ANNOUNCEMENTS
Coming Soon From
SUBTOPIAN
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Announcing Dystopia Boy by our founder, Trevor D. Richardson, coming soon from Montag Press
ROAD NOTES May 2013 San Francisco-Denver Jeff Costello 1 A cluster of Flies, conversations with Writers Interviews by Kirby Light 3 STUCK ON REPEAT Ben Affleck, Heath Ledger, Anne Hathaway, Michael Keaton... Batman Stuck On Repeat Arthur Brand 5 DYSTOPIA We’re Not For Sale David Renton 9 DOOMSDAY WATCH 15 FUTURE TRACKER 16
UTOPIA You Don’t Matter: A Message of Peace Designed to Anger You Trevor D. Richardson 17 FICTION Have You Ever Seen the Rain? James C. Burnham 21 PEARLS FOR SWINE Meander Kirby Light 37 THE CRITIC’S CRITIC Trevor D. Richardson Shares A Friendly Conversation He Had With His Brother, Kevin Richardson, Via Text... 43 SERIALS Hour of the Wolf Part Two Kirby Light 51
May 2013 San Francisco-Denver
Picnic on Donner Pass - No meat... Plaque I’d like to see at the Donner Summit: “They Bit off More Than They Could Chew”
In Sausalito we had lunch with a friend of M’s late husband. The guy is a Mormon with a rich history of womanizing, seven marriages, and big money made through less-than-honest business practices. This was in the bay area, where two of his many houses are. He drove up to the restaurant by the old Sausalito Boat & Tackle in a bright red Lotus, a $110,000 sports car. His attitude was distinctly patriarchal. Approval of me is perhaps pending, but I had his number in minutes, a rich phony hypocrite. The Lotus was the final straw for her. Reno, a very sad place indeed. The glitzy casinos... cheesy, low-grade operations that do nothing to hide or disguise the overall bummer vibe of the place. The broken down losers on the street were never any kind of high rollers. Across Nevada on I-80, it is difficult to find something decent to eat, but there is one good place in Winnemucca called The Griddle along the business loop. Recommended. Just down the street from the Winnemucca Inn, where I once had perhaps the worst breakfast ever. The grease-soaked fake hash browns were unfit for dogs. It may be worth noting that such places use the lowest grade of cooking grease the USDA will allow to be designated as food.
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Wendover, on the Nevada-Utah border just before the salt flats, was nothing but creepy, even the sky. Weird noises and thumping on the wall in the motel. M, who likes to gamble a little, wouldn’t even go into a casino there.
Utah. Weird. Mormons, and coming off the the salt flats, like Arkansas with the alternating bible and pornography billboards, Utah’s are alternating shady pie-in-the-sky business “opportunities” (Mormon) and strip/lap dance clubs. My friend Dave, a Colorado boy in Port Townsend WA, says correctly, “Salt Lake is a slime hole, pure and simple.” Terrible traffic in Salt Lake metroplex. Nevada and Utah, rivals for most boring states. And weird and dangerous. Highway 6 in Utah is the worst. Narrow two-lane road with very strong contrary winds across endless bleak desert, huge trucks coming the other way and assholes in big macho pickup trucks tailgating. Highway 6 meets I-70 at Green River, where we stayed at a motel run by a one-armed man. The town’s “best restaurant” not very good - was full of hard core Americans - republicans, pro-war by default. It is scary but necessary to know this. The American tourist: Poodle-haired old women and the husbands traveling in RVs looking for satisfaction in retirement and of course not finding any. Worked all his life for a chance to see such as Mt. Rushmore and doesn’t even notice all the garbage at the bottom of the sculpture, they never even bothered to clean up the rocks that got chipped off. And so it goes. Dave weighs in again on Green River: “That town is a real dump.” Crossing into Colorado, the land was alive, unlike in Nevada or Utah. Into Colorado and over the 10,600 ft. pass down into Denver, at its mere “mile-high” elevation. Through Vail, where Gerald Ford liked to ski. A lot of small towns with touristy knickknack shops along this route. One of them had a marina full of sailboats and a lake that appeared to be pretty much dried up.
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Not a lot of friendly eye contact in Denver, I’ll have to call up recollections of living in Manhattan to deal properly with that. I’ve been in the land of fruits, nuts and flakes too long.
A cluster of Flies, conversations with Writers interviews by Kirby Light Kirby Light talks with J.A. Konrath, author of Whiskey Sour, Stirred, and more, his short stories have appeared in more than sixty magazines and collections, and his work has been translated into ten languages. KL: You are blatantly for ebooks and amazon kindle, as frequently indicated through your blog, but on an in general basis, the industry/money/creative freedom aside, would you prefer your books published in paper or would you stick to digital? JK: Digital all the way. I can bring my work to market faster (a week after finishing vs. 18 months for paper), I have total control over title and cover art (not possible in the legacy publishing world) and I make 70% vs. 17.5% royalties on prices I set. Plus, all of my books are available in paper, via Amazon's Createspace program, and I make more on royalties through these than I would a traditional trade paper deal. The additional money is nice. Selfpublishing is allowing tens of thousands of authors to make money in a field they were once excluded from. I've made over a million dollars on books that New York publishing houses rejected. But more important than the money is the freedom. I no longer have to deal with gatekeeprs who decide what the public wants to read. Now I can directly reach the public, and the readers can decide for themselves.
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KL: On your blog, on occasion, you speak of "bad" books being published and refer to some books as artsy things that
college professors laude over (I'm totally paraphrasing) what do you consider a bad book? JK: You'd have to find my direct quote. Taste is subjective, and I think it's important to know the difference between something that isn't to your taste, and something that is bad. I don't like broccoli, even if it is cooked with care by the best chefs. That doesn't mean broccoli is bad, it just means it isn't to my taste. That said, there can be bad broccoli (rotten, undercooked, poorly prepared). Bad books fail to meet minimum quality standards in regard to narrative structure, characterization, conflict, grammar and spelling, and cohesion. I'm not a big fan of lit fic (the stuff that wins the Man Booker, Pulitzer, Nobel Prize) because it isn't my thing. But I wouldn't denigrate writers who choose to
Ultimately, readers decide what is good and bad, and vote with their dollars. If they don't like your writing, they will give it bad reviews, and will stop buying your work. KL: You write genre fiction, horror, detective, sci-fi, and your blog seems to cater more toward the genre writer. does it seem that legacy publishers tend to favor more literary books as opposed to genre and that if one were to try to publish, say, a detective story that they might have better luck on a platform like kindle while it might be best that a literary writer might do better searching for a legacy publisher, what I mean to say is that do you think one genre of fiction would be more suited for kindle and ebooks than others? JK: I believe ebooks are the future. They are a disruptive technology, and all signs point to them becoming the dominant form of reading for the world in the coming years. And why shouldn't they? No printing, no shipping, instant delivery, low prices, and sunk costs. You can buy ebook readers for the price of two hardcover books, and the prices keep going down. Or instead of a dedicated ereader, you can use a tablet, laptop, smart phone, or desktop, which are becoming ubiquitous, even in lower income communities. Libraries are also lending ebook reading devices and ebooks. This tech is here to stay. Because I'm a genre writer, and my peers are genre writers, I don't have any ties to the lit fic community so I don't pay attention to how it sells compared to genre. The same goes for non-fiction--it isn't my area. But if there is a demand for something in paper, I don't see why there wouldn't be a demand
in ebooks. It may take longer to catch up, but paper is simply a delivery system, and an archaic and costly one at that. The narrative doesn't exist on the page. It exists as words in the reader's head. Those words can appear on paper, or electronic screen, or as audio files. Ebooks and mp3s are cheaper than paper and CDs, and available instantly wherever 3G or Wifi is available (which is more places than all the bookstores and libraries combined). I've heard many people say they'll never give up paper books, but those are often people who haven't tried ebooks yet. And for those who don't like ebooks, paper will still be around. Consumers now have a choice as to how they get their media--a choice they never had before. If someone has a good argument for why literary fiction won't survive in this brave, new world, I haven't heard it. James Patterson tried to make that argument, and I rebutted him here: http:// jakonrath.blogspot.com/2013/04/konrath-onpatterson.html KL: What's your favorite book of all time and why? JK: That's a tough one, because I've read thousands. I'll call it a tie between Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris and The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker. I like thrillers and horror and mystery and action and humor. I also love the books of many writers I've collaborated with: F. Paul Wilson, Ann Voss Peterson, Blake Crouch, Barry Eisler, Jeff Strand, Henry Perez, Tom Schreck... How cool is it that writers who enjoy each other's work can collaborate together and release novels without having to sell the idea to a publisher? pp
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go that route, or readers who enjoy it. I also wouldn't denigrate new writers who are still mastering their craft--we were all there once. But if you haven't mastered it yet, I don't recommend self-publishing until you do.
Ben Affleck, Heath Ledger, Anne Hathaway, Fan uprisings over the recent casting of Ben Affleck bring up an important topic for discussion. A) Most of you couldn’t make a good movie if you were handed a zillion dollars, so maybe you should be a little more sparing in your criticism of, well, pretty much everything. B) Fans, like yourselves, have criticized everything since creative culture first began. P e o p l e h a t e t h i n g s a t f i r s t , t h e n t i m e g o e s b y a n d t h e y l o v e t h e m . O r, c o n v e r s e l y, t h e y s o m e t i m e s l o v e s o m e t h i n g a t f i r s t a n d t h e n , u p o n r e f l e c t i o n , d e c i d e i t ’s t e r r i b l e . S o m e movies have enjoyed critical acclaim in the box office, only to be socially reviled in t h e c o l l e c t i v e m e m o r y. C ) Yo u r c o l l e c t i v e c h a f f i n g a b o u t t h e n e x t B a t m a n i s n o t s p e c i a l , n o r o r i g i n a l , a n d y o u will likely to be shown to be impatient, judgmental, and incorrect. L e t ’s c o n s i d e r t h e h i s t o r y.
Borrowing some text from Newsarama.com, consider what the Internet had to say in response to the casting of Heath Ledger as The Joker:
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“ H e a t h ? l e t ’s r e m i n i s c e o n t h e d a y s o f A K n i g h t ’s Ta l e a n d Te n T h i n g s I H a t e A b o u t 5
Michael Keaton...Batman Stuck On Repeat Yo u . H e a t h ? T h e J o k e r ? B a d c a s t i n g . B a d j o k e . ” “probably the worst casting of all time.” “ O n n o , i t ’s w r o n g o n e v e r y l e v e l . ” “This is totally bull. I do not at all like this choice.” “Hell NOOOOOOOOOOOOO” “And now begins the second downfall of the Batman series... I hope this is all a joke” “I am NOT seeing this movie if he is in it.” “ T h e J o k e r i s a c h a r a c t e r t h a t n e e d s a n a c t o r w i t h g r a v i t y. N o t s o m e l i t t l e t w e r p w h o g o t l u c k y. ” And now where all of these hatemongers and naysayers? Fanboys of the franchise, v e r b a l l y p l e a s u r i n g L e d g e r ’s c o r p s e . T h e f i c k l e n a t u r e o f t h e m o v i e c r o w d , a s w e l l a s the geek crowd, is irritating, hypocritical, and redundant as all get out. I n o t h e r n e w s , a s i t e I s o m e t i m e s p e r u s e , B l e e d i n g C o o l . c o m , h a s i t t h a t Wa r n e r Bros. Received 50,000 complaints about the casting of Michael Keaton as Batman in 1988/89. Funny enough, prior to the downfall of that franchise, too many actors under the cowl, and poor directing, this was a well-regarded flick, the first big budget t r e a t m e n t o f t h e c h a r a c t e r, a n d f o r p e o p l e m y a g e , t h e o n l y c h o i c e w h e n i t c a m e t o watching Batman come to life in flesh and blood. The movie hasn’t aged as well as s o m e , b u t m o s t s t i l l e n j o y i t , a n d i t ’s i n t e r e s t i n g t o n o t e t h a t n o o n e w a s e x c i t e d a b o u t t h e p r o s p e c t o f a K e a t o n B a t m a n . A c c o r d i n g t o a n 1 9 8 9 a r t i c l e i n T h e To r o n t o S t a r,
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the concern was that “the caped crusader may turn out to be a wimp.”
