the Captive
and the Dead

Election Letter #3

To Those Posting Electoral Maps,

Specifically,
the maps of 1846 and 2012,
purporting some political point or other
(usually accompanied by a cliche)
The only point,
            political or otherwise,
that can legitimately be made
from a comparison of the two maps
is that there are more states in 2012
than there were in 1846

                        Although,
                                upon further review,
the point can be made that those posting the maps
show the sad state of American history education
Among the errors:
                    one state
and a few territories weren’t even part of the United States
in 1846,
        though
they were well on their way to being conquered;

several of the so-called free states
still had slavery in 1846,
                        and in these and others
free blacks could no more vote than could slaves;

the Democrats were the party of slavery
in 1846,
        while the Whigs,
the ancestors of modern Republicans,
were its opponents
                    (at least,
they were opposed to any further spreading of it);

                                                And
four of the fifteen official slave states
in 1846
        (a sizable minority),
                            now
vote Democrat as often as not
                             (including
giving us the current Vice-President),
                                    and
two other official slave states gave us
another recent winning Democratic ticket
                                        (as well as
one who was elected by the popular and electoral vote
but lost by one vote in the only election that mattered that year)

And to further illustrate the folly,
can anyone really draw a political inference
from a state that has at various times
elected Ronald Reagan and Jerry Brown,
                                        or
one that has elected Robert LaFollette and Joe McCarthy,
                                                        or
[insert your own state’s examples HERE]

Further issues will be addressed in the next letter

Class is now dismissed

Best,
Michael

Ode to a farm cat

Move your furry ass
There’s a mouse in the kitchen
You have work to do

Principle uncertainty

Quantum mechanics
portrays that wondrous realm
where no one knows
a particle’s true location
or its’ actual bearing,
where it may even maintain
two positions simultaneously!
But who’d have guessed
these marvels likewise ensue
in the macroworld,
as American politicians
daily prove.

The Hurt Garden

Blades of grass
tossing to and fro in the wind
like restless sleepers
trying to make sense of a kind
where logic and reason
have no place, square up to facts
of human nature
from which its indigenous hosts
would run away
but nature will ever have its say
in dreams, struggling to make sense
of us

Stems of flowers
swaying to and fro in a breeze
like drunken crowds
on losing their heads to whims
where logic and reason
have no place lest they make more
of human nature
than excuses its indigenous hosts
from home truths
put aside, inclined to have a say
in dreams, struggling to make sense
of us

Dead leaves
drifting here, there, everywhere
like lost children
looking for a place called ‘home’
where logic and reason
concede its predilection for love
of human nature,
lend its indigenous hosts access
to life forces
in denial, ever finding their way
to us left struggling to make sense
of dreams

Birdsong,
signalling a love of life and nature
to practised ears
in the market (for a guide of sorts)
where logic and reason
have a place, but are never enough
for human nature
whose indigenous hosts ask more
of its humanity
than dream litter left in its garden
on the assumption they will clear up
the mess

An Ode to the Dream

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day is today The man who fought hard for civil rights
My rights
Your rights
Our right to coexist

Dr. King fought for the black man
He fought for the white man
He fought for the Indian man
He fought for the Chicano man,
too
Dr. King fought for everyone
So that decades later we’d be fighting for something else

And we’d judge each other
“Not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”

Dr. King was murdered in 1968

Since then
We claim to have made progress
We’ve passed all these laws
Yet, if Dr. King were alive today he would shake his head and say
No law can change a person’s heart
It’s the heart that needs changing more than anything else
While our laws keep getting better, we think,
The people keep getting worse

Killing each other
Looting each other
Still using the “n” word
Blaming others instead of taking responsibility
It’s a psychology more than anything else, you see

Because a black president can’t change much in my life
Or your life
If the heart’s still bleeding from the inside out
Policies can’t do me any good
If I don’t know HOW to be good

So what would Dr. King really say 47 years later, then?
I’ll tell you what he’d say

He’d say check yourself, people
I didn’t come to be Jesus
I didn’t come to perform miracles
I was only a man
And if I could stand up to injustice
You can stand down and change a little something about yourself
Because you don’t need to be a King to bring about change in America,
Americans

You don’t even need to be a black man

So stand down,
So the rest of America can stand up, with you

Change yourself
Your heart
Your soul
Your mindset

Help a brother in need
Help a sister in need
Help yourself

Then we can talk about that dream I once had

Ginger Baker

she said that life
was a burning fuse
and she knew she’d
lose, and I couldn’t help her
anyway.
she said this over
the pounding drums
of Ginger Baker
after we
dropped a lot
of acid
maybe 6 tabs
of windowpane
watching the orange sun set over downtown
Los Angeles
from the roof
of my house in
Echo Park,
and the Dodgers were beating
the Giants
just over the hill in
Chavez Ravine, and I couldn’t hear what she said,
and i asked her
to repeat
it 4 times,
the 4th time
her tears came, and I
listened
closer.

Tokens

Will the life we left
behind become little more
than an urban scrawl;
graffifi on
a subway wall
to remind all who
pass this way—
thatwe too
had our day?

Moving thru Islamic State

Moving thru Islamic State, I
trip over some severed heads/ I
pick one up by a hair, &

Just as I thought it’s
Jesoo looking chagrinned &
horrified/ what’s

the matter? I ask, he
spits it out with his
blood & teeth/ “I’m nothing but a

severed head, &
you ask me what’s the matter?”
“Well, you’re also some blood &

alienated teeth. That’s part of
your sick equation; so of course I
ask, what’s the matter?”

“What would be the matter with
you if somebody had kicked your
teeth & mouth in?”

“That would piss me off.”
“Okay then I’m pissed off.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”
“You could call the cops.”
“Then what? People usually call the cops on

me.”
“Well, the tables have been turned.”
“What tables? The cops won’t listen to me.”

“They will if you have a disputed table. Give it a
try. Grab somebody’s table & try to run off with it.”

“& when the cops are about to catch me, turn that
table & catch a cop in the mouth with it.”

“You fool! You’ll go to prison.”

“There are tables in prison too.I can turn them.
Nobody will tangle with me when they see how I
turn the tables.”

“Cool!”

“One reason they won’t tangle with me is because I’m
not going to do what I have to do to go to prison.”

“Because you’re a coward.”

“No,because I’m not stupid.”

“That’s debatable.”

“So go ahead & debate. I’m still not going to do the things
that would get me in prison.”

“So you’re a chicken. You’ve already done the things to
get you in the chicken coop.”

“The only way I’m getting in the chicken coop is if I want
some eggs.”

“All right, be an egghead.”

“I’m not getting in the chicken coop because I’m an egghead.”

“Then how are you going to get any eggs?”

“If I have to, I’ll eat peanut butter.”

“On the eggs?”

“No, forget about the eggs. I’ll just eat peanut butter.”

“What about the jelly?”

“I’ll just eat peanut butter.”

“Out of the can or on toast.”

“On toast, you idiot!”

“Then you might as well have the jelly too.”

“Okay, I’ll have the jelly too.”

“Why? At first you only wanted peanut butter.”

“While you’re at it, get me some Sweet’n’low.”

“Sweet chariot. Come’n for to carry - “

“Stop that.”

The duller the better

“Hey, Russo, I reach into my pocketbook, & it’s empty.”
“Of course, Fred, all your money has gone to the filthy rich.”
“But they don’t need it.”
“What difference does that make?”
“But what about me?”
“Starve! Or join The Islamic State.”
“But all they do is cut off heads.”
“Maybe you can cut the head off someone that’s filthy rich.”
“Hey, now you’re talkin’.”
“Of course, you could object like Socrates & kill yrself.”
“But no one would care.”
“Of course not. That’s because you’re not filthy rich.”
“No, but I’m filthy.”
“That’s because you can’t afford soap.”
“No, but I can still cut off some heads.”
“Then it’s time to join ISIS.”
“But I only have a butter knife.”
“So use it. It hurts more. The duller the better.”

Liar

My Uncle would sit there
At my Grandma’s house
And lecture his mother on smoking
He wouldn’t let up
Until she turned to him angrily;
“If I wanted a damn sermon, I know where to find one!”

Grandma was the most loved and respected
When she spoke, it was final.
She never went to church.
She left the Republican Party when
It impeached Clinton.
“You can’t impeach him for screwin’!”

When she said she loved you, she meant it.
When she told you about farming, she meant it.
When she told you about Grandpa, she meant it.
When she told you that someone was an asshole, she meant it.
When she told you about work, she knew it.
When she saw you leave her room for the last time, she cried.

When the preacher said she had accepted Christ
At her death bed,
You knew he was a Liar.

Dig Dug pals (Billy the Kid’s marker)

There was a flood through here
More than one
The tombstone had to be replaced
“Approximately”, they tell me
Per location,
“Approximately”, a hundred years ago,
Meaning, “throw runes and wave chickens,
then measure it off with a divining rod”
It’s doubtful, underground, the bodies are
Anywhere NEAR this spot
People don’t like that
People want everything so, OCD, fronted jars
As do I
This sucks
Legend guesstimation sucks
Wonder if that mesquite steak place takes
Reservations?

Free of Pain

The guillotine or the horsewhip,
two forms of punishment,
which one should I take?
The prison guards gave me a choice.

For trying to escape
from their German Shepherds,
I still have their teeth marks on my arms.
My back has already endured five beatings,
lengthening the lines, leaking more blood.

The message hasn’t gotten through.
My head rolls after the blade comes down.
I still live with pain, even during the burning coffin.

Arizona Rustler

Oh I’m a cowboy
just riding my horse
and singing this ditty;
i’m a cowboy and
don’t know what’s worst
jumping the Canyon
or swimming Rio Grand
but I’m a cowboy
and I hope you like
this first verse

Yes I’m a cowboy,
with only one name
they call me the Rebel
from way back when I
fought with my brother
in that silly ol war,
didn’t know what was right
and that hating was wrong

But still I’m a cowboy,
just riding the plains,
searching the stars while
gracing her name, that’s
my horse Lucy, I’ll love
till my end, just wish
she’d stop snoring
when we bed down at night,
it’s a very long story
maybe someday explained

So just remember I’m
a real life cowboy, with
my BFF horse, a funny first
name that sounds even worst
I sit on a saddle that chaffs
my back side, riding
from town to town
helping poor folk by
robbing rich banks, yet
I give all that money
back to those I done wrong,
riding the sage bush trail
singing this stupid song

Classical Self-Help

    Brutus, M. Junius. GREAT CAESAR’S GHOST OR SPIKING THE COMPETITION. (Rome: Atrium Publications) 44 (B.C.).

    Is that certain colleague rising “too far, too fast” in your company? Leading Roman politician M. Junius Brutus offers a guidebook that will enable you to neutralize corporate upstarts-permanently. Chapter 3, “A Lean and Hungry Look” enables you to choose the right co-conspirators. “Es tu Brute” shows you how to make your move. A vital survival tool for today’s corporate forum.

Emma in the Belly of the Beast

She is ultra-vegan—
eats dandelions and cottonballs
drinks puddle

floats in the breath of clover
and wild mustard
sleeps in poppy blossoms
and grassy seams
dreams in a bed
of artificial feathers.

Independence misfires
and she finds herself
living free on a fur farm
which reeks of stoat fear
and subjective cruelty.

At night, when she takes
her paper and plastics
out to the recycling bin
that doesn’t exist

fireflies and a keychain flashlight
illuminate her curious path
across the yard

as she hears the crunch of hacked-off
mink paws beneath her feet

and the strange chirpings
of the semi-dead
still stirring in a shallow dumpster.

Four Noble Lies

When Carlotta left me I cried
into my soup. I shriveled into
harsh mathematics. A decade
later I was living on Iowa Street
with Karen. She had goldfish and
good taste. I loved her for her fleshy
neck. We drank sinewy Dos Equis
and played Mahjong. In March
I developed that cruel facial tic.
That precipitated the divorce.
At the thought of losing her
my heart contracted into a span.
But one day I knew I would replace
with a brutally neutered cat.

This poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX 2012).

Antigone Détente

I’m that age, I guess. People keep asking me
what I want for my funeral. I don’t give a shit.
Let the dogs lick my bones. Throw my ashes
out the window. If I die in the autumn, rake
the orange leaves over my arms. Sure, put my
clavicle on your mantel. Feel free to laminate
my lungs. Toss my heart off the dock. Use
me if you run out of dark molasses or caulk.
Make origami or a caftan or wicker furniture
or a raku pot of me. Tan my hide. Feed me
to rabid macaques. Dissolve me in nitric acid.
Water the garden of my face. Give Achilles
free reign to drag me through the mud. Don’t
feel guilty. It’s OK, really. I, Priam, absolve you.

So they asked his wife and daughters and sons
what they wanted for their father, and they said,
Bury the bastard. Serves him right for being glib.

This poem appeared in Connotation Press. It appears in Blasphemer (Lit Fest Press 2015).

Divided America

It’s not about red nor blue / It’s certainly not about WHITE / More like warm colors vs cool colors / Pastels vs vivids / It’s a stain on the Carpet of Liberty /
Take up this gun - take up a flower
You see a difference, a division
It’s about exclusion vs inclusion
It’s about hate vs love
HOW DO WE LIVE? ? ?

It’s about thinking as opposed to - not thinking
It’s about - - not wanting to KNOW
Simple has become complicated
Complicated has become simple
We’re too scared to learn the difference—?
So easy / To just say it, right out / You-will-be-my-friend/ You-will-trust-me-always / I-will-be-your-friend / I-will-trust-you-always / We will share and enjoy-our-love-and-happiness.
So hard / Hard to turn your back / Hard to resist giving in, breaking down, losing your cool / to not say to yourself / I have made a decision / I know what’s good for me / I know what’s good for my country, for my family, for my friends and neighbors / So hard so painful so shameful / Easy became difficult, difficult became easy /
I do not want to be around you
I do not want to trust you
I would rather be scared to death of you
I would rather talk down to you and whisper about you behind your back.
I wouuld rather vote for people who would see you burning and bleeding and pleading
before you could earn your privileges
safe, comfortable, veiled within this complication
content to evaluate every person everytime
you are fat you are gay you are tall you are short you are autistic you are a bookish nerd you are female you are male you are Irish Turkish Spanish you’re a Negro you’re a Jew you’re a Muslim you’re Catholic Protestant Atheist you’re this you’re that you’re not that you’re not T H I S
secure. safe in my brown purple deep green deep blue—and RED, yes, red too, bloody bloody hateful hateful red
It’s a divided nation / it’s easy to admit this has happened / it’s hard to say when it happened /
Maybe it was in the 50s with Joseph McCarthy
Maybe it was in the 60s with idealism & Vietnam
Maybe it was in the 70s when we suddenly became submissive again
Maybe it was in the 80s with Reaganomics and 1-upmanship
Maybe it was in the 90s with the first Gulf war and almost impeaching Clinton for doing what Joe Average does all the time
Maybe it was in the 2000s with Dubya and 9-11 and Iraq and Homeland Security and the Patriot Act and torturing innocent people..............and all THAT shit.

Maybe it’s now.
Maybe it’s right now - with our first black President, envied, despised, blamed for everything except the Apocalypse.
But—this requires thought, doesn’t it.
And you don’t LIKE to think.
It’s too difficult for you to sit down and think.
To sit down and learn.
To try to figure out what happened / to consider why it happened.
It’s an assignment, it’s a quiz, it’s an exam, it’s an essay question, it will affect 75 % of your grade: Why did this happen and what might you have done to prevent it?
This DIVIDED NATION
The choice is always yours - the gun, or the flower
We will have to come all together as one,
Or this division will destroy most of us.

The young man points the trigger
The trigger finds its mark
The flower explodes
                                 into
                                         millions   of   blood stains

Blindfolds

We are
The Captains,
Yet we imagine
We are
Frauds.

We see ourselves as
Unsympathetic images
Crowded together
Waiting for our trip
To the editing room.

Our waking brain
Is a tiger
Dancing blindfolded.

But if dreams are
The afterlife —
Breath’s final
Daily climax —

Remind yourself
To fly.
Remind yourself
Who
steers the ship.

A Poem about the reality check
of the Dying process of Loved ones.

I feel alive when I’m Dying
        I feel at peace
whilst I cry inside my Brain
I feel aware when
        I’m hardly even there
and away we go again
        A slip        A slap
A slit in hazel eyes
        Sickled tears Dribble
        on the pages
        I scribble.
When I’m dying I feel the
        Most alive.

extinct on planet earth

saw a slew of books for sale recently
of species now extinct on planet earth

some books were massive volumes,
like large catalogs categorizing the now dead

and I heard a statistic a while ago
saying a species goes extinct every 90 seconds

I mean, these books can’t be up to date
when so much in our world is dying so quickly

ninety nine percent of all species
that have ever lived on earth        are now gone

when I think of the death that precedes us,
when I think of the death we see around us

I wonder,                      when a loved one dies
do they become a name that will be forgotten

maybe listed in a catalog
like all these long gone extinct species

I think of a man
who told me he loved me

I think of my mother

and I wonder,
will all that is left of that life,

will it all be reduced to a line of type
in small print, cataloged by genome

maybe there’s a word or two, beyond a name
but just a few words                is this all that is left

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
    From January 2010 through August 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the open mic’s weekly feature / open mic podcast (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), the three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# cc& hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.

