Richard Elliott currently splits his time between Fanwood, New Jersey and Stone Ridge, New York.  He is a fulltime student at Full Sail University studying for his Bachelor’s in Creative Writing for Entertainment.
     He has been writing recreationally for over 20 years.
     He is an avid reader of both novels and graphic novels, a movie buff and a video game enthusiast.  You can reach him at his email, richardelliott4242@gmail.com, with any questions or critiques.
 
 

​     “My man, after tonight, you’re gonna be set,” Morgan said to himself.  No one heard him.  The museum was vacant.  
     He rested his sneakers up on the desk.  A little plastic nametag on his T-shirt read “Security”.  “It’ll be sex, drugs and rock and roll from now on.  Easy street, bro, easy street.”
     He craned his neck to the corner of the room where the walls and ceiling converged.  The little security camera hung there like an ever-aware bat tracing his every movement.  Morgan could see the glare of the lens.  It was like an unblinking glass eye.  “Didn’t catch me in the Blue Room, did you, you little bastard?”  He turned and looked in the opposite direction.  The painting leaned against the shadowed nook of his station.
     “You’re too smart for that uppity bitch.  You’re the man,” he said, “the lord of this house.”  He thumped his chest with a fist, creating a hollow thud.  “And they didn’t say I couldn’t start the party early so why not use my noodle and get a little extra?”
     He looked to the painting.  Some guy with a top hat and a moustache painted by some French dude named Mannix or Mancow or some other stupid name he couldn’t remember from the little gold placard under it.  “People actually pay for this crap?”  He shook his head.
     Somebody knocked.  Hard.  Morgan slid out of his relaxed position and sauntered to the door.  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said in a lazy tone.  He pressed the code to unlock the door and swung it open.  “Welcome, my friends, to the show that never ends.  Come inside, come inside.”
     There stood Will and Chuck dressed in Boston PD uniforms.  They looked calm if a bit annoyed.  They pushed past Morgan, who was the smallest of the three.  “Funny,” Chuck said.
     “What’s funny is you guys in those uniforms,” said Morgan, eyeing their ill-fitting getups.
     “Security cameras and motion sensors?” Chuck asked, looking around the room and ignoring Morgan’s little joke.  There was wood paneling, crown molding and dust caked on the edges of the paintings’ frames.  “Jesus, just like every other friggin’ house on the block.  What’s Boston’s problem with new things?”
     “Chuck, we aren’t here for new things.  It’s the old things we’re after,” Will said.
     “Yeah, yeah.  I know.  And once we got the old things, we get the new things,” said Chuck.
     “Damn straight,” said Will.
     “I’ll take down the cameras and sensors,” said Morgan. 
     “Yeah, you do that,” said Chuck, still looking around.
     Morgan moved to his station, positioning himself between the painting he helped himself to and the other two men in the room.  He leaned over the computer keyboard and, using one finger, typed for a minute.
     “Today, Morgan,” Chuck said.
     “It’s done, Chuck.  The sensors are down and the camera is on a loop I created,” Morgan said, beaming.
     “Good.  Will?” Chuck said.
     Morgan turned his head and was met with a straight jab to the nose.  “What’s going on?” he said, tears coming to his eyes.  Blood started to trickle down over his lip.
     “You’ve served your purpose,” Chuck said.  He motioned to Will.
     Will produced duct tape from the inside of his jacket and started to pull a strip of it off the roll.
     “But I was your way inside,” Morgan said.
     “Yep,” said Chuck.  He turned to Will. “Mouth and eyes.  I don’t want him to see where we’re going or hear what we’re doing.”
     Will wrapped up Morgan’s head and, for good measure, used the duct tape to tie his hands behind his back.  “Don’t want you calling the real police, do we?”  Will patted Morgan on the head.
     “Grab the painting under the desk.  The little moron thought I wouldn’t see it,” Chuck said.
     “What about the patsy?” Will asked, ruffling Morgan’s wiry brown hair.
     “Dump him in the nearest closet and let’s get to the business at hand, Will,” said Chuck, pulling a box cutter from his pocket, “after tonight, we’re gonna be set.”
 
 

​The truck floated on green fog along a cracked interstate.  Mindy couldn’t see the suspension gates under the wheel wells, that's how bad the leakage was.  Her father's voice paraded under slips of worry that wrinkled her brow. “There’s a man who has little taste for style.”
Mindy had her thumb stuck out like she read about in library glyphs.  Coast to coast, the way it used to be done. She wanted to see how sun sets on both sides of Old’merica.  
The truck stopped and a window tinted black scrawled.  It sounded like a nursery of starving babies.
“An old 20th century model, right?  I’ve seen glyphs.  Real retro-swank,” she said.
Out from a halo of oil pitch gleamed six shades of red lidless eyes. Smoke gathered over lighting burst sparks from unhinged plugs in the chest cavity.  Gears slick with slime, felled green by meat rot, ground axels epoxied to a frame that smelled of cow tongues and shark cartilage.  A four-fingered gloved hand reached for the passenger door.  From somewhere in the truck, chains rattled.
“No.”  Mindy stepped back.  She white-knuckled the straps of her walker’s pack.  Her bones trembled.
There was a sudden shriek of metal and the door opened.  Mindy averted her eyes from full view of the cabin, turning to the road. The interstate was bare coming and going, although in front of her, kissing the horizon, she could see the fuel depot she’d been heading for.
“I’ll get the next one,” she said.  A hodgepodge mech, she thought. Has to be.
Its voice was a spinning fan-belt chewing gravel.
She started walking.  The truck floated where she left it.  Its headlights were white phosphorous eyes.
Distance came and went under the steady beat of her feet.  Over her shoulder, the truck remained as a tombstone even as the depot inched closer.  The fact that it did, didn’t bring relief.  She quickened her pace to match the bop-bop-bop of her heartbeat.
The sun moved through the clouds on its invisible road.  Lights popped out from the darkening shades of blue.  Not starlight, but satellites that kept the weather calm and held firm the world's connective tissues.  Behind them, maybe she could see stars.
Her steady jog became a sprint as she passed the row of fuel pods.  The truck was as she left it.  The headlights blinded everything.
She pushed open the glass door and slammed it shut.  The room shook with a loud bang. A holo fizzled at the service post. Seamless auto-mats filled the walls.
“Go easy, it ain’t yours.” The service holo was an old man with a white beard and tucked in pinstriped shirt.  The name tag read Sam.
“I’m sorry.  It’s just there’s a…truck-thing following me.” She hit the dimmer on the glass pad and the store darkened.
“Does it need fuel?”
She made a small sight in the touch glass. “I don’t know if it needs anything.”
“Don’t want trouble.”
For the first time, the twin lights crept forward on the interstate.  She jumped back and the sight closed. “Is anybody else here?”
“There ain’t any living staff.  I can service all your travel needs.”
Mindy laughed.
“That’s not supposed to be funny, little lady.”
“You guys fixing up any wrecks?”
“We don’t do model work.”  Sam folded his 2D arms over his 2D chest.
Mindy ran to the service post, poking the name badge.  A holo-track came up with a menu.  Sam’s head hovered over it. “Excuse me?”
“I’m calling emergency.”  Mindy found the dial pad putting in the federal codes.  A single beep told her the line connected.  The tension in her shoulders released.  “Hel-,”
A spinning fan-belt chewed handfuls of gravel.  Sam’s head flickered static and his eyes went white.
Mindy hit end call.
The full body image expanded, shrinking the menu.  “Can’t help you, Miss.”
“It’s not fair!” She hit the glass with the flat of her palm.
The room blared red.  Steel walls dropped over the auto-mats.  Sam’s face became that of the disapproving father, but the voice was mechanical. “You have caused a civil disturbance.  You must leave the premises now.”
The glass wall went transparent and there, parked next to a fuel pod, the truck floated on a torrent of green vaporous faces masked in silent pain.   
“You can’t.  Please listen, I am not safe out there!”
Sam only glared while the same message informed her she was a disruption in service.  Mindy had never felt so cold before. Her sanctuary was surrounded by an endless desert in all directions, barren and lifeless.
The truck rumbled alive, but the oil pitch halo that was the drivers head bobbed near the rear bed.  Mindy bolted through the depot to the cabin, sliding across the couch of various interlocking arms sewn together. She choked on gangrene air.  The holo-nav lit on the dashboard and she hit gas.  The truck responded, a smooth frictionless coast.  In the rear view, the driver stood at the depot, holding the intake catch in one four fingered hand.  
She drove like a prisoner escaped.  It wasn’t enough to get away, because she didn’t think distance mattered.  Little gave her comfort. Above, the celestial engine propelled its bodies until a new day dawned.
The truck was hot and lonely. The holo-nav prompted for gas and stop; no radio app, nor available streaming service, although there was an ancient program for Chess. It wasn’t Mindy’s game.
The dot appeared on the road mid-morning.  Mindy leaned on the gas and the dot grew into an old wanderer, bald and baking under the sun. Robes whipped along a breeze.  She nursed stop on the nav until the truck came to a halt. Chains rattled.
The Methuselah stepped up into the cabin.
Mindy hit the gas with a four-fingered glove.




 
 

​ 
“This book is fiction and many things have been changed in fact to try to make it a picture of a true time…”

• Ernest Hemingway in A Moveable Feast (Fragments)

 
 
“Writers are always selling somebody out…”

• Joan Didion in Slouching Towards Bethlehem

 
19: The Perfect DateNothing compares to this. This is the perfect date.
Cabernet. Roses. Candles.
A book. A bath. Myself.
How I needed this. Just relaxing and reading. No consulting. No numbers. No suitors.
I’ve had plenty of unforgettable dinner dates. I’ve experienced enough memorable events tagged as fancy dates. Yet I still prefer this. Nothing more. No one else.
What the hell is wrong with me?
You don’t let yourself go.
Karl was wrong. And he couldn’t even see how wrong. I let myself go. I just didn’t want to let myself go with him. I wouldn’t have been in control then. He would have loved that. Not me.
Control. Power. Love. In the same rant.
There must be something wrong with me.
You make me feel dispensable.
Fred was not wrong. I never needed him. Or Jimmy. Or Stu. Or Lance. I never need anyone. Everyone’s so obsessed with feeling needed by someone. The thrill of feeling like saving someone. It’s better to feel yourself. Others don’t matter. Easy enough.
Needs. Others. Ease. Such a contemptible idea.
There has to be something wrong with me.
You ask for too much.
Hugo was right, in his Portuguese-accented broken English. Anything beyond fun and games is asking for too much. Too much care. Too much honesty. Too much respect. Too much of what I want and what I need.
Fun. Wants. Needs. I sound like the Rolling Stones.
There’s definitely something wrong with me.
You’re too full of yourself.
Rick was totally right, even when he was trying his best to insult me. Of course I am full of myself. I haven’t let anyone drain me. Or worse, pour in. Who else would I fill myself with, anyway? Everyone else is already taken, right?
What the hell is so wrong with that?
You choose only the ones that you know will end.
Teller has never been wrong. Always right. Too honest. Too true. Dammit.
He hasn’t totally hated Scott, though. Hell, they’re friends now. We are all friends.
What the hell does that mean?
Dammit. I better talk to Teller about it. Tonight. But over fries and a milkshake so he takes it seriously. Drinks will have to wait.
Of course I’d ruin my perfect date just thinking about Scott and Teller.
What the hell is wrong with us?
 
 

 
20: Sinking“Tell me that you need me.”
Typical Val. She had to give me a hard time in my moment of need because not doing so would be not as fun for her. I could hear her smirking on the other side of the call.
That smirk.
“I’ll let you know.”
I hung up and resumed my date of the night—some blind set-up courtesy of Matt. How desperate and helpless did I seem to others? Clearly desperate enough to sink this low: a blind date on a Thursday night.
I should be writing instead.
I knew she was talking about her job, but I would never commit anything that unremarkable to memory, let alone to ink and paper. Why was I so disinterested? She had hair that ought to be kept in Fort Knox, lips worthy of L’Oreal campaigns, eyes like the Caribbean, a body that would light up the silver screen, and a smoky voice that belonged in my bedroom. She could have been my perfect goddess, my perfect Zelda. And yet…
I should be writing, definitely.
“Want to go back to my place?”
Her directness forced me to pay attention, and almost made me choke on my Macallan. She clearly knew what she wanted and that would have been enough for me to turn that date into a tryst worth writing about. I knew that, but I didn’t know her name or cared for it. Why was I so dispirited?
“That may not be a good idea.”
“That’s for me to decide.” She winked and smiled as she sipped her Cosmopolitan and her foot made friends with mine under the table.
I should better be writing.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
I headed for the men’s restroom and ended at the restaurant’s bar, hiding from my date and my indifference. I knew what I wanted as much as she did. So I dialed.
“I need you.”
“I knew you’d say that. See you in thirty?” Val’s voice wore no sarcasm.
“I’ll be there in twenty one.”
I paid the check right at the bar, forgetting about refinement, reputation, and Matt’s friend and her dangerous liaison, and proceeded towards where I should have been all along.
 
 

 
21: Truth Be ToldJust Teller and me. Drinking. As usual. In my apartment. At peace.
“Why do we always make it so difficult for ourselves?”
The eternally unanswered question. My suitors. His muses. All complicated. Not the fascinating way.
“I guess because that’s who we are.” Teller, master wielder of the truth. We never go for easy. Easy isn’t becoming for us.
Dammit.
“Why can’t romance be easy? Like this? Like us?”
I’ve wondered for years. Since I’ve known Teller, really. We don’t tell lies. We don’t play games. We forgive. We apologize. Most times we don’t even need to talk. We just are.
“Probably because no one else is us.” Teller always punctuates wisdom with a sip. Heimgway’s period and tip of the iceberg.
Too true. Our silence confirms it. Our silences always do.
Teller and I have always been a special we. No one can compete. No one can interfere. Some have tried. But we’re us.
Us isn’t complicated. Because there’s no romance. We’re better than that. More than that. Pure honesty and truths. Always.
“You’re right. We always end up here like this.”
I know he never wonders about us. I do some times. How did we become us? How did we find each other? Would we ever lose us?
No. We never will. If only because neither of us pursues or follows. We just are, side by side. No way we can lose each other like that.
We drink. We talk. We think. We care. We share. We exist. We confront. We don’t run. We don’t fuck. We don’t fuck up. We just are.
Teller and I always end up here like this. My apartment. My couch. Cuddling. Drinking. Taking a time out from the world. Together.
Whoever else we end up with, they will have to settle for us. My winning suitor and his final muse will have to be fine being second. Even if they don’t know it.
Dammit. How can I think that?
I guess it’s true anyway.
We don’t judge. We know. We understand. We just are.
Years of mending hearts and drinking sorrows. Of toasting victories and dishing out sarcastic commentary. Our silence, more telling than our dialogue. Always.
All my suitors are always variables in my equation. Teller is the only constant. The formula of us is my only reliable model.
Dammit. Such a harsh truth.
I’m thankful for Teller. I’m thankful for us. We would be worse off without us. We wouldn’t just be.
Teller, my oracle, constant, and ally. Always.
Teller and I, as usual. Alone. Drinking. Just us. In silence.
As we’re meant to be.
 
 
 
 

 
22: HonestlySilence.
There’s always more silence between Val and me than talking or even music. We understand each other thanks to what we leave unsaid while lounging in either of our apartments or favorite bars.
“Why do we always make it so difficult for ourselves?” Val’s question captured an echo reverberating in my head for the better part of a decade.
“I guess because that’s who we are.”
Silence. Agreement and resentment cancelling each other out.
“Why can’t romance be easy? Like this? Like us?”
“Probably because no else is us.”
Us has always been easy precisely because it never was romance, or mere friendship, but something much more enduring and battle-tested, even if unnamed and almost alien to this earth.
“You’re right. We always end up here. Like this.”
Val grabbed her drink, in the hand-carved glass I had given her for her birthday a dozen suitors ago. We clinked a gestured toast and snuggled closer on her couch, as if shielding each other from the hurt of the world.
Silence, music between two souls in tune.
How to compare us to any other we? No one compares the David with a common block of marble, or a Van Gogh with an airport postcard.
Val sipped her drink and spilt a little on herself. I laughed. She smirked back.
That smirk.
Silence, magnetic and comfortable.
Any other two people would kiss, maybe even besiege boundaries before sunrise and expend regret still after the seasons change.
Not us. Never us.
“Honestly, why can’t it be easy? Like us?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
And we drank some more in each other’s company, warmth, and bond.
Perhaps I should write about that, see if the answer reveals itself through ink and spiritual suffering against the blank page. Perhaps I need to write the we I’m looking for before I can find it. Perhaps I’m meant to write my Muse into the world instead of finding her.
Val agreed. She didn’t need to say anything for me to know.
I patted her on the head with all my single-malt affection, and she smirked back.
That smirk.
Silence, singing the insurmountable intimacy of us.
 
