

# Shotgun Wedding

## Unfinished Stories with Not Much in Common

### by

### Kevin Tilley

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

### Contents

### Lost Resort

### Population: Unknown

### Destination Boulevard

### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lost Resort

Day One

Mean darkness settles on the horizon. Surrounding the entire scene in nothingness. Out on this lonely stretch of sand. Standing in the shade of a poorly constructed shelter. Glancing out at infinity, or the closest thing these failing eyes can substitute for endlessness, wondering if there exists some point along the seemingly unchanging spectrum where things began to go terribly wrong. Was there some sign?...some barely perceptible interruption? Would I, had I been able to feel it happen, have had the nerve to stop the presses and rewrite the day's events?

Things are strange here, though I can't put my finger squarely on the source. Nothing is too far from the ordinary, but everything seems deeply amiss. As if I had stepped onto the stage during a play I'd seen a hundred times, recognizing immediately the familiar characters and situations, but everyone was speaking in some nonsensical verse. Leaving me to my own devices of interpretation and slighted expectation. Smiles are strained. Gestures exaggerated. Friendly voices keeping measured distances. Neutral faces turning in long looks. Sending underhanded hints that I am indeed not what they were expecting. Haven't I always been the master of assimilation? Leaving me to wonder if I have dropped in inadvertently on an annual convention of sharp eyed con men...fresh from hour long sessions on the best methods for sizing up the score. Placing their secret bets on how long I can keep from talking to myself.

This should have all been stopped before. It's gotten out of hand. Bad visions are floating in the sky. Elbowing out the clouds. Weighing heavy on the vista. Foul winds blow through the day, carrying with them the discarded debris from every corner of this forsaken earth, broken down versions of their former selves, unwanted, out in the cold -- piled up against sea walls, stacked in a haphazard fashion in any number of out of the way hovels, looking so lost and pitiful as they skid down the road. Sound familiar? Oh well, we all have a story to tell. Who's to blame when you're left with an unpleasant final few chapters? I'm just here to see how this thing ends. I've stuck around this long. Haven't I? And if you find it too much to bear, then I invite you to join your average fellow man and do your best to ignore my very presence. If only I could join in. Oh well...

How long have I been here? It seems like years, but it must be only hours. The carriers are lining up on the shore. Conveying open-lipped messages I perceive with ill intent. My hands are cracked and bleeding. The map of my face has taken on disorienting contours. I'm running out of time. But it doesn't seem to matter. At least, not to me.

I happen to have lost my way. I'm stranded on the deserted back road of an poorly conceived universe. My accounts are settled and I am full of dirty promises.

I arrived easily enough. Rolling to a halt on the blind side of one final dead man's curve. Seems I'd had enough. And my old six cylinder wasn't doing me any favors. I've reached the end of my line. At this middle point on my way. I've searched the barren terrain of my soul and come up on empty. I'm taking stock of my situation. I am ill at ease.

The tides roll in at sinister intervals. As if they are taking me for a damn fool. It's not my fault I have no place left to go. I know where I am supposed to be and I understand where I've been. And I have no particular desire to entertain either. Perhaps this is as it should be. I'm taking up time. I'm listening to the crashing waves. I'm too tired to offer the slightest assistance to my own cause. It's always easier to simply hang everything up for a while and see what happens. Push the old jalopy into the first parking lot you can find. Square your shoulders and make the best of things.

I'd like to remember the faces that have shared the kindled moments leading up to now. I'd like to think I'm worthy of this life I've been granted. But I'm having trouble. I'm making up stories to keep myself alive one more day. I'm full of plump sadness. I have secured a modest room and a pillow for the night. What else could possibly matter?

The walls are rising against me...surrounding my peripheral vision. Dark figures make their presence well known. An entire world is going about its business in the corner of my eye. I've surely gone hopelessly mad. But it never matters as long as you've got enough currency to pay your way. And I'm loaded with seashells of every denomination. Treasures beyond my wildest imagination. Lying in full view for all to share. The world is giving us another shot. It's letting us know we need to try harder. I'm listening, and I'm going to do my part to spread the wealth. Starting with that bellhop. Slipping him a multi-colored handful of still-wet coins. Giving a wink and an assurance of plenty more where that came from.

He seemed a bit taken aback. But that is to be expected.

Out here.

The end of the road. The point from which there is no easy return. You'd like to move forward. You'd like to make your peace with the past. But it all just runs down the drain. And you wake up one murky afternoon to find yourself on a misty seashore with a passkey in your hand and an open tab at the bar. You make your bed and leave everything else to chance. Misery will be there with its morning wake-up call. Don't you worry.

My version of history is going up in flames. Just one of the many beach bonfires burning in the night. I've got a bottle and my feet are safely buried in the sand. I'm warming myself against the millions of tiny explosions. Grand releases of unspent potential, within and without. I'm keeping as still as possible. The world is swirling around me. Colors tracing luminous paths against the void. The stars are dancing in unsettling patterns. The constellations are moving about, exchanging their parts, letting me know that I have been charting my course with severely bad information...having a little fun at my expense. But I'm beginning to enjoy the madness. I'm actually feeling part of this foolhardy production.

And I don't have a single place in all this vast expanse of universe to be tomorrow. So I'll take another drink, and lay my head against a piece of driftwood.

And keep my eyes open as long as I can.

I think I'm going to like it here.

...

Middle Ground

It occurs to me that there persists a fatal gulf in my reasoning. A distance I feel in the depths of my heart. A falling out. Of sorts. I use the word fatal because I have of late become terribly aware of its destructive potential. This thing I carry inside. This barrier between what I believe to be true and what I choose as truth. I'm bending beneath the weight of subtle persuasion. Explosions are firing on the periphery of my perception. Hopeless victories are waiving their flags on the torn battlefields of my fevered consciousness. I am sleeping through the mounting minutes. I am trembling at the thought of negotiated silence.

I had a dream on this happened-upon night. Though I am reluctant to call it my own. It was a dream of someone I do not know. A doctor. He dreams he has discovered a cure for cancer. He holds it in his hand. A concoction that will ease the pain of millions. He wakes up in the furious quiet hours of absence. His wife stirs and he fears his motions may serve to disturb her slumber. So he lies still and tries to remember the details of his dream. But all he can piece together is a seemingly meaningless shopping list. Perhaps a re-creation of the contents of his well stocked pantry. Vegetables, fruits, spices, herbal extracts, soy products, juices. He writes it off. And settles back to sleep. Unaware that his subconscious, fueled by a combination of extensive research in the field and an extramarital association with a nutritionist -- who dropped by his office a few weeks prior to supply a handful of informative leaflets -- was telling him the ingredients of a magic potion that could indeed stave off, and in some cases even reverse the corruption of healthy cells. A discovery of phenomenal historic magnitude that melts away with the early morning hours.

I woke before I grasped any hint of realization from the doctor. Whether or not he understood the implications of his choice to roll over and ignore the special-delivered message. Sitting bolt upright in a haze of severed sleep and polished whiskey. Filled with a sense of muted clarity...something to do with the fertile nature of human ignorance...the seeds of destruction which grow so strong with meticulous tending. Letting out a sound to remind myself of my own indiscretions. Reaching for my half empty pack of cigarettes (feeling no immediate inclination towards optimism). I lit up and took stock of my unfamiliar surroundings. Experiencing the wave of inevitable panic that always strikes when sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. I gathered myself and remembered where I was.

I can hear the sea. Such an amazing thing. The way it moves so thoughtlessly of its own volition. The sound of the ocean. Or a thunderstorm. The whistle from a slow-moving locomotive carried across a desolate valley. Wind through the leaves. Why have I become so removed? Where was I when this all began? What have I been taking for granted all this time? Am I talking to myself. No, not yet. These are just thoughts. Early morning thoughts. 3am thoughts. Nothing to get all worked up over.

Rolling with the waves. A bedside seasick memorial. Light the candles and watch their flaming shadows. Licking up the sides of neglected flowers. Dreams escaping through the cracks in the walls. Filtering through the maelstrom. The wonders of mankind going up in smoke. A hand reaching out in the darkness, searching for a sense of comfort. A warmth that left town when nobody was looking. Tokens of unending love thrown into the depths of a brick lined well. A shared promise departing in a glorious moment of thoughtless absolution. Gone but never forgotten. For what it's worth.

What is anything worth? These days. I'm afraid to look in the mirror. I have no interest in what information it has to offer. I see myself in the dark. Features displaying their scars with scarce thought to roll-called displacement. Still, it stands there across the room. Waiting for me to cross its path. Filled with an over-inflated belief of value. I've lived enough years to know what I look like. At this hour. And I'm in no mood for interpreted reflection. There's already more than enough negative energy flowing through these broken times. My internal bleeding takes many forms. Better left to funhouse representations. Or the padded silence of a state institution. But those days are behind me. Existing at some point over my shoulder -- the one you won't catch me looking over.

Who said that? Have I been followed? Or am I just following myself. Six of one... Heel, toe. Half dozen of the other.

Shaking myself back to sleep. A few more hours of rest. If only it were that simple.

I remember why I woke. In the first place. All great mysteries boil down to a single click. A simple sound that shatters all stillness. I can still hear the echo of knuckles against the door. A knocking in the night. A wakeup call in the foggy ruin of my sequestered hallowed ground. A deafening single-minded tap. Nothing more. Lights hung with exposed nails. Electronic hues ministering to my fumbled cognition.

Must have been that Night Porter. A strange fellow. From what I gather. And I do possess a certain expertise in these matters. There to remind me of things I can never forget. Paying me a routine visit. Making his misdirected rounds. Doing his part to keep all us homesick guests in line. Crossing off one more name in his vest-bound book. Here and there. Gone before you can ever hope to confront his dutiful inflection. Leaving you to lie in the aftermath of his wake. Knowing full well just how much you're paying for the honor.

Can't even get a slice this late.

Coming up empty one more time. Nothing new. Not even in the ballpark. But they've torn them all down. All the great monuments to our human yearnings. Brick by brick. Erecting palaces in their bloated image. With names that stick in the back of hard working throats. Nobody is ever ashamed anymore. When they never had more reason to be. So...

Where was I? Smoking the last segments of my cigarette. Don't ever let them tell you these things are bad for you. Unless they're willing to roll out the big list. Roll your own. If that is your fancy. Or snap the cellophane. I don't care. We're all on a one way ride down a rickety roller-coaster. Might as well enjoy the trip. Eh?

Okay...

All bets are off. I'm talking to myself. I should know. I'm a long-time subscriber to this particular wavelength...

And the room turns upside down. And right side up. Again. Crawling to dizzying heights. Plummeting into the mouth of a bottomless pit.

And there he is. Sitting in bed. Across the room. Looking straight into my eyes. Framed in glassy euphoria. Mocking my movements with perfect precision. His cigarette burnt to the filter, held in place by an inhuman smile...plastered to his face, which I presently find terribly unsettling.

...

Day Two, Part One: Slow Rising

The mythic demands of restoration are taking their brutal toll on the emotional state of our sequestered innocence. Such a seemingly benign set of circumstances. Whiling away the while. Tools of an obsolete trade. An incision through the tender tendons of discretionary allegiance. Filed down to the barest of minimums. Packed to the roof and sent off amid a firestorm of verbal misunderstandings...to fend for their down-and-out selves. Everything has been systematically smoothed down. Taken to negligible extremes. Removed from the equation. For its own good. And the children run harder and harder...towards a forest that disappears before their yearning eyes.

You might think you'll never understand these thoughts which I am taking time to commit. But you'd be wrong. They are not without precedent. Shelved beside the simplicity of a rainstorm. Offering the same options. You can take shelter. Or shrug it off and cover your head. Or just dance around like an idiot and dig the soaking. The only thing you can never do is shake your fist at the clouds. What would you ever possibly gain?

I am waking to a new day. I have fallen hopelessly in love with an angel I'll never hold to my shoulder. She visits in missing moments, those clearings in the fog, when I take up the cause of every beaten down derelict whose jagged path I've happened to cross. With hands on my hip and chin to the wind. I've saved the tribes with names we never bothered to pronounce. I've flown with monkeys and sat at the side of kings. I was the one who whispered into the ear of the greatest leader this country has ever known. I rode shotgun on a century's misguided journey through the barriers of speakeasy undercurrents. But I was left behind. Forgotten. Left to my own devious devices. I am nothing more than the ghost of a wounded empire. Everywhere you turn, in all those darkened alleys, beneath the pealed layers of progress, that's where you'll find a part of me.

But I have pulled my great trick. Existing far into the depths of obsolete relevance. Skulking off into the far corners of time as the gathered crowd waited patiently for the smoke to clear. One of those off-the-cuff, up-my-sleeve type performances. Executed with a certain daring, and no insignificant amount of misanthropic bravado. Allowances made in spite of better well-being. Perfection takes many forms. All our great minds escaped through the trap doors when nobody thought to look, at the precise point of our greatest need -- a scientific method to their madness. Shrouded in fool's gold and a ticker-tape fallout parade.

But I am speaking out of turn. I must take more care. The walls are surrounding me in silent insurrection. I can't think my way out. I must resolve myself to this reality...grab it by the throat, for everything its got. I can see the bandits joining forces. I can feel a bad storm forming on the horizon. In my bones. The same ones that have weathered a million times worse. So give me your best shot. I'll be waiting. I'll be ready. And more than willing.

I'm running out of words. Repeating myself like some poorly tended record. Skipping along those notes we just couldn't bring ourselves to move beyond. Scripting my categorical denials. Refusals that blur the lines between simple ignorance and all-out resistance. I can hear the buzzing beneath the floral-printed paper. I could tear up the floorboards but I'd just find another set of unkempt footnotes. It's not worth the damage to my fingernails. There's more than enough dirt to go around.

So I climb out of bed with a headache and a thought that the world might have ended some time during the night. The light streaming through the curtains seems other-worldly. Much too bright for this polluted sky to let through. But I am just seeing things. A floodlight painting the terrain with disturbing, all-too-clear intentions. Better lay low for a while. Order some of that room service. Get a few cups of coffee in the old system. Listen to the chorus of snaps and cracks as I rise to the occasion of this new day.

...

Day Two, Part Two: A Flash in the Pan

It all moves in a dreamy spiral. The air is full of swirling promises. A dance of cut-throat proportions. Sounds from outside meandering through the vortex of my perception. My eyes fixed on a painting hung on the opposite wall. A merry-go-round buried in an empty, overgrown field. Rusted over. Its once bright colors all faded to a dim spectrum of brown ruin. Broken-maned horses, with frightful looks frozen on their faces, cracked, whipped, free to run the endless spaces of unstitched land. But they will never move again. They will never feel the ground beneath their feet. Or so I imagine. A hobo camp can be seen in the distance. The smoke from a campfire rising into the hazy skyline. The wounded metal of a long retired set of railroad tracks snakes its way across the landscape. And tucked into the lower corner, upon close inspection, is the clear outline of a ragged toy animal. The circus has indeed left town. Leaving only its cast away shadow behind.

I can remember a time. Long ago. It seems. I walked the streets with no thought to the future. The future was taken away. Deemed obsolete. A bureaucratic write-off in the grand ledger of time. And then I'm standing in the middle of a large bookstore. A giant warehouse of words. Escalators connecting the stories. A cafe on the top floor, with tables cluttered with stacks of magazines and paperbacks. An eclectic mix of contemporary standards seeping out hidden speakers. I was a regular. Spending my aimless days drifting through a sea of titles. Too poor to actually purchase any of the volumes which I treasured so dearly. I would just make my way down the aisles and read. A frequent flier on a jet stream of printed thoughts. A freeloader. I admit it. With nothing better to do.

I was standing there, when she interrupted me. Asking if I knew where the Photography books were. That's what you get for hanging out any place too often. You become part of the scenery. You carry a piece of the place in your demeanor. You notice the little things. The height of the various layers of books on your average island display. And you know when something is out of place. Perhaps she saw you making note of one such irregularity -- or worse yet, taking action to right the wrong. I wonder.

My first impulse was to tell her that I didn't work there. But I stopped myself, knowing full well where the books she was interested in were shelved. Why should she care? I could pretend, for at least one of our sakes. I could do that much. I must have smiled. At some point. I'm almost sure of it. It was pretty funny in a way. In a good way. Follow me. It's a bit tricky to describe. Tucked away. No problem at all. It's my job, after all. While we made our way she confided that she was working on a research project. So I mentioned a book or two in the Religion section which might prove of interest. I paid attention to her needs. And I was kind. Two attributes she was unaccustomed to experiencing first hand, or so she said, even from her children and husband. And when she made her purchases she asked for the manager, to ensure that my efforts would not go unnoticed.

I know this because shortly after leaving me a stuffy looking fellow with a bad tie and short-sleeved collared shirt came up to me and told me what a good job I'd done. Me, who couldn't seem to buy a job. I'd done a good day's work without knowing. But now I knew.

I am remembering now.

I lost my job. That's the acceptable terminology. In fact, there were a whole bunch of people who met in tiny side offices and pooled their magnificent resources and eventually lost my job for me. And they never once asked me if I had an opinion on the matter. I was downsized. The guy who stayed late and ordered in for dinner. I was expendable. Or so it seemed. Or so it was.

And so I was pushed down the mountain. Left out in the cold. Over qualified. Out of range. A smart, hard-working, all around decent chap...with one foot in the gutter.

And then she came along. I could have just directed her to the Information Desk. That would have been a perfectly appropriate thing to do. A polite way to divert her attention elsewhere. Over there. But I wanted to be of help. And I was fully aware of the kind of shoddy and (more often than not) rude manner to which one's needs are attended at your average Information Desk -- which was undoubtedly a factor in my rise to prominence. I kept returning to the bookstore, as I'd been doing almost every day since the layoff, only now I was given work to do. And I excelled. Before I knew what was happening I was the first unpaid employee of the month in the history of our free economy. At least that's what I like to think. Certainly the first who actually lived with roaches and limited his meals to steamed rice and canned goods. Not that I'm complaining. I took over the entire 3rd floor. I was managing minimum wage malcontents. Meeting district honchos. Championing literacy programs. I was an up-and-comer. And nobody once ever bothered to check with Payroll.

Until I stopped coming in.

I decided it was time to move up the corporate ladder. So to speak. Expand my horizons. Take what I'd learned at the bookstore and apply it on a grander scope.

I can picture the bookstore manager. Frantically trying to find a way to contact me. His star. Only to find that there was no record of my existence in the corporate files. They couldn't even look in the phone book. I'd used a phony name. I wondered at the time if they would feel they were violated or blessed by my deception. I wondered if they could tell the difference. But I didn't spend much time worrying about them. I had other things on my mind. New ground to cover.