Decisions...Decisions

    Roll the dice, flip the cards; hit the button and stack the chip, which intrigues the hell out of me. I’m not a gambler; I’m an observer of gambling or gaming. I observe the affect those inanimate objects have on those who can least afford it. The retired or disabled senior citizen, the blue and white collar workers who think they’ll beat the odds. I frequent several casinos in the metropolitan area. Today at “The Green River” I’m sitting at the center bar observing a small group clustered by the fifty cent to a dollar slots in the center of the floor. It was the end of the month and scores of seniors played the penny slots. My wife, Charlene loved the pennies, “They sing the longest,” she said, and off it went. She smiled and blew me a kiss.
    A familiar face sat on the other side of the bar. Where have I seen that guy? He was clean shaven, but the last time he had a week old beard and kept that look. Ah...Clinton, that’s his name. He went from mechanic to the academy. I don’t need to think about the job. The doctor stressed “Don’t think about work.” The meds work best with positive thoughts. Right. Don’t let the voices win. Why blow the extended medical leave of absence. Don’t think about the job. Don’t.
    Big Willie, an ex-NBA player with a clean shaven head, beard and a bright smile bought me another Miller. “This one’s on me, Flash. I see the wife’s hitting.” He said and refilled the peanut bowl. My friends call me, Flash. I have a lightning bolt tattooed on my forearm, but my name’s Lewis Flashner.
    I nodded and took a sip. “Yeah, I’m glad, happy wife, happy life.”
    “You really believe that?”
    “Yeah, my dad told me that. Now if she could only hit it big.” I said and we laughed. Hit it big, everybody’s fantasy. One of the golden girls, a group of three little ladies with silver hair shouted out. If she won over a couple hundred bucks I’d be shocked. How they survived in the cloud of smoke that lingered in that area was anybody’s guess. I made it my business to sit under the nearest exhaust vent.
    Charlene fanned her nose when a short fat cigar smoking guy in a ragged security guard uniform sat next to her. She wore her newest blue pant suit and hated smelling like smoke. She meandered through the crowded aisle and slipped her ticket into the payout machine. She turned, caught my eye and pointed at the carousel of dollar machines. She parked herself on one next to the main aisle. I text her. Good luck and I might try mine later.
    Two seconds later: Omg...I knew this crap would happen. All off duty EMT’s report ASAP Code1. Glad we drove separate cars. Call me. She waved and hurried to the exit.
    Willie returned and said. “Look behind you at our favorite eye candy.”
    I spun on my stool and Alexandria stood next to an older gentleman wearing a cheap toupee and red shoes, frustrated he packed up his stuff. The machine got him; he fell for the taste, a win here and there to keep you sitting. The longer you sit the more you lose. That’s the logic. Everybody loved Alexandria. She was a tall graceful woman with an hour glass figure, an oversized behind and short blonde streaked hair. A flawless tan, manicured nails and toenails that were coordinated with whatever outfit she wore. Her smooth voice, quick wit and seductive personality spelled trouble for guys who loved pretty faces like me.
    But, she was a compulsive and a losing one at that.
    She kept money though people who wanted her time saw to that. Too bad, at some point the hustle will be her and others like her undoing. I’d never met her, but we’d exchanged nods here and there. “She working the crowd or the machines?”
    “Both.” Willie said. “Her clothes must cost a fortune or either she knows how to shop or she might make them herself, which I doubt.”
    “So do I. She might go to the second hand store; they got quality stuff. You can dress like a jet setter for half the price.”
    “Never thought about the resale places, makes sense.” He wiped the area. “Listen to the machines...ding-a-ling. Money for a minute and then silence and more empty pockets.” We laughed out loud.
    “You know I’m surprised you haven’t hit Alexandria, you’re her type, right?”
    Willie shook his head. “Nope. I learned when I played ball those types will destroy your heart. I talked to her for a few minutes and man she’s easy to talk too. It was like I’d known her for years. That’s dangerous for me, I’ve been through a divorce and damn near lost it all. I bet you she got one helluva piece of tail on her though. But, she ain’t puttin’ a pussy whoopin’ on me.”
    I laughed and downed my beer. “Well, Willie I think I’ll try my luck. I agree with you, but I’m going to sit next to her and maybe her temporary good fortune might blow my way. I know when to quit.” I brushed by jackets and bags that hug on chairs and the murmuring, whispering profanity and the electronic magic of the spinning reels. I pulled the seat out and she glanced at me and smiled. My heart melted...man she was a beautiful creature. “Hi, how are you?”
    “Good.” Her smooth response gave that word new meaning.
    Gamblers are strange, anything, let them tell it, can change their luck. She kept pushing buttons and I inserted twenty in the Wheel of Fortune machine. I hit when only five bucks was left. The rollup sounds of winning made you think I’d won a fortune. The beauty next to me won a few times. She paused to light a cigarette. “My name’s Lewis Flashner, you can call me ‘Flash’ if you like, my friends do.”
    Her face lit up, she extended her hand. “Nice to meet you and call me Alexandria...not Alex, please, I got a thing about that.” I agreed and we shook. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
    “Yes.”
    “Cool, I don’t need them anyway.” She kept smiling and I couldn’t help but scope the cleavage of her low cut blouse. Beautiful. We conversed between play. I was impressed. Alexandria was a math teacher at a local two year college and a former civil engineer. She said her modeling inspirations ended at age thirteen. The reasons were obvious; her curves killed that. She hit the button and said, “Her gambling was a hobby she loved.” A shame an educated woman in denial. As they say said she could charm a snake. Somebody was lucky, if and only if, they could tolerate a compulsive. Twenty minutes later see slammed her hands on the machine. “C’mon, goddammit!”
    “Patience, patience.” I said.
    She cut her eyes at me and I virtually bleed to death. “Yeah, right. Fuck this I’m going to the blackjack tables.”
    “Want me to keep it warm for you?” I tried to lighten the moment.
    “No, Flash, it’s as warm as it’ll get.” She snapped and walked away. I draped my jacket over the chair and slid over in the seat. I fed it a ten and hit the button. The pay line read all diamonds.
    Boom! I jumped for an instant. Did I hit the jackpot or what? The machine went crazy; bells flashed, music played and a crowd gathered. Charlene is going to love this! I watched my money total. Somebody grabbed my shoulder and dug their fingers in between my collar bone. Alexandria whispered, “Thanks for keeping my seat warm, we’re rich.” She kissed my cheek and nibbled on my ear. I snatched her hand.
    “No, you left, remember?” My shoulder hurt like hell. Man, she had a grip. The floor manager and other officials broke through the crowd with a huge symbolic check for 866,598.00 bucks. I loved the smiles, congrats and the pictures, too bad Charlene wasn’t here. I looked around, no Alexandria, good, but I had a bad feeling about her. The celebration ended as fast as it started. Time to meet the taxman. I filled out the forms; they robbed me, but what can you do? I took two grand in cash and told them to cut a check for the balance in the morning. They offered a complimentary contemporary presidential suite for 36 hours. I accepted.

    Contemporary was an understatement. There wasn’t a piece of wood in the bi-level suite. All furnishings were white leather, chrome and stainless steel on plush white carpet and fresh flowers and fruit in every room. Electronic sensors operated everything; voice and touch command of the ultimate electronic security and surveillance system.
    I finally got in touch with Charlene and she screamed. “And, you should see this suite, straight out of Architectural Digest. I’m going to take a shower order a porterhouse steak and get drunk; not necessarily in that order. I left your keycard at the desk in case I’m asleep.”
    “Honey, I can’t wait, see you soon.” Charlene hadn’t sounded that overjoyed in years. I kicked off my shoes and my feet sank into the carpet while I raided the bar. I dropped a couple of cubes into two fingers of Johnnie Black Label and jiggled the glass.
    What should I do with all that money?
    Whatever, it’ll make the decision to leave the job easier.
    The view of the lake and skyline was spectacular. The sun set, but the swirling golden ribbons in the clouds felt special today. Two drinks later I needed a shower. I flipped off the deadbolt in case I went to sleep. The multi-directional shower heads lined the wall gave me the experience of a complete cleaning. I patted here and there with a thick white towel on the way to the bar. A drink down the hatch and I headed for the master bedroom. I pushed the door and said, “Lights.” In the middle of the king size on blue satin sheets, Alexandria lay on her back naked with the most beautiful set of tits I ever saw. No stretch marks, no lines from her undergarments or uneven skin tone on her. Beautiful, perfect! She parted her thick thighs and revealed pubic hair that covered the hidden valley. I stared and my robe opened. Her eyes widened. “Wow, bring it over here right now.”
    What the hell was I thinking? No telling when Charlene will come through that door. She must’ve gotten her key somehow. “How did you get in here? Get your clothes on and get out!”
    “That’s my secret.” The angelic smile turned demonic right quick. “You owe me asshole that was my machine, remember?” I walked over and grabbed her arms. She tried to kiss me; I ducked. She pulled away, rolled out of the bed and hit me in the gut with a right jab. Air shot out my lungs, I doubled over, paralyzed I gasped for breath. She pushed me on my side. “I want my money,” and stood over me with her legs spread. If she pees in my face I’ll kill her. I was rock hard. She eased her foot on my genitals and massaged them with her toes, up and down, up and down. My lungs expanded back to normal. Jesus, Charlene was en-route; if she sees this I’m dead.
    The massage was good. I looked up in her excitement filled eyes. “That’s good.”
    She whispered. “You like it, baby?” and closed her eyes. Now Flash! I grabbed her ankle, snatch it and she toppled on the bed. I jumped on her, in mid bounce her leg shot between mine and she kneed me in the nuts. I groaned, grabbed my groin and I was locked in the fetal position. She flipped me in a second and smacked me in the throat. I gagged for a second and both her hands were wrapped around my neck. Her blows were light, but disabling. She had the height and weight advantage; she weighed two hundred plus at six feet. I’m five seven, thin, but solid. She sprawled across me like a victorious wrestler. The angry grin on her lovely face said it all. I just kicked your ass. I didn’t know which hurt the most, my nuts, throat or my pride.
    Fuck it, I’m dead. I imagined the look on my wife’s face when she walks in and sees this.
    Alexandria straddled me, reached around and grabbed it, squeezed and stroked it until it shot to attention. She thrust downward and moaned. She was moist, warm and tight. I clutched her hips and tried to withdraw, but her muscles gripped me like a Chinese finger trap. Who’d believe she was raping me. Nobody. What the hell. I reached up and kissed her. Her tongue explored my mouth, then she whispered, “Give it to me, baby.” I flipped her and cupped her behind. The dog in me took over, we moved in harmony. “Give it to me, baby.” I couldn’t hold back and she took it, all of it, every drop. We panted for a minute and she pushed me off. She slipped into the bathroom and two seconds later she hurried out in a bathrobe and headed for the door.
    “Wait a second.” I chased after her. She was out the door, ran down the dimly lit hall and cut the corner. Where was she going? What room? Ding...the elevator doors opened. Oh shit, Charlene. I pushed up my door and peeked. An elderly couple exited and went in the opposite direction. Thank God! I leaned against the door and looked down at myself, still wet and half erect. The voice said, “She made a fool out of you.” My heart pounded. “What if your wife came in there? Tell her it was rape you idiot.”
    “Shut up.” I grabbed my head and took deep breathes. I went and got my meds. Don’t take with alcohol...So what it’s time.” I downed the pill and water and flopped on the bed. I felt like a fool. I was too old and experienced to get played. What will she do? Take your pick, “He raped me or Flash, I think or I am pregnant.” My cell rang. Charlene. “Hello.”
    “Hey, honey I got bad news. There was a train derailment near the airport. I have to stay...” I sighed and grabbed my chest. “Lewis?”
    “Yeah, I’m here. Ok, how long do you...nevermind, you don’t know.”
    “Sorry...I’m so sorry, but I’ll stop by the house and get us a change of clothes.”
    “Ok...be safe.” The phone went dead. I had countless heart attacks and she was nowhere near the place. My flesh squawked, I could still be in Alexandria. I shook that thought and fell back on the bed. For the past year I’ve made tremendous progress in my battle against mental issues.
     Lewis Flashner, Vehicle Maintenance Manager, escaped voices saying all kinds of shit only to have them return because of a compulsive gambler.
    The stress of managing the vehicle pool of the largest police district in the city overwhelmed my positive outlook on life. I made my job easier by literally rolling the dice. I take a stack of work orders and roll the dice; if the number shown was the first digit on the order it got done.
     My inner ear kept me safe for years and then it got too loud, really loud. I answered it too often. Charlene brought it to my attention. I was in denial until I did that in front of my superiors. Straight to the department shrink I went. A suggested medical leave of absence followed and the more the meds helped the more I liked being away from that cesspool. I’m laying here rethinking the shit I left behind. The alcohol minimized my meds; Clozaril worked for me with no side effects. The doctor recommended a daily dosage, but I cut that in half when the voices subsided. I doubled it, it shouldn’t hurt this once.
    Why am I laying here? Get out of this room you’ll feel better. That voice wasn’t loud, normal like a thought should be. I pulled open the night stand drawer. I was a grand short. That damn Alexandria got me, again. Well at least she left me two to play with, the greedy bitch. I felt funny in the same clothes, but if I buy an outfit Charlene will have a fit. Another shower, press my pants and shirt will do.

    The casino floor’s night crowd made the usual noise, but the volume on the machines seemed louder or had my double dose of meds kicked in? My favorite bartender left ten minutes earlier. The short narrow hipped young blonde didn’t hesitate to show her reluctance to accept my friendly introduction. She wasn’t my type. I got raped by the most beautiful women around — why would I make a pass at her? She should be flattered if anybody said hello. No tip for you, sweetheart. I took a swig of Miller’s when the overweight guy next to me fell off the stool. After gasps and giggles a few guys helped him to his feet. The crowd laughed and clapped while his buddies virtually carried him away. The guards laid back and followed them to the exit. Alexandria slipped right into his spot. “Hey Flash, how are you now?”
    I wanted to punch and kiss her at once. “How you think?” I got too loud people stopped and stared...I stared back; they looked away. “You’re one bold female, don’t mess with me and get to the point. What do you want?” She’d changed into a diamond studded olive denim pant suit. She beckoned the unattractive barmaid.
    “I’ll have what my friend’s drinking.” Her voice was a killer, smooth and sexy. “I know what you’re thinking, Flash. You expect me to say, give me my money or I’ll claim assault since you flooded me with evidence.” She laughed. “Flash floods...get it?”
    “No, I don’t.” I turned up my beer while she poured hers. Is she wearing a wire or was there a camera in the room? I didn’t think to look. I must be losing my mind. She rubbed my leg and her hand inched its way to my crouch.
    “I enjoyed you, Flash.”
    “Bull, move your hand.” I didn’t want to say it, but if she wore a wire she won’t admit it. “You raped me, Alexandria. Why me anyway, I’m an average looking guy with a broken nose and I’m near fifty?”
    “You rejected me, so I took it. And, you and I know who’s going to believe you?” What could I say? I pushed away her probing fingers. “That’s behind us; don’t be mean.” She put her hands on the bar. “I admitted it, Flash. I’m not wearing a wire or none of that stuff, relax.”
    “Get a lawyer. You don’t have a case and you know it. Are you crazy or what?”
    “No, I am not, I possess huge spiritual powers with backing from powers humans cannot comprehend.”
    “The witch queen from New Orleans.” I smiled at the frown on her face. “Sorry, no money, honey.”
    “I am not a witch, you got that? I need 50k and I’m at your service whenever I’m needed...at least most of the time. I like you and it.” She gazed down at my crouch while her tongue glided across her glossy lips. “Not many guys hear that from me. Be nice Flash, enjoy me, don’t make me get ugly. Here’s a small demonstration.”
    She raised her hands. “Oh, no, hocus-pocus.” I giggled and pretended to be serious. She touched my knee and a sharp pain shot through my knee cap. “Ouch, that hurt.”
    She killed her drink. “Ah...I’ll be in touch, enjoy yourself,” and she walked away. All eyes followed her behind toward the slots.
    Voodoo, spells and spirit, like I’m supposed to believe that crap. I felt drowsy, but finished my beer. When I stood my knee ached. I needed something on my stomach, a double cheeseburger sounded good. I headed for the grill and then back to my suite.

    It was hazy, warm and singing in the background of the forest. I fanned and walked through a cloud. “Lewis, are you woke?” My eyes popped open. Charlene stood at the entrance to the bathroom. I cleared my throat.
    “I thought I heard singing, good to finally see you.” She continued to dry her hair. “You forgot your dryer?”
    “Yeah.” Her long thick Black hair stopped midway down her back. The last time I suggested she cut it I got silence. Three inches taller than me, full figured, beautiful legs and thighs and firm heavy breast she was no Alexandria, but I wouldn’t trade her for a hundred Alexandrias. We’ve been through two separations those twenty years and another indiscretion and I’ll lose her forever. I hope Ms. Wigglebottom doesn’t force my hand.
    “Come get in the bed, I’ll brush my teeth and be right back.” She dropped the towel and got in.
    “You were tired, snoring and you moved my hand. You hurt my feelings. Don’t you love me anymore?” Charlene laughed.
    I spit out toothpaste. “Sorry, alcohol and burgers equal weird dreams...I should run and jump in, but my knee feels like it wants to buckle.”
    “Walk then and show me what a good night’s sleep can do.”

    The clouds and rain moved in quick. We rushed to the parking lot and that aided in digesting our huge breakfast at the buffet. The bank opened at 9:00 am and I couldn’t wait to surprise Charlene with 200k to do what she chose, provided she didn’t leave me, of course. I’ll see how she reacts to that joke.
    I decided to keep my Acura, it wasn’t new, but it never gave me any trouble. The young personal banker keyed whatever in her computer. She smiled and brushed her red hair behind her Bimbo like ears and turned the computer screen to review our accounts. “It’s not often we deposit that amount of money from the casino. I’m jealous I can’t win fifty bucks.” She laughed and pointed at the screen. “You see this, these are your accounts and the changes we talked about.”
    We agreed. “Thank you.”
    “Oh, I forgot that envelope.” Charlene said, and rambled through her purse. “It must be in the car.”
    “What is it?”
    “My OT check...be right back.”
    Charlene stood on the curb and a black Ford Expedition approached, slowly at first. It sped up and swerved toward her. My heart skipped a beat. She jumped back and the SUV regained control, stopped at the entrance to the lot and jumped out into northbound traffic. The banker gasped, “What’s wrong with that fool?” Charlene shouted obscenities at the driver and stared at the truck speed down the street. She retrieved her envelope and returned. She smiled passing a few customers and frowned when she sat.
    “Did you see that? She damn near hit me...it was like she was trying to scare me, crazy bitch. Excuse my language, Ms. Pelley, but, well you know.” She giggled and we finished our business and left. “I’m still shaking, Lewis. She had a crazed look in her eyes. When I think about it I think I saw her rolling her eyes at us/me at the buffet.” Charlene sighed and snatched open the door. “Crazy bitch.”
    “What she look like?”
    “Pretty, tall curves with blonde streaked hair.”
    “Relax Charlene; is it possible her hand slipped off the wheel or something?” She gave me that stare. Alexandria’s gone too far. I’ll kill her for messing with my wife.
    “No, Lewis, I don’t believe it.” Charlene exhaled hard. “You know, forget that suite let’s go home. Ok?”
    “Cool with me.”
    “I forgot to tell you I have to work tonight to cover for Richards, sorry.” She rubbed my leg and her fingers crept up my leg. I giggled. “I’ll make it up to you.”
    “After a 200K gift you better.” Alexandria fucked up; when Charlene leaves for work I’ll make a beeline back to the casino. I’ve got a plan.

    I rubbed and drummed my fingers on my knee. Pain killers and anti-inflammatory meds hadn’t worked. Alexandria showed her power. Right...I wish I would believe that foolishness. Coincidental instantaneous arthritic flare up was the answer. But, those tattoos on her neck and the wrist bracelet she wore symbolized voodoo. I’m not a believer in the supernatural. True, there are things that can’t be explained, but it never happened to me. When I talk to her I’ll ask does she believe in ‘BigFoot’ and the like. The walk into the casino was challenging. What I wouldn’t give for a cane right now. I slipped a ten into the slot machine, hit the button and scanned the floor. Alexandria should pop up out of nowhere. I waited by the craps tables, roulette wheels and the blackjack, no Alexandria. Perhaps she anticipated my move? Playing mental checkers with this female won’t work; the best strategy, chess.
    Two slow moving freight trains, a safety check and a gaper’s block later I pulled in my driveway. I hesitated to hit the button and stared at the three door garage. We worked hard to build our life style. Our blessing Charlene said, but Alexandria wanted to be the proverbial ‘the rain must fall’ in our lives.
    Over my dead body! I hit the button and pulled into my world.

    My spirit had been rejuvenated, time to get to work. The desktop took its sweet time to boot up. Damn viruses. The cable company said their virus protection was the best. I beg to differ, but what other choice do I have? I could no longer access the department system, but I’ll still check the department’s reluctant partner social media. It’s amazing what people share and then they complain when “Big Brother” uses it against them. Stupid. The doorbell rang. Who is that? Matt Whelan’s smiling face appeared on the monitor. I opened the door and, “Hey Matt, how are you?”
    “I’m good, what are you doing? I saw you pull in, are you busy?”
    “Uh...no, not really, what’s up?” Matt was the bouncy type who moved all the time. He wasn’t nervous; I guess active best describes it. He looked like a model and all the ladies on the block admired him. He owned several chicken shacks, but he didn’t eat fried foods. Go figure. A health nut with an insatiable appetite for money.
    “You and yours come to the house I’m having a bar-b-q.”
    “Ok, see you in a few.” He dashed down the block like an Olympian. I wouldn’t miss his gathering for the world.
    Surprise. Charlene pulled up, waved and eased in the garage. She took her time after smashing her mirror last week. “What happened?”
    She kissed me. “Change in plans, Richards came in. At first I was angry, but who just won big money? What did Matt want?”
    “Bar-B-Q at his place and I’m starving. I want to go, but my knee is bothering me.” I rubbed it. “A crazy drunk put a hex on it for winning all that money.” If I told her the truth instead of a knee to the nuts, I’d stop a bullet.
    “Oh really.” Charlene led me to the sofa in the den and put her hand on it. “I renounce this evil action in Jesus’ name, Amen. That’ll stop that mess.”
    I stretched my leg several times. “It’s gone, no pain, that’s amazing.” It’s a mind thing, but I dare not say it. I stood and paced around like I was trying on a new pair shoes.
    “Ok now?”
    “Yeah.” I said
    Charlene laughed. “Praise the Lord. One day you’ll see the light and come to church where you belong. And, I’ll leave that alone and you can go to Matt’s without me I might be there later. I’m going to take a nap.”

