Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones. Peoples I have created a life-style of an urban recluse. After decades of active participation with many...no, this will not be a biography, just an intro...I evolved (or devolved if you’re judging) into an existence of quiet ease. As Oscar Wilde said, “Simple pleasures are the last refuge of the complex,” I have a daily routine that’s like a warm blanket on a chilled dawn. In my morning robe retrieve---outside my door---the New York and L.A. Times, including the cross-word puzzles (Monday’s the easiest) and strong black coffee. Shower just a few degrees short of raising blisters. Dress casual with scuffed New Balance sneakers. Breakfast and shmoozing with my wife/partner/lover/best friend. Grab my camera and go for a long city-boy walk. Said camera has a 300mm lens so I can zoom in on human moments without imposing on the unaware subjects. Download some good shots on I-photo and share ‘em with friends. And then...yes, then to an assault of taming the beast a-k-a work on writing – sometimes it’s a novel, screenplay, stage play, or in this case a short story. Staring at the photos one afternoon I realized that despite the precision of catching a person in a moment of his/her life, I was comfortably detached as an observer, sans participation, my initial intent but now...now, what? I was reluctant to hear the answer as I was totally contented with my chosen solitude. Or over-protected I heard the inner voice uncomfortably urging me to reach past my comfort zones to—without the camera---connect with a specific person, be involved on some level with peoples whom I have intentionally created 300mm’s of distance. And so with a mini recorder I ventured into the world of peoples challenging me to relate one-on-one, with a specific person in parks, Starbucks, shopping malls, bars, bus stops and even the under-15-items line in the Market. I chose certain questions hoping to stimulate an exchange. The following are verbatim accounts with no editing. I am deliberately avoiding description, age, ethnicity, even gender, lest I fall into subjective editorializing. Just peoples and me. Hello, my name is Rick Edelstein and with your permission I am recording our conversation. Why? I am a writer and I realized that I need to connect with real people, not just my fictional characters. I promise to ensure that you will be anonymous and... Anonymous? It means that your identity will not be revealed. I know what anonymous means. Do not be talking down to me, arroganten zadnik. Apologies I just thought that... That I am less smart intelligent than you because I sitting am on a bench not wearing such good sneakers like you smoking a piece of a cigarette I picked out of the bokluk. With your permission I am recording our conversation. Is that shrug meaning yes? Shrug...strange word. Sounds Bulgarski but it isn’t. I am recording us, okay? Okay, yes, record. You do what you do and if I do not like to do with you at a such a point I will tell you to find another bench. Fair enough...why are you laughing? Not laughing. Just a grunt with a smile. Fair enough. What does that mean to you Americans. Enough of fair? And then to stop to be fair when you reach enough? You’re an interesting man. I am going to ask you questions and... You said you would be recording our conversation. You see! Even with not having a warm bed and shower for three days I listen, I hear. Conversation. You do not just ask questions or maybe I ask and we conversate. That’s a deal. So? Tell me about your life, positive, negative experiences, whatever. My life. Starting where? The middle. The first smart thing you have said since interrupting my time of solace. Good word, no? Even this mushenik pleasure takes wherever. What were we talking? Starting in the middle...which you thought of smart, yes? Of course the middle, we are always in the middle of our life even if it is the middle of the end. Too not specific fair enough? I can tell you things that would panic those buttons on your clean blue shirt. My buttons will take the chance. Tell me. First I must know that you I can trust. If you share something that you would rather not revealed I promise I will honor your request. I give you my word. Word. I should have your word, should I? You know why I am on this bench without a hot shower for six days? Peoples give me their word. Da ti go natshukam. No, you first tell me something naked. Naked? Yes, without buttons. Ah, you mean open, vulnerable. Vulnerable, yes, good word. Vul ner able. Be able to vulner, hah. Talk to trust me. Okay okay, let’s see, all right, inside of me is what I call la pantera. A mean, angry, black panther who wants to strike out at all those lying motherfuckers in our government and you can toss in my last agent, too. Good vulner...and does la pantera ever get loose and do what a mean angry hurtfulling black beautiful clawed creature do the damage that some have earned the right and wrongs to be broken and to be sent to the hell they created for us? Whew...that’s a heavy question. What is your name? Zhivko Dimov. And you are Rick Edelstein. You see I listen and hear. Most people hear but do not listen. Your turn Zhivko. Start anywhere, just about your life, which I know throws a wide net but we have to start somewhere...why are you smiling? He is does not wanting to tell me about when the panther had his claws bloodied on the ones of hurting does he? Do you have anything to eat? No, but if you wish we can walk over to the mall and... I do not wish. More? Do you believe in God? Gad. All powerful, all loving, all bullshit. Gad is a mean rotten terrible magician. Magician? He throws misery in our path wanting us to die but at the same time simul what’s the word? Simultaneously. He puts, places too deep to take out, implants a gene we cannot remove. And that gene is? The will to survive in the face of the most indecent mean-spirited foul coarse dis...no I do not believe. I curse your Gad. Something else. All right. How about your life...something, anything specific, whatever comes to mind? I am in a rage at...nothing else coming to mind. How about a person, someone you are or have been close to? Why ask that? Just wanting to know more about you, Zhivko. Petka. Ah, okay, Petka. Is that a name...of a person with whom... Petka Todorova is a person with whom...yes, my Petka. What happened? Is she still alive? Your wife, girlfriend, your... I...for me to go to the vulner place is not...will you give me enough for a hot meal in the market? Will twenty dollars do it? You want change? No. Petka? She always insisted, demanded in her sweet gentle strong voice Zhivko we have a hot meal to keep the body...ugh, Petka...all right, I will tell you. In Sofia, we were both drunk from Rakeyia laughing so hard tears coming down until a stupid dog runs in front of the car Petka screams, kuche! She loved every animal and I did not hit kuche but I did hit the tree. I hate fucking dogs. You know Leonard Cohen? Yes, a great poet, song writer. He is dead. So is Petka. I’m sorry, Zhivko. What do you expect me to do with sorry? Nothing I...just...why did you mention Leonard Cohen? When I think of Petka which I try to not but you opened the eye of the rotting needle...Leonard Cohen...I’m leaving the table I’m out of the game I don’t know the people in your picture frame if I ever loved you oh no it’s a crying shame if I ever loved you. Terrible good song. I am finished Mr. Rick, you will have to find another bench. Mind if I sit here? It’s a free world. Free world. What bubbameinses. Nothing in this world is free, every choice costs, no free lunches even here they’re beginning to charge more for a lox and bagel than is justified but what’s a woman to do when not even the air you breathe in China outside is a terminal disease already. Six letter word beginning with c ending with g. Empathy. Caring. Of course! What is that what are you doing? It’s a recorder. With your permission I want to record our conversation. Are you from the government? My God, I told Stanley don’t mess with the taxes but you’d think he’d listen. The deductions are debatable if you’re kind but... No, I’m not from the IRS. I’m a writer and I need to have conversations with real people not just those created out of my imagination. Hmmm...you’re not lying. I can tell by a person’s mouth. Peoples’ lips, particularly the bottom one gets puffed up a smidgeon when they try to conceal. So writer, do you make a living by what you write? Sometimes, yes. Sometimes he says. What does that mean? Do you really truly, I am watching your mouth now, earn enough money as a writer? We pay the mortgage on our house every month, own two cars, food in the fridge, no outstanding debts that we can’t meet. How’s that? We he said. You’re married. Children? What does your wife do? No children. Yet. My wife is a dentist. Get out of here with a dentist. Who has a dentist for a wife? Is she good, give me a discount maybe because I need some work on a bridge that is coming too loose lately. She’s the best. I’ll tell her to give you a break. A dentist for a wife, whoda’ thought. How did you meet her and do not tell me when she said open wide? Close. She was recommended. I went to have my teeth examined. She was and still is very beautiful. In the chair I noticed she was wearing red, I think you call them pumps, shoes with a small heel, shiny red. A woman dentist with red shoes. You should write about this. Did you tell her you liked her shoes? As a matter of fact yes. What did she say? You have two cavities, come back next week and we’ll clean it up. That was it? She also said you comb your hair straight back. You would look better with a part. Uch, I see you have a part in your hair, your dentist-lady knew what she was talking. You do look better. But you haven’t seen it straight back. You think you have to see everything to know something? What happened with your dentist? Next week I came back with parted hair and now we’re married. Shoen, fartig, just like that. A man gets his teeth fixed by a woman dentist with shiny red shoes parts his hair and they pay the mortgage with two cars yet. So, do I have your permission to record this and use it in a short story if it works out that way? Do you make any kind of money on short stories? Not really. But you said you own a home, two cars... Major income from two screenplays never produced but options renewed every year so...what is your name and do you agree to this recording? Okay yes, every day except when it rains I come here, have a nosh a cuppa’ tea, people-watch, a favorite past time of Frieda Schwartzman. You see that man over there leaning towards the young woman? The one with the hat on? Hat. You call that a hat? It’s a cap put on backwards and an earring yet. He’s too white for such michigas. And it’s also a little bit dirty. I detest shmutz. He’s not her boyfriend but wants to be. How do you know that? Uch you men are so transparent. Look at him leaning into her, nodding, smiling too much...but she hasn’t made her mind up about him look at her with an earring in her nose yet and maybe showing more cleavage than necessary but he better look up, is that a tattoo just sneaking out over her boobie? Uch...people...I love them and can’t stand them. You have a name? Rick Edelstein. You’re Jewish. Yes. Which synagogue? The one I went to, past tense because the Rabbi got so full of himself he forgot about God. I don’t go to synagogue. Don’t tell me that. Even the high holidays, Yom Kippur? No. A shonda for the neighbors. Are you sure you’re Jewish? Yes. Circumcised by a moile? So my mother said. Your wife, it’s all right with her not to go to synagogue or do you at least have a Seder come Pasach? My wife is not Jewish. Guttenyu, there it is. There what is? We were the lost tribe and now we are losing our tribe even more. Marrying a shiksa, nothing against your dentist wife. She loves you, for real? Yes. How do you know? How much does your dentist love you? Like every other breath, she said after we made love one night. Your generation likes to give details about private nights, I’ll never get used to it. But still, every other breath is good even for a goniff like you who doesn’t attend. What will you tell your children? We’ll tell them to treat people kindly and if they ever want to go to a synagogue or even a church... A church a Jewish man says. A church!? Oy gut. Or nothing. My child will make a choice on his own. Or maybe her own which perhaps she may want to indulge in her Jewish heritage possibly you think? If that’s her choice, it’s okay with us. So Frieda, tell me about your life. What’s to tell? Life is terrible, wonderful most particularly if you have grand children, stupid if you listen to the politicians, and if you have a good husband as Stanley is a good man with occasional f’drait moments but here I am talking to a Jewish stranger who denies his heritage. There, that’s my life, bubbeleh, enough? Not nearly...we’re just getting started, Frieda. So start, wait. Four letters, inlet. Cove. Excellent. Finished. I see you have another crossword book. Why two? I never want to be without especially when I finish one book if I’m sitting here with nothing to do with my mind, then what? Stanley calls it mental gymnastics. After all a woman needs to exercise her intellectual abilities wouldn’t you say, boychik? Men, too. You mentioned going to synagogue... And you not going which maybe perhaps by the end of our whatever you call this unless I can convince you to go at least Yom Kippur or don’t you have something to atone? I’m working on it. Tell me, Frieda, about your relationship with God. Look at him mister writer he doesn’t fool around, going straight to the kishkas. What made you ask that? Synagogue...is it a cultural expression or a deeper connect with the deity. Deity smeity God is God. What else? Your relationship with... A person does not have a relationship with...all right with my sister-in-law Ruchel, bless her pipick which no doubt is full of lint, I have a relationship, not necessarily a good one but we tolerate each other for Stanley’s sake but with God, that’s not a relationship like mishpucha, no, God is irregardless and I know that isn’t the correct word but it is when I say it, irregardless of the fact that I am sometimes disappointed with God, just the same still God is and no matter where I think He fails I mean did you see that little boy immigrant with all the shmutz on his face and dazed eyes my God how could somebody ignore a child like that? Are you sure you’re not from the government and if you are you should be ashamed of yourself the way you, uch, I’m going to stop right now because my inners are beginning to roil around and then what happens to the angry air is not a preference so ask me another question before...oh look, look, she is laughing, that is a tatoo on her right breast which is bouncing is she not wearing a bra? Ahhh, they melted into each other in public yet, look the man is sitting up straighter now, smiling, glancing at her tatoo and they both know that he knows that he got her. Good work, shmendrick. Tell me, Frieda, what is your greatest pleasure? What a question. Pleasure...naches...when my grand-daughter runs to me with her skinny arms open wide screaming, bubba. Uch...only a woman can know such...uhmmmm hmmm...yes, enough mister writer? Your greatest fear? In the middle of the day with people all around you ask such a question. If you’d rather not... I’d rather not but it’s too late because you already put it in there. My greatest fear...oy, too many. Stanley goes before me, deflect, which would make me crazy and very angry with that inconsiderate putz for doing such a thing. But if you look at my lower lip you would see that I am avoiding, is that the word or evading, in my crosswords it’s good to know both? Never mind, my greatest fear is if something happens to Shelley, she’s only four but what a four. Cut my arm off right now to stopping anything happen to that...you should hear her, “Read me the story again, bubba.” Ten, twenty times, she never gets tired of it. Me, I would read the magic giraffe and the turtle a thousand, a million times just to keep my Shelley safe. Amen. Amen from the man who does not believe. I didn’t say I didn’t believe, I just don’t go to synagogue. So tell me Mister Jewish writer, what do you believe? Not so much a God as in a bearded figure in heaven but I do believe in Spiritual forces, in a Supreme intelligence but without morality. Without morality? What does that mean? A Supreme sort of detached force, not good or bad, just is. If you don’t know good from bad what good are you? I have my values, my good and bad but I can’t believe that a Supreme being does. I mean look at the world, Frieda. We made the world. We f’drait human beings made this facockedah world. God is just waiting. Waiting for what? You know that play, Samuel Becket...Samuel is a Jewish name. You think he was Jewish? Waiting for Godot. Exactly. He put on the o and t but it is waiting for God to come, speaking of which Stanley will be getting up from his nap in twenty-two minutes and I must be there for him because he wakes up cranky. He insists that you’re there when he awakens, does he? No, shmendrick, I insist. Your dentist-shiksa-wife who loves you like her next breath she will understand better than you masculine cockers. Have a good day, and come the high holidays I expect you to attend but first give me the number of your shiksa dentist wife. Can we talk a while? I’m a writer and I need to have conversations with real people not just those created out of my imagination so with your permission I will record... You know about Rhodesian Ridgebacks? I believe they’re hunting dogs. They jump on the back of lions and rip their throats out. I am recording this with the intention of using what you say in my writing but I must have your permission. She was like a worn armchair with the stuffing sticking out in the hidden back my mother didn’t like me all that much but her husband my father was a mean son of a bitch so maybe it just rubbed off because I was a male child wouldn’t you say? Permission to use your words or not? In order to win you cannot must not be afraid to fail which at this juncture in my life I am in the failing phase but... If you do not agree to this recording and grant me permission to use if I ever get it published I will end this... Permission permission okay okay granted use any and everything any way you want but... What is your name? My name? My name is Leo Ridgeback. Like the dog. In search of a lion’s throat is my mission yes but then again on this planet of dumbosity one must embrace the ambiguity of the search knowing that the answer is the search for the answer the unexamined life is not worth living who said that? Ancient Greek, maybe Socrates I think. Who wants to examine a life of the American dream morphed into a nightmare of genocidal proportions exterminating native Americans who the delusional liberals misname because there was no America when they were natives. Native Americans! Sentimental banality burrowing under a blanket of assumed indignation without earning a righteous scar. Is Leo Ridgeback your real name? Yes as real as names can be. People grow up to fulfill their names did you ever see an Irwin who was a warrior no Irwin’s hiding in virtual jungles with no vines as Leo Ridgeback squints his eyes for the blemished beings ensnarling our planet putting a timer for the end of the world as we know it tick fluking tock maybe a year or three while Armageddon gestures a smothering embrace for those unseeing in their affixed sleep masks made out of American currency thinking they are protected in their lair of means hiding in the American ethos as the top gets heavy with greediluscious whipcreamedriches and the rest of us short breathing stagnant circular eddies of deficit paying the rent for a cough drop as peoples looking for what they do not know is an undefined unrefined unkind loss. Loss. Loss of reason out of season grieve for believe why are you so angry she asked a man’s supposed to be angry if he’s got any balls but if you wish I can upshift into rage. Can you give a brother some help? What do you have in mind, Leo? My doctor’s prescription is not renewable for three weeks and six days or maybe six weeks and three days but it makes me no never-mind if you can help a brother out because I conjecture that you as a writer must go to the edge and thus needs surcease from the pressure in the form of a tranquilizer or pain killer or some reds vics or oxy or brown sugar don’t be telling me you writers do not need some form of alleviation some kind of escape relief from the circular grasp of illusive truth which is a frightening choke from the get go. I can’t help you in that area, no. Come on, brother, a touch of Zoloft , valium, or that shit which sounds like Flamenco dances, Cymbalta, yeah, that’s it. Help a brother out. Not my scene. I come up empty in that area. True fucking blue? Yes. What do you do, what do you use to escape the dark nasties that are glued to our misbalancing act called life? I write about it. Does that relieve you of the darks? Not always but it helps. You’re making a lot of noise without saying shit. Tell me, Leo, about some experiences in your life, good, bad, threatening, challenging. You know about the Dalit? Dalit? No, what is the Dalit? Writers are supposed to be on top of what’s happening below, where have you been undiscovering? I relate to the Dalit. India’s untouchables. Their mere touch would render the shrine unclean. This Dalit dude got too close and they thrashed the 70-year-old farmer leaving him wasted wiped out and then some. Every country has their niggers. You feel, even in America, as an untouchable? Never forget those who wrong you. Can you be more specific? They thought they pinned me, made me the victim. But no, I was victimized but never a victim. In fact I took a brackish pleasure in payback to their errant ways. Hah! I was eating a grilled cheese sandwich burned to a crisp watching their living demise it’s called schadenfreude. Victim this! How about details, specifics of the events that... Check the internet. Compton, Long Beach, East L.A. Pomona. How about names, what actually happened, the event that... Internet. Yes, I know but I need something more specific to... Internet’s dangerous. Addictive. Narcotic. Psychotic. In China there are more than 6,000 internet addicts. Teenagers treated with electroshock therapy. More than 24 million Chinese are digital addicts and you want more specifics. Awaken, writer. Use your mental faculties and create specifics just like all those other lying bastard cocksuckers who vomit their molten spines when faced with a meal of truth. Mendacity must be made out of powerlust but truth ain’t. Truth just is no matter what biz curtains they drop on your cowardly eyes. You sure you don’t have even suboxone, a pill, red, white, green, beige...beige is a good color for anything that dulls the edge, Come on, man, help a brother out. I’m not holding. Can’t help you. Then what the fuck good are you. Consider me a fiction of your faction. I’m out! Do you mind if I join you? Yes, I do. I’m waiting for someone. When he comes I promise to leave. You just assume my date is a he...men! I apologize for my sexist assumption. I just want to have a conversation that... What is that? Why is the red light blinking? With your permission I’d like to interview you and record our conversation. Why? I’m a writer and after creating characters from my imagination I got that it’s time to talk to real people. So with your permission I want to record our... And then rewrite it to make me look bad and you look like the smartest man in the vicinity. No, not really. If you agree, as four already have, the deal is not to edit or rewrite. Print exactly, verbatim, your words and no editorializing from me. In fact I will not describe what you look like, wearing, even the name of this location. And then sell it to the New Yorker or Atlantic? From your mouth to God’s ears. Most likely just get it published online, no money in it but... If there is no financial compensation than why do it? Because...that’s what I do and this is my latest project. You don’t look like a starving writer. I’m not. The bills are paid. My income is not from short stories. Do I have your permission? Okay, go for it, but the minute...no the second my date comes, you are history, agreed? Agreed. Okay, go. How does this work? Well, it’s sort of non-linear. Whatever comes to mind. Yours or mine? I see you’re ... or rather were reading some article before I interrupted. Interesting? Oh this...get this...a team of Yale researchers used light to control the brains of mice turning these normally docile rodents into stone-cold killers. It’s called manipulating neurons. What waste. Why do you say that? Who needs neurons when you got a Marine. We train Marines to do just that...kill. The purpose of war is to kill the other guy. And America is quite good at it. We are war-junkies. World War one, two, Korean War, Viet Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan...addicts o-d’d on neurons. This is becoming a downer which I definitely do not want to go there so Mister whatever your name is... Rick Edelstein. Tell me about your family. Said he trying to lighten the load and failing miserably. As a kid I was a slow learner which is not an acceptable trait for a Greek father so they sent me to a live-in school when I was nine and learned the joys of sex with girls before I even knew I had a pussy. Your mother? Greek Daddy makes all the decisions. Mother. I never even saw her smile. What interests you? This will surprise you, writer. Basketball. Professional and college and even some high schools. I love the sport. Black kids, thank you very much, are wiping out the Caucasian persuasion. If it was up to me white kids should get extra points when they score...just to even the odds. More? Are you into the political scene and the commotion over fake news. I thought writers were wiser. Why do you say that? Fake news! You’re either ignorant or naïve. People no longer read newspapers, they check the internet or the TV which is more show biz than news, come on, writer, it’s all fake news. Fox delivers the same story as MSNBC but each of ‘em pushes their slant a-k-a fake news. This is beginning to be fun. More, Mister Writer. Okay...under what conditions would you commit a crime? Depends. On what? What kind of crime are you talking about? Stealing something from Wal-Mart’s? I already did that. Shades, wore ‘em out with the tag on and everything on a dare. Not busted. Make this more interesting, turn up the heat. Okay, fired up. Would you ever kill anyone? Yes. Under what conditions? If my life was in danger or someone I loved or even a stranger doing harm to a child. I would definitely kill a fucking child molester in a New York minute. Getting to be a downer. Change the frame. What’s your greatest pleasure? Ahhh, he hit the button. Sex. With a woman, a man... A woman with a great tongue, gentle hands, imagination even role play, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a dildo as a side-arm. More. Ah the man’s getting prurient horny, wants details. It’s like this mister man, I don’t know how it is for you dudes, but during the act, and don’t rush it baby, I disafuckingpear, leave all the hassles of planet earth and transmogrify onto another plane that bypasses my ceaseless mind-chatter and envelops me in a velvet cloud of shmush...and I try and try not to come which all sexperts think is the goal is actually the end-game as the orgasm clock runs out and brings me back to this oft-fucked planet. Whew...I went off on that one, didn’t I. Change the line. What kind of work do you do? I don’t want to give my i.d. away so let’s just say it’s a combination of smarts and physical stuff...and, well, I’m part of a crew of six, five men who taught me the joys of profanity said this one woman. Let’s leave it at that. Switch gears. What’s your favorite animal? Talk about a switch! Elephants number one. Wise, beautiful, the female is the leader, they protect their young, peaceful and when necessary, warriors. You asked me if I was capable of killing anyone...well, yes, those motherfuckers who bounty hunt for ivory...they kill these beautiful beings and chop off their tusks, sell ‘em to Asians who carve up the ivory into little elephants. I’d chalk it up to irony if that wasn’t so horrific. Do you believe in heaven, hell, reincarnation? I’ve experienced them all, yes. Specifics, please. I’ve had moments of love that were heaven sent, yes, and abandonment which I will not specify but hellacious infuckingdeed, yes. Incarnation? It used to be a fad, incarnation. Like an obese woman who told me she was Cleopatra in a previous life and now with all this weight she is paying off karma as she nibbles on her third Twinkie. Do you have a recall of any incarnations? Yes. Tell me. I was a tall, skinny, black, I mean purple black dark skinned singer wearing a long faded print dress with part of the hem showing in a time I can’t define but I was poorer than poor so I turned tricks to pay the rent. In another I was a ten year old boy who ran into the street for a ball some fifteen year old took from me and threw it away. A car hit me and I died. The only other one I recall is a powerful male animal honcho leader of a primal gang in Denmark, maybe a century ago, a warrior who took offense easily and wrecked revenge havoc. I like that dude. Close the door on them. New Q, writer. Okay, let’s get current. What do you think of climate change? Thinking time over. Climate has already changed. Door slammed. Too bloody late. Ice caps melting the size of Delaware, we’re just a few decades away from losing major coastal cities to the ocean swell, planetary disasters, millions dying due to lack ofs, you name it, crops, unpolluted water, clean air, edible food, tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, earthquakes. We’ve been on a suicide mission that looks to be successful. Talk about irony. So what are our choices? Choices are so yesterday. We blew it. You think the future for planet earth is that bleak? Planet earth will be fine. It adjusts. It’ll grow cactus with plastic bags hanging from the spiny arms. It’s the humans that are on the edge of extinction. That’s pretty devastating. Oxymoron. Pretty. Devastating. It is what it is and...Ooops, consider yourself absent, Mister Writer ‘cause here comes my only reason to pleasin’, ain’t she pretty! Be gone! I walked in the open air market with my recorder on...weaving in and out of many people...and here are some snippets in passing. Him? Please. He’s like a leaking fire hydrant. Ponyatiya Russian for a shady deal. I feel like I disappoint their expectations. I think we’re on pause. Nothing dies even these thoughts are riding on the tail of ... Dystopia leads to utopia. I’m running out of initials, LGBT whatevers. It’s like she has dust in her mouth. I like him but his stomach is always making noises. Love is love, you know what I’m saying? And so...I’ll call an end to this experimental project. Love is love, you know what I’m saying. - -
