Overture

And all up towards,

jennifer blue–

again caught short.

And sputtering comes

Like throat coughs stuck to the mirror mid way fall

For who–

Isn’t it thorough enough?

Or has the

Placent thing com

Faster than it reads

Hotel Adelsheville: Chapter One

            Let me begin with a description of sorts:  Ang was a town with few amenities, but was a stop for many travelers on their way south to the city. On a hill north of the main street, beyond the small shops and eateries stood erect, a lofty structure, the Hotel Adelsheville.           

It stood fourteen stories tall with small balconies on every room numbering up to one hundred and twenty-two. Doric pillars decorated the front of the building, though their plaster cracked visibly and some of the white pallor had rusted from age along their fine edges. The steps guiding upwards and into the lobby were colored burgundy, though now they held a brownish hue, much like dried blood coagulating on flesh. Outside, the Hotel seemed worn and outdated, there was talk years ago of destroying the building, and the motion was readily received, but for whatever reason, the bill was shuffled away and the Hotel remained.           

            The lobby was finely in shape despite the somewhat shabbiness of the exterior. Large glass and crystal chandeliers hung enormous from the depressions in the ceiling, and the black marble floors reflected their elegance. Maroon tapestries swept across the walls casting a glow and created an air that made them almost hum in a solemn meditation. Large ebony skinned overstuffed chairs greeted one another across cast iron and glass tables, but remained quite contained. The marvel of the lobby, however, was not based in colorful antiques; instead, it was the bookcases. They stretched vastly from one end of the room to the other with two foot gaps between them for the floor to ceiling windows. They stood mighty with four tall ladders attached to reach the top shelf (Our guests, though, were not permitted to climb these—liability issues, I suppose). The books were of subjects varying immensely, from Tolstoy to Salinger, from encyclopedia to atlas, the information available was more than any man could gorge in his own lifetime. The desk, where I spent most of my time, was directly across from the bookshelves and overlooking the easy chairs and general area. It was forged from the same black marble as the floor and rose to my chest. There was at all times to be only one thing to be displayed on this counter, and that was a tiny iron bell that one could dangle side to side should I be somewhere other than my post. My boss, the caretaker, was very serious about this bell, it had been the same bell used to summon since the Hotel was opened in 1895; the bell was not to be anywhere else than this place for all of eternity it would seem.           

            It was an October Morning and quite cold, beads of snow froze against my skin exposed only in the face. The main street was silent, lights flickering only in scarce windows; I was the only soul on the pavement at all. My steps were quick in black leather shoes. I remember not wanting to scuff or wet the shoes as they had belonged to a guest, one whom had left his bag in his room. I did not make a vicious habit of searching through others things, but this bag had been left with us for weeks post departure. There was also a small amount of money that I kept, two oxford button downs, and a tweed jacket. I preferred only the shoes, however, finding that both the shirts and coat were a bit tight in the shoulders. I hurried down the cut cement and scuttled around patches of ice.

            The Hotel was just ahead, though shrouded in a blue mist rising from old ore mines found in the hills. This particular morning, as I weaved towards work, I witnessed a stray dog huddled and quivering against a metal trash can beside the Ang Place Bar. I stopped for a moment to observe the dog. It was yellow in spots, but some of the fur was bunched unnaturally in clumps of dirty black and there were equal spots of mange. His ribs almost pierced his flesh from malnutrition. I bent down, but remembered the fleas and ticks amongst other diseases the dog could be carrying. I stood back up, the dog had yet to move, his snout buried into the dark place between the can and the wall, he could not see me. Thick heavy breaths gave steady rise to its chest. I took my right foot and guided it slowly over the dog, running the sole of my shoe across its coat from its backside to its neck. I angled my toe against the tuft of fur, the dog still, it seemed, unaware of my presence and with most of my weight I forced my foot down and crushed the dog’s spine. It never let out a sound. The only assurance of death was the cessation of deep heavy breaths giving rise to its chest. I took my white rag handkerchief from my left pocket and polished my right shoe. I remember thinking that I had better move fast; I might be late for work.           

            When I arrived in the lobby of Adelsheville, a small man stood waiting at the counter and was reaching for the bell. Hurriedly, I ran across the black marble floor and before he could ring it, I grasped the iron in my hand and prevented the noise from alerting Mr. Cordial, the caretaker, to my tardiness.           

            “Yes, sir, how may I be of assistance?”           

“I think I need a room.”

“Of course, sir, will you be staying with us long?”           

I took out the necessary papers to assign him a room and to make the arrangements for his signature.           

“I’m not sure, where is this place?”           

“You are in the Hotel Adelsheville, Sir, the number one hotel in upstate New York, we have plenty of fine accommodations, suites, doubles, conjoining rooms, which would you prefer?”           

“New York…New York.”           

The man seemed astonished in his own thoughts; I had no use for his foolery, so I assigned him room twenty-seven, and pushed the registry to his hand resting on the counter.           

“Sir, will you need any assistance with your luggage?”           

“Bags, no, I don’t think so.”           

I inserted a pen into a crack between his thumb and forefinger urging him to finish the signature.           

“Very well, if you will just make your mark here on the line them you will find that the elevator on the left will take you straight to your room and if you should need anything else, my name is Jefferson, please do not hesitate to ring me, I shall remain ever close to this desk, and a ring on the phone will keep me at beck and call.”           

I smiled joyously and held a key dangling from a red oval piece of plastic adorning the number twenty-seven.           

“Yes, twenty-seven, thank you.”           

The little man, Mr. Abram Adams according to the registry, took very slow indistinct steps away from the counter, I could not be sure of his motives; everyone has motives. I replaced the registry and stepped to the back office to speak with Mr. Cordial and receive the news for the day.           

“Mr. Cordial and how nice it is to see you this morning.”           

The room was dark, illuminated only by a small desk lamp. There were mountains of paper lining the walls, newspaper clippings and such, and books creating small pillars in front of and beside his wooden antique desk. Mr. Cordial was a very old man, who as far as I knew was forever living in this Hotel. I had never seen him leave, nor arrive. His eyes were impossible to see, mounds of flesh squeezed together as folds over deep sockets. His head was bald with small strings of courageous hair shooting from scattered regions of his skull.  He was seated and hunched with visible scoliosis and wheezing with a long endured case of emphysema; an ashtray full of cigarette butts caught my attention. His mounds rose to gaze upon me and he stared, I believe for quite some time. With no word, Mr. Cordial swung the weight of his arm by shifting his chest and his hand landed with a pop upon the desk. His fingers worked as spider legs pulling his arm across the table towards his spectacles folded neatly in the center of the table. With the same technique he pulled them back to him as an ant might bring a large crumb on its back to feed his queen. Lowering his liver spotted skull to the wood, he unfolded the glasses, put them on over his mounds and studied a piece of paper with muddled cursive pen marks.           

“Mr. Striker, the fourth floor needs repair, there is a tear in the insulation…along with this, the bookcases need polishing, the boiler needs checking and…”           

He moved his gaze back to me, or rather towards the floor.           

“Where did you get those shoes, Mr. Striker?”           

“They were a gift, Sir, a very nice gift, and if there is nothing else, I will begin my duties.”           

He gave a defiant grunt, and I left. When I arrived via elevator on the fourth floor, a sweet cool breeze hit me at the feet. Perhaps the old man was right; the insulation had sprung a leak. How he knew these things was always a mystery, he never moved from the room, and most news, or so I understood, came through me. A dreadful spy network, I conclude, with tiny invisible eyes staring at itchful spots on my body. I chuckled to myself.           

The maid, Ingrid Belafon, left her cart in front of one of the suites on the East wing, the door propped open with a wedge of newspaper. I strolled by, swaying from side to side and pulled three soap bars individually wrapped from her cart and slinked by casually. The walls had a green fabric shining dully against warm flickering lights spotted along the hallway after every step or two rising just above my shoulders on both sides. My approach to the window grew increasingly colder, and my feet felt the chill even through the leather. I stopped four feet in front of the massive glass pane and pondered.           

In several steps my mighty self,           

Be cast below in empty strides           

And if the tides decide to steal           

My soul be preserved with formaldehyde.           

My thoughts were wonderfully suicidal, outlining my descent four stories below onto pavement covered in ice and broken glass. My eyes were closed and a sensation gathered in my chest moving downward, downward. I did not hear her coming.           

“Mr. Striker, did you steal my soaps again?”           

“What?” My head spun in a wild jerk towards her heavy Polish accent, I could feel heavy amounts of blood retreating from my lower body and collecting in full force in my face. In rage, perspiration gathered on my forehead, squeezing reluctantly from my pores.  

“What woman, can you possibly want right now? What in God’s name do you want, hmmm?”

I said the last with a defiant sarcasm.           

“No, nothing Mr. Striker, I just remembered putting seventeen…”           

“Seventeen what? You will kindly go back to your duties Mrs. Belafon or you will be promptly find yourself sans occupation, without a job, and I’m sure your next employer will not be as lenient when it comes to hiring filthy infested immigrants!”           

I felt my jugular surge and spit was gathering in the corners of my mouth, my hand raised to the side of my head open-handed. She, this miserable squat woman, was left whiter and more pale than even her most remote Polish ancestry. Her hair was a blond nest of rattails that shook as she attempted in vain to restrain her tears; she made not a sound, but replied only by an unhappy ‘O’ adorning her face.           

“Is that all Mrs. Belafon?”           

In a shy and defeated word, she replied, “Yes, Mr. Striker.”           

She turned her frame like a tilt-a-whirl, rotating on an axis one hundred and eighty degrees before slowly walking back to her cart.           

“Mrs. Belafon, we do not have the luxury of time in this Hotel, now move quickly, or else I will, and be sure that my movement will not be as conducive to job security.”           