 

 
23: A Fine Tune 
Dear Valerie,
So here I am, around 4 AM, breaking a promised I had made to myself, but I can’t help it. I’m a romantic, and for better or worse, this is how I can best express myself without messing up. Or at least that’s what I rather think, so please take this as if I was delivering it to you while looking straight into your sincere green eyes. I once asked what was needed to woo you, and you dared me to find out by myself. Well, encouraged by our last conversation and the fact that we’re kind of in a streak of good things happening to us, this is me at my most curious and inspired.
I need to ask: what did “the past others” (related and not, if you know what I mean) do exactly for you to take your position? You’ve given me notions and stories, but I need to fully understand this situation. So far, I’m delighted to learn and appreciate more about you every time possible. However, wondering about your reasons can drive me mad, especially when it all takes me to the conclusion that some sort of prejudice shouldn’t be enough for me to give up. Unless there is something else, more delicate and deeper, that I’m not aware of.
I’ve given up that easily before, and I’ve been fine with renouncing my aspirations by request and stick to the friend role; only that this time, something tells me I would regret it for times to come. I’ve dreamt so about you, and I trust the calls from my subconscious. Again, I need to fully understand, or my nature won’t stop questioning who’s at fault of what, and life’s too long for regrets, and too short to hesitate.
Furthermore, I want to ask so that I can know precisely what’s not to be repeated. Put in other words, what would keep you grinning, satisfied and in tune with your likes and preferences for the present.  You know I reject on automatic anything common or unoriginal, so this would only make me to steer harder away from the examples. Bad things aren’t something supposed to happen anyways with in-synched mindsets and expectations, right?
So what does this mean? In summary: a relationship made by two in their own terms. Extended explanation: to hell with labels and tags, they don’t matter as much as the good things happening; screw ideals and preconceptions, the ideal is whatever works and feels right; last and most certainly, fuck everyone else, sure they influence in different ways, but in the end it’s all a matter of two and their terms and rhythm. I know you get what I mean with these statements.
Now I could get all mushy and stuff, since I would like to articulate some more and my poetic-romantic vein flows inside. But for the sake of clarity and easy assimilation I will refrain from throwing in here phrases typical of lyrics and song titles because that’s just a theatrical cliché even when it’s heartfelt.
Instead I’ll go cinematic, simply stating that here’s looking at you kid, holding my great expectations until you reply and we talk of the unsaid with brutal honesty, as always.
Love,
Scott

 
24: Facing the MusicThis is actually the nicest thing anyone has done for me.
Ugh. What’s wrong with me?
Well, encouraged by our last conversation…
this is me at my most curious and inspired…
For all his worshipping, Scott does care. He notices. Me.
            I’m delighted to learn and appreciate more about you every time possible…
None of my suitors have given me a present. Not even on my birthday. Heck, didn’t even care to ask about my birthday. They always just ask about my age. Scott not only researched. He found all of my favorite things.
Ugh. What’s wrong with me?
What did “the past others” do exactly for you to take your position?
I have misjudged Scott. Fucking prejudice of mine. He deserves a chance. He has earned it. That’s the democratic approach. It’s merited.
What would keep you grinning, satisfied and in tune
with your likes and preferences for the present? 
How did he find out about that? Who even thinks like that? Fairy tales aren’t supposed to be real. How can this be real life?
Ugh. What’s wrong with me? I swear these things only happen to me.
I’ve dreamt so about you, and I trust the calls from my subconscious…
Teller was right all along. But I’ll be damned if I tell him. He knows already. Probably.
Scott is so not like any of my suitors. Who knew I would come to like that? I appreciate it. Prefer it, even.
Seriously, what’s wrong with me?
Screw ideals and preconceptions, the ideal is whatever works and feels right…
Scott and I would be good together. Will be good. Together.
Did I just think that? Ugh.
At least my dad already approves. And Teller. Funny how they just knew. Before me. For my own good. Dammit.
What was wrong with me before?
In the end it’s all a matter of two and their terms and rhythm,
I know you get what I mean…
Scott, my admirer. My worshipper. And soon, my boyfriend.
I, his goddess. His object of desire. His dream and inspiration. And soon, his girlfriend.
I like that. I like inspiring. It suits me, I think.
Teller would laugh if he knew. But he won’t. I hope.
here’s looking at you kid,
holding my great expectations
until you reply and we talk of the unsaid…
That’s it. I’m set. I’ll give Scott his due chance. Scott and I will be good for each other. Heck, Scott and I will be great for each other. I will be the best thing to happen to him. Ever.
The best: he knows already.
Seriously, how could this go wrong?
 

Ryan Scott is a former actor who is pursuing a Bachelors in Fine Arts for creative writing online at Full Sail University. He is a graduate of Regis Jesuit High School and played offensive tackle for their freshman and sophomore teams as well as throwing shot put throughout high school. He has booked several network television roles, including a bully on the hit detective show “Monk.” He currently lives in Aurora, Colorado with his father, step-mother, and two step-sisters. He hopes to move to Austin, Texas and pursue a career in voice acting as well as writing for video games. 

​The smell of perfume and cigarettes wafted across the room. The smell Betty was all too familiar with and she was quite frankly sick of. She stared past her manager Barney as his tireless tongue tried to convince her to do one last show. Her eyes darting from the old fence to the dying plants and back again endlessly.
            “Now how about that Betty? That doesn’t sound too bad does it?” Barney said as he finished.
            She was taken out of her trance and shook her head at him. “I’m sorry Barnes, I must have missed all of that while I was thinking of ways to avoid this conversation.” She leaned back and looked at him, daggers shooting from her cold eyes as she sipped on her gin and tonic.
            Barney’s face reddened with anger. It was the third time this month he had to come convince his biggest act, Ms. Betty the Beauty, to finish out her contract. Her golden locks were his ticket to hitting it big. The boss of his agency was coming out tonight to see Betty and he was going to get her there one way or another.
            “Please Betty, I’m practically begging you here. Tonight will be just as big for me as it will be for you and after tonight, you can do it however you like,” Barney said holding back his anger.
            Her eyes rolled as the same damn speech she had heard for the past three weeks came out of him. “Look Barnes, I am sick of the same shit spewing out of your shit fountain of a mouth. I understand how marvelous all of this must be for you, but you try going out there every night in front of those men and see if you could go on like that for three years,” she said as she finished her drink and began pouring another. She was just about done with this man and after she poured her drink, she stood up from her seat and gave Barney a smirk as she headed out the door. “There is no way in hell I am gonna keep doing this for you Barnes.”
            Barney grabbed Betty by the wrist as she got up to leave, his anger finally reaching the edge. “Now you listen here god dammit! I am your boss. I pay you and you do as I say. Now when I tell you to get out there and show those men what they want, what they pay for, you better get out there and do it or so help me God,” he said as his gripped tightened around her wrist.
            “Let go of me Barney Digatto,” she said with a twinge of fear in her voice. Betty’s eyes widened with shock and she let out a scream as the back of Barney’s hand connected with her cheek. The drink she had been holding, splashed across the cement of the patio as he yanked her back towards him.
            “There will be no more of these conversations Betty, not while I am around. Shit is going to be taken care of now understand?” He stood up and towered over Betty, his face still red but now it was not just from anger. Barney felt empowered for once in his life and was not going to let that feeling stop anytime soon. Sweat dripped from his chin onto Betty’s face, leaving blotches of wet makeup on her face.
            Barney looked down at Betty as wiped his face and smiled a devilish smile. “Now, this is how things are gonna go bitch…” As he was about to start, Betty smashed her glass into the back of Barney’s head. The glass shattered and Barney fell forwards as Betty moved out of his way. He landed on the small table in front of him, shattering that as well, and continued onto the floor. A large gash with small bits of glass could be seen on the back of Barney’s skull as blood dripped onto the gin soaked cement.
            Betty looked down at Barney, brushed the glass off of her hand and dress onto his crumpled body, and walked inside. She threw on some more makeup to cover her already bruising cheek and the sweat marks and headed for the door. “Then I guess you won’t be around anymore Barnes,” she said as she stepped away from her last performance.

Geraldine McCarthy lives in West Cork in the Republic of Ireland.  In a former life she was involved in tutoring, lecturing, translation and research. She has been writing short stories and flash fiction for two years now.  Her work has been published in The Fable Online, The Incubator Journal, Seven Deadly Sins: a YA Anthology (Gluttony and Wrath), Scarlet Leaf Review and Brilliant Flash Fiction. 

I studied the black and white photos lining the wall of the sitting room: Anne, throwing her hat in the air at her graduation, Anne, gliding down the aisle a few years later, then her little girl, Róisín, frowning as she made daisy chains in my back garden.  Hard to fathom that tonight was my daughter’s fortieth birthday. 
She had booked a function room at the local hotel. I hated parties, preferring to be enveloped in my duvet by 9.30, reading a PD James mystery.  I didn’t trust people when they had drink in them, just as they probably didn’t trust me, imagining I was going around with some invisible pen and notebook, recording their misdemeanours. 
I plumped up the cushions in the good room and traced my finger over the mantelpiece to check for dust I knew wasn’t there.  Anne only laughed when I had chosen a white sofa and white fluffy rug.  “Aren’t you drawing work on yourself?” she’d said.  I didn’t mind though.  I wanted a room to be proud of, and with Anne gone and no pets in the house, it wasn’t hard to keep clean.
Through the window, I saw a silver BMW with a Dublin registration pull up.  It was probably my brother, Frank. Anne had insisted on inviting him, saying it was an opportunity for bridge-building.  I squeezed a white cushion to my chest as I recognised him getting out of the car.  He was stooped, but agile, going bald on top.  I wondered how he in turn would assess me.  He always said my hair was too severe, pulled back in a bun.  Still, for seventy, I hadn’t many wrinkles, thanks to Oil of Olay, and a few good genes.  Anne had laughter lines around her eyes already – I feared she wouldn’t age well.
The ping of the doorbell brought my pondering to a halt.  My mouth went dry as I made my way down the hallway to open the door.
“Frank,” I said.  “Long time no see.”
“Long time no see, Rebecca.”
We didn’t hug. We weren’t that type of family.  I hadn’t seen Frank for nearly ten years.  He’d been on holiday in Australia when John died.
“Come in.”
For some reason I led him to the kitchen.  He sat on a hard chair.
“Will you have a drop of something?”
“Ah, it’s a bit early.” He smirked. “Didn’t think you’d keep the hard stuff in the house.”
He was annoying me already. 
“It’s there for visitors.” I sat opposite him.  “Twas good of you to come down.”
“Well, Anne pretty much wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” He joined his hands in prayer-like fashion.  “My position hasn’t changed, you know. I still think you’re wronging her.”
A burning sensation started up in my stomach.  “It’s none of your business. I’ve told you that before.” 
He drummed the table with his fingers, head down, seeming to study the knots in the pine.
This was worse than I had anticipated.  “Look, we’re not going to agree on this, so can’t you let it drop?”
He stood up, the chair scraping loudly on the tiles.  “It has to be said. You’re wronging her.  She has a whole other identity, another history, and you’re keeping it from her.”
My heart started to race in my chest.  I stood as well.  “It’s not as simple as that. And you have no right to come in here, telling me what to do.”
“And what about Anne’s rights?”
I sat down again abruptly.  “Look, Frank,” I said, lowering my voice, “It was a long time ago. Costello didn’t tell us much about Anne’s birth mother.  Just that she was very young, sixteen.  That’s the only information I have.”
“You could contact Costello.” Frank was still standing, towering over me.
I thought of how Anne had come to us after five long years of a silent house and an idle swing.  It was Dr Costello who had made everything possible.  He and my husband, John, had been in Rockwell College together. 
When Anne arrived some dormant part of me woke again.  I had known all along what my vocation was, and now I could live it out.  We moved from Dún Laoghaire immediately. John got a transfer to a Bank of Ireland branch in Limerick city.  Settling in the suburbs, I stayed at home to mind Anne, to smile in response to her gurgling laugh, to delight in the passing of her milestones.
Funny the bond that formed between me and Anne.  I couldn’t believe it.  As a child she clung to me, following me around the house, mimicking as I hoovered and ironed and pegged clothes to the line.  As a teenager, she barely rebelled.  Not that she didn’t have her moods and her moments, but a friendship steadily grew between us, despite the odd adolescent hiccough. 
No way was I going to destroy that.
 “It would be no good talking to Costello now,” I said, as calmly as I could muster, “He’s in the latter stages of Alzheimer’s. He—”
I heard a key turn in the front door and looked at Frank imploringly. He was stony-faced.
Footsteps down the hallway. “Hi Mam. Hi Frank, how are you? Great to see you.  I wasn’t sure whether you’d got my letter?” 
“Well, you were very persuasive,” he said.
She appeared to pick up on the vibes.  “Have I interrupted something? Mam, you’re very red.”
“I was just leaving,” Frank said.
“Ah, why don’t you stay? I’ll make tea,” Anne said, reaching for the kettle.
“No, I’ve got to get back to the hotel.” His tone became gentler. “Sure, I’ll see you at the ‘do’ tonight. We’ll talk then.”
I didn’t know if my legs would hold me up, but I needed to follow him out. “I’ll walk you to the car,” I said.
It was a balmy May day and I sucked in the fresh air.  In the driveway, I leant into the driver’s seat and whispered, “Remember this: she’s loved, she’s happy, she’s healthy. Don’t mess with that. Please.”
Frank turned the key in the ignition. “I’ll see ye later,” he said.
                I collapsed onto the garden seat by the sitting room window. My underarms were damp and the warm wood beneath me made me hotter still.  I was angry at Anne for drawing Frank on us, but needed to suppress it. It wasn’t her fault. How was she to know? A bumble bee circled, hastening my return to the house.
                Anne slouched at the kitchen table, sipping a cranberry juice from a small carton.  That was my daughter for you – she would get wound up a month before a big event, but as it drew closer, a calmness descended on her.
“Too warm for tea. Do you want one?” she said.
                “No, I’m fine,” I said, distracted.  “How come Róisín isn’t with you?”
                “She’s gone to Saoirse’s house to play. Told me this morning that she didn’t want to go, that she’d prefer to read her book.”  Anne smiled. “Getting more like you and me every day, she is.”
                Normally a remark like that would make me glow.
                Anne plucked the straw out of the carton and laid it on the table.  “Things didn’t go well between you and Frank then?”
                “Ah, typical older brother, always bossing, even when we were children.” Bitterness crept into my voice. “Frank always thinks he knows best.”
                Anne let a silence hang between us. I knew she was hoping to draw me out. That was her style. 
                “Are you all set for tonight?” I asked.
                “Yeah, I’ve phoned the hotel to confirm the booking.” Anne looked at her watch. “Sugar, I’ll have to get going to pick up Róisín.”  She pecked me on the cheek and squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mam. It will all go off fine.”
                I barely noticed her leaving.  The thing was, Anne came into the world on 7 May 1957, but she came into our world ten days later.  We arranged to have 17 May put on her birth certificate, as well as our own names.  Costello smoothed it over.  Said he was in John’s debt, though neither of them ever elaborated. 
It was a euphoric time and the paperwork seemed like a minor detail.   I didn’t allow myself to dwell on the deception, focused instead on nurturing my child and providing a loving environment for her.  I convinced myself that as long as she was cherished, that was all that mattered. 
In Limerick, I deliberately didn’t make friends.  Oh, I swapped pleasantries with the mothers at the school gates, as you do, but I never sought entry into any of their cliques, never went for coffee with them, or walked with them in the nearby university grounds.  Anne was my best friend. Or had been up until now. 
I wished John were here. Frank wouldn’t be so Bolshie if my husband were still around. And John would know what to do. Whereas, here was I, at risk of losing everything, not having a bloody clue.
*
Although the hotel was within walking distance, I decided to drive.  I questioned my choice of outfit – a cream trouser suit and gold top.  Maybe it was too formal? I didn’t go to many parties.  The burning feeling gnawed at my stomach again, and out of the blue an old Irish saying came into my head – sceitheann fíon fírinne – with wine, the truth pours forth.  Myself and John had learnt that at a night class in the university years ago, and being teetotallers ourselves, we often quoted it.  I didn’t know whether Frank imbibed much nowadays – when I tested him this morning he had refused a drink - but when he was younger he was no stranger to the high stool.  As I pulled in to the hotel car park I had to cast these thoughts aside.
It was bang on eight o’clock when I walked into the bar.  An ABBA tribute band was setting up in the corner, all flares and platforms and high peaked collars.  In my cream suit I could have almost blended in with them.   One section, by the fireplace, was reserved, and balloons with ‘40’ on them bobbed from the walls.  Anne and her husband, Dónal, waved and I sat down with them at a low table.  A few of Anne’s colleagues from the library were nearby and I exchanged pleasantries with them while Dónal went to the bar to get me a still water. People arrived in dribs and drabs, more colleagues of Anne’s, her neighbours from Monaleen, some old school friends.  I found it difficult to concentrate on the chit chat.  Small talk was trying at the best of times, and when the music started blaring it became virtually impossible.
Frank strode in just before nine, just as baskets of sandwiches and cocktail sausages were being passed around.  He grabbed a spare stool and pulled it up beside me. Old Spice wafted in my direction.  Anne had been mingling, making sure people were eating, but came over to our table immediately.
“Frank, what will you have?” she said.
“I’ll get these. You’re the birthday girl. Name your poison.”
“Ah, I’m taking it handy, but a white wine spritzer would be nice,” Anne said.
“Rebecca?”
Pointing at my bottle of Ballygowan, I said, “I’ll be fine for a while.”
I nibbled a soggy egg sandwich, but my stomach was churning.
He came back, his hands full with the drinks. I noticed he was on whiskey and water and suspected that this might not be his first of the night. 
“How’ve you been, Frank? Still travelling the world?” Anne said.
“I might as well. Sure I’ve no ties, and that’s what retirement is for.”  He tapped a Heineken beer mat on the table.
The band struck up ‘Mamma Mia’ and I strained to hear the conversation.
“Where was your latest destination?”
“Sorrento. Went down to the Amalfi coast and out to Capri.”
“God, I’m looking forward to retiring myself. It sounds marvellous.”
Frank grinned. “I thought you loved your work.  Having everything in order.  Following the Dewey Decimal System.”
Anne took this with good humour.  “Ah, where would we be without Dewey?”
Through the corner of my eye, I spied the younger ones getting to their feet to do a routine to ‘Dancing Queen’.  It was a pity we couldn’t talk in peace.
“I suppose you got your love of reading from your mother here?” Frank said, raising his voice a notch.
Anne sipped her spritzer.  “Definitely.  There were always books in the house when I was growing up.”
“We did our best for you,” I said, glancing sideways at Frank.  If there was an explosive device on the stool next to me I couldn’t have been more nervous.
“One thing that always puzzled me though was where your brought your height from.  Neither Rebecca, nor John, God rest his soul, could have been considered tall.” He looked me in the eye. 
There he was again, picking at the scab. He wouldn’t be satisfied until there was blood.
Anne turned to me, puzzled.  “That’s a good question.  Where did I get my height from, Mam?”
I felt my face and neck flush, and hoped Anne would attribute it to the heat in the room.
A kerfuffle erupted by the kitchen door and a waitress appeared, carrying a creamy confection ablaze with candles.  Saved by the cake.  Dónal began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and the crowd joined in. Anne stood and made her way towards the cake to blow out the candles.  Cameras flashed and toasts were made.
I leant over and hissed in Frank’s ear, “Are you just playing with me or are you going to tell her?”
“You can relax.  I’m not going to tell her. It’s not my mess, and not my job. But you have a lot of thinking to do.” 
I should have been relieved, but somehow I merely felt deflated.  I couldn’t leave early or Anne might suspect something, so I put on my biggest fake smile and went up to hug her.  That was all I could do now, hug her and hold on tightly to my secret.
*
Every hour, on the hour, I woke.  I gave in at six o’clock, went downstairs and had a bowl of Special K with a cup of instant coffee.  The kitchen was bathed in buttercup yellow.  It should have been a great morning to be alive. 
I moved into the good room, taking my coffee with me, though I feared that in my confusion and tiredness I would spill it.  The whiteness of the furnishings should have soothed me, but it only contrasted with the dark rooms of my mind which I had entered during the night.  I had visions of a sixteen-year-old girl, frightened and guilt-ridden.  I meditated on the nine months Anne had spent in her womb.  But it was the lost ten days which bothered me the most.  A bond would have formed between Anne and her birth mother in those ten days.  For the first time, I admitted to myself that our act of deception was morally dubious.  And with that admission all the happy memories became tainted.  As I gazed at Anne’s graduation picture in Edinburgh and the snap of her wedding day with Dónal, and little Róisín, it was as if the photos had become blotched with mildew.
And yet I couldn’t face telling Anne the truth. Because there were many types of bond.  And my connection with her was as real as anything else in this world.
 
