Recently overheard...

    I heard of a man who once waited outside (then) Senator Barrack Obama’s office, waiting to see him for hours, so he might be able to talk to him. Eventually a man from inside the office came out and asked the gentleman, “Are you waiting to see Senator Obama?”, and the man replied, “Yes.” This is when the man from the office told him that Sentaor Obama won’t be in, because he rides the subway all day and does all of his work off his Blackberry.

Luna’s Ticked

I love small town America, I really do, what’s left of it
The café here used to serve the best food in the world
But it’s gone now, so it’s either Denny’s or the Arches
Those and the research lab are all that remain
Besides the post office, city hall, and the volunteer fire truck parked in the alley
Everything else is up on the interstate where I almost never go
Oh sure, there’s a better class of corporate chow up there
By the Wal-Mart and truck stop
But I take my chances right here, on the corner of Elm and Main
First it was Denny’s, then it was the farm co-op
Now it’s a Denny’s again since Monsanto broke the farmers
If you don’t do research you flip burgers or wait tables
They haven’t changed cooks in a hundred years
I suffer the ammonized burger to get dessert
When I ask Luna for raspberry sauce on a piece of turtle cheesecake
I see her eyes roll up in her head because that’s not what it says on the menu
It’s either raspberry or turtle
I think about the research lab and the mice crossed with Liz Taylor stem cells
Mouths big enough to apply lipstick to and inch long eyelashes
And remember how years ago someone there isolated the caudate nucleus
Identifying its effectiveness as a human alarm response system
Making me wish they moonlighted as a waitress
“You want the turtle or the raspberry?” Luna wanted to know
“I want the turtle WITH some raspberry sauce” I told her
She went away muttering, but it wasn’t in English
I don’t know for sure but I don’t think it was Spanish either
When she came back she had my cheesecake and a pot of coffee
There was sauce everywhere and Luna had the strangest look on her face that you could imagine
I looked first at the plate all criss crossed with hot fudge, caramel, and raspberry
And then at Luna’s face fixed on it with a faraway stare
Suddenly it dawned on me, “Your boyfriends done this to you hasn’t he” I asked
Luna dropped the coffee pot on the tile floor and fled
After lunch I headed out for the river past the laboratory
Where Luna’s ancient VW bus was parked by the help wanted sign
“Isn’t that about perfect” I thought
Don’t get me wrong, I like Luna, but it was hard enough ordering dessert from her
These days, I just feel more comfortable making my own shampoo

I am not the Trojan horse

I am not the Trojan horse/ open
me up & a team of bloodthirsty Greeks
do not stream out/

                               Hellen
has not driven them mad/ there
are enough pretty bells in L.A. & Chicago

who do just that & keep me screaming, but
the dogs of war are washed out with my
chocolate milk to cavort with my roaches as

Hector is chased around my bellybutton, not
by Achilles but by linebacking Urlacher, &
I choose to give up the ball to

anyone who wants it/ I sure don’t/ it’s
2:57 a.m. now in my Pasadena room/ a mouse
reads my poetry & goes to sleep/ a

dead man lies outside my door preparing to
haunt me/ all the Greek ships are sunk
down the drain to a sewer in Hades/ the

ferryman has too much pride to ferry
them across the Styx to Hell (except for
Urlacher who scares the Hell out of him) my

hand shakes as I drink my chocolate milk/ some
drips into my white beard turning it brown/ it
dirties my anti-Bush t-shirt which is aready filthy with

history/ my 96-yr-old German mommy tells me to
quit feeling sorry for myself & gives me a plate of
sauerkraut to sweeten me (thank God for my

chocolate milk) I
circle the globe with the dove of peace, &
she eats me ...

!

My cup of Jones coffee is poisoned

My cup of Jones coffee is poisoned by
Marxist progress to dead capitalism, &
that goes for Groucho with his big<

cigar, smoke going up the chimney of
Auschwitz & a West VA mine from
Michael Vick’s dogs of war.<

Toys made out of dog bones & football
stardom/ puppy ashes filling the
air with America &<

all we stand for/ my
sister in law preserved in hospice for
modern medicine to extend our life stats/ her<

contribution to our insanity whether she
likes it or not/ soon she’ll join
Vick’s dogs, but Vick is a natl hero.<

When it’s over, we’ll know it never began.
We’re nothing today as always, with
our imperishable souls the biggest joke of all.<

But we have our hope & faith to extend our
suffering & amaze the gods with our
STUPIDITY ...<

!

The statue of unliberty

The statue of unliberty
crumbles into NY Harbor
spelling the death of democracy which

according to Howard Zinn never lived/ our
founding fathers protecting their
interests against the Indians & Blacks/ their

numbers too great & intimidating/ our fathers
fearful that they’d band together &
run the great white shark into the sea/ the

blacks already discovering they could join the
tribes & live better than they lived as slaves/ so
the great white killers pitted the blacks against the

injuns out of fear for their lives & today we have
black Obama against white Romney to be
president of the same mess/ the

form changes but the battle’s the same/ all
wrapped in the horror & shame of
being human & insane/ of

humanity & insanity laughing laughing
all the way ...

!

The Bum

At 2 a.m. or so
Just outside of Denny’s
Slumping on a bench beside the door,
Hooded, leaning on his knees -
He seemed to be asleep -
And was identical
There when I came out.
I oddly had 9 dollars
(I never carry cash)
With me and I wanted
To give it him for food.
I was afraid.
He maybe wasn’t hungry
Or just preferred to sleep,
He might be mean and angry
Or totally insane.
So I kept my money,
Walked by and drove away.
That was several days ago
And still I’m thinking of it.

Celebration

Do angels fuck? My George is back
And I awoke quite happy
In the darkness of the nearly dawn
From a dream, a crazy dream.
All my dreams are crazy.
My family is dead. I kill it
Daily every day,
Every day a little deader,
And my mind is free.
George is back and so my soul is happy.

George is back. Do angels fuck? I wonder.

On Voting

I try to reason with the unreasonable
I try to persuade the lazy to work
I vote in every election
Clearly,
I like exercises in futility

Black Friday

As soon as our bowels have moved
Thanksgiving dinner into the septic system,
comes the thickest newspaper of the year,
good for housebreaking a dozen pups.

Nobody killed this year on Black Friday,
unlike other Vendredis noirs—though one
creative woman pepper-sprayed her way
through earlier arrivals at her Wal-Mart.

Store doors slid open at digital midnight.
Harassed and helpless, like sheep without
a shepherd, slipping in their own collective
Pavlovian saliva, people came in herds.

By sunrise, a post-shopping lassitude
like that which follows sex. Astrologers
three, of orient, approach the service desk,
ask refunds on gold, myrrh, frankincense;

ask pardon of the divinity still in diapers
for thinking treasure only what is snatched
from slow hands of competitors who look
like one’s own grimace in the shaving glass.

Thought, Last Seen Hanging by a Thread

Hear me crying out to humanity,
hanging by its every word
of bigotry, betrayal, hypocrisy,
in socio-cultural-religious
dispute over how its will be done
for the greater good of its own
where children with hungry eyes
despair of salvation in this life
or any next, mothers worn down
by weeping for men folk taken
off to fields of battle that will yield
no harvest but more of the same

Watch me dying for humanity
like a last leaf turning yellow
among sad branches of a history
once green and strong, ringing
out a message of peace and love
and believing every word said,
in promises made, even signed for,
while a robin’s song in winter
about spring being next on nature’s
agenda for us all is drowned out
by socio-cultural-religious ranting
raking over more of the same

Save me from poor humanity’s
petty squabbles in this or that
corridor of power, on this podium,
that pulpit, whatever...
Don’t let me hang for every word
of do-gooder speak ever uttered
in monologue, dialogue, preaching
to the hopeful or the hopeless
(as its case may be) but rise above
attempts to make us slaves
in someone else’s dream most likely
to mean even more of the same

Fly with me for humanity’s sake;
sing with birds, nest in trees,
watch the young and teach the art
of survival in a world
where all that’s natural takes pride
in the integrity of identity,
humility, selflessness, sexuality,
and other fine qualities
commonly human but often put down
by socio-cultural-religious fears
that any change means loss of face,
preferring more of the same

Don’t leave me crying for humanity,
hanging by its every word...

Wisconsin’s Pride

We rode proudly through
Downtown Wisconsin Dells,
Premiere resort town of the Midwest,
Giving the tourists one more
Attraction to draw their eyes.
It is not enough to warehouse
Prisoners beyond reason, the
Public must be allowed to gawk,
Gape at them, anonymous
Behind opaque windows, restrained by
Stalwart keepers.
Every Tuesday, the DOC bus
Rolls through Downtown Dells,
to give the city tourists one more
Attraction to draw their eyes.

Moving Day

The dark spot on the sun-bleached bedroom wall
was in the shape of the way you sleep;
legs spread eagled,
one arm draped protectively across your eyes.
I wanted the security deposit back
so I had to repaint.

Instead of helping me pack,
you were hundreds of miles
away,
in Mexico
with a whore.
You left me in a hurricane,
and you never returned
to claim your wreckage.

When I packed,
I cast your ghosts into a pile to burn:
stray black socks,
bookmarked novels,
the dishes you bought because they were blue.
I choked on the ashes while I
dragged the brush across the wall,
not stopping until my
last
best
memory of you was smothered.

Diabetic Service Dog

1.
With all decisions made,
two kitties, cleaning each other
at the end of the bed,
will move to my wife’s friend’s
from work. In the mean time,
we will move to my folk’s
and with two of our other
cats. My diabetic service dog
will move in with us
once my number
on the waiting list arises.
An expensive endeavor,
time of three full years when
the trainer returns every
90 days for more training.
I’ll pay a total fee to help save
my life and allow me to drive,
again. My bad luck totaling
four or five cars and harming
another,
it’s been over a year since
touching the wheel of fire.
It’s been too long living
alone with thoughts in my head
no one could understand--
for my sugars to be low
and not high, but in normal
ranges--my brittle form
hangs on low and high
extremes--I need the signals
from someone who can
recognize in advance
the true balance within.
To smell the acid in
the stomach can claim
the prize inside
the healing balm unrecognizable
by myself or its organs,
and when my lab puppy
begins her connection with me,
I’ve claimed her name
and she’ll claim my life.

2.
Kai jumps into the diabetic river
to alert Bradley when sugars
run low or high, like a fever.

Diabetes dominates families.
Everyone plays a part, like
the climax in a song, especially
one low in tone and pressure.

Families who can’t help
get sent to the prison of their
minds in black and white
dreams. And silent like Chaplain.

A reaction sends one to the base
of a tree to play air guitar.

Insulin’s birth, 100 years ago,
began the intelligent dissection
for a cure. Diabetics live and die
based on a bullet of control.

Brooklyn Shrink

A dark container and a human garbage bin, I breathe foul air,
inhale toxic dreamscapes, and listen to sin, the eerie
darkness of
my patients.

Many are crippled by fear, victims of trauma they witnessed,
or discovered, or experienced, life-threatening
happenings of the past; or perhaps,
they continue to be
victimized.

It’s the unholy stuff of film noir and in the boroughs of New
York City, the quotidian terrorism of the ghetto.
So what can victims do?

They come to me, the Brooklyn shrink, and slowly, shed
their nightmares. They can’t bear their dirty
secrets of rape, incest, and suicide.

They furiously exhale their psychological and physiological
poisons and breathe seething toxins of
murder and domestic violence
into my psyche and
soul,

and leave a gaping hole in my quintessence. When I inhale
their horrific tales, I feel sick, desperately ill.
Yet at the end of the day, I will
exorcise these poisons-
demons of my patients’
minds and bodies.

I must cleanse my being, for tomorrow, I will breathe the
darkness again; tomorrow, I will courageously
face the monstrous abyss of Hell
again and again.

I’m the Brooklyn shrink. Each day, I risk my life.
A fearless warrior and peacemaker,
I travel through many
wastelands on the
road to
healing.

Such is the way of a shrink and healer.
It is the journey I have
chosen.

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.

The Color of Prayer

I lose the thoughts
as they ping
      and whirl,
chase through my eyes.
Like pinballs,
they light up,
      and the dingdingding
sets my watch.

Caught in the glare of
furious love,
      I swallow the rage
with piss
yellow
prayer.

Still Hoping for Change

Third party votes
are like
people screaming
at telephone poles,
hoping their voices
will carry
over the wires
to somebody
who gives a shit.

The Moment at Hand

there it is -
a single strand
of silk strung
between the mushroom
capped candle
and a book resting
on a shelf of white

like a quarter moon
the silver hair
glistened in the air
connecting the corner
of a quiet book
and the fireless
tallow, though a bulb
above ran a light
down the elegant
glistening slide

and colors awoke
all about the strand
where a bridge to memories
met the moment at hand

Poem from The Metaphysical
Salvage & Scrap Yard (Blink)

A rose is just
the blood booting
back in a syringe
in Hartford a burg
that is just a steady
supply of battlefield
ready-to-kill but
more likely get
maimed or die
soldiers for
its country

Ring    ring

How many angels
can dance on top
of a minimum wage-worked
cash register?

Wail      wail

How many ambulance
sirens before you can get
taken to a hospital in
a city whose semi-literate
high school graduates
are always battlefield ready

—set

and just like that
—you’re gone

And the indifference
that some still pray to

blinks another day

Obama on the Subway

Senator Obama
while working
would take the subway all day
and do all his work
off his Blackberry
so you couldn’t corner him
in his office

Fit Together Like That

So on sale
in front of the store
are outdoor campsite chairs
titled
“SPORT CHAIR”,
and I’m sorry,
“sport” and “chair”
should never be used together like that
inany sentence.

Vegetarian Stands
by the Meat Sale

it’s raining out,
and no one wants to be outside.
and if they do come here,
they just want to get the bare essentials
and get home as quickly as they can.
they surely don’t want to contend
with me, just trying to make a living.

a huge clock looms at the opposite wall.
i keep glancing at the time, and think
of the huge calendar looking over new york
in Atlas Shrugged, as everyone is reduced
to merely trudging through their days.

someone just wished me good luck,
because i think everyone would rather be
sleeping than here. and it’s true.

i just glanced at that clock again.
i’m only one eighth the way
through my day. and this woman
who has chosen to not have children
has to keep smiling despite the weather
and fawn over every passing child i see.
this vegetarian stands next to the sign
saying “hot ham” is the deli sale today,
as employees place baked and fried chicken
in packages for sale behind me.

i try to smile, because it’s my job,
even though it’s raining outside,
as the second hand on the clock clicks
more slowly today.

Over and Over Again

So I work here at the front of the store
and every ten minutes in the afternoon
a young man walks from the deli section
wearing his work cap and apron,
and drops off a sealed container
with eight pieces of fried chicken
to set with other, once seaming,
buckets of fried chicken for sale.
He comes back fifteen minutes later
with a few plastic containers
of whole rotisserie chicken
to stack in pyramids
next to the buckets of fried chicken.

And it makes me think:
does this young man go back and forth
between always baking ovens
and vats of always bubbling grease
to cook the same bird flesh
over and over again?