I felt better almost instantly when I saw her rotund backside shake as she lumbered, attempting to run, of course, down the forsaken hall. I reached into my pocket and felt the soaps between my forefinger and thumb, then returned to the window. It was near eleven in the morning when I completed my first tasks and all that was left were the bookcases. Returning to my desk, I retrieved the wood polish and a crimson cleaning rag. I found that a young man was standing four feet or so away from the right most shelf, eyeing the biography section.           

“Sir, is there anything that I can help you find?”           

“No, just browsing through.”           

“Well, sir, why don’t you find a nice book and retreat to the lounge just down the hall to the left, have you been staying with us—”           

“No, as soon as my wife arrives, we will check in, thank you.”           

“I will be right here, Sir, fear not, for I am at your service.”           

The man nodded and added an abrupt smile. His eyes were slits when he smiled, he reminded me of Mr. Cordial. In a brown suit and black shoes, he could not have been over twenty-four. I was staring gauntly at the gentleman without catching myself as I sometimes do for several minutes.           

“Is there anything else?” the man asked warily.           

“No, Sir, I will resume my cleaning now.”           

I paused for another moment eyeing the lad, then off. On the first ladder I climbed to the highest rung and began to rub some of the glorious smell from the bottle onto the wood. I would polish, nudge, polish, nudge, all the way to the opposite end of the shelving. It was along the way that I would check my various collections that I had behind the books. On the top shelf I had rearranged the books to house those that were less wide than their compatriots so that I would have a place to put my things. Behind Oscar Wilde’s collection of plays, I kept three jars of cigarette butts that I had gathered from ashtrays in the lounge. Some had been smoked by prominent businessmen, some by women, some by men cheating on their wives, some by women who had taken a man’s life. On each of the butts, I meticulously had written a small epitaph: name, business, eye color. Further down the shelving there were boxes of coins, sewing needles, used silverware, and also nail clippings and hair from some of our more untidy clientele. When I reached the end if the shelf, I retrieved the soaps from my pocket and placed them amongst the other things that I had collected from Mrs. Belafon. I placed them beside a newspaper clipping of her husband’s murder on July 2, 1932, a small glass mirror, and a brooch that her husband had given her just before he left for war in Germany. There were also assorted small things, a piece of linen from her dress, a tuft of hair, and more soap. She had been searching for many of these things for quite some time now, how funny it would be if she were to learn that they had been here all along. The thought brought spinning ecstasy to my brain.

The Christmas Ring: a Children’s Story

  

            It was near two in the afternoon and Vernon Stroud was whistling. He ambled along the sidewalk gazing upon the ivy growing to overtake a large brick building when he came to an opening in the cast iron fence. The birds quieted and the wind swept the ground in front of him. It occurred to him that the last time he had entered this specific entrance to the park, he was accompanied by the late Mrs. Stroud. Not yet a year had gone by since her passing, and he could still feel her strange vibrations.           

Mrs. Stroud, whose first name was Bebe, was quite a nasty woman. Her beady eyes were, at times, difficult to decipher, but she never failed to provide ample body language in the form of abuse to poor Vernon (who weighed no more than one hundred and fifteen pounds, himself). She was quite a portly lady with large cumbersome breasts that tumbled around her as she walked, and her hair, thinning and spotted grey, was always pulled tightly around her skull in the small bob of a ponytail. Vernon had always thought that it would difficult for one to think properly with their hair fixed so tight, but then again, his own hair was near gone, so he had little room for such contemplation. It had been her teeth, however, that struck butchers and bakers alike to hide behind racks of lamb or large loaves of bread upon her arrival. After years of rot, with little hope of dentistry, and a fierce chewing tobacco habit, her teeth had yellowed and the odor was growing daily.           

            Vernon recalled her now, as he strutted over Gapstow bridge and found a bench overlooking the water. He had packed a meager lunch, a hunk of cheese, a piece of bread, a small salami and an apple. The birds sang and Vernon spoke quietly to himself, “This will be my very first Christmas alone.” He thought this very matter-of-factly, and without any sign of sadness. He pulled a pocketknife from his coat and went to work on his meal. “I’m sure I can manage.” Looking down to his feet, Vernon spotted a lone sparrow hopping towards him. “I’ll just need he proper fixings!” he threw the sparrow a piece of bread, “And of course a few friends to join me. The sparrow cooed and an audience of seven more appeared before Vernon, all whistling and hopping about. Vernon crumbled some bread into tiny pieces and threw them to the birds. “You know why this is my very first Christmas alone?” He asked the birds, still pecking at crumbs. He then decided to explain the whole story of his wife, Mrs. Bebe Stroud, for them while they enjoyed their meal. “Well, there is an attractive young woman with a little dog, who near noon everyday but Sunday…”           

            He always began the story like this, because for Vernon, the story simply revolved around the event itself, but the truth lies in a gift that Vernon had purchased for his wife on Christmas Eve one year ago. His wife with her harsh beatings and nasty breath had driven Vernon mad, but as he was a good man, he could not run away from her for fear that she would be wrecked with sadness (or she might come after him, Vernon assumed nervously). So, instead, he devised a plan to, push her over the edge, so to speak.He arrived at the jewelry shop on the morning of Christmas Eve with fifty dollars. He asked the clerk to help him find the perfect ring for Bebe.           

            “What exactly are you looking for?” The clerk inquired, “We have plenty of beautiful stones in plenty of beautiful settings…sure to make any woman look lovely.”           

Vernon chuckled softly to himself, “Do you have anything in very poor shape?”           

“I’m not sure I follow…”           

“Well this is for a woman who has found herself in very poor shape.”           

The clerk shot him a quizzical glance, then shrugged and took Vernon to a back room. They passed rows of boxes on metal shelving and bins of uncut stones until they finally reached the back corner of the jeweler’s storage. The clerk, whose name was Sam, reached into a large box, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a small box covered in crushed black velvet.

“I think this may be what you’re looking for,” Sam said, offering Vernon the box. Inside, Vernon could see the perfect stone. It glowed yellow in the light and barely glistened, there were chips along the cutting lines, and through the center lay a deep and readily visible crack. When Vernon asked about the price, Sam shook his head and let him have it for nothing.           

“Merry Christmas, Sir.” Sam said with a laugh, “I sure hope it works.”           

“I’m sure it will, thank you…and Merry Christmas to you, as well.”

Vernon smiled and shook Sam’s hand, gratefully.           

When Vernon arrived home that afternoon, it was with the largest turkey that the butcher could muster (the butcher was simply overjoyed that Vernon had paid him a visit instead of Mrs. Stroud), and also trimmings and dressings set for a king’s feast. Vernon had decided that since he had spent nothing on the gift, that he would spend the entire fifty dollars on Christmas dinner. The next day, the turkey was baked, the trimmings stewed and the dressing thick and heartily prepared. Vernon summoned his wife from her nap and opened a bottle of wine.           

“Now, we thank you Lord for all of the…”           

His wife did not wait for the grace to end, but instead began to eat quite pig-like, giving very little thought to socially acceptable table manners. He made a toast to new beginnings and carved himself a nice piece of turkey. Vernon, proud of his accomplished job of cooking the feast, rose from his seat to serve his wife. Swatting away the serving spoon full of dressing, she reached her hands into the bowl and dumped a hefty portion on her plate.           

“My dear, you must restrain yourself.” Turning to Vernon, she gave him a swift punch to the gut, and he fell over spilling the bowl of dressing into his lap.           

“Now look what you did,” his wife said looking down at him and shaking her head.            Vernon struggled up to the table and ate what he could of Christmas dinner.                        

Afterwards, while Vernon washed the plates and mopped the floor beneath his wife’s chair, he heard Bebe yell for her present from the couch where she lay digesting her food. Vernon reached into his pocket and found the small box and stared at it for a moment, “Well, here we go.”           

He walked over to her and she clapped her hands with delight when she saw the small box in his hand. She sat up and opened it. Vernon did not remember anything after this, however, because a swift blow to the head left him unconscious until the next morning. He awoke on the wooden floor to find a lump on his forehead and a very full stomach. He smiled and checked his watch, near noon. He arose swiftly and scuffled over to the balcony. This is where he would see the attractive young woman who walked her little dog in front of his apartment on Becker Avenue near noon, every day but Sunday. Because of God, Vernon assumed.           

He gazed at her and sighed. The day was pleasant with a light snow cover and the sun peeking through the clouds above. His wife, meanwhile, was so very upset about the ring she wore on her left hand that she gorged leftover turkey. 

Ripping apart a drumstick she swallowed between sobs. She looked at Vernon, the little man that she had married so many years ago and her sorrow turned to rage, she stood up from her chair and walked towards him on the balcony. She bared her yellow teeth and growled softly. She put the drumstick to her mouth and with all her anger, she bit down hard, and ran to Vernon yelling and waving her drumstick in the air. Vernon turned around to see his charging wife, and holding his hands in front of him he let out a tiny yelp. But, when he opened his eyes, Vernon could see through his fingers that she had stopped dead in her tracks and her yelling had become grunting. Her eyes bulged and her face turned wild colors. She wobbled over to Vernon on the balcony, breasts bobbing up and down, and rotting mouth wide open. She grabbed Vernon, shaking him violently, and gave the international sign language for choking. Now, Vernon was not a doctor, in fact, Vernon was not a very learned man at all, but he had read, though he forgot where, about the Heimlich maneuver and the best way to go about it. At first, he hit her as hard as he could on the back, but eventually found it only therapeutic for himself and left his wife still choking. So he grabbed her up in his arms (which he had not done in some time), and began to heave and ho. As the couple was on their balcony while engaging in such activities, they naturally drew a crowd. Soon, people were shouting in the street, and housewives and college students leaned from their windows across the street to see. It was a rather comical spectacle, as Vernon had wholly misinterpreted the directions of the maneuver, and was heaving and hoing with his own chest facing that of his wives. Her breath made him sick, and her face was now a deep shade of purple. In all the excitement, Vernon had not realized that they were steadily moving closer to the railing. All it took was one extra hard heave and they both toppled over and fell for five stories to the icy street below. His wife landed solidly with a smack and thus, provided ample padding for the light Vernon to safely land. He came down upon her with such force, however, that the turkey bone in her throat shot forth out of her mouth and hit him exactly in the same bump from the night before. Just before he was again knocked quite cold, he made out the dull yellow glinting from his wife’s chubby finger. Vernon lay on his dead bride with an even larger bump from the fated turkey bone, and for the first time in quite a while, he rested.           