 

 
 

​Jeopardy is deadly.
I don't mean in the medical sense. I mean, she kills, spiritually. She's the ravager, body and mind. I know this.
I know it so damn well that I'm currently on the floor of a truck stop bathroom with blood in my mouth and a needle in my arm. The needle isn't mine and it isn't enough. I don't know the name of the girl who gave it to me, but I think she's kicked. She hasn't moved since I got in here. She's a skeleton. Whatever liquid lays dormant on the tiles soaks into her auburn hair. It looks too dark to be water. I don't want to think about it.
Jeopardy knows I'm here. She can smell me. Like a goddamn panther with high brown tits and a curled bush that drips and squeezes and pulls your soul right out through your cum.
She knows what I'm doing. She knows why.
She knows I'm trying to escape her.
Her juices are still drying underneath my jeans. I fucked Jeopardy and she fucked me, though I suspect it may be more the latter. I can still picture those juicy, round melons swinging back and forth over my face as she slams down into me over and again.
The needle falls out of my arm on its own.
Jeopardy might approve, if she were here. She loves to torture me. To put me in places I can't function, and taunt me with the final blow. It'll come, eventually. It may even be soon, though I suspect Jeopardy ain't done with me yet.
I haven't lost enough. Self-esteem. Friends. Family. Possessions. Car. House. Jeopardy took them all, but I'm still breathing.
Hell, I'm still getting hard at the reminder.
Jeopardy. She's no different than this here shit in my veins. There's a rush and a thrill to her, but the whole damn thing is so damn dirty and dangerous, it almost ain't worth it.
Almost.
I can damn near taste the nipple in my mouth and it makes me swell.
I don't think Red over here is breathing anymore. I try to recall her real name, but I'm not sure she ever told me. She just looked like a fellow traveller on Jeopardy's highway and I rolled right on up to her like a goddamned cat and slick as you please.
Soon enough, we're doing a lovers' dance, or rather, more of a sit-across-the-room-get-yourself-off-real-dirty kind of dance. Lots of action, lots of secret shame and no touching. Your own finger up your ass while the girl cuts her inner thigh kind of thing. Acting dirty like no one was there, and trying to ignore the crazy shit on the other end.
Oh, man.
Something's coming out of that damn girl's mouth. I ain't sure what it is, but it's that yellow-brown colour that means your stomach's empty and it's had enough.
It takes me a full minute to realize that's a good sign. Dead bodies don't puke, right?
I take a minute to shuffle through her pockets. She may beat Jeopardy yet, and I still need. I ain't done with my mistress. There's a plastic baggie in her front pocket and with all these thoughts of Jeopardy runnin' round my head, I can't help but cop a feel. I try seeing if I can reach down between her legs but the pocket ain't deep enough.
Doesn't matter. Jeopardy'll fuck her like she fucked me and we'll both be in trouble then.
I fire up that spoon real nice and quick with a lighter on the floor beside the girl. The flint is wet and I have to rub it with my shirt to get it going, but soon enough, the needle is full and the belt around my bicep is tight and god damn, I am flying like a goddamn Eagle.
It's an orgasm only equaled by Jeopardy herself, with Karma coming in the back door. It hits that g-spot so hard I damn near pass out, and when the white light clears from my eyes, I'm staring through a puddle of peace, piss and bile right across at Red's grey face. Her eyes are open, but they ain't moving. There's a puddle beneath her cheek.
Someone's pounding somewhere. A vague, relentless jackhammer.
Jeopardy.
Sumbitch. She finds me again and again, and I raise to my feet and cock my hands and I'm ready to go.
She's through the door before I can stop her. Big, brown tits hung without gravity over a full brown bush and big eyes and a smile that dares me to... to what? Fuck? Fight? Die?
I never can tell with Jeopardy.
I pitch forward at her but she just laughs. I stumble and hit the sink with my chest. I manage to hold on long enough for my knees to buckle, but the porcelain is slick and it's only a moment before I'm on my neck on the floor.
She's on me with my pants down before I can say hello.
Sharpened nails twist my nipples until I whimper, but they don't stop. They seem to be as deep inside me as I am inside her and she pushes and twists until the nipples rip away and she's into my chest, and goddamn. She's going to do it this time, I realize.
The panther has spoken.
Her hands tear at my rib cage. Bone cracks as she peels them back. She yanks at my lungs, my heart, my liver. I impale her, again and again, but she's choking me now, pinching my aorta with her claws and I'm slipping, and slipping and slipping again, and I cum with a faint whine as the noise and the air fades to black...
Jeopardy. Like I said. She ain't medical, but she's deadly.
And she'll get you every time.
#
When I open my eyes, stale light floods in. It shifts around in a haze for a minute, and I tap my fingers on my chest. It's not open. It's covered in a faded white sheet, like the rest of me. There are bars on the side of the bed and pale grey-green curtains hanging beyond its borders. Everything else is some shade of beige or grey, like a corporate basement version of hell.
The smell hits me before the sound.
Fucking disinfectant smell. Somebody's fresh diarrhea.
Hospital.
Fuck.
Something tugs at my wrists. My first thought is handcuffs, but it's the IV, stapled into a vein deep in my forearm. It's a familiar pain.
I'm awake for almost ten minutes before anybody notices. It's a nurse, young, relatively new. She's got them bags under her eyes like she hasn't slept in days, and she's make-up free, but that's not what gives it away. When she sees I'm awake, her mouth drops in surprise for a second, then she gets a closer look. Surprise gives way to disgust. That's how I know. Old hands start with disgust and work their way back toward not giving a fuck.
“You're awake,” she states the obvious. Fucking genius, this one.
She starts touching me, puts her fingers on my wrist, that cold metal circle on my chest, the little pen light up my nose and in my eyes. Christ, even the flashlight's grey. I roll my head away from her. I know what she'll see. Pupils that don't dilate like they're supposed to. Maybe a little jaundice. We both know what happened.
She goes through her routine, poking and prodding and measuring or whatever it is she does. It's more intimate than I want, but I'm weak as a day old kitten so I don't put up much fight. Still. She could at least jerk me off.
“Do you have anyone we can call, Mister...?”
Wide hips. Hair in a halo like Pam Grier in Foxy Brown. Curves that look like they were drawn by Art Adams in the midst of a Las Vegas revue. Chocolate skin. Big, mocking brown eyes. Fingernails like sharpened files.
I grit my teeth and squeeze my fists tight.
No. Hell, no. She'll come soon enough.
“Anyone at all?”
Empty house. Silent air, no screaming. Sold sign out front. No cars in the driveway. Cold streets. Dirty apartments.
“No.”
She humphs and she's gone. Good. Fuck her. When she finally comes back, the doctor's on her heels. His cheeks are hollow, and the grey-green of his skin matches the walls around him. He's hunchbacked with apathy. Great. Here it comes.
“You've survived an overdose, Mister...?” he says it like the nurse did, but with more irritation. I give him my name and we go on with the show. This isn't my first trip to the rodeo.
“You've been very lucky,” he tells me, but his voice says otherwise. Lucky for me, maybe, but for him, I'm just another pain in the ass. Another loser taking up time and space from someone who gives a shit. Sure, I'm lucky. He's unlucky he got me. We're both unlucky. Only way we'd both be lucky is if I were down in the morgue instead of stuck up here with tubes coming out my dick. “You've been given a second chance.”
Fuck you too, Doc.
“If I were you, I'd think very long and hard about the way you live your life.”
He hovers over my chart. A piece of paper. He looks at it with disdain. Not even disdain. Bored disdain. The fucker's reading from cue cards. He ain't even here.
“Addiction to the high is a dangerous way to live,” says the man who has probably never experienced a real high in his life. “It's not real living,” he adds.
A sideways glance. He wants to know if I'm paying attention. I am and I'm not. I hear the words, but they're words I've heard before. I know what he's talking about. Settle down. Get a good job. Menial labour. Get clean. Maybe take a wife. Pop out a couple of brats. Retire watching television.
Yeah, I hear what you're saying, Doc.
I look him over. Drab clothes. Hunched shoulders. Drawn face. The whole get-up looks like a art movie about slow trauma. Is that who you are, Doc? You the married man with the bratty kids and the cheating wife? You jerk off in doctor's lounge at the end of the day because you're not getting any at home?
What's your high, Doc? You got one?
“... live a normal and productive life,” he concludes. I don't need the in-between. I know the cure. Stay away from panthers.
“I'm writing you a recommendation for dolophine. You have to take it downstairs at the clinic, but over time, if you prove to be a good candidate, you can get take homes.”
Take homes. Chinese food delivery opiates. Pizza guy docility, right to your door.
He looks at me again. His eyes judge. Evaluate. Forget. I'll be an afterthought in an hour and forgotten completely by the time he gets home.
He hands the clipboard back to the nurse and doesn't even look at her.
“Get his details and leave them for me at the front. I'll write the script before he checks out.”
He turns back before he exits the curtains and glances at the IV.
“When this cycle is done, discharge him. We need this bed.”
Fuck you too, Doc. Fuck you too.
#
The methadone runs like plaster of Paris through my veins and for the moment, the urge in my stomach subsides. The pit's still there, gurgling and begging, but my eyelids are heavy and I don't give a fuck. I can't stop thumbing the ID card they gave me to prove I'm legally allowed to keep getting dulled, but it's just a dumb reaction. The room's faded into sepia, and the only thing left is a shallow rumble in my gut and a cotton head. I am, as they say, comfortably numb.
Feels like hell.
The room itself is bare, just a shitty old mattress and a duffel bag filled with enough clothes to cover me in public. There's a shower down the hall, a rusty tub with a matching shower head that clanks and jerks and threatens to bust out of the tile whenever it's on. This is my room. There's a closet. I sleep there sometimes. Ain't the most comfortable thing, but when you're sick from the junk and torn from Jeopardy's advances, it's a nice respite. Smells like moth balls and old puke. Probably mine. The smell of the junk hits you pretty good when you first take a whiff. Makes you heave. It's involuntary. The closet is my favourite place. It's safe.
Well, safer.
No closet door could keep Jeopardy out if she wants in.
She's torn through doors, walls, relationships, jobs, children, subway stations and alleyways to find me. She even once found me in a dumpster, half dead and covered in leftover spaghetti.
The thought of family drags me back. A brick house. Brown brick, standard. Green-grey shingles. Red door. Alice always said it looked nice. Inviting. Like you couldn't wait to come in. Jeopardy sure hadn't.
I paced the halls after Jeopardy tore through and left it all empty. Dust on the floor. Some shuffled footsteps and dragged boxes to show they'd been there.
Where had they gone?
Sometimes, I wish I'd paid attention.
My focus draws back to the clinic card.
How easy would it be? To go back. To keep going back. To take the little cup with its liquid dullard, that one little chug that made it all better. That quenched the hunger for the high, the unstoppable desire for more.
At least for a little while.
I try to think of her. Not Jeopardy. The other one. Alice.
Did she get her picket fence back? Marry an accountant or a lawyer or someone like that?
Could I be someone like that?
Visions of desks and computers and spreadsheets and overly technical language makes me grimace. Menial labour is better. Lifting rocks. Hammering things. Sawing. Things that make you work, and bleed the desire out of you through your muscles. I could do that, thumb, thumb, thumb. I could be that guy.
Dead inside.
Working to work. No high. No seeking. Just the same, over and over, until the body breaks down and whoever's dumb enough to be with me stops sucking my dick and I lose the ability to get it up. Until my bowels void themselves and someone else has to clean it, and then I can just sit there being pissed and lonely until it's time to die.
The card crumples in my hand.
Would she love me like that? Numb inside? Freed of desire? Freed of obsession? Of addiction?
Of course she would. I straighten the card out. It's why she left, and why Ginny went with her. That, and Jeopardy.
I am a series of fallen pillars, I decide. I follow that up with congratulations for such a deep thought. It's not easy to do that when you're in conscious sedation. Maybe I'm learning. Learning how to be no one. You gotta tear it all down to get to the foundation, right?
The edge of the card frays from my constant thumbing. If I do this, I could rebuild it all. Family, job, house, car, the American Dream. Life behind a white picket fence with a Stepford wife warden and a penny ante job doing all the things ex-junkies do for a living. Wash dishes. Break rocks. Pick up trash on the freeway.
I could have it all.
The doctor wants that. Productive member of society. Me. The nurse is headed that way, a doe in headlights, about to be run over, backed up and run over again, ad infinity or however you say it.
My dick's limp already.
It's a way out. It's easy. No more craving. No more obsession. No more lightning down your skin. No more addiction, no more bad decision after bad decision, a demo on the house of your life, chasing that goddamned euphoria, that goddamned bliss.
Yeah, fuck happy, right?
I tell my own mind to shut up. This ain't real. It isn't. It's a chase, an endless chase and maybe you get a little close to God sometimes, but the rest of the time, it's Jeopardy coming in slick as you please with those sharpened stake claws and that goddamned pussy and Jesus Christ, I could fuck her right now.
No!
I press my hands to my face, the front of the crumpled card into my goddamned eye. Maybe I'll learn by osmosis. It's time to give up. To go straight. To do what everyone else does and pray to God that it's that way for a reason. Like they all know the secret, that they were taught since they were kids to be good goddamned people and that would make them happy.
Doc sure looked happy, didn't he?
Can't laugh away that one.
He looked pissed off and miserable, angry at the world, but angry through apathy, like a prisoner screaming behind a double-thick pane of glass. That nurse looked scared as hell. As if she can see the train bearing down and she doesn't know how in the hell she got tied up on those tracks or who done it.
I know who done it.
There's a noise in the hall, like a rustle. The sound of a door blowing open a few inches in a draft. No one was home when I got here. Just me, alone with my methadone low, wondering if the other squatters here with me would understand if I just up and left. It's not like we all pay rent.
I put the card down beside me, pinched between my finger and my thumb.
A whisper rolls in under the sound of the door, along with the creak of a floorboard. For a second, it looks like a shadow moves in the hall, then it all goes still.
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
I know damned well who it is.
“Go away,” I say, as loud and authoritative as I can.
I can practically hear the smile from around the corner.
“Fuck off!”
I ain't putting up with this shit, but the fear is already creeping through my veins and I can feel those nerve endings start to reach up. How many hours had it been since I was discharged? Five? Six? How long does this shit last?
I realize I've been sitting in the same spot, repeating the same thoughts for over an hour. I haven't moved.
“Goddamnit, Jeopardy, if you're there, just come on out!” I call out.
She likes to play games sometimes, when you're low and you think you can finally up and get on the wagon. She hangs out in the corners, the peripheries, a ghost in the back of your eyeballs. She whispers, lower than you can hear, but you know damn well what she's saying. My nerves are at full attention.
“Please. Stop. I'm done. Please.”
It's amazing how quickly I go from denial to begging. Like some fake tough guy who thinks he can stand up to anything, just to find himself face to face with Muhammad Ali. Like anything could stand up to Jeopardy. I fold like a cheap fan. Always. She's got a gut punch like a Magnum. Put your spine right out through your back.
Her smile floats past my ear and I don't even need to hear her say it.
“Fuck you.” False bravado. Last words of a dying man.
There's a breeze come across my face like the wisp of Jeopardy's fingers. Something brushes my lips and I shudder all the way down. My fists clench and my toes curl and my shoulders go up tight around my ears. My eyes squeeze harder than a vice grip.
“I don't need you,” I whisper into the dark.
“You sure about that?”
Her whisper, so close in my ear that I jump half out of my skin. My eyes snap open and my fists uncurl and I look down and I'm hard as hell.
Every. Damned. Time.
#
The stencil on the entrance buzzer says Denneny, but nobody calls him that. I push the button, say my name and I'm up the stairs in a dead hunch. It's a slow, trudging walk up them steps, but it's not my first time, and maybe not my last.
Maybe.
The halls look like something out of a bad film about flop houses, dirt and stained newspapers and leftover socks and a used condom or seven. A needle here and there. The whole building a collective of fellow bliss seekers, crawling out of their skin on the dirty floor. Scabbing. Flaking. Blistered.
Corb opens the door before I even get a chance to knock and he pulls me right in, slick as you please. He's an excitable one, Corb, and his apartment might be the only one with more than two pieces of furniture in the whole place. There's a couch, dusty rose, and a loveseat, forest green, and a long glass table with a pile of baggies, scales and a lump of the shit. The smell hits me and I choke back the bile in my throat. Corb's gums are already flapping.
“Shit, buddy, heard you had a bad time. Them doctors up in that hospital try and get you quit? I bet they did, fucking do gooders. Always telling good folks how to live. Real folks. Motherfuckers, like you and me, am I right? Fuck,” his nose sniffles like he's got a bad case of pollen, but it sure ain't dandelion dust going up there.