0 Comments
Geoffrey Craig’s fiction, poetry and drama have appeared in numerous literary journals, including the New Plains Review, Calliope, Foliate Oak, Spring – the Journal of the E.E. Cummings Society, The MacGuffin, The Louisville Review, River Poets Journal and Scarlet Leaf Review. He has received two Pushcart Prize nominations. In January 2016, Prolific Press published his novel, Scudder’s Gorge. Previously, Wilderness House Literary Review had serialized both his verse novel, The Brave Maiden, and his novella, Snow. Four of his full-length plays (one co-authored) and ten of his one-acts have been produced. He has directed productions of eight of his plays. Geoffrey has a BA (Colgate), an MBA (Harvard) and an MA in history (Santa Clara). He served in the Peace Corps in Peru and had a successful career in banking before turning to writing. Brandon Forsythe
I suppose, for a black man growing up in the United States of Racism, you’d consider me lucky; and I was for a time. Momma – by working her ass off as a medical assistant in an office where she was smarter than the doctors – managed to scrape together enough to move me and my two sisters to the suburbs. Not quite the suburbs but sort of a halfway point between the inner city and the real - meaning white – suburbs. That Paradise started across Woodrow Wilson Parkway. We lived in Laurel Gardens, which were no gardens but rather row houses crowded together on forlorn streets dotted with potholes. At the end of our street, a scruffy park with scraggly trees climbed a low, steep hill. A solitary jungle gym sat on the crest. As kids, Momma took us there in nice weather but warned us never to go on our own. In summer, with heat radiating off the cracked sidewalks, the park provided some relief. When I got to the age where Momma couldn’t boss me around, I hung out there with my friends. In winter, you could kill yourself climbing the icy paths so we didn’t go. Winter storms were something else in Laurel Gardens. The plows piled the snow so high cars and driveways were blocked in tight as a drum. Some of the cars didn’t get dug out for days. Before long, the fresh snow got so encrusted with soot I’d have sworn the stuff came down black. I’m dreaming of a black Christmas sort of thing. One time – just one time - I walked over the bridge that arched high above the Parkway. It was like going to another country. The pavements were smooth as glass and, lo and behold, no cracks in the sidewalks. I sauntered along leafy streets with evenly-spaced houses that got bigger by the block. You could’ve played football in those yards. If you threw a football in my back yard, you’d have to run into the neighbor’s yard to catch it, which always got Mr. Jenkins yelling at us to keep off his flower beds. If Mr. Jenkins ever crossed the Parkway, he’d know from flower beds. I saw houses with huge porches and slender, white columns. Any moment, I expected some dude in jodhpurs to come riding up to the front door and holler: “Hey boy, come take my horse.” “Ya sir, I be coming right away.” Gigantic houses of stucco and beams looked like someone had jacked ‘em up and carted ‘em over from England. Now I knew what the word “mansion” meant. I liked the brick ones best. The fathers playing catch with their kids and the mothers sipping iced tea on the porches pretended not to look at me as I strolled past. We have the right to go where we want these days; but I could feel their eyes boring into my back so I headed home, wishing I had the nerve to mutter loud enough to give them a real scare. I bet no brothers and sisters shared bedrooms in those palaces. Until junior high, Stephanie, Carrie and I slept in the same room – fortunately with two beds. Then I moved into the basement. I slept in a bed set amidst boxes of junk that no one had opened for years. I had to climb two flights of stairs to use the bathroom, but at least I no longer had to tell my sisters to turn around when I got dressed. All of us shared the one bathroom so there was often a line with tons of pounding on the door. “How long does it take to do whatever it is you’re doing in there?” No reply. “Are you almost done?” I would say a little louder. “Quit your hollering.” “I got to go,” I would say a lot louder. “Pipe down. The neighbors’ll hear.” If it got bad enough and it was early enough, I would water Mr. Jenkins’ flowers. He never caught me, and the flowers didn’t seem to mind. Momma said our house might be cramped but it was paradise compared to the rotten-smelling apartment back on Jefferson Avenue. Why anyone would name a street in the city’s largest black neighborhood for a slave-owner beats hell out of me. The stairwell in our five-floor walk-up reeked of piss, garbage and fried chicken. We couldn’t tell which was worse. Sounds of love-making pierced the paper-thin walls. When, at an early age, I asked what it was, she turned up the TV. Drug dealers hung out on the corner, and rival gangs fought over turf. Momma didn’t allow us to go out on our own. There was no Father; he had flown the coop right after Carrie was born. He must’ve figured there was no end to Momma’s fertility. He was wrong. Momma allowed no man near her after that; and as far as I know, she still doesn’t. The last straw for Momma was stepping over a dead body on the second floor landing. At least, she assumed he was dead. She called 911, but he was still there an hour later. I was eleven when we moved to Laurel Gardens. Momma said it was a huge step up. Cleaner and safer and schools where you actually learned something. Momma was a nut on education. If we wanted to move up in the world, we’d better keep our noses in books and not in funny business. Pay attention in class. Don’t back talk. Keep away from bad company. How many times I heard that I cannot tell you. But I got to credit Momma, much as she turned against me later. She practically doubled her commute, moving us to Laurel Gardens. And God knows what it took out of her pay check. Oh, and drugs. She spit out the word, infusing it with all the venom of which she was capable. I can repeat the lecture in my sleep. To this day. Drugs were not sold openly in Laurel Gardens, but they were there. A stall in the school john. A corner of the playground. A bench in the park. I refused to have anything to do with them. I had bought into Mother’s philosophy. I intended to make something of myself. Sex was altogether another matter. As a fourteenth birthday present, Ladona Haynes let me put a finger in. For Christmas that year, she let me put something else in. We stayed together for a year. This was during my lucky time ‘cause she didn’t get pregnant despite the fact I was too stupid to use condoms. In high school, I had a number of girl friends. Those were very good times. Not that I was a sex fiend, mind you. Come senior year, I didn’t have anyone special so I took Ladona to the prom. She gave me one hell of a graduation present. Then I was off to community college where my luck still held ‘cause I met Heather, a drop-dead-gorgeous white piece of ass with wavy blond hair, green eyes, trim breasts and a butt that, swaddled in jeans, set your mind on fire. Heather only dated black guys, which got her ejected from the family mansion. She shared a house with four other girls – three black and one white. She had her own bedroom – a good thing since I didn’t. Heather pretended to take courses at the college and worked behind the candy counter at a movie theater. Now while she liked her men black, she was no black-dude groupie; when she was into a guy, she was into him. No fooling around. To be clear on one point, she didn’t think we had bigger dicks or put them to better use. She simply liked the picture of black on white. Heather was pure dynamite. When she exploded, duck your head. I loved every minute of it. But I don’t believe we’re better in bed than white dudes. It’s an individual sort of thing. I’ll bet there are black guys who are total duds in the sack. When I mentioned that to Heather, she said: “I haven’t met any.” She had a great sense of humor, that Heather. Always had me laughing. Mostly at silly, little things, which is what made it great. We could settle this question once and for all, she told me. A door-to-door survey on the other side of the Parkway, starting at her house. “Excuse me, ma’am: I’m doing a research project for the Institute of Biracial Relationships. Just a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. One: do you sleep with black guys? Two: if so, are they better in bed than white guys? In what way? Please be specific.” I hated to break up with Heather, but I didn’t see a choice. She started making wedding noises; and if I was to get married, it would have to be to someone whose ambitions extended beyond a movie-house candy counter and making love every day but Sunday. I wanted a wife who would pull her own weight, and that wasn’t our Heather. But in the bedroom, she was in a class of her own. After community college, I landed a job in the produce department of a grocery store. Part of a big chain, they had promised that if I did well, I’d go to a training program at headquarters after a couple of years. Then I’d get promoted to department head and ultimately assistant store manager and maybe store manager. Lady Luck was doing her thing. I worked hard and kept out of trouble although there was enough around. I liked the work, and my boss – who was an Irishman with freckles and red hair – treated me fine. I lived at home and took a bus to work. On fine summer days, I took long walks after work. Stephanie and Carrie were still at school, and I helped Momma with the rent. It made us both proud. That training program was just around the corner. I was basically content with life except that I didn’t have anybody special. It was three years since Heather, I was going on twenty-three, I had rampaging testosterone and no one to benefit from it. Sure, there’d been women here and there but nothing steady; and let me tell you, diddling yourself ain’t the same. So I asked Lady Luck to take a hand, figuratively speaking; and she did: Monique of the velvety, black skin and the thick mound of pubic hair that I loved to run my fingers through. A friend introduced us, and I fell hard. Ba-doom! Not only was Monique a beauty, she had ambition. Music to my ears. She had finished her degree and started training as a legal assistant. She even talked about law school. Her parents were crazy about me and hoped we would get married. Then we slipped up. Monique got pregnant. I figured her folks – not to mention Momma – would strangle me; but they all got together and started planning the wedding. The three of them talked about nothing but their grandson. “A girl don’t count?” sniffed Monique. “Does for me,” I said. Monique’s father worked construction and said he and his buddies would build us an addition on the back of their house. The thought of my own bathroom sent shivers up and down my spine. Monique’s mother said she would adjust her hours at the department store to take care of the baby while Monique and I were at work. You’d think this was the first baby ever to get itself born. But they wouldn’t hear no objections from yours truly. Monique and I planned to start work on number two as soon as number one was properly settled. Really give her mother something to do. I walked around with a big smile on my face, thinking up names. But then events overtook us. Out of the blue, my cousin, Jorell, called. I hadn’t seen him in years. He wanted me to come into the city so we could hang out. That’s all he said: “hang out”. I didn’t tell Momma, figuring she wouldn’t be pleased. She had put that world behind her. I had no clue if Jorell had a job; not many young black men did in the inner city. The following Friday, my first day off, I caught a bus late in the morning. We had agreed to meet at the Sam’s Fried Chicken at the corner of Twenty-Ninth and Jefferson. I don’t remember everything, that’s how fast things went down. This is what I do remember. It was a scorching, humid summer day and I had on a lime-green tee shirt and khaki pants. The heat rose without relief from the sidewalk and hung between the jammed-in apartment buildings. Sweat began rolling from my armpits and down my sides before I had walked two blocks. I wished I had stayed at home where at least I could sit in front of the big floor fan and read or watch TV. People were walking along the sidewalk, but slowly. Young men and women sat on stoops, talking and smoking. Not a white face in sight. Without warning, two cop cars screeched to a halt midway along a block; and four cops – three white and one black – erupted from the cars and barked at some of the young men to assume the position. I stopped dead in my tracks. Of course, I’d heard about this – what black person hadn’t – but I’d never seen it. I stared transfixed. Something told me to move, to get the hell outta’ there, but I couldn’t. “What the fuck are you looking at?” the black cop snarled at me. “Get over here.” Next thing I knew, my hands were on top of a police car, my legs forced apart and his black hands searching all over me. In a matter of seconds, he pulls a plastic bag from my back pocket that I never put there. He was a pro ‘cause I noticed nothing until he held up the bag. Practice makes perfect. I doubt I was the first brother he’d framed. Lady Luck had just flown the coop. Not that I didn’t think I would get off – if I could get the right person to believe me. Naïve jerk. “Got one,” the black mother shouted, waving the bag. “That’s not mine,” I cried out. I tried to turn around, but the cop pushed me back against the car. “Then whose is it? he snarled. “I don’t know.” “It was in your pocket.” “I didn’t put it there.” “Fell out of the fucking sky, huh? Just happened to land in your fucking pocket?” Another cop came over. “What’s the uproar, Officer Sanford?” “Kid’s mouthing off.” “What’s your problem, kid?” “He put that bag in my pocket.” “Are you accusing Officer Sanford of planting evidence? That would be a serious matter.” “I only know it’s not mine.” “You read this little shit his rights?” the white cop asked. “I would if he’d ever shut up.” The white cop smacked the back of my knee with his night stick. “Shut up, kid.” I screamed in pain. The black cop cuffed me, read me my rights and, lowering my head, guided me into the patrol car. After cramming two more guys into the back seat, he and a white cop got in; and the car slid into the flow of traffic. The driver turned on the siren. Black Beauty turned in the passenger seat and said through the grate: “Want to make sure you boys get to your destination on time.” “You know I didn’t do anything,” I said. The other two guys looked at me like I was from Planet Stupid. “Do you know who you’re fucking dealing with?” one of them asked. “Give it a fucking rest.” “You don’t call this something.” Black Beauty held up the plastic bag. “Someone’s going to believe me.” “Is this asshole for real?” “I don’t know, but he ain’t from around here.” “Hey you dumb, little prick,” said Black Beauty. “Why don’t you tell the Assistant DA it fell out of the sky.” Black Beauty roared with laughter. “He’ll certainly take your word over mine.” ********** Momma couldn’t afford a lawyer although Jorell told her he knew one with experience in these cases and that he could get her a good price. Momma told him she appreciated his concern but no thank you. Truth of the matter is she didn’t believe the cop had planted the crack on me. A white cop, maybe, but no black cop would do that to a brother. Besides, she had heard he was a good cop who was active in the community. He even lived in the neighborhood, not like the white ones who wouldn’t set foot there after hours. This guy gave nice little pep talks in the schools, telling the kids they could be anything they wanted by working hard, behaving right and staying away from drugs and sex. What a fucking hypocrite. He got to be what he wanted by fucking over guys who worked hard and behaved right. Momma told me how disappointed she was and while she didn’t want me to go to prison and probably wouldn’t for a first-time offense, she hoped I had learned my lesson and would give up drugs. “Have you heard one thing I’ve been telling you, Momma? I don’t do drugs. Never have. The guy planted that stuff on me. I’m innocent.” “Don’t you lie to me, boy. After everything I’ve done to raise you up proper, this is the thanks I get. It’s like I don’t know you.” She paused for breath. “I’ll bet it was that white whore got you into this. I should’ve put a stop to that nonsense Day One. This is what comes from not sticking to your own kind.” “Momma, I haven’t seen Heather in three years.” “No matter. That’s how it got started; and once the drugs get their hooks into you, they don’t let go so easy. Just when you were gonna’ get promoted and married. What are Monique and her parents going to say? You think they want their daughter married to a drug dealer? Why did I struggle all these years so we could live in Laurel Gardens? So you could do like those punks on Jefferson?” Her own son and she didn’t believe a word I’d said. Then she started in on Jorell and what a credit he must be to his family. “A shame I hadn’t seen Jorell in all these years,” she said. “Seems to have turned out a proper young man - well-spoken and well-dressed although I’m not clear where he works. He said something about sales.” Jorell dealt drugs. How else would he’ve known a lawyer with experience in these cases? After her second visit, I didn’t see Momma again until I got out of prison two years later. And Monique? Wrote one letter when I was in prison to say she had met a fellow she was marrying and who would adopt my son as his own. Felt so lucky we had never married. If I tried to see her or the kid or anyone in her family after I got out, she’d put the cops on me for harassment. Must’ve gotten some advice from the pricks in that fancy law firm. I was on my own with nothing between me and a bunch of years in the joint except Ms. Lily-white Public Defender, who looked not much older than me. Her hair was cropped short, was poorly combed and needed a wash. She wore a boxy gray suit that had last seen an iron in the factory. We sat across a table in a depressing room in which Lysol fought against body odor – and lost. Ms. PD was on the winning side. Her overflowing brief case stood on the floor beside her chair, and she had a stack of files on the table. She picked up one and glanced through it. After a few preliminaries, like a couple of questions about my job and personal life, she dug in like a steam shovel. “This is your first offense…” “What offense? I’m innocent. I don’t do drugs.” I don’t know if I was more angry or frightened at that point, but I was determined to be heard. “I’m sorry. First arrest. I was going to say that if you cooperate with the prosecution, I might be able to get you off with two to three years’ probation. No jail time, but you’ll have a record.” “Why should I cooperate? That asshole cop…” “Let’s keep a lid on the language. Neither anger nor obscenities will help your case.” “There is no case. That … officer … planted the shit … the stuff … on me.” “Have you got any evidence to that effect?” “What kind of evidence would I have?” “Do you know of anybody who might’ve seen him do it? Someone willing to testify?” “Nobody. I was on my way to meet my cousin.” “But you hadn’t met up with him yet?” “Nope.” “Could he … or she…” “He.” “…testify as to where you’d been before meeting up?” “Not really.” “As to your character? That you’re not involved in drugs?” “I doubt it.” “Why?” “Just take my word for it.” “Anyone else that can testify to your character besides your immediate family?” “My girl friend. We’re going to get married.” “Too close. Anyone else?” “My boss, but I think he’s pretty pissed. I called him and explained what happened. He hoped I could prove my innocence but that he’d have to replace me if I weren’t back in a few days.” She heaved a sigh and looked at the file some more. She was stalling. I could smell it. “This officer … Sanford … has a mean reputation.” “In other words, he out mother-fucks the mother-fuckers.” “What did I say about language? You need to put aside your anger and stay focused.” “Right.” “We’d need some kind of proof that he planted the drugs. He’s mean, but he’s never been accused of falsifying evidence. He’s also known to be active in the community so lots of folks think he’s simply tough on those who deserve it. If it’s your word against his, you’ll lose. So how about that cooperation?” My stomach had fallen about as far as a stomach can go. “I don’t want to cop a plea,” I said in a chastened voice. “I’m innocent.” “I believe you, based on what I’ve learned: community college, good job, engaged to be married. On the other hand, kids like you get caught with drugs. Some even deal. The Prosecution will charge possession with intent to sell. There was enough in the bag, and they’ll find a way to throw in some extra charges to be on the safe side. If we go to trial, you could be looking at five to ten. Prosecution and judge will be pissed off. Figure we’re wasting their valuable time. And like I said, with what we got now, it’ll be your word against Officer Sanford’s. How would you calculate those odds?” I was wrong. My stomach could fall further. “I don’t want a record, and I don’t want to go to jail. I’m supposed to get married in a few months.” “Nothing I can do about the record. Jail’s another matter. Depends on their mood. Your background will help. So will first-time offense. I’m sure you’ll get a reduced sentence. What’s it going to be? I’m looking at a stack of cases.” Even without a prior record, the fucking Assistant DA wanted me to do time. Part of the department’s get tough on crime campaign. Two years in the state penitentiary over in Rockingdale. No parole either. The bastard said I should be grateful. ***** Rockingdale was the most shit awful place in the world. I smelled the fear the instant I got off the bus. Didn’t know how I would survive; but the second day, a huge guy with biceps bigger than my thighs said he’d protect me so long as I did what he wanted. Otherwise, lots of other guys would do what they wanted. He didn’t have to ask twice although I was disgusted by what I knew he wanted. It took a while; but I got used to it, and there were times when maybe it was okay. I mean it wasn’t totally a one-way street. He also kept his word. The gangs gave me a wide berth, and the guards didn’t fuck with me. Nobody stole my food. Nobody spat in it. My only fear was that he would tire of me or get paroled. Fat chance: doing ten for armed robbery. So I made it – without being terrified twenty-four-seven. He hugged me when I left and told me to stay clean and move up in the world. “You got brains. Use ‘em.” They gave me twenty dollars and a bus ticket back to the city. Looking out the window at rolling hills, woods, fields with grazing cows, and red barns, I wondered if I was now gay. I mean what else had I been for the past two years? Other than that, I wasn’t worried about the future. I would find a job easily enough. I hadn’t forgotten what I knew about the grocery business. Even though I hadn’t heard from Momma, It didn’t occur to me that I might not have a place to spend the night. Momma said I couldn’t stay with her. Stephanie and her husband had the second bedroom, and Carrie had the