Blue 88’s

The German shells are still
Rocking the steel plank
I clutch as I roll backwards.
Stomach scorched, the fire
Behind my half-mast eyes.
A Medic gives me blue pills,
The ones that could kill
The Fatigue, Kraut 88 clank,
A sweeping left flank
I can’t dream away.

How many days have I been here?
All the while still being there?
Arriving back and forth
To and from the Front, every few hours,
With the first night being a full day
And the second, a shrieking half.

2^nd L.T. barks that we need to get all our gear secured,
“We are heading right back to Hell in the morning.„
Private Richardson tries to disagree, while wiping
A string of drool from parted, parched lips.
“You’re not blind. You’re not dead.
You still have all your limbs.
You’re going back to Bedlam soldier.„
Richardson whelps like an undisciplined pup but doesn’t say anything of sense.
I stare out at the unscathed countryside through snow white windows.
Asides from their accents the nurses remind me of Ashford, Connecticut.
Their whiteness of all the Christmases I missed.
There’s one who I dreamed I asked to the homecoming dance.
2 seconds before I was forced right back into the war.

I know everything I’ve been issued is still stuck in my locker
But I can’t bring myself up to my feet to either check nor clean.
I flip through a deck of cards until the medic makes another pass.
“Can I please have another Blue 88?„
He shakes his head arrogantly and hands me the pill.
I thank him with a nod and swallow it straight down.
Later I jerk awake with all my cards
Scattered across the floor. . .
I breathe shallow and soundless since
At the very least, I know-             there are still 4 more hours until morning.

Ekstasis

There is
something.

And there is
nothing.

Have you learned
this too?

The something
says:
Embrace
thy enemy.

The nothing
says:
Select
thy gun.

Love
is something.

And there is
nothing else

Untitled (tree)

A gnarled and naked tree
silhouetted against the darkening
dusky sky
alone and stiff
bare
and cold,
or is it just me?

A student at The University of Massachusetts,
Becky Grush passed away from cancer at the age of twenty-five.

Deadlines amongst Movement

The clock strikes eleven,
the document on the screen
waits for words from the writer
but the computer shifts to black,
the writer lacking a dictionary and a thesaurus,
subjects and verbs, complete thoughts,
two to three syllables, letters,
punctuation, numbers, an alphabetic soup.

The document,
watching from the dark,
sees writer filling his ashtray
with cigarette butts and burnt out matches,
music only obstructing his concentration,
his pacing growing faster and faster.
He opens a window to let fresh air in,
that doesn’t stop him
from seeing the moving minutes.

The clock strikes twelve, time for lunch,
a ham, lettuce, and bacon sandwich.
Writer pours coffee from his thermos into a cup.
It’s now colder, from his mouth to his throat.
The document sees the writer return to his desk,
hoping he would present her with words,
only he presses his arms against his head,
close to one,
no words only stress.

I’m the Example

My right side strikes the left wall,
while the left side strikes the right wall.
My arms, tied to my chest,
struggle to budge from their restraints.
I’m locked in a confined cell,
free to roam, never to leave.

I try to be a good role model
and here I am in a mental institute,
praying for the day I can hold my daughter
and never let her go,
keep her as tight as this strait jacket.

Ode #4 to St. Jude,
Patron Saint for Lost or Impossible Causes.

Does your poetry bleed?
And if it doesn’t then here
is a wasted life along with
a razor to salvage whatever
dignity is left to it in a more
classical suicide because
when I lay down for my
final sleep I pray not to
the lord but all my
failed relationships
and friends and editors
who had to read my poetry
and above all to St. Jude
patron saint of lost
causes who like former
friends editors and lovers
found me impossible (and rightly so!)
because anyone
trying to be a
poet from a red
white & black eyed
America has
to be a son of a bitch
(at least against himself) and
for anybody else whom
I was cruel and unfaithful to
I was just too impossible
even for myself
—and if such impossible
people can never become
regular folks (much less complete
a successful suicide) then we
can at least become
poets of questionable
talent but never without
a blood and passion and
from time to time an
apology to all editors
lovers and friends

Ode #5 to St. Jude,
Patron Saint for Lost or Impossible Causes.

The money I stole from the wallet
of a friend who let me pass out
on his futon or the near library
of books I took from public schools
I was a substitute teacher in yes
I am guilty but students would have
only inked or ripped the pages
of King Lear and while Larry
was a good friend he was
also spending all his money
on cocaine and when he could
not afford it then: Crack
which like so many other drugs
crimes or vices
— I never acquired a taste for
but— coward liar book thief yes

And so I surrender
to Jesus Mohammed Buddha
Bill W and most of all St. Jude
patron saint for lost causes
—at least when I pray to him
he already expects and I think
accepts my inevitable failure

And if I am no longer welcome
at any AA or NA meetings
in Hartford I will still keep
coming back to a saint
whose name so often
gets mistaken with that
of a traitor
—or are saints more like
the sinners they pray for?
—just like the sinners
are possessed by the same
love and suffering
that possesses a saint

Ode #6 to St. Jude,
Patron Saint for Lost or Impossible Causes.

So drunk I did not realize
that the sudden turn I just
took was on to a frozen
pond which is what I did
failing again to get laid at
a cocktail lounge where all
the beehive haired divorcees
made a trophy of every punk’s
virginity except mine
—that will still try
to find some other
vice or misdemeanor
or other act of cowardice
to help lose my innocence
—which will still take refuge
in the prayers to a saint
who was the patron for lost
causes
—prayer that is sometimes
genuine like a two year old
who has yet to learn how
to lie and sometimes like
a forever losing twenty year
old whose pick-up lines would
not even score with women
with false teeth
—but who at one time
were young and had smiles
that made young men
fall in love
—what a saint never falls
out of
—the same way
a punk can always drive
his car onto a frozen pond
—but not drive away
his love for all women
no matter how much
they might have to
reject him

A govt & business collaborate

A fascist is when govt & business collaborate/ God is
love, which is straight Christian, hence God & fascism
collide, & money supplants love, & business becomes

God/ a capitalist can never be a Christian/ money supplants
love, & Christians are left hanging from a tree, but they don’t
know what’s happening until they’re dead/ a songbird is all

love; so we shoot & eat him & make money from his feathers,
calling it art in order to up the price tag, replacing love with
money, which is all we worship/ it’s worth is what it gets from

Sothebe’s, & after it’s measured & sold at Sothebe’s, the art can be
be thrown away, because all we care about it is in the bank/ so
why commit suicide?/ we’re already dead. . .

He’d be rich & famous if

He’d be rich & famous if
he hadn’t got his head macheted off in
Mogadishu, &

he’d be rich & famous if
he hadn’t been disembowled in
Khartoum, &

he’d be rich & famous if his
brother hadn’t poisoned him in
Asmara & taken over the kingdom, &

he’d be rich & famous if
he & his entire family hadn’t been
executed in Vladivostok & left to be

eaten by wolves, &
he’d be rich & famous if he hadn’t been
shot down in a driveby when he was five &

left to die in a nearby sewer . . .

Art walks out of MOCA

Art walks out of MOCA proving that
Art isn’t dead/ Nietzsche says God
is dead proving that Art isn’t God/ we

kill God on the cross, & a lot of Art is
made about it, both statues & paintings &
other images of Christ being murdered on

the cross, depicting the slaughter of God by
man made in God’s image, all manifestations of
man’s guilt for murdering God, & Nietzsche says

we have to recreate God after killing him if we’re
to have any God at all; so we recreate him as
money, which we all worship, &

Nietzsche GOES mad ...
!

I put the gator in my mouth

I put the gator in my mouth, &
he eats my adams apple/ Adams &
Jefferson & Madison chew my

apple into applesauce, & the
gator eats Adams, Jefferson & Madison
until nothing is left of their constitution, &

they shoot John Hancock in his
signature, according to his policy that
insures their place in history/ they have a

revolution & defeat the English, which
without help from the French we could not
have won/ the French then settled in Canada,

leaving us to our folly, which we exhibit after
WWII by becoming the world’s police to
insure our new power, as Jefferson &

Madison never envisioned, but unfortunately
that’s where we stand, with nowhere to
go but down, down, derry

DOWN ...

!<

to Seed and Grow Stronger

The inner faces of a sheer river
That I could not see-
Waters of its depths

But I know
The water is there
The earth knows it too

They would be night birds
Drawing damp shadows
Across the water

And on the embankment
Are creatures that lives on sunlight
In another world.

And if I put my ear
The earth speaks
With sounds of distant rapids

And when I dip to drink
They are ripples
Which the river takes away.

Even at this distance
I feel the rapids
Of the far away waters

Like something unrelenting
From my past
Disappearing inside me.

The river searches
To drink up raw earth
To seed and grow stronger.

Tendai R. Mwanaka Bio Note

    I was born in the remote eastern highlands district of Nyanga, Zimbabwe, in Mapfurira village, grew up there and did my primary, secondary, and high school in that area. Left Nyanga for Chitungwiza city in 1994, and I started exploring writing that year, when I was barely twenty. I have also worked in the sales and marketing field for over 8 years, and have a graduate diploma in marketing (GradSaim). I have stayed in South Africa for two and half years, but I am now back in Zimbabwe, where I stay in Chitungwiza city. My first book to be published, VOICES FROM EXILE, a collection of poetry on Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa was published by Lapwing publications, Northern Ireland in 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life in modern day Zimbabwe’s soul was published by Savant books and publications, USA 2012. A book of creative non-fiction pieces, ZIMBABWE: THE BLAME GAME, was published by Langaa RPCIG( Cameroon 2013), a poetry collection entitled PLAYING TO LOVE’S GALLERY will be published by DIP PRESS(USA, 2014), a novel entitled, A DARK ENERGY will be published by Aignos publishing company (USA, 2014). Poetry books: Revolution, Logbook written by a drifter, and Voices from exile, were both short listed by the Erbecce press poetry prize in 2012, 2011, and 2009 respectively, another poetry book entitled Pearls of awareness was short listed for the Twoz creations chapbook prize (2012).. I was nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize 2008, work has been translated into French and Spanish. I was nominated and attended The Caine African writing workshop, 2012. Published over 250 pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs, poems and photographic/visual art in over 150 magazines, journals, and anthologies in the following countries, the USA , UK , Canada , South Africa, Zimbabwe, India , Mexico, Kenya, Cameroon, Italy , Ghana, Uganda, France , Zambia, Nigeria, Spain , Romania, Cyprus, Australia and New Zealand. I am also a musician and sound artist with a number of songs and sound recordings playing on internet music places like Radio Airplay, Soundcloud... This year I have been a contributor to several anthologies, WE WILL SURVIVE; this is a wonderful book of hopeful stories ... Not just hopeful, but personal stories of survivors. They all have one common theme, and that is Gloria Gaynor’s hit “I Will Survive.” Each individual was touched in some way by the song. amzn.to/1e8oUTX. SPLINTERS OF A MIRAGE DAWN: migrant poetry anthology, here: http://www.poetsprintery.co.za/index.php/news-events/220-splinters-of-a-mirage-dawn-an-anthology-of-migrant-poetry-of-south-africa, FOR RHINO IN A SHRINKING WORLD, here: http://rhinoanthology.wordpress.com/, THERE IS NO CHERELA IN ZIMBABWE, http://aignospublishing.blogspot.com/2013/04/there-is-no-cholera-in-zimbabwe-makings.html

The Headless Elephant

Zoe Broome

He sees a picture online
of a headless elephant
and cries.

Half skull,
half silence.

He holds the ivory image
in his mind, wishing he
could have stopped the hunters
from his hospital bed.

Cats

It’s late night in the winter woods
and the cats are on patrol:
bobcats, lynx, maybe even a cougar,
here and there a feral tabby
reverting to its savage mean.

From our cabin window,
they’re prints made by unseen feet,
an occasional rustle of underbrush,
a shriek like something out of Poe.

So close they come,
they must be stalking us:
scratches on the door,
scent marks on the backyard oak.

For us, they’ll be the wounded tiger,
the hungry mother lion.
Dead vole between their feline teeth,
they’ll feast on in our stead.

BegBook

Here’s my food list, peeps
Just kiddin’
Cybercommunity means
HAHLP MAH
You gotta HAHLP MAH
Here’s my (just kiddin’)
Food list (you know you like me)
I needba
‘Cause I typed fast, I don’t check
Rules are restrictions
Comparison is contrast
Criticism is abuse
Not kiddin’                Just kiddin’
So, I needba            needba foodba
Mushmouth Cosby Feed Me Peep
I require                    I require
It’s a hard world of
Don’t You Tell Me No
Ruuuuules, Maaaaan!
I have a food list, hard-suggested
‘Cause all the foodstuffs in the world
That Newt left Bill left The Daley Machine
Still leaves-a me’ya in needba
Getting your attention
So’s to say
If you don’t HAHLP MAH
You’re a bad person
On the inside, anyway
And, that’s abuse

I disagree with God’s opinion

There was this one chick, one time
On and on about
“how God goofed”
This relating to fact of something
She        the chickie        didn’t like
Doncha love that?
I have an issue with the feng shui
Of My Own, Abject Reality,
Hence and Therefore
Infinity is finite
And must make, double scoop, mit der Paypal
It must give me my fuckin’ check
And, don’t want no Hell, neither, so,
Give me my fuckin’ Heck;
People wagging fingers at
“How God got it wrong”
You come in here and clean up that mess,
God!
I’ll do you like Mavis did Jay for spilling
grease
I’ll do you like the box office did
Grease 2
I am disappointed in you, I Am!! BAD!!
omg...um...point of order...
If “God” (any god, even Zeus for real, okay?),
Then, you’re a shithead
And it’ll be fun to watch you scream, one day
If NO God,
Maybe you’re just intrinsically Not a happy person,
Masquerading as a shithead

A Nation Under Elder gods
(Adonis)

Masculine Beauty
Like any Beauty, is dead
Masculine Beauty, is, finally,
Beauty
Therefore not masculine
It was Whistler, who said,
“Ladies blush, men perspire, animals sweat.”
Beauty is a venal thing,
In that it is image only, not a “do”
And not a “be”, either, but in the most
Crippled sense
Beauty is skin, not even deep
It does not toil, neither does it perspire
Masculine Beauty, is Perfection
Just lying there
the actual god who is dead
He’s of no use to us
He doesn’t do anything

life insurance

you promised nothing,
left me
with less

a swollen throat is not a present
of any value or real use
to anyone held at arm’s length though
no sleep,
no dreams
occurred
closing my windpipe with kisses,
wishing I were a boy.

(regardless) we are both
passengers aboard
the same flight that won’t land
and if our teeth never make it to shore
the checks will never be mailed.

Ekstasis

There is
something.

And there is
nothing.

Have you learned
this too?

The something
says:
Embrace
thy enemy.

The nothing
says:
Select
thy gun.

Love
is something.

And there is
nothing else

6^th & mission

    “we have mice,” david says.
    “how do you know?” i say.
    “they nibble my feet while i’m asleep.”
    “maybe it’s the jameson’s.”
    “i’m getting mouse traps.”

    “i bought mousetraps,” david says.
    “those are some big mouse traps,” i say. “i think they call themrat traps.”
    “what’s the difference?”
    “i don’t know, a toe?”

    “we caught a mouse,” david says.
    “holy shit!” i say, “that’s arat!”
    “no, it’s not. it’s a mouse.”
    “biggest mouse i’ve ever seen.”
    “it’s a mouse.”
    “it’s a rat.”
    “it’s a mouse.”
    “okay. maybe it’s just a rat hybrid.”
    “you mean a mouse hybrid.”
    “whatever.”

    “we killed another mouse,” david says. “his eyes flew out of his skull.”
    “did you find them?” i say.
    “they’re stuck to the ceiling.”
    “that’s not a mouse.”
    “i meant a mouse hybrid.”
    “that’s a fuckingrat.”
    “it’s not a rat.”

    “we caught another mouse hybrid,” david says.
    “oh my god!” i say.
    “it’s not a rat.”
    “we’re gonna catch the plague.”
    “mice don’t carry the plague.”

    “what are they eating?” david says.
    “whatever they’re eating, we’re not eating.”

    “you better go look in the corner,” david says, “it’s another mouse.”
    “how the hell many are there?” i say.
    “one less. go look.”
    “i’m too hung-over for this holocaust. oh, man dude, there’s blood all over the floor.”
    “i never knew mousetraps were so powerful.”
    “there’s blood and shit all over the place! is that better than having rats? i mean mouse hybrids?”
    “this is our thirty-sixth mouse.”

    “how big is this room?” i say.
    “about a hundred-and-fifty square feet,” david says.
    “how many rats have we caught?”
    “i stopped counting after seventy mice.”
    “why?”
    “i don’t know.”
    “we have one rat every two square feet.”
    “mice.”
    “they’re fucking rats you blind asshole.”
    “they’re mouse hybrids.”
    “have you ever seen a rat?”
    “no.”
    “i didn’t think so.”

how the fuck do you write about suicide?

and i’m sure someone who has done it
lacks the volition to talk about it
so what we’re left with is half-assed
reportings of attempts, some more
sincere and closer than others
i have a history of attempts
and i feel pretty disingenuous
with myself for these failures
but finally one day is was clear as autumn, sun out, brisk breeze
i put the .380 on the rock
my life had led to an okay criminal BCI
it was like those scholarships i’d won
or the journalist awards later
they were going to let me buy a pistol
i waited 10 minutes for permission
and a yes and in little more than half an hour the flies would be all over me
i sat with a beer
i didn’t have many thoughts
i wouldn’t pay rent this month
because I’d bought the pistol
i’d picked this rock out of a pine forest
i first saw in the sun on my way fishing
today it was in the sun
but i was aware of the black gun
it might have been a paperclip
that would change everything
and the pine needles
waiting on all the dreams i’d ever had
my world doesn’t have a mouth
i was not depressed
not at all
i was calm, sober
and enabled
persuaded the shop owner’s wife
to sell me the gun in his absence
most suicides occur in an up state
and i couldn’t have felt better
(killing myself improved my mood)
mania was sickness for others
i’d like to call it over-identification with their failures
so naturally one isn’t
thinking about oneself
i had charmed that gun
out of that woman
minutes before, sober as i said
then i grabbed two busch’s
for the journey into the woods
i drank them on my rock
in the sunny pines
after i loaded the pistol in my room
with six rounds – why six i don’t know
i drank a beer and felt calm and clear
i drank another and i didn’t want to blow my brains out
i wanted to drink more beer
i walked out of those woods
alive
still here
aliens all
with this crushing
obligation
between our ears
to live with our failures
and i saw
the dandelions
were dancing
as they had been

the populated jug

i want to speak of odds
i’m no gambler
but it looks like
they beat us

i was hit over the head
with a jug of gallo
last night

lost loves
and lost friends
spilled out
under the stars
as lightening bugs
blazed constellations
we will never trace

the best friend
i’ve ever had
shot himself
two days after
i called him a prick
for the first time
in ten years
his last words: “peace out.”

and the dynamite shack
chick from London
and our mostly madly
summer of love
and winter of more love
devoured by the miles
between cairo
and providence

jug of wine, you said:
“your life happened
and are you not glad
you were awake
when it did?”

and now?

the circle has been overrun
there’s no one left
my housemate drowned
my girlfriend overdosed
my best friend killed himself
all within 18 months

i’m afraid for people
who want to be my friend

i’m sitting here
on this bench where we all once sat
and we all knew
one of us
would be the last

i don’t want any pity
i want the plague acknowledged
but only two have mustered understanding
while i turned white

i am not a man
who makes friends fast
                    precious fountains

the ones who have lived and died
have made me too cool
for others to get through

all apologies

The approaching front

At daybreak,
forecasters predict,
the approaching front
will bring
its anticipated drizzle
of corpses
and an oppressive downpour
of traumatized and fleeing
while emanating
from the burning city
a crimson sky
will lighten
an otherwise
leaden landscape.
And the night?
Well, it’s initially dark
or darker, lacking
a scintilla of hope
save “life goes on”
and, in time,
tomorrow, most certainly,
will come
tomorrow...

