grandmothercanfly: 2021

Tony and Cleopatra

CHIMERA

A COLLECTION OF DREAMS

CONTENTS

MAMA IN YOUR CORNER 4

BOWLING GREEN 21

TIKI 26

TICK TOCK 29

SEDIMENT 32

CALL GIG 34

DISSUASION 37

WATER 46

TRINITY 50

CONSPIRACY THEORY 54

DESERT BALLERINA 56

AN EXCEPTIONAL EXPLOSION OF BEAUTY AND DEATH 72

POST CARD 85

DICK AND ME 89

FATHER KNOWS BEST 91

DYMITRY 94

NIGHT TRAIN 98

SHIT FOR SHITHEADS 102

ACCIDENT 105

THE DEVIL IS LOOSE IN THE LAND 108

JUDAS WEARS A SMILE 110

LAST SUPPER 114

DIRTY RUBBERS 11

MESMERIC

HALF A DOZEN BEERS BEFORE LUNCH

                                                    Mamma In Your Corner

     Dan nearly walked into him, young and good looking, casually but well dressed, on his knees frozen with fentanyl, as gray as Lot's wife, the drug's wrapper only just drifting from his hand. He was a pillar of salt, a monument to Armageddon. “Not with a bang but a whimper”. People streaming by on their way to work, if they even noticed him never gave him a second glance. They maneuvered around him keeping their eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of them littered with various other motionless or twitching victims, scattered garbage, smears of puke, piles of shit.
   "Great. Let's start the day with the end of the world.", Dan muttered under his breath. Calm down, he thought. It will be a short day at the showroom and if he was lucky, he would be there alone for most of it. He was the only one waiting at the stop when the bus pulled up. Its opening doors welcomed him into the bubbling purgatory of the San Francisco Muni. He dropped into a seat in an especially rich stew of the City's finest: commuters young, old and in between, homeless getting out of the cold, a couple of drag queens, Chinese matrons on their way to the farmer's market, a small group of school kids, a self-crowned prophet mumbling imprecations over the end of humanity. Dan stared out the window at the collections of tents and makeshift cardboard shelters of the homeless under overpasses and overflowing out of alleys steaming in the shadows of dark glass towers.
     A five foot five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound woman in her fifties painted from neck to ankles in black spandex made her way through the standing passengers and stopped above him. As the bus rolled along, her eyes darted around. After a satisfied nod to herself, she reached into a large shoulder bag and pulled out a single shot airline bottle of vodka, cracked open the cap and, with one last glance over the crowd chugged it down before quickly tucking it back in her bag. A serene smile bloomed slowly across her face. She swayed with the motion of the bus for a few minutes. Then the smiled faded. A frown began to replace it but before it could take hold, she jabbed her hand back into the bag and whipped out another bottle. This time her look around the bus was defiant, her swallow was slower and her smile was proud. She lowered the empty bottle into the bag, slowly zipped it closed, took a deep breath and announced at the top of her lungs "Mama got a big pussy!"
     Heads swung around. Dan slowly shook his head. He could hear the Chinese women's high-pitched chatter modulating up and down faster and faster. He looked up at the woman and rolled his eyes. She looked down at him. "Mama got such a big pussy, she got two pussy!"
   The bus pulled into a stop. All the Chinese women jumped to their feet and clattered off. Mamma lifted her chin like a vanquishing Ceasar. Now everyone's eyes were on her, even the bus driver's in the rear view mirror as she pulled the bus out of the stop. Dan had heard enough. "For God's sake, lady! Please!"
     That was a mistake. Mamma looked down at him as if she were about to step on a roach. "Are you talkin' to me, Cracker? Are you talkin' to me?" She stepped back in the aisle and swung her arm around. Wide-eyed passengers danced out of the way as she grabbed a pole for support. "Ain't nothin' Mama likes better than a fourteen-inch dick!"
   Almost everyone had got to their feet as the bus approached the next stop with the exception of the school children cowering in the back seats. Dan's face snapped up and he stared angrily into her eyes. "God damn it, woman! There are children on this bus!"
     It was as if he'd slapped her. She froze. Her mouth slammed shut and her eyes danced. When they found the kids, panic flashed across her face. Then a look of defeat pressed the wrinkles over her eyes deep with a life worn sadness. Her eyes focused on Dan's. "You right, baby." A heavy sigh shuddered her. "You right. Mama sorry." As the bus groaned to a stop, she lurched towards the back door scattering passengers on the way. She stepped down into the exit doors and looked back. "Thank you, baby." The doors swung open. She cast Dan a weary smile. "Mama in your corner now, baby. Mama in your corner." He offered her a weary smile back.
    Sighs of relief filled the bus. People settled back down. Few looked at each other. No one looked at Dan. At least he had an empty seat next to him, he thought as he stretched his legs out and lowered his arm across the rail. Then he saw it, the reason the seat was empty in a crowded bus. A huge roach lay motionless in the middle of it. He jumped. He had never seen one so big, even in this town. With its full-length antennas arching out over the seat, it had to be six inches long at least. Dan wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't afraid of it. He rather admired the very size of it. It was quite magnificent. He had been fascinated with insects since he was a kid. He had an impressive collection before he was ten. He still collected them in a way. If, on the rare occasion he stumbled on a dead, nice looking or interesting one in good condition, a bumblebee or a butterfly, he picked it up and brought it home to set on a shelf in his bookcase. He wouldn't bother to try to catch a live one, especially as ferocious looking as this one. He just stared at it waiting for it to skitter off. Or lumber off. But it didn't move. It was stretched out in all its majesty, defiant, waiting for him or anyone else to mess with it. So, the two of them rode along together, ignoring each other just like any other couple of passengers on a city bus in the middle of any other cold-hearted American city. As the bus approached his stop, he finally decided he couldn't just get up and leave it there. It might scare the life out of some little old lady, or some little old lady might accidentally sit on it and squash the life out of it. He pulled a plastic bag out of his paper lunch sack and brushed the little monster. It didn't move. He brushed it again. Then it occurred to him that it wasn't actually alive, and he was sitting next the future star specimen in his collection. What book would he garnish with it, Death On The Installment Plan, Cities Of The Red Night, Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas? But it looked alive. Its legs weren’t curled under its body. It wasn’t damaged in any way. He brushed it again. Nothing. He carefully slid the bag under it, folded it around and over the roach and slipped it in his sack. This day was going to be a good day after all.
   Dan walked into the showroom and looked across an expanse of twenty first century designer furniture - gray boxes and tables of various sizes grouped in arrangements of living rooms, parlors, sterile interiors for freshly gutted Victorian mansions, stripped Art Deco apartments, stacked, low ceiling condominiums entombed in gray towers suffocating the once sparkling white Mediterranean San Francisco skyline. Mia Dickworth sat behind her desk overlooking her kingdom on a platform she called “The Bridge” at the foot of which lay “The Zenscape”, a yard square of individually collected polished stones exactly laid out to form a stream bed over which a trickle of water wandered fed by a dripping “Waterfall”.

     Dan's forty something designer employer did not look up. She did not acknowledge his presence in any way even as he walked up the seven stairs to her desk and past a waist high folding screen that kept her precious lap dog and its needle-sharp teeth away from any customers. Its name was Cutesy. With its long, pointed nose and ears and its black, stringy hair, all it needed was a long hairless tail to pass for a very large rat. It shot snarling out from under Mia's desk, realized who it was looking at and skittered back under her feet. They had a discussion, the little excretion and Dan when they first met. He waited for just the right time when Mia was at a doctor's appointment and the surveillance cameras were on the blink. He explained to the little piece of shit that if it ever even looked at him again he would snap its neck like a twig.
   Dan lowered his lunch sack on a table and walked back. "Hello, Mia.", he smiled as he passed her. "How was your weekend?" He descended the steps, lowered himself into an armchair that could have passed for one of the homeless huts he'd passed on the bus and started a slow count to himself.
   On the count of nine, Mia's voice clicked into action. "FeeFee Divine is coming in at ten with a client to look at Dorian Vivingo sofas. Cransworth Buttercheek will be in this afternoon with a client to look at Veniswingle seating. Try and get him to look at a Retoushie chair for once. The rest of the day is walk-ins and there better be walk-ins. My doctor's appointment was cancelled."
     Dan spent the morning at the foot of her throne slowly walking around $16,000 gray box sofas and $10,000 gray box chairs fronted with $8,000 gray box coffee tables and sided by $5,000 gray box side tables straightening, rearranging and dusting until his feet screamed in pain as he smiled through his teeth at wigged designers and arched lipped clients.
     Mr. Buttercheek didn’t show but Ms. Divine finally did, and she was in a nasty state. "Not only did my client call and tell me she didn't have time to look at sofas, she told me to come without her and take more photos! My God, I've sent her and encyclopedia's worth already!"
     Mia Dickworth jumped up from her seat and fluttered down to comfort her. "Don't let it get to you, FeeFee. Dan will take all the photos you need, and he'll email them along with all the Dorian Vivingo promo he can find to your client ASAP."
     "And what I had to wade through to get here!", panted FeeFee. "Do you know you have three homeless tents twenty feet from your door? My God, it's getting unbearable! The smells, the stench is everywhere. They're spreading disease: measles, mumps, West Nile virus! And now they have tents! Since when can a mendicant afford a tent?"
   "We won't have to put up with this much longer.", Dan's employer tisked. "They'll be rounded up and put in relocation camps by the end of the year. I have good sources telling me it's being organized on the local and Federal level."
   "Well they better do something soon!”, panted Ms. Devine. "They're spreading filth, rats, fleas! I even heard there are cockroaches in San Francisco now!"
     "Cockroaches?", Mia gasped. "Who told you that?"
     "Sally Chowchingle!"
     "Sally Chowchingle? Where did she hear that?"
     "She saw one!"
     "Oh my God, where?"
     "On the sidewalk next to a beggar. At least she thought it was one. It was small and squashed."
   "Small? How small? How big do they get?"
   "I don't know, bug sized, like a fly or something."
   "Lord in heaven! I hope I never see one."
   "I've seen pictures in books. Horrible."
     "Is this what we've come too?", snarled Mia. She rested a finger on FeeFee's shoulder and the two of them lowered themselves into a $16,000 gray box. "Dan, would you get us a couple of coffees?"
     Dan walked up to The Bridge and over to one of Mia's prize possessions, Melania, a $2500 dollar coffee machine of coffee machines, a coffee machine's coffee machine. She was tall and dark and gray like the towers looming above them. She held seventeen types of coffee beans that she could grind to twenty-six different densities, blend in forty-five combinations and brew in fourteen different ways with a choice of eleven different spring waters before dripping it into her meta coffee pot, the finest Irish Wedgwood crystal specially treated to withstand ten years of heating and cooling on the gold galvanized ring it sat on.

   "Hello, Melania. How are you today."
   "I am well, Dan. And you are looking well. Have you trimmed your beard closer than usual?"
   Dan rubbed his face. "It is a bit close."
     "It makes you look younger."
     "Thank you, Melania. Mia would like the usual for two, please."
     "Of course, Dan." Melania clicked into action. After the noise of the grinding beans subsided and purified mineral water began to steam into the coffee, Melania asked him a question.
     "Dan, it has come to our attention that you are an aficionado of fine scotch. Did you know that your local TrinkyDrinky outlet has a sale on Dewar's? I could arrange to get you an additional ten percent off per bottle or fifteen percent off a case if you would like."
     "That's very nice of you, Melania but what makes you think I like scotch?"
     "Why, we heard you discussing it just last night."
     "Ah yes, I was reminiscing with a neighbor. He loved fine bourbon, and I loved fine scotch. We were both talking about how we missed them from time to time since we had both given them up."
     There was an awkward silence from Mia as the last of the brewed coffee dripped into the pot.
     "I am still very fond of good wine."
     "Melania's response was quick. "TrinkyDrinky has dozens on sale, Dan. What kind of wine do you like?"
     "Urine.", he grinned.
     There was another pause. "I'm sorry. There is no compatible reference in our data base."
"That's OK, Melania. I'm sorry I don't turn my phone off when I'm not using it."
     As Dan handed the two wounded warriors their coffee, his employer looked up at him. "I want you to get rid of the tents next to the door."
   "Get rid of them? How?"
   Mia Dickworth placed a thumb and finger on her forehead and rolled her eyes. "Threaten to call the cops. Give them some money. I don't know. Just go."
   Dan controlled his anger with the sudden realization that he could free himself of these Prima Donnas and get some air at the same time. The women's voices lowered as he walked toward the door.
   "He seems a little aloof."
   "He was in the business for years, had his own shop. Antiques."
   "Antiques? Ugh. Well, I don't remember him. He is a bit over the hill. Good coffee though."
   A half a dozen police were hastening the packing of the tents with their batons. A young woman spread-eagled on her back was smiling broadly at the sky. Two men were carrying a third. An older couple was folding up the tents and putting them in shopping carts. A gentle breeze shuffled the leaves on a tree. Patches of low fog streamed over parked Teslas and BMWs and Audies gleaming in the afternoon sun.
   A well-groomed man in his sixties with a pair of suitcases walked over and set them at Dan's feet. "We just put our tents up last night. We ain't botherin' nobody. Where are we supposed to live? Hell, half of us had a place we could afford but they threw us out."
     "So much for rent control.", sighed Dan. "That could happen to me any time. I have a job but it's part time and contract. If I lost it, I couldn't pay the rent and if I got thrown out, I couldn't afford a place anywhere."
     "We'll save you a place, bother."
     Dan smiled and suppressed a shudder. He felt a sharp tap on his shoulder and turned around to face Cransworth Buttercheek himself. "You're Mia's floor man, aren't you?"
     "I am Ms. Dickworth's assistant."
     "Of course you are. And I am here with my client to see Ms. Dickworth's Veniswingle."
     "Please come in." Dan smiled as he led them to the door and opened it. "She will be more than delighted to show it to you."
     "I - I beg your pardon?". stuttered Mr. Buttercheek.
     "Mia!" Dan called across the floor. "Mr. Buttercheek is here with his client." He turned back to the two of them. "Ms. Dickworth would also like me to introduce you to her Ritoushie."
     "Thank you, but that would be a waste of time. Frankly, I don't know why she even bothers to still stock Ritoushie.", snapped Mr. Buttercheek.
   "Cransworth!", Mia grinned. "Look who's here! It's FeeFee Divine! Bring your client on over and have a seat. Dan, two more coffees. Did you clear out the homeless camp?"
   "The police are taking care of that.", muttered Mr. Buttercheek as he and his client sat down in a gray box fronted by a gray table covered in gray Vivingo, Vensiwingle and Retoushie catalogues.
   "Sandra Upchiddle,", Mr. Buttercheek announced. "I'd like you to meet Mia Dickworth, owner of this fine establishment, and FeeFee Divine, a fellow designer."
   "Pleased to meet you.", purred FeeFee. "How long have you been a client of Cransworth?"
   "This is my first foray into the world of upper, upper-class design.", replied Ms. Upchiddle as she fingered the tag on the sofa she was sitting in. "Oh, my goodness, $16,000! I had no idea."
   "If you are a client of Cransworth Buttercheek, you can well afford it, my dear.", smiled FeeFee.
   "It just seems to me furnishing a home or even a condo with this - um, quality would be out of range for most people."
   "Of course it's out of range for most people.”, snorted Mr. Buttercheek. "That's the point."
   "Most people don't have a pied a terre in all the important major cities.", Mia tisked.
     FeeFee's look was a patient one. "Or a dozen in each. The finest furniture boosts the value of the finest properties. If you're going to park your money somewhere safe, real estate is the safest and not only is the increasing value of property running circles around the finest portfolios, you can Airbnb anything you're not residing in."
   "Airbnb?", snorted Mr. Buttercheek. "Oh please."
     "What's wrong with options?", demanded FeeFee. "And no one except those who can afford it know anything about any of it. You don't think the rents have skyrocketed all across the civilized world because the tech industry is paying its workers $100,000 a year, do you?"

Ms. Upchiddle glanced nervously around the room and settled on The Zenscape. “My Goodness! Look at the little waterfall. Isn’t that unique. Do you sell those too?”

Mia looked over her nose at Cransworth’s client. “I assembled that after an intensive Zen retreat in the mountains.”

“Oh, my Stars! It’s quite beautiful and peaceful. Where did you find such beautiful. um, stones?”

   “Up North.”
When Dan asked Melania for a full pot of coffee, she couldn’t hide her excitement. “We have found your Rhine Riesling at TrinkyDrinky! It’s a lovely, slightly dry variety with hints of alder and pine and we can offer you ten percent off a case!”
“Thanks, Melania. What do they have in Gewurztraminer?”
“ Gevurtstra - gevurstra -"
“Or better yet, a trockenbeerenauslese.”
“Trok  - trok - trok -"
   Dan brought two more cups of coffee to the group and the pot for refills. When he set it on the table, Mr. Buttercheek gasped. Oh my God! Never put anything hot on a Veniswingle!"
   Dan quickly lifted it and set it on a catalogue. “Mia, I'll leave you and go make sure the police finish clearing out the homeless."
     "Don't get too close to any of them!", commanded his employer. "You could catch something contagious!"
   Cransworth Buttercheek didn't bother to lower his voice as Dan walked away. "He's rather distant, if you ask me, a bit snooty. He said a couple of things to me that could be taken as sarcasm, almost suggestive, hardly appropriate for a floor man."
   FeeFee Divine shook her head. "He used to be an antique dealer."
   "Artsy fartsy. That's what I said to myself when I first saw him.", snipped Sandra Upchiddle. "Artsy fartsy."

"Not exactly an appropriate attitude for an employee.", frowned Cransworth Buttercheek.

"Well maybe.", offered Ms. Upchiddle. "But you can't expect him to exactly grovel."

"A little groveling never hurt any employee!", snipped FeeFee Divine.

     "Well, let's see if he can clear out the beggars and I can get some return on my investment.", Mia sniffed.
   The four of them bent over their coffee and engaged in a contemptuous klatch over the effrontery of the homeless scourge in robbing them of their peace of mind, their health, their safety, their business. Dan walked toward the door as words of outrage shot through the air and batted at his ears: "Putrescence! Fetid! Fleas! Lice! Syphilis! Ebola! Cockroaches!"
   When he opened the door, a bloodcurdling scream ricocheted throughout the room. He spun around to see the four of them standing on an $8,000 Veniswingle coffee table clutching each other, white faced with terror. Cutsie was racing around the table howling. A huge cockroach clung to the stringy hair on her back, its legs high, its antenna waving.
     "Get the police!", screeched Mia.
     "God help me! God help me!", FeeFee bellowed.
     Sandra Upchiddle had her fists on Cransworth Buttercheek's collar. "What kind of hell hole have you put me in?"
     Cransworth Buttercheek clasped his hands over his mouth and let loose a high-pitched fart.
     An officer was at the door. "What is going on in here?"
    "We're having a roach attack.", Dan whispered in awe.
The two of them raced towards the mayhem. All the color drained out of the cop's face. "Jesus Christ! Is that a giant roach riding a giant rat?"
     Dan grabbed the empty Irish crystal coffee pot hoping to scoop the roach off Cutsie. When she saw him raise it over her, she turned to the cop and charged at him snarling and gnashing her teeth. He jumped back, knocking his cap off and reached for his pepper spray.
   "Oh my God! Don't you dare, you bastard!", Mia gasped.
   The cop gave Cutsie a good blast in the face sending her straight to the floor shaking with convulsions. The roach leaped into the air. With an arching swing, Dan caught it in the coffee pot. Then he felt it ripped from his hand. The cop held it at arm's length and rammed his nightstick into it, smashing out the bottom. Melania let loose a wail as the cockroach fell to the floor and skittered onto The Zenscape. The cop lifted his foot and dropped it. The roach was ground into the cherished pebbles. Its guts oozed out and clouded the waters.
   "Cutsie! Oh, my poor little Cutsie!" Mia threw her arm to her forehead and bent down in an elegant swoon that would have put an opera diva to shame. She picked up the quivering pile of hair and held it up to the gods for judgement. FeeFee, Cransworth and Sandra were glad to oblige.
   "You have murdered the child of one of the most respected designers in the decorating community!", spat Chransworth Buttercheek.
   "Lady, I didn't know it was your pet.", the cop blurted.
   "You almost killed my Cutsie!”, wailed Mia. “You destroyed my Zenscape! How did you get in here? Why aren't you doing your job cleaning up the filth on the streets?"
   "We wouldn't have had to face that ghastly monster if you were doing your job! You probably brought it in here with you!", hissed Sandra Upchiddle. Her twisting face turned to Dan's. "Or you did! What kind of floor man are you?"
   Mia Dickworth shoved a handful of lap dog in Dan's face. "Look what you have done, you - you ingrate! I should never have listened to my ever so socially conscious friends!" She mimed a sing-song whine. "He's over fifty. No one will hire him. He was in the business. Give him a chance." Her eyes crossed in fury. "Socialist     idiots! Consider yourself fired! Get out!"
   Dan let out a long sigh and looked around. This is it, he thought. He'd had enough. He was desperate but not that desperate. He wanted out and there was never a more poignant exit scene than this. When he got to the door, he took one look back.
   The four of them stood in front of the officer quaking with rage. Mia stepped toward him. "That goes for you too! Get out!"
   The bewildered look on the policeman's face vanished. "Lady, I want you to calm down."
   Cransworth, Sandra and FeeFee stepped up in unison. Mia took another step closer. "Your boss, the mayor of San Francisco just happens to be a social friend of mine."
   "I have orchestra seats in the same row as the mayor at the War Memorial Opera house.", shot Cransworth.
     Sandra's lips pursed. "The mayor's box is next to my husband's and mine at Oracle Park."
     "We regularly have cocktails together at fundraisers for the De Young and the Legion of Honor.", snarled FeeFee.
     The four of them were in the officer's face. He stepped back and frowned. "Everybody sit down right now. I have to make a report."
     "A report?", gasped Mia. "This can't get out! It would ruin me!"
     "Sit down! All of you!", ordered the cop. "You don't want to make this worse than it already is!"
     For a moment, they froze. Then they stared down at Cutsie quivering in Mia's hands. Their eyes fell on her beautiful, meta, specially treated Irish Wedgewood crystal coffee pot shattered on the floor. They turned to The Bridge at the sound of an agonized groan. Melania jerked into a mad grind sending a cloud of coffee grounds into the air that rained down on the scattered Zenscape. They looked at each other with furious indignity. Their eyes shot to the cop. They stomped towards him. He lifted his pepper spray and emptied it in their faces.
   They collapsed gagging to the floor. The cop muttered into his collar and removed his handcuffs from his belt. Dan smiled and walked out the door. Five cops rushed past him into the showroom.

