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October 2005 Edition HUMDINGER LITERARY E-ZINE Editor-in-Chief: Chris Goebel
FANTASY SHORT STORY Chris Goebel Synopsis: Reporter Bruce Dougherty risks his life to interview the most dangerous creature of all time—the Black Dragon. Can he survive? And if he does, can he live with the secrets of time? DINNER WITH THE BLACK DRAGON The Black Dragon lived on the deep energy channels beneath the The Grand Marnier 50 drizzled into her snifter and inhaling, I caught the warmth of the 50-year-old orange flavored cognac on my tongue. No wonder she’d warned me that she couldn’t control herself under its influence: “There’s something about drinking it—maybe that ghosts once drank the same thing—that warms me and makes me as malleable as Jello.” What made her think I was too honorable to take advantage of that? Instinctually, beneath our self-constructed layers of civility, she knew that she’d drink Grand Marnier with me and that the sex would be so orgasmic that we’d feel as if we’d participated in an olive oil orgy. She leaned back on the brown suede sofa, allowed David Gray’s White Ladder to woo her. Flame red hair—red hot sex out of a bottle—pale skin, happy cleavage, the shoulder strap of her metallic teal evening gown drifted down her shoulder as she adjusted herself. A little more cleavage in passing, a faint aroma of pent-up passion—reminiscent of grass, clover and the forbidden. What she’d said about Grand Marnier was so true that jealousy fluttered across my chest. If she drank more, the whole act would finish without me. A rumble escaped my throat as I caressed her neck and gave her a deep-tongued, pulling and possessing kiss. We dove deeply into each other’s mouths, as if we’d never reach the end of one another’s insides. I heard the steps coming upstairs and knew they’d stop before my door. Preceding the knock, my teeth clenched as I pulled—tore!—myself away from this clinging, ripe woman who awaited her harvest with such eagerness that she stopped breathing as I pulled away. “What is it, Bruce?” Still no breathing, just still air. “Someone’s outside.” She rubbed her legs together deliciously and straightened her hair and previously well-groped bodice. She sighed. “Your wife?” I shook my head. “Jessica, you know I’m not married.” The knock. I got up, making no effort to hide my arousal. Jessica would benefit from seeing it; if a man stood at the door, he’d get the hint and get the hell out; if it were a woman, I’d have a date tomorrow. “Mr. Dougherty, Lucreed L’air. It’s urgent.” After noting the dead stillness in his gray pupils, I nodded. Without looking back at Jessica, I stepped outside. The hallways reeked of smoke from a nearby fire and the dull concrete look embarrassed me. L’air wore a suit, smelled of French cologne and had a manicure. “Mr. L’air.” “He will speak with you. Don’t wear cologne. He’s unable to resist its . . . culinary temptation.” The Black Dragon. I’d advertised in the underground black markets that I wished to interview him. Why? For one, I had discovered he existed and two, I covered local events for the town newspaper and saw no prospect for excitement—aside from the type going on in my apartment—for the rest of my life. I’d expected this, a surge of thrill at receiving his acceptance, but not the cold blood that congealed in my veins. This was not some Mafioso; I would interview the most gigantic reptile in the world. L’air almost smirked. “Bring the Grand Marnier. He likes it.” I nodded, unable to speak. L’air turned on his heel. I noted his slight build, well-tailored suit and thinning blonde hair. He paused. “Be wary, Mr. Dougherty,” he whispered and strode off. “You’re gonna need to go home,” I told Jessica without preamble. Her forehead wrinkled in disappointment. “Bad news, huh?” “No, good news. I can’t explain. It’s all I can think about now.” I stood near the door, afraid to near her and more afraid that she’d drink more of the almost three hundred dollars a bottle Grand Marnier 50 the Black Dragon had requested. Could he sip from a snifter? I wondered. Jessica got in up a way that belied her awareness of her charms: the gentle stretch, slow bending over to retrieve her purse, deliberate saunter to the door. I was losing second and third changes, dammit. “Another time?” Her voice teased like a caress and slapped like an insult. “Yes,” though we lied. She wouldn’t give me another try and I knew it and smiled as if I didn’t. After my Great Distraction left, I realized something terrible. Mr. L’air hadn’t said when the Black Dragon would meet me, which meant I would travel with Grand Marnier. But, I never had the opportunity. A warm breath on my face awoke me at 3 A.M.—unfortunately alone—to a low rumble. The vibration unsettled me, as an earthquake might. I ran to my window and looked down the street, catching the shadow of a shadow, the Black Dragon long, spiked tail. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I ran out and flew down the stairs and down to the street. As I rounded the corner the Black Dragon had taken, I wondered how long it would be before I ran into him. The streetlight didn’t reach this far and it was too late for houselights to be on, so the deep black surrounded me. My back tingled and my arms filled with goose bumps. My heart pounded in my head, causing psychedelic red rings and dizziness. “Come dine with the Black Dragon,” I heard. “Dream in color.” The voice, half whisper, half crackling rumble, stilled me. Who knows what you dream? Exactly that. My fear alighted on my spine, an ice-cold, burning sensation. How would he know or enter my dreams? If he knew I dreamed in black and white, then he knew everything and I could hide nothing. I could not move or breathe and knew exactly how birds felt when confronted by a snake. In the darkness, a move to the left or right held no favor; I didn’t know where to run if I could have. I pulled saliva back into my parched mouth. “I dream in black and white.” “That’s not how it needs to be,” the voice answered. “You forgot the Grand Marnier.” Later, I would understand his meaning better. Shit! I had. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” The red eyes must have opened before me, because they glowed in front of my face. A deep sigh sent warm breath over my face and chest, making my hands shake. “Fair answer. I got the Grand. Follow me, Bruce Dougherty.” His scales had an oily sheen that I now perceived in the faint light of the witch’s moon. In the darkness, I couldn’t gage the Black Dragon’s true size, but the glowing dark ahead appeared a watery mountain that swayed continually in its progression. Large enough to end my life by falling backward onto me by accident. The vibration of his feet. My heart palpitated. He feasted on mammals, humans. We were alone on a pitch-black street; he was the most powerful intellectual presence known. I reported local news. He caused earthquakes, tidal waves, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions and burned and ate people. This made me shiver and feel suddenly, irreparably stupid. He had outlived tens of generations and would see me gone, one way or another. The Black Dragon would choose whether or not my bones would remain and turn to dust or be ground up in his stomach and excreted. My fear thrived on the silent darkness because no visual or auditory distractions interfered. I realized an environmental change late as the ground beneath me gave way too quickly for me to grab at anything. I fell on top of rock and dirt, scratched, bruised, trembling. Pushing my chest up from the ground and spitting out dust, I saw the green glow ahead: the Green Palace of the Black Dragon, a phosphorescent residence in the style of the Taj Mahal, its bulbous tips sparkling with green flames. The palace was grander than it appeared, because it took us over an hour to reach. Only as we neared the drawbridge and its eerie green flames could I view the Black Dragon with clarity. If I had to guess, he stood the height and length of two elephants. Because he was a reptile, of course, he weighed less than those gigantic mammals. Nonetheless, his long legs strode forward muscularly, their sword-like claws much sharper and longer than made me comfortable. In the back of my mind, restive feelings emanated from him. I feared him less than a pit bull and couldn’t understand it. The red eyes turned back, now shining the same glow-in-the-dark green as the smoldering palace fires. My eyes momentarily dropped to his gigantic mouth of sharp rows of teeth and then quickly flitted back up to his eyes. Better to see the ghosts in his eyes than the death on his teeth: it was like looking a Great White in the jaws, something for which there is no recovery. Humans aren’t meant to feel as prey and when they do, they never forget it. I could be dinner, lunch, a snack. How many humans did it take to fill the belly of a dragon? “I’m not hungry,” the voice crackled like an old record. But the growling disturbed me; it came from deep within his chest and took a while to reach the air, another sign of his immense proportions. “To the dining room. We will sit at the table and you will have your questions answered and I will have mine.” “You . . . have questions?” My voice came out as an undignified squeak. He walked forward in the hallway, his tail swaying slightly across the floor, twitching like an angry cat’s. I followed him down the hall, afraid to remain and petrified to progress. Few lanterns lit the gray cobbled floor that threatened to trip me and force me to fall and resemble a delicious dinner. I treaded carefully, half searching for the next lantern, half watching the oily sheen of his scales. Rather scales than teeth, I thought. The cobbled hallway steadily crept downward and as we trudged farther down, the air cooled. His breath began to smoke, hinting at the flames within his chest—the cold air strengthened his fire! As cold drinks force humans to burn more calories, the freezing air fueled the Black Dragon’s incredible furnace. Was it in his lungs? Did he have parts heretofore unknown? The pathway spiraled ever downward. Doom lodged itself in my chest and burrowed there. What a fool I’d been to come and a fool I’d die. Slowly I continued, surer with every step that I walked to my last meal, an escorted entrée. The lanterns blew out and the slight wind stopped. A scuttling sound let me know we weren’t alone. The sound of something heavy crossing the floor, a slight breeze across my face, faint light. As the Black Dragon’s body entered the dining room, my hands trembled and breath faltered. I stood still, watching as the front two legs crossed the doorframe, then the middle of the body, then the hind legs and finally the tail. Only four times my size, maybe a bit more. At least, that’s what I told myself to avoid soiling my jeans. His talons were as big as a sword I might hold, ten swords to the one sword I didn’t possess. He curled up at the back of the room behind the immense glossy black table. A million scratches marred the surface. “Come in,” he motioned from his reclining position, an unusual crossed legs and thoughtful hand under the chin position. “Ah, the Grand Marnier.” I nodded and entered, heading for the chair farthest away and directly across from him. Like you might sit at Dracula’s table. When I pulled the chair out and prepared to sit, I noted that no innards decorated the seat. The Black Dragon moved to the side and pulled within folds of his skin, a gigantic, previously hidden pocket of sorts. He did not have fat folds, nothing about the Black Dragon was grotesque. In every way, every part of him displayed ferocious beauty. Rather the folds in his skin resembled kangaroo’s pouches, only more discreet—and with midnight, oily scales. An iridescent wing got pulled out and pushed back in and then the bottle of liquor was produced. “Do you need a snifter?” I asked. “A trivial question.” He tilted his head. “Would a dragon do anything but drink directly from the bottle?” “My favorite way.” “Ahem. Humans tell me what I want to hear. Bruce Dougherty, you must avoid that.” “I’ll tr— yes, I mean, avoiding that sounds good.” The cruel jaws curled upward, resembling a dog when it appears to smile. “Do you know why I love Grand Marnier, Bruce?” I shook my head. “In 1952, this drink was bottled.” He contemplated the bottle in the soft green glow of the room. “Though it states the cognac is 50 years old, it is older and was bottled in 1952—the year of the dragon. This was to pacify my interests in Europe and well it did. The essence of the earth oranges captured in it to honor the Black Dragon. Fitting, wasn’t it?” Nodding in agreement, I studied my surroundings. The walls were green and gold and yellow, iridescent, glowing—like butterflies? The walls weren’t painted or papered; the color was too thick. They resembled crushed and pressed butterfly wings, the verdant skins of lizards, the green and blue feathers of peacocks and bright reds and yellows of macaws. Yes, they were feathers and lizard skins and flying things, pressed into the walls like a collage of trophies of a thousand years. I heard the squeaks, fluttering, squeals of thousands—thousands of voices crying for help and warning me to run! Run, Bruce Dougherty! All the while, a voice in my head stayed me: “Dine with the Black Dragon; dream in color!” Knowing what I thought, what I experienced—what I heard in my head!