welcome to volume 82 (May 2010) of
down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623)
Alexandira Rand, Editor
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In Sickness and in Health
John Ragusa
Last month, I had been having headaches and I was feeling dizzy. I wondered what was wrong with me. I decided to see my physician, Dr. Frelong. I figured he could tell me what the problem was.
I told him how I had been feeling. He examined me thoroughly.
“Well, Doctor, what did you find?” I asked.
“You have high blood pressure,” he replied. “You need to avoid stress. I can put you on medication to lower your pressure, but there might be side effects.”
“Like what?”
“You could get nausea and diarrhea.”
“I don’t want to have those things,” I said. “I’ll take my chances and skip the medication.”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
On the way home, I went to the grocery store to buy some food. When I paid for it, I found that the cashier had shortchanged me. I pointed this out to her.
“I gave you the correct change,” she insisted.
We argued about it for a while. I demanded to see the manager. He came over and I told him I didn’t get enough change back. He checked the receipt and said I was right. I was given the rest of my change, but by now I was very aggravated. I remembered what Dr. Frelong had said about stress, and I doubted that my ordeal with the cashier had done anything to reduce it. My blood pressure must have gone sky high.
I drove back home. When I got out of my car, I saw Mrs. Jacobs, my next-door neighbor.
“How’s it going?” I said.
“I’m not doing so well at the moment,” she said.
“That’s a shame. What’s the matter?”
“Yesterday I caught the flu from my grandson.”
“I hope you get better soon.”
“Thank you.”
The next day, I bought a blood pressure monitor. I used it, and I was relieved to discover that my blood pressure was lower than it had been before. This surprised me, because I thought that the stress at the grocery store would have increased it. I hadn’t needed any medication, either. I suppose I had gotten lucky.
Sometimes doctors can be wrong. They tell you about an illness that doesn’t exist. I know that people are misdiagnosed with cancer all the time. This doesn’t mean that doctors are quacks; it just proves they aren’t perfect.
One day, I went to the hospital to get some blood work done. I dreaded it, because I’ve always been afraid of needles. But when the technician took my blood, it didn’t hurt much.
The blood test showed that my cholesterol level was high. I had to be careful about what I ate and drank. I’d have to eat less cheese and drink milk that was low in fat.
I was worried about my health. I didn’t want to have a heart attack. I was scared of death, so naturally I didn’t want to be ill.
I had dinner with my brother Chad that night.
“I have to get my tonsils out,” he said.
“I wish you luck with your operation,” I said. “I hope it goes off without a hitch.”
“It should be successful. I have a good surgeon.”
“That must calm your fears.”
“It does. I can’t wait to get it over with, though.”
“I know you’ll be glad when it’s finished.”
“You better believe it.”
A few weeks later, I had blood work done again. This time, the results showed that my cholesterol level had decreased considerably.
I was glad to hear about this. Maybe I would have many more years of life. I hoped so; I didn’t want to die young.
Then I started having stomach pains. They hurt so much, I actually cried. It was probably something I ate.
At work, my boss told me he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Banner,” I said. “That’s really tragic news.”
“My doctor caught it early, fortunately. It won’t be fatal.”
“That’s good. I’d hate to lose you.”
Soon after that, my stomach pains went away. I thanked God for it; I wouldn’t have been able to tolerate them much longer.
It was then that I realized something: When I was around sick people, my own health got better. Was this a coincidence? No, it had happened too often for that to be true.
Then what was causing this bizarre phenomenon? I didn’t know; it was a mystery. Nothing could explain it.
It was certainly supernatural. It defied the laws of nature. I couldn’t imagine what was making it happen.
I felt kind of guilty about it. I didn’t think it was fair that other people’s misfortune caused my good luck. And I don’t like to see anyone suffer. I wish that everyone could be free of pain. It would also be nice if everybody would die of old age. But that isn’t how it goes.
Still, in the long run, no one who had been ill would die. Mrs. Jacobs would get over the flu; Chad would be better once he got his tonsils removed; and Mr. Banner would be cured after he had his surgery. None of them would have any long-term damage from their illnesses.
And if I benefited from them being sick, I suppose I should be grateful. After all, I didn’t want to be ill.
So I would stop questioning this phenomenon and just appreciate it.
* * *
Last night, I decided to start doing volunteer work at the hospital in my spare time. By doing this, I ought to stay happy and healthy for a long time.
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The Last Exit
Mel Waldman
Driving up the Maine country road after midnight, I see the sign: The Last Exit — 10 miles. I left Ogunquit just a few hours ago although it seems much longer, passed Wells and missed the exit, headed north toward Kennebunkport, and figured I’d find another exit there. But I got lost again and missed the exit and Kennebunkport too. Now, I’m on this dark, bleak country road and approaching The Last Exit.
As I drive through the thick darkness, my mind drifts off. I return to Ogunquit, the beautiful place by the sea. From Perkins Cove, I stroll along the Marginal Way on the cliffs overlooking the turquoise ocean. I saunter off on the one-mile path heading toward the beach on the other side of town.
But suddenly, my dreamscape is shattered when someone leaps across the old road, jumping in front of my old car. My foot crushes the brake pedal and the car stops abruptly. I open my window a few inches and shout: “Are you crazy, kid? Wanna get yourself killed on a dark country road?”
With my floodlights on, I clearly see the young man. He looks clean-cut, thin, muscular, about 20 or 21, and over six feet tall. He’s wearing white shorts, white tennis sneakers, and a white T-shirt. He might be the all-American boy. But in a fleeting moment, his dark bulging eyes reveal his terror.
Then unexpectedly, he runs to the driver’s side of the car and bangs on the window. “Let me in!” he cries out. “The monsters are in the forest. But they’re coming for me. Let me in!”
Mindlessly, like a robot programmed to obey, I let him in.
“Hurry!” he yells. “They’ll be here any minute.”
I put my foot on the gas pedal and drive off. After driving about five minutes in silence, I speak. “What’s your name, son?”
“Joe.”
“Got a last name?”
“Folks just call me Joe.”
“Well, Joe, what were you doing in the forest at this ungodly hour?”
“Earlier in the day, my wife and son wanted to go into the forest and sit by a creek about two hundred yards from the road at the other entrance to the forest. It’s about a mile from here. Didn’t want to go there. But they insisted. So we entered the forest. It was real peaceful by the creek. My wife and son were happy.
“Then I had to pee. Went behind a large tree. Only gone about a minute or two. When I returned, they were gone. Cried out to them. Told them to stop playing with me. Warned them they’d better stop hiding and come out from where they were. But they didn’t. And I panicked.
“Then I heard the monsters. Heard their frightening shrieks from every direction except one. Surrounded by the invisible monsters, I ran deeper into the forest.”
“What the hell do you mean, monsters?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I heard them and felt their presence.”
“Why didn’t you run to the road?”
“They were there too.”
“But you didn’t see them?”
“No. Not yet. I ran deeper into the forest and after a few minutes, I turned my head and saw them.”
“Well, tell me about the monsters.”
“They’re in the forest.”
“What do they look like?”
“Grotesque creatures... maybe aliens... looked like the Tasmanian Devil or maybe the extinct Tasmanian Wolf.”
“Never heard of those creatures.”
“The Tasmanian Devil is the Devil Himself! The Tasmanian Wolf was another ferocious creature in which the Devil lived. Like I said before, it sounds crazy. I didn’t believe it myself. But it’s true.”
“But what do they look like?”
“The Tasmanian Devil is no bigger than a small dog. But it’s got a large head. On its face, you’ll see long whiskers. They’re the Devil’s whiskers. And if you hear this monster screech, you’ll crap in your pants.”
“You making this up?”
“No, the Devil evokes pure terror. When it attacks you, you’ll see the gaping jaws of Hell! Beware! It will eat you whole. Rip you apart!”
“And it’s right here in the Maine forest?”
“Maybe. Don’t know for sure. Ain’t supposed to be here. But who knows?”
“Well, if it’s the Tasmanian Devil, I don’t want to come face to face with it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“In fact, whatever’s out there, I don’t want to see.”
“You never want to see the creatures I saw.”
A long threatening silence interrupts the dark conversation. I can’t believe there are monsters out there. Yet the young man believes he saw creatures that look like the Tasmanian Devil or the extinct Tasmanian Wolf.
“Joe, you never told me what the Tasmanian Wolf looked like.”
“Well, it resembled an ugly...”
“Wolf?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it as frightening as the Tasmanian Devil?”
“Yeah. The wolf-like creature, as big as a large dog, also had the wide-gaping jaws of Hell. When it yawned, it could scare Satan himself.”
“So the monsters of the forest look like these creatures from Hell?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And they were stalking you?”
“Yeah. And I don’t know if I escaped. The monsters may be near.”
“Still, you were lucky I was driving by.”
“Yeah. Don’t know what woulda happened. But what about my wife and son?”
I looked at this fellow and my eyes twitched. What kind of a guy would leave his family in the dangerous woods?
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. Guess we’ll have to wait until we get to the next town. Then we’ll contact the police. But tell me, how do we get off this old country road?”
“There’s an exit a few miles up.”
“The Last Exit?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do they call it ‘The Last Exit’?”
Joe shrugged. “It’s just what we’ve always called it.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out real soon.”
We’re approaching The Last Exit. The young man has calmed down. From time to time, I glance at him. Each time, he wears this crooked smile and I wonder why he is grinning at me that way? Now, he’s laughing to himself. Should have thought twice before letting him into the car. He could really hurt me if he chose to. He has big, square hands that are calloused and hard. And his shoulder keeps brushing my shoulder. So why did I let him into my car. Why?
I glance at the fellow and I notice something I hadn’t seen before. He’s got blood on his large rough hands. What really happened back in the woods?
The guy’s real quiet. Wonder why he hasn’t made his move. I mutter something to the young man. He doesn’t respond. So I look at him and you won’t believe this. The fellow’s gone. Vanished!
I hear and feel the pounding of blood in my head. My ears ring and my head explodes. My foot crushes the brake pedal again and the car stops abruptly. Perhaps, the monsters took the young man away earlier. They’re out there and soon they will come for me too.
An invisible dark force is choking me. Can’t breathe! I open the front window and my mouth is wide as I inhale the chilling, horrible emptiness. I feel my heart speed up and my limbs begin to shake. I want to breathe and can’t. I want to run and I can’t.
Mysteriously, the inexorable palpitations cease and I breathe slowly again, inhaling and exhaling soft, gentle breaths of life. Then suddenly, the air smells like vomit. I shut the window and blast the air conditioning even though it’s a cold September night. But still the foul odor permeates my fragile being. And I start to choke again, gasping for clean air.
I look down at my hands. There’s something about the light from my dashboard that’s making them seem strange, dark, as if they were blood-covered. Hands that have torn through flesh and bone. Suddenly my hands are hands that have wrought death. Apocalyptic hands. The sight of them twists my guts. I swallow hard but taste vomit anyway. These are not my hands.
Abruptly, I turn and look in the back. But my eyes cannot penetrate the pitch-black darkness. I turn on the overhead light and I gaze at the two back seats. Neither the living nor the dead occupy those seats. Yet blood is spattered on the seats and floor and everywhere else. My eyes drift further back. Perhaps, I should open the trunk.
Suddenly, I turn and face the road ahead. In the distance, I hear the howling of the dark creatures of the forest. Their shrill sounds penetrate my bones, like a knife stabbing me, and I feel unbearable pain. I am helpless and alone on this endless road.
Soon, the monsters will come for me. Even now, I feel their predatory eyes on me, watching and waiting for the killing moment. Only then will they devour and eat me alive. Yet The Last Exit is about a hundred yards up the road. If I drive away now, I may escape, leaving the hungry creatures behind. But I can’t wait much longer. The scent of death fills the car and invades my flesh.
It’s time, I believe. The monsters are close, very close. Yes, I feel their presence. And the stench of death is stronger, more potent with the passage of time.
What shall I do? Frozen in fear, I listen to the vast silence that covers me, the invisible shroud of a ghost. Yes, I listen carefully and once again, I hear the howling of the dark creatures of the forest. Is it too late? Are they surrounding the car?
I look north, in front of me, and the flood lights reveal only a lonely, abandoned road. But the animals are coming close. I can hear them. Don’t know if I can get away. Don’t know if I deserve to. But I must. The road is empty and endless and shrouded in fog. But I must get away.
If I do nothing, I am doomed. Inaction will seal my fate in this eerie car, an ersatz sarcophagus. I must start the car, drive up the road and turn off on The Last Exit. But first, I must know. My eyes dart east and west but discover only the pitch-black darkness.
Now, I must look into the rearview mirror before driving off. I must know. I listen to the pounding of my heart and with a leap of faith, my frenzied eyes search the mirror. I see Joe, wearing a crooked smile.
Who am I? What has happened? I look away from the mirror, start the car, and drive off toward The Last Exit. When I reach this turning point, I leave the old country road and begin a dark new journey.
I left the old country road only a few hours ago, but it seems I’ve been driving forever. The Last Exit led me into an eerie labyrinth from which I can’t escape. And I am surrounded by a raw, foul pitch-black darkness, illuminated only by my floodlights.
Once more, I listen to an elongated silence that encircles and chokes me, like the Hangman’s noose. Yet suddenly, this ominous Nothingness is interrupted and assaulted by the shrieking and howling of the monsters. Have they followed me into this surreal maze in which I am trapped? Where are the predatory beasts? Are they leaping through the vast forests or are they surreptitiously moving closer to me?
Driving across this phantasmagoric landscape, I am bombarded by a multitude of dreamlike images. What is real? What is unreal? My severed soul is ripping and my body seems to be shattered into a thousand pieces.
I am a fragmentary man now, being and becoming something new and unknown. I can’t stop this inevitable process of change. A distant voice tells me not to resist. Well, what choice do I have? The monsters are coming close. I can hear them. Don’t know if I can get away. But I must. The road is empty and endless and shrouded. But I must get away. So I keep driving and flowing into the tempestuous ocean of destiny, my brain waves overflowing with crazy thoughts and visions. The only exit is death, you see. It’s The Last Exit.
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Ghost Lady
Mel Waldman
The Ghost Lady
covers the man with a dark
veil and steals his breath.
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BIO
Mel Waldman, Ph. D.
Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, POETICA, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), PBW, NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at Amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at Amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in May 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites. I AM A JEW, a book in which Dr. Waldman examines his Jewish identity through memoir, essays, short stories, poetry, and plays, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2008.
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things are getting interesting
John Grochalski
an ad for booze plastered all over
the subway says
things are getting interesting
if i didn’t know it before
i know it now
advertisers are goddamned liars
things are never interesting
they are pleasurable or disagreeable
for a moment
and then they endure
but these booze people say
that things are getting interesting
okay
fine
if you say so
and to prove it they have two women
on the ad
one black
and one white
the black woman is biting down
on a chain that is wrapped around
the white woman’s neck
and the white woman has her head
thrown back in ecstasy
my guess is these hooch merchants
want us to think the two women
are going to fuck
and what’s so interesting about that?
you can see plenty of people fuck
online or in the movies
or if your old fashioned
in the magazines
you can see black women
and white women fuck each other
or black or white men
you can see them fuck latino men
while latino women play with their cunt
or you can watch asain chicks
spread their ass cheeks
for all takers
there is nothing interesting about
watching human beings fuck
or do anything else for that matter.
humans have to be the most boring
uninteresting creatures ever spat out
by evolution on this planet.
so next time you want to sell me some booze
oh great and mighty advertisers of the world
just show the goddamned bottle
on the ad
if you want to get my motor running
skip the slogan and the innuendo
because that kind of bullshit
always tends to take care of itself.
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John Grochalski bio John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, in the area where you can still buy a pint of beer for under four bucks.
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Beneath the Red Bridge
Jon Brunette
When his friends yelled, John stood on the old metal pipeline and tightened his ratty tennis shoes. He took off his shirt and threw his baseball hat. Wobbling, John leaped off the platform. Waving behind him, he held his hands upward. After his body suspended just off the rail, he plunged into the water. Quickly, his eyesight blurred into black shadows and his limbs moved painfully. A pinprick told him that a sunfish jabbed its fin into his foot through his shoe. When he popped back, he belched liquid. A tree limb brought him to the muddy shoreline.
John stood on Red Bridge with his female friend. With her, all anxiety evaporated into a shallow puddle below the sunshine of her friendship. After he admired the lake, he said, “When I first jumped off that platform, I had never jumped off a bridge before.” He said, “My friends had all jumped; naturally, they wanted me to jump.” He said, “They had all jumped off Arcola Bridge, too. I’d die if I jumped off Arcola Bridge.”
Sasha looked at the lake below a ribbon of moonlight. “If I jumped off a bridge, I’d drop as quickly as a brick. I can’t doggy-paddle or float properly.” She said, “When I had to swim in school, I always held the rail; I just walked until I couldn’t anymore. Everyone had to swim in the pool; otherwise, they failed the class.” She bowed her head as though it still embarrassed her. “Mostly, I just sat on the bench.”
John said, “I’ll teach you to swim.” He said, “In return, you teach me what you taught Wolf.” Sasha lifted an eyebrow. John said, “I heard about you and him; he told me what you did to him. Why won’t you take me to bed?” John said, “Unlike him, I haven’t walked that bridge yet. And I lost a lot of friends when you and Wolf did; my buddies”—he snorted—“took his side. How could I defend you?” When Sasha shook her head, her friend held her arms tightly. “Why not touch me like you touched him?” He said, “I’ll learn eventually; in fact, I’ll probably learn from you.” He said, “Why should I wait?”
“I won’t take anyone to bed anymore.” Sasha said, “I won’t get pregnant before college like my friends did.” She said, “I’ll live in celibacy until I die—or, at least, until I find a husband.” Keeping her eyes off John, she sat on the pipeline. Her feet slipped; she repositioned her body. “Why’d he tell you anyway?”
With his body tense and his face hot, John pushed Sasha off the metal platform. As she yelled shrilly, pollen blew off a thousand dandelions, insects flew everywhere, and the knobby branches around Red Bridge billowed loudly in the breeze. When Sasha hit the water, John walked back to his Ford. While he sat on the hood, he bowed his head. Finally, he crept towards the rustic edge. Below a spiral of liquid, Sasha had disappeared completely.
He walked off the bridge. As he did, a branch brushed his back. The clammy object stopped his feet as if he stood in thick mud. Wet leaves brushed his neck with the fluffiness of cotton not the slipperiness of plant. Slowly, he turned to look at the wet and brittle branch. Expecting a tree, he looked into the black eyes of Sasha. Below her hollow eyes, which looked as lifeless as her body, her slack mouth dribbled thick knots of seaweed. Gurgling filthy water, she spoke throatily, and from the Bible: “‘Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.’”
Before the tender heart broke inside the teenager, John spoke as someone condemned by a jury before the lethal juice killed him. He said, “Now, I’m truly alone.”
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Sea Drift
Frank De Canio
Possessions are flotsam in the sea
of memory. Excessive ballast can sink
a ship. The gale’s too rough to cast anchor,
and it’s late. Amidst storm waves, I abandon
my vessel and swim to nearby islands.
Efflorescent shores suggest safe harbor.
There, I’ll practice novel skills, adapt old
habits to fresh environs. But drift wood
plays havoc with the coastline.
Remembrance is a hazard for old navigators
who, like me, ply new routes. Castoffs
from the past cling to my knees; tarnished
prospects that remind me of distances
traveled, and far-off harbors long since closed.
Tides recede, as I listen to the foghorn
bellowing in the encroaching darkness.
previously published in: Yasou Engine/online
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Maddie and the Strange Train
Brian Middleton Jr.