And so it I began -- my career as the subject of my own haphazardly conceived experiment. A nobody with no title or reason to be there. Filling a non-position. I thought back at drone VPs who'd give speeches about thinking outside the box -- hah!...I threw the damn box out the side door window and backed up over it. I was a shining model of go-getter'ism. Basing my work on one basic principle -- for every half-wit who turned me down for a job, I'd find a way to infiltrate the system and out-perform whoever was hired.

I'd sit there. Doing my time in an interview. One after the other. Playing my part. Fully qualified. Eminently able. Hands presented for my shaking, along with the polite mention of a call that would never come. So I'd wait and make my appearance. Crossing the front lines with a story of Temp status, armed with names and a keen knowledge of the task at hand, to find the person who was hired for the position spending no small portion of their day e-mailing friends and making small talk to the other pay checkers. Bearing my teeth at the opportunity. Sinking my uncompensated resources into project after project. Making my mark. Indelible. Carved into the very workings of day-to-day agendas. Until their reliance was complete. And then I would disappear.

Laughing to myself and whoever else might be in earshot as I reclined in the arm-chaired comfort of my crummy home -- with the stuffing come out the side -- at those stories on the Evening News of a failing economy and the decline in worker productivity. If only they had a few more of us charity cases on the case.

I can't recall exactly how many times I did this. Maybe a dozen. Maybe fewer. They tend to blur together. And then my unemployment checks ran out, followed a few months later by my moderate savings. I lost my funding. And I was in a bad mood. Rent was coming due and my shoes were on their last leg. So I took what I could and went away in the middle of the night. Leaving my apartment door wide open. Climbing down the squeaky staircase. Starting my car. Turning on a radio station. Headed straight for the freeway onramp.

I know there is more to all this but I can't get it all down right now. I remember something violent. An event. A catastrophic moment of deep wounding. The details are hazy as I sit on the edge of my bed and remember. Everything is spiraling down. Whirling around the edges. Disappearing.

As I take my eyes from the painting I realize that somebody is standing outside my room. I can see the shadow beneath the door. I stand and climb into a pair of pants, throwing on a t-shirt with a picture from a Japanese monster movie on the front. A flash of frenzied destruction...covering my chest. I cross the room. And I open the door.

I can remember a time... Almost.

I find a tray resting on the floor. A small pot of coffee and a sweet roll. I smile. I pick up the tray and return to the cave of my thoughts, kicking the door shut behind me.

....

Day Two, Part Three: Call and Response

I'm conspiring against myself. Peeling away the layers. Leaving myself torn and exposed. My skin is bare and in serious need of protective devices. A safe harbor on the forefront of this dangerous frontier. Free from worry -- of all those sharp corners and rusty nails, of all the lingering doubts, which I pick up at every turn. The pain and disease of afterthought. The overlooked war zone you happen upon during a meaningless trip to the supermarket.

I'm getting ahead of myself. Or perhaps far behind.

I've made a mess of things. In the short time I have inhabited these surroundings. Debris scattered about. In disarray. What was I thinking? An unsure reflex. Going about its business. I can feel the immediate need to come to grips. A desolate call to arms. What have I come here to discover? What revelation is waiting to be washed up on this shore? The threat of nothing. A silent utterance from within.

The phone rings. Breaking the spell. Wrenching me from my listless routine. A message from the front desk. The final link in a chain reaction that began long ago, many miles away. Word has arrived, right on my heels. A line of communication reaching its final destination. Clawing at my consciousness. A voice in my ear, letting me know of its arrival. The shudder of syllables betraying more than the messenger can possibly know. An understanding between old rivals. A secret shared. Among friends. Signaling the obvious need to gather my wits and head out. Can't sit in this room all day.

I'm a stowaway. A vagabond. An uninvited attendee at a make-shift farewell party. The guest of honor. I'm the elusive unknown in a horribly misconceived equation. I'm here and now. And that can not sit well with the wild-eyed practitioners of a certain ageless craft. Leaving my footprints in the sand. Singing at the top of my lungs.

I enter the lobby with no trivial amount of trepidation. Surveying the terrain like an animal that's been removed from its natural habitat. Sniffing the air for bad intentions. Expecting trouble. Ready for anything that might come pouncing my way.

The morning clerk is waiting for me. With a pleasant look on his face. His hand extended in what some might take for a gentle offering. But I take it for what it is. A postcard with handwriting I recognize immediately. I read what it has to say. Anticipating every word. My back to the front desk. And I look up to witness a surly looking fellow seated across the room in a velvet chair. A potted palm tree casts a shadow across his white suit. He is scanning the headlines of a foreign newspaper. I squint my eyes in an attempt to make out the language but the paper folds and he directs his attention directly my way. A pair of dark glasses and greased mustache obscure any imminent recognition.

A face meets another. Events go on without missing a beat. The veneer of discretion rises imperceptibly at the scratching against its tender surface. Initials are drawn in the wind. Left in the passing for some random passerby to make note. A sharp look. A flat refusal. A measure of steady beats captured within the confines of a place and time. Squeezing every ounce of life out of what has been given. No reason or rhyme. Nothing you can easily name. Just another random verse in this freeform period piece.

I fold and pocket the postcard as I cross in front of the fellow. A whisper escapes and floats toward a ceiling fan. Dissipating all trace of its existence. I rush toward the revolving lobby door. Swiveling my head as I push my way outside, in an attempt to destroy any hint of a lingering effect. Letting it go as I step from the building, and take a deep breath of morning air.

I am full of misrepresented discretion. I have taken my love for my own humanity to its bitter extreme. Listing on the wave of a forgone conclusion. Running to ground on the jagged shore of new world sentimentality. Medicated righteousness. Annihilation rushes toward solid understanding. I am standing before the last gasp of reason. Taking it into my lungs. Exhaling a deep-seeded residue of toxic last impressions.

I am repeating myself. Again.

...

Day Two, Part Four: Progressions

I feel a lightness to my step. A pressing desire to engage in this here and now. I've been caught up in mind. Insinuating my petty desires on the heavy air. I need to feel the climate. Go for a walk. See what the land has to offer. Explore the turns. Roll with the sweeping sand. Give myself over to the wind. Let something happen.

Right or left. It's all the same to me. I'd climb into my car but I'm short of gas and I have no time for details. I'm swinging to a flapjack beat. The fog will have to lift without me. I am out to find a place where the going is good... where hearts are beating and exchanges are being dealt. I'm feeling for any kind of a call. No right or wrong. No manufactured give and take. Just simple being.

Summer days are long gone. Their dreamy memories filter away with each passing year. Opportunities squandered to some idea of the future. Life left on the dirt blown doorstep of yesterday. Each day holding a secret that falls neatly between the cracks. Nothing to show but a pocket full of cancelled checks. So you rip them up and toss them skyward. A confetti showering in the midst of renowned failure. A victory of sorts. Throwing your own personal ticker-tape parade. Celebrating the great triumph of living this one day.

I set my sights on a grassy path snaking its way between the road and the beach front. Tempting me with swaying blades. Beckoning me to come along. Offering a simple gesture of welcoming -- to ease all possible reckoning. At first glance, this seems as good a route as any. But I pause a moment and wonder...what am I sacrificing in order to tend to my immediate inclination. What set of circumstances will never be allowed to unfold along the numerous lines of trajectory which lie as readily accessible before me. For every ounce of life there exists a gallon of death. How much of all this non-existence can I allow myself to feel responsible for?

The moment passes and the thought-stream is blocked. My mind is made up.

And I go forth. Making my way toward and into the entrance of the path. Tasting the salt in my teeth. Melting into the crevice between these two immense states of being. Liquid understanding. Solid belief. Continental drifts. Inverse reflections of one another. Negative reactions. Erosions blurring easy distinctions. Phantom lighthouse keepers there to remind us poor city slickers of how nothing is ever as it seems. Whiling away their multi-hour shifts with the firm resolve to prevent all potential collisions resulting from the common occurrence of short-sighted certainty -- fully aware of how often the most basic of life's lessons are forgotten.

My agendas have all run empty. An uneasy awareness that tags at my side as I make my way along. I am moving forward with no thought as to what I might be hoping to achieve. Each step a series of fleeting momentums. Nothing gained and nothing lost -- or as close to nothing that gravity will allow. A journey through pointless destinations. A course charted on the cuff of shrugged shoulders. A joyous two-step swinging to a desperate tune. Just your basic weary march through the barren fields of sullen utopia.

No sense in looking back. Best to fix your gaze on the tip of your nose. If only as a reminder that you are actually present at these proceedings...you are following your course, whatever that may be. Not the most inspirational of thoughts, but you take what you can get. Not bad, considering all you've been through.

Don't start with that line of reasoning.

Be here. Right now.

I have traveled some two hundred yards from my starting point. I am not sure what evidence allows me come to this estimation. My awareness to distance is only raised by the realization that I am being followed. And I wonder how long this tailing has been going on. I assume it has only recently begun -- but this could be based more on an unfounded over-confidence in my peripheral vision than any reliable set of hard facts. The image of the man in the hotel lobby flashes in my mind and I worry that he has decided against allowing the proper time to pass before bringing to bear our inevitable confrontation. I pause in mid-stride and turn abruptly to hopefully catch the gent off his guard. But he is nowhere to be seen. A sigh of what I presume to be relief escapes through my lips. And I smile. My imagination is getting the better of me. Or so I believe -- for just as this afterthought is being fully formed I witness the culprit standing not ten paces away.

In the spot where I had assumed to see a well-polished pair of shoes, I am instead greeted by the rather intent face of some mixed breed dog. Hmmm. This is a bit odd. What am I to make of my four-legged shadow. I move toward the dog in an attempt to locate a collar but it retreats, keeping the same careful distance. So I wave my hand to encourage a further retreat but this proves to be a futile gesture. I move toward the dog again. It retreats again. I run toward. It runs away. I stop. It stops. I grow weary of the game and continue on my journey. The dog follows.

The grass has grown considerably higher on either side of the path. I can still hear the sea to my right. And the occasional car passing far to my left. I get the feeling that I am headed nowhere and entertain the notion of turning around and going back. My canine companion is weighing heavy on my initial free-wheeling intentions. I gather no inclination that it is here to guard me against any possible harm. For all I know the dog is merely keeping pace to gain a ring-side view of a bad scene it knows all too well is lying in wait just around the bend. I cast a sharp look behind me and emit a brief growl. The dog only stares back at me. Taking my admonition in full stride.

I decide to press on a bit further. Finish what you started. Eh? No matter the obstacles. No matter your fate. And no sooner do I make this decision than I come upon an apparition which strikes me as distinctly out of place. Before me, swaying like a skeleton in the breeze, is the remaining structure of a frontier outpost. At least that is what I make it to be. Its weathered facade is quite featureless... containing no visible markings. For all I know it could well be an old tool shed. But that would run counter to everything I am willing to allow as truth. A wooden fence stretches far into the distance on one side of the building. I am curious as to what historic treasures might be waiting within but rather than entering the precarious looking door frame, in light of my new-found resolve, I choose to place my faith in whatever route the fence has in store. A conclusion worth taking note.

As I am about to take my leave I notice a rusty weather vane on the roof of the outpost. It seems frozen in place -- as the wind is moving quite strong in a direction contrary to the one being aimed at by the rounded off arrow. Another pointless indication. What can you trust these days? And how many of these seemingly genuine artifacts have I allowed to steer me in bad ways? There's nothing left but inner deception. The last bastion of ultimate enlightenment.

Something like that.

...

Day Two, Part Five: Unsound

I am aligning what I perceive to be an overabundance of negligible wisdom being directed toward a diminishing subset of lofty ambitions with a greater understanding of subtle salvation. And I can't seem to help but come up short. No matter how hard I try. No matter how forgiving I am or how lazily I apply myself to this balancing act. It all just remains so blatantly out of whack -- a phrase which should be finding its way to nearly every front page headline, but that would hardly be fitting for our eminently distinguished news outlets (discount emporiums located safe distances from middle of the road sensibilities...nothing too trying for these trying times).

Left right? Right left! Upside Down  
Spin those wheels, spin 'em round.  
I left my rights when I left that town.  
And found my shoes on a merry-go-round.

I surrendered my library card at the local precinct. I did my time in the beer hall. Where's the justice? I signed my name to words I would never understand. I stood for many things.

I stood very still.  
As still as a statue.  
Carved by trained hands.  
Erected for any to see.  
Displayed with all the rest.  
Forgotten soon enough.  
Left out in the cold.  
Trying to remember,  
Just why I was there.

Gambling is the only noble profession that has managed to survive. The honesty of chance. The pure contempt for hard currency. A gambler will never give up his profession until he's plum broke. The surly integrity. Total accountability for one's losses or winnings. No excuses. Gracious exits. Respect for time honored rules and tradition -- and no tolerance for transgressions of either. No bailouts. No pension plans. No safety net.

What do I know?

Perhaps I am just projecting. Talking to the dog. Casting about for wishes in this old well I've seemed to happen upon in the midst of my mid-morning stroll. Right here beside my chosen path. Asking for something. Airing a few grievances. It takes most of us too long to figure out that playing it safe was the most dangerous thing a person could do. There is no such thing as playing it safe. I just wish they didn't muck it all up with those hypnotic messages of success and love and spiritual blah blah. Does that count? Does it follow the rules? Is there anybody down there listening? Where was I?

In case you didn't hear, we're now broadcasting on 148 channels. Right in your neighborhood. Between commercials.

I just wish that one time I could have opened to the horoscope page and under every listing were the words "You are going to die."

I know...not the most uplifting of messages but, given all the other crap I've had to absorb, at least it would have been the truth. Deal with it kiddo. And who knows...it might just have been a beacon to myself and a few others, to shake off all the transparent layers of comfort that were burying us alive, to cough up those empty calories we were being force fed -- a nice slap in the face, the kind of wake up call that might lead one to accept old Chet Baker's great invitation (can't you just hear that mesmerizing voice whispering from the depths of some dark forbidden highway, "let's get lost")... anything -- a tap on the shoulder, a note passed underneath the desk, telling me that something else was possible, drawing a clear picture of exactly what one has to lose by not defining their own set of parameters regarding what they will and what they will not accept as 'the way it is'. And here's a stopwatch, a little reminder that we are constantly running out of time.

Maybe then I wouldn't be stuck here making up excuses to keep pressing on.

Tossing pennies in this old well.

Going to pieces. Going nowhere in a hurry. Gone to the dogs.

A flat out race to the end of the line. And back. Getting a firm understanding for the limits...the cleary defined parameters for a person of your station.

Throw another coal onto the fire and watch the smoke rise. Feel your way around for a way out of this maze, knowing full well you are already in way too deep.

As deep as a thousand wells.  
And a hundred thousand more.  
The echoes die on their way to the surface.  
Like a child's cry far from shore.

Waiting for a response that never comes.  
A thought revealed in every washed up daydream.

Carving my initials in the stone. With my fingernail. Never to be seen. A secret between me and the dog. A code they won't be able to crack. My best impression.

The ground is good for digging. That's what someone must have concluded. Long ago. Rearranging the coordinates. Dancing in a circle. Breaking out the shovels. Striking downward. Into the very depth of perception. See what we can turn up. Between the endless darkness below and the soiled beauty above. The unknown treasure. The element we are all seeking to discover.

I am standing somewhere in the middle. Taking too much for granted. Of all that has come before. And all that is yet to be. A walled in collection of wishful thoughts. Trapped in the sun dried mortar. Why can't it be raining? My flesh is thirsty. This well has no water to offer. And the sky just stares down. I'm spinning in a storm of my own making. And I can think of no greater insult. So I throw my final coin into the abyss.

My heart is aching.

I would offer up a prayer but this is no altar. Not that it matters. My faith has been tested and I am awaiting the results in the mail. Too bad I didn't leave a forwarding address. Some answers are best left sealed. Tossed in some dead letter bin. Like a pebble into the sea. Like a wish into a well.

Wait a minute. But not a second more.

Snickering to myself as I walk past a 'No Trespassing' sign. Moving toward the sound of revelry -- a get-together of notable proportions which seems to be under way. Somewhere up ahead. And I am in serious need of distraction.

...

Day Two, Part Six: Unearthly Delights

I am moving ever forward and tirelessly backward. Treading along a worrisome plane, riding a stream of consciousness between simultaneous waves of reality. Staggering to keep an equilibrium. My parallel worlds are in a constant battle for my wayward attention. Keeping my own time. Walking beside this rickety fence with its three loosely connected rows of knot riddled wood beams, disrupted every few yards by rotten posts -- serving to keep the entire length of the partition in a more or less straight line -- each of which rises to a level just under my chin.

I stop to catch my breath, resting my head on hands which fold so naturally on top of a randomly chosen, laughably unstable post. And I breathe in the air's sweet perfume as my universe swirls around me. Gazing skyward with that dog loitering a few feet away I suppress a sudden urge to break into song, having no rainbow in sight to direct my crooning toward.

It is not long before I find myself swept up in a twister of dandelions, a Technicolor yellow riot, with intentions that seem far from sinister. Your basic flower power uprising. Sneaking up when my back was turned. Kicked off by some disturbance in the ether. An otherwise respectable vibe gone unexpectedly bad.

Here we go again.

I am standing in a musty room with extremely tall ceilings and lines of bolted down chairs. It could be a bus station or a hospital waiting room. Maybe its a government office. Or a bank lobby. A large clock adorns the better part of one wall and hastily constructed barred windows line the base of another -- each with drab looking human cutouts waiting on the other side. Tellers or ticket sellers or unhelpful bureaucratic receptionists. It's hard to say. Inside the room, seated at random intervals, are the usual cross-section of the population one finds in places like this. But not quite usual upon closer inspection.

The room is peopled by a rather down and out lot, all seeming to be keeping to themselves. They look tired and in no great mood to be disturbed. Over in the corner is a disheveled gent, his suit is stained and wrinkled, with a mangy briefcase at his side. A wilted fedora is perched atop his oversized head. I imagine him to be a traveling salesman many miles away from his last promising lead. A few seats away a woman struggles with a broken shoe heal. She has the fallen air of a spent prostitute. Growing more frustrated with each passing second. How long can this go on?... She gives up on her footwear and begins rummaging around in her purse for a stick of gum. A baby cries across the room and my head swivels in response, spotting a decades-old carriage resting beside the grotesquely dolled-up mannequin of a mother. A pair of hopeless runaways. In the middle of the room, sitting on the cement floor, is the hunched figure of what I presume to be a homeless man. He is drawing patterns with his index finger in the dust that has accumulated on the ground, humming along to a tune in his head.

