Idea

Drift

A stand of blue spruce humbles a patch of Massachusetts—
bucolic fetish in the hands of dire men, anonymous as
any frozen duck pond or dull wind lost to crystallized
hills.

I feel the curve and spin of the world and the light of
insult shining
over our heads. Torpid thoughts astound. On frosted glass, I
scratch
out a happy face across the silhouette of a winter-berry
sun.

In faintest hours, the tilt of night constricts all in its
pale and
creatures emerge to scratch upon a familiar fife and chime
shroud.
Tomorrow, I will make sensible clothing for us both.

Moon and the Elusive Ones

A mirror will not show what you are.
It doesn’t know your name.

It repulses the very composition of cells
you ask it to reflect.

I remember you now—
your transitory vibrant touch.

No one can get close to such tangible figment,
the glint of your unknowable form.

If I could, I would look upon you,
bind your spirit with gauze and forgiving arms—

but you would only slip quietly away,
separating two worlds as you go.

At times, when the moon clings to me,
others may suspect I’m an elusive as well.

The mirror held to my lips reveals me completely—

resolving with every breath not taken.

Other Poets (then, again)

When my 8^th Grade Language Arts teacher
Was trying to teach some lesson in
(perception?) (imagery?)
(“The Six Men of Indostan”?),
When he asked us to try to describe
The screen he’d drawn for the
Overhead projector,
I volunteered,
“White, blank, ominous.”
And, he grinned, all Fuller Brush
And said to the rest of the class,
“But, That makes it sound like it’s
Something Bad!”
And, I sat there through every other
Failed attempt to satisfy
What he’d wanted,
Thinking,
“How would you know It’s Not?”
...so...if one doesn’t scream like
Coughlin in Cleveland
Or instruct like a jilted ex on a mission,
Isn’t all professional poetry, sad?
Doesn’t it Have to be?
I mean, if memory serves,
Everyone always wanted to play
“Happy Birthday”
On the juke, wherever they needed to
But, I never saw the 45
In anyone’s home

Easter Dinner
Paris, Texas

Sheryl L. Nelms

“Mama was out
in the backyard

wringing
chicken’s necks
for dinner

Aunt Loretta
was out there too
getting her strawberry
Jell-O salad out of her Ford Fairlane

she was wearing her lavender
taffeta church dress

when one of those
headless chickens started

running and flopping

and it got tangled up
under Loretta’s skirt
in her frilly petticoat

and she
let loose with a
shriek that the whole town

must’ve heard

and she was running
and flopping

with the red Jell-O splashing all over
just like that poor bloody chicken

that was
still

dancing
under
her

dress”

Tri-Met Train, Expo Center, Portland Oregon

She wanted to know where
To get a cup of coffee, so I suggested
A coffeehouse, a couple of stops down
Then I told her about this whole foods-esque
Market i go to sometimes, on rosa parks
Which would be perfect for her
She was wearing black spandex and
Had on a small red backpack
The uniform of the hipster
Or homeless person, depending on
How you look at it
She was going to go to the circle k
Across the street from the whole foods store
But decided to follow me
And I was glad
It gave me a chance to marvel at her
Stride as she walked in front of me
Long and sleek
I didn’t realize then how much she
Looked like Sandra Bullock
I saw her again later as she was getting
Her coffee and she thanked me
Then saw her again twice more
As she walked past the café window
Her long body becoming golden in
The sun
I thank god for moments like this

Parallel lives

Mostly poetry touches on
the human condition,
love, angst, war, hate, religion, ...
even though, on a cosmic scale,
since the universe
gets along quite nicely without us,
it could just as well chide,
“Everything’s not about you!”
So why then
can’t a leaf
fall from a tree
without intimating
aging and death
or a wave
sweep up on a beach
without erasing someone’s footprint?
Well, to be fair,
Isn’t every species horizon
at least partly bound by its needs?
Don’t birds have territorial disputes
in “our” yards;
and does a spider worry about
spinning its web
in “your” house,
or a tapeworm
show the slightest concern
over human suffering
as contrasted to enjoying
a good lunch?

Untitled (papyrus)

a pile of papyrus
waits for silken words
spoken early dawn

Career Girl

When she was younger,
a bull on the floor working
the hot new steak houses,
supper clubs, cabarets,
she liked to say these were
just stops on the way to
somewhere else so if I’m
still doing this in my 50s
I hope someone takes me out
behind the dumpster and shoots
me. Now, thirty something years
later, working swing shifts
in some nowhere diner,
not bothering to make her face
up, not bothering to wear
the cleanest clothes, mainlining
coffee and cigarettes, no one’s
come to take her out back yet
but she’s still hoping.

on the Sociology of Imagination

Child in Glass
chasing a white rabbit,
relishing the thrill
of discovering places
nobody knows
so nobody goes, and secrets
mean safety

Youth in Glass
scornful of white rabbits,
relishing the thrill
of reworking everyday
text-speak
if only to nurture new ideas,
keep them safe

Mature in Glass
mindful of a feisty rabbit
relishing the thrill
of discovering places
nobody knows
so nobody goes, and secrets
mean power

Grey in Glass
conjuring up a reflection
of once-was,
struggling to make sense
of now-is,
asking whatever happened
to will-be...?

Rabbit droppings, proof of life
in a Hall of Mirrors

Something Else Romantic

David J. Thompson

I never hear from her anymore,
even though she just lives across town.
We lived together for six or seven years,
seems unreal now, never pulled the trigger
on anything more, though I did propose
late one road trip night in West Virginia,
but I guess I should have had a ring
and champagne or something else romantic.
Let’s talk in the morning, she said.

She never cooked a meal the whole time I knew her,
her diet was mostly Dr. Pepper and low-fat Triscuits.
We went and found Lee Harvey Oswald’s grave one afternoon,
drove up to the Buddy Holly crash site one summer.
We liked to eat fried chicken with cheap champagne
on Saturday nights because that’s what the characters did
in one of the Raymond Carver stories we both loved.

But that was grad school, then came real jobs
and dying parents, and my ex-friend from work
whom she comforted though a tough divorce,
and the good looking guy who ran the fiction workshop
and looked at his shoes when she introduced us,
suddenly too busy to have a drink after his reading.

I came home from work one afternoon that fall,
and all her stuff was gone, only a note on the coffee table
about being tired from years of treading water
that now felt like drowning. Just two weeks before
she took me up to the mall to buy my first cell phone.
She showed me how to set it up and how to use it,
told me how much I’d love it, but never even called
to say good-bye.

Violation

    The spike: the most ripping of rips, over and over, harder and harder. The screams. The attempts by the perpetrator to make it sexy. The attempts by the victim to cope. The blood, the feces, the lost control. The traitorous orgasm.

untitled (gate)

Appearing and disappearing, this gate
you wave between one hand
after the other and doves on cue

break through the way each flourish
opens midair, is helped along
clearing the rooftops, palms up

–on your back as the aimless path
that has such low windows
–from nowhere, no longer white

each stone is closing its wings
letting go the sky, the graves
and just as suddenly your shoulders.

About Simon Perchik

    Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

Shaping her World

On a rooftop,
high above a city,
a father and daughter
gaze at stars
through a telescope.
The open universe
amazes her.
They look, it seems,
at the heavens,
through an open door
or window,
seeing something
beyond out limits
and every day concerns.
He teaches her something
of discovering, exploring.
Her open eyes
and expression
reveal amazement.
Each child should
have a father
like that--
one who opens up
the world
and gives her the stars--
even if all the windows
in his house
are covered
with cracks.
With his love
he gives her
bright stars.

Maura Gage Cavell bio

    Maura Gage Cavell is Professor of English and Director of the Honors Program at Louisiana State University Eunice. She resides in Crowley with her family. She has recently published poetry in California Quarterly, Poem, Louisiana Literature, Boulevard, and The Louisiana Review.

A White Procedural Mask

Back a millennia they burned and buried,
flames touching the Kingdom’s sky of rotting
evermore yet nothing changes nevermore,
homeless poor and cursed from stigma
and fear left to die in a capitalist ditch,
buried under like bringing out the dead,
black plague and buboes burning bodies
everywhere whether Witches
or not to suffer a God’s wrath, and
millions with flu, chicken or swine
learn their fate and die and die and die
while out of the hacks and sneezes
and enemy, ebola terrorism grows,
panic ensues us to run and hide
marking the doors of others less
pure, a bloody X or hand, a
kiss of death, an anonymous tip
they’re taken away not even a Jew,
just running a fever you’re whisked
away, then they come for your brothers
and sisters, a cold they say, and
then someday soon I’m quarantined
too, just because I looked this way

(book 1 from) Things Found in Books

an inscription in
The Edna Webster Collection of Undiscovered Writings
by Richard Brautigan
(Mariner Books, a Houghton Mifflin Company,
with three different copyright dates:
one
for the book itself,
one
for an introduction to the book,
and one
for a note explaining the book’s acquisition)
Inscribed to Seth & Jane
with love from Tina,
purchased
at City Lights Bookstore
on Labor Day 2000,
and
the inscription ended
with some stale hipster lingo
that won’t be repeated here

(book 2 from) Things Found in Books

an inscription in
Carl Sandburg’s Honey and Salt
Handwriting intermittently indecipherable,
to Tom somebody from Jan,
thanking him
for his help,
advice,
and patience
through difficult/trying times
(what were those difficulties?
what,
exactly,
did he do to help?
Interesting unanswered questions)
Below this
was more writing indecipherable,
except
for ’84,
and
the inscription ended with the wish that
[something yet again unreadable]
remain open,
which
brought about still more
interesting unanswered questions

The Instance of Being
(1st verse)

In an instant of being,
I can only breathe,
I can only slake
my thirst in undisturbed
reflection: private, ineffable,
unexpressed. It dies
the moment it lives, but lives
the present beautifully.

Arthritic

spring rain
but I am old,
everything creaks

Dutiful Daughter

I drive to three stores to buy
Her brand of cigarette
Then push her wheelchair out to
The nursing home patio so she can smoke
And catch myself, can it be the first time—
Swearing, saying bitch, beneath my breath

Hard Act To Follow

my first sweetheart
stole my picture
from our babysitter
we shared our coin collections with each other
he bought me chocolates in a heart-shaped box
in April
we sipped Shirley Temples
took a moonlit walk
we may have held hands
I don’t remember
or kissed
I don’t think so
hugged? maybe
we both went home

How did you enjoy the show?

We are watching Wheel of Fortune.
We are watching Jeopardy.
We are watching Winnie wring her hands
on the porch outside. Twenty-eight degrees.

She’s wearing sun-glasses but
no gloves against the cold. And
people are saying her son was cremated.
Saying her daughter-in-law stole.

We are watching Jerry Springer.
We are watching Dr. Phil.
Winnie tells me it’s worse to lose a son.
She tells that to her daughter too.

My mother’s in the window.
Peeking. I want to come in from the cold.
And I’ll ask her, Mrs. Lincoln, other than that
how did you enjoy the show?

flooded war memories

it was st. patrick’s day,
went to another country to see you

met up with you at a hotel
it was like we were never apart

we talked like old friends,
old war-time veterans

who fought in a war together
who shared our life stories

while sitting in a trench together
waiting for a bomb to strike

it was st. patrick’s day,
and everything seemed normal
and right

even though you lived far away
and even though we had different
life plans

it was st. patrick’s day,
i remember you laying down

in the bath tub, like a little boy,
splashing and playing in the water,

not even flinching that i was there
talking to you, naked in the tub

it was st. patrick’s day,
i wanted to get out, see the town

and you didn’t want to move
content in a dingy hotel room

all i could think was that
it was st. patrick’s day,

and i was in another country,
i wanted to get up and go

and i don’t know what snapped
in you on st. patick’s day,

but i was in a dress, ready to go,
and you knocked me down

i remember being knocked on to
one of those hotel beds

in my panty hose and dress,
and you strangled me

it was like you were in the war again
and you were fighting to the death

but i thought we were on
the same side

why are you trying to hurt me

and like a bull dog that finally listened
to the commands of their master,

you finally stopped, and
there i was, your ally,

the one that sat in the trenches
with you all those years ago

torn panty hose, bloody knees

i never thought you’d fight
one of your buddies, i swear

*

i got out and called for back up
in the hotel lobby

at the pay phone an older woman
came up to me, asking
if i was all right

her question stopped me
from hyperventilating

i looked down at my torn hose,
bloody knees

and I said,
i’m fine

*

i just knew i had to get out of there
before more shells fell

Whether or Not It Is From Religion

A.

“I’m ambidexterous. The nuns would hit my left hand
when I wrote because I was supposed to use my right hand.
When my right hand got tired when I
wrote a paper at home, I would just switch hands.”

Things are supposed to be a certain way,
aren’t they?
There can’t be anything different from the norm
you’ll have to abide by our rules

“who’s rules?” ours.
“I thought I was listening to God’s rules.”
We have interpreted God’s rules. It is for your own good.
“Doesn’t the Bible state that YOUR bahavior
    and your changing the Bible
                    is wrong?”

That is when the child was shut up again.
Quickly.

Sometimes rules are needed to be instilled
They didn’t care how the rules would be enforced
even though they preferred swiftly
            cunningly
                    and angrily.

 
B.

“She beat me because I spilled some milk.
She was showing me what Jesus would do.”

It is strange how people choose to instill the word of Christ
It is amazing how people get a “power trip”
                    by putting a ruler to someone’s hands

when you let someone else tell you that you can’t be married
when you let someone else tell you that you can’t have children
when you let someone else tell you that you can’t have sex
            (well, isn’t that why they molest little boys?)
when you let someone else tell you that you can’t drink
when you let someone else tell you that you can’t have any fun
when you let someone else tell you that you can’t have your life back

wouldn’t you do your damnedest
to take a little bit of life away from everyone else

well, that is probably what they did
they will take every power trip they can get

 
C.

“But when they go to a private school
they have better manners
than kids who went through a public school.
Kids just need that strict direction in their life.”

I knew a woman who went to a Catholic school
and she wore a ton of make-up
and she smoked and drank
and she screwed anything she could

I knew a woman who went to a public high school
and she was an honor student
and she was in a sport
and she never drank, and she never smoked
and she never did anything wrong
and she never went to church

maybe it is not religion
that keeps them in line
it could be that strictness
coming from anyone, like the parents, religions, or friends

it could be being raised with rules
or morals
or values
or standards

whether or not is is from religion
is irrelevant

JY asks

philosophers ask,
“if all we are are chemi-
cals, why do we cry?”

he thinks after a
loved one dies, and he is filled
with questions and angst

jabbed into an open nerve

I am afraid of what I might say
because it may sound like how I feel
like someone has jabbed a metal pin
against the open nerve of the exposed cavity
in my rat-like teeth

what does it feel like		to read a soul
		a soul like mine

I don’t know
but let me brace you:
rehashing this,
revealing this
it just
might
hurt

Observing Theories
of the Universe

Is the Universe expanding?
Scientists now say yes,
but some scientists say
that something doesn’t exist
until we observe it.

So with ever increasingly
powerful telescopes,
we see further
to the edges of the Universe.

So... Is it only expanding
because we gain the technology
to see farther and farther?
Are objects moving
farther and farther apart,
or are we just seeing —
and therefore creating
a larger and larger Universe?

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 three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , 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, 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.

Quiet

A cloud of pollen surrounded the machine
I sneezed and finished the landscaping
Sunlight pierced the haze and stimulated the imagination
I reclined the glove soft leather.

Pretty faces spread news and fear on high definition pixels
DVR temptation distracted momentarily
Discipline prevailed
And the power button restored tranquility.

Sunlight drenched the family room
A squirrel paused on the window sill
It nibbled on an acorn and moved on
Admiration of a manicured landscape soothed wounded creativity
What beauty will come out of the silence?

News Worthy

    Dammit! The cops sped up behind me and hit the lights. I pulled over. Both officers got out, the medium height and build sergeant stayed back behind the door. The rookie approached and adjusted his gun belt. I lowered my window. “License and insurance card.” I pulled the cards out my wallet.
    “What’s the problem, officer?” <>ILike I didn’t know.
    “Speeding...you doing 50 in a 35.” He bent down, looked in and gave the interior of my Avalon the once over. We stared at each other for a second. Damn, it couldn’t be the kid on the bike in the projects. The same stab wound on his right cheek. His eyes still cheerful, but probing. The thick lips and long pointy nose the same. Eight years hadn’t changed him for the most part. But, that squeaky voice shouting out on his bike, “Little guy coming through” matured. He walked back to his cruiser. I adjusted my mirror when they got in. His supervisor answered his cell and laughed. The rookie’s eyes were fixated on the computer screen.
    That day in the most dangerous housing project in the city came back to me.
    “A thousand degrees in the shade.” They said. The only shade in the projects, park the mail truck where the sun shines opposite the driver. I rolled the window all the way down, leaned back and closed my eyes. The heat and humidity zapped my energy and I nodded off.
    “Yo, mailman...mailman.”
    Somebody nudged my shoulder. My eyes popped open; I didn’t know where I was for a second. I wiped my mouth and turned. A tall muscular white guy with long blonde hair in baggy bleached khaki pants and a bare hairless chest stood by the door with a huge yellow python wrapped around his neck. “Whoa!” I leaned back against the mail. I was trapped by some asshole that looked like Tarzan or Conan the Barbarian.
    “Relax, he won’t hurt you!” The viper curled and stiffened with its head below its owners chin.
    “What do you want...you scared the mess out of me?”
    “Wake up, you drooling.” He walked away.
    Where in the hell was he going with that snake?
    The sun slapped me in the face when I u-turned, but I had to see the show. He stopped at the corner liquor store and turned slowly to display the snake. The brothers paid little, if any, attention. Ante-up on a drink had priority. That crazy white boy, they’d seen before; I hadn’t. A couple of kids spoke, but kept they’re distance. Typical street activity increased that time of the afternoon outside the rows of high rise buildings. Gunshots echoed from “The OK Corral” the nickname for the big parking lot behind the high rises. Time to go. Several times residents warned me of upcoming disputes between rival gangs. Nobody wanted the heat for shooting a federal employee. Thank God, my truck never got hit, but there’s always a first time.
    I cruised two blocks north on Larrabee and parked, but drug dealers argued with customers and gang members started to gather. I zipped around the block and when I returned the low-lifes had dispersed. I parked in front of the store and got a cold bottle of water. A teenager on a bike yelled, “Little guy coming through.” He zoomed around me and others. He’d changed from a black T-shirt to a blue sleeveless shirt, but I remember the stab wound on his cheek. He could be a drug mule or a dealer. He stopped by the lunatic with the Python. That’s when I first noticed “Exotic Pets” in bright colors on a black panel truck parked on the next block.
    So that’s what he’s up too, selling snakes.
    Selling exotic pets in the projects? I didn’t think so.
    The kid tossed Tarzan a plastic bag. Drugs, I knew it, but what idiot buys drugs with a snake around his neck? Leave it in the truck. He tossed a roll back and the kid rode away and cut the corner. Tarzan stopped between two old store front buildings. The kid on the bike shot out from between the structures; stopped, pulled a small pistol, fired at the snake and sped off. Blood gushed out the snake’s torso. It coiled around its owner’s neck. He grabbed at the thick yellow vipers body while spit flew out his mouth. Gasps were cut short by the constrictor’s painful efforts to recover from the wound. The guy tried to run, stumbled and landed on his face. His spun over and over again; the snakes grip couldn’t be broken. Veins bulged on his face from the strangulation that turned him cherry red. His bluish tongue hung out his mouth while he kicked and rolled. I stood close by the guy, helpless like the rest of the crowd. The snake made its final death squeeze; that’s when the victim’s terror filled eyes shot out their sockets. The crowd screamed in horror. I looked away and almost heaved up my lunch.
    “Dumb ass, deserved it for bringing a snake out here anyway,” People said.
    Some people have no compassion, even for stupidity.
    Sirens... the crowd scattered; I followed and headed back to the station. A dead white guy with a snake around his neck meant trouble.
    Who would believe this story? But, I still couldn’t wait to tell my fellow carriers especially the guys who worked the projects.
    Not all of them laughed, but they said, “You lying, Charlie. A Python in the projects? Yeah right.”
    “OK laugh, I bet it’ll be on the news. Who’d make up this stuff?” When I swiped out curiosity got the best of me. I made a beeline for the projects. I passed a Metro Ambulance and an Animal Control Vehicle headed in the opposite direction. The cops barricaded the entrance to Larrabee Ave, but a news truck was allowed through the road block. Now they’ll see I wasn’t lying.
    The Ten O’ Clock News promised a bizarre tragic story later in the broadcast.
    They lied and said the usual thing about the projects. They always decline to mention the outsiders who stir up trouble while supporting the drug trade.
    I lucked out; management approved my transfer the next day. No more deliveries in the projects.
    The cop got out the cruiser. I saw a piece of paper flop in the breeze. I hope he forgot I witnessed him being responsible for someone’s death. He pointed at the citation. “Well, mailman I put you down for below the ten miles over limit.” So much for him forgetting. “Go to court, I won’t be there...and out it goes. Slow down.” He gave me a hard look. “You know mailman, people do change...right?” I nodded. He got in his car and they drove off. Not a bad way of saying “Live and let live.” He will not see me speeding on that street again if I have anything to do with it.