“Yes,” I just bounced right on top of her and came out without a scratch, what do you think about that?” Vernon asked one of his sparrows. He tossed the last piece of bread down to the birds, “Funny thing was,” he chuckled, “I never knew who to thank, the butcher or the jeweler!”           

The sparrow looked to Vernon and twisted its tiny head in the way that sparrows do, and then flew away. Vernon dropped his trash into a bin and strolled out of the park whistling, this time, a holiday tune.

Waiting to play the piano drunk like a percussion instrument until the fingers begin to bleed a bit

                      

            No matter what “dropped on your head as a child” attitude you want to take, that old jackass knew how to write.  I had heard of him maybe two years ago, sitting in Jamie’s bar on Fifth with two prostitutes and a warm glass of beer, from a bartender who hit him a couple times in the face, worked the body a bit, he said.  Came there every once in a while, they spewed from liquid mouths, asked to clean the place for beer and to get some action in the back room.  The prostitutes wouldn’t touch him.  They said he wasn’t their type, whatever that means.             

            “He don’t tip,” the bartender recalled.  The girls nodded.           

            “Hank’s a real asshole,” the pink headed whore quipped.             

            I didn’t think much of the tender and his beasts, but the old man sounded too much like my father to forget.  They spun all kinds of stupid tales about this Hank Chinaski; he only has half a liver, he once backed up traffic drunk and stumbling through Pasadena so bad that it took four days to clear it all out, he wrote a movie, he wrote poetry, mainly though, he was poor, drunk and tiresome.             

            “Where can you find this Chinaski?” I asked the tender.           

            “Somewhere, probly in the streets face down covered in termites.”           

            “I think he’s got a place over on Washington.” the pinky smiled at me moving her chair closer, “I could take you there.”           

            “How much.”           

            “Twenty bucks, and I’ll suck you off on the ride for twenty more.”           

            She opened her legs and flashed her fuzz.  “Show me where the place is.”                       

            I pulled up my pants in front of a broken white townhouse split into two bedrooms, one on top, one on bottom, as the cab pulled away.  There was a brass six nailed to the door,  I slammed hard.  Deep lumbering breaths came from inside and a shadow licked the peep hole. 

            “Chinaski, they told me you could write.”           

            No answer.             

            I sat on the cement for a second rubbing my crotch, she worked me over pretty good.  Cabbie wouldn’t stop fixing his rearview.             

            The gas station across the street sold little cigars and whisky in pint bottles, so I filled a brown bag and came back to the door.  “Chinaski, you want a drink?”           

            The door swung open to the fat old man in a white undershirt and undershorts.       

            “Who the fuck are you.”           

            His face was ruined; a cheese grater could’ve done better than whatever did happen.  His hair, thinned and almost lost, covered a liver spotted skull and his eyes caved under the mounds of skin covering them.  I pulled out a pint and gave it to him, then pulled out another and sucked on it.           

            “Ok.”           

            Inside, the room stank of vomit, only a bed and a desk with paper scattered everywhere under wine bottles and ashes.  “They told me you could write.”           

            “They don’t know shit.”           

            We drank three of the pints, passing them back and forth, like we had passed the pinky whore, sucking it dry and smoking the little cigars to pass the time while we sat in silence. 

            “So you want to be a writer,” he said to me choking on smoke.             

            “No, I don’t want to be.”           

            “So you are a writer.”           

            “Not yet.”           

            He reached for a leaf of paper on the ground and handed it to me.                        

            and as my grey hands                       

            drop a last desperate pen                       

            in some cheap room                       

            they will find me there                       

            and never know                        

            my name                       

            my meaning                       

            nor the treasure                       

            of my escape.            

            He rolled off of the plastic chair and crawled to the box radio smacking it on to the sound of Chopin.  “Let the world sleep kid, and then you sleep with it.”  He spilled the whiskey across his chest and lost consciousness.            

There in front of me, an old man dropping a last desperate lie.

Flash Cards and Pinky Fingers

The television set swells the living room with the sound of falling anvils and hysterical laughing so loud I can barely sleep through it. The twins fight in the hall, outside my door.

“Give it back!”

“I got it, so its mine, not yours, cause you don’t have one, so’s its all mine.”
“Is not, you just found it under my bed, so its—
“Its mine fairs fair.”
I could hear my mother intervene.
“Boys, give me that—Oh!”
“It’s mine mamma, he stoled it from under my—
“What in the world was that doing under your…is it dead?”

I put Monday, or any other day, at the top of my notepad, then threw it on the floor and lost myself in the fluff of my pillows. 

“Lucy, wake up, it’s already past noon! You’re gonna sleep the whole day away!”

My mother appeared through the slit of my left eye.

“Oooh, look at the ridge…someone’s trying to climb it.”

Rolling over, I struggled against the light to see the face of the mountain a couple of miles away through my bedroom window; there was a person about halfway up. My mother frowned at the room around her through crossed arms, “You know, you really should pick up this mess, papers and clothes everywhere.”
I slammed my head back into the bed, “Tell me if that climber falls.”

“Lucy, honestly.”

I could feel her eyes; I pulled the dirty brown afghan up close to my ears. “You certainly are a lazy twelve year old,” she sighed, “All of this around you and you just sleep all day.”

All this heat melting the rocks and killing the trees and everywhere cow shit and rattlesnakes and scorpions and junk. What crap. The door creaked closed and I sat up again.  Outside, I could see the climber, almost to the top.  Grabbing my notebook, I put a little asterisk: Why in the world would someone want to do something like that? Underneath, I drew a snake biting an elephant. 

The twins ate hot dogs at the kitchen table while my mother quizzed them with math flash cards.

“OK, Devan, what’s this one?”

She has a candy sweet something about her voice that she uses whenever she pulls out those flash cards. This card read two times seven.

“Twenty-seven.” He says through a mouth packed with bread and processed meat.

“Well, I guess they aren’t going to be brain surgeons.”

“Lucy, they’re only five. Now Dexter, what’s this one.” She holds up another card, four times two.

“Twenty-seven.” He replies without looking up.

“Oh, I give up…look, sweetie, that climber is just lying up there, he hasn’t moved since he reached the top.”

“Cool,” I got myself a hot dog and spread relish over the top.

“I wonder—

“Wonder what? He’s probably just tired.”

“Well, maybe your Dad should go up there.”

“If they got themselves up there they should probably know how to get down,” I took a big bite out of my dog, “Unless they’re some kind of idiot.”

“Oh, Lucy…still, I hope they’re alright.”

She put the cards down on the table and stared out the window. The sun beat down on the valley and reflected off of some of the red rock, rays of light shooting back up to the sky.

“Isn’t it nice outside?” She said to herself.

Sometimes, I think she just says stuff like that to convince herself that she likes it here. This was my grandpa’s ranch, but he died three years ago and gave it to her. I guess it sort of reminds her of him. She didn’t change it much, the outside has cracking white paint and rusted nails, and a front porch with those stupid rocking chairs that don’t have any seats in them—but the inside is alright. There are a bunch of leather easy chairs and big thick rugs with blotches of white in them to look like cowhide. And there are some dead animals on the walls (We had to get rid of the ones that gave the twins nightmares, like the spotted owl and javelina head) and some paintings of the mountains, usually during a sunset or sunrise or something, done in watercolor. It was just the kind of thing you expect to find out here, but it belonged to my grandpa and now it belongs to her.

The door swung open and my father came in, sweating everywhere.

“It’s a hot one today.” He said, shutting the door behind him.

It’s his job to watch the cows and sheep for the week. My grandpa has workers, who still help with the animals, but it was their week off, and only my father and an old Indian named Joe were feeding them and keeping them in line. My father wore blue jeans and some old cowboy boots that belonged to my grandpa. They were too big for him, and kind of made him look funny.

“Honey,” My mother looked over his sunburned face, “That climber hasn’t moved in almost two hours. I thought that if you were done with your work today…you could go and see what was the matter.”

Looking down at the oversized boots he said, “Well, look sweetheart, I still have a little bit to do with the—

“I’ll go,” I said, taking a gulp of milk.

“Really?” My father gave me a funny look.

“Well, Lucy, I don’t know if—

“Let her, sweetheart, it’ll be good for her.”

I knew he didn’t care if it was good for me or not, just that he was tired and could care less about he climber.

“Yeah, really.”

I finished lunch and got ready for my trip, they made me wear this really stupid floppy, pink hat that my mother wears when she works outside. It was too big and sort of covered my head and shoulders like a messed up umbrella. I had one of the twins’ Batman thermoses and a first aid kit in my backpack along with a little map that my father drew so that I could find the trail; and I had my notebook. The map was a bunch of squiggly lines doodled across a piece of construction paper—now I know where the twins get it. I squinted at the outline of the mountain from the porch, but couldn’t see the climber; the sun was far too bright behind me. I could only see the shape of the ridge rising massively from the ground.

“Watch out for snakes, Lucy!” the door slammed shut behind me. The sundial on the front porch had a shadow over the five. 