The fog had cleared. The sun warmed his face. His bus pulled into the stop the minute he walked up to it. He was relieved to find it mostly empty and took a seat next to the window. Then the reality of his situation slid over him. He couldn't get unemployment on contract work. There was no way he could get another job in the business by the time Mia got through with him. He was too old to get a job at Walgreens stacking deoderant. Terror rose up and grabbed him by the neck. He jumped out of the bus when it pulled into a stop.

He had to walk out his panic. He was almost at a jog when he crossed the next street and stepped up to the sidewalk. His shoe caught the curb, and he went flying. He landed on his chest with the pavement raking the side of his face. He lay there in astonishent, not completely realizing what had happened. When he finally looked up, he was no more than ten feet from a corned dili with tables outside. They were full of peorple eating their lunch. One or two of them glanced down at him before turning back to their conversations and their meals. No one got up to help him. No one asked if he was alright. He would have burst into tears if her weren't so disgusted.

Then Dan felt a hand on his shoulder. He felt a hand take his. He heard a familiar voice. "You okay, Baby? That was a bad fall, Baby. Let's get up now. Come on. Mama here. Mama in your corner."

Rick Hill

4,715 words

BOWLING GREEN

   It was just getting dark. The fall colors raging in the Poconos were beginning to dim. We could see a quarter mile in either direction down the country road. It was empty. Our motorcycles idled. A limousine crested the hill. “There’s the motherfucker now!”, Julianne growled. We pulled on our ski masks, slid on our helmets and skidded onto the road. Julianne’s sidecar bounced and rattled. The limo was soon following and closing on our tail. The chauffeur tapped the horn and started to pass. I swerved my bike and ditched it. The chauffeur hit the brakes just missing me and rolling onto the shoulder. Julianne dismounted, threw her hands in the air and rushed to me. No other car was in sight. The Chauffeur did not get out immediately. He was well trained. Julianne began to wail. The door swung open. We could see our subject sitting alone in the back seat. The chauffeur lifted himself out and looked around. He had his hand in his coat pocket. He was frowning. When he stepped toward us, Julianne swung the Uzi out of her pack. She had him spread eagle and face down in a few seconds. I cuffed his hands and feet and pulled the glock out of his pocket. We climbed into the limo. Our subject was cowering in the back seat. “What do you want?”, whimpered Rudolf Wiss, one of the jewels in the crown of Wall street, CEO of UBGC, former cabinet member, former secretary of the Bilderberg Group, former minister of propaganda, money launderer for the Gulf and Sinaloa cartels, chief magistrate for the Committee Of Justice after the first upheaval. This thug had more blood on his hands than a prosecutor for the Spanish Inquisition. Julianne handed me the Uzi. As she pulled out another set of cuffs, her jacket snapped open exposing her low cut blouse. Suddenly the look of terror on the banker’s face disappeared. He put a hand to his mouth. “My God! Is that you, Sophie?”, he demanded as he peered at his reflection in Julianne’s visor. “Oh my God, it is! Is this the surprise you mentioned last time? Who’s your friend? She’s kind of flat, could pass for a guy. Is this a three way? Oh Lord! This is the best yet!” He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms with his wrists pressed together and smiled lustily. “Beat me, fuck me, make me write bad checks!”
     We stared at each other in astonishment. An impatient look crossed the banker’s face. “Well, are you going to cuff me?”
     Julianne slapped him. “Strip!”
     Delight lit up his eyes. “Here in the limo? In the limo? Oh yes, mistress! What’s your friend’s name?” The banker stripped to his under pants and offered his wrists again.
   Juliana slapped him twice. “All the way!”
     “That really hurt! Oh, mistress, I’ve never heard that voice before!”
     When he was completely naked, Julianne cuffed him. He was still grinning when we threw the hood over his head. As we pulled him out of the limo, Julianne whispered in his ear. “We’re going to my place. I have some new equipment. You’re going to ride in the sidecar. I have a blanket for you.” She pulled out a bottle from her rucksack. “Drink some of this! It will make the ride easier!” She lifted the hood, poured a swig down his throat then tugged it back down.
     His voice was muffled under his hood. “Mistress! This is so new, so imaginative! What’s your friend’s name? She’s kind of butch. Is she a dyke? Are we going to see some girl on girl action? Where’s Thomas? Thomas! Are you in on this? This is the best yet! Don’t worry! I’ve told you about Sophie! Sophie! Make sure Thomas is OK. Thomas! I’ll call you tomorrow! Tell my wife I’m working late! Mum’s the word and there’s a bonus involved!”
     It was all we could do to keep ourselves from laughing with relief. We couldn’t believe our luck. Julianne stepped back to the chauffeur and bent down to him. After a brief exchange, she opened the cuffs. He walked back to the limo shaking his head.
     Julianne ran back and climbed on her bike. “Head down!”, she commanded as we revved our engines.
     “Oh, mistress!”, the banker hollered. “I’m feeling kind of woozy! What was in that bourbon? I feel -”
     I glanced down at the unconscious banker. “We’re handed unbelievable luck and you didn’t even bat an eye! You always could think on your feet!” I yelled.
     “This wasn’t luck!”, she shouted. “This was divine intervention!”
     I nodded. “Don’t you think we should pull over and cuff his hands behind his back just to be safe?”
     Julianne shook her head. “He’ll be out at least four hours!
     The ride to Manhattan was tense. The bull at Bowling Green was waiting for us. It was amazing in a way that the huge bronze bull was still there, unfenced, defiant to the masses even after everything that had happened. It had been the center of several battles, had suffered some defilement during the first upheaval and lost its tail in the second occupation but the sound cannons, the laser cannons and the microwave cannons had done their job. The deafened, the blinded and the fried could do nothing now. The bull at Bowling Green stood as it had always stood, an elite middle finger offered to us all. But that middle finger was about to get a naked, particularly heinous one of its own chained to its haunches. The surveillance camera footage would be scrubbed and there would be an attempt at a cover up but the sirens and spotlights would immediately draw a crowd. Rudolf Wiss would awake to a mob of elated serviles. One thing Julianne and I were certain of, the boiling rage just under the surface would erupt once again and it would start at Bowling Green.
     It was a moonless night and the streets were quiet. Our bikes idled at a stop light in Midtown. We went over everything for the last time. With any luck we would beat the spotlights and alarms. The bikes would be ditched in an alley. Our cruising outfits would be stripped off our casual attire underneath. We’d hit JFK just in time to make it through hacked security and hop the red eye to San Francisco.
      Julianne stretched out her hand to me. “I love you, baby.”
     My heart ached as I took her hand. “I love you. Theresa will be happy.”
     She squeezed my fingers. “Theresa is giggling with delight.”
     I lifted my visor and looked up. “This is for you, daughter.”
     Julianne released my hand and lifted her visor. “This is for you, Theresa. This is for your life cut short, the husband you never married, the children you never had.” She looked down at the slumped figure in the sidecar. “This is for our daughter you took from us, asshole. When you come to, you’re going to be staring up at a mob of your victims. I hope they castrate you. I hope they tear you to pieces. Slowly.” She flipped down her visor. The light changed.
     When we pulled up to Bowling Green, it was empty. We nodded to each other. It was time. We gunned the engines and raced toward the bull. Suddenly the sidecar shook, knocking Julianne’s bike into a wobble. The banker rose up and pulled off his hood. The expression on his face was vicious. He swung his cuffed hands and threw himself at Julianne. “You’re dead, you little bitch!”
     The bike swerved and raced toward the curb. Julianne desperately struggled to regain control. They hit a fire hydrant twenty feet from the bull. The two of them somersaulted into the air. Julianne smashed against a light pole. The banker landed stomach first on one of the bull’s horns.
     I slammed on the brakes and raced over to Julianne. When I gently pulled off her helmet, I knew her neck was broken. There was a sudden wail of sirens. Spotlights began to snap on. I let out an agonized scream. I ran for the subway. The only thing that kept me going was the image of gushers of blood pulsing down over the bull as the banker twitched and shuddered.

TIKI

Ina baby,
I thought you oughta be interested in my latest descent into hell so I will now hyperbolize. A couple of days ago fickle fortune landed me at lunch with a group of "rail fans". In case you ain't had the pleasure of havin' a meal with rail fans, the conversation sorta goes like this: "Blah, blah, blah, steam. Blah, blah, blah, street car." It's sorta like swimmin' in a swimmin' pool filled with green water. So after a while I break in and I says, "A few months back I was walkin' next to Washington Square when a trolley bus passes by and the six by three inch ten pound piece of steel where the trolley pole rides the over head wire comes off and lands an inch in front of my foot. My point of course was that by the grace of God, I was an inch away from havin’ my head squashed like a pickle in a fat girl’s jaws, but what is the response from the goggle eyed zombies? A busy discussion of how this death bomb is attached to the pole, how many screws attach it and how deep they are drilled. My interjection of an example of heavenly intervention is met with a buncha robots wonderin' why none of them can take a shit. Anyways, after lunch the zipper heads decide to look at street cars in the City and since there ain't no way I was gonna spend another minute of what time I got left on God's green earth talkin' about street cars, the one rail fan who can't go offers to drive me home. So I gets in his car and as God is my witness, it's filled from dashboard to rear window with bobble heads. The last time I was so unnerved, not includin' four years in Nam was when I was a boy dragged by a Mormon aunt to Disney Land and down a bad acid nightmare pit called the Tiki Room. All's I remember was hundreds and hundreds of itty bitty toy birds and monkeys and rats and spiders all jigglin' and jitterin' and screechin' "Tiki! Tiki! Tiki!", and havin’ my sorry ass dragged outa there pukin' my guts out. So now I'm in the Tiki Room on wheels tryin' with all my strength to keep down my bacon cheddar cheese burger when I notice that all of the quiverin' shit piles are Jesus Christ. Well, I don't know if you ever drove the streets of San Francisco but let's just say there are so many pot holes and so much torn up shit that I was soon feelin' like Mata Hari on the set of Hatari on a do or die mission to find out if John Wayne's dick really was only three inches long, racing along the African Velt chasin' after a zebra or a giraffe or what ever the fuck Red Buttons wants to fuck that day surrounded by bobble headed Jesuses dancin' like trophy wives on speed. When the guy turns to me with a Squeaky Fromme expression on his face and asks me if I'd ever considered Jesus, I thought I'd better dodge into a quick distraction so I pulls out my cell phone and checks the weather in Tupelo. Course I don't get no weather, just thirty nine pictures of Elvis, but I digress. When the rail fan Jesus freak doesn't get an answer outa me, he repeats himself, this time louder and five or six octaves lower. I tells him I am aware of Jesus and have always wondered why the instrument on which he was tortured to death is worshiped more than he is, but never the less I think that, as a prophet he ain't bad, that is of course if he really existed what with his apostles not botherin' to write anything about him till fifty or so years after his supposed death and speakin' of apostles, what was with the routine of him never gettin' married and wanderin' around in the desert with twelve other guys? Well, hell, I sure as shit don't have to tell you what happened next. Before you could say blow me, Squeaky Fromme had turned into Charlie Manson and there was another bobble head in the car, this one homicidal and doin’ the Boogie Woogie behind the steerin' wheel. Thank God he ran head long into an anti abortion rally. I was lucky enough to slip away as the bodies were being loaded into the meat wagon and he was being maced and tased and beat and otherwise acquiesced. I will now commence with the conclusion of this epistle so's I can get serious with a double scotch on the rocks.

Muchos besos.

Buck

TICK TOCK

It’s time to go away for the cookie clock. If we stay, who knows what will happen.

John tells me the FBI might be interested. I told John that I talk to the FBI on Facebook. They would let me know right away but they haven’t said boo.
     I am going away but I just don’t know where yet. I’m waiting for the cookie clock to give me a clue. Today there were birds in my hair. I wondered if that was some kind of hint. I first noticed something at the dentist’s office. The dentist was telling me that the Free Market was so great because we could get Maine Lobsters in California. I didn’t argue with him because his hands were in my mouth. There is a mirror in the dentist’s waiting room. I glanced at it when I was leaving and noticed my hair was moving. Outside, I looked at my reflection in a picture window of a shoe store and saw the birds. They were green. There were seven of them and they were looking at the shoes in the window. Looking back now, I am thinking, green birds, green birds. Were they there to suggest I go to a place where there are green birds like Africa or South America or Indonesia? Then I realized there aren't any green birds there anymore. When they noticed me looking at them in the reflection, they flew away. Should I fly somewhere?
     Then I saw her strutting down the avenue, Triangle Gal in the flesh stepping out in purple boots. She had a sad look in her eyes. She was singing. "Tock tick, chocolate chip. Tick tock, where's my glock?"
   I smiled and waived to her. We always have a fun back and forth. I asked her if she had seen John. She told me he had been arrested. The FBI had broken down his door when he was in the shower. His house and all his possessions had been confiscated and sold. Triangle Gal had been at the auction. She bought his library. I thanked her for that. We walked down the street slowly together in silent respect.
     She took my hand. “Did you hear they would make pornography illegal?”
     I laughed. “Then what is the FBI going to watch?”
     “They have us to watch.”
     "Pornography will never be illegal."
     "Did you ever think it would be legal to murder your fellow citizens by raising the price of drugs they need to stay alive until they bankrupt themselves and die? "
     "Steal everything from you then kill you."
     "Did you ever think your food would be filled with poison?"
     "Steal your ability to feed yourself then poison you to death."
     "Did you ever think you would drown yourself in debt in order to get a degree that gets you a job you have to commute to five or six hours a day to earn wages that drown you in debt?"
     "Enslaved from birth to death."
     "Did you ever think that your life with your loved ones would be nothing but bits and pieces?"
     "Spinning on a carousel grasping at tiny flashes trying to make life worth living."
     "Did you ever think that 97% of the world's climate scientists agree that humans cause global warming?"
     "We have only a dozen years left."
     "Can you believe that humanity will do nothing in the face of our own extinction?"

“Beat it to the punch with World War III.”

"No time to think.

“Watch out for the pooh pooh.”

“Just enough time to drink."

“Watch out for the needles.”
"No time for pornography."

     “Watch out for the upchuck.”
     "Time to get back to work."
     "Tock tick, chocolate chip. Tick tock, where's my glock?"
     "It's time to go away for the cookie clock."

SEDIMENT

     Drizzle on and off, at times a short sprinkle, about fifty to fifty-five degrees. The grey light picks up the pastels of the wooden and stucco buildings, the hushed tones of a city in a quiet, reflective mood. Fog on the coast starts to work its way in between the low clouds and the hills brushing wool, thick cotton, a few umbrellas, mufflers. The cat gone for three days comes home. Snails and slugs meander. A broker talks to his secretary over lunch and notices her personality for the first time. Neither go back to the office. She tells him of her dream of seeing Europe before she turns thirty. The alacrity, tension, vibrant colors of the town flow inwards to grey.
     An executive is washing his hands in the men's room when the Virgin Mary appears in the mirror and tells him to beware of blood red moons, the green bands of light at sunset and bad cocaine. He smiles and nods his head. Allah speaks from the mayonnaise rack at the corner grocery. The fasting Buddha sits on a hot plate in the dusty room of an elderly couple. A man suing a cruise line for suffering one-hundred degree temperatures on a cruise to Mexico passes gas in the courtroom. A homeless woman sets her shopping bags down next to her tattered shoes, clasps the lid of a dumpster, mutters for strength and lifts it open. Inside, the Christ child coos and gurgles. She teaches him how to say bus token.
     At four-thirty in the afternoon when the first commuters filter into the downtown streets, water begins to flow up from the gutters. The process is almost silent. By five, the streets hold three inches of water and the swish of tires fills the air. By five-thirty, all the low parts of the city are submerged. Traffic has stopped. At six, the city has become a lake. Everyone paddles peacefully in the deepening waters until they tire and slowly sink.

                                                              CALL GIG

Audio Transcript:
     “Good evening, NPR listeners and welcome. This is Luella Lubricity for ‘Art Corner’. Tonight we are joined by art critic at large, Thurgood Muldoon Arachnid III who has just perused an exhibit of local talent in a pop up gallery in the dicey Tenderloin District of San Francisco. How was the show?"
     "Thank you, Luella. Though the locale was a challenge, I found the exhibit quite exhilarating."
     "Was there any particular artist that stuck with you?"
     "Luella, all the artists and their work were interesting and original though, I must say, one particular painting titled 'House Call' I found to be especially uplifting."
     "Please, fill us in."
     "'House Call', depicting a Lady of the Evening entering an apartment building through the garage offers an intriguing menu of image, color and symbolism. The apartment building that climbs a hill is down right phallic with its turgid perspective and taught, translucent, condom white wash over titanium white cement bricks. Appropriately, the bleached, foaming, greenery in an elongated cement planter running down along the sidewalk gushes down toward the prostitute whose head, an often unnecessary appendage in her profession is blocked by the lowering garage door. The only warmth in the painting is the reflecting afternoon light that, with a liberal dose of cadmium scarlet and cadmium yellow caresses her arms, teasingly tickles the tops of her breasts, and, catches her burning red mini skirt on fire as it frantically laps at her legs. Ahem. Oh my goodness. Oh dear."
     "Are you alright, Mr. Arachnid? Can I get you anything?"
     “I'm fine. I'm fine. Goodness gracious, excuse me."
     "That's quite alright, Mr. Arachnid. Please continue."
     "Yes, yes. Of course. Where was I? Oh yes. These taunting images the artist toys with are contrasted by the flat, oppressive cobalt blue sky and the threatening prussian blue, phthalo green shadows in the garage that respectively suffocate the prostitute's least aspirations and beckon her to a life of violence, addiction and disease. Finally, the tiny, doll like purse dangling from the call 'girl’s' hand frames her for what she really is, a beautiful child devoured by a heartless world."
     "A very sad story, indeed, Mr. Arachnid."
     "Indeed, but all judgment aside and a short, brutal future notwithstanding, you have to admire the 'working girl' in the artist’s image."
     "Admire her for what, Mr. Arachnid?"
     "For working, Luella, of course."
     "You mean rather than lounging around on public entitlements?"
     "Exactly. In a way, the prostitute shows us how the wonderful twenty first century Sharing Economy works. People no longer have to live the dreary nine to five life or, God forbid feed from the public trough. They can do what ever they want, make their own hours, live their own life on their own terms."
     "In other words, Mr. Arachnid, the prostitute shares what she has."
     "Indeed, Luella, what God has given her."
     "And her clients share what they have."
     "And perhaps the best part of the bargain, Luella is that intrusive government doesn't get in the way."
     "As long as the police aren't aware of her version of the Gig Economy."

(Laughter)

   "Luella, if entrepreneurs can disrupt their way around big government intrusions into the Free Market like Medicare and Social Security and pensions and overtime and workman's comp, they can work their way around prudish anti prostitution laws."
    "And offer another example of the twenty first century Free Market Economy with all the convenience of modern technology, a 'call girl' app if you will."
     "Afternoon delight only a click away."

     (Laughter)
     "You know, Mr. Arachnid, it's almost as though the prostitute is an example for the way forward."
     "She is not only an example, Luella, she is an inspiration, an inspiration for us all by showing us that the American Dream is alive and well."
     "Thank you, Mr. Arachnid, and thank you listeners. Be sure to tune in next week. This is Luella Lubricity for ‘Art Corner’ on NPR."