Serial Harvest

He felled her
over and over,

dragged her body
through shorn fields,

her blonde hair
splayed around her head,

Madonna of the Cornfields
left for fodder.

When Mountains Move

She’s down there, under
the mud, gone back to
the beginning where all
ooze comes from
down beneath earth’s mire
and the daily muck we
so much tried escaping from

Under the spire high we sought
to lay, and wash away our sins,
under that dome we saw
the sky blue, and twinkles
each of them another beginning
while time sucks us down
into the sludge where we rested
after we worked our chalk covered
hands for what we believed

We did what was right
as we went along our paths,
we sang, rejoiced, and died
as planned, but now my shrill
voice covered by goo, why
has my love gone down
there, under the mud

Frogged

I pick up a book and Gerald Stern
writes about dissecting a frog
and it cuts me.
Just last night
my daughter was saying
she’d never do that.
Mr Stern can do that,
and he knows he’s doing that.
I look at the inside flap
Who has twenty five dollars
for a paper cut?
Not the frog, that’s for sure.

George

Skinny guy with glasses sent to Vietnam,
came back with an understanding of heroin,
an acquaintance with whorishness, a clarified
wife, and a helmet on his soul. His family alive
but indifferent, he makes his way back
to the ocean, back to the popcorn, back
to the pinball machines, wants to see
the boss who had treated him well. “Hey,
Bob! It’s me, George!” Kindness is magnetic,
but the past is a loose adhesive and rarely
is employment a glue. “How nice to see
you, George!” He hangs around for about
an hour, then slinks back to the deserted
battlefield he has had tattooed on his future.

“George” was first published in New World Writing (formerly BLIP). It appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).

Greyhound

I’m riding on a bus sitting next to a woman eating
a yellow tomato. We both need a bath. Outside the window
is Kansas. Then Nebraska. I note that in my ratty journal,
take a banana from a paper bag, and pretend to shoot myself.
All the reading lights are out: no one can see me.
It’s the chilling middle of the night. I hallucinate
my future. I’m a CPA with asthma. I’m a zoologist with
MS. I’m a baby who died of SIDS. The bus pulls into a
rest stop. I buy a grilled cheese, a vanilla shake,
some corn chowder. I covet a pearl-button denim shirt.
In the men’s room, I read the offerings on the vending
machines. Two truckers come and go talking of Tupelo.
Stumbling back to my seat, I stare, out a dirty window,
into the sanitary blackness. We’re 300 miles from dawn.

Dead Poem

    Saturday night live Is often dead the grateful dead is dead the tea party is dead occupy is stillborn time magazine argued that God is dead bela lugosi is undead the music video is dead privacy is dead utopianism is dead literary pleasure is dead thanks terry Eagleton lee groban carlos cortez and dave hernandez are dead the promise of human rights and a fair shake in America are dead the public option is dead the tattoo as a form of rebellion is dead Obama inspired idealism is dead (meet the new boss same as the old boss) most of the ramones are dead and their cds are not still selling well in America the possibility of a third party winning a high office in America is dead John Coltrane’s dream of a new more spiritual music is dead Justice is comatose just ask treyvon martin wicker park and pilsen are dead tony blair’s promise of a better britain is dead sir paul’s relevance is dead morrissey says the queen is dead emo was never alive the author is dead the list poem is dead

    long live robots in hospitals miley on molly ECD dub step gangman style gotee, underwear worn outside of pants packages delivered by drones hunger games vampire juvenilia russian riot grrls getting arrested for using free speach postpostpostpostpostpost grunge tattooed eyes putin the peace keeper bieber gets arrested perry keisha bruno the language police ruling academia homophobia disguised as morality reality tv online social networks the manic pixie dreamgirl disguised as the new girl corporate rap manufactured anger sports as a religion match.com speed dating combined families economic exploitation of part-timers and overseas corporate slavery

untitled (phone)

Phone call upsets me.
Oops.
I just hung up.
My finger slipped.

untitled (schizophrenic)

You can’t argue or reason with a schizophrenic.
Snow
piles up.

untitled (create)

Excuse me while I create the future.
Create, create, create. What a wonderful world.

untitled (Putin)

Putin pardons Pussy Riot.
And cats everywhere celebrate.

untitled (eyes/heart)

My eyes stayed open too long.
My heart is heavy with cancer.

Lake in Winter

Your children have gone dancing.
They have learned
to live, to grow
heedless of conceits
which prompted you.

There’s snow in the foothills.
Were they with you,
all the fleeing tracks of rabbits
would stare back like empty eyes
as you bent over them,
pointing out the speed of life
to those now far removed.

This doesn’t matter:
There are some things to touch
but not control,
like leading all your partners
in the dances of their lives.

Depth of Field

When I looked for you
at the crowded train station,

the masses grew dense
as I craned my neck,

until I saw your head
emerging from the sea.

Suddenly I couldn’t escape you,
you seemed so crystal clear

in that crazed commuter crowd,
because everything blurred away

as my focus grew sharper on you,
perfectly framed in my depth of field.

-

To this day, when I see you
outside, coming toward me,

I first see you at a distance,
but when I see you it seems

that everything about you
comes sharply into focus

and everything else in the world
fades into the background.

-

You don’t know this,
but when we face each other

seated for a meal, I sometimes
stare, at your temples,

or maybe the space under
your ear lobe. I just look.

At times like these,
I want to capture every inch,

every minute detail of you,
store it in my memory,

so I can have that sharp image
of you always in my mind.

Out Of Place (Dreams 12/3/13)

I was leaving one of my fallback hangouts in Chicago
in the middle of a dreary, cloudy day, not unlike today.

I apparently was there alone, but I ran into someone I was once
friends with, we broke off our friendship years ago, but we

attempted to talk, to be cordial, almost in an attempt to rekindle
a friendship (though being together seemed disjointed and

out of place).

As we were leaving to go to our separate cars, to go
our separate ways and drive to our separate lives,

I asked what she was doing later, and she said she couldn’t,
she had plans. I never invited her anywhere, I never asked

where her children were, she just cut me off and told me
she couldn’t.

She then looked at the rows of Chicago houses on the block
where we walked; I always liked the square homes here

with flat roofs, this neighborhood was always my favorite place
to live... She looked, mentioned someone living in a Chicago house

like this, and she finally said that she couldn’t live like this.
“The second floor...the way it’s slanted. You probably

can’t feel it, but anything can come sliding off that floor.”
And just then I could see a vibrantly colorful bird sliding

off a slanted window awning and falling into the plant bed
in front of the house, hitting a wooden stake and disappearing

into the folds of greenery. I don’t know if the colorful bird
lived, but i couldn’t see any trace of the bird moving again.

#

You see, we were once friends, we used to be close, we laughed
and gossiped back when she thought I was her best friend.

But I know how morally different we are. She could be cordial,
but I know what’s underneath her fasçade. Because

even if we tried, I know we’d never get that friendship back.

shoe prints on
the toilet seat

In a bathroom in India,
he saw shoe prints on a toilet seat.
‘Cause to avoid contamination,
men squat on toilet seats
to go to the bathroom.

Pleiades

My eyes have always been drawn to the stars in the night sky.
The youngest of three sisters, I always looked for something more
until I saw the seven sisters together from our view of the universe.

My mother, rest her soul, saw me looking at the night sky once.
She might know the Big Dipper, so I asked her to look up high
to one point in the night sky. “See what looks like a dipper,

about the size of your thumb nail?” I asked. “Yes, I see it.”
Well, I’d tell her that’s a little star cluster, those seven stars
are called the seven sisters, they’re the Pleiades cluster.

#

In the Pakistan Urdu language, Pleiades is ‘Parvin’, a symbol
of beauty, and was a term used for a beautiful woman, like my mom.
In Greek Mythology, the Pleiades are the ‘seven sisters’,

because when their father Atlas was forced to carry the heavens
on his shoulders, the hunter Orion chased his daughters, so he put
his daughters in th sky, where Orion still follows them to this day.

In esoteric astrology, the seven solar systems revolve
around Pleiades in the night sky, where we could almost see
traces of the Milky Way cutting our night sky in half.

In the Southern Hemisphere, the Pleiades cluster rose at harvest,
giving abundance to the world, as my mother did to my childhood.
But in Celtic mythology during the Bronze Age, the Pleiades cluster

was connected to mourning, and even funerals, because around
Halloween (and the mourning “Day of the Dead”), everyone saw
Pleiades rise in the east just as the sun set in the west.

But I don’t want those seven sisters to mourn for my mother,
I want the memory of showing these stars to my mother to be
something that makes me smile when I look up at the night sky.

unclean left hands

Don’t use your left hand in India
(that’s the hand used for wiping
after defecating) — for that reason
the people in India believe

the left hand’s unclean. So,
while in India he washed his hands
after using the public bathroom,
saw others do the same.

But he saw one man
put soap on his right hand,
rub it with the back of his left hand,
then rinse his right hand.

His left palm never touched
his right hand, or soap, or water.
So I guess I see
they have more reasons to believe

the left hand’s unclean.

can’t get you

I never really
liked you, but now I can’t get
you out of my head.

of his thirst

of my dead Scotsman,
they spoke of his drinking, but
never of his thirst.

Pleading

“When they eat one of
you, word get around,” the an-
imal said, pleading.

relegated

at death, life’s rele-
gated to the ranks of the
inconsequential.

found haiku

Himmler wanted the
Ahnenerbe to prove Je-
sus wasn’t a Jew.

defenses

I’m the predator
with no blade, no defenses
I am blindfolded

hold

hold my hand, so I
feel hearts, cupids, sunshine
all over again

destroy

nothing can be pure
when you destroy purity.
my choice is silence.

jumped

you always jumped from
airplanes, ‘til you died, of a
heart attack, in bed

instead

we destroy value
instead of fighting for it.
It’s truly amazing.

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, Prominent Tongue, Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# cc& hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me and Under the Sea (photo book), the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

Numbness

    Officer Hayden ‘Hook’ Lopez nervously rubbed the knuckles of his left fist. That same left hand kept him in trouble with Internal Affairs. Several suspects testified to the power of Officer Lopez’s left. His partners insisted he drive the majority of the time. Continuous rubbing his fist in the palm of his right hand racked their nerves. He gazed at the surrounding books and file cabinets of the cluttered office space the department provided. IA and department regulations required he be evaluated by the psychiatrist. His infamous left hook fractured a guy’s skull and his brain hemorrhaged. I have to evaluate this vermin for a fit for duty (FFD) clearance. Being a part time department shrink ain’t easy. I hate these guys and victims of these misfits rarely get the justice they deserve. I know; they beat my brother Timothy senseless; it took years for him to recover. Those cops are dead, one by suicide the other by decapitation in a car crash. But still, what better way to hurt cops then negative psych evaluations and other methods.
    That’s why I killed Hook Lopez’s wife.
    Most cops have bad marriages and when they found his wife he was the main person of interest. I didn’t like it when they removed the ‘females only’ sign from my chair and flopped his fat behind down. He wore a uniform a size too small and wrinkled. His three day beard didn’t help his botchy skin with baggy eyes. Bright red pimples with white caps dotted his clown size nose.
    His face was a Halloween mask.
    He gave me that what are you looking at expression. “It doesn’t hurt to read before you sit, Officer Lopez.” I said.
    “Sorry, doc.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t get it; what’s the difference?”
    “If you got it and other things you wouldn’t be sitting here.” I shouldn’t show disdain for this vermin. Be professional.
    His smirk faded. “Rough night?”
    “Not really, Officer Lopez” I flipped open my notebook. Let the bullshit flow. My phone vibrated. “Excuse me one second. Hello.”
    “Kevin?” My wife asked.
    “Who else, Marilyn? What’s wrong you sound out of breath?”
    “I think I’m under suspicion...”
    “Marilyn, listen, relax I can’t talk I’m busy. I’ll call you right back.” Under suspicion, what kind? That sounded like Marilyn’s panic attacks took a turn for the worse. I turned off the phone. “Sorry, Officer Lopez.” This guy was hard to look let alone fake helping him. The point of killing his spouse; break him, but the big boys pressured me to clear him. I brought his family together via tragedy. I felt nothing. Good. What about his victim’s family? Who cared, he killed a faggot, so what. I begged to differ. “How are you feeling?”
    He gazed, frowned and pondered the question. “What am I supposed to say to get a positive FFD slip?”
    “Answer the question, that’s a starter.”
    “Other than some asshole putting two slugs in my wife’s head, which they think I might have done it, not releasing her body and IA bugging me about punching out an asshole, I’m fine. How’s that Doctor Kripke?”
    I wanted to shoot him too. Jesus, I hate this guy. I flipped a page and continued to enter my preliminary conclusions. “How do you feel about the deceased suspects family; any remorse?”
    Lopez shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I do.”
    “Maybe I do.” I said under my breath.
    “Say what, doc?”
    “Nothing. Well, they want you back on duty.” I tried not to shake my head in disgust.
    “You disagree?”
    “Of course what professional wouldn’t? But, sending you to me was punishment enough.” Lopez’s punishment needed enhancement; a dead wife, suspicion by the department. One day I’ll paralyze him from head to toe. But, I should consider that for Officer Simon Samuels, aka ‘SS’, a crafty two faced racist. He shot an unarmed gay teenager three times in the back on the ground face down. The State’s Attorney won’t prosecute, but that’s OK his pregnant wife will meet a similar fate.
    “Look, I got nothing against you LGBT people. And you’re right, to some it is punishment.” Lopez said. His expression said different. I didn’t have reassignment surgery yet, but my attire told everybody, I’m a man. My wife loves me as a women and man, but I still act either way. They said I’d be a beautiful woman; flawless skin, high cheek bones and a brilliant smile and they were right. A beautiful woman to a handsome man. What a blessing. “But, I’m still a cop doc, so I should still get the benefit of the doubt. I’m wearing the bulls eye not the public.” His chapped lips narrowed when he spat the words past his tobacco stained teeth.
    I turned off the recorder and put my pen down. “Of the record, Lopez, how do you feel about your wife’s death? I mean you don’t seem to be rattled at all.” If I came on too strong; good he deserved it.
     “I’m fucked up on the inside...full of hate. Whoever’s responsible better pray I don’t get them first.”
    Glad to hear that; glad I could be of service. That and the shadow of suspicion might get you to put a gun in your mouth and solve one of the department’s problems. I nodded. “OK, Officer Lopez.” I switched on the recorder and continued the interview. Here’s your reinstatement clearance and FFD for your commander.”
    His IPhone hummed. “Well, well, the coroner has new info on Crystal’s death.” His puzzled expression changed to an optimistic look. Strange, what could it be? “Something is up; I hope they release her.” Lopez slammed his fist and held still. “Strange shit goes on in the morgue. They miss stuff all the time, paper works wrong or deleted, if it’s in the computer at all. A million dollar budget and they haven’t digitized everything. Something keeps bugging me about her death.” Lopez stood and stared at me. “I’m good for awhile, right doc?”
    “Yeah, no problems.” I made my final entry in his file and logged off. “Unlike their system mine is up to date and organized. Good bye, Officer Lopez.” He turned and left.
    It took long enough for his odor to get out of the office. Jesus, he needed to change his shirt or deodorant. I forgot to return Marilyn’s call. I took a deep breath and hit the speed dial.
    “Hello...you forgot me.” Marilyn said. The anxiety subsided from her squeaky voice.
    “You sound better...”
    “I feel the same, Kevin; I took a deep breath and let the stress hiss slowly through my teeth. The cops are tailing me. Remember my dad was a cop and he taught me a few things.”
    “What did you do?” My morning sucked now with this mess. Hesitation, I hate it; on three Marilyn, one, two...
    “I don’t know, well, I don’t understand.” Marilyn sighed. “I had this fling, it didn’t mean as much to me as it did the other person.”
    “We talked about this prior to our wedding. If you need a real man for the human biology thing, so what. You have more fun with a woman or should I man up more often? Say something.” I tried not to sound too annoyed. “Jesus, another woman?” I drummed my fingertips on the desk. “Marilyn, Marilyn, the cops don’t follow people for affairs. What was it?”
    “I’m sorry.” Marilyn sobbed. “But she deserved it in a way. I wish I’d thought about it.”
    “Thought about what? Dammit Marilyn, tell me!” I try to be patient, but today wasn’t the day for drama from her or anyone else. A shadow hesitated in the clouded glass of the door. “Marilyn, I have to go, a client is coming in. Love you, talk to you later.” The knob turned back and forth. From the size of the shadow and the squeaky knob it had to be Detective Desmond Pharr. He knew it irritated me. The noise made my skin crawl like a fingernail scratching a blackboard. “Come in, Pharr!”
    The door swung open. “Hey, Dr. Kripke.”
     “Hello, Detective Pharr, where you been man?” I missed my buddy. Pharr was the thinnest, shortest and youngest detective on the force. I thought he was cute with that brushy hair and needle nose. I loved his tan. “Let me guess, down south somewhere?”
    “Atlanta.” He blew me a kiss and flopped down in the chair. “Miss me?”
    I sighed, he knew I like him, but when I needed a man he wasn’t around. “Of course, is this business or pleasure?” I slammed the file cabinet and sat on the edge of my cluttered desk. His hazel eyes focused between my legs. “Look up here, Pharr. You’ve been smoking again; it clashes with your cologne. You just got here didn’t you?”
    “Yeah, you’re my first stop.” Pharr answered. He sniffed his sleeve. “I took a few drags to keep the shakes off. I’m trying to quit.”
    “Well good for you. I like that powder blue shirt and slacks, but you can keep the gun.”
    “Thanks. I got fresh gossip for you, but first I have to ask you something.”
    That care free look on his narrow face faded; that worried me. “Go ahead, Pharr.” Hold on Kevin here we go.
    “They said you took the plunge, did you?”
    “No...I didn’t have the surgery. I’m still female.” I snapped at him and didn’t mean too.
    His head tilted back. “Thank God. There’s hope for me yet.” He giggled.
    “They need to quit it. Don’t cops have other things to do than start rumors?”
    “No.” He laughed. “This arrangement with the members of the LGBT community will take time to grow on everybody. Forget that, but before I start how about some coffee?”
    “Go ahead.”
    He grabbed a plastic cup and poured. “You’ve got the best and most expensive coffee maker in the building.” He blew in the hot black liquid and sipped. “Good as usual, Kripke. Now for the good stuff. I heard Lopez is to be reinstated. I know it’s not my business, but we have a mutual disdain for that fat bastard.” I nodded and that gave him the OK to keep talking. “The coroner’s office fucked up. How they did it, who knows, but they found out Lopez’s wife was poisoned. Cyanide; can you believe it?”
    “What? Cyanide, he poisoned and shot her. Damn, he made sure she was dead.” I said. That bitch looked asleep when I pumped those slugs in her brain. This was crazy.
    “That makes no sense. It’s looking like he might be innocent. I shouldn’t say that...that’s unprofessional of me. There’s no evidence implying him, yet. I thought you’d want to know. You hate that bullying murdered as much as I do.”
    “Damn, I don’t know what to say.” And I didn’t, and Lopez was hearing the same thing as we spoke. “Oh well maybe he’ll drop dead at that news.”
    “Yeah, we wish, but I gotta go. When you want to have sex call me.” Pharr downed his coffee and tossed the cup in the garbage. “I’ll be in touch.” He puckered his lips. “Muhwah.” And out the door he went. Pharr had nice lips and one day I’ll taste them.