The mountain range makes a crescent shape around my Grandpa’s ranch and a valley in the center of the moon will take you straight to the top. Trekking over the red earth, kicking stones at the cacti, watching for snake holes and occasionally taking a gulp of kool-aid out of the thermos, I felt the ground beneath me get steeper and my breath got heavy. I was right at the tree line, where the valley edges up for about half a mile to the top of the ridge, but to get there you have to find the trail, otherwise you get stuck in all of these trees. They weren’t so much trees, though, as they were scraggly white branches. The spring made them bloom, but the summer burned them dead, baking them into sharp thorns that can put deep scratches on your arms and tear your shirt wide open; and they’re thick, and they are everywhere. I pulled out the map, and could see the squiggly lines point toward the East edge of the ridge where the trail was supposed to lead me up to the climber.  The sun lessened its glare on the mountain, and I could again see the place occupied by whoever it was. But they were gone.

“See,” I thought to myself, “Stupid climber.” I sat down and dug into my backpack, pulling out my notebook.  

Why did I come? Just to get out of the house, away from the twins, away from my mother—my mother and those flash cards, she never did that for me. ‘You were already too advanced for those cards, Lucy,’ she would say in that candy wrapper voice; I don’t care about those things anyway, they’re just for kids, just like the dumb twins.

On the ground a spider darted from rock to rock, his little legs moved so fast. I drew a little spider next to the elephant.

I wish my legs moved that fast. Everyone is faster than me, except for the retarded kids, those kids with weird eyes and little hands who have recess with us. They usually stay on the swings, but sometimes they want to play with everyone else. I’m glad I’m faster than them, I guess.

I drew a retarded person.

“FUCK!”

It came from somewhere behind me, somewhere on the ridge. I heard it right; my father says it all the time. I pushed the floppy hat down on my head, shoved my notebook back into my bag and turned to the mountain running into the trees. I crouched down and crawled underneath the scratchy branches on my hands and knees being careful for the fire ant piles that were everywhere.  The little white fingers caught my backpack and tried to rip my shirt, but I got through, and eventually the path cleared and I could stand again. Dirt covered my clothes and broken twigs were caught up in my hair and hat. I shook them off and wiped my hands over my knees, but my skin was stained by the rusty ground. In front of me there was a small clearing and a little irrigation stream that the ranch used for the livestock. I sat down next to it and took off my shoes and socks. The water was warm. I washed my knees and splashed my face, drenching the front of my shirt. The mountain covered the sun by this time, and I could finally see the mountain face completely. Lying next to the stream I could see the climber coming down the big stair steps cut into the rock.  From here, I could tell that the climber was a man. One of his hands was close to his body and he used the other to guide himself down. He moved very slowly, holding on to tree roots and lowering himself to the ledge by ledge covered in gravel and dirt. I thought he might fall.

“Hey,” I yelled, “You’re gonna fall!”

He was still too far away. He lost his footing and slid hard, landing with an angry ‘thwack’ about ten feet down. I shot up to see where he was, but he had fallen all the way into the dead branches. I told him he was going to fall; I should have told him that only an idiot would climb a mountain if he didn’t know how to get down. He was only a little ways off from the stream now, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.  I took out my thermos; the kool-aid was warm. “Nothing to do but wait, I guess.”  My notebook was bent and all of the pages were messed up from my backpack, so I smoothed it out against a rock and opened it to a fresh page. 

I wonder what he looks like up close. He’s probably a lot older. I bet he could buy me cigarettes. Maybe, if I help him, he’ll buy me cigarettes. I wonder if he’s cute, maybe he’s cute, Roy McNeil is cute. I saw him in the pool changing room through a crack in the boy’s restroom door—his little thing was hanging there between his legs, it looked like a pinky finger.

A brown lizard crawled out onto one of the larger rocks; he just laid there absorbing the heat. I drew him perched with his mouth open and his tongue flopped out.  His neck puffed into a red and yellow Adam’s apple when he sucked in the hot air. 

A crashing sound erupted from the trees in front of me; it sounded like a wild beast charging, like a javelina. I grabbed my things, and leapt behind the lizard’s rock. The storm grew nearer and I raised my head like an alligator’s out of water over the top of the red stone.

The first thing I could see were massive arms swinging through the dense brush to make way for the man’s head, covered in a stained blue bandana. Plowing through the brush he fell to the ground. His arms and legs were spewing black blood, as he crawled towards the water. I heard his breathing scrape the inside of his throat. He pulled off his shirt and unfastened his belt, taking off his shorts; he rolled into the stream naked.  His thing was much bigger than Roy McNeil’s pinky finger. He lay there for a while without moving, and I watched it wash him clean; thin red streams floated through the water like tails off of a kite. I crept across the desert floor until I was right above his head. His eyes were closed. He had a short black beard and a thin face. His hair was long and swam in the water.

I poked him right in the middle of his forehead, “Hey.”

His eyes opened under thick brown eyebrows the same color as the hair on his chest.

“You’re wearing a funny hat,” he said to me still wheezing softly.

“You said fuck.” I returned, “I’m here to save you.”

“Oh, is that right,” he closed his eyes again and rolled over onto his side away from me, “Well, I think…I’ll be fine.”

His right hand was swelled and his entire body seemed littered with bruises and scrapes.

“I think you’re kind of an idiot.” I sat back on the bank of the stream and put my hands behind me to lean on.

“How old are you?” He turned his head back to me.

“Do you have any cigarettes?”

“Heh,” he laughed softly, “I don’t even have pants on.”

I reached over and threw his shorts to the other side of the stream.  He pulled them over his wet legs.

“I didn’t think anyone was out here.” 

“So, how come you went up there if you couldn’t get down?”

His back was to me and his head in his hands. 

“Do you have any water?”

I got my backpack from behind the rock and pulled out my thermos.

“The kool-aid is warm.”

He drank the rest, then lay back down dropping his head in the water.  My first aid kit had ten band-aids; I used all of them on his legs.  He didn’t move.  The sun was all the way behind the ridge by now, and the air started to feel nicer.  I turned over my notebook and drew a picture of the man on the brown cardboard.  I drew his mouth open and his arms and legs cut up.  I drew the band-aids, too. 

I could see my Grandpa’s house down the valley, the lights were on.  My mother was making dinner, the twins were watching television, and I bet my father and Joe were drinking beer. 

“Do you live down there?”

He sat up from the stream and pointed at the house.

“Sometimes.”

“You never said how old you were.”

I still stared at the house, “I’m twelve—I’ll be thirteen in two months.  How old are you?”

“Oh, about forty.”

I turned back, “Liar.”

“Ha, well, you caught me.”

He stood up and walked over the stream.  “I am glad you came up here,” he said pulling his shirt over his head.

“My mom sent me; you were just laying up there.”

“A damn scorpion stung me.” He raised his hand, “That’s when I got up.”

            I gave him the first-aid kit and he rubbed antiseptic all over the back of his hand then wrapped it up in his bandana. 

            “It was too big.”

            “What?” I asked.       

            “The ridge—it was too big.”

            “That’s why you couldn’t—

            “That’s why.”  He sat down next to me, “So, who are you?”

            His name was Charlie and he was twenty-four and had family in Texas and didn’t know that he was trespassing on my Grandpa’s land and he said he was sorry for that; I didn’t mind.  He liked my picture of the lizard and said that it wasn’t so nice to draw retarded people.  I didn’t let him see any more.  The crickets hummed around us and the shade grew darker on the inside of the crescent. 

            “Well, kiddo, how do we get out of this mess?”

            “How good are you at reading maps?” I asked handing over my father’s construction paper.   He flipped it twice then pointed left.  The squigglies made sense to him.  We elbowed through the brush and found the trail. 

            “See over there,” he pointed, “That’s where I started.” 

            “Looks steep.”

            “Well, one step at a time, little by little.”

            “You got to the top.”

            “What’s that?”

            “You got to the top, so it wasn’t too big for you.”

            “Yeah, well it’s not looking so friendly right now.”

            I pushed the hat down on my head, the air breezed soft and warm over my face.  The sky was burning orange, outlining the clouds like a neon sign.  Charlie asked me about my school and my brothers and I told him about grandpa and the chairs on the front porch without any seats in them, then he asked about mother.

            “She’s doing flashcards or something with the twins.  Or else she’s watching the Family Feud on TV.”

            “The Family Feud, huh.”

            “Yeah, I think it’s a stupid show.” I dug my hands into my pockets.

            “So why did you come all the way up here, just for me?” He asked.

            We were getting close to the house; the mountain and the tree line were far behind us.  Charlie stopped. 

            “Well, kiddo, my camp is over this way.”

            I saw a small tent pitched against an oak tree near the dirt road back to the highway. 

            “Yeah, well, I’ve got to get dinner.”

            He looked down at me underneath those brown eyebrows.  The darkness sat in his wrinkles and made him look handsome.  “Charlie,” I said, “Find a smaller mountain next time.”

            “Little by little, kiddo.  Thanks for the hospitality.”  He smirked and spun around trotting down to his camp. 

            “Charlie!” I threw down my backpack and dug inside.  I tore out the lizard picture from my notebook and signed it “Lucy.”  Running down to him, I held it up, “Here.”

            He looked at my lizard and chuckled.  “Thanks, kiddo.”  He folded it and put it in his pocket.  “Take care.”  He looked as though he weren’t sure if I would or not.  I said OK.

            Walking back to the house I pulled off the pink floppy hat and shook my hair out.  The sun was down, but the watercolors still stained the sky.  I could see the kitchen window and could make out my mother holding up those white cards.  Little by little, I thought.  I heard a backfire and turned around.  The tent was gone and dust spit up behind a jeep pulling down the dirt road. 