basement. Husband … what husband? “How about the couch?” “You didn’t write me a single letter.” “I was waiting to send you a thank-you note for coming to see me.” “Some of us got to make a living the honest way. Don’t have time to travel halfway across the state.” “Four fucking hours.” “I see prison has improved your mouth.” I grabbed the beat-up suitcase she had filled with clothes and stormed out the door. The homeless shelter had two big rooms: one for men and the other for women. Three rows of cots stood like soldiers on parade. No one messed with me or my stuff. I said I’d been in the joint for assault and battery. The prison food was better, but I was starved so I wolfed down the mystery meat smothered in grease-flecked gravy, the mashed potatoes and the wax beans. Next morning, I showered, put on my best clothes and left my suitcase with the attendant. He said I could pick it up in the evening as the shelter was closed during the day. I prayed he’d heard assault and battery and wouldn’t touch my things. The produce manager at my old store was young and black as night. “Where’s Mr. Corcoran?” I asked. “Left about a year ago,” she said. “Different company. Better job.” “I was hoping to get my old job back. I’ve been away for a couple of years.” “Doing what?” Her tone and the look she gave me said it all, but I asked for an application anyway. She got one from the manager’s office. She went through some order sheets while I sat in front of her desk, a clipboard on my knee. I put down Momma’s address and telephone number, hoping she would at least take a message. I glanced up when I came to the box about ever having committed a felony. She wasn’t paying attention to me. I checked yes, signed the damn thing and handed it to her. She read through it like lightning. “We’ll be in touch if anything opens up. Thanks for stopping by.” She paused as if trying to think of something else to say. “Take care.” My cheeks were as red as a black man’s can be. Over the next few weeks, I went to grocery stores, department stores, restaurants and delicatessens. Some places had advertised in the Help Wanted Section; others I stopped by just in case. I always got that knowing look when they glanced through the application. At a sandwich shop that had advertised for a counter person, I stopped when I got to the felony box. I looked up. The manager was watching. He smiled – trying to be nice or polite or some damn thing – and said: “Might as well be honest. We can find out.” I checked the yes box and left without a word. I stopped by Momma’s every day. Told her I was job hunting and using her number. She said okay, but there were never any messages. I returned to a few places, especially groceries and delis; but they all said I lacked the right qualifications. Bullshit. I knew produce backwards and forwards. And what does it take to make a fucking sandwich? One guy was decent enough to tell me: “You might as well forget it. No one’s hiring felons. Not with all this unemployment. Not now, probably not ever.” So I went to see Jorell. He had moved from his folks’, but I had no trouble finding him. He was well-known. He hired me on the spot and said I could move in with him until I built a clientele and found a place of my own. For a couple of days, I just followed him around. He said I was his new man, learning the ropes, and that I could be trusted. Never mentioned that we were cousins. One glorious September morning, he gave me some bags of crack and told me to have at it. The sun glistened on the sidewalk; the breeze was invigorating; and I was on top of the world. Jorell told me not to worry about cops. He had protection. Just mention his name. He also had a fine lawyer, if the occasion arose. Neither would any street toughs hassle me. Everyone knew where Jorell’s turf began and where it ended. I finished by midday, with enough money in my pocket to treat Jorell to a fine dinner. So now I’m a lucky black man again. I got a steady income and a decent, if small, apartment. Sure I might go back to prison – if an honest cop crosses my path or if Jorell’s lawyer is not as hot as Jorell claims - but the odds are with me, and what else can I do? So much for life in the United States of Racism. Oh, and I haven’t been to see Momma although I sent her some money. She didn’t return it. One other thing. Ran into Heather recently. I had forgotten how beautiful she was – and how good in the sack – and I’ve decided I have enough ambition for both of us. She’s moved in with me. We’re looking for a bigger place and talking about having a baby. I’ll be a hell of a father. William Brower is the author of 32 books and also a Titanic historian in the South Florida area who has devoted the past 37 years researching the great ship. His fantasy series Chronicles of the Dragons Bane have been recognized by the city of Coral Springs Florida for its contribution to literature. Road Tripping The heat of the desert sun was boiling by noon as Samuel Jenkins continued walking beside the road searching for movement on the horizon, “I can’t believe the idiots fell for it!” he said boasting to a passing coyote. His temporary uniform was clinging to his body an hour later as he fought his chapped lips in a losing battle of dehydration until as the world around him began to fade he stumbled onto the path of an oncoming truck painted olive drab green with the words “Damnatorum Delivery Services” highlighted in a crimson shade along the sides. “Mr. Jenkins I’m glad to see you coming back to your senses again.” The voice called from amidst the cool fresh air teasing the sunburn that blistered across his body. Sage burning from a small lamp hanging from the mirror obstructed the man’s savior except for a dark silhouette. “Who are you? How do you know my name?” Samuel asked with distrust as he searched the cramped compartment searching for the sidearm he had stolen along with the uniform only a few hours earlier. The figure chuckled lighting a cigar obscuring the cabin further as the acrid smoke made Samuel cough with the onset of an asthma attack. “Mr. Jenkins I’ve followed your feats ever since the police brought you in for the trial, I have to ask though just out of curiosity what was it like looking into the eyes of your victims as you pulled the trigger that night?” “Why does it matter to you? I could easily just blow your brains out now regardless! Now give me your name!” Sam yelled sarcastically reaching around the seats searching for the gun. “Karen Mr. Jenkins. My name is Karen and the gun you seek has fallen between the seat cushion beside you next to the door panel, just reach down and you should find it.” “Karen! Either you are an ugly woman or your parents were smoking crack when they knocked heads to make you!” “It’s an old family name Mr. Jenkins but sadly that’s something that you don’t have a concept of to begin with since the neighbors buried yours after your indictment.” Samuel tested the door a moment cursing to him as he found it locked, pushing on the window button he forced his anger back while the burning in his lungs took higher precedence. The road was still moving between the walls of smoke as he blindly reached for the grip. “You know who I am and what I’m capable of Karen so stop pissing me off and give me answers! Damn it you have five seconds before I put a bullet in you!” The truck slowed suddenly to a calm drift while the horizon darkened to twilight, nocturnal life emerged from their various dens sending a shrill cacophony of cries around the cab as the smoke inside thinned to reveal a large man in his mid fifties staring blankly with deep set eyes. “You’re holding the gun too low Mr. Jenkins, striking me at that angle would only go through me like a glancing blow and run the risk of ricochet. I’m willing to bequeath your request though; I live my life delivering goods around the states. It’s the same thing day after day nonstop…I have no other life but this. Now are you satisfied Mr. Jenkins? Karen asked lighting another cigar and placing the match back into the burner filling the cabin again. Among the shadows Karen raised his hand and looked down before picking up speed on the truck as he ignored the clicking of the safety release beside him. “Ok Karen how about you tell me exactly where we are going next?” Samuel asked repositioning the gun once more. The man silently reached beneath his legs and moved the double seat forward another inch until his giant knees touched the base of the console, “you had the perfect chance Mr. Jenkins why did you hesitate?” “Call it your moment of reprisal but you are only granted one so use it wisely and tell me where you are taking me.” A beam of light shattered the night farther down the road and began to grow in strength with each passing second. Karen pulled the seat to the maximum and gripped the wheel tightly. “I hate when I’m late on delivering.” He dropped his visor revealing the driver’s license now visible in the intense light. “Charon?” Samuel asked stunned as the truck vanished in a blinding surge of energy that hid his shrieks. The guard wheeled Samuel Jenkins’s body past the warden shaking his head confused, “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone hallucinate from the gas!” Mike Lee is a writer, labor journalist, editor and photographer based in New York City. Fiction is published in The Avenue, The Ampersand Review, The Solidago Journal, West Trade Review, Paraphilia and Visions Libres. Photo: Donna Rich Purgatory Beach ONE I was stunned by the speed at which I arrived. I stretched without relaxation and rose to my feet. Yellow sand caked my soles as I stepped hesitantly, my legs rubbery. I nearly fell on my third step, but caught my balance just in time. In a flash, I thought I saw Enthyie running toward me. DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! With a gasp, I turned in the direction of the sound. I looked upon an endless stretch of sand dunes, immense in their vacancy, rising steeply to an empty blue-purple sky. On my left was a sea languidly lapping against the shore. With a growing sadness, I walked slowly up the sand. It became finer with each step I took, and soon I had to crawl on my stomach. I hoped I was not alone, but I became resigned to the possibility. I never should have tried to body surf in a low tide during a full moon—and in front of my child, too. I was so stupid. I had this calm realization that yes, I can die, so after several attempts at swimming against the vicious undertow, I raised my hand for the lifeguards. I believe they saw me, but they must have failed to reach me in time. In the moments hanging above Oblivion, between Life and Death, it was all explained to me. Because I was a lapsed Catholic raised on the Baltimore Catechism, I dialed into Christian Heaven—or so I first thought. My vast array of venial sins kept me from angel wings and an electric lyre. I had been told multitudes of stories concerning Heaven, Hell, even Limbo, but hardly Purgatory. My impression had been the place was little more than a dirty waiting room where we marked time before gaining entrance into Heaven, while the prayers of our loved ones down on Earth gave succor. As I crawled to the summit of the dune, a hand grasped me firmly by the shoulder. I expected him. My voice was lilting, like I had been traipsing down a grassy mountainside with an attractive girl. “Oh hello, Saint Lawrence.” Saint Lawrence was my patron saint. My mother named me after her favorite church. The building itself was beautiful, a stunning piece of neo-Byzantine basilica architecture out of place in downtown Asheville, North Carolina. The roof was the largest freestanding brick in existence; I was always afraid one would come down on me. When I was little, my grandmother told me Saint Lawrence was the patron saint of comedians. I learned later he also was of cooks. This likely helped during my long years toiling in restaurants. Twelve years as a waiter, and I never dropped a plate. My Saint Lawrence arrived dressed in a blue and white plaid sport coat with black Farah slacks. His expressionless but ruddy face, marked by an eagle nose and steel-rimmed tinted glasses, completed a look that distressed me greatly. He looked like a tile salesman circa 1979. “Come here, my boy,” he said gently, his rasping voice clear and distinct. “Let me take you to where you need to go.” As his grip tightened around my shoulder, I began to sense my half-buried body levitating to perhaps an inch above the ground. Saint Lawrence then half-carried, half-walked me to the top of the sand dune. When we got there, I had expected more wasteland, but instead there lay before us a narrow strip of two-lane blacktop surrounded on either side by tufts of high grass. Bits of quartz glistened diamond-like under the sunless sky in the closely packed sand. The road was a straightaway, reminding me of the old highway between Odessa, Texas and El Paso. It tapered off until almost the horizon, where it curved at a ninety-degree angle. As my eyes followed the direction of the highway, I spotted several buildings rising alongside it. My heart jumped into my throat. I squinted. At the horizon, I saw what I thought to be the skyline of a small city. “There, you see. There are others. Plenty of others.” My companion obviously knew what I was thinking, but from the weary tone of his voice, I got a sinking feeling that there was a catch. “Yes there are others,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “And you are now among them.” “What am I supposed to do?” “I am surprised,” he mused, scratching his chin. “Usually the first question we get is, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ I think you have achieved the amazing feat of starting off on the right foot. I am most impressed.” Saint Lawrence reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a set of keys. He tossed them at my feet. “Then go. Just go.” With that, my patron saint turned to leave. Silky and translucent wings sprouted from his back. He raised his arms as if signaling a touchdown. I ran to him. “Hey, what am I supposed to do?” He was already several feet off the ground, out of my reach. “What is it I have to do here?” Saint Lawrence shrugged. “You already know. Just ask the driver for directions when the bus comes to pick you up. Then think about it!” He gave out a hearty laugh, flapped his wings once, and spiraled upwards into the sky. I turned toward the road and began walking. I saw the bus stand soon enough. I was alone, now. TWO Instead of Ellis Island or Kennedy Terminal A, Purgatory Beach's arrival gate was nothing more than a tin-roofed shed beside the two-lane blacktop. The city was a collection of shabby early to mid-20th century architecture with handfuls of Napoleon Revivalist scattered about for spice, stretching out for miles along a coastline, a turgid sea on one side and an endless desert on the other. Purgatory Beach was a conventionally middle American mid-century city, in the unpretentious inelegance of its inhabitants and the charms it offered. I discovered upon arrival that I was seventeen again. That was a good year for me. I guess that was the point. All the souls were young, but there were no children or older people. We were ageless. I grew comforted by the familiarity of my new home. I rather liked the atmosphere. At the very least, I could count on the afterlife to be a safe harbor of sorts. Perhaps there embedded was my punishment. I “lived” in one half of the top floor of a whitewashed five-story wood frame pseudo-Victorian building, which was in better condition indoors than out. My apartment consisted of a living room, a separate full kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom large enough for a writing desk that I rarely used for its intended purpose. It remained somewhat clean thanks to an unseen maid service that came in when I was out. While the hardwood parquet floor was swept, I saw dust clouds gathering in the corners. The best parts of my quarters were the archaic brass fixtures. I always made a point to polish the bathroom and kitchen spigots. They gleamed when the light hit, a kaleidoscope of colors reflected off the walls. In the afterlife, cheap magic continued to amaze. I once read a smarmy New Yorker cartoon which explained that in the afterlife, we get back the possessions we lost. When I entered my apartment for the first time, I half-expected I'd get the Wire album I loaned to an ex-friend in 1980. I got that, and more—from the mechanical musical koala bear I received for my first Christmas, to the silver bangle my wife gave me for our second wedding anniversary that I lost on a MetroNorth train several months before my unfortunate demise. I stored most of these items in a box at the bottom of the walk-in closet in my bedroom. Total lack of joy regarding sentiment: another punishment. I did listen to the Wire album. French Film Blurred was my favorite song. From conversations with my fellow denizens, I learned early on that Purgatory Beach was only one of numerous sites in which we dead resided. I concluded that this one was where the people who constantly say “life sucks” washed up. The intended punishment was an indeterminate amount of time accepting the mediocre. We passed that time dwelling on rumors in the street, in the cafes, in our bedrooms. Thriving on half-truths and wishful thinking was part of the concept of Hope, which is the driving force that replaces Logic once we have left the Living. The hope was, simply, that one day we would leave. Some of us did move on to that better place. Lately, however, fewer and fewer had left. The story around town was few of those among the living cared enough to pray for our redemption. Many attempted to purge themselves of their sins by living as sorrowful hermits; these guilt-wracked souls invariably wandered off into the desert wastelands outside of town. I thought they were ridiculous, as did others, but we kept these musings to ourselves. One never knew who would be tuning in. My suffering seemed distant. I once thought all mysteries would get explained after death; instead, I became more confused and more concerned for my soul. Perhaps my indifference was predestined. If that were the case, Free Will did not exist, and there shouldn't have been any reason for me to be in Purgatory. I spent the majority of my time alone. Mornings, I stayed in my rooms, reading mostly fictional fare checked out from the local library. As I had expected, being a failed writer of sorts myself, the stacks were filled to capacity with the unfinished, never started, or lost works of souls who were or remained here. Some of my reading was quite good, though most deserved oblivion. There were only so many Proust and Kerouac rehashes I could take in one eternity. Much of the rest was moody detective-type stuff. I spent my afternoons and evenings driving a dark green 1952 Buick I found parked in front of the house of a soul recently passed upwards, my explorations never-ending. There was a lot to see, and I had time to look around. Beach Avenue was the quintessential downtown drag, stretching for miles along the shore. On both sides were a variety of images straight out of post-war America: gaudy neon signs advertised jazz and swing clubs and red brick bar lounges in various states of repair. Plate glass and aluminum burger joints with booths colored nail polish red or HoJo green beckoned the hungry for grease with fries on the side, attended by souls humbling themselves by living the lives of fry cooks and waitresses. I swore I saw Frank Sinatra jerking sodas once, but I didn't ask. Scattered amid the debris of this hepcat heaven were a number of art deco movie theaters, always showing triple features of movies never made on Earth. I sat in the air-conditioned nightmare of the Rialto to watch Joan of Arc with Katherine Hepburn. I got up in the middle. What made Purgatory Beach so tolerable was the routine existence of the inhabitants who didn't flee into the desert. They did what they could to maintain a stable situation. Folks who grew up during the Depression and World War II, former Florida retirees with a second chance at their respective salad days, predominated. Sprinkled about were a number of 50s drag racing greasers and individuals like me, apparently dropped out of their time—perhaps for amusement. Alongside the shore was a strip of seedy-looking dance halls and carnival attractions. I found it pleasantly quaint, and dived into it with the passion of a country bumpkin. It was valuable to be the smart guy swimming in a sea filled with guilty innocents. For once, I wasn't the gullible one. I couldn't figure out why I ended up here. I was not particularly nostalgic for swing music or the interminably fatiguing stories about war and economic depressions. There were only so many tales of woe I could take, and after a few weeks I withdrew from most contact. I had made several attempts at picking up “skirts” with varying degrees of success. The problem with these women was that all of them seemed to wind up with the men they married—or close. It also wasn't helpful that I knew so much more than they did. In their naiveté, they confused my “post-modern” sophistication with abject perverted sleaziness. One night, I pulled over to hang out at the arcades. The mechanical wonders buzzed, flashed, and spun magically. To me, they were the most real things in this metaphysical place. The machines were there to be grasped and manipulated, the effulgent metal warm to the touch. However, despite my experience with the archaic five-digit pinball machines when alive, my efforts with these ancient contraptions came to naught. I kept trying until I became unusually frustrated and left. I felt claustrophobic, and for the first time since it happened, I had that trapped rat feeling from when I drowned. When I got my bearings, I realized I had gone quite a distance. The row of arcades was far behind me, and directly ahead were the lights of the permanent carnival built on stilts above the beach. My gaze focused on the Ferris wheel, its flashing yellow and green bulbs burning brightly in counterpoint against the measureless emptiness of the starless night sky. I could not avoid being mesmerized by its enervated movement. As I watched the turning wheel, my mind teemed with a belated awareness. A life treading water. In death doing the same. Rolling, turning, sliding-- THREE I woke the following morning ready to vomit, but by the time I reached the bathroom sink, I felt well enough for my obligatory face washing. Cool water penetrated my pores, shocking me. I felt an urge to cry, but gave it up. It knew it wouldn’t do anything but give me a headache. The rain came down hard. I could smell it—like steel burned with a blowtorch. The clouds thundered a staccato verbiage. It rained early and often in Purgatory, though by the middle of the morning it would pass into clear light. I stared into my reflection. My features had attained the consistency of cookie dough. I resembled a wax bust just beginning to melt under the glare of television studio klieg lights. As I probed my flesh with my fingers, I thought of a quote from Lenin about mush and bayonets. I couldn't remember what I did after finding the Ferris wheel. I showered, standing under the cascading hot water until I realized I had let the plug fall in and had backed the water almost to the brim. I shut off the spigots and unplugged the drain. The day moved slowly, much more so than usual. I had attempted to keep track of the time since my death in a spiral notebook on top of the desk in my bedroom. Before turning in at night, I would write down the facts of the day. Upon opening, I discovered that I had neglected to fill in dates for some time and, judging by the nature and detail of some of the recent entries, I had also skipped several days. I felt as if I had been transported into a Trans-Antarctic wasteland. I sat ensnared in an immobilizing grip, unable to do anything but stare ahead with opened eyes at a depthless nothing. For a while, I thought this was it, the moment I was waiting for. I was getting out of this wretched place. My mind reeled. Fragments of voices soared and twisted like confetti around me. Sitting at the right hand of the Father—Through Him, in Him, with Him—I hate you—get out of my—hallowed be thy name—I don't think you understand-- DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Next thing I knew, I was on the floor in fetal position, crying uncontrollably. “I want to get out of here! I want to see my daughter!” I didn't need Him to tell me the answer. I understood it would be an emphatic no. I cried for her anyway. He had a lot to say. I only wished He had at the very beginning—that way I wouldn't have built up all that false hope. Maybe He was only trying to do a poor soul a favor. Yeah, sure. The advantages of being dead were incalculable. One could eat here, and we did, as well as perform all other human functions, like going to the bathroom, sleeping to dream, getting drunk, catching a cold, achieving an orgasm, and weeping—but one did not need to. We could hold down a job if we wanted to, paint a picture, hang a fishing line off a pier, drive a car, smoke a cigarette, dance like a maniac, or do absolutely nothing at all for as long as we wanted. That's what I did—nothing. I stayed inside for many days, spending most of the time lying in bed like a slug after a March rain. I thought about leaving for the desert, but never got motivated enough to put on my shorts. One morning when it didn't rain, I spotted a manila envelope lying halfway under my front door. I returned to my bedroom. I didn't want to deal with surprises. After a day, I went over to the envelope and picked it up. I opened it and pulled out the contents. Upon viewing the photographs, I decided without hesitation that I needed to get out of my apartment. My suits, neatly pressed, hung in my closet. I chose a dark green Italian styled two-button suit, a white Oxford collar shirt, and a green and gold striped tie. My car remained parked on the corner, a bit spotted from rain, but a little polish solved that. An advantage to Purgatory Beach was that there were no cops. After stopping off for a haircut, I drove to the peninsula. It was a typically bright day. I rolled down the window, taking in the cool breeze blowing in from the sea. I wondered where the wind originated, but was reminded again of miracles. I hit the lonely stretch of highway leading to where I had first arrived. Dotting the sandy landscape were a few rude structures and tattered tents held together with little else than one's faith. Here had lived some of the radically humble souls who had gone over the edge. They looked abandoned. Further down, I saw a wild-eyed creature in rags walking along the road. I pulled up and called out to him. “Where is everybody?” He turned to me and said, barely audible, “Gone. All gone.” He then quickened his gait, shambling over the dune and out of sight. I needn't have bothered asking, but I wanted to hear confirmation that these children of God were leaving. The wind kicked up as I restarted the engine. I rolled up the window to keep the sand from blowing in. “Jubilee is coming,” I murmured. “Too damn soon.” FOUR I spent the remainder of the day at the shore, sitting behind