I mean, does this deli at this store
get large bags of same-sized chickens,
pre-plucked, gutted and prepped,
so they could just place them in the ovens
before placing each identical once-living bird
into it’s own mass-produced
sealable plastic shell?

Do they get vats of chicken parts
already breaded for the fryer,
or do they get gallon jugs of batter
they have to dump the chicken parts into first?

...I’m sure they don’t get their hands dirty
with batter: welcome to the corporate machine.
Mass-produce dead animal parts somewhere else.
Just deliver them to the deli,
give the dead animal parts enough heat
and leave it at that.

Then do they have to appropriately separate,
to evenly distribute, the animal parts
in each bucket of friend chicken?
Get the beast to wing to leg rations right...

Toward the end of the day, if some animals
haven’t sold, they just throw them away.
Mass slaughtered animal, cooked and not sold,
is then thrown away. Now, I wouldn’t suggest
they give all of their food to homeless shelters,
but at the same time, people go hungry,
and this store daily throw away food
that could help a family survive another day.

I mean, I work here at the front of the store,
and this is what I’m drawn to think of:
a man in a deli, spending hours a day
opening and closing the same oven doors,
moving breaded animal parts into
and out of deep fat fryers
over and over again.

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
    Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, and the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

The Realization

    I Well there’s a lot of things I do for money that I don’t like. Why do you expect to me grin when I do it, to enjoy the flavor of the labor? Pardon me for not kissing the earth at your feet.

    I“Be content with what you have.” That same old tired drag. It maintains the rich, and it pacifies the poor, a passive containment. I disregard that listless half, the cramp that needs ambition.

    I I just can’t let it go too far, but it’s not as easy as that. There’s no warning when it goes too far. Suddenly it’s just too far, and the realization chills.

Outsiderism

    The upgrade to African-American can be a rewarding process. Those interested individuals, submit U.S. Form 92 for consideration. Your request will be kept in the strictest confidence. Socio-economic Accords of 2044 grant this upgrade automatically to mixed Blacks.
    The upgrade from the lowest income Whites and Latinos to acceptable levels and beyond can be achieved within the guidelines of the elite mentors of your ethnicity. Once accomplished the applicant will be introduced for the socio-economic conversion mandated by the financial protocols enacted by the Provincial Council for employment.
    That message resonated off the walls of the small vestibule. Naomi walked up to the security scanners.
    Next applicant, step into the security scanners, the AI unit said.
    Naomi looked at the streaks and smudges on the transparent plastic tubes that lined the entrance of the antiquated Mobile Career Opportunity Office. The dual doors popped open. She stepped in, looked up and two scan bars several feet above her head descended. Emerald beams moved pass her close cut black hair, light sunset eyes and cinnamon complexion. It stopped at her oversized breast and dropped suddenly to her narrow waist. It hesitated. Naomi looked at the screen. “That tickles.” No response to her lie. It remained blank. The bar went back just below her breast.
    No ID implant. Where is it?
    “I don’t have one.”
    Why?
    “I’m severely allergic,” Naomi said.
    ID card. Place it on the screen.
    She reached into her tight jeans and pulled out a plastic card and smacked it on the monitor. The screen flickered and the plastic enclosure opened.
    Proceed to your right for the next phase.
    That wasn’t so bad, but she had to remember not to get too wrapped up in this process. Anselmo gave her a schedule to deliver the package. The package, he called it, were phony ID’s. Anselmo came under police surveillance every now and then, so she helped. They had the same last name and people thought they were related, but they were lovers. Anselmo hustled, but she worked. She needed an upgrade, if he wanted to stay, it would hurt, but she’d get over it. She looked at her watch; 11:30 a.m.
    She rubbed her nose when the musty dampness tickled her sinus. The wooded floor of the stainless steel lined corridor creaked when she walked toward a row of partitioned offices.
    Stop. Now proceed to an empty cubicle and follow instructions. But, remember, in the event of a power failure make sure your cell phone numbers are available and valid to receive information.
    Think positive, so far this week, no blackouts. Naomi went in the space, sat and placed her hands on the chair’s arms. A warm sensation went from her finger tips to her wrist. Another scan. It’s me, Al, not an impostor.
    State answers to the questions in to the screen or use the touchpad, Ms. Obo. Understood?
    Naomi leaned forward. “Understood.”
    Bare with the redundancy, there is a good reason for it. Name?
    “Naomi Obo.”
    Age?
    “Sixteen.”
    School grade and School name?
    “Sixth. Public School 41, District 6.”
    Home address?
    “Foster commune 16, Robbins, Illiana.”
    County?
    “Crook. “Naomi laughed. “Sorry, Cooke.”
    Your age and education limit your choices for an upgrade, Ms. Obo. Understood?
    She sighed and shifted in her seat. “I’m fully aware of that, Al. I can still submit an application for the Silas Purneel Education and Medical Center. Understood?”
    You have to take an IQ/Assessment Test. Understood?
    Naomi keyed in her response.
    There are five levels. Someone with your grade level is not expected to finish them. She gave the screen the finger. There are twenty five questions each. Work as fast and accurate as possible.
    The screen came to life. Test 1: Math Computations. Naomi looked. Arithmetic. What kind of crap was that? Test 2 and 3 was more of the same, Elementary. She tapped the screen. “You got anything harder?”
    You have qualified to take levels four and five. Level five includes logic problems. After completion you will receive further instructions. Proceed with the test.
    She smiled at the equations and symbols. Child’s play. Thank God for Mr. Jeremy. He took several students under his wing for special instruction. Naomi proved to be his brightest pupil. He said she’d never stay in the Labor Park Industrial Complex very long. She had a crush on him. He was so handsome, but unfortunately, Mr. Jeremy loved to get high. Cocaine and heroin were his undoing. They found him in a stall in the faculty washroom. Sad. He would have been proud of her. She shook that thought and finished the test.
    The walls seemed to close in on her. The lights flickered, just a matter of time. Hurry, Al, hurry. She waved her hand passed the screen. Nothing.
    You have to report back here for more...more...tests...Ms. Obo.
    “The power’s going out. Can I go online or use satellite?”
    No. You can only...only continue at a mobile unit...unit.
    Naomi pushed the touch screen and slammed the keyboard. “Al!” The lights went out and the emergencies kicked. She headed for the exit. Her palm pad said no signal. No surprise.

    Osama Wei, M.D., Director of the Silas Purneel Education and Medical Complex analyzed the data next to photos taken at the mobile upgrade center across the Sal-Sag Channel. The female applicants from ages fifteen to nineteen had been scrutinized thoroughly. Now they searched for one last candidate. The Provincial Government insisted on an Affirmative Action Recruitment program. Fine by the Chinese, they agreed to take applications for one day twice a year. And, of course, the units weren’t easy to find. Wei stared at the profile of the black one, Naomi Obo; IQ-206. 206! That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. Wei exited the files and ran a diagnostic; no glitches. He re-opened it; IQ-206. The highest he had ever seen. A Black female with an IQ that high might be killed if her peers found out.
    The seven-foot Director rolled his chair back, stood and stretched. He walked over to a full length mirror, brushed back his jet black hair and rubbed his pencil thin black moustache. Monitor One.”
    Yes, Doctor.
    “I need everything you can get on a Naomi Obo. Asap.”
    Yes, Doctor.
    “The power is out across Sal-Sag, so contact me by short wave.” Sal-Sag Channel carried waste water from the Bigge City metropolitan area to the rivers down state. Also, the south suburban slums or 35 began on the other side. Today was hot, hazy and humid. And, on a day like this, it earned its name. Shit’s creek. “Tell George to bring the car around.”
    George called in sick today, Doctor.
    “Contact him and tell him to call me. It’s very important.” George knew the 3S area and he had contacts in several police departments in that part of the county. A stocky white ex-cop who never had a sick day in his life probable took a day to go fishing. A good day for it too. “Tell the robot-driver, I’m ready in ten minutes.” Wei walked over to the floor to ceiling panoramic window. He hated to leave the complex and go in the opposite direction of Bigge City. But, the situation required he secure Naomi Obo’s admittance into Pur-Ed-Med. She had to be found; additional funding for the complex depended on it. This would be the second year the complex lost that money, if all vacancies weren’t filled. The funds get diverted to the townships. Those hypocritical politicians complained in public, but hoped the policy failed. This was an opportunity for him to slap them in the face.
    The limo’s door slid open. Wei tossed his uniform jacket on the seat and maneuvered his seven-foot frame by the communication center and hit the speed dial. “Driver, head for the Sal-Sag Bridge.”
    Yes, Dr. Wei.
    A black partition shot from behind the vehicle’s entertainment center that sealed the compartment. Wei’s chauffer’s face filled the screen just as he started to disconnect. “George, how are you?”
    “I’m doing better, sir.”
    “You sound surprised...How’s the fishing? Are they biting?” Wei chuckled.
    “Ah...Ah, fishing?”
    “That’s a joke, George. I’m messing with you. Look, I’m headed to one of the Sal-Sag crossings...
    “Sorry to interrupt, but are you going to 3S or The Shacks?”
    “Ah...hold a second.” Wei ran his finger down the file. “Robbins.”
    “That’s 3S.” George said.
    “I forgot about the Shacks.” Wei never went to that impoverished all white area. They hated Chinese. Hey were viewed as a white collar occupation force since the West’s financial collapse.
    “Excuse me, sir, but is it that important you go?”
    “Yes it is, George. There’s a young lady who has exceptional talent that needs to be enhanced. She applied for an upgrade.” Wei cussed under his breath when the car hit a bump when he lifted the decanter and spilled scotch on his pants. “I want to pull her out, today. Contrary to the rumors we like to provide opportunities to the less fortunate.” Wei lied.
    “OK. What’s the name?”
    “Naomi Obo.” Wei stirred his drink and peered out the window when the car slowed and stopped. He pressed a button and retracted the partition. “Hold on, George.” There was a wall of traffic as far as he could see. He let down the window and frowned from the heat and humidity. This was bad. People were standing outside their vehicles; even the truckers. “George, you still there?”
    “Yes, sir. If you don’t mind me asking. Where in 3S were you headed?”
    “A mobile upgrade unit in Dolton. That’s where she was when the power went out.”
    “Dolton’s at the back of that area. They hate foreigners since martial law in 2024. Even though it ended two years later. I’ll take it from here,” George said.
    “OK. Her application wasn’t completed. She can continue at the other unit by the bridge. But, I don’t know if she’s aware of that.”
    “Is there a deadline?”
    “Yes, it’s 5:00 p.m.
    “Going from Dolton to the security check point on foot ain’t easy. There are gangs of all types, crooked cops and the list goes on.”
    “Get it done, use what you need.” Wei disconnected the call. “Driver, go in the emergency lane, turn on the sirens and get us out of here.”

    George Wielinski reeled in the line to replace the bait that fish managed to nibble away. You won’t get the next one. He dug in the can of worms and wrapped it around the hook. How did that Chinaman know he was fishing? The first time he took a sick day, the boss calls. Just his luck. That’s what he got for sharing fish stories. He’d sat on that rock long enough. His behind hurt and his weight and wide body gave his arthritic knees hell. But, the peace and tranquility was worth the discomfort. The shade from the trees along the river’s still waters didn’t provide much relief from the sticky humidity. He smacked and fanned mosquitoes, and hit the speed dial.
    “Detective Nocee.”
    “Nosy Nocee, how are you doing?”
    “Hey, Polock. How’s retirement? Doing any fishing?”
    “Yeah. I need you to locate and observe a Naomi Obo.”
    “Obo?”
    “Yeah, you know her?”
    “Uh...no.”
    George knew a lie when he heard one. “Hit me back when you find her. We’ll work out compensation later. Thanks.” That expense would be passed on to Wei. And, for interrupting his day, he decided to call in tomorrow.

    Naomi looked out the window at the five mile long business district of 150^th Street. She couldn’t afford to be seen by any of her peers. They frowned on those wanting to upgrade. Whether you were Black, White or Hispanic, you could easily get beaten to death. If you were eligible, don’t mention it. She stepped into the heat and hurried down the wood planked walkway through the muddy vacant lot to a service drive behind some stores. She stashed the package Anselmo gave her in a dumpster.
    Naomi grabbed some paper and wiped the rungs of the dumpster’s ladder. She climbed to the top and held her breath. Man, it smelled bad. She pushed maggot filled bags to the side, leaned in and pulled out a small black plastic bag attached to the filthy container’s side. Thank God it hadn’t got jarred loose. She removed the contents and tossed the bag. The package the size of a desk of playing cards contained the phony ID’s.
    She heard a truck’s back-up beepers coming down the drive. She jumped off the ladder, and turned. “Anselmo!” Naomi grabbed her chest. “Jesus, you almost scared me to death.”
    “What are you doing, Naomi?” He snatched her arm and pulled her out of the truck’s way.
    “I put in an upgrade application, so I stashed the package.”
    “You got it?”
    “Yeah. How’d you know where to find me?”
    “I didn’t. I had to take a leak. Small world ain’t it? And whose butt do I see sticking out?” Anselmo grinned. “Good I saw you, the phones and power are out. Be careful. I think I picked up a tail.
    “You sure?” She looked in his fearless, penetrating eyes. He looked nervous, that wasn’t like him. “The Feds?”
    “No, Det. Nocee.”
    “Nocee, that piranha...I thought they sat her behind a desk?”
    “They did, but something’s got her out here and I know she saw me,” he said. “I can’t meet you at the usual spot. Got to the alternates. If I ain’t there, I’ll leave a mark.” He kissed and caressed her. “How’d the application go?”
    “Incomplete. The power went out and now I’ve got to go to the other side of town to finish before the 5:00 p.m. deadline.”
    He rubbed his massive hands on her smooth face. “You can still play ball. How many people got a 110 mph fast ball?”
    Naomi shrugged. “I want an upgrade. I’m sixteen, working in a foundry...a foundry, Anselmo. I’ll be deaf by the time I’m twenty-five. I deserve it and I’m going to get it.
    “I know, I’m messing with you. I know the genius I love will make it. I gotta go.” Anselmo Obo walked back to 150^th Street.
    Naomi wiped her eyes. She hated when he said that. It sounded like she’d never see him again. The leaders of the Calypso’s liked Anselmo and at just six feet he earned the name ‘Black Lightening” on the basketball court. And, he became one of their most trusted mules. She didn’t like it; it had no future, but what did she know. Some people thought they were related; they just had the same last name. When convenient, they used that to their advantage. They had dreams; a home, children and good jobs. They weren’t two hormone ravaged teens who couldn’t get enough. But, a smart couple with a plan; Naomi gets in Pur-Ed-Med then she gets him in later.
    Naomi’s stomach churned; she didn’t like the message it sent.