    The lunch line in Starbucks moved quicker than I expected. I needed a boost from somebody else’s Cappuccino. A few sips later I perked up enough to revisit my wife’s BS. She answered on the first ring. Surprise. “Hello, honey, glad you called.”
    “You sound better, but I’m annoyed and I should kick your ass.” I should feel that way, but I didn’t. I felt numb. “Tell me what you did, Marilyn.”
    “Not on the phone.”
    “That’s strange you wanted to earlier.”
    “Are you still in your office?”
    “No, I’m at Starbucks down the street.”
    “Good, I’m five minutes away, stay there.” I snapped my phone shut. Now what? Earlier I put my lust on hold, patted her behind and rushed out the door. She wore a sheer pink gown that hugged every curve. Too bad I’d miss that special breakfast.
    When she walked in every guy in the place studied her. She sparkled and she belonged to me. She wore those black sandals with the straps that wrap around the ankles. The narrow woven leather accented her thick shapely legs. A pleated red skirt, white blouse and silk scarf that wrapped around her waist completed her outfit. She sat and smiled. “You’ve been to the beauty shop. I love the short hair cut.”
    “Thanks, babe.” She caressed my hand. “Don’t be mad, please.”
    “OK, now talk to me.”
    “The long or short version?”
    “Marilyn, don’t.” I snapped. She knew which one. “I have an appointment to see my therapist; got it?”
    She nodded and sighed. “I met this chick at Saks Fifth Avenue and we got to talking. I could feel she was in the closet and I assured her I would be discreet. She was a challenge. I just wanted her body. Long story short.”
    “Thank God.” I mumbled. She met somebody at Saks right down the street. Dozens of cops’ wives spouse shop there from the brass to the rookies.
    “She claimed she’d fallen in love with me. I became receptive to her plight with an asshole of a husband. He abused her and him being a cop she felt helpless. She’s deep in the closet. We never meet in public only at her friend’s apartment, who never saw us. She frequents Dolly’s Bar and Grill. You’re looking like you don’t want to hear it.”
    I didn’t care, but I couldn’t find the words. I still love her, but the numbness I feel is one of my problems I discuss with my shrink. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to be upset; don’t worry.” My wife stared at me, perplexed.
    “Worry...I’m scared to death. I tried to break it off. She threatened to tell you. She also said if I tell her husband she’ll blow my brains out. Our secrecy became my weapon. I casually bumped into her at Dolly’s and put cyanide in her beer.”
    “What, cyanide?” my heart skipped several beats. “What’s her name?” She hesitated.
    “Crystal...Why?”
    Oh hell no, it couldn’t be. “Did she die?”
    “Yeah, she’s dead, but somebody shot her too.”
    Jesus! My wife was sleeping with fat ass Lopez’s wife. “Wait a minute, how do you know the poison killed her if she got shot?”
    “I don’t know I didn’t put enough to kill her just make her sick.” Marilyn wiped her forehead.
    “Relax, you’re sweating.” I reached across and dabbed away the beads of perspiration. She kissed my hand.
    “Thanks babe, I need that,” she said, with relieved whisper.
    “You’re a nurse; you know what dosage to use, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Why do you think the cops are following you or whatever?”
    “Uh, uh I see them and they look at me funny.” Marilyn said. “But, maybe it’s my imagination or conscious.”
    “It is, you said you were discreet, so don’t worry about it.” I smiled and hoped she’d follow my advice. I should be sweating bullets, but a numbness replaced emotion. She gave her a low dosage, she didn’t kill her. “The bullets killed her Marilyn, not you. They can’t trace the poison to you, can they?”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    “So you’re straight, don’t worry. At least try not to.” I kept massaging her hand. “Promise me you won’t.”
    She sighed. “OK, I won’t.”
    “You look nice, going shopping on your off day?”
    “Yeah.” Marilyn’s voice sounded relaxed. She stood and shouldered her purse. “Sorry to hold you up, have a good session.”
    “Don’t rush away I still have a minute, Marilyn.”
    “We’re good; I want to get to Niemen Marcus before someone gets the dress I’ve got to have. See you at home.” She turned and out the door she went. Marilyn said they were discreet. Good enough for me. I know my wife’s tedious, thorough and patient. Whenever she slipped it in her beer nobody saw it. That made me comfortable.
    I should speed up the plan to get rid of Officer SS’s wife. The suspicion will fall on him immediately. Two shots to the left temple just like the ‘Hooks’ spouse. That will take any attention away from Marilyn and me if that came about. I’ll see.

    Dr. Catherine Delaney took long strides across the black leather tiled floor of her roomy corner office. The fifth floor office had a stunning view of Michigan Avenue’s high end stores and the new Police Headquarters. The six foot former model still moved with grace and stability after months of therapy that followed a stroke. Her speech showed minute traces of what happened the previous year. She cut a successful modeling career short. Her reason of “medicine is my calling” didn’t fit well with her now ex-husband and manager. She was right; she breezed through all the medical school hoops and hurdles. Her writings of various psychiatric journals were world renowned. The LGBT community respected her; she counseled hundreds of transsexuals. None of them knew or cared about her sexual preference. Now that full figured and seasoned women received the recognition they deserved, modeling agencies worldwide tried to bring back into the fold. “I’m happy and leave it at that,” she said. They accepted.
    Her height and broad shoulders gave her well tailored turquoise pants suit hell. She was dazzling. I didn’t like her platinum blonde hair plastered to her head, but a good tan made up for it. Her office was so organized and clutter free, it made me sick. The contemporary white leather chairs looked too expensive to sit in. Architectural Digest had been here at least in spirit. Catherine loved technology, touch activated everything. “Coffee or a roll, Kevin?” She asked, turned and sipped a steaming cup of some exotic brew.
    “No, I’m good. But, since we’re colleagues, for Christmas send your interior decorator over to my office.”
    Catherine giggled. “I would, but can you imagine the look on the cops faces.”
    I suppressed all out laughter, but she was right. “They’d put me jail or either take it for themselves.”
    “Probably the latter.” She sat at a new glass top desk and tapped her computer screen. “We don’t need this thing, right?” I nodded. “How are you feeling?”
    “The same uncaring Kalvina as usual.”
    “Kalvina...I haven’t heard that in a long while.” She sighed and sipped her drink; those piercing green eyes studied me. “I’m not clairvoyant, but...”
    “You could’ve fooled me.” I laughed. She flashed an uneasy grin. “Sorry, I’m messing with you.”
    “Again, what I’m getting is you’ve changed your mind or you have reservation about Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT).”
    “Right, I did some soul searching. I’m not eighty percent man so why go through that. My breasts are good, firm and moderately pronounced. I don’t think Marilyn wants a transman. The risk is too great after binding the chest tissue that can reduce lung capacity and broken ribs. I don’t need Genital Correction Surgery (GCS) to match my, not so big, genitals corrected to feel like a man. I enjoy the position on top dominating the female. No matter how much she tries to escape thrust of pleasure without having something artificially and permanently attached to me. The wife’s happy and if she needs a real man, that’s cool.”
    Dr. Delaney nodded and scribbled in her notes. “Makes sense to me. You are a beautiful woman; that deep voice isn’t as masculine as you think. Men still want you; don’t mess that up. That gray suit and ascot look good on you. That being said; how’s the emotional detachment, numbness as you call it?”
    “You ever do something wrong, that’s right, but normal people might be tormented by?” I asked that stupid question with sincerity like I’d get an honest answer.
    “Yeah.”
    “Me too, but I’m numb.”
    “You should be a hit man, Kevin.” She grinned. “That’s a joke.” That hurt. Was I different than a hired killer? “Count your blessings, when you get a conscious you might hate it.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Kevin. But, live long enough and I guarantee you won’t be numb. There are studies and articles about this numbness, as you call it. That subject is as strange as figuring out stress. You’ll be fine. Hell, if you can work with cops and be a transman. You can do anything. I don’t envy you, but you have my admiration.” We drifted into girl talk for the remainder of the hour. “Time’s up.” My friend and mentor got up and tapped a panel in the wall. Out popped a fully stocked bar with twenty year old whiskeys from all over the world. “I’m off; I promised myself you are my last client. Join me, Kevin.”
    “Well, OK...A beer is fine.” We toasted, the beer went down cold and smooth.
    Catherine removed her jacket, unbuttoned her blouse and leaned back in the white recliner. “The session’s over, but if you want to feel whatever for whatever reason. Quit the department, you hate those people; your practice is booming and you don’t need that little money anyway. I bet the numbness goes away. But, remember you might regret it.”

    Dr. Delaney’s words bounced around in my head like the lyrics of a stupid commercial. Three words stuck; hate, quit and regret. Why regret hating them everybody else did and quit; not now somebody might get nosy. I thumbed through hard copies of my latest sessions with the undesirables on the force. None of them had addresses or home phones. I clicked here and there and still came up short. That info was in their system. I needed Officer Samuels address to formulate my attack. The suspicion of his wife’s death must fall on him immediately. Two shots to the left temple like the Hook’s spouse and that will offset, if any, interest in Marilyn and me. But, that will take heat off Lopez for the time being. I’ll follow him home, not all the way, but get a general idea of the vicinity. Almost three o’clock time to wrap things up. I revisited the word quit. Take a leave of absence instead, that’s better.
    The suite bell chimed and Det. Pharr pushed the door open. He pouted and glanced at the coffee make. “Hey doc, I see the light, is it ready?”
    “Yeah, go ahead. Have a seat, Detective. I’ve seen that look before, what’s wrong?”
    He poured a cup, black and nothing else. Look out Kevin he’s about to drop a bomb. He sat and twirled his cup on the table. “I told you how they screw up at the lab. Well get this shit. The Hook’s wife didn’t die from cyanide poisoning.” Pharr put his hand under his chin. “Your jaw dropped, push it back like this.”
    “What? No it didn’t.”
    “Anyway, you’ll love this part. Those idiots found, after several days, she had a heart attack.”
    “A heart attack!” Obviously they did a second autopsy after several days. That murderer’s happy about that now he can bury her. They might still think he shot her. But, did he try to poison her too. I hope they ask that question. “Now what?” Don’t look puzzled, Pharr answer me.
    “Who knows...want to hear my theory what happened?”
    “Do tell, Detective Pharr.” I braced myself and mentally practiced my astonished expression with a touch of shock.
    “Mrs. Lopez had a bottle of beer in the car with the poison in it. She must’ve had cardiac arrest right after she took a sip. That was enough to get it in her system. That goes to show you how unorganized the coroner’s office is. It’s crazy. But, and this is something to think about, how many people wanted her dead? At least two is my theory. My goodness; poison and gun shots to the head. I think somebody figured she’d go home and die. And, somebody else saw an opportunity when they thought she was passed out behind the wheel and popped her twice. What do you think?”
    I cleared my throat and gagged on it. I coughed like mad. Pharr jumped up to slap my back. “You OK?”
     My hand shot up. “I’m good, thanks. You’re probably right as usual. Damn, somebody thinks they killed her. They’ll be pissed when they find out.”
    “If we find out who shot her, we cannot charge them with anything significant. Mutilating a corpse or what? This might take some heat off the ‘Hook.’ That would a shame; I enjoy watching him sweat. I hope he blows his brains out from grief or guilt.”
    “I know the coroner’s glad that didn’t make the news. The press lives for this shit.” I said, and wished my friend would leave so I could break the news to Marilyn.
    “Gotta go, when you want to have sex let me know, see you later, doc.”
    The door wasn’t shut when I hit the speed dial. “Hello.”
    “Hey honey, how are you?”
     “Good, you sound happy, care to share.”
    “Yes, I do. I heard from the proverbial reliable source, cyanide didn’t kill your extracurricular activity.”
    “Really?” My wife questioned.
    “Believe it, she had a heart attack.”
    Marilyn sighed. “That’s great...I mean; you know what I mean. Thank God, hurry home, I’m on my way. Let’s celebrate, I learned from this experience.”
    “Me too, see you shortly.” Lopez would demand the department find whoever tried to kill his wife when they realize he didn’t. If she frequented Dolly’s everybody in there would be interviewed. They’d look at the video and wouldn’t find anything. The CCTV in the lot was useless after I shot out the lens. I’m glad I didn’t bump into Marilyn. I go to the range on occasion to my hone my skills, but I didn’t have a reputation that could arouse suspicion. The unregistered .380 including the silencer was in pieces all over the county. The cops will be chasing their tails until the case goes cold. Pharr’s theory was right. I took advantage of what I thought was an intoxicated Mrs. Lopez. She must’ve just died because the preliminary didn’t say the wounds were post mortem. I stopped at the Wine Cellar and picked up a bottle of their best champagne and went home.

    At one time Simon Samuel’s hatred of minorities was plastered on his face in the form of a broader Adolf Hitler moustache. He accumulated various complaints from the community which kept IA busy. A change of the old guard literally wiped the moustache off his wrinkled pale face, but his hatred remained. He stood at my desk with storm trooper posture and requested a seat. I fought the urge to say “Hail Hitler.” I ordered him to sit. When the cleansing of the races comes my kind were first on the list.
    What humiliation he must’ve felt. I loved it!
    Sergeant “SS” Samuels, the epitome of average and below except for the uniform. Perfect in every way and his chopped black hair stuck up like pins in a cushion. SS graduated at the bottom of his class at the academy. His arrest record was the same. They said he cheated on the sergeant’s exam. Framing gays of all types became his specialty. His anxiety reached levels that warranted a psyche evaluation.
    A rumor circulated he took special interest in a beautiful transvestite. He got caught in the act. The dummy forgot everybody’s got a camera now days. So much for his racial superiority. Recollection of asking him silly questions for a positive or acceptable evaluation put a smile on my face. He oozed hatred and helplessness. Answering questions from a drag king who had him by the stones made him sick. I denied him a FFD release. That put him on leave for a month. Pharr laughed until he cried when I told him.
    Pharr rolled off the waterbed and got us a couple of beers from the mini-frig. I loved this quaint motel in the boonies. I admired his thin muscular physique. Once a week for the past month I got my real man thing off. He made decent love, but the latest gossip was better. He told me SS’s hangouts and I planned the attack on his wife accordingly. She loved to put meat on the grill after sunset. While he’s out with the boys I’ll pump two slugs in her left temple. Simon Samuels will unravel like a cheap piece of twine. First his mediocre intellect, then physically via an over indulgence of alcohol and prescription drugs. But, fate intervened and Mrs. Samuels had a freak accident, fell and hit her head. She’s been in a coma every since. SS proceeded to do what I hoped he would do. He looked good addicted, but I felt bad for their kids. It was as if a month leave of absence circulated emotion in me. This was the way a person should feel. But be careful Kalvina you’re still Kevin at heart. I’ll keep my options open to return to the department.
    I cupped my wife’s soft freshly manicured hand and kissed her on the cheek. The view from the private jet cruising through the clouds relaxed me. Dr. Delaney glanced at us and smiled. She promised us a spectacular time once our annual meeting of the American Psychiatric Association ended.

Man vs. Machine

    Moab was not a nice place. Sweet and clean.
    And Tim and I had to get out. We had both lived in a group home called The Willows for three years now.
    How would we get a date? She asks, “So where do you live?”
    We reply, “In a loony bin. The Willows.”
    Her eyes widen and she walks away.
    And don’t believe what you see in the movies, pretty and single women in small towns. They’re all married before they hit twenty.
    Tim was thirty. I was thirty one. Here we were, wasting our lives away with mental cases and crazies too old to take care of themselves. Our day began at five a.m. They closed the Willows from five a.m. to five pm. We spent the time in between at the Canyon Lands “Club House” with the other mental invalids and Geriatrics who played Bingo and Sorry all day. They had a computer there, but the censorship software it used flagged porn, but it also censored everything: for example, let’s say, “Jesus Wept.” At five p.m. we returned to Willows.
    One day at The Willows I was making a feeble attempt to jerk off. Out of nowhere I get this gut feeling something is wrong with Tim. So I put on my boxers and jeans, left my room, and walked up to his door.
    I knocked.
    “Tim, are you in there?”
    Nothing.
    “Tim, open up bud. I wanna talk.”
    Still nothing. I open the door.
    Tim was trying to choke himself. He was on the floor, and he gurgled like bad plumbing. His tongue stuck so far out it looked like a short, fleshy snake, like a thing spat from him and alive. A suicide attempt (An attention getter, since there’s no way you can choke yourself to death without a noose). We wrestled around and after I pinned him down for a while he stopped fighting. Breathless, we both lay there on the floor. I put all the weight of my torso over his arms and hands.
    “Derek,” he said in between gasps, “We’re not getting any younger. We got to get out of the Willows if we can, out of Moab.”
    All the names have been changed, of people and places, etc...etc...etc...