The balance of those in attendance all strike hauntingly similar poses. Defeated. Run down. Run out. Eyes avoiding chance meetings. A man of fewer years than his stature exhibits swims in the soul annihilating turbulence of middle management malaise. A woman on the verge of collapse checks her lipstick. And so on. In one corner a poor assemblage of musicians are fumbling their way through a Salvation Army waltz. An inverted Bosch-like nightmare scene. To say the least. Or perhaps I am making too much out of it. Who am I to pass judgment on these good folks? Am I not in the room as well?

I continue my surveillance as an uneasy awareness begins to descend. I scan the faces more rapidly, going from one to the other, gazing at each with a horrified fervor. I break from my stationary stance, moving through the room at an even pace to get a closer look. And then it hits me. Right between the eyes.

I repeat my path through the room to verify what I already know, what I am struggling to accept. All of these people, every one, with the notable exception of the baby, are old friends. Classmates. Chums. Crushes. From elementary school. Yes. Sure enough. Each set of features corresponding to a bright-eyed, smiling youngster in one of a half-dozen indelible class photos. I begin to run through the aisles, ticking off names and seating assignments and notable behaviors. Larry. You sat across from me. I can picture your handwriting. You lived alone with your mother. And Christy. Karen. Jon, the jokester.

I can see them now. All of them. They are on recess, engaged in various activities, scattered about the playground. Having the allotted time of their life. But not me. I'm searching for someone. Standing on the edge of the paved boundary. An expanse of wide-open field behind me. I'm alone and desperate. I don't know the way home.

My forehead is sweating and tears are running down my cheeks. I am exhausted. Spent out. Humiliated.

I am back in the musty room. The clock has stopped. The cutouts are gone. The light from outside has disappeared. I take a seat among my peers.

And time spins away.

I am seated in the front seat of an automobile. I can smell the leather seats. Unmistakable. Sweet. My heart is breaking. I am saying my final farewell to a doomed love affair. Refusing a final embrace. Directing my attention to the side view mirror. Feeling no desire to look ahead. Lost in a meaningless reflection of things that are closer than they appear. A sigh of resignation fills the cabin. Fogging the windows. And I wait patiently for the passenger door to open, listening to the slow creak along hinges in need of oiling, a sound which does not repeat as the door gently closes.

I am years ahead. And a thousand miles behind. My feet are flat against the ground. Tired. Out run. Steadily preparing for one last stroll through the garden.

I am under a spell which has yet to be cast. I am moving into the eye of the storm. And I feel neither relief nor fear. I am my last honest chance. Open for suggestions.

The dog barks and I am shaken back to my immediate surroundings. I kick some dirt in the general direction of the pooch but it only barks more. Seems to be in a general state of agitation. Scurrying around in its tracks. Emitting the occasional whine. Probably hungry. I think. But I get the odd sense the annoying mutt might just be alerting me to something. And sure enough, upon a cursory glance along the path I notice a curiously costumed band of outsiders. Ten or so. All dressed in brightly colored outfits. Some with make-up. Others with a general appearance of highly refined oafishness. I call to them to pay no attention to the dog's noise but they run away at the sound of my voice. Gee...just trying to be friendly.

This certainly calls for a more detailed inspection.

So I kick some more dirt at the dog and throw it a stick. We both seem in a rather playful mood -- having frightened away that dubious gang of apparently benign marauders and now preparing to give chase. I guess we're beginning to get used to one another. It seems to know I mean no harm with the stick as it is able to easily secure each toss in its mouth, and even manage a good throw or two back my way. After a minute or two of our measured give and take we come to the joint conclusion of re-asserting our efforts to the journey at hand...skipping along our make-shift road, into the waiting arms of further adventures.

...

Day Two, Part Seven: High Noon

The sun is looming directly overhead. The shadow world has gone underground. Digging in deep. Retreating from the stony glare of everything that has gone pathologically wrong. Curling up in the dark recesses of nevermore. Retrenching. Staving off the burden of self preservation. Waiting out the passing over. Buried alive. To live again.

And I reach the crest of a moderately sized hill. Reminded of all the stars above. Out of sight. In the wings. Beyond the reach of the pain being dealt out with such thoughtless regularity. Taking more than it will ever offer in return. Hanging in the balance. Loitering in the dusty regions of afterthought, for a kind word, a wish elevating through the clouds...some semblance of humanity.

Gone but not forgotten.

My hand begins to tremble. All hell is breaking loose. All around. I can hear the cries of anguish. Images are flashing before my eyes. Muscled heroes falling to their knees. Children holding lifeless hands. Old men and women desperately embracing. Crimes being perpetrated in broad daylight. The smoke from a thousand fires rising in all directions.

One of those days...

As I begin my descent I notice a small village a short distance ahead. A few scattered buildings. What looks to be a main street. A steeple. Your basic picture postcard from a time long passed, complete with that eerie sense of nostalgia. The image blurs over. Whitewashing to a windswept vista. Viewed from ground level through the lens of a early generation television camera. A pair of dusty boots enters the foreground and the weekly strains of a distant theme song begin.

He's a Stranger. In a strange, strange land.  
With a dog at his side and a pen in his hand.  
A witness to Creation; A fugitive from his home.  
Mistaking his identity, cursed to ever roam.

The Stranger!  
If you see him passing by.  
There's danger!  
Hidden in his eye.

A criminal with no time to lose.  
Fingered by a clever ruse.  
Out to clear the humble name,  
of all brave souls put to shame.

The Stranger!  
Where will he turn up next?  
A lonely ranger.  
For - e - ever vexed.

His fate was sealed on a sad, sad morn...  
His life was lost, his shirt was torn.

Now he fights for the honor of every good deed.  
Hoofing for the weary, with no trusted steed.  
A dog at his side and a wound in his heart.  
Knowing that the end is just another start.

For the Stranger.

Indeed...we are being treated to some infamous and extremely rare footage from the French existentialist TV western, "The Stranger" (L'Étranger), filmed oddly enough in English but never picked up on American television, which may have accounted for its limited appeal. About a guy seeking meaning in the spiritual wasteland of the New World. Traveling the frontier with his faithful mutt companion, moving from town to town. Doing his best to infuse a greater depth of understanding to the lives of all those he touches. Pulling the occasional grift. Pausing every few miles to involve himself with some political intrigue or, better for ratings, with the buxom daughter of a local big shot. Usually spending the better part of the final five minutes in drunken revelry, kicking some serious refusing-to-be-enlightened butt. That dog even getting into the action now and then -- in most cases, just to sniff one of the poor knocked-out saps before lifting its leg...a running joke of the series.

Seems we've happened upon a lost episode. One of many.

The theme music, along with the superimposed title, fades. The episode's name filters across the screen, formed by the smoke of the Stranger's trademark imported cigarillo.

"A Voice from Yesterday"

Everything goes dark. For a second or two.

And our hero ventures forth into another installment. With that dog nipping at his heels.

Act One:

Two figures are standing in the shade of an old oak tree. A retreating train whistle can be heard. The Stranger strikes a haunting pose and a wooden match. Lighting up as he tosses a weary look to the dog. Each dubious of the chances they might find a decent place to get some much needed rest at this end of the line. Having pulled off one of their many patented narrow escapes only hours before; getting themselves mistaken for a couple wayward missionaries out to corrupt the youth of a rather eccentric coal mining village. Showing up on the eve of the annual ceremonial sacrifice. Men with blackened faces forming a circle around a group of mortified youngsters.

Our dynamic duo looking sincerely out of place as they came stumbling toward the proceedings. Thinking they may still be in time for the what looked to be a rollicking minstrel show. The Stranger rummaging through pockets for loose change while the dog, being a long time fan of genre, stands on hind legs and emits an almost human howl.

Needless to say a good deal of mayhem ensued. The stains of whisky and blood still drying on their coats. Both in serious need of some soap and water. Freshen up for the next round of coming attractions. Oh well...a splash of cologne should do the trick.

We now see the Stranger walking toward the picture postcard town. As he crosses the border a large sign welcomes him to Big Deal; the number indicating the population has been painted over. Hmmm, for good reason as no signs of life seem evident. In fact, the town has taken on a slightly macabre feel. Nothing our hero can put his finger on. A close up of the dog's tail between its legs, accompanied by a dramatic bit of soundtrack, confirms the sense of dread -- too early to tell whether it's on the way or if it already arrived on an earlier train (or however this particular dark power gets around).

The perspective shifts to that of the Stranger's as he surveys the scene. What seemed from a distance to be a decent, upstanding village has now transformed, upon closer inspection, to a carefully constructed two-dimensional replica of its former self. Meticulously designed facades with no interiors. As if the very essence of the place had been ripped out and those having done the ripping decided to leave the image intact, perhaps as some sort of warning...or just a sick joke. The Stranger, struggling to comprehend this visual absence, begins to hear the sound of a harmonica. An upbeat tune. Coming from behind that tavern front up ahead. Who knows...those gut-wrenching marauders might have left a bottle or two. Sharing one of those 'what the heck' glances, the two conclude it's worth a look.

Act Two:

The Stranger flings open the all-too-obvious swinging doors of the disestablished establishment. With both hands. Never having been one for subtle entrances. The dog scurrying past, eager to beat his partner to the punch (damn well better be spiked). Once inside, the camera seems to project an other-worldly sort of haze on everything it comes across. Which is not to say that the Stranger and pal have actually entered a walled off arena. No. Just more empty space. But not entirely. For, hunkered over a pathetic campfire, is the nearly transparent semblance of a man. An old man. With beard, clay pipe and crooked smile.

"About time you showed up."

What a strange life this is, the Stranger thinks to himself (rendered in a sort of metallic voice-over).

"Uh", replies the Stranger, shoulders slumped -- all too aware of his disheartening lack of elegance. "Isn't there supposed to be a bar somewhere around here?" An interrogatory phrase which manages to get the old man cackling for about half a minute (an eye-rollingly common break in the action serving to leave quite a few subsequent viewers to wonder how the show managed to go on as long as it did).

The elderly fellow eventually gathers himself and gets down to business. Inviting his guests to take a seat. Which they do with noticeable unease.

Old Man: I used to be a regular here. I'd sit in the very spot day after day. The other patrons would laugh at me and toss me nickels. I'd look into their heartless eyes and know one day I'd have the last laugh. (Another cackle, not nearly as long as the prior one.) I could see their destiny and sometimes I'd try to warn 'em. But they only laughed harder. Oh well, now I've got the place to myself (spreading his arms wide).

The Stranger: Hope you don't mind our intrusion. We just happened to be passing through and heard the music.

O.M.: We? (looking around and noticing the dog) Oh. I'm more than happy to share these humble digs with any person, or canine for that matter, as long as they be polite. Which you two thankfully seem to be. Unfortunately I have nothing to offer but my company.

T.S.: So, what exactly happened here?

O.M.: You didn't hear? I figured you were one of them sightseers that drop by every now and then. Getting a glimpse of the aftermath.

T.S.: (Shooting a confused look at the old man.) Aftermath?

O.M.: Where you been pardner? Don't you read the news?

T.S.: We've been traveling. Staying light on our toes. We generally don't stay anywhere long enough to get word from the world at large.

(The old man's mouth forms the kind of grin that will stay with many a child viewer for years to come -- as if to convey to the Stranger and audience member alike that he's all too aware of what is keeping this character on the run.)

O.M.: Not much to tell really. Them bastards just destroyed it all. Got carried away. Thought they could do whatever they wanted and damn the consequences. Money. Greed. Vanity. No regard for nothing of real value. Love, nature, family, community -- none of it meant a thing. Just power. Mean, mean power. Look around young fella...see what power yields. It's all gone. They're all gone. We're all gone. Nothing left but the surface -- the only thing they truly cared about. The only thing built strong enough to remain standing.

T.S.: But what about you? You're still here.

O.M.: Not quite. (Flashing another one of those grins, this one a bit more wide-toothed, although there's not many teeth left in there). Not quite...

The old man proceeds to tell a story about a group of ragged carnival folk that passed this way some months ago. Set up camp just over yonder. Taking advantage of the tourist trade. One of their troupe, a certain Milo the Mesmerist, claimed to be able to conjure the deceased of Big Deal. Once enough tickets were sold the crowd gathered around Milo's Cabinet of Wonder and the show began. Milo tapping that cabinet with a big cane and summoning one or another of Big Deal's former citizens. Out they'd step from the cabinet, looking surprised as hell, sometimes coherent enough to regale the crowd with their version of events. Each story different from another. Pretty entertaining really. Then they'd step back in the cabinet and the crowd would burst into applause.

Well, one day Milo conjured up the old man. Only the old man had no intention of stepping back in the cabinet once he'd lectured the crowd for some three hours. Instead he just gave a big bow and ran away. Milo left standing there beside the cabinet, his mouth agape. The crowd disbursing in a frenzy. Quite the scene.

O.M.: Didn't know where else to go so I came here. I figure, I spent the better part of my life here, why not my afterlife. Sure could use a drink though.

T.S.: (Naturally dazed at the old man's story) You and me both.

The Dog: Don't forget me! (really just a bark but that's what it meant)

The Old Man and the Stranger share a laugh.

Act Three:

With nobody around to beat up and no booze to be had, the final five minutes of the show are spent in a heart-breaking echo of silence. The Stranger and his dog. Playing fetch. Running to and fro with a sort of controlled reckless abandon. Laying in the grass. Killing time -- the only violent act left to perpetrate. Finally, with a few seconds before the final credits roll, the Stranger rises and addresses nobody in particular.

"Guess we'd best check out that Carnival."

The dog looks up.

Fade to black.

Existence mixes with the dewy maelstrom of resistant dystopia. Harmonica chords rise into the sky.

"You know...", I say to the dog, "how about we go check out that Carnival."

Stretching the kinks out of my back as the steeple clock strikes the noon hour. At least that still works. It's time I leave this weird two-dimensional town and its ghostly inhabitants. Such a strange place to find one of these relics. Must have been transported here from the desert. A reminder of a time not so far away. Built by an occupying force to simulate normalcy. Almost like a movie set. But not quite. Just so they could line it up in their sights and push the button.

My stomach rumbles. And the dog's stomach answers.

I sure hope that Carnival has a food stand.

...

Day Two, Part Eight: Vantage Point

What's with these weirdoes? Running up ahead like idiots. Doing somersaults, forming human pyramids which never manage to stay erect for more than a few seconds, staging impromptu tea parties. Always scattering at my pending approach. I've given them more than enough time to skeedaddle for good. Oh well, if they want to play then I'm game. I am just going to assume they know I'm in no mood to observe any obligatory rules.

Must be emissaries from that Carnival. Leading me on. Toward the one thing I've been sent out here to discover. Like a book left on a bench, opened to a seemingly random page. A matter of coincidence. But you've been around the block enough times to understand that things are never quite that simple. There are certain pieces of information which must be gathered before moving on to the next phase. There is something beckoning me to its revelation. Calling to me. Out of thin air. It's the whisper on the wind. The gentle touch of a feather. The song of a bird fluttering by. The click of a Zippo. The hammer as it strikes its metal cohort \-- the release from an empty chamber.

The stubborn old thoughts of a displaced shadow.

Storm clouds are threatening. An imposing hint of things to come. The cynic in me. Always looking for signs in the landscape. Reaping what we have sewn. The distorted circle of life. I can hear the thundering laughter, the joyous clapping of a vagabond audience. Holed up in decaying mansions. Far from the barest idea of home. Snakes and roaches and sickly rats. A disturbance in the ancient realm of unholy peace.

Gates ripped from hastily fastened mounts. Cruelly tamed horses running wild. Blinded by fire. Drinking from poisoned streams. A voice of doubt ringing through the valley. Rusted bells sounding smoky residue. The sands of time mixing with the coastal yellow brine. Mighty sailors buried deep beneath cold waves.

Our shores are meeting in the shallow wasteland of a sulfured declaration. You'd think the houses of light were forming a constellation of truth...but you're not looking at them from here. The placements have all gone meticulously astray. And we have been officially charged to let them go.

I'm crossing a thousand borders with every step I take. Royal testaments to our inability to learn from our mistakes. That's what these fools must be all about. Out here to mock my last-ditch effort to escape the rooted evil welling up all around. Sewn into the very soil I've been treading since I learned to crawl. Here long before we ever showed up at the party. Going to be here long after we have worn out our welcome.

Eh, pooch? Scratching away with its hind leg at a pesky flea.

Must be quite a trip when all you know is instinct. None of this limited reasoning to mess you up. A little knowledge can go a long way. Along the path of destruction. That's what we'll have to show for our efforts at the end of the day. Pride. Heh... Quite the caretakers we turned out to be. Hey, thanks for the wonderful place to stay, don't worry about a thing, we'll be responsible. Like to see the look on that landlord's face when he shows up with an eviction notice.

\-- What made you think you had the right to trash my home?

Going to be hell to pay. You can believe that. The tickets are already being printed for that ball. Come one, come all. Nobody's a stranger here...

Very inviting.

I should try to get to that Carnival before the storm hits. Not that I'm afraid of getting wet. I just don't want them to close down the hot attractions.

As long as nothing else gets in my way...

Approaching a crossing trail. Appearing out of nowhere. Must be making it up as I go along. A storied reflex. The living tapestry of a demented aphorism. The words scrawl across the sky. Bleeding their lines into the heavens. And what do we have here? A picnic table. But I admit it is not the first thing that grabs my attention. A long dark-haired beauty in a harlequin outfit is seated at the table, on one side of a chess board. Moving a black rook as I move headlong toward her. Rubbing my hands at the prospect. About time things got interesting.

And I take my place across from this welcome break in the day.

Our gaze meeting in the middle of a matching of wits. Literally. As it seems I have sat down in the midst of a game already well under way. How was I to know my moves were being charted all the while? Might have been a bit more cautious. But where would that lave led me? Best to go forth along uninhibited courses of action. What the hell...

I make a quick mental note to suppress any inclination to engage this growingly arresting vision in anything resembling small talk. Wondering to myself if she knows how closely her features remind me of Marlene Dietrich. Could anything in the imagination of this grand comedy of errors ever top that perfect symbol of allure? I wonder. Well, this newfound competitor is certainly giving that line of inquiry a run for its money.

Which raises a notable question... What exactly what is being wagered here? How high (or low, for that matter) are the stakes? And what set of disagreeable minds have laid their cleverly disguised odds?

Bringing us to this raven haired vixen now seated opposite. Hiding her true regards. Her face masked in several layers of professionally applied make-up. Each level tearing away one more scrap of my resistance. Nobody knows what it means to be forever searching for that ideal idea of happiness. When you've lost all concept of hope it sure ain't difficult to become a hopeless romantic. Why not?...

For goodness sake.