—the Black Dragon paused. The room grew colder; the lights dimmed, the pronounced smoke furled upward from his long ebony snout. His eyes flashed red and then glowed green and I heard the starting of another fire within him, the sound of an oven with great vents to increase its flames. His talons scraped the floor in a bored gesture, causing me to wince despite my efforts to appear a difficult prey. “Stay,” his voice issued forth in a booming, rumbling crackle. I can’t move! I nodded only. He held up his talons, shining swords in the faint light that caught the glow of the crushed butterflies and birds and lizards on the wall. I grew sleepy at the hypnotic gesture and fought it. He wouldn’t woo me to sleep and then devour me. Why die simplistically? But why die horrifically? “Being honored with liqueur impressed me,” the Black Dragon continued, “but it did not cause me to love Grand Marnier. That occurred in the right year, 1955, in Wartenberg of Bavaria, Germany. If you see the flag of that town, it is a golden dragon on a red shield with a red and gold background. If I knew something of heraldry—if I cared for human pretensions—I would tell you the precise wording, something more than Dragon Or.” “A golden dragon?” I had to ask, to participate in this terrifying interview to prove myself worthy of preservation. His eyes flashed red and green flames. “Yes, she was the Golden Dragon.” I remained quiet, not wishing to stir up old flames hotter than the ones that fired within him. One knows when to be quiet and when to be barbequed. “We met that year, 1955, after centuries of thinking we each were the only rulers of the energy channels. She came from the earth’s core, burned ten times brighter than gold with the earth’s inner minerals covering her like golden streams. We fought at Wartenberg and she defended the city. That’s how she earned her fame on the flag.” My head shook, an involuntary impulse at the thought of these two dragons fighting again, at me in the middle. The dragon stretched forward and rested his head upon his forearms and then turned his head toward me lazily. “You’re wondering why we fought and where she is. One I can answer for you readily. We fought because of our mutual attraction and our denial of it, but also because she loved the humans for some ridiculous reason. And they killed her for it.” “Who killed her?” “Humans, of course,” he laughed weakly, causing chair shaking vibrations. “She defended kings and princesses, queens and sorcerers. Even children. One day, they took her and she disappeared. Following that, I released my wrath upon the world and spun hurricanes, caused earthquakes and later volcanic eruptions near Cairo, in Hawaii, Russia and Japan. 1955.” He sighed. “I swore off human meat, thinking it a poor honor, but an honor bestowed. Still, a bit of cologne and I don’t know what I’m doing. I frenzy and can’t stop.” “I’m not wearing any.” He must have noticed my profuse sweat. “Obviously.” His hiss frightened me more than his rumbling voice. “You would not be here. A million questions you have, but you don’t know how you reside in the middle of everything. From the middle, to the middle, always in the middle.” He held the Grand Marnier up to the light. “Have a sip and learn. Dine with me and dream in color.” “You’ve said that before. I—” As the liquid poured, I salivated. Years and years of the essence of oranges like air on my tongue, lighter than champagne, a mouthful of stars. “Yes.” He handed me the bottle, holding it back slightly with a gleam in one eye, then deciding it the best course and handing it to me. The smoke issuing from his snout smelled like the aroma of cedar, fir and amber, causing my eyes to droop, my head to lose its steadiness. I held up the bottle and inhaled the deep pull into my soul, the lava of my past. The liquid burned like fire down my throat. I saw flames, lava, fumes, the skies, the clouds, the sun! Over and over I tumbled and flew and then reduced into my smallest smallness. “You feel it?” The question wasn’t necessary, but the Black Dragon’s eagerness came across. I nodded. “Who am I?” The smoke surrounded us now and I saw in the haze the green glow of his eyes. “The dragon?” “No.” Stillness. Silence. “Bruce?” “No.” The flames surged within his chest, I heard them rising even to his snout. Surely, he would roast me! Why had the famed Black Dragon sup with me but to sup on me? “They cast a spell, do you remember?” the air seemed to ask. The spell. Some words hold memories and some hold thousands upon thousands. Memories barged through my protective walls. They had called themselves good witches and not knowing I had fallen in love, they vowed to change my form to hide me from the Black Dragon. Yes, I had later lived human lives, never ceasing to be dissatisfied, never failing to rediscover my tortured past, not failing to die and reawake. How had I thought myself Bruce, the drink? “It’s transference,” the darkness answered. “Yes.” I looked down at my body, at the fountains of flame-red hair, my creamy skin, soft legs. “I’m Jessica.” “You are—you were—the Golden Dragon.” “When did I . . . change?” Now I hear my voice as belonging to me and yet not. “At a sip of the past.” My feminine state is weaker than my assumed masculine state had been. Her eyes tear, her breathing increases, her heart flutters. “I loved you once,” she says, though I, the Golden Dragon, had thought it and she, Jessica, does not know my voice to express it. “And you dreamed in color.” The chimney flares and all I can smell is cedar, fir, amber and oranges from the center of the earth. © 2005 Chris Goebel FANTASY POEM By Chris Goebel Synopsis: In this award-winning poem, a reporter dines with the Black Dragon and fears the Black Dragon might add him to the menu. DINNER WITH THE BLACK DRAGON A picture rests above his head, soothing, With the ambiance of the poured velvet walls, Walls of crushed jade grasshoppers and souls And crystalline glass from dragonflies’ wings— All the while his whispers sing: Eat with the Black Dragon; dine with shadows. Somewhere, there’s the wail of injured beasts But, at the table, there the senses feast On prismatic reflections of light: fruit, Nectar that rests on the tongue in rainbows— All the while he speaks a feast: Eat with the Black Dragon; dream in color. At once, the shadows dissipate, and he, Black-armored beast, reflects light in stars; Breathes a voice of gallant, fallen heroes, Withholding, reserving his living sun— All the while the rumbling soothes: Eat with the Black Dragon, sensual foe. Nectarine, apricot, mango: scent in the air! Ah, but how the watery shadows take me there! © 2000 Chris Goebel Introducing the Lily Flower Dress Lady in By Jon Berahya Synopsis: The Lily Flower Dress Lady serves an unusual assortment of guests a dinner that leads to an unexpected conclusion. If you enjoyed Angus Oblong’s Stupid Betsy (as editor Chris does for inexplicable reasons), then you’ll find Berahya’s “Love that Dinner” a comic orgy devoid of euphemisms. Introducing the Lily Flower Dress Lady in Love that Dinner There sat the Lily Flower Dress Lady at the head of her table. She had long awaited this sit down dinner with friends. A shame it was four degrees outside. A greater shame that the only table big enough to accommodate her and the other six was bolted to the deck. Miss Posey drove everyone in her sport utility vehicle, arriving at half past eight. Thirty minutes late. Lily left all the appetizers and dressing-coated salads out in the cold. She brought out the meat, now the only thing to eat. Then came the greatest shame. Due to the cold, the silverware—now in the hands of Lily and all the guests except for three—fastened fast to their hands. They all knew instinctively that this was their sign to begin the meal. Bill was there with his wife, Cross-eyed Jane. Sad for Jane and her sight, seeing as how her pupils were closer to her ears than the bridge of her nose. One could not deny her inborn peripheral vision. The other three guests were a sight. Sam, Sean and Sal. Siamese triplets: one stomach, three arms, six ears, and one brain divided evenly into thirds. “Hey six eyes!” was a common insult for the triplets. Or, “Hey one brain divided evenly into thirds!” “My, Bill. Your cut of meat looks splendid!” shouted Jane over the howl of the cold wind. She kept an eye on Miss Posey’s dinner salad for unknown reasons. Instead of making a great head-turning scene so as to see what was on her own plate, she asked Bill. “What am I eating tonight, honey?” The first time she asked Bill this question on their first date, he thought she meant the kind of honey that comes out of the head of one of those small potbellied bears, but only because she initially paused after the word “tonight.” Jane had since learned her lesson, for when a slip-up occurred, Bill would place her home-cooked meal in front of her instead of to the side. Bill had no peripheral vision whatsoever. He was cross-eyed himself, only in the way one would normally imagine. He fixed his eyes sharply on Jane’s plate. “A fine cut of meat, my darling Jane,” he said for the 2,127th time. He had been counting. One of his habits. Bill was a dentist and Jane one of his assistants, though he required two assistants to deal with patients’ rear molars. Miss Posey, Bill's other assistant, sat beside the cross-eyed couple. She knew that Jane would keep an eye on her food, although tonight it wasn’t necessary. Tonight everyone was stuck—again, due to the cold—in their chairs on the deck outside at the Lily Flower Dress Lady’s house. They would have to wait for the gardener to return home from his night of debauchery. No one at the table had ever heard of such a gardener. He had a hose, though. Miss Posey, of course, was on the caveman diet, so her silverware grip meant nothing. She ate as a pig would from a trough. Not even a blessing. Though that was not what alarmed the other guests. She neglected the A1 sauce in front of her! It was brought out with the meat and therefore unfrozen. Cutting the meat was far too difficult and completely out of the question for the triplets, for their three arms extended from their backside and their eyes were on their front side. Miss Posey—now done with her cut, gristle dripping from her mouth—aided the twins in their everyday eating adventure. Bill and Cross-eyed Jane looked on as best they could. And there sat the Lily Flower Dress Lady, all ready to eat her fine cut of meat, when suddenly she was struck with spontaneous vegetarianism and vomited on all of her beloved guests. It stuck. ©2005 Jon Berahya By Mike Marino Synopsis: With unforgettably gorgeous prose, Mike Marino paints an American landscape of life in 1959. Chapter One of '59
©2005 Mike Marino PROSE POEM HONORING KATRINA VICTIMS Mark Blickley Synopsis: Mark Blickley's prose poem sympathizes with the recent catastrophe New Orleans faced during Hurricane Katrina. With this stream of consciousness first person perspective, Blick takes us into a place we don’t want to go, but know we must. CHUNKS The slant of this roof makes it damn hard to hold I’m hot and hungry and tired and if the human body is made of eighty percent water then how the hell did eighty percent of everybody’s water in this damned city spill out into the street but I’m not gonna let mine become part of this stinking sewage rushing past like an overflowed toilet with chunks of neighbors and strangers sweeping by in a stench filled river of brown and red broiling in the sun like pieces of po’ boy meat from a Mama Crawford sandwich clinging above a car not a freakin’ boat I owe sixteen months of payments turned into a submarine parked twenty feet from the filthy welcome mat in front of this burning roof of hot tar with finger blisters scratching into melting black so a helicopter or battleship or angel will pluck me off this homeowner’s nightmare cause the water’s rising like a clogged commode so where are the plumbers and why does the water feel cool on my feet and if you can’t send a helicopter how bout a lousy cloud to slap across that smart ass sun trying to cremate me and shove me into this sea of shit staining my ankles rubbing against bone pushing and pulling to flush me away like Mardi Gras vomit but I don’t belong here seduced by bonuses and French Quarter boners they moved me so I could help them steal from the poor bastards turned into gator buffet and what the hell kind of snake can swim in this shit and why the fuck is it swimming towards me hey where’d it go where’d it go oh shit oh shit shit shit . . . © 2005 Mark Blickley By Dan Berthiaume Synopsis: Dan Berthiaume’s inside look at the DotCom craze is almost as fascinating as his near-death experience with “Lassie.” His first person narrative strikes home with its colloquialisms. IPO 1. December 15, 1999 It’s late, about 2:30 AM. If you live in New York City, you may still be making a final decision about what club to go to, and if you live in Las Vegas or New Orleans, time only exists in an abstract manner. But in Boston, by 2:30 AM even the illegal after-hours places are ready to call it a night. This is why I’m heading home. Alone. Again. Well, the alone part is due mainly to the “incident” with the stripper that made Christine swear off speaking to me forever. So far, forever has lasted a week. I can’t say that I blame her. How would I have reacted if I had walked into a restaurant and seen Christine cozied up in a corner booth with some oiled-down, steroid-pumped Chippendale’s hunk, assuming she could find a straight one? Besides, dating strippers is for dirtbag bikers and computer nerds who never got any play in high school. At least I had always thought so until one came my way. Of course, I’d be lying if I said Christine’s absence is the only thing weighing on my mind as I navigate the winding path of Storrow Drive from downtown through Allston back to the suburbs. I’m definitely having some thoughts about the money I made today. And it wasn’t just a few bucks, either. I’m talking about C-A-S-H. AutoCom’s current share value is 98 bucks and change, up from an initial public opening price of 16 dollars per share in six short hours. As an employee, I was able to get in before the opening bell at one dollar per share and bought 10,000 of the suckers. You do the math on the profits. My shares don’t vest for a year, so until December 2000 (that year still sounds like something out of Star Wars to my ears) any profit my AutoCom stock earns is play money, no more real than your bank account in a game of Monopoly. Any time I played Monopoly with my kid brother growing up, I always insisted on being the race car. But all that is irrelevant to my current task, which is getting home alive and in one piece. This is a trickier proposition than it might sound because the rain is pouring and the water, which could freeze into black ice at any second, is deep enough to obscure my view of the pavement. Oh yeah, I’m also a little tipsy. Drunk. Okay, I’m shitfaced out of my skull. Yeah, it’s irresponsible of me, but believe me, it’s also completely unintentional. There is an awful lot of free booze flowing at these corporate publicity events, and it has never been too hard to get someone to serve you a drink or three at any of the endless bars that line both sides of Boylston Street. So here I am as the time approaches 3 AM on a Wednesday morning, driving in conditions that could cause a member of MADD to weave between lanes, due at work in six hours, desperately trying to pilot my BMW 3-Series coupe back to my little yuppie condo in downtown Waltham. Even beat-up