T h i s w a s t h e s o c i a l a t t i t u d e a t t h e t i m e , t h e w o r d o n e v e r y o n e ’s l i p s w a s “ a v e r a g e , ” Keaton was too normal and, to quote the Star once more, he is “no Sylvester Stallone.” The same took place when Anne Hathaway was cast as Catwoman, only after the movie came out, she was the actor receiving the most acclaim for her work. The inflexibility and lack of imagination of the fan culture of Batman, and characters like it, reveals one glaring and simple fact: if they lack the vision to see potential in actors that have proven themselves, despite strong resistance, to be worthy of the mask then they lack the vision to be able to make good movies. Therefore, it logically follows that they have no business judging, naysaying, or otherwise criticizing the w o r k , a c t o r s , o r m o v i e a s a w h o l e . I f y o u c a n ’ t d o b e t t e r, y o u s h o u l d s t a y q u i e t . M o r e o v e r, l e a r n s o m e t h i n g f r o m h i s t o r y. Yo u ’ v e b e e n w r o n g e v e r y t i m e b e f o r e , y o u ’ r e probably wrong this time too. L e t ’s l o o k a t t h e p a t t e r n : The announcement of the actor goes down and the fans freak out. Next there is the social buzz, the talk of the mistakes, the internet or water cooler discourse about the absurdity of it all. Next we have those who say they will boycott the movie, never wishing to see such an abomination. Then come the petitions. This is where the real meanness of the fans sets in. These people, who I have already established as lacking the vision to create good work, believe they have the authority and the insight to demand a change in the work. These same people, I might add, who resent and bash the Hollywood technique for writing by committee, where a script begins one way and, by the end of the process of suggestion and edits from studios and producers, the finished product is something very different. Interesting, I think, that someone so resistant to writing by committee w o u l d f o r m a p e t i t i o n o f t h e i r p e e r s t o r e w r i t e a n d r e c a s t b y, e s s e n t i a l l y, a c o m m i t t e e . N o w, a s t o t h e m e a n n e s s , l e t ’s t h i n k a b o u t w h a t a p e t i t i o n f o r r e c a s t i n g m e a n s . H e r e is an actor who has worked all their lives to achieve a level of success that would make the studios view them as worthy of such an iconic role. Then, the fans, the v e r y p e o p l e t h e y a r e m a k i n g t h e m o v i e f o r, w o u l d d i s c r e d i t a n d v i o l a t e t h e m t o s u c h an extent as to demand they be run out on a rail. Why? Simply because they are
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different than some preconceived notion, either established by the previous movie 7
o r b y t h e c o m i c b o o k s . I f n o t b e c a u s e o f a p r e c o n c e i v e d n o t i o n o f t h e c h a r a c t e r, i t ’s b e c a u s e o f a p r e c o n c e i v e d n o t i o n o f t h e a c t o r. I n H e a t h L e d g e r ’s c a s e , e v e r y o n e r e f e r e n c e d h i s w o r k i n m o v i e s l i k e 1 0 T h i n g s I H a t e A b o u t Yo u . I n B e n A f f l e c k ’s c a s e , i t ’s G o o d Wi l l H u n t i n g o r M a l l r a t s . I n a l l c a s e s , t h e s e p e o p l e a r e w r o n g b e c a u s e t h e y d i d n ’ t c a s t S i r U l r i c h Vo n L i c h t e n s t e i n f r o m A K n i g h t ’s Ta l e a s T h e J o k e r, t h e y c a s t a n a c t o r, s o m e o n e w h o b e c o m e s a c h a r a c t e r w i t h e a c h n e w r o l e . T h e y d i d n ’ t c a s t C h u c k y f r o m G o o d Wi l l H u n t i n g a s B a t m a n . T h e y c a s t a n a c t o r, a n a c t o r w h o h a s s p e n t t h e p a s t t w o d e c a d e s e s t a b l i s h i n g h i m s e l f a s a serious, respectable, and dedicated follower of his craft, who has further overcome p a s t m i s t a k e s t o t h e p o i n t o f e x c e l l i n g t o t h e h e i g h t s o f t h e A c a d e m y. To s u m u p , t h e r e a c t i o n t o B e n A f f l e c k ’s B a t m a n i s n o t h i n g n e w. I h o p e B e n k n o w s this, because if I saw this kind of reaction to me and my work, I would be upset. Hurt even. If history is any indication, the fans and twerps and critics who are so r i g o r o u s l y a g a i n s t t h i s d e c i s i o n n o w w i l l l i k e l y f l i p f l o p t o B e n ’s s i d e i n t h e d a y s following the release of the upcoming Superman/Batman venture. My hope is that, j u s t a s w e s a w w i t h H e a t h L e d g e r a n d A n n e H a t h a w a y, t h e y g o o n t o c h a n g e u p t h e character and create something dynamic that people talk about for years to come. A n d f i n a l l y, t h e w o r s t B a t m a n i n t h e p u b l i c o p i n i o n w a s G e o r g e C l o o n e y. G e o r g e C l o o n e y w a s m e t w i t h p r a i s e a n d a n t i c i p a t i o n p r i o r t o t h e f i l m ’s r e l e a s e , I r e m e m b e r i t , h e w a s t h e h u n k y g u y f r o m E R a n d p e o p l e w e r e e x c i t e d . To d a y, h e i s r e m e m b e r e d as the worst thing to ever happen to the Batman franchise. The point is, public opinion is usually wrong. So chill the fuck out. pp - - - - - - - S o u rc e s : h t t p : / / w w w. t i m b u r t o n c o l l e c t i v e . c o m / a r t i c l e s / b a t 7 . h t m l h t t p : / / w w w. n e w s a r a m a . c o m / 1 8 7 5 3 - p u b l i c - s e r v i c e - re m i n d e r - h o w -
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We’re Not For Sale THE
by David Renton
I was reading Vice Magazine recently when I came across this story entitled, “The Confidential Memo at the Heart of the Global Financial Crisis.” This article is a quick read, really gets right to the point, and, I daresay, was impressive to the point of making me envious. I wish I had written it. More than that, I am kind of envious of Vice from the top down. It began as a small arts and culture magazine, and has since expanded into a creative empire the likes of which are few and far between. I would love to see Subtopian grow to these levels some day, but Vice has about a twenty year lead on us, so we’ll just have to wait and see. Suffice to say, it is an impressive publication and this story is just the kind of thing Subtopian needs to be talking about. The article by Greg Palast describes a memo, sent in November, 1997, thats “content was so explosive, so sick and plain evil, I just couldn’t believe it.” I want you to think about every underground conspiracy theorist, every Fox Mulder wannabe, every crank and nutjob that sees government exploitation in every corner of the media. Then I want you to imagine, for a moment, that they were right. In 1997, leading US Treasury officials plotted with top bankers to “rip apart financial regulation across the planet.” Read the article, it says it better than I can, but the highlights are simple. It describes a conspiracy to deregulate the economy, empowering the rich to get richer with no checks or balances to stop them. Among these occurrences, I can recall former president Bill Clinton lifting regulation off Wall Street, enabling brokers and the like to basically have whatever kind of field day they desire. But there was more, so much more, the rich did get richer, corporations became recognized as individuals, as citizens, with all the rights that go with it, the world is in riotous upheaval, great cities are filing bankruptcy, the dollar is weakening, and the government bails out its favorite banks and companies. All because a shady cabal of bankers and money changers had an idea, a long con to arrange their pieces on the board in preparation for what Palast calls an “End Game.” According to the article, “The Treasury official playing the bankers’ secret End Game was Larry Summers. Today, Summers is Barack Obama’s leading choice for Chairman of the US Federal Reserve, the world’s central bank...It [the memo] begins with Larry Summers’ flunky, Timothy Geithner, reminding his boss to call the Bank bigshots to order their lobbyist armies to march: The memo states: “As we enter the end-game of the WTO financial services negotiations, I believe it would be a good idea for you to touch base with the CEOs…” From here the article describes how this creepy memo instructs Summers to call these CEOs directly and offers their personal phone numbers. The reason being, that by bypassing their company lines they are able to bypass all the red tape that goes with it. Essentially, this is an under the table deal.
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From here I want to share a passage from Palast’s article and then we’ll talk about what this all means for us.
Palast writes: “The year was 1997. US Treasury Secretary Robert Rubin was pushing hard to de-regulate banks. That required, first, repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act to dismantle the barrier between commercial banks and investment banks. It was like replacing bank vaults with roulette wheels. “Second, the banks wanted the right to play a new high-risk game: “derivatives trading”. JP Morgan alone would soon carry $88 trillion of these pseudo-securities on its books as “assets”. “Deputy Treasury Secretary Summers (soon to replace Rubin as Secretary) bodyblocked any attempt to control derivatives. “But what was the use of turning US banks into derivatives casinos if money would flee to nations with safer banking laws? “The answer conceived by the Big Bank Five: eliminate controls on banks in every nation on the planet -- in one single move. It was as brilliant as it was insanely dangerous. “How could they pull off this mad caper? The bankers’ and Summers’ game was to use the Financial Services Agreement (or FSA), an abstruse and benign addendum to the international trade agreements policed by the World Trade Organization.” Until the bankers began their play, the WTO agreements dealt simply with trade in goods – that is, my cars for your bananas. The new rules devised by Summers and the banks would force all nations to accept trade in “bads” – toxic assets like financial derivatives. Until the bankers’ re-draft of the FSA, each nation controlled and chartered the banks within their own borders. The new rules of the game would force every nation to open their markets to Citibank, JP Morgan and their derivatives “products”. And all 156 nations in the WTO would have to smash down their own Glass-Steagall divisions between commercial savings banks and the investment banks that gamble with derivatives. The job of turning the FSA into the bankers’ battering ram was given to Geithner, who was named Ambassador to the World Trade Organisation. Essentially, to sum up, the End Game was a carefully constructed plot to use the World Trade Organization as a global tool to put all the money in one place, control it, take it, and guard it, and the citizenry be damned.
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“Why in the world would any nation agree to let its banking system be boarded and seized by financial pirates like JP Morgan?” Palast continues, “The answer, in the case of Ecuador, was bananas. Ecuador was truly a banana republic. The
yellow fruit was that nation’s life-and-death source of hard currency. If it refused to sign the new FSA, Ecuador could feed its bananas to the monkeys and go back into bankruptcy. Ecuador signed. “And so on – with every single nation bullied into signing. “Every nation but one, I should say. Brazil’s new President, Inacio Lula da Silva, refused. In retaliation, Brazil was threatened with a virtual embargo of its products by the European Union’s Trade Commissioner, one Peter Mandelson, according to another confidential memo I got my hands on. But Lula’s refusenik stance paid off for Brazil which, alone among Western nations, survived and thrived during the 2007-9 bank crisis. “China signed – but got its pound of flesh in return. It opened its banking sector a crack in return for access and control of the US auto parts and other markets. (Swiftly, two million US jobs shifted to China.) “The new FSA pulled the lid off the Pandora’s box of worldwide derivatives trade. Among the notorious transactions legalised: Goldman Sachs (where Treasury Secretary Rubin had been co-chairman) worked a secret euro-derivatives swap with Greece which, ultimately, destroyed that nation. Ecuador, its own banking sector de-regulated and demolished, exploded into riots. Argentina had to sell off its oil companies (to the Spanish) and water systems (to Enron) while its teachers hunted for food in garbage cans. Then, Bankers Gone Wild in the Eurozone dove headfirst into derivatives pools without knowing how to swim – and the continent is now being sold off in tiny, cheap pieces to Germany. “Of course, it was not just threats that sold the FSA, but temptation as well. After all, every evil starts with one bite of an apple offered by a snake. The apple: the gleaming piles of lucre hidden in the FSA for local elites. The snake was named Larry. “Does all this evil and pain flow from a single memo? Of course not: the evil was The Game itself, as played by the banker clique. The memo only revealed their game-plan for checkmate. “And the memo reveals a lot about Summers and Obama. “While billions of sorry souls are still hurting from worldwide banker-made disaster, Rubin and Summers didn’t do too badly. Rubin’s deregulation of banks had permitted the creation of a financial monstrosity called “Citigroup”. Within weeks of leaving office, Rubin was named director, then Chairman of Citigroup – which went bankrupt while managing to pay Rubin a total of $126 million.
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“Then Rubin took on another post: as key campaign benefactor to a young State Senator, Barack Obama. Only days after his election as President, Obama, at Rubin’s insistence, gave Summers the odd post of US “Economics Tsar” and made Geithner his Tsarina (that is, Secretary of Treasury). In 2010, Summers gave up his royalist robes to return to “consulting” for Citibank and other creatures of bank deregulation whose payments have raised Summers’ net worth by $31 million since the “end-game” memo.
That Obama would, at Robert Rubin’s demand, now choose Summers to run the Federal Reserve Board means that, unfortunately, we are far from the end of the game.” So what does all of this mean, really mean? First of all, everything you’re afraid of is real. Every kook for the past fifteen years has been on to something. There really are people plotting against you. You really are a cog in the wheel, ineffectual and unimportant, just fuel for someone else’s engine. It also means that nothing you do to fight this really matters. The rules, the system, even your means of protest or law-changing are being written by the same people that you are fighting against. The deck is stacked, the fight is fixed, and your opponent, the one betting against you, has total, complete control. But this means something else, too. It means that what little victories you accomplish as a protestor or a voter are not things you have fought for or changed. They are allowances. Gifts granted to you by a supreme-power that tosses you a bone on occasion to keep you quiet. Nothing more. You have no liberties, not really. You have no freedom. No authority. No strength. No rights. America, this entire planet, has become a machine, owned and operated by the few, and powered by the many. We are not dreaming up Dystopia, we are living it. There is one power, one ruler, in this world and it is money. Everything else is window dressing. Illusion. Smoke and mirrors to keep the masses quiet, entertained, and appeased. This memo, Palast’s awesome article, this is a rare glimpse into the truth. Everything that exists, everything that is ruining our lives, everything we want stopped, is a part of a larger issue, and it isn’t commodities or religion or even politics. It is just money. War, religion, oil, recession, depression, taxes, health care, civil liberties, global warming, all of it is connected. These aren’t separate problems. These are symptoms of a base, root issue, that the people in charge would fuck over the world, prevent change or improvement, as long as it made them richer. There is no way out. Not really. But if there was any real weapon available to us, it would be the economy that they are using to strangle us. People are always asking for an alternative to violent uprising. Well, here it is. You could boycott everything. Step out of the battle. Reject the machine. What if every person on earth started growing their own food and trading it with their neighbors? What if we just quit? Agreed, all at once, to impart our own End Game? What if we just canceled all this shit and started over? Not physically, the way you see yourself starting over after we killed all the zombies and got to rebuild...but economically, just start fresh and leave them out of it. What if we said, “we’re not for sale?” pp ----Palast, Greg. “THE CONFIDENTIAL MEMO AT THE HEART OF THE GLOBAL FINANCIAL CRISIS.” Vice. Vice Magazine, 22 August 2013. Web. 26 August 2013.
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http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/larry-summers-and-the-secret-end-game-memo.