    The old school house music sounded good, it churned my soul and my stress eased. My knee throbbed no longer. I knocked and pushed open the wooden gate. Several retired couples, several middle aged couples and the rest were young and single. They played yard games, danced and mingled. The outstanding things about a Whelan’s party are the beautiful people, pretty boys and girls. The crème of the crop in their various professions. They came in all colors and heights and not an ounce of fat on them. Many were in the medical fields, a few lawyers and entrepreneurs. Thank God for the heat and humidity the females were skimpy dressed. I saw nice nipples and pants lines of those who wore them. I know Charlene will gawk at the bodybuilders and that’s okay, I married a good woman not a perfect one.
    I hadn’t been back here all summer. The new redwood deck must have cost a fortune. Matt sat in his chair like a king on his throne. I said all my hello’s and headed for the beer cooler. “Hey Matt, the cooler’s almost empty.” He gave me the thumbs up. I plunged my hand into the icy water and got the last Heineken and unscrewed it. Somebody tapped my shoulder. I turned and Alexandria smiled. “Hey there, Flash, small world isn’t it?” She laughed and hugged me like we were friends. I played it off. Don’t make a scene, Flash.
    Damn, what is she doing here?
    “Alexandria, good to see you. What are you doing here?” That hug and slight caress gave me a semi-hard on. She wore a sheer silk like blouse tied in a bow under her breast exposing her narrow flat stomach and waist with shorts that couldn’t help but hug her wide hips. Her feet were bare with metallic toenail polish Matt’s back lawn was a picture perfect green even cut. You didn’t need shoes.
    “Don’t look so surprised, I’ve known the Whelan’s longer than you. I said I’m an educator and engineer.” She rubbed her fingers together. Been looking for me?”
    “Yes and no,” I lied. “But we do need to talk about a little something, like my wife.” She got a strange contemptuous look on her face. “But, first I’ll mingle a bit and then we talk.” I squeezed her arm and smiled. “Got it?” I walked away.
    “Lewis wait.” There was that smirk again. “Want to go in the back bathroom and get a quickie?”
    “Really Alexandria? No.” How did she know there was a back bathroom? She gets around. One thing about her, she fits into the Whelan crowd.
    If and when Charlene shows up I hope she doesn’t recognize Alexandria. She wore a wig or either she colored her hair. Another step ahead or a bad hair day? Either way I won’t be staying long. I finished mingling and cornered Alexandria by the badminton net.
    Keep a smile on your face, Flash.
    Jesus...voices again!
    “Don’t mess with my family, Alexandria. You got a problem with me keep it that way, understood?”
    “Fuck you too, Flash.” Alexandria said, with a smiley snarl. “How’s your knee?”
    “Healed. Go stick that voodoo crap, you don’t have to answer me, but at the least you should heed the warning.” She smiled like she was telling me to go screw yourself.
    “You know what I want.” She sighed. “But, you aren’t listening. I guess my knee and your nuts will have a reunion.”
    “That’s the only way you’ll win...temporarily.” I walked out the gate. I should’ve said bye to Matt, but it would’ve come out wrong. My pressure was up, I felt light headed.
    I’m going to put Alexandria out of my misery.
    Time to think, but first how will it be done? Bullet to the head, an easy decision, by a small caliper weapon. Recon and surveillance will determine the final decision when and where.

    “Charlene I’m back.” No answer, she must be asleep. I started up the stairs, got to the top and heard snoring. I didn’t know she was that tired. I popped another Clozaril and got on the computer. Alexandria said she worked at the city colleges. I went to their website and checked the faculty. There she was, Professor Alexandria Bellock, math and engineering, impressive, beauty and big brains wasting away via gaming. Damn shame. I would be one of many acquaintances looked at after her demise. I checked the e-mail account, nothing out of the ordinary. And, now Professor Alexandria Bellock let’s see if I find you on Facebook. I logged in and keyed in her name.
    Bingo!
    Lovely picture, a million friends and let’s see...she attended MIT, she’s a Greek sorority member, whoopee-do. But she’s highly upset about the governor elect proposed slashing of the funding for special education. She posted numerous photos of people with special needs. Where was that place? Was it a hospital or a school? I studied the background of the pictures and no indications where they were taken. How would I find her address? Follow her from the casino. That was logical if she lived in the area, with plenty of apartments and condos. Assuming she did, she most likely taught at the college down the street. I checked the website again. The engineering curriculum was taught there. Dammit, school is out for summer. How did I forget? But, whatever classes were held, no engineering. Check for special needs institutions in the area. Good, I found two and hit the print button. I decided to wait for Alexandria to find me again, and follow her. Another long shot, but I’ll take it and in the morning I’ll decide which weapon to use.

    I did my stretches and kissed Charlene on the cheek and whispered, “I’m going for a run.” The birds chirped louder than usual, unrest in the fowl community. I’ll do my usual lazy regimen of three times around the Oakdale. I finished and went around to the back gate. The utility company’s easement was along the back of our property. An old electrical underground junction contained a special weapon I put together. If it was found the average person they wouldn’t realize it was a sophisticated zip-gun with a silencer. It’s a shame the things that rub off on you being around cops. I designed it for ‘one and done.’ The grounds natural shift made it difficult, at first, to pry open the box. I felt around with caution I didn’t want to scratch or scrapes my hand even with gloves on. No blood, no DNA equal no evidence if found.
    A long shot, but I’ve seen people get life over a long shot. I stuffed the pouch in my pocket, covered the box and assembled it in the basement. I double checked everything; no doubt it would work. A simple three piece assembly. I’ll put the silencer in the glove compartment, the trigger in the console and the barrel in the trunk. If I get stopped the pieces are simply strange looking tools.

    “Well, Big Willie we haven’t seen Ms. Wigglebottom all week.”
    Willie laughed until tears formed in his eyes. “Ms. Wigglebottom? You right...she got one don’t she?”
    “Yeah, I miss it.” If I wasn’t looking for her she’d be tapping me on the shoulder. I cannot win! Now what do I do? Follow your gut, Flash. I checked the addresses on the printout. First, I’ll stop by Young Adult Rehabilitation Institute located in an annex building next to Mother of Mercy Hospital.
    I entered the building under the scaffolding of a crew working on the roof and the building facade. The lobby was small, typical, cushioned chairs next to tables full of magazines. No TV or elevator type music and behind an elevated desk and security glass a little person studied a computer screen. She smiled and turned in her black leather high backed executive chair.
    “Hello, I’m the Director, Dr. Leslie Robinson, what can I do for you?”
    She spoke with an authoritative but kind voice. Her hair was short and she wore a beige pant suits straight out of Cosmopolitan Magazine. Her green eyes displayed intelligence with arched eyebrows and perfect white teeth. She was beautiful and curvy. A heart breaker by anybodies standards. “I’m Lewis Flashner, Dr. Robinson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She continued to smile. “A friend of mine, Alexandria Bellock asked me to stop by and check out the institute.” Her eyes lit up. “I’m thinking of early retirement and I’m interested in working with the handicapped.” Where in the world did that lie come from, Flash? “Is she here today?”
    She sighed. “We wish, we haven’t seen or heard from her in a week. That’s not like her all.” Dr. Robinson said, concerned and sad. “Are you thinking of volunteering?”
    “Uh...maybe.” I lied again.
    “Come in, Mr. Flashner.” She hit a buzzer and the door popped open. She reached up and took my hand. “Let me show you around.”
    “Ok.” She led the way through the freshly painted hallway. The tile floors had a mirror shine and a concave mirror panel at the intersection. We made a right turn into an open area. Several curtained sections lined the wall like an emergency room. A pale kid, completely bald came toward us in a wheelchair. Obviously the child was a quadriplegic. He controlled the chair with a stick controller in his mouth. He stopped and in a thunderous voice.
    “Are you a friend of Dr. Bellock?”
    I nodded. Tears formed in his big blue eyes. “Where is she, I miss her...tell her Tommy needs her. Ok?” My heart broke. A tear rolled down his rosy cheek.
    “Ok, Tommy, will do. I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” He reinserted the control in his mouth, turned and left.
    “As you see, Tommy is crazy about Alexandria.” A chubby Black girl on crutches with the brightest eyes kicked a beach ball toward us. I caught it and bounced it back. She waved and went back to her group of friends. Dr. Robinson said she was born with a severe speech impediment and a terminal brain tumor. Several nurses hardly noticed us while they performed their duties.
    So many innocents handicapped, how do they handle it knowing they’ll die soon, the majority will never set foot outside this place?
    Dr. Robinson introduced me to the remaining patients and staff. I was as gracious as possible; I couldn’t take it any longer. “Excuse me, Dr. Robinson, where’s the bathroom?”
    “Out the door, make a right and the first door at the end.”
    I leaned over the sink and splashed cold water in my face. My heart continued to flutter. I took a deep breath, exhaled and joined the director.
    These are the greatest and most compassionate people in the world!
    God, I admire their strength. How do they do it, day after day? I wondered how many, if any, dabble on the dark side like the revered Alexandria Bellock?
    “What do you think about the institute, Mr. Flashner?”
    “It’s wonderful the things you do here. I have several things I’d like to disgust when you have time.”
    “How about now I’ve got time? I’ll even order lunch, on me.”
    “Cool.” We headed for her office.

    On this fourth of the month the usual crowd thinned early. The slots were merciless and the house rejoiced. What do people expect? Hotels are the symbol of their prosperity earned, or given; by the people who can least afford it. Management closed the section of slots by the bar to empty and reset the one-armed bandits. I decided to play roulette which is the only game I have success. The fifty-fifty odds made sense. There was a decent crowd at the five dollar table. I did red or black keeping it simple and made a hundred bucks. For the past two weeks I hadn’t been stressed. No alcohol, no Alexandria, the revelation of her extracurricular activity and the meds silenced the loud voices again. I put twenty on red and watched the wheel. Two taps on the shoulder, I got tense. The surprise I’d been waiting for showed.
    Red hit again.
    I turned around. “Hello, Alexandria, how are you and how was the break, vacation or whatever you call it?”
    “Fine, let’s talk,” she smiled that smile. We stepped away from the table. “I see luck is with you.” I agreed. “Remember what I want?”
    “Yes, I do, Alexandria. When I talked to Dr. Robinson and by the way their concerned about you, I came up with a solution.” She turned sheet white.
    “What? How...did you?” She blinked several times.
    “How did I find out about your other job or whatever you call it? Facebook, the mysterious Dr. Bellock, I’m kind of good at puzzles, sometimes.” I grinned, she frowned. “Don’t pass out.”
    “I’m not passing out, Flash. Go to hell, are we done?”
    “No, I’ll make it short. You want fifty grand, you’ll have fifty grand, but I talked to my lawyer and Dr. Robinson. That or should I say, your fifty grand will be split, twenty-five to the Young Adult Rehabilitation Institution and the Children’s Hospital the other place you work. You looked surprised. I was shocked that a compulsive deceptive piece of crap like you has a good side. I guess you got caught up in an addiction. I’m not giving you a dime. Do what you think is in your best interest, but if your smart don’t bother me or mine again. Got it?”
    “I still got power over you, Flash.” Her voice quivered, she stood there, motionless with a blank expression. Something was wrong. Her eyes rolled in her head and blood trickled out her nose. She dropped to her knees and fell over. Several people rushed to assist her. I moved back and let security handle it. The EMT’s got there quick and Alexandria was on her way to the hospital.

    Charlene begged me to attend a big religious conference. I’m glad I did, it was inspirational, plenty of positive people with uplifting advice for all kinds of problems. On our return flight from San Francisco curiosity bit me. What happened to Alexandria? Did she survive whatever it was? Going to the casino and asking Big Willie was out the question. I wanted to maintain that spiritual high and going to the casino would be counterproductive.
    Contact Dr. Robinson, she should know.
    She smiled when I pulled the door. The buzzer to the backsounded before the door closed behind me. “Hello, Mr. Flashner, good to see you.” She cupped my hand and to the back we went. They all showed their appreciation for the support and the director suggested a place for me wouldn’t be a problem. I thanked her, but my visit was an inquiry into Alexandria’s condition. Unfortunately, she had a rare, but treatable brain tumor. In laymen’s terms she had a stroke. She was in a medically induced coma and whether she’d recover was anybody’s guess. Her family and friends prayed for a speedy recovery.
    Friends and family, I wondered if family did they practice the occult or what? Dr. Robinson also revealed she was being treated at the best facility in this part of the country. And, she has special friends who will pick up the tab after the insurance runs out. “Since you’re a friend I take you knew of her gambling problem?”
    “Yeah, I knew.” What an understatement!
    “Despite that the patients worship her. They like you too...it’s in their eyes.” The little director rubbed my hand and gazed up. “Stick around a while, at least a couple days a week.” The sincerity in her eyes melted my heart. How could I say no?
    “Ok.”
    Two months later what I feared could trigger too much stress and a return of the voices, didn’t. My emotional transition from pity to caregiver went smoother than I thought. “You’re a natural, Lewis.” They said. Charlene was pleased. “You’re glowing, Lewis.” She said. Well, if they say so. But, I think attending various church events helped.
    Forgiveness made sense, and move forward. “I forgive myself and I forgive you, Alexandria and others who have wronged me.”
    I introduced the weapon to my bench vise and took a three point shot at the recycle bin. The department approved my disability claim. Thank God.
    Winter was as bad as predicted and the groundhog didn’t see his shadow. Spring sprung and we got word Alexandria was on the mend, recovering quicker than usual. Dr. Robinson said her love affair with occult ended. I imagined Alexandria pouring her heart at a GA meeting. “I’m changed.” I’d love to be there. I changed and decided to join the church. Who knows I might do volunteer work there also.

A Good Night Out After All

    Friends dragged me out one night. It had been a while. I had been working impossible hours. Exhaustion was an understatement. Life was lifeless. Going home after work just to take a nap before work left much to be desired. I hadn’t even had so much as a hard on in weeks. Yet, these people insisted I go out for a while at least.
    I called them friends at the time, but they were more people that I was helping out. They had just gotten their first paychecks in a while and wanted to treat me to an evening. It was nice of them, so I agreed.
    We sipped beer and wine at my place before going out. Moods were high. We laughed and talked and drank, then drank more. I’d have been content with staying in and continuing. Actually, seeing their boobs ready to pop out, I’d have been more content staying in and at least trying to fuck them, even as neither was particularly attractive.
    We took the bus. It was still rather early. The club had a few. I imagined these were people who had better things going on later in the night. It wasn’t very fun. Slowly crowds grew. Drinks poured and sipped, my mood lightened. Laughter is great medicine.

    The girls were talking girl stuff with each other when it began. A high pitched voice broke through.
    “LLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAMMMMMM!”
    It was Linda. She was a friend of my ex who had done everything possible to break us up. She was a true hater. Always negative, bitingly. She peddled misery like no one had ever done. A real pro. I braced for it all.
    There she was, sneering. Eager to destroy.
    Beyond her damn presence, that meant Samantha would be there before long. We hadn’t seen each other in so long. I was not prepared. I was exhausted.
    Linda looked over our table. I said hello in a monotone, hoping this would be short.
    “It’s been a long time! I’m surprised you’re still alive! I thought someone would have killed you by now.”
    Bukowski came to mind.
    “Ah, hatred. The only thing that lasts.”
    Conversations halted. The girls looked at Linda, then at me. Neither knew what to make of it.
    “Girls, you know you can do better than this.”
    Linda walked away. The girls just sat there blinking. Chuckles were heard in the background. Some night out.

    It didn’t take long. Linda was a huge flirt. It was early, so her boyfriend wouldn’t be around for a while. Linda quickly found a guy. They talked and laughed. She blushed. He bought and bought. They kissed. He fondled. Some of her friends came in. She left the horny guy standing alone.
    Soon their table filled. Samantha was there. She hadn’t seen me. The girls continued talking along, stopping once in a while to eye me with pity. It was not a good time, no matter the drinks.
    I got a piece of paper and asked one of the girls, Stephanie, to write a fake phone number on it with Linda’s name. Beneath the number was written “In/Out Call.” It had to be timed perfectly, shortly after Linda’s squirrely boyfriend arrived.
    The time was right just as Melinda was to leave, I asked her to give the paper to the guy Linda had been flirting and making out with. She would tell the guy that he could make a date with Linda too, if he called that number.

    As soon as Linda’s boyfriend went to use the bathroom it began. The jilted guy walked over to make the date with Linda. What the hell, right?
    Linda’s face went red, beat red. Fury. She began yelling. The hurt, angry kind of yelling. The guy showed her the paper and yelled back. Linda’s eyes went wide. People overheard the whole thing. Whispers began. The bouncers and bartender stared.
    The guy walked away, frustrated again. Linda’s boyfriend came back. She unloaded on him. He looked confused. Then fear came over his face. She must have insisted he do something about it. She really unloaded on him.

    I told Stephanie to pretend we were in conversation and sharing laughs together. Plead ignorant if any fingers were pointed. I laughed too hard to breathe. Samantha finally saw me. She put two and two together. If looks could kill, she’d have been charged with murder. It was time for Stephanie and I to go.
    Before we could stand up, the bouncers started escorting Linda out the door. She was screaming at them;
    “I’m not a fucking hooker! Allen! Do something! I’m not a fucking hooker!”
    Flashing lights of a police car went through the windows. Stephanie and I sat sipping beer and wine. Samantha’s crowd got up and left to support Linda. Samantha glared at me as she left. As soon as she was out of sight, my grin took over.
    It was a good night out after all.

Mother’s Lesson

    There was a warning from the National Weather Service. Beyond artic temperatures were hitting Pennsylvania. The low would be minus twenty.
    I attended Clarion University. It was called “suitcase university.” All the students fled when there were no classes. That included weekends. They were all back home, hanging with the high school crowds and religious families. Most parties were small. Bars were packed with the unsaved. To drink a few beers here and there made one an alcoholic.
    There was nothing to do. My part time jobs were dead because of the weather. I sat home, alone, bored, and horny. It was too much.
    The hottest local bar was called the Loomis. It was a pathetic attempt at a night club in rural Pa. It was the only place open. No one was outside. The town was ghosts.
    A notorious drunk, Jess, was there, of course. We pitched in and got a pitcher, then another. A third one closed the night.
    Across the street from the Loomis was the hotdog shop. The food was good. Eddie, who owned and ran the place was a grumpy old man with a sense of humor. We’d argue politics. He’d yell. I’d yell. We all would laugh. Jess talked drunken nonsense. Eddie called Jess “Dr. Mo.” Jess would grin and cringe.
    Each time was the same. Except this one.

    After I finished my second taco dog, Jess and Eddie talked the usual. Shockingly, the door opened. Ice cold air plummeted the heated debate. Eddie shivered.
    There stood a dark haired woman. She was a bit older, but still beautiful. Her cheeks were very red. She half smiled at me, then walked over.
    “My car won’t start. Can you help me?”
    Jess turned back to his convo. Eddie kept lecturing. I volunteered.
    “I’m not much of a mechanic, but I’ll have a look.”
    “Oh, would you? Please. I need to get home.”
    “I’ll be right back, Jess.”
    “Ok.”

    She led the way, marching a determined step, well ahead of me. I slipped and slid and spun as slick ice crackled.
    There was slight steam coming off her car’s hood. The snow and ice had melted. She popped the hood, then stood very close beside me as I stared at the engine for no reason. The heat from the engine was far less than what came from my right side as she slid her hand up my crotch.
    “The car is fine. I just needed a way to get you out here. Now you’re here.”
    She pulled my face to the side, pressed her lips to mine, and slid her tongue inside my mouth. I grabbed her, pulled her close and pressed against her, grabbing her ass hard.
    “Let’s go to my place.”
    I closed the hood and got into her car. We kissed and fondled, then she sped off. I held her hand as she shifted gears.
    “What are you going to do to me?”
    “Everything.”
    She gasped and smiled. The car went faster.
    Around five miles out of town we pulled into a parking lot and parked. We kissed and fondled. I tried to fuck her then and there. She insisted we go inside, and led the way.