*Now Published in the University of Texas Literary Journal “Analecta #34″

Ponderings and Miscommunication to the World’s Iniquitous Stage

“Why must man be humanized?  Does this not only accent his ineptitude—or the ineptitude of so many that do not fill the lace-down dress shoes of their predecessors?”  The old man jotted his thoughts on a large drawing pad resting on his knees.  “It is the darkness in which so many live that defines the soul, not perhaps, the light.  There is benefit to a life of toil and heartache as an ultimate means to find happiness, but this is not deeply concerning—this nonsense about character building and suffering in order for greater peace.  The man who knows nothing of this deserves martyrdom, better to be used as a symbol, as Lavina with her hands lopped and tongue cut, than a reckless, beleaguered human being.”   He sat in a green folding seat with a small golden number attached.  It was among many like it in the east corner of the stadium.  Three men stood a few rows in front of him painted in letters with bright colors, drinking beer and letting out harsh sounds from endless voids.  “Self destructive men are chastised as lost, but this day dictates the uprising of just these men.  Those to put us back into perspective and right so many wrongs.  No, do not think me crass, I speak not of man destroying fellow man, but instead destructing themselves in unison.”  The old man gazed at the field, making eye of the ball.  The crowd below chanted and mused.  The stadium shadow had moved up to the seats a few rows before him; the three men in costume were illuminated.  “A deep crawl into the enigma of the mind, that black corner of the skull where the demon lives…embrace him.  Man’s fault is that he adheres to religion and basic morality though he realizes the opposition of his instincts.  Traded up, the freewill of our holy fathers for this entity capable of survival in the state of nature through pure humanity seems unrighteous in this, the impetus of our time.  The papers do not write of love, sanctity or the value of human life, these are things of the future…not of parasitic present.”  The old man flipped the white matte paper and settled into another sheet. “Remember children, down the river, not across the stream…” The old man readied upon the game.  His face, distinct from deep aging cracks, pulled thin as he arched his brows and pulled the corner of his mouth curling it wryly.  “Man is an easy target, one supposes, for implosion…” He stared at the three just ahead, breathing heavily. “May God rest their villainy, for the Devil sees all…”

 

Game Show

             Kent Lamar signed the contract and became a game show host in July, to replace his predecessor, Martin James, for the upcoming season.  Looking around him, the cold stare of camera lenses reminded him of bug eyes, “Why do they seem so sterile?” he pondered.  Fervent activity swarmed around him, and loud cracks from electric malfunctions brought him back from his thoughts. 

“Justin, get me another suit, can’t you see the frays? It’s a disaster…” 

The young man did not respond, but instead ran to the opposite end of the studio.  Kent strode quickly across black concrete floor while a young woman in headphones struggled to keep up.  “Kent, you have an hour before the contestants arrive, you’re in makeup in twenty minutes, and we go on at nine-thirty…” her voice trailed.                       

“Sarah, which do you like better, the brown tie or the blue?”                       

“Brown.”                       

The two veered to the corridor under the seats, and above them an applause sign crackled and flickered on and off.  There were three men dressed in black jumpsuits examining light bulbs on the cat walk and shouting at the camera men below.  Two women from the art department diligently painted touch ups of the pink and yellow set, and the catering company marched in a single file white parade, carrying linens and pushing stainless steel carts.                         

 “Kent, you need to watch the booth for your signals, the light flash will be at one minute, thirty seconds, and five seconds before commercial—but it won’t affect the teleprompter—Cameron decided to go with the Bot 79 lighting for the intro, so make up is going to be a little heavy…but the filters should be fine…take care of it I mean…and…” she looked down at the clipboard, “That’s it, anything else?”                       

“One thing.” The two turned the corner and found his dressing room.  He opened the door and grabbing her by the wrist swung her swiftly into the room.                       

“We only have twenty minutes,” she threw the clipboard to the floor; “We have to be quick.”                       

Kent slammed the door and pressed her firmly against it.  He bit her neck and she thrust her hand down the front of his black pants.  They undressed and he was within her quickly, she pulled a chunk of his graying hair and could feel her nipples brushed slightly by the curls on his chest.  A bead of sweat dripped from his neck and landed on the curvature of her soft white breast traveling like a river from a mountaintop, he imagined silently.  He made little noise, but she was perfectly the opposite, making it necessary for him to cover her mouth with his hand to prevent the noise from reaching any further than his dressing room door.  He closed his eyes and tried to think of someone else, not this game show manager with her polo shirts and loose jean shorts to cover the ever growing fat in her ass.  It was the caterers fault, he decided, maybe I can have them make her something healthy.  She climbed on top of him and bounced in rhythm, yelping high pitched squeaks every time she hit his lap.  I am almost fifty, and this is what I have become…he contemplated.                       

 “EE—EE—EE—EE”                       

He pushed her off of himself and got up.  She sat on the floor sprawled and naked.             

“Did you go?” she asked between heavy breaths.                       

“Yeah, get dressed; I’ve got to go to makeup.”                       

She gathered her things and stepped into her clothes.  She put her headphones back around her neck.                       

“All right, you have ten minutes before makeup,” she turned to the door and flattened her hair with one hand.                         

“Do you have it?”                       

She stared at him blankly for a brief second, then opened her purse and retrieved a small leather pouch.                         

 “Yeah…save some for later, OK?”                       

She held out her hand and he snatched the small wallet.  He turned his back to her and stared down at the thing in his hands.                       

“Get out.”                       

Dazed, she blinked twice, then closed her purse and made for the door.                         

“I got it from Cameron, be careful…” and she left.                         

He unlaced the string around the pouch and unfolded it, revealing a small syringe, a metal measuring spoon and a quarter sized bag of powder. 

             Ten miles away, Buck Straighthand, a tall and thin man with tight pulled skin hovered above collection letters and foreclosure notices scattered across his office desk at his home at 34 Wicker St.  Something rattled in the ceiling, and a thumping sound rose from the duct above his head.  I need to fix the air conditioning, he thought.  It had somehow lasted through the summer, but was holding on to its last strings of life.  Soon, he would buy another one, as soon as he could find the money.                         

“Dad, where are you?”                       

His fifteen year old daughter, the oldest of three.  He gathered all of the letters and shoved them into a drawer on his right.                         

“In here, honey.” He yelled through the closed wooden door.  Scuttling feet shifted the floor boards in the hallway and low creaks came triumphantly as she blasted into the office.                         

“Dad, its Friday night, mom said that you would give me twenty dollars for the movies.”                       

“Oh, OK.” He reached into his back pocket and produced his brown leather wallet, “How about ten?” he suggested.                         

“uhh, fine…”                       

“Thanks Dad, now I can’t even get a drink.”                       

“Why don’t you just take a can of coke in your purse?”                       

“Why can’t you guys just give me little bit of money every now and then, I just wanted a drink at the movies!”                       

“Listen, where the Hell do you think all of that money is coming from?  I work all damned day and have to come home to you worrying about getting a drink at the movie theater?  Who the Hell do you think you are?”                       

 Her eyes began to fill with water, and her chest caved in.                       

“Oh, honey, don’t cry, listen, next time, I’ll give you more money all right, I just…”                       

She turned and departed the room leaving trails of low sobs behind her.   He looked at his feet shuffling side to side, and then turned to the desk, to the right drawer. 

             “Dammit!” he yelled, and kicked the door of the office, slamming it violently shut.  “I’ve got to do this…I’ve got to.” He opened the closet and pulling out a blue windbreaker, climbed out of the office window.  He wanted no one to know where he was going.   

              Three streets south of Buck Straighthand’s home were groupings of six-story apartment buildings.  In suite 219, in building M, Dorothy Pressman pulled the last curler from her hair, and slipping on her black suede pumps, turned off the television and headed for the cab waiting outside.  The air was cooling, this being late September, and she wore a black lace shawl which barely covered her broad shoulders.  She was a short, plump woman with tumbling breasts over her protruding stomach.  Now, near sixty her eyes were deep sockets and barely visible behind her ebony flesh.  She moved defiantly to the cab, “NCB building, please.”                       

“The television studio?”                       

 “Yes.”                       

The lobster is Homarus Gammarus, and is a crustacean of the Nephropidae family.  The moon takes exactly twenty seven point three days to orbit the Earth.  The last mast on a ship is called the “jigger.”  The cheekbone’s true classification is the zygomatic bone.  She repeated these things in her head, these many things that she studied aggressively.  Fool’s Gold is really iron pyrites.  She read books in the public library and had the cable man install her computer with the internet, a place she spent several hours a night, alone and desperately searching through piles of information.  A djellaba is a loose, hooded woolen cloak worn by Arabian men.  She closed her eyes completely when she silently studied, forcing herself to remember things from the deep recesses of her mind.  The embryonic leaves on seed bearing plants are the…                       

“Why are you headed to the television station, you gonna be on TV lady?” 

“Cotyledons.”                       

“What?”                       

“Nothing, please don’t bother me, can’t you see I’m thinking?”                       

She retreated back to her mind.  It started three years prior, after her children left her.  There was a terrible accident; both of her sons were on life support.  It was then that she realized her ability to memorize and regurgitate.  The doctor spoke candidly about what organs were amiss and the complicated processes needed to be performed.  In her youth she had only completed her sophomore year of high school, at which point had become pregnant and devoted her time strictly to her sons.  So now, with limited knowledge of medicine was determined to understand what her sons’ condition entailed, though it meant spending nights endlessly devoted to study in the hospital’s library.  Unfortunately in vain, her study was unwarranted, for two weeks after the accident both of her children were dead.              “Here’s your stop ma’am, it’s eight bucks.”                       

She pulled nine from her purse, gazed at the man from those deep eyes, turned back to her purse and pulled out another bill.  I’ll be fine later, won’t even care about a ten dollar cab fare, she though smiling at the man.  The man accepted the money and she stepped to the curb.  Stepping up to the large building, she stood still for a moment in front of the doorway.  The stairs and glass framed her little stature.  Reaching to the handle, she pulled it slowly letting a rush of cool air sweep over her body.

            “Kent…Kent…”                       

It was Sarah, what did she want?                         