DISSUASION

   "I'm not so good looking but I've always had a high opinion of myself. Though I am a large man, I never had an affinity for athletics with the exception of a few solitary, noncompetitive recreations such as swimming or hiking. I was also rather late in my physical development. With that combination, I found myself often ridiculed as a child. I came to detest the competitive, athletic types and by the time I'd grown large enough to dissuade further ridicule by my appearance alone, I held an almost vindictive attitude toward anyone in a uniform. This has at times worked against me.
    "Another condition I have that has caused me some difficulty is my proclivity toward sexual addiction. Perhaps sexual mania would by more definitive, and this mania of late has taken unexpected forms that I have no control over. I have yet to explain one particular manifestation that in fact has taken control of me. I remember the first time it happened, I had no idea I was at fault. I was on a city bus when a woman standing next to me started acting very strangely. Her breasts were hard, her nipples turgid. An awareness began to wash in on the waves of pleasure that shuddered her body, an awareness of heightened sexuality, of sexual abandon. When the bus came to a sudden stop, I was forced against her. She opened her mouth and shrieks of ecstasy darted out. Hooting, squeaking and screeching, she transformed into a flagellating convulsion of limbs that dropped into the laps of an elderly couple. My eyes shot from the woman to the back door and before anyone was aware of it, I slipped out into the night.
   "I've done almost everything, almost anyone I find attractive, anyone, any group at any given time. I have loved and have been loved. I've practiced satyrism, monogamy, polygamy, fetishism, onanism, and on and on. Perhaps my total obsession with sexuality in all its forms, practical and imagined has resulted in this plague of uncontrollable circumstances, the first of which I've just described. Recently this horror has begun to appear during normal (normal by my standards) sexual encounters. I'll be having wonderful sex with one or more people when suddenly I'll find myself staring at my partner or partners writhing and wailing in sexual ecstasy completely independent of me. I suppose it wasn't completely independent of me since in some way or another I was responsible but I have yet to fall into this abandon myself. As a result, I, who have considered myself as sexually liberated as anyone have, for the first time in my life experienced sexual frustration. This frustration has begun to build in me and I have found myself at times almost overcome with rage. I have been forced to become practically asexual as I find it occurring more and more frequently. There are times when I'll see someone I find attractive and they'll have a fit the moment I lay eyes on them. I can't seem to have sex with anyone any more without the inevitable happening. I have even found myself pleasuring myself alone in my apartment only to hear the all too familiar screams in the apartment above me or below me or next to me. You may well wonder why I have not sought treatment for my problem but how can I be treated if the nosology of my disease does not exist? Intensive research has turned up nothing. As far as I have ascertained, I am completely unique. Psychiatrists, psychologists, neurologists or specialists of any sort would do me no good if I were to seek help which of course I wouldn't consider. They'd lock me up in a padded cell and experiment on me for as long as I lasted, not that they would find a thing for the worst curse of this curse is the symptoms of my condition are temporary on all those it afflicts and I am the only one aware of them as no one, once they recover has any recollection whatsoever of what has happened. Friends, acquaintances or strangers, upon reviving will find me white with shock or boiling with rage and will either suggest I see a doctor or leave as quickly as possible thinking they have been subjected to the presence of a lunatic. I have been separated from the joy of life."
   The man stopped talking, lighted his cigar and ordered a drink. He turned to me and smiled then frowned. He became forlorn. He asked me if I'd ever had an experience so strange that no one would believe me if I tried to describe it. I nodded and was astounded. I could move again if only slightly. I was no longer frozen like a mannequin leaning against the bar. He apologized for rambling on, blaming it on too many drinks then admitting that he had to get it off his chest. He asked me if I thought he was crazy. I shook my head and told him that I'd had some very strange experiences recently myself. I could speak! He smiled again. His puffy face bloomed into an intricate network of lines. He offered to buy me a drink. I reached for it, took a sip then surreptitiously checked to see if my weapon had been stolen. It hadn't, nor had my knives, gas, poison or drugs, not even my phone. I relaxed enough to take in my surroundings, putting the man and his soliloquy aside for the moment. I was back. I was alive. Claudette was waiting for me. Then I glanced at my hands. My wedding ring was gone. Still gone. I had removed it when she died. I died with her but I was still alive. Alive and dead.

A man walked up behind us and began talking to the bartender. His attire upon first glance suggested an eclectic, expressive, even creative personality given somewhat to excess as full length capes were not in vogue. Examining him in detail would have been out of the question normally but I found myself threatened by his high pitched voice constantly on the verge of cracking, his frantic stream of manic verbosity, the sight of his bulbous, flabby fingers scratching at his scaly scalp and scabby beard, his too short double knit trousers exposing bony ankles swimming above baggy white socks and scuffed wingtips. His whining voice clawed at me. My new found freedom had found me alone without my wife. Claudette was gone. I was threatening to freeze up in disgust and loathing.

Suddenly I remembered the pepper spray. I relished the memory of the tiny brass canister shaped like a fountain pen nestled in my shirt pocket, a weapon with dead point accuracy up to three yards with no sound, no trace. I pulled out the canister. Pretending to write something down on a cocktail napkin, I aimed quickly and fired the gas into the idiot's face. His voice cracked and I felt the unconscious relief of a dozen people around me. His face flushed crimson and a flood of tears erupted from his eyes. He made two honking noises, grabbed his throat and fell to the floor.

     As the bartender and a customer rolled him out the door, the sight of thugs on a motorcycle speeding at me flashed before my eyes. They dismounted and charged me. I felt the syringe in my arm again. I muffled a groan. I heard my confidant ask me if I made a habit of gassing mentally unstable people. I responded that I was only acting in self-defense, that the mental state of the moron was inconsequential. I heard Claudette chuckle. I rationalized that the pepper spray had no permanent effect but that the lunatic’s voice could have left scars on me for years. This didn't seem to sink in. I told him that I was under extreme duress. The memory of the thugs standing over the motorcyle looking down at me and laughing made me shudder. The thugs had paralyzed me. But how did I escape? How did I get into the bar? I had no memory of it. I put a hand on my forehead. My new friend relented, admitting that the man had annoyed him to the point of disturbing his train of thought and even went so far as to consider the incident interesting. I wanted to put us both at ease. I wanted the flashbacks to cease. I wanted my wife to live. Oh God, I wanted to hold her in my arms again. I didn't want him to return to the subject of his affliction any more than I wanted to think about what the thugs had done to me, that my wife was dead, that I would never kiss her again. I changed the subject. I asked him if he had heard of the leeches of Atlantic City. He had not.
     "That's my story!" I whirled around. A beautiful young woman was glaring at me. "Thousands of mother fucking leeches, each as long as your arm all writhing around in a stinking pit! They’d soon be eating each other if they weren't fed! And after they ate each other? The biggest, strongest monster of a leech was going to crawl out of that pit and eat a whole busload of school children!"
     I decided that it was time to leave. I thanked the man for the drink and apologized to the woman for interrupting her. I suggested that she continue her story. I excused myself and smiled at the man. "Your affliction is a burden but at least you bring pleasure into the world."

A sudden chill swept over me then a physical euphoria stronger than any I'd ever experienced began to spread over my body. I glanced at the man who was frowning. Fear flitted in and out of my mind. I was completely immobilized. The most sensual orgasm I had ever felt threw me to the floor. I screamed in pleasure as orgasm after orgasm pushed me closer to unconsciousness.

     When I slowly stirred awake, I was on my back.
     "Don't cry out loud. Only the good die young."
     My eyes snapped open. I was paralyzed by a blinding light. I winced. I groaned.
     "Put these on."
     I felt something on my face and raised my hand. Someone took hold of it and placed it on the bed I was laying on. "They're sunglasses, friend."
     I focused on a large and airy room filled with dilapidated wicker and bentwood furniture. A piano was in a corner. I closed my eyes. I heard Claudette giggle.
     "Relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You are in the sun room of an exclusive beach house. It's the type of place where one would want to linger. Turn your head and look at the ocean."
     I obeyed. The ocean was no more that twenty yards outside the window. I turned my attention to the person addressing me. It was my acquaintance from the bar, my confidant, an evil jade in league with the thugs who had assaulted me. He put his hand on my forehead and smiled warmly. Or maybe he was nothing more than an innocent acquaintance who had coaxed me back to consciousness with vintage pop culture lyrics, a victim of a terrible affliction that had afflicted me. I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands, feeling the sun glasses but not daring to remove them.

     My confidant patted my arm. "Please don't try and put things in perspective. There's plenty of time for that, and don't worry, I will not attempt to explain how you got here until you feel inclined to ask. But let me start by asking you a few questions and let me preface them by saying that I have brought you here to have a conversation free of distractions. Simply put, I want to hear about you. Now, first of all, are you hungry? I can have anything brought to you. No? Very well. Are you in need of any kind of drug or intoxicant? You had a very impressive collection on your person and I mean that as a compliment. They have been stored, along with your weapons and phone in a safe place "
     I resigned myself to the situation. I decided that I would indeed like to calm down yet remain clear headed enough not so much for the purpose of maintaining a conversation with my captor but rather to be alert enough to escape should the opportunity arise. I asked for a double scotch on the rocks.
     "Burstyn! Could you please bring our friend here a double single malt on the rocks, dear?" He smiled at me. "She'll be right out. Why don't we look at the ocean for awhile? We have some of the most beautiful sunsets in the world here and as you can see, the ocean comes very close to the house at high tide. Sometimes winter storms flood the room, break a window or two. Ah, here she is."
     An elegant red head wearing a silk dress entered the room. She was carrying a double old fashion glass full of ice and scotch. She placed it on a table next to the bed, removed the sunglasses and pulled me to a sitting position. Her eyes were large and liquid. She smiled, parting her lips and exposing her teeth. They were slightly flawed. I looked to my confidant. "She looks familiar."
     I was offered a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, you've met Berstyn before but let's take things slowly. I'll introduce you properly later. Thank you, sweetheart."
    The woman glided out of the room. I picked up the scotch and took a sip, then a swallow, then another. "You're a rarity. I've never been successfully kidnapped before." I lied. "Congratulations." I took another swallow. "On second thought, I was kidnapped and brought to the bar where I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Two freaks took advantage of my mental instability and drugged me. Probably cohorts of yours."
   "Perhaps. Let's discuss all of this somewhere more comfortable." He led me through a door into an office. He poured himself a drink from a bottle on a desk, touched his glass to mine and walked over to an open filing cabinet beneath an old regulator slowly ticking away. "Your comment that my affliction brings pleasure into the world has given me a new perspective. The world has opened up to me again. I would like to thank you. I would like to offer you the same." He turned from the filing cabinet with a folded piece of newspaper in his hand, motioned me to sit in front of the desk and lowered himself under a glowing painting of a reclining nude sprawled across a divan. "You have been assaulted, drugged, kidnapped, overwhelmed and kidnapped again but I feel that is nothing compared to what you have been going through. You are wounded, terribly wounded."

"My wife is dead. She was everything to me. I feel I have died with her. I know I soon must."

"Perhaps we can arrange a reunion."

I was stunned. A rage boiled inside of me but before it could erupt, he handed me the news clipping. "When I met you, I felt you could be one of us. When I read this I knew you were."

I unfolded the clipping. It was an obituary. My obituary.

"Are you ready?", he asked.

"Ready for what?", I gasped.

"To join your wife.", he smiled.

Terror chilled me to the bone. Syringes and motorcycles swirled around me. Crazed women and mad men in capes brandished huge leeches with children in their mouths. Collette's cold hands were in mine as I bent over her coffin drowning in the agony of life.

I grabbed my forehead and slammed my fist on the desk. "NO! I AM NOT READY!"

I felt a hand on my cheek. "Insanity is but a bridge that must be crossed. Welcome back."

Thousands of volts of electric ecstasy knocked me to the floor. All went red, blood red. I awoke on the side of the road as a motorcycle sped into the distance. The sun was rising on the horizon.

I smiled.

Rick Hill

Rick Hill SF

2021

2,714 words

                                                                     WATER

     Julianne went over her plans for her afternoon off as she walked through the door of Scheherazade’s Closet on the morning of Christmas Eve. The owners looked up and stared at her. Annabelle was a small, shrewish woman with foggy glasses and perpetually smeared lipstick. She was wearing a shapeless one piece Alpaca dress that looked like a hair shirt. Estelle was large. Her breasts had a life of their own each independent of the other. Her arms were stick like and tended to wave around suddenly for no reason. She was wearing a faux leopard low cut dress. A matching beret jumped and wiggled on her head as if it were hiding a terrified mouse running around in her thinning hair. She exposed a row of yellow teeth and informed Julianne that, contrary to what she had been told, the shop would not close at noon but seven in the evening. Julianne offered Estelle and Annabelle a winning smile and cursed them under her breath. The salary wasn’t much above minimum wage but it was a job. If she lost it, there wouldn’t be another. Brick and mortar retail in the city was on its last gasp. The only gigs left were small businesses staffed by relatives and long time employees. She wasn’t a long time employee although five years seemed like an eternity. Her studio was under rent control and because she had lived there since the last recession, no make that the recession before last, the rent was manageable. Thanks to food stamps, she stayed afloat in spite of the bank garnishing her wages for the interest on her college loans, a mountain of debt that got her a master’s degree and a job as a shop girl. What the hell, at least she wasn’t being tormented by the collection agencies anymore and the job wasn’t bad when the bags left her alone. The old biddies could be intolerable but they always managed to fork over a couple of hundred bucks at Christmas. Her cell phone was failing and she desperately needed that bonus.
    She made busy work arranging and rearranging rows of women’s apparel hand made of the finest fabrics. At noon she swallowed a bag of nuts in the tiny back room. Panic rose in her and she hammered it down with desperation. Six women came in the store and Julianne made four sales or rather she almost made four sales. Estelle managed to swoop in the last minute and take over.
     After the last sale, Estelle tapped Julianne on the shoulder. “You must have noticed me stepping in on your sales. It’s for your benefit or rather the benefit of the store. Annabelle and I have noticed of late your somewhat dismissive demeanor to our customers. We feel it best you refrain from interacting with them for the immediate future.”
     Julianne was thunderstruck. Where did this come from? If she had been rude or distant to a customer, why hadn’t she been told when it happened? How could she be punished without even being warned? Was this an excuse for skipping her bonus this year? Was this the first blow in an assault to force her to quit so they wouldn’t have to pay unemployment? The thought of being homeless terrified her. Her lips moved silently as she struggled for a response.
     Annabelle threw her a steely glance. “And that goes for the phone as well.”
     Julianne polished gleaming mirrors so furiously they rocked on the walls, dusted spotless wooden shelves down to the grain and straightened piles of expensive couture as high as she could reach. She had to keep her temper. She had to keep her job. She had to get her bonus.
     Annabelle glared at Estelle and Estelle glared at Julianne. At one minute to seven, Estelle rummaged in her faux leopard purse and pulled out a small gift wrapped box. She shoved it in Julianne’s hand as she ushered her through the door. “I’m sure you understand that weak sales preclude any bonus this year but Annabelle and I thought you should have something despite your questionable performance recently. We’ll see you bright and early the day after tomorrow.”
     “But my cell phone is failing!”, gasped Julianne.
     Estelle rolled her eyes. “Well, fix it.” She closed the door in Julianne’s face and mouthed Merry Christmas through the glass.
      As Julianne watched the shade drop, Estelle’s words bounced around in her head. Questionable performance? No bonus? Weak sales? But sales had been great this Fall. The women had been on a shopping binge and clucked proudly about the new restaurants they had tried. How the hell was she supposed to survive without a phone? She had no savings. Her credit was maxed out. The veins on her temples throbbed. She thought of the gift in her hand. She recognized the wrapping paper from the store. She tore it off and examined a brightly printed cardboard box. But there was no plastic seal. It looked like it had been opened. There was a slight tear on the lid. She lifted it and pulled out an atomizer full of clear liquid. There was no pamphlet or description of any sort, not even a label on the bottle. She recognized Estelle’s handwriting on a piece of paper. “A wonderful H2O moisturizing dispenser for your face. Merry Christmas.”
     A bottle of water? Julianne trembled with rage. I work my ass off all year long and the God damned hags humiliate me then give me a God damned bottle of water?
     Her world spinning around her suddenly snapped still. She pounded on the door. The shade slowly rolled up. Julianne motioned turning the latch. Estelle opened the door a crack. Julianne threw all her weight against it almost knocking Estelle off her feet as she lurched into the store. The two hags stared at her in astonishment. Julianne closed the door behind her and locked it. She slowly pulled the shade.

                                                                           TRINITY
   My family is blessed and cursed with generations of drinkers. I have painted many bar scenes and many fathers introducing their sons to their sins. My favorite is of a father showing off his firstborn son to the bartender at his local bar. The child is wrapped in swaddling clothes and the overall impression is iconic. A successful businessman and good friend of mine with a fondness for burly men commented on the father’s massive hands cradling his child. I suggested he follow his instincts and the painting was his.
     A couple of months later, my friend met an artist and found the love of his life. When the two exchanged vows, my friend decided to purchase a run down Victorian. The artist was a contractor by trade and he refurbished the house. When the work was completed, the couple had a house warming party. I walked into the living room packed with guests to see my painting hanging over the mantle of a grand fireplace. I thanked my friend for showing it so prominently in his new home. Suddenly a loud, nasal voice rose over the din in the room. “That kid looks like he’s wrapped in sausage casings!” I turned to see a snarling queen holding court in a corner. My friend put an arm on my shoulder and rolled his eyes. He offered me a beautiful smile and a stiff drink.
     That was 1999. In the summer of 2001, my friend and his lover were on a road trip to visit the artist's family in Long Beach. The highway from San Francisco shrunk to a two-lane road through Santa Barbara. My friend was in the passenger seat and the artist was driving. The two of them were laughing over the artist's description of people he was going to introduce my friend to. The front tire blew. The car swerved into oncoming traffic. A woman was killed. My friend’s seat belt snapped. His door flew open and he was thrown to his death. At the height of his life, the height of his career, finally ensconced in his own home with the love of his life, he was gone.
     Life on this tiny spec in the vastness of the universe can be so randomly cruel, it’s terrifying. It can be randomly cruel in many ways as the artist was about to find out. Despite the fact that he had lost control of the car through no fault of his own, that another person had been killed, that his husband had been killed, that in an instant, his life had vanished, he was arrested at the scene. The local DA charged him with negligent homicide and he found himself looking at up to four years in prison. My friend’s family who had suffered a barely stifled rage ever since he had announced his love for a member of the same sex, swooped in and took possession of the body. My friend was gone and the love of his life was in a living hell.
     Their house sat vacant, their friends held a wake, and we all waited underneath gathering clouds for the outcome of the trial. The jury began deliberations on a cold morning in September. The verdict in the jury room was a toss up when a clerk entered and informed the jurors that two airliners had flown into the twin towers of the World Trade center and they had both collapsed killing thousands. When the jury returned to the courtroom, they announced a verdict of not guilty.
   The artist called me when he returned to San Francisco and invited me over to the Victorian. He was gaunt but defiant when he informed me that, in spite of the house being in my friend’s name leaving it to his family, the family planned to sue him for personal loss. He threatened to counter sue for the construction costs and they backed off. One more bullet dodged. As we sat in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace under my painting, he sighed, looked up at it and asked if I would like to take possession of the boy in the sausage casings. If I ever sold it, it would help if I passed on what my friend had paid for it.
     Needless to say, most artists don’t see much money. Hell, most people don’t see much money. A couple of years later, I called the artist and asked if I could alter the father and son since there had been no interest in it. His response was, “You’re the artist!”
     I have not since spoken to him but the painting has spoken to me. Approaching it was difficult until the boy looked into my eyes. The first things to go were the sausage casings. The infant aged a bit and sat on his father’s knee. His innocent expression morphed into a frown, then a wail, then a scream of rage. Then I screamed. I stood before the painting and bawled my eyes out. When my hands stopped shaking, I placed them on the canvas and scraped off the rage with my fingernails. I replaced it with an open, curious, almost forgiving gaze. I raised one of the boy’s arms and bent the wrist. The religious reference was back and the icon came together perfectly. The Christ Child was on the knee of The Father, a modern day consecration, with an angel in the background, the bartender blessing all with a bottle of booze and completing the Holy Trinity: The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghost. I gazed at the painting and was filled with an overwhelming sense of peace. I stepped back from the easel and felt an arm on my shoulder. I turned to see my friend with drinks in his hands and a beautiful smile on his face. We raised our glasses to the random joy that life on this tiny spec in the vastness of the universe can offer. It was wonderful.

                                                           CONSPIRACY THEORY

      I glance down at the toilet while brushing my teeth. The seat has grown two small handles on either side. I rinse out my mouth and look again. There are dozens of handles on the seat that is now slowly rotating.
     I step back as it spins faster and faster lifting into the air. I follow it upward to the ceiling dissolving into a clear blue sky darkening with hats, spinning hats, specific hats, men's dress hats.
     The handles drift off the toilet seat and intermingle with the spinning hats, a spinning show of hats for me that is trying to tell me something.
     "JFK", they whisper. "JFK, JFK. JFK never wore a hat. JFK put an end to us and that's why he was killed."
     I gasp at the truth. It wasn't a lone gunman, a commie mole, a left wing troll.
It wasn't the CIA or the Military Industrial Complex. It was couture!
     Suddenly I am surrounded by a whirlwind of hissing handles. "What about Bobby? What about Martin Luther King? What about 911?"
   Now I am angry. "What about you, what about me? What about LSD?"
     "Coco Chanel tested it on unwitting victims.", they moan. "Christian Dior invented the Conspiracy Theory to cover up the world it poisoned. All three were assassinated and 911 was an inside job. But they weren't, and it wasn't. There is no sense because when there is no sense, there is no saving it! Only Nazis in polo shirts can defeat the terrorists. Only Wall Street funded cross dressing lesbians can defeat the Nazis. The fedora is history and men are wearing high heals and skirts into battle against the Russian Commie Bolsheviks!"
     The toilet seat falls towards me. "Hush, my child. Drink from my fountain and welcome the bliss of dreams. The Jews will save us from the Muslims. Jesus will save us from the Jews. But only the iPhone can lead us to the Promised Land."
     The hats billow around me like a flock of crows. The tornado of handles lifts me off my feet. The insidious Toilet Handle Hat Agency Complex has me now. It has us all.

