One Hitler, Two Potatoe

You CAN spell it that way
We All learned that in school
As did everyone who
Wasn’t behind a microphone that day
He’s not a stupid guy
Just a dork

Rio Shout Out

‘Member that time,
When W saw Brazil on a map
“WOW! Brazil isBIG!”
I get the impression
That right then
If we did not know
Eminem came in
And they put on matching hats
And rapped the rest of the briefing
The word “big” getting a lot of usage
In that street-truth kinda way

Asphalt

This is the path -
An asphalt of fire
You follow the survivors,
And the burnt victims
Towards an end that has triggered
Your adrenaline rush
No certainty of contentment there
You crave for the future
More than the present, don̻t you?
On the other side, you can witness
The degrees of their burns,
They who had desires
That glistened in their eyes

Nothing

Nothing -
That is what I want to be filled with
Everything inside is overflowing
In your critical hour of scarcity,
Gather your hands
Around the brim of my heart

Nothing -
That is what should stand between us
Everything is laid open before you
In your excruciating moment of isolation,
Forget distance and barricades
We are all in a unified oneness

Nothing -
Not the stars dazzling the sky from end to end,,
Not the Cicadas & other unnameable creatures
Feasting on botanical gardens,
Nor a pirate’s lost-and-found treasure -
Nothing fulfills but the singularity of all

She Doesn’t Eat Eggs

She doesn’t eat eggs. She won’t take
what isn’t hers. There’s a word,
she says, for the want of things
that are not hers: covet. She eats
only plants but does she make pysanky,

heating the stylus in flame, dipping it
in beeswax? Does she etch the protective eye
of Christ on the shell and inch the egg into dye,
crimson with onion skins? A final dunk
into a bath so black, it breaks like night.

There’s a word, she says, for those who crack
eggs that don’t belong to them: bereft.
She lost hours waiting for a resurrection.
One egg, meant to be a keeper,
now a heap of melancholy.

I whisk a couple in the bowl.
Fold in coarse salt. Melt a lump
of fat, turn it nut brown. Stir
the custard until it forms
warm buttery pillows.

Diane Fleming bio

Diane Fleming is a poet and short story writer. She won the Tenth Annual Austin Chronicle Short Story Contest, and is the author of “Trip to Normal,” a book of poetry. She has an MFA in creative writing from UBC Vancouver. She lives in Austin, TX, where she is a technical writer for a software company.

The Driver’s Test

The Chevy crashed into the wall.
The wall became part of the grill.

I am back in nineteen fifty-seven
Pretending that I am a teenager.

What can you do wrong at ten?
I put duck’s grease in my hair
And try to act tough.
I wish that I were in that Chevy.
I never get into the big accidents.

I am a small dent waiting
To happen.
I am beneath the deductible.
I have a small claim on life
But I keep renewing myself
Early so I don’t have to retake
The driver’s test .

Tuesday

The woman at the store is so nice to me
I almost start crying. She says, “That’s a nice sweater.”
She says, “Can I help you with your bags?” She says,
“I’ll bet you’ve got something nice planned for this beautiful day.”
I cling to her pleasantries, I want
To stay here with her in the cool of the department store
I want to tell her how miserable my life is
I want her to fix me. But I know
These things aren’t allowed. I crack my face into a smile
Nod politely, force myself to make eye contact
Tell her, “Have a nice day!” shuffle off to the parking lot
Where my husband sits behind the wheel
Trying to read the paper over the noise of the kids
Shouting at each other in the back seat, where
I throw the groceries into the truck, strap myself into my own seat
Where my husband snaps, “What took you so long?
I thought you were just going to buy some tampons.”

The Usual Suspects

Chains dragging on hands and feet,
a shabby grey vine under a three line
whip demanding satisfaction in the best
interests of the nation, a well-paid-for
education

Casualties of demonstrations against
the best intentions of well-heeled maestros
better schooled (indeed) to take a lead
for the common good, knock-knock
on wood

Let the punishment fit the crime
else a whiff of success go to the head,
win a prime TV slot, make capital
out of it, shoot up the stock
market

Gold stars for a job well done, no liberties
taken, whistle blowers exposed, co-operation
the key (surely?) sparing us anarchy
and mass destruction, not to mention
indigenous reparation

Call out the dogs, round up any strays;
Keep a weather eye on rebels for lost causes
in case they get it right, turn one-to-one
into three times three, re-invent
our ABC

Co-existence

The bear lives on my wooded land
and rambles across my yard at will.
He disputes my property rights,
and destroys my fuming garbage cans.
I will not argue face to face with him
for in simple discussions he will win.
I could acquire a deadly arsenal
and battle for my land at a safe distance,
but I do not wish to harm my neighbor.
So though we differ on lifestyle choices,
I am learning to share with my bear,
and live in peace with ursine desires.

Apollo’s Legacy

The moon was ours
by right of conquest
and brief exploration,
but then we ran away
from all the riches
that Luna contains.
Nothing left behind
but flags and junk,
and eternal footprints
in the gray dust.

Wilkes-Barre Writings

Getting old when you get to the point that you remember where places “used-to-be”:
the store that had good used CD’s and imports,

the comic shop you grew up in
the place that sold beer to you at fourteen.
These realizations usually happen around mid-life if TV is to be believed.

Women remember all the things from high school, friends,
boyfriends of the week,
their boobs being perky, and all those things from the “glory days”.

Men reminisce about their first fake ID and the bar that bought the he was really a 23-year-old in a blue wool high school football varsity jacket. They remember their favorite make out spot and all the girls they took there.

Whatever number these men give you, subtract twenty. If you get a negative they never took anyone, only heard about it.

These thoughts don’t stop people from working or
breathing the next minute.
Those days are far, far gone.
Try the “crisis” in your early twenties.

You haven’t been gone that long and your hometown forgot all about you.

Paul Pikutis bio

Paul Pikutis graduated from Emerson College in Boston, MA only to discover how useless a writing major can be. After conning his way into the medical editing field, he is now trying to fight his way into the publishing world. Paul Pikutis’ work has been featured in the Art Times.

Wait

This is not right
Please
Not here
Or now
Not tonight

Please wait

Not you
Not me
Not in this room
Dank with smoke
And void of passion

Please wait

Dirt
Breath
Sweat
Blood
And then

Your weight

Hair in my face
Teeth
On my lips
Arms
Held down by all

Your weight

No no no
I know
That I said no
Crushing me
Consuming me
I bite my tongue

And wait

Cleveland Cinquain

Things that
cause headscratching-
whitewash painted only
an eighth-way up the concrete bridge
pillar

The Relationship of Space 2

Something is holding the universe together
Something that cannot be seen
Something is making the galaxies spin faster than they should be

Something is holding us together
Something that cannot be seen
Something is making you stay with me
But you are more distant and silent than you should be

Measured, what is around us is not enough to justify
The speed of rotation of the Milky Way
The amount of mass from gas and stars is insufficient
To make all the matter in a galaxy spin as one
Even in the dark parts where there are not any stars
Hydrogen gas moves as fast as everything else
Something else must be keeping the galaxies together
Like a bubble around them—a bubble of something
Something that is everywhere but cannot be seen
Except in how light bends around it
Something that cannot be detected by any of our instruments
Some matter not made of atoms like us and everything else in our existence
Something dark that is atom-less, but that has mass

What matters to us is not enough it seems to hold our relationship
In bed, there is coldness where there was warmth
A silence that used to be filled with words
A tired distance where we used to bond
In the living room, the silence seems substituted by forced conversation
Like communication between each other is a chore
I feel tension, like we have both pulled springs
And we are waiting to release them on each other
Or are we simply waiting to be released from each other
Waiting for something to free us
I have thoughts that we are living in a surface world of theatre and deception
While in the underworld below our habitual play-acting
Lies the truth of our emotions that we buried
Along with all the words to each other that we leave unsaid
When we are out, my eyes wander I will admit
My mind wanders to other things, even when you are talking
When we are out, I feel your eyes wander
When we talk, I hear your mind wander
Those little sounds you make to feign attention are a dead giveaway
I make them too
When we are out, I see your eyes wander to attractive passerby
I feel your mind wonder how this one would feel
Sometimes you try to hide it, but I catch it
If I mention it, you say I am imagining things
If you mention it, I deny it
Going out feels like a routine, instead of a strengthening of our relationship
This is not how we used to be—how I remember us being when we first tied
Something must be keeping us together now
Something that cannot be seen
Like an invisible bubble around us that holds us as a couple and traps us
Something that cannot be detected by any of our infrequent love-making
Some dark matter that we both fear to bring to light
Something that if mentioned might lead to an actual conversation
About ending us

Something is making the galaxies spin away from each other
With ever increasing speed
Something is making the universe expand faster and faster
When logically the spread should be slowing
Even crunching through the attraction of gravity
The Big Bang, which was neither big nor a bang
Which was silent, and which started from an unimaginably dense small point
An incredibly hot and dense small point
Occurred nearly fourteen billion years ago
The momentum from that explosion should be slowing down, but it is not
The energy from that blast should be fading, but it is not
Something is spacing out the universe ever faster
Something that cannot be seen
Some dark energy that cannot be detected by any of our instruments
Just from counting stars, we know that ordinary matter only makes up
About four percent of the universe
In the standard model, dark matter fills up twenty–one percent
While dark energy governs the last seventy-five
While some dark energy controls the rest, and thus most of the cosmos
A dark force that states that once the whole is broken, it cannot be reformed
Some force that has declared that although we were once together and united
Now we should be singles—isolated from each other—independent—free
We should abandon what we had, for who we were joined is no more
Some dark energy that scatters the galaxies
That will expand space until, a googol years from now
Everything will be half a universe away from everything else
The galaxies will be separated by unbridgeable gaps of emptiness
Cut-off and lonely, their stars will have burned out
And the will—the energy will not be there to light up more
The galaxies—our cosmos will die black, fat, and alone
Something is spacing out the universe ever faster
Something that cannot be seen
Something is making the galaxies spin away from each other
Faster than they should be—although they should not be
Some dark energy that long ago—some time ago fought gravity and won
And which now governs our universe

Something is creating distance between us
Something that cannot be seen
Or something we crossed paths with a long time ago, and ignored
Overlooked as nothing, but then it grew into something
Sometimes, I feel alone while we are together
Recently, that feeling has only gotten stronger and more popular
Days pass when I cannot remember what we had in common
The connection I felt to you—I feel for you is all but gone
The memories of who we were are like invisible hands holding us together
Making us a couple
The good times we experienced are the walls keeping us boxed in as a pair
It appears that we have reached the end, but can we start again?
Something is pushing us—has pushed us away from each other
Something that cannot be seen—something we missed
Some dark energy that we dare not mention in any of our conversations
As if truth was a frightening thing
A dark force that states that once the whole is broken, it cannot be reformed
Some force that has declared that although we were once together and united
Now we should be singles—isolated from each other
We should abandon what we had, for who we were joined is no more
Some dark energy that long ago fought our gravity and won
And which now governs our home
But do I want to let go?

My Future Job Options

okay, so I can’t hold a job in my own profession
& I can’t even get a job in the mall

not having an income really pisses me off

I want to yell at the world
for not giving me the job I’m owed

I mean, I get to the point
where I want to hit things

& that’s when it occurred to me:
the frightening thing was telling my husband
that I’m meant to be a dominatrix

when my analytical side dominates me
I see how it makes perfect sense:
no sex, no nudity
just make men feel like shit at an hourly rate

this is really beginning to appeal to me

but after my husband has been adequately frightened
he checked on line
and told me that this was illegal
(is he telling me that
because he doesn’t want me to do it?)
but I want it to be legal
I want to say that I legally degrade men for a living
(and make good money at it, actually)

I guess it figures
I found another profession I’m good at
& I still can’t get a job

humanity buries bodies

humanity buries bodies,
and they keep the organs
in jars and the soul
in oblivion and
annihilate your
heart with warfare,
and the people work
endlessly, and
the meek never
inherit the earth
but carry on
watching
a whole lot of
nothing
on hands and knees.
humanity buries
the bodies, and
humanity witch hunts
ritualistically.

My First Girl Love

She asks if I like marmalade
and I think of my granny’s
jelly jars, orange marmalade,
which I hate to eat but love
to look at, rinds twirling
like women waltzing.

Getting Newly Old

you can only talk
about what you used to do
and do
what you used to talk about

you shrink in both ways
and both ways are
the only way
to shrink

what’s supposed to be hard
softens like a boiled noodle
what’s supposed to be tender
hardens like a winter stone

one attempt
on top of another

or, one attemptable night
after another

Changming Yuan bio

Changming Yuan grew up in rural China and currently teaches writing in Vancouver. Yuan’s poems (are to) appear in Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry (2009), the Cortland Review, Exquisite Corpse and nearly 200 other literary publications worldwide; his first collection Chansons of a Chinaman has recently been released by Leaf Garden Press.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying
and Love Indifference

“Oh we aren’t getting the full story.”
The remark is cheerful and unconcerned.
Why should we care about the affairs of far-off sands
When there are bills to pay!

The reporter hides the oil stains on his wallet
While he gives us the scoop on the “global warming” fairy tale.
(When people lie it’s deceitful,
but when the tit we cling to fibs
we just suck that much harder.)

La La La La La La...
I’d rather be deaf than involved!
It’s not my business.
(It’snotit’snotit’snotanyofmy-)
And (hopefully) life will go on.

Buttons

After we dress, walk into town
After she says again I love you
After I say I love you

She turns reaches for my shirt
Tries to button the second one
I turn, look at her Stop; I like it as it is.
She says That’s not the way I know you

You’re a one button open guy.
It was your look when we met
I say No, that was the more formal me
Today I’m two open buttons

She gives her best unhappy look
And we go to dinner at the Cafe
When she leaves I know that
We have had our first fight

So silly, so over nothing
Just button the button, just leave it alone
One wanting the world to look just right
The other wanting to look right for the world

I think of Rilke’s letters on love
The lover grants the other their solitude
Not easy he says and a tension stays
I always thought it would be easy to love

Find the right person and bingo...love
Just keep those Valentine cards coming
Oh, c’mon I said I loved her
What’s this button but one small favor?

Let the world look right for her
But button or not something lost
That makes it sad
Small but sad

BIO SKETCH

Greg Moglia is a veteran of 27 years as Adjunct Professor of Philosophy of Education at N.Y.U. and 37 years as a high school teacher of Physics and Psychology. His poems have been accepted in over 100 journals in the U.S., Canada and England as well as five anthologies. He is five times a winner of an Allan Ginsberg Poetry Award sponsored by the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College. His poem ‘Why Do Lovers Whisper?’ has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2005. He has been nominated by the College of William and Mary for the University of Virginia anthology BEST NEW POETS OF 2006. He lives in Huntington, N.Y.

OCD

I’ve rewritten this poem,
this line, so many times that
I forget where it began;
initial ideas inside
sequential thought bubbles, burst
over their impure circles,
so I have to write each word
three times-three times-three damn times,
until I write that next-next-next,
to find that one final line-
and finding some final line-
by finding the final line.

Harrigan, That’s Me

Harrigan’s Diner, according to the great grandfather of the present owner, was named after the famous slugger following his memorable visit, in the early 1920’s. His barnstorming tour, on their way to Louisville, made an unannounced stop at the little town of Baxter.
Ohio Legend has it that the big fellow downed a half-dozen hot dogs, four coca colas, and a generous slab of rhubarb pie in one sitting. He then posed for pictures, signed autographs, gave every kid a baseball and left the waitress a twenty dollar tip — more than a week’s wages at the time.
The restaurant has since become a shrine to the former slugger. Pictures and newspaper clippings covered every wall, documenting the twenty-two year career of the hall of famer. A large amount of memorabilia, from Harrigan’s gloves, and bats to his old uniforms and first major league contract, somehow escaped Cooperstown and reside at the diner.