    She fumbled with the keys, but got the door open. Her throaty voice spoke through.
    “Make yourself at home. I’ll get us some beers.”

    Suddenly a large man spun around in an oversized chair.
    “Mark?!” Her shocked voice rang.
    “Yes, of course.”
    She threw up her hands in exasperation. He looked coldly.
    “Out again, huh Mom? Really? This one is way young.”
    I stood there, red faced and red handed. Mark was in his thirties, balding. A family man. I was twenty three.
    I weighed my options. Run out into the twenty below temperatures, five miles away from my apartment, which would mean certain death, or stay there and plead.
    Mark looked at his mother and shook his head. She lowered her head and announced she was going to bed. She left me standing there face to face with her son. I was the young guy who was going to fuck his mom.
    “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”
    Again, options. Freeze to death or potentially be murdered. I decided to risk a the beating. Maybe he’d let me survive somehow. Maybe I’d fake death. I’d have better chances of that than I would with nature. Nature never takes no for an answer.

    We piled into his newer pickup. There was total silence. I had no idea what to say. Was I to apologize for wanting to fuck his mom? I imagined he didn’t know what to say either.
    To my pleasant surprise, the nice guy simply dropped me off in front of the bar/hotel I lived in. As I got out, he spoke in a stern, almost fatherly tone;
    “Let this be a lesson to you.”
    The door closed, he tore off. I went inside and had a beer to relax and laugh about surviving.
    It would be three weeks before his mother decided to come to my place.
    Lesson learned.

The Reading

    There’s a literary event in Seattle, called Breadline, that I always try to make. It’s held at Vermillion Gallery in the Capital Hill area. There’s cheap beer and a packed house. Creative types flock there, talking, drinking, smoking, flirting...being drunks. Pot smoke rises from nearly everywhere. A great crowd.
    My novel, “Tried,” hadn’t gotten much attention in quite a while even as some people still bought it from Amazon and a few other sellers who, to my knowledge, have no permission to sell it. Exposure is exposure though, so I don’t put up a fuss. Anyway, I decided to try to get some exposure by purchasing copies and giving them away for free. What better chance than at Breadline?
    Being an injured worker, I had time and energy to make the reading. I downed nine beers, got ready, and hopped the crowded bus with fifteen copies of my novel. There was nowhere to sit, so my beer filled body stood swaying with the heavy backpack as the bus swooped through the last remaining rush hour traffic. My urge to piss grew with every stop.

    I barely said hello when I arrived at Vermillion. Instead, I raced to the bathroom. It must have been a liter of piss. Maybe more. Within a minute later, I was replenishing with a cold can of cheap beer.
    As people came meandering in, I simply said hello. I wasn’t sure how to hand out copies of my novel. I hated the thought of seeming like some religious nut handing out literature;
    “Have you heard the good news? Liam loves you and wants you to have a free copy of his novel.”
    I bit the bullet and just started handing them out. I simply told the truth, that I wanted to get the novel out there, so I was giving them away. People who received them didn’t quite know what to say either. Some had me sign them. Others seemed impressed. I chose to hand them first to people I knew, obviously.

    The show started. It was great as always. The bar was packed. Bartenders quietly scurried to fill drink orders. Each reader seemed to struggle slightly to get the mic just right, and then took off with an amazing reading.
    As good as the show was, I still had to sneak outside for a smoke once in a while. It was congested in the bar. The cool night air refreshed my face as I prepared for the poem I was going to read for open mic. As usual, they had reserved my spot, number eight. My lucky number.
    I had decided to read two short pieces. The first was “Thin Line.” It had just been read live at an event in Chicago and put on Youtube. Janet had done an amazing job with it. By reading that piece, I could plug the Youtube performance.
    The second piece was “Ode to the Blond at Burger King.” I wanted to show a sweeter (and yet hornier) side to my writing than usual. Maybe it could sway some beautiful woman my way. Sweet dreams are made of...
    Out came two friends. A couple. They lit smokes and conversed. The guy went back inside to handle some things. He was one of those running the show. Before long, another artist came out. It was the usual conversation, friendly and a bit distant.
    A guy with long hair and long beard came walking along. The new guy yelled out to him as an old friend;
    “Hey! Jesus, man, I haven’t seen you in forever! How have you been?”

    That was all I needed. Long hair. Long beard. Called out as Jesus. Someone had found Jesus. Haha.
    Jesus, without the sin of even one drink, was taken aback about all my Jesus jokes. The new guy laughed along. So did the other drunken artists. What a difference alcohol and pot make.

    The outside swelled even more at the break that followed the featured artists. Smoke rose to the heavens. I strategized on who to give my novel to, being sure not to interrupt conversations. People seemed impressed, but maybe they were just being nice. Nonetheless, my novel made it into hands of those who didn’t know I had written one. They knew only of my poetry.
    The place was still packed when my name was called. I walked on the stage. The applause was thunderous for some reason. I announced that I would be reading two pieces. The first one was one that had been read live in Chicago and put on Youtube. The applause was deafening before and after the piece.
    The second one, “Ode to the Blond at Burger King” met with less applause at the beginning.
    There you were
    So beautiful and young, vibrant
    Fed up with bullshittery.
    Your voice and eyes saying it all.
    Blond, funky hair, hip and happening.
    Playing the games and sick of it all.

    Our eyes met. Understanding.
    Seeing it all, including barriers. Untrusting.
    Your blush and mine said it all.
    Your words met with
    Your manager’s distain.
    Heavy set coworker glaringly angry.

    I returned the next day.
    Somehow you knew,
    Even before I placed the order
    Your voice smiling through
    Same pressures stifle.

    Weeks go by and I look for you
    Getting glares from heavy women and managers
    As I glare back, demanding more ketchup packets
    They got to you, or so I thought.
    “Here you are, sir.”
    As they look on, angry.

    I thought you lost interest.
    I stopped going.
    Then, without managers,
    “HEY! My favorite customer!”
    I was taken aback, but
    Our eyes met deliciously again.
    Delicious indeed.

    I scheme for your number
    To bring you a rose
    To see you glow
    To hold your hand
    To feel your breath on my bare shoulder

    You’re so beautiful.

    I said a humble “Thank you,” and walked off the stage. The applause was thunderous. Beyond what I had experienced before. I didn’t know what to make of it, and so simply headed out for a smoke. My usual routine.
    As I walked over to get my beer, an artist friend of mine walked in front of me. He leaned over with a slight smile, and spoke;
    “You’re just a dirty old man. That’s all.”
    I erupted in laughter. Perfect.

    There was no one outside. I wanted to share my great night with someone, so I decided to text my old friend Ken. There was an hours old text from him that stopped me dead in my tracks;
    “I’m going to end my life.”

    My first thought was that Ken was being a drunken idiot. He was prone to drunken idiocy. But, he also always had problems. Lots of them.
    I texted back, asking if he was ok. There was no response. I called. It went straight to voicemail. I called again. It was the same. I texted again and waited.
    Could he have been serious? Most likely he got drunk and stupid, then passed out. How could I be sure?
    As I paced back and forth, hoping he’d see my texts and calls, people that ran the show came out to offer thanks and congrats for a great reading.
    I was suddenly not in the mood for anything. I showed them the texts. They freaked. I walked far enough away to be out of hearing range of the emerging crowd and called 911.
    As I dealt with 911 trying to put me through to the local police where Ken lived, I saw many people wanting to talk with me. Their smiles and glows stayed in my mind. Truly great times were mere feet from where I stood as I dealt with police and a potential tragedy.
    I always thought the police could track someone down via their cell phone number. This was not the case for the rural town that Ken lived in. The cop patrolled up and down Ken’s street, trying to find where he lived. It was to no avail.
    I realized that I had to race home to find Ken’s address. It could be a life and death thing. I spoke up to others who were outside. Suddenly twenty of us writers and artists were tracking down taxis, yelling through streets of the lively city. It didn’t take long to find one.
    When the cab driver was told what was going on, he took off like a rocket. Smoke rolled off tires. The cab fishtailed around every corner. Red lights were successfully run. Tires screeched in front of my apartment. I gave a twenty for a nine dollar ride, and hustled into my apartment.
    I found Ken’s address in my old emails and called the cop. He said he would call back and tell me what he found. I paced my apartment. I was out of beer. It was too much. I hustled down to the convenience store.
    Before I reached the beer section, my phone rang. I took a deep breath. It was Ken. I answered.
    When I heard his voice, I couldn’t help but smile. He was ok. In his house were five cops. He had some answering to do. I had beer to buy. We’d talk in five minutes.

    Sure enough, he had been drunk and stupid. He had been upset over a fight he had endured with his daughter. Then I wasn’t texting back. He had too much to drink. That was the text he had sent.
    After he had sent the text, he set his phone down and cranked up the music. He was drinking, partying, and so had not heard the knocks on the door.
    The cops had to kick in his door. He had actually shit himself with the shock of it all. I pictured a scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas.
    He sheepishly apologized repeatedly. We ended up sipping beer and talking football, as always.

    A few miles away was a great party with writers, artists, and beautiful women. A party I was supposed to be in attendance of. I had work in the morning anyway. Growing up truly is overrated.

    So, who’s your surprise NFL team next year?

“if anything happens to yoko and me, it wasn’t an accident.” john lennon

the captive and the dead

    he and the kid are singing and playing guitars in the enlisted men’s club. they have a regular following among the betrayed men. they are the entertainment the 364 nights of the year bob hope is not there.

    the sergeant is buying the beer. he is a lifer and short-timer. he’s going home. he’s loose.

    “vietnam, as you know, was a colony of frogs. the communists made the frogs leap out of the pot, and in came howdy doody to support a puppet government in saigon. the leader of this shaky howdy doody government is famous for being assassinated by people in sandals and straw hats, though i forget his name because I am drunk. i’d like to make a toast to president kennedy, the son-of-a-whore who put me in vietnam: eternal shame!”

    the explosions rock the enlisted men’s club. he drops his guitar and runs for the bunker with the others. mortars and rockets coming from outside the perimeter. the marines fire back into jungle blindly, it’s today’s hit-and-run attack from the heart of freedom. he is in the bunker, watching a centipede crawl past through the sandbags. it’s legs are fast and mechanical and it is almost a foot long. i wanna go home. i wanna sleep with my wife, not ten thousand miles.

    the earth shakes.

    the general was visiting. the colonel showed him around. the men were having a blast. see, war ain’t so bad. the general smiled at the men and the men smiled back. the general lost his face when he heard the words to a song. the colonel grabbed his sleeve and took him to the o club, where the drinks were stronger and so was the lie.

    if I were free to speak my mind, i’d tell a tale to all mankind . . .

    budweiser kept him alive. he was singing that sweet lament. if i were free. death is all this is. let me choose. i wanna go home. i wanna sleep with my wife, not Phu Bai.

    there was this hill. america had wanted to build a new road and install drainage ten thousand miles from home, where roads and drainage were highly valued. the army corps of engineers had attempted to use the hill of gravel for the road, but the vietnamese shot at them with machine guns and mortars every time they started the bulldozers. they didn’t want drainage. all the army corps accomplished was the digging of giant pits to hide their equipment and their asses. the army corps gave up and gave the gravel to the seabees. the seabees were a tough lot, combat engineers who trained with the marines. when they looked at a hill of gravel, they saw potential energy. when the seabee commanders looked out at the vietnamese, they saw wrenches and tommy guns. and this is how the nation came to call on him to go out and survey the hill.

    the hill was outside the concertina wire. the hill was composed of fine gravel.

    he drove out in a jeep with two other seabees. he had joined the navy in order to avoid vietnam, but he was yanked from this dream when he arrived to his assigned base, where he was told the first day: “you’re going to vietnam.” the base was in quonset, road island, and the many car dealerships there thrived off young recruits and their checks. later, nixon would shut down this base because the citizens of rhode island voted democratic during the presidential election. nixon pledged to get the u.s. out of vietnam, but it would take him four years, during which time b-52 bombers dropped more bombs on the people in straw hats and sandals than were used by all countries combined in world war two. between three and four million vietnamese men, women, and children were killed. this holocaust made kissinger a great diplomat. (“peace with honor”)

    he drove the jeep out to the hill. he steered around bodies bloating in the tropical heat. there were always corpses blackening on the road outside camp, even when the marines had not killed any.

    the hill rose about 30 feet above ground level. he didn’t ask why the army corps was trying to build a road into enemy territory, just as he had tired of wondering if he was in the navy. he suspected the u.s. expected to someday hold this area, a hope which did not come to fruition. the kid climbed to the top of the hill and stood straight. he cupped his hands and shouted into the jungle: “shoot me!”

    they surveyed the hill. it was round at the base, generally cone-shaped through it’s height. they moved positions and took notes throughout the day, attempting to establish how many cubic yards this hill was. when they knew this, they could determine how many dump truck trips would be required to move it. he didn’t see what it mattered how many dump trucks it would take because they were going to move it, whatever it was. some of these assignments happened because someone had to give an order because he existed to give orders and was being paid to give orders and someone had to follow that order because he existed and was paid to transcend rage.
    a squad of marines came through and asked them why they were standing around a tripod in a hot zone.
    “we’re building an interstate,” he said.
    a marine said, “you shouldn’t be here.”
    it was tedious work standing around smoking for 12 hours and by the time the sun was setting, they were not done with the job.

    “whatta ya think?” he asked.
    “apple pie,” the kid said.
    “well give me an answer,” he said.
    “it’s getting dark,” the kid said.
    “now can we get the hell out of here?” said the seaman.
    “load up,” he said.
    “this place is getting spooky,” the seamen said.
    “they could have us if they wanted us,” he said.
    “i suppose they think surveying hills is worse than death,” the kid said.
    “are you questioning orders?” he said.
    “yes.”
    “i thought so.”
    “all we got is forty-fives and one m-16,” the seaman said.
    “don’t forget the jeep,” the kid said. “our most powerful weapon.”

    driving back to base in the closing light, he sped on the winding dirt road. a tank concealed on the roadside fired a round over their heads. his heart tripped and he touched his hat. he was deafened. there was a ringing in his head and pain in his chest. he bet the sonsofbitches fired to bust their nuts.

    word came from the states that his first child had been born. he was a he and he had been born on the day he had predicted, december 19, 1967, which was two days ago. a first son. they drank in the enlisted men’s club while the baby slept in new york city, bonding to its grandfather. he would go home in six months, be state-side for five months, and then turn around and come back for eight more months. counting the days seemed futile. the child would be an infant without him. the child wouldn’t know who the hell he was. cigars were passed and smoked until the rockets started. it was a heavy attack and he did not have time to make the bunker, but instead dove into a fox hole. the sky flashed light upon them. he was in the fox hole with a black corporal who wore a bronze star. the man saw him looking at it and started to cry. “i don’t deserve it. all i did was kill kids. i didn’t do anything. i killed women and kids. they give me this. i can’t keep this medal. i want to kill myself.”

    the sergeant is retiring, out of this latest assignment. he doesn’t like vietnam. all the soldiers look like kids. he didn’t look like that in korea. he didn’t like korea either. he wonders if it’s too late to like the country waiting for him state-side.

    “sorry, jim, but we need you. you’re getting an extension.”
    “what?” the sergeant says. “sir, i’ve got five days. i’ve been in the marines twenty years. i’m down to five days.”
    “i know, i know. i’m sorry. you’re irreplaceable. you know the drill.”
    “sir, i earned this.”
    “we need you to stay on until we can replace you.”
    “when will that be?”
    “i have no idea.”
    “sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, this is fubar.”
    “i don’t mind you saying so.”

    the sergeant stayed in vietnam and one month beyond the day he was supposed to retire and go home, a rocket made a direct hit on his hut while he was running down the front steps for the bunker. he went home with one leg.

    most of his buddies did not appreciate how difficult it was to catch these giant lizards. some just didn’t appreciate a two-foot lizard in the tent. the lizards lived in holes in the sand. they were wary when they poked their heads out. he stood nearby, kneeling behind the jeep he had borrowed from the captain, hanging on to the rope. the noose was around the hole. the lizards were the fastest thing he had ever stalked and the most vicious. upstate new york, he had caught woodchucks and even a rabbit with his bare hands. he was good at this, but the lizards had been around a long time. to catch the lizard, it had to come out of the hole and expose itself. he could not move or wipe the sweat sliding into his eyes. if he moved, the lizard would vanish. they each stood frozen in the glaring sun, staring one another down. he did not blink because in a blink the lizard would be out of its hole. he held the rope and watched the lizard with burning eyeballs.
    he blinked.
    the lizard was out of its hole. it stood 15 feet from its hole, watching him.
    he stood up. the lizard looked at him. he threw up his arms and said “what are you going to do now?”
    the lizard bolted for its hole.
    he pulled the rope. he had it by the middle. on the end of the rope, the lizard’s claws were more dangerous than the north vietnamese.

    he was sitting in the latrine, taking a shit. there were two men down the line, also taking shits. he heard the sound of a large fork-lift approaching. the engine noise grew louder. it can’t be, he thought. the latrine moved. it shook. they were being raised into the air. he looked down through the hole between his legs and saw the lift below. they were changing the buckets. “give us a minute,” a private yelled, saluting the three assholes. he walked out of the latrine to see his shit going up in flames.

    “join the navy before they send you to vietnam,” his mother had advised. “join the navy before they send you to vietnam. join the navy before they send you to vietnam.” ten years later she denied saying this. she denied any involvement, she denied vietnam, she denied her oldest son, and she voted for ronald reagan, who had been one of the war’s hardest proponents. he knew reagan was the governor of california, where numerous defense contractors were located. reagan was a homicidal paranoiac who despised john lennon and activated the national guard when students said what they were thinking. he gassed and bullied with bayonets the freedom of speech.

    he is crossing the street in chu lai and he bumps shoulders with a guy. they look at each other. they are childhood friends from the same neighborhood in new york.

    he sold his martin to the kid for $50. the kid was getting good and deserved a better guitar. a soldier on his way home had sold him the martin for $50. he was passing it along. he had a silvertone he had bought before the war and played that.

    night watch duty was unavoidable. he was ordered to guard a pallet of budweiser all night. his non-com rank should have spared him the job, but this is what lyndon johnson and the united states of america asked him to do with his education and training. fuck it, in college he wouldn’t have hesitated to spend a night with a pallet of budweiser. he showed up with his m-16 and wearing his helmet. he was also frustrated by the duty because the guys were having a big party tonight and he would miss out. he guarded the beer. he sat atop the pallet and heard the voices and laughter of the men he wished he was with. he guarded the beer, wondering which direction the enemy would attack from. he didn’t have enough firepower to stop a really thirsty offensive. a seabee from the party arrived with a drink for him. he drank it. a while later, a marine came out with another drink for him. he wasn’t totally missing the party. throughout the night, his buddies arrived with drinks and he drank them. in the morning he was awakened by the rain. it was falling into his open mouth. he was lying atop the pallet of budweiser on his back with his head thrown back and his open mouth filling with water. he choked awake. he found his helmet and weapon spilled into a puddle. none of the beer was missing.

    it was a hospital. they were going to build a hospital for the vietnamese. it was a public relations project which was supposed to bring the civilians into the fold. these would be the civilians who had not been vaporized by b-52s. the site, 40 miles south of chu lai, somewhere in the jungle near quang tri, was encircled with concertina wire. about 25 men were assigned to the job. they would sleep on site because it was far from camp to commute. they cut the jungle down. they placed one roll of concertina next to another and put a third roll on top of those two, creating a six-foot pyramid of steel barbs. mines were laid and they began surveying. a few men who were ordered to fill sand bags questioned the location, but these fucked-up-beyond-all-belief-jobs were common. most were unbothered and went along because their senses and ability to have ideas had been worn down by the repetition in duties. there was no beer, but they’d brought their guitars.

    the vietnamese attack the hospital site at night. muzzles flash and grenades pop. the vietnamese come and come. it is a swarm from all directions. he never knows how many he has shot. there may be hundreds of them. he is on the .30 cal and cuts them three and four at a time. when gooks get through the fence he has to drop the machine gun and use his .45. before dawn, there is the sound of suffering as the vietnamese recede into the green shadows. bodies drape the concertina like dead fish in a net. Those alive receive a mercenary bullet. now and then a burst into the earth. there are vietnamese inside the wire, bled out on the ground. he looks around to see who is still alive. he isn’t the only one doing this. the men drift in the sulfur and look at one another. eleven of them have made it. he doesn’t see the kid. there are two wounded, the rest killed. some were wounded and died unattended. he walks the site looking for the kid. they are enclosed by a circle of sacrifice. he sees the kid lying face down with his brains feeding the morning flies. the martin is under him. he doesn’t turn the kid over. the silence of the birds is the sound of shame.