    The Willows was run by Canyon Lands Mental Health, and Canyon Lands was the only mental health outpatient clinic around. Sharon Relph ran Canyon Lands, which made her boss of the Willows. So Tim and I needed her permission to move out. Looking back on it, Tim and I were in no condition to leave. But Sharon was all money, money, money, and money. She owned her house she had been moved out of for a year. She had moved next door. She said she’d let us move out of The Willows if we moved into her now vacant house next door. What could we say? Moab was a trailer city, and vacancies in trailer parks and apartments were hard to find. Tim and I were on SSI and SSDI—not enough to pay monthly rent on Sharon’s house—or any apartment for that matter, but she talked with both Tim’s and my folks, and our parents agreed to help out with the rent.
    “Your parents drive a hard bargain, Tim. I wanted to charge you five hundred a month rent for my old house, but your folks Jewed me down to three fifty.” I don’t think she knew Tim was Reform Jewish. “Jewing” someone down in a bargain is common slang in Utah, even with the strictest of the Mormons. So we moved in. The house was a three bedroom, so Sharon was on the lookout for a third roommate.
    The first thing Tim and I noticed when we were fully moved in totally flat nonplussed us: roaches. Tons of them—as I had written, the house had been unlived in for a year. They were called albino roaches, and they were as big as water bugs, yet totally transparent, in a milky way. Like nanotechnology, you could see their teeny tiny organs pulse and suck and pump blue and red dyes. When I drank lemonade, if I didn’t down it all at once, and I left some in a glass, within sixty seconds they’d come out of the woodwork and be clambering all over the glass. And they’re hyper sensitive to temperature. Many a night I’d be watching a video in the living room, the night growing colder and colder, and like in a horror story the roaches would overrun the house, where it was warmer. They’d come out the vents, the sinks, the cabinets, the fireplace. And to kill them requires delicacy. You can spray them with Raid, but because they’re so big, they take hours to die. And if you squashed one on the rug, you’d make a mishmash stain impossible to get out.
    Tim had grown up in Grand Junction, Colorado, about ninety minutes from Moab. His mom was an alcoholic, and her boyfriend would play “touchy feely”—Tim’s words—with his brother and sister. It still effected him. He was always, always mad about something. You can spot characters (males) like him out here; they populate the whole Utah mental health system, always fuming and stomping around with a chip on their shoulder.
    He was never a physical threat, but he did go postal once. Moab’s dating service is known for being “ineffective” and he had a date with a girl he met through the service. Their date was for Pizza Hut. She never showed. He came home and threw stuff around and the cops came and tasered him and he shat himself.
    He always had to have something to occupy his time. If you left him in a room with no radio or TV or computer, he’d go bat shit. It was one of those deals where I think he was so unhappy he needed potent diversions. But we had no computer or cable, just my small TV and my VCR and my videos. So I tried to make sure he always had movies to watch.
    And he never slept. Canyon Lands prescribed “cocktails” for him, a heaping stack of sedatives piled into a cup, all brewed up to make you sleep for days. The brew wasn’t too effective with Tim. He’d sleep maybe twelve midnight to four am. When we lived at the Willows if he had insomnia he could go up the TV room and watch adult swim, but here we had no cable. So he ended up watching the same movies he’d seen before, over and over. His eyes were always veiny and glassy.
    And he had issues with his ex-wife and his son and daughter, both eight and nine respectively. His wife did not allow him visitations, which was illegal for her to do. His kids didn’t call much, but he loved chatting on the phone with them. I remember a phone conversation with him and his daughter one time, he said, “I’m so happy talking to you, I don’t want it to end.”
    But his kids used him, they used him for money. Here’s a guy who can barely make his rent, and he’s giving away fifty and a hundred to his kids. I told him not to do those things, that they’re using him.
    The ruse: His kids would begin to call him once every few days, then once a day, and after a few weeks of this they’d ask him for money. He’d send it, and the calls would stop. After I told him to quit it, I overheard him whispering to his daughter over the phone, “The money’s in the mail.”
    I lived in Moab for five years and never hooked up once. At the Willows I made friends with a resident there named Marshall. He was a former Peckerwood (Don’t ask me where they got their name, I just work here. Peckerwoods are a sub stratum of the white power prison gangs). He had reformed and was now a born again Mormon. One day he tells me he can set me up with a girl he works with at The City Market (The town’s only supermarket) named Machele. All she talks about is sex, he told me. Okay, no problem so far. I bring her up to my therapist and he told me I can do better than her, that a few years ago she had stripped her two boys and tied them to a coat rack and played doctor with them. She did a year in Popper for it. The therapist said, again, I could do better. Later I found out the town called her “The Wicked Witch of the West.” I told Marshall No thank you.
    Popper Correctional Institute is where Machele did her time. It’s about an hour’s drive from Moab. It housed all the Utah convicted pedophiles and all the Utah “snitches,” groups that would not last in a regular prison.
    I’ve had this story I’m writing here for a few years, and it’s only after I left Utah do I see how macabre it all is. I’ve been in jails and mental institutions across the country, but only in Utah have I noticed in a state such as it with a complex such as that: sexual violation. A few years ago I Googled “Utah sex offender” and Utah ranked like #1 in the country as to the number of sex offenders. In a hefty paradox, it’s an ultra-conservative state. And it’s not just the Mormons, there’s an equal, if not greater, number of Christians. Man oh man, what an underbelly.
    In mental hospitals females are relatively open about being victims of sexual abuse. But in Utah, that’s the only state I’ve been in where men are just as open about being victims. And it’s so common, it’s everywhere you look. And, in Utah mental health, not only do you meet a lot of male victims, you get a lot of PREDATORS, WHO ARE HONEST about their convictions. I never met any in jail, but in the Utah State Hospital, I remember quite a few dudes there who would tell you straight out, first thing, “I’m a registered sex offender.” The whole state has a complex, and under the pale Victorian skin pumps a bizarre Pagan blood.
    Eventually Sharon found us a third roommate. Larry Harmon. A Canyon Lands mental health outpatient, like Tim and I. And Larry was a pedophile. He had been with Canyon Lands mental health for close to a decade. I did not want to live with him. A few years back in his house he stripped naked, covered himself with flour, ran out next door to where a teen girl lived, and tackled and groped her. He spent a year and a half in Popper Correctional for that. About five months into his sentence he came up for parole, but the parents of the girl went apoplectic over that, and he had to do his whole block of time. When he got out he stayed at The Willows for a few months.
    And Larry was violent. He scared me, and I’m a black belt. He was a wrestler—wrestling trumps all the martial arts (Maybe save Grappling), even kickboxing and just plain boxing. And he was a virtuoso street fighter. I’d seen him shoot off on one of his paranoid tangents and accuse someone of stealing his cigarettes and then proceed to pummel the dude. Everyone was, to him, always taking his stuff, especially his cigarettes. I protested to Sharon that Larry is a psycho and will make the place unlivable, like putting a shark in a bowl of Goldfish. She said she needed the money. But her reasoning went deeper than that. For years Sharon had had her “favorites,” Canyon Lands clients she’d let get away with shit she wouldn’t let the rest of us get away with. Larry was one of her faves. One of the chosen few.
    So she told Tim and I if we didn’t like it we could move out. But there was no where to go. The Willows had filled up. A trailer maybe? Possibly. I look back and shake my head. Tim and I didn’t have the balls to leave the city. And you see, Sharon was bluffing. If Tim and I said we’d move out if she let Larry in, she’d only have one tenant, Larry, not two, like she had now. But Tim didn’t believe me when I warned him about Larry.
    And I really did make an effort to warn Tim. I told him, “Larry is more familiar with me than with you, so he’ll trust you less, and harass you more.” But at the Canyon Lands mental health club house, all the staff there—who worked directly under Sharon—promised Tim he’d love Larry. I was nonplussed. Were they that blind? Or dark in Sharon’s shadow? WTF? Tim was like, “Well, with what everyone’s saying, I can’t wait for him to move in.”
    And so Larry moved in. They had no problem with it. I remember his first night there. I had eaten a whole load of Garlic bread for dinner. A few hours later I’m in bed, in the dark, and—I wish it was hypnogogic, but it wasn’t—something prehensile scurried up my cheek, then my lips, and nibbled on my teeth for a split second before I screamed and spat it out.
    Soon Larry’s true nature came out, and Tim was scared. I was scared. But Tim was more on the outs with Larry since Larry knew me longer. Larry would harass Tim every day over some such shit, about things Tim never did. A month there Larry had stressed Tim out so much that Tim hid in his room. And any time he left his room Larry hammered him in his in full berserker modus operandi. Larry would chug a pot of coffee and stomp around for hours, mumbling that the local cable company used his body for remote control porn.
    Tim would beg the staff at the Canyon Lands clubhouse to do something about Larry, he’d say that Larry was frightening him. But Sharon’s people toed the line—and no one took action. I was speechless. At the Canyon Lands main center there were therapists and caseworkers who saw the situation more from my side, and I saw an email from one caseworker to another, it said that moving Larry in with us “was just asking for trouble.” But I don’t think anyone saw how serious it was. If they did, Tim would still be here. Or maybe they did see and didn’t care. I don’t know.
    Larry’s favorite day of the week was Friday, when his Viagra arrived through the mail. He’d talk about it like it was a celebration. So I had trouble jerking off myself and asked the doctor to prescribe me Viagra. Stupid me. I told him I was single, and that I needed the Viagara for masturbating. The doctor says he only prescribes it for those who are sexually active with others. I said, “Hey, you prescribe it for Larry. He hasn’t dated for like a decade.”
    The Doctor said,“ Larry is a special case.”
    Tim stayed in his room all day and all night, ruminating, slowly going loopy.
    Finally, someone at Canyon Lands told Larry to lay off Tim and give him a break. Larry just took on a passive aggressive campaign where he’d go stand outside Tim’s bedroom door and talk about him in third person. “Hey Derek, It looks like Tim broke our dryer. When he dried his clothes he never takes the lint out.” “Hey Derek, Tim’s a child molester. He molested both his kids.” That was Larry’s favorite accusation, that someone or another was a child molester. “In the subway restaurant you could just see the way Tim looked at this little girl, he was all bedroom eyes.” Or so Larry complained.
    Tim told me a nightmare that’d run and rerun over and over in his head. He dreamt a monk decapitated him, scooped out his brain matter and other cranial organs, and placed his empty skull in a fish tank, and big scaly fish and slimy eels slimed their way in and out of his eye sockets.
    Finally Canyon Lands sent over someone to mediate between us.
    Mel. If ever there was a Mormon stereotype, that’d be Mel. She worked directly under Sharon at the clubhouse. She had four kids. Claims she’s only had sex four times. Said French kissing is disgusting. If you agitated her, she’d cry. One day she drove me and a few other clients in the white van over to the Moab drug store (The only drug store in town). As she backed into a spot, she nipped the car next to us. She got out, called Sharon, and began to cry. Sharon arrived and got mad at Mel for losing it in front of us. I kept a school notebook for my diary, and one day I wrote in there “MEL BELIEVES IN GOD” followed by three pages of nothing but explanation points. Mel led a religious group—constituted by both Mormons and Christians— to protest at the waterworks cinema (The town’s only movie house). They protested that the movie house showing an R rated film.
    As for Larry what was there to mediate? Larry was a schizoid violent pedo psycho wrestler, and we wanted him out. Tim was laying in his room all day, going bonkers. You could hear him in there sniffling and crying. What Mel should have done was meet with Tim and I separately from Larry. Instead she gathered us all up together. No one in their right mind would complain about Larry to his face. His brain chemistry is so FUBAR, that if you make the slightest complaint, he’ll hold it against you for months and months. You become, “an adversary,” you are “out to get him,” the demon that haunts the house of his head. He’ll take it out on you either passive aggressively or with just plain naked aggression.
    At the meeting Tim tried to stand up to Larry. Tim’s fingers shook violently as he said, “Larry, I am not stealing your cigarettes.”
    “Tim, my cigarettes don’t disappear out of nowhere. Every day I wake up and two or three are missing.”
    I said, “Um, Larry, you are, uh, violent and hard to deal with. Mel, remember when he beat up Marshall at The Willows. He yelled at Marshall for taking his, uh, cigarettes, and...beat him up.”
    Mel said, “And when did this so called beating occur?”
    So called?
    I looked at the table and said, “Larry, you can occasionally make people nervous. You drink a whole pot of coffee and uh, stomp around the house mumbling.”
    Mel said, “Derek, remember, he who throws the first stone...”
    She left with nothing solved. The whole thing, all of it, defies description. As she walked out the door she turned around, looked right at me, and said, “Derek, I don’t want to have to come back here.”

    Tim began to drink to settle himself down. But he had diabetes, and the alcohol only worsened that. He stopped testing himself with that needle. He stopped watching what he ate. Twice I had to call 911 when I busted in his room and found him in a diabetic coma. Canyon Lands should have sent him off to a nursing home, why they didn’t do that you’ll have to ask them. His first attempt at suicide came at the club house when he gashed himself with a steak knife. A Grand County deputy hand cuffed him at the waist and drove him the four hour drive up to the Utah State Hospital. After a few weeks he was out.
    “On the way there I told the deputy about Larry,” Tim said.
    “I don’t think that’ll help you, bud. Especially in small towns, but really anywhere, the mental health and Law Enforcement are like that. They won’t step on each other’s toes.”
    So that was Tim’s first attempt. Not genuine—or else why do it at the club house?—but it was meant as attention getter. Tim did not want to die. Still, you’d think the attempt would succeed in getting attention.
     It did not. “Tim,” I said, “I am in awe. I don’t know What to say.” (About six months after this, with a LOT of luck I found an apartment in Grand Junction, ninety minutes from Moab. The mental health there is called Colorado West, and they had many things to say about Canyon Lands professionalism, or lack of)
     Things just went on the way they did before. Larry would stand outside Tim’s room and badmouth him in the 3rd person. Canyon Lands went on its merry way.
    With the second suicide attempt, Tim meant business. That day Tim didn’t show up at the club house, and Sharon called me up to go check on him. I busted open the door and I saw that he was asleep and would not wake up. I shoved him around, slapped him, screamed in his ear, pinched his nose. On his bed stand I saw three empty medication bottles: Klonopin, Klozeril, and Depekote (that last med is a real doozy and would TKO anyone). So I called 911 and soon he was making the drive up to State again.
    This time they kept him two months. Tim told me on the day he left for home, the doctor wished him luck, walked away, then turned back and said, “If you come up here one more time you’ll become a permanent fixture here, we will keep you here for good.”
    One night it was about midnight, and I couldn’t sleep. So I went up to the living room, and I saw Tim laying on the sofa.
    He said, “I was watching that documentary you got.”
    “Yes, you’ve seen it before.”
    He said, “But what it says, like, if you live in the jungle, that it’s survival of the fittest...”
    “Yeah, evolution worked like that till nuts and bolts and the wheel came around. If you’ve got states, cities, counties...” Evolution only applied to the animals.
    He said, “Sharon fucked us. I never should’ve left. I should have listened to you about Larry.”
    “Well, now we’re trapped here.” I laughed hopelessly.
    Tim gave that some thought. “Yeah,” he said “I’m going to try and get some sleep. I’m tired. If you knock on my door I won’t answer, I’ll be trying to sleep, so don’t bust in. For once in my life, let me get a good night’s sleep.”
    I said nothing.
    Many things, good and bad, come in threes. His third attempt was the final. I left back to my room and lay in bed. A huge wave, tidal in proportions, crashed over me as I lay there in bed. Puke welled up in my throat. Well, so what? That’s just paranormal crackpot TV psychic babble. Tim’s just fine. I’ll wait a few hours.
    By four a.m. my gut was still keeping me awake. I got out bed, walked up the stairs, through the kitchen, over to his room. I knocked. Silence.
    “Tim, are you OK?” Nothing.
    “Tim? Come on man, don’t make me break down the door again.”
    I banged with my fist. “Alright, you’re going to make an asshole out of me, I’m busting down your door.” He had installed a lock on it. I grunted and threw all my weight. The door slammed up against the wall.
    Blood smells like rusty iron. It dripped off his wrist like a faucet just shut off. It inked his bed sheets dark red. He looked pale as a ghost. I yelled his name, I nudged him. Nothing. I called 911, then wrapped a sheet around his wrist and lay down on his wrist to apply pressure.
    Everyone appeared in a relatively good mood at his funeral. Only his sister cried. His kids laughed. Sharon and Mel’s faces were dry. As for Larry, there is no third person with him. He was calm and frank and...oblivious. He wore T shirt of a red, white and blue American Flag, and under it was “These Colors Don’t Run.”.
    Later that night I lay in bed trying to sleep. My shirt was on the floor near me. I saw some blur gliding around on it, and I got up and turned on the ceiling light. An Albino roach was grazing on my shirt. I had forgotten to brush my crumbs off. If you left just one teeny tiny crumb on your clothes before you hit bed, the roaches would swarm all over it later that night.
    These guys were brazen. They kept on foraging, despite the light. I had a bright desk light next to my word processor. I clicked that on and focused it at them. Then they took off.
    I thought, why not write memoir style about Tim, and expose Canyon Lands mental health for the eely outhouse corruptors they are. (I had been to the Utah Disabilities Law Center, and they said nothing could be done since Tim was deceased, BUT the lawyer there said Sharon had no right to move Larry in there if we didn’t want him in there. You see, Sharon was yanking my dick. Sharon made it sound like it was her place, that we had no say in the matter). But if I wrote a short story, maybe it’d get publicity. I don’t think anyone, even Tim’s sister, though I did keep in touch with her, saw how wrong the whole thing was.
    About six months later I moved to Grand Junction, Colorado. One night, as I worked on the story i got a call from Tim’s sister. I told her about the story, and she said, “You better not use Tim’s real name, or mine.” Right, I was going to give those two a pseudonym, but then it hit me: Not just Tim’s name, or his sister’s name, but I felt I’d have to change all the names. Canyon Lands is not the real name of the clinic. Utah is the real state, but Moab is a name I took from the bible. So I left Moab, Canyon Lands skipped along on their merry way, there’ll never be justice, Sharon will continue to allow Larry to stomp and cavort around, and Tim’s sister and I are the only ones who know what happened. You see...we know the names.