Robert and William Bailey have been coming here since they were toddlers. Now well in their sixties, they can always be found at Carol’s table every Wednesday morning.
Their discussions run the gamut from politics to religion especially religion, but they always find the time to argue about the exploits of Harrigan.
“He did too,” said Robert. “There’s a picture of it right over there,” pointing over William’s shoulder, “couldn’t be any clearer.”
“Hey lame brain, Harrigan is just pointing at the pitcher, not the center field bleachers.”
“Is too.”
“Not.”
“Ok then, where did he hit the very next pitch?”
“In the center field bleachers, but that’s not where he was pointing.”
“Are you two going to have breakfast, or do you want me to bring out the gloves?” said Carol.
“I’ll have the special with wheat toast,” said Robert. “Say Bill, why don’t we let Carol have the deciding vote on this.”
“Oh no, I’m not taking sides just orders. What’ll it be Billy?”
“I’m in the mood for something sweet,” said William, as he winked at Carol.
“As long as it’s on the menu.”
“Ok, I’ll settle for a waffle and sausage links, then.”
“Be right up, boys.”
Carol put the order in, and walked over to another customer. He wasn’t one of the regulars. Wearing a three piece suit and well groomed, she assumed he was probably one of the many salesmen that came through Baxter.
“Coffee?” Carol asked.
“Yes, with a little cream. Say maam, do those two always carry on like that?”
“No, only when there together,” said Carol. “Seriously, they love each other dearly. But they have different opinions on almost everything. They’re brothers believe it or not, and both widowers. Bob, facing you, is a retired minister and Bill is an atheist. Go figure.”
“Here’s one for you,” said William. “If there is a God, then why did he make spiders?”
“Spiders kill a lot of other worse insects — they serve a purpose,” said Robert.
“I’d rather have the other insects. And, if that’s your logic, then why didn’t he just eliminate insects altogether?”
“I can’t give you all the answers. You’ve got to have faith that he did everything for a purpose.”
“I knew you’d come back with your pat answer.”
“Am I ever going to get you to see the light?”
“Maybe, if you could show me a little proof. Another thing, how come in biblical times, God would talk to people? Now, if someone says that they have talked to God, they’ll put them in the loony bin. Has God stopped talking or are people afraid to come forward with the news?”
“That’s a good question and observation. I wouldn’t have expected that from you,” said Robert.
The salesman came walking over. “Do you mind if I join in on your conversation? I couldn’t help but listen in. I’d like to throw in my two cents.”
“Sure sit down, ah ...” said William.
“The name is Frank — Frank Browles. I sell cattle grain, and I’m on my way to Columbus. Nice to meet both of you; I hear your brothers.”
Carol brought their orders, as the talk continued.
“That last question you asked ... is it Bill,” said Frank. Bill nodded. “I’d like to hear the answer too.” I consider myself somewhere in between you two, as far as religious beliefs go. You know, it’s very refreshing to hear someone question religion — most people are afraid they might get struck down.”
Robert took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “The reason I believe God doesn’t talk to people anymore, hmm ... how shall I put this. Well, first of all, the way I feel is definitely not shared by my church.
I think God has changed through time. Like us he has made some mistakes, but unlike us he has learned from these mistakes.
The God of the New Testament was different from the God of the Old Testament. Why, then wouldn’t it be logical to assume he has continued to change. I don’t mean the rules for salvation have altered, but I do believe God has stopped micro-managing and has given us total free will to please or displease him.”
“I can see why the church wouldn’t be too crazy about that explanation, but I like it,” said Frank.
“And why were on the subject of God,” said William. “Why does he possess the very quality he condemns in us?”
“And what would that be?” said Robert.
“To demand that everyone worship him.”
“That’s a good point,” said Frank, “I never thought of it that way.”
“It’s your Christian responsibility to worship the one true deity,” said Robert. “He expects our unconditional love and respect. William, you can’t compare man with God.”
“Ok, ok enough with the sermon,” said William, turning his attention to Frank, “sometimes he gets carried away. So Frank, what do you think of our little restaurant?”
“I love it. I’ll have to make it a regular stop on my Columbus run. I’m a big fan of Harrigan, and if you want to know what I think about that picture? I’ll tell you. No offense, Bill, but I think he was pointing to the center field bleachers.
“He’s right.” The answer came from across the room — his deep husky voice matched his physical appearance. He was at least six foot two and maybe two hundred and twenty pounds.
He took off his newsboy hat and white trench coat, and came over to the brothers’ table.
“Can I join the group?”
Everyone at the table was in shock, as was Carol and everyone else in the diner. It was unmistakable. The big, round, jovial face could belong to nobody else.
Finally, Robert said, “Sure sit down. Oh, Carol, we got another party here.”
Carol came running over to take the stranger’s order. She couldn’t help but stand there staring.
“Four eggs over easy, a stack of pancakes, bacon and coffee,” said the big man. “That should hold me for a while.”
“Are you who we think you are?” said William.
“You can’t be ... “ said Robert.
“Yes I can — Harrigan, that’s me.”
“But, aren’t you — you know ... “ said Frank.
“Dead? Right again. Sixty years last week.”
“Why did you come here?” asked Robert.
“Well, I have a lot of fond memories from my first visit, and I just had to see the Harrigan museum in person.
Of course there was another reason,” as he pointed at the Bailey brothers. “Listening in on your conversations about me and religion over the years — well, I thought you deserved to be privy to a little top secret information.”
“So, you actually were pointing to the bleachers in that World Series game?” asked William.
Harrigan nodded.
“That’s not what he meant,” said Robert. “He’s got much more serious matters to discuss — am I right?”
“That you are.”
“Before we get into the heavy stuff, I’ve got to know something,” said Frank. “Do you play ball up there, or where ever?”
“Sure do, almost every day. Nicest ball parks you ever saw.”
“Are all the hall-of-famers there?” asked William.
“Pretty much, except for Cobb and few other S.O.B.s, but most of the players are the guys who never made it. It is sort of a fantasy league — I guess that’s what you would call it. There’s no money at stake; everyone plays for the fun of it.”
Harrigan’s food arrived, and he dug right in. “Boy, this is just as good as the chow upstairs.”
“I’ll tell the cook,“ said Carol, not really believing this was happening.
“So big guy let us hear some of this top secret information you promised us,” said Robert.
As a matter of fact, Robert, it was the big guy who arranged this visit. It seems what you said earlier is very close to the truth. God has let humanity pretty much run itself, and frankly, they’re making a mess of things. So, he’s having some folks like me, I guess you would call us celebrities from the past, come down and set the issue straight on the hereafter.”
“And what would that be, exactly?” asked Robert.
“Basically, to get people to understand that the road to salvation isn’t as complicated as all the religions want them to believe.”
“You know, I’ve never been comfortable with the Christian rules of salvation,” said Carol, who was making her coffee refills.
“The rules to salvation are simple,” said Robert. “Accept Christ as your savior. That’s it.”
“That always bothered me,” said Frank. “How does anyone really know if they are sincere? How do they know if it took? I mean, I accepted Christ once, and I felt no sudden rush of warmth — no bells and whistles, nothing.”
“And what about the people — the really evil people who on their death-bed accept Christ, do they go to heaven?”
“If it is really that simple,” said William. “Then why does Christianity have so many different religions within it?”
“That’s where it does get complicated,” said Robert. “The different religions stress more importance on certain bible passages. So even if you have acquired salvation by accepting Christ you may improve your heavenly state by meeting additional requirements. You see ...”
“Robert, I’m afraid I must interrupt you,” said Harrigan. You may be saying what you think is correct — what you’ve been told over and over, but what I’m going to say is correct.
Sixty years ago, my opinion of the afterlife or what is required to attain a membership, would have been just that — an opinion, like any other mortal.” Grabbing Robert and William’s forearms in unison with his powerful hands, Harrigan continued. “What I tell you now is not coming from an apparition, this body is as real as yours, but unlike yours it will remain healthy and young for eternity.
I know from experience, not speculation, what the great beyond is like, and the price of admission.
Robert, this may shake your religious foundations a bit. You see, all God ever wanted from humanity was for them to get along and love each other. Just follow the Golden Rule. It’s been around for four thousand years, endorsed by everyone from Confucius to Jesus to Gandhi; it is as simple as that. No baptismal, no holy water, no confessional, no prayer rituals, and most of all no religions, all that is necessary is for everyone to treat others as they would want to be treated.
Everyone thinks that their religion or belief is right and everyone else is wrong. God loves all people — Christians, Hindus, Jews, Muslims, even atheists.
Do you believe, with his infinite abilities and unlimited love, he would send someone to hell for choosing the wrong religion? That would be tantamount to a cruel game of “Let’s Make A Deal”: What’s behind door number three, Robert?
Don’t look for salvation in a book written by man. Look within yourself — are you pleased with what you see? Have your personal interactions been unselfish and respectful? Just remember to live one day at a time, doing the best you can. What more can anyone ask of you? Salvation isn’t decided by a rule or a set of instructions. It is a just a natural event that follows a very normal life.
Robert looked at Harrigan, and reflected for a few moments, before speaking. “What you have said makes everything seem so simple — so logical — even more important, so fair, but it’s a little hard to swallow, after all these years.”
Harrigan leaned over and hugged Robert. “God never meant the afterlife to be shrouded in such mystery.”
It certainly makes good sense to me, being rewarded for your actions instead of your words,” said Frank.
“And now I know why it was so hard to stay awake,” said William, looking at Robert, “when I did attend some of your sermons.”
“And why was that?” asked Robert.
“Because, God was trying to tell me it was a lot of hooey.”
“You could have phrased it a little better,” said Robert, but I guess I can see your point. It’s just that the church’s teachings always seemed like the best option.
“So, you’re telling us to make good choices, and respect the rights of others,” said William.
“That’s it in a nutshell,” said Harrigan. “People should trust that little mechanism in the pit of their stomach — call it conscience, soul, whatever, that tells them if they’re doing the right thing.”
“Does hell really exist,” asked Robert.
“Not in the way its been portrayed,” said Harrigan. “The early church leaders used it very effectively to keep their membership intact — when you think about it, without the threat of going to hell, what would keep people coming to church?
Hell is what too many unfortunate people experience every day right here on earth. In the afterlife, the unworthy are put to good use doing community service. Before they are entitled to the privileges, they have to work off their sins against humanity — some for a short period and others for a very long time. You’ll see a lot of defense attorneys, politicians, and superstars digging ditches and working in the fields when you get there.”
“Boy, I can’t wait,” said William.
“So, how can we make a difference?” asked Robert.
“You boys have already made a difference. You may be on opposite ends of the religious spectrum, but you have both followed the Golden Rule all your lives. In leading by example, you have unknowingly put many on the right path.
If only the politicians could figure out that a philosophy of: do as I do, works so much better than do as I say.”
Finishing up the last of his pancakes, and taking one last swallow of coffee, Harrigan pulled out a notebook and made several check marks. “I’ve got a lot more stops to make — a few like here to congratulate, but most to give out some hard advice.”
“No one is going to believe we had a visit from you,” said Frank.
“The only thing you will retain from this experience will be the truth about salvation. Your knowledge of me, I’m afraid, will return to only what history has recorded.
I thoroughly enjoyed my stay. Until we meet again, God bless you all.”
With that said, Harrigan got up, and seemingly unnoticed, put on his hat and coat and left.
“What were we talking about?” said William. “Oh yeah, I remember. Frank, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong too. Harrigan wasn’t pointing at the bleachers.”
“Give up already, you’ll never settle this,” said Carol, unless Harrigan, himself, shows up.
Everyone, “Ha, ha,ha ......”

