those disability checks weren’t nothing to live on.”
    “So you committed a felony,” I said.
    “Don’t get attitudey with me, Molly. I’m opening my heart to you.”
    “Tell me how your son, who was collecting disability for a supposed back injury was healthy enough to work in a restaurant. Restaurant work is tough. Just look at how these waiters are running around.” I motioned to Sal and the others.
    “You would have done it, too, if you ever had a kid. Which I doubt you ever will if you keep spending all your time with gay men. But no matter.” She looked at Gabe. “She’s past her prime anyway. Few men will want her now, especially in this town.” She laughed. “Just look around.” She turned and looked at the crowd of men behind her.
    “How the fuck do you know what I would have done in your situation, or if I’ll ever have a child, Myra? You know nothing about me.” I stood up. “I’m done.” I opened my purse and threw my credit card on the table. “This meal is on me. I’m going to the ladies room. And then I’ll meet you outside,” I said to Gabe before moving my face close to Myra’s. “I don’t believe anything you say. That fag Jimmy was probably right.”

    The next day, Friday, I realized that my credit card was missing. I checked the dining room table when I got home from school to see if Gabe had put it there. When I did not see it, I looked on top of Gabe’s dresser, where he threw his spare change, receipts, keys, etc. The card was not there either. I called him at the gym, where he worked as a trainer.
    “Gabe, do you have my Visa card?”
    “Let me check.”
    I heard weights clanking and Madonna singing “Tell me love isn’t true. It’s just something that we do” in the background.
    “I checked my wallet. It’s not there,” he said.
    “Do you think you could have left it at the Backyard?” I asked.
    “Sorry, Molly. I can’t remember. I might have. Honestly, I just wanted to get out of there after that scene with Myra. Why don’t you call them?”
    I called the restaurant. The guy on the other end of the phone told me to hold while he checked. He put the phone down and I heard snippets of conversation. Someone said, “Be careful crossing the street.”
    The host picked up the phone. “Sorry, Ms. It’s not here. Give me your phone number and I’ll call if anyone turns it in.”
    I did and thanked him. Then I called the credit card company. As a way to verify my identity, the woman asked about recent charges. I told her that the last charge would be for dinner at the Backyard Café.
    “I see some others here from 9:15 this morning.”
    “What?”
    “Well there’s a charge for a Samsung forty inch LCD television from Sears.”
    “I didn’t buy that.”
    “Hold on. There’s a couple other charges.”
    “Some DVDs from a website called the Adult Boutique. Debbie Does Dallas, Feeding Frenzy 3: Swallow the Leader, and Private Fetish 4 Pack.” The woman had a monotone Texan accent.
    I burst out laughing. “I didn’t order those either.”
    “Hmm . . . . There are also bulk orders of incense supplies from someplace called The Witch’s Garden. Did you order those?”
    “No.” I felt my anger rising. “But I know who the witch is.”
    “Huh?”
    “Never mind. It’s obvious my credit card was stolen. The only legitimate charge is from the restaurant. The others aren’t mine. Can you cancel the card?”
    “Of course, Ms. Bonamici.”
    “Will I have to pay for the other charges?”
    “No, ma’am. Obviously you have been the victim of fraud. Your acccount has fraud protection. I will erase the other charges and forward you a new card through the mail. In the meantime, I’d contact any businesses that might have your credit card on file. . . .While I have you on the phone, would you like to hear about our rental car collision policy or accidental death and dismemberment insurance?”
    “Not right now, but thank you.”
    When I hung up, I called Gabe again.
    “The bitch stole my card.”
    “Myra?”
    “She charged a television and some pornographic DVDs.”
    “Molly, that could have been anyone in this town.”
    “How many gay guys order incense in bulk from a place called the Witch’s Garden and a pornographic movie entitled Debbie Does Dallas?”
    He was silent.
    “Gabe?”
    “Molly, don’t do anything rash. We will talk about what to do when I get home. You did cancel the credit card, right?”
    I told him I did, then hung up. My impulse was to drive to Sacred Ashes and confront Myra, but I knew I had to calm myself and wait for Gabe. I poured a glass of wine, sat on the patio, listened to bird calls, the click of the bamboo stalks moving against each other in the wind, and the sound of water falling on pebbles at the base of the fountain.