    Naomi stepped out from under the canopy and looked. No buses. The transit authority took better care of this turn around than the one in Robbins. A small park with a playground wrapped around the waiting area. The benches were well shaded with plenty of ashtrays and garbage cans. What used to be buckled asphalt was now concrete and a new charging station. No buses sat and waited for the next one. That was unusual.
    It had been a while since Naomi had seen the end of 150^th Street. A boundary fence, offset a couple hundred feet, separated the business district from the labor parks. Now, laser towers replaced all the razor wire. Good, now it didn’t look like prison. The 150 was actually a boulevard; narrower in width than the ones in Bigge City. But, the corrupt township politicians oozed with pride. Each block had its own strip mall with a district architectural design and landscaping. Large flower pots were attached to the base of all light fixtures. The plants and vines flourished and gave shoppers a pleasant whiff of spring. Huge trees lined the street with ample seating, water fountains and street musicians. Illuminated walkways displayed pictures of the strip malls’ owners. An accessible portion for seniors and the handicapped were located closest to the buildings. Al walkways were heated in the winter and had blowers embedded in them for the summer.
    Floaters attached to the trolley cables monitored the entire six mile stretch of commercial activity, but with the security renovation free floaters replaced them. But, they were still programmed for the shopping area only. The townships agreed that a uniformed police presence would be counter-productive. Graffiti was unheard of, and no alcohol, picnics or loitering in the service drives. No internal combustion engines allowed on the 150. If you blocked a robo-sweeper, it read your ID and issued you a ticket on-line. During power failures special crews replaced the machines; they loved it, good pay and easy work.
    Each township’s Chamber of Commerce took exceptional pride in their portion. If you had a death wish, screw up on 150^th Street.
    Naomi used wisdom and waited until mid-day to put in her application; fewer people and less stress. Today most of the people on the 150 were from the Labor Parks. Grey, black and green for management, one piece coveralls were all over the place. It must have been a half day. They’re lucky. She never had one. Don’t think about it. Walk, run or whatever it takes to get to the other end by 5:00. She folded her bag into a backpack.
    Naomi jogged over to the path that meandered through and around the boulevard. She set a pace to reach her destination in four hours. That should do it even with the alternate plan.
    Hopefully everything would go well with Anselmo.

    Naomi stopped and ran in place and listened to a group of musicians play the bongo drums. Tall incense sticks burned and swayed in the brisk breeze. The pleasant aroma aggravated her sinus, so she moved on. She approached the corner and saw an enclosed personal two-wheeled vehicle slow when it passed the light. The silhouette behind the wheel looked familiar. The vehicle stopped. A boxy built female with close shopped blonde hair got out.
    Detective ‘Nosy’ Nocee.
    Naomi sped up and ran off the path. Slow down, Naomi. Don’t arouse suspicion. She turned to see if she could use spatial vision to spot her. Nocee looked her way. Dammit. She ducked behind a tree, knelt and pretended to adjust her shoes. Trucks stopped and blocked the detective’s vision, momentarily. Maybe she didn’t see. She ran to the next bank of trees; turned and didn’t see her. If Nocee came between the traffic she’d dart down the next service drive and scale a fence into the ‘Residentials.’ She looked up, no free floaters. Still no power. Traffic started moving; no sign of her. She crossed in the middle of the street and ignored the horns and insults. Naomi eased from in between two parked trucks and peeked out. She was gone. Good. If she shadowed Anselmo, why follow her? Leave it alone, you’re getting paranoid. She stayed on the sidewalk and jogged to a charging station on a side street just off the 150. Only a few people were in the station. Naomi walked toward the bathroom on the side. Heavy foliage had grown on the twenty-foot chain link fence that separated businesses from the residential area. Good, a perfect cover.

    Detective Pamela Nocee was pissed. How could she let that young girl make her? She sped down 145^th Street, the next thru street to the 150. When Naomi Obo’s picture popped up on the screen she was clean, but she figured she might be related to Anselmo Obo. This could be big. She had been tailing him for contraband and ID fraud. She weaved in and out of traffic, dodging balls and kid’s toys, trying to get an observable distance ahead of the suspect.
    What did this girl do that would interest George so much?
    She had to be discreet, being out of her jurisdiction. Police cooperation between the townships suffered due to political bickering. He superiors were breathing down her neck. Jealous bosses and opportunist cops don’t mix.
    She envied George; he retired and the Chinese liked him, so they made him a driver for Pur-Ed –Med executives. How lucky can you get? They take you under their wing and pay you that kind of money. Count your blessings, get the job done and get paid. Live or work in 35 you’re considered an outsider. Maybe one day, like George, you won’t be treated like an outsider.
    She slammed on the brakes. “Watch it kid!” She just missed him. She sat there waiting for her heart to start beating again while the kids laughed and kept running. She eased forward. Show down, Pamela. She glanced up the hillside and saw the fence part and someone’s head sticking out. That looked like Naomi Obo. What was she doing? She parked and waited.
    When Naomi slipped behind the station, she didn’t see any security cameras. Good. Stacks of boxes and bottle crates leaned on the walls. The stench of urine overwhelmed her. What used to be a small roadside-like picnic area became a collection of broken tables and neglected landscaping. She kicked through the knee-high weeds to the fence. A closer look revealed strands of razor wire woven through the link mesh. She picked up an empty bottle and raked it along the thick vines. The opening should be in this area. It didn’t look like anything had been replaced, but it has been a year since they used this drop. Where was it? Then the bottle hit something. Naomi found a stick and poked around the bottom of the fence. There it is. She lifted a long pin out of the ground. The marker was still there. Good. Her eyes strained, while she double checked for razor wire. She grabbed the make shift gate and shook it; harder and harder. The foliage started to give, then it separated just enough for her to squeeze through. Her foot slipped on the muddy slope and she fell back into the fence. She looked down the once grassy hillside; it had been bull dozed. Only a few huge trees remained. She’d have to cling to the fence to make it down the small path.
    She inched her way along the fence and even though the heat dried out the top soil, the saturated earth gave way with every step. The gigantic roots of the one hundred year old oak trees protruded skyward. The closer she got the more unstable they looked. Anselmo would leave a sign of what to do inside the dead tree trunk next to the second uprooted giant. She leaped on the roots, jumped down on flat ground and ran over to their hiding place. A huge spider web covered the hole.
    Anselmo hadn’t been there. Why?
    She ducked behind the stump and looked down the hill. Kids were everywhere. Nobody paid attention to the stranger who lurked in the bushes. Good. A couple of people with balls and bats drifted across the street to the lot to play ball.
    It’s time to go, Naomi. Time’s running out.
    Before the first pitch somebody hollered “the power’s back.” The crowd scattered. Naomi brushed off her clothing and continued down the path until she reached a break in the fence. Before she exited the heavy bush, she looked down the block. She saw a two-wheeled personal vehicle parked between two Electro-Harleys.
    That couldn’t be Det. Nocee or could it?
    She pulled out her phone. Signal restored. Good. Now she’d work her way back to the 150 and call Anselmo.

    Naomi walked up the hill and turned on to the 150. She looked up and saw two free floaters perched on a charge tower. They dropped to marquee level. People started to slow down; some stopped anticipating being scanned. Naomi took a deep breath and exhaled. The machines floated a few feet above her, one in front, the other in back. She stopped. ID please, it said. Naomi took it out and held it up. A beam focused on it. Wear your ID so it can be seen, thank you. Their lights flashed and then they flew in the opposite direction.
    The crowds had increased and shoppers hurried to do whatever, in case the outage happened again. Things looked normal. She hit her speed dial. Four rings, answer the phone, Anselmo. “Where are you?” Anselmo sounded congested and coughed in the phone. “Excuse me.”
    “What!? Where are you? You missed the drop.”
    “I didn’t make it.”
    “You didn’t make...” Naomi sighed. Relax, calm down. “Anselmo, what’s going on? It got stopped by floaters.”
    “Did you have your ID visible?”
    “No.”
    “That’s why. It has to be seen or they stop you. No big deal. Run down to the next set of benches. I’ll be there.”
    Naomi took off her phone and massaged her sore ear and switched it. For two blocks she dodged and pretended to chase squirrels. Anselmo sat on the bench and tossed pebbles in the garbage can across the path. She slowed and looked around. She didn’t see Nocee. “I saw Nocee drive by earlier and then she got out. I’d bet my life she saw me. And, then I could feel her by the drop. I thought she was looking for you.” He just looked, his face was blank, motionless, like a mask. “Anselmo?”
    “I’m thinking.”
    Naomi leaned back and siged. “You thinking... You still want me to go to the next drop or what?”
    “Yeah, go to the next one.”
    “Well, the last one has probably been compromised, so what’s going to stop that one from being found?”
    “It’ll be OK,” Anselmo said.
    Naomi shook her head, disgusted. “Anselmo...Anselmo.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing, so you still don’t want to carry because of the heat, or so-called heat?”
    “You don’t want me to get busted do you?”
    “Of course not.” Naomi got up, propped her leg on the bench, stretched and loosened up. “I’m gone; see you at the next one.”
    Anselmo went in the opposite direction toward the intersection. She picked up her pace, stopped at the light and turned down the side street. She passed on abandoned wood frame house. A couple of guys sat on the leaning staircase and passed a bottle in a paper bag. She smiled at the cat calls and stopped at a house next to a vacant lot. Several rusty trucks on blocks littered the property. Nocee had Anselmo jacked by the vehicle she saw earlier running through his pockets. She got in his face. “Where’s your sister, asshole?” Naomi ducked between two wrecked delivery vans.
    Anselmo knew how to rub their own shit in their face. “On her honeymoon, Detective Nocee.”
    Run and think, Naomi. She stopped and did some stretches and sat next to an elderly couple who tossed popcorn at the pigeons. The hungry birds swarmed in over their heads and gobbled up the golden morsels. Naomi smiled. Lucky birds, just fly and peck.

    Dr. Wei looked at the profile of Naomi Obo. Great looks and a genius, IQ 206. He’d gotten anxious about this one, nothing could go wrong. He hit a button. “George, tell me something.”
    “Well, Dr. Wei, my people lost her. She was on the 150 headed west, but she fell off the grid.”
    “I knew it. It’s imperative you find her. The 150, isn’t that the main street?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Can she get to the other side of town some other way?”
    “Yes, if she takes a short cut through the ‘Residentials.’”
    “Check them.” Wei ordered.
    “Doctor, it ain’t that simple. That’s rough territory. You got the north and the south...”
    “Yeah, yeah, another world,” Wei interrupted. “Find her before the animals kill her!” Wei slammed the phone. An extraction would solve the problem, but she had to finish the application process. The law required it, the Feds would say she’d been kidnapped, if those fools in the 35 foster communes complained. Oh well, no extraction.
    Wei had a gut feeling that Naomi Obo would make it.

    Naomi looked down 155th Street, only a few children played in the gated front yards of the row houses. Older people usually stayed inside until late in the afternoon. This portion of the south residential was peaceful most of the time. The absence of vehicles contributed to the quiet. No look-outs. No people waiting around for whatever. She maintained a steady pace; jogging wasn’t common in these parts. So anything faster would be like running. Soon, everybody would hear about a stranger passing through. Just don’t stop. She approached a bank of cluster mail boxes; on top a series of large screen info-boards rotated and displayed various information. Naomi stopped and got a sip of water. A couple of short fat teen females walked by, smiled and made some hand signals, then wiggled their rows of earrings. Naomi looked and smiled. They did it again. Naomi got ready to run, “I’m not with you.”
    “Cool, bye.” They frowned and walked away.
    Naomi drank some more water and watched the girls walk to an apartment in the middle of the row. Several vehicles, the only ones on the block, were parked diagonally in the front. Here we go, they think I’m stupid. She ran and turned the nearest corner and ducked behind a dumpster. She peeked and saw several people run past and stop.
    “Where did she go?” A tall tattooed blonde guy with rows of rings in his ears asked.
    “I don’t know. I saw her cut the corner,” the short teen said.
    “Find her and get paid.” They walked past the dumpster and headed for the driveway behind another row of houses. If the drive and that row are the same length; she could cross the street and head in the opposite direction toward the drop. They won’t see her. She ran across the street, down the block and she slowed by an open gate. That unit’s front door hung off the hinges. She stopped just inside the threshold, looked right and up a staircase. Filthy; there was trash of all kinds, everywhere. She pushed through the garbage carefully; no rats jumped out. Good. The back door leads to an open courtyard.
    The courtyard’s broken swings and monkey bars were surrounded by tall grass that swayed in the light breeze. Overloaded dumpsters sat on cracked concrete slabs that sprouted weeks and broken bottles. Where was everybody? She looked at the buildings across the trashy open space. Billboards with faces full of bullet holes lay against the walls and shell casings were scattered everywhere. No wonder, they used this area for target practice. Running to the other side in the open would be a bad decision, so she stayed in the shadows. None of those doors were open, so she kicked one in. The smell of rotten garbage slapped her in the face. She rushed to the back door to escape the fumes when she heard voices.
    She backed up and hid behind the staircase. They’re at the door. “Whoa... it stinks in there. I ain’t goin’ in there. Look in the other one,” a female voice said.
    “Go around the back,” a guy shouted.
    Naomi heard them run away. The odor had gotten too strong. She stuck her head out one of the broken back windows and took a deep breath. Her stomach churned with nausea. Move now, Naomi. She stepped out and looked both ways; nobody. A small field separated her from the next cluster of row houses. Opaque material covered the windows. She couldn’t tell if any doors were open or if the places were vacant. She ran into the field and stopped. Somebody yelled, “There she is!” She froze, turned and two guys were almost on top of her. Where did they come from? The tall blonde guy came at her full blast; the short blond with shoulder length braids broke away to flank her. She ran straight for the residences. Naomi ran a 9.5 meter. They’d never catch her, but she couldn’t outrun a bullet. The tall blonde was on her heels and tried to grab her. She stopped and dropped to her knees. When they collided, he flew over her and slammed into the concrete. He staggered to his feet, reached in his pocket and pulled out a pistol. The other guy came up from behind her; she turned, swung and hit him in the throat and he collapsed hacking up spit and blood. Naomi zigzagged and then ran straight into one of the unit doors. It flew open and she slid into a pile of garbage. She crawled behind an over turned sofa to catch her breath.
    The tall guy leaned on the door frame, panting. “You ain’t gettin’ away!” She saw his gun through a hole in the bottom of the sofa. The short guy stumbled in and the leader’s hand shot up, ordering silence. “You hear me?” He crept forward and the floor creaked with every stop. He looked her way; changed his mind and went toward the back. Naomi’s eyes locked on her pursuers, she felt for a brick by the collapsed wall. Her fingers wrapped around it. She froze. Something started crawling on her hand; now it coiled around her wrist and moved up her arm. But, she couldn’t take her eyes off the guy with the gun. Her skin crawled and tingled. Oh, God, not a snake. She looked around slowly. A black and orange snake’s forked tongue wiggled in her face. She eased her arm across the debris. Sweat trickled down her face with every sound it made and she hoped the small viper kept moving off her. It did; and it crawled into a hole in the sofa. Suddenly, blondie turned, looked at the sofa, took a stop and the floor boards snapped and collapsed. His legs fell into the hole and the 9mm pistol popped out of his hand, and slipped across the floor into some rubbish. His arms spread to break the fall and half of his body sank between the floor joist. “Marty, help me, dammit! Be careful so rest don’t fall!”
    “OK, relax!” The short fat teen knelt and stretched out his arm. “Grab by hand.” Naomi jumped up, threw the brick and hit him in the temple. His face bounced off the floor and blood ran down the side of his face like syrup. He didn’t move. She picked up the pistol and pointed it at the helpless blonde and laughed.
    He struggled to keep from falling into the basement. Every move he made, another piece of the floor gave way. “There’s a price on your head! You still ain’t getting away from us.”
    “I should shoot you, Goldilocks, but the rats will take care of you. You do know there’s rats down there, don’t you? Bye asshole.” Naomi stepped to the back door and eased it open.
    Damn, another open field that sloped down to a cul-de sac.
    Several police cars converged on the turnaround and parked. The officers cleared the people standing around the mail cluster boxes. Blondie said she had a price on her head. She had to get out of this area. “Help... help me!” They’ll hear him, Naomi. The teens ran into the field, stopped and tried to pinpoint the cry for help. She ducked back into the doorway. They headed her way, the best thing to do, go out the front and hide in another unit.
    The blonde managed to get halfway out of the hole when Naomi slapped him and ran out of the front. The unit on the end closest to the woods opened with little force. She waited at the back door until the group rescued their leader. She ejected the pistol’s clip. Full, good. Now, when the run out to look for her, the party starts. The group of teens stormed out in the open. Naomi opened fire at the police vehicles. They scattered like bugs and took cover. Scan towers on the cars’ roofs went into action. The gang screamed, “Don’t fire, it ain’t us.” Naomi continued to fire until the gun jammed. The fence and forest was only a few yards away. The gang members tried to run for cover when the cops returned fire. The scan tower beams covered the area. When the beam passed the second time, Naomi ran for the fence, scaled it and dived behind some bushes. Scans didn’t go around corners; so the cops would search this area.
    The teens were on their knees, hands behind their heads, screaming denials of any wrong doing. The buildings were riddles with bullet holes. The leader motioned his head at the wooded area. The cops glanced that way, but continued to rough up the gang.
    A white personal vehicle pulled up. Det. Nocee got out, walked over to the blonde and slapped him. She collared and lifted him. He grabbed at her hands while she shouted in his face. She released him he fell back and pointed at the woods. She gestured for more scans, floaters and cops to cover the woods. Several cops trained high caliber weapons mounted on the cars toward the housing project and the forest preserves. Nocee snatched the remotes out of their hands and threw them on the ground. “No, you fools!” She pointed and they ran toward the woods.
    Naomi cut through the foliage like a two-legged razor. She had to put a lot of distance between her and the pursuers. Why was Nocee so interested in her to put a price on her head? She was in big trouble. But, no matter what, she would die trying to get the upgrade. Forget these ID’s, Anselmo better be at the drop. If not, she’d leave them anyway. He can’t say she gave it to the cops if she got caught. She ran as fast as the bush would allow.
    She dropped to her knees. Look and listen, Naomi, then proceed with caution. No floaters or noise in the last ten minutes. Good, maybe she was in the clear. She leaned against a tree to catch her breath. She fanned swarms of insects and mosquitoes that tried to have her for lunch. What she wouldn’t give for a shower. She’d run parallel to the 150 for awhile when she reached a small clearing. She saw the sign of a charge station above the tree line. The drop; a rusted fifty gallon drum next to a dumpster in the back alley.
    Naomi sat on an empty bucket, exhausted. She’d run for half an hour, she analyzed her situation; big trouble, simple as that. Naomi kicked and hammered on the side of the dumpster, over and over again. She ripped off her backpack and dug inside for the package.