Trippin in Tijuana

It was early Monday morning; I was drunk and stoned. I was sitting in the back seat of a taxi, smoking a cig as I enjoyed the Mariachi music that was blaring from the taxi’s radio.
After going through the border crossing checkpoint, we crossed over into Mexico and got on a highway: a highway that clearly showed the poverty of the city we were entering.
As we cruised along, I enjoyed looking at the poor people and their poor city; because it made me appreciate all the luxuries I had in my life. But I didn’t get to enjoy my poverty sightseeing for too long. Because not long after we got on the Mexican highway, the driver put the pedal to the metal and made the beat-up 65 Chevy fly down the beat-up roadway. He was driving like a lunatic; aggressively swerving around the other lunatic drivers who were driving just as crazy as he was: they all were apparently in the same chaotic race, and they all apparently wanted to win.
As we sped down the road, I thought, Wow, hundreds of people must die on this highway every year; maybe every month; I’m probably going to become one of them.
To add to the taxi driver’s insane driving, there was the conditions of the road. The roadway was filled with mechanical debris and trash; but the huge potholes were the worst. And after hitting a few of the holes, I didn’t think we would make it a mile down the road.
It all was a trip; I felt like I was in a video game, and I think the driver did too. And after my mind, which was blurred by drugs and alcohol, brushed aside the knowledge that I could meet instant-death at any moment, I started to enjoy the ride. I put my head out the window and I screamed into the fast wind, “Ándale! Ándale! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
I put my head back in the car. “Woo, this is fun. This is living!”
After cutting off a car, the driver turned down the volume of the radio. With one hand on the wheel and one on the top of the passenger’s seat, he turned back and smiled at me. “Si, Fun! Yi yi yi YEEEEEEEEE Eh Eh Eh Eh Eh YA YA YA YA YA YAAAAAAAEEEEEE!”
His scream startled me, and it showed me that he was enjoying life. He was pumped up! He was ready; no doubt.
After letting out the last of his war cry, he turned back around, turned his radio back up, and put his attention back to driving his death trap.
When we arrived at the hotel the driver quickly pulled his race car right in front of the hotel’s office. After slamming on his brakes, we skidded to a complete stop. Then he looked back at me and smiled. He said something in Spanish. I didn’t understand one word he said, but I knew he was asking for the taxi fare. I pulled a joint from my cig pack and waved it in the air. “Si, mi amigo?”
He handed me a lighter. “Si, si, mi amigo.”
I smiled. Then I ran the joint under my nose while I sniffed it. “Now here’s a language we both speak.”
We passed the joint back and forth to each other until it was smoked. Then the driver put out his hand. I didn’t now how much to pay him. We were experiencing a communication problem; one that really mattered because of the money factor. I came up with an idea. I put several peso bills in my hand and put my hand out towards him. He took most of the bills from my hand. I didn’t know if he took too many or not, but I didn’t care. I figured he got me to the hotel alive, and that was worth more then money.
I got out of his taxi and he quickly peeled away. I figured he was in a hurry to get back to the race.
Before going to the hotel’s office, I looked over my drug deal instructions.
After going over the instructions, I went to the hotel’s office; which was like a bank’s drive-thru window. It had thick bulletproof glass window, and a hole at the bottom of it used to make hand exchanges; it also had a couple of bullet holes in it; so I guess it wasn’t really bulletproof.
I asked the clerk if he spoke English. He gave me a big toothless grin. “Si, amigo.”
I told him I had a reservation and I handed him my fake I.D. He looked it over and then passed it back. He seemed like he knew something was up with me and the hotel room. But I didn’t know if he was on my team or not, because the instructions didn’t say anything about a toothless hotel clerk.
He shot me another toothless grin. Then he pushed an empty tequila bottle that had a key connected to it, through the exchange hole. I grabbed the bottle. Then he pointed toward a row of garages. I said, “Gracias.”
He smiled his toothless grin.
I found the garage door with the same number that was on the tequila bottle. I opened up the garage. Once inside the garage, I closed the garage door quickly. Then I went up some stairs that led to the room.
After getting situated in the room, I pulled my bag of meth from my book bag and I started snorting lines. In between snorting lines, I called the phone number that, Juan, my employer, told me I would have to call after I got to the hotel. It was one of his Mexican associates. They answered the phone. “Bueno.”
I hesitated. I froze. I was nervous. I couldn’t get the code words out of my mouth. But after a few moments of hesitation, I got the words out. “Ya es tiempo.”
I hung up the phone after telling them ‘it is time’. Then I just started pacing around the room as I waited for the contact to arrive. As I paced around the room I would glance out the window every time I went by it. I’d take breaks from my pacing, so I could snort some more meth. I would sit on the bed, do a few lines, then I would jump up, and make a round around the room. I kept up the same routine for a couple hours; chain smoking cigs all the while.
About an hour later, I heard three car horn honks: the signal that my contact was ready for me to let them in the garage. I looked out the window and seen an old beat up Impala. I went down to the garage and opened the garage door. The Impala pulled in and I shut the garage door. Then I prepared to greet the driver. I expected to see a macho, tough looking bandito strut from the Impala. Instead, a beautiful Mexican woman with long brown hair, got out of the car. She had short shorts on and a top that was more like a bra. She had a great body, and she wasn’t leaving much to the imagination. While looking at her, I thought, She definitely wasn’t in the instructions, I would have remembered reading about her.
She smiled at me. “Hola, gringo, yo habla espanol?”
“Si, poco espanol. Como estas hermosa senorita?”
She smiled again. “Bien, gringo, bien, gracias.”
I knew I couldn’t have a conversation with her in Spanish, but I hoped that she was impressed with the little Spanish I spoke. I asked her, “Yo habla ingles?”
Again she smiled. And with her thick accent, she said, “Sure do, gringo.”
I felt a relief. And I wasn’t offended at all that she kept calling me gringo: I was a gringo.
I said, “My name is Rufus and I liked to invite you up for a drink.”
“My name is Tia, and I liked to come up for drink. How old, Rufus?”
“I’m 21.”
“Where from?”
“Born and raised in San Diego.”
“Beach dude, cute. Blonde hair gets plenty of sun...you have nice body?”
“Yea, I think I do...”
She let out a cute giggle. “You don’t know?”
I blushed. “Yea, I mean, I don’t know. I guess I’m a pretty modest person.”
“I like that in guy. Like your blue eyes, too, the ocean, I see.”
I blushed again. “Cool...I mean thanks.”
“So, is first time in TJ?”
“Yea, it is.”
She flashed her cute smile. “Better get to business.”
“Drinks first, alright, ok...”
“Sure, gracias.”
I grabbed her hand and led her up to the room.
When we got to the room we sat across from each other at a table that was near the room’s bed. I poured the vodka and orange juice in a couple of hotel cups, then I stirred the drinks with my middle finger, because I didn’t take the time to look for something else to stir the drinks with. After using my finger as a stirrer, I realized I shouldn’t have put my dirty finger in her drink, but it was too late; I couldn’t turn back time. I just hoped she would still drink her drink. I hoped she wasn’t afraid of my germs. I hoped she wasn’t offended by my inconsiderate rudeness. I hoped she would sleep with me.
I pushed her glass towards her. She smiled. “Screwdriver?”
My sick mind thought about her saying the word screw. I said, “Yes, a screwdriver. Do you like screwdrivers?”
“Yes...I do.”
I smiled. Then I lifted my cup for a cheers. Tia tapped my cup with hers, then she took a small sip while I took a huge gulp.
I was trying to be a gentlemen, but my nature prevented me from pulling the act off. After taking my big gulp, some of my drink ran down my chin and onto my shirt.
She giggled. “So you know, several kilos in the trunk of car. After I leave, 2 guys come here, honk three times like me, and do rest of business, ok?”
“Yea, that’s all in the instructions.”
“Instructions?”
“Yea, Juan thinks I have trouble remembering things.”
I handed her the piece of paper that had the instructions written on it.. She looked them over, then she giggled.
I laughed. “Yea, I’m an idiot.”
After about an hour of talking and drinking, I asked if she wanted to snort some meth. “No, no...my beauty, no mess up.”
“Yea, you sure are beauty...I mean beautiful.”
She giggled.
I started to stare into her beautiful eyes: they were mesmerizing. While I got lost in her eyes, I thought of Titty: my former cellmate at Stolsom Prison, a self-proclaimed Casanova, a convict who had spent fifty of his years inside of prisons, an elderly Mexican man who had saggy, man-titties; hence his nickname. Titty had told me that Mexican women were great lovers. I believed him, but I told him I would have to see for myself. He encouraged me to do so when I got my freedom back. Well, I was free, and ready to see for myself.
As I gazed at her, she gazed back at me; keeping her beautiful smile on her face the whole time. I knew she was reading my mind: something else Titty told me that Mexican women were capable of doing. Titty was a wise man, but I had to get him out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about his wisdom or his titties anymore, I wanted to think about Tia’s titties. Her tits were beautiful, firm, and shaped perfectly.
I took my eyes off her eyes. I looked at her tits. I smiled.
She smiled back at me. “Want to lay with me on bed, Rufus?”
“Yea... yea I do.”
I knew she was reading my mind.
We both laid on the bed next to each other with our backs against the wall. Then I pulled a joint from my cig pack and I fired it up. I took a hit and passed the joint to her. She put it in her mouth as she climbed on top of me. While sitting on my prick, with her smooth legs resting against my hairy legs, she puffed on the joint. She took about three hits, and after every hit, she blew the smoke in my face. I loved the smell of weed, so it didn’t bother me at all that she was blowing it in my face; it was kinky.
After blowing smoke at me, she put the joint in the ashtray. Then she took off all of her clothes; which only took her about 10 seconds. Her naked body was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I was quickly aroused. And she quickly exposed my arousal by frantically ripping off all my clothes.
I just laid on my back for two hours straight as she did all the work. It was the best sex I had ever had.
After we finished we got dressed and sat back at the table. I made 2 more screwdrivers, and she started sipping again and I started gulping again. We had a great after-sex conversation. She told me more about her life and I told her more about mine: something that odd people do before they have sex.
While I was telling Tia about my time in prison, I thought about Titty. And I accidentally said something out loud that I really just wanted to say in my mind, “Titty was right...TITTY WAS RIGHT!”
Tia gave me a confused look. I explained to her what Titty told me about Mexican women. She said, “Now know for yourself, right.”
“Yes...yes I do.”
She smiled. “Have to go. Nice meeting you.”
I didn’t want her to leave.
She called the front desk and started talking to the desk clerk in Spanish. After she hung up the phone she gathered her stuff. Then I walked her down to the garage. When we got to the garage door, I said, “Will I ever see you again?”
She smiled. “Maybe, hope so. I like you. Got to go, taxi.”
I opened the garage’s door. She gave me a passionate kiss good bye and then she started walking away. I watched her beautiful ass move from side to side until she was out of sight; then I went back to the room.
When I got back to the room I laid on the bed and started smoking a cig.. I was still feeling real great from the sex with Tia. I was relaxed, but I was speeding too, so I was feeling awkwardly relaxed.
After awhile of laying on the bed and thinking about Tia, I got up and made myself another screwdriver; and after slamming it, I did some lines of meth. Then I started chain smoking cigs as I paced the room. I started to tweak from all the meth I was doing. I was getting really paranoid and anxious. And after about 50 laps around the room, I heard 3 honks. I thought, Three is the magic number.
I looked out the window and seen another beat up Chevy Impala. I went down to the garage and opened up the garage door. Two tough looking guys got out of the car and then the Impala pulled away. The tough guys introduced themselves as friends of Juan. I told them Juan was my friend too. Then we all walked in the garage.
Once we were in the garage they told me it would take them about 2 hours to put the dope from the trunk into the tires. I nodded my head. Then they suggested I go to a bar in downtown Tijuana, while they were putting the dope in the tires. I thought it was a good idea, so I told them I would.
I went up to the room and I grabbed my book bag, but I left my meth and pot under the bed’s mattress. But before I put the meth underneath the mattress, I snorted about five lines. Then I grabbed the tequila bottle key chain and I went back down to the garage. I told the guys I would be back in two hours. They nodded their heads. I walked out of the garage, and they closed the garage door behind me.
I went to the clerk and I asked him to get me a taxi. He showed me his toothless grin. “Si, taxi. No problemo.”
“Mucho gracias.”
All of sudden I started hallucinating. The toothless clerk’s face became blurry. I wanted the hallucinations to stop. I didn’t want to see blurry faces on my trip to the bar. I looked away from the clerk. I looked at the beautiful blue sky. I closed my eyes and thought about how fast my life would pass me by, and how there was nothing I could do about it. I opened my eyes and I looked back at the clerk. His face was back to normal. I said, “Audios.”
“Audios, careful out there.”
“Yea... I will.”
I walked out to the street to wait for the taxi.
I was tweaking harder and harder from the meth, and I was getting really paranoid about everything. I smoked cig after cig as I waited for the taxi.
As I was waiting, I saw two women talking to a taxi driver that was stationed under a tree across the street from where I was standing. I figured he was waiting for someone. As I peered over at the taxi, I noticed the women trying to wave me over. I hollered at them, “No gracias.”
I figured the young ladies were trying to tell me the taxi was available, but I wanted to wait for the taxi the clerk had called for me. Because I thought the women could be trying to setup me up for a robbery, or maybe a good time, and I wasn’t in the mood for either.
I continued to stand in the hot summer weather as I waited for my taxi. My tweaking continued to intensify, and I continued to chain smoke cigs as I watched all the poor, skinny kids play in and around the streets near the hotel. Some of the kids got close enough to where I could see their young, dirty faces that showed their suffering. But where I could really see their sadness, was in their eyes. It made me sad to think about what they probably had to go through, because I knew I couldn’t do anything to help them; and apparently my rich country couldn’t either. I wanted to start hallucinating again so their faces would become blurred: so I wouldn’t have to see their lives in their eyes.
As I pondered about the poor kids lives, all of a sudden a Mexican cop car rolled up on me with it’s flashers on. In San Diego my natural reaction would have been to run, but I knew better to run from Mexican police; who I knew were aggressive towards American tourists.
I was stunned by the cop’s quick appearance from nowhere. If I would have had shit in my digestive system, it would have came out. But instead of shitting my pants, my shock caused my lips to let go of the cig I had hanging in my mouth.
The cops pulled within inches of my legs. I didn’t know what to do; so I didn’t do anything. I just watched the two cops get out of the car and aggressively approach me. I started freaking out as I watched the cops march towards me. I thought I was going to have a panic attack. I quickly thought why the cops could have possibly been called on me, and when I couldn’t think of any reason. I thought, Maybe instead of calling me a taxi for me...the toothless son-of-a-bitch called the cops for me.
As the cops approached me, I started sweating profusely from the combination of the weather and the sudden pressure put on me by the cops interference in my life. I thought they were going to arrest me right away, and bust me for the drugs that were in my hotel room’s garage. My mind was racing. I was tripping. I prepared to get arrested. I had a feeling that I was in a situation that was going to lead to many more bad situations. I knew what happened to gringos in Mexican jails. I knew what happened to Mexicans in Mexican jails. I was terrified by my thoughts.
In perfect English, one of the cops told me to put my hands on the hood of their car. I tensed up as I put my hands on their car’s black hood. My hands started burning; I didn’t think I was going to be able to keep them on the hood. But I thought if I took them off I might get shot. So my suffering had started.
They didn’t handcuff me right away, so I thought maybe they didn’t know about the drugs I was harboring. The cop that was doing all the talking, started harassing me right away. “Listen very clearly to every word I say. You don’t, I’ll beat your ass. Got it?”
“Yea, for sure.” I said.
“My name is Officer Kick-Your-Ass. And my partners name is none of your business. Now, put your book bag on the hood of the car.”
“Alright, no problemo.”
“Don’t problemo me, gringo.”
I took off my book bag and put it on the hood of the car. “Officer Kick-Your-Ass”, who’s partner was staying silent as death, told me to empty out my pockets and put everything I had in them on the hood of the car.
“No, sir... I mean no problem, sir.”
Both cops gave a mean look.
The first thing I pulled from my pocket was the bottle key chain that was hanging half way out of my pocket. I put it on the car’s hood. After putting it on the hood, I realized the cops would know, if they didn’t already know because of the fact that I was standing across the street from the hotel, that I was staying at the hotel.
After momentarily stalling to think about the realization the hotel key gave me, I continued to empty my pockets. I put my pack of cigs, my lighter, and my Mexican money on the hood of the car. Then I told the cops my pocket were empty. Then they frisked me and checked all my pockets. They seemed satisfied I didn’t have anything else on me, so they told me to sit on the hood and relax.
How could I fucking relax; the assholes.
They dumped the contents of my book bag out on the hood of their car. They sorted through the stuff, and that’s when they found my small pocket knife. Kick-Your-Ass looked at it as he held it in his hand. He said, “Deadly weapon...illegal in Mexico.”
I thought, A knife... illegal in Mexico...what the fuck. But I wasn’t ready to argue with them about anything.
I nervously gulped before telling him that I didn’t know it was illegal to bring a knife into Mexico. They both shook their heads. Then they continued to look through all the stuff that was in my book bag.
After they sorted through the rest of my possessions, Kick-Your-Ass started to shoot rapid fire questions at me. He was really putting pressure on me; which increased my anxiety even more. I tried to think of a way out of the situation. I knew the Mexican cops were notorious for taking bribes, but I wasn’t ready to offer them one.
The terrifying questioning started.
Kick-Your-Ass said, “You on drugs? Take off your sun glasses.”
I slowly took off my sun glasses; in order to buy a little time so I could decide if I should lie or not.
He raised his voice and asked me the question again.
“No, officer Kick-My-Ass, I’m not on drugs.”
He grabbed my throat and started squeezing my trachea. “You being smart with me.”
I shook my head, because I couldn’t talk while his hand was choking me; I could barely breath.
He let go of his death grip.
While I tried to regain my breath and composure, I thought to myself about my answer about being on drugs, Fuck, the white of my eyes are probably solid red... I’m clearly on drugs, and they will know it...I’m dead...I’m dead...what have I got myself into...FUCK!
Kick-Your-Ass put his hand on my shoulder. “Ok, then you won’t mind taking a drug test.”
I knew I would fail a drug test, so I admitted I was on drugs. I said to the cop, “Lo siento, sir, I have lied to you. I have been taking some drugs today.”
Just like with Tia, I hoped the cops would respect me more for my ability to use some of their native tongue; though, it seemed he didn’t. I thought Tia did, though; she treated me great.
Kick-Your-Ass gave me a mean look. “I don’t like liars. Don’t lie to me again, gringo! Or I’ll slam your ass on the concrete and break every bone in your body.”
“Lo siento, I won’t lie again.”
He looked at my fake I.D. Then he asked me what kind of work I did in America. I lied again. I told him I did construction work. Then he aggressively grabbed my hand and felt it for calluses: something a construction worker would surely have.
I thought I was caught in another lie: my hands were smooth. I thought I was dead. I thought my bones were going to be broken; all of them.
Kick-Your-Ass might have been a prick, but he was no dummy. He knew how to interrogate someone. He knew how to put fear in someone.
Luckily, he didn’t accuse me of lying about being a construction worker. But he almost caught me in another lie. “What are you doing in Mexico.” Said Kick-Your-Ass.
I thought, Great fucking question...what the fuck am I doing in Mexico...I didn’t come here for this...if get out of this situation, I’m never coming back...the odds are against me here....and this fucking cop knows how to ask every question that will cause me to lie to him.
I lied again. “I’m just visiting, sir. You have a great country here.”
“No bullshit, you think we have a nice country here... I no where I live, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
I was really freaking out when I thought about all the lies I was telling the cop who didn’t like liars. But I knew, unless he knew about the drugs already, he wouldn’t know for sure if I was lying or not about just visiting Mexico.
After asking me the question about what I was doing in Tijuana, the two cops walked a few feet away and had a little chat in Spanish. When they finished their chat they approached me again. They started telling me again about how the knife was illegal to have in Mexico. That they were going to have to take me to jail.
As soon as I heard the word jail, I started pleading with them. “Lo siento, lo siento! I didn’t know I couldn’t bring a knife into Mexico. HONEST!”
“DON”T YELL AT ME! It’s going to be jail for you. It will cost you 4,000 pesos to get out.”
“I only have about 200 pesos, sir. I won’t be able to get out.”
“You should have thought about that before you brought a knife in to this WONDERFUL country your in.”
“Please, please, please. Honestly, I didn’t know I couldn’t have a knife here.”
The cops looked at each other. I looked at all the sweat on my arms. A few moments later, Kick-Your-Ass said, “You seem like a nice guy. We might be able to give you a break.”
He lifted up my peso bills from the hood of the car. I knew what he was hinting at. I told him I would be really grateful for the break, but I didn’t want to be accused of bribing him. “I wouldn’t want to bribe you, but what can I do.”
He put my money in his pockets. “You can have a nice day.”
Before he gave me back my liberty, he double checked my wallet to make sure I wasn’t holding out. Then he said, “You have no worries. Put your stuff in your book bag and pockets and just walk away.”
I quickly filled my book bag and my pockets with my stuff, except for my pocket knife, which I left on the hood of their car. Then I started to walk away from the cops. I got a few feet away from them and I turned and said, “Mucho gracias, mucho gracias.”
They both smiled. Then they got back in their car, but they didn’t pull away.
I had never been more relived in my life to walk away from other humans: humans who abused their power in order to get a little money. I was experiencing the greatest relief I had ever felt. I felt like it was all meant to be, everything played out the way it was suppose to. I felt the same way I did when I was released from prison: finally free to go on with my life.
Instead of going back to the hotel room, I decided to go to a bar. I didn’t want to go back to the hotel room because I feared other cops might be there waiting to bust me at the room where the drugs were. So I just started walking away.
As I walked away, I wanted to look back to see if the cops were gone, but I just looked straight ahead.
About 5 minutes later, I made it to a street that I thought for sure I would get mugged on. I was in bad shape geographically and physically. My shirt was drenched with sweat, I was dehydrated from the meth, my leg muscles hurt, and I was really thirsty. I didn’t think I’d make it much further; but I inherited some never give up will power from my Dad; so I was able to stay strong mentally and physically.
I kept walking non-stop down the dangerous streets. I did not want to stop for any reason. As I walked down the streets I encountered people; luckily, no muggers. Everybody was staring at me like I was from a different planet; I felt like I was from a different planet. I greeted people with, ‘Como estas’. Most replied with, ‘Bien’ or ‘hola’; some ignored me completely. Though most people were being really friendly, some people looked at me like I was crazy: I was crazy. They easily detected my insanity; it was hard to miss. I figured only the other crazy people were the only ones who couldn’t see my insanity.
About an hour after I started my insane trek, I got to a sidewalk right next to the major highway. I could tell I was near the border because of the massive traffic congestion. I could have tried to make it to the border, but I wanted to eventually get back to the hotel to check if my money was there. I was gambling big time. My greed drive was in overdrive, and I chose to try to get money instead of trying to get home.
I decided to take a taxi the rest of the way to the bar, but I reached in my pocket and I realized I had no money after paying off the cops. Luckily, I found a guy who spoke English. I asked him if he thought a taxi driver would take me to an ATM machine. He told me he could get me one who would. He also gave me a bottle of water for free. I drank the whole bottle in about 5 seconds. I thanked the guy over and over for giving me the water.
About ten minutes later the taxi was there to pick me up. I thanked the kind, generous man who helped me survive. Then I hopped in the taxi’s front seat; because the driver’s whole family was in the back seat. I waved goodbye to my new friend as we pulled away from the curb.
By the time we got to the ATM machine it was getting dark outside. The location of the ATM machine could not have not been in a worse place; unless it would have been in a prison’s cell block. It was on a corner of street that should have been named Mugger’s Paradise. There were dark alleys all around, no cops walking around, and about ten people walking around with hooded jackets on. I was counting on getting mugged.
I got out of the car and went to the ATM. The ATM machine was tough to figure out because it was totally in Spanish. I kept trying to figure it out as the driver kept hollering at me to hurry up, because he obviously knew I was in a perfect position to get robbed. It was taking me a long time to figure how to get money out of the ATM machine. I was giving the muggers, who were smoking there last crack-rock and were going to be in need for more money to buy more rocks, the extra time they needed to get to where I was so they could rob me. Luckily, I finally got two hundred American dollars out of the fucking machine. I quickly got back in the taxi, just as I seen a few hooded thugs walking towards me. Fate’s timing was perfect; I wasn’t supposed to get mugged.
I jumped back in the car and we sped off. I told him to take me to a grocery store. We got to the store and I told the driver I would be back out in a minute.
I walked through the door of the parallel universe. It was a trip. I felt like I didn’t belong: I didn’t belong. It looked similar to American grocery stores, just without any Americans in it. I got a big bottle of water. I also bought some candy for the taxi driver’s kids. I paid for the stuff. Then the cashier gave me a receipt and I walked toward the exit.
Before I got out of the store I drank the whole bottle of water. I walked back to the aisle with the bottled water and grabbed another bottle. I paid the cashier for the water. She gave me another receipt.
I got back in the taxi and I told the driver to take me to a bar. As we pulled away I asked the driver if it was alright if I gave his kids some candy; he told me it was alright. I gave them the candy and they munched it down quick. I gave his wife a candy bar too.
We got to the bar and I paid the driver. The taxi quickly pulled away. I looked around at my new surroundings. The rulers of darkness were all around. With about a hundred eyes on me, I walked into the bar.
I sat at the bar and I started drinking a beer. While I drank, I started thinking about the decisions I was going to have to make; the ones that were either going to get me jailed, killed, or back home. I had to decide whether or not to go back to the hotel and see if my money was there, or to take a taxi straight back to San Diego and forget about the money.
I kept drinking beer after beer while I puffed on cig after cig. I really wanted to smoke some weed to help calm my nerves and to feed my dependency. I knew I could find some to buy in the bar, and I didn’t have to wait to long until I got an opportunity to buy a joint. Several guys approached me with joints for sale. I bought two. I didn’t want to go outside and smoke the joint, so I asked the bartender, who spoke English, if I could smoke weed at the bar. He told me I could, so I fired up one of the joints. I had my beer in my left hand and a joint in my right hand. I was enjoying myself again.
I felt much better after I smoked the joint. I was also beginning to feel drunk. The already interesting bar scene became even more interesting. I felt comfortable in my temporary home.
After thousands of more moments chugging beer and looking at myself in the mirror that was behind the bar, I turned my bar stool around to see what was going on behind me. And what caught my attention first was the table full of Mexican women; that I was sure were all prostitutes. One of the young ladies in particular caught my eye. She had long dyed blond hair, which contrasted her long black eyelashes. She was looking really sexy. She gave me a couple glances, along with a couple smiles as she walked around her table of fellow employees. I knew her glances and smiles didn’t make me special. I knew she was just looking for some money.
I had a beautiful girl just across the border in America to satisfy me sexually, but I was really craving some female company; and I just couldn’t wait until I got home: if I got home. I thought, I’ll just talk to her...I just need a female around me...She could just talk to me...I could pay her for that.
I waved the beautiful fake-blonde over to me. She slowly walked towards me, looking sexier with every step she took. She got to me and gently put her hand on my shoulder. I asked her if she spoke English. She smiled. “I sure do, gringo.”
She took a seat next to me at the bar. I smiled and said, “Wow, I have only been here one day and I have been called a gringo about 10 times.”
She laughed. “Don’t take offense, we are just used to referring to you as gringos.”
“Oh, well, no offense taking then.”
We continued to talk as I drank more beer and she just watched me drink. While I made my mind more capable of making bad decisions, I decided whether or not to let the blonde senorita get paid by me: for something more then just talking to me. I always told myself I would never pay to have a women touch me where it counted, but the blonde senorita was too tempting. She was touching me with magic fingers; slowly running them down my face as she stared into my eyes. Her luring charm was irresistible
I put out my hand and my pretty blonde companion took my hand and guided me to a back room of the bar.
The back room just had a dirty mattress on the floor and a table with a candle on it. We laid on the mattress and she went to work. I watched the bugs crawl on the floor while she pleasured me. It was a trip: a quick trip.
After she finished her job, I said to her, “Mucho gracias para su tiempo.”
I handed her some money. She smiled. “Bienvinido, Me gusta gringos.”
I went back to the bar and she went back to her table. I ordered another beer as I watched her shoot glances at other guys in the bar. I thought, What was her name...What did I just do...Was it worth it.
My thoughts made me feel like a sexually-dirty, drunk loser: I was a drunk loser, but I was having fun. I was celebrating my escape from the terrorizing cops. I was living in The Now.
I started thinking about my next moves. I figured the cops had to be either done busting my associates at the hotel room, or my associates didn’t get busted at all. I figured if they didn’t get busted there was a chance they left the money they owed me. So I decided to go back to the hotel room to see if the money was there.
I was ready to leave the bar. I was out-of-my-mind drunk. I walked away from the bar, and as I did, the blonde senorita I had fun with waved bye to me. I smiled at her as I staggered towards the exit. Again, I thought, What was her name!
Once I was outside the bar I was quickly surrounded by the shady people of Tijuana’s street nightlife. The dealers, the pimps, the prostitutes, and the hustlers all approached me offering some kind of deal. They were looking to make money, and I was almost broke, so I refused all their offers. Then I got in the first taxi I could flag down. After I jumped in his taxi, the driver said, “What hotel?”
I couldn’t think of the name of the hotel. I reached in my pocket and I tried to find the drug deal instructions. I couldn’t find the instructions, and I was glad I couldn’t find them. I realized if I would have had them in my pocket when the cops searched me, I would have been busted.
I didn’t know the address of the hotel, but I did know the street name. I said, “The hotel that’s on International Ave.”
The driver laughed. “There’s a lot of hotels on that street.”
I got an idea. I showed him the tequila bottle key chain. He started laughing after seeing the key chain. As he chuckled, he put the car in drive and we drove away.
We got to the hotel and I paid the driver. He quickly roared off.
As I staggered towards the hotel I looked for cops. I didn’t see any cops cars around, so I went to the room. On the way to the room I passed by the hotel’s office; it was unavoidable and necessary for me to get to the room. The toothless clerk gave me the same toothless grin he did every time he saw me. I wished I had a toothless grin to shoot back at him. But I didn’t , so I just waved. Then I pointed in the direction of my room. “Es policia?”
“No policia, me amigo.”
“Mucho gracias, me amigo.”
I walked to the garage door of my room.
And despite my careless, drunk state of mind, I was well aware of the possible consequences of opening the garage door. I slowly opened the garage door and walked in. I didn’t get arrested; I figured I was in the clear. I noticed the car was gone. Great, I thought, they got away with the drugs, or did the cops take the car.
Feeling as paranoid as a black man would after getting an invitation to a Klan meeting, I ran up the stairs that led to the room.
I got in the room and looked around. I noticed there was a paper shopping bag on the bed. I looked in the bag. There was money in it. I couldn’t believe it, but I wasn’t going to sit around and think about the welcomed surprise. I put the bag of money in my book bag. Then I pulled the mattress off the bed and found my drugs. They were in the exact spot I left them. I didn’t want any drugs on me, and I also didn’t want to leave them in the room, so I flushed the meth and pot down the toilet, then I left the hotel room.
I went to the clerk, gave him the key chain and told him I was checking out of the room. He smiled his toothless grin. “Need taxi?”
I looked right in his eyes. “Si taxi, no policia.”
He smiled his toothless grin again as he nodded his head. He called for a taxi and I waited right by the office, instead of out on the street like I did the first time he called me a taxi.
When the taxi pulled up out on the street, I smiled at the hotel clerk. “Mucho gracias, audios.”
And like always, he smiled his toothless grin at me while he waved goodbye: he was apparently a happy man who liked to smile, despite having no teeth. I didn’t know what the hotel clerk knew, but I had a strong feeling he was connected to my employer Juan.
I got in the taxi. “To America, por favor.”
The driver spoke perfect English. “Sure, no problem.”
His perfect English scared me. I thought, Is he a cop...taxi drivers don’t speak perfect English, do they?
I became very nervous. I was weary of the driver’s intentions. I didn’t know if he was going to take me home or take me to jail.
On the way to the border crossing I smoked cig after cig. I knew I still had to make it through the border crossing with all the drug money I had on me. I knew it was going to be a lottery if we made it across the border without getting stopped, and I was either going to win or lose. If I won, I would be ten grand richer and have my beautiful girlfriend Lilly back in my arms. If I lost I was going to get locked up.
It was around eleven at night when we got to the border crossing. The driver hadn’t said one word to me after he had said his first words to me. It was a terrifying ride.
We got in the line of cars and waited. As we got closer and closer to the border entrance, the drug dog’s barks got louder and louder. I wondered if they could smell drug money.
Border patrol agents were walking along side of cars peering inside car windows; before they talked to the drivers. When the agents got to the car in front of us the dogs started barking when they got to the rear of the car. The agents had the car pull to the side, then they started aggressively pulling people out of the car. Then the agents waved us pass, and we crossed onto American soil. I won the lottery.
I was ecstatic as we rolled passed the agents, but I didn’t let it show, for obvious reasons. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror just after we rolled passed the agents. He smiled at me. I didn’t know what to think of his smile, so I left my face expressionless. The driver laughed. Then he hand me a piece of paper. It was my drug deal instructions. I said, “Where did you get this?”
“Tia, gave it to me. She didn’t think you should have a document explaining what illegal activities you were doing.”
“That’s right... I let her see the instructions...wait, how do you know Tia?”
“Rufus, I know everybody that you know. I’m on your team. Now, you ready to go home?”
“Yea...FUCK YEA!”
The mysterious driver got me home safe. I gave him 1,000 dollars from my take. I said, “Tell Juan that I’m retiring from this business. Thanks for getting me home.”
“I will, and you’re welcome.”
I got out of the taxi and walked toward my apartment. Lilly came running towards me, and as she did, I thought about how I betrayed her trust.
When she reached me, she hugged and kissed me. “I missed you, Rufus.”
“I was only gone a day.”
“Yea, but it seemed like you were gone for years.”
“Well, it felt like years. And I could have been gone for years if I wouldn’t have made the right decisions.”
Lilly sneered at me. “What happened. Did you almost get arrested again?”
I kissed her forehead. “Let’s go inside. I feel dirty and I want to take a shower before we make love.”