    After dinner, Gabe and I decided we would talk with Myra at the shop the next day. She opened at noon on Saturdays and Sundays. He said I was too angry to do anything that night. And besides, the card was canceled, so no more charges could be made.
    His mother and her friend Evy were arriving tomorrow. We figured the two would be hungry after the plane ride so Gabe called Mrs. Callaghan and gave her directions to the Backyard Café across the street from Sacred Ashes, where we would meet them around 12:30, after our talk with Myra.

    Saturday morning I took a quick shower, threw on my usual outfit, jeans and a black t-shirt, and headed to Espresso Boys. I told Gabe, who was sleeping late after a night at the bars, that I was going for coffee but would be back around 11 am so we could go together to Myra’s place. When I opened his bedroom door, he was sprawled out naked, twisted in his sheets. “Okay,” he mumbled.
    I knew Mr. Michaelis opened his coffee shop at 9 am. I wanted to get there before the place was too crowded. He had mentioned that he knew Myra’s history and I wanted his opinion about what had happened.
    When I entered, he was explaining to a cute little blond guy how to make the cinnamon buns. There were only two customers in the shop—a tall thin black guy with high cheekbones and deepset animated eyes, and what appeared to be a lover or a very close friend, a handsome Robert Redford lookalike, who kept saying, “too much fun” as they watched a black-and-white film on the large television. I looked at the screen.
    “It’s All about Eve.” The black guy smiled at me.
    Bette Davis had just said, “Everybody has a heart—except some people.”
    “Great movie.” I smiled and walked to the counter.
    “Mr. Michaelis, do you have a few moments to talk?” The blond guy looked up from the cinnamon rolls, where he was squeezing the glaze from a piping bag. He appeared a bit panicked.
    “Sure.”
    Michaelis said to the guy, “Don’t worry. It’s slow now. Won’t pick up for an hour or so when the guys start dragging themselves in hungover, desperate for coffee. You’re doing fine, Brian.” He patted his shoulder, then came around the counter.
    “Follow me.”
    We sat at one of the back tables by the counter with sugar and stirrers.
    “You want a latte? Something to eat?”
    “No. No. I don’t want to take up your time. I know you’re working.”
    He looked around. “Do I look busy?”
    I laughed. “I guess not.”
    “Give me your hand. You look nervous”
    His hand was warm.
    “I’m a bit upset.”
    “What’s wrong?” His face was concerned.
    “Myra Bocca stole my credit card.”
    He slapped his other hand on the table and laughed. The blond guy looked over. “She’s up to her old tricks.”
    “You said you knew her in Massachusetts. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
    He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his arms in an a welcoming gesture.
    “Did you date?”
    “Molly, I know you’re the type I can be perfectly frank with. . . I fucked her. We didn’t date. Myra is a slut and, in addition,” his face reddened at some memory, “she’s one of the most evil people I ever met. She and I were part of a group that used to go drinking together. The two of us, her husband Lazarus, and another guy Joe. This is before Lazarus and she were married, by the way. I’m not the type of person who would sleep with another man’s wife. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
    “I’m not judging.”
    “The guys and I would pick her up. One time she got in the car and said, ‘I’m so fuckin’ horny.’ Now that’s not something a woman says to guys unless she’s asking for sex. She made the rounds with the three of us. We’d go out drinking, and take turns bringing her back to our place for the night. She loved it! Eventually, though, she showed more interest in Lazarus. I warned him. I said, ‘She only wants your money.’ You see, he was rich. Joe and I, we weren’t poor, but we didn’t have the fortune that Lazarus did. His family owned a hat company.”
    “This is what I don’t get. Why would she steal my credit card when it’s so obvious that I would find out?”
    “Molly, you don’t understand. Some people in this world are evil to the core and just don’t give a shit. You ever hear of the term ‘sociopath’?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Myra is a sociopath. They do whatever they want. They don’t think about the consequences. I read a couple books on the subject. I’m not a big reader, but after what she did to Lazarus, I had to understand. A friend of mine recommended an easy read, nothing too technical—The Sociopath Next Door. You should read it.”