    George Wielinski adjusted the audio on his binoculars. It had to be the static. He couldn’t believe Nocee put a price on Naomi Obo’s head. He stressed discretion. He shook the device and re-focused. She still had a big blonde guy by the collar shaking and cussing him out. Who else did she have looking for the young girl? Nocee could no longer be trusted; she’s out, but he had to follow her until he found Naomi.
    George had a former subordinate park at the bottom of a small hill. He stood at the top and had a clear view of the housing project. A five hundred dollar credit bank card put his curiosity to rest with the promise of an additional five hundred at the end of the day. Milo was a good guy with a big appetite. The size of his stomach verified that fact. Too bad Nocee didn’t see that female dart into the woods. She and the gang were pinned down by phantom gunfire. Brilliant diversion. That had to be Naomi Obo. That foliage stretched north for a mile or so. He’d wait for Nocee to make a move. The cops she sent into the woods returned empty handed.
    Det. Nocee jumped in her vehicle and took off. George ran back to the police cruiser. “Milo, head north.”
    “OK, boss.” Milo puffed on a cigarette and exhaled smoke through his beet red nose.
    George fanned the thick cloud. “Please, put out the cigarette.” Milo thumped it out the window. “Thank you.” The next steps were crucial to the plan to extract Naomi Obo from 3S. This assignment proved to be easier said than done. How in the hell would that young girl make it through the ‘residentials’? She wouldn’t. But, if she kept faking out Nocee, she just might.
    Think positive, George and get ahead of Nocee.
    “Follow Nocee.” She took a truck route that would lead back to the 150. Nocee might try to intercept her at the end, but George figured he’d see Naomi get back on the main street. “Milo, turn on to the 150 and take me back to my vehicle.”
    Naomi brushed dirt off her pants and blouse. She was filthy, musty and her back throbbed. She wiped tears off her face with the back of her hands. A good cry; just what you needed, Naomi.
    You’re smarter than they are. Get the upgrade. If you get jacked by Nocee you still have that. Now get busy!
    She put on her back pack and stopped. What was that whining? A bike or bikes. She moved behind the dumpster; the sound got closer. She peeked; Anselmo. He jumped off the electric cycle, embraced Naomi and wiped her face. “You OK? You look terrible.”
    She held back her tears and shoved him. “Nocee’s on my tail. She’s got gang members looking for me, Anselmo. There’s a price on my head. What’s that about? I don’t do this, I work. This is your mess. I hate this crap! I hate 3S, the commune and that damn job.” Naomi snatched open the bag and tossed the ID’s. “Take them, I’m done helping.” She sniffled and wiped her tears. “If she catches me, I’m clean.”
    “Jesus. A price?” He sat on the bike.
    “That’s what their leader said, a tall lanky dude with silver blonde hair and bad teeth.”
    “The Blondes. A bunch of punks, all of them got their hair dyed the same color. Nocee stopped me looking for contraband and asked about you. I don’t know what to say. Don’t make sense. A bounty for some ID’s?” He kept shaking his head. “The busses are running again, catch one and get to the center. You’re running out of time. OK?” Naomi nodded. “She’s probably trying to make a big bust.”
    “What about you? You keep this up and get busted; it’ll screw up our plan.”
    He kissed her. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll...we’ll be fine. See you later.” He got on the bike and left.
    Naomi felt abandoned. She never felt that before. A corrupt cop had a price on her head. Why? Forget it, Naomi, just get to the center. Her spirit lifted when she heard the whine of Anselmo’s bike come through the service corridor. That was quick; now he can give her a ride. She picked up her backpack and turned.
    Blondie! How’d he find her?
    He skidded to a stop. “You thought you lost me, you stupid bitch.” He got off slowly and adjusted his gloves and made a fist. “You know what? I’m going to make you mine after I kick your ass.”
    Naomi’s heart pounded. She stared at his rat-like teeth. She moved to the right and her foot hit a brick. Good, a weapon. Throw a strike, Naomi. “I’d stop if I were you, Blondie.”
    “My name ain’t Blondie. And, I seen you look at that brick. You gonna hit me with it? Come on, bitch.” He walked forward and taunted her. “Come on, throw it.”
    Naomi crouched and grasped the brick. The blonde ran at her. She turned at a slight angle and in a flash threw the rock like a baseball. He threw his hands up, but the missile-like force of the brick snapped his fingers back and hit him right between the eyes. His head snapped back; his scream stuck in his throat and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. He stood unconscious, blood gushed out of the wound and he fell flat on his face. She stood over him and massaged the pain in her shoulder. She threw her arm. A pool of blood surrounded his face and drenched the blonde braids. Was he dead? She pushed his head with the tip of her shoe. She pushed again. He gagged and coughed making ripples in the blood pool. He’s alive, thank God. She had enough trouble, but she couldn’t resist and kicked him in the gut. His body snapped shut like a mouse trap, dragging the side of his face in the soupy red fluid while he gasped for air. “You gets none of this, fool” She stepped over the blonde punk and jumped on the bike. Something glimmered out the corner of her eye. She looked up; just above the tree tops. A floater... a cop floater; the only kind that shined.
    It had to be Nocee. That was how that piece of crap found her.
    She sped down the cobblestone alley, hit the 150 and turned at the first light toward the side streets of the North Residentials. She ran through the gears. She’d hit seventy-five in a thirty-five. Slow down, Naomi. You don’t need to be flagged by a camera. No telling where that blonde got this thing. She slowed and looked up for that floater.

    “Milo, are you sure that thing can keep track of her PPSU (personal police survelliance unit)?”
    The officer sighed. “Yes, former Det. Wielinski... I got this, relax. It’s nothing but a floater; sophisticated, but still a floater. But, this is a hunter/killer, the ultimate floater.”
    George smirked at the smart remark. Mil played carelessly with a joystick. That made him nervous. “I always hated looking at those screens; info everywhere.”
    “It’s simple. There’s my floater and there’s Det. Nocee’s. Ah, if you don’t mind me asking—-“
    “Don’t.” George put a two hundred fifty credit in Milo’s shirt pocket. “Not any more. Understood?”
    “Got it. See that mark? ” George nodded. “That’s the target. It’s tailing a motorcycle.” Milo zoomed in. “Looks like whoever she is, she’s looking for it...Now she sees it.” The floater dropped downward like a rock.
    “Whoa—-“George just knew it crashed, but it hovered over a rooftop.
    “See that?” George stared. The officer pointed. “That.”
    “Yeah, it’s resting in the trees.”
    “Exactly. And when it moves, it’s dead. I’ve locked on; it won’t know what hit it.”
    “No, don’t do that. It’ll cause unwanted attention.” Nocee thinks she’s in control; that was fine with George.
    “Yes, sir.”

    Where’s that floater? Naomi leaned the bike against a tree by the basket ball courts. It’s around here somewhere in the trees. Those huge branches that towered over the three story row houses would be the ideal place to hide. Many of the branches grew into the broken windows. Maybe it’s camouflaged. She looked up the road; just over the hill across the field, a maze of bike and jogging paths, the only thing between her and the center. Young people congregated by the play lot and courts. Everybody looked at their phones. Something’s wrong. Maybe Blondie got up and called his friends. Time to go. If that floater showed up, she’d duck into the mazes and hopefully, lose it.
    4:00 p.m.
    Naomi got the cycle, turned the key and the charger read low. Dammit, the electric governor would limit her speed. She looked one last time for the surveillance device. There...there it was, a shiny object rose off the dormer of a single-family house, just behind some branches. No wonder she didn’t see it. If hovered for a minute and descended. “Leave this area immediately by order of the police!” It shouted. The kids scattered like insects at the sound of a footstep.
    Was it after her or the bike? The disc shot straight up, hovered, and moved beyond the thick branches and disappeared. She had to move; now. The fastest way to the center; stay on the street, the safest; the maze. Naomi descended down the hill. The thick forest kept the sun’s charging rays from the cells. She stopped in the open. Ten minutes would make a world of difference. Just ten minutes. Five minutes passed, Naomi looked at the meter. That would have to do. She caught a glimpse of a white vehicle in the mirror.
    A white enclosed two-wheeled vehicle. Jesus, not Nocee, again.
    Naomi twisted the accelerator as far as it could go and jumped the curb into the maze. The bike vibrated on the rippled asphalt. She zoomed past an elderly couple who screamed obscenities. She had to put distance between her and that damn detective. She honked the horn, scattering people from the narrow path. She leaned into a tight turn. Her pants leg ripped open against the poorly maintained shrubbery. She slowed and made a hard left and looked for a break in the hedges. Nothing yet. She didn’t see Nocee in her mirrors. Make a hold, you might lose her. She slowed at the next intersection and turned right. This path should take her back to the street. She swerved to avoid potholes and almost lost control. She zoomed down the week-filled path and wiped tears and dirt from her eyes.
    “Police! Get out of the way!” Nocee’s command from the external loud speakers echoed through the forest.
    She’s not far behind, Naomi. The bike down shifted, she looked at the gauge. Low-low battery. It started to coast when she saw a small break in the hedges. She turned, dropped her head and punched through. She laid the bike behind a tree where a beam of sunshine could hit the cell. Five minutes, just five and she’d be ready. Nocee shot past. She didn’t see the opening. Good. Now, the bike had enough juice to make it. She looked up the street; just over the hill, her destination.

    “Wielinski.”
    “Hello, George. I got your girl. I’m looking right at her. She went in a store at the end of the 150,” Nocee said.
    “Already? Good work, Nocee. But, I don’t need her; a change in plans. Sorry, I meant to call earlier, but I got busy.” He sat at a café a block from the upgrade center. He saw Naomi park the bike between two cars and run to the center. Nocee lied; she’s lost her and so did he. She out smarted them. Hooray, Naomi Obo. He should rub it in her face, but then Nocee would know he was in 3S.
    “What!”
    George moved the phone away from his ear, anticipating another blast. He strained to contain his laughter. “I’ll send you something for the inconvenience. Forget this happened.” He snapped his phone shut and walked to his vehicle.

