Pipe

The lightbulb in the right corner of the vanity mirror flickered on and off. It was the wiring, not the bulb that was faulty; nevertheless, it made it very difficult to pluck and shape eyebrows. Bernard had to lean very close to the mirror and fix his eyes on the exact spot that his tweezers were pulling--he looked past the troublesome bulb.

He was making excellent time with his eyebrows. After a few minutes, he moved on to his moustache, carefully plucking single hairs until it was perfectly trimmed. He squeezed a glob of gel into his hand and ran it through his peppered hair. It was curly, but not gerricurled like most other black men. He took even more care with the hair on his head, adjusting strands, making sure everything was in place. Bernard was rounding out his mid-thirties, but he certainly didn’t want anyone to know. He washed the excess gel off his hands, dropped the towel from his waist onto the floor and strutted into his bedroom, naked. He swung his package back and forth, admiring its moderate size. On the bed was his evening wardrobe, laid out in order of dress.

He preferred the support of standard briefs, but he didn’t like the feel of cotton. He needed satin. It was soft and hugged his buttocks tightly in position. His blouse was off-white and ruffled. Ruffled collar, ruffled sleeves. Bernard slipped it on and buttoned it to the middle of his chest. He shaved the hair regularly, so only a few stubble bumps were exposed on his gingerbread skin. He picked up the nylons that lay on the bed and slipped them on. They were a natural tone and no one but Bernard would know they were there. He only wore them because he didn’t like the feel of bare feet in high heels.

Tonight he was dawning his orange polyester suit. It was a sherbet orange—even the texture looked like ice cream. It had been his mothers. When she died, he inherited everything she owned.

Seven cats, all but two now deceased
A number of gaudy paintings
This orange suit

She donated everything else to Goodwill before she passed. She was a kind woman. A gentle and generous woman. She was all Bernard had then. She was a difficult void to fill, yet he never thought of her anymore. He never cried.

The suit had no visible stitching, and only two breast pockets. Bernard slipped on the pants, tucking in his shirt and pulling them up just above his bellybutton. His thin, wire-rimmed glasses with slightly squared lenses were placed neatly on the bridge of his nose. He reached under his bed and pulled out a pair of black pumps with one inch heals. He slipped them on and then put the final touch on his outfit. The jacket fit him so well—like it had been tailor made for him. He studied himself in the mirror for a few minutes, fiddling with his hair and smoothing out his clothes as much as possible. One final look and he was out the door.

He stepped into the balmy Los Angeles night. Bernard liked to think of himself as an art conisuer. He knew nothing of art history or technique or aesthetic evaluation, but he did know that those types didn’t look at him like he was offensive to everything living. He knew art appreciation was easy to fake, and nearly everyone at the gallery tonight would be faking it with him.

The Hive Gallery hosted an open house once a month where various artists were invited to display their talents. In the front rooms of the gallery, various touring pieces were displayed over couches, vases and cloth plants. A couple of local folk or experimental bands performed in the center room, setting an ambiance of independence and uncertain sophistication. Past the front rooms was the bar where a young woman could serve you a red party cup of five-dollar-a-bottle Robert Mondavi for eight dollars. Past the bar was The Caves.

The Caves was where local artists were invited to paint while an audience wandered, drifting in and out of worlds. The audience was allowed into moments that only the artist is supposed to see: the incomplete, the idea, the draft. Each artist had their own stall, partially enclosed by three walls. The Hive Gallery allowed the artists to decorate their stall in any way necessary to achieve supreme creative conditions. This was Bernard’s favorite night to go to The Hive because it was where beauty and sophistication truly became relative terms.

Bernard turned the corner from Broadway to 2nd Street and made his way to the end of the block. The streets of Downtown were very quiet this late after dark. A few homeless lay, stretched on the sidewalk and benches in sleeping bags. They took no notice of Bernard, which suited him just fine. Despite all the light pouring out from late-night offices, street lamps, 24-hr sushi restaurants, and the like, Los Angeles had a very dark quality about it. The night sky seemed to snuff out any extra light or at least disguise it as more deep, palpable darkness.

There was a short line to get into The Hive. Bernard stood at the end and opened up his handbag to fish out a five-dollar bill. He approached the folding table and handed the twenty-something his five. Another stamped his left hand. A large man wearing a black shirt with the word “SECURITY” screened in white across his chest stopped Bernard and asked to see inside his purse. Bernard complied and after a ten second glance, the large man pointed his thumb to the doorway. Bernard passed through strings of beads hung from the top of the frame and was inside.

The first room contained a collection of portraits. Small groups of viewers were gathered at various pieces. Bernard began on the left side of the room, briefly studying each, but moving slowly enough to appear to be truly contemplating. Each portrait depicted the full body of the subject, bizarrely dressed in bright feathers, leather and masks standing in front of simple, drab drop cloths. Bernard smiled confidently at them.

The walls of the room formed a perfect square and each holding eight portraits. In the center was a set of walls, which created a smaller square perfectly proportional to the shape of the room. Each face of the inner column held only one portrait. As Bernard turned from the left wall, he suddenly took notice of the center block and wondered why he hadn’t started there. He approached the first painting studying small parts of it at a time.

All at once the whole subject of the painting struck him. The man stood squared straight to the viewer, arms at his sides, yet his posture was slightly effeminate. The hair looked freshly moussed, the imaginary light glinting slightly off of it. The man’s lips were curled slightly at the corner in a seductive smirk, lifting his neatly trimmed moustache. The orange polyester was textured perfectly and the blouse buttoned to the middle of the man’s chest and ruffled playfully on the lapels of the suit. The black pumps were shinning just like his hair.

Bernard stopped breathing for a moment. He felt scared and flattered at the same time. He looked around the room to see if anyone noticed him looking at his reflection in the form of oil on canvas. He moved closer to see if he could make out an artist’s signature, but there was none to be found. He turned and decided to walk the rest of the room. The other portraits matched the same sideshow quality of the ones previous, though each had their own unique character. The painting on each side of the center column, however, was of the same character—in slightly different poses. Bernard stood center between each wall comparing the outer wall subjects to the ones bearing his likeness in the center. He looked hard back and forth at each trying to find the common thread between the center paintings and those on the outer walls.

He became aware that other visitors were beginning to take notice of the resemblance. He pushed his way through a group of them, who didn’t say anything—only watched him as he entered the next room of the gallery.

The room was very dark and confining. It was simply two walls, painted black, forming a narrow hallway. The thick curtains at either end prevented light from escaping into the tunnel. Small display lights illuminated the art, making it appear as though they hung in nothingness. Bernard’s breathing became deep and labored. Only four paintings were displayed in this room: three on the left, one on the right.

He was in every one of them. The first looked familiar, but Bernard did not know what it was called. He was sure he had seen it in a book somewhere. But this was different. Instead of a man in a bowler hat, a black man with shiny curls in an orange suit stood. The apple covering his face was red. The wall separating him from the beach still stood, bleached white by sun and sand and salt; the ocean caught in half swell against the shore. The next painting was much smaller than the others. It was only two feet across by six inches. Bernard knew this one. He took a Renaissance art history course at the community college a few years back in an attempt to improve his conversation. He knew every apostle’s name. He had also read The Da Vinci Code. Everything was exactly like Da Vinci’s monumental masterpiece except that the confused and upset face of Thomas was replaced by a black man’s face with a neatly trimmed moustache and glasses. The scale of the painting made it almost impossible to make out, but Bernard now knew what to look for.

The third painting was on the right side of the room. Bernard did not know it. It was hardly larger than the first painting. Its subject was a table in what looked like the main room of a modest cabin. Bernard had learned enough to know that it was probably sixteenth or seventeenth century, Flemish. On the table was a bowl of fruit, an apple and pear strayed from it. A humble place setting was near the corner and next to it a chicken with a newly broken neck. It looked like it was dead in mid-flight. A hound lay near the fireplace on the right side of the room. Bernard did not see anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed a shadow across the table. He originally thought it was his own. It seemed to be cast by some light source out of frame. As if the light from the opposite wall of the gallery was casting it. Bernard’s shadow reached for an item on the table, but he could not distinguish what. He stepped away, and the shadow remained. It was cold and unwelcoming. It haunted that tiny cabin room.

The final work frightened Bernard more than he had ever been. It looked exactly like a really famous one that Bernard had definitely seen before. He was upset with himself for failing so miserably at this test in art history. Nevertheless, this painting was unmistakable. In place of the iconic bald figure, was a man in a sherbet suit with curly black hair, clutching the sides of his head and letting out a scream so deafening, the sky itself was shaken in the background. This new figure didn’t looked forced; rather it was as if there had never been that allusive ghost in the first place.

Bernard fought his way out of the curtain at the end of the hall. He was bathed in florescent light again.

“Wine or beer?” a young woman’s voice queried.

Bernard snapped around to face a woman in her mid-twenties. She had short, blonde hair and pale, blue eyes. Her face was pretty, but plain. She smiled awkwardly at Bernard.

“We also have a few cocktails. I’m not very good, but I can make a couple things.”

“I—I could use—could I just have some water?”

“Sure, we have Perrier and Evian. I think we might have a couple Aquafinas. They’re not cold though.”

“Uh...I guess a, uh...” Bernard was breathing heavily, like he had just sprinted to the bar from the street. “Evian is fine. How much, five?”

“Nope,” she said excitedly, “Only three.” She held her arm straight, displaying three fingers.

Bernard reached into his handbag and pulled out three crisp one dollar bills. He handed the young woman the money and received the sweaty twelve-ounce bottle.

“I like your purse,” she said.

Bernard looked around him as if he thought she was speaking to someone else. He then noticed the handbag he was still holding.

“Oh—Thank you.”

“Enjoying the exhibit tonight?”

“Have you seen it?” he said trying to sound casual.

“Me? Oh no. This is just a job. You know, just tryin’ to make a buck.” She put her hand on an empty Red Vines bin, the kind you get from Costco. Over the label, the word “TIPS” was written in Sharpie. It had a handful of coins, mostly pennies and nickels, and two bills. Bernard met her eyes and she suddenly looked very ashamed of herself. He dug back in his handbag, pulled out another dollar, and placed it in the jar.