old Waltham has soaked up a little New Economy glamour, although the porno shop a half-block down the street from the front lobby of my building reminds me of where I live. Storrow Drive sits about as high above the Charles River as the average Mississippi fishing village does above the Delta, and is twice as flood-prone. So keeping my car in a straight line through the rapidly accumulating stream of water flowing over the pavement is not becoming any easier as the booze continues to soak into my brain. However, I manage to glide by the State Police barracks in Brighton without attracting any unwanted attention from my friends in blue, decide not to take a left after the all-night pancake house to check out the ultra-late-night scene behind the closed shades of the dive bars in Oak Square, and cruise down the unbelievably under-speed-limited Nonantum Road a good seven or eight miles above the posted 25 MPH limit. No police cruisers come roaring out of the notorious speed trap in the shadows of the MDC skating rink to my right. Before you know it, I’m crossing over Center Street and into Newton Corner, mere minutes from my destination. Of course, Newton will fuck you over every time. The working stiffs act like dentists and the dentists act like famous actors. Cops who are bored from busting high school kids holding keggers in the woods are always ready to pull you over and find something wrong. The attitude even seems to seep into the pets, like the mangy mutt who decides to scoot in front of the Beemer just as I’m swerving left to avoid a small pond that has formed across the entire right lane of the road. In order to avoid being tagged as the drunk asshole who squashed Lassie, I veer back into the right lane and ease up on the gas pedal as my vessel charts this previously unexplored body of water. The puddle is deeper than it looks; deep enough to spray my entire windshield with a geyser of muddy water that obliterates my view. Simultaneously, the BMW begins zigzagging even though I’m holding the wheel steady. So much for superior European automotive engineering. Didn’t they design these things to go 250 MPH on the Autobahn? Doesn’t Germany have harsh winters? Panicking and feeling a lot more sober than I did 30 seconds ago, I gauge that my car is skidding right so I steer in that direction, remembering advice from drivers’ ed class 10 years ago. Good thing I stayed awake for that particular session. Of course high school will fuck you over if you let your guard down for a second, even 10 years later. The Beemer comes out of its skid, just as the front right tire bursts from slamming against the curb. The car then jumps the curb with a graceful lack of effort that would cause a ballerina to blush with envy. I push the brake pedal to the floor as a formality, since I have too much momentum to stop before hitting the thicket of trees that the stupid mutt darted from in the first place. The impact of my helpless little Beemer striking a mighty maple lurches me head-first into what feels like a pillow filled with lead shot. I dimly think “air bag” over the painful groans of the car’s hood as it futilely resists being cut in two like a warm slice of metallic cake by the tree trunk. The searing impact of the seatbelt denies my body the experience of flying through the windshield that it seems to want so badly. This distracts me from worrying too much about the rapid progress of the tree through the front end of the car. Drivers’ Ed came through as far as seatbelts go. So did Christine, who always nagged me to buckle up. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” she would say, “but the other crazies out on the road.” Now I’ve found a new way to abuse her trust in me. An overwhelming sensation of not moving halts my stream of mental and physical consciousness. I wait another moment, and the pronounced lack of motion produces an adrenaline burst. The shattered windshield and deflated but deployed airbag limit what I can see in front of me, but my bumper is obviously a lot closer to my dashboard than it was a minute or two ago. I slowly undo my seatbelt, open the driver’s side door and slip past the airbag out the door to survey the damage, both to the car and myself. Although I’m trembling like a virgin bride and my heart appears to have taken permanent residence in my mouth, from what I can tell I have avoided injury outside of some cuts and bruises on my chest and face. The BMW’s front end, on the other hand, is demolished beyond recognition. But I take some satisfaction from the large crack that has formed in the trunk of the maple tree right above the point of impact. I left my mark on the other guy, at least. A panting sound from behind me interrupts my brief joy at seeing that the BMW didn’t go down without getting in a punch. The idiot mutt who made me swerve in the first place is sitting on the sidewalk with his tongue hanging out, absently scratching the spot where his balls should be. I prepare to kick him in what would probably be classified as a drunken rage, although my head has been almost fully cleared of clouding vapors in the past three minutes or so. Then I realize that the pooch is not the only bystander gaping at the accident scene. Several suburbanites in their early 60s, complete with checkered bathrobes and fuzzy slippers, have braved the cold, wet evening to see what could actually be causing excitement in their dull little universe. “Holy shit, buddy, are you OK?” asks a tall, thin guy with a gray beard. “You’ve got some blood coming out of your nose. Why don’t you sit down?” “I’ve already dialed 911,” declares a woman hunched under a see-through plastic poncho, waving her cell phone in triumph. Of course, Good Samaritans will fuck you over worse than anyone. Having nothing left to do but wait for emergency personnel to come and treat and arrest me, I take my new friend’s advice and sit down on the sidewalk, smack in the middle of another deep, wet puddle. I tilt my head back and laugh, for the first time noticing the blood that has been gurgling out of my nose since my face hit the airbag. “That’s it, buddy,” encourages my pal. “Tilt your head back and the bleeding will stop.” Boston’s nightlife magazines always run these cheesy lawyer ads promoting 24-hour toll-free numbers that spell out some variation of “800-ANTI-DUI.” I almost ask my other new friend with the cell phone to call one of them, but then think better of it. In the background I hear the damn mutt yipping and an excited voice saying, “Oh, Sparky, thank God you’re all right. I was so worried that man had hit you.” First offense driving under the influence is a misdemeanor in Massachusetts, but the last time I checked first offense murder is still a felony, so I resist the urge to choke slam Sparky’s owner onto the pavement. The seasonal cheer of the holidays has always seemed a little forced and artificial to me, and the whole ugly mess with Christine has made me even more of a skeptic this year. Now I have an accident, really due to my own stupidity, to deal with. Is this an omen for the New Century, for the whole New Economy? Brief, manufactured happiness followed by excruciating pain? I laugh again, loudly enough to silence the murmuring of the growing crowd of rubberneckers. A couple of passing cars have stopped to check out the scene. Feeling the giddiness of the booze return, I lie down flat on the cold, wet concrete of the sidewalk, for the first time feeling the rapid speed of my heartbeat as it pounds against the pavement. 2. December 14, 1999 Leo Wolff stands on a podium in the main ballroom of one of Boston’s ritziest hotels, manipulating the crowd as only he can. Although Leo only stands about five foot five, a combination of prep school posture, shoulders enlarged to gargantuan proportions from years of intensive supervised weight training, and lifts in his $1,600 Gucci loafers make him seem about three inches taller, maybe even four if his hair is freshly tousled. At 27, Leo is already a self-made millionaire many times over. A crowd of about 250 friends, well-wishers, employees, press flacks, journalists, financial/legal weasels and assorted monetary groupies is here tonight to celebrate his multiplying those millions many times more through an initial public offering (“IPO” for those in the know) that concluded at 4 o’clock this afternoon. Now the everyday man and woman can obtain a taste of Leo’s wealth by purchasing shares of his company, AutoCom Group. AutoCom is corporate shorthand for “Automatic Communications.” Any self-respecting high-tech company in turn-of-the-century America must either refer to itself by three initials or some sort of hybrid single word bred from two separate words that are forcibly mated together. Extra cool points are awarded for abbreviating one or both of the words, as in “AutoCom.” AutoCom develops software that somehow helps corporations communicate with each other in “real time” over voice-enabled computer networks. Real time is the New Economy term for “time.” That is, you say something and the person you are talking to 1,000 miles away hears it as you say it through their computer. Exactly how this technology works or why it is worth major corporations making potentially multi-million dollar investments, when even the crappiest corner store has a phone, is beyond me. You may think that a Manager of Retail and CPG Industry Marketing such as myself needs to know exactly how our system works and why global corporations should allocate some of their precious New Economy windfalls toward buying it, but I’m really just a highly paid messenger boy. All I need to do is parrot all the impressive promotional jargon my superiors constantly spout, such as, “In today’s marketplace, success is defined by how many new customers you can acquire. And today’s customers want to do business with innovators. Innovators who leverage the awesome power of the Internet to radically recreate processes that we once took for granted, like communication.” Sounds nice, doesn’t it? The crowd thinks so, judging by the hearty applause. Pure bullshit, worth its weight in 24-karat gold, spilling from Leo’s lips with a sincerity so intense that it seems to shimmer around his head like a saintly aura. Some of that shimmering radiance emanating from the podium may also be attributable to the striking blonde beauty standing directly behind Leo’s left shoulder. That would be Leslie Harris, close to six feet tall in heels with tits like a nursing mother and hips like a fifth grade boy. She projects an image that is well-received by our core customer base. Namely, male telecom experts who have laid more fiber optic cable than anything else. In the office, Leslie stirs up quite a reaction as well. She is 30, which practically qualifies her for a senior citizen discount at our snack machines, unmarried, and not publicly dating anyone. Office gossip has her screwing around with almost every unmarried guy in the office, especially Leo. Somehow she has never been linked to me. Of course, office gossip will fuck you over every time. A woman like Leslie tends to draw all the attention in a room, especially from all the other women desperately examining her for a flaw, however slight. This evening, however, all eyes are focused on Leo. He owns the podium. Leo exudes the relaxed swagger of the coolest kid in school. Not the toughest kid, since the biggest bully on our particular block is Bill Gates, but the coolest kid who never gets his ass kicked because the bullies know he has other ways of getting back at them. His manner is lively, enthusiastic and arrogant in an inviting way. Without speaking a word, he seems to say, “I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime here. Obviously you’re on board with me. You aren’t stupid, or I wouldn’t have chosen you!” And the words he does say are positively Kennedyesque. Nobody has ever made computer-assisted phone calls (let’s face it, that’s what we do at AutoCom) sound so intoxicatingly fresh and inviting. Even the technical mumbo-jumbo that rolls off Leo’s tongue as effortlessly as tales of drug peddling and murder flow from the mouths of gangsta rappers somehow makes sense the way he phrases it. When Leo finishes speaking, the walls of the ballroom begin vibrating with the buzz of hands clapping and mouths puckering in whistles. I still couldn’t tell you exactly why our product is so much better than the other five just like it that are on the market or will be shortly. But I know I believe in it enough right now that I would probably buy stock even if I hadn’t been eligible to get in at a dollar a share in advance. And that isn’t the booze talking, either. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that it’s 8 PM and I’m already drunk, mainly because I have been drinking on and off since lunchtime. How did this happen? Interesting story, really. To fully explain I need to go back to this morning, when I arrived at the office a few minutes past the official 9 AM start of the business day. The effect of the New Economy on the formality of the daily work schedule has been almost as beneficial to the modern office drone as its effect on salaries and stock options. © 2005 Dan Berthiaume By: Gary Gray Synopsis: The Western Bowl is a restaurant we might have visited, with employees we might have known and a tragedy we might have discovered. Gray’s characterization addicts us to his characters’ lives. WESTERN BOWL Kyle Lindley got me the job in 1994. Chopping up ground beef, smashing it into hamburger patties, slicing and dicing onions, tomatoes and bell peppers cut into neat little squares, grating cheese until your knuckles burned with early signs of arthritis. Damn that Kyle. Work started at two in the afternoon for the night shift. The skinny, trailer trash, emphysema-ridden women who occupied the morning shift left around 2:30. They coughed and cursed their way out the back door to their beat up Chevy pick-ups and drove home to their life-wasting alcoholic husbands. There were four women on that morning shift and they all looked alike. Strange. On the other end of the bowling alley, forty lanes away, a snack bar served fries, nachos and Fritos, all with a heaping ladle of chili and cheese dumped on top. That was where Edith worked, Ron's wife. Ron was my immediate boss on the night shift, a short plump man with a bald head suspected of smuggling a bowling ball under his stained white t-shirt. His cheeks were fat and red and he was always laughing at his own filthy jokes, jiggling all over when he laughed, just like St. Nick. That damn Kyle quit the day after he graduated High School. He went off to the Army and left me to listen to Ron's jokes all night, alone. I saw Kyle about two years later in a sports bar on Western Avenue, sliding off a stool and drooling on himself. I asked him how the Army was and he drew up inside himself like a turtle fearing for its life. "It was horrible," he said. "They sent me to Korea and that place is miserable." The poor bastard looked like a scared child; drooling, slurring his words and sliding toward the floor. I bought the proud vet a pitcher of beer and left him alone. After all, I'd gone there to watch wrestling, not chat it up with the bastard that stuck me listening to Ron's dirty jokes. From two to five everyday, we prep cooked, getting everything ready for the dinner rush that was inevitable. Ron mostly stood out back and smoked his long cigarettes, glancing through the window occasionally to make sure Randy wasn't inspecting the kitchen. Sylvia Garret, Garret was the name of her ex-husband and I never knew why she kept the name, stood alongside me, cutting and chopping and dicing. She was born in a small border town and raised speaking English and Spanish. Now, the Spanish was used for outbursts of profanity and the English was used for casual communication. She was a beautiful woman, creeping deathly close to forty and she had nothing to show for it all. Her ex-husband had custody of her son and her boyfriend had violated his parole. Who knows which prison they tossed him in; Texas is full of prisons. When the five o'clock rush hit around six, Sylvia retreated to the back of the kitchen, where she assembled the much anticipated and craved for meals that were served at the Western Bowl Restaurant: the Mexican plates. She built each dish at the steam table and then sent the metal plates through a conveyer oven. The meals came out of the oven in a heap of steaming cheesy mess. I labored over the grill, constructing patty melts, burgers, chicken strips and omelets. Ron stood by the order window yelling at waitresses, putting the finishing touches on all the plates and throwing a naughty, humorous one-liner my way every opportunity he got. I'd smoked weed on a few occasions prior to my employment at Western Bowl. Justin Teitgens and I would put a few bucks in a folder in Biology class and then send the folder across the room to Juan, who would send the folder back with a joint in it. We waited the rest of the school day, giddy like little girls, until we were free to escape to Timber Creek with our Zebco rod and reels. We never caught a single fish; we leaned against big rocks and smoked joints, allowing the numbness to enter and the laughter to take hold. When Derrick and Chad began working at the bowling alley, I was introduced to a new way. Derrick and Chad were nephews of Randy Morgan, the manager of Western Bowl. Chad was a quiet boy, athletic and pretty, and he was hired to hand out bowling shoes and soak the returned shoes in Lysol. Derrick was quiet too, but in a different way. His hair was long, straight, greasy, and black. He wore black Sketchers, huge baggy black jeans with chains hanging about his legs and his shirt was usually tight and black. Derrick worked next to the kitchen, scrubbing dishes. Derrick didn't smoke a joint after school or before bed. He didn't go to parties to get high and giggle with friends. Derrick stayed high. He carried a small metal pipe in the pocket of his oversized pants and he made frequent trips to the bathroom. He let me in on his secret and then let me in on his pot. When he would come out, I would go in. He would leave the pipe behind the toilet, stuffed full of top-of-the-line grass. I'd light it up, suck it in, and hold on to it. Before I left, I doused the room in Lysol to cover the smell. I'd slip the pipe to Derrick in passing. Once this routine began, Derrick and I spent most of our time at work rather stoned. For Derrick, it was the norm; for me it was exciting and frightening. I feared getting caught, feared jail and the wrath of my parents, I feared being fired. So we continued smoking. Randy's nephews began working in the summer of 1994, just weeks after school let out and days after Kyle left for boot camp. The dishwashing nephew and I smoked a lot of pot at work and drank a lot of beer afterwards. With no school to worry about, we could easily sleep until noon, wake, eat a huge brunch, and arrive at work ready to light the pipe and serve the hungry patrons of Western Bowl. On slow nights, Chad would wander down to the restaurant—it was located at one end of the bowling alley and could be entered from the bowling alley or the parking lot—on his breaks and order a burger or some enchiladas. He even brought his girlfriend, April, in on his nights off just to chat it up with us. April was in every club offered at the school and she was a cheerleader. She was short and soft looking and every word she said sounded sweet. Ron could have been arrested for the things he said about her when she walked out. Chad and April were the kind of couple that made people gag and vomit on themselves. They were cute and nice; they giggled and cuddled; they were as pure as a bleached hotel room tub. Derrick and I didn't have girlfriends, there was no time. "There's just no respect for veterans," Ron said one slow Tuesday night, as I scrubbed grimy filth from the surface of the grill. "I served my damn country for four years back in Korea and look where I am now." "This is a fine place to work," I said. "Sure, for high school kids. I'm in my fifties; I have grandchildren." "What did you do in the war?" I asked. "I was a cook in the Navy, pretty much I just drove some Admiral around base and brewed his coffee. One time, he denied me leave so I hawked a loogie into his cup and poured coffee on it. The bastard drank the whole thing; he even told me how good it was." "You ever spit in anybody's food here?" "Don't you worry about it," he said. "I was in this bar in Bangkok once with this girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen . . ." I tuned him out and scrubbed the grill. I was becoming dependent on those bathroom smokes; they made listening to Ron's stories easier. We'd gotten drunk at work one Sunday. A guy from the Check Republic—who had been brought into the country through some sort of refugee program and was washing dishes for us—brought in a jar full of moonshine from his home country. "Bless you," we told him. We mixed the devilish stuff with iced tea and we seriously underestimated its powers. Derrick and I were stumbling around the kitchen by the time the restaurant closed. The refugee laughed and pointed and spoke in distant languages. We couldn't smoke that night, our liquor weakened stomachs couldn't tolerate it. Lucky for us, we were well polished professionals and our performance never staggered. The meals were prepared and the dishes were cleaned to a healthy disinfected shine. Ron estimated that he had roughly four children running around the streets of Bangkok, fatherless. But he swore that he had never married a girl over there. A lot of the Navy guys had two families, their American family and then a Thai family, complete with wife, kids, and a house. Ron said he never married another woman, he had morals. The waitresses clicked the lights off in the dinning room and locked the doors. Sylvia and I finished mopping up the floors and Ron walked across the bowling alley to meet Edith. Derrick, Sylvia, and I stepped out the back door into the windy Amarillo night. "Could one of you give me a ride home?" Sylvia asked. "I'll buy you a six pack." "Why don't we just all go to your house?" Derrick said. "I got a fresh bag." Sylvia rode with me. We picked up a case of beer and met Derrick at Sylvia's house. She didn't have cable, so we settled for Letterman, beer, and weed. We talked about work, laughed about nothing at all and took frequent trips to the bathroom to release the alcohol. At 2:00 A.M., Derrick and I headed home, leaving Sylvia alone, her boyfriend in jail and her son across town, just beyond her grasp. The summer wore on. The West Texas wind got stronger and hotter; the land got drier and the days got longer. Marty must have gotten bored because he began showing his face around the bowling alley much more frequently. I never knew his last name, he was just known all over town as Marty. He was tall and lean, his hair was white and his clothes were always pressed and perfect. He was in his late sixties, but his girlfriends always seemed to be about my age and he always had one on his arm. He owned one of Amarillo's finest restaurants, which was called Marty's. He also owned Western Bowl, an establishment without the prestige of Marty's but a cash cow, nonetheless. When he entered the restaurant, word spread in a fury among the employees that Marty was here. Everyone stood straighter, cleaned up their area, straightened their hair and even Ron stopped telling his disgusting tales. As far as I knew, Marty had never spoken a harsh word to anyone and he had always been rather nice to me. So why did his presence create such a wild frenzy? What was it about him that set people to acting in such unnatural ways? Was it the fact that he had so much money? Did we all fear his power? We had no reason to, yet by walking through those doors, he threw a wrench into our daily wheel of life. Strange. Randy had received some injury years ago which caused him to limp severely. When Marty was around, Randy was at his heels, limping at a frantic pace, trying to keep up with the man and satisfy his every urge. Sylvia, Derrick and I had spent many nights around a case of beer, taking turns imitating that limp and screaming hysterically. Sometimes a feature or characteristic flies off of a person and latches itself to the memory. More often than not, it is an admirable quality that one wished they possessed and when they see that quality portrayed with such strength in another person, they remember it forever. Sylvia knew herself and was always herself. Perhaps it was the trials that had so littered her life that made her so strong, I don't know. When Marty walked through that kitchen, Sylvia never faltered, her demeanor never wavered. If she was smoking a cigarette at the back door when Marty appeared, she continued to lazily smoke her cigarette. To her, he was just another man with money. He meant nothing to her and she never allowed him to alter her one bit. I envied her strength. Marty always stopped to talk to Sylvia; I think he sensed her strength and was attracted to it. In late July, one hot and miserable Sunday afternoon, Chad lumbered through the kitchen without his usual timid cheerfulness. On days when the kitchen was full of mean and cranky hung over employees, Chad was often the sober light. He never drank or did any drugs. He and April jogged together and probably played chess until eight at night, when they separated with a handshake. But Chad had a weird way about him that Sunday afternoon; it felt eerie. He walked straight to the dish room, not stopping to talk to any of us. His eyes were heavy with thought. We shot glances at one another and then carried on as usual. Nothing phased us too much that summer. We rolled on through anything as if it was all just bumps in the road. Chad passed through again and we never looked up. The grill was hot, the ground beef was sizzling; the onions were simmering and were ready to be smashed into a patty melt. Ron was jabbering about the Philippines and the amazing feats that he'd seen in the strip clubs there. Derrick emerged from the dish room. "Wow," he said. "I never thought it would happen." He had our attention. "April broke up with Chad," he said. We were shocked but we didn't care; just another soap opera for us. "What would happen next?" we wondered. "He's pretty down," Derrick continued. "He said he's going to get drunk." We all laughed because we had all done it. When the times turn to crap, men turn to mind altering alternatives. Can you blame them? If your world sucks and there's an escape, then why not take it? This poor boy never touched booze but in the blink of an eye he was ready. Strange. Randy didn't know that he would regret it for the rest of his life. He thought he was being a good uncle and a good boss. He let Chad have the night off. Chad got into his red Camaro and drove away from the bowling alley that hot Sunday afternoon. Randy was in bed when his phone rang. I must have been driving home when he actually did it, but I didn't hear the news until the following night at work. I could feel the sense of loss and sadness when I walked into the dinning room that Monday afternoon. Derrick wasn't there. Ron saw me and delivered the news. Chad was dead. He'd driven out to Lake Meredith the night before with his father's shotgun. The Park Rangers heard a shot and found his body about ten last night. For the first time, I saw Sylvia's poise and strength affected. She cried that day right there in the kitchen. We didn't go out that night. The entire night at work was tranquil for us all. The foreign guy filled in for Derrick that night in the dish room. He didn't speak English and no one could communicate to him what had happened, but I know that he knew. He sensed it just as I had when I walked into work that day. The air was different and things had changed. Derrick returned to work a week later and was solemn. We all approached him in a timid way with pointless small talk. Time wore on and life somehow slipped back into its normal gear again. We cooked and cleaned, we laughed and drank; but in the back of our minds was what Chad had done. On a level not seen, below the surface of casual interaction, we were different. © 2005 Gary Gray Note: The following poem by Gary Gray compliments his fiction well. Art courtesy of Vadim Bystritski POEM Gary Gray He read about the state of the world every morning with his buddies over coffee, A local boy turned pro, his arm was like a cannon. The president cut corn subsidies; he must be a Commie; He supports the troops, ‘cause he did his time. He’s a widower, lost her to cancer but kept the doctor bills; The price of oil has gone up; The number of Sundays he’s in church has gone down, Not much to believe in anymore. Dreams were set aside and lost in a pile of junk. Hopes are for kids in the months before Christmas, Not for old men with small pensions. Tomorrow’s newspaper will carry the same