    Naomi reached upward in the scan tube with tears in her eyes. She’d made it, thank God. Her clothes were dirty, torn and she could smell herself, but she made it. She screamed with inward joy. Nocee almost had her, but that wrong turn did the trick. Whatever she had on her, which should be nothing, she didn’t have to worry about that cell bike. When she parked, a couple of teens saw it unlocked and went for a ride. A text from Anselmo made her heart light and heavy. “Don’t forget me or the plan. God bless. Anselmo.”
    The scan beam dropped to eye level, scanned her ID and the tube opened.
    You are cleared; proceed forward through the door, Naomi Obo.
    She followed instructions. This place looked and smelled exactly like the other facility. She sat in a cubicle and the lights flickered.
    “You better not go out!” Naomi slammed her fist on the desk. Her outburst echoed through the empty test room. “Please, God. Not again.” She started to weep.
    The flickers stopped and a minute later, Ms. Obo?
    “Yes.”
    You have one more test. It will last ten minutes. You will not be able to finish because of the number of questions. Do the best you can. Understood?
    “Yes.” The screen flashed and a series of equations appeared. Naomi smiled when told to stop. She felt good. That wasn’t bad at all.
    Congratulations, Ms. Obo. Your application is complete and has been forwarded to the proper authorities. Thank you. The screen went blank.
    Naomi sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Finally,” she whispered.
    This facility is closing proceed to the exit sign.
    Banks of lights went dark. She walked through an exit door down the hall toward a sun drenched vestibule. She stopped, took a deep breath and said a small prayer. Nocee awaited, but whatever the charge, probably attempted murder, be quiet and lawyer up. She kicked the push bar and shaded her eyes from the glaring rays of the sunset. What was this? She was in the back of the facility. Who was that? A tall wide white guy with a military hair cut stood next to a mini-bus. “Don’t stop now, Ms. Obo,” he smiled. “My name is George Wielinski, somebody would like to speak to you.”
    She looked at all the surrounding buildings and rooftops. “And who is that?”
    “Get in and find out,” George snapped and then smiled. “After all you’ve been through, I understand your suspicion, but we mean you no harm, Ms. Obo, please.” He opened the car door and waved her in.
    Naomi didn’t know what to say. “OK, if you say so.” She stepped in and sat on the plush leather seats. A 3D came to life and switched to audio mode.
    “Naomi Obo, my name is Dr. Osama Wei,” a thundering, authoritative voice said. I just received your application. I’m impressed, Ms. Obo. I’ll make this short. If you want to go for an upgrade and attend Pur-Ed-Med, you start now, today. Understood?”
    Naomi nodded. “What about my home and other stuff?”
    “That will be taken care of; everything will be taken care of. All you have to do is work hard. And, you know you can’t go back to 3S or I wouldn’t recommend it. Your answer, Ms. Obo.
    “OK, I’m in, Dr. Wei.”
    “Good. George will bring you to the facility and answer any other questions you might have for the time being.” The screen went blank.
    Naomi opened the small frig and got a bottle of water. “The cops are after me and my brother, George. You know about that?”
    Wielinski looked at the teen in the rear view mirror. “If that Chinaman said everything will be taken care of, believe it. My advice, this is your dream, the nightmare is behind you.” Tears formed in her eyes when she deleted Anselmo’s text. She knew he had no intention of leaving 3S when the gang promotes him. She looked at the huge complex of Pur-Ed-Med while the mini-bus crossed the Sal-Sag Channel. Good-bye 3S.

Surviving Santa Fe

    Here we were, four Jacks at an AA meeting. That seemed like a pretty weird coincidence, even in Santa Fe in 1976. To tell us apart, we all got different handles. Boston Jack came from Boston and never let you forget it. Triple-X Jack worked in the local porno theater. They called me Frenchy Jack because of my last name, Lafayette, and my two percent or so French—which came down along with my name from a randy fur trapper about eight generations back.
    Cowboy Jack was—or had been—a real working cowboy, complete with a West Texas twang, faded Levis, scuffed boots, and a sweat-stained Stetson that stayed on his head most of the time. When he did take it off, you could see that his leathery face extended only up to the middle of his forehead, where it changed abruptly into dead white. Probably in his sixties, he was still lean, wiry, and fit; but he walked with a limp. His eyes were set in a permanent squint, as if looking into the sun. It wasn’t hard to imagine him riding the dusty range for hours or camping out at night with a little fire and a pot suspended over two forked sticks.

    Even without romanticizing the cowboy life, I could see that Cowboy Jack was special. He didn’t talk much in meetings and he obviously wasn’t well educated, but his few words always made sense. Listening to him, I picked up a lot of good tips on how to stay sober. It was more than ten years since his last drink, so I figured he must be doing something right.
    My sobriety was pretty shaky then, and I needed all the help I could get. Only six months sober, I’d just broken up a ten-year marriage and moved to Santa Fe. The job prospects for a mathematician weren’t good, and I’d been scraping along on what I could make as a court interpreter. I was staying sober, thanks to AA, but I was having serious trouble with the spiritual side of the program. I just couldn’t understand the concept of a Higher Power that I could rely upon to keep me sober. Cowboy Jack told me that I didn’t have to understand this Higher Power, or God, or whatever, but just accept it. “Shoot,” he said, “I never will understand what’s goin’ on. But when I’m lookin’ at a whole mess of stars up there, I know that somethin’ has to be runnin’ the show, and all I have to do is tap into it.”
    I’d thought of asking him to be my AA sponsor, but something held me back—misplaced intellectual pride, I guess. Even so, we had some good talks after the meetings, and I think he opened up to me more than to anyone else in the group. He never said much about his “before AA” days, but he gave me straight talk on how he worked the AA program: “I figgered out early-on that I had to take Step 1 right away, admit I couldn’t handle the booze and that my life was unmanageable—a pile of crap, really. And then Step 2, where I caught on that somethin’ bigger than me could get me back to sanity. Oh, I was doin’ a lotta weird things when I was drunk, so the idea I’d been insane never bothered me none.”

    One night before our meeting started, C-Jack and I were standing outside for a last-minute smoke. I asked him if he had ever hit the rodeo circuit. He said no, he’d worked twenty years on a ranch south of Santa Fe, right up to a year ago. “Besides me, there was only Joe and Ole. Now Joe’s a Mexican, but a helluva good guy and smart too. Ole’s a big Swede, heart the size of a barn, and real good at handlin’ cattle. Just us three, and we had to ride thirty miles of fence and check the stock tanks. Break the ice in the winter and take out hay to them dumb critters. At brandin’ time, we stayed out there for however long it took to round ’em up. Pretty hard life but I was used to it, and I didn’t know nothin’ else. Prob’ly woulda kept goin’ till I died, but then I got busted up, and that’s why I’m here in Santa Fe, workin’ at a lousy job.”
    This was the most he’d ever talked about his past, and I wanted to hear more. I waited, but he just stomped out his cigarette and started to roll another, without saying a word. He concentrated on the cigarette while he tapped tobacco into the paper, rolled and licked the paper to seal it, looked at it critically, and finally struck a match on his jeans and lit up. He seemed to be all done talking. After several minutes of silence, I asked him, “What happened, anyway?”
    He blew out a cloud of smoke, coughed, and told me, “Not much.” By then it was time for the meeting, so we went on in.

    I finally heard a good part of his story, one night after a meeting. As usual, a bunch of us had gone to the Inn at the Loretto for coffee. It was a pretty relaxed place in those days. None of the help objected if we sat around for a couple of hours, and they even poured us one refill after another while we rehashed the meeting. That night, everybody else from our group went home early, leaving Cowboy Jack and me, two Jacks with no place we particularly wanted to go, especially home.
    I drank the last of my coffee, pulled out my pack of Marlboros, and put it back into my pocket. Trying to quit, or at least cut down. Marisa came by with the pot and filled my cup. CJack put his hand over his cup. “All coffeed out. More’n five cups, I can’t get to sleep.” He studied his empty cup. “Young feller, I ’spect you’re a mite curious about how I landed here, workin’ at the animal pound.”
    “Yes, I’ve wondered,” I told him. “From what you told me, you had a responsible job at the ranch.”
    “Yup, I practically ran that spread all by myself. It was a great setup when old Dan Conley owned the place. Kept me on, even when I was drinkin’. Then after I sobered up, we got to be real good friends. He was one helluva guy, always pitched right in whenever we needed help. Abby, that was his wife, one of the best, too. She used to cook dinner for all of us, most every night. Then she up and died, and Dan sold the ranch, moved to Mexico.”
    He stopped, tilted his hat to the back of his head, and stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes. Then he started up again: “New owners, name of Biddle, treated me okay at first, but things wasn’t ever the same. Goddam Easterners. Philadelphia. Charles and Bitsy Biddle. Bitsy—can you believe it? Shoulda called her Big Bertha. . . . That pair didn’t give a hoot about the ranch, just bought it to show off. Tore down the old house and built themselves a big high-falutin’ Southern mansion, sittin’ on a three-acre lawn with a white board fence around it. It was a quarter mile from the barn and bunkhouse, so they didn’t get none of the stink and the flies. Took near a year to get the house and swimmin’ pool done, even longer to plant a bunch of trees and get the lawn goin’. They had a cook and a maid and a guy dressed up like a waiter, along with a bunch of help for the yard work. All their help lived in a dormitory in back of the house, and they never had nothin’ to do with the likes of us.”
    He leaned back in his chair and tugged at an ear, apparently lost in thought. “Yup,” he finally said, “that was some weird setup. After the Biddles moved in, all they did was run up to Santa Fe damn near every night, then have big parties at the house for that artsy crowd. Buncha weirdos, most of ’em. But I gotta say, the Biddles treated me decent, up to a point. They paid me good, and I didn’t bother them and they didn’t bother me. Mr. Biddle was a little guy with a swelled head. Bitsy was taller’n him, and wider too. Big blonde with big tits, and just plain nasty.” C-Jack shifted uneasily in his chair. “Dunno why I’m tellin’ you all this stuff. Kinda kept it to myself before.”
    “Keep going,” I told him.” “Can’t wait to hear the rest of it.” I figured to get some more clues on how he stayed sober.
    He stretched, yawned, and motioned to the waitress. “Hey there, Marisa, how’s about bringin’ me a bowl of green chile stew and a glass of milk. . . . And you, yew danged Froggy, you want anything?”
    “No go, Jack. Chile’s too much for me this late.” I figured he was done talking for the night, and I couldn’t think of any way to keep him going.
    He settled back and waited until Marisa set the chile and milk in front of him. He took in a couple of spoonfuls of chile and a big swig of milk, wiped his chin, and continued the story.
    “So everything was goin’ along pretty smooth till I got my leg busted up. Pretty much my own fault. Mr. Biddle had bought this big fancy stud named Black Commander, but we just called him Blackie. Big as two cow ponies, he was. Made Biddle feel important, I guess, ownin’ a stud horse. We never did anything with Blackie but show him off to Biddle’s guests, so we had to keep him spruced up all the time. And you can bet that Biddle never brought nobody down to the barn to look at Blackie. Nope, we had to lead him up to the house and keep him standin’ there till Biddle said we could leave. Took two of us, one to handle Blackie and the other to handle the shovel and the sack. At first, Biddle would have us bring Blackie onto the lawn in back of the house, but then we got the notion of waterin’ him good beforehand. After he squirted out a few gallons and killed off a big patch of lawn, Biddle told us to keep him outside the fence.”
    Jack’s face cracked in a grin. He drained his glass and set it down on the table. “That horse was just a damn nuisance. Not that he was too tough to handle, but keepin’ him away from the mares wasn’t all that easy. Joe always said Blackie was poco loco. Danged horse bit him once, stepped on him a coupla times like on purpose. And I did notice he had a sorta wild look to his eye.
    “Then I got the notion of breakin’ him to ride so’s I could exercise him better, and maybe he’d be easier to handle. He held still while I saddled him up and got on, and then he bucked a little, like he was just showin’ off. After he settled down, I started him walkin’ round the corral, slow and easy, and he acted like a real sweetheart. Then I got careless, and he grabbed the bit and started racin’ round and round, like crazy. Smashed me up against the fence, right on a board that had a big nail into it. Tore off a piece of my leg and jerked me outa the saddle. Then that black devil stood there snortin’ and rearin’, and he stomped on that same leg, just like he knew where to tear me up the most. I was hollerin’ bloody murder, and he kept stompin’ me till Joe shot him. And wouldn’t you know, that rotten piece of horseflesh fell right on top of the same leg.”
    He stopped talking, took off his hat, and fanned his face, seemed to be reliving that day. I kept quiet, hoping he would start talking again. After a couple of minutes of silence, he took up the story.
    “Well, Joe and Ole finally got me clear and managed to stop most of the bleedin’. They tied my leg between two boards and hoisted me into the pickup bed, and Joe hauled me into Santa Fe. Most of the way was on washboard roads, and the joltin’ made my leg hurt like sixty. Every once in a while Joe would holler back to see if I was okay, and I’d tell him hell yes, just go faster. When we got to the hospital, the doc gave me a shot of somethin’ that put me out for a while, and then I half woke up just in time to hear somebody say ‘We’d better amputate.’ So I kicked up such a ruckus that a bunch of docs and nurses come runnin’, and they all stood around jabberin’ at each other, and I passed out again. Next time I woke up I was in a reg’lar hospital bed, and this big ugly nurse give me a big fake smile and said ‘And how are we this morning?’ I cussed her out good, but it didn’t faze her none. And that’s sorta how it went for the next three months. They operated on my leg two or three times but they never had to cut nothin’ off. Then I stayed in a place they called rehab till I could walk, but not good.”
    He ate another spoonful of chile, then pushed the bowl away. “Too cold already.” I was about ready to call it a night; but he settled back, thought for a minute or so, and picked up where he had left off.
    “The Biddles, Charles and Bitsy, that is, never did come to see me or call up. Joe and Ole turned up a couple of times, but mostly they was so busy tryin’ to do all the work that they couldn’t hardly get away. . . . When it got close to my leavin’ time, I told the head nurse that I couldn’t pay no bill for all that time in the hospital. She went and checked and told me I shouldn’t worry, because the Biddles’ insurance was gonna pay the whole thing. That sounded pretty good to me, and I began to think more kindly about the little guy.
    “Ole drove the jeep into town to pick me up. I had trouble climbin’ up onto the seat, but Ole gave me a hoist. Once we got goin’, I asked Ole how things were at the ranch, but he just said okay and then he clammed up. Wouldn’t hardly say a word all the way home.
    “The ranch was the same as always. Real pretty range. We’d had some rain, so everything was green—tall grass, clumps of piñon and juniper, cottonwood in the draws. We drove past the house with its lawn lookin’ like a big pool table, and flowers and trees all over. Back by the barn, of course, they was nothin’ but bare dirt, with the wind kickin’ up little swirls of dust. We pulled up by the bunkhouse, and there was Biddle’s black Cadillac, with Biddle standin’ alongside it. That was some surprise, I tell you. He helped me down from the jeep and shook my hand, and that was even a bigger surprise. He was all dressed up in one of his fancy western suits, along with a slick pair of boots and a big sombrero. . . . It was still mornin’, but gettin’ hot already.
    “‘You’re looking good, Jack,’ he said, and handed me an envelope. He had a real squeaky voice, and he spun out his words like he was talkin’ to a coupla hundred people. ‘Here is your pay for the month you were gone, and I have added another month for good measure. Now, I would really like to keep you on, but it’s quite obvious you can’t do the job any more, so I’ll have to hire someone else to take over.’
    “That hit me like a rock. ‘Now wait a minute, Mr. Biddle,’ I told him. ‘After twenty years, I know this whole spread like the back of my hand. I can still do you a lot of good—take care of the chores and make sure these boys are workin’ where they’re supposed to be. Just keep me on, and you don’t have to pay me no money, just a place in the bunkhouse and some grub. And you can bet it’ll only be a few months till I’m back in the saddle full time, afore you even take notice.’
    “He stepped back, took off his sombrero, and fanned his face. ‘Sorry, Jack, it would never work out. But if you like, you can take along that mare you said was your favorite. What’s her name?’ He turned to Joe as if I couldn’t give him an answer.
    “ ‘Millie!’ I bellered out. ‘But I want to stay on here.’
    “He stepped back a little farther. ‘No, Jack, it’s all settled. I believe we have been very generous with you. After all, we didn’t charge you for what you did to my stallion, and we did pay all of your doctor and hospital bills—a tidy sum, I might add. Joe, will you see that Jack picks up his things and gets started? Back to Santa Fe, I presume.’
    “ ‘Si, Señor Biddle,’ Joe told him. ‘I’ll get Millie into the trailer and haul her and Jack to wherever——’
    “Biddle cut him off. ‘Not so fast, Joe. You’re needed here, and I believe Millie can provide Jack with the needed transportation.’ He put on his sombrero, got into the Cadillac, and took off in a cloud of dust.”