In the Crystal Bar

    Sunny it should be, on a day for something like this. Not overcast with snow starting to fall. Let’s meet in the Crystal Bar, had said Vincent. Funny how similar their names were; Vinsen, and Vincent. Almost like it was all meant to be. He took a sip off his screwdriver and thought How much longer am I going to have to wait, he is twenty minutes late. Funny how you feel sitting alone in a joint; you feel like everybody is looking at you. You have to look busy with something other than just drinking vodka. So he flipped the yellow sheet before him over and scanned down the names. He ran his finger down the list and tried to look as though he were very busy, lost in thought, but actually he was extremely irritated at Vincent. Should be on time. Not leave him here like this. Look at the names. Read the names.
    Claire Constanza.
    Donald Montrose.
    Lance Devilian
    Harry Rotochristi
    “Crunch” Gilmore.
    Milton Scaramouche.
    Crystal Coleman.
    Medulla Corcoran.
    He read the names a second time. How long could he sit here running his finger down this list? He drained his screwdriver. He motioned for the waitress to come over—need to be a paying customer, sitting here taking up space. She came up.
    Yes?
    Another screwdriver please.
    No problem.
    She took the empty one and he decided that what he could do to pass the time was to look at each name and make some kind of note on the list next to the name—yes. Then he would look like he was working. You have to look busy while waiting. You don’t want to look like someone who’s been stood up. You want to look like someone important and productive. But then he realized he had nothing to write with. He could go to the bar and ask for a pen—that’s what he will do he will go to the bar and ask for a pen. He rose, and went to the bar.
    What can I get you, asked the bartender.
    Pen, said Vinsen. I need to borrow a pen.
    I’ve got a pen, sure, said the bartender, handing one over to Vinsen.
    Thanks. I’ll give it back.
    I know you will.
    I know you will, thought Vinsen as he went back to his booth. I know you will—like the bartender thought he was a very nice polite little boy—and then he decided he would not give the pen back, just because the bartender had thought that about him. He was not a little boy! He was important! The waitress had brought over his screwdriver—he considered the first name on the list, as he took a drink; Claire Constanza. He tapped the pen on the paper. He didn’t really know Claire Constanza. He knew who she was to look at her, but she didn’t work for him. He decided that Vincent would probably know better what Claire Constanza’s position was. He went to write a question mark next to her name. He similarly went down the list of all the names, and when he was done he realized he had written question marks next to all of them. He really didn’t want to be making this decision. He thought if only Vincent were here—Vincent would lead the talk and tell Vinsen all about each person and what their strengths and flaws were—and then Vinsen would have something to go on. But sitting here, like this—the room seemed to be growing darker. Outside the sun was disappearing and he pictured in his mind what it must look like setting and he suddenly wished he could be watching it set and he tapped the pen on the page and took a drink—but he had to be careful. Better not have a buzz on, when Vincent got here. That would not look good. Vinsen was Vincent’s right hand man—he’d told him that a dozen times—and Vinsen knew Vincent drank but he didn’t know how much. He didn’t know if Vincent ever got a buzz on. He’d seen Vincent drink wine at corporate functions but didn’t know how much or how fast—and he tapped the pen on the page and looked at the names again, then at his watch—where was Vincent? He was annoyed now—so annoyed that he looked at the names one more time and decided to write something meaningful after each one. Next to Claire’s name he wrote inconsistent. It just came out, like the pen had moved on its own and written the word. Being inconsistent was not good—but then Vinsen tried to think what inconsistent behavior would be and drew a blank. Can’t make a decision—yes write that. Can’t make a decision and chronically late. Does not contribute in meetings. A poor talker. The pen just threw out so much information about Claire Constanza that he thought he had enough. He tapped the pen on the table and thought that if what he wrote stood, she would be let go. What’s it like to be let go? Vinsen had never been fired from a job in his life, the closest he had come was when he was in high school working nights for an office cleaning contractor as a janitor in a big office building, and he took part in so much horseplay that security ejected him from the building. He wasn’t really fired though—the cleaning company he worked for simply shifted him to a different location. Claire would really get fired—what in the world is that like? His stomach sank—he sipped at his screwdriver and the pen slipped from his hand and he sat up straight. Damn it—where was Vincent? He looked back at the door. No one was coming in and Vincent was now—forty minutes late. Why would he stand Vinsen up like this? The next name came up; Donald Montrose. Ah, Donald. Always wears a nice suit. Always has a smile. But what does he do? Vinsen really resented Vincent for standing him up so he wrote that Donald does sloppy, hasty work and not a lot of it. Yes, yes—sloppy and hasty and unproductive was Donald. When Vincent finally came, Vinsen could start the conversation off with these observations. Vincent would quickly put him right, if he was off and if Donald was really sharp and careful and very productive. But—no. Vinsen would look bad. Why are you writing these things when you really don’t know the people? The pen is writing these things. Not me. The pen. The pen and the screwdriver. Vinsen sat back in the booth gripping his drink. The first thing that would happen to Claire and Donald would be that they would be called to the big shot blank faced manager’s office—the one in the corner with the door that could close—and they would wonder why because it never had happened to them before—Donald especially would be nervous, he’d be running his hands back through his hair like he did when he was nervous, and he’d put on his suit jacket and leave his cubicle and head for the manager’s office thinking what is this about what is this all about is this like dying something big’s about to happen the old life is about to end and the new life begin, just like in dying the screwdriver is there take a drink what is this all about—sit up straight now, and open your eyes, Vinsen.
    But it’s true it’s like death.
    Dying.
    I’m dying here.
    Go to the next name.
    Keep moving. What’s the next name—Lance Devilian came up. What could he write about Lance Devilian? He saw one memo written by Lance once, a one-liner about the coffee club. It was well written. Vinsen thought it might be a good idea to write something positive about some of these people, not just negative as he’d been with Claire and Donald. Good writer, he wrote by Lance Devilian’s name. He looked at the three names he’d just done. Of the three, Lance was the best. Vinsen wrote Don’t lay off next to Lance’s name. He thought Vincent would correct him if he really should be laid off. And Vinsen thought again of Donald, who would wear his clean suit into the manager’s office and he would be asked by the big shot blank faced manager who was going to chop him to sit down and relax—relax! How could Donald relax, he did not know what he was going to hear next, this big shot never wants to see him, never looks twice at him—Vinsen straightened and looked toward the bar door. Where the hell was Vincent? Vinsen sat back in the booth and closed his eyes a moment—could it be he was here at the wrong time, or that somehow he was in the wrong place, or that somehow else he had screwed up and somewhere else, at some other Crystal Bar, Vincent was waiting for him and growing just as impatient and he thought to ask the bartender or the waitress if there was another Crystal Bar in the area—but then he thought it was better to stay shut up, because he would be advertising how stupid he was. He went to the next name on the list and looked at what the pen was already writing, about Harry Rotochristi.
    Slow. Too slow to do the work. Too slow, not suited to the work. Should be doing something else with his life. Well, that can be arranged. Should be finding this Vincent and dragging him by the ear into the Crystal Bar—no don’t write that don’t write that—then the pen stopped. He went back and underlined too slow. Then he felt bad for Harry but he had seen Harry around the office and he was convinced that he was right about Harry. He looked like he had the brain of a snail—his face was always blank and his eyes were dull. Dullard, wrote the pen. Dullard and lazy. Vinsen looked down the names he had made notes by and thought of all of them, only Lance would be kept. The pen circled Lance’s name, twice. Vinsen wished he had Vincent’s name on the list what would he write—rude—rude and inconsiderate. Qualities for which one should be let go—like the big shot blank faced manager would now say to Donald Montrose, Donald, you are on the list of people who are being let go—it’s like standing before a big-bearded God and being told you must go to hell, son, it’s too late for you, there’s nothing to be done, you’ve been judged and that’s that because of what Vinsen wrote it’s all because of what Vinsen wrote—Vinsen’s hands formed to hard fists. It was now a full hour since Vincent said he’d be here. But what the hell—Vinsen was being productive. Dullard and lazy got underlined and then he took a drink, a big one—half the glass’ worth. He went to the next name, the vodka fumes come up in this throat. What a name; “Crunch” Gilmore; now, who has a nickname like Crunch and who uses their nickname in the office and writes it in quotation marks, unless the girl who wrote up the list put it in quotation marks because it was a nickname—but based on the nickname, this guy is a real jerk. Vinsen sat back and reflected on how a person would get the nickname Crunch. Maybe he used to be a football player—yeah, that’s it—he used to be a football player and he was fast on the field and was a good blocker. Probably a lineman. Vinsen knew nothing about football but he remembered in high school sitting next to one of the big football jocks and he saw that the jock had a blue-covered book called Fortitude that he would read while the teacher went on about Voltaire and things like that—and Fortitude was capitalized and he thought this must have something to do with being a football player, so the pen wrote FORTITUDE next to Crunch’s name and went on to write Not to be laid off—and now Vinsen figured he had saved two—Lance, and Crunch. Why exactly he had saved Crunch he was not sure but he figured he must have fortitude. And it would be with fortitude that Donald Montrose would sit up straight in the chair before the big shot blank faced manager who had just given him the sad news, and he would say Oh! Oh, you’ve had it in for me since I first came here—you rotten son of a bitch, letting me go—who said I should be let go? Why am I being let go? Who said it—and Donald would be full of regret at that moment—if only he’d done those reports a little better—if only he’d spoken up in meetings more—if only he’d kissed up to the manager instead of just passing him by in the hall rushing to his next meeting, averting his eyes, arms full of reports. Vinsen shook his head, took a sip, and moved on to Milton Scaramouche.
    He sat back.
    Milton Scaramouche? What kind of a God-damned name was Milton Scaramouche? He could extract no qualities from the name, except that this boy probably was bullied in school. Weak. Bullied for his sname. Weak and shy and no backbone. The pen wrote no backbone next to Milton Scaramouches name. Then Vinsen looked at his watch and saw that Vincent was now an hour and fifteen minutes late. Where the hell could he be—shy with no backbone. The pen wrote lay off next to the name. Then Vinsen thought that Vincent would probably ask him what he meant by the boy having no backbone—and he would not have an answer for Vincent—except that it has something to do with how he carries himself—something weak about him. Some weakness of the constitution. Bullied in meetings. Then Vinsen wondered if Vincent had been bullied or been the bully when he went to school. He figured Vincent was probably the bully, because he was a bully at work. Like the big shot blank faced manager who had just told Donald Montrose he was getting let go was a bully to Donald—he sneered back at Donald when Donald told him fuck you—and Donald pushed the chair back and bolted from the manager’s office and headed back to his desk with the grey sea of cubicles all around him closing in on him, as if to crush him, like he’d just been crushed—but there was no point in thinking these things. Vincent was not here, was what was important. Vincent was not here and it’s now one hour and twenty five minutes past the time he was going to arrive at the Crystal Bar.
    The waitress came up.
    Would you like something else?
    Why?
    Your drink is empty. Another screwdriver?
    Ah—yes.
    She smiled at him.
    Vinsen thought he really should be watching how much he’s drinking. It wouldn’t do well to be doing this kind of work and making these kinds of decisions with a buzz on. This involved people’s lives—people’s futures—people’s livelihoods. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to find comparable jobs—maybe this would be the end for one or more of them. Vinsen pressed his fingers down on the sheet of paper before him, tapped the pen on the tabletop with the other hand, and considered Crystal Coleman. At last—someone he was mildly familiar with. Made me hoarse, he thought. Made me lose my voice for a week. Terrible experience. More trouble than she’s worth—no! Don’t write that—write kind things about Crystal, because you’re in the Crystal Bar. It’s a sign. Training her, yes. You spent a full day training her and then lost your voice. There! She always took the job very seriously. I would say we should keep Crystal—the pen wrote Do not fire—underline it—but no—do not write that, do not call it firing, because that would be a slap in the face to those who have already been targeted for termination—firing is too strong a word. Like Donald Montrose, who had just been told he was being let go by the big shot blank faced manager, would never find a scrap of paper anywhere that would ever use the word fire—back at his desk, he would sit and his hands would grow cold and he would eye the telephone. Need to call someone—need to let them know. Need to scream—need to scream loud into the telephone. I mean, thought Vinsen—it’s not like they’re being let go because of some personal thing, or because of some specific instance, like if one of them kicked Vincent in the butt that would be a cause to fire them—no these are just being let go because they don’t fit what we need right now in the corporation—and they, like Donald, must go through the red hot stone door leading to hell; trudging toward it, trudging toward the waiting flames—but next to crystal’s name put An asset to the corporation—okay; we’re keeping Crystal. The pen rolled out of Vinsen’s fingers onto the tabletop and rolled into his screwdriver glass, which was half full. Musn’t have too much—he picked it up—musn’t get a buzz on—he drank—and then he thought of the office busybody who’s name should be on the list but isn’t, who would say you should get the company to pay for those drinks—you should—but Vinsen couldn’t be bothered with the paperwork it’s just a few dollars anyway and where is Vincent—it’s now an hour and thirty five minutes since he should have been here. Anyway, Crystal Coleman’s job is safe. Now here is the next name; Medulla Corcoran. Medulla—what a name—Medulla “Brain” Corcoran is what it should say—he’d heard of this Medulla but wouldn’t know her if she walked into this bar and sat at this booth right now so what can he possibly have to say about her—invisible. Makes herself invisible in the office. Name known but that’s all. Manages to shy away from doing any real work. Medulla Corcoran—write what by her name—let’s see—Donald Montrose picked up the phone and called his wife and blubbered into the phone I have just been let go! I have just been let go! Oh, what will we do Carla, I have just been let go! I have been consigned to the flames of hell, and now reside there for all eternity! Vinsen popped his eyes open and tapped his pen against the glass and the waitress must have been waiting for that because she came over and asked him again.
    Another screwdriver, sir?
    Uh—ah—yes why not get a buzz on you’ve gone through all the names you’ve put next to each name what you thought—except for Medulla Corcoran—no—people like that are probably favored by some higher up—their name is all over the place—better write Do not let go by Medulla’s name. The new screwdriver was served. He downed a swallow—let’s recap, he thought—let’s make it nice and neat for Vincent, though he doesn’t deserve it—now, here it is. He wrote in the space above the names a summary, like this:
    Claire – Let Go
    Donald—Let Go
    Lance—Keep
    Harry—Let Go
    “Crunch”—Keep
    Milton—Let Go
    Crystal—Keep
    Medulla—Keep
    Claire, Donald, Harry, Milton—all consigned to the flames by a remorseless God! There—his head felt large—he put down the pen and looked at the sheet—Keep four and let go four—it seemed fair overall—though he hadn’t been trying to be fair at all when he was doing it. Good, he said, sitting back—Good. He felt well puffed up. Now to wait a while to see if Vincent shows up and leave in a hour if he doesn’t—
    Vinsen? said a voice. Vinsen—good to see you. Sorry I’m late the damned traffic was awful—oh—I see you’ve been putting some work into this, you didn’t wait for me—that’s good—shows initiative—
    They shook hands.
    Vincent, said Vinsen—sit down—look at my work. Let’s talk about these I can tell you why I have categorized each of them the way I did I thought you would have some good input—
    Vincent sat, picked up the sheet, and looked it over silently.
    Vinsen thought now he can put reality into this I really just made most of it up I don’t even know these damned people except for Crystal Coleman if I’m wrong it will be set right now Vincent will fix it make it fair make it right the way it is now it’s wrong and ignorant—
    Vincent looked up.
    We’ll go with this, Vinsen. Good work.
    But—you don’t have any changes you need to make? No questions?
    Nope—looks like, as usual, you have done a good job. I’ll take this sheet with me. I really got to go, have a late dinner engagement.
    Oh—okay.
    But its just guesses—guesses and unfair—
    Vincent rose and was gone without another word except to pat Vinsen on the shoulder. Vinsen lifted his screwdriver and downed it and thought it is my fault those people will be let go—I just guessed—I—
    And now, all at once, Vinsen had nothing more to think or say as the vodka fumes came up in his nose and he saw the waitress making her way toward him again.
    —I don’t even know them—
    He turned.
    He looked out of the Crystal Bar window at the falling snow and thought of the drive home.
    The snow slowly covered the cars in the false light.
    It will be cold driving home. Cold, and hard to see. Very damp, heavy air.
    Damp, heavy—fit to smother flames.
    Reality. Winter is real.
    Sir? she said, reaching for his glass. Another?
    No, he said quickly—I have had enough. He rose, put on his overcoat, laid a handful of bills on the table, slipped the bartender’s pen into his pocket with a feeling of triumph; and quickly went to his car.

Justice for One

    I eyed my seventeen-year-old daughter’s short, black dress. “Guys like a mystery, you know.”
    She tilted her head as if she were willing me to join the 21^st century. “Momma...”
    “Don’t be too late,” I said.
    “I won’t. Thanks for letting me go out on a school night.” She smiled and kissed me on the cheek, her light-brown hair brushing my face. “Don’t wait up.”
    She gave me one last beautiful smile before skipping out the front door. My daughter radiated with energy and life.
    I envied her.
    A car’s engine roared, tires peeling out of the driveway. After a moment, I went to the kitchen and grabbed a Hefeweizen from the refrigerator. I returned to the living room and settled into my favorite chair for SportsCenter. The cold, fruity beer tasted good as I watched the highlights of the day on the sixty-inch, flat-panel television.
    Every night that she went out, I waited up and worried until her key entered the doorknob. By giving me a daughter, God had the last laugh on my teenage foolery.
    I must have fallen asleep, because Donna Summer’s Bad Girls ring tone woke me. I fumbled for my cell phone on the end table. “Hello.”
    Nothing. And, then, a sob. “Mom...come get me.”
    My heart stopped. I gripped the phone tighter. Awake now, I had many questions, but asked only one. “Where are you?”
    She told me.