news; Angels don’t have wings, bomber planes do; Politicians sip martinis, kids suck tits, And old men slurp coffee and try to forget. a man in the cab of his pickup © 2005 Gary Gray MYSTERY Paul Brewster Synopsis: What if you suddenly discovered that you could inherit wealth and you only had to do one thing to get it? What if that one thing was to discover who you are in a few day’s time? Paul Brewster’s “Crossroads” draws a surprising conclusion about this theme. CROSSROADS Silence. That's all I heard, as if I was dead or dreaming that I might be dead. The only sensation that I was aware of was feeling my chest expand and then collapse, as the used up oxygen escaped my body. I was going nowhere, and as I discovered later, I had not been anywhere for quite some time. What could I move? I thought. What part of my body would require the least amount of strength to operate? My eyes of course. Moses I'm not, but I sure could have used his help; because for such a simple task, I just could not separate the top of my eyelid away from the bottom. Strange, I thought, as I was finally able to pry them open; but stranger still was the glazed watery substance that covered my eyes leaving me with a hazy, translucent view of the world. As I looked around, I could tell that I was in a hospital room, but what I didn't know was why was I there and who, who was this perfectly groomed and postured stranger staring at me? "Who are you?" I asked curiously, as I cleared my throat. "I'm here to take you home," the stranger calmly replied. Home, the stranger said. Home is where he said that we were going, but where was that? I kept repeating this to myself as I sat in the back of an extremely plush limousine, while we were driving on the freeway. I-5 South the sign read. As we crossed over a bridge, I noticed a hillside that seemed vaguely familiar, along with sailboats that decorated the waters edge. After exiting onto a street called Denny Way, we traveled through a mixture of businesses and apartment complexes. A quick left turn onto what appeared to be Roy Street, we then took the next right onto Queen Anne Avenue. Ascending up a very steep enormous hill, we encountered a rather long funeral procession. Nothing but black limousines, one right after the other, stacked all the way to the summit of the avenue. As the limo that I was in slid along side one of the limos in the queue, I got this feeling that I was being looked at, but it was impossible to tell since we both had tinted glass. Creepy, I thought, as we continued to travel upward. Turning onto Highland Drive, I noticed these wonderful mansions on my right, and waiting for me over to my left, was a stunning view of the city and the bay. On the outskirts of town there was a structure that erupted into the air; in the shape of what looked like to be a giant needle preparing to take off into outer space. I must be on the coast somewhere heading west, but which one I did not know. Pulling into the driveway at 1221 Highland Drive, I thought that we were making a brief pit stop, for surely this castle before me was not "home." The car stopped, the stranger got out, shut his door, and then opened my door. Okay, I don't know where I am, but I now know that it's wintertime I thought, as goose bumps raced across my body causing me to shake uncontrollably. As I sat there in my slightly frozen state, I began to contemplate my options when I realized that I didn't have any, and then I realized that I hadn't had any since my awakening. Why was that I pondered, as I stepped out of the car. "Home?" I asked cautiously. As the stranger walked away from me without saying a word, I deducted that this present, ever so lengthy and meaningful question and answer period was over. "Home," I said, this time with conviction as I followed along. "If you are watching me speak to you then you'll know that I'm dead," said a faint, lifeless voice from the television. That's an interesting way of saying hello I thought, as I stood in front of a giant fire trying desperately to melt the ice in my veins. Could this person be talking to me I wondered, as I looked about the room to see if I was alone. (Well, there was my ever so loquacious driver lurking in the shadows behind a Christmas tree, but given our history of significant conversation, I quickly eliminated him as a possible candidate.) "My name is Albert MacKenzie, and I'm certain that by now you've met my assistant Choo Wong. I have recently passed away from a terminal illness and as a symbol of my goodwill and humanity, I am leaving over half of my fortune to you." Okay, if I am dreaming then I would like to wake up now, and collect my prize. "But..." No, no buts. "Hey Choo, throw me the remote control, so that I can pause the tape," I yell out. Choo laughs. I don't. "…unfortunately my hands are tied, for I cannot legally will my estate to someone with an unknown identity." "Yes, you can," I scream, "All I have to do…" "What I'm trying to say, is…" "…is just sign…" "…that I don't know your…" "…my…" "…name." Stop. He's right. I don't even know who I am. But how can that be I ask myself, as my mind scampers across the universe in search of an answer. Nobody's home. Then I quickly start cramming name, after name, after name, into my mind trying to find some connection, but there is none. Choo, sensing my despair, rushes over with a glass of water. "More," I tell Choo. "More, much more," I keep repeating, as the water runs out of my mouth, and down my neck. "So that's where we stand," MacKenzie continued, "Once you come to discover who you are, I'm sure at that point everything else will fall into place, but you only have until December 21st to collect the money. Otherwise the estate unfortunately will fall into the hands of…" Suddenly the word "MUTE" appears on the screen, as I am now clinging to every syllable being spoken. I look at Choo to see if he had the remote control in his hand, possibly wanting to leave me out of the loop, but he didn't. In fact, Choo was standing still, clearly paralyzed with fear. "Me," I heard a voice behind me say with a deep, intimidating tone. Once again the goose bumps returned, as I turned around to the unexpected guest, only to find myself speechless as well. For before me stood a man, whom resembled Albert but obviously much older. Remember my mind was telling me it's only a dream, and what may appear to be real, more than likely is not. "Oh, I'm very real," the man responds, as if he knew what I was thinking. I stood there motionless while I could feel myself spiraling downward towards an inevitable crash. My mouth started moving, but nothing was coming out. It was as if the remote that he held in his hand had control over me as well. "So Choo, it appears that my Good Samaritan brother is once again trying to cut me out," the stranger said. Mr. Wong remained silent, while I stood on the sidelines. "But it looks like there's a slight problem," said the stranger as he turned towards me. "You're probably wondering who I am," asked the new guy. I nodded my head in agreement. "But what you don't know, is who you are." I tried placing my hands around my head to stop it from rocking back and forth, but it was no use. The evidence was indisputable and I no longer had the strength nor the will to object. And then he started to laugh, as if he was celebrating the absurd reality of the situation; (and, actually he was). I finally realized that I was not dreaming, as I crashed into the cobblestone driveway, after being hurled through the air like a dead fish at the market. "Name's Richard. Richard MacKenzie. Have a nice life. Whoever you are." Boom! The big mansion door closed behind me, as I sat upright in the driveway staring out towards the city. I could feel the goose bumps come back for round three, but I didn't bother to put up a fight. It's no use. Let'em come. I was busy admiring the natural beauty of this mysterious location and the chill in the air was refreshing my senses, while at the same time numbing the pain from my forehead butting the pavement. My ass though was getting cold, as I continued to sit on the cobblestone, when I heard a strange sort of hissing behind me. I turned and saw Mr. Wong standing by the side of the house motioning for me to come. As I walked up, Choo extended his arm out and handed me an envelope, which upon opening, I noticed contained a large sum of cash. He then leaned in, whispered in my ear and shook my hand. "Your taxi is here sir," Choo said, as he walked back into the house. I turned, and there sat an orange cab, which was appropriately named "Orange Cab". I noticed the phone number on the left front fender. December "University Hospital" the sign said on the building. These were the words that Choo whispered in my ear. Walking up the stairs that lead to the main lobby, I finally understood why he spoke of this building. It was the hospital that I had checked out of earlier. Then I thought, well, if I checked out of this place, there must be some record of who I am. Smart thinking Mr. Wong I thought, as the doors to the hospital slid open. Standing in front of the information desk I noticed a large bulletin board attached to the wall behind the counter. At the top of the board was a heading entitled: TODAY'S DATE, December 20, 1999. I quickly deducted that I had less than thirty six hours to solve the puzzle of my identity, and then I realized that even if I didn't make the deadline so what, I still had to find out who I am. "May I help you," said this short, young, bubbly blonde, whose smile was bigger than her head, and whose teeth were so white that they blinded me. I hesitated for one second too long, because before I knew it she had somehow catapulted herself down to the other end of the counter, already in the middle of helping someone else. He must have phoned in his question I thought. I looked over the counter to see if there might be one of those small trampolines resting on the floor, but there wasn't. Just tile with a rubber mat. "If you stare at it long enough, it turns into a magic carpet and takes you where ever you want to go," said this sweet, but sour voice. "That's my problem," I said, as I stood up straight, only to be greeted by probably the most beautiful woman that I've ever seen. "And what might that be?" "Well unfortunately, I wouldn't know where to go." "Well, for your information it will take you where ever you like." "That's just it. I…" Now what? Pause. Deep breath and exhale. "I think that I checked out of here today sometime, but I'm not exactly sure." "Admitting would have that information. Would you like for me to take you there?" "Yes. Please." As we approached the counter to admissions, I noticed a broad, sort of balding middle-aged fellow with a beard, dressed in green attire. He put down a folder that he held and stared at me for what seemed like forever. "You're back so soon," he said in a very straightforward manner. "Yes I am," I said. Hoping that my compliance would trigger my memory. "Is everything all right?" Waiting for some sort of connection, I gave up as time expired. "Do I know you?" "Well you should, or at least I hope so." I just stood there with this blank _expression on my face, as my head went from left to right and then back again. "I'm Doctor Carter. I treated you while you were here in the hospital." "And what exactly was I here for?" "You had slipped into a state of unconsciousness after suffering a severe blow to the head." "You mean I was in a coma?" "Medically speaking no." "So I took a long nap." "Something like that." "What kind of blow to my head did I suffer?" "We don't know. We found you in the Emergency Room lobby, wet, and passed out." "But how did I get here?" "We don't know that either." "What do you know,” I snapped. "Well, we don't know who you are. For now anyway." "What's that suppose to mean?" "It means that you have excellent oral hygiene, because we ran a dental check and nothing came back. I guess you had a good dentist. Also the police department came by yesterday and ran a finger print trace. We're still awaiting those results. So in the meantime…" "In the meantime I'm just a John Doe." "Temporarily. I'm certain that you're memory will return shortly." "But until then?" "Until then, remain under the care of Mr. Wong and wait." "Well that's not going to happen." "I don't understand. He signed you out, and paid the bill. I told him that I would be in contact once I heard from the police." "There's been a slight change of plans." "Things aren't working out," asked Doctor Carter. "You could say that," I said as I turned around and walked away. "Wait a minute! Where are you going?" "Crazy. If I don't get some answers," I said without breaking my stride. I walked outside and much to my relief another Orange Cab was waiting patiently. I signaled the driver and before my arm fell back into place, the cab had pulled up and was waiting to take me away. "Where to buddy?" asked the cab driver as I entered. I had no idea. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that." "Humm…." I said, as I quickly looked around the cab desperately searching for a clue. And then, staring me right in the face was the answer; an advertisement for The Commodore Hotel. 2013 2nd Avenue. Daily and weekly rates available the ad said. "The Commodore Hotel." "You got it," said the cab driver, as he turned on the meter and drove away. I noticed a picture of the driver attached to the Plexiglas divider, which listed his name: Michael Jones. Original by no means, but still a name. December 20, 1999 "Any rooms for rent?" I asked. "Of course," said the short, portly, freshly shaven Old Spice man with a cigar in his mouth. We offer a daily rate of $49.99 plus tax. A weekly rate of $150.00 plus tax. No checks. Credit card with ID only and of course cash. What would you like and how would you like to pay?" "Cash please, and I'll take the weekly rate thank you." "All right. That will be $172.50 all together." Still with my gloves on, I reached into the envelope to pull out some money, and as I did, I noticed that a plain white index card had fallen out and landed next to my foot. Placing the money on the counter I bent down to pick it up. "Okay, $27.50 is your balance," the clerk said. I quickly popped back up, took my change and along with the card placed it all back into the envelope. "I have a wonderful, quiet room for you. Number 15. That's the north east corner of the building. First floor, get off the elevator, take a left, and go to the end of the hall." "Thank you very much," I said, as I walked toward the elevator. "Hey buddy," I heard just as I punched the up button. I turned and looked at the clerk. "You forgot to sign in," he said, as he stood there lost in a cloud of cigar smoke and bad after-shave. "My mistake." Those twelve steps to the counter were the longest twelve steps of my life so far, because I had no idea whom I was going to say I was; but as fate would have it, no sooner had I put the pen in my hand did the name Michael Jones appear on the line. "Sorry about that," I said to Mister Jolly and walked away. "No problem there Mr. Jones," he said chuckling with a gleam in his eye. As the elevator headed up to the first floor, I stood there shaking my head, for not only do I not know who I am, but now I have someone laughing at me for pretending to be someone I'm not. The window facing north had a wonderful view of the pigeon stained wall of the building next door, and the window facing east was level with the street, right next to the neon sign of the hotel. The "ore" in Commodore had a short in it, causing it to flicker on and off, and of course my bed just happens to be in that corner of the room. This is wonderful? Oh, and certainly quiet with the steady flow of cars and pedestrians going by. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pulled out the card that I had found earlier. Someone had written, (maybe Choo), the following: Gary Greenbaum/Attorney at Law, 28th Fl. Smith Tower, 506 2nd Ave., (206) 340-0777. This must be the lawyer that is handling the estate and how convenient for me, this Gary fellow is on Second Avenue also. I placed the card on the worn lime green carpet, stretched out and yawned rather largely. At the same time my stomach announced its emptiness. Caught between sleep and hunger, I decided to lie down momentarily while figuring out the next course of action. Just as I lay down, I felt a drip of water hit me right between my eyes. I looked up at the ceiling and noticed a tiny pool of water had gathered together right over the bed. I followed the trail from the stain, and reasoned that it had originated from the bathroom, but because of the slope of the ceiling the water naturally ran to the steepest part of the angle, which fortunately for me was right above my head. Bull’s eye, another direct hit. I rolled over slightly, and fell into a trance as each drip slowly put me under. I open my eyes and I find myself submerged beneath a layer of water looking up towards the surface. The moon is big and bright, and it appears that I am directly under a bridge. Suddenly a dark figure out of nowhere falls from the sky. It crashes into the water, and quickly begins to descend upon me. Closer and closer. As the alien came into the light, I unexpectedly found myself looking at me. Trying desperately to get away, I sank further into the darkness of the cold blue, as the oxygen that I so severely needed began to gush out. "Noooo!!!" I screamed, as I sat up in bed, inhaling over and over again, trying to catch my breath. Between each one I kept telling myself, "It's only a dream. It's only a dream. It's only…You're not going to die. You're not going to die. It's just a dream." After a long, controlled exhale, I was finally able to grab hold of my mind. I looked up and I found myself once again looking at myself, but this time the image was a reflection coming from the dresser mirror. And then I started to laugh. I don't know why, I just started laughing. Over and over again. Maybe I was laughing at the foolishness of it all? Maybe I was going insane? Maybe it was easier than crying? Whatever the reason I was laughing and during my brief moment of calm madness, I somehow remembered a phone number. Grabbing some change I ran out of the room and down to the end of the hall to the pay phone. Depositing the money, I quickly dialed 522-8800. After just one ring the phone picked up. "Orange Cab." I heard a voice say. I hung up right away, knowing that this wasn't the number that I wanted to dial. I sat there for a second with my eyes closed trying to visualize the number, while my fingers scanned the buttons in search of the right combination. Nothing. Not even close. I was wide awake now and sitting alone in the hotel hallway with nothing on but my underwear. It was cold, and my friends the goose bumps decided to pay me an unannounced visit. "Hello there, you sons a bitches," I said, as they spread over my body faster than a speeding bullet. Superman's got nothing on you guys, I thought. During my recess break I went back into my mind, trying to remember anything that had something to do with my past or even my present, for that matter. A bridge, an object that crosses a chasm, and connects two roads together was the only thing that came to mind. That's it I thought. The bridge yesterday and then the bridge just now in my dream. Maybe there's something there waiting for me I thought, as I called Orange Cab back. "Could you please drive slowly, and in the far right hand lane?" I asked the cab driver as we approached the bridge. The cab driver had figured out that it was the University Bridge that I wanted to go to from the description that I gave him of the landscape and sailboats. "I have to go at least 45." "45 it is." We were heading north on I-5, so the view that I had was easterly. Nothing seemed familiar. Nothing at all. Halfway over the bridge I looked to my left, across the freeway to the west and the hillside that I thought I had recognized from yesterday, was all lit up. I became excited and asked the cab driver to exit as soon as possible. "Where to friend?" asked the cab driver. "I want you to stop on the on ramp going back the other way." "You want me to stop on the freeway on ramp?" "Yes." "Okay, but you'll have to pay me now." "No problem," I said. So I handed the driver a twenty and off we went. Walking along the freeway, I was thankful that it was late, because there was hardly any traffic. No moon though, so I could have used a flashlight to help me see where I was going. Standing along the rail of the bridge, I looked out over the water and saw a group of sailboats bobbing slightly up and down. Directly in front of me were the lights along the hillside. I continued looking to my left and I noticed that giant needle thing once again, with its red light flashing, still awaiting departure. A little more to my left was downtown, and then directly to my left was me. Baa Boom! Baa Boom! Baa Boom! The sound of my heart pounding furiously against my chest. There I was standing still, staring down over the rail. I looked to see what I was looking at and all I saw was just the water, but this time though the reflection of the full moon was visible. I looked up to the sky, and saw nothing but the stars. "There's no moon," I said, as I looked back to look at me, but I was no longer there. I was in fact airborne, racing towards my death. "Nooo! What the fuck do you think you're…" I yelled out, as I watched myself fall through the sky towards the moon lit bay. I felt the cold wind against my body as I approached the water and-then-crash. I felt nothing at all. "Quick, bring the boat around," I heard, as I witnessed these two people scurrying across the deck of their sailboat. Then I saw one of them dive into the water near the spot where I had landed. The other fellow at this point had brought the boat around and was waiting, watching for some sign of life. And then out of nowhere, the fellow who had dived in came back up with some one else in his arm. It was me that he held onto tightly. He managed to bring the both of us along side of the boat. The other fellow reached over the rail and pulled me up and over, onto the deck of the boat. After the person that saved me got out of the water, I noticed that he began to administer CPR to me. While he was pumping on my chest and breathing into me, I screamed out from the bridge, "Don't let me die! Do not let me DIE!" The two men on the boat looked up at me and I could tell by the light on their faces who they were: Albert and Choo. Suddenly, a semi truck raced past me honking its horn and flashing its lights. I covered up to protect myself from the wind and debris that followed. After the truck passed, I looked back down, but they were gone. The water was dark and still. Finding myself standing alone in the middle of a bridge on the freeway, I collapsed to my knees and cried. No laughter this time, only tears. December 21, 1999 I could feel drops of water running down my face. Did I go ahead and throw myself off of the bridge? I wondered as I opened my eyes. Much to my delight, it was only the rain. I sat up and discovered that I was huddled next to a giant column. There were four columns in fact, and between the second and third was a plaque that read: "Plymouth Congressional Church Columns." How ironic, I thought, for I have no recollection as to how I got here. I must have a guardian angel, I concluded, but that thought was quickly interrupted by a monster growl from my stomach. Oh yeah, food. I didn't eat anything yesterday. In fact, I didn''t remember the last time I had eaten. I decided to put my identity search on hold, at least until breakfast was over. Walking through the park I noticed that it was split in half, with a four-lane street called Boren going through the middle of it. Crossing over and onto the other side I found myself on Pine Street, which traveled west towards downtown, and east towards who knows where? "East, into the unknown," I said, for it seemed like the natural thing to do at this point. "You must be Sammy Sue," I said to the rather large, but jolly, frizzy-hared waitress as she gave me the bill. "No, I'm Jeannie, Sammy's sister. She's in the kitchen cooking, and I'm out here talking and running around. Sammy's not too good with people, and I'm a lousy cook, so it all works out just right. We just call the place Sammy Sue's, because it sounds better than Jeannie Sue's." I couldn't agree more I thought, as I looked up towards the kitchen. Sure enough there was Sammy with her head down and her arms flailing around in the air like a human octopus. I smiled back at Jeannie as I handed her some money. "Right back with your change," she said as she walked away armed with a coffeepot in one hand, and a check pad in the other. Staring out the window next to my table, I brought the coffee cup up to my mouth while checking out the neighborhood. On my right I noticed that there was a liquor store at the corner of 12th and Pike, and then on my left was a police station. "Here you go," Jeannie said as she hustled back to the table, "And the photo as well. Cute dog." "I'm sorry," as I looked at Jeannie and the photograph at the same time, "I don't understand." "Neither did I, but when you gave me the money to pay for the bill, you also handed me this picture. So I guess you wanted me to look at it, or you just handed it to me by mistake. Oh, well. Like I said, cute dog. More coffee?" "No thank you." "Okay then. Have a nice day." "You too," I said, and before I knew it she was gone. I opened the envelope to see what other clues might secretly be tucked away, but that was it; nothing but the money remained. I looked at the photograph and it was a picture of myself and a beautiful thick manned dog that looked like a wolf, (obviously a friendly wolf-like dog.) In the background was this rusted-out, industrial structure. It appeared that we were at a park. Who took this pictured I wondered? Turning the photo over I noticed some words written on the back: Dylan and me '97. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine this scene, but once again my mind was blank. I opened my eyes and looked at the photograph, and the strangest thing happened; it somehow came to life. For a moment in time I saw another woman smiling and waving back at me. I blinked for a second, and then she was gone. All that remained before me was just the lifeless photograph. Wait a second, the police station has a Missing Persons Department, and presently I'm a missing person. What if someone I know has reported me as missing? What if there is a listing right now on the board with my name on it? Yeah, and what if I'm a wanted criminal my mind warns. "Yeah, what if," I said to myself, as I stood motionless on the stairs of the police station. But then again what if I'm not? I won't know unless I go inside. But what if I am, and I find myself sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole? Or worse yet, I may have committed a crime that is punishable by death. Is finding out who I am worth dying for? No, but better to die with a name than to live without one. "Excuse me, but can you tell me where the Missing Persons Department is?" I asked the officer at the front desk. "Through the doors on your left. Up the stairs, down the hall, and it's the last door on your right." "Thank you," I said as I walked away. To make sure that I had at least made it past the front desk, I paused when I reached the doors, and looked back at the officer. Wrong decision, for he was curiously staring back at me as if he had seen me before. "Through these doors," I asked innocently. "Yep. Through those doors." I swung them open, and walked briskly up the stairs. Upon reaching the top, I was immediately intercepted by another police officer, who strangely resembled Count Dracula. We stood there for a second eyeing one another. Me, about to pee in pants, and he, about to bite my neck. "Missing Persons," I asked in my best soprano voice. "Down the hall. Last door on your right." "Thanks," I said, looking down and away from his hypnotic eyes. Reaching the doorway, I paused once again, and looked up into one of those the corner mirrors that make objects appear closer than they are. I could tell that the officer had stopped and was watching me. His elongated body seemed like a giant cobra that was within striking distance. "Oh shit. I'm in trouble," I said, as I entered the office. A busy place, I found myself shielded by numerous officers passing me by one right after the other. Feeling confident about having silently slipped though, I made my way up to yet another information counter. The officer on duty looked up casually as I approached, and then went back to work. Almost there I thought. Just a few more steps…And then, as fate would have it again, the officer set his pen down, raised up like an executioner at the gallows, crossed his arms and eyed me as if he was ready to chop my head off. That's it, I'm dead. "Where the hell have you