DESERT BALLERINA

     On the Easter vacation of his sophomore year in High School, Dan signed up for a week long field trip with a dozen other kids on a yellow school bus to a place he had never been, the Southern California desert.
     The sun was just rising as the school bus idled in the yard. A stout woman in levis and cropped hair was at the wheel as they all piled on. Mr. Lodester, a roly-poly biology teacher in a floppy fisherman’s hat followed them up the stairs. The doors closed and the gears groaned.
     The suburbs gradually faded into the semi-arid farmlands of the south. The coast ranges towered in the west and the foothills in the east rose toward the Sierra Nevada mountains. As the day wore on, the spreading farms grew spotty and began to fade into semi-arid brush land. By late afternoon, they had reached the desert, The worn, naked mountains bleeding with sweeping alluvial fans grew higher as the bus twisted into their brown, beige and pink sculpted forms of entwined limbs, torsos, heaps of flesh.
     It was sunset when the bus pulled over. They wandered over the scratched soil gathering desiccated sagebrush and soon had a fire going. When the flames burned down to charcoal, the bus driver threw on a grill. She told them her name was Barb. Mr. Lodester fanned the coals with his hat while dropping hamburger patties one by one. Barb tossed buns around the edge and sliced onions and tomatoes. Sodas were opened. The stars filled the sky as they ate. Mr. Lodester announced that everyone needed to walk off dinner before bed. They followed him into the dark. When the firelight faded, he turned with a grin on his face. A glowing wand appeared in his hand. “A black light reveals the secrets of the desert night.”, he whispered. He waved it at their feet and the earth was alive with a carpet of scurrying florescent green shapes. “Scorpions!”, he bellowed. “Millions of them! But don’t worry. They’re not poisonous.” Stinger tipped tails bounced and claws waived. When sleeping bags were rolled out on the sand, they were stretched over heads with drawstrings pulled tight.
      Dan dreamed he was in a car driving through the desert. His father was at the wheel. He turned to Dan and patted him on the head. Dan was flooded with affection. His father leaned on the brakes. They glided to a stop. His arm stretched in front of Dan, clasped the door handle and swung open the door. The side of the road was covered with abandoned luggage, scattered boxes. The luggage began to vibrate then flew open. The tops of the boxes popped off with the staccato burst of a string of fireworks. Their empty maws glowed a reddish black. Dan threw himself against his father’s side. He felt an arm on his shoulders. “What are you afraid of? They’re welcoming you.”
     The next day the bus climbed high into the mountains that slowly, imperceptibly turned from the naked bodies of rock Dan had witnessed the day before, to living, breathing arms of earth that seemed to embrace him with an overwhelming sense of ecstatic déjà vu. The air was pure and nourishing. The plain below glowed and boiled. The sky felt infinite. When the bus ground to a stop and they followed Mr. Lodester out into the billowing mountainside, an absolute silence Dan had never experienced filled his ears with a finely honed hum that slowly morphed into a beautiful ringing. His eyes were closed. When he opened them, he was alone. The other kids were following Mr. Lodester into a ravine. He trotted after them.
     When Dan caught up with them, they had surrounded Mr. Lodester who was standing in front of an eye level, fist sized hole in the wall of the ravine. A fleshy blond girl with a pretty smile standing next to Dan tugged at his shirt and whispered. “Mr. Lodester says there is something amazing in that hole, but he won’t tell us what it is. See that stick in his hand? He’s going to prod it to make it come out. What if it’s a snake or something? Lizards are OK but some snakes are poisonous.”
     “Some lizards are poisonous.” , Dan smiled.
     “What lizards?”, she demanded.
     “Gila Monsters.”
     “Oh my God, you’re right! I forgot about Gila monsters!” She grabbed his arm.
     Suddenly Mr. Lodester pulled the stick out of the hole and dropped it at his feet. “Step back, everyone!”
     They all shuddered and moved back, their eyes glued to the opening. A smile bloomed on Mr. Lodester’s face. He bent his arm and lifted it. A dark, stalk emerged and touched his elbow. It tapped it a couple of times before another stalk appeared. Then another. Their hearts were in their throats as a huge tarantula appeared in the sunlight. Slowly, cautiously it crept onto Mr. Lodester’s arm. As it moved toward his face, he nudged its forelegs gently with a finger. It stopped, frozen for a moment then turned around and crawled down his arm as he slowly swung it, wrist bent and hand down, back to the hole. The tarantula sauntered off and disappeared into its den.
     The other kids breathed a sigh of relief and Dan’s eyes took in the desert again. The barren land, rocks and sediments without their coats of vegetation were vibrant and brilliant. The landscape swept away for miles in an endless expanse that rather than overwhelm a boy who had never felt so small, seemed to call to him, to fill him with an inexplicable relief, almost like seeing a loved one he thought he would never see again. As his eyes wandered back to the ravine, he noticed Mr. Lodester looking at him with a smile on his face.
     The bus slowly growled its way through the desert and the day went on forever as the country unfurled itself. Yet when the sun began to set and they once again pulled over to make camp for the night, it seemed like the day hadn’t lasted an hour. As Dan sat in front of the fire digesting another delicious charcoal roasted dinner, the blond girl from the ravine sat down next to him. “Do you want to be a scientist?”
     Dan was delighted. “I don’t know, a naturalist maybe. I’m not so interested in the make up of life but more the life itself, the interaction between animals and other animals and plants.” He looked long and hard into the glowing coals. " You know, I think what attracts me most to natural history, to nature is the beauty of it, the profound and ever varied combination of colors and forms and patterns all alive, all moving, everything constantly changing."
     “Ecology.”, she smiled.” I’m kind of like that too. I’d rather be hiking than sitting in a lab. Have you ever been to the desert?”
     “Never. Have you?”
     “Never. What’s your name?”
     “I'm Dan. I’d rather watch a frog for hours on the side of a pond than stick pins in its arms and legs and dissect it. What’s yours?”
     She shuddered. “Yuck! Did you ever do that?”
     “In Junior High biology they tried to make me do it but I wouldn’t.”
     “Good! I am Consuela. You know, I’m the only one of my brothers and sisters that likes science.”
     Dan stirred the coals with a stick. “How many do you have?”
     “Three brothers and three sisters. I’m the oldest girl. How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
     “None.”
     She seemed genuinely surprised. “None? Just you and your parents?”
     “Just me and my mom. My dad is gone.”
     "Gone? When did he die?"
     "Recently."
     She shook her head. “Wow. That’s so weird. Weren't you lonely?”
     "Sometimes. Yes."
     "Don't you have relatives? Don't you go to church?"
     "No."
     Dan answered her confused stare with a confession. "Rising above my home is a series of chaparral hills full of hidden ravines, abandoned quarries, trickling creeks, glimmering ponds, all teeming with life. I have captured, examined, observed every example of flora and fauna the hills have to offer. I spend almost all my free time there."
     The glowing coals lit her face. She smiled "Mother Nature is your family."
     As they stared into the darkness, another fire lit up not far from them. They could see several figures milling around it preparing their own camp and meal for the night. A man began to sing. Soon a melodic chorus filled our ears.
     Consuela’s eyes lit up. “What are they doing way out here? They must be traveling north to the farms.”

“Who are they?”

   “Farm workers.”, she grinned. “They’re singing in Spanish! Huelga!”
     “What’s huelga?”
     “Huelga! Strike! They are farm workers singing about striking! I wonder if Cesar is with them?”
     “Cesar?”
     “Cesar Chavez!”, she frowned. “He is helping the oppressed farm workers rise up! I can’t hear them too well!” She got up and stomped to the other side of the fire then into the darkness.
     A familiar figure lumbered over and sat next to Dan. “I think she likes ya, kid.”, muttered Barb. They sat in sublime silence as the drifting lyrics mingled with the popping and sputtering of the fire.
     That night, Dan was a little boy riding on his father’s shoulders as he walked through the desert toward a run-down house with a crumbling porch. A couple of neon signs in a dark window blinked beer and soda. A painted plank swaying in the breeze read “The He’s Not Inn”. His father marched up the stairs, pushed open the door and stepped into a black void glimmering with dim lights and reeking with unfamiliar smells. A voice called out his father’s name, then another voice. Pasty faces with glasses pressed to their lips and cigarettes dangling from drooping fingers began to emerge out of the darkness. A distant song wavered from a glowing jukebox. His father lifted him off his shoulders and placed him on the bar. A burly bartender poured a short draft and pressed it into Dan's hands. “Junior’s first.”, he rumbled.
    “Junior’s first!” rang out in the bar, then again, then in unison. “Junior’s first!”
     The morning sun caressed the landscape, and the bus once again lurched up and up into the mountains. The only clue Dan had as to where they were going was something Mr. Lodester had muttered over breakfast, something about a primordial valley. Around noon it became obvious that the bus was approaching the summit. The road leveled out and stretched across a line of peaks then turned onto a weathered path of hair pin curves hanging precipitously above a shimmering valley far below. If anybody had the nerve to glance at the sure death drop, it was only once. When they finally had the courage to again look out the windows, they had survived the descent and were rolling along a stunningly beautiful valley piled with amazing rock formations and completely devoid of even the hardiest of cacti. Dan had never seen anything like it, even in books. It was otherworldly but it did not intimidate him in the least. Then the bus slowed and pulled up to a huge tilting slab of rock that looked like it had fallen from space and stabbed the earth.
     Mr. Lodester rose to his feet. “OK, everybody, up and at ’em! We’ve got a time machine waiting for us!” They followed him into the shadow of the overhang that grew darker and darker as they descended into a cavernous cathedral. Just as they began to lose sight of their feet below them, Mr. Lodester stopped and illuminated the darkness with a powerful flashlight. They stood in front of a fifteen-foot wall thirty feet wide covered from top to bottom with dancing figures, racing game, spiraling glyphs and images all seeming to move, to shimmer, to dance with each other. A shiver ran up Dan’s spine.
     Once again, Consuela was at his side. “Oh, Dan, just look at it.”
     Mr. Lodester’s voice echoed against the walls of the cavern. “This is a well-kept secret in the academic community. Very few people have seen it and it’s been kept safe that way but I wanted you to see it because I know it will change at least one of your lives for the better.”
     “What are all those spirals?”, someone asked.
     “The spiral is transcultural. It’s thought to represent life from beginning to end, the repetition of season and growth, time and the universe itself.”
     “I see a swastika! What’s that all about?”, demanded another.
     “The bent cross is a symbol found in almost all ancient cultures. The Nazis stole it. The Hopi called it the four arms of destiny. In ancient Sanskrit it meant wellbeing. Throughout pre-history it symbolized order and goodness.”
      Dan was staring at a painting of an animal with enormous horns, almost as big as the animal itself. Suddenly he remembered an illustration in a book of ancient mammals. “Is that a painting of an extinct, ice age ram? Are these paintings that old?”
     The look of surprise on Mr. Lodester’s face slowly morphed into intense scrutiny as he stared at Dan without saying a word. Then he smiled. “Perhaps. No one knows how old this time machine is. What we do know is that it is a window into where we come from, who we are and maybe, if we’re smart enough, a guide to where we are going.” He placed the torch on a rock and let everyone take it all in. As Dan stared at the magical figures, they began to stare back.
     They camped for the night not far from the petroglyph gallery in the small hollow of an ancient streambed full of fossil shells.
     Consuela rolled her sleeping bag out next to Dan’s as the stars filled a moonless night. “I don’t think I have ever seen so many stars. There is almost more light than darkness.”
     “I have never seen near as many. It’s unbelievable.”, he marveled.
     “I think you impressed Mr. Lodester with your question about the ram.”, she murmured. “How is it that you knew that?”
     “I spend a lot of time buried in books.”, Dan sighed. “Too much time.”

"Science books?", she asked.

"Well, yes, but others, art books, travel books, novels, poetry, plays...."

"Stuck in a library instead of out living."

"Living in books, I guess."

   “Well now you’re making up for it.”, she teased as she pulled her sleeping bag over her shoulders. “Good night and sleep tight.”
     Dan and his mother slowly ascended the steps to his father’s apartment. A couple of dozen newspapers were scattered at the door. The mailbox was overflowing. An overpowering, nauseating stench filled the air. There was no answer to their loud knocking. His mother went to find the manager. A dim sun strained through high clouds. Dan put both hands on the railing and let all his weight rest on them as his head spun and his heart sank into an abyss. The manager nervously fiddled with the lock. Dan’s mother took his collar in her hands. “Only one of us should go in and I think it should be me.” Dan nodded. She followed the manager into the apartment. He heard a bloodcurdling scream. The manager rushed out and threw up Dan’s feet.
     “Wake up, boy! For God’s sake, boy, wake up!”
   Dan was staring into Mr. Lodester’s strained face. Barb was standing over him. He was half out of his sleeping bag. He was back in the desert.
     “It definitely was not a seizure.”, said Mr. Lodester.
     “Barb shook her head. “That must have been one hell of a nightmare.”
     Consuela was behind them. “Are you okay, Dan?”
     He offered her a grateful smile. “Thanks. Just a bad dream.”
     “Well get out of that sleeping bag and come to breakfast.”, ordered Mr. Lodester.
     That day was the best so far. They explored the magical valley on foot, each of them wandering on their own but never out of sight of Mr. Lodester. If anyone found anything interesting, they would get his attention and he would gather everyone around and discuss each new wonder: a road runner posing proudly at the top of a hill, an enormous ceremonial spear head laying on the desert floor untouched for centuries, a sidewinder slithering down a sand dune.
     It was late afternoon when Dan climbed a large rock and found himself face to face with the biggest lizard he had ever seen. When he called Mr. Lodester, it darted into a crevice.
     Dan peered over Mr. Lodester’s shoulders as the other kids clambered up the rock. “Is that a desert iguana? I didn’t think they got that big. It must be three feet long. Look at that tail! It’s so fat, the lizard can’t squeeze it into the crack.” He reached for the quivering tail that had a life of its own.

     “Don’t touch it!”, ordered Mr. Lodester. “It’s a decoy. It will drop it in a second.”
     “But why is it so big?, asked a boy behind Dan.
     Consuela had come up next to him. “It looks like he’s waving it at us.”
     “He is.”, said Mr. Lodester. If we were a coyote, that tail would satisfy us and we wouldn’t waste our energy trying to dig out the iguana from the crack, but we’re not a coyote. It would take a long time for the iguana to grow back a tail like that and the next time he meets a coyote, he might not be so lucky.”
     That night, Barb joined Dan at the campfire. “Have you recovered from your nightmare? I hope you don’t have bad dreams all the time.”
   Dan thanked her but changed the subject. “Today I found the biggest lizard I’ve ever seen, a desert iguana. It forced itself into a crack but couldn’t get its tail in because it was huge. It was a decoy in case a coyote was after it. I know other lizards will drop their tails, but this tail was almost bigger than the lizard itself.”
     Barb smiled and looked up at the stars. “Losing a big chunk of yourself is a part of life, young man. It don’t matter if you’re a lizard or a person. It’s gonna happen and it’s gonna happen a lot. It’s part of life. And sometimes one tail ain’t enough. Take my advice and grow two or three. You just gotta make sure you got enough of yourself left to survive.”
     That night Dan dreamed he was trying to walk but kept falling. It was hot and the sun was beating on his head. He was in the desert. He was next to a large wall painted red. He got to his feet and reached for it to steady myself. It was searing hot and burned his hand. He fell again. He got to his feet and took another step. He touched the wall to keep his balance. He pulled his hand away in pain. He took a couple of steps and started to fall. He reached for the wall again but did not touch it. He used all his strength and concentration to keep his balance. He staggered a couple of steps and stopped. He raised his arm and held his hand an inch away from the wall. He took a few more steps and did not fall. He did not touch the wall. He started to walk.
      Everyone rolled out of their sleeping bags in the early morning light and, one by one focused on Mr. Lodester standing above them staring at a dark, undulating shape on the horizon. “Everyone in the bus pronto! We’ve got a sandstorm coming!”
     The storm hit when they were three quarters up the pass out of the valley. Windows were rolled tight as bursts of wind and fingers of sand whipped at the bus. In a couple of minutes, they were engulfed in a pulsating, throbbing monster. They could hardly see out the windows as Barb negotiated the hairpin curves hanging over hundred-foot drops.
     Consuela appeared next to him. “This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all. If we go off the road…"
     “We won’t!”, Dan whispered.
     Mr. Lodester stood at the front of the bus with his hand Barb’s shoulder. Sweat dripped down his neck and soaked his shirt as they engaged in a terse back and forth.
     “You saw how high up we are.” Consuela’s voice was shaking. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and nobody knows we’re here! I can’t hardly see out the window! Why don’t we stop?”
     “We can’t stop moving in a sand storm, not when we're climbing.”, Dan snapped.
     They were blind when Barb somehow managed to make the summit and lock the brakes. Mr. Lodester collapsed into a seat. “It’s OK, kids. We made it. How about a big round of applause for the captain?”
     The few of them who hadn’t realized how close they had come to God knows what cheered and clapped. The rest of them barely managed to pry their hands from their seats to offer a listless applause. Everyone hunkered down in the bus as it shook and shuddered.
   Consuela gave Dan a quizzical look. “I thought you said you’ve never been to the desert.”
     “I haven’t. Why?”
     “Have you ever been in a sand storm?”
     “No, I haven’t.”
     “Then how did you know that the bus couldn’t stop when we were climbing?”
     “I don’t know.”
     Finally the storm began to lighten and the clouds of sand began to thin. The wind had at them the whole day as they descended into a broad valley. By midafternoon, they were in tumbleweed territory. Huge, angry balls danced on the shallow slopes above them before barreling down and smacking against the bus. Dan felt he was living some science fiction movie as giant brown shapes battered the windows inches away from his eyes. When dusk approached, the wind had died down and Mr. Lodester announce that they were lucky enough to be able to spend the night indoors.
     “Not only that,”, he said. “We’re going to see a show.”
     The bus pulled into a small clutch of buildings resembling a run-down country motel enveloped by some kind of fog. Consuela pulled at Dan’s shirtsleeve. “What in the world is in the air?”
     He stared out the window. “It looks like dust.”
     “You’ve got an answer for everything.”, she smiled.
     “Can I have everyone’s attention?”, called Mr. Lodester. “This little slice of Alice In Wonderland is called Death Valley Junction and we are the guests of its queen. Her name is Marta Becket. Let’s go!”
     Consuela and Dan were the first out of the bus. They walked into a silent, gently pulsating cloud of dust so fine, they couldn’t help breathing it in. Dan could feel electricity in the air. He could feel it in his fingers.
     Consuela’s eyes were wide with wonder. “This is amazing!”
   Dan watched her lift her arms, close her eyes and slowly spin around. He was enchanted. “You are amazing.”
     She opened her eyes. “What?”
     He smiled shyly. “I think you are amazing.”
     A frown crossed her face. “What do you mean?”
     “I - I really like you.”
     “You really like me? What are you saying?” Her mouth dropped in comprehension. “Oh no, no, no. You mean -?” her eyes rolled. She offered a condescending smile. “Dan, you’re a Sophomore, I’m a Junior. It just doesn’t happen.” She let loose a giggle, patted him on the cheek and walked away.
     As the rest of the kids emptied the bus and walked past him, Dan stood in stunned silence. He hardly knew what he had said. He hardly knew he had said it. The magical clouds of dust began to choke him.
     He felt a hand on his shoulder. “That’s only one tail, son,”, said Barb. “a very small tail. Let’s say you and me go see the show.”
     Everyone filed through a large door of a weathered barn. There were rows of chairs inside lined up at the foot of a raised platform crowned with dark shapes. A lone usher greeted them and sat them in the chairs before walking into the shadows. After a few moments, a spotlight suddenly lit up a piano on the platform. The usher struck a few chords before launching into a classical furry. One by one, spotlights opened on an elaborately set stage. Lights on the walls above exposed murals of painted balconies brimming with an audience in Renaissance garb gazing down at them. A final spotlight on the ceiling revealed a frozen pastiche of swirling angels and cherubs. The piano pounded to a crescendo and stopped. A curtain moved. A leg in white tights suddenly appeared. A pair of graceful hands crowned with long painted nails slowly pulled the curtain back. A ballerina took a bow. Tchaikovsky rumbled across the piano’s keyboard, the ballerina lifted herself to her toes and for the next hour, a single dancer and a single piano player in the middle of a dust storm in the middle of nowhere transported Dan to a world he never knew existed, a world that was and had always been inside of him.
     That night in his dreams that world opened up to him. His father and the desert were gone. He was no longer alone wandering the countryside looking for plants and insects, trees and birds and lizards. He was painting portraits on the walls of the theater. He was playing Tchaikovsky on the piano. He was dancing with a ballerina. He was no longer alone.
     The fog of dust had disappeared with the night as everyone dragged themselves in the brilliant morning light onto the bus to face the long ride home. They were quiet, tired from the days of adventures, and still absorbing all they had seen. Consuela kept her distance, but Dan didn’t care. He couldn’t help reliving the amazing feeling the first time he had seen the desert, how he had been so familiar with and so fond of somewhere he had never been. As its naked beauty slowly faded into the dusty scrublands of the north, Dan felt he was almost leaving home behind him. But the desert had given something to him that he held close, a new life that would replace the old, a tail that was growing by the minute, a tail that would never leave him.
     When the bus pulled up to the school parking lot, night had fallen. Dan made a determined effort to thank Mr. Lodester who gave him a cuff on the shoulder and told him he had been impressed with him. He walked over to Barb, shook her hand and thanked her. Her creased face glowed.
     He saw his mother across the parking lot and walked to her. She hugged him. She looked drawn and white. Settling his father’s estate, what there was of it had taken its toll. Her smile was strained. “Did you have a good time? You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
     “It was amazing. As soon as I saw the desert, I felt like I was coming home. All through the trip it was all so familiar, but I have never even been near the desert.”
     A confused look crossed her face. Then she smiled. “Well, I guess you were so little and don’t remember. And I guess I never said much of anything about it what with the divorce and all, but we moved to the desert when you were six months old. You spent your first three years on the desert when your father was stationed at China Lake in the Mohave.” She smiled as a memory lit up her face. “We lived in a red metal trailer. You learned to walk real fast after you first leaned against it in the middle of the day.”
      Dan could hardly believe what he was hearing. “That was in my dreams one night.”
     His mother took his arm as they walked to the car. “So now that the prodigal son has returned from the desert, have you finally decided to become a scientist?”
     “No.”
     “No? Why not?”
     “Something else came to me on the trip.”
     “Something else? What?”
     “A ballerina.”