“You were supposed to be in makeup twenty minutes ago.  Come on, wake up!”                       

She pulled the spike out of his arm and loosened the tie around his bicep.  He began to come around, though still quite dazed.  She put his lifeless arm around her and raised him from the floor.  She had seen him much worse than this before a filming, with any luck, he should be nicely in the afterglow by show time, but it would be close.  She shuffled him to the door.                       

“Cameron, get your ass over here!”                       

“Oh, what the Hell, I told you not to give it to him before the show.”                       

“He asked…What was I supposed to do, listen, just drop him in makeup, and just remind them of the lighting you’re using.”                        

Cameron swung Kent’s body across his back and charged across the studio.                         “Where am I…”                       

“Just shut the Hell up, Kent, I’ll sort you right out.” 

Cameron strained against the weight and adjusted Kent’s body slightly as he shuffled across the black cement.  The door to the makeup room was open and Cameron laid Kent against the wall just outside.                                               

“Here you go, big dog.”  Cameron took a bag of cocaine and a long Volkswagen key out of his pocket.  “Just breathe in when I tell you, all right?”  He dug the key into powder and slowly aimed it for Kent’s nose precisely, like a docking space shuttle.  “Ok now one, two three…Go.”                       

Kent’s nostril flared, and his eyes bulged at the rush of energy overwhelming him.              “OK, now the other one…one, two…Go.”                       

Again, the fire swept through his veins and covered his body with chills.                          “Let’s get you into makeup.”                       

Cameron took him by the arm, but this time Kent was more capable of walking on his own.  He stumbled slightly and fell into a black leather chair in front of a floor to ceiling mirror.  Now, after the torture of the drugs, he was forced to sit amiably by and watch his own reflection as a woman with pink spiked hair and deep blue eyeliner covered his face with a thick layer of pig fat and minerals.  What have I become, a victim, or a victimizer?               

 Cameron turned back to the set; it was time to brief the contestants.  In a white washed room with tube lighting, three hundred men and women crowded around one another, occasionally stepping on toes and brushing elbows.  The smell reminded Dorothy Pressman of the stale yellow squash her mother prepared when she was a girl.  There were young and old people, some in suits, and others in torn jeans and faded t-shirts.  They all, however, held one thing in common, they were all the bearers of small postcards they had received in the mail after applying to appear on the nationally syndicated game show, “How to Earn a Buck.”  The show was popular even when Dorothy herself was only ten, and though the hosts continued to change over the years, the allure of the game never faltered, spanning generations.  Cameron came through a north facing door, and stood at a small podium near the front of the busy room.                         

“All right, well you all I’m sure know how the game gets started, all of your names will be entered into a lottery bin, and the names that our hostess pulls will then proceed to the game stage and stand in booths facing each other.  One hand will be placed behind your back, and the other will be resting atop the table next to the buzzer.  As soon as Kent Lamar asks the question, the first contestant to hit the buzzer will have five seconds to answer before it gets passed to the other contestant for a rebuttal.  Is that all clear?  Good, now, after a series of five questions, the contestant who has answered the most correctly will be kept on stage for the lightening round at the end of the game.  The winner of the lightening round, which works exactly like the previous round, will take home twenty thousand dollars.”                       

The crowd murmured to each other, “Twenty thousand dollars?”  Dorothy heard, “Isn’t that more than usual?”                       

“Today’s performance I would like to remind you is our first ever live taping of ‘How to Earn a Buck’ and therefore the prize is high than normal.  In addition to the money awarded to the winner, you will all receive a Spencer-Johnson four slice toaster courtesy of our sponsors for agreeing to be on the show.  Now if there aren’t any more questions, if you would please follow me to the stage to take your seats.”                       

The crowd shifted towards the exit.                       

“When do we get to meet Kent Lamar?”  Came a voice from the back of the room, from a man in a blue windbreaker.                       

Cameron paused, “You will all meet the host after the show when we have the photo-op and autograph session, now please, all of you follow me.”                       

Dorothy moved her body steadily towards the door, using her thick arms and shoving through those taller and stronger than she.  No one would interfere with her plans, whosoever did would be graced by the stubbornness of her black suede pump and rough callused feet.  The group sauntered towards the stage and Dorothy waded through the lot of them, planting herself in the front row, on an aisle she was sure Kent Lamar would be arriving from.  The man in the windbreaker decided to move anonymously to the back of the audience.  They would be calling names by lottery, what does it matter if I sit in the back?  He pulled off his jacket and straightened his tie in the collar of his white short sleeve button down work shirt.  He pulled a comb from his shirt pocket and spitting in his hand guided both across the sides of his head, smoothing his unruly hair.  At Princeton he studied philosophy, but had failed after three semesters and dropped out.  He still, however, considered himself quite bright, despite his short college career.  His living now was made selling used cars on a lot downtown, but two weeks ago, he had been fired for reasons of downsizing he was told.  He had still yet to disclose this information to his family, but his funds were drying and the bills steadily rising, appreciating as he sat in the dark of the studio, waiting perhaps in vain for the big payoff, hoping his brain was still reliable enough to answer a few obscure answers on live television for enough money to sustain his family, to feed his children, to comfort his wife.  He though of Christina, his eldest daughter and her unrelenting innocence.  If I win, I’ll buy her a nice piece of jewelry.  Perhaps, he could make her forget about his ineptitude as a father.  Maybe he would take them all on a trip, a vision of parkas and the snowy mountains of Colorado.  Everything will be all right.                         

The lighting dimmed, and spotlights trained on the stage.  A hushed silence fell over the crowd of possible contestants; the show was soon to begin. 

                         Back in the dressing room, under the supervision of Cameron, Kent dressed in a blue linen suit and a brown paisley tie.                         

“Martin was better than I am, wasn’t he?”                       

            “No way big dog, this show was made for you—you’re a natural.” Cameron grinned slyly from an overstuffed chair in the corner of the room.                         

“I knew I paid you well for a reason, Cameron, give yourself a raise.”                        “All ready did twice this week.”                       

Kent smirked the beleaguered smile of a man close to death.  The make up was having a difficult time covering his emotions.                        

“Put in some more eye drops, my filters won’t be able to fix those.”                       

“Yeah, don’t worry, this old polar bear will live to fight another day, I have the burden of time.  You…you’re young and stupid, I’m old and disgusting, and for some reason I can’t think of a single time when I was in between.  No purgatory in the grand scheme of life, no twist to the end of the story.”                       

“Oh, come on big dog, you can’t beat your self up like that.”                        Cameron noticed that Kent’s dressing room was larger than the one they made the contestants wait in before the show.  He cocked his dusty blonde hair to the side and out of his face.                         

“Cameron, how old are you?”                       

He shook his head and smiled, “Twenty-Seven.”                       

“And you enjoy all of this?”                       

“Every minute.”                       

“Martin was better than I am, wasn’t he?”                       

“You just need a few more shows under your belt, and then they’ll forget all about him.  You know, he was a fag.”                       

“Really…well that explains it then, doesn’t it?  Always full of pep, what did he take?”                       

 “He was a speedball; he shot coke and H at the same time.”                       

“Junkie, huh…” Kent grinned.                       

“Yeah, listen, here’s the bag,” Cameron got up and handed him a small plastic sack, “I’m going to set up—take a line and get into position, we’re on in fifteen minutes.”                       

“Right, right, fifteen…fifteen…”                       

“And don’t forget the eye drops.”                       

“No, won’t, and thanks.” He held the bag at eye level.                       

“Fifteen minutes.”                       

“Fifteen minutes.”                       

The door slammed behind the young man, and Kent turned to his vanity.  Pouring a mound from the bag, he stuck his face to it and breathed heavily.  One day, this will all be behind you.  His nose was dusted white in his reflection, and blood pooled on his upper lip.  At the same time he felt a trickle run from his left arm, and down to his thumb.  My blood is too thin, low platelets, it won’t…what’s the word?

            Coagulate, thought Dorothy Pressman.  Coagulation is when blood forms a clot such as a scab.  The palms of her hands began to sweat and she dried them on her shawl.  A dessiccator is a device for dehydrating specimens.  She gazed at the silver time piece on her wrist, a gift from the late Mr. Pressman.  Nine twenty-five.                       

“OK people, we go live in five minutes, shut off your cell phones, get comfortable, and let’s make television.  When you see this sign flash,” Cameron pointed to the flickering applause sign, “You cheer wildly and chant and do what ever it is you do, but when the sign is off, keep quiet and just observe the game.  If any of you decide to act out or yell during the performance, you will be escorted out and will forfeit the four slice toaster, any questions…no, good…THREE MINUTES!”                       

Cameron walked to the back of the stage swiftly to Kent’s dressing room.                        “KENT!  Where is that son of a bitch?”                       

 The host stepped out of the room and made a smooth glide over to Cameron.                       

“Flying high, my friend, flying high.”                       

“We made a couple of changes to the introduction, here’s your card and the teleprompter will be on as well…”                       

 The two made good pace to the staging area and stood just behind the seats waiting for the cue.                       

“ONE MINUTE!” Cameron shouted, then to Kent, “It’s you big dog, get out there and do this thing.”                       

“It’s the great trial of life, live television, and I’m pleading no contest.”           

“WELCOME TO HOW TO EARN A BUCK, WITH YOUR HOST…KENT LAMAAAR!”

He trotted down the aisle and waved at a few contestants as he passed, “Good evening folks and who’s ready to play…”           

The crowd roared in unison, “HOW TO EARN A BUCK!”           

The applause sign flashed and Dorothy Pressman smacked her hands together violently and cupping her mouth let out a howl of delight.             

“That’s right folks, and let’s get right down to it, now for you folks at home, this is a first ever live performance of ‘How to Earn a Buck.’  No one knows what might happen, but from the looks of these contestants, it’s going to be quite a show.  Well, let’s go to the lottery and see who our first lucky contestants are!”            