    “Gabe and I went out to dinner with her the other night—that’s when she stole my card. She told us that her stepchildren tried to screw her. Evidently, there was some trust that Lazarus and she had set up so that she, her children from a previous marriage, and the children of Lazarus would all be treated fairly when he died. Myra said the stepchildren wanted everything.”
    “That’s a goddamn lie!” he said. Brian, the blond guy, looked over. Michaelis asked, “How are the buns?”
    “My buns are fine. How are yours?”
    Michaelis waved his hand at him and started laughing. “These gay guys crack me up. Make everything about sex.”
    “What’s the real story about the trust, Mr. Michaelis?”
    “Call me Alexander. . . By the way, she probably planned to steal your credit card or your money. Or to ingratiate herself to you so that she could use you in the future. That’s how sociopaths work.”
    “Tell me the real story about her past.”
     “Those stepchildren—great people by the way—wanted nothing more than to settle the trust as it was designed. Myra went through five lawyers fighting them, claiming that all of Lazarus’s assets belonged to her. Lazarus, he was a damn fine man, wanted everyone to be treated fairly. One of the best men I ever knew.” His eyes filled up. “You should have seen the antics she pulled before he died.”
    “Like what?”
    “Out of nowhere, after twenty years of marriage, she sent a sheriff to their house while she was at the restaurant. The guy handed Lazarus a deposition notice that she wanted a divorce. This after he treated her like a queen their whole marriage. Not only did he take care of her, but he took care of all her kids—bought them cars, gave them money, paid for schooling. As I said, he was a fine man—generous beyond measure.”
    “Why would she do something like that?”
    “Cause she’s rotten, Molly. She had the gall to tell one of the judges that she filed divorce simply because she wanted to find out how much money Lazarus had. Why not ask him directly? . . . . She suspected Lazarus was hiding assets from her. Meanwhile, she contributed nothing financially in all the years they were married. . . . Lazarus was devastated. Those kids of his, they were fantastic. You could see how much they loved him. Took care of him to the end.
    “And get this.” He was getting agitated. “After she found out that he had lung cancer, she canceled the divorce, told one of the daughters who asked how he made out at his doctor’s appointment that he was fine. The poor girl. She learned about the lung cancer after she called to check on a blood test for the coumadin he was taking. The nurse told her that the doctor had sent Lazarus and Myra home with an MRI disc of his lung. Told him to make an appointment with a cancer doctor right away. And you know what Myra did?
    “She lied to the daughter. Said Lazarus was in perfect health, and the nurse must have confused the patients. Then she tried to take him to Florida the day after the appointment. His kids—best kids anyone could ask for—put a stop to that. Well it was all downhill from then on.”
    The door opened and we looked up at three hungover guys. Brian behind the counter glanced at Michaelis. “Guy’s not too bright. I better get back up there. You think he could handle a few customers. Nice young man, but slow. There’s two other things I want to tell you about what she did, though.” He waved to Brian, “I’ll be right there.” Then he took both my hands in his. “These things will let you know just how bad she is. She fired an old lady waitress whose husband was dying just before Christmas so she could give a job to one of her granddaughter’s friends. Told all the customers the lady had dropped dead! And the most heinous thing—is that the right word?”
    “Yes.”
    “The most heinous thing is that she went to his wake after she told the stepchildren she would go earlier to avoid any friction. You see, she planned it all out. Just wanted to torment them, play games. She plunked her ass right next to his coffin at the wake. What could his kids do? I tell you, they showed grace and poise. Lazarus would have been proud.” He put a hand over his heart. “Halfway through the wake, when all the people were streaming through, offering their condolences, she pranced around the room, over-animated to get everyone’s attention. I thought I was watching an episode from I Love Lucy. It was sick! She started taking down all the pictures of Lazarus just to cause a scene.”
    “Alexander, I can tell this is distressing you. Go back to work.”
    He took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat off his forehead. “She never made it out of there with the pictures. Lazarus’s son, Jimmy, he bolted from the receiving line and grabbed the photographs from her hand.” He laughed. “I thought I was witnessing a drone attack.” Then a police officer buddy of one of the girls escorted her out.
    “Wow. What a story.”
    “Yup. I still can’t believe the things she did.” He pointed his finger towards me as he walked away. “You watch out for her. You hear me. That bitch is capable of anything. And I mean anything.”