“Oh you didn’t have to,” she said.

“It’s not a problem,” Bernard said, removing the cap from his water bottle. Raising it to her, he said, “To the best water slinger in town.”

She bowed to him. Bernard turned to enter The Caves.

“I’ve never understood what spurs people on,” she said suddenly to him. “I mean to make it back here. It seems like it’d be easy to just get lost in the moments of the front. With the music and all. I don’t get to see many people come back here I guess.” Bernard stopped to listen out of courtesy. “What made you come back here? If I may be so bold.”

He still had the water bottle tilted to his lips but responded without thought.

“I’m curious.” He was trying not to look surprised by his own answer.

“Everyone is I suppose. Enjoy your curiosity then.”

Bernard raised his bottle to her again and walked through the next curtain.

The Caves always looked like they were under construction. Seven shrines to developing art. Three on each side and one at the end dedicated to the featured artist of the night. Bernard felt much better after his imported water, but the memory of the previous galleries was still fresh and he dreaded what awaited him.

At the same time, he already knew what he was going to see. He kept trying to force himself to just accept it. He ran over options in his head. He could run through and then back out before any of the artists noticed they were painting him. He could also walk through as if they weren’t painting him at all—only someone that bared a striking resemblance. He could just deny it all together. Yes, that would do nicely.

Bernard strolled almost melodramatically to the first stall. He let out a small shriek. The woman sat on a stool, her back to the aisle, the canvas in front of her. Bernard’s likeness was on all fours, naked, with a spiked collar around his neck. His tongue, long and red, was hanging out of sharp teeth. He was placed on grass near a shady tree. Other dogs frolicked in the background. The woman jumped at Bernard’s outburst.

“Excuse me,” she said in her kindest voice, “that is not appropriate. If you are offended by my expression, you certainly have no business being here.” Bernard nodded and moved on. He decided to walk briskly through the stalls. A fair compromise.

He saw himself with a pipe in his mouth sitting in a velvet armchair; as a cowboy leaning against an old post fence; in the shape of an airplane, his arms spread and wide; dressed as a clown standing with the spotlight on him in the center ring. He was running by the end. It seemed as if the room had been extended at least a mile, the stalls spread out further and further.

When he arrived near the final artist, he stopped and stood to observe. The man was sitting on his knees in front of an enormous, white canvas. Bernard approached him slowly and stopped next to but slightly behind the man.

“I’m stumped,” the artist announced suddenly.

Bernard stood silent. His breathing began to settle.

“I’m envisioning a man,” the artist continued, “but I can’t see him. He’s—he’s formless somehow.”

Bernard took another gulp of water. He told himself he should leave, yet he was compelled to listen.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the artist mused, “You’re the first one to make it back here.” He turned to face Bernard. “I suppose the seven of us were unable to create any magic tonight.”

Bernard suddenly felt his face become very hot.

“It just so happens that I am full of magic!” he retorted. Without waiting for a response Bernard turned and walked out of The Caves, stripping off his jacket and leaving it at the entrance.

“How was it?” the young woman behind the bar asked.

“Magical,” Bernard replied. He removed his shirt and set it on the end of the bar.

“You look like a changed man,” she sang out, “Hope to see you again soon!”

He left his shoes in the dark hallway, along with his empty handbag. He clutched his California Identification Card and the few bills he had left in his hand. In the main room, he took off his pants and nylons. Hardly anyone was left in the gallery, and no one took any notice. When he reached the entrance to The Hive, he removed his satin briefs and walked past the security guard and the money table. Once outside, Bernard turned his walk into a run. The balmy Los Angeles night felt good on his skin. Bernard ran down the street toward his apartment, running toward himself.

We'll never write quite like John Updike

We’ll never write quite like John Updike.
-------No
-----------“Good dog” for a prized pet, though
I’ve thought long and hard about it.
---and cummings’ care with words and—
careful. punctuation capitalization,
------cannot
-------------easily
------------------------be
-------------matched
------------------------by
----------------------------me. Though I try.

(Don’t forget his beautiful spacing)!

I had an argument with a friend
Whether or not rhyme equals meaning
-------------------And in the end
We decided it’s all meaningless
--------(Especially in the case of)
---------------OZYMANDIAS
No one has time for two vast
and trunkless legs. At last,
he conceded, being on the side of rhyme,
and I had decided, having now made the time,
Which Road I would travel by

It’s not the one you think.

We’ll never write quite like John Updike.
-------Though
---------------I’ve read many who’ve tried. So
their words spew like verbal diarrhea and
they draw nearer to disillusion yet endure no shame.
-------------Eliot always said he wrote what
he meant
-------------Still even Prufrock knew he was
not long for this world.

Pass the cream and sugar.

I fell in love with a friend
and it was a
Long
Hard
Fall
Falling like
------leaves
------------------often
do.
Like snow on Frost’s woods.
Like rain on Leaves of Grass.
The way The Poet wanted to see those leaves—
Desperate and bare.
Nothing held back.
Everything exposed.
Something exceptionally rare.

Principles

Denis sat at his desk staring at the stack of referrals strewn across it, and began to wonder why he ever became an administrator in the first place. Teaching had been so much easier. You have a problem with a kid, you can make him someone else’s problem. Denis was now someone else. He sighed and picked one at random.

TEACHER: Pat Walker
STUDENT: Brian Perkins GRADE: 9
ISSUE: Brian is consistently talking in class. He is disruptive.
EFFORT MADE TO RESOLVE: Student conference (10/19)
Lunch Detention-10 min. (10/24)

The laziness disgusted him. Now matter how ridiculous he thought a referral to be, he had to follow through and call the kid in. The teacher would have his head otherwise. It was his obligation as an administrator. He had always liked to handle his own messes. He missed the old days where you could scream at a kid and get in his face to straighten him out. Nowadays you’d have a lawsuit on your hands, but even if you could let them have it, most of them would just shrug it off or laugh in your face. Denis couldn’t get through to kids the way he did when he was their teacher. As an administrator, he was an invisible entity to the good kids—a looming threat that kept them on track. To the habitually misbehaving, he was a vacation. Some kids did things just to get sent to him because he was a much better alternative to sitting in class.

He picked up his call slip pad and began planning out his week of useless lunch detentions and lectures. Carol appeared in his door.

“Yes?” he droned, eyes focused on his work.

“Sorrow to bother you. I just got a call from Ms. Hitower. Two boys were fighting in her class. I sent a cart to get them.”

“How’d she break it up?”

“She didn’t mention—“

“Thank you, Carol. Oh, what are their names?”

“Luis Maldanado and Justin Boyce.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“No.”

“Okay, send Luis in first. Have Justin sit on the bench in the hall.”

“Will do.”

Denis was the hardest on fighters. It was almost always for one senseless reason or another, and he hated the idea of these students putting others at risk for something petty. Furthermore, these two were now keeping him from making any attempt at clearing his desk. His frustration grew as he furiously filled out new call slips to replace the ones he had finished for that afternoon, pushing the times back thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes. That’s all he was going to give these two losers.
He was almost to the end of his replacement stack when a large Hispanic kid with thick, curly hair filled the doorframe. He had thin, twiggy legs, which exploded out at the hips to a rotund midsection. His head was small and looked cartoonish. His features were small and squished close together on his face.

“You must be Luis,” Denis said, standing. “I think you’ve maybe been in this office once or twice before.” It was hard to keep them all straight with so many pouring in each day.
Luis shrugged his shoulders and threw himself down in the chair opposite Denis. He looked around the office, as if he were checking out a new friend’s house for the first time.

“What grade are you, Luis?”

“Eleven.”

“Okay,” Denis said, making a couple notes to himself.

“Hey, your name is Denny?” Luis said, snickering a bit and reaching for Dennis’ name placard.

“That’s what my friends call me,” he said, looking hard at Luis. “You are not my friend. You will call me Mr. Moulton or Sir, is that understood?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Luis said in falsetto. Denis stared at him pretending to be intimidating, but he knew he wasn’t going to win.

“What are we going to do about this attitude of yours, Luis?”

Luis stared blankly back like a five-year old.

“You’ve continued to be a problem for Ms. Hitower,” Denis continued, trying to find anything to reprimand Luis for.

“Do you do any work in her class?”

“Ieunno.”

Denis was trying to get upset. He was upset, he knew he was, but he just couldn’t’ put it into words that would shake Luis up the way he wanted to.

“What was this fight about?” Denis said in his most stern voice.

“Nothing.”

“Is that what Justin is going to tell me? If he started it, you could get yourself out of a heap of trouble by telling me what happened.”

“Nah.”

Denis sighed and pulled out another for from his desk.

“Three days Saturday school. You know the routine, I’m sure.”

Luis stared at him with a dumb smile.

“Be here at eight in the morning for the next three Saturdays. You’re finished at one.”

Denis looked Luis in the eyes. Luis still had the same expression on his face. He looked like he hadn’t heard a word that had been said.

“As for the rest of the day, you’re going to in-house.”

“Okay,” Luis said, as if he had just been sent to Disneyland. The school had a mandatory in-house policy for fighters. Denis hated it because kids would get in fights just to be sent to in-house. It didn’t matter if Denis thought they should go or not—he had to send them there.

“Get out and don’t you even look at the other one.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Luis said in the same falsetto he used earlier.

“Out.”

Luis moved sluggishly to the door and out it. Denis sat for a moment to collect himself. He was trying to be angry. He really was angry. Little bastards like Luis were the absolute end of his patience. But he wanted to be intimidating. Anger was what some of them wanted. He stood and stuck his head out the door.

“Justin Boyce?” he said to a short African American boy sitting on the bench outside his office. He was slouched on the bench, making himself look scrawny, but when he stood, his full figure was revealed. He was short, but broad shouldered and obviously very fit. He slung his backpack over one should and walked into the office, his head high.

“Sit down.”

Justin lowered himself slowly into the chair Luis had been sitting in moments before. Denis waited until Justin was seated, then walked around his desk to his chair and sat. He studied the young man in front of him. He hadn’t seen him in his office before. Justin had an almost regal look about him. He sat very straight, but he didn’t look uncomfortable. Dennis contemplated how to begin.

