Things Start Over Again
by Spencer Troxell

God's lips must be soft, the curtain created by the received words
Is like a veil over the mouth of a gypsy dancer.
When things start over again, or when they stop altogether,
Or continue on, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Will my smokiness leave only a blackness on the walls of my soul,
Or will it serve as a passageway, spiraling up and widening
In endless rings?

With Little Opposition
by Spencer Troxell

 Where is my Moriarty? And if I am the villain of my life's tale,
where's my Sherlock Holmes? Whichever my role may be in this story, is
there anyone I can tumble over the waterfall with at the end?

I have no illusion that the caliber of my character is great--or
neat--enough to put me in such archetypal roles as Moriarty or Holmes,
but surely there is an equivalent somewhere, some fiendish equal or
heroic spoil to spur me on towards fulfillment of my character's full
potential. I have had plenty of amiable, friendly rivalries among
likes, but no equal and opposites. All of the 'enemies' I've had in my
life have been smaller than me. Bullies. Insecure and combative
inferiors. I've learned lessons from the challenges they've posited
me, but have neither exceeded the speed limit nor broken a significant
sweat in my rebuttals and concessions to their claims.

Perhaps villains (or heroes) exist in order to bring you to your
senses if you've left them. Like car crashes. Have a car crash early
on in your driving career, and you'll be more attentive for awhile.
But if you are an attentive driver all the while, you'll probably not
have a car crash in the first place (at least not caused by you).
Perhaps it's the same for living. A person who lives the strenuous
life, examining the details and constantly upping the bar, doesn't
need a villain. Their life, while appearing vanilla from the outside,
is lived mainly internally. It seems a balance is typically arrived at
in one way or the other, and I don't mean that it any cosmic sense
whatever. I had to deal with a few bullies because of things beyond my
control. Bullies are free agents, and will strike weak targets. I have
made myself less of a weak target in light of my interactions with
bullies in the past, therefore I'm better equipped to deal with
bullies.

Even if I'm fifth business in some story far larger than myself,
within my own existential brackets, surely there're equivalent parts
in my story reflective of the large one. Perhaps I'm looking at it
wrong. Maybe what's lacking is a high ideal. Holmes lived for the
game, and so did Moriarty. Both played for different sides, and thus
their yin-yang was formed. Superman stands for Truth Justice and the
American way, which is in opposition to Lex Luthor's more
machiavellian machinations. Equals in some way, divided by ideology.
Where is my antithesis?

 I'm willing to consider that I am my own greatest challenger in this
life, that  I have to be my own rogue's gallery. That's reasonable,
but not as romantic. I pause here, because in spite of myself, I
believe in karma. What exactly am I asking for?

The absolute peace before the bombardment
by Kyle Smith

When I reach the surface my head is already full of all the nonsense I have been subjected to all the way up. There is, as the lift door opens, that beautiful moment when the landscape is blank: just a geometric construct – an infinite number of straight vertical and horizontal lines (blue) almost invisible against a bleach white background. This is my particular realitysaver and gives me genuine respite. However, recently it was used in the Encyclopaedic Entry for a concept that removes unwanted hair from embarrassing places – nostrils, earlobes, genitals, palms (monkey hands are in again) which tainted it somewhat. All too soon that second of respite is over and geometric and mental space is filling with concepts that taunt me, abuse me, attempt to befriend me, tell me what I need and want. Some take up space as firmly as buildings. Some float by, transparent, like ghosts. Some are words just flicking across my retina. Sometimes the disorientation is so bad I feel I might fall.

I must remember to look out for a new realitysaver.

Now, when we get to school
Heaven Reiss is weird -
You’re dead to me Matty
And your Polish mod scooter too.
“Work in the real world,” is what father says
“instead of swanning around chest gazing
Keep dry for eleven days, don’t steal
No chocolate ice cream. Be like your elder brother.
You might have half a chance with Heaven.”
Dad really means ‘clean your room.’
I’m cynical of his weird notion of manhood.
Dry? I don’t think so. I’d rather die.
I might phone Freia. She thinks I am a fireman.

Down below
Bothwell Street[1]
Beyond the shoppers
On a Saturday afternoon
The only thing I see
A single empty buckfast[2] bottle
Placed on the pavement
Around which
The streets of offices
Make sense

[1] Bothwell Street - located very close to the centre of Glasgow with many administrative headquarters and call centres on it.

[2] Buckfast - a tonic wine originally made by Benedictine monks in Devon, England. A popular drink amongst the young and disenfranchised of the West of Scotland for many years; it is cheap, very sweet and highly intoxicating.

Recommended for this work: Click on image to view in larger resolution

Winter is tapping
on the hollow willow tree's trunk--
a four month visitor is about to move in
and unload his messy clothing
and be windy about it--
bark is grayish white as coming night with snow
fragments the seasons.
The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket
over the courtyard greens and coats a
ghostly white mist over yellowed willow
leave's widely spaced teeth-
you can hear them clicking
like false teeth
or chattering like chipmunks
threatened in a distant burrow.
The willow tree knows the old man
approaching has showed up again,
in early November with
ice packed cheeks and brutal
puffy wind whistling with a sting.




17


Manic is the Dark Night
by Michael Lee Johnson

Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It is here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
"Don't smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?"
I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
Damn I just feel happy!
Back into the wood of somberness
back into the twigs,
sedated the psychiatrist
scribbles, notes, nonsense on a pad of yellow paper:
"mania, oh yes, mania, I prescribe
lithium, do I need to call the police?"
No sir, back into the dark woods I go.
Controlled, to get my meds. I
twist and rearrange my smile,
crooked, to fit the immediate need.
Deep in my forest
the trees have turned black again,
to satisfy the conveyer--
the Lord of the dark wood.

When the silence of my
life tickles in darkness
delves into my daily routine
caught in my melancholy music
at times, not exact;
then exuberant auto racing playing
at times, not exact;
(a new poem published or a kick in the ass)
kick smacks like tornado alley
in the tomato can
left over-paste
of my emotions
at times, not exact;
I realize the split of legacy,
of loyalty on its knees fractured
like a comma or sentence fragment,
naked like a broken egg
between friendship and hatred,
I stew like beef then broth
simmering
sort of liked, sort of hated,
not exact.

Don't bring the rosary beads
it's too damn late for doing repetitions.
Eucharist, I can handle the crackers and wine;
I love the Lord just like you.
Catholicism circles itself with rituals--
ground hogs and squirrels dancing with rosary beads,
naked in the sun and the night, eating the pearls
and feeling comfortable about it.
Rituals and rosary beads are indigestible
even the butterflies go coughing in the farmer's cornfields..
Cardinal George, Chicago, would choke on the damn things;
some of his priests would have thought it a gay orgasm or piece
remote found in scripture from Sodom & Gomorrah.
But my bones in ginger dust lie near a farm in DeKalb, Illinois,
where sunset meshes corn with a yellow gold glow like rich teeth.
My tent is with friends where we said prayers privately like silent
moonlight. Farmers touch the face of God each morning after just
one cup of Folgers coffee Columbian blend,
or pancakes made with water and batter, sparse on the sugar.
Sometimes I would urinate on the yellow edge of flowers,
near the tent, late at night, before the hayride, speak
to the earth and birds like gods.
Never did I pull the rosary beads from my pocket.
It's too late, damn it, for rosary beads and repetitions.

this poem doesn’t mean anything, just a quick draft
breezing through town, down on avenue e before multiplex
cinemas, back when drug dealers and hookers manned
dark corners and Parkettes avoided the neighborhood instead
of desiring it or desired it secretly instead of being seen there
so don’t try to decode the social order of words or images
where lurk critiques of sports cars and SUVs sliding
through well-lit streets occupied by sanitized bodies
that will save sex for going home and only sometimes
barely recall in some late night wet dream the sleaze
that once delighted their imaginations with delicious
fear before walking back into boredom of police protected
sanctity of marriage protocol pollsters blustering cold
winter wind chills silencing the sacrificial lambs of impurity

a1





22

Perched upon high I look down from the balcony
a wet t-shirt contest is in progress
moist skin
sweaty jeering

I ask myself if its wrong in the modern age to get your tits out for the lads
yet I guess its not too hard nowadays for a woman to be an object
in a dignified way

Iggy sang about nightclubbing with pious androgyny
all around me clusters of men
gather around a couple of women
stalking their prey like we are on safari about to observe the hunt and the kill
in reality we watch the pursuit of cunt fuelled by pills, pints and a distinct lack of will.