I guess this is where the sad music comes kicking in. But who has the budget for such luxuries? I'll just have to gain what measure of strength I can from the one friend I have left. That shaggy beast I can't seem to shake. Could be worse. And that's not so bad.

A move or two away from kind absolution. I close my eyes and feel the shifting wind. What force inside me is keeping me from accepting my miserable fate? I don't mind the challenge of going toe to toe with the very Devil himself (not that gender is an issue of concern). If not me, then who?

All I've got is this chick. This tempting substitute presently keeping my company. Take what you can get kid. Hey...I'll take 'em all. Sitting myself upright with a calculated 'give me your best shot' bravado. And quit batting them velvet pools. With lashes that could sweep the floor of the last elevator stop. On the clearest day of the year. Don't toy with me, sister. I'm as weak as the next fellow. Believe you me.

What a neat nest you've built here. I know I've made my share of poorly devised motions. Cornering myself with my own wistful neglect. Are you going to hold it against me? I do have a few charms still up my sleeve. After all... You're the one who showed up to freeze my thawing out. Not that I'm being ungrateful. I just want us to be sure our cards are showing.

I know you're just another manifestation. But what else do I have to hold on to?...on this bitter afternoon.

The heat of my blood is holding its own. Are you in the market for a Champion? Or are you just out scouting for a gullible chump? Not that it matters. I can fill whatever position you've got to offer. Sweetheart.

I guess I should focus my attention on the matter at hand. Is it my move? Have I told you lately?...

My heart strengthens and I swing my arm across the board. Demolishing the trap I've laid for myself. Them pieces flying every which way. A chaotic dance of lifelong allies and sworn enemies. One or two ricocheting off that pretty forehead and toppling her three corner hat from its perch. Smooth move. You do have a way with the ladies.

She just smiles and puts the hat back in place. Slipping me a coy look. Naughty boy. Fully expecting a firm crack on the cheek she raises a delicate hand. But instead of doling out my just punishment she extends her arm and takes my hand in hers. And we walk off. Me, my angel and my friend. A motley group who have found one another. Eight legs continuing onward. At least two knees more than a little shaky. And one heart...

The crows are circling with a certain amount of impatience.

So now what?

...

Day Two, Part Nine: Crazy Patterns

Whereby  
chance encounters  
take on growing, if not illusive,  
importance through the unsound churning of our narrator's  
inner dialogue, the kind understanding of a pair of quiet lips, and a  
generous show of support from a hitherto antagonistic  
gang of rhymers. And a hungry dog, in a close  
approximation to having its day, finally  
gets some food.

. . .

She squeezes my hand every few steps. Perhaps as a sign of reassurance. Letting me know that it is not her intention to lead me astray -- to usher me headlong into the impenetrable realms of my darkest desires. Of course, when one is in the process of directing another into harm's way the first thing they'll want to establish is a firm covenant of trust that nothing bad is about to occur. A banner thought treading across my looking glass marbles. A brutal gust from the farthest reaches of normalcy kicking up and hitting me square on the chin. Hinting at the mad resolution waiting at the four corners of my mind. Weighing heavy on my conscience.

Such sinister thoughts from this gentle source.

Maybe she just wants to remind me that she is still at my side. As if I could forget. Haven't been able to think of much else since we began our walk. Not every day you find yourself promenading with a lovely girl decked out in such colorful regalia. Not for me any way. But this is a day which seems to be full of surprises. Good or bad. Who's to say? What's the difference? Really...

Or maybe she's trying to provide me with a tangible sensory experience to hold on to, for those times down the road when she is no longer...

Cut it out. Do yourself a favor and refrain from reading too much into this female's gestures. You should know better by now. After all, your track record hardly places you in the best position to offer any reliable interpretations.

It is a matter of simple truth. The storms have yielded their casualties. More than we could ever venture to count. An underlying distribution brought on by half-hearted inspiration. The line drawn on black and white grounds. There is no solace to be derived from the rings that emanate from the center of perfectly acceptable replacements. Hah...who's kidding who?

Searching through the rubble to find that one token of affection you know will take you safely back. Only to find that it in a place you never imagined. Such is the phenomenon of happenstance. Out here in the nether regions of sanity. Letting it all hang out. Exposed to a witches brew of unrelenting elements. Gone to indelible extremes. For the sake of those flashes of brilliance you never found a way to frame. Hung out to dry. Elbows ripped on rusty nails.

Where was I? Running through the endless field of my well-bound mortality. An old story. Told in tongues. On my fingertips. Scraps thrown to the dogs of memory. Sniffing around for a decent place to pay their regards.

What have you gotten myself into? You stupid martyr.

You talking to me?... Thought so.

I know. I've never been all that adept at grasping the gravity of obviously dubious situations. Tending to fall under the weight of temptation. At every turn. Inviting any number of perilous consequences. Creating a fair share of hardship for myself and, more importantly, to those who sadly placed their trust in my arms.

Try not to slip. I know how easily you tend to lose your grip. And it would hardly due to begin infusing historical trepidations on such a monumental occasion. At this end of the time line. A lonely constellation of missed opportunities and torn embraces. Forgetting more than you can ever remember. A selective sequence of events. Serving no agreeable purpose. Certainly offering no degree of honor to the gift of this presence.

Soothing the unrelenting beast within. A choir of voices sounding discordant harmonies. Doing their best to get the better of my vulnerable state of mind. Bouncing off the walls. Stating their objectives in no uncertain terms. In words overflowing with uncertainty. Open wide to various mutant theories. A bellowing organ grinding through major scales. Commanding attention. Failing to attend to the half-steps which make up the better part of our grand opera. And where does all this fit together? Sweet caresses smoked down to the filter. Life and death waltzing through the mainstream.

Anything is reasonable...to a point.

Laugh it off. You have more pressing matters at hand. That hand. So warm and real. Curling around my own. Unlike anything you have encountered in recent travels. Pristine. Unfettered. But don't get yourself carried away. You still have a long way to go. I suppose.

Rest assured. Let it go. See where it takes you.

Wonderland. The sign reads. Letters growing larger as we move toward what I assume to be our first stop along the way. Will there be others?... Hoping she won't ditch me when the opportunity arises. Wonder. Land. Spelled in burnt out bulbs and empty light sockets. A scattering of stars and quarter-moons decorate the balance of the marquee, rendered in paint that has faded far beyond original hues. Looks as though we've all seen better days, out here in this forsaken land.

The furriest of our three begins to bark abruptly, in rapid gasping yelps, as the previously elusive troupe of misfit marauders breaks precedent and comes rushing up to greet us. In an attempt to settle my four-legged follower one member of the merry mischief-makers brandishes a rather sizable leg bone, complemented with ample flesh to soothe this most benign savage beast. Or is it a breast? Either way, that dog digs in with due diligence, leaving me to fend for myself. Man's best friend...

You might as well place your trust in the slightest of ideas. Where are we without implicit trust? Nowhere. I have been up and down, and back up again. And down. And the only truth I understand is pain and sadness and pathetic drama. Sympathy bleeds through the cracks of old machinery. Smoke and oil and nicotine stains. Absorbed into the flesh. A crude brown residue that no amount of scrubbing will ever diminish.

The group, now within speaking range, begins to form a loose circle around me and my harlequin princess. Not to surround us, it would seem, but more to create a barrier between the nucleus of our created reality and the outside world. Walking around and around. Some sort of atomic entity occurring naturally. A universe unto ourselves. Or something like that. Been a while since those chalkboard sermons filled me with such wonder and taught me things I could never fully appreciate.

Pretty soon them Electrons (a nickname by which I immediately vow to always refer to them), in addition to marching in a circle around us, begin to chant. This can't be good. I wouldn't think. And if the mere fact of the chanting weren't bad enough, the actual substance of the chant brings the creep-factor well above suggested and/or desired levels.

Old Man Raven, sister Dove.  
Mister Eagle high above.  
Claws and Hammers and sharp, sharp beaks.  
Fly with the Wisdom none dares speak.

In the future. Yesterday.  
Swoop down on your guilty prey.  
Cleanse the flesh and restore the word.  
Pluck the feather from a whirlybird.

Repeated over and over. As the circling goes on. Serving to induce a fairly hypnotic state. A sort of cozy euphoria begins to emanate from deep within my abdomen. Before I know it I am overcome with a sense of uninhibited joy and possibility. Grasping my partner's hand firmly and twirling her into the cradle of my arms. Where she waits, suspended, a bit taken aback by my actions, but not in that out-of-sorts way so common with many a young flirt. And then, as the chanting grows louder, I plant one on her. A mighty kiss for the ages.

And the crows fly off, a dark cloud speeding through the sky. Straight into the coming storm.

She whispers into my ear. I smile.

And we all enter the realm of Wonderland.

A pair of silly wanderers. The serenading Electrons. And a highly content canine with a flesh-stripped bone dangling from one side of its mouth -- Groucho style. An impromptu party that keeps on growing. Leaps and bounds. Leaps and bounds.

Old Man Raven, Sister Dove.  
Mister Eagle high above...

...

Day Two, Part Ten: As it Comes

The first crack from the undeniable and mounting disturbance in this already quite disturbing atmosphere breaks the air, sounding a warning shot. Like a mortar shell from an occupying force's front line. Gathering strength and growing restless. Rolling over the freshly broken ground with lighting speed. Fueled by greed and power. Only a matter of time till the shit hits the fan. A solemn promise ringing through the air. Giving pause to all passengers on this WonderLand Express, darting rapid glances at one another, each contemplating various sources of possible shelter. Dampening spirits.

All but one.

An old man sits atop an overturned, weather-beaten metal bucket. His fingers are making strange trips over the body and neck of a two-stringed guitar. Conjuring a version of music that has little to do with acceptable forms. What passes for his 'spirit', what could be more accurately referred to as his aura, almost palpable in its negative emission, seems well beyond damp. Downright soaked if you ask me. In gin, bad luck and hard times. Lost love. Betrayal. The whole nine. All etched into his face and hands. Doesn't take no charlatan soothsayer to chart them lines. Deep creases and deeper scars. Some straight and brief. Others jagged and far too long. Running from sight beneath a shirt collar or buttoned sleeve. Some souvenirs of life's hardships can not be hidden, others can never be seen. Some offer only a glimpse, which is really no offer at all.

A second crack. Nearer.

And the sounds from that guitar interplay with the violent vibrations. A low howl escapes through the old man's lips. Hard to tell from exactly where as neither moves -- not up or down. Maybe out of the corner of his mouth. Or through the space his front teeth once guarded. The dog hurries past me and lays down on a rug at the old man's feet, at the center of a vibrant Navajo pattern, with plenty of the dog's pre-shed fur for added flavor. An awareness that I was the one being led all along begins to settle. Come to think of it, that bone trick was a little too convenient. Not that I'm complaining. Or even that surprised. I've been fairly suspicious of most everything since checking in. Yesterday. Seems a million miles away.

Still...it does not due to look too much the dupe, especially when trying to impress the ladies. Yep. Amusing even myself. Out here in the middle of this carefully constructed charade.

This self-proclaimed Land of Wonder. With its withered front man and his flea-ridden side act. One brings 'em in, the other gives them a healthy dose of the fear. Will wonders never cease? Telling stories with endings you know all too well. Having been there and having done that. Speaking songs you've sung in the privacy of your own asylum. Drawing conclusions in the spaces between. Look real carefully and you might just recognize...

Crack number three. Nearer. Much nearer.

Where was I? Where have I been? Exactly.

She runs her hand up my arm. From wrist to elbow. My Harlequin romance. Giving me chills no number of native layers could possibly quell. I'm living a dream. Out here in the open. And I am in no shape to question the implications. Falling in love at every turn. A hopeless surrender into the rhythm of a forbidden alliance. Breathing in the aromatic wonder emanating from the curve of her shoulder. The comforting tones of a perfectly placed turn of phrase. A perfume of lilac and nicotine and diesel awakenings. Nothing you can firmly place. Not that you are trying. At least, not that hard.

Patience. Buddy.

A haunting tremolo emerges from the alchemy of sounds and other, less readily picked up, sensory stimuli. The old man's otherworldly utterances, the echoings of thunder and frightened thoughts, the frailty of a gesture, the pops of light that dance in the shadows. All combining on a single wave of energy. A fundamental calling. A procession of rises and falls far beyond my years or experience to fully absorb. All I can do is register its existence and note the possible relevance. The prospect of either enough to make me want to find my own space in this silly eternity to crawl up and hide.

But I must stand brave and tall. I'm here on a mission. After all. Not exactly sure whose, but we all learned long ago to not ask too many questions. Didn't we?

Number four. Loud enough to make those Electrons jump around. And m'lady. Not to mention m'self. All moving with highly charged agitation. I take it upon myself to scan the suite of WonderLand attractions to find a suitable...HELLLOOW... what have we here? Too good to be true. But there's the sign. Clear as day. Well, clear as any other day.

The Tunnel of Love.

Okay you gods up there. Or wherever you've hidden yourself down here in these proceedings. The thunder, the pulse of energy, the sign... You don't need to tell me twice. Again.

I take my trembling elected love into my arms and, giving her my best matinee idol devil-may-care impression (sly smile, wrinkled brow, dreamy eyes -- a look which probably has her wondering what sort of stomach problems I'm experiencing), carry her across the tunnel's threshold. Placing her gently in the front seat of the lead car, a real car in fact. A '66 Buick convertible. BEE-YEW-TEEFUL. Painted a magnificent cream. With a dashboard like a spaceship's. She crosses her legs and runs her hand over the giant steering wheel. Letting out a little giggle as she presses the chrome horn. My signal to hurry past the hood ornament and slide in beside her. Both of us buckling up just like they used to show in those mental hygiene films.

And we're off like a rocket. A fifth burst melting away behind us. Igniting into flames...

...

Day Two, Part Eleven: What You Pay For

Everything goes dark. I can hear myself breathing. Or it the sound of my shotgun mistress? A rhythm of scared excitement and anxious anticipation. One and the same. Joining together in some homage to the voodoo powers which have so graciously infiltrated the better part of our consciousness. In this together. Moving at break-neck speed through a vast nothingness. Wondering just what, through this blind twisting and turning, might be waiting to rear its ugly head. If either of us brought any inhibitions with us they have surely flown out the window by now.

Letting go.

Between two worlds. More or less. Two impossible unknowns with an evasively uncommon denominator. Taking what matters I can into my own hand. Fumbling with well-honed instinct toward the radio. Turning the knob in anticipation of who may be broadcasting in this region, and just what sort of programming has been selected for designated lovers. And the car's interior comes to life. Gauges glowing. Revealing a scale tipping on any number of fronts. Velocity. Temperature. Levels of all sorts. A vast array of warning signs. Speakers crackle with pure volume, pumping out the strains from an early 30's recording. Ol' Victoria Spivey moaning out her suggestive take on affairs of the heart. Or so I imagine.

And the road traveled responds in kind. Steam rising from the freshly pounded pavement. Revealing an endless stretch of asphalt absolution. Expanding with every chest expansion. Into the expanse of this wide open. Painted lines fleeting by. Road signs filtering away. Leaving their disjointed messages. Staccato Burma Shave invitations. "Jesus Loves You" salutations. Washed out annihilations. Speed limits gone astray. Bent metal declarations. Beliefs left on the shoulder. For anybody to come along and pick up. A game with no rules. An entertaining aside.

One, two, three...

Picking up where you left off. Wherever that was.

Through this tunnel of trepidation. Nothing given and nothing taken. Matches struck against the coal runway. Sticks wrestled and left to burn. Coming to terms. With rapid acceleration. With all those pieces of yourself left back there in the dust. Flying through time, into that dead-end infinity. No stopping now. Might as well release the wheel and raise your arms. Enjoy the ride. You didn't think you were actually in control. Did you?

Maniacal laughter erupting. From all sides. Sense-surround surrealism. Leaping into the throat. Coursing through the nervous system. Palms dripping sweat. Cooling with the rush of wind. Loosening your shoulder strap, to get the full effect. Placing your shaky faith in whoever designed this amorous contraption.

Passing a figure on the passenger side. Holding a sign that reads "Death or Bust." Good to know your destination on the highway of life. I guess. Getting that sinking feeling you'll be seeing him again. Soon enough.

I turn my attention to my fellow tunnel dweller, to acknowledge she also witnessed that ominous apparition. But she doesn't quite look herself. Not that I know her well enough to make observations on how she should appear. And I must allow for certain tricks of the light, especially in this mood. But still...her face seems to be undergoing a subtle transformation. All I need.

I look away abruptly to gather my bearings, focusing in on the blurry geometric shapes affixed to the dash, the simply stated emblem of this great machine, and look back. Sure enough. Thought I recognized you. Been awhile. Funny to find you seated here. Considering the last time we saw each other.

And just how should I begin to account for this turn of events? Interesting. Indeed.

Her hair being scattered to and fro. At the will of dynamic forces in severe competition. That hat must have been dislodged at an earlier mile marker. If I can believe anything I've seen up till, and including, now.

Should I say something? Address the past? Inquire as to her current condition? Take a long look into her mouth? Or should I just play it cool?...and allow for this fading memory to exist for whatever length the Fates will allow. With a rapid succession of tragic slideshow images flashing before my eyes.

Such a bad date.

She answers all my questions with a slight movement of her head. A wonderfully familiar gesture. Letting me know that everything is okay. In this temporal state. It was always her special ability. Much needed way back when -- when the spark combusted, leaving all involved covered in ash. And even more so here. Searching for a light. At the end. Second guesses forgotten. For the moment. What more could I possibly ask for? Magical musings. A fortunate deal. Mountains leveled. The scale tipping imperceptibly to my favor. A mystically re-calibrated needle drawing its bloody conclusion. All mine. All right.

A final verse seeping through the netted veil. Beckoning beyond the clouds into the very belly of the domed ceiling. Rising into nothing. Leather scented wonder. Don't leave me again. We can find a way. If we only try. Give it a shot. Bad thoughts ricocheting off the glassy orbs of madness. What else is there? Anyway. There. Where...

Leaning close to steal one last kiss.

But it's not her. Or, from another perspective, it is her. Miss Harlequin. Returned. Hat and all. In the very spot I could have sworn... Never mind. No sense in wasting an honest impulse. It's gotten me this far. Our lips touching a second time. Lingering beyond discretion. Indulging in this stand-in siren. What a cad.

My calling. A recurring theme. Substituting the ghosts of my own making with matters at hand. Dealt out. Scooped up. With scarce thought to obvious pairings. Going bust.

Making another pass by that fellow with the sign. Figures.

