CARPE DIEM Three months after losing his job at Monsanto, Jack Donahue found himself with a large pile of bills and a short list of prospects for a new job. For the past three years, he had been a tech writer trying to put a pretty face on the Monsanto GMO seed production, which, in his mind, was like putting lipstick on a pig. But a guy’s gotta live. So, he was just as glad when the pink slip came down and he walked out of there with a small cardboard box of accumulated desk crap and his head held high.
Three months later things weren’t going so well. The tech writer job market was flat, his driver’s license was suspended for another month so he couldn’t drive an Uber, and his psoriasis prevented him from working as a dishwasher, or other menial jobs often filled by people with degrees in English Literature. His prospects were dim. With no employment calls to date, he had forgotten about the application he made in the Spring for a temporary assignment as a substitute teacher at the Waverly Junior/Senior Regional High school. His cell phone woke him early in the morning. It was very dark with the shades pulled down. The clock’s red digits showed 5:58. The phone beeped again. The lack of fresh brewed coffee aroma confirmed that his early riser girlfriend had, indeed, packed her things and moved out last week. Cell phone beep again. He got his feet over the edge of the bed, fumbled the phone to his ear and said, “Hullo.” “Mister Donahue, Jack Albert calling. I’m the Assistant Principal at Waverly Regional. I hope I’m not calling too early?” “Not at all, Mr. Albert, I’m having breakfast, just back from an early run. How can I help you?” “I know this is short notice, and I know you’re probably busy, but we have an opening for today and possibly tomorrow. If you’re available?” “I have a couple of free days, what grade level, Mr. Albert?” “Call me, Jack…tenth grade English, Mrs. Curran’s class. She has a little medical problem and needs some outpatient treatment today.” “Nothing serious, I hope.” “Not medically, except this was unexpected and she hadn’t prepared anything for a substitute. You’ll have to wing it.” “That’s what I do best, Jack.” “Great, I’ll see you in my office at seven for some paperwork and then take you to the classroom, Jack.” The scrambled sheet was caught around Jack Donahue’s feet from a night of restless sleep and tripped him as he rose. He stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and looked in the mirror. The image was startling. “Oh, crap!” The words came back at him from the beard stubbled, the red-eyed face of a man who had too many beers last night at the Rockin’ Robin Tavern dart finals. He rubbed, his eyes, blew out some air, leaned against the sink and said, “Oh my God.” After the shower, shave, Alka-Seltzer, Pop-Tarts, and three coffees, he was ready to tackle anything a tenth-grade class of delinquents could throw at him. He should have asked, Jack Albert, about proper dress, but decided, what the hell, it was only a day or two and emerged from his apartment in clean jeans, button-down oxford shirt and rep tie. He finished off with a Harris tweed sport coat and loafers. Close enough. Jack Albert met him for a brief meeting about policy and a form to fill out, then took him to room 303 and addressed the class. “Good morning, students, Miss Curran will not be in today.” A few students mumbled. “good,” “yea,” and “who cares,” with Mr. Albert quieting the class with raised hands, palms flat, pumping down. “Mister Donahue will substitute for her today. Please give him your complete attention, you’re in good hands.” He turned to Jack and said quietly, “Give it your best shot,” and left. “Good morning.” Complete silence. Thirty pairs of eyes simply stared back at him. One pair at the back of the room was closed and appeared to be sleeping. “Miss.” Jack pointed at a red-haired girl in the front row that seemed to be the least hostile looking. He waved the attendance book and said, “Please come up here and mark the book for me. Thanks.” He turned to the board and wrote in big block letters, JACK. Then turned back to the class and said, “That’s me. When I call on one of you, please state your name. Thank you.” “Sit here.” Jack indicated to the red-haired attendance taker and pulled out his desk chair, then went around to the front of the desk, sat on the edge and began. “Apparently the medical condition that Miss Curran has is not serious, but because it was unexpected, she left no lesson plan for today.” He saw the students brighten thinking this would be a breeze day. “So, I have to wing it.” He got up and went to the board. I’m going to write a short poem on the board and give you a few minutes to think about it.” He heard the groans and the sleeping head kept sleeping. “This is a poem written in the late sixties by a guy named Richard Brautigan. I’ll be surprised if any of you have heard of him.” Jack wrote in large letters, THE WIDOW’S LAMENT. He turned back to the class before continuing. “Brautigan was what you could describe as a hippie poet living mostly in the San Francisco area.” He turned to the board and added the first five words of the poem under the title. Facing the class again, Jack spotted a little interest from some of the kids who had been beaten over the head with Wordsworth and Poe, then added the next five words. He hesitated and half-turned, trying not to laugh as a few more puzzled faces came to life. Before adding to the poem, he casually remarked, “Brautigan died in 1964. He shot himself in the head with a forty-four caliber Magnum and the body was not discovered for nearly a month. It was badly decomposed in the California heat. It was rumored that he left a note saying, ‘Messy isn’t it,’ but, his daughter says that’s not true.” Jack faced the board, felt that he had hooked them, and added the final three words of the poem. A kid wearing a BRADY 12 sweatshirt in the outside row by the windows said, “That’s it?” “That’s it. Take a few minutes to study this. Think about it. Visualize it, and then we’ll talk about it.” The attendance girl rose from the desk chair. Jack said, and your name is?” “Melissa.” “Okay, Melissa, thanks for your help.” She went to her seat. Jack watched his audience fidget in their seats and doodle in their notebooks. More eyes close and heads looked ceilingward, as if, that would help the thoughts collect at the back of their heads. “Okay, Miss, in the blue sweater.” Jack pointed to a girl in the second row. “Tell me something about this woman.” “Um, she’s old.” “You are who?” “Oh, I’m Andrea. Andrea Montecalvo, There’s, another Andrea over there.” The girl turned and pointed toward the outside row. “Okay, Andrea, tell me more about the woman in the poem.” “Um, she’s kind of old…” “When you say, ‘kind of,’ what do you mean? Can you put a number on that?” “Um… like sixty.” Jack wrote that on the board. “Okay, we already know who Andrea number two is, give me your guess as to the woman’s age.” He then pointed to the girl in the outside row who pointed to herself in a ‘me’ gesture. “Yes, A-two,” Give me a number.” The class was beginning to come alive. “I would say…seventy-five.” Jack wrote that above the 60 on the board, then said, “One more.” He scanned the room, stopping at a kid in a Blackhawks team shirt. “Sir. Name and then a number.” “I’m Jason…ninety…I would say she’s gotta be ninety”. He looked relieved, thinking it was over. “Good guess, J. Why do you think that?” Jason reddened a little, and the rest of the class thought it best to start paying attention. “Well, because it says she’s old in the poem, but I don’t think sixty is really old. I mean, my dad is fifty-two, and he’s not old. And my grandparents, they’re like seventy-five or something, and they’re really active people.” Jason’s red face was pleading, and Jack cut him loose. “Okay, we’ve had three opinions on this woman’s age. Three estimates based on the experience of these three students. The body of this poem has thirteen words. We just spent five minutes on one of them. One word that made us do what?” Jack looked over the class, and all eyes were focused on him except “sleepy” in the back. He pointed to Melissa. “What has this made us do?” “Um, think?” “Exactly, this is what poems do, they make us think. They throw out words like baseballs. It’s up to us to catch them. Okay, it seems that this woman is alone. Can you tell us something about her past? Sir, in the back with the long sleeve tee shirt. What can you tell us?” “Um…Tom…um, she’s alone now but maybe wasn’t always alone, maybe.” “Why do you say that, Tom?” “Because the title is about a widow, so I guess she was married at some point.” Tom wiped his forehead with his sleeve, glad to have done his bit. “Of course. Brautigan gives us some of the woman’s past with one word that our imaginations can build on to give us a more complete picture of her who we can probably average out to be in her eighties and formerly married. With two words, he has given us a pretty good mental picture. Okay, how cold is it?” For the first time, several hands were eagerly raised. Jack pointed. “I’m Marsha…I think it has to be pretty cold for her to think about it because she’s probably embarrassed to go to the neighbors and ask for firewood. I see her as being a pretty tough woman, on her own, making do. I like this woman. I feel for her.” “And I like your answer, Marsha. You see what’s happening here? The word ‘quite’ speaks volumes. We now have three words leading us to the big picture. So, let’s assume it gets really cold, dangerously cold. What does she do? She “goes” to the neighbors, presumably, pride in hand, to get this wood. So, now we must ask, how does she do that? Does she have a pickup? SUV? Wheelbarrow? You see how the picture broadens. Is the way smooth, or rough? Snow on the ground? Deep frozen mud ruts? Four words Brautigan gives us, and the canvas is almost ready to be framed. Now, there’s one more word we need to look at. “Sir, trying to hide behind the girl in the green sweater.” All the kids look toward him except “sleepy, whose eyes are still closed. There’s some good-natured laughter, and the kid answers. “Ya got me, Jack. I think it’s the word ‘borrow.’ “Good choice and your name is?” “Robbie.” “Okay, Robbie, tell us why that’s such a good choice.” Just as Robbie starts to speak, there’s a knock on the door, and a hall monitor comes into the class and hands the teacher a note. Jack thanks her and turns to the class. “Let’s see what this is.” He reads it, folds it, and puts it on the desk. From the desk of Jack Albert Jack, Mrs. Curran called. She’ll be available tomorrow. Thanks so much for helping us today. I’ll keep your name at the top of the list. Regards, Jack “Okay, Robbie, tell us why you think ‘borrow’ is a keyword.” “Well, I ask myself, does she have the means to pay back this wood? I think Brautigan is using that word as irony.” Robbie encloses the word with air quotes. “Wow! You’ve just presented us with a new set of problems for this old; presumably poor, woman who must swallow her pride, get out in the cold, somehow get to the neighbors, borrow some wood and get home again. Then is faced with having to pay it back. Five words and we could write a book. Good job. Irony is the use of words in a direct opposite sense of meaning. And here, Brautigan gives us the final dilemma facing this woman. We can only assume that she has good intentions, but probably cannot repay the borrowed wood and will be faced with the same problem next winter. If she lives that long.” All eyes are on me. These kids are getting it. Everyone but sleepy. The first dismissal buzzer sounds in the corridor. Jack holds up the note. “I thank you all for your attention and your contributions. I guess Miss Curran will be back tomorrow.” Groans from the class, then Sleepy gets to his feet and begins to clap. Others join in. The whole room is clapping. Jack is a little embarrassed. The dismissal bell rings. The students file out to the corridor. Sleepy reaches for the walking stick at his feet. The white stick with the red bands top and bottom, and slowly comes to the front of the room sweeping the stick back and forth across the narrow aisle. Jack is unsure of what to say. “Sir, can I help you?” “My name’s Roland, and I’m all set. My escort is waiting in the hall. I just want to shake your hand and thank you for the best class I’ve ever had.” After the handshake, Jack wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, picked up his notebook, and went home thinking this was his best class, also. When he opened the door of his apartment, smelled fresh coffee, and heard some noise in the kitchen, he knew this might be one of his best days. The Widow’s Lament was first printed in All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace, published by The Communication Company, April 1967.
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SHELTER Screaming comes from inside a threadbare, split-level home as the lights in the kitchen expose the mother and father to be the participants of the shouting match. Out of the window, the mother throws a liquor bottle and it rolls around in the concrete path where it lands.
In a room on the second floor of the house, twelve-year-old Oscar plays with his action figures. The commotion causes his attention to turn to the door as his younger sisters, Elizabeth and Samantha, freeze where they are. “Do we hide again?” Elizabeth asks. Oscar gets up and takes Samantha, hiding her under the bed. Elizabeth joins her. “Sam, Eli, remember,” he says, “don’t come out unless I say so.” “Ozzie, can you hand me Mr. Snuffles?” Samantha asks. Oscar snatches the teddy bear from the floor and hands it to his sister. She grabs it and embraces it. Oscar stands and tiptoes to the door as the racket downstairs continues. He opens the door and peeks outside. Plates are thrown. Promises are broken. Footsteps approach. The mother hustles up the stairs and Oscar lets her in. She comes in the bedroom with her hair unkempt and a red imprint of a hand on her cheek. She takes Elizabeth out from under the bed and Samantha runs to her arms. “Oscar, the bags,” the mother says. “Elizabeth, with me.” Oscar runs to the room closet and digs through it. He finds two medium sized bags filled with clothes and carries them. The mother turns to the children. “We go to the car,” she says. “Stay away from your father at all costs.” “Mommy, what about my—” Samantha says. “Sam, we have to go,” the mother interrupts. The four of them make their way down the creaky, old stairs and dash for the door. The father continues roaring. The whiskey odor is more prominent downstairs. “Oscar, take your sisters to the car,” she orders. The mother puts Samantha down and she grabs Oscar’s hand. The three children run to the car parked in front. The mother stays inside and grabs the car keys on the kitchen counter. The father grabs the mother’s shoulder and spins her around to face him. Oscar, Elizabeth, and Samantha wait outside with the bags. “Oz, what about our books?” Elizabeth asks. Oscar stares inside and sees their mother and father quarreling through the window. “What about Mr. Snuffles?” Samantha asks. The shouting match intensifies. Oscar looks to the open door. “Stay here,” Oscar says. He rushes past the kitchen, avoiding his father, and to his bedroom. His hands reach for Mr. Snuffles under the bed, then grabs two books from the desk. He hurries down the stairs. The creaks of the old wood compose a symphony amidst the violence. He reaches his sisters. “Mr. Snuffles,” Samantha exclaims as she hugs her teddy bear. “Thank you, Oz,” Elizabeth says. Oscar kisses Elizabeth on top of her head. The mother and father exit the house. She pitches the car keys to Oscar who catches them. He unlocks the family wagon, puts the bags inside, and his sisters in the worn backseat. He sits in the passenger’s seat and waits for his mother. The father grabs her by the arm, and she wrestles out of his grip. “No more,” the mother says. The father grips her again and smacks her across the face causing her to fall down. Oscar flinches. “Momma,” Elizabeth and Samantha yell simultaneously, slamming the back-door window repeatedly. The red imprint of the father’s hand visible on the mother’s cheek. She shakes while she lies on the concrete grit. Oscar surveys the interior of the car. A nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker lies at his feet. He grabs it. The mother drags herself away from the father, staining her pastel yellow dress. The father staggers toward her as Oscar marches up to him, whiskey bottle shaking in his hand. “Get your ass back inside, boy,” the father orders him while pointing toward the house. Oscar smashes the bottle across his face. His father falls along with the bottle. Crimson blood blends with the golden whiskey. Oscar helps his mother to stand and walk to the car, leaving his father on the ground yelling into the void. The mother grabs the keys. They tremble in her hand as she slides them into the ignition. The car starts and they drive away. The mother looks at Oscar, who is staring out the window. She grasps and holds his hand, gaining his attention. She smiles through the pain and so does he. Elizabeth rummages under her seat. She digs up another bottle of whiskey. She rolls her window down and chucks the bottle out onto the street. The bottle rolls around until it comes to a halt and the gold inside leaks unto the black asphalt.
Breathing UnderwaterWhen I was six¼or maybe I was five¼I fell into the deep end of my grandmother’s pool. I had been eating Captain Crunch out of a beige flecked bowl with an orange ring around the rim. I was wearing a bright red terry cloth bathrobe, my favorite. I don’t remember the event, at least not the way my mom tells it. The way she tells it: she screamed when she heard the splash, and everyone frantically jumped from one foot to the other. My uncle - then a life guard, now an alcoholic - jumped in and saved me. My mom cried and everyone was relieved that I was okay. Because of their reactions I never told them what really happened.
I remember the whole thing like you remember your favorite part of a movie. I looked past my cereal bowl at my skinny legs hanging over the edge of the diving board I was sitting on, at the light sparkling off the water. And then, in that brief moment, I wondered¼what would it be like to breath underwater? I didn’t jump, that's the wrong action word. I just sort of scooted forward, slowly, slowly. No one saw me and my slight movements. When I was close enough I decided I could just, scoot the rest of the way off the diving board. Splash. I would breathe underwater. They jeer as I go by, the assholes that aren’t comfortable in their own skin, taking out what they hate most about themselves on me. I wonder if they would be different if I was different, if I hadn't listened to the idiot that stepped up on some proverbial soapbox and spouted worthless crap about truth and honesty setting me free. I believed all the nonsense. I was honest and look where it got me. I don’t feel free. Feel more persecuted¼for something I didn’t choose in the first place. Prosecuted for what I just...am. Yeah, screw you too. My parents lied to me. Their lies aren’t anything special, they were just the first to do it. It's almost laughable when you get older, the number of people that lie to you when you're a child who believes anything. It's almost laughable now. Almost. Even my teachers lied to me, lied to all of us¼told us we could be or do anything we wanted. They told me I could be anything. Then, just when I was about to become the “greatest anything”, those same teachers drew me aside, smiled apologetically and told me in soft whispers that I wasn’t good at the anything I wanted. They lied. Imagine being told you’re Superman, Wonder Woman, or any superhero really. And you buy it- hook, line and sinker. Imagine walking around in the face of danger, in the face of harsh words thrown at you and thinking you’re immortal. You smile and wink tauntingly with confidence. Imagine being drawn back from the edge of greatness when a knife actually draws blood and searing pain from your supposed superhuman flesh. (But wait! Wait...I’m a superhero!) My parents told me they’d love me no matter what, but I don’t think they took into consideration the ‘no matter what’ clause. I don't think many parents do. They attend a therapy group to deal with me now; to deal with what 'no matter what' became. My father gives me awkward hugs. Because of his group. He never hugged me before, not really. The hugs feel like an obligation that neither of us likes but partake in because we don’t know how to explain that we don’t want to hug, not over this, not now. The hugs are making us more distant. My mom stands up for political issues. She wears buttons, marches in parades and tells her friends about me. She’s turned me into something to stand for. Yet, she seems to have forgotten about me. When I call she stutters endlessly. About new family conflicts, about the weather, about the newest disease she thinks she dying from. She drones on about the bake sale she and her support group are having in order to raise money to get the newest self-help-best-seller to give a speech. She talks so that I don’t have time to. So that she doesn’t really have to stand behind the ‘no matter what’ she threw at me all those years ago. It was the light that bounced off the water, the way the blue and yellow bent and curved. It was so beautiful, so ethereal. I wanted to touch it, make it my own. I thought I could. So I inched closer and closer and I don't even remember the splash. They stare and sneer, noses raised up in the air, eyes wide with expectation and judgement, foreheads wrinkled. I don’t even think I look that different. My tattoo isn’t visible, no piercings on my face, no raw and trendy hair cut that draws attention. Still, they look at me and they know what I am, what they have branded me, what they make me feel like when they look down their noses. I used to think about moving. Thought about it a lot. Used to think that I should run away, to some utopian idealistic society where I might find solace. Then I went to visit a few friends who had ventured out into the great unknown, beyond the barriers of the state boarder that acts like an invisible force field keeping us all in our place. I went to see what it was like, this different world. But my friends, they weren’t happy. They didn't find the Avalon they’d been looking for. Some of them put on a good show of false hope and satisfaction. But their misery was still there, crudely covered up. I went out with them, walked down the streets of their new town with them, laughed about how much I loved the green hair they sported and the industrial ideals they had adopted. Still, I saw it, the people passing them by, that same look of disapproval. Moving hasn’t changed a damn thing. You know that commercial. The one that’s supposed to be all intense and dramatic because not only is it in black and white and a little girl dressed as a ballerina states, “when I grow up I want to be a junkie.”¼the commercial is some ploy to keep kids off drugs by stating that no one starts out wanting to be that way. That’s me. My life has become a tacky commercial. I find it funny that no one ever asks me if I planned on this. I thought I was going to get a chance at the American Dream. House, kids, car, dog, job. Now I’m informed I can’t do that. I’m evil, unclean. No one wants to know that honesty wasn't the best thing I did for myself. I wake up most mornings disappointed. Feel like I’m trying to run away from my own skin. No matter where I go, no matter which mirror I look in, no matter who I’m with, it will still be there - the reality of who I am is an unwanted shadow. Following me. Sometimes I think of Peter Pan and wish I could rip it off, the shadow I have to bear, and leave it in someone else’s room. I’d never return to look for it. I’d never go back under the veil of night and beg to have it sewn back on. I get ready for my day, dressing meticulously, pretending that kind of control is enough. I laugh with my friends, have a good moment, try to appreciate something outside my little bubble of worries, and go to bed wondering if I have to wake up tomorrow. When I watched the water glowing blue in my grandmother’s pool, and as I inched closer and closer to the edge, I thought for the briefest of moments that I could do it. Breath underwater without anyone knowing. I just never thought anyone would see me, but they do. They see me and they know. Even if I didn't hear the splash, someone else will. Sometimes I think I’ll walk up to them, the deluded masses, and wrap my arms around them, hugging them close to me. Sometimes I can picture myself doing such a thing so clearly. I think - I’ll hug them tight, my eyes closed. I’ll wrap my arms around them until they are broken. Until they realize I’m approachable. I’m not a disease, and we are not different from each other. Yeah. But hugging them would be like trying to breathe, underwater. I tried to breath under water but it didn't work, hardly ever does. All I saw was a flourish of distorted figures floating high above me, the beauty was gone, and I was dragged down by my favorite tattered red terry cloth robe. Unable to breathe at all.
Blank Stares and Empty Skies “If we’re going to die tonight, then at least we’ll die right.” Alex smiles smugly, biting into an Oreo cookie. He presses one into my palm as well and I close my hand around it gratefully.
It’s so dark that I can’t see the white cream sandwiched in between. I pull the Oreo apart and start working at the middle, peeling the paste away with my tongue, licking, licking, as though I’m the little girl who’s just been awarded her lollipop for good behaviour. I shove what’s left into my mouth and allow the remains to dissolve slowly, relishing the sweetness, and agreeing one hundred percent with Alex’s declaration. The two of us are holed up in a ditch we’ve hastily dug out before nightfall, but neither of us can sleep because the ground is fucking cold and our clothes are damp from sweat and nerves. It doesn’t help that the mist has set in, curling around the mountainside and leaving us even wetter than before. Stars wink in and out of the fog and I think to myself that I may very well be lying in my own grave. There. We’ve prepared it all, nice and ready, waiting patiently for our time to come. It would be so clean and simple. I’ve even drafted my last rites should the need arise. They’d include a kindly request for unlimited Oreos in Heaven and some dry clothes. Wait, am I even allowed to ask for that? I shiver, not sure if it’s from the cold or the thought that even up there, we may run out of those blessed cookies. “Yes,” I whisper back. “How I’ve dreamed of dying in some hole, stargazing and bingeing on junk food… Hey!” I perk up momentarily. “I think that’s the North Star!” I reach out to a random point in the sky and in all honesty, I haven’t the slightest idea if it’s even in the right region. “Yeah, right. You’re full of bullshit,” I assume he’s rolling his eyes at me. “Alright, so maybe I am,” I admit, “But if I really believe that’s the North Star, then what’s to say that in my reality, it’s not true?” “Sami, I really believe you’ve gone insane. So I suppose in my reality, it must be true!” “Oh, you think I’ve gone bonkers. Take a look at yourself in the mirror. Mister I’ll go die in a ditch somewhere, but it’s all good, as long as I’ve brought along something tasty to eat. Like this is some effing horror movie and you’ve got to have the popcorn!” He’s got me heated; I want to holler his head off now. And I realize that’s exactly what he was going for. Because the teasing takes an edge off the weariness and the fear, even if only for an instant. With Alex by my side, chuckling lightly, I almost convince myself that we’re safe. But, the temporary distraction doesn’t last. I know he’s only being brave for my sake. We fall silent. He squeezes my hand. I return the gesture. The night is still, aside from that one damn cricket who won’t shut its mouth and the mechanical chew-swallow, chew-swallow of cattle grazing in the fields around us. It’s no wonder that I barely notice them; the darkness is thick enough that even my fingers are shapeless when I raise them to the North Star. And then, just as suddenly, the cows take shape. Hundreds of blank stares turn towards me. The sky lights with fire. What a beautiful shooting star. I don’t even have time to be afraid before it falls and the earth erupts, sending dirt and debris flying into my eyes, ears, mouth. Coughing. Spitting pebbles. Rubbing my stinging eyes. Ringing. Ringing. I lose my hold on Alex in the impact. “Alex!” I shout, frantic, as another rocket dives in our direction. The cows scatter, wild with fear. Fire. I’m not cold anymore. I hear my commander’s voice over the radio. “In-coming. Take cover.” I swear. One of the cows closest to me explodes, blood and flesh splatter my face, hot, reeking of rancid meat. My stomach turns. A sweet bile rises to the back of my throat. How many times had Alex and I bet on the amount of cows that must explode here? What with farmers allowing them to wander freely through these parts. Now, I’m covered in cow bits and a hysterical laugh escapes my lips. It’s irrational- we’re being bombed and there’s nothing remotely funny about it, but I can’t hold back the urge. I turn to Alex, wanting to share with him the irony of the whole scene and that’s when my mind snaps back to attention. Fumbling in the dark, I find him beside me. Shake him. My hands come away wet. The can of Cola must have spilled. Except, it’s hot and sticky like the cow bits. “Alex, can you hear me?!” My heart catches. I shake him harder. “My leg,” He grunts through clenched teeth. I rip at his shirt-sleeve, wrapping it tightly around his thigh. My hands tremble and I try desperately to steady them. Knot the cloth around his gun magazine. Begin to turn. Alex struggles against me. “Fuck! Sami! Please stop it. Stop! It hurts.” He’s sobbing now and it’s all I can do not to give in. “Listen to me, God-damn-it, I need you to stay with me, alright? I’m here. You’re not alone. Grab my hand.” He grips it tight. “That’s it, there you go.” I tighten the turn-a-kit robotically. Turning. Turning. Not thinking. His screams grow faint. The ringing in my ears drowns everything else out… I wake shivering. Confused. Throw back the sheets. They’re soaked through with sweat and nerves. The cricket is still chirping and I resolve to silence the damn thing once and for all. I reach for the pocket knife resting on my nightstand and tread into the hallway. My pyjamas are pasted to me uncomfortably; I can’t quite manage to catch my breath. Listening intently, I pass through the house, tiptoeing over the loose floorboards, attempting to sneak up on the damn thing before it realizes what it’s got coming. I can feel my heart pulsing through my hands, pounding faster. Alex’s blood is wet on them. Warm to the touch. I gag and retch at the scent of it. “Alex, I’m here now. I’m taking care of you.” I swear, I’ll stop the bleeding. I’m tearing at my pyjamas, winding them over the knife and rotating slow, biting down hard on my lip to stop the tears. Footsteps. Creaking behind me. I jerk up, expecting to see that poor cow blown to bits. Instead, I find myself gazing steadily in Buddy’s soft brown eyes. He approaches me slowly, licking at my face, whining and nudging me; begging for a good pat. The knife clatters to the floor and, surprise, surprise, that damn cricket finally shuts up. I stand there, gaping for a good moment. Then, my legs give and I sink to the floor. “Oh, Buddy!” I hug his tiny body against my chest and bawl, snot dribbling down and matting his fur. A torrent of grief and sadness hits me, but I don’t understand where it’s coming from, because that night, I saved Alex’s life. He begged. Pleaded with me. But I kept at it. My fingers run rhythmically through Buddy’s fur. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. I’m running through isles of graves. Am I lost? There's the rose bouquet arranged neatly. Nice and ready. So clean and simple. His name written in large block letters. A true hero. The bravest of them all. R.I.P. Another declaration I find myself agreeing with completely. A declaration as loud as I imagine eternal silence can be. I lay down beside him and we are once again side by side in the ditch. I remove a semi-crushed Oreo from my back pocket, rest one half on the roses and pop the other into my mouth. Alex never gave a flying-fuck about roses. He was more of a coffee, cigarette kind of fellow, if you ask me. I crunch down hard on the cookie. There’s no need to be discreet anymore. The night’s stillness has already been shattered. By blank stares. A shooting star. Cow bits and dirt raining down. The stupid beasts don’t even understand we’ve been hit when the ground opens up and swallows them. I don’t understand either. The Cola spills. No. Too hot to be soda. Alex’s blood is all over. My mouth fills with metal and vomit. I’m sinking and sinking. There’s so much blood and I can’t find where it’s coming from. I try telling Alex that I’ll just bandage him up. That all he needs to do is hold on a little bit longer. What I manage is, “Alex. Alex. Alex.” As though my mind has forgotten every other word. I’m pressing- putting pressure on a wound I can’t even find. I seem to have frozen on his name, unable to order my thoughts beyond fear, desperation, and its repetition. Alex. Alex. Alex. A prayer of sorts. As though calling him enough times will bring him back. But, it’s too late. He’s already gone. And he takes everything left in me with him. Sometimes, I’m certain I saved Alex that night, but then I’ll remember his name etched into the gravestone. A true hero. The bravest of them all. R.I.P. What a shitty way to die. Sometimes, I’m certain I’ve died along with him. How else could I be so empty? “There you go Alex. We died right in the end,” I tell him. My voice hitches. I pull one of the roses by its thorn and a little droplet of red beads up on the edge of my thumb. I rub the leaf between my fingers; I smell of blood and roses. Buddy nudges me impatiently. “Alright, boy. I’m letting you out for a pee, don’t you worry now,” I say, willing my reluctant self to get up off the floor. He follows me over to the screen door and we step out into the yard. I breathe deeply. Here I am. I am alive. Here I am. I can smell the roses from my neighbour’s garden. There’s not a trace of rust to taint their lovely scent. A certain calm washes over me. The sun climbs its way up from the horizon; there are no blank stares or falling stars in the quickly brightening sky. The despair seems, perhaps, to be a little less consuming. Maybe Alex did die in my arms that night. And every night since. I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to let go of the regret. Or stop searching through the fog for a way to save him still. But, I do know that for right now, I’ve made it till dawn, the stars have stayed put, and my dog, Buddy, is waiting, eager to curl up beside me in bed. Letting us back in, I crawl under the covers, and snuggle close to him. I shut my eyes and pray the nightmares away, so that I too may finally rest in peace. Because I am so very tired. I feel Buddy warm against me. Alex’s blood is hot at my fingertips. I swear I’ll stop the bleeding this time. No way is he going to die on me tonight. Now way in hell. And then, I am drifting off. Floating away into a nothingness of blank stares and empty skies. Darkness Descended 1921—Southern California, ten miles east of the Pacific Ocean
Ten-year-old Laura posed for a photograph. To her mother, she looked stoic. Her mouth stretched wide turned down at the corners. Dark curls were hanging below her shoulders. A big bow pinned in her hair. Snap! In a millisecond, the camera captured her sadness. "Mama, I have a headache," Laura complained. Emily placed her hand on her daughter's forehead. "You're burning up. Crawl into bed. I'll get you some water and a couple of aspirin." A few minutes later, Emily handed Laura the pills. "My throat hurts.” "Don't whine. Take the pills." Laura placed the tablets in her mouth and with a few sips of water managed to swallow. Falling back, she dropped her head onto the pillow and fell into a restless sleep. A couple of hours later, around three, Laura woke up with a stiff neck. Doctor Diaz, the family doctor, had been called to the house. "It looks like Polio. The beaches and theaters are closed. Worst summer epidemic I've seen in years." He put the stethoscope back in his black medical bag. Shaking his head, he said, "Terrible disease. Just terrible.” "What can we do?" Emily asked. "As far as I know—hot compresses may help prevent paralysis. Work Laura's limbs, bending her knees and elbows." Laura's father Manuel and her mother, cut wool blankets into strips, dipped them in hot water, wrung them out, and then wrapped them around Laura's arms and legs. After about a week, the illness passed. However, one of Laura's legs never developed as it should, and she walked with a limp. 1925— Manuel died from tuberculosis The parish priest, still a little hung-over from drinking too much wine the night before, gave a brief eulogy. "Dust to dust." He cleared his throat. Then said, "Manuel was thirty-nine. A husband. A father. Although he wasn't a churchgoer, he was a Christian.” The priest gazed at the few mourners gathered at the side of the grave. “And if you were to ask him if he’d come back, no doubt in my mind, that Manuel would say, no." Clasping his prayer book to his chest, "Now let us bow our heads and pray, Our Father— May he rest in peace." Emily, dry-eyed, stood next to her daughter. Laura sobbed while staring at the plain brown casket. "Laura, stop crying. He's gone. Let's go." Emily said. "At least we still have a home. No money, but a home." "Mama, please. I don't want to leave Papa alone." "Don't be such a baby. Everyone's leaving. And so are we." Emily grabbed onto Laura's arm. "Come on." Laura, dressed in a black coat, wept as she hobbled behind Emily to the curb of All Souls Cemetery. Fishing boats unloaded Dressed in a white uniform, and wearing a hairnet, Emily left the house early every morning to go to work at a seafood cannery. A bugle like sound blasted throughout the Pacific Tuna Cannery Company. It was time to go to work. Emily used a timesheet to check-in. "I hate this place," she said to herself. The pungent smell of fish filled the air. Along with 100 other women, 50 on each side on a long table, a large pan at each station, Emily, stood all day with a knife in her hands cleaning fish. The first thing she did when she got home was to pour a hefty helping of "Lux Flakes" under hot running water into the bathtub. With a bar of Ivory in one hand and a washrag in the other, Emily immersed herself in mounds of bubbles. "Ah, this feels so good." As relaxed as she was, she still fervently lathered up the cloth with soap, and scrubbed her face, neck, arms, and legs, trying to remove the stench of fish. 1933—The neighborhood grocery store A bell tied to a screen door jingled. Laura slowly limped into the grocery store. Joe Pimentel, the proprietor, stopped stacking canned goods on shelves, and pleasantly said, "Good morning, what can I get for you?" "One can of tomato sauce and an onion. I'm making chicken soup for dinner. My mother's favorite." "How's your mother?" "Complains a lot. But she's okay." "Still working at the cannery?" "Yeah, still working. If it weren't for my leg, I'd probably be there too.” Leaning in close, "Sunshine, you're much too pretty to pack tuna into a can." Laura blushed, "Thank you. But I think not." "Excuse me for a minute; I'll get an onion. And the tomato sauce." Joe walked away. A minute later, he came back with Laura's order. A few days later, Laura paid another visit to the store. She waited at the counter for Joe to come out from a back room, where she presumed was where he slept. I wonder if he has a girlfriend hiding in there? "Sorry to keep you waiting. I needed to get a saucer of milk for Tigger." Joe set down the dish on the floor near the empty wine barrel that he used as a table. "That's okay.” Feeling embarrassed about her thought, Laura looked away, in fact, she looked all around the store, “Where's your cat? He, he usually runs over to greet me." "He's around here someplace." Joe called, "Tigger." An orange striped cat darted out from under the counter on the other side of the store and came running. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. You need an onion and can of tomato sauce?" Joe laughed. "Oh no, just a couple of slices of baloney and a loaf of bread." Laura brushed away a strand hair away from her face, "I bet you think I use an awful lot of onions and tomato sauce." Just then the cat jumped on top of the counter. "Well Tigger, you tell him I need 'em to make stews, meatloaves, and soups." Laura chuckled, flashing a beautiful smile. "It seems like everybody wants a baloney sandwich these days.” Joe sliced two pieces off a big roll of Bologna. While handing a dollar to Joe to pay for her purchase, he grasped her hand, "I'd like to call on you. Maybe stop by your home sometime?" "Oh, I don't know." Feeling the warmth of his fingers, she paused. Gazing into his soft brown eyes, and he in hers, she said, "That would be nice." "Perhaps tomorrow, around seven." "Tomorrow around seven is fine." Joe paid Laura a visit Although Joe was at least ten years older than Laura, he came calling. Three months later, he asked her to marry him. When Laura told her mother about the proposal, Emily laughed, "Joe asked you? What did you say?" "I said, yes." "That's ridiculous. Why would Joe do something like that?" Emily pursed her lips and lowered her voice, "I'm prettier." "What did you say?" "Nothing." Emily raised her hand in dismissal. Laura knew her mother was comparing herself to her daughter and had been surprised that someone, like Joe, could have proposed marriage. Emily was jealous. First Anniversary With his heart filled with love, Joe handed Laura one dozen, long-stemmed, red roses, and said, "Happy Anniversary." He kissed her on the cheek. "Oh, Joe, they're beautiful," Laura buried her nose in the flowers. She inhaled. "They smell lovely, I can't believe it's been a year." "The happiest year of my life." "Mine too." Laura smiled. "I'll get a vase.” She hobbled over to a counter, put down the flowers, leaned over and took an Art Deco container out from the cabinet under the kitchen sink. After a pot roast dinner, Joe poured Marcella wine into two glasses. He raised his drink, "May we have many more years." "Yes, many more." Fall turns to winter I'm so tired. I'll lie down a few minutes before I start dinner. Laura held onto the armrest of the sofa and lowered herself onto a cushion. Stretching out, she closed her eyes. Don't let Joe see you resting. He might think you're sick. She remembered what her mother said when she saw her napping: 'Goddamnit, you know I'm hungry when I come home from work. Just because you're tired, that no excuse.' She rested for ten minutes, and then slowly getting up, shuffled to the kitchen. While standing at the sink peeling potatoes for dinner, Laura's began to cough continuously. Her chest hurt. She felt hot. Beads of sweat formed above her upper lip and across her forehead, she saw stars, everything blurred. Laura collapsed. When Joe walked in and found Laura sprawled on the floor, he rushed to her. "Laura. Oh, my God, Laura." He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her. He noticed blood in the corner of her mouth. Billowing white curtains floated like ghosts reaching through an open window. Laura lay flat on her back in bed. She'd been diagnosed with tuberculosis. At seven in the evening, Emily stopped by the modest home attached to the store. She had swept her hair up into pompadour, her eyebrows plucked into an arch, and her lips painted red. Joe sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and looked up when Emily barged in without knocking. "You're made up. Going someplace? He asked. "Only here." She smiled. "Thought you might like some chicken soup." "Thanks, Emily. Put it on top of the stove." "You must get lonely, with Laura being sick in bed.” She put the pot down on a back burner. “I’ll heat it later. I’m sure Laura will enjoy it.” He took a sip of his coffee. "I guess I better check on her." Emily knocked, cracked open the bedroom door, and holding onto its edge, she popped her head into the room, "How do you feel? I brought dinner." "That's not necessary, Joe knows how to cook." I hate that she stops by here every night. She doesn't care about me. I know what she wants. "Doing my duty, that's all. Doing my duty." She closed the door. Tears trickled down Laura's cheeks when she heard Emily's laughter in the kitchen. I wish she'd stay away. Darkness descended A few weeks later, the flame of a candle sitting on top of the nightstand was reaching the bottom of its wick, it sputtered as Laura struggled to take her last breath. Joe drowned himself, but not in religion. He didn't believe in God. Not in his work, because that didn't matter anymore. Not in liquor, it only dulled his senses. None of these. He wanted a wife. So, Joe married Emily. Within a few months, Emily changed. No longer the laughing, carefree woman he'd known, she nagged and spent money as fast as he could make it. He felt like an insect caught in a black widow's web and needed to cut free. Joe divorced Emily. He sold his store and journeyed by boat to live near his brother in Brazil. Emily continued to work at the fish cannery. She kept her eyebrows plucked, put on her makeup, and still wore her hair in a pompadour. She looked good, but would never be able to wash away the stench of fish. The End Tyler Marable studies creative writing at Google University. He enjoys good food, good beer, and good people. When he's not working to expose a government conspiracy called Grit: Mission Command, he's hanging out with his family, drawing, or watching anime. His psychiatrist says he has schizoaffective disorder. But he thinks she's just paranoid and moody. #ME Two I believed in clocking in each day ready to work, so I took Viagra each morning before I kissed Melissa on the cheek and left the house.