One day we might grow out of the shameful phase
and settle down to still water and flower beds
holding our green watering cans

Today we are content with whats on display
exposed nipples
a snapshot of societal decay?
who cares
right now its all about getting wasted
and attempting to get laid

23

As soon as I think I fall to pieces
without really living
these many docile moments fade into sunlit dust
drifting past Belo Horizonte
beyond mug marks
and coffee stains
swept up in shivers

this life marked by experience
or lack of
marred by scars and trepidation
this life pondering heaven
and the hell below
chasing hedonism and ecstacy
without leaving home

this indoor existence
contains cautious visions of agoraphobia
and contorted evil
in faces struck down by the daily grind
the routine
different to those fables
and the knowledge passed on by thin words of hope.

This life a cold day in November
Tuesday afternoon

24

Today I went for a job interview for some online business
who specialized in electronics equipment.
Truth is
I didn't want the job.
The thought of being a battery hen tapping on a keyboard all day
as some pompous jerk berates me on a headset is hardly enjoyable.
I guess call centres are the modern day factories

I got to the door
but had a sudden change of heart
thought fuck it
and drove back home.

25

          As I sit at the bus station in the rain staring blankly at the drug safety pamphlet, things pass through my mind like all the things I want to tell you but can’t, because its like the line from that Pretenders song, “how can I explain, you don’t want me to.” But anyway, you get the point, its just me here with only myself to hear these hard luck stories, shut up crazy in mental quarantine, its just my thoughts circling around uselessly like that lice-ridden crippled pigeon over there on the pavement, I think it just said: “tell your story walking.”
          Okay bird, I say, my thoughts may be no more now than compulsion diseased like the creatures nibbling at your sad gooseflesh skin, I’m sure you know how it feels to be eaten like this, but really there is nothing else left of love but my bittersweet madness here alone in the rain.
          You were so young and beautiful, you could never know how it tangled up and tore at my heart to see a picture of you online taken at that party last week, still so beautiful I think it was that tender innocence in your eyes staring out from under the hard black fringe, you even seemed to be looking directly at me but in reality you are gone from my life and living on without me, just staring back at me from my work monitor screen.
          And now I stand up and get onto the bus and I hand my money to the bus driver who looks so very tired, but has these reassuringly fat fingers, he seems more solid than I, who float up this aisle to the seats at the back where the emo kids hide.
          And he drives me passing through all these places where I spent all the years of my life, so many things that had happened to me, see, I think I was once sick over there, I argued with him in the doorway just here, I was lonely on that busy corner, in that noisy nightclub, but really it seems just incidents that repeated over and over, over and over, this is a groundhog life eventually you wonder where will it stop and if you even learn things in time.
          And lulled by the sound of the engine and the drone of the man talking on his phone my fingers rustle at the bus ticket and I reflect on the time and how it passed so fast that I never really had a moment to stop and understand what was happening to me, to us, just spinning in love like Alice and Toto it looked and felt like flame that burns so bright but in an instant its gone, leaving behind the burn marks on your hands, black charcoal scars on your heart, like all things they will heal over in time, it leaves behind a harder skin than before that’s tougher to break, yet apparently still more lovers will try.
          But no not this time, I wanted it to mean more than it does, what is this anyway? Just more twisted scrap metal in the junkyard pile-up we are passing on the right, of course in my current frame of mind it reminds me of my life.
          Please no not this time, I want to hold onto the beauty, the flat sparkle of the sky as you walked by, the look in your eyes as you smiled, because we were so happy and drunk in love but didn’t even see it at the time, spinning in love and high while other things took up the time.
          Like the spreading of a pool of ink, poison wends its way through love. I Need. To. Control. Everything.
          In the end don’t you know baby its all about me, my life its making a closed fist I’m crying and crumbling inside, but to continue on unrelenting and steeled there’s no choice but this, I know you’ll understand its just the way it is. As I love you and deny you at the same time, don’t you know I could see it in your eyes when you made me scream there was no greater satisfaction than this, I am helpless and open while you float above me cool, don’t smile at me smugly, wipe that look from your face, you betray your hidden belief that in the end I won’t exist.
          And you make sure of it, nobody gets the best of me, this is my show get off the stage, I need it all for me, that’s just it don’t you get it you’re an accessory, I only need you for as long as you can stand to give over everything to me, I’ll confine you to the corners of my life, keep your legs open, I’ve got things to do, I need to fuck you. But don’t go, I love you I need you so much I can’t do this on my own. See I’m lying here with you in the bed looking at you with this need in my eyes, light reflecting from the balcony doors, we were in the room where so many lover’s moments become etched in memory, really I’m a bit frightened and I feel alone, “I missed you…so much” you said, and I felt it the pull of almost tangible need, and I was going to go to you, mother to baby, at the time I almost believed.
          But no, wait, I’m confused, this is too hard and really, what’s in it for me? You’re standing up, pulling on your pants, switching on the computer, half talking to me half your flatmate down the corridor, we’re denying all for there’s too much need, and absolutely nothing to give, nobody will back down, god I think I hate you how can you take this away from me. Look don’t tell what’s now in front of you, wake up now I think I need you to leave.
          Now it’s time for night of the long knives, it must be that time again to get sticking it in, maybe give it a twist for we’ve passed over this thin line between love and hate on which we’ve been dancing and laughing across the divide, now its game on for real, now for all that I needed and you denied, it is time, I will make you cry.
          As I stand here on this windy corner my trembling fingers clutching this can in one hand, in the other this plastic bag, the bus pulls away and some young girls walk by me laughing they make me feel like a stranger, the sky is so heavy above and yet the world feels weightless as if perhaps none of it is quite there just pretending, tears stain my eyes and regret weighs on my heart like an old tired dog his collar and chain winding around my throat it binds, I remember all the words I said, my violent heart, my razor tongue slicing everything apart, the pain I must have caused you and when I think if the tables were turned, how right you are to hate me now, how fair and reasonable that I be spurned, left completely alone with your coldness and indifference towards me the only trace you leave behind.
          I can only hope that one day you will forgive me and remember the love in my eyes. I loved you, I loved you, maybe I still do, never mind.

26

They're standing by the ropes on the sand by the beach and we're trying not to take pictures but the children are climbing and one falls down and sits his eyes squeeze together his mouth open in a little 'o' as his mother bends to brush the sand off his knees and I want to be like him I want to climb that rope barefoot climb that rope up up but instead I stay where I am on the sandy green ledge and it's strange because you are just the way you are and we are watching the water as the sun shifts below us and between us and Eddie is there and he's tall very tall and we are swinging on the swings we are swimming on the swings and we are looking at each other and we are soaring higher higher and I am trying not to try so damn hard but you're so beautiful as you swing with your shoes off and let yourself be seen the bikers ride down the path and there are wooden planks where you can walk but you aren't really walking you are here like yeah baby give me some of that 1 2 3 my lovely little cloud of hello and it'll be fine where we are it'll be fine just keep walking like they're walking on the beach the sun the everything and we are climbing the ropes now we are climbing the mountain driving up soaring through the green on concrete the cars are following us the cars are behind us we are the cars the extension of our homes our boxes but that's just how it is you've got nowhere to go and you've got to drive to get there how nice would it be if we could record everything that we will never have and that's when we go home turn on the drone box fall asleep on the floor and right now well earlier yesterday when we were getting ice cream on the pier you called and said well hello well hello and you've got to admit you're not going anywhere and it's a shame cause at the end of the world you have to know the number or you may get lost and one time I called you when I was driving down the Oregon coast but you were at a party and didn't answer I called you three times because there were no vacancies the sorry signs were banging in the wind and I wanted to find a parking spot and sleep but I was conditioned for a life in a bed I didn't have a chance without you but you were at that party and you didn't answer you called back three hours later when I was already driving with the sixteen wheelers swiping turns that weren't even there the ocean to my right but it wasn't the same it wasn't the same like when there was someone to believe in and it's beautiful down here the beaches here are beautiful but you aren't here are you

you're just the way it is.