Baldr’s Track-Railway StationDay 1
As the train pulled into the station, the young woman appraised it. She noticed that the locomotive appeared to be a bit rusted, but all in all it seemed to be in good shape. As the train slowed to a stop she continued her appraisal, her piercing blue eyes taking in the locomotive as it came to a full halt. She lifted her one bag of belongings up off of the wooden platform that she had been standing on and paused, waiting for one of the doors to the railroad cars to open. As soon as she heard the rickety old door begin to move she started toward the train, cutting a brisk step as she made her way towards the passenger car. There was a man standing at the doorway, waiting for her. He was rather large, almost as wide as two men, and nearly seven foot tall. He had a thick gray beard, and his body told of a long life of manual labor. His face was grim under his railroader’s cap, but the young woman thought the she saw a glimmer of honor somewhere deep in his recessed eyes. “Can I see your ticket?” the man asked, and his voice boomed in the open air. “I haven’t a ticket,” the young woman responded honestly. A feeling of worry came over her, and she felt her face grow red with an emotion close to embarrassment. She set down her bag and looked at the man with fear in her eyes. “That is strange,” said the man aloud. It sounded to the young woman as if he was speaking to himself, and not to her. He made a small grunt and then said, almost under his breath, “Well, she wouldn’t be at the station if she wasn’t meant for the train.” His head swayed back and forth for a moment as if he was weighing out the statement in his thoughts. Finally he nodded in the affirmative, as if he agreed with himself, and nodded toward the young lady. “Go ahead and grab your bag. You can sit anywhere you like. If you need anything, the steward will be along periodically as he makes his way through each car.” With that the man re-entered the train and headed toward the locomotive at the front of the train. “My name is Maddie,” the young woman said as the large man walked away from her. The man looked at her and grunted in response. “It was nice meeting you,” she called after him. He grunted again and then disappeared behind a door at the front of the railroad car. Maddie entered the train then, with her bag in tow, and looked over the car for a place to sit. Immediately she noticed that the layout of the train was different than most she had seen. The trains that Maddie had been on in the past had the seats facing forward, but on this train the seats were facing inwards, each side’s seating facing towards the middle of the train. Maddie found the the setup to be interesting, and was enamored of the idea that she would be able to see everyone that was in the car with her. She quickly found a seat toward the back of the train, and took in everything around her. There were only a few passengers on the train car with her at the moment, and they all seemed to be of an interesting sort. At the front of the car there was a bulky looking fellow in what appeared to be a superhero costume. The man’s outfit seemed to the young woman to be very grand. The majority of his outfit was colored goldenrod, with his cape, briefs and boots being colored maroon. The costume seemed to carry in it’s design evidence of heroism and truth, but it was covered in dirt and grime, and Maddie found it hard to believe that it would inspire anyone in the condition it was in. The man himself was also covered in dirt, and his posture was one of a man broken. His muscular shoulders were slumped over, and his potentially handsome face was down turned as he hung his head. Maddie thought his facial features showed promise, although the fact that they were covered in dirt and week old stubble did little to increase her desire to investigate further. She likely would have paid him no mind if it weren’t for the incredible sadness that she felt he carried in his eyes. Perhaps he has had some hardship, the young woman thought to herself. Across from the man in the superhero suit was a woman dressed all in black. Her hair was black as well, and her pupils were dark. If there was any color in them at all, Maddie was hard-pressed to see it. The dark woman held a black cat in her lap, and to him she spoke often. Maddie thought it odd that the woman spoke to the cat as if it were her equal instead of her pet, and even stranger still that it seemed the woman was responding to things that the cat had said. She seems a few claws short of a cat’s paw, Maddie thought to herself with an inaudible chuckle. The woman with the dark hair looked at Maddie with fire in her eyes, and Maddie wondered for a moment if she hadn’t said her last thought out loud. The only other passenger on the car at the time was a magician with a kindly face. He certainly was not a handsome fellow, although his bushy mustache and glasses gave him a kindly look, especially as they, along with the rest of his facial features sat beneath a tall top hat. He had beside him a small black bag, and he smiled and waved as Maddie looked him over. He seems a kind enough fellow, she thought to herself as she faced towards the front of the train. I hope he does not think I will be interested in his tricks at all though, I am a little old for magic, she mused. As she looked about the train she noticed one last oddity. At the front of the coach there was a large white sign with bold black letters. “NO FALLING IN LOVE” the sign read. What an odd rule for a train, she thought to herself. Although I am hardly in any danger here. One mangy man in a superhero costume, a goth queen with a feline complex, and a kindly old magician...no, i think I’ll be okay, she thought with a smile. She felt the train begin to move below her, and very soon they were moving along the track.
Baldr’s Track Day 2
The train moved at an alarming speed, and it had taken a few hours for Maddie to get used to it. For the whole first day no one in the car had said a word to anyone. Maddie had spent her time reading, and writing in a journal. Every so often she would look about the train and take in her surroundings. The woman in black seemed completely caught up in the cat on her lap. She was petting him, combing him, feeding him and always, always talking to him. Maddie could never hear the things the woman said, but it didn’t seem to Maddie that it was typical owner-pet talking. Weirdo, Maddie thought. The man in the superhero costume did not do anything. He did not eat when the steward came through with their dinner, nor did he speak when the steward pressed the issue. The man in the dirty costume merely stared out the window with that eerie sadness in his eyes. The only time that Maddie had seen any other emotion on the man’s face was when the magician waved at Maddie. For some reason it seemed to irritate the man in the superhero costume, although the burly man said nothing. For her part Maddie had thought the old magician was cute, and was rather mystified as to why it should bother the man in the grimy costume whether the kindly man waved to her or not. The young woman was writing in her journal on the morning of the second day when the magician made his way over to her. “Do you mind if I have a sit beside you, young lady?” the magician asked her. “I mind,” came a voice that sounded like thunder. It was the man in the superhero costume, and he was beside Maddie in an instant, faster than Maddie would have thought possible. He seemed even larger than Maddie had thought he was, and he smelled of dust and debris. “This doesn’t concern you,” the magician said. “Besides, I asked the young lady.” “I really don’t see the harm in it,” Maddie told the man in the superhero costume. “He seems rather harmless,” she continued, and the old magician smiled and nodded. “You don’t know him like I do,” the man in the superhero suit said. “I remember...” the man continued, but the magician cut him off. “What you ought to remember is the rule,” the magician said quietly. “Really, it’s okay,” Maddie said, and she made sure her voice was soft, to soothe the burly man. “And you’ll just be right over there right? I’m sure he won’t try any funny business with you sitting so close,” she said, doing her best to reassure the burly man, even though she was not certain of the problem. The man in the superhero costume turned away then and walked back to his seat. He sat with his knees up by his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He lowered his head onto his knees and looked very sad. “What is the matter with him?” Maddie asked the magician as he took a seat beside her. “He’s always been a rather large pain, that man,” the magician responded. “He feels the weight of the world is his to bear, whether anyone wants him to or not. It’s best to just leave him be, he’s rather a nuisance when he is around anyway.” Maddie nodded but was not entirely sure she agreed. “So, what brings you over to my side of the train?” she asked with a laugh. “I just thought that I would check in with you,” the magician said with a concerned smile. “I know that you probably do not remember, but I knew you once, a very long time ago.” “You did?” Maddie asked, and the surprise was evident in her voice. “I did, although I looked different then,” the magician answered. “You were beautiful, even then, and oh! how you loved the magic I performed.” At this Maddie grew skeptical. “I don’t recall there ever being a time when I enjoyed magic,” she told the man. “You were much younger Maddie. Often times you would ask your parents if you could be my assistant, but they always told you the same thing: Wait a while, just until you’re a little older. But anyway, I just came over to see how you are settling in. Your parents would have wanted me to do that for you,” the magician said. He rubbed at his mustache and smiled. “I’ve missed them terribly, since they passed away” she admitted. Her face was colored with sadness. “Frown not child. Here!” he said, and as he said the word ‘here’ he pulled the most beautiful rose that Maddie had ever seen out of thin air. It was the color of the sky mixed with lilacs, and glittered with an ethereal sparkle. “For you young one, though it’s beauty could never match your own.” He handed her the rose and walked back to his seat.
Baldr’s Track Day 3
The train continued on it’s way, moving at lightning speed along the metal tracks. Maddie was now growing accustomed to the movement and rhythm of the careening locomotive, and the blazing speed of the train did not bother her as much. She had had a wonderful night’s sleep last night, and saw the world with fresh eyes this morning. She looked around the rail car where she had been spending the last few days and took everything in. The man in the superhero costume was already sitting in his usual corner spot, and the woman with the cat had entered the car just in front of Maddie. The woman seemed a bit less creepy this morning, and the idea of the woman talking to her cat in the way that she had been seemed somewhat charming to Maddie. Perhaps they have been together for sometime, she thought. Or perhaps they have been through some great tragedy. Some people bond with their animals after trying times. Maybe I was too quick to judge. As she took her seat Maddie thought about the day before. The magician had intrigued her yesterday. He seemed kindly enough, although it seemed to Maddie that he had little in the way of good feelings towards the man in the superhero costume. And perhaps he has good reason, she thought. I barely know either of them, although the magician seems very kindly. She had spent the night thinking of the things the man in the tuxedo and top hat had told her. She had no recollection of the events that he had spoken of, but there were things from her youth that her parents had told her that she did not remember, and so it was not so hard for her to believe that these things could have happened. And the rose that he had given her last night was so beautiful! She had no romantic interest in the man at all, but she certainly appreciated the gesture from the older man. As Maddie thought on the events of the day before, the magician came through the door and entered the coach. He smiled at her and made his way directly towards Maddie. “May I sit and talk with you a while?” he asked her with a genuine smile. “You said your piece yesterday,” the man in the superhero costume said. Once again, the speed with which he moved at to be by Maddie’s side was overwhelming. “I think maybe it’d be better if you took your own seat.” The man’s voice was lower than thunder, and Maddie noticed that his jawline was taut behind the stubble that was slowly growing into a beard. “I’m sorry, sir,” Maddie said. “I don’t understand. What’s the matter with my friend, the magician? He seems to be kindly enough.” She looked at him with large eyes and the look on her face, as well as her tone of voice, was not one of irritation, but of honest curiosity. “Maddie, I don’t-,” he stopped speaking as the magician leaned in close and stopped him. “Keep that mouth of yours shut ‘hero’,” the magician said, loud enough that only the man in the superhero costume could hear him. “What are you trying to do? If you tell her the story and she falls in love with you, she’ll be off the train. Is that what you want?” the magician said, his voice quiet and angry. The man in the superhero costume looked at Maddie and there was a deep sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told her, and his shoulders sagged even lower than they usually were. He hung his head and walked back to his seat. He covered his face as he curled up in his seat, much the same as he had done the day before. “Very good,” the magician said. “May I sit?” he asked her again. Maddie looked again to the man in the muddy superhero costume and then back to the magician. “For a moment or two. I guess that would be okay,” she answered. “Thank you,” the magician said, and tipped his top hat to her. “How did you sleep last night?” he asked her. “Fine, I suppose,” she answered. “You must tell me why it is that you and the man in the superhero costume do not get along,” she said. The magician sighed a heavy sigh and then smiled at the girl. “It’s not a very long story. He’s never liked me really. I think he feels that I wronged him in the last life, or something equally as ridiculous,” he said. “It’s really nothing more than that, and it’s always been the case.” “He seems very sad,” she commented, and her face carried a look that showed at least a small amount of skepticism. If the magician heard the young girl, it didn’t show in his face. Instead his eyes were filled with excitement as the steward entered the room, pushing a few carts into the room ahead of him. One cart was filled with pastries, the next with eggs, and bread and uncooked bacon. The final cart had a small stove top on it. As was his custom every day, the steward had come to cook breakfast for the passengers. “Do you want to see a trick?” the magician asked Maddie. “It’s very new. I made it up just for you,” he said with a smile. This seemed to please Maddie, and though she still felt a note of sadness for the man in the superhero costume, her attention was now turned to the magician. “I should like that very much,” she said with a smile. “Will you assist me then, by asking the steward for two or three of his best chicken eggs?” the magician asked her politely. Maddie nodded and then walked over to the steward to present her request. He smiled and nodded, and then made a decent effort at picking out some truly great eggs. She walked backed to the magician and handed him the eggs. “Here you are sir,” she said with a mock curtsy. “You are an excellent assistant,” he said with a smile as he bowed his head slightly to her. He then took off his hat, revealing a slightly balding head of gray hair. “If you would be so kind,” he asked, handing Maddie his top hat. “Be careful to keep the opening facing upwards,” he instructed. She obliged, and the man smiled. He picked up the first egg and carefully cracked the brown shell on the floor. He poured the liquid contents of the shell into his hat. Maddie gasped, but the man gave her a knowing look and a smile. He proceeded to break the other two eggs and pour them into his hat as well. “If you could gently move the hat around,” the man instructed, “it will help the eggs to mix.” Maddie did as the man asked, and wonder filled her eyes. “Ahh, that should be good,” the man said with a smile. “And now, for some magic,” he said. He held up his gloved hand and pointed to it, making sure that Maddie took notice of how spotlessly white it was. He then reached into the hat without fear, and from it’s opening pulled a baby chicken. Maddie’s eyes grew large and loving at the sight of the chick, and the expression on her face was one of awe. The magician pulled out another two chicks from the hat before taking a large bow and placing his hat back on his head. “Whether or not you remember a time when you enjoyed magic, I think you would agree that perhaps you are beginning to enjoy it now,” he said with a smile. Maddie nodded with an amazed look on her face, and marveled at the man’s abilities.
Baldr’s Track Day 4
The train moved along at a nice pace, although it seemed a bit sluggish to Maddie this morning. Perhaps I am just getting used to the speed, she thought. As she walked from the sleeping area to the coach where she spent her days, her thoughts were filled with the two tricks that the magician had performed for her thus far. She had put the chicks in a small cage that the steward had provided for her, and had fed them just before making her way to the coach. What a wonderful train ride this has been, she thought happily. As she drew near to the coach she heard a terrible sound. If her ears were not deceived it was the sound of a man sobbing. As she entered the coach she saw the man in the superhero suit, sitting in his usual spot. He was curled up in his seat, and sure enough he was crying. Maddie recognized immediately that the man was overwrought with sadness, she had cried in that same uncontrollable, inconsolable way when her parents had passed away. She set her things down at her seat and then walked over to the man. “Is there anything that I can do for you?” she asked him in a soft voice. He looked into her deep eyes and for a minute it looked as if his tears would cease. And then he lowered his head and covered his face. “There is nothing to be done,” he said. Maddie stood beside him for a while, hopeful that he would say something else. But he did not, and so she started back to her seat. She was nearly halfway there when an idea struck her, and she turned around and hurried back to the man. “You know, once when I was younger, something very bad happened to me. And though I cannot remember who it was that spoke to me that night, he said something to me that I will never forget: ‘There are days when this world will get you down. It’s a mean place, and there aint no mercy in it. Somedays you gotta remember that just standing up is a victory in itself’. I’ve carried those words with me every day of my life now. I hope that they will give you the same strength that they have given me.” The man in the superhero suit’s eyes grew wide for a moment, and for a little while he quited down. But soon enough he started crying again. The rest of the day was uncomfortable for everyone in the rail car. The man’s sobs were loud and caused a large amount of sadness in Maddie’s heart. The magician did not come over to sit with her at all, and the lady with the cat left the coach very early in the day and did not return.
Baldr’s Track Day 5
The train ran smoothly along the tracks, while inside the coaches the travelers were filled with a bit of excitement. Today was ‘Boarding Day’, and the train would be taking on the last set of passengers before starting the final leg of it’s journey. There was a bit of nervousness among the passengers, for no one knew in advance who would be boarding the train for this last leg. Maddie found herself a little curious as to how things would go. As she looked about she found herself relieved this morning to see that the man in the superhero costume was back to his normal self, and that his crying had finally ceased. Also, the lady in black and her cat were extra chatty this morning, which caused Maddie to smile. I am rather beginning to enjoy myself on this train, she mused to herself. The magician did not show up until a little later in the day, and when Maddie asked him about it he merely smiled and said, “Working on a new trick.” The two of them then engaged in small talk then until the train began to slow. “Hrmm...it must be time,” the magician said quietly. “Are you excited?” Maddie asked the man in the top hat. “A little,” the old man mused. “It’s possible that I shall see some of my old friends,” he said with a chuckle. As the train drew to a stop every one’s eyes moved toward the door. Even the man in the superhero costume, who generally did not react to any of the going-ons of the train, stopped and gave the sliding door his full attention. As the creaky old door slid open, as it did on the day that Maddie boarded, a hush fell over the train. All over the train, doors were sliding open, and men and women from all walks of life poured into railcars. Four men walked into the car where Maddie spent her time, and they were all very burly. Their bodies were well-built, and it was apparent to Maddie that they had worked very hard to attain their figures. The man in front, whom the remaining three men seemed to follow, had dark skin and a shaved head. The men behind him were rather pale, but looked to be nearly as strong as the man in front. All of them had their faces painted like clowns, and their clothing, while cut to maintain the strong attitude that they men portrayed, was circus themed as well. “Do you know them?” Maddie asked the magician, turning to look him in the eye. “I do, but not as well as our burly sad-faced man over there,” he replied, pointing toward the man in the superhero costume. “This could be interesting,” said the old man with a smile. Maddie was not sure what the man found to be amusing.
Baldr’s Track Day 6
Clickety-clack, the train ran down the track, and Maddie’s excitement grew. The train and it’s passengers were on their way now, and nearing the halfway point of their journey. Maddie had brought her chicks along with her today, and had the rose that the magician had made appear for her stuck in her hair. The rail car seemed a little different today, as it’s occupants got used to the new travelers. They reminded Maddie a little of high school bullies, for they stood in a circle together and pointed at the other occupants, laughing. It seemed to annoy the dark featured lady, as well as her cat, who stared at the men continuously. The man in the superhero costumed glared at them on occasion, but had held his tongue the first night. When the steward came to cook breakfast the men harrassed him. They cut in line and took more than their fair share of food. “Look guys, free food,” one of the goons said goofily, “and a maid to cook it!” The continued to horse around the food cart until the man in the superhero costume stood up. “That’ll be enough boys,” the man said, and once again Maddie was overwhelmed by how deep the man’s voice was. Maddie noticed too that the man seemed to be standing a little taller. “What were we doing?” the goon who had been picking on the steward asked, wearing his best mock-innocent expression. The man in the goldenrod costume just looked at him expectantly. “Are you going to make us?” the lead man in the clown costume asked. He was bigger than the man in the superhero suit, and Maddie grew a little bit frightened. “I hope it won’t come to that,” was the man’s reply. “Let’s go guys,” the large dark-skinned man said. “Wouldn’t want Mr. Cape over here getting riled up.” The goons picked up their over stuffed plates and walked towards the area where they usually stood. They kicked over the cat lady’s bag, and laughed in her face. She looked angry until the man in the superhero costume picked up her belongings. Her expression softened just a little as the man nodded at her. “They seem rather boorish,” said Maddie, her voice almost a whisper. The magician was sitting next to her and replied, “They are. Quite. I never enjoyed working with them when I had to,” he admitted honestly. “You worked with them?” she asked, her brow wrinkling slightly. “Circus work and all you know,” he said with a toothy smile. “But enough of that,” he said, “I have something to show you.” Maddie’s eyes grew wide and the man smiled even wider. “This one took me a very long time to figure out, and I don’t believe I would have had the energy to do it earlier in the journey. But you have re-energized me my dear, and your assistance has inspired me to better things.” “You sir, are very silly. I have done very little to help you,” she said. “You are hands down the best assistant I have ever had,” he said, and Maddie believed him. “Now, if you will hold this wand in the air,” he said, handing her one of his batons, “and do as I do, we shall be under way.” The two of them held their magic wands in the air and began to wave them this way and that. Very soon they were in tandem, and the energy that they were creating felt very tangible. At first Maddie couldn’t tell what was happening, but soon after that she noticed that her feet were no longer touching the ground, and neither were the magician’s. “We’re flying!” she exclaimed, “We are flying!!” The young woman’s excitement was nearly as tangible as the magic in the air. The magician grinned as the young woman hugged him tightly, and the man in the superhero costume gritted his teeth and looked away.