Harry’s Bar

Yesterday, I arrived in this nowhere desert town. I found an oasis called Harry’s Bar. I drank hard and fast and got a long-lasting buzz.
I left, checked into a motel, slept, and woke up this morning. I made a long-distance call to my ex-girlfriend. She hung up on me. I walked around town and killed time until Harry’s Bar re-opened.
After midnight, I was still in Harry’s Bar, slowly drinking Johnnie Walker Red and dreaming of young beautiful women in bikinis when the two young men at the other end of the bar got into an altercation and almost killed each other. I sat on my stool and watched. Then the tall muscular blond with dark blue eyes pulled out a knife on the shorter guy. Both men were probably in their mid-twenties, pumped up on testosterone and macho bullshit. And someone was gonna get hurt.
Abruptly, I stood up and hurried toward them. “Stop!” I cried out.
The blond man turned toward me, smiled sardonically, and brandished the shiny knife. “You want a piece of this?”

He stabbed me three times before I lost consciousness. They say he strolled out of the bar with the other guy by his side. At the local hospital, they operated on me and saved my life. Afterwards, I stayed there three weeks.
Now, I’m back on the streets. I’m searching for the blond guy. I’m gonna kill him.

I travel from town to town. My wounded body is healing. But my rage is devouring me. At night, I look in the mirror and see a twisted face of hellfire. When I fall asleep, I’m back in Harry’s Bar and the fellow is sticking me with his knife. Blood is gushing from my chest. I’m dying. I wake up screaming.

I enter Paradise, a small town about 100 miles from where I got stabbed. I’m hungry and thirsty so I look for the nearest bar/restaurant. A local guy gives me directions and I find the place easily. I park my car and saunter to the bar.
Above the entrance is a neon sign flashing: Harry’s Bar. Am I going mad? I enter, clutching a .38.

He’s there, in the back with his buddy. And I’m sitting on the stool in the front. He takes out a knife and my alter ego rushes toward him.
I follow. “Stop!” I cry out.
The bum lunges at me with his knife and cuts me. With one shot, I blow his head off. Then I black out.

I wake up at the hospital again. (Or is it a prison?) In a few days, I get out of bed and stagger to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and shriek: “Who am I?”
Inside the mirror, the blond guy with dark blue eyes gazes at me. He smiles wickedly.
“I’m possessed!” I screech.

Tomorrow, we’re gonna take the long walk down Death Row. At noon, we’re gonna sit in the Chair together and get fried. We killed the Good Samaritan.

I wake up screaming. I’m back in Harry’s Bar, clutching a slick glittering knife. Am I dreaming? Do I wear the black shroud of guilt? Or am I a ghost of a ghost?
In a little town called Paradise, I wander in a dark wasteland from which there is no escape.

BIO

Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’;s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.