a2

27

          That night, Arlene considered James’ suggestion about a vacation. In the morning, after breakfast, she picked up the phone and dialed her office. "Hello, Myra, this is Arlene. I need to speak to Hank…. Alright. I’ll hold." She stared at James enigmatically, but before he could say anything she started speaking. "Hi, Hank. How are you?.... I’m fine. Listen. I’m taking a vacation…. I know we’re busy, but we’re always busy…. I realize our caseload is urgent, but I need to get away….. When?" She looked at James quizzically, who mouthed: "In ten days." "In ten days," she told Hank…. "For how long?"  James mouthed: "Two weeks." "Two weeks…. No. I’m not mocking you. There’s some static on the phone line." She grinned impishly at James. "Hank. I’ve never taken a vacation. I need one now…. The firm will manage without me for two weeks…. I know this is sudden, Hank, but I got an irresistible offer that I can’t refuse…. I’m not leaving the firm, Hank. This is strictly personal…. I’ll see you tomorrow and tell you all about it…. Don’t worry. Goodnight, Hank." She turned to James. "That was Hank."
          They laughed together companionably and James remarked: "You’re a piece of work." "Moi? What did I do?" she asked innocently. "You didn’t waste much time once you decided." She flashed a smile that brought back memories to him of the girl who he once found so exciting. "I couldn’t say no to your impetuous request. Where are we going?" "How about a week in the sun in Majorca? We can stay at a nice hotel on the beach and you can swim and laze in the sun." "That sounds delicious. What’s after that?" "We’ll explore the French countryside for a few days, then spend the rest of the time with our son in Paris, until we leave. What do you think?" "I can’t wait. What do I have to do?" "Just get your passport. You can pay an extra fee to get it quickly. I’ll take care of everything else." He looked at her desk calendar and pointed to Friday, October 6th. "We leave on the 6th." "It’s a date. Now come with me. I want to show you my Parisian sex kitten pose."
          When James told his partners that he was taking a two week vacation, the first thing they asked was did he have a new girl friend. They kidded him mercilessly for a while after he told them he was going with his wife. Then the boy’s club subsided into stunned disbelief. They weren’t used to joint ventures in recreation by husbands and wives. They became downright suspicious of James’ sanity when he mentioned that his wife was a very exciting woman. Those manipulators of capital had their own view of wives and it wasn’t very positive. They were either trophies or burdens. James sudden reinterest in his wife seemed to be apostasy. What if other partners succumbed to this strange affliction? That could spell the end of booze, broads, boats and drugs, all the rewards for waging valiant combat on the field of profit.
          James tolerated the teasing because he recognized that just a short time ago he was one of them. He cheerfully went about arranging their vacation down to the smallest detail. He booked a flight to Barcelona, with a connecting flight to Majorca. Then he booked seats on a flight from Majorca to Marseille, and ordered a luxury rental car for the leisurely trip to Paris. He reserved rooms in Paris at the George V and bought return tickets to New York. Once the major chores of the itinerary were completed, he planned their route to Paris, with stopovers at four star inns that were renowned for their cuisine. He cleverly looked up the addresses of some chic Paris shops, where he could buy sexy underwear and expensive perfume for Arlene.
          The days before departure sped by and Arlene and James worked late each day to prepare for their absence. Yet their newly revived affection surfaced at night and they made love with an abandon that they hadn’t experienced together since their college days. Late one night, James pulled out some pot and offered it to Arlene. "I believe marijuana is an illegal substance, James. Are you inviting me to break the law?" James was abashed. "I don’t want you to do anything you think is wrong." "Smoking pot is a felony. As a court officer my duty is clear." James couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. "Hey. I don’t want to cause any problems. It was your son's stash. I can just throw it away." She grinned. "Well, there’s no need to waste it."
          To the entertainment of much of the world, the lawyers in the O.J. Simpson trial had begun summing up their case on September 29th. James phoned Ted's friend Khiem in Paris and updated him on the trial. Then he told him about the vacation and made him promise not to tell Ted. He assured Khiem that the trial would go on for several more weeks and that he would get all the video coverage that wasn’t being shown in Paris, where huge audiences were still watching the trial with fascination. So it was a shock when on October 3rd, the jury quickly returned a verdict of not guilty, after retiring for only four hours. Khiem was worried that there would be no more coverage, but James reminded him that there would be news articles and interviews for months, so Khiem relaxed.
          The only problem regarding their vacation that James didn’t anticipate was that their maids, Inez and Felicia were living in the house. Up to now, whenever James or Arlene went away on business, the other person was there, or they shut the house. Just as they were getting ready to leave for the airport on Friday morning, James realized that he hadn’t prepared Inez for their departure. When he tried to explain in his remedial pigeon Spanish that he and Arlene were going away for two weeks, Inez burst into tears and became hysterical. It took some time and effort for James to assure her that he wasn’t throwing her out. He gave her some household money and still wasn’t certain that she understood anything he said. He made a mental note to learn some basic Spanish.
          The limousine driver was waiting impatiently during the attempted breaking of the language barrier. When James promised him a large tip he immediately became cheerful and replied with a snappy: "Yes, sir." By the time they got to the airport it was close to their flight’s departure time. With a liberal dispersal of gratuities, James and Arlene were whisked through every obstacle and soon found themselves comfortably ensconced in the almost empty first class cabin, sipping champagne. Once James verified that they would have no trouble getting their connecting flight to Majorca, he relaxed for the first time in days. Arlene was just getting used to the idea of forgetting her legal responsibilities for two weeks and a delicious feeling of abandon possessed her. As the plane leveled off at 32,000 feet in its flight across the Atlantic, she started kissing James passionately, to the amusement of the flight attendants.
          From the moment their flight landed in Barcelona, their movements were well organized. An airport car was waiting near the aircraft to rush them to the short range aircraft for the connecting flight to Majorca. Customs at the Majorca airport was courteous and efficient and a large Mercedes taxi was waiting outside for them. Despite the driver’s operating the vehicle like a lunatic on leave from an overcrowded institution, they managed to enjoy the breathtaking views of the island and the Mediterranean, as the road tortuously spiraled up then down the mountains that made up most of the island. Arlene and James were feeling euphoric when the taxi pulled up in front of their hotel in El Arenal, a tiny town frequented by German tourists.
          They changed into bathing suits without bothering to unpack and made their way to the beach, which wasn’t crowded. They applied sunblock 45 to each other, lingering on softer spots, then basked in the sun like indolent seals. Arlene, ever the more practical of the two, regulated their tanning time. When she thought they had enough sun for their first exposure, she led them into the pleasantly warm water that was still moderately clear, despite the fossil fuels and wastes dumped by ship and shore. Arlene, who was never very comfortable in the water of Long Island Sound and confined herself to the pool at home, took to the Mediterranean like a water nymph. When they came out of the water, James noticed that some of the young men hanging out on the beach were giving her the once over and he was briefly caught up in a mixture of pride and possessiveness.
          That evening they had dinner in the hotel dining room and James again noticed the attention that Arlene drew. The men who were with women gave her that rapid radar scanning look that spoken-for men master. The men without women let their glances linger, a product of that never ending male fantasy, that one ravenous look would enflame a passionate woman, who would promptly abandon her dull mate for a more vigorous man. This made James appreciate her all the more and he saw that Arlene glowed with a vitality that made her radiant. He was reminded of the powerful sexual attraction he felt towards her in their college days and he idly wondered how he had become so neglectful of her over the years.
          The stay in Majorca may not have solved any of their problems, or resolved the difficulties confronting the human race as it scrambled for existence on an increasingly inhospitable planet, but their rejuvenated sex life certainly brought them closer together. By the end of the week of sensual indulgence they were lightly tanned, physically relaxed and sexually sated. The night before their flight to Marseille, a casual conversation about Ted’s present activities led to a more serious discussion of their own goals. James was remarkably candid, revealing parts of himself that he never exposed before. "I thought for a long time that if I made enough money to get what I want that I would be happy. Now I’m beginning to feel that money isn’t the answer. I find myself just wanting more things. Not anything real. Things."
          Arlene was very careful not to say anything that would stop the flow of thoughts that James was confiding. "You’re certainly proved your ability to make money. If you could do something else, what would it be?" An anguished look flitted across his face. "I don’t know. I’ve thought more and more about it lately, but haven’t come up with anything. It’s too late to go to medical school and I can’t paint." "It’s very exciting that you feel a need for change," Arlene said encouragingly. "You don’t necessarily have to do something radical. What if you used some of your talent to help others?" "What do you mean?" "You’re good at making money. What if you raised money for some worthwhile cause?" "Like what?" "Well, something you believe is worthwhile, like the homeless, or the American Civil Liberties Union."
          For a moment, Arlene was afraid that she was pushing their newly rediscovered communications too hard, but James was thoughtfully silent, considering her suggestions. "I have mixed feelings about the A.C.L.U.," he said, musingly. "We’d be in real trouble without their defending us against government infringements of our rights, but I don’t approve of their knee-jerk defense of that fundamentalist terrorist who bombed the World Trade Center two years ago. What’s his name?" "I don’t remember exactly. I think it’s Sheik Abdul Rahman, or something like that…. I understand your feelings, but it’s not that simple." "Why not?" James demanded. "Those terrorists killed a lot of Americans. It was the worst terror attack ever in our country. They could have killed thousands."
