Testament

Mental Nervous

with a diagnosis
of schizophrenia

all circuit boards
are blown

brain storms
stir his
emotions

swirl

stray
thoughts

into
scrambled

eggs

From Smoke

Smoke blocks all vision.
Escaping to the outdoor gold of sun,
a shining glare,
my eyes burn; an opaque
fuzzy view. A sudden snake
slithers through the gate,
its splitting shell of skin
trails white and black patterns
as it goes far beyond
the edge of the yard.
What smoke-escape brought
me here? Why am I alone
in this heard of paradise pinks
and vibrant violets?
New grass pushes forth
through earth, a spring
of light spectrums,
soft rain, a bright dream-
scape. A rainbow arches overhead,
wraps around this town.

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.

December Eleventh and Onward

Jesse Williams

In 100 years
there will have been
enough terrible events
that must never be forgotten
to reduce all flagpoles permanently
by half.

Strong Wind in the Mountains

Landscape bows for both sun and wind
to haunt clouds and through rays of light
towards the western side there
they are moving like haze,

Their cumuli drifting downwards
to cover natural black of cliff riffs
escaping from pale moonlight and that’s
all what’s left right now from this song.

(Thanks to Stanislaw Witkiewics his 1895 Wiatr Halny
in Sukiennice Muzeum Krakow and Miles Davis)

Cosmic Consciousness

Cosmic consciousness means one has feelings of relatedness with all that exists
Within the multiverse and all its components
Multi is superior as a prefix than uni to image this large system of which we’re parts
The latter implies a homogeneity which doesn’t exist
The system’s complexity with so many dimensions and connections belies any such uniformity
Cosmic consciousness is uniquely powerful in several ways
Among them: Intensity, Depth, & Creative Inspiration
As one enters cosmic consciousness, a feeling of expansiveness pervades their being
A sense of being a vast, inclusive being
These seem related to a novel feature of cosmic consciousness
It involves the breakdown of socially conditioned barriers which divide the conscious ego
From the far larger and wiser ‘off-conscious’ Self
One is vaguely aware of the latter until it comes over the threshold to waking consciousness.
If one is mentally healthy, the emergence into full consciousness of these brings joy and delight
There are dangers in opening the ‘off-conscious’ Self of those who have repressed and denied experiences to the point they’re lost to awareness
Without therapy such persons won’t reach the heights of cosmic consciousness on a psychedelic substance, but will descend to the depths of hell; they’ll have a bad trip
Cosmic consciousness may be achieved through ingesting psychedelic substances, immersing in ‘Big Nature,’ meditation or a combination of two or all three
When one has positive experiences on psychedelic substances like LSD, synthetic Mescaline, and Psilocybin (gold capped) Mushrooms
One often discovers with joy and delight that the deepening and expansion of perception and other transformations which happened while tripping
Are permanent and positive changes to which one has access after the trip
Called ‘Flashbacks,’ many of narrow minds see these as harmful and negative
This is the case only with repressed persons
A flashback to healthy person can be
Anything from a snow covered mountain peak to a rose garden to an excellent sexual experience, to a crystal clear spring, and much more

Sanctuary

Shafts of light
Through cathedral windows.
Dappled shade
Upon the leaves
Beneath my feet.
Bird song
In the branches above.

In the distance
Hind and fawn
Cross the forest track.
The sweet fragrance of autumn
Fills the misty air.

A gentle breeze
Moving colours
To the forest floor.

So precious
Such beauty,

So hard to find
Such peaceful sanctuary.

Possum Slim (V2)

105 years old today
Possum Slim finally
gets his GED,
drinks gin,
talks with the dead.
“Strange kind of folks
come around here,
strange ghosts”
he says, “come
creeping pretty regular.
Just 2 ghosts,
the only women I ever loved,
the only women I ever shot dead.”

won’t settle down

my mother told me once
that all anyone wants
is for me to
settle down,
but what if i don’t want to?
even if i’m married
i imagine i’ll be a wild thing
my children
will never know when i’m going to
be their mother or when i’ll be a wild bird
i’ll be responsible, surely,
but i’m going
to live life on my terms not the other way
around;
people don’t get to dictate my future
i do—
gypsy hearted free spirit
i will dance,
and my children will dance with me not knowing
the harm of conformity because i will let them
dream as i was never allowed to,
but i rebelled because
i had to;
my heart would not be caged
or restrained
my dreams insisted on dancing with unicorns,
clouds, mermaids, faeries, vampyres, satyrs, nymphs,
and fauns—
my husband will be a wild thing, too,
and no one will be able to tame us and the world
will be our crayon and we won’t
color in the lines.

scarred

there’s no end to the scars
leading down
all the entrails of what’s left of
my heart,
it’s been torn to pieces so many
times i can no longer
keep count;
there’s no need to
because to live is to suffer
we weren’t all born with golden spoons
in our mouths and even those
with money have issues
of their own
we’re all flawed creatures
seeking to deflate one another in our pursuit
of perfection which can never be
found—
the neighbors downstairs slam doors
and yell to cut across the oceans of their agony,
i drown and numb myself with my
addiction of music and like an addict if i don’t
get my daily dose
i rage and snarl and become unbearable;
get headaches and feel miserable
i was once told scars
were beautiful
because they burned us with the searing past
that failed to kill us,
but sometimes i think death would be a reprieve
rather than reliving all these tears day and day again
every day is exactly the same
i need it to change,
but i don’t know how.

as a razor

buddy rich in nursing home
big swing face man from planet jazz
all knobby knuckles eyes in skull
can’t shake hands sips coffee through a straw
know what chaps my ass says budd
fuckin muzak eyes to ceiling speaker
all day long you getting out of here
gonna play again play i can’t
hold a fucking pencil what can i do
for you buddy eyes peek out
all i wanna do is feel sharp
he says one more time

Andy Roberts Bio

    Andy Roberts lives in Columbus, Ohio where he handles finances for disabled veterans. His work has appeared in hundreds of small press and literary journals. Many Pushcart nominations but no wins. His latest collection of poems, Pencil Pusher, is due out in March from Night Ballet Press.

All In

He laid his life, wife, family;
everything he owns on the altar
of her arms. She consumed
that sacrifice with
a benign smile.
Though totally burned out,
he never felt more alive
than when licked by
the flames of the flesh.

untitled (the only)

Craving for touch
Affection of any kind
Unfamiliar with anything healthy
Too familiar with the circles of pain and disappointment
The only touch she had was from a closed hand slapping her face
Pretending it was a gentle stroke caressing her cheek
The only touch she had was by a fiendish relative
Grooming her for his own twisted enjoyment
Betraying her trust
She no longer trusts herself
The only touch she had was by a cigarette butt burning her skin
Burning into her psyche
Scaring deeply
The only warmth she felt was from the ashes
Crumbling to the ground along with her self-worth
The only warmth she felt was from soiled sheets and blankets
Which became her shield of protection
Against constant bickering
And unforgiving caretakers
The only warmth she felt was from scalding hot water
That filled the bathtub
Thrown in and held down against her will
Learning not to scream
Not to cry
Keeping the pain within
A pattern she repeats
Leading to her self-mutilation
And self-destructive habits and choices

That is why she runs
When she sits in front of a warm fire
And basks in the heat
Its mesmerizing glow
Although appealing
It’s unfamiliar
Uncomfortable
Terrifying
So she looks for the hot coals
And reaches too close
Time after time
Because of the familiarity
Because it’s all she knows

DG Mago bio

    DG Mago was born and raised in NYC. He has a Masters degree in counseling and has worked in the prison system with incarcerated youth dealing with serious crimes, substance abuse, and sexual and physical abuse. He relocated and lived in the Central American country of Nicaragua for 4 years. While in Nicaragua, he started a program to help at risk children to avoid some of life’s pitfalls. Since DG Mago became involved in organic agriculture and bringing clean drinking water to rural communities, he bought an organic coffee farm (fincajava.com). His writing is unique and fresh, and his poetry is thought provoking and moving. He has written and self-published two books, Shelterball and Flurries, both including original poetry. He is looking for a publisher and literary agency to represent him and eventually use their connections to help turn his vision into a film, mini-series or play.

Plovers

not yet airborne
plover chicks dash thru the weeds
like mice on stilts

Buzzing in Limbo

    That house had been my home for three years. The kitchen was grounded with chipped tile, piss colored grout and wine stains on the marble counter. I got it as a gift from my brother--the one who spent his days sprawled on a yellow mattress, soaked in his own filth, while trying to ignite cigarets with a broken lightbulb. These days he's fucking around in Arizona, probably doing the same thing.
    The popcorn ceiling snowed paint chips that fell in your drink anytime you walked under a wrong spot, or the rusted ceiling fan went over the 3rd speed.
    The outdated wall paper, the hissing toilet, the generic shower curtain that draped over a tub where the drain accumulated a ring of grime--
    I walked into the living room and unveiled the heavy drapes where the sun radiated in the battlefield of orange peels, punctuated by beer cans and broken mirrors.
    Cockroaches made their home inside of used condoms, nesting in ejaculate.
    The TV was still cascading with static from the nights
    I
    Just sat
    and
    watched it.

Preston R. P. brief bio

    Preston R. P. is a writer and artist from Florida. He believes that art is essential to humanity. He has worked with many artistic mediums. Recently, guitar and drawing have given way to poetry and short stories.

ATONEMENT

I take off my skin for you.
I crawl on the wild grass too.
I become less than naked.
I run my tongue through fire.

I tie my tongue in a knot.
I burn off all my hair.
I pour whiskey in the burns.
I paper cut my heart for you.

Testament

This is the truth. Not the whole truth-
that would be a lie. There is no whole truth,
just piecemeal insights and epiphanies, scratched
from parks and alleys, from vacant lots,
from schoolyard walls and subway shadows.
But this is the place where the pieces fit,
where my truth, your truth, the truths of strangers
flash and fuse to a bright whole,
a shining mosaic, a stained-glass icon,
a votive light of pure faith.

And in this light, this truth, nobody will kneel,
nobody will bow their head, nobody
will apologise, nobody will beg forgiveness
for being alive. Instead, we’ll testify
to our shared selves, our shared truth,
to our shared pain, our shared love,
the blood pumping through our shared heart,
and our shared, messed-up, beautiful humanity,
aloud in our unique shared voices,
for ever and ever. This is the truth.

They murder guys in Knoxville

They murder guys in Knoxville &
dump them in the river/ by the
time they’re found ten miles away

they’re bloated beyond recognition &
they stink/ they make a movie about
them seen the world over &

make them heros/ the town has
never made so much money over
two celebrity corpses. The movie

is shown to a full house everynight, &
everybody makes money over the
dead/ those who never knew them claim

they were their friends/ in a month the
movie’s gone & nobody seems to
care/ the salad days are done &

the lettuce rotten/ everybody’s
back to eating Big Macs &
not even Big Mac knows why

They’re cutting off heads again in Libya

They’re cutting off heads again in Libya
/ soon they’ll box one like a cake &
send it here/ I’ll nail it on a Muslim’s

neck & send it back/ it’s Fritz’s jihad to
show that I too am a man of principle/ if
I were truly into it, I’d send them my

head/ they’ll get it anyway in time/ they
can slather it with good frosting &
eat it on my birthday, which

hasn’t been celebrated for years, aside
from books from my mother &
children/ I prefer that to

receiving their heads, but
heads might be a new trend as
anything loving is out of the

picture, &
why accept a picture of a head when
I can get the real thing/ a

vacation to Libya just wouldn’t
be enough/ perhaps they’d accept my
body & send my head back to L.A., & if

it’s the right season, maybe
it’ll get an Oscar    .    .    .

Fisherman’s Son

You can’t get the dying fish out of your head,
how hard and uselessly it breathed,
the thrashing of its tail,
whacking of its head against the ground.
And the big eye looking up at you
even as your father gripped its gray body,
fingers working like a weaver’s
to remove the hook.
It was not the fish’s world, that’s for sure.
Nor yours either as you sat there,
ordered not to say a word
nor make a sound
when the line was cast
and even dumber
in your father’s triumph.
And then the stillness of the creature
laid out on the bank with three others,
a choir of death
that only you heard singing.

John Grey bio

    John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.

For Now

Cached, embattled, cradled
among fallen timber, mushrooms, trillium,
tossed out legacies,
truant to yesterday’s promises.
Today tattletales reign,
untidy,
faces dinged.
A patron, too, I do not slight,
wave off as too ephemeral.
Were elephants ever contrite?
Then, to have been tracked down by a coyote,
now, no home,
not around the corner past the fallen trees,
the rotting vegetables in the untended garden,
and that autumnal amber light,
and those missing
that once completed my life.
Should I bark, should the moon pause, tides vanish?
A loss least looked for.

No one has watched,

not even crows.

After Alberta’s Centennial

Provincial legistlature grounds:
the prime minister has left,
the premier is elsewhere.

A visitor is arriving,
walking through the empty grounds
after the clowns have departed.

i am reaching

i am reaching
across any table,

    morming coffee, breakfast, lunch
    for the salt,
        even before the wound appears,
            i am stretching
pink tongue to lick

i bought a welcome mat
     for the trauma and the pain,
            the knock of an old friend
     of a familiar finger on the doorbell,
i take them as they come,

bite by bite and
     bracing for the
china glass fall,

Eight to Sixteen

You came back again
from one of your trips
to the other side of the planet.

You know I love you
more than anything on Earth,
but... I’m getting used to your absence.

#

It’s a terrible thing to say, I know,
but when you came back this time
and said you had a fever

I figured you ingested their toxic water
and you’d have the stomach flu
for days, but then you’d be fine.

But this time, with your fever,
I remembered how you drank the water
swimming south of the Equator,

and I thought nothing of it.
It would clear up in a week.
I’ll just hold off on kissing you again.

#

But after eight days,
you went to the doctor,
told them of your travel and ails.

And that’s when the doctor
called the CDC
and the Federal agencies swarmed in.

After you left for the doctor,
the next contact I had
was with men in Hazmat suits at my door.

They asked me if I was alone.
They asked me if I had any children.
Then they asked me to come with them.

I told them I needed to wait
for my husband, and they told me
you were now in isolation.

After hours, they told me
that you caught a nasty virus
while you were away on your trip —

But I said, “Wait a minute,
he was on a work trip, and his company
made him take a ton of drugs

so that he’d be immune
and wouldn’t catch anything —”
and that’s when they stopped me, right there.

They locked me in a room.
They told me I couldn’t leave.
Then they said he caught a bad strain

while helping a woman
he found on the street,
bleeding, pregnant, and in pain.

It took them two days
to discover the details
before they gave me the news.

“He’s in isolation,
we’re trying new treatments,
and hopefully he’ll be okay.”

But, I know of this virus,
it’s usually lethal,
so... Please. Let me see him. Now.

That’s when they said, “Sorry,
it’s out of our hands,
but you must be quarantined too.”

So I screamed at the medics,
all to no avail,
as they swore I had to stay safe.

So...
I paced in my isolation.
I watched the drive by news.
And I heard them say stats

that death from this virus
can come from 8, up to 16 days.

Eight to sixteen days.

It was eight days
before he even went to the doctor —
will this waiting do him in?

I couldn’t talk to him.
I couldn’t see his face.
I couldn’t kiss him, or

tell him I loved him.
That I’ll always love him.
That I’m nothing without him.

#

The morning of the 5th day,
still trapped in isolation,
that’s when they told me he died.

#

My blood work was clean,
but they kept me in isolation
when they said they’d cremate my love.

And all I could think
was, ‘after you’re done,
send him to Arlington National Cemetery’

so the world will know
he’s a hero to more than just me,
as you kept me away ‘til he died.

And still, I continue to pace,
trapped in this room, alone,
with nothing to wait for

ever again.

junk

We all think we’re so important
all the way down to our DNA —

but for all of our chromosomes
            all of our genetics
            and our glorious genome —

well, if you look at it closely,
if you look all the way down to our DNA,
you’d be stunned to see
how much
of what we’re made of
is just
junk.

Yeah,
yeah,
I know,
we’ve got so much DNA,
we’re such
complex
creatures,
but —

Think of it this way:
a simple worm
has maybe
7% junk DNA.
A fruit fly,
maybe 3%...

And then there’s us humans,
with our big brains —
and ourjunk DNA
seems to go off the charts.

What a fun phrase,
“junk DNA”,
because after
discovering the helixes
that make us
us,
we’ve found sequences
withnodiscernible function.
And we love that label,
junk DNA —
maybe it’s a sign
that we’re all hoarders at heart,
we all want more
and everything we get
has to be bigger and better,
even if we don’t know
what it’s for.

Because, I mean,
even a newt
has a genome
25 times
longer than ours...

What does that say
about what we’re made of?
Us little creatures
compared to rhinos and elephants,
using our big brains
to stay on top of the food chain
over those deadly panthers,
lions, tigers, and bears.
Look how we’ve won
with our opposable thumbs,
we help 200 species
go extinct every day.

Wow,
what warriors we are.

Species on Earth
haven’t gone extinct
like this
since the dinosaurs.

Wow.
What warriors we are.

We think we’re all so great
with our opposable thumbs
and our really big brains,
and when we look at it all,
microscopically, you know...

We become smart enough
to know our own DNA,
and we start to wonder
how smart we really are,
when we see how so much
of what we’re made of
is really
just
junk.

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 (2010-2015) (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 Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.

Suddenly

Sheet metal and screaming rubber copulated
A work of art flipped
Impaled flesh feared the darkness
Trapped pleas were answered by sirens
Powerful jaws freed the terrified
Motionless lay in a crimson pool
Another soul awaits judgment.