Baldr’s Track Day 7
The train was at a full stop when Maddie awoke on the seventh day of her journey. She was not surprised to find that she had slept in rather late, as her excitement from the night before had made it quite hard for her to fall asleep. She was still filled with a large amount of euphoria when she awoke, and smiled from ear to ear as she walked to the rail car that she had been spending her last several days in. She was quite surprised to see that no one was in their seats, and that the door to the car was open. She put her stuff down by the seat that she usually occupied and stepped cautiously outside. The weather was quite beautiful, and there were green trees all around, with birds flying in a perfect blue sky. As she looked around she took note of the other passengers from her car, and it seemed to her that they were all enjoying the weather. The man in the superhero costume was sitting underneath a tall oak tree, taking in the shade. Not very far from him were the four men who dressed as clowns, and though they were laughing and engaging in horse-play, they stopped often to make derisive comments about the woman who dressed in black. The woman had made a great show of sitting far away from the men, but they would taunt her cat, and he would chase after them angrilly, causing the woman to follow him and scoop him up before the men could cause any more trouble. Maddie then saw her friend, the magician. He was sitting out in the open and was causing several small pebbles to float into the air. As Maddie made her way over to him, the man in the top hat let each pebble fall to the ground. “Good morning, my sleepy friend,” he said to her with a smile. “How are we today?” he asked. “We are good,” she said, nodding and returning his smile. “Why is it that we are outside?” she asked, rubbing some sleep from her eyes. “The engineer came in today and let us know that we were making good time. He took a survey and checked to see if we wanted the chance to stretch our legs. Everyone voted yes, and here we are.” he explained. Maddie sat down and smiled at him. “Did you enjoy the tri—” he started to ask, but was interupted by a scream from the woman in black. “Leave him alone!” she yelled as once again her black cat barreled at the clown-themed men with fire in it’s eyes. She was running at the men, and Maddie mused that her father would have said that the woman was “fit to be tied”. The men in the clown makeup laughed and threw rocks at the cat as it ran towards them. When the feline was mere seconds away from the men he was scooped up by the man in the golden colored superhero suit. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the four men in clown suits. “You are beginning to try my patience,” he continued, and Maddie noticed that his eyes seemed to be tinted ever so slightly red. “No more today, or there will be problems, I promise you,” he said. When the men said nothing in reply he turned to the woman in black and handed her the cat. “Here you go,” he said with a small smile. “Thank you,” she said, and Maddie noticed that there were tears at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry that it’s been such a rough trip for you,” she said. “It’s okay,” he said, and seemed to genuinely mean it. She took his arm and the two of them walked to an oak tree far away from the clown-themed men and sat down together. Maddie turned to the magician then. “Those men aren’t very nice at all,” she said. “No, my dear, they are not,” he agreed. “Did you enjoy my little trick last night?” he asked her. He looked eager for a reply. “I did very much so,” she said, and she made no effort to hide the excitement in her voice. “You know, I do not believe that I could have done that with any assistant that I have ever had. You are an amazing young woman, and I so wish that I had one as you to be my assistant,” he told her. Maddie smiled at that, although she noted that the man in the superhero costume, clearly out of earshot, was scowling at the magician. She was about to ask the magician a question about the man in the goldenrod suit, but the engineer came out of the train just then and announced it was time to leave. Everyone ambled back to the train, and shortly after they were once again on the move.
Baldr’s Track Day 8
The train seemed to be moving faster than normal to Maddie as she pulled herself out of bed. Perhaps the engineer is in a hurry, as we are getting close to the end of our run, she thought to herself. She bustled about the business of getting herself ready and then exited her room to walk to the rail car. Almost as soon as she closed the door to her room the four men in clown suits, who shared a room a few doors down from hers, came barreling down the hall. They pushed and shoved each other slightly, but slowed down so that Maddie did not have to hurry her pace. “Sure smells good up there,” one of the big men said as they walked toward the rail car. “It does, it does,” agreed one of the other men. Maddie reached the end of the hall then, pleased to be at the door to the car and away from the men who annoyed her so. As she opened the door to the rail car one of the men behind her let out a gasp and shouted “The Steward!” pushing Maddie down to the floor as he ran to the food cart in the middle of the coach. He never made it there. Before he had taken three steps away from Maddie’s falling body he was hoisted into the air by the man in the superhero costume. There was fury in the face of the man dressed in goldenrod, where once there had only been sadness. “You do not TOUCH HER!” the man in the cape screamed as he slammed the burly man in the clown make-up to the ground. The man in the superhero costumes face grew red as he began swinging his fists into the clown-themed thug’s face. Blood spattered everywhere as the man kept raining his blows down. Once the other clowns realized what was going on they began to dog-pile on the man in the goldenrod costume, but Maddie noticed as she pulled herself off of the floor that the man in the superhero suit did not seem to notice. He threw one of the men through the wall of the train then, wood splintering everywhere as the clown quickly disappeared from sight. The other clowns backed off then, and the conflict once again was only between the once sad-faced man and the clown who had pushed Maddie. “I’ll kill you,” Maddie thought she heard the man say, and his eyes began to glow red as they had the day before. “STOP IT!” came a voice from the other side of the train. It was the engineer, and though he was as wide as two men, and nearly seven foot tall, the man in the superhero costume did not seem one bit intimidated. “I’ll kill you,” he said to the man in the clown suit again, and Maddie heard the fallen man begin to scream. Maddie noticed there was smoke rising from the clown’s forehead. Does he have some sort of heat vision?, Maddie thought to herself in wonder. “STOP IT!” the engineer yelled again and ran over to the man in the superhero costume. “Stop it damn you, or I’ll stop you!” he yelled. He slapped the man in the superhero suit across the face. He then stared into his red eyes until the angry man looked away, ashamed. “I’m sorry Baldr. But they pushed Maddie, and oh my, I don’t know-, I don’t know who I am anymore,” the man in the costume said, and he began to cry. “It’s all right my friend,” the man Maddie now knew to be named Baldr said. He helped the man in goldenrod to his feet and put a large hand on the man’s caped shoulder. “We’ll get this fixed, and we’ll put them in a different car from you all.” “Thank you,” the caped man said. “Thank you,” he repeated. “I should be punished for this,” he said, and looked ashamed. Baldr shook his head. “You did so much in your time, my friend, so much good,” he said. He smiled at the costumed man and reassured him. “Have no worries, we’ll get this fixed. It’s high time someone saved you for a change.” He patted the man on the shoulder once more, and exited the railcar. The room was silent, save for the wind coming in the train from the large opening that used to be a wall. “Who is that man?” Maddie asked the magician quitely. “I don’t think that even he knows anymore,” the man in the top hat responded.
Baldr’s Track Day 9
The train moved along at it’s normal pace, although to Maddie many things felt very different from the day before. They were in a new rail car now, although Maddie could hardly tell the difference. The seats were arranged in the same way, the carpet was of the same design, and the same “NO FALLING IN LOVE” sign hung at the front of the coach. But it wasn’t the coach that felt different, it was the atmosphere. The clown’s were gone now, and while that was a saving grace, the man in goldenrod was still there, and seemed more irritable than ever. Maddie was aware that he had intervened on her behalf, but at the same time felt that he had taken it much, much too far. Though the man looked well-muscled, she had not expected him to be able to pitch a man through the wall of a train. And with such anger! Moreso, she had not pegged the sad man as one who would threaten death to any one, or even one to cause injury. Stranger still was what had seemed to be beams of heat pouring out from his eyes. The man was even more of a mystery now, and a scary one at that. The train carried on, it’s passengers seeming very somber, until around mid-day. It was then that the magician entered the room. “I wondered if you were going to come in today,” Maddie said with a small smile. “I had thought perhaps that you had gotten lost.” The magician smiled at Maddie and chuckled. “No, my dear. I have been working on something very special,” he said proudly. “You may know that we are growing near to the end of this train ride. I have come up with something truly special for you.” “What is it?” she asked in wonder. She felt her heartbeat quicken just a little, as the magician’s tricks had been so amazing up to this point. “Close your eyes little love, and I will show you,” he said. Maddie did as she was asked and shut her eyes tight. She held them that way for what seemed to be a very long time before asking “Can I open them yet?” “Open what?” came a voice from the darkness that was definitely not the magician’s. “Father!” she shouted and quickly opened her eyes. There in front of her was her father, whom she had lost many years ago. “That’s my name,” he said smiling and hugging his daughter. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked her. She looked around and realized that she was no longer on the train. It took her a few moments, but she was able to place where she was. It was her 14th birthday party, the last time she celebrated anything with her father. “Nothing father,” she said, smiling and with tears in her eyes. “I’ve just missed you,” she said. He held her tightly in his arms and she squeezed him with every bit of strength in her body. He kissed her cheek then and whispered, “I think you’re about to wake up now. Maddie, I love you, always.” “I love you too, Father,” she said. But she was back on the train now, her eyes full of tears. “Thank you,” she said to the magician in between sobs. And Maddie, who had started the train ride with no interest in magic at all was now completely taken with it.
Baldr’s Track Day 10
The train moved swiftly along the track, as it had for the past nine days, and countless thousands before that. Maddie sat on her bed and combed out her hair. She was smiling from ear to ear, but she didn’t notice it at first. When she did, she was quite pleased, saying, “I do seem very happy today, don’t I?” to the three chicks she kept on her dresser. She then patted them on the head and made her way to the coach. As she entered she took note of the passengers. The woman in black seemed to be even more in love with her cat than usual. She kissed him on the head often and spoke to him in excited whispers. She must have had a good night, she thought to herself with a smile. The man in the superhero costume stood in the corner and something seemed different about him. Eventually Maddie was able to put her finger on it. It looked as if he had made some small effort to clean up his costume, which Maddie thought was cute, although she still regarded him with much trepidation after the incident with the clown-themed goons. The magician was sittting in his usual spot. Maddie walked over to the older man and did her best curtsy. “Kind sir,” she addressed him, “I have a favor to ask.” She smiled at him then, and hope was apparent in her eyes. “I can think of nothing I would refuse you,” the man in the top hat replied. Maddie smiled even bigger than she had been at this. “I should like to be your assistant then, if you don’t mind sir.” “Mind?” he said, laughing. “What a ridiculous idea! I would have begged you to take the job if i thought it proper.” He was smiling from ear to ear. “So I can have the job?!” she asked excitedly. She clapped her hands twice and bounced with an excited energy. “It just so happens,” he said, as he reached into his briefcase, “that I have a contract right here.” He lifted the paperwork up for Maddie to see, but it was gone from his hand in the blink of an eye. “No,” said the man in the superhero suit. He was ripping the contract up as the magician looked at him in outrage. He had bridged the distance between himself and the magician with impossible speed. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?!” the man in the top hat yelled. His face began to grow very red. “I’m putting a stop to this,” the man in the superhero costume said. And though Maddie was unsure as to what was going on, she was even more surprised at the transformation the man had apparently undergone. Where once had stood a hunched over, dirty, sad shell of a man, now stood someone who was strong, and self-assured. She found herself wondering what had changed. “You can’t win, you fool. Don’t interfere,” the magician said. He produced another contract from his briefcase, but again it was pulled from his hands at lighting speed. “Stop it!” the older man yelled. “What do you plan on doing? You can’t tell her what’s going on, you know the rules!” “I’m not worried about it. I’ve given it some thought, and it shouldn’t count as falling in love, because we were in love before this train ride ever began,” the man in the superhero costume explained. Maddie wasn’t sure what he meant, and didn’t think that he sounded completely convinced that it would shake out the way he was explaining it. The magician didn’t think so either. He tipped his head back and laughed very loud. Maddie thought it was almost theatrical. “You’ve always been very stupid. It’s obvious that it doesn’t work that way,” he said snidely. He reached for his briefcase for a third time and was surprised to see the papers inside burst into flame. “You fool!!” the old man crooned, throwing his top hat on the floor and stomping on it. It was clear to everyone in the rail car that he was engaged. “I don’t understand what the problem is,” Maddie said. But no one heard her. “You’re ruining everything!” the magician shouted. “You shouldn’t even be here!!” “What do you mean?” the superhero asked, and he almost seemed pleased at the magician’s frustration. Almost, but not quite. “You know very well,” the magician said. “This is the villain train, on Baldr’s track. Only the very worst souls get put on this train, and it runs straight from Death to Judgement. And we all know where it goes from there.” He took a second to wipe the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand and then continued with his angry rant. “So how is it that you got here Mister ‘Never done a damn thing wicked in my whole life’?” He stared with red hot anger into the man in the golden costume’s eyes. The burly man trembled, and anger filled his eyes, as well as grief. “I killed people,” he said, his now quiet voice dripping with anger. He shook his head as he continued to speak, “I killed lots of people. I picked up a whole state and pitched it into the sun.” The magician’s face grew full of fear as the man in the superhero costume lifted him into the air by the front of his shirt. “So which of us is the stupid one?” the large man asked, his eyes growing red with heat. “I threw away my whole life and everything that I’d ever worked for to stop you. I gave up my shot at heaven to save this girl.” The man in the superhero costumed gritted his teeth and mentally prepared himself to kill the magician. But Maddie’s sobs cut through the now silent room. He set the magician down and turned to the girl. “What is it Maddie?” he asked, and there was a world of concern in his eyes. “If this is the train that takes very bad people to their judgement,” she began through sobs, “what did I do to get here?” “Oh,” the man said as he wrapped his arms around the girl. “Oh Maddie, you didn’t do anything. I didn’t know baby, I swear I didn’t know,” he said. He patted her head and held her tight to him. “The magician, he hates me. He always has. We were enemies when we we’re alive. He was a villain, and I was there to stop him when he tried to do his nefarious deeds. To get back at me, one day when I wasn’t looking, he used his magic to chain his soul to yours.” He began to cry himself as he continued to explain. “I didn’t know Maddie, not until after he died. And when he passed away, so did you. He got put on this train for every evil he ever committed, and you, my beautiful Maddie, were brought along for the ride. And what’s worse, now he’s trying to get you to sign over your soul to him. That’s why he wanted you to sign a contract. That’s why he’s been using his tricks to lure you in.” The magician began to speak, but the man in the superhero costume silenced him with a stare. Maddie was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “And you came for me,” she said as if understanding was dawning on her. “You came for me because you’re Captain Strong,” she continued. “You come for me because you love me.” “More than anything,” said the man called Captain Strong. “I love you too,” Maddie replied, with tears in her eyes. She kissed the man who had given his life to save hers. As their lips touched the trains brakes screeched, and the train stopped hard on it’s tracks. Baldr, the train’s engineer, rushed into the coach. “Who broke the rule?” he asked, sounding much more serious than Maddie had ever heard him. The magician laughed gleefully and pointed at Maddie. The engineer looked to the woman in black, who confirmed with a sad nod that what the magician had said was true. With a heavy sigh Baldr stepped toward Maddie and said, “Then there is nothing for it, love. It’s into the abyss with you.” He looked at her very gravely as he said, “May God protect your soul.”
Baldr’s Track Day 11
The train was at a standstill as Baldr made his way toward Maddie, to banish her from the train. “Wait,” said Captain Strong. “Please,” he added, and his voice was soft and placating. “Captain, you’ve done more for the world than most folk that I know. Heck, you’ve saved my bacon a time or two at least. But the rule is the rule, and I gotta’ follow through,” the engineer replied. “But Baldr,” Captain Strong pleaded. “She’s not meant to be here.” “That aint for you to decide, my friend. If it’s her time, it’s her time,” Baldr said solemnly. “But it isn’t her time. Can’t you see that her soul is chained to that man’s?” the man in the superhero suit asked. Baldr squinted as he looked at Maddie and the magician. “My glory, you’re right!” he exclaimed. He knelt down, and as he touched the air in front of him, the chain became visible. “What manner of evil is this?” he asked the magician. The magician began to stammer as Captian Strong explained. “He’s the Manic Magician. This is all part of some insane plan for revenge against me.” Baldr shook his head knowingly. “I remember him being quite a thorn in your side,” the engineer said. He heaved with his mighty strength and broke the chain. “But I’m afraid we still have a problem,” he said solemly. “The rule.” “But I don’t understand it,” Maddie said, and she sounded both frightened and frustrated. The Captain held her tight to him as she looked to Baldr for answers. “I will try to explain it to you Maddie,” the engineer said. “I set it a very long time ago. You see, one last train ride is granted to every soul, that they might have one last chance to repent. Each passenger is stripped down to their purest essence, and allowed the 15 days of this train ride to try and find some measure of faith or belief in themselves. On this train, where only the very worst are sent, most folk just stew on their life and misdeeds and feel cheated that they died before accomplishing whatever vain scheme they had in their hearts. Still, a very small percentage take advangtage of this gift they have been given and find their redemption.” He paused a moment to clear his throat, and then continued. “We learned very early on though that there were many bad things that would distract men from their redemption. Many bad things, and one pure thing. Falling in love. It is a wonderful, beautiful thing for the living, but here it only robs people of their focus. So we did away with it, so that those here who may find redemption on this last train ride would not be distracted from it.” “I understand,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes. “I will go along with whatever you see fit,” she said bravely. “I have to kick you off of the train Maddie. You’ll have to find your own way from there,” he said very sadly. “But to where?” asked Captain Strong. “She does not belong at Judgement, for she hasn’t truly died yet,” he said, explaining his question. “I suppose she could go back to Death’s Door. If she could make it, she could go through the door and back to her life,” the engineer suggested. “Can it be done?” Maddie asked hopefully. “I’m afraid not,” Baldr answered truthfully. “There are things outside this train that would eat your soul up without a second thought. There are very few safe places in this realm.” “What if I fly her?” Captain Strong asked. Baldr considered it a moment. “I suppose that would work, although truthfully it is bending the rules. You know what you must do after you get her there, right?” the engineer asked. “I do,” the hero replied solemly. “Then go, and quickly. I will deal with our friend,” Baldr said, nodding his head toward the Manic Magician, who knew that he was in trouble. Captain Strong shook the engineer’s hand and then lifted Maddie into his arms. “Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded yes, and then they exited the train, and took to the sky. The hero flew with great speed, and he held Maddie very close to him as they made their way. It was very windy, and twice she almost slipped from his considerably strong arms. All told it took one hour to reach the door, the majority of it traveled in silence, as the hero required his full concentration to navigate the winds, and avoid the evil things which Baldr had spoken of earlier. When they reached Death’s Door Captain Strong regarded Maddie with a very grave look. “Please take care of yourself Madelien Elizabeth. I love you with every part of me.” She smiled as she heard him confess his love, but the weight of the first sentence finally caught up to her. “Take care of myself?” she asked him. And then realization dawned on her young face. “You’re not coming back...” “I’ve done terrible things Maddie. And I gotta face up to them. But I love you, and I will miss you every day for the rest of my afterlife.” “I don’t want to go then,” she said. “It will be too hard.” She was crying, and she buried her face in his chest. “But you have to Maddie. You gotta live baby. For me,” he said. She didn’t look convinced. “Remember what I told you the day we first met?” She nodded quietly. “There are days when this world will get you down. It’s a mean place, and there aint no mercy in it. Somedays you gotta remember that just standing up is a victory in itself,” she said, repeating the words he had said to her the night that her parents died. She looked at him then, and he smiled at her. She saw in his face everything that she loved about him. “I love you,” she said bravely. “I know you do,” he said smiling. “And what do you always tell me?” he asked her. She put her hand over his heart and said “I’ll always be right here.” He put his hand on her chest and smiled, “You know it’s the same for me, love.” She pulled him close then, and they kissed for a very long time. Finally, he pulled away from her. “I gotta go now,” he said, and flew off into the distance. One last time Maddie whispered into the wind, “I love you,” and walked through Death’s Door and back to life.
|
Joker
Roger Cowin
Always the joker, a regular
misogynistic, misanthropic,
blue-eyed, blonde-haired
Aryan son of Hitler
from your swastika tattoo
all the way to the tips
of your authentic, Nazi
issue jackboots (bought
on e-Bay and cared for
lovingly, saving your
sharpest zingers for those
less than fortunate;
minorities, the handicapped
or anyone not
a white, conservative
Republican male.
You always claimed
you were only joking,
that there wasn’t a prejudicial
bone in your body,
and I suppose I should have
called you on it, but
the last time I saw you
was at your funeral
and you weren’t making jokes then,
instead, you just lay there
in your casket looking so old
and frail – withered.
All I could do was feel
a sick sort of pity
for the half dozen or so,
not so sad, white mourners
with not a black face among them.
|
Winners
Reilly Maginn
“Takesha, we done won somethin’. Look here,” Jamal said, waving a red lettered, thick package, as he brought mail back from the roadside mailbox of their newly constructed FEMA modular home, west of the ninth district of New Orleans. His wife, Takesha, sitting inside the barred front window of the living room, looked up, then walked to the similarly barred front door and stepped out on their bare front porch. The barred windows and front door bore witness to the local crime and burglary, so rampant in the recently re-built ‘section eight’ low rent ninth district housing project, the returning tenants of New Orleans, who, fleeing from hurricane Katrina’s surging flood some four years ago, now occupied. Initially, meant to be temporary housing, the newly arrived refugees refused to leave when the immediate emergency was over and were subsequently housed first in trailers and finally in these modular homes furnished by the government agency, FEMA.
Jamal was the local drug dealer in the newly created neighborhood of hurricane Katrina refugees. Jamal the Gerbil, is what they called him on the street. His skin, the color of a Starbuck’s latte’, with a thin black Boston Blackie mustache, a receding chin and an associated under bite, his rodent like hobbling gait and hunched over posture, the result of a rival dealer’s bullet; indeed, Jamal was the neighborhood Gerbil.
“What you say? Where. What we won? We never won nothin’ in this town. Why the hell we didn’t we move back into the ninth I’ll never know. This new town show me nuthin’. FEMA done us black folk dirt by keeping us this side of the river here in choclate city and keepin’ us from movin’ back ‘cross the river to the hood.” Takesha was in one of her moods.
Takesha, Jamal’s wife, was the shrewish matriarch of the family. She was the loudly outspoken and strident voice of the local NAACP chapter as well as a vociferous supporter of the ACLU affirmative action effort, and she expressed her opinions at full volume whether asked for or not, and in no uncertain terms.
“Stop yo’ complainin’, girl. You know there’s no way we could go back to the old hood. It’s still dirty and smells nasty. No electricity. No water. Nobody lives there since the flood. We can’t do no business there now and you knows it.”