“Luis tells me you two were fighting in Ms. Hitower’s class. Is this true?”

Justin sat silent.

“Haven’t seen you in here before I don’t think. Why don’t you explain to me why fighting is more important than doing your work?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Justin replied. “I’m getting suspended no matter what.”

“What are we going to do about this attitude of yours, Justin?”

Nothing.

“I just need to know what happened, son. If he started it, then—well, let’s just start with your account.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I beg to differ,” Denis said, raising his voice. Justin did not move. He remained a statue. Dennis held his eyes, and Justin did not look away. He didn’t blink. Denis could tell Justin was upset. That could work to his advantage. He just needed to push Justin a little more.

“Maybe I should just call home. What’s your phone number?”

“No one’s there.”

“Okay, give me one of your parents’ work numbers. Mom or Dad. I could just look it up, but this saves us some time,” Dennis said. He felt like he might be able to get somewhere with this kid. Really scare him into straightening out.

“Look it up then. There’s nothing.”

“Don’t make me. It’ll be better if you just tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Denis felt some fury rising inside himself now. He couldn’t get angry. He had to remain wrathful.

“Have it your way then.”

Denis turned to his computer and searched Justin’s name.

“Is this your home number? Seven one two, seven eight six four?”

“Yes. But I said—“

“Says here you’re a transfer from Long Beach Poly.”

“That’s right.”

Denis felt the power falling more and more into his hands. He was going to nail this kid to the wall.

“And there’s a secondary number: Three five three, two two zero one.”

“That’s my cell.”

Denis turned to Justin, confused. He wasn’t sure if he heard him right.

“Your cell?”

“Yes. I told you, man. Nobody’s home because I’m here. Those are my numbers.”

Denis was in shock. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“How—How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

Denis was muttering and stumbling over nonsensical words, trying to find the right question to ask.

“I take it you want me to explain?” Justin asked.

“Yes, I think that is necessary.”

“My dad died a few years back. He was in the military. Marines. Number forty-three to die in active service over there. My mom’s there right now,” Justin’s voice was rising, “Has been for a year. On her second tour. We got no one out here. She put me in an apartment, but when the landlord found out it was just me living there, I got evicted. So my mom moved me to Lakewood.”

Denis still didn’t know how to proceed.

“So you—you do everything alone?”

“I work. My mom sends me money every month to help with rent.”

“And school?”

“What about it?”

Denis wanted to tread carefully.

“Why do you do it?”

“Why am I in school?” Justin laughed a little. “Why is anyone in school? I gotta be. Not just for me, but for my mom. She has standards. When you’re the son of two Marines, you learn about standards real quick. I don’t expect you to understand me, man. Let’s just get this over with.”
Denis was feverish.

“Why in God’s good name were you fighting, son? You’re parents don’t have standards about that?”

Justin shot to his feet making Denis jump back in his chair.

“No, man. They don’t. There are no standards when it comes to defending yourself or a friend. There’s only principles. I got principles. Ain’t no man gonna strip those from me. Not that bitch Luis, and certainly not you, mister suit and tie.”

Both men were breathing hard, but slow and steady. Their eyes still locked on each other.

“Now,” Justin continued, “Tell what my punishment is so I can get it done.”

He sat down in his chair, still holding Denis’ gaze. Denis was at a complete loss.

“Justin,” Denis began slowly, choosing every word, “if you just tell me what the fight was about, then we can clear this up. I can just send you back to class, and your time with me will count as detention served. Just tell me what happened.”

“No. Now tell me what my punishment is.”

“If you don’t tell me, then you’ll serve the same detention as Luis. Is that what you want?” Denis screamed. “You want to drop to that level? Look at yourself. You’re better than he is. Tell me what happened.”

“We both fought,” Justin said calmly. “For different reasons, but we both fought. We are equally guilty and I will serve the time that I deserve. What happened makes no difference. I have my principles, and if anything, I’ve learned that if you want have principles—real, true principles—you have to pay for them. What is my punishment, Mr. Moulton?”

Denis’ hands were shaking. He reached into a drawer to pull out the Saturday detention slips.
“Three days Saturday detention,” he said, his voice cracking, “Show up this Saturday, eight in the morning, and for the next two following. You’ll be finished at one. For the rest of the day, you’ll have to go to in-house.”

He handed the slip to Justin.

Justin turned to walk out the door, but stopped and said in a very steady, official voice, “Thank you, Mr. Moulton. I apologize for the argument. I hope you understand.”

Denis didn’t say anything. He raised his hand in futility, knowing that it was only for appearance, in case Justin caught him out of the corner of his eye as he walked out the door.
He closed his eyes and they remained closed until he heard Carol’s voice at the door.

“Mr. Moulton?”

His eyes snapped open but he wasn’t looking at her.

“I—I’m sorry to disturb you—I, um—Ms. Hitower just called to check on the two boys she...”

“They were sent to in-house, Carol,” Denis replied, turning his face to her, his voice the calmest he had ever remembered. “Unless another issue arises, they will be in class tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll just—I’ll just let her know.”

Denis nodded. He watched as Carol turned and gently shut the door behind her. The stacks of referrals were not disgusting anymore; they acutely saddened him. With a deep breath he swept up the call slips in one motion and walked them out to Carol’s desk for disbursement. If he didn’t make it through at least half by the end of the day, he’d be hearing from teachers. It was his obligation.

I Put My Hand to the Plow and Look Back

Listen to me because what I have to say is vitally important. It isn’t life or death. It is live or die. Maybe alive or dead. But it’s not meant to change anyone’s life. This isn’t one of those sentimental bullshit Hallmark cards. This isn’t an after school special. I’m not going to say, “Don’t just be—Do!” That would be ridiculous. Besides, I hate grammar. Even more than grammar, I hate cleverness that is based on it. Let me explain for those who don’t understand. To be is a verb that describes a state of being. Its conjugated forms are: am, is, are, was, were. There are other tenses, but there’s no need to get into those. It does not describe any action. It can describe a state of action, but the word itself is only a state. See-I just used “is,” an intransitive linking verb, that describes the noun “word” as something specific: “a state.” “Do,” describes action. Rather, it “helps” to describe action. Even when someone asks “How are you doing?” You say, “I’m doing fine/good/well/not so good/etc.” Not so good at what? Life, probably. Activism is for people who don’t know any better.

I wake up on Friday morning wanting to punch my roommate in the face, and I do. That’s how I end up in the hospital. I had never hit someone, closed fisted, in the face before. I’ve slapped people plenty of times, mostly because I was too afraid to punch. But not today. I punch him square in the mouth. Lucky for him, he is laughing like an idiot. Otherwise his teeth probably would have punctured both his lips. Instead, they puncture my hand. The knuckles hit those little yellow daggers and are stuck for a second. I can feel the incisors yanking out as he falls backward. It hurts. A lot.

The nurse at the hospital calls me an idiot. I thank him for his diagnosis and the stitches and go on my way. Jeremy is waiting for me in the lobby. He has a prescription in his hand. We don’t say anything to each other until we get in the car. Then we both jump in at the same time.

“IfDon’tyoueverevenstartcrazyfuckinIwillassholemurderyouif
WhatmeI’ll beat your face in next time,” Jeremy trails off after I stop.

“You’ll beat me in, will you?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I got eight stitches in my hand, and you got a prescription for some Tylenol.”

“No. Why did you hit me?”

“We’re not talking about that right now. Not unless you wanna add some morphine and maybe a leg cast to that piece of paper.”

Jeremy looks at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. Maybe I’m different. No, I’m not different. I will make no apologies. Six months ago, I did notice things beginning to spin. I decided to quit my job. I was tired of work.

“So, you’re like Ron Livingston in Office Space,” Jeremy said. We were playing Mario Kart when I pitched it to him.

“No.”

“So what is this then? It sounds like Peter.”

“Peter was tired of his bosses telling him what to do.”

“So that’s not why you’re quitting?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, why then? —Goddamn red shell!”

“Because this is just the beginning of—I don’t know what to call it yet. Something new.”

“Sounds like Peter, man.”

“Peter was tired of rules and regulations.”

“You’re not tire—damnit!” Jeremy threw the controller down. He’s terrible at video games. “You’re not tired of that?”

“No, I am,” I said standing and turning off the T.V. “What I’m doing is more than that though.”

“So what are you doing then?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

We have to go to CVS before we go home so Jeremy can get his prescription. I go in with him and look at the cards. They have a category called “Any Occasion.” A card just because. I pick one up to read. On the front is a cartoon cat shrugging its shoulders with a bashful smile smashed on its face. The inside reads:

Don’t know why,
Just sayin’ hi!
Hi!

For some reason I feel sorry for the cat. Jeremy comes up behind me.

“They have magazines,” he says.

“Can you believe the nerve of these people?”

“What?”

“These cards.”

“Just forget it; let’s go. Damnit my mouth hurts.” He turns, putting his hand to his front teeth and rubbing. I follow him down the aisle.

“I’m just saying, what is the purpose of this card?” I still have it in my hand. “Who buys this?”

“No one probably—Jesus, what is wrong with you lately? Just let it go.”

I buy the card.

“There’s an envelope that comes with this,” the checker tells me.

“I don’t need it.”

Jeremy doesn’t notice until we get in the car.

“Is that what you bought? Two weeks without a job and you’re wasting what you have left on some card you’re not—what the hell are you going to do with that?”

Yes, it took me five months to grow the balls to quit my job. That’s not Peter at all.

“I don’t know yet. Hey, remember how I told you I didn’t know what I was doing six months ago?”

“Didn’t know six months ago? You don’t know now!”

“That’s not what—! That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean you said, what are you doing if it’s not the Peter thing, and I said, I don’t know but it’s something. Well, I decided. I’m quitting life.”

Jeremy laughs so hard that he pulls the car into opposing traffic, but quickly swerves back to avoid a not-too-happy Mustang.

“So you’re committing suicide?”

“No, that’s not it at all.”

“I’m sorry,” he says trying to control his laughter, “You just sound like a retarded sixteen-year-old. You know, one of those, like, really philosophical kids who thinks they have it all figured out. Oh! Like a drama kid! That’s it!”