    “what kind of gun are you looking for?”
    “the enemy is too close for a rifle,” he said.
    “you know you’ll have to pass the state test before i can sell you a handgun.”
    “how about this test?”
    “so, vietnam. you’ve come prepared. what kind of pistol are you looking for? a revolver, an automatic?”
    “a colt forty-five.”
    “for home defense?”
    “ . . . yes.”
    “i can recommend the thirty-eight special. it’s powerful enough and easier to handle than the forty-five. this snub-nose would be perfect for the bedside table.”
    “i’ll take the forty-five.”

    he sits in a reclining chair in the dark unfinished basement for ten years with a beer by his side. he doesn’t touch his guitar. he doesn’t teach his son how to play it. he hears his wife repeat her threats. he can’t do anything about it. the struggle to stay alive is no longer the question. the question is wanting to stay alive. he sees that he is ceasing to misunderstand existence. president ronald reagan is trying to convince america that ketchup qualifies as a vegetable in the school lunch program. john lennon is not around for this or el salvador. they had forced him into a delusion. the rich used him. the politicians used him. the killers had used him. anyone who wants to control another person is deluded and afraid. the fear of death the root of all evil. he knows warriors are needed because the world is not what it could be, but his war lacked a war. when you cease to misunderstand existence, you lose the need. paradox. when you cease to need life, you cease to need death. reason in paradox: more paradox. his life is no dream. he is paralyzed. he lives with the imperative of the gun.

The Goodwill Murders

    You came about ten minutes after the hour and joined three others waiting. The store should have opened. One, two, three more arrived. It was unusual; they all knew it. The manager always opened early, if not right at ten. A man wearing a cowboy hat waving a can of foam spilling Adler Brau walked over from the Diamond Bar across the street.
    “What the fuck is this? Not waiting for an answer, turned, said “Shit.” and walked back to the bar.
    Four. Five. You were six. People complained, speculated.
    “It should have opened a half hour ago.” Maybe the manager had an accident,” someone suggested.
    “Where’s the other employees?” someone else asked.
    “You said, “This shit never happens at the nice, rich stores. Yesterday, I worked at the car wash and a customer told me he was getting his ride cleaned up and polished just to go to the Apple store and buy a new computer. Imagine.” People nearby looked at you with a question mark.
    Seven, eight, people, who had sat and waited in their cars joined the growing crowd including those from the too, too few ‘Restricted Handicap Parking Only’ spots that were quickly grabbed. Ms. Wrigley in her old Spinner wheel chair, often as disabled as her, shot through the parking lot at a high speed, a gardening service pickup suddenly backed up and pushed a screaming Wrigley and chair into the path and under the chaise of a slow moving Ford van from drug rehab. You ran out; tried to be of assistance calling 911 with your new phone. The van passengers tried to simultaneously free and revive MS Wrigley whose raised and askew left chair wheel rapidly spun through several long minutes mirroring her desperate scream. A bright morning sun illuminated blood flowing in the cracks of the aging asphalt parking lot, soon overflowing into two dark pools.
    Still, more came and stood, waiting. A man with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice yelled something out his window driving slowly by in a 1951 Dodge Delivery Van, a bread truck splashed in bright neon red, blue, orange and yellow swirls written over in black with obscure, juxtaposed biblical quotes in Arabic.
    You yelled back at him, “Get out of here!” Then, speaking to the crowd, but really just the people around you, “They don’t understand this is the only retail store in miles. Ain’t no fuckin’ Oscar de la Rent or Giorgio Armani around here.” You said with a rising voice and again earning quizzical looks.
    You were right of course (except it’s ‘de la Renta’), but those are miles away and it’s hard to imagine their customers shopping here, although they could never beat Goodwill’s biweekly 50% off sale. Many of the same people come everyday, buy something cheap just to feel the surge of power inherent in the act of consumerism, feel juiced, alive. Goodwill is a barometer of the economy, a reflection of society. Only at Goodwill can real people buy broken-in, wrinkle-free, Armani shirts for a dollar or less and have a direct, intimate experience in America’s redistribution wealth. People kept coming. People who had nothing else to do but stand around and wait for a revolution, or a second coming. Soon, there were fifteen, maybe twenty and then the crowd stopped growing.
    “We could just break down the door. Toss a brick through the window. Right?” The cowboy hat shouted. He had returned to Goodwill from the bar with a cold, fresh one in hand and another in his bulging, back, blue-jean pocket. He gestured to throw his hand held can at the big red spot in the window that said “Please Donate” in white letters. You knocked it out of his hand instinctively like a martial arts expert. He looked confused as if he had simply dropped it. And again, he walked back to the bar.
    Goodwill Industries does not sell food, water, booze, drugs, or any essentials of life. But people, Goodwill customers, have a habitual need to shop; pushed by a primeval urge, their evolutionary psychology from the long ago days of hunting and gathering on the Savanna. Or, are they just America’s well-trained, capitalist dogs unable to find contentment and meaning without making a self-empowering purchase?
    Several wheel chairs began chanting, “Open. Open. Open. Open. Open.”
    “Jessie, your, perpetually laughing black neighbor came walking by with his white, standard sized poodle holding hands with and his albino girlfriend, a refugee from Tanzania, where she had been targeted by witchdoctors wanting her body parts. You approached them and gave or loaned him a twenty.
    Another bar patron wearing an orange Hawaiian shirt and a Cubs baseball cap on backwards crossed the street with a bottle of Old Dominion. He loudly told the crowd that the bartender called the Goodwill Regional Office and someone would soon come and unlock the door. The crowd cheered and the man threw his drink smashing the glass against the building causing one of the cops investigating MS Wrigley’s accident to confront him. It was then that a very short man in a grey suit with a handful of keys materialized out of the multitude and unlocked the door.
    People, everyone but you, screamed and trampled over the key man and pushed themselves into the dimly lit store. You trailed the crowd, found the main light switch and illuminated the store for everyone. Women went to the many clothing racks in the center of the room, men to the back for hardware, used and beaten stereo equipment and mysterious multimedia constructs with attached cord. You wandered the store not looking at anything in particular, but everything in general, like you owned it. A woman screamed. Others hesitated while calculating its source. You immediately ran to the blue, painted plywood dressing rooms on the west side of the room behind the used books and bedding. There, holding a door to one of the three dressing rooms open was the widow Rankin looking at her husband, whom she had not seen since the day before. He was stone still. His white eyes bulged. A thick coat of dark red and black blood covered from the neck with dark blood that ran across the wood floor where rats and roaches ran in every direction. You froze. You spaced out. Others appeared and moved past you to aid Mrs. Rankin. Police from the accident outside came quickly and took charge calling for reinforcements and ambulances as the remains of two employees were found in a similar condition in the other two dressing rooms. You found your way to the used furniture and sat in an old fashioned, upholstered chair staring at nothing. The same chair you sat in the night before, after work and shopping, after hiding inside as the store closed, doors locked, after selecting and testing a kitchen utensil for a good edge, after emptying the cash register, before going to the Apple store.

SOMEONE IS WATCHING

    Someone is watching. Someone is watching. Maybe so. Maybe not. Maybe it just seems that way because we are human, so we need to invent a watcher, a peeping tom who vouchsafes our naked stupidity, a little dignity and grace.
    Oh - I do not mean God. Sure He watches, but is probably bored with all the reruns and spinoffs. Adam and Eve were pretty original. Cain and Abel somewhat so. But by the time He got to the Flood, you might say He was pulling the plug, cancelling most of the eon’s lineup of variety shows.
    Or maybe we are watching ourselves. That would be self-conscious at a minimum, narcissistic at a maximum. Or plain schizoid. After all, unless aliens are creeping in at midnight to expand the gene pool, the human race gets more inbred every generation, so more and more bonkers.
    But let us be polite, or at least prudent. After all, someone is watching.

1.
THE NAME

Seaside, as a name, seems quite a misnomer to the uninitiated. After all, the area is quite barren. A bit frumpy and disheveled in Mother Nature terms.
    Let’s just tell it like it is: it is a desert. Yes, a desert. The only way to drown is in your own sweat, provided you keep hydrated enough to sweat.
    A few geological eons ago it was actually an inland ocean. But this is just a murmuring echo of a memory even to the the fossilized skeletons that pop up now and then. There is very little fishing or swimming going on with the locals unless they have been out in the sun a little too long.
    By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea - as they say. (Whoever “they” are. But be polite. They could be listening.)

2.
THE MINE

Finn and Clark discovered the mine in 1860. They were prospecting for gold, but found copper instead. Both died drunk and disappointed.
    The next generation of Finns and Clarks were not adventurers. They were sober accountants. They figured this; they counted that. They did the math and decided to found the town of Seaside.
    They diddled and fiddled some more numbers, not quite crunching them, and decided that 500 people constituted the perfect population for the town. In fact, they made up a sign saying
    You Are Now Entering Seaside
    Population: 500
    300 people were needed to man the mines. 75-100 family members were considered essential for social stability. And the other 75-125 were to be shopkeepers, grocers, police, doctors and dentists.
    When an accident happened at the mine and killed 10 men, the accountants brought in 10 live ones. When too many babies were born, the accountants fired a few men, Since the mine was the main work in town, the unemployed soon left and rebalanced the population.

3.
MAIN STREET

Main Street was truly the main street, for it was the only street. It stretched for 4 miles across the barren waste. At the western end of it, was the gaping maw of the copper mine.
    It looked like the mine was going to swallow the town whole, but it never did, It just took a few nibbles here and there and now and then.
    Some people liked to say the town snaked across the desert, but they were being poetic.
    It was straight, straight as a ledger sheet.

4.
THE HIGHWAY

The road into town, like most roads, went east and west. Going east you could go all the way to the Atlantic. Going west you could go all the way to Seaside.
    In other words, Seaside was the end of the road literally. Sure, people could turn around and go back the way they came. However, most of the people who ended up in Seaside did not want to go back to where they came from. In fact, even when they died, Seasiders decided to go no further than the local cemetery.

5.
FATHER BILL

Father Bill was a defrocked priest. Everyone in town knew it, for Father Bill told everyone he talked to. Actually, no one in town knew what “defrocked” meant. However, there was almost universal agreement that the town did not need a lot of “frocking” going on.
    Father Bill was defrocked for making his personal doubt a little too obvious and tangible to his former parish. In the middle of the liturgy, Father Bill had alternated between shouting “there is no God” to murmuring that “if there is a God, He just doesn’t care”.
    The bishop benched Father Bill for the season (Lent season, then Advent season) hoping Father Bill would get back to the Gospel playbook. Unfortunately, that did not happen. Father Bill was given his walking papers.
    And as Father Bill was walking towards what he presumed was his eternal damnation, he saw this ad:

SPIRITUAL LEADER WANTED
    Some religious training would be nice.
    Must be a team player. Wears size 37
    suit and plays piccolo and flute.

Father Bill was a little rusty on the piccolo, but he applied anyway, And since Father Bill had already offended the Catholic Church and probably God, he did not want to tick anybody else off, at least not right then. So Bill planned his church carefully to make all feel welcome.
    At the front entrance were small crucifixes, miniature buddhas, and bright stars of David. There also were rabbits feet for agnostics and atheists. However, the atheists felt that the notion of luck was too akin to faith, so Father Bill left some crossword puzzle books.
    Father Bill worried what he would do for the Satanists. After all, he wanted to make everyone feel welcome. But it was a moot point or feckless worry, for there were no Satanists in town.

6.
THE GREAT-GRANDSONS

Like “Finn” rhymes with “gin” and “Clark” sounds like “clerk” the present generation of the founders inherited drunkenness and number mania. The combination approximated the adventurous spirit of the founders, but only in a sickly and perverse manner.
    While drunk, Finn (who favored microeconomics) counted every hair on his wife’s head. The drink made him lose count, so he started over and over again - both the drink and the count,
    It took a month to complete, after which his wife sued for divorce on the basis of numerous counts.
    Not to be outdone, Clark (who favored macroeconomics) cut off all his wife’s hair and weighed it. Clark’s wife was not upset, since she had always wanted to be a Buddhist monk.
    But after Clark’s wife found out that only men could be Buddhist monks, she donned a saffron robe and immolated herself. Her last words were “that will show them”. Exactly what? Who knows?
    It bears mentioning that though the great-grandsons counted just about everything they did they did not keep track of their sins or overdue library books.

7.
OLD NEWS

“Pitbull” Baker ran the Seaside Weekly and taught English and journalism at the local k-12. His nickname came from the aggressive way he would pursue a story, from the way that once he locked his jaws on something he would not let it go. In other words, he could be quite annoying.
    A minor detail from his past might give one pause about his ability to teach an ethics class: he was fired from an East Coast newspaper for fabricating sources and making stories up from whole cloth. But most people were impressed how he could rattle off the five w’s (who, what, where, when and why). Little did they realize his personal w’s were wine, whiskey, women, and Willie Wonka. The garbage men did though, for they saw the empty bottles, the crotchless panties, and the chocolate wrappers - the innumerable chocolate wrappers.

8.
THE WELL-TRAVELED ROAD

Every Tuesday and every Friday Joe drove a truck full of food and sundry items into seaside. There was no variation in the route taken and little variation in what was ordered and delivered. Seemed the same old same old, but Joe took it all in philosophical stride.
    See, in his spare time Joe had been reading all the philosophers. Greek, Roman, German, British, American - you name it. Of course, this one contradicted that one and two schools of thought couldn’t fit into the same breath any more than a nun would fit into a leather miniskirt in a biker bar.
    But Joe took it all in stride with all things being equal more or less relatively speaking with some qualifications. He figured if there have been so many questions about everything and so many answers about something or other that something had to make sense one of these days. In the meantime, he would stay philosophical and allow himself some contradictions and illusions and a piece of cherry pie at the next diner.
    As as Joe was fond of saying, “Life is a road with a double yellow line down the middle of it.”

9.
WHAT’S UP DOC?

How the grandson of Joseph Mengele ended up in Seaside takes a little explaining. First of all his legal name now was Manny Goldberg, which certainly does demand some explaining.
    Well, Manny, born as Joseph the Third, was dropped off at a Catholic orphanage by his mother. She wanted to give him a chance in life, a better one than he might have with the name “Mengele”. She left the following note pinned to his diaper.:

This is my son Manny Goldberg.
    Please take care of him and don’t
    forget to tell him he is Jewish.

Manny grew up Jewish, married Jewish, became a Jewish doctor at a Jewish hospital. He did research to improve the world and especially “his” race. Some of his viral research went a little awry and killed twenty-seven people, Jewish people that is.
    And at this very bad time, Manny’s mother decides to re-embrace her German roots and tracks Manny down. She smiles and congratulates him on his research. Manny wants to drown her or at least his sorrows.
    Good-bye cruel world, hello Seaside. A little privacy, a little private practice, a little viral research.

10.
QUITE CONTRARY

Mary was born in a Midwestern town where there were more cornstalks than people. Once she saw a tall thistle in a cornfield, thought about how out of place it was and imagined it was her. Mary tended to overidentify, so metaphor became reality. She began to bristle at everyone and looked for ways to get out of the cornfield.
    Mary tried religion, but her knees got tired from praying. And she did wonder what a thistle heaven really was like.
    Next, Mary tried lesbianism as a feminist political statement. But her short-haired lesbian lover caught Mary with the lover’s brother. The lover could forgive anything, anything except heterosexual behavior.
    Mary tried organic gardening and vegetarianism, but soon grew tired of both. She was reminded too much of cornfields. Besides, she did enjoy a nice well-burnt steak every now and then. Actually, pretty often.
    How to get away from cornfields? Try the desert. Try seaside. And Mary did.
    Between religion and lesbianism, she had tried education. Seaside could always use a nurse/social worker/barista. Star bright, star bright, Starbucks.

11.
THE REMAINDER

The rest of the town was the rest of the town. Of course, each had a separate body, separate thoughts, and separate lives. Of course, most were special to somebody else or wanted to be so.
    It is just that the rest of the town breathed their lives softly, spoke them in private whispers.
    This does not mean they were living lives of quiet desperation, just that they were living quiet lives, not disturbing the peace.
    Whose peace? I don’t know.

12.
A USUAL DAY

People worked in the mines, the stores, the schools, the hospitals. Some were born; some died. Most tried to find some shade, which was hard to do in a desert.
    The church bell would have rang, if the church had had a bell.

13.
AN UNUSUAL DAY

At dusk, it began to snow.
    People stood at their windows, frozen as the windows began to freeze.
    No one moved for hours. Then they slept a deep and troubled dreamless sleep.
    At dawn, the smell of coffee wafted throughout the town. And the snow had disappeared.

14.
A QUIET DAY

No one wanted to be the first to speak about the snow, but wanted to speak of nothing else, so it was a laconic day full of the fewest and simplest phrases possible.
    At dusk, it began to snow.
    By dawn, it was gone.

15.
THEORIES

A government conspiracy and/or experiment?
    Aliens?
    End of Days?
    A mirage (the desert, remember)?
    Mass hysteria?
    Global warming?
    At dusk, the snow began. And while the elders traded theories, six children snuck outside and made snow angels. They then snuck back in and dripped melted snow on their floors.
    In the morning, the snow was gone and the floors were dry.

16.
SERMON IN THE DESERT

Father Bill’s sermons became more lively. He still doubted God’s existence, but began to believe in miracles. While many would argue that miracles presuppose a Primer Mover, i.e., God. Father Bill begged the question by saying miracles were created by a “miracle”.
    But to cover all the bases, Father Bill added some miniature Thor’s hammers and some Wiccan symbols to his cache of crucifixes, Stars of David, and rabbit feet he kept at the church’s entrance.
    Old church songs declared there was “power in the blood”. Father Bill felt there must be power in the snow. And he was going to receive it.
    Bill stuffed the pockets of his vestments with every symbol he had and waited for dusk.
    If there was power in the snow, he would let himself be covered in snow and receive its power like a holy anointment.

17.
MICRO/MACRO

Finn and Clark’s eyes glistened with diamond crocodile tears. In unison, both shouted that “there is gold in that there snow”. Finn estimated how many flakes would fit into a refrigerated 2' x 2' box. Clark estimated what the total weight would be.
    Together, Finn and Clark counted the minutes until dusk.

18.
BREAKING NEWS

Pitbull Baker screamed “Pulitzer, Pulitzer” under his breath. He called the New York Times, but the editor soon hung up on him since the story about the snow was quite unbelievable, especially given Baker’s penchant for making things up.
    But Baker was sinking his teeth deeper and deeper into the shin of hope. He was determined to interview a snowflake. No one in history had ever done that. Yes, he would be the first.
    Baker rabidly waited for dusk.

19.
HEGEL AND A BAGEL

Joe closed the text in front of him and bit into his bagel.
    Hegel was right: thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. No paradox. No dichotomy. Truth as end product, as its true self.
    So Joe planned it out. The thesis was the road he was always on; the antithesis was where the road disappeared into the blizzard.
    The synthesis? That is what he would find as he drove his truck into the blinding snow.
    Joe waited for dusk.

20.
REMEDY

Manny/Joseph stuffed his pockets with syringes. He planned to fill them with snow and to find a miracle cure. He would save the world and would redeem himself.
    He took an aspirin and waited for dusk.