Kendall

Dr. Jorgovski glanced up at me from his camp chair, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers splayed in mid-gesture as he reached toward the small circle of students.
“Sorry,” I said.
I was late. Desert gravel crunched under my boots, the noise grinding against my skull in eddies of persistent abrasion, as wind erodes rock. I took the remaining seat, left waiting for me in this extemporaneous outdoor classroom.
Yesterday, the eighth morning of a fourteen-day field trip, we woke at a campground a hundred miles away, but under the same barren sky – always under the same void – no answers would come from any heaven I knew.
And the professor had started the day just like this, delivering a lecture that would only end when we popped tents in the hasty twilight.
Jorgovski’s evolutionary geology class was a requirement for graduation. A fun course, they said. You’ll pass. No problem, they said.
To the east, a white winter sun swelled on the horizon, lingering on the edge of anticipation and creation. Heat, light, energy – the promise of a new day. A mile down the empty plain, an anonymous shantytown still slept, dreaming of hope when there was none.
So dawn greeted another nameless nothing.
“Good morning, ah, Kellogg.” Jorgovski squinted into the sunrise. “There’s breakfast.”
Kellogg?
A fleece-covered elbow nudged me. Guillermo. “I think he means you, chica,” he whispered, smirking.
But who was that? I didn’t feel much like myself. I played an unwilling host to one great aspiration, one driving imperative, over-riding all else.
I shivered. Damp, sloppy air seeped through my clothes, sandwiching between layers intended to keep out the chill. I rubbed my hands together, my palms grating over tight, cracked skin. My fingernails were blue – the color of a dead baby’s lips. The high desert weather – its extremes of fire and ice – was aging me. I was twenty. I was eighty. Little more than a week, exposed and isolated, I felt broken. Used.
The smell of bacon grease and muddy coffee thickened the air, attempting to civilize what could not be civilized. My stomach rolled. “I’m not hungry.”
I leaned forward and clamped my head in my hands, squeezing, squeezing. My temples throbbed, my bones ached.
Jorgovski cleared his throat. “Then, as I was saying, the events we’ve been looking at,” his sugar-sweet drone buzzed my ears, “...are perfect examples of adaptation or extinction – either you can compete, or you can’t. Yesterday, we saw a classic example of the Frasnian/Famennian horizon. As an extinction event, it was fairly rapid. Geologically speaking, no time at all. Kimble—”
Me again. But not me. I looked up.
“Describe for us one of the primary faunal indicators...”
His question swam in dark, murky waters behind my eyes as my tired, frantic brain tried to parse the geo-jargon into words I could understand.
“Kimball? Kimball, this class is pass-fail. Say something, anything – right now you can only improve on your grade.”
Oh, God. I needed this class.
“Think back. There was a particular subspecies of coral...” The timbre of his voice offered confidence I didn’t deserve.
I dredged my memory for the names of tiny, shelly bugs, four hundred million years dead.
On Guillermo’s other side, John shifted in his chair. “Reef communities consisting of—”
Jorgovski cut him off with a wave. “Let’s see if Kimble can get this one.” His eyes sparked and he steepled his hands, tapping them against his chin.
I remembered the coral – frozen in time in a limestone so brittle, so sharp, it had cut my little finger. Sucking away the blood, clinging to the unstable hillside, listening to Jorgovski lecture. An entire slope of coral preserved where they grew – a death assemblage.
And I remembered the way he described the ancient sky, a seductive tropic atmosphere, in contrast to the cold void above me. The hot Paleozoic sun, so near, so intense, warming the shallow seas.
Drowning. Suddenly, I was drowning in air. Short, labored breaths rasped my lungs and my hands pressed my chest.
Too much time had passed. I shot a glance at Jorgovski. In that instant, I saw the fire in his eyes wink out, leaving only the glint of the winter sun.
“John.” He nodded. “You were saying about reef communities—?”
I was going to fail. I was going to be sick.
No. A laugh shook my aching sides. Kellogg, or Kimball, or Kimble would fail.
I had become a nameless nothing.
I listened as John explained. Words pierced the shadows of my mind – “climate change raising ocean temperatures,” “survival of the fittest,” “eat or be eaten.” I ruminated every word as I tried learn. Yes, yes. The answer was clear now. It was clear yesterday, too.
But in a moment, it would all be gone again.
What was wrong with me? I didn’t know myself anymore.
Yesterday, sitting sidesaddle on a steep talus slope, picking apart thin, friable layers of slate, looking for microfauna...I’d felt the Earth spin, like a rug pulled out from under me. Base instinct flattened me against the rock, and I grasped for purchase, sure I’d be flung into space.
Had no one else felt it?
“Good, John.” Jorgovski stood and stretched. “Now, then. Today, we’ll collect Devonian shale to run isotopic separations back on campus. But, that’s after lunch. I have a treat for us this morning.”
My rusty joints flaked with each step as I helped load gear into the Rover. The finish on the back of the vehicle rippled like cellulite on an old woman – pocks and dimples from the occasional rocks locals threw at us. We weren’t the government they hide from in these hills, but they had no way of knowing.
“Grab your towels and follow me.” We hiked single-file beside the crumbling blacktop, bearing toward two freestanding concrete bunkers a couple hundred yards away. Our heels kicked up half-hearted plumes of dust in the still air. Cobbles lacquered in brown desert varnish rolled under our tread, exposing tender underbellies of bloody orange.
“Hot springs, guys. One of the best, and a little known secret.” Jorgovski directed the group toward a building with the word “MEN” stenciled on the door in black paint.
“Professor?” Guillermo arched an eyebrow in my direction.
“Ah.” Jorgovski started, as if noticing me for the first time. “Er, the women’s bathhouse is that way. Have a good soak.” With a dismissing wave, he and my male classmates disappeared inside.
I was alone.
I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my windbreaker. My stomach felt warm through the microfiber lining.
No. I was not alone.
My fingers curled around my cell phone and I scanned the horizon for signs of a tower. Maybe today I’d get a signal. I wiped lint from the display and called my boyfriend back on campus.
Nothing. Of course. I wavered between disappointment and relief as I pocketed the phone. I had to try, but what would I have said if I’d gotten through? “Hey, it’s me”? Who was that?
Outside the building labeled “WOMEN”, fresh tracks of a small animal, maybe a feral dog, cut across my path – an earthy reminder that I was far from home.
I paused.
High walls surrounded the bathhouse but the structure had no roof. Steam escaped skyward in little puffs, carrying muted echoes of mermaids at their bath.
There were women inside. Locals, most like.
I groaned, not in the mood to soak in a communal spring with suspicious strangers. I felt tender. Soft. Like extinct microfauna – like a tube worm in a school of hungry, armor-plated fish.
But the smell of moisture, the silky feel of humidity, teased away my reluctance and I entered. The anteroom was austere –three showerheads and one lone bench. I sat and unlaced my hiking boots. In the next room, voices hushed.
I undressed slowly, then forced myself under the icy, biting drill of pressurized water pumped in from archaic municipal lines. Desert dust sluiced from me, pooling around my feet. My arms burned an angry, frosty pink.
Clean, or, clean enough, I grabbed my towel and made for the warm inner chamber, my bare feet slapping in shallow puddles.
The bath was a perfect oval, the cement painted a cheerful, sanitary turquoise. Concrete benches had been molded into the sides. Pipes controlled the underground hot spring, forcing sterile regularity upon nature. Wild, sulphury water fumed in the pool, captivated, trapped.
On the far end, three wrinkled women bunched together, mid-conversation, as if crouching over a cauldron. Ancient sirens. Water witches.
The middle one, an ancient Madonna, a desert matriarch, looked up and waved me into the room with a claw-like hand. “Don’t be shy.” She spoke slowly, lilting. Her voice shimmered.
The others, one tall, one small, turned their attention to where I stood and I was knocked back by the weight of three pairs of coyote-eyes. I could almost feel them sucking my marrow, gnawing my bones.
My arms crossed over my breasts – a pointless gesture, considering. I hunched forward and scurried into the pool. The water felt thicker than it should – heavy, rich.
A shallow sea. An unwilling womb.
Minerals, I told myself. I was buoyant. I let my arms float at my sides and avoided eye contact. But I saw them in my peripheral vision. I watched them.
“Como se llama, child?”
In the borderlands between somewhere and nowhere, scraps of blended Spanish and English spoke more of circumstance than ancestry. The Coyote Mother’s carved cheekbones, dark hair, and sunset-colored skin hinted at a proud people long gone. Those eyes, though. Those eyes didn’t seem to belong anywhere on Earth.
“Me llamo Helen,” I said, adopting her Spanglish as my own.
My words echoed, lies upon lies pounding my eardrums. Helen was my mother’s name. Why it came to my lips, I wondered – why my name did not, I knew.
In the far end of the pool, frenzied whispers devoured my reply like piranhas feeding. Sibilant speculation drowned out all else, then suddenly withered.
“That is your vehicle?” Her hungry gaze licked the eastern wall. “The one on the edge of town?”
“Yes. Well, it’s the university’s.”
The old woman blinked once, then smiled, her amber teeth small and sharp. Her spine straightened and water beaded down sun-furrowed skin cleaving tired breasts. “Then you are not the municipales.”
I shook my head. “I’m a student. My class is on a field trip. Geology.” The explanation died on my tongue.
“Ah.” She looked at the women flanking her. “Estudiante.”
A patina of sun and time lacquered their skin, perhaps making them sisters, in nurture, if not by nature. But there the similarities ended. To her left, the tall one. Her puckered skin hung from long arms and her eyes almost crossed over a sharp beak – a lost condor. And on the Coyote Mother’s right, the small one. Her skin plumped and flushed under a dark fuzz that pelted her cheeks – a skittish hare.
Backed by her pack of familiars, the Coyote Mother’s glassy eyes reflected a keen predatory excitement. “Tell us about our hills.”
I felt small and distinctly mammalian under her gaze. A fingerling of cold water probed the geothermal current and I drew my knees to my chest. “Well—” Where to begin?
“Begin at the beginning.”
How—? Mind readers. Desert spirits. No. Women, plain and simple.
The Coyote Mother clucked her tongue. “Hija, what is it? The teacher work you too hard?”
“No. No, he doesn’t — he’s been...kind and patient.”
“Then, you’ve learned. You can explain to us abuelitas, surely.”
“In the beginning...” No, not that way. I patted my cheeks, wetting them. My fingernails were pink and pliable now, blood coursing just beneath the surface. The sound of my pulse rushed in my ears like a far away tide.
“We’re studying Devonian rugose coral reef communities to learn about extinction events...” The words rolled off my tongue and I relished the mouth-feel. I was waking – warm water was melting me from the inside out, chipping the ice from the frozen gears of memory.
Blank bewilderment stared back at me. The same look Jorgovski must have seen on my face this morning.
“‘Extinction’?” The Coyote Mother’s tongue flicked across her lips.
I nodded. I encouraged. “Extinction — when a thing no longer exists in this world.”
“‘Thing’?” The Condor clipped the word in her teeth.

“Life,” I said. “When life is extinguished.”

“No hope?” The Hare fingered her throat. “None at all?”

From nowhere, tears – melt water, glacial runoff – blurred my vision and slopped down my face. Climatic change – warming – I reminded myself, can cause extinction events. “None.”
“Why, this ‘extinction’ makes you triste, makes you sad?” The Coyote Mother bent her aging frame and leaned toward me.
Drops spattered from my chin. Tiny nothings, on a long journey back to some warm, shallow sea. Just like those microscopic bugs. Nothing more than larva. Embryonic.
Why should something so small matter?
I bowed my head. “It’s just a shame. The helplessness of it all. The pointlessness of it.” My hand, already pruning in the hot water, smeared away my tears. “The things—”
The Condor sucked a breath, feathers ruffled.
“Fine – the life forms, then – became biologically irrelevant.”
The women exchanged a look, but said nothing.
“Listen, they were unable to compete. Survival of the fittest?”
“Ah.” The Coyote Mother nodded. “Yes. Of this I have heard.”
“A pity.” The Hare sighed, her shoulders hunched.

“Yes,” cried the Condor. “Yes.”

The Coyote Mother clawed the air, signaling for quiet. “All of a sudden, nothing?”
“Well, yes. No. The events sometimes took millions of years. But, geologically speaking, no time at all.”
As if I’d uttered magic words, suddenly, the spell hanging over the bathhouse lifted. The water calmed until its glassy surface reflected the sun now rising over the eastern wall.
The Condor and the Hare stood, water sheeting back into the pool. Without the mineral-rich buoyancy, their bodies betrayed them. Empty breasts sagged, buttocks rippled. A Cesarean scar, thick, blush-colored – the size of a fat night crawler – was frozen as if locked in amber, in an eternal climb up the Condor’s abdomen. The two women hobbled through the anteroom door.
I was alone. And not alone. The Coyote Mother stayed behind. She eyed me, lips peeling back from her canines. “Nine weeks, then?”
“Nine days.” Five to go.
“No, no, no. Much longer than that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Lies upon lies.
“Don’t you? I wonder.” She clucked her tongue, her gaze darting, refracting with the water.
From across the barrens, bawdy masculine laughter penetrated the small warm sanctuary.
My own reflexive modesty pulled my hands to cover, not my tender breasts, not my thatch of hair, but my quickening belly.
With a hiss, my companion weighed my reaction. “One of them?”
“No!” God help me, no.
“Mmm.” The woman let her legs float, her wrinkled toes breaching the surface. “Water, hot as this, isn’t safe...you could lose it.”
My skin was silky, slithery. I could dissolve here...devolve. I could lose myself. My fingers riffled the water as I considered the Coyote Mother’s words.
“Nature’s way, querida. Come,” she said, pulling herself from the pool. “Let’s go. You’ve had enough.”
I followed the old woman into the shower. The cold returned to my limbs as I stood under the punishing spray, but I waited. After a moment, I cast a glance at the door — no lingering shadows. The Coyote Mother was gone, without a trace, as if she never was.
Wind blew through the bathhouse, whispering in flute tones, bringing again the raucous laughter of men. Then a voice, just outside the walls. “Kimball? Are you in there? Meet us back at the vehicle in thirty.”
Jorgovski.
I drew a breath to yell my name through the open roof, to correct him, but let it go. I knew who I was.
Instead, I tried my cell again. No answer.
Wrinkled hands rubbed fleeting heat into my arms, thighs. The skin on my hips was cold, but my belly was warm.
Warm like the spring.
I knew what I needed to do. My head no longer ached, my mind was free of fog. I was ready to take on Jorgovski’s class – extinction events were simple matters of climate change.
My bare feet padded across the cement floor and I stole back into the poolroom. The answers were there in the warm, shallow sea. Just a few more minutes.
Geologically speaking, no time at all.

The Genre-Defying Art Experience

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“What?”
“That word, it’s meaningless.”
“Really?”
“You need to delete that. And these phrases at the end have to go.”
“Are you sure? I think it helps tie back to the beginning.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
This woman stares at my draft, red pen clenched in one hand. She is short, nearly spherical, and extremely top-heavy. Her chest is resting on my desk as she precariously leans over, two sweaty sacks of fat perspiring onto my other papers. After haughtily excusing herself, I take a moment to recuperate and contemplate pleasanter, unrelated things, my weekend plans, etc. Two of my coworkers are discussing their own plans down the hall, from which I can hear a few words, including “wicked-huge loft,” “everyone’s invited,” and “lucky if I sleep tonight,” which ensures a widespread understanding of just how fortunate they are to have time for eating and sleeping. This revelry will be more exciting and unforgettable than even the most enlightening of experiences, more intense than reaching the summit of Mount Everest, more gratifying than reading War and Peace from cover to cover, and more characteristic of sprightly youth than backpacking through Central America. We are fools not to attend, except we are not invited.
I leave my desk orderly and head out the door, walking downtown to the theater where I’m meeting a friend to see a play. This friend, Jane, assures me that it will be the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen, which she promises frequently, but typically she’s right. Most of the reviews agree, touting its virtues as being avant-garde, cutting-edge, genre-defying, offensive “post-art.” After noting that they distribute ear plugs with the programs, and talking to Jane, a bona fide disciple of this playwright, I am expecting an experience that is so overwhelming that I faint and end up in the emergency room, hallucinating, speaking in tongues, and seeing God. I suppose if I didn’t want to be slapped in the face by art, I wouldn’t go to shows with Jane.
I see her outside the theater, wearing her theater-going uniform, a knee-length red dress, black shoes, and a black cardigan. She adopts this outfit for seeing a play because, as she puts it, she likes to sully only one outfit with the stink of theater, the way she periodically washes the cigarette smell out of her I’m-going-to-a-bar shirt. Before going inside, we notice a gaggle of teenage girls on the corner. They look barely 15 and they’re blasting techno out of a crackly cell phone, dancing to it in spurts, then feeling embarrassed and laughing hysterically to themselves, refusing to take responsibility for their own enjoyment. Both Jane and I are transfixed by this back-and-forth between wild, spontaneous movement, and the sudden realization of what they’re doing, which leads to shrinking away and tittering to one another.
Jane and I go inside to retrieve our tickets from the box office, handed over silently by an androgynous intern-groupie, and we step inside a small, pitch-black theater. There are only 60 seats and Jane knows her way around, so she leads me to some Christmas lights lining the center aisle, and then we fumble our way into two available seats. The veteran attendees comment to themselves about how the newcomers are groping around like idiots. Two voices behind us pontificate:
“You know it got a terrible review.”
“Oh God, it sure did.”
“But I hear it’s amazing, like his last one times three.”
“Yeah, I know it.”
“I don’t even know why I read reviews anymore; they’re so obsolete, with the internet and everything.”
“Yeah, everyone’s a critic.”
“Right. In a good way!”
“Right.”
“And the kids don’t even understand it. The reviewers should target them because they need to be told what’s quality.”
“Exactly.”
They nod in peaceful accord. Five minutes later, the Christmas lights are switched off and several bright red floodlights come on, forcing most of us to squint. The actors, all wearing pajamas and fleece jester hats, crawl out like infants to center stage, then slowly stand upright in unison, looking around at their own set, and each other, with childlike awe. Various stages of discovery ensue. The music, an abrasive drone that sounds like an accordion over an angry bobcat, is not loud enough for ear plugs. Jane is hypnotized, taking notes, which I’m sure we’ll discuss over coffee afterward. After half an hour, a female character doffs her jester hat ceremoniously and begins marching around the periphery of the stage, wielding a plastic scepter decorated with rhinestones and looking dead-on into the audience. We see her heading straight for a large glass pane hanging from the rafters, painted like stained glass. We’re sure that this is carefully choreographed, but lo and behold she smacks into its sharp edge and collapses, in a way that strikes me as unrehearsed. No one moves.
One of her fellow actors comes over, then notices blood on her forehead and signals to the sound guy. She is led off stage; some audience members are convinced that this is part of the performance, until the house lights come up and an actor comes out front, still in his pajamas and hat.
“We’re very sorry, but we’re taking a short break and will resume the art experience shortly.”
Still, no one moves. The guy to my left is snickering, sure that the injury is fake. Jane and I rifle through our programs, suddenly bored, and I am bewildered by my sincere desire to resume the art experience. But the actor returns and informs us that the show must be postponed, and we’re welcome to come back tomorrow. The house lights come up and I survey the objects littering the stage: phony stained glass, decorative cardboard furniture, a giant plastic raspberry. Still confounded and suddenly feeling exhausted, I look at Jane for a cue. Jane scribbles more notes and we go for coffee.