I don’t say anything until he laughs it out a little.

“I’m just tired of—thiiiis,” I say waving my arms around.

“So you want to commit suicide.”

“No. I just—don’t want to do anything—but even that involves compliance to something—which is nothing.”

“Drama kid.”

“I’m done waking up to structure.”

“Oh! I know who you sound like! Brad Pitt from Fight Club! Or Edward Norton. You decide.”

“No, that’s not what this is. This isn’t some social experiment whatever thing. Tyler Durden wanted to spur social unrest. I don’t care about anyone else.”

“No, no! It makes perfect sense,” Jeremy said getting very excited, “That’s why you punched me! You wanna start Fight Club! Instead of working, you’re just going to—“

“Jeremy. Shut up. God, you sound like such a tool. We’re not starting Fight Club. That’s not what this is.”

“Well, you’re doing a really shitty job of explaining it.”

I don’t know how to explain it. Not at all. But I make the best attempt I can.

“You know that feeling you get when you’re driving by yourself? Like, you’re driving down the 605 or something. Traffic is terrible—just fucking—stay with me on this, okay? You’re driving. And you’re listening to The Get Up Kids or something that takes you back to when you first got interested in things other than what T.V. told you was cool. You’re just—just focusing so hard. Listening to every note, every word. You listen so intently that all of the sudden, you just turn the stereo off. And it’s silent in the car—no traffic noises, nothing. Now you’re really thinking. Just thinking about all the things you’re going to do. Whenever. Not things that you have to do, things you are going to do. And this feeling starts to rise in you; it’s like excitement, but better. It’s more than excitement. It’s longing. To be where you want to be. That’s what I want. All the time. You know what feeling I’m talking about?”

“No.”

“You are hopeless. Fucking hopeless. You wanna know why I punched you in the face? Because you never think about anything. You just do and never think. That’s why you suck shit at video games.”

“Look, I like watching those artsy, indie films as much as the next guy, or even you for that matter, but you’ve been sounding like one a lot these last few months. It’s kind of disgusting actually. You sound like you’re—like you’re just—trying way too hard. Is that what this is? Some kind of pretentious indie kid thing? Like, you want to be indie, but not, because everyone is indie now and so being indie is really not being indie? And, like, you just don’t know what you need to do to reclaim that indieness or something?” He waits for a response. “So really, the definition of indie sits with you in your lofty court of indie justice.”

“I don’t even know what you just said.”

“Of course not,” Jeremy says throwing his hands in the air and then letting them slap back onto the steering wheel.

“I’m just saying what you said has nothing to do with what I’m doing.”

He doesn’t respond.

We finally arrive back at the apartment. Jeremy walks ahead of me through the two rows of parking stalls and up the stairs. I saunter a bit. I remove the any occasion card from the small, plastic CVS bag, walk over to the dumpster and throw the bag away. I turn the card over and over in my hands.

When I walk in the front door, Jeremy is already in his room with the door shut. He is blasting The Get Up Kids. I walk into my room and sit down at my desk. It’s empty except for my computer, about a hundred crumpled receipts, this month’s unpaid bills, and a multitude of meaningless school assignments. I set the card upright and open on the back corner.

I walk down the short hall to Jeremy’s room and knock on the door. Then I pound. The music stops abruptly, and after a moment the door swings open.

“I just want to say—I’m not that sorry for punching you in the face, but I am just a little. I guess in the way that I should feel guilty for inflicting physical injury. Just think of it this way: If I hadn’t punched you, you probably wouldn’t have been listening to The Get Up Kids just now. Or had the opportunity to try and call me out as an indie fraud.”

“Which you are.”

“Not the point.”

“So then what is?”

“I don’t know.” I don’t seem to know much about anything anymore. “I think I’m going to call my old job back. They said they’d have something for me if I ever returned from finding myself.”

“That’s what you told them?”

“No, that’s what they said to me.”

“I mean, you told them you were finding yourself?”

“No. I said I was dissatisfied with their performance.”

“So you fired them?”

“In a way, yes.”

Jeremy cocks his head thoughtfully.

“I think I’m gonna call some people up and go bowling tonight. Cosmic bowling,” he says.

“Count me in.”

I walk back to my room, sit at my desk and pick up the card. I don’t feel sorry for the cat anymore. I respect him. To do without reason is impossible to defend. The only defense is just because. That takes courage. I want that.

Signs and Signifiers

I slump in the front seat of my car. A mist is beginning to descend, dampening the parking lot asphalt. The brick of the building goes from a dull pink to a deep orange. The 11:49 pm train is crossing the Gold Line, humming along the cables headed for the Mission St. station. Eleven minutes left until I have to be sitting at my phone. Eleven minutes left for me to just sit and be quiet. I keep my eyes closed, hoping that when I open them the clock will have jumped backwards. It never does. Every time I open my eyes it’s a couple minutes closer. I breathe deep, fly out of my car and into the back door of the building. I haven't seen the sun rise in five years.

The front room has been narrowed by obsolete phone equipment piled and collected over the fifty years the company has been in business. No one really knows why it hasn’t been thrown away, or at least organized to be displayed. Beyond the phone mausoleum lies the main hallway with the breakroom immediately to the left. Large windows display the inside. Four refrigerators, a couple vending machines and tables with plastic chairs. It’s a zoo exhibit.
I clock in before anyone stops to talk to me. My cubicle is littered with new memos. Marta is already at her phone answering calls in her awful tone. She's large, just as wide as the cubicle. She has a collection of five muu muus, at least I've only seen five, that she wears each week. Today it's midnight blue with orange birds-of-paradise. How she has continued to come in dressed like that without a word from our supervisor is a mystery to me. Once I wore jeans and he warned me that if I ever came in dressed like homeless jackass again, I'd be fired. From then on, it's been slacks and a tie. I make up for it by sitting down right at midnight. I never give anything more than I have to. Just enough to stay. Marta is always early and I resent her for it. I hate her for loving this.

“Thank you for calling TRM. This is Marta, how can I help you?” she says.

I drop into my chair and log on to my computer. I pull a sanitary wipe out of my satchel and wipe the ear grease off of my headset. I supposed to answer my first call before 12:01. The phone system comes on.

22 CALLS WAITING, the display reads. The second I hit Ready, the system will randomly route a call to me and I will most likely be speaking to someone across the country.
Marta pushes her chair back on the linoleum and stretches for a second between calls. She opens her mouth to yawn, creating multiple chins on her neck.

“How ya doin today Bobbo?”

“I'm fine, I say to her.”

“That's good, that's good.”

We have the same exchange every day. At the exact same time: 12:01 am. Marta grabs on to the sides of the cubicle and pulls herself back to the computer. She hits the Ready button on her phone system and takes a new call. Sounds like a Lego Catalog order. Who the hell orders Legos in the middle of the night?

I decide it's probably a good idea that I get started so I put my headset on and hit my Ready button. The Ready button is the gate. It is the plug in the damn. When you press that button, my supervisor told me in training, you are saying, yes I am ready to help someone. Yes, I’m ready for whatever is next.

“Thank you for calling TRM. My name is Robert. May I have your first name please?”

“Penny.”

“And your last name Penny?”

“Durham.”

“Okay Miss Durham, can I have the name and number of your store?”

“Corner Drug Store. There's no number. It's the only one I know of anyway.”

“Okay. Can I have the phone number?”

“Nine seven eight. Five nine eight. Five nine eight one.”

“Thank you Miss Durham--”

“Call me Penny, please.”

This is new. I can hear an urgency in her voice. Not the usual, I-want-my-copier-fixed-this-instant urgency.

“Okay, Penny. What can I help you with today?”

“Tell me why I'm talking to you, she says.”

I know everything there is to know about TRM copy and ATM machines. If you have ever had to deal with a grocery store copy machine, it was probably a TRM. Those aren't the only calls I take. If you call to order the LA Times, you could talk to me. Or you could talk to some woman in Ohio, pregnant with her fourth child, holding down this job just to feed herself and the other three not knowing how she is going to take care of the one growing inside her. But you would never know any of that. You only know that she can tell you all about the weekly specials and make a special note for the delivery boy to leave the paper on your porch, not in your driveway. If you call the 800 number from an infomercial, it could be me taking your order. I can tell you all about the new America's Test Kitchen cookbook, or the pill that will change your life and flush your colon. I'm lying mostly. But so is the man on the television. The information I have is just as abstract and general as what you, the consumer, hears from him. I can give you no more than what I'm given. Yes ma’am, the product is designed cleanse the body and make you feel happier and healthier than ever before. How does it work? Well why don’t you try it for sixty days and if you’re not completely satisfied, you can return and get a no-questions-asked refund! How does that sound?

So many people want to know more. That's how they get you. They snare you with generalities.
TRM is our biggest client. Customers call from Wal-Mart, Winn-Dixie, Shoppers Drug Mart, 7-Eleven to tell me their copier is broken. There are only two types of people that call: young Southern girls, or male Indian immigrants. I can't understand the men most of the time. They get very upset with me and curse. The girls usually sound like they're daydreaming.

“You say you can't find the paper jam?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, that's right.”

“So you need a technician out right away?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You say you want my hands all over you?”

“Yeah, listen is someone going to be out today? My manager is really on my ass about this.”

“Yes miss. We usually try to respond within forty-eight hours.”

“All right then.”

“Thank you for calling TRM.”

They don't know that I don't really work for the company they're trying to contact. And I'm not supposed to tell them. I am the Wizard of Oz, talking to you from behind my curtain. I am a road sign with subtext.

I pulled the curtain back once. I unchained this guy from the cave wall. He was blinded by his new knowledge. He didn't know what to do with himself.

“You mean to tell me that you don't work for this company?”

“No sir, I work for a company whom that company has hired to answer its customer service calls.”

“So you can't contact the warehouse?”

“No.”

“You can't get in touch with anyone who actually sells this shit?”

“No sir.”

“Oh--This--this is great. I'm gonna sue your company's ass back to the goddamn Stone Age is what I'm gonna do.”

“Sir, they're not my company.”

“Well whoever the hell it is better watch out. Because I'm coming. I am coming, goddammit.”