the wheel of my Buick and dwelling on the absurdity of my existence. The surf was harsh. It reminded me of that day at Rockaway Beach with my wife, and my daughter. I had a life then, admittedly a not very good one and without much hope, but that existence had belonged to me, and I wanted it back. I might as well have wished for a golden chariot and a team of unicorns. I sat waiting for the night. I wanted to meet her, the woman who left me the note and the photographs. I opened the envelope again. She had sent a set of eight black and white glossy pictures of me in various candid poses. In one, I was banging an upright pinball machine that had drained all five chances. A poignant one showed me leaning over a jukebox, holding a barrel glass of Irish whisky in my hand, staring sad-eyed at the selections. Another had me sitting at a table outside the front door of a café, looking pensively up at the night sky, as if expecting a comet to come streaking by above. The most disturbing were the pair from when I arrived. One was at the bus stand, the other the bench where I sat waiting patiently for the bus. It looked as though she had been photographing from across the street. I remembered no one being there. I knew who she was before I read the letter. I put the car into gear and got back on the road. I watched as a gust of wind blew over several of the abandoned tents dotting the dunes. On the horizon, the shadows began shrouding the city, the assembling darkness beckoning me. Mysteries swirled through my mind. I tried to decide which question to ask first when I met her. It was perplexing to me that she had spent so long following me around before letting me know she was here. At that bitter thought, I nearly went home, but I sped on anyway. I reached Beach Avenue as the heavy curtain of darkness fell across the empty sky. The lights brought artificial solace. I mused on what the dead did to brighten their nights in the pre-Edison afterlives. They probably screamed in madness. I turned on the radio. Something called the Cab Driver’s Lament was on, playing blues and old be-bop hits. After a superlative Cab Calloway cover of “Flat-Foot Floogie on the Floy-Floy,” the smooth talking DJ spoke of driving down the loneliest mile. I pulled into a gravel lot situated in front of the widest expanse of beach, a mile below the main arcade. It was a different spot than my usual. I felt like breaking a habit. One had to in eternity. I walked with the panache of a sleepwalker, shuffling quietly, oblivious to the masses surrounding me. Their faces had long melded into one. The red and green neon lights on the sign hanging above the door said it all: THE BIG SANDY NOTHING. Upon entering, I nearly tripped over a potted fern set too close to the cigarette machine. Like all new taverns, it was three deep at the bar. I pushed my way through, wondering if I would find her. I spotted a dent in the crowd near the wait station and, stepping forward, I felt a set of fingers wrap around the lapel of my jacket. I looked to see who did the pulling. “Hey there, honey,” Irene purred. “What's shaking?” “Oh God, you're really here,” I gasped. She laughed, throwing her brown hair aside. “Good answer. Have a seat.” Irene was almost eighteen again—the time we first met. She had the classic Oklahoma Scots-Cherokee look, circa 1979. Her dark brown hair fell about her shoulders, framing her freckled face, the high cheekbones, the narrow nose, and the green eyes to kill for. Irene was always the most glamorous and charismatic woman I ever met. Dead, she was even better. That scared me. I sat on the empty stool beside her. Irene nudged me, pushing a beer in front of my hands. “Drink up,” she snickered. “Cheers, honey.” I caressed the cool glass before putting it to my lips. Part of me wanted to embrace my first girlfriend, while the other desired to flee out the door. Irene sighed, twisting the swizzle stick between her fingers. “I was hoping for something melodramatic. You always were one to disappoint.” “Sorry.” Years later, she still had to get her digs in. Irene picked up her glass and rattled the half-melted cubes. Absentmindedly, she parted her lips, took the swizzle stick between her teeth, and slid it from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue. Using the tip of her tongue, Irene lifted one end of the stick so that the other end rested against her nose. Closing her mouth, she bent the plastic, and blew hard. The swizzle stick flipped away, landing in the glass. It stood straight up for a brief moment, then dropped to one side. I grinned. “Nice trick.” “I had a lot of practice. I'm still learning to twist the thing into a pretzel in my mouth, though.” “I’ve only heard of that, never saw anyone pull it off.” Irene tipped her head, shaking her bangs from her eyes. “Says a lot about the company you keep, Lawrence.” “I'm not so sure, considering what you're wearing.” Automatically, Irene got up from the barstool and dropped her hands to adjust the hem of her skirt. She sat back down, blushing. “I was only kidding, Irene. You look fine.” Irene replied, flustered, “You’re making me self-conscious.” "Gee, I didn't know I had that effect.” "You do—or did.” "Thanks, I guess.” Irene Rogers had cast a long shadow on my existence. First loves do that. For years, she haunted me. Now we had a chance to spook each other. Irene's life was a seemingly endless series of stumbles. Like me, she complained to her diary instead of doing anything about it. She shared my general detachment from the mundane aspects of life and ambivalence about leaving good impressions on strangers. Both of us were wanderers in our own minds, which meant we avoided admitting what would be obvious to others. It was no small miracle we survived our teens. Irene looked hard for scapegoats for her inner discontent and lack of follow through, and I certainly fit the bill. I was the morosely dark kind of guy women spent years of therapy recovering from. The last I heard anything about her, in the spring before I died, a mutual friend told me of his amazement at the depth of her bitterness. “So,” I wanted to get her answers quickly. “What brought you here?” “I wrecked my truck outside Kingsland, on the way to visit my sister.” “How's Anne doing?” Her kid sister was also a knockout. “I don't know. I didn't get to find out.” She was the same old Irene. My head dropped to my chest. “Sorry, I'm no good at this.” I was fading fast. I should have stayed at home. “I heard you. But stop mumbling.” I spoke up. “How did you find me? I mean, I didn't even know you’d croaked.” “I don't know. Luck, I suppose.” She paused, then let out her breath slowly. I used to allow Irene few opportunities to speak—that alone was enough to get her in a rage back then. Only later did I become a good listener. “When I got here, I was totally out of sorts. Even with my sweet guardian angel trying to guide me through this mess, I was so horrified at the prospect of a near-eternity in this place, I ran off into the desert at the first opportunity. I wandered around the dunes in rags, raving like a moron, praying for my misbegotten soul. One afternoon, I spot you at the bus stand, hanging around with a thumb up your ass, and it snaps me back into reality. I decided to return to the city and eke out a more favorable existence. For that, I thank you.” “Then how did you get my picture?” “I had found a camera in an empty tent. Taking pictures was something to do—to pass the time when I wasn't feeling sorry for myself. Then I see you looking hopeless and I have to say, well, I was inspired.” “Gee, thanks.” She continued, “After I settled down, I went looking for you. It was easy—all I had to do was hang out at the arcade. Sure enough, one night you appeared.” “And so—here I am.” I spread my hands over the bar, stretching my fingers toward hers. “There you are.” Her fingers brushed against mine, and she smiled. I tried to phrase my next statement right, without putting her on the spot, but I just blurted it out anyway. “You had to see me.” Her answer was straight. “Yeah Lawrence, I did. I shouldn't be alone anymore.” FIVE After we left the bar, we walked arm in arm down the boardwalk. “Yeah Irene, I was at the end of my rope. I was very unhappy. I felt my life was at a dead-end. It got so bad, I began to fear for my child's future. I had to stay, you see, but I realized that I would have to go eventually.” I paused and sighed. Irene shook her head sadly. “You took unnecessary, stupid risks. While you may not have consciously intended to kill yourself, death was obviously somewhere in the back of your mind.” “It wasn’t as if I tried to die, it's that I didn’t try very hard to live.” “Same difference. I drew more inward after my parents died, and as I grew older I got careless.” “What, you tried to kill yourself?” I didn't think Irene was the type. “I thought about it a lot.” She said no more on the subject, letting the words fly as the seagulls rose from the shore beside us. “I have another question,” she added. “What did the animals do to get here?” I shrugged. “Theology isn’t my forte.” “Then I can't ask you about your recent visit to Him.” That stopped me in my tracks. “I know all about it. I was there, too.” I leaned against the railing, resting on my elbow. “I had suspected everyone got the call. Obviously, nobody wants to talk about it.” “Yeah, it's too touchy a subject.” “No one likes knowing their soul is in peril of oblivion.” He had grabbed us to announce the Good News, that God had enough of playing around and intended to shut everything down—with no explanation. Why he bothered to grant us fair warning was mystifying. I had a feeling He was giving us one last roll of the dice to make our individual souls worthy of surviving His Judgment. I doubted God would be so flippant regarding his innumerable creations. There was no assurance that the lot of us in our corner on the shore would be moving on to the right hand of the Father. The certainty was that God planned on tying up the loose ends soon. I hoped that included my wife and daughter, but God didn't hand out concessions or promises. Anyhow, Irene complicated things. Her arrival at this juncture had me leaning into metaphysical territory I knew nothing about. I feared the potential ramifications. It became evident that, Oblivion or Heaven, Irene and I were twinned. When we were teenagers in love, we used to talk about that. Eyes downcast, Irene asked, “Do you think it’s tonight?” I pushed off the railing and put my arm around her. “Oh, it could be tonight, next week, next month, or next year—whatever, as much as I hate to be reminded, time is always relative around here. This will happen when it happens.” “That's not reassuring.” “I'm not God.” We stopped at a photo booth for a picture; the photograph came out perfectly. It reminded me of one taken of a teenage couple standing in the driveway of a mobile home in 1979. It must have rained, because everything was so green, the grass was practically sparkling. The girl wore a vintage purple suit with a pleated skirt falling slightly below her knees. The boy wore a pair of black baggy pants, black oxfords, and a wrinkled white T-shirt. They were holding hands, clutching tightly, as if a tornado might suddenly touch down and sweep them apart forever. They were leaning slightly forward, looking at the camera with an intensity peculiar for their age. Both were smiling and thinking Heaven was just around the corner. Our heels clicked on the wood at our feet, the sound reverberating above the general din. Irene wanted to stop in front of the carnival where I had my nervous attack the night before the Visitation. I stared at the Ferris wheel turning slowly above, jutting against the infinite darkness. “Such is my fate,” I murmured. “I'm drawn to it too,” Irene replied, moving closer to me. I stared at the colored lights, marveling that such a shoddy contraption could work. The rusted, creaking metal, flaking paint, and broken and fading lights were the true center of this land of the dead. Embedded into the molecules of the bolts groaning under the weight of the slowly turning wheel were billions of middling triumphs and spectacular failures. Through the wire mesh fence, I reached out and touched the cool surface of the rusted metal. I pulled back my fingertips, turning them over to see the flakes of blue paint and rust. I remembered finding my first lucky penny and popping my first wheelie on my bicycle. I turned, facing Irene's gleaming eyes. They were the brightest ever in my memory. She leaned over and kissed me. Her warm, wet mouth enveloped me; I began to remember the feeling of slowly being pulled underwater. I wanted this to never end. Irene rested her face against my shoulder. I caressed her hair, running my fingers through her brown locks. I suddenly remembered her perfume. I had bought her a bottle with my last paycheck from the Texaco gas station I worked during my senior year in high school. The bottle broke before I gave it to her. Then it struck me. I reached down and pulled out a box from my jacket pocket. We bought our tickets at the gate and waited patiently for our car. The rest of the riders were a motley collection of humans as disparate as they were desperate. Neither of us engaged them in conversation. As the gate shut beside us, Irene spoke, her voice filled with a wonder she probably hadn't felt in ages. “Once you’re on one of these things, you could ride forever.” “Tonight, I think so,” I told her. As we rose above Purgatory Beach, we held hands, my grip tightening on hers while I looked down. The lights below us began to go out, one by one. ONE I was stunned by the speed at which I arrived. I stretched without relaxation and rose to my feet. Yellow sand caked my soles as I stepped hesitantly, my legs rubbery. I nearly fell on my third step, but caught my balance just in time. In a flash, I thought I saw Enthyie running toward me. DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! With a gasp, I turned in the direction of the sound. I looked upon an endless stretch of sand dunes, immense in their vacancy, rising steeply to an empty blue-purple sky. On my left was a sea languidly lapping against the shore. With a growing sadness, I walked slowly up the sand. It became finer with each step I took, and soon I had to crawl on my stomach. I hoped I was not alone, but I became resigned to the possibility. I never should have tried to body surf in a low tide during a full moon—and in front of my child, too. I was so stupid. I had this calm realization that yes, I can die, so after several attempts at swimming against the vicious undertow, I raised my hand for the lifeguards. I believe they saw me, but they must have failed to reach me in time. In the moments hanging above Oblivion, between Life and Death, it was all explained to me. Because I was a lapsed Catholic raised on the Baltimore Catechism, I dialed into Christian Heaven—or so I first thought. My vast array of venial sins kept me from angel wings and an electric lyre. I had been told multitudes of stories concerning Heaven, Hell, even Limbo, but hardly Purgatory. My impression had been the place was little more than a dirty waiting room where we marked time before gaining entrance into Heaven, while the prayers of our loved ones down on Earth gave succor. As I crawled to the summit of the dune, a hand grasped me firmly by the shoulder. I expected him. My voice was lilting, like I had been traipsing down a grassy mountainside with an attractive girl. “Oh hello, Saint Lawrence.” Saint Lawrence was my patron saint. My mother named me after her favorite church. The building itself was beautiful, a stunning piece of neo-Byzantine basilica architecture out of place in downtown Asheville, North Carolina. The roof was the largest freestanding brick in existence; I was always afraid one would come down on me. When I was little, my grandmother told me Saint Lawrence was the patron saint of comedians. I learned later he also was of cooks. This likely helped during my long years toiling in restaurants. Twelve years as a waiter, and I never dropped a plate. My Saint Lawrence arrived dressed in a blue and white plaid sport coat with black Farah slacks. His expressionless but ruddy face, marked by an eagle nose and steel-rimmed tinted glasses, completed a look that distressed me greatly. He looked like a tile salesman circa 1979. “Come here, my boy,” he said gently, his rasping voice clear and distinct. “Let me take you to where you need to go.” As his grip tightened around my shoulder, I began to sense my half-buried body levitating to perhaps an inch above the ground. Saint Lawrence then half-carried, half-walked me to the top of the sand dune. When we got there, I had expected more wasteland, but instead there lay before us a narrow strip of two-lane blacktop surrounded on either side by tufts of high grass. Bits of quartz glistened diamond-like under the sunless sky in the closely packed sand. The road was a straightaway, reminding me of the old highway between Odessa, Texas and El Paso. It tapered off until almost the horizon, where it curved at a ninety-degree angle. As my eyes followed the direction of the highway, I spotted several buildings rising alongside it. My heart jumped into my throat. I squinted. At the horizon, I saw what I thought to be the skyline of a small city. “There, you see. There are others. Plenty of others.” My companion obviously knew what I was thinking, but from the weary tone of his voice, I got a sinking feeling that there was a catch. “Yes there are others,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “And you are now among them.” “What am I supposed to do?” “I am surprised,” he mused, scratching his chin. “Usually the first question we get is, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ I think you have achieved the amazing feat of starting off on the right foot. I am most impressed.” Saint Lawrence reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a set of keys. He tossed them at my feet. “Then go. Just go.” With that, my patron saint turned to leave. Silky and translucent wings sprouted from his back. He raised his arms as if signaling a touchdown. I ran to him. “Hey, what am I supposed to do?” He was already several feet off the ground, out of my reach. “What is it I have to do here?” Saint Lawrence shrugged. “You already know. Just ask the driver for directions when the bus comes to pick you up. Then think about it!” He gave out a hearty laugh, flapped his wings once, and spiraled upwards into the sky. I turned toward the road and began walking. I saw the bus stand soon enough. I was alone, now. TWO Instead of Ellis Island or Kennedy Terminal A, Purgatory Beach's arrival gate was nothing more than a tin-roofed shed beside the two-lane blacktop. The city was a collection of shabby early to mid-20th century architecture with handfuls of Napoleon Revivalist scattered about for spice, stretching out for miles along a coastline, a turgid sea on one side and an endless desert on the other. Purgatory Beach was a conventionally middle American mid-century city, in the unpretentious inelegance of its inhabitants and the charms it offered. I discovered upon arrival that I was seventeen again. That was a good year for me. I guess that was the point. All the souls were young, but there were no children or older people. We were ageless. I grew comforted by the familiarity of my new home. I rather liked the atmosphere. At the very least, I could count on the afterlife to be a safe harbor of sorts. Perhaps there embedded was my punishment. I “lived” in one half of the top floor of a whitewashed five-story wood frame pseudo-Victorian building, which was in better condition indoors than out. My apartment consisted of a living room, a separate full kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom large enough for a writing desk that I rarely used for its intended purpose. It remained somewhat clean thanks to an unseen maid service that came in when I was out. While the hardwood parquet floor was swept, I saw dust clouds gathering in the corners. The best parts of my quarters were the archaic brass fixtures. I always made a point to polish the bathroom and kitchen spigots. They gleamed when the light hit, a kaleidoscope of colors reflected off the walls. In the afterlife, cheap magic continued to amaze. I once read a smarmy New Yorker cartoon which explained that in the afterlife, we get back the possessions we lost. When I entered my apartment for the first time, I half-expected I'd get the Wire album I loaned to an ex-friend in 1980. I got that, and more—from the mechanical musical koala bear I received for my first Christmas, to the silver bangle my wife gave me for our second wedding anniversary that I lost on a MetroNorth train several months before my unfortunate demise. I stored most of these items in a box at the bottom of the walk-in closet in my bedroom. Total lack of joy regarding sentiment: another punishment. I did listen to the Wire album. French Film Blurred was my favorite song. From conversations with my fellow denizens, I learned early on that Purgatory Beach was only one of numerous sites in which we dead resided. I concluded that this one was where the people who constantly say “life sucks” washed up. The intended punishment was an indeterminate amount of time accepting the mediocre. We passed that time dwelling on rumors in the street, in the cafes, in our bedrooms. Thriving on half-truths and wishful thinking was part of the concept of Hope, which is the driving force that replaces Logic once we have left the Living. The hope was, simply, that one day we would leave. Some of us did move on to that better place. Lately, however, fewer and fewer had left. The story around town was few of those among the living cared enough to pray for our redemption. Many attempted to purge themselves of their sins by living as sorrowful hermits; these guilt-wracked souls invariably wandered off into the desert wastelands outside of town. I thought they were ridiculous, as did others, but we kept these musings to ourselves. One never knew who would be tuning in. My suffering seemed distant. I once thought all mysteries would get explained after death; instead, I became more confused and more concerned for my soul. Perhaps my indifference was predestined. If that were the case, Free Will did not exist, and there shouldn't have been any reason for me to be in Purgatory. I spent the majority of my time alone. Mornings, I stayed in my rooms, reading mostly fictional fare checked out from the local library. As I had expected, being a failed writer of sorts myself, the stacks were filled to capacity with the unfinished, never started, or lost works of souls who were or remained here. Some of my reading was quite good, though most deserved oblivion. There were only so many Proust and Kerouac rehashes I could take in one eternity. Much of the rest was moody detective-type stuff. I spent my afternoons and evenings driving a dark green 1952 Buick I found parked in front of the house of a soul recently passed upwards, my explorations never-ending. There was a lot to see, and I had time to look around. Beach Avenue was the quintessential downtown drag, stretching for miles along the shore. On both sides were a variety of images straight out of post-war America: gaudy neon signs advertised jazz and swing clubs and red brick bar lounges in various states of repair. Plate glass and aluminum burger joints with booths colored nail polish red or HoJo green beckoned the hungry for grease with fries on the side, attended by souls humbling themselves by living the lives of fry cooks and waitresses. I swore I saw Frank Sinatra jerking sodas once, but I didn't ask. Scattered amid the debris of this hepcat heaven were a number of art deco movie theaters, always showing triple features of movies never made on Earth. I sat in the air-conditioned nightmare of the Rialto to watch Joan of Arc with Katherine Hepburn. I got up in the middle. What made Purgatory Beach so tolerable was the routine existence of the inhabitants who didn't flee into the desert. They did what they could to maintain a stable situation. Folks who grew up during the Depression and World War II, former Florida retirees with a second chance at their respective salad days, predominated. Sprinkled about were a number of 50s drag racing greasers and individuals like me, apparently dropped out of their time—perhaps for amusement. Alongside the shore was a strip of seedy-looking dance halls and carnival attractions. I found it pleasantly quaint, and dived into it with the passion of a country bumpkin. It was valuable to be the smart guy swimming in a sea filled with guilty innocents. For once, I wasn't the gullible one. I couldn't figure out why I ended up here. I was not particularly nostalgic for swing music or the interminably fatiguing stories about war and economic depressions. There were only so many tales of woe I could take, and after a few weeks I withdrew from most contact. I had made several attempts at picking up “skirts” with varying degrees of success. The problem with these women was that all of them seemed to wind up with the men they married—or close. It also wasn't helpful that I knew so much more than they did. In their naiveté, they confused my “post-modern” sophistication with abject perverted sleaziness. One night, I pulled over to hang out at the arcades. The mechanical wonders buzzed, flashed, and spun magically. To me, they were the most real things in this metaphysical place. The machines were there to be grasped and manipulated, the effulgent metal warm to the touch. However, despite my experience with the archaic five-digit pinball machines when alive, my efforts with these ancient contraptions came to naught. I kept trying until I became unusually frustrated and left. I felt claustrophobic, and for the first time since it happened, I had that trapped rat feeling from when I drowned. When I got my bearings, I realized I had gone quite a distance. The row of arcades was far behind me, and directly ahead were the lights of the permanent carnival built on stilts above the beach. My gaze focused on the Ferris wheel, its flashing yellow and green bulbs burning brightly in counterpoint against the measureless emptiness of the starless night sky. I could not avoid being mesmerized by its enervated movement. As I watched the turning wheel, my mind teemed with a belated awareness. A life treading water. In death doing the same. Rolling, turning, sliding-- THREE I woke the following morning ready to vomit, but by the time I reached the bathroom sink, I felt well enough for my obligatory face washing. Cool water penetrated my pores, shocking me. I felt an urge to cry, but gave it up. It knew it wouldn’t do anything but give me a headache. The rain came down hard. I could smell it—like steel burned with a blowtorch. The clouds thundered a staccato verbiage. It rained early and often in Purgatory, though by the middle of the morning it would pass into clear light. I stared into my reflection. My features had attained the consistency of cookie dough. I resembled a wax bust just beginning to melt under the glare of television studio klieg lights. As I probed my flesh with my fingers, I thought of a quote from Lenin about