“We made a good livin’ in Nawlins ever since we moved down here from Tupeloe, Jamal.”
“You miss them cotton fields up there in the delta, now don’t you, girl.”
“Jamal, I miss my hometown; where I was borned and growed up and I still ain’t over this here move to the city as yet. We move here to Nawlins and I feel outa place. Din’t know nuthin’ ‘bout this city, this river and this here ocean. Even after four years, still don’t know much ‘bout the river or the ocean.”
“Takesha, it really ain’t the ocean
it’s the Gulf of Mexico.”
“All same to me. It’s big and it’s deep. Hears you get sick and puke up you go a ways out there.”
“Don’t you be worrin’ ‘bout pukin’ up in the gulf, girl. We ain’t plannin’ to go out there.”
“You right ‘bout dat brother, we done good business back in the ninth. But there ain’t no more people there now, Jamal, and that be the reason we stuck here in this here FEMA town.”
“We got lots of customers, right here, this side of the river, honey. We got enough these hooked crack head kids to keep us in high cotton for a time. We actually doin’ better here now, than we did in the old Nawlins ninth hood, so stop yo’ bitchin’.”
“I still think we need to move back to a real city instead of this boonie burb town.”
“Takesha, the DEA was about to take us down and you know it. Katrina actually saved us from the MAN. Word on the street was we was a goin’ down on the Thursday ‘fore she hit on Friday and the only reason they din’t git us was they was a’ gettin’ ready for the big blow acomin’ off the gulf. It was their third try on us but they just never got ‘round to us after the flood. I heard from a rat on the street that a couple of our people was actin’ white and turned us. Heard that a passle of marshals were a’gettin’ ready to hit us agin, we move back over there. We beat ‘em out three times already. We mighta’ lost the place and the business, but Katrina done saved us from the big house. I hear the bail is now runnin’ fifty big ones for dealers over there now and we just ain’t got that kind of sugar, now do we?”
“Don’t be tellin’ me what I already knows. Tell me what you wavin’ round in yo’ hand. What we did won?”
“This here fat package with the red writin’ say we won sumpin’. Don’t rightly know what it is yet but it sure be thick and heavy girl. Say right here, YOU ARE IN—YOU ARE A WINNER. Don’t know what it is just yet.”
“Well open it, fool.”
Ripping off the brown paper on the securely doubly taped bundle, Jamal pulled out a ribbon wrapped silver foil packet labeled in huge, red, elegantly scripted letters, WINNER.
“Here ‘tis girl. We done won somthin’, ‘cause they done wrapped it up like it was Christmas and put a red ribbon on it.”
“C’mon man. Stop yo’ jackin’ ‘roun’ and open it. What we won?”
I’s tryin’ girl. I is tryin’. They put it in so much wrappin’ I’s havin’ trouble getting’ down to the prize.” Using his switch blade, Jamal slit the foil and the ribbon and extracted a sheaf of official looking documents emblazoned with a colorful yellow wax seal and elegant green calligraphy text emblazoned across the title page.
“Says we won, girl”
“Damn you, Jamal. What we won? C’mon. Tell me whasup?
“Say here we won a fishin’ trip.”
“A fishin’ trip. What you mean, a fishing trip?”
“Says right here, Takesha, we done won ourselves a luxury three day fishing trip out in the gulf. We is winners. Got that ‘all inclusive’ stuff in here too, says food and drink all furnished and for free. They gonna bring the fishing poles and the bait—no charge and we don’ pay for nothin’. Says we gonna have prime rib, lobster, St. Louis BBQ ribs and soul food chitlins. Free well drinks, beer and all the fixin’s.”
“We won a trip? A fishin’ trip? That what you say? Don’t need no fishin’ trip. Shee-it. We’s got plenty of fish those people of yours be hoggin’ outa the delta upriver that they be wantin’ to swap for some of those crack rocks you sell.”
Jamal loved fish. He hated greasy southern fried chicken as much as his wife loved it and he was one half of that “Jack Spratt “couple—the woman who could eat no lean and the husband who could eat no fat. His idea of paradise was the backyard Saturday afternoon boiled Cajun fish, red beans and rice with lots of beer and jive talk. Thin and wiry, he never gained weight on his thin bent frame that was draped in 3X voluminous Hawaiian shirts to mask his bent bullet damaged spine and he wore forties style elevator shoes in a vain attempt to increase his stature. He forsook the standard collection of gold chains and ostentatious emblems of the ordinary drug dealer, trying to assume the innocuous and inconspicuous appearance of a quiet, unassuming next door neighbor.
“Now Takesha, you know how much I love catfish, honey. I likes it better than them chicken legs you likes so much. I only swapped a couple of crack rocks, that one time, for that big ol’ catfish and I ain’t done it again since.”
“Jamal, we still got catfish in the freezer from that one time. Don’t need no more fish and I don’t need no fishin’ trip—free or not.”
“Girl just listen to me. Says it’s a luxury trip—like them white folks from the CBD ‘cross the river take out there on the gulf. Just look at these here pictures of the boat. Says we get a luxury suite with a king bed and a balcony to sit on and drink our Crown Royal. Says they gonna give us well drinks, beer or even sweet tea; whatever we want.”
“What if’n I get sick out there? I’d probably get seasick and puke up. Never been on one ‘a them big fishin’ boats before.”
“Takesha, you never been on any boat ‘cept my john boat and that was way upriver. They got pills if you gets seasick.”
“Jamal, they go clear out there in the ocean. You can’t even see the land they goes so far out.”
“It’s okay baby. They got a radio and if sumpin’ goes down they got life preservers and a lifeboat. Coast guard come for sure, if need be.”
“NO. No way Jamal. Ain’t gonna’ do it,” said Takesha obstinately, returning to the kitchen to her now cold fried chicken, grits and red beans and rice still on the kitchen table.
Takesha, Jamal’s wife had a weight problem in spite of the remonstrations from the Ochsner clinic doctors downtown. She loved fried foods; anything fried—chicken, fish, pork chops, potatoes, hamburgers; anything fried. Her mantra was ‘If it ain’t fried, it ain’t cooked’. The fixin’s, Cajun red beans and rice, grits, mufalatta’s, jambalaya; for it was southern cuisine that helped her to attain her four hundred pounds and seventy pounds; her massive breasts, overhanging belly, love handles and her huge steatopygian-like bottom were monumental testaments to her huge appetite.
“Says here girl, we even got a cook comin’ along and we can have anything we want to eat. They even say they got room service—means they bring the food right to your room.”
“You say I don’t have to cook none. Who gonna clean the fish?”
“They got boys to clean them fish for us. Girl, this is one of those honky, upscale fishin’ trips, I tells you.”
“Where it say all that? Maybe I go along if’n it says all that and I don’t have to cook.”
“Right here in this paper. We can’t pass this one up. We’re gonna be rollin’ in high cotton. Says here if we catch a big fish we even get in the contest. Big fish wins ten really big ones; that’s ten grand, girl, and we even get to keep the fish for us’n. We gotta do this one momma.”
“You know what the preacher say, Jamal, ‘if it sounds too good to be true, probably tis’.”
“Lemme ask around and see if anyone knows of this Do, a’ comin’ up. Sounds good, but you may be right, it could be a scam. They not askin’ for money though. If it’s a scam, they usually ask for up-front green. I think we got ourselves a deal comin’ up here and we not gonna lose out on it if ‘n I can help it. Always wanted to go out on one of those fishin’ boats like them uptown folks do cross the river.”
“What all them crack heads gonna do while you’re gone? They sho ‘nuff gonna find another dealer for their crack rocks and your business done be gone by then, baby.”
“I’ll tell ‘em to use Charles over in Metairie. I’ll say I’m only gonna’ be gone three days. Lemme’ call him and see if he’ll ‘commodate me?” Jamal had Charles on his speed dial and after pushing the appropriate buttons on his cell phone, Charles answered in just seconds.
“Charles, I be going on a trip for a few days. Need you to cover me with these crazy crack head kids while I’m gone. They gonna’ be needin’ some rock hits, I be gone.”
Charles was the black and white film negative opposite of Jamal. Tall, coal black, heavy, with a full beard, he was a former NFL linebacker, wore Armani suits, Belgian shoes and a clean white silk shirt every day. A plethora of gold chains, bling, festooned his neck and an amber cat’s eye ring adorned his right pinkie finger. He was the epitome of the successful drug dealer.
“Jamal, I know you be going on a trip. Fishin’ trip, ain’t it. And how I know? I got me a fish trip letter too. Says gonna be a luxury trip.”
“That’s it Charles. You done got the same letter—same as mine. Mine says limited to four people. Must be just you and me and the women and I reckon you be bringin’ Lovitha with you, ain’t you?”
“That’s for sure, Jamal. Not gonna’ leave her here this side o’ the river. There’s no tellin’ what kind o’ mischief she get in if’n I”s gone. Sounds right, ‘bout the trip, Jamal. Who gonna get these crack heads their rocks while we outa’ touch?”
“Charles, they gonna haf’ta make do, I say. They be back when we start up again. We shut down for days at a time befo’—you know when the man comes round. They know, he come ‘roun’ we gotta’ lay low for a time; special when one it’s one o’ them federal DEA mans come a snoopin’. Them government guys doan come lookin’ much no more. I hear it’s cause you beat ‘em out, Charles, down at the courthouse so many times.
“Jamal, you had yo’ day in court with them DEA boys and you beat ‘em too. Three times, I hear.”
“Weren’t me, brother. It was them fancy uptown lawyers and that high flown law talk. Them sharks cost me a bundle but man, they sho’ worth it, Charles. Didn’t do no time neither.”
“We sure ‘nuff got the locals in our pocket but them guys from DC just won’t touch our sugar, now will they?”
“Whatever. These kids is hooked good, after only one or two hits on a pipe. Bein’s we so close to the school helps, now don’t it. They’ll find a way to get stuff when we gets scarce. You know that for a fact, now don’t you Charles.”
“You right brother. Ain’t gonna worry ‘bout ‘em. They be comin’ roun’ when the heat’s off and we gets back.”
“Well then, I won’t worry none neither.”
“You gonna go?”
“Sure am. You too?”
“See you at the dock on Thursday, brother. Gonna have us a sweet time.”
By noon, that Thursday, crack heads were beginning their daily trek to Jamal’s place of business—his front porch, looking for their “stuff”; the stuff “that I’ll do anything for,” the stuff to relieve their craving, their need; crack cocaine rocks.
“Don’t you kids be smokin’ that stuff here on my porch, boy. Get on outa’ here with that pipe. Can’t have the man comin’ round lookin’ to put us colored folk down. If’n he takes me down what cha you gonna’ do for your stuff. Only other dealer I know of is clear over in Metairie—and you know him, Charles, and he goin down next if’n I do; so git on outa’ here, you hear?”
Nearly a dozen nervous and jittery young people, black and white alike, clutching their grimy, ragged ten dollar bills, congregated on Jamal’s porch, all urgently seeking their crack rocks.
“Gotta’ announcement, yo’ all, so listen up, hear? Charles and me gonna be gone for the weekend. We be closin’ up till next Monday. We both goin’ on a fishin’ trip, so don’t be comin’ roun’ here whining and sniveling, lookin’ for yo’ hit, you hear?”
“Fishing trip?” Why you goin’ on a fishin’ trip?”, said one corn rowed customer, his nose red and inflamed, his pinpoint pupil eyes staring anxiously at his dealer, Jamal. “All you need do, man, is see Mr. Robert, upriver and he’ll get you some fine catfish. He hogs ‘em outa’ the delta most every day, I hear.”
“This is a luxury fishin’ trip like the white folk do, boy. Why you tellin’ me ‘bout fish. Keep you eyes on yo’ own plate, Jim. Just know we ain’t gonna be doin’ business till next week. Get yo’ stuff from some corner dealer if you can find one. Now that’s it, so get on outa’ here.”
***
“Takesha, Charles be goin’ with us on the fishing trip. I called him on his cell and he say he’s goin’ too. Ain’t that nice?”
“Jamal, somethin’ this good is just too good. I’s suspicious.”
“Takesha, we finally get somethin’ good comin’ down on us and you wanna’ fuck it up. Why you actin’ that way?”
“I’s just bein’ careful and I think you oughta’ be chary too. Don’t be actin’ the fool when they tell you that you is the lucky one.”
“You right, girl. Takesha, I’s gonna’ check on the street just one more time. If I don’t hear bad, I’s goin’ on with or without you. Now you hear me?”
“I hears you. You do your checkin’ and see if it’s all kopaseti.”
The feelers went out but no one in the hood had heard about the trip; only the pair of crack dealers. Guess we be the lucky ones, Jamal thought to himself as he reassured Takesha.
“We be goin’ girl. We goin’ upscale. We is movin’ up. We has arrived.”
Both Jamal and his wife Takesha were undeniably nervous when Thursday arrived. Pacing nervously, up and down on the front porch, Takesha worried about what to take and wear on the trip.
“What they wear on a fishin’ boat?”
“Don’t you worry none ‘bout what to wear. Wear them pants you got on now and a big hat. We don’t need no sun abeatin’ down on us. They say in the letter they furnish everythin’. I goin’ just like this. Not gonna’ bring me no heat along, though, Takesha, damn girl, you got me worried ‘bout this trip with all yo’ jabberin’ and talkin’ trash, but no worry ‘bout rivals out there on the water, I figure no need for a piece for protection.”
“Fine to me, Jamal. But I goin’ just like this then. Hope Lovitha, Charles’ wife, don’t dress up fancy and make me look a fool. That girl thinks she is high end, but she nuthin’ but a high yella’ fancied up ho’.”
Takesha had reason to have misgivings about Charles’ wife. Lovitha was the personification of the successful drug dealer’s consort. Expensive clinging clothes from the best boutiques, six inch heeled Jimmy Choo shoes, two huge diamond rings on each hand, a surfeit of gold bangles on each wrist. With her over abundant of layers of makeup, Lovitha was the embodiment of an overdressed, jewelry adorned, and conspicuously consuming drug dealer’s spouse.
“We goin’ in a taxi, momma. No need to leave the caddy down on the dock lot while we gone. Them kids will strip it if we leave it in the lot, so get yo’self together and get on down here. We leavin’. And don’t be worryin’ none on sea sickness. I got some pills to take care of you.” They gonna furnish all the other stuff so get it on, now.”
“Jamal, I’s tellin’ you just one more time. I get sick out there in the boat I gonna’ have yo’ black ass. Gonna cut you something fierce, I be sick and puke up. Where you get them pills?”
“Got you covered sista’. Got some pills right chere. That interne doctor from Charity need some crack and he sold me some pills for you if you need ‘em. Gave him two big ones and a couple o’ rocks for these here pills and he say you take one afore you get on the boat. Make you sleepy but that’s all, he tol’ me.”
At the dock, they saw Charles and his wife Lovitha, standing near the gangplank, the pair decked out in their Sunday best, as Jamal and Takesha got out of the cab, curbside.
“Hey bro. Glad you could make it. We just got here. Let’s see ‘bout the boat,” Charles said, grasping Jamal’s hand as the two began the complex hand and fist knuckle bumping greeting maneuvers.
“Why you so dressed up girl friend? Lovitha, don’t you know yo’ gonna smell like fish ‘for we get off o’ this here boat?”, Takesha said, shaking her head, pointedly dissing the overdressed Lovitha.
Before the woman could reply, a steward, dressed in a plain blue, unmarked uniform with a high collar stepped forward, greeting them with a smile and an outstretched hand.
“Welcome aboard. We’ve been expecting you. Do come this way, you lucky people. You know there are only the four of you fortunate ones who have won and are taking advantage of this exceptionally generous offer.”
As they shuffled up the slanted gangplank, holding tightly to the unsteady railings, Takesha looked around questioningly and said, “Where the place we gonna stay?”.
“Oh you’ll be shown your quarters straightaway. For now, come in to the saloon for some instructions and a talk by the Captain, a welcome drink or two and a chance to ask questions. I’ll take you on a tour of the boat to familiarize you that you feel more comfortable about this craft. As the foursome stepped aboard the yacht, the steward said, “You are now on the fishing deck and those are the fighting chairs for you to sit in when you hook up with a big one. Up there on the fly bridge, we’ve got a whole rack of rigged poles for trolling and bait fishing for you. I will up explain all the rest to you later when I take you on a tour of the boat.”
“We never been on one of these fancy charter boats a’fore so you gonna hafta’ tell us all about this stuff and how we gonna catch the big ones,” said Jamal.
“I believe the brochure did tell you about the contest, didn’t it? We have two big burly deck boys inside to help and assist with fishing. They will bait your hooks and even help you land your catch. They’re down below right now but they’ll be up here to lend a hand when we get out to the deeper water. About the contest, the one who catches the biggest bill fish is entered in the greater gulf deep sea fishing contest automatically. The winner gets ten thousand dollars.”
“Whoo-ee. I can use that kind of green,” said Takesha. “Got some uptown shoes I needs.”
“Well then, let me say again, welcome aboard. I’m Tim and I’m the chief steward. Your wish is my command while you’re aboard this craft. Just call for Tim and I’ll get what you need. Now do come in to the lounge, have a seat and relax until the Captain comes down from the bridge to welcome you and answer your questions. He’s up there getting us underway and I’m going to get you people some welcome aboard drinks. These special drinks, “Dock Leavin’ Specials” are a tradition aboard this boat and I’m sure you’ll enjoy them. Just visit with each other for a few minutes inside,” Tim said as he turned to the galley.
“This place kinda fancy I say,” said Charles, as they wandered about the sizeable nautically decorated salon. Luxurious lounge chairs and a wide settee lined two walls. Watercolor paintings of sailing ships, and a stuffed trophy sword fish was mounted on the forward cabin bulkhead over a well stocked wet bar, replete with a plethora of various sized glasses. The back bar, also well stocked in three tiers, displayed a number of expensive and exotic multicolored alcoholic beverages. A huge flat screen TV occupied one corner of the salon playing a BET network show, its RAP background beat pulsating through the multiple sensaround speakers from the four corners of the salon.
“You right, Jamal, we be in high cotton. Them white folk sure know how to live, now don’t they,” said Lovitha, Charles’ wife. “The brochure say we got private suites with a balcony, a king sized bed, TV, phones and we even got room service. Better ‘n Disney Land I figure.”
“Anything this fancy that’s free makes me a little chary. How come they choose us? What makes us so special and why a private trip for just the four of us?” Takesha groused, still warily scanning the luxury lounge.
“Shit, Takesha, you gonna spoil it for us. Just shut yo’ mouth, sit back and wait for the Cap’n. Man say he comin’ down to welcome us and answer yo’ questions.”
“Listen, Jamal, don’t diss me. I already tol’ you once, I’m gonna have your black ass if I get seasick.”
“Tol’ you too momma, I got some pills from the hood for if you get sick.”
Tim, the steward, reappeared in minutes with a tray of tall, colorful, exotic drinks, their rims garlanded with pieces of fruit and paper umbrellas.
“Here we are folks. These are what we call ‘the Dock Leavers’ Specials, and they are a tradition aboard this boat for our customers, so drink up. They’re pretty potent and might even make the ladies a bit sleepy but I’m sure you’ll like ‘em. Everyone seems to enjoy them.”
Sampling the offered drinks the foursome agreed that they were indeed intoxicatingly strong as well as flavorsome.
“He right about strong. My tongue gone asleep already. Makes me yawn, but I like the taste,” said Takesha. Lovitha and the two men agreed with her as Tim refilled their tall glasses, twice and then a third time.
As they were finishing their third libation, the salon door slowly opened and a tall distinguished looking gray haired, gentleman stepped into the lounge, a maroon cravat at his neck, as he doffed his rakishly crushed captain’s hat. His immaculate, dark blue silk uniform, obviously hand tailored, was set off with a maroon handkerchief in the breast pocket and burnished gold buttons securing the maroon lined coat and with four rows of gold buttons at each cuff. An equivocal bulge on his left hip was evident. Was he “packin” thought the two street-wise drug dealers, as the pair made eye contact glancing at each other, questioningly.
Nodding to the four guests, smiling, with widespread arms, the picture of an elegant charter boat captain, he boomed, “Welcome aboard, my friends to my fishing charter motor catamaran. Drink up. You have won a wonderful prize, fishing trip. I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourselves. I’ll wager you’ll be saying the event was just too abbreviated before we finish.”
“Your what? What you say this boat is? A cat?”
“She’s a cat. A catamaran with two hulls, so she sails flat and so you won’t get seasick,” he explained. “And she’s a fine fishing boat, though we do charters and special event trips on request. We have all the required navigational and nautical safety gear on board and you will be very safe, so enjoy yourselves, as this is one of those special event trips.”