“Okay sir, anything else?”

“Yeah, one more thing: Kill yourself.”

“Thank you sir, have a nice day.”


I don't say anything for over a minute. I know because I watch the clock on the computer screen change from 12:04 to 12:05 and then to 12:06. I can hear her waiting for my answer.

“Is there someone else you should be talking to?” I say.

“No, but I knew that I would talk to you. A man named Robert,” Penny tells me.

“I'm not sure I understand what you're saying.”

“Look, can I try something? I'm going to hang up and call back, and if I reach you again, we'll know it was meant to be, okay?”

“Penny, I don't want to disappoint you, but I don't think you're going to get through to me again. Do you know how many--”

“There are fifteen call centers nation wide who handle calls for TRM. Furthermore, your call center, Peak Communications, handles calls for 700 clients. All the incoming calls are randomly routed and distributed between all the call centers and all the agents. You're probably only trained on twenty or so of those, which narrows it down considerably. Since it's the middle of the night where you are, there are probably only between twenty and thirty agents handling calls, right? Well assuming it's the same at all the other call centers, I'd say the chances are slim, but that's why it's important. I guessed the name of the person I would get on the phone. I dialed the number and said to myself, I am going to speak to Robert. And here we are.”

“So what does that mean?” I ask. I know this is meaningless, but I want to keep her on the phone as long as possible. She is a customer, after all, and no one is ever allowed to hang up on a customer. Ever. We have to sit and listen and wait until we hear click.

“Well it doesn't mean anything yet. Not until I call back and reach you again. Do you know where I am?”

“No, I haven't looked up your store's account yet.”

“I live in Massachusetts. Have you ever been back here?”

“No,” I admit sheepishly.

“You're in Los Angeles aren't you? I've never been there either. I've never been beyond the Appalachians.”

“And so, you're saying--”

“Here we are, two voices. Neither of us has ever been even remotely near the other. We've probably had completely different life experiences. Has anyone ever spoken to you before?”

“You're joking right? I talk to people every day, eight hours a day,” I tell her in the sort of curt tone that customers usually talk to me in.

“But do they speak to you?”

This is getting weird, I think to myself. I look at the clock and notice that we've been on the phone for almost ten minutes.

“I--I guess not. I mean not in a religious or philosophical--I don't believe I'm having this conversation.”

“Believe it,” she says like an evangelist.

“Look, people call. They have problems. I try to help them fix those problems. That's it,” I say

“No one has ever wanted to know who you are, where you're from, the last time you cried, the name of your first kiss, what you had for dinner?”

“Why would anyone want to know?” I say, almost out of patience.

“That's what you need to tell me,” she says.

“Penny, listen. Is there anything wrong with your copier? Because, if not, I should probably get on to other calls.”

“I'm going to call back. At five o'clock Pacific time. And if I get you, we'll take it as a sign. As fate.”

Now I'm upset. I can't decide why exactly. An irrational anger is growing in my throat.

“A sign? It would be a coincidence. What would something like that mean?”

“It can mean anything you want it to. People interpret fate in a number of ways. In any way they want. Do you believe in fate?”

I pause for a moment. I’m not deciding, I already know the answer. I just don't know if I want to tell her. Fate is something for mystics and dreamers, my father would say. Destiny, moira, lot--all garbage. A man makes his own. No one can decide for him. All the words of my father. He put up a façade--he didn't believe in anything philosophical. But that in itself was a philosophy and he knew it. He hid behind his blue collar. He used it as a crutch. I could never understand why. He didn't thrive on sympathy. He didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him. I did though. I hated how he would never admit that maybe things could have been better for us. He would never say that I could do better. Everything was acceptable. Community college was acceptable. State was acceptable. This job was acceptable. You make your own destiny, son.
He was a bus driver for the MTA. Never took a single sick day. They laid him off one hot, spring morning just about nine months before he was going to retire. The unusual heat that year was making it difficult for him to see. He wore glasses thick as DMV windows and needed prescription sunglasses.

“I can't see nothin' but heat risin' from the pavement out there,” he'd say. “I'm gonna kill someone or someone gonna kill me.”

His back was also getting progressively worse. Sitting for eight hours a day on vibrating vinyl rattled his insides so that they just wouldn't stop moving. He needed surgery, or he wasn't going to be able to walk by the time he was ready to retire. The MTA wouldn't pay for it. After all his years of service, they just let him go and hired someone younger who already owned sunglasses and had a spotless medical record.

“That's just the way some things are,” my father told me. “No point in blamin' something silly as fate. I'd like to think I have a bit more control over myself. I make my own decisions and so the consequences are mine--no one else's. “

My father's route was considered one of the most dangerous. The 42. It started in Downtown between 3rd and 4th on Broadway, not far from the Civic Center. It crossed down through the Jewelry District, then headed West past USC and Expo Park, then turned slightly South and went through Crenshaw, Inglewood and finally ended just North of LAX in Westchester. The year after Dad got laid off, the police officers accused of beating Rodney King nearly to death were acquitted. Rioters stopped many MTA busses, including Dad's old one. The new driver was able run and escape the mob, who smashed all the windows and lit the bus on fire. Dad never even noticed; he drew no connection. But the coincidence always made me wonder. I don't think Dad would have been as lucky as the other driver. There are some moments in time that imprint themselves on your mind. They make you think about things differently from then on. No one else thinks anything of it. To them, it's just another day. But to you, it changes everything. It is the point on which your existence pivots and changes direction.


“I do,” I finally say.

“Goodbye, Robert. I hope to speak to you again in a few hours.”

I say nothing and wait until the LED on my phone system moves from Call to Wrap-Up. I switch off-line for a minute and breathe slowly.

My shift continues uneventfully. I have a swarm of calls between 2 and 3am for TRM; the grocery store employees in the Eastern and Central time zones always arrive at 5am to open shop. A few sleepless people call to order some colon cleanser from the infomercial they're watching with dry eyes. I hate not having a break between calls. Even ten seconds is bliss. There is an LED on the phone console set apart from the buttons that is supposed to give me an approximate idea of the call volume.

When it is off, I have no calls waiting.
Green means 1-5 calls waiting.
Yellow means 6-15 calls waiting.
Red is 16 or more.

Most days the light is red the second I sign on. Those days are always bad. I know that, statistically, I am more likely to talk to more assholes that day than a day where the light is green when I sign on. It is almost never off.

As it gets closer to 5 am, I begin to get nervous. I know why, but I don't want to admit it to myself. I tried to just forget about it at first. But I keep thinking, what if? I told myself it was impossible. I still want to believe it's impossible. But what will happen if she does get through? I've pinned it. I’m afraid nothing will happen. I want the space-time continuum to tear and shred into a million pieces. I want it to incite a miracle. I want to pivot again. I know strange coincidences and statistical anomalies occur everyday, but most don’t mean anything. I believe in fate. I want to hear Penny's voice in my headset at 5 am. I just want to know before I do, that something will happen. I want it to mean something.

I know that if she calls right at 5 am, she will probably have to wait on hold for at least ten minutes. The West Coast grocery stores call at 5 am. I am trying to time it right, though there's no sense in trying. I want to take a call right at 5 am. I'm on a car loan application at 4:57 am. These can take less than a minute, but I drag it out, and instead of telling the customer I don't know the answer to his questions, I fake it.

“Yes sir just got three blue Escalades in this morning. Yes, one of them is in the showroom right now. Oh, well, I think they're all fully loaded, sir. Yes, I will check on that. Sure, let me take your number, and a sales rep will call you right back. Thanks for your business.” Click.
5 am.

The LED sits on Wrap-Up. My heart is beating in my wrists. I try to slow it down. Stop. Stop. Stop. I want to prepare myself for disappointment before I hit Ready, but I can't. I have to get this over with and get back to normal, no matter what that is.

3 CALLS WAITING

“Thank you for calling TRM. My name is Robert. May I have your first name please?”
Silence. This happens from time to time. Someone is on hold for a long time and they put the phone down. Their ear hurts after a while and they need a break. They get sick of the elevator music. Music I have never heard. I don't even know what type of music they're really listening too. Many people complain about it, but they only tell me, You need to get that waiting music changed. I have no idea what it sounds like.

“Hello? You've reached TRM, this is Robert. How may I help you?”

“Oh, Hello? Hello? Is this the copy place?”

“Yes sir, may I have your first name please.”

My heart drops.

With each call, disappointment displaces my anxiety. The time moves closer and closer to 5:30. I take more TRM, a comment for Downey Fabric Softener, an LA Times order. I have to take a break. Not because I need one, but because my supervisor tells me it's time.

“Take ten, Bob,” he says to me.

Marta is in the break room finishing her breakfast: a SlimFast shake.

I saunter around the room, contemplating a soda or snack from a machine, but decide against it. I grab a seat in the corner of the room and just sit for a moment with my eyes shut tight and the palms of my hands stretching my face back. I can feel Marta’s eyes on me. Please God, I don’t want her to talk to me.

“Bobbo?” she asks in a motherly tone. We have never spoken outside our five-second conversation first thing when I come in. Christ, please let this end.

“Yes?”

“You're not really looking like yourself today. Is everything all right?”

I snap up and open last September's Time, trying to ignore her, but something tugs at me.

“Well--” I breathe deeply-- “Marta. The truth is that I think I've missed a huge opportunity. A chance for change. I think I’ve missed something really big, and there is nothing I can do about it now.”

She looks at me with a furrowed brow. Her forehead is deeply ridged. I can tell she understands and is turning it over in her head. “What are you wanting to change?” she asks me.

“I don't know,” I say, frustrated. “I was waiting for a sign. For fate to step in. It's not just this job. It's everything. The way I think. Christ, I sound like an idiot. I just wanted a new philosophy.”

“Fate? Robert.” And she looks at me hard. Very seriously, the way a doctor would. She has never called me Robert before. “I don’t know, I don’t want to sound rude. I guess I’ve always believed fate was sort of--well--just ridiculous.”

She looks at me sheepishly, like she just insulted my mother and feels bad about it.

“Ridiculous how?” I say, humoring her.

