​“I guess tonight’s the night.”
     Takeshi stood in front of the stove, staring at the pictures that surrounded him. The pictures of his parents, family, and other loved ones. However, the cold air in the room creeped into the picture frames and froze the glass, making it nearly impossible to see the warm faces underneath.
Takeshi sighed and looked down at the stove. Placed on it was a pan with a few pieces of coal on it. He grabs a coal and lifts it up to his face to inspect it. They were smooth…for now. In a few seconds, they would heat up and lose their solid structure, turning into the smoke that would allow Takeshi himself to be released from his solid prison and into the world beyond. He reaches for the knob, heart racing with excitement until…
     Knock knock knock
He sighs and walks to the door. He opens it and looks around. Nobody. Irritated, Takeshi goes to close the door, but a glint of light near his feet prompts him to look down. When he does, his eyes widen in surprise. Sitting on his steps was a box, taped together with duct tape. Takeshi reaches down to carry it in and is surprised at how heavy it is. He opens it, revealing its contents: a vintage camera. He runs his hands along it, feeling the smooth leather casing. He grabs it, causing the room around him to turn white.
     “Hey, what’s going on?” Takeshi says, “Answer me!”
     “Welcome to Yamamoto and friends, LLC!” a voice says, “You have been selected to go on a trip to a randomized planet to take pictures! Good luck and have fun!”
     “Wait, what?” he says before the room starts to disappear, the white walls slowly morphing, turning more and more blue. Eventually, blue clouds his senses. When it does, he starts to fall…fall…fall…
     Eventually he stops. Looking down, he realizes he is floating.
“Hmm…I don’t think that’s normal,” he says out loud.
     “No, no it’s not,” a voice says.
Takeshi turns around to see an old man limping towards him. He was a bald man, save for a few wisps of hair. He held a light blue cane that matched his deep, blue eyes.    
“Welcome to Neptune,” the man said, “This here planet is the farthest from the sun, really cold and really, really windy! But enough of that, get to taking those pictures!”
Takeshi raises the camera to his face and begins to take pictures. Of the deep ocean blues, the cloudy whites, and everything in between. The wind whipped up around him, causing the beads around the old man’s cane to jingle in the wind. In the distance, thunder struck. But Takeshi continued to take pictures. To document this wonderful place in the galaxy. This wonderful storm. However, as he continued to take pictures, he felt a nudge. And then another, and another.
“What the hell is nudging me?” Takeshi says, looking up from the camera.
The man smiled. “It seems that the camera wants you to see something. You should see where it takes you,” he says.
Takeshi sighs, and lets the camera nudge him away. Away from the light blues, and whites and to the greys and darkest blacks. From a wonderful storm to a disastrous one. To a storm that rattled your bones and froze your heart.
“Interesting,” the man says, “The Great Dark Spot of Neptune. As an anticyclone, it only looks evil and vile, but look closely.”
Takeshi squints his eyes. He saw the thunderstorms and rain around him, so very scary and dark. But as he looked closer and closer towards him, he saw that the storms subsided, to be replaced with calm silence. As he focused on the happenings closest to him, the clap of thunder from the distance became quieter and quieter.
The old man smiled. “It’s not as bad as you thought, was it not?”
Takeshi nods. “I guess so.”
The man smiles. “Exactly. Remember that for when you feel lost in the world, for when you feel like ending it all. The storm within you is only as strong as you let it be.”
Takeshi smiles. “Thanks,” he says.
The man pats Takeshi on the shoulder. “Well then, I think that’s enough photos for today, so please hand me the camera and we will be mailing your check in 5-7 business days.”
Takeshi hands the man the camera and the world around him starts to fade. The grey wispy clouds took form, turning into the various bookcases in his apartment. Eventually, Takeshi was put back on solid ground in his kitchen. He looked up at the pictures above his stove. The frost that once covered the picture frames were gone, and Takeshi could now see the faces underneath. His mother and father…he hadn’t contacted them for ages. He hoped that they were okay, that work wasn’t taking too much of their time. He saw his brothers, his confidants and best friends. He also hadn’t contacted them for a while. He hoped that high school was going well for them. It was then that he had a strong urge to call them all. To hear their voice, get an update on them and know that they were ok. To arrange a time with them to meet up and talk about all the things in their life that he had missed. Eventually, he walks away from the kitchen to the phone, and dials a number. After a short dial tone, Takeshi’s mother answers the phone.
“Hi, mom,” Takeshi says, “How are you?”
The coal was left forgotten.
END
           
 
             

​“Well darn, I have no idea what that thing is, and frankly, I don’t care what that thing is,” Papa said. He reclined his seat back and focused on the TV. Wheel of fortune was playing.
            Granny looked up from her bible. “Buddy, honey, the only reason you don’t care is because you’re too focused on your albino cows,” she said.  
            Papa slammed his fist into the recliner arm. “Dammit, Irene, they are not albino cows! Those spots don’t just disappear!  And on top of that, I lost one yesterday! I bet it has something to do with that damn half-wolf.”
            I bookmark my spot in my biology book and close it. “You do have a theory about the wolf.”
            Papa scrunched his nose together. “Maybe I do, but it’s not gonna-” Papa stops and looks around. “Did you hear that?”
            Granny and I approach the door. It was so quiet that you could hear the cows breathing. But with that was another sound. The sound of water dripping on hay.
            “Dammit, it looks like the pipe got loose again,” I said.
            Papa closed the recliner. “That god damn pipe, I swear, when my leg heals-”
            “Yes, when your leg heals,” I say. “I got it, Papa,” I say. I grab the flashlight, screwdriver, and swing the shotgun over my shoulder before going out into the darkness.
            I go outside and put on my shoes. They had holes in it, but they were strong and sturdy. I walk down the stairs and approach the pipe. I shine a light on it. The pipe was old, and rusted, but it was leak free, which meant…
            I clicked the flashlight off and grabbed the shotgun, pointing it in front of me. My heart began to race and my palms started to sweat. I inched more into the barn, towards the cows. The sound of water increased as I approached the back of the barn. The cows were not sleeping. They were huddled in one corner. I took a step forward and gasped. Liquid poured into my shoes, getting into my socks. I smiled and swung the shotgun onto my back. I approach the corner of the barn and shine the light. When I clicked it on, the smile on my face disappeared.
            In front of me was one of my dad’s precious cows. Its skin was pure white, except for some spots on its shoulders. However, even that was disappearing. It was as if the black was being sucked right out of her. The culprit of this was standing on her. It was human-sized, but it was furry and had a tail. It had to be one of those half-wolf things. It continued to ‘feast’ on the cow. I reached for the shotgun, pointing it in front of me before shining the light on the beast.
            The wolf falls off the cow, causing the cow to run back to safety with the rest of the herd. I watch as the wolf gets up. It stares the light, and then…
            “Can you stop shining that damn light in my face?” it says, covering its eyes.
            “You can speak?” I say.
            The wolf chuckles. “Of course I can speak, what do you think I-” the wolf gasps. “Oh my god, are these your cows?”
“No, but these are my dad’s cows.”
The wolf claps both hands over its face. “Oh god, I was just trying to get rid of their demons and I forgot to close the door of the barn so one of them ran away. I tried looking-”
“Demons?”
“Ah, yes, whoops, wasn’t supposed to tell the living that. Anyways, yes, demons. But don’t worry about it because I got them all out,” the wolf says, patting its chest.
“You got them all out? What about this stuff?” I say, gesturing at the puddle underneath me.
The wolf’s eyes widen. “Fuck! I’m so sorry for getting the gunk all over the place, its my first week and management just threw my ass out here without even an instruction manual!”
The wolf sticks its hand out and siphons the rest of the black liquid through its hand.
I shake my head. “It’s alright, I guess I’ll just leave you-”
“No wait!” The wolf says, sticking out its other hand at me. “I made a mistake in telling you about the demons, so I’ll help you out. Give you a little ‘hush-money’, so to speak.”
The wolf raises both of its hands and rubs them together. It then places it on the ground, causing the ground to hum. After a few seconds, the wolf stands up, smiling.
“Get outta here, your gift is outside,” the wolf says.
I go outside of the barn and see nothing. Nothing but the full moon, the corn crops and the forest beyond. But then, the ground begins to gurgle. As I walk closer to the corn fields, the sound gets louder.
“Here, girl, start digging,” the wolf says, throwing me a shovel.
I dig, and it doesn’t take long until I find what the source of the gurgling is. Black substance begins to pool out of the ground, soaking my wet shoes even more. The smell was unmistakable. It was oil.
“Go get you and your family a nice house somewhere…anywhere but here,” the wolf says.
I drop the shovel and run into the house to give the good news. Grannie bursts out of the house, squeaking about living in the Bahamas. I help Papa out of the house. When I open the door, Grannie is near the oil well, jumping up and down.
Papa smiles. “Looks like I’ll be able to get this leg fixed earlier than I thought,” he says, limping down the stairs.
I walk down the stairs, soggy socks leaving black footmarks. At the bottom of the stairs are a pair of shiny new black boots and socks. The wolf is nowhere to be found.
            

​ 
            “Hey, where's my book?!” screamed Mary Brown. In an instant, her angry shriek brought tension and headache to the otherwise tranquil spring day in April.
            By “my book” she meant her copy of Gone with the Wind. Margaret Mitchell's story of the Old South was practically the most popular book in the world and few loved it more than fourteen-year-old Mary Brown. She planned to reread it over and over again, enough to absorb every detail, before the movie came out. But now her copy had vanished. She knew she hadn't misplaced it. She knew where she kept it. Someone else had moved it.
            Mary marched out to the living room only to see her parents were completely unconcerned by her beloved book's disappearance. “Where's my book?!” she repeated loudly.
            “Your book has been put away,” said Mrs. Brown.
            “What?!” asked Mary, outraged. “Put away? Put away where? What have you done with it?!”
            “Your book has been put away until your grades improve,” said Mrs. Brown.
            “But I need that book!” Mary protested. “I need to have it when the movie comes out!”
            “That's not until later this year. You have plenty of time.”
            “December fifteenth, to be exact,” said Mary. She had the date memorized, obviously.
            “If your grades then are like they are now,” said Mrs. Brown, “you might not be seeing the movie at all.”
            These words made Mary so angry that she couldn't even speak! How could she be banned from seeing the movie? Oh, how she hated the calm voice her mother had said it in, as though it were the most reasonable and sensible thing in the world! Mary wanted to hit something and hit it hard. Some part of her knew it wasn't rational to get so angry about this, but she loved Gone with the Wind so very much. She simply had to see the movie!
            “Father, do something!” she yelled eventually.
            “Listen to your mother, Mary dear,” said Mr. Brown, resting in his armchair with the newspaper and not paying much attention.
            “Thanks a lot!” she yelled back at him.
            “Mary, do you realize how ungrateful you're being?” asked Mrs. Brown reproachfully. “Look around you. You have a roof over your head, decent clothes on your body, and food in your stomach every night. Do you not see the people living in the Hoovervilles? What do you think any of them would give to be living your life right now?”
            Mary knew her mother was right. She didn't think of the Hooverville inhabitants she had seen in her boring real life, but instead of the part in Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O'Hara returned to Tara only to find her mother dead, her sisters sick with typhoid, and her home looted by enemy soldiers. Facing complete destitution, Scarlett had vowed that she would never be hungry again. There did seem a disconnect between Mary reading about people teetering on the edge of starvation for entertainment and then considering it an outrage when she wasn't allowed to see a movie. Of course, she was still mad at her mother and didn't want to admit to being wrong, so she said nothing.
            “If you improve your grades,” Mrs. Brown continued, “you can see the movie and get your book back too. You know our family rules – you can go to the cinema only so long as you keep your grades decent and the picture doesn't have Mae West in it.”
            “But it's too hard!” Mary objected. “I'm just not a smart girl like Margaret or Ethel!” Not that Mary would want to be like Margaret or Ethel anyway since she hated them.
            “You could always take an after-school elective class,” said Mrs. Brown.
            “But that would cut into my free time!”
            “Do you want your book back or not?”
            Mary sighed in resignation. She knew she had no choice. What good would free time be if she couldn't have Gone with the Wind in it?
 
            Later that day, Mary was in the local soda parlor with Miriam Schubert, her newest and best friend. Miriam's family had only moved to America from Europe the previous November, but she already spoke excellent English. She had learned through hers and Mary's common interest — American movies. Mary found it a bit surreal that movies from her country were apparently so popular over in Europe. After all, she didn't know any non-American movies.
            The jukebox was playing Benny Goodman as Mary and Miriam looked over the options for after-school classes. It was a good thing Mrs. Brown wasn't there. She would have asked how Mary could concentrate with that “modern noise” in the background and demanded that it be shut off even though Mary could concentrate just fine. Although the goal was to select an after-school class for Mary, she and Miriam found time to talk about other things.
            “Do you think Mickey Rooney would ever marry me?” asked Mary.
            “Sure,” said Miriam. “Right before you two adopt Shirley Temple.”
            “Come on! What does Ann Rutherford have that I don't?”
            “A role in Gone with the Wind?”
            “Shut up!” said Mary playfully.
            It was at that moment that the door to the soda shop opened. Mary looked over and was happy to see George Baker entering. George was a very cute boy from Mary's school and her second choice of husband should Mickey Rooney happen to turn her down. Unfortunately, George was accompanied by his know-it-all cousin Margaret as well as Margaret's friend Ethel. Mary had several classes at school with insufferable Margaret, but none with George. Oh, how she wished that situation were reversed!
            Margaret acted like she hadn't noticed Mary, but that didn't stop her from leading George and Ethel unmistakably in Mary's direction. Mary decided to return the favor by pretending she hadn't noticed Margaret and busied herself with her milkshake. As the group reached Mary and Miriam's booth, Margaret acted as though she had just noticed Mary there.
            “Oh hello, Mary,” she said dismissively. “We were just discussing the impact of last year's Republican congressional victories on President Roosevelt's New Deal programs.” Margaret said it importantly, in the voice of someone who wanted it known that she regularly talked about sophisticated, adult things.
            “Sounds very boring,” said Mary.
            “You have a civic responsibility to know what's going on in the world,” said Margaret superiorly. “Women have had the vote for almost twenty years in this country. You're going to have to know what's going on if you want to be able to make responsible decisions at the ballot box.”
            “But I'm not twenty-one yet,” Mary pointed out. “I won't have to become boring like you for another seven years.”
            Margaret narrowed her eyes.
            “Actually, we were talking about it for our current affairs class,” said George cheerfully.
            “Current affairs?” asked Mary. “Is that an after-school elective?”
            “Yes,” said Margaret. “Of course, that wouldn't interest you. After all, you wouldn't want to become boring like me, would you?”
            Mary breathed a sigh. She looked down at the list. As she thought over what to do, the jukebox switched to a Louis Armstrong song, but she paid no attention. At the moment, the music was in the background and in the back of her mind. Eventually, Mary made her decision and circled “current affairs”. There was no way she was going to throw away the chance to be in the same class as George!
            “What's the matter, Mary?” taunted Margaret. “Not failing enough classes already? I'll bet you don't even listen to the news on the radio!”
            “Why should I?” asked Mary. “How do I know it isn't Orson Welles again?”
            “Because it's not Halloween?” suggested Ethel.
            “He could strike on a different day,” said Mary. “Besides, I know about plenty of things that are going on in the world. For example, that singing girl from Love Finds Andy Hardy will be starring in a movie based on The Wizard of Oz.”
            “How about what's going on in the real world?” said Margaret, rolling her eyes.
            “Hollywood is part of the real world.”
            “No, it's not,” said Margaret contemptuously.
 
            “I hope you really want to take that class,” said Miriam as she and Mary left the soda parlor together. “I kind of feel like you only took it because you felt that Margaret was challenging you and you couldn't back down.”
            “No, no, I really want it!” Mary insisted. “It has George in it!” She and Miriam both had crushes on George. How that would work out if he ever became interested in them she didn't know, but for now he was another common interest for them to bond over.
            “Okay, so long as you really want it,” said Miriam a bit uncertainly.
            “Let's talk about something else,” suggested Mary. “Do you think Vivien Leigh will be any good as Scarlett O'Hara?”
            “I should hope so!” exclaimed Miriam. “They certainly went to enough trouble finding her!”
            Mary laughed. “My grandmother was born in 1853,” she said, “so she remembers the '60s. I hope she'll watch the movie with us so she can tell us how accurate it is. I've been trying to get her to read the book.”
            “How do you think we'll refer to the '60s when we get to the 1960s?” asked Miriam thoughtfully.
            “The 1960s?!” said Mary with a laugh. “That's so far off! We'll probably all have flying cars by then!” By this point, they had reached Miriam's house and came to a stop in front of it.
            “Well, goodbye then,” said Mary. “I wish I could see more of you. What church does your family go to?”
            “We – we don't go to a church.”
            “What?!” asked Mary in surprise. She hadn't meant to sound so aghast, but she just didn't know what to think. Did Miriam's family not believe in God?
            “We're Jewish,” explained Miriam. “We go to a synagogue.”
            “Oh, I didn't know that,” said Mary a bit guiltily, feeling that she should have known this about her best friend.
            “Don't worry, you wouldn't know,” Miriam said quickly. “I don't normally talk about it. Well, I'll see you tomorrow!” She sped up to the porch and in the door of her house.
 