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You Don’t Matter: A Message of Peace Designed to Anger You Trevor D. Richardson THE
iby
I have something to say, it is true, it is honest, and it is important. And for these reasons, you are going to hate it. I wish a president or a king could say these words, but you would depose them in an hour, violently, angrily, and with the grossest, ignorant fury of the worst kind of mob. I wish everyone could absorb this information unanimously, instantly, and quietly, but it is not possible. Here goes nothing... You are not special. You are not important. Your life, your death, your feelings, your sorrow, your hopes, and your needs are nil in the great scope of existence. You are no better, no worse, and no more unique than anyone else. People will tell you that you matter because you are human. Why? Why does that matter so much? They will tell you that you are unique, you are a wondrous, luminous being that will bring beauty into the world. You aren’t and you won’t. You are an organic machine that produces pollutant waste that will kill others of your kind if ingested, you will someday breakdown into lesser elements and fertilize the Earth, forgotten by all and missed by none because the universe goes on. In the words of Fight Club’s Tyler Durden, ruled as nihilistic by the masses, “You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake.” In mine, you don’t matter. So why are you irate at hearing these words? Why is something welling up in your gut in the form of a misplaced emotion or an emphatic protest? Why? Because mommy told you differently. Because teacher told you that everyone matters. Because your god says so, or the politically correct euphemisms of a nation have girded everyone against feeling sad, weak, less-than, or uncomfortable. Because your life is a lie, formed of generations of lies, heaped up by elders, pastors, parents, teachers, presidents, media, and gods. That is all. I’ll do you one better. You are unhappy. Who isn’t, right? Life is hard, some even say it sucks. Well, it doesn’t. Life is the closest thing to god you will ever see. Life is the miracle. Life, existence, consciousness, understanding, growth, and evolution – this is the stuff of wonder in the universe, but you overlook it because you are a part of it. You are unhappy because you expect to feel good all the time, because someone told you that you should. You feel entitled to happiness because it is the foundation of our culture, and you are unhappy because you have not yet achieved the myth and the promise of that culture. Your life is a lie, and not living up to that lie leaves you unhappy. Here’s the simple truth you need to realize, and when you do, the second you do, you will become content. Just because you feel something, doesn’t mean it matters. Just because you have a thought, doesn’t make it real. The self-importance that our society has adopted through the promise of “God-given rights” and the belief that everyone is some kind of beautiful snowflake or whatever is at the root of all of our problems. We believe in fictions, hollow ideas, that we breathe life into with stubbornness and self-delusion. Then we take those ideas, and we use them to expect things of life that are impossible, unrealistic and absurd. All the while, life goes on without us, unconcerned, and we are missing it. You don’t want to acknowledge your failings, or the limitations of others, the handicaps, blindness, drug addictions, lack of willpower, laziness, stupidity, or inflexibility of your kind, so you change the words to something more palatable; you protect the feelings of the guilty or the flawed or the sad and you call it “political correctness.” Never asking if the bad should feel bad, or if it is actually healthy for a society to feel something other than comfort. And you do it all because you believe that you have the right. That others have the right. That we should be protected, hemmed in, guarded, safe, or any other word meaning one simple thing: happy.
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The pursuit of happiness is the greatest misconception in American history and it is the most foolish approach
to life imaginable. If the meaning of life is finding happiness then you are left with a nation of cowards who feel, every day, that they are doing it wrong, that they are missing out. And they are left with an uncertainty, a selfpity, and a waywardness that prevents them from ever joining the cosmic whole. The belief in the value of the self, as something special or important, has allowed people to accept or justify countless crimes against humanity throughout our history. The belief that you are special allows you to feel superior to others, to view them as commodities, hurdles, or otherwise in the way. While they do the same to you. It has turned a nation against itself, divided us, made us suspicious, selfish, ignorant, spoiled, and bad at nearly everything except the pursuit of our own indulgences. Then we wonder why America sucks. The simple answer to that question: we suck. All of us. We suck because we are too self-obsessed to ever achieve anything other than masturbation. That’s what it comes down to, self-pleasure, the way we eat, the way we talk, the way we think, the way we view reality, and the way we treat our bodies – it’s all masturbation. A useless spasm that brings nothing new into the world and benefits no one other than the self, and even that for a brief time. The root problem is the promise, the carefully constructed lie, of our society that you matter. You don’t. Not inherently, not naturally, you are born an invisible, a non-entity, you are a blip in history, another mouth in a maggot pile. You are a consumer. A user. And a fool. Period. The only way to change this fact is to do something, to work hard, to grow, evolve, think, feel, and understand, and to strive daily to offer something wonderful to the whole you are a part of. Short of that, you do not matter. Short of that, you don’t get to complain, you don’t get to want, and you don’t get to demand special treatment. You don’t get to matter simply because you are born, you have the right to life, beyond that it is what you make of it. You have to earn your importance. You have to contribute, grow, and leave something behind, otherwise you are just a taker, and takers are as easily forgotten as Nature’s scavengers. In truth, there are no rights because those rights are promises built on more non-entities. You think you have a right because God created everyone equal. But what if God created nothing and what if we aren’t actually equal? What if there is no God and we are all at various levels of ability and worth? What then? Do we still deserve inalienable rights? On whose authority? The government’s? The same government that you rage against daily as you watch them take away your money, civil liberties, and lie to your face? They aren’t giving you anything, they are taking. And that, in the end, is the truth of existence, not only in this country, but in this world. Nothing is given. No rights, no privileges, and no honor. It is earned, by and through the individual, without the benevolence or say-so of divine beings or the authority of elected officials. You do not matter until you find a way to make yourself matter. And whether they realize it or not, your fellow man knows this. Your feelings are not important to us, your complaints in the customer service line at Target are not having an emotional impact, your need to get to your destination faster does not excuse you driving like an asshole, and the tears of your child are nothing more than an irritant to everyone in the world that does not know your child. This is our reality. It is harsh, it is rough, and it is true. You don’t get gentleness or value allotted to you, you get it by deserving it. As with most things, you get what you give. And our nation only takes. To craft a better world we must seek self-improvement, not self-indulgence. We must be gentle, be valuable, and then we can watch our reality change. And above all, you must realize that you are a part of something larger, and knowing that can actually make you happy. Far happier than the mere pursuit of your own selfish happiness or self-importance. The path to Utopia comes through this simplest of realization, it is the first domino that must fall for every individual alive. You are unimportant. It sounds scary, but the reason it sounds scary is because of a lifetime of mental and cultural conditioning. Overcome that and you will know truth.
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That is all. pp
“What does a blind man want with a shotgun?” the clerk asks, nacho chips heavy on his breath. Crinkling can followed by a low rumbling belch. “How is it any of your damn business?” I ask, irritated. He slurps again. Belches again. “What you gonna shoot?” “Anything I damn well please,” I say. “You going to sell me the thing or what?” He chuckles. I imagine his pudgy face, french fried grease lubricating double chins. He smells of day old socks. “Sure. But you got to wait the ten day cooling off period first.” “Ten days? For what?” “Keep you from shooting anything you damn well please, I guess.” “Well, that’s absurd.” “All the same,” he says. “You have to wait ten days ‘fore you can take her home.” He walks away, heavy boots on tile floor. Keys jingle. Sound of sliding glass. “Try this one on for size. It’s our newest nine millimeter.” I hold out my hands, palms up, to receive the steel. The gun feels heavy for its size. I run my fingers along the muzzle letting a picture form in my mind’s eye. Sleek. Cold. I find the trigger and turn the gun so that it fits under my chin. It’ll do. I sniff the barrel. “Smells like gun powder,” I say. “I thought this was new.” “They have to fire them in the factory once or twice.” “You wouldn’t cheat a blind man, would you?” “It’s a new gun.”
THE
I turn it in my hands. “I’ll take it. Ten days you say?”
“Ten days.” I detest the idea of waiting, but there’s nothing to be done for it. No recourse. Why a man might change his mind in ten days baffles me. Ten days strengthens one’s resolve. Time enough to make plans. Calculate. Filling out paperwork takes longer than necessary. I dictate. He writes, labored. Then I sign where he places pen to paper. He takes my deposit. We shake hands, seal the deal. I’ll return in ten days with cash enough for the balance and a box of bullets. What a waste. I only need one. I take my cane and tap through the store and out onto the sidewalk. The sun is cold on my face between the shade trees. Crape Myrtle. I know these trees from the way the air swirls under branches and leaves and the fresh scents of budding flowers mixed with fresh clover and something grassy, alfalfa perhaps or wheat. I sniffle, sneeze, wipe my wet hand on pants. I’ll be up all night scratching itchy eyes. Ten days. I tap, walk, tap, tap, until the cane falls away from the curb at the intersection. A car is coming. Whir of rubber on asphalt, rushing air. I step onto the road without hesitation hoping the car will save me the trouble of waiting. Maybe it will be the same car. But it doesn’t. It’s not. Not even the courtesy to honk, so I take my time crossing the street. What I hate most is not knowing what I cannot see- a winning lotto ticket blowing across the grass, a sale sign, a friendly smile. My wife’s smile. They said it would get easier. They lied. Three blocks. I count the steps. Twenty two from curb to door. “Hi Larry!” Wendy says from her desk. “Warm out there, huh?” “I guess.” My own desk is against the back wall facing away from the windows. They assume a blind man doesn’t need to see outside. I check the glucose pump on my hip. Two beeps. I could disconnect the insulin. That would work, but who wants to die that way? She says, “It’s been slow all day. Just one call this morning from a guy who wanted someone to talk to. Nothing serious.” “Good.” She’s blind to the irony of her optimism, naïve to think she’s making a difference. She isn’t. I know better. The suicidal cannot be saved by a stranger on the phone. “Do you want me to stay a while and keep you company?” “No,” I say. “I’ll be fine.” “Alright. I’ll be off then. I’m on call if you need help. Bye, Larry.” “Bye.” I wait until she’s gone and take my portable cd player out of the bottom drawer of my desk and plug it into the wall. The cd whirls and Mozart fills the room as I eat my bologna sandwich and three kosher pickles. The phone rings. I hit a button on the clock and the time is punched on a card. “Meadowlands Suicide Hotline. How can I help you?” I emphasize the word help. Choppy static fills the line. “Meadowlands Suicide Hotline.” I count to ten in my head. I’ve never hung up on a caller. Not yet. “If you don’t talk, I can’t help you.” I hear sniffling and a girl’s thready voice. “Hello?” Damn. Now I can’t hang up. “What’s your name?” I ask.
THE
“I don’t want to say my name.”
“Fine. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” “I don’t know why I called,” she says. “I’m afraid.” Fantastic. A slow goer. “What are you afraid of?” I wait for her answer. The first rule- keep them talking. “Bella,” she says. “My name is Bella.” I grab my wrist. Squeeze tight. “Bella,” I say. “That was my daughter’s name.” Common ground. The ice breaker. “You have a daughter?” “I did.” “What happened?” “That’s really none of your business, is it?” Damn. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She doesn’t respond. Maybe she’ll hang up. “Bella?” Her voice cracks. “I need to go.” “Wait.” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting a question about my daughter. If I tell you about her, will you tell me why you called?” A bargain. It’s something. “I don’t know…” “She was hit by a car. Two years ago.” “I’m sorry.” “She was seven.” I wait. “I’m going to kill myself,” she says. There it is. Her cry for help. I punch the clock again. “How?” The most important question. “How are you going to kill yourself?” “I don’t know.” She doesn’t have a plan. A pretender. I could hang up now, save us both the trouble. But it’s better to keep her on the line for the log. The longer they talk, the better our funding. “Do you want to talk about it?” “I have pills and a razor blade, but…” I was wrong. She has a plan. Two plans. Someone serious about committing suicide, who has a course of action, is standing on the edge of a cliff leaning, waiting to fall. The only question is why hasn’t she jumped? Does she want to be saved, or is she seeking an audience? I say, “But what?” She does not answer. “You’re not alone Bella. I’m with you.” “I have to go,” she says. I must keep her talking. I have to find out who she loves. Who loves her, make her think about why they will miss her when she’s gone. The suicidal with no one to love are lost. They cannot be saved. I know. “Bye,” she says. My reverie was too long. “Wait! I’ll tell you about my Bella.” There is a pause, a decision. “Why?”
THE
“Because, I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m already lost.” “We’re all lost, Bella. Life is trying to find that one thing that keeps us going. My daughter was that to me.” “And now that she’s gone?” Damn. “Perhaps it’s her memory, or helping girls like you.” She gasps, her voice turns frantic. “I have to go. Daddy’s home.” “Bella?” “Can we talk again?” “I’ll stay if you call. Will you call?” “I will.” I punch the card and type up my notes. There are no other calls through early evening or what we refer to as primetime, which has nothing to do with the frequency of calls and everything to do with television programming. If this were the case, primetime would be from one to three in the morning. The graveyard shift, not because it is during the middle of the night, but because this is when the most callers are lost. She has not called when my relief arrives at midnight. So much for promises. I should have guessed. I sign the log. Clock out. The bus stop is around the corner. I wait on the bench next to an unabashed young couple exploring the joys of one another. They remain entwined, oblivious to me when the bus arrives to carry me home. Home. I turn on the television for company, take a Benadryl and relax in my recliner, Bella’s picture in one hand, a bottle of bourbon in the other. I remember how she looked that day, four years old, white dress, yellow ribbons. The last photograph I ever took. My eyes burn when I wake. I sometimes sleep with them open, rubbed red and puffy. The eye drops sting falling cold from my hand. I wonder about Bella, why she did not call. I go to work early. Better than sitting at home . “What gives, Larry?” Wendy asks as I place my lunch bag on my desk. “You’re three hours early.” “Bored. It’s too quiet at home. Any calls last night? Any girls?” “One call this morning, but it was an older gentleman. No girls. Why?” “No reason. I thought I might get a call back. I’m going to sit here and listen to my book for a while. Let me know if you need a break.” Reading is one of the things I miss most. Bella does not call on this day. Nor does she call at night when I wait alone. It is not until the fourth day that the phone rings. I forgot the sound of her voice. Gave her up for dead, though the papers have said nothing. “Hello?” “It’s Bella,” she says. Music plays in the background. “I was hoping you would answer.” “You promised to call me back,” I say. “I couldn’t. Things got really bad here. I had to run away for a couple of days.” “Are you okay? I mean, do you still need help? Are you in danger?” “It doesn’t matter now. I’m leaving for good soon.”
THE
“That again?”