 “LOTTERY, LOTTERY, YEAH!”           

With his microphone in one hand, Kent signaled to the woman in a yellow and pink bikini.  She was twisting the lottery bin like a pig on a spit and the tiny white balls inside mixed and separated.             

“Heidi, who are our first contestants?”           

She stopped twirling and reached into the basket emerging with a ball etched with the name Myrtle Jennings.             

“Kent, our first contestant is Myrtle Jennings!”           

“MYRTLE JENNINGS, MYRTLE JENNINGS, YEAH!”           

A woman from the front middle row squealed with delight, and after hugging her husband ran to the stage.  Kent showed two perfect rows of with teeth, and the woman kissed his cheek and clapped her hands in between wiping the tears from her eyes.              “Heidi, give me our next contestant.”           

“The next contestant is…Todd Watterman!”           

“TODD WATTERMAN, TODD WATTERMAN, YEAH!”           

A young man in leather pants and a flowered Hawaiian t-shirt, hooted from the back row and knocking knees with several audience members made his way down to the stage.  Looking directly into the camera, Kent put his arms around these two.  He had always hated doing so…these people…they are so coy, so desperate, and so mediocre.            

“Let’s play…”           

“HOW TO EARN A BUCK! YEAH!”           

The two took their podiums and placed their hands near the buzzer.             

“Ok, first question.  The first person to buzz in with the correct answer will get the point.  Now, what mammal is known for its loud mating call known as the honk bark?”           

A monkey, Dorothy Pressman thought, it’s a monkey.           

Buck Straighthand sat in the back of the studio cursing the lottery for choosing these two before it chose him.  That lottery bin and that woman in her bikini, he hated them all.  He began to drift in his thoughts and pictured his name called above the rest.  I’ll jump up, he thought, no wait, play it cool, just as if I had known all along that this time would come, that my fifteen minutes would outlast this show, everything will be all right.             

“Myrtle, you and Todd are neck and neck; this question decides who stays and who goes, are you ready?”           

“Yes, Kent, let’s do it.”           

“Let’s do it indeed, what film introduced Eva Marie Saint to cinema?”           

Todd buzzed, “Rebel Without a Cause?”           

“Oooh, sorry Todd, Myrtle, do you have it?  For the chance to stay in the game and win twenty thousand dollars?”           

“Um…is it ‘On the Waterfront’?”           

“Oh, Myrtle…Yes it is!”           

The applause sign flickered and the crowd chanted, “MYRTLE, MYRTLE, YEAH!”           

A light flashed from the booth above the seats, and Cameron sat with his finger above the cue. Putting his arm around Myrtle, Kent braced for his close up.           

“We’re going to take a quick commercial break and be right back with,”
“HOW TO EARN A BUCK!”            

The cue went to commercial and Cameron took off his headphones.  “Nobody moves people; we’re back on the air in less than four minutes, Emilio, keep an eye on that time.”  He exited the booth and hurried down to Kent waiting onstage.           

“OK, Kent, solid beginning,” Cameron tossed him a bottle of water, “Let’s just keep it up.”           

Through the headphones, resting on his neck, he could hear the warning of two minutes.           

“TWO MINUTES!”           

Kent felt his forehead begin to sweat, and noticed that the blood had again dripped down to his thumb.  Taking out a white handkerchief, he wiped it away.  His nose was burning, and the stage lights were making him claustrophobic.  In his blindness, He could only make out a few characters in the crowd.  His knees buckled, and he swayed violently, almost losing balance, but regaining his steadiness quickly, he righted himself.  Just get through this one you old polar bear; they’ve got nothing on you.           

“Three, two, and…”           

“We’re back with…”           

“HOW TO EARN A BUCK!”                       

“Well, we’ve got Myrtle up here in the lightening round booth and she’s gonna need some company, so let’s go back to Heidi for our next two contestants. This is it, Buck Straighthand was clutching his windbreaker and his heart was beating until it vibrated from excitement and longing.  This is what I’ve been waiting for; this is my fifteen minutes, my whole life…                       

“Dorothy Pressman!”                       

“DOROTHY! DOROTHY! YEAH!”                       

At first, she was stunned, unable to move, but her secondary source…her auto pilot guided her legs to rise, to move, and to guide her beside Kent Lamar.  Is this happening? Have I been so sure that it would that now I cannot realize the sensation?                         

“Dorothy, my dear, are you ready to compete for the chance to win twenty thousand dollars?”                       

“Yes, sir, I am.”                       

“And what are you going to spend that money on?”                       

She pondered for a moment, unsure if she should divulge the secret for which she was truly playing.  She decided to lie.                       

“A new car.”                       

“A nice new car, now that sounds great, Heidi, what about our other contestant?”                       

Sweat beaded his chin line, and the windbreaker was held so tightly in his hand that he could feel his blood throb against it.                         

“Buck Straighthand.”                       

“BUCK! BUCK! YEAH!”                       

Like a new lamp freshly out of its box and illuminated for the first time, as was Buck Straighthand’s face when his name rang above the rest.                         

“That’s me!” he screamed at a man seated next to him.                       

“Well, you better get down there, man; don’t want to miss your turn.”                        “Yeah, I suppose so…” He said fixating on the stage.                       

 “Buck Straighthand, where the heck are ya?”                       

“I’m here, I’m here.” Buck ran to the stage, nearly tripping over the stairs and still retaining his windbreaker in one hand.                         

 “Well, hey there Buck, it’s a little drafty in here, is that why you have the windbreaker,” Kent mused.                        

The audience let out a roar of fake laughter, Buck looked down at his windbreaker saying nothing.                         

“Well, all right, Buck, Dorothy, let’s play…”                       

“HOW TO EARN A BUCK!”                       

Kent began to see spots of light distorting his vision and making the lights flare in his vision.  He was dizzy, fatigued, I need a good night’s rest, maybe a joint…come on you old polar bear…                       

Dorothy Pressman scuttled across the pink floor to the yellow podium and thought of the answers in her head, basing her winning more so on the ability to buzz in with proper timing as opposed to actually knowing the answers.                         

I went to Princeton, dammit, I can beat this old woman.                       

“Ok ladies and germs, let’s get down to brass tacks here, first question:  The political work The Leviathan, was written by which philosopher?”                       

Dorothy buzzed with a deft hand, “Thomas Hobbes.”                       

“Yes, Dorothy, one point for you…I’d be careful Buck, looks like some pretty heavy competition, question two:  This group formed in 1848 and was a coalition of British Neoclassical artists and included members such as William Holman Hunt and Dante Gabriel Rossetti…”                       

“Pre-Raphaelites!”                       

“Yes, Buck, great knowledge on the subject.”                       

Dorothy stared from the deep black pits of her eyes, and Buck could feel her coldness surrounding him like a thick fog.                           

 “Ok, you two—who’s going to take the lead?  Question three:  If a tennis player has tennis elbow, there’s a good chance he has this achy medical condition…”                        “Synovitis.”                       

“Yes!  Excellent…um…” Kent’s throat was closing, and a deep knife cut away at the lining in his stomach, his ulcer must be returning, and the pain sent him into a haze.  “Um…Buck…Yes…”                       

The studio was devoid of noise, only the faint hum if the electric lights could be heard.                         

“OK, well, question four then, right…” he moved and relaxed his knees to prevent them from buckling.  “What is the final mast on a large scale sailing ship referred to as?”               “A Jigger!  A Jigger!”                        

“A jigger, yes, and you…you tied the points…” His enthusiasm was fading in and out, as he would emphasize some words while muttering others under his breath.              

“What the Hell is wrong with him Cameron?”                       

“He’s crashing Sarah, ok guys, be ready to go to commercial if anything happens, and I mean quickly, we’ve got a loose cannon up there.” He turned to Sarah, “Get Martin on the phone, we might need him to stand in if anything happens.”                       

“Martin…do you think he would do it?”                       

“Tell him forty K and see what you can get out of him.”                       

“I’ll see, but you know damn well, that if Kent knew Martin was here…”                       

“We’ll keep it under wraps; Kent won’t know he’s here unless he has to.”                       

“All right, well you better get down there next break and get him something to calm him down.”                        

“I’ll handle it, just get Martin down here.”                        

He looked down at one of the monitors, “Hang in there big dog.”                                                

“The points are tied, and these two are really competing for this prize, they’re determined, and ready…diligent, smart…and they’re good people…like you and me, pay their taxes, right…question five, the last and final question.  I’ll just ask it and then one of you will buzz in and answer it, just buzz right in, and ok, so question five…”                        He wiped the sweat from his forehead and smeared his makeup down the side of his face.  Why must these lights be so bright, his knees locked.                         

“Question five:  The electronic discharge sometimes referred to as the ‘ghost in the machine’ that occurs on Aircraft and large ships during thunderstorms is commonly referred to as…”                       

“St. Elmo’s Fire!”                        

“St. Elmo’s Fire…is that the answer…it sounds like a reasonable answer, and it turns out…”                       

The crowd sat in wild anticipation, watching as Buck’s answer was ruminated upon by their sickly host.  Dorothy Pressman, mortified, watched as the fate of the show, and her prize money hung in Limbo, it was as if waiting for the answer from God himself.                         

“…and Yes!  Yes it is, that is correct!”                       

“BUCK! BUCK! BUCK!” The crowd of people stood and screeched approval.  Dorothy took two steps back from her podium.  Buck threw his windbreaker into the air, and beamed as he had not done so in many years.  I can pay the collectors, take my family away from life, everything is going to work out fine…                       

Kent lost his footing and began convulsing.  His eyes bulged and the lights spun in his skull.  Blood from his nose fell to his chest and stained it crimson, reaching down he could see the soft hue of the floor rising.  Dorothy had retrieved her purse and searching briefly pulled a .38 caliber revolver.  Her face, stoic, her movements fluid, she pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.                         