            It was Thursday the twenty-seventh when Mary, not sure what to expect, walked into her first current affairs class. She took a seat between Clarence and Lois, the only two people there she knew and liked, although they were only casual acquaintances. She would've preferred to sit near George, of course, but he was too near Margaret and Ethel for her tastes.
            “Welcome to current affairs,” said the teacher, a middle-aged woman. “For those of you who are new, I'm Mrs. Gregory. Today, we're going to play a little game of sorts. I'm sure you've all been following the recent events in Europe.” Mary hadn't been, but decided to keep that to herself. Margaret's hand, however, shot up.
            “I have, Mrs. Gregory!” Margaret boasted. “I could explain it!”
            “Very well, go ahead then,” said Mrs. Gregory.
            “Well,” Margaret began rather smugly, “the German Chancellor, Adolf Hitler, demanded that the Sudetenland – that's the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia – be incorporated into Germany. Britain and France were supposed to protect Czechoslovakia, but they agreed to let Germany have the Sudetenland in order to prevent a war. Now, of course, Hitler has gone far beyond that agreement and taken over all of Czechoslovakia.”
            Oh, how Mary hated Margaret's know-it-all attitude! She thought she was just so smart for knowing all about some far-off events taking place in Europe. Well, it wasn't like those distant European events could ever affect Mary's life in the United States.
            “Yes, very good,” said Mrs. Gregory. “This comes just a year after Hitler incorporated Austria into the German Reich and now he's clamoring for the Polish Corridor between Germany proper and East Prussia. Meanwhile, General Franco has won the civil war in Spain and the Japanese invasion of China is still ongoing. In short, there's a lot of trouble in the world nowadays. In our game, we'll see how the world's problems would be handled by you, the new generation. You'll each be given a country and we'll see how you can try to achieve world peace while fulfilling your country's interests.”
            “Mrs. Gregory, I don't think Mary should participate in this,” said Margaret, raising her hand but not waiting to be called on. “She's just not smart enough for it. Either that or she should be given some inconsequential country which will never matter, like Cuba or Afghanistan.”
            “You shut your big mouth!” shouted Mary.
            “Both of you, stop it!” said Mrs. Gregory harshly. “This is no way for young ladies to behave in school!” Mary thought of asking sarcastically where the appropriate place for young ladies to behave like this was, but decided she would rather not get into trouble on her first day in this class.
            Mrs. Gregory said that Mary would participate like any other member of the class. Each student was called up to reach into a hat and pull out a strip of paper with the name of a country on it. Ethel got France, Margaret got Great Britain, Lois got China, Clarence got the United States, and George got the Soviet Union. When it was her turn, Mary mechanically reached into the hat and, not caring much which country she got, grabbed the first strip of paper her hand touched. As she walked back to her seat, Mary unfolded the piece of paper. It read: “Germany”.
            Once everyone had their country, Mrs. Gregory got them to rearrange their desks into a circle so that they could all talk to each other.
            “So, I'm Germany,” said Mary. “Apparently, I want to take over Poland or something.” She knew nothing about the country other than what Mrs. Gregory had said at the beginning of class.
            “The Polish Corridor,” Margaret corrected her superiorly. “Though knowing Hitler, he probably wants all of Poland in the long run.”
            “This'll be difficult,” said Ethel. “Hitler has broken every treaty he's ever made. Somehow, we'll have to come up with an agreement which Germany will have no choice but to keep.”
            “I don't think that will be necessary,” said Margaret smugly. “In fact, I believe this situation is already resolved. Germany cannot invade Poland without getting into a war with Soviet Russia. If Germany and the Soviet Union went to war with each other, we could just sit back and watch two of our enemies destroy each other. The British Empire's dominance over the world would remain unquestioned and our two primary foes would be severely weakened.”
            “Thanks a lot, Britain!” commented George.
            “Sorry, George, but it's just politics,” said Margaret. “Herr Hitler has shown a real expansionist streak in the past, but I'm afraid he's now expanded as far as he dare.”
            Mary didn't really think. She just knew that she hated Margaret's haughty voice, liked George, and noticed a common enemy.
            “Hey, Russia!” she said to George. “How about we ally against Britain? We can invade Poland together and divide it in half between ourselves.”
            “You can't do that!” sneered Margaret. “Germany is fascist and Russia is communist! They would never work together!” But George was considering it.
            “Sure,” he said eventually.
            “Mrs. Gregory, Mary is ruining the game!” yelled Ethel. “She's making it completely unrealistic!”
            “Mary, I don't think you understand just how opposed to communism the new Germany is,” said Margaret. “The Nazis accuse anyone who disagrees with them of being a communist, and then they put them in camps. A pact between Germany and the Soviet Union would never happen!”
            “Well, it's happening now,” replied Mary. “And you can't do anything about it unless you want to go to war with Germany and Russia.”
            “And Italy!” declared Donald. “We're joining in too!”
            “You and Germany are both supposed to be in the Anti-Comintern Pact!” yelled Ethel.
            “Gee, I guess we have no choice but to surrender,” said Walter, who was playing the part of Poland.
            “No, don't you play along with their nonsense!” shrieked Margaret.
            “There's no way Poland could defeat the combined armies of Germany and the Soviet Union,” Walter explained. “Britain and France didn't come to the rescue of Czechoslovakia, so why should I think they'll come to the rescue of us?”
            “All right, Britain and France declare war on Germany!” said Margaret and Ethel nodded in agreement.
            “What about Russia?” asked Mary. “They're invading Poland too.”
            “We declare war on Germany!” Margaret repeated, affixing Mary with a glare.
            “Too late!” declared Mary. “Poland is gone!”
            “This is getting too silly,” said Ethel. “I quit.”
            “By 'quit' do you mean surrender to the German armies?” asked Mary.
            “Sure, why not?” said Ethel disinterestedly.
            “What?!” shouted Margaret. “Ethel, you know that France is one of the world's great powers. They would never surrender to Germany just like that. The Maginot Line is impenetrable!”
            “Why don't you surrender too?” asked Mary, who was quite enjoying this. She really loved seeing Margaret losing her cool.
            “Never!” declared Margaret. “We'll defend our island at any cost! We'll fight on the beaches and in the streets if we have to! And even if you could subject our island or part of it, our Empire would carry on the fight! We will never surrender to you!”
            “Hey, Germany!” said Ralph suddenly. He had been talking with Clarence and Lois, but had evidently been listening to what Mary was doing with Europe.
            “Yes?” said Mary. “What country are you?”
            “Japan,” he said. “We're in the, um, Anti-Comintern Pact with you. Since you control France, can we have French Indochina?”
            “Sure,” said Mary gleefully. “Take Britain's colonies too!”
            “Mary, you've completely ruined what this exercise is supposed to be about!” Margaret snarled. “We're supposed to be trying to find a way to achieve world peace!”
            “Mrs. Gregory didn't say anything about how we should achieve world peace, did she?” asked Mary. “World peace will be achieved once the entire world is ruled by Germany and Japan.”
            “And Italy!” declared Donald. “Don't forget Italy!”
            And so, the game continued. After a while, Mary had taken over most of Europe and was moving into North Africa. But even as Margaret went on denouncing the direction of the game as stupid, she refused to surrender Britain and seemed to become ever more emotionally invested in seeing Mary's Germany beaten.
            “What about Soviet Russia?” said Margaret at one point. “Are you going to stay allied to them forever? You oppose everything they stand for! Shouldn't you stab them in the back at some point?”
            “Why should I do that?” asked Mary. “We would be at war with the British in the west and the Russians in the east. That sounds pretty pointless to me.”
            Some time later, a new war broke out between the ever-expanding Japanese Empire and the United States for control of the Pacific Ocean.
            “Aren't you going to declare war on the United States?” asked Margaret, gesturing towards Clarence. “Now that they're at war with your ally Japan?”
            “I don't think so, Britain,” said Mary. “You're just trying to bring more countries onto your side of our dispute. It didn't work with Soviet Russia, and me going to war with America would be even more pointless. If I do nothing, America will just stay away from Europe and focus on Japan.”
            Eventually, Margaret was forced to admit that Britain wouldn't be able to hold out against the combined forces of Germany and Russia, at least not without support from the United States. Mary was just about to launch an invasion of Canada to destroy the British government-in-exile when the class ended. As she walked out of the classroom, Mary was feeling amazed at how fast the time had flown. If this class was going to be this fun on a regular basis, it might not be such a chore after all!
            As she headed out of the school building, she found Miriam dutifully waiting for her. Mary smiled, happy to see her. They usually walked home together, but she hadn't been sure if Miriam would wait around so long after school just for that.
            “I actually had a swell time!” said Mary without preamble as they turned to walk down the road together. “We played this game where Mrs. Gregory assigned each of us a country. You'll be happy to know that I got your home country Germany and practically conquered the world!”
            Mary instantly had the feeling that she had said something wrong because Miriam became very quiet. As they walked on in uncomfortable silence, Mary wondered if she should say something, but it was Miriam who spoke up first.
            “Do you know why my family left Germany?” she said eventually.
            “No,” said Mary, feeling very awkward about the sudden air of seriousness. Miriam took a deep breath.
            “Early last November,” she began, “I was lying in my bed one night when a brick flew in through the window. I heard shouting outside. I peeked outside and I saw our neighbors. There were people I thought were our friends and they were throwing bricks and rocks at our house! The police were there too, but they were just standing there and letting it happen. I was scared! I ran for my parents, but the people outside broke down our door and came into our house! They started smashing all our things! I thought they were going to kill me!”
            “Why would they do that?” asked Mary, slightly dazed by this story.
            “Because we're Jews, that's why!” shouted Miriam, tears shining in her eyes. “Everyone knows that Jews aren't real people! You can do whatever you want to us and no one will care!”
            “But why would they hate Jews so much?” asked Mary, not understanding.
            “They say we're responsible for everything bad in Germany,” said Miriam. “They say it was the Jews who overthrew the Kaiser and made us lose the World War. They say it was the Jews running the banks who caused the Depression.”
            “But you didn't do any of those things!” objected Mary. “I don't know if Jews did, but I know you certainly didn't! You're just a kid! Why should they take it out on you?”
            “It doesn't matter,” said Miriam, her voice shaking. “I'm a Jew and we're all the same to them. Germany was also my country. Why would I want it to be miserable? I had to live there too. My family suffered in the Depression like everybody else. Why would we do that to ourselves?”
            “I don't know,” replied Mary, unable to think of anything else to say. They walked on for a bit before Mary remembered about the recent events in Europe and decided to ask Miriam about them. “You know Germany has taken over Austria and Czechoslovakia?” she said.
            “Yes,” said Miriam. “Bad news for the Jews living there. Bad news for everyone living there, but especially for the Jews. You don't know how lucky we were to get visas to the United States. So many more of us are still trapped in Germany. We can't live there anymore, but there's nowhere for us to go to. Other countries don't want to let too many of us in. They don't care about what Germany is doing to us. They don't want us either. No one cares about Jews.”
            “I care!” said Mary. “Well, I care about you. I don't know if I care about Jews in general...”
            “I thought I had friends who cared about me in Germany,” Miriam said quietly. “They were good friends too, but the Party changed them. Now they proudly march in parades with BDM uniforms. How do I know it couldn't happen here too? This country isn't immune. I've seen the way Negroes are already treated here, and I've heard the kind of things Henry Ford and Father Coughlin say about Jews.”
            Mary didn't know what to say. She wanted to say that she would never abandon Miriam like that, but she wondered if Miriam's old friends might have once said the same thing. That would make her seem even more like them. But what could she say instead? Before she could think of anything, they reached Miriam's house.
            “I'm sorry,” said Miriam as they came to a stop, “I don't think I should have told you about that. Your life here is so far removed from what I went through in Germany, and maybe it should be that way. I don't want to think about the past. I just want to live a normal life here with a friend like you and talk about normal things and go to movies and things like that.” She paused, but Mary didn't say anything. “I'll see you tomorrow, Mary,” Miriam added and she turned to walk to her house.
            As Mary continued home, she was mentally hitting herself for having not replied. She should have said that she wanted their friendship to be about normal things too, but she hadn't. Oh well, she could tell Miriam that tomorrow. But why did she seem to feel guilty? Mary told herself that what was happening to the Jews in Germany wasn't something which concerned her, but how could she not care about that and care about Miriam at the same time?
            That night, Mary lay wide-awake in bed. She tried closing her eyes several times, but she just couldn't get to sleep. She kept imagining a brick flying in through her window. She couldn't stop thinking of what Miriam must have felt as she ran from the angry mob invading her home. It hit Mary that Miriam had almost certainly been wearing nothing but a nightgown at the time, just as Mary was now. A few times, Mary sat up to look out her window and verify that there was no angry mob outside. Each time, she lay back down again, thinking of how stupid she was. She wasn't Jewish and she didn't live in Germany, but anything seemed possible in the dark.
            The next morning at breakfast, Mary continued to wonder why she had been so upset. It wasn't that she hadn't heard about horrible things happening to people before. Horrible things had occurred in the books she read, the radio shows she listened to, and the movies she watched. Was it because this time she knew it was something which really happened? Was it because it happened to someone she cared about? Was it because she wondered how Miriam, who had had the actual experience, could sleep at night feeling safe? Did Miriam have trouble sleeping? She seemed pretty cheerful to Mary. Did Miriam have sleeping trouble at one point and overcome it later? How did Mary not know the answer to any of these questions about her best friend?
            While she was in the middle of these thoughts, Mary caught a mention of Germany on the radio. She had previously been treating the morning news as background noise like she always did, but now, for the first time in her life, she found herself actually paying attention to the news.
            “Speaking before the Reichstag today,” said the radio announcer, “Chancellor Adolf Hitler responded to President Roosevelt's peace proposal, thoroughly rejecting each and every point. During the course of the two-hour speech, Hitler further told his puppet parliament that he was no longer bound by Germany's naval agreement with Britain or her non-aggression pact with Poland.”
            A shiver went down Mary's spine. It had all just been a game, hadn't it? Margaret had said that Germany couldn't invade Poland without getting into a war with Russia. Mary had gotten around that by making an alliance with Russia. Might the real Germany do the same? Mary reminded herself that Margaret seemed to find that ridiculous, and Margaret probably knew what she was talking about.
            Still, the actions of their game translated to the real world would practically amount to a second World War. Mary looked around at her surroundings in the Brown dining room. The peacefulness almost pounded in her ears. She couldn't imagine the world at war! She had been born almost seven years after the end of the World War, after all. But she had experienced the Civil War through the words of Gone with the Wind and it seemed pretty horrible. She couldn't imagine the sorts of war horrors she read about in Gone with the Wind happening in her actual life!
            And speaking of Gone with the Wind...
            “Mary,” said Mrs. Brown suddenly, “I'm sure you'll get a passing grade once your new class is factored in. Therefore, I've decided to give you your book back early. I know how much it means to you.” With that, she held out Mary's copy of Gone with the Wind. The book itself looked just as it had when Mary saw it last, as if it had never been gone.
            “Oh... thanks,” said Mary dumbly as she took it in her hands. She was happy to have her book back, of course, but now all she could think about was how, if their game had been real, her actions would have been spreading horror and terror across Europe — horror and terror to people like Miriam.
 
            As she entered her current affairs class later that day, Mary had already decided what she would do. Once again, their desks were arranged in a circle so they could wrap up their little game.
            “So, Mary, you're now in control of Europe and North Africa,” said Margaret contemptuously. “Your improbable alliance with the Soviet Union still stands. What are you going to do now, Germany?”
            “Surrender,” said Mary.
            “What?!”
            “Germany surrenders,” Mary repeated. “The war is over — well, the war in Europe at any rate. I suppose there's still the war with Japan.”
            “Italy changes sides!” chimed in Donald.
            “Well... if you're serious about this,” said Margaret slowly, “I demand that you restore all the European countries you conquered to their previous governments.” Mary was about to answer that she would when George chimed in.
            “Not so fast,” he said. “Soviet Russia is still in control of Eastern Europe and we'll be putting those countries under communist governments loyal to Russia. We need a buffer against the West.”
            “Great, now Europe will be split in half between democracy and communism,” Margaret grumbled. “If this doesn't lead to war, Europe will be divided, from the Baltic to the Adriatic, maybe for decades. All thanks to you, Germany. Who knows how this 'cold war' will turn out.”
 
            After the class ended, Mary was walking outside the building. As on the previous day, Miriam was waiting for her, but this time she was looking rather pale and twisting her hands anxiously. Mary didn't think that she had ever seen Miriam looking quite so upset. Mary smiled at her.
            “Hello, Miriam,” she said.
            Instantly, a smile broke out across Miriam's face. She ran forward and threw her arms around Mary, holding her in a vice-like grip.
            “I love you, Mary!” said Miriam. “I love you!”
            It seemed natural to reply with “I love you too”, but Mary had never said those words to anyone outside her family before and the thought of doing so felt too awkward. Instead, she slowly brought her arms up around Miriam so that their hug was no longer one-sided. She held Miriam tightly.
            “Oh, Mary!” said Miriam. “I thought — I knew you would still be my friend, but — but — I never told you I was — was Jewish because of what happened with my friends in Germany. I knew it was different here, but I was scared! Then I not only told you that, but yesterday I told you about things I'd never talked about with anyone! I was just s-s-scared what would happen!”
            “It's okay,” said Mary as they came apart. “We wrapped up our game today and the first thing I did was surrender Germany.”
            “Oh, I didn't mean for you to ruin your game on my account,” said Miriam, sounding a little guilty. “I know it's not real.”
            “No, Margaret was right,” said Mary. “I wasn't taking it seriously.” A second after the words left her mouth, Mary was struck by the fact that she had never thought the words “Margaret was right” would flow from her lips so effortlessly, but she moved on without giving it a second thought. “I want what you want, Miriam,” she continued. “I don't want to think about what happened to you in Germany any more than you do. I want everything to be normal.”
            “Actually... Mary,” said Miriam slowly, “I've — I've thought it over and I kind of do want to talk to you about it. I feel bad asking, but I know I'd feel better if — if I could sh-share with someone. I swear tomorrow we would go back to talking about boys and movies and normal things!”
            “Okay,” said Mary right away. She didn't know why she agreed so readily, but she knew that she meant it.
            “I'm sorry if I pressured you into it!” said Miriam quickly. “I didn't mean it like that!”
            “No, I want to hear,” insisted Mary. “I can't really know you if I don't know what you've been through.” She didn't know where those words had come from, but she knew immediately that they were right. In fact, they sounded much wiser than anything she thought her brain was capable of thinking up! “Let's go over to your house,” she added.
            With that, Mary took Miriam's hand and they turned to walk down the road together.
 

Patty Somlo is the author of The First to Disappear, a Finalist in the International Book Awards, Best Book Awards, and National Indie Excellence Awards; Even When Trapped Behind Clouds: A Memoir of Quiet Grace, which received Honorable Mention in the Reader Views Literary Awards; and Hairway to Heaven Stories, a Finalist in the American Fiction Awards. “How He Made It Across” was first published in Common Boundary: Stories of Immigration (Editions Bibliotekos) and will appear in Somlo’s next book, From Here to There, forthcoming from Adelaide Books in August 2019.