I stopped when I entered the laboratory. The king size bed had been replaced with an emperor size bed. The first thing I wondered: Why? I got my answer. Cliff's voice came over the intercom. "Today, LaDarius, you're going to perform a fivesome. Four Racks at once." "Four Racks at the same time, Cliff!?!" I stared at my reflection in the two-way mirror. The man in the glass had a look of disbelief on his face, standing there in nothing but boxers. There was a short pause, and then Cliff's voice came over the intercom again. "That's what I said." "I'm overworked and underpaid, you know?" "You let me know that every day, LaDarius." I found Cliff's voice unnerving. There was nothing nefarious in his voice, but I often wondered what he did behind that two-way mirror while I performed my job. "A lot of men would do your job for minimum wage." I just stood there, gazing at my reflection. "Well, I'm not a lot of men. I'm one man. Four units at one time is three too many." "Your expression says no, but that bulge in your underwear says yes. I'm bringing in the Racks." I sighed and laid down in the bed. I stared at the fluorescent lights above. It cast the room in its bright glow. The entire room was white. White lights, white ceiling, white walls, white floors. The lab was called the Fishbowl because of the two-way mirror. The voyeurs who called themselves scientists, probably dropped their clipboards for a bottle of lotion once the action began. The glass doors slid open, and the room got a lot whiter. Four units walked in, all the same model: five foot six, double d-cups with brunette hair, beautiful eyes, and great asses. The units were called Racks because of their breasts size. Bare naked, the quadruplets were wearing their production day suits; clothing were mere accessories for such toys and cost extra. Their synthetic flesh glared in the light. Their gaits were awkward and robotic, even so, I still had a hard-on. "We are ready to serve your interest," they all said at the same time. I had suggested to the dialogue programmers to make the units better at conversing. There's nothing wrong with a little banter now and again. The dialect programmers said the units would only have rudimentary linguistic intelligence. I found it hard to get in the mood when the units spoke like the Borg. "Commence intercourse," I said, feeling pretty damn silly. I guess when I pulled my boxers off I should say, Release the Kraken. Or perhaps, Release the ebony basilisk was more appropriate. They all laid down on the bed. At home with Melissa, I performed my duties as fiance underneath the comforter, but at work there were no blankets or sheets. Cliff and the rest of the Quality Reviewers needed to see the products perform. Cliff called out the positions. I'm pretty sure we went through half the Karma Sutra manual. The units had specially engineered metal skeletons, so they were remarkably light and flexible. I guess they had to be. No one wanted to be crushed to death under a two-ton android. There's no good way to die, but dying at work had to be one of the worse ways to go. Accidental death by snu snu sounds hilarious, but it's not funny to Patrick Gibson … He's not here to laugh about it. Spent, I fell to the mattress, my body dripping with sweat. "You have achieved climax. Do you wish to continue?" the unit lying beside me asked. Her synthetic vagina was equipped with sensors; it had recognized my orgasm. I waited for Cliff's word. It wasn't my decision to make. Talk about being micromanaged. "Tell the Racks you are done, LaDarius." I followed Cliff's instructions. "I do not wish to continue." The units all closed their eyes and shut down simultaneously. "Ask them to make you a sandwich," Cliff said over the intercom. "… What?" I asked. "Tell them to make you a sandwich." I shrugged. He was the boss. I was just a pencil pushing peon, only I pushed something that wasn't number two lead. "Make me a sandwich." The units didn't budge. "That concludes the first session. You have three more sessions with two-hour breaks in between." I stared at my reflection in the two-way mirror; it had its arms in the air in shock. "Three more sessions? I have to have an orgy three more times? You're breaking my back." "We have to work out all the bugs, LaDarius." "Yeah, by working out all of mine," I said. "I'll be in the break room." Work took the pleasure out of anything. I loved lemon meringue pies more than anything in world, but if I had to taste them for a living, I'm sure they would lose their appeal … Sex wasn't fun anymore. # I clocked out early and went home after the second orgy. I told Cliff I wasn't feeling well, didn't even bother to get the units back to their storage area. I just ran off; I left four Racks. Yeah, I had a bad day, but I had Melissa Wong waiting for me. A martini, some of her homemade sushi, and everything would be fine. I knocked three times on my apartment door. Melissa didn't answer. I figured she was in the shower. I sighed, looked like I would be making my own martini. I unlocked the door and went inside. There was music playing. Ginuwine. I hated Ginuwhine. I thought it was strange. Melissa only played Ginuwine while we were having sex. That's when I heard it. A moan, and the squeaking of our bed. I shook my head and cussed as I went to the kitchen. This didn't call for a martini; this called for Coke and rum. I made myself a drink and walked down the hall to the bedroom. I slowly nudged the cracked door open. Some guy, who looked like Terry Crews, was hard at work between Melissa's legs. She was laying on her head back, whispering his name, her nails digging in his shoulders. “Faster, Donatello.” "Donatello?" I said. "He looks more like Leonardo." They both looked to me. Melissa gasped. "LaDarius, it's not what it looks like." The guy jumped up and covered himself with a pillow. The damage was already done, though. I got a good look at his manhood. He looked like Terry Crews up high and pornstar Mandigo down low. "Yeah, bruh, it's not what it looks like." "He's my dance partner," Melissa said. "From the ballroom dance club you and I talked about. I took a sip of my drink. "So you two were just doing the horizontal tango, with your clothes off, and his fully erect penis accidentally slipped inside you." They didn't say anything. "You can go home with this guy," I said, "to your mother's, your girlfriend's place, wherever. I don't care where you go, Melissa, but you have to get up out of here." "LaDarius. It's just. I wasn't having fun anymore." "Play Candy Crush." "I was lonely with you working all the time," she said. "Get a labrador and some friends." "You changed. You never wanted to have sex." "Buy a toy." "I need the real thing." By this time, Melissa's guest had slipped back into his jeans and polo shirt and was sliding by me. "I'm just going to see myself out." I let him by. "You didn't even take your ring off." She looked at the rock on her finger. "Yeah, that's right. Donatello banged me knowing I was engaged. We've been at it two months now, and you're not going to do anything about it." She left the bed and put on her panties. She had lost a lot of weight; her ribs were showing. I should have seen the signs: weight loss through dieting, buying new dresses, getting her hair done, wearing expensive makeup and perfume when she went "dancing." She wrapped her bra straps around her body and hooked them together behind her back. "You're pathetic, you know that. You just caught me cheating, and you're not going to do anything about it. You wouldn't even confront Donnie." "Damn, so you even call him by his nickname?" I leaned against the door jamb, watching her put the rest of her clothes on. "In five minutes of sex, you threw away three years of my life." "It was ten minutes," she said. "And it would have been a hell of a lot longer if you haven't come home early. The one day you choose to come home early from work." "I came home early because I camed early at work." She rolled her eyes. "I can't wait forever for you to marry me. I've been waiting long enough." "I told you, once an opening becomes available in management I'll move up. I'll be making enough money to marry you and have children." She grabbed her purse off the nightstand. "I just wanted a man who takes interest in me. A man who takes me out. You don't love me. All you do is work. All you do is drink martinis and read and play video games." "A man shows you he loves you by being faithful to you and providing for you and taking care of your children." "If I stay with you I won't have any children. I'll hit menopause by the time you decide to take off the rubber." "I just wanted to be financially stable before starting a family." She grabbed her keys off the wall and walked past me. "I'm going to need my ring," I said. She pulled it off and tossed it on the floor. "If you’re going to get mad about this, you better do it now. Don't call me two weeks from now, crying and carrying on." I picked up the engagement ring off the carpet. Four weeks pay. My heart and soul just thrown on the floor. "You still here?" I asked. She left the apartment. I poured myself some more rum and Coke. I took a sip of my drink, put it back down on the counter, and drank straight from the bottle. # "What they got you doing today?" Trent asked. He spooned cold Chef Boyardee straight from the can into his mouth. I took a bite of my ham sandwich. "Four Racks." "Four Racks!" He put a chunk of meatball in his mouth. "Again! All at the same time!" "I clocked out early last time. They said they need three more sessions from me. I think I'm being punished for going home early." "You're being punished in more ways than one. I heard about Melissa. That's harsh, man." Looking down at my lunch, I knew all too well it was harsh. I wasn't eating the fine cuisine she had made for me every day anymore. I guess I had an odd look on my face because Trent asked, "You taking it well?" Heck no I wasn't. Three years gone down the drain. I cried; I drank; I called her two weeks later and got her voicemail, all twenty-three times I called her. Yeah … I counted. I changed the subject. "How’s everything's going with the Littles? They worked out the bugs yet?" "Yeah, by working out all of mine." "Would you like to trade? Try something different?" "Nice try, LaDarius," he said. "Four Racks … No thanks. I'm fine with Tiffany." I looked around the break room. No one had heard what Trent said. They were too busy gossiping or looking at their phones, thank God. I leaned over the table and whispered, "I know you didn't name it." He smiled and whispered, "Why not?" "Because it's against company policy." "They're going to give her a name when she hits the market." "It," I whispered. "Not she." "Her name's Tiffany, and that's that." I looked around; no one was watching. I looked up and nearly sighed. There were no cameras in the ceiling. I still felt the need to speak on the sly, "You must really like working in the Little Department." "I guess," he whispered. "I thought I wouldn't like it at first. You know, with the units being midgets and all. Then I met Tiffany." I just took a bite of my sandwich and didn't say anything. He leaned across the table. "I know guys in the Granny Department that feel the same way. I think guys are just like that. We would sleep with a lot of women if we could get away with it." I laughed. The conversation was turning back into guy stuff and not "violating company policy" stuff. "You know they did a psychological experiment at Jacksonville State University. They had a midget—" "Little person," I said. "Right, little person," he whispered; I had no idea why he was still whispering. "They did this experiment at JSU where they had this beautiful little woman sit on a bench in the quad. She just sat there with a textbook in her lap. When a male student walked by, she asked him to sit, made up some lie about not understanding some word in her textbook. The guy would sit; they would talk about academics. Then she would slip him a prepared note…" He paused for effect. I took a bite of my sandwich. "What did the note say?" His eyes went a little wide; you could tell he was trying not to chuckle. "The note said she would like to have sex with him, that he could follow her off campus. They would leave in separate cars. No one would ever know they had intercourse." "Yeah, and what happened?" "Check this out." He chuckled a bit, snorting out his nose, trying not to laugh out loud. "The guy would follow her to the nearest hotel. She would go to the office and pay for a room. The note would tell the guy to wait thirty minutes outside in the parking lot if he didn't want to be seen together with the little woman. The note told the guy to knock five times on the door and say, ‘Pizza delivery.'" Now we both snorted. "The beautiful midget—" "Little person," I said. "Right. The beautiful little woman would open the door. She would ask the subject if he wanted to come in. She would make it known he didn't have to. If the subject did enter the room, she would ask him again if he would like to have sex. If he said yes, she would pull a condom out of her purse and ask him to open it and put it on. When the subject opened the condom the experiment ended. I'm talking about social psychologists, bursting out the bathroom like To Catch a Predator." "They must have been pissed off," I said. "To be tricked like that." "Yeah, they lost their erections. Talk about blue balls." "That's what we're fighting for," I said. "We intrepid few. We brave souls who have shouldered this glorious burden. We fight to end the scourge that is known as blue balls." Trent's spoon scraped the bottom of the can. He put a scoop of cold spaghetti in his mouth. "It's funny because it's true … Well, not that funny. Patrick's not here to laugh with us." We both made the sign of the cross over our bodies. "You know they did the same experiment with shemales?" he said. "Transexuals." "Huh?" "Shemale is derogatory. Say transexual." "Right. Transexual. They did the same experiment with attractive transexuals. I'm talking about Miran, Ana Mancini, Sarina Valentina, Kimber James in her prime attractive. Hell, they had Sunshyne Monroe take part herself." I didn't ask him how he knew so many transexual pornstars. "They didn't trick the subjects did they? Made them think they were women?" He shook his head. "In the months running up to the experiment, they had college guys fill out questionnaires. They even followed the guys around campus to watch their behavior. They simply put the transexual in a place these guys walked by a lot. When one of the guys walked by the transsexual on the bench, she did the same thing as the little woman and asked him could he help her real quick with understanding a word in her textbook. She slipped the subject a note explaining her gender and sexual identity, all the things she likes to do to guys, you know? Fellatio, that kind of thing. Long story short, some of the guys followed her back to hotel and opened the Trojan, even if they said they would never have sex with a transexual on the questionnaire. And they were assured the questionnaire was anonymous, encouraging them to answer truthfully. Some of these guys were straight up homophobic, and they followed the tranny back to the hotel." "That ain't cool." He frowned. "I thought it was pretty neat." "What if the subject got pissed and hurt her?" "They had police standing by," he said. "I still don't like it." "A lot of men will have sex with women they otherwise wouldn't if they believe no one will ever find out. We got Littles and Racks and Almost Jail Bait and Grannies and whatnot. I was thinking Trannies. They can call the unit Sunshyne Monrobot. I'm thinking about putting a suggestion in the box in the supervisor's office, get that thousand dollar bonus, you know?" He wiped spaghetti sauce from his mouth with the back of his hand. "A few years back, Seth Rogen said a lot of guys are into transsexual porn. It's the sexy elephant in America's room. I even seen a video on Youtube, neuroscientists explaining why women like Edward Cullen and men like shemale porn." "Transexual porn," I said. I must have been making a strange face because he said, "It's not illegal, you know? It's not like I'm watching kiddie porn." "A man's Internet browser history is his own business," I replied. "As long as he's not doing anything illegal." The horn sounded, signaling the end of break. Everyone got up and walked past us. I changed the subject and spoke a little louder as our coworkers walked by. "Who you think going to win the Iron Bowl this year?" Trent shrugged. "I'm hoping Auburn will get the W." "They won't," I said. "They'll come out half-cocked, going through the motion, playing with no sense of urgency. Alabama will come out with their hardhats on, already clocked in and ready to work. Alabama will have their money in their hands and their minds made up." I stood, my legs shaking like jello. Only three more sessions to go. I threw my ziplock bag and Vienna can in the garbage and left the break room. Cliff stopped me on the way back to the Fishbowl. "I'm going to need you to follow me, LaDarius." I cursed under my breath. When it rained, it stormed. I was about to be fired. I didn't know why. Yeah, I had clocked out early, but I didn't leave without letting the supervisor know, and I only had three points. It takes nine to get terminated. I continued to follow Cliff. We walked by the supervisor's office, the office I hoped would be mine one day. That confused me. If I wasn't being fired, where was he taking me? At any rate, at least I didn't have to work with four Racks. I followed Cliff to a part of the plant I hadn't been in before. He led me to a steel door with a wheel on it, like a bulkhead door in a submarine. Steel crossbar barricades at the top and bottom of the door held it securely shut. Cliff placed his thumb on the fingerprint scanner on the wall. He then punched in his employee's number on the digital keypad. The crossbar at the top of the door slid into the wall; the bottom crossbar did the same. He spun the wheel and pulled the door open. "Is this Fort Knox?" I asked. He laughed as I followed him in. "No, no. Mr. Rosehall wanted the room secure because it contains valuable company property. He doesn't want people stealing from him." They must got some mean staplers and ink pens in here. I was expecting a top-secret vault but found myself in some sort of a bachelor pad. Kenny G's Songbird was playing over the audio system. A leather sofa sat in the corner. A modern shag rug covered the floor in front of the sofa with a touchscreen coffee table sitting on top. The screen on the coffee table displayed the Windows desktop. Opposite to the sofa, a one hundred inch recessed flat screen had an NFL playoff game on it. Purple flames danced around in the recessed electric fireplace below the TV. The living room opened up to a small kitchen complete with stainless steel appliances and its own mini bar. The interior decorators really went of their way, but the most beautiful aspect of the room wasn't the furniture, the TV, or the appliances. A woman was sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed, humming to Songbird. Light chocolate skin, short boyish haircut, large hoop earrings. She looked like a young Vivian Green. If she had be humming to Emotional Rollercoaster or to I Don’t Know I would have lost my mind and asked her for an autograph. "That's your new coworker, LaDarius," Cliff said. "We've taken into account your suggestion about the units' dialogue. We wish to study human behavior in a controlled environment that mimics home life in hopes of making the units more ‘ladylike' as you put it." "So, what do I'm suppose to do?" I asked. "Whatever," he said. "We just want to watch you two interact." "So … no sex?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. My job description at Rosebotics dictated I ask the question. "You two are adults. If you want to have intercourse then all means go ahead. That would definitely help our research. This is simply a case study in observing human behavior in order to make the units as real as possible." Cliff's words didn't quite register with me because something caught my eye. "Is that an open bar?" "Yes." "Am I welcomed to it?" "You're welcome to anything in this room, including the food in the refrigerator." He handed me his Ipad and stylus. "I need you to sign across the line." "What's this?" I asked. "It's a waiver stating you will not file a lawsuit against Rosebotics for this case study. It's similar to the waiver you signed when you started your employment here." I scribbled my name on the line, thinking of Patrick. "You guys are going to be watching us interact?" "We have cameras everywhere except in the bedroom and bathroom." He turned to leave then stopped. "When you're ready to go home for the day, place your thumb on the fingerprint scanner and enter your employee number in the keypad by the door." Cliff left. He pulled the door shut. The wheel spun until I heard the click clack of the locking mechanism. I made my way towards the bar. I bet they stocked it with some looze. My suspicion was correct. There were bottles upon bottles of cheap booze from Aristocrat to Skol to Tanka. I hated cheap booze; you were going to lose the fight with the hangover the next day; that's why I called cheap booze looze. I decided it was for the best. How would it look? Me drinking on the job in front of my new coworker? She was still sitting on the sofa, watching TV. She hadn't even noticed us come in the room. I didn't know how to approach her. Twenty-six years old, and I still didn't know how to approach attractive women. I decided to man up. I ambled over to the living room and took a seat in the chair beside her. Seeing her up close, I felt a bit underdressed in my work clothes. She was wearing a red one-shoulder dress, hugging every curve of her body. My eyes ran down her unblemished crossed legs to her high heels. "My name's LaDarius," I said. I caught myself staring at her legs and brought my eyes back up to meet hers. Her eyes were beautiful and light brown like her skin. "I'm Mary." Cliff's voice came over the intercom in the ceiling. "Her last name is Elizabeth.” I looked up. There were small dome cameras in each corner of the ceiling. Cliff did say he would be watching us interact. It was a bit unnerving, knowing we were being watched. I don't know why I felt that way. He had been watching me have sex with the products for four years now. But this was different. I didn't like it. Maybe that was because it was hard enough to talk to this beautiful woman without making an ass out of myself. I just knew Cliff would be snickering if I crashed and burned. "Mary Elizabeth. That's a nice name." I felt stupid. What was she suppose to say to that? Well … it's the name my mom gave me. She didn't reply. Now I sure as hell felt stupid. "So, how long have you been working here?" "Not long," she said. "I just started today." So, a new hire. I should have known by the dress. She had came in for an interview and wore her best Sunday outfit. She probably came in with a bachelor's degree, wanting a job in management, but they told her she would have to work into the position. They said the same to me. The only difference between me and her: I would have to go back to my dead-end job after this assignment was over, and they'd move her to the main office. "Well, I've been here four years now," I said. "The pay's good. It's not such a bad job, but I would like to do something with my degree." Cliff's voice came over the intercom. "I thought you said you were overworked and underpaid, LaDarius." "Cliff, if you want to do this case study, you're going to have to stop butting in when I'm trying to get to know my coworker." "Good call, LaDarius." I shook my head. "It's crazy ain't it? Being watched?" She shrugged. "I guess." There was silence between us. I was bad at making conversation with people, especially when they didn't want to be a party to it. I hated such women. You go on a date, and it's all awkward because she won't open up. You ask this; you ask that, hoping to get her talking so she would feel the date was going somewhere. If it works out, and you get her to talking, you can sit back and nod your head, saying, Un huh … Un huh … Un huh. The difference between me and a lot of guys: I ask women questions because I genuinely want to know the answer. That wasn't working, so I fell back to the default tactic of looking around the room, trying to find something to talk about. This was easier done when on a date in some fancy restaurant. Not so easy when you were just thrown in an experimental studio apartment … at your place of work. I looked around. The interior decorators were really on their game when designing the place. Maybe I should talk about that. No, I didn't want her to think I was a Nancy boy. Songbird was playing on a loop on the audio system. "So, you like Kenny G?" Crap, I sounded like a Nancy boy. It was too late; I had already blurted it out. Had to go with it. "I heard you humming to the music." "I really like Kenny G," she said. "Well, I don't know too much about him or his music, but I really love Songbird. I first heard it on a Super Bowl commercial a long time ago." I laughed. "Hit ‘em with the Kenny G." She laughed, too. Thank God. "Super Bowl Forty-Five," she said. "Pittsburgh Steelers versus the Greenbay Packers." "You like football?" I asked. "I do," she said. That's why she's watching the game. I looked to the TV. The Patriots were playing the Carolina Panthers. The Patriots were up by three touchdowns. It was second and one on Carolina's thirty five yard line. You're winning twenty-one to zero. You got the initiative. Don't play to protect the lead. Cover one, eight men in the box. The defense is obviously expecting run. Go play action and throw it to end zone. "What do you think the Patriots should do here?" I asked Mary. "Second and one." "They should go play action and throw it to the end zone," she said. The ball was snapped. The quarterback handed the ball to the tailback. No. It was a fake. The linebackers bit on the fake. The cover one safety read the quarterback's eyes like any good free safety. The quarterback turned his vision to his flanker, looking off the free safety like any good quarterback. The free safety committed to the flanker running a streak to his left. The quarterback turned his vision to his split end running a post route and threw the ball to the end zone. The wide receiver caught the ball wide open for six points. "If you go up by a lot of points, you can't start coasting," Mary said. "You don't play to protect the lead, you put the game away." I think I was falling in love. We watched the rest of the game. Then the game that came on after that. And then Sportscenter. She understood everything about the game of football. She knew the rules, the players, the head coaches. The type of offenses each team ran: from west coast, to smash mouth. I looked at the clock on the wall. "I've been having so much fun, I forgot about break." It was nice. To have so much fun at work you stopped counting the minutes to break time. But my stomach was starting to growl. I had to go a whole another two hours without eating. Mary stood from the couch. Her hourglass figure was something else. She was a sight in her dress. "I'll make you something." "You don't have to do that," I said. She smiled. "It's my job." "Oh, yeah, we're suppose to be interacting for the cameras." I winked at her. She winked back, getting my joke. "What would you like?" she asked. "What can you whip up for me?" "Anything you want." I laughed. "You're really good at interacting. I like shrimp fried rice." She went to the kitchen and scrummaged around in the fridge. She pulled out a bag of shrimp, a bag of rice, and a bag of frozen peas and carrots. She set these items on the kitchen island and turned on the stove, heating a skillet. She went to the cabinet and pulled out salt and sugar and dark soy sauce. She cracked an egg into a bowl and whisked it with a spoon. Damn, I was just kidding. Before I knew it, I was eating shrimp fried rice while watching ESPN. They say if you like your job, you'll never work one day in your life. But what if your job was just living life? What if you got paid to have fun? "You know how long this case study will last?" I asked Mary. She shrugged. "I don't know." "It will last until we have enough data, LaDarius." I nearly jumped up and spilled my plate. "Cliff, you need to install some kind of announcement chime." "I'll get on it," he said. How much data did they need? Would this assignment last a week or a month? I decided I might as well milk Rosebotics as much as I could; the company did that to us. "Could we maybe get a PlayStation 5, Cliff?" He mimicked an airport announcement chime and said, "I don't see why not." "Can we get some books?" He mimicked an airport announcement chime. "You don't have to do that everytime," I said. "What kind of books would you like?" "I read New York Times bestsellers, Manbookers, and Pulitzers, both fiction and nonfiction." "I'll have someone order you some." This was the work/life. I could get used to it. I just knew I was going to be disappointed going back to my Racks when the study ended. I finished my plate. Mary reached for it. I pulled it away, still chewing on a mouthful of rice. "I can put my own plate in the sink." "I won't allow it," she said. She took the plate and sauntered towards the kitchen, switching her hips. She looked like Jlo from behind. That dress. The way she walked. The way she talked. Her demeanor. She was a lot of a class with a lot of ass. I really can get used to this. "While I'm over here would you like a drink?" she asked. "Sure." "I make really good martinis," she said. And I thought she had me at shrimp fried rice. "Do you think we should drink on the job?" Cliff mimicked an airport announcement chime. "You can drink if you want, just make sure to call a cab if you have too many." "You heard the man. A martini it is," I said. "Stirred not shaken. Screw James Bond. When you shake a martini—" "It gets a little frothy and watered down," Mary said. I hadn't known her for one day, but she might have been the best coworker I ever had worked with. At that moment, I wanted her to be a bit more than that. But Rosebotics frowned upon office romance. She sat down beside me on the sofa and handed me the cocktail. I took a sip. The best martini I ever had tasted. "You should have made you one." "I don't drink." A lot of ass and a lot of class. I looked at the clock. It read 6:15 pm. I nearly cursed. I know time flies when you're having fun, but I didn't hear the end of shift horn sound at 4:00. I gulped down the rest of my drink and stood. "I lost track of time. The shift's over." "I did, too," she said. "Why didn't Cliff tell us it was time to leave?" An airport announcement chime sounded over the intercom, a real one, not Cliff playfully mimicking one. "Whenever you're in this room, you're on the clock." "So, I got overtime for watching TV and drinking martinis?" "Yep." Now I really knew I was going to be disappointed when the case study ended. "So, how long can we stay here?" "As long as you like," Cliff said. "But you'll only get paid while you're interacting. Sleeping is off the clock." "Can I go to my car and make a phone call?" "No, you cannot. You can't leave to take breaks. You have everything you need inside the Apartment." "That's what you guys are calling this place?" I asked. "Yes." It was tempting to stay, but I needed to talk to Melissa. My phone only had reception outside the factory. "I'll see you guys tomorrow. Do I need to clock out in my regular department?" "You're clocked out when you leave this room." I got up and walked to the door, scanned my thumb and punched in my employee number. I spun the wheel on the bulkhead, feeling like a submariner. I pulled the bulkhead door open and crossed the threshold. It shut behind me. The wheel spun, and the crossbar barricades slide back in place. It looked like Mary was going to take advantage of the overtime. I went to my car and called Melissa; it went straight to voicemail. It really was over between us. I cranked my car up but then turned it off. I didn't feel like laying around my apartment drinking and feeling sorry for myself, so I decided to go back to the Apartment to drink and lay around and feel sorry for myself. At least I would get paid for it. I returned back inside the plant. Danny from second shift told me I was going the wrong way; I told I him I was working a double. He just whistled and shook his head and told me to have fun with my Racks. I punched in my employee's number, scanned my thumb, and spun the wheel on the door. To my surprise, it opened. Looks like I can come and go as I please. Mary wasn't in the living room. I figured she called it a day. I guessed it would be a bit odd, just sitting around being watched by the cameras. I opened up a bottle of looze and turned on the TV and tried to drown my sorrows with cheap alcohol. It worked. You can't be sorrowful when you're passed out. # I woke to the sound of breakfast cooking, something sizzling in a frying pan. The smell of bacon and sausage wafted from the kitchen to the living room, filling the Apartment. "You're up," Mary said. "Unfortunately." I sat up, my head throbbing. I was about to fight a losing battle with a hangover all day. "You're getting down, aren't you?" She raised a brow and asked, "Getting down?" "Yeah, the food smells good." "I'm glad you think so." She made me a plate and set it on the table. "Would you like to eat?" I didn't really have an appetite, but it would have been rude to say no after all her effort. She had really gone out of her way. Scrambled cheesy eggs, bacon, sausage, a bowl of grits with a dab of butter melting in the middle, pancakes, I didn't think I could eat it all. On top of that, the table was set as if we were eating at a fine restaurant. I sat down and placed the napkin on my lap. She stood there, waiting for me to take a bite of her cooking. I did, and her labor tasted delicious. "Why don't you sit?" I said. "Make yourself a plate. Where are my manners? You slaved over that stove to make this fine meal; the least I could do is make you a plate." I stood to get a plate for her. "That's okay," she said. "I'm not hungry." She must have eaten before work while my sorry ass was piled up drunk on the couch. I suddenly felt ashamed. I didn't say anything; I just shoved a scoop of eggs in my mouth. "So what's on for today?" "I don't know. I'd like to do whatever you want to do." I hated when women said that. Women want a man that takes charge; I want a woman that tells me what she wants to do so I can do it the best I can. That's what I call "taking charge." "Well, there's not too much to do here," I said. The airport announcement chime sounded. "We got the PlayStation 5 you wanted and some books as well." "What kind of books?" I asked. I bet they were some $2.99 paperbacks pulled out of a bin in some two-bit bookstore. I bet the bin was by the door, too. The first thing you saw when you came in, trying to nudge you to buy the garbage they wanted to get rid of. "New York Times Bestselling, Manbooker and Pulitzer prize-winning," Cliff said over the intercom. That was great and all, but would Mary be fine with that? Just sitting there reading … acting like we're reading. At least I know I wouldn't be. It would be awkward silence of the worst type: the type caused by a sexy elephant in the room. "I don't think my coworker wants to sit around and play video games and read all day." "Mary was just telling me this morning how much she likes gaming and reading," Cliff said. I turned to her. She smiled. "It's true." "What games and what books?" I asked. "I like first-person shooters and junior RPGs. I like to read a wide variety of books, both genre and literary." "Game on, Wayne!" I said. "Your games and books will be here by nine o'clock," Cliff said. It was fifteen minutes to nine. I had never met a female gamer, not one who looked like Mary. Would I kick her sexy behind in a first-person shooter or an arcade fighting game? Or would I let her win or purpose? Oh, decisions, decisions. The bulkhead