    The GPS directed me to a warehouse turned club in a once abandoned part of the city, now gentrified. I don’t remember the drive or how many red lights I ran. I double-parked. A huge man dressed in black and wearing a security headset blocked the entrance. People stood flush against the front of the building, the line snaking around the corner.
    The bouncer raised his hand inches from my chest. “Twenty dollars, lady.”
    I glanced at his hand and then down to my old Berkley sweatshirt, the sleeves frayed at the edges, jeans, and Adidas tennis shoes and back at him. “Do I look like I’m going clubbing to you? I’m here to pick up my daughter.”
    He glared at me. I glared back. Something in my eyes must have told him all he needed to know. After a brief stalemate, he waved me in.
    The thump of the bass I heard outside was deafening within, the place dark. Strobe lights darted here and there in time with the music. I bumped my way through the dancing crowd and stopped to ask a young woman where the restroom was. She gestured to the right and I moved in that direction. The club reeked of alcohol, sweat, and marijuana.
    At the bathroom, I cut in front of the line, ignoring the howls of protests from the women and girls waiting. For such a large establishment, the restroom had only three stalls. Squeezed in front of the mirror, several women laughed and chatted while re-applying their makeup.
    “Sam,” I said.
    No response.
    Louder. “Samantha.”
    “Here.” Her voice sounded far away.
    I moved toward the last stall and tried the lever. It was locked. I put my hand on the door. “Let me in, baby. It’s me.”
    There was no movement at first and then I heard her body shift and a click. I tried to push the door open, but met some resistance. I looked down. My baby was lying on that dirty, sticky bathroom floor. Her black dress sported a six-inch rip that was not there when she left my house. She looked up at me with teary eyes. The makeup running down her face did not quite mask the slight bruise on her cheek. I stifled a cry and gathered her in my arms and lifted her. “Where are your friends?”
    A hesitation, then, “Dancing.”
    I tamped down my rage by clenching my jaw. My cheek lay against her hair, the calming jasmine smell of her shampoo contrasting with my emotions. I whispered, “Who did this to you?”
    Sam did not look at me. After a moment, she just shook her head.
    I half carried her out of the club and took her home. Sam would not let me take her to the hospital, from embarrassment or the possibility of a futile judicial proceeding, I did not know. She was strong-willed like her mother. Against my better judgment, I relented. I helped her take a long, hot bath and brought her a cup of hot chocolate. After she fell asleep, I went back to my bedroom. I shut the door, but did not make it to the bed. My strength left me. I collapsed to the carpeted floor and cried.

    After a sleepless night, I called in sick to work the next day and told Sam’s school she was not feeling well. Now, I climbed the stairs, shifted the tray to my other arm, and knocked on Sam’s bedroom door. No response. I knocked again. A faint, “Come in.”
    My daughter lay in the fetal position in her bed, her legs tucked in tight to her chest, her arms encircling them. I set the tray on her nightstand and sat on the bed’s edge.
    I brushed away a few stray hairs from her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
    “Okay.”
    “Are you hungry? I made my special Chicken Noodle soup.”
    My daughter offered a weak smile. “With Campbell’s special broth?”
    It was an old joke between us. I laughed; it sounded forced. “Sit up and eat.”
    Sam sat up, her motions slow. She placed the tray in her lap and began eating.
    I got up and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be downstairs in my office, if you need me.”

    Sam had not noticed that I swiped her cell phone off her nightstand when I put the tray down. Now, in my office, I started going through her phone. This was not something I would normally do. I had always allowed Sam her privacy; she had never given me cause to inspect her room or her things. Last night, after we got home, I had asked her again who raped her. She had provided a name. A first name: Eric.
    I scanned the text messages on her iPhone. When did this child find time to study, eat, or sleep? She texted 24/7. I spent a couple of hours reading “smh,” “idk,” “sup,” along with many boys’ names, but no Eric. I shook my head and took a break. I went to the kitchen for a Mountain Dew and returned. I started to go through the photos on her phone. The last photo, taken in the club, was of Sam and her three friends. The second to the last photo was of Sam with a guy I did not know. I e-mailed this photo to myself. A few more photos showed the four girls at the club in silly poses. I clicked off the cell phone and went back to Sam’s room, astonished she had not yet declared a national emergency that it was missing.
    I need not have worried. Sam was asleep. I placed the phone where I found it, kissed my baby, covered her with the blanket, grabbed the tray of half-eaten soup, and quietly closed the door. After washing the dishes, I went back to my office and printed out the photo of Sam with the unknown guy.

    That night, after Sam had fallen asleep, I drove back to the club. This time, I parked across the street. The same bouncer, dressed in black pants and a black mock turtleneck to ward off the chill, watched me approach.
    His eyes were dark, curious. “You, again?”
    I showed him the photo. “You know this guy?”
    He gave it a cursory glance. “Lady, you know how many people come in here every night?” A touch of an accent, maybe New York.
    Softly, I said, “That is not what I asked.”
    “Why do you need to know?”
    My gaze slid away from his intense stare. “He...my daughter...” I could not say it.
    The bouncer hesitated, and then his expression softened. He took the photo and stared at it. “Yeah, I know him. He comes here a lot. He hasn’t been in tonight, though.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Eric. I don’t know his last name.” The bouncer glanced at the queue of people and back at me. He lowered his voice. “Look, I gotta get back to work. Give me your number. If he shows up, I’ll call you.”
    I attempted a smile and failed. “No need, but thank you.” I scanned the people in line, but no Eric. I walked back to my car, got in, and sat there. And waited. He did not show up that night.

    One morning a few days later, my daughter emerged from her bedroom and came into the kitchen. I sat at the white, hardwood table drinking coffee and reading the Mercury News. She plopped down in the chair across from me.
    I shifted the newspaper to look at her. “Good morning, baby. Did you sleep okay?”
    “Yes, Momma.”
    “What do you want for breakfast?”
    “I don’t care.”
    “Of course, you don’t. Sit tight. I’ll make you some pancakes.” I moved toward a drawer stuffed with skillets and pans.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, baby.”
    “Where are you going every night? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re seeing someone.”
    “How do you know I’ve been going out?” I paused and turned from the stove. “And why couldn’t I be seeing someone?”
    She tilted her head, pursing her lips; she knew my history. Or, at least, she thought she did. Sam didn’t know that I, too, was raped as a teenager. I never told her the circumstances of her birth. She only knew that I had not dated a man in a long time.
    “All right...you’re right,” I said. “I have a deadline at work. Hey, what do you say we go to a movie tonight?”
    “That sounds good, Mom.”
    You realize your child is growing up when she says things to placate you instead of the other way around.

    He showed up the following Thursday. Sitting in the car, my head on the headrest, I sat up. I gripped the leather steering wheel tight to prevent myself from flying out of the car and beating him to death. I looked at my favorite bouncer, who took Eric’s money. After Eric passed by him and into the club, the bouncer glanced over at me and lifted his chin. I did not move. Two hours later, Eric came out with a few of his friends, laughing and talking.
    I started the car. Around the block, Eric and his friends piled into a black Acura and took off. I followed. They drove to an all-night diner. An hour later, they dropped Eric off at a high-rise apartment building. I noted the address and went home.
    The next day, I woke up early and dressed for work in my most expensive suit. I eschewed pumps—in case I needed to make a run for it—and wore flats. Instead of heading to work, I drove to Eric’s apartment. I parked down the street. I did not have to wait long.
    Eric came out wearing a starter business suit, walked six blocks, and entered a building in the financial district. I cruised by, but did not stop.
    At work, I nodded to my co-workers and headed straight to my office. I closed the door and booted up my computer. I entered the address of Eric’s office building in the search bar, pulled up its web page, and noted the businesses located there. For the next few hours, I went through the motions of my job as the IT director of a social media startup and then headed back to Eric’s office building. He came out at noon with a couple of co-workers. I followed him to a local deli and entered. The wonderful aroma made me realize I was hungry. A long glass-enclosed display counter showed an array of meats and cheeses. Tables were crammed together in the tiny space to seat as many customers as possible. I ordered pastrami on rye and sat at a table in the corner where I could observe Eric. He and his buddies laughed, talked with their mouths full, and accentuated their conversation with occasional punches to each other’s shoulders or fist bumps. Eric did not notice me.
    After lunch, I followed Eric back to his building. I signed in with an indecipherable name to visit one of the companies I had seen on the building’s website. I lost sight of Eric. I rushed to the elevator. Eric held the door for me as it was about to close. He smiled and gave me a discreet down-and-up appraisal. His hair stuck up in all the right places in conformance with the latest style.
    I forced myself to smile at his charming, handsome face.
    The elevator car was crowded. Eric’s arm grazed mine. I tried to breathe. He nodded to me before stepping out onto the 33rd floor. I caught a glimpse of the company’s logo on the large, gray, expensive signage on the opposite wall before the doors shut. The elevator rose.
    Back in my office, I pulled up the website for Trahon Investments and searched for Eric. I found him. I stared at his smiling, confident face. Eric Appel was a junior salesman who had graduated from Pepperdine University. He was studying for his MBA at Berkley. I spent the rest of the afternoon researching his—until now—uneventful life.

    A few days later, I made an appointment with Eric. When I walked into his office that same day, a brief shadow of recognition crossed his face, but he could not place me. We shook hands.
    “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
    “No problem,” he said. He motioned with his hand toward the guest chair and then walked around to sit behind his sleek, gray desk. “You told me over the phone you’re looking for a new investment advisor?”
    “Yes, I am. I don’t believe my current broker is aggressive enough.”
    Eric’s eyes lit up. He recovered and leaned forward. “How much are we talking about here? I mean...how much are you looking to invest?”
    “I exercised some options recently, so probably a million to start.” I paused. “Depending on your results, there could be more.”
    He tried to suppress a smile, as his brain calculated what he would buy with his future commissions.
    I started to cough. He came around his desk and touched my back. His touch was gentle. I tried not to flinch.
    “Are you okay, Ms. Hall?”
    Coughing, I said, “Maybe some water.”
    “Of course.” He rushed out of the room.
    I moved around to his computer. I glanced up at the door and then took a thumb drive out of my pocket that contained a program I had created the night before. My index finger hovered over the mouse. But only for a second.
    I clicked “Run” to upload the program.
    I looked from the door to the hourglass on the computer and back again. Anxious, my hand played a silent piano tune on the desk.
    When the program finished, I snatched the thumb drive and put it into my pocket. Eric walked into the room surprised to see me standing behind his desk.
    “I was looking for Kleenex.” I walked up to him and collected the glass. I coughed again and took a gulp of water.
    We finished discussing the details of my account transfer and I left.
    When I returned to work, I booted up a program. I could now access Eric’s computer from my office. I spent the rest of the afternoon figuring out how his investment software worked.

    A few weeks later, during breakfast, I opened the business section of the newspaper to Eric’s face. He was not smiling now. He had been arrested the previous day at his office for embezzling from his clients’ accounts. The paper reported that he had not covered his tracks well; investigators recovered most of the money. The police also found massive amounts of pornography on his computer. The pornography part caught me by surprise. The self-deleting program I had developed only transferred the clients’ funds. Disgusted, I threw the paper away before Sam could see it. I still shielded her from all reminders of that night.
    I went to the arraignment and sat through the proceedings. Before an officer led Eric away, I walked up to him. The confidence was gone. His normally gelled hair was dry, disheveled, and unwashed. His eyes blinked at me with confusion and then gratitude.
    “Ms. Hall, thanks for coming.”
    “That was for my daughter.”
    He looked at me, uncomprehending. His lips parted.
    “Samantha,” I said. “The girl you raped.”
    He did not recognize her name. I took one last look at him, shook my head, and walked away.
    I suspected Eric would not do well in prison.

    That night, I parked myself in front of the television with a Hefe. I tuned into SportsCenter to catch up on the scores of the second round of the NBA playoffs. Sam appeared in the doorway between the living room and the foyer in a long t-shirt, her pajamas.
    I tore my eyes away from the TV. “You’re not going out with your friends?”
    A shadow crossed her face. She walked toward the sofa. “No, I think I’ll stay here with you.”
    “Wow. Lucky me.”
    She half-smiled.
    I picked up the remote and sat next to her. I placed the beer on the end table.
    “We don’t have to watch this,” I said.
    I flipped through the stations and stopped when I came to Sleepless in Seattle, our favorite movie. I put an arm around Sam and she laid her head on my shoulder. “You, okay?”
    She nodded. On the television, Meg Ryan cried as she drove, listening to Tom Hanks on the car radio. I stroked Sam’s hair.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, baby.”
    “My period’s late.”
    My hand stilled.

Rapture

    Was life’s mystery a secret—forbidden knowledge for the living, or have the answers always been there in plain sight? Did mankind secure our destiny by clouding the obvious with manufactured ideas of death and beyond; creating an irreversible mind set of ideologies no longer capable of seeing the truth?

    It was that time of year again, when the leaves were changing, and the days were becoming colder. Fall was a beautiful colorful season for most everyone; a pleasant time of year with Thanksgiving and Christmas just around the corner. But for Jeff the approaching end of October brought only night sweats, and nightmarish memories from a day long past—things that would always stay in his memory like they had just happened yesterday.
    The year was 1956 and it started out great. Jeff’s favorite baseball team, the Yankees won the World Series. Don Larson pitched a perfect game, and his idol Mickey Mantle won the triple crown.
    The school year was well underway, and Halloween was rapidly approaching. Jeff and his best friend Dennis were sitting in World History class anxiously waiting for Mrs. Covington’s boring lecture to end. They were excited about their planned trick or treat outing coming up that weekend.
    “Anyone, what was the purpose of the Crusades?” asked the teacher.
    Surprising, Dennis raised his hand. Mrs. Covington nodded in his direction.
    “To spread Christianity and recapture the Holy Land from the Turks.” Said Dennis.
    “Very good,” said Mrs. Covington. “You may sit down Dennis.”
    But Dennis didn’t sit down. “I’d like to add something, if I may?”
    “Go ahead Dennis.”
    “I’d just like to say that they were wrong.”
    “What was wrong, Dennis?”
    “Christianity, and all the other religions. They don’t get it, but I do. I know the reason for life.”
    “Dennis, you may sit down now, and please stay after class.”
    The period ended and Dennis was given a stern reprimand for his anti-Christian remark.
    On the way home from school, Jeff tried to talk to Dennis and find out what he was talking about, but Jeff refused.
    “Leave me alone,” said Dennis. “I said too much already. I feel really weird.”
    “We’re still going tonight aren’t we?”
    “Sure, I’ll be better by then.”
    Their parents had told them they were getting too old, and this would be their last year—the night was supposed to be for little kids. So they were going to make it a special night, by visiting the Banner House-a mysterious old, dilapidated house on a rocky hill at the edge of town that they had always avoided in the past.
    Little was known about the residents; they associated with no one and rarely were seen. This was the year that Jeff and Dennis would finally include the Banner house in their trick-and-treat night visits.
    They waited until made all their regular stops first, and had accumulated a large bag of goodies each, then they headed towards that last stop.
    “Are you ready? You know it’s getting pretty late,” said Jeff.
    “Are you?” said Dennis.
    Each boy was hoping the other would talk him out of it.
    “Come on,” said Dennis. “This may be our last chance ever.”
    “Ok, let’s go.”
    They approached the bottom of the hill. Looked at each other, and commenced to walk up the steep hill.
    The house was dark except for a dim light in the main picture window. As they approached the porch, the moon moved behind a cloud and it became substantially darker.
    “Before we do this, I want to ask you something,” said Jeff.
    “What did you mean today, when you said you knew the reason for life?”
    “It just came to me. It’s so logical. I can’t explain it.”
    “Can’t you give me a hint?”
    “All I can say is keep looking up at the night sky, and eventually you will see.”
    “Are you nuts? What would that prove?”
    “That’s all I can tell you now. I shouldn’t have made that outburst in school today. Ever since then I’ve felt funny. Like I don’t belong, anymore.”
    “We’ll talk about it later,” said Jeff. “Let’s focus on the task at hand. Who’s going to knock on the Banner’s front door?”
    “Will flip for it,” said Dennis.
    Dennis reached into his pocket and pulled out a dime.
    “Loser knocks.”
    He tossed it into the air.
    “Call it,” he said as it reached its zenith.
    “Tails,” said Jeff.
    It hit the ground, and strangely stood on its side momentarily and then fell heads up.
    “You lose,” said Jeff.
    “I know, I know,” said Dennis.
    “Go ahead and knock, but I’m staying down here.”
    Jeff very methodically walked up the four steps to the porch, and slowly proceeded up to the large front door. He stood there for what seemed like forever. But then finally he knocked.
    The door opened, but it was too dark for Jeff to see in. Dennis put his candy bag out in front of him, when suddenly he disappeared into the doorway. It was like a strong vacuum had sucked him in. The door then slammed shut.
    Jeff ran up the step and pounded on the door, but there was no response. The light went out in the living room.
    Jeff knew he must get back home and tell his parents. So he took off running. He ran through the empty field that bordered his street. The darkness hid an old rotten log, and Jeff tripped on it and hit his head as he went down. He was out like a light.
    It was Saturday morning when Jeff woke up, and he knew he was in big trouble.
    “I think you got some big explaining to do, son,” said Jeff’s dad.
    “I was coming home through the field, and I tripped,” said Jeff. “I must of knocked myself out.”
    Jeff’s mom quickly eyeballed the lump on Jeff’s forehead. She pulled Jeff into the kitchen when she applied some ice.
    “You poor thing—out in that cold field all night. You’re going to take a hot bath and go right to bed.”
    “Ok, ok we’ll talk later,” said Jeff’s dad.
    Suddenly, Jeff memory jogged back into place. “Dad you’ve got to come with me to the Banner house. They pulled Dennis inside and wouldn’t let him out. Please we’ve got to hurry.”
    “Maybe we better take you to Doc Corey. What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Dennis, Dennis, my best friend Dennis—he needs help. He’s trapped in the Banner house.”
    “Dennis, Banner house—boy you must have really cracked your skull. You’re not making any sense at all.”
    Jeff’s mom came over and sat down next to Jeff.
    “Sweetheart, you don’t have any friend name Dennis, and we never heard of the Banner family. Are you sure you know what you’re saying?”
    “Yes mom, Dennis is my best friend. You went out to dinner with his parents last week. Don’t you remember?”
    Jeff’s dad looked strangely at his mom, and motioned for her to meet him in the dining room.
    “He’s obviously suffered a concussion or something,” said Jeff’s dad.
    “Something is wrong. You pull the car out of the garage and will go right into town to see the doctor.”
    Jeff saw Doc Corey, and was eventually admitted for a full mental evaluation. Nothing was discovered that could have caused his bewildering statements.