          Arlene explained her opinion tactfully, not wanting to alienate James now that they were getting along so well. "Whether I agree with them or not, their mission at the A.C.L.U. is to defend certain constitutional guarantees. They believe that even terrorists have a right to a fair trial, if we want to preserve the integrity of our system." "What if the terrorists are foreigners? Should they have the same rights as Americans?" "They believe so." "What about you?" "I have mixed feelings. I believe that everyone should be entitled to the benefits of democracy, but I confess that I draw the line at people trying to destroy the system. Hank wanted us to defend the Oklahoma bombers, but I wouldn’t do it. Part of me feels guilty about that, but the other part of me won’t let me defend someone who wants to blow up the courtroom I work in." "Good for you. I may be married to the only lawyer in America with a conscience."
          The second part of their vacation was as pleasant as the stay in Majorca. They leisurely drove north through France, stopping at elegant inns, for epicurean meals accompanied by fine wines. Arlene was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed by the exercise of her appetites for food and lovemaking. "James. By the time we go home, I’ll be a veritable cow." "At least you’ll be a well-fucked cow." She started to react indignantly, then burst out laughing. "You are a very crude man, but I’ve become fond of you. Let’s make a deal. We cut down on the food and keep the sex." James pretended to give her request serious consideration, until she playfully swatted him. "Well, Mister?" "You give me no choice, my little sexpot. Starvation, here I come." "Let’s not get carried away, big boy," she teased. "We have to keep up our strength."
          James was careful for the next few days to cut down on the size and richness of their meals. Instead of ordering the delicious dishes that were the specialties of the inns where they stayed, he conferred with the chefs and came up with a compromise cuisine that he jokingly nicknamed "Gourmet lite." At first the chefs were profoundly offended by his unorthodox requests, but James fluent French and appropriate flattery won over even the most recalcitrant Gallic spirit and the chefs tried to present delicate and savory dishes. Of course it didn’t hurt that James lavishly tipped the chefs for their cooperation. Naturally, as true Frenchmen , they continued to despise the vulgar, but generous American, who would have had their contempt regardless of the amount of money he gave them. After all, they were French and it was a matter of national honor to despise all Americans.
          James thought he understood the attitude of the French. He elaborately explained to Arlene that they had gone from a great empire to a second class power and instead of blaming themselves, or accepting their fate like the stoical English, they chose to blame their decline on America. When even their culture was supplanted by American painting, writing and music, the breach was irreparable. "They’re even more of a service economy than we are," James asserted. They don’t produce very much other then gourmet food, fine wine and sexy women. And we’re not that far behind them in two out of the three." "I hope one of those categories is American women," Arlene said with mock menace. James touched her suggestively. "Don’t worry. You don’t have any competition when you decide to strut your stuff."
          It felt like a second honeymoon by the time they got to Paris. James had reserved a small suite at the George V, on an upper floor and Arlene had a great view of the heart of Paris from the windows facing west. By craning her neck a little she could just about see the Arc de Triomphe and part of the Champs Elyées. They took a short nap, then James phoned Ted. First he spoke to Khiem, who was already suffering from O.J. conversation deprivation, and James promised to send the most recent video material once he got back to America. Khiem cautioned him not to take the underground subway, since there was an explosion yesterday that the authorities assumed was a terrorist bomb that injured 26 people. James said he was looking forward to seeing Khiem soon and asked to speak to Ted.
          James and Ted chatted pleasantly for a few minutes, then Ted asked to say hello to Arlene. "She wants to talk to you, Ted." "That’s nice, Dad. Put her on." James paused for a minute, then said: "She can’t come to the phone right now." "Too bad. I’ll call her in a few days." "You can do that, or you can see her at dinner tonight." "What are you talking about?" "We’re here." "What do you mean here?" "We’re in Paris, Ted. We’re staying at the George V." "Are you kidding?" "No. If you don’t believe me, hang up and call the desk at the George and ask for me." "What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you doing anything wrong?" "No, Dad." "Then don’t get defensive." "It’s just that this is a real surprise." "I know. Your mom and I took a vacation and we thought it would be nice to see you before we went home." "That’s great. How about we meet at Lasserre, on Avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt, at seven o’clock?" "D’accord. See you later."
          Ted was genuinely happy to see his parents and they were equally pleased to see him. They felt real affection when they greeted each other and were delighted to be together. James ordered for all of them, but after that he barely noticed what he ate because he was so caught up in the reunion of his family. "I know this sounds silly, Ted, but it feels like you’ve been gone for a long time." "I know what you mean, Dad. It’s only been about four months, but it seems much longer. You and Mom look different, especially Mom."  He turned to Arlene. "You look beautiful, Mom. You’re just glowing." Arlene leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I’m glad it shows. Your father and I have fallen in love again and I feel like a new woman."
          The evening passed too quickly. After a brief summary of James’ and Arlene’s recent activities, they listened intently as Ted described the status of his business venture. Ted quickly lapsed into techno jargon that James could only follow partially and Arlene not at all, but they were impressed by his enthusiasm and didn’t interrupt. At one point, the maitre’d, concerned about their lengthy occupation of the table, appeared and asked James politely if he was ready for his check. James gave him a hundred dollar bill and said they’d like to linger over their coffee for a while, which was suddenly very acceptable. Ted explained how the group set up their business structure and with admirable restraint, James didn’t offer one piece of advice.
          When they finally had enough of the restaurant they were reluctant to say goodnight, so Ted suggested they go to a café. It was a little too chilly to sit outdoors, so Ted took them to Fouquets, where they could watch the late night action on the Champs Elysées. James let Ted order the wine and they talked for hours. At two A.M. the long week in the sun was taking its toll on Arlene and she yawned just as Ted asked her something. They laughed agreeably and James said: "It’s time to put your Mom to bed. She’s been vacationing strenuously and I don’t want her to be exhausted when we go home." Ted was immediately contrite. "I didn’t mean to keep you guys out so late. I was just glad to see you." "We feel the same way," Arlene replied. "You’ve changed so much in such a short time that I couldn’t get enough of you." "Thanks, Mom. How about you have dinner with the group tomorrow night at General Truong’s house? Seven o’clock?" "Great," James said. "I’m curious to see if your friends have changed as much as you have."
          James and Arlene took a taxi back to the hotel, quickly undressed, got into bed and gently made love. When they finished, Arlene kissed James tenderly. "That was so sweet, James. It’s never been like that before." "That’s because I’m discovering a new side of me …. It doesn’t hurt that I’m in bed with a beautiful woman, after a night on the town in Paris, where I saw my formerly slacker son becoming a man." "Maybe he wasn’t a slacker," she chided him. "Maybe he just needed some time to find himself." "I didn’t treat him very well," James said ruefully. "I kept demanding that he do things that I thought were good for him and I didn’t try very hard to find out what he wanted." "Well you obviously didn’t do too badly. He looked pretty good tonight." "He did, didn’t he?"
          Despite the late hour they talked quietly for a while, until James was in the middle of explaining what Ted would have to do and he noticed that Arlene was fast asleep. He carefully pulled the covers over her shoulders, put out the light and lay still, thinking about Ted. He made a vow that he would make up for his past neglect and help Ted to the best of his abilities. He had a flashback to that night on the boat when he and his partners entertained the call girls, but he fell asleep before the twinge of guilt could become a serious problem. They slept late and breakfasted in bed. Arlene, in a spirit of playfulness tried to scandalize the room service waiter by sitting up in her nightgown. The waiter, either Algerian, or Arab, showed true French aplomb and merely asked: "Will that be all, Madame?" and made a dignified exit. James teasingly asked: "Are you trying to start a holy war?" "I had an irresistible impulse to flaunt myself. He’ll get over it." "Madame?" "Yes, Monsieur?" "You are becoming positively shameless." "You got it, baby."
          They went to the Louvre in the afternoon and by some unusual occurrence it was only moderately crowded. They were able to actually look at some paintings without being jostled by the culture-clutching herd. James translated the French  descriptions of the paintings and Arlene explained them. He was still completely disinterested in art, but he did his duty loyally and expressed interest in everything she said. His only rumble of discontent was when she showed him a Braque cubist painting, next to an identical Picasso cubist painting. "Braque and Picasso shared a studio and sometimes signed each others work," she explained. "I don’t get it. What’s the point of painting the exact same thing the other guy does?" "They were both deconstructing the art of the past and inventing new forms. This was part of their process. Maybe they were testing their theories, or joking." "I still don’t get it."
          After the hush of the museum they walked across the Pont Neuf to the Café de Flore, on the Left Bank. They ate brunch outdoors and watched the life of Paris flow up and down the Boulevard St. Germain. Then James surprised Arlene with a visit to the Galeries Lafayette, the largest department store in Europe.  He bought her a fabulously expensive bottle of perfume and a pound of Beluga as a housegift for the group. Next he took her to Sabbia Rosa, a sexy lingerie shop, for scandalous panties and an alluring negligee. They got back to the hotel with their bundles with just enough time for a nap before dinner with the group.When Arlene came out of the bathroom in her new negligee, the nap was forgotten. They did manage to doze off for a few minutes and only woke up in time to get ready without rushing, because James wisely asked the desk to give them a wake up call.