Rick Hill

4,729 words

AN EXCEPTIONAL EXPLOSION OF BEAUTY AND DEATH

     I didn’t want to shoot the son of a bitch but it was me or him and the world would be a hell of a lot better off without him. He was having lunch in an outdoor café on a small square. There were few people on the street and no one else at any table. There were trees in the square, their leaves beginning to turn in the hot early Fall. Birds flitted from branch to branch filling the air with song. The thug behind me jabbed me and told me it was time to get it over with. I peeked around a wall on a corner a few storefronts down. The thug shoved the rife into my hands and pushed me. I lifted it to my shoulder and fired. The bastard fell backwards, his feet kicking the table over. Blood splattered and flowed around the shattered dishes and glassware. His body twitched and shuddered. A scream ricocheted in the air. We both bolted. A couple of streets later with no one around, we ditched the weapon in a hedge and sauntered the last few blocks to the store. Another thug was waiting for us and ushered us in. He told us to walk through the store and exit the back. He led us through a yard and out a gate. Across the street, we climbed a flight of squeaking wooden stairs up to the roof of a dilapidated building. When we reached the edge of the roof, the thug from the store looked down to a field of dry, overgrown grass. He told us the man I had shot was beloved by the insects. There was fear in his voice. A high-pitched rattle began to fill the air. He looked around frantically and told us we had to get the hell away before they discovered us. He screamed and flew off the roof right before our eyes. We turned and ran down the stairs for our lives as the rattle turned into the clanging of a fire alarm. But there was no fire. We raced down a street towards an intersection bisected by abandoned, weed covered railroad tracks. Both of us stopped in abject terror as the weeds suddenly began a frantic dance from the racing insects beneath them. The clanging, rattling howl filled our ears.
   All went silent. We stood stupefied. The quaking plants swayed still. Millions of eyes staring at us pricked our skin like needles. I felt tiny grandma next to me. She began to sing her favorite song – “The gas is turned on high, let’s all sing and shout. Judgment day is nigh – “. I rocked on my feet with the rhythm in my head. The man looked at me in astonishment. When he turned to run, a mass of insects vomited out to the brush and consumed him. The music filled my soul. My shoulders moved with it. The pulsing insects hovered over his bones for a moment next to me as if making a decision. I began to dance a slow, sweet Tennessee waltz. The fog of tiny teeth moved with me. I opened my arms to it. It surged toward me. It enveloped me. It danced with me. It rhythmically caressed me. I felt it was speaking to me. “Tiny grandma knows where the desk is and she is in danger.” I rolled my head back on my shoulders and smiled as darkness closed in.
     I came to laying on a couch in a living room. A man, a woman and their children sat around me. It was a Norman Rockwell painting until a toddler sleeping by his father suddenly lunged for his father's arm and bit a large chunk of flesh out of it. His father screamed in agony. The mother picked up the little monster and walked outside with him. I followed asking her why she was not upset and what was she going to do with her son. She reassured me that everything was going to be fine. The child stared at me with ice cold hatred. His ungodly assault on the world focused on my eyes. I fought back. I bellowed that he was not fit to be locked up in a cage. He leaped from his mother's arms and skittered into the underbrush. He emerged at the base of power pole, climbed to the top, grabbed a wire and let the electricity surge through him as he shot down the line and disappeared. The mother told me I must go before the child returns with others of his kind. She handed me some car keys and pointed to a parked car. She said I had to drive into town and warn everyone.
     The town was in a panic. Marauding children were picking people off one by one. A man in a bar had his arms torn off. A woman in a restaurant was decapitated. A well-known actor performing a treasured play was surrounded on stage and torn to pieces as the audience fled the theater screaming. I looked around me. My eyes darted here and there. It wouldn't be long now.
     I heard rustling. The infants were surrounding me. They were glaring at me hungrily. They began to chant quietly. “ Assassin. Assassin. Assassin.”
   I felt something in my shirt. I looked down and saw an insect crawl out. I took it into my hands and raised it to my lips. "Can you find your friends quick, before it's too late?"
   “Tiny Grandma’s song has saved you. If you live, assassin you must get to the sea.”, it answered. I let it fall to my feet.
     I turned to the children. "You know, when you grow older, you are going to grow hair in places you don't grow hair now."
     They stopped their advance and looked at one another. "And when you do, you're going to have to shave it off."
   They had confused looks on their faces. "You're going to have to shave it off every day."
     Their confusion turned to anger and they moved closer. "Some of you will have it ripped off." This stopped them again.
   “You will never keep me from reaching the ocean!”, I hissed. Legions of insects burst out of the undergrowth and covered them. Muffled screams filled the air. I raised my arms over my head and lifted off the ground. A cloud of insects sailed with me through the treetops and peeled off as I soared toward the horizon.
     I could hear the surf rolling in the distance. When I reached the sea, it surged at me. A large. rock towered over me. Worn steps were carved into it. I followed them to the top. There was a jolt. The steps disengaged from the rock. I was lifted up over the top and down into a walled enclosure of weathered wooden buildings. A well-dressed man and woman approached me. They were polite but their voices were firm. They would escort me to my quarters. They took me into one of the buildings and down a hallway past comfortable rooms, some with people sitting quietly, then ushered me into a small suite covered floor to ceiling with intricately inlaid marble. An anteroom was filled with consoles of machinery.
   They left me there with an attendant, a large, lanky man with a sad face. I asked him if I was a prisoner. He rolled his eyes. The consoles in the anteroom jerked and swung into motion like rocket launchers on a warship. He walked over and closed the door. I asked him if I could leave. He said I could not. His eyes showed concern. My unease was turning to fear.
     I tapped his shoulder. “I must leave.”
     He turned away and repeated himself. “You cannot.”
     I took his hand and pulled him toward me. I kissed him. He pushed me away. I kissed him again. I opened his shirt. He shuddered. I put his hand in my shirt. He didn’t withdraw it. I loosened his belt. He grabbed me. We fell to the floor. He tried to stop himself.
     “You want to!”, I whispered. “You love it! Be yourself!”
     He shouted something incomprehensible. As he gave in, he transformed. His ears grew. His arms shrunk. His nose was black and moist. There was a large black spot over one of his eyes and tears flowed out of both of them.
     “You fags!” The woman was standing over us, her heels in my face. She ordered me up and dressed. The dog-man was weeping in a heap. Two scowling guards with wasps the size of light bulbs on their shoulders surged into the room, picked him up and dragged him out.
     The woman ordered me down a corridor. “My husband figured you out immediately. He wanted to throw you into the sea. I reminded him that Michelangelo, Leonardo, Alexander were all fairies. I reminded him that you were an assassin.” She opened a door and pushed me into another marble room. “Before we use you, I will use you.” She closed the door. “I want you to love me.” She unbuttoned her blouse. She was attractive. She was a witch. I had to escape. I unzipped her skirt. Her expression softened. I would make her delirious.
     “Mommy! Daddy wants to tickle me!”, she cried in the voice of a toddler. “Hi, daddy!” She pulled off her skirt and fell to her hands and knees. “See daddy?”
     I stepped away. “I can’t do this.”
     “Of course you can’t! You’re queer!”, she snarled.
     “I need a shower.”
     “You will not shower!”, she choked as she pulled on her clothes. “You will never find the desk! Tiny grandma is dead!”
     She pushed me out the door. She stomped behind me down halls, past more quiet rooms filled with silent people. We stopped at a gate that exited the building. It was over grown with vines and alive with lizards whipping the air with long tongues. Her husband was waiting. “He prefers dogs.”, she whispered loudly. The lizards began to sing. “The gas is turned on high – ”. The husband and wife bloomed sadistic smiles and joined in. The gates opened
     As the couple stepped out, I launched myself onto their backs and the three of us tumbled to the ground. The woman screamed. The man freed himself and rushed to an idling ambulance. He opened the door and jumped in. I followed him and we struggled desperately. He grabbed the wheel and stepped on the gas. We careened toward his wife. Her skull burst under a tire like a melon. We sped straight through a barrier and over a cliff. I heard gunfire and shattering glass.
   The ambulance rolled in mid-air. I was thrown against the roof. We slammed into the ocean on the driver’s side and I was thrown on top of him. Water rushed in. We sunk like a stone. I pushed myself out of the window and swam to the surface. Debris from the ambulance floated around me. There was no land in sight. I grabbed a stretcher. I was alone.
     The stretcher just supported me. I jammed as much of the debris as I could under it and stabilized myself. If the sea stayed calm, I could survive a few hours, maybe days. I pulled myself onto the makeshift raft and lost consciousness. When I came to, it was night and the light of the moon danced on the water. Panic rushed up in a clattering storm. The raft only partially supported me and my legs dangled in the water. The thought of sharks battered my sanity. I thought of tiny grandma. She was my rock. She had made me what I was. She was waiting for me. I will find her and I will find the desk. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the sun was rising. I felt it on my skin and images of peeling, flaking sunburn taunted me. I was terribly thirsty. I was barely afloat. I thought about drowning.
   The lapping of the waves was disturbed by a dull churning sound. There was a ship in the distance and it was steaming toward me. I heard frantic yelling. I was yelling. A large motor yacht pulled up along side me and a Jacob’s ladder was thrown down. The sun was in my eyes. I saw forms moving above me. I pulled myself up.
     No one helped me as I fell over the railing onto the deck. A crowd gathered around me, a crowd of brown spheres each standing on a pair of stubby legs. I heard gasps and cries of alarm. Large depressions with faces in them appeared and disappeared on the spheres. One of the spheres spoke to me. “We are going to dock on a beautiful island. You should be proud of what you have done, assassin. Everyone is going to have lunch. The world is a better world now that he is dead.”
    The engines surged and in almost no time an island loomed large. We pulled up along side a wooden pier and a gangway was lowered. A gravel road led us through golden fields spotted with gnarled olive trees. A limb sprouted slowly out of a sphere walking next to me and grew a couple of digits. I felt them stroke my back. We came to a group of simple, round tables furnished with bent wood chairs resting under trees. Dozens of eggplants were piled on linen tablecloths.
    One of the spheres grew hands and picked up a pile of the most beautiful white napkins I had ever seen. “You like these napkins, don’t you?”, it cooed. “That’s because they are for you. They are your napkins.”
     A pair of arms appeared out of another spheres shoulders. It spread them over a table magnanimously. “Eggplants!”, It boomed. “Ha hah!”
      The sphere with the napkins nodded at an opening in the side of a hill. “Get the salsa!”
     I couldn’t get the napkins out of my mind. I stepped into the opening and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Then I found the huge bowl of salsa waiting for me at the top of a precipitous gallery of stairs folding back and forth on itself and twisting into the depths. I closed my eyes and imagined tiny grandma standing next to me. She nodded. I ran to the salsa and leaped, grabbing the sides of the bowl with my legs and its rim with my hands. It lurched forward and carried me downward faster and faster. I whooped and yelled and waived my arms over my head. My legs were splashed with salsa. I smeared some on my hands and tasted it. It was delicious. I landed at the foot of the staircase in a dark room illuminated only by the light streaming through a screen door. Tiny grandma was tied up by the wrists to nails driven in the door frame. I had found her and she was in trouble. I tried to untie her.
     “I don’t care what happens to me!” she barked. “This is about you, you and the desk. The desk is everything. Only the desk can save the world. You have to find it. Get away from me before the potato people see you! Find out what they’ve done with the others!”
     Suddenly I was filled with pain. Guilt stabbed me in the gut. My head swam. My eyes filled with tears. “I have killed a man. I have done a terrible thing.”
    “I doesn’t matter what you have done!”, snarled tiny grandma. “We are all animals burning through our minuscule flash of life on an invisible speck on the face of infinity! Go find the others! Maybe the others can help you! Maybe the others can help me!”
    I heard voices in another room. The potato people were coming. I ran through a back door. A scream echoed in my ears. I crept back. I peeked through the door. The potato people had a mask with tubes attached to a canister. They were strapping it to tiny grandma’s face.
     I ran through another door to a large dark room full of cages. The others were there, one in each cage. I went for the doors but they were chained shut. “They’re not going to kill us.”, everyone reassured me. “This is just a disciplinary thing. Besides, we have all the correct documents. We found them in the desk before it disappeared. And they haven't found you. You don’t have any documents. You get out of here.” I kept quiet about the mask and the tubes and the canister. There was another screen door. I would be back with help, I told myself. I opened it and stepped into brilliant sunshine.
     I started to think about the napkins. Why hadn't I taken them with me? They were so beautiful and they were mine but I never really had them and now I never will. The road in front of the door made a sharp turn and followed a hill that rose over the building. As I climbed it, I ran into a crowd of people surging down toward the building. Some had weapons. A small boy pointed a rifle at me but I talked him out of shooting me. “You have to go right now and save the people they have locked up inside. The potato people are going to gas them. You have to shoot the potato people.”
     When I was clear of the crowd, I kept climbing until I walked into a small village. A blind man carrying a golf bag full of shotguns approached me and directed me to a store. Inside, a woman behind a counter gave me three elaborate hand made knives. She had a faint mustache, soft hair. I said I only needed one but she insisted I take all of them. I wondered if she shaved her legs. I slid the knives in my pockets and belt.
     “You’re upset because they killed your friends.”, said the woman.
     “You don’t know that!”, I said angrily.
     “But they always kill them. At least you are alive. Think about your napkins. You’ll find them someday. Now take your knives and go.” She walked from behind the counter and ushered me to the door. The sunshine was blinding. I covered my eyes as I heard the door close behind me.
     I wandered out of the town and into the hills. I stopped under a tree. My feet were caked with dirt. I washed them in a pool of stagnant water. I was so dejected, I didn’t even realize I was looking at it when I was standing right in front of it. I found the desk! It was lying in the dirt and the legs were broken off but I found it! I stood staring at it for a moment, frozen with anticipation. Were my napkins in there? I reached for the drawer and then stopped myself. What if they weren't there? What if there were murderous, cannibalistic infants in there instead of my napkins? I opened a broken drawer of the filthy desk and pulled out a pair of worn white socks, some stick puppets and an old calendar with all the dates scratched out. There were no napkins. I tried to fold up the puppets but they broke in my hands. All the sticks with little heads on them were in splinters and the bits of cloth with the faces drawn on them were torn.
    I heard a sound. I looked toward the rise in front of me and saw people cresting it. It was the potato people. A chill went up my spine. There were several of them and they were somehow different. There was something on their heads. Should I run? They couldn't get me if I had a good start. And then I saw it. Then it hit me. They were wearing my napkins on their heads. Oh my God. They had my napkins and they were wearing them on their heads. They had punched holes in them and were looking at me through the holes. I had to kill. I had to have something to kill with. I remembered the knives. I pulled two of them from my pockets and unsheathed them.
     The potato people stopped in their tracks. They started to laugh. Then they began to sing. What were they singing? What was that horrible sound? Was it Christmas carols? Was it? My God, they were singing Christmas carols. I screamed. I let go of my knives and slammed my hands over my ears. Silent Night! Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer! The Little Drummer Boy! The Little Drummer Boy! I shut my eyes. I fell to the ground and vomited. I choked. I started to shake. I opened my eyes and saw the feet of the potato people all around me. They were hairy.

Then I saw tiny grandma. She was here. She was with me. She picked up one of my knives and wielded it like a sword. She stabbed the feet of the potato people. She slashed their ankles. She cut off their toes. They fell all around me screaming in agony.
I jumped to my feet. I reached down and grabbed my napkins from their heads. I shoved my napkins in my shirt and picked up tiny grandma. She smiled serenely. “You have found the desk.”

     I placed her on my shoulder and turned back to the desk. Suddenly a drawer flew open. A hand reached out, grabbed tiny grandma and pulled her in. The drawer slammed shut and the desk exploded into flames. It took to the air and sailed off over the treetops like a comet.
   The napkins fell from my shirt onto the dirt. I put my head in my hands and wept. The memory of tiny grandma madly dancing with me in her apartment that looked over the city came flooding back to me. She sang our favorite song.
     "The gas is turned on high!
     Let's all sing and shout!
     Judgment Day is nigh!
     The pilot lights are out!
     Batten down the hatches!
     We're gonna have some fun!
     I've got the matches!
     You've got the gun!"

POSTCARD

I first met Yeva Rubloff on the Odessa Steps not long after the collapse of the Soviet Union. As I stood alone staring up at the magnificent gateway to the city of Odessa that had just been opened up to the West, I noticed a solitary figure sitting near the top of the steps. Out of breath from the steep hike, I nevertheless smiled and nodded to her as I approached. She returned the smile and, with only a trace of an accent asked me if I had seen Sergei Eisenstein's movie, Battleship Potemkin in which, at a massacre during the stirrings of the Russian revolution, a mother is shot, and her baby carriage runs out of control down the Odessa Steps over the bodies of the slaughtered. I said the movie had brought me to Odessa. She said that Eisenstein came out of the closet when he was filming in Guanajuato, Mexico, an enigmatic city known for its mummies. Something in its soil would not set the dead free, she murmured, and Stalin did not care for homosexuals. Then she told me that I reminded her of the young Bakunin. I sat down next to her and said that her tone reflected an almost personal experience with the famous Russian anarchist who had lived a century before. She admitted that she didn't believe the rumors that Bakunin was anti-Semitic. She then asked me if I knew that the Crimea was once considered a possible site for the Jewish homeland even before Palestine. I said I was unaware of it. She announced that when she was very young, she had been introduced to the Anarchist movement in Spain by the great Emma Goldman. She paused and pulled my collar down to her lips to whisper that Emma Goldman had personally told her that the greatest disappointment of her life was not being with Alexander Berkman when he shot Henry Clay Frick and that eternity had offered her as consolation the death of the monstrous industrialist on the eve of her deportation to Russia. She shook her head and muttered that Emma's love affair with the October Revolution ended bitterly with the Kronstadt Rebellion.

Yeva Rubloff then took me on a tour of the mysterious city of Odessa, from its brooding architecture frozen in time, to its cobbled streets scarred with threadbare tracks that shuddered and slid the slowly moving ancient trams, to the dark shops full of people torn between ignoring the young westerner and craning their necks to get a glimpse. We dodged vendors following us down the alleys waving soviet military hats and coats to end up at the Odessa cathedral where a rousing choir filled my soul with heart pounding marches and haunting hymns. Between performances, Yeva reminded me of the scene in Eisenstein's film where those responsible for the massacre on the Odessa Steps took refuge in the Odessa cathedral only to have the rebelling sailors set the cannons of the Potemkin on them.

When we walked out of the cathedral, it was late afternoon and I had to get back to my ship before it sailed. As we hurried through the town, Yeva told to me that she planned to immigrate to America. At the top of the Odessa Steps, she gave me a hug and pulled me close to her once more. "Eisenstein wasn't just a homosexual, you know. He was also a Jew."

Years ago, one of my best friends fell in love with a painting of mine. Not long afterwards she became seriously ill. Since she lived in Chicago and I lived in San Francisco, I could not be with her as she struggled with her disease. We kept in touch once or twice a week and as things got darker, I decided to send the painting to her as a surprise in hopes of picking up her spirits and helping her with her fight. I can still hear her hugging and kissing me over the phone.