    As time went on, Jeff decided he had to let it go. He moved on with his life, although the events of that night were locked in his mind forever.
    He settled down with his college sweetheart, and two kids later, his life was pretty normal. He had forgot most everything about Dennis, except that one comment he had made.
    “Look into the night skies, and you’ll find the reason for life.”
    Over the years, Jeff had made a habit of studying the night skies, but nothing came from it, or so he thought. But one day while watching one of the TV evangelists something clicked.
    “You’re not going to listen to that quack, are you Jeff?”
    “He’s going to talk on an interesting topic, Alice.”
    “But he’s anti-Christian. Imagine alowing a self proclaimed Atheist to have his own TV show, and calling himself a Minister. You know Jeff, you’ve been getting further and further away from the church lately.”
    “Maybe, I’ve begun to see the light. Actually, he’s not an Atheist. He believes that natural laws govern the universe. And anyway, I thought this country was based on a freedom to have a choice of beliefs, not specifically Christianity.”
    “It may come in the middle of the night,” said TV Minister Billy Blue, “or on a sunny summer’s day.”
    “Jeff, will you turn that nut off or least change the channel,” said his wife Alice.
    “Wait a minute, I don’t care for his usual ravings, but I have some interest in this particular sermon.”
    “Well, I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
    Jeff returned his attention to the TV. His real interest he could never divulge to Alice.”
    “The Bible says that people of faith will be raptured away. In plain sight people will be taken away, so they will not have to go through the agony of the coming events foretold in Revelations.
    But in reality people, the true Rapture will go unnoticed. When a person is taken, it will be as if they had never existed. Why would this happen: because, my friend, they learned the mystery of life. They have been taken back into the vast universe for a purpose unknown to us. They are now in an elite class, that we all need to strive for.
    Then why am I still in your presence you ask. Because I know what will happen to those who learn, but I don’t actually know what life’s mystery is.
    Then how, do you say, I would know if they have left this Earth unnoticed? Because I have been given the gift to have know many people who have been raptured, and I know I will soon learn the answers to life. ”
    “Boy what a loser,” said Alice.
    “Yes and you all say just when is the Rapture going to happen?” said Billie. “Well, the truth is, it has been happening for hundreds and hundreds of years, if not more. It has been happening ever since mankind turned away from the natural course of life, and imposed their own beliefs.
    Primitive man looked to nature for guidance, and was content. He didn’t fear death and the afterlife, like we do. Friends, we must go back to our roots. The signs are all around us.
    The studio audience made a collective sigh after that unexpected statement.
    Jeff turned off the set, and headed out to the back porch. He wondered why he alone remembered Dennis had remained in his thoughts. Sitting down on the swing, he surveyed the night sky. He began to focus on the various constellations as never before. Seconds became minutes and soon over an hour had passed, he was so occupied with the heavens that Alice’s repeated calls went unnoticed.
     His gaze became more and more intense, when suddenly a smile appeared on his face.
    “Yeah, I understand. Wow, it’s right there in front of me. Why did it take so long to see?”
    He clenched his fist and raised it above his head.
    “Dennis I know,” he yelled out.
    “I have to tell Alice,” he thought.
    He turned from the night sky, and entered the house. He anxiously walked through the living room. As he hurried, something caught his eye. He stopped and turned to look at the family photos on the mantel, when a strange but unexplainable warm wonderful feeling spread throughout his body.
    Alice finished cleaning her supper dishes, and came into the living room with a cup of hot tea. She set her tea down and walked over to the fireplace mantel. A melancholy mood suddenly swept over her as she rearranged the family photos. Pictures of her mother, father and her two brothers and their families brought tears to her eyes, as thoughts of her lonely life overcame her.
    She gathered her composure, sat down by the fireplace, and opened her romance novel. Sipping on her tea, she petted her large Maine Coon, as thoughts of that special man, who has forever haunted her dreams, ran through her mind.

The A-String in the Village: A Moment of Magic in Women’s Basketball

    Amanda put on her red satin uniform, fastened thick strands of her long curly hair atop her head, and mused, “I wonder how we got these sexy uniforms. The bottoms fit like short shorts. The other teams’ bottoms are baggy. Our tops are super, exposing our midriffs. Our mothers didn’t wear these when they played.”
    Carolyn tied her high tops saying, “Then the courts had three sections: for two guards, two centers, two forwards.”
    Daphne grinned. “Not much action.”
    Cheryl said, “Maybe these uniforms are why we win all our games.”
    Teresa, hollered from the gym door, “It’s time to warm up. Manda, the crowd is waiting for the high scorer. Let’s warm up so we can pound Mulberry.”
    “I’m ready,” Manda said followed by the others.
    When they ran on the court, the fans cheered loudly. This village was proud of their women’s team. The girls had not lost a game in three years. The team had received more than its share of championships, although Frostproof High was the smallest school in the Central Florida Conference. No one was prepared for what happened that night, January 8, 1960. The game was close. When there was a minute left, the score was tied.
    Amanda commented during a time-out. “We must win, or we’ll break our winning streak.”
     “This couldn’t happen before,” Erica whispered.
    Manda knew she referred to the fact that two A-String guards graduated. Cheryl had not played until now. That was a weakness. They recruited her because she was the best player available. Inadequate coaching was also implied by Erica. That Mary Crawford was not a committed coach showed in her sheath dress and spiked heels. She replaced Coach O’Neil. Alene led the team to championships twice. Some bigots got her fired. They correctly suspected she was a lesbian. That angered the A-Stringers. They did not care about their beloved coach’s sexual preferences.
    When play resumed, Carolyn out jumped Nancy Osteen even though the later was 6'1" and Carolyn was a tad under 6'. She tipped the ball to Manda who rang a long one. The crowd cheered loudly; they were heard for blocks. Soon Osteen tied the score. At mid-court Manda passed the ball to Teresa. A rival guard intercepted the ball and passed to Osteen who shot. The ball hovered for a moment like it missed, but it went in.
    With twenty seconds to go, Carolyn passed to Teresa. She tried a long shot which missed. Manda’s and Carolyn’s expressions indicated they could choke Teresa. She rarely made those shots. Ten seconds and the Frostproof forwards were covering Mulberry’s guards, but they managed a pass to a forward. Erica darted toward the latter and stole the ball when she dribbled. Erica hurled the ball to Manda. She made a shot, but the referees ruled it invalid. The buzzer was sounding when the ball left her hands. The A-String walked out in tears.
    Daphne said, “We missed overtime by a second. I wish we’d gotten the ball to you sooner, Manda”
    “You did the best you could. Did you notice some of our boys cheering?”
    Erica snapped, “Now you, Daphne, Cheryl, Teresa and I have to cheer for them.”
    The girls won every game before they had to replay Mulberry. Manda and Carolyn, who lived next door to each other, waited for their ride in Manda’s bedroom. Carolyn peered out a window, “There’s ‘coach’s’ car.”
    When Manda and Carolyn got in the car, the other teammates were there. “Hi friends,” Erica said. Let’s beat Mulberry.”
    “Okay,” Manda answered.
    In the game Mulberry pulled ahead early by six points. When the game ended, the final score: Mulberry sixty-four, Frostproof fifty-two. The A-String trudged toward the showers. Manda cried, “How could we let them beat us again?”
    “I‘m too numb to cry,” Erica said. “There’s a pain in my broken heart.”
    “Those creeps on the boys’ team didn’t cheer tonight,” Teresa noted.
    Manda said, “If they did I’d remind them that although we have lost two games, they’ve only won two.” They all laughed. It relieved their pain.
    The girls won all their games before the championship meets. They did not speak much about them assuming they would lose. These games were in Ft. Meade, a nearby citrus town. Mulberry played third ranked Sebring, a tourist town south of Frostproof. Fourth ranked Kathleen, by a phosphate mining town, played Frostproof. Mulberry and Frostproof were victorious.
    Manda awoke on final game day with feelings that anything was possible. Reggie Teisinger, the A Strings favorite teacher, drove them to the game.
    “He’s here,” Manda said from her bedroom.
    Carolyn replied, “Let’s go.”
    In the car Manda felt her consciousness expand in new ways. There was an energy rush as Manda became aware they could defeat Mulberry if they believed this. Something within her spoke, “We can win tonight. We have to believe in ourselves and stay focused. We must work together better than we ever have.”
    “We must do it!” Daphne exclaimed.
    “Yes,” Erica said. “We can’t go out losers after winning four championships.”
    “We’re going to win,” Carolyn said.
    “I’ve been weak,” Cheryl began, “but tonight I’ll not be. I’m inspired by Manda and all your responses.”
    Teresa exclaimed, “I’m a believer!”
    The game was close at first. Then Frostproof moved ahead. The score was seventy-four to sixty. Many Frostproof fans rushed on the court to salute and hug their heroines. Erica and Manda embraced and joined the others strutting to the showers.
    “I don’t know what happened to you, but I’m certain it made this victory possible.”
    “Me either, but I’m glad it helped us win,”
    Later Reggie said, “I knew you all would win. After Manda started that conversation, a strong resolution gripped you. I’m proud of you.”
    “Thanks, Mr. T.,” Amanda replied. “We amazed many people, especially ourselves.
    Cheryl asked, “Do you all think I’m still weak?”
    Manda touched her saying, “No!”
    Three weeks later, the CFC coaches eliminated women’s basketball. It was the last conference to make this move. Every team was gone, which was established in and around the time the Women’s Suffrage Amendment passed. Manda and Carolyn discussed this tragedy in Manda’s bedroom.
    “Can you believe those chauvinist coaches did this?” Carolyn asked.
    Amanda replied. “It’s done but all isn’t grim. Mr. Teisinger received a letter from Alene. She’s at Florida State in graduate school. She wrote that women’s teams now have a rover, who plays the whole court.”
    “That’s one step from everyone playing the whole thing.”
    “Since we’ll be among few who’ve played sports, we’ll be recruited to play the rover in college intramurals.”
    “Was there other news?” Carolyn asked.
    “She said many seniors were only taking jobs in schools favorable toward women’s sports. That’s encouraging but we need legal protections. The coaches did as they pleased. They justified their actions with a good reason instead the actual one. The reason they gave is that we ‘dainties’ might be hurt. Dad pestered them until they admitted their true motive. They want the gym time for boys’ teams—varsity, junior varsity, sixth and seventh grades.”
    “Lord!” Carolyn exclaimed.
    “We’re leaving a legacy that’ll be passed on to new generations of athletes when the women’s movement starts back.”
    “Will it?” Carolyn asked
    “I believe so,” Manda replied. “The Civil Rights Movement gains strength daily. These things are contagious. Soon women’s athletics will be in the high schools and universities. Then we’ll have more constitutional rights. Frostproof will be a town. We’ll have been the last A-String in the village.

Gunfight at OK Corral

    Samantha Memi, gunfighter and one time member of the McLaury gang, was on her way to see a fortune teller. She needed to know for certain if her ex-boyfriend Tom McLaury still loved her. She wished she’d stayed with him but, when she found him in bed with Mary Lou, she skedaddled outa Tombstone and never went back.
    “Your loved one is in Tombstone,” said the gypsy, looking into her crystal ball.
    “That’s right,” said Samantha, amazed.
    “He will be killed today at three of the clock past noon. Only you can stop it. A young boy, finds a gun, no, not a gun, a bullet. You have to stop this from happening.”
    Samantha left for Tombstone straight away and rode into the desert, spurring her horse to a gallop. The horse frothed and its eyes stared madly into nothing while Samantha clung on dearly. As she bounced on the hard saddle, she realised that although she didn’t have an ass like Calamity Jane, this bashing on a saddle wasn’t doing her any good at all, but she knew she had to forget about her ass and get to Tombstone in time to save Tom from dyin’.

    There was a lot of moseying going on in Tombstone. Morg Earp was moseying down to the Alhambra. Doc Holliday was moseying back from an argument with Big Nosed Kate. Virg, Morgan’s brother, was moseying from no particular place to no particular place.
    While everyone was moseying around, Wyatt Earp rode into town. He must have been in a hurry, ‘cos he was riding fast, and he didn’t have no time to do no moseying. He jumped off his horse, ran into the Golden Eagle, and shouted, “Anyone seen Virgil?”
    Johnny Behan looked up huffily from his beer and said, “He was moseying by the Cosmopolitan.”
    “Nah,” said Frank Stilwell, with a sneer, “he wuz moseying ‘round by the Can Can.”
    John Clum, who thought he knew everything, said, “I seed him up by Hafford’s.”
    This was no good. Virgil couldn’t be in three places at the same time. Wyatt left the saloon and shouted, “Virgil!” A distant voice echoed back, “Whaaat?”
    “Git Morg an’ come tuh mah office.”

    It was hot as a whorehouse on nickel night. Samantha was gittin’ hungry. The horse was gittin’ hungry. The sun was gittin’ blisterin’. The desert was gittin’ never-endin’. She saw a billboard, ‘Burgers, Hot Coffee, Waffles and Grits, 4 miles.’ The horse was darn near wore out. Samantha said, “Don’t worry hoss, we’ll gitcha a burger soon.” ‘Yeah sure,’ thought the horse, ‘probably made outa mah dear ole Ma.’

    Morg and Virg arrived at the Sheriff’s Office. Morgan asked, “Wassa matter, Wyatt?”
    “Someone gone done stole six mules from the army.”
    “Six mules!” exclaimed Virgil, “God dang it. Who’d do a thing like that?”
    “I dunno, but I reckon it musta bin the McLaurys.”
    “We oughta git out there now and tell ‘em tha’s a bad thing tuh do.”
    “Tha’s what ahm thinkin’.”
    So the Earp brothers rode out to the McLaury’s place.

    Samantha tied her horse near the water trough under a sign which said, ‘McDefecates, the Home of Good Burgers’. She went in, ordered a burger and fries, and asked the waitress, “Yuh know Tombstone?”
    “Sure do.”
    “Yuh know Tom McLaury?”
    The waitress smirked, “Everyone knows Tom.”
    “Is he still with Mary Lou?”
    “Nope. Ah reckon he’s pinin’ fer a lost love.”
    “Someone called Sam?”
    “Could be.”
    Samantha smiled. Could be, was enough.

    When the Earp brothers got to the McLaurys place, Virgil saw five mules with the army’s ‘US’ brand and one mule marked ‘D8’. He saw Tom McLaury with a branding iron. He knew Tom was re-branding the mules.
    “What yuh doing is wrong, Tom,” said Virgil.
    “I know Virg, an’ I feel bad ‘bout it. Weren’t mah idea.”
    “You oughta give ‘em back tuh the army,” said Morgan.
    “That’s what ah figure,” said Tom, “and that’s what I aim tuh do.”
    “Okay then,” said Wyatt, and the Earp brothers, satisfied they had taken care of a heinous crime, rode back to town.
    But Tom didn’t have no intention of giving back no mules, and he carried on branding till all the mules had the mark ‘D8’.

    Samantha relished her burger and fries. She asked the waitress, “Yuh clock keep good time?”
    “No ma’am, it’s at least half hour slow.”
    “Half hour! My God! wha’s the time?”
    “Reckon it ain’t far off three.”
    Samantha paid, rushed to her horse and galloped away. ‘How did she know Sam was Tom’s boyfriend,’ thought the waitress.

    The Earps had only been back in town a few hours when an army major walked into the Sheriff’s office and asked, “Where’s mah mules?”
    “We see Tom,” said Wyatt, “and he said he felt real bad about taking ‘em, said he’ll bring ‘em back straight away.”
    “Well he ain’t,” said the major
    Wyatt looked at Virgil and Virgil looked at Morgan and Morgan looked at Wyatt and they all looked at each other and thought ‘shit’. So they moseyed on out to the street, and Wyatt pulled out his gun to check the bullets. As he was filling the cylinder, a bullet fell and rolled under the sidewalk.
    Wyatt said to Virgil, “Where d’yuh reckon them McLaury boys gonna be?”
    Virgil shrugged and said, “Hell if I know.”
    Doc Holiday, still moseying around, moseyed over and said, “Y’all looking for the McLaurys? They’s up at the OK Corral.”
    “Thanks Doc. They gone done stole six mules,” said Virgil
    “No,” said Doc, amazed, “that’s a mean thing tuh do.”
    “And they promised they’d take ‘em back and they didn’t,” said Morgan
    “No,” said Doc, even more amazed, “they sure is mean critters.”
    “We’re goin’ after ‘em now,” said Wyatt.
    “I’ll come with yuh,” said Doc.
    As they walked away, young Burt Alford, who’d seen the bullet fall, retrieved it and put it in his pocket.

    Just as the Earp brothers got to the OK Corral, Samantha rode into town and asked, “Where’s Tom McLaury?”
    “Well,” said Pete Spence, scratching his head to help him think, “I can’t rightly say, but I reckon he’s moseying somewhere round town.”
    “I seed ‘im, goin’ tuh the OK Corral,” said Sadie Mansfield, looking at Samantha’s ass and thinking. ‘Mm, juicy’.
    Samantha turned into Allen street and rode as fast as the wind which, as there was only a breeze, wasn’t very fast. She saw Burt crouching by the side of the road and remembered the prophecy from the gypsy, but she didn’t know if he would be the same boy and she was in a hurry to meet Tom, to say I love you, I forgive you. She was sure he still loved her. After she’d ridden past Burt, he took the bullet out of his pocket and jammed it between two rocks.

    The Earp brothers and Doc got to the OK Corral and sure enough there was Ike and Billy Clanton, with Frank and Tom McLaury.
    “Yuh didn’t give back no mules like yuh said yuh wuz gonna,” said Wyatt
    “Aw, Sheriff, ahm sorry, we forgot,” said Frank, spittin’ baccy in the dirt, “we’ll take ‘em back at daybreak.”
    “That ain’t good enough,” said Wyatt, “yuh gotta take ‘em back now.”
    “We ain’t got time now Sheriff. We’ll do it tomorrah.”
    “Tomorrah’ll be too late,” said Wyatt
    “Like I said we ain’t got time now.”
    The McLaurys faced the Earps and readied themselves for a shootout. Just as Wyatt was gonna back down and say, ‘Okay, I suppose tomorrah’ll be okay’, Burt, took a rock and smashed the bullet. Hearing the explosion everyone drew their guns and fired.

    After the smoke cleared, Samantha rode up and saw the carnage. She jumped off her horse and rushed over to Tom.
    “Tom Tom,” she said, “I love yuh,” and Tom opened his eyes and a bubble of blood appeared from his lips, and when the bubble burst she heard, “Samantha, I love...” Samantha shook his head. “Who, Tom? Who do you love?” But Tom passed away, and Samantha mumbled, “Dagnabbit, I knowed I shouldn’ta stopped fuh no burger.”

about Samantha Memi (20130221)

    Samantha Memi lives in London. Her stories have been published, or are forthcoming, in Fiction International, Gemini Magazine, Thrice Fiction and Birkensnake. Her writing can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com online.