Could I ever be forgiven? Is it possible? With so many gallons of toxic water down the drain. Here. Trailing northern lights. Diamonds flickering their final messages. Rocketing through the aftermath of a thoughtless big bang. The residue of worldly creation. To find a reason. To discover some path worthy of all that has come before. Of all that might have been.

Two worlds. Crossing. Caught in sudden embrace. Folding together in quiet resolution. Parting with a gentle sigh.

We're stopped. Where we started. Breathing in unison. Like we never...

Everything goes dark. And comes right back again.

...

Day Two, Part Twelve: Needle Nose

The midnight stretch takes some getting used to. Especially when it shows up in the middle of the day. Clawing at the depths of mainstream abnormalities. Jagged silhouettes making their presences felt in the cloudy levels. Far from the madding souls. A murder of winged beasts lining up on the power lines that lead from the deserted metropolis and disappear into the extremes of wasteland denial. Passing futile messages. Condemned to ever occur. Running laps. Repetitions returning. To their long lost sender. Exhausting all probability. Down to the core.

Arrows pointing toward discrete, out of the way, sub-level directions. A free-for-all freefall into the snake pit of moral decay. Taking sucker punches from moderately criminal elements. Nothing to get too worked up over. Nothing even worth mentioning. Unless you happen to dwell in the arena of the mundane. Like me.

Caught up in hazy observation.

Trying to make sense. Out here on this lonely stretch of beach. Of these disgruntled daydreamers. These masquerading middle class bystanders. Contemplating the reality of the situation. Up for grabs. Offering itself in no uncertain terms. There for the taking. The kind of crystal clear vision that only presents itself in the chilly embrace of retrospect. Cold nights. Wistful days. Hanging on to whatever idea of the past you can realistically subscribe to. A point in time.

It will be there some day. Dawning like a freshly spun spider web. Capturing my wayward attention with its sticky splendor. A trap laid on the shaky ground of memory lane. A cruel awakening. A last laugh from yesteryear that somehow ends up sounding pleasant. Comforting. Like a happened-upon letter from an old friend, whose kindness you always accepted too easily. Telling you that you did the best you could. That all our tomorrows were played out long ago. That everything you did or didn't do could not have ever made an ounce of difference. The world was not yours to save. The happiness you were afraid to find was with you from the get-go. So share in the chuckle. And get over it.

Now.

Stone drunk on the idea that you might actually get out of this trip alive. Limits pushed. Beyond all reasonable doubts. Bodily functions taken into reliable hands. Chemical additives doing their best to bring everything to a crashing and decisive end. Fighting the forces. Tear ducts chain reacting. Mutant desires bleeding their salty steams into the corners of my mouth. Where are we when we find ourselves in the firm grip of oblivion? Can we regard this as anything other than a total breakdown of unencumbered thought?

Gotta betta hope.

And you and I.

Our ride is over. Come to a screeching halt. Three chords that could not last forever. As much as we would have liked them to. As much as we needed...

Flames licking up the remains. The audience held breathless.

An entire community of alcoholics and two pack a day'ers. A fire in the making. Disaster choosing its moment. The perfect combination of combustion and neglectful indulgence. All lucky breaks and highly fortunate close calls run out. Sirens and screams and mad dashes. Out to the streets. A sullen menagerie of displaced malcontents. Left to fend for themselves. Scalded. Hurt. Escaped.

The underground rooms wait for the chosen few. A quartet of philistine prophets. Kicking up the dust. Making a masterpiece out of the suffering. The banality of restricted freedom. The loss of all earthly constraints. The kitchen crew serving up one more plate. Ladling out portions. A big mess. A great big mess.

Switching between the fundamental call letters of your predetermined youth. Searching for that ordained frequency. That sweet spot of space. The one that will cut through all the intrusive noise. It's not all that difficult. Once you fall in with the landslide. Roll with the crumbling stones.

Daylight. Mean daylight. Shining down. Mocking the steps of self-described wise men. Illuminating the feral declinations that wind down to a slippery gang of missing vowels. MSSNG VWLS. Smoke screened intelligence. Prying its way between the floorboards of limitless amnesia. Cutting asides. Deft observations. Crafty allusions.

The envy felt when witnessing the carefree movements of loose hanging limbs. Free from thought. Enjoying the complete and thoughtless motion of pure reflex. Wondering aloud where I might have wound up if I had it in me to follow suit. Wondering what life I might be living out there in the real world.

"The world you imagine is a world without consequence. It is an afterthought built upon smirking non-truths."

That old man again. Appearing in the dizzy center of my field of vision. Guitar in hand. Dog resting at his side.

"Huh? You say something? And wasn't I just sitting beside a fetching feline? The cat's pajamas. If you will."

Bouncing off his visage. Replying in form.

"The life you live is not your own."

Funny. You could swear you've heard those words before. A smoky voice from the far reaches of laid back dementia. Sliding up the slipstream. Ringing in your ear. Tickling your fancy. Gently rubbing the tenderly exposed cartilage corners. Sending you reeling toward euphoria. For as long as it can last.

...

Interlude

The life you live. The life you own. The life you left bundled on a randomly chosen doorstep. Abandoned. A tangential resting place. From the sidewalk. Hidden beneath the eaves. Sheltered and soaked. Mortgaged. Taken in and raised by wolves. Sinister eyes staring into the depths of a forming soul. Claiming territory. Picking away at the wide-eyed ambitions dancing along the freshly cut blades of an expansive front lawn. With strangers for neighbors. And friends far away. The sounds from outside amounting to nothing more than the limits of a tattered imagination.

Help is not on the way. The storm has hit.

Back at the hotel. Roaming the hallways. Slinking between the narrowing alleyway walls. Feeling the horizontal vertigo. Stretching miles ahead. And years behind. Unwilling to retire to the confines of my room. Expecting to cross paths with the white suited gent any minute. Orbits moving independently. From each other. Shaking before the grim specter of tomorrow. Destined to meet at some fateful and carefully calculated point in space.

What happened to the good times? Where have all your winning hands gone? Not to mention all those prayers. Down the drain. Up in flames. Out the side door while you were sleeping. Certainly worth a decent musing. Can you put together the pieces? Can you begin to follow the river and feel the foamy mouth of the sea? Can you make it that far? From the very spot you stood.

Long ago. Might as well be today.

After all.

Too late for yesterday. Too old for youthful exuberance. Too damn tired for sleepy daytrips.

This is the last stand. My final journey into the heart of mortal permanence. Nothing specific. Nothing all too profound. Just a coughed up realization. Passing all these closed doors. Concealing their own private worlds. Haunting my every step.

Birthday wishes thrown to the bitter winds of chance. Blowing out before they could really burn. Rack 'em up and watch them fall. Take your cue. From all those head strong mischief makers clawing at your sense of decency. Feel the flickering flames lick their way up forgotten asides.

Not that it's any of your business, but why are you so fascinated by my meager meanderings. You two. Frozen in your steps.

I'm just passing through. I'll surely see you later. At the buffet. Or on the other end of the bar. Laughing it up. Telling those stories you've both heard a hundred times. Can't even remember how it all got started. But this is the place for leftover memories. Nobody asks too many questions. And minor details are readily overlooked. The staff even goes to notable lengths to encourage the overall blurring. Part of the package.

Floating by. Averting our eyes.

Stepping out onto a third floor balcony. To catch my breath and feel the late afternoon shift. The rain strikes overhead with clear intent. Drops from on high. Plummeting to their inevitable destruction. Splattered. Remains kicked into the wet air. Trickling down the ivy web surrounding this tomb. Glistening green. Adding to the liquid splendor. Smacking my lips.

Hold your cupped hand out from the railing. Allow some of the descending elements to make their final farewells in the warmth of your palm. Watch as the residue flows along your life line. Allow this one beautiful cycle to come to its rightful end. It's only natural. Not like you have somewhere better to be.

Maintaining your longing petri dish. The milky substance of life. And horrible death. Reflecting your image in deteriorating pebbles. If you threw yourself from this height would you feel the pain you hold so dear? If you wrapped a silk scarf around your neck would you know? Is there any doom left in this wishful world to capture your fall? Who is to say?...

Who indeed.

Looking up and directing my attention to the pale moon buried above. Beneath the black clouds and gray sky. The Devil is smiling. And God is attending to the needs of the Saved. And I am alone beneath a growling heaven. Suspended above a muddy hell. Alone at the edge of a last ditch effort. Insects dancing on my flesh. Fallen angels sadly shaking their heads and trying to figure out some way to forget. Oil-eyed birds hiding under leaves. Silent.

I am sorry. I am so sorry.

I never thought I'd get this far.

Away.

...

Day Two, Part Fourteen: Non-Sense

You watch yourself falling. Into the belly of a dark wish. Feeling the passing years. The silken stars. The tender lips of a desperate kiss. The silence you cultivated with such knee-jerk precision. The reiterations of countless miscalculations. In your palm. In the bend of a thought. Yours for the taking.

Why is this taking so long? You turn around. And engage in thrown away petals. Containing their virtuous truths. She loves me. She loves me not. Just like that.

Last call. Before...

You catch yourself. In mid-thought. Tumbling through couplets that never quite manage to grasp the full measure of the situation. Slipping through fingers. Digits collapsing with each successive touch. A domino effect. The bitter argument of a game theory taken to sad extremes. A grim undertaking.

The day is pouring away with the fierceness of the storm. Whatever surviving remnants of the afternoon are being pounded out. Veiled. Buried alive. The clouds are darkening everything beneath and blotting out the sky. Sending down an army of rain drops -- a dense formation of icy toothpicks. Exploding on impact. Splintering into a thousand seas. The thirsty ground gags from the flowing rush. Coughing up what it can't take in. Begging for more.

Can you piece this day together? Is there any way for you to redeem all those missing hours? Did they get the better of you? The distant howl of a hurt dog. A lady in waiting. A forever stained dress blowing on a clothesline. Bones chained together. Nudging out their lives. Dancing to a non-existent tune. The hypnotic movements of a few outcast die-hards.

So. What?

Did you say something? Did you reach across? And if so, to what end? We've been down that road. And you know where it leads. Still...isn't there a chance? Why else am I here?

Horses hooves. Wooden beams. A rip in the fabric. Down to the sewn seam.

There is time. After all. So it would seem. Common sense.

The caravan has arrived. Setting up camp in the courtyard below. You should have known they'd seek you out. The far reaches are no place for friendly strangers to battle the fallout of your inner wars. Give and take. Utter defeat. A forgone conclusion. In all its hinted glory.

An aluminum awning is being drawn out from the rooftop of the lead car. Followed shortly by a festive band of ragged musicians. Kicking quickly into a marimba tune. Go figure. A few courageous souls belting out a joyous tirade against the shady prospects of a cruelly grinning evening. Sounding the possibility of another reality. Beside all this weeping self pity.

Yes.

Locks have been picked. The night has been given clearance to creep out from corners. Look, the moon is breaking through. And I am missing the touch I felt on the day we met. All is well. All is good. All is broken in this neighborhood.

Did I say that? Or was I singing? Thinking.

Into the night.  
Here we go again.  
What you'll ever be.  
What you've never been.

The nightingale whispers her shadowy tune.  
And the day slides into a darkened noon.  
Time stands frozen before the stalking sand.  
The watch lies trembling, tending a missing hand.

Where do you go, when all you know is here?  
What kind of world would live in a mirror?  
Find your feet. Stake your shaky ground.  
Turn into dust. And then turn around.

Smile.

Kick up your heels. And get about your crooked business.

The touch of demons live only in the fleshy twists and turns of your drifting brain. The flood. The blood. The horrific synaptic crackles. Sending a particular brave traveler to cower beneath his final wit's end. Does the light beckon? Or does it burn to remind?

Is there anybody around here who can translate this deeply foreign tongue? I'm late for a meeting downstairs. And I can't seem to remember where I left my good suit. I've got a ticket, but the store closed long ago. Is there any place left to redeem my slip? Careful...

One two three.

...

Day Two, Part Fifteen: Close Call

I can not move. I can not will myself to extract my visage from the idea of solitude I have pounded in with such deep intent. To release my weakening grip. And swing wildly. To travel beyond. Free from the forces that surround. Subtle tyrants clawing at my lapels. So tired. So struck. Down and out. The spaces have become stuck. In place. There is no safe distance. No matter how you cut it. Nothing falls apart. Despite all effort. In spite of those volumes you might have read.

These are not complicated matters. That would be too easy. They strike at the basic chord of survival. When you least expect. When you think things are safe and sound. And that nobody is expecting. Bases covered. Connections intact. But you find yourself mistaken. On this final occasion. At this momentous point. Towing the line. A lasting impression. A long pause in the confusing process. As long as it takes.

Tomorrow waits. All the while. Like an eager undertaker. A river running red. A lofted ambition hiding beneath a hanging rock. The silvery moon rays are slinking across the courtyard. Doing their best to go unnoticed. I guess I don't count. Not surprising.

Hardly.

You'd like to think. You'd like to leave fundamental details to the winds of chance. But you would be terribly wrong. Allow me to prove my... hey, where did you go? You must have me mixed up with someone else. I've been here all along. Haven't I? Me and the crows. Me and the bars. Me and all those toxic facades.

Have you seen my latest trick? It's all the rage. Or so I have been told. Left them gawking down in the dens of sin of whatever towns I've rolled through. We all do foolish things. And this sleight of hand is no different. All a matter of perspective. You can see for yourself. I'm sure you heard it through the vine. Forgive me if I am not quite as entertaining as the next fellow. I'm doing my best. What I was always taught to do. For better or worse. And I do have my own set of crosses to bear. A stone's throw. A fool's gold. A retched old tale. Your basic repeat performance that ran itself out. By popular demand. Just take a look at these notices. So unkind. So full of clearly directed anger. Two-stepping on my shallow grave.

Mobs have a mind of their own. Sweet cotton-candy revenge. Wouldn't you agree? On this disjointed life line. On this creaking balcony.

Somewhere. Out there. Right here.

I'll close my eyes and see the world bleeding. I'll send my voice into the ether and wait for a response. Even if and especially when. I borrowed that. Not that anybody will remember. Too caught up in charted terrains. In the same way we let all the really important things go. Like the sound of a known voice. Or the majesty of a kind hand. The bronze shine. The firm belief.

Music is rising to my ears. Sharing its secrets so freely. Humbling me in ways I am not quite prepared to deflect. Why have I been acting so selfishly? What has brought this monster out in me? The false modesty. The walled off worthless mystery. Keeping to myself. Shuttered. Indispensable. But I'm running out. Nothing left to hide. Nowhere to turn. Perfectly happy. Listening...

They're playing our song.

Can I have this waltz?

...

Day Two, Part Sixteen: For Now

What are you still doing here? I thought I made my intentions clear. Back in the day. Remember?... When we set out on that final collision course to nowhere. When we did our best to rip the heart we shared to bleeding shreds. When we made our solemn vows to move on in silent seclusion. What gives you the right? To refuse. To never mind. To hang around the loose dirt. And step out from the shadows. What do you hope you will achieve? There are no respects left to pay. Our accounts have run dry. And your welcome ran out ages ago. I do not have the strength or inclination to sift through the details of our illicit game of cat and mouse. Give and take. In and out. We both know the score. Battling our way to a semi-climactic draw.

What can you possibly mean? Really. Is there something you want from me? Some minor point that was left out. A word hanging over your resting forehead. I wasn't the one who refused to let go. I am not the one who was left to carry on. It was you. All along. You. My dear friend. My trusted companion. You. My arch rival.

Think.

Can you find your way?...one more time.

It is not that far. Away. I can point you in the right direction. But that's where it ends. I have nothing else to offer. Just like old times.

The spell we fell under has a little magic left. I watched as a dozen birds fell from the sky. Twisting and turning in hopeless flight. Hitting bottom with a flurry of feathers and spent potential. I was there. I was hidden beneath a cloak of sincerity. Yeah, I existed. At the time. I walked past more lifeless bodies than I care to remember. And I didn't think to pick up the cause. I could not bring myself. Objects are endowed with an affliction of their own. They carry the weight of all those things with which they have come in contact. There is no protection. No barrier to keep our receptors safe from the bad images imprinted on our minds.

We are a dying breed. You and I. The garbage is piling up. Not just in the corners. There is no free place left to take an uncluttered step. Yet we must still make our way. But it will never be the same. I don't know what to say. I am not sure of what I am thinking. No fault of my own. Something fundamental left town when I was a young man. And I was left to grow older. In a world that I could never understand. Playing the pathetic fool.

Clad in iron. Revealing regions that should never be left exposed. Simplicity gathered. Turned over. Taken to levels you could not have predicted. When you started out. When you first decided to walk away. I have learned how not to love. I spent my last dime on a slow dance that cost more than I ever could have imagined. I mortgaged a future I will not know. I lost many a privilege. And I could not care less. How could I?

Wait a second.

The person you thought you were listening to has suddenly begun to attend to other issues. Pressed to the point. Demanded. Whispering your solemn secrets to a bunch of faceless voyeurs. Haven't you learned by now? Trust is a demon. And you are its pawn. Can you hear me? This is not a pastime. You are not an innocent bystander. Do you understand?

Wait. Have I done something wrong?...

Wouldn't you like to know.

Who said that?...

Wait. Let's say that history is not written in stone. Open to interpretation. That we can step back and mess things up in a whole new way. Have a bit of fun. Let us turn back the clock and make a difference. Let's pretend a while.

Wait.

It's getting late. In case you haven't noticed. The band has stopped playing. And tomorrow is a new day.

It is time for bed.

...

Dream Sequence

I saw you out of the center of my eye. I pulled out all the stops to get a glimpse of your smile. Going out of my way to trespass on your borrowed ground. Who was I? Just a simple pedestrian. Walking the paved waterways with no ill intent. Taking it as it comes. And then you came along. Looking so alluring in your enchanting attire. Slipping me a deeply personal look through the maddening crowd. Establishing a firm foothold beneath my skin. I never stood a chance.

We danced without ever sharing a touch. We declared our intentions without a word. We got drunk in other company. But we grew stronger. Together. Apart. Our blood boiled. With the simmering doubts of our sidelined distractions.

Perfection begins to take on a more solemn meaning with the passing years. A wondrous set of teeth. Eyes that say more than a Webster's diatribe. Lips that hang in the balance. And you realize that everything you thought you believed is converging on one universal truth. The one resting in the dead center of a horribly selective world. Right there. Between two outcast souls.

Reminiscing about a thought. Riffing on a theme. Enjoying the moment. For every ounce it could possibly mean. Dancing to a beat that echoed my own. The thought of hope. Standing beside you like a silent angel. Guiding you through the sea of life. Keeping you safe. From all the selfishness this world serves up with such reckless zeal.

Hope. For a better tomorrow.