A couple of weeks later I got a call from a stranger. When she answered my confused silence with the opening stanza of the Russian Revolutionary Anthem, I was back in Odessa. It turned out Yeva Rubloff was a close friend of my friend without me ever knowing about it. She had befriended her not long after emigrating from Russia and even though she had heard about me for years, she had only just recently seen a photo of me. It was then that she realized I was the young Bakunin on the Odessa Steps, and it was only days later that fate dealt Yeva the duty of calling to inform me that my friend had died of cancer. How bittersweet to reconnect with a magical acquaintance over the shock of the unexpected sudden death of a dear friend. It hung over me. It paralyzed me. A light appeared at the end of the tunnel when my painting showed up unannounced at my door. Yeva had been at our friend's apartment when the heirs descended on it. The painting was a special prize and she had to wade into a whirlwind of greed to wrest it free.

And so our relationship bloomed into one of the most beautiful friendships of my life until an incident involving her own progressively difficult condition and the Chicago In Home Health Services resulted in Yeva being institutionalized in a home for unmanageable senior citizens. She was taken into custody while visiting Emma Goldman's grave at Forest Home Cemetery and confined to a room with two others. Our long phone conversations became fewer. One day I called her at the home and was informed that she had disappeared. The nurses found her roommates bound and gagged in their beds.

I sometimes dream of finding Yeva Rubloff once again at the top of the Odessa Steps and wake depressed. Yesterday another light at the end of the tunnel arrived in the mail, a postcard from Guanajuato.

996 words

DICK AND ME

The Holiday season always makes me a bit nostalgic and this year led me back to Dick Cheney and our brief affinity in the late nineties. It was magic, just magic. Instant love. Shortly after we first met, Bubbles and I (I called him Bubbles) spent a weekend together at his insistence at the perfect getaway, Disney World, Orlando. We had such a good time that Dick invited his Tootsie Roll (he called me Tootsie Roll) for a long weekend at his timeshare condo at Disney’s Old Key West Resort. It sounded like a blast to me so I arranged to take some time off from my job at Lockheed Martin. Back then when we weren’t in each other’s arms, Dick and I would spend hours on the phone almost every day. We were finalizing plans on where we would meet, how we would get there and so on (at one point, Dick suggested we take a Disney cruise from New York to Miami!) when all of a sudden everything went dead. I was in Colorado working on a new kind of kid friendly cluster bomb and he was in DC with The Project For The New American Century and I hadn’t heard from him for a couple of days. When I called him, there was no answer, nothing. Finally a maid picked up the phone and told me that someone had showed up at Dick’s door and the two of them had been inseparable ever since, someone by the name of Dubya.
The one thing that pisses me off more than anything is betrayal so I definitely was not going to let this Dubya dip shit get away with running off with my Bubbles and make a fool of me to boot. I thought of a friend of mine I’d worked with on Hellfire missile development at Lockheed who had recently joined the NSA. I helped him get through a nasty divorce and I was sure he would be glad to return the favor. I wasn’t interested in, how shall I say it, getting anything done to Dick and the little Jezebel. I just wanted to know what the hell happened. My friend was glad to oblige. You can imagine my shock when I was told that not only were they planning to run off together, they were planning to run off with the country as well. My feelings for Dick notwithstanding, I just couldn’t imagine him at the helm of the greatest country on earth especially with a little shit for brains pile of potato peels at his side. Then my friend showed me the photo of the two of them in a huge red Chevy convertible on their way to Disneyland Park. That’s right, Disneyland Anaheim, the original Disneyland, The Holy Grail. The enigmatically attractive look of menacing thuggery that so often graced Dick’s face had warped into a demented sadistic mask and the hysterically crazed expression on his new pet’s face was truly terrifying. The idea of the two of them getting anywhere near the White House shot a spear of ice up my spine. Thank God reality intervened. Let it go, I said to myself. You’ll never see either one of them again.

                                              FATHER KNOWS BEST

The driver wouldn't stop. "Marital squabble.", he said as he slowed for the light, and "You're a fool, pal.", as Dan tossed him some cash and jumped out. The woman’s arms were waving like an insect. There was blood all over the street and her feet kept sliding in it as the man hit and kicked her. Dan immobilized him with a chop to the neck, wrapped his arms around him and took him down. Dan looked up at the woman leaning against a wall. The terrified glaze on her face was transforming slowly as she wiped the blood out of her eyes. Focusing, she put her hands to her head and dislodged a few patches of hair that drifted to the gutter. Her eyes caught Dan’s and the awakening relief warped into rage. She leaped towards them. Her nails raked into Dan’s face. The man jumped to his feet. They unleashed themselves on Dan, kicking and pounding and screaming.
     Dan threw his arms over his head and howled. They let up enough for him to reach into his pocket and toss his wallet at them. His nose and ears were bleeding profusely. They stood over him emptying his wallet and stuffing the cash into their pockets. He pulled his piece out of his boot, aimed and fired. At the sight of the man crumpling to the ground, the woman lapsed into a catatonic haze. Dan stood up painfully, leveled his pistol and fired again. She twitched at his feet as he wiped the blood off his face. He stopped by a stone fountain matted with overgrown ivy to wash his hands and clothes.
   Dan’s youngest boy found fault in the story at this point. He asked him how he could have removed the bloodstains from his clothes in a fountain. Dan explained that the water was cold and clear and that the blood had not had a chance to set. The younger brother had dozed off and the daughter started to complain about the lice in her hair. They had learned enough, hadn't they? They were sick of the lice and the rats and the roaches.
   She was right. They had accustomed themselves to parasites, neighbors moaning and screaming all night long, foul smells. They had started altercations and won. They tested most of the drugs that were prevalent in the neighborhood. They had picked up the vernacular and become accomplished pickpockets. But they had not experienced a death, seen someone die, which of course was the whole point of Dan’s story that night and those of the last few nights.
     His daughter assured him that she realized what he was saying and that all three of them had been making a conscious effort to participate in a death. The chance had not arisen and they were getting bored. Why couldn't they learn on a video game like other children? There were movies and graphic novels and youtube to teach them how to kill. How long did they have to go on suffering? Could he tell them how much longer this lesson was to continue?
     For the first time in their education, Dan realized that it was best to relive them of uncertainty, to give them a break. He told them that this was to be their last lesson in this environment. Their small faces beamed and they fell into a relieved chatter. Soon they grew tired and settled into a peaceful sleep that even the parasites could not disturb.
   The next morning they left the filthy apartment while it was still dark. Dan was both somewhat apprehensive of their safety and excited by their determination. Dressed in rags and covered with so much dirt, they would be safe wandering the streets before dawn. He nevertheless wanted watch over them, and he wanted to watch them. He followed them a dozen blocks into the worst part of the slum until they stopped at a narrow alley. After a huddled conference, they each drew a knife, flipped open the blade and disappeared into the shadows. They were gone for several minutes. Not a sound trickled out of the darkness. Dan became anxious. He pulled out a small pair of thermal binoculars. The cold light was scattered with figures, unconscious drunks, fentanyl victims, heroin addicts. He watched his children wander from one to another, standing momentarily over each body before bending down and slitting its throat.
     Dan lowered the glasses and smiled to himself. They had done well, exceptionally well. Their education in the ghetto had proved more fruitful than he’d hoped. They deserved something special, maybe a vacation. He turned and walked quickly back to the apartment. They would go somewhere warm and cheerful, to Hawaii maybe, or Tahiti.

DYMITRY

Dymitry was sullen when I arrived. I never knew how I would find him when I pulled up to the stables for a much needed ride by myself through the hidden paradise of West Marin. Some days he was laughing, almost giggling, some days cold and indifferent, others intense, very intense. I liked him but I was blind as bat as to what was going on. I just smiled, made small talk and gratefully took the reins of the horse he gave me, always the best in the stable no matter what his mood.

When he led a horse out to me that day, he stared deep into my eyes. Anger flashed across his face as I smiled vacuously back. The day was cool but sweat appeared around the neck and armpits of his tee shirt. He looked at the horse. His fingers splayed as he swept his hand along its flank. Then his eyes slowly swung back to mine that were riveted to his hand on the horse. He smiled sadly, shook his head, turned the horse around and led him back. I stood confused, unable to pry my mind from the image of his thick fingers massaging the horse’s skin.
He reappeared with a beautiful Palomino I had never seen before. The Palomino shook his mane, proudly lifting his head to the drifting fog above us. Dymitry had a wicked smile on his face as he handed me the reins. He turned on his heels and slid off his tee shirt. As he disappeared into the stables, his broad back glistened with sweat that ran down his spine and pooled at his belt pulled tightly to his jeans.

The horse was a joy, prancing like a Lipizzaner through the tall summer grass in the fields leading up to the ridge. I was delighted and repeatedly reached down to his neck to stroke his shimmering mane. I felt we shared a mutual affection when he raised his muzzle and glanced back at me more than once. His trot was gentle and I felt almost lifted as I posted along with him, but when we reached the foot of the ridge, he came to a sudden stop and looked up at the trail snaking sharply into the trees. I let him stand then gave him a gentle prod with my knees. He shook himself. I tossed the reins on this neck and he lurched forward. He was mulish on the way up the mountain, jerking and halting before grudgingly carrying on. The honeymoon was over. At the summit he was skittish and I was through with him. He had made his point and when I turned him back, I expected a quick trot back down the trail but on the way down, he stopped and wouldn’t move. I clapped my knees into him with no result. I tapped my heels in his flanks then kicked them but he only snorted and shook his head. I went from disappointment to anger. I unbuckled my belt, whipped it free and gave him a good slap. He took off like a rocket and put a new meaning to the word switchback. He galloped back and forth down the twisting trail but I was too busy trying to stay in the saddle to be afraid. I hunkered down and rolled from side to side in counter balance. When the horse hit the chaparral, he let go with a full raging gallop, gnashing his teeth trying to get the bit in his jaws and have done with me. I seesawed the bit back and forth with my belt still gripped in my fist and my knees clinging to his flanks with all my strength. He suddenly bucked then reared. My knees held as I lunged forward to throw my arms around his neck. He rose up on his forelegs and kicked both back hooves in the air. He bounced and shook but with my stability now in my arms and the bit still in his cheeks, there was nothing he could do. I let go of his neck, pushed myself up with the pommel and I gave him a vicious kick that launched him into a fury. He raced all out and I was with him. We tore across the fields egging each other on in glorious abandon until I noticed an ancient valley oak towering proudly by itself growing larger and larger as we rushed towards it. I saw a great, low hanging limb jutting from its side. I saw it was the horse's target and just the right height for only one of us to slip under. I knew I would break my neck if I rolled off him at that speed. I knew I was going to hit that limb. I knew it was too late to do anything about it. I knew as we galloped straight at what could very well be the end of me that I was having the thrill of my life. Everything switched to slow motion. And then our two battles became one. Our two bodies joined. I let loose my grip on the bit and let him take it. I kicked him and kicked him driving him faster and faster. I stood high in the stirrups and raised one arm over my head with my belt flailing in the air. Thousands of pounds of oak roared at me. I let loose a scream from the pit of my being, ducked my head, rolled forward and hit it with my shoulder. It released a throbbing groan, gave way and crumbled, crashing around us and exploding into a cloud of timber and dust that completely startled the horse. I had him now. My eyes were wild with victory. I yanked the bit out of his teeth and into the corner of his mouth with both hands and pulled hard. All he could do was circle and circle himself into exhaustion. I began to breathe again. I was alive. I wasn’t angry at the horse. I was filled with respect for him. I looked up at the horizon with an adrenaline fueled grin to see Dymitry galloping toward me.

There was delight in his eyes. They bored into me. He pulled his horse next to mine and circled with me. His mustache glistened in the sun. Sweat streamed down his face. "You had a lesson!"

"I did!", I smiled, mopping the sweat from my forehead.

"You did well!" He leaned out of his saddle and threw an arm around my shoulders. “You are a horseman!”

     I leaned out of mine. "I am!"

   He kissed me.

NIGHT TRAIN

Now he was sure it was following him. But it wasn’t. No, now he was sure. Just past the old house with the vines webbing up to the second story where the wood balcony hung among the blooms mostly withered he heard it rustling in the dead leaves, and since it was dark, and since there were so many magnolias on the street, and since there were always cats, he new what a cat sounded like in dead leaves. But he tried not to increase his pace because nothing was following him.

The street was dark. There was the liquor store sign. There was the bait shop sign. It was out. The last light on the street was the mortuary sign with the trimmed junipers around the entrance and the dark door and a few dark windows and all the dead bodies inside staring.

He was near the beach, wasn’t he? That’s where Bill and Shirley and Ellen and everyone lay in the sun or walked the Boardwalk. That’s where they got stoned and rode the rides all night and laughed. But now he had a choice, either the street with no more lights or the railroad tunnel.

A train came through at night sometimes but it was a short tunnel and there was plenty of room on both sides of the tracks if one did come. The street without the lights was longer and lined with old houses and dead leaves, and dead people.

So it was the tunnel and the tracks with the gravel. Cats don’t make a sound on heavy rock fill and the train always gave a warning blast as it neared. There was plenty of time to run through to the street on the other side right near the house. God, it would be good to get into the house, turn on the lights, the music, talk to his roommates, but of course he wouldn’t say anything about it following him. Nothing was following him. Nothing ever did.

He stopped when he heard two crunches behind him. He walked on. He quickened his pace hopping on a rail and listened but there was nothing so he loped from tie to tie thinking about all the blackberry bushes along the side of the tracks and the jam Bill and Shirley and Ellen and he had made once. He stopped and waited. There was a crunch, then another. He walked fast now, looking at the tunnel ahead, pitch black in the rock face around it. He’d be through and into the house in an instant. He concentrated on the blackness and began to run, run faster, as fast as he could. It wouldn’t get him. They wouldn’t get him, even if they were right behind him, and they were with their breath on his neck. There was only the dark void of the tunnel, no shadows, no forms, just peaceful black that exploded with the white headlight of the train as it raced out of the tunnel towards him.

He was frozen in the middle of the tracks as the engine bore down on him. The whistle shrieked. He threw himself into a bush. The train roared past, shaking the ground. All he could do was stare at the wheels that began to spark blue as they slowed, as the train stopped.

A boxcar loomed over him. He dug his fingers into the loose stones. The door opened slowly and they all smiled at him but he couldn’t move. Two lepers mumbled through lipless mouths as they smiled at him. There were eyes without faces. There was a floating, opaque essence constantly changing shape, smiling monkeys, fanged harpies, naked men and women dancing. A little girl with her hair and skirts on fire smiled at him. Little people smiled, Dogs and giraffes smiled. They were all smiling at him. Then a figure stepped down onto the tacks. It was a woman transforming from hag to beauty to adolescent to three days dead as she walked towards him. When she stood over him, she was elderly and bent. She smiled.

“Well? Well? We’re here. What’s the matter, dear? We’re here. Child, why are you so afraid? Stop clutching the gravel. You’re hurting yourself. Oh dear, you’ve wet your pants. Why are you afraid of us? We’re not here to hurt you. We will never hurt you. Why are you always afraid? Why do you cover your head in bed every night, close the closet doors so you can’t see us in the shadows? Don’t you see how lucky you are, dear? Look, a whole train full of us. Well, you’re still young. Don’t worry, dear. You’ll learn. But you must try and you must trust yourself. You’re so very special. Don’t let this interminably boring world, this mundane, pedantic, dogmatic world turn us against you. We’re yours. We’re all yours to do what you want with us, make of us what you want. Well, please hold on to yourself and trust yourself and us. I’ll make a point of somehow keeping everyone occupied and leave you alone for a while. How long do you need? Dear, how long do you need? Oh, you can’t even talk. It’s alright, dear. Don’t try. We’ll give you a year then I’ll just come by myself and we can talk. How about an empty laundromat some night? How does that sound? Well, I suppose we better be going. Goodnight, dear, for now.”

She walked slowly back to the boxcar. A dead baby dropped from the car as she stepped on. She turned and shrugged. She smiled as the door closed. The train began to move. Soon it was roaring past him. It was a good ten minutes before the last car disappeared.

The night was cool. There was a slight breeze. He gritted his teeth and turned slowly to look at the dead baby but there was only a large tomcat staring at him. It began to purr.

SHIT FOR SHIT HEADS

"This is Louella Lubricity with NPR and Art Corner. Thank you listeners and welcome. Today we are privileged to share a tete a tete with a rising star in the San Francisco art scene, Buck Spike. At times branded an outsider, often recognized as a rebel and even once or twice accused of being a figurative painter in disguise, his distinctive abstract art offers diffusive scents of the artist's oft proclaimed disgust with modern art and its reflection of modern life. We now join him at his latest show, Shit For Shit Heads. Mr. Spike, the title of your show is controversial to say the least, almost an occlusion for the viewer."

"Well then, let's get things flowin' again."

"Um, by all means, Mr. Spike. Can you describe your new show and give us a peek into your artistic process? I hear you are most definitely breaking new ground."

"All these canvases start their lives out by the side of the terlet, babe. And call me Buck. I just keep wipin' me ass with 'em until I am satisfied they will appeal to some shit head with a lotta moola. I call the routine ‘Wipe, Stretch, Sell’."

(Laughter)

"Very amusing, Mr. Sp - Buck. I must admit, the limited palette and lumpy impasto give credence to the effect you are implying."

"I ain't implying nothin', Doll."

"City code and the Health Department notwithstanding, Buck, if what you are suggesting is true, don't you ever worry that potential patrons would be put off by the medium itself?"

"The fact that there's shit smeared all over the canvases they're lookin' at is the sellin' point. When some double dipshit buys a painting and has a party for his double dipshit friends, they gotta have some shit too. It's the same old story, from high colonics to $300 a pound turd coffee."

"Turd coffee?"

"Civet turds, monkey turds, elephant turds take yer pick."

"Yes, I see, very well, Buck, assuming that's the case and far be it from me to poopoo the latest idiosyncratic trends in consumerism or modern art, do you feel that you are following in the footsteps of all artists by participating in the age old tradition of giving a part of yourself in your art?"

(Laughter)

"I don't know what the fuck yer talkin' about, darlin'. I just decided what with all the shit out there passin' as art at jack ass jingo prices, I might as well sell all these moronic shit heads the real thing. It's a lot less work and I don't have to pay fer toilet paper."

"That's all well and good, Buck but I can't help waxing philosophically that your abstracted imagery at the very least explores the coexistence of light and darkness, understanding and misunderstanding, purity and pollution."

"It's just a buncha shit, lady."

(Laughter)

"Thank you, Buck. Shit For Shit Heads lasts through the middle of July but if you go, plan on just taking a look at the art. The show is sold out. This is Louella Lubricity with NPR and Art Corner. Be sure to tune in next week. Thank you, listeners and good night."

ACCIDENT

I had suspicion about a $17 dollar check the other week and called my bank to put a stop on it. The last time I put a stop on a check was a couple of years ago and they charged me $9.99. Hey, seven bucks is seven bucks these days. I talked to Tracy. The new fee is $29.99. While she had me on the phone, Tracy asked me if I would like to switch my savings account to a money market account to earn more interest. I told her I was fine with the .000000000002 interest I was currently earning annually but asked her anyway what the difference was between the two types of accounts. Tracy said nothing, really except I would be earning more interest. I then asked Tracy the same question again. Tracy said there was a tiny little fee they would charge me if my savings got below 5 K, a tiny little fee of $15 a month. I said I was a little too close to 5 K in my account to consider that and Tracy asked me if she could at least send me the paper work for me to look over. Go ahead, Tracy I said and she did and I stuck it in the drawer. A week after that I got a letter from Tracy welcoming me to my new money market account. I took the letter down to the bank and showed it to a teller named Tracy who informed me that my money had been transferred to a money market account. I demanded to speak to a manager and was directed to a woman behind a desk named Tracy. Tracy apologized profusely and transferred my money back to an ordinary account. A day after that, I got a letter from Tracy saying that if I didn't sign the forms she sent me immediately, she could not guarantee my money would be safe. I called Tracy who said the letter must have been mailed before the account was switched back and told me to just tear it up. I said, "Tear it up? Tracy, you must be kidding. Put in writing all that has illegally happened and mail it to me." There was no apology this time. A day after that I tried to do some online banking and where my savings account used to be was a nice suggestion saying, why not open a savings account? I called right away and was directed by Tracy how to set the web site right. There was no apology. A day later I stopped at the ATM to transfer some money from my savings to my checking and a suggestion popped up on the screen saying, why not open a savings account? I stomped into the bank and was directed to a banker with a name tag that read Tracy. "Tracy.", I said. "You are the one who started all this mess. It's so good to finally meet you. When are you going to jail?" She tittered and chuckled and offered an explanation. "It was an accident."

"An accident?", I growled. "That's bullshit. I'm a senior trying to live on a thousand and one dollars a month from Social Security and zero jobs because no one will hire anyone over fifty. The fact that I have five thousand in savings is a miracle, a miracle that keeps me from food stamps with a forty year old cap of two thousand in savings. Fix this and fix this now!"