Corb flops down on the couch like a weight was tied to his asshole and his fingers stretch out like they know what they're doing, all without instruction. Muscle memory. A little canister. A mirror. A glass straw. A long line of white.
“Doctors. Go to school for ten years and for what? So they can tell other people how to live their lives? Stick to writing prescriptions and leave us alone,” he rants. “Leave us all alone, am I right, motherfucker?”
He holds up the straw and gestures at me. His eyebrows raise. It's the “you in?” gesture, but I'm not. Not my bag. Powder makes you crazy and full of shit. Straight up the nose to the brain, they say. Not like my stuff. Powder tweaks your brain, you start talking crazy, and lies spill from your lips like a faucet on full blast. You get stuck in your own head, like a mental patient on stage in a straightjacket.
My stuff creams through your veins like that warm feeling you got as a kid drinking hot chocolate in the middle of winter. It hits your heart and flows through you, right up the neck to the lizard brain at the base of your skull and into your goddamned soul. My shit taps something primal. One with the universe-primal, not angel dust, fight the cops primal. That shit's for the real fuckers.
Corb's stuff, the white stuff? It's for the “style without substance” crowd. The ones who like to hear themselves talk. Like Corb. He loves to hear himself talk. Especially about himself.
“Fuck, man, I went there for an ingrown toenail once, and the doctor lectured me for ten minutes about self-medicating, because I had the nerve to take a little bump to numb the pain and left some on my nostril. Fucking doctors, man. Cut your dick off and tell you it's to protect you from STDs. Bullshit. It's to protect you from livin', man. L-I-V-I-N. Fucking bull.”
Out comes the credit card. The name on it is Helen something. Corb doesn't look like a Helen something. White lines split and lay out and snort right up into Corb's pre-frontal lobe or whatever the fuck you call it in the front.
“Folks like that, they don't want other folks getting high. You know why not? Because they're fucking miserable. They can't get hard so they forget what a goddamned cum feels like.”
Flashbacks to a dirty bathroom floor. A tweak in my groin. I know what a cum feels like.
“Folks like that don't get the risk/reward system. You put yourself out there,” he grabs his crotch. “You put yourself out there and you take the risk and you reap the reward. And that reward ain't a fucking nine-to-five job for shit pay and a half-assed blowjob once a month if you can get your hands on some Viagra. There's danger to living, and that's what they're scared of.”
Hmph. Scared of. I know what I'm scared of. The worst thing to be scared of.
Brown skin. Hourglass. Heart ripped out through the ribs.
I know what he's talking about, even if Corb doesn't. Hell, Corb doesn't even believe what he's saying. I can see it in his blustery eyes. He's fucking scared shitless.
“Jeopardy,” I mutter, under my breath.
“Goddamned right, jeopardy! Alex motherfucking Trebek asking the question of life! What is the goddamned infinite orgasm?”
Corb launches to his feet but I'm looking past him. She slips like the panther she is from out behind one of them standing wooden screens like they had back in the Roaring Twenties. I don't even know why Corb has it. Who knows with him? Half his decision making comes smeared with powder.
She stalks around him, silent and shadowed. Her pendulous breasts sway in the dark, erect and beckoning, hovering above those angled hips that bump back and forth so smooth and slick my mouth's filled with saliva in an instant. And she ain't looking at Corb. Corb's never seen Jeopardy. He's talking about the Wheel of Goddamned Fortune now, a rant about the inherent cruelty of fate and something about Vanna White, and how she never seems to age, while Pat Sajak is turning into a crotchety old man right in front of our eyes. He'll be yelling at kids on his lawn before we know it, says Corb. Not like Vanna.
Vanna. Who gives a good goddamn about Vanna when Jeopardy's here? She slides up behind Corb and runs them long nails right down the side of his neck and he doesn't even notice. I notice. I feel it, like it was across skin of my very own.
Vanna ain't got a thing on Jeopardy.
“Fuckin' doctors. Bunch of pill-popping, mood-killing nobodies. And fucking Pat Sajak. I bet Vanna's tits look like they point straight up.”
Corb's not stopping. He's taken two more bumps in the time I started staring at Jeopardy and I don't even know where he's going with the whole damn thing. I don't think he does either. It's not like it matters. I don't care, not when she's here, sliding through the air like a naked beast, her hips beating out a invitation that drowns out old Corb the dealer and walks right into my eyeballs, which can't help but range, up and down, legs to hips to breasts to lips and back again. She stalks around Corb like he's a goddamned stripper pole, her leg rubbing up and down his and her arm dragging like across his pecs and her bottom lip open in anticipation.
Fuck, can I feel the anticipation. I can feel it so hard I'm worried Corb's gonna think he's turning me on. And I ain't going behind that screen to do what I suspect he does for payment sometimes.
“... like a goddamn Greek god...”
I've lost track of what Corb's saying. My eyes fixate on Jeopardy as she skims around the edge of Corb's long glass table, past the remnants of broken white lines and the empty bags of pure plastic, waiting to be filled. She practically slithers up to me, spinning at the last moment to roll around with her bottom toward me like some kind of feline belly dancer. She's back around again before I know it and I slide back against the couch and my mouth hangs slack and I swear drool's about to spill out the side of my lips.
“... a man like you... searching for that ethereal high when all you need is a bump...”
Jeopardy's hips gyrate, slow and deep between my legs. I can smell her. I can smell her damp, sweet centre and now drool is spilling out the corner of my mouth and my cock feels like it's about to burst out of its skin.
“... you chasing the big one. The forever one, and it scares you, when all you need is a quick fix and a cheap rush... gotta stay up...”
Cheap rush. Fuck that. What I need is right here in front of me, full, brown breasts hanging in gravitational defiance just beneath my chin, neck bared, Jeopardy's scent trickling up like smoke between us, a kind of opiate perfume...
“...gotta stay up, gotta stay up...”
Corb's words. Meaningless in the presence of a Goddess. Fuck Vanna White. Jeopardy turns more than letters. She turns your goddamned soul.
“You buying or is this a friendly visit?” Corb snaps out of his pointless mantra.
My attention snaps back to the dealer. Jeopardy leans in, real close, and I say with her, “Give me what I need.”
“I know what you need,” Corb grins. “But I'll give you what you want instead.”
The chill in the staircase feels like a whore's nipple as I make my way from landing to landing down toward the street. With a fresh baggie in my pocket, every corner feels like the opening of a slasher flick, and me some busty heroine calmly walking through her day, never knowing some psycho's about to split her down the middle. Could be worse, I decide. Could be the topless chick who gets shanked in the middle of getting down. Jeopardy looms in my mind and I know I've been there too. I've been all the victims. The hero's always a virgin.
I hit the bottom step and burst through the doorway at the base of the stairs into the afternoon sun. The door jerks open at the same time I push and I tumble-lurch through it into something hard, sombody's body, a tiny frame that sputters and falls to the sidewalk beside me.
I pinwheel in desperation to avoid landing on what's in my pocket and jam my hip on the pavement. I don't see what happens to the girl, but I hear a nasty string of swears best fit for the docks or the South Side of Chicago. Shooting pain in my hip arches my back. It's like a ice pick straight into the pelvis. Goddamnit.
She comes into view slow, through a lens of tears that blur my eyes. Pale. Brownish red hair. Skinny. I wipe my cheeks and give her another look. Even with a broken hip screaming beneath me, I know what she is. Junkie, with a capital fucking J. Just like me. You develop a sixth sense for these things after a while. She's a fucking skeleton.
It only takes a second for tears to blur into flashback.
Muddy water.
Bathroom floor.
Bile.
Dead lips.
Fingers in her pocket.
Hot shame flushes up my neck and into my face. I can't will it away. The girl looks disoriented. Put out. Her elbow bleeds from where she hit the pavement. Track marks line the inside of her arms, a pock-marked mirror of my own mottled skin.
“Uh, sorry,” I mumble as I get back to my feet. Sorry for stealing your drugs. Sorry for trying to molest you.
She gets up as well, and grimaces at the bubble of blood that pools on her elbow.
Bile bubbling from her lips.
Sorry for leaving you for dead.
Sorry for shooting up in the middle of your overdose.
She looks me up and down and I know right off the bat that she knows what I am. She knows what I'm here for. She knows exactly what's up. Just not who.
“Sorry,” I mutter again and turn to go. I shove my hands in my pockets and clench the baggie. Butterflies eat at my chest from the inside out. My torso feels like it's getting hotter by the second and every muscle in my legs screams at me to run.
I get about ten feet before she calls me back.
“Hey.”
I freeze. Do I turn? Do I run? What would Jeopardy do? I don't even need to see her to know she's watching from somewhere. Watching me with this girl. This little dead girl.
Fuck.
I turn around, because I'm nothing if not a glutton for punishment.
“I know you.”
She says it slow. Her eyes squint and her hair falls in from her face.
“No,” I say. My body screams at a fever pitch to run, but I stand still. Somewhere, Jeopardy is laughing.
“Yeah. From the truck stop. The bathroom.”
I don't want to admit it. Fingers deep in pockets.
“Uh, yeah, maybe, I don't know.”
“You OD'd on me.”
That gets my attention. I overdosed on her? I almost laugh.
“I mean, I wasn't in too good a shape myself but when I came to, you were tweaking out. I called the ambulance.”
“You did?”
Everything after Jeopardy is a blur. Getting your heart ripped out through your chest has that effect.
“Yeah. Stuck around long enough to see the lights and took off. Questions, you know?” she toes her foot into the ground.
“Yeah. Thanks, I guess.”
I don't mean it. Flashbacks of the doctor and the emergency room flip through my brain. Dead blues and greens, greys and beiges. Bad advice, on top of good.
The girl takes a step forward. I fight the urge to flinch, then laugh at myself. For Jeopardy, I put my dukes up. The dead girl terrifies me.
“You were in bad shape. I had to leave. I couldn't stay. You understand?”
She's right in front of me now. Somewhere, the L train screams.
“I guess... I don't...” I stammer out. Ain't much to say to the woman who saved your life. The girl you tried to molest. The woman you left for dead, after stealing the drugs that killed her. And you, if she's telling the truth.
“You don't remember, do you?” she asks. Her eyes are greener than I remember. Then again, nobody's eyes look right when they're reflecting a puddle of intestinal fluids under fluorescent lights.
“No, not really,” I lie. I can feel my fingers in her pocket, pushing against the corner of her jeans, between her legs. Just to see. No consequences, right?
Yeah. Right.
“You been to see Corb?” she asks. There's a tenor change in her voice. A sudden, seeking inflection. I shrug.
“Good,” she nods and takes a step back. She looks up, over my head. Instinctively, my eyes follow.
The bridge of her foot connects square with my testicles and I drop like a burst potato sack. My face hits the pavement before I know what's happening. Crushing pain rockets up from my crotch and I almost don't notice when she kicks me in the mouth. My head snaps back and my eyes swerve sideways and a tooth spirals out of my mouth onto the sidewalk.
Something jams into my jean pockets, but the stars in my head and my sacked nuts keep me from reacting. Between my legs feels like squashed grapes and my face is their equal melon. As her hand pulls out, I reach for her, but she's two steps back and too far gone. The little baggie and my remaining cash buries itself in her bra and then she's running and someone's laughing and I know. I know goddamned well who it is.
Jeopardy's smile burns wide, lit as ever, as she leans over me.
“You always have to learn your lessons the hard way,” she grins.
If I could, I'd give her the finger, but instead, I just clutch my balls on the sidewalk, and try not to throw up.
#
I should have seen it in her face. The dead girl had me before I even hit the ground. That's the thing with junkies. We're nice normal folks until it comes time, and then all we are is desperate, and willing to do whatever it takes to get what we need. Here we were, having a moment, touching on our shared collapse, showing some humanity and in an instant, she drops me with a pair of crushed testicles and takes everything I got.
That's the problem with vulnerability. It makes you vulnerable. And don't think there's not some fuckers out there who won't take advantage. Some days it feels like everybody's looking for the weak joints. It pays to wear armour.
“What now?” Jeopardy asks as she crouches down next to me, that ever-present grin stretched across her face. Our eyes meet and she tilts her head. It's not a taunt; it's a challenge, and I'm back up on my feet as soon as the throb in my nuts drops below the throb in my face. I turn my pockets out and find nothing but lint. What now, indeed.
The answer to that question leads me here, to the South Grand Book Store, a high end book shop in a mid-end part of town, with a coat draped over my arm and a kink in my neck. It's an old con, learned from a skeezy punker, but it's my go-to for a reason. I slide through the door slick as spilt shit, then trip on the plastic mat and rattle the door frame hard against the bell. Jeopardy follows me through. She won't leave me alone. Not now.
Not when we're so close.
“Open wide,” she purrs in my ear. I grit my teeth. Jeopardy wants me vulnerable. Always has. The more open, the more into me. Figuratively and literally. My fingers go to my chest on instinct.
The door tinkles shut behind me and the whole store draws its eyes in my direction. I know how I must look. Greasy hair. Beat up leather jacket. Dirty jeans and ratty Converse split at the sole. The middle aged woman with the asynchronous haircut behind the counter glares at me until I weasel away from her and head toward the back. The back is where the art books are. You know the ones. Two hundred bucks for crap about cathedral architecture or the statue of David or Gustav Klimt.
If you're asking why, you'd be with every other person here. That's because they're not junkies. They all look like students or shills or hipster lesbians, half of them in button-down shirts with khakis or corduroys, and the other half with black hair waved overtop shaved sides, with combat boots and black tank tops to match. Take your pick which is which.
They have one thing in common though. Their eyes. Locked on me, thin ocular knives stabbing at the thing that doesn't belong. They may be liberal eggheads, but they too resent the truly different. Don't ever kid yourself about left or right and what side of the aisle you're on. It's all about judgment.
And you don't know shit about judgment until you're a addict playing sober in the midst of your need.
I pull a technical manual about the innovations of Frank Gehry off the shelves and place it down on a nearby stack. I add a book about Picasso for eighty bucks and another about the mystical landscapes of Van Gogh and something about Georgia O'Keefe. A pseudo-Mormon looking girl comes up behind me, so I turn my back to her. Best they don't see my face.
Twenty percent. That's what my guy will give me. I total up the proceeds, think back to Corb and grab a heavy tome on Chagall and something thinner about the micro-housing movement. The Mormon girl disappears down another aisle and I redo the calculations. A boy that looks like a recruiting poster for some stodgy corporation painting itself hip glances in my direction. Paranoia creeps like a thousand spiders up my back.
Enough. Should be enough.
The air is oppressive as I carry the pile to a table near the front door. This is one of those converted shops, that used to be filled up with all kinds of books, but now just carries the “right” books and a nook for light pastries and bad Joe. Normally, you'd have to buy coffee to sit here, but I'm not planning on staying long and I don't need any more attention. I can't see nobody's eyes, but even the walls are sweating me, I swear it. It's funny how you think when you're trying to be on your best behaviour. I ain't hardly even sworn, but I still feel like Galileo telling the whole world that ain't shit revolves around it. I thumb through a few pages of Chagall's childish colourscapes and wait. A button-down comes up and asks the woman at the register a question. She slips out from behind the counter to chaffeur him down an aisle, and in the eyes of God, country and hipster lesbians, I tuck the books under my jacket and I'm up and out the door before anyone even notices. The door chime tinkles, and I'm gone.
I speed shuffle past the windows, down an alley, and soon, all that's left is the pounding of my feet and the white noise background of the streets. A siren flares in the distance, but it's not for me. How could it be? Cops don't give a shit about books. Most of them probably can't even read.
#
I'm in and out of Corb's with barely even a word spoken and next to none heard. My cupboard and my needle await. I'm in my closet before the sun sets, with Jeopardy right behind me. I lean back into her. The warmth of her body offsets the damp cold of the musty cupboard. Jeopardy's fingernails run tracks up and down my arms.
“You're scared,” she tells me.
I fish the baggie out of my jeans.
“Not scared,” I mutter. It's a lie. My heartbeat's up, and I know she can feel it through the back of my chest, straight into her own. She presses up against me and her arms wrap around my midsection like the hard cushioned restraint on a rollercoaster. She squeezes and for a moment, I can't breathe. When she finally loosens her grip, her musky scent fills the close confines of the closet and floods into my nose and mouth. It hangs in my nostrils like an aphrodisiac, a taunt and a promise all rolled up into one. She smells like heaven, and more than a little like shame.
“Liar,” she strokes the underside of my chin with a finger, her nail a sharp reminder ticking like a metronome across my throat stubble by piece of stubble. Anytime. Anytime at all.
What now, I ask, silently. Like I don't already know the answer. Jeopardy's going to fuck me, and I'm going to let her.
Her smile is audible in the darkness.
“You've got to embrace it,” she whispers in my ear.