    I’d let my coffee grow cold while I listened to C-Jack’s story. “How could Biddle treat you like that?” I asked. “How could he live with himself afterward?”
    “Oh, he wouldn’t have no trouble,” Jack told me. “Just naturally a mean little sumbitch. Lotta people like that, but he was one of the worst I ever ran into. What he did was pretty crappy, but there wasn’t nothin’ I could do about it. Remember what we say in the Serenity Prayer? ‘God, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.’ Of course, I wasn’t all that serene right then. But at least I got to keep Millie.”
    “What happened next?” I asked him. And do you still have Millie?”
    He slumped down in his chair. “Best little horse in the world.” Then he stood up. “C’mon, it’s late. Let’s pay up and get out of here.”

    I got the next installment of his story the following Sunday morning. It was his day off, and I happened to spot him stretched out under a shade tree in the Alto Street park. He had his hat over his face and seemed to be asleep, but he sat up as soon as he heard me scrunching along the gravel path. “Howdy, young feller,” he said. “Mighty nice grass here. Why don’t you set for a spell and enjoy it?”
    “Don’t mind if I do.” I sat down beside him and leaned against the tree trunk. I was trying to think of a way I could get him to give me the rest of the story, when he saved me the trouble.
    “Millie, you asked about. A real sweetheart. Strawberry roan with a white star on her forehead. Not as fast as she used to be, but she can still stop on a dime and cut right or left like no cow pony I ever rode before. Like she knows what I’m thinkin’ all the time. She’s got a tender mouth, so I started her off on a snaffle bit and then just kept on using it. Hell, I bet she’d work good without no bridle at all.”
    “Millie. How’d she get that name?”
    “Aw, Millie was a gal in high school back in Lubbock. Senior year, my first girlfriend. Come to think of it, she was the only real girlfriend I ever had. We was hittin’ it off pretty good, but then she went off to college and I never finished high school. I was flunkin’ anyhow, never learned nothin’, and I had to start workin’ for my keep. . . . We wrote letters for a couple of years, and that was that. Anyhow, Millie, my Millie, I mean, sorta reminds me of that gal. Little, pretty as a picture, and just an all-round honey.”
    He yawned, stretched out on the grass again, and closed his eyes but kept on talking.
    “Like I was tellin’ you, Biddle gave me all this crap then he just took off, and Ole and Joe stood there lookin’ uneasy. Finally, Ole said, ‘Goddam shame, Jack. That sumbitch just wants you away, outa sight, so he can’t remember how bad he treated you. Him giftin’ you Millie makes everything okay, he thinks. And him payin’ your hospital bills—bullshit it is, when insurance he’s got. Better you sue the sumbitch for what his horse done to you.’
    “I set him straight. ‘I know all about the insurance, and no, I’m not gonna sue him. I just wanta get the hell out of here before I kill the little skunk.’
    “I took a good look at the place. Barn and bunkhouse like they never been painted, corral with a lot of boards missin’, rickety old windmill, galvanized water tank rusty at the bottom, wind stirrin’ up some dust. Not much of a pretty picture, but durn, I was gonna miss it!
    “Ole walked off to fetch Millie, mutterin’ to himself a mile a minute. Joe and I went into the bunkhouse to get my gear together. I wasn’t much help, but I made sure he packed up my holster and gun. Might need ’em in the big city.
    “When Ole led Millie up to the bunkhouse, she had my saddle and bridle on her, and my two saddlebags was slung across her rump. She came up to me and kinda nuzzled my ear. I felt sorta like cryin’, so I pushed her away. Joe and Ole was standin’ there like dummies, so I cussed ’em out: ‘Come on, you dumb two-bit has-been vaqueros, let’s get me goin’.’
    “Joe looked real miserable. ‘Jack, mi amigo,’ he asked me, ‘how can you live in Santa Fe and take care of Millie?’
    “I told him, ‘I’ve got a friend lives in Agua Fria, has a little farm. He’ll prob’ly keep Millie there as long as I pay the feed bills, and I can sleep in the barn till I find a place.’
    “They loaded my gear in the saddlebags along with some tortillas and jerky, and they tied my bedroll on the back. Ole helped me get up on the saddle, and he hung a canteen of water on the horn. I had to get started pretty quick if I wanted to hit Aurelio’s place before dark. Joe and Ole just stood there, looking mournful. ‘C’mon, you two,’ I told them. ‘You’re just pissed ’cuz you’ll have to work twice as hard. Whoever Biddle hires to run the show, you can bet it’ll be some city cowboy that won’t do a lick of work himself. Well, I better get goin’. So long now.’ ”

    I found it hard to believe that anyone would send C-Jack off on a twenty-mile ride when he was just out of the hospital with a mangled leg. I asked him, “How did you ever make it to Santa Fe, the shape you were in?”
    “It wasn’t too bad,” he told me. “Millie started off slow and gentle, like she knew I was hurtin’. When I got a few hundred yards down the road, I looked back. Joe and Ole was still standin’ right where I left ’em.
    “It was a long ride back to town. Millie was a lot slower than she used to be. Besides, my leg kept stiffenin’ up, and I had to stop ev’ry once in a while and slide down off the saddle. I’d try to pick a spot with some good shade, on a slope so’s I could get back on Millie from the uphill side.
    “We hit the first houses outside of Santa Fe just when the sun was settin’ over the Jemez, and it was so pretty I had to stop for a while. All gold and purple, and over to the east the Sangre de Cristo was lit up like in a pink spotlight.
    “Anyways, we got to Agua Fria and Aurelio’s place before dark. Millie was holdin’ up pretty good, and Aurelio helped me get her fed and watered and bedded down. Teresa—that’s Aurelio’s wife—fed me a good supper, and I headed for the barn to check on Millie. She was lyin’ down, but with her eyes open. When she saw me, she let out a little whinny and closed her eyes. I grabbed my bedroll and settled down on a pile of hay next to her stall.”
    He broke off abruptly, laid his hat over his face, and told me, “I’m all talked out, sonny. Mebbe after I get some shut-eye I’ll feel like talkin’ some more. You’re welcome to hang around.”
    “Thanks, Jack,” I told him, “but I have to meet a lady for lunch. See you at the meeting tonight?”
    No answer. He was already snoring.

    I thought I’d get the rest of the story that night, but Cowboy Jack didn’t come to the meeting, and then he just dropped out of sight without leaving a ripple. I really missed the guy. Things weren’t going well for me. I didn’t have a decent job, and I’d used up almost all my savings. I still went to three meetings a week, but everybody seemed to be mouthing the same old clichés that I couldn’t relate to. Somehow, C-Jack had been the only one who made any sense. He’d become a big factor in my sobriety, and now I worried about a slip, afraid that I’d take that first drink.
    I made a pretty good effort to find him. None of the groups had his phone number, probably because he didn’t have a phone. Finally I got an address, but it turned out to be a place where he’d worked last year. So I checked with the chief honcho at the city pound, who said Cowboy Jack left about a month ago. He wouldn’t give me Jack’s address or tell me anything else. Next I went to the city personnel office, winding up with a fat clerk who looked like I’d interrupted his nap. He couldn’t be bothered to tell me anything, just complained, “You can’t keep up with all these vagrants that drift in and out of jobs.” When I threatened to call Vicky Martinez, the City Manager, implying that she was a personal friend of mine, the guy finally got off his butt, sorted through a bunch of files, and came up with an address.
    This turned out to be a rooming house on Alto Street. An old gal—the landlady, I guess—came to the door dressed in a bathrobe, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She gave me a sour look and growled out, “Yeah, whaddya want?” Not exactly friendly. But I leaned on her a bit and she finally allowed that Jack had left two weeks ago without leaving a forwarding address. I tried to pump her for some more information, but she slammed the door in my face.
    Everything turned out to be a dead end, and I had lots of other worries. My jobs as a court interpreter were tapering off. There was hardly any demand for French, German, or Russian; and I had trouble with the kind of Spanish they speak in northern New Mexico. Meanwhile, my B.S. in mathematics didn’t impress the personnel people at Los Alamos, and there weren’t any decent openings for a mathematician in Santa Fe. After a couple of months, I gave up and moved to Denver to work for an insurance company. Stable job, fair pay, and I got some good raises. But correlating mortality statistics bored me stiff, and I kept looking for something a little more exciting. Meanwhile, I took night courses in computer programming, which figured to be a big thing in the next few years.
    Whenever I went to an AA meeting in Denver, something always happened to remind me of Cowboy Jack, what a great guy he was, and how much I missed him. Missed Santa Fe, too. Finally, after two years with the insurance company, I’d had it. I landed a job with a Santa Fe company called Digital Micro. It was just a small startup operation, but the work looked exciting—and the salary was nearly twice what I was making in Denver.
    The Santa Fe AA groups had changed a lot during the two years I was gone. Most of the old-timers had either dropped out or died. My home group had moved and changed its name, and all the faces were new. I went to a couple of meetings there, and then I tried out most of the other groups. I really needed to find someone to talk to, maybe get a sponsor, get some help in working the Steps. But I never did find anyone I could relate to.
    Wherever I went, I asked for news of Cowboy Jack. He hadn’t come to any meetings for a long time, and the few people who remembered him weren’t much help. A couple of guys thought he was working for some sort of a “tourist promotion company,” which could mean any one of half the businesses in Santa Fe.

    I usually ate lunch at the counter in the old Woolworth’s on the Plaza. This particular day, as I was standing in line to pay my ticket, I saw a sort of miniature stagecoach out front, stopping to let off a couple of tourists. The rig was in the shade, but it stood out because of the bright gold paint. I got only a quick look at the driver, who was wearing some sort of a weird outfit, but he did look familiar. By the time I paid my bill and got out the door, the stagecoach had disappeared. I cut across the Plaza and finally spotted the rig, stopped a couple of blocks north on Sheridan. The driver did look like Cowboy Jack, but I couldn’t be sure from that distance. I ran those two blocks and puffed up to the coach just in time to see the driver haul out two buckets from the back of the coach and set them down in front of the horse. Then he straightened up, and it was Cowboy Jack, all right. I walked up to him, held out my hand, and said “Hi, Jack.”
    At first he acted as if he didn’t know me, or maybe my beard fooled him; but after he’d looked me over, he grabbed my hand and said “Howdy, Frenchy Jack.”
    I felt like hugging him, but something held me back. “Dammit, Cowboy, I’ve missed you,” I told him.
    “Yeah, I noticed you’d skipped out.” He started to say something else, but then he slumped down and turned away from me.
    I’d been gone only two years, but he looked at least ten years older. He didn’t stand as straight as I remembered, and his limp was worse. But the most startling change was the outfit he wore. Black hat with a rainbow band and a big red feather, shirt with red-white-and-blue stripes, bolo tie with a plastic turquoise the size of a grapefruit, tight black jeans, wide belt with imitation silver dollars all around, and snakeskin boots—with spurs, yet! On his left hip he wore a sheath with a big bone handle sticking out of it, on his right hip a huge holster with a shiny pistol that looked like an old-fashioned six-shooter.
    While C-Jack took care of his horse, I got a better look at the mini-stagecoach, which wasn’t much bigger than a pony cart. It was a four-wheeler, but it had room for only two passengers inside and a driver up front. It was gold-colored all around, with a howling coyote painted on one side, and on the other side a cactus that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen. The wheel spokes were bright green. The inside of the coach was all finished in red plush, and up on top there was a pink sign with big purple letters that said “Call Stagecoach Tours at 872-5555 to see the real Santa Fe.”
    Then I took a look at the horse, a small strawberry roan mare. She was gussied up like a sideshow horse in a circus, with fake flowers braided into her mane and tail, a red fluffball fastened onto the top of each ear, a silver-studded harness and bridle, and the mandatory diaper to avoid sullying the city streets. I asked him, “Is that Millie?”
    “Sure is.” He patted her rump. “Still the best little horse in all the world, but she’s gettin’ pretty old. Has a hard time makin’ it up the hills.”
    Indeed, Millie looked old and tired. She seemed to have trouble chewing the grain, and she drank water after every mouthful. Then she stopped eating and waited patiently, her head drooping. C-Jack picked up the two buckets and stowed them in the back of the coach.
    He didn’t offer any explanation for Millie’s getup, or his either, so I asked him, “Pretty fancy tack, there. How’d you come by it?”
    “Aw, it’s not mine. My boss said I had to use it. And in case you’re wonderin’ about these clothes, that was their idea too. Weird as hell, but this whole setup is weird.”
    “Weird for sure,” I agreed. “How’d you ever get into this job? And why aren’t you coming to meetings any more?”
    “It’s a long story, and I gotta get movin’. But I’ll tell you why I don’t go to meetin’s no more. I’d be ashamed to show up in this clown suit, and they’re the only clothes I got.” He climbed onto the driver’s seat and waved his hat at me. His face was still the same, white at the top and brown below. He flicked a rein at Millie, and they shambled off down the street.

    The next time I saw Cowboy Jack, his rig was stopped in the shade on East Palace. Millie was just standing with her head hanging down, and C-Jack was sitting on the curb. I got out of my car and sat down beside him. After we’d exchanged howdies, I asked him how things were going, and he said okay. He didn’t volunteer anything else, so I asked “How’d you come to take on this job driving tourists around?”
    That seemed to start him off, as if he’d been saving up words for a long time. “Well, I got fired from the city pound ’cuz I took sick and missed a whole week of work. Then I got a job washin’ cars, and I had to move out of Aurelio’s so’s to get closer to the job. Found a room and a place where I could keep Millie. Everything was goin’ okay until some sneaky coyote stole my saddle and bridle from the stable. Next night while I was sleepin’, two guys broke into my room. One of ’em held a knife to me while the other bagged up most all my stuff. They cleaned me out, right enough. Got my gun, two pretty good knives, all my decent clothes. Even carried off a picture of my sister, in a silver frame.”
    He rolled a cigarette, lit it, and took a big drag. “All they left was my bedroll and the ratty coveralls I’d wore to clean out the dog cages. I was way behind in my rent, the car wash job petered out, and I didn’t have no money to buy clothes. The coveralls looked so bad I couldn’t get nothin’ but odd jobs that didn’t pay enough to keep Millie in feed, or me neither. So when this guy from Stagecoach Tours wanted me to start drivin’ for him, said they had a job for a real authentic cowboy, I signed up right away. They give me a place I could keep Millie, with a little shed and a cot, and they got me this stupid outfit. I have to turn in the shirt and pants every couple days and get clean ones. Hell, those guys own most everythin’ about me. It’s even their gun. They put blanks in it, but I fooled ’em and bought some live ones. Might need ’em sometime.” He broke off and thought for a minute. “I been tryin’ to save up enough to buy some decent clothes, but they ain’t payin’ me much. Besides, there wasn’t no work in the winter, and I had to borrow a little to keep eatin’. Can’t seem to keep ahead of the interest.”
    “How much does this outfit pay you, anyway?”
    “Ten bucks a trip, and it takes near two hours by the time I get Millie back to our place. Once in a while the tourists tip me, but I think Mr. Archuleta, that’s the head honcho, tells them not to. I tried to get him to up the ante, but he said they couldn’t afford it because they was buyin’ the feed for Millie.” He got up off the curb and scratched his crotch. “No plumbin’ where I live, so it’s hard to get a bath. I make it out to Aurelio’s once in a while, but in between it’s just the old wash basin.”
    “Dammit, Jack,” I told him, “they’re ripping you off something fierce. I heard they’re charging three hundred dollars for a trip.”
    “I know it, but what the hell, I gotta live. And it ain’t such a bad life. Sometimes I wonder why my Higher Power is letting all this happen to me, but I still gotta keep goin’ and do the best I can for Millie and me.”
    I had a sudden inspiration. “Why don’t you move in with me? Spare bedroom just going to waste. And there’s a stable a block away where we could board Millie. No problem, I’m making pretty good money.”
    He straightened up. “Mister, I don’t take charity from nobody, not from you and not from the gov’ment or nobody.”
    He climbed onto the driver’s seat and drove off. Millie seemed to be dragging one leg.