    “I will.” I rose from the table and thanked him on my way out. The two guys at the front were still engrossed in All About Eve. “Fasten your seatbelts,” Bette Davis said, “It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

    On our way to Myra’s shop, Gabe told me he had asked his police officer friend to meet us there.
    We were turning onto Wilton Drive headed south. A couple of shirtless guys walked their dogs on the sidewalks. A guy on a bicycle, also shirtless, turned to look at one of the them and was almost hit by a car.
    “Jesus, these guys are crazy,” I said.
    “Horny, Molly, they’re all horny. Any chance they can get to show off their six-pack abs, they do. I think I see that guy over there at least four times a day.” He took his hand off the wheel for a second and pointed. “I’m surprised the paws of his bulldog aren’t raw.”
    “Ow.” I cringed at the thought. “Poor dog. . . .There’s your friend.” We pulled into a spot in front of a hair salon a few doors down from Sacred Ashes, where a bulky fair-skinned police officer with red hair and a beard stood. He smiled when he saw us.
    We got out of the car and greeted him. He was wearing dark sun glasses but took them off and shook my hand. “I’m Johnny. Gabe’s told me all about you.”
    “Great to meet you and thank you for coming.” I looked at Gabe, who was wearing black sweatpants and a blue tanktop. I wished I had dressed lighter. The sun was hot as usual. I was perspiring and glad that I was wearing black. “Gabe, you never explained why you invited Johnny. We’re not going to have her arrested, are we?” I looked at both their faces.
    Johnny said, “Nah. Gabe just asked my advice. I suggested I’d tag along since I’m on duty today. Purely an intimidation tactic is all. To be honest, Molly, even if we did charge her with credit card fraud, the chances of her being arrested are slim. South Florida has one of the highest rates of fraud in the nation. The courts don’t even prosecute unless it’s a significant amount of money. I’m sure Myra is aware of this. I did a background check on her. She has a history of petty crimes—shoplifting, check forgery, a slew of parking tickets, and yes, other cases of fraud. She was charged a few times, but she hired good lawyers, and either had the charges dropped or was put on probation. No jail time. I’m sorry to say she knows just how far to go.”
    We were walking in the direction of her shop. Gabe pulled me toward him, under the awnings from the shop so that I was in the shade. My face was sweating from the combination of heat, anger, and anxiety.
    “After you,” Johnny said, opening the door of her shop. Myra was on her knees behind the counter in the back, arranging new-age trinkets. The door chimed when we entered so she stood up. When she saw Johnny, her face turned white.
    “Can I help you, officer?” she said. “Hi Molly and Gabe. I had a great time the other night.” She put on a fake smile and picked some lint off her yellow dress.
    “Yes, as a matter of fact, you can. I’d like to ask you some questions about a credit card you might have used.”
    Her jaw quivered and she looked at me with hateful scorn. “Certainly, I’ll be right with you.” Then she bent down and grabbed something from the case, a piece of crystal, and threw it at me. Her aim was awful. It hit Johnny in the chest. He pulled his gun from the holster.
    “Stand right there. Don’t move.”
    “Go fuck yourself, you bastard. I hate cops.” She ran past the three of us crashing into the merchandise. Her display of cards fell over. I caught one of them. “A stone has no uncertainty—Carl Jung,” it read. The whole situation struck me as absurd. Johnny chased her out the door into the street. Gabe and I started laughing. I picked up the crsytal wolf that she had thrown.
    “I feel like I’m in a bad movie,” Gabe said.
    Then we heard the loud screech of a car braking and a dull thump. The both of us ran outside. Mrs Callaghan and her friend Evy were getting out of a yellow Mustang convertible. A crowd had gathered. People from the Backyard Café streamed onto the sidewalk. Sal, the waiter, ran over with an emergency kit. I also noticed the two guys I had seen watching the movie at Espresso Boys earlier. The shirtless dogwalkers were there, too. I pushed my way through the people. A white-haired man told me Myra had tripped and slid across the pavement before she was hit by the car, which dragged her along the street when her clothing got caught on the edge of the undercarriage. “As soon as the driver realized what happened, she backed up, thinking she had driven over the body.”