          The taxi left them off in front of the Truong mansion and James and Arlene were impressed by its imposing size. James also noted the rapid response of the security man  to their arrival. A solid looking Vietnamese in a business suit walked out of the guardhouse at the massive metal front gate and greeted them courteously. James told him their names and the security man politely requested them to face a video camera and they were immediately identified. As the security man opened the gate, Khiem came out of the house to meet them. They exchanged bows, then friendly handshakes and Khiem escorted them inside. James asked Khiem about the elaborate security and Khiem vaguely referred to possible threats. "General Truong is a very wealthy man." He offered to show the security system to James later and James thanked him.
          Arlene was surprised at the elegance of the interior, after the massive stone exterior. "How old is this house, Khiem?" she asked. James translated his explanation. "Many hundreds of years, Madame. Monsieur Philippe will be glad to tell you its story." Arlene thanked Khiem, then turned to James: "I guess I’m going to have to learn French, because everyone else in the family speaks it. Unless Khiem decides to speak English." James translated for Khiem, but Arlene could tell by the brief twinkle in his eye that he understood her. Khiem led them into the main salon where the group was waiting. For a moment there was an almost awkward hesitation, then James said: "If it isn’t my favorite son," and hugged Ted, then shook hands with the others. Arlene hugged Ted, then impulsively hugged Kevin and Lys. Philippe overcame his usual reserve and greeted her French style, with a kiss on each cheek.
          Khiem signaled one of the staff, who promptly served champagne. James offered the tin of caviar and Khiem signaled another staff member who took the tin and exited. He returned a few moments later with an identical tin in a bed of ice, with the appropriate condiments. James made a mental note that the next time he bought a gift for the group it would require a little more thought. Perhaps a case of exceptional vintage wine, or a bottle of rare cognac. Arlene was too busy chattering with the young people to notice very much of what was going on around her. She did observe that although Kevin, Philippe and Lys seemed more confident, the big change was in Ted, who seemed to have established himself with the group in a leadership role.
          Arlene was deep in a discussion with the group about ethics in business, so Khiem took James aside for a conversation about his favorite topic, the O.J. trial. "Now that Monsieur O.J. is free the case is over, no?" "We shall soon see, my friend. Right now everyone is arguing about whether he’s innocent or guilty." Khiem was surprised. "But did not the court find him not guilty?" "Yes, but there were social issues involved. Many black Americans think he was innocent just because he’s black. Many white Americans think he was guilty and believe he was acquitted because he’s black." "That is very confusing." "I know. When you get a chance, ask Arlene about the trial. Do you think he’s guilty?" Khiem reflected for a moment. "I think so. He is a violent man and there was a lot of evidence that pointed to him. What about you?" "I agree," James said. "But we’ll never be sure."
          One of the staff signaled Khiem by radar or sonar that dinner was ready. James hadn’t detected any sound or movement to alert him, but Khiem announced: "Dinner is served in the dinning room. If you will all join us there, the staff will bring your champagne glasses." It turned out to be the only room that seemed to belong in the massive stone house. The table was enormous, a dark teak slab carved for the ages. A dozen large teak chairs were placed around the table, with room for a dozen more. Large teak sideboards filled with silver trays and fine porcelain lined the walls. The few areas on the wall without furniture were filled by muted landscape paintings that Arlene discovered on closer inspection were Corots.
          Dinner itself was a delicious, simple Vietnamese meal of fish, vegetables and rice, but the accompanying wines were from excellent French vintages. They talked catch up, since they hadn’t seen each other for months. The group had its first audience for whom they could display their progress without negative repercussions. James and Arlene listened intently as each of the younger people took turns discussing their activities. Arlene could barely follow Ted’s description of his combat game, but James was fascinated by its sophistication, since he followed some of the game companies, whose earnings had skyrocketed in the techno-mania surge that was sweeping the financial markets. He did have trouble following Kevin’s description of their technical equipment. When Philippe and Lys concluded their outline of the business plan, James assured them that their venture sounded exciting and well organized.
          The group was thrilled when James offered to be their first outside financial investor and Arlene promised to help them with any legal problems, until they got their own lawyer. The talk became more casual and Ted told them about the night they escorted Lys to a lesbian bar and were thrown out after she flirted with the owner’s girl friend. They all laughed heartily at the part where patrons loyal to the owner were ready to attack the group, who beat a hasty retreat. Once they settled down, James tactfully reminded them that things were different in America. "I don’t want to sound like a father, but you have a lot of anonymity now, because you’re young and don’t plan to stay here long term. When you get home and start a formal business, you’ll have to be more discreet in your personal affairs."
          Ted looked at his friends who nodded encouragingly. "I think I speak for the group. We appreciate your interest and advice, Dad. We haven’t discussed our personal lives once we go back to America, but we will. Thanks for reminding us." Then they broke up into two groups: James, Philippe and Lys; Arlene, Ted and Kevin. Arlene made a request of Ted and Kevin. "I don’t know anything about computers, or the complicated things you’re dealing with. Will you educate me when you come home?" "Glad to, Mom. We’ll just have to work out when. I’ll be getting an apartment in Manhattan when we go back."  Only an effort of will kept Arlene from blubbering sentimentally at the news that her fledgling was leaving the nest. All she said was: "I’m sure we’ll find some time." But she stared wonderingly at this suddenly grown-up son, who was no longer dependant on his parents. Only Kevin’s breezy: "Don’t worry, Mrs. D. We’ll make a techie out of you," enabled her to maintain her self control.
          James let Lys explain their business plan in some detail, while Philippe nodded encouragement. James didn’t recognize the retiring girl who had stayed at his house. Lys seemed confident and sure of herself. He started to make a joke about the benefits of coming out of the closet, but thought better of it. As if she was reading his mind Lys asked: "Does it bother you that I’m a lesbian, Mister Donovan?" "Not as long as you don’t make a play for my wife," he teased. "We’ve been getting along real well lately and I’d hate to have anything ruin it." Lys smiled impishly. "I haven’t graduated to older women yet, so don’t worry." He jokingly wiped his brow. "Whew, that’s a relief. But in all seriousness, when you get back to the states, I suggest you follow the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. Some of the people you’ll need to do business with might not be so tolerant."
          James looked at Lys to see if she was offended, but she just grinned at him. "Don’t worry. I’ll be cool. Nobody knows me here, so I can act out a little. Once we’re home, I’ll concentrate on business and not mix it with pleasure." "That’s a very sensible attitude, Lys," James said approvingly. "Do you have any idea how many men mess up because they can’t keep their dicks in their pants?" "That’s not my problem," she said with a straight face. "You know what I mean." She laughed. "Yes. I’ll keep it in my pants." James decided that he liked her, regardless of her sexual preference. "What about you, Pill?" James asked "Are there any dark secrets in your life?" "Many. Perhaps I’ll tell you about them someday. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Philippe. We decided that it was more appropriate for business." James nodded. "A good idea. I’ll be glad to."
          Arlene, Ted and Kevin rejoined the others just as Khiem directed one of the staff to serve cognac. James wasn’t a cognac expert, but he recognized an obviously excellent spirit. He made a note that if he brought them a gift, it would be a rare old Napoleon. The mood was very relaxed and James turned to Philippe. "This is a very imposing house. Has it always been in your family?" "No, James. It originally belonged to a cadet branch of the Montmorency clan. They lost it during the Terror following the Revolution, along with the heads of various family members. It was awarded to my ancestor, Armand Gauthier, for meritorious service at the battle of Austerlitz. When the Monarchy was restored, Armande gave his services to the king. His sons became soldiers and it became a family tradition to serve in the military."
          Ted had been listening intently. "Were you expected to become a soldier?" "No. Would you like the long version of the story or the short?" "The long," Ted replied, and the others echoed "long". "Alright. In 1878, at the Congress of Berlin, Germany, Austria and Russia divided the Ottoman Empires’ territories in the Balkans and established three new countries; Serbia, Bulgaria and Greece. France occupied Tunisia as part of the great power imperialistic seizure of colonies in Africa. France also occupied Indo-China. Some of my ancestors acquired vast rubber plantations, so now they were planters, as well as soldiers. My grandfather maintained his plantation after the defeat of the French by the Viet Minh in 1954. When the Americans intervened in the early sixties everything changed."
          Arlene was fascinated by a different aspect of Vietnam then she was familiar with as a protester. "Is that where your mother and father met?" "Yes. My father was one of the few Generals who wasn’t political. He realized that if the south lost the war, the Buddhists would be exterminated by the communist victors. Instead of playing politics in Saigon, he trained his division to fight. He cooperated with the Americans, because they were the only hope for an independent South Vietnam. During one battle in the Central Highlands, the North Vietnamese overran the plantation that the Gauthiers had started after they lost their plantation in the north. They were about to execute the Gauthiers when my father, despite having only a small force, saved them. Out of gratitude, they finally accepted my mother’s marriage to an Asian." "That’s quite a story," Arlene remarked. "Are your parents still happy together?" "They were," "Philippe answered. "They found the best of east and west. But my mother died giving birth to me." "I’m sorry," Arlene said. "It was a long time ago, Madame."