What Next, Buck?

His name was Buck Bradley, and he was thinking stuff.
Like, Do I eat enough healthy fat?
Like, I’m glad I don’t own a station wagon.
Like, I incorporated an inclined bench press into my workout. Why haven’t I seen results?
Like, Do I know anyone who crashed their Volvo?
Buck sat, sweating. He wore boxer shorts. He was in his apartment. It was a significantly off-white apartment. One thing not that color was his chair. It was Pleather. It was Faux Masterpiece Theatre. It was Goodwill. His laptop was sliding off his lap. He was horny.
He was obsessed with Gloria.
He knew she read his blog but not if she liked him.
He verbalized this uncertainty.
“Gloria reads my blog. Does she like me?”
Despite having thought out loud he was not any closer to unraveling this mystery. So, he asked Google.

How do I know if Gloria really likes me?

The first result was for modernromance.com. From there he became distracted and clicked on an ad for chickswithdicks.com. Then he thought about his mother. Then he thought it was weird to think of his mother at that particular moment. But he missed his mother. She had died. He could not choose whether or when to miss her.
He closed chickswithdicks.com. Back at modernromance.com he looked at a list entitled, “Modern Romance: Frequently Asked Questions.”
Question number eight was, “How do I know if she really likes me?”
More clicking brought him to, “Modern Romance: Indicators of Interest.”
And there it was. “IOI 53: She reads your blog.”
His exuberance manifested itself physically.
Like for example, he jump-kicked the air.
Like for example, he high-fived an imaginary friend.
Like for example, he said, “Thank you! Thank you!” and accepted an invisible award.
Like for example, he snorted a nonexistent line of coke and visualized himself just having banged three chicks with expensive pedicures. In a limo, that is. Driving down Ventura Boulevard.
Like for example, he formed a pretend gun with his hand and pointed it at his full-length mirror. Then he pulled the trigger.
He was going for the gusto.
But then, standing in the mirror he asked himself a very pertinent question.
“What next?”
She likes me but what next? She likes me but what do I do? Should I call her up? No, that’s too weird. Talk to her friend? No that’s wimpy you got to go for the gusto Buck Bradley!
But still there was that question.
“What next?”
He knew a friend of Gloria’s named Stephanie, so he phoned her.
“Hey Steph. Gloria reads my blog every day.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I check the stats.”
“Eww, that’s creepy.”
“Yeah, whatever. She reads my blog everyday. Isn’t that great?”
“I guess. Obviously she’s in love with you.”
“She is? And it’s obvious? How is it obvious?”
“I don’t know! Does the conversation always have to revolve around you?”
Buck coughed. Then he asked, “Oh. How is your day going?”
Stephanie’s answer was centered on a theme of sexual recidivism and romantic indecisiveness. Buck did not listen. He set down his laptop. He stood up. He walked to his stereo. He increased the volume of his high energy dance mix. Then he danced. Then he gazed at the moves being gloriously reflected in the full-length mirror. Someday he would bring that mirror to the back of the limo with the chicks and the well pedicured feet and perfume and soft hair as they said, “I love you Buck. You are so funny!” And he would take that mirror and snort coke off it. And he would remember back to when the full-length paraphernalia was merely a functional cosmetic device. And he would say, “Well I love you ladies, too. And I hope you like this high energy dance mix. I know I do.” And the mountain of coke in Buck’s lap would transform him into a sexual power-horse filling the emotional and physical holes of any woman who tried to get in his way. Or in his pants. Which was going to be like, a lot.
At the end of Stephanie’s monologue, Buck half listened.
“So now I’m like, ‘Never again. And this time I mean it,’” she said.
“Oh. Well, good luck with that. Bye Steph.” Buck hung up.
What next? What next? Think, Buck Bradley. She reads your blog. Write something that touches her. Personally. Like your hand. Like your hand will touch her physically, softly as you caress her skin with your tongue and smile inside. After she reads your blog, call her with hilarious banter and invite her to your place. Once you get the smell of your roommate’s mutt out of it.
But what would he write about? He remembered Gloria’s conversations on the bus.
Like when she said people lied about preferring rain to sun in order to sound interesting.
Like when she said she did not talk on the phone in bed. Doing so gave her insomnia.
Like when she said Volkswagen Bugs were for girls.
Like when she said the same thing about the 49ers.
Like when she said her Hawaiian uncle had cooked Spam for her and at first she hated it. But then she liked it. And now she loved it. She loved Spam.
There it was. Item 5. Buck would write a review and comparison of different types of Spam.
But there was a problem. Earlier in the week, The New York Times had published an article on Spam. And Gloria read it. Later her interest in The Times would eclipse her readership of Buck’s blog. She would become disinterested in Buck as a person. Buck would become devastated. He would visit my office. Then he would attend my couch, weekly. He would tell me many things, and I would tell him more than that. But no matter what I said, I could not prevent Buck’s descent into a delusional reality.
Buck woke up early Thursday morning to begin the review.
What next, Buck? How should I start the blog entry? Should I just tell the truth: I’m trying to impress Gloria? No that’s weird! Then how about I make up a story about talking to people about Spam on the bus? No that’s contrived.
Finally, he began writing.

Something was missing from my life. I knew it. Goddamn it I knew it. So many gaps. My heart was alone, even when my body was not. Going to sleep I was abandoned, even when I lay with another.
And what was it that was missing? Pork? Yes. Pork. Or well, a pork derivative. But that was about to change when I stumbled upon the answer to my prayers. Spam. Spam!

Continuing in this manner, Buck completed the article and posted it.
Then he checked his blog’s stats.
On Friday morning, he saw that Gloria had read the entry.

Good. Yes. Good! Now for the carefully crafted phone call.

“Hi Gloria, this is Buck!”
“Oh, hi!”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh. Well in that case, how would you like to come over to my apartment?”
“Sorry, no thanks.”
Buck thought on his feet. I should have put some pants on. This is so distracting talking with hairy legs sticking out. But come up with something.
“You sure?” he asked. “I just shampooed my carpet and everything?”
“Sorry Buck, no thanks.”
She was supposed to want to come over. It hadn’t worked.
“Oh. Okay. Hey, did you see my Spam review? Sweet, huh?”
“Yeah, I did. That was pretty funny. But it’s like the review in The New York Times.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, check out the article in The Times. Totally funny. I thought you read it and got the idea from there.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t.” The carpet was itchy on Buck’s feet. He sat down and switched ears with the phone. “And I didn’t know you read The Times.”
“Well, I don’t normally. But Abe Mortenson wrote the review. And I know Abe. He’s a family friend. He told me to check it out. He is so funny! And cute. Get this: he got the idea from my uncle.”
Close open. Close open. Buck’s blinking annoyed him.
“Yeah,” he said.
“And Buck, not to be mean or anything but your piece is kind of weird. Especially the intro. I mean, the idea that Spam is going to solve all of your problems – isn’t that like, an extreme form of consumerism?”
She didn’t get it. “Well, I was just joking around. Tongue in cheek. I know the most valuable things aren’t for sale.”
“You think you’re smart, huh? You should read Abe’s writing then. You might learn something.”
“Okay.”
Neither of them said anything for a while.
“Aw! Hey Buck!” Gloria said finally, laughing.
“No, it’s fine,” he said. “A little constructive criticism is good. And please have a good night.”
“Thanks. You too. And don’t worry, some day they will hire you back. See you on the bus.”
“Goodnight, Gloria.”
He set the phone down, walked to his bedroom and fell onto his bed. Then he stared at the wall.
Yes. I will indeed see you on the bus.
And then after her stop, still in his seat Buck would see the landscape rolling by. Gloria would sweep into the afternoon sunlight behind him. She would walk up the steps to her college. She would be at the rear of his head, where he had no eyes. And she would become an idea. And then he would have to pick up that mop in the corporate shed. Back and forth, across the tile of the building to make it spic-and-span. Floor by floor to the top. He would pause on the executive level at 12:30 AM. He would eat his lunch. It would be a sandwich that he prepared himself. He would see the lights of the cars on the streets below going places. And at 3 AM, in the dim green light of the exit sign he would lift those weights in the company gym. If he heard, “You can do it!” it was because he said it. But he hoped his mother also heard him. He hoped his mother knew that even though he lost his previous job, he still washed his hands before eating.
But that was on Monday. Tonight he had a case of light beer and his roommate’s television. He had “Twilight Zone” reruns. He had a shampooed carpet. He had his full-length mirror. It was the same mirror his mother had given him. Someday he would be famous and he would carry that mirror with him into the limo. And he would tell his driver, “Bring me back to where I am from. Bring me to see my mother.” And his driver would say, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to do that, Sir.” And Buck would tell the driver, “Yes you do. All the way. I’m famous. Fuck flying!” And after all that driving Buck would step out of the limousine carrying the mirror and on those streets paved with gold they would be yelling his name, “Buck! Buck! Buck!” Then he would knock on that small door of that small house in the clouds and he would hand his mother the mirror. He would say, “Mom, you can have this back. Sorry, I used it as paraphernalia. I hope you don’t mind.” But she would just laugh. They would all just laugh. And they would love him. And he would say, “I missed you, Mother.” He would say, “I love you, Mother.”
And at precisely that moment, he would not think to himself, What next, Buck? At precisely that moment, he would breathe the words, “I am home.”

Con Vocation

The massive mahogany doors stood open, inviting in a stream of clergymen and women, bishops and cardinals, rabbis, imams and caliphs, ministers, television evangelists and all manner of reverends. Each greeted the other with “hello brother (or sister) I love you,”and they often embraced each other, irrespective of faith, sometimes blocking the doorway for long seconds at a time. The sizeable auditorium was fitted with mahogany pews, rich maroon carpets, stained glass windows, an altar draped in linen edged with gold thread and a raised hand-carved pulpit covered with ornate symbols, projecting from a central pillar of the large chamber. The pulpit was reachable by a small curving stairway. An organ intoned in hushed chords, softening the air with music that was unnamed but decidedly ecumenical.
After the flow of attendees dwindled to a trickle and stopped, a uniformed aide quietly pulled the mahogany doors together from the outside and, after locking them, posted himself securely at the entrance. The music inside faded and finally ceased when a very elderly man dressed in a plain floor-length white robe, tied at the middle with a loose velvet rope, slowly mounted the stairway to the pulpit and held his arms out over the congregation with uplifted palms, in a blessing.
“Damn God!” he screamed.
“Amen!” came the chorus of the audience back at him.
“Damn God, and his evil works.”
“Amen!”
“Damn God who has put us all on this earth to kill to eat or else Be eaten; kill or be killed; pushing our fellow man off the edge or ourselves being pushed off. Damn God! who made us to suffer from the insecurity of uncontrollable anxiety, bringing greed, War, torture and theft. He made us to be ignorant of the meaning of death and so to fear it even more than pain! Damn God! for weather that requires clothes; for sickness that requires medicine, for dishonesty that requires distrust, for Competition that strangles our Love! Damn God for taking away our innocent babies in their sleep, without ever giving a reason. Damn God! We victims must Love each other! No brother or sister could ever do unto you such evil as God has already done. Frustrate Him! Care about each other. Care For each other and not for Him, who has made us all victims. Now let us all rise and join hands in Love and fellowship. Reach out to the persons next to you. Tell them you Love them. Embrace them, kiss them, ask them if they Need Anything. Tell them you Understand, because he has done the same Evil Things to you!”
The organ resumed the soft ecumenical chords and the assembly hugged and kissed those nearby, disregarding all differences in appearance, social class, sex or professed faith. The aide opened the doors from the outside and all the religious leaders began reluctantly filing out into the bright sunshine of the street. There, they saw crowds behind police barriers, roped off to preserve room for the leaders to walk along the sidewalk. They nodded to acknowledge the cheers and applause of their followers as each faith sought to boost the acclaim for their leader to a louder pitch than the competing sects. The police held the crowds back from overturning the barriers and intermittent scuffles broke out as antagonistic religions threw insults at each other.
The departing spiritual patriarchs were able to reach their shiny chauffeur driven limousines without being ruffled, and after waving to their various assembled believers, raised their tinted power windows and cruised into the flow of traffic.