But that was long ago.

I am but a passing thought. A thousand reflections in a hundred shattered mirrors. Blood running through the splintered ruins. But my heart is in one piece. It is whole. And it is taking it upon itself. To get me out of here alive. Once more. Forever.

Caught in the crossfire. Walking a dangerously thin line. With words rushing through my ears. Containing their hidden meanings and questionable lies. Hearing things that were never there. Cutting ties. Sweat beading on my fevered flesh. Swallowing a poisonous concoction of exhausted opportunity.

Out for one more stroll. Through this abandoned promised land. Touring the rubble.

Old friends. Waving so enthusiastically. Hello or goodbye? Is there a difference? Family members looking so worried. Is there nothing you can say? To ease their caring minds. They wouldn't be able to hear you anyway. From your side of the soundproof chamber. Inhabited by the distorted faces of all those folks who received your poor invitation. Pawn brokers hawking tarnished bits of your past. Streetwalkers disguised as jealous lovers. Wondering where you've been keeping yourself. And how lucky they are you showed up. Offering up their eternal devotion. Till the money runs out.

You wouldn't think we'd still be capable of falling for such transparent vows. But you would be wrong.

Haven't you learned? Haven't any of us?

All is fair. If you've got the fare. Save those thoughts of beauty for another place. They aren't worth a damn.

Hey. What about...?

The disenfranchised doctor is making his rounds. With a crumpled license in his pocket. Checking up on a steady stream of wounded sailors. And he stops you dead in your tracks.

"Where have you been keeping yourself?"

Where indeed.

The form is mutating. The setting is pouring down the drain. The light is melting into a murky nonexistence. Waves are crashing. Thunder strikes. And you sit up. And take notice.

Can't a guy get a decent night's sleep? Is there no peaceful rest?

Have I really come so far?...

Population: Unknown

Chapter 1

It was Wednesday morning. And the world was on fire.

Stepping out onto the upstairs landing, the smell of burnt food permeates the hallway. Toast, meat, coffee -- over cooked and over boiled -- filling the corridor with a haze of noxious fumes...serving to heighten your appetite.

Moving down the maze of stairs into the day. To the corner store. Past a smoldering trash can. Flames burning themselves out in the motionless breeze. Sometimes it's not enough to throw something away. Some items need to be destroyed. Beyond recognition. Beyond the demented eyes of scavengers and the curious hands of salvation. Knowing how a careless toss can come back to haunt. Every scrap a piece of evidence. To a purchase made, or a meal consumed, or a location happened upon -- a habit, a circumstance, a preference. A crime. The landfill holds all our secrets...if they make it that far.

The pavement is baking the rubber off of shoe soles and car tires. The temperature never changes. Day after day. And the night offers scarce reprieve. The heat only swelters as it awaits the morning sun. Picking up where it left off. They don't even have a name for this season. The papers and politicians call it 'mean summer.' Everyone else just calls it hell.

Black exhaustion fills the air and mocks your attempt to locate the morning light. Choking on the horizon, the power plant is protesting the needs of the living -- buckling under the brutal loads. Blackouts have become a daily occurrence... some scheduled, some just dropping by. Owning an air conditioner is against law, punishable by heavy fines. Running an air conditioner will get you in much worse trouble. And great effort has been expended to ensure compliance. Just

last month, all households were shook from their slumber and greeted by the big roundup. Badges and search warrants brandished. Loading the potentially offending units into large trucks. Some were found hidden in basement alcoves and behind cleverly disguised attic doorways. These instances were treated harshly. And other items were taken away as well. Cold air isn't the only threat to local power after all. The laws have become quite malleable in these unforgiving conditions -- melting off to one side...becoming disfigured renditions of their former selves.

But to what extent do you know this?

Sweat is dripping from fevered foreheads as you slide through the rush. Reaching your destination a few doorways away. With breath held, you fix your gaze on the day's headlines. The lead story has something to do with a car bomb exploding in a busy section of a town thousands of miles away. Scattering

details across neatly lined columns. They stopped printing the weather report. Along with a variety of similar forgone conclusions. But you don't notice. Your attention is elsewhere.

There it is. As matter-of-fact as yesterday's installment. Another disappearance. The twelfth in as many days. You pretend to make no notice as you flip to the sports section and lay down your money on the counter. Feigning interest in futile box scores. Not that it matters. You already know the details. They're always the same -- except for the names of the missing and what area of town

they were last seen in. Still, you need to read them. For the slightest hint. For some minor fact. For any indication of who is perpetrating these acts. Trying to rule out certain possibilities.

You want to go and sit in the park. The benches are always so comforting. Beneath the trees. In the shade. With the sound of birds and dogs and children at play in the neighboring schoolyard. But you know it's early enough that many of the park's live-in patrons will be occupying most, if not all, of the available resting places. Still, it's worth the walk.

A poster catches your eye as you pass the gated entrance. A citizen group is organizing a meeting to object the building of a new power plant in the immediate vicinity. Skulls and cigar-smoking fat cats and other button pushing symbols adorn the grave rhetoric -- the threat to lives and the environment and our sense of community. Wondering where these concerned folks have been all these years. Wondering if they succeed in their mission, what lower-tiered location

will be stuck with this toxic demon. But that's not our problem, is it? After all, we only voice awareness over the vagrant when he's rummaging around in our back yard.

Maybe you should be returning home. You've been away for many minutes now and perhaps you should make sure that everything is okay. What wouldn't be okay? You live alone. Nobody is awaiting your return. Did you leave something turned on?...unattended. Do you have to check to see if someone left a message for you? Is it something else? Did anybody see you leave? Would that matter? Oh well, you have your reasons. And they're burning a hole right through your brain.

Stopping dead in your tracks. And everybody else follows suit. The entire block gone still. A rhythm begins to build. Heads start to nod in unison. Including yours. And feet begin to tap. Everybody falling in line. The businessmen with briefcases in tow, the mothers with their strollers, the groggy eyed tramps

pocketing near-empty bottles. All moving together. The rhythm growing stronger. And a horn section seems to be joining in. Quite the hot number. In fact, the entire joint is set to burst into song.

A-one, and a-two...

The world's on fire!

Have you seen the pyre?

You'd be quite amazed,

It's really quite the blaze.

So bring your marshmallows

And gals grab your fellows

Everything is burning down

in this whole damn town!

(Chorus)

One alarm, tow alarm, three alarm, four!

The earth is burning down to its very core.

It's too late to recant

Dancing around the hydrant

Cause the world's on fire.

The whole damn world's on fire.

Even Smokey has retired.

Yeah, the world's on fire...

(repeat chorus again and again,

until heat exhaustion sets in)

Chapter 2

The crowd disburses. Going about their routine. Mingling back into the business at hand. And you join in. Shuffling off with your paper tucked securely beneath your arm. Keeping to yourself. As you are prone to do -- especially these days. You have found that it is always best to maintain a low profile under watchful eyes. And everybody is taking note of the slightest aberration in another's behavior. Everybody is scared. Everybody wants to attach a face to these dark days. All senses are on edge. Poised to pounce.

A man stops you in the street and places before you what looks to be a section of a finely printed scroll. What could this be? An arrest notice? A summons for committing one of the growing number of petty infractions? Your mind races as you snatch it from his hands and hastily turn it to your face. A simple advertisement. An announcement inviting 'one and all' to the newly arrived carnival that has set up camp on the outskirts of town -- in an otherwise deserted field often frequented by local hooligans to carry on their various rites of sexual indiscretion and alcohol consumption and territorial squabbling. No place for good, honest, hard-working citizens. Except for special occasions. Such as this. Turning out in droves if only to tread the otherwise forsaken ground.

The handbill notes the appearance of a renowned story-teller, whose skills in the art of the spoken word are apparently 'legendary in his home country'. As you read these words, the strange man accentuates the flattering description by tapping the words with a long, bony index finger. You look up.

"I'm sure you will find his stories most entertaining. And his performance quite captivating." Drawled out through a crooked grin.

Did he emphasize you?

His index finger rising and pointing somewhere between your eyes. "Not to be missed." Which comes out as more of a statement than a come-on line.

He leaves you with the bill. And moves along down the street and around a corner. You fold it up and put it in your back pocket. Stopping in mid movement to wonder aloud whether or not the strange man had other notices to hand out to other passersby. You can't remember. Pricking up the ears of the few people in your immediate vicinity. Giving long and wary looks of reproach...noting your height and hair color and other physical characteristics. That's right, talk to yourself in the middle of the sidewalk. Good going.

The smell from earlier is still in the hallway as you return home. Stale now. Less appetizing. You unlock your door and enter. Someone has been there. Items have been subtly moved. Drawers left open. This is not an unusual occurrence. It's been happening for some time now. Whenever you are away for any length of time. Sometimes while you are sleeping. You wake up or arrive to find unsettling disturbances. At first you just assumed it was forgetfulness on your part -- thinking you'd left your shoes at the door when you actually took them off elsewhere -- or perhaps due to the wind as you always keep the windows open, or maybe an unnoted bump in the night as you stumbled through the darkness for a glass of water. But the instances have become more pronounced. And you've come to expect them. Taking precautions before heading out or turning in.

You make a quick check to be sure that nothing has gone too far astray and take a seat at your desk. Opening the top drawer and fetching a pair of scissors and a bottle of glue. And your hand then moves to the back of the drawer and your head swivels to be sure that whoever it was who was here hasn't decided to stick around. Unlatching a hidden compartment and pulling out a leather-bound scrapbook -- placing it at your feet as your attention shifts to the newspaper you purchased on the crowded streets not ten minutes before.

And you set about on what has become a daily ritual. Clipping any story related to the latest disappearance. Police statements. Physical descriptions of the person in question and a list of character traits -- hobbies, professions, haunts, that kind of thing. Sobbing quotes from friends and family. Editorial comments.

Recaps of the previous disappearances -- noting the similarities in the cases and chalking it up to another in a 'wave of mysterious occurrences.' Nobody's officially using the word 'crime.' But that's what they're thinking. That's what we're all thinking...isn't it? And one more crude sketch of the man who was last seen in the company of the missing person.

The composite drawings are beginning to converge. You have them pasted on two sides of adjoining pages. Six on one side. Six on the other. You'll have to start another page if tonight produces one more. What began as a long-haired drifter sort has now become a fairly respectable looking man in his late 20's or early 30's. The earlier witnesses have since altered their details to fit more closely with the newer renditions. And the man's face you now look at, with glue drying on the back of his head, could be any of a thousand people who inhabit the city. Medium hair, moderately good looking, medium build, average height.

You've seen this man many times. In one way or another. If the hair was parted on the other side. Or if he grew a mustache or a beard. If he was wearing eye glasses or a hat. You've even seen him in the mirror.

But how many of those thousands of men are keeping a scrapbook of these events? What is your interest? Why have you pasted all of these articles and headlines and drawings in this book? The question hovers through the room as you put the book back in the secret compartment and place what remains of the newspaper in the sink -- running water over it until it becomes an unidentifiable wad of muck. And you toss the wad into a bucket to let it dry...before taking it somewhere many blocks from here to dispose of.

Curious behavior indeed.

As you are drying your hands a knock comes at your door.

Chapter 3

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm looking for someone that I believe lives here."

Before you stands a woman of striking beauty. With shoulder length blonde hair and extremely harsh features. She speaks with an accent you can not immediately place. She's not young. Perhaps in her forties. Her eyes are searching, darting behind you around the apartment. Her mouth is hungry. This could be your lucky day.

"Well, you've found him. I'm the occupant of this residence."

She looks you over carefully. "No, you're not him."

You do not want to discourage her. But what should you say?

"Perhaps the person you are looking for is a friend of mine and was paying me a visit during your encounter."

"No, I apologize. I've obviously made a mistake"

She turns to leave.

"Wait. There is somebody else who lives here." Think, think. Could this person in question be the same one who disrupts your belongings? "Can you describe him to me?"

She does not trust you. You can see this in her demeanor. But she is desperate. You pick this up as well. She must find this man.

"When will he be returning?"

"It's hard to say. Our paths rarely cross. To be honest, I barely know him." Clever. You feel better for telling a bit of truth. "You are more than welcome to come inside and wait for a while. I was about to make some coffee. And I have food if you're hungry."

"No. That's impossible. I have to be going. Thank you anyway, it's a very kind offer."

"I could relay a message for you. If you'd like."

"Yes. Thank you. He has something of mine. He was supposed to bring it to me yesterday but he did not appear. Please leave him a note or tell him in person that I was here and that I'll be attending the carnival this evening. I would very much appreciate it if you could do that for me." She pauses and gives you a long look that falls somewhere between flirtatious and downright lurid -- and will undoubtedly be finding its way into your dreams for many nights to come. The effect completely obliterates any obvious inquiries to her or yourself as to this reference to the carnival. "And perhaps you could encourage him to bring me what is mine. As you can no doubt guess, I am very eager to have it back. I would be extremely grateful if you convey my urgency and exercise whatever amount of friendly persuasion you might possess."

Okay. You're hooked. Damn you're enjoying this. "Can you tell me what the item is? So that I can speak to him more candidly. And please...can I have your name?...so that I can identify you?"

"He will know these answers. I and my belongings are not easily forgotten."

And with that, she walks away. Her legs moving with a precision that you take every possible moment to admire. Lighting a cigarette as she descends the staircase. Another burning aroma mingling in. You watch as more and more of her blonde head disappears with each step. Wow. Her perfume remains in your doorway, along with her phrases. And you take them all in, indulging in her essence, noting all the details of the conversation. Securing one in particular. Grabbing it in mid air with a deep, slow breath. Yes...it's safe to say that you will be 'attending the carnival this evening'.

Upon her departure, the inevitable elements of reality immediately begin to settle in. Perhaps she knocked on the wrong door. The building on this block all share similar characteristics. Three or four stories. Arched entrance ways. Facades with only the slightest of differences. And the same could be said for any number building on the adjoining blocks. It was probably dark when she visited last. Yes, she was obviously mistaken. But that doesn't mean you should deny yourself...

But she was so determined. What were you doing leading her on like that? You should have confirmed her error and assisted her along the way to hopefully the right door. You actions may very well have prevented her from reclaiming what she is rightfully hers. Who are you to take such liberty with people's emotions?

Just because you are presented with the opportunity does not mean you should take advantage of it. Right? You must now take every action to help her. Even if that means finding her and confessing your indiscretion. But how will she react? She'll be mad and blame you for everything. She'll have her boyfriend beat you up. Who knows?

Wait, who knocked on who's door? You didn't seek her out to cause trouble. And what if she wasn't mistaken? What if she had the right address? Who is this fellow she's looking for? He might be able to provide more than a few insights. But another thought presses at your mind. Are you sure it wasn't you she was seeking after all? Now that she is safely out of your sight, her mention of the carnival sounds a chord of warning. What are the odds that two complete strangers would lure you to this place in the span of less than an hour? Was her mention of this place an invitation? Is this all a big setup? Is this a game of cat-and-mouse and, if so, what are the stakes?

Are you thinking straight? Get a grip. You're the one in control here. Let's not forget that.

Chapter 4

You make a pot of coffee and a couple sandwiches. Sitting down at a wooden table which stands beside a window looking out on the busy street below. The window is open so the sounds of the city drift into your apartment. You like the distraction. Your mind is troubled and right now all you want to worry about is eating your lunch. Looking out, chewing your sandwich and sipping your coffee, you begin to drift down lanes of thought. Some old. Some new. This is your most common pastime activity. The people who have known you over the years call you a daydreamer. You don't pay it much mind. The thoughts never come to anything. They're just thoughts -- floating around in your head and into the world.

Hovering in the sky. Watching over the struggling souls and bent-over old men and rusted train cars. Meandering out to sea.

Letting it all go...

Your coffee has gone cold and you've finished your sandwiches. Your face conveys a mixture of melancholy and trance-like tranquility. But a sound within your apartment breaks the spell. Bringing you back to reality.

It's the phone this time. Ringing through the apartment like an alarm. A sudden and loud disturbance that makes your heart race. It takes you a moment to identify the source, thinking it might be the doorbell -- hoping for a return visitor. You do not rise to answer the phone. You can't remember the last time you answered a phone. You think it's bad luck. Nobody you know would be calling you here. And you do not want to speak to somebody you do not know over the phone -- that's never a good thing. It could be a solicitor who would take up your time trying to get you to buy some product or sign up for some service of which you have absolutely no interest. Or it could be the police, bothering you with questions. Or a wrong number. It could be someone who knows of your existence and is looking for some bit of information. If it's important, they'll show up in person. Like the woman did earlier. If it's not, you don't want to hear it.

The ringing ceases and all is quiet. No sounds come through the window. Stillness has crept over everything. The hour of the blackout has struck. And all citizens must observe it with all due diligence -- conserving all energy within their domain. No driving. No traveling of any sort. No conversation. The streets have emptied. Part of the new collection of laws drawn up to deter looting and other unsavory behavior. The phone call was probably an announcement from one of the neighborhood watchmen. Informing you of the shut down. Doing their part.

It's the hour of nothing. And in this sanctioned off arena, your mind begins to worry. Churning in dark abandonment. The floodgates open and you sink into the abyss.

Here you go again...

We all kidded each other. So many times. Gathered around a lonely campfire with our plans for the future. Casting crackling silhouettes against tethered shelters. Gazing up at the eternal sky and making our simple observations. Connecting the dots to find some sense in our lives. What did we know?...back then. Of what it means to come face to face with the brutal limits of our

human condition.

Walking the straights and the narrows. Running to the whatever landmark we decided was safe -- at the slightest sign of danger. Stepping out onto basement landings to get a breath of air during those days of laying low. Years are there for a reason and they have a way of piling up when they're feeling neglected. And you can see them from desert motels and from early morning kitchen windows. Finding yourself seated at a cheap table with a cup of coffee and a plate full of stupid mistakes. Burying your head in hands and sifting through a random collection of what-if realizations. Fighting the morning sun -- with its unkind ruminations...how many times has it risen looking the same and how can you ever measure the ways you have changed?

Out the side screen door to do another day. What else are you going to do? Really...

Was there a day? A moment? An hour? Long ago. Did a flash visit you on a random corner some mile down the road? Telling you that you were free to move right along on your beaten path but you do have a choice. Maybe you should have just pulled over to take a look at the map and get a couple hours of rest. Sometimes the road needs fresh light to be seen clearly. There's only so far you can go when you stay safely between the lines. No directions were ever paved.

No destination was ever marked. You've got to be skeptical when they try to fold away the world into pocket-sized convenience. You'll never get there from here. Not now. And if you could go back and locate your violent skid marks you'd just find a brand new set of matching lanes, looking so proud and full of themselves...so sure of their destiny.