​                The tenth time the agent asked Alejandro how he made it across, Alejandro gave him the same short weary answer.
            “Sir, I walked.”
            Alejandro was not too tall, with already dark skin browned further by the sun. His straight black hair looked as if it had been cut with the use of a bowl. He did not raise his head when he spoke.
            The agent stood next to Alejandro’s chair, his right calf brushing the metal leg. He marched over to the desk and back, his steps heavy due to his substantial weight. If Alejandro had stood up, the agent would have towered over him by at least a foot. The agent’s hair was cut military style, and a pair of sunglasses hung like a weapon from his front uniform pocket.
            Alejandro breathed in the acrid aroma of old coffee spilling from the agent’s breath. The agent had just leaned down, his face a few inches from Alejandro’s forehead.
            “How did you make it across?” The agent paused, momentarily, after assaulting Alejandro with each word in slow motion for the eleventh time.
            Alejandro hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours. His head ached and his stomach had grown sour. His mother had taught him to always tell the truth but the truth didn’t appear to be what the agent wanted.
            “I walked across, sir,” Alejandro repeated for the eleventh time.
            If the agent had known the entire truth, he would have needed to step outside, spit violently into the street, then stomp to the corner, yank open the heavy wooden door leading into Jake’s Bar, barely allowing his eyes to adjust, before blindly making his way over to the bar and demanding a double Jack Daniels on the rocks. What the agent didn’t know was that Alejandro Murghia Lopez left his village in the south of Mexico, close to the Guatemalan border, on a Monday, before the sun had come up. Teptapa was a mere sigh in the dusty road from Mexico City to Tegucigalpa, a town barely suggested by a tired tienda with an oft broken-down generator that kept lemon-lime and sweet orange refrescos cold. Yet, on a morning that was still cool and dark, Alejandro felt as if he were leaving more than a shrug of earth behind. He understood that he was also abandoning his life.
            The distance was unfathomable. Being a simple man who believed in God, the Virgin Mary and the spirits of the corn, rain, moon and sun, Alejandro hadn’t bothered to discover how far America was from Teptapa. Funny thing, Alejandro didn’t know what America looked like, so how would he know once he arrived?  He carried a few cold tortillas, a cupful of beans and another of rice, and a jar filled with water. On his feet, he wore a pair of Nike knockoffs a distant cousin had brought back from Tijuana.
            By the fourth day of walking, Alejandro had lost track of time. He walked in the daylight and continued to walk at night. When he couldn’t walk any more, he lay down to rest in doorways and under bridges and once even in an abandoned car.
            The agent’s head hurt, from his temples to a spot in back above his neck. This job is getting to me. That’s what he said to his girl, Maria, at the bar last night, every time she begged him to dance. He’d planned to stick to Coors, since he needed to get up for work at five. But all the damned beer did was fill him up. That’s why he started in on dark, sweet, 100-proof rum.
            They’d finished the new fence and couldn’t understand how these cockroaches were still getting across. Computers, cameras, night-vision equipment and stuff the agent was still learning to operate were designed to alert the agents if anyone tried to cut a hole. The cameras were set to take a photograph and trip an alarm, the second an illegal tried to get across.
            So, how did the fucker do it? The agent sure wanted to know. His head was pounding something awful. He’d already taken enough painkillers to put a man out.
            “You walked?” the agent said, his right hand clutching the back of the chair where the little Mexican sat. He looked like an Indian to the agent.
            “Yes, sir,” Alejandro whispered.
            “What’d you say?”
            “I walked, sir,” Alejandro replied, more loudly now.
            Alejandro had grown dizzy as the last day wore on. Luckily, he was still headed in the right direction. The poor man wouldn’t have known if he’d gotten turned around. He had dreamed of coming to America for even longer than he could remember. His desire to reach the place had become the engine moving him forward, as the power in his legs was wearing out.
            “What I’m trying to figure out is how’d you get past the fence?” The agent had pulled a wooden toothpick from his pocket and began to use it to clean the spaces between his top front teeth.
            “I don’t understand,” Alejandro said, ashamed that his English was so poor.
            “La frontera,” the agent shouted, the Spanish words carrying the twang of South Texas. “Como te vas atras?”
            The agent mumbled under his breath, without waiting for Alejandro’s response. How the fuck did you do it?
            Alejandro shuffled his feet and tried to calm the beating of his heart. He saw himself sitting on his porch back in Teptapa. What he couldn’t explain was how a man feels, right before the sun comes up, when the silence of the long black night suddenly gets broken by the rooster’s morning call. Alejandro couldn’t have described the way his spirit grew large and lifted him up, watching the fiery orange ball stretch up into the sky, streaked with shredded pink clouds. He had a good idea the agent wouldn’t understand that as the sun climbed, lighting up the fields, Alejandro began to believe he could do anything he wanted.
            “Did you pay a coyote? Did someone help you across?” the agent asked now.
            Alejandro slowly shook his head from side to side. He couldn’t explain that the man sitting in this chair was not the one who left Teptapa over a month before. That man, he was ashamed to admit, had collapsed onto the ground, before he even had a chance to try and make it across. At the moment when he hit the dirt, he was on the Mexican side, so close to America it would have taken only a few steps north to get across. His body dropped and the dust rose all around. For some reason, the wind suddenly picked up.
            The wind is to blame, Alejandro wanted to say. Instead, he swallowed the words, just as they began to form in his mouth.
                The agent walked heavily across the linoleum floor and out the door. Moving from the chilled air inside, the agent felt as if he’d been slapped with a hot dry towel. He looked down the road, where the air wavered above the pavement. A cold beer would taste awfully good right now, he thought.
            Dust buried the tips of his boots a few minutes after he started to walk. He knew it was against patrol procedures to leave an alien alone in the office uncuffed. If the truth be told, the agent hoped Alejandro would take off. He understood that the Mexican wasn’t about to tell him how he made it across. He’d let the little guy vanish and both of them would be off the hook.
            By the time the agent returned to the office, after nursing one cold Coors Light, Alejandro was heading toward San Diego. He had gone past the point of hunger. He understood that on the Mexican side of the border something otherworldly had taken place -- the man he had been was turned into dust, after his last breath released itself and his heart made one final clap. The dust of Alejandro Murghia Lopez, a poor farmer from Teptapa, lifted into the wind above the border and drifted across. As it cleared the fence meant to keep Mexicans like Alejandro out, the dust didn’t even bother to hide.
            Alejandro entered the city of San Diego at dusk. It took him no time to blend in with the other men from villages where light at night came from the stars.
            Months after, he found himself on a warm clear evening, looking up at the sky. He imagined that the poor farmer from Teptapa was hanging suspended there, wondering whether coming to America had been worth giving up his life. At that moment, the quiet, copper-skinned man assured his old self that he was glad he had made it to the other side. Though life wasn’t easy, as the poor farmer had so often fantasized, this American guy, Al Lopez, was doing all right. 

​ 
There are faces peering down at me, they are trying to say something, but their voices are muffled as if I am underwater, and then the sounds slowly fade away without having made any sense. Are they Angels or Demons that have come to take my soul away? So often I awake in this confusion, as though because sleep was so hard to achieve, my body is unwilling to relinquish it and must keep fighting, but now the night is over, and day is already begun.
 
I remember the first time that I saw Fiona; she was standing in front of me in the queue at Woolworth’s, I smelled a wisp of perfume that, for a moment, took me back to my youth, and then I casually turned to look at her; her red hair and pale skin and those piercing intelligent eyes, and already I was picturing her naked. She looked older than me; I discovered later that she was forty-nine, just on the cusp of being fifty, but she exuded sexuality and passion through every movement that she made.  She was not classically beautiful perhaps, but she had something of an “angel light” about her, and I felt a powerful feeling of lust as I stood close enough to touch her and share her breath. Our eyes met as she finished paying and then she gave me a backward glance as she unhurriedly left the shop so that I was able to catch up with her and then we walked down the street together, her hand on my arm.
 
Can we ever re-capture the past? I long to be in New York again; the busy streets, the sun on my back, and the noise, most particularly the noise of talk and cars, going on all day and night. If only I could be transported back there as a young man, excited to be on my own for the day with no responsibilities or place I had to be.  I cannot even remember what I eventually did on any particular day; just the excitement of setting off through the Big Apple. The bustle of the city was so familiar to me through film and television so that I was expecting to see Woody Allen or Kojak walking towards me.
 
I often think of the past as I get older, but my memories are becoming distorted and fantastical, and I am scared of completely forgetting my past. I remember so little of New York; what I was doing there, where I lived, and I cannot even remember anybody I met, but I must have had friends and colleagues. Now all I have left are a series of images; a police car parked half on the pavement, spotting the jewellery store Tiffany’s and seeing a young woman walking out looking very happy and that endless street full of people.
 
If our brain is a recorder can we not play the best bits over and over again? The nights of passion? The time I first heard Dylan singing Mr Tambourine Man as a fifteen-year old illegally drinking in a pub and then meeting him thirty years later and not knowing what to say to him, the women who have become so important to me, my wife and then Fiona and most of all walking down that New York street one June morning, being at the centre of the world and with endless possibilities before me.
 
“How did that happen? It was as if I conjured you up, and there you were, a handsome young man standing next to me in Woolworth, who knew exactly what I wanted.”
“Yes it is as if…..as if it were a film or an erotic novel.”
“Oh much better than that.”
I remember the feel of sweat on her back, her skin glued to mine, and the smell of her. And between bouts we talked of Keats; it was that I remember most, talking poetry as we lay together naked, our limbs intertwined so that I was not sure which were mine and which Fiona’s. Those times in bed which seem to last forever, but are over in a moment, and then one day it is all gone; no more passion and no more intimacy, we are back alone, which is how we started.
 
The first person I saw die was called Edith. I worked in Byron Care Home in those days; I was only a young man, having done a few dull jobs after leaving school three years previously. But this job I enjoyed; I was good at it; having infinite patience with the people I cared for and always ready to listen to their stories and complaints. The home was not far from where I lived in the Cookridge area of Leeds, so I could walk to work, and although the wage was not great, it was enough so that I could give something to my mum every week and afford to go out and buy the occasional record.
 
Each morning, starting at seven o’clock, we would get all the residents up; bathe them, dress them and then take them down to the dining hall in time for breakfast, there were usually around twenty people, although the less able would stay in bed to have their coffee and toast. That morning I was working with my colleague Laura and together we walked into Edith’s room, she smiled up at us; she was a friendly and polite lady who had been a nurse for many years so knew what was going on.
“We can’t hide anything from you” we used to say to her because although her body was failing her mind was sharp.
 
Edith wished us good morning and we started to help her get up. Laura had been at the home for a couple of years; she was slightly older than me and very beautiful with her dark skin and quirky smile, and a deep reserve that few ever penetrated. I loved working with her, spending so much time at such close quarters with someone so lovely and graceful, although to her I suspect I was just another young member of staff who would leave once something better came along, all that training wasted.
“We are just going to turn you on to your side Mrs Cooper” Laura said as we got in position, facing each other over the bed.  As we turned her, Edith made the faintest of noises, a slight groan, and Laura, in a slightly strange voice said.
“Quickly Andrew, get the matron.” And then I knew she was dead. Suddenly, in the briefest of seconds she had gone.
 
Later I walked out into the garden, frost crunching on my feet, and there was Laura sitting on a bench looking out into space, I sat down next to her.
“Are you okay?” she asked, and then she hugged me. She felt warm, and I felt her bare arm on my back. She started to shake and sob.
“Oh my love” I said to her, “my beautiful love.” And then I kissed her on the lips and after a moment her tongue sort out mine and she put her hands on my face, the most loving kiss that I have ever experienced.
 
We got married eventually and had two daughters, Tracey and Mary, who are both lovely girls and who I am very proud of, but it is that memory in the garden that lingers, as if we were the only people in the world, and who could be a more beautiful Eve than Laura? Whatever happened since, my straying and our rows, the thought of her in that garden, pressed against me, will stay with me for as long as I have memories.
 
I feel as if I am drifting away whilst my body and mind tries desperately to fight it. I can hear someone talking faintly and the sound of something beeping, but then my mind wanders and memories tumble through my head in no particular order; my dad’s funeral where I was unable to cry but desperately needed to urinate, a holiday in a caravan with Laura and the kids, and reading poetry to them, and an image of the Hudson River, the sun glinting off it and dazzling me so that for a moment I am blind.
 
A friend played me a Bob Dylan album when I was sixteen; we were sitting in his front room having done some homework, and he put on this record, “Blood on the Tracks”, which I think had only just been released. The voice was strong and strange, unlike anything else that I had ever heard before and the songs were both funny and sad, it was as if I had been waiting all my life for such music.
“Hunted like a crocodile/ Ravaged in the corn/ Come in she said and I’ll give ya/ Shelter from the storm.”
“This is great” I told my friend, words not being able to convey all that I felt, and he put it on again.
 
Then a few days later I was in a pub with a girl from school, we were trying to look grown-up as we were too young to drink the beer that was in front of us.  I casually walked over to the Juke Box and there was a Bob Dylan song, “Mr Tambourine Man” so I put some money in and selected it.
“Listen to this” I commanded, and she tried but soon she was talking about her history essay and bitching about a friend, whilst the song carried on, casting a spell of words and voice, I put it on three more times before one of the regulars complained and told us to “lay off that hippy shit”, and wondered aloud how old we were.
I don’t remember the girl, not even her name, or whether I saw her again, but I do remember the sound of Dylan’s voice in that pub, carrying over the sound of Yorkshire voices and the traffic outside. I started to buy his albums, and even now, when I need something nourish my soul, it is to Dylan I turn.
 
And I have a memory of meeting him; talking in some kind of building or studio. Where was I? How did we meet? All I remember is him sitting opposite me and drawing, I cannot remember his voice, just sunlight reflecting through his hair thick, curly hair and the thought that this man is my hero and is sitting opposite me and I have no idea what to say to get his attention, to make this as memorable for him as it is for me.
 
We were standing together in Leeds City Art Gallery, Fiona and I, looking at an exhibition of paintings by Stanley Spencer.
“Do you see the religious in everyday?” She asked me, “like Stanley obviously did? Jesus walking down the Headrow? Or angels in Roundhay Park?”
I shrugged, “no, religion has never been part of my life, even as a child. My parents did not go to church so neither did I, well apart from weddings and then there was my dad’s funeral. Are you religious?”
“I go to church sometimes, I want to believe that this is not all there is.  It seems a bit of a waste if there is nothing more to life.”
“But don’t you feel a hypocrite, going to church when you are having an affair with a married man?”
“Religion is not all to do with condemning and guilt, Jesus was human and we all need romance, and sex. If we find love, does it matter where it is.”  
And very gently she touched my thigh with the tip of her finger.
 
And then I remembered being in Harrogate, feeling lonely and sad. Laura was at work and the children at school and so on impulse I had caught the train to the spa town which I had visited as a child a few times with my parents and more recently with my own family. I wandered around feeling oppressed and on the verge of tears, unsure why I felt that way and wondering how long I had been feeling like this. And then squeezed between two shops there was a church, small but the door was open, so I walked inside. The building was empty, but there was music playing from somewhere, something religious and old and it felt in keeping with my mood as I looked around at the stained glass and then at the altar.
 
I sat down and perhaps I prayed or just went into a trance. The music sounded clear and seemed to echo within me.
“My soul thirsteth for thee,/ my flesh also longeth after thee/ in a barren and dry land where no water is.”
I thought of my children sat in school, day-dreaming maybe, or being inspired by their lessons, in the same school that I had struggled through many years previously. My life had been plain and dull, and I had a longing for something better, but I was not sure what. I realised that I was crying softly to myself. Perhaps there would be a better world, a world that was accepting and kind. I stayed there, crouched on that hard, wooden pew, until I heard footsteps and an apologetic looking vicar started pottering around at the front, which brought me to myself. I got up, and left, catching the next train back to Leeds. I think that it was soon afterwards that I met Fiona.
 
Sometimes at night I would read to the children, even after they were old enough to read to themselves. When I left school I had been given a collection of poetry by Wordsworth which ever afterwards I kept by my bed, and one evening when we were sitting around after dinner I went upstairs and brought it down and started to read to my daughters; they were only eight and ten then but some of the poems were simple things and even though I am unlearned and do not read much, I could see that they were beautiful and worth knowing.
“A lovely Apparition, sent/ To be a moment’s ornament/ Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair….”
 
I remember recently, just before I became ill, Tracey asked me.
“Did you used to read poetry to us when we were children?”
“I did not think you remembered.”
We were sitting in her house, where she lives with her girlfriend Diane, all the windows open because it was unseasonably warm for April.
“Read to me again” and she handed me an anthology of poetry from their book shelf and for the rest of the afternoon, until Diane came home from work, we alternated reading poems. And then all three of us cooked a vegetable curry and ate at the small kitchen table, the words of the great Romantic poets still echoing in my head.
 
I am glad that I gave my daughters a love of poetry, rather than just a love of Bob Dylan and a fascination with American films and television, although Mary did tell me that she is saving up to go America with her boyfriend. It is odd how our obsessions come down to our children, and perhaps not the obsessions we want; not my capacity for hard work or my practical side, but a love for American police shows and comedies, and apparently Romantic poetry.
 
I feel infinitely weary and close my eyes, and then I hear Bob Dylan singing and it is as if I am part of the song and it is taking me with it. I wish that Laura was with me to share this and to lie next to me. But then I was always on my own, but Laura, and the other people in my life have made it more bearable and at times better than that. I am overwhelmed by the sounds in my head, and suddenly light cascades into me making me gasp and choke.
 
Laura looks over the man who was once her husband. They called her in that morning at seven when he was already dead.
“We didn’t want to wake you.”
She is still beautiful, even in her early sixties, her skin dark as if she belonged in Italy or even the Middle East, a princess somehow transported to this cold and wet city. She strokes his arm, cold and dead, the nurse, just a young girl, clearly local with her broad Leeds accent watches her intently, wondering if she will cry.
 
“He was a good man” Laura says, maybe to the nurse or maybe to herself, “he never left Leeds or earned much money, but he was a kind man, always loyal to me and the kids.”
“Are they coming?”
“Yes, they will be here today. Neither of them live in Yorkshire now; Tracey is in Glasgow, Mary in Derby, but they will come up soon. It was so sudden, he only came in with a chest infection, I thought he would be out with a couple of days, that he was making a fuss, not that he ever did. I should have known that it was something more.”
The nurse would like to have hugged her, or even just patted her arm, but she looked so austere that she did not dare.
 
“He talked last night. He kept mentioning New York. Had he lived there?”
Laura laughed, “No he never went to New York, I think he would have liked to, but he had to leave school at sixteen when his dad died, and then he worked in a care home for most of his life, where we met. He had ambitions; to be an architect, to travel, to meet Bob Dylan, but life was too busy and too expensive.” She smiled in fond remembrance, “he did live in his head quite a bit, even I was not sure what was going on sometimes.”
 
Laura left the ward, and the nurse started to prepare the body of what had once been a man, wondering who Fiona was, who he had kept mentioning. We all have secret thoughts and fantasies, and she hoped that he had been loyal to the tall, beautiful woman who tried to hide her emotions, but could not manage, not quite. But most of all she hoped that he had been happy, she did not think that he had been, certainly he had had a hard timing dying calling out for Fiona and for God and then for his children, but then few people were happy when it came down to it. Even she, despite her kind boyfriend and having a reasonable job helping people, felt dissatisfied and dreamt of travel and a perfect lover, and something even more than that, although she was not sure what that was.  She sighed and got on with her work and wondered if she had food in for tea that evening.
 
The sun beat down on his head as he walked along Wall Street, so familiar and yet so strange, he felt young and full of curiosity like a child as he observed everything about him; the myriad sights, the smells and the noises that saturated him.  There were people all around him pushing and jostling, and he could hear taxis hooting and voices shouting in that American accent that he so loved. He wondered where he was going, but then he realised that it was his day off and that he could go anywhere and do anything that he wanted to. The crowds parted as he hurried onward and then somebody took his hand and held it tight.