“Not ridiculous, but--I guess I just learned that a person chooses his own. I figure, I can’t go blaming something like fate every time things don’t my way. I’d like to think I have a bit more control over things.”

I feel something in the pit of my stomach. It’s rising. At first I think it’s vomit--it’s familiar like that, but different. I stare ahead and focus on nothing. My eyes blur.

“Weeeellll,” Marta says heaving herself out of her chair, “I guess I better get back to the old grind. It's what I've chosen.” She cracks a smile out of the corner of her mouth and gives me a wink. “It was nice talking to you Bobbo. I hope we can do this again sometime.”

“Yeah,” I say still staring. I check my watch. Two minutes left of my break. I walk back to my cubical. My supervisor is going over new procedures for placing TRM service call orders. Marta is telling someone all about the benefits of a clean colon. I know I will never see either of them again. I'll probably get a call from my supervisor, cursing and telling me I'm fired. I won't say anything and I'll hang up. I know this. I think about Penny and breathe relief. I look at my computer screen. I see the Ready button. I reach down and press it. I walk back passed the break room and out to the parking lot. I get in my car and just sit for a minute. I will drive, but the timing isn't important. The where isn't important right now. I can decide when and where. The sun is coming up over the cables of the Gold Line. The mist is being burned away, but it clings to the tops of the oak trees. The rays sparkle on the damp asphalt of the parking lot. The world lights up around me.

You Are Prudish, Father William: Rhyme and Respectability in Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass

The Victorian Era was marked by a heightened sense of moral responsibility. People living during this time felt it necessary to live up to the highest expectations of respectability. They had many conventions and rules to follow in order to meet these expectations. Learning how to be respectable began at a very young age and was emphasized in school through learning and reciting rhymes and poems. In Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, Alice attempts to recite her lessons a number of times but cannot seem to get the words right. Alice’s lessons and rhymes are included in the novel to contradict and poke fun at the Victorian value of respectability through the nonsense verse that replaces the original respectable text when she attempts to repeat them in Wonderland.

At the beginning of Alice’s adventure, she decides that she must try to remember some of her lessons in order to determine that she is still herself. She attempts to recite a poem written by Isaac Watts entitled “Against Idleness and Mischief.” The opening lines of Watt’s poem read “How doth the little busy bee/Improve each shining hour/And gather Honey all the Day/From ev’ry op’ning Flow’r!” (Watts 332). It upholds Victorian respectability because it insists that one must remain busy in order to be good. When Alice begins, the words get confused and she recites:

“How doth the little crocodile/Improve his shining tail/And pour the waters of the Nile/On every golden scale!/How cheerfully he seems to grin/How neatly spreads his claws/And welcomes little fishes in/With gently smiling jaws.” (Carroll 19)

Idleness and mischief are two behaviors that directly contradict Victorian respectability. Alice’s unconscious rewording “attacks the anticomic stuffiness and prudence of Watt’s [poem] and promotes by implication the important values of comic anarchy” (Kincaid 96). Alice’s reading is also uncommonly dark for what would be considered respectable during the Victorian era. The final two lines leave the reader with a dark, yet slightly comical feeling. Carroll wants the reader to recognize the contrast, but does not want it to be completely serious at the same time.

During her adventure in Wonderland, Alice comes across many interesting characters. One of the most memorable is the Caterpillar. While she is having a conversation with this character, he asks her to recite another one of her lessons, which he calls “You are old, Father William” (Carroll 42). What Alice recites is a parody of a poem written by Robert Southey. Southey’s Father William is the picture of Victorian respectability. He tells the young man that "I remembered that youth would flyfast/And abused not my health, and my vigor at first/That I never might need them at last" (Southey 401). The poem emphasizes the respectability of taking care of your health—to the point where you do almost nothing in order to preserve your health and energy for later in life. “Alice’s Father William seems the antithesis of Southey’s pious, temperate old man who has come gently to the end of his days” (Rackin 318). Father William is supposed to represent the type of person you will be if you follow Victorian values. In Alice’s rendition, however, Father William is a silly and ridiculous.

In Through the Looking Glass, Alice journeys back to the magically land of the Looking Glass and encounters many interesting characters as she did in Wonderland. Two rather odd characters, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, relate to her a poem entitled The Walrus and the Carpenter. Carroll uses this poem differently here than how poems were used in the previous novel. The twins’ recitation “prompts Alice into revealing just how much she has grown up. She ignores the victims of the poem, the oysters, and immediately searches for one of the power figures with whom to identify” (Kincaid, 95). Rather than contradicting Victorian respectability directly through the words of the poem, Carroll uses Alice’s reaction to make his point about it. The twins are disappointed with her attachment to the Walrus character. Alice seems to believe that she must choose a character to identify with. Tweedledee and Tweedledum don’t understand why she does not feel sorry for the oysters. In the end, she decides that both the Carpenter and the Walrus were equally unlikable. The poem emphasized “false sympathy and cruelty” (Kincaid, 95), and Alice finally realizes this. Carroll uses Alice’s realization to make a statement about Victorian society: it can be extremely fake and cruel.

Alice came to discover a lot about herself and the society she lived in through her adventures. Lewis Carroll used these discovers to convey his own points about Victorian society. He uses Alice’s adventures, specifically the poems she attempts to recite, to contradict and mock Victorian respectability and prudishness.

Works Cited

Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Ed. Hugh Haughton. London: Penguin Books. 1998.

Kincaid, James R. “Alice’s Invasion of Wonderland.” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America. 88.1 (1973): 92-99.

Rackin, Donald. “Alice’s Journey to the End of Night.” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America. 81.5 (1966): 313-326.

Watts, Isaac. “Against Idleness and Mischeif.” A Collection of English Poems 1660-1800. Ed. Robert S. Crane. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1932. 332.

Southey, Robert. “The Old Man’s Comforts And How He Gained Them.” English Poetry and Prose of the Romantic Movement. Ed. George Benjamin Woods. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Co. 1916. 401.

Myth Retold and Fulfilled: Converting Myth into Religion in C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces

C.S. Lewis is generally not considered to be an author of brilliantly influential and deeply profound literature. Many know him for his children's books, The Chronicles of Narnia. He is better known for these and other non-fiction books such as Mere Christianity than he is for his fiction; his more mature and esoteric work. He wrote primarily during what most scholars would consider the end of the Modernist era, and his final novel, Till We Have Faces, reflects it wonderfully. Modernism is characterized by a search for deeper meanings throughout life, generally sought out by a return to the archaic. Lewis' retelling of the ancient Greek myth of Cupid and Psyche certainly qualifies. Lewis does not simply retell the myth in his own words; rather he uses the form of the myth to convey his own beliefs about Christianity, thus drawing attention to the arching and inseperable parallels between myth and religion.

While biographical information alone cannot solely be used to interpret a piece of literature, it is vital that Lewis' religious affiliation be known when analyzing his work. Lewis was an atheist for the majority of his life, but later became a devout Christian. He studied many of the world's religions in his search for God and came to know, as Doris T. Myers states, “the pagan myths that seem to foreshadow Jesus and [as well as accept] the Gospel as fact” (“In Context” 190). It is within this context that the work must be analyzed in order to fully understand it.

In the beginning of the novel, strong religious references are cemented with the reader. The story is narrated by Orual: daughter of King Trom and half-sister of Psyche. While it is important to remember that “Lewis's story is a "novel," not an allegory, which should remind readers that things in [Lewis’s] fiction are meaningful in themselves just as much as they may mean other things” (Arnell 1), the reader cannot help but make allegorical associations. Orual can be identified with the whole of humanity. She struggles with the question of faith. She feels that her ugliness, her sin in allegorical terms, separates her from others in the novel. The main events in the beginning (her father's new marriage, the arrival of the Fox, her discovery of her own ugliness):

point to three major themes of the book: Orual's need for love, her struggle with the faith of the Old Priest versus the enlightenment of the Fox, and the meaning of Glome's paganism within the larger context of the Incarnation of Christ. (“Bareface” 14)

In the first chapter, Orual states, “I…have not much to fear from the anger of gods…I will accuse the gods, especially the god who lives on the Grey Mountain” (Lewis 3), establishing her struggle with faith. Myers tells us that Orual “sees herself as a plaintiff against the god, but she does not hope for a divine answer” (“Bareface” 14). Lewis is drawing the reader's attention to Orual's hopeless outlook and struggle with faith in order to parallel the struggles that he himself faced as a young man. It also brings to mind the feelings that so many of his generation had: can religion provide the answers for the most profound of life's questions? Lewis would argue, yes.

The other major allegorical reference is made through the characters of Psyche and the Fox. Both represent aspects of Jesus: Psyche, the compassionate and the Fox, the philosophical. Psyche is described as beautiful from the moment she is born. Orual tells us that, “She made beauty all around her. When she trod on mud, the mud was beautiful; when she ran in the rain, the rain was silver” (Lewis 22). She catches the attention of everyone whom she meets. Jesus, who radiated spiritual beauty, captured people’s hearts in the same way.

Psyche also has a desire to help all people. She nurses Fox back to health after he nearly dies from a fever that has plagued Glome. Following this, the word spread quickly through the kingdom and “Within two days half the city was at the palace gate,” shouting, “ 'Heal us, heal us. The Princess with the healing hands!' “ (Lewis 30-31). The similarities between these events and events from Jesus' life are obvious. She is like Christ in her “determination to touch people who need healing” (“Bareface” 24). Her ministry, like Christ's, is “physically demanding…Her willingness to sacrifice herself is equaled only by her compassion for other people” (“Bareface” 24). Psyche also becomes a sacrifice at the hands of her own father, leaving Orual riddled with guilt through the rest of the novel. This, again, is used to demonstrate a fallacy in humanity's, particularly Christians', view of Jesus' sacrifce: it is not guilt, but gratitude, thankfulness and even reverence that Orual should have.