Bags were packed and so much was left behind. Seasons change... turning evening into muddy water and synthesizing sand into pale-gathered misty thunder. Gazed-upon horizons glowing with the promise of surrender and sweet escape. Playing hide and seek with frozen images...cracked and broken and settling on boarded up resting places -- shelved by tired arms...tattooed with old stories. Save your memories for someone who cares. Closing time is close at hand and you're not the only one who has business here.

Dead-man's curve is always there...lying in wait to claim another set of sad eyes. With trunks filled to the brim, buckling on impact, leaving a smuggler's ransom out in the open...a miserable treasure chest of symbolic manifestations. Making their way to a salvage yard existing in the exiled spaces of our lives. Waiting in shame to be sifted through by shadowy refugees. Washed up on a foreign shore. Searching for some idea of a better world. Ideals ground down to dusty

recriminations. Willing to settle for whatever image of freedom they're able to get their hands on...some trinket to soothe the fenced-off wounds...something to hold on to as the sun sinks into the west. Tighter and tighter.

Crossing a line within yourself. Arriving at the edge of a run down continent. A payphone receiver is dangling in the breeze. The diner sign is burned out. And you're standing on two legs in the middle of the road. Deciphering the tilted sign at the edge of this tombstone existence. A simple word that carried a once-upon meaning you can't quite translate.

Welcome...

Where are you? What is happening?

It's the dead of night. And the war is in full swing. Artillery blasts somewhere in the deep blackness. Nothing that will ever be confirmed. No official accounts in the morning papers. Maybe they're just going through the motions, flexing a bit of muscle -- conducting exercises to cast a shadow on the latest battle of words. Maybe they're setting off some excess inventory...knowing next time around there will be a whole new and exciting collection of bigger, smarter, more destructive, more silent peace keeping forces. Or maybe those percussive sounds are in your head...reverberating through your skull as you sweat out another in a series of nightmare missions. Stumbling along a charred shoreline.

Eyeing one of the countless shells littering the forsaken beach, looking so beautiful and innocent. Holding it up to hear the music of oblivion...to escape into murky wonder of the ocean. Listen hard. Hold it closer. Seems to be a storm out at sea. Wind crashing into the abandoned battlements, waves commanding an all-out retreat, a crack of thunder exploding in your ear.

A white cloud descending...

Wake to nothing. To the dead sound of the city. Looking out. Letting your gaze fall on the shadowed memories that stalk these hidden hours. The blackout is in effect. Yes, but things are not as they were. You're in the middle of it all. The streets are crowded with burning tires and surly, sleep-deprived lawmen -- with loosely holstered side arms dangling within easy reach of any number of weary arms. Inviting trouble. Directing traffic and pointing towards sinister looking side roads at your inquiry. You're lost in the depths of a vanishing border town excursion. Your life is getting lost in this mad shuffle. Lock the doors and move. Just move. And keep moving. Nobody's in any position to lend a hand out here. You're on your own.

Returning to your seat beside the window. Keeping your restless vigil for the word and nursing your tattered nerves. Tomorrow is always there. Just beyond the scattered sky. And it will be expecting you to make an appearance. Sitting still. Resolving yourself to nothing...to all that awaits your weary word. Knowing it's out there. Knowing there is no escape. Only survival.

And the faces of the missing have gathered around the table. Dropping in to find out if you have any information as to their whereabouts. They know about your scrapbook and your secret fear. But they're not here to point fingers. They just want to be found. And they're hoping you can help -- that you can find it within yourself to...

An air raid siren announces the end of the blackout. The city can go back about its business. You return to the day. The missing have gone. You're in a state of unsettled exhaustion. You go to get a glass of water and again notice that many items in your apartment have become disturbed. For one thing, the handbill regarding the carnival, which you removed from your pocket earlier and placed on your desktop, now lies next to the phone in the kitchen. And beside it rests the still drying ball of newspaper.

Chapter 5

It is early afternoon, and you have time on your hands. The next blackout will not be for many hours. So you decide to visit the residence of the last person who has gone missing, just as you have done for many days now. Again, you carefully retrieve your scrapbook and write down the name of the person in a small notebook, along with other details. Again, you carefully secure the notebook in its resting place. You then consult the local phone book to obtain the address. You know that this behavior is highly suspect but that does not stop you. You search for the strength within yourself to not go through with these actions but can not locate it. You are driven.

You walk many blocks before finding the bus stop that will take you where you are going. You do not own a car and generally have no need for one. There are times when you would enjoy the convenience but you also enjoy the fact that you do not have to worry about parking or paying for insurance or dealing with people breaking into your car, all of which are substantial concerns. Along the way to the bus stop, you dispose of the nearly dried ball of paper -- making sure to drop it in a trash receptacle you have not used before. You are meticulous in your actions. You pride yourself on this.

The bus arrives after a brief wait. You climb aboard and take a seat near the front so that you can keep an eye on the street names as you near them. You're traveling to an unfamiliar section of town and you are concerned that you might get lost. You are afraid of the unknown, especially when it comes to locations -- and you do not want to get caught in a strange place when the sun begins to descend. If all goes well, you should be returning home no later than five o'clock -- leaving you plenty of time to eat dinner, take a little rest during blackout and prepare for your attendance at the carnival.

An old woman boards the bus a few stops into your trip and takes a seat beside you. You watch as she struggles to climb the steps and as she steadies herself to fish around in her handbag for the proper fare. The bus driver impatiently instructs the old woman to step behind the yellow line. He then closes the bus door and pulls away from the curb into traffic. The motion nearly causes the old woman to fall. Everybody in the front of the bus is watching the old woman as she exerts all of her energy to remain upright and pay the bus fare. Nobody comes to her assistance. After many minutes and many near falls she manages to drop the necessary change into the receptacle and get herself seated.

The old woman realizes that she has forgot to pick up a transfer ticket from the bus driver, which will allow her to board another bus without paying additional fare. She is clearly distraught. A young woman notices the old woman's oversight and asks the driver for the transfer ticket, explaining that 'it's for the elderly woman who just boarded.' The bus driver tears off the ticket abruptly and hands it to the young woman, who then hands it to the old woman. A smile of unrivaled appreciation and genuine happiness graces the old woman's face. She then begins to fan herself with a bus schedule and you wonder if she might faint. She is so sweet and helpless, living at the mercy of time and the heat and a world that has no place for her. Her family is far away and her husband is long gone. And she does not understand how she will make it through another day.

You don't know these things. You do not say one word to her during the entire time she sits beside you. But you do not take your mind off her. Tears form in your eyes as you look out the window at the passing scenery, and imagine...

You imagine a rainy late afternoon. The dark clouds through the window muting all the hard edges. The mantel is filled with old photographs -- young and hopeful eyes full of dreams that never seemed to quite work out. How would they greet you now, if they had the opportunity? A bicycle lies rusting in the

back yard. Another memory left out in the rain.

Summertimes are long gone. And you're tired. The echoes in the hallway remind you of all the people that aren't in the other room. But the skeletons in the closet always seem to keep you company. But you've managed to make peace with them for the most part. Like a pain in your back you've had for years...at some point it becomes a source of comfort.

The sound of thunder can be heard in the distance and you understand that time does have cracks that we can slip into. Finding yourself holding the hand of a childhood friend. Walking a path through an open field, hopping fences and resting beside a creek. Neither of you says a word. But you both seem to instinctively know why you're here. Going with the current, on a make-shift raft, towards an endless horizon.

The streets continue to pass. You're not paying attention. The bus stops again to pick up a number of people and you look from the window to watch them board. You still have a few stops before you reach your destination. As the new passengers pass by your seat they all look at you. And you recognize them as the same people who were gathered around your table earlier...the same people who have been written about in the papers the past twelve days. And you wonder where these missing people might be going. Are they headed home? Have they found their way back? The last of the new passengers passes and you want to say that you will be visiting their home soon -- and that you could perhaps convey a message to their family. But you can not speak. You allow the parade of missing persons to move by without a word -- finding seats at the back of the bus. You look in the driver's mirror to locate them but the angle is no good. And you don't want to turn around.

The old woman beside you has stopped fanning herself. She just sits and stares ahead, her eyes fixed on some point dead ahead, focusing on nothing.

Chapter 6

The bus drops you off a block away from your destination but you walk in the wrong direction and it takes you some time to realize your error and double back. You then stop at a cafe to gather your wits and get a cold drink. You need to sit down for a bit and compose yourself. The heat is horrible this time of day it is pushing your mind to the edge.

From your seat at the cafe, you have a good view of the street. You notice a number of posters stapled to telephone polls and on the sides of buildings. There must be dozen within range of your sight. The posters are all the same. The words "Missing Person" are printed on top in large block letters. A picture of the latest person reported missing rests beneath the headline and takes up about two-thirds of the entire area of the poster. And beneath the picture are words that you can not quite make out due to the small print -- probably a phone number one should contact if they have seen the person, that type of thing. You finish your drink and get up to leave. On your way to exit, you see two more posters inside the cafe -- one near the register and one on the wall outside the restrooms. You alter your course through the randomly disbursed tables and approach the poster beside the register. The words that were before illegible now become clear. "Help us stop the plague of disappearances. If you have any information contact the police today!"

You look at these words selectively and process the message: "Stop the disappearances. Today!"

You arrive at the address and look at your watch. It is nearly 2:45. A young girl is playing hopscotch in front of the building. You watch for a few moments as she tosses a pebble and skips between the colored lines. This helps to soothe your nerves. She looks at you and asks if you're lost. You smile and ask her if she

lives in the building. She says that she does. She asks if you are here about the missing woman. You tell her that you are.

"She lived across the hall from my family. Up the stairs. Door on the right."

"Thank you. That's very nice of you. Perhaps I will see you on my way out."

You enter the building and the young girl continues her game.

A middle-aged man answers the door. He is tired. He has not slept since he heard the news. He looks at you in a kind manner and waits for you to state your business. You tell the man that you are here as an agent of The Department of Human Records and that you need to obtain some information regarding the person at this address who has gone missing. You present a sealed document, explaining that it represents your credentials.

"But the police have already been here and we've answered all their questions."

"You must accept my apologies. I understand that this is a hard time for you and your family -- and that my appearance at your door and my inquiries may seem an unnecessary burden. And I assure you that the agency for which I work is sympathetic to the feelings of you and your family. Unfortunately, these are matters which must be dealt with and your cooperation will be greatly appreciated...and duly noted."

At this last statement, the man's face surrenders and he invites you inside. The power of the government is insidious and you take whatever advantage of it you can. You know that it is not nice to prey on people's fear, especially during a time of grief, but you must follow through with your visit. And perhaps you might be able to offer a note of solace during your stay. You do not mean any harm. In fact, you would gladly do whatever you could to help the situation. But you are unsure what that could be. So you are here. If only for the sake of being here.

The man invites you to take a seat in the living room. The chair is extremely comfortable and you are grateful for his hospitality. The man leaves you alone, saying that he needs to confer with his wife and that he will return briefly. He asks if you would like a drink and you tell him that a glass of water would do nicely.

As you wait, you notice a girl peaking around the doorway which you assume leads to the sleeping rooms. Once she realizes that you have spotted her, she darts her head back and out of sight. You smile and continue waiting.

After about five minutes, the man returns to the room accompanied by a woman who is introduced to you as the man's wife. She is extremely distraught and, upon looking into her grieving eyes, you feel an overwhelming wave of remorse flow through your body. And you regret that you have visited their home. What makes you go through with this morbid ritual?

The man hands you a glass of water and the couple sits down together opposite you on a large couch covered in a floral design. With a nod of his head, the man prompts you to get on with your business.

"As I explained to your husband, I work for The Department of Human Records and I need to ask you a few simple questions regarding the person who, according to our records, lives at this address and who has been officially categorized as missing by the police."

"Her name is Sally", the woman interjects in a vehement tone. "She is my little girl."

"Yes, I know. And you must accept the apologies of both myself and my office for this interruption in your day. This will not take long."

"What are the duties of an office that would bring an agent such as yourself to our home at a time like this?"

"I work for the Census Division and it is our job to provide various government departments with the official number of citizens living within this city's borders. At one time or another, I'm sure you've noticed one of the signs stating the population of the city that can be found beside a number of roadways on the outskirts of town. These sings are one of the many fruits of our labor. Of course the population is always fluctuating and the signs are only updated every few months. Therefore, the number on the signs represents a good approximation. But the exact number must be reported by my department on a daily basis."

"And what does that have to do with our Sally?", the man takes over -- wrapping his arm around his wife in a gesture of shelter.

"I'll explain as simply and as straightforward as possible and trust your judgment to understand my presence in your home. You see, when someone is alive and living within the city then we can add them to our list. We note their date of birth and schooling and occupation and so on. When someone (lowering your voice) passes on...then we remove them from our list, noting their date of death and burial information, etc. But when someone is officially categorized as 'missing', then our duty is, by definition, much more difficult. The person can not be correctly placed in either category. And so it becomes impossible to derive an exact number and we are forced to send in a report which is considered an embarrassment by all who work in my department. The report consists of two words. "Population: Unknown."

You pause to let this information be processed and you take a long drink of water. Nobody says a word. You can hear to ticking of a hallway clock. In the silence you imagine the missing woman sitting in this room, walking into the kitchen, going off to bed -- just as she must have done many times. She was here, living her life with her family. And now she is out there somewhere, unable to find her way back home.

Again, you catch the girl peaking around the corner.

"That must be your other daughter."

The mother looks startled at this statement and swivels her head to look in the direction of your eyes. She stands up.

"Yes, that's Anna. Please excuse me a moment."

The woman retrieves Anna and leads her to the kitchen. The girl looks coyly at you from the folds of her mother's dress.

You turn your attention to the father.

"As I was explaining, I need to gather some data for our records. Just routine." And you proceed to ask a number of questions about the missing woman -- the answers to which you already know.

She is twenty years old. She attends a local college and works part-time at a convenience store. She has had no prior run-ins with the law and she has never traveled outside of the city.

"We just need to confirm that she has not left the city. Did she ever indicate an interest in going abroad?"

"No. She wanted to finish her schooling and take up work in the area. She did not leave the city...not of her own free will."

The mother and daughter return to the room. The girl is holding a tray of cookies and asks you very politely if you would like one. She is wearing a dress made of purple velvet with white trimming, which matches her stockings. Her shoes are black and they have buckles on them. Your heart breaks.

"Yes. I would love a cookie. Thank you very much."

You take the cookie and the girl smiles. She then starts to giggle and runs back into the kitchen.

You smile at the parents -- they are again seated together.

"Your husband has been so kind to answer most of my questions. I have only one further inquiry." You lean forward, munching your cookie. "Is there anything you would like to tell me about your daughter? Anything at all."

The mother answers immediately.

"She is my angel."

You sit back and let these words move through the air.

"Thank you very much for your time." You hastily finish the cookie and take one more gulp of water. "I wish you and your family all the best." You shake the man's hand and look into the eyes of the mother. "If there's anything that I or my office can do for you please do not hesitate..."

"I'm sorry, but we never got your name", the man interjects.

You retrieve your wallet and take out a card, handing it to him. "Anything at all."

You leave the building and your heart is racing. You feel like a person who has just fled the scene of a crime and realizes he left behind a tell-tale piece of evidence. You want to run but can not. The young girl who was playing hopscotch has left, but the smeared chalk outline remains. You descend the steps and stand at the foot of the game. The sky has gone black and the

streets are deserted. All is quiet, giving off the feeling of a western ghost town.

An ice-cream truck is finding its way through the neighborhood streets with a sweet, beckoning tune that seems sinister in these days of absence -- resonating along empty sidewalks...creeping outside the edges of bolted windows. Circling the blocks like a vulture. Its eerie presence bolstered by the mindful words printed on the back door, "Watch Out For Our Children."

Above the words is a frosted window. And through it you can make out the chilled face of the woman whose home you just visited. The missing are everywhere. Around every corner. Beneath every tree. Inside everything. She is looking at you as the truck rolls by. She wants to open the door and run through these streets again, like she did as a child. She wants to hurry home for supper. But she can't. Looking at her face, you are reminded of the poster you saw earlier. You wonder if her fellow missing are in there with her. Freezing.

The truck continues its rounds...a rolling billboard for the lost. You hum along to the tune in your dizzy stupor...finding a meaning in the melody -- something to ease the pain of survival. Turning all that you have surrounded yourself with into a glass-encased wind-up box...twirling into oblivion -- into a world where the sun never rises and the moon is always in the same place. Tears falling like rain, dropping with an inevitable honesty no words could ever help being understood. Crashing into silence.

You lean down and pick up a rock. Feeling its smoothness and rubbing its edges before giving it a toss. And you jump...

Knowing the direction.

Home.

Destination Boulevard

Person 1: Pardon me. I think I'm lost.  
Person 2: No you're not, I just found you.

~ ~ ~

Part One - Can You Get There from Here?

He stands alone. As the shuffle of the morning crowd hurries past. He stands staring. Eyes fixed on a drawing taped to a storefront window. He stands motionless. Paralyzed. His mind swims in a flurry of images. Are they memories, or just an imagination running wild? He stands unnoticed. People rush by and through him. It is a state of being he has become accustomed to. Layers of self peeling away day after day, until his disappearance was complete. He stands in a world he no longer inhabits. Only his likeness remains.

Does anybody remember him? He has spent many sleepless nights wondering. Isn't somebody worried that he hasn't come home? Aren't there any agents of the law commissioned with discovering his whereabouts? With the passing months of silence, where are the friends who might seek him out? Nothing. Only absence. Walking the shadow regions of unconsciousness. Now coming face to face with the one person left he could believe in. What does it mean?

Couldn't leave well-enough alone. Could you? Or is that too simple? Perhaps some other sinister force, more diabolical in its intentions than 'well-enough' could ever aspire to be, decided it couldn't leave you alone. In your current subterranean state, it's not uncommon to cross the path of an invisible malcontent or two -- rushing along surly paths with a momentum you'd be wise not to disrupt. But that's what happens when you go shuffling around town with your head down.

The key question is how this unwelcome sight is going to affect his day. One doesn't simply walk away from a moment like this without trepidation. And trepidation has a way of seriously inhibiting the calm transference of being from one minute to the next. Time begins to shut down. Thoughts become trapped. Simple activities like walking home or opening a door become monumental feats of heroic endeavor.

Trouble brews...

The morning started like any other. He arrived at the city park before sunrise. It has become a routine. A calling. Something to fill the time. A ritual of belief. A random collection of tasks he senses is fundamental to the well-being and preservation of survival. If not his, then of something greater. These are not minor realizations. They belong to the core of everything. And they are in serious danger of fading away without a trace.