“I’m not going to lie about it. You’re the reason I waited. I made a promise.” It worked. “Why?” I ask. “You’re too young to want to die.” “I can’t say.” “You have to tell someone.” She doesn’t speak. I hate the silence. I hate waiting alone in the darkness. She says, “You wouldn’t understand.” If only she knew that I do, that I have a plan too. Perhaps then she would trust me. “I might if you give me a chance.” I begin to count in my mind. She speaks at nine. “You said you would tell me about Bella.” My sweet Bella. I’ve spoken to no one about her since the funeral, a lifetime of mourning. “She was beautiful,” I begin. “She had a laugh like summer rain and eyes blue as the sky. She used to sneak up behind me, jump on my back, and I’d put her on my shoulders and carry her anywhere she wanted.” “You sound like a good father.” “I tried.” My throat is dry. “I did my best.” If only she knew that it was my fault that she had died. “I hate my dad,” she says. “You don’t mean that.” “I do. I hate him.” “Why?” Her question startles me. “What happened to your Bella?” “We were at the park,” I say. “I had bought her a red kite for her birthday with a long blue tail. I thought I could teach her to fly it. How hard is it to fly a kite? All you do is hold a string. But I couldn’t see how high the kite was, or that it fell across the street when the wind died. I told her to get it... I actually told her to run into the street. She never saw the car coming.” “I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t imagine.” “No one should even try.” “I hate birthdays too. My dad… ” Her voice cracks. “Can you keep a secret?” “Of course. Unless you’re in danger. Then I have to call someone.” “You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.” “I can’t do that.” “Then I have to go.” Screw it. “I promise, Bella. I won’t say anything unless you tell me to.” He’s not my real dad. They aren’t even married. He makes me call him daddy. He…loves me.” “That’s good, isn’t it?” “No. Not like that. I mean, he’s in love with me.” “Are you sure?” “He’s always looking at me. He touches me when my mom’s not looking.”
THE
Her words spark rage only a father can know. “Does he hurt you?”
“It hurt the first time.” The first time? How many times? “How old are you?” “Thirteen.” “Does your mother know?” “Sometimes, I think she does. She looks at me with angry eyes.” “Does she know he raped you?” The words feel ugly on my tongue. Foul. Dirty. “No. “ “You have to tell her Bella.” “I can’t.” “But, you have to. What’s happening to you is not your fault. You need someone to help.” She’s crying. “That’s why I called you.” “I’m just a voice on the phone. I’m not real.” “You are real. You can help me.” “The only way I can help is by calling the police.” “No.” “Bella…” “He’ll hurt us. You don’t know him.” A child in crises has no alternatives. I wait. The line goes dead. “Bella?” She’s gone. I slam the phone down. I’ve lost her. She reached out for help. I betrayed her trust, not much. Enough. In her mind there are no options. Warmth recedes as night descends. Home alone again. I sit glass in hand, picture in another. Each agonizing second, each click of the hand on the clock, pulls me deeper. So the night stretches on forever. Fifth day. I go into work again early. She has not called. When my relief arrives, I send her away. She begins to protest. I cut her off. I tell her I lost a caller. I have to be here if she calls. She understands and relents after I offer to work on her time card. Silence embraces me. She does not call. I cannot sleep again the next day though I am exhausted. Nor the following night. Six days. Seven. On the eighth day discomforting thoughts creep into my awareness. I dream of red kites. Screeching tires. Like a marionette blue tails lift wrists and knees propelling me to the edge of a dark abyss. A faceless girl calls to me. I cannot find her. A voice calling from the shadows. Her name, Bella. Which Bella? I cannot tell. I wake. Sweaty sheets cling to my back. Eight. Nine.
THE
I ready myself. Small things. A thank you letter to my neighbor for the holiday bread. Another to my wife’s sister. We never got along, but she was there when Mary had cancer, and for Bella after she died. I struggle with the most difficult letter, the explanation. It’s remarkably short. I should have more to say. I don’t. It takes longer to
write than the others. I stop by a florist on the way to work to buy a large spring arrangement for the office. It smells of roses and lilac? The lady calls her son to carry for me. I tip him twenty for his trouble. “What’s this for?” Wendy asks. “No reason.” I sneeze. I wonder what she will think when I’m gone. Will she blame herself for not reading the signs? “I like the way they smell.” Wendy wants to stay for a while, to talk. I tolerate her optimism. I have to hand it to her. She’s one of the rare few who could spend an entire life saving one person and think it justified. I’m glad when she leaves. I eat my sandwich and settle in. The phone rings. Her frantic voice is pitched high. “Larry? Are you there?” “Bella?” “Thank God. I need your help. Please.” “What is it? What happened?” “Can you come and get me? Please?” “Where are you?” “I don’t know. I ran away again, jumped on a bus.” The phone fills with tears. “The driver told me I had to get off. Please, come and get me. I’m scared.” Her request violates more regulations than I care to name. “Do you recognize anything? What’s around you?” “I don’t know.” “Look around. Listen. Tell me everything you see and hear.” She says, “There’s a park. A church across the street.” It couldn’t be. Not even irony in her deepest winter would be so cruel. “Is there a fountain?” “I don’t know. It’s dark. I can’t see.” “I’ll help you. Close your eyes. You’ll hear two different sounds, one sharp like water from a hose, another like a bath tub being filled.” “I hear it.” “I know where you are. Go to the fountain. There are benches there under gas lamps. Wait for me next to the largest tree. I’ll come as quickly as I can.” “Hurry. I’m scared.” “I’m on my way.” I forward calls to the volunteer center across town and call a cab. The blind have special privileges with this company. I wait. Climb in. “Westside Church Street. Please. As quick as you can.” “You got it.” The Presbyterian church sits on a corner among Poplar trees under which rose bushes line white walls and wrought iron fences. A grand bell tower rises to sing a song I know well.
THE
“In front of the church please,” I say to the driver. He pulls away
Scents trigger memories so strong for a blind man. Flowers. Trees. The way the night air blows across fresh cut grass. Memories of wife and child. Their laughter. Their tears. My tears. Bella’s. I cross the street and follow the path leading to the fountain. Footfalls run away. “Bella?” I call out. Footsteps seize. “Larry?” “It’s me.” I tap closer. “You’re blind?” “I am.” Her arms grip my waist, squeeze. Her body trembles as she weeps. Her head just reaches my chest. I bend forward, envelope her slight form in a cautious embrace, my cheek resting on strawberry scented hair. She pulls away. She says, “How did you find me?” “I know this park well. I used to sit on this bench with my Bella.” “This park?” she asks. “The kite?” I wince. “Yes. This is that park.” I don’t say this is the church where I married my wife, buried her, buried our child. That I have not returned since.” “How do you feel?” I ask. “Better,” she says still gripping my arm. “Now that you’re here.” The breeze is chilly. Smells like rain. “Do you like pizza?” I ask. “Yes.” “There’s a good place a block from here. Let’s have a slice.” She hooks her arm in mine and guides me as I lead her through the park and down the street. I smell the dough before we turn the corner. “Larry!” Vinnie greets us as the glass door closes behind us, his Sicilian accent exaggerated. “Jesus Christ. It’s been years. How are you buddy?” “Fine,” I say. “The usual? Pepperoni and pineapple, wasn’t it?” I lean to my left. “How does that sound?” She whispers in my ear, her hand tightening on my arm. “Okay.” “That’s fine,” I say, wondering what Vinnie is thinking, if he will ask. He doesn’t. We sit in a booth next to an old style juke box with forty-fives that still takes quarters. Classic Americana fills her belly. Elvis. Beach Boys. Select country. Even the Rat Pack. I’ve heard them many times before. Vinnie brings us sodas. Bella makes bubbles through her straw. She says, “I’m not scared anymore.” “Good.” “I wasn’t really that scared. I’ve run away before. Last time I went to the school and hid in the locker room. I slept on the mats.” “You sounded scared to me,” I say.
THE
“Mom says I should be an actress. When I’m old enough, I’m going to go to Hollywood to be a movie star. Maybe a singer. I can play the guitar a little already. My granddaddy taught me when I was little.” She blows more
bubbles. “Do you have a quarter?” “Sure,” I say. I hear the quarter fall through the machine. Mechanics whir to life. A record drops onto the turntable. The needle to the record. Creedence Clearwater Revival’s smoky tenor fills the restaurant. Have you ever seen the rain? Mary’s favorite song. I have, I think. I’m still drowning in it. She slides back into the booth, humming the song in perfect pitch. Crayons slide across paper. I’ve hung such pictures on the refrigerator before. She stops. “Do you want to have sex with me?” “What?” My mind reels. “Why would you ask me that?” “I don’t mind,” she says. “I’ve had sex before.” She touches my hand. “And you’re nice.” I pull back. “You shouldn’t say that.” “You are nice.” “That’s not what I mean.” “I know. I just want to thank you.” “Not like that.” What has happened to this girl? My stomach turns. “Are you angry with me?” she asks. “No. Not with you. With those who did this to you.” “Daddy?” “Don’t call him that.” “He makes me.” “How old were you when he first…touched you?” “Had sex?” Her voice has changes, false bravado gone. “It was my eleventh birthday. He said he had a present for me.” Her voice is clear, determined. “I don’t want to go home.” “I know. I won’t make you.” “You won’t let him hurt me anymore?” “No, Bella. I won’t. I promise.” She makes more bubbles in her glass until the pizza is delivered. She speaks between bites about her grandfather and how he once drove a submarine. Paper slides under my fingers. “What’s this?” “A picture.” Vinnie interrupts. “Anything else I can get you?” I say, “No. Thank you.” I put a twenty on the table. “Is this enough?” “Plenty.” He clears his throat. “I never had the chance to tell you how sorry my wife and I were. Are.” “Thank you.” He claps his hands. “Sure there’s nothing else?”
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“Would you call us a cab?
“You bet.” Bella says, “Where are we going?” “Home.” “Your home?” “Yes.” It’s a twenty minute cab ride to my apartment, during which I consider options. I should take her to the police, I know. She has been abused. They would take care of her, give her to a foster family, arrest her mother and the boyfriend. But what good would that do? I’ve received calls from these kids too. I unlock the door. Let her pass. I hear the couch under her. Feet on the coffee table. “Please, don’t.” I say. “Sorry.” They fall to the floor. I sit next to her. “Are you tired?” “A little.” “Would you like to watch television?” “Okay.” She finds the remote quickly. She chooses a movie. “Larry?” “Yes?” “I’m sorry about what I said before. I really didn’t mean it.” “I know. It’s okay.” “Sometimes I say things I don’t mean.” “It’s not your fault. You’re just a child.” “I’m a woman.” “No. Not yet. Having sex doesn’t make you a woman.” She begins to cry. “He ruined me, didn’t he?” “No one can ruin you, Bella.” “But, he did.” “No. You’re wrong. I know.” She sniffles. Laughter fills the movie. “Have you always been blind?” “No,” I say. “I’m a diabetic. That means my body can’t control the sugar in my blood. Sometimes people like me go blind.” “How old were you? “Thirty five.” Another sniffle. “Kind of makes my life seem not so bad.” How might life be worse for a thirteen year old? Wondering each night if he will come again? That’s how. The movie is over. She lies down, her head on my lap. I stroke her long hair until her breathing is deep and regular. I wonder what color it is. Perhaps soft ash like my Bella’s? When I wake, she’s at the small card table by the kitchen window crunching a bowl of cereal.
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“Good morning,” she says the way one sounds when smiling. “I hope you don’t mind. I was hungry.”
I join her at the table. “You need to call your mother and let her know that you are safe. They might think you are missing.” “They won’t know. They were out all night. Sometimes, I don’t see them for two or three days straight.” “All the same. I’d like you to try.” “Now?” “Yes.” The phone hangs on the wall next to the window. I take it in my hand and hold over the table. She dials a number. “Mom? Yes, it’s me. I had to get a way for a while… what is it? What’s wrong?” Her throat sounds tight. Words tinged with fear. “What’s wrong your voice? I can’t understand what you’re saying. Just stay there, okay? I’m coming home.” I can feel her move around me. A rush of air. “I have to go.” “What happened?” I ask. “She sounds funny, like she does when she’s taking drugs. She needs me.” “Okay.” She paces like a caged animal in front of the door until the cab arrives. I estimate distance and track turns in my mind. I listen for telltale sounds when we arrive. There are none. This is not a part of town I am familiar with. She springs from the car. I ask, “What address is this?” The driver says, “Twelve hundred block of Washington Ave. Garden Apartments.” “Can you wait?” “Only a few minutes.” “Give me five, please. “ I take my cane, follow after as best I can. Unknown terrain frightens me. Each step, each tap, an uncertain leap of faith. I hear Bella’s voice echoing through a hallway. “Mom! It’s me. Please!” I pause at the threshold. “Bella?’ “Here! Mom? Wake up!” A voice faint and disoriented says, “Bee? Is that you?” “She’s taken something.” “Uh-huh,” mother says. “What did you take? What are these pills?” “Nothing. Baby. Nothing.” “Why are you lying for him? I know he hit you. Your face is swollen and blue.” “I fell.”
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I kneel. My hand finds small plastic capsules. I gather them. Hide them in my pocket.
“He’s a drunk!” A low groan escapes her lips. “Who’s that?” “A friend.” “A blind man? I don’t want no blind man here.” “Don’t go,” Bella says. Her mother screams. “Get out!” I stand. “I’ll go Bella. You’re home now. Your mother needs you.” “You don’t have to go,” she says. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” “It’s for the best. You’re home now.” I don’t want to leave her. This house smells dangerous. Drugs. Booze. Vomit. Rotting trash. She’ll run away again. Come home again. Nothing I can do to save her. Not from this. Not without taking her away forever. “I’ll be right back mama.” She walks me back to the cab. Hugs me. “Thank you.” “You going to be okay?” “She needs someone to take care of her.” “You’ll take care of her. You won’t leave her alone.” “I know,” she says, my meaning understood. A parting hug. Footfalls retreat up the sidewalk. Empty now she’s gone. Another sleepless night. Ten. “There he is,” the man says when I enter. “Time already?” “I hope so,” I say. “She’s a beauty. I cleaned her up for you. Only one box of bullets?” “Just one.” “I need to run your credit card and get a signature.” I wait. He hands me the credit card. I sign. Gun in my hands. “Are we done?” I ask. “Easy as that,” he says. “Be careful out there. Big storm on the way.” You have no idea, I think. I dump the bullets on the kitchen table. Some fall to the floor. Reminds me of popcorn kernels hitting a hard pan. I pick them up one at a time and slip them into the clip until it is full. The clip slides into place. It’s time. I haven’t used the record player since Mary died. I should have had the records alphabetized. One by one I try them. One song. Wrong. Another. Wrong. Until I find the one. Her favorite. Someone told me long ago… There’s a calm before the storm… Ice clink in small glass. Bourbon follows flowing warm bittersweet down my throat. Warm chest.