Minute

Got one
Need one
Only had one
Just one
Wait one
Take one
Relax one
Go for one
Be back in one
Give me one
Last one

A sub atomic notch in time
Simple yet complex
Can’t live without it

Opportunity

    When Billy Bob got drunk he was the Tasmanian Devil of Jansen County; a friend, business partner and abusive of his lovely curvaceous wife, Mindy. That led to our affair and after seeing scars and bruises on her flawless skin, I hated him with a level head. When I pulled up to their wood frame house, the dual steel doors to his converted storm shelter, now his man cave, were open. I stood at the top stair. “Billy Bob, you in there?” I heard the short guy with the catcher’s mitt sized hands snoring. He said he planned on finishing the new room above his cave and adjacent to the kitchen today. Here I am and he’s drunk, again. Mindy deserves better. He told Mindy I was impulsive; I needed constant supervision. Isaac, the big guy with the small brain. I won’t get another chance like this. Good bye, asshole. I closed one door and left the other cracked. I backed my truck in the same two day tracks under the window of the work area. The bed was against the door of the man cave. I revved the big Power Stroke V8 diesel; a ten minute dose of carbon monoxide will send him on his way. And, for good measure, I went inside and worked while the engine idled. His accidental demise will be Mindy’s birthday gift before he kills her. Will she mourn long? If she does I’ll be there.
    I tossed the remaining old drywall in the truck bed and finished enclosing the room. I was ringing wet from the humidity. I pulled up a chair and sat. My head hurt and I was dizzy. My cell rang and I put it on speaker. “Hey, Mindy, how are you?”
    “Isaac, is Billy Bob there, he ain’t answering his phone?”
    “I haven’t seen him.”
    “Have him call the office.” Mindy said. An alarm went off in the next room. “Isaac that sounds like the CO alarm, Isaac, you dropped the phone Isaac...Isaac...Isaac...”

Reclusive

    As if I was engaged in a cell phone conversation, discussing that which concerns us, only to find I never placed the call, and the screen displays some latent, static wallpaper which mocks the connection we never made, that best loved voice I never heard. Perhaps, even, we speak in different dialects, the varying inflections causing change in connotation.

    Picture yourself walking, side by side with your favorite person, down some abandoned street at the most private time of day. You are encapsulated by your conversation, so that it excludes all else, even the physical form of the person you are with. Until, passing through the lamp-strewn shadow of a nearby building, that person vanishes entirely, and you emerge into the waning light alone. You realize you have been alone this entire time.

    Like we’re in a room, you and I, conversing with each other on the same subject, only to find ourselves diverging. I funnel your words through my egocentric channels, molding them in my image, and erroneously, inaccurately responding. And you do the same. Like a pair of tramcars coasting along separate tracks, which head the same direction several miles from the station, but which suddenly veer apart without a warning. We continue several meters before we find we are unaccompanied.

    I think, after all the self-analyses, the poetic deconstruction of my ego, and all its flaws and fears, the phrase, “Inside the shell, within the casement, around the corner and at the core,” best represents this out of touch existence. I wrote it in such a state, when I first discovered my reclusion, alone but for the barren ocean splayed out like an endless carpet, alone but for the ridges in the shell, alone but for the vacant echo of my thoughts against the grain.

Bathtub

    “Do you know where my car keys are baby girl?”
    “My guess is where you left them last, that being up your ass.”
    “Ha ha, too funny.”
    “I’ll help you look. What’s the deal, you never lose the keys, by the way how did you sleep last night?”
    “Not so good, weird fucking dreams.”
    “Oh yea, what about?”
    “Uhh... something about a woman and a man looking through an old shed. They found a potion allowing them to switch bodies so they could understand what each other are thinking and why they did certain things.”
    “That’s a weird dream. If people could switch places for a day, it would help us all get along better. Would you want to be me, your beautiful girlfriend?”
    “I doubt so because if I was I’d have to deal with me, that’s something I wouldn’t like much.”
    “You’re not so bad to deal with babe, you’re pretty laid back and easy going. What about me? Am I easy to deal with?”
    “Oh no, that’s a trick question baby girl. I’m not answering that, especially since I am running late and have lost the keys. I don’t want a heavy conversation.”
    “Come on answer me.”
    “Ok, ok, mostly you are easy going, but sometimes you get in these difficult moods and can be rude.”
    “Yea I’ve been told that before and am trying to be better.”
    “You are fine baby girl; I love you just the way you are. Where the hell can those damn keys be?”
    “You didn’t lock them in the car did you?”
    “No I had them last night in the kitchen. Never mind, that’s where they are, by the sink. Yep here they are, I gotta go. Love you baby girl.”
    “Love you to babe.”

     “What are you doing back babe?”
    “Now the car won’t start.”
    “What are you going to do, are you going to go to work?”
    “I guess, but I already missed my meeting, but it wasn’t crucial that I be there.”
    “Well, stay home with me today and we can hang out.”
    “I guess I can. By the time I get the new battery it’ll be noon anyway.”
    “So go get the battery and come back for brunch and a movie.”
    “Ok, be back in an hour.”

    “Baby girl I’m back.”
    “How’d it go, did the car start ok?”
    “Yep, good as new.”
    “Cool. What do you want to do this afternoon?”
    “Oh I am up for anything.”
    “We could take a bath and you can tell me how beautiful I am.”
    “We don’t need to take a bath for me to tell you that, but a bath sounds nice.”

    “The water is perfect babe.”
    “Well, I know how my beautiful girl likes the bath water.”
    “So do you really feel I am rude all the time?”
    “What! I never said all the time, I said sometimes.”
    “Am I rude a lot?”
    “No, but when you get rushed or frustrated over something, you take it out on me.”
    “I don’t mean to, it’s automatic.”
    “That’s ok; I got my own shit that you have to deal with.”
    “Yes you do babe.”
    “Damn, no hesitation there.”
    “Well, sorry but...”
    “So what do I do that gets on your nerves?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Yes you do, do tell.”
    “Sometimes you act as if you’re better than everybody else.”
    “No I don’t.”
    “Yes babe you do. When you told me I was rude I accepted it and told you I’m aware of it and am working on the issue. When I tell you something about your behavior, you deny it.”
    “Fuck, your right; it’s hard to admit my faults though.”
    “Me to, but we all got em’, people who don’t own up are the most fucked up of all.”
    “I agree.”
    “So babe, in thinking about your dream last night what’s the first thing you’d do, if we switched bodies?”
    “Hmmm, if I were you, I’d give me a blowjob.”
    “You are a perv.”
    “Or I’d sit around and play with my tits all day and never leave the house.”
    “You are such a man.”
    “Yes I am.”
    “Be serious.”
    “Ok baby girl, let’s see, I love you and I like the way you are. But still I’d fantasize.”
    “About?”
    “Oh let’s see, for starters, I would eat your friend Julie and be her lesbian lover.”
    “That’s funny because I’ve wondered what it would be like to les out with her.”
    “No way baby girl, are you serious?”
    “Yep, but I will never act on it so don’t get so excited.”
    “What if you were me, being the awesome man I am.”
    “That’s easy, I would be more sensitive.”
    “What do you mean, I’m sensitive.”
    “You do pretty well, but sometimes you don’t realize how rough your tone is, and it hurts my feelings.”
    “Ohhh I am sorry, I will try to work on my harsh tone.”
    “Ok babe... So do you think we are compatible?”
    “What?”
    “Do you think we will be this close forever?”
    “Well, I sure hope so. I can’t imagine being this close with anyone else. It’s been two months since we met, can you believe that?”
    “Yes, it’s hard to believe. Do you like me more than your other girlfriends?”
    “Jesus, that’s a trick question, I’m not sure how to answer that.”
    “Well either yes or no, will be good.”
    “It’s hard to answer because we’ve not known each other that long, and I care for you differently than them, because yall are different people. I care for others in different ways. Don’t you?”
    “I guess so, ok, fair enough. Did you eat her pussy?”
    “Holy shit, where is this coming from, I’m embarrassed.”
    “Don’t be embarrassed, my last boyfriend ate mine.”
    “Yes I ate her out. Why are we talking about this?”
    “Isn’t this standard conversation in new relationships after a few months of getting familiar with each other?”
    “I guess, but it’s catching me off guard. Ok, I got a question for you baby girl?”
    “What?”
    “How many men have you slept with?”
    “Fifteen.”
    “Fifteen! are you serious?”
    “Well yes, why? How many women you been with?”
    “Six.”
    “That’s all, damn.”
    “Damn, what do you mean damn?”
    “Well men generally have more lovers than women, or at least say they do.”
    “I said I’ve been with six women, I didn’t say how many people.”
    “Oh my God, you’ve slept with men. That is so hot. So have you?”
    “Yes two men.”
    “Damn, fuck me now, I am so turned on.”
    “Yea right. You’re silly. Have you ever slept with women?”
    “A couple. I was in a committed relationship with a woman for about three years several years ago. I loved her.”
    “So baby girl, what you’re saying is that your bi?”
    “Yep, and you?”
    “No, I was just curious I guess.”
    “Your arms feel good around me in this silky warm water babe.”
    “Yep, your body feels good in my arms as well?”
    “So my handsome man was you the top or bottom with men?”
    “Bottom.”
    “What about you, were you the husband or wife in your relationship with that girl?”
    “I was the husband.”
    “Interesting, I was the wife, and you were the husband.”
    “All of this talk is making me horny babe.”
    “Me too.”
    “I know something fun.”
    “What?”
    “I strap on a cock and make love to you.”
    “Oh shit, I don’t know about that.”
    “Oh come on, fantasize that I’m your last boyfriend and say his name over and over.”
    “Fuck me, Ray, fuck me Ray. Like that?”
    “Yes, just like that.”

    “That was the best sex ever, my boo hinny is a little sore, but was great.”
    “Yes it was, thinking of you going down on a man, makes me horny as fuck. What’s the biggest you ever had up in your ass?”
    “Eight inches in my ass, about nine and a half in my mouth.”
    “You?”
    “My biggest ever is you babe. So when do I met your parents?”
    “Parents! Damn you’re full of random topics and questions today huh? You don’t want to meet my parents, they are fucked, and I would never expose you to that.”
    “You were not happy as a little boy?”
    “Hell no, I was abused.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Unfortunately.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Well, it is what it is. And your childhood?”
    “Well, as a little girl, it could’ve been better, but could’ve been worse. My father was an alcoholic, he was a happy drunk, but undependable.”
    “Better than a mean drunk I suppose, huh baby girl? Is that why you became a therapist?”
    “Probably, it’s a field you don’t choose it chooses you.”
    “I see.”
    “And you, why did you want to be a stock broker?”
    “Because I wasn’t a good enough musician, plus I make good money.”
    “How much money do you have in the bank? I’m just kidding.”
    “I do ok, I am not ready to answer that in case you weren’t kidding, after all we’ve only known each other two months.”
    “Ok, but I’ve very little in the bank, but no debt, just want you to know where I stand.”
    “I make enough to make sure we are always ok, not a worry. Okay.”
    “Okay Mr. Man.”
    “So back to the parent’s conversation, mine are judgmental idiots; I haven’t spoken to them in years.”
    “Judgmental, let me guess they wouldn’t like their son bringing the colored girl home?”
    “Hell no, that’s why I don’t talk to em’, they never accepted the fact I like black girls, my parents are morons.”
    “Will you ever speak to them again?”
    “I don’t plan to. How do your folks feel about you seeing a white guy?”
    “Shit, they don’t care as long as I’m happy.”
    “And are you happy?”
    “I’m jubilant, and I want to see where this relationship leads.”
    “Yea, me to.”

    “We should take off every day and soak in the tub; I could hold you in my arms every day for the rest of my life.”
    “Awe babe that’s so sweet. Did you know that during the first few months of a relationship that chemicals are released in the brain mimicking drugs?”
    “Ok so what you’re saying, these feelings aren’t real?”
    “No that is not what I am saying, but during the honeymoon phase couples don’t act clearly and it’s recommended not to make any big decisions during this time.”
    “Yea I’ve heard, sure is fun though huh?”
    “Yep. The stronger the honeymoon phase of a relationship is, the stronger the overall relationship will be. I feel a couple can experience aspects of the honeymoon phase regardless of how long the relationship last.”
    “Well, that is something to look forward to then.”

    “So do you like your job as a stock broker?”
    “It’s ok, pays good, but stressful.”
    “What made you interested in being a broker?”
    “My dad was a broker before retiring, and I always found it interesting so I followed in his footsteps.”
    “That’s surprising since you don’t have a relationship with him or anything.”
    “Yea, I guess. If I could be anything I wanted I would be a racecar driver, or a porn star.”
    “Oh, shut up, I’ve known you two months, and I’ve already discovered you are shy when it comes to stuff like that. You can’t even pee if I can hear it.”
    “I know, I’m joking. So Thanksgiving is next week, what are you doing?”
    “That’s, funny I was going to ask the same thing?”
    “I won’t do much baby girl; go to sisters for dinner, that’s about it.”
    “I’m going to my parents and thought about asking if you wanted to come, but it may be a little too soon. Huh?”
    “Yea, probably, I am not ready, but soon maybe.”

    “Stand up a minute gorgeous, let me see that beautify feminine body, let me hit that ass.”
    “Again?”
    “Hell ya.”
    “Ok, just make sure you fuck the shit out of me; rock my mother-fucking world.”
    “Damn, you’re talking all gangster.”
    “Your too funny babe.”

    “That was awesome, your cock is incredible, Jesus!”
    “You’re not so bad yourself.”
    “The water is getting cold, ready to get out babe?”
    “Yea, then what do you want to do?”
    “I want to split a large pepperoni pizza and eat a whole bag of Hershey’s kisses, watch a movie, and take a long nap.”
    “That sounds awesome, what an awesome day; I’m never going back to work.”