“Sho’ glad to hear that.” Said Takesha. “Just doan wanna haf to swim back home. Can’t swim anyhow as ‘tis.”
“Hush, Takesha. Let him talk. That ain’t funny and you knows it.”
The captain continued, “she’s big, as you can see, and since she’s a cat with two hulls it’s most unlikely she could sink no matter what we might encounter, so don’t you worry about us doing a Titanic. We’ve got two big Yamaha diesels down below and she’s got plenty of fuel. We have all the fishing gear, bait and provisions for a long weekend at sea so I want the four of you to relax and enjoy yourselves these few days. That gentle rumble you hear and the vibrations you can feel is just the engines beginning to put on some rpms as we are leaving the river and are about to head out into the open gulf waters; blue water if you will; deep, placid, blue, very deep and NOAA tells us it’s going to be a quiet weather weekend with lots of sun and no storms. I’ve assigned the four of you to the starboard side cabins on the passenger deck above. We do have two other gentlemen on board, government men, I believe, but they will keep to themselves on the port side of the boat. They’re here just for observation and reporting but they will not be fishing.”
Still distrustful, Takesha looked at the captain warily as she stood, thrusting her chin out and swinging her hand in a wide sweep around the salon.
“Why you doin’ all this for us? Why you choose us? What we do to get all this fancy? We pretty much like everyone else in the hood, so why us? Speak up brother. Why us?”
“First let me offer my sincere welcome to the four of you. I doubt you’ve heard of us but I hope you read in the brochure in your cabin of our facilities, the king sized beds, the verandas just out your cabin door, the room service and the flat screen TVs. I have an idea, no; no, I really hope that the four of you enjoy yourselves on this entirely too short of a trip for it really is going to seem much too brief for the four of you. Right now, we’re headed to the deepest part of the gulf as we have to perform the initial part of our chartering instructions and then some excellent shark fishing should follow. As you can see, if you just look out the aft portholes, by now, we’re pretty far out in the gulf. We report back to the office, at the dock, periodically so that they know that we’re accomplishing what we have been paid to do. This is a two part endeavor. After completing phase one of the trip, we will proceed to the second or fishing phase of the trip.”
“Who is us? Who you reporting to? Just who are you people?” said Charles.
“We’re independent contractors, a private charter company. We offer entertainment as well as security services, all over the world. We have been in business for a long time but we are less widely known, though we do have a reputation for doing excellent work, quietly and efficiently with very little fanfare. We’re rather expensive but as you all know, you pay for what you get. We’re costly but we deliver full measure and on time to those who purchase our services.”
“We can see you do what you say, man, but who hired you and what’s the name of yo’ company. And one more thing, why they choose us? You never did tell us who they are,” said Takesha, now acting high-handedly imperious.
“One thing at a time my dear, first of all, they, these people, have had their eye on you two, Jamal and Charles, for quite some time. There are ways of monitoring who you are and what you do in the community; in the hood, as it were, very efficiently and quietly as well as somewhat surreptitiously. They have had the pair of you and your wives, under their watchful eyes for more than a year and that’s how and why they chose you. You are a select few in your field, back in the hood, one on each side of the river, here in your chocolate city, who warrant our special attention.”
“Select few? In what field? What you sayin’ man? I’s a dealer. I’s a drug dealer. I sell crack cocaine rocks to crack head kids. We deal just round the corner from the middle school and doin’ it soft. Everyone know that,” said Jamal.
“That’s right,” said the captain. “We are well aware of your exceptional success in your entrepreneurial endeavors with the neighborhood children and more importantly in the courts.”
“Who you say you are? What’s yo’ business? said Charles warily, now more suspicious.
“We’re the Black Watch company. We’re a lot like Blackwater International, but we’re more discrete and low key. We do some less publicized dark projects requested by various agencies around the world that don’t want their names associated with the outcomes of our endeavors, if you know what I mean.”
“Blackwater? Ain’t them the guys that got their tits in the wringer over in Iraq?”
“True, but we are certainly and definitely not Blackwater. We are much more discrete and distinct from that all too well publicized, ill behaved contractor. We’re Black Watch, not Blackwater and we’ve never been reported or accused of any wrong doing and have, as yet, to be involved in any troublesome or critical, sensational headlines.”
“Well then, if yo’ all is so lily white, who hired you to take us on this fancy trip and why did they contract you just to take us fishin’? Nobody does things like this for nuthin’ so what are you gonna get outa’ this?
“Oh we have already been well compensated for this endeavor. We’re doing exactly what our sponsor wanted done and we’re doing it quietly with little fanfare and I’m sure the results will please our guarantor. They requested an immediate and concise report when phase one is complete and we are going to deliver what they want.”
“Who hired you to take us on a fishing trip? I wanna’ know and I wants to know now,” said Jamal, acutely annoyed by the repeated evasiveness of the captain. “Don’t like the way this is goin’.”
Turning to his companions who now were lazing back sleepily in their lounge chairs, Jamal snapped harshly, “Takesha, Charles, Lovitha. Sit up. Wake up. Pay attention here to what this man sayin’. Why you folks actin’ so sleepy? It’s them drinks they gave us, ain’t it. Yo’ all better be listenin’ to what he’s tellin’ us ‘bout this trip. I truly don’t like much ‘bout what I’m hearin’ here.”
The captain continued, “I’d rather not say who our sponsor is at this time. Suffice it to say, their identity is not germane to our mission nor to this undertaking. Your repeated not guilty results after several trials are well known to many. You two dealers, in your own way, are indeed famous and well known in the halls of justice. Just take for granted that your accomplishments have prompted an unusual response not entirely within the framework of accepted law enforcement.
For now, all these accouterments have been paid for and if we accomplish our assignment, a bonus is awaiting us on our return from the gulf. The two men from the government agency on the starboard side of the boat will confirm the completion of our mission before we return to the dock.”
“What you say? Am I hearin’ you right, bro? You gonna get a bonus for takin’ us fishin’? We’s goin’ fishin’ and someone’s goin’ to pay you for takin’ us fishin’? This trip be costin’ someone a lotta’ green, brother.”
“Oh we’re going fishing all right. In a few hours we’ll be fishing for sharks; big ones, just as soon as we complete the first part of this project.
Didn’t you see the name of this boat when you came aboard?
Her name is CHUMIN’.
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Short Bio of Reilly Maginn
Dr. Reilly Maginn is a surgeon who has spent fifteen years in the south Pacific islands as a medical outreach physician; and he has a host of stories to tell. His writing career began in 1960 when he wrote more than twenty professional articles for national and international surgical journals related primarily to his specialty of organ transplantation. He began writing genre fiction, literary essays, and became the “storyteller” for several gulf coast publications when he returned to the mainland in 1995.
At present he is teaching short story writing for the Institute for Lifelong Learning (ESILL) on the gulf coast. Dr. Maginn has published more than forty award-winning short stories in such venues as the Birmingham Arts Journal, the National League of American Pen Women, Sail Magazine, Thema Literary Journal and Birds and Blooms magazine. He has won numerous writing competition awards from the Alabama Writers Conclave, The Tennessee Mountain Writers Group, The National League of American Pen Women, The Creative Writers of Alabama Group as well as the Baldwin Writers Group.
In addition to his writing endeavors, the doctor is a Master Gardener, a sailboat captain, amateur chef and an accomplished wood turner. He is the past president of the Baldwin Writers Group and a member of the Alabama Writers Conclave, the Chattahoochee Valley Writers Group and The Tennessee Mountain Writers Group. His debut novel BIO, published in 2006, is a medical action thriller. “Doctor Stories & Other Tales,” is a collection of short stories he hopes to publish shortly. He also will soon publish his, as yet unfinished, novel Tsunami.
Dr. Maginn continues as an associate professor of clinical surgery at St. Louis University Medical School, as he has for the last fifty years and continues to do volunteer work in the medical community in the Mobile Bay area.
Please visit his Web Site, www.ReillyMaginn.com for a comprehensive list of awards and publications as well as a more detailed biography.
Recent publications include “Sarah” in the Birmingham Arts Journal, 12/08, “Permission” in the Gulf Coast Mag. This, That and the Other, Magazine 03/06, “Crossed Cultures” in Thema Literary Journal Spring 2010, “Don’t Sass yo’ Momma,” in the Al. Writers Conclave Anthology, 9/08 and in Sail Magazine, “Fall Delivery”, in 01/08 and “Diablo” 3/08 as well as “BOOTS” in the Timber Creek Review.
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Attention, Shoppers
Mike Malloy
Danny had his own way of dealing with the awful customers. He told me about it one night—a Monday night—while I was mopping the floor and he was hanging by the registers.
“I like to imagine that actually, all the really stupid, irritating customers are doing secret guerilla theater performance art that I don’t know about. So instead of getting angry at them, I just get sort of happy and proud, like I’m in on the joke. And I say, ‘Man, that’s a really convincing portrayal of a crazy old lady or controlling business suit-wearing asshole you’ve got going on there.’ It makes it fun, as opposed to depressing.”
After Danny keyed me into that way of doing things, I started trying it out myself. On the lady who insisted she had exact change, and then made me and three other people wait while she, with agonizing slowness, rooted through her tiny pink change purse, before deciding that really she didn’t have exact change and actually didn’t want one third of the stuff in her cart. Or the two teenage girls who, not understanding how shoe racks worked, asked me where the other half of each pair was as they stood by dozens of shoe boxes. Or the old man who insisted that everything was too expensive and, while standing by the store manager, told his kids not to pay for anything in their baskets. Then they set off the security alarms.
Every time an alarm goes off we have to write down a coded reason why it did in a little notebook. Possible explanations include “Employee Error,” “Customer Mistake,” and the enigmatic, yet-to-be-used “Phantom.” Actually, alarms often go off for no reason; we just wave the customers through, even if they look suspicious. We could lose far more in some false accusation lawsuit than anyone could sneak out the store in her purse, so really the store is kind of a theft-related free-for-all. The only thing that keeps us going is the assumption that most customers don’t realize this is the case. Also, that they don’t realize the “cameras” in the ceiling are hollow glass orbs with no wiring attached.
At first I kind of liked our customers. They were sometimes fun or funny, and they gave me something to do with my time. And I liked dealing with them better than sweeping up or moving freight or unloading the truck or breaking down boxes. But after a short stretch of having to deal with the sort of folks our store attracts—bourgeois suburban moms, old folks who grew up during the depression and think it’s still going on and that it’s my fault, spoiled teens who make their parents give them whatever they want, including assaults on my dignity—I lost that early naive glow.
Our customers are not just annoying. They are creepy. They look alike. They wear the same muted earth tones and chintzy jewelry, smell of the same floral and soap perfumes, buy the same crappy gospel and easy listening CDs, yell at their analogous five-to-eight year-old progeny in a manner that suggests similitude. Coming out the employee-only double doors onto an aisle full of our customers has a “Night of the Living Dead” quality to it.
They talk to themselves while they shop. Sometimes they say something weird, like “You don’t see spoons like that these days,” and it’s not clear if they are saying it to me, or themselves, or little elves only they can see. They take things out of their boxes, demand to see things that nobody could possibly be interested in seeing (ugly twenty dollar pens, five dollar plastic earrings from China missing half their fake gemstones, golf-ball shaped back massagers); they become fussy over peculiar things, like the comparative erosion of the coins they’re given in change. They ask if products really work (What are they expecting us to say? “No”?).
But Jerome told me and I believe him, that shopping is about more than meets the eye. Jerome saw shopping as a kind of sacrament, or at least as something significant. He had plenty of time to think about it, I guess, what with all those nine-hour shifts.
Shopping is more than what you buy. In fact, the thing you walk away with often isn’t important at all. When you buy something it’s so exciting, but by the time you get it home, it’s dull. Pedestrian. It almost squats there on your counter, doesn’t it? Think of how exciting it is to see twenty of something in a store and how dull it is to see one of it in your house. Shouldn’t the one in your house be more exciting, seeing as it’s yours?
Shopping isn’t what you buy; it’s buying. In the course of the transaction a little drama is enacted in which the various parties assume dramatic parts and social power, if only for a time. The buyer gets to exert control over the employees at the store; the employees get to take the buyer’s money. In the course of the buying, a reversal occurs. The thing transpires in stages.
A customer enters a store and asks a sales associate if he can help her. He says he can and she proceeds to ask a series of complicated, sometimes illogical questions (I was once asked, with no introduction, what you get when you multiply eight by seventeen). The customer might make the sales associate carry things, embarrass him or herself, cause other people to have to wait. But in the end the transaction must happen, and in the moment when the associate says: “Can I see your card, please?” (and most transactions are with cards), a reversal occurs.
Now the customer is the one buying. The sales associate is asking the questions and issuing the orders: can I have your card, is that credit or debit, sign here, fill this out, take your receipt. The customer’s control of the sales associate has revealed itself to be just another purchase, a commodity obtained for a short time by the exchange of money. In addition to buying the product the customer has bought the sales associate’s time, and the right to be better than that associate—to give orders, to be a social superior. But that high of control has a price, revealing in the end a kind of parity between customer and employee. Both are tangled together in money, their common medium of exchange. The customer is in the store to spend the money; the sales associate, to earn it.
Jerome was something special. I remember the first day Jerome came into the store. I could tell right away that there was something different about him. He picked things up fast. He was nice enough, easy to talk to. He asked you questions like he was really interested.
But what was unusual about him was his gift. He had the ability to understand what people wanted, what they really wanted. He understood what was at stake in transactions, not just what sat on the counter-space by the register. He knew not what people wanted to buy, but why they wanted to buy it.
He knew, for instance, if a woman were in the store looking for a gift for her daughter, exactly what it was the woman wanted to communicate with the gift: to her daughter, to herself, to the sales team. If the woman wanted to show that she was younger than her age, independently wealthy, understanding about her daughter’s relationship with a boy of a different race, Jerome could figure all that out. And somehow, he could suggest the right product to convey those things. He could turn objects into sentiments.
And what was really weird was that the connections Jerome could sense were not direct. If a man needed to buy something to prove his masculinity, Jerome wouldn’t suggest something obvious, like an accessory to a muscle car or a leather jacket or a sound system. Because masculinity is different to everyone, and it’s so tied-up in weird old memories that no one understands and half the time people forget they even have, Jerome would somehow know to suggest something seemingly unrelated: a binder set-up to incorporate recipes, a stove-top espresso maker, a curtain rod with silver filigree. Somehow, these products would do more than their boxes and advertisements implied. They would fulfill needs. People would come into the store broken, but they would leave whole. Jerome called himself a money-changer. He turned money into other things, things intangible but nevertheless inescapable. He filled in holes people didn’t know they had. He was a dentist who filled cavities.
Jerome never claimed he could read minds. What he said was he understood merchandise. He understood what selling meant. He said St. Joe’s Prep was pretty intense, and though he wasn’t much for classes something from Dante stuck with him: in the middle ages, theft wasn’t just stolen goods. It was about identity. What people managed to accumulate in part defined their selfhood. If we can’t be sure what we possess, we can’t be sure who we are. It puts a different spin on “identity theft.”
One night a woman came into the store pushing a shopping cart. But she didn’t just come into the store; she bustled. You know that phrase, “hustle and bustle?” This woman did not hustle, but she did bustle. She reeked of French Vanilla and Lavender as she rifled through the coarse red and yellow jackets in the apparel section. On the in-store stereo system Santo and Johnny were performing “Sleep Walk.” I was sorting lingerie, always a pain because of all the little hooks and grabby bits on the hangers. I theorized once with the Pakistani midget who also worked up front that there were little gremlins whose sole joy in this world was to sneak into the store every night, go to the lingerie section, and fuck it up.
About that Pakistani midget: she was my third favorite employee, after Jerome and Danny. She had a theory about Jerome’s powers—that what people really needed to buy wasn’t about the product, but about the molecules in it.
“Everything consist of molecules,” she said. “Everything once was something else. So maybe when you buy one thing you really are buying something else. Some piece of when you were small child, or something that belong to your parents, or a small piece of dust from country you are from.” She thought that made about as much sense as anything.
Anyway. The woman rifled through the clothes and then lurched on to the Christmas cards, another section that we never could keep straight. She pawed at the cards in a manner that was almost sexual, or maybe animal—it was like a cat licking itself or a dog chasing its own tail. From Christmas cards she oozed into seasonal goods and then protoplasmed into the barware section. She was fondling wine glasses, sniffing at cutlery, caressing the ceramics.
When the woman first came in I’d said “hello” to her. She didn’t respond. I didn’t think much of it. Plenty of people don’t respond.
Jerome approached her. He smiled. He always had to act twice as nice as everybody else because he was black and a lot of our customers have a tendency to clutch defensively at their purses when he appears.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I just came in here for wrapping paper, but...”
“Are you looking for anything else?”
“Well. I don’t know. I like to come by sometimes and see if there’s a bargain. Do you have anything new reduced?”
Jerome shook his head.
“No new sales until the first of the month, I’m afraid.”
“Huhhhn,” said the woman, holding a coffee mug up to the halogen light. “This looks chipped. Do you take anything off for that?” She squinted in a manner that upset her caked-on make up and lined her shopworn face. Jerome looked at the perfectly fine cup.
“In situations like that we’d take off fifteen percent,” he said diplomatically.
“Muuuhhn,” said the woman, squinting some more at the cup.
“Would you be interested in anything in the garden section?”
“Ugh, maybe. I just don’t know. My car. It’s up for inspection. Well of course I put it off. I don’t know why it’s always up at the busiest time of the year. I take the kids to school and I take the car to the dealership and the guy says, ‘we need to look at your brake pads’ and of course I knew something wouldn’t be right with the brakes as well and I can’t just sit in the dealership all day so I told them I’d make another appointment. Well you know how that is.”
“Right.”
“My husband—he don’t like me working—he says why not just get the thing inspected, but I do community reading on Thursdays. And the back seat is filthy. I swear, my kids think anything is a trash basket. Well if I’m going to make it to the school on Thursday and the senior center on Friday—because of course I have to take my mother to bridge group, God knows my sister won’t lift a finger—what was I saying?”
“I think I should show you something in gardening.”
“Right. Thank you.”
I was stocking shelves as Jerome led the woman to gardening, but I kept one eye on him. I was bored and I needed something to pay attention to. I was deep into a nine-hour-shift and I’d used up all my breaks.
“I think maybe you should take a look at this,” said Jerome. He showed her a cardinal bird ornament that you put on a stick in your lawn. The woman looked at it.
“Huh,” she said. “That’s nice.”
She bought the thing. She seemed happier when she walked out.
What were you expecting? Fireworks? Slapstick comedy? A Marxist revolution?
But the funny thing is, when we saw her again (and we did see her again—we get a lot of repeat customers) she was different. She was better. Lighter. I credit her change to the cardinal bird.
Maybe I believe in Jerome more than most people. But I like to believe that somebody understands, that there’s more to this world than what we see. I believe there are deep psychic type things going on in people’s minds, so why shouldn’t somebody be able to read them? And Jerome was always good with people. He understood them, without having to be told.
Anyway. One night I asked Jerome what I might want in the store. Of all the shit that we sell (and we sell a lot of shit—think of us as a cheaper, worse K-Mart), what should I buy? Me with my employee discount of twenty percent, even.
He didn’t know. He said I didn’t want anything in the store.
I thought about that answer later, when I was out of the army and on the junk. When I shot up (and did I ever shoot up), what was it I was looking for? What was I chasing?
For me it started sensually. The chemicals were secondary. Yeah, I understood that heroin was an opiate and all that. But for me the big moment was when the needle pierced my skin. And the tincture of blood floating upward into the body of the syringe. The melding of the medicine and the plasma. And most of all maybe the sensation of control. For once, I was the doctor. I was giving my own shots. I remember when I was a boy, shoved into the doctors’ office for vaccines and flu shots. It’s not that I resented the doctors, it’s more that I suspected their motives.
But now I’m getting personal—and depressing. And I ask you—what’s the point of that? I don’t want to talk about myself. I want to talk about Jerome.
I think about the first night that I ever copped some of the junk. I mean the first night when I was back home. Afghanistan doesn’t count. Over there the junk there isn’t even junk; they treat it like nutmeg or corn syrup. And buying things is really different over there. Unlike here in the states, over there they have shortages. There are things you just can’t get. I knew a guy who sold hard drives of sex scenes they censored from movies. Some kids would just sell fruit, others milk, others bread or coffee or cigarettes. But sometimes I envied them. Those Taliban were crazy but at least they had their beliefs. In Afghanistan they banned the use of paper bags because the paper might be recycled and it might contain what might have once been a part of the Koran.
Think about it: these people believe that there is something sacred, something more important than anything else in the world, that can’t be bought or sold or manufactured or destroyed. They think it’s so important that it trumps recycled paper.
I think about that every time I have to say: paper or plastic?