21.
WHITE KNIGHT

Mary thought and thought. What she thought was that no one or anything could be a thistle or thistle-like in the snow.
    Like the lady she always knew she was, she would give a snow knight her scarf to wear in its battles whatever they may be. So she waited for night.

22.
SNOW DAY

Did we forget to mention? Today is an official “snow day”. Kids were getting upset that there was lots of snow, but no school closings.

23.
SHOW TIME

The snow began to fall. It was thicker and more white than “usual”, if such is possible.
    Joe started his truck and accelerated in the direction of the mine.
    Pitbull held his tape recorder as he walked in the direction of the mine.
    Reverend William wore his best vestments and made vague pontifical gestures as he walked towards the mine.
    Finn and Clark carried their refrigerated box like it were a strongbox for snowflakes.
    Manny/Joseph stabbed the air with his syringes.
    Mary wore red high heels. Not sensible shoes, but very pretty.
    They stood at the edge of town, in front of the gaping maw of the mine. The whiteness seemed to make time stop. Everything began to swirl faster and faster.
    Suddenly the swirling stopped. Joe, Pitbull, Reverend William, Manny/Joseph, Finn and Clark, and Mary were nowhere to be seen. All one could see was snow and more snow.

24.
AFTERMATH

The town grieved. Or at least grieved as well as it could. No one knew exactly what to do.
    However, mothers instructed their children not to pee in the snow or to swallow snowflakes.
    But it didn’t snow again. At least not up to now. But let us keep an open mind about the future.
    All we really know is the snow is white and maybe that Christmas might really be in July.
    Oh, yes. The great-great grandsons of Finn and Clark placed an ad for seven more future Seasiders.

25.
THE END

“The end” just seems so final. But it is only a story. And stories end. Or do they?
    Not if you are watching. Not if you are listening to the silence around us.

On the Surface

    Planet 132-B could not have been more promising—a fertile, earth-class world with a breathable, nitrogen-heavy atmosphere, a day that lasted about twenty-eight hours, and a temperate climate. It was apparently uninhabited. The Planetary Exploration Fleet ship Sakharov had made a thorough recon, cruising above every area of the planet, and found no signs of civilization or even animal life. It was apparently ripe for the taking.
    Plant life was abundant, and the last few weeks had been spent in cataloging and analyzing it. The three-man Alpha team was forty kilometers south of the equator, gathering specimens that would accompany the report recommending further exploration and possible settlement. They observed something Mallory insisted on calling a tree, although its growth was mostly horizontal, hugging the ground. A tough grass grew almost everywhere. Small shrubs had flowerlike leaves in varying shades of green, but almost no other color—because there were no bird or insect pollinators to attract?
    The land was mostly flat, with rolling hills, but nothing that could be called a mountain. Distant vistas, with the exotic plants blurring into a solid mass of green, were earthlike enough to evoke homesickness. They had seen no unusual formations or outcroppings. The one geological anomaly was a series of holes—they reminded Channing of the pits in the sandy beach at home after the tide went out, but on a larger scale. It seemed to be a natural phenomenon, too uniform to be caused by meteorites. Each hole was roughly four to six inches across and about that deep. Nothing grew in them, but they seemed to contain the same sandy soil as the surrounding area.
    It was on the sixteenth day of the botanical survey that Channing encountered the unexpected. Something was lying on the ground next to one of the holes nearest their camp, something that hadn’t been there yesterday.
    At first he thought it might be a plant that had bloomed overnight, or maybe a spreading fungus, but it wasn’t attached to the ground. Cautiously he confirmed that by picking it up in his gloved hands. Its outer layer reminded him of a coconut shell, and lying in the curve of the half shell was something yellowish and stringy. He poked at it with his index finger. It was softer than it appeared and his finger left a slight impression.
    He catalogued it’s exact location and then carried it back to camp. “What do you think this is?” he asked Stern and Mallory, who were counting and bagging small specimens. They came to look and poke at the stringy stuff.
    Stern tapped the shell. “This almost looks manmade,” he said. “I mean made by hand. Well, you know, made. Manufactured.”
    “Yeah, by who?” Mallory said. “I mean whom.”
    “Maybe we’re not the first here,” Stern said. “Maybe somebody left it behind.”
    “It wasn’t there yesterday,” Channing told them. “It’s like it fell out of the sky.” He added it to the other specimens, making careful notes on its properties. He took a small slice of the yellow stuff and ran a chemical analysis on it. It seemed to be some kind of carbohydrate. Curious, he took another tiny sample and put it on his tongue. It tasted salty. They weren’t supposed to ingest anything, but its chemical makeup seemed harmless, and it was an almost microscopic piece. He bit into it and it crumbled. He didn’t swallow it, not intentionally anyway. “Guys,” he said, “I think this is food.”
    “We’re not supposed to eat anything,” Mallory said.
    “No, I mean I think this is food for us, intended for us. Like a gift, an offering. I think there’s something out there.” He gestured vaguely in the direction he had come from. “Or somebody.”
    “I don’t think so,” Stern said. “You’re imagining things. We didn’t see any signs of animal life.”
    “He’s seen too many science fiction movies,” Mallory said. They both laughed and turned back to their work.
    Channing went back to the site at the edge of the camp. He studied the hole nearest the place where he had found the shell. It was like all the rest, smooth and empty. He shone his flashlight into it and dug into the sandy bottom, but couldn’t see anything unusual about it. It was only a hole, like all the other holes. He glanced around and saw nothing else remarkable. He shrugged.
    That night, Channing was edgy, alert for sound or movement around the camp. Was something out there? Something that had left an offering of food to the visitors? He heard nothing, but he did have a feeling...
    “Spooking yourself,” Mallory told him.
    In the morning, in the same location, they found another shell holding the same yellow stuff. Channing threw caution to the winds and pulled off a large, stringy chunk and put it in his mouth. He chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed. It tasted pretty good and went down easily. He swigged water and sat waiting to see if his stomach would rebel. After fifteen uneventful minutes, he ate the rest of it. Now he was either going to die a horrible death or he had honored the giver by enjoying the meal. He studied the empty shell. It did look as if it had been shaped, crafted. He put it back on the ground where he had found it.
    That night he did hear something beyond the perimeter of the camp. It was subtle, and Stern and Mallory claimed they couldn’t hear it. It sounded like a slight hiss that went on for some minutes and then stopped.
    In the morning, the empty shell was gone and in its place was a slightly larger shell filled with a different substance, a clump of brownish stuff. Its texture was halfway between a fungus and corn meal mush. He bagged a small sample for the survey and scooped the rest into his mouth with his fingers. The taste was similar to the first dish, but less salty and slightly tart.
    He went back to the camp and confessed to his unscientific behavior. They tested the bagged sample. Like the first, it seemed to be mostly carbohydrate. “If you feel like puking, do it outside the camp,” Stern advised, but he and Mallory now seemed willing to accept that the food was intended as a gift. “We need to report this,” Stern said, turning to the communicator. The Sakharov, in orbit above the planet, and the other scientific teams on the ground had to be notified that the planet might be inhabited after all.
    Channing slept restlessly and woke up to hear the hissing sound again. It went on longer this time, and it occurred to him for the first time that they needed to respond in some way, to make an offering of their own.
    He consulted with Stern and Mallory in the morning. “Carbs would be best,” Stern said.
    “Chocolate,” Mallory suggested. “Or something healthy and natural, like eggs.”
    “They might be vegans,” Stern said. “Anyway, we don’t have any eggs.” They did have powdered eggs. They had almost nothing that wasn’t powdered, dehydrated, processed, or condensed, but there were enough chocolate bars to spare. All three went out to the perimeter to find the third offering. This time the shell bowl was even larger than the second one and contained what looked like a collection of sticks. Mallory insisted on a chemical analysis before he would try ingesting anything, but Stern and Channing sat next to the hole and cautiously bit into the slender, brown wands. They were delicious, crunchy and sweet, and seemed to grow warmer in their mouths.
    They explored for a long time in the surrounding area, searching for biological entities or traces of their presence. They found nothing.
    Back in camp, Channing said, “We always find the food in the morning and the sounds I heard were after dark. Maybe they only come out at night. I should put our offering out tonight, so it won’t spoil in the sun.”
    He mixed up some instant mashed potatoes and powdered eggs and put them in the first bowl with half of a chocolate bar. As soon as it was dark, they went out and put the bowl down next to the hole. They made a quick search of the area with their flashlights and then went back to camp. A few hours later the hissing started, and this time all three of them heard it. It was louder than before and went on for almost fifteen minutes.
    Mallory was for going out to see what it was, but Stern advised caution. “We don’t want to spook them or offend them. First contact protocol calls for extreme caution.”
    None of them slept much that night. First thing in the morning, they went out to the hole. The bowl still rested beside it, containing a nasty mess of congealed mashed potatoes and dried-out eggs. The chocolate was gone. “Good choice,” Mallory said.
    “No, we should be offended,” Stern said. “We took everything they offered. If they didn’t like it, they didn’t have to eat it, but they should have taken it back to their nest and studied it or buried it or whatever.”
    “Nest?” Channing said.
    “So to speak.”
    That night they put an entire chocolate bar in the bowl along with the least disgusting dried rations they could rustle up. The raisins were the best bet. They decided that if the biological entities—not aliens, they were the aliens—wanted contact, it was best to wait for them to make the first move. Stern and Mallory would stay well back from the perimeter, watching from a distance, while Channing went alone to the hole. If nothing happened in one hour, he would go back to camp, leaving the offering behind.
    He set the bowl down and squatted a few yards away to wait. The trouble was that it really wasn’t possible to squat in the same position for that long. After about ten minutes his feet had gone to sleep and his leg muscles were cramping. He stood up to stretch, and something flickered at the edge of his vision. A faint hiss began and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Something small and round moved—he wanted to say rolled—toward the bowl. He didn’t want to turn on his flashlight so he couldn’t see clearly what it was. Planet 132-B had no moon, and only a dim glow reached it from a not-too-distant star. He stood very still and waited.
    The creature appeared to be a spheroid about a foot tall. He couldn’t see any distinguishing features, or any features at all. It stopped beside the bowl and hissed for a few seconds and then it and the bowl seemed to vanish into thin air—or into the hole?
    He almost ran back to camp. “The holes are portals!” he cried. He had to admit it was only a theory, but it was such a good one! It explained the presence of the holes and the absence of visible animal life on the surface. Whatever these creatures were, they lived underground, avoiding the sun. How they reached their subterranean homes through holes that appeared to be simple depressions in the soil was a mystery.
    As soon as it was light, the team went out again. The bowl Channing had left, or one exactly like it, was beside the hole, this time containing both the yellow stringy stuff and the crunchy sticks. They tried to figure out how the holes worked, but they really did seem to be mere dimples in the earth. Stern tried putting a hand in one and leaning all his weight on it, to see if it would open under him, but nothing happened. Perhaps it had to be opened from below.
    The ship reported back that none of the other teams were experiencing anything like this. Even when they were told what to look for, they found nothing unusual and heard nothing going hiss in the night.
    That night—Day 21 of the survey, which they were methodically continuing—Channing went alone to the site and this time he sat in a comfortable position with his arms around his knees. They had filled the bowl with chocolate, raisins, and the frozen custard that passed for ice cream on the ship. It was in a sealed container in case it melted, and they were trusting that the extraterrestrials would be able to find a way in.
    Channing sat very still for nearly an hour. Finally, something rolled in and hissed for a moment before the bowl disappeared into the hole. And then the creature rolled toward him. Channing held his breath. It sat about three feet from him and hissed and vibrated. It appeared to have a hole in the top, but otherwise was smooth and round. It’s forward movement seemed to involve turning rapidly from side to side and scooting rather than rolling.
    First contact. Don’t blow it, he told himself. He pressed the button in his pocket that would send a digital image of the creature back to the ship. It didn’t flash or make a sound, but the creature immediately scuttled away.
    He was notified the next day that the image had not been clear enough to convince anyone that this was a genuine sighting, but Captain McCauley would look into sending a xenobiologist in for further study. In a way, he was glad. He didn’t want a whole team coming in to stomp around and take over. He wanted this experience to remain his for as long as possible.
    That night, the experiment was repeated. This time Channing made no attempt to record the encounter, sitting as still as he could when the extraterrestrial approached him. The creature sat nearby and hissed for a while and then moved back toward the hole. After a moment it came back, gave a brief hiss, and returned to the hole. After a few repetitions of this, it occurred to Channing that it wanted him to follow. He got up slowly and took small, cautious steps forward. The creature waited until he was only inches away and then rolled into the hole and vanished.
    Channing hadn’t seen how it was done, but clearly the creature was larger than the hole and had perched over it rather than in it. He straddled the hole with his feet as close as possible to the edges, and suddenly he was sliding. It was scary as hell, but didn’t last long. Something gravel-like scraped his face, and dust particles drifted onto his clothes, and then he was sitting on the ground in an underground chamber that stretched out on every side. He tasted dirt in his mouth, but didn’t dare spit it out.
    Some kind of artificial lighting, softer and redder than sunlight, suffused the space, and he had no trouble seeing. About thirty of the small, round creatures were gathered around him. Loud hissing came from everywhere. Elaborate structures rose behind them and along the walls of the chamber. They resembled Rube Goldberg contraptions with a lot of coiled tubes and shapeless blobs of color. He couldn’t guess at their purpose and couldn’t imagine how they had been constructed by creatures that seemed to have no appendages. How had they crafted the bowls, or prepared the food?
    Channing slowly raised his hands with the fingers spread. “Peace,” he said in what he hoped was a calm, quiet voice. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was afraid they could hear it. “Friend,” he said. They hissed louder. He sat unmoving, waiting for something else to happen, afraid to make any move that might be misinterpreted.
    After about five minutes, when his arms were getting tired, and he was trying to decide whether to lower them, one of the creatures scuttled forward, pushing a coconut-shell bowl ahead of it. It held yellow stringy stuff, crunchy sticks—and raisins.
    “Eat?” Channing queried, gesturing with a hand to his mouth. More hissing. Cautiously he reached down and took one of the sticks. He held it up for them to see. “Eat?” he repeated and then took a bite. It tasted good, even mixed with dirt. How was he to communicate with these creatures? In bad science fiction movies, the extraterrestrials either learned English immediately or could communicate telepathically. Would they understand gestures, if they had no hands to gesture with?
    He wondered how he appeared to them. Big? Complicated? He had too many parts, too many colors. Would they see him as some kind of deity, or as a frightening monster? He tried to make himself small, hunching over and keeping his arms close to his body. He took another bite of the crunchy stick. “Good,” he said. “Yum.” A few of the creatures moved forward, coming closer—to get a better look?
    He brushed at the dust on his clothes, conscious that it was probably on his face too. He was here representing the entire Planetary Exploration Fleet and didn’t want to appear out of uniform. The dust was even finer than he had supposed and drifted around him. Abruptly he sneezed.
    All of the extraterrestrial creatures hissed loudly and scooted rapidly away from him, quickly disappearing into the shadows beyond the lighted chamber. “Whoa!” Channing said, trying not to shout. “Peace. Friend. Sorry. It was just a sneeze, guys.”
    He sat waiting for more than an hour, and they didn’t come back. It occurred to him that he didn’t know how to get back out of this place. He surveyed his surroundings and noted that the slide he had taken from the hole was along a curving track, and the hole was not that far above his head. From this side it looked something like a porthole, although no light came through. He got up carefully and tried to walk up the way he had come, but his feet slid in the sand. He couldn’t get any traction. Even if he got up to the hole, would it open to let him out?
    He stood directly under the hole and stretched his arms up, but it was still more than a foot beyond his reach. He glanced around to make sure none of the extraterrestrials was close and then shouted, “Stern! Mallory! Help!” Surely they had seen him disappear into the hole and would be close by. But they had never heard anything that seemed to come from below, no hissing, nothing—if the hole was in its usual, sealed state, maybe nobody would hear him.
    They did. Stern called to him and a rope was lowered. He tied it under his arms and they hauled him out—not emerging through a wide-open hole, but dragged through a sandy barrier that left him choking on dirt, his eyes watering from grit. They listened wide-eyed to his description of the underground chamber, and then Stern laughed. “Some ambassador,” he said. “Scared them off with a sneeze!” They stood around the ruin of what had been a portal to another civilization, but it seemed that nothing they could do would remedy the situation.
    They went back to camp and discussed their options. Stern recommended that they prepare a large and varied peace offering and leave half of it near the ruined hole and half near one of the others. Could the disrupted relations be mended? Should they wait for the xenobiologist, if the captain ever got around to sending him? Should they try to go down and search beyond the underground chamber—if they could get to it?
    During the night, Channing woke up to the sound of hissing, louder than ever. He shook Stern and Mallory awake, and they gazed out toward the ruined hole. They could not see anything clearly, but numerous dark objects were coming up out of the ground. Channing ran out to the perimeter and looked toward the other hole where they had left an offering. They were coming up from that one too, and as he turned to go back to the others, he realized that more were coming from every direction. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They were all headed for the camp.
    “Get the chocolate!” Channing snapped.
    Mallory let out a long whistle. “Too late,” he said starkly. “Get the guns.”
    Stern was at the radio. “Mayday, mayday!” he was shouting.
    A communication came in from Beta team: “Alpha, what are these...Holy cow!”
    Stern sent a hasty message to the Sakharov: “We are outnumbered. Send help.”
    It was the last transmission from the surface of Planet 132-B.