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I know…It’s been comin’ for some time…
I sit on the couch. Gun by my side on an unexpected piece of paper. I take the paper in my hand, run fingers across the crayon lines left by Bella. I try to see the picture by feel. Can’t. I take the gun instead. Fold the paper. Stuff it in my pocket. When it’s over so they say… It’ll rain a sunny day… I know… Shining down like water… A gust of wind rattles the windows, whistles under the door. I put the barrel in my mouth. Tastes like blood. Cold. Maybe the temple is better? I want to know… have you ever seen the rain… How hard will I have to pull the trigger? My last thoughts. Mary. Her smile. Giggles under sheets. Laughter in the park. The park. Bella. Came home from the hospital Sunday. Hates peas. Loves peaches. First day of preschool. We cried together, all three of us. I slowly squeeze. Waiting. The phone rings. First time in six months. “Hello?” “Larry! He’s crazy! He’s says going to kill us.” “What? Why?” “He said we took his pills. A man came asking for money and he told him he had to sell them first. But we can’t find them!” I finger the capsules in my pocket. “He’s so drunk.” “I’m on my way.” “Hurry!” Damn driver. Says the rain slowed him down. I smell sex and a woman’s perfume. “Garden Apartments,” I say. “Washington Avenue. Quickly.” Wind blows. Thunder rolls. Rain falls in sheets. Fifty steps to the front door. I knock. The door is open. “Bella?” No answer. I step through. Listen. From another room comes a whimper. I follow the sound. “Bella?” A gurgling sound rises from the corner. I kneel. It’s her mother. “Where’s Bella?” I ask. She doesn’t speak but coughs deep in her throat. I kneel beside her and reach. Something sticky. Blood. She cries no longer. I shout, “Bella!” “Who the hell are you?” A strong hand grabs my collar and yanks me up. A fist slams against my cheek. He wears a ring. My head strikes the wall. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. “What are you doing here?” He stops. “What’s wrong with you? Are blind or something?” “Leave him alone!” Bella rushes to my side.
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“Who is this?”
“A friend. Don’t touch him!” He laughs. She gasps. “Mommy?” Bella lets go of me, moves away. She squeals. “She’s dead, isn’t she? You killed her! You bastard!” His laugh tainted crazy. “It was an accident.” She screams. Lunges. “Get off me!” She hits the wall next to me. Rises. Something is grabbed. Thrown. “Bitch!” She moves again. Small fists pounding. Now they are on the floor. She struggles. “No!” She screams. Terror. The sound of a zipper. Cloth ripping. He laughs. “I’ll show you…” “No!” She cries out to me. “Larry!” “Open your legs!” I sit up. The gun in my hand taken from my belt. I listen. Aim. There’s another scream. Breathless grunts of sick satisfaction. I squeeze. My ears ring hollow from the concussive report. “What the…?” Silence. Laughing still. His voice. Not hers. “You crazy son of a bitch! You shot her.” Grunting intensifies. I squeeze again, again and again. I crawl towards them, slip on blood. Bella’s still, without pulse. I take her in my arms and struggle to my feet. “Freeze!” Another voice. Authority. I fall to me knees, Bella still in my arms. Hands grab me, grab her, push me forward. “You have the right to remain silent…” They ask me what happened. I tell them. “You killed the girl too,” the officer says. “Shot her in the head.” “She was suffering,” I say. He doesn’t answer. Hands propel me through the rain. Push me into a car. We drive without sirens. Stop. The rain sounds like little feet running across the hood, like laughter from afar, geese in rice patties that time as a child when a gunshot rumbled through the heavens. Long white necks broken spattered red. Thunder. I shiver. Wipe the rain from my face. The tears remain. The room is cold where they take me. I sit on a hard chair, my hands on a cold table. “You can take the cuffs off,” a new voice says. “He’s no danger to anyone.” I rub my wrists. “We have your confession. No one’s going to make a stink about a dead drug dealer. But, why did you shoot the girl?”
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“Can I have a glass of water?” I ask.
“Sure. Get the man a glass of water.” They bring me a glass of water. I twirl it in my hands. “Why did you shoot the girl?” he asks again. “Can I ask you for a favor?” I ask. My voice sounds strange, distant. “I have a picture in my pocket. She drew it. Can I take it out?” “Go ahead,” the voice says. I unfold the paper and lay it on the table. My hand falls again to my pocket and grasps the pills. I wonder how long they will take. “What do you want to know?” “Can you tell me what it is?” He picks it up. “Not bad. Has your name on it and the girl’s. Looks like a park. There’s a fountain and girl flying a big red kite with a blue tail. Does this mean anything to you?” I can’t breathe. Red kite? Blue tail? Bella? I pick up the glass. Cram the pills into my mouth. Chew. Drink. Swallow. “Hey!” Hands grab me. Fingers forced into my mouth. “Call an ambulance,” he orders. I bite hard. He screams. I feel dizzy. Taste cotton candy and caramel. Floating. My heart pounds. I’m sweating. I hear my grandmother’s voice.”Goodbye,” she says. Birds singing at her funeral. I remember summer camp. My first kiss. Mary. Sweet Mary. Breast against my arm as we walk. Virginity shared on the dock. Friday night picnics at the end of the runway. Wine. A proposal. Her breathless yes. Hands place me on the floor. And Bella. My beautiful Bella. Pudgy in her mother’s arms. Hands so small, so strong. Her first step. Her first word, dada. Falling asleep in my arms. I’m aware and not aware. This is what death feels like? Everything and nothing? My body tingles. I’m overwhelmed. Disappointed. Scared. I sit with Mary by the fire. Bella in my arms. “She looks like you,” Mary says, her eyes reflecting the flickering light. “She’s absolutely beautiful.” “Perfect,” I say. “She’s absolutely perfect.” pp -------Dr. James Burnham makes his home in Southern California where he teaches high school English, AP psychology, and coaches college volleyball. Author of The Fruit of the Fallen, he continues to write his second novel as a student in the Certificate in Creative Writing program at
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Stanford University.
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Meander Rain fell. Ian drove towards Clark College, smoking
Ian drove through the parking lots on the
a cigarette, holding a Starbucks coffee cup. The
southeast side of the school and didn’t find a
c u p h e l d r u m a n d c o k e . I a n h a d a h a n g o v e r. I t
parking spot. He went to the northwest and west
was only ten in the morning.
parking lots. He still didn’t find one. He took
I a n ’s t r u c k c a m e d o w n t h e h i l l t o w a r d the school. The line of cars parked along the s i d e s o f t h e r o a d g o t t h i c k e r a n d t h i c k e r. P e o p l e smoked cigarettes at the street corners. Cars manically drove around each other as students crossed streets to catch busses or go to classes. They all moved around in zigzag patterns, like
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flies.
a big swig of his rum and coke. He drove two blocks down the road and parked at the public l i b r a r y. H e p u t o u t h i s c i g a r e t t e , l i t a n o t h e r one, and started walking up the hill toward the college. Ian walked through the light down fall of rain, his long hair mangled and hanging in front
of his face. He wore his green army jacket and
different departments had their own spaces and
sunglasses. When he got up to the college, he
the walls facing into the lobby were made of
dropped his cigarette. When he had first started
glass, like the front of the building. Everything
attending Clark, almost five years before, the
felt very open.
students were allowed to smoke anywhere on the campus. Now the smokers were designated to two spots on street corners. Ian walked up the hill. It was the first day of fall term. New people meandered about holding their class sheets and campus maps. Five years at a two year school, Ian
I a n w a l k e d i n t o t h e l o b b y. H e s i g h e d . T h e n he took another big swig of his rum and coke. The line from registration stretched up and around the eligibility office and met the end of the line to get into the book store. There was a line to just get into the book store, Ian thought. Then the line to get into the book store and the
thought. No one he had graduated high school
line from the security desk merged together
with still went to Clark College. He was the
as one. The line from the financial aid office
last.
s t r e t c h e d o u t o f i t ’s w a i t i n g a r e a , i n t o t h e l o b b y
all of the pretty girls from behind his hair a n d s u n g l a s s e s . I t ’s h a d b e e n s i n c e h e s t o p p e d pretending to be a creep, after all the women were the only real good thing about going to
and around the large group of people waiting at the advising office. The group at the advising office filled the chairs in that waiting area a n d b e g a n s i t t i n g o n t h e f l o o r. I t l o o k e d l i k e a sixties sit in protest.
Clark College. T h e e d u c a t i o n , p l a i n l y, s u c k e d . A n d there were so many women, with different hair and shapes, different ways of talking, and there were dozens upon dozens. They came in different colors and ages. They all had different e y e s . T h e y w e r e a n i c e c o m m o d i t y. Ian went into the court yard, towards the main office. They had finished remodeling it about a year before. It was now a two story building with a huge window as the front. When Ian had first started attending Clark, somewhere in the spring of ’06, the main office area was one level, had bad florescent lighting, with grey
Ian stood in the line for financial aid. He was on edge. The financial aid office always got his paper work screwed up. Five years and they never failed. There was the time they filed him a s h i s f a t h e r, t h e t i m e t h e y t o l d h i m h e w a s n ’ t a U.S. citizen and he had to come in with his birth certificate to prove otherwise, then there was the year they lost his financial aid paper work three separate times. He stood in line and w a i t e d . Tw e n t y m i n u t e s l a t e r h i s r u m a n d c o k e w a s g o n e , a l o n g w i t h h i s h a n g o v e r, a n d h e s t o o d at the counter in front of a short black woman. “Hello, um…” Ian began, “For some reason my financial aid didn’t go through.”
walls. Every department was either up some
The lady looked at him.
stairs or down some cramped hall. Everything had a cubical feeling to it, like carpeted walls were incasing you. After the remodel, the walls stood high. They looked like golden varnished wood. The
“I would like to know why that is,” Ian said. “Gimme your name and student ID.” The woman said. Ian gave his full name and his nine digit THE
People passed Ian as he walked. He ogled
student ID. The lady typed on the keyboard.
t o t h e d o o r. H e l e f t t h e b u i l d i n g a n d d e c i d e d
She moved the mouse around then typed on
h e s h o u l d g o t o t h e l i b r a r y, p r i n t o f f s o m e
the keyboard again.
homework for his online classes. He walked in
“ O k a y, ” s h e s a i d , “ I t l o o k s l i k e y o u d i d n ’ t t u r n i n a s e t o f W 2 ’s f o r y o u r
There were two guys standing a little ways
parents when you brought in your taxes for
from the top of the stairs. One saw Ian as he
processing. If you bring them in now you can
came up. He looked at his friend. He motioned
still be processed but you’ll be on late—”
toward Ian with a nod of his head. The friend
“Those W 2s are with my paper work. They’re in there.” The lady stared at Ian. “Go check.” Ian said. “ O k a y, w e l l i f y o u c o u l d t a k e a s e a t I can go up in a few min—” “No, I’m going to stand here until you get back.” T h e l a d y s t a r e d . “ O k a y, ” s h e s a i d finally then got up and went through a door at the end of the room. After ten minutes the lady came back. “There in a huge stack of papers and I can’t go through them when they’re like that so if you want to give me your E-mail or phone number I can call you after our secretary gets
looked at Ian and then back at him. Something was said. They both chuckled. When it came to appearances Ian stood out in most normal places. He had long hair that was usually unkempt. He was six feet tall, thick bordering on fat, with heavy facial features, and full beard. On bad days he lurched when he walked. He was used to getting looks like that while at Clark. Most people at Clark looked like the opposite of Ian, painfully normal. The guys at the top of the stairs looked the same, short hair cuts, plain t-shirts, shorts, back packs, and sneakers. Not even interesting looking enough to describe in more that one sentence, Ian thought. The computer lab was full of people. About
in,” she said handing Ian a pen and sticky
fifty computers and they were all in use. He
note.
stood for a moment and looked. There was one Ian stared down at the woman. He took
t h e p e n a n d w r o t e d o w n h i s p h o n e n u m b e r. “I had to pay for my classes so I wouldn’t b e d r o p p e d . Wi l l I b e r e i m b u r s e d w h e n m y financial aid goes through?” “ Yo u s h o u l d b e , ” s h e t o o k t h e s t i c k y note and pen, “we’ll call you when we find out about the paper work.” Ian sighed. He turned and weaved through the line of people as he tried to get
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and went up the stairs to the computer lab.
computer in the middle, towards the back that was open. Ian walked to it, squeezing through the narrow spaces between other peoples chairs. He l o o k e d d o w n g i r l ’s s h i r t s a s h e p a s s e d . I a n g o t t o t h e c o m p u t e r, l o g g e d i n , s i g n e d into his online classes, printed out his homework s h e e t , a n d e v e n t c a l e n d a r. H e w e n t u p t o t h e m a i n desk, where the printer was kept. A gathering of people stood around it. The printer spewed out pages and pages of p a p e r. T h e s t u d e n t b e h i n d t h e d e s k p u l l e d t h e m
off. He set them on the counter for people
would have the booze pooze this morning. He
to go through. All the pages seemed to be
wished he had more rum and coke.
a b o u t b i o l o g y. I a n h a d s e e n t h i s q u i t e a b i t . Fall term, the new students didn’t know there was a twenty-five page limit for printing, so they printed out everything from their online classes. Ian stood for two seconds, got a good look at a blonde on the other side of the group then left the computer lab area. He w a l k e d a c r o s s t h e l i b r a r y. A g i r l s a t a t o n e o f t h e t a b l e s . S h e h a d b r o w n c u r l y h a i r. I a n glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as he walked. She wore a black and white striped shirt with tight blue jeans wrapped around her legs. Legs that probably looked just as good out of jeans as they did in them, Ian thought. What was in about women? Where did they all come from? They could take an ordinary night and make it something amazing just by being there or they could destroy a good day with a word. Maybe my happiness is way too dependent on the considerations of the opposite sex, Ian thought. He shrugged. Ian passed the study tables. He went
Ian walked across the courtyard, toward the street. The rain came down harder than before. A large group of people stood on the s t r e e t c o r n e r, i n t h e r a i n , s m o k i n g . I a n t o o k o u t his cigarettes. He walked passed them, crossed the street, and stood underneath the limbs of the large pine tree that grew there. It kept the rain off him. Ian wondered why he never saw anyone smoking in the spot where he stood. They all just stood out in the rain. Tw o g u y s c a m e w a l k i n g b y. O n e w o r e a hoodie, a shirt with horizontal stripes, a b a c k w a r d s c a p , a n d Va n s . H i s p e n c i l t h i n b e a r d was immaculately trimmed. “Hey man, can I buy a cigarette off you?” the guy asked Ian. I a n s h o o k h i s h e a d , “ s o r r y, ” h e s a i d . The two guys crossed the street. He said something to his friend and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, towards Ian. After that more rain fell. Cars passed. Ian took a few
between the shelves to where they kept
more drags off of his cigarette. His cell phone
H e m i n g w a y. P a p a w a s I a n ’s o n l y f r i e n d a t t h e
rang. He answered and it was a woman.
school. He pulled out the book ‘Hemingway on Wr i t i n g . ’ H e t h u m b e d t h r o u g h i t t o a r a n d o m page. He read a quote:
“ M r. G r a s s l e ? ” t h e l a d y s a i d . “ T h a t ’s m e , ” I a n s a i d . “This is Mona from the financial aid
All art is done by the individual. The individual is all you ever have and all schools only serve to classify their members as failures.
o f f i c e . A s i t t u r n s o u t t h o s e W- 2 s w e r e a c t u a l l y taped to the back of one of the other forms, t h a t ’s w h y t h e y w e r e m i s s e d b y o u r s e c r e t a r y. They have been reentered into the computer and you should be hearing about your financial aid in a month or so.”