The Rotten Ones

    The rook sailed southward, its black wings spread wide against the blue sky while Lee Sung-Ki watched it go from the earth below. He did not know what kind of bird it was—he knew little of birds at all—but he knew that it could fly, and as it disappeared from his sight into the backdrop of green trees on distant hills, he wished that he could follow. To be away from the stone and steel, to see forbidden cities—that’d be truly something, Sung-Ki thought.
     Not today, though. Today was school, and hunger, as yesterday was, as tomorrow would likely be, and it was not his lot to complain. As he turned and blinked, his eyes dazed from gazing upward into the bright blue of the morning, someone’s fist bumped him, not lightly, on the shoulder.
    “Heads up, kid,” another boy said, wheeling around from behind to the front of him.
    “Oh. Good morning, Woo-Yung,” Sung-Ki said. Ahn Woo-Yung was the other boy’s full name, and Sung-Ki regarded him as he hopped from one foot to the other, restlessly, his lanky limbs dangling at his sides. He was a year older than Sung-Ki, perhaps less, but easily two heads taller. His face, more ugly and red-dotted from day to day, was set, as was typical, in the expression of a lazy grin. Both his shirt and his skin looked dirty, at least three days in to needing a vigorous wash—not that it seemed much to concern him.
    “What’re you doing, staring at up there,” asked Woo-Yung. “See a balloon?”
    “I didn’t see you at school yesterday,” Sung-Ki said, ignoring the question. “Did something happen?”
    “No, everything’s great,” Woo-Yung said, dismissively, as he dug something out of his nose with his thumb. “I found something better to do, though. You should come with me.” Woo-Yung had a worn and torn old baseball with him, which he was tossing high in the air with one hand and catching in the other, casually, while he talked.
    “Come with you?” Sung-Ki looked at his feet, and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Now?”
    Woo-Yung nodded, lobbed up the ball again. “Right now.”
    “What for?”
    “Guess.”
    “To... play baseball?”
    “No, stupid,” Woo-Yung said. “Where would we play baseball at?”
    Sung-Ki wrapped his thumbs around the straps of his knapsack, growing anxious at the thought of skipping school. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, especially for you,” he said. “You can’t miss two days. You’ll get in trouble. I’ll get in trouble.”
    “No, you’ll get in trouble if you don’t come with me,” Woo-Yung retorted, in a teasing tone. “Because what I’ll do, if you don’t come? I’ll tell everyone we know that Lee Sung-Ki was too cowardly, too scared, too much of a teensy shrimp to go on an adventure. And that’ll be who you are. Forever.”
    “Please don’t.”
    “Then come with me.”
    Sung-Ki looked around warily, as though he would only be able to join the older boy if he slinked away with no one seeing him. He had, of course, already made up his mind.
    “Where are we going?” he asked the other one, a devious smile dawning on his face.
    Woo-Yung threw the baseball terrifically high in the air, skipped backwards into the street, and caught it in both hands, just above his eyes. “It’s a bit of a walk,” he said. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
    |
    Kim Yu-Ri was shifting her weight from foot to foot as she stood by the unshaded aisle in Chongjin Market, eyeing the burlap sacks across the way. Inside the tops of them, just beneath their folds, she could spy little white grains of rice piled high, amounting to twenty pounds a bag, or maybe more. Her legs were sore, the bones and muscles both, her ankles creaky and her calves tight from the strain of standing up so long, after so little sleep, so soon after yesterday. But she refused to sit down, knowing that her best chances of being noticed by passing shoppers required being seen—her, and her baby both. The child was strapped up in a swaddling cloth held taut around Yu-Ri’s shoulders and cradled in her arms, swaying side to side, asleep. Her name was Lee Su-Dae.
    Yu-Ri knew that she could easily set the baby down; that if she did, she’d likely go on resting, not be fussy, and also be one less burden for her weary body—but she could not chance looking so relaxed. It would ruin the picture.
    “Eggs,” she said aloud, to the walkers, walking by. “Fresh eggs.”
    No one looked up—some were on their way elsewhere, some were drawn instead to the rice grains bagged in burlap. Another group approached, and she repeated her pitch toward them.
    “Eggs? Fresh eggs.”
    Beside her, her two chickens clucked, and bawked, and flapped their wings within their cages impotently. She had a dozen eggs cloth-cushioned on a barrel above them, arranged together in a clean and neat display.
    “Eggs,” she said again, to no one. “Fresh eggs.”
    |
    Far from the streets and garbage-clogged gutters, the two boys walked, more than an hour then into their journey—Woo-Yung’s grand adventure. The older one had remained obstinate all the while, refusing as yet to explain to Sung-Ki where their endpoint was, beyond an assurance that, yes, there was one. Then again, Sung-Ki had not pressed the question too vigorously. Woo-Yung, after all, was older, surely wiser, possessing of a casual self-assurance that opposed all of Sung-Ki’s reservations, and made his worries seem trivial. Maybe it was because he was so tall. Still though, despite the older boy’s confidence, Sung-Ki was inwardly becoming more and more irresolute, the further they walked through trees and brush increasingly tangled, up the uneven rocky mountainside that bordered the city’s south.
    The sun edged up toward its noontime peak, its light hazy through the wooded ceiling of the forest. Sung-Ki wondered what he was missing at school—if his absence had even been noticed. He considered that it was possible that his class had been tasked today with taking their bowls to the industrial riverbanks, to pick corn kernels from the mud—and with that in mind, he found it hard to regret taking a day for himself. Still, the long walk uphill he was taking now was not what he would have chosen for his free day, given the option. The skin beneath his shirt was slick with sweat, and his head swam in the mounting heat. With increasing frequency, as he ambled clumsily over the occasional stone half his height with his hands, his vision was drowned in a fuliginous silver fog as dizziness took over, his bloodflow laboring to keep up with the day’s unusual demands and failing at every other turn. With the straps digging into his shoulders, he wished he had thought sooner to find a place to leave his backpack for later retrieval. He wouldn’t chance it now—the hillside was all unknown, and the trees all looked too similar.
    “It’s not much farther, now,” said Woo-Yung, still heaving his baseball in the air at every pause in his step, not at all obviously tired.
    “I wish you’d told me how far this would be,” Sung-Ki protested. “I would’ve left my bag at home.”
    “No, no, we’ll need it,” said the other, his meaning ambiguous. “Give it here, though, I’ll carry it.”
    The lightened load was welcome, if too late to keep a creeping ache from setting in to Sung-Ki’s back. “How much farther?” he asked.
    “We’re almost there. Trust me. You’ll be glad you came.”
    It was hardly five minutes later that Woo-Yung halted his advance, slinging Sung-Ki’s bag onto the ground and spinning, eyes up, searching for something. Sung-Ki halted just below him, hands on his knees, unhappy. If this was the place, Sung-Ki thought, then he would have to seriously consider reevaluating his friendship with the older boy. There was nothing remarkable here to his eyes; the same brown trees, the same stony ground—not even a decent view of the city below. He felt a bead of perspiration form on the tip of his nose, and followed it with his eyes as it slipped and fell onto the ground between his feet.
    Within the leafy detritus, something orange caught his eye.
    “This is it,” said Woo-Yung. “We’re here.”
    Sung-Ki knelt, not immediately responding, and gingerly brushed away the dirt and dust from the flesh of the rounded fruit, lifting it delicately from the earth between two fingers. It was small, small enough to fit fully in his dwarfish hand, and soft enough that even his wary grip was strong enough to make its skin give just a little, seeping pungent juice. A trio of ants darted across Sung-Ki’s fingers, and he gently shook them off.
    “It’s an apricot,” he said.
    “They’re all apricots,” Woo-Yung replied. And for a moment, Sung-Ki took the comment with confusion, looking first between his feet to see if he’d missed many more on the ground around him. Then he cast his eyes at Woo-Yung, and followed his pointing finger toward the nearby trees, up, up into their branches, into the leaves, high up near their very tops where dozens more were nestled, swaying by their stems in fruiting bloom.
    Sung-Ki’s expression said more at that moment than any words could muster, and Woo-Yung leapt the distance between them with a grin on his face, clapping the young boy on the shoulder. “See? See? I told you you’d love it,” he said.
    Though his mouth watered, Sung-Ki paused before taking a bite of the fruit in his palms, raising it first to Woo-Yung. The older boy leaned over and sank his teeth in, spurting juice upon his face and onto Sung-Ki’s hair. “Oh, god,” said Woo-Yung. “It’s so ripe.”
    “I think it’s rotten,” said Sung-Ki, bringing the fruit to his lips for a bite of his own. Its innards were all goo, hardly the firm shapeliness he figured a fresh one, right off the vine would have.
    “They might all be rotten,” said Woo-Yung, licking his lips and fingers. “Still, open your bag up. I’ll climb the tree and see.”
    Sung-Ki darted up the rocks and grabbed his backpack, dumping out the heavy books inside it to make room for what he hoped would be a bounty large enough to fill up the entire space within. At the same moment, lean and slender Woo-Yung made an effortless leap up to one tree’s lowest branch, and the leaves rustled loudly at his touch. Sung-Ki looked up, and squinted, unsure if he could see any fruits in bloom immediately above him, where Woo-Yung would be able to reach.
     But below the branches—that was different. His eyes open with renewed focus, Sung-Ki scanned the stony ground, its piles of brittle wood and dying leaves. As his gaze adjusted to the patterns of the forest floor, the fruits revealed themselves to him. One, two, two more—he dropped to his knees, and scooped them toward his bag, leaves and dirt and all. One squished entirely at his touch, so he balled it up and ate it there, on his knees, instead.
    “I’ve got one,” said Woo-Yung. “Sung-Ki, I’ve found one, catch it.”
    He looked up just in time to see the falling fruit before it hit him square between the eyes, and unlike the ones down on the ground, this one was firm, fresh, and painful. “Oops,” Woo-Yung said, a chuckle in his voice. Sung-Ki picked it up and took a spiteful bite out of it, intending to save the rest for the older boy—but the fruit tasted so delicious, that he devoured it down to the pit instead.
    “Are there more, down there?” called Woo-Yung, advancing ever higher into the ceiling of the forest. “They must have all fallen... There were so many more on the lower branches, last time I was here.”
    “There are some,” said Sung-Ki. “But they’re all soft, and old.”
    “Get them anyway. I’m going to climb higher... There are dozens, higher up, but I can’t reach them yet.”
    “Shake the branches,” Sung-Ki suggested, digging around for the squishy fruits already fallen. He looked around toward the other trees, wondering what was hidden in their branches, if anything. “Maybe you should climb another one,” he said. “I can’t tell if there are any others, any lower. But maybe.”
    “Give me a second,” said Woo-Yung. And then there was a loud commotion of branches snapping, leaves shaking, and panicked, heavy breath, and Sung-Ki started, fearing the older boy had fallen, or worse yet, was falling down on top of him. But he had only jumped from one branch to another, and as he paused there up above, there was another violent rustling down below, and Sung-Ki finally realized that the sound was not Woo-Yung’s doing, nor the breeze—it was something else.
    Someone else.
    “What do you think you’re doing here, you filthy ratshit thief.”
    Sung-Ki whirled on his heels at the sound of the voice, a man’s gravelly snarl, furious and low. In his panic, his feet caught beneath an unseen root, and he tumbled, twisting, to the forest floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, reflexively.
    The stranger loomed above him, hunched over inside a torn brown coat, with perhaps no other clothes beneath. His hair was dark, long, and tangled like a bird’s nest, his mouth a grimy scowl. He looked like a creature born from mud, as much earth as he was man, with all the caked-on grime—and in his blackened, filthy hand, the knife shone all the brighter. “What do you think you’re doing here,” the stranger growled again.
    Sung-Ki was stammering malformed apologies, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” sinking more and more into the wet leaves when he should have been pushing himself up by now and sprinting far away. He knew it, yet still he could not manage to rise. He heard someone call his name, but did not at first understand why.
    “You have my fruit in that bag there? Hm? Is that what you have there, in that bag, boy? My fruit?”
    Before Sung-Ki could speak or plead or beg again, Woo-Yung hit the ground behind him, and grabbed him beneath the arms, dragging him back into his grasp. “Get up,” he urged. “Get up, get up.”
    “Get away from my tree.”
    “It’s not your tree, creep,” Woo-Yung barked. Sung-Ki, trembling, finally got back onto his feet, and Woo-Yung pressed him backwards, shielding him with his arms. “Get the bag,” he said, beneath his breath.
    The stranger took two steps forward, growing lower and more feral as he approached. The knife twisted in his hand. Its blade was as jagged as its wielder’s yellow teeth, its point reddened with rust, or worse. “Empty it out,” he said.
    “Get the bag, Sung-Ki.”
    Sung-Ki turned, snatched up his backpack, and began to try and zip it shut. But some of its fruits had spilled, when the man surprised him, and when Sung-Ki moved to raise it, he saw five more fruits beneath, newly-revealed... He couldn’t leave them. All he could hope was that the stranger wouldn’t see him move, as he clumsily shoveled them in with the rest. It was a poor decision.
    The stranger did not bother even speaking—instead, he roared, charging over the rocks and leaves toward the both of them, and Woo-Yung shoved Sung-Ki away. The boy kept his footing but he lost more fruits, and by now he had no choice but to go, as fast as he could, lest he be stabbed, killed, eaten by the wild, filthy mountain man. He dared not turn around to see how close his knife was. “Run, run!” Woo-Yung shouted, as though Sung-Ki needed to be told.
    Blindly and mindlessly he tumbled down and away, his body afire with adrenaline that somehow made his small frame and stubby legs feel as graceful and powerful as a mountain lion’s. Minutes sailed by, unperceived, and every rock or branch that would have tripped him otherwise fell to his side, invulnerable in his escape. The only reason that he eventually stopped was because, after a while, he simply no longer felt afraid. The stranger’s pursuit had ended. The two boys had made it, safe.
    “My books,” Sung-Ki gasped, his hands on his knees, with labored breath, once they had stopped running. “My schoolbooks are still there...”
    Woo-Yung placed his hand upon the younger boy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, consolingly. “It’s not like they’re making us use them anymore.”
    Sung-Ki looked up, gasped, and recoiled. Woo-Yung’s face was covered in blood, a long gash from the stranger’s knife running vertically down his cheek.
    “Woo-Yung, your face...”
    Woo-Yung nodded. “I know, he got me. It doesn’t hurt yet. Don’t worry! I bet it’ll look cool, later. No, get back—I don’t want to get blood on you.” He dabbed a finger at his cheek, an annoyed expression on his face, and looked around for something to wipe his hand and face with. He settled on a leaf.
    They took one more moment of repose, their heartbeats slowing, sweat drops cooling, before they felt able enough to turn and start the long trip downhill home. Soon, the shouts of wrath and fury that had pursued them down the mountain dissipated in their memories into outstretched echoes fading, and the boys resumed their retreat at a walk. They took their time over the following hours, slightly lost, going in careful silence down the gentle slopes, beneath the looming specter of the half-lit moon in the afternoon sky.
    |
    At sundown in the city, Yu-Ri gathered up her colorful cargo, draping each weight delicately in balance over the limbs of her slender frame. Chickens here, a tote bag there, a baby. Su-Dae was asleep again, lacking the energy to do much else, and the chickens were squatting inside their cages, emitting listless clucks. The bustle of the market was dying down around her with the fading light, and she walked away amidst the hum of low murmurs and the quiet sighs of disappointment. She was discovering, paradoxically, that those who stayed at the market longest were often likely the least successful overall.
    No one bothered her as she left. All heads she passed were low, and sullen, and whenever they did chance to glance her over, whenever they saw her baby... While once they would have maybe smiled, now they seemed just achingly sad.
    She cut off the road into an alley, away from the market, heading home. The walk and the weight were already making her vision swim with dizziness, so she resolved to take the shortest path to her apartment, out of the alleys, through unpaved mud, and the old train station.
    At first glance, the dead man looked like he was only sleeping, and as Yu-Ri regarded him from footsteps away, the world went quiet around her. Her chickens ceased to rustle, and the evening breeze went still, leaving nothing for her ears to hear but the squish and squelch of her shoes in the mud as she continued to approach him. He smelled... more or less the same as a living man, at least with all his clothes intact. It was his face that told it most—his tongue, a putrid purple, lolled out between teeth in a too-tight grip, his mouth emitting neither air nor water. A statue made of bones and flesh, newly dead.
    Su-Dae stirred in her swaddling cloth while Yu-Ri crouched beside the dead man, transfixed. Mechanically, the woman placed her hand inside the folds of the man’s jacket, fishing for their contents, but the pockets yielded little more than a redolent grime. Around his neck there looped a worthless chain of metal, painted gold, whatever bauble it had once held long gone, and in his lap, between his legs, there rested three basic stones from the earth worn smooth from frequent sucking—a classic trick to keep hunger at bay. Su-Dae reached her hand out, conscious now and rooting, and traced her fingers around a thread of the man’s corroded, crumbling hair, and Yu-Ri stood, drawing her away. “Just a dead man,” she said, above her daughter’s ear. “No more.”
    When she arrived home at her fifth floor tenement, her legs were seized nearly to failure by a wave of pulsating agony. She dropped the chicken cages as soon as she got the door shut, and sank to the floor of the kitchen, breathless. Su-Dae stirred, but did not protest, putting her fingers to her mouth in silence and suckling off the salt.
    She hasn’t had a thing to eat today, you know.
    With this bleak sentiment echoing in her mind, Yu-Ri gradually stripped herself of her weights, from her shoes to the cloth she held the baby in, and rose wearily to draw water for a meal, with Su-Dae on a chair beside her.
     The door opened soon after she had finally managed to trick the hot plate into working. “Hiya, Mom,” said Sung-Ki, as he entered.
    “Watch for the birds,” she said back to him, listlessly, despite how pleased she was to see him. “How was school?”
    “Oh... Good. This is my friend, Woo-Yung...”
    Adjusting the pot on the hot plate, she turned, flustered to be caught off guard; she hadn’t heard another person enter. The other boy was tall, taller than her, but more shocking than anything else was the long gash on his cheek, clotted but clearly uncleaned, with red blood residue smeared from his jaw to chin along one side of his face. She gasped, stammered. “What? I... Hello. Are you okay?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a bow of his head. “I’m Ahn Woo-Yung.”
    “Come here,” Yu-Ri said, wetting a towel with cold water from the tap. “That looks terrible. What happened, Sung-Ki?”
    “We, I, he—he was up, in the hills—”
    “Just some creep,” Woo-Yung said.
    Yu-Ri looked from the boy, to her son, and back as she dabbed at the cut, deeper and more severe than it had seemed from afar. She fixed her gaze on Sung-Ki. “You weren’t at school today,” she said, accusingly—and his silence spoke the truth.
    Sung-Ki sunk his head low, and stared at his shoes. His eyes watered. “I’m sorry. It was important...”
    “It’s my doing, ma’am,” Woo-Yung said. “I swear I won’t do it again.”
    “We swear.”
    Yu-Ri shook her head. Her mind had been tried enough today, and there was nothing obvious to say. “Whatever you did, I hope you got the message that it was a bad idea,” she said eventually, holding the bloody towel up high, for both of the boys to see. And then she sighed. The water was boiling now.
    “...Can Woo-Yung stay for dinner,” mumbled Sung-Ki, clearly hesitant.
    And Yu-Ri paused. She looked over the boiling broth, the meager contents of her bowl. Grass, she thought. A chicken egg, and grass.
    She heard herself say, “Of course he can.” And then she gestured to Woo-Yung’s injury and told him, “That’s as good as I can do. I’m sorry, I do not have a bandage.”
    Woo-Yung put his hands up, and insinuated it was fine. “No, thank you, you’ve done enough,” he said. “Thanks very much, for letting me stay this evening.”
    The boys helped her set the table with bowls of broth and drinking water, moved Su-Dae to a comfortable spot, and even put away the chickens. Yu-Ri was the last to sit, and for a time, they ate in silence. There was little to discuss. Yu-Ri wondered where the boys had been today, and Sung-Ki wondered how his mother had done at the market, but neither wanted to raise the subjects unbidden. It was not until mid-meal that Sung-Ki paused, with evident nervousness, and raised his voice to ask Yu-Ri a question. There was something weighing on his mind that had gone undiscussed for days now.
    “Mother, do you know...” He stopped, bit his lip. Yu-Ri waited at the table’s other end, unsure of what to expect. Sung-Ki drew in a deep breath. “Mother, do you think that Ok-Sun’s coming back?”
    Yu-Ri glared. “I’m sorry,” she said to the boy. “Who?”
    “Your sister?” inquired Woo-Yung, loudly, oblivious to Yu-Ri’s tension.
    “His sister is right here,” Yu-Ri said, sternly, quietly, gesturing toward the baby. With her other hand, she pressed a finger to her lips.
    She could feel Sung-Ki’s legs shaking, beneath the table—a long-standing nervous tic. He reached into one of his pockets, and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “She left this, when she left,” he said, his voice notably quieter.
    Even from across the table, she could recognize Ok-Sun’s handwriting, thin and ghostly, as though her daughter were hesitant to commit her words, thoughts and goodbyes to anything physical, even that which could be easily torn, and burned.
    “Ok-Sun said she would come back for us,” Sung-Ki proceeded, whispering. “She says it right here, she says she’ll come back for me. But she didn’t tell me when...”
    Calmly, slowly, Yu-Ri stood to her feet, and reached across the table to her son, while Woo-Yung looked on, perplexed. She patted the backs of Sung-Ki’s hands, smiled, then snatched the letter from his grip and tore it to pieces above her bowl, pocketing every scrap of it to destroy when she was done. “I don’t think we’ll ever see her again,” she said, at normal volume. But as she sat, she leaned in close, and her voice when she spoke then was but a measure above silence. “Sung-Ki, you must never speak of her... She loved you very much... But now she is dead to us. You must think of her as a forgotten one... If anyone hears you speaking of her, we could all be taken away, do you understand? The walls are thin...”
    Tears beaded in the corners of Sung-Ki’s eyes as he gestured that he understood. He stared straight through the table. “I just hope she made it,” he whispered.
    And Yu-Ri said, “So do I.”
    Woo-Yung waited for a moment before he moved to speak, after the palpable tension had been allowed a moment to linger in the air, after the others had resumed to sipping their soup. He cleared his throat. “We got some things today, Sung-Ki and I,” he said. Across the table, Sung-Ki sniffed, and smiled.
    “Oh?” said Yu-Ri, more than mildly nervous. “What’s that, then?”
    “Show her, Sung-Ki.”
    And Sung-Ki grabbed his bag beside the table, drew it up to his lap, and reached his hand in, his face indicating that the remaining apricots within had congealed by now into a swampy, sticky mire. Yu-Ri watched, an eyebrow cocked, waiting, until Sung-Ki finally withdrew one whole fruit, the firmest of them all, warm and sticky like the others, but comparably whole.
    “A peach?” asked Yu-Ri, a youthful smile dawning on her face as she beheld it.
    “No, an apricot,” said Sung-Ki.
    Yu-Ri nodded slowly, and laughed beneath her breath. She rose from the table and moved toward the kitchen, knowing as she went that the mysterious fruit and the older boy’s wound were surely connected, and silently deciding not to say anything about it. What’s done is done, she said to herself. And at least it wasn’t Sung-Ki who got cut. She returned with a knife, and three small plates.
    “No,” said Sung-Ki, pushing his plate away toward her. “We got a bunch, Woo-Yung and I, but this one’s for you and the baby. It’s the only one that made it down the mountain in one piece.”
    “The others were rotten.”
    “They melted.”
    “And we ate them on the way.”
    Yu-Ri looked at the two boys, upright and proud of their present, and quietly cut the slimy apricot into four pieces on her plate. It was soft, and overripe, but beside the cooling bowl of empty broth it looked as sweet as candy and as precious as gold. Su-Dae stirred beside her, cooing wordlessly, and stretched her tiny hand out towards the table.
    Cherish the moment, Yu-Ri thought, as she held a tiny portion of the fruit up to Su-Dae’s smiling mouth. This is your family—your daughter, your son and his newfound friend. And here is an apricot from some far-flung mountain, the first fruit you’ve had in... I’ve forgotten how long. Cherish it, share it, be thankful... It’s not long til tomorrow.
    |
    High atop a nearby mountain, in a copse of fragrant green trees, a plump red-billed starling came to rest on a lofty branch. It sank its beak into the flesh of a ripe and perfect apricot, and the juices flowed out of the punctured flesh over the starling’s plumage, dripping down by meager drops onto the dirt of the earth below.