But I’ll tell you something else. I saw a junk fiend over there once. He wasn’t Afghani. He was Uzbek. A mountain guy. A real sheep-shagger. He got mixed-up in some Islamic stuff but he wasn’t a terrorist, just religious and young and pissed-off. So I guess I could identify. Anyway, he fell off the Allah bandwagon and got into bootleg DVDs and driving his spray-painted truck through the mountain roads and heroin. But I remember him when he was waiting for a fix. He knew exactly who he was and what he wanted. Give a man something to want and you give him the world—just like how I could bust down some poor Afghani’s door if I knew I could skype with my girl afterwards, how I could work six hours if I knew I’d get a fifteen minute break. Nobody is happier than a heroin junkie knowing a fix is coming.
Maybe that’s something Jerome saw himself, when he looked over the shelves and end-caps of our store. I want to talk about his gift, his magic, the merchandise, the store, the memories. I want to talk about the dreams and the products and the gift and the power and the glory. The last thing I want to talk about is my ambiguities, the way I never could tell what it was I needed. I don’t want to talk about myself, a selectively permeable vacuole drifting through space. I want to talk about something interesting.
After all, you’re my audience, and I’m sure you must want something.
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...from “Fables,”
Tom Ball
Slavery
They say slavery is abolished in developed countries. But numerous people in these rich and also poor countries work for such low wages they can’t buy anything but rice and some vegetables.
In the past slaves were treated better.
Moral: Some things never change; there will always be “slaves”. Of course Aesop was a Greek slave all those 2550 or so years ago, but he was far better off than many of today’s workers.
Lonely Dog
Once there was a man who had a large dog. But he was away on business most of the time so the dog sat there lonely day after day.
Finally his neighbors called the police saying it was cruelty to animals.
Moral : People don’t care about a pig or steer being slaughtered but dogs, cats and some birds are treated differently. But does this mean a dog is cleverer than a pig or is it just more cute? And what about seals? Are they cute? Or is it all randomness?
Cool Cat
There was once a female cat who was dressed in all the latest fashions. Many animals admired her.
But lurking in the distance were some wolves. Said one wolf to another: “I prefer to eat well dressed animals. They taste better somehow.
Moral: If a female is cute she will attract many predators.
The Super Animal
There was a persistent rumor in the jungle that one day a “Super Animal” would come into being, perhaps created by people.
The animals all said they needed someone to speak for them. Many of them said they lived miserable lives.
It’s something to believe in anyway, they said.
Moral: Man and beast are often hoping for a savior.
Dreams of a Panda
A certain panda in the zoo had a dream in which the animals were outside the cages and the humans were inside.
He hated those gawking humans...
Moral: Some creatures have nothing to look forward other than dreaming. Without dreams they would be lost and insane.
Gambling Animals
And so it was the animals of the forest had set up a casino. A group of bears ran it and made large profits. The bears had security to make sure there were no fights
Of course everyone was a loser in the end, maybe they would win one day but lose 10 days. But many of the animals were so dumb that they gambled away all their money and even their home.
The bears considered their clients to be “losers.”
Moral: Life is a gamble, but we must gamble using educated guesses and calculated risks, not depend on Lady Luck.
Judge a Person by their Pet
There was once a dog breeder who said you could judge a person based on the type of dog they had.
For example, small dog, small ego. Or big dog, big ego. Beautiful dog, beautiful person, ugly dog a person who does ugly things And a vicious dog has a nasty master and so on.
Moral: These days, people will judge you in oh so many ways. But maybe better to not judge people so simply.
Bravado
Wolves scare other animals at night with their howls. Mosquitoes with their buzzing drive humans and animals crazy. And other animals roar loudly. Or have aggressive actions.
Moral: In this world animals try to intimidate each other. So too with humans in sports like US football or hockey. So too in business.
There will always be bullies no matter what kind of animal or person you are talking about.
Standing on the Shoulder of a Giant
There was once a very tall man, a giant.
He was fond of walking around the mountains with his young son on his shoulders.
But the boy kept saying that he was bored with beautiful views.
So his dad bought him some video games.
Moral: These days kids are easily bored.
Butterfly Album
There was once a butterfly lover who claimed butterflies were the most “graceful of all creatures.”
But when he caught them he would carefully kill them and put them in his album books.
Morals: Humans are always abusing the ones they love.
Descendants of Apes
They say we are all descendants of ape-like creatures. But to us today, most of us think apes are ugly and not so clever.
Moral: We all are kind of embarrassed about where we come from, evolutionary speaking. But in our own lives we all have skeletons in the closet, we are not perfect beings.
Drums of Fear
There was once a monkey playing the drums in the forest.
Many animals were scared by the drums and went away. And so by this stunt the monkey kept predators away.
Moral: It is often good to try new things.
Save the Tiger
Does anyone care about saving the tigers? A handful of environmentalists, perhaps? Most people are happy to see them in zoos.
Moral: Humans, in general, don’t like vicious predators even though we are the top worldwide predator.
Over in a Barrel
One day a man put a fox in a barrel and sent the barrel over Niagara Falls. All of his friends bet on whether the fox would survive the fall.
It turned out he had survived and the man was rich.
Moral: It’s just another example of animal abuse.
Return to the Roman Circus
In a small little country the rulers decided to in effect bring back the Roman circus. They started with having gladiators fight with tigers using only swords.
Then, like in ancient Romans, they picked numerous criminals and they flooded a stadium and there were sharks and four boats with armed men, each mutually opposed to one another. If you fell in the water the sharks would get you. Almost every man died in the 20 minutes of battle. The crowds roared their approval.
Other, richer countries, demanded that they cease the show but they kept it going, even offering free bread to the crowds.
Moral: Just like in action movies, many people love cruelty of all kinds.
Love of Animals
What will it take to teach people to love animals?
For starters people should have a pet. This will help make them animal friendly.
Also if synthetic meat and dairy products makes animals freer to live in the wild, that would be good. It is not a question of loving animals, but just respecting them, and not using them.
Moral: Maybe animals will be left behind evolutionary speaking. They will stay in the parks as the world turns. But it is likely that humans will try to “improve” animals and everything and everyone else.
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Not So Bad After All
Patrick Trotti
To himself he refers to her as the monster but in public he simply calls her mother. She’s a woman who reeks of stale gin and tonics and spews judgmental hatred from her foul mouth at every possible chance. Like a flesh eating disease, her personality has slowly eroded nearly all of his self-esteem leaving him a bitter, selfish, untrusting son of a bitch.
She has a way of hiding her poisonous venom from strangers, saving the most lethal remarks for him alone. When sober, her eyes are like the transparent coral waters off of a remote island but in an instant can turn to weapons of scorn with the ability to strike fear into the deepest recesses of his soul.
He, and no one else, has seen her use her ballerina like 100 pound frame and diminutive five foot stature take down a woman twice her size. That should’ve been the worst memory of her but that was only one of a myriad of explosions that littered his childhood.
Besides the eyes the biggest thing that sticks in his memory are her hands. Small, pale and freckled, her hands would tremble every morning because she hadn’t had her customary morning pick me up. Whenever they were in public he had to make sure that she had a little bottle stashed away in her purse so that she could keep herself leveled. That was the magic term for what she was doing to herself; leveled, as if she were an ancient building on the brink of complete ruin and could collapse at any moment.
After seeing her when she wasn’t level one time he knew to never try and make her stop again. He can remember the day vividly at a moment’s notice despite being only nine at the time. This day marked the turning point in their relationship, a point in which things would never be the same.
It started off as a usual day and nothing indicated that it would be unlike any other Tuesday before. Oddly enough he found the atmosphere within the four walls of his own house to be more nerve-wrecking than the cruelties that he was subjected to routinely at the hands of older bullies at school. Despite the mind numbing dullness of the school day he felt a sense of comfort knowing that inside the classroom he was safe; safe from all of the outside influences lurking beyond the carpeted floors of Ms. Winfield’s class.
Getting off the school bus he inhaled deeply at the sight of her car in the driveway. It was a blue Cadillac, a real piece of shit. The trunk could fit about ten people in it and the brakes squealed every time they were used. The back bumper was full of dents and various colors from other cars. She always got into accidents; usually after leveling off. She hadn’t used the car in a while because she had her license taken away.
The door was unlocked, as it always was, and the first thing that he noticed was the lack of noise throughout the house. She was probably passed out, or napping as she liked to call it. He always found it weird that despite being unemployed she was always tired. For a while he thought that she just tired of being around him but he later found out that it was the alcohol. He’s still not sure what’s worse.
She was snoring on the couch. An empty bottle of liquor was on the ground in front of her and the television was tuned into a soap opera. The show was one of the only things that brought a smile to her face. He tiptoed his way past her to the kitchen and started making something to eat. If he didn’t no one else would.
“Who’s there?” her voice bellowed from the other room.
“It’s just me. I’m making a snack.”
He was hoping that she would go back to sleep. She didn’t and struggled to get to her feet.
“Well why do you have to be so fucking loud about it? You know that I have to get my sleep.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s your problem, you never mean to. Wait a minute, what are you doing here, don’t you have school?”
“It’s four o’clock, school is over.”
He tried my best to remain calm. Already he could see the thick vein in the middle of her forehead beginning to bulge.
“Get the hell out my sight! It’s bad enough you woke me up, now you’re giving me a headache.”
He silently nodded and began to make his way to his room. Then she reached into a cabinet and took out a stack of dishes and began throwing them in his direction. The first hit him square in the back shoulder before falling to the floor and smashing into a thousand pieces. Thankfully she was a little too leveled for her own good and missed with the other three dishes before he was able to reach the stairs and scamper towards his bedroom.
She began screaming at him as he rushed to his room.
“You little prick, what did you do with my alcohol?”
It was like a cat and mouse game when she was like this. He had to cower away to some corner of the house and wait out her outburst and then, when it was quiet he could show his face again. He would be doing a lot of hiding during his childhood.
As he shut the door he quickly locked it and fell to the floor. He wondered how his mother, the woman who brought him into this world, could be so mean and hateful. What had he done to deserve this? He began to sob. He let the warm tears fall down his face until they reached his quivering lips. They were salty and bitter. He could hear stomping coming from the floor above. The yelling came next followed by the whining. She sounded like a weeping little girl who had just run out of candy. She wasn’t a girl though, and it wasn’t candy. She needed to level off but had already consumed her daily allowance. It would be a long night. He got under his sheets and closed his eyes and tried to imagine being somewhere else, anywhere else but right here right now.
Suddenly the alarm clock buzzed and he was woken from his nightmare. His sheets were still soaked in cold sweat from the night before. He gathered himself for a moment before making his way to the kitchen. Standing at the table his mother was sitting down in front of a warm and elaborate breakfast.
“Good morning sweetie. How did you sleep?” She asked with an innocent smile.
He was never before so happy to see her in his entire life.
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Patrick Trotti brief bio (02/16/10)
Patrick Trotti is a 24 year old college student from New York majoring in Creative Writing. His fiction has appeared at Glass Cases, Six Sentences and Eskimo Pie, and he is currently working on editing his first novel. You can also hear from Patrick Trotti at his blog at http://www.patricktrotti.blogspot.com any time.
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Fair Haired Boy
Mike Berger, PhD
He was a handsome kid.
Several girls called him
every day. He was a Greek
God. His hair was black as black
and his dark blue penetrated to
the quick.
He went off to the University
majoring in pre-med. He had
a hard time. He didn’t know how
to study. High school had been
too easy for him.
Now he was just one of the
20,000 students attending school;
a cipher in an amorphous mass.
He flunked beginning chemistry.
They found him dead of an overdose.
Everyone was shocked. They couldn’t
figure it out. They would never
know how ugly it got when the
cheering stopped.
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Details on Mike Berger, Ph.D.
I am 72 years old. I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and was a practicing psychotherapist for 30 years. I am now fully retired. I have authored two books of short stories. I have published in numerous professional journals. I have freelanced for more than 20 years. My humor pieces Clyde and Goliath , Good Grief Columbus, and If Noah Built the Ark Today have won awards. I am now writing poetry full-time. I have many pursuits which include sculpting, painting, gardening and baking bread. My forcaccia is to die for.
WORK HISTORY: Weber County Mental Health 1961 -- 1991. Senior therapist on the youth team. Specialized in attention deficit disorder in children. Certified in biofeedback. Conducted psychological research.
Private practice specializing in bio feedback for attention deficit disorder in children.
HOBBIES and INTERESTS: Active scouter for 47 years. Currently a zone commissioner and an 11-year-old scout leader. I paint and sculpt. Some of my sculpture has won prizes in local fairs. Writing for the last 25 years. I have published two books of short stories plus numerous articles. Deep interest in science. My science library is extensive. I am particularly enamored with cosmology. I also read a lot in the area of human consciousness. I garden and have a lovely Japanese garden in my backyard. I baked bread and my focaccia is to die for. I sing a little bass in the church choir, but age is taking a toll on my voice.
OTHER INFORMATION: 71 years old and retired. I spend my time writing and sculpting. Married and have been for 48 years. Seven children and fifteen grand children. Of course they are all bright, articulate and good-looking.
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I Don’t Want To Think About
The Protocols of Zion
Aaron J. French
When the time came to part ways with my best friend, it was inevitable—like all things in life. What happened was I went Left and he went Right.
Harry and I grew up in Tucson, Arizona. I met him in junior high. My parents split up when I was five, and I had lived with my mother ever since. She was an ex-hippie (if there is such a thing) who effused love. Who smoked cigarettes, drank nightly, and popped morphine tabs like Tic-Tacs. Who was a vegetarian. Who was a casualty of what Wolfe called the “ME” generation.
You see, when hippies grow up they become the adjective “hippy.” Then they realize they have to provide food for their “love child.” Those who don’t join communes join the ranks of bourgeois Americans going to work everyday, suffering the capitulation with drugs.
Except now they have to do the drugs in private. That’s what happened to Mom. She spent her middle-aged years popping morphine pills in the bathroom, crushing ‘em on the counter, snorting ‘em, sitting on the toilet seat and staring at a closed door.
Harry’s family was nothing like mine. For one, his parents were still together. Whereas my mom was “hippy,” Harry’s was HUGE. Scarcely left the couch. I used to help him wheel the oxygen canisters over to her. She’d sit there, wheezing, puddling, a cigarette in one hand, a Dean Koontz in the other. A horseshoe-shaped plastic tube in her nose. Fat blond hair running down her neck. That’s right: she smoked while she sipped oxygen from a metal tank.
Once Harry brought a girl named Amanda home and introduced her to his mother. Big mistake. Amanda spread news all over school that Harry’s mom was Jabba the Hut. Kids teased him and he started getting in lots of fights. He even strangled a kid half to death with the tetherball rope.
Of course I never hit anyone, no matter what they said about my mother or me. I was a “love child,” remember?
But not Harry. Oh no. With his mom on the couch, his father primarily raised him. A psychologist might tell you he adopted his development during the anal-territorial stage. And Harry’s father was a cop . . . and his grandfather was a cop, and his uncles were cops . . . need I say more?
But none of that mattered to us. Our different upbringings didn’t determine our identities. At least not yet. Recognition of stereotypes wouldn’t come until later. Through all those teenage years we were formless, impartial students of life, not ideology. You wanna know what political party we adhered to?
The Kids Party.
And nothing else mattered. Not a thing.
Not until later.
* * *
We didn’t talk about world hunger. Nor genocide. Nor poverty (though both of us were poor). Nor abortion. Nor gay marriage (though if one of us had been gay, it might’ve been an issue). Nor Islam. Nor Jesus. Nor War. Nor Terrorism. Nor the President of the United States. Nor morality. Nor capitalism. Nor communism. Nor job security. Nor wage-slavery. Nor housing bubbles. Nor Judaism (again, if one of us had been Jewish . . .). Nor the economy. Nor race distinction. Nor gender issues. Nor philosophy. Nor conscience. Nor anything that didn’t involve drugs, videos game, comic books, rap music, or girls. Those were the five Gospels, and we knew no other.
Harry and I never went to school much. Instead we played truant. There are hundreds of dry riverbeds in Tucson, and he and I would maraud these weed-choked ravines instead of going to school.
At thirteen, our big thing was pot. It was like fairy dust to us, and we did everything in our power to get it. Lie, cheat, steal. Didn’t matter. Oh yeah, and my mom was an ex-hippie, which meant there was a tin on the top shelf of her bookcase . . . you get the idea.
Here’s why the days were so shitty. I’ll do me first:
Get up at six in the morning, usually after a night of bad dreams. Hear my mom in the bathroom getting ready for work, i.e. crushing morphine tablets on the counter and snorting them through a straw. When she’d leave, I’d go take a piss and see faint powdery residue on the sink. I’d get dressed, comb my hair. We usually couldn’t afford milk, so I’d eat Cheerios with apple juice substituted. Tasted like crap. I’d head down to wait for the city bus, pay my dollar, then sit listening to some drunk maniac bemoan his ills to the world.
Now I’ll do Harry:
Wake up and smoke a cigarette (that’s right, Harry smoked at thirteen—was allowed to smoke at thirteen. His father claimed it was a manly habit.) Then take a shower and help Mom get her oxygen. Then fix her and his brother breakfast. His father worked night patrol, went to the bar afterwards with the fellas, and usually came stumbling in drunk about now. If he felt like it he’d whip Harry with his belt for no reason. Sometimes even whack the backs of his legs with the nightstick. Harry usually escaped the house by the skin of his teeth, then headed to school with his little brother in tow.
Here’s why pot made it better:
In the city reality is all around you. You have to look at the buildings, the streets, the billboards, the filling stations, the minimalls, the cars, the fast food joints. You have to see the pedestrians, who glare at you thinking hateful thoughts. In school Harry and I had to endure the suspicious gaze of the security force (who drove around in golfcarts). The burly jocks wanted to kick our asses and probably wanted to call me Fat-Tits. (Whereas I was raised by my mother and generally plump and round, Harry was raised by his father, thus stiff and erect like a penis.) All the girls laughed at us. Teachers with disaffected eyes looked at us like we were wasting their time, like we were destined to become screw-ups no matter what they did.
But here’s why pot made it better:
Harry and I would meet in the hall each morning before homeroom. Together we’d sneak out past the auto classes and woodshops, past the little shed where they kept the contraband, out to the rear parameter fence.
At this point the fat security guard would notice us. Harry would holler “Run!” as the golfcart buzzed to life, then we’d sprint full speed till we got to the fence. Hit it, climb, shimmy over, drop to the sidewalk on the other side.
By now the security guard would reach us. He’d step out and say something like, “You boys are in a lot of trouble. I know who you are, so you might as well come back over.”
“Go get drunk in your cart,” Harry’d say.
“Yeah,” I’d concur. “Go choke on your nightstick, filthy swine!”
Then we’d give the poor fascist who was just doing his job the finger and flee into the riverbed.
Mesquite trees rose from the sand like witch fingers. Pockets of tumbleweeds and other sticker plants tangled with pollen flowers and Bermuda grass. Bees and wasps and birds and the occasional coyote or javelina. Lizards and snakes and stinkbugs and paloverde beetles.
The temperature in Arizona can reach a hundred and eighteen. At such times, the sun becomes a burning missile headed for Earth. Harry and I often removed our shirts as we walked.
We sought refuge in sewer tunnels bored into the rocky banks. Used for runoff during the monsoons. We’d crouch in these tubular cement places and escape the heat, sitting with our backs against the wall and our legs propped up.
Then I’d draw out the joint.
In the tin on my mom’s bookshelf there was a metal roller, and I got good at tailoring jays, got so good there’d never be a run or a seed.
I’d light the thing, suck in, and let the smoke burn my lungs. We’d pass it back and forth, taking turns seeing who could hold their hit in longest. I always won. What can I say, I’m the offspring of a hippy.
Miraculous, the way it came on. One minute we were Harry and Dave, two kids sitting in the desert, ditching school, worrying about getting caught; the next we were floating away. Our consciousness expanded, everything dilated. Muons, atoms, and ions gathered around us, forming a translucent gauze, an orb, in which we were encapsulated, safe. A new reality, our own, one that belonged to us. Free of the ugliness of life. Free of the ugliness of humanity. We were liberated; we were flying; we were birds; we were masters of space-time.
We were Kids.
And then, when we were feeling that alive, more alive than I’ve ever felt in my life, you know what we did? We walked. Yep, that’s it. We walked and walked through a sandy river bottom. Just the two of us. Talking, laughing, telling jokes. The rest of the world nonexistent. Like conquerors of a foreign land.
* * *
Needless to say, neither of us graduated high school. But we both got our G.E.D.s. And I later enrolled in community college and got involved in writing, journalism, and activism.
But something happened with Harry. All right, who am I kidding, something happened with me, too. I got really involved in Leftist ideology. Would’ve made my mother proud had she lived to see it. I met new people, like-minded folks. Made connections. Began carving out a career.