Kent heard the shot, but could not place the noise.  He fell quickly to the ground and lost consciousness.  Here you go you old polar bear; this is it, final round, and game over…                       

Dorothy took the revolver and pointed it at her temple.  Another shot, and her body flopped onto the ground like a beaching whale.  Her arm twitched slightly, and she was dead.                         

“Cameron, what the Hell just happened?”                       

“I don’t know!   Shit!”                        

The crew from the booth tore down to the main stage and rushed to the aid of their fallen host.  The audience was panicked, falling into a frenzy of activity.  Cameron came upon Kent first and dropped to his knees.  He slapped his face attempting to wake him.  “Kent, come on now big dog, come back, come on now.” Cameron examined the body and saw the blood covering his chest.  The paramedics, two men, dropped a box of supplies on the floor next to Kent and began to cut his shirt.  They pulled away the blue suit and the brown paisley tie.  Opening his shirt, one of the paramedics turned back to Cameron, “I thought this was a bullet wound incident.”                       

“It is, that woman over there shot Kent.”                       

“But there’s no bullet wound.”                       

Cameron’s eyes shifted to the back of the set where a skinny man with pulled tight flesh lay still.  Cameron gazed in awe.  The imprint of death so fresh now in his mind.        

“I’m sorry, Cameron, one of the men said, Kent is gone.”                       

Cameron returned to his host and kneeling shut his eyes with two fingers.  Then it happened, the thought finally occurred to him…looking to the booth he saw no one.             

“Emilio!” He howled.                       

From the stage he could read the illuminated sign above the main camera,

            “ON AIR.”

Vae Victis

It was not yet three o’clock in the afternoon, but the cloud cover made any indication of time very difficult to discern. I stood on a post made of cement and took a deep pull from my cigarette. Every so often I would crane my neck and tilt it a bit to see over the crowd. Someone stood in the center of this mob waving a giant plywood cross from side to side in front of him.
“Justice comes to those who choose to find it—Find it in him Jesus Christ the Lord, may he be by your side at all times to help you give up the drugs of death and the Devil’s broth—You prostitutes, you whores, cover yourselves in public and quit using the gifts God gave you to fornicate and spread your evil disease. This is the fault of the whores, gentlemen. The fault of those who tempt us, keep them in their place and away from the temptation of sin.”
Rhetoric; the crowd had morphed around him in a spirited way, people pushing through the swell to get close enough to take a swing. The preacher kept his cross swaying in front of him, as to fend off the evil spirits, or perhaps employ as a weapon. He began to speak direly of homosexuality. I hopped off of my perch and strolled away. I let my cigarette fall to the ground.
Crossing the mall near the library, the grass felt good beneath the soles of my shoes, so I took them off and pressed my toes into the ground. Late spring gave the impression that weather was a strong point of the city, but not today. I placed my bag next to me and stared into the distance at the group surrounding the preacher, I could hear his voice soft in the background. I lay next to my bag and fell asleep.
“Are you alone?”
I awoke slightly to see two women standing above me clutching handbags close to their chests.
“I suppose so.”
Pulling my hat over my eyes, I felt a wayward slice of sun warm the calf on my right leg.
I awoke again when dripping bits of pain stabbed me in several places on my body. My dreams reflected the pain, issuing images of small creatures covered in thick black hair matted to their entire bodies. These beings were no larger than cats, though very rotund. They attacked endlessly gnawing at my chest and body, pulling the skin from my fingers and the cartilage from my ears. Attempts to bat them away were futile. A burning mountain rose from the ground growing enormous in the middle of a continual field of gravel, spitting hot flame to the sky. The creatures now ripping at muscle tissue, I ran with full force swinging the remains of my arms in every direction hoping to curb the dark army close at my heels, and I flung my body to the flame. I accepted this death and with the fire I was purged.
I awoke in the rain.

I gathered my small bag and rushed to a covered area nearest, the overhang of an old building. The crowd was gone, and I was alone in all directions. I crouched my body, cradling my belongings and made my way to the bar.
While it was raining there were few crowded around the square. The bar itself was mostly outside. There were tables and chairs incongruent drowning on two decks adjacent to the bar, which stood as an island in the center of the place. Large eaves raised from its sides to form makeshift coverings for those gathered around it on wooden benches. I joined.
In moments there was a change, my empty hand was filled, but the object in it felt foreign. It was the same bottle afforded to me many times before, perhaps there was something changed about my hand, or perhaps it was something about the bottle changing the way it wished to be felt. I took the bottle and retrieved a long pull from the neck. Two police officers trotted by on their horses patrolling the street. The air from the animals’ nostrils smoked, and reminded me of the flames from my dream. Looking in, they gave me bad eyes; I looked back to the bottle.
“So where you been man?”
A fat man with cheeks of blubber slobbed slightly out of the corners of his mouth, gathering spit in the creases of his flesh. He wiped it then offered me his hand. I nodded to him leaving my own palm in its rightful place.
“I think I’ve been here.”
“Well Hell man, don’t you know?”
He lowered his hand. I noticed his fat breasts were collecting rain while his underbelly remained dry.
“Yeah, I’ve been here.”
“Well, shit.”
He smiled at me.
Behind my sunglasses I shut my eyes and struggled to smile back. When I opened them again, the man was gone, over to the other side of the bar, and I could hear him speak, “So where you been man?”
I finished the bottle and left.

When I finally arrived home, the air was damp in my small apartment. I should clean, I thought. The fridge had a half empty bottle of port wine; I filled a glass and stared at the counter tops in my kitchen. Ants were in a frenzy over a plate crusted with red sauce. There next to them sat the cleaning fluid with a nozzle attached. I began to spray the ants, then I sprayed more—I kept spraying and spraying until the plate was covered in a thick sludge. The ants squirmed their last. “Væ Victis,” I spouted, “Sleep well my comrades.” The floor beneath me stuck to my right shoe. I untied it and left it there, abandoning it for the comfort of my mattress lying on the floor next to the stack of luggage and torn books. The luggage was for a trip I planned to take, perhaps. The books were shit. They frustrated me with their uselessness and deserved to be desecrated in a disgusting manner. This is not to say that I do not have equally good books atop a table across from my bed, kept in stable condition, ready for repeated consumption. But at times when reading, it would take two pages, or sometimes thirty for my brain to realize their worth and then I would discard them.
The radio was droning, repeating the same tape front to back, back to front; I had left it on since this morning; it played a good noise though, so I left it looping. The entirety of this room is pasted with paper; clippings and such I found important at the time, it is my nesting instinct. I felt safe and warm as I lay into bed, and I fell into the abandoned thoughts of self-gratification. The preacher swims through my mind, the fat man, the two women, and I realize that it has been a good day, one full of tranquility and little foresight.
I took two pills and retreated from life; the frenzied ants seemed so much calmer now

Mock Turtle

July 6, 2007:
The pigs have got me. I feel them closing the walls like some crude form of medieval torture. The escape was narrow, but I have my life, my typewriter and a few odd books. Also two pints of brandy that I have no idea what to do with. I don’t drink brandy, but I certainly won’t let them have it. Well, so long to the old trash bin, it wasn’t much of anything anyway. The volcano has expelled me from its hot fires and now I rest with little thought in my skull as to where my adventures will guide me next. No problems and no worries, I have hit the bottom but thanks to my incredibly springy hind quarters, have bounced back and now sit on a cliff somewhere in limbo. For now things are continuing, but in a strange turn of events it is almost freeing. The roof has lifted and above me there are only blue skies. To Hell and back, I feel amongst a rare breed including Dante and Jesus, to make the return from the inferno and live to speak of it. In the words of an old friend I tell you one final epithet: Goodbye, Blue Monday

At a Loss, Our Character is Redeemed

The place in which we live is processed and processed by individuals with hefty paychecks, but is understood only by those who struggle.  Our suffering gives us hope and our pain gives us meaning.  The issue at hand is that the problems faced by the layman are radically different from those inhibiting the powerful and the rich.  There has quite often been the question of whether or not the rich are in fact better off or if the old adage,”The grass is always greener,” holds merit.  Several institutions have cornered the market on the exploitation of the less wealthy, those being credit card companies and banks and financiers.  The guise in the form of fiscal aid comes too little and too expensive for most.  The church has reminded us, however, that the meek shall inherit the earth, perhaps we can chalk this one up to Hypocratic propaganda similar to the eye for an eye rule that we simply cannot come to agree upon.  As a nation and a people we have forfeited many freedoms for inequity and selfish pride, not only guided by the haves, but also the have somes.  The road to the American dime is similar to the childhood game Shoots and Ladders, except of course, the ladders are few and far between, missing several key rungs critical to self preservation, while the shoots revert us back to the ground floor at an expedited rate.  Our free market economy has wonderful incentives but since the Reagan era and the absurd tax cuts, the economic division in the country has grown rapidly.  As if our global warming dilemma was not enough, we must now face the fact that over half of America will not have the capital necessary to make any decent change for any upcoming worldly problem.  George W. Bush may be slightly correct in one exchange, noting that the impact of reducing emmissions on a national scale could cripple the economy.  Well, George, this may be true, since you and your compatriots control a vast majority of the money available, it seems that the lower end of the spectrum could have a hard time affixing their new solar panels to the roof and buying a hybrid car.  My only question to George, though, is if all of those black SUVs I see you driving your entourage around in are Hybrid as well. 
    Where is our sense of independence?  It lies somewhere in the gutter next to our inalienable rights.  Our price for these things is rising, our lives, our children, and our dream of equality are only a few of the pricy exchanges we will make to preserve our free nation.  We can only pray that sooner rather than later, the meek shall inherit the earth, and that the grass truly is greener when the shadows fall