Justin and the Florida Panther

    Fifteen year old Justin Burleigh Paine arose early on April 16, 1890. He wolfed down a hearty breakfast of eggs, potatoes, biscuits, and sausage fixed by his father, Varnum Phillip Paine, who at that time was a merchant in Midland, Florida, the small citrus village where the family lived. This village went out of existence shortly after the family moved to nearby Frostproof, a new village which recently came into being. Off and on he was a minister in former abolitionist churches. Varnum’s wife and Justin’s mother, Catherine, was busy preparing to teach and test prospective public school teachers for the University of Florida at the small public library in Midland.
    Justin was excited and eager to get started on a project he had been planning with his dad for several weeks. Earlier Varnum or V. P., as he was known by family and friends, had purchased a five acre tract of land about fifteen miles east of Midland. Justin was going to camp out on a hill on the edge of this property. Here he intended to plant a citrus orchard for the family. As soon as he ate, he hitched a team of oxen to a wagon he would use for transportation. He mentally reviewed the things he would need and began to load them as quickly as possible. There was the tent and the bedding for keeping warm and comfortable while sleeping in his tent. He had several changes of clothes as much of the work would be dirty. He would have to clear the land of most of the few trees living on it. He abhorred this task because he loved the huge trees in the woodlands areas. He needed to load several tools for his tasks of clearing and planting. A sharp knife, shovel, axe, hatchet, hoe, and plow for starters. V. P. and Catherine had fixed him several meals he could warm over his fire and snacks for in between meals.
    As he loaded he remembered fondly the first trips he had made for V. P. by wagon and a team of oxen with his best friend, Percy Gifford. When the Blake’s moved to Florida five years ago, Percy and his mother had been deserted by an alcoholic father and husband. They were in dire straights. V. P. and Catherine took them in without hesitation. Percy and Justin hit if off immediately and became as close as brothers. Their friendship was life long. When Justin was in his mid 40’s, he returned to central Florida after going back to New England for more than twenty-five years. At this time Justin and Percy started a successful building business, which lasted until they retired in their late 70’s.
    When the boys were little more than ten, V. P. trusted them enough to send them on trips which took up to three days. If they were gone for two days, they went to a larger burg, Ft. Meade, fifteen miles from Midland. Here they shopped for the items the family needed. A three day trip meant going on to Bartow to do public business for V. P. in the County Seat, five miles north of Ft. Meade. The boys learned a great deal on these trips. One of the most useful learning was that oxen can be and often are stubborn, lazy animals. They finally hit upon a way of getting around these traits. The brutes would suddenly stop and sit down refusing to go any further. The boys tried all kinds of solutions to get those lazy critters up and going. They even tried building a fire under them. Finally, they hit on an unfailing remedy. They took buckets and filled them with enough water to stick the oxen’s heads in it with their noses under water. They would not let them breathe until they got up.
    At times they caught glances of the magnificent, but potentially deadly, Florida Panther walking quietly in the woodlands they were traversing. They often saw large diamond back rattle snakes slithering around in the leaves and pine needles. These vipers always sent shivers up their spines. Occasionally when they passed one of the many lakes in the area, they saw a large alligator swimming at its leisure. With no natural enemies other than human pistols and rifles, they had little need to hurry about. Infrequently, at these lakes and even in the ponds they ran into an ugly black cotton mouth moccasin. These snakes made the boys feel truly weird.
    Justin giggled about these and other adventures he and Percy had when they first moved to central Florida. The family had moved there from Connecticut when both boys were ten. The Gifford’s moved from New Jersey. The Paine family’s move was precipitated by V.P’s health. He was a former union soldier and abolitionist who worked on the Underground Railroad; this consisted of secret networks of relationships, houses, churches, safest travel routes, and other aspects of providing ways for slaves to escape to freedom.
    V. P.’s poor health was partly a result of his stubborn refusal to stay out of battle and the Railroad until his wounds were completely healed. However, the large cannon he was in charge of firing exposed him to dangerous substances, which no doubt contributed to his condition. The bitterly cold New England winters kept him in poor health after the war. A couple of physicians advised that a move to a warmer climate might help him regain his former health and energy level. With this advice, V. P. and Catherine decided to move to central Florida far south of the panhandle and other northern parts of Florida which were part of the Confederacy during the war. Catherine Elizabeth Burleigh Paine, like her husband, was an abolitionist who had worked in the Underground Railroad and was a progressive on other issues as well.
    The Paine’s opted to travel by sea from the Connecticut coast to Florida’s east coast. There was still a good bit of bad feeling in the south about the war, especially toward anti-slavery advocates. Travel by sea would allow them to avoid the entire area of the former Confederacy. A substantial number of northerners were in the war to preserve the union only. Some of them were proslavery.
    They landed in Florida around the area where Fernandina Beach was and is now located. From there they traveled by wagon west, southwest to the center of the state. They went to a wilderness area about fifty miles due east of Tampa. Since this locale was still in thoroughly pioneering conditions, the family had to live in a tent for a several months before they could erect an inhabitable, although unfinished, house. The tent was sewn by Catherine. Even with the rigors of tent living, V. P. began regaining his health and energy level within two week of being in the new climatic environment.
    V. P. had extensive building skills and had already passed them on to his two sons, Justin and his older brother, 12 year old Ernest Burleigh. Their two younger sisters, Alice and Mary, also had their mother’s last name as a middle one. They were following a widespread New England tradition of giving some or all the children the mother’s last name as middle one. This custom is still followed today by some New Englanders. A well known recent historical example is John Fitzgerald and Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy. I do not know if any of the other children were given Rose’s last name or not. Probably the oldest boy, who was killed in the Second World War, had the Fitzgerald name.
    Forty-five year old V. P. had worn and would continue to wear several vocational hats. When the Civil War began, he was working as a sailor for a company conducting various expeditions in the South Pacific. When the ship returned to Brazil for supplies, V. P. learned that the Civil War had broken out in the U. S. He jumped ship to go home and join the Yankee Army in order to free the slaves and preserve the union. During this period and after the war, he continued to serve as a minister in abolitionist and later former abolitionist churches. After the war and the freeing of the slaves, these churches supported other progressive issues such as women’s rights, the racism still rampant in the U. S., and the need to distribute resources more equitably. For the Paine’s and other progressives, god was a democrat opposed to slavery, bigotry, and greed in all forms. After the war V.P. also owned and ran a building business, and was a publishing writer in the areas of history, philosophy, and ethics.
    Justin would be planting the orchard on the lower middle section of the Ridge, not many feet from where his house would be built when he returned to Florida the second time in l920, because he had been disabled by Lumbago. After the move the affliction disappeared. The Ridge is a long, narrow stretch of raised land beginning where Clermont is now located and ending about eighty miles south to where the town of Lake Placid is today. The Ridge consisted of soil which was ideal for growing various citrus fruits, grapefruits, oranges, and tangerines. The Ridge was second only to the Indian River area, which is close to the east coast, in the production of citrus fruits.
    The plants Justin put in his wagon were rough lemons. The citrus branches would be grafted on the rough lemons. The latter were useless for eating, but they provided the most efficient way of producing citrus trees. Seedlings were possible and more desirable in quality then the grafted trees, but the time taken to nurture an entire grove of seedlings was prohibitive. Growers mostly kept the few seedlings they had time to nurture for themselves and their families. There were few houses in the area to which Justin was traveling. Stores were even scarcer. There were a few orchards and extensive woodlands with huge Oak, Pine, Hickory, Camphor, and other trees were growing thickly in them. As indicated by the remembrances of Justin’s early adventures, the woodlands had some formidable dangers lurking in them. For this reason, Justin carried a pistol with him.
    As one interviewee for this story put it, “One did not go very far from home without arming oneself.” The poisonous diamond back rattle snakes could grow up to, and sometimes a bit longer, than 7 feet. The beautiful but potentially deadly, Florida Panther, now almost extinct, a terrible tragedy, existed in abundance in l890. A full grown panther could jump an unaware person and kill them.
    As indicated by the accounts of Justin’s earlier adventures, some of the water creatures were also threatening to human safety and well being. These included a large population of alligators, the biggest of which were around fourteen feet. Cotton Mouth Moccasins were not only poisonous, but they had an enormous amount of infectious bacteria in their mouths. Thus one got poisoned and infected at the same time. Sometimes the infections seemed as bad as the poison.
    These snakes are uncommonly aggressive toward humans. They would sometimes wait in hiding to get a bite in. They do not retreat as do most snakes if they are warned. The writer, Dr. Amanda Rosaleigh Paine, and her soul mate, Dr, Michael Demian Randolph, stopped by one of their favorite creeks near Auburn University where they taught. They stopped at a bridge. They used the creek to cool off their entire bodies in the ‘dog day’ heat. There was a large cotton mouth sunning on a rock. It did not budge as they approached. Finally they had to run him off with gestures, vocal warnings, and pebbles. As the snake left, it expressed its displeasure with a strange noise. It seemed to be angrily querying, how dare you invade my space? When it finally left, its head was held high out of the water, and it continued making the eerie sound of displeasure. The Moccasins’ had such a strong presence; Amanda began to feel when one was around.
    One pleasant evening after a hard day of planting, Justin decided to take a walk to stretch his legs and enjoy the fresh air. From his tent he could see Lake Clinch, a lake he would swim in often now that he knew about it. Ready, a larger lake was in the other direction. He had walked around Clinch the day before. He decided to explore the area around Ready which was closest to his tent. There were many large trees on his way. When he got near the lake unknown to him, a large panther was on the limb of a big Oak tree. He walked under the tree. The cat silently, gracefully, and nimbly maneuvered itself in a position to jump Justin. Just as he jumped him, Justin saw the cat and moved enough so he could throw the panther off long enough to get his pistol out of his jacket. Just in the nick of time, Justin pulled the tripper and wounded the cat in the chest. Even though this magnificent creature intended to kill Justin and eat him for its dinner, he still felt badly about having to shoot it. To avoid further suffering he put a second bullet in the cat’s head.
    “I’m sorry friend,” he said to the fallen cat as a torrent of tears rushed down his cheeks. “It was either you or me. I wish it wasn’t that way for you have as much right to be here as I do. I literally feel sick at having to shoot you. I hope I can sleep tonight.” He thought to himself as he went back to his supplies to get a shovel to give the feline a decent burial, I’m going to watch for the cats from now on so this hopefully doesn’t happen again. No matter what, I hate killing, especially such a wonderful and gorgeous creature of nature.

the prince

    why the prince? we needed the copy. an editor told us so. and there we were, inching our way across the newport bridge to the sounds of neil young’s broken arrow.
    while cooper explained that he was driving so slowly because a local police department had nailed him with a $275 ticket a few days before, newport lay stretched out before us, an assemblage of steeples and clapboards on land and yachts in the harbor. it seemed fitting that if the prince of wales was going to visit the united states it would be to a drinking town with a sailing problem, a town the british conquered 220 years ago (with some cooperation), the town america’s royalty chose for its chateaus with gold-plated ceilings, and the town which today boasted the distinction of having the lowest per-capita income in the state.
    prince charles. we were going to see him at the new york yacht club, where he was visiting to promote one of his favorite causes, that of the mary rose, a warship that belonged to his great-great-whatever-grandfather, king henry viii, which sank in the waters off portsmouth, england, in 1545. a group known as “the friends of the mary rose,” which had undertaken the excavation and restoration of the warship, was having a dinner to raise money for a museum. so far, they had raised $30 million. they needed $25 million more.
    cooper was a photographer who liked to embarrass celebrities. he took a shot of bob weir at fort adams in which weir’s penis was visible slinking out his shorts. weir’s girlfriend sat beside him. cooper had asked me if he could sell the shot to the glossies, but i didn’t know. his photo went beyond tabloid. i don’t know what he did with it, but i felt at ease having a proven penis-shooter on this gig.
    as we cruised down america’s cup avenue, toward the yacht club, i thought of questions for the prince.
    is there a more pressing issue to which you could lend your time and name to raise money?
    then there were the questions the people back at the office had suggested:
    how did you become such a big jerk in such a short time?
    do you give all your girlfriends platinum charge cards?
    the only other question i could come up with was: “what do you think about the sex pistols reunion?”

    “tom, you think i’m overdressed?” cooper said to me. he was wearing a green sportcoat and tie, the first time i had ever seen him wear such things.
    “how do you overdress for a prince?” i said.
    “that’s a good one to put in your story.”
    i jotted it down in my notebook. as for me, i had started to put on a suit but only made it half-way. brown marino wool pants matched to a plaid white and blue shirt i had bought at a thrift store. i wasn’t wearing a jacket and i never wore ties.
    “i want to catch him picking his nose” cooper said.
    “he’s probably got someone doing it for him.”
    cooper parked near an elementary school and we walked to harbor court, the summer home of the new york yacht club. i had never been there, but cooper knew someone in the kitchen. the word was security was very tight, following the recent ira bombings and the suspicions surrounding the crash of a twa jet the day before.
    we were greeted at the gate by security agents who asked our names, checked them against a list, then told us to go to the gatehouse, where we could check in.
    we walked through a large gate and into a courtyard, where sitting behind a table on which were stacked media passes, was a woman and a man. it was quiet. we were early because cooper’s friend in the kitchen was putting aside some food for us.
    they asked us for our photo ids. we handed them over. they looked at them and handed them back. they gave us each an “american friends of the mary rose” media badge to hang around our necks.
    “security will have to check your cameras,” the woman said.
    “where’s that?” cooper said.
    she raised her arm and stuck a finger out, pointing behind us. we turned. standing there all the while, silent and with arms crossed, were four men in suits, watching us.
    while they were checking cooper’s cameras for guns and explosives, i asked one of the men who the security was.
    he didn’t answer.
    “i heard the fbi and mi5 were here,” i said.
    “not that we know of,” another one of them said.
    we sat down to wait out the prince, who was at that moment returning from a two-hour sail aboard the shamrock v, one of the largest, most exquisite, most famous yachts in newport. and also, the most green. we were told we could not go to the kitchen to get our food because of security reasons. this upset cooper more than me because he was hungry. the woman who checked our press ids offered us some poland springs water, which was cooling in a nearby barrel.
    “i’m sorry we don’t have anything else to drink,” she said.
    “can we go out and come back onto the grounds?” i asked.
    “if you check in again,” she said. “and if you bring us back something to drink.”
    we took our two waters and sat down.
    “we should have brought some cards,” cooper said.
    the water was good.
    “he would have made us something good,” cooper said.
    “call him.”
    “i don’t want to eat in front of everybody.”
    from where we sat, we could see the lawn where the tables were. the scene was dappled with sunlight coming through the leaves of old trees, which hid harbor court, where the prince was resting and changing for dinner.
    “i’m going out for a couple bottles of whiskey,” i said. “we’ve got time. the people are thirsty.”
    a young guy laden with cameras, his face burned by the sun, walked through the gate. i went over and talked to him. his name was kuni takahashi and he was a photographer for the boston herald. he had been out on a boat all afternoon, chasing after the prince, who was protected by a flotilla of coast guard, harbormaster, and police boats. he was frazzled.
    “we couldn’t even spot him and we had an 800 millimeter lense,” takahashi said.
    “maybe he’s not really here,” i said.
    “maybe they bring out some dummy, just to raise money,” cooper said.
    a photographer wearing a black t-shirt and sandals came into the courtyard, his face more sunburnt than takahashi’s. i recognized him. his name was bill powers and i’d worked with him for the boston globe. he was an ace. he wore a sports illustrated cap, but he told me he was shooting for reuters. last time i’d seen him he was sea-sick from chasing sharks. the guy got around and for good reason. he was one of the best.
    powers said he had gotten a shot of the prince on shamrock v, as the yacht sailed into the east passage under a south wind, past hammersmith farm and fort adams. he said the prince was wearing a blue blazer and a white shirt. he spent his time aboard the boat socializing. he did not touch the helm or any lines. between 40 and 50 boats chased the shamrock v.

    powers and takahashi were called over by the silent security men. they wanted to check their cameras again. they had been checked earlier, before they went out on their boats, but now they were back and it was possible that a mermaid had sold them hand grenades. while they suffered another absurd inspection of their many cameras and lenses, i raised a camera to test the fuckers.
    one of the security men raised his arms and came toward me, telling me to stop.
    “i can’t take a picture?”
    “not with us in it,” he said.
    i sat down.
    a reporter from the sakonnet times walked over.
    “i wish they’d let us walk around,” she said. “it’s like we’re caged animals.”
    cooper was looking at the security men. “i remember seeing some of those guys blending in, watching us work.”
    “we haven’t done any work.”
    “they’re watching us wishing we were working.”
    with all the time we had to sit there being watched, it was natural for me to think about the holes in their net. they had checked the cameras, but they had not patted us down. maybe they could see through clothes or possessed concealed metal detectors or james bond x-ray machines in their belt buckles. our cameras were clean, but i could have carried a pistol or concealed a blow-gun with curare darts in my pant leg. one of the security men had grinned at the scotch i’d brought back in. there was nothing he could say. i wasn’t going to get the prince so drunk he died.
    a young blonde gentleman in a black tuxedo came out and addressed the press corps. in a very proper-sounding accent, this mr. christopher dobbs, who stressed to us that he had studied archeology at cambridge, the same program as the prince, though not at the same time, told us the history of the discovery of the mary rose and the subsequent excavation, during which he had the honor of scuba diving with the prince.
    “she’s in portsmouth,” dobbs said. “she was built in portsmouth and sank in portsmouth, so portsmouth is very much her home.”
    built between 1510 and 1511, the 700-ton warship, which had been sunk by an invading french fleet two kilometers from the entrance to portsmouth harbour, was found by divers in 45 feet of water in 1836. on october 11, 1982, she was raised. work to preserve her treasures is ongoing, including an effort to make them available for public viewing by placing one-half of the ship’s hull and other artifacts on display in a museum. the museum has 400,000 visitors a year. dobbs said they hope to make it 600,000.
    “we have not just the officers’ plates,” dobbs said. “but the wooden plates, spoons of the common man.”
    dobbs was wearing a houndstooth bow-tie and cracked his fingers while he spoke. he was able to talk to people and when asked a question, he answered fully while looking the questioner in the eye. he was alright. but while he spoke, i couldn’t help but think of this interest in the common man 450 years after he died. it seemed a little late. was he interested in what the common man was eating or not eating today? if mr. dobbs was aboard the mary rose in 1545, he would have been eating off the pewter plate, not the wooden plate he now championed. four-hundred years from now, would somebody be digging up the site that was once the new york yacht club, talking about how the common men of the press corps were once fed water under the gaze of the fbi and mi5 and state police while mr. dobbs and his friends dined on $500 brussels sprouts?