“Embrace it,” I repeat.
“You've spent your whole life searching,” she coos. “Begging. To get what's in you out.”
The tied off baggie hangs loose in my hands, my fingers poised to slip it open.
“There's a path to heaven inside you. But you're too scared,” she laughs, a quiet thing, like the tinkle on the door of the book shop. The tips of her fingernails scratch down my chest, digging in just enough to feel it.
“A scared little boy,” she squeezes my balls through my jeans, a little too hard. The baggie slips open and the stench hits me like it always does, with a rush of revulsion. Bile croaks up my neck and I choke it back.
Jeopardy laughs out loud.
“A little child,” she scratches at the base of my neck where it meets my shoulder. “Looking for that big high,” she emphasizes the word big. “That high that's gonna last forever.”
Her lips, a brush at the back of my neck. The hairs stand on end, reaching for her.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My body screams, every nerve ending snapped to attention like a million little dicks. Thousands of faces whir through my head. The people in the bookstore. Corb's grinning fear. The dead girl. Alice. Ginny. Faces on the street. Faces I don't even know.
“You can't hide in here forever,” she says.
The closet air closes around me, stifling like cotton. I know outside the door, there's a bigger room, a mattress on the floor and a pile of clothes in a duffel bag. Beyond that, a hallway, a bathroom, a kitchen, another couple bedrooms and the living room where whatever squatters roll through can be found passed out, almost day and night. Friends, I suppose, though I never know half their names, and the ones I do know share just one thing in common.
“You need,” she tells me. “You need like no one else needs. Like all those people out that door never will.”
I rock back and forth, the smell of what's in the baggie mixing with Jeopardy's intoxicating aroma. Empty house. Empty driveway. Footprints in the dust.
“You need that high. That one from deep inside, that one that don't come from no one else. The big one, from some other place, that flies you up to a whole new plane that no one else knows.”
Jeopardy talks in a language I hear, a low whisper damn near drowned out by the relentless pounding of my own heart. It reverberates like a sledgehammer on a cinder block through my head, each smash of the brick a reminder of everything Jeopardy wants for me and everything I can't let myself have.
I squeeze the baggie shut between my fingers.
“You're never gonna find that plane worrying about all them. You're never going to be free until you let go and give in. Surrender. Let them go. Let them all go. Worry about your own head.”
I don't see it, but something in the air moves and I can tell it's Jeopardy's hand, waving away a lifetime of doubts. Of worry. Of the squint-eyed stares of a whole planet. Fictions. An illusive mob, born of paranoid conditioning, dimissed with the flick of a wrist.
“They're watching me,” I murmur. Murmur. Right. It's fucking begging. “Judging.”
“Let them judge,” she licks the side of my neck so lightly it takes the breath from my throat. “You aren't on their plane. Not if you let go. Not if you give in.”
“Give in to what?” I whisper. Tears crawl up the back of my throat.
“The only thing that holds you here is you.”
Her words hit me like that dead girl's foot hit my groin, but in reverse. I don't need to ask the question. I know what she's talking about. It hurts to face it, but I know. I push my own plunger. Always have, always can. Flashbacks of past lives spool around in my gut like regretful open sores, but it's not about that now. It can't be. I open the baggie again and once more, the smell hits me, only this time, it don't turn my stomach like usual. I fumble around in the dark for a spoon and a lighter, but Jeopardy places her hand on my arm, gentle. Butterfly gentle, and I stop. Stop dead.
“Let's get out in the open,” she says.
Tension starches my muscles as she takes my hand. I consider resisting, but Jeopardy's words whisper in my skull and quell my fears and I resign myself to her direction. She leads me out of the closet. Her body cuts curves through the air, a hypnotic sway that calms the turmoil in my gut as she pulls me from the bedroom and down the hallway. I grip the lighter and the spoon in one hand, the baggie and a fresh syringe in the other. We pad down the hallway, past my fellow seekers sprawled across the living room floor like the carnage of a squatter's orgy, up and out of the apartment, headed for the stairs.
The stairs lead to the roof of this eight story slum in the heart of the East End. Jeopardy opens the door. Afternoon light spills in through the entrance and blinds me like a slow motion fade out. For a minute, the sun feels like a shower, a cleansing pulse that scrapes the dirt from my skin.
Jeopardy leads me to the edge. In front of me, the jagged sprawl of the city unfolds like mounds of granite beneath a luminous sky. The city's scent never felt so pure. Dirt, grit and grime crust through the atmosphere like goddamned perfume and I breathe it right into my lungs. For a moment, a kingdom of conceit washes over me, and I am master of all I survey, and this is my queen, right here beside me, naked save for the thin gold chain that binds her navel. Her sex and my need open to the sky and the noisy streets below. There's no crowd up here, no corporate shills or hipster lesbians. No unwashed masses. No politicians. Just me and my lust and Jeopardy, by my side.
“Let go,” she says, so softly it sounds like it's part of the city itself.
I breathe in deep as she slides behind me. Her arms circle my waist and my thighs clench as her fingers undo the clasp of my belt and slips it from the loops in my jeans. She slides the jacket from my shoulders. It falls to the roof.
“Let go,” she whispers again.
She pulls me back from the edge and crosses in front of me. One by one, the buttons of my shirt pop open, and it too falls away. Jeopardy's hand spreads out across my chest and down to the top of my jeans, her lips hovering only inches from mine the whole way.
My eyes drop from the horizon and settle in the big brown pools that gaze over that soft smirk. The button on my jeans pops and Jeopardy's hand disappears behind the denim as the zipper separates tooth by unmistakable tooth. She cups me in her hand, squeezes me with her fingers as she pulls me near. Her free hand roams round the back of my jeans and clenches my behind as she presses in tight.
We embrace, our tongues a mesh of lust and spit, saliva smeared across our lips and chins. My jeans drop and she drags me forward a step by the cock, her hand tight around it, with only the thin fabric of a pair of old boxers in between. I step out of my shoes and leave my pants behind. In my hand, the tools of my demise remain clenched in my palm.
My back to the alley below, she lowers me to the ground, to the roof's naked edge. The asphalt digs in my back as she pulls the boxers up over my legs and strips the socks from my feet. She straddles me, but doesn't sink. She holds herself paused at the brink, her hips over mine, my spine arced out into space with nothing but open air and the pavement below. I'm so goddamned hard my cock feels like it's about to burst, but she just stays there, with the tip grazed against the soft bush surrounding the only thing I want, the only thing in the goddamned world. Jeopardy, pure and utter bliss.
“Now,” she breathes. “Inside you.”
Like an automaton, I begin the procedure. The baggie opens into the spoon. The spoon heats up, dissolves into a noxious brown liquid.
“Inside you,” she murmurs in my ear as her hand strokes the shaft of my cock. “Let it fill you. Let it set you free.”
The syringe fills, and the belt straps around my bicep.
My body hangs half off the roof, so far out that I can't help but wonder how it would feel to hit the pavement from eight stories up. Jeopardy's hips drop slightly, and I can feel her moistness envelop my tip. It's almost enough to make me cum, but Jeopardy would never allow it so quick.
“The fear of falling is worse than the fear of flight,” she smiles. Her lips are soft and sweet, her eyes big and wide.
The needle tears a hole. My thumb pauses over the plunger.
“Come fly,” her lips graze mine.
The plunger descends just as Jeopardy does, and penetrates me as surely as I penetrate her. As God floods through my veins, Jeopardy rides, soft and slow, her fingers tracing across my chest, shifting me further and further over the edge. The city drops away below me, and for the first time, I don't fight it. I don't fight her. I let her ride, and from somewhere deep inside, something new comes. I let it fill me, let it explode from my toes to my head, my mind and God's, one at last. I grab Jeopardy around the waist and roll on top and before I know it, I'm driving into her with wild abandon, our bodies meshed as one, suspended in the open air, finally filled with a white light that burns my vision and ushers me spent, into oblivion.
#
There's a whitewashed light that drains from my eyes like some sort of sci-fi fade-in as I come to on what feels like a soft mattress and a clean sheet. I rub the crust from my eyes, and am greeted by something that looks like a cartoonist's masturbatory fantasy of heaven. No walls and no ceilings. Everything bathed in white. The sky is white. The bed is white. The floor, the clouds, even the crowd of people in the distance. All dressed in white. I never realized God was such a racist.
I roll up out of the bed and shamble toward the people milling about on the horizon. It's then I realize I'm wearing the same uniform, a white button-up short sleeve shirt and white slacks, topped off with white sandals. Sandals, for fuck's sakes. The crowd grows closer. Pure white sand mushes beneath my feet and up into my sandals and between my toes.
There's something familiar about the people around me as I reach the waiting crowd. A woman with long, bone straight blonde hair and rose sunglasses shoots me a peace sign. In the corner, an angel-faced boy in white plaid is lost in conversation with a pair of heavyset men, one red-faced and jovial, the other, blessed with a wild countenance and an impressive set of mutton-chops. I can't place either of them.
The crowd parts like I'm Moses and it's the damn sea as I approach. At the far end, my wilderness awaits. A bamboo tiki bar, painted white, with white cups and a white sign and a goddamned gorgeous woman in a low cut-white dress that serves only to accentuate the deep brown of her skin. Jeopardy. Tending bar in racist cartoon heaven. Making mojitos. It's enough to make you laugh.
“You made it,” she smiles from the other side of the bar as I perch on a stool. “Wasn't sure you would, but I'm happy you're here.”
“Where is here?” I look around again. Everyone is smiling, or if they aren't, it's because they're lost in conversation or plucking strings or plotting notes on white pads with white pens. The mood is relaxed, an mellow and undisturbed even flow.
I turn back to Jeopardy. She looks better than I've ever seen her, even clad as she is. Her smile is warm, and the challenge in her eyes has been replaced with something softer. More affectionate. Maybe even accepting.
“Not sure you fit in, darling,” I tell her. She laughs.
“That doesn't matter here. What does is you made it. Besides, I'm hardly the only one,” she nods behind me. I turn to see what she's getting at and my jaw drops. A tall, thin man in a frilled white top and an afro waves back at me with a wink and a grin. Faces snap into place. Janis. Kurt. Chris. John. Jimi.
“Holy shit,” I say out loud, before I can even think it.
“Relax,” Jeopardy pours some rum into a glass. “You took your time getting here, but you made it. Lots of folks don't.”
“Made it how? Where am I?”
“You're in the beyond. Not the literal beyond, but something akin. You'll adjust in time.”
“I'm dead?”
“You're more alive than you've ever been. Though I trust you'll come up with something a bit better than the Man from Glad montage after a while. It's a little on the nose, don't you think? Not exactly representative.”
Jeopardy crushes some fresh mint in a mortar and pestle and adds it to the glass. She fills the glass with mix and hands it over. I take a sip. My neck muscles flex involuntarily and the drink dances across my tongue like a thousand hits of ecstasy. There's a sudden shift and white bristles with greens and the sky turns a deep azure. Palm trees burst forth from the ground and in an instant, the only white left is my clothes and Jeopardy's, my shirt, shorts and sandals, and the low-cut dress and sarong that somehow manages to avoid bursting with Jeopardy's curves. Flowers explode from everywhere in a tie dye Gothic sunburst.
“That's one hell of a drink,” I can't help but express my appreciation.
“Everything tastes a little better when you break through,” Jeopardy says.
“And what have I broken through to, exactly?”
Jeopardy chuckles and starts the process of making another mojito.
“Your friend Corb had it almost right, but he was reading words from a book. A pirate's parrot, repeating the words of the damned. The rush kept him in sight of limbo. Like he was standing in the tar pits, while telling everyone he was on top of the volcano. He knew where he was. He just wouldn't admit it.”
“And where was he?” I'm almost afraid of the answer.
“Hell. Like every other person down there who hasn't figured it out.”
Flashes of bathrooms and dead girls and cocaine tables came to mind. Dirty needles, a rancid closet. Crushed nuts.
“And me?”
“Bouncing between. Hell and limbo. Limbo and hell,” she shrugs.
“And the heroin...?”
An old man with bushy hair stuck in all directions walks up and leans in. Jeopardy beams at him.
“Pina colada, danke schoen,” he orders. Jeopardy mixes it up and my jaw hangs slack. The man pays, gives me a squeeze on the shoulder and a friendly smile and he's gone.
“But he didn't...” I think of the little ball of black tar.
“No, of course not,” Jeopardy laughs. “You see what you want to see and you're expanding. You never needed the heroin. Ever. All it did was fuel your existential crisis. Forced you to question your life. The meaning of existence. Gave you a sense of what it meant to be God and an understanding of the purest hell. It was a catalyst. A poor one, but a catalyst nonetheless. Most of these others here went through the same. They had some drive to reach nirvana, to learn the nature of living, of the most intimate joy. Most had a vice to go with it, something to soften the blow when the truth revealed itself, in whatever pieces it could. Some used to inspire. Some found truth in their visions. Most knew what was an illusion, after a while. They all realized, in the end, that what they sought couldn't be injected or smoked or snorted up their nose. That once you got past the bullshit, the fear and the insecurity and the self-hatred, you were able to move on, to the real stuff. To this place.”
“You haven't told me where here is yet,” I feel like I'm stuck in the spin cycle.
“Here is the rest of your life.”
I take another sip of the mojito. Goddamn, it's fucking delicious. There are new flowers forming, the whitewash burgeoning into a kaleidoscope jungle, teeming with life and sounds and the crash of a distant ocean.
“Always so damn cryptic, Jeopardy.”
“You have something inside you,” she flips the sign to the side that says to serve yourself. “Something everyone has but few acknowledge. For those that do, it's little better than that needle you depended on so much.”
Instinctively, I look at my arms. Track marks run the length from my elbow to my wrist.
“It's an addiction.” I know the truth as I say it.
“Nothing else. Once it's inside you, there's nothing you can do about it. You either embrace it, and give it what it needs, or it consumes you.”
I think of my wife. Daughter. Family. House. Car. Corb. The dead girl.
“Her name was Megan,” Jeopardy tells me. “She thought it came only when she was with other people. That's why she accepted your invitation. She thought she could find it through mirrors. Like a reflection of the sun. You thought that too, sometimes, though for you, that was a conceit. For her, it was consumption. She was convinced.”
“What happened to her?” I ask. I don't know if I want the answer.
“She didn't make it. She took her own life after your encounter. Couldn't stop seeing how close she came, how vulnerable she left herself. She holed up for a while, held on, but it was too much. It always is. Ate her from the inside out. You weren't very nice to her.”
I put my drink down.
“I wasn't. I was a bad person.”
“We're all bad people sometimes,” she grins and I see the woman who kicked open the bathroom door, who pulled my organs from my chest, who laughed as I lay with my hands cupped on my crotch in the street. I had that coming. I never should have done what I did.
“You've tasted the other side now,” she reminds me. “You can do better. Don't fuck it up.”
“Don't...?”
“Come on.”
She drains her own mojito and places it on the counter beside mine. She takes my hand and leads me back through the crowd.
“Where are we going?”
Jeopardy smiles. There's a moment of trepidation. I know what that smile means. I touch my fingers to my heart. I can still feel it.
“Shhhhh,” she pulls me through the door of an old tiki hut with no roof and no walls and into her arms. She knows what I'm thinking.
“Is this...?” I ask.
“Permanence is a temporary condition,” she slides her arms around my neck. Her breath is soft against my throat.
“I can leave?” I'm afraid to ask if it's by choice. I know the answer. It's always by choice.
“That is entirely up to you,” her fingers trace down the tracks on my arms, and back up around my neck. Her head tilts back and I'm looking down into her eyes, limpid brown pools that seem to go on forever. My muscles melt and our bodies merge. Her dress slips away, and my clothes fall next to it, and soon, our lips are locked in a way that's entirely different than the past.
The kiss is deep and long and filled with meaning, like a goddamned pinnacle, like we're on the top of a mountain, on the tip of our toes lifting us precariously into the sky. A tightwire act, with Jeopardy as my wings and my anchor, my guide in both heaven and hell.
I pull her into a taut embrace, and her smile widens against my lips. Butterflies whistle through my chest and something flaps its wings in my belly. My insides feel like they're shifting. Her body presses against me like a satori promise, skin melding with skin, moist with passion.
I lose myself inside her as her fingers wend their way up my chest. Our bodies roil, a soft, loving undulation in a room with no walls and no ceiling and one door. We climax together in a slow-motion flash, an extended temporal loop, heaven and fear circling one another like two panthers in a boiling jungle, locked in a dance that never ends.
And as we reach the peak of our frenzied coupling, her fingernails circle gently around my nipple, and twist.
                                                              The End
 