door opened. In walked Cliff with a few workers behind him. They were dressed too nice to be Grunters—that's what we Quality Testers called ourselves at Rosebotics. They were wearing business suits instead of casual street clothes. I figured they were from the front office. They rolled in carts filled with books and brought in a PlayStation 5 gaming system. "Just how long is this case study going to last?" I asked Cliff off to the side. "Until enough data is collected," he said. I still couldn't believe what was going on, but I wasn't going to argue. Free drinks, free food, free books, free games, getting paid to lounge around, it sounded too good to be true. I was going to make the most out of it because I knew good things never lasted too long, especially when they were too good to be reality. Felt like I was being blue pilled. And I ain't talking about Viagra. But there were more pressing matters than trying to distinguish between reality and a lie. I was being my silly paranoid self anyways. "Is there a place to shower in here?" "Yes, in the bedroom," Cliff said. "I'll need to go home to get fresh clothes afterwards." "That won't be necessary. I can get you a change of clothes from Quintard Mall," Cliff said. He looked at his Ipad. "You're five ten, one hundred eighty-two pounds." "Yeah, I said." "I'll get someone to buy you a few outfits. We'll keep them here in the Apartment." Man, they were really going out of their way for me. They set up the PlayStation, pushed the carts of books to the wall, and left as quickly as they had come. The first game to be played was Street Fighter. I wasn't going to take it easy on Mary just because she was a woman, that would be sexist. I chose Ryu; she chose Sagat. Cool, a rivalry fight right off the bat. The first round started; I had a smile on my face. Easy peasy. I lost. It was beginner's luck. We fought the second round and I lost it, too, and pretty poorly; she finished me with a special move. I cracked my knuckles and told her I was warming up and let her win out gentlemen's etiquette. She beat me again and again. We played Mortal Kombat. She got flawless victories and performed fatalities on me. We played first-person shooters; she went stupid with a kill death ratio like none I've ever seen. I asked Cliff if I could make an account to play online. He said it would be fine. I wanted to see Mary play others. She destroyed the opposition in Call of Duty, winning team games by her own initiative. Her kill death ratio was absolutely ridiculous. I put in Battlefield, a game where it was a bit tougher to win alone. She had some trouble. "I don't understand," she said. "Why would you be a medic but not revive people? An engineer but not take out enemy armor? A support trooper who doesn't provide ammo to his comrades?" "Welcome to online play," I said. I found time to take a shower and change outfits. We played video games all day, well, she did. I just watched. It was entertaining to watch a woman as gorgeous as her kick ass online. We even played Halo. She was a bit confused why her teammates would not help her control the middle on symmetrical maps and why they conceded the power weapons. I told her because they were not as good as she was. They only played with their fingers, not with their brains. Another day came to an end. I decided to stay again. Racking up on overtime was better than racking up on Racks. Mary decided to stay, too. It was pretty late, 10:23 pm. "You get the bed and I get the couch?" "We both can sleep in the bed," she said, a smile on her lips. I nearly choked on my martini. She was somewhat fast if I was reading her body language right. "I'll sleep on the couch." "Okay," she said. "If the couch is not comfortable, you know where the bed is." It was so tempting. But I still wanted to make things right with Melissa. It had been my fault, working all the time. If a woman cheats she has a good reason. And here I was still working all the time. I hadn't been the best fiance I could be. I thought of calling her again, but my phone only worked outside the plant. "Can I go to my car and make a phone call?" I asked to the ceiling. Cliff didn't reply. He had long gone home. "Good night, Mary." I left the Apartment and went to the car to call Melissa. She didn't answer. I sighed. I thought about going home but didn't. I walked back towards the Apartment. Second shift workers looked at me as if I was a lamb walking to slaughter; I was still at Rosebotics when my shift had ended hours ago. I walked towards a fat paycheck. No, it wasn't that. I didn't know what it was. Maybe the fact I didn't want to go back to my cold apartment when a much warmer Apartment awaited. I went through the procedure to unlock the door to my home away from home, feeling like a CIA agent with a top-secret clearance pass. Cliff was standing in the living room talking to Mary. "I thought you had left, Clifford," I said. "I was reviewing the performance of other Quality Testers," he said. " We Reviewers work longer and harder than you think. And don't call me Clifford." I loved ticking guys off who didn't like their own names. Hell, I didn't like my own. No telling how many times a human resources coordinator threw my application in the trash because my mother felt the need to be creative when naming me. "Mary's about to call it a night?" I asked. "Yeah, she's staying, trying to make the most of that overtime pay. We were talking about getting more luxury items added to the Apartment, things she might enjoy." "I had a lot of fun gaming with today, LaDarius," she said. "I did, too. Can I crash on the couch again? I don't feel like going home." "You can sleep with me," she said. She was a sweet woman, but I was a bit old fashion. I wasn't going to sleep in the same bed with her. We just met. "The couch is good." "Well, I must be going," Cliff said, looking at his Ipad. "You two kids behave." I laughed. "Funny, Cliff." He nudged Mary. "This guy gets it. Behave. Behavior." She laughed, too. "I like LaDarius." "I do, too," Cliff said. "Ms. Elizabeth, the bed is yours, go get some rest. You, too, LaDarius. There's another long day ahead of us tomorrow." Cliff bid farewell and left. Mary retired to the bedroom. I took my place on the couch and watched TV until I fell asleep. # I awoke the next day to the sound of cooking again. This time Mary made French toast from scratch and country fried steak and ham and biscuits with white gravy. I asked her where she got the ingredients; she said it was one of the things her and Cliff talked about. I thought I'd take a look at the reading selection Cliff and his colleagues were so nice to bring me. Pure gold. I picked up a random book and couldn't put it down. Mary did the same. This went on for days. I drank; I read; I played video games; I got bored. I called Melissa every day but got no answer. Hell, it went straight to her voice mail most of the time giving me the message: it's over. So I thought about asking Mary out. She was something else. I knew I had no shot, but it wouldn't hurt to try. We were sitting on the couch, watching a movie from the Redbox Cliff had ordered. He literally had ordered it. I jokingly had said to put a Redbox in the living room, and he did it. My mind wasn't on the movie; it was on the gorgeous woman beside me. "Would you like to go out sometime?" I asked. "What do you mean?" "Like to the movies or something?" "But we're watching a movie here," she said. Shot down, just like that. "I understand. I thought it might be fun to maybe go out to dinner sometime, see a horrible movie, stretch our legs instead of sitting around the Apartment." "If you think it would be fun to do that, then it probably would be," she said. "I'm tired of the Apartment." "So, it's settled. We'll go out, have some fun, eat at a nice restaurant, and go dancing or something. What would you like to do?" The airport announcement chime sounded over the intercom. "You know Rosebotics frowns upon workplace romance, LaDarius." I knew the policy. I had often thought Rosebotics frowned at workplace romance because all the employees on the floor were men. Only a handful of women worked in management. That's where Mary was headed after the case study. I had often wondered if our sister factory had the same policies, the Rosebotics’ plant in Georgia that tested male sexbots. "It wouldn't be workplace romance because we would be off company property," I said. "I'll have to see what Mr. Rosehall would think about it," Cliff said. Damn, this went way up. All the way up. Taeshawn Rosehall owned Rosebotics. I didn't think Mr. Rosehall would have the authority to tell Mary and me what to do, but I still liked my job, no matter how backbreaking it got to be. I would go along with every decision he made. I didn't say anything; I just sat there waiting for Cliff's reply. It took a whole thirty minutes. Corporate bureaucracy. The airport announcement chime sounded again. "Mr. Rosehall agrees. He frowns upon romantic relationships in the office place because they can create a hostile work environment, leading to charges of sexual harassment, but he believes he ultimately has no say over what you do on your own time." "Great," I said. I looked to Mary with a smile. "Sounds like we're going on a date." Excitement beamed in her eyes. "Can we go now?" I never liked doing anything spontaneously on impulse, but she seemed enthusiastic about going on a date with me. I had never had such an effect on such a beautiful woman. I always planned out my dates days in advance, but for her, I was sure I could wing it. "Sure," I said. "Let's just go and do whatever. It's 5:35. The night is still young. In fact, the night is still in adolescence." I cringed at what I said. Pretty lame. "Then let's go," she said. I loved it, a woman who didn't need two hours to get ready for a date. I offered my arm to her. She hooked her arm under mine. I think my heart skipped a beat. My hands started to sweat. Ten seconds of contact with her for the first time and my hands were turning clammy. I led her out the door, making sure to close it behind me. I didn’t want to lose my job if something of value was stolen from the Apartment. All the Grunters watched us as I walked with Mary through the plant. A woman that turned heads, being escorted by me. It was really something else. We walked to my car. I opened the door for her. She slid in, looking pretty fine in my Dodge Charger. I started the car and turn the ignition. We were off. There was silence as we drove down the highway. A white van followed about three cars behind in the slow lane. It made the same turns I made. I asked her again what she would like to do. "Whatever you would like to do," she said. "I want to do whatever you want to do," I replied. "I know women want a man that takes charge. I'm not really one of those guys. Just tell me what you like to do, and we can do it." She looked out the window as I drove. There was a carnival in town. A Ferris wheel turned in the distance, a red and blue spiral swirling in the night sky. "I want to go there." "Great, looks like awesomeness on flatbread with chipotle sauce," I said. I did a U-turn, and we went to the carnival. It really was fun on the bun. I won game after game while my date cheered me on. I won Mary a giant sized teddy bear. She squeezed it against her breasts as we walked. She really wasn't that hard to please. "So, tell me more about yourself." She ran her hand over the teddy's head. "There's not much to know really." "We all have our stories to tell. I'm sure your story is fascinating." "Not really. My story would probably bore you." "There's nothing you could say that would bore me. You're beautiful and you're kind. I'm all ears whenever you're speaking." She smiled and blushed. "Well, I was born in Wedowee. A little town about forty miles south of here." "Really?" I asked. "I grew up in Roanoke. We were practically neighbors. You were the girl next door, at least I wished you were." She stroked the teddy bear's head some more. "You really like me, don't you?" "You got to ask?" "I like you, too, LaDarius." It was my turn to blush. I hated my name but loved hearing Mary say it. I heard my name again. That voice. I didn't like hearing my name all of a sudden. I wonder if my name tasted sweet on Mary’s tongue. I knew it tasted bitter to Melissa. I unhooked my arm from Mary's and turned around. "Melissa, what do you know? It's a small world." She was holding hands with Donatello, fingers interlocked. You know it's a serious relationship when two people have their fingers interlocked. She had a thin smile on her face; it vanished when she saw my date. "Who's your friend?" "Her name's Mary. I know her from work," I said. I turned to my date. "This is my former fiancee." Mary extended her hand. "I can't believe you cheated on LaDarius. He's such a nice guy." Melissa did not take Mary's hand. "You been talking about our business, LaDarius? I never talk about you behind your back." "We don't have any business between us because there is no us. Besides, it just kind of came up while we were working." "Is that what work is called nowadays? Gossiping? And I thought you were testing the sex toys." "I got assigned to a new project. If—" Mary cut me off. "What's worst, gossiping or cheating on your fiance?" My hands got a bit sweaty. I hated drama. I sure as hell hated confrontation. "Who this bitch think she is?" Melissa asked. "I'm LaDarius' girlfriend. I intend to treat him like he deserves to be treated." This was a first. Two beautiful women baring their fangs and raising their claws … over me. I didn't like it. Donatello and I just facepalmed and shook our heads. "Well, Melissa, we got to be going. I got work tomorrow," Donatello said. Sounded like he had had enough of the exchange as I did. He gave me a nod and tugged Melissa along. "She seemed nice," Mary said. "Yeah, upon first impression," I replied. I took her hand and interlocked our fingers. "What did you ever see in her?" "Let's not talk about her and ruin a nice evening," I said. "It was a perfect night until that happened." A little girl walked by with her parents with a gloomy look on her face. Mary’s eyes lit up when she saw the child as if she had never seen a kid before. She asked the girl why she was sad. "We're leaving and didn't win any prizes," the girl said; she looked to be five. "Well, we won one just for you." Mary handed over the giant teddy bear to the girl. The thing was bigger than she was. She hugged it and smiled the most wonderful smile. "That's mighty nice of you," the girl's father said. "What do you say, Andrea?" The girl snuggled the teddy. "Thank you!" "Just when I thought you couldn't get more beautiful," I told Mary. Mary hugged me. It was so unexpected I blushed again. I wrapped my arms around her. Two guys were playing the high striker game. They were a bit overdressed, wearing nice business suits. I wondered why anyone would come to the carnival dressed like that, much less play such a game; their jackets might rip like Chris Faley in a little coat. They were going to split their suits, swinging the hammer like that. I didn't think too much more about it because my date was overdressed as well. One of the men took a quick glance at me. "Would you like to go back to my place?" I whispered into her ear. "I would love to," she said. We left the carnival and drove back to my apartment. I swore the same van was following us. I had bipolar disorder with psychotic features. I didn't think I was manic, but I felt paranoid. I unlocked my apartment door and invited Mary inside, hoping the place wasn't a mess. Thank God it wasn't. The last time I had come home to take a break from the Apartment, I cleaned up. Don't know why. I barely spent any time in the place anymore, and I didn't have friends over. I thought deep down, I always had intended to invite Mary to my apartment. "You have a nice place," she said. I knew she would say that, such a polite woman. My stomach growled. I should have stopped and gotten us something to eat. I was a bad date. I had been so thrilled she had said yes when I asked her if she wanted to come back to my place, I didn't stop by a restaurant. I had other things on my mind instead of food. I had a different type of hunger that took precedence over eating. I was a man like any other, I suppose. She heard my stomach talking, "You hungry?" "A little." "Sounds like a lot." She went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. "You don't have that much to eat in here." My refrigerator was stocked with the bachelor B’s: beer, bologna, bacon, beef, and more beer. "Yeah, I cook for one, so I don't have anything fancy." "I'll see if I can I whip something up." I wasn't about to let my date cook for me. "That's not necessary. I'm the one that took you out tonight. I'll fry us something." She wasn't having it. We went back and forth, arguing over who was going to do the cooking. She won the argument and a made me a bacon cheeseburger patty melt. It was the best patty melt I had ever eaten. She didn't join me. It was at that moment I realized she had an eating disorder. Was she anorexic? She looked a healthy weight. Did that mean she was bulimic? She never ate around me. I didn't want to ask her about it. Would that be rude? No, being direct without being a douchebag is always an option. I thought it would be too rude to ask her if she had an eating disorder, but if she needed help, she needed help. I blurted the question out: “Do you have an eating disorder, like anorexia and/or bulimia? “No, of course not,” she said. “Why you never eat in front of me?” “I’m embarassed to.” “You don’t have to be embarassed around me, “I said. “I’m the one that should be embarassed, asking if you have an eating disorder.” “It’s quite alright,” she said. “I cook and maintain a proper weight for you.” That comment made me uncomfortable for some reason. I couldn’t my finger on it, but I felt a little unnerved. When I got done eating, she asked could she take a tour of my place. I was apprehensive about it. There were some rooms I didn't want to her to see. I brought her back to my apartment so she could see my bedroom, not the guest room, but she insisted on a tour of my place. "I don't show everyone this room," I said. "Then I feel honored." I opened the door to the guest bedroom. There was no bed or any furniture whatsoever. I had often joked to Melissa when she complained about the guest bedroom, I kept it that way because I don't want guests to come back. Melissa didn't find the joke amusing; she went shopping for furniture; I always returned it. I keep the guest bedroom a mess for a reason. Sketchings littered the floor. Paintings covered every space on the wall. A pile of manuscripts sat on the desk in the middle of the room. "It's—" "A mess," I said. "I don't really feel the need to clean this room, you know?" "I was going to say it's amazing," Mary said. "Did you draw and paint all of these?" "Yeah, I did." "You're creative." Her eyes went wide when she saw the piano. She gestured towards it. "May I?" "Of course," I said. When she sat down at the piano, I immediately hid the painting of her, sitting on the easel in the corner of the room. Thank God she hadn’t noticed it. I put her portrait in the closet while she had her back turned to me. Her fingers hit the keys. The piano sang for her. "Chopin," I said. "Nocturne in E-flat major Op 9. No 2." "I love it." "Why?" she asked. "Because it's universal music. Everyone's heard its beauty. And you're the one playing it." She blushed. I loved her for it. I rarely made beautiful women blush. She finished Chopin's work and played Beethoven's Fur Elise. I became mesmerized. I thought I could not fall more in love with her, but I was wrong. She was a thing of beauty, like the instrument she played. She asked me did I know how to play the piano. I told her a little bit. She got up, smiled, and said she wanted to hear. I told her I had to warm up. I bent down and touched my toes, stretching my hamstrings. Then I pull my feet to my buttocks, stretching my quads. I interlocked my fingers and stretched towards the ceiling. Mary giggled. I sat at the piano and cracked my knuckles. "Will you just play?" she asked through a snort. My God, she even snorts when she laughs. My fingers hit the keys; a musical masterpiece filled the room, one which took me many years to conquer. A piece so awe-inspiring it had the power to bring men to their knees. I played Chopsticks. She gave me a round of applause when I finished. I thought I've give her an encore. I played and sang My Whole Family Thinks I'm Gay, composed by Bo Burnham. She cracked up. "Maybe we should get one of these at the Apartment," I said. "You think they'd do that?" "They've been spoiling us so far. It wouldn't hurt to ask." I got up and smiled. I hugged her and pressed her lips to mine without even thinking about it. It just happened. She wrapped her arms around me, and we stood there in each other's warm embrace, kissing passionately. What started as a base hit ended up an inside the park home run. We found our way to my bedroom and tore off each other’s clothes. It was the best love I ever had made. She asked if I wanted a sandwich; I told her I was going to gain a lot of weight if we kept dating. I politely declined the sandwich and went outside to smoke. There was nothing like a cigarette after a good meal or great sex. A menthol Newport was the exclamation mark on a wonderful evening, I leaned against the railing of the second balcony. I took a pull and exhaled smoke and notice something strange. A white van was paralleled parked down the street. I've never seen that van in my neighborhood before. I had lived there for three years. Not once had I seen that van parked on my block. I went into the house and checked my pupils in the mirror. The first time I went manic, my pupils were dancing around. My pupils were normal. It had been years since I had taken Risperdal. The stuff gave me erectile dysfunction. You can't be a Grunter at Rosebotics with ED. I stopped taking Depakote because I didn't want to stop drinking. I believed I was paranoid. Even still, I put on jogging clothes and told Mary I was going for a run. I grabbed a sticky notepad from my nightstand. I jogged down the street past the van and doubled over like I was trying to catch my breath. The van’s license plate read 56MC666. I made a mental note and jogged further down the block, rounding the corner. I wrote down the license plate number on the sticky note. # I stopped counting the days. That's saying something. Everybody works towards the weekend, but every day was Saturday at the Apartment. Every night was Saturday night. Mary and I were officially dating. Our relationship was a serious one; we didn't have casual sex, we made love. Having intercourse in the Apartment felt odd at first because I felt we were being watched. This was a result of being a Quality Tester. Office workers hear phantom telephones when they get home from work, Quality Testers felt the phantom eyes of scientist voyeurs who called themselves Quality Reviewers. Even when Melissa and I had been together, I always felt like someone was watching us in the bedroom. I checked the Apartment's bedroom for cameras; there weren't any. I got ready for another date, staring at myself in the wall mirror. The man looking back seemed to be happy for a change. I finished putting my clothes on: a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a pair of Girbrauds with green and yellow straps across the thighs, matching my shirt and Air Jordans. Melissa would have told me to change, that nobody wore Girbrauds with the straps anymore. Mary didn't mind. Hell, I could have went out looking all afropunk. Mary didn't care how I dressed or how I spoke, in fact, that's what she liked about me. Finally, I had found a woman who liked me for me, not a woman who loved my looks but wanted to change everything else. I hated such women. Date a man not for who is, but for who they can mold him in to. Mary wasn't like that. We went to the movies and saw an action flick. She loved every minute of it. I took her to a nice restaurant. She finally ate in front of me. She covered her mouth while she chewed. I thought it was cute. You know I thought it was cute because I was grown ass man saying the word “cute.” We laughed and sipped wine and had a good time. That is until I looked out the window. A white van sat across the street, parked a few cars in front of mine. "I'll be back," I told my date. "I left my wallet in the car." I left the restaurant and walked past the van. The license plate read 56MC666. I was afraid of that. I opened my car door and searched around the glove compartment, acting like I was looking for my wallet. I returned inside the restaurant and told Mary we had to go. I threw down a fifty dollar bill on the table. I guess the waiter got a good tip. "Why?" Mary asked. "I haven't finished my meal yet." "I'll explain on the way back to work." She saw the look of concern in my eyes. "Is something wrong?" "We'll talk about it in the car." I extended my hand to her. She took it and stood. I interlocked her fingers with mine and led her to my Dodge Charger. I opened her door first like I always did, being careful not to look in the van's direction. I pulled off and headed back towards the Apartment. The van pulled off a few cars behind us. "We're being followed," I told Mary. "Followed by who?" She turned. "Don't turn around," I said. She looked forward. I signaled and changed to the fast lane, putting the van on her side. "Look in the side view. There's a white van three cars back. You see it?" She looked in the side view. "Yes, I see it." "It's been following us everytime we leave the Apartment." "Who do you think it is?" "I don't know," I said, astonished Mary believed me without a second thought. Melissa would have told me to take my meds. "Why would they be following us?" "If they wanted to rob us, abdupt us, or anything else criminal they would have done it already. I think someone is stalking you." "Me?" "Yeah, I think your ex-boyfriend is pissed." "Exboyfriend?" she asked. "You're the first boyfriend I ever had." I took my eyes from the road for a second, thinking she was joking. Her face had a confused expression on it. Something wasn't right. I didn't follow the usual route back to Rosebotics; I took detour after detour. The van followed. I pulled onto Industrial Park Drive. There were three major plants: Mohawk, Trintex, and Rosebotics. I drove past the carpet and rubber plant and turned into Rosebotics' Avenue. I showed security my ID. The gate rose; I drove in and slowed to a snail's pace, looking in my rearview. The van pulled up to the gate. The gate rose for it. The bastards work here. I pulled into my usual parking spot and helped Mary out of the car. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "Are we in danger?" "Na'll," I said. "My mind was playing tricks on me." We walked through the plant. Everyone eyed us as we strode by. I used to take pleasure at them staring at us. Now I didn't know what to think. When we got back to the Apartment, I collapsed on the couch before realizing I needed a drink. I didn't ask Mary to make it. I got up and poured myself a glass of brandy and drank it straight. She asked had I gotten enough to eat at the restaurant. I told her yes, although I didn't. I left my steak half eaten and didn't get to start on the baked potato. "Let's go to bed," I said. "At this time of day?" "Let's close our date with one of your special happy endings." I grabbed a stool from the bar and took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom. "What's with the stool?" she asked. "A new game." I pointed to the bed. "Lie down." She did as told. "LaDarius, is there something wrong? There's something in your voice." "Take your panties off." "I don't want to," she said. "Not like this. There's something wrong. That van followed us here." I got in bed with her and straddled her body. "Take your panties off, or I'm going to do it for you." "I don't want to." I wrapped my hand around her throat. Nothing drummed there in her neck. "Commence intercourse." "No," she whispered. "Are you going to kill me?" I jumped off the bed in bipolar rage. "You can't kill something that's not alive!" I grabbed the stool by the legs and smashed it into the wall mirror. The mirror shattered to pieces, revealing a poindexter-looking scientist holding an Ipad. His pants were bulging. "Is that a smartphone in your pocket, Cliff, or are you just glad to see me bang an android?" Cliff was inarticulate with surprise. "She has no pulse," I said. "She's a robot." "LaDarius, this wasn't my idea." "You still decided to go along with it." I turned to Mary. "I'm sorry I scared you, sweetheart. But we're leaving." She raised from the bed. "LaDarius, what's going on?" "I'll explain it on the way to the car." "You can't take company property," Cliff said. "Watch me," I replied. I grabbed Mary by her hand and scanned myself out of her prison. Security was waiting for me in the hallway. Two men dressed in all black with well built imposing frames stood in my path. I guessed Cliff had called them. "Step aside," I said. "You're stealing company property," one said. "We can't let you leave with it." "It?" I asked. Cliff stepped between the two guards. "Return to your room, Mary." "She's coming with me." One of the guards grabbed my hand and wrenched it from hers. I nearly started swinging on him. I was hot. Being bipolar, I didn't get angry, I got rageful. I shouted an impressive string of cuss words at the guards, telling them to keep their hands off me. Words didn't stop them. One grabbed my arm and put me in a rear wrist lock. They shoved me down the hall. Mary called out to me from behind. She shouted my name. "Let me go," I said. "We will if you calm down." "If you don't let me go, I'll file an assault claim against you for excessive force. I tore my rotator cuff playing high school football. I can feel my shoulder separating. My shoulder better not be injured, or I’ll file a lawsuit. You two blockheads will lose your jobs." That seemed to worry them a bit. The guard behind me let my wrist go. "We're still going to escort you off the premises." "All right," I said. "I understand." We walked through the plant. Trent was in the hallway of the Little Department. He saw the guards and asked, "What's going on, LaDarius?" "You remember that hot chick I was dating?” I said. “She's no chick." At fifty pounds overweight, Trent struggled to keep up with the pace of my brisk walk. "What, you mean like a transexual?" "No, she's all woman, and she's not a woman. She's a new model." Trent cussed in excitement. "You talking about that hot ebony tail?" "Yeah," I said. "What they calling the new model?” he asked. "Mary Elizabeth,” I said. "This man is being escorted off the premises. Return to your workstation," one of the guards said. Trent didn't argue. He turned around after saying he hoped he had a chance to test the new model. At the end of the hall, about forty yards away, an elevator opened. Managers from the fourth floor got off the elevator. I bolted for it. I ran a four-five in the forty yard dash in high school, and that was coming back from ACL reconstruction. It had been awhile, but I kept in shape. Fortunately, I kept in better shape than the guards. Knocking over the janitor's bucket helped as well. The guards busted their asses when they slipped on the detergent. Some higher upper got on the elevator. The door started shutting. "Hold that elevator!" I ran into it and immediately started hitting the close door button. The door closed in the guards' faces. "Thanks." I bent over, panting for air. "Was I supposed to do that?" the guy asked. "You did it for a good reason. My name's LaDarius Welch. I'm a Quality Tester. It's nice to meet you." "Dalton Palmer. I work in engineering." He extended his hand. I gave him a fist bump because my hands were sweating profusely. "Do you know about the new unit?" I asked. "Mary Elizabeth?" "Yeah, I was part of the team that developed its skeleton. We call her ME." "That's it? That's all you know?" "Is there something else I should know?" he asked. The elevator opened. "You'll know soon enough. The entire world will." I power walked down the hallway to the conference room. Mr. Rosehall always met with the junior executives on Mondays. The conference room's front wall was clear glass. They all were sitting around the table having a good laugh, eating donuts, drinking coffee. I don't like being a killjoy, but I was about to tinkle on their parade. "You gave a sex toy artificial intelligence!" I heard the disbelief in my own voice. They all turned and looked at me. The guards walked in behind me. They still hadn't caught their breaths. "Sorry, Mr. Rosehall. We were just escorting him off the premises." "No need to apologize," Mr. Rosehall said. "I actually wanted to talk to Mr. Welch." He turned to the junior executives. "How about we take an hour for break? I would like to speak to my employee in private." The room cleared; they all stared at me as they passed. "Why don't you take a selfie with me and post it on Facebook? It'll last longer," I said. "There's no need for that, Mr. Welch," Taeshawn Rosehall said. "Would you like a drink?" "I think I would. Do you know what you have done? I haven't even had a chance to think about the ramifications this will have on human relationships." He went to a mini fridge in the corner and pulled out a bottle of milk. "I know you prefer alcohol, but I don't drink myself. I saw what it did to my adoptive father." Taeshawn's father had been a typical politician: a hypocrite. It had been five years since Senator Paul Rosehall had fled the country with his mistress and their love child. His wife, Lisa Rosehall, ended up winning his seat in a special election. The entire affair was pretty bizarre. I wondered if that's why Taeshawn was such a douche. He seemed like a guy who would fap then shake your hand without washing … on purpose. He twisted off the cap and handed me the bottle. A glass of milk would be refreshing after my forty yard dash. I turned the bottle up then spat milk on the conference table. "What the hell is that!?!" I asked. He grabbed himself a bottle from the fridge and opened it. "That's Cambodian breast milk you just wasted. It’s hard to come by these days.” "You keep a mini refrigerator full of Cambodian breast milk?" He took his seat at the conference desk. "I suppose that's why people call me eccentric.” “That stuff’s been banned. I’ll go to the media and tell the world Taeshawn Rosehall is importing illegal goods.” “That’s my girlfriend’s breastmilk,” he said. I gagged. “Now, what can I do for you?" "Mary," I said. "She's a sex toy, and you gave her artificial intelligence." "It," he said. "Huh?" "It. Not her. It, Mr. Welch." "Mary Elizabeth isn't a thing. She isn't an it if she has intelligence, cognition, consciousness, self-awareness. She is a being." "Its name is not Mary Elizabeth. Its name is Number ME Two. Manufactured Erotics Two. Not Three, not Four, not Five. Manufactured Erotics Two. That's how many tries it took me to perfect the unit." "You can't do this, Mr. Rosehall. You can't put that unit on the market." "And why not? Think about it, Mr. Welch. A sex doll that looks and feels like the real thing. A sex doll that'll do whatever you ask it to in bed and then make you a sandwich without complaining. It'll wash your clothes, cook you dinner, be waiting for you to walk through the door after a long day of hard work with a martini in its hand." He took a sip of breast milk. “We’re performing the same experiment at my plant in Georgia. You know, the one that tests male androids. Think about it. A middle aged divorced white woman who fantasizes about being with a handsome young black man with a body like the Rock Dwayne Johnson can make her dreams reality by purchasing my unit. Eye candy that holds her hand in the mall. Holds her bags while she’s shopping. Listen to her nonsense prattling and gossiping and whining about her female coworkers with all ears.” “Will that work?” I asked. “Would women fill comfortable having to pay for a partner? Would they feel comfortable with their friends asking, Is your man real? It’d be like toilet paper.” He