​I love my wife. I really do, and to prove it I’m making her the main character in this story. In fact, over the years she’s been in several of my stories whenever I need a female protagonist who is slender, sexy, and self-assured. I know that if this story gets published, she’ll agree to the second honeymoon I’m planning.
            In one of my previous stories, Monica wore a halter top and shorts and shopped at Walmart. I needed toothpaste, and I know Walmart has the lowest prices. The plan there, you can probably guess, was to get the reader’s interest right away, and I figured any editor would recognize the obvious:  Almost everyone shops at Walmart . . . and sex sells.  That story was nine pages long – a lot of work, you know – but I think Monica stopped reading after page two because she couldn’t tell me later how it ended.
            Our third wedding anniversary is in two months, and I’m giving her this story as a gift (I want the second honeymoon to be a surprise). When I tell her I’m writing this new story titled “Second Honeymoon,” she sighs and says, “Adam, at least make me look like Jennifer Aniston this time, will you?”
            She demands this while we’re shopping at Walmart, each of us pushing a metal cart since we are totally out of groceries at home. The front left wheel on mine, which is filled with the heavy stuff – ten two liters of Dr. Pepper and a whole watermelon – squeaks a little bit at every turn.
            “I was thinking of describing you more like Dolly Parton.” I say that because this new story is about a former brassiere model, and Dolly Parton, whom I’ve seen on television, would be perfect for the part. I’m guessing her bra size is like a double G.  In my story, however, her name will be Donna Parton so I don’t get accused of defamation in any way. The conflict is that Donna finds herself in a loveless marriage with a garage door repairman, the kind of guy who can’t help but look left and right every time he drives in a residential neighborhood and announce, “That door would be twelve hundred dollars” or “Probably thirteen-fifty over there” or “That’s an easy nine hundred” as he passes each house.
            “I don’t look like Dolly Parton. See?” My wife turns sideways, arches her back, and thrusts out her chest at me. Her eyes go wide:  first at me, then at her chest, and then back at me. “Adam, you really need to grow up.”  I’m not adding an exclamation point here, but right after she says this she bumps my shopping cart with her own before passing me, like we’re on a NASCAR track.
            She’s right, of course, at least about her and Dolly Parton. My wife actually looks more like Mia Farrow before Woody Allen dumped her for the stepdaughter. Her hair is sandy blonde and it comes almost to her shoulders. When we first met, her hair was longer. I remember how I used to hold her hair – romantic like – when we kissed, even though her hair spray made my hand sticky. My wife doesn’t have any hips, and her boobs stick out as much as teacup saucers.  Nevertheless, I’ve learned in my writing class to be creative so I’m keeping Donna Parton. 
Right now, we’re the only ones in the canned food aisle, and she pushes her shopping cart away from me and reaches for a can of green beans. I watch her and enjoy how she extends her slender arm, gracefully scoops the can, and places it soundlessly in the cart.  
This is how my wife and I met:  Shopping. I was getting groceries for my dad and me, and I followed her with my cart for two aisles, fearful the whole time she’d think I was stalking her. I finally got up the nerve to ask advice about cucumbers, and when by coincidence we were in the checkout line together later, I asked for her phone number. When she gave it to me, I felt like I’d won a trophy.
Today, when she bends over the cart, her blouse is lifted over the backside of her jeans and I can see an inch of the pale skin of her lower back. Do that again, I plead silently. My eyes go to a can of mushrooms, and I try to transmit my brain waves to her head, directing her to look again at the shelf, to reach for the can of mushrooms, to bend over her cart. I close my eyelids half way, dip my forehead towards my wife, and repeat mushrooms, mushrooms, mushrooms like thirty times, but my brain waves must be weak because she doesn’t reach for the can, even though I have a vague memory of highlighting it on the shopping list.
            Monica continues down the aisle, and I hunch over and lean my forearms on my cart, which is a pose I’ve seen other men do – the cool, I’m-a-veteran-shopper types, although I’m not.  “Don’t be so touchy,” I say.  “No one will know it’s you.” 
            She gives me an angry look over her shoulder and almost hisses,  “You just want to see Dolly Parton naked.”
            “Naked?  How do you know you’re going to be naked?”
            “Because you like naked people. You have at least one in all your stories.”
            I push my cart slowly behind her and consider her analysis. I try to remember all the stories I’ve written, and I have to admit my science fiction story had naked aliens but that was because they were aliens, and my castaways cannibal story had naked people because they were on a tropical island, but they got naked only near the end when their clothes got tattered and the heat became unbearable. I try to argue, “Okay, so what if I do?  Demi Moore showed off her boobs, so did Ann Margaret . . . why not Donna Parton?”  To be honest, I really would like to see Dolly Parton naked, standing erect with her arms straight up in the air like she was being arrested. I wonder if they would sag.
            Monica rolls her eyes.  “Those are actresses, those are movies . . . But if you make me naked in the story, I want to look like Jennifer Aniston or maybe a young Liz Taylor but with different hair. By the way, what am I doing in your story?”
            “You’re shopping with your husband who’s a garage door repairman. But you don’t really love him.”  She doesn’t know it, but I’m gazing at her butt, wondering how she would react if I gently bumped it with my shopping cart. I’m guessing that would bother her, but maybe, just maybe, she would turn, swipe her hand quickly over her butt in a playful way, and smile mischievously at me.  She used to smile like that before we got married, especially when I let her read the poems I wrote about her.
            She flips her hair off her forehead and rolls her eyes.  “Oh, brother, that’s really going to sell.” She turns her cart at the end of the aisle, and her butt disappears around the corner.
            The wheel on my cart squeaks when I turn to follow her, and I notice she’s almost half way down the next aisle already.  I almost have to raise my voice:  “You never know. It could get published.”
            She stops, angles her head so I can only see her profile as she looks at something on the shelf, and says, “Don’t count on it, Adam . . . Why don’t you write another story about alien abduction?” She’s pushing the cart, so her back is to me again, and I can’t tell if she’s teasing me here. She’s probably remembering a story I wrote about aliens who abduct humans, perform experiments on them, then erase their memories and take them back in time to the exact moment the abduction happened. The humans, however, only realize they’ve been abducted when they experience diarrhea, a consequence of aliens experimenting on their colon. So now, whenever I feel a bad bowel movement coming on, to be funny I tell Monica that I think aliens abducted me.
            I decide to take her seriously and lean my forearms on the shopping cart. “My writing teacher says we should only write about what we know best.”
            “Then you should write about pornography.” She grabs a box of spaghetti, drops it with a thud into the basket, and pushes her cart to the end of the aisle.
            Like I said, I love my wife. And she loves me: I was certain of that on our third date. After taking her to a fancy restaurant, we spent the rest of the evening watching an Elvis Presley movie on television – the one where he’s in Hawaii – and although my dad interrupted us in his t-shirt and boxers on his way to the kitchen, Monica still agreed to date me again. The next day I was so grateful I bought her a ukulele – resembling the one Elvis used in the movie – at a pawnshop as a present. I figured that when she saw it in her bedroom or even played it, she would always remember that night with me and feel sentimental.
            Those were the fun days:  Going out to dinner. Watching movies. Staying up late. The days when my wife was both a woman and a girl.  I know we’re still in love, but, in truth, I don’t write poems for her anymore, and she always goes to bed before me.
            When we get home from Walmart I offer to help put the groceries away, but she tells me to get out of the kitchen, that I’ll only be in the way. So I go into the family room, sit on the couch, and listen to her stack cans in the pantry and open and shut and open and shut the refrigerator door.  I know what she’s thinking:  My story – this story – will never get published. I’ll send it out, and the editor will send it back, just like all the other ones. I sit on the couch, tilt my chin to the ceiling, and call out to her. “You know, a lot of stories are better if at least one character is naked or has a gun.”
            “Name one.”
            “That girl Rose in Titanic. She posed naked for Leonardo Dicaprio.”
            I hear her groan. “That’s another movie, Adam.” 
            Which is just like a woman. They never want to agree on anything. I wish just once she would see things my way. She got to choose the dinner for our wedding reception, she selected the house where we live, she decided we should lease a car rather than purchase one. No one ever told me before I got married that there was so much politics in a marriage after you come back from the honeymoon. I had lived with Dad after graduating from high school, and not once did he ever tell me what to expect. 
            Monica doesn’t seem to realize the effort I put in for her:  What my days are like while she’s working as an assistant manager at that bank in the plaza, how I have given myself up to my writing, working sometimes three or four hours like a slave crafting all kinds of stories and the rest of the time watching movies just to get ideas. However, I won’t gloat and say, “I told you so” when I finally get something published. There are a lot of great writers who never got published, like my friend Jeremy and my writing teacher Alex. Jeremy, in fact, told me that all best-selling authors – Tom Clancy and Danielle Steele, for instance – have at least one naked woman or a gun in their books. I figure my odds of getting published improve if I have both.
            I call out again. “But I bet Titanic was a story first.”
            “Whatever.”  More sarcasm than indifference.  I can’t see her, but I’ve become an expert at her voice.
            I’m hoping we’re going to have pity sex when we go to bed that night, but we don’t. She wants to read. I like to read, too, but not now, and especially not a book as thick as hers. I mean, really, who reads Madame Bovary?  You should see this book. It has to be nearly 400 pages, and I can’t believe it keeps her interest because it has nothing to do with recipes, lingerie, or the Federal Reserve. 
            Later, when she’s sleeping, I like to think she’s dreaming – happily, I hope – about the time in our second year of marriage when we vacationed in Hempstead County, Arkansas and saw the world’s biggest watermelon. I also remember those nights when we played foot tag under the covers (I always let her have the last tag). I watch her sleep and listen to her breathe and snore, even timing them, before I slide out of bed, go downstairs, and open up my laptop. 
            After I finish, I calm myself down and think about that Arkansas vacation, and that reaffirms my belief that Monica and I should go on a second honeymoon. Some place exotic like Albuquerque or a foreign country like Nova Scotia.  I suggest that to her when we sit down to breakfast the next morning. 
            She sips her coffee and peers at me over the cup. “You’re kidding, right? Nova Scotia?” She’s dressed for work in her pinstriped skirt suit, but I can’t take my eyes off her pink lipstick.
            “No, I’m not.”
            She takes her cup to the sink, rinses it, and says, “That sounds expensive. Let’s think about it and talk tonight or tomorrow.”
            “I love you,” I say to her back as she moves to the door, thinking that the sunlight coming through the window must make her hair warm to touch, even if she still uses a lot of hairspray.
            She turns and gives me a question mark smile.  “Are you alright?”
            “I am, and I think a second honeymoon would be a fun vacation for us. We should start planning it.”
            “Let’s talk later,” she repeats and grabs her purse off the counter. Seconds later she is out the door, and since this is Friday I wait an hour and thirty minutes after her Ford pulls out of our driveway, grab my lunch bag, and drive to the plaza where her bank is. There, I sit in my old Datsun, look at the opaque windows, and think about her inside in her business outfit and high heels, crossing and uncrossing her legs on her cushioned chair and helping people with their mortgages or accounts. I also watch the bank entrance and the people going in and out.
            And for each person I make up a story:  That balding guy is a retired cop who once shot
a man in the stomach; that gray-haired woman is going in to get a gold necklace from her safe deposit box to pawn so she can pay for dance lessons and a hot tub; and the middle-aged guy wearing a service station uniform is depositing the week’s receipts from his gas station and he’s bummed because business has been bad. He might lose his house because of it.
            Around one o’clock my wife exits with a tall guy in a dark suit.  He must be a co-worker because I never saw him enter the bank. He’s laughing at something she said. She’s laughing, too – so hard, in fact, that she puts her hand on the sleeve of his suit coat as if to balance herself. Her hair falls over her eyes when she dips her head, but I suspect her eyes are glistening at the joke.
            They stroll to his car, a maroon Lexus, and he opens the passenger door for her. She gets in, tucking her skirt under her, and smiles up at him as he politely closes the door. I turn the Datsun ignition and watch them pull out of the parking lot. 
            On the four-lane road, I follow them south until he pulls into a Holiday Inn. I’m impressed – one lunch there has to cost at least twelve to fifteen dollars – and I secretly hope that my wife isn’t treating. He should treat, shouldn’t he? We need to start saving for our second honeymoon. 
            I park two rows away and watch as they walk side by side to the entrance. Just at the glass doors my wife leans her forehead into Mr. Suit’s shoulder, again as if she is losing her balance, and he gently rubs the middle of her back as they go inside.
            I wait, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich today, and drink from a Dr. Pepper can. Then I wait some more. A one-hour lunch turns into a ninety-minute lunch, and I’m worried now she truly is spending too much. I’m serious about my second honeymoon plan.  If he’s paying for her meal, no problem, but if she splurged on this lunch and later wants to tell me we can’t afford a second honeymoon, I want the evidence to contradict her. I leave my car and when I go inside, the bubbly clerk behind the polished counter asks me if I’m checking in.
            “No,” I say. “I just want to go into the restaurant.”
            Her eyes narrow but she says politely, “We don’t have a restaurant here, sir, but there are some nice places nearby.”
            I look around the empty lobby area, at the silent elevators, then again at the smiling clerk. “Thank you,” I say. “Thanks,” I finally repeat because I’m having trouble swallowing.
            I return to my Datsun and head home, keeping the car parallel to the yellow lines like I’m driving on a map. I know from years and years of driving experience that the yellow lines order drivers not to pass, to stay on their side, to show caution. I leave the radio off so I can listen to the wind skim over the hood of the car and rush by the open crack of my windows, making that jet engine sound that drowns out every other sound and even my thoughts. I like driving this way; it’s relaxing.  I don’t want to use the stifling air conditioning. I drive around for a while and let the other cars slide by me until I find myself on my street where I slow down to examine garage doors for more material for this story.
            By the time I’m home, I’m full of ideas about Donna and her husband, how they met and fell in love and honeymooned in Nova Scotia.  And then, once inside our house, I get the revolver we own out of the shoe box in our closet. I undress completely and sit on the living room couch, which you should know is the first piece of furniture we bought together for this house that now smells of dust and stale air.  I can just make out through the front window a blue, naked sky, which, as the afternoon drifts by, fades into an orange purple dusk. I feel myself breathe, like it’s something my body is doing on its own, and stare at the sky.
I smile now, knowing the sky will always be there no matter what my characters do, especially the husband who is the garage door repairman. While I wait, I practice aiming the revolver – at the door, at different spots on my forehead, where I feel the tip of the metal barrel soft against my skin, and then at the door again – and hope Donna comes home on time so I can finish writing this story.

            Willard lay sprawled over the back porch steps, head cocked at an unnatural angle against the bottom stair.  Glazed, milky eyes aimed at the railing and his boots were propped on the top stair. There was little doubt he was dead. 
 The afternoon brought a high ceiling of blue, spotted with clusters of nimbostratus clouds sailing lazily on a warm breeze. It was a drastic difference from the morning which had been a winter coffin of gloom.  The freezing mist that had lightly coated everything from the ground to the trees turned out to be a harbinger of things to come.
Willard kissed Ellen on her cheek, as was his habit, and set out on his two-block jaunt to town where he owned the only hardware store in town.  Brad Bentley, a foreman at The Tool Works, spoke to him on his way back home that morning.  Willard didn’t mention his reason for returning.
            The back porch was wooden and often slick when it was cold and damp and it wasn’t like him to have forgotten to salt it on such an unpleasant morning.  Ellen might have to go out.  The salt was kept in a wood box by the back door.  As it turned out, he needn’t have bothered to take the trek back home. In addition to the weather quickly getting warm Ellen had parked the car in the driveway the night before after shopping because she had dawdled at the store. Anyone who knew Willard, and everyone in town did, knew his distaste for dawdling, so it was especially ironic that she did so on the day before his death.
 
            Ellen didn’t cry.  Johnny, their son, didn’t cry.  They hovered over him like a pair of guard dogs glancing about as if waiting for commands. 
Ten years old, blond and lanky, Johnny had been taught to keep his emotions buried.  “Crying is a way for women to release their pent-up emotions.  Of course, after years of my direction and training, your mother has overcome the urge to cry.  We Randolph’s don’t succumb to our emotions.  Such surrender is a weakness.”
            Ellen called George first. Willard would have called the police.  That fact she called her father- in-law would have disappointed Willard.
            “George?  It’s Ellen.”  Her tone was calm and steady, giving no clue about the tragedy.
            But the fact he was receiving a call was a hint, because his standing invitation to dinner was every two months and he’d just eaten with them two weeks before.  That invitation was the only time he was ever contacted and it always came one week in advance of the dinner date.
            “There has been an accident.”
            “Johnny?” he blurted fearfully.  Visions of his grandson being hit by an auto on the way to school immediately flashed past.  He would never have thought of Willard, who was far too calculating and plodding to ever be involved in an accident.
            Silence lingered until she stated, “No.”
            He expected to be corrected.  He always called him Johnny. 
            “Father, I named my son John.  It’s a good, wholesome name, one of which he can always be proud. Johnny connotes a rakish individual so I will not stand for it.  You may not call him that.”
            “Who?”
            “Willard.  And he looks dead.”
            Cramps grabbed his stomach and his head spun.
            “I haven’t touched him and don’t claim to be an expert but he looks exactly like Wilhelmina did in the funeral home.”
            Tears brimmed when he shoved his cell back into his pocket.  They weren’t for Willard the man, but for Willard the boy, the baby he carried in his arms, the toddler with whom he walked hand in hand across fields behind their house to the swing set in the park where he swung him high into the air.  Images of Willard as a boy merged with visions of Johnny.  As vehemently as he disagreed with Willard on almost every aspect of life, no young boy should be fatherless.
When the call came, he was walking across the baseball field in the park behind Willard’s house on his way to town accompanied by a group of six boys on their way to school.  Their march halted at the ring of the phone and gathered around George in a protective circle.
Winter Reeves, the ringleader was closest to him and was able to overhear the conversation.  “Sorry to hear about your son, Mr. Randolph.” 
 The rest nodded mechanically, glancing numbly at each other, unsure of how to act.
Winter blurted nervously, “Was he as good a ballplayer as you were?”  Baseball was his bond with the boys. 
Another boy cried, “My father says you were as fast as Ryan. Doubt your son was that good.”
He shook his head. “He never developed an appetite for the game.” In truth, baseball was a major wedge in their relationship.  His wife hated the game and did all she could to cultivate the same loathing in their son.
            Parting with the boys, he turned toward Willard’s house and saw Ellen and Johnny hovering over Willard. They took turns squatting and standing up to peer expectantly across the field at him.  Even from a distance Willard’s figure was obviously dead.
            Upon his approach, they stepped back and lined up stiffly against the wall – arms folded, exchanging glances as if trying to figure out who would speak first. 
            Half open eyelids revealed chalky egg white eyeballs over cheeks pooled with blood.  He had already stiffened like a board, his size fifteen work boots – heel to heel – angled in a large V. His hands were ivory white.
            Johnny stared at those monstrous feet.  Either he was shocked at the size or was waiting for them to flop over. 
He had Ellen’s features - soft blue eyes and fair skin under closely cropped sandy hair.  He possessed a full mouth that rarely smiled.
            His glance at his grandfather was quick and self-conscious before he dropped it back to the gigantic feet. George wasn’t one with whom he was allowed to speak, or laugh.  He was simply a figurehead to observe across the dining room table because Willard felt it important the boy have a grandfather.  He had revered his grandfather on his mother’s side, but George was Johnny’s only surviving grandfather and as far as Willard was concerned, nowhere near the type of person his grandfather was; so George was turned into a fictional figurehead.  His true personality was masked.  Willard created a character who was a religious leader, a leading member of the community. George played along so he could attend the family dinners, which was the only contact he had with his grandson.  
            He found it curious and comical that this upstanding character would choose to be mute around his family and if he was so honorable why wouldn’t Willard ask him questions to impart his wisdom to Johnny?  Somehow he figured Johnny was sharper than given credit for and might have figured out the ruse.
            George found it easier to approach the situation analytically, choosing to avoid the emotion each time he thought about it.  Not only had he lost a son, albeit in name only, they had lost a husband and a father respectively.  Yet all three of them ignored the emotion of the moment.  Had they all decided to approach it the same way?
            “When did you call the police?”
            Ellen blinked slowly.  “You were called at 7:27. We spoke for a minute.  It was 7:30 when I reached them.  Certainly no later than 7:31.”  She reached up and patted the thick bun of blonde hair balancing sturdily atop her head.  She never wore it any other way. Pale lips, straight, firm and full – she never wore makeup of any kind – and her cheeks were wide and high, as though a smile might be the most natural expression. Though, like Johnny, she rarely did. 
            “It’s almost eight.  What’s taking them?”
            She shrugged, her round shoulders rising and dropping like a marionette’s.  “I told them there was no hurry.  After all, he is dead.”
            Johnny nodded stiffly, daring to meet George’s gaze again, a rarity when Willard was alive.  “He won’t catch my personality by looking into my eyes,” he told Willard, but as usual his son wouldn’t hear of it. Deeply seeded was a fear that George would be able to win over Johnny – which for the most part, George doubted due to the fact he could never win over his own son.  How could he hope to win over his grandson?
            The bell at the school drifted across the field as a police cruiser and an ambulance pulled into the driveway.  With the sun rising higher, Willard’s swollen cheeks reflected a deep purple, forming a gruesome mask.
            Officer Wooley trotted up the back sidewalk and knelt on the step by his head.  A light placement of his fingers on the neck brought an empathetic clicking of his tongue and a slow shake of the head.  With an awkward grimace he announced, “I’m sorry, he’s dead.”  Then, as though it was news, “For quite awhile.”
            “We assumed,” Ellen said.  
            “What do you think he was doing back here?” he asked, having produced a notebook from his pocket, poised to write – eyes scanning the length of the porch.
            “His normal exit for work,” she shrugged, throwing a quick glance at Johnny.
            “He was seen in town this morning.  Did he call you to let you know he was coming back home?”
            “No.”
            He scaled the stairs and stooped at those feet then stared down at his face between them. “Strange position.”
            George glanced at her empty expression, a numb as a trout glare.   
            Shrugging, the officer rolled his eyes and called for the ambulance crew to retrieve the gurney.  Both attendants were large men, but they struggled to lift him off the steps.
            “Big man,” one huffed sheepishly.
            “Always was,” George agreed.
            “George.  John,” Ellen barked, after watching Willard being loaded into the ambulance and hauled away.  “Bring the groceries inside please.”
            His surprise was obvious.  “You were shopping this morning already?”
            “No George.  I was late last night from the store and couldn’t get them inside and put away before Willard got home.  I had to get supper ready for Willard, who must eat as soon as he gets home.  I figured no harm would come to them sitting out all night in this cold.  No different than a refrigerator.”
            Johnny leaped off the porch over all the steps, barely touching the sidewalk as he bounded toward the car.  His quickness and agility was surprising considering his father’s general slothfulness.  By the time George reached the car he’d already carried two bags inside and was back for more.  His grandfather’s presence seemed to be uplifting, though his expression remained stone-like as he continued avoiding eye contact most of the time.  Maybe it was an effort to impress him, though knowing how his father felt - George doubted it and tried not to be overly optimistic.
            Each kitchen cupboard door was open, not just one or two, but each and every one hanging like panting dog’s tongues hungry for food. They stacked the bags on the table for Ellen to empty and distribute with machine-like precision as she bounced lithely from table to cupboard.  Each item had an exact location and she knew it without hesitation.
            Johnny took one plate and a set of silverware to the dining room table.  Three places were already set as they were each night, without fail, immediately after the dinner dishes were cleared, so the task was out of the way for the next night.  Quickly he gathered Willard’s place setting, stacking them to the side and placed George’s setting at Willard’s chair.
            George watched him curiously, confused about the placement of his setting, even more confused at the lack of sadness in the house.  Ready to admit his lack of feeling for Willard, he had always thought Ellen and Johnny revered him. 
            Johnny brought Willard’s dishes and silverware back to the kitchen where Ellen scooped them up and put them into the general stack of dishes in the cupboard.
Ellen walked over and stared up at him with no expression. “Yes George, I know it’s only been two weeks, but I think you’ll agree that these are extenuating circumstances.”
            He nodded.  “Why don’t you give me the key to the store?  I’ll go over and handle the business the rest the day, at least.”  He had worked it in the off season before Willard was born, when Wilhelmina tolerated his ball playing because he wasn’t yet a father – expecting it to end as soon as fatherhood arrived.
            She marched to the door on the right side of the sink and pulled out the key attached to a square block of wood.  “Could never lose this key,” she commented with a sigh - another of Willard’s ideas.  “Thank you.  Johnny and I do have to get to Finch’s to set up funeral arrangements.”
            “You okay?”  He figured she had to be experiencing shock.  She had referred to her son as Johnny.  He felt he was moving in slow motion.  It had to be shock. Maybe they were all experiencing shock.
 