But Harry didn’t possess the same intellectual prowess I did. Not that he was dumb. He was street-smart, had uncanny commonsense. He worked as a mechanic for a while, was good with machinery and auto parts. He met new people, like-minded folks. Folks I’d call provincial. Got really involved with the Right.
He started acting different. I’d go over to his house, pet his dog, sit down, have a beer. He’d be watching some sports game and I’d feign interest. But I really wanted to discuss books, ideologies, and philosophy. Neither of us smoked pot anymore, so we’d just sort of sit there with nothing say.
He became a born-again Christian, started talking about Jesus. I was a self-proclaimed William Blake mystic, and though there was common ground there, we couldn’t seem to find it. He’d never read the Bible, whereas I’d read two-thirds of it.
He began making racial comments. Offhandedly at first, then pejoratively, then blatantly. He hated blacks, Asians, Mexicans—this latter especially, since we were so close to the border. After 9/11 he hated, and I mean with a passion, anyone of Arabic descent. And anyone against the War on Terror.
I’d read about McCarthyism, but to see it actualized really spooked me. There was such hatred in him. To me, it seemed like he was blaming all his failures on other people. I had spent much of my time analyzing myself (in a metaphysical sense), but he analyzed—no, critiqued—other people, chiefly other races. Even helped the Minutemen patrol the border at gunpoint, something I couldn’t fathom doing.
We drifted apart.
The last time I saw him—wow, that was ten years ago now—he’d been obsessed with this book. Kept trying to show it to me. Said it held all the secrets as to why the world was the way it was. Why the money wasn’t in the hands of lower-class proletariat Caucasians; why the World Trade Towers had fallen; why there was endless war in the Middle East; why Mel Gibson was a martyr; why The Passion of the Christ was more than just a film.
The book was called The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.
* * *
Harry died last week. A mutual friend sent me a copy of the obituary and a brief letter describing his death. Also a copy of the death certificate (Lord knows why).
The funeral is tomorrow. I’m not sure if I’ll go.
Of all the people he blamed for his problems, in the end he was the author of his own demise. He’d gotten behind the wheel trashed on Jack Daniel’s and wrapped his Ford around a telephone pole. He was ejected. A blade of glass cut his throat.
I don’t want to think about Harry like that. I don’t want to think about The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, or Mein Kampf, or any of those other books he was into. I don’t want to think about him sitting on his ass watching the football game, drinking a Budweiser, condemning both the Jews and the Arabs to death.
I don’t want to think about that.
That wasn’t Harry, know how I know? Because I remember a time when he wasn’t any of those things. When he was just a kid with a sense of adventure and an imagination. Before the ideology. Before the politics. Before the failures. Before the hate.
Back when he was stoned out of his mind, walking beside me through the riverbed, giggling like a schoolgirl. That’s the way I want to remember him, because, to be honest, that’s who he was underneath.
That’s who’s underneath all of us.
And yes, I believe that.
I have to.
Otherwise, I could not bear it.
With a nod to Harlan Ellison.
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Author Bio
Aaron J. French has been writing speculative fiction for the last six years. His work has appeared in the inaugural issue of Abandoned Towers Magazine (as well as various stories on their website), Wanderings Magazine, the one-year anniversary issue of The Willows Magazine, the December issue of The Absent Willow Review, Short-Story Me!, issue #5 of Macabre Cadaver Magazine, issue #9 of Werewolf Magazine, the October ’09 issue of Sonar4, November and December issues of Death Head Grin – as well as an upcoming issue of Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine.
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How Do Poor People Get Money
Jane Hertenstein
I’ve done many things for money. I rode a bike retrofitted with an ice chest and sold Rocket Popsicles and Drumsticks and other novelty ice creams. I had a paper route where I had to get up at four o’clock in the morning. I did that for a week before I dumped the papers down a sewer. Next, I left leaflets on car windshields. I got in trouble if they blew off, so I pasted them on and that got me fired. Of course, there was also the usual: babysitting, mowing grass, taking out trash, and blackmail.
I’ve dogwalked, found lost dogs and gotten a reward, and stolen dogs only to later be rewarded. I’ve sold lemonade from a card table at the end of the driveway. Told jokes for a penny, though to be honest only my mom ever paid. I told her a hundred jokes and earned a dollar—that was before the cancer. After a snowstorm I shoveled Mr. Meyer’s driveway and charged him $15, figuring he’d give me $20. He did. And, from my older brother Cal, I extorted $50, in two $25 allotments.
There was one ambitious summer where Cal and I constructed a putt-putt golf course and charged the neighborhood kids admission. We decided to expand and made an amusement park with lumber raided from a nearby housing development. The real money, though, was in concessions. We were able to charge twenty percent over what we paid for a case lot of Zagnut and Zero Bars. It all came apart after Cal and I fought. He took his half and I took mine and later Dad paid us to clean up the yard.
I’ve collected the nickel deposit on soda pop bottles. We found wagonloads of them discarded at construction sites and out by the highway. One time Cal and I discovered a stash of old Playboys under a bridge. Cal brought them home and hid them behind a row of books on a shelf in our room. When I threatened to tell Mom, Cal freaked out until I mentioned I could be persuaded not to snitch if he gave me money. I sucked him dry, eventually getting his half of the amusement park money. That was the summer Mom died.
In high school I worked at Pizza Hut to pay for my car. I stayed at this job the longest—especially after the accident to reimburse Dad. I was a pizza maker. Late at night on slow weeknights I’d get creative with the toppings, borrow stuff from the salad bar to concoct one-of-a-kind masterpieces that my cohorts and I would sit around and eat. I invented the grilled cheese pizza, the broccoli baked potato pizza, and a fried egg pizza. The French do it all the time. I read about it in a book. This was before the manager turned the surveillance cameras on the cook line trying to figure out why every week the inventory came up short. One time I worked my alchemy and came up with a desert pizza with Jolly Rogers melted over the crust. It looked like stained glass and shattered when bit into. I had the idea to patent it. I’d name it after me, Jolly Ryan’s—except the boss 86ed my ass on that one, mainly because the candy seeped over the side and stuck to the pizza oven and smoked for a week or more until the sugar burned off.
Speaking of smoke . . . Wait, I’m getting out of order. That comes later in this list.
Lunchtime at school I’d bet on flicker ball, where I’d win some, lose some. Flicker ball was basically a sheet of notebook paper folded into a dense triangle. One guy would sit across from me at the table and make a goal post with his fingers and I’d flick the triangle up and over. I’d bet I could do it, and then I upped the ante and bet I could do it five times in a row, ten times until I’d wasted the entire lunch hour. I never won much, but the exercise carried over into weekend boys’ poker night, where the stakes became much higher.
I got into a bit of a cash flow problem. We had a nice turntable, receiver, and Boise speakers. I pawned them and got $160 bucks. Where the fuck is my stereo? Cal couldn’t believe I’d hocked his stereo and when he went to get it back it was gone. I really did feel bad when I saw his face coming back to the car empty handed. I thought he was going to beat the shit out of me like he did over the amusement park fiasco. All he did was get in the car and grip the steering wheel. Not a word. He left for college that fall, and, not surprisingly, hasn’t talked to me much since.
A year later when I packed up for college I had a garage sale to get rid of a lot of my crap. I wasn’t planning on coming back. Dad had remarried and even though Carol was nice and didn’t try to be our mom, she changed things. She repainted the living room and moved the old furniture into the basement and bought new stuff. She had two daughters off at college and wanted to make over a room for them when they visited. I said, Hey, take mine. Carol got this furtive stuttering look on her face and Dad tried to talk me out of the offer. He said she hadn’t meant to make me feel unwelcome. I told him, I completely understand. But, what I couldn’t say was, it didn’t feel like my house anymore. So I left for college $300 richer.
In college I did the student work thing to help pay for tuition. My freshman year I shelved books in the library and my second year I put together the audio/visual carts. I also got the idea of getting old computers off of Freecycle, refurbishing them, and then selling them on eBay. I answered an ad on craigslist looking for people willing to participate in medical studies. I got paid to test green tea and its affect, if any, upon a person’s overall health. I joked with the nurse, Why can’t it be beer? I drank so much tea over the course of the study that the thought of it now makes me sick. I once got $50 bucks for an MRI, and over winter break I stayed at the facility and was a guinea pig for a new kind of chewing gum drug that supposedly controls blood sugar. That worked out well since I didn’t want to go home for Christmas and could really use the grand I was paid—especially after the fire.
During my third year I lived off campus. A couple of us guys rented the top floor in an old factory building down by the river. The place quickly became party central. We didn’t lock the doors so I never knew who’d be crashed out on our couch. Strewn across the floor and piled high on the coffee table were empty beer cans and pizza boxes and black plastic ashtrays full of butts and ash and little aluminum tabs. We never cleaned, so it always smelled rank like wet towels tossed behind a radiator. After a month I was so sick of the place I could care less if it burned. In fact I could care less just about everything. Suddenly my double major clicked into sharp focus and I wondered why the hell I ever wanted to be an architect/civil engineer. So I switched to pre-law, which was like having no major at all.
In there somewhere were several gigs that called for costumes. I dressed up like a hot dog outside the ballpark to advertise Red Hots. For Liberty Tax Service I passed out handbills dressed as the Statue of Liberty, Lady Lib. At a party I was a stalk of broccoli working the crowd with a plate of hors d’oeuvres, ironically serving raw veggies: carrots, celery, cauliflower, and broccoli. Earlier in the day I’d ingested some of my roommate’s Paxil and was feeling pleasantly numb until I bottomed out contemplating how we end up eating our own, cannibalizing each other.
Midway through the semester the factory caught on fire. At the time I was indisposed with a girl. We heard shouting and smelled the smoke and without getting completely dressed climbed out the window and dropped to the ground where I heard my ankle go SNAP. From the back of an ambulance I watched our apartment go up in flames. There was so much combustible material, the place pretty much exploded. We wondered if we might be able to recover our losses until the fire inspector blamed us for negligence (apparently someone had left a cigarette burning on the armrest of our black and orange couch) and our landlord tried to sue us. I called Cal.
He said I could come stay with him for a while.
So I got a job at an Internet startup, a dot.com that sold cheap toys. Lots of glue and balsa wood and plastic parts with a lifespan of maybe two months. I worked full-time pulling invoices and operating the forklift. Someone else put the orders together while someone else did the shipping. This job was perfect—there was no one around at night to annoy me. I had the whole warehouse to myself during the third shift. Just me and a juice/soda machine that when it kicked in sounded like a mainstage generator. Sometimes I talked out loud, the sound of my voice lost in the acre-high ceilings and labyrinth of metal shelving. One time I asked Mom where she was and what she was doing. She never answered.
Cal had a theory. He said I needed to face up, face myself and stop making excuses. I accused him of trying to manipulate me with psychological mumbo jumbo. Again he played the quiet game. I screamed, TALK TO ME.
He shook his head and walked away.
Yeah, well fuck you! I started looking for rentals in the area. A few days later he rang me on my cell and said he had a job for me, if I needed it. Okay. What?
It’s Julie, he said. Julie was his girlfriend. She worked at a shelter for women and children. She needs someone to drive a mom and her kids to the bus station Monday morning.
How much? I asked. I needed to come up with enough for a deposit.
Twenty bucks.
That’s it?
Just there and back. About an hour’s worth of work.
I left the warehouse at dawn and drove to the shelter to pick up Julie and her client. We crammed them and all their stuff in. Is this everything? I asked. It didn’t seem like much. The woman said it was enough.
Julie and one of the kids sat up front with me with the other four in the back seat. We had two more people than seat belts and I worried about the cops stopping us. I didn’t need any more trouble.
The lady said she had a whole house of stuff back in Ann Arbor. I asked her if that was where she was going and she said no. She was starting life over in another state. Somewhere where her ex-husband wouldn’t find them.
I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She had a round face the color of an acorn. Two of her kids were squished up looking out the window in anticipation of new scenery. The baby on her lap sucked her thumb and stared back at me with eyes half hidden by long lashes. All of them were dressed in their best clothes. Crisp white shirts tucked into belted trousers. The little girl next to Julie wore a pink sundress with a matching pink bucket hat. She clutched a Hello Kitty! daypack. The boys, too, each had a travel bag in their lap. I want to get them enrolled in their new school before it starts, the mom explained. Julie nodded and told me where to turn.
The morning sun Tasered in through the windshield just as a tension headache was forming at the base of my skull. The woman rambled on, I’ve got a job lined up. At a nursing home, doing laundry. Internally I cringed. It sounded brutal, that kind of work. I imagined carts heaped high with urine-soaked sheets.
Mom, one of the kids spoke up. You said we might be able to get some treats, you know, for the road.
The mom looked like she was weighing the idea. She opened her purse and pulled out a well-worn envelope. Inside were bills stapled and paperclipped. It seemed as if each one had been reserved for a special purpose.
I can stop, I offered. I saw a mini mart across the street. Maybe I’d pick up a pair of sunglasses.
Okay, she said and then directed her oldest boy, Go get some drinks, chips, and stuff.
When we got to the bus station I had to let her off in the street since there weren’t any spaces close to the door. The woman heaved a good-size black garbage bag out of the trunk. Julie got out to help. The boys each took hold of the little girl’s hand. Take care, Julie said, and gave them a hug. Good luck!
We got Jesus.
I know, Julie said. Still, good luck.
We’re gonna be okay. We got each other.
Julie patted the boys on their shiny heads.
Wait! I shouted before they started for the door. I jumped out and crossed in front of the car. My head throbbed. Here. I thrust a bill at the woman. The $20 Cal had given me.
Sir, we don’t—
Please, I begged. Just take it.
The mom studied me. I must’ve looked a wreck, in need of sleep and a shave. The back of my shirt was wrinkled and blanketed in perspiration. Bless you, she said. She turned and wove through the human traffic, hauling her possessions out in front of her and her children straggling behind. I ripped the tag off my new sunglasses and quickly put them on so that no one would notice the sweat stinging my eyes.
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Jane Hertenstein Personal Statement
“Since I quit an editing job five years ago to work on my craft I have arranged my schedule around writing. I am live-in staff at a community homeless shelter, which provides for my room and board. In exchange I get up at 4:30 a.m. to cook breakfast for about 300 people and then spend from 10 until 3 writing. I also facilitate a creative writing workshop for a group of women at the shelter.
I’ve written books that have been widely reviewed. One of my non-fiction projects (Orphan Girl) received a two-page center page spread in the Chicago Tribune Sunday book section. I’ve attended Breadloaf on waitstaff and received the Amanda Davis Scholarship to attend the Wesleyan Writers Conference. In 2009 I participated in the Sewanee Writers Conference. My short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in: Cantaraville, Rosebud, Word Riot, Flashquake, The Write Room, and the Tonopah Review.”
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A run for it
D. Kalteis
Dobbins burst through the door. “Wooly, you got to help me, man.” Hands like claws in the air, the few fringes left on his jacket flapping, pocket catching and tearing on the knob. A jumble of raw nerves, his eyes wide in their sockets, face feverish, wet with sweat. The hounds of hell biting his heels.
“What the ...” The sudden intrusion threw Wooly, his hand slipping on the wrench, slamming fingers, ripping flesh on metal. Face scrunched and pained, he came up, bumped his bike, eyes narrowed from the lamp light falling in behind Dobbins.
“I got to get out of here, man.” Dobbins looked to the street, then closed the door. “Fast.”
“Whoa up.” Wooly sent the socket wrench clattering onto the tool bench, sucking the bleeding finger, pissed.
Dobbins’ eyes bugged like a scared horse, voice up an octave. “You got to hide me, man. It’s ...”
Wooly’s flat hand smacked against Dobbins’ cheek, staggering him, leaving a grease smear on bristles. “Said calm the fuck down.”
“Sorry.” The bitch slap stung. Another time or place, rail thin or not, Dobbins might have skewered Wooly for it. “Can’t find Lindy either.”
“From the top, Dobbs; stop bein’ an asshole.”
“Okay,” Dobbins caught his breath, gulped it, his eyes on his friend’s eyes. Wooly was right. Steady. Steady. Steady. “Okay, Malcolm’s got it in for me, says I let Jelly in.”
“You did.”
“No, I did fucking not, he just tagged along that one time, but Malcolm’s got it in his head that he who lets the rat in’s ...
“For fuck’s sake.”
“How could I know he was under-fuckin-cover?”
Wooly threw his hands up. “I don’t need this shit, man, not today.”
“Your right ... sorry ... yeah, happy birthday, man.”
“Fuck that.”
“All I did was bring Jelly by the bar – never said I was vouchin’ – never did, not a fuckin’ word like that came through these lips, uhn uhn.”
“But you brought him.”
“He hustled Sandy, shacked up with her. Blame her, fuck her up.”
Wooly went to the window and peeked outside. “Anyone see you come here?”
“Naw, I was careful, pretty sure, I kept lookin’. No, no way.”
“Where’s your bike at?” Wooly bolted the door. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.
“Back at my place. Took Lindy’s bug over.”
“Okay, at least that much was smart. Fuck. You know if they find you here ...” A storm in Wooly’s eyes.
“They won’t ... I’m not going to see her again, am I?”
“Naw, you go, Lindy’ll go, too.”
“My bike.”
The storm flashed. “Look, somebody comes by, sees you here, and my neck’s in the rope.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re all I got, man.”
“God damn ...” Wooly wiped his hands on a greasy rag, flung it away. Fishing his keys from his pocket, he tossed them through the air. “Get to my place. Drive easy, park around the block, go in the back. Middle of the night, we’ll get your ass outta here.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere Greyhound goes, that’s where.”
“But that’s–”
“That’s the best I can do, amigo.”
“Okay, but, I’m tapped–”
“Just get over there, and stay the fuck downstairs. No lights, no TV. Don’t even look out a window, no sound.”
“Okay, but I need cash, some clothes.”
“Worry about that later.” Again, the storm.
Dobbins knew to turn and hurry out to the bug. It was full dark now. At least that. The bug fired up on the first crank, the motor he rebuilt sounding pretty good, a present to Lindy, a means of getting her to the club, Lindy not wanting a bike of her own. The only way she ever got on one was when she rode on the back of his.
It was over, a lightning flash, a gunshot, like going flat out into a highway head on. “Take your patch and wipe your ass with it,” he told his rearview image, “Just like that.” He opened the glovebox and grabbed the mickey of bourbon. “Totally fucked.”
He drank, feeling it burn its course. Where to, Canada? Land so cold they wear fucking flannel, and they don’t speak no fucking English in Mexico, he thought. Least those places were safe.
Fishing his Baretta from under the seat, he checked the load, reached for the cap on the passenger seat and tucked his hair under it, pulling the wool low on his sweating brow. He palmed the cross Lindy had hanging from the rearview, swung it, looking at it. Could use you, Jesus, he thought, you and a few Cupids, armed with more than arrows though. He squeezed the bottle between his thighs and put her in first.
At the light, an ambulance wailed through the intersection, then a bus, a fishbowl of tight-ass faces. A florist’s van raced the red.
Dobbins rolled, eyes going every which way, spooked. Him, the hunted. Flash cards of what they would do: Tie him to a chair, slice him, beat him, then a petrol shower. Malcolm with a Zippo.
He didn’t chance running the next amber light, waiting through the foreverness, foot tapping the floorboards, electricity letting loose, sweat rolling down. A bike zipped past him, through the light, the rider in full leather, laying across the top. Japanese junk with its bee buzz, whining engine.
Rolling by Wooly’s house, he slunk low behind the wheel, giving it a peripheral shot. The house was dark. Stillness.
At the end of the street, he rolled over some glass and pulled into a spot along the curb. He tossed the empty bottle on the passenger floor, dropped the pistol into his pocket and walked into the alley, the weight of it bouncing. Shoulders hunched. More flashcards: running from his brothers, robbing some taco stand for cash, treating that fucker Malcolm to a full clip and watching his lights go out.
At Wooly’s picket fence, his eyes touched on everything in the cluttered yard: the once-orange, half-eaten Dodge standing fender-high in thistles, the apple tree, the greenhouse, the garage, the rotting porch. Through the squeaking gate, he crossed the yard and stepped over the broken step, shoved the key into the lock. He listened, put his hand on the steel in his pocket and stepped through into the pitch. Fingers up and down the cold wall, feeling for the light switch. He was thinking of a quick call to Lindy. Click, and the fan whirred. He flicked the next switch.
“Surprise,” wailed from twenty throats. Balloons, streamers, noise makers, cake. A frozen moment. Malcolm with mouth wide open, party hat on his greasy hair, Dobbins with the Baretta coming up. JoJo, Bingo, Sammy, Dion, silhouettes of the Machine. A leather dance, twenty bodies laid in as one.