Not Worth It

    Oscar Wilhelm scratched out the last typo of his final draft. His success over the years spreading White supremacy gave him goose bumps. His message had to be perfect. He fought to ignore his predicament. Too many drinks toasted to hatred of the mud races took its toll on his liver. It was a blessing it was cirrhosis instead of pancreatitis. God blessed him to be White; White medicine and White technology would extend his life. Maybe. At age fifty he had plenty of work to do. He’d only met one member of the transplant team. The demeanor of the tall, blonde gray-haired doctor with solid shoulders and the focused analytical observations of a skilled surgeon pleased him. “You’re in good hands here, Mr. Wilhelm.” The confidence in his voice helped suppress his depression.
    “Thanks, Dr. Grayson.” The surgeon left and he pushed aside the IV lines and carefully turned on his side to reach his tablet. He clicked on the microphone icon and took a deep breath. “Good morning, Aryan brothers.” Oscar started coughing. Pain shot through his chest like he’d been punched. He had to try again, this time with authority. No weakness or sickly syllables. He tried again; it hurt too badly. That damn monitor beeped and beeped. The Black nurse with the Bushmen hair at the nurse’s station knew not to enter his room. He made that clear upon his admittance. All she needed was a bone in her nose like the rest of them. He pitied those inferiors. A white female nurse slid the double glass doors open. Oscar teased the short overweight lady and called her Nurse Janie. “Hello, Nurse Janie, how are you?”
    “Heil, Mr. Wilhelm.” She snapped and that wiped the grin off his three-day bearded face. She glanced at the IV solutions and pressed the button on the monitor.
    “You don’t like me do you?”
    “I like all the human patients, Herr Wilhelm.” The nurse stood over him and flashed a sinister grin and walked out. He whispered, “Screw you,” and it hurt like hell. A couple of students congregated outside his room. They turned and looked. He didn’t like their expressions. Foreigners, where were the white students? A towering distinguished looking white guy built like a pro basketball player stepped into the crowd, his eyes locked on Oscar.
    What was that guy thinking?

    Several of my colleagues gathered outside the neo-Nazis room. The presence of men and women of color commiserating sicken him more. I stared at Wilhelm. The scowl on his face said it all.
    Die Jews, Blacks and the others!
    I smiled and waved at him. He turned his head toward window. He thought I was coming in. He thought wrong; the sight of him sickens me. And, I had to assist in transplanting a perfectly good liver from a more than likely, good human being to this piece of shit. But personal feelings can cloud my performance. I decide to suck it up and walk in his room.
    “Hello, Mr. Wilhelm.” I couldn’t understand a whisper. “Did you say something, Mr. Wilhelm?” He shook his head. I knew this guy from somewhere, but where? “You look familiar... ever been in South Carolina or there about?” His eyes bucked; he shook his head too fast. He’s lying. Jesus...It couldn’t be Peter Lyman. It had been over thirty years since he disappeared. Thirty years since that monster got acqitted for murder by a jury of backwoods rednecks. My family’s wounds healed to a manageable point. Peter Lyman... A drunken fool of questionable character sat on a ragged wooden porch with a high powered rifle and shot two Black teens in the back. He claimed he feared for his life.
    Shot in the back? Give me a break.
    The corner said he couldn’t tell the entry wounds. Really? The bullets went clean through one Black guy, ricocheted off a light pole and hit my big sister in the back. The below the waist paralysis devastated everybody who knew her. Mattie Robinson was a beauty queen. She had the thickest blonde hair that looked like she’d been at the beauty shop daily. Her high cheek bones and curves made her popular amongst the guys. They begged all the time. The depression killed her over time. My family denounced racism. But, our community protected White no matter what.
    Stupid! Wrong is wrong.
    Controversy was minimal; the powers that be rallied to Lyman’s side. Months after the acquittal, Lyman faded away. A rumor started he had been killed in a fiery crash with a gasoline tanker.
    The Robinson family didn’t buy it.
    Mattie encouraged me to do well in school and don’t be a hater. “Do not hate, Harmon, it can and will kill the spirit.” Sounds good...hard to do. If this racist was Peter Lyman I won’t tell the family. Why open old wounds? Look at the bright side, Harmon. Mattie lived to see you graduate from medical school. The smiles and congratulations I got put the biggest smile on her face that still warms my heart.
    I studied the fear or concern on the sagging wrinkles on the hate filled face of Oscar Wilhelm. The scars of a knife fight healed, but age and disease resurrected them. That multiple broken nose spaced yellow teeth and jaundice skin fit the monster in bed. “I’m Dr. Harmon Robinson, Mr. Wilhelm and I’ll be assisting Dr. Grayson. Am I Waspy enough for you?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Wilhelm’s whispered and his eyes rolled in their sockets. The meds started to kick in.
    “You know what it means... The whole hospital knows your preference, White, White and more White. The surgery is on the schedule and Dr. Grayson will be in the morning or at least before 3 PM. I’ll let you get some rest.” He nodded and I walked out.
    I wanted to cut his IV, but that would piss off others. They wanted to do it. I reached over the nurse’s station counter and turned the monitor around. I hit a key that brought up all Wilhelm’s info. Forget updates on his condition, I needed to see if anything suggested he was Lyman. I remembered a retired FBI agent who said if I ever needed a favor let him know, within the law, of course. Now was the time. If Lyman changed his name he could find out. Free of charge, of course.
    Carter Wilson appreciated us saving his wife’s life. I made a radical call for a procedure that shocked everybody when it worked. It was one hell of a crapshoot. He trusted my judgment. Good thing I kept his number. I hit the speed dial.
    “Hello.”
    “How’s the weight, Mr. Wilson, you get your six pack back?” Wilson spent hours fishing and drinking beer all day. Other than his gut he was solid from head to toe.
    “Hey Doc, how are you? And, no I gave up on it and decided to keep it.” He laughed, he sounded in a good mood.
    “I’m good, I need a favor.”
    “Okay, shoot.”
    “There’s a real asshole in the hospital, one of those White Supremacist leaders. A guy name Oscar Wilhelm, can you find out if he changed his name?” I asked and crossed my fingers.
    “Is that all?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Shit.” He sighed. “I thought you wanted something. Where is he from?”
    “South Carolina.”
    “South Carolina.” He repeated and then silence. “Anything challenging, Dr. Robinson? Hell, I’ll do this in no time. Gimme an hour, I got to go ashore. I’ll wrap it up for the day. Nothing biting anyway.”
    “Thanks, Carter.”

    I slammed the glass of the sandwich machine. That was the second time this week the iron pimp tried to rip me off. Two more bangs and it should drop. I attracted enough attention. A good nudge would do it. Bam! It worked.
    “Yeah, it dropped.” A few of my colleagues said. The changes you go through for ham and cheese. My cell rang. Carter, that was quick.
    “Yeah, Carter.”
    “I got it,” he said. “Oscar Wilhelm used to be Peter Lyman. Why do you ask anyway?”
    I knew it!
    “Nothing really... I hate not being able to place a face.”
    Carter grunted. “Okay, if you say so.”
    “I forgot to ask, how’s my former patient?”
    “She’s doing great. She’s whipping up some pepper steak.”
    “Sounds good, give her my regards. Thanks again, got to go, I’ll be in touch.” I lied. Wilson was a good guy, but I’m not a fisherman and I’m not going to Florida anyway. I had to think, did Lyman recognize me? I was young when he shot my sister, but did he remember the name? The SOB was half dead let nature take its course. I wish I would. His vulnerability made me feel good. I needed a different approach. Wilhelm didn’t want to be touched by anybody other than a White person. The thought of a Black on the team would kill him.
    Thought... The keyword. Make him think.

    Jahmal Brown walked into the cafeteria. He headed straight for the coffee machine. I called and waved him over. His eyes dropped while he sized up a nursing student. Typical young guy. Jahmal, the good guy with the problem. He hated to come to work. That was my theory. It could not be difficult, maybe boredom. The transporters made a good wage at County General. Jahmal’s authoritative air gave people in the hospital the impression he was a doctor or an administrator. He wore clean press scrubs daily; no braids, clean-shaven. A well liked guy that White people approved which was rare at this hospital. County General isn’t a racist institution, but the privileged don’t take to everybody. Jahmal pulled out the chair and smiled. “Dr. Robinson, what can I do for you? Oh, hello, where’s my manners? It’s not every day I get an invite to sit with a doctor.” He emptied two sugars into his cup, stirred slowly and awaited my reply. Curiosity oozed out his pores.
    “Well, nothing really, but I’ll get to the point. I know you got issues with management.” I hesitated; I wanted to put the question to him right. “You still want to work here?”
    He looked disgusted. “Yeah, but it might be too late. I gave it some thought and my plans to go elsewhere ain’t lookin’ good at all.” He shrugged. “I think, excuse my language, I fucked up.”
    I saw the sincerity in his eyes. “I think I can help with ‘Shithead Smith’ if you like.” Tommy Smith, the fat Latino chief administrator everybody hated, owed me a favor from years ago when I chose not to answer certain questions about one of his decisions.
    Jahmal’s eyes brightened. “You can... You will? But, what will that cost me?”
    “Nothing really, all I need for you to do is put on a lab coat, hold a clipboard and stand next to me in a room with a certain irritating patient.”
    “Let me guess, Doc, the Nazi.” He took a sip of his coffee. I nodded. “Okay, cool with me.”
    “Good. I cannot guarantee anything, but I’m pretty sure...”
    “I know, I know, Doc and thanks.”
    “Give me your cell and I’ll hit you when I need you.” We exchanged numbers.

    Oscar Wilhelm looked the six foot Black guy up and down. “Who’s that with you, Doc?”
    “That’s Dr. Simmons, a team member.”
    “A team member?”
    “Yes... A team member.” Dr. Robinson said. Oscar made it clear, “nobody touches him other than whites.” What the hell was wrong with them? Where the hell was Grayson? “I want to see the chief whatever around here about my requests.” Wilhelm didn’t take his eyes off the inferior. How they make it through medical school was beyond him. He heard they graded on a curve and only let them work on or diagnose their own kind. If you think you’ll touch me you are one crazy nigger. When he talks to the head guy Robinson had to go. “Is my liver here?”
    “It will be here in the morning as scheduled.” Dr. Simmons moved close to the White Supremacist and pressed a button on a machine.
    Wilhelm’s eyes bucked. “Stay away... Don’t touch me,” he whispered. He drew up, which was a waste. Where was he going on the floor? He wanted to slap that grin off Simmons face.
    “I will notify the chief you want to see.” They walked out.
    The nerve of those people. He’d wait for a liver before they’d touch him. He won’t die, God had plans for him. His race needed him and his followers needed him. If that Black guy touched him he’d die...he’d rather die than let that happen.

    Stuart Miller, the chief of surgery called me in his office at 8AM. His tan looked good and his toupee was groomed perfectly. He thought every nurse loved him. Nothing wrong with being confident, but good muscle tone and overpriced clothes didn’t make you a ladies’ man. But, with cash and a Ferrari people would beg to differ. “I’ll get to the point Dr. Robinson. Who the hell is a Black doctor named Simmons?”
    “I don’t know, never heard of him.” I lied.
    “Well, Mr. Wilhelm’s has put his surgery on hold.”
    “Oh my God, why?” I tried to look surprised, but I didn’t think he fell for it.
    “He doesn’t trust us and he’s leaving... AMA, of course.”
    Miller frowned. “I hate to see anybody commit suicide even an asshole like that.”
    “Well, I have nothing to do with that. The med’s made him delusional.”
    “Yeah right. Okay, that’s all.” Miller continued pecking at the computer keyboard.
    It worked! Good bye, Peter Lyman!
    I give you a couple of days or a week, tops. Your hatred and fear of Blacks will be a blessing to the next person on the transplant list.
    I picked up the house phone. “Hello, Supervisor Smith, how are you this fine morning?” I asked with sarcasm in my voice.
    “What do you want, Dr. Robinson?”
    “You’re being rude. You’re supposed to return the greeting.” Smith cleared his throat as loud as possible. “That favor you owe me I’m calling it in... Jahmal Brown gets a second chance. He deserves it, okay?”
    “Okay, we are even.” He slammed the receiver. I hit my speed dial.
    “Hello.”
    “Jahmal, you got your second and last chance. Use it wisely.”
    “Thanks, Doc, I heard your boy left.” He laughed.
    “What boy?” I laughed and hung up.

    Two months later and that damn Oscar Wilhelm’s/Peter Lyman still breathed and spread his hatred online.
    Why was that SOB still alive!
    I got my ass chewed for not being more aggressive in keeping him in the hospital. The beloved County General Health Group worried about their reputation. Wilhelm cried foul. We’re trying to kill him and infect him because he knew the Aryan race’s superiority. Blah, blah, blah. He wasn’t misdiagnosed; new liver or death. Simple. I kept my head down Dr. Grayson, in my opinion, convinced Chief Miller my progressive views caused a problem. Damn office politics. He didn’t like me anyway. The board suggested a leave of absence would be appropriate or a suspension pending my appeal, of course. If I told those idiots why he should be dead would they care? No. And that’s okay. I need a break.
    I bumped into Jahmal in the parking lot. He looked well, at ease and stress-free. “You look okay, Jahmal.” I said. It felt good to help somebody not just heal bodies.
    “Thanks, Doc I can’t thank you enough. I heard that Nazi checked in St. Regis for surgery. I thought our visit would finish him.” He gave me that strange expression.
    “I don’t follow you, Jahmal.” I lied again.
    “Yeah right, I was headed that way to pick up my lady friend. I should stick my head in his room, that will scare the crap out of him.”
    “Don’t do that... I want to join you. I’ll meet you there.”
    “You serious?” Jahmal asked.
    “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.” I walked up the ramp and nearly got hit by a blond in a Mercedes. The humidity drained me. I sat in my Camry, wiped my forehead and let the AC blast me dry.

    St. Regis was the snobs’ hospital. If you were not rich, don’t go there. They denied that rumor, but who cared. You can die anyway. How did Wilhelm’s get admitted? This place was ideal for his type. No Jews or Blacks on the staff. We got visitors passes to the administrative wing. A former colleague waited for me. Jahmal branched off to find his friend. When I find Wilhelm I’d hit his cell.
    Dr. Deborah Manning hugged me like she wanted to have sex...again. Fine with me, but the glass walls of her office kept me from caressing her the way I wanted. Her short haircut accented her big eyes and only a blind man could miss her wide hips. Deborah pulled out of surgery after her hand got broke in an auto accident. She was still one hell of a teacher. She offered to show me around. We exited the elevator. Jahmal waited by the nurse’s station. I introduced them and we headed down the hall. At the end Dr. Stuart Miller stepped out of a doorway, his back was turned while he spoke to somebody. I panicked for a second. I grabbed Jahmal’s arm. “Stay here, better yet turn go back...duck in a room. Don’t let Miller see you.” He nodded and obeyed. Miller turned and walked across the hall. I crossed my fingers and breathed a sigh of relief when he went in. But, he popped out as we turned. Dammit. If we’d made it he would’ve missed us.
    “Dr. Robinson, what you doing here?” Miller smiled at Deborah. The smirk on his face said it all. “Can we have a word, Dr. Robinson?”
    We stood in the middle of the hall. Deborah kept going. “What are you doing here?”
    “I’m visiting a friend, obviously.” My tone hardened; I got ready to let him have it.
    “You sure?” He snapped.
    “Yeah, I sure am. You can see can’t you? What I do on my time is... I’ll let you finish that.”
    Miller sighed. “Wilhelm’s in that room don’t go in there. He’s scared of you and the imaginary Dr. Simmons, so you say. I got an idea who it might be.” I knew he didn’t expect me to answer the question written on his face.
    “So and why? And, I’m not going in there.”
    “You know why. He doesn’t trust us...you. It took a while to regain his trust.”
    “Fuck his trust, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
    His eyes lit up and he turned red. “Be careful Dr. Robinson, you’re in enough trouble. Our job is to heal regardless. Right?” I didn’t say a word, my expression said it all.
    “Trouble, I don’t deserve.” Miller thought he was slick. Whatever he planned he still had no proof of misconduct or neglect or whatever he imagined. Jahmal was a technician/transporter; moving equipment from rooms was part of his job. When we dropped in on Wilhelm he swapped out a blood pressure monitor.
    Too bad Dr. Miller, the imaginary Dr. Simmons did his job.
    I walked away. If I hadn’t, I was putting my job in serious jeopardy. I should tell him the situation and to hell with this job. I’ll find another one. Reality set in. I worked for powerful vindictive people.
    Don’t hang yourself.
    Look at the bright side, he might reject the transplant and other diseases could kill him. It became clear playing God would hurt me, not him. He had a foot in the grave. Time will tell what happens. But, once I’m reinstated transfer to another facility. It won’t be easy, but forget Oscar Wilhelm/Peter Lyman.