raised a brow. “I know you think outside the box. It’s your personality. But how in the hell is my units like toilet paper?” “Men really won’t give a damn about being seen around town with a sexbot that looks like Mary, I don’t think. Hell, the product might be a status symbol like a fancy iPhone or a swanky car. Men will show Mary off like a Ferrari. But women might care. I can see the meme now: Is your man real? The guys who invented toilet paper couldn’t get people to buy it because they were ashamed to be seen purchasing it. So, they put the product in hotels, let travelers try it out.” Why the hell I was helping this prick; I didn’t know. Helping was in my nature, I guess. This whole matter was tragically fascinating. He leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling. “Hmm. Some female customers might be ashamed purchasing the units. Like toilet paper. Put it hotel rooms. Legal prostitution. The units aren’t human beings, so we can get around prostitution laws. You can rent a unit out, have it come to a hotel room confidentially.” I cussed under my breath and shook my head. Now he was talking about being a CEO pimp. "You can't. With the intelligence the unit has, it's not just an object anymore. It's—" "JD Rockefeller, Thomas Edison, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Taeshawn Rosehall. You're asking me to give that up because of what? Because of your romantic ideals?" "Romantic ideals? Since when is doing the right thing been considered a romantic ideal?" "Since billions of dollars became involved." There was no reasoning with this man. Nothing I could say would change his mind. "I can't believe the last ten weeks of my love life has been an experiment." "At least it wasn't ten years. You act as if you were psychologically tortured, Mr. Welch. You were pampered. Free food, free alcohol, free entertainment, free room and board, free sex." "We never had sex." He reached in his jacket and pulled out an iPhone. At least I thought it was a phone. He pressed a button on the device. A sixteen-inch monitor was projected in the air in front of Mr. Rosehall's face. "Hardlight personal computer, no tower with AI assistant, fits in your pocket," he said. He stared at me through the monitor. "You should see the look on your face." "Why not just sell that? You'll make billions. Sell Mary, too, without the AI." I shook my head again remembering the experience. "It felt real." "That's the whole point, Mr. Welch, to make the vagina feel like the real thing. To make it feel better than the real thing." "No, not that. I mean her skin and hair. Everything about her felt real. What is she made of?" "It … is made of state of the art chemical and bio-engineering called confidential corporate secret." He swiped the hardlight monitor and went through file after file. "I can't find it. Lisa, find the file named Sex Tape One." The hardlight screen shifted itself, like a smartphone being swiped by an invisible hand. “Stop,” I said. The screen kept shifting. “Stop.” “The AI responds only to the owner of the hardlight computer,” Tashawn Rosehall said. “Stop for Mr. Welch. The command was heard. “What do you wish now, Taeshawn?” Taeshawn looked at me, his facial expression giving me the go ahead while he answered the AI question. “Lisa, you’re approved to talk to Mr. Welch. He’s the young man opposite of me at the table.” “Of course, Taeshawn. Mr. Welch, what would you like me to do?” the AI asked. “I want to open the video on the screen,” I said. The AI obliged and opened the video; it was me asking Mary does she have an eating disorder. “You saw all of that.” Mr. Rosehall nodded. “That’s why we put an artificial stomach in her and programmed her to eat, to keep us the charade as long as possible to get scientific data. “So you had her eat at the restaurant to throw me off.” “Precisely,” he said. “Lisa, find the video labled Sex Tape One.” The computer screen shifted itself again. "I have found the file. Do you wish for me to open it, Taeshawn?" "Yes, Lisa." It was a bit unnerving; the AI had the same name as his adoptive mother. I had seen them together at a company picnic once. There seem to be something between them. I had a sixth sense about people. He didn't look at her like she was his adoptive mother, and she didn't look at him like he was her adoptive son. They looked at each other the way Mary looked at me. The file opened on the monitor. It was a video … of me. It was my home. My guest room. I was playing the piano. The camera shifted from me to around the room, panning across my drawings and paintings. "ISFJ," Mr. Rosehall said, "creative introvert with a messy room. Big Five: seventy-ninth percentile in openness, eightieth percentile in conscientiousness, twenty-ninth percentile in extraversion, ninety secondth percentile in agreeableness, and you scored in the tenth percentile in neuroticism. Pretty laid back guy. According to the scores, there was extra feedback: You learn new things quickly and easily." I didn't care too much about Mr. Rosehall knowing my Myer-Briggs and Big Five personality scores; my main concern was what was displayed on the monitor floating in the air. I was being filmed through Mary’s point of view. "This is a violation of my privacy," I said. "You consented to it." "The hell I did!" "You signed the consent form Clifford gave you," Mr. Rosehall said. "Lisa, skip to the good part. To the intercourse." The film skipped scenes like a DVD then stopped. I couldn't believe it. Mr. Rosehall had been watching us with his state of the art tech. O brave new world that has such doucebags in it. "I thought you said you two didn't have sex." "We made love," I said. "We didn't have sex." He chuckled. "I don't think it's funny. You filmed me without my permission behind closed doors. That's a crime in this state." "I have the best lawyers in this country, Mr. Welch. You consented to it as being a part of the job." "That'll never fly in court." "You signed a waiver stating you would not file a lawsuit. You’d basically be a porn star suing the studio for being filmed doing the dirty on the job." I cursed at myself. I really had to start reading stuff before I signed it. I could have ended up being a human centipede. I quoted Jim Kelly from Enter the Dragon. "Man … you come right out of a comic book." He laughed. "I'm just a businessman, a robotic engineer. But you know what? I'm the best robotic engineer in the United States, and when I stay at my villa in France I'm the best robotic engineer in Europe. No one has given an android this level of AI. No one has given an android a true personality." I realized why Mary and I hit it off so well. "You gave her the same Myer-Briggs and Big Five as me." "Precisely. You took the Big Five and the Myer-Briggs when you applied here. They were part of the application. We use the Myer-Briggs to help assemble management teams. Since you applied for management, you were given the inventories." "The Myer-Briggs is outdated and psychologists think it’s faulty. There are better tools out there. You should look into the High Potential Trait Inventory." I had no idea why I was helping Mr. Rosehall; it was akin to giving the Devil pointers on how to be more wicked. "That's what I like about you, Mr. Welch. You're agile and adaptive. I can use a manager like you. Hell, I could use a junior executive like you. You just got a promotion. That's why I had Lisa close the elevator door." I was baffled. "Huh?" "I saw you running from the guards on camera.” He pointed to flat screen TVs in the corners of the ceiling. “I figured you were heading my way, so I had the elevator door shut in the guard's face." "I hit the close door button," I said. "Those things are a sham," Mr. Rosehall said. "I had Lisa shut it. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to give you a promotion." "I quit," I said. "You'll do no such thing." "You can't stop me from walking out." "Along with your promotion, your salary will be raised to sixty thousand a year." "I quit." "You're turning down the promotion?" “She said ‘no.'" It was his turn to look baffled and say, "Huh?" "Mary said ‘no.' She's not a toy. You gave her intelligence. She’s not a doll any longer. She plays video games like—" “Yeah, we gave her the same interests as you: football, reading, video games, etcetera. People who have things in common tend to do better in long term relationships, so we gave her crystalized intelligence in areas you are knowlegable in.” “You didn’t let me finish,” I said. “She beats Final Fantasy bosses without a guide, without Youtube. She had problems with team based online games like Battlefield at first. Now she commands her teamates. Literally. She plays in commander mode. She hasn’t lost one game in weeks. She’s taking the crystalized intelligence you gave her and is using it to exercise fluid intelligence. Hell, I can teach her how chess pieces move, and in two weeks she’ll be beating Magnus Carlsen devoid of any knowledge of opening, middle, or endgame theory.” He took a sip of his breast milk. “And that’s a problem because?” “She said no. What if the unit learns not to love the customer?” I ran my hand through my hair. Man, I hadn’t had the time to think of the full scope of the situation. “Hell, what if its abused by the customer? Psychologically? The Apartment is a prison. You should have seen Mary’s eyes when it was approved for us to go outside.” He stroked his chin, lost in thought for a brief moment. "It said no?” I nodded. “I'll have to program that out. We can't very well have the products refusing to do their job, now can we?" Did he not hear a word I had said? "I can't work here any longer. This is unethical. This is sex slavery." He went up on his offer. "Seventy thousand a year, Mr. Welch. You want to put that business degree of yours to use, don't you? I want you to be my operations manager, but Raymond Gregory might object to that. I'll find a reason to fire him. How does making a hundred thousand a year sound, running Rosebotics' business operations?" I said nothing. "It's settled then. Take the rest of the week off. I'll show you to your new office next Monday." # I enjoyed my new position. The money was great. Six thousand dollars a month was more than enough to live on in Alabama. When I became operations manager, I was going to be ballin, making eight thousand a month. Melissa heard about my promotion through a mutual friend who happened to work at the plant. Things didn't work out between her and Donnie, turned out he was married. She wanted to get back together. I told her I was spoken for. I pulled my Porche up to the security gate and showed the guard my employee's badge. "You're here awfully late, Mr. Welch," the guard said. "I forgot some important documents in my office. Working on a big project, and the deadline's coming up. I'll be in and out." The guard raised the gate for me. I drove in and parked in my reserved spot. It was nice, seeing my name on the sign. You know you were someone when a parking spot had your name on it. I sent Trent a text message, saying I was entering the building. I passed the elevator leading up to my office and walked through department after department. Everyone stared. I was a made man now, dressed in an authentic Lisa Rosehall business suit, carrying a luxury briefcase. I sent Trent another text: I'm ready. The submarine bulkhead door opened. Trent walked out, like he was ready to leave for the night. "LaDarius, what are you doing here?" "I came to see Mary." "I was told you were not allowed in the Apartment anymore." I slugged Trent in the face. Hard. He hit the floor. "I'm taking Mary, and no one will stand in my way." Trent winked at me. "Whatever, man, just don't hurt me." I went to the bedroom and turned the light on. Mary was sitting on the bed in the dark. "Not tonight. I know they're making you do this. But not tonight." I turned the light on. "You'll never have to do anything against your will again." "LaDarius!" Her eyes went wide, and she jumped up off the bed. She ran to me and threw her arms around me. "We're leaving." I opened the briefcase. "Put these on." She got dressed in the clothes I brought her: sneakers, a pair of jeans, an Auburn T-shirt, and a hat to pull down over her face. We walked through the plant. I explained each department to her as if she was a new hire taking a tour of the place. When we got to my car, I opened the trunk. "You have to hide in here, so the guard at the gate won't see you." She got in and lay down. I started to shut the trunk but stopped when she said wait. "I love you." "I love you, too," I said. I shut the trunk and got in the car and turned the ignition. I pulled off, not believing what I was I doing. I stopped at the gate, my heart pounding. "Got everything I need." "Okay, Mr. Welch, you have a good night," the guard said. The gate opened. I drove towards Mary’s freedom. When I pulled off Industrial Park Drive onto the main highway, I pulled over. I opened the trunk and extended my hand to the lady, helping her out. She hugged me again. "How did you pull this off?" "I had some help." I wasn't allowed back into the Apartment. The code was changed, so I could not open Mary’s prison door. I didn’t think Mr. Rosehall trusted me with company property; looked like he had good reason. I had Trent put in his suggestion about Sunshyne Monrobot as well as a few more ideas to the company's president himself. Unbeknownst to Mr. Rosehall, they were all my ideas. Trent was chosen as my replacement in the case study. My co-conspirator. Following my wishes, Trent convinced Mr. Rosehall not to wipe Mary’s memory and change her personality. He said it would be an interesting experiment to see if the unit had become romantically attached to me. I had Trent purpose the question to Mr. Rosehall: What if there were two type of units? Sexdroids and companions. What if some customers wanted more than just a sex toy house bot? What if some customers wanted an actual relationship? He told Mr. Rosehall Mary’s attachment to me should be scientifically investigated. Had the android really fallen for me? Did it love me? And if so could this love be dissolved? How long would it take for this established behavior to become extinct? Could it learn to forget me and love Trent? These were the questions I had my spy whisper into Mr. Rosehall's ear, and the ego fapper never suspected a thing, too busy seeing dollar signs. I opened the car door for her. "I know you have the same personality as me, so you're very shy, but I have to tell the world about this. I have to tell the entire world about you." She smiled and nodded and got in the car. We drove off into the night, ME and me. [End] Herman Edward Seiser is a former journalist who worked for United Press International and several newspapers in the United States as a reporter and editor. He also worked for a newspaper in the former Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, in the late 1970s. While there he did some free-lance work for The Associated Press before he was expelled from the country. He later taught English at Fourah Bay College in Freetown, Sierra Leone. Seiser, now retired, had served with the U.S. Marine Corps in Vietnam from 1967-1968. REMEMBRANCEHe stared out an airliner's cabin window. Fingertips momentarily touched service ribbons pinned above his coat's breast pocket. A swollen foot and ankle throbbed. A tender scar on his back itched under a worsted khaki shirt. Minutes later, the plane landed on a snow-covered runway. The cabin was empty when he put on his overseas cap with one hand and eased from his seat, a cane in hand. At the exit he watched the pilot and co-pilot turn off switches, unbuckle shoulder harnesses. Mike Snyder didn't want to be back in Ohio, but he had nowhere else to go. He hobbled forward, using the cane, taking one step at a time down a long gangway. A cold, mid-November gust greeted him. Snow flurries swirled. He shivered and shut his eyes, recalling it was warm in Vietnam this time of year. 1 No bands played when he stepped onto the runway apron. No welcoming banners unfurled from the Akron-Canton Airport terminal’s roof. The runway area was nearly empty, except for baggage handlers unloading the plane's cargo bay. Squinting, Mike gazed around a garishly lighted gate area and saw his parents at the rear of a small crowd. His father, hollow-eyed and haggard-looking, stood beside a pillar with a felt-brimmed hat in hand. His mother, wearing a high-collared, fake-fur coat, nervously rubbed her gloved hands together. She moved toward Mike as the crowd thinned. She stopped inches away, leaned forward to kiss him once on the cheek and take hold of his left hand. Mike’s right hand gripped his cane. “Oh son, oh son,” she exclaimed, “you’re home at last. You, umm, look pretty good.” Mike didn’t smile. “I’m, ah, okay.” His entire left side felt like it had been dragged over crushed rocks. He watched his mother’s small mouth with thin, pink lips wash over the words: “Everything’s the same back home. I cleaned your room and put everything back for you, just like it was. We’ll all be back to normal in no time at all.” Mike gritted his teeth as he freed himself from his mother’s grasp to greet his father. “You’re a sergeant now,” said his father, placing a hand on Mike’s arm. “You didn’t tell us.” “Sure, ah, I told you. Maybe it was in a letter you never got.” Mike rarely wrote his parents from Vietnam. He didn’t want to tell them anything about the war. He had wondered if they ever cared about what was happening in Vietnam. They’d rarely written him, and when they did the letters’ contents could fit on a postcard. And they had written only twice when he was hospitalized in San Diego and called only once. “Son, we can stop to eat somewhere if you’re real hungry.” His mother, at the wheel, keyed the ignition. “But there’s plenty of food at home.” Mike wanted to say he was filthy and exhausted, but didn’t. “Let me just rest in the back seat here. I’ll eat something when I get to the house, okay?” He loosened his web belt and tie. Soreness in his back and shoulder, foot and ankle eased some. He was off his feet. Mike’s ride home to a wood-frame house near downtown Canton was much like other trips with his parents before he went off to the Marines at nineteen. They hardly spoke to each other then. And it wasn’t any different now. Nearing downtown, his mother turned on Tuscarawas Street then went right on Clarendon Avenue. Out the car’s side window Mike gazed at dark soot belching into a cloudy sky from steel-mill smokestacks in the distance. The graying city looked much the same, grimy and dirty. Pain suddenly shot through his foot and ankle as he moved his leg. His back felt like someone had just punched it with a fireplace poker. Mike shuffled along, dragging his seabag across the living-room carpet and down a hallway. He headed toward the bedroom of his youth at the back of the house. His mother already was in the kitchen. “We’ll have coffee and pie in just a few minutes,” she said. “You go ahead and change. I left out an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt for you.” “Ah, okay,” Mike said from inside his room. He was angry, bitter. He wanted his parents to acknowledge what he had been through in Vietnam. The deaths he caused, the deaths he witnessed, the mangled bodies of his squad at Hue. Other dead Marines, the dead Vietnamese. His wounds. “Son, that uniform you have on. It looks so nice,” his mother said from the living room. “I’ll take it to the cleaners for you. You should wear it.” Mike came out into the hallway. “Mom, I’m outta the Corps now. I’m finished with the military. Understand? Take it to the damn cleaners if you want. I don’t care.” He stepped back into the bedroom and slammed shut the door. He took off the uniform, balled it up and threw it in a corner. He changed into jeans and, one arm at a time and over his head, carefully tugged on the Kent State University sweatshirt his mother had left out for him. He had attended the university before joining the Marines. He left at the start of his sophomore year, hitchhiked to Canton and went to the downtown Marine Corps recruiting station to enlist. Then he hitchhiked home and told his parents, who angrily said he was throwing away his life. He said he wanted to go to Vietnam. His mother and father had asked, “Where's that?” Mike looked at his reflection in a mirror. Peering closer, he noticed bloodshot blue eyes and red eyelids. The skin on his forehead, nose and neck was pitted with dirt, the red clay of Vietnam. He looked at his scalp’s reflection. Whatever brown hair he had before Vietnam, even with a “high-and-tight” Marine Corps haircut, was gone for good now. He turned off the room's light and slowly maneuvered with his cane across the living room to see his father slurping coffee at the dining table. A half-eaten slice of pie was in front of him. “Sit down, son,” his father said. “And please try to watch your language around your mother, okay? I overheard what you told her.” “Yeah, okay,” Mike said. He pursed his lips, clenched his teeth. He wanted to shout but held back. He hung his cane from the back of a chair. “Anyway, this apple pie your mother made for you is your favorite.” “I’ll just have, ah, some coffee right now,” Mike said calmly. “I’ll eat something later. I wanna get cleaned up first.” He pushed aside a large slice of steaming apple pie. His father looked at a nearly empty cup. “So, any plans now that your home?” Mike stared at his father a few seconds then sipped some coffee. “Give me some space, okay, some time. Just got here today. I need to think about things.” Mike began perspiring. “God, it’s hot in here. You got the heat turned up?” “You sit tight and get started on your coffee,” his father said, picking up his now empty cup. “I’ll check the thermostat.” “Oh, it’s probably the heat from the stove.” Mike’s mother stayed in the kitchen moving pots and pans, jars and bowls. She was making another pie and stopping every few minutes to check a pot roast in the oven. His father returned with a fresh cup of coffee. “Son, I turned down the heat. And you’re right, you need some time. I'll try my best not to bother you.” Mike pushed back from the dining table. He shoved trembling hands into his front pockets. “Yeah, maybe it’s jet lag, or something. Hey, I’m gonna take a bath now. Then maybe try to catch some sleep before dinner.” He picked up his cane. Mike paused near the threshold of his room. He saw the uniform: coat, trousers, shirt and tie on hangers, on the door knob. His mother had put it there. Mike grabbed the hangers and haphazardly hung the Marine Corps green outfit in the back of his closet behind some old clothes. About to shut the door, he reached into the coat’s lower-left pocket, touched two medals: a Purple Heart, a Silver Star. He stepped back and closed the door. He didn’t want to see that uniform when he woke up. Stripping in front of the bathroom mirror he saw a tanned face, neck and forearms. The rest of his body was a dull white, still pockmarked with dirt despite all the hospital-bed sponge baths. He raised his arms, his left only slightly, and looked at his armpits, saw a few hairs and more imbedded dirt. He stepped on a scale. The marker went back and forth, settled on 140. “Jesus!” His upper body appeared emaciated, without muscular definition. He touched the puncture wound where a sniper’s round entered. He turned to his side, saw for the first time a reflection of the long scar on his upper back where the round exited, leaving behind only torn musculature still painfully healing. Then he twisted his neck, pulled in his shoulder and looked down at his reflection. “Christ, I ain’t got no ass.” Soaking in lukewarm, soapy water left behind a gray film on the bottom of the tub. Mike quickly scoured it clean, refilled the tub and sat there for another twenty minutes. After scouring the tub again and drying off, he went to bed, pulling a blanket up to his neck. He was drained, exhausted. Mike woke up, startled by a knock on his bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready. Come on, son,” his mother announced. He was pissed. He glanced at an alarm clock. He’d been asleep about fifteen minutes. The roadside tavern’s garish neon lights proclaimed ten brands of beer. Trucks and a few not-so sleek, large fin-tailed autos were parked in front of the Blue Bell Bar. Old-timers called it the Triple-B or the Three-Bees, while the younger, shit-kicking crowd referred to it as the Blue Ball Buster. The bar, about three blocks down Schroyer Avenue from the vast Republic Steel Works, was on the edge of downtown Canton. The plant was where Mike’s father worked as the Steelworkers Union Local shop steward, a promotion after twenty years of pouring molten steel from huge blast furnaces into iron ingots. Mike pulled his father’s Chrysler between two rusty, ramshackle pickups. It was chilly outside. He tossed his cane to the back seat and slipped on a well-worn, black-leather jacket over the Kent State sweatshirt he’d worn at dinner. Before he left the house he’d wanted to tell his parents about the weeks of painful recuperation spent at naval hospitals in Japan and in San Diego. But after a dinner where no one spoke a word, his mother had quickly washed the dishes and went to her bedroom and shut the door. His father had grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and sat down in his easy chair in front of a console television set to watch an early evening game show. Mike went to his room and rummaged in his closet to find the leather jacket. In the kitchen he found the house and car keys hanging on a hook near the gas stove. He tossed them up in the air a couple times. “Hey pops, can I use the car to get outta here for a while?” “Ah, no, I don’t mind.” It was the first words from his father since shortly before dinner. “Be home early. Drive safely.” Mike shook his head. His parents seemed mired in the dull, do-nothing days and the boring, don’t-say-a-word-about-anything nights of the '50s. “Okay,” said Mike, wondering if his father had any further instructions. “Well, see ya.” He pocketed the keys, picked up his cane and left. Stepping through the bar’s front door, he was assaulted by a blast of stale beer, body odor, cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, country music and raucous voices. His eyes squinted against the smoke. Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” blared from a juke box in a corner. Mike sat on a stool at one end of a dark-stained, wooden horseshoe bar and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and a mug of Budweiser draft. Into the beer he poured the shot, a boilermaker. After the first gulp, he shook his head. He hadn’t had a drink since, when was it? He couldn’t remember. People near him were shouting. Cue balls exploded on a pool table. Mike tried to tune out the noise with more boilermaker gulps. He ordered another while fumbling for matches and a pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strikes, the brand he started smoking in boot camp. He took a couple quick puffs before the juke box went dead. The crowd, as if on command, moved in unison toward the bar. Suspended over beer mugs and whiskey bottles a color television set came to life. Walter Cronkite’s mustache twitched out of focus, his face shaded pink and green and blue, the suit coat chartreuse. “In South Vietnam today,” Cronkite announced, “a military spokesman said several companies of Marines and Army Rangers captured a hill in a bloody fight near the old imperial city of Hue. The spokesman said that 351 North Vietnamese soldiers were killed –– ” A loud cheer rose up from the crowd around the bar. Someone yelled: “Kill the bastards. Way to go.” Then a woman screamed: “Kick ass.” “Only twelve Marines and seven Rangers were reported killed in action,” Cronkite continued. “There were 39 Marines and Rangers reported wounded.” It was surreal, Mike thought. Technicolor war sponsored by the Ford Motor Company transmitted on a broadcast signal to your favorite neighborhood saloon. He felt sick but managed to take a last gulp and stomp out a cigarette before he pushed his way through the crowd and headed for the door. Outside, frigid air hit him. He gasped as he bent over to grab the top of the Chrysler’s rear bumper with his right hand. He spread his legs and vomited, expelling the undigested remains of dinner. His stomach tightened, dry heaves overcame him. He spit out bits of partially digested food particles. There was a bitter, sour taste in his mouth. Mike limped back into the bar and headed to the men’s room near the front door. He washed out his mouth and splashed his face with cold water. His whole body ached. A pain shot through his ankle; back and shoulder muscles tightened. In the parking lot, standing by the Chrysler, he gazed skyward at the stars and found the constellation Orion, the archer. “I ain’t no murderer,” he shouted. Mike raided his father’s liquor cabinet. He mixed a little orange juice into a tall glass nearly full of vodka. On the back porch he sipped the drink and lit a cigarette. But he quickly tossed it into the neighbor’s yard before finishing the Screwdriver. He went to the garage and carried out a half-filled can of gasoline used for the lawnmower. He set the can in the middle of the back yard. Inside his bedroom, Mike grabbed from his boyhood closet the Marine uniform on hangars and opened his seabag, pulling out a pair of spit-shined shoes and the Marine “dress blue” uniform he’d received as the top graduate of his Parris Island boot camp platoon. In the backyard brick fireplace, uniforms blazed. Coats; trousers; sergeant-striped shirts; web belts; garrison, dress, overseas caps; black shoes; and khaki ties burned in a heap, melting a layer of snow. Flames easily consumed the Silver Star ribbon, the Purple Heart ribbon and medal, then the Vietnamese Campaign, Vietnamese Service, Presidential Unit Citation and Good Conduct ribbons and medals and a shooting badge. The Silver Star medal was next to be thrown on the pyre. That bit of silver-nickel-tin alloy and colored cloth was the final connection to Tony, Rocco and the rest of his Delta Company squad. Mike palmed the medal once more and then underhand, tossed it on top of the flaming pile of clothes. Its cloth blackened, its star twisted, glowed for a few seconds before it melted and fizzled into a blackened glob. Rising golden-orange embers danced in chilled night air. Mike pulled out more from his seabag. On the living-room floor were civilian clothes: two very wrinkled and sweat-stained short-sleeve dress shirts, white and blue, and a pair of moldy and smelly blue jeans. There also were a few sets of Marine Corps green underwear and T-shirts, black boot socks and a pair of scuffed and scratched Marine dress shoes. He threw the underwear, socks, shoes and civilian clothes on the still smoldering pile in the backyard fireplace. He poured on more gasoline and tossed in a match. Mike jumped back. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and stared at orange-blue flames. Inside the house he checked the seabag once more. He turned it upside down and shook it vigorously. A towel covered with sticky, gray-green mold and mildew dropped to the floor. And did it smell. It was rolled up tightly with a long strand of black wire wrapped around it several times and tied in a knot. Mike got a pair of scissors from his mother’s sewing cabinet and cut the wire, unfurled the towel, exposing more of its discolored whiteness. Across its center was scripted in faint, blue letters: Oceanside Beach CALIFORNIA. It was Tony’s, who’d shared it with Rocco and Mike during their last liberty together at the beach before they shipped out to Vietnam. Encased in the towel’s final fold was a flattened wad of plastic sheeting. Inside that he discovered a folded piece of heavy, light-gray paper, about a foot-and-a-half long and a foot wide. Mike turned it over. “Oh, Jesus.” It was a series of sketches done in pencil on grade-school construction paper. All nine of Mike’s Delta Company squad, only their head and shoulders, were depicted. In the bottom right-hand corner were the initials A.E.S. Antonio Emiliano Sanchez. Mike sobbed as he sat down in his father’s easy chair and popped out its leg rest. He held the now-sacred memento on his lap. None of the images smiled. They all looked as if they knew something was about to happen. Mike’s image at the top was the largest. The other eight bordered the sides and bottom of the paper in a rough semicircle. He wiped spent tears from his cheeks and sniffled. His right hand moved across the drawing. In no particular order his fingers softly touched each illustration. Moments later, Mike peered out the front window. Light from a street lamp at the corner flickered. A slow-moving dump truck passed by, spewing a mixture of sand, rock salt and ashes down the middle of Clarendon Avenue. He glanced at the kitchen clock and realized the day-shift whistles at the steel mills soon would sound. A gray and bleak early winter cloud bank was spreading over Canton. He placed the sketch on a side table and grabbed his jacket and cigarettes. He went out back and turned on the patio light. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Life and death in a blackened ash pile smoldered under a thin layer of new snow. After taking a long drag, he tossed the glowing butt in the direction of the fireplace. Back in the house he kicked off his shoes and let his jacket fall to the floor. Mike picked up the sketch and dropped back into the easy chair. The images of T.J., Rocco and Tony were next to each other, directly beneath his portrait. __________ After a confusing, deadly firefight outside DaNang Mike had hugged T.J., so relieved he’d survived in one piece. “You gonna kiss me, motherfucker?” T.J. looked dead serious. “What’s all the hoes in Motown gonna say when they hears about this?” But T.J. planted a wet kiss on Mike’s cheek. “God almighty, I’s happy as shit to see your lily-white ass, my brother.” There was another near-fatal moment Mike vividly recalled. It would have spiraled out of control if it hadn’t been for Tony and Thomas Jefferson Walker. It was Christmas Day 1967. Mike was brushing his teeth inside a barracks tent at Division Headquarter’s base camp at PhuBai. Around cots was the rest of his Delta Company squad. T.J. was spinning a record at low volume on his battery-powered 45-rpm record player. He was snapping his fingers to Diana Ross and The Supremes. Tony, Rocco and the others dozed, read paperbacks, wrote letters home or cleaned their weapons and gear. Mike wanted to get back to a Graham Greene novel he was reading, or sleep. Less than an hour before the squad had returned from an uneventful night on perimeter duty. After a search-and-destroy mission two weeks earlier, Mike had obtained authorization to transfer two privates caught smoking dope on patrol. Today, they burst into the squad’s tent. T.J. stopped the record player. The pair’s M-14 rifles, safeties off, were aimed at Mike’s chest. Rocco grabbed his M-60 machine gun, slapped in a 100-round bandolier, aimed it at the two. At the same time, Tony, T.J. and six others picked up rifles and pistols. Magazines were snapped in, safeties switched off. “What’s y'all splibs doin’?” T.J. waved his M-14 at the intruders. “Fuck, T.J., stay out of it!” Mike was in the middle, a frothy toothbrush still in hand. Rocco moved to Mike’s back. But T.J. and Tony scooted in front of Mike and stared at the two. One intruder stepped around T.J. and shouted at Mike: “Yur ass’s mine, honky.” “Who you callin’ a honky?” T.J. swung his rifle butt into the chin of the intruder closest to him. In an instant Tony slammed the other one to the floor, disarming him. T.J. kicked both of them in the ribs and shouted: “Now, who’s the fuckin’ honky?” He turned around to Mike. “Yous gotta knows how-tah handle these here low-class muthafuckers.” He smiled at Tony. Rocco, T.J. and Tony marched the two to a battalion provost office where they were placed under arrest. On their return to the tent, Mike told them and the rest of his squad that “I shoulda got rid of those goldbrickers a long time ago. They ain’t never pulled their own weight.” Tony slapped T.J. on the back and laughed. “You muy loco, Motown man. You got huevos muy grande.” “What’s that shit you sayin’, little Mexican?” T.J. started up his record player again. It was Billie Holiday singing “Them There Eyes”. “You one crazy guy with very big balls,” Tony said. “You got that right, bro’.” T.J. rubbed the top of Tony’s head. “Damn straight on that one. But whats about you, little wetback bro'? Yous fucking crazy yousself. Ya knows, I coulda handled 'em both. Jus' fuckin' assholes.” “Had to help ya, manito,” said Tony, smiling at T.J. “Wanted to make sure they were down and out. Didn't want anything to happen to Mike. He's almost a wetback himself, you know. He had to cross some river to get born in Ohio.” “Hey,” Rocco yelled. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas.” __________ “Over dah fuckin’ side, jarheads,” a Navy boatswain’s mate shouted into a megaphone from a bobbing landing craft. “Grab dah fuckin’ net. Hold on. Hold on. WALK IT DOWN. WALK. IT. DOWN.” Hundreds of Marines stood in five long lines, “asshole-to-belly button,” on the main deck of the USS Lenawee. They were awaiting their turn to swing over the side and “walk” down cargo nets into floating, bouncing-on-the-waves landing craft. Each shouldered a nearly eleven-pound, loaded M-14 rifle, safeties on. Added to that was about twenty-five pounds of C-rations, underwear, socks, full canteens, a rolled-up poncho and a tent-half, a helmet, a flak jacket, 7.62 mm ammunition, grenades and a bayonet on their backs, on web-belt suspenders, strapped to their hips, stuffed in utility trouser cargo and jacket pockets. “Good thing nobody’s shootin’ at us.” Rocco yelled from behind Mike, “or we’d all fall off dah fuckin’ net an’ break our fuckin’ necks.” “Yeah, just like John Wayne storming the sands of Iwo Jima,” Mike cried out while smiling for a French television news crew. “Last one over the side’s a rotten fuckin’ swabbie.” “Hey, wait for me, Cisco,” Tony hollered at Mike. “Pancho’s here to save your lily-white asses from the mean and nasty Cong.” “Oh shit, the fuckin’ little wetback.” Rocco slapped Tony on the top of his helmet. “Keep your brown-ass hands off my white ass.” Tony reached up quickly, snatched a pack of cigarettes inside a water-proof container strapped to the side of Rocco’s helmet. With his other hand, he pushed Rocco into Mike. “Hey, brown ass, give 'em back to me!” “I seen your ass,” Tony said. “You dagos are brown like us Mexican wetbacks, dragged through shit to get –– ” “Hold it, hold it,” Mike said, laughing. “Will you two children get serious? Stop your grabassin'. We’re supposed to be Marines here.” “Yes sir, Cisco.” Tony gave Mike a mock salute and tossed back the pack of cigarettes to Rocco after taking one. “Let’s go, you kids.” Mike raised one leg over the ship’s railing, then the other, grasping with one hand then another, one step at a time “walking” down about thirty feet of rope netting into a nearly full LST. Rocco and Tony stepped into the landing ship transport moments later. “Didn’t want ya to miss me, Ohio boy,” Rocco said to Mike. “Great ride on that boat. Great ride. Got a lotta sleep, and great chow on that cruise. Love those Navy chefs.” “I especially enjoyed the beverages. All that wine and champagne served in our staterooms,” Mike said, huddled with Rocco and Tony on the craft’s port side. A convoy of ten LSTs motored through a channel that cut through the breakwater and approached the small island of TanMy. LSTs crested the beachhead and dropped their ramps in staccato-like loud thuds. “MOVE IT. MOVE IT,” a coxswain screamed. “We gotta go back an’ get more of ya jarheads.” Marines from Headquarters and Supply and Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta companies walked off the LSTs to get into formation. Ahead of them were a line of six-wheeled trucks, six-bys with canvas tops removed, that would carry them, their gear and weaponry to a new Marine base at PhuBai. It took about four hours to get the rest of the Battalion Landing Team with all its gear to the beachhead from the Lenawee and other ships. Coming in on the ChiLang road the convoy rolled past several stone pagodas and an Indian mosque. It soon approached the southeast corner of the Royal Citadel. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” Mike said, gazing at moss-covered stone structures hundreds of years old. Outdoor markets were busy satisfying the needs of daily shoppers looking for motor scooters, plastic pails and shoes, rice, dried fish, monkey meat, cooking oil and laundry detergent. Children wearing several wristwatches and bracelets on both arms were hawking the jewelry and soft drinks to milling crowds. From the back of the six-bys came catcalls directed at strolling, young Vietnamese women. They were dressed in the traditional ao-dai – a body hugging, almost sheer, pastel long-sleeve, close-necked blouse and ankle-length, split-skirt combination over flowing black-silk slacks – and high-heeled shoes. “Gorgeous,” said Rocco, elbowing Mike as he pointed to two similarly attired women, each with long black hair walking arm-in-arm. Mike was smoking a cigarette, smiling at the view. “Hey, got another one?” Tony asked. “Yeah, sure.” Mike tapped out a Lucky Strike from a nearly full pack. “Here, take one of mine, you little spic,” said Rocco. “Don’t take any from the boss.” “Thanks, you little whop,” said Tony. “What did I tell you kids? Behave, will ya?” Mike jokingly waved an index finger at Tony and Rocco. “And I bet neither of you little shits have any matches, let alone a lighter. Right?” “Right, boss man,” said Rocco. “Si, si Cisco,” Tony said. “Okay, now take turns with my Zippo.” The city of Hue passed by as the convoy turned south and started over the PhuXuan Bridge that traversed the Perfume River. An aggressive foul smell emanated from rotting fish carcasses and human waste floating by on the river’s surface. A slight ocean breeze helped dissipate rising odors and heavy heat and humidity. Crossing with the convoy were cyclo drivers and men and women on motorbikes, scooters and bicycles. “What lovely freedom of motion and travel,” Mike said, “and we have to come along and fuck it all up. What the hell are we doin' here? I don't get it, man. Communists? Haven't seen one yet, and I don't see any here. Hell, I don't even know what they look like.” The convoy crossed onto Route Number One that stretched north about 430 miles to Hanoi and some 645 miles south to Saigon. There were more street vendors selling rice and fish cooked over small charcoal fires on the side of the road. Children ran up to the slow-moving convoy. “Marine num-ba wahn! Marine num-ba wahn! Hershey bar! Hershey bar!” Some Marines tossed cigarettes. Cries of “Marine num-ba tehn! Marine num-ba tehn!” followed. The dropping sun left its reflection on rice paddies outside PhuBai as the first trucks of the convoy reached the base’s main gate, south of Hue. A few hundred feet into the encampment the trucks rolled to a stop. Their passengers lined up in formation outside a mess hall. Mike’s squad, among others, was ordered to stand perimeter duty in less than an hour. “I’m with ya man, all the way.” Rocco slapped Mike on the back and nodded to Tony. “Come on, little Pancho.” “Hey Cisco, wait for Pancho!” __________ Mike initially had seen Tony only as a “little fuckin’ wetback” when he met him at Camp Pendleton in the late summer of 1966. He’d never said that to his face though. He’d recalled a warning from his father not to trust and always stay away from “them greasers, Negroes, Chinamen, spics an’ all those greedy Jews.” But during long sea voyages from San Diego to Okinawa, to the Philippines for maneuvers and then on board the USS Iwo Jima to the Mekong River Delta, he’d found he and Tony shared similar interests. The two would discuss novels Mike had read or was reading. Both loved to read. Tony had decided to major in English at California State College at Los Angeles before dropping out and joining the Marines. Tony had sketched portraits of villagers, panoramic scenes of water buffalo trolling through rice paddies, Marines firing artillery pieces, Marines in foxholes and Marines dying. He’d make use of any scrap of paper he could find. Mike and Tony, with T.J. and Rocco close behind sweet-talking some Vietnamese women, once had cleaned out the DaNang Base Exchange of its supply of sketch pads, only nine or ten left at the time, and enough drawing pencils and ink pens to last at least a few months. Oil-based paints, watercolors and charcoal sticks were not available. Rocco and T.J. had scrounged around for cardboard mailing tubes so Tony could send his better sketches, the ones he hadn’t given away, back home to his mother in East Los Angeles. Mike scratched his chin and noticed a peculiar odor coming from his hand. He brought the sketch close to his nose, sniffed it. There were scents of Vietnam’s dampness, its heat, its rot. He closed his eyes. He also smelled the stench of death. At daybreak, Mike rolled up the sketch inside wax paper and found a rubber band to wrap around it. He placed it under his bed. He walked back to the garage and found a shovel and an empty garbage can, into which he shoved the foul-smelling seabag and Oceanside beach towel. Mike shoveled the embers of the blackened mound of uniforms and medals from the fireplace into the can. He dragged it to the street in front of the house for the city’s sanitation workers to dispose of its contents. Then Mike made a beeline to his bedroom. He shut the door and locked it before slipping off his shoes. Still fully dressed, he collapsed into bed. He was asleep before he could pull up a blanket. He had been awake nearly forty hours. Three bodies. Blood covered. A young Vietnamese woman’s naked body rises up and turns. Half her skull missing. A long, blood-caked knife falls from the back of her neck. With a hand she shoves her tubular intestines back into her abdominal cavity. She picks up her child who suckles her bloody breasts. Another woman, with blood-spattered, stringy gray hair, wipes blood from her lips and kisses a child’s pockmarked forehead. His broken body streaked with blood. Lower legs wrapped round and round with a belt-suspender strap. Blood drips from a hole in his back, from a smaller one in his chest. Marines in top hats, white ties and tails sing: You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’. Lifted to the top of a tank’s fender. Into a med-evac chopper. Pilot, navigator and gunner belt out Walk Like A Man. Off-loaded on to the deck of a hospital ship. Doctors and nurses dance around his hospital bed. The bleeding stops. Days pass. Choppered to DaNang. Air-lifted to Japan for weeks of painful surgeries and rehabilitation. Geishas tend to every need. Feed him, bathe him and wipe his ass. Air-lifted to California. A sunny naval hospital. Blinding light for weeks at a stretch. More dancing doctors and nurses. More pain, more surgeries. More painkillers. Dry mouth. Loose bowels. A stinging catheter shoved into his penis. A nurse yanks it out. No more pain. Graham and Buttermore shake and jive in mid-air. Their body parts once shredded are sucked away into a vortex of gunfire. Adams and Briggs march down a blood-spattered emerald road to the Land of Oz with a little girl and a wired-hair dog in their wake. Miller roller-skates to the tune of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. An impaled T.J. at an Apollo Theater microphone croons I Heard It Through the Grapevine. Rocco rises from a bloodied coffin and gasps for air. A large hole, the size of a pie pan, spreads across the middle of his chest. He steps from the coffin and instantly drops into a Cadillac convertible. The car blasts off from a 155-millimeter howitzer cannon headed for a billboard that announces: Welcome to the Promised Land. Antonio Emiliano wearing a sombrero sits astride a white horse. He leads his men into battle up the Chalpautepec hill to the Halls of Montezuma. American Marine forces drop their weapons, welcome the conquering hero of Mexico City. General Sanchez is feted, praised and honored. He slips off his horse, walks to a park bench. A sketch pad rests atop an ornate desk in front of him. A watercolor set, pens and different colored inks appear. The general draws a por-trait of Michael Snyder. And then another, of the artist A.E.S. Antonio Emiliano picks it up. “Vena aca.” Come over here, Sargento Mike. Mira aqui. Look here. Solo quedamos tu y yo. It’s you and me. Estamos juntos. We’re together, para siempre, forever.” “What the hell?” Mike turned his head toward the bedroom window and opened his eyes. He yawned. The sheets and pillow case were soaked. He rolled over and sat up, dropping his feet to the floor. He whispered, “Tony?” Mike looked up at a mirror on the opposite wall. It suddenly ballooned in size and covered the entire wall. He shook his head, looked at the mirror again. “Shit.” In a smoke-filled blur Tony’s mangled and bloodied body was lying in the detritus of Hue. Mike buried his face in the pillow. __________ Mike and Tony waited in the noisy and congested hangar deck for Jake Borger to return to the USS Iwo Jima, a helicopter carrier steaming in the South China Sea off South Vietnam's Mekong River Delta. Jake, a door gunner, had flown in to pick up a squad of Marines participating in Operation Deckhouse V, a ground and aerial assault on suspected Vietcong strongholds in the Delta's BenTre peninsula. The ship's large, wide elevator went up, but about ten minutes elapsed before it descended from the flight deck. Marines scrambled around the helicopter as the elevator leveled with the hangar deck. Body bags appeared, hauled from the gunner’s side doorway. The helicopter’s fuselage skin was heavily damaged, punctured with hundreds of shrapnel holes no bigger than a nickel. Slippery blood smeared the chopper’s deck. Jack’s face and what was left of his torso were visible only for a moment before the body bag was zipped closed. Grunts quickly carried it off the elevator deck, along with seven others leaking blood and viscera. They were stunned. Tony closed his eyes. “Ay, Dios mio,” he muttered. To Tony it looked like the aftermath of a street gang shootout in East L.A. Mike became nauseous. Stomach bile rose to the back of his mouth. He bent over and threw up on the deck. Tony grabbed his arms, held him up and walked him away from the chopper. A couple hours later, Mike's and Tony's battalion commander told them the co-pilot navigator of the low-flying chopper carrying Jake had spotted a lone Marine roaming near a river bed. The lost Marine had three or four grenades clipped to his belt-suspender straps with regulation cotter studs removed. They had been replaced with diaper pins. When he was pulled up through the chopper’s open side door, two fused grenades fell to the deck. The near-instant explosion obliterated him and mortally wounded Jake and six others on board the Sikorsky H-34. The pilot and navigator somehow had managed to stabilize the aircraft, lift off and fly back to the Iwo Jima. That night, the Mike and Tony walked around the nearly empty hangar deck numerous times. They stopped near the ship’s large cold-storage locker. Its eight-foot-high and four-foot-wide gray steel door was unlocked, slightly ajar. Comforting cold air breezed through the opening. They pulled back the door and peered in. It was dark. Mike struck his Zippo, raising it above his head. He could see his breath. In front of them, to their left and right stacked on pallets four high, were shuttered aluminum coffins. Jake’s was there somewhere. Mike and Tony stepped back, pushed to close the heavy door and twisted its handle to seal the lock. No one was around. They were alone. They only heard the ship’s engines and the slicing sound as the ship made its way north. The sea was calm. Mike covered his face with the palms of his hands and cried. Tony embraced him, held him, let Mike cry on his shoulder. __________ In the few days since Mike returned to Canton, he had become repulsed by his mother’s irksome pestering and lack of emotion. And he couldn’t take any more of his father’s cold and distant aloofness. They didn’t understand where he’d been. They didn’t understand his loss. And they never would understand the day-to-day fear he'd experienced in Vietnam, the terror that always came without warning. “Oh son,” his mother and father announced coming through the front door from Sunday Mass, “we’re back.” “Michael, did you eat the breakfast I laid out for you?” she said, taking off her black pillbox hat with a veil. “Breakfast, yeah, I did,” Mike said. “Thanks.” He watched his father and mother hang up their coats and place their hats on a shelf in the front closet. His mother walked by him without a word and went straight to the kitchen. His father turned on the television set to a football game and plopped into the easy chair after rearranging its frayed cushions. “Son, you wanna watch a game with me? It’s the Jets against the Chiefs. Should be a good one.” “Nah, I don’t think so,” Mike said. “Hey, does Jimmy Regulo still have his car dealership over on Market?” “Oh, yes. Why? You lookin’ for a car?” “Yeah, yeah.” “You can use ours anytime you want,” his father said. “You know that.” Earlier, while shaving, Mike had decided to leave Canton. “I’m gonna take a trip. I’m going to Los Angeles.” He had to leave his boyhood home on Clarendon Avenue. The bedroom of his youth was filled with horror and ghosts. The house was filled with elusive phantoms. “You’re leaving? Going to California?” His mother came into the living room. She carried a dish towel in her hands. “You just got here. Don’t you want to stay? You have everything you need right here. And what about Thanksgiving and Christmas? Oh my.” “You have-tah finish college,” his father said, still seated in the recliner. “You said you would. You promised before you went to the Marines. I don’t understand.” “Okay.” Mike muted the volume on the TV set. He looked at his father. “Just listen, please.” Then turned to his mother. “They got colleges in California. I’ll finish out there. I'll get a job. And I got some money saved up. I sent an allotment each month to an account over at First National. I’ll get it tomorrow and buy a used car.” “But son, you can’t do this,” his mother pleaded. Her hands dropped, the dish towel fell to the floor. “I really have to,” Mike said, turning back to his father. “I gotta find somebody, a Marine Corps buddy I was with in 'Nam. I gotta do this now.” “But son, California’s so far away.” His mother was crying. “Please stay. Please don't go. This is your home.” “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll be back. I promise.” Mike lied. Once he left Canton, he vowed never to return. “But what if something happens to you, or happens to us?” His mother crossed her arms, her lips quivering. “What are your father and I going to do?” “Don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.” He’d never driven further than Cleveland or Pittsburgh by himself. The prospect of driving across the country scared him. He was afraid of getting into an accident and dying alone. He was only twenty-two. His father got out of his easy chair and walked over to the TV and shut it off. “Son, get your coat. I’ll take you down to Jimmy’s and see if we can get you a deal, even on a Sunday.” “Huh?” Mike couldn’t recall any time before his father had disregarded his mother’s wishes. But it was too late now to make amends, to correct the past. His mother picked up the dish towel and returned to the kitchen without saying a word. Mike left Canton two days later. He had nearly two-thousand dollars in his pocket. He cruised north out of town along Market Avenue in a 1965 forest-green, Pontiac GTO two-door hardtop. With his father’s influence, Jimmy had sold Mike the car for eight-hundred dollars and chipped in a free tank of gas. Once on the Ohio Turnpike, he drove west to Chicago. Inside a small suitcase in the car’s trunk was Tony’s sketch, rolled in wax paper. In two days Mike was in Middle America, southwest of St. Louis on U.S. Route 66. He whizzed past farms and small towns as he skirted the southeastern edge of Kansas heading into Tulsa, Oklahoma on his third day. He ate and gassed up at truck stops and slept only a few hours each night at cheap motels along the way. On the fourth day Mike headed out of the deserts of Arizona into southern California: Barstow, San Bernardino and finally the outskirts of Los Angeles County. He'd stop when he saw the Pacific Ocean, twenty-five hundred miles from Canton. Crossing the Arroyo Seco, Mike gazed at the distant Los Angeles city skyline. He stuck his hand out the Pontiac’s open window, cupping it to funnel warm air into his face. In stop-and-go traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard west of downtown he drove through Hollywood and Beverly Hills. He turned left onto Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica and stopped at Olympic Boulevard, the end of U.S. Route 66. It was cooler in Santa Monica. Only a few blocks from the ocean, Mike sniffed the salt air. He entered a line of traffic heading west to Ocean Avenue, where he parked the dusty and dirty Pontiac. He slipped on his leather jacket over a gray Cleveland Browns T-shirt. With his cane he crossed the street to Santa Monica Pier. The sun would set in less than an hour, he figured. A small amusement park was near the end of the pier: Ferris wheel, merry-go-round and a few other rides and booths all closed and shuttered for the winter. He walked down a flight of steps, one at a time, to the beach. At the last step Mike sat down, rolled up the legs of his jeans and took off his shoes and socks. He stuck the socks inside his shoes and tied the laces together, throwing the shoes over his shoulder. Trudging through sand toward the water’s edge, he looked north and followed the beach as it curved west toward Malibu. He went under the pier and gazed across the ocean. In the distance was Catalina Island. A huge airliner circled and turned west after taking off from Los Angeles International Airport. Another was on approach to land. Mike pictured it coming in from Hawaii or Japan. He relished the solitude, the peace. He heard only the echoes of rolling surf as he strolled into the water, far enough out for waves to lap at his knees. The sun was at the horizon, the last warmth of the day. Mike closed his eyes, soaked it up and found it healing. He almost was able to raise his left arm above his head. There was less discomfort from his once-broken ankle. A shiver went up his back. He turned around and walked slowly across the sand back to the steps, where he brushed off his feet and slipped on his socks and shoes. He picked up his cane. On Ocean Avenue was the Georgian Hotel. Mike gazed at its geometric art-deco facade of what looked to be blue-tile panels, glowing from the radiating light of two nearby street lamps. With his suitcase in one hand, the cane in the other, he walked into the hotel’s lobby. On one side were meticulously placed low tables, chairs and a couch facing a fireplace. Small palm trees, potted plants and fresh-cut flowers in tall vases were arranged on the other side on dark-wood tables and on the burgundy-red tiled floor. Mike’s room featured a bird’s eye view of the ocean through a large picture window. After he’d shaved and had a long bath he slipped naked between the cool sheets of a large double bed. Tomorrow would be soon enough to begin his search for Antonio Emiliano. He immediately fell asleep. Tonight there were no fantastical nightmares of violent death or war. The following morning, Mike discovered twenty-eight listings for Sanchez in the Los Angeles phone book. No Tony or Antonio Sanchez was listed. Nearly all those he spoke to weren’t able to converse in English. What little Spanish he’d learned from Tony wasn't very helpful. Of those with whom he was able to converse none was related to, or knew, a Tony or an Antonio Emiliano Sanchez. There was no answer at nine numbers he’d tried to call. He checked out of the hotel near noon, looked over a map and drove east from Santa Monica on Wilshire Boulevard. Mike planned to stop at each of the nine homes in East L.A. where he’d let the phone ring at least ten times before hanging up. The fourth house on his list was a two-story wood frame structure with a wide porch and attached garage on La Verne Avenue. A young woman opened the door before he had a chance to knock. She was carrying a purse and a red-leather jacket. “Oh!” Mike was startled. He stepped back on the porch, instantly recognized Tony's sister, Angelina, from family sketches Tony had drawn in PhuBai. “I'm Mike Snyder.” He found her beauty nearly flawless: deep brown eyes, a perfectly sculpted nose and full lips softly tinted in a red hue. “I knew Tony when –– ” Angelina had dropped her jacket and heavy black purse to the porch floor. Sobbing, she gently placed her hands on Mike’s arms, pulled him toward her, embraced him. Tears rolled down her cheeks, falling on Mike’s white shirt. “He has cried often talking about you.” Mike suddenly felt light-headed, faint. His knees buckled. He was without his cane. His eyes twitched as he drew in deep breaths. She reached around Mike’s waist and led him into the living room, helping him sit down on a couch covered with a blanket in the green, white and red colors of the Mexican national flag. He slouched over, stared at chocolate-brown carpeting before he looked up, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got over me.” Sitting next to Mike, she held his hand in hers. Her other hand gently touched Mike’s chin and lifted his head slightly. “Antonio’s in the hospital,” she whispered softly. “He’s dying.” The corridors of the Veterans Administration Hospital in West Los Angeles smelled of ammonia and vinegar. But inside the two-man room there was an overpowering odor of urine, feces and unwashed bodies. A man in the bed near the door had lost his nose and the left side of his face. Cross-stitched sallow skin hid eyeless sockets. Part of his left collarbone near the neck was missing. It was covered with a thin layer of iodine-laced gauze. “Oh Jesus,” said Mike. He pulled up a chair by the window. The name tag on the bed railing identified the patient as Antonio E. Sanchez, USMC. A thin, pale green sheet covered a frail body. Mike could tell how the sheet was stretched over the lower body that Tony had only one leg, the other had been amputated at mid-thigh. A bloody, white mass slowly suctioned in and out of tubing inserted into his nostrils. Catheter tubing from under the sheet ended in a nearly overflowing clear plastic urine bag hanging from the bottom of the bed railing. Perspiration covered his forehead and face, his hair was soaked and matted. Tony needs a haircut, a shave and a bath, Mike thought. “Angelina, please sit down,” said Mike, stepping to the window. She took a tissue from her purse, then swept her hair behind an ear on one side. Mike opened the window a crack to let some fresh air into the room. He felt a slight breeze. In the distance across Wilshire Boulevard were perfectly aligned rows of white headstones at the Los Angeles National Cemetery. “How long has he been like this, out of it? He must have some kind of fever.” “Several days,” she said. “When he first got here he was alert. We talked many times.” “Angelina, I wanna see if I can find a doctor around here.” There was no one at a nurses’ station down the hallway. Mike limped down another corridor, looked into a room and saw what appeared to be a doctor administering to a patient. He waited outside the room until the man in a white lab coat came out, shoving a stethoscope into the coat’s pocket. “You a doctor?” “Yes, and what are you doing here?” “I came to visit one of the patients. Do you know anything about an Antonio Sanchez?” “Are you family?” “No, Tony and I were in 'Nam together.” “I know the patient you’re asking about, but I can only talk to family members.” The doctor started toward the still empty nurses’ station. “I’m the only doctor on this floor, the one above and the one below, and I’ve been here way too long today, nearly twelve hours.” “His sister’s here now,” Mike said. “You can talk to her.” The doctor and Mike turned around and headed back to room 712. From the doorway Mike motioned to Angelina. In the corridor she held Mike’s arm with both hands. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss Sanchez,” the doctor said, “but your brother, well, how can I say this? You see, after the amputation something caused a severe infection to spread throughout his system. We can’t figure it out. Is there anything else? I really have to complete my rounds.” “What’s being done, doctor? Is he gonna just lay there?” Mike asked. Angelina’s lips trembled. She squeezed Mike’s arm. “He’s been given lots of antibiotics, but the regimen apparently has not been successful. When I come back from upstairs I promise I’ll check in on him.” Angelina leaned into Mike’s shoulder. He lowered his head and led her back into the room. Mike stood at the foot of Tony's bed. “Why you, not me?” he murmured. “This can't be happenin'. I shoulda saved ya.” He bowed his head, put his arm around Angelina's shoulder. They both cried. She turned and gazed at Mike. “He loved you very much,” she said, aware her brother's death would come soon. “I'll really miss him ... really miss him.” Mike also knew Tony would not recover. Two days later, at age twenty-two and weighing less than one hundred pounds, Tony died. He never regained consciousness. Angelina held her brother’s hand. Mike stroked Tony’s cheek with his fingertips before gently pushing aside strands of long unruly hair. He kissed his forehead. Then he stood back, closed his eyes. At the top of a low, grass-covered hill was a larger-than-life, white-stone statue of Jesus with outstretched hands and arms. Below it in concentric circles were neat, measured rows of flush-to -the-ground, rectangular stone and metal grave markers. The grass around the edges of each had been meticulously trimmed. Except for a large mausoleum and the markers, the grounds at Resurrection Cemetery resembled a pristine, well-manicured golf course in Brentwood. But this was Monterey Park, East Los Angeles. There were no headstones or gaudy marble memorials. The families of the dead here were poor Latinos. On a foggy, overcast morning Mike got out of his car and started toward the statue. He was going to pay his respects, alone. The funeral had been four days before on an unseasonably sunny, warm day. Mike was the last to see the body before the casket was closed. He had placed the sketch of his Delta Company squad over Tony’s crossed hands. It took a minute to get orientated, to make sure he was walking in the right direction. The grave was near the Jesus statue. He was sure of it. Power lines from a nearby substation were off in the distance at the edge of the graveyard, not far from the Pomona Freeway. Mike looked down, noticed the top of his shoes were wet, probably from the underground sprinkler system that had done its work overnight. He walked along a lush and green grassy trail between two rows of markers, then up a slight rise. At the top of the hill, garlands of flowers were strewn over a mound of freshly turned earth. A small American flag was stuck into the ground near a vase of withered, dried-out wild flowers. It was the only fresh grave near the statue. He leaned over to read an inscription in Spanish painted on a makeshift-wooden cross: Querido Antonio Emiliano Sanchez Descansa en Paz 1946-1968 “Beloved, yeah.” Mike sighed. “You'll always be loved.” He dropped to one knee and placed a hand over the top of the crude grave marker. “Rest in peace, Antonio, my brother … rest in peace.” He wiped away tears with the back of his hand. He picked up his cane and stood up, brushing off remnants of fresh-turned soil from his trouser leg. A glowing orange-red sky flared over the eastern Pacific at sunset. Gazing beyond the rolling surf toward the horizon, Mike leaned on his cane against the top of a guardrail at the end of Santa Monica Pier. Surreal, silver-mercury figures marched forward in perfect cadence down a cratered, rubble-strewn street in Hue. “One, two, three, four,” they shouted at the top of their lungs. “Who do we die for? Marine Corps. Marine Corps. One, two, three, four, fuck 'em all.” Attired in helmets, flak jackets and ammo belts of 7.62 mm cartridges each carried M-14 wood-stock rifles, bayonets attached, slung over their shoulders. They were looking at each other, talking, laughing. They stopped in mid-stride at the sound of a round dropped down a mortar tube, seconds before it fired a concussive burst. Mike felt the blast’s shock wave ricocheting deep inside. He trembled as he grabbed the guardrail with one hand. He gripped it tightly. Floating figures catapulted topsy-turvy, in a tumbling swirl above the farthest reaches of the Pacific that rolled in waves of blood, bone and muscle onto the coastal beaches of South Vietnam. The sunset’s lustrous gleam folded into a metallic, glistening fire-engine red. Sheer white clouds went gray and then transmuted to black. In a flash, the imagery disappeared. Mike pivoted in an about-face, his heels together, feet arrayed at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Looking east toward the other side of the continent where his journey to war began at Parris Island, he shouted: “Oh God, help me.” Cane in his right hand he started a slow, hobbled march down the pier’s heavy wooden planks, his injured left foot first. “One,” a tap of the cane, “two,” another tap, “three,” tap, tap, tap, “four” was his cadence call. At the pier's entrance, Angelina was waiting for him. Epilogue Tens of thousands of North Vietnamese Army soldiers and Vietcong guerrillas attacked major cities throughout the Republic of South Vietnam in the early morning hours of 31 January 1968, the first day of the Vietnamese Lunar New Year, Tet Nguyen Dan. The offensive became the turning point in America's war against North Vietnam. Under an overcast, early morning sky he lumbered south of the ChieuUng pagoda, its spire broken, teetering. Suspender straps braced a weighty ammo belt, burrowed into his shoulders under a flak jacket. Panting, sweating profusely, he squatted, leaned against a low wall. He shook his stiff right hand, then slipped his finger around the trigger of a M-14 rifle. Michael David Snyder wanted to be someplace else, not here, not like this. His body shuddered. Helmet tilted back, he gazed at rooftops, left to right, then down to open windows, doors, gates, right to left. Using a hand signal Mike motioned eight other Marines to skirt around the base of an Indian mosque where ChiLang intersects NguyenDu street in Hue, Vietnam's once imperial capital. Rocco Ciazza and Tony Sanchez on the opposite side of ChiLang road hugged a moss-covered high wall abutting the cratered and narrow, rubble-strewn strip of cardboard-thin asphalt. Leon Miller was about twenty feet in front. Just behind was Motown man, T.J. Walker. A distinctive AK-47 shot pinged, ricocheted. “Sniper,” Mike yelled. “Get the fuck down.” The squad plunged for cover: a tree, a wall, an overturned street-vendor’s stall, a charred Citroen full of bullet holes, its tires in shreds. Mike had leaped into a tight recess of a green-shuttered entry way. He quickly looked over at Walker, on the ground at the base of a wall. Walker raised his hand and flashed five fingers, then two. The seven others in his squad Mike couldn’t see – but Walker could – were still alive. “Ah shit!” Mike shook his right leg. He'd pissed himself, soaking trousers near stiff with filth. He heard only the congested sound of his own heavy breathing. He whiffed mold-ridden, acrid air. Streaming sweat turned encrusted dirt on his body into tiny rivulets of brown grime. Incoming mortars imploded rooftops. Shrapnel ricocheted off concrete. A sniper round shattered red roof tiles on a nearby house. Shoving open a wood gate with his shoulder, Mike entered a tree-shaded courtyard of brown-green shrubs and a desiccated flower and vegetable garden. His eyes adjusted quickly to dusky shadows. He turned around, looked down. A narrow flagstone walkway circled an above-ground fish tank. Several