And just like that, I pressed Tracy's button. "What is it about the word accident that you don't understand? What about me? I'm the one being threatened if I don't make my quota! What am I going to do if I lose my job, work as a waitress? And don't think you're the only person I have to deal with! Try dealing with a single mother working split shifts at Walmart! Try dealing with an adjunct college professor! Try dealing with an Uber driver! You're all whiners but you baby boomers have a lot of nerve complaining what with the government giving you all your entitlements and you having the audacity to live so long, so long that you are bankrupting the nation and enslaving future generations in debt! The country would be so much the better with a hell of lot fewer of you. Why are there so many of you? Why are you people always whining and whining? I lost my job. I have to work eighty hours a week. I lost my apartment! I have to work split shifts that change from day to day! You're getting free money from Social Security and free health care from Medicare. There are warehouses to sleep in and churches to hand out free food. You don't even have to work at all. Everything is just handed to you. You live in the greatest country in the world with the best health insurance and the best schools and the biggest meanest military the world has ever seen and how do you thank those of us who actually paid for it? You piss and moan. I'm poor! I'm poor! If you are so poor, why are you all so fat? Don't eat so much. Save some money. Eat sizzlean. Sizzlean is cheep. Sizzlean has forty percent less fat that bacon. If you ate sizzlean maybe you wouldn't be so fat. How much sizzlean can you buy for a thousand and one dollars? I'm going to tell you what I tell all you whiners. When I tell you it was an accident, it was an accident! Now shut up and get a job or move your fat ass to Russia or Cuba or North Korea or FRANCE!"

A few days later, Tracy Doe was found floating face down in the Bay. DNA identification was needed as the body had been chewed by fish and eaten away by toxic sludge. Results identified her as an employee of a local bank. The coroner's office has ruled her death as an accident.

THE DEVIL IS LO0SE IN THE LAND

Rick and me were out for a couple of snorts the other night when we starts talkin' about how the devil is loose in the land. Now, Rick says that that ain't all that bad what with the devil pretty much bein' loose in the land 24/7 forever, to which I says shit, he ain't never been so loose in the land as now what with the president of the good ol' U.S. of A. decidin' to snuff out our own citizens without no trial, not even in abstentia and with no explanation whatsoever except that they're a member of al qaeda or a 'associated group' at which point Rick starts jabberin' about how if yer lucky enough to get a job in our great country these days, it's likely gonna be a job at America's biggest Free Market soul snuffin' employer, WalMart where you will be labeled a associate, and that there ain't much difference between a soul snuffed Walmart associate and a soul snuffin' al qaeda associate but I digress. Rick, says I, ain't we supposed to be a nation of laws, not men? Ain't the snuffin' supposed to be ordered by a court of law, not a man, president or otherwise? Buck, says Rick, for all yer experience and attitude, you are a pathetic idealist. There ain't no such thing as the constitution and democracy and liberty and all that shit no more. It's all theater, smoke and mirrors, dogs and ponies. Yeah, yeah, yeah, says I, but ain't this the place where we draw the line? Ain't murder where we draw the line? Murder?, says he? What kinda murder? Murder by Health Insurance? Murder by Wall Street? Murder by Cops? Murder by Homelessness? Well, what with all this heavy shit hangin' in the air, we ended up doin' the Dance of the Pink Pachyderms quicker than shit through a tin horn, wanderin' from bar to bar confabulatin' on the tragedy of life and, as Rick put it, the futility of it all, and before ya know it, I sees that look in Rick's eyes and I figure we’re gonna end up in the hoosegow sooner than later so I says Rick, quit thinkin' about all this shit. There's a lifetime to fight the shit heads with no fear in our hearts. Let's start thinkin' about gettin' laid. He then looks me right in the eye and gives me a kiss on the cheek and says, yer my pal, Buck. Let's get laid. And we did.

JUDAS WEARS A SMILE

In Chris Hedges’ column "How We Fight Fascism", his description of Clara Zetkin’s realization of the threat of rising fascism in Germany in 1923 offered a direction to my confoundedness by the actions of the Democratic Party elite and their media mouthpieces during the 2016 presidential primaries. I was astounded by their literal rants against anyone not supporting Hillary Clinton, their thuggish commands to get in line and their red faced, drooling threats of what would happen if anyone else became the democratic nominee. Unfortunately, my astonishment was nothing compared to my disbelief and outright fear of the effectiveness of the neo-Maccarthy witch hunts they launched in reaction to her defeat.
   Around the table at Christmas dinner, all eleven other liberal thinkers aged thirty to seventy believed that Hillary Clinton lost the election because of Russian interference. I suddenly realized that the group I thought had the most potential to rise up against the deliberate fracturing of American society and discourse by the one percent, the educated liberal class, had been coerced by the Democratic Party into believing that the election of a deranged paychopath was not an expression of the middle and working class’ hatred of the ruling elite but rather a result of Russian manipulation of social media.
   “The bourgeoisie needs to use aggressive force to defend itself against the working class,” Zetkin wrote. “The old and seemingly ‘apolitical’ repressive apparatus of the bourgeois state no longer provides it with sufficient security. The bourgeoisie moves to create special bands of class struggle against the proletariat. Fascism provides such troops.”
   It’s one thing to realize that there is basically no difference between the Democratic and Republican parties, that the Republican party takes an ax to our democracy to which the Democratic party holds up a symbolic sword in defense, all the while leaving our dismembered social reforms, policies and accomplishments scattered at their feet. It’s quite another to realize that in its timidity, the Democratic party has become a passive accomplice.
   One thing is for certain, just as in the past rise of fascism or any other form of tyranny, the first institution that has found its head on the block is the dissenting voices of what’s left of our free press. The Democrat's hauling up and grilling of the leaders of Facebook, Google, Twitter, etc. has resulted in their stifling of virtually the last expression of the first amendment, online independent reporting.
   In her last speech before the Nazi controlled German parliament, Zetkin warned, “Our most urgent task today is to form a united front of all working people in order to turn back fascism. All the differences that divide and shackle us—whether founded on political, trade-union, religious, or ideological outlooks—must give way before this imperious historical necessity. All those who are menaced, all those who suffer, all those who desire freedom must join the united front against fascism and its representatives in government.”
   In its rants and threats, in its blatant Neo-McCarthyism, the very symbol of the middle and working class, the expression of free speech, the common man’s representative against repression for the last eight decades, the Democratic Party has graduated from a passive accomplice of divisive propaganda and tyrannical group think to an active participant in America’s path toward fascism.
And they are succeeding far more than I could have imagined. I was at first (still) surprised then disgusted at their media’s mouthpieces screaming in outrage at “Russia’s attack on our democracy” and the endless repetition of every detail of the Trump White House/FBI/Russia dog and pony show. I didn’t really expect the corporate media to take advantage of this opportunity to reveal the endless crimes we ourselves have committed against foreign governments, their elections and their elected officials from the Trail of Tears, the theft of half of Mexico, the conquest and absorption of the independent nation of Hawaii and the violent subjugation of the Philippine’s struggle for independence in the 19th century, to the countless coups, assassinations and invasions of the 20th century. I certainly didn’t expect a discussion of the death of the last gasps of our democracy so evidenced in the Democratic National Commitee's crushing of the Bernie Sanders campaign. I did hope and have to some extent seen this in the alternate online news outlets and thought it might be an opportunity for me to use my knowledge to discuss our sad history with friends and acquaintances as well as perhaps write about it or even find an outlet for my novels but I had no idea how wrong I was, how successful this red baiting would be for the majority of the educated liberal citizens, friends included. The fact that Russia is a nuclear power and the Doomsday Clock is set two minutes to midnight has not occurred to them. The fact that we have meddled in Russian elections to the extent of getting Boris Yeltsin elected when he didn’t stand a chance hasn’t either, to say nothing of Reagan’s promises to Gorbachov that NATO would never be extended. What hadn’t occurred to me was the anger and vitriol just under the surface that waited for me or anyone else who might not tow the party line, let alone offer information to the contrary.
   There has always been a smug conceit among liberals that conservatives blindly swallow the corporate propaganda that is repeated endlessly in the conservative media but liberals possess their own minds based on rational thinking and a general knowledge of the politics, history and the world. The endless repetitive rants of Fox News have paid off with conservative voters. Goebbels got it right: if you repeat a lie over and over for long enough, it will eventually become truth. Now that the corporate power that runs this country has dropped the last pretense of democracy and taken over the Democratic Party completely, the Goebbels formula has magically appeared on CNN, MSNBC, et all and it is working as effectively on its liberal viewers as Fox News has on theirs. I am in awe at the banality, the simple mindedness of it as it repeats itself over and over in ever finer details day after day after week after month. One would think that, besides being outrageous, blatant, hyper ventilating lies, it is so breathtakingly boring, that if people didn’t come to their senses after being lectured to like children, they would at least eventually be bored silly. But they are not. They are being whipped up into a frenzy, a very familiar frenzy to any one with any knowledge of history.
   Last week, MSNBC had two "experts" compare the Russian meddling in our elections to Pearl Harbor and 911. That should scare the shit out of anyone. That and the fact that Rachael Maddow makes seven million dollars a year.

LAST SUPPER

The next mornin’, a nip of the hair of the dog pulls me together an’ I decide to face the day. I thought I oughta check on Rick on account of I couldn’t remember how he got home or me neither as a matter of fact. After some knockin’ on Rick’s door for some time, a gorgeous babe answers. I walks in an’ seein’ Rick across the room with a nip of his own in his hand, I says, Rick, I don’t remember this Goddess anywhere near us two bums last night. Did ya decide to switch sides of the fence when I wasn’t lookin’? to which he replies, Buck, this is Nancy. Don’t get any ideas ‘cause she is a patron of mine as is her husband. Please to meet ya, Doll, says I. It is my sad misfortune that you are already spoken for. Ya might not know it at first glance but I am always sooner than later found to be irresistible to pretty much all members o’ the fair sex an’ was ya not otherwise espoused, it is my opinion that you an’ I would become very familiar with each other. Rick then puts his arm around my shoulder an’ leads me to the other side of the room in front of a big paintin' of the desert. Buck, says he, Nancy here is admirin’ this landscape. I looks up at the picture an’ says, that’s a good thing, Rick. I bet she ain’t spent two seconds lookin’ at that crazy fuckin’ “Last Supper” of yours an’ it’s a good thing cause if she’da seen all them torched monkeys, she’d be outa here faster ‘n shit through a tin horn. Rick, says I, what the fuck? All this nut bag artist shit went out the window a hundred years ago. So you’re pissed off at the world and all the mother fuckers that are joy ridin’ us all to hell. That’s an old story that people like you been trying to tell the rest of the world forever. Wake up cause the rest of the world ain't gonna. Ya ain't got a pot to piss in an’ ya ain't gonna make squat waistin' your time paintin' a bunch o' looney tunes. Them bunin’ apes is the work of a very sick man. Don’t let it eat ya, Rick. Don’t let it swallow ya. Where is it, anyway? Did ya hide it? Then I hear Nancy laughin’ behind us. Buck, says she with a splendiferous grin, I am always glad to meet someone so charmin’, articulate, handsome an’ full of self confidence as yourself but I am here to look at art. Thank you, querida was about the highest encomium I could choke out. I will take the landscape, Rick, says she. An’ with that, she turns on her heels, blows us a kiss an’ waltzes her derriere out the door. With my eyes glued to her breathtakin’ backside, I says, Rick, stop paintin’ hoo-has burnin’ in hell and start paintin’ that, other wise it's gonna be your last supper.

DIRTY RUBBERS

Dirty rubbers cling to the flesh of the city.                                                                                              The air is a stale puff of cigarette smoke huffed
from the dry mouth of a listless slut leaning against a lamp post.
Dirty rubbers are the flapping soul of a city
whose citizens drift in front of pretty windows
full of shiny toys,
pretty windows in the street,
Pretty windows in their pockets.
Yellow sky hangs on the steel cathedrals rising like tombstones.
The priests within them look down and gurgle.
Rancid imprecations rattle out of smirking mouths.
Dead cows in cold windows lovingly stroking their mantles of rot.                                                       Their steps are quick, their shoulders squared.
They parade through their halls of bureaucratic death,                                                                     Corpses admiring their reflections                                                                                                      Infinite in halls of mirrors.                                                                                                                       Out the window they toss a shower of blessings.                                                                                        A clatter of dirty rubbers slaps on the street.

OLIGARCHS

Commrade Eve,

Ilych in America now. Is like dream but must tell. Svitlana call. Tell of work on Oligarch funeral railroad car to big town in south full of whores. Ilych tell Svitlana he not feel well. Svitlana tell Ilych, no IIych, no Svitlana in funeral railroad car with vodka and free caviar. Ilych and Svitlana work on car for two days. Many Oligarchs on funeral railroad car. Much vodka and caviar. Ilyich serve caviar to rich wife of Oligarch who own car. Rich wife tell of children who cannot spell and only know smile and frown. Rich wife show Ilyich painted toenails. Ilyich take picture of feet of rich woman. Svitlana hit Ilyich with shoe. Ilyich sleep in car, dream of toenails and people turn into mushrooms. Ilyich cut off mushrooms. Giant green statue in America lift skirts for Ilyich. After return from Oligarch funeral train car, Ilyich have croup and cough green, stay in room at Housing Building General to get rid of croup. Housing Building General Supervisor hear Ilyich cough all night and threaten with TB sanitarium. Picture of red toenails help Ilyich sleep. Ilyich think someday leave Motherland and work for American Corporation instead of Oligarch. When fever very bad, Ilyich dream of giant green statue of beautiful, free America. Dream fly to America with Svitlana. In American airport building, sweaty man tell Svetlana to stand in naked picture machine or sweaty man place sweaty hands on Svetlana's muffin. Svetlana beat sweaty man to death with vacuum cleaner. Was pounding at door. Housing Building General Supervisor at door. Svitlana tell her of rare and valuable photo of feet of important female oligarch on railroad funeral car. Housing Building General Supervisor give Ilyich pill. Make swallow. When Ilyich lose croup and get out of Housing Building General, Ilyich sneak to airport with Svitlana to fly to America, make new life with Corporation. Now live in American city full of whores. Live in American Housing Building General. Is not good. People scream and yell. People scream and yell inside. People scream and yell outside. People scream and yell on television. Television say Motherland want to bomb America. Some people look at Ilyich and Svitlana and think of Motherland. Is pounding at door! American Housing Building General Supervisor give Ilyich pill. Make Ilyich swallow. Ilyich sleep. When Ilyich wake, Svitlana gone. American Housing Building General gone. Ilyich under bridge with American campers. Campers smell. Street smell. Ilyich hungry. American campers say look in garbage can. Ilyich have only clothes and picture of toenails. Ilyich put picture of toenails in letter. Keep picture safe, Eve and always think of Ilyich.

Very warm embraces from deep in heart.
Ilyich

MESMERIC

Some German society woman, can't remember her name, what her husband did. She painted mediocre abstract expressions and sold many of them to others of her kind. She was beautiful, yes, well for a while, and I'm sure she considered me the same. What limited German I had certainly was improved.

She was taking the bus from Malaga to Motril because she wanted to experience something picaresque, folkloric and slightly dangerous. She usually flew to Granada and taxied over the mountains to Motril then to her villa in the colony outside of Salobrena. She also wanted worry her husband a bit, though later she admitted he probably wouldn't care. He was so wrapped up in his business at the moment and he'd been impotent for some time.

I didn't even notice her until midway along when the bus was twisting around the cliffs. When I did first see her, the pale, somewhat nauseated look on her face completely disguised the above the world expression I would later find she was most comfortable with. A peasant woman next to her continually vomited into a very thin plastic bag.

There was an empty seat beside me and when the peasant asked the bus driver to stop a moment so she could empty her bag, Beatre stumbled as gracefully as possible over to me and sat down without asking. After some minutes, she regained her composure and noticed me.

We talked in broken German and English and both lied somewhat. She was a famous German stage actress who'd given it up because it was all so shallow, and had retired to the Costa Del Sol to paint. I was a successful writer absorbing for a new novel. We were both lonely but we didn't discuss this. She commented on the beautiful scenery, the mountains, the sugar cane fields. We agreed in our disgust of the innumerable high rise hotels towering above tiny fishing villages. She told me of some beaches below the cane fields that were only polluted with goat manure as opposed to raw sewage from the hotels. I told her I hadn't bathed in four days. She lied she hadn't in five.

Eventually we decided to take a swim in the Mediterranean. The bus stopped at a small town with a restaurant and store. We descended the stairs and the mountainside through sugar cane fields to a pebble beach. It was very, very hot. A herd of goats and a shepherd stared glass eyed at us as we swam in our underwear. She was just the slightest bit stocky, some Bavarian skeleton in the closet no doubt, and her medium sized breasts curved upward the way her nose did. Her hair was red with streaks of blond, and wavy after drying in the sun. I kept staring at her naturally puckered mouth and the shepherd and his flock kept staring at us until the combination made us both nervous enough to climb back up the mountainside. At the restaurant, we ate tuna salad with bermuda onions and fritatas. The next bus was on time. Beatre asked where I was staying in Motril.

I am pouring wine for a party of Harvard School of Business potentials. There is much talk about how surprisingly cold it is for early December in San Francisco, nothing compared to New England of course. Someone comments on how wet the fog in San Francisco is, being so close to the ocean and the Japanese Current, you know, with thick fog and all, that's practically icy drizzle. But what about sleet storms? Not one of them has more than two glasses of wine. They all look like underfed chickens.

Paul is early and stands at the end of the bar tossing smiles at me and quietly making rude comments about the party. I'm sure some of them hear and it makes the last half hour of the shift pass quickly. As I leave, the party is still on and the manager makes a joke about firing me for quitting early. I tell him to go ahead and fire me and he laughs nervously, jerking his head back and offering a little squeal.

At seven o'clock, the Financial District is empty except for a couple of bars. The dark chill is a relief. Paul strokes my hair once as we walk to the car and asks me about the day. We are to go to Catrina's in the suburbs for dinner.

There was a stop just before Salobrena. Beatre and I got off and walked down a gravel road into a cluster of villas mostly mock North-African in Architecture. She told me hers was the only combination Spanish-Italian style villa and had one of the best views and certainly the best tile floors. She'd seen or heard about the interiors of all of them. From the breakfast balcony, you could see the bleached town of Salobrena crawling half way up the remains of an old volcano topped with a ruined Moorish fortress that over looked a flood plain planted with sugar cane. From the dining balcony, you could see fifty kilometers west down the coast towards Malaga. We watched the sunset eating bread and butter cheese. She assured me the local wine was drinkable. After supper and two litres, she complained of the salt in her hair from the afternoon's swim. She asked me to help her get it out in the shower.

We scrubbed each other with soap and brushes frantically kissing in the boiling steam of the shower. The night was hot. We dried each other in clean sheets. Gradually our caressing became gentle. She fell asleep first. The open window letting in the sounds and smells of the beach kept me awake and peacefully excited for a while. I closed my eyes and smiled.

"Oh, hello, Dahlings!"

"Catrina, we come bearing vodka and wine!"

"Oh, marvelous, boys!" Catrina flutters up, one hand pressing her breasts to stifle a burp before giving us both a kiss. Paul runs into the den and starts roaring at her kids watching television, threatening them with cheesy farts and tickling.

"Stop farting at my children!"

I accuse Catrina of being vicarious. Squeals, giggles and farts follow Billy out of the den. He demands a piggyback ride. I swirl him around the room as Barbara chases us slapping my butt.

"Stop this racket! Shut up!"

Susan accuses her mother of having another hangover, dodges a slap and falls into Paul's arms to be ticked until she screeches.

Eventually the kids settled down to lasagne. Catrina, Paul and I are in the living room drinking vodka and grapefruit watching a fire in the fireplace spitting pine and eucalyptus. We chide Catrina for running of to England for Christmas, leaving her kids to her ex and missing our party. She defends herself then falls melancholy. Paul reminds her that tomorrow we'll have a tree for the children, all have brunch together, have a tree decorating party. She cheers up and goes in to clean up the kids half cleared table, throwing threats at them she knows they can't hear over the television in the den.

Dinner is a pork loin with parsnips, onions, potatoes, carrots, gravy, applesauce, Yorkshire pudding, corn and salad with a curry dressing. We talk of a reunion when she returns, our respected problems, some old and recent wildly drunken bar room scenes. We begin to get somewhat drunk. Exhaustion sets in. In the living room, we put a couple of more logs on the fire. The kids come out to have a final tussle before bed. Paul fantasizes the six of us moving to Majorca. We talk a bit of Southern Spain. Catrina begins to nod off. Paul and I assemble a bed from couch and chair cushions. Catrina brings a sheet and comforters. She kisses us good night. Paul reads a magazine and I write a bit. I turn off the light and we settle into each other's arms.

In the morning, Beatre was standing over me with a wet rag pressed to her forehead and a cup of espresso in her hand. I thanked her and asked for a glass of water. She smiled, set the coffee on the bedside table and walked slowly into the other room. She was gone fifteen minutes and I became impatient. I took the cup and went to find her. She was sitting nude on the breakfast balcony buttering bread on a glass table. There was an empty chair with a glass of water on the table in front of it. I sat. She offered me some fruit, smiling and squinting against the sun. I ate while she spread butter cheese on the bread. As we relaxed, we became a bit more honest with each other. I told her I'd come to the cost Del Sol to escape December in Paris. She admitted she'd never set foot on the stage.

She told me her husband was expected at the villa that afternoon. She offered to taxi me to Granada. She wanted to give me a tour of the Alhambra. I agreed and thanked her. We went back to the bedroom and made love quietly. After, we lay looking out the window. I thought she was listening to the sea as I was, but I didn't ask her. We showered together and dried. She called a taxi.