been," he barked. "Did you know that there are people looking for you? That I, personally called and drove by your house? Posting signs around town, and in my neighborhood?" My brain started to short circuit from the bombardment of questions. A sense of paralysis set in, from not knowing what to say or what to do. Finally, after gaining some control, I opened my mouth and quietly asked, "Who's been looking for me?" "Well, this lady by the name of Rebecca Pruitt to start. She called, came by and put up a photo on the board. Contacted all of the hospita…." The officer's voice began to fade out, as I turned to find the Missing Persons Board. Staring at the board, I stood there with tears running down my face. For, once again, right in front of me was me. On the poster was the same photograph from the park, and right underneath the picture was my name: Walter Allan Mitchell. What a great name! "…and then I think she even went on…" the officer's voice coming back in. He stopped talking, as he noticed that I had turned towards him, standing still in patient silence. "I tried to kill myself, but wound up knocked out instead. For the past day and a half, I have been wandering around trying to find out who I am and where I live. Could you please take me home?" "You bet,” the officer said. Reaching into the front yard fountain, underneath the moss bottom, I pulled out a small tin can. Inside the can, wrapped in a zip lock bag, was the key to the house. I paused as I placed the key into the lock and rested my right hand on the door. "The truth and nothing but the truth," I said as I turned the key. The front door swung open and for the very first time, I stood outside looking in. Stepping into the foray, I could tell right away that the house was large, immaculate and frightfully empty. I walked around, slowly working my way from the living room and then to the dining room. A sense of unease filled the air. I felt like I was an unwelcome stranger trespassing on my own property. No holes in the walls. No scratches on the wood floor. No memories at all. I'm not supposed to be here, I thought as I pushed opened the last door to the last room, only to find a small table neatly tucked away in the far corner. On top of the table was a telephone and resting underneath the phone was an answering machine. I walked over to the table and noticed ten messages registered. Am I near the end? I wondered as I hit the rewind button, or is this just another false lead? Round and round… While the tape was going backwards, I noticed that a small drawer attached to the front of the table was slightly ajar. I opened it further only to find an envelope, which was sealed and addressed to no one. The tape stopped, and as if I held my whole life in my hands, I slowly reached down and hit the play button. Here we go. "Hey Wally, it's 'Becca. Just calling to say hello and to see how your flight to Hawaii went. Have a great vacation. Ciao." "Wally, it's Rebecca calling again. You're probably on the beach or scuba diving somewhere. I know I'd be. Anyway. Call when you can." "Walter, it's Dolores, Doctor Logan's receptionist. Could you give us a call when you get in? Thanks." "Hello, T.C.I. calling for Walter Mitchell. This is a friendly reminder letting you know that your cable bill is two weeks past due. Thank you." "Okay Walter, Rebecca here. I have no idea what's going on. I mean it's one thing that you didn't call while you were away, but I know that you're suppose to be home now, and I still haven't heard from you. I called the hotel where you said that you were staying and they have no record of you ever arriving. Are you okay? Have you left town? What? Please, please call me. I don't care at this point. I just want to know something, anything." "Walter, it's Dolores once again from Doctor Logan's office. Doctor Logan wanted to go over with you the results of the biopsy. So if you could call the office as soon as possible I'd appreciate it." "Hello, this is Officer Washington, with the Seattle Police Department. I'm calling on behalf of Rebecca Pruitt. She very worried concerned about your safety. Please do us all a favor, and call her or myself at 206-320-6739. Thank you." "Walter, Doctor Logan. I usually don't do this over the phone, but since you haven't gotten back to me. Anyway. Good news. The results of the biopsy came back, and as it turns out my initial prognosis was incorrect. The biopsy is negative. Sorry for the false alarm. Congratulations Wally. Way to go." The last two messages were hang-ups. I picked up the envelope and sat down on the floor, propping myself up against the wall. I was getting closer I thought, but did I really want to know the truth at this point? A mistake. An empty house. It's very apparent that I should not be alive. I opened the envelope and found a single, plain white index card. Written on the card: Dear Friend, If you are reading this letter, then you'll know that I'm dead. After two brain operations to remove a tumor, I find myself broke, and on the verge of possibly having to go back in for yet another operation. I cannot do this. With no family, and no hope of living through my disease, I'd rather end my life on my own terms. I pray that you understand, and ask that you forgive me. Walt. PS. Rebecca, please take care of Dylan. He adores you, and so do I. Love, Wally. My head collapsed into my hands, as my would be death certificate fell to the floor. As my hands held my head, I could feel the ridges that were permanently gouged into my skull. My hands pressed against my face and as I sat there alone in quiet solitude, I could feel the oxygen flow in and out of me, no longer trying to escape, but wanting only to remain. I got up, walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. Finally, face to face with myself, I stood in front of the mirror, as my eyes welled up and tears ran down my face. I was happy to be alive and thanks to a stranger, I have been given a second chance to live. Maybe that's what Albert saw in me? A chance to continue living even after his death. This was the bond that we shared. December 21, 1999 4:59 PM. Walking into Mr. Greenbaum's office, I was greeted by the sight of Richard MacKenzie sitting at the desk with a pen in his hand. "Hey, Dick," I said, as I approached. Richard slammed down the pen, threw his chair back and puffed out his chest, as he stood up to challenge me. His face; immediately red with anger, started turning pale blue. Electing not to suffocate himself, Richard slowly started to breathe again, as his chest returned to its relaxed position. Throughout the show, I didn't move; didn't even blink, which pissed him off so that he spit in my face, and stormed out of the room. He knew that I had discovered my identity, but what he didn't know, was that along with finding out my name, I also found out who I am. © 2005 Paul Brewster By: Steve Barker I’m listening to Beethoven right now on a CD player given to me by my father. He spent some time in Australia and wanted a stereo for his apartment. He bought a good one and made sure it would adapt to American voltage. So when he returned from his two year business venture the CD player was mine. I bought the adapter at Radio Shack and was somehow a little impressed that I had an Australian CD player. I’m not really sure why, but the adapter gives it a kind of ghetto sheik appearance. So right now I’m listening to Beethoven, a very good choice, but not my first choice. Originally, I wanted to listen to Brahms, but the player rejected the disc. Sometimes it does that. There’s no logic or pattern behind it. Some times it just doesn’t like certain CDs. And it’s not like the CD will never play again, just not for a couple days. So because of this dilemma I go into every CD choice with a back up. It almost always plays my second choice, but on occasion I’ll go through 5 CDs before I pick a winner. Luckily my CD collection is filled with nothing but hits, so my fifth choice is still a pretty good one, but it might not fit the mood as well as the first choice might have. Beethoven and Brahms both portray a similar mood, but Beethoven, especially Moonlight Sonata, gives me this great depressingly happy feeling. I’m sure that makes no sense, but his music moves me. It really does, I feel pure human emotion when I listen. Brahms has that power over me as well, but just not as true. It’s such a wonderful feeling that I can’t even describe it. Like orange juice, I really like it, but I can’t describe the taste. Beethoven was something special and now the CD player has given him to me, maybe Beethoven should have been my first choice, but then maybe it wouldn’t have played and I’d be listening to Brahms right now. © 2005 Steve Barker Synopsis: Comedian Eddy Lewis learns why he shouldn’t mess with Texas or fat people. Palmer Avery’s sarcasm scathes and blisters, but leaves us with a final injury-curing message. Forget politically correct humor when reading Avery’s “Don’t Mess with Texas” and enjoy humor the old-fashioned way: picking on almost everyone. DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS By now I can't even stand the smell of the Ha-Cha-Cha Comedy Club and I split as soon as my last set is over. As I near my apartment building, I see somebody slumped on the sidewalk, blocking the doorway. Whoever it is, he's bawling and—no, not bawling. If you punctured a basketball and deflated it underwater you might get these noises. Gurgling wheezes. Real fleshy sounds, irregular, like there's a hitch in his chest. I could see this coming from a dying old man, but as I kneel down beside the guy I see it's Charlie Kurtz, the fat fucker who lives above me. Guy's maybe thirty. I look up at the doorman for a clue as to what happened, but he avoids my stare. Either I'm a gorgon or he's an asshole, and I'm thinking the latter, 'cause there's only two kinds of people in the world, but more on that later. Anyway, I'm getting pissed now, 'cause brown winter sludge is seeping into my shoes and I just bought these last week around the corner at Dimatteo's, which, if you're ever in Manhattan you should go there— if you have good taste and aren't the typical cheapo I'm always meeting these days. Anyway, back to Charlie, this crying business makes the whole building look bad, and that means me, too. I mean, yeah, like I care about Charlie's emotional problems, but he's the best upstairs neighbor I've ever had and I'm not gonna let him fuck that up. You know that movie Saving Private Ryan? The guy before Charlie got surround sound and used to watch the first twenty minutes over and over and over. But Charlie? Absolute mouse. I don't know how a three-hundred pound man can walk that quiet, but what do I know? I'm just a comedian. "Get up, Chuck," I say. "C'mon, you can cry inside." I poke him and shake him and he just flops around. So I try a joke from my new set. "Hey, Chuck! I found my virginity today! Know where it was? Between your mother's legs, where I lost it!" The doorman goes inside, I'm guessing to call the super—another asshole. Suddenly, all I want is to be back on that vomity stage, cracking jokes for a drunk house. And I don't even like my profession; anybody who pays to laugh . . . . And on top of that, it's not right when a comedian of my talent, who's been on TV, a star, is forced to play the Ha-Cha-Cha for a month straight. Believe you me, my agent's gonna hear plenty as soon as I can find where I put his number. But what the hell was I-- Oh, yeah, Charlie. I finally get him up to my room—mine, 'cause I am not about to stick my hand in his sweaty pocket and get his keys. I threw out my back out between the third and fourth floors, pushing that beef carcass up the stairs like Sisyphus with a boulder of lard. I heave him into a chair and go get him some water, saying, "Don't puke, Charlie! I just bought that chair for five thousand dollars!" I'm not rich, but I've had some nice breaks. Some nice, well-deserved, breaks. A couple years back, HBO aired The Eddy Lewis Special. My theme was how everyone is either an idiot or an asshole and I wore a T-shirt that read DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS, because, somehow, Texans manage to fit into both categories. And it's funny, because that big-ass state has, like, five of the fattest cities in America. Letterman had me on to promote the special and I've also got a joke-of-the-day calendar. Not bad for a twenty-eight year-old from Utah. Oh, and I guest-starred on CSI: Miami. I was this wise-cracking bank robber who got mad a lot and fired at the ceiling. But I had to be real chill about it, so as not to break the show's white-knuckle-cool attitude. Which was fucking idiotic. And the director wouldn't let me work in any of my jokes. Which was also fucking idiotic. But at least it's nice to know you're better than TV, which obviously isn't ready for my shocking brand of gutsy humor. I bring Charlie the water, which he chugs, then promptly pukes. Get this, he aimed for his lap. It's a lot easier cleaning up a carpet than a five-thousand dollar leather chair, but no, he aims for his lap. I want to slap him like a menstruating nun, but figure I'd get vomit all over me and no thanks. I grab his collar and drag him to the bathroom where I plop him in the tub. "Now you can puke in your lap all you want, Chuck." I go clean the chair, then call his apartment to see if anyone's around to take him off my hands. I get his answering machine which says, "Hi! I'm not in right now, but if it's between seven and ten, I'm probably at O.A. Call you soon!" I hang up and turn on the radio, loud, to an A.M. Hispanic station. For the next twenty minutes, I call again and again, holding the receiver to the speaker as his tape records. When he gets home, he'll have an answering machine full of talk radio in Spanish. When I get back to the bathroom, I find he's stopped crying, but now he's going, "Unnhhh, unnh," and swaying side to side. Suddenly, he leans over and projectile vomits all over the floor. It's red, like he's puking blood. Fucking great. "Don't die on me, Chuck," I yell, panicking. Then I realize it's just red wine. "IN YOUR LAP, CHARLIE! PUKE IN YOUR LAP!" Guy's completely backwards. Somebody knocks. I answer and she asks me to stop shouting and turn down the radio. It's this crone with a caved in face, like a baked apple left out in the sun. Her hair is stringy, just kind of fades away at the ends. As for the color of her hair, I can only compare it to something you'd find in an outhouse. One of her grandkids must live here and she's up for a visit, 'cause there's no way this derelict can afford a unit in this building. I'm not rich, but I don't live here 'cause it's cheap. I had my own special on HBO. So I get right up in her shriveled little face and roar, "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I'M EDDY LEWIS. EDDY FUCKIN LEWIS! IF I WANNA YELL, I'M GONNA! IF I WANT THE RADIO LOUD, IT'S GONNA BE LOUD! SO FUCK OFF!" She stands there for a minute, blankly and then takes a drag from this cigarette she's got clutched between her hoary claws. Okay. "THERE'S NO SMOKING! THIS IS NEW YORK! PUT THAT OUT AND HAVE SOME RESPECT!" Her neck looks like a frayed rope. Her denim skirt is covered in rhinestones, T-shirt three blocks of color—red-white-and-blue—with a big white star in the blue field. "Weeuul, Mr. Loois . . . ," she croaks. "Ah'm sorry it's come to theus." Then she hobbles off. Slouched in the tub, Charlie is out. He reminds me of an overweight dog, all sad eyes and pudgy limbs. Or maybe a manatee. I'm secretly hoping he chokes on his own vomit, because I could use the publicity. Like they say, any publicity is good publicity. 