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The Twins Paradox
Neil D. Mulac
I am never in the same place
for more than
a few
moments.
Tonight after picking up Chinese takeout,
I passed through the double doors
and onto New York City’s
Upper Westside.
Crowded stuffy concrete capillaries of faceless wonders
in the late Sunday spring dusk.
This place is too viscous.
I am never in the same place
for more than
a few
moments.
By the time I
step onto the sidewalk
I am pulled to Chicago,
Wrigleyville.
Two blocks away from an old love’s unadorned loft,
and one block from the muggy Red Line
I can hear Cubs fans
in the distance
and a muffled announcer naming batters.
But I’m not really there
I don’t like past times.
I am never in the same place
for more than
a few
moments.
Once inside my studio
I settle down to eat
at my one chair table.
All nestled here
in this one too many horse town,
restless in space and mind but hungry
enough to stay focused on this ground,
full of steamy fried rice and spring rolls.
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Bio
Neil Mulac received his English Master’s Degree from the University of Louisville. He has read his woks locally, and continues to write and perform regularly. Mr. Mulac is also an actor, and has recently completed a feature length independent film entitled, “Mae Waits.” He currently lives in Louisville, Kentucky.
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Trauma
Adelaida Avila
I’ve been anal about clutter and cleanliness all of my life. A few years ago, I suffered what my therapist described as a traumatic event in my life. I was 39 years.
I vividly remember the day it all started. I walked into my mom’s house and although my brother and his kids were there, the silence was deafening. I gave my mom a quick peck on both cheeks and proceeded to the living room where they were seated in darkness. I gave them the traditional “Pacheco” kisses which are one on each cheek. A ritual my brother started at a young age because everything, for him, needed to be in even numbers. Two fried eggs, four crackers, 6 cookies, two kisses and so on. Even now at 42 everything needs to be even. To mess with his head, I’ll serve him 5 meatballs, or three pork chops or one piece of toast. It makes him nuts and it cracks me up. The expression on his face says: “Why do you torture me this way?!?”
When I’m done giving out the even amount of kisses, I notice that they’re extremely quiet and the mood in the room is very somber. I recall saying something to the effect of “Who died?” “What’s wrong with you people?” They all claim to be tired but I know better. Something’s wrong, they’re just not talking. Other than the sadness that lingered in the air, dinner was uneventful that evening.
I was home when I got the call from my niece. She was hysterical “Titi the police arrested daddy.”
“Oh my God” I said “What happened baby?” I knew it, I knew something was wrong. I could hear commotion in the background. I asked her where she was and she said “We’re home Titi, Daddy said can you come get us?” The sadness in her voice broke my heart into a million pieces. Those kids had already endured so much.
My brother was arrested, thrown in jail and bail was set at an absurd amount. He spent Thanksgiving behind bars and was released on December 24th. I know I will never top the gift I gave my niece and nephew that year for Christmas, their dad.
Although he was only incarcerated for a brief time, it seemed like a hellish eternity to us. His kids became my number one priority during that time. I shuffled them to school each morning. I showered them with love, affection and kindness every day that they were with me. I’d look at them and want to cry. I wanted to take their pain away and it killed me that I couldn’t
Along with taking care of them, it was my responsibility as well, to find the best legal representation the measly little money we had could buy. Motions were filed, heard and denied. Finally, two days before Christmas the judge signed the Order reducing bail and the next day he was released from prison. We sat in my mother’s house for hours. I was physically tired, emotionally exhausted and mentally drained. I was completely aware that my life, as I’d known it, had been changed forever because of this experience.
Months came and went and insignificant little things such as an unmade bed, a dirty cup in the sink, or a stray sock on the floor would thrust me into a fit of rage. “WTF! Kristinaaaaaa!” if it was her bed that wasn’t made. “WTF! Evaaaaan!” if it was his stray sock lying on the floor.
It was pretty bad. I realize now that I mentally tortured and verbally abused my family during that time. I was sick and didn’t know it. I’d spend hours cleaning. Entire days were dedicated to sweeping, mopping, dusting and wiping. In addition to the compulsive cleaning, I’d spend hours obsessing about bills or grades. I was unable to sleep, repetitive thoughts keeping me up at night. I was tired and angry all the time. I remember one night having what I thought was a brilliant idea of running up and down the stairs in an effort to physically exhaust my body to the point that I would pass out. I called my husband the next day and asked him if he’d heard me running up and down the stairs. I could hear the sadness in his voice when he said “No I didn’t. You did that? That’s not normal babe.” “I know” I said “but I was desperate, I just wanted to sleep.”
The worst day ever was the one when I walked into the kitchen, looked over at the stove and nearly lost my mind because it was swimming in grease. My son had neglected to clean it after making himself something to eat. A heated discussion ensued resulting in me stabbing him in the arm with a fork. I didn’t do it with enough force to pierce his skin but what I’d done to him over a dirty stove was a clear indication that I needed help.
The next day I made an appointment with the doctor. After discussing at length my behavior of several months, the diagnosis was Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
I take medication daily and although I’m still anal about clutter and cleanliness, I no longer worry that I’m going to physically harm one of my children because there’s an unmade bed, a dirty cup in the sink or a stray sock laying around somewhere.
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The World’s Best Turkey Sandwich
Krista Krueger
It was World War II and he sat in an uncomfortable seat in a cramped train car. All of the men now, no longer boys, in the car were dressed exactly as he was. The interiors of their bags held the same belongings. Perhaps the only differences were that some of the men had pictures of the girl or wife from back home. He didn’t have a girl to leave behind, but he’d never been from home before. He’d been drafted into the army and the woman on his mind right then was his mother.
He’d gone south for boot camp and they were on the train headed north to catch a ship to Africa. He smiled bitterly at the thought. Africa. How in the Hell did end up in this spot?
The scenery had changed slowly from boarding the train to where they were stopped now. In Florida it was still balmy and warm and miserable to run for miles and do hundreds of push ups. Not that he’d enjoyed that anyway, though he used to love to go for long aimless walks when he had been home. The Carolinas were just starting to get that real winter chill. He could tell by the bundled up children who stood by the train crossings, jumping and waving mittened hands, wishing the soldiers well; waving their little American flags on wooden sticks.
Then through a piece of Virginia and Delaware, past Washington D.C. and they had come to rest at a train stop in Maryland. Not just any part of Maryland, but his neighborhood. It was Christmas and who knew how many he would miss now? Less than six blocks away was his mother; scraping together whatever Christmas Eve dinner she and the family would be having. He had six brothers and only one other had been drafted. The lucky bastard had been stationed in Virginia, so he’d be home having some of that dinner; some of that family warmth and comfort and for a second he came very close to hating his brother.
There was snow on the ground here, drifts of it in some places. He began to believe the stop there to clean ice from the tracks meant that God was testing him at that very moment.
He’d taken an oath and he considered a promise a very serious and binding thing. But to see his mother, to see her face light up when he walked in the door before going overseas; he was very tempted. With all the commotion going on would anyone notice one soldier slide off the car? Many had gotten off already to stretch their legs and grab a smoke. Suppose he just took an extra long stretch of the legs and came back? Suppose he didn’t come back at all? Would it matter? If they found him, he’d go to jail. Wasn’t that better than a war in countries he didn’t know with men he wasn’t sure he could trust?
He pulled his coat tighter around himself and went outside. He pulled a Chesterfield from his pocket and lit it, inhaling it deeply. He could do that in the cold Maryland air; he was used to it. He glanced around; no one was paying any attention to him. He was tall and had the long legs and a stride to prove it. How quickly could he get there and back? What if this was his last chance to see his mother ever again?
He pictured the kind woman. He was the youngest of the six and he’d been special. He was prone to terrible earaches as a child and he thought of the countless times she’d cradled his head in her hand on lap; rocking softly and humming some nameless, soothing tune. Didn’t she deserve to see her son?
That was it. His decision made, he began to edge closer to the end of the train. He knew short cuts through alleys and across the recreation center field. He was off, using the speed and lung capacity they’d beat into him to get away and hidden behind the brush as quickly as he could. Then it was darting through alleys slick with ice and snow until he was running full tilt across the field. He burst in the backdoor, his chest heaving in exhaustion, exhilaration and fear.
“Earl!” his mother exclaimed, nearly dropping a casserole dish as a hand flew to her mouth. “What...? How...?” Then she was hugging him. Her small frame squeezing him far tighter than he thought she’d be able too. She was in tears and finally released him to dry her eyes on her apron. “What is this?” she asked.
“I snuck away, Mom,” Earl admitted. “The train is stopped down at the station for ice removal. I couldn’t be this close and not come see you.”
Through her joy and look of disapproval crossed her features. “You’ll get into trouble, Earl. They’ll come here for you.”
“I’m going back now. I just wanted to see you. I don’t know when I’ll be home again. I love you mom.”
“Oh, Earl, I know. I love you.” She looked around anxiously; knowing that he had to leave and every fiber of her being screaming for him to stay. So she did the only motherly thing she could think to do. She quickly grabbed a roll, sliced it in half, piled it high with turkey and some mayonnaise and salt and pepper. “Well, here,” she said, ironing the quiver out of her voice. “Take a sandwich with you.”
Earl took the sandwich and ate it as he walked across the field. He’d worry about running in a few moments, but for that bit of time he was relishing in a bit of home and there was no price more worthy than that turkey sandwich on a roll.
He lit another cigarette as he tried to casually come around the other side of the train. He was relieved to see it hadn’t moved on without him though he had no desire to go where it was headed. But he also had no desire to disappoint his mother or his father, whom he hadn’t gotten to see in the speediness of the visit.
He inhaled on his Chesterfield as he saw his head officer coming casually toward him.
“We did a head count Lohr. We were short one. Care to explain before I call for M.P’s?”
Surrendered to his fate, but still sure it was worth it; he nodded his head and stood at attention. “Yes, Sir,” he answered. “I did leave. This is my neighborhood and I just couldn’t be this close to home and not go see my mother before we left.” His blue eyes were unwavering as he spoke to the Officer.
“That’s it?” the Officer asked. “You went home and came back?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“To see your mother on Christmas.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“She must be one hell of a woman, Lohr.”
“Yes, Sir. I believe she is.”
“All right, Lohr. We’ll pretend this didn’t happen. I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same myself. That was very loyal of you. Very American. We need good Americans right now. Go get on the train.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
The train finally pulled away and that was the last Christmas home for Earl Lohr for four years. But his mother spent every Christmas Eve close to the back door, peering out from behind the curtain for her boy to come running home in case he needed another turkey sandwich.
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Blue Moon
Harris Tobias
The marquee outside the hotel read “Lucy and the Jazztones”. I’m Lucy. I’m a lounge singer or rather I was a lounge singer. I’m an old lady now, sick, dying. But when I was younger, I sang at one of the new “temporal” hotels. One of the fancy ones right on the strip. Time travelers dropped in and stayed a while until they faded back to their own time. It was a big business visiting the past, still is from what I hear.
They’re an interesting lot those travelers from our future, filled with stories about their eras. The further in the future they’re from, the shorter their stay in our present. That has something to do with the physics of time travel. I don’t pretend to understand any of it. All I know was I was singing jazz numbers five nights a week in the hotel lounge. It was a regular gig and it paid well. There was a steady stream of temps, that’s what we called our temporal visitors, and locals drinking and generally behaving themselves. Some of the patrons were actually listening to my numbers. I could tell because I got a smattering of applause after every song.
One night a handsome temp about my age came up to the piano and stuffed a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar and asked me to sing Blue Moon for him. It’s an old jazz standby so I smiled and said, “sure thing, honey. For a hundred dollars I’d sing Old Mac Donald Had a Farm all night long”. So I sang the song for the guy and judging from the applause I didn’t do too bad a job. Anyway, after the set I was sitting at the bar taking a break when the handsome temp comes over and offers to buy me a drink. I get my drinks comped by the house but I didn’t tell him that. He was so good looking and sweet, I let him feel like he was doing me a favor. “Sure, why not?” I said, “It’s your nickel. What’s on your mind?”
“Can’t a guy buy a lady a drink without an ulterior motive?” he asks.
“In my experience with men there’s always an ulterior motive.” I tell him taking a sip of my drink. “Maybe it’s different where you come from or should I say when you come from. When is that anyway?”
“About thirty three years from now,” he says. “The name’s Rob by the way, Rob Burns”
“Like the poet?” I ask.
He smiled and lifted his drink, “Not only beautiful but intelligent too.” He looked deep into my eyes and I felt a shiver go down my spine.
“So, Mr. Burns,” I said, “how are you enjoying our quaint present?”
“It’s much as I expected. It was only a generation ago so it’s not all that different from my time. It’s good to see you though. In my time, you’re quite a bit older.”
“Well, I hope I aged well. It’s good to know I’ll still be around thirty years from now. Hey, I thought it was against the rules for temps to talk about specifics. You don’t want to screw things up for yourself.”
This was the big danger for time travelers. If they did anything weird or talked too much about their time, they risked altering the time line and not being able to return to it. Do anything to screw up the sequence of cause and effect that leads to the your personal future and you risk not being able to return to it at all. Temps can play at being tourists, hence the temporal hotels, but if they interact too strongly with our present say by robbing a bank or murdering their parents or trying to make a killing in the stock market, anything like that, then a new future is created that simply doesn’t include that version of themselves. Some other future is created and the one they came from ceases to exist. Don’t ask me what happens to them, it’s physics and it’s complicated but it has the effect of keeping the temps pretty docile. The final result is temps stick close to the hotels and don’t wander too far afield. It’s a strange thing but nature doesn’t tolerate any paradoxes. Screw around with the past and you change your present. The past is fixed, the future is fluid, something like that anyway.
“Don’t worry,” Rob said, “we’re going to meet pretty soon anyway.”
“Oh yeah, how?”
“I can’t tell you.” he said giving me the sexiest smile.
“Well, let’s see. You’re about my age...what, 32, 33? So if we’re to meet in a few months, you’ll be two or three years old? A little young for me don’t you think?” Rob just smiled that smile of his and sipped his drink.
Now don’t think for a minute I wasn’t curious because I was. Everyone wants to know their future and here I was face to face with a guy who knew mine. It was rare to meet a temp who knew you personally. Temps avoid that kind of contact. The temptation to tell all is too great and too dangerous. If he warned me not to do something or to do something different, it would change his time line and put him in danger. So he played it cool and didn’t say anymore and I didn’t push him. Break time was over and I had to get back to work.
There’s a mathematical ratio between how far in the future a temp’s present was and how long he or she could stay in ours. The further the distance between our now and theirs, the shorter the visit. Rob’s thirty year distance gave him about a two day window before his chronons broke down and returned him to his own time; and, providing he hadn’t messed up his future, he’d be back exactly where and when he started.
Another thing that wasn’t lost on me was that time travel was expensive. It was a plaything of the rich. There wasn’t all that much to be learned visiting the recent past so scientists pretty much gave up on the technology. it became a status symbol for people with money to spend on an expensive vacations. A weekend in Las Vegas thirty years before your time was considered a thrill. I had to assume that Rob had lots of money in his own time. I was happy for him. Money was something I never had.
I sang another set and, on my break, there was Rob sitting at the bar handing me a drink. I clicked his glass and said, “So we’re going to get to know each other pretty soon?”
“Yep, we are.”
“Can you tell me how?”
“Why take the fun out of it? It’s going to happen.”
“It’s kind of creepy knowing the future.”
“Dangerous too.” He took my hand when he said this. Was this temp coming on to me? It wouldn’t be the first time. Trans-temporal sex was nothing new. A lot of temps came here just for that reason. I’d had a couple of one nighters myself over the years. I have to admit it was a turn on having sex with someone who technically wasn’t even born yet.
I have to confess that for me, that’s all it took. I was definitely attracted to the guy. When my show was over I found myself in his room and in his bed. I can’t speak for him, but I thought the sex was great. Of course, if I knew then what I know now, I’d have never done it. But I didn’t and we did.
Afterwards we were lying in bed making small talk. I was tempted to probe for more details but didn’t want to put him in danger so we talked about art and music, poetry and books. It turned out we had similar tastes in a lot of things. That next day we played tourist. I took him around the city. We went to the new art museum and lunched at a fancy French restaurant. Rob was charming and intelligent. I felt myself falling for him in a big way. Back at the hotel we made love again. I wanted to call in sick but Rob thought it would be too big a change in my normal routine.
So I did my show that night. Rob was there and I sang Blue Moon for him. Rob stayed the whole time and I felt like I sang for him alone. That night was our last. Already Rob was starting to fade, his chronons returning to his own time. I tried to hold on to him but he literally slipped through my fingers and disappeared. His departure left me depressed for weeks. There was nothing I could do. Life went on. There was no way to contact him, I just had to get on with my life and put him behind me. So that’s what I did.
Rob had said we were going to meet in a few months. I was curious to see how that would happen. I went back to my gig at the hotel only now I sang Blue Moon every night. It became my trademark. Eventually Rob’s memory faded and I met a nice guy, a saxophone player who recently joined the band. A real nice guy and a terrific musician. He reminded me of Rob in many ways. When he told me his name was Ted Burns, I got goose bumps all over. Talk about meant to be, well that’s how that felt and, after I got to know him better, he told me he had a two year old son from his first marriage named Robby. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Ted was a really nice guy but he had one big flaw—he was addicted to gambling. He’d bet on anything but he loved horse racing best. He spent and lost all of his money at the track. I knew that if we married, he lose all of my money as well but after meeting little Robert Burns for the first time, I knew what I had to do. We were married three weeks later.
Now Rob Burns was in my life again only this time as my step son. My marriage to Ted was rocky from the start. I hated his gambling habit and he seemed powerless to change his behavior. We were always broke despite the fact that we both had jobs, We could have lived comfortably on our two salaries if it wasn’t for Ted’s gambling. Las Vegas isn’t the best place to be if you’re trying to stop gambling.
A few years into the marriage, my career took a turn for the better. I got discovered, sort of, and signed a contract to make a couple of recordings. My music received good reviews and I started getting offers to sing at bigger venues. For the first time in my life, I was making money. Ted did his best to lose it as fast as I earned it. We fought about it constantly but he couldn’t stop. I finally gave him an ultimatum—either get help or I was taking Robby and leaving. That finally had the desired effect on Ted. He started going to counseling and attending weekly meetings of Gambler’s Anonymous.
Things were better for a few years. It looked like Ted had turned the corner. We were almost happy. I was about to make my television debut when Ted fell off the wagon. He cleaned out our bank account and blew it all at the track including a wild bet on a long shot called—you guessed it—Blue Moon. I’d like to say that the horse came in at ten to one and we lived happily ever after but that’s not how it happened. The horse lost and so did I. We broke up. I got custody of Rob who by this time was a bright and happy ten year old.
I worked hard and saved every dime I could for Rob’s future. A few years after the divorce, I got word that Ted had been shot dead by mobsters for not paying his debts. I hadn’t seen much of him since our divorce so you can imagine my surprise when I received a check in the mail for two hundred thousand dollars. Ted had taken out a life insurance policy and named Robby and me as beneficiaries. I invested Rob’s half and used mine to buy my own night club. I named it The Blue Moon Lounge. It was an instant success.
The years flew by. Rob went to good schools and grew up smart as well as handsome. He took over our investments and soon turned my modest fortune into a sizable one. Funny how things work out.
I’m sixty four now and dying of cancer. Rob is heartbroken. He tells me he’s going to spend some of his money to see me sing. He wants to hear me sing Blue Moon again one last time.
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Farewell, My Love
Timothy N. Stelly Sr.
“What a wonderful meal,” Milburn Hofstetler said as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his distended belly. “I guess we’ll end this night, our twenty-third anniversary, with a bit of lovemaking?”
Seated across from him was his wife of twenty years, Gladys. She noshed on the remnants of a piece of carrot cake as her husband silently read the slip of paper. Milburn hated it when his wife pretended not to hear him. He kept his displeasure to himself and broke open the fortune cookie on his plate.
Gladys looked up at him and saw his brow furrow, but Milburn’s eyes stayed riveted to paper. She set her fork down when she saw that his hands started to shake.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” The excitement in her voice was unmistakable.
“Read this.” He passed the paper across the table.
She read it and looked around the room. The other diners were locked in on their food. The restaurant employees were occupied with carrying out their assigned tasks. Milburn yawned and as he tried to stand, he pitched forward and landed face-first into the bread crumbs, chewed fat and salad remnants that littered his plate.
Millie perused the slip again. It read: “The meal you have eaten will be your last. You will die within two minutes after eating it. Have a nice day.”
The waiter came over and Gladys leaned forward and whispered to him, “He thought I was joking when I told him I’d rather sell my soul to the devil than stay married to him for another year.” She looked up at the stunned waiter and said, “Check, please!”
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what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061
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