Anthony Black is a game designer and video game script writer and is the head writer and editor at StrideStar LLC where he writes and storyboards all writings that flow to his desk. His works have appeared in such mediums as Youtube, and Vevo. He is a creative writing student  in Orlando, FL, and you can follow him on Twitter: @MrTonyBlack436, Youtube: StrideStar Studios, and Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Thundaigus
 

So, I’m dead. Yeah, so there’s that. The name’s Bartholomew Saavin. I’m going to tell you about the biggest mistake of my life. I had just dropped my son off for his finals. I wished him luck and he lazily waved me off. I watched him walk in and then I drove off. On my way home, I decided to take the highway instead of the street. You see, according to my wife, I’m going through a midlife crisis even though I’m only 34, and I bought myself a shiny new blue Porsche with a sunroof top, and I like to drive it fast whenever I can. As I made my way towards the on ramp, I noticed a woman who looked out of place walking backwards with a gas canister in one hand and her other outstretched with her thumb up. Now father taught me, always help those in need, especially a lady.
I pulled over, let down my passenger window, and said, “Hey there, I’m heading towards exit 13. Is that far enough for you?”
“That’s perfect, if you would be so kind,” she replied.
“Come on, it’s too hot to be out here walking.”
She got in the car, settled in, and we drove off. At this moment, I was feeling good. I just saved this girl from harsh weather. I’m a hero. We had at least a 30-minute ride ahead of us and I not liking silence decided to break it.
“So, let me guess, ran out of gas?” I asked.
“That obvious?” she said, giggling.
“Is your gas meter broke?”
“No. I just kept telling myself that I know my car and thought it could get me further than it actually could.”
“That’s happened to me a few times. I wasn’t as lucky as you though. I had to walk almost 7 miles every time to get gas.”
“Is that why your thighs are so massive?” she said smirking
Now even though I’m a married man, hearing a compliment was still a nice ego stroke. I looked over to her smiling and slightly blushing.
“No, I use to run track,” I replied.
“Oh, so you’re a runner? she asked.
“Yeah, I use to be able to do the 100-meter dash in 12 seconds.” I bragged.
“That’s impressive, almost the world record!”
“That’s what my coaches always said, track is also how I met my wife”
“Really?” she asked.
“I asked her on a date after I a meet. We had just lost and my heart was already racing, so I decided that if this was a night of losses then I might as well get it out the way too. So, I walked up to her, looked her square in the eye and I told her that it was her fault that I didn’t run fast.”
“You said that to her?”
“Yep, told her that she was too gorgeous not to stare at and it was distracting.”
“Mr. Smooth,” she said, laughing.
“Yeah, I swear I could have died that night, as hard as my heart was racing.”
“We are so dramatic as teenagers, aren’t we?” she asked as she rummaged through her purse.
“That’s how I felt,” I said laughing.
I looked up at the oncoming exit sign. Just passed exit 24, so we still had time left.
“When I was a little girl, I had boyfriend who also ran track.”
“Really? What school did he go to?” I asked.
“Lincoln Heights,” she said coldly.
“Small world that’s where I went, what’s his name? I might have known him.”
“Bartholomew,” she said staring me in the eyes.
I looked away and continued to drive. We passed exit 20. I felt uneasy as I stole glances of her. It was uncomfortably quiet.
“I don--” I started.
“Arlene, my name is Arlene” she said over me.
Just like that it all came flooding back. The girl that I took out on a pity date. I took her virginity, lied to her, I even started dating my now wife while I was still in a relationship with this girl and never told her, then the icing on the cake, broke up with her after her dad died, shunned her, and told everyone she was a stalker. I glanced over and admired how the years treated her. No longer the flat, creepy, acne covered weirdo from school. She was gorgeous now.
“Tell me Barty, do you remember all those terrible things you use to tell people about me? After all the things I did for you? All the things I did TO you? The things you begged for? Remember?”
I kept quiet. I was ashamed. I could feel her eyes on me. Then she touched my shoulder.
“Barty, it’s ok,” she said chuckling.
“We were stupid teenagers, we didn’t know what we were doing right?”
“Y-yeah, that’s right, I was pretty fucking stupid, you didn’t deserve the way I treated you, I’m sorry.” I said feeling relieved.
“If you really want to make it up to me, all you have to do is beg for my forgiveness” she said laughing.
I looked at her smiling. I guess that’s something I could do, so I laughed and started:
“Oh, please Arlene, please forgive me for my stupid 17-year-old self, I was an idiot and you didn’t deserve any of what I did.”
She burst into laughter. I saw that as a good sign, I looked over and saw that she was recording the conversation. I figured she needed this and decided to let her have it.
“You know what? That wasn’t half bad Barty,” she said.
“Glad you liked it.” I replied.
“Too bad it wasn’t good enough.”
“What?”
At that moment, she reached over and yanked the steering wheel towards her, the last thing I saw was the body of a child on the highway in front of me and Arlene crawling towards the medium bloodied and bruised, then it all faded to black.
 
 

Sharon Frame Gay grew up a child of the highway, playing by the side of the road. She has been published in several anthologies, as well as BioStories, Gravel Magazine, Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction, Literary Orphans, Write City, Indiana Voice Journal, Crannog Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review and  many others. Her work has won prizes at Women on Writing, The Writing District and Owl Hollow Press.  She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. You can find her on Amazon Author Central as well as Facebook as Sharon Frame Gay-Writer.