    someone asked dobbs about the prince’s interest in the mary rose.
    “i think it’s partly because of his ancestry,” dobbs said. “the mary rose was definitely one of the king’s ships.” by king, mr. dobbs was referring to henry viii. i did not know much about henry viii, but what i had heard did not leave me with a positive impression. i recalled a portrait in which he was decapitating his wife with a turkey leg.
    while i was thinking about the saliva and mead running down henry viii’s chin, mr. dobbs was explaining that the prince was also interested in the mary rose because he liked archaeology and he liked scuba diving.
    “to go scuba diving, when you’ve got fifty photographers and news reporters wanting you to slip up, takes a lot of courage,” dobbs said.
    i shook my head and took a pull. wanting him to slip up? some fucking media if it was true. my friend died scuba diving. she was 29. i didn’t want anybody to slip up. i didn’t appreciate dobbs’ assertion that i was sick and degenerate.

    the new york yacht club’s public relations woman, susan miles, introduced us to two more men in black tuxedos, a mr. russell reynolds of the american friends of the mary rose and a brit by the name of sir. david cooksey, who was in the company of his wife, whose name we were told was simply “lady cooksey.”
    somehow, who knows how, the subject of money came up. a reporter asked cooksey how much more money they needed for their museum exhibit.
    “twenty-five million,” he said.
    “i thought it was fifteen,” mr reynolds said.
    there was much laughter. it sounded like this: “hahahahahahahahahahahahaha” except with a british accent: “huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhu.”
    “has the prince given any of his own money toward the museum?” a reporter asked.
    “we’re not allowed to answer questions like that,” cooksey said.
    the reporter asked again and cooksey repeated his answer.
    that’s a no.
    cooksey and reynolds bantered about the prince: he had arrived at 4:30 p.m. at t.f. green airport. he had gotten to newport by limousine. he spent the day sailing aboard shamrock v. a reporter from the newport daily news asked where the prince was now, wasn’t he late? she was intense and didn’t let go of cooksey about this detail. cooksey admitted the prince was a half-hour late, but said “princes are never late. we are one-half hour early.”
    after the gentlemen cleared out to go drink cocktails in the tents on the lawn of harbor court, the press corps once again relaxed, dropping into chairs to wait.
    “i wouldn’t want to live like that,” cooper said.
    “i don’t think you have to worry.”
    “everybody waiting on your departure. i just like to get in the car and go to the beach.”
    susan miles addressed us. i dropped the scotch into my leather bag. she said the plans had been somewhat changed. we would be taken up to the house, where we would have three minutes with the prince in the courtyard, a little sooner than planned. she said they had to fit the press in before a ceremony known as “colors,” in which the flags were taken down the yardarm exactly at sunset to the accompaniment of a canon salute. the ceremony had to be done precisely at sunset, which was to occur sooner than sunset. it was a new york yacht club tradition and they wanted the prince present. flags. canons. princes. miles said that during our three minutes with the prince, we could not ask him any questions. we could only take his picture.
    “why can’t we talk to him?” i said.
    “he’s too wealthy,” cooper said. “the combined salaries of everyone in here is one-tenth his net worth.”
    “what is his net worth?”
    “i don’t know. does he own the castle?”
    “i think he has a mortgage on it.”
    “really?”
    “yeah, it’s called the english people.”
    “well they’re a bunch of suckers.”
    susan miles reappeared, smiling excitedly and waving some kind of folded paper.
    “do you want to see the dinner menu for tonight?” she said.
    nobody moved except a reporter from the providence journal. he went to take a look.
    “i don’t want to know,” said the girl from the sakonnet times. “if we’re not going.”

    i was annoyed. miles chatted with the providence journal guy about the menu. i got up and walked over to ask her why we couldn’t talk to the prince. she saw me standing there, waiting to talk to her.
    “hi tom! how are you doing?” she said, reading my name off the press i.d. hanging from my neck.
    “why can’t we talk to the prince?” i said.
    “it’s the way it is.”
    “protocol, or does he not want to talk to us?”
    “it’s a photo opportunity only,” she said. “that’s what they told me.”
    i returned to my seat. i was truly annoyed. i had taken time away from other stories to come here and now it was looking like a soft, bullshit story with no main character. i was going to write about a ship that sank in 1545 and a $500-a-plate dinner? the only real story i saw was the prince’s treatment of the media, us, me. his media relations would be less strained if he actually talked to us. we were not like the press in britain and there were no tabloids at harbor court. we did not hide in bushes. we did not hire spies to peep in windows.

    susan miles came back and addressed the press. there were about 17 reporters, from the associated press to local tv news.
    “are there any questions?” miles asked.
    i raised my hand, but she ignored me. she would not look at me. nobody else was asking her a question, so i spoke up. i wanted to get this down on everybody’s record.
    “i have a question,” i said. “why can’t we talk to him?”
    “he will not say anything and if you ask him a question that annoys him, it will spoil the event,” miles answered without looking at me. her tone changed to one of warning; it was an unveiled threat. “there are a lot of men who can take care of the situation,” she said.
    “they’ll have you getting thrown out, tom” cooper said.
    “thrown out of what? a tea party attended by mutes?”
    “i’d be careful,” he said. “if i get thrown out with you, we have no shot.”
    “his divorce just went through,” i said. “he’s paranoid. it was a messy split and his divorce just went through last week. the british press kicked his ass because everyone loves dianna. i don’t even care about his divorce. i wouldn’t have fucked that princess either.”

    we were led up the lawn to harbour court, a mansion which once belonged to john nicholas brown. i didn’t know who john nicholas brown was and felt i should. the bay was on the other side of the house. in the courtyard, water bubbled out of a cherubic sculpture. we were stopped by a green fence. we stood watching guests arrive. all the men wore black tuxedos and the women beautiful gowns. we watched 250 of them walk past toward the tents on the lawn. the prince would raise $125,000 tonight. if he needed $25 million, he’d be eating out a lot.
    i got into a conversation with leslie gervitz, the boston bureau editor for reuters. “if i knew you’d be here, it would have saved me the trip,” she said. (to her word, gervitz hired me two months later.)
    since she was reuters, she had experience with the royal family.
    “i had this for fergie, when she ‘wasn’t getting divorced,’” gervitz said. “they don’t talk. they’re royalty.”
    while we were standing there waiting for the prince to come out the back or front door, i became aware that the number of security men was increasing. they were surrounding us. they were different from the other ones. they wore heavy, loose jackets and had things stuck in their ears, with wires vanishing under their collars. most of them had mustaches. we watched them and they watched us while the birds sang in the tree overhead. cooper turned around and looked at the windows on the second and third floors.
    “all it would do,” i said, “is bestow a certain amount of fame and infamy on the assassin. all prince charles has is fame. and he got that simply by being born.”
    “do you think philanthropists are people who give away what they should give back?” there was a question that would ruin the event. given their low tolerance, it might get me kicked out. i didn’t care much for this story, but i didn’t want to get kicked out. the sex pistols question came back to me. the queen had had some run-ins with the absolutists in the 1970’s. surely he would have some thoughts on the punk-rockers’ reunion. it would be funny and that would fit the tone of the story, which was a joke. another question would be to ask him who his date was tonight.
    prince charles emerged from the doorway, walking beside mr. russel reynolds. the prince had come out the door talking and turned away from us to ask mr. reynolds a question. when he turned his profile toward us, cooper was shooting. he walked past us, ignoring us.
    “hello, how are you?” said a reporter from the newport daily news.
    he turned and looked at her. he said “pinching a pen.”
    “what do you think about the sex pistols reunion?”
    “they’re going to dig up sid vicious? he was bad enough.”
    he walked around the fountain and through an opening in the shrubs which led to the lawn where the tents were and he was gone in five seconds.
    “three minutes, my ass,” cooper said.
    “five seconds longer, his ass.”
    the prince had a self-conscious face. it was ruddy. it was suggestive of silence. he was tall, solid, and carried himself with confidence. his stupid comment to the reporter was delivered with a superiority which sounded like it had never been questioned, by him, by anyone around him. yet, in that silent face i glimpsed a man who could be alright. his life required him to be the asshole people said he was.
    as sir cooksley might have said, “the prince did not snub you. you were born with incompatible blood types.”
    when you put us together, we all start to feel ill.
    as we were escorted back to the gatehouse, we heard the canon shot as “colors” was observed. susan miles said, “that sure was not three minutes, but i had no control over that.”
    it had been five seconds.
    “king hussein was a lot better than that,” said the chick from the sakonnet times.
    on our way off the grounds of the new york yacht club, we passed the valets, who were dressed in white shirts and black pants. they had parked a variety of cars, from range rovers and mercedez benzes to beaters worth less than the price of the dinner.
    “i don’t even care to see the crown,” said a valet. “unless you’re going to give me a diamond out of it.”
    we were being tailed by the mustaches, who apparently wanted to be sure of our departure. i turned and walked into one’s face.
    i said, “if you are a government employee, you have to tell me.”
    “who told you that?”
    “give me one reason to shoot the prince.”
    “he’s useless,” the mustache said. then he smiled: “but he provides us both with work.”

The Deal

    It started innocent enough, believe it or not.
    I was working a ton of hours at work and had little time for much else. It had been a long road since losing my girlfriend and most of my social life due to work injuries with my former employer. I still missed the her, my ex-girlfriend. She was with someone else now. There was a giant hole left. Whenever there was some time in my schedule, when I wasn’t exhausted, I would converse either online or over the phone with online friends. It was a way to ignore the hole in life.
    There was a woman I spoke with once in a great while from Twitter. She was not my favorite person, but she seemed sincere and sad. Melinda was stuck in rural Kentucky. A dry county. Terrible.
    She had hinted many times about moving to Seattle. I wasn’t biting. I had done the whole “roommate” thing before. It was disastrous. I wasn’t interested.
    It was November. There was a lull at work. The calm before the holiday storm. I grew bored and tired of long nights sitting at home. Going out was too pricey, generally, and would usually lead to some trouble. So I went online to chat. I hadn’t been on Twitter in nearly a year.
    Melinda immediately sent a DM (Direct Message). She excitedly announced that she was moving to Seattle. She had met some guy out here that would let her move in. She wanted to know if we could all get together for drinks. It seemed harmless, so I agreed. The conversation shifted to all the things to do in Seattle. I was happy to share what I knew.
    On and on we talked. Slowly, she began expressing reservations about the guy she was moving in with. She already quit her job and bought airline tickets, but...
    The deal. The deal was that, on nights that he wanted to fuck her, she could stay over. Otherwise she would be at the shelter.
    As I sat stunned, soft sobs were on the other end of the phone. It was her only chance of escape. Her one and only chance. Twenty four years old and at the biggest crossroads of her life.

    You already know what I did. You already know how stupid I can be.

    Our deal would be drastically different. I would let her stay, and help her get a start in Seattle. However, I was not going to support her so she could party, date, and fuck. The emphasis had to be getting a job, saving money, and getting her own place. The faster, the better. I was not going to pay for some guy’s girlfriend. No.
    She agreed. Readily.
    “Melinda, don’t make me regret this.”
    “I won’t. I swear...I won’t.”

    The day came. I had arranged for friends to pick her up at the airport. I couldn’t get off work. I gave them a key.
    I worked later than usual, of course, as the holiday panic season was coming up quickly. My truck had broken down again. Buses were crowded, of course, and the bottles of wine clanged together in my backpack as people muscled through the narrow isles.
    Finally. The lobby of my building was empty except for parcels dropped off by my mail carrier. It was the last thing I wanted to see, as I had delivered three hundred of those myself that day. I would be dropping off even more in a matter of hours.
    I unlocked my door, and tried to step inside. My nose hit the door. It was chain locked from the inside.
    “Hello?! Hey! Melinda, can I get in?”
    “Ok. Just a minute.” She drawled.

    The door finally opened. Only the kitchen light was on. Melinda stood in the darkened bathroom, her hands covering her mouth.
    I marched in, happy to be home. Happy to have company. Long days and short nights can be lonely too.
    “Care for some wine? We gotta celebrate! It’s your first night in Seattle!”
    A mere whimper came from the darkened bathroom. Melinda continued to stand there, hands over mouth.
    “You can come out from there. Make yourself at home.”
    She slowly came into the light. She was shaking.

    I’m not exactly sure how to say this. Believe it or not, I had not thought of Melinda sexually, despite her being twenty four and my being forty. I already knew I was not drawn to her. Our friendship was mostly over my feeling sorry for her. We were not a match.
    What I am about to say had to do with everything but attraction or lack thereof.
    Melinda was well over four hundred pounds.

    The first thought I had was that I was fucked. How would she be able to get a job? That kind of size could be an asset if the person walked like they owned the place. Being that huge and being so bashful and humiliated about it would only lead to rejection. I feared that I would be stuck supporting her for a very long time. There was no way I would have the heart to throw her out.

    We settled in and began drinking. Might as well make the most of it. We laughed and sipped and talked and smoked. It kind of felt good to have company. It had been a while. Soon it was time to nap before work.
    I worried the entire next day about how this could be brought to an end. What possibilities could there be for employment?

    My sit/stand desk was put to good use. Melinda was chatting with men online and chain smoking. The desk was all the way up so all the guy on the other end could see was Melinda from the neck up.
    She got off the chat as soon as I came in, right before the guy could hear my voice. I unloaded my twelve pack of beer. My body was killing me. It had been a long day. The holidays were just beginning. The conversation was light as I sipped beer. Nothing much happened. It was her first day in a new land, a new life.
    Melinda wanted to explore the city, but was far too afraid to go alone. I showed her around the neighborhood. She gasped in excitement. It was only four blocks. Start slow. Don’t overwhelm. Melinda needed breaks from walking. Five minutes was her limit. Patience would be needed.

    I tried for another week. Melinda was just not willing to overcome her fears and embarrassments. She spent all day, every day chatting with men online and by phone. Every evening had her needing to be walked. Then we would settle in and sip beer and wine.
    Melinda would sit on my couch sipping wine and chain smoking. She held her lighter between her toes. The image reminded me of an orangutan. She talked endlessly about men. That was the entire focus of her existence. She chatted on and on, and would numb my brain until sleep would hit me hard. It was no longer nice to have company. I grew increasingly worried about not being able to get rid of her. That worry consumed my days.

    I arrived at work one day. Tension and panic filled the station. Something was very wrong. We all clocked in and went for vehicle checks. Everyone looked like they had seen a ghost. I had no idea what was going on.
    I went to my case. I saw it. I stood in complete shock. I couldn’t move. My eyes and mouth hung open.
    A few regulars laughed.
    “One hour at a time, man. One hour at a time.”

    When I snapped out of it, I went into panicked maniac mode. There was no way in hell I could make it by six. Volume was already very heavy. Now it had quadrupled!
    Soon a supe walked up. He showed panic too.
    “Mercer! Curtail everything you can. We need you to carry an extra two hours!”
    My eyes nearly flew out of my head.
    “Two hours?! Huh? Look at this volume..I mean...how? how? How?”
    “Make it happen. Curtail what you need to.”
    “But...but...well, how much time?”
    “Be back by six.”
    “That’s impossible. This route is to take me til five fifteen with usual volume. Now I’ll have forty five minutes to do two hours plus travel time?! How?”
    “You better get moving.”

    Cusses flew faster than mail. I tore through everything. It was the start of the holiday season. The new norm.

    I dragged myself home. Melinda sat there as usual. She began talking about her guys. She had done nothing else all day, it seemed.
    I went to put beer in the fridge and start the usual pizza roll dinner. My body screamed at me. I looked at the sink. My new plates had been chipped terribly. They were still wet.
    “I did dishes. You can thank me later.”
    I just grabbed a beer and finally sat down in my usual office chair. Melinda gabbed on and on. Twanging about what the guys said to her.
    “Did you apply for any jobs?”
    Silence as her face went white.
    “Melinda, you’ve been here two weeks now. All I hear every night is what this guy or that guy has said to you or about you. What I am not hearing is what jobs you’re applying for. Remember our deal.”
    “Yeah...”
    She looked blank.
    “I can understand needing some time to settle in. It was a huge move, but I don’t see that you’re doing anything here that you couldn’t be doing in Kentucky. I mean, what was the point of moving?”
    “Well, I did the dishes...”
    “There weren’t dishes in Kentucky?”
    Silence.
    “Did you at least take a walk today? Get out of the apartment for a little while?”
    “No. I just.. I might get lost.”
    “Walking around the block?”
    Silence. I drank my beer down and grabbed another. I hated having to be stern, but this was too much. I had to do something.
    Being that exhausted and sipping beer on an empty stomach had me pleasantly intoxicated. It was the only good feeling I had enjoyed in weeks. I kept it going for just a while longer. Conversation went gentler as I felt better. Soon I was buzzed and made some jokes. I knew I would be asleep as soon as I ate. I prolonged the buzz, not eager to snooze and race to work again.
    We talked and drank. There was some laughter. The mood lightened.

    Melinda brightened up. Ideas circled her large head.
    “If only Stephanie were here. You’d love her. She is so motivated. Went to college. Sharp wit like you. She would make me get out there and find work. She would love you.”

    People should not make decisions when they’re buzzed and feeling good.
    Now you know how truly stupid I am.