    Myra’s head was turned to one side, blood streamed from her nostrils and mouth, creating a halo-shaped pool around her head. Her face was bruised and scraped, the skin from her nose had ripped off revealing the cartilege, and her eye was wide open, pupil dilated. Her dentures lay on the street, smeared with blood and phlegm. The shin from her left leg protuded at an angle, its jagged edge pointing towards the sun.
    The bulldog ran towards her body and began gnawing on the bone. The owner dashed over and picked him up. The dog’s paws, face, and fur were bloodied. The guy pulled a blue T-shirt with ARMANI printed on the front from the back of his shorts. He began wiping the blood off his dog, then vomited, splattering individuals among the crowd. People squealed in disgust.
    Mrs. Callaghan used her cane to nudge people as she made her way to the body. “Move the hell out of the way,” she shouted. “I’m a nurse. . . . Evy, put on gloves from that emergency kit.” A skinny guy opened the kit on the hood of the car and assisted Evy as she pushed her trembling hands into the gloves. “I’d do the CPR myself, but I can’t bend down. Too much metal in me. I’ll probably break something or loosen a screw,” Mrs. Callaghan said, “You gotta do chest compressions. I’ll tell you how.”
    Johnny tried to guide the both of them away from Myra’s body, but Mrs. Callaghan hollered. “We’ve got to do something until the paramedics arrive. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.” Johnny gently persisted in trying to move her away. She tapped him with her purple cane. “Officer, I got this. Call the paramedics.”
    “I already have.”

    Mrs. Callaghan said, “Listen to me carefully, Evy. Place the palm of one of your hands on top of the other. Then push down on her sternum 30 times. Think ‘Staying Alive.’ ”
    “Of course I want her to live, Maureen!” She bent down. Her purple hat fell onto the street. A short fat guy picked it up.
    “I mean the song,” Maureen said.
    “Are you crazy? How can you think of a song at a time like this?”
    “No, I mean as you are doing chest compressions sing the song in your head. It will give you the correct rhythm.”
    “But I don’t know the song!” She was doing the compressions. “Oh, crikey, Maureen. I don’t think I can do this!” Her face was panicked.
    “Stay calm, Evy. Of course you can,” Mrs. Callaghan answered.
    The crowd began to shout, “You can do it, Evy! You can do it, Evy!”
    The tall black guy stepped forward and began to sing, “Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother you’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. Feel the city breakin’ and everybody’ shakin’. And we’re stayin alive, stay’in alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive!”
    The crowd joined in, “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive!”
    Evy pumped. Her gloves were bloody.
    Johnny said to Gabe and me, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
    “I can’t believe this is really happening,” Gabe said.
    Sirens sounded in the distance. The crowd stepped back.
    Evy screamed, “Oh crikey, I think she snuffed it!” Then she burst into tears.
    Maureen walked over with her cane and put her arm around her. “You did your best.” She led her to the curb, where Gabe, Johnny, and I stood. We watched the paramedics take over. Additional police cars showed up and a van with “Broward Sheriff’s Traffic Homicide Unit” printed on its side.
    We all told Evy she did a wonderful job, but she was unconsolable. “God, I’m knackered,” she said between sobs.
    Mrs. Callaghan saw our confused look, “She means she’s exhausted.”
    Johnny had moved to speak with the police officers who were questioning members of the crowd. Then he came back and told us that Mrs. Callaghan and Evy needed to go to the station for questioning, but it wouldn’t take long; the accident was obviously not their fault. They were going the speed limit, and he and members of the crowd could attest that Myra ran in front of the car without even looking. He explained that their car would need to be towed and inspected but they would most likely get it back by tomorrow. Gabe and I thanked Johnny for his help and led the women to our car. I caught a glimpse of Myra’s body on the stretcher. The blanket had fallen off one side. Her left breast swung loose like a flap and her mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners. However dishonest she was, she didn’t deserve to die that way. The finality saddened me, and reminded me of the certainty of death.
    I thought of the quote from the card—“A stone has no uncertainty”—and was reminded of the Black Obsidian rock in my pocket. I tossed it towards the base of her stretcher and watched it roll past her body into the shadows of the crowd.

  Story originally published in Fiction on the Web.