Ian put the book back on the shelf, w a l k e d b a c k a c r o s s t h e l i b r a r y, d o w n t h e s t a i r s
“Excellent, will I get reimbursed for my fall classes?”
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a n d o u t t h e d o o r. H i s s t o m a c h g r o w l e d . H e
“ Yo u s h o u l d . ” “Cool, thank you.” “ Yo u ’ r e w e l c o m e . I f t h e r e ’s a n y t h i n g else we can do for you please feel free to c a l l o r c o m e b y. ” “ Wi l l d o , ” I a n h u n g u p h i s p h o n e . Ta p e d t o t h e b a c k o f a n o t h e r p a p e r ? H e thought. Ian took another drag off his cigarette. The rain still fell. A n o t h e r g u y c a m e w a l k i n g b y, h i s
came around the corner and Ian jumped back a little. “Um, excuse me,” she said. She was very y o u n g , b a r e l y e i g h t e e n , c h u b b y, w i t h r e d h a i r a n d freckles. She held a piece of paper between both hands. “I’m looking for advising. I read that it was in this building, could you tell me where it is?” I a n r a i s e d h i s e y e b r o w s . “ T h a t ’s n o t i n t h i s building anymore; they moved it.” Ian raised a hand and pointed. “Cross the street out here and
s h o u l d e r s s l o u c h e d o v e r. H i s h a i r l o o k e d
keep walking until you get to the court yard, the
like he just got out of bed. He needed a
advising office will be in the building with the
shave. Although he was probably only in
h u g e w i n d o w. Yo u ’ l l k n o w w h a t I ’ m t a l k i n g a b o u t
his mid twenties he had the deep facial
when you get there.”
lines of an older man. “Can I bum a smoke off you by chance?” he asked. Ian took out his pack of cigarettes, r e m o v e d o n e , a n d h a n d e d i t t o t h e g u y. “Light?” the guy asked. I a n h a n d e d h i m a l i g h t e r. H e l i t h i s cigarette and handed it back to Ian. “Thanks,” the guy said. He walked out into the rain and down the road. Ian finished his cigarette. His stomach growled again. There was pain. Ian turned and, instead of crossing the street, w a l k e d u p t o w a r d t h e T- b u i l d i n g . T h e T- b u i l d i n g w a s a n o l d e r e m p t y b u i l d i n g t h a t o n l y h a d a c o u p l e o f t e a c h e r ’s o f f i c e s a n d the accounting department in it. It was a left over from years before the remodeling. T h e r e w a s o n l y o n e c l a s s t h e r e o n Tu e s d a y s and Thursdays. Ian went into the building. He walked
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down the hall towards the bathroom. A young girl
“ O k a y, t h a n k y o u , ” s h e s a i d a n d s m i l e d . S h e w a l k e d d o w n t h e h a l l a n d o u t t h e d o o r. There was something about the look in her eyes, something unknowing. Ian turned and watched her go. He looked at her differently than he had the other women that d a y, a s i f h e w a s l o o k i n g a t a p h o t o g r a p h , b u t n o t , and yet feeling nostalgic just the same. I a n ’s s t o m a c h g r o w l e d . H e w a l k e d i n t o t h e m e n ’s b a t h r o o m , w e n t t o t h e s t a l l a t t h e e n d . Ye a r s ago when the building was more in use, Ian called that stall his office. He didn’t call it anything n o w. H e w e n t i n , l o c k e d t h e s t a l l d o o r, d r o p p e d his pants, and, as he bent down, it all came out of him. It exploded out, full force, almost pure liquid falling into the toilet. All at once he went from feeling heavy and sore, to feeling light and great. Gas rumbled out of him like an earthquake. Ian sat there and relaxed. He leaned back against the wall. He cracked his neck. A fly
buzzed around the ceiling. A soft hum came from the fluorescent lights. On the wall was a huge black plastic box that was the toilet p a p e r d i s p e n s e r. Ian looked at it, then he noticed something written on the wall. In the bathrooms there was often graffiti, bathroom writing, and it was usually only there for a little while, then it got painted over or polished off. But what Ian saw on the wall was a poem he had written there a little over a year ago. He had written it around the huge black toilet paper dispenser in such a way that a person had to sit on the toilet and lean back to see it. It read:
Beware the apples you eat And the path that you trod Because this is always the dark times where men test the very voids of their souls.
Ian looked at the lines. The ink was slightly faded but the words survived. Like me, Ian thought. Then he noticed just a little to the left and down that someone had written something there. Somebody had written the word wrong with an arrow pointing to his poem. Ian looked at it for a moment.
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Then he felt very alone.
Trevor D. Richardson Shares A Friendly Conversation He Had With His Brother, Kevin Richardson, Via Text... I’m going to do something different this issue. See, most months, we take a movie that’s come out and been reviewed a certain way, and then we discuss. For this month, however, in light of the superhero news and the upcoming Superman/Batman mashup -- plus all the Ben Affleck talk -- I thought it would be cool to share a conversation I had with my brother recently. This is an actual text conversation that Kevin and I had. I’m sharing it because I think it is really telling in one important regard. This dialogue shows how geeks talk to each other. We’re constantly casting and recasting movies. We think about things in that way, we process it together, we share time through these conversations. It’s fun. So here’s my brother and me, talking about Superman and talking about a Man of Steel follow up. I’ve taken screen shots directly from my phone, so you will see everything in its raw form, all of our errors, my typos, those funny little moments when you send something twice. All of it. I stand by my theories about a good sequel, I wish someone would let me write this movie, seriously, but maybe Batman versus Superman will be good too.
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Also, some of this will be boring if you didn’t see Man of Steel. But read, enjoy, and keep in mind, that you saw it here first, folks, if this script gets made they fucking robbed me.
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From there we start talking about beer and stuff, so we’ll cut. Here’s where the Critic stuff comes into play. There are a lot of things that were created just for this new vision of Superman. The codex, the computer system involved in helping Jor El escape with the codex, “Phantom Drive” which was a means of creating hyperdrive by traveling through the prison dimension of the Phantom Zone... just to name a few. As indicated in our dialogue, there are some flaws in the story that need stitching up in the sequel. There cannot be a Kryptonite presence on earth because of relativity, unless they do a little clever writing. I solved that. The codex could become one of those things that adds little to a story, but if the codex is what the supervillain is after then it links the two movies together, amplifies the importance of this plot device, and gives good reason for bringing in the new bad guy. I would possibly even allude to a connection between Brainiac (a classic Supes villain) and the computer that aids in Kal-El’s birth at the beginning of Man of Steel. These are my thoughts, I’d love to hear some of yours. Hit us up on Facebook some time and
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Kevin and I can talk about them on our podcast. pp
Life continued on like normal, my evenings and nights spent as I had spent them for the last two months, the booze, the gun, the same old thing, cowering and not quite bringing myself to blowing my brains out. My days, which I haven’t told you about, went on as they had been for nearly six months, except for one little thing that had changed since the night I spent bar hopping with Jake. But I’ll come to that. Six months before, I worked at Jackpot records on 9th and Burnside, small little owned business where I knew the owner and liked him and he liked me and I worked there, down town Portland, just a short distance from Powel’s City of Books. With the money I made there, working full time, and the money I made playing small gigs with the band I was in I was able to live reasonably and comfortably, but after the demo tape I made failed (and the subsequent insult I received from Geno McDowell) and the catastrophe with Sandy, I took up drinking as a hobby, something to improve my health. And because of this I lost the job to it. I stood in the back office of the store, the boss telling me it was time to go. “You come in drunk all the time now Arnold. You’re always late,” he said. My neck stiffened and I clenched my fists, ready to tell him to take this job and shove it. But he kept talking. “I’ve known you for a while now, Arnold. You’re a good kid but your drinking is getting worse.” He paused for a moment and sighed. “We’re all worried about you.”
THE
My rage left me and the air in my chest abandoned me. He opened his mouth to continue but at that point tears welled in my eyes and I stood to leave. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks but I’m going to go.” And I got up and did just that.
I spent about a month looking for a job after that, drifting from one place to the other, eventually being hired at the Wal-Mart on Mill Plain. I remember, with distinction, that I had been grateful but not thrilled. The supervisor I had there was quite the opposite of the owner of Jackpot Records. He was a five-feet tall balding man with a late seventies porno mustache. I’ll introduce you to him in a few paragraphs. Routine plagued my days. I’d wake up. I’d take two shots. I’d drink a beer. I’d load the flask. I’d roll a joint for lunch. I’d go to work. I’d park the car at the very farthest distance from the store and then walk in. Sometimes they’d put me in the back organizing supplies and sometimes they put me at a register. Working the register had been the worst. Dealing with people grew tiresome quickly, people who’d argue over prices, people who’d fumble with their checks or credit cards, or old people who’d want to talk my ear off or moved slower than molasses on a cold January day, old people who’d have to count out exact change, or worse, all of the above. And then there was the fat people and the really fat people and the really really fat people with their damn fat kids who ran around or jumped around or just fucked about. You just eventually become tired from seeing so many overgrown waistlines. There’s no reason for anyone to weigh three-hundred and fifty pounds or more. I had to wok the register all with a smile too. Just swallow the minor disgust and irritation until it turned into wild ulcer on my soul. Christ, I’m sorry, I’m moving far from the story. It began to make me angry just thinking about those old days, working there. I had to get up from the patio and walk down to the beach for a few minutes to calm down. It’s lovely out right now. I stood enjoying the breeze and the sound of the waves breaking out in the dark somewhere. I have neighbors who live down the beach a ways and from my patch of sand I could see lights there tonight. When I noticed the lights I decided to come back here. Let’s start again, shall we? The point is that, when I worked, as the morning came closer to my lunch break, I’d begin to sober and with it came clarity and with that the thoughts, about the job and my life and the things that had led me to a register at Wal-Mart and about the things Geno McDowell had said and what had happened with Sandy. I’d think about everything and everyone who treated me wrong and the mistakes I’d made along the way and the things I should have done differently, instead of the things I did, which most of the time consisted of just taking it or walking away. I’d get angry and I hated everything and I’d start to think that maybe I’d reach out and punch the next customer that annoyed me or I’d yell and scream exactly what I thought of them and the whole place, “all of you are worthless sacks of dog shit,” I’d say, “all you do is eat and shit and watch TV! I shouldn’t be here with garbage like you!” Sometimes I’d imagine finding Sandy and screaming out my frustration at her, telling her that I was good enough for her, there was nothing wrong with me, that I had treated her decently, “I had never called you a name! I’d never raised my voice at you! I always tried to be patient and understanding! I never hit you like he did! You cheap whore!” I’d demand to know why, even though the why didn’t really matter anymore. I wouldn’t bother holding back like I had, hiding behind a wall of understanding and patience.