mush and bayonets. I couldn't remember what I did after finding the Ferris wheel. I showered, standing under the cascading hot water until I realized I had let the plug fall in and had backed the water almost to the brim. I shut off the spigots and unplugged the drain. The day moved slowly, much more so than usual. I had attempted to keep track of the time since my death in a spiral notebook on top of the desk in my bedroom. Before turning in at night, I would write down the facts of the day. Upon opening, I discovered that I had neglected to fill in dates for some time and, judging by the nature and detail of some of the recent entries, I had also skipped several days. I felt as if I had been transported into a Trans-Antarctic wasteland. I sat ensnared in an immobilizing grip, unable to do anything but stare ahead with opened eyes at a depthless nothing. For a while, I thought this was it, the moment I was waiting for. I was getting out of this wretched place. My mind reeled. Fragments of voices soared and twisted like confetti around me. Sitting at the right hand of the Father—Through Him, in Him, with Him—I hate you—get out of my—hallowed be thy name—I don't think you understand-- DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Next thing I knew, I was on the floor in fetal position, crying uncontrollably. “I want to get out of here! I want to see my daughter!” I didn't need Him to tell me the answer. I understood it would be an emphatic no. I cried for her anyway. He had a lot to say. I only wished He had at the very beginning—that way I wouldn't have built up all that false hope. Maybe He was only trying to do a poor soul a favor. Yeah, sure. The advantages of being dead were incalculable. One could eat here, and we did, as well as perform all other human functions, like going to the bathroom, sleeping to dream, getting drunk, catching a cold, achieving an orgasm, and weeping—but one did not need to. We could hold down a job if we wanted to, paint a picture, hang a fishing line off a pier, drive a car, smoke a cigarette, dance like a maniac, or do absolutely nothing at all for as long as we wanted. That's what I did—nothing. I stayed inside for many days, spending most of the time lying in bed like a slug after a March rain. I thought about leaving for the desert, but never got motivated enough to put on my shorts. One morning when it didn't rain, I spotted a manila envelope lying halfway under my front door. I returned to my bedroom. I didn't want to deal with surprises. After a day, I went over to the envelope and picked it up. I opened it and pulled out the contents. Upon viewing the photographs, I decided without hesitation that I needed to get out of my apartment. My suits, neatly pressed, hung in my closet. I chose a dark green Italian styled two-button suit, a white Oxford collar shirt, and a green and gold striped tie. My car remained parked on the corner, a bit spotted from rain, but a little polish solved that. An advantage to Purgatory Beach was that there were no cops. After stopping off for a haircut, I drove to the peninsula. It was a typically bright day. I rolled down the window, taking in the cool breeze blowing in from the sea. I wondered where the wind originated, but was reminded again of miracles. I hit the lonely stretch of highway leading to where I had first arrived. Dotting the sandy landscape were a few rude structures and tattered tents held together with little else than one's faith. Here had lived some of the radically humble souls who had gone over the edge. They looked abandoned. Further down, I saw a wild-eyed creature in rags walking along the road. I pulled up and called out to him. “Where is everybody?” He turned to me and said, barely audible, “Gone. All gone.” He then quickened his gait, shambling over the dune and out of sight. I needn't have bothered asking, but I wanted to hear confirmation that these children of God were leaving. The wind kicked up as I restarted the engine. I rolled up the window to keep the sand from blowing in. “Jubilee is coming,” I murmured. “Too damn soon.” FOUR I spent the remainder of the day at the shore, sitting behind the wheel of my Buick and dwelling on the absurdity of my existence. The surf was harsh. It reminded me of that day at Rockaway Beach with my wife, and my daughter. I had a life then, admittedly a not very good one and without much hope, but that existence had belonged to me, and I wanted it back. I might as well have wished for a golden chariot and a team of unicorns. I sat waiting for the night. I wanted to meet her, the woman who left me the note and the photographs. I opened the envelope again. She had sent a set of eight black and white glossy pictures of me in various candid poses. In one, I was banging an upright pinball machine that had drained all five chances. A poignant one showed me leaning over a jukebox, holding a barrel glass of Irish whisky in my hand, staring sad-eyed at the selections. Another had me sitting at a table outside the front door of a café, looking pensively up at the night sky, as if expecting a comet to come streaking by above. The most disturbing were the pair from when I arrived. One was at the bus stand, the other the bench where I sat waiting patiently for the bus. It looked as though she had been photographing from across the street. I remembered no one being there. I knew who she was before I read the letter. I put the car into gear and got back on the road. I watched as a gust of wind blew over several of the abandoned tents dotting the dunes. On the horizon, the shadows began shrouding the city, the assembling darkness beckoning me. Mysteries swirled through my mind. I tried to decide which question to ask first when I met her. It was perplexing to me that she had spent so long following me around before letting me know she was here. At that bitter thought, I nearly went home, but I sped on anyway. I reached Beach Avenue as the heavy curtain of darkness fell across the empty sky. The lights brought artificial solace. I mused on what the dead did to brighten their nights in the pre-Edison afterlives. They probably screamed in madness. I turned on the radio. Something called the Cab Driver’s Lament was on, playing blues and old be-bop hits. After a superlative Cab Calloway cover of “Flat-Foot Floogie on the Floy-Floy,” the smooth talking DJ spoke of driving down the loneliest mile. I pulled into a gravel lot situated in front of the widest expanse of beach, a mile below the main arcade. It was a different spot than my usual. I felt like breaking a habit. One had to in eternity. I walked with the panache of a sleepwalker, shuffling quietly, oblivious to the masses surrounding me. Their faces had long melded into one. The red and green neon lights on the sign hanging above the door said it all: THE BIG SANDY NOTHING. Upon entering, I nearly tripped over a potted fern set too close to the cigarette machine. Like all new taverns, it was three deep at the bar. I pushed my way through, wondering if I would find her. I spotted a dent in the crowd near the wait station and, stepping forward, I felt a set of fingers wrap around the lapel of my jacket. I looked to see who did the pulling. “Hey there, honey,” Irene purred. “What's shaking?” “Oh God, you're really here,” I gasped. She laughed, throwing her brown hair aside. “Good answer. Have a seat.” Irene was almost eighteen again—the time we first met. She had the classic Oklahoma Scots-Cherokee look, circa 1979. Her dark brown hair fell about her shoulders, framing her freckled face, the high cheekbones, the narrow nose, and the green eyes to kill for. Irene was always the most glamorous and charismatic woman I ever met. Dead, she was even better. That scared me. I sat on the empty stool beside her. Irene nudged me, pushing a beer in front of my hands. “Drink up,” she snickered. “Cheers, honey.” I caressed the cool glass before putting it to my lips. Part of me wanted to embrace my first girlfriend, while the other desired to flee out the door. Irene sighed, twisting the swizzle stick between her fingers. “I was hoping for something melodramatic. You always were one to disappoint.” “Sorry.” Years later, she still had to get her digs in. Irene picked up her glass and rattled the half-melted cubes. Absentmindedly, she parted her lips, took the swizzle stick between her teeth, and slid it from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue. Using the tip of her tongue, Irene lifted one end of the stick so that the other end rested against her nose. Closing her mouth, she bent the plastic, and blew hard. The swizzle stick flipped away, landing in the glass. It stood straight up for a brief moment, then dropped to one side. I grinned. “Nice trick.” “I had a lot of practice. I'm still learning to twist the thing into a pretzel in my mouth, though.” “I’ve only heard of that, never saw anyone pull it off.” Irene tipped her head, shaking her bangs from her eyes. “Says a lot about the company you keep, Lawrence.” “I'm not so sure, considering what you're wearing.” Automatically, Irene got up from the barstool and dropped her hands to adjust the hem of her skirt. She sat back down, blushing. “I was only kidding, Irene. You look fine.” Irene replied, flustered, “You’re making me self-conscious.” "Gee, I didn't know I had that effect.” "You do—or did.” "Thanks, I guess.” Irene Rogers had cast a long shadow on my existence. First loves do that. For years, she haunted me. Now we had a chance to spook each other. Irene's life was a seemingly endless series of stumbles. Like me, she complained to her diary instead of doing anything about it. She shared my general detachment from the mundane aspects of life and ambivalence about leaving good impressions on strangers. Both of us were wanderers in our own minds, which meant we avoided admitting what would be obvious to others. It was no small miracle we survived our teens. Irene looked hard for scapegoats for her inner discontent and lack of follow through, and I certainly fit the bill. I was the morosely dark kind of guy women spent years of therapy recovering from. The last I heard anything about her, in the spring before I died, a mutual friend told me of his amazement at the depth of her bitterness. “So,” I wanted to get her answers quickly. “What brought you here?” “I wrecked my truck outside Kingsland, on the way to visit my sister.” “How's Anne doing?” Her kid sister was also a knockout. “I don't know. I didn't get to find out.” She was the same old Irene. My head dropped to my chest. “Sorry, I'm no good at this.” I was fading fast. I should have stayed at home. “I heard you. But stop mumbling.” I spoke up. “How did you find me? I mean, I didn't even know you’d croaked.” “I don't know. Luck, I suppose.” She paused, then let out her breath slowly. I used to allow Irene few opportunities to speak—that alone was enough to get her in a rage back then. Only later did I become a good listener. “When I got here, I was totally out of sorts. Even with my sweet guardian angel trying to guide me through this mess, I was so horrified at the prospect of a near-eternity in this place, I ran off into the desert at the first opportunity. I wandered around the dunes in rags, raving like a moron, praying for my misbegotten soul. One afternoon, I spot you at the bus stand, hanging around with a thumb up your ass, and it snaps me back into reality. I decided to return to the city and eke out a more favorable existence. For that, I thank you.” “Then how did you get my picture?” “I had found a camera in an empty tent. Taking pictures was something to do—to pass the time when I wasn't feeling sorry for myself. Then I see you looking hopeless and I have to say, well, I was inspired.” “Gee, thanks.” She continued, “After I settled down, I went looking for you. It was easy—all I had to do was hang out at the arcade. Sure enough, one night you appeared.” “And so—here I am.” I spread my hands over the bar, stretching my fingers toward hers. “There you are.” Her fingers brushed against mine, and she smiled. I tried to phrase my next statement right, without putting her on the spot, but I just blurted it out anyway. “You had to see me.” Her answer was straight. “Yeah Lawrence, I did. I shouldn't be alone anymore.” FIVE After we left the bar, we walked arm in arm down the boardwalk. “Yeah Irene, I was at the end of my rope. I was very unhappy. I felt my life was at a dead-end. It got so bad, I began to fear for my child's future. I had to stay, you see, but I realized that I would have to go eventually.” I paused and sighed. Irene shook her head sadly. “You took unnecessary, stupid risks. While you may not have consciously intended to kill yourself, death was obviously somewhere in the back of your mind.” “It wasn’t as if I tried to die, it's that I didn’t try very hard to live.” “Same difference. I drew more inward after my parents died, and as I grew older I got careless.” “What, you tried to kill yourself?” I didn't think Irene was the type. “I thought about it a lot.” She said no more on the subject, letting the words fly as the seagulls rose from the shore beside us. “I have another question,” she added. “What did the animals do to get here?” I shrugged. “Theology isn’t my forte.” “Then I can't ask you about your recent visit to Him.” That stopped me in my tracks. “I know all about it. I was there, too.” I leaned against the railing, resting on my elbow. “I had suspected everyone got the call. Obviously, nobody wants to talk about it.” “Yeah, it's too touchy a subject.” “No one likes knowing their soul is in peril of oblivion.” He had grabbed us to announce the Good News, that God had enough of playing around and intended to shut everything down—with no explanation. Why he bothered to grant us fair warning was mystifying. I had a feeling He was giving us one last roll of the dice to make our individual souls worthy of surviving His Judgment. I doubted God would be so flippant regarding his innumerable creations. There was no assurance that the lot of us in our corner on the shore would be moving on to the right hand of the Father. The certainty was that God planned on tying up the loose ends soon. I hoped that included my wife and daughter, but God didn't hand out concessions or promises. Anyhow, Irene complicated things. Her arrival at this juncture had me leaning into metaphysical territory I knew nothing about. I feared the potential ramifications. It became evident that, Oblivion or Heaven, Irene and I were twinned. When we were teenagers in love, we used to talk about that. Eyes downcast, Irene asked, “Do you think it’s tonight?” I pushed off the railing and put my arm around her. “Oh, it could be tonight, next week, next month, or next year—whatever, as much as I hate to be reminded, time is always relative around here. This will happen when it happens.” “That's not reassuring.” “I'm not God.” We stopped at a photo booth for a picture; the photograph came out perfectly. It reminded me of one taken of a teenage couple standing in the driveway of a mobile home in 1979. It must have rained, because everything was so green, the grass was practically sparkling. The girl wore a vintage purple suit with a pleated skirt falling slightly below her knees. The boy wore a pair of black baggy pants, black oxfords, and a wrinkled white T-shirt. They were holding hands, clutching tightly, as if a tornado might suddenly touch down and sweep them apart forever. They were leaning slightly forward, looking at the camera with an intensity peculiar for their age. Both were smiling and thinking Heaven was just around the corner. Our heels clicked on the wood at our feet, the sound reverberating above the general din. Irene wanted to stop in front of the carnival where I had my nervous attack the night before the Visitation. I stared at the Ferris wheel turning slowly above, jutting against the infinite darkness. “Such is my fate,” I murmured. “I'm drawn to it too,” Irene replied, moving closer to me. I stared at the colored lights, marveling that such a shoddy contraption could work. The rusted, creaking metal, flaking paint, and broken and fading lights were the true center of this land of the dead. Embedded into the molecules of the bolts groaning under the weight of the slowly turning wheel were billions of middling triumphs and spectacular failures. Through the wire mesh fence, I reached out and touched the cool surface of the rusted metal. I pulled back my fingertips, turning them over to see the flakes of blue paint and rust. I remembered finding my first lucky penny and popping my first wheelie on my bicycle. I turned, facing Irene's gleaming eyes. They were the brightest ever in my memory. She leaned over and kissed me. Her warm, wet mouth enveloped me; I began to remember the feeling of slowly being pulled underwater. I wanted this to never end. Irene rested her face against my shoulder. I caressed her hair, running my fingers through her brown locks. I suddenly remembered her perfume. I had bought her a bottle with my last paycheck from the Texaco gas station I worked during my senior year in high school. The bottle broke before I gave it to her. Then it struck me. I reached down and pulled out a box from my jacket pocket. We bought our tickets at the gate and waited patiently for our car. The rest of the riders were a motley collection of humans as disparate as they were desperate. Neither of us engaged them in conversation. As the gate shut beside us, Irene spoke, her voice filled with a wonder she probably hadn't felt in ages. “Once you’re on one of these things, you could ride forever.” “Tonight, I think so,” I told her. As we rose above Purgatory Beach, we held hands, my grip tightening on hers while I looked down. The lights below us began to go out, one by one. Janice Cuevas is a retired veteran who moved to Orlando, Florida from Watertown, New York. Janice is currently studying Creative Writing at Full Sail University. Breathe Elena awoke and cringed at the thought of spiders crawling out of her mouth. She lifted herself out of bed to brush her teeth, the dream had been too vivid. As she glanced at her reflection she could see the wrinkles manifesting, the bags under her eyes darkening each day, and her long curls with a few grey strands here and there. Forty-five years old and she still felt vibrant. Elena fluffed her pillow a few times and found a comfortable position. She suddenly missed the company of a man, the safeguard a man’s muscular arms could provide. Her eyelids fell and her mind drifted into darkness. “Mom, wake up!” Elena’s eyes slowly opened and she spoke softly. “What is it Emily? Why are you not in bed asleep?” “There are spiders all over my room Mom.” Elena, shocked to hear this, got out of bed and grabbed the Seventeen magazine on her nightstand, rolled it up and continued to her daughter’s bedroom. Emily took hold of her mother’s hand with the grip of a newborn. Elena turned on the light, scanned the room and immediately noticed the orb weaving spider on Emily’s pink plush carpet. It was staring at her. Shit. Seventeen magazine won’t cut it. Elena approached the spider and before she could get too close, the spider jumped and landed on Emily’s comforter. Elena’s heart raced and bullets of sweat started to form on her forehead. “Mom, are you OK?” “Emily, go to the kitchen and get the chemicals I use to clean. Oh, and get that spray that smells like lemon. Spiders don’t like that.” “Are you going to kill it?” “Emily, go, kitchen, now please.” Elena watched Emily saunter into the kitchen and heard her rummaging through the cabinets. While Emily was getting the supplies, Elena walked back to her room and her face fell. There were at least twenty spiders on her bed and ten more on the floor, all staring at her with their beady eyes. They had weaved webs over her bed, Elena’s heart was beating like a drum and she could not calm herself. “Emily!” “Here are the supplies, Mom.” Elena turned and looked at Emily and almost fainted. Emily was covered in spiders. She didn’t shake or cry and she looked rather calm. Some were tangled up in her curls, a few were creeping up Emily’s arm and Emily started to laugh. What the fuck is happening? “Look, Mom, they tickle. Maybe they just wanted to be my friend.” Elena was not amused by this. As Elena bent down to pick up the chemicals, she felt the soft prickles on her legs and a chill went up her spine. She ran into the kitchen and started to shake feverishly. Her hands trembled and she tried to remain calm but her nerves were out of control. Elena tried to remember the phrase her mother taught her as a child. Breathe in and breathe out, they sense fear. Elena caught a glimpse of the black leather book on top of a pile of newspapers next to the recliner. Legend of the Arachnid Fortune. She picked up the book opened the first page. The book began to levitate and hundreds of spiders started to pour out of its pages, filling her home. Elena’s heart wasn’t strong enough and the floor had never felt so hard. “Mom, wake up, that was a long nap. I want spaghetti and the meatballs too.” Elena jumped out of bed and her eyes searched the room. “Where are all the spiders? Emily, are you OK? You were covered with them.” “Mom, what spiders? Did you have that dream again?” “Yes, I had that dream again sweetie. I— I don’t know why I keep having it.” “Maybe you should call Aunti Nita.” “Aunt Anita? I don’t want to bother her sweetie.” Emily looked up at Elena and muttered something under her breath. “She told me she sees things.” “Say that again, Emily.” “Aunti Nita, said she can see things.” Elena wore a puzzled look on her face. She dismissed the comment and accompanied Emily to the Kitchen to make her spaghetti. Elena popped open a can of Chef Boyardee and placed it in the pot on the stove. Ding-Dong! “Mom, the door.” “I’ll get it, Emily.” Elena walked under the arch and unlocked the door only to find a shoe sized box with no return address. She opened it and dropped the box immediately for the box was brimful with spiders. The spiders scurried away unveiling an envelope at the bottom which read: Spiders mean you prosper sis. -Anita Elena was overwhelmed with the dreams and the note, so she sent her daughter to her room for the remainder of the evening. She retired to her bedroom to get some type of beauty sleep. Upon awaking the next morning, she received a notification on her cell. Her bank account had been overflowing with an abundance of retirement money. It was enough for her to never work, support Emily through college and get a new house. Elena felt the need to get on her knees and say thank you to the anonymous forces at work. Emily entered the bedroom, kneeled beside Elena and whispered in her ear. “Mom, there are spiders all over my room.” Elena sighed and smiled wide. “Breathe in and breathe out, they sense fear.” Karen Blake is an aspiring author, and has always loved writing, drawing, and reading. She attends Full Sail University for Creative Writing in Entertainment. Saved By the time I reach a dark, quiet back road, I was already feeling lightheaded from the open wound on my cheek. Stopping on the side of the road, I took a shaky breath as my hands tremble uncontrollably. I was soon ripped out of my reverie by intensely bright lights. “This is it…” I whisper to no one in particular, as the lights came closer and I am able to see the bright red pickup truck, and I start to wave my hand wildly, hopefully indicating that I need the driver to stop. The truck rolled to a stop and I was shocked to see a strikingly beautiful girl, who looked just as shocked to see me, as well. I couldn’t blame her either; I was apparently gorgeous to people or I wouldn’t have been working in the business that I was forced into and couldn’t escape from without a struggle. “You look like you need to get away from here, darlin’…” The girl said in a warm, southern drawl. Her voice sounded like honey to me, and I wanted to just break down and cry right there in the road. Quickly, I found my voice and let her know I did. Once I was settled down in the truck, the girl looked at me, her eyes questioning. I gulped in anticipation, would she kick me out for looking like I did? “No bags?” She asked, looking out of her window. Relieved, I answer the question eagerly. “No bags. Just the clothes on my back.” She turned back to me, and her eyebrows quirked at my remark. My stockings were torn and my heels were too high, my dress to short. I squirmed under her scrutiny. She turned away and began to drive. No longer being able to stay silent, I finally decided to tell someone the truth…a stranger, nonetheless. As soon as her mouth opened, my skin prickled and my hands gripped at the seat. “My name is Alayna.” She beams at my dumbfounded reaction. “My name is Kayleigh…” I mumble, analyzing her facial features. She was beautiful, with high cheekbones and perfectly shaped lips. “Are you a model?” I ask, immediately wanting to take back the words. You’re not a man trying to flirt, stop asking stupid questions! I chastised myself silently. Alayna laughs at my discomfort. “Actually, yes and you should be, too. I can get you in the business.” She offers. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s nothing like that…and if you want, I can always be there to make sure it doesn’t happen that way.” She looked like she wanted to take back that last part, her cheeks flush a beautiful pink. I smile shyly, the nagging fear residing. “Yes, I’d like that…but what about…” I trail off, turning away. “I’ll protect you.” She promises adamantly and grabs my hand, lacing her elegant fingers through my own bruised ones. The sun was starting to peek out over the horizon. A warm and sweet sensation washed over me, was this what safety felt like? I had forgotten over the years. “Are you hungry, Kayleigh? I was on a road trip for a shoot but I can stop for a few minutes…” Alayna says, slowing down after I nod. She pulls into a small diner’s parking lot and turns to me, seemingly memorizing my face. Slowly, as if not to scare me away, her hand rises and she caresses my wounded cheek with her soft, perfect hands. Slowly, her finger traces the outline of my cheek, my nose, and my lips. I shy away and she looks hurt. “Alayna, how old are you?” I quickly search for a distraction. She squints her eyes at me before answering. “Twenty-three, and yourself?” I smirk, and she tilts her head in confusion. “I just turned eighteen today.” She lets out a surprised yelp and I’m the one to laugh at the discomfort now. “That’s right, I ran away in time for my eighteenth birthday…isn’t that ironic?” Her eyes fill with something sadly familiar. She smiles through her tears, something I’ve done for many years. “Happy birthday, Kayleigh…let’s make this a good one.” She says and gets out of the truck, quickly coming around the other side to open the door. I jump out and embrace her. She laughs and encircles me with her surprisingly strong arms. I press my face into her neck, breathing in her lovely scent. “Thank you.” She was the one to save me, like no man ever did. Brandon Hartley is an American writer who lives in the Netherlands. He usually focuses on non-fiction but sometimes he cobbles together stories that take place outside of reality. Here is a photo of him feeding rabbits somewhere off the coast of Japan.