'Cause I gotta tell you, it's been thin lately. I know I made out before like everything was golden, but the truth is, I've got barely enough in my account to renew my lease and that's only if my brother-in-law decides to give me that job at his cardboard box factory. He'd better: it'll be January first in a week, and I'm still a few hundred short. All that shit I mentioned earlier? Well, the HBO thing only ran once. Most of the calendars are still in the shrink-wrap, because nobody knows who the hell Eddy Lewis is. I overheard Letterman tell someone to make sure I was never invited back. I don't even want to talk about CSI: Miami. I sit on the toilet and nudge Charlie awake. "Hey, buddy, your answering machine says you're at O.A. from seven to ten every day. What the hell is O.A.?" He looks around miserably, drunk and covered in puke, in some strange apartment. Probably can't place me. I keep prodding him until he finally mumbles, "Overeaters Anonymous." "You sad fuck," I say. "You put that on your outgoing message? Doesn't that strike you as a little . . . non-anonymous? And anyway, aren't you at all embarrassed? What's the problem with you fatties? If you look like shit, and feel like shit, shouldn't you stop eating like shit? How many times have I seen the jumbo-size bag of potato chips in the same shopping cart as the Ultra Slim Fast? What'd you have for lunch today, tiger: an Atkin’s shake and a gallon of ice cream? Look, here's your twelve-step program. Step 1: I'm fat. Step 2: I stop eating for six. Step 3: I walk sometimes. Step 12: I get laid again." You'll never believe this, but Charlie lunges up just then and pops me on the nose. After all my hospitality, he attacks me! He'd be getting hypothermia on the pavement if it weren't for me! I should have noticed his growing rage while I was talking about fat people, but what can I say? I pop him right back and take off toward the living room. Tubby comes crashing behind me. I yank open the front door and race down the hall. He catches me before I make it to the stairs: fat people are always so much faster than you expect. For the next few minutes, I eat a lot of carpet. Then, the lug rolls off and pukes again, right by my ear. I hear some doors open, but apparently the sight of us puts off any would-be Samaritans. I must have blacked out or something, because when I open my eyes again the big turd is gone. But: leaning over me is the old Southern bitch. She's still smoking. An inch of ash dangles off her cigarette. Standing next to her is the super. That turns my head sideways. "Mr. Lewis," he says. "This is my grandmother, Ethel. She's been visiting for the last week, up from Texas. You might be surprised to learn that she's the owner of this building. Furthermore, as of January first, on account of your juvenile and asinine behavior tonight, you are no longer welcome here." His smile is Southern decadence itself. Ethel whispers something in his ear. "Oh, yes," he adds cheerfully, "she saw your TV special on the HBO. And hated it." The ash falls on my face. All that happened a month ago. For the record, I'd like to say that anyone who uses the words "furthermore" and/or "asinine" oughta be forced to have sex with a toad. Anyway, my new place, it's a crummy efficiency. Smaller than a dorm room. It's like a monk cell. The closet is missing a door and the cupboards don't have knobs. This is the kind of building where tenants steals knobs off cupboards. What are they going to do, pawn them? If only one or two were missing, that's neglect. But all of them? I'm lucky to have a carpet and blinds. My neighbor, he deals drugs. I can tell. This creep may transcend my whole idiot/asshole paradigm. I'm not saying he's a superior individual. No. This guy—pock-marked face and cracked "teeth," barbed wire bracelets, arms covered in sores, Skidz—he makes moray eels look cuddly. I'd rather live next to a flesh-eating virus. I am convinced that someday I will come home to find ambulances and police cars arrayed around the entrance to my building. Emergency personnel will be stringing up CRIME SCENE tape and blood will be splattered on the wall by my door, because I hear this creep arguing with his customers at four in the morning every night and I know that either he or they have a shotgun blast to the face in their future. I share a toilet with this person. Yep. The twelve tenants living on this floor all use a common bathroom. Let's talk about the needles in the sink. No, let's move on to my upstairs neighbor. Actually, it's two neighbors now, above and below. Here's my typical day. The music starts at six in the morning and continues far into the night, around the time crime scene boy next door gets in his visitors' faces. I wake every morning to Donna Summers. I went up to his door once and found a sign reading: "Disco D." Disco D must have his speakers lying face-down on the floor. The beats and throbbing bass threaten the building's structural integrity. And what's worse is that sets off my downstairs neighbor, who thinks it's me. Gerald is an alcoholic school teacher who thinks the best way to communicate with your fellow tenant is by banging a broom handle against the ceiling. Even when the music stops for a few minutes and I'm curled in my bed, trying to get some fucking sleep, he pulls out the broom. "Quiet down, ya noisy fuck-face! Ya whore!" I've told him the truth again and again, but he won't quit. And I'm breaking down. I've started overeating. Fatty foods are my only comfort. I've put on thirty pounds in the last month. I'd move, but it seems Ethel and her toady grandson have put the word out on what they think is my "rep." No one will rent to me. I'm forking another sausage as I write this. I've come to like this shit. The grease on my lips after that midnight jumbo dog. A coating of cheese curl flecks on my hands; I’m licking it off, tearing open a new bag with slippery fingers. Between feedings, I try to sleep, sitting up on the couch watching TV—on low so as not to infuriate Gerald. A commercial just came on: Whoppers are now only 99 cents . . . . © 2005 Palmer Avery POEM m. h. burkett (Peter Meehan 1975-2002) In New Orleans: Nick’s on Tulane Ave. has dollar pints and undergarments stapled to the ceiling. I first met Peter there. Behind Nick‘s, passing joints and free style rapping, amidst a circle of hippies, freaks, bums and lunatics: Quality people. Some guy with a garbage bag came up trying to sell crack. We made him rap first, then laughed and sent him away. Peter told me how 3 months earlier he had climbed on stage with his sax at a Medeski Martin & Wood show. He was told he had played a 17 minute solo but had been too drunk to remember it. He seemed disappointed; I wasn’t familiar with them, but then, he wasn’t familiar with Tom Waits. Several months later, Peter told me he’d met Tom Waits twice: first after a Honeypot gig, a loud mouthed guy with a bank roll and an open tab kept praising Peter’s style. Next time, Peter had spotted the same guy, different club, shooting up in an alley. He wore 4 watches to cover the tracks. Peter recognized him from watching BIG TIME, wearing the same four watches. These stories could even be true. A sample of Peter stories: In front of Graceland one January first, red and blue lights fought the Presley holiday lights. The cops let us go rather than deal with us. They took the dozen roaches but left the four joints, afraid that if we had the cash and no drugs, we’d only go looking for more. They didn’t knowing we had spent every dollar at the track, every nickel drinking free at the casino. Then the time we were scaling the underside of the Mississippi Bridge with a 4-track to record acappella German techno -- only I fell off. Bruised and bloody, fallen from telephone pole height, I watched Peter descend, furious. “We’re down here!” he kept bitching, “We’re supposed to be up there!” Peter left the day after Christmas. He went to take a nap and never got up. He was found listening to his new CD: The Blind Boys of Alabama. One track, on repeat, had been playing for hours: Amazing Grace, sung over the progression of House of the Rising Sun. © 2005 m.h. burkett POEM Peter A. Dorsey I hear the singing with you from somewhere in the church paved with tombs. Round pebble of love still lodged behind my heart. Under the massive organ pipes you stand like a drop of sound, only silent. Candles carry on prayer’s warm work. We kneel by vents in the floor for a taste of it. That singing. Notes condense from stone, igneous and seamless votives. Outside it is snowing. The church again assumes its geology, the space between footfalls and voice lost, and rock renews winter into all the distance between what we feel and what we can say, until this too is gone. ©2005 Peter A. Dorsey POEM Verdena M. Garner Verdena Gardner’s Brief and Bizarre Bio Return to Humdinger table of contents deconstruction of an abhorrent vacuum By: Christopher Mulrooney © 2005 Christopher Mulrooney Read Christopher Mulrooney’s Brief and Bizarre Bio. Applaud these brave and creative poets who say much in so few words! Scroll down and read their brief, yet telling poems. TOP POETS: Kyra Abbott Steve Barker Jonathan Biehl Brent Bowman Christopher Burrow Tara Carter Bryan Clark Peter A. Dorsey Verdena Gardner Tom Gleason vince gullaci Rebecca Hirsch Joshua Izenberg Mona Martin Tom Nasset Carla Reynolds Susan Stewart Sophya Vidal Time. It’s wasting away. Trapped in a moment. Leaving everything or nothing behind. Time is just slipping by me. Waiting and wondering is all I know. Life goes on, but I can’t seem to step in. Facing the world is just one step away, but a million miles from where I want to be. © 2005 Kyra Abbott stale cigarettes remind me of the first few I ever had hidden deep in my closet in a hockey glove only to be pulled out at a moment when children’s games were boring © 2005 Steve Barker Confusion, creating illusions, societal institutions cannonball solutions for human pollution recycling conclusions Confusion . . . © 2005 Jonathan Biehl MOUNTAIN SICKNESS and now I have returned with a duffel-bag and horse sermons; stone tablets were too rare and expensive, so I used ink pens and a notebook, and bequeathed my beard to a long lost friend— and now who will I trouble? © 2005 Brent Bowman chessboard pawns they are able to mate ©2005 Christopher Burrow I'm leaving this city in three days and am on a mission to sample the things you can get in a lot of places but not in one place all at once; trying to lighten my load and take it all on as the bit of chill reminds me that it is all fleeting © 2005 Tara Carter BOY MEETS BIRD © Bryan Clark
Man comes to the park, takes his shoes and socks Off, and walks slowly through the grass, pant legs rolled, for hours. If a leaf falls and touches his ankle he will cry. © 2005 Peter A. Dorsey Deadly Nightshade Twining, vining Mining my life Belladonna in the sun Is fun for just one. Stealing, sealing Revealing my heart Pounding on the beach A leach-she's a peach. © 2005 Verdena Gardner “Deadly Nightshade” was inspired by a photograph BLUE BALL IN A BIRDBATH © 2005 Tom Gleason WORDS Paper that would blow away in the gentlest of breeze cuts not deep but wounds to the quick. © 2005 vince gullaci HEARTLESS By actions past at the core's heart a barrenness of soul cloaked by a warm smile never quite touching the eyes. © 2005 vince gullaci EMBRACE Don't go to seek comfort there an imaginary lover arms entwined the beautiful © 2005 vince gullaci dreamy Meg in a green shirt with pancakes makes me realize I've lost my sharpness entirely anti-excited stalker curiosity literary sexiness Meg, do you want to eat some peach? Meg: no, i don't eat fuzz Meg is all languor hyperconscious sleepy arrogant perfection © 2005 Rebecca Hirsch winter in Michigan, when sunshine is a precious metal, where people prefer plastic, I struck it rich; a little patch on the corner of Washington and Fifth I caught the snow pause to reconsider, then head back upward for the clouds © 2005 Joshua Izenberg TURMOIL As I lay my head down to think Realizing my thoughts are not my own to keep Not one not two but three of me Tossing an turning inside my head Never remembering what it said Running away as fast as i can never far enough to understand who i am help me now help me then take it away make it end © 2005 Mona Martin You could blow me Or you could snow me But neither means That you would know me Should I show me? If when I pass And none do know me Was there no me? © 2005 Tom Nasset Samantha Lucille Louise, you do whatever you please blow bubbles to chase your cares away, throw all your toys down the stairs then say, "I do not care for pears today, pass the peaches please." Samantha Lucille Louise, you are each one of these: the monster that cuts and tears and frays, the angel that kneels by her bed and prays, the child that I must mold with praise and the gift God has given to me. © 2005 Carla Reynolds The Where House you've reached your mail storage limit, it read the confused - © 2005 Susan Stewart The candle flickers Its tiny dancer leaps and spins, caught in a tango with the breeze. She dreams of freedom as the pace moves faster, she matches her partner toe to toe. Suddenly I stop the dance, with a flick of my breath. I focus on the rising smoke and wonder about the fiery ballet called my dreams. © 2005 Sophya Vidal |