The Fox is brought to the kingdom by the King to be a tutor for Orual. Myer’s points out that “In the Fox, Lewis shows us a man who aspires to be a true Stoic but falls short of his goal,” and that, “The Fox is ashamed of his emotions; Jesus accepted his” (“Bareface” 20). The Fox seems to contrast Jesus in many ways, yet in the end, they are comparable. Jesus most certainly was not “Stoic.” Lewis tells us he was “a man of delicate sensibilities who wept at the grave of Lazurus and sweated blood in Gethsemane” (qtd. in “Bareface” 20). This is the opposite of the Stoic man that the Fox attempts to be. He, as do most men, wants to be a man of noble bravery. As Myers points out, “when [Fox] says, ‘The body is shaking. I needn’t let it shake the god within me’ (Lewis 18)[...]Parodixically, in his fear, his failure to be a perfect Stoic, the Fox was a precursor to Jesus” (“Bareface” 20). This comparison parellels Lewis’s belief that people do not need to aspire to stoicism; rather, they should follow Jesus’ example of humbleness.

Myth and religion are inseperable for Lewis. He calls “the Incarnation [of Jesus] ‘myth become fact’ “ (“In Context 190). Lewis used pagan myths in order to explain and “foreshadow” the coming and crucifixion of Christ. It was useful to do this because it connected the archaic and fantastical to the fundamentals of Lewis’ own beliefs, thereby bringing a certain familiarity and credibility to Christianity. Lewis wanted the reader to realize that Christianity is not an isolated belief system; it has values that can be applied in every walk of life.

Works Cited

Arnell, Carla A. “On Beauty, Justice, and the Sublime in C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces.” Christianity and Literature 52.1 (2002): 23.

Lewis, C.S. Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold. New York: Harcourt Inc., 1956.

Myers, Doris T. Bareface: A Guide to C.S. Lewis’s Last Novel. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2004. 13-24.

---. C.S. Lewis in Context. Kent: Kent State University Press, 1994. 190.

Up on the Roof

This story was published in Vol. 1, Issue 1 of Vulcan: A Literary Dis-allusion.

3

Peter tastes warm metal. He thinks of the time he put quarters into his mouth when he was a small boy, mistaking them for the chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil that his uncle used to give him. His lips are tightly gripped around the flawlessly smooth cylinder of the revolver. He has been holding this facial expression long enough to force the inside of his mouth into muscle spasms. His tongue involuntarily laps the sides of the barrel and it is beginning to throb and ache.

His white t-shirt is soaked in sweat: yellowing the armpits and making it translucent across his back and chest. He grips the butt of the gun with one hand, occasionally switching to wipe the sweat off on his jeans. The barrel is just long enough to contort his wrist in such a way that the veins pump violently trying to get every ounce of life into his hand. His toenails scratch and gouge the carpet in time with ticking of the clock that hangs on the wall.

2:56 pm and 31...
...32...
...33...
...34...

Beneath the clock is a bed--made neatly as that of a soldier. The clean, white sheet is tucked underneath the mattress as is a blue, wool blanket with a perfectly fluffed pillow resting on top. Under the metal frame of the bed is untouched carpet: blue with flecks of yellow pulled tight and firm. It runs around the entire room like water filling the bottom of the bath tub, covering every inch it possibly can, trying to escape the confinement of the walls. At the foot of the bed, on the floor, is a young woman. Her hair is short and messy and her clothes match the same description. She has been shot twice in the chest. The blood has turned the carpet around her into a black pool. Across from the bed is a desk whose legs sink into the carpet. The desk chair is tipped over on its side, the hollow plastic of its wheels exposed.

On the desk sits a single sheet of college ruled paper. It has been folded once in half perfectly down the center. Written on the top line is a single sentence:

Hurry up please, it’s time.

Peter’s chest is heaving but the tears stopped long ago. He stares through the door, piercing it, as if waiting for someone, but he isn’t--not anymore. Behind the door, the desert wind picks up dust and dirt, carrying it away to a new resting place. The sky is a blinding blue--no clouds. The giant screen from the abandoned drive-in is monolithic against it. The sign at the side of the road reads The Starlighter!. The marquee below it still holds a few black plastic letters, though they don’t spell anything. A jackrabbit scurries from shrub to shrub looking for some lunch. In the waves of heat emanating from the ground, a small dust cloud rises off in the distance. Someone driving down the road no doubt.

∞

It is difficult to remember joy. Happiness is easy. It used to come in little packages, wrapped up neatly, but then it was gone. Listening to that favorite song on the radio. Christmas morning. Birthdays. Sitting on the sand watching the ocean crash and swell against the shore. Finite moments. Always fleeting. Joy is so different though. With joy, I was lifted. I floated. I flew. I experienced sensations unimaginable. I could never see more clearly, yet now I cannot remember. It has escaped me. Joy is something you can’t describe until you’re in it--wrapped up in a warm blanket. I would venture to guess that I will never be wrapped up again.

2

Peter couldn’t speak when he burst through the door of James’ apartment. James sat quietly in his recliner, facing the television. He was a glowing blue orb in the dark void of his living room. His eyes moved to Peter who stood, breathless in the doorway.

“Are you coming in or not?” James said.

Peter took a step forward and shut the door. He flipped the wallswitch and James’ arms shot up to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Peter staggered over to James, leaned in, put his hands on James’ shoulders to hold his weight and opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

James put the footrest down; the springs snapped the recliner up violently, throwing Peter back a few steps.

“I got a note today,” Peter said, his voice cracking. “When I got home from work, it was on my bed. She’s really gone. She’s really been taken.”

“What? Wha-- What do you mean?”

He handed James a piece of paper, folded once in half.

You did this.
She’s dead if you don’t do something.
What are you waiting for?

James stared at it blankly. His eyes moved across each letter, absorbing over and over again.

“This has to be a joke,” he said finally.

“How do you know? How can you say that with such certainty?”

“I’m just saying we can’t jump to any conclusions. Have you gone to the police yet?”

“Not since yesterday. I came straight here.”

“Okay, let’s go to down to the police station and give this to them. They’ll know what to do.”

Peter clenched his fists. His knuckles whitened and cracked.

“But it says I have to do something! It says that I did do something! What could I have possibly done?”

“I don’t know, Peter, but by going to the police, you are doing something aren’t you? Until another note shows up, if another shows up, there’s nothing you can do except go to the police. This doesn’t have any instructions. Whoever wrote this hasn’t told you what you have to do, if anything at all.”

Peter sat down on the floor, legs crossed. He put his head in his hands and breathed slowly.

“So just wait?” he said.

“Yeah. Wait.”

1

Jessie’s hair fell in golden cascades as she took it out of its ponytail. The full moon cut across her face, making it both light and dark. Peter watched her lean back against the roof of her parent’s house, which sat atop a hill. He was staring off into the night sky like some tortured, love lost soul. He hardly blinked: just moved his eyes back and forth as if there were words written above him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jessie watching him intently.

He looked away towards James, who was on the other side of him looking out over the landscape of rooftops and palm trees as if waiting for something big to happen. Peter tried to read his thoughts, but James was a statue.

“Whatcha lookin’ at tonight, Pete?” Jessie said.

“Hmmm...? Just the sky.”

“Not much up there.”

“Sure there is. There’s black and...Stars...When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you aaaaaaaaare.”

“You are lame. I prefer the city view, like James.”

A small smile inched into one corner of James’ mouth, but his eyes remained fixed on the houses below.

“I like to examine the planning of our town,” Jesse continued, “The structured, pretty pavement cutting through grass. I can imagine the two of us rolling around down on the nicest lawn. Over there--remember?” she asked.

Peter looked where Jessie pointed.

“I do.”

She put her hand on his and squeezed.

“What are you thinking about James?” Peter said pulling his hand from Jessie’s to run it through his hair.

“Oh, I don’t know. Up on the roof, the whole world at our feet.”

“Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

James didn’t answer at first. He bit his bottom lip--scraped it with two of his teeth.

“I’ve waited for this moment religiously.”

The three of them sat silent for a minute.

“I’m just happy, that’s all,” James said finally.

Jessie looked at him and smiled.

“I’m glad you like it.”

∞

The truth is I don’t like people. There are too many bad ones. I try and try, but they’re always there no matter where I go. I’ve always moved from town to town for as long as I can remember: my father was in the service, and my mother dead before I could speak. I take care of bad people son, he told me over dinner one night. But why do we have to move all the time?--Because there are bad people all over the place. And the good ones like you need me to get rid of them.--Oh. But it’s hard to have friends. Because we have to move all the time. I want to have friends.--Friends aren’t forever son. Remember that.

3

Peter is still waiting. He is so exhausted. He sits down hard on the floor, his feet out in front of him. He holds the gun with both hands.

Click--

2

As they left the police station, Peter broke down and started to cry. They stopped and he bent over, placing his hands on his knees. The vomit came quick and all at once but wasn’t very much. James stood statuesque, hands in his pockets, watching the street traffic as Peter composed himself.

“She’s going to die, and there’s nothing we can do,” Peter said.

“It’s in the hands of the only people who can do anything now.”

“What is wrong with you? Jessie is everything to me. And I know she has to mean something to you too, James. I don’t know how they do things in Boston, but here, we take care of our own.”

“Listen, Pete, I do care--more than you know. Give it another couple days. We’ll find her.”

∞

My father never wanted me to follow in his footsteps. He said that the military was no life for me. He felt that I had moved around enough and wanted me to be able to settle down somewhere like he never could. So I didn’t enlist. But I wanted desperately to continue his work--to punish bad people. I saw them everywhere, especially at school. Cutting in the lunch line. Cheating on tests. It didn’t matter what city or what school it was. They were all the same. From an early age I knew I was destined to do something about it, even if I couldn’t enlist. The first time it was personal. Thomas Hollander pushed me down and told me I couldn’t play kickball anymore. I wasn’t good enough and never would be. I knew he had to be one of the bad people my father told me about. Rage swelled up inside me. I tackled Thomas to the ground and began beating his face with my fists. It was ethereal. I never knew if Thomas got the message or not--if he understood what had happened to him. It didn’t matter. The others would understand. My father and I moved with his voluntary reassignment.

1

Peter helped Jessie down from the roof. She fell into him, but he supported her weight and wrapped his arms around her waist. The three walked to the curb in front of her house and stood for a minute taking in the last moments of a wonderful evening.

“We still gonna go on that bike ride tomorrow?” Peter said turning to James.

“Sure, if you want to.”

“Be at my house at nine, sound good?”