THE
And when I started to think all of these things, I’d feel ashamed and guilty. I’d think, what kind of
person was I to imagine all this? These people were just trying to live their lives and Sandy was just doing what was best for her, really, that’s what she was doing. Really. And then I would remember something, like the time Sandy told me that I dressed like a bum and if she could, she would burn everything in my wardrobe or I’d remember one of my early attempts to tell her how I felt about her and she rolled her eyes at me, like I was nothing (granted, I never thought about it like that, the part about being nothing, until after the whole thing went to hell). And after I remembered something in that vein, the whole process would start over, ending in shame and guilt. So at about my lunch time I’d go out to my car and light the fuck up. I’d listen to the radio, with the AC on, slouch way down into the driver’s seat and toke away, as well as take a hit or two from my flask. After purchasing the revolver I started taking it with me to work, leaving it under the driver’s seat. I’d sit out there on my lunch break with my hand resting on the handle of it, thinking I’d shoot myself while sitting there, if I’d somehow managed to work up the guts. And there in lies the thing that had changed since the night I went bar hopping with Jake. I remembered what he had said, it strangely came through the fog of my drunkenness like a light from a light house. For the week after I met up with him I no longer thought about killing myself, instead I began thinking about maybe taking the gun into work with me and instead of imagining punching one of the customers or screaming at them, I imagined reaching behind me and under my shirt and pulling the revolver from my belt and shooting them, blood and brains splattering over the counter behind, people screaming and running. I thought about shooting my boss. I still felt the shame and guilt, more so because I was thinking about killing someone. Eventually I brought the thoughts home with me and soon carried them with me everywhere. Everything killed but only people felt bad about it, didn’t they? Government didn’t care. They killed people all the time, wars and the death penalty (death penalty in certain states that is). And if our government was by the people and for the people, then didn’t that make every one here a murderer, agree or not? Wouldn’t they be accomplices by compliance? Charles Manson was in jail for life and he never actually killed anyone, he just convinced other people to do it. Wasn’t that how our government worked, they had other people kill for them, and if the government was by the people and for the people, didn’t that make everyone, including myself a killer? And if I was already a killer, then why feel bad about it? A wolf didn’t feel ashamed or guilty when it killed, why should I? I contemplated all of the above, the reason I elucidate on the thought process is to give you a sense of what had been going though my mind (and what I assumed must have at some point possibly gone through Jake’s mind as well) leading up to all the events that occurred that late summer and early fall. I turned these ideas over in my head, again and again, like waves churning against the beach shore, until finally some of the grains of sand got pushed together tight enough to form a pearl and when it did a little voice, soft yet powerful, spoke. “Cut the bullshit. You’re angry, angry enough to kill someone, angry enough to want to kill someone, angry enough to sit and rationalize it to yourself.” And somewhere in there I heard Jake’s calm voice, “just allow yourself to be angry.”
THE
So on the day that I got fired from Wal-Mart I didn’t drink and I didn’t smoke the joint I usually smoked at lunch. Instead, before heading back, I reached under the driver’s seat and took out the Ruger, placing it in the back of my pants, and dropping my shirt down over it.
I walked back into work, through the grocery entrance, past a group of girl scouts trying to sell cookies, a very large woman on the inside at the Redbox stand renting a movie, and Jessie the elderly greeter who nodded at me as I entered. On this day I had been off the floor, working supply in the storeroom. I wandered through the store, the gun feeling cold against the skin of my lower back. I kept thinking it would slip into my jeans and plunk out of the bottom of one of the legs. My breathing grew deep as I reached the swinging door to the back of the store and entered. The back was dark and I made my way between the stacks and stacks of products. My heart pounded fiercely and I couldn’t remember why exactly I had brought the gun with me and didn’t have any idea what I would do if someone found out I had it. And then I saw Norman’s head, Norman my boss. The bald peak barely poked over a stack of Captain Crunch cereal. It floated along until the rest of him appeared. He saw me and his eyes instantly narrowed. “You’re late, Arnold,” he said, waddling over with his clip board and blue tooth headset and his pot belly. “You were supposed to be back in here fifteen minutes ago.” “I know,” I said. “I got distracted and lost track of time.”
Norman nodded his head. “This is a business, Arnie. You come here to work. We expect you to act like an adult and as an adult you need to pay attention to the clock.” He only called me Arnie when he chewed me out and because of this I sighed heavily. “Did you just sigh?” I nodded but said nothing. “Arnie, if you don’t want to take this job seriously, you’re more than welcome to leave. I have plenty of people who would love to take your hours.” “Arnold,” I said. “Excuse me?” “You keep calling me Arnie. My name is Arnold.” Norman scoffed. “I’m trying to talk to you about your job and you need to pay attention to what I’m telling you, because this is far more important than what I choose to call you. Get it together, pal. I’m the boss.”
THE
I reached slowly behind me and under my shirt, taking hold of the gun’s handle. For the briefest instance I felt my jaw muscles tighten and teeth grind together. I wondered how a man like this had become this way, ranting to what was more or less a stranger. I tried to picture his life, what his mother had been like, if she had talked to him the way he talked to me now. I think that’s what caused me to release the grip I had on the gun. Somewhere out there this little turd had a mother. I lowered my arm to my side.
Norman continued his lecture. “I could have you kicked outta here real fast, mister. Do you understand that?” I lowered my head and nodded. “Yeah, every one understands that sooner or later.” I kept my eyes firmly on the ground and noticed with my periphery that Norman shook his head. “God, you’re such punk,” he whispered. And this is the moment most people might have expected me to snap and perhaps, I did, to an extent. I brought my head up fast and with another quick motion I made a fist, pulled it back and stepped forward. Norman flinch. And not only flinched but brought his hands up to cover his face. His reaction made me stop and almost laugh. We stood in our respective poses for all of two seconds, the room damningly still and silent. And out of that silence came a small trickling noise. Norman and I both lowered our hands and looked down. Across Norman’s pants a large wet spot grew. I started laughing and stepped back as a puddle formed on the floor and I didn’t wish to get piss on my shoes. Norman seemed out of breath and for a second I thought he might cry. “You’re fired,” he whispered. “Leave. You’re fired.” I stopped laughing and smiled. “I should call the cops on you.” “And tell them what, little short man pissed himself while chewing out an employee?” I shook my head. “God, every one here hates you. They’d love to know this story.” Norman stiffened and shook. “Leave,” he said through clenched teeth. I turned and walked out of the storage area, out into the great wide world. As the day turned to night so too did the dread of my possible actions come upon me, like the way a person who witnesses a car accident realizes that if they had been a few seconds sooner or a few seconds later they would have been killed. I could have easily killed Norman. It took half a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum and a lot of weed to sedate the feeling and when I laid down to sleep it had been more to do with my head spinning than with my weariness. That night I had a dream. I stood in a city lit only by an unnaturally large moon, no building lights or cars permeated the streets, hollow alleys and shadowed doorways surrounded me with ominous stillness. I walked down the road and began to notice that the buildings loomed at crooked angles like bad set pieces or something from a German expressionist painting. I stopped to stare but felt like I should keep moving, like it was the best things for me and then a noise, like a tin can skidding across concrete came from somewhere behind me. I spun around and looked down a dark alley. A door was off to the side in a beam of light from a light bulb hanging above. I began to walk forward, with both curiosity and cautiousness, but stopped when I reached the middle of the road.
THE
Something moved in the shadow between the light in the alley and the moon beams on the street,
something small and low to the ground that I couldn’t completely see. I woke up before I found out how the dream ended, not in a jolt or jump the way it happens in horror movies, but slowly, bringing my eyes gently open, simply roused from the dream. Roused from what, I know not. I lay in the dark and listened for a brief moment to the sound of my neighbors TV coming through the wall. And, with a suddenness that I had only ever known a few times in my life, I remembered what had transpired at work that day and all the bad feelings returned. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom and vomited. After I finished I sat on the floor, my face resting on the cold seat of the toilet. I wondered if what had happened that day would happen again and if it would be worse the second time. Little did I know that it would only be two nights before I’d found out. I pulled the car to the side of the gravel road, just a small ways from where the road became steeper in it’s continued ascent up Large mountain. I stepped out and into the dark, as did Jake, and we both came to the front of the car and sat on the hood. Jake placed the case of beer between us. We looked out and down the mountain, silhouetted pine trees to our far left and far right framed an open view of the night sky with clear brilliant stars that a person can only see if they travel far from Portland, which sat below the stars, just an endless grid of lights, that only seemed like a city if you knew it. Jake and I and the area around us lay in darkness, everything’s details washed away by a blanket of black, except for the gravel road, which appeared a faint white cutting through it all. Jake opened up a beer and took a drink. “I’m sorry you lost your job, man.” I lit a cigarette and grabbed a beer myself, opening it but letting it settle a little before I drank some. “I’m not sorry, good riddance really.” I took a drink and held the cold beer in my mouth, thinking. I hadn’t told Jake about the gun or my boss flinching. I related him the story as such: I got in late and as the boss started to chew me out I told him to fuck off and left. I thought that maybe I should tell him the truth but decided not to. The conversation went like most conversations, sparse, back and forth about nothing in particular. Beer cans piled up on the hood of my car. “Jesus,” I said at some point, looking at the pile. “I need to stop drinking and get my shit together.” I said this with all the conviction of someone realizing they needed to do their laundry. “Wanna see something?” Jake asked. “If it’s your cock, no thanks, I’ve seen it.” “It’s kinda like my cock,” he said and smiled, even in the dark I knew he smiled as he said this. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled something out, something metal, something with a handle and heavy. Even though I couldn’t see his facial features, and even though the trees and the broken timber on the hill and my own hands were just shadows and silhouettes, I knew the object he held was a gun. “Where did you get that?” “Gilda,” he said and nothing more. He held the gun out in front of himself, aiming into the night, striking a pose, aiming really at nothing, but really, the city in the distance.
THE
“She just gave it to you?”
His shadow shook its head. “No.” “Well…explain.” “I stole it. That night we were at her place.” He brought the gun down, turned to me and smiled. “I stole it.” Silence and then, “why?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wanted it.” I didn’t ask a follow up questions. I got the strong sense that he was looking into the distance thinking about his answer. Someone, somewhere would probably pass judgment on him, think poorly, or become scared, concerned with their own safety, but I thought of none of this, ‘I wanted it’ seemed like a completely reasonable answer to me. I don’t know, remember when you were a kid and someone asked you why you did something and you’d respond with, “because” and then they’d ask you ‘because why?’ and you’d simple say ‘just because.’ It had been like that. He sees something. He want’s it and took it and it had been as simple as that. And I understood this. I nodded. “Okay,” I said.
“Here, hold it for a second.” He handed me the gun and then grabbed up some of the empty beer cans in his arms and stumbled down the hill into the dark. I heard him and saw the shadows shift until his silhouette appeared a short distance away on the crest of the hill. The silhouetted Jake set the beer cans on the silhouette of a tree stump, and then Jake headed back toward me. “Alright,” he said when his shadow stood beside me again. Jake took the gun. “Should I turn on my head lights so we can see the cans?” “Nah, We can seen them fine.” And he was right. The cans were clearly visible against the distant lights of Portland. I heard the click clack of the gun being cocked. I saw Jake’s arms rise, becoming a little longer because of the barrel. Seconds of calm passed and then an explosion of light lit up Jake’s face and his arms and for that brief flash the whole world vanished into complete blackness. I looked away. Jake fired off three more shots, only hitting one of the cans with the last shot. “Damn,” he said, handing me the gun. “You try.” I took the gun and pointed it toward the cans. I lined up the silhouetted sight with the silhouettes in the distance. The gun felt heavy to me and I couldn’t quite keep my hands from shaking, but I pulled the trigger, my whole body jolting, and somehow I hit a can. Then I fired again, hitting another can. I fired a third time, yielding yet again the same result.
THE
Jake chuckled softly. “Nice shooting, Tex.” And when he said this, something seemed off, almost violently off about his tone. He seemed satisfied.
I shrugged the feeling away. “I must have had lessons.” We drank in the dark and continued to watch the city, not firing more shots as Jake didn’t “have any more shells.” “You got plans for them bullets?” I asked. “I got plans for everything, sweetheart.” And Jake took the gun, placing it back in his pocket, where we forgot about it for almost an hour. I sometimes wonder about the events of things, like if one thing were different, your whole life could have turned out differently, like if you hadn’t gotten that bike on your eleventh birthday causing you to prefer two wheels to four you never would have gotten that motorcycle in your adult years and thus never had gotten in that accident and been paralyzed from the waist down. I wonder, on a metaphorical level, about dominos. Maybe if Geno had liked my demo tape dominos would have fallen in other directions, or if Sandy had stayed with me I might have been with her that night instead of on Large Mountain, or if we had seen the truck coming up the road in the distance Jake and I would have decided to get in my car and leave early, or if the guy in the truck hadn’t leaned out of his window and yelled “fags” as they passed what happened wouldn’t have happened. I don’t know. I look back a great deal on life and what could have been. After the truck passed us, Jake and I watched it go up the road to the higher parts of the mountain. “I hate it when people do that. Who are they to dampen our night?” I whispered, shaking my head. “Well,” Jake said. “What are you going to do about it?” I sighed. “Probably nothing.” I said, pausing a moment afterward, thinking that it felt like the night got darker suddenly. “Probably nothing,” I repeated. I heard once that in the dark, when you can’t see, the things you do see are the things inside your head and I suppose standing there on Large Mountain, in the dark, with Jake what I saw was the shadows of who we used to be and what we were going to become. “It’ll be fun,” Jake had said. “We’ll just scare them.” And I think I was angry enough and knew better than to try to stop it, that this had been the inevitable outcome because after only a slight hesitation I simply said, “okay.” And I must have known we’d do more than just scare them because seconds later and without thinking I looked at the shrouded black and featureless Jake and asked, “how many bullets are left in the gun?” “Nine,” he said. With just a few words we decided I would need a weapon, something simple to protect myself and use to help make our escape if things got out of hand. “And something to cover our faces with,” Jake tossed in.
THE
I nodded in the pitch blackness and went to the trunk of my car and opened it. Inside I kept a plethora of useless items and/or garbage, everything from clothing to empty liquor bottles. The little light on the inside of the trunk lid lit the heap. I sifted through the pile and in it I found a hammer, the head of which I slipped into my pocket, the handle pointing up and out. I found a bandana, which I handed to Jake.