a3

28

Stretch, stretch, yes, that's it. Just a little further. Was that your spleen? Nod once for no and go bug-eyed for yes. Oh good, I was worried. Now. Bend that arm around. Just a little more to go, come on, work with me. Did you hear that pop? We are making progress. Let's take a short break. I want to talk about duct tape. What does it taste like? I don't know. I thought you would be the person to ask. It looks chewy. I imagine it tastes like glue. And why is it always silver? Good point. Maybe most ducts are silver in nature. Shall we move on? You have lovely knees. Most men don't. Either they are knobbly or dimpled, never quite right. Honey! I have found your patella. That was easier than I thought. What did that feel like? It said in the book that this could be permanent. Irreversible. Some things science can't undo, it seems. I am getting sweaty, you? I can't tell. It's all very wet in here. Did you know I have a tattoo? It is on the underside of my tongue. Getting it done. Know how that hurt? Actually, it even tickled a little. I know. You are thinking, a hammer and sickle? How very evil empire, right? No, they are just my two favourite things. I grew up on a farm. More like an abattoir actually. So, how are we doing? Do you still believe in till death do us part?





a4

29

Coyote is now playing at the drive-in, in the white night air's apparent absence of stars. She's the uncredited femme fatale. (No nude scenes are gratuitous for a trickster with her wits always about her.) At the climax of the scene she's making, she tells the hero of this western slasher black comedy it would be better if they saw other people.

Coyote turns into the dark desert (disappearing). Lean and adaptable she ambles, emphatically un-American, though she does a mean imitation.





a5

30

His hands are the size of Genoa hams and well suited for pulling the kneecaps off of longshoremen. He walks towards me and, without introduction, pulls my eyebrows off, slowly and deliberately, like a doting mother pulling a band aid off of her sissy son. He puts them on his upper lip and smiles; his smile is resplendent and angel-thigh white; a fox’s mouth, full of newly laid chicken eggs.
The sun is setting.
As he smiles, he points to his new moustache with two well-muscled thumbs. His thumbs are huge and seem to have elbows instead of knuckles.
The warm scent of ground spiced sausage drifts through my splintered front door and we all hear:
“Meat-a-balls; Get your fresha-hotta meat-a-balls here…”
Then, with improbable aplomb, the strongman somersaults through a previously unbroken bay window.
This is why I don’t care for strongmen.
They are as nimble and capricious as they are strong.
Pete fires up another filterless Quinton, smoking it through his tracheotomy hole. He blows smoke and leans against a wall. He leans with the gravel throated insouciance of a Hollywood cowboy.
My dog Pete is drinking and smoking way too much these days and has made some very poor decisions; to wit, the bringing home of stray strongmen.
Pete tells me that he won this strongman in a game of chance and that I am honor bound, as his owner, to help him raise the strongman, to give him a home. Pete said that a guy said his strongman has night terrors and is prone to fits of snuggling.
I tell Pete to take a flying shit at a rolling toilet.
I think Pete’s reasoning is horseshit, even for a talking dog, and I tell him so via rolled-up newspaper across the snout.
Pete shakes off my discipline. He puts his heirloom watch back into his vest pocket and falls back to the ground on all fours, cocking a hind leg. Emitting a smoky, robotic whistle from his tracheotomy hole, he micturates on the front of my slacks.
Fucking dog dandy!
Fortunately, my slacks are made from genuine Guatemalan duck’s backs so his dudgeon just beads up and rolls away.
Now the strongman is back, this time covered in brick and rubble from loping through my front wall. He reeks of horse and Italian meats. He stands there with a meatball smile and again he points to his upper lip with his two blue-veined thumbs.
The strongman is now wearing a double-decker; one the color of ginger, and the other, my erstwhile eyebrows, a rakish salt and pepper.
Outside I hear the plaintive hooting of a distraught meatball vender. I look out to see his upper lip, ghostly pale, hovering over an angry and disillusioned beard.
His cart is on fire and his horses lay on their sides, twitching, having been buggered into a restless sleep by this bi-mustachioed rascal.
In the middle of my living room the strongman begins posing; first the Crab pose and then leaping into a sprightly front double-biceps.
I glance at the strongman and then at Pete who whistles blithely into the air. Pete checks his pocket watch and slowly begins licking himself, adhering to a tight schedule.
I decide to strike a javelin pose followed by a side-triceps.
The strongman mistakes my shared interest in bodybuilding poses for a calculated insult and bends me into a supplicants pose. Then, applying a technique he learned from party clowns, the strongman twists me into the shape of a balloon Weiner-dog and casts me out of my bay window and into the night.
Pete buckles with laughter.
I float into the sky; Pete licks; the strongman howls in terror as some night spills into the room.
Pete brays as the strongman approaches, pleading with his eyes for quiet snuggling.
I continue to float higher, wondering just how warm the moon is and if it really isn’t a meatball, praying that strongmen don’t know about rocket-ships.