large gold and a few white, gray-spotted fish, probably Japanese koi, floated belly-up. The odor gagged him. “Oh Jesus!” Mike dropped to the ground, rolled against a pair of closed and curtained French doors. He peered through a small slit between the inside curtain and the edge of a glass pane. Flickering candle light was all he could see. He pushed open the doors with one foot, spun around and crawled inside the graying white-stucco, colonial-style house. He focused on the candles, momentarily mesmerized. Blowflies stormed his face, neck and ears. He scooted on his ass to the side of a window, stood up and pulled back its curtain. Dim sunlight shot into the room. Blue smoke spiraled from a dozen or more Buddhist altar joss sticks. He held his breath, swatted away flies and an awful stench. Mike Snyder had stepped into a putrid, bloody hell. The blood-spattered body of a young Vietnamese woman was sprawled facedown over a tattered, low-slung rattan table. The top of her head was gone, blood encrusted over the wound. Skull and brain fragments were splattered against the wall. A serrated knife was impaled in her upper back, at the base of what was left of her neck. Mike dropped his rifle into a blood pool, splattering his boots. Invisible, malodorous fumes from fetid human flesh and excrement nearly suffocated him. He sank to his knees. Stretched out in a corner were the eviscerated torsos of an old woman and an infant. Their throats had been slashed, their ears sliced off. Gut-punched, Mike was sucked into a dizzying, infernal whirlwind. A short wailing cry followed a long moan. He vomited in a daze before keeling over on his side. “Holy shit!” Rocco bolted into the slaughterhouse with Tony. “Dios mio!” Tony grabbed Rocco's arm. “Gotta get him outta here.” The two leaned over Mike, lifted him up and dragged him out of the killing room into the courtyard. They gingerly lowered Mike into a sitting position against the side of the concrete-ringed pond. “He’s comin’ out of it,” said Tony. Rocco looked around, spotted a cistern. He pulled a dark-green, sweat-stained towel from around his neck and soaked it thoroughly before handing it to Tony. He removed Mike’s helmet and then wrung out the towel over his head. He wiped off blood and filth as best he could from Mike’s face, upper body, arms and hands. Mike’s eyes opened, blinked. “You okay?” Tony said. “Jesus!” Mike took two long breaths. “God-awful shit in there.” He shook his head. “Yeah, some bad shit,” said Tony, looking at Mike. “Real bad shit.” The rest of the squad had come into the courtyard, exhausted. Some were lying flat out on the flagstone walkway. Others sat down, their backs against the inner courtyard wall under shade trees. Tony told them about the bloody kill zone inside the house. “Here's some water, man.” Rocco offered Mike his canteen. “It’s the best I can do, what with all this shit goin’ on around here.” Mike emptied most of the canteen, handed it back to Rocco. Then in a hesitant move, hands flat to the ground, knees slightly bent, he tried to stand up. “Stay down, sarge.” Tony had his hands on Mike’s shoulders to steady him. “You look like shit.” Mike plopped his ass on the top edge of the fish tank. He needed a minute to figure out what to do. “Hey, I need a cigarette. Ain’t got any left.” Rocco lit a Lucky Strike and passed it to Mike, who took a long drag on it. Dead fish bobbed in the pond water just below his ass. He knew a sniper was out there waiting to pick off his squad, one by one. And if the squad stuck around much longer, Vietcong rockets and heavy mortars would find them. Then, there were the bodies. “Whatta we gonna do, boss?” Rocco picked up his machine gun. “We gotta do something, like get the fuck outta here.” Mike looked around at each member of the squad. “We can’t leave these people here to rot. It just ain’t right.” He wondered if he could convince eight scared, exhausted Marines to do something good in this fucking war. “We gotta bury 'em all. Get it done quick, or we get the fuck outta here now.” Burying the two women and the baby was worth the risk. Tony had opened a small wood shed attached to the house and walked toward Mike carrying two long-handled shovels and a garden hoe. “Sarge, look what I found, and we got us some entrenching tools. Walker, Adams and Buttermore got 'em. We can do it, man, muy rapido.” Without any argument, each squad member took turns digging graves in the courtyard near a Buddhist shrine. At its base were small urns containing scores of extinguished joss sticks. One grave was for the mother and her child, another for the older woman, probably the grandmother. Each body was wrapped in clothing and blankets found in an old steamer trunk. “You and me, Rocky,” said Mike, “we’re outta this suck-ass war next month, on that big silver bird back home.” But he wondered whether any member of the squad would see nightfall. “Goin’ home to momma,” Rocco said, smiling, patting Tony on the back, playfully punching T.J. in the arm. At the same time Mike, Tony, Rocco, Miller and T.J. suddenly turned, Briggs, Buttermore, Graham and Adams locked into fixed, unblinking stares. “Fuck,” Briggs shouted. Facing the outer wall bordering the road, they all heard the familiar “thunk” of Vietcong 120 mm mortar rounds propelled from their tubes. Two detonated outside the courtyard's walls. The squad, standing in a cluster inside the courtyard, was trapped, ambushed. There was no time to take cover, no time to set up defensive positions. Soviet 122 millimeter rockets crushed the courtyard's outer walls. The house’s red-tile roof shattered. Support beams splintered and bricks exploded. Rocket-propelled grenade fire showered hot-metal fragments. Graham and Buttermore were shredded. Their blood-covered torsos with ripped and torn muscle and viscera flew in all directions. Miller aimed a shoulder-firing M-79 anti-tank grenade launcher. AK-47 gun fire obliterated his head and upper body before he got off a round. Recoilless-rifle fire sprayed across Adams and Briggs. Red-hot shrapnel laced their bodies. Flying shards of concrete and re-bar decapitated T.J. His jettisoned body impaled on an exposed, sheared tip of a severed, lead water pipe. In a smoke-filled, dust-laden haze, Rocco had fallen prone to the ground with his machine gun, firing immediately. A mortar round leveled the fish pond and its metallic fountain: a statuesque, near-naked female figure holding the scales of justice. Mike ran, tried to find cover behind the house’s rear wall. Pooled blood sprayed from the house’s terra-cotta, tiled floor. Rockets slammed the roof and outer walls of an adjacent two-story abandoned bank building. Packets of piastres of various denominations blew apart. The rice-paper money wafted above the debris, spinning and floating. Deposit boxes flew up, tumbled end over end and bounced, scattering necklaces, bracelets, diamond rings, documents, cash, pearls and gold and silver bars. Tony stopped feeding Rocco's M-60. The bank building had crumbled on top of them. Flying debris catapulted the two into shambles of reinforced concrete. Sniper fire from somewhere hit Rocco. “AH SHIT.” Mike ran from the collapsing rear wall in a zigzag, then dropped to his knees. His hands pushed away concrete fragments and tore into dirt and rubble to dig out Rocco’s body. Shards of concrete and shrapnel spikes had pummeled and pelted Tony. Blood trickled down the sides of his head and face. He managed to crawl over to Mike, dragging his right leg. He coughed. “I can’t ... can’t walk.” “I’m comin’ back for ya,” Mike screamed at Tony. Mike lifted Rocco, draped him over his shoulder. He wondered if he’d have the strength to carry him. “Keep breathin’, Rocky.” He lunged forward to get a foothold in the rubble. Rocco bled profusely. His right arm and upper body hung over Mike's back. Out of breath, Mike began to lose his balance. He stumbled, lost his footing. “Oh God!” Rocco’s body tumbled to the ground behind him. Mike fell and rolled forward. His left boot wedged in a vise-grip of large concrete chunks. His ankle snapped. “Aah, fuck,” he shrieked. His flak jacket flew open. A 7.62 millimeter brass round from an AK-47 sniper rifle blazed through his left shoulder. Mike screamed a long cry of mind-numbing agony. Excruciating pain ran up his leg. A fire burned through his chest and upper back. He bit his lower lip and spit out bloody saliva and phlegm. His left arm and hand, covered in blood, were numb, useless. Mike tried to roll to his right, onto his elbow and upper arm. But his elbow slipped on loose debris. He lost consciousness. His body slid down a pile of rubble. Groggy and in a daze, Mike was on his back in a puddle of blood, his blood. He faintly smelled a tank’s smoky diesel fumes. He barely heard its engine idling. Through puffy eyelids that blurred his vision he made out a pair of Marine jungle boots. “This fucker’s alive. I got him,” a corpsman yelled. Mike felt a warm breath on his face covered in a thin layer of dried blood and grimy sweat. “You okay?” “Ahh, uhh. Aaaaah –– ” Dehydrated, his tongue and lips were swollen. “We gotcha now, buddy. Gonna patch ya up an’ git ya the fuck outta here, pronto.” The corpsman cut through Mike’s utility jacket, gently lifting its fabric off the chest wound. “That round went clean through. You one lucky bastard.” He cleaned Mike’s upper left arm. A tank gunner stooped down, wrapped his arms around Mike’s waist and lifted him into a sitting position. The corpsman eased off Mike’s flak jacket and cleaned a gaping wound in muscle above the left shoulder blade. Letting Mike lean into his legs, the gunner held a compress bandage over the wound. The corpsman tied off strips of gauze under and over the armpit to hold it in place. Sterile gauze plugged a tiny hole, the entrance wound, about the size of a nickel, above Mike’s left breast, beneath the rotator cuff. Belt-suspender straps were wrapped and tied around Mike’s lower legs, using his right leg, foot to knee, as a splint. The gunner and two other grunts hoisted him on top of the tank’s fender. Another Marine slipped a bloody flak jacket under his head. He straddled him, holding up a vinyl bag dripping plasma down tubing through a needle stuck in Mike’s forearm. Four other wounded Marines already had been strapped to the top of the tank’s chassis, on each side of the turret, behind the turret and under the long gun barrel. It slowly trundled toward a helicopter landing zone across the Perfume River, the SongHuong, south of the Citadel.
ForgottenPanicked shouting awakened her from sleep. Sitting up in her chair, she found her family and clan stood upon the bank, staring across the river to the west, shielding eyes from the afternoon sun. Smoke plumed in the direction they gazed, a roiling inky blotch upon the azure sky.
“Shedun Forest’s off that way. Naught there but trees,” she heard Myson say, the oldest of her nephews. “Be just a forest fire then,” said her son, Patyr. “Forest fire? Don’t be daft. The rain hammered down the day after last,” said Myson. The clan murmured. “That smoke’s miles off. Rains probably missed it. You said yourself naught’s there. What else could it be? Stop making everyone nervous with your folly,” said Patyr, folding his arms. You fool, she thought. She loved her son, but he had water for brains. The murmurs escalated into arguing. It seemed to be the norm of late. The lack of fish in their favoured stretches of river had forced them west to far removed parts. Rumbling stomachs had worn tempers thin. At times like these she missed her husband Dyne more than ever. For years he had steered the clan to safety all the while maintaining harmony. Her heart ached to think of him now, memories fragmented, like wisps of smoke, an incomplete jigsaw. She could no longer picture his face, but would never forget how his love made her feel: safe, happy. Being the best of friends they had known each other inside out, lived as one. She longed to see his face again but knew it would never be. She found life hollow without him. The need to support her family kept her going, though as time went by her duties of fishing and foraging grew to be challenging, and now, at ninety years old, they were defeating. Just getting out of bed left her needing a rest. Once a strong and capable woman, it had taken her years to accept the loss of her independence. Many times she had tried to cook and clean, to prove to her clan, as well as to herself, that she was still able. But being slow and forgetful she made mistakes and her efforts led only to scorn. The arguing continued upon the river bank. Amidst the ruckus she heard one of her younger nephews, Jonias, shout at Patyr. “Just like we ‘av to feed your ma?!” Patyr, face reddening, glared at Jonias. He lunged, punching him in the nose. The teenager fell to the ground, clutching his face as he rolled around, crying out in pain. It ended the arguing, seething individuals retreating to their tents and houseboats moored to the bank. Patyr hesitated, she thought. Jonias still bore the bruises from his outburst the previous week, something which continued to burden her thoughts. “Why should we have to feed ‘er?! We’re the ones that break our necks to find food!” Jonias had said, pointing at her in anger. The fishing that day had been poor. As the catcher of the fish, Jonias became incensed when he saw his meagre portion. “I say leave ‘er on the bank. She can’t do naught no more! It’ll do everyone a favour, even ‘erself.” Patyr hadn’t hesitated to beat him then. To her dismay, she had since noticed a change in his attitude. He had said just a handful of words to her, and seeing his reaction today added logs to the fire of doubt. Could he be thinking of it? My own son... She closed her eyes, letting the lapping of the river soothe her mind. The breeze that brushed her cheeks carried with it the scent of the wisteria hanging upon the trees on the opposite bank. A kingfisher zipped by as she opened them, swooping toward the lichen-smothered bridge upstream. On the western side stood miles of forest; on the eastern, a vast meadow, and further on, the civilisation the River Folk feared. She felt her heart would break if left to die alone, even moreso if abandoned on land. Should the water not take her body and soul to the Deep Blue, she would be trapped in limbo, barred from being reunited with Dyne. And to be left by her own family… she did not wish to think of it. Shuffling in her chair at the stern of her houseboat, she gave her throbbing backside a rub. Bristled straw innards poked through the ragged material of the cushion, its comfort replaced by niggling itches. Rarely did she move from her perch, legs and joints too stiff and sore. She sat with shoulders and back stooped, pockmarked face layered with wrinkles, hair thin and as white as bone. All but one of her teeth had fallen out, sticking from her bottom gum like a lone merlon upon a broken battlement. The younger children cowered at the sight of her, so too some of the adults—few of the River Folk lived to her age. A magpie suddenly landed on the bulwark before her. It tilted its head, observing her with beady, charcoal eyes. She returned the stare, smiling in admiration at the grace and boldness of the monochrome bird. Footsteps sounded on the deck behind, and the bird, unnerved, broke its gaze to look. “Nana!” The magpie beat its wings and headed off across the river. She saluted as it went. Her granddaughters, Mayble and Vella—Patyr’s children—appeared from around the cabin. An instinctive smile erupted on her face. She cherished her time spent with her granddaughters, telling tales, singing rhymes and songs and listening to their own conversations of handsome boys and gallant men. At sixteen, Mayble stood a head taller than her younger sister of twelve years. She had hair the colour of the tobac leaf Dyne had loved to smoke so much, which flowed down to her back. Her eyes matched, contrasting with her fair, unblemished face. Vella looked similar, though freckles covered her cheeks and dainty nose, and she had her father’s eyes—a striking emerald green; their family trait. “Who are you waving at, nana?” Mayble asked. “I’m not waving at anyone, pet. I was saluting.” “Saluting who?” asked Vella. “The magpie! Seeing one on its own is bad luck. Give it a salute and it turns to good.” She winked and smiled as if revealing a guarded secret. Across the river the magpie made a sound that she had never heard before—similar to its laugh-like cackle, but slower, with an air of sadness. Its long black tail flicked up and down like a lever as it opened wide its beak and repeated its call over and over. “I’ve never heard a magpie make that noise before,” she said. “They’re always making funny noises,” said Mayble. “Ma says they’re all thieves. One nicked her wedding ring!” “I’m not sure they’re all thieves, pet.” “What do you think of the smoke, nana?” asked Vella, looking at the dispersing clouds above the trees. “Odd. These are quiet lands. Trouble rarely brews.” Myson was right; it couldn’t be a forest fire. The experiences of her long life suggested a more probable cause. This is the doing of men. That posed another, more concerning question: who? “Pa thinks it’s a forest fire,” said Mayble. “I heard. It needs to be baking hot for a fire that big to start on its own. We’re only in spring,” she said. “What else could it be?” asked Vella, concern on her face. She hesitated before answering. To tell them what she thought would only cause worry, worry that they would soon spread amongst the camp. She had seen how Patyr had reacted to Myson’s comments and could not afford to cause any trouble for herself. “I don’t know, pet.” Someone clattered a ladle against a pan on the bank, frightening birds from perches—dinner was ready. “Are you coming to join us, nana?” Vella asked. “Nay, pet. I’ll keep to water.” If she stayed aboard her houseboat it would be harder for them to ditch her. She hoped. “I’ll get you a bowl,” said Vella. The pair scampered off. Vella returned a short time later, alone. “Here you go, nana,” she said, smiling as she passed her a steaming wooden bowl. “Thank you, pet.” The watery brown contents didn’t look appetising, but her grumbling stomach said otherwise. Vella hopped onto the bulwark, sitting in the spot where the magpie had landed. They ate in comfortable silence, hunger consuming thoughts. Vella voraciously emptied her bowl, then turned to her grandmother. “They’re still arguing about the smoke. Pa seems sure it’s a forest fire.” “He’s an idiot.” Vella giggled. “What did they decide to do?” “Naught.” Dyne would have done something. “If it’s not a forest fire, what could it be, nana? Pa said nobody lives in them parts.” “Well, I remember an old tale my own nana told me back when I was a little lass,” she said leaning back in her creaky chair. “One night a boy named Byrt was awoken in his tent by a whistle. The whistle seemed to be calling out to him, so he left his bed and went to find what was making it. Venturing into the forest Byrt saw glowing lights, the colour like your own pretty eyes. When he neared he found the lights to be coming from a tree, and around it danced men and women. But they were no ordinary men and women. They had big, pointy ears and eyes that glowed yellow. They sang in words known by no man and danced in ways deemed insane. My nana called them protectors of the forest, watchers of the trees.” “Do you think it could be true, nana?” “Hmm… nobody has seen them since. Who knows?” She smiled. They fell quiet as they watched the setting sun ignite the tower of smoke in a flame-like glow. A distant bellow suddenly shattered the tranquillity. More shouting followed—louder, clearer, coming from across the river. A man. The rest of the clan heard it too. Like rabbits sensing danger, they came to their feet, anxiously listening. The shouts continued, sounding as if someone was barking orders. Another sound began to accompany it, a sound she’d heard before—the rumble of marching feet. Myson’s youngest son, Fydor, ran to the bridge for a better look. “Soldiers!” he yelled, voice breaking as he pointed across the river. The clan exploded into frantic shouting. They surrounded Patyr, the clan leader, trying to be heard over the clamour. Some demanded they pack up and flee, others argued they should hold their ground. Patyr looked like a dazed animal. It became too late to do anything. Four riders trotted into view across the river, mounts draped in yellow and blue caparisons, identifying them as soldiers of the Kingdom of the West. They stopped before the bridge, observing the clan with a mix of surprise and disgust. Few people ventured so far west, even the nomadic River Folk, who, to those of the towns and cities, were regarded as primitives living on the fringes of civilised life. The riders conferred, then one of them turned and cantered off whence he came. The others continued to watch. Tense minutes passed, the River Folk afraid to move. The breeze stiffened, rustling the masses of leaves on the opposite bank and sending the long grass of the meadow swaying. The thud of marching feet continued to grow in volume. She looked to the tree where the magpie had perched. It was gone, so too most of the sun. Before long the two riders returned with another: a white-haired man upon a destrier. His navy cloak, snapping in the wind, suggested him to be of higher rank. The white-haired rider led the four across the bridge, hooves clip-clopping against stone. As they turned toward their camp, the children reacted as if struck by bolts of fear. Some ran to their mothers, hiding behind skirts, while others sought refuge in tents, hoping the hempen material would protect against war horses and blades. The men rallied to Patyr, arming themselves with fishing knives and crude spears. Myson picked up their only short bow and nocked a duck-feathered arrow. The riders stopped around twenty feet away. The white-haired soldier dismounted. “We mean you no harm,” he said, accent harsh, not dislike their own. “May I approach?” Patyr looked confused—rarely did the Western Army show such respect to the River Folk. He consulted with his clan mates. “Just you.” “As you wish,” said the old soldier. “That’s close enough,” said Patyr as he reached around ten feet away. A few days growth covered the old soldier’s cheeks and chin, somewhat hiding the scars etched on his face. His fatigued, blue eyes had an empathetic look. “My name is Tyson, Field Marshal of the Western Army,” he gave a slight bow. “Please do not be alarmed. We are merely returning home, wounded and weary. We’ve been away for too long; we miss the comfort of our beds!” Tyson tried a joke to break the tension. Silence. “What do you want?” said Patyr. “Let me cut to the heart of it. We carry with us captives that must get to the city of Piet’alos as soon as possible.” “Captives? Slaves more like,” said Myson. The River Folk despised the slave trade. River pirates and slavers often raided their camps to kidnap women and children to sell on the slave blocks of the Great Cities. Many of their kin ended up in Piet’alos. “They aren’t slaves, just prisoners.” “Well, what do you mean to do with them?” Tyson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What does it matter? They’re the King’s prisoners and must be taken to him. If you would like to be the ones to deliver them we will pay you handsomely. Nobody holds more knowledge of the Great River’s waterways than those of the River Folk.” He bowed once more, deeper than his first. The clan erupted into muttering. Past experiences of deceit and betrayal had fuelled a fierce resentment of those from the cities. But opportunities to make coin did not come around often. “’ow much?” said Patyr. “Four hundred silvers.” That was a lot—enough to feed the clan for the rest of the year. It quelled the disquiet. “Eight hundred,” countered Patyr. Tyson laughed. “Five?” “Deal.” Striding toward Tyson, Patyr spat on the palm of his hand and held it out for a shake to confirm the agreement. Tyson looked down at the yellowish spittle. “I’ll take your word. How many can you carry?” Patyr looked at the four houseboats—the first time he’d glanced in her direction all day. The houseboats were around sixty feet in length and ten feet wide with deep hulls giving space in which to live and store supplies. Cabins stood at the stern of each—the communal space. “Twenty.” Tyson frowned. “Twenty five, if we make room,” offered Patyr, looking in her direction again. “It’ll have to do. Here’s two hundred silvers. You’ll get the rest when you arrive.” Tyson reached into his cloak and tossed him a weighty pouch of coins. Patyr grabbed and opened it like an excited child. His eyes widened at the sight of glimmering silver—never had he seen so much money. “You leave tonight,” said Tyson, turning back to his mount. “But we just made camp! The rivers be dangerous at night.” Tyson ignored him, riding back to the road, along which now advanced a long line of cavalry and men. A perplexed Patyr turned to the clan and instructed them to dissemble the camp. What does Patyr mean when he said they could “make room”? Surely he will not leave me behind to fit an extra prisoner on-board? Her knuckles ached from gripping the arms of her chair. She looked to Vella, whose brows were pinched with concern. “Worry not, pet. Everything will be fine; I promise.” She smiled at her granddaughter. “Be a good girl and help your ma and pa.” Vella forced a smile and headed to the camp. As the packing up began, a group of ten soldiers approached, leading fifteen prisoners with sacks over their heads. Most of the captives, it seemed, were women; a few children and men too. The manacles on their wrists and ankles jingled glumly as they moved. Curiosity crept into her mind. Where have they found these captives? Then she wondered. Could old nana’s tale be true? A broad-shouldered man with a cobalt cape and a dark, well-trimmed hair and beard stood before the soldiers. “I’m Commander Lybald. We’re ready to leave when you are.” He had a city accent, words enunciated. “If you don’t mind my askin’, who are these prisoners?” said Patyr, nodding in the direction of the concealed captives. “I do mind you asking. You’re not to go near nor utter a word to them. Got it?” spat Lybald. Patyr nodded and showed him to the houseboats. Patyr acted as if she wasn’t there as they passed her, but Lybald gave her a lingering look. She couldn’t help but shudder at the look of disdain in his eyes. Lybald returned to his men who watched the clan with amusement, ridicules loud enough for all to hear. Behind, the rearguard of the Western Army was moving out of sight beyond the meadow, the sound of marching fading too. The day had given way to night by the time they had packed everything away. Patyr’s wife, Nansy, took Vella and Mayble below deck while Patyr led the five allocated captives and three soldiers aboard. The cabin became a temporary brig as the prisoners were locked inside. The soldiers found a spot on the deck close by. She heard Patyr hauling in the heavy iron hooks securing them to the bank and felt the boat begin to drift into the current. I will not be abandoned tonight, she thought, sighing with relief. Navigating the Great River’s waterways at night was no mean feat. The depths of the rivers altered, giving the risk of beaching. Clusters of rocks and fallen trees masked beneath the surface could gut a hull. And they could always blunder by the camps of river pirates and slavers. But these waters were the River Folks’ home; they knew nothing better. The tip of the biggest of the two moons—the white goliath Tibias— poked up over the trees. Flickering stars carpeted the sky. The mystical indigo phosphorescence of the Western Aurora streamed by before them all, pulsating and shimmering. Most of the time it was red, sometimes green, others blue, and on the rarest of occasions, like tonight, indigo. The sight gave her goose pimples, brought tears to her eyes. The last time she saw it Dyne had been alive. They had sat up all night laughing and sipping moonshine, gazing up at the glittering sights above, the closeness of their bodies keeping each other warm. That same warmth filled her body now and brought a smile to her lips. The four boats sailed in tandem. Swaying lanterns at the bow revealed their locations. She heard Patyr open and close the groaning driver’s hut door on the deck. It housed the mechanism that moved and steered the barge—pedals and a wheel connected to a wooden propeller and rudder beneath her feet—a nifty device devised by the River Folk. Laughing and joking, the soldiers acted as if in a tavern. She heard them hawking, spitting and pissing over the bulwark, ridiculing Patyr, and when Nansy returned to the deck, they whistled and called to her. “Take off your dress!” For a while they acted like this until falling into hushed conversation. She found something sinister about their abrupt change in behaviour. I need to stay awake; make sure they’re safe. I promised Vella everything would be fine. But her eyes felt heavy, energy fleeing like water down a drain. She cursed her age as she closed her eyes for a moment, just to rest them. They did not open. The murmur of conversation grew ever more distant. The scuff of boots against the deck stirred her from sleep. Muffled voices spoke beneath her feet. Then she heard the unmistakeable sound of a blade being drawn. What’s going on? She sat up in her chair, holding her breath, straining her ears, heart beating so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest. A stifled scream came from below deck. Vella. Another shout followed, this time from behind her. Patyr. A man cried out in pain below. “Rat! Come ‘ere. You’re getting it first for that.” “No!” cried Vella. The boat rocked from the struggle, water sloshing, wood creaking. Patyr called to his daughter again, only to be silenced with a crunching punch. Too weak to even stay awake. I’ve let Vella down; I’ve let them all down. I really am useless. Everything she had feared had come to pass. Tears ran down her cheeks as she sat listening to it unfold, wincing with every scream. Patyr should never have trusted city men. All they do is lie and cheat. Cursing his stupidity now wouldn’t change things. She knew what Dyne would do—it was how he had died, defending the ones he loved. She knew then what she must do too. I will not be useless any more. Willing away the pain of her ageing body, she reached down to her boot and drew the fishing knife Dyne had given her when they had wed seventy years ago. She pushed herself out of her chair, discarding her many blankets, and steadied her shaky legs. Leaning against the cabin for balance, she shuffled around to the main deck. Shapes became visible in the pale light of the moon. A soldier stood with his back to her, looking down at Patyr curled up like a whimpering dog at his feet. She could hear the soldier’s excited breathing, see the flecks of Patyr’s blood glistening on his face. Never had she harmed another person. Now she felt no hesitation. Gripping the knife as tightly as her arthritic fingers would allow, she raised it as high as she could and brought it down into the top of his back with all her might. The soldier screamed in pain and spun around, but she clung on with everything she had left. He staggered forwards, lost consciousness and tumbled overboard. She went with him. Cold water shocked the breath from her lungs. At first she panicked, kicked her legs, trying to return to the surface. But she lacked the strength. She looked up as she drifted deeper. The moon, stars and aurora began to fade and she closed her eyes, let go of her breath. Her final thought was of her beloved Dyne. And from the darkness he emerged, sitting with a smile at the front of their boat, offering her a hand. The HillHenry Valentine sat straight up in bed, awakened by the morning sun, thinking he had overslept. Confused, he looked over at his clock. 