Bare Feet

The slap of bare feet on concrete – that is what growing up sounds like. Thick and solid. Knowing you should have shoes on, but not caring enough to stop. It’s a hushed noise and more felt than heard. It’s a shock because you almost don’t expect the ground to be so hard. Every now and then a stumble and cry as a rock sharply embeds itself in the soft skin of my foot. I rarely ever bled. Never broke a limb. It wasn’t until college that I sprained an ankle. And that was from wearing high heels. Not from any strenuous activity.
If I ran too fast, I always had to be careful of scraping a toenail on the cement. I hated that. It would send chills down my spine.
I ran faster on my toes so it’s surprising that running in heels was nearly impossible. But that’s not when I sprained my ankle. That happened long after I stopped running. Almost when I wasn’t expecting it anymore. But that’s when things happen isn’t it? When you don’t expect them. If you expected them, you’d know when they were coming. And if negative, prevent them.
I wouldn’t have walked in that room. I wouldn’t have seen my mother having sex with someone who wasn’t my father. I wouldn’t have gotten up from Saturday morning cartoons when I heard the picture – of my brother and I dressed up for the camera at Sears Portrait Gallery – fall. The frame thudding against the hard wood of her chest of drawers. I wouldn’t have run down the street, forgetting my shoes, to the corner of the block where I’d wait for the bus every morning.
Then when life led me to a second interrupted sexcapade I would have taken off my shoes anyway and run barefoot all the way back to my car. Not just to the corner where I could scream “Fuck,” into the night air.
More than likely, I wouldn’t have walked in the room to my boyfriend fucking his next-door neighbor. The girl with the exotic coffees and shag carpeting. I would have known that my boyfriend, by saying, “Hey Julia’s got this awesome red shag carpeting,” was admitting, “Hey I fucked my neighbor on her awesome red shag carpeting.” So then I wouldn’t have seen them fucking in his bed instead, heels or no.
When my mom finally caught up to me on the corner, after I assume she’d fumbled for her clothes and apologized to the sweaty naked guy, I was patiently looking down the street.
“What are you doing young lady?” she’d asked me.
“Waiting for the bus,” I’d said directly. And I was. Any moment the bus would pass and I’d be carried off to school, or my dad’s company or whatever. She told me, “Don’t be silly.” It was Saturday after all. I was missing Rainbow Brite. And she walked me back home.
Standing on the corner with the echo of “fuck” still stinging the back of my throat nobody came to call me back. I’d screamed the first time in the faces of two grunting adults. I had better manners the second time and I waited until I was outside. I imagined the pair awkwardly fumbling for their clothes, not looking in each other’s eyes afraid to acknowledge what they’d realized they’d done.
After about two minutes I knew that no one was coming to bring me back to my cartoons and that they were probably still naked lying in each other’s arms. So I began to walk to my car because I no longer needed to wait for a bus. That’s when I sprained my ankle – my heel catching in a crack on the sidewalk.
I plopped down in the grass because with one good foot and a short black dress that’s really all one can do. I took off my heels and felt the newly watered lawn against my legs. I didn’t care that a wet spot was now forming on my ass.
I hobbled barefoot back to my car holding my shoes. I realized I really had to stop walking in on people having sex.
What I did think of was watching my dad carry his boxes from what was now not his house to his car. He kissed me on the top of the head and said he’d see me later. That was not actually a memory, just a desire. He moved out while I was in school. He did kiss me on the top of the head before I left for the bus. Later turned into every weekend, which turned into every other weekend, which became once a month. I still get cards for my birthdays and Christmas but visits are hard to come by.
I remembered this only because I’d need no boxes to clear out my stuff. He still had my reading lamp and spare toothbrush. I’m sure there were a few clothes there too but the fear that Julia may have worn them, or would wear them, or just roll around on them on her awesome red shag carpeting was enough for me to say she could keep them. I’d need no boxes to wipe clean the physical presence of me in his life. He’d need even less since there was nothing of his in my apartment except a few photos of us and a faint scent of his body. He’d come over once to help me put my bookshelf together. He didn’t stay long. I don’t drink coffee or have shag carpeting.
When I got to my car I threw my shoes on the passenger seat and drove home. I took a shower and crawled into bed naked and still a little damp. I needed the moisture. I hadn’t even cried yet. My pillow was soaked.
My dad. I hadn’t seen him cry, not once. But then he hadn’t looked pissed either. I wonder what emotion had thrust itself forward on my face as I came to the realization that the mass of twisted limbs and sweaty flesh on my boyfriend’s bed was actually he and the neighbor. Did I look angry? I really wasn’t now. Just upset to be caught off guard. To not have seen it coming.
Later that day when my mom had brought me home she’d explained that her and Daddy had grown apart. I shouldn’t be scared or upset but these things happen. Then I was angry. How dare she toss my father aside. He was the greatest. The best guy ever. He worked hard and told the best jokes. I’ve often been told that I am my father’s daughter. But maybe I am my father. Maybe I didn’t pay attention enough to notice the distance growing between us. I probably should have known long before the awesome red shag carpeting.
As I lay in bed that night there was no one there to explain away why I’d been lied to and cheated on. No one to kiss my forehead and to say don’t be upset or afraid. Just an empty feeling, dry eyes, and hardwood floors. I let my eyes adjust to the dark, and just lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene over and over in my head. I forced them to remain open so they would at least water a little.
What could I have done differently? Maybe if I’d yelled or cried, pointed out how bad they were for doing what they did. Maybe I should have stayed there in the doorway in my Scooby Doo pj’s just looking my mom in the eyes with disappointment and shame pasted on my face. Maybe she wouldn’t have forced my father away. But I’d run instead.
Copying myself the second time I never called again to find out if Julia and he were an item or to get my stuff back. Chock it up to experience. Lesson learned. No more Saturday cartoons.

The Bracelet

Two in the morning. Amy squirmed between the sheets and fingered the bracelet again. He’d said it was for friendship. He’d said not to tell her parents; people didn’t understand. She flapped the top sheet, as if shaking out a rug, letting the breeze cool her. The gold felt hot against her skin, and even though the links were delicate, the chain around her wrist was strong.
He came over the next day to swim. She imagined he must watch the glimmering water through a window until he saw her and Barbara file out the backdoor, running across the driveway separating the houses.
“Hey girls!” he said, grinning behind aviator sunglasses.
Barbara narrowed her eyes, watching him unlatch the gate while Amy bounced from foot to foot, knocking her flip-flops off.
“Watch this belly flop,” Amy said.
Hank asked, “Finally going to race me, Barbara?”
“I’m not staying long, Mr. Monroe,” Barbara said.
“Call me Hank, Barbara. I’ve told you, it’s okay to call me Hank. Amy does.”
Amy glanced at her older sister, but Barbara focused on her magazine.
“That means it’s all you, Amy. Last one in is a fat stewardess.”
Amy splashed in before Hank could get his shirt off. She surfaced and treaded water, laughing when he pretended to get tangled in the neck hole and sleeves. He slung the shirt on the decking and cannon-balled into the water. After popping up, he dunked her with one hand. She surfaced, spit water into his face and swam to the shallow end. At the side, she rested her elbows against the edge like her Mom’s friends did. Leaning that way pushed her chest out, almost enough to fill her new bikini top. Amy peeked to see if Barbara was watching.
“When do you leave again?” Amy asked.
“Dallas and back tomorrow. Pull a LA trip after that.”
“I wish I only went to school three days a week. You’re lucky.”
He said, “Pilots have to work weekends and holidays. And no summers off.”
“Dad works all the time and never gets to swim with us,” Amy said.
Barbara’s lounge chair scraped against the concrete. “You’re leaving?” Amy asked.
“It’s too hot out here.”
“See you later,” Hank said. Barbara only held up a hand and gave a little wave. The backdoor slammed shut.
Amy whispered, “She’s such a jerk.”
“Hey, how does the Queen Bee get around her hive?” Hank asked.
“How?”
“She’s throne.”
Amy giggled as Hank moved next to her on the submerged steps.
“Like your bracelet?” Hank asked.
Amy touched her wrist even though the bracelet was hidden in her room. “I love it.”
Hank smiled and allowed his hand to land on Amy’s knee. “It’s not as pretty as you are.” He cleared his throat and stole a glance toward the house. “You hid it, right?”
“I put it inside an old teddy bear of mine. He has a hole in his foot.”
Hank squeezed Amy’s knee. They sat that way for a few minutes not talking, but watching the bobbing float across the pool. Amy could feel the warmth of Hank’s hand despite the cool water. Her mother interrupted by coming out with a sweating glass of iced tea. “Hank! I didn’t know you were here. How are you? Ann still at her mother’s?”
His hand floated to his own lap. “No, she’s back. Her mother got a last minute invitation to a friend’s house in West Palm.”
“That sounds nice.” Amy could practically hear her mother blabbing about Ann’s contacts and money, all the ‘people’ she knew. Her mother tugged her short cover-up over her thighs and spread a large towel on the chair Barbara had abandoned. Before she could sit, Amy crawled out and perched on the end. Her mother scowled.
“Can I have some?”Amy asked, pointing to the iced-tea.
“There’s more inside.”
Hank climbed out of the pool and shook his head like a dog. His close-cropped hair dried almost instantly like his hairless chest and thin arms. Only his blue trunks stayed wet.
“Are you done?” Amy asked.
He shrugged and held a finger up, then answered her mother. “She can keep Palm Springs. All that society stuff.” He leaned in close to Amy’s mother. “Load of crap if you ask me.”
They laughed and Amy walked inside. She knew Hank had to act strange sometimes. He’d explained that. It didn’t stop it from bugging her.
Inside, Barbara sat at the table with her feet up, reading her driver’s ed. manual.
“Thought we were going to swim,” Amy said.
“Didn’t want to.”
Amy waited. “You used to like hanging out with him, too.”
Barbara turned a page.
“You’re fun when you try. Maybe laugh more or something. People like you too.”
Barbara set down the book and leaned forward. “He takes your picture. Do you know that?”
“He takes all the kids in the neighborhood. He’s into photography.”
“Mostly you.”
“I’m expressive. I show a lot of vibrancy.”
Barbara’s eyebrows shot up.
“The photography contests look for that.”
Barbara grabbed her book and scooted away from the table. “It’s weird, Amy. He’s weird.”
Amy watched her sister leave. It wasn’t weird. She was photogenic.

“What’s the big deal?” Barbara yelled while Amy’s mother tried to watch the black and white kitchen TV, craning her head around Barbara. “Nancy’s had her license for over six months. No wrecks. No tickets.”
Amy’s Mom turned up the volume. “Your dad said no riding with other teenagers. That’s it.”
“Call him and ask. I told everybody we’d meet them at the mall.”
Amy fiddled with the Pop Tart on a paper plate in front of her, breaking off the crust and squeezing out the jelly filling. With her finger, she wrote out Hank in the purple goo.
“Dad’s at a convention.”
“He’s never here, Mom. Make a decision yourself.”
Her mother sighed. “Fine, I’ll drive you. Want to come, Amy?”
“Will you take me to the library?”
“It’s not on the way – another day. Just stay here. Don’t get in the pool.”
“Can I if Hank comes over?”
Her mother’s eyes flicked in the direction of the house next door. “I don’t think so. Just stay inside. Read or something.”
Amy went to her room and put the bracelet on, then padded up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom at the end of the hall. She passed by the scatter of her mother’s clothes, heading straight for the bathroom. Pulling the chair out from the vanity, she paused. Her mother’s lipstick and brow pencils, shadows and eyeliner lined out in the beige dust of powder before her, the tools of adulthood. Amy practiced gliding the black eyeliner straight across her eyelid, then rubbed the pink blush into circles on her cheeks.
Amy saw the razor perched on the side of the tub. The pink, serrated handle clashed against the bright white of the porcelain. Like the hair on her head, Amy’s leg hair was blond and fine. It should have been invisible. Instead, the hairs fluffed up in all directions. She felt like Sasquatch.
She picked up the razor, held her leg over the tub and wet it under the faucet. Starting at the ankle bone, she dragged the razor up to her knee in one, long stroke. It stung. Amy inspected her leg. Some of the hair came off, but more remained on her legs in stubble like a poorly cut lawn. She re-wet the razor and tried again, pressing harder this time.
Getting the hang of it, Amy pointed her toes and held her leg up in the air, like a movie star. She rinsed the long hairs out of the blades and reset the razor, finishing along her shin with a twisting flourish. The razor sliced the thin skin near the bone like deli meat. Before the pain hit, beads of blood emerged like droplets of sweat. She dropped the razor and yanked the toilet paper, loops uncoiling on the floor after her.
She’d seen her Dad dab tiny bits of tissue on his face to soak up the occasional nick, but the white pieces she stuck to her skin saturated red and fell off. Blood began dripping down her leg to the floor. Amy clutched more toilet paper against her leg and hobbled down the stairs to find bandages.
In the kitchen, she scooted the day’s dishes to the side and hopped on the counter, rifling through the cabinet containing the first aid supplies. She grabbed the rubbing alcohol, a box of Band-Aids, and a roll of white gauze. Holding her leg over the sink, she pulled off the toilet paper and poured a capful of alcohol on the bleeding gash. She jumped and the bottle of alcohol splashed over the counter. When she grabbed it, a plate crashed to the linoleum . Mixed with the alcohol, the blood seemed to gush down her leg, the pain eye watering. She wished Barbara was there. She’d make fun, but could have kept her from screwing the whole thing up so much.
On the verge of tears, Amy looked up, saw Hank, towel around his shoulders, reach up to knock on the glass door, peering in. “Amy?” he said, squinting, then dropping his hand and pulling the door open himself. “What on earth?”
She blushed and looked down. “I cut myself and Mom’s not here.” She watched the useless wads of paper drop to the floor like tiny chunks of flesh. “I was only shaving my legs.”
Hank crossed the room, putting his hands on her shoulders and looked down. “I think you’ll be okay.” He picked her up under her arms, setting her on the counter. Digging through the cabinet for ointment, he patted her leg, then covered the wound in Band-Aids, five in a row, aligned down her shin.
As she watched him clean up the alcohol and broken plate, she said, “That’s never happened to me before. The razor must be too dull.”
He rinsed the scattered dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then used a paper towel to wipe the gold Formica. He put his hand on her knee. “Better?”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You have to use soap. Something to make it glide.”
Amy dropped her chin. “I will next time.”
He pointed at the bracelet. “Better take it off before your mom gets home.”
“Okay.” Amy looked at the Band-Aids, biting her lip.
“What’s wrong?” Hank asked.
“It’s ugly.”
Hank caressed her thigh. “There is not one ugly thing about you. This will leave a little scar, but it won’t hurt for long.”
They heard her mother’s car pull in the garage. Amy watched his eyes dart to the door. He tried to help her to the floor, but she squeezed, pinching his legs between her shins.
“Not funny,” he said.
Amy cradled her leg, examining the Band-Aids. He tried to hoist her down again, but she scooted further away. Hank kept his hand on her arm, squeezing almost enough to hurt, then took a deep breath and began washing his hands in the sink. She slipped the bracelet into her pocket.
Doris came inside holding grocery bags. “Hank, what are you doing here?”
He took one of the bags after wiping his hands dry on his pants legs. “Had a little altercation with a razor over here. No worries, disaster averted.” He put the brown sack on the counter.
Doris kneeled down to look at Amy’s leg, then smudged the pink off her cheeks with her fingers. “Aw, baby, you’re too young for all this.” She stood up and turned to Hank. “Thanks for helping. Amy and I need to have a little talk, I guess.”
Hank walked to the backdoor and winked at Doris. “Trying to look as pretty as her momma.” Doris smiled and Hank asked, “Mind if I swim tomorrow?”
Doris held Amy’s knee. “Least we can do. Come anytime.”

“Barbara has to go to driver’s ed.,” Amy’s mother said. “Invite Maggie over or something.”
“She’s at camp.”
“Well some other neighborhood kid, then.”
“They’re all boys, Mom. I hate them.”
“Barbara! Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”
“I want to work on my freestyle. Can I swim if Hank comes over?”
Barbara shoved past. “‘If’? What a joke.”
Doris stopped and looked at Barbara. “It’s nice of him to help her with her swimming.”
“Super,” Barbara said.
Doris paused with her hand on the door and shifted her attention back to Amy.
“Mom, it’s boiling out,” Amy said.
Her mother opened the door. “No swimming alone.”
“So it’s okay?”
Amy’s mother kissed her forehead. “Fine. Back in a few hours. Call Daddy’s office if you need anything.”
Amy watched the car go up the street. She hurried to her bedroom and changed into her swimsuit, the shine of her smooth legs still surprising her. Amy sent a silent thanks to her mom for the lesson with the new Daisy and shaving cream. She wasn’t at the pool fifteen minutes before Hank appeared. “Where did your mom go?” he asked.
“Taking Barbara to driver’s ed. They have to go every day for two weeks.”
“What a pain.”
“She said I could swim if you were here.”
Hank took his shirt off. “Then I’ll be here.”
“Want to play Marco Polo?” Amy asked.
He shook his head.
“How about a diving contest?” Amy ran to the diving board.
Hank slouched against the side. “Fine. I’ll judge you.”
After a few dives, Amy swam up. “Don’t you want to go?”
“Kind of tired. Why don’t you sit here with me?” Hank drifted to the edge and draped his arms across the sides. As Amy approached, Hank tinkled the water beside him with his finger tips.
Amy sunk under, coming up beside him. He shifted close enough their legs touched. “Doesn’t Ann ever want to swim?” Amy asked.
Hank laughed. “And get her hair wet?”
Amy crinkled her nose.
Hank slid forward and rested his head against the edge, staring up at the blue sky. “Ann’s not that interested in having fun.”
Amy rubbed her palms down her shins, then sank under, arranging her hair slick over her face. She surfaced, then giggled, “Oops, got my hair get wet.”
Hank turned his head, squinting at her. “She’s not fun like you.” He moved the dripping hair away from her eyes. “Your face is too beautiful to hide.” Under the water, his leg twined around Amy’s. “Have you been able to wear the bracelet?”
“Every night.”
His leg stilled. Looking into the sky, he said, “Maybe I’ll take you someplace soon. Just the two of us. I can fly free wherever I want and you could wear it all the time.”
Amy pictured herself on a sandy beach in a flowing dress, her hair blowing back from her face. As the sun sank into the turquoise water, her bracelet would twinkle in the light. She imagined him walking toward her. She focused on their legs touching beneath the water. “When’s your next trip?”
“Tomorrow. I’m supposed to do a four day leg but I’m going to try to switch with one of the guys. Maybe I’ll be back in two days.”
“You don’t want to fly?”
“And miss my afternoon swims?” He kept his gaze on the sky, but let his toes tickle the bottom of her foot. “Ann’s home now but when I get back, maybe we’ll do something else besides swim. That sound good?”
Amy’s stomach flipped. Something else might mean his hands pulling her close. She stared at his mouth, imagining their first kiss, a hot blush reddening her face. Amy untangled her legs from Hank’s and dove under. She knew he would watch her the whole way to the other side and stroked long and graceful.