Stick to the Shadows If you really want to know what happened, and why it happened, I'll have to go back to the beginning. Back to before the fire, before the fun park and before the dog showed up. Back when we were all still sitting in the museum. I hope that chair is comfortable. Morty was the first of us to say anything. "It must be noon by now," he said, rising from the wooden stool in his case. "Carol should have been down here three hours ago. This ain't like her." "Knock it off," I spat at him from across the aisle. "What if….you know?" Carol was old, especially for a fleshball, but I didn't want to think for a second that something bad might have happened to her. Sure, her hearing had begun to fade in recent years but all that really meant was that she had to turn up the volume on her television. No big deal. She had plenty of life left in her. Enough to keep everything going for at least a few years more. But I could hear the voice of some local weatherman drifting down through the floor and into the museum. Not a good sign. Carol never watched the news. "Poor ol' gal," Morty muttered. "Probably keeled over in the middle of The Tonight Show." I hated him for saying aloud what I already knew. Carol was gone. A dozen thoughts rushed into my itty bitty head. Who was going to take care of us? Who was going to make sure that Hopper didn't get loose again? Who was going to comb my hair and make sure my bloodsoaked veil stayed its bloodiest? "Never did like that Fallon guy," Morty said, silencing the growing pile of worries in my soft skull. "One of his punchlines was probably so bad it stopped ol' Carol's heart. Now Jack Parr, there was a fella who knew how to tell a joke." "Now's not the time for you start rambling on about old comedians," I told him. "Good point, doll," Morty said. He was always calling me "doll." Hilarious, huh? Just be glad you never had to sit through his act. During his "showbiz years" as he called them, Morty had travelled all over America, Europe and Australia. Then his mouth, as it so often did, ruined everything for him. It was about to ruin everything for him all over again and the rest of us too. "So which one of you's is gonna bust me out of this thing?" he asked. Hopper started growling behind the thick glass in the display case that he'd been locked in ever since the time he escaped. That was back in, ohhhh, the '90s, I think. Maybe a little later. You might have heard about that. You don't look too young. After he busted loose, Carol eventually found him creeping around outside of an elementary school a few blocks away and not before he'd been spotted by three kids (who no one believed) and a retired fireman (that everybody figured was senile). Hopper had managed to get his paws on a book of matches too. That's one bunny you don't want anywhere near anything flammable. If Carol hadn't found him creeping around the boiler room when she did, there's no telling what might have happened. This "Great Escape" made headlines but you probably already know that. Well, okay, it made headlines on various blogs and conspiracy websites but you don't seem like the sort of guy who reads those things. But we had some fleshballs come all the way from Egypt visit us. A documentary film crew even showed up from France. Nothing boosts museum attendance quite like a one-eared, pyromaniac rabbit doll. Of course, plenty of visitors assumed that Carol had staged the entire thing. After we're done with your interrogation, or whatever this is, go type "The Cheshire Museum of Oddities" and "rabbit" into the interwebs. You'll learn more than you ever wanted to know about the whole mess. "How about you, gorgeous?" Morty said, glancing across the aisle. "Can you get me outta this thing? There's no lock on your case." "Gorgeous? Well, aren't you just hilarious?" I asked. "What can I say? I live to make pretty girls like you laugh." Ventriloquist dummies. They're all the same. I lifted the veil off my face so Morty could get a good look at me. It'd been a while. I opened my eyes wide to give him a bit of a scare, the eyes that were drawn onto my cloth face with bile from a diseased goat. Then I gave him my best evil grin with my lips, the one I've been trying to get just right for centuries now. In case you're wondering, these lips of mine were created with blood from a newborn calf. Oh, and my hair? Made out of real raven feathers. The fleshballs that made me were nothing if not imaginative. Carol used to charge visitors $5 to look under the veil. I'm sure my face has led to plenty of nightmares over the years. Probably best for me to keep it on. If you want a peek a little later, maybe we can work something out. But don't rush me now. When you get to be my age, you take your time when you tell a story. You're getting paid by the hour and you've got half a pack of cigarettes sitting right there in your shirt pocket. What are you so worried about? Light one up, take a deep drag and I'll get to the meat of this tale soon enough. Where I come from in Romania, I'm what's called a diavolul păpușă. I know, that's a real mouthful. It means "devil doll." I was created by some crazy cult leader who actually thought that I could help his followers live forever. How old am I? Hmmm….I'm pretty sure I celebrated my 400th birthday during the Reagan administration. I suppose it doesn't matter much. So those crazy Romanians prayed to me, if you can believe it. They slept in coffins and really had a thing for Vlad the Impaler. Needless to say, I didn't get the job done and none of those nutjobs are still around these days. Far as I know, the cult fell apart after one of the most devout among them died after trying to, literally, live on a diet of just blood. No one ever figured out where she got it from but there was a wine bottle full of it beside her when her body was discovered. The founder? Oh, he was drawn and quartered. That sort of thing happened all the time back then. Yeah, death really had a tendency to follow me around in those days. But I'm quite nice if you get to know me. I'd like to think I've come a long way since the 18th century. "So how about it?" Morty asked me, undaunted by my grotesquery. "Whole big world waitin' out there for us." "We wouldn't make it out of the neighborhood," I said, lowering the veil. "The fleshballs would catch us in no time." "Only one way to find out." Marty was always a charmer and, I must admit, I had little bit of a crush on him before….you know. That's what you fleshballs call it, right? A crush? When you go from craving them one second and wanting to crush their spine the next? So, like some foolish milk maid, I bounced out of my case and released him. I remember Morty yawning and shaking the dust off his black suit. It'd been months since he was last up and about. "Should we go upstairs and find out what happened?" I asked him. "Maybe we could make an anonymous phone call to that emergency number. 91….2?" "Carol could die from a papercut by the time we get up those stairs and get the phone off the hook," Morty said. "The television's been going all night. My guess is that a heart attack got her during a commercial break. She's usually upstairs and in bed by the musical number." I didn't know what to say and I couldn't have cried even if I had the tears. "We all knew this was coming, doll" Morty said. "We should have made plans but none of us even wanted to think about it." "And here we are," I said. "What now?" We heard a tapping coming from the next aisle over. "We can start by letting Pinky out." "Are you sure?" I asked him. "Why not?" he said. "Pinky's harmless." We opened the back of Pinky's hatch and lifted the lid on the tin saraghoagus that served as its home. The tin was some promo thing that Carol got when she went to go see some mummy movie starring that guy….what's his name? Brendon Fraisers. Something like that. We never did figure out if Pinky was a guy or a girl or how old it is. Mummified fingers can't communicate all that well so I never got to hear its life story. It could have been the finger of anybody from Ramesses to Janis Joplin. Energetic as ever, Pinky jumped right out of that tin and started rubbing right up against my leg like a kitty, albeit one covered in old bandages. I'm sure it would have started purring if it knew how. Next up was Chiyo, the possessed KoboRobo. You probably remember those things. Little gremlin robots from Japan that were really popular with kids about ten, fifteen years ago. Most of them all bounce around and randomly repeat gibberish but not Chiyo. Real chatty, that one. She told me once that she was the spirit of a young woman who used to live in Kyoto. She went to college in San Diego and got pretty good at English. Not as good as me but pretty good. She even had a career going back home in Japan but the she really blew it. Dated the wrong guy, things got really nasty and he strangled her with a cord from something called a "Nun- tendo Gamecube." No clue what those things are. Some sort of electronic toy for nuns, I suppose. Anyway, Chiyo once told me she still loved the bastard who killed her. Can you believe that? Real softie, that one. I knew telling her what had happened to Carol was going to be tough. I sent Morty around the corner as I let her out. This was no time for wisecracks. After a few minutes of mechanical sobs, she pulled herself together. Now there's no way we could have taken the haunted harpsichord with us, especially once all hell broke loose but, let me tell you, it really, really wanted to go. It started playing a jaunty little song when it heard all of us running around. If I had heartstrings, it would have been tugging on them with all its might. I did my best to ignore the poor thing. Almost all of the other objects in that museum were like that harpsichord. "Sentient," I think is the word, but they couldn't do much, not even the witch that's trapped in the mirror. Have you talked to her yet? If she starts trying to put a hex on you, just toss the bedsheet back over her. Shuts her right up. Sometimes all those objects would wiggle around but that's about it. I have no idea if they were the spirits of former fleshballs like Chiyo or something else. Can you imagine? One day you're up and walking around, ordering coffee in cafes and watching television and doing whatever it is that fleshballs do. The next, you've somehow had your soul crammed inside a harmonica or a Diet Coke can. A curious noise drifted over from Hopper's case. His soft growls had stopped. He was whimpering softly. "What should we do?" Chiyo asked. "About….him?" "Not a chance," Morty snapped. "I'm made out of wood and bunny boy here has a thing for matches." "Will you be nice if we let you out, Hopper?" Chiyo asked him, ignoring the clearly marked sign below his case that read "POSITIVELY DO NOT OPEN! WORlD'S MOST DANGEROUS STUFFED ANIMAL!" The rabbit turned his head towards her. "Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice?" he asked as if he'd never heard the word before. "Let's come on over here, girly," Morty said, gently nudging her away from Hopper's case. "Don't you go letting that furry firebug guilt trip you." We gathered in the corner and began plotting. "So what we've got here is a mummified finger, a toy robot from the Land of the Rising Sun, my charming self and…..uhhhh…." "A diavolul păpușă," I said. "I've only told you 100 times." "Right. One of those. So, where shall we spend the rest of our lives, folks?" "*Our* lives? Who said I was coming with you, Morty?" I asked. "What, else are you gonna do? Stick around here? Get sent off to some thrift shop or worse? Maybe you've never been stuffed inside a garbage bag and sent off to the dump but I have." "A 'dump'?" Chiyo asked. "But isn't that where garbage goes?" "You got that right," Morty said. "Far as the fleshballs know, that's all we are. Just some dusty ol' knick knacks that some crazy broad was trying to pass off as something much more interesting." "But….but I don't want to go where garbage goes!" Chiyo began rocking back and forth on her plastic feet. She might have started hyperventilating if she could. I felt like doing the right thing so I decided to comfort her. "There, there dear," I said, trying to convey what you fleshballs would call "empathy." "You're not garbage." "But that's what my boyfriend used to call me," she said softly. Morty had clearly touched a nerve. "We're not going to talk about that right now," I said. "You're not, uh, garbage anymore." Chiyo looked at me and then started bawling. If you couldn't tell, I'm really not very good at this sort of thing. Pinkie began rubbing up against her, trying to calm her down, but this only made her cry louder. "Dammit," Morty said. "She keeps going like that and she'll attract some fleshball down here before we figure out what to do with ourselves. Tell her to knock it off." "I tried and look what happened." Chiyo's howls got the harpsichord all worked up. It started randomly banging its own keys. If I had ears, the sound would have been splitting them. "SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" Morty howled. "YOU RUBES ARE GONNA…" Then we all heard the barking. The neighbor's dog was losing its mind on the other side of a fence about ten feet from the cellar door that served as the museum's entrance. The harpsichord had enough sense to silence itself and Chiyo went quiet. "We are so screwed," Morty mumbled. The dog was still barking and rapidly digging itself a hole under the fence. It didn't seem like it was going to stop. "Should we get back in our cases?" I whispered. "Nobody move an inch," Morty said. The dog stopped. After another few moments of quiet, we heard a huge bang from the other side of the museum. Then the barking and digging started again. "Ralphie, what are doing? Calm down!" It was a boy's voice. "What's gotten into him?" That was a woman's voice. Probably his mother. Then we all heard the sound of cracking wood followed by the kid and the woman screaming at the dog. Its muzzle was snarling and spewing slobber all over the museum's lone window. "Oh, for God's sake," the mother said. "Go get him. Your father is going to come unglued when he gets home." The dog was going absolutely bonkers. "That does it," Morty said. "You can come with me or you can stay here and get torn to pieces by Rin Tin Tin up there." He stormed over to the stairs leading up to the house's main floor and began crawling up them like a determined toddler. Chiyo didn't need to be told twice. Pinky jumped onto one of her shoulders like a parrot and dashed over. Morty helped them and, slowly but surely, they made their way to the top. I heard another clatter from one of the museum's corners and the dog was now completely hysterical. The boy was outside yelling at it but was too frightened to grab it by the collar and drag it back home. Really, what choice did I have? I followed the rest of them upstairs. "We could hide in the attic," I suggested. The mother was now out on the porch and peering through one of the living room windows. She confirmed what we hadn't seen but already knew. "OH MY GOD, CAROL!" she yelled. "SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Morty turned towards the staircase that led to the second floor of the house. I don't know why he didn't start climbing them. I never asked him. Maybe he was afraid that the door to the attic would be closed or, even it was open, what would happen a day or a week later. Instead, he started scrambling towards the kitchen. The rest happened so fast. Pushing our way through the old cat door while the harpsichord downstairs started playing the loudest Beethoven symphony in its repertoire in protest. Then all of us out in the backyard. Grass blades touching my feet for the first time in half a century. The snarling dog rounding the corner. Clambering through a hole in Carol's chain link fence and into the pumpkin patch on the other side. The sunlight, practically blinding. The dog so close I could feel it's filthy breath in my hair. Then a high pitched squeak and silence. No more snarling, no more dog. Before I went for the cat door though, I did look back, just for a second, while I was running. I saw Carol's arm on the floor in the living room and a broken tea cup. But you probably know all about that, don't you? Probably right there in that stack of papers in front of you. It was cold and raining so there weren't any brats in the pumpkin patch. We made it through and into the woods without being spotted by anybody, I think. We were quiet for a while after that, all of us huddled between a soggy fern and a tree trunk. "I guess this is better than winding up in a dog's stomach," Morty said. "Not by much though." "It should have gotten me," I said. "The dog was was so close but he just stopped. Why did he stop?" "Probably never seen a bunch like us running around," he said. "Liable to make any pooch head for the hills." We heard some rustling and a plush rabbit casually stomped over to us. "Oh, hello Hopper," Chiyo said cheerfully. "I was niiiiiiiiiiiiiice," he told us. My savior. ======================== I wasn't about to ask Hopper what he did to that dog in order to say my life or whatever you want to call it. I gave him a nod as a "thank you" and that was that. Would you have hugged him? I didn't think so. Not that one. He's no Velveteen Rabbit. Building a campfire and spending the night wasn't an option, especially with Hopper now joining our ranks. Morty wasn't happy about it and we argued about it for a while but what finally convinced him was Chiyo. With Hopper around, she calmed right down. I don't know why. Maybe she felt safer around him or, well, we'll get to that soon enough. The moon was on our side that night. Just a thin sliver in the sky once the clouds cleared and plenty of darkness at our disposal. We got back down to business. "Where are we going to fit in besides that museum?" Morty said. "One of a kind, that place. We had a good thing going back there." "A toy shop?" I said. "We could hide in the shelves or in the stockroom. Plenty of nooks and crannies for Pinkie too, especially if we go to one of the big ones. There might even be a television in one of the break rooms. With HBO." "No good. There'd probably be those, what do you call them, night cameras that watch everything." "We'll scope them out and avoid them. Shouldn't be a problem." "And if there's a security guard?" "There were these movies that I watched," Chiyo said. "Back when I was still a fleshball. It was about toys that lived in a boy's bedroom. They would come alive and talk when he wasn't there. Then when he came home they would fall over and play dead." "If it'll trick a kid in a movie, surely it'll trick a security guard makin' a buck fifty an hour," Morty said. "All right, where's the nearest toy shop?" I asked. "And what if it goes out of business?" "There were three or four of those movies," Chiyo said, ignoring my questions. "Made by the same company that owns Tokyo Disneyland. They have a ride there with those toys. You go through and you shoot laser guns at targets and the toy that's shaped like a potato tells you what to do and…" "That's great, honey," Morty said, cutting her off. "Let's go find a phone booth and get an address in the Yellow Pages." "They have Disneylands here in America too," Chiyo continued. "One in California and a very big one in Florida. I think they have those rides there too, with the toys." "I don't think there are phone booths anymore, Morty," I said. "Or Yellow Pages. The fleshballs all have those pocket phones now." "What, you wanna break into somebody's house and hop on the world wide web? Do one of those Yahoo searches or whatever you call them?" "We should go to Florida Disneyland!" Chiyo chirped. "We're in Connecticut and Florida's about 3,000 miles from here," Morty said. "Let's stick with the toy shop plan." "But Florida Disneyland never goes out of business," she said. "And it's bigger than a toy shop." "Chiyo's got a point," I said. "Huge fun park. Plenty of places to hide. I bet they even have a toy shop or two." "Naw, Florida's no good," Morty said. "Played a couple of gigs down there back in the day. Nothing but yokels and alligators." "We could vote," Chiyo said. "Fine by me," I said. "No, no voting," Morty said. "Everybody follow me." "Vooooooooooooooooooote," Hopper said. Pinkie started scooting around in circles. It seemed to agree. "We vote or I leave," I said. "I don't care. I'll hop the next flight to back to the old country. Hide in the cargo hold and find some Romanians to worship me again." "Fine," Morty spat. "I vote for 'no friggin' way.' How about the rest of you?" "Florida Disneyland," Chiyo cheerfully chirped. "Same," I said. "Foooooorida niiiiiiiice," Bouncer said. "Guess that's another 'yes," Morty said. "What about you, Pinkie?" The finger lifted itself onto its base and began wiggling. "Fine, let's all head on down to the Sunshine State," Morty said. "What's the worst that could happen? Now let's go find a bus depot. Do the fleshballs still have those or did they get rid of 'em too?" ========================================= By the way, nice shirt you've got there, with the hula girls. That's what they're called, right? They let you wear that around a police station? Whatever. What kind of cigarettes have you got in the pocket? Chesterfields? Oh, Camel Lights? Well, Carol always kept a pack of Chesterfields close at hand. She usually lit one up after hiking down to the end of the driveway and putting out the "closed" sign every night at 6 o 'clock on the dot. When she'd take me out of my case to dust me and tend to my veil, she always had one in her mouth. I guess you could say that I developed a bit of a habit myself. Can you smoke in here? In this investigation room? This is an investigation room, right? It's just you and me in here. I won't tell if you won't tell. Just light one up for me and let it burn in the ashtray. If you're feeling generous, you could blow a little smoke in my face. That's what Carol would do. She must have figured out that I liked it. Oh and let me guess. There's a camera behind that mirror, right? Yes, I've seen a few police TV programs, believe it or not. I know how this works. Is your boss is back there too? I didn't know we had company. You could have told me that before got started. This is probably as good a time as any to go over some of the basics. If you aren't going to ask me for them, I'm sure your boss and whoever else is behind that mirror will. Let's just get it over with right now. As you can tell, we talk. We talk a lot. God only knows what sort of lies Chiyo is telling your pals next door right now. We don't eat or drink or anything like that but we can smell. I've got a thing for nicotine, as you can see. Morty did too before….you know. Cigars, he loved them. Stupid, stubborn old bastard… Give me a second, OK? Mulțumesc, as they say back in the old country. So Chiyo. She's all about french fries. If you guys haven't already, send somebody over to the nearest Burger King. Plop a large bag of fries in front of her, let her huff them for a few minutes and she'll love you forever. Do we sleep? Definitely. Hibernate, even. I spent the '40s locked in a trunk in some warehouse on the outskirts of Rotterdam. The only thing to do in there was sleep. I only woke up once the entire decade. You can probably guess when. That's right, when the keizer or whoever blasted the whole damn city to bits. The earth shook for three days straight. Far as I know, we can live forever if we take care of ourselves. Who knows what would have happened if that dog had gotten ahold of me. Is there a heaven for Romanian devil dolls? I couldn't tell you. How are we doing on time here? Should I get on with it? All right, then. I've got all the time in the world, being a probable immortal and everything, but I suppose you don't. So I won't tell you about what happened at the bus station or the Taco Bell in Brooklyn. The Jersey Turnpike was a real hoot. It would take me an hour to go over the night we spent in the Lincoln Bedroom and how we got in there. You couldn't get me to tell you what happened in West Virginia if you stuck every one of those cigarettes in your mouth like a carnie, lit 'em up and filled the room with a fog of rich tobacco. Do I feel bad about what went down in Columbus, Georgia? Sure, who wouldn't? Oh, you don't know about that? Probably for the best. Any other unexplained mysteries or weirdness that happened on the eastern seaboard in the weeks it took us to get to Orlando? You could probably pin about half of those on us. The rest of 'em? Probably Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster. Who knows? You're the investigator. You tell me. ================================ So the fun park? Have you ever been? The place is huge. Bigger than Belgium or it at least seemed like it was. I can see why it's called a world. We weren't prepared for that but we figured it all out soon enough. The humidity down here in Florida isn't doing my hair any favors though and Hopper had a run in with a wild heron a while back. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle though. Chiyo knew where to go. The Magical Kingdom. The science park was no place for us and the water lands with all the swimming pools and the hotels weren't going to do us any good. It took us forever to reach the gates. The five of us got through both of the Carolinas faster. We had to make most of the journey on foot. But what a wonderland! We got to the front gates in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. I'm pretty sure it was in the middle of March. What is it now? August? Oh, October? We held out that long? Good to know. Should have been longer. Should have been years, really. Decades. A few centuries if Mr Disney and his ancestors could afford to keep the place going that long. Oh, and the lights. They never turn them off. Did you know that? We were transfixed when we saw the train station out front, all lit up with a rat's face made out of flowers in front of it for some reason. There were rats all over the place inside too. Bushes made out of them and hidden in weird little ways on all of the rides or whatever you called them. They really creeped Morty out but he learned to live with them. I guess he had some bad experiences with rodents at some point. We never did see a real one though. Chiyo was excited, like a child on Christmas morning. We were all pretty happy to finally be there, to tell you the truth. Getting through the bars in the front gates wasn't a problem but they were cleaning the main boulevard when we came through. Some of the workers had these giant water guns that made a terrible screeching noise. There was also one of them with a…..I think it's called a flame thrower. He was using it to get some awful gunk off the sidewalk. I didn't look over at Hopper as we got ourselves into the shadows. I don't think any of us did. We were just so happy, after everything that had happened. None of us wanted to think about him running around with a flamethrower a few seconds after we had reached our Shangri-La. The Magical Kingdom really was exactly that. For a while, at least. A Shangri-La, an oasis, a heaven, all of those in a great big box with a bow on top. I don't regret those years I spent in Carol's museum but had I known about the fun park I would have headed down here instead. We played it safe the first few weeks. Morty swiped a notebook with a blonde girl and a snowman on the cover from a gift shop. It became our bible and a box in a forgotten storeroom became our first home in the park. Every night, we broke into teams, girls and boys. Well, boys and fingers. Me and Chiyo in one, Morty, Hopper and Pinky in the other. He wasn't about to let the bunny out of his sight. I'll never know now but I'm pretty sure Hopper was just as happy to be there as the rest of us. We got to know every single corner of the park. Where the cameras were. The schedule of the workers and the maintenance men. The ones that stayed up all night fixing the robots and making sure the carousel wasn't going to spin out of control and kill somebody. Things like that. I remember a night when I got stuck in the jungle ride and watched two people in a little boat wash the head of a fake hippopotamus in the river. How does someone get a job like that? What do they call it? Hippo Scrubber? Of course, we rode all of the rides, even the big ones and the rockets that go through outer space in the mountain. Chiyo didn't go but the rest of us did when it was being tested one night. Bounced right on. I couldn't see much. I had to stay on the floor but I remember the stars sliding by over my head. Letting Hopper join us wasn't the best of ideas. He was flung out of the rocket on the first slope. We found him at the bottom of the mountain, sitting in the darkness, just laughing and laughing. Getting thrown through the cosmos and hitting the floor, for him, was just about as a good as it gets. That damn mountain. If it hadn't been for that thing we'd probably still be living in the park. We wouldn't be here right now. You wouldn't even know that we exist. The other mountains in the park weren't a problem. Hopper loved the one with the train that goes through the Wild West town but he hated the one with the water and the logs. Chiyo agreed to go on that one once but she lost it after we all got wet at the end. She was terrified that getting splashed would mess up her mechanics. That night, while Chiyo was all wet and losing her mind, terrified that she was dying while all of these robotic animals were singing "zippity ya ya" around us, Hopper started whimpering in the back of the log. After we got out and were in the exit area I actually asked him if he was okay. "Happy bunnnnyyyyy…." he said. "The bunny on the ride?" I asked him. "Brer Bunny?" "Stupiddddd, happy bunnnnyyy." On the ride, you follow this Brer Bunny character around as he fights with a fox and a bear that are trying to eat him. He gets away at the end and sings a cheerful song before it's all over. The rabbit really seemed to get under Hopper's fur. Morty and I rode through that mountain many times but the Brer Bunny at the end, the one that sings the song, never seemed to work quite right after that. I don't know if Hopper kept breaking him but he wasn't the only one in our group that sometimes messed around with the rides. The one with all of the singing kiddie dolls? That's the one that got to me. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't go in there a few times and knock over a few of them just for fun. We created plenty of extra work for the maintenance people but I regret none of it. You can't pin anything that's gone wrong with the ride with the witch and the dwarves on us. We all really liked that one. The ride with the puppet that becomes a fleshball? Morty never admitted it but that ride had a lot problems during our time in the park. You probably don't need me to tell you why. But don't get me wrong. Sure, certain spots in the park definitely chapped our hides but, once we got settled and figured out the lay of the land, the place was a paradise. Chiyo never said so much as a single bad thing about the place either. She was always so well behaved during our time there. We'd learned a lot on the way down to Florida. Stuff like how to better avoid the watchful eyes of cameras and fleshballs and dogs and, most importantly, how to avoid pushing each other's buttons. There's all these tunnels under the park too, which definitely helped us get around. Not too many fleshballs down there at two in the morning. We even had a schedule going. During operating hours, we zoned out behind a toy chest in the ride with the flying children and the pirate ships. After the ships stopped whizzing past, we knew it was time for us to come out and live our little lives. We just got so comfortable after a while and Morty stopped worrying about Hopper. It was like we were enchanted, transfixed by the place, and had checked our brains at the gates. Or whatever qualifies as brains in our little heads. The park had definitely softened our edges and chased our various demons away….at least for a little while. Every night, we'd have a chat among ourselves and Chiyo would head off with Pinky or Hopper. Sometimes we'd all stick together and sometimes it would just be Morty and I. On those nights, we would first go to a restaurant nearby and just smell the smells still lingering in the air. I've never eaten food. My mouth doesn't open. No place to put it. But I can still smell it. Morty would usually head back to the toy chest before me. In those hours leading up until morning, I just walked around and stared at everything. The shiny buildings, the mountains and all the robots. Sometimes they were up and running and sometimes they weren't. Sure, they were all fake. They weren't real like us. As weird as it might sound, I started getting jealous of them. The singing toys and the pirates and the roaring lions. They could be themselves. They could be alive and up and about in front of all of these fleshballs. They didn't have to hide, even the ghouls in the mansion. If I had to pick a favorite of all those rides, it would have been the mansion. Big surprise, right? Me being a Romanian devil doll and everything. I had no reason to hide in all those dark hallways. I would just go and sit in the graveyard. Sometimes the robot spirits would be up and running and singing their song. Other nights, they'd all be turned off with the grim grinning grins frozen. On those nights I could actually hear myself think. Living in a fun park is many things but quiet isn't one of them, even in the dead of night. In that cemetery, with all the ghosts so still, I had silence. No fleshballs to avoid. No loud children in their pirate ships, hundreds an hour, chattering while I was trying to get some rest. But nothing good ever lasts, not in this world or any other. We all knew it or should have. I think that's why Morty gave me and him "a go" as he would put it. There's a lot I'll never know about his life and he mine but, if there's others like us in the world, he probably met plenty during his travels. We had our moments together and got as close as two….things like us could ever get. Peering down into the wishing well, pretending to fish in the moonlight off the edge of the steamboat's dock. Then we found out about the one hotel room in the park, at the top of the castle. One night, it didn't have any guests and, well, I'll leave the rest up to your imagination. On the other hand, tell your imagination that it's better off not going down that particular road. Afterwards, as we laid there in that ridiculous bed all painted gold, for whatever reason, he started unloading about the past. So much for pillow talk. "We were up in Washington, me and the fleshball who used me in his act," Morty told me. "Ralph was his name. It was the last night of a monthlong gig at the old Seattle Theater. God, we were so popular, we were really going places. We were real flush after all those shows and some of the backstage folks invited us….okay, him, out for drinks afterward. They put me at the center of the table and, for a little while, I felt like I was one of them. They even bought me a manhattan. Slapped it down right in front of me. What I wouldn't have given to down the whole thing, fire back at their barbs with my own, have some real laughs." I wanted to ask him what was up with the sudden confessional but I kept my mouth shut. "For whatever reason, ol' Ralph carried me back to the hotel instead of putting me in my case like usual," Morty continued. "He dropped me in front of the door after he got off the elevator. Maybe that's why I did what I did. He was so damn drunk and couldn't find the key. I knew that he had it sitting right there in his jacket pocket so I told him. Ol' Ralph was a big fella, had a bum ticker probably. I remember him looking down at me with this dumb expression on his face. Then it went blank and he fell over. That was that. No more act, no more manhattans and no more tours. I sat there for an hour or so. Nobody came and nothing I could do so I got up and I ran. Spent a month in a movie house across the street listening to The Wizard of Oz and 'Over the Rainbow' four times a day until I couldn't stand it anymore." Morty went quiet after that. I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything. Like I said earlier, I'm not good at empathy. After a while, we got up and left. If he was angry at me, he didn't let on. But, of course, that was the night when everything all went wrong. We found Pinky scooting around in circles at the bottom of the elevator. There was no way it could hit the button to get upstairs and warn us that something terrible was happening. Even when we found Pinky after the doors opened, the only thing it could convey was panic. We followed the finger back to the toy chest where Chiyo was quickly losing her mind. "Where have you been?!" she yelled. "While you guys have been off making out or whatever, Hopper has gone totally nuts!" Pinky jumped on Morty's shoulder and we made our way as fast as we could to the future section of the park. Chiyo brought us up to speed as we darted through the tunnels. "We went to the spaceship mountain," she said. "It is Hopper's favorite place and the fleshballs have been testing it all night. Usually, one or two trips and he's good but not now. I couldn't get him out of the rockets. The fleshballs will discover him any second!" The mountain had been shut down for a week or two so Hopper was no doubt catching up for lost time. No big thing, or at least so I thought at the time. We all went in and the rockets were still zipping around by the time we got to the loading area. We waited behind a tool chest until we heard giggling in one of them as it pulled into the station. Pinky stayed behind while the us climbed onboard. As the rocket rolled once more into the cosmos, Morty, Chiyo and I climbed over to the seats until we found Hopper in the back. His eyes were wild or as wild as two pieces of glass in a stuffed animal's head can get. "Moooooooore staaaaaars," he muttered as the rocket began its ascent. "More….." "Damn rabbit's gone all loopy," Morty said. "We may have to toss his furry butt out of this thing when we get back to the station." "If we make it," I told him. "Get down here and hang on." Morty joined me on the floor of the rocket and we clung to the base of the mechanical bars that prevents people from flying out of it. Over all the noise, I could hear Hopper chuckling like a maniac and Chiyo pleading with him. I haven't heard laughter like that since the last time I watched a peasant get burned at the stake for witchcraft. What, you've never had the pleasure? Don't you still do that? Oh, shows what I know. I do try to keep up on this things, believe it or not. Morty kept his eyes on the floor. Have you ever seen a ventriloquist dummy turn green? Me neither but if Morty could have he would have. I kept mine locked on Chiyo and the bunny. He was standing on the seat with his arms wrapped around the bar. Halfway down the mountain, one of his paws when skyward. "WAAAAAAAAAAAANT STAAAAAAAAAAAR!!!!!" the rabbit yelled. "NO, HOPPER!" Chiyo yelled. "YOU CAN'T HAVE A STAR!" "HOPPER, NO!" I screamed up at him. "BAD BUNNY!" Of course, it was no use. His second paw went up towards the closest supernova. Chiyo should have known better but she grabbed on to him. Then they both went spinning off into outer space. Morty and I didn't say anything when we got back to the station. Prying eyes be damned, we jumped out of the rocket and ran down the tracks. By the time we found them, Hopper had found a welding torch and figured out how to turn it on. I guess one of the workers had left it behind. The flame on the tip lit up the bottom of the mountain. There was dust everywhere. A few boxes too but, most importantly, a can of kerosene. I ran at him but was knocked aside. Morty did what he could. They traded a few jabs but the rabbit was on a mission. While they fought, they knocked over the can. "MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE MY OWN STAR!" he yelled. "OWN STAAAAAAAAAAAARS! SO MAAAAAAANY!!!! I told Morty to run. He didn't listen. His little cloth suit burst into flames. He was once a star of the stage and I guess he got to be one again. One last time, I suppose. Sorry, bad joke. Then I told Chiyo to run and she didn't listen either. She just stared at Morty all up in flames, totally calm. No more tears and no more screaming. Then she walked right over to that can of kerosene and turned the knob. As I ran back to the tracks, I did look back one last time. Not at Morty and not at that stupid little fool Chiyo but the rabbit. He'd already set a dozen things on fire. I don't how but I could see them in the flickering flames. Maybe the fall had done it or maybe Morty managed to tear a hole in his back during their fight. His stuffing was charred. It looked like charcoal and it just pouring out of him like a faucet. Someone, somewhere, some twisted kid had really done a number on him. Explains a lot, don't it? But why did Chiyo turn that knob? That's the big mystery, isn't it? Now that you know what happened, why don't you go and ask her? I'd love to know myself. Once you squeeze the answer out of that little broscoi, let me at her, OK? Five minutes. Just the two of us in this room, that's all I ask. I know that you're not about to let that happen but I figured I'd ask anyway. Oh, and what about Pinky? Have you found the finger yet? No? Hmmmm….probably halfway back to Egypt or wherever it came from by now, I'd bet. It's more clever than you might think. Anyway, sorry about your fun park. Right before you came in here, I heard one of your colleagues say that Hopper and his torch managed to take down most of the place with him. Only thing left standing is the island and the mansion with the ghosts. This isn't the first time this has happened, right? I guess there was a bad fire at some movie park in California a while back. Sorry, I don't know anything about that one. Must have been some other gang of "enchanted objects." Oh, cry me a river. I lost Morty, you lost a fun park. Eye for an eye. Now let's talk about something else. You've been hitting me with questions all morning and I've got one for you. Now that you fleshballs know that there are things like us in this world, what are you going to do about it? I hold a B.A. and M.A. in Linguistics and have studied the craft of writing at Gotham Writers' Workshop. Writing and traveling are passions that go hand in hand, and I look for inspiration in people and places. The inspiration for this story came with a visit to Marfa, Texas, where the legend of the Giant cast in the Paisano Hotel lives on. I live with my husband in the California Sierras and have often passed through the highway intersection where James Dean met his end with that infamous Ford. A Drive and a Drink with James Dean Beau found her at the kitchen sink with a glass of water raised halfway to her mouth, her attention toward the window and a banging that came from the direction of the tractor barn. He leaned against the door jamb and watched her. Mercy Earle, in all her four-inch-heel glory, fifty next month and a magnet for every eye in any room. He lit a cigarette and asked, “What’re you looking at?” She started at his voice. “Where have you been?” “Around. Everyone’s gone. You can get out of the widow’s weeds now.” She frowned at him over her shoulder, and an auburn lock escaped the bun she had devised for the funeral. The black silk rippled with currents of iridescence. “Give me a break. I really am sorry he’s dead.” Mascara tears laid tracks of black through her makeup. “Shedding a few for show?” “Go to hell.” She turned back to the window and the banging. “There’s a loose shutter on the barn. Tell Agustin to fix it.” “Tell him yourself. You’re the big boss now.” Her shoulders fell, and she brushed the lock of hair behind her ear with one hand. With the other she drank the water and put the glass on the counter. Her lips had pressed a crimson crescent onto it. “Why are you mad at me? I didn’t have anything to do with it. He had a stupid accident. He was never careful with the machinery.” “You always thought everything about him was stupid.” “Sonny wasn’t a smart man, Beau. Kind, but not smart.” “And wasn’t that great for you. You could boss him around like a puppy.” “And what about you? You took advantage of him. Don’t even try to deny it.” “I loved him.” “You love the money.” “And you don’t? Isn’t that why you married him? Wasn’t that the deal with Lon? You’d ride herd on Sonny and live like a queen?” She whipped around in a silken shimmer. “I married him to give you a better life.” “And you.” “All right, and me. How would you have liked it, growing up in the back of Dad’s gas station? You could have been a grease monkey. Think that would have made you happier than your sports car and your closet full of clothes?” “Thanks for sacrificing yourself to a man you couldn’t stand. But, you’re wrong, I did love him.” She wiped a hand across her eyes, smearing the mascara over her cheek. The rock in her wedding ring winked at him. “I’m sorry, I know you did.” Her fingertips flashed red. During the past three days of sorrow, she found the time for a manicure. “How the hell do you do it?” “What?” “Stand by your husband’s grave in July and not even break a sweat.” He wet his fingertips with spit and doused the cigarette, then threw it in the trash can. “Lon wants to talk to us. In the study. Dividing up the spoils would be my guess.” “Try to be nice. He’s devastated.” She turned back to the window. “And tell Agustin to fix that damned shutter before the wind blows it off.” He left her to her black dress, her fake tears, and her sanctimony. He made his way through the cavernous living room littered with napkins and plates of half-eaten food and empty whiskey glasses. They had toasted Sonny with phrases of praise for a man none of them respected. Someone had spilled a plate of cake on one of the leather sofas. Crumbs dripped onto the oak floorboards. In the study Lon slumped in his wheelchair under a blanket of grief for his dead son. He still wore the black suit, but he had unknotted the tie. Real tears crept through the crevices of his face. “Have a seat, Beau. Where’s Mercy?” His voice, no longer the bellow that cowed friends and enemies, wrapped around words with difficulty. “Is she getting everything?” “We’ll talk about it, when she’s here.” “She’s been running the ranch since your stroke. Who else is there?” Lon’s palpable fatigue filled the room. Beau spent a childhood in awe of the swaggering legend who dominated his chunk of West Texas. The shrunken remnant in the wheelchair was a stranger. Lon coughed into a palsied hand and said, “What do you want to know? How much you’re getting?” “Why would I get anything? I’m not his son.” “Right you are. But that’s not the reason.” “So I’m not getting anything.” “No, you’re not. Because you’d run through it and have nothing to show for it.” Beau backed out of the