31

Chris Farley died wearing sweat pants and an open button down shirt. Chris Farley watched sod grow on his childhood bedroom's ceiling. Chris Farley made rain fall by touching the bridge of his nose with a certain kind of wood. Chris Farley thought about the hole straight through Nebraska. Chris Farley could not roll snake eyes. Chris Farley had a gray mark through his thumb nail. Chris Farley swallowed Big League Chew. Chris Farley wanted to stand in the kitchen. Chris Farley watched his father become liquid. Chris Farley saw himself in a scene in Poltergeist. Chris Farley unpeeled orange flesh in an apple. Chris Farley dug through the box of Apple Jacks and found a small carved locket with his name inside it. Chris Farley paid for a car inside his mind. Chris Farley opened his front door before sleeping. Chris Farley paid a small man to stand at the foot of his bed. Chris Farley peeled the billboard. Chris Farley ran through a field without his legs. Chris Farley coughed up a whole cotton T-shirt. Chris Farley shook hands with himself. Chris Farley pressed his tongue against the window. Chris Farley reaffixed the rearview mirror with his spit. Chris Farley traced his knee. Chris Farley popped lightbulbs in Kansas City while in seeing China. Chris Farley dove into the sea. Chris Farley had a small patch of acne in the crook of his foot from age three to seventeen. Chris Farley bubbled in warm water. Chris Farley caressed the button. Chris Farley folded the paper until it became a bedroom and then he laid down on the bed.

32

          I live in a gingerbread house. But I’m not a gingerbread man. Permanent icing snow outside, spearmint gels for bushes, nonpareils for siding. I’m not lost in the forest but somewhere in the suburbs. Sometimes my girlfriend comes over and I have to follow her as she walks around, making sure she doesn’t snap off a piece of the wall or floor, keeping bags of chips and cookies handy to sate her hunger. She won’t stay for long because thin crisp cookies provide no insulation. Yeah, it’s cold at night, so I huddle up alone, clutching a Gummi bear. I am resilient, able to resist the sweet walls around me. I cook lots of beef and potatoes to prevent self-induced homelessness. Don’t ask me what happens when it rains, when the wind kicks up and nonpareils fly off into space; it’s hard finding a reliable expert in cookie house maintenance. Eventually my girlfriend will see the thinness of my cookie-encased world and leave, snapping me in two. Sometimes it would be easier to be a gingerbread man. A frosted smile painted forever on my face. A flat two-dimensional life. I’m all too real, though, in a house that will crumble away, a life that will end packed in a box.

33

you can ask around
but Christ has only risen

once
and my reason has fallen

a thousand times and my
poverty has been assaulted

and fortified
by cans of beer,

delivered pizza,
satellite TV,

and I inhale it all
and I watch that TV




a6

34

Sid was taking a dump. It was going rough. The girls were giggling and being crazy. Sid slipped on to Richard. That poor soul loved sex so much he didn’t mind that his wife had three heads. The thing is he never got beyond foreplay. The girls were listening to rock music and dancing. Sid didn’t want to leave the bathroom. The girls were being wild. He could hear them jumping on and off the couch. Something smashed. Sid clasped his head between his hands and sighed. “The reek of human blood smiles out at me,” said Lucy. “No it’s, the reek of blood is laughter to my heart,” said Jane. The bathroom was small and Sid felt claustrophobic. His knees were arching. His arse was numb. Those girls would not leave him alone. They were out there dressed in their diaphanous dresses, showing off their firm breasts and taut bottoms. “You’ve both got it wrong,” shouted Wendy, “here is the right quote: the reek of human shit is laughter that illuminates my heart.” The girls laughed loudly.

Sid had once been an actor. He had called himself a method actor. During a Greek play a member of the audience jumped on stage and pulled out a gun. The intruder finding himself amidst the chorus proclaimed his desire to keep the Eleusinian Mysteries just that mysteries. And so the intruder before the audience could get to him shot Sid through the head. Sid was killed on the spot.

In India on the river Ganges Sid bathed and washed away the sins of war. He read Rig-Veda and chanted. Sid in India killed armies and armies of flies. Afterwards he regretted the violence.

“Come out!” shouted Lucy. “Where are you Sid!” shouted Wendy. “We love you Sid!” shouted Jane. The girls were looking for Sid. They hadn’t looked under the bed yet. Sid was squeezed painfully between the bed and carpet. He was weeping softly. It wasn’t depression, it was the fatigue. Sid was exhausted. “Come out!” shouted Lucy. “Where are you Sid!” shouted Wendy. “We love you Sid!” shouted Jane.

Sid old now pate grey and white furrowed physiognomy bones scream night and day scream a moribund scream death scream tortured and beaten by time old Sid not in the not yet stuck in the past with flashes of the here and now reek of death Sid soon the bullet will enter just under the right eye and zip through his brain and exit his skull and the audience will clap and cheer and say it was Sid’s best performance. Sid’s cock is flaccid like a strap of old leather. It’s only use… pissing out of.

It was Richard with the gun. He was the bastard that pulled the trigger and sent Sid’s brain scattering all over the actors on the stage. The pieces of brain were grey.

35

            This is about a dog that caught fire.  A cold, rainy day, in the north of the county, leaves already having given up, just mulch on the ground really, all crispness left and unreturning, this is about a dog that caught fire.  Okay, caught is the wrong word, my cowardice already, leaves and wetness not what it’s about.  The dog was set on fire.  The dog was set on fire.

            I am a teacher at a university.  I teach literature to those that want to know it; not a great teacher, but not a terrible one either.  Sometimes I get it right and feel some satisfaction, and sometimes I confuse them, dig deeper holes, make unclear what was clear in the first place: a Carver story, a Richard Ford delight, my pedantry mooring students in hopeless obfuscation.  But I’ve learned to deal with this.  We have our good rides, and we have our buckles and falls.

            It was evening when I saw it happen.  I was in my chambers looking over my new timetable. It was to my distaste, as all timetables are, one always feels an urge to subtract, shuffle, rearrange, so it is with life too, options almost never available.  It was evening and three of them were over by the bushes drinking, I saw the beer bottles in their hands, even in the fading light.  I could just make out their faces too, delighted in tormenting the poor dog that ran in circles around them; maybe the mutt thought it was about to have some fun, maybe play fetch, maybe get a good rub from a new master, a few hardy pats on the head.  I’ve never liked dogs.  But I’ve never disliked them either.  They are mere domestic animals, and deserve whatever goodness comes: food, companionship.  Two of the students smoked, cigarettes in the gloom a firefly tarantella.  One of them, the tallest one - I’d seen him in the corridors, tall enough to be a basketball player, ungainly, un-muscular - was the one that produced the lighter fuel.  I don’t know how big these canisters are exactly, I don’t smoke, the rooms forbid it, but he proceeded to pour the fuel on the small dog.  The others, stooges now, began to help him in his endeavor.  They removed their ties, and when able to halt the writhing dog – which never bit, not once - began to bind its legs together.  My heart broke to this: a dog imagining the way it was not going to be. 
           I watched it all.  This spectacle.  Man’s occupations and preoccupations, man’s distractions, diversions, things I might even proclaim in class, and all the while I…unmoving.  How in my telling, and is oft, I use these un words: Unfair.  Unaccustomed.  The beginning of my favorite work: I am an unattractive man.
           Unbeknownst.  Unmarried: I write this on application forms. 
           My fiction already was composing: Unbeknownst to the two smaller stooges the taller one reached in his pocket and pulled out a can of lighter fuel.
           Can? Is that the right word? Tin?

            The tall one emptied the liquid content on the dog’s back and with a quick flick of his lighter the fur went up in flame, the piercing yelp heard all over the campus.  It somehow broke free of the ties and ran off into the hedgerow, the flame visible as it scampered, the dog’s whine fading under the rise of the laughter and merriment.

36

          The first time I came across the existence of a box was during my doctorate research.  I studied the influence of memories on existence and an obscure report filed in the back section of the college library found its way into my inventory pile.  The pages were typed on dusty paper and I skimmed the report. 
           Doctor Thomas, a professor from the same university, made an expedition to Africa to study the psychological aspects of tribal life.  His notes detailed finding a box that stood in a hut guarded every hour of the day.  The leaders told him, through a translator, that every important part of their lives added a piece to the box to signify the part.  These ranged from leaves to forest plants and some animal skins.  The doctor set up camp outside the village and, according to his reports; it barely survived an attack by the warring tribes. 
          The doctor and his assistant arrived in the village that morning after smelling smoke.  They searched the village and found no trace of inhabitants.  They followed the destruction trail to the neighboring war camp.  The translator assured the natives that the men were harmless.  The chief of the other tribe made them observe a ritual at spear point.  People, who the doctor recognized from the village, were lined up next to a fire.  They were in tears.  Two men had pried open the village memory box and were shifting through the contents.  They held up a particular animal skin and the fourth person in line wailed.  He fell to the ground.  The man holding the skin through it into the fire and the man on the ground vanished.
    