    The very next night Melinda was dolled up. She said I was right, that she should get out of the apartment. She was meeting a friend for dinner. I was relieved to have some time alone. No drawling about this guy or that for the evening. It would be me, beer, internet, and pizza rolls.

    Work got even worse. I got more exhausted. Work got worse still. I was on the verge of collapse.

    One night Melinda drawled on and on. I dozed off. I seem to recall her saying something about liking some guy.

    The day had been like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. Swirling wind drove rain into my sweating body. The high was thirty six. I had to run my route, carrying eighty pounds. I got screamed at for being late. The bus home was too crowded to sit. My legs trembled from exhaustion.
    I grabbed my beer and headed for my apartment. Melinda was incapable of running any errands. It was my show. I found myself actually praying that Melinda would not be there. I wanted to relax, sip beer, eat, and sleep. My face was drawn. I had aged twenty years that day.
    There was some guy sitting on my couch.
    He and Melinda jumped up as soon as they saw me. Before I could hang up my raincoat, they surrounded me. He began chatting excitedly about his job. Fedex. Part time.
    They followed me to my kitchen, him yacking. They don’t appreciate him. Some days he even works six hours. On and on.
    I cracked a beer, chugged it, and opened another. The guy looked sad. I wasn’t in the mood to be nasty. I had made it through the day, and had to prepare for the next.
    “If you want a beer, there’s some in the fridge.”
    He brightened up and went into the fridge. He stayed there for a while.
    “Is the opener in here too?”
    “Huh?” It’s here.” I handed it to him.
    Melinda looked embarrassed.
    “Oh, he’s just nervous.”

    He went on chattering as we sat. I finished the beer and grabbed another. How do I get rid of them?

    The chattering continued. It melded into one long word, just noise. No one could get a word in. On and on. His job. Part time at Fedex. What he does. Makes money. Unappreciated. He knows how I feel. Relatable.
    I just had a fourteen hour day. He called off sick to fuck a four hundred pound woman that I pay all the expenses for. Uh huh.
    The chatterer actually asked me a question about my job. I was shocked. Fourteen hours. Six of it was OT. He interrupted to mention money.
    “Well, my ex wife ran scams, partially in my name, so the IRS is garnishing my pay, wrongly. When I have time, I’ll have to get it cleared up.”
    The chatterer lit up, then ripped into his ex wife. How she had a gambling problem and ruined his finances. That’s why he lived with his grandma for now. He would take his income tax return to get an apartment to support them, including his two young children. He looked lovingly at Melinda.
    Hey, I thought, he might take her away...maybe I should encourage.

    There was silence as they looked at each other. She blushed and giggled. He glowed, all proud of himself.
    “We...we...gosh..... We went to the grocery store...” She gasped excitedly.
    “He bought eggs and bread, and margarine, and bacon, and eggs....”
    “An eighteen pack of eggs.” He chimed in.
    They looked at each other glowingly, blushing and giggling.
    “We’re going to cook you dinner!”
    They scurried out to the kitchen, and began chatting excitedly.

    Another beer opened, I sat there unsure of what the hell all of this was. Exhaustion is what screamed at me. Slowly pieces were falling into place in my exhausted mind.
    He nervously chatters about his job, being able to support a family, has a wealthy grandma, buys food...hmm...
    It hit me like thirty tons of bricks. They were treating me like I was Melinda’s father!

    Somehow I had ended up with a four hundred pound slutty daughter!

    Before long, “dinner” was served. I was starved, and ate the plate of bad southern cooking in under two minutes. Then I began falling asleep. They went outside to talk. I laid on my couch and dozed off.

    Melinda was not home the next night. I was going to raise hell over our deal. She needed to work, or at least try to find work. I was stuck.

    I came home after another hellish day. There was a young child standing in front of my TV. Melinda glowed her stupid smile. The chatterer came bounding out of the kitchen. He smiled his dumb grin. The kid looked at me innocently and smiled.

    Now I was a grandfather. At forty.

    I grabbed a beer and sat in my chair, turning my back to everyone. I played my FB football games. They got the hint. The chatterer got his child, and left. Melinda sat there, lighter between her toes, and grinned stupidly. It was time.
    “This is not a place for children.”
    “Ok.”
    “Anything on the job front?”
    Silence. Melinda’s face went white.
    “Ok. You’ve been here a month, and have made no efforts for jobs. Remember our deal?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ok. Here is what is going to happen. Tomorrow, I want you to go to Labor Ready. It’s day labor. Being the holidays, there will be plenty of jobs available. Fill out the paperwork so you can begin work the day after. Here’s a twenty. Get change for bus fare and have coffee or lunch, make a day of it if you want.”
    “Ok.” She looked away.
    “Hey. I am serious. Go fill out paperwork tomorrow.”
    “Ok.”
    She got up and went to bed. I ate pizza rolls and slept on my couch.

    The next night I came home and Melinda sat, lighter between toes. She looked upset, and wound up to start talking about men. I’d have none of it.
    “Did you go to Labor Ready?”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    Melinda smiled her stupid smile and sighed loudly.
    “Go tomorrow.”
    “Ok.”
    I turned my back on her and went online.

    The next two nights were repeats. The third night I told her that I would wake her up and accompany her to Labor Ready if she didn’t go the next day.
    I expected the same result the next night. I braced for it.

    There was different guy on my couch. I was not amused. He squirmed as I hung up my raincoat. Melinda came bounding out from the kitchen. I looked at her as if to say, “What the fuck?!”
    “I’m goin’ back to Kentucky.”
    I tried to resist glowing.
    “Oh? When?”
    “Tonight.”
    “Sorry to hear. Everything ok?”
    “It’ll be fine. We’re going to talk outside.”
    They walked out. I settled in with my beer and silently celebrated.
    Being that we did have some laughs, I expected some sort of send off. A thank you. Some kind words. Something.
    A couple hours later, Melinda came bounding in. Behind her was yet another guy. She marched off to the kitchen and sipped heavily at her whiskey. He stood at the door sheepishly. I sat at my laptop.
    Melinda hugged me from behind.
    “I’ll miss you...” She drawled.
    She grabbed her backpack, and they headed for the door. Most of her stuff still scattered the floor.
    “What about your stuff?”
    “Keep it.”

    The door closed, hiding her giant, stupid smile. Melinda was gone. At last.

    I finished my beer and got up for another. I looked around. My once nice apartment lay in ruins. It was truly a mess. I was too tired to clean it. Melinda had been too lazy and boy crazed. Tent sized clothes littered the floor. My new plates were chipped.
    It sucked, but at least she was gone.

    And, somewhere out there was my ex. And she was gone too.

Brian Forrest Bio:

    Born in Canada and bred in the U.S., Brian Forrest works in many mediums: oil painting, computer graphics, theatre, digital music, film, and video. Brian studied acting at Columbia Pictures in Los Angeles, digital media in art and design at Bellevue College (receiving degrees in Web Multimedia Authoring and Digital Video Production.) He works in the Seattle, WA area in design/media/fine art. Influenced by past and current colorist painters, Brian’s raw and expressive works hover between realism and abstraction.

Singularly Married

    I get married fortnightly. It’s a simple ceremony.
    Ring on.
    I get divorced a few hours later. It’s even simpler.
    Ring off.
    I didn’t used to.
    I used to be single. I’d been that way since I was born. But then I hadn’t bought a house.
    Four walls, a roof. Couldn’t cause any problems.
    Wrong.
    Houses need maintenance. And maintenance means men. Okay, I hear you women’s libbers out there groaning already. Some of us have been known to swing a paintbrush or paper a wall but there comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs a man!
    And mine had arrived.
    Now, gullible idiot that I was, I thought all men were like me. Straightforward. Trustworthy. Honest. Diligent.
    I’ve learnt better since.
    They’re bullies.
    Now there’s different kinds of bullies. And you have to watch out for them!
    There’s the swaggering, cocky, apparently confident but always - comes - in - twos, type of bully who says things like,
    “There’s no way your aerial is suitable for Freeview, dear,” leaving you begging at his and his colleague’s hastily departing backs,
    “What about installing an outside aerial?” you shout.
    “No use in this area, dear! Bad reception,” he mutters, slamming the door behind him.
    Then there’s the “This job’s going to take longer than I thought” type of bully. He’s usually a quiet, serious loner, who you, sucker that you are, believe to be the strong, dependable type. He proceeds to take your vacuum cleaner to pieces very slowly, laying each piece, methodically, all over your kitchen floor while you struggle from stopping the dog picking up each tiny screw and choking to death. He charges you five hours labour for removing a piece of jammed fluff that should have only taken five minutes!
    Then there’s the “This is a bigger job than I thought” type of bully. You call him in because there’s a damp patch on your roof from a leaking overhead shower! He usually arrives with his mate and you spend ten minutes chasing them from room to room while he points out the fact you’ll need a complete new en-suite. And worse.
    “Course, the pipes run all the way through here and along here,” he says leading you through the bedroom and out into the hall, pointing at the roof.
     You can barely keep up with his speed as he goes down the stair, like he’s an artist, taking a line for a walk.
    “There’s been a leak here at one time,” he says, drawing his hand along the roof of the stair and down into the lounge, “and here. Course all this would need to be ripped out.”
    “Can you send me a quote?” you say weakly, at his entire mercy.
    He obliges a week later, with a bill that would make even Donald Trump cringe.
    Watch out for the “I’m young, good to my mother but oh so sexy with it” type of man. They’ll come to fix your computer for you, explain intelligently to you exactly what’s wrong, give you their life story, which is inevitably happier than yours, and take away your computer.
    They may as well take away your life!
    You’re left, making frantic daily calls, to an answer-phone, hoping he’ll eventually take pity on you.
    Next there’s the “Come and see what a good job I’ve done” type of man. They’re usually elderly but still think they’re Rod Stewart. All you want him to do is the job. All you want to do is have lunch!
    There’s a knock at your patio door.
    “I’ve cut your grass,” says the voice, beckoning you enticingly outside in forty degrees below Zero temperatures.
    What does he want? A medal!
    Three hours later you come back in, sore throat, sneezing violently and as cold as the meat in your supermarket’s freezer, to find your soup has boiled all over the kitchen stove and the dog has pooped on the floor!
    Last but not least, beware the “I know someone who can do it cheaply for you” type of man. He and his friend have the whole female neighbourhood tied up between them. They make the Mafia look like amateurs! His friend will paint your house for you using water colours that would make Monet weep and stain you almost wished were there. The cost will sting your eyes like the paint could never do and you know, deep down, the man will offer kindly to come back next year and do it again for you.
    He can afford it!
    It was after that I got married. A simple ceremony.
    Ring on.
    “You’ve got married!” said the man, returning a week later, after my call.
    “Monday,” I said. “Had to be quick. He’s offshore!”
    I could see pound signs lighting up his eyes.
    “He’s not happy,” I said.
    “Oh,” he said, meekly.
    I pointed at the door. The week’s rain had produced an effect Monet would have cried for.
    “I see what you mean,” he apologised. “Not a problem. I’ll give it another coat.”
    I looked at him, my ringed left hand carelessly caressing my face.
    “No charge of course,” he said, hastily.
    I smiled as I closed the door. And got divorced.
    Ring off.
    I’m single now.
    And I have a house. Four walls and a roof. Houses need maintenance. And maintenance means men. There comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs a man. I don’t have any problems. I always find them straightforward, honest, trustworthy and diligent.
    I was wrong. Men are not bullies.
    Men are like me.
    They just don’t know it.

Summer Comes at Four O’clock

    It had been a mistake to come. San Francisco was no different to Aberdeen. Jenna stood at the floor-to ceiling window, looking out at the vast ocean of fog that had left her hotel lonely and isolated, and wondered if summer would come at four o’clock. Like it did in Aberdeen.
    She thought of Aberdeen. Clothed daily that summer in a depression of dampness from the incessantly falling rain. Like her spirit.
    It had been the last rejection that had done it.
    Not that she wasn’t used to rejection. That was what the life of a writer was like.
    Writer! Who am I kidding? thought Jenna.
    She’d been writing for almost three years now and received nothing but the standard rejection slips. But that had not deterred her. After all, what was the advice given? Never give up. And she hadn’t.
    Until that day.
    The morning post had brought it. Along with the despondent feeling. Jenna picked up the damp, brown manila envelope with her handwriting on.
    Funny how the sight of one’s own writing can be depressing, she thought.
    No, she wasn’t going to get depressed. She’d do what she always did. Open the envelope, remove the crumpled manuscript, go upstairs to the laptop, print off a fresh copy of her story and a new letter to the next magazine editor and post it off that same day. She wasn’t going to be defeated.
    She slit open the envelope with her finger, wincing as she felt the paper cut her skin.
    She looked for the standard rejection slip.
    It wasn’t there.
    For the first time, she wished it was. She read the letter.
    “Thank you for sending the enclosed material. Unfortunately we felt the story was too downbeat.”
    The remaining two sentences drowned before Jenna’s eyes in a sea of anger.
    Downbeat! she thought.
    She looked at her returned manuscript.
    How can they say it’s downbeat? she thought.
    She looked at the ending.
    Wasn’t it uplifting? Hadn’t she put all her effort into thinking of a good ending?
    Downbeat! How dare they!
    She picked up the rejected manuscript and headed purposefully up the stairs to the laptop. She switched it on and waited for it to boot up. Outside her window, the tops of the trees were heavy with their early morning burden of water. There would be no respite for them today. The next reinforcement of rain was already making its way steadily downwards, unceasingly.
    The trees’ depression settled on her. If only summer would come! What was it her friend had said?
    “In Aberdeen, you’re waiting for something that never comes.”
    Her friend wasn’t right.
    Summer would come all right. At four o’clock. The rain would mysteriously dry up and the sun would come out. Too late.
    Like my writing, thought Jenna. Too late. I started too late. If only I’d started when I was young.
    But there had always been some distraction. Or some excuse.
    Boyfriend, fiancé, husband, children, home, work.
    And now they were all gone. And she had all the time in the world to write. Too late.
    What was left to write about?
    She switched off the laptop. Why was she wasting three years of her life doing this? Life was for living. It would soon be too late.
    Sun, I need sun, she thought.
    She’d booked the holiday to San Francisco that very morning.
    San Francisco, she thought. The sun and the Golden Gate. That should cheer me up.
    But the bridge wasn’t golden and the sun hadn’t shone. She’d seen that the first day she’d arrived. And each successive day had been worse. Grey, leaden skies and a biting bay wind reminded her reluctantly of Aberdeen. And her depression had deepened.
    And now this, thought Jenna. The mist in the morning had been feeble and looked as if it might even give way to some sun but gradually as the day progressed, it had given up the struggle and the thick coat of fog had wrapped the city, eerily.
    Jenna looked at her laptop lying on the hotel desk. She should be writing. She was in a new place. She should be inspired. But she didn’t feel that way.
    Why did I bring the damn thing? she thought. I should have left it at home.
    She lifted it off the desk, opened her case, put the laptop in it and shut the lid, locking it loudly.
    I’ll never bring that on holiday again, she thought with satisfaction. That bit of my life is over.
    Over, thought Jenna. Everything at my age seems over. I’m in the winter of my life.
    She looked at her watch. Two o’clock.
    She wondered if summer would come at four. It didn’t look like it.
    Well, I’m not staying in to find out, thought Jenna, throwing on her jacket and making her way down to the hotel reception.
    “Can I get a taxi to Union Square?” she said to the young receptionist.
    “Sure. You’ll get one just down the road,” said the girl. “Turn right outside the hotel and go straight.”
    The journey to Union Square was silent. The moody mist seemed to have settled on the taxi driver.
    Why did I come to San Francisco? thought Jenna, looking out at the fog. She knew she wasn’t the first writer to be attracted to the city. San Francisco had always been a haven for artists. Danielle Steele, Jack Kerouac, Amy Tan.
    Yes, but they were real writers, thought Jenna. Not like me. A real writer would find inspiration in this city. A real writer would know what to write about.
    Her mind was blank.
    The biting bay wind almost knocked her off her feet as she climbed out of the taxi.
    A spot of shopping should cheer me up, thought Jenna.
    The warmth of the mall was a welcome relief. Jenna found herself relaxing for the first time as the distractions of the department store deleted her depression.
    Strange, she thought, how I always like American things. Clothes, food, culture. Even though San Francisco was so different to the rest of America, it still contained the seeds of what she loved. Though why, she didn’t know.
    An hour later, laden with carrier bags, Jenna was heading for the nearest exit when she saw the sign.
    “The Cheesecake Factory.”
    Remembering her daughter raving about it, she forced herself into the overcrowded lift that was transporting its customers to the top of the building.
    It was a mistake to come, thought Jenna, as she emerged into an even more crowded lobby, where noise and chaos seemed to reign.
    The wait for a seat was long and tiring but everyone seemed happy.
    “Good day and how are you? Can I take your order?” said a cheerful young man, though Jenna could fail to see how he could remain so cheerful in such a busy, working atmosphere.
    And yet she found herself caught up in the frenetic joy of the place. The food was excellent and there was a vibrant, exciting atmosphere. It was with regret that she left the building a half hour later.
    “The Carlton Hotel, Van Ness Avenue, please,” said Jenna to the taxi driver, climbing in the back of the cab.
    “Sure,” he said, fiddling with his radio. Tony Bennett’s rich rendition of “I Left my Heart in San Francisco” filled the cab.
    A cabbie with good taste in music, thought Jenna, though why anyone would leave their heart in San Francisco, she wasn’t sure.
    “That’s a British accent, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, when the cab had moved off from the kerb and Jenna had settled herself and her packages comfortably in the rear.
    “Scottish,” she corrected him.
    Even in the mirror she could see a smile.
    “You don’t sound American either,” she said.
    “No, I’m from London,” said the voice.
    “What on earth made you come over here?” said Jenna, wondering why of all the places in America anyone would pick San Francisco.
    “It’s like back home,” he said.
    Jenna knew what he meant. San Francisco had a definite European feel. And the weather.
    “But what about the earthquake risk?” said Jenna.
    “That’s what makes it exciting. That’s what gives it an edge. You live for today and you make sure it’s a good one,” said the voice. That’s what I like about America. It’s so positive.”
    Jenna thought back to the Cheesecake Factory and knew what he meant. She looked at the back of the grey head. He was older than the usual taxi driver.
    “I guess you see a lot of life driving a taxi,” she said.
    “I sure do,” he said, and added, “and meet a lot of interesting people.”
    The eyes in the mirror met hers. She looked away. She was too old to flirt.
    “It helps with the writing, too,” he said, after a short pause.
    “Writing!” said Jenna, thinking she’d mis-heard him.
    “Yeah, the taxi driving pays the bills while I write. That’s why I came here. I took early retiral in London from my job as a teacher. The children were grown up. I was divorced. I’d always wanted to write and now I had the time.”
    “Me, too,” said Jenna suddenly. “I have the time too but don’t know how to.”
    “How to what?” said the voice.
    “Write,” said Jenna.
    “You write too?” said the voice incredulously. “What do you write?”
    “That’s the problem,” said Jenna, thinking what a strange conversation she was having. “The wrong thing.”
    “I know what you mean,” he said. “Rejection slips. Mine paper my wall.”
    “They do?” said Jenna.
    “Sure. Exciting though, aren’t they?”
    “Exciting!” said Jenna. “How can you say rejection slips are exciting?”
    “It means you’re a real writer – getting real rejection slips.”
    “I’ve never thought about it that way before,” said Jenna.
    And she hadn’t.
    The taxi slid into Van Ness Avenue and stopped outside her hotel.
    The taxi driver got out of the cab and came round to open her door. He was taller than Jenna, broadly built and smartly dressed in a casual American way.
    “Say, I hope you don’t think I’m being forward but I’ve never met another writer before. I just wondered if you’d like to meet up, have a coffee or something and discuss writing.”
    Jenna hesitated. Meet a complete stranger – by herself – when she was travelling alone. Against everything that was advised.
    He saw her hesitation.
    “How about the Cheesecake factory!” he said. “Pretty public, wouldn’t you say?”
    He laughed.
    It was a nice laugh.
    He seems a nice man, thought Jenna. And after all what harm could it do? Live for the day. Wasn’t that what he’d said? It was time she did.
    Jenna laughed too.
    “It sure is!” she said.
    “That means you’ll come!” he said, sounding surprised.
    He hadn’t expected it, thought Jenna. I like that. She nodded.
    “Great!” he said. “Tomorrow?”
    “Fine,” she said.
    “Eight o’clock in the evening?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “I’ll pick you up at your hotel.”
    “Okay,” she said, offering him the fare.
    He waved his hand, declining it.
    “I’ll look forward to that,” he said, climbing back into his cab.
    Tony Bennett’s strains disappeared along with the taxi. The faintest glimmer of sunlight was breaking through the mist. Jenna looked at her watch. Summer comes at four o’clock in San Francisco, too, she thought. But not too late. It was never too late.
    She opened the door of her hotel room and crossed to her case. She removed the laptop from its case, placed it on the desk and switched it on.
    Downbeat. The rejection slip had been right after all. She’d known that all along. That’s why she’d been so angry. The truth had hurt. But the truth you could learn from. And other people. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t too late. It hadn’t been a mistake to come. San Francisco was different. And so was she. She sat down on the chair and placed her hands on the keyboard. This time she had a feeling it would all be all right. And even if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t give up. She was a writer and writers wrote. Whether they were eight or eighty. Better late than never.
    The late afternoon sun shone strongly down on her as if in agreement.
    She began to type.
    “Summer Comes at Four O’clock.”