​Ashley breezed into the apartment, tossing her scarf and handbag on the hall table, footsteps light  on the thick carpet.
"Hey, Mom" she called, heading for the kitchen, opening cabinets, poking through the pantry.
Clare called out from the living room, setting aside the newspaper, smiling at the thought of her daughter  home for a while. It's been too long, she thought. Too many years since Ashley had gone off to college, then studied architecture in Paris, only coming home once or twice a year, and when Joseph died two years ago.  Since then there was plenty of silence here. Clare was overjoyed when Ashley chose a firm in Boston,  moving home for a while until she could get on her feet and find a place to live.
"How was work today, Ash?" Clare sat on a leather stool at the granite counter, winding her feet around the legs, stretching out.  Ashley stood across the room, guzzling a small bottle of orange juice, bouncing up and down on her toes, the way she did when excited. It had been two weeks since starting at Biggs, Barton and Malloy with two other new apprentices, all three sharing an office and rotating between architects, hoping to be assigned to one who suited them.
"Good, Mom. Interesting, too." 
 "Oh," said Clare. "In what way?"   
"Well, a man there says he knows you from way back in high school. His name is Jake Edwards, and I was chosen to work with him.  Do you remember Mr. Edwards?  Pretty  nice. Handsome, too."
Clare felt her breath catch, her hand a little unsteady.  Jake. "Well, sure, I remember Jake. He was quite popular in school. That was a while ago."  
Ashley talked about this and that.  Jake. How he was one of the best contemporary architects in the firm. She was going to learn a lot from him. Oh, and he was single now just like you, Mom, and really was pretty handsome.  Clare listened intently, interested and yet repelled, the way one might look at a spider that skitters across the floor.  
"Are you home tonight for dinner?  I made chowder and corn bread." Clare walked across to the pot on the stove, gave it a light stir.
  "Nope, I'm going out with Lisa and Charles. It's Friday night, remember?" Ashley danced out of the kitchen into her bedroom, the sound of the shower and music drifting down the hall.
An hour later, alone again in the living room, Clare allowed herself to remember.  Jake Edwards. The first boy she had ever loved.  Handsome. Popular. Unavailable to a girl like Clare. The small country high school in Iowa was light years away from her townhouse in Boston. Jake was a ghost.  A ghost who haunted her even after all these years with Joseph. Maybe you never forget your first love, she thought. Many spoke fondly of their first boyfriend, their first affair. For Clare, it was different. Feet up on the couch, nestled under a blanket, Clare allowed herself to remember.
                                                                        #
Clare rode the school bus each morning from the farthest edge of town. The part of town with weathered shacks,  unpaved roads, acres of soil. Her dad managed a farm there, working long hours, his face weathered from years in the sun. Claire's mother worked in the cafeteria at school, her worried face peering out from the net around her forehead, scooping potatoes or corn on to the students' plates, cleaning up afterwards.  
When Clare first walked into Newsome High, she felt completely alone. She hadn't  met any of the students yet.  This was her junior year. They moved from Des Moines to Newsome when a large farm hired her father. Clare simply didn't fit in. Her dove gray eyes searched the halls, looking for her locker, study hall, the library. Mom brought her here when the school was empty a couple of days ago. Claire was fairly confident then that she could find her way around, but now it seemed insurmountable. She was twisting the dial on her padlock when a booming voice said "Hey, neighbor." She peered up into brown eyes, wide grin, and the chest and shoulders of Jake Edwards.
"Looks like we live next door to each other" and introduced himself.
 Clare smiled back, dipped her head, rummaged through her locker.
Clare did not know Jake's name, how popular he was in school. He sat with kids who were the movers and shakers, but Claire didn't belong in that circle and had few friends at school.  Jake found the time each day to said hello to Clare when they met at their adjoining lockers and flashed her a smile. 
The other kids barely spoke to Clare. She didn't have the cute clothes or hairstyles like the rest of the girls. She had one pair of flats and one pair of tennis shoes for gym, and that was it. The plain black shoes  had to work with everything she had.  Clare often wore her mom's old sweaters, buttoned up the back, and switched her only three skirts from black to white to blue every other day, no stockings, even in the dead of winter.  Her one coat was ragged at the wrists, tired looking, but warm. She sat in the back of the classroom, keeping her head down.  Nobody spoke to her, and Clare didn't initiate conversation.
Only Jake talked to her. Sometimes he stuck around after class, teasing and cutting up, talking about the day and asking her about hers. He was the only reason why she even came to school, she thought.  Her feelings mounted for him every day. On weekends she moped around the house, counting the hours until Monday when she saw him again. Clare begged her father to drop her off and pick her up after  the home football games on Friday nights. She sat in the stands with the other kids and cheered and chanted, but her eyes were only on Jake. It felt special, just knowing him.
One Monday afternoon, as Clare was getting ready to find the bus, Jake appeared at the locker.
 "I saw you in the stands Friday night" he said, and she nodded.   "Good game, wasn't it?" he asked, then started embellishing on the highlights, the catches, the runs, the score. 
Clare studied his face, every nuance, every gesture. When he stopped talking for a minute, it was as though Clare had been in a trance. She looked around furtively, but knew with a sinking sensation that the bus was already gone.
 "Oh, crap," she muttered. 
 "What's wrong?" Jake asked, peering in his locker for something.
 "Nothing. I just missed my bus, that's all. No problem."
But it was a problem. Home was at least 10 miles away and Dad was still at work with the car. It was going to be a long walk home.
  Jake slammed the locker door. "No big deal.  I'll give you a lift." 
"Really?  I live pretty far away." 
 "It's okay" he said. "Follow me."
Clare floated home in Jake's old Chevy, laughing at his jokes, joining in while the radio played the Supremes. It was just like a fantasy.    
"Hey Clare, you live way out here near Turtle Tree on the creek," Jake said.
"I never heard of Turtle Tree. What is it?"
Jake slowed and took a right hand turn down a dusty road.  "Here, I'll show you."
They drove along for a mile or so, then he pulled the car into a turnabout on the side of the road, a creek right below them. Jake and Clare walked down to the water. A tree had fallen across the narrowest part, and on that tree, sunning themselves, were dozens of turtles. When the turtles heard them coming, they slid off the tree one by one, a waterfall of turtles.  Clare laughed in delight.  She took a step closer, then slipped and started to slide into the creek, arms pin wheeling. Jake grabbed her arm and hauled her back to the bank. Clare latched on to him, her heart pounding as Jake held her close. When she looked up into his face, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.  They stood there a long time, kissing gently, his arms holding her against his chest, her knees weak, soul soaring.
It became a ritual after that.  At least one day a week after school, Jake drove Clare home, stopping at Turtle Tree, where they talked, laughed, and necked. When the weather grew cooler, they sat in the car, fogging up the windows.  Sometimes Jake talked about the future and where he was going after graduation.  Clare listened with a heavy heart as he talked about the sports scholarship to the State University, and clutched him even tighter when they kissed. Eventually Jake began to touch her breasts, stomach, thighs. One thing led to another until his fingers found their way under her panties, moist with desire. Clare tentatively touched him too, shy at first, then boldly.  They never went any further. Jake didn't asked her out on a date, nor did she come to the school dances.  Clare had no way to get there, and only heard about it on Monday mornings from the  kids at school. She cherished their moments by Turtle Tree and  wished time would stop  marching endlessly towards spring.
Jake asked Cindy Spaulding to the Senior Prom. Clare was relieved. Her family had no money for a fancy dress, and she didn't know many of the other students. The school and all the kids and their relationships simply didn't fit into Clare's world as she was left out of their social life completely.  For her, the world existed only in the back of an old Chevy along the creek.
Clare scrimped and saved every penny to buy Jake a pen and pencil set for his graduation. The day of the commencement, she hitch hiked to the high school, a terrible risk, but didn't want to miss seeing Jake in his cap and gown, eyes shining as the seniors strutted into the auditorium.   There was a party afterwards. Nobody had invited her. It was enough for Clare to see him from afar.  He never knew she was there. 
Jake was working that summer at a local gas station, and two days later Clare tentatively walked up to the garage, and asked for him. He was startled to see her when he stepped out from behind a car.
 She peeked up at him, suddenly shy, and said "I have a gift for you, Jake." 
 "No way" he grinned." Thanks. Hey, wait a minute. It's Friday night. I'll be off in about two hours.  Why don't we go for a burger?"
Clare waited for Jake at a picnic table behind the station, watching cars go by on the rural road, counting the clouds, catching her breath every time Jake came out of the garage to fill someone's tank.  He always gazed over to the table, then smiled, as though checking to see if she was still there. 
When he was through for the day, Jake drove them into the next town to a drive in and parked.  The car hop brought them burgers, fries and icy root beer. Clare thought this was the best day of her life.  Jake opened the gift, smiling at her.
 "I'll be needing these for sure. Thanks, Clare." 
 She beamed.
On the way home, Jake turned up towards Turtle Tree, even though it was now pitch dark.  He killed the engine, then turned to her, reaching in the darkness. They came together hard, more intense than ever.  His fingers sought the wetness between her legs, and he growled.
 "Let's get in back."
Clare nodded, her breath coming in short gasps.  Jake placed her gently on the back seat.  She was so tiny, he thought as he buried himself in her hair, kissing her neck, stroking and probing until neither one of them could breathe.  Before Clare knew it, her panties had been removed, and she felt his penis pushing against her, warm and insistent. He entered her, and she cried out in pain.
 "Stop," she cried, trying to scuttle away from him, but he did not stop. He kept pushing and pushing until she felt like she was being cut in two. In a mighty thrust, he cried out, then collapsed, moaning, stroking her hair.
 "That was good" he grinned, but sobered when he saw that she was crying. "What's wrong?"
"It hurts so much.  I think I'm bleeding." Clare sat up, her whole body racked in pain.
"Are you okay, Clare?"
"No, I think...I think you need to take me home."
He helped her into the front seat, then gunned the engine.
"Wow, hey, I'm sorry if I hurt you.  I figured you were ready for it. You sure have been asking for it, for months now. Don't tell me you were a virgin," he snorted playfully.
Clare stared out the window into the darkness.
"Oh my God, you were, weren't you! I got your cherry! Wow.  Hey, I'm sorry. I thought you were looking for a good time."
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Jake braked out in front of a worn mail box near her house.
 "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, I guess. But you've been all over me for close to a year now.  And believe me, I liked it. I thought you wanted it.  I didn't mean to hurt you."
Clare looked out the window, her hand on the door handle.  He didn't say he loved her. He didn't say she was special. Jake didn't seem to care at all. Clare was shaking when she stepped out of the Chevy, and as soon as the door closed, he pulled away, the red tail lights the last she ever saw of Jake Edwards.
Two years later, while visiting relatives in Des Moines, Clare was introduced to Joseph.  He was five years older than her, working at an insurance firm. There was an instant attraction between them. For Clare, it was comfortable and soothing. Joseph was gentle and kind, always interested in her thoughts and feelings. It was no surprise when they married just six months later and settled in Des Moines. Two years later they had Ashley, finally settling  in Boston. Joseph made his way up the ladder, becoming one of the top executives in the firm, allowing them all the luxuries and blessings they could imagine for over twenty five years, until cancer took him in his prime.
Now, looking out the window at the city streets, Clare sighed and turned towards her solitary bed, thinking that all this time in Boston, Jake had only been a heartbeat away.
                                                           #
Jake Edwards turned toward the office door as three young people walked in, the annual apprentices. He was to pick one to work with over the next several months, teach them the ropes, mentor them. The first thing that struck him was the girl in the middle, walking between two young men. Dove gray eyes, tall and willowy, boots that came over her knees and a short plaid skirt. Ashley Graves. Stunning, really, he thought, could have been a damned model. It was hard taking his eyes off of her. Over the next hour, the three hopefuls sat in front of Jake, while he gave the usual spiel about the company, what their intentions were, the benefits and expectations.  The young apprentices asked the right questions, fielded his correctly, showed off portfolios filled with blue prints, drawings, their work. Ashley's portfolio was the weakest of the three, by a long shot. One young man had come all the way from Nevada for this opportunity and wondered aloud if he was ripe for the big city.
 "I came from a small town, too. In Iowa", Jake smiled.  "Don't let that intimidate you when you show your work.  It really doesn't matter.  All that matters is what you do." 
  Ashley raised her hand. "Where in Iowa are you from, Mr. Edwards?"  
"Newsome".
"Newsome?"  That's where my mother went to high school! Did you know  Clare Easton?"
Jack drew back. Of course. The grey eyes.  Clare.
"Yes, I knew your mother" he said slowly, "but I don't remember too much about her," then changed the subject back to their portfolios. 
 An hour later, they were ushered out the door. Jake sat back down at the desk, shaking his head in wonder. Clare Easton. What a small world. And what a gorgeous girl her daughter was.  Ashley seemed to light up from within. Her chestnut hair framed a lovely face and her enthusiasm was catching.
Clare was a little farm girl, who lived west of town, Jake remembered. She lived in a rundown shack, and her mother worked in the school cafeteria. Clare had the locker next to him and sometimes they talked. She used to sit in the stands and cheer him on during the  football games, even gave him a cheap pen and pencil set that he tossed long ago. Poor shy thing. Dressed in rags, if he remembered, but her skin was soft as the finest silk. She was one of several girls he had slept with that year. His girlfriend Cindy wasn't putting out back then, but there were always horny girls willing to give it up to Jake and no harm, no foul, the guys always said.  
Clare was a little different from the other girls, though. She didn't party with the rest of the kids and kept to herself. He remembered driving her home from school one day and one thing led to another.  Before they knew it, it was a regular necking session, several times a month. She really wanted him, Jake thought.  They hardly ever talked, or at least Clare hardly talked.  She was content to hold him and kiss him and let his hands rove all over her, moaning and brushing up against him until he thought he would burst. She kept holding out, though, and it started to get annoying.  
Finally one night things changed.  Jake drove her out of town to a drive in, so nobody he knew would recognize them. The kids at school called her Rag Doll, after the Four Seasons song. It would be awkward if anybody saw them together.  He bought her a burger, took her to their usual spot at Turtle Tree and things escalated. Then Clare cried out like she was in pain and told him to stop.  It was too late, because Jake was already too far gone to pay attention.  He couldn't stop if he tried, and when he finished he realized that she was crying.  He could hardly believe that she was a virgin, after all those months of rubbing up against him! Huh.  She doubled up into herself and wanted to go home afterwards. Jake drove her up to her crappy broken down house, she got out of the car, and that was the last he ever saw of little Clare Easton.
Jake was a little nervous for a month or so after that.  His dad had warned him back then that a lot of girls try to get you to knock them up, then they want to get married. Clare seemed the type.  But July and August came and went, and in September he was off to school.
Jake never thought of her again until just know.  Clearly, she must have gotten married and lived a life here in Boston, he mused. And produced one hell of a good looking daughter along the way.  His thoughts roamed back to Ashley again. She was decades younger, and the daughter of somebody he had a little fling with one night. Impulsively, he picked up his phone and told Jan, his secretary, to call Ashley and tell her that she would be working with him. Maybe he was an idiot, he thought.  It had  been really lonely lately, since the divorce a year ago. Cindy had followed him to college, they had gotten married right after graduation, and tried to have a family for years. No kids, though.  Eventually they both realized that their marriage was crumbling, and it dissolved quietly into nothingness. Cindy was already seeing somebody else. Jake was dating a lot of different women, here and there. The rest of the day he thought of Ashley with her high boots and her short skirt. It probably wouldn't be a crime to date her, would it?  Was it appropriate? Awkward? Against the company human resources rules? He barely knew Clare back then.  It was high school kid stuff, right?  No big deal.  Small world...   
                                                        #
Ashley loved working for Jake.  She had learned more in the past month than she had in years.  There was nothing more impactful than learning from a pro, not a textbook.  And besides, he was pretty sexy, for an older guy. Her mind slipped that way once in a while. He was a lot older, but there was nothing wrong with that, and Ashley saw him steal a few glances at her legs, her breasts, when he thought she wasn't looking. It would be okay to date somebody in the office, she thought.  After all, she was a short time apprentice. She might not even end up in this firm.  They would have to offer a job.  She might not take it. You never knew. Wait and see, and in the meantime, life was good. It was great coming to work every day. One of the other apprentices, James, was nice too, and they hung out together at lunch a lot. Ashley liked the possibilities. She liked the job. It was all pretty damned cool, really. Who knew how this whole thing could play out. 
Monday afternoon, Ashley was working a little late, going over a set of blueprints. There was a light knock on the door and she muttered "come in."  It was Jake. He was all boyish grin and laughing eyes. 
 "Girl, what are you doing, working late?  We don't pay overtime to apprentices, you know."
 Ashley grinned back.  "No, but I need to impress the boss." 
"You already did."  Jake stopped at her desk, ran his hand along the top, took a breath, then said  "I was wondering if I could cook you dinner Friday night?  My place?"
"Sure" she said, closing the portfolio and leaning towards him. "Sounds like fun."
"I'll send a car for you, then, say around seven?"
                                                                        #
Tuesday morning, Jake picked up the phone in his office. "Jake Edwards here" he said, while taking his coat off, one arm out, the rest of the coat dangling on the other, trying to shrug out of it while holding the phone to his ear.   
"Jake, this is Clare Easton Graves."
Jake froze, held the phone up closer to his ear. "Clare? Really? Well.. how are you?"
Her voice seemed so far away, soft, yet cold. "I understand my daughter Ashley is working with you right now."
He nodded into the phone.  "That's right. Lovely girl. How the heck are you, Clare?  It's been a long time."
Her voice clipped, colder.  "I would very much like to discuss something with you today, if possible.  Do you know the coffee shop about two blocks from your building? Java Joe's?"
"Sure."  He got the rest of the coat off, let it fall to the floor, intrigued. "I'm open this afternoon, around three?  Is everything okay with Ashley this morning?  Is there something wrong?"
A soft sigh, then, "Jake, if it's all the same to you, I would like to talk with you first before sharing with Ashley that we are communicating. Okay?"
"Well, okay, Clare. I don't understand this shroud of mystery, but three o'clock it is, down at Java Joe's. I look forward to it."
She hung up without another word.  Jake rubbed his chin and peered down from the window, as though searching for the coffee shop. What now, he thought.  He felt uncomfortable.  It was awkward, seeing Clare after all these years. Was she interested in him or something?  That would be a real pisser. She didn't seem to care much years ago. It was just a high school screw, right?  He spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about Clare, Turtle Tree, his last year in Newsome.
Jake was already at a table, nursing a latte, when Clare walked in. She was still so tiny, like a sparrow, but the clothes and hair were different. Adult. Mature. Worldly.  Little Clare from the wrong side of the tracks walked towards him with an air of self confidence that wasn't there years ago.  Jake stood up, reached down to brush her cheek with his lips, when she stuck out her hand instead. He shook it, peering down into those gray eyes and seeing nothing but turbulence.
 "Sit down, Clare" he gestured. "It's good to see you."
She nodded and slipped into the booth, waving away the waitress, clasping her small hands together.
"I'll get right to the point, Jake.  I understand that you have a date with my daughter this Friday night.  I would like you to cancel it."  
Jake drew back, surprised. "Look, this is no big deal. I like Ashley and want to get to know her better." 
Clare cut him off. "Leave her alone, Jake.  That's all I'm asking of you. As a favor to me."
Jake clenched his jaw, anger rising. "Clare, if I want to date your daughter, I don't think it's any business of yours. She's an adult, and so am I. Does this have something to do with the little fling we had way back in high school?"  He looked at her, shook his head . " It is, isn't it. What the hell, Clare. We're grownups now.  That was a lifetime ago. It meant nothing."
A sheen of tears graced those gray eyes. Clare swallowed hard, rose from the table.
 "Nothing, Jake?  It meant nothing to you?  It meant everything to me."  
 She turned and walked away so fast Jake couldn't even rise up to stop her. He leaned back in the booth in astonishment. Where did this come from? A quick five minute screw in the back of his old Chevy and she's still upset about it?  He ran his hand across his mouth. Stared out at the street.  Tossing some bills on the table,  Jake wandered outside, started towards the office, but turned left instead, and walked down by the river. Wow. If every girl he'd poked since he was a kid wanted to meet up and rag on him at a coffee shop, he'd be there for days. Who the hell does Clare think she is, manipulating a situation that has nothing to do with her, or the past.  He softened a bit, though, remembering that little girl in rags down at Turtle Tree. She was a just a fling. Somebody to kiss because Cindy wasn't putting out. Clare opened up to him like a flower.  It was fun.  But beyond that, there were no feelings there. How on earth could she make something out of nothing at all? He decided not to go back to the office the rest of the day, but wandered the streets of Boston instead, trying to get a grip on things.
                                                              #
When Ashley got home Thursday night, there was a note from her mother, propped up on the kitchen counter.
 "Hey Ash," the note read, "I left for the lake cottage for a long girlfriend's weekend with Shirley and Becky. We're going to play cards and air out the place, maybe get the boat out of dry dock and tool around. I won't be home until Sunday. You can reach me on my cell. Love, Mom."
Ashley blew out a sigh of relief. This was great. Mom needed to get out with her friends more, and it was easier for  Ashley to go out to Jake's tomorrow night, maybe not even get home until Saturday, or if things went really well, Sunday morning. At least, that's what Ashley was thinking.  She was attracted to Jake.  A lot. One thing may lead to another. He might become her  older, more worldly boyfriend.  She loved the fact that he was so mature, so sure of himself,  work, his place in the world.  It was enticing. She'd never been with an older man before, and Jake was perfect. Even Mom would eventually approve. After all she knew him in high school, so she could vouch for him. It wasn't like he was some creepy older stranger. But, all in all, she was glad she wouldn't have to sneak in, all disheveled in the wee hours. Mom knew that Ashley was an adult, but it might be awkward walking in the door, looking like she'd just had sex. Yes, better all the way around. 
                                                                        #
Promptly at seven on Friday night, the town car driver rang Ashley's door bell. She took the elevator down to the lobby and settled into the limousine. This is the life, she thought. A grown man does this, not some young kid picking her up and dragging her along on foot or a seedy taxi.  She could get used to this. The driver called ahead a few blocks before arrival, and Jake was standing on the sidewalk waiting, dressed in jeans and a soft green sweater.  She liked what she saw.  He handed her out of the car, and they took the elevator up to the condo.
 "Wow, nice" she breathed, taking in the sights of the city below.
 "Thanks" Jake said.  "I designed this building. When I got divorced, I thought it might be a kick to actually live in one of these places. I don't do many residential designs, as you know. I'm enjoying the hell out of living here."   
Jake guided her into the dining room, drew out a chair.
 "Have a seat. Dinner is heating up." He laughed then.  "I know I said I was going to cook dinner, but believe me, you wouldn't like it. My idea of cooking now is warming up take out in the microwave.  It'll be up in a minute."
Ashley watched him disappear into the kitchen, then come back a few minutes later with some lasagna on two plates. He poured the wine, lit the candles, dimmed the lights. Very romantic.
The talk at the table was about architecture, and Ashley paid rapt attention to his disclosures, advice, his thoughts.  He answered questions thoroughly, always going back to make sure she understood the different nuances.  Jake kept refilling Ashley's goblet until her head felt a little light.  They were on their second bottle, when she placed her hand over the glass. "Sorry Jake, I think I've had enough for now."  
Jake rose then, pulled out her chair and they walked over to the coffee table in the living room.  There were papers strewn about haphazardly. As Ashley sank into the soft couch, and Jake sat down next to her, she noticed that this was her own portfolio on the table.
"Is this my stuff?" she asked, fingering the pages.
 "Yep", Jake said.  "I wanted to point out a few things to you here. First of all, the biggest thing I have noticed is that you have a real knack for residential design. Actually, far more superior than commercial, if I can be honest here."
Ashley smiled. "You're right.  I picture people living in the spaces I design and I pretend that there's a family and a dog, furniture and drapes. Gives me a complete feeling."
 Jake nodded,  moved a little closer, leaning across her to pick up a design.  She smelled his aftershave, the soapy aroma of a clean shirt, could feel the warmth of his arm as he brushed across her breast.  He continued to talk about the portfolio, all the while sipping lightly on his wine, touching her leg from time to time to make a point.
Jake turned towards her, as if to ask her something, their faces were inches apart. Slowly she moved forward. He did not back away. She brushed her lips along his jaw line, and he reached out, pulling her close, tilting her face up to him and placing his mouth over hers gently. Ashley responded, deepening her kisses. He drew her in even closer, now, his hand caressing her back, smoothing along her sides, her breasts, her collar bone. Moaning, Ashley laid back, pulling him down with her.  
Suddenly Jake stopped, pulled back, looked deep into her gray eyes. "I gotta ask.  Are you a virgin?"  
 Ashley laughed softly. "Hardly. I'm almost twenty-five.  I even brought protection."  She ran her hands along his legs, reaching between them, stroking.
Jake sat up abruptly, ran his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath.
 "Ashley, I'm so sorry.  You're a beautiful girl and I am intensely attracted to you, but this isn't why I called you over here tonight.  I wanted to treat you to dinner for all the hard work you've done.  And to tell you that when I noticed your talent for residential, I thought of Annie Collins over in our suburban office. She's practically running the place now. She's doing fantastic things with homes. When I told her about you, she jumped at the chance to mentor you. What do you think?"
Ashley sat up, bewildered.  The wine and the kissing clouded her mind for a moment. She was a little confused.
 "What?  Do you mean you want to transfer me to the suburban office?"
 Jake nodded.  She thought a second, then brightened.
 "That would be really terrific!  I'd be working closer to home and not having to commute.  I've heard great things about Annie. Wow, Jake, I love the idea!" And she did. Her dream of designing houses was coming true. 
She sobered a bit, turning towards Jake, her hand on his thigh. "I have to ask, though.  What about us?"
"Us? There is no us. I wasn't interested in a relationship, Ashley", he said bluntly.
'You could have fooled me, you old fart,' Ashley thought to herself.  His eyes had been on stalks for weeks now, and she got all the sex vibes from him that emitted like a homing beacon. Oh well, forget it. James was better looking anyway.
"Let me get you a cab," Jake offered, and they both rose from the sofa, straightening their clothes.  When he put her into the taxi downstairs, Ashley didn't look back. She was dialing Lisa to tell her the good news about her new position as an apprentice for Annie Collins. Lisa asked how the date went.
 Ashley sighed.  "It wasn't even a date, really. I thought he was hot for me, but apparently I got my radar wonky. That's okay.  He's a little bit of an asshole. I'll have to ask Mom what he was like in high school. Like I said, Lisa, it's okay. Nothing at all."
Jake sank back down on his sofa, fingering the portfolio on the coffee table. Ashley was really a stunner.  And he was wildly attracted to her.  But it really upset Clare. He felt a tiny bit bad about their fling that summer, so long ago.  She was such a quiet little thing. There were plenty of lovely women here in Boston.  It was a small kindness to honor Clare's request. The least he could do, he thought.  Not a  big deal.  None of it. No harm, no foul, as the guys said back then.
                                                           #
Clare sat on the dock in the moonlight, listening to the waves lap gently on the rocks. She had come out here alone. There was no girls' weekend.  She needed this time to think. Looking out on the water, Clare saw a pair of loons paddling past in the soft glow of evening and wondered if they mated for life. Did one love the other more?  Did they even care? Or did they just procreate in the weeds, along the banks of the lake, or in the back of a Chevy. A tear slid down her cheek. 
She had married Joseph for life.  He was a good man. They had carved out a solid marriage for themselves, filled with contentment. But throughout the years Clare thought of Jake, and how easily she had given her heart away to somebody who handed it back to her in ashes.
The moon was large, milky, slightly blurred through her tears in the night sky like the downy head of an infant. 
There were two slender gold bangles on her wrists. She rubbed them thoughtfully. Under each one was a ragged scar. Joseph never asked what happened.  Instead, he gave her the bangles on their wedding day, his eyes searching hers.
 "You're safe now, Clare" he said, and she stepped into his arms.
 In all those years, she never took them off.  Now they looked like hand cuffs, binding her to the past, hiding the truth. Removing them, she kissed each wrist gently, then understood for the first time that they had healed on their own years ago.
 