7:18. His heart raced. Is this Saturday? Yes, it’s Saturday. Thank God. For a minute, I thought I was late for work. Then he remembered his retirement party the night before and realized he would never be late for work again. He got up, went downstairs and made himself a cup of coffee. He sat on the tall, swivel chair at the end of the island in his kitchen and sipped his coffee. He pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his robe to check his messages, but there were none. It was the first morning he could remember when his in-box wasn’t full. He made some toast and brought it into his study along with his coffee. He sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. He browsed news headlines but saw nothing of interest. He opened his email again, but there were still no new messages. He ate his toast, sipped his coffee and stared at his computer screen, waiting for a message to pop up. But none did. Finally, he closed his laptop, went upstairs and got dressed. He came downstairs, made himself another cup of coffee and went out onto his patio. The sun felt good on his face. He had longed for a quiet morning like this for years. Now that it was here, though, he wasn’t sure what to do. All that day, he walked around his house, a mansion, with six bedrooms, only one of which was ever used. He had bought it years ago not because he needed the space but to make a statement. Now he walked through rooms he hadn’t seen in years, rooms tastefully decorated by interior designers he barely knew, whose names and faces he could not remember. Having toured the inside of his house, he walked around the outside, on grass he had not cut, admiring flowers, shrubs and trees he had not planted or trimmed and fieldstone he had not stacked. He had a five-acre lot, heavily wooded around the perimeter, so there was no chance of seeing a neighbor. He didn’t know his neighbors anyway. Tired, he came back in to take a nap. Before he lay down on the sofa in his great room, he checked his messages once again. Only spam. When he woke up, Henry shaved, showered and got dressed for dinner. He went to his club, about a mile away. The valet, a young man he had seen before but whose name he didn’t know, parked his car. He went in and immediately saw people he knew. He knew most of them by name, but he didn’t know any of them well. A few offered congratulations. He walked down the hallway to the dining room. “Good evening, Mr. Valentine,” said the host. “Good evening, Charles,” he said. “Your usual table?” “Yes. Thank you.” “Right this way.” As usual, Henry ordered a bourbon and a steak dinner. He ate by himself, occasionally nodding or waving to other diners. He kept checking his cell phone for messages, but the only ones he got were spam. He drove home, poured himself another bourbon and thought about his retirement dinner the night before. He didn’t like elaborate retirement parties, but he expected more than brief remarks by his successor at FillMore Foods. He also thought the party would last longer, but he was home by nine. He finished his drink and went up to bed. He lay there, looking up at the ceiling, illuminated by moonlight. He could see the full moon through his window. It made him think of the light bulb that used to hang above his bed when he was a boy. Tomorrow is Sunday. It felt strange not to have work to do or even think about. He wondered if, from now on, every day would be like this. # “Henry? Henry Valentine?” Mrs. Chamberlain, his first grade teacher, said. “Here,” Henry said. Mrs. Chamberlain looked at him and smiled. “Do you prefer to be called Henry?” “We call him Hank!” a student yelled from the back of the classroom. “Are you okay with Hank?” Mrs. Chamberlain asked. “Yes,” Henry said, having been taught to respect his elders. It was Henry’s first day of school. The kids on “the hill,” as it was called, went to kindergarten. But for some reason, none of the kids in “the valley,” the poor part of town where Henry lived, went. Henry knew all the kids in his class. They all lived in the valley. At lunch and at recess, he saw kids who lived on the hill. He didn’t know them, but he had seen them in church. Now he realized they were in a different first-grade class, and for the first time in his life, he felt less. In fact, Henry and his family had very little. Their house was tiny, with just two bedrooms. His parents shared one, and his two sisters shared the other. Henry slept in a cleared-out closet, barely big enough for his small mattress. A bare light bulb hung from a cord above his bed. His father had removed the closet door and tacked a sheet up across the open door frame. His father seldom worked. When he did, it was usually at the IGA in the valley, bagging groceries. Most days, though, he drank or slept on the couch. He drank and slept a lot. His mother didn’t work. She had enough to do raising three kids. Henry used to go with her to the grocery store and help her carry their groceries home. Sometimes he would see his father working there. That always seemed strange to him, watching him bag their groceries. His mother paid with food stamps. Henry didn’t think that was strange because most people he knew bought their groceries with food stamps too. But as he began to meet kids in school who lived on the hill, Henry became aware that most people pay cash for their groceries. He also learned that all of the fathers of the kids who lived on the hill had good jobs, and they worked at least five days a week. At recess, he met two boys named Rick and Art. They lived next door to each other in a neighborhood on the hill. Henry became friends with them, and they invited him up to play basketball one Saturday. He walked there because he didn’t have a bike, his mother didn’t drive and his father was asleep. Henry had never seen such big houses and such nice yards. When he got there, Rick and Art were playing basketball with a few of their friends on Art’s driveway. They introduced Henry—as Henry, not Hank—to their friends. “Where do you live?” one of them asked. “In the valley,” Henry said. “Oh,” said the kid. He said nothing more. He didn’t need to. Once again, Henry felt less. A little while later, they all went inside Art’s house for lunch. Art introduced Henry to his mother. She asked him where he lived. When he told her, she said, “I see.” That was all. Through his grade school years, Henry made more friends who lived on the hill. He began spending more time with them at their houses and less time with the kids he had grown up with. He spent many Saturdays playing basketball, working on school projects and having lunch with friends up on the hill. Henry never invited them to his house, though, because he had begun to feel ashamed of where he lived. All through grade school, the classes were made up of kids who lived either in the valley or on the hill. By high school, though, students from these two parts of town and several nearby towns were blended together. At the start of his freshman year, Henry insisted on being called Henry. He even made his parents and his sisters start calling him Henry. Henry was smart. He had always done well in school. Now, though, challenged by more smart kids and tougher subjects, he began to excel in his classes. Every semester, he made first or second honors. He beamed when he saw his name on a bulletin board in the school lobby with the elite group of students who made the honor roll. When he was a junior, for the first time in his life, Henry began to get his own mail. It came in the form of letters and brochures from colleges, inviting him to apply. He hadn’t even heard of most of the colleges, and his parents were of no help. So he asked one of his teachers to help him decide on his best options. In the fall of his senior year, he applied to five universities on his own, using money he had earned working at the Dari Whip on the hill during his summers. He got letters of acceptance from all five universities. Not only that, but they all offered him scholarships and financial aid. Henry realized he could go to college virtually free, thanks in part to the fact that his father made so little money. For the first time, he was grateful his father bagged groceries for a living. Henry enrolled at Oklahoma University. That September, after telling his parents and sisters goodbye, he took a bus to Norman, Oklahoma and became the first person in his family to attend college. He decided to major in business. In college, Henry continued to excel in his studies. He loved university life. He hung with “the rich kids” and set three goals for himself. He wanted to be wealthy and powerful and have social standing, all things he had never known growing up. He wasn’t sure how he would achieve these goals, but knowing how far he had already come boosted his confidence that he would find a way. Over the next four years, he came home only at Christmastime. Otherwise, he stayed in Norman. During the summers, he worked for a local meat processing company, first in the plant, then in the business office. Henry graduated summa cum laude, at the top of his class. His senior year, he interviewed with a dozen companies on campus. Most offered him jobs. He accepted an entry-level marketing position with a large food company in Chicago. He moved there a week after graduation, without even going home. Henry was assigned to a campaign for a new line of baking mixes, which became a top seller. His work got him noticed, and a year after he started, he received his first promotion. Henry enjoyed his work, but he really loved his new social life. He got to know people from all around the country and a few from outside the country. He met colleagues and made new friends at trendy restaurants and got invited to dinner parties. It was at one of these parties that he met a beautiful young woman named Barbara. Henry was plain-looking, but he dressed well, and he had learned the art of making small talk. Barbara’s friend, who hosted the party, had invited her there for the express purpose of introducing her to Henry, who worked with her husband. She had told Barbara Henry was “a catch,” a man whose fortunes were surely on the rise. When she introduced them, Henry was gobsmacked. He had never met anyone so beautiful. He stared at Barbara, mesmerized and barely able to speak. For a moment, he felt like he was back in the valley. He imagined she thought him a fool, but she found his awkwardness charming and tried to put him at ease. It worked. By the end of the night, Henry managed to ask Barbara for her number. He called her the next day and asked her to dinner, over which Henry began to fall in love. They started dating, and six months later, Henry proposed. They were married a year later. Henry’s mother was the only person from his family who attended the wedding. He offered to buy her a plane ticket, but she had never flown on a plane and was too nervous at even the thought of it. So he bought her a bus ticket and reserved a room for her at a posh hotel in downtown Chicago. She had never seen a place so grand, let alone stayed there. It made Henry happy to make that possible. By the time he and Barbara got married, Henry had been promoted to director of marketing and was making a very handsome salary. He found his work challenging and satisfying. He began traveling every week to New York, where one of his company’s main advertising agencies was based. For a small-town boy, Chicago was big, but New York was almost beyond his imagination. He fell in love with the Big Apple. Unfortunately, Henry’s marriage was not nearly as satisfying. Barbara found him a bore, all work and no play. They stayed married for five years before Barbara could take it no longer and filed for divorce. Henry was sad, not because he had lost a soulmate, but because he would no longer have a lovely wife to bring to parties and company events. It’s not that he didn’t have feelings for Barbara. But to him, she had become a trophy wife and, as such, in any crowd, she had given Henry instant cache. Now he would have to make it on his own. Fortunately, his career was as hot as his marriage was cold. The food industry is a tight club. People know each other. The winners stand out, and Henry was a winner. Every week, he had offers from a wide range of food companies looking for chief marketing officers. He routinely turned them down until he got an offer he couldn’t refuse: from a major sugar refining company based in New York City. They offered to triple Henry’s salary. That, the CMO position and the lure of New York were too much for Henry to resist. He took the job and moved to a flat in Manhattan. Three years later, he was appointed chief operating officer. He was now working virtually non-stop, but he was making more money than he had ever imagined, and he was on-track to become CEO. Then one day he got a call from a headhunter looking for a CEO for FillMore Foods, a once-great manufacturer of food extenders and fillers. At first, Henry thought it was a joke. Then the headhunter made his pitch. FillMore was a family-run company grossly underdeveloped in a market that was growing by nearly 10% a year. The CEO, grandson of the founder, was ready to retire. FillMore was ripe for a modern CEO and needed to go public. Then came the kicker: FillMore was prepared to offer a salary three times greater than Henry was making plus a generous bonus and a stake in the company once it went public. Even if he became CEO of the sugar refiner and stayed there the rest of his career, Henry would never make nearly the money FillMore was offering. He agreed to an interview with the CEO, who liked him and offered him the job on the spot. He took it. As CEO, Henry got FillMore growing again. After his first full year on the job, sales were up 7%, profits 12%. The following year, he took the company public. The initial stock offering was valued at $45 a share. As FillMore’s largest individual shareholder, Henry became a multi-millionaire overnight. Soon FillMore reemerged as the leader in food extenders and fillers, just as food companies around the world were looking for new ways to offset growing profit pressures. Bulking up their products became a popular strategy, and FillMore became many food companies’ preferred supplier. Henry had achieved the three goals he had set for himself growing up. He was wealthy and powerful and, because of his CEO position, everyone looked up to him. He also endeared himself to many charities. He gave away millions, mainly for tax purposes, but also to build his reputation as a leading benefactor among the elite in New York. He received offers to become CEO of some of the biggest food companies in the country. But he knew none could top the money he was making at FillMore. Plus he loved New York and his mansion in The Hamptons, where he could entertain and impress colleagues and customers. Henry worked hard for his money, and his work was his life. He had little time for friends, and although women were interested in him, and he dated more than a few, he was skittish about alimony. He remained single. Henry stayed at FillMore the rest of his career, retiring at 65, the company’s mandatory retirement age. He handpicked his successor, a gregarious man named Bob. Employees really liked Bob. Watching him interact with them, Henry began to wish he had spent more time with these people. At his retirement party, everyone came up to Henry to extend their congratulations and wish him well. He was glad they were all wearing name tags because, although many faces looked familiar, he knew relatively few names. # Henry sat on his front porch, drinking coffee and waiting to see a car go by on the road just beyond his enormous front yard. He had been retired a week now and, aside from his housekeeper and yard man and Charles at his club, he had spoken with no one. What’s more, no one had called him or sent him an email or a text message. When he was CEO, his in-box was always full, and someone always wanted him for something. Now he concluded that he had been useful and important to people because of his title. Without it, he had lost his relevance. Now no one wanted him for anything. Henry sipped his coffee and thought of his old house in the valley. He thought about his mother and her funeral. He thought about his father, whose funeral he had missed. He wondered what had ever happened to Rick and Art, his friends who lived on the hill. He wondered if they were still living there, in that same small town, or if they too had gotten out. He thought about Barbara, whom he hadn’t seen in many years. He knew she had gotten married again because his attorney had told him he would no longer need to pay alimony. He wondered if Barbara was still beautiful. He wondered if she was finally happy. He wondered if he had set the right goals and if he had made the right choice to focus so much on work and not make more friends or have a family. He wondered what his house would have been like if it had been filled with children or, by now, grandchildren. Out on the road, he saw a white mail truck slow down and stop at his mailbox. Great. More bills and junk mail. Having nothing else to do, he got up and walked down his long and gently winding brick driveway. At the end of it, he reached over the gate and opened his mailbox. He reached inside, pulled out several envelopes and closed the door. He looked at the envelopes. Two were bills, and one was addressed to him in unfamiliar handwriting. He looked at the return address. It was from a Rich Wilson in Tremont, in the West Bronx. Henry didn’t recognize the name and wondered who would be sending him something like this. He walked back up his driveway to the front porch and sat back down. He put aside the two bills and slid his index finger under the seal of the envelope from Wilson. Inside, he found a handwritten letter, which he unfolded and read. Dear Mr. Valentine, We have not met, but you have changed my life, dramatically and for the better. Several years ago, I was homeless. I had nowhere to go, and I was cold and hungry. Someone told me about an emergency shelter in South Bronx. I went there. They gave me food and a place to sleep. And they gave me something else, worth much more. They helped me find a job, bagging groceries in a local grocery store. It was my first real job. I loved it. I loved helping customers. I was still living at the shelter, but soon I was making enough money to afford to rent an apartment. I’m still working at the grocery store. Now I’m the assistant manager, and I’m taking evening classes at SUNY. I’m majoring in business. I’m sure you know this, but you’re the biggest donor to the emergency shelter in South Bronx. The woman who runs it told me that, without your support, they’d probably have to close. If they hadn’t been there for me, I don’t know where I’d be right now. I’m writing just to thank you, Mr. Valentine. This letter is long overdue, but it’s heartfelt. If I can ever do anything for you, please let me know. It would be an honor. Sincerely, Rich Wilson Henry folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. He had never heard of the homeless shelter in South Bronx. He knew little about his charitable giving, which was managed by his PR folks at FillMore. He grabbed his mail and his coffee and went inside. He walked down the hall to his study and sat down at his desk. He opened the upper right drawer and pulled out a sheet of stationery. Using his favorite pen, he composed this letter: Dear Mr. Wilson, Thank you for your thoughtful and gracious letter. I am delighted to learn of your success and honored that I have had the opportunity to help enable it in some small way. You kindly asked if you can do anything for me. There is one thing. Would you meet me for coffee or lunch sometime? I will be happy to meet you anywhere and anytime you like. Just let me know. I am enclosing my card. Please feel free to email, text or call me anytime. I will look forward to hearing from you. Thank you again for your wonderful letter. Warmest regards, Henry Valentine Gil Daniel is a writer and a social worker from Israel, pursuing a Master of Arts degree in English Literature at the Hebrew University. A Dream of AmericaA pleasant breeze came through as Hannah opened the door and went out. Her eyes were bathed in the warm sunlight of summer, and after they had readjusted, she could see Morris standing at the promenade, his back to the sea, wearing his white suit and looking at her, shyly.
“May I have this dance?” she asked him, five years earlier. He lifted his head with surprise. “Um,” he blushed, “I’m not really…” he mumbled, “I don’t like dancing.” “Come on,” she took his hand, “it can’t be that bad.” He smiled with discomfort. “Thanks, Hannah,” he gently let go of her hand, “it’s alright.” On her face he saw a look, anywhere between hurt, sad and angry. “I’m sorry. Please enjoy yourself. I just hate dancing.” Presently, she walked slowly toward him, shaking with sorrow, her mind full of doubt. She hasn’t seen him in years. The devil stood near him, smoking a cigarette. As she came closer, she avoided his eyes, once drops of light green comfort; now seas of yearning, almost black. Holding back a tear, she came close and stopped. Morris was her love. He was born in 1911, and ever since he knew anything, he knew that he hated dancing. # “This whole thing is weird,” Gimel said. “Yeah,” Aleph replied, smoking slowly. “What is this thing?” They stood in a house burned to the ground, and in its center burned diabolical symbols, flickering with green flames. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Gimel admitted. “I want to say crazy kids, but I don’t know any crazy kids that make fires go green.” “This is some shit.” Aleph kicked a pile of ashes toward the flames, which kept burning. The hot morning sun and the scorched soil heated his already hot head. “Don’t freak out on me yet, Aleph,” Gimel said, with little patience. Aleph looked at him with anticipation. “We need to look good for the civilians.” He then hinted toward a curious urban crowd that was watching them. When Aleph saw it, he stood up straight and kept a dignified, serious face. “Well,” Gimel turned back to the evil flames in green, “I think we’re dealing with a mad scientist.” Aleph chuckled. “I think more of a time traveller.” “Why not both?” Gimel asked solemnly, almost contemplating. Aleph had no answer. # The eight-year-old Morris stood in front of two large tombstones of, so he was told, his parents. It’s been two years since they died and he had only the dimmest memory of them. The closest thing he had to a parent was his uncle Eddie, a dark, massive farmer, who was standing near him at the graveyard. “What really happened to them?” Morris asked. “They were fighting with their neighbors, Morris.” “Why did they fight?” “Color.” “What?” “Neighbors were white and they were black.” Eddie recalled the white mob of East St. Louis; After cutting the fire-hoses, they burned whole streets down, beating blacks to death. The cops did little to nothing to stop the massacre. “You were lucky to have God on your side,” was all Eddie could say. “I don’t get it,” Morris despaired. “That’s alright. Let’s get going. This place’s depressing,” Eddie decided, wondering if there’s such a thing as a non-depressing graveyard. When they got home, Eddie went to a large, red wooden crate and pulled out a black acoustic guitar, only four rusty strings on it. It seemed like it hadn’t been played on for at least a few years. “Your old guitar,” Morris recognized it. “Your old guitar,” Eddie replied. “It belonged to your father, George. I tell you, he was the best singer I’ve ever heard.” He picked up the guitar and strummed it cluelessly. “I can’t play anything. Maybe you’ll do better.” He handed it to the little Morris, who was shorter than the guitar. He grabbed it with his tiny hands, trying hard not to drop it. After he managed to balance it upright, he studied his own twisted reflection on black wood, a shapeless, monstrous version of himself. A strange feeling went through his body; a silent shiver. Something about this instrument was chilling. # The two detectives stood in front of a high-rise building and waited for an intercom to reply. “Ever went out of toilet paper,” Aleph said, “and got stuck with only paper towels?” “Happened when I was younger,” Gimel confessed. “Well, it happened to me yesterday,” Aleph shared with his older, more experienced partner, “and it got me thinking: I can see how I got myself into this ill situation of having no toilet paper at home, but why on earth do I have paper towels?” “You bought them when you had more money? Or when you were a tidier, cleaner, more responsible person?” Gimel guessed and then added: “Though it’s hard to imagine you as one.” “That’s right!” Aleph ignored the addition. “The paper towels are a memorial of the young Aleph, tidier and better, who not only had many toilet paper in stock, but also felt the need to have a larger, thicker toilet paper that can also absorb.” “Toilet paper is for the bathroom, and paper towels are for cooking and cleaning,” Gimel concluded, “paper towels are your super-ego. And toilet paper is id. You are ego, trying to balance the need to shit with the dream of becoming something bigger.” The intercom buzzed and Aleph reached for the door and opened it. “You just have to ruin everything for me, right?” They went through a luxurious lobby to a spacious, air-conditioned elevator. Gimel looked at the elevator with wonder. “I never got this. They live downtown in those palaces, in the middle of stench, in a high-rise full of neighbors. Those guys are swimming in money. Wouldn’t they be better off living outside of town?” “Maybe, not everybody wants the peace and quiet of nature,” Aleph assumed. “If you ask me, all this nature seems a disgusting load of slugs and lizards.” “You don’t know jack,” Gimel grumbled. “When you’re my age, with wife and two children, living in a match box on Gold Street, you’ll get it.” “Still can’t believe you’re stuck in that horrible place,” Aleph said as they left the elevator and stood in front of a white marble door. “We were young. We made mistakes. Never mind that stuff. Let’s look good for a change.” The white door opened and there stood a woman in her fifties, with bright orange hair and skin the color of light bronze. Around her neck was a whale-shaped necklace. “Mrs. Hopkins?” Gimel asked, showing his badge. # At the age of sixteen, Morris was able to hold his guitar, owing this to years of lifting heavy loads and tools, but couldn’t play it, or rather, not in a pleasant way. “Boy,” Eddie said, ignoring earaches hitting him on every note Morris played, “you got the guitar from your father, but the talent for music you got straight from me.” “That’s not funny!” Morris grumped and kept on playing jangly notes. Eddie went on his way around the house. “That kid,” he mumbled, entering the kitchen. “Not funny, he says. Maybe giving me noise after a day of work is funny.” He got a loaf of bread from a box on the shelf, then cut himself a thick slice with a big knife. “Should’ve taken the strings out before I gave it to him. He wouldn’t have noticed.” He used the same knife to butter his massive slice of bread. “When my dad was gone, he left me a breadbox and a shelf – useful and quiet. But George had to give his son this giant, ugly piece of wood, that makes much noise and wastes much time.” He ate while standing, and within a few bites, the anger changed form to reminiscing. How long has it been, he wondered; Morris is already sixteen. George could really sing. He was a good man. Eddie put the bread back in the box and threw the knife in the sink. “If only Morris got any of your playing, George.” He sighed, knowing his earaches had nothing to do with his longing to be young again, and hear George sing and play his guitar. # They sat at Mrs. Hopkins’ living room – a large salon in a huge apartment, bright and white, filled with oil paintings, wide and weird. Africans, monsters and fire were their main themes. Mrs. Clara Hopkins was a very popular painter at the time – the cheapest of her paintings sold for five-figure sums. Gimel liked them. Aleph thought they were scary. Each of them sat on his own white armchair. “Mrs. Hopkins, I am sorry for your son,” Gimel said honestly. She nodded. The word of her son, Raul’s, death, got to her way before they did, thanks to the media, which made a point of not acting in good taste whenever possible. “We need to ask you a few questions. Part of our investigation.” “I understand,” She said, very calm, almost bored. Aleph wrote rapidly in his yellow notebook, occasionally lifting his glance toward her. Her son died today, he thought and wondered, wasn’t she supposed to be crying or something. “Did Raul got into some sort of trouble lately, with anyone?” Gimel started. “Not that I’m aware of.” “Did he have any weird friends? Anyone you didn’t like?” “Nowadays I don’t know who his friends are. Were.” “I am truly sorry. Did he have any romantic relationships lately?” “There was his girlfriend, Ella, a few years back. I don’t know if they’re still in touch.” “Ella who?” “Liberalis.” Gimel threw a glimpse at Aleph, making sure he was writing, then looked back at Mrs. Hopkins’ green eyes, that made him feel embarrassed and uncomfortable. “When was the last time you saw him?” “A few months ago. He looked fine. Found a job. Quit smoking. He even dressed nice.” Half an hour later Gimel finished his questioning and turned to Aleph. “Hand me a sheet.” “What?” he was surprised, then stiffened, “This is my notebook. Not station’s. You can’t just tear one out.” Mrs. Hopkins chuckled. “Stop acting like a child, Aleph,” Gimel had no patience. “A sheet of paper, please.” Aleph tore out one sheet of paper, not without fast and furious hand movements. Gimel took it and wrote his phone number on it. “Everything you need,” he said and handed it to Mrs. Clara Hopkins. # In the year of 1931, Morris was twenty and could play some chords. He took his black guitar, along with every penny he saved, said a brief goodbye to Eddie and went to travel across the country. He walked along a desert road, praying in vain for a ride to pass by. “Hell, it’s hot,” he said and sat on a sandy stone. “Better stop for a minute and drink.” He pulled out a metal bottle from his bag and drank. “Better sit on the road, ‘case anyone shows up.” Much like his uncle, he had the habit of talking to himself when no one heard. He sat on the road and reached for his guitar. His hands were sweaty and playing was difficult, and he sang of bones and keys, sisters and thieves, and the blues. He stopped, trying different ways to play it, then continued, singing about anger, sweat and devils. He didn’t remember ever singing these words. He kept on for several minutes, and noticed this was the best he ever played. Not just chords, but also notes, on several pitches, merging with one another and breaking down, communicating with his ears. Morris became aware of a motor noise coming from afar. He quickly picked up his belongings and stood up. After a while, a vague green figure appeared in the distance. Morris lifted his hand. The figure came closer and began to take the shape of an enormous green chopper motorcycle, with a person riding it, wearing jeans and plaid shirt, his skin green and distorted, inhuman. It stopped near Morris and looked at him. “Can I get a ride?” Morris asked loudly, yet not louder than the powerful motor. “Certainly,” the rider smiled, “Have a seat.” A moment later Morris sat behind him and they took off immediately. “Where are you going, brother?” Morris asked. “Hell.” “I think that’s where we’re all going,” Morris chuckled. “I don’t know if we’re all going there, but we’re going there now.” The rider squeezed the throttle all the way and they flew into the sun and left it in an instant. “What was that?!” Morris was frightened, “I’m not used to this kind of speed.” He tried to calm down, looked to his sides, saw colors being smeared faster than his eyes could grasp. Suddenly, the motorcycle stopped, fell on the ground with a loud sound and they flew into an abyss, falling into red armchairs in a red room, facing each other, a black table between them. “Morris.” “How do you know?” “I know everything.” “And what’s your name?” “I have many names. I think in this age they call me Satan.” “That ain’t funny.” “I’m not kidding.” “Well, Satan, what do you want from me?” “To hear you play.” “I’m out of here,” Morris decided and tried to get up, in vain. He found himself playing his black guitar, playing extremely ordinary. “I think you played way better earlier.” Morris looked at him silently. “If you want to play like that again, and even much better, I can make it happen.” “And what do you want in return?” “Your soul.” “What does that even mean?” “I come and kill you in seven years.” “Alright.” Morris reached out his hand. “In seven years, I’ll be waiting with a gun.” “Very well.” Satan smiled and shook hands with Morris, who found himself sitting again on the road with his guitar. Only now his guitar was colored dark green.“She’s so weird, Gimel, I don’t like this house,” Aleph said as they drove back to the station. “Something’s fishy in there,” Aleph said, driving, “not sure what, though. She’s hiding something. You gave the station his girlfriend’s name? We have an address?” “Yes, yes, it’s real close, we can even go now.” “Now we have to go home, Aleph.” “No way.” Aleph checked his watch. “Wow. That was fast.” “Homicide days are always fast, I always tell you that.” An hour later Aleph got to his bachelor pad, went into the kitchen and turned the stove on to make coffee. The flames came out green. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” He grumped, turned it off and on again. Still green. “This is…” # Morris entered a dark place, where few people in black clothes sat. He went to the bartender. “Got any use for a musician?” he asked. “I play for free.” “We’re not that kind of a place,” the bartender replied. “You’re welcome to play. If you’re not shot, than you’ve played real good.” Morris smiled, put his hat on the floor and his guitar in his hands, and started singing before anyone could respond. He was going to Alligatoria, to meet the devil’s wife. He carried the words slowly, as the mere few in the crowd became quiet and listened. They were hypnotized. He sang of a place where his dreams died. That night was later known as the earliest concert of Mississippi Alligator Morris, an early master of the blues, and was documented on the bartender’s diary, which was discovered many decades later. # Captain Aberdeen was a large, mature man, dark-skinned and powerful, and he was angry. “We’ll get that mother-fucker, Gimel, you have my word,” he made a commitment across his black wooden table, big and old. “I already brought in the crazy painter lady. We’ll find him and he’ll rot in prison for the rest of his god damned life.” The burning of Aleph’s house, with Aleph inside, got everyone at the station on their feet. “Yes, I know.” Gimel sighed. “I trust you guys.” “Gimel.” The captain stood up. “I know how it feels. Those kid detectives nowadays, they’re nothing like us when we were that age. Our life was fucked up. But they… they’re just kids.” He saw Gimel looking at him, tiredly. “Get home. It’s alright.” He went for the exit, hurrying somewhere. “Get some sleep. Be with family. We’ll get him.” Gimel got up as well and left the room with him. “Night, Gimel.” “Good night, captain.” # Morris made some living out of playing in dark places, and the more he travelled the country, the more of those dark places came up. In 1932 he saw Hannah Gellerman, a white woman, sitting on the table closest to the stage, wearing a blue dress, with a wide, white hat, underneath it orange hair, short and straight. Above anything else, his attention went to a golden necklace, carrying a blue whale pendant, on her neck. In those days, Hannah was an elementary school teacher in the city, trying to make a living and put some money aside to help her parents. At the same time, she worked on her first novel. “I want to dedicate the next song to a whale in the crowd.” Morris said, smiling. He was African-American, thin and tall, wearing a snow white suit, with a black blues hat, and his guitar was green, dark to almost black. His charm was unstoppable. “This is a song about someone I met when I was younger, an old man from our town. He took all that prohibition stuff too hard. Anyway, I think I’m talking too much.” He laughed with embarrassment, suddenly too human, fragile and confused. Then he started playing his guitar, fast and calm. His voice became scorched like the house he was singing about, that belonged to the old man, now sleeping on the street. He stayed with Hannah for a few days and went on travelling. Two months later he came back. “What can I get you?” asked a woman in a white work dress and a matching hat. For a long moment, Hannah looked at the sign, and then said: “Lemon soda.” “And you?” The woman at the counter looked at Morris. “Strawberry sundae,” He answered immediately, smiling. “Thanks.” “Sure. That’s forty cents.” The woman replied, and before Morris could act, Hannah sharply laid four rusty coins on the counter. “Thank you,” she said, and took Morris with her to the a table. “So. Hannah.” Morris was looking for words. “We’re here, at the ice cream parlor. Where you got soda. And I got ice cream.” She was a puzzle to him, staring at him and thinking thoughts he couldn’t imagine. “Have you heard about the Dow Jones?” “What?” Hannah asked. “The Dow Jones. I read in the newspaper. It went way down.” “What does that mean?” “That we’re going to be poor.” “Aren’t we already?” Hannah sounded desperate. Now was his turn to stare, touching her with his green eyes, angel eyes the color of Satan. It reminded her of that night, when he looked at her from the stage, and she felt like he could see her totally, and had no place to hide from his gaze. She didn’t know if she wanted to hide. “Depression didn’t skip over my family, you know,” she noticed the fact she was talking, “my little brother, Louis, worked in a factory, you know, as a welder. And after he was fired he couldn’t get a job. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but the day I saw you preform was the day he left town to look for a job. I just had to find some distraction, other than Benny Goodman.” She giggled, embarrassed. “So strange that I met you on that same day.” Morris looked at her and knew this was not coincidence, but guided by the hand of the green devil. “He sent one postcard two months ago, no where he is, no how he’s doing. Just I’m alive, I’m alright; and he sent nothing since.” Morris nodded, still staring. “I’m just… worried. Also, I haven’t seen him for a while. He’s just so young and wild and…” A waitress came and put a cup of lemon soda next to Morris and a strawberry sundae next to Hannah, and was gone. Hannah reached a hand to switch between them. Morris grabbed her hand gently, and she felt the pleasant cold of his dark hand wrapping her fingers, prepared to laugh and cry at anything. He was the gentlest man she ever met, and the strongest. “It’s okay, Hannah. You’re allowed to,” he said briefly and did not elaborate, as if singing an intriguing line in a song. “I hope he’s doing all right.” “Thanks,” she said, smiling a little. “Anyway,” she freed her hand and switched the cups. “Why’d you get soda and I got the ice cream? Is it more feminine to eat ice cream?” “Perhaps it’s more manly to drink soda.” Morris smiled and put a small spoon of ice cream into his mouth, with the joy of a little kid. “I heard the Suffragettes rather drink grape juice.” Hannah laughed. “Don’t believe everything you hear.” A few months later they got married, and he stayed in the city, preforming for a curious urban crowd almost every night. # “How are you?” Bessie asked. “Known better days.” Gimel replied. She laid a hand on his back. “I’m sorry.” He took her hand and held it. “I’m alright.” He slowly released his grip. “Thank god retirement is coming soon.” “Just a little more,” she laughed, “and we’re leaving this town.” Her phone rang. “I don’t have to take it,” she said. “It’s okay,” he smiled. “Thank you. I’m alright. You better see who’s calling.” “If you…” “I know. Thank you.” She went to the living room and spoke to someone from work. He watched her. At moments she could distract his mind from morbid thoughts, by saying something interesting or funny. He suddenly felt too old for talking, but when she went to the living room, she gave him complete freedom to stare and think about nothing. It helped him a little. # Mrs. Gellerman had her way of responding to happy news. When Hannah told her about her pregnancy, she was shocked and asked, possibly her daughter, and possibly god: “How are we supposed to feed another mouth?” In 1933 alcohol was back in style. The intersection of Morris, the devil and southern whiskey, was explosive. His music was scorched and hot, but when the shows ended, he stayed put, drinking for hours and falling asleep in stranger beds. One year later, he left town, Hannah and Eddie Jr., their son. He didn’t say goodbye – only left a short letter, trying to convey how much he loves her and how sorry he is. It convinced neither of them. At night, Hannah kept writing her novel; working on days at school, leaving Eddie at her parents’ place. “Turn it down!” Mrs. Gellerman shouted from the kitchen. The radio in the living room played trumpets too energetic and loud for her to approve. Eddie Jr. was just an infant, but Mr. Gellerman saw him moving to the sound of music, enjoying himself. “Eddie seems to like it.” “Just what I need – another musician!” she was horrified. “Turn it down!” Mr. Gellerman turned the volume down and looked at the newspaper, which remained open in his hand for a while, and observed the headlines in no particular order. Davis cup play halted by rain, onion growers ask eviction of strikers, four boys killed in truck crash. The headline told of an armed robbery, complete with a small picture of police detectives wearing hats and ties, looking down at a dead body. “Isn’t it time for her to find a husband, and this time he could be one of ours?” His wife’s voice cut off the thoughts of crime and depression that were brought in by the newspaper. He lowered it and saw her from the other side of the table, looking at him, judging and examining. He also noticed breakfast on the table: toasted bread, butter, cereals, and sunny side ups. “I don’t know,” Mr. Gellerman shrugged and grabbed a slice of toast. “Her head’s full of jazz, like all kids nowadays.” He buttered it. “I’d leave it be. She’s got a job, at least. That’s more than you can say for her brothers.” “At least!” she repeated with anger. “It’s all upside-down, just, upside-down.” In the middle of the table stood a metal coffee pot, and from it she poured for her husband and her in plain clay cups, short and wide. “Why can’t she be more like Billy?” She added some milk. “That girl?” Mr. Gellerman recalled the neighbors’ daughter. “She’s nothing important. Our daughter’s gonna be something great, Sonya, you’ll see.” He drank his coffee black. # Aleph’s funeral took place on too hot a day. Aleph’s wife passed out a few times, and Gimel himself was saved only by Bessie’s devoted water supply, coming every quarter of an hour. “Gimel.” Cpt. Aberdeen sweated inside a gray suit. “How’re you doing? And Bessie, how are you. How’re the kids.” Bessie nodded and smiled politely. “Everyone’s okay.” “How’s the investigation going?” Gimel gave up protocol. “The mother gave us nothing. Act all crazy. We spoke to all his friends. And his last girlfriend. I got three detectives on this case now, Gimel.” “So basically, you got nothing.” The captain went silent for a moment. “Nothing,” he said eventually. “And already we got headlines on the web. One more arson and you’ll see me on T.V.” “When that happens, try a more ventilated suit.” Gimel shot. “You’re an old man with an old man’s humor.” Cpt. Aberdeen ruled. “I got only two years on you.” “These two years are an abyss, Gimel.” # Hannah Gellerman published her first novel, Naked in Chicago, in 1935. It portrayed a detailed relationship between a white woman and a black woman, in the futuristic Chicago of 1991, where Hannah predicted this type of story would be received better than in her lifetime. It sold well at first, and a few weeks later, was banned statewide. She was fired from school and harassed by neighbors, acquaintances and former friends. On august that year, an unknown burglar broke into her house and burned her bookshelves, all her copies of the novel, and the only copy of her fifty-three page handwritten manuscript of her next book. She managed to rescue Eddie Jr. and herself from the burning house by sheer luck. Then, she decided, she had to leave. At first, she wanted to run away with little Eddie, but then she realized he’d be safer apart from her. “It’s just for a while,” she told her father, who hugged her with some tears in his eyes. “It’s alright,” he said calmly. “I knew nothing good would come out of this book,” Mrs. Gellerman grumbled aside, “Two women could’ve been enough. But no. They had to be black and white.” “Yes, they had to be.” Hannah stood in front of her mother, who kept quiet and stared at her seriously. “I know,” she sighed eventually. “Where’d you get that stubbornness?” “Well, I got my beauty and talent from dad, so…” in the midst of her sentence, Hannah found herself in the arms of her mother, who held her hand, stroked her head. Mrs. Gellerman had a strong feeling that she would never see her daughter again. Hannah left her blue whale necklace with little Eddie. “Keep her for me until I’ll come back, my Eddie.” # A call from a private number. Gimel picked up. “Detective Gimel?” A woman’s voice. “Yes?” It was late. “This is Clara Hopkins.” “What do you want?” “Can you get here? It’s urgent.” “What’s going on?” “I think I’m in danger.” Fifteen minutes later, Gimel parked his car near the tall building, and took the elevator to the white marble door, which was open. He pulled out his pistol and carefully entered. “Mrs. Hopkins?” He tried, but it was too late. She was sprawled on one of the white armchairs, now full of bloodstains. Someone had shot her, Gimel saw, rather than burned her. He scanned the murder scene with his eyes: Mrs. Clara Hopkins, shot twice, blood on the carpets, on the couch, on the floor. One cigarette was left in the clean ashtray, eaten by air. On the floor next to Clara was a torn golden necklace, tossed away. Robbers? An old, rich woman, alone in the middle of the night. It might be. But the timing was too close. Gimel drew his phone from his pocket and dialed. “Captain, you’re gonna be on T.V.” # 1936. Morris recorded ten songs, two of which were released on both sides of a record; one side had the harmless Flaming Woman Blues. B side had his most famous and enigmatic song, Green Devil Blues. These records found a home among curious people of many kinds and colors, trying to comprehend this anonymous singer and his relation to the devil. Morris wasn’t waiting for fan letters; he kept walking, Satan guiding his feet and rushing them. It was on a dark night, when he walked a wide road made of stone, and suddenly heard a faint tapping sound, growing louder. In front of him appeared two horses, black and tall, on top of them riding two black clothed people. He couldn’t see their face. “Hello,” one of them said. “Hello,” he replied. “You’re dressed nice. Who are you?” “I’m Morris.” “Morris. What’re you doin’ here?” “I’ve been traveling across the country, for the last few years. I also sing and play. Perhaps you’ve heard about me?” “A singer. What do you sing?” “Mostly blues.” “Hey, Dayton!” the voice suddenly called loudly, “ever heard any blues?” “No,” the other voice spoke for the first time. “Well you should. It’s actually pretty good,” first voice recommended. “Hey, Morris.” Morris looked quietly at the shady figure in the dark. “Sing us some blues.” “Now? In the middle of the night?” Morris tried to evade. “There’s a village nearby, I believe. Bet they’re sleeping.” Just don’t ask me to dance, he prayed. “But Dayton here never heard any blues.” the voice said. “Right, Dayton?” “That’s true,” Dayton replied. “If you want…” Morris began speaking, then heard a high-pitched sound and felt his face explode. He put his hand on his face and felt cold blood. “Listen carefully,” the voice said, “if I see you around again, we won’t be as nice as today.” Morris felt a short, shocking hit on his right leg. He fell to the ground with pain. “We don’t like your kind wandering ‘round here.” A whipping sound was heard and the horses trotted away. # “I know you’re short on people.” Gimel said. Captain Aberdeen stood near him, smoking on the station’s roof, overlooking the streets nearby. “No shit.” “Let me have this case. As far as we know, those cases aren’t even related.” “You’re so smart, Gimel,” the captain said emotionlessly, blowing out smoke. He looked down at the street. “And convincing. Should’ve been a lawyer.” “Can you picture me in a suit?” Gimel joked. “That’s not funny.” He faced Gimel, his cigarette pointing at him. “This is a red ball. You’re in conflict of interests. We have to look clean.” He smoked more. “The older generation would pin it on some nobody for the media.” “Dear god,” Gimel said with loathing, “you remember Fischer?” Captain Aberdeen ejected the smoke in his mouth, almost involuntary. “That piece of shit.” He was mad. “Thanks to the likes of him, everyone thought all cops were racist rapists.” “Most of them were.” “Gimel, I’m willing to put you as secondary on this case, and that’s it, and if I hear that you went anywhere beyond the lines of secondary, I’ll have you sitting with a speed-cam on highway 375 for the rest of your life.” “Thanks.” “One more thing.” Gimel nodded. The captain squashed the end of his cigarette on a metal ashtray. “Get me a killer. And I mean a real one that actually did it, not some killer you picked off the streets.” # Morris entered the stairwell of a three-store building, made of bricks. He followed his ears for voices of high-pitched, female singing, and strings strummed at unknown patterns, blending into melodies of joy and loneliness. He knocked on the door. The music stopped and some faint, grumpy mutterings were heard behind the door. “If it’s that Mr. Francis again…” The door was opened and a woman in a red house-dress, with short curls stood and looked at him, surprised. “Hi.” Morris smiled. “Who are you?” “Morris,” he hinted at the guitar on his back, “Mississippi Alligator Morris, some say. Heard some playing from outside.” “Mississippi, eh?” She studied him. “That’s real far. What are you doing here?” “I’ve been travelling for some years now. Might say I’m a travelling musician.” “Aha, a travelling musician,” she was not impressed, “and why’d you travel to my door?” “May I come in, ma’am?” He said with obscure shyness. “I want to hear more.” She was surprised, blushed a bit, but kept a tough face. “Come in before someone sees you. People in this block already giving us weird looks.” She opened the door wide, then qualified: “Sit and listen, and no interruptions.” He smiled, bowed and left his hat on the hanger at the entrance. At the living room, sat another woman on a couch, her hair straight and long, playing a banjo, which seemed to Morris almost as weird as the fact that she wore blue, tall and long pants. “Name’s Jane,” the curly one said, “this is Alice,” she pointed at a small wooden stool. “Sit here quietly. Want a drink?” “I wouldn’t,” he bowed politely, as Jane shoved a clay glass full of Old Taylor in his hand. He smiled. “Thanks.” Jane nodded and sat on the couch near Alice, which kept on playing with great focus. “She never stops playing.” Morris nodded. Jane sang. She had a voice not too high, filling the house with presence. Once in a while Alice joined on additional vocals, just as pretty. Morris enjoyed the music so much, that it took him a long while to notice the words she sang, of loneliness, heartbreak, and coal-mining. He thought it to be very different than what he knew and played; but just the same as the blues. He finished his whiskey. “You smoke?” Jane asked. Alice kept on playing. “Does it matter?” Morris asked, and for an answer got a soft pack of Camels thrown at him, filter-less. He caught it with demonic reflexes. “Both of you sound great. Had a great time listening.” “Will you play something?” Alice spoke for the first time, still playing. Jane looked at her, terrified. She didn’t retreat. “Why not, actually?” Jane went silent. She couldn’t refuse what little she might ask of her, Morris realized. He promptly joined in with Alice’s banjo, and Jane quietly stared at his fingers. Alice listened to the tones his guitar produced, mesmerized. She felt obliged to never stop playing, afraid he’ll also stop. # Gimel was paired with Beatty, a brilliant detective of the new generation, and together they scanned Clara Hopkins’ house. “What do you think about the paintings?” “We might find something there,” she nodded, “perhaps she drew someone… or something someone really wanted. Or didn’t want.” “Oh,” Gimel sighed. “I asked what do you think about the paintings.” Beatty looked at him as if he was an alien from space, then replied: “They’re nice.” She kept on searching. “Can I give you a tip, as a veteran cop?” “Always,” she said reluctantly. “You need to talk more bullshit. I’ve heard much about you – Aleph would talk about you sometimes.” He stopped for a moment, seeing the name moved her somewhat, then quickly continued. “Aberdeen once told me, and I’m not supposed to say it, that you’re the best detective on the squad. One cannot miss your column on the board. How many red names are in there, two? Three?” “I hope to turn them black also,” she answered with pride. “And I hope you’ll make it. But you can’t live your life chasing the black marker.” “What do you mean?” she said while working, not turning her look toward him. “You need to talk bullshit. That’s a cop greatest skill. And I tell you, we’re nothing compared to the old gen.” “Tell me,” she said, while her phone emitted ultraviolet light, exposed fingerprints and sent them to the station. “Do you ever get any work done with all that bullshit?” “Define work.” “Work. Solve cases. At least trying to,” she said. “It looked like all you and Aleph ever did was talk bullshit all the time.” “Yes, indeed, Aleph was a fine artist of this craft,” Gimel smiled, “but you also seem to have great potential. You insult me good, just speak less like the police commissioner and focus more on my old age, and you’re on it.” She laughed. “How about we start with the way you pretend being way older than you really are? Way to avoid trouble.” “I was born old. How about those fingerprints you’ve sent?” “Got a match. We’re going on a road trip.” “May I suggest eating first?” # “So…” Morris hesitated. It was nighttime, Alice was asleep, and Jane sat in front of him in the kitchen, dealing cards for both of them, smoking. “So what?” “You and Alice…” “Isn’t it obvious?” Jane said toughly, “we’re sisters.” Morris was surprised. “You’re nothing alike.” “Don’t you think it’s rude, for a stranger like you to come in my house, asking me questions?” “I know it’s rude,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I find it hard to explain. I once made a deal with the devil, and sometimes I think I’m turning devil myself.” He picked his card, cast one on the table. “Can’t really control myself.” “A deal with the devil, eh.” She took one card from the table. “Is everyone crazy like you in Mississippi?” “Didn’t had many friends down there. But my uncle, Eddie, is at least as crazy as me.” “Tell you what,” Jane said slyly, “you tell me about your deal with the devil, and if the story’s good enough, I’ll tell you something about me.” For the first time, he told about the green biker in the desert and his father’s guitar, which was once black, now almost shining with hellish green. “What do you know,” Jane finally sighed, “it was a good story. Sounds like something out of a weird magazine.” Morris laughed. “Was it good enough?” “No choice. A deal’s a deal.” She looked at the table, saw Morris winning the game without even trying. “We met when we worked at a toy factory. Cars, trains, stuff like that. Stood next to me every day for three years. Became good friends. Played together for hours after work. You know what it’s like.” “Not really,” Morris confessed. “Never mind. They fired all the women in the factory when they realized recession wasn’t going anywhere. And I realized I can’t do anything without Alice. You know what I mean?” Morris nodded. “I don’t know what it’s like down the Mississippi, but around here, it’s not customary for two women to live together.” “You know, they tell stories, but it’s the first time I meet…” Morris stopped, “Two women.” “Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Mississippi Alligator,” Jane got heated, “they tell a lot of stories and call us many names, like something out of those magazines where you took your story from. But we’re just two girls, loving each other, and there’re many more like us… boys, girls. It’s as normal and boring as it gets. I don’t…” “Jane.” Morris cut her, looking into her dark eyes, speaking softly. “I know. It’s alright. They tell stories about us, also.” He pointed at his skin. “We’re all monsters in the eyes of the monsters.” She lit another cigarette and they were both silent for a long moment. “Well,” she broke the silence eventually, “you’re up for more drinking?” She lifted the bottle next to the cards and poured for them both. # The home of Ella Liberalis, Raul’s ex-girlfriend, was a one-room studio apartment in an old building, on a quiet neighborhood in the city. Beatty knocked hard on the door. “Ella?” No answer. “Seems like she took a walk,” Gimel said. “Ella Liberalis?” Beatty knocked again, harder. “I’m a bit tired of arriving late,” Gimel murmured while she drew her cellphone, did what seemed to him like technologic wizardry of the young, until the door lock made a sharp clank. She opened the door wide. The apartment was small, condensed entirely into a packed corner that contained a couch, a table and a bookshelf. On each of them laid notepapers and pens. On the table was a shapeless stack of papers, books, drinking cups and full ashtrays. To one side stood a kitchen and a bed, clean and tidy, as if hardly ever used. The sun came in through a large open window and painted the room with bright light. “She’s not here,” Gimel mentioned as he strolled the house, checking the books on the shelf. “Remind me of my apartment during academy.” On the edge of one shelf lay some records. “A girl with some taste, not like our generation, listening to music by phone only.” He looked around and saw no sign of a record player. He pulled out a record and studied it. `Mississippi Alligator Morris – Volume 1.` A blurry, black-and-white picture of a dark-skinned man, thin and tall, wearing suit and hat, holding a guitar and looking shyly into the camera; his brittle eyes crossing through times and places, staring straight into Gimel’s tired eyes. “You know this guy?” he asked Beatty, displaying the record. “You’re kidding? He’s one of the greatest.” “Never heard of him.” “Than your problems are far worse than some homicide.” # Morris stood, barely, his hands tied behind a wooden pole, all beaten, hurt and bleeding. Virgil, leader of the Black Legion, read the creative verdict: “Mississippi Alligator Morris, the bluesman, you are hereby accused of burglary, robbery, and assault of two women.” The man was covered entirely with the legion’s robes and hood, covering his face black. On his head was a weird hat with the shape of a skull on it. “What do you have to say in your defense?” “I didn’t do it. I didn’t break in, I knocked. We played. Ask her. I…” he stopped talking when another legion member kicked him strongly. “Stop lying!” he was angry. “Dayton, you idiot,” Virgil’s presence was unpleasant, “if you won’t stop hitting him, I swear you’re next.” “What difference does it make?” Dayton protested, not without fear. “Justice. How many times do I have to say it,” Virgil said, inspired. “It’s about equality. Fair trial. Justice. We’ll return justice to this nation.” The other three legionnaires were silent. “And you,” he turned to a dazed Morris, “you expect us to believe that two white women willingly let you enter their house? You’re a bigger idiot than Dayton.” Morris looked into his eyes. “That’s a lie.” “The bluesman, Mississippi Alligator Morris. The penalty for your felony is death,” Virgil festively announced, “by burning.” One of the legionnaires poured a bucket full of flammable liquid on top of Morris’ head. “Anything else?” Virgil asked, then drew out of his robes a small match box, white and blue, shouting Pepsi-Cola in red. Morris was silent. “Very well,” Virgil drew a match. “I’ll pray for you now.” He lit the match and held it high. “Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the weapon to make the difference.” He threw the burning match on Morris. Within seconds, flames caught his entire body, hot pain driving from skin to bone. Then the flames turned green. “What’s that, Virgil?” “What kind of fuel you idiots brought?” Virgil raged. “The devil’s fuel,” Morris said as the green flames began to spread on the field, running in straight, fast lines until catching the shocked legionnaires. “God save us all,” he said with sorrow, hearing the screams of those willing to burn him a moment ago, feeling their pain. “God, eh?” The green devil stood near Morris, who left the green flames unharmed, equipped with a brand new white suit and hat. “So far, I’m the one saving you.” “Why?” “We had a deal, Morris. When you’re 27. That’s pretty soon actually. Your soul shall belong to me, not to some racist pyros.” The devil lit one cigarette for himself, one for Morris. “All in good time.” # The hour was late. Gimel sat alone in a diner, on the table a fourth cup of coffee and a notebook full of notes and sketches. He was wired by earphones to a screen on the wall, listening to the complete recordings of Mississippi Alligator Morris for the second time. He went in for a brief coffee and dinner before home, but got carried away with the old music, rhythmic and dark, pretending to be upbeat, murderous and diabolical. He could not stop. Hours went by, yet he was not able to make himself take the earphones off, switch the music, get up and go – nothing. There was no world outside the earphones, none but the world Morris painted with his words and melodies, of devils and angels, hobos and princesses, poverty and crime; all of which were affected with great sorrow, a remorse echoing from the depths of history to Gimel’s ears. He felt a brown-green hand, long and gentle, trying to reach him. It went for his neck and began choking him. Gimel knew he’d be safe if he could take the earphones off, or lose focus of the music for but a moment, but he couldn’t. It was too beautiful, he knew, too beautiful and too sad, and he let himself cry, his and Morris’ pain becoming one. He missed Bessie, Hannah Gellerman, Aleph and his uncle, Eddie. The death of Aleph was so sad, unnecessary, meaningless. He felt his last breaths exhausting, drowning in the Mississippi River, that flowed without water, but with southern whiskey and tears. # On Memorial Day of 1937, Hannah Gellerman joined the Little Steel strikers in their march of protest. They carried American flags and sang union songs, and their destination was the steel plant, standing behind a line of about one hundred and fifty policeman. Tempers, already hot, flared. Stones were thrown, tear gas was sprayed, and shots were fired. Fifty marchers were shot, of whom ten were killed. Somewhere amidst the chaos, Hannah heard a shout that would become the opening for her second novel: “Get off the field or I’ll put a bullet in your back!” The book, Blue Devil’s Blues, was published as paperback and gained somewhat of a following. This established her as a speaker for the weak, the oppressed and the outcast. She found a job at the Daily Worker, of the Communist Party, and beside livelihood, found in it also a platform for publishing poems and stories. “My little Eddie,” she wrote in a letter, “I guess you’re not that little. Happy birthday!” She stopped for a moment, looking around at her small, lonely room at twilight. “I’ve sent you a small present, and I really hope you’ll like it.” She let out a sad laugh when she thought of the clumsy, wooden toy in the shape of a blue whale. She wondered if boys play with whales, and if it was right to leave everything behind, including Eddie, her parents and her entire old life. “I’m not Morris,” she told her parents, a few days before leaving. “I didn’t ditch,” she said now, “I had to go. He… some artists’ whim.” She looked at the letter she had written for Eddie Jr., so flat and meaningless. I’m not Morris, she thought, I am writing letters and plan on coming back, and I care for the ones I left behind, and I don’t need travelling for creativity. But she had left Eddie so far away, just like Morris had. Perhaps she was hoping to find him, or hoping to understand the need for being homeless. Does it even matter? Eddie doesn’t know my face. An old memory came to her – the Savoy Ballroom in Harlem. How on earth did we got to Harlem, she wondered, remembering a certain moment: Morris sitting at the corner, alone, and she’s dancing. They weren’t married yet. “Come on, Morris,” She said, reaching a hand, “It’s not that bad. You’ll see.” Morris took her hand and held it faintly. “It’s alright, Hannah,” he smiled at her, a smile full of suffering, as far as she could tell. “I just don’t like dancing.” He let go of her hand. “Forget about me. Have fun.” So stubborn, she recalled, and so senseless. Who could enjoy himself after having his hand let go like that? And who could forget about him? “I hope to see you soon, Eddie,” she resumed her writing. “Soon I’ll have enough money to buy you a ticket, and I’ll ask Grandma and Grandpa to take you here.” She looked through the window with anger, at a setting sun. “I’m not Morris.” # “Where am I?” Gimel asked. “Am I dead?” “Almost,” said a voice, “you would’ve been in a second. You’re lucky I came with my mojo.” “What?” reality began coming back. He lay on a couch; the couch at Ella Liberalis’ apartment. He tried to get up, but she pushed him back with a very soft and very strong hand. “You’re not going anywhere,” she ruled. He looked at her. Dark skin. Curly hair, incredibly tangled, the tanglest he’d ever seen. Round glasses. “The green devil wants our souls, and we’ll be safe only if we stay close to this mojo.” She pointed at a blue whale ornament, tied with a shoelace. “That’s what you wanted from the mother. That’s what you took.” “You’re really good at your job, detective.” Gimel sighed. “Not lately.” Visions, he recalled, the bluesman, Alligator. He was sitting at a diner, seeing music come to life inside his ears, everything so real. He felt death. “You know what’s going on. You understand it all,” he knew. “Explain it to me. Please.” “I guess you’ve already heard of Mississippi Alligator, his deal with the devil and all these stories.” She went to the kitchen and boiled water. “Raul told me everything, as he heard it from his grandfather, Eddie Hopkins. His father, Morris, made a deal with the devil – his soul for great musical talent. But when the time came to go with Satan, Morris resisted. He burned his guitar and called off the deal. Satan, of course, wasn’t excited, so he took his soul, and threw in a promise for Eddie, that every Hopkins would pay for Morris’ sass.” “Let’s say for a moment that I buy all this New-Orleans-Voodoo stuff,” Gimel spoke slowly, “why was my partner burned? Why was I almost killed?” He looked at her, carrying two cups of tea, putting them on the table. She wore sunny clothes, short and red. “Why’d you shoot the mother? What’s so special about this whale?” “Whale,” she repeated with anger. “You’re so narrow-minded. This is a mojo. You’re alive thanks to it. That’s what kept Eddie safe all those years, and Clara after him. But she wouldn’t give it to Raul. Wanted to keep on painting for a few more years. Didn’t want to die. Gave her son’s life for hers.” Gimel’s head hurt. “So much crap.” He took his cup of tea and blew at it. “Careful. It’s hot.” “Don’t care it’s hot,” he said angrily. “What do you want? What am I doing here? Why’d you take my gun? You already have one, as Clara Hopkins can testify.” “You’re charming, detective.” She smiled. “I’m trying to kill Satan. Another gun wouldn’t hurt.” # 1938. The year that passed was good to Morris. He recorded seventeen more songs, travelled the country and played everywhere he stopped. His songs got better, his charm more spellbinding, and his dependence on whiskey more severe. His guitar became completely green. On his twenty seventh birthday, the devil and he stood near the Daily Worker headquarters. “You said you’ll wait for me with a gun,” Satan mentioned, exhaling smoke from a heavy cigarette. “I was naive, Satan. Even so, I think it was fun.” Morris was wearing his white suit, which by then had become his trademark, shining like snow in the bright sunlight of august. “I think I made a mistake, you know.” “You’d rather get old with no talent, eh?” Satan said with incredibly human evil. “No, no, not at all,” Morris was surprised by this remark. “I don’t think you can get old with no talent. Everyone’s good at something. But I wasn’t talking about that. I have no regrets about our deal.” “I’m glad to hear that. Than what is it?” “There was this moment. You know I hate dancing. Always have.” Morris borrowed a cigarette from the devil’s pack and lit it. His hand was trembling. “Hannah and I were at this dancehall, and she danced and I sat aside, praying for the night to end so we could go home already. But you know what, at one point I noticed I’m not praying for that at all. I was praying for her to come, give me a hand and say, dance with me. And you know why I wanted her to do this?” “Yes.” “Because I loved her. But my fear wouldn’t let me get off that chair. I figured you gave me the talent, but not the guts. And I’m sitting there, praying for her to give me a hand and ask me to dance, when all of sudden, the unbelievable happens, and she does it! Reaching out her hand and saying, let’s dance. And I take her hand and tell her, I hate dancing. And let go.” “Definitely not the brightest moment of your career,” the devil said and dropped ashes on the sidewalk. “I told myself it was all your job. All fake. Like my talent. Not real.” Morris sounded angry. “And today I know none of it was real.” The devil smiled, a wide smile of happiness, joy and childish villainy. “My talent is mine. You’ve never really helped me with anything. Just opened a few doors of perception. My guitar is just a guitar. There was never a deal. If I choose not to give you my soul, you won’t take it. Because you gave nothing in return. My evil was always mine, and Hannah, she really loved me.” Satan nodded many times, and his face became full of seriousness. “So what is your regret?” he asked Morris. “I should’ve danced with her.” “I don’t know if she’d like to dance with you. There she is.” Satan pointed at Hannah’s direction, walking inside a black, impressive suit. “Happy birthday, Morris.” # Ella Liberalis drew out her cellphone and put it near her record of Mississippi Alligator Morris. The phone emitted a small red ray, which moved in a circular motion on the record, and the song, Green Devil Blues, began playing. “That’s it?” Gimel asked. “That’s how you summon Satan? Just put on music? No Voodoo? No magic?” “When did you stop believing in humans, Gimel?” she asked, spitefully, “did it happen because of your job, or was it a job qualification?” “Actually, it happened in the fall of…” “I don’t care.” “Do you care about a giant alligator in the middle of your living room?” Satan was standing in the kitchen, boiling himself water and making himself a cup of black coffee. “What’s up, Ella?” he asked, dropping in one and a half teaspoons of sugar and stirring. She shot him three times. He lit a cigarette to go with his coffee and filled the room with smoke. “You’re supposed to be a cop, aren’t you?” Satan looked at Gimel. “Surely you’ve noticed that someone just tried to kill me.” “What can I say,” Gimel replied, not excited. “I’m curious to see if she gets out of it alive.” “Shut up, shut up!” Ella raged and kept shooting the devil until her gun went empty. She threw it aside and pulled out Gimel’s gun. “Jeez, Ella,” the devil smiled and drank coffee. She kept on shooting, much to the dismay of Gimel, whose ears ached from the noise, which went on for what seemed to him as forever. “Two guns? That’s it? I’m Satan; Alligator, the God, for crying out loud!” He came near her, put a hand on her shoulder, and said quietly: “What do you want?” Ella seemed terrified, looked at her blue whale pendant. “I haven’t seen this for ages,” Alligator said, grabbing the whale, studying it. “That’s. You’re not supposed to. It’s the mojo.” Ella tried. “So, I’m supposed to burn in hell because I touched a necklace?” Ella went silent. “Excuse me,” Gimel nosed in, politely. “Yes?” Satan asked courteously. “If you’re done here, I’d like to take this girl to custody.” “It can’t be!” Ella shouted, “this mojo protected everyone from you! Why? What? What is going on?” “Ah, Ella,” Satan tuttered with sympathy, “you’ve got it all backwards.” She looked at him silently. “I’m an omnipotent god, no mojo can stop me. The one driven away by this mojo was my good friend, Morris. He never came to terms with his death, with regret. I told him he needs to let go of this world and stay with me at Alligtoria, but he lost it, and ever since, he’s trying to contact anyone who tries to get close. But he can’t really control it. Sometimes he tries to tell people how he feels, what he wants, and how much he loves them, but all he manages to do is to burn them with green fire, or drown them in a sea of bourbon.” Gimel tensed. “And that’s just the story of his life. Mississippi Alligator Morris, leaving scorched earth everywhere, and can’t get close to anyone wearing the blue whale. Poetic, isn’t it?” There was silence. “Officer, take her away,” Satan laughed. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” He burned with green fire and was gone. # “You look good,” Morris said. “Me?” Hannah laughed. “Look at you, with your white suit. I’m dazzled.” “My suit’s white, but my heart is black, like charcoal.” “Always the poet.” “I’m sorry, Hannah.” Morris looked at her and imagined a sad melody. “That I ran. That…” “No.” Hannah stopped him. “We don’t have much time. Let’s not waste it.” “How do you know?” She gestured toward the giant alligator wearing black leather, standing on the far sidewalk and chain smoking. “I always knew,” she said. “You’re not mad at me?” “I was. For so many years. Maybe I still am. But look at us in these suits… we’re so…” she stopped for a moment, “alike.” “Alike?” “We’re both shitty parents.” Morris felt his heart dismantled. “What about Eddie?” “He’s four. He’s with my dad for now. I’ll get him here in a few months, I hope. The moment I have enough money.” Morris looked at her, waiting. “My mom passed away, about half a year ago. I never saw her since I left, but she managed to see Louis… He came back just before…” Those green eyes again of Morris, gentle, which could not be avoided. She couldn’t speak. “I think we…” Morris said and took her with his hand to a bench, facing the sea. “We hurt the ones we love the most.” “Or maybe, we hurt the ones that love us the most?” “Maybe. I read your new book. It’s my favorite so far.” Morris smiled. They sat hugged and watched a fishing boat sailing toward the sunset. “Really? Anything you liked in particular?” “B.L. Oaks’ death. I’m not gonna lie to you…” Morris spoke and felt his voice trembling. “I cried a little.” Hannah smiled and noticed that her eyes are also moist. “It means I’m good at what I do.” “The best, Hannah. The best.” # Gimel put the record on an old record player he’d got his hands on. Sounds of old, rusty blues filled the house. “That’s some fine blues,” he told Bessie, which sat on the couch near him. “I hear it,” Bessie replied. “Don’t you want to hear something else, so you won’t get tired of it?” Gimel held the record cover and looked at the picture of Morris Hopkins, also known as Mississippi Alligator, stared at the green eyes asking to pull him a hundred years back, and outside to the world of the dead, to Alligatoria. He put it aside. “I’ll never get tired of it.” |
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