Whenever he ate dinner with the family George witnessed the same routine.  Willard filling his chair at the head of the table after struggling to squeeze into it. Johnny quietly approaching, standing behind him and gripping the back of the chair tightly, enough to whiten his knuckles, while bowing his head.  His lips silently mouthed a prayer while Ellen stood in the kitchen doorway waiting her turn then replaced him and repeated the act.  Willard sat with his eyes closed, a smirk on his thick lips, basking in the reverence.
 
            Johnny slid Ellen’s chair out from the table so she could sit before taking his own.  George sat in Willard’s chair and waited for the food to be passed. Willard’s always recited grace, which he’d heard enough to recite, but figured they were too shocked to do it themselves, and figured it would be sanctimonious because he wasn’t religious.
 
            Willard’s ritual, after the food was distributed, was to announce the day’s total receipts from the hardware store.  At seven o’clock sharp, Ellen checked her watch.  Dinner was his stage, his chance to drum his philosophy into his captive audience.  George closed his eyes, recalling the booming voice.  “Four hundred twenty seven dollars, thirty four cents.  Our fifty third best day ever.”  Then, waving his fork as if a conductor’s wand, he would bark, “Boy, your future is intact.”  Shrugging his massive shoulders, he then clarified, “Not handed to you, mind you.  At least, not if I can help it, but certainly to be nurtured, mined like gold, if you will.  The store is bigger than when I inherited it from your grandmother and when you inherit it from me you will make sure it grows even more.”  Then, as if part of the script, Ellen would give an approving nod as soon as Johnny glanced at her.  The scraping of utensils against plates was the only sound after Willard’s pontification.
           
            That night at the table George stated the obvious, “Terrible tragedy,” grabbing a bowl of green beans from Johnny. “But keeping up with tradition, the receipts today, albeit a short day, was $512.54.  I don’t know where that ranks.”  He glanced from Ellen to Johnny.   Ellen’s hair rested on her shoulders.  It shined brilliantly. He caught himself staring and quickly dropped his gaze when she caught him.  He’d never seen it down. “We were deluged by town folks paying their respects.  And while they were in the store, many just picked up some odds and ends.”  Sitting in for his son felt more natural than he thought it would.  From the looks on Ellen and Johnny’s faces, it seemed to settle them.  Maybe it was the right thing to do.
            “Terrible things happen.” She cut her roast beef. Her locks swung gently across her face.  “Without terrible there’d be no good.  Willard believed in the hereafter and right at this moment he is standing patiently in line awaiting entry into the kingdom.” Her tone was noncommittal – just passing along the message – not particularly agreeing with it – which was a new slant.
            Johnny glanced at George as if waiting to see if he agreed with Willard.
            “His mother wouldn’t have been able to handle this,” George commented.
            “Willard believed death is but another step in our existence.  Missing the deceased is part of life on this earth,” she recited in monotone, as if reading cue cards.
            Johnny nodded as if he had taken her place as the family’s verifier. Maybe that meant George  was to step in and take his place as the pupil.  And the circle continued.     Ellen went on.  “At Wilhelmina’s funeral Willard told me she was sure to be the first in line for entry into the great hereafter, at least if cleanliness and goodness were used to determine priority.  And her entry was to pave the way for his arrival as his is to pave the way for Johnny’s and mine of course.”  She paused to chew a piece of meat. Minutes passed as she chewed and chewed.  Proper digestion of food was important to Willard and he made sure they all chewed their food a minimum of fifteen times before swallowing.  “The family is forever rejoined.  Johnny, when your time comes there will be relatives there to greet you with love, warmth and celebration.  Your father once explained to me that each family owns its own subdivision.”
            George choked.  “Couple of cars per family, huh?”
            “Of course not! According to Willard, we will have wings, George.  Angels.”  A small curl of her lip followed.
            He bit his tongue and kept his mouth shut after a “Jesus!” slipped out, but caught her smirk. He just shook his head. The fact Willard felt his mother was an example of goodness was humorous.  “Broken wings.”
            “George!” she sighed, glancing at Johnny but he wasn’t sure her expression meant this is what your father meant – you have a heathen grandfather – or she was agreeing that Willard beliefs were ludicrous.  Willard was a fundamentalist in all manners of life – simple, straightforward paths from start to finish with little or no time to step to the side and enjoy.  Work and faith – success in those categories mean the wings for the extended family will be awarded.  Any veering from those two virtues was a waste and would derail the person – as it had George, according to Wilhelmina and Willard.
           
Ellen was an orphan.  Willard began dating her after she came to work at the store.  It was her first and only job – short lived as it turned out to be.  They were the same age, though Ellen appeared much younger.  When he brought her home she mumbled “How do you do?” to the family, then spent the remainder of the evening rail-straight, hands folded in her lap, uttering nothing, not even emitting a sigh.  Once again, George was invited as a ruse. He hadn’t lived at the house for years, but Wilhelmina insisted he attend because a broken marriage may scare Ellen off.
At first, George liked her because it was a replica of his routine whenever he was with them.  But, as the night progressed, and Willard and Wilhelmina droned on about their mundane interests, giving no one a chance to interrupt, he noticed that she hung hungrily on each of their words, nodding and smiling stiffly between glances at him.  He soon excused himself, as was his habit. There was only so much he could take.
 
After helping to clean the table the third night, she turned to George and said, “You are free to go home, George, but I’d like you to work the store for me again tomorrow.  Funeral will be at Grace Church of course.  Reverend Fine will do the service.  Flowers will be ordered tomorrow and Willard already has a casket.  A birthday present to himself two years after Wilhelmina died.”
“Why do suppose he wanted a casket?”
“To be buried in, of course.” She purred with an amused tone.
“But he was so young.”
She smirked, a thin line caressing her lip.  “Turned out to be a prudent decision, if you ask me.”
Shrugging and nodding while studying her expression which seemed to focus past the present, aiming on upcoming events. 
“Ellen?”
His voice brought her back to the present, reeling her in from that place, wherever that place was.  “Yes George.”
“I’m confused and, I must admit, a bit surprised.”
“At what George?”
“My inclusion in all of this.  I somehow doubt Willard would approve.”
She smirked again, a slight curl of her upper lip and a brief lift of her eyebrow, and said, “Don’t you worry, George.  We all must adjust to tragedy when it occurs. I know exactly what I’m doing.  You’ll see.”
 
Willard ran away from the only baseball game he ever attended.  He was almost four. It was his only game because Wilhelmina thought it incorrigible for a married man to play a boy’s sport and refused to let Willard accompany him.
On the way out of the hospital, baby Willard, named in honor of her father, wrapped in a blue blanket in her lap, she looked up from her wheelchair with a wide smile.  “I’m assuming you let the team know you’re playing days are over.”  This was a statement, not a question. 
“There is the issue of a contract.”
“And I told you not to sign that contract.  Her cheeks became flushed and her nostrils flared, each huff growing louder.  “I will not be able to handle the store alone now that Willard is with us.  And as I’ve continually preached I will not have my son raised by a scoundrel on the ball field.”                           
She felt baseball was a front to a life of ill repute – constantly quoting newspaper articles that appeared in the local newspaper about the wild, rambunctious ball players who spent more time carousing in bars with sordid women than playing ball.
The only reason Willard was allowed to attend was because one of Wilhelmina’s best friends became sick and she felt obligated to visit.  She refused to subject the boy to the germs that obviously lingered at the friend’s house.
“I’m not at all pleased with this,” she growled.  “If you were a normal upstanding father, you would stay home and watch your son, but I know you won’t because you’re not that type of father.  And believe me, I have called everyone I trust in town to watch my son, and none are available, so you are my only alternative.  I have checked and the Rosenfeld Orphanage will be behind the dugout, so at least Willard will be surrounded by children.”
Mute on the drive to the park, Willard fidgeted, gazing about anxiously for his mother. Sitting him down on the bench in the dugout, baseball hat perched awkwardly on his blonde head, cotton candy in his hands, George entrusted  him to the batboy and went off to warm up.
 George pitched a career gem, his one and only perfect game for the Ferris Tigers, the local Class A minor league team.  It was his fourth year playing pro ball and even before the game rumors were flying – the organization was planning to call him up to Class AA in Reading.  The press coverage was heavier than usual because of the rumor.  His adrenaline level was drug-like helping his ball soar across the plate as if it had wings. 
As the hitless innings progressed, his focus grew stronger and after each inning he sat alone at the end of the bench, away from everyone while his teammates kept up the tradition of staying quiet and ignoring him. Unbeknownst to anyone, Willard snuck off after the 5th inning.
“So George,” began a reporter after the game, “how do you think the parent club is going to react to this?  Looks like Reading will be the next step.”  George had taken the ball from his catcher and was writing the day’s date on it.
The word parent popped the euphoric bubble and he glanced past the flashing bulbs into an empty dugout.  The stands above the dugout were clearing out.  Mid-question he sprinted to the nearest exit, flipping the ball into the stands as he exited the tunnel and crossed the street into the adjacent neighborhood where he searched frantically.
Desperately walking each block back and forth, and asking each person he met, “Have you seen a little blonde boy in a baseball cap?”
He finally slumped onto the curb in front of the ballpark.  Visions of every heinous possibility surged.  The crowd was gone.  Willard was gone.  He was alone.
Then, suddenly, inching slowly around the corner was Wilhelmina’s red vehicle – shining, large white letters across the side spelling “Willard’s Hardware.” Leaping to his feet he caught a glimpse of the top of Willard’s head over the dash in the passenger seat and he began running toward them.  Filled with relief, clapping and hopping on his approach he failed to spot Wilhelmina’s rage – her face as red as her car.  She slowed to allow him to open the passenger side door.
“Wow!  You don’t know how scared I was,” he cried.
And she stomped on the gas before he could climb inside.  Panicked, he held on to keep from falling under the screeching tires and felt the shooting pain in his pitching shoulder as it popped out of its socket and ripped every tendon by the time she slowed down enough to send him smashing into the door.
All bones around his shoulder, the humeral head, the clavicle, the acrominion, and even the scapula were shattered and each ligament was ripped or twisted beyond repair – leaving his golden arm useless to ever pitch again.
            Alimony in the divorce was a room in the back of the store.
            He accepted a coaching job for the team. After the ballgames he lived the scoundrel’s life that was the fodder of newspaper articles.
            She and Willard ignored George the best they could. Growing large at an early age he began helping his mother run the hardware store by the time he was seven.
 
            Wilhelmina dropped dead of a heart attack while lifting a box.  She rarely asked for help in the store. Willard had been busy waiting on a customer.  After entering the stock room and discovering her on the floor pinned beneath the box, he easily lifted it off her, and carried her like a bag of sand over his shoulder down Main Street to the coroner’s.
 
            George discovered Johnny playing ball with Winter Reeves and his friends soon after Willard’s funeral but didn’t dare let on for fear of frightening him away.  Confused by his appearance, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was some rebellious reaction to his father’s death, but was shocked to learn from Winter that not only had Johnny been playing before Willard’s death, but Ellen often watched him from the back porch when Willard had been at work.
           
“John, you better get going,” she sighed as she watched him get ready for school. Each step, sticking his sandwich in the brown bag, his books into his school bag, was calculated, but done with the swiftness and fine tuning of an athlete. “You can use the front door, because those back steps will be treacherous for sure.”
“Won’t Dad be mad? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“No, way too icy back there, I’m sure. And don’t you worry about your father.”
“But what will Dad say if he finds out?”
She paused taking a deep breath.  “It will be our secret.”
John dropped his school bag at the sound of an odd scratching at the back door.  “What is that?”
The raucous scraping was persistent as if someone or something was trying to get through the door and Ellen’s eyes met her son’s with a glint of terror.  “
 “Leave it be,” he warned as she walked toward the back door.
She had always wanted a window placed in the back door, which she figured should be easy since her husband did own the hardware store, but Willard refused on the basis of privacy.  “One window in the kitchen is enough.”  That one window was above the sink and didn’t look over the back porch.
And that was what was going through her mind as she opened the door with a scream.  It was a high-pitched, siren-like scream she felt sure would do the trick and scare whatever scoundrel was lurking on the other side of her door.
The commotion that followed was noisy but ponderous, as an unwary Willard, startled by the piercing screech, tripped on the shovel, which he was carrying to retrieve salt from the salt box, after failing to scrape the ice off the porch with just the shovel.  His gigantic work boots, slipping on the sheer ice, rose high in the air, whisking just inches from Ellen’s startled face, as his head went down, arms waving like wings as he cascaded clumsily over the edge of the porch and crashed with a sickening thud followed by a sharp crack as his neck snapped on the bottom stair, killing him instantly.
Stunned, grasping fruitlessly at the cold morning air, his awkward flight replaying over and over until Johnny, who witnessed the tragedy from behind her, slipped by her, grabbed the shovel and propped it against the wall.  He inched carefully over the ice to the edge of the porch and paused a moment to stare silently down at his father before ushering Ellen back inside.  He dialed George’s number and handed the phone to her.
Opportunity presents itself at odd times and horizons sometimes open where they never existed.  It had when Ellen was offered a job at the hardware store.  It had when she was invited to eat dinner with Willard’s parents. It had when Willard proposed to her, allowing her to give birth to Johnny.  Johnny was what she always called him to herself – never out loud in front of Willard.  And sometimes opportunities are created.
           
            George received the call from Winter Reeves.  It was a sunny, warm day in May.
            “Like you to come to the field today.”
            “When?”
            “We’re here now.”
            A crowd of boys were huddled around the pitcher’s mound; their backs to George as he approached.  The boys stopped talking on cue and turned to him, the group opening into a half-circle, revealing Ellen and Johnny standing directly on the mound.  All of them flashed devious smiles.
            Ellen reached over and picked a ball out of Johnny’s mitt and with a quick flick of her wrist, flipped it to George.  He snared it out of the air and held it up.  It was the very ball he had been writing on the day of his perfect game that he flipped into the stands on his way to look for Willard.  A small blonde girl from the orphanage snagged it in mid-air.
            “Do ya think you might sign that for your grandson,” Ellen asked as she wrapped her arm around Johnny’s shoulders.
            “Gotta pen?”
            A half dozen boys thrust their pens toward him and he signed it slowly and handed it back to Johnny, who held it out for all of them to see.
                                                                    THE END       

​X marks the spot. The spot can be a place of love and happiness. The X has four points. If each of the four points represents a person seeking love, what would be the odds that each of the four people would find love in the same spot?  When you combine romance with a touch of tech, I knew the odds were very high.
After ten years of creating failing smart phone Apps, I finally succeeded. I just sold my dating App “Tumbles” for more money than I can ever spend. I cranked up the volume of a U2 song to celebrate:

​It’s a beautiful day and I can’t stop myself from smiling 
If I’m drinking, then I’m buying 
And I know there’s no denying 
It’s a beautiful day, the sun is up, the music’s playing 
And even if it started raining 
You won’t hear this boy complaining…

​I stare at the walls of our apartment my techie roommates have turned into makeshift whiteboards with the language of coding and software engineering which is my trade:

My new found wealth can’t buy the happy times I shared with my family nor will it buy my health. My AIDS virus mutated and produced a drug resistant variation. I haven’t told my family about selling Tumbles or my AIDS. Before I get too sick, I’m embarking on a worldwide trip. I’ll likely never see my family again and before I depart to see the world, I want to bring my family back together again, loving and appreciating each other without judgment.


I dropped out of college in my freshman year because I wasn’t learning anything I didn’t know already. I was the prodigal son expected to follow in my father’s footsteps.  I resent my father because my youth was squandered on science camps and after school college prep courses. I longed for a carefree childhood, free to pick my pursuits and enjoy long summers with my friends on my own terms. Quitting college and rejecting multiple job offers in Silicon Valley angered my father. My dream was to be self-employed and become an App creator. My father kicked me out of the house saying:
“Go out and make it on your own, Alex! Let’s see how well you like struggling to pay the high rents in San Francisco. I hope you’ll find a woman to shack up with!”
My father was correct about high rent in San Francisco. It takes the combined income of my two roommates and me to pay the rent on our three bedroom apartment.  I’m a very good coder and picked up well-paying assignments permitting me to work from home while I developed smart phone App’s. I’m pushing thirty and “Tumbles” is a hit.  Initial feedback from users is positive, and downloads are increasing at a feverish pace across all demographic profiles. I sold Tumbles to a mega social media company who can introduce it throughout the world because it’s important to me that it will help people find love.
My family home is located in Palo Alto, California, which is home to a prestigious university where my parents graduated from, and I attended before dropping out. The residential part of town has beautiful homes. Palo Alto is brimming with intellectuals and diversions catering to a sophisticated population. University Avenue is the central business district which hosts eclectic restaurants and a beautiful outdoor mall featuring the latest tech goods and fashionable clothing stores. I miss our family gatherings in the outdoor common area of the mall where we enjoyed a meal or desert.  This was our family’s happy spot to be together. 
My parent’s inter-racial marriage was a disappointment to each of their families. My parents were idealistic and believed love alone would smooth out the differences in their heritages. Growing up was problematic in an affluent, mostly Caucasian city. My sister and I look exotic, which is beautiful to some people and confusing to others. My sister and I felt different from our peers, and to complicate matters for me, I am homosexual. 