He smiled and tied it around his face. “What are you going to wear?” “I don’t—” I began, but stopped when I saw the mask poking out from under a half empty gas can. Some years ago I attended a Halloween party and I made the mask I wore that night. It had been simple, just a plain translucent mask that I bought for a buck fifty, but I had gone and cut several dozen eyes out of magazines and glued them on the mask, then carefully laminated it in clear tape. So the mask, when worn, looked like a face of eyes. I took the mask from the trunk and put it on, turning to Jake so he could see. “Pretty convenient coincidence, huh?” “It’s not coincidence,” Jake said. “It’s providence.” What followed comes to me only in flashes and brief images, fragments in time that stand out in an otherwise bright landscape of memory. We climbed up a dirt embankment from the gravel road and into the trees. Pitch blackness covered the forest as we climbed the mountain. I stumbled over fallen branches and bushes and bumps along the ground, trying hard not to make noise, my breath making my face warm under the mask, my heart beat in my ears, almost deafening me, a cramping pain in my stomach, Jake somewhere ahead, leading. Then the image of the black trees in the foreground, beyond that a gravel plateau, blue under a half moon that had climbed just a little above the woods. The truck sat at the center of it. Three men seemed to be doing something around it. One of them walked to the driver’s side door and opened it, spilling the cab light out in a halo on the ground. “Well,” Jake said. “Here’s to providence.” I remember walking toward the three men. I remember my heart beat and my hands shaking and the men gathering around as we approached. Jake said something, I can’t recall what, some words were exchanged and the gun rose in the dark. My heart jumped like lightning had struck it and the only word I remember Jake saying after that point was the word “strip.” The three hesitated; looking at each other until Jake said something else causing one of them to start to undo his pants. At that point another of them, the shortest of the three incidentally, threw something in Jake’s face. I think it was a drink, maybe a beer or soda, because liquid splashed on me and I felt coldness on my arm. The guy slapped the gun out of Jake’s hand and grabbed him. The gun skidded across the gravel and under the truck. I dove for it, adrenaline so high I didn’t need to think. I crawled across the gravel and under the truck and heard someone shout “get him.” Hands grabbed at my ankles and started to pull me out. I twisted and kicked, breaking free for a moment, reaching farther, but just barely as the hands clawed at my legs again.
THE
In the dark, I found the gun. I rolled on my side, and between my legs, between the foot and a half from the bottom of the truck and the ground, I saw a face. I pointed the gun and pulled the trigger, a flash of light lit the dirt covered engine above me, and the face I saw caved in on itself. I swiftly turned the gun toward two sets of legs that shuffled close to each other. Jake had been wearing black jeans. The guy that grabbed him wore blue ones. I fired the gun and an ankle exploded; two bodies fell to the ground.
Quickly I climbed out from under the truck. “He’s running,” Jake yelled and pointed as he stood up. I turned quickly, taking two steps forward, and saw the third man running toward the trees. I raised the gun and fired three shots. He hit the ground and instantly tried to stand again in his frenzy to escape but toppled right over. And then Jake screamed. I spun around and saw him falling, grasping at something sticking out of his thigh. The guy who had grabbed him sat on his side, pulling his arm away from Jake. I fired a shot. I didn’t know where I hit him, but it had been enough to put him on his back. I started to walk over toward Jake. “I’ll be fine. Make sure you got that guy.” He said throwing up a hand toward the guy who had run. I walked over, my heart still beating like wild, the image of the man crawling away growing larger and larger with my approach. He moved by only the use of his arms, his legs dead behind him and covered in blood. And if you’re wondering, yes, blood certainly does appear black in the moonlight. It is this image that has been carried with me the most from that night, the man on his stomach, reaching one arm out as far as it would go, shirt sleeves rolled up to above the elbow, his left shoe gone from his foot, only the white sock remaining, black blood covering his jeans and going up his back and along the ground in Jackson Pollack paint strokes. All of which the moonlight gave a faint blue and dreamlike glow. He heard me coming and rolled over onto his back. I raised the gun and pointed it at him. He brought his hands up in front of his face as if they’d shield him from the bullets. “Please, no,” he said, wild fear in his voice. He repeated the word please again and again. I stood there with the gun drawn listening to his screaming, for both God and my mercy, telling me that he’d never tell anyone, he’d lie to the police, make up a story, tell them anything, “Just don’t kill me. I don’t deserve it,” his shouting fueled by blind terror and I couldn’t help but listen, I felt my arms slacken and begin to lower as his words crept into my head. But then, like lightning out of the sky, he said, “Please, I’m about to get married.” And when he said that an image came into my head, a recreation that I had lived just a year or so earlier. I sat on the floor of Sandy’s apartment, looking up at her. “I know we’ve only been dating for a few months,” I had said, “but we’ve known each other for years. You’re my closets friend and know everything about me that there is to know and I think, I think that I’d really like to marry you. I think that’s something I could really see happening for us, someday.” Sandy sat at her desk, looking down on me. She squinted her eyes and titled her head. “You know,” she said. “I think I’d like to take this really really slow.” “Tell me more,” I told the man on the ground. He lowered his hands just a bit. “What…what do you mean?” “Beg me,” I growled through clenched teeth. “Give me more reasons why I should let you live.” The man hesitated, thinking, probably too panicked to come up with rational thoughts. “Do you love this woman?” I asked.
THE
“Yes, dear God, I love her more than anything.”
“Are you going to treat her right, take care of her?” I growled again in a voice that wasn’t mine, “and wipe away all her bitter tears?” “Yes, yes, I’m going to do that. I do that now.” “Are you going to have kids?” “Yes.” “How many?” “As many as we can.” “And you’re going to love them and take care of them and make sure they can get as far as they can in life?” “Yes, God, my whole life will be spent making sure they get everything they want and need. They’ll be the happiest kids in the world.” The man’s breathing slowed and he seemed to be calming. I lowered the gun slightly and looked him in his eyes, which, in the moonlight, were clearly filled with tears, and what I’ve now come to understand as hope. After that, I shot him. I walked back to the truck. Jake sat between the first two men, his hands on his thigh. The man who grabbed him lay just a few feet away and moved ever so slightly and as I approached I heard the gurgling. I stepped over to him and saw he had his hands clasped to his neck, blood pooling underneath him and spattered over his face and chest. The gurgling seemed to come and go. I must have shot him through the throat. I think he was trying to breath, but I don’t know. After only a few seconds of gurgling ceased, his eyes went blank, and he stopped moving. I stepped over to Jake and knelt down. He had wrapped the bandana around his leg, which had become soaked in blood. “He stabbed me,” Jake said. “Where’s the knife?” Jake pointed at his feet, where the knife lay. I picked it up. It was a small collapsible hunting knife. I cleaned it on my pants, folded it closed, and put it in my pocket. “I guess we’re fucked.” Looking at Jake I remembered I was still wearing my mask and took it off. I shook my head. “No, we can get out of this.” “How?”
THE
“I have an idea.”
With the moon rising higher into the sky now I pulled my car as close to the scene as I possibly could without running over a body. I got out and ran over to Jake and helped him limp to the car. After placing him in the passenger’s seat, I opened up my trunk and took out the half empty gas can. I poured the gasoline over the ground where Jake had been standing when he was stabbed. I poured it over the body of the man who had stabbed him and the path Jake walked to get to my car, any place I thought he might have bled. I put the gas can back in the trunk and took my lighter from my pocket. I breathed a long deep breath and held it for a moment, looking up at the half full moon, I thought of the Wolfman man movies, the ones with Laun Chaney Jr. I suppose that were it a horror movie I would have heard a howl just then. I crouched down and with my lighter. I lit the gas, pulling my hand away quickly as it went up. Suddenly the scene had turned from the blue light of the moon to the orange light of the fire. I saw the scene more fully and something shifted and twisted in my stomach. I got back in the car and began driving.
“The cans,” Jake said as we passed the spot where we had originally been at the start of the story. I slammed on the breaks, knowing exactly what he had meant. I climbed out of the car, not bothering to close the driver’s side door, and ran into the dark and down the hill, which, with the rising moon, had become a wash in light. I grabbed up the beer cans we had shot at and held them in my arms, not remembering how many Jake had placed on the tree stump. I walked around the hill side for what seemed like a really long time but was likely only a minute. I kicked around some shrubs looking for any loose beer cans and I found one sitting at the base of a large rock. It terrified me. If I missed one can and police found it, we’d be done for. I stood just staring at the can, the thing in my stomach twisting even tighter. I held six cans, but was there more? I glanced out at the Portland skyline. I had to go and so, with a shake of my head, I picked up the can and ran back to the car. I tossed the cans into the back seat, as well as the hammer from my coat pocket, and got in and continued driving down the mountain, the headlights casting wide beams along the winding road. Down the mountain and through Hawkinson, the drive went by quickly and as the car cruised from 162nd to 164th and then to McGillivray time drew out longer and longer, like a blade slowly exiting a wound. Eventually we arrived back at my apartment complex and with luck there hadn’t been anyone outside to see us enter my place.
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Jake put an arm around my shoulder and with my help limped up the steps to my apartment. We entered and I took him to the bathroom.
He sat on the edge of the bathtub, feet on the porcelain bottom, back facing the door. “Do you have any hydrogen peroxide?” Jake asked. “No,” I whispered. “Strong Alcohol?” I nodded. “Hold on just a sec,” I said and walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. During the drive I had done a good job of containing my blind panic, keeping a façade of calm. By the time we had reached my apartment I had relaxed and begun to think straight, sadly when I realized I had begun to think straight the panic came back but had quieted itself quicker than it had the first time through. With a clearer mind I started to put things together in my head as to what we should do next. From the refrigerator I retrieved a half a bottle of Bacardi 151. I took it and went back to the bathroom. “We should just turn ourselves in,” I told Jake as I handed him the bottle. “We’ll be lynched,” he said with ease and calm, setting the bottle on the edge of the bathtub. “We’ll get caught sooner or later and they’ll probably go easier on us if we just turn ourselves in.” “They won’t go easier on us. Besides that you set the scene on fire, remember? You were the one with the escape plan.” Jake looked at me sideways. “Was your escape plan to burn them and then run only to give up and turn ourselves in?” I stared blankly at him for a moment. He was completely right. “I guess I was just focused more on getting out of there than anything else.” “I know. You’re scared, so am I. I’m just trying to focus on the problem at hand, it’s hard to get a grip on that, let alone what’s coming.” A beat of silence passed and I saw Jake thinking. He smirked. “That’s survival instincts for you. So scared of the bombs you run off the cliff.” I leaned over to get a better look at his eyes. “You don’t seem scared.” He turned toward me. “Neither do you.” Another moment of silence passed between us. I thought of how to respond to this but could only think to shrug. Jake began to undo the bandana around his leg. “Shit, we’re probably going to have to take you to the hospital for that.” “Let’s see what it looks like first,” Jake undid the bandana and tossed it on the bottom of the bathtub. Apparently the bleeding had stopped and although there had been much blood on his jeans, not as much as I would have expected. Jake undid his pants and pulled them down to the knees, just below the wound. “Christ,” he said and sat back down. The wound looked nasty, wider at the top than at the bottom, dark red and with what I assumed was clotted blood sticking to it and his thigh.
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Jake looked at it and shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll have to go to the hospital for this,” he said, oddly quiet. He unscrewed the bottle cap on the Bacardi and dumped the booze over the wound. He cringed. “Do you have something I could use as a bandage to put over this?”
“Like what?” Jake shrugged. “I don’t know, a dishtowel or something and something to hold it on there with.” I nodded and left the bathroom, walking back into the kitchen. After a brief search I turned up a roll of duct tape and a clean dishtowel, or at least what I hoped was a clean dishtowel. “Here,” I handed Jake the two things as I went back into the bathroom. He took the duct tape and towel. He drank a little of the Bacardi 151 and then poured a some onto the towel. He placed the towel on his leg and began to wrap the duct tape around it and his thigh. “What are we going to do?” I asked. “Wait,” he said grimacing in pain as he wrapped the tape around his leg in thicker and thicker layers. “Wait?” “Yeah, just wait it out for a while, do as we always do every day, say nothing to nobody, and if it seems like things are going to go down, we run.” I shook my head and took a step back. I felt the blood rush out of me and suddenly the room began to spin, so I sat down on the toilet and rested my head in my hands. A cold sweat broke out on my whole body. “And we aren’t going to talk to each other for a couple of weeks. I can’t talk over the phone at the halfway house. I think they monitor the calls. I’ll get in touch and in a couple of weeks we’ll meet up.” Jake looked over at me. “Are you going to be alright?” I wiped a hand across my forehead. “I’ll be fine, I think. I’ll be fine.” “I’m going to need some pants for going back to the home. Do you have any I could wear?” “Yeah, I do,” I said. “Just give me a minute.”
I took Jake back to Portland, to the half-way house. I sat on the street in my car watching him limp up the front stairs. Not much conversation had passed between he and I on the drive there and when he got out of my car all he said had been, “just wait. We’ll be okay; we just need to see what happens.” And that was that. We said goodbyes. We parted. When I arrived home I checked the front steps leading to my apartment. I needed to make sure that none of Jake’s blood had splattered there, why this is, looking back, I don’t really know. It just felt like at the time I needed to look and maybe wipe away anything that could prove that the events of the evening had indeed unfolded as they had. I didn’t find anything. Inside my apartment I got a very old can of comet cleaner from under the sink and spread some over the bottom of the bathtub, which, although it had been rinsed, was still tinted red and had specs of blood on it. I scrubbed it down as best I could, probably better than I could with all the nervous energy that had slowly been building up in me as the night moved on.
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I hid the gun in the toilet tank, as well as the hunting knife Jake had been stabbed with, both wrapped in a plastic bag, not really knowing where to hide them and at the same time not really wanting
to throw them away. The beer cans got tossed in the dumpster outside as did the bandana Jake had wrapped around his leg. The next day would be garbage day. A garbage truck would show up and empty the dumpster. Thank God for small miracles, I remember thinking to myself at the time, but looking back I have no clue why I feared those beer cans or bandana, especially when I had the damn murder weapon in my toilet. As for the hammer, I left that in the backseat of the car. After doing this I felt slightly less nervous.
Surprisingly, and what surprises me still, was how easily I fell asleep that night, like I hadn’t just killed three people. Maybe it had been exhaustion or a need to escape that lead to my easy slumber, but my escape had usually been the booze, and on that night I didn’t feel much like drinking before I lay down. This fact had stuck with me for a while after I left the Northwest at the end of that September and I thought that perhaps it had been due to the sudden shift from wanting to blow my brains out to desperate self-preservation. I’ve thought about this for a long time. However, as I have since sat down to write this I can now recall another emotion that had been there that evening which may have caused my lack of need to get blindingly drunk, a subtle yet more powerful thing that wouldn’t be there the next day, an emotion that couldn’t have been sustained through sleep.
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Writing this now, looking back, I can honestly say that the whole damn thing had been pretty fucking exciting. pp
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