Barbara and Amy bounced on their floats, trying to turn the other’s raft over. The driver’s classes had gone half day and to Amy’s surprise, Barbara spent her afternoons swimming with her. Hank sat on the steps alone, watching the girls play. When Barbara’s float popped and began sinking to the bottom, she said, “Look what you did, moron.”
“I’ll get another one,” Amy said.
She climbed out of the pool by Hank and walked through the gate into the garage, scanning the shelves at the far end. It took several minutes for her eyes to adjust to the dark.
“I’ll help you,” Hank said. Amy jumped.
“I didn’t know you came in here.”
Hank used the outside of his finger to stroke Amy’s cheek. He leaned in close to her ear. “You said you wanted to do something besides swim, remember?”
Amy flinched, then turned to face him. “Oh. Well, Barbara’s home and all.”
Hank dropped his hand, barely sliding it across her butt, and took a step back. “I miss talking to you. Just you, alone.”
Amy said, “I’m sorry.” Her face tingled. She wished she hadn’t pulled away from him.
“Ann and your Mom are taking a shopping trip on Saturday. If you make up an excuse for your Dad, think you can come over?”
“Sure.”
Hank smiled and shrugged. “You’re the best, Amy. A real friend.”
“Find one?” Barbara asked, standing in the doorway. With the bright backlight, she looked bigger somehow.
Amy held a float over her head. “Coming.” She approached Barbara, waiting for her to move out of the way.
Barbara ignored Amy and watched Hank. “You thought it would be too heavy for her?”
Hank laughed. Barbara grabbed her towel and went back inside.

On Friday night, while the grill heated, Amy’s parents gathered in the kitchen with Hank and Ann. Barbara and Amy had agreed to stay out of the way during their dinner party, but leaned against the hallway wall outside their rooms, across from the kitchen.
“To our lovely hostess,” Hank said.
“To summer evenings.”
“To tequila,” Hank said. They all laughed.
The girls crinkled their noses. Barbara whispered, “Let’s sneak in there and steal one of those bottles.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Amy asked.
Barbara peeked around the corner. “Dad just went out to the grill. We’ll both walk in and I’ll distract Mom. You grab a bottle.”
“But Hank and Ann will see me,” Amy said.
“Like he’d tell on you? They’re drunk anyway. And all over each other.”
“They’re what?”
“She is his wife, you know.”
Amy peeked around the wall. Her mother sliced limes while Ann sat on a stool by the counter. Hank stood behind his wife with his arms draped around her. Amy saw him whisper something in her ear and kiss her neck.
Barbara stepped around Amy, walking into the kitchen. “We’re hungry, Mom. Is there anything else to eat?”
Hank stepped away from Ann.
“I already fed you,” Amy’s mother said, “Remember? Tonight is adult night.”
Barbara crossed her arms. “Mom! Sandwiches are not dinner. I just want some ice cream or something.” She opened the freezer door, blocking her mother’s view and waved for Amy to grab the bottle.
But Amy couldn’t move, just stared at Hank. He stood, intently focused on the drink in his hand. “I’ll go help Walt with the steaks,” he said.
Her mother shut the freezer door and hissed, “What in the world has gotten into you Barbara?”
Barbara gave Amy a dirty look. “Fine. We’ll go to bed starving.”
Back in the hall, Barbara said, “What was that, you idiot?”
“Sorry. Mom would notice. We’d get caught.”
“You’re such a baby.” Barbara sighed.
“I’m old enough. Stupid plan is all.”
“You’ve got a better one?”
“Let’s spy some more. They’ll get drunker and we’ll listen for our chance.”
They heard Amy’s mother say, “They’re at that age, I guess. Hopefully they’ll stay in their rooms.”
“They’re delightful young ladies,” Ann said.
Barbara snickered and made a face. “We’re delightful even at ‘that age’.”
“Shhhh,” Amy said.
Amy’s mother asked, “Have you thought of having children?”
“I suppose,” Ann said. “Hank really wants to. He says he can’t imagine loving anyone as much as me, but he’d love to try.”
“That is so sweet,” Amy’s mother said.
They heard Hank return from outside.
“Time for more margaritas,” he said. “What are you two grinning about?”
“Ann was telling me how sweet you are.”
Amy pushed past Barbara into her room and tried to slam the door, but Barbara stopped it with her hand.
“You’re jealous?”
Amy buried her head in her pillow. She heard Ann squeal, “Stop it, you silly.” Everyone laughed.
“You don’t understand,” Amy said.
Barbara sat on the edge of the bed. “Look, lots of girls get crushes on old guys like their teachers and coaches. Happens all the time,” she said, then frowned. “Not that most of those guys encourage it so much.”
Amy jumped off of her bed and yanked open her dresser drawer. “You have no idea.”
“I’m telling you, I do.”
“You’re the one who’s jealous. Not me.” Amy tossed through her clothes. He was only acting. He couldn’t love Ann. Wouldn’t even get her stupid hair wet.
“What are you doing?” Barbara asked.
Amy yanked out a black t-shirt she’d outgrown last summer and put on her shortest pair of cut-offs.
“Those small clothes don’t make you look any older.”
Amy stuck her chest out, running her hands across her small breasts. “It’s better, though.” She pulled her hair back into a pony-tail like Hank liked and shined her mouth with pink lip gloss, then dug the bracelet out of the teddy bear and clasped it on. She paused in front of the mirror, hiked her shorts up, and smiled. “Let’s go help clean up.”
Barbara followed Amy into the kitchen and stood behind her near the table. Amy’s mother looked up first, shading her eyes and opening her mouth, but all the conversations stilled as each adult took in Amy’s appearance. “Continue your party. Just paying Mom back for taking me to the mall. Think of me as the maid.”
“You bought her those clothes at the mall?” Amy’s dad asked.
Doris stood up from the table. “Of course not – ” She turned to Amy. “Thanks, but –”
Amy grabbed her father’s plate. Hank’s eyes followed her arm. He seemed frozen to his chair.
Amy’s mother pointed at Amy’s wrist. “What are you wearing?”
Amy draped her fingers down the tight t-shirt. “I know. I’m outgrowing everything, I guess, but it’s just for home.”
“I mean on your wrist.”
Hank cleared his throat.
“Does our little Amy have her first boyfriend?” her mother laughed and turned to her husband. “Hank and I caught her shaving her legs.”
Amy’s father stopped his fork, “You and Hank caught her?”
Ann pushed away from the table.
“Is that it, Amy? Your first boyfriend?” Doris asked.
Amy flicked her ponytail and watched Hank. “Yeah, I have a boyfriend.”
Her mother smiled. “Sweet. And I can’t wait to hear all about him, but what have I told you about costume jewelry? It’s tacky – makes you look cheap.”
“Who says it’s fake?”
“Hank, I think it’s time for us to go,” Ann said.
Hank remained in the chair, holding the side of the table.
“It’s real?” Doris asked. “I don’t think any boy your age could afford a real gold bracelet, Amy.”
“Neither do I,” Barbara said.
“Who is this boy?” Doris asked. “Walt, I think you may have a phone call to make.”
Ann turned toward Hank, biting lipstick flakes off her mouth. “Thanks so much for dinner.”
He hopped up and slapped his palms together, smiling big. “Thanks. Everything was great.”
Her dad said, “Who gave you the bracelet, Amy?”
Ann flinched. Then she exhaled and rearranged her face back into a smile, grabbing Hank’s hand and leading him toward the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Doris.”
Amy saw the sweat on Hank’s forehead, his mouth squeezed tight enough to turn his lips white. But Hank met her gaze and she considered the next day, alone with him at his house. Her stomach tightened when she thought about what that might mean. He looked mad. Maybe she’d ruined everything. Maybe he didn’t want her to come over anymore.
Her father cleared his throat.
Amy bit her thumbnail, looking down. “Will Jordon did.”
When she looked back to Hank, he stood up straighter, pulling his shoulders back and smiling.
Barbara knocked her forehead with the heel of her hand.
“The kid whose parents own the jewelry store?” Doris asked.
“We’ll let you all handle this in privacy,” Ann said and urged Hank ahead of her to the door. She opened it and held it for Hank, then took his hand as they stepped out. The click of the latch seemed to echo in the silent room.
They stared at Amy. “I’ll give it back on Monday,” she said.
Her mother checked her husband’s expression. “Alright then.”
Amy’s dad chewed the last of his steak. “See that you do. I want to know more about this boy and why you let him give you such an expensive present. How long have you been seeing him? Why didn’t you tell us about him?’
“Later, Dad.” Amy nudged past Barbara and walked back into her room, closing the door.
Tomorrow, at his house, alone, they would talk. About how he acted with Ann, which would have to stop. About how to deal with her parents. About how she had saved him tonight. Amy sat on her bed and spun the gold around her wrist. She would not be giving back any bracelet on Monday. She wasn’t ever giving it back. Amy lay back, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow they would talk about being together.

Pale Deaths

Did you know that March 19^th is Act Happy Day? Or that November 3^rd is Cliché Day? Here’s one for the record books: October ^31st isn’t just for trick or treating anymore, no—it’s also National Knock Knock Day. The United States has an entire day dedicated to a line of jokes that no one beyond the third grade cares about. This is the country we live in, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Iraq.
Iraq who?
Iraq my brain wondering who gets paid to come up with these stupid fucking jokes for a living.
It’s sad, isn’t it, how the self-proclaimed “best place in the world to live” has its obvious flaws and moments of ridiculousness?
Today is May 9^th. This is Root Canal Appreciation Day. Not lying. I hate the dentist, but I’d rather be there than sitting in the courtroom, watching Mr. Jack Johnson, Esquire. I’m still not sure why I even hired a lawyer, really, considering I’m guilty. My crime is extreme and I stand the chance of being sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. I should qualify that by saying without the possibility means absolute certainty. But that’s okay; I deserve to die.
Jack gave me this notepad at the beginning of the trial two weeks ago. He wanted me to take notes, listen to the witnesses, jot down anything out of the ordinary or that didn’t ring true. This is his job but I don’t begrudge him the request. He wasn’t the one who committed the act of murder and so could only go on what I’d told him. At any rate, the notepad has been blank until today. I couldn’t dispute the facts the witnesses presented or the forensic evidence provided. To wit, my crime had been done in public and I confessed to it. Why this case went to trial eludes me, though I have a suspicion it had to do with news, ratings, sensationalism, winning the hearts and minds of the public. Another of those interesting things this country strives on, much like having a National Clean Off Your Desk Day.
Whatever.
This morning Jack informed me that he was going to put me on the stand, let me address the court, and tell the jury exactly what happened and why, which, in Jack’s opinion, was the cream in my coffee. This event would take place in the afternoon, sometime after lunch, once he’d made his opening statements. I was surprised at this. Since the beginning, he’d been telling me I wasn’t going on the stand, though I suppose not having anyone else to testify on my behalf changed his stance.
When I questioned him about this, he said it would help our case. Case? What case? He pleaded for me to work with him, to listen to him. Hey, he was the lawyer; if he wanted me to talk, I’d talk. I could do that.
At the moment, Jack’s up there giving his opening statement; my time is running short. When he’s done, he’ll call me up.
However, my purpose in writing today isn’t for me, and it’s certainly not for you, Jack, as I’m sure you’ll be the first to read this. I hope, instead of turning it over to the media like a prick, you’ll give it to Danielle. I worry about this ethical choice of yours because you’ll be pissed off at me, because putting me up on the stand was a mistake. Please accept this as my apology in advance since I’m going to fuck your case over. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about doing what’s right and standing up for what you believe in. The rest of this is for my wife.
I know, Dani, that this isn’t what you want to hear, or what you believe, but this is it. This is me. You know how stubborn I am. I only hope that you can speak favorably to about this (and me) to Matthew when he grows up instead of telling him that his old man didn’t love him and was too stupid to stay out of trouble. I hope your soft logic can turn you around the same way it used to turn me around in those moments when anger dominated. The fact that you’re not here today speaks volumes and time is the only hope that remains.
I love you and Matthew. I trust that you will move on. You both have a brighter future than what’s before you now. My mistake will not be your taint.
Jack’s standing near the jury now, building them up for my time on the stand. Really, I think he’s just talking to the brunette sitting in the corner. He feels she’ll be persuasive during their deliberation. Single parent with a young son, heavily involved in neighborhood watches, PTA, that sort of thing. Somehow, I think it’s the tanned legs and big brown eyes that have his attention. It doesn’t matter. When he’s done, I’ll walk up to the chair, raise my right hand, put my left on the Bible, and I’ll be sworn in. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. All that kind of shit.
Question is, Dani, what is the truth?
My father once told me that the truth is never just the truth, but one man’s opinion of the events that have transpired around him. This opinion is influenced by more outside factors than George W’s pocketbook. My father’s presidential reference was different, of course, but the point remains the same. Otis, he told me, fuck the truth. Give me the facts. He wanted the facts so he could make up his own mind and decide his own truth. And in his house, his truth was all that mattered. Right or wrong, it didn’t matter. Long live the king, or so they say. But the bottom line is that my truth is not your truth, nor will my truth be the jury’s truth.
Jack told me he was going to ask only one question of me while I was on the stand. “What is the truth about what happened the night of April Fourteenth last year?”
Trust and forgive me, Dani, like you used to do. That’s all I can ask, for I will not repeat what Jack and I practiced earlier; I will not speak of what Jack thinks is the truth. I will, however, give the following facts:
Fact: On January 3^rd, two years ago, our eldest son, Kyle, was kidnapped from our yard. He was seven years old.
Fact: On January 19^th a paperboy was cutting through a backyard on the way to his next delivery. He tripped and fell over something in this yard. It was a hand. Kyle’s hand. A dog had dug it up. His body was only eighteen inches below the ground. This was twenty three days, fourteen hours, and twenty-two minutes since he was abducted.
Fact: The yard belonged to a man named Dean Simon.
Fact: Kyle had been raped. The cause of death was suffocation and the plastic bag used to cut off his air supply was still tied around his head.
Fact: Investigation and forensic evidence revealed that my son had been held for at least a week in Mr. Simon’s home.
Fact: Mr. Simon was arrested, indicted, and sentenced to death for Kyle’s murder.
Fact: Two days following his sentencing, the state of Ohio banned all forms of capital punishment. It had been ruled that lethal injection was considered cruel and unusual punishment. Anyone currently on Death Row was reverted to life in prison without the possibility of parole. This included Mr. Simon.
Fact: The man who violated and killed my son was not going to die for it.
Fact: This was unacceptable to me. I could not (would not!) sit by and let this man live for another hour on my dime.
Fact: I owned a pistol.
Fact: During his transfer from the county to the state, I was able to pull off an effective Jack Ruby and get close enough to shoot Mr. Simon once in the forehead.
Fact: Forensic evidence and medical reports confirm that death was instantaneous. A luxury Kyle was not afforded.
Fact: I dropped the gun to the ground and surrendered at the scene.
These are the facts of my case that cannot be disputed. I think I mentioned earlier that my punishment would be life in jail. It’s harsh, but not harsh enough.
Jack wants me to play the grieving father. This is not a hard role for me; I grieve everyday for the loss of my son, for the atrocities he endured during the last few days of this life. For those are things that no child should ever hear of, let alone have to experience.
I will sit before the jury, repeat the facts of my case, and will duly inform them that nothing about Dean Simon’s death was cruel and unusual. The powers that be deemed the once-acceptable methods of lethal injection and electrocution unconstitutional.
I carried out Dean Smith’s original sentence in a quick and painless manner, which is what society demanded. Nothing about my method was cruel or unusual; therefore I feel no remorse for my actions.
What was done to our son was cruel and unusual.
Dani, my grief is superseded by righteous anger and a sense of duty, not only to our son, but to every person in this fucked up country of ours. Why does anyone who kills another person deserve to live? An eye for an eye, a life for a life. Dean Simon took Kyle’s and I took his. Now I freely give mine.
Jack’s just called my name. He’s waiting. So are the judge and jury. I have to go now.
I’ll be my own executioner.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

what is veganism?

A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?

This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?

We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Brian B. Braddock, WrI passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.

Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design, 829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.