My mom and sister kept my homosexuality a secret from dad although my father had suspicions about my sexuality, choosing to remain in denial. My mother and sister love me for who I am.
My father and mother met in college. My father is a software engineer and senior executive at one of the Silicon Valley’s most respected giant tech companies. He has worked for the company since graduating from college and his stock options have increased in value making our family very comfortable, enabling him also to support his extended family in India. His name is Singh and is of the Brahman class which is the highest social class in Hindu India. My father is tall and very distinguished looking with a full head of black hair. Even in casual Silicon Valley, my father chooses to wear conservative business suits with English rep ties.  He has a chip on his shoulder because of his dark skin and accent. He believed he had to study and work harder than his Caucasian classmates and fellow employees. He thought he was setting a good example for his children that hard work paid off, but the reality was the “pay off” included alienation from his family. I believe the racism he encountered changed him from a young idealistic happy student to a hardened parent choosing traditional Indian patriarchal methods of raising a family. In one of his arguments with my mother, he confessed to agreeing with his parents that his inter-racial marriage thwarted his career advancement which devastated my mother.
My mother is Caucasian and a native of San Francisco. Judy is a beautiful, slightly built, elegant woman with long flowing brunette hair. Mom’s charismatic spirit attracts people to her like a magnet.  She studied mathematics and art history as an undergraduate. She is a coveted supporter of the arts in the Bay Area which gives her personal satisfaction and a social life outside home. Mom’s family has deep roots in the history of San Francisco. She became a lawyer like her father and grandfather. Mom practiced patent law for a prestigious San Francisco law firm, and some of the most successful tech giants in Silicon Valley were her clients. She left the law firm to become a full time mother. My mother provided the encouragement for my sister and me to follow our passions which differed from my father’s. Mom pines for the opportunity to return to patent law but my sister’s substance addiction requires her full time attention.
Kayla is my sister. She’s an artist and excelled in painting and writing poetry. Kayla is a natural beauty like her mother. She had no interest or talent in STEM subjects which was a disappointment to my father who dismissed her award winning art and poetry as “not commercial”. Realizing his daughter wouldn’t follow in his footsteps, he attempted to marry her off to the son of a successful Bay Area tech family. My mother and sister resisted the arranged marriage, alienating them from dad. My parents stay married for appearance sake since divorce is not acceptable in my father’s family. They have slept in separate bedrooms for many years. 

It was too much for Kayla to live in a house with three over achievers and she numbed her emotional pain first with pot followed by opiates and heroin. She spends most of her time in her bedroom with the drapes closed. On occasion, my mother is able to coax her out for a day of shopping.  Kayla has been a resident of the Bay Area’s finest addiction treatment centers which haven’t cured her. Nobody can cure Kayla because she doesn’t want a cure.  She won’t speak to our father and he gave up on Kayla writing her off as an “embarrassment” to the family, driving my sister deeper into her dark emotional hole. I don’t think she’ll live to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. I’ve tried to help Kayla but can’t reach her. It pains me to see my sister and mom suffer. I love my father but his personality has created a schism with those who want to love him.
People downloading Tumbles are a kind of “romantic connoisseur” appreciating an organic search for a mate.  I like to say, “They prefer to shop at the farmers market as opposed to the grocery store chain.”  They relish the unexpected and want searching for a mate to be an adventure. My company slogan is, “Tumbles provides old fashioned romance with a touch of tech”.  My users don’t receive a photo and want the opportunity to meet somebody without prejudgment provided by photographs. The Tumbles App looks like a slot machine. You press the Tumble button and three tumblers turn and provide three selections. The tumbler marked with the X means that person is in closest proximity and Tumbles guides the user to their location. Since neither person has a photo, there is no commitment to meet. The lack of a photo creates a sense of discovery because the user must ferret out their match in a crowd.  If the user believes they have located their match, they tap smart phones and the Tumbles APP vibrates and the screen lights with a fireworks spectacular accompanied by slot machine winning jack pot sound effects. Tumbles invites it’s users to answer questions which are based upon personality profiles. The more information provided the better the results to the user. 
I’m very keen on understanding the growth of Tumbles and study where it’s being downloaded. The Bay Area and Silicon Valley have heavy concentrations of users. I’m particularly interested in university towns since college students are early adapters of tech. In reviewing the user accounts in Palo Alto, two user names, PATLAWGAL and DARKCANARY stood out.  I confirmed it was mom and Kayla because the GPS tracking feature pinpointed them to our family home. I was happy to see my mom and sister using Tumbles. Some of our uptight and stodgy neighbors were also using Tumbles. These prim and proper neighbors were the type of people you’d never suspect of having marital problems or cheating. It was ironic that these same neighbors looked down upon their inter-racial neighbors.


I became intrigued with a user who had a pattern of logging on at six pm every evening and parking one block around the corner from our family home. The user name was MICROCHPMAVN. This user was very deliberate in logging on and off without moving, indicating he didn’t want to be tracked by Tumbles.  I was alerted one afternoon that this user had logged on, forgot to log off, and drove to our family home.  It was dad. I was curious about my father’s use of Tumbles. He could have been simply checking on the progress of his son’s enterprise or actually using Tumbles to meet somebody. A check of his profile indicated he had completed all of the personality profile questions which was characteristic of my father who was a thorough man. I shared the Tumbles profiles created by my family members with the psychologist who wrote the personality profile questions for Tumbles. The psychologist’s assessment was insightful.
My father’s profile indicated he was a “widower” suggesting he feels he has lost his family and wants a second chance at raising a family without judgment and plenty of nurturing. MICROCHPMAVN describes himself as a strong provider and good role model. The psychologist believed dad was “capable of love and nurturing”.
PATLAWGAL’s profile indicates she is a “free spirit seeking challenge”. She prefers a partner who is a “maverick” challenging the mores of society and is a “nonjudgmental progressive thinker and philanthropist.” Mom wants a man who will encourage her to pursue her artistic and legal interests.  Mom chose to identify as “divorced” signaling she was going to divorce dad. If they had a chance to reconcile, it will have to be quick knowing mom’s decisive decision making style.
DARKCANARY is seeking an artist who appreciates her creativity, and a spiritual man more “interested in living each day to its fullest than ambition and materialism.” Kayla chose to identify as “other” which is just like my sister who refuses to be labeled.
My goal isn’t finding a mate but healing my broken family. Despite some irresponsible homosexual encounters in my youth inflicting me with AIDS which will ultimately kill me, I’ve suppressed my homosexuality in deference to my father and found solace in my work. In developing Tumbles, I’ve determined that finding love is a journey creating self awareness from each romantic disappointment making you a new and improved version of your former self when you meet somebody new. Maybe Tumbles will bring my family together again?  The meeting will be either a success or a failure but time is running out for reconciliation and I don’t want a divorce, Kayla’s suicide or my death to be the last paragraph in our family saga.


I rigged the Tumbles results for each family member to always match us to each other. For dad, it was mom. For mom, it was dad. For my sister, it was me. I knew that if I could manipulate them into meeting at our happy spot within the mall, we might reunite again as a family and recover our lost love and happiness. Over the weeks that followed, I made numerous attempts to match each member of my family and coax them into meeting at the mall. Unfortunately, one or more of them wouldn’t make themselves available. I remained resolved. It wasn’t until Friday of a Labor Day weekend that each of my family members decided to venture out and meet their match. I positioned myself just outside of the mall in the parking lot so I could watch them arrive. It was heartwarming to watch each of them arrive happy and with the look of adventure.
My father, mother, and sister had already met and expressed feigned surprise in meeting each other. As I approached, I held up my smart phone showing my X. In unison, dad, mom, and Kayla held up their phones showing their X. I tapped Kayla’s smart phone which lit up with fireworks and winning jack pot sound effects. Mom and dad each tapped phones confirming they found their match. Our shared embarrassment in searching for love combined with the gratification that Tumbles matched us to each other broke down the old judgments and barriers between us. Using Tumbles made each of us aware our family was hurting and fractured. My usually stoic father became emotional and hurriedly excused himself to buy each of us our favorite flavor of ice cream. Kayla, mom, and I sat silent and stared into each other’s teary eyes. Mom reached for Kayla’s hand and I held Kayla’s. Dad returned with the ice cream cones with a spring in his step and big smile on his face. It was the dad I remember from my childhood. We people-watched, joked, and embarked upon happy conversations about meaningless subjects like we did as a young family. I spied my father and mother playing “footie”. Kayla was radiant, reciting a poignant new love poem from memory warming our hearts. My smart phone vibrated alerting me to the completion of my sale of Tumbles. My father caught me glancing at my phone and as I raised my head to meet his stare, he smiled giving me the impression he was proud of me for creating an ingenious APP bringing our family back together which might also help others find love. We all returned home to enjoy dinner and a movie together. It was a happy, loving, and glorious evening together. I chose to keep my travel plans and illness to myself. 
​

I secretly arranged for mom to become the beneficiary of my estate knowing she would responsibly manage the fortune while providing for our family as well many socially responsible philanthropic organizations including AIDS research.
In the months that followed, the tech giant and new owner introduced Tumbles throughout the world keeping my slogan: “Tumbles provides old fashioned romance with a touch of tech”. From the many user testimonials and publicity brought to my attention, I was gratified to see Tumbles was helping people find love. As I approached the Indian city of my father’s family for the first and final visit, I hummed:

​It’s a beautiful day and I can’t stop myself from smiling… It’s a beautiful day, the sun is up, the music’s playing 
And even if it started raining 
You won’t hear this boy complaining

          I stood at the rail squinting, peering into the dankness. The mist enveloping the sea enveloped the ship as well. There must be other passengers up and about in the pit of the night I thought. If so they too are hidden in the muck.
           I took out the flask and warmed myself. So here I was, exiled from New York for my own safety. No more superb meatballs on Mulberry Street or delicious stew on Twenty-third.
          I could understand things I had done were unacceptable to many, criminal to others, not in my own interest perhaps. Yet they derived from my inescapable nature did they not?
          I went below, fiddled with the key to the stateroom for a ridiculous amount of time. I sat on the edge of the bed, took my shoes off, each flying halfway across the room when I yanked it off. Then I stretched on the bed in my clothes and slept.
*
         
          The train clacked along past towns and villages, fields and moors. I was weary of it. I had travelled from New York, gone from Portugal to Ireland, ridden trains across the length of the latter, travelled by steamer on a route that carried mail, and then back onto the trains again for the purpose of crossing England.
          In a matter of hours I would arrive in London. I had bought a map of it the night before in a shop prior to boarding the train. The map was useless until the break of day, lights no longer an amenity on the railways of England since it had joined the war. Even finding the station had been
 
a challenge. Signs were painted over to impede the Luftwaffe. 
          From the second I boarded the train was crackling with news of an attack the night before in London. Till then, the English had struck me not merely as impassive but as practically mute. At least compared to the New Yorkers to whom I was accustomed. But the nearer we got to London the more frenetic the talk became.
          All this effort expended getting to a location as fraught as London under siege by Hitler felt entirely absurd. Yet given my unique circumstances, seeking safety in a place under bombardment was what my life had come to.
*
         
         I could see from the taxi, not very far from the station where the bombs had landed, causing damage, but not complete destruction. Even now smoke clung to the horizon to the south and east.
          “All the docks were set afire, all the way from the bridge to the King George. Gerry got the ships too, while he was at it,” the taxi driver told me.
          Fortunately I was headed elsewhere. I was going to Westminster, so far at least relatively spared.  While I had no idea what a normal day prior to the war had looked like, Londoners appeared to be going about their business in a normal way.
          There were oddities. The sky was dotted with “barrage balloons,” as the driver called them, which resembled large, fat fish hovering among the clouds. Their purpose was to obstruct the bombers. Here and there sandbags were piled in front of buildings.
          “Those are police stations and air raid posts,” the cabbie said. “Important offices and posh companies.”
          As we were pulling up in front of the Dorchester, the cabbie announced, “That’s the safest building in London.”
          “No kidding?”
          “Concrete reinforced with steel. A third of the place is underground.”
          “Excellent.”
           It was the sort of place my family would set me up in, if for no other reason than it was the kind of place they would situate themselves. More relevant, they were friends and associates of the people who ran the place, who had agreed to grant a favor. Such favors travelled back and forth no doubt.
           That this was better than I deserved under the circumstances was never left unsaid. Handing me a wad of cash and allowing me to seek my refuge anywhere across the globe was entirely out of the question. Perhaps if I accumulated sufficient funds on my own, eventually I could make a run for Switzerland.

           The law firm in Grosvenor Square where I was to obtain the weekly stipends intended to keep me alive was nearby. It had been made clear to me that the sums involved likely were to remain paltry. It was my mother’s and father’s, and perhaps grandmother’s epiphany no doubt to place me in a gilded prison of sorts, safe from harm, yet without the means to satisfy appetites for what was put in front of me.
          Hyde Park, of which I had a view from my room, normally was a pastoral splendor I was told, though now it was tarnished with anti-aircraft guns, Ack-Acks as the Londoners called them because of the sound they made.
          The bar was elegant, and surprisingly brisk with business for early in the afternoon, though one had to keep in mind the time available to the British leisure class. If I couldn’t share a similar affinity for the class into which I had been born I could share its taste for leisure.
          Noticeable immediately was the panting hedonism and official gravity present simultaneously. There were unmistakable government types, British and American. There were English men and women of every age, a few youthful, and vaguely decadent. There were exotic types, foreign exiles and refugees of means, nationalities I would have been hard pressed to guess correctly.
          But there was too much of the monocled and mustachioed for my own taste. I hadn’t lived at arm’s length from my family just to squander my time now with the habitués of places such as this.
          I woke up from my nap slightly after seven. The first thing I did was to close the blackout curtains, a precaution not taken lightly by authorities or civilians either. I went to the basin and splashed water on my face, seeing my bloodshot eyes and sallow face in the mirror. I’ve the look of a lost dog I thought.
          I was toweling my face when the sirens wailed, and I raced to get a shirt, then stood in the middle of the room with no idea on earth what I ought to do. I was drawn to the terrace, curious to see this turning of the world upside down.
          The park was bright as day, searchlights tilted skywards, sweeping back and forth scouring the clouds. There were shouts in the street, but nothing that would qualify as panic. You heard the bombers long before you could see them. From a distance they were a swarm of metallic insects. Once directly overhead they were a grinding, mechanical cataclysm swooping down from above.
          You felt the concussions even at a distance from where the bombs struck. Flames from below turned the heavens crimson. Plumes of white smoke billowed up from where clusters of the bombs had landed. The bulk of the destruction appeared to be to the south and east again, around the river.
           I went back inside and retrieved the flask, and sat on the side of the bed trembling. The clanging bells of an armada of fire trucks replaced the drone of bombers.
          Not long after the air raid sirens began to howl again. I jumped up, got dressed as quickly as I could, and scrambled as fast I could to the basement. Not only was the bar bursting at the seams, it appeared to be in the throes of a frenzied bacchanal. The highly respectable were highly uninhibited.
         In the course of several dull but useful conversations I was apprised of numerous wartime restrictions and regulations. Unlike most, residents of the Dorchester could regard the nation’s ever tightening rationing largely as a mere abstraction. Few things were unavailable on the pricey menu, though when they were it elicited moans from those abruptly faced with sacrifice.     
*
 
          I spent my nights safe inside the hotel for a week or more. As there had yet to be an air raid during the daylight hours, I began venturing about in the afternoon. Occasionally sirens would sound, but bombers never materialized.
          The first trip was to visit the lawyer, or more accurately, pick my allowance up. A secretary handed me an envelope and that was that. More Americans were thereabout than anywhere I had been in England. The embassy was close of course. I thought of stepping into the Connaught Hotel for a drink, mostly to see what sort of yanks were around. I didn’t, preferring to avoid questions concerning my presence in England.
          I strolled once to Piccadilly Circus, a poor man’s Times Square, where there was no shortage of pubs at least. Even in the afternoon there were gaggles of boozing British soldiers. But they came nowhere close to meeting my requirements for seediness.
          The gent behind the bar at the Dorchester in the evenings was relatively free of pomp, and I grew to enjoy our conversations. For the purpose of explaining myself, I conjured a fake sister currently attending Oxford, an unconvincing story of being commissioned by the family to keep a watchful eye.
          Once I had a story, my partiality for conversation blossomed. Then I met Lady Ellington.
          I brushed against her in the crowd at the bar. After a spicy exchange, I was invited to join her at her table, where she told me, she occasionally hosted her ”dearest friend” Lady Weller. She was older than I, in her thirties, her appearance a mixture of society matron and Flapper flourishes.
          I related the cockamamie sister story, which she seemed to weigh as possibly true, or an amusing lie.
          “In any case,” she said authoritatively, ”you are in the proper place for the time you are here.”
          She related that she had been raised in Sussex, and owned a home with her husband in Kensington, which they had boarded up after the initial night of bombing. They’d come to the Dorchester “for as long as required.”
          Her husband she said remained in his room and practically never left.
           “He has all sorts of hobbies and proclivities that absorb his time. He isn’t very social, and he doesn’t really drink.”
          A man in a charcoal suit and vest tipped his hat to her while passing by, and she nodded her head in acknowledgment, along with a cordial smile.
        “He’s an assistant to the Foreign Secretary. An exasperatingly dull fellow,” she said. She paused, and with a bit of a grin, added. “But such men may save us in the end.”
          Besides a predisposition for lingering in the proximity of booze, we shared an attraction to the school of Decadent artists. We prattled on about Huysmans and Machen, Nerval and Beardsley, Symons and Montesquieu. I told her that to my family’s distress the best thing I’d taken away from the fancy education they’d purchased was a romanticist’s infatuation with decadence. It appeared to strike a chord, and may have slightly endeared me to her in the casual way of people spending time together in bars.
          It was our second night together at her table when she opened her purse, and removed what looked to be a silver cigarette case. She took a thick scrap of paper out, snapped open the cigarette case, then dipping the paper in, scooped a tiny pile of snowy powder out. She sculpted it into a single slender line that resembled a piece of string. She said nothing, as if showing me something I had never seen before.
          “Cocaine,” she said. “I adore it.”
          “I’m rather fond of it myself,” I told her casually.
           “Really?” she said.
          “It crossed my path with a bit of frequency back in New York, yes.”
          “Ah. Well I’d be delighted if you would join me.”
          Rounding the piece of paper, and bending down, she daintily sniffed. Then she pushed the paper and the snowy pile in my direction.
          After we had refreshed ourselves she set out a remarkably lengthy, highly enthusiastic, and not altogether uninteresting historical overview of the substance itself. It incorporated Freud of course, the Incas naturally, Emile Zola, Queen Victoria, Pope Leo and Jules Verne. The Coca-Cola Company got its due, as the inventors of Ryno's Catarrh Remedy did.
          “During the Great War, they sold it at Harrods,” she said.
          Denouncing the “banality” of its illegality, she added with a confidence born of wealth, something of a family legacy of my own in fact, “I do what I wish to do.”
          I noted that the war wasn’t really good for the shipping business, and that cargo coming from South America must be highly endangered.
          'I’m worried this fuss with the Nazis is going to dampen the availability,” she told me. “I fear it terribly. I’m running a little dry already in fact.”
         Here, for the first time since I’d been in England, it occurred to me that my background and recent employment history had a potential relevance.
          “It’s possible I can be of use,” I said.
          Without providing details, I made clear that I had a bit of experience in this, and if given sufficient time to get the lay of the land I could solve her problem, and a couple of my own.
          She brightened, and said, “That would be wonderful.”
          Later in the evening I was counseled that due diligence in the pursuit of pleasure ought to lead me to Soho, where she had spent “many a colorful evening.” In fact, I already had designated it as my first nocturnal outing beyond the walls of the Dorchester.
*
 
          I began to think about how exactly to proceed with the mission I had discussed the night before with Lady Ellington. It had to some extent been my business when I was in in America.
 