 
My car was officially out of gas. My clothes were soaked from profusely sweating. My phone went dead a few hours prior. The highways were clogged up with angry, selfish drivers. To make matters worse, the land was engulfing the sky’s giant fireball, which meant my time was even more limited. I should have seen this coming though. This is what I wanted. I desperately wanted a change of scenery. An escape. And now that I’m out here on my own, with no help whatsoever, a monster is coming for us all. Where can I un-sign up for adulthood?
Reality began to set in – hitch hiking was my only option. For a split second, I contemplated whether I feared that or death more. I got up off the ground to gather what I had left from the car. The sweltering heat smacked me in the face as I scrambled to grab all of the loose change or dollar bills I could find. After slamming the door shut and taking a deep breath, I kept my eyes closed while turning to face the crawling traffic. I raised my right arm, with only my thumb pointing to the sky, and opened my eyes. At least that’s what I thought hitch hikers did in movies…
What felt like an eternity was, of course, only five minutes. I evaluated many of the drivers that passed, some of which made eye contact, but showed no pity for this poor kid. I could see a rusty, beat up truck approaching. I had mentally placed that vehicle under the “cars I would like to avoid” category, but alas, the driver was pulling over. The window dropped down to reveal a white-haired man was behind the wheel.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“I’d rather not,” I replied with attitude before realizing that was probably a wrong move.
“Oh, well, all right then, kid. Good luck.” The man shifted into drive.
“Wait! I’m sorry. Uh, yeah. I’m trying to get out of here before she takes us out,” I replied while nodding towards the south.
“You’re new to the sunshine state, aren’t ya? I’m Bill, now get in.” He immediately began cranking his window up, assuming I would follow his order.
Before walking around to the passenger’s side, I took one last glance towards the north at the long line of traffic, and then towards the south again, where gray clouds were beginning to appear. I buckled in, and we sat in silence for at least a half hour.
“Got a name, son?” Bill asked
I cleared my throat before muttering, “Sam.”
“Well, Sam, you’re awful quiet.” He paused. “I don’t bite.”
“Why’d you pick me up?” I snapped a little too quickly.
Bill chuckled. “You were on the side of the road with your thumb up. I assumed you weren’t just congratulating everyone for trying to evacuate.”
“Yeah, trying. It’s too late.”
“Hey, I just wanted to help. It’s not like my truck is full or anything.”
I let his words sink in before glancing back to see the bed was empty, with only one backpack bouncing in a corner. While looking back, I couldn’t tell if the clouds were approaching faster, or if the sun had officially sunk. Either way, it was dark and I could barely keep my eyes open. I laid my head back and instantly passed out.
                                                ---------------------
POP!
“Son of a--” Bill muttered before letting out a sigh that indicated defeat. We pulled off onto the side of the road. This scene was all too familiar to me just hours ago. Except this time, the pouring rain had arrived.
“What the hell happened?” I asked while trying to get a sense of where we were.
“Just blew a rear tire, lad. Go back to sleep. We’re gonna be here a bit.” Bill exited the truck to begin evaluating how he was going to put the spare tire on in the wet dark. I rubbed my eyes, yawned, and then followed.
“Don’t worry, Sam, I’ll figure it out,” Bill said as I approached.
“I figured I could do something since you were nice enough to rescue me.”
Bill grabbed his backpack and began feeling around frantically. “Damn it!”
“What?” I knew this could not be good.
“I didn’t grab my tools when I left home.” Bill threw his bag back into the bed. He attempted to wipe his face on his soaked shirt and then looked up at me with a grin. “Let’s get back in.”
We hopped into the truck again, which prompted me to ask, “Now what?”
Bill let out a laugh before saying, “This reminds me of the time my grandfather’s old truck broke down in the mountains outside Denver.”
“You’ve been to the mile-high city, huh?” I was suddenly curious.
“Yeah, I was born and raised in Denver. Where are you from?”
“About an hour northwest of there. Boulder.”
Bill glowered and turned his head towards his window. I couldn’t tell if he was saddened by our situation or the conversation. In an attempt to change the subject, I made the remark, “I wish I had stories to share about my granddads.”
“Oh, yeah? What happened to them?”
“My father’s father died when my dad was my age. And apparently my mother’s father, William, left right before I was born. She said he took off in the middle of the night, and only left behind a note saying he needed an escape. I was always told that my eyes looked just like his.”
“Oh. Well, do you ever feel like, you know, you need an escape?” Bill asked.
“Yeah, actually. That’s why I came to Florida.”
Bill turned to me and muttered, “So did I.”
As my ocean blue eyes met his, the wheels in my head clicked. Thunder roared above. Irma, and my own personal storm, was upon us.

Even as a girl I was reviled in Girdyville, my old hometown reviled as some kind of pariah.  Why?  Well from my entrance into this world I was considered to be a bastard, then a legitimate term for the child of a single parent, never mind that my poor mom had died when I was five.  Add to that the press later published that I loved a man with whom I lived without benefit of marriage, that I was an atheist, and a socialist.  Although this story goes back some fifty years, there are, I assure you, old timers in Girdyville crunching those old bones in the dark recesses of those small provincial minds.  Oh, how I disliked Girdyville where at home I was forced to attend my foster parents' fundamentalist church three times a week, where I was teased at school for being a ward of the state, for being a plain skinny black girl in hand-me-down dresses, and for exhibiting intelligence, and I was ridiculed by the other children because I loved learning.  But then small towns the world over are often long on memories and short on tolerance, aren't they?  Oh my, where to begin…
My senior year in high school was 1956, the year my exhibit on using algae to produce oxygen aboard future space ships won a first prize at the State Science Fair in the capital. The prize, a full four-year scholarship which would be life changing not only because of the academics but also for the escape from the smothering atmosphere of religious fundamentalism and group-think that permeated Girdyville like so many counties in our state.  I thank my lucky stars that I had the goodness and guidance of Miss. Ora Willis, probably one of the finest science teachers in the nation.  Miss Willis obtained permission for me to use on weekends one of the biology labs at the junior college at the county seat.  She was the only person who understood me.  She knew the sting of adverse opinion, of sneers, and whispers behind her back.  You see she was a black woman and a hunchback, and while brilliant she had been hired by the Girdyville School District only because her employment brought with it a large grant as Miss Willis was considered a handicapped person but chiefly because the school district was under a court order to hire a person of color.
Life at the university was an instant explosion of wonders: dorms where students studied and partied and held deep discussions into late nights, the library with seven floors of books, books, books, the labs, the natatorium, tennis courts, the gymnasiums, even free movies– all there for students.  I loved it and immersed myself in my studies and college life, graduating magna cum laude in three years and receiving a grant from the National Science Foundation to enter a PhD program in the physics of Biology.  My advisor, as fate must have decreed, was Dr. Nelson Aleman, who became my life partner and decades later would share with me the Nobel Prize in Medicine for our pioneering work in the physiology of stem cells in the human central nervous system.
It's true that Nelson and I were lovers throughout my university years.  After twelve years together we married, not for societal acceptance but rather for tax and inheritances reasons.  Our teamwork was acclaimed not only by our scientific colleagues but also by the liberal press.  Now in its twenty third edition, Nelson's textbook "Physiological Concepts for the Twenty First Century", adopted by over two hundred universities on six continents brought in immense wealth.  Our subsequent activities as venture capitalists in Silicon Valley have resulted in our names appearing on the annual Forbes list of the worlds' wealthiest 500.  How much you may wonder?  I can honestly say that I don't know.
Nelson's death last year gave me strong reason to ensure proper planning for after Elvis leaves my personal building.  As we had no children we established the Nelson and Molly Aleman Foundation which funds hospitals in Haiti, Africa, and on American Indian Reservations and which also funds research into a variety of diseases.  As one considers one's end, he or she is drawn to reflect on the past.  Accordingly, I had thoughts of my home town of Girdyville and of lovely, sweet, brilliant Ora Willis.  Since leaving for the university in 1956 I had returned to Girdyville only once – to attend a small funeral service for Miss Willis.  Before leaving I had commissioned a proper grave marker with an inscription attesting her brilliance as a woman, a teacher, and an inspiration to a future Nobel Laureate.  I planned to make one more sojourn to Girdyville, but would need to consult with the Foundation lawyers first. 
Sam Rosenbloom the Foundation Director, two lawyers on our staff, and Sally Stevens our Public Relations Director accompanied me.  The meeting with the Town Council and County Commission had been arranged for a Sunday afternoon in the school gymnasium.  Press notices and leaflets insured a large public presence for the presentation of the Foundation's offer to the town of Girdyville.  Sally Stevens had convinced CBS's Sixty Minutes to cover the meeting and promised an interview with me.  My delivery of our proposal was short, made from a flimsy lectern on the gym's stage. Here it is verbatim:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, Members of the Press, as I look around I find the people and the town of Girdyville has changed but little since my days here as a youth.  The addition of a MacDonald's is probably the biggest change.  This school's appearance has changed but little.  Oh, there's a nice football field and stadium. But no library, no laboratory, no separate facilities for girls' sports.   And when I scan your faces out there I see no people of color.  Why is that?  Please, quiet please, you'll want to hear what I have to say.  Girdyville is what, in less kind quarters, is referred to as a jerkwater town, Backwards, Ingrown, Incestuous.  Please, quiet." 
At this point the sheriff, the mayor, and school principal had to stand to insist on quiet.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, you live in one of those remaining pockets of intolerance, stagnation, and self-imposed isolation.  How is this?  Poverty? Poor leadership?  Lack of Education?  I'll leave it to you to decide.  Not all of you are averse to change, and it will behoove you to challenge your neighbors to accept our offer.  Here it is.
The Nelson and Molly Aleman Foundation will, upon popular acceptance of at least 60% of every resident over the age of twelve, construct a state of the art public K-12 school, a library, and a civic center. Teacher salaries will be augmented by the Foundation.  Additionally, every child under the age of 16 as of the date of acceptance will be granted a full scholarship to the state university upon meeting that school's entry requirements.  The voting on this proposal is to occur on this Wednesday, here in the gym, supervised by your sheriff and Foundation attorneys.
The terms of acceptance are these:  Before the terms are placed in effect Girdyville must change its name to Hatred[GI1] [GI2] [GI3] [GI4] .  State offices must acknowledge in writing such change of name.  Any business enterprise, public office, religious facility currently including the name Girdyville must replace signage, stationery, etc. with the new name of Hatred.  After the terms are in place the school teaching staff must be composed of at least 50% minorities by the next fall term. Hiring and firing of teachers must be approved by Foundation administrators.
These terms are spelled out in the pamphlet being circulated now.  This offer is made because I believe the power of education is the best way to lift us toward a better world away from cruelty and ignorance.  My success in the world of science is due to a beautiful dedicated teacher.  Her efforts continue. The name of Hatred will serve as a reminder that the iniquities of the past can be overcome.  I look forward to the results of your voting on Wednesday.  Thank you."
Not many, least of all me were surprised by the results of the voting.  Was it to spite the shaming attention brought on by the press?  Was it the defiance of a proud people, or perhaps, simply one of those instances of outrageous misfortune, the slings and arrows aimed this time at me, the home town colored-gal who never really belonged in a town called Girdyville.
                                                                    #end#