study, the truth of it confirmed. Sonny loved him, embraced him as his own child, and now all that love had vaporized, as if it never existed. He met his mother on her way to Lon. She had wiped away the traces of weeping. She caught his arm. “Where are you going? I thought Lon wanted to talk.” “I’m getting nothing from the only father I ever had, and it’s Lon’s doing. Sonny would have left me something, but Lon wouldn’t let him. Enjoy your inheritance.” “Don’t leave. We’ll talk. I’ll take care of you, you know I will.” He shook her hand off his arm. The Porsche barreled down the ranch road at seventy, its engine thrumming and muffling the racket in his head. He tried to imagine the force of the crash, when that other Porsche slammed into the Ford. Did he have a second’s awareness of the impact, or did it come at him too fast? Beau pressed the accelerator as he neared the highway, but hit the brake in time to fishtail through the turn to Marfa. Dusk painted the desert with shadows that jumped and danced in the headlights. He was twenty-four, when he died, Beau’s age. What would it feel like, to die now, when he had hardly lived? How fast did the Porsche go on the highway from Bakersfield? Officials said eighty-five, but others estimated much faster. Beau preferred to believe the latter and had settled on one-thirty as a speed worthy of a race driver. He watched his speedometer needle clear one-ten, then one-fifteen. The cactus, billboards, and barbed wire along the highway coalesced into a blur. He hurtled through a funnel with only the headlight beams, the engine’s thunder, the wind beating his face, his sweat on the steering wheel, the resistance of the accelerator. At one-twenty his foot retreated from the pedal, and he pounded the wheel. He couldn’t do it. He could never do it. He parked on the curb in front of the Paisano, repaired the wind damage with a comb, and spritzed his hair with the pocket hair spray he carried in the glove box. When he sauntered into the hotel, the air conditioning fought with the desert at the entrance. Fingers of heat chased him into the lobby until the current from the ceiling vents won. His boot heels clicked across the mosaic of floor tile. The movie poster demanded a moment of reverence, and he always paid it. They gazed down at him from the stucco. Rock Hudson, Liz Taylor, and James Dean, framed under glass. He peeked at the plaque, the improbable tale of their residence in the hotel, while they filmed Giant in the desert near Marfa. Sometimes in the grip of nighttime delusion he feared it might be a fantasy, but they walked these tiles he walked, they drank in the bar where he would drink. The lobby was empty, so he leaned in on Dean and studied the swoop of his hair, the eyes squinting sideways at the lens, that half glare of contempt, that smirk, the impertinence. He ducked into the men’s room to compare his swoop, his sideways glare, his smirk to Dean’s. James Dean squinted at him from the mirror. The dress shirt, a soft cream Calvin Klein, flattered him even with jeans. He shucked the suit and tie as soon as the parade of limos returned to the ranch. Sonny wouldn’t take offense. Sonny preferred jeans for all occasions. In Jett’s Grill the central table facing the door waited for him. “Sorry about Sonny, terrible thing,” the waitress said. “Yeah, it was. Bring me a bottle of Patron Silver and a bowl of limes.” “Sure you want to do that, Beau?” “Just bring it, Wanda. No lectures.” She poured the first shot and left him with the bottle. He lit a cigarette and waited. They often came this time of year, summer tourist season, on their way up from Big Bend. They wandered off the main highways to find the Reata on a patch of desert outside Marfa, but when they discovered the ranch house had been a shell of a movie set now reduced to a few scraps of lumber, Jett’s Grill was their consolation prize. After his third shot, two girls with sweaty ponytails and sunburns walked into the grill in hiking boots, shorts, and Big Bend tees. At a nearby table, they ordered margaritas and began to sneak glances at him. The brunette whispered to the blonde, and both stared, trying to reach a conclusion, an answer to the question. Their respectful hesitance and admiration charged his senses like cocaine. The brunette made the first advance. She stood across the table from him and said, “You look like him. People must tell you that all the time.” He lowered his head and rewarded her with a smirk. “James Dean, I mean.” He gestured toward a chair. “Y’all have a seat.” She waved to the blonde, who brought their margaritas. “You must be related to him,” the blonde said. “Yeah,” he said with the diffidence of Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. “He was my grandfather.” “I knew it,” she said to the brunette. “Didn’t I tell you he must be related?” Her blue eyes took in the swoop of his hair, his smirk, his impertinence. “Are you visiting, seeing where he made the movie?” “I live here, on a ranch near town.” He sucked a lime wedge, followed with another shot of tequila. “My family’s always lived on the ranch, for generations.” “And your family knew him?” “They had the whole cast out to the ranch several times. My grandmother and Dean had an affair.” “Did you know him?” Beau fired a glare at her, but she missed the contempt. “Way before my time. He died in 1955.” “A car wreck, wasn’t it?” He nodded at her with a sideways squint. “He was driving to a race in Salinas. Crashed his Porsche into a Ford west of Bakersfield.” He poured another shot and offered tequila to the women. They shook their heads, and signaled Wanda to bring them more margaritas. After two hours and enough Patron to mellow his memory of the day, he was entertaining a group of seven tourists with the stories he’d fabricated for their amusement. “Y’all know he was a race car driver, right? Loved racing, loved the speed.” Wind on his face, sweat on the wheel. “Didn’t like acting much, racing was it for him. Yeah, it killed him, but he went out guns blazin’. He was doing at least one-thirty down that hill. Probably never saw it coming.” Down the long hill out of Bakersfield, through the funnel of hot wind, engine thunder, his foot holding on the accelerator, never surrendering, riding it to the end. Beau toasted the air and drank another shot. His tongue balked. Like old Lon after his stroke. He laughed at the tourists and their distorted faces that adored him from within a fog. “A Ford. Can you believe it? Killed by a damn Ford.” He felt her hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go,” she said. He looked past the tourists and caught Wanda’s eye. He telegraphed a glare of contempt she couldn’t miss, but she offered no signal of apology for the phone call. “Guess the management thinks I’m too drunk to make it home. Ladies and gentlemen, meet my mother, the recently widowed Mercedes Earle.” The brunette said, “Then you’re his daughter.” “No. Come on, Beau. Let’s go home.” He poured a shot of tequila and drank it, slopping half over the rim, and used the tabletop to push onto his feet. He leaned on her for stability into the lobby, then waved her away and stumbled across the tile, past the poster, and through the front entrance into the desert’s night. They finished filming in September, two weeks before the crash. James Dean, two weeks from death, stood on this sidewalk, the heat radiating into his soles, the scorch searing his face. “Wonder how he liked summer in the desert.” She led him to her pickup and told him to get in. “What about my car?” “We’ll get it tomorrow.” Beau pulled himself into the pickup and caught a glimpse of him in the side mirror. Behind the wheel she sat with her hands in her lap and fidgeted with the key. “Why do you do this? You’re not his grandson.” “Spittin’ image. They all say so.” “It’s not true, and you know it. Mom and Dad didn’t live here then.” “I can feel it when I look at his picture. I look at him, and I see me. I see me.” “Because you want to.” “Those people in there see him when they look at me.” “Because they want to. They see a passing resemblance and run with it.” All the anguish of the day ballooned inside him, until the pain lodged in the back of his throat near explosion. “I don’t have anything now. Sonny was all I had. He loved me. You and Lon think I’m worthless, Sonny was the only one. Those people in the bar, they look at me like I’m somebody. Can’t you let me have that?” “But it’s not real, Beau. Be yourself. You can be somebody real.” “Who can I be?” She dismissed him with a shake of her head and turned the key in the ignition. The pickup pulled away from the curb, and through the window and a hot wind he saw the Paisano’s Spanish façade, as James Dean would have seen it, when he left for a day on the set. The hotel slipped away, and he watched the face in the side mirror until his eyes closed. Brooke Reynolds is a veterinarian from Charlotte, North Carolina. When she isn't saving animals, she enjoys reading and writing fiction. She has a bachelor of science from Penn State University and earned her veterinary degree from Virginia Tech. Recently her short story 'Dr. Google' won 2nd place in the 2016 Channillo Short Story Contest. Typically her writing style includes neo-noir and transgressive satire with a literary bent. You can follow her on twitter @psubamit The Locket The first gift of Brittany Turner’s sixteenth birthday was sitting on her front porch when she arrived home early from school. The box contained an old tape recorder and a cassette tape. She removed the tape which was labeled “A” on one side and “B” on the other. The words “From Dad” were printed in sharpie across the top. A small piece of paper was folded in the corner of the box, labeled with two simple words, “Play Me”. She was six years old the day he left, but the day still lingered in the forefront of her mind. A more perfect day spent with her father did not exist. It was her favorite and least favorite memory. Her hands trembled. The muscles in her neck cinched down tighter and tighter as her eyes welled with tears. This really was the voice of her father playing back to her. Hello, Brittany. It’s me, Dad. I know it’s been ten years since we last spoke. I bet you have questions. I’m sure you’re confused. The quietness of the house combined with the ghostly recording sent chills up and down Brittany’s arms, causing her to pause the tape for a moment. She had been suspended from school and the principal drove her home early, her mother not due at home for several more hours. The principal kept saying something about an incident with her classmate but Brittany didn’t remember much. She only remembered seeing the single droplet of blood that formed as she pushed a pen against her classmate’s neck, pinning her against a locker. Everything before that was just blackness. The principal didn’t believe her and without cause for her actions, there was talk of expulsion. Curious as to why she was hearing her father’s voice now, she pressed play and heard her father say… I am so sorry that I had to leave you that day. I had to go away. Things had become, difficult, for me. I never stopped loving you. You are my partner in crime, my everything. Your mother and I, well, I’m sure you blame her, but it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t your fault either. It’s important that you understand this. We just saw things differently. I am so sorry I haven’t been there for you and I’m sorry for all the pain and disappointment I caused you. If things were different, I could have stayed. I left this message entrusted with some people to be saved until your sixteenth birthday, when you would be ready, old enough to understand. Maybe now, we can be together. If you want to see me, come find me. When you’re ready, turn the tape over to side “B”. I’ve left instructions to guide you. I promise you will find the answers you are searching for. I love you oh so very much, and no matter what you choose, you will always be my little girl. The wheels in the tape slowed to a stop and the play button popped back up. She stared, baffled at the message from the old recording device. She wound her hair around her fingers causing it to be disheveled and knotted. Her heart pounded in her chest. She sniffed back a tear and grabbed her phone, desperate to hear an explanation from her mother. Straight to voice mail. “Mom. Mother where are you? You better fucking call me back. Dad’s alive? You better explain this right now.” *** Five years earlier, during her eleventh birthday, Brittany burst through the front door. It was her eleventh birthday and she was excited to see what her mother had in store. She raced into the kitchen, tossing her bag onto a chair. “How was your day, honey?” Brittany’s mother was standing by the mixer, sipping from a glass of wine. “Better now that I’m home. What ya doing?” “I’m making your cake. Now go work on your homework and I’ll call you down when dinner is ready.” “But it’s my birthday,” Brittany protested. “Finish your homework first.” Brittany sulked away with her head hung down. Then she remembered. “Hey, Mom? Did Dad call?” Brittany could see all the muscles tense in her mother’s body. “I told you a thousand times. We do not speak of him.” Cathleen’s voice hardened as she took another sip. “But, I just thought with it being my birthday and all…you know, maybe he would have called. That’s all.” “He hasn’t managed to find the time to call during your last five birthdays so don’t expect things to change now.” She swirled her wine around in the glass before taking a gulp. “He’ll call. I know he will. I can feel it.” “He abandoned us, Brittany. He doesn’t care what happens to us.” Her words began to slur. “You need to face the facts. Just assume he’s dead.” Cathleen declared, downing the cheap purple liquid. She emptied the bottle into her glass. “You take that back. He is not dead!” Brittany spun on her heels, her index finger pointed toward her mother’s face. “Daddy loves me.” “Ha. Right.” Cathleen stumbled as she sipped another drink of her wine, spilling some down her blouse. “He doesn’t love you. Hell, he doesn’t love me. You were a, a mistake.” Brittany snatched the wine glass, splashing her mother with the remaining contents. The spreading stain on her mother’s blouse now matched the redness of her face as her anger boiled over. “Oh. You little bitch. Well, you can just forget about this birthday cake.” Cathleen poured the contents of the mixer into the kitchen sink, running water behind to wash it down the drain. *** The ghostly recorded words of her father played like a skipping record in her mind. No matter what she tried, she could not shut them out; finally coming to the realization that she did not want to ignore them. She had waited for so long to hear her father again. During his absence, she would occasionally imagine the advice he had given her. She kept a photograph of him hidden in her room. It was the only reminder left of what he looked like. Her mother had removed all other pictures from the house long ago. The memory of their last day together rolled through Brittany’s thoughts. As she closed her eyes, a pleasant smile creased her lips. There was a trip to the zoo, hot dogs for lunch, strawberry ice cream from that local creamery. After that, nothing. She had the unmistakable feeling that a part of the day had been wiped away. It was like her father was there, then gone. Who remembers an unknown goodbye? Brittany had made up her mind. She would listen to the other side of the tape, if for nothing more than to sate her curiosity. After a brief hesitation, she swooped the recorder up under her arm before bolting out the door. The door slammed behind her. Stepping into the backyard, she flipped the tape. Inhaling a deep breath and closing her eyes, Brittany hit play on the recorder. Brittany, honey. Come on. We have to get going. Awww, Dad. Just 5 more minutes? Okay, Brittany. But then we must get going. Okay, Daddy. I love you. Brittany paused the tape. She recognized her six-year-old voice over the recorder. She steadied her breathing, eager for her father’s instructions and pressed the play button. Hello, Brittany. I had hoped that you would flip the tape and decide to see me again. Listen very carefully. I will help you find me. I’m ready, Daddy. Okay, honey. We’ll go this way today. You have all your things? Still have that locket necklace on I gave you? Yes, Daddy. Where are we going? First, we are headed out of the neighborhood. Then we’re headed right, on to Dayton Ave. Which way Daddy? It’s this way sweetheart. Hold my hand, especially when we cross the street. How come you got that thingy in your hand Daddy? I’m leaving a message for a friend. Do I know them? Brittany shook her head. This was unbelievable. She continued down the road, following her father’s strange instructions exactly. Yes, sweetheart. You know them. Turn left onto Ridgeport Lane. What’s that thing do? It just, it records what we are saying. It will help our friend find us. Why? Why? Because they need our help. And you like helping people, right Brittany? You betcha, Daddy. Oh, Daddy look. A merry-go-round. Can I go play on that? Brittany smiled as she passed the playground with the same merry-go-round. She used to love the upside-down, backward feeling you’d get when you first jumped off. That feeling where the world spins faster and faster around you while you remain perfectly still, or at least that is what she told herself. The only difference was that tonight, the world spun faster without the aid of the merry-go-round. Maybe later, sweetheart. We have to keep moving. Are we there yet? Just a little farther, honey. Make a right onto Faith Hollow Rd just up ahead. I promise all of this will make sense when you see it. Walk to 535 Faith Hollow Rd. You know that I love you very much, right Brittany? I love you too, Daddy. And you know that I only want what’s best for you. That’s why we had such a fun day today. Daddy has to go away for a while and I wanted one more last good day before I left. Where are you going? I can’t tell you that. But I’ll be safe there. Can I come visit? When you’re ready, yes. I need you to be brave honey, especially when I’m gone. Remember what I told you about courage? Brittany mouthed the words right along with her six-year-old recorded voice. “Courage isn’t having the strength to go on – it is going on when you don’t have strength.” Brittany was standing in front of what looked to be an old abandoned car garage. The grass on the property stood knee high. The windows were caked with dirt and small trees had taken root in the degraded rusted gutters. Large cracks filled the driveway. The mailbox leaned at a forty-five-degree angle. The paint on the mailbox was chipped and faded, but she could still make out the address, 535. The houses on either side looked abandoned. She paused out in front. I don’t want you to go away, Daddy. We’re here at 535. Go around to the back. The gate should be open. You will find the back door unlocked as well. Brittany walked up to a rusty, old, mesh gate. The timeworn gate let out a creaky moan as it swung open. A cold chill raced up her spine. The back of the building contained a plain wooden door, void of any discernable markings. Brittany tested the door and it slowly swung open. Come honey, we have to go inside. Take my hand. It’s dark in here Daddy and it smells funny. I know sweetheart. I’ll turn on the lights in just a minute. Before I do, I need you to be very brave. What I’m about to show you, may frighten you. But it’s important so that you can understand. This will be our little secret. You cannot tell anyone about this. This is just between us. Not even Mommy? Especially not Mommy. But why? She wouldn’t understand. Now promise me you’ll be brave. I’m right here with you. I’m not leaving just yet. Okay, Daddy. I promise. Batting at the cobwebs, Brittany entered the doorway. A terrible odor smacked her in the face. She pulled the collar of her shirt up over her nose to stifle the smell. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, forcing her to leave footprints as she moved forward. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Mom calling. Brittany shut off the phone, preventing any further distractions. There was already another set of prints laid out before her. She followed them off to a side room. Brittany stopped dead in her tracks. Her whole body shivered as she willed her feet to move closer to the scene before her. A skeleton of about 6 feet with long, white, mangled hair sticking out of the top of a smashed skull was lying in the center of the room. The flesh had been completely stripped clean from the body. Tattered scraps of clothing hung off of the bones with most of the connective ligaments still present. The floor underneath and surrounding the corpse was stained from old bodily fluids. The left arm was placed at a deliberate unnatural angle, suggesting that it was pointing at something in the distance. The most peculiar thing was a locket necklace draped around the neck, the light from an outside window dancing and winking off of it. Okay now honey, here it is. Is that your friend, Uncle Eric? Yes, sweetheart. It is. What happened to him? Did he hit his head? You see Brittany, he was a very bad man. And he had done some very bad things. So he had to be taught a lesson. Is he dead? Yes, sweetheart. He’s dead. Did we kill him? Well…I killed him…. Oh. So can I help? You can help. Hand me your locket necklace. I’m placing this around his neck to leave as a symbol. A sort of signature. As Brittany approached the body, she recognized the heart-shaped symbol of her locket. She knelt down and pressed the small clasp on the side, revealing a tiny heart-shaped infant photo of herself. Static. Realizing that these remains were not the source of the smell, she continued in the direction the skeleton was pointing, following the footsteps into a backroom. As she approached, the smell grew stronger. It smelled like old rotting garbage, kimchi or sauerkraut, perfectly ripe and sticking to the back of her throat. She wretched, splattering the floor with stomach acid. Another body was placed in the center of the room, this one fresher than the last. Its abdomen taut with early signs of bloating. Bubbling, gurgling blood-tinged foam was slowly pouring out its nose and mouth. She was afraid to get any closer to this one for fear that the bloated remains would burst, exploding its contents all over her. The blackened skin was beginning to slough, slipping off of the underlying flesh. Flies buzzed around the corpse and a sea of maggots was crawling from the eye sockets. The rotting corpse was clad in a high-end custom-tailored three-piece Italian suit. The left arm was also forced in an unnatural angle, pointing at something behind her. From where she stood, she could make out another gold locket necklace. She stretched out and snagged the locket necklace from the new corpse. She opened the clasp to reveal another infant photo of herself. I hope you now understand the man that I am. Do you ever wonder where your anger comes from? That unmistakable desire deep inside of you, egging you, twisting you, that feeling, it comes from me. You are at an age now to make a decision on your own. Join me. Help me to be able to complete this project. I love you so much, Brittany… A hand reached up and tapped her shoulder. Brittany spun around with her hands up to her mouth to stifle a scream, dropping the locket at her father’s feet. “Hello, Brittany. Are you ready?” # |
ArchivesCategories
All
|