          I closed the report at that point.  The thought of vanishing people felt totally ludicrous.  I went on and finished my dissertation.  I set up a private practice in the suburbs and started my counseling career.

          One day, a colleague called me to say they were cleaning out my old office at the university and found something they thought looked important.  It had my name on it and so I drove to the office.  I went into the Psychology wing of the Liberal Arts building.  Two men, the movers, stood outside and ate their lunches.  They checked out the girls who walked to their classes and I went around them and into the room. 
          A box sat on the desk.
          The box was fashioned by a hardwood and covered in a thick layer of dust.  A white tag sat on the top. I cleared the dust and read the note.  “Property of Doctor Browne.”  Someone labeled it for me but the handwriting did not look familiar.  I found the latch to open it and the lid creaked with the movement.  Inside sat a notebook.  The notebook, according to the cover, was property of a Doctor Thomas.  I took the box home.
          I read the notebook and the final pages said how he recovered the box before the tribe could burn it.  He watched the entire population vanish as the items that signified their memories were burned in the fire.  The surviving tribe made sure the box held nothing else and then gave it to the doctor.  He placed his notes in there.  The entry ended with his return to the States.

Mary, we’ll call her, a particularly difficult patient of mine, sat directly across from me.  She cried every session and this was no different.  Mary had experienced horrific abuse and we hit a wall were her psyche would not let her continue.  We both felt helpless.  At this point I had the box in my office.  I took it down from the shelf. 
          “Mary, I would like to give you something.”  I put it in front of her.  Mary held a locket with the picture of her husband, the abuser.  He would not let her go but she would not leave.  The locket represented the only present he ever gave Mary. 
          “What is it?” she asked through her tears.
          “Let’s call it therapy.  Sometimes people need visual representation of processing a memory and experience.  I want you to throw the locket, and any other things that remind you of your husband, into this box.  I will keep it here where it will be safe.”  She took it from me, put the locket inside, and cracked a smile under all the tears.

          Mary’s next visit came a week later.  She looked like a different person.  She said that every day since she put the memory item into the box, she felt better.  Her husband turned around and gave her positive attention and reinforcement.    She referred her friends with reports of my skilled work.  I looked at the box on the shelf and wondered if Thomas hadn’t found a key piece of the memory puzzle. 
          Other patients added their own items of importance to the box.  I placed a progress report from them all inside when they finished their time with me to make sure I kept a record of all the success.  The box started to fill.  The patients kept coming and leaving satisfied.  One day nothing would fit and allow the box to close.

          I placed the box next to the trashcan in my office.  I looked over everything and realized the choice would be harder then it seemed.  In the end I picked an old high school commitment ring from a patient considering marriage to her abusive boyfriend.  They were actually friends of my daughter and we met with much success in her work so throwing the ring would not mean much but relieving a small amount of space.  I remembered the story from the research journal and also wanted to try this as an experiment.  If the guy was half the jerk he seemed I would actually be doing a service to the world.  I threw the ring into the dumpster behind the building and drove home for the night.

          The next morning I stopped at the mailboxes outside of the office building.  With an hour until the first appointment, I could take my time with coffee and the paper.  I sat down at the desk, put on music in the background, turned on the coffeemaker, and opened up the pages to the headlines.  In the bottom left corner was a picture of a couple that I recognized.  It looked like an old high school picture of the young woman and her controlling significant other.  He was the owner of the ring and this was the first time I looked at him face to face.  The headline read, “Man Mysteriously Vanishes.”  My memory went directly back to the box.  It taunted me from the shelf.
          By noon, I decided on my next experiment.  I picked an old watch from a man whose father has molested him in his childhood.  We used the item in sensory therapy and it worked well.  He connected his father’s body with the watch and now his father sat in a hospice in Florida.  I grabbed the watch and put it under my tires.  After three runs, it was smashed.  I threw it into the dumpster and left.
          Being in Florida, this would not give me the luxury of a newspaper headline.  I waited two hours and called the operator.  She connected me to the home.  I asked to speak to the man in question and the nurse informed me that, to her regret, he had passed yesterday afternoon, right around the time I removed the watch from the box.  I was convinced; the box had the ability to remove memories from reality.  Later that afternoon, my next case came along and it ended up being my last.

          My ex wife called on the phone to discuss an increase in alimony payments.  She was blowing away the funds with her new boyfriend in most of the local bars; according to the private detective I hired to follow her.  I fought off each attempt she made at increasing the money.  She refused to let me see our son.  She told me she was moving and I would hear from her in court.  I hung up the phone and opened my desk drawer.
          My wedding band still sat there, taunting me.  Each time a female patient attempted a physical advance; I would wear the ring to avoid a harassment suit.  It served me well on a few occasions.  I picked it up and walked over to the memory box. I opened the box, placed it inside, and decided to destroy it the next day.

          Destroying gold is not as easy as it seems.  I tried different solutions each time and, using my cell phone, confirmed her existence and my failure.  She told me she was calling the police and I resolved to stop.  A television program flashed back into my memory of a couple making bands from their grandparent’s jewelry. 
          I jumped into my car and drove to the nearest jewelry store.  An elderly man stood behind the counter.  I told him I wanted to melt down the ring as a gift to my son.  He took it from me, returned fifteen minutes later from the back room, and handed me a medallion of gold.  I bought a chain, paid him for his services, completed the necklace by stringing the medallion onto the chain, and left.
          The ride back took me over the river that ran through the center of town. The necklace burned in my hands and through my conscience.  I stopped, opened the window, and through the necklace into the river.  When I arrived back at the office, a squad car sat out front.  I kept driving and decided to pay her a visit to see if the process worked.
          The last address I had for her was an apartment complex about a mile away from my office.  I rented the office before we were seeing each other and her place was a convenience at the time.  I had not heard that she moved.  The drive took all of eight minutes and, when I turned the corner to the block, her old Honda sat in the driveway.  I circled and parked back at the cross street to give myself an element of surprise.  I exited the car and walked past the front of the complex.  Her window was open and I could hear a television outside.  I went for the entrance.
          The stairwell took another minute.  I stopped in front of her door and the television blared a soap opera.  I knocked, against my better judgment.  The door opened and a young man stepped out.  He wore no shirt and a ratty pair of jeans.
          “Can I help you?” he asked.  I stood in silence and watched his face.
          “Yeah,” I said at the last second, “is..”
          “Who’s there?”  A female voice yelled from the living room.  It hadn’t worked.  Questions ran through my mind. 
          “Sorry, wrong apartment,” I said.  The door shut and I left. 

          I made my way back to the office.  The police cruiser was still sitting out front.  I walked inside and up the hallway.  Two officers flanked my door. 

          They found bodies.  After the bodies, the wonderful investigators of the local police connected the common thread, my patients.  The last two were detectives.  They collected enough evidence to press charges.  After a lengthy trial, here I sit, in jail, spending the rest of my days.
          I have one thing up on all of them.  This story, the one you are reading now, is a copy of one I placed in the box.  Yes, I threw myself on the fire.  Literally, as I found out from research, the fire will be my home in another two days.  Evidence, after trial, is destroyed if deemed non important.  By my count, at the end of the week, I will be gone, the empty mark of a distant memory. 
          So now I wait to see the world that I sent my patients into for their healing.  I’ve seen them cry and laugh from it.  I’ve seen them mired in depression and on a manic high.  I’ve seen their delusions when the wires could not carry the images from the hidden world.  Now I’ll rest and prepare myself for this is not an end, just a new beginning.

          -Doctor Erwin McLaren, Ph D. Psychology

          (Note found on the bed of cell 1435 the morning of the escape of Prisoner McLaren.  He has yet to be found.)