    A couple of weeks later, I was in the LaSalle Gallery, where they’d just opened an exhibit of bronzes from Russia. The gallery, a few blocks up Canyon Road, was one of the old-timers. Pierre and Michelle LaSalle started it on a shoestring in the 1940s, and it grew into one of the biggest and best in Santa Fe. The Russian bronzes were fabulous, and I was about halfway through them when I heard a ruckus out on the street—car horns and shouts. I walked out onto the sidewalk, and there was Cowboy Jack with his rig, which had somehow got crosswise in the street and was blocking traffic, maybe a dozen cars each direction. Jack’s passengers were a big fat guy in a white suit and white ten-gallon hat—probably a Texan—and a much younger woman with a mess of black hair piled up on top of her head. Jack was on the driver’s seat, trying to get Millie to straighten out the rig. Tex was yelling at Jack, something about getting this goddam rig squared away; and Jack was talking into his microphone with the volume turned up so you could hear him all over the street: “Now just take it easy, mister, and we’ll be up and runnin’ right soon.”
    Millie was whinnying, and she looked scared and about ready to drop. Then Jack got down from his seat and talked into her ear. She seemed to calm down, and Jack led her so as to straighten the rig and get her started up the hill, threading her way past the line of honking cars.
    They were nearly clear of the line of cars when Millie’s right foreleg buckled, and she dropped onto her side, tilting the coach. Jack rushed back to set the brake, then returned to Millie, who hadn’t made any effort to get up or even lift her head off the pavement. Jack cut her loose from the coach, which righted itself with a jarring thud that brought out some heavy cussing from Tex and screams from his girlfriend.
    Millie didn’t move until Jack returned and whispered something into her ear. She raised her head, and I could hear Jack saying, “Come on, Millie, old gal. It’s just a little ways further.” She tried to get up but fell back again, and I could see her gasping for breath, foam coming out of her mouth. Jack ran his hand over her bad leg, which was cocked at an odd angle.
    About that time, Tex shouted, “Make that sorry old nag get up! Goddammit, I paid good money for this two-bit outfit, and you gotta get us goin’ again!”
    Jack squatted down and said something into Millie’s ear. Then he pulled out his gun and shot her once, just back of the ear. Millie’s head flopped down, and a little stream of blood ran down her neck. Jack walked back to the coach and waved his gun at the two passengers. Tex put up his hands and yelled “Don’t shoot,” and his girlfriend let out a string of obscenities.
    Cowboy Jack didn’t say a word. His face looked like a rock. He put the gun back in the holster and unlocked the brake, sending the coach backward down the hill with its two passengers squealing like stuck pigs. It went only a few yards before it bounced off a car and turned over. Tex and his girlfriend kept on yelling, but it didn’t sound as if they were hurt much.
    The cars stopped honking, and I could hear a siren in the distance. Jack went back to Millie and laid himself down with his head on her shoulder. I heard him say, “It’s okay, Millie, we did our best.”
    I walked over and sat down beside him. Didn’t have any words to say, but at least I could help him wait for the police.

When your Kids Make you Proud to Be their Father

    My seven-year-old son has been the light of my life up until this last summer, when I have found myself a little embarrassed to be around him. The first situation happened on our trip to Florida in May.
    My son, after exiting the ocean was asked by a life guard how he was enjoying his trip to the beach, he said “I’d like it better if it weren’t so damn sandy” and then proceeded to ask, “Hey, you work down here everyday and know pretty much everything about the ocean, right?” The life guard replied, “Of course I do.”  So my son continued, “Well, it’s the darndest thing... can you explain to me, why my turds sink in the toilet back home in Tennessee, but then float in the ocean here in Florida?”
    So a few weeks later, I took him in for a summer haircut, his first time at a hair salon, (previously I’d cut his hair at home). I told him to ask the lady at the front desk how much a trim and blow dry would run us as I tried to get my daughter situated in the waiting area. I was horrified to hear him ask the woman, “Hey lady, how much for a little trim and a blow job? My dad is pickin’ up the bill.”
    She proceeded to eyeball me as if I’d won the “dead-beat dad of the year” award. I think we are going back to using “the Flowbee” for a few more years.

Crazy for You

     “I’m so in love with you,” she said, still holding the gun to my head. We’ve been here in this gas station for a good two and a half hours and she hasn’t once taken the gun away from my head —except to tell the clerk and the few customers who wandered into the station to get down on the ground and put their hands on their heads.
    “I’m so in love with you,” she said, “and no, I’m not crazy.”
    I didn’t call her crazy. I definitely didn’t call her crazy. The last time I messed up and made a stupid mistake like that, I found myself in the passenger’s seat of a blue Toyota Corolla rocketing down the highway at 100 miles per hour. One minute I think we’re on our way to get lunch and talk about our relationship like civilized human beings. The next minute I’m trying to remember which prayers to God they taught me to use in case your girlfriend ever takes you hostage and goes speeding down the highway saying things like: “people think clearer when they think they’re about to die.” No, I definitely didn’t call her crazy.
    All I asked was why she felt she had to take me and these other people hostage. Why couldn’t she just key my car like a normal person? Not normal is not the same as crazy, I tell her. But she won’t hear any of it.
    I’d say all in all I’ve been taken hostage by my girlfriend a good three or four times. And that doesn’t include all the role-playing sex stuff either. I guess you could say I’ve been a hostage for two and a half years. The entire length of our relationship. Mostly I’m afraid to leave because of what I think she might do to me. These things usually happen when our relationship is on the rocks. That time in the Corolla I just described, that was eight months ago already. And now I’m kneeling down on the floor of a gas station with a gun to my head. Time flies.
    In a weird way, I think that incident in the Corolla - all these incidents - actually did help our relationship in the short run. Maybe she was right. Maybe we do think clearer when we think we’re about to die. You prioritize. You think “what’s really important in my life?” Maybe I’ll be stuck in this relationship for a little longer, but the sex is great and at least I won’t be dead. I won’t be dead and isn’t this kind of exciting?
    You start to forgive her little mistakes, like her annoying laugh or how she’s constantly leaving her hair in your bathtub drain or tying you up and cutting your thighs with a box cutter she lit on fire. It’s ok, I’d say. It’s ok, and isn’t it more exciting this way?
    They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome. Where the hostage takes the side of his captor in a hostage situation. I call it hedging my bets. If someone else has all the power, if someone else holds your life in their hands, why not try to make nice? When Armageddon comes, and Satan and his armies start burning cities, slaughtering innocents, I’ll bet he’ll gain a lot more followers.
    God does this sort of thing even now. Do this, don’t do that, believe in me or go to Hell. And if God can hold your soul hostage your whole life, why can’t your girlfriend hold your body hostage every once in a while? Clearly she loves you. It’s actually sort of flattering if you think about it. Sort of romantic, in a way. They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome.
    The first time she took me hostage, we had been dating for 6 months and I brought her to her favorite restaurant to break things off. I liked her, and I cared about her, but I just didn’t see our relationship going anywhere. We had nothing in common. There was no substance, just great sex, and little else. I didn’t want to waste her time. I think she thought I was going to propose. Propose after 6 months? Yeah right. I thought I was being sweet. Ending things maturely. She thought I was leading her on.
    She said she had to go to the bathroom to compose herself. She didn’t come back for a good 15 minutes. I thought about leaving, but instead I went to check on her. Be sweet. End things maturely.
    Women’s bathrooms in fancy restaurants sometimes have couches. The couch in this particular bathroom was in a totally separate room from the room with the bathroom stalls. This extra room also contained the sink and mirror, and on the sink there was a whole bunch of little complimentary toiletries, makeup wipes, and perfume samples. I guess you’d call this the Powder Room.
    I knock on the door and announce myself to the room because I don’t want to scare some old lady to death while I’m trying to break up with my girlfriend.
    I open the door and find my girlfriend lying on the couch, her arms from the elbows down disappearing beneath one of the pillows, clenching it tight against her body. She’s crying and I feel sorry for her.
    “I think I love you,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I think I love you, and no I’m not crazy.”
    I definitely didn’t call her crazy. I didn’t know why she’d say that until I see her coming at me with a steak knife she swiped off the table, saying how we’re meant to be together forever. She pushes me up against the sink, my arms and ass knocking down some of the lotions and soaps behind me, trying to get as far away from the knife as humanly possible. I’m literally sitting on the sink when she turns around and locks the bathroom door.
    With her steak knife held against my throat, I feel like a piece of meat. I start to think does she really love me? Am I the reason she’s acting so crazy? Or am I just the latest in a long series of hostage ex-boyfriends? Does she say this kinda thing to all the boys?
    Then she puts her hand on my thigh. She leans in closer til my knees are straddling her waist, the knife still against my throat. Her hand travels up my thigh toward my crotch, and she starts massaging. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a turn on. Me lying there helpless, her hair messed up, her makeup running, her little black dress; looking crazy and sexy at the same time. The fact that this was a public bathroom didn’t help the situation either. It was hot. And I was literally scared for my life. Scared for my life with a raging hard on. It’s ok, I thought. It’s ok, and isn’t it more exciting this way? They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome.
    We fucked. She fucked me good. With restaurant patrons knocking on the door, and the Matre’d yelling he’s gonna call the cops, she fucked me crazy. She bent me over the sink, took the blade of the knife, wrapped it in tissue, and shoved the handle up my ass. Fucked me with the handle of the knife she took me hostage with and I took it, loved it, and pretended I didn’t.
    We wrestled for the knife, punching and kicking each other until I’m kneeling in front of her on the couch, her legs wrapped around my waist, and I’m pounding her crazy with the knife to her throat. There were no sample perfume bottles that weren’t broken when the cops finally kicked down the door. The room smelled rank with all of them mixed together, and we even managed to clog one of the toilets. I won’t say how.
    In all my years fucking women before and since, I’ve never been fucked that good. She fucked me raw. She fucked me until I forgave her for holding a knife to my throat. She fucked me in love with her. So when the cops asked what we were doing, we just said making love. Nothing about the knife or being scared for my life. We had to pay a fine.
    Two years later, she’s holding a gun to my head and I’m thinking we’re probably not going to fuck our way out of this mess. Unless you count the other people on the road while we were speeding down I-55 in her Corolla, she’s never involved other people in our little hostage situations. I guess this is what you’d call “spicing things up.” When your relationship gets boring, try exploring new sexual fantasies, like holding a knife to your partner’s throat while you’re scared for your life. When that gets boring, maybe it’s time to think about inviting someone else into your relationship. Take a few more people hostage. Keep things fresh. Keep things interesting.
    In the gas station there’s a woman, probably mid fifties, with a child, probably her grandson or a nephew. The kid keeps picking his nose. We’re all hostages to my demented would-be ex-girlfriend and the kid won’t stop picking his nose. Does he realize he could die at any moment? Do I?
    Another woman is off in the corner, with her face shoved into her hands, trying to remember which prayers they taught her to use in case someone ever takes you hostage because their boyfriend wants to end things. She’s crying. I’m crying. My girlfriend’s crying, and that stupid kid won’t stop picking his nose.
    The cashier is sitting behind the register with a flushed white face. He’s some sort of Pakistan-arabian-indian, but his face is flushed white. I look at him and think he can’t be more than 19 years old. Probably working in the gas station because his father told him helping the family business is more important than going to college. I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for all of them. Sorry they have to be stuck here with me and my crazy girlfriend. Not crazy. Not normal is not the same as crazy.
    “Why don’t you love me anymore?” She asked, the gun still pointed at my head.
    “I do love you,” I say, “I do love you but this relationship isn’t healthy for either of us.”
    “You don’t seem to worry about the health of our relationship when I’m sucking your cock,” she said, “or shoving my fist up your ass.”
    Everyone hears this. The little snot nosed kid hears this. He starts to giggle. My girlfriend laughs her annoying little laugh. I want to vomit.
    “But don’t you see?” I say, “you can’t have a long term relationship based solely on sex. Great sex and hostage situations,” I say, “It’s… It’s crazy.”
    “It’s not crazy. Not normal isn’t the same as crazy,” she says, “what we have is a not-so-normal relationship, but we love each other, don’t we?”
    And she was right about that, at least. Even if I hated her. Even if I was walking around scared for my life all the time, I still loved her. She could cut off my fingers one by one and feed them to me and I’d still love her. She could burn my house and kill my family and I’d still stay. She could do no wrong in my eyes. She was a saint. They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome.
    “Ok,” I say, “You’re right. I do love you. But you’ve gone too far this time. You put other people’s lives in danger,” I say.
    I say, “We can’t just walk away from this.”
    “We won’t tell,” the 50 year old woman says, “we promise.” But my girlfriend won’t hear any of it. It’s like we had already made up our minds about what has to happen next.
    “They won’t let us walk away from this, will they?” She says, her eyes welling with tears.
    I look into her eyes and I feel so sorry for her. I see that she’s scared for her life. With her gun pointed at my head, I see that she’s as scared as I am. We can’t walk away from this.
    I stand up. The first bold thing I’ve ever done in the last two and a half years. Only it’s not that bold. When you’ve been through several of these situations, like I have, you know she’s not really gonna fire. She’s not really gonna crash her car. She won’t really cut your throat. At least you hope not. You’re still afraid for your life because you know she just might actually be crazy, but you still love her and you see that she’s scared for her life.
    “They won’t let us be together,” I say, “not after this. We’ll go to prison. We’re fucked.”
    It’s not like we can tell the cops we were just making love this time. We’re not going to fuck our way out of this mess. This time we’ve involved other people in our drama. It’s too late. So I tell her what we have to do.
    “It’ll be just like Shakespeare,” I say, as I grab a bottle of bleach from one of the counters, “Double suicide. Romeo and Juliet style. Together forever. For the rest of our lives.”
    “You take the gun, I say, I’ll drink the beach.”
    I say, “I love you but they won’t let us be together. This is the right thing. The only thing we have left.”
    Weeping, she takes me by the hand. Crying, she touches her lips to mine.
    Thus with a kiss I die, I think.
    “You first,” she says, “just like Shakespeare.”
    “We’ll go together,” I say, “together forever.”
    She nods her head and I unscrew the cap on the bleach.
    We gaze into each other’s tired eyes. It’s almost like looking into a mirror. The two of us. Together. One. Now and forever.
    I bring the container of bleach to my mouth, still moist from my girlfriend’s kiss. She puts the gun to her head. The patrons and the cashier close their eyes. Even the snot nosed brat closes his eyes. That’s how serious this moment is.
    We stare at each other. Our last moments on earth. Together. One.
    “I love you,” I say and I close my eyes. I take a long deep swig of the bleach thinking at least this’ll all be over soon.
    “I love you too,” she says, and she pulls the trigger.
    I hear the gun fire. I open my eyes and I see her body drop to the floor. The walls and the patrons and the clerk are all covered with the bone and brain of my dead ex-girlfriend.
    That’s when I spit out the bleach.
    I spit it out right on top of her dead, headless body.
    Fuck her.
    I stick my fingers down my throat and induce vomiting for good measure.
    Fuck her.
    I want to make sure I live on long after she’s in the ground. I vomit right on top of her dead, headless body.
    Fuck her.
    I breathe deep and fall to my knees exhausted. Dry-heaving, I ask no one in particular if they’d please call the police. I’m shaking and I’m cold.
    When the police arrive, they question everyone for an hour or so. I hear the snot nosed kid talking to the cops. With his finger stuck up his nose, with little pieces of brain and bone still stuck in his hair, he talks to the cops. I hear him tell the cops he was scared for his life. I hear him tell the cops he thinks the girl who shot herself must have been crazy or something.
    Not crazy, I think. Not normal isn’t the same thing as crazy. But I don’t say it out loud.
    Then I close my eyes. I breathe deep and thank God this hostage situation is finally over. Not the incident at the gas station, mind you, but the last two and a half years of my life.
    See, it wasn’t about the Corolla, or the gun, or holding a knife to my throat the day she fucked me in love with her. That stuff was normal for us. That stuff was “date night.” When you’ve been through several of these situations, like I have, you know she’s not really gonna pull the trigger. She’s not really gonna crash her car. She won’t really cut your throat. At least you hope not. You’re still afraid for your life because you know she just might actually be crazy, but you still love her and you see that she’s scared for her life.
    And you know that if she really is crazy, if given enough time, she just might blow her brains out in a gas station because she thinks you’ll follow her to the grave. And you know if she’s not crazy, and you both make it out of this alive, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable lives together having the best sex of your life. I’m not sure what they call this behavior. Maybe you’d call it Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe you’d call it hedging your bets.
    I call it true love. As true as you can find nowadays, anyway.