          Nozynski, who had hired me, owned the hotel, though the Grimecki brothers were minor, if crudely bare-knuckled partners. He was amused by my expensive education, but recognized in me a deep intuition for sordidness lovingly nurtured.
          It was happenstance that had led me to the Densmore, literally passing by it, a shabby façade on 22nd a little east of Lexington. Evening desk clerk at a shady hotel may not have been what was expected of me. But in its peculiar way it was nearly perfect.
          The hotel provided its customers with “girls,” a routine service in establishments such as these. There were women everywhere in New York, and often enough they were fond of me, but it was “the girls” who sparked my ardor most. Looking after them, along with making arrangements with our guests were among the principal duties I held.
          Other amenities were rarely kept on site. Reefer perhaps. Cocaine and heroin were fetched only as needed. Seeing to their procurement was another function of mine.
          It was my daily habit to employ the services of one of the “girls” myself, sometimes two any given evening, paying at the going rate of course. There were nights when a prelude to visiting a “girl” would be the substance Lady Ellington doted on.
           My affection for one of “the girls,” Jeanette, blossomed quickly into infatuation, and eventually it was Jeanette and Jeanette alone to whom I would pay a nightly visit.
       Lou Grimecki liked the “girls” as well. He helped himself, though never with any thought of paying. That night when Jeanette came to me with her proposal I knew that Lou was in the room, there with Jeanette and Esther both. I never should have considered it. But I joined them in spite of knowing better.
           Then I saw something terrible happen. I watched as Lou committed a vicious act, brutal even by a criminal’s standards.
          I knew immediately that the Grimecki brothers would never in a million years leave me walking around alive after what I had witnessed. Benny Grimecki even told me as much. Nozynski assured me they would hunt me down anywhere in New York, anywhere in the country, so long and sticky were their criminal tentacles.
          Forever at odds with family, and for the last few years estranged entirely I was now in an indefensible position so to speak. The only means available were the family’s means, which were quite considerable, even if I had shunned them for many years.
          When I revealed to them what had occurred, a plan was quickly devised. I was to have no future contact with the family whatsoever lest the Grimeckis manage to get a whiff of my whereabouts. Moral repugnance surely was a factor as well. At the very least, it shook me out of their hair. And if I met my demise in Britain, mother and father might pass it off as a casualty of war, a tragic sacrifice against the terrible evil that had engulfed the world.
*
 
          In the morning, every front page shouted the same news. The Germans had bombed the palace. Not only Buckingham had been hit the night before but several government buildings, the BBC and the National Gallery among them. Even in the lively basement of the Dorchester the explosions had made an impression. Westminster was a target now. No longer it appeared would the poor sods living in the East End be the only ones catching hell from the Germans.      
          Nevertheless Lady Ellington had her needs, and so did I. I set out from the hotel in the evening shortly after the sun was down, quickly understanding the challenge of getting from one place to another in a darkened city. Cars rolling down the street with their headlamps off were alarming enough. Busses lumbering around in the pitch black were dicier still. The populace of a great city crept about like mice in the night.
          Practically all who had made a stop at Lady Ellington’s table managed to ballyhoo the Café de Paris as the toast of Soho. Shortly after arriving there I could see why. The dance floor was bulging with frenzied jitterbuggers, all the tables were jammed. Dressed to the nines, it was a clientele not altogether different from that at the Dorchester, even if slightly younger.          
          The air raid sirens began to wail, the first of the nightly raids. The  band could barely be heard above the ruckus. Yet it was obvious that the chaos which transpired outside only enlivened what was happening inside. At one point when the band had stopped, one of the Messerschmitts accompanying the bombers could be heard spiraling to the ground after being hit.
          Despite the presence of one or two in the crowd who I eyed as possible confederates in seediness, as expected the place was an attraction to sample but not to frequent.
           While there were revelers aplenty going about in the streets even during an air raid I was petrified. Feeling not so much vulnerable as utterly naked I dashed through the door of the nearest pub. While it was racier it still was not precisely what I was hunting for. Mercifully the All Clear sounded.
          I slipped down a darkened Moor Street, where there appeared to be no shortage of alehouses and rowdy inns. I saw the pub, only a hole in the wall, next to it the kind of place I’d been searching for, a bleak hotel called The Baxter Arms.
         Flushing out what I needed from the desk clerk was easy enough, speaking his language more or less. The barman in the adjacent pub would accommodate my order for powder he told me, and assist with “a tart” as well.
          After several schnapps I departed the pub with the “tart” enthusiastically attached at my arm, and a package of cocaine. I stayed with her for an hour or so, positive I would visit the Baxter Arms again.
           The following evening I reported my success to Lady Ellington. Passing along the bounty that had been procured I assured her, “There’s going to be more to come. There’s work to be done though.” I was compensated extravagantly, and accepted what she offered without demur.
           Shortly thereafter we were joined by two of Lady Ellington’s “acquaintances” introduced to me as Dahlia and Clarissa. I still had no idea what “Lady” actually signified, nor did I ever bother to ask. The two seemed entirely modern.  Lady Ellington, newly flush, sprinkled some of the fairy dust on the table in a generous gesture.
          After snorting it up in her own rather dainty style, Clarissa exclaimed, “Oh, cocaine is wonderful,” twinkling with delight.
          “I used to know a place I could regularly obtain it when I was of a mind to,” she added.
            Twinkling a bit myself I said to her, “What if I could make some available here in the hotel for any time you’re of a mind to?”
          She squinted at me as if ascertaining my degree of seriousness, then judging it satisfactory, said, “In that case we most certainly could make a nice arrangement.”
          “Bravo,” Lady Ellington said, so drolly it made you envious.
          “You Americans are just quite the resourceful ones aren’t you?” Dahlia noted.
          “When it counts,” I told her.
          “He’s something of a dark one,” Clarissa remarked as if I wasn’t there, yet admittedly with a sizable grain of truth.
*
      
          The following morning in need of a list of mundane commodities like shoe polish, socks, underwear and razor blades I began to wander in search of a shop. The metal Anderson Shelters that protected against explosions if not directly hit were present in quite a few of the yards. The residents of Westminster were just the sort who would possess the means to obtain them and the yards to put them in. They resembled large, overturned garbage cans, or giant rural mailboxes with a layer of dirt dumped atop the entrance.
          As if to emphasize the point of the shelters, the shop I found, which was beyond the boundaries of Westchester, was located on a boulevard of smoldering ruins. Buildings were little more than teetering heaps of pretzel-twisted pipes, and shattered rebar. In places there was only half a house, as if it had been sliced in two by a giant knife. Occasionally a house had escaped entirely.
        The windows of the shop itself had been blasted out, and everything inside was layered with dust. A woman out front had been sweeping broken glass when I approached, and had pointed at a sign propped in the windowless pane:  Open For Business.
          I found the items I was looking for, and took them up to the man at the counter to pay. He tallied the purchases as if it were any other day
           “This is a shame,” I said, “what the Germans have done.”
          “Yes,” he answered with a faint smile, “but here we are, still here.”
          In the evening I returned to the Baxter Arms. The barman from the night before was there again, standing at his station behind the taps. I explained that there was no particular hurry arranging a “tart”. I might have myself several pints, or even a glass of whiskey first.
          The barman‘s name was Albert. He was solid, not especially burly, hair slicked back and seemingly glued down. He asked the usual sort of questions about America, but by and large was curious only about New York.
           He said, “I’m thinkin’ I could make a go there, yes I could.”
          He was probably right. I instantly thought of several downtown taverns and other establishments at which he was sure to thrive. He spoke of the agony of rationing, a conversation seldom heard at the Dorchester. He bemoaned the sparse availability of everything from a pair of shoes to a chunk of cheese.
          “A wee tiny bit of butter, a wee tiny bit of sugar, a wee tiny bit of jam. All yer left to eat half the time is bread and soup like a bloody prisoner.”
          I kept it under my hat that I was holed up like a squire at the Dorchester, where a good meal still could be had even if priced outrageously.        
          “The Fuhrer seems to think if he cuts you off long enough, eventually you’ll be in a terrible fix.”
           “Bad enough now innit? Banging about in the dark at night, standing about in queues fer half the day, it’s a lot of drudgery.“
          “At least Gerry hasn’t stopped the booze and the other goodies,” I said, tapping my nose.
          “Aye, but living without butter is making Jack a very dull boy,” he said.
          When the sirens began to blare half the customers silently got up out up out of their seats and scurried out the door. The rest sat as if nothing had changed.
         “It stays jolly ‘round ‘ere no matter what,” Albert said with a laugh.
          Indeed, when the bombs began to whistle down, and the Ack-Acks started to pound Albert continued drawing pints, and the rest of us continued to drink them.
          I arranged for the “tart,” picking up another package of powder for Dahlia and her friend Clarissa.
          Philippa, my companion for the evening was tiny. Her hair was jet black and her skin pale as ivory. It was novel to cavort with bombs going off, and searchlights passing across the curtains, though it was less distracting than I might have expected.
         As Philippa and I lounged in her bed afterwards, startled by the occasional whistle of a straying bomb, she was equal parts inquisitive and jaded. She asked about America of course, and more convincingly than usual assured me this was only a temporary occupation for her, more lark, or ritual of youth than any resort to desperation. But who could know?
          Like Albert she was bitter about the quotidian hardships the war had brought. The price and unavailability of fabric and the absence of clothing in the stores vexed her most.
          “I’m starting to be ashamed presenting myself to customers,” she told me. “And even what I’m wearing in the streets is pitiful.”
*
 
           After missing several nights at the Dorchester I returned again to Lady Ellington’s table. Clarissa and Dahlia joined us, Clarissa informing me not only that she wished to modify our arrangement by getting a larger portion, but that friends of hers in the hotel had expressed interest in making arrangements for themselves. I told her that if she would provide me with a list of their names then I would do my best to accommodate them.
          My dilemma was that if I obligated myself to serving all of the clientele seeking to make arrangements, the supply I was able to get from Albert would be insufficient. Albert however
acted gallantly, in addition to steering me to an alternate supplier of powder and “tarts” authorizing me to use his name.         
            Then he told me something that enflamed my interest.
          “The tarts ‘round ‘ere are ordinary English girls all in all. But down there,” he said, referring to the hotel to which he was directing me, “they’re from all the world. Even the English lot there are a wicked bunch. Do things to make the devil ‘imself blush.”
          He also warned me I was out of my mind to go.
          “Won’t do you any good if you go before midnight. The East End takes a floggin’ from the Gerries every night about that time. ‘Ave to be a madman to be down there when the bloody krauts are blastin’ away.”
             Nevertheless, the following night I commandeered a taxi, and when I informed the driver of my destination he asked to have it repeated. Halfway across Westminster Bridge you could see the smoke seeping from the blackened vessels along the banks of the Thames. Docks were crispy shells bobbing in the water. Buildings next to the river looked as though they had been stomped on by the feet of giants.
          I instructed the driver to let me out a block away. Once I was standing in front of it the only signage I saw was a chipped wooden green placard over the front that read: Lodgings. I entered through a dim, narrow vestibule into a cramped and dimmer lobby.
          The man behind the desk was huge. His size was apparent even when sitting. He was however unexpectedly cheerful.
           Albert’s cachet was the gateway I’d expected it would be. The transaction was quick and easy. With ample cocaine now in my possession for my expanded list of clientele, I lingered in order to fulfill the second objective.
          I saw it in her instantly. Her resemblance to Jeanette back at the Densmore was only a part of it. Physically she was hardly identical, with her flowing red curls, turned up nose nose and emerald eyes. But her idiosyncratic potency as a whore was much the same. Her name was Effie.
        When we were in the room, I took out a small lump of the powder. I kept the flask near at hand on the table beside the bed. We were half undressed, and fully entangled, when the air raid sirens began to scream. I ignored them, less shaken by them than in the past, unwilling to forfeit the moment.
          But then the bombers were directly overhead making a fearsome drone. The whistle of bombs made it sound as if they were aimed directly at your head. Effie asked if I would prefer to stop and make a run for the shelter. I told her no at first. And then the explosions caused the building to shake with a violence I had never felt before.
          She led the way, first out of the hotel, and down the darkened street. There were others dashing in the direction of the shelter. The canopy of bombers seemed to stand still just above our heads. Glancing around me as I ran, I thought, such an ugly place to die.
          The air raid wardens came into view ahead guiding those arriving into the shelter. Not far beyond him flames had so thoroughly consumed the innards of a building it resembled a massive torch in the cavity of a skeleton. The street was chocked with smoke.
          We hurried down the steps into a large, though not enormous concrete and brick cavern. It appeared surprisingly organized, a wall of bunk beds, and an area with a modest pantry. A stove adjacent to a brick column produced sufficient warmth. We claimed an empty stretch of bench for ourselves and rested.
          Many were asleep, nestled under covers, which was perplexing since the raid had only been underway for a relatively brief time, making a hellish cacophony. Effie told me she had talked before with several neighbors who came on a nightly basis. Some arrived each night at the same time, bringing provisions, and staying till early morning. Those in the shelter did not appear frightened, but rather weary and bored. I was soon among them.
          The raid continued for another hour or more. When we came up out of the shelter the sky was red, and the air thick. It was eerily quiet, people barely speaking as they trudged away. A fire truck careened down the street with its bells clanging, pulling up in front of a building where men already were pointing a giant stream of water.
           I told Effie, when we were standing in front of the hotel again, that I would return another evening. I didn’t withhold that I was taken with her.
          Getting back to the Dorchester in the middle of the night was problematic. After twenty blocks or so I stopped at an ARP station and availed myself of the coffee there. When I left, the first light was beginning to seep out near the horizon. I eventually found a cab on the street outside of a railway station, which got me back to the Dorchester just as day was fully breaking.
*
 
          Now with a fairly extensive list of fellow residents with whom arrangements had been made I spent a considerable portion of the following evening roaming the hotel halls distributing to my clients.
          I was eager to reunite with Effie. When I arrived, I told Henry, the giant behind the desk, “I’m surprised the place is still here.”
          “Gerry’s never laid a scratch on us,” he said.
          “Fortunate,” I told him quite sincerely.
          “Hasn’t been much luck for the “tarts” here though. Three of ‘em been killed already going to and fro in the evening.”
          With that sobering bit of news I returned to Effie. Against all odds the night was a relatively calm one. The air raid came as it always did. But the Germans seemed to have found targets to their liking in another part of London.
          The following evening, while tempted to stay the night at the Dorchester, the prospect of foregoing Effie’s delirium-inducing professional artifice was more than I could bear. There was no resistance for me to summon. It simply didn’t reside in me anywhere.
          We sat up in her bed, taking turns with the flask, ever so tentatively revealing ourselves. To become too personal risked ruining it all, a truth she understood better than I. Yet at times she would carry on a demure soliloquy, ruminating about wild, or exotic places, places it was evident she knew at least something about, Pogo for instance, and Crete. She would say matter-of-factly it was unlikely she would ever see them. Like others, she would speak of the deprivations, rationing and the worsening shortages. She would say as Philippa had that the scarcity of fabric was the hardest perhaps, lamenting the woeful disintegration of her wardrobe.
          When the sirens went off .it felt as if only seconds had passed before the rumble of bombers was overhead. The first bomb to explode couldn’t have been more than a block away. We dressed as rapidly as we were able, and set off for the shelter again
          The stove was on the fritz, or it hadn’t been lighted long enough to warm the place. Gazing around, even more than the night before I thought there was a stony-eyed look of exhaustion. Clothing was threadbare, soles of shoes in some cases peeling away, and in other instances there was embedded grime.
          We were confined less than an hour before the All Clear. Walking back, we passed an air raid volunteer talking on a telephone on the porch of a house. Effie explained that because only a handful of the residents in her neighborhood owned a telephone, at houses that owned one it would be left on the porch at night for the volunteers to use.        
          We had only been in the room for a little while, but were entwined already under the covers, and thus ignored the wailing sirens and the roar of the bombers when they returned.  And then in a split second my body was entirely numb, I could hear nothing, finding myself gazing through a gash in the ceiling at a purple London sky. It was a gala sight, even a gorgeous one, sky illuminated with searchlights, spurts of anti-aircraft flickering everywhere, orange reflections of flame. I may even have smiled.
*
          
          The hospital was utterly wretched, though the steady doses of morphine I was given rescued it from being hellish. Eventually I got the news that I would never see again in one of my eyes, and that only one of my arms would be of much use. I assumed that I would make a story up, a wartime tale that would vividly recount how I incurred my wounds. At least I could exploit what I could of the pity sure to come my way.
           I doubted it would come from my family. I hadn’t told them yet. They would want to know, and rightly so, why I couldn’t simply have stayed in the safest place in London, available only to the luckiest in life. On the other hand, I expected they would have a clue as to why I hadn’t.
          I never did learn the fate of Effie. Nor was there any way of finding out. Soon as I was able to travel they put me on a ship. I made the long, rigorous journey back to New York. But I wondered about Effie often.
         The family had saved me from the Grimeckis. I was quite certain the two had altogether forgotten me. And besides, I was an invalid now.
           If nothing else, I assumed the lesson to take from all of this was altogether obvious: who needed the Grimecki brothers when you had Hitler?
 

​Things troubled Reverend Phillip Franks more than usual. He had been questioning his calling in life. He was the son of a preacher and following in his father’s footsteps had always seemed to be his calling. With his father’s recent retirement, Phillip questioned if this was actually his calling as well. Late on a Sunday night after his first sermon at the church, Phillip found himself driving down the lonely road to clear his head. Along his path, Reverend Phillip passed by a young woman on the side of the road with her thumb out looking for a ride. All the cars before him had passed her by, but something inside of Phillip’s head spoke to him and it said, she needs you. He would pull his pick-up over on the side of the road before exiting his vehicle without fear. The same voice that had spoken to him to tell him that this woman needed him was reassuring him that he was safe.
            “Hey, ma’am, is there anything that I can help you with?” he asked.
            The woman turned to look at Phillip and for the first time he was able to see her face in full detail. She was a beautiful, pale woman even with tear stains running down her cheek.
            “I… I seem to have lost my way wandering. I am trying to get back to where I came from. There is a man that is looking for me. I can’t keep him waiting. I would hate for him to leave me behind,” she replied.
            “Do you not have a cell phone to be able to contact him?
            She would only shake her head.
            “He doesn’t have a cell phone. He is a strong believer in spiritual connections. I am sure if I can get back, he will be able to find me there.”
            “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.” The girl’s face lit up with joy. “Oh, thank you so much, sir. He will be so grateful for your help.”
            Phillip led the girl back over to his truck before stepping into the driver’s seat himself. It was much colder than it was when he first got out. He  rolled up his windows, but it didn’t break the chill.
            “My name is Phillip Franks,” he said. “What can I call you?”
            “Abigail. Charmed to make your acquaintance.”
            Abigail had a vintage touch to her. She didn’t wear the modern clothing or hairstyles. It was a little thing about her, but he found it relaxing. For some reason, she reminded him of his mother.
            “Well, it is nice to meet you, Abby. Mind if I call you Abby?
            She shook her head with a slight smile on her face. “That is just fine. That is what my parents used to call me.”
            Phillip noticed by the way that Abby spoke that her parents must no longer be with us. To mind his own business, he just steered clear of that subject.
            “How far do you need to go?”
            She looked out the window to see her whereabouts.
            “I’m not sure how far that I wandered off. It’s okay. Once I get there I will be able to remember.”
            Phillip couldn’t help but to be distracted by the big smile on her face. She hadn’t stopped smiling since he had picked her up. He felt like he was doing the right thing but something about Abby seemed a bit off. She was just different than anybody that he had ever met but he couldn’t place why.
            “I really appreciate your help, sir. I know that he will appreciate it as well. What do you do for a living?”
            Her sudden question broke his train of thought. He saw her staring at him while questioning him. Although, something told him that she already knew.
            “I am a third-generation pastor.”
            “I can tell that you are a good man, Mr. Franks,” she said.
            She would bow her head to him as a sign of respect as Phillip smiled.
            “I really appreciate it. Sometimes, I don’t know if this is my calling in life.”
            He felt a hand on his shoulder as he looked to see her hand.  Her eyes sent chills down his spine.
            “You don’t know how many cars passed me by before you showed up. There was something made you stop to help me.”
            She was right, as he remembered the voice in his head.
            “Hold up. This is the place.”
            “Are you sure?”
            In the midst of trees, there were no signs of life.
            “Yes, this is it. I am positive.”
            He wasn’t positive with her decision but followed her direction. He pulled his truck over on the side of the road.
            “Thank you so much, Pastor. He will be here to get me soon.”
            “Do you want me to wait around until he shows?”
            “Oh no. I am safe here. He will get me.”
            She was almost in a rush, thanking him again and again before exiting. As he pulled back on the highway, his headlights shined on a cross right ahead. Something about this cross stood out, causing him to stop the truck and turn back. He was stunned as Abby walked off with a man in a robe. She turned back to him and waved goodbye. The two glowed as they disappeared into darkness. He stumbled back to the cross to read, In Loving Memory of Abigail Renner. He never had to look back again.     
           