. . .

A gentle fog mingles about the hedge as he crosses the threshold of the park's east entrance. The clock tower strikes the hour and he is filled with a deep sense of comfort. Some sounds become almost holy in a world of neglect and destruction. The hum of a street lamp. The gentle coo from a newborn baby. A train whistle. Waves meeting a shoreline. Wind through a forest. The rustle of leaves... dancing at his feet. He walks by swings that sway with ghostly occupants. He views a teeter-totter balance in a state of suspension, leaning one way and then the other, creaking slightly with each rise and fall. He continues to walk toward the center of the park. Emptiness surrounds him. It is the time of nothing, the middle hours between the frenzied activity of the night and the clean-up crew's first shift. The window of preservation. And with meticulous attention to procedure he goes about his work.

Part Two - Check Your Shadow at the Door

He rests for a moment beside the fountain at the park's center. Although its flow of water is shut down during his visits, he is always steadied by its sheer beauty...the perfect symmetry and inevitable erosions. A great circle from which life springs and death comes to pay a final visit. This is the heart of this great space -- pumping energy into the arteries that lead from its base...a collection of paths where lovers walk in ecstatic oneness, where mothers push strollers and gaze into their infant's overwhelmed eyes, where old men gather to share stories and children run with reckless abandon. All congregating at this wonderful fountain. To reflect and smile and surrender to its peace.

This is the point from which his work commences.

As he is about to rise a light rain begins to fall. He pauses and listens as the gentle shower brushes against the trees lofty shelter and makes its way to the ground, striking the grass and crashing into pavement. Each sound distinct...joining to create a symphony of elegance. A muted brass horn sings in his mind and he utters a sad laugh at the empty seats for this grand performance...wondering about all the sleeping bodies hidden behind darkened glass. Resting for the busy day ahead. And, as he often finds himself realizing, he is happy to no longer be among them.

The rain will not deter his work but he is hopeful that it might hinder the arrival of the first shift. He never has enough time to complete his tasks but he does what he can. Starting now as he resolves to finally rise. He begins by taking inventory of the coins resting at the bottom of the fountain. With the water gone, and only an incidental amount accumulated from the rain, his job is easier than it might be otherwise. He notes each location and denomination. Another set of entries in a daily log of tossed wishes. The coins will all be gone in a few hours and it is up to him to make sure some evidence of their existence remains. He knows how easy a wish can be washed away by the forces of the day. So he keeps his record. If not in service of the person who tossed the coin, then in honor of the intention.

A person's hope might easily be crushed, but hope itself must find a way to live on.

From the fountain he moves outward in a spiral that would ideally cover the entire park, but time and resources limit him to those areas deemed most necessary. He pauses beside benches to inventory painted initials, joined for eternity...brave declarations of undying love which will shortly be taken away by liquid chemicals and muscled arms. He fills his ledger with slogans and mysterious symbols. Representations of belief and pride and conviction. Each a glimpse of yearning and freedom. Undeniable manifestations of deeply felt joy.

He passes by a monument to the brave young soldiers who embarked from the doorsteps of this neighborhood long ago to fight on a distant shore. A symbolic angel reaching with one hand into the endless sky and holding a loaf of bread with the other. The inscription has long since been filed away...another statement of integrity and resolve dropped into the growing abyss. At the angel's slender feet someone has left a wreath of flowers, which will soon be duly taken away. Perhaps a forgotten Veteran wounded in one of the war's countless battles. Or a loved one still waiting for a knock at the door and an embrace that would last a lifetime. He takes down every detail of every petal and pays particular attention to their slight imperfections.

Heaven and Hell have reserved their own worlds. And their reflections must surely be reserved a space in ours.

His work continues. For many hours. Tedious. Exacting. Scribbling furiously in spite of the forces of time. A crimson ribbon tied to a metal gate. The murky outline of a hopscotch game. Candy and cigarette and other wrappers. Empty bottles. A tiny sock stuck in some briers. A dirt black overcoat hanging in the limbs of a Sycamore Tree.

His work continues... Until he arrives on the park's outer edges. The sun is beginning to come up. And, as usual, he finds himself in a corner of the park reserved for purposes that do not belong to him...a section of the universe he'll never enter, although he is allowed to hang about and observe.

This is where the abandoned lives take refuge. The unclaimed souls turned away from your front steps. You secure yourself from them. Hiding behind thin walls and locked doors and sliding glass -- sequestered in corner rooms, paying bills and dreading the future. Busying yourself with 'important' matters that have nothing to do with anything. But no matter how safe you think you are, they have a way of showing up. Waiting inside an upstairs closet. Hanging around the edge of a bedroom mirror. Half-asleep among some boxes in the basement. Paying a visit. Seeing how the other half lives.

There is no escape from these uninvited guests. Unmistakable in their characteristics. Recognized immediately in a moment of breathless terror. The battered profile of a failed dream. The limping outcast of forsaken opportunity. The hollow eyes of an unredeemed mistake. The bent frame of disappointment. The bone-thin shadow of better intentions. They mean no harm. But that doesn't mean you'll walk away from these encounters unscathed...the scars just exist in places not readily seen by the casual eye.

They're a funny bunch. In fact, he often finds himself chuckling at their antics. They seem to enjoy huddling in this desolate area of the park. Milling about. Mumbling to themselves -- giving the appearance of a lively discussion at hand. But they never directly address one another. They wouldn't know what to say. Or where to begin. Or how to listen. Consumed by their own non-existence. They bump into things quite a bit, seemingly unaware of where they are going -- or perhaps fully aware that they are going nowhere.

His work ends here. Inspired by your resolve to deny their appearance, he extends no effort to report their words or movements. Nor does he attempt to engage them. Why should he? To him, they are the same as anyone else. They just have a different set of reasons for keeping their distance. Still, he does feel a sense of solace from their daily presence. After all, they do have many things in common.

As he is about to exit the park, he passes a crumpled sheet of paper lying beside the walkway. He leans down to pick it up. The paper is filled with a collage of images -- some are photographs, others created by hand. Rocket ships. People flying kites. Trees. Birds. Stars. Clouds. Grass. Sports cars. In the bottom corner is a crudely drawn image of a child. He assumes its the same child who created this work but has no basis for this assumption...other than experience. The child is standing alone. Tears run down each cheek. He folds the piece of paper and places it in his back pocket -- some bits of history must not simply be registered, they must be kept close at hand.

. . .

He thinks of the child's creation as he stands before the drawing in the storefront window. Unlike the paper in his pocket, this page is filled with only one image and a few words. And in contrast to the crude depictions on that paper, the image on this page is quite realistic. Every detail of the face has been rendered with great care and considerable distinction. One would readily recognize this person if they were to come across his path -- a realization he must now come to terms with...standing speechless before this unwelcome visitor. The person he once was.

Part Three - Hand Me Down

Miles traveled can never be measured objectively, especially by the person who has walked them. The abundance of obstacles that cross our paths, along with their various demands, combine to bend the trajectory of time and space -- causing it to overlap on itself in some instances, and completely disappear in others... only to show up again some point down the road.

The need for understanding permeates sacred boundaries and sifts into the dusty regions of common sensibility. Righteous attempts traverse the terrain of dubious inclinations. Simple survival surrenders to the will of heightened awareness. Life goes on. But, depending on where you're standing, you wouldn't know any of it.

Now you see him. Now you don't.

He shifts his balance of weight from one leg to the other. Trying to ease his state of mind. Resting on his right for as long as he can endure, before moving to the left. The image commanding his attention...piercing his very being.

The message written on the sheet of paper, located just beneath the face, provides little clarity as to the drawing's ultimate purpose. Two words. Set against one another in whispered harmony. "Be Aware!"

It reminds him of the propaganda posters used long ago by the governments of powerful nations. Distinct reminders from one of the strong arms of a benevolent but stern leader. What place could this have in the workings of day-to-day life? What deeply seated trepidation is this designed to gently rub the wrong way?

What meaning can be derived from this flagrant display?

Is it a message from The Morning Crew?...the same fanatical group of self styled do-gooders whose members are right now sweeping up in full swing -- carrying out their sanitizing efforts in a variety of common spaces around town, including the park. Part of their continuing mission to eradicate the garbage of the mind and soul from the city's consciousness. Cleansing the very body of society from dirty insurrections. Fighting diseased manifestations at every turn. Some old and readily dealt with. Others mutating overnight, forming new and stronger strains, requiring the intent intervention of one of the more seasoned Samaritans.

Perhaps they're onto him. They would surely frown on his efforts at retaining some record of human passion. Has he been spotted by one of the many paid snitches in the neighborhood? It seems unlikely, buy certainly not impossible. His current state keeps him beyond perception in most instances, but if someone is looking for him they'll see him plain as day. These are not the kind of people you want to cross. It might be a good idea to suspend his efforts for a day or two and exercise more caution when moving about. One thing is for sure, he has no intention to drift back among the masses. Not if he can help it.

What if this has nothing to do with the Crew? This could well be a message from the local authorities. A warning for all...to be wary of any movement against the carefully, and not to mention painfully, achieved balance. This drawing could be reminder of a person who crossed one of a growing number of invisible lines.

Or is this an announcement from The Underground Community? A call for awareness against the rising forces of oppression and eradication. Is this man a martyr for the cause?

Or perhaps the drawing is meant to depict a criminal at large. Given the fact that no specifics are provided might only hint at the unspeakable nature of his acts against humanity...a horrendous set of misdeeds whose details have permeated the collective consciousness -- requiring only his face to conjure any number of fearful possibilities.

One thing is for sure...his general disposition has taken a noticeable turn downward as a result of this encounter with himself. He was hoping those days were over.

. . .

"Be Aware!"

The words run through his head as he weaves his way through the city streets with no thought to direction. He stops as a clock tower strikes the noon hour. How far has he traveled? He feels lost as he scans the area for something he might recognize. Before him, some fifteen feet away, stands a tall man resting his weight on a wooden cane. The man stares directly into his eyes...and begins to slowly approach.

Again, he stands motionless. Paralyzed. The sound of the cane against the pavement grows more and more prominent.

And then he is gone.

The man stops. And mutters into the kicked-up wind.

"Be aware..."

Part Four - Echo Chamber Choir

The afternoon is beginning to wane and the town's citizens will soon be rushing through the streets and preparing for the night. Sundown has become an event of great magnitude -- signifying the growing division between the reality of knowledge and the looming thunder cloud of implicit awareness...a line drawn in the faces and etched in the mind. Not one among these people is unaffected by the light's fading brilliance.

Some fear the darkness the way an elderly woman fears the entrance to an alley. They know of the evil forces at work in the world who would like nothing more than to prey on the weak and innocent. Some relish the black backdrop to whatever drama they might be cooking up for the evening. They feed off the danger of a poorly lit street and the potential for suspicious encounters. Some feel the anxiety and anticipation that only night can bring -- wondering who might be lurking about and what side of the law they're affiliated with. The borders between right and wrong are tending to blur more and more with each passing of day into night. All that anyone can be sure of is the inevitable gun shots and sirens and hosed-down sidewalks. This is what they hear in sporadic intervals until they finally manage to drift off to sleep. No mention is ever made in the news of these seemingly violent events or referenced by a neighbor or co-worker. They all know the truth, but the truth doesn't exist.

We mustn't get too far ahead of ourselves. The night has yet to fall so it would be best to leave it alone for now. And speaking of now, now is when most of the town's citizens are still at their places of employment. The people of the town are hard working folks and they take pride in the quality of the goods they manufacture and the efficiency with which their financial and educational institutions are run. A job well done is the greatest reward. So much so, they rarely travel outside of the town's well marked borders for a vacation or on personal business. In fact, if one were to research this subject, they would find that it has been many years since any but the town's most respected leaders have traveled abroad.

They are happy where they are. It would seem.

We know where they are. But where is he?

He is on a street he knows very well. He feels as close to being at home as he is able when he is within the confines of this block. The familiarity of seemingly meaningless items and the recognition of colors and sounds -- which must surely exist on every other city block but not in the exact same way -- provide a sense of comfort and safety which are dubious at best.

The events of the day have him deeply disturbed and he feels the need to visit The Den. That's what he calls the place he is approaching. He doesn't know if it has an official name. He doesn't care. It has become his one place of sanctuary in a world he no longer can call his.

The entrance to The Den is easily missed -- waiting at the end of a long pathway hidden between two aging buildings. He walks by the front of the path two times before he finally spots it. A small iron gate, which serves to further hinder the path's view from the sidewalk, signals his arrival at the correct address. If he paid more attention to details he would find a way to readily recognize the path long before reaching it. A landmark on one side or the other. A shop across the street. A design of brickwork on one of the adjacent buildings. But he enjoys the mystery and feeling of relief he experiences when finally stumbling upon the 'secret entrance.'

He pushes the gate and walks in the narrow space between the two buildings. He feels along the wall of the building on his right as he makes his way. He always does this. Who knows why? His habits are his own. And they help to ease his mind. He reaches the end of the path and comes to a door which, as usual, is slightly ajar. He pulls the door and is immediately greeted by the soft light from a hanging lamp. The location of the lamp is designed to keep visitors from falling down the stairs he now stands before...which he now begins to descend.

He is assisted on his journey downward by a series of wall-mounted lamps, installed every 5 steps or so for safety purposes. The lamps also serve to illuminate a number of paintings which look as though they have hung on the staircase wall for hundreds of years. At the top is a painting of a large ship out at sea. Waves are crushing the ship's hull and men are falling overboard. What few lifeboats available are dangerously filled beyond capacity. The sky is the color of soot and the sea reflects its bleak overview. Compared with the paintings further down, this is a cheerful depiction of men at play in an indifferent world. It's when the world starts to pay attention that things get really scary. As evidenced by the following painting.

He eyes the second painting with keen interest. He's passed it many times before but only gave it the occasional cursory glance. A figure in the painting grabs his attention -- standing before a great crevice torn into the earth. People are being herded into the crevice by small creatures which resemble nothing he's ever imagined. The doomed are chained together at the neck and the faces of those closest to the crevice, who can see clearly the flames awaiting them, reveal a terror that seems to convey their full understanding of the crime for which they are being punished. They know there is no forgiveness for their complicity. They know there is nothing but simple justice. He assumes the figure which initially gained his attention was some sort of demonic character but upon closer examination he appears to be a relatively ordinary man. Tall. Thin. Clad in dark garments. The detail which gives his heart cause for pause is the cane which the figure holds in his hand as he oversees the proceedings.

He looks away and hurries down the staircase, past a number of other paintings which, if he were to bother looking, would surely deepen the level of trepidation currently coursing through his veins.

An open room awaits him at the bottom. It is dimly lit and filled with a haze of smoke. Tables are scattered about in a haphazard fashion, some with lone occupants, others empty. He walks toward one end of the room and approaches a long bar. No one sits at the bar. House rules. You get your drink, say your peace and take a seat at one of the open tables. Standing on the other side of the bar, looking the same every time he comes in, is the Caretaker of the Dispossessed. At least that's how he refers to this fellow. The Caretaker has never given a name and he's never asked. Such things are beyond relevance.

"I see you're continuing 'the work'", the Caretaker observes.

He looks at the ledgers and other papers he has rested on the bar and nods.

"That's good. I'm glad to hear you're keeping busy. The rest of this lot just sits around all day moaning to themselves."

He turns around and takes a look at his fellow derelicts seated throughout The Den. Recognizing a few. Noticing the odd new face. All with the same vacant expression. Again, he nods.

"Something's troubling you..." in the midst of pouring a pint of ale. "What is it?", handing him the ale.

"A tall man. Thin. Carrying a cane. Looked right at me today. Not just at me. In me. And he walked toward me. He seemed so calm and determined."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, He stopped. I must have slipped from his view. He said something, though. He's after me."

"You're sounding paranoid. Common for people in your state."

"That's not all. Earlier, after I'd finished in the park, I saw a poster in a shop window with my face on it. Below my face were the words 'Be Aware', which just so happens to be the words the man with the cane spoke to me. So yeah, I'm feeling a bit paranoid."

"Hmmm, I've been getting this a lot lately. Everybody's seeing posters with their face on them. My theory, it's a drawing of some nobody you're all seeing and thinking it looks just like you. Wouldn't be so strange. Look at you, running around the park, defying the Crew -- naturally you're going to be on edge. The mind plays tricks. Simple as that."

"And what about the man?"

"Okay, I'll indulge you for a moment. If the face on the poster was yours then there are a few possibilities. The man could have become 'aware' of you and therefore you were able to be seen by him. Perhaps he approached to get a closer look or to warn you of the poster's existence."

"What's the other possibility?...the one you're reluctant to tell me."

"The man is an Agent. And he's here to take you. And he won't stop until he completes his mission. Happy?"

The Caretaker smiles and wipes down the bar in a self-satisfied manner.

"Listen... I'm going to drink this beer. And then I'm going to come back and get another. And I'm going to drink that one. And after I've done this a few times you're going to tell me more about this man."

. . .

He turns on his heels with a certain flair, scooping up his papers from the bar in mid twirl, and makes his way to an open table on the other side of the room. Along the way, the sound of the other patrons resting their mugs of beer on the wooden table tops begins to create a rhythm. He finds himself moving with the beat, getting into the flow. And the sound grows louder as everybody, while firmly minding their own business, now begins to join in.

At the center of the room he stops, looks around, and hops on the nearest table. He then smashes his foot against the table top and points to the Caretaker who, being quite familiar with the antics of certain regulars, just happens to be strapping on an accordion.

Against the backdrop of a sweet melody, he begins to croon.

Welcome all my sad, sad friends!  
Welcome to our Happy Li'l Den.  
You've gone from productive citizens  
To ghostly, forgotten denizens.  
Out of step from the latest trends...

But you'll always get a table here.

(He jumps from the table and begins to weave in and out of the crowd, who slowly begin to look up.)

Welcome to this strange, disturbing plane.  
Where nothing and everything is the same.  
Where you never went and you never came,  
And your life is spilling down the drain.  
(whispering into a patron's ear)  
Have you seen the odd gent with the cane?...

Yes, you'll always get a good table here.

The barkeep is a wonder.  
Without him we would blunder.  
(Accentuated with a few extra chords from the accordion.)

Never charging for a mug of beer.  
He's always there to lend an ear,  
And keep us all in healthy fear,  
With tales of Agents drawing near,  
To that regular spot in the rear...  
(Pointing to a table at the back of the room which he then rushes toward. The music and rhythm build to a crescendo and stop suddenly as he arrives.)

Everybody!

(All joining in with mugs aloft.)

You'll always get the best table here!

The patrons slam their beers down in unison.

He sits.