Magnum

    “My therapist once told me I was paranoid, or delusional, or both probably. But, he wasn’t really a therapist. He turned out to be a con artist, and not a very good one, apparently, since he’s in jail.”
    It must have been around four in the afternoon, and the mailman was looking at me very confused as I was telling him my story.
    “He wrote me, though, and told me that out of everyone he gave fake therapy to, he was sure of my diagnosis. But how do you take that from a mediocre con artist? Anyway, do you know how an empty box of condoms, magnum condoms, ended up on the back of my car? I just want to know who put it there and why.”
    We were standing on the driveway of my little suburban house that looked the same as all the other houses in this middle class neighborhood, I looked at his nametag, ‘Albert’. I don’t think Albert was very bright. He just stared at me under the brim of his blue mailman hat. I kept going through a mental checklist to make sure it wasn’t me. I had my haircut just last week so it wasn’t longer than a few inches. I parted it to the left this morning, brushed, and whitened my teeth, applied the perfect amount of men’s deodorant, and tucked my shirt in. There shouldn’t be anything strange about the way I look. I smelled myself, though, just to be sure. I’m polite to my neighbors, so I don’t see a reason why anybody would need to do that, or what it means. Maybe Albert’s trying to understand what was going on, or maybe he’s thinking of an alibi.
    “Dude, I don’t know what to tell you,” he shook his head and started to walk away from the front door of my house. “I didn’t leave it on there. I’m pretty sure someone just didn’t want to carry it around”
    I had to catch his attention, “Right I would like to think that, but-“
    “Look,” He barely turned his head to look at me. “I have to go. I don’t really have time-”
    “Okay just tell me. Did you leave them there? I’m sure you are aware of the importance of this question now.”
    He continued to walk down my driveway, and just waved a hand at me.
    “No, I didn’t leave anything on your car. Okay!” With that the mailman walked away.
    So that’s one more person off my list. I’ve never really had any excuse to talk to my neighbors so this gets me out of the house at least. Tomorrow morning I know the lady who lives three doors down walks her dog at seven thirty. I’ll ask her. She seems like a nice lady, but it’s always the quiet ones who cause the most trouble. I don’t think she’s liked me since that morning her dog pooped right by my car when I was sitting in it. I didn’t say anything I just watched the dog do its business, and the lady picked it up. She stood up and was startled seeing me watching her from my car. She gave me a dirty look and walked away. I don’t know how to make enemies, but I might have done so there.
    I turned to look back at my car and I saw a young woman walking towards me. I had seen her a couple times before but I wasn’t sure if she lived around here. She had long brown hair that looked like it was badly dyed, and she was holding a pack of cigarettes. She didn’t seem to be focusing on anything until her name was called out from behind me.
    “Erica!”
    “Oh shit,” she said. She hurried by me, and shoved the pack of cigarettes in my hand. She ran up to my neighbor Randy, the one who wouldn’t talk to me, and kissed him.
    “Hey there,” she said smiling up at him.
    He tried to force a smile, but it sank fast. “Have you been smoking?”
    “What?” She was playing the cute game. I can’t believe anyone gets away with it, but it seemed to work.
    “Um... were you smoking?” I could see him trying to hold onto his concern.
    “Of course not.” She kissed him again. Then rocked back and forth smiling at him.
    “Okay, but you smell like-”
    “I smell nice, don’t I?” She had this boy around her finger.
    “Never mind,” he dropped his head and walked to his car with her.
    I knew somehow she was involved with my problem. I had what I needed for today. I walked by his house three times, inspecting it, and thinking about what I was going to do next. I started going to the liquor store by my house everyday after work at four and bought a twenty-ounce Pepsi since that was the time and place I had seen her. I knew I shouldn’t be drinking Pepsi every day, but if I didn’t drink it then I’d feel like a stalker.
    After two weeks I ran into her as she was leaving with her cigarettes.
    “Hey, wait,” I said, catching up to her.
     “Yes. Can I help you?” I noticed the cigarettes were the same kind she’d had the other day.
    “Yes, I hope you can.” I scratched my face and saw her scrunch her nose and start to turn around. “Wait, I’m the guy you gave those cigarettes to the other day.”
     She turned back to me. “Oh hello. My name’s Erica,” She smiled, then grabbed one of my hands and shook it. “I’m not supposed to be smoking, so I didn’t want my boyfriend to catch me with cigarettes.”
    “Oh yeah, Randy.” I said. “Look, I have a question-“
    “Did you smoke them?” She asked
    “Um...” I was a little taken back. I know she must have heard me just say I had a question.
    “If you didn’t, could I have them back?”
    I had to take a deep breath. “No I didn’t smoke them. There are too many chemicals in cigarettes. I disposed of them.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Look, I have to ask you something.” I didn’t give her the chance to get distracted again. “Did you leave a box of Magnum condoms on my car?”
    Her eyes got big and she suppressed a smile. “Why do you want to know, you an extra large condom guy?” a thin smile broke out.
    “What? no, I just-“
    “Oh,” She paused, and right as I was about to speak, she did. “A small condom guy, I’m sorry.”
    “No, not that either-“
    “Good because I don’t think they make-“
    “Okay look, please...” She was going to make me crazy.
    “Why would I leave a box of condoms on some guys car?”
    “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me why you would do something like that to me?” I was trying to stay calm. Remembering to breathe like my therapist taught me. Except he wasn’t a therapist, which probably means that breathing is only going to make things worse.
    She cut me off in the middle of my thought.
    “Why would I do that to you?” Her smile broke out and she covered her face with one hand. She pulled it away, sniffed in a deep breath. “I didn’t intentionally do it to you. I was just mad. Extra large condoms are a lie.” Her face became serious, and she raised her voice. “They are not for guys with big dicks. They are for guys with normal dicks that want to wear condoms that say large on them, and believe me, Randy is nothing special. I was hoping it would fall off him.”
    What was I hearing? I’m with a crazy girl who’s yelling about condoms in front of a convenience store. I wanted to leave, but I felt trapped so I decided to try to diffuse the situation. “Why would you do that to your boyfriend?”
    “I don’t know,” she said calming down. “I guess I thought it would be funny.”
    I must have made some face because she looked at me and almost cracked up laughing. Maybe she’s bipolar. That would explain a lot.
    “Don’t um...” I’m not actually sure how to respond. “Don’t you love him?”
    “Of course I do,” she responded right away. “Well maybe,” she paused. “Actually, I don’t know anymore.” She looked down at the ground. “He’s sweet, and he tries hard. I just don’t really feel anything with him anymore.”
    “Then why do you have sex with him?” I wished I hadn’t asked that. I don’t want to know about these things.
    “Because I like sex.”
    “So you’re just using him?” I was horrified, but the look she gave me was equally horrifying.
    “What the fuck! I’m not using him,” she started to raise her voice again.
    “But you said you’re over him.”
    “I never said that,” she snapped right back at me.
    “You did. You said you don’t feel anything, and you’re being very passive aggressive about it.” I felt pretty satisfied; I think I nailed what was really going on here.
    “Passive aggressive?” She said, adding an insane laugh. All the sudden, I didn’t feel so good. “That’s rich coming from you, stalking me at a liquor store. What are you, like paranoid, or something?”
    “Well” I paused, “I was never officially diagnosed, but then my therapist turned out to be-“
    “Fuck dude, you need to calm down! I don’t need the complication of a break up right now.”
    “Well isn’t being in a dysfunctional relationship more complicated than a break up?” Some people just don’t see the obvious.
    She stopped and looked at me. I saw her mouth trying to open to say something, but then she stopped and looked down. Everything became very quiet.
    “Okay fine. I hate the guy. I realize that I haven’t loved him in months and he annoys the shit out of me. Are you happy now?” She let out an exhale and looked up at the sky. “It’s not like any of this is your business, anyway.”
    “Well you did set the box of condoms on my car?” I wish none of this was my business. She’s the one who brought me into it.
    “Are you fucking serious!!” She started yelling at me. “You are such an asshole. You follow me around, and try to convince me to break up with my boyfriend, which I now want to do, but it’s not that simple.” I started to imagine her leaving the box on my car. It made sense to me now seeing her temperament. I had no idea my neighbors were this crazy. She was still yelling at me. “Will you leave me the fuck alone if I promise to never touch anything of yours ever again?”
    “Well yeah. of course, I didn’t want any of this either.” I was just glad to get to the bottom of it.
    “Fuck you.”
    That was the last thing she said to me before she walked away. She was very calm about it. I saw her fumbling with the cigarette box as she rounded the corner of the liquor store. I could finally breathe again and rest peacefully. This had been a very stressful few weeks, but I could now relax. I thought about kicking my Pepsi habit, but I might as well enjoy one more on my way home.

It’s All Gravy

    Like glittering rain drops falling on a burnished palm frond, the peso coins dance and spin atop the glossy dark wood casket before dropping into the small net attached to its edges. Tossed by the many people lining the path up the last rise of Mantalongon, a few coins miss their mark and fall to the earth, to be gathered by the children in the long following procession of mourners. On an adjoining hill a couple of low humped bulls lift their heads from the grass and stare at this passing. The Philippine Sea and the Island of Bohol fills the horizon to the East. To the West, the jungle tree tops dip down to the Visayan Sea and the Tanon Strait, with the hazy image of Negros rising beyond. Atop this mountainous backbone of Cebu, Joe Benedict will be buried. It is the only final resting place that ever occurred to him.
    Dressed in leather sandals, dark trousers, and white shirts, grey with sweat, the six casket bearers rest the coffin at the lip of the open grave. It is cooler up here where the winds from two Seas mix and swirl. Alone and unadorned, except for a little iron grill fence and a small flat stone, its high polish brightly reflecting the overhead sun, Joe commands the view in all directions. It was his favorite spot and one he took pains with to title and protect. A few metal chairs to one side of the iron grill serve to rescue the sandal shod carriers and their tired feet.
    When the procession has all arrived and gathered, and the sun has dropped a bit to the West, a young priest emerges from the crowd and stands at the head of the grave. On his right side and a step behind, a salt and pepper haired woman in black fills the rest of the space between the grave and the iron fence. She nods for the priest to begin when he looks back at her. Swinging an incense burner to and fro, and throwing sprinkles of Holy water over the casket, the priest consecrates the site and blesses it with a short prayer. Then the bearers lower the casket and let the hemp ropes follow it down. Stepping forward, the woman drops a handful of earth into the grave before following the priest outside the iron fence. Several others, who can get close enough, add their handfuls of dirt to the casket top. This ritual done, the thumping cadence of spaded earth dropping ever more silently on a wooden box ushers the crowd out in different directions over the hilltop. Spreading their nipa mats on the same ground that much of their food comes from, they eat and sing until the sun drops close to the rising mountains of Negros beyond the Visayan Sea. Many, over time, and one in particular, will return to this grave, burn a candle or two in the still of the night, and say a prayer for Joe’s soul. The American was one of them and they loved him.

    From a hard scrabble patch of land in the foothills of the Virginia Appalachians Joe Benedict watches the Sheriff’s small motorcade make its way across the valley below. He knows they are coming to deliver the papers that will confiscate his rough cut home for unpaid taxes. And he knows that there is nothing he can do to stop it. At least nothing that he is willing to do. The same country he had almost died serving was now going to take the only real home he had ever known. Coming out of that unnecessary war and inheriting this small place from his grandfather had given him the time to look at where he had been. And he didn’t much like what he saw. Ahead, to where he was supposed to go, he liked even less. Turning his back on both directions, he used this rocky and sparsely timbered land to wall off what he considered a failed society full of broken promises. By hunting, a little gardening, and odd jobs working for the valley elite, he had eked out an existence blessed by a strong back and good health. Now, in his senior years, he is watching those he can no longer put off come to take the only things that have kept him alive.
    In one of those unexpected reminisces Joe recalls the highlands of Pleiku, Vietnam, and the stunned look on the young Viet Cong’s face when he shot him. Joe leans his 30-30 Winchester against the gate post. There will be no more killing like that.....ever. He will not argue or refuse the papers. He will let it play out the American way with a heaviness that has its own gravity. He will go......but with grace.
    Having gone as far as it can, the black SUV with a large gold colored star on the door comes to a halt. The deputy follow-up car does likewise. While the deputy remains in his car, the Sheriff kicks open the SUV door and hauls himself out to face Joe.
    Sheriff Higgins, overweight but not particularly quarrelsome, has been the Sheriff around here for a long time. Just your average kind of Sheriff, he keeps getting re-elected because he knows most people around here, including Joe. Also it doesn’t hurt that he tries to take an easy manner with the well to do, which are well represented throughout the valley. Carrying a clipboard of papers, he approaches Joe and smiles when he sees the 30-30 over against the gate post.
    “Glad to not see you holding that iron over there,” Higgins says nodding toward the 30-30. “I expect you know why I’m here.”
    Joe is more relieved than nervous. Relieved to finally start the beginning of the end. “Uh-huh,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you ever since the certified letter came. I guess after a couple of weeks you won’t have to traipse up here anymore to check on my deer harvesting etiquette.”
    Higgins laughs. “Expect you’re right about that. But you know, I never did much care about how you hunted to eat. It was just nice to get up out of that valley some. In respects of that, I’ll be sorry to see you go. This is all the Feds doing you know.”
    “Yeah I know.....never have been many places that I didn’t have to go to start with. Maybe I’ll discover something valuable as a result of all this. Who knows? I got a couple of weeks to get going, right?”
    The Sheriff hands Joe a stack of papers. “That’s right, Joe. It’s all in there and wherever you go or whatever you do you can use my name to vouch for your lawfulness, whatever that’s worth.”
    “OK Sheriff. Two weeks and I’m out of here. Been a long time coming, I guess.”
    After shaking hands, the Sheriff turns and walks back to his SUV, motioning for his deputy to back out. Once his bulk is loaded behind the wheel and before closing the door, the Sheriff sticks his head out and yells up at Joe, “Say Joe, can I ask you one last question?”
    “Fire away,” says Joe.
    The Sheriff looks in the rear view mirror, watching his deputy depart, and seems to consider the question. After a moment he smiles and says, “Tell me something valuable that you could discover out there where you haven’t been.”
    Without thinking twice, Joe replies, “A loyal people.”
    The Sheriff grins, shuts his door, wags his finger at Joe, then whips a u-turn in the scrub and drives down the rocky road.
    Thinking about what he had just said and wondering why the Sheriff wanted to know, Joe watches the Sheriff go down the hill and out into the valley. Feeling like what will be, will be, Joe walks over to the gate post. He hefts the 30-30, levers open the empty chamber and magazine, closes it, and dry snaps the hammer to the sky. All things must pass.

    While looking out the small bulkhead window at the azure waters of the Cebu City port area, Joe leans into the bank and watches the wing dip and rise as the jet lines up for its final approach to the Cebu International Airport. Once the flaps are lowered, the open sea quickly gives way to mangrove swamps followed by small barangays, or barrios, amid scattered coconut palms. Just as lines of laundry get close enough to count the bed sheets, a speeding haze of dark tarmac suddenly fills the earth beneath. A heavy bump followed by the feel and noise of reverse thrusters brings smiles to most of the passengers touching down after many hours in a flying tube. Out on the edges of the tarmac the lush green tropical growth, under a brilliantly sunny sky, lends an air of optimism and high spirit to the immediate environment. Joe Benedict welcomes this feeling and smiles along with the others. He had bet on the tropics and the Filipino spirit when he had closed the book on his American life. Before that he had long contemplated such a switch. Now it was actually happening.
    Coming out of customs and immigration, Joe takes the first in a long line of white taxis and heads across the Mactan bridge to Mandaue. Far below the bridge superstructure, looking like toys in a bathtub, ships of many different flags lie at anchor in the Mactan Channel. Once off the bridge, small cars, large trucks, jeepneys, and thousands of motorcycles share the roads and side streets. All throwing up a diesel fog that keeps anything with windows and air conditioning closed tight.
    With only a backpack to contend with after a half hour ride, Joe pays the taxi driver and hops out at the congested Southern Cebu bus terminal. A huge compound, enclosed by high cinder block walls, tin roofed stores, and benched waiting areas, the terminal houses the many buses going to all the Southern parts of the Island. Sign boards on the front windshield announce to the hundreds of passengers milling about which bus is theirs. Joe locates the bus going to Dalaguete, climbs aboard, gives the conductor his fare, and takes one of the last remaining seats next to an attractive woman some years younger than himself. Being the only white person aboard, a fact driven home by the many stares he receives, he assumes that what he has heard about getting away from the congestion and tourist traps is true——the further from the City he goes, the more natural and clean it will be. And the more he will stand out.
    After traveling along the coastal highway for an hour, making stops, and passing one city associated town after another, the congestion thins out and crowded landscapes are replaced by open rice paddies and fish ponds bordering a sea with white beaches and coconut trees. Banana trees run right up to the highway on one side while, at high tide, the sea splashes among mangrove swamps on the other. Vendors with bulky loads of snacks and drinks hop on the bus to peddle their wares for a few kilometers, then hop off and catch another bus going back.
    Buying some ampao, or puffed rice cake, from one of the vendors, the lady next to him notices Joe’s curiosity as she nibbles on the crunchy treat. Boldly, she unwraps another square, turns deep brown eyes upon his curiosity, and says in very good English, “My name is Alicia and I will give you part of my tasty ampao if you will tell me where you are from and where you are going.”

    Alicia Lamdagan, in her mid-fifties and a native Cebuano, proved to be very true to the namesake of her heritage. Lamdagan is the Cebuano word for bright. The youngest of three daughters, she watched her sisters marry and have children of their own before she finished her Catholic elementary school. Of exceptional intelligence and spirit, she was put forward by the Nuns to gain a higher education through the nunnery and took her vows as a nun, with a confidence in God and charity, at the age of twenty. Her work in the rural catholic orphanage of the Mantalongon mountains, year after year, gave her a lasting rapport with the people of the area. And, her brightness proved fruitful for the children she cared for. However, her good intelligence, balanced with an even stronger spirit, would not let her walk away when the diocese eliminated the rural orphanage from its sphere of patronage and ordered her to another service in Manila. Instead, she renounced her vows, removed her habit, and with what resources she could scrape together, kept her orphan children and their home from sinking into nonexistence. Now, headed back to her labor of love and spirit, after visiting the city, she has noticed the white man beside her eyeing her snack.

    Joe, though surprised by his seatmate’s candor, is completely taken with the humorous sparkle and openness of her wide set dark eyes. Framed by long raven black hair and the bone structure of an intelligent Polynesian pedigree, there is a light in them that disengages any need for him to be defensive. In fact, a rarity for Joe, quite the opposite.
    “Well, I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know for sure what you are eating but it is valuable information that you seek.”
    “Touche,” Alicia replies with a smile that broadens the handsome light of her face. “These little tid-bits of rice and sweets are considered a delicacy here in Southern Cebu. Delicious, or lami as we say, I assure you that their value is equal to your information.”
    Enjoying his newfound social skills with a complete stranger, Joe smilingly replies, “In that case, my name is Joe, not like the GI Joe of Filipino fame, but like short for Joseph of the coat of many colors. I am from the United States and I am going to Dalaguete to start a new life.”
    “I am very familiar with the Joseph of the Bible and what he did,” Alicia says, while searching his eyes for any deception. “Tell me Joe, what will you do in this new life?”
    Suddenly feeling a little vulnerable with such a broad question, Joe looks to his hands and considers his reply. Alicia, seeming to intuit the situation, pushes a full package of ampao into Joe’s hands and says, “Here Joe, I must not make an unfair bargain with you. Enough, try one of these, they really are lami. And they don’t unfairly squeeze your wallet either.”
    Tasting the ampao and finding truth in everything that Alicia has said, Joe shrugs and broadly describes his situation, and the hopes that accompany it, while Alicia seems to listen with a sense that goes beyond just her hearing.
    Feeling the benefit of having such a good listener for the first time in recent memory, and having talked about personal things with another, Joe’s long dormant social curiosity starts to peek out from its covers. “What about you,” he asks. “are you from Dalaguete?”
    “Not exactly, I’m from Mantalongon, in the mountains above Dalaguete. I could never afford to live along the shore. Besides, I run an orphanage, that is where my work is. And, let me tell you, there is plenty of it there. My helper is getting too old to keep up but he has no other place to go. And I have no money to hire, so it’s pretty touch and go.”
    Having started to share her problems as well, and needing to vent with someone other than God, Alicia goes on to explain how all this came to be.
    Joe struggles to hide his astonishment at the gumption and spirit of this woman. Rarely has he met people of such character and charity. Certainly not back where he comes from. Besides, back there, he would never allow such things to be presented to start with. That would require too much trust.
    Entering the greater Dalaguete region, Joe and Alicia break conversation and watch the jungle come right up to the highway, broken only every now and then by a house or an ocean vista. Along with their silence, some sort of higher reality seems to come over them. Sensing this, they curiously look at one another, like they are seeing each other for the first time.
    “You know I was just thinking,” Joe says.
    Alicia solemnly nods, “Me too.”
    As if having the same thoughts, Alicia continues to nod as Joe says, “I could save my little bit of money and come to Mantalongon instead of Dalaguete, take a look around, maybe fix up a few things. Give the old guy a break. No pay needed, room and board would be nice. What do you think?”
    Like one bright soul supplanting the solemn visage of another, Alicia’s face lights up as she replies in an almost hallowed voice, “Oh merciful God, that would be wonderful.”