End of Story

    Curly-haired three year old Fay wearing pink pyjamas is in bed clutching a yellow teddy bear.
    Bernie, a broad-shouldered man with a tired face, tells her a story about red and white lollypops and fairies called Felicity and Pippity-Pop.
    Fay turns her head, hearing a car on the gravel driveway.
    “It’s okay,” Bernie says. “Let’s wipe that frown off your face.”
    Fay giggles. She clutches her teddy closer with one arm, stretches the other toward her father, and falls asleep as he rubs her forehead.
    He kisses her and tiptoes from the room as footsteps resound on the kitchen floor.

    The day after her tenth birthday, Fay is taken by her mother to Bernie’s new address. The place is small with two scruffy chairs and a folding card table.
    Bernie hands her a gift, wrapped in pretty paper with hearts on it. Overjoyed at the rainbow of 40 felt pens and a charm bracelet with two fairies and her name, Fay throws her arms around his chest.
    “Mummy said men forget birthdays and not to expect anything from you!” she exclaims, then stands back and gazes at her father’s face.
    “You look empty,” she states.
    “Shall we go for a walk,” Bernie says, “and get ourselves a double raspberry ripple ice cream?”
    Afterwards, sitting on a park bench in the shade, Fay whispers: “Mummy’s changed the locks so you can’t get in when we’re not there. She says you stole our potato peeler and I have to look for it. And I’m not allowed to give you a hug.”

    The teenage voice on the other end of phone shrieks “You don’t give Mum enough money!”
    “Your mother and I have an agreement about money. Ask her to come to the phone, please. We need to talk.”
    “Mum! He wants you!”
    A voice is heard in the background.
    “She says you’re a selfish bastard and she won’t waste her time. You don’t care about us. You never did, end of story!”

    The hospice room seems cramped with two floral chairs for visitors and a cabinet with a jug of water and a glass.
    Bernie lies in bed, a wasted arm with pitchfork fingers stretched out. Head sideways on the pillow, his eyes stare at the door from sunken sockets.
    Fay enters the room, now in her late forties. She flings back the yellow voile scarf from her neck and approaches the bed, telling Bernie who she is.
    “I know who you are,” he replies, in a weak but clear voice. “You haven’t been part of my life for the last thirty-one years and ten months. I can’t cope with you being part of my death.”
    A spasm distorts the right side of his face.
    “Go away, please,” he says, his eyes filling with tears.
    Clutching her scarf, Fay slumps into a chair and shrinks into herself.
    “Is everything all right in here?” The senior nurse pops her head around the door.
    Fay stands and leaves.

Bruce Costello bio

    Bruce Costello is a New Zealander. After studying foreign languages and literature in the late sixties, he spent a few years selling used cars. Then he worked as a radio creative writer for fourteen years, before training in psychoanalytically-oriented psychotherapy and spending 24 years in private practice. In 2010, he semi-retired and took up writing for fun and to avoid housework. Since then, he’s had 62 stories accepted by mainstream magazines and literary journals in six countries. He still does housework.

The Certainty of Impact

    Alan Booth dreaded having to tell his mother about his interview at Dale’s Tree Service. She was, after all, in a fragile state, given to uncharacteristic, explosive outbursts. It was better than what would follow, the defeated hollowness, but Alan didn’t know that yet.
    “What is wrong with you?” she erupted after he told her. “You’re not climbing any trees, for heaven’s sake. I absolutely forbid it.”
    “Calm down. I’d just be doing ground work,” he assured her. “Cleaning up branches and stuff.”
    “And what if a limb were to fall on your head?”
    “That’s what hardhats are for.”
    “Lord, protect my son from harm.”
    “I’ll be fine, Mom. It’s a safer job now than it’s ever been.”
    “Your father used to say the same thing.”
    A spasm passed over Alan’s face. “Doubt I’ll get the job anyway.”
    Alan’s father, addicted to great heights, had flirted with tree trimming as an occupation but most trees lacked sufficient height to satisfy him. “Where Mother Nature failed, Man hath prevailed,” he declared once, gazing up at the CN Tower from the crowded sidewalk on Front Street. “Just imagine, someone has to change the light bulbs on that spire.”
    Alan craned his neck. The pointed top of the great phallic structure penetrated the clouds like a giant needle. “Seriously?”
    “What do you think, they change themselves?”
    Robert James Booth was a short man, five and a half feet if you counted his hair. Whether the matter of his height had anything to do with his desire to look down on his fellow humans from a vertical distance, only he knew for sure. It was not merely putting space between himself and the earth that R.J. Booth craved; he seemed to regard height as a personal challenge, and gravity as an opponent. He took a job as a window cleaner for downtown office skyscrapers, much to his wife’s dismay. Alan heard them arguing about it on more than one occasion. It was not a battle his mother was destined to win.
    “The only way you’ll ever conquer your fear is to face it head-on,” he liked to preach at Alan. “It’s no good going through life with a phobia. What if you need to climb out of a burning building one day?”
    It was hopeless, Alan knew. Logic could never win over irrational fear, but his father wouldn’t give up. “I’ll make a climber out of you, lad. Just wait till you see what you’ve been missing.”

    They sat on padded metal chairs in a gauze-smelling hallway. Nurses bustled by with clipboards, shoes squeaking on linoleum. For thirty minutes they sat there and Alan felt something building inside him, a sense of pressure. His fingertips were sore from having bitten the nails too low and he was chewing at the skin around the quicks; his mother slapped his hand away from his mouth without looking. She stared at the wall, her face composed like a mask she had spent hours constructing.
    At last the doctor came to summon them, beckoning with a sympathetic nod. They jerked out of their chairs and followed him around a corner and down an endless hallway. He prepared them for the visit as they walked: “I’m afraid we won’t know the extent of the damage until he’s out of the coma.”
    “What about his brain?” Tatiana Booth demanded. “Will he be able to communicate? Will he even recognize me?”
    “We can only speculate for now. His brain did swell quite a lot, but we got him into surgery quick enough to mitigate the damage.” Not wanting to risk sounding optimistic, he added, “The best-case scenario will still involve a slow recovery and intensive rehabilitation, assuming he can move at all.”
    Each doorway they passed seemed to Alan like a window into some stranger’s suffering, pain and worry seeping like smoke into the hall where Alan and his mother had to walk through the invisible clouds, so that when they reached R.J.’s door they were burdened with the collective maladies of an entire wing of the ICU. With this sodden spirit Alan looked upon his father, his mentor in the art of living. A virtual cocoon of gauze and plaster suspended by a system of cords and pulleys, he looked every bit what he was: a man defeated. In R.J.’s battle, gravity had finally gained the upper hand.
    He had figured to talk to his father, saying silly things like, “Dad? It’s Alan. I’m here, Dad, and I love you.” But now that he was confronted with the severity of his dad’s condition, words seemed absurdly inadequate. “Talk to him, because he might be able to hear you,” the doctor had said, but Alan didn’t believe it for a second.

    “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
    Those words, spoken in the school office by the sombre principal while the guidance counsellor smiled with perfunctory sympathy, spelled the end of normalcy for Alan. In the weeks that followed he learned about workplace safety regulations, about government compensation and disability insurance. He learned about spot welds on safety cages, improperly used harnesses, and the disastrous consequences of their failure. On the day of R.J.’s fall several factors had conspired against him and it was simply bad luck that they converged on him at once. The cage broke, the harness let go, and only his helmet kept his head from splattering on the pavement below. “It’s a miracle he survived,” said a police officer in the newspaper story, but to Alan there was nothing miraculous about his father’s condition.
    Even with all that Alan had learned since the accident, one thing remained uncertain: how he would go on with his life in the shadow of such a disaster. He wandered through the following weeks in a fog. Days passed unremembered. In his dreams he was falling, always falling, waking every night in the grip of heart-stopping terror, the certainty of impact fresh on his mind.

    The world had seemed a relatively fair and just place to Alan. Bad things only happened to other people and were mostly confined to the front pages of newspapers. Still he was careful not to provoke life with unnecessary risk. It was enough to listen to R.J.’s stories of skydiving in his twenties.
    “When you’re standing up there, ready to jump,” R.J. told him, “you’re completely free. Nothing can touch you. And when you step off that plane, you let go of everything: the past, the future, your identity, everything. It’s what they mean by ‘living in the now’.” His dad had a far-off look in his eyes, raising his arms up with palms spread, as though he could still feel the wind rushing at him. Alan had come to think of R.J. as being beyond danger, somehow immune, embodying the ideal that a man can accomplish anything if he can only conquer fear. After the accident Alan felt betrayed.
    But as weeks stretched into months Alan’s nightmares began to fade until, as if by some alchemical conversion process, he was no longer falling but climbing in his sleep, ascending infinitely tall staircases, scaling cliff faces, scrambling up military obstacle courses. The next time he was in the city Alan found himself staring up at the skyscrapers, counting the stories until he settled on number eighteen. Doesn’t seem so high after all, he thought. High enough to kill a man, there was no doubt about that, but God had intervened on R.J.’s behalf. So said his mother.
    Alan graduated high school the following spring. R.J.’s body had mostly healed by then, the broken bones mended, the lacerations closed, but still he lay mute and unmoving, tube-fed, his face sallow and sunken. The hope that any day now he would respond to their voices and touch grew more and more remote until it was not even a hope but a fantasy, one step removed from wishing someone back from the grave. The hospital visits, by this time little more than a thoughtless ritual, were becoming a depressing burden. Please God, Alan prayed, just don’t make me resent his hanging-on.
    Jobless, and with no classes to attend, Alan drifted about his neighbourhood that summer just to get out of the house. He could no longer endure his mother’s long, empty stare or her jarring mood swings. She would scream at him for closing a door too hard, or forgetting to put away the milk, and then twenty minutes later would be crying and begging his forgiveness. It was too much to handle his own feelings and hers at once. He knew he needed to start working and saving for college but he had fallen into the grip of despondency. In his hollow state he had no enthusiasm to look for work, no drive to be productive. He just wandered around alone, wrapped in the comforting shroud of his misery.
    Alan had never noticed the tree workers before, and he felt a chill during one of his aimless strolls when he first saw the man suspended from a swaying treetop by a saddle-like harness. The stocky man reached down and snatched a chainsaw from where it swung at his hip and hacked off a thick rotted limb, just like that. As he watched the branch come crashing down Alan saw his father falling at a similar speed, brief seconds of terminal velocity. When the limb hit the earth and disintegrated with a hollow crunch, Alan flinched.
    As the branches tumbled, a languid-looking fellow with scraggly brown hair hanging out the back of his hardhat dragged them away, sawed them apart and piled them into a green pickup truck bearing the name Dale’s Tree Service. Alan watched the whole process, which ended with the stocky man in the tree rappelling to the ground. The two sweating men lit cigarettes and sat on the curb in the shade. Alan mustered his courage and approached them.
    “You guys hiring?”
    They both stared at him. The short man, who looked to be in his twenties, said, “I wouldn’t know. We don’t do the hiring.”
    “Oh.” There was an awkward silence.
    “You should talk to Steve at the branch office in Milton,” the short man said. The older man eyed Alan appraisingly.
    “Ever worked with trees?”
    “No,” Alan admitted.
    “Why you want to work with trees?”
    Alan couldn’t explain himself, so he said, “I like heights.”
    “It’d be a while before you got to climb if you’ve never climbed before,” the short man said, adding, “It’s not for everyone.”
    “How long you been doing it?” Alan asked him.
    He thought for a moment, looked to his companion. “Five years? Five years, I guess.”
    The other man scoffed as he lit another cigarette. “Shit, you were climbing before you could walk, monkey-man.”
    “Anyway, go see Steve and tell him you were talking to Chris,” the short guy said. “Don’t pretend you know me or anything. Just say we were talking and I told you to see him.”
    “Cool, thanks.” Alan watched them pack up their gear. Chris nodded farewell as they drove off.

    “Why, why, why?” Tatiana’s face was contorted as though Alan had just stabbed her. “Why must you put me through this? I can’t take it again. I can’t.”
    “I need to get out of the house. I’m going crazy sitting around all day.”
    “I thought you had some sense. You’re afraid of heights, for Pete’s sake!”
    “I told you, I’m not going to be climbing,” Alan said with forced conviction. “We need the money, remember?”
    “I would sooner starve than see anything happen to you. You’re all I have left, Alan.”
    Those words struck an ominous chord in his heart. He’s not dead yet, dammit.
    The following Monday he was assigned to his crew by James, a tall, husky arborist whose thick moustache gave him the appearance of a walrus. “You like trees, Alan?” he asked when they first met.
    “Um, sure.”
    “Not for long you don’t.”
    Alan spent his first week in the field with Damien and Rob. Damien was the climber, slender and muscled, deeply tanned from working long hours in the sun. Rob worked on the ground with Alan. Tall, lanky and improbably pale, he chain-smoked DuMauriers, swore constantly, and wore ghastly heavy metal tee shirts beneath his fluorescent work vest. When they first met he showed Alan the undersides of his forearms which were alight with long, inflamed scratches, and the tops of his arms where the hair was matted with dark goo. “Fuckin’ hemlocks,” he said through the cigarette in his lips. “Hate those bastards.”
    At their first call Alan watched Damien loop a thin orange line through a small weight which was like a hard, dense beanbag, and fling the weight high into the air. On his second try Damien succeeded in sending the weight and line over his target branch near the top of a towering pine. He used the line to send his thick nylon rope up and over the same branch, bringing it back down to hook onto his belt. Damien ascended the rope using his feet as well as his hands, curling and straightening his body like an inchworm, his movements powerful and efficient. When he was up about fifty feet he looped a lanyard around the trunk, clipped it to his harness, and began sawing dead limbs off, seemingly oblivious to the daunting drop.
    As the branches tumbled Alan and Rob gathered them and sawed them to a manageable length, piling the wood in the company truck. Alan found the work gruelling but derived a sort of bitter pleasure from the sweat and the heat, the branches that dug into his arms. During break Alan and Rob sat in the work truck, air conditioning set to maximum, and Rob cranked up one of his death metal albums, another new experience for Alan. At first he found the music terrifying and unapproachable but he soon realized just how well it fit his mood. It was as though he could release his pent-up emotions into that torrent of sonic aggression, let his anger and confusion be carried away into oblivion.
    For the next three weeks Alan worked, watched, took note. A strange compulsion gripped him: after the first week he could not stop thinking about trees. Already he had learned more than he ever knew about trees and in his mind he categorized them by difficulty level, like ski slopes. His fear of heights had been overtaken by this peculiar obsession, and he became possessed by the thought of what R.J. must have felt like up in that cage, by the need to approach the event horizon, where he might get even the smallest taste of what his father had experienced before gravity seized him. It was the only thing left they could share.
    Achieving this goal presented certain difficulties, however. Anyone with a bit of guts could climb a tree but reaching the heights Alan had in mind would require specialized equipment. He would have to work at Dale’s for at least a year before they even considered letting him climb, and his contract would be up in September. Alan realized he would have to take matters into his own hands.

    It cost him almost six hundred dollars to get equipped. The clerk at the climbing store was a kid hardly older than Alan, but he looked at Alan dubiously, as if divining his lack of experience. It took an hour before Alan was confident that he had all the necessary gear: harness, helmet and gloves, coil of rope, boots with spurs, lanyard, throw line and shot pouch, and an assortment of hardware. As he spent half his savings a small voice inside decried the foolishness of his endeavour. It was the voice of logic, a presence which had no understanding of the gaping chasm left by Alan’s father. He ignored the voice easily enough.