I awake with my back to Paul. He is moaning. I take him in my arms and he becomes quiet. Fog has covered the house. I don't bother to look at my watch. I have slept restlessly and cushions are spread apart. I rearrange them and doze off.

The taxi arrived and we rode silently over the mountains to Grenada. Beatre broke the silence with a history lecture. I looked at the fortress of the Alhambra and asked how it was considered a palace. She led me inside and I understood. We walked holding hands through the arched rooms and glaring court yards. The rooms were Gothic with Moorish filigree. The courtyards had intricately patterned rain gutters leading to and from small pools.

I wake again to see Paul staring at me. He kisses me and runs his fingers through my hair. The house is dead quiet. I don't know what time it is. I fall asleep with my head on his chest.

Beatre wanted to show me the gardens. She told me they were a maze like the arabesque arches and intertwining rain gutters. She told me a story about an imprisoned Moorish prince that wandered the maze waiting for his lover to claim him and free him. I didn't question the validity of her story. She was entranced, pointing to trimmed niches in the hedges, diamonds and stars of hedges. She squeezed my hand tightly as we emerged from the palace. I told her I was going Barcelona. She instructed the driver to take us to the train station. We got out of the cab and walked towards the tracks. I asked her if I should kiss her without looking at her and she didn't respond. I turned to see her getting in the cab. The driver left the station quickly.

I open my eyes and don't recognize the hushed voices of the children at first. Paul is leaning on his elbow. He smiles at me. Catrina and the kids are off to get the tree. Paul and I buy breakfast. When we return, the children decorate and Paul and I fix bacon, basted eggs, bagels, lox and cream cheese. Catrina has a hangover and there is some scuffling between her the the kids who are screaming uncontrollably over the ornaments. Paul and I become man eating plants and try to squeeze the life out of the giggling brats. Catrina picks an old rag doll from her childhood as the Christmas tree crown. She tosses it at the seven foot tree and it catches the top perfectly. Everyone applauds. At breakfast, Paul talks again about running off to Spain while the food is devoured. He asks me if I've ever been to Majorca.

HALF A DOZEN BEERS BEFORE LUNCH

Stanley caught a glimpse of waking and grabbed it. He pulled himself hand over hand out of a tepid fen of dream and unconsciousness. He forced one elbow under his back then another and lifted himself up on them. He shook his head. He opened his eyes. He climbed out of bed, lost his balance, corrected it, reached to the porcelain basin and turned on the water. He washed his face in hot water, shaved, washed his face in cold water, flicked water under his arms, dressed himself in corduroy and wrinkled cotton.

As he plodded to the door, he glanced at his watch. It was nine in the morning. The fog out the window hung no higher than the ceiling of his room. He had a cold, and the air burned his nose and throat.

The streets were empty and wet from a lifting mist. Before lumbering off, Stanley ran his finger through his auburn hair, patted his beer belly and admitted to himself that he was bored to death with San Francisco.

At a bus stop, he joined two men with greased hair, maroon and henna, and stiletto sunglasses. Stanley commented on the weather. They smiled. The bus pulled up and the three of them got on. The men sat in the front next to the driver. Stanley moved to the back.

Stanley stared blankly out the window and tried to remember the times when he had loved this town at every view, at every Victorian. That was years ago during a warm summer, or rather an early summer that lasted longer than usual before sinking into the fog and rain that Stanley had once considered ethereal. There had been no summer this year. It was the end of August. August used to afford such luxuriously hot nights fit only for prowling the town until closing time, drinking with friends, walking the streets, even riding the cable cars.

But it was such a bore now. For all the changes that he and the city had gone through, Stanley could ponder his estrangement with the town that he had chosen for a home no more than that. What a bore.

He resigned himself to the bad taste in his mouth. The possibility that he felt the way he did because of his inability to find work occurred to him. He remembered when he tended bar at the hottest meat rack in town and had all the money he needed as well as all the nose, sex, booze dope, clothes. He caught the reflection of his curled lip in the bus window as it passed through a tunnel. He had no fond memories of those times. If he had that kind of money now, he'd get out of this town, but where would he - Stanley managed to force the train of thought out of his mind. The bus stopped at a light, and he found himself looking at the sign of a tanning parlor. He would go someplace where it was warm, for God's sake. What the hell was he doing in a town where the hot summer night is as rare as -.

He got off at Stockton Street and decided to walk the five blocks through Chinatown to North Beach. The Chinese never used to bother him. Now he sometimes wanted to scream at them for squawking on the bus. An old Chinese woman stood at a sidewalk shop sorting through a box of roots. She dropped one in Stanley's path. Without breaking his rambling stride, he picked it up and handed it back to her. She thanked him. He'd done his good deed for the day. He felt better. He looked down towards the bay as he crossed an intersection and found the view completely uninspiring.

He realized that he was becoming redundant, but he remembered that the day before yesterday he had decided that it didn't matter whether he was redundant of not. He looked about himself and noticed other landmarks reminiscing how he had once loved them and thinking how they bored him.

The smell of marzipan almost strangled him as he entered North Beach just across Broadway. That's almost as bad as the overall ripeness of Chinatown, he thought. Wind gusted out of nowhere and slapped Stanley in the face. He looked up at the fog just to see the sun break through. Big deal, thought Stanley.

He walked into a dim bar and ignored anyone he recognized. He ordered a beer. The bartender commented on Stanley's funk as he slid the beer towards him. Stanley did not respond. The beer and the darkness calmed him. The night before came to mind.

He hated it when the room spins around him on a late night, when he finally makes it home alone, when he can't find a bar dark enough to hide his muddy, drunken expression or loud enough to disguise his slurred words that isn't filled with sour mouthed drunks trying for a last chance for a pickup or one more person to bemoan the state of their affairs to. He always starts out in the right direction. He goes to the proper bars pulsing with the latest Brazilian chanteuse and filled with a well-dressed crowd looking for dinner dates and bed mates. But he can't break the barriers of sober diffidence, of pretentious reserve, his or anyone else's. So he gets drunk and ends up in a dark bar for a while before giving up and going home to watch the walls do their dance.

For some reason he couldn't sit the evening out in one particular bar. He knew he wasn't alone in that respect because all or any of the people who seemed interesting to him in the indirectly lit bars seemed to leave before they got drunk. He would drop into innumerable bars, have a quick drink and glance around to see if there was anyone worth thinking about talking to. If there was, he'd think about it, and they left. Once in a while someone would come up to him and try and start a conversation. He'd always be very polite and really make a genuine attempt to find something interesting about them. But he knew in the back of his mind that the mere fact that they made themselves available to him canceled out any chance of something exciting developing. Maybe he ought to get used to those spinning walls or go home with some drunk he met in a dark bar. Personally, he would rather go home to his spinning walls than with some blurry face. No, that's not true.

The bartender stood in front of Stanley and asked if he wanted another beer. Stanley nodded. The bartender asked if his unemployment had run out. Stanley shook his big head and crinkled his eyes shut.

“It’s a crazy world out there.”, grumbled the bartender. “Always was, always will be. A lady friend of mine just joined a Christian cult and killed her pet cat because it was a link to her past.” The bartender turned and left Stanley to his funk.

Stanley recently heard a story from an acquaintance of his told in candid confidence, unfurled unexpectedly. He was raised in a time and place most exemplary of the era that we now so cherish with Madison Avenue nostalgia - The Golden Fifties. At nineteen, he had finished high school and, presumably before his entrance into college found a job at a sporting goods store, not just a run of the mill sporting goods store that sold pup tents and basket balls but the very best of the burgeoning sports fashion industry. It was owned and run by seventy-year-old man who had decided to invest his savings and open his business in an exclusive suburb. The acquaintance had entered into the old man's employ innocently enough but within two weeks, he was participating with the rest of the employees in flagrant larceny. All of them were young, well off and bored. They maintained a constant theft that eventually bankrupted the owner. It was a crime inspired out of post adolescent male competition. None of the young thieves, all or most of whom had been members of the high school football team and promised to be top candidates for scholarships at the local and nationally renowned university needed any of the merchandise they stole. They never used the majority of it. None of the never convicted felons experienced any more than fleeting guilt even when the owner placed a placard in the window of his shop claiming that he was being robbed and forced out of business. The community took the whole thing in stride, undoubtedly turning a very blind eye to a large number of overstuffed closets and garages. Most of the parents were too busy watching the president play golf.

The bartender was back to replace Stanley's empty beer bottle with a full one. He tried a paternal approach this time, buying the beer for Stanley and telling him that a friend of his could get Stanley a job driving a cab. Stanley smiled and did not respond. The bartender shrugged.

Stanley pictured a small apartment of the coast of California. Daylight was filtering through cheap but clean curtains. A woman was rushing frantically from room to room. A child was sitting on a worn couch listening to the muttering of his mother. "One suitcase and three dresses and two uniforms. And there's the diapers and the baby's blanket. He'll wear his coat. He'll wear his shoes. And there's this pants and shirts, two and three, and the bunnyfoot pyjamas. The nylons! Can't forget the nylons! And my coat. I'll wear my coat. Put it on. No! Put it on the way out the door. Set it here by the - there's no pictures. There's the baby pictures, and mom and dad and the big family shot with the boys. Those damn books. Where in heaven's name am I going to put my Merk's manual? Thank God the baby's quiet. Judah's priest! Half an hour! Yes please, 1618 Green Street. I have a plane to catch in half an hour. Christ on a crutch! I can't close the suitcase. What was that crack? Am I breaking it? I heard a - what? What's this? Tingling? My hands are tingling! Christ, there's no feeling in my hands! There's no - Stanley's crying! We're going on a trip, honey. A vacation. We're going to San Francisco, Stanley. A great big city that's all white. God! My hands. Come on, honey. Come on. Here's the blanket. Here we go. One suitcase. There's the door. Sh! It's the nice man in the taxi to take us to the airport. There we go. One suitcase and the baby. Be right there. Oh, yes. Thank you. Yes. In twenty minutes. My coat! I forgot my coat! Be right there. Damn. It's starting to rain. No, Stanley. Listen to the rain. Isn't it refreshing? And the wind is refreshing, blowing away all the - be quiet, honey. Oh, thank you. Yes, the airport. Only twenty minutes. Stop crying, honey. No, daddy isn't coming. Daddy is at work. He'll see us later. Now be quiet and let's look at the cars in the rain. Look honey, a DeSoto. There's a Chevy. Chevy. Chevrolet! I can't feel a damn thing in my hands. What? No! It's nothing. I have to catch a plane in fifteen - a door. I ran into a door! Is it that bad? I'm not crying! The baby's crying! We’re getting in now, honey. Here we go, honey. No, we’ll see daddy later. Look! There’s the airport and there’s our plane! Up to the gate as close as you can, driver! Oh my God! The ramp’s empty! They’ve already loaded! There’s the gate! Open the door! Get my suitcase! I’m gonna miss the plane! Close your eyes, Stanley! We’re gonna take a run in the rain! Thank you, driver! I have the baby! Gimme the suitcase! We’re gonna run, Stanley! We’re gonna make it, Stanley! We’re gonna make it!”

Stanley shook his head and pressed his eyes. "I'll have another on, Bill."

The bartender swaggered up and looked Stanley in the eyes. "Say, Stanley, if you're broke, why don't you get those five hundred bucks back from your friend the dealer? After all, you lent it to him when you couldn't afford to."

"His wife left him and took their kid back east."

"The rat.", snarled the bartender. "If I ever see him, I'd get it back for you."

Stanley smiled into his beer. "No need, Bill. He hit seventeen with a five."

The air was almost icy. There was no wind. He stretched his legs in an invigorated pace and felt enthralled with the fact that he was racing along a hill high above the beautiful city of San Francisco on his way to purchase a gram of coke.

Tom lived at the end of a brick alley. Stanley walked through a manicured Italian garden that fronted the house and knocked on the door. Dianna answered. Tom made a very good choice in marrying this woman. Behind her drug induced ebullience stood the strength of a sincere and intelligent person. She welcomed Stanley in and offered him a drink. They talked about the Christmas tree that filled a quarter of the living room. Dianna commented on how nice it was to have the house smell of pine. She swept the loose needles from around the tree and wondered out loud whether Tom ever missed his sense of smell.

Tom came in and welcomed Stanley. They immediately began talking about the quality of the coke - from the same chemist, from dear friends who Tom trusted completely, how Tom never stepped on the stuff. He started to bring Stanley into the kitchen but there was some problem with Dianna that Stanley didn't catch so they returned to the living room. Tom asked if Stanley had the time to have it sifted. He did and they ended up in the kitchen anyway. Tom brought out a bag containing a couple of ounces and rolled and stroked it as he talked about its quality - no speed, a cerebral high, very little burn. Since Stanley had made the effort to pick it up, he should have a little treat. They both shared a long line then Stanley stretched back in a kitchen chair as Tom weighed and poured the gram onto a screen then ground it through, flaking the already snowy cocaine into a fine, fluffy powder. When he finished, he emptied the aerated dust into a paper with the chemical formula of cocaine printed on it.

Before Stanley could get out the door, Tom asked him if he would like to smoke some Persian heroin. He had talked of it before, wanting to share some with Stanley. He said Stanley should take the opportunity to experience the ritual of chasing the dragon. He rummaged through the living room awhile before coming up with a folded piece of tin foil and tin foil tube. He unfolded the foil and showed Stanley a light brown maze traced on the inside. At one end was a small round blob. He lit a match and with one hand holding the foil pipe, heated the blob from beneath, tilted the foil and followed it slowly with the tube as it slid away issuing a barely visible trace of smoke which he inhaled deeply. He repeated the process while Stanley inhaled. The heroin immediately cut any jitters from the coke. Dianna appeared in the doorway and the two of them finished off the rest of it. Stanley remembered Dianna's smuggling bust in Florida, the horrible fear of being extradited, the success of her lawyers in getting her tried in California. He remembered the time he was out with the two of them and a friend had asked her about her time in prison. She had made a sudden violent effort to control her emotions. But the paranoid memories began to fade as the heroin took effect. The three of them talked about getting together Christmas day and Tom informed Stanley that he would be dealing only up until the first of the year as was Dianna's request. After all, the baby was due in four months.

Stanley thanked them and said that he was glad that they would be out of business soon. He stood by the Christmas tree for a moment noticing its perfume for the first time. Then he was off and into the bracing cold night.

A rotund man in a tee shirt too small for him bought Stanley the next round. "Say, Stanley, I hear you're broke! I'm sorry to hear that. Don't you have any rich relatives? What a guy like you need is an inheritance, Stanley." He cuffed Stanley on the shoulder and walked over to a trio sitting at a table. "Everybody needs an inheritance at least once in their life!"

Stanley lifted his beer.

Though they were delirious with each other during their intense affair and became best friends after it was over, Stanley never managed to get along with her two brothers and sister. When he arrived at her grave ceremony they were huddled together over the open grave. At least a hundred people stood in clumps and semi-circles around her flower smothered coffin as the non-sectarian minister gave the eulogy. Stanley knew that she would not have wanted to be sent off this way, but she had always been too busy enjoying herself to bother with the sufficient planning necessary to convince the myriad of acquaintances, friends, loved ones and lovers gathered around her grave that the best way to bid her adieu would be to consume themselves with whatever sort of pleasure they saw fit.

Stanley mentioned something on that line to her youngest brother. He was informed frigidly that a tragic death required tragic mourning. Any further attempt at conversation with any of the three was cut short with looks so cold they bordered on hostility. Stanley fell into a quiet brooding as the minister droned on. He was taken aback by their animosity. He smiled at the older brother who glared back hatefully. Shocked by the response, he stepped back. He tried smiling warmly at the sister. When she realized he was looking at her, she began to whimper then burst into sobs startling the minister and halting the eulogy.

This launched the two brothers into such vehement vituperation that Stanley became concerned they were going to physically attack him. The sister overcame her hysteria and joined in. Stanley was about to leave the grave site entirely when one spurt of verbal abuse came out perfectly clear. Stanley was the sole beneficiary of her will.

Why was it only him? How could he have known? How could he be at fault? Questions packed his mind and made a frantic attempt to express themselves simultaneously resulting in incomprehensible sputtering. A piece of saliva flew out of Stanley's mouth and into the mouth of the sister. The woman screamed horribly and came at him with scarlet fingernails and lipstick-stained teeth bared. He swung out of panic and self-defense and caught her square across the jaw. She staggered back howling and clutched the youngest brother who, in his attempt to support her and swing at him, slipped against the oldest brother with such force that the three of them tumbled into the open grave.

Stanley felt half hungry, half high and much better as he ordered his sixth beer. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven thirty. Stanley yearned for the sudden hot, muggy nights that appear and vanish rarely in San Francisco at any time of the year, sometimes even in the middle of winter. He lifted his beer and took three long, luxurious gulps.

She smiled and looked down at the bar. A few strands of hair drifted in front of her face and brushed the lime in her gin and tonic. Her pale blue eyes rolled up and looked at Stanley.

"Your skin is exceedingly white."

"Not so popular these days.", she smiled.

"Almost translucent." he whispered, tracing her cheek with his thumb.

"I have difficulty keeping a tan."

"Alabaster."

"How sweet.", she mumbled.

The small, well-formed fingers of her hand tapped the table top. Stanley covered them with his big square fingers.

"You're awfully big, Stanley. I'm only five foot five."

"I've seen few women's hands as pretty as yours."

She looked at him with whimsical lust. When he asked her to his place, she got up to make for the door. He mentioned that she had left her purse next to her half empty glass. She batted the air as if trying to slap down an annoying insect, grabbed his hand, pulled him to his feet and out the door. He took her down the block and into the middle of the next. They stopped between two bars in front of a small alcove framed by a latticed steel door. They walked up two flights of steps then up a narrow, twisting stairway.

"The penthouse.", Stanley muttered as he unlocked two deadbolts and ushered her into a room framed in brown shuttered windows and furnished with worn oriental rugs and stuffed furniture. She said that the cluttered, nonchalant order of the place reminded her of the tents of Bedouin merchants depicted in faded color illustrations from adventure novels she had read as a child. She noticed a large, dimly lit aquarium blurred with slowly waving plants, lazy bubbles and a very large drifting garibaldi staring at her with bored indifference.

She heard a grunt behind her and turned to see Stanley sprawled on a sunken bed enclosed by three walls of paneled mirrors. Later, she would laugh at the memory of her good taste in interior design shattered by the defiant delight she took in watching the two of them writhing away. She sat on the edge of the bed which gave in as though it were stuffed with down and threw her on top of him. She asked if he actually slept on feather cushions, but a telltale spring announced that he slept on something far more rare, a perfectly broken down mattress.

Stanley smiled. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Take off your clothes."

She was taken aback less by his demand than by herself for being charmed by it. "Why don't you take off your clothes?"

Stanley shrugged and obliged. She watched him remove each piece of clothing. "Of all the designer's layers of cashmere overcoats, Egyptian cotton shirts, pressed wool pants, silk under pants and socks all pushed on the premise that God and country are searching for the height of desirability, you fit into crumpled corduroy pants, a worn plastic windbreaker, a wrinkled cotton button down and cotton under pants with more sexual allure than any haute couture model could dream of."

Stanley grinned and patted his beer belly. "And there's this."

She informed him that a body without fat was inhuman, that people are programmed to store fat and if there ever was a real test for survival, those with a good proportion of stored fat would have the best chance of making it. Health fanatics reminded her of insects. She could never make love to an insect. Then she blushed. She realized that Stanley was naked, and she was fully clothed. He helped her pull open the buttons of her blouse. He spread his fingers over her breasts, caressing them and exposing them. He lifted them gently then let them rest against her body. He followed through with the rest of her clothes. They lowered themselves into each other's arms. They devoured each other. The mattress did not squeak.

"Oh, you have a little Christmas tree.", she murmured, untangling herself from Stanley with a sigh and sitting up. " I didn't notice it."

"To tell you the truth, I believe more in a Christmas tree than I believe in the God awful trial of Christmas.”, Stanley muttered. "There's something about Ol' Tannenbaum that sticks to you like a dog you picked up at the pound. You can't get rid of it until it's had its time. It sort of sits there smiling at me, nothing but a God damned tree with baubles on it. I don't know what comes over me putting up some kind of tree like some kind of sap."

"But that tree is beautiful. You can't talk that way. You should always get a tree if you can afford it. You said it yourself. It's more real than Christmas to you. It's something beautiful and temporary that you adopted, you made. Do you always hang bus transfers on it?"

"The last couple of years."

"I love it. You are no sap, Stanley. You are a beacon."

"You know, that was really great.", Stanly purred, curling up around her knees and breathing the hot, thick hair that hung in the room. "Won't you stay the night?"

She looked at the bloated fish suspended in the aquarium and the Christmas tree lights glowing in soft pastels amongst the bus transfers. Stanley rubbed his cheek against her thigh. "Won't you stay the night?"

Stanley finished the last beer, said goodbye to the bartender and left the bar reveling in a warm buzz. The sun had burned through the fog and the wind played havoc with the hair of passersby. This city always looks better with half a heat on, thought Stanley. Ah, marzipan.

grandmothercanfly

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Chimera - A Collecton of Dreams