 

​[Interior: Cherish Hospital – Day]
(Patient 1 [Woman, mid to late 20s, attractive, strong yet fragile, any ethnicity] is lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. There are bandages covering her neck, arms, and hands. She is asleep.)
 
(Phlebotomist enters [Mid to late 20s, boyishly handsome, any ethnicity]. He is wearing green scrubs and holds a tray with needles and vials. Patient 1 stirs as the Phlebotomist looks wistfully at her bandage-free, beautiful face.)
 
Phlebotomist: “Time for –
 
–

​“Hel-lo, Front Desk Girl!”
 
It’s Armand, my boss. I sit up straight and in one swift motion the TV script is shoved into my purse and pushed all the way to the back of the desk and out of sight. I don’t want Armand (of all people) to know that the reason I’m leaving early today is for an audition.
 
It’s nearly 9am and the start of his shift; I’m already two hours into mine. His piggish eyes scan the desk and land on a stray copy of the Hollywood Reporter, addressed to the VP of Sales, which I’d carelessly left lying open while I switched reading material to my script.
 
His lip curls upwards. “What’s this? Were you reading while manning the phones?” He makes a clucking ‘tsk tsk’ sound with his tongue. The magazine, like the script I’m auditioning with this afternoon, is contraband at the front desk. My only job is to answer the phones and greet people. It’s incredibly easy and boring and Armand knows this, so he’s always on the lookout for transgressions.
 
Armand is scraggly thin, skeletal even, and could be either in his mid-30s or early 70s. No one knows. Everyone is creeped out by Armand and none of us want to be caught by him doing something we shouldn’t be doing. With his skinny black mustache that sticks out in small points from either side of his lips, he’s like a villain from the silent movie era. The mustache is so stiff and straight it looks like he attached two matchsticks to his face. I’d like to light each point on fire.
 
I have no choice but to hand the magazine to him. “It’s Sabrina,” I say, pointedly. Armand never uses anyone’s first name: you are Front Desk Girl or Vault Dude. It’s an exhausting game we play: I remind him of my name even though I’ve worked here for three months, and he acts surprised like this is the first time he’s ever heard it.
 
“SaBreenuh!” he laughs and winks at me. My name in his unidentifiable accent – a dash of Southern twang mixed with a Transylvanian lilt – sounds like a wheezing set of bagpipes.
 
“So,” Armand says, while grabbing the stack of industry magazines sitting atop the desk and crushing the pages against his bony chest, “I’ll just make sure these are delivered to the Tape Vault first thing in the morning from now on.”
 
I grip the edge of the desk and a bead of sweat pops out above my left eye. Line one starts ringing. Armand looks at the phone and then again at me, eyebrow raised, before strolling away, humming.
 
Watching Armand leave, my eyes dim. I imagine hurling the entire desk at his back. I’ve become Bionic Desk Girl, defender of Receptionists everywhere against evil middle management slime!
 
[Enter Desk Girl: she’s mobile on casters, with iron phones for hands, her hair wild. She sees the villain, Armand, in his green suede loafers and leaps into the air]
 
Slam! Desk Girl throws the chair at Armand’s head, sending him flying through the front window in a burst of glass. This is for not allowing your receptionist to read anything interesting and for treating her like a child!
 
Pow! She body slams him against the building like a rag doll. This is for not letting the receptionist go to the bathroom without permission!

Crunch! She shoves an iron fist straight up his nose. This is for calling Sabrina the Front Desk Girl!
 
I hear a ringing in the distance and shaking my head, I shut the fantasy down and answer the phone.
 
“Good morning, Marquee Entertainment?” I say.
 
“Yes, please, I would like to speak to Mr. Charles Gaines?” a male voice asks above the sounds of other phones ringing and people talking rapidly.
 
“May I ask who is calling?” I finger the lid of my coffee cup and keep one eye peeled on the hallway.
 
“Yes, please, I am calling from IT Creative Systems, may I please speak to the CEO?” My finger hovers over the “end call” button.
 
 “Our CEO doesn’t handle anything IT related. I’ll transfer you to the voicemail of our IT department.” I say.
 
“Yes, but, please –“ I transfer him mid-sentence to the generic message box we have set up just for this purpose. As I hang up and slouch back in my chair, I feel a pang of guilt. The telemarketer is just doing his job, no matter how ridiculous, I tell myself, just like you.
 
I inch the script back out of my purse, heart beating faster. That was too close. Armand would love nothing more than to confiscate this script. It’s my golden ticket; a one-way pass to life as a working actor rather than some nobody working at a front desk, a job that an eight-year-old could do with the same amount of efficiency. If he saw that I had a ladder rung to grab onto, he’d make damn sure I didn’t leave on time today. Our late afternoon receptionist, Murielle, will be covering for me. I’m counting on her to show up early for once in her life.
 
My audition at 2pm is a feat. The casting director saw me at one of my showcases and already has me in mind for a role in a TV show. “It’s an arc!” My agent exclaimed. An arc! A whole storyline, featuring me! Four episodes guaranteed, with the possibility of six total. The show is a hospital drama, and I would play a patient who survived a horrible gas explosion and while in recovery develops a budding romance with a phlebotomist before an intern accidentally fills my IV with air bubbles and my heart stops. If producers and writers end up deciding that I die slowly rather than quickly, I’ll get the extra two episodes in the arc.
 
[Scene 2: Int. Hospital - Day]
(Patient 1 is awake. The Phlebotomist sits on the edge of the bed.)
 
Phlebotomist: “So, do you think, you know once you get out of here, we could get a drink sometime?”
 
Patient 1 (smiling): “You don’t mind all this?” (She gestures to her bandages.)
 
Phlebotomist: “I think they make you even more beautiful.”
 
Patient 1: “Wow, I … you’ve been so good to me these last couple days. I might be in here a while, but yes. Yes. I would like to see you, outside of a hospital. Out of scrubs.”
 
(Realizing what she just said, Patient 1 blushes and tries to lean forward. Phlebotomist helps her adjust her pillow. Their faces are close. He leans in for a kiss. She closes her eyes and –
 
 
I am closing my eyes sitting in the chair, my face leaning forward. Since I’m not sure if I’ll be reading with a casting agent or another actor in the scene, I’ve been working on how I’ll do the kiss. Perhaps if I make a small moan in the back of my throat –
 
There is a chuckle. My eyes pop open. It’s a client, Mark, from some Tween show I don’t watch, and I let out a breath. I’m holding the pages in my hands underneath the desk so to him, with my lips pursed, I look like I’m making out with no one. He raises an eyebrow but nods at me before heading to the cafeteria. I glance back down at the script. I wonder if Patient 1 will get an actual name. I suck in air until my belly hurts. What if, just what if, they like me so much after four episodes that casting decides to make a series regular? Patient 1 can become a nurse!
 
My shoulders sag as I exhale. Landing a TV show would be thrilling but I can’t afford to get ahead of myself. Before starting here, I was one bounced check away from having to ask my parents for money. They’d insist I come home. A college professor once told us that it takes at least two years to settle in Los Angeles before an actor starts to see some progress. I am two years and four months in. To leave now would crush me. I needed this full-time crappy slog of a job to get me through some bills. And even though the pay sucks, I keep working at it because that’s how my parents raised me. “The Kincaid’s don’t quit!” is actually the motto on a throw pillow my mother made.
 
Did I also imagine, just perhaps, that working in the entertainment industry, even in post-production, would somehow grant me an “in” with any of the show runners who happened to walk by the front desk on any given day? Yes. I held onto a smidge of hope that it might be that easy. But no one looks twice at the receptionist. It’s not where you find your next big star. Armand keeps a close on me anyway to make sure I don’t “fraternize” with the clientele.
 
Smoothing my dark brown hair, less frizzy today thank god, I mentally chant: “Don’t blow this, don’t blow this, don’t blow this.” Like others who have this job, it is never intended to be permanent. The front desk is a way station, a blip on the journey to success and freedom, a necessary task we fulfill for the time when we can claim that we paid our dues. After three months of Armand, I’ve paid my dues.
 
“Oh, Front Desk Girl.” Speak of the devil. I drop the script at my feet and nudge it forward, pulse racing, grateful that nothing below my head is visible from the hallway. The soft whir of the machines in the editing rooms barely covers the sound of his footsteps.
 
“Flanagan tells me you were ten minutes late from a bathroom break today,” Armand’s shoulders are bouncing. He loves this.
 
“The Tape Vault staff have important deadlines and can’t waste minutes waiting on you to do your job, even if, you know, you have ‘girl issues’.” His voice is sing-songy and light, but his eyes are flashing.
 
I resist the urge to grab his mustache and bash his face into the desk. Desk Girl, the fearless heroine, however, would.
 
Swallowing, I say nothing. Fury and fear roils around in my belly. To have me chained to this desk everyday would be Armand’s wet dream. He’d give me a headset and put the entire desk on wheels so that anytime I have to go pee I can roll myself right into the handicapped stall.
 
He smirks, looming over me while I sit. “See me after your shift is over today.”
 
“Well that will be soon. I’m leaving early today. Remember? Murielle is coming in to spell my shift. I sent you an email last week about it. I’m not taking a lunch so I can leave at 2pm.” I jam my lips together to keep from rambling further.
 
Armand looks at me in mock surprise. “Email? I don’t remember seeing an email!”
 
“But,” I pause, treading carefully now, “Yes, there was an email. You said, ‘Okay’.”
 
It’s a struggle to keep the panic from my voice. This has happened before to others. He pulls this type of shit, like conveniently forgetting a personal request or forcing someone to stay late to finish some nonsense task.
 
Armand nods slowly, but doesn’t answer. His expression is blank and hard to read, which can’t be good. The phone rings, startling me. I am ashamed by the shakiness in my voice as I answer it. When I look up again he is gone.
 
Desk Girl hoists up Armand by his armpits and hauls him into the street. She’s formed a union, The United People’s Front for the Ethical Treatment of Front Desk Workers. Receptionists from all over the country (the world!) roll out in their custom, form fitted desks, and beat him with handbooks, stab him in every orifice with pencils, and crush his balls with the desk chair casters. Picket signs scream, “We cut the cord on bad managers!” and “All hung up for better pay!” Desk Girl cheers as we hurl staplers and spit in the direction of anyone who dares to cross us.
 
**
 
Hours pass. The wave of call transfers and client arrivals at least makes the day shorter. As the end of my shift draws near and I expect Murielle to breeze through, a cigarette dangling from her lips, my palms go clammy. The more I build this up in my mind the more I have to lose. I remind myself that it’s just any old audition and that I am prepared! But I know if I don’t get this role a vital chunk of my soul will shrivel up and turn to dust. If I’m still at this desk at age forty-five, as bitter as an aspirin, I don’t know what I’ll do. 
 
At 2pm on the dot, I pick up my purse, the script safely tucked inside. My eyes are glued to the door. Jeff, a colorist, is at the desk, now asking me to call one of the sales execs on her cell phone. “I can’t find this client, he’s late,” Jeff says peevishly. “Come the fuck on, Murielle,” I mutter as I punch numbers into the phone.
 
Jeff’s mouth is moving, telling me something, but all I hear is the thrum of blood in my ears. Glancing at the clock on the computer screen, I work out how late I can possibly leave here and still arrive at my audition on time. Biting my lip I watch the time tick past 2:15pm.
 
Panicked, I slam the phone down. I told Murielle yesterday, practically begged her, “Please, Murielle, please come right at 2pm, okay? I’ll even buy you lunch!” She knows what this means for me. Jeff throws up his hands. “Well, if sales calls back let me know right away,” he says, but I’m already moving around the desk. My tongue quivers against the inside of my cheek. The window to leave and not be late is closing fast. I scurry past the desk, hitching my purse over my shoulder.
 
Am I doing this? Walking away without anyone at the front desk to cover me? This is against protocol. I’m still hopeful that as soon as I cross the threshold I’ll see Murielle trotting in from the parking lot and it will all turn out all right; no bridges burned.
 
Almost to the door I hear, “Where do you think you are going?” He’s somewhere in the distance behind me.
 
I face Armand and attempt a confident smile, but my face feels all twitchy, like I just got shot up with Novocain. I say, “I’m off. I don’t know where Murielle is but she’ll be here. I have to go. Now.”
 
He is almost next to me; my back is to the front door. His pale white hands are folded across his chest.
 
“I looked at your email again. I believe I said ‘okay’ as in, ‘let’s discuss’. But I didn’t give you actual permission. I called Murielle and told her she needn’t bother coming in early,” Armand says, voice as thick as maple syrup. He’s sidestepping ever so slightly towards the exit to block my path.
 
Swinging the purse in front of me like a shield I glare at him, wishing I had laser beam eyeballs that could split his head in two.
 
“Listen, Armand. I’m sorry but I don’t want to make a case of semantics here. I have to go and I got what I understood as, ‘Okay’, to mean ‘Yes’.”
 
A group has formed, his solid band of Vault Dudes and a few stray dailies editors who were walking by. The shootout at the O.K. Corral comes to mind. Only I don’t have a posse. It’s just me, quaking and unarmed, in this dustup. Most of the Vault guys point and whisper. Flanagan’s face is bright and alert. I spy one guy with something in his hand and gasp, “Oh my god, you brought popcorn out here!” He’s cramming huge fistfuls into his mouth, eyes wide, not wanting to miss a thing.
 
My fists curl into a ball. It’s now or never get out with guns blazing! Armand is so close I can smell his aftershave – burnt almonds and something grassy, like moss. Can he really force me to stay, I wonder? How far is this going to play out?
 
As if reading my mind, he says, “If you leave, don’t plan on coming back. I can talk to HR, you know. You won’t get unemployment and I’ll make damn sure you aren’t even paid for today.”
 
At that comment, I want to wave my middle finger in his pinched face, spin on my heel and waltz out, but I’m frozen. Fuck, my feet won’t move. My brain shrieks, “What do you care?! You hate this place! You don’t need this!”
 
And still, I don’t move. The more I stand still, the more Armand has me. I can already feel his tentacles reaching for my ankles.
 
I imagine my ending as Patient 1:
 
(Patient 1 is administered the IV. She watches fluid course through the line, sees the intern push the valve all the way up. It’s coming too fast and the bubbles are too large. Within seconds, the clear liquid travels down to the needle in her arm and enters her bloodstream. Pain wracks her chest after a minute and she can’t breathe. She tries to scream. Her last image is of a man wearing green scrubs reaching for the needle. But it’s too late.)
 
A quick death then, I think. I’ll get the speedy death in four episodes if I’m late. Or worse, I’ll lose the role outright by not showing up. This should be the moment when the hero swoops in. My mind scrambles for a solution, a life line to get me out of this. Every speech my parents ever gave about “Don’t go putting your eggs in one basket!” plays before me. Some latent strain of my DNA, a Midwesterner gene perhaps, the kind that controls ethics and honesty and duty is kicking in. Kincaid’s Don’t Quit!
 
My heart feels close to explosion. Armand is grinning. The ringing phone pierces my ears; maybe it’s Murielle finally calling to warn me.  From somewhere deep inside I hear the words: GO!
 
I’ve never just quit a job before. But I owe Armand nothing.
 
I run out of the front door.
 
The bright sun hits my face and I’m dazed by the glare. My legs are colt-like, wobbly, as though I haven’t run in a long time. I can hear footfalls and shouts behind me as I sprint around the corner. Turning my head, I see Armand is almost at my heels. The bastard is actually following me! He’s crouched down low, wolfish, almost galloping. Trailing behind him are the Vault Dudes and Editors, swept along in Armand’s wake like a pack of dogs eager for an easy meal.
 
Digging in my elbows, I push harder. I’m almost to the parking lot. Armand growls, “You. Can’t. Just. Leave!” Oh yes, I can! I increase my speed, when all of a sudden my purse stretches out before me, the strap elongating and coiling before my eyes. What the hell? As I run, my legs begin to feel heavy and sink into the concrete. I lurch to a stop and my black blouse billows in front of me, though there isn’t the slightest wind. The shirt stiffens and my knees lock in place. I stare at my blocky lower half, stunned: I’ve created a version of the front desk with my own body. The once soft leather of the purse is hardening and molds itself into a phone handset; the purse strap melting into my arm, turning it into a limber and springy phone cord.
 
“Oh my god!” I screech, looking down. Buttons glow from where my right hand used to be. Using my left hand I press the knobs, fingers recoiling immediately as I strike solid plastic instead of warm flesh. A strong current pulses through my veins – I’m electrified!
 
The gate to the outdoor parking garage is just beyond my reach. Armand’s cold hand clasps my shoulder.
 
I spin around as swiftly as if I were sitting on the rolling chair. My breath is lodged somewhere in my rib cage. I’m not sure what is going on, except I know I am a cornered animal in the shape of a desk about to be slaughtered.
 
Armand is cackling. His teeth are bared, a jumble of uneven yellowish fangs. His once hazel eyes are almost black, the pupils fully dilated and saliva pools at the corner of his mouth.
 
He hisses, “It looks as though you aren’t leaving after all.” His cronies are grouped around him, gnashing teeth and out for receptionist blood. My heart thumps in my chest, as loud and clear as a tribal drumbeat.
 
Mouth agape, Armand is now staring at my former arm, which is beeping and glowing a fierce red and, for a second, he hesitates. As I try to turn away, the phone handset bangs against the parking gate. I look at it again, at my immobile feet, at the sturdy black surface extending from my stomach. And the realization hits me right the gut, or at least where my gut used to be: I am Desk Girl. My mouth cracks open wide.
 
I’m Desk Girl!
 
“I’m coming, Patient 1!” I roar into the sky.
 
            (Her eyes snap open, full of tears. “I’m Josie,” Patient 1 whispers.)
 
Gripping the cord in my left hand, I lasso it into a tight circle. Whipping the whole length of cord and phone into the air, the handset slams Armand squarely in the face. His nose spurts blood and he falls. The Vault Dudes bellow, necks straining, before scattering in all directions.
 
Cradling his face, Armand grunts and writhes on the ground. For good measure, I lasso the cord around his neck and twist. Eyes bulging he bleats out, “Flerk Meh!” No one pauses to help him. The last of the Vault posse turns tail and slinks towards the facility.
 
Armand crumples into a ball, hands covered in blood. My voice is low and steady as I linger over his limp body. “I said – I had to leave early today. If you give a shit about the phones, you answer them yourself!” With a jerk of my wrist the cord breaks, still tied around his neck.
 
I can see my shadow visible against the gray cement. Startled, I see my hand is back to being a hand. The phone handset is again my battered purse, lying on the ground. My arm is no longer a cord. I wouldn’t have believed any of it if not for the dull ache stemming from my right shoulder blade to the tip of my pinky.
 
“Don’t even think of fucking with Desk Girl,” I snap at Armand. He’s blubbering something, and, after a moment, I realize he’s saying my name. “Sabweenuh!” A bubble bursts from his nose.
 
I grin and say, “It’s about time you learned my name.” I turn to leave, and pause. “Oh, one more thing.” Bending down, I pull at one side of his mustache. He winces as the mustache peels off as easily as clear tape. I knew it! I grab my bag and push open the parking garage door. It clatters shut behind me and I strut to my car. I don’t look back.