“Yeah. Goodnight guys.”

Peter and Jessie watched as James disappeared around the corner.

“So, bike riding tomorrow, huh?” Jessie asked.

“Uh yeah, sorry Jess, I wanna see you--but you know how it is--Guy time and all.”

“Well, why can’t I go?”

“Jessie, we’ve talked about this before. Sometimes I just want to spend time with the guys. In this case, just one guy, but--I mean--we all got to hang out tonight, didn’t we? It’s not like we have to see each other every day, right?”

“I suppose,” said Jessie.

“Alright then, I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well, okay?”

“Sure.”

Peter hopped into his Jeep and sped off down the street leaving Jessie on her porch watching. A few minutes into his short commute home, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

“Hey baby,” he said, “Yeah don’t worry. She won’t be coming around tomorrow at all. Margot, I just said--yeah. Yeah we can sleep in. Okay I’ll see you at my house in a few. Bye.”

2

The notes came day after day.

Can you save her?

She asks about you.

I’m still waiting, Peter.

He brought the second, third and fourth to the police. Once he realized that they might never stop, he gave up. He stopped showing them to James after a week. He just lay in his bed, thinking of Jessie. He heard James knock on his door every morning.

“Pete, you can’t stay like this,” he’d say.

Peter never answered.

1

Peter forgot to set his alarm clock. He awoke to a pounding on his door and the morning sunlight banding across his face.

“Hey. Hey! Get up. Margot, someone’s here, get up now!”

Peter rolled out of bed and pulled his pants on. Margot stretched, yawned and turned over.

“Hey, what did I just tell you? Get the fuck up--now!”

“Calm down. Just go see who it is. You said she wasn’t going to be coming around at all today, right? Don’t be so paranoid; it’s pathetic.”

“It’s not her, it’s James. I told him to meet me here at nine. I didn’t set the alarm.”

“Well good job, dumb ass.” Margot tossed the comforter off in frustration.

“Look, just play it cool. I’m sure he won’t care. I mean, I hardly know the guy.”

“Whatever, just get rid of him and come back to bed.”

“No, you’re leaving.”

“What? Peter, you asshole, you said we could sleep in,” Margot snapped, throwing her pillow at him.

“Just shut up and put some clothes on. You’re leaving. I’m going on a bike ride.”

“Oh,” she said, perking up. “Can I go?”

“No.”

He went to the front door and swung it open. James stood on the porch wearing bike shorts, an old Boston Marathon t-shirt, and his helmet.

“I’ve been standing out here for twenty minutes, what the hell were you doing in there, man?”

“Oh, I...I just forgot to set the alarm. Had a late night,” Peter said breaking a smile.

“Heh, I see. So, how late did you stay at Jessie’s after I-”

Peter’s heart skipped. He leaned forward waiting for James to complete his thought, but noticed that his eyes were looking passed him into the house. Peter turned and saw Margot standing in the hallway. He turned back and his eyes met James’. No one said anything. Peter looked back at Margot. She was trying not to laugh. That made Peter furious. He turned to explain. James smiled.

“This is a little awkward,” Peter said.

“Why should it be?” Margot said walking toward the door, “You told me you hardly know this guy.”

Peter quickly met James’ eyes again. His smile had disappeared. Peter tried to read him, but James was a statue. His heart beat wildly. Suddenly, James’ smile flashed across his face again.

“I guess you learn something new everyday, right?” he said coolly.

Peter let out a small sigh of relief.

“So you’re not goin--”

“Let’s get going on that bike ride Pete.”

“Oh, right. Let me get my stuff.”

2

Something tickled Peter’s nose and he woke with a start. A piece of paper, folded once in the center fell to the floor next to his bed. He threw his blankets off and grabbed the note.

168 Pioneer Rd.
Beatty, Nevada

He looked at the clock: 3:37 am. Peter threw on some jeans and ran out to his Jeep. He didn’t even put on shoes. He grabbed his map book from under the passenger seat and looked up Beatty, Nevada. Over one hundred miles northwest of Las Vegas. He drove as fast as he could up I-15. The hours passed slowly. The sky grew to a yellowed grey with the morning sun as he came through the Cajon Pass. Las Vegas seemed abandoned at eight in the morning.

Peter came upon the outskirts of Beatty as the morning was coming to a close. It was a very small town, just outside The Nevada Proving Grounds. There was no main road. He tore down the narrow streets and was through to the other side in a matter of minutes. Once outside the town, the pavement ended; rocks and dirt clods rattled the undercarriage of the jeep. A large cloud of dust trailed it. Peter could feel he was close; he drove for what seemed like ages.

The back of the screen was visible for ten minutes before he actually arrived. Peter pulled up to what looked like a shanty in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing except for the shack and the massive screen--what was once part of a drive-in movie theater. A mailbox sat at the end of the driveway. Scratched into the rusting metal were the numbers 1-6-8. Peter hopped out and ran to the front door of the building. He burst in, but the one room building was void of life. A neatly made bed sat across from him with a clock tacked to the wall above it.

12:03 pm

Peter’s eyes shot back to the bed. He couldn’t breathe. A large black stain surrounded Margot’s body at the foot of the bed. Peter hadn’t seen her in over a week--not since Jessie had disappeared. Peter ran back outside.

“Jessie!” he called out.

“Jessie!”

Peter’s voice cracked with the strain of screaming. He ran around the shanty, looking for some hidden door--any sign that Jessie might be there. The screen sat ominously in the distance. He ran towards it, screaming her name, hoping he would find something. He collapsed half way to the screen and lay, face down, breathing in the dust.

“It can’t be,” he said softly. “It can’t be too late.”

He rose and walked back to the building.

Peter creaked open the door, afraid to look in Margot’s direction. He moved to the other side of the room, staying as far away as possible. On the wall adjacent to the bed was a desk. He had not noticed it the first time. Peter’s heart was about to explode out of his chest, and he was shaking violently. He walked to the desk, afraid of what he might see. He threw the desk chair over and punched the air in frustration and defeat. On the desk was a revolver and another note folded neatly in half. He picked the gun up and opened the chamber. One bullet.

∞

Sometimes it’s so hard to go through with what must be done. I really grow to like a person, then I realize that they’re not who I thought they were. I see the bad in them, and I have to take care of it. The planning is what is the most meticulous. The Where When and How. It has to be quick. Not necessarily easy, just instant. Preferably not messy but that’s difficult unless you use pills or strangulation. Those are not quick. And it’s too hard to convince them to go through with it. I like guns. Just pull the trigger and it’s over. Most people have seen enough movies or maybe even know someone who has done it before. Barrel under the chin or in the mouth. Sometimes against the temple. The problem with the chin is that you can miss. The angle might be too acute, sending the bullet through the roof of the mouth and out the nose. Or they might change their mind right at the last second: then all you get is a shattered cheekbone. Most people aren’t willing to give it a second go after a misfire. Holding it to your temple has similar setbacks, but is usually accurate. But the mouth--that’s where you can’t go wrong. You just jam that barrel in and no matter where it’s pointed, you’re bound to hit something. My grandfather had a collection of old Civil War and Wild West-type revolvers. Real fancy things with long barrels. No one but me and my dad knew he even had them. They weren’t mine to take when Granddad died, but I knew my dad would understand. Oh Peter, I liked you right from the beginning. Right until that fucking slut ruined everything. Both of you ruined everything. But when I heard her say, What does it matter, you said you didn’t even know this guy--Oh Peter. How could you tell her such a thing? I guess it really was the truth. It still hurt though. I got to see you hurt. I bet you had never hurt so much before in your whole life. Friends aren’t forever, Peter. Remember that.

3

James slowly opens the door to the shack at 168 Pioneer Road and pokes his head in. What a mess. Most of Peter is on the floor, but there are pieces all over the wall, the desk and the bed. The smell is getting bad. Margot has been there since yesterday. The military neatness of the room is still maintained underneath the blood smatter. James steps in, carefully maneuvering around the large pools of blood. He looks at Peter thoughtfully. Peter’s hair is matted down and crimson at the top of his neck. The bullet had blown a large hole through base of his skull and James could see that Peter’s death was instant. James turns and leaves through the door.

He takes a gas mask from back seat of his car in order to cover his face. It is old--from the First World War. He walks quickly towards the massive screen. The sky is so blue. A few wisps of cloud are visible very high over the mountains. The air is hot and very dry; James becomes thirsty after just a few minutes. He is almost there. The desert brush had collected heavily in an area half way between the shack and the screen. James pushes the shrubs aside and wipes the red earth away from a steel door. He pulls the mask over his head. It is so hot and stuffy. James fishes a key out of his pocket, takes the lock off the door and opens it with little effort. He walks down the short staircase, ducking to get inside the shelter and pulls the short chain connected to the light bulb that hangs from the ceiling. Inside the room are a mattress and a small cooler containing bottles of water and loaves of bread.

Jessie lays on the mattress; her eyes are pale and listless. Dry tears stain her cheeks. In one motion, James sweeps her up, swinging one of her arms over his shoulder. She makes little noise. He grabs a couple of water bottles; they walk together up the stairs and into the desert heat. James helps her to Peter’s Jeep and into the back of it. He blindfolds her and binds her hands. She says nothing. James pulls the gas mask off and wipes the sweat from his eyes.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be okay now,” he whispers. “Just remember--”

He looks at her; she is quivering and covered in sweat.

“It’s okay. Stay here. Someone is coming for you.”

James sighs and removes the binding on her hands.

“My eyes--” Jessie asks.

“No. Here’s some water. Don’t drink it too fast,” he whispers, putting two bottles in her lap.

“--Why?”

“Because it may be a while--”

“No....Why?”

James pauses. She is looking at him through the blindfold. He squats down next to her ear.

“Because you’re a good person. Maybe you’ll understand...”

“Understand what?” she asks, her voice cracking and fading.

James does not respond.

“Understand what!” she screams at him. Her tears dampen the blindfold.

“Understand what...”

“I’m--sorry.”

James turns and walks to his car. The sun has turned the wisps of cloud into pink streaks across an orange and yellow sky. He drives off toward the bright lights of Las Vegas, a cloud of dust trailing behind him.