In Search of Moby Dick

    I never hung out with the boys; boys always want one thing. Sex. Sex. Sex, that’s what every adult motherly figure told me, growing up.
    I fell for it.
    It isn’t that I don’t like the idea of sex, no, that isn’t it. Not at all. All my girlfriends drone on and on about their lovely, sweaty, sticky, sexual escapades, but when I try it I always end up bored, and not even sweaty.
    I’ve tried all shapes and sizes of boy, but none have what I need. It isn’t their fault. It’s not you it’s me, I think I have the right to use that one, because, physically, it is true. It’s always me.
    When I was a kid, I wanted to be a girly girl. A little flirt, but mom stopped me outright, she didn’t let me use the showers after gym class. I told her they had curtains, nobody would see, but “no way,” she said. I couldn’t wear cute belly tops or two-piece bathing suits, all my friends got to, but not me.
    Now that I look back, I’m glad she didn’t let me. It was in my best interest to hide my dirty secret, that awful, shameful thing.
    At the time, when I was a little kid, six, maybe five and a half, I went to visit a specialist, a gynecologist. She wasn’t a nice woman, old and cranky.
    “Drop your pants,” she demanded in her wispy, yet firm voice.
    I looked at my mom pleadingly, but she couldn’t help. In that little office, I belonged to the doctor. I dropped’m all right and the look on the doctor’s face was that of shock and intrigue.
    “Look at that,” said the doctor and she turned on her chair and rushed to the cupboard over the little sink. In her hand was a little pink measuring tape. I had to turn away; I was embarrassed and mortified. “Look at that, nearly thirteen inches. Not a record,” the doctor said and smiled at me when I turned back, as if it was some funny joke.
    “It looks like everything is normal in there,” the doctor said, she was still smiling, that bitch. “It may cause trouble later, with pleasure, that is, the works are all hidden in there. I feel like Indiana Jones looking for the Ark of the Covenant.”
    Indiana fucking Jones looking for the Ark, what a bitch.
    The doctor went on to explain, so my mother told me time after time, that there wasn’t anything wrong, I was just different. For a long time I was fine with it. I just had to remember to tuck my shirt in, the damn thing tends to peak above my beltline.
    As I’ve aged and grown, it has also grown. The last time I had the nerve to measure, it was close to fifteen inches front to back. Still not a record. Thank God. I’ve never measured depth or width, I can see it sticks out more than a normal one. Having a jumbo you-who is bad, but add in the thick patch of fur that grows on my stomach and I can hardly stand the thing.
    I’ve thought about getting it sewn up, but I am terrible with pain and I worried how the water works would, well, work.
    So, I just dealt with it, always hoping a man would come along with a pharaonic phallus. The lack of manmade orgasm has led me down the road of self-fulfilment from the farmer’s market. Don’t worry, I wash the veggies and no I don’t eat them afterwards, get your mind out of the gutter.
    Listen to me, HA. That is the very line my father used every time I began a dinner table discussion of my lady bits and by the way, not that you should care what I do, but I only used farmer’s market goods until I have the gumption to venture into the adult stores downtown.
    I remember the look on poor Ronald Truman’s face when I lied back on that lumpy motel room bed, donning sexy pink lingerie, ready and waiting. It was prom night and I was ready to have my pretty rose pollinated, at that time, I still hadn’t come to appreciate the magnitude of my predicament.
    Being the gentleman he was, Ronald held back any signs of anxiety after the initial shock and slid me to the edge of the bed. He tried, that boy did try. He flicked and licked, but it wasn’t going anywhere and I was horny and I mean horny. I wanted him to find what he was searching for, the Ark of the Covenant perhaps, I tried to help him, I pushed downward with my hips, but still nothing. I could tell he sensed my annoyance, he dug in, face first. I felt a brief, but noticeable tingle. I tried to slide gently to him, but those damn rubber coated motel sheets were slick and I slipped.
    It felt amazing at first, I rocked and bucked, I thought right there I’d marry that boy. I noticed after a bit and I like to think I acted accordingly immediately after sensing the problem, but in reality, I may have enjoyed the tickle a few extra seconds.
    Ronald’s arms flailed and pushed hard against my thighs. It seems, probably during my little slip, the poor boy’s head, beyond his ears, popped right inside. I screamed and tensed, that didn’t help as I really gripped his head. I could feel him screaming, the sound muffled by my muffin, and it felt so damn good, I was almost there, but I had to let go. His sadness ruined the moment, or so I thought. The boy was a trooper.
    He sat on the floor, backed away from what could have been his vaginal tomb with wide bugging eyes, his hair was greasy and matted, “Maybe just missionary,” he suggested.
    Right on big boy, I thought and he mounted and I waited. I didn’t feel anything really until that hot splash. Ronald rolled off and it seemed after the juice expended his satchel he came back to earth. That wasn’t normal sex and his face said so, “I... uh... I gotta go,” he finally spat.
    Just socks and boxer shorts on, he gathered his tuxedo and ran from the room. I felt horrible, ashamed, but that was then. Now when I think about Ronald Truman I just feel sorry for him. I probably should’ve mentioned my peculiarity.
    There have been men since Ronald, I began to pick and choose based on what the men said, but that didn’t work. As many men lie as tell the truth about the size of their manhood. But, in the end, it never worked out. I gave up on sex, but it always left me lonely and single. Eventually, all men want is sex, or so I thought.
    I started dating David Greensboro almost a year ago. It was a blind date, he looked alright and I guess he thought I passed the test, even after I explained, and rather emphatically, that I wanted to wait for love to have sex. He said he was onboard with the idea, they always say that and a week later, they’re trying to stick you with their equipment.
    David wasn’t like that. He didn’t even try, I wondered if he knew somehow, like someone spilled the beans and it disgusted him. When we danced or cuddled he always leaned out, as if he didn’t want to come anywhere near the colossal crevice lingering below my belly button.
    I started to wonder if maybe he just wanted me to take the lead, grab on and ride him like a bronco. I did eventually grab on, but he pulled away, “I’m not ready,” he said sheepishly, “I’ve had bad experiences before.”
    Hell, who hasn’t, I thought, if he only knew, knew all the trouble I’ve had. I began to wonder if something wasn’t wrong with his ding-dong, but it felt normal when I grabbed it for that brief moment.
    I tried to sneak peeks when he was in the shower, but he always locked the door. He didn’t even like to sleep over and on those strange nights he did, I reached around his heavy pants. He always woke up as soon as I took the thing in my hand and gave it as many strokes as I could in the limit time permitted, but he pulled away, furious.
    “I just can’t yet, got it?” he stated, firm and a little angry.
    “Fine,” I huffed back at him, in reality, he was the first man to make me forget about my prodigious puss.
    He was a prefect boyfriend aside from the no sex deal, so I shouldn’t have complained, I still had my plastic battery-filled lovers and not to dwell, but I had a particularly eventful one-night stand involving cleverly placed mirrors, a flood lamp flashlight and a vibrator fastened to the end of a wooden spoon with duct tape at a Best Western. That night it almost worked twice, so close, but sorry miss, not for you, you only get one turn at a time. It isn’t fair, not by a long shot and how I’d longed.
    I’d grown quite anxious for a proper sexy-time with a human being; I didn’t even care if it didn’t work at that time, I needed some human contact.
    Two years, three months and two days after meeting, and to my surprise, David asked me to marry him. He had a huge ring in a little box, I almost said no, but he was so close to perfect that I gave him an ultimatum instead.
    “Look, if you want me to marry you, you’ll have give it to me first,” I said firmly, yet playfully.
    “I am giving you the ring,” said David, he pretended not to understand, but I could see he did. I felt a bad about pushing him, but I’d given him time.
    I started to strip, always the bottom half first, I have great legs and it didn’t give away the secret right away. I knew from experience to get the motor running before you floored the gas pedal and my panties covered my titanic tantalizer nicely.
    “I can’t,” he said and looked as if he would burst with tears. “You’ll never understand, women never do.”
    I could see the anguish he’d lived with, it almost paused my haughty ambition, almost, but not quite. I pulled off my top, my bra and my panties. I expected that look, that familiar “what am I supposed to do with that?” look. It didn’t come; he smiled instead.
    “What? Something funny?” I said it seemed my turn for anger, I’d had men laugh at me before. I don’t care for it at all.
    “Soul mates,” he whispered.
    I didn’t expect this and I said, “What is that supposed to mean?” in a defensive tone.
    “Soul mates, body and soul,” he smiled the widest smile I’d ever seen on his face and began to strip.
    He got down to his boxer shorts and everything looked normal, he was obviously horny, I was still confused by what he meant by soul mates. I wondered if he was some kind of freak, into monolithic menge, but when he dropped his boxer shorts he reached between his thighs and pulled away a piece of cloth taped to his legs.
    When we first met, I hoped he was a walking tripod, but when I felt his average sized Johnny, I didn’t mind, well to be honest I was a little disappointed. What I saw made my heart sing and my thighs quiver, it was just an average sized weenie that I saw at first, but only at first. When that tape let, three more erect love muscles jumped up alert, one above the other.
    “Soul mates,” I muttered back and finally found that sensation I’d sought.

A Letter from Iraq

    Everything about that day was surreal. From the protestors waving their hateful signs that told us all how much God hated us, to the police standing there protecting them from angry family and friends, to the bikers that rode in like a gang, making a barricade around the entire place to keep the protestors as far away as possible; but most of all that someone my age, someone so young, whom I had known for years was dead.
    It was hot that day. The kind of heat you can only understand if you’ve survived a Midwest summer. It was July and the heat was overpowering. It could make you lose your mind if you weren’t careful. No one was thinking about the heat though, not today. Any other July day that’s all they would be thinking about.
    We were all seated with pictures of Justin at the front of the church beside his closed casket. One was of him looking too young and incredibly happy with a big smile on his face, wearing a bright blue graduation robe. The other, a far more serious picture, showed Justin in a different uniform; taken only months later, but somehow he looked much older. His white hat was almost covering his eyes which stared straight at the camera with a look that was all business. His huge smile was replaced by a stern, unfamiliar look.
    I sat beside my best friend Meagan, who had been like a sister to Justin. They had met each other at the local grocery store where they had both worked during the summer. The management there was lax, and no one ever seemed to mind that we would all hang around the store, even those of us who didn’t work there, waiting for them to get off work while we talked about what to do that night. The store isn’t there anymore; it was swallowed up by the larger chains like Wal-Mart. In fact, I can’t even remember the name of it now.
    So many of the things and places that held so much magic for us back then are now just a distant memory. Little mom and pop stores that had been there our entire lives were now gone as everyone finally gave in and traded character and nostalgia for convenience.
    It had started out that way, just things and places at first, and then it started swallowing up the people too. Not large chains of course, but just life. The first few years of becoming an adult had proven to be a rude awakening for many of us. Friends who were once so prominent in our lives now seemed to be strangers, while others were lost to us forever.
    I looked over at Meagan and could see she was struggling to keep it together while still wondering if this was some kind of horrible nightmare. Most of the people in the room were still in shock. They knew where they were, they knew the facts of the situation, but their instincts told them that this couldn’t actually be happening.
    The family entered the auditorium and I looked over as his wife came down the aisle, wearing big, dark sunglasses to hide her swollen, tear-stained face. She was being held up by her parents, one on each side of her. She looked as if she could pass out at any moment. It was more than she could handle, and who could blame her. Married only a few months, this wasn’t what she had pictured her life to be like. All hopes for the future had been ripped away from her the day she got the news. All of her daydreaming about their first house, vacations to Australia, maybe even children one day, was now just a bunch of painful thoughts of what could have been, and now never would be. She was twenty-three years old and she was a widow.
    The place had begun to fill up quickly. Justin had had a lot of friends. I looked around and saw it was packed full with people he went to school with, close friends, fellow servicemen, and family. This wasn’t a surprise. He was a kind-hearted person and he didn’t know a stranger. He always made you feel welcome when you were around, like you had been friends forever, even if you had only just met. No, this wasn’t a surprise at all because everyone who knew him had loved him.
    He had been a Marine on his second deployment to Iraq. He served with the Explosives Ordinance Company, and was with his bomb disposal squad, working to disarm an IED, when a second IED, one they hadn’t detected, went off.
    When he first joined the military, we all knew being a Marine could be dangerous, but we chose not to focus on that aspect of it and instead, marveled at the places he got to see. We lived in a tiny town in the Midwest and before he joined the military, Justin, Meagan, and I had spent numerous weekends renting run-down motel rooms by the highway just outside of town. We would find someone old enough to buy us beer, and play drinking games until the sun came up and it was time to go home. Or we would all hop in Justin’s truck and drive around town, listening to stories he told us about old ghosts that still haunted this place. He would talk about joining the military and all of the things he would get to do and see, all of the places he would get to go.
    On one of his visits home, He brought me a t-shirt from Paris. I had never known anyone who had been to France before and I thought it was about the coolest thing ever. The shirt was my favorite shade of blue, with French writing on it that glowed in the dark. I didn’t know what it said, and I didn’t care. I loved that shirt. The thought that this shirt had come all the way from France and now it was here, a place probably no one in France even knew existed, was incredible to me. We were all in awe of the fact that he had been to so many places in just a few short years. And I think probably a little jealous too. At least I know I was.
    The funeral went by in a haze. I watched as person after person got up to talk about what Justin had meant to them and how much he would be missed. Before long we were all back out in the heat again, standing around greeting each other with the standard ‘How have you been?’, not really wanting to know but asking anyway. We all knew how we were.
    As the processional started towards the gravesite, which was all the way across town, we once again had to pass the protesting ass jackets at the highway entrance. Meagan tried not to look at them, because every time she did, she wanted to throw her glass Yoohoo bottle out the window, hopefully hitting one of the little ones in the head hard enough to knock some sense into them so maybe they wouldn’t grow up to be just like their delusional parents. The adults were already too far gone, there was no hope left for them. While I would have been delighted to see her knock the crazy off of one of them, I didn’t relish spending the rest of the afternoon in the county jail. And with a barricade of policemen blocking them off from the public, it would be hard to get off a clean shot. Instead, she kept her head down until we got to the highway, unable to accept the fact that anyone could think God wanted her friend dead.
    I, on the other hand, couldn’t keep my eyes off of them. Their signs were brightly colored with happy yellows and greens that were in stark contrast with the hateful words printed on them. I watched them go up and down as they thrust them into the sky. I looked at their faces. It was funny, they actually looked pretty normal, not the way I had imagined a cult to look. I wanted one of them to look me in the eyes. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I concentrated really hard and stared at them long enough I could somehow tap into the part of the brain needed for telekinesis and make them spontaneously combust, although even that would have been too gracious a fate for them. The real world was bound to knock them around much better than I could. Telekinesis or no telekinesis.
    When we had finally made it past them to the highway, we looked around and saw something incredible. Cars and trucks were lining the highway on both sides. Drivers had pulled over and got out to stand beside their vehicles, some saluting, some waving small, plastic American flags left over from the Fourth of July. These strangers, people heading home from work, families on their way to dinner, truck drivers passing through this tiny town on their way to Albuquerque or Memphis, stopped what they were doing and just stood there with their hands to their hearts, paying their respects to a stranger, to someone they had never known, to our friend. It took my breath away. These people lined the streets for miles, the entire way through town. I thought about how much he would have loved this, all of these people showing him so much attention and love; he would have gotten a real kick out of it. I could practically hear him say, “All of this for little ole me?” with that huge, bright smile on his face.
    He had been an incredible person. A much better person than me, that’s for sure. Now, I know everyone says that about people they know who have died, but in this case it happens to be true. He risked his life when he didn’t have to. He could have stayed home with us, renting shitty motel rooms on the weekends, getting drunk and playing cards, just sort of drifting through our youths with no real regard for anyone besides ourselves. I knew I could never be as selfless as him.
    Finally we arrived at the gravesite. He had a good spot on the hill. There was a large tree nearby, casting shade over the grass and stone. We were all sweating just standing still but no one seemed to mind. I looked at his closed casket and tried not to think about what was inside of it. I stood back and watched as two Marines folded an American flag with quick precision and one knelt down to hand it to Justin’s wife. As he did this, he said something to her. I never knew what it was that he said to her, but I was always curious. I wasn’t meant to hear those words though, none of us were. Those words were for her only, as they should have been. I wondered how many times these Marines had had to do this very thing. How many times had they folded that flag to be able to do it so perfectly? How many young widows had they had to console?
    Moments later, they were lined up with rifles in their hands as an officer yelled out commands I didn’t understand. BOOM! The guns were fired and I jumped a little. The rifles firing didn’t seem to faze his now-widow in the slightest. BOOM! Again, she sat staring straight ahead at the wooden casket in front of her. BOOM!, went the final round of fire, and even though I knew it was coming, I still flinched as she remained perfectly still.
    When it was all over, some people went back to Justin’s mother’s house to bring food and condolences. We watched as people began to get into their cars and leave. Some of us just sort of stood around for a minute, not sure what to do. Were we just supposed to go home and carry on with our lives as if it were any other day? This was a real-world situation we were not prepared for. I thought about driving outside of town and renting one of those motel rooms, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Best to just leave those memories intact, let the best times live in the past. Nothing could ruin a good memory like trying to re-create it. So I went home and continued to live my life like it was any other day because, to my surprise, the world didn’t stop or even slow down.
    He had once written me a letter from Iraq, and besides a few old pictures, it was the only thing I had left of him. He had written it at a time when I had needed a friend, and in true fashion, he was there to put things into perspective. The return address in the top left corner of the envelope made no sense to me. It seemed to be random numbers and letters thrown together. When I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, the paper was dirty and gritty feeling, like dirty sand. I was surprised by how normal he had sounded in the letter. Not scared, or fucked up somehow, just normal. He told me that he lived outside and that was why the paper was so dirty. He assured me that he did not have to pee in the gas suit he had to wear, but that he did only get a shower about once a week. He told me that he still got homesick every once in a while, but for the most part it had passed. He said that he had been involved in some of the things that had been in the news recently and that he had had to kill people. This was the most shocking to me, that he could even be capable of doing something like that. But they did what they had to do to survive, and I knew that was a concept I was lucky enough to not understand, and hopefully never would.
    At the end of the letter he had signed off with these strange markings that stuck out like a sore thumb among his small, boxy, English print. They were beautiful large and curvy markings that ran together and looked like an odd sort of cursive. They reminded me of one of those pictures that you had to look at for a moment before you could make sense out of it; the ones that looked like one thing at first, but the more you looked at it, became something else entirely. Right below those markings he had translated:
    Peace be upon you, they said in Arabic.
    Your friend, Justin.