Gay Days

    Manda positioned the pictures of herself and the other five cheerleaders on the yearbook lay out pages. She tilted her head to the left and then to the right. She pursed her lips; it wasn’t quite right. As the freshman editorial assistant, who was in line to be the editor her senior year, she wanted it to be as nearly perfect as possible. A frown puckered her brow. She shifted the pictures around a bit and repositioned the main caption a little further down the page.
    A noise made her look up. Fern rushed into the yearbook room. Fern Ford was a junior and the assistant editor of the yearbook. She would be the editor next year when Amanda was a sophomore in charge of all ordering of pictures and other business aspects of the school annual.
    “Hi Fern, what’s happening?” Manda asked. She noticed that Fern looked pale and upset.
    “Oh Manda, you’re not going to believe what happened this morning in the band building,” Fern said breathlessly. “It’s awesome, girlfriend. Ray was caught with Gerald in a practice room.”
    Wrinkling her brow and shrugging her shoulders Manda asked, “So what’s the big deal? Ray’s training Gerald to take over as drum major the year after next.”
    “No! No! Manda, you don’t get it. They were hugging and kissing.”
    “Who caught them?”
    “The Band Director.
    “It would have to be Mr. Shaw. He’s the most rigid teacher I’ve ever known. I’ll bet the busy bodies and goody two shoes gossipers are wagging their tongues all over school. Before long they’ll be talking about it all over this narrow minded town. Good ole Lake Haven, bigoted little citrus town. Poor Ray.” Tears glistened in Amanda’s eyes.
    “I’m with you,” Fern agreed. “By the way, they’ve both been suspended.”
    “I hope that doesn’t mean Ray will lose his position as the drum major. I mean I’d be happy for you to have it, but. . . “
    “Oh Manda, I wouldn’t want it under these conditions. I’m happy being the head majorette.”
    “Fern, we have our work cut out for us. We’ve got to try to reform public opinion in this mean little town, which is barely out of village status. We’re nearly in the middle of the 20th Century and its high time the bigots let go of their prejudices toward gays and lesbians.”
    “You’re right and unfortunately, we have few allies in school or out. I’ll do what I can on both fronts. I know you’ll do the same. I need to get back to class.”
    “Okay. I’ll see you after school.”
    In a few minutes the bell rang for fourth period. Manda locked the yearbook room door and headed for Algebra I. When she arrived two of the seven boys who sat around her were gossiping about Ray.
    “Did you know that Langford dude was a queer?” Paul asked Jimmy.
    “Well, no man, not exactly, but I always thought there was something weird about him,” Jimmy replied.
    Manda lit into Paul and Jimmy with fire in her eyes, “Listen you gossipy twerps; Ray is no ‘queer.’ He may have different tastes than you all, but he’s attracted to girls too.”
    “Ah, er, um ahem,” Paul said as he was temporarily reduced to a sort of incoherent non-speech. Paul finally stammered in regular speech “H-H-How d-do you k-know?”
    For a moment Manda hesitated. Then she threw caution to the winds and said, “I know because we rode together in the back seat of Joe Steven’s car to an after church social. I was just finishing the seventh grade. He came on to me extremely strong. You wouldn’t believe it. He grabbed me and started French kissing me before I knew what was happening. I had to scratch his hands with my fingernails to make him stop putting them on me where I didn’t want them.”
    Paul and Jimmy were speechless, but there was a dedicated gossiper to take their places. Susie said “Well, maybe Ray has changed a lot recently. Maybe he goes for both sexes now. Now that’s even queerer.” Mumbles of agreement came from everyone in the vicinity, except Lloyd.
    “Nice try, Manda,” Lloyd said to her as he squeezed her fair arm with his coffee colored hand, “it’s difficult to convince close-minded bigots.”
    Lloyd, you’d better watch who you are calling what,” Susie whined.
    “Oh shut up, you gossip freak,” Manda said sharply. “We need a Chapter of Gossips Anonymous in Lake Haven, and you should be its charter member, Susie.”
    “Class!” Ms. Williams announced. “its time to settle down and work algebra problems,”
    “Thanks Lloyd,” Manda whispered to her friend and squeezed his arm in turn. “Your support is appreciated.”
    “I’m happy to give it,” Lloyd whispered back, “I hate homophobia. It’s related to both racism and sexism. They all sort of feed off each other.”
    “Hey Manda,” Carlos called to her from across the aisle. “Can you help me with this problem?”
    “Sure Carlos,” Manda said. After she explained to Carlos the way to work the problems assigned for the day, she whispered to Lloyd, “Hey listen, I think I need to change my approach if I’m going to help Ray.”
    Yes,” Lloyd agreed, “Do you have any ideas?”
    “Okay, I think I’ve come up with some. We live in a democracy of sorts. This democracy is supposed to support everyone’s right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness regardless of race, color, and creed. Gays are included in most situations and should be in all of them, including the one here. “Yes, and in the past few decades many good laws and court decisions have been written in favor of gays.”
    “Right and I need to learn the details of that. Anyway, the bigots all claim to be Christians, and there are some good messages in the Bible which go along with the democratic creed. Among them are that only those free of sin should condemn and judge others. Now I don’t believe being gay or lesbian is a sin any more than having blue eyes is. However the bigots do believe this is sinful, but most of them realize they are not perfect. It all kind of boils down to the moral equality of all humans when basic rights are concerned. The government’s aspect of this is the constitutional guarantee that one is innocent until proven guilty beyond a doubt.”
    “That’s good, Manda, and that’s the approach all of us should take who support Ray and Gerald. They don’t deserve any worse punishment than if they had been a boy and a girl caught doing the same things. They had all of their clothes on. I’m sure of that. They were locked in a tight embrace on a bench in the practice room. That wouldn’t merit any more than a severe reprimand if it had been a male and a female.”
    “That’s right on target,” Manda replied. “And now I feel as if I’m on solid ground, and thanks to you, I have a pretty clear picture of what happened.”
    When the bell rang for Amanda’s lunch period, she walked past Susie and whispered, “Hey Susie, only if you are without sin should you cast stones at my friend Ray, as Jesus Christ said.”
    “Huh? What’s that?” Susie asked.
    “I think you heard me,” Manda replied.
    “Well, Jesus condemned queers,” Susie countered.
    “No, he didn’t,” Manda disagreed. “Show me in your Bible where he said any such thing. Also, the laws in the U. S. don’t condemn them any more either. Think about what your Bible actually says.” She then picked up her pace to get to the lunchroom.
    After basketball practice Manda and Fern walked up town together to get soft drinks. They went to a small restaurant attached to the town’s only drug store. Manda slid in a booth. Fern sat across from her. As they sipped their sodas, they heard the store’s short pudgy owner, Mr. Snelling, talking to Mr. Nutt, a local realtor whose tall scrawny form hovered over the other man. The two men were standing a few feet away near the cash register.
    “Isn’t that awful about that drum major boy and the younger one?” Mr. Snelling asked.
    “Yeah. That older kid needs to be kicked out of school.” Manda frowned at them. “Who are you to judge this young man? He’s different, but he deserves the same consideration and rights as any other human being.”
    “He’s a good person and deserves no more than a scolding,” Fern added.
    The men looked at the girls. At first they were too startled to speak. Then the Mr. Snelling sputtered, “It’s, it’s uh, uh, not normal for boys to be attracted to boys.”
    “That’s true,” agreed Mr. Nutt. “Are you two involved in some kind of crazy radical stuff?”
    “We aren’t crazy,” Amanda replied. “That’s for sure, and if radical means being opposed to bigotry in all forms, then yes, we’re radicals and proud of it. Let’s go, Fern. This is the last time I’m coming in here.”
    That evening Manda called Ray. “Hello,” a female voice answered.
    “Hello, Ms. Langford, this is Manda Blake. May I please speak to Ray?”
    “Now listen if this is another hate call,” the mother said angrily.
    “Oh no ma’am, it’s just the opposite. It’s a call of love and friendship.” Amanda said.
    “Bless you, Manda. I’ll get Ray. I think he’s outside. As she waited, Amanda said out loud, but not such that it could be heard over the phone. “She must be really freaked out; she knows Ray and I are close friends who love each other. And too, a hate caller would have to be dumb beyond belief to give his or her name.
    “Hello,” Ray answered. He sounded drained and sad.

    “Ray, this is Manda. I want you to know I’m doing all I can to counter the bigotry and narrow minded hatefulness of this stupid little town,”
    “Oh Manda, I’m so scared and tired.” He began to weep. Through his sobbing he said, “Thanks for not thinking I’m a bad person.”
    “Ray, I could never think that. Is there anything I can do for you?”
    “You are already doing plenty,” Ray answered. “Manda, you’re such wonderful friend,” Ray answered.
    “Thank you,” Manda said. “We’ll keep on fighting, and we won’t give up.”
    “That sounds good,” Ray replied. “Thanks much for calling.”
    Manda and her allies continued their defense of Ray for the next three days talking with as many students and adults as they could. They circulated a petition Manda was to present to the assistant principal. She was at home the second evening when around 8:15 the phone rang. Amanda answered it only to a voice hiss, “Manda Blake, you queer loving bitch.”
    The next day in algebra class Manda turned to Lloyd, “I got my first hate call last night. It wasn’t fun at all.”
    “It simply goes with the territory when you are brave enough to take stands on issues that are unpopular with rednecks and other bigots, Manda. My parents worked in the civil rights movement in the 1960’s and 70’s. They received many hate calls, including some death threats. As they tell me when things get stressful, ‘Lloyd, keep courage.’”
    “Oh Lloyd! I love that. Will I be that smart when I get to be a junior? I mean that is super cool.”
    Ms. Webb was temporarily out of the room. Lloyd got out of his desk and did a deep bow for Manda.
    She broke into a sunny smile and said, “I’m going to see Mr. Garcia during my lunch period. I’ll present our petition to him. We’ve got fifty signatures on it supporting Ray and Gerald’s equal rights in school with those of male and female couples.”
    “I hope our assistant principal is in a good mood,” Lloyd replied.
    When the bell rang Manda dashed out of the classroom and ran through the main building to the outside. She bounded into the annex where the school cafeteria was housed. After getting her tray and sitting down, she gobbled down her lunch and within six minutes, she was in the main office.
    “You may come in now, Amanda,” Mr. Garcia called from his office door. As she sat, he asked, “What can I do for you today?”
    “I’ve got a petition I want to present to you. It supports Ray and Gerald’s return to school with the same punishments a boy and girl would get under similar circumstances.”
    After looking at the petition for a few seconds he said, “My goodness, you’ve been the busy little social activist, haven’t you? Hee Hee. Let me assure you that we’ll take this under serious consideration.”
    Manda noticed he was shifting back and forth in his chair, and that he would not look her in the eyes. This made Amanda a little more than suspicious of the administrator. She asked, “Would it help if I got more signatures, Mr. Garcia?”
    “Uh no these are sufficient. Is there anything else?”
    “No, except thanks much for seeing me.”
    When school opened the next day, Gerald returned. Manda was upset when Ray did not appear. She called him after basketball practice.
    Ray answered, “Hello,” in a forlorn tone of voice.
    “What’s going on? Gerald’s back at school. Why aren’t you?”
    “Oh God, Manda, I’ve got to leave Lake Haven. They won’t let me go back unless I agree to see a shrink twice a month for the rest of my schooling here. I’d probably be given some of that awful anti-psychotic medicine. Mother’s furious. She’s sending me to Orlando to finish school. I have an aunt and uncle there. I can live with them.”
    “Oh Ray!” Manda burst into tears. “Garcia promised me yesterday that our petition would be given serious consideration. Now I realize he was lying. Their minds were already made up. Let’s at least write to each other.”
    “I’d love that Manda,” After they hung up the phone, Manda recalled her experience in the car with Ray. He acted from pure feelings with no thoughts of harming her. Ray is the kindest person I know. Then she thought I’m sure his encounter with Gerald was the same as the one with me in the sense that it was without evil or meanness. Not only that, Gerald was a willing participant.
    She wondered how many other ‘Rays’ are suffering the same kinds of prejudices. Here a few of us did what we could to change attitudes. We don’t lots of success right now, but we did strengthen our commitment and our dedication to work on gay and other human rights problems. We also now have a community whose members are bonded over these shared concerns. We learned a whole lot about social problems that we never could in a social studies class, and we have come to believe that our efforts can make the world a better place.

The Promotion

    Dr. Samantha Whitman, a thirty-seven year old associate professor at Auburn University, was waiting to see if the Tenure and Promotion Committee would promote her to full professor as her credentials were impeccable.*
    From her second quarter at Auburn, Jan. 1972, Samantha had taught graduate courses each term. Eventually two of them became her load. Her chairperson, Dr. Floyd Robison, wanted to give her a slightly lighter load to allow her time to publish and keep Auburn on the map for reasons other than how the football team was doing. As long as Floyd was head, these two courses and the supervision of graduate students who taught the undergraduate social foundations of education class, constituted her load. The class was Samantha’s brain child.
    Her course was distinctive for several reasons. One was that Samantha guided other foundations faculty members in establishing laboratory experiences based upon the anthropological participant-observation research method. The students observed and recorded interactions, behaviors, and activities for an hour of the two they spent in lab. The other hour they helped the teachers in any way they needed and that was growth producing for the university students. They tutored, created educative displays, and presented short lessons, among other things.
    Later the students turned the data they collected into mini-ethnographies in which they established the structure of relations, behavior patterns, and values which were characteristic of the student group and teacher. The students read an excellent ethnography by Gerry Rosenfeld, Shut Those Thick Lips: Can’t You Act Like a Human Being? before doing lab work. This ethnography focuses upon the students’ sad situation in a New York City slum school.
    Floyd resigned as Department Head in 1978; he could not abide the new dean, a coward who lacked integrity. Mack Blackburn replaced Truman Pearce, the best and strongest education dean Samantha ever met. Mack’s lack of character strength was a shock after working with Truman since 1963.
    A search was conducted which Blackburn ruined. The committee recommended four candidates. The dean nixed the best of them. The Dean was a gay man as was Will Pinar, the candidate he eliminated. Will at only thirty-one was an associate professor at The University of Rochester. He was a journal editor having created the Journal of Curriculum Theorizing. He published three books and several articles, and understood the Auburn culture better than any of the others. The dean may have been threatened by Pinar’s accomplishments and progressive perspective.
    The dean tried to hire mild mannered, unthreatening, Dr. Murray Millman, who was unsatisfactory to half the department, including Samantha. This group raised cane, They wrote to Millman telling him that as far they were concerned, he was not wanted in the department. They told him this in person when he visited a second time. He withdrew his application.
    Mack refused to finance more out side searches. This meant the foundations members had to settle for a person in the department. Spencer got in as chair in summer, l978. No one was enthused about him, but the alternatives were no better. Out of bitterness and revenge, he saw to it that Samantha taught an undergraduate class every term. It had irked him that she always got two graduate seminars when Floyd was head. Samantha did not mind, but the fact was she was an amazingly good graduate level teacher. Glowing reports from her graduate students, and the fact that she served on 35 doctoral committees demonstrated this.
    Spencer’s festering resentment toward Samantha began when they team taught a large undergraduate class the first fall after each was hired. Spencer discovered that Samantha was far more creative and talented than he. He wanted to jump on her band wagon by doing joint projects and publications. Samantha saw through his self serving agenda and avoided projects which exploited her imaginative capacities. She bruised his ego by refusing to have an erotic relationship with him. Many women were attracted to him before he soon got fat, but Samantha was not one of them. He knew she had extra-marital relations with full disclosure to her spouse and soul mate, Gabriel Timmerman. That irked him too. He lied to his wife.
    Samantha was working from 1980 through l983 on a small grant received by chaired history professor, Dr. Don Lewis. Don, Samantha, another history professor, an English professor, and a religion professor worked as a team to create an honors course in the history of civilization in relation to technological developments. The course was for freshman physical science and related majors, e. g., engineering and pharmacy.
    Spencer’s resentment was increased when Samantha refused to allow him to dump another course on her when she was working at least one-third time on the grant. The first year involved enormous amounts of reading to decide what would be the best ones for the course. The second year the course was taught. All the team attended most of the meetings. Don did much of the teaching. Samantha did two lectures on Giambattista Vico because he was among the first thinkers to introduce organic ideas into his philosophy, freeing science and technology from a narrow mechanical paradigm. She gave two lectures on similar ideas in Walt Whitman’s poetry and prose and one on William Blake’s poetry.
    Lewis’s work overlapped the supervision of the graduate students. Then in 1980 the undergraduate sequence was changed. The course she created in social foundations was combined with the history and philosophy of education. This movement left no time for Samantha’s laboratory experiences, unless much important content was sacrificed. A worthless course was added; “Number Crunching” 101 called officially ”research and measurement,” and the lab was sacrificed.
    Dr. Lewis insisted that Samantha’s work with him was part of her load. Spencer had the gall to say she was getting paid and thus it could not be counted as part of her load. The “pay” amounted to thirteen dollars a quarter for each faculty member. Samantha rolled her eyes on this one for a long time when she saw Spencer. That was the smallest honorarium which the team had heard. The honors group laughed and joked about it.
    The grant was only for $20,000. Money was needed to copy the readings the team examined to determine what the honors course readings would be. Some money was needed to teach certain aspects of the class, and to travel around talking about the honors class to various academic and educative groups. The team presented papers at the Alabama Academy of the Sciences in Birmingham, the National Society for Engineering Education in Huntsville, and the Southeastern Regional Honors Council in Nashville. The traveling took much of the money, especially for gas, restaurants, and hotel rooms.
    When she decided to apply for promotion, Samantha was working on the first year of the grant in winter l980. She spent several hours filling out the application and getting it perfect. Several days before the deadline, she turned it in to the departmental office to be sent to the Tenure and Promotion Committee.
    A few minutes after she handed it in, Spencer came to her office and said, “Sam, I’m not allowing you to go up for promotion. You haven’t been very cooperative since I became department head, and you don’t follow rules or fulfill the expectations of the administration.”
    “You might have told me of this ‘ah er’ ‘disobedience’ criteria before I spent the time filling the application out.”
    He left mumbling some excuse.
    Samantha was hurt, confused, and angry. She wondered if he had the authority to block her application for such trivial reasons or for any reasons. During the time Samantha thought Spencer might block her promotion, she thought about the sorry crude Spencer happily supported. This relatively incompetent man had been at Auburn for six years before Samantha and was only now going up for full professor. Ben Lauderdale was still an assistant professor when Samantha came to Auburn. She was promoted to associate professor her second year. He had one-third the publications Samantha had and few presentations at academic and scholarly meetings. This man had done little to distinguish himself as a scholar. His only claim to the extraordinary was that he was unusually rigid, cantankerous, and hateful to any colleague with whom he disagreed. Before Samantha had a chance to think about what to do, Phil Spencer came back around to her office, figuratively speaking, with his tail between his legs.
    “It seems that you can go up for promotion. Dr. Littlefield’s office told me that it is strictly up to the professors as to whether or not they’ll go up.”
    Samantha and Taylor, the Vice President for Academic Affairs and a Shakespearean scholar, were friendly. They shared fundamental values regarding the university, scholarship, and professional ethics. They discovered these commonalities through university-wide committee work. She was smiling inside in appreciation of Taylor’s integrity. With a poker face she returned the application to Spencer, whose resentment quotient went up a good bit as he stomped off. Samantha laughed at his lack of knowledge regarding the extent and limitations of his power. Samantha felt this was the first thing one should learn when accepting positions of power. She felt as if she had been on a roller-coaster after the morning’s events.
    She called her live-in soul mate, Gabriel Timmerman. When he answered she said, “Oh what a weird morning I’ve had, but it turned out spectacularly! I turned the promotion stuff into the secretary. In a few minutes here comes ‘Polyester’ to my office. He told me he wasn’t going to ‘allow’ me to go up for promotion. I was angry after spending that time filling all that stuff out with your help.”
    “Sweetness, you had the right to feel livid or even murderous.”
    “For a few minutes I did, but before I could decide what to do, he came humbly back. I had doubts that he had the authority to do this. Taylor’s office informed him that he had no authority to stop a professor from going up for promotion.” Gabriel exclaimed, “Great! And thank goodness that creep ‘Polyester’ got told he over stepped the bounds of his thankfully limited power. Congratulations, Sweetness.
    “Thanks. You know the struggle isn’t over. Spencer and Blackburn will keep the path hot to the T and P Committee to try and trash my name. They’ll do whatever they can to block my promotion. I don’t know what that means. Their only ground is
    I, a grown woman, do not slavishly do everything certain administrators tell me to.”
    Gabriel replied, “I don’t think their objections are going to mean much to the committee. I have complete faith in Taylor Littlefield. He has always done right by you, and he has enormous honesty and integrity. He’s not going to put up with that drivel. And I’m certain that he makes sure the professors who are appointed to the committee are persons of integrity and honesty as he is, I. e., people with whom he can work.”
    “You’re right about that, my love. Maybe I have a better chance than I thought when I considered that I’m by no means in Spencer’s or Blackburn’s good graces. I still have my doubts though.”
    Samantha did not give the promotion matter much further thought. It could be a month or even six weeks before the T & P Committee’s decisions were made public. When that day arrived, Samantha was in the office. She soon realized that Gabriel’s optimism was justified; she had been promoted. She was elated as were all of her progressive colleagues, and of course the ever progressive, soon to be Gabriel Timmerman, PhD.
    She was curious how the committee handled the Blackburn’s and Spencer’s labels of “disobedient’ and “insubordinate.” Samantha called them “progressive.” In a few days Samantha ran into a friend from the Accounting Department. They had both been in the main cafeteria and met when they were going outside.
    “Hello Dan,” Samantha greeted him. She was going from the cafeteria to the 10 story building where her office was on the 4     * She had published ample essay length articles, shorter book reviews, and had given several presentations at impressive academic and professional meetings. She spoke to the membership of the Alabama Education Association on “Censorship, Academic Freedom, and the Public School Teacher,” published in the Journal of Curriculum Theorizing, Vol. 5, No. 1 (summer, l983). She presented a paper at a symposium called Vico/Venice in the Italian City of that name. The paper was on the commonalities between John Dewey and Giambattista Vico, the 17^th and l8th centuries Italian philosopher, who was obscure until the 20^th century due to being far ahead if his time. “Dewey and Vico: Toward a Humanistic Foundation for Contemporary Education,” is published in Vico Past and Present, Giorgio Tagliacozzo, ed. (New York: Humanities Press, l981). She presented a paper at the American Industrial Arts Association annual meeting in Seattle titled “Social and Cultural Perspectives on a Humane Technology for the Future,” published in Industrial Arts and a Humane Technology for the Future. (Washington D C.: AIAA, 1974). These and other publications and presentations have a scope and depth that made her an internationally known scholar in Latin America, North America, and Europe. Most of her publications were in journals with a 90% turn down rate. Samantha was a member of the editorial board of the Journal of Curriculum Theorizing, whose duties were to set journal policies and make recommendations as to whether or not to publish certain manuscripts in JCT. She had done consulting work with the Southeastern Teachers Corps and some publishing companies.

Aim for the Medulla

    I was in high school. Party over Jimmy’s. Saturday night. He pushed a projector into the room. “Look what I got on super 8. Transferred from 35 mm. People all over the web are looking for this. And they’ll never find it. The police confiscated this film back when it happened, in 72. They didn’t use video for news back then, for this particular show, they used actual film.”
    He hooked up the reel, turned off the lights, turned on the projector. First a lot of red scribbles on white leader zipped by, then logo for “The hottest News show in Florida” sizzled on, superimposed over yellow beaches and a lazy sea. An anchor woman in her late twenties flashed on the screen and introduced herself as Christine Chubbuck. She V’d her mouth and eyes into an evil grin, and said, in leering fashion, “Now, in accordance with KCAT News bringing you the best in BLOOD AND GORE, here is a fascinating story: attempted suicide.” She reached behind her, pulled out a revolver, put it to the back of her head, and pulled the trigger. Her mouth locked open and blood poured out, hosing onto the desk.
     The crew ran over to her, one guy said, “She did it, she actually did it!” People slashed their necks at the camera, yelling “Cut!” The newscast ended. Cut to a black and white movie.
    Jimmy shut off the projector and turned on the lights. “You can’t tell anyone about this. I’m not supposed to have it. A lot of people could get in a lot of trouble. She was all depressed that she had never been laid. She was a spinster. A few days before, she had gone to some cop, saying she was doing a story on suicide, and she asked him what’s the most surefire way to do it. He said a gun to the head, but not the mouth, or under the chin, but the medulla, in the back of head, where all the basic brain functions go on.”
    I was treated to the surrealistic sight of someone else in my studio apartment. He pointed to my radiator and asked if it was working. “Josh, it’s going to be getting cold at nights in a few months.”
    I nodded and nodded, “I know, I’m fine,” shaking my head Yes, anxious he was seeing the true me—my dirty apartment. He looked haggard and dim of eye; he wore dusty work shoes, jeans with a hole in one knee, and a brown shirt with the seventies’ foreshortened collar. His face looked eroded by years of work, by years of asking the same questions, of fiddling with the same gadgets using the same tools. Thus he lived without a college education.
    For a moment he stood there, taking in the apartment, the bowls of dried macaroni with fuzzy, animal fur-green mold on top, the empty bottles of wine, the bottle of Koch’s Beer in shattered pieces all over the bathroom floor, the dried pitter patter of my blood from trying to step over it all, the bath and toilet covered with grime like gangrene, the twenty or thirty light blue boxes of empty Nytol, the steak knife in the wall (Since I have nothing to do all day I practice knife tossing), the yellow stains of burst and sprinkled semen around my laptop and my TV stand and 12 inch TV, no sheet to cover the black puke stains on the mattress, and last but not least, the huge hole I kicked in the wall a few weeks ago.
    The man told me if I needed help, just knock on his door.
    I said, “Okay.” I just wanted him out. He left.
    I’m surprised he didn’t mention the hole in the wall. All day I ruminate, all Goddamn day...It’s like there’s a whirlpool of filthy milk above me, following me where ever I go, twisting like a tornado, draining into my head: I had agonized over and over about an incident on Jack’s on 18^th, a bar in Pittsburgh. Steve Sheldon had agitated me, but like in a passive aggressive way, he and his smarmy smirk. The incident with Steve was two years ago. So why does my brain suffocate about it now and hug it to death? Don’t ask me. But it got so bad in here I kicked in the wall and gashed myself with the steak knife over and over on my left arm. Jesus Christ dude, calm down, that was two years ago.
    I tried to lay down in bed, but I was still vibrating from the encounter with the repairman. I got up and began to walk back and forth, back and forth, mumbling to myself but unaware of what I said. I looked at my crusty boxers by the TV. I could not jerk off with just my hands, it didn’t feel right, for some reason I don’t like touching myself directly down there. But if I pulled off my boxers, I could use them as a kind of grip, and I can rub my dick that way, without having to touch it directly, and pull off an orgasm. I turned the TV to a Skinamax flick, spermed to it, so now my boxers were wet (Some splattered on the boxers, some splattered on the TV stand and thinly carpeted floor; millions of dead potential families, a whole glossy, slimy holocaust).
    But what am I going to do with a girl? Ask for a hand job done with boxer underwear? No wonder I’m a virgin. I got to practice doing it with my own hand. And If I get anxious when the repairman enters my room, what am I going to do when I bring a real girl home? There’ll be a lot of performance anxiety—the thought of sticking my dick in some girl does not arouse me at all. I put on the boxers I used to jerk off; I got a kick off wearing the splotched boxers.
    I hate it in here. I swear to you, sometimes it feels like I’m a fish in an aquarium, like I’m surrounded by half visible faces in the dark, revolving around me, studying me as I swim back and forth. Go to sleep at eight a.m., wake at two p.m., and watch that trapezoid of sun from the window crawl across the floor. I looked at the scars on my arm. How could I have been that crazy to do something like that?
    I needed an excuse to get out of the apartment. Been in here all day bouncing off the walls. Looked at my watch: an hour till midnight. The grooming began. I showered, brushed my teeth with Close Up toothpaste, flossed, gargled with Listerine, rubbed in Sasson hair gel, threw on my black Levi Dockers, my four hundred dollar Las Marine loafers, splashed on some Christian Dior cologne, put on a long button down Gap shirt, strapped on my BW (Back Waistband) check holster, grabbed my Jericho 941, and holstered it. The problem with the piece and the holster is that the holster tends to slip down.
    I had the Goddamn shirt and pants tailored, for fuck’s sake. I went to a tailor from India and brought along my piece and we worked on devising my button down shirts so the gun didn’t leave a print. And he tightened my pants around the waist so the waistband would hold up the holster. Yet the holster still slips. I grabbed the piece, unlocked all three safeties, racked the slide, holstered it, and loosened the back of my shirt. I headed out the apartment, past the safety door, and with the momentum of the steps I was out the front door.
    I bought the Jericho back in Pittsburgh. Illegally. A hardware store on the North Side sold firearms. I asked the clerk what I needed to buy one. He said he had to see my driver’s license and I had to sign a paper saying I had never been arrested or committed to a mental hospital.
    He makes a phone call—to whom I don’t know—gives “Them” my name, they run it, and if my name comes up clean, the gun’s name. Then it’s mine. I thought, That’s impossible. I had Googled “Pennsylvania gun permits,” and the sites that came up said there’s much more to it than just a phone call and driver’s license. Oh well...
    I lied on the paper I signed. It asked if I had ever been committed to mental hospitals. I had been committed to adolescent units numerous times, up until my eighteenth birthday. So I waited as he made the call. After about twenty minutes he hung up and said, “You got a record brother. You lied to me. That’s a felony.”
    “I’m sorry, sir I’m moving into a barrio right outside of Oklahoma City. It’s a bad area. I hoped I could get something for self-defense. You won’t have me arrested?”
    He studied me, wincing, putting himself in my place. “No, I ain’t gonna do that. It’s the Goddamn gun laws. They step on all our rights. I could give you a pellet pistol. Looks like a real pistol.”
    “No thanks, I’ll just buy a butterfly knife and some tear gas.” I turned around to leave.
    “Sir, sir, wait, wait up.” I walked back.
    “It’s sad. The government is all over our gun rights. Without militias there’d be no one to protect us from the ATF, FBI, CIA, DEA, NSA, all them three letter law enforcement agencies.” He stared at me a bit, then he spoke softly. “I tell you what. Fuck the paperwork. If you add a couple hundred, I’ll sell you the gun. Fuck them.”
    “Yeah, fuck them,” I said—though I didn’t know much about the debate on gun rights, and I had never handled a gun in my life.
    I had to pay him in cash, so I had to go to a bank, take out the cash, go back to the store, and in five minutes I walked out with a back waist holster and a Jericho 941.
    I got back home and joined the Google group alt.firearms and I posted that I lived in Pittsburgh and I had bought a Jericho 941 and I wanted to know how to use it. It was like when Malcom X visited Egypt as a Muslim. The group gave me a super friendly reception. I was part of this new group, lots of gun owners all over Pittsburgh offering firearms education services to me.
    I drove up to a former Judge’s house in Sewickly. He helped me register with the NRA. He taught me how to take the gun apart, clean it, how to grip the handle, how to stand when I fire it—the Weaver stance or the Isosceles stance. I asked why the characters in the movie Menace II Society fired with one hand, the gun angled to the side. “Cause they’re ignorant darkies,” he replied. A couple of months later I moved here.
    As I walked out the door of my apartment building a dude rode by on a bicycle. Faceless, his hood was on. He wore a backpack. See, that’s the shit you got to watch out for. Tonight was Sunday night. A lot of muggings and break in’s occurred Sunday night. The punks assumed everyone would be in early and asleep sooner than usual. He rode by and didn’t stop, so I was okay; or at least I assumed as much.
    The night air somewhat revitalized me, but I still felt that whirlpool of milky filth above me, draining into my head. The moon glowed orange, an exclamatory circle on a matte of smoggy black. Apartment buildings crowded the street I lived on. Most lights were off, little dark rectangles. People with jobs, people with lives, people with other people to fall asleep next to. A stray walked out an alley. He was chewing something white. I called to it and it walked away, looking anxious, absorbed into the dark. I felt the coldness of my holster and wet spots of sperm as I walked up the street towards Olmos Ave. The audience screamed, “RASKOLNIKOV HAD IT BETTER!”
    That’s where I’ll go, I thought. To the vending machine on Wightman. I’ll buy a soda. You see, all of you behind those little dark rectangles, I do have a life, or at least a semblance of one. I walked up the street feeling okay, cutting a swath through the night air, leaving it in eddies behind me. One time on an Ocean City boardwalk I visited a shifty Armenian swami for a palm read. She grabbed my hand, ran her forefinger around it, and said, “I see...a bullet.”
    “That’s all? I asked. “Nothing about growing up, a job, kids, a wife?”
    “No sir, I just work here and report what I imagine. A bullet. But it doesn’t matter. Your life line says you are already dead.”
    As I walked, I looked around. Where was my unseen audience? Where were the private dicks, (“dick” being the operative word), my parents hired to surveil me to death when I moved into the barrio? My folks are the stereotypical, overprotective, splashing-in-piles-of-gold-coins parents. Worried and clinging. They didn’t want me moving here, but I thought, Hey, it’s a dangerous neighborhood, there’ll be lots of excitement.
    I did not need people watching out for me. I was the reluctant protectee.
    I imagined trench coated shadows in every alley I passed, only the orange dot of a lit cigarette to indicate their presence. Red veined eyes in the black...actually they mostly worked in cars, on foot surveillance only done in the Pelez Mall and the business district at daytime.
    You’d think they’d want to stay unnoticed; it’s funny, I remember one night, in the back lot of my building, a PI stayed out there all night in his car. When I went to bed at nine a.m. he was still sitting there. But it got to the point of conspicuous surveillance. That’s what they call it when they want to be noticed. You could see the orange incandescence of his cigarette, and he most likely with some type of hi tech microphone pointed at my room. I should complain to the landlord about such bullshit. If they’re parked back there, they needed his permission. That fucker of a landlord. My folks probably cried to him I didn’t know how to take care of myself.
    And you could spot them a mile away. They would drive with one headlight off—you can attach a remote control device to the light, so you can turn it off and on from behind the wheel—so when they pass you a second time, both headlights are on, and you say to yourself, “Oh, no one’s following me. This car has both headlights on.” Dunce cap idiocy all the way. The one good thing about them, the only good thing, is that their presence may ward off any potential crime against yours truly.
    If the Average Joe witnesses something illegal he is not obligated to inform the police. However, if PI’s witnesses something illegal, the ethics of their trade require them to inform the police. But I don’t know, maybe loyalty to my folks, the PI’s don’t want me to end up incarcerated, so if I do something illegal, and they witness it, they bolt, they leave the area, so they can say they weren’t there to see it. One time, while I was buying C at the dealer’s front door, a car with one headlight off stopped about half a block away from us, watched, and when I jiggled the dime bag of coke in front of him, the car U turned and screeched off.
    Or all the times I adjusted my piece in public. As soon as they see that, poof! They walk or drive away. They used to scatter when I used my fake ID to buy beer or wine. So apparently a PI contacted all five bars in this area, along with Ricardo’s Supermarket, and told them not to sell to me, that I was underage. None of them let me buy alcohol now. So I just accost a passerby and ask them to go into a bar or Ricardo’s and buy me a six pack of beer or a bottle of wine.
    On foot surveillance is harder for them If the T (Target) talks with the PI or associates with him in any way. This “burns” the PI (And another takes their place). If they see you begin to walk towards them like you want to talk with them, they’ll take flight.
    And then, like God decided to play a practical joke on me, I passed a hooker on the corner of Ortese and Aloca. Her tight black leather miniskirt squeezed out folds of flesh, John Waters style, and, in the spirit of Britain, a row of multi directional teeth sprouted from her black gums. Her hair, obviously dyed a stale yellow, sat in a curled, crooked bun atop her head. And she wore a lot of pale jewelry, too much. This called for a misogynistic entry in my diary; she looked like a billboard for a warped fucking and sucking machine.
    “Suck your dick, sir. Twenty five dollars. Mean blowjob. “
    “No thanks, ma’am,” I said, stressing, “Ma’am,” leaning into her and keeping eye contact enough to let my contempt sink in. If she was effected, she was too stone faced to show it. She’ll make her take for the night. I left and she went back to standing there.
    I made a left down Luiz and approached two Latinos and one Rastafarian sitting on a door step. As I got closer I saw they passed around a pipe, and I smelled pot. Above them a streetlight flickered, giving their movements a disjointed look. The two Latinos, one tall and lanky like Jimmy Stuart, the other short and pudgy, both wore neon orange garbage pickup suits. They reminded me of Loki. The Rastafarian wore a loose Hawaiian shirt and ridiculously large and leggy blue jeans...and a lot of gold that winked in the streetlight. All looked in their early forties—two decades older than me. The mood I’d got was that they’d been sitting there forever, from sunup to sundown, that spiders had drawn webs between their bodies and the steps, and that in a year or two they’d become gargoyles, a permanent projection of the stairs they now sat on, made of the same stone; it would grow into them like ivy.
    They smiled and whispered about me, looking at me during their dialogue, not at each other. I looked down, purposely losing eye contact. A radio sat next to them and played something Hispanic. They stopped talking and gawked and...reeled into the past. A car with one headlight off drove by me in the opposite direction. There we go, I thought. I was wondering where you were.
    “Hey sir, do you want a hit,” the smaller, chubbier Latino asked. He had the air of Santa Clause. Pot veined his eyes. They all laughed.
    “No thanks. I’ve done some C tonight already,” I shook my head.
    “How about taking a seat for a bit and talking with us,” he asked. I sat.
    “Yeah, just for a bit,” the taller Latino said. “Where are you going this time of night dressed in shoes like that? Man, if my son was here, those shoes would be gone.” Then he laughed. “Do you know what I’m saying?”
    “That’s okay. I carry,” which made it especially hard to sit, even with the holster.
    “That ain’t gonna help you,” the Rastafarian said. “Not if they get the drop on ya.”
    “Yeah, well I’m pretty fast at pulling it out. I practice in my apartment.”
    They all laughed.
    “Sir, where do you work?” the shorter Latino asked.
    “I don’t,” I said.
    “You don’t?” the taller Latino asked. “Shit, we have to be at work in half an hour,” and he looked at his smaller cohort. “It’s a hard job, do you know what I’m saying. We got to go into Wellington. At this time of night, every night. Our driver, he carries a gatt under his seat. We got to doze those two tonners in the back of May’s. I’ve had two hernia operations. Even though I wear a lifting belt and all. It’s a hard job.”
    “You live alone?” The Rastafarian asked, “Or you got an old lady?”
    “No, no girlfriend, but I just passed a hooker on the corner of Ortese and Aloca.”
    “That’s Lucy,’ Jimmy Stuart said, after a long huff off the pipe and a few stifled coughs. “Don’t date her. She’s bad,” He shook his head. “Do you know what I’m saying? “
    “Yeah, of course, I’d never do anything like that.”
    “It’s her cha cha. She got the plague, mon,” the Rasta said.
    “She also has teeth growing out of her gums in opposing directions,” I offered. They all laughed.
    “Are you a student?” the shorter one asked, grinning like a jackal. “You’re a student. You gotta be.”
    “No, but I will be in the fall. Until then, I get to watch a lot of TV and sleep in. That’s about the extent of my day. “
    “Shit,” Jimmy Stuart said, looking at his pals, “If that was me I’d go loco. How do you pay your rent?”
    “My parents.”
    “Damn mon, the Rosta said, “I wish my parents paid my rent.”
    “Then you wouldn’t be in and out of County,” the taller Latino said, and they all chuckled.
    “You better get out of here,” the Rosta said to me. “You’re too up-the-ladder for us, do you know what I’m saying?”
    “Yes. I know what you’re saying, and I whole heartedly agree. Later, guys.” I stood up and walked, and I could hear the silence and feel their eyes bore into my back. In fact, I was getting used to eyes boring into my back.
    The funny thing is, you can spot the PI cars even when both headlights are on. The light that the remote control is attached to will always be a lot dimmer than the other headlight. I guess that the remote control causes resistance in the light.
    Sentences spoken today: eleven. That’s got to be a record for this month. That’s not counting the PI’s I curse out. They’re losers, they have no life. That’s why their job is sucking you like a leech. It makes up for weak externals. They were lonely, and their lives were made up of one thing, and one thing only: themselves. They needed someone to rotate around, they needed to whizz and buzz around the firelight...Or maybe this was all sour grapes on my part.
    As I walked I saw someone coming in the opposite direction. Déjà vu, where do I know him from...The Luna Bar! He was the Armenian bartender. Thanks for trying to cut off my alcohol, jackass. Do you know I still get beer off your bar? I just pay people to go in and get it for me. He kept his head down as he passed.
    I made a right up Wightman and finally, the gold at the end of the rainbow, the vending machine that stood lonely vigil outside Ricardo’s supermarket, which was closed. I fumbled in my pocket for the necessary eighty-five cents, slid each coin through the slot, each time heard the tinkering of coin against metal, and pressed Diet Pepsi.
    Nothing, soundless, no mechanical kathunk! of my purchase. “Don’t do this,” I pleaded. “I don’t have any more change with me.” I pressed it harder, eight or nine times. Still nothing. Shit...I pressed Change Return. Silence. I pressed it again, I banged it again and again, and it kept my money. I was robbed. There the machine and I stood, facing each other, both solitary and upright. A dog barked. A bus grunted to a start in the distance. A car drove by.
    A twenty minute trek with a pile of dog shit at the finish line (My wallet had a credit card, but no cash). I stood and stared, pathways of action branching out before me. I can bang and bang the Diet Pepsi button. I could repeatedly bang Chang Return. I could kick the machine over and over. Or I could leave and return home empty handed and come back with change. Or I could go home and not return. How about this: Try a different a soda. So I pressed the button for each soda. The machine did not deliver.
    “Leave me alone. I will not condescend to give it to you.” The machine said.
    “Oh yes you will. What the fuck kind of anticlimax is this? A let down of tragic proportions. I did not walk all this way to be the denouement of some half-witted gadgetry. You will displace to me my Diet Pepsi.”
    “Why should I? What have you done to deserve it? You aren’t in the least bit up to being a member of our club. How should I say it, you’re not up to par. You reside in the valleys of the graph. We’ll invent your own personal segregation. From here on out, like in the South, you’ll have your own water fountain, you’ll eat in a cordoned off area of the restaurants, you’ll sit at the back of the bus. All this you are worthy of. Comprende? Now please go home.”
    “It’s not my fault,’ I said. “I’m not required to be around people every day. You’d be stressed about being in public during the day if you lived my life.”
    “Hmmm, that’s interesting. I have the latest DSMV here, allow me to page through it...ah...no...that’s not it...yes...no way...close, but no cigar...THERE! Agoraphobia. You’re an agoraphobic. Now, my opinion of you is lowered even further. You are flattened gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe. Scoot on home now. What a tool.”
    “So how do I fix myself?”
    “Don’t worry about that. You are best left to staying up all night. Your brain, bathed in its stew of psychotic chemistry, knows this. Why doesn’t it let you sleep at night? So you sleep through half the day. You don’t deserve sunlight, except in the way it shapes itself on your carpet, a crawling trapezoid of light. I can thrust my head high. I’m good at what I do. What do you do? You overdose big time on Nytol, you overdose on way-to-diluted cocaine, you drink cheap, cheap wine, you ignore the shattered beer bottle all over your bathroom floor, you mope, you moan, you whisper sentences you’re not aware of. I deserve to be touched circa one hundred twenty times a day. When was the last time you were touched?”
    “About six hours ago. By myself. But—”
    Sir, sir, that’s a negative. When you automanipulate, you do not fondle your genitals directly, you do it through your underwear. So no, you are not touching yourself.”
    “But I don’t need touch. I can get along fine without it.”
    “The heck you do. Every night you wake up feeling you are dead. You’re a corpse with a pulse. What do you do most? You haunt. Just like the private investigators. You haunt. You died eons ago and now you do not belong here. You’re a ghost of a boy, you and your Jericho 941. You walk through walls, you glow in the dark, you howl into the wind. You haunt. You’ll never be happy on terra firma. Did you hear the one about the square peg and round hole? No one touches you because you cannot be touched, you’re the afterlife, an untouchable, in more ways than one. For the tenth time, go and leave us. We want less of the ethereal and more of the essential. You stress me, you wear my gosh darn nerves down to splinters.
    “Please please PLEASE gimme my Diet Pepsi. If you do, I’ll leave you alone.”
    “You know what? I’ll do it. If you leave. And I’ll give you a warning. A couple of nights ago I was watching some super 8 film. It showed your tombstone, Red tulips, yellow daisies, purple orchids, all raining on your grave, all in slow motion, until it was buried...You are a pathetic specimen. Here:”
    Like a staged magic routine, it gave. I reached down for the can. Silver dreams, I possessed my Diet Pepsi, gloriously cold in my grasped palm. I felt like I was in a commercial. All I needed to do was open the can, letting loose a gush of air, and raise it to my mouth and drink it to some hip music. Words would pop on the screen, and a narrator would speak them, “Diet Pepsi: Worth the trip.” I chugged it all in a few gulps, crumpled the can, tossed it into the street, felt a minor Diet Pepsi high, and began the walk home. I checked my watch: 11:52. Network One puts on a bikini contest at midnight, if I jogged, I could make it back in time. I made sure my pistol was packed tight in the holster. As I jogged, I passed small, Hansel and Gretal type houses. Most had some type of religious sculpture, a porcelain Christ or Mary, or some such shit.
    I came upon a crowd of about eight people ringed around some guy with a bloody shirt, sitting on the curb. I heard someone say he was stabbed. A bystander took off his own shirt and pressed it to the victim’s wound. The victim said, “Thank you so much. Brother, I’m scared.”
    The bystander said, “Chill out. We’re here to help you.” Another spectator took the victim’s pulse. Finally one, than a second, then a third cop car showed up, followed by an ambulance. The paramedics scissored off the victim’s shirt. All the sirens screened a dazzling and brilliant display of fireworks on the surrounding houses. It looked like UFO’s had landed. And I was camouflaged into the crowd. It was a thrill, I could feel the holster and wet splotches of sperm through my boxers.
    So one cop, I think he was the LT, began questioning us in a heavy Tex-Mex accent. “Did you see what happened?” He would ask.
    The spectator would respond, “Yes sir.”
    “Okay, stay here.” Then on to the next person. They all said Yes. He told all of them to hang tight.
    Then he got to me: “Sir, did you see what happened?”
    “No sir.”
    “THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! WE’LL TAKE YOU TO FUCKING JAIL!”
    As I walked away the LT yelled at lower ranking lady cop, what he was bitching about I didn’t quite understand, but he cussed her out: “You fucking sit on him! Don’t let him lawyer up on you! YOU SIT ON HIM!”
    She replied, “Okay sir!” She was flustered but trying to act irritated.
    I walked past the dope smokers on the steps, their radio played “Miss American Pie,” bringing bad memories to the fore. When I was sixteen, my friend Bret’s parents bought him a Mercedes. It’s hard to go slow in those cars. He didn’t stop for Stop signs. We crashed into a tree doing fifty. I was not wearing a seat belt. It took paramedics forever to extricate us, and it seemed that song played the entire extrication.
    Back to my apartment, to the oneness I detest so much. I’m starting to babble to myself in public. Got to quit that. Won’t get me campus chicks. Like I had a chance of keeping one anyways, with all my sexual misdemeanors and pathologies. Nose picking like Sylvia Plath did. Still, I’ll be around people, I’ll be a student in a jostle of students, one bobbing head sloshing around in a sea of bobbing heads. Maybe then I’ll average more than seven sentences a day. As for now, a city vacant of people and crowds, where the newspapers blow like tumbleweeds, where you can hear a penny drop...That’s my life. Man I hope I get a girlfriend once classes begin. I walked on the side opposite the street of the girl with the metropolis of slanted teeth. A car cruised by ominously, the same car I spotted before, only both headlights were on now. I flipped it the bird.
    I walked down the street, got to my building, walked in, stuck my key into the security door, and felt chilly metal on the back of my head. “Don’t turn around, G. Don’t fucking look at me. You yell and I’ll blow your fucking head off.’ Fuck! It was the dude I passed before when I left the apartment, the one with the backpack on the bike. He saw which apartment building I left, and probably hid in an alley and caught me as I walked in. The one time I needed the PI’s, they’re not there.
    We moved through the security door. “Don’t turn around and look at me. Open your fucking door.” He walked me into the apartment. My piece, my piece... all I needed is one chance, a split second. He kept calling me bitch.
    “You’re apartment’s a fucking wreck, bitch. Are you a student?”
    “Not until the fall. Look, you’re making me nervous, I got to piss, do you mind if I go to the bathroom?”
    “No, bitch, I got my eye on you. Take off your shoes.” He told me to sit down on the bed. I did. He put my shoes in his backpack, along with a few fistfuls of CDs. I could barely see him through the hood, he sounded like a Latino teenager. “Gimme your wallet,” he said. I grabbed it out my sock and gave it to him. He wacked me with the butt of his revolver and said, “If you call the police, my brothers will be back here, they will find you and slit your throat and pull your tongue out your neck.” He whacked me on the forehead with his jet black revolver and then he left. He had not given me one chance to pull my gun.
    I felt blood run into my eyes. The motherfucker, I cursed him. What do I carry the Jericho for? My one chance to use it, blown. The NRA would laugh me out of their org; they’d disown me. He doesn’t know who he’s fucking with. I wiped blood out my eyes with my forearm, walked out my apartment, and out the front door of the building.
    He was riding away. I put my hand on my pistol. “Hey! Come back here! I’ll call the police! You can’t pull this shit with me!”
    That got his attention. He stopped riding, put one foot on the ground, looked back at me, and began to ride back in my direction. I shook and gulped. Everything was in slow motion. Closer he came, closer...and I pulled out the Jericho, nervously positioned my feet, and fired it. You could hear the echo zigzag up the street. I hit him in the chest. The Latino went down. I walked up to him and shot him in the stomach. “You’re gut-gut shot, buddy,” I said. “Good luck.” Through my anxiety I did something stupid. I forgot to take away his revolver. We all do stupid things. He pulled it from the front of his waist band and fired. It felt like a sledgehammer first, blowing me back, and then it felt like I had no legs, like I was floating. I hit the ground without feeling a thing. Like someone excised me below the waist.
    He wheezed in short gasps, trying to breathe. People came running out their buildings. They pulled his hood off. The Latino, who looked about fourteen, gasped in Tex-Mex, “Help me breath, help me breathe.” The crowd yelled for someone to call an ambulance. In the many faces I saw the two Latinos and the Rastafarian. The hooker approached. Then the Luna bartender. And what was that, something weird, coming down the street? It was the vending machine, taking clumsy steps as it approached in a swinging gait, almost like a swagger, or someone trying to imitate a swagger. Every time it stepped it elasticized itself, and you heard all the sodas inside it shake. I could see the shelf where the drinks came down twisted up into a grin.
    Someone took off the Latino’s shirt. The one bullet hole to the chest was up around the heart, bathed in blood. I grew dizzy. The crowd kept trying to walk over to me, but every time they’d try to get close I’d raise my firearm, and I coughed at them to keep their distance. A car pulled up with one headlight dimmer than the other one. A dude got out and flashed his license. “Let me handle this,” he said. He looked at me and I raised the Jericho at him.
    “Josh, we’re here to help you. You need to let us help you. Don’t point that at me. Be cool, be cool.”
     The cops showed up with an ambulance. Same LT as before. “Hey buddy, put the Goddamn gun down. We’re here to help you. We know you’re scared. You shit yourself. Calm down. You want to live, don’t you?”
    No, not like this. “You guys sure do your jobs well, “I said to the PI. It was either now or never.
    I put the Jericho to the back of my skull—“NO!” the PI screamed—and pulled the trigger. He deserved it. They all deserved it. Too little, too late.

The Knitting Needle

    “Come here, boy,” demanded the old woman who sat on her porch knitting. Fifteen year old James resented being called boy and he didn’t want to stop to see what she wanted because a radio station was playing old “Green Hornet” programs after school and he didn’t want to miss one.
     “I can’t stop now, Mrs. Debbin, I have homework to do”, answered James.
    “You can do that later,” said the old woman, “ I need you to take Fritzi to the vet. She has an ear infection.”
    Mrs. Debbin lived with six cats. Fritzi was a cute little, white Angora with a sweet disposition. Ordinarily, James wouldn’t mind too much as he liked most of the cats, but he didn’t want to miss the “Green Hornet”. “I can’t take her today, I’ll take her tomorrow, it’s Saturday [no Green Hornet].
    Mrs. Debbin’s wispy, grey hair flew up in the air as she leaned forward, looked down her long, narrow nose at James and pointing her long knitting needle at him said loudly, “She’s in pain, you will go now.”
    It seemed James’s feet had a will of their own as he trotted up the steps towards the basket in which Fritzi was covered up. He picked it up and started for the veterinarian’s office. He thought, “Well, of course I can’t let Fritzi suffer, I’m doing this because I want to, not because I’m being made to do it.” James shook his head, what was he thinking?

    James was a good- hearted boy. Good looking too, with long lashes covering his hazel eyes, a straight nose and a warm smile. His family had lived next door to Mrs. Debbin for six years and James had visited her and her cats often. Without knowing how it had happened, he had developed respect for her long knitting needle. It was made of a beautiful polished wood. Once he thought he had seen it hit it’s companion [a blue metal needle] when a mistake was made in the cat coat being knitted.

    Browser was a big, gray alley cat, a fighter. He had only one eye, a tattered ear and a broken tooth. He spent his days near Mrs. Debbin so she could reach down and scratch his ears occasionally. His nights were a mystery, known only to himself and possibly, Mrs. Debbin. The other cats were strays that people dropped off at her house, never speaking to her because they were wary of her.

    One of her neighbors reported her to the Board of Health because of the cats. She was forced to give up six of the twelve cats she had to the animal shelter where she heard they were put to sleep.
    The next day that neighbor was startled when stones pelted his large picture window. One big stone put a crack in the window from top to bottom. He could see no one outside, only a big, battered looking cat sitting on the sidewalk looking at the window.
    Browser came back from a stroll around the neighborhood and jumped into his mistress’s lap. He purred while she scratched his ears. “Good Cat,” she said.

     Later in the week, two boys on bicycles rode past Mrs. Debbins as she sat knitting on her porch. One of them called, “How many cats have you got now, you old witch?” The knitting needle dropped a stitch and pointed at the bikes. They collided and the boys were thrown off and landed face down on the cement. Both faces were scraped and noses were bleeding. The boys got back on the bikes as fast as they could and sped away. The knitting needle went back and picked up the dropped stitch.

    There was one especially vicious bully on the block. He was 16 years old and had just gotten his driver’s license. He bragged about his dad letting him drive his expensive new car. One day on his way home from school, James saw the boy stabbing a jackknife into a small animal. It was Fritzi. James yelled and the boy ran off. James took the little cat to the vet who, after examining her, said she’d live.

    James went to tell Mrs. Debbin. She was napping on her porch with her knitting in her lap and Browser on the floor beside her chair. He stood thinking for a bit, then gently slid the wooden knitting needle out of the cat coat in progress and backed away. As he left, Browser got up and followed him.

    James found the boy who had stabbed Fritzi sitting in his dad’s new car. Browser jumped up against the car door and raked his claws into the new paint. He seemed to enjoy it because he did it in several more places. The bully yelled and tried to open the car door, but the knitting needle gave a flick and the doors locked. Browser jumped onto the roof and began shredding the fabric top. The knitting needle flicked and the car started to roll. Browser was afraid to jump off. The car went faster until it rammed into an open restaurant dumpster. The front of the car crumpled, the doors flew open and the bully and Browser went sailing into a week’s worth of ripe garbage. They both howled. Browser climbed out, by way of the boy’s back, and streaked for home. When James got to the car, the boy was crying and moaning, “ My father, my father.” James warned him to leave Mrs. Debbin and her cats alone.

    Mrs. Debbin still slept as James slid the knitting needle back in the cat’s coat. It moved around a bit until it found where it had left off. Browser was purring beside his mistress’ s chair. Mrs. Debbin opened her eyes, scratched Browsers ears, wrinkled her nose and asked James if he and Browser had a nice walk.
    James told her that Fritzi was at the vets, but would be okay.
    She thanked him. “Will you have a cup of tea, James?”
    He noticed she hadn’t called him “boy”. “Thanks Mrs. Debbin. I have to get home now, but I’ll be back later to give Browser a bath.” If he hurried he’d get home in time for part of the “Green Hornet.”

the god chip

    “Sydney, you be a big girl now. It won’t hurt and everyone who has parents who really care about them has it done. Nine is the age of Correction in the Eyes of God.”
    Eyes wide with fear, Sydney looked at her father. She could not imagine how they were going to implant a silicon chip in her head without it hurting horribly.
    Her mother came and quietly extended her hand. “It’ll be over before you know it,” she said.

    After the anesthesia wore off, Sydney had a mild headache, but that was it. Though she wasn’t permitted to go outside or visit a friend, she was allowed to watch a movie on a children’s channel.
    In one scene, a little blond girl held the hand of a brown boy as they ran from an orange monster. Suddenly, Sharon heard a voice that seemed to come from inside her head. It said, “People of different races should not get married.”
    Shocked, she called for her mother who came into the room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
    “Mommy, I heard a voice. It said something about people not getting married. But no one is getting married that I know of.”
    “What did it say exactly?” asked her mother.
    Sydney told her.
    “This is the Voice you must listen to from now on. It is God’s voice. He was telling you that the little girl and boy in the movie should never get married and that they should not even hold hands.”
     “That’s crazy,” Sidney said, but then she had to believe what her mother told her, since who else but God could be talking inside her head. Then she connected the implantation of the new chip with what had just happened. “Is it because of the chip?”
    “Very good, honey,” said her mother. “We didn’t tell you what would happen since it’s better to let the new experiencer hear the Voice on her own. After that, we explain. From now on, that Voice will direct you.”
    “Well, is it God or not?” asked Sydney. Her headache had amped up and she was growing nauseous. She didn’t see how holding hands could be wrong in God’s eyes, but there was little point in arguing with her mother; it never went anywhere.
    As if reading her mind, her mother said, “Holding hands leads to other things and from there possibly to marriage. It is better to pay attention to the Voice in the first place so that it prevents you from choosing an inappropriate person for later on.”
    Sydney soon learned that this discernment issue extended to potential friends as well. Her fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Sharp, had an eleven-year-old daughter. Alex attended a private school and occasionally had days off when Sydney did not. Sometimes, she accompanied her mother to school to help with classroom chores. To Sydney, the girl was chic and exciting. She wore fashionable clothes and had pierced ears. Sydney loved when Alex came to join them and was thrilled one day to have the older girl ask her to help decorate the holiday bulletin board.
    “Sure!” said Sydney, almost jumping out of her seat. Not only was Alex worldly, but clearly very intelligent and though only nine, Sydney already admired smart, sophisticated people. But then she heard the Voice and it sounded quite adamant. “This person is not good for you to have as a friend.”
    Deflated, she sat back down with an audible thump. Her heart pounded and her gut clenched. Without speaking, she shook her head no. Alex, looking confused, shrugged her shoulders and backed away, then went to sit near her mother, possibly for comfort.
    The Voice said, “Evil has many disguises.” Sydney felt something inside her shrink.
    Every so often, she disobeyed the Voice. The first time was after choosing a novel from the library shelf. As she was walking to the checkout desk, the Voice said, “Not a good choice of reading material.”
    She felt a hard ball of resistance form in her chest and kept walking. The Voice warned her again and again she resisted. Suddenly, she was flooded with a sickening sensation – a mixture of nausea and dread, as if something life threatening were about to befall her. Defeated, she turned around and placed the novel back on its shelf. An hour passed before the sickening feeling fully dissipated.
    In fifth grade, a girl in the class whose father was an environmental scientist at a state university wanted to start a project to inform people about climate issues. “A wonderful idea,” said their teacher, Mr. Guzman.
    He looked around at the class. “Who would like to help Hannah with this exciting idea? Some of you are excellent artists!”
    Sydney’s hand shot up. She loved to draw and had just received a giant box of colored pencils for her birthday. The Voice said, “You should not get involved. This idea is made up by people who have an agenda.”
    What on earth was it talking about? This made no sense to her. Disobeying, she continued to wave her hand. When Mr. Guzman happily pointed his finger at her and said, “Wonderful! Sydney will do a fine job helping Hannah with her excellent drawing skills,” that now familiar wave of dread and nausea swept over her. She almost threw up on her desk.
    Mr. Guzman rushed over. “Sydney, are you alright?”
    She straightened up, though still quite queasy. “I can’t do it after all,” she mumbled. She was embarrassed, but so ill, that it was futile to resist the Voice. She glanced around to see if people were staring.
    Mr. Guzman’s face took on an expression of sudden understanding. He stood back up and looked faintly disapproving. “I see,” he said. He walked back to the front of the room, shaking his head. “Someone else then?” he asked the class and soon had chosen other people for the project.
    Since the implantation of the chip, Sydney had been shy about bringing up the subject with others. She rarely saw her cousin Marcie, who’d been implanted at the same time, and the children of her parents’ friends did not mention it when the families got together. Sydney felt shy about bringing up the subject.
    She felt lonely regarding the Voice, while another part of her wondered if children without it were left to flounder without the advice of God. There seemed no one to ask. She’d had a best friend before the implantation, but had to let that friend (and a few others) go because apparently God did not approve of them.
    One day she overheard her parents whispering in the hall. “Kathy and Ted’s son was acting up,” said her mother. “They had to take him up to see Dr. Winlow.”
    “He changed the chip then?” said her father.
    “They replaced it with a stronger one. You know, the kind they use for hard cases.”
    Sydney didn’t want to think about what a chip for hard cases would feel like.
    By now, she was starting to feel an overwhelming lassitude, as if much of the fight had gone out of her. She pretty much could anticipate what the Voice would like or not like and so automatically made choices accordingly.
    “You’re turning into a fine young lady,” her father told her, and she accepted his warm pat on her shoulder, though not with any sense of joy. She seemed to have forgotten how the world had once seemed magical.
    “It would not be wise to read that article,” the Voice would say. Or, “Better not to walk through the woods, as who knows what could be lurking there.” and “That is not a subject a girl your age should be investigating.” By junior high, things had grown wearisome, as if she was walking along a narrow road that all looked the same.
    Her favorite teacher called her aside one day. There was something slightly avant-garde about Ms. Schmidt, though she dressed conservatively and was married to a doctor. Ms. Schmidt taught eighth grade social studies and sometimes got the class worked up enough to engage in heated debates. The Voice would often comment during these.
    Perched on the edge of her desk, Mrs. Schmidt called to Sydney as the class was filing out the door. The teacher’s glossy, dark hair fell over one eye. Sydney thought this looked sexy, which was not a good thought to have since the Voice grunted. Sometimes, that’s all it had to do. Ms. Schmidt said, “You seem depressed, Sidney. Would you like to talk?”
    The Voice geared up. “This is not an appropriate thing to discuss with this outsider. Keep your emotions private and share them only with your family or people they approve of.”
    Sydney felt a rush of rage, but this was met with a violent, almost physical punch to her stomach. She literally crossed her arms and hunched over.
    The teacher looked alarmed. “Are you all right? Honey, do you need to see the nurse? What can I do?”
    “No, no,” Sydney managed to gasp. “I-it must be something I ate.” That was a bald faced lie and she expected the Voice to protest, but it did not.

    But things were about to change. While Sydney appeared placid on the surface, a volcano festered underneath. Hormones were in full swing. Her forehead bloomed with acne, which she tried to hide with oily bangs. Her breasts had developed to a B cup and her menstrual period had started.
    The Voice would not allow her to use Tampons. She tried after a friend dared her to insert one. The resulting stab to her temple and nausea convinced her to stick with sanitary napkins. She accepted this, but the next day when the Voice objected to her telling the same friend that she would like to have her ears pierced, she experienced such fury that it terrified her. A war raged inside her. Her head filled with sparks and a strange, whooshing sound. She staggered into the girls’ room.
    Watching Sydney from the next sink was a ninth grade girl. Sydney knew the girl’s name was Alicia Glick, but that people called her Leesh. Leesh was the kind of girl that neither Sydney’s parents nor the Voice would want her to socialize with or even talk to. Leesh was edgy. She had short, shaggy black hair and wore heavy makeup around her large, green eyes. Her clothing reminded Sydney of rock stars, though she had only occasionally glimpsed photos of those on the covers of supermarket tabloids. Leesh wore silver bracelets up both arms and around her neck skulls and strange symbols hung on a leather cord. Her skin was pale as porcelain, which looked wickedly sexy.
    There was no one else in the lavatory but the two girls. Leesh said, “I know what’s the matter with you.”
    “What do you mean?” said Sydney. She heard the Voice grunt.
    “Why you look squashed and scared all the time. I know.”
    Though the Voice now growled, Sydney blurted, “What are you talking about?”
    Leesh tilted her head and regarded Sydney through slitted, knowing eyes. “You have one planted. You’re afraid to breathe. I know all about it.”
    The chip hit her with the hardest punch to the gut she had ever felt and she had to grab the edge of a sink to hold herself upright.
    Leesh opened her purse and pulled out a plastic bag. From the bag, she extracted a small, pink pill. As she leaned toward Sydney, it was all Sydney could do to keep from losing consciousness. She felt the other girl pry her mouth open with her fingers and push the pill under her tongue. Sydney was too ill to protest. The pill dissolved instantly and immediately, the horrible feeling dissipated. Like magic, Sydney suddenly was well.
    For the moment (and since the Voice was oddly silent), she forgot that Leesh was forbidden. “What was that? How did you do that?”
    The girl smiled, slow and confident, as if she had just handed to another person the key to the Universe. Which, possibly she had, for that was how Sydney felt. “That pill is your salvation. Some genius in Seattle made this in his little home lab to help the rest of us out here who’ve had our brains locked up. You take one a day and that freakin’ voice is turned off. Never again, is that piece of silicon crap allowed to run your life!”
    “How do I get them?” asked Sydney. She heard the bell ring and was supposed to be in her third period class.
    “From the same place I get them. I can set you up. But it costs.”
    “How much?”
    “Sixty dollars a month.”
    Sydney shook her head. “How would I get the money?”
    “Don’t your parents give you an allowance? Or get a job. I work at Jodi’s three nights a week.”
    Jodi’s was a diner a few streets from the school. “What do you do there?” asked Sydney. She worried about being late and what Mr. Katz would say. Sydney had never been late to anything.
    “I wash dishes, sweep up, whatever. It’s not fun but sure worth what it buys for me.”
    Sydney was thinking. Her mind, now that the Voice was temporarily silent, flashed over countless times in her past when it had squelched her spirit. Anything, she decided would be worth doing to stop that. It was amazing how clearly she was thinking.
    “Can you get me a job there?”
    “I don’t think so. I mean they don’t need any more people, but I’ll check.”
    Sydney was madly calculating. She had eight dollars in her purse and some of that was for lunch. But she dug it out and handed the crumpled pile to Leesh. “Whatever that pays for, I’ll take it,” she said. “I’ll get the rest somehow.”
    Leesh smiled and took the money. “You won’t regret this,” she said.
    The drug, Sydney later learned from the internet, (which she could now use without the Voice interfering and oh, there were so many things to learn!) was very underground and classified as not safe, though she found no references to anyone dying from using it. She suspected the supposed danger might be manufactured by chip installing parents.
    She found message boards and chat sites with parents whose kids had chips inserted but who were behaving rebelliously. Some of these parents had found their kids’ stashes and destroyed them, then grounded the kids, even to the point of yanking them out of school and beginning home schooling. She would have to be very careful. She hollowed out part of an old dictionary to store some of the pills, but knew she would need to spread them out in case her mother found one of her hiding places. She kept a few under the lining in her purse, more inside a fat pen in her desk drawer and others inside the back of a picture frame.
    Fortunately, she was in charge of cleaning her own room except for vacuuming, which her mother did once a week.
    To obtain the money for the drug, Sydney had to steal. She tried to space it out so that people wouldn’t notice, though one time, her father set her heart to pounding when she heard him bellow, “Linda! Were you in my desk? If you need money, just ask me! That was set aside for the golf tournament.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richard. I have plenty of money, see?” She must have opened her wallet and shown him.
    “Well,” he said, backing down, “maybe I’m mistaken. I’ve had a lot on my mind at work.”
    It would never occur to them to imagine that Sydney could have taken anything. After all, she was controlled by the chip.
    She was careful to appear under that control, though once she slipped while helping her father carry in firewood. He was ranting a bit about the Middle East situation and Sydney made the observation that if people there claimed they had an historical right to the land, wouldn’t the same apply in American? That the Indians were here first and therefore we should return our land to them? She had forgotten that the Voice would have censored such a thought.
    Her father shot her a startled look. “I’m not sure you’re thinking logically,” he said.
    Scared that he might suggest they have a doctor check her out, she quickly added, “I shouldn’t have said that,” and pretended to be sick, grabbing her stomach and wincing.
    Her father nodded, but wore a quizzical expression. She knew what he was thinking, that by now such slips should have been trained out of her.
    “The price has gone up,” said Leesh one day at school. They had managed to synchronize leaving their separate classes to meet in the girls’ room. “Seventy-five dollars now.”
    It crossed Sydney’s mind to wonder if Leesh was taking a cut, but what choice did she have? “I definitely need a job,” she said.
    Soon she would turn fifteen, but that was still too young for working papers. No one in her neighborhood had kids to babysit and her parents wouldn’t let her work on Saturdays. They wanted her to help with chores around the house. Her allowance was only twelve dollars a week, though she saw online that for someone her age, it should be fifteen. Negotiating with her father resulted in nothing but a sullen retreat on her part. She could not risk reacting in any overt fashion or he would again suspect something had gone wrong with the implant.
    If an opportunity presented itself, she would take money from someone’s open purse or out of a teacher’s drawer, but these occasions were rare and she could not risk being caught. The thought of having them tamper with her brain again gave her nightmares. It crossed her mind to sell the drug herself, but that would involve infringing on Leesh’s territory. They’d become friends of a sort, though there was no chance of letting her parents meet Leesh, not the way she dressed. Besides, Sydney did not know for certain who did or did not have the implant. Some people were obvious – cringing goody-goods, but others were not. To approach them like a dealer on a street corner seemed beyond her scope. Eventually, she shared her problem with Leesh.
     “I’ll see what I can do,” said Leesh. The next day, she met Sydney in the student parking lot after school, accompanied by a senior boy. “This is Mike,” said Leesh. “He can help with the money issue.”
    Sydney had a feeling she was about to step off a cliff. “How can he help?” she said softly.
    Leesh glanced at Mike, then back at Sydney. “Um, well, if you do something for him when he wants it, he’ll pay you.”
    “Do what?” asked Sydney, flooded with dread. The feeling was almost as bad as when she disobeyed the Voice before the pill.
    Mike looked away. “Sort of, um, service him,” said Leesh. “You don’t have to have actual sex, just oral when he wants it.”
    Sydney’s heart thumped so hard it was painful. “How often?” she mumbled.
    Mike laughed nervously. “About once a day. Monday to Fridays.”
    Sydney was outraged. “Where exactly would we do this? I can’t go out at night; my parents would get suspicious. They’re very strict, don’t you get it?”
    “I have a truck,” said Mike. He motioned with his head toward a Ford pickup near where they were standing.
    “No,” said Sydney firmly. She walked away as fast as her shaky legs could carry her.
    But by the following week, she was desperate. A new neighbor who needed a babysitter ended up getting someone else. The old woman across the street, about to hire Sydney to clean out her garage, was suddenly widowed and her son had arrived to handle things. Sydney’s pills ran out and the Voice returned with a vengeance. By now, she was used to thinking as she pleased and had amassed mental habits it vehemently opposed. She was spending most of her time cramping, vomiting or enduring a pounding head. Life was unbearable.
    Unable to look him in the eye, Sydney found Mike and mumbled, “I’ll do it.” And so it began. She met him after school; they would park somewhere in his truck and she would do what she had to do. He was dependable and never failed to hand over the money. The only problem, beside the fact that she felt humiliated, was that he was graduating that school year and going to away to college. But for four more months, she was assured of a steady pill supply.
    “How’s it going with Mike?” asked Leesh. They ate lunch together now. The fact that Sydney was doing this thing had caused Leesh to open up more. Maybe, Sydney thought, she’d also had to do distasteful things herself.
    “It’s okay,” said Sydney. Her sandwich tasted dry and she wished that she and Leesh were somewhere else, in a diner maybe, with lots of money and no worries.
    “Okay?” said Leesh, giving Sydney a perplexed look. “Are you sure?”
    “He’s not so bad,” said Sydney. What she didn’t say was that now when she saw him, her heart fluttered. Sometimes he gently put his hand on her head and sometimes rubbed her hair. On a few occasions, he said he just wanted to talk. Often they did both.
    Leesh gave her a long, steady stare. “Look. He has a girlfriend. She goes to Central. They’ve been together for, I don’t know, two years? Don’t get any ideas. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
    The news hit Sydney in the gut as hard as the Voice would. She set the sandwich down and couldn’t bring herself to respond.

    In May, Mike told her he was going to be working that summer and wouldn’t have a chance to meet with her. He was kind and remote. “But don’t worry,” said, “I’ve taken care of it. Justin Brown will take over. He might have a friend, in case you want to make more than just the seventy-five. I gave him a good reference for you.” He chuckled and she felt as filthy as if she’d fallen into an outhouse toilet.

    Occasionally, she wondered how others who’d been implanted were doing. It appeared to her that the children of her parents’ friends had grown into dull-eyed sycophants. It was hard to tell which of the quiet kids at school were victims. But it was easy to identify who did not have the chip – those who enthusiastically spoke up in class and were unafraid to argue a point or take a hypothesis to radical conclusions. The avant-garde kids who considered themselves artists or musicians, or the geeks with their unabashed excitement over cyber speculations and developments. Kids who believed their minds were free.
    “My birthday is next week,” she told Leesh as they stole a quick smoke in the field behind the school. She had already finished her chore with one of the boys. The other was absent that day.
    “The big sixteen, huh?” said Leesh. She dragged hard on her Marlboro.
    “That’s right,” said Sydney. “Working papers. If my father will let me.”
    “Why wouldn’t he?”
    “He has strange ideas about women. My mother just goes along with it. Maybe there’s a chip in her brain too.”
    “If he’s old school, wouldn’t he be for self-reliance and all that shit?” asked Leesh.
    “You’ve got a point,” said Sydney.
    “You get the application from the guidance department.”
    “Yeah, but a parent has to sign it,” said Sydney.

    Sydney could not use usual teen tactics to persuade her father. No tantrums, crying or slamming of doors, since any of that would immediately alert him to the chip not working. The only recourse was persistent reasoning. Eventually, she broke him down, got the papers and immediately set to finding a job that she could reach by foot or bike. A lady who ran a consignment shop needed someone to sort goods, clean the store and run errands - minimum wage, but definitely enough to cover the pills price, which had now risen to eighty-five a month.
    “I won’t be able to take care of you now,” she told the two boys. “I’ll be working.”
    One took it all right. “If you change your mind, just signal,” he said. But the other was nasty. “Yeah?” he said. “How ‘bout you still fit me in? Or I’ll let everyone know what a skank you are.”
    She lowered her head and considered what he’d said. By now, Sydney was an expert at concealing her thoughts and emotions. She had learned how to reason while her emotions were violent. “I’m still technically a virgin. But I suppose it would be hard to prove that to all the assholes. I could fit you in maybe once a week, but other than that, there’s no time to do it. My parents know exactly what hours I’m working and when I should be home.”
    He looked like a bull shooting steam out of his nose. Maybe others considered him good looking, but she knew now that what was inside a person soon leaked out. “Once a week then and it had better be good,” he said gruffly.
    Two more years of high school to go, one more year for this selfish boy. She nodded and got out of his car.
    “You know,” Sydney said, after reporting this all to Leesh, “I never understood how you get away with looking the way you do. Why doesn’t it tip off your parents? And how come you don’t get harassed by boys when you’re the one who set me up?”
    Leesh gave her a long look before replying. “My father left a couple of years after I got implanted and my mother went nuts. They have her all drugged up. I’m lucky she remembers to do anything. I buy the food and do the cooking and most everything else. She forgot all about the damn chip. As for the boys, I did the same thing you do, but by the time I got that job and was able to stop, I had enough on them to shut them up. You can threaten to tell their girlfriends, their mothers. Any time you want, you can mess them up too.”
    The job in the consignment shop was dull but pleasant. Her boss, Mrs. Conrad, was like a gentle aunt. No pressure or judgment about anything, no intrusive questions. She let Sydney talk if she wanted and if not, supplied harmless gossip or comments about local or national news. The people who came in to shop were polite, the ones who needed the clothes sometimes embarrassed and the ones who wanted them for a fashion statement confident and cheerful. The shop became Sydney’s real home, especially after a pleasant summer with expanded hours.
    Now a junior and, in spite of her problems, keeping her grades up – they had to be maintained to prevent raising any suspicions or concern, Sydney began to worry how she would get the pill once she went away to college.
    “What are we going to do?” she asked Leesh, who was now a senior.
    “I’m not going away,” said her friend. “It’s community college or nothing for me. There isn’t any money.”
    “The rest of our lives, we have to drug ourselves?” said Sydney indignantly. “Does the freakin’ chip never shut up? Look what it’s done to Krista and Rita.” They were two girls in their classes, one of which had committed suicide and the other was preaching piously in the halls.
    “No one knows if you can remove it,” said Leesh. “Without killing the host, I mean.
    “Wow,” said Sydney. Her heart sank. “It feels hopeless.”
    One day, Sydney was sneaking a cigarette in her and Leesh’s usual spot. Leesh was absent that day. Tyler Rowe, a boy Sydney only knew by sight – he was new to the school – appeared out of nowhere and said her name. She recoiled, heart pounding. Had he heard about her “specialty”?
    “I’m sorry I startled you,” he said. “Didn’t mean to.”
    “What do you want?” she asked gruffly. Though he was attractive, her stomach turned.
    “To talk to you.” He seemed innocent; seemed not to grasp why she was so on edge.
    “What?”
    He moved closer, which caused her to jerk back. “What’s the matter? Listen, there’s something you need to know. We don’t need pills anymore.”
    For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. “We? What do you mean by ‘we’?”
    He pointed to his head. She would never have known. He so didn’t seem the type.
    “You too, huh?” she said, her voice softer.
    “Yeah.”
    “How did you know about me?”
    “Never mind,” he said. “It’s not important. What is is that this kid at Penn State figured out how to neutralize the things. He did it to himself, then his roommate, then a bunch of others. And get this, he doesn’t charge. He passed it on and it spread like wild fire and a bunch of us did it to ourselves Sunday night. We’re telling other people about it now. You need to come to Cody Butler’s house after school. He’s got the software. Tell Leesh.”
    For the first time in her life, Sydney willingly kissed a boy. He didn’t know what hit him and staggered back, but she was all over him. He’d never been and never would be kissed like that again in his life.
    After a quick call to Mrs. Conrad to tell her she had to miss work that afternoon and another call to Leesh, Sydney let Tyler drive her to Cody’s house. At least twenty kids had already arrived. Leesh rushed in and her and Sidney’s eyes met across the room.
    Cody introduced them to a slightly older kid. “This is Chris. He’s a friend of the guy who invented this. We’re not using last names. Chris was good enough to come all this way. This is an underground organization. We take an oath of silence before we begin. The procedure is painless and simply involves holding a programmed device next to the spot where you were implanted and punching in the code. We ask you to refrain from using the pills after this. If for any reason you again hear the Voice or suffer any repercussions, get in touch with me and we’ll get you to Penn State somehow to re-neutralize. Let us hold hands and take the oath.”
    As she walked out with Leesh after, her friend reminded her, “You’ll still have to act like a saint around your parents.” She sighed. “In a way, I’m glad I don’t need to bother.”
    Sidney put her arm around Leesh. “We have each other,” she said. “And we’re free. No matter what, we have that. Let’s go read something dangerous.”
    They laughed hysterically.

Bored—Meeting In Progress

    Hal Bannerman, the CEO of F.A.R.T., sat at his office desk. Nearing the age of fifty, Hal Bannerman was closing in on his sixth year as head of Transit. From the very onset of his installation at this post, Hal had garnered himself one sweetheart of a deal, negotiated, in part, for him by his attorney, one that included a salary well into the six figure range, along with a travel and expense allowance, the use of a company car, and all the other perks given to someone occupying the pinnacle spot within the organization. Needless to say Hal was able to afford a home in the wealthiest part of town, complete with a pool, sauna, tennis court, and recreation room, facilities which Hal had acquired by the acquisition of a wife, two kids, three dogs, and two cats.
    It hadn’t taken long after assuming his post as head CEO, for Hal to become a pillar of his upscale community. He was active with the Boy Scouts, a deacon at his church, a prominent member of the Masonic Lodge, and the vice president at the local Rotary Club, while his wife was an official of the local branch of the Daughters of the American Revolution and a member of the Eastern Star. Hal also enjoyed the company of a mistress of which he felt completed his well-rounded self-image. As he neared the half-century mark he had developed a stocky build that accompanied his moderate sized frame and sported a modest receding hairline somewhat sandy in color that matched the face of a man who may have ever-so-slightly overindulged in his share of late morning and early afternoon cocktails.
    Now, shifting a bit in his office chair, Hal first glanced out the window at the flawless flagstone patio and then at the clock on the wall, noting that it was 1:45 p.m., just fifteen minutes before a meeting of the department heads was about to get underway in the company conference room. Gathering up the folders that contained all the paperwork pertinent to the day’s agenda, he was just about to rise from his desk when the phone rang and his receptionist informed him that his wife was on the line.
    “I’m just leaving for a meeting.” Hal informed her with the pomposity of a very busy man. “Take a message please.”
    The next phone to ring was that of his cell, and this time the caller could not be so easily dispatched.
    “Hi lovey.” Hal replied. “No, I haven’t told her yet. Why? Well, it’s got to be the right time. No, I don’t want....look, lovey, I can’t just blurt it out like...I know but, .... Look, could we talk about this later? I have an important meeting I need to get to and...No, it’s not just physical between us! Yes, I really do... Look, I have to go now. Yes, ooche wooche coo. I love you too.”
    As Hal clicked off his cell phone and stepped out of his office, his receptionist handed him the message from his wife which provided him with an inordinate amount of information, including the fact that her sister was coming to spend the week along with husband, two kids, and a Rottweiler, and that his son and heir, Jimmy had run into a tree and totaled the pickup but only sustained minor scratches and bruises.
    “That kid’ll sustain more than that when I get home.” Hal muttered as he progressed down the corridor, the half-read message in hand. “No. The death penalty is still on the books here in this state. Better just take a deep breath and calm down. Let’s see, what else does she want? Oh yes, I’m to stop at the store on the way home and pick up some potatoes, butter, a half-gallon of milk, and a package of hair rollers. Yeah, right.” he added, tucking the note inside his jacket pocket.
    The Transit department heads had all gathered in the conference room by the time Hal had arrived, fashionably late, as was his custom since it provided a minute or two to allow the department heads time to talk among themselves as well as giving him a sense of power when the resonant hum of conversation would cease upon his arrival. All-in-all, he regarded it as good protocol.
    This time, however, to Hal’s chagrin, the buzz of conversation continued as he assumed his place at the head of the table. “Okay gentlemen,” he announced so authoritatively that all conversation came to a close, “I believe we are now on my time.”
    “I called this meeting to discuss a few items that need addressing. I will attempt to put them before you in as expeditious a manner as possible so we can be out of here and back to work within as short a period of time as the matters at hand allow.”
    Hal opened up his manila folder and pulled out the paperwork.
    “As I’m sure you are all aware,” he continued, “the federal government has requisitioned Transit a three-hundred million dollar allotment for certain items it has deemed appropriate for us to address. So, it is at this juncture that I intend to go over with you the projects pertinent to the expenditure of this allotment. First off ...”
    When he was interrupted by his cell phone ringing the first few phrases of The Star Spangled Banner, Hal heaved a sigh and turned his back on his captive audience.
    “I can’t talk right now,” he whispered. “I’m in a meeting. Yes, I really meant it when I said I’d talk to her. No, I’m not leading you on. I have every intention of making you Mrs. Hal Bannerman. Look, I really have to go now. Not now dear. There’s people in the room. Oh, alright. Oochie woochie coo, I love you too.”
    Turning to face his subordinates, he saw that all eyes were on him.
    “Now gentlemen, as I was saying,” he said, desperately attempting to regain his composure, “the first item of expenditure of said allotment will be allocated toward the purchase and installation of the Yield to Bus Lights. As I am sure you are all aware, our Transit Union has expended much effort in their attempts at lobbying the majority of votes in both the State Assembly and the State Senate in favor of its passage. Therefore, with the passage of said legislation, the installation of these components have been rendered mandatory. As a consequence, in light of this mandate, I am issuing a directive to all departments connected with the facilitation of this matter to act accordingly with regards to the fulfillment of this end. And I expect each department head to keep me posted on whatever progress or obstacles that have been or are being incurred. Details of said project have since been cleared with Safety and Risk Management and Engineering has since drawn up the proposed schematics. What needs to happen now is for the appropriate facilitation to take place among department heads. Frank, you run off the purchase orders. Upon arrival, said components are to be delivered to Overhaul and Repair for installation, and finally the finished products need to be run through Quality Assurance and Warranty before being installed in 450 coaches. And I am certain it is not necessary for me to tell you that we need to implement what needs to be done in as efficient a manner as circumstances allows.”
    “Sir,” Frank Evans, the head of the Purchasing and Fiscal Activity said tentatively, rising to his feet, “I feel the need to express my concern over such an expenditure. I’m sure you are aware that installation of these lights were made on the coaches in both Oregon and Nevada but the motorists didn’t pay any attention to them, and law enforcement at both the state and local levels refused to enforce any of the laws germane to the installation of said items. Therefore it seems to me that for us to follow the efforts of Oregon and Nevada would constitute a wasteful and negligent expenditure of tax payer money.”
    “So noted.” Hal responded. “Now, onto the next item of business.”
    “Sir,” Frank interrupted, “I do believe this issue needs to be addressed before we begin a journey down a road we can surely see will lead to a dead end.”
    “Mr. Evans,” Hal responded, “this meeting was not called for us to debate the feasibility of these said items, and I have no intention of turning it into what our subordinate staff members have jokingly referenced as an ‘alternative to work.’ I am here to announce an agenda of up-and-coming items and initiate their facilitation among those of us present here in this room. Now, what has happened in Oregon and Nevada with regards to these lights is a moot point. Transit has lobbied on behalf of the passage of this piece of legislation and we have been mandated to perform its implementation. Case closed. Now, as I was saying, onto the next item of business.”
    “But Sir ...”
    “I said, onto the next item of business.” Hal announced impatiently. “We have another government mandate that is being passed down to us. This one is from the federal level which involves the potential usage of what the higher ups have termed as the hydrogen powered low floor coach. Critics of the program have referenced these entities as ‘bombs on wheels’ because there still hasn’t been devised a sure fire way to deal with the aspect of how hydrogen will react under pressure. To begin addressing this issue Transit has already allocated a certain portion of our allotted federal expenditure for the undertaking of training a portion of the maintenance crewmen for the task. Given the prescribed time line, this training should be completed within the next two to three weeks. After they have completed their training these men will be put to work implementing the modifications necessary for purposes of making these vehicles road worthy and passenger friendly.”
    Frank, still standing spoke up again. “What happens if these modifications are not effective? After all, these hydrogen coaches are more or less unknown commodities.”
    “If they are not effective, then they are not effective.” Hal told him. “Look, there’s nothing in the government mandate that says we have to be successful in this endeavor. But it’s made quite clear that we do have to go through the motions, and that’s exactly what we are going to do.”
    “But...”
    “I said, that is what we are going to do. Now, onto the next item. I have received notification from the County Environmental Health Department with regards to the shoddy conditions of grounds. Therefore, in compliance to county notification, I have committed expenditure of a portion of the federal requisition for the contracting of a landscaping firm for purposes of rehabilitating and renovating said grounds.”
    “Excuse me, sir,” Frank again spoke up, “but grounds keeping is supposed to be a task relegated to the yard’s facility workers. In contracting out such a task we run the risk of incurring the wrath of the Transit Union by usurping ....”
    Hal’s expression was enough to bring even Frank to an abrupt halt in the middle of his sentence, not to mention encouraging him to sit down.
    “Up to this point,” Hal said briskly, snapping his words one after the other, “the facility workers have been grossly negligent in their performance of this task. It is my contention that the end result will provide the facility workers with renewed incentive to once again assume ownership of all grounds keeping.”
    If Hal had thought that this explanation would satisfy Frank, he was, apparently, sadly mistaken.
    “But it’s a pretty well-known fact that the yards are not equipped with enough facility workers to perform these tasks.” Frank said. “So, knowing that, wouldn’t it make more sense to hire more facility workers as opposed to enlisting the services of a landscaping company?”
    At that point Harold Dorfman, the head of Personnel spoke up, “It is also a well known fact that there is a hiring freeze that is presently in place.”
    “Well that’s an easy issue to resolve.” Hal replied in a voice which indicated that he was rapidly losing patience. “Just lift the hiring freeze. Now, with that said, the next portion of the federal requisition I have authorized will go toward the purchase of a new state of the arts Transit computer system for purposes of simultaneously performing the tasks of attendance tracking, awards dispersal, the maintenance of sick leave and vacation balance, and the apportionment of penalties and benefits germane to personnel. This new state of the arts computer system is called the Automachron 4 BS and as I have been duly informed, this piece of equipment is truly the marvel of the age.”
    “Sir,” said Frank, “may I inquire as to who informed you of this claim?”
    Hal clenched and unclenched his hands in a menacing fashion which, apparently, Frank Evans had decided to ignore.
    “The company we’re purchasing it from, of course.”
    “But has the program been subject to a battery of litmus tests for purposes of validating the company’s claim?”
    “Mr. Evans, I have total confidence in this company. They were accorded a B minus rating with the Better Business Bureau. So, now that we’ve cleared that matter up, you all need to know that I am expecting installation procedures to begin Wednesday of next week. Each of you here, I’m sure, is aware of your roles with regards to the implementation of said project. Now, onto the final item that also pertains to data we received from the County Environmental Health Department. We’ve already addressed the issue of landscaping renovations to the yards. But these renovations only pertain to the areas inside the boundaries of the chain link fences, and as we all know, each yard has massive acreage outside the fences that also needs to be maintained. I refer, of course, to the grass and foliage that needs tending to. According to the Environmental Health and Safety Department, our use of John Deere equipment is responsible for emitting a massive amount of toxins into the atmosphere. So, a greener approach to yard maintenance has been proposed—mainly that we employ sheep and goats to consume the grass, weeds, and whatever other plant life that grows on the grounds. For purposes of implementing this measure, we will be contracting the services of a shepherding firm. Sheep will be used in the summer, and goats in the winter. I have been informed that the use of livestock will result in a substantial savings, and will enhance our reputation as a public service agency that is making a concerted effort to go green.”
    “Sir,” said Frank, “I feel the need to question the wisdom of such a move.”
    “I’m sure you do, Frank.” Hal said between gritted teeth. “But that’s not an issue here. After the tallying up of all these said expenditures, we find that a substantial sum of the allotment still remains thereby relegating it to the category of miscellaneous. Therefore, given the fact that most of our contracts come due in another few months, I propose we divvy out the remains of this allotment in the drawing up of our proposed five year contract renewals. Given the sum total of these remains it can be estimated that all of us here can be allocated a ten percent raise for each of the five years of this up-and-coming contract. And according to what I have been able to ascertain from what I know to be a reliable source, this ten percent is assumed to be in keeping with the projected fluctuations of the Cost of Living Index.”
    All present voiced a resounding show of approval for Hal’s proposal, except for Frank Evans who was quick to express his concerns on the matter, as in all the others.
    “Sir,” he said, “I feel I should point out that there are other contracts that are expiring in tandem with ours, those being the agreements made by the transit union workers and the administrative support workers. If we relegate such a huge sum of money toward the enhancement of our contracts, very little will be left for the perks that would comprise theirs. ”
    “Frank,” Hal said as his patience began to wear thin, “all your concerns are great for the suggestion box, but this is the way the money is to be allocated. Now, as for your concerns with regards to our subordinates such as the transit workers and the administrative support staff, we do what we always do ...create a shortage.”
    “But sir, if we do that, wouldn’t their unions ...”
    “In creating the shortage, we enlist the aid of their union heads for purposes of devising a scenario and subsequent spin.” Hal explained between gritted teeth. “It’s worked before. It’ll work again.”
    “Isn’t that a tad unethical?”
    “No. It’s business.”
    “But Sir...”
    “Frank, how long have you been a department head?”
    “Two years. Why?”
    “Then it’s high time you shed that troublesome attribute known as integrity and get with the program. As for the rest of you, we still have a little more than two hours left in the work day, so let’s make the most of it and start the ball rolling. I believe you all know what needs doing, so anything more said on my part would just be superfluous. ”
    It was just the sort of conclusive touch he was fond of, Hal told himself as he made his way out of the board room, leaving Evans and the others in his dust. Besides, it was a considerable relief to make his exit before his cell phone began ringing again.

This Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore

    The last time I saw my Daddy was during the summer. We had gone for a walk in the woods together. Jonathan was walking beside us, smiling up at me. We always let Jonathan off the leash once we were on the trail. Daddy told me Jonathan smelled stuff I couldn’t, like other dogs and squirrels. I could only smell the pine cones- sticky and sweet. Mommy was at home cooking dinner for us. Dad had said it would be yummy- maybe mac and cheese. I loved being with Dad. He always knew how to make me laugh. He would talk in Jonathan’s voice and say funny things about Mommy’s dinner. He would do his monkey dance and go “Eww, Eww” while he scratched under his arm. He told me about his Dad and going for walks in the woods together when he was my age. He knew everything about trees and animals. When we came upon the brook, there was a tree branch hanging over the trail and Daddy wanted to play the monkey again. “Watch this,” he said and while he climbed up on it and did his “Eww, Eww,” but the tree collapsed. I don’t remember what happened next. They found me running through the woods. I always wondered why Jonathan didn’t go get Mommy like Lassie does in the movies. I guess real dogs don’t do that.
    Mommy brought me to Doctor Jenkins afterwards. Doctor Jenkins never made me laugh. He only asked lots of questions. Sometimes he looked worried and concerned. He’d watch me play with Jonathan and asked about the woods. He said he was sorry for my loss, but I didn’t know what that meant. I told him about how Daddy was still telling me jokes, like “what happens to a frog’s car when it breaks down?” I always liked that one, but Doctor Jenkins didn’t know it. He didn’t even laugh when I told him Daddy said it got “toad” away. Mommy was there too. She didn’t say much those days. She looked sad since she didn’t get to talk to Daddy still. I think she missed him, because sometimes I heard her cry. I would be sleeping and I would wake up to Mommy sobbing in the kitchen. It made me feel weird to hear her cry like that. It didn’t sound like her. Mostly I was ok. I missed seeing Dad, but he still told me jokes. Doctor Jenkins was always asking me what jokes Daddy told me. I guess he couldn’t hear his Daddy anymore.
    Daddy didn’t just tell me only jokes though. Sometimes he would talk about heaven and what it was like to be with Jesus. He was happy there and could go for walks in the woods with his Daddy again. He asked about Mommy and Jonathan and told me I had to look after them now. He said he was sorry for climbing up on that tree, but he wouldn’t leave me again. If I didn’t hear from him, I would get sad and lonely. Some of the pills Doctor Jenkins gave me made it hard to hear him, so I listened closer and closer. He was still there. Have you heard the one about, “what the duck said when it bought lipstick?” Put it on my bill! I always loved that one.
    They switched my school and I was around some strange kids. One of them would just rock in his chair like he was on an imaginary horse. Everyone liked me there though and no one made fun of me. Sometimes I missed the old school. I always liked this girl Kim with freckled and blond hair and now I didn’t get to see her.
    Mommy always made sure I took the pills Doctor Jenkins gave me. She’d wake me up in the morning for cartoons and I would have cookies and milk and some red and blue pills. They made me tired and sleepy and they made Daddy quiet. I started playing basketball, because Mom said it would be good for me. I was a forward. They said I was in the retard class, which meant the other boys never passed me the ball. I didn’t hear Daddy for a while. I missed him, but I didn’t have to see Doctor Jenkins so much, which made me happy. I never understood why I couldn’t laugh around him
    It was spring and I was done with basketball till next winter. Mommy had made me mac and cheese, which was always my favorite. I had taken the pills for almost a year now and I hadn’t heard his voice anymore. I still thought of him often, but he wasn’t there. Suddenly, from nowhere I heard his voice, same as always, “What do you call a fake noodle?” I missed him so much, but it made me sad to hear him again. It would just mean more Doctor Jenkins, more of my mom crying. “It’s an impasta!” I didn’t laugh. I felt tears trickle down my eyes onto my dinner. Mom asked what was wrong. I was scared she would be mad at me again, but I just told her that I missed dad. She came over and held me in her arms and said she loved me. I’m glad I didn’t laugh. I’ll never laugh at Daddy’s voice again.

The Roads We Choose

    The shower passed and the sun burned down. We sat, raindrops growing finer on the windshield. Caught in Bronx summer traffic without an air conditioner, we rolled down our windows and watched the steam rise from the pavement.

    Two blacks were running through the cars. They crossed the highway in front of us. Two cops appeared beside our car. The blacks ran up the sloped grass of the overpass and looked down. Two more appeared. One of them threw a rock at the cops. It flew over the cars and over the heads of the cops. If you were going to be jammed in traffic on the Cross-Bronx Expressway, you couldn’t beat this. The cops wore dark blue jackets with heavy black belts, very serious and helpless looking public servants. Rocks fell on them as the other two blacks joined in. The cops did not chase the men further. Their car was on a nearby access road. Standing on their hill, the black men laughed. I couldn’t hear them laugh, but their teeth showed smiles while they threw rocks. The cops were losing this one in front of an audience of stalled drivers and fortunately none of the rocks hit a windshield. What was this about, anyhow? Did they steal an apple pie? The blacks laughed and continued their bombardment, delaying their escape to make the insult. Then one of the cops unbuttoned her holster and took out her pistol. She held the automatic high and stepped forward. The blacks ran up the hill to the top of the overpass and vanished up the road. The cop put away her gun. It had been entertaining until the woman brought a gun into it. I guessed it was one of those moments you might see again. The blacks were having fun. The cops were obscenely helpless and afraid.

    We sped through the Meadowlands, where the grass grew yellow under a sunless sky, except in blackened spots where there have been brush fires. Smokestacks reined the horizon and the wind cradled a nightmare. It was then that I noticed we were running low on gas. I took an exit for a gas station. In New Jersey it doesn’t matter which exit.

    I filled her up and paid the Indian sitting behind an inch of glass. He took my money through a metal drawer. He did not say a word, but he looked out from behind the glass, safe with the cigarettes and scratch tickets. When I say Indian, I mean from India. Not the people who were living here when Columbus arrived looking for India. Columbus had made a mistake. The people who had greeted him had made a mistake. The guy behind the glass gave me the right change.

    I turned the ignition and the starter clicked. I tried again. No go. Our 1967 Rover 2000 would not start. But it had been doing this all summer. It would start if we waited for it to cool down. Jess had run out of patience with the car. She was afraid of it. She let out her frustration on me and squeezed her hands between her knees. I tried to ease her worries by explaining the problem as we pushed the car away from the pumps. The starter wires were overheating while we drove because they were too close to the manifold. This became significant when you stopped and then tried to start again soon after. Hot wires conduct less electricity than cool wires. The starter wasn’t getting enough juice to turn over. She was not comforted. Her father had owned British cars. And maybe it was because we were driving to California.

    On the freeway with warm wind rushing at us. On the move.
    “I think we’re going in the wrong direction,” Jess said.
    “We’re going north?” I said. “No we’re not.”
    “Yes we are. We’re headed back home.”
    “It looks the same.”
    Smokestacks and grass yellowed from a diet of smog and headaches. A green and white highway sign finally showed up to clear the matter: I-95 North. Jess was right. I had to turn around. We exited the highway.

    In no time I was lost. I’d like to say we were lost, and we were, but I was driving and Jess was the innocent captive who knew better, getting dragged through the ghetto in search of a way back to I-95 South. I was caught in a crossword puzzle of one-way streets lined with cinder-block homes with barred windows. People walked the streets and gathered on the corners. They were talking. They did not seem to be up to much, but they looked happier than their houses and cars. We finally found the one-way street which led back to I-95 South, hit the highway and rolled down the windows. I turned up the music: Don’t worry, ‘bout a thing, ‘cause every little thing, is gonna be alright . . .

    Many songs later, the prospect of people eating all the corn in Pennsylvania and then excreting it gave me something to think about. Jess found beauty in the monotony of the green stalks. We were driving through a Warhol. The road was wide and dry and stretched forever with no one in front of us and no one in the rearview. We owned all of that corn without having to live in a vinyl house on a hill.
    “I like it here,” Jess said.

    Jess opened the glove box and found The AAA Guide to Camping, Northeast Edition.
    “There are a bunch of campgrounds near Gettysburg,” she said.
    “We’re near Gettysburg?” I said.
    “I think so. Let me see. Yes, we’re getting close. It’s about an inch away on the map.”
    “How far is an inch?” I asked.
    “Oh. About sixty miles. That’s more than I thought. What do you think?”
    “Why not?”
    “I’ve always wanted to see Gettysburg,” she said.
    “Let’s go see what it’s about.”
    Jess read me the roads and we got off the highway onto a narrow road that wound past the ends of people’s driveways for two hours. The lights in windows showed life. In the hills, below the trees, shadows accumulated and became darkness before the sun was down. In the open, the day hung with us, fading out while I drove.
    “Can you roll up your window a little?” Jess said. “I’m cold.”
    The wind blowing across my arm was cold. September dusk. I rolled my window up – a little.
    “It’s close to nine o’clock,” Jess said. “They close at ten. Are we gonna make it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    The road had some sharp turns, but I stepped on it. The Rover had a race-car suspension. Over hills. Leaves in the road. Through chimney smoke. Jess complaining she was carsick.

    The town parted the trees. A wave came up the windshield and blinded me. Holy!

    I slowed and turned on the wipers and we saw we were on the main drag of a small town. Small-town America like so many small towns back in New England. The rain poured on the desolate streets. Then I saw a sign on the outside of a store: GETTYSBURG HARDWARE.
    This was the famous town. “We’re in Gettysburg,” I said.
    “This is Gettysburg?” Jess said.
    “We’re out of Gettysburg.”
    “Go back!”
    “Hang on!”
    It was dark. I drove on. The rain hammered the roof and I bent my head down to see out the windshield. The wipers struggled to go back and forth. The steering broke loose with every river and puddle I drove through. Jess was studying the AAA booklet under the focused beam of the Rover Deluxe Reading Lamp while I wondered where we were. We were alone, I could see. Pennsylvania was a quiet state this day. It was dark and out in the rain were fields or farmland with some trees here and there. I squinted at the road in front of me. I could see it, but I was not in control.
    We passed something on the roadside.
    I slowed and hit the high beams.
    “Turn off the light!”
    Jess did.
    “What?” she said.
    “I saw something. Again, ahead on the right.”
    The shadows came again.
    Silhouettes.
    I slowed.
    Cannons.
    There were three of them standing in an uneven line, facing the road.
    I drove on. There were more. We were close to the battle. We were on the battlefield.
    Jess gave me directions.
    We saw a light. Going by, we read the sign: THE BATTLEFIELD CAMPGROUND.
    I’d passed it. I pulled a u-turn and headed back toward the only light on those dark fields. I turned in at the sign onto gravel. A short way in was a shack with a sign in the window: VACANCY. The shack also looked vacant. Jess waited in the car while I checked the door of the shack. The rain beat on me. The air smelled of rotting leaves. I was cold. The door to the place was locked and there was no sign of a human. There were a bunch of brochures on the counter. I ran back to the car, climbed in, soaked to the skin.
    “Anything?” Jess said.
    “Just a bunch of books.”
    “What time is it?” she said, looking at her watch. “It’s quarter after ten. Now what are we going to do?”
    “Don’t worry.”

    I turned off the headlights and backed away from the shack.
    “What are you doing?” Jess said.
    “Shhhhh.”
    I turned the car onto the gravel road and violated the campground. The parking lights cast an amber glow on the road and outlined the trees. We crept along the gravel in the dark until we came to a fork. I took the road on the right because it looked lonesome and went away from the campground’s center of activity. We would be less likely to get caught down there. The gravel turned to mud. Under the trees, whose trunks glowed amber, were fire pits marking the campsites. A potential spot appeared under the leaves of a wide trunk. The tree would protect us. I flashed the headlights and saw good ground.

    I secured the tarpaulin while Jess rushed the pillows and blankets from the car to the tent. We found our toothbrushes and went off to find the bathrooms. We had seen the white cinderblock building on the way in. There was a WOMEN sign on one end and a MEN on the other. The doorways were brightly lit by floodlights which illuminated thick gatherings of mosquitoes waiting for communion. Jess walked through the women’s mosquitoes, I through the men’s.

    The men’s room was quiet. I was alone. There were showers we could use in the morning. I picked one sink from the long row of sinks and brushed my teeth. I washed my face in that strange and quiet place. I looked in the mirror and was disappointed by the professional who looked back. The road had done nothing for him yet. It was the face of inexperience, with four wheels and dreams of a continent yet to be realized.

    I went outside and waited for Jess under the overhang. Me and the dancing mosquitoes staying out of the rain. A long while later, she appeared. We ran through the rain for our tent, across the wet grass under the big old trees to the shelter, where I unzipped the door and she jumped in. I followed, sealing us inside. We settled into our pile of blankets. The floor was wet. We didn’t care. The rain poured and we were safe in our shaking tent. I don’t know who started it, but we were greedily taking off our clothes. I said “Whoever comes first has to drive tomorrow.” We made love with the rain and wind. She was there. I was there. Tomorrow we would be somewhere else and she would be driving.

Down the Beach from the Shore House

    Walk up the path between tall brown grasses in the sand and come over the rise. The sea appears with the boiling surf and the horizon marking off the curvature of the earth from far left, to far right. Walk down toward the sea in the loose sand. The sand quickly fills your shoes. The sunlight comes gently down from the cloudless sky above. It is not hot; it is not cold. The breeze comes off the sea. There’s a ship far out riding the horizon, balanced as though on a tightrope, on the line between sea and sky.
    In the bedroom at the shore house the bullets slide one by one into the cylinder of the revolver. Six bullets in all, though only one will be needed. Which of these will it be? They are hard and cold. A finger runs along the curve of the bullets’ tips. The bullets were bought this morning. You scarcely knew what kind of bullets to get for the revolver that lay for so long atop the rafters in the basement. Father put it up there years ago, long before the accident. You took the revolver down and cleaned it up. You guessed it was a thirty-eight. You seem to remember Father saying that once. And, luckily, you guessed right. At the sporting goods store when you went to buy bullets the bearded man behind the gun counter spoke.
    Going to do some shooting?
    Yes.
    Well, have fun.
    He rang you up. You came home. There are twenty four bullets in a box. You only need six. Eighteen will go to waste—twenty three, actually, because in the end you will only have needed one.
    Go down to the sea where the water comes up. Walk along the line separating the wet and dry sand that the waves rush up and touch before falling back. Far ahead is the great fun pier. There are towers and wheels and clusters of dark boxy shapes and roller coasters. You walk along the wet edge of the sand just short of being touched by the water sliding up the sand toward you and ahead there lies a dark shape in the dry sand. A large horseshoe crab is dead on its back, its legs folded up and its body shrunken in the hollow of its shell. The long tail thrusts out on the sand. How did it come up so far onto the beach? Did it crawl up here to die on the sand? Did someone else flip it over on its back exposing all its tender parts to the sun? And is that what finished it off? The water stretches off to the left. The waves plunge. Are there more horseshoe crabs out there? You have been in swimming here many times. You have never seen one of these in the water. These kinds of creatures only seem to be visible when washed up dead. Your teeth bite down on your lip. How frightening; to be only visible when dead.
    Having loaded the revolver, pick it up and start down the hall toward the bedroom. The creaking floor threatens to betray you. He’s lying up the hall sleeping you hope, but the creaking floor is going to wake him. He sleeps a lot you know, in that bed with that damned television on—what else does a person have to do who has no use of their arms or legs? That locomotive should have finished him—he should have seen his life flash by before his eyes as the locomotive took him. How is it the whole of a person’s life can flash before their eyes in the few moments before the eyes close down for the last time over nothingness? That’s what they say happens you know. That’s what they all say happens.
    There’s a pathway of broken shells at the edge of the wet sand and you walk along it. Your shoes crunch along the path and you wonder how the shells got all broken up and why there are so many of them. Many small lives lie wasted here. Here and there a whole shell lies among the fragments. They are multicolored and they stretch out shining before you glistening in the sand ahead. The path of broken shells winds along and you walk along toward the far fun pier atop the path and it’s like walks you’ve taken before. It’s like when you walked with her along the sidewalk before Roosevelt school holding her hand, your flesh pressed against hers, and it felt wonderful. But now walking along alone like you are you rub your empty hands together and you thrust a hand down into your pocket and only the revolver is there. You hold the barrel of the revolver. It does not feel wonderful. You think of the five bullets that are left. Bullets are deadly things. You wonder will you ever fire a gun again.
    Going down the hall you find your hands start shaking badly. You stop dead before his bedroom door. No, it’s not time. You must have steady hands for this work. You think of his tranquilizers in the cabinet in the kitchen; the damned tranquilizers he needs to keep himself from going looney in that bed. You turn around and go back toward the stairs leading downward and you go down with your hand running along the banister and the stairs are creaking horribly—damn this house! You go across the living room with the huge threadbare furniture they bought God knows how long ago. The thick brown kitchen doorframe comes around you. The tranquilizers come down from the cabinet into your hand and you open the bottle and try to decide how many to take. They are small. You decide to take five—you’ve taken as many as seven before when you’ve stolen them from him—and you take five and wash them down with a glass of water and you sit at the kitchen table looking at the revolver as you wait for the pills to start working. Your hand shakes on the table and your leg shakes as well. You rest your hand on the gun and it is hard and cold. It rattles on the table under your trembling hand. You wonder how long you should wait—a half hour is what it takes for medicine to enter the blood stream when it’s taken orally, is what they’ve always said. So you sit and wait for the softness and light haze to envelope you and you think of other times you have waited like this. As a boy you waited at school for mother, but mother never came. School was out and everybody was gone but you were left standing there in front of the red brick school with your little book bag and mother never came so you started walking and you knew the way home but it was far. Where was mother? Your feet press against the kitchen floor and you grip the handle of the revolver; you lift it and wave it around and would that mother could be here now, so you could plug her. She had a lot of nerve leaving you at the school like that while she was down at Findon’s having forgotten about you like she used to do. The time goes and you walk and walk toward home alone; through shadow and shade, through fallen autumn leaves all dry, you’ve never walked home from school before, it’s only kindergarten after all. You walk so long and hard your side hurts. You stop walking and sit back down at the table and you squeeze the gun. You feel ready, so you rise from the kitchen table with steady hands and the light haze around you and the light feeling in your feet and in your hands and it is time to go upstairs again.
    The white and grey sea gulls stand around on the wet sand facing out toward the sea and you feel like you should go running at them waving your hands and making them fly but they stand there like statues. They do not fly, because you have not run at them waving your hands, and you walk along and the fun pier seems no closer; what was it, a mile up the beach or two miles up the beach and the sea gulls stand there now and then one takes off and one swoops down and lands but they are all like statues like that mime pretending to be a statue in the town square in England when you were there it seems so damned long since you were there—he looked like a statue, but was alive too, just like the sea gulls they are like statues but they are alive too, just like you, but are you like a statue—that is the question.
    The stairs are hard to mount, your feet feel so heavy, it’s probably the pills. Your feet feel like they used to feel when you walked through the mud down at the brook to bring in the rowboat and your feet would suck down into the mud and you would pull the boat just like he used to do when you were small, but now you were doing it for yourself and you pull yourself slowly up the stairs one tread at a time with the lily pads all about you and the flowers and the stench of shit mud. You’re pulling with one hand on the banister and the other holding the revolver. It’s like being in the army climbing the mountainside in Missouri with your rifle across your back and you were sick then, ended up with a case of the flu and ended up in the base hospital. Yes it’s like being in the army they put you in the army to shoot people don’t they? You start to think of him. You start to think of him lying in the bedroom waiting for his food to be brought up. You’re halfway up the stairs thinking of him but you cannot picture him. You struggle. God why is this all taking so long, why God, why? And why can’t you picture him? It’s like standing at the foot of an old grave trying to picture what is six feet down before you—it is too horrible to be pictured, too ugly, too ugly like him.
    A man in a wife beater undershirt and with a gut comes along walking a golden retriever down the beach and he passes you by and says hello. You nod and the dog has got a silver collar and the leash is blue. After you nod you think of when you used to be at work and you’d come down the hall with the grey rug and the yellow walls and sometimes the people passing would breathe out a hello and sometimes they wouldn’t, but if they held the door for you you’d always say thank you and so would they if you held the door for them but most of the time you would just walk along with your head down and walk by them and pretend you didn’t see them but you did, oh you did, you were aware of them, painfully aware that regardless of how they looked, they were all just like you. They were nothing to you and you were nothing to them. You half-stumble through the sand now—you’ve veered off the path of shells. You come back on it. The walking is better on the packed tight dead shells.
    At the top of the stairs you pause and grip the head of the banister and think what a long walk what a god-damned long walk to go from your bedroom to the kitchen to take a handful of pills and wait a while, and you stand at the top of the stairs the way you stood at the top of the tower in Providence that time so long ago, and you could look out and see the tip of Cape Cod and he was there with you he was always taking you someplace like that and once you even asked him why he did it; what kind of thing was that to ask your god-damned father, why are you taking me to the beach and to high point and to Cape Cod and to Gettysburg and to the airport to watch the planes back when you could go out on the roof in Newark and watch the planes close up and in the open. Lord God that was a long time ago. Why did you take me to places like that, you asked, when you did nothing else for me and you drove my mother mad with your raving and ranting and she ended up leaving and that was all because of you so why should I go to the airport to watch the planes with a smile on my face after you have done that? I was a fool to have done it with you, a damned fool.
    At last the fun pier comes up and you go under and above you roars the Wild Mouse and there are voices above too. You lean against the piling and the vibration comes down and into your spine and the Wild Mouse is racing and the fun pier is full of fun but you are below it, you are below all the fun alone in the shadows where it seems you have spent your whole life. Looking out through the forest of pilings you see the waves breaking against them. You wonder how long the waves have been pounding against them and how much longer can they last.
    Your hands are still shaking; damn it all, the pills are still not working. You stand at the head of the stairs riding in the car along in front of the church next to the high tension towers and you asked him—do you love my mother, father? Do you love her? And he says yes, yes, I love your mother. Then why are things like they are all the time, you think—why is there always screaming and yelling and why did she end up at Nora’s away from him and why were you laying in your bed reading when suddenly he flung the door open and threw the divorce papers onto your bed screaming Read it and weep! Read it and weep! to his own son a little boy his own damned son. Why do that to an innocent child and dare to say you love the child’s mother especially when asked when the car is crossing in front of the church by the high tension towers. And the son is damned for sure, that’s true. The son is damned for sure.
    The pilings are covered with barnacles to the high tide mark which is as high as your neck, and later, later, there will be water that high and you think what if I stand here as the water rises and the Wild Mouse goes on roaring overhead and the water will be up to my neck, but that’s not high enough for what you need, so you go out from under the fun pier and keep walking along the trail of broken shells and you will go as far as you need to find water that’s high enough for what you need. As you walk, you hold your stomach—you need it, you need it bad—you turn your face to the sea. You envy the endless mindless sea. What damned right does it have to be eternal when you cannot be?
    And still you stand at the top of the stairs remembering that Christmas, when he got drunk and threw you across the room into the Christmas tree and the tree went down and you ran next door to your aunt’s house and swore to her, swore on your life, that you’d never go to that house again but you went home later anyway after you got the shock of it all out of your system and he was asleep on the couch and he had tried to fix up the Christmas tree and you went to bed and pulled the covers up to your neck like you used to do when you were afraid you would die if you went to sleep and you would be so afraid and you know that when it was time to die you would just force your eyes to stay open—force your eyes to stay open and you will never die and you tried to do it in bed that night and you strained to keep your eyes open but then all of a sudden it was morning and the unknown had washed over you all night and death had closed your eyes so there was no more use standing there—so you turned to the hall and started down it. And years ago after you started down the hall, the accident happened that took his arms and legs from him and he just lies in the bed now and at last you come to the bedroom door, it rushes up to you and your hand is on the old oddly warm glass faceted knob. The knob rattles in your hand—God damn these old things in these old houses.
    There’s an abandoned sand castle on the dry side of the pathway of broken shells. There are holes dug and there are towers rounded off by the wind. It’s large—a gang of people must have worked on it, people of all ages from children to grandparents, and they worked hard to build something that’s like a life, something that only lasts until they’re gone and the wind and the waves have the time to finally have their way. There’s water in the deepest hole. You stoop and scoop up a palmful of water. The water is cold, and the water is forever, and the sand is forever, but the castle is only for until the wind and waves have had their way, after everybody is gone.
    The doorknob turns. The door opens. The shades are pulled. You look through the half light. His face looks at you, but you say nothing. His face is just a blank pale white thing. No features. He is no one. You hold the revolver behind your back and your eye falls on the bedside clock and the second hand turns you can see it turning and the minute hand is turning but you can’t really see it unless you stare at the tip of the hand a long long time, and the hour hand is turning but you can’t see it turn at all no matter how long you stare at the Goddamned thing—and he says a single word through the turning of the clock hands you have your eye on.
    Son, he says.
    No Read it and weep no Read it and weep.
    He dares say—son.
    His smile forms a black gap in his head. The locomotive took him years ago in the sand pits where he worked, he stepped around the end of a box car and the locomotive was there, and it took him. Snapped his neck just like that. And he hasn’t moved since, you’ve waited on him hand and foot, you’ve paid money for nurses to watch him during the day when you’re at work because he never had the kind of insurance that would take care of an old cripple for the rest of his life so you had to pay all your money for his care you’re like a poor person though you work like a dog in the office all day, yes you got an office job not like him, that you struggle to hang onto and though you make good money it’s like you’re a poor person. He looks at you after he says Son. He expects you to come in and do something for him, like you always have before since his arms and legs died.
    There’s a cluster of live clams lying strewn across all closed up tight that’s how you can tell that they’re alive, they lie there closed up tight and you remember the company picnic where Andrea brought clams and you learned how to open a clam and you ate the clams down raw—and you wonder if these clams here on the beach are the kind you could open with a knife and scoop out of their shell and pop into your mouth like life does to people you know you’re scooped out of your shell every day of your life and you’re popped into the mouth of all the onrushing tomorrows that only end you up in one end place. You kick at the clams and one rolls across and you wonder why they’re just in this spot, like someone had a bucket of them and stopped here and decided to dump them right here, like they weren’t needed any more, like there had been some reason to gather a bucket of them but the reason has been forgotten and maybe even never was. You walk past the clams down the pathway of broken shells and there’s another pier in the distance with nothing on it. It used to be a fun pier too but now it’s a nothing pier and it’s about a mile off you figure, so you leave the clams alone where they’ve been dumped and you wish you could find the boy who dumped them out you’d say how dare you treat a living thing that way. Like someone should have told your father.
    You walk up to his bed with your hand behind your back and the handle of the gun is cold and he smiles like he’s glad to see you, you will now pull down the covers and expose him and move his limbs like they are really ever going to move again but you move his limbs so they don’t coil inward and get all gnarled, it’s a good thing he has you to make him look presentable, and you will change the bag at the end of his catheter, and you will bring him oatmeal and spoon it into his mouth and he will eat it greedily that’s the only thing you give him to eat anymore, because he doesn’t have the muscles in his jaw and neck to chew since the accident he’s really a mess a god damned mess but still he dares lie there and say that single word a second time.
    Son—
    Is this the only word he knows how to say? Is it?
    There’s a family up on the beach and there’s a leaning beach umbrella like the one he used to bring to the beach years ago before the trouble when you would go to the beach and he’d work thrusting the shaft of the umbrella into the sand—and the family has beach chairs and a cooler and there’s a blanket spread out under them and the man is the husband he is big and pot bellied and the woman is slight with short black hair and there are children digging in the sand and you remember what it was like to sit digging in the sand, for no good reason but to dig in the sand and you’d make a pile of sand by the hole and sometimes you’d go down to the water and get a plastic bucket of water from the sea and come back and fill the hole, like every hole is a yawning gulf waiting to be filled they say it’s true nature abhors a vacuum like the hole of a vacuum that was left when she left him and went to live with Nora in South River and all of a sudden the family on the beach looks ugly to you and they are all wearing masks twisted and grotesque tied on their faces with string tied in the back and you think all people are wearing masks.
    The mask lying on the pillow in the bed smiles at you and his hair is neatly combed with a nice sharp part down the side that the nurse put there this morning and you wonder would his hair stay all nice like this forever because he can’t move his head you know, it just lies there on the pillow gathering dust and the blankets are pulled up to his neck and he says the third through the seventh words he’s said since you entered the room.
    Good to see you son—
    And the eighth through the eleventh.
    Turn on the television.
    You stop counting the numbers are getting too high.
    Please turn on the television for me son.
    There’s a lifeguard station up on the beach all painted white and stoutly built like they are—and you can’t imagine sitting up there being all responsible for all the irresponsible multicolored lives running mindlessly around the beach. You’ve got to see when they go out too far—when they challenge the ocean, no one has the right to challenge the ocean so you’ve got to stand up and blow your whistle. But there are no whistles now, the lifeguard station is empty and you wonder where the lifeguard is I bet he’s glad to be off the God-damned beach with all the responsibility now when he’s off the God-damned beach he can be just as irresponsible as everybody else you bet he stands at the bar with a beer all drunk all drunk all drunk all drunk.
    I am hungry, says the mask in the bed lying on the pillow. What’s on for tonight?
    He’s got to be up in the twenties of words said now. When will you say your last word—what will it be? There’s a last everything and there’s last words and last sights and last sounds and all that but you won’t know them when they come and neither will he because as soon as they go there is nothingness just like the nothingness before you were born or when you’re asleep with no dreams to remember its all nothingness—you swing the gun out into sight and the mask’s mouth opens into a black hole that begs to be filled because nature abhors a vacuum.
    A jetty comes up on the left, all black rock and pounding surf, and you think to walk out onto it but no, it’s much too dangerous and you might trip and fall and break an ankle and never get to where you are going where are you going anyway who cares—the end of the jetty is all pounding surf and you remember when you were a boy there’d be fishermen on the jetties always at the very end where the water’s deepest where the big fish are always at the very end where the biggest waves pound and none of those fishermen ever fell and broke their ankles—so you think you’ll walk out into the jetty but no its too dangerous because there are no fishermen on this one so it must be the most dangerous one of all.
    The gun comes around. The black hole in the mask begs to be filled the hole in the sand begs to be filled nature abhors a vacuum a bullet comes out the barrel and goes into the mouth. The eyes pop. The room echoes. Your ears ring. The eyes say one word.
    No—
    The gunpowder’s strong smell fills the room.
    The hole in the mask fills with blood and it spills out down onto the blanket. He says nothing now, just lies there a shape under the blanket with a blood filled hole for a mouth and his eyes stare at you—but they are looking through you lifeless and unfocused as you stand by the bed your eye follows the curve of the headboard that has witnessed so much—the rest that is earned at the end of the day, the making of lives, and a death.
    The abandoned pier comes up and you walk under it and it’s much like the fun pier underneath but there is silence above you and the sunlight shows through the gaps between the boards of the pier. You look back and a mile back you see the outline of the fun pier where all the noise is but there is no noise here just the waves lapping up to the pilings and the barnacles up to the high water mark and again you think what if I stood here, I am all alone here not like the fun pier with the roaring Wild Mouse up above and all the people who’ve bought tickets at a ticket stand tickets to fun there are no tickets to fun for you, there is no ticket stand on this pier it stands weathered and rotted and again you think of the fishermen out on the far ends of the jetties and at the far end of the fun pier and you wonder why there are no fishermen here where surely there are more fish and deeper wilder darker water its always deeper and wilder and darker where something’s abandoned.
    At the bedroom window you draw back the shade and sniff in the gunpowder smell and look out over the yard he used to mow that you mow now but that you will never mow again and you try and let go of the gun, to drop it to the floor but no it goes in your pants pocket after all it might come in handy later you run your finger along the sill and it comes up covered with dust. Nobody cleans the place any more like she did before he drove her away. He drove her away and she died years back and what right did he have to outlive her anyway? You feel him behind you. It smells like meat here. You must leave the room now. Your eyes stay off him. The television’s there and he had wanted it on so you switch it on—and the picture comes up a car commercial and someone’s driving a car too fast much too fast why are they allowed to sell cars on the basis of how fast they are when the speed limit’s never more than sixty-five at least not in this state anyway—and the driver’s doing doughnuts and it’s so stupid and shallow and it says it’s four hundred fifty a month to lease the damned thing—you leave the television on for him like he wanted and you go out of the room into the hall, and you lightly close the door behind you like someone’s sleeping like you’d close a door when there’s a child sleeping that you have just labored to make go to sleep with story after story after story after story and their little eyes have turned back white in their heads and the lids have fluttered closed down.
    Past the abandoned pier there is nothing and nobody just the endless stretch of sand ahead and the broken shells are not catching the light not glinting in the light like they had before. The sky is lowering here and the waves are larger and louder and the air is somehow colder and you walk out from under the pier into this wilderness only knowing you’ve got to keep walking, keep moving. There’s seaweed strewn across the sand, and driftwood, and nothing else except far before you the beach stretches to the horizon and on the right there are dunes and forlorn wild grasses and on the left is the pounding surf and your hand is on your gun the cold of the barrel is there. Around the gun, the cold has always been there.
    Outside the house you go to the garden and think to fill your pockets with stones, like you always read they’d do when they meant to take a last walk by the water, but there are no stones just great bricks edging the garden they’re too big they’re much too big and you run a hand down the leaves of a rosebush and strike a thorn and you stick your finger into the water of a birdbath to kill the pain and you think of the shore less than a mile away, he always wanted to live at the shore, and he got his wish though there was no walking on the beach for him the locomotive saw to that and now you have seen to all the rest.
    A red-lettered steel sign comes up by the water’s edge. Danger rip currents it says on the rusted metal and the cold presses against your back and the water is somehow calmer here, though it’s all black and roiling and the currents are sucking out out to sea anything that goes in the water and you walk off to the left onto the wet sand and you stand there, hands hung at your sides, considering the water the black sucking water.
    You leave the garden—you go toward the beach. The sea pulls you toward it. The sidewalk is sandy. The sand is yellow. The water is deep. One block, two—just two blocks. All the houses have yellow yards not like where her mother used to live with the large lush lawn—and you come to the end of the road and walk up the path between tall brown grasses in the sand and come over the rise. You’re waist deep and swept off your feet and nature abhors a vacuum sucking and the last thing is that the ocean appears with the boiling surf and the horizon marking off the curvature of the earth from far left, to far right.