    After the long stretch of jungle and sea, entering Dalaguete Poblacion is like going from the natural wild to the festive tame in a couple of heartbeats. Multicolored signs asking for business hang everywhere, and both sides of the road are occupied by one structure or another. Banners stretch over the highway signaling that life is good and that this spot is a good place to enjoy it. Push cart vendors, selling everything from barbequed chicken feet to skewers of shrimp shish kabob, come and go along the market area where fresh fish, fruits, and vegetables, are sold by the kilo. City Hall, with the police station and post office, is located across the street from the market as well. Nothing like the city, but for rural Filipinos, just about all things that are needed for everyday life can be found here.
    At the bus stop, just off the first cross street after coming into Dalaguete, eighty-one year old Pedro Abbas sits behind the wheel of an ancient WWII jeep waiting for Alicia’s bus to arrive. There is no transportation between here and Mantalongon other than private motor bike. And that is a dangerous ride with young Filipino bikers carrying multiple passengers in and out of the mountains for whatever fare they can get. Since he can’t find the part to fix the broken water pump at the orphanage, Pedro is happy to wait for his pick-up....as long as the jeep doesn’t conk out. Knowing the bus is due soon from texts of others waiting for the same bus, Pedro uncurls from the drivers seat and attempts to straighten up his old frame. Still slightly bent after pushing his back in as far as possible, he hears the bus coming over the hump bridge into town and stands by to welcome Alicia back to the province.
    Amid a cloud of dust and diesel fumes the bus arrives and the waiting area comes alive with activity. Alicia, in the middle of several others, steps down from the door and waves to Pedro. Starting to lift his hand, Pedro freezes when he sees the white man, a backpack over one shoulder, walk up and join Alicia on her way across the street.
    “Pedro, this is my friend, Joseph,” Alicia says. “He is coming with us to have a look around at our repair needs. Isn’t that nice?”
    Joe extends his hand and says, “Just call me Joe, Pedro, nice to meet you.”
    A study in contrasts presents itself as an aged Pedro, deep brown and slight of build with only a little dark hair left, and a younger Joe, white and tall with graying blonde hair, shake hands. A little stiff in manner, Pedro can’t hide his surprise at having an extra worker aboard. Glancing frequently in the rear view mirror at Joe in the back seat, Pedro mostly ignores Alicia’s chatter as they travel from the bus stop straight out the cross street to a dusty and curvy road into the mountains. As they gain altitude it isn’t long before the clutter of the coast gives way to open vistas and a rolling, sparsely inhabited landscape. Halfway up the mountain a huge lizard-like monitor, as long as the jeep, leaps from the jungle, scurries across the road, and back into the jungle. Neither Alicia nor Pedro make any mention of this creature but Joe fervently hopes that his bed will not be one that is on the ground. Never has he seen a lizard so large. Pedro sees Joe’s reaction in the rear view mirror and smiles.
    About thirteen kilometers into the hills they top out and pass through the small settlement of Mantalongon to an outlying large structure of bamboo and native materials. Set on a rolling plateau, among one of the few hectares of jungle growth at this location, the orphanage, a few outbuildings, and their immediate courtyards, look pretty run down. But the happy children bouncing up and down and waving in the main hall front yard give the place an air of freshness that belies its true condition.
    Alicia asks Pedro to show Joe to an empty native house and get him settled while she helps a couple of volunteers prepare their evening meal. Joe finds the nipa hut, with a grass roof and bamboo slatted floor, neat and adequate for his needs. Dumping his pack on the small bed, he follows Pedro out and about on a tour of the grounds.
    Stopping at the well and broken water pump, Pedro shows Joe the laid out parts of the pump and explains that he was unable to find the proper part to repair it. Amazingly, Joe looks the layout over, cannibalizes a piece from another broken pump lying in a junk pile and quickly reassembles all the parts. After reconnecting the pump to the electrical outlet, he opens the line and throws the switch. Hissing and coughing, the line shakes a couple of time, then emits a smooth stream of water. Pedro, thoroughly impressed with Joe’s seemingly miraculous tinkering skill, grabs Joe’s hand and pumps it like it will bring water as well. Truly happy about what he has just witnessed, Pedro lets go of any animosity that may have existed. And with that one small deed Joe gains a loyal assistant instead of a resentful helper. Gladly, Pedro finishes the tour for Joe, pointing out the many things that could use a repair job, then proudly escorts him to the eating area.
    Gathered for dinner, happy faces listen to Pedro go on about what he saw done with the broken water pump, and how this glorious act will extend to the many other needful things that are about. For several of the children, Joe is the first actual man that they have seen who is like the men that they have, on occasion, seen in foreign media.
    Alicia, happy to have had such good fortune in meeting Joe, looks down the long picnic table and adds considerable weight to the moment when she says, “Well Joe, it seems that you have made quite an impression around here. We hope you can stay a while.”
    With a fork full of food halfway to his mouth, Joe pauses and looks at all the smiling people. “Really you all, I just got lucky. Just wait until I break something because I’m stupid.”
    Amid the laughter that follows, one boy of about ten stands up, waits for the laughter to die, then says in practiced English, “Stay Joe, please. We will take care of you.”
    This small plea brings a subtle seriousness to the table that forces Joe to set his fork aside and clear his throat. Taking a moment to check a rampant emotion that tries to blur his vision, Joe sees all those faces fixed on him. After a moment of inner struggle, he stands and looks at the boy who made the plea, then everyone else at the table. Not really knowing what to say, but at the same time feeling a privilege that he has never known, Joe simply says what he feels, “It would be an honor to be your fixer.”

    Watching the gecko skitter back and forth across the coco wood beam for the grass roof, Joe finds it odd that he hasn’t heard its chirps. The breeze from the oscillating fan makes it comfortable to lie under the cover in the morning and listen to the competing choruses of crowing cocks. Now is his special time to take stock of life in general——good enough, nothing grandiose. Just plain, simple, and best of all, non-deceptive. Loyal. As the fan swings around the gecko again skitters across the coco brace. Isn’t that a little pearl of wisdom, Joe declares to himself. A gecko that uses a fan. Known for bringing good luck and heralding it with their chirps, geckos are welcome guests. But the mute gecko could be a different story. Joe’s thoughts play with this possibility until he hears a slight rustle near his door.
    Alicia’s gentle rap and worried voice ends all his speculation about mute geckos. “Joe, are you awake? Something terrible has happened and I need your help.”
    Knowing that indeed something very serious must have occurred to bring Alicia to his door this early, Joe jumps up and into some shorts. Opening the door, he finds Alicia fully dressed and carrying a small flashlight, as is normal for her early rounds. What is not normal is the look on her face and what she says. “I just found Pedro dead.....sitting on his prayer rug in the door of his hut.”
    Thoroughly alarmed, Joe tries to wrap his mind around the incongruity of Alicia’s statement. Pedro seemed fine at dinner last evening. Not only that. “A prayer rug?” he says. “What’s he do with a prayer rug?”
    “Come now,” Alicia replies, “I will show you. Pedro is...was a Muslim.”
    Thinking how little we sometimes know about each other, Joe pulls on a shirt and follows Alicia across the grounds to a replica of his own hut. Slumped over against the open door, a Koran in his hands, Pedro looks like he is only asleep. Joe places his fingers along Pedro’s carotid artery but finds no pulse. A closer inspection finds no sign of life.
    “His religion was very personal and private to him,” Alicia says. “He only prayed in private, or sometimes, at night, in the doorway, like he is now.”
    “All this time I spent with him, and I had no idea,” Joe says.
    “That is as it should be,” Alicia says. “Prayer in a closet is sometimes most powerful. We must honor his faith and quickly return him to his maker. I will get a stretcher. Please help me prepare the body for burial.”
    Joe and Alicia had finished washing and cleansing Pedro by the time the sun was up two fingers. Word had spread quickly in the orphanage but not much beyond which was also as it should be. Pedro had no known blood family. He had come from the Southern Islands more than half his lifetime ago. The orphanage is his only family now and this would be a private, simple funeral, according to his faith.
    While the oldest children and a couple of farmers from the immediate area dig a grave in the largest and closest coconut grove, taking care to situate it perpendicular to Mecca, Alicia and Joe shroud Pedro in an unused and newly washed bed sheet. Fragrant white flowers of the Camia plant are spread over Pedro and tucked within the folds of his shroud and scattered on the grave floor.
    Gently placing Pedro on his right side, facing Mecca, Joe and Alicia take pains to observe his religious beliefs and honor his passing.
    The few adults there, as well as the children, drift away when Joe and Alicia, now becoming a couple more than before, each lift a shovel and start covering their old friend. Perspiration glitters upon their brows by the time they finish.
    Having patted down Pedro’s final resting place under the towering coconut trees, they linger a bit, catching the slight fragrance of ginger, Pedro’s favorite tea additive. Weary from their duty, and with feelings too poignant and perhaps too unknown for words, Joe and Alicia reach out. And together, spades shouldered and hands held, they walk back to their home.

    Hitching the wagon to the old jeep, Joe prepares to haul a fresh load of coconuts and corn to the local agricultural cooperative. A cooperative that he and Alicia had organized to benefit the growers of the region, giving them better and more stable prices for their crops. Feeling reflective, Joe puts off the bumpy ride into town for a bit to count his blessings. There is the bartering connection, established under his tutelage, that brings together the good crops of the highlands and the protein rich fish of the coastal area, helping all peoples, high and low. Joe smiles as he must acknowledge that it is a rare place in the Dalaguete community that the pair of them, American fixer and Filipina teacher, are not known and respected. Life is good. And it is loyal, dependable.
    Further reflecting on the passing of Pedro, Joe can see that, in a natural way, it was the beginning for him and Alicia as each other’s first true partner. And how that partnership and the proximity of their work together accentuated other needs, despite their older years. Needs that simply and lovingly resolved themselves. How the acceptance and understanding of the people around them acquiesced to that resolution...naturally. Happily, Joe recalls the smiles that would greet them when they emerged from the same large nipa hut. Smiles and changes as natural as the never ending tropical growth. Fingering his driver license and ID card, Joe remembers the good wishes when he and Alicia had taken it one step further with a priest in a small chapel in town, thus setting him up with his Permanent Philippine Residency. And, like the icing on a lovely cake, giving him the inclusion and belonging that he had missed for most of his life. How nice it is that Alicia, no less, also found natural beginnings, ripe with promise. Even as her raven hair began to show touches of silver.
    Realizing that the sun is moving, Joe hurriedly fires up the jeep and heads across the yard to the jungle road. Seeing the youngest orphan boy feeding the chickens, Joe stops and yells, “Hey Antonio, scatter that feed and get in. We will go to Mantalongon and make some pesos.”
    Antonio lights up, all teeth, and in one swoop scatters the feed, throws the bucket in the back, and jumps in. As Joe eases the jeep and its load along the rutted road Antonio stands, gripping the windshield with one hand, and pointing out the coconut trees he is one day going to climb with the other.

    Uncoupling, but reluctant to further break the so sweet connection, their fingertips toy along each other’s nakedness—-absent minded dances of touch up a thigh, or around a nipple. Looking toward the grass thatch roof in the dim light above them, they see only their thoughts drifting in and out of focus, like the breeze from the rotating fan. The predawn sounds of crowing cocks subsides only long enough to pick out a jungle bird call every now and then. And a new resident gecko, adding its chirps to this chorus, tries not to be out done. To Joe and Alicia, in the languid world of after love, these sounds could all be a symphony, or a concert, the Beatles’ Yesterday, Woodstock or even the Vatican choir. There is no limit to their travel nor to what they can hear during these times. Up in years, they consider this sweetness special to them, a blessing.
    Speaking to this special place that is all around them, Joe shares his truth.
    “You know, baby, if I die tomorrow there will not be an ounce of regret in me. And there must not be an ounce of regret in you. Never feel that I was more than an extension of your goodness. If I have to go first, know without doubt, that I am not gone. I will be in everything that we ever touched, every memory of every look we shared. And as you go on, so do I. It can be no other way, impossible.”
    Joe turns his cheek to the pillow and smiles at Alicia’s solemn face before continuing. “Because of you, each breath that I take is nothing but gravy—-extra life above and beyond. When I met you I was empty, nobody, and worthless. I never dreamed that I could be somebody. That was too much for me. Only, did I want to find a way to know that my life was not useless, you know, indolent. And, if God would really bless me, a life that was not a lie. Thanks to you, and the God that is a part of you, that and so much more is.”
    Joe falls silent, takes an elbow, and looks down at Alicia. Finding an intoxicating depth in her eyes, his head lowers, as if in surrender. And in a choked voice he concludes, “The bounty of your love fills me beyond words.”
    Suddenly, as if he just remembered a fire he must fight, Joe sits upright and declares, “ I don’t think I’ve ever spoken that many sentences at once.” Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he is about to stand when Alicia grabs both his shoulders from behind and pulls him back down into the bed.
    “How dare you! You’re not going anywhere until I tell you a thing or two about what a wonderful person you are and all the good and hope you have brought here. And I’ll start by telling you that its not all gravy. You deserve whatever you have been able to gain. And a lot more.”
    Determined to get in a complete say, Alicia sets up, places her hand firmly on Joe’s chest.....and starts to cry.
    “I love you so much.....and we are getting old.......nobody lives forever.”
    Sniffling and sobbing, Alicia is overcome with emotion and for a moment can’t go on.
    Wiping her face with the bedcover and taking deep breaths, while Joe smiles up at her and gently smoothes her tears, she eventually seems to regain her composure.
    “I never want you to doubt that you mean the world to me, and the people around us. You could have gone to the beaches and peddled you personality and handy skills, dipping into the glamour that most foreigners who come here chase. But you came here and gave of yourself in ways too valuable to easily see and broadcast. Ways that will root and grow, sending up shoots that will always, in one way or another, further your brand of goodness.”
    Alicia, the image of abundant grace, lowers her eyes and kisses Joe’s breast. And, as if to seal her touch and all their emotional gut talk, lies her cheek upon the warm mark of her lips.
    Gently strumming a path down Alicia’s spine, Joe cherishes the ensuing silence, pregnant with fulfillment. But, as a touch of morning color comes to the light under the grass eves, he wonders how he will tell her what he learned on his last trip to the city.

    Bursting from the smaller bedroom, almost tearing the curtain from its hooks, adopted eleven year old Antonio, the last of the orphans, grabs a stick of lumpia from the kitchen table, and bolts out the door.
    “Tony, slow down. Where are you going in such a hurry,?” Alicia calls after him.
    Yelling back over his shoulder, Tony replies, “To take Lucy and Big Boy to the hilltop grass. They have to eat too.” Antonio considers the two working carabao, or water buffalo, his personal charge.
    Looking across the kitchen table at Joe, Alicia says, “He gets more like you everyday.”
    “And his smarts from you get bigger too,” Joe replies.
    Alicia nods and decides that it is time to ask the dreadful question. Sliding a prescription leaf from the local medical clinic across the table, she says, “Joe, what is this?”
    Joe’s face falls when he sees it. “I was going to tell you, sweetheart. It’s a referral to a specialist in Cebu City.”
    “And did you go?”
    “Yeah, I went.”
    Having noticed his occasional dizzy spells and shortness of breath, Alicia, her stomach a sudden steely knot, reaches over the table and lifts Joes chin, “It’s your heart isn’t it?”
    “Yeah, baby, they say I need bypass surgery.”
    “Then let’s do it. Lots of people get it done.”
    Wishing he were anywhere else at this moment, Joe takes Alicia’s hand. “They can’t, Ali. They say that there is something unusual about my aorta and they don’t have the technology here to pull it off.”
    “What about Manila?”
    “Same thing there. They want to send me to the United States where they have had some success with this thing. Couple of problems with that though.” Joe pauses and looks to the roof. “Please listen hard, babe. I don’t want to have to say this again. And never forget that I love you and would do nothing to hurt you. It is what it is. There is no trickery here.”
    Feeling numb and strange, he kisses Alicia’s hand as his eyes well up. “We don’t have the money for such a thing. It is tremendously expensive and if you don’t have the money, or very good insurance, you can’t even get in the door. Since the war, my war, I have given nothing to America. And I have never asked for anything. They have hospitals there for people like me but they are very poor and wouldn’t even attempt such a thing. I’d be condemned to just sit, or lie, there and watch people with money get fixed while I die. It was such stuff that drove me from that place to start with. To die with your loved ones near, and the dignity of knowing that all that can be done is being done, is so much better, to me, than feeling like a threadbare throw away, hung in an auction of life to the highest bidder. For me that would be self-murder. We are better than that. Please, Alicia, don’t expect me to leave my home for a chance that is no chance and even worse,”
    Having spoken his heart in ways that would have been unimaginable a decade ago when he met this exceptional woman, Joe gently leads Alicia, weeping and without volition, from the table and says, “Come on, babe, lets take a walk back to the beginning and visit Pedro.”

    Feeling a little punk, Joe decides that half a day is enough. He will visit the hilltop and enjoy a little communion. It gives perspective to his downs and helps with an old man’s moods in general.
    The eatery, once the main hall and orphanage dormitory, is overflowing with the lunch crowd when he stops by to tell Alicia where he is going but the crowd doesn’t pick up his mood as it normally would. Taking the new jeep, Joe drives out the road and takes the grassy track up the slight elevation to his special place. The view of the three Islands and the seas that surround them is gorgeous enough to lift even the most forlorn. Sitting in the open jeep, with the comfortable January sun on the back of his neck, Joe looks out over the vast Philippine Sea. Almost before he can feel his breathing become a touch tight, his utter attention is captured by something different about the distant and slightly vague image of Bohol. Kissed by the connecting waters, Bohol is changing ever so gently into a soothing golden mist that advances toward him. Never before has Joe witnessed such pretty happenings, Thoroughly taken and most interested, he marvels at the sky, filled with this miraculous display. As the mist descends upon him, touching his skin, it gradually parts to reveal his greatest love, Alicia. Struck with humble awe as the mist disappears and her image becomes the ALL, Joseph’s forehead sinks to the steering wheel and his eyes close.

    The heavy beat of drums, mixing with the enchanting soprano voice of a Filipina singer, blasts from speakers throughout the Benedict Cooperative complex. The cleared main floor of the eatery is crowded with young dancers, and a few not so young. Everywhere there is color. From the hanging banners, to the dress of the dancers, to the blooming bougainvillea, to the food and drink laden tables, color paints the day. Kitchens, both local and catered, are in high gear cranking out the most favored foods of the Islands. Scattered roasting pits, as well, send up the musky sweet aroma of lechon from the spitted suckling pigs turning over them. And an occasional long bamboo cylinder containing tuba, or coconut wine, shows itself. It is the yearly fiesta in honor of Joseph Benedict, the passed patron fixer of Mantalongon.
    Like a glacier in the midst of a blossoming rain forest, Alicia’s white, lustrous hair runs to the floral pinks and purples of her sun dress as she surveys the activity of her famous kitchen. Noticing someone that she wishes to speak with, she clicks down the lacquered coco wood floor in high heels, her back straight, though carrying the Bible’s threescore and ten years. Stopping next to her pancit specialist, Rose, she takes a bamboo sliver and spreads the pancit to examine it. “This looks good, Rose. These large prawns are what Joe always said made the difference between good and regular pancit. This tray will not last five minutes once placed outside.”
    “Thank you mam, I wish he could be hear,” Rose replies.
    Alicia looks from the pancit to Rose, smiles and pats her hand. “So do I Rose, so do I. We’ll just have to let him know how good it is.” Nodding with a smile to all the help that looks on, Alicia walks out of the kitchen to look for Antonio.
    As the night lights come on Antonio brings the jeep around and Alicia, holding a small bag, gets in. The fiesta fades to silence as they drive out to Joe’s grave and park. After slipping on sandals Alicia joins Antonio in front of the jeep. Taking her arm, Antonio steadies her the last few steps to the small stone marker just inside the iron grill fence. After dusting off the marker with her hand and chipping off the wax of others, Alicia removes three candles from her bag and gives one to Antonio. With a match she lights Antonio’s candle and nods. Antonio drips wax on the marker and stands his candle in it. Calm is the night as the candle light slightly flickers across their faces. From that candle Alicia lights the other two and places them beside the first. Cast in grace by the candlelight, they pray, touching the small stone frequently, gathering the spirit that is embedded there. They need only look at each other to affirm and behold that spirit. Joe’s spirit. And, again, that which is inviolate, as he had predicted, nourishes them.

    Driving back through the little patch of jungle and the Benedict Cooperative, Alicia and Antonio smile and wave to their friends and workers before parking the jeep. Following Antonio into the house to rest before the main event and her speech, Alicia turns before shutting the door to admire the large rainbow colored banner strung over the courtyard. “WELCOME TO THE JOSEPH BENEDICT FIESTA.” My heavens, she thinks, how he would have loved it. It is all gravy. The door closes.

Charles Hayes bio

    Charles is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. Born and raised in the Appalachians, his writing interests centers on the stripped down stories of those recognized as on the fringe of their culture. Asian culture, its unique facets, and its intersection with general American culture is of particular interest. As are the mountain cultures of Appalachia.