Let Me Count The Ways...

     “I’ll show that asshole,” Stacy said, blinking back tears as she pulled the car door shut behind her. Fastening her seatbelt and sniffling uncontrollably, she pushed the radio knob, trying to find some form of comfort in music. Comfort was quickly replaced with defeat as the opening piano notes of “Without You” by Nilsson flooded the speakers.
    “Seriously? You’re going to play this on the radio now? Seriously?”
    Stacy let out an exasperated puff, trying to get the freshly dyed hair out of her face as she bombarded the empty air in front of her with ineffectual punches. Gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles turned white and she let out a scream from deep inside of her, shaking furiously. After a few minutes of trying to calm down, Stacy turned off the radio to gather her thoughts. Putting the car in reverse, Stacy carefully made sure not to hit any cars and pulled out of the hair salon’s parking lot.
    This is how the letter will read, Stacy thought to herself, Tell David, this is all for him, almost relishing in the fact that he would know all of this was his fault.
    She reached into her purse she had so hastily thrown onto the passenger seat and searched for her cell phone. As she felt around countless tubes of lip gloss and tampons, Stacy imagined David, his dark, curly hair and evergreen eyes vivid in her mind. But her favorite thing about him, his little patch of bright red facial hair on his chin, is what got her the most. For some reason, the little sprouts of a patchy goatee were what brought a smile to Stacy’s face.
    After finding her cell phone, Stacy stared at the background for a moment. It was a picture of her and David taken on the bus while traveling to the hotel Junior prom was held at. Her hair, half swept up in its glossy glory was slightly in David’s face, tickling his nose and making him laugh as they struggled to take the perfect picture with Stacy’s camera phone. They were happy in that picture. She thought they had always been that happy. Apparently, she was wrong. Stacy moved her eyes back onto the road, not wanting to dwell on the now painfully happy memory.
    Without even having to look at the key pad, Stacy dialed her own voicemail and entered her password, not having to take her eyes off of the road. Bringing the phone to her ear, she could already hear the beginning of David’s message. The message that began with his voice sounding so hollow and distant, “Stacy, I hate to say this,” and would end with him telling her “I’m just not the guy for you, and I don’t want to waste any more time,” cementing her fears that the last two years had been a waste of her time as well. As tears began to flood her eyes again, Stacy chucked the phone across the inside of the car, hearing it crash against the side paneling. She didn’t understand what had brought this on. One minute she’s telling David she loves him before entering the salon. The next, he’s breaking her heart while she absent-mindedly waits for the bleach to finish processing in her hair.
    Pressing on the gas, Stacy sped through town, at least ten miles over the speed limit, a ridiculous twenty miles per hour. As she pulled up to the three-way stop sign, her thoughts went back to the real situation at hand. A car horn behind her jolted her back to consciousness, making her realize that she was still sitting in a car and not a couch at her house.
    Pulling away, Stacy narrowly avoided being T-boned by another car hastily charging through the street. Maybe she should just sit in the middle of the intersection and see how long it took before some other driver wasn’t paying attention and slammed into her. Or she could “accidentally” slam into the guardrail that separated machine from the moss-covered hills, causing the car to tumble over and over again until reaching the shore that waited at the bottom. That would at least make it look like the semblance of an accident, if anything. Shaking her head vigorously from side to side, Stacy cleared the scene that had been playing in her head and focused her attention to the road again. However, as she drove further up the steep street, Stacy began pondering the different ways she could go about this.
    Behind her “accidental” car crash, Stacy’s instant thought was pills. She could swallow an entire bottle of some kind of pill, make it quick and relatively painless. She could just go numb and eventually space out before she ceased to be.
    “But where am I going to get pills? I’m highly doubting taking a bottle of Motrin is going to do anything...other than make me puke,” Stacy said out loud. Verbalized conversations with herself like this were becoming more frequent, especially if she was alone.
    What about NyQuil? Would taking a bottle of NyQuil do the job?
    “Hmmm....I highly doubt that,” she said to no one.
    Watching the curve of the road, Stacy looked out across the lake coming into view. Bobbing waves overlapped each other. This was the lake where she had spent so many days driving her grandparents’ boat too fast. The lake she had spent so many happy days on with her family. And then, as if that imaginary light bulb she had seen in so many cartoons went off over her head, Stacy had an idea.
    What if she walked into the lake and slowly submerged herself in water? After all, she’d spent so much of her young life there, it would only make sense that she ended it there as well.
    “No. Just...no,” Stacy said, scoffing at her own idiotic thought out loud.
    “Besides, why wouldn’t I just do it in the bathtub where no one else outside of the family can see me?” Stacy refocused onto the road again and shook the thought out of her head.
    How about throwing the toaster in the bathtub?
    “That’s just stupid.”
    Turning right into the driveway, Stacy watched the garage door slowly pull itself up and pulled the Lincoln into the garage, making sure not to knock the side mirrors into the side of the garage, something she had nearly done many times.
    She could always close the garage door and leave the car running.
    “Oh hold up, no. There is no way in Hell I am doing that to Granny’s car,” Stacy said, shaking her head. “Besides, doesn’t your body turn a weird pink color if you gas yourself?” Stacy sat in the driver’s seat stroking her chin and trying to answer her own question, wondering if she was remembering her freshman year health class correctly. After a minute or so, she gave an indifferent shrug of her shoulders, got out of the car, and walked into the house, kicking off her stiff flip-flops. Quickly running through the kitchen and into the bathroom drowning in floral, Stacy flipped the lights on to get one look at her newly highlighted hair. After a minute or so of admiring her new blonde streaks, Stacy pranced out of the bathroom, trying to return to what she had come to do.
    Walking across the kitchen, her dancer’s feet roughly padding the wooden floor, Stacy came to the kitchen island. Drumming her fingers on the mint-green counter top, she looked around her, her fidgety fingers wrapping themselves around the handle, pulling the drawer open to reveal rows of shiny knives. Suddenly, another idea found its way to the forefront of her mind. She could take one of the knives and as dramatically as she could summon, reenact Juliet’s final lines from “Romeo and Juliet” like she had always wanted, plunging the knife into her chest in one dramatic finale. How poetic would that death be? Juliet died because she couldn’t have Romeo, Stacy was about to die because she couldn’t have David. She could just imagine it now, using her best British accent to recite “Oh, happy dagger, this is thy sheath. There rust and let me die,” just before plunging the knife into her chest, ridding herself of the agony of a life without her “true love.”
    “No. That would only be remotely cool with people around anyway,” Stacy said to herself, lamenting to the empty kitchen. She slammed the drawer shut, uneasy by the sight of all the cold, shiny metal resting in the drawer. She could not admit that her irrational fear of sharp objects would keep her from impaling or cutting herself in any way.
    Walking around the kitchen, Stacy began to survey all of the pictures that her Granny had plastered the walls with. Stacy laughed as she recognized the picture of her Uncle drunkenly trying to play pool on New Year’s Eve two years ago. She smiled as she saw the picture of her Granny and Great-Granny when they were both much younger women. Granny’s hair was piled high in an ashy beehive while Great-Granny’s was pulled back with huge pins, like the movie stars of the ‘30s normally did. She stopped when she saw the picture in the middle of the wall.
    Staring at the two faces, Stacy found herself momentarily frozen. She stared for a minute, her and her Daddy’s smiling faces frozen in one moment Stacy knew was a genuinely happy one. The photo was faded and fuzzy, it had to have been taken when she was about three, yet she still remembered the important, little bits of that day. Like how her Daddy had grilled hot dogs and placed them in the picnic basket that they only used when they went out on the boat. Or how he had spent almost an hour trying to blow up Elvis, the giant inflatable alligator that they had bought at the marina days earlier, and nearly passed out several times. Or how her Daddy had taught her to swim by herself that day, even if she could only go a few feet before she began to freak out.
    There she was, three year old Stacy in her frilly bathing suit, nestled in the crook her Daddy made with his right arm and hoisting her a good three feet off of the sandy ground. They were smiling at each other, her small, fat hands resting on either side of his face. Her nose was scrunched, a trait that sadly, she had not lost over time. She remembered that her father had moved his face towards hers, making his nose, the nose she had inherited, touch hers. She also remembered how happy she was that day. And how so many other days spent with her family had been filled with that same happiness.
    Were all of those good times spent with her parents and grandparents and brothers really worth throwing away over a few days of depression? Was killing herself really the best idea she could come up with? Was punishing David really worth punishing her family as well?
    “No. No it’s not,” Stacy said, her voice unnecessarily low for the vacant house. As she glared down at her perfectly pedicured toes, she realized that ending her life would only bring pain to those she loved and adored the most. A small puddle began forming by her toes, a muddy mix of eye make-up and tears.
    Lifting her head, Stacy wiped a few stray tears away from her cheeks, rubbing her fingers together trying to get the runny mascara off of their tips. Slowly she began to walk to her bathroom, flipping the harsh overhead lights on. Rising to her tip-toes, Stacy leaned in closer to the mirror, trying to get a better look at herself. There in the mirror she could see her Mommy’s eyes, her Daddy’s nose, and her Granny’s smile spread across her face. Callous laughter rose from her throat as she realized how she had become another one of those melodramatic teens who had always annoyed her. The ones who were constantly threatening to kill themselves because something wasn’t going their way. How could she let herself do that?
    “Oh my God! How could I be so stupid?” she yelled out loud, smacking her forehead with the heels of her hands in exasperation.
    She had finally come to the realization that she was going to start living her life minus David and became at peace with it, even if it might be momentarily. She’d become the old Stacy, working out, eating right, and even remembering to take her vitamins.
    “Don’t I have a bottle of those somewhere?” Stacy questioned, looking at the three cabinet doors, trying to remember where she had last placed the bottle.
    Pressing her middle finger against the glass to her left, the mirrored-cabinet door popped open, revealing hoarded hair products and countless stray bobby pins. An orange bottle of Women’s One-A-Day vitamins stood out against all of the other bottles and jars of different liquids and salves. Grabbing the bottle and twisting the cap off, Stacy plucked out one of the sand-colored horse pills and absent-mindedly popped it into her mouth, trying to put the bottle back before anything fell out of the over-stuffed cabinet.
    As she looked in the mirror again, her smiled faded with one harsh gulp. A cry tried to escape her throat, but to no avail. Stacy’s eyes began to widen, as if trying to push the fear away and her hands rose to her throat. She stood still in the middle of the room for a minute, almost as though she were calming a jittery crowd down. She tried to gulp hard. And she tried again, with only the loud thump of her muscles resonating inside her head. One more time, she thought to herself, and this pill should be down my fricken’ throat.
    Using any strength she could summon in her throat, Stacy took one last desperate gulp, but the pill remained lodged in its new home. Realizing that the pill would not move, Stacy allowed fear to take over. She began thrashing wildly, even throwing herself against the rigid marble countertop of the bathroom, desperately trying to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on herself. If this wouldn’t have been real life, if it would have been something out of a movie, Stacy would probably be laughing right now.
    Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her face was shifting from a tomato-red hue to a lavender-blue. Her lips began to turn into two thick blue lines at the bottom of her face. The small veins that scrawled across her temples like little spider webs began to protrude. Her eyes watered although at this point, she was unsure as to whether it was fear or the slow build of realization.
    Then, as she could feel the pressure building up inside of her, Stacy’s vision began to go black, with darkness slowly creeping up the edges of her eyes. As she lowered herself to the floor, realization took complete hold. How could she have been so stupid? Had she really thought purposefully ending her life would have been a good alternative to simply hating David for a month or so? Had she seriously considered becoming another melodramatic teenager who simply did not want to deal with a break-up? None of that mattered though. Because what she came to realize was that although she did not want to, she was going to die. She realized that she would never be able to take another picture with her father where she was happy and she knew her smile was real. She actually wanted her brothers to wrestle her to the ground, tickling her and begging her to sing the “Lollipop Guild” song from “The Wizard of Oz,” something that had always annoyed her up until these last few moments.
    But no. It was almost more heartbreaking this way. At least if she had killed herself, she could have taken her time and left them a note. It pained her to know her family would not remember her as the girl who took charge of her life, or that they would never know for sure that this was an accident. Instead, her family’s last memories of her would be of her hasty death with her body lying on the cold, ivory tiles of the bathroom, with a vitamin stuck in her throat.
    As the blackness enveloped her, one last tear ran down her cheek as she closed her eyes and choked on the cries that could not escape.

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!

    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.