    About three months after his first day at Dale’s Alan stood in the shade of a healthy oak. It rose straight and high, its trunk lined with deep bark. Strong branches spread out from the trunk starting almost twenty feet up, and he had a good view of the uppermost limbs. The branches were evenly spaced and gave him options if something were to go wrong. He pushed that thought from his mind as he prepped the throw line. He had already donned the harness, boots, and helmet, as he had seen Damien do many times now. He checked his gear one last time before putting on his sunglasses and looking up the tree, swinging the shot pouch at the end of his line in wide circles.
    It took him thirty frustrating minutes to send the pouch over the desired limb. He was beginning to despair he would never get it, and he pumped his fist and let out a victorious cry as the little weight came gliding back down. Soon his bright orange rope was over the high branch and looped through his belt. Alan tested and re-tested the mechanism on his harness which would prevent the rope from sliding out if he were to lose his grip. Now at last he could feel the sweat on his palms, the back of his neck. It was not just the heat of the day. One of the most dangerous jobs around. People do it for years and still get hurt. You’re not even trained. But he had time and caution on his side. Veteran climbers were likely to become overconfident and take risky shortcuts. So he told himself.
    Making his first attempt, Alan didn’t resemble an inchworm so much as a fish dangling from a hook. The rope kept slipping from between his feet and he had to fight for every inch of progress. And so he fought, and fought, until he stopped to catch his breath and realized that the ground lay some fifteen feet beneath his boots. Fear jolted him. His limbs were frozen, and for a drawn-out minute he thought he would be stuck in that position indefinitely, until he forced himself to breathe and finally managed to lower himself back down. The relief that flooded him was so strong that he could have kissed the ground, and his knees shook, his whole body trembled. He felt ashamed, thinking of R.J. watching him. But his dad wouldn’t berate him, he realized, only encourage him. He always knew what to say, how to turn failure into a lesson, defeat into reinforcement.
    He tried again a week later, and another week after that. The tree was on the outskirts of a nearby park and only the occasional passer-by stopped to watch as he made his attempts. After three weeks he had reached thirty feet, by his estimation. He learned not to look down. Once he was high enough to climb among the branches his heart beat more regularly. Now he had handholds, and something to lean on when he got tired. It struck him then that he had done it. Such an accomplishment seemed impossible just months ago and yet here he was, halfway to the treetops.
    By the fifth week Alan had nearly gained his desired perch. Not quite eighteen stories, but high enough that it made little difference. He spent over an hour reclining in those high branches. For the first time in almost two years he didn’t think at all about his comatose father, the college program he wasn’t enrolled in, his mother’s increasing detachment from the world, or anything else. It felt as though he was, at long last, living in the moment. His fear of heights, until recently as insurmountable as the highest mountain, had not been banished so much as transformed. Instead of a phobia it was now an unspoken challenge issued from somewhere deep within him. It pleased him to think of how much R.J. would have loved the idea of such a challenge.
    Alan looked up the tree. Beyond the shadows of its branches the sky opened up, pale and limitless. Ten more feet and he would be able to see over the surrounding woods, over the lower city beneath the escarpment, over miles of fields to downtown Toronto, to the glittering expanse of Lake Ontario. The old fear still lurked, as if waiting for its moment to pounce, but was held at bay by a giddy sense of confidence, and he was almost tempted to cast away the rope and climb freehanded.
    He had planned on saving his ascent to the treetop for another week but now that he was so close he couldn’t hold himself back; that highest point beckoned. With a deep breath he unhooked the lanyard from his harness to free himself from the tree trunk and he stood on the broad limb. The sun was warm on his back, the breeze cool his face and neck. A deep sense of peace enveloped him and he felt that if he were to close his eyes he might drift away, floating into the softness of the sky. Instead he seized the rope and began to climb, pushing off against the tree trunk with his spurs. Adrenalin surged through his chest as he inched his way up, his newly-developed muscles burning in sweet agony. Pull, pull, pull. Hand over hand, feet squeezing and pushing against the rope dangling so many feet below him. It was really happening, as if in a dream. As if he was not Alan Booth but someone braver and stronger, someone whose father was not lying paralyzed but was waiting there at the treetop, basking in pride for his reborn son.
    Sweat fell from his nose, plummeting silently. Alan looked up, filled his lungs, and reached. The next branch was almost within his grasp when he felt more than heard something let go on his harness, and suddenly the branch flew away from him, and the rope flew burning through his gloves, and he instinctively flailed his arms trying to catch another branch as he fell but then he was struck by a bolt of blackness, and then there was nothing.

    When Alan awoke his mother was looking down on him, her eyes creased with worry, the exotic beauty of her European features drawn tight with strain, but on her thin lips was a quivering smile. Alan felt a surge of euphoria, bordering on bliss, and wondered why he was so happy. Was it Christmas morning? Had Santa come?
    “Do you know what they told me?” his mother asked. Her voice was thick with emotion. When had she become so old? “They said, ‘It’s a miracle he survived.’” Her words confused Alan but he found he couldn’t command his mouth to form words or his throat to generate sound, so he just smiled. “Do you know what I said? I said, ‘I don’t think I can survive another damn miracle.’” She smiled and Alan laughed, at least inwardly. It was the harshest language he had ever heard her use.
     He noticed that even as she smiled she also cried, and he said, with a great effort, “I’m sorry.” It came out as a whisper that was audible only in theory.
    After twenty minutes Alan slept again and his mother sat looking at his young face, still bronzed after nearly three weeks in the hospital. He looked happy. It was an agony to her at first, to discover that he had hidden his ambitions for so long, but she knew she could not have borne the stress of his climbing and she was even thankful to have been spared it. And now he had come full circle and had lived through R.J.’s terrible plight. Whether he would walk was another question, but his brain was working and he was alive.
    What a mystery he was to her, even after all these years. He and his father both. Yet she thought she understood his reasoning, at least in part. She could see him, in her mind’s eye, climbing toward some brighter place, trying to escape the shadows that had engulfed their lives. She looked with dread to the moment when she would have to tell him about his dad. Much can happen in three weeks. Maybe he would find freedom in the news, the ability to live his own life at last. What a family they had once been! Tatiana Booth sighed away the tears that were trying to accrue. No point in crying any longer. Better to save her strength. She had her own trees, buildings, mountains to climb.

The Magic Laws Theory, or “Dualism at Dawn”

    A dear friend, a recovered alcoholic gone these many years, in defining the struggles of another drunk, said, “He’s lookin’ for a softer, easier way. There ain’t one. There’s only {addiction}, and The Truth.”
    No one likes black-and-white thinking, either/or. Like math, there’s no give, as there’s no lie. Yet, when it involves dealings with our fellowmen, we get (as did I, from age 3) the “grey” speech, with which we parlay, slogging through a Life of moderation. After all, if our world has a “correct form”, then all else is Not. And, the flugelhorns blow, the xylophone bang-chimes, and jackboots crack in unison. And we feel pretty good. Until comes a pounding upon our door. There cannot be two stark choices, no, please, hey, we can figure this out! We and Henry Fonda can surely navigate Perdition Cove at dusk, constructing Arlen Specter-laws, magic that bends, does back flips. Laws which consider, which understand, fair at every right angle turn. Rocksolid, yet signing waivers.
    Which ain’t happenin’...and therefore up to those who administer the laws. People who aren’t ‘You’. That asshole who blew the STOP Sign. Your mom’s SOB SO. Your sister-in-law, the bitch of the universe. The man who raised Cain at the DMV. That woman who held everyone up, bellowing at KFC. The slowmo dufus at the bank, and the anal retentive bank employee. Donald Trump-Lite, ahead of you at the ATM. Some of these, eventually, are cops. Local pols. Juries. Not to mention the kids you knew in 3rd grade. Including the one who still crapped his pants.
    Community’s core issue, is never “color”, never race. At issue is “human”, that usual, incorrigible suspect. Human as ordered, directed. As voted in or appointed. As uniformed or given a crumb of authority beyond your own. Such individuals, power in hand or in the moment, follow their individual conscience, not yours. If you want to couch acts by modern day police as no less KKK, than the murder of Emmett Till, okay...but, all motive tells us, is that They Had One.
    Maybe terminal intensity isn’t an option—or maybe, 50 states of concealed-carry allows for Dodge City once again, and the nickel-plated, pearl-handled god is our only option. We sing of our need for protection...but, sentinels do as they will, Aleister. The “and it hurt none other”, isn’t a consideration. Not for Earp. Not for Masterson. Not for Sheriff Joe. And, we’re only fine with that, when we’re the Martin Sheen of made-for-HBO, shamed and broken on the sidewalk, reaching for the hand of hated rescuer Louis Gossett, Jr., who’d smashed the assailants to pieces, because he could.
    We don’t get to decide. Not as long as the structure stands. You wanta burn it down, do. I’m all for that. I’m the guy who, at 21, detained on an Ozarks highway by a MO trooper, when at end told, “Okay...you’re free to go”, had to bite down HARD on the retort, “‘Free to go’? Who the Hell are you?” These epochs later, my attitude is unchanged. So, hit that plunger...but, as Franklin told Adams in 1776, “I beg you, consider what you’re doing.” Chaos, is my friend. It’s not for everyone. Order, however, the other pillar, is the one that stands, and you don’t get to OCD-adjust it. To quote an anarchist friend, “People are people, it doesn’t matter what positions they hold.” I dare you to put on a powdered wig and think Joe Flatfoot will copy/paste your proscribed vision, out on patrol.
    I keep saying it: the problem, is Man. Not white men or black men or this race or that creed. Not red states, not blue. Not those of Woodstock or even of Nuremberg. Man. The beast as created. He won’t Not Hate. He won’t “obey”, but under Orwellian supervision. And cams upon cams with cams inside cams, is weenie. People screw like minks, on security camera. They wanted to. They had one another’s collusion. As does the fraternity who protect and serve. Accept them as warped Order unto themselves, the Comedians, Silk Spectres and Rorschachs of our time, or crank Linkin Park as you burn it down. Anything else is Eleanor Craig in P.S. Your Not Listening, giving it a stilted, “No! No hurting!”, which my likes, sounds stupid-ass. The sole, effective behaviorism is a Chinese prison camp. 24/7/365 group therapy, glazed in snitches...only, that’s a fail, too, in America, where even the kid who “tells”, is provably a bully. We all use what weapons we’re spotted. It’s what defeated Cornwallis.
    The Great Ellison, perhaps unwittingly gives the benediction. It’s in his Outer Limits episode, Soldier, embodied in Kagan’s answer to Quarlo, when explaining why the authorities will be taking the future soldier into custody. Pressed as to a general identity of these seemingly malevolent Others, the answer, delivered with wilted defeat by actor Lloyd Nolan, is thus: “Well, some men who make our decisions for the rest of us, because we let them.”
    Yes, we do. And, you fight back for real, claws, fangs, no quarter, or you take it and like it. Our menu choices, are Obedience or Rebellion. Your opinion, re: black-and-white, Manichean thinking, is irrelevant. Life’s a flip of the coin, a cut of the cards, and a quick Indian wrestle. Life is existential, and it is estian. Ya pays yer nickel, ya makes yer choices. You’re Sam Adams heaving tea crates or you’re John Dickinson, proud Englishman. You’re the smiling man waving at traffic on Charles Kuralt, or you’re Snipes in Demolition Man. You’re Cat Ballou-Jane Fonda or you’re Klute-Jane Fonda. It’s “Thank You” or “Fuck You”, nonfriend. Justice, blind, from antiquity carries a sword. You can genuflect, thank her for your food and a home, or you can wrest the blade away and lop her into Winged Victory. There’s You as god as forced, unbridled...and there’s “safe”. Choose. Ready?
    Call it in the air. There’s no softer, easier way.

Solving all racial issues
(one riot at a time)

    I saw the unrest in Ferguson after the shooting of a black man by a while police officer (and sorry, I’m not going to say “African American” because I’m not going to say “Caucasian”, get over it). And more importantly, I saw — and wanted to look into — the reaction from the country when the police officer was not charged with any crime. Then I watched the drive-by media talk about the injustices — on both sides.
    Let me do a little background, to refresh you on both sides...
    On August 9, 2014, in Ferguson, Missouri (a suburb of St. Louis), Michael Brown, an 18-year-old black man, was fatally shot by Darren Wilson, 28, a white Ferguson police officer. Now, Brown robbed a nearby convenience store (stealing cigarillos), and Wilson was in pursuit. An altercation between the officer and Brown led to a chase, which eventually led to Wilson firing his gun at Brown several times (all while Brown was facing him).
    Brown died, and eye-witness testimony varied greatly on whether Brown was approaching Wilson, or if Brown’s arms were raised (which is why St. Louis football payers before a game once all raised their hands to commiserate with Brown and his supporters).
    Because of the longstanding racial tensions between the majority-black population and the majority-white city government and police, the shooting sparked a lot of unrest in Ferguson (partially fueled, I am certain, by the divergent eyewitness accounts). Protests, both peaceful and violent, along with vandalism and looting, continued for more than a week, resulting in night curfews in Ferguson. This unrest and questioning of the legality of what Wilson did, were precursors that led to a grand jury four months later to determine whether there was probable cause to indict Wilson for his actions.
    On November 24, the grand jury reached a decision, and elected not to indict Wilson.
    Which caused more unrest.
    President Barrack Obama made a few speeches referring to the racial inequalities and potential injustices that were witnessed in this case, and Attorney General Eric Holder vowed a civil case would soon follow.
    (I’m not quite sure why the Attorney General would mention that, other than guessing that the Attorney General was a black man, and since a black man was killed, some form of rage at a potential injustice may have led to an emotional reaction, but I am not one to judge.)
    While researching this, I heard a news reporter for 24-hour news show interviewing some eye-witnesses, and after one witness described Brown holding his hands up before he was shot, the reporter asked them if they actually witnessed Brown holding his hands up. The witness said no, but someone else told them he did.
    Which leads to the fervor of people protesting cases like this... I have seen accounts on how witnesses can be swayed by not only their own memory, but also from hearing other witnesses giving false information. A white man know also explained to me that in the same 4 month period, there were more shootings of while men by black police officers that the other way around.
    (That sounds like a Fox News thing to say. ... But wait a minute, I shouldn’t be one to judge, stats are stats. So let that one ride. Time of be objective.)
    This white guy I know then explained to me that white police officers usually have to double-check themselves to make sure that their actions would not be perceived as racially motivated.
    (Okay, I have no way to check that fact out, but if you look anywhere for info on this case, it’s mostly eye-witness “testimony” and hearsay, so what the hey, I can throw that little nugget in there.)
    But you know, someone explaining that opposing point to me (with no hard evidence to support the argument), and my sharing it with you, is probably perfect evidence of that fact that all people hear things, and try to come to our own conclusions, Based on a whole lot more (or sometimes a whole lot less) than hard facts.
    Which is a terrible fault of us humans, that we have an intelligent and rational side of us, but we’re also plagued with an emotional side? (This makes me think of episodes of Star Trek: the Next Generation, where Geordi La Forge is explaining to the android Data, who for some reason ascribed to be more human-like because he can never feel emotions, where Geordi would explain to Data that to be human in making decisions, it’s always a combination of facts, and intuition, or having a gut feeling, which has nothing to do with facts, but all about human emotions). Call it left brain and right brain thinking, thinking creatively or thinking logically. Whatever it’s called, that describes us humans to a T.

    In the following months I heard of reports of inciting attacks on police officers in New York City, which led to the death of a New York police officer a month after the “no probable cause” verdict was delivered. Two additional NYPD officers in Brooklyn were shot “execution style” in the same week.

    I am not sure what killing police officers proves, and I am not sure it leads protesters to achieving any of their desired effects. All I do know is that what some people perceived as violence (police officer Wilson shooting robber Brown) to an act of violence based on race, lead to violence, throughout multiple communities.
    Which solves nothing, other than burying more bodies.

    I can continue to talk about this issue, because I intended to write about the racial issues, or the class issues, that lead to the deaths in both races, when no one can give a real concrete reason why these problems exist. And this was the basis of what I wanted to start to cover (other than making the point that when it comes to Republicans versus Democrats, of the left versus the right, or Fox News versus MSNBC, there are two opposing sides that will venomously attack the other side, even if they on many levels believe the same basic ideas). When I talk about topics like this, my goal is usually to discuss the differences between the ways the two political sides view the same topic.
    But that’s when I read the lunchtime poll topic from CEE. You see, I told him that I was planning to cover discussing the racial issues or the class issues after this shooting, or even the potential political issues that mirror these issues, and then I read the writing about the basic human nature being more one-sided of that combination of rationality and emotion.
    And I think that’s the one problem I have when I write these commentaries, I get a little too Vulcan and Spock-like (or android and Data-like, to continue my Star Trek:?TNG references), and I want to believe that people, when given all of the factual information available to them, that people will make a rational decision based on facts.
    Maybe that’s my problem, assuming people will inherently be rational and logical.
    But when you’re given all of the information, I personally wonder why people don’t make their choices based on the facts...
    I suppose that’s what I get for being too Vulcan-line, or too much like a computer at times.
    Just don’t catch me when I’m on an emotional tirade, because whatever you say, you’ll have to agree with me then — trust me, when I get on an emotional rant, silence my rantings and just agree with me...

    As for dealing with racial tensions during any crimes, I can't give you the answer — but over the centuries, no one has been able to come up with the right answers. So what do I know? Well, it seems that oftentimes protesters at functions like this are often not just locals coming out to speak their mind. Potential protesters are also people (A) who heard it on the news and wanted to be a part of a “call to arms” or sorts, and they are sometimes (B) actually paid to join in, so protests gain a larger volume of people (which leads the drive-by media wanting to cover it more, which riles people up more). And think about it: the 24-hour media have a lot of time to fill, and when there is one story everyone is talking about, they will do everything in their power to cover any and every aspect of the story (whether all of their information is verifiable or not).
    When it comes to race, I think we all want to talk about it, we all want to get through it, and we all want to get beyond it. But when everything becomes more and more slanted during major events where race is discussed (like in this Ferguson case, for example), it makes it harder and harder to go one step further when it feels like all we’re